"How much do you know about the Avian Independence Movement, Father?"
"Hmm...that was a long time ago. I know some, my son. Possibly enough for our purposes."
"I'll try not to get too complicated with it. If you have questions, though...I mean, I'd rather you understood what I'm talking about then just sat there and nodded for a few hours. Is that okay?"
"Of course. I will ask if I have any questions. Please, go on, and I will do my best to understand."
"Okay..." He leaned back, closing his eyes, and found himself remembering all those long lost evenings he had spent as a small child, huddled in his mother's arms near the pitiful stove as she distracted him from his growling stomach with stories about his grandfather, the proud renegade whose painted visage watched them from it's place on the wall, the only decoration in the room. He would fall asleep like that, his dreams filled with raids and stirring speeches made in the name of freedom and tradition, with the foreign landscapes that the rebel who had been his ancestor had loved and had performed his heroic deeds on, with events that had been written off, discarded, by the victors under whose thumb they lived in their squalid slum, deep in the heart of Corneria City.
"My grandfather was the last of a very long line...we weren't rich, but we certainly weren't poor, and with that middle status came a kind of stubbornness...he hated what the Lylatian Confederation wanted, hated to see his homeland give up its old social structures and beliefs...he couldn't just stand by and watch Corneria take over. He couldn't, and he found others who couldn't either, people willing to fight. Before long most of the people, the ones who still lived on and near the land at least, in the old Avian way, were behind the movement my grandfather and a few others had begun. They planned, and they provisioned, and they gave the Confederation a hell of a run for their money. If they had chosen better leaders, maybe...
"My grandfather was a leader by example, not by rule, and he knew he was more useful on the battlefield than in the council chamber. So others were chosen to represent the movement in the negotiations with the Confederation and with other planets that were in rebellion-Zoness, Venom, the Outworlds-and in the end, those leaders betrayed the people. They were softened up by bribes and promises, and they sold out the very ones who had given them power. By the time the movement realized they'd been back stabbed, it was too late. They fought on as long as they could with what little they had, but blades and pistols don't do much against fighters and land mines. They held the biggest city on the planet to the last, and it came down to throwing rocks from barricades in the end. When there were only a few hundred left, and they knew that it was over, my grandfather still refused to surrender. He wasn't much of a man for speeches, at least that's what my mother always said, but he gave one in that final moment of desperation. He whipped up that small, ragged band of freedom fighters into such a frenzy that...have you heard of the Blood Rage, Father?"
"I understand that it is a state that can occur in Avians who have...how can I put this in a politically correct way?...been pushed to the limits, so to speak."
"Yeah...I guess that's a pretty good description, at least if you've never seen it." His voice dropped to a whisper. "If you've never felt it." A moment later he cleared his throat and continued normally. "In any case, his speech was powerful enough that it pushed the people behind that last barricade over the edge, and they all went into a Blood Rage. They knew it was over, that they were defeated, but they refused to just give in. I wasn't there of course, but I've read a lot about it-I guess I'm a little obsessed with it, maybe because of my grandfather-and from what I've heard they just swarmed over the barricade and into the battalion that was waiting for them. The Confederation troops had riot gear, automatic weapons, the works, including air support. The rebels had been out of ammunition for days, so they switched to blades. There's these pictures...these pictures of Enraged people running at a fully armed group of trained men, career soldiers, and swinging six hundred year old swords over their heads as they came. Family heirlooms were being wielded against crack troops. It's fucking insane.
"The best part is that the rebels did pretty damn well for themselves. Not a single one of them died within a hundred feet of the barricade, which means that they all at least made it to where the front of the battalion was standing. This one guy's report reads like a zombie movie; he said they were shooting some of the rebels seven or eight times before they finally stayed down." In the shadowy booth, a grin spread across his face. "Two of them saw a plane coming in, low, to strafe. They climbed onto the shoulders of a couple of the others, and when the pilot was just about to open up, they reached up and grabbed the wing, both on one side. It was a small plane-it had to be to fit into the back streets-and they just flipped it upside down. The damn thing slammed straight into the barricade and exploded. That's how my grandfather died-holding onto the wing of that ridiculously unnecessary plane. Who sends a plane in to strafe people who have been throwing parts of their own barricade for the last 48 hours, seriously? I'd almost bet his last thought was how much money he was costing the Confederation..." A low chuckle escaped him at the thought, then he was quiet.
"And what happened next?" Peppy found himself leaning forward, listening raptly. The Avian Independence Movement was something that tended to be glossed over in history books, and the only monographs that had been published on the subject were wildly pro-Confederation. Hearing stories that stemmed from the other side of the fight, from the last Avian holdouts, was fascinating, and he had to admit that he really wasn't surprised that an ancestor of Falco's had had a part in it. Do you realize how much your grandfather sounds like you? he wondered. Grabbing the wing of a plane coming into strafe is exactly the type of crazy thing I'd expect you to try someday.
"Huh? Oh. Well, they all died, or at least that's what the official report said. There were a few people on the other side of the barricade while the speech was being given who didn't become Enraged, though, and although no one will admit it, they were the only survivors. I only know because my mother was one of them. She was thirteen, and I think she would have gone over the top too if my grandfather hadn't had her sedated before he started talking. If his speech could rile up adults to Blood Rage, can you imagine what it would have done to a thirteen year old girl, especially his own daughter, who already idolized him? Hell, maybe he should have let her go over. It might have turned the whole war, one pissed off little girl with a Bloody Maria."
"A Bloody Maria?"
Falco laughed at the obvious question in the priest's voice. "You don't know a whole lot about Avian culture, do you, Father?" he asked, not unkindly.
"Apparently not as much I thought I did." Despite all the digging I've done on you, that particular term has never come up.
"We love our blades-simple as that. A Bloody Maria is what we call the knife all girls are given when they turn twelve. It's usually pretty, you know, inlay on the hilt and stuff, but it's just as serviceable as any dagger. Boys get one too, but it's a bit bigger and they get it at birth."
"At birth?" Horrible images of bloody crib deaths flashed through his mind.
"Well, ceremonially. They don't start training with it until they're six or so. Both boys and girls receive full swords at fifteen, and both get three years of training with them, more if they're considered gifted. I guess I should point out that I'm talking about tradition, not really modern practice. I mean, the Avians who can afford to do that for their kids are the ones who are so Confederated that they distanced themselves from all the old ways."
"So you didn't go through this, then?"
Falco froze, his earlier suspicion resurfacing. "How do you know I'm Avian?" he asked slowly.
Oh shit. Think fast. "Well, it makes sense, doesn't it? You said your grandfather was a leader in the Avian Independence Movement."
"Yeah. That's true. I guess that makes sense." He relaxed back onto the bench on his side of the gilded divider. Jeez, relax already. It can't be him. "And I did, in a way. But I'll get to that."
"No rush. Take your time."
"Right. Well...they took my mother and a few of the others to Corneria. There was already a fairly large Avian population, mostly in the poorer sections of the city. The government settled them there." He paused, then made a sound of derision. "Well, okay, I guess I shouldn't say they 'settled' them. The prisoners were marched off of the ship that had carried them, hustled into cramped jail cells where they underwent days of so-called processing, and then dropped off in the worst neighborhoods of the city to fend for themselves. None of them spoke Cornerian, even though it had already become the standard language of the Confederation; after all, no true Avian patriot would debase themselves like that. They had no friends, no connections, except one another, and they were all equally clueless about what to do. It was a case of the blind trying to lead the blind.
"My mother didn't stick around very long. Their little group of compatriots started to fracture almost the moment they realized they were on their own in a completely foreign land. She managed to attach herself to an upstart gang that was slowly expanding its territory, knowing she had to find someone or thing that would provide some protection from the food- and hope-starved people all around. That would keep her, maybe, from becoming one of them." Hanging his head to stare morosely at the tiny granules of dust dancing in the single shaft of light the door let in, his shoulders sank. "If only it had," he whispered, ignoring the single tear that found it's way slowly down his cheek.