Revolution

They met in the ruined office. One painting had miraculously remained undamaged, though it hung at an angle. The great mahogany desk, singed on one side, still dominated the space; most of the other furniture had been reduced to slag and splinters.

Behind the desk, Jericho sat on a scrounged crate. He was holding a conference, the first since the fighting had ended.

“According to satellite data, the last holdouts should be captured by 1730,” Cherie announced.

“What will we do now?” Big Hank asked.

Jericho shook his head. “I really don’t know,” he said. “I never thought we’d win.”