sat.
The chair must have been aluminum. It was light-weight and I slightly cringed at the hollow sound it made as it dragged across the floor.
“Ms. MacMillan, may I call you Moira? My name is Sterling. MI5.”
MI5 – The Security Service. Great.
“OK,” I said, wondering what this was all about.
“Moira, do you know why I’m here?”
“I have no idea,” I said truthfully.
“How much do you know about what’s been going on in the world lately?”
“Nothing, really. Why?”
Sterling looked serious. He collected himself like he was about to give a prepared speech.
“Moira, I’m here because I need your help. After the incident in St. James Park, there were ... problems.”
“Problems?
Sterling cleared his throat and said, “Riots. People attacking police. People distrusting their own government. People burning cars, as if this country were France or something. Disgraceful.”
“What do you want from me?”
“We want you to go on national television, apologize, and issue a statement calling for peace.”
What? I asked the obvious question. “Why me?”
Sterling shifted in his chair and his eyes glanced away from mine. Then he sighed and said, “Everything you do in public is recorded these days. Any time you’re in public, you’re on camera. That’s true anywhere, but especially here in England. Let’s just say you were ... recognizable in footage from the riot.”
Recognizable? What did that mean? I must have been “recognizable” from my blue hair. But why would anyone care?
Then it hit me. Because I fought the cops.
People must have been shocked by the police brutality. My fighting back must have gotten attention. Did it spark riots?
“Do you understand what I’m saying?” Sterling said sternly like a teacher talking to a child.
“No.” Again I asked, “Why me?”
Sterling sighed and said, “Because people want to hear from you. You have a certain amount of ... attention ... now. People will listen to you. You can call for peace.”
“Call for peace. That’s it?”
“Yes,” Sterling said. “Apologize and call for peace.” He smiled like an insincere salesman.
“Apologize? Call for peace? Why would I want to do that?”
Sterling’s face fell. He smacked his hand loudly on the metal table. It startled me badly. In my fantasy-inspired mind, I saw him as a real-life werewolf. His human disguise was splitting, and I was starting to see the beast underneath.
“Look!” he shouted. “I don’t think you appreciate the situation here. You’re a terrorist! You have no rights! We have footage of you assaulting two peace officers!”
Peace officers?
“You know how seriously the state takes assault on government officials and police, don’t you? That’s a capital crime. Right now, you’re looking at the death penalty. We could commute it to life, but we’re going to do even better.”
“Even better?” I echoed.
Sterling leaned back in his chair and said, “Twenty-five years.”
“Twenty-five years?”
“That’s right. Beats the death penalty, doesn’t it? Look. You’re young. You do this for us, and we do this for you, and you get out while you’re still in your forties.”
We stared at each other in silence. Finally, I said, “I don’t think that’s your call. You’re not a judge or a prosecutor. If you have a revolution on your hands, that’s your problem.”
Sterling stared at me, and then banged both fists on the table. I was prepared for it and was less startled this time.
“Angus Fowler and Sarah Finn.”
“Huh?”
“The officers you assaulted. You don’t even know their names? You put both of them in the hospital. All this time and you’ve never asked anyone how they are.”
“They belong in jail,” I said flatly.
Sterling eased back in his chair. His hardened face slowly melted into a creepy smile. We had crossed a line. He understood that I wasn’t going to comply, so his work was done. He could relax now.
“You’re