Cyberathlete v. Deputy

It's early morning when the Cyberathlete wakes to the sound of a diesel engine sputter to life in the distance. He looks up from the grass and locates the direction of the sound. It comes from the north, just past the caretaker's cabin. When he stands he looks but the corn - now three feet high - prevents him from seeing the machine. Pepple stands nearby the well, watching.

Several minutes later Pepple turns it off the motor. Then, after a careful turn at the base of the well, he disappears. The Cyberathlete walks onto the mound to the northwest of the field, curious to see if Pepple's merely stooping. Atop the mound he sees the top of the engine - connected to a pump, or similar mechanism - but no caretaker. He returns to the oak.

The Deputy arrives in uniform. The topic of conversation quickly turns to the riots in the streets of the city.

If I were Mayor I'd let the militia fire right into the crowd, says the Deputy.

They do that already.

And they should all the time. Its only until they see blood in the streets, you take my word, right like a river down the storm drains what'll make wise to rights. There's a thing as called public order. It needs to be put back square in place.

They arrested over a hundred just the other day, recalls the Cyberathlete, in the slums.

A hundred from a crowd's not much. Just like a ritual they do that always every mass lawbreaking.

It's not long before the Cyberathlete discovers the Deputy to be the wholly irrepressible fool he is. The Cyberathlete turns. The Deputy continues talking.

They raise their guns, their guns go off.