under construction. 5
To
this day, the “Principle of Division” between civilian and martial society
remains one of the fundamental doctrines of UMC law and politics. Whereas
sovereignty over civil society resides with the governments of member nations,
jurisdiction over martial order lies exclusively with the UMC, through the
Council of Nations and their several executive Commissions. This, effectively,
resulted in the formation of two “internal worlds” within the western sphere
itself -- one governed by the laws of the nations, and the other by the laws of
the UMC. For the purposes of government, citizens of civil and martial society
alike were accorded equal right to vote at UMC Council elections, although
martial citizens are prohibited from taking office…
He
was about to turn the page, when two loud thuds sounded on the door. He closed
the book just as the door slid sideways into the walls and daylight spilled
into the room, and a dark, silver-lined silhouette appeared at the doorway,
leaning at the shoulder against the door frame.
“We’ll
be landing in an hour,” said Celyn. “Better get geared up.”
He laid the book aside, shifted his legs over to the side of his bunk and
pressed his palms into his sore eyes.
“Did you sleep?”
He groaned deeply, answering the question with a bloodshot glare. He fished
around the pockets of his coat for his last pack of cigarettes, which he soon
discovered to be empty. He compressed the pack in a fist and threw it bitterly
aside.
“Hey,” Celyn called. “Nine o’clock.”
A fresh carton of Lucky Strikes sat in the corner by his feet.
“I stopped by to give them to you earlier but you were asleep.”
He picked up the carton of cigarettes and studied it closely. There was only
one place it could have come from.
“You know Duke?”
“Through the grapevine,” said Celyn. “Never seen so many damn dregs in one
place.”
He nodded slowly, eyeing the fresh carton of cigarettes with suspicion. No
random act of kindness among martials was to be trusted. He looked down again
and noticed a half-pint flask which he had overlooked. He picked up the flask
and examined the earth-brown liquid through the sunlight.
“Scotch…”
“Your poison, right?” Celyn wore a sideways smile.
“Did Malachi put you up to this?”
“No,” she assured. “It’s from me. A parting gift. For the road. Hell, if
you live long enough to finish those smokes, you’ll have gotten further than
any of us thought you would.”
“Thanks,” he replied, ironically. He closely examined the top of the scotch
bottle and saw that the seal had already been broken.
“I took a swig,” said Celyn. “I was curious.”
He unscrewed the top of the flask, scrutinized the muzzle, sniffed, took a
short gulp and exhaled. “Do you know the difference between scotch and
ambrosia?” he asked, coming to his feet.
“One of them doesn’t taste like stale urine?”
“Alcohol gives you at least one day of hell for every high,” he said, answering
his own question. He set the scotch down on the counter and started to get
undressed.
“You prefer pain to pleasure?”
“This may come as a shock to you,” he said, “but people have more need of pain
than they do of pleasure.”
Celyn watched the clothes pry off his body and ogled his loins as the clothes
came off and the sunlight kissed the lean, scarred flesh. “You… like to
suffer?” she muttered.
Hearing the distraction in her voice, he stopped at once and turned quick
enough to see her eyes quickly shoot up from his bare groin to his sober mien.
“Suffering is not the same thing as pain,” he said.
When he finished putting on his undergear, he lowered himself back down on his
bed and started tearing the plastic cellophane off the
To
this day, the “Principle of Division” between civilian and martial society
remains one of the fundamental doctrines of UMC law and politics. Whereas
sovereignty over civil society resides with the governments of member nations,
jurisdiction over martial order lies exclusively with the UMC, through the
Council of Nations and their several executive Commissions. This, effectively,
resulted in the formation of two “internal worlds” within the western sphere
itself -- one governed by the laws of the nations, and the other by the laws of
the UMC. For the purposes of government, citizens of civil and martial society
alike were accorded equal right to vote at UMC Council elections, although
martial citizens are prohibited from taking office…
He
was about to turn the page, when two loud thuds sounded on the door. He closed
the book just as the door slid sideways into the walls and daylight spilled
into the room, and a dark, silver-lined silhouette appeared at the doorway,
leaning at the shoulder against the door frame.
“We’ll
be landing in an hour,” said Celyn. “Better get geared up.”
He laid the book aside, shifted his legs over to the side of his bunk and
pressed his palms into his sore eyes.
“Did you sleep?”
He groaned deeply, answering the question with a bloodshot glare. He fished
around the pockets of his coat for his last pack of cigarettes, which he soon
discovered to be empty. He compressed the pack in a fist and threw it bitterly
aside.
“Hey,” Celyn called. “Nine o’clock.”
A fresh carton of Lucky Strikes sat in the corner by his feet.
“I stopped by to give them to you earlier but you were asleep.”
He picked up the carton of cigarettes and studied it closely. There was only
one place it could have come from.
“You know Duke?”
“Through the grapevine,” said Celyn. “Never seen so many damn dregs in one
place.”
He nodded slowly, eyeing the fresh carton of cigarettes with suspicion. No
random act of kindness among martials was to be trusted. He looked down again
and noticed a half-pint flask which he had overlooked. He picked up the flask
and examined the earth-brown liquid through the sunlight.
“Scotch…”
“Your poison, right?” Celyn wore a sideways smile.
“Did Malachi put you up to this?”
“No,” she assured. “It’s from me. A parting gift. For the road. Hell, if
you live long enough to finish those smokes, you’ll have gotten further than
any of us thought you would.”
“Thanks,” he replied, ironically. He closely examined the top of the scotch
bottle and saw that the seal had already been broken.
“I took a swig,” said Celyn. “I was curious.”
He unscrewed the top of the flask, scrutinized the muzzle, sniffed, took a
short gulp and exhaled. “Do you know the difference between scotch and
ambrosia?” he asked, coming to his feet.
“One of them doesn’t taste like stale urine?”
“Alcohol gives you at least one day of hell for every high,” he said, answering
his own question. He set the scotch down on the counter and started to get
undressed.
“You prefer pain to pleasure?”
“This may come as a shock to you,” he said, “but people have more need of pain
than they do of pleasure.”
Celyn watched the clothes pry off his body and ogled his loins as the clothes
came off and the sunlight kissed the lean, scarred flesh. “You… like to
suffer?” she muttered.
Hearing the distraction in her voice, he stopped at once and turned quick
enough to see her eyes quickly shoot up from his bare groin to his sober mien.
“Suffering is not the same thing as pain,” he said.
When he finished putting on his undergear, he lowered himself back down on his
bed and started tearing the plastic cellophane off the
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