I.
Krasivi (the Russian word for "red" and "beautiful") Square
was living up to its name -- ornately steepled buildings, 18th
century red-bricked streets, dusted with newly sparkling snow.
Today, December 9th, 2005, the square was filled
with enthusiastic spectators -- individuals and families who proudly
waved the white, blue and red striped flag of Russia, as well as the
other colors representing the individual nations, that together,
formed the Commonwealth of Independent States.
The crowd cheered as colorful floats drifted by
-- proud reminders of the strength of their united achievements --
especially that of their tremendous contribution to the UN Outer
Space Programme; fueled by herculean international efforts, the like
of which the world had never seen before. Tranquillity Base (Bazis Slokoistvie) was halfway completed, and
the Mars mission, held back only by the politics of minor financial
squabbling, was becoming more and more concrete, with 2012 being set
as a definitive launch date.
Interspersed throughout the colorful parade were
several military companies, something that quite a few of the
spectators found distasteful -- especially those whose homelands had
suffered under past oppression.
"What a great view of the
parade,*" chimed a fair-skinned middle-aged man with a wide
smile and dark brown eyes and hair.
"Hmmm," replied the woman next to him, even
paler than he, graced with fine blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes.
She was thinking about the domination her Estonian homeland had
endured until they declared their succession in 1991.
"It's too bad the boys
couldn't be here," sighed the woman whose name was Gregoria
Joukahainen, a well-known engineer who was 38 years old and the
mother of three sons, the youngest two recovering from a slightly
mutated strain of the chicken pox.
"Yes. Lucky for us Alek
agreed to watch them," replied her husband of 20 years, Sergei
Yakovich, who was also an engineer, though not as acclaimed as she.
He could only be proud of her achievements, knowing how much more
dedicated she was to her craft, often spending long hours pouring
over design plans for the most sophisticated high-speed trains ever
conceived of.
"He should be getting his
acceptance letter any day now. I still think 17's a bit young to be
trekking around the world on a freighter."
"Now you sound like a typical mother hen. What
happened to all those post-modern behaviourist theories you're so
fond of quoting?"
Greya looked down and smiled. Sergei always had
a way of saying the right thing that would make her smile, no matter
what the situation. It was one of the things she loved about him, and
that same quality had been passed on to their youngest son, whose
innocent statements and sparkling dark eyes brought a similar smile
to her lips. When Greya looked up again, she focused her attention on
Sergei's quietly handsome face, not noticing the approaching military
transport. Sergei, who was aware of the advancing gray and beige
barge, kissed Greya, knowing that if she saw it, her dark mood might
return again.
The transport was carrying a battalion
of soldiers from the Commonwealth Guard. They stood proudly in their
crisp beige uniforms, each one of them holding an automatic
rifle.
One of the soliders, Ivan Chetkovsky, a
21-year-old colonel with a promising career in the Guard, felt the
fever begin to get stronger. He had felt it the other night and had
found himself soaking his head in a sinkful of water, a little
surprised since a lapse of several hours had occured. This time,
however, the fire was eating away at his mind, despite his attempts
to keep rank. Almost outside himself, he felt the click of the gun's
safety being released, and then he heard the voice of his first
commanding officer, barking attack orders in a simulated battlefield.
That would be the last thing he would ever be fully aware of.
Chetskovsky jumped off the transport, and
quickly crouched into a firing stance. Before his fellow soldiers
could react, he fired his automatic rifle into the crowd of
spectators. Greya and Sergei, who had been at the front of the line,
were among those whose bodies were cut across the middle by the
lethal rain of bullets. They had fallen gracelessly, lifeless puppets
whose strings had been cut. Chetkovsky was quite unaware of the
morality of his actions, his brain containing only one primal drive
-- to kill. But before he could fire another round, one of his
compatriots, a young freckled face corporal, ended Chetkovsky's
deadly rampage with a couple of well-placed bullets in the head.
A few miles away in the Nagatino district overlooking the Moskva
River, stood a cluster tall apartment buildings.
Several of the buildings had been converted into
spacious condominiums, many of which were made up of two or more
smaller apartments, enlarged to suit the small cooperative of
engineers that had decided to purchase and renovate the 40-year old
stuctures.
One living room in particular was painted a
marblelized emerald green, and was dotted by several antique pieces
including a pale-stained hutch and matching rocker, as well as a
plush indigo-coloured sectional couch.
In front of the couch were two boys. The younger
one had dark brown hair and eyes, and was rather preoccupied with the
colorful building blocks before him.
The older boy, who was 11 years old with
straight blonde hair, had bright blue eyes that were open wide in
disbelief -- transfixed by the images on the television.
"What's wrong
Peter?" Even though he was only 4, Ivan had amazing awareness,
especially when it came to Peter, but even he was too young to fully
comprehend the cause of his brother's distress.
In the kitchen, their older brother Aleksandre
noticed that the festive parade sounds had changed to what sounded
like a bad war movie. He quickly stuck the casserole in the oven so
he would be able to change the channels if Peter was in one of his
uncooperative moods.
"Is the parade over
already Peter?"
No reply. Alek closed the oven and started
toward the living room. He wiped the sweat off his brow and ran his
fingers through his curly, reddish-blonde hair.
"Peter?"
Peter was staring at the television screen,
tears running down his cheeks. "Momma.
Papa." he uttered in soft shock.
Alek stared at the image on the television set
in horror. Among the blood drenched bodies lying lifelessly on the
snow-covered pavement, he recognized the familiar tuft of fine blonde
hair so very like his younger brother's, who ran off tearfully to his
bedroom.
* Translated from Russian.
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