Preacher Man by r. a. Ben Miller

  The cheering crowd hoisted both Zeer and Talia on their shoulders. They marched around cheering before carrying them back to their homes. Zeer's hood was thrown back in the excitement. He maintained the presence of mind to keep his head down, pretending to shake hands with his flock. This kept his long, red hair in his face so that his features were not too visible.

  He didn't know it, but his face was so dirty that his own mother would not have recognized him. Four days without sleep had made him look the sixty cycles that he had been pretending to be.

  As usual, the commandant was left alone. The people and the news crews followed the mob. He took a furious look around at the backs of the crowd fading into the distance. Snickers were heard in the edges of the rank and file. None of his Guardians could meet his eye. Ignoring their laughter, he strode off toward his office. "I need a drink."

  A private ran up to him, stood at rock stiff attention, and saluted, "Commandant."

  "Yezz...what izz it?"

  "The Viceroy will arrive in three hours, Sir..."

  "Oh, no! we must prepare."

  On the opposite side of Tarra, in a smuggler's hide away, a grim, red headed figure watched the news of the day with increasing interest. "Oh, Dad... They dinna catch ya, after all... still running the preacher man scam…" The dark figure chuckled to himself and turned off the screen.

  Chapter 8