Downtown Mesa Verde was quiet under the morning sun, already hot enough that most people preferred to be inside an air-conditioned building or at least in the shade. The heat did not seem to bother the old man who had parked his truck near the town square. Normally there were not many people in the square, a large mostly paved area about an acre in size. It was surrounded on all sides by shops, restaurants, and other businesses, and most of the pedestrian traffic was around the edges. There were parking spaces around the sides, and the old man had parked his truck in one of them. He had the windows down and was smoking a cigarette as he watched a group of people setting up some equipment near the center of the square, near a large fountain surrounded by a small group of palm trees. A lectern with some microphones, some rope barriers, and some chairs. Workers were bringing more chairs, and he saw a van roll up and park across the square from him. The decals on the side indicated it was associated with MVR News, a local television station. One of only two in Mesa Verde, he knew. He had lived in area most of his life, with a brief interruption for a war on the other side of the world. One of the lucky ones, he had made it through without a scratch, and returned to his home in Arizona to a relatively happy life. A good job, a nice ranch house on a few acres just outside of town. His retirement savings were good, and he could expect them to be supplemented by a modest pension funded by deductions from his paycheck. But as he aged, he saw the world in which he had expected to live out a comfortable and peaceful retirement. The money in the bank was worth less with each passing year, and the amount of money the government would return to him when he retired diminished as well. And the medical insurance provided for his retirement was worse. He quickly learned that getting sick was not a good idea. Especially really sick, as with the cancer that was gnawing at him like a starving rat. There's nothing more to be done, he was told - at his age a treatment that might extend his life for a few years would not be paid for. He had looked at the young woman across the desk as she spoke. He could see that to her he was just a part of the day's work to be processed. It was little comfort to know that she would end up the same way one day. She didn't think so - as a part of the bureaucracy, even a small one, she could look forward to a much better retirement, better medical care, at the expense of taxpayers like him. Or, he thought, maybe not. Things were falling apart fast, and he doubted that the minions of the state, with the exception of the ones very high up, would do much better than him. He had walked out of the office, ignoring her insistence that he must sign some forms. Rolley James parked his patrol car in the space provided for the security detail. The governor would be speaking at the event, and extra security was ordered. He didn't mind getting off the road for a while, dealing with accidents and the belligerent citizens which he seemed to encounter with increasing frequency. He joined several other state cops and a handful of local police as they assembled for a briefing. The event was ostensibly to celebrate the opening of a new hospital, built with considerable funding from the state and federal governments. With an election coming up, the governor was there to associate himself with it, and of course to make a speech. Rolley and another state cop were assigned to a section behind the speaker's dais. That was fine with him - they would be away from the crowd and in a rather inconsequential position. Not much would be going on back here, he thought. He didn't like the governor much, and didn't know anyone who did. Pompous and officious, he seemed not to know that he was almost universally despised, even by his supporters. Some may have wondered if he knew he was a tool, but few cared. The elections were predetermined, he carried out his orders, and those in charge were happy. At least I won't have to look at him, Rolley thought. The square was beginning to fill, but most of the people coming in were politicians, some local business types, and the news crews. A dozen or so vans now lined the sides of the square, satellite uplinks deployed, cameras positioned around the area facing the speaker's position. Rolley thought these affairs a farce that anyone involved should be embarrassed by, and wondered why they bothered. Whatever resistance they were worried about wasn't going to be fooled by these productions. Still, it was possible that the mindless masses were affected, as long as they were not yet starving. There were a lot of those people, he thought, and they would feed and entertain them for as long as they could. Gordon Williams had arrived before the square began filling, visiting a contact a couple of streets beyond, and was walking back to his car. There were now some people on the dais, microphones and cameras were being adjusted, and it seemed the event was about to get underway. He decided to watch for a while before leaving. He stood on the sidewalk for a moment before deciding where to go, beside an old but well-preserved truck. An old man, not so well-preserved, was getting out as he approached and he stopped to wait until the man closed the door before continuing. Something about the man intrigued him, and he decided to follow him. Perhaps he knew a good spot to watch from. The man walked around to one side of the dais, as near as the audience could approach, and sat down in one of the folding chairs. Gordon sat down as well, just behind him and to his left, and waited. Eventually the show began. Gordon had seen enough of them to last a lifetime or two, and gave minimal attention the the performers, looking the over to reassure himself that nothing had changed - expensive suits, expensive haircuts on the men, more expensive ones on the women - he sometimes wondered why anyone would want to look completely unnatural. But then, he thought, there was nothing natural about them. Their dress, their speech, their attitude towards their fellow beings was completely abnormal. What is wrong with people, he asked himself, that makes them submit to these twisted, sociopathic people. A woman representing the local Chamber of Commerce spoke first, pretentious as usual but mercifully short as she was only introducing the mayor. The mayor's speech was longer but still bearable if one's mind was sufficiently numbed. Then it was time for the governor. Gordon had seen him on television a few times but never in person, and was no more impressed now than he had ever been - he usually changed the channel when politicians came on. As the governor took his place at the lectern, Gordon's peripheral vision caught a slight movement. Most of the audience was sitting quietly, and most of the chairs in the area where he was sitting were empty, so his battlefield senses instantly registered the movement as the old man he had been watching moved. He had been sitting with one foot on the floor and the other leg crossed over the knee of the other - a common enough pose for men to sit in but difficult for some to maintain, and he appeared to be reversing the position. Gordon was about to return his attention to the governor when the old man suddenly stood up and grabbed the back of his chair, in one motion swinging it around and throwing it. Two cops were standing at the edge of the dais, where a small stair gave access from the ground. They instinctively ducked, and the old man, with incredible speed and agility, ran between then and onto the dais, a revolver in each hand. Two other men standing behind the governor reacted by reaching for weapons, but too late. The first two shots took them down and the old man, now behind the governor, rapidly fired five shots into his back from a few feet away. The two cops had by now rushed up the stairs, guns drawn, firing at the old man. He got off three more shots as he fell and lay without moving. One of the cops was down, and the other bent over him as the dais filled with security personnel. Not knowing why he did it, Gordon leaped up the stairs and knelt beside the downed cop. The khaki uniform was darkened by blood just under the sternum - the bullet hadn't missed his heart by much. He looked at the name tag. James. Name tags normally had the last name, Gordon thought - why are his eyes closed? He had seen plenty of wounded men, and rarely did they close their eyes. "Officer James, can you hear me?" he asked. The other cop watched, having to deferred to the older man, perhaps thinking he was a doctor. "I can hear you," Rolley replied. He realized he has closed his eyes, and perhaps they thought he was dead. He opened his eyes. "How bad is it?" "It doesn't look like a bad hit," Gordon replied. "What's your first name?" "Rolley" he replied. Personnel was crowding the area now, cops and paramedics. The governor was being carried down the steps on the other side. He was probably done for. A paramedic joined them, and then another. Gordon stood up and let them take over. "Are you a doctor, sir?" one asked. "Just an citizen," replied Gordon. "Looks like you guys have it under control."