Well before the revolution, teenager Leo Torres had prowled the big city streets alone. There was safety in solitude. Gangs spent all their time fighting ‑‑ among themselves, with other gangs, or with vigilantes or police. In a panic of advanced street violence, police would open fire on any assemblage of young people after dark, but they would let a solitary adolescent like Leo pass with only a rough personal search and some cruel language. What they didn't know, and what Leo was only becoming aware of, was that Leo was a one-man crime syndicate.
Rather than risk being caught with a weapon and summarily executed by police or vigilantes, Leo had become proficient in the use of weapons that the decaying city made available everywhere -- a cinderblock dropped from a rooftop, a shard of broken glass, a length of pipe, battery acid or gasoline -- whatever he could find when an opportunity to steal presented itself.
It was a piece of wire cable that changed his life. Cable was the only metal he could find in the street rubble outside a quiet delicatessen one cold night on the Lower East Side. While his prey could be seen through the damp glass sipping coffee and staring ahead blankly, Leo desperately cast about for a sufficiently intimidating weapon that would make for a successful mugging.
The mark seemed to be in no hurry to evacuate the relative warmth and security of the deli. He was a tall youth with a scruffy beard and careless, tattered clothing.
Leo dismissed the outward signs of poverty. None but a fool wore any appearance of wealth without a squad of armed guards at night in the city . What had attracted Leo was the man's canvas bag, which was being taken care of too well to be valueless. It dangled near the deli floor, like ripe fruit, from its strap carefully looped around one of the man's bony knees...
The cable was the best Leo could find, so he improvised. First he twisted loose a single strand. Discarding the rest, he folded one end over and then around and around to form a crude hilt with about 3 inches of naked wire still exposed at the front. The wire became a dagger of sorts, which Leo then began to sharpen against the cement curb while crouching in the shadows.
Had certain events been different, for instance, had Leo's family not succumbed to disease, Leo might have been inside the delicatessen instead of suffering the bitter cold and planning another in a long string of malevolent acts. It occurred to Leo that he might even be discoursing with his solitary victim-to-be. Or perhaps they would both be sipping and staring at the stained walls while time generously passed over them for a while ...Though toughened by street life, Leo was, after all, still a boy and, like any boy, given to daydreaming as he performed a monotonous task. The snarl of scrapping steel on concrete gave a bitter contrast to Leo's reveries...
Just as the point was finally formed on Leo's weapon, the canvas bag and man emerged from the delicatessen and headed straight toward his destiny and Leo's shadowy retreat.
"This is too easy," Leo thought.
He waited until the man had unconsciously ambled past him, then leapt out to block the passage back to safety, stabbed him once, lightly, near the shoulder blade, enough to get his attention, then snarled in the deepest voice his boy's throat could create, "Drop the bag and keep going."
But he didn't. Instead, he turned slowly, too slowly for Leo's peace of mind, for he might have had a gun.
But the man's hands were empty and he held them outward in a supplicating gesture while saying some words in a calm, soothing manner, "Easy. Easy."
"Easy yourself!" Leo helped as he stabbed quickly at one, then the other, of the outstretched hands. His point found the center of each defenseless palm. "Just gimme the bag!"
But the bag remained looped around the man's neck and shoulder, and the hands, both bleeding from their centers now, remained outstretched. The voice continued almost uninterrupted, perhaps even more plaintive, softened
somewhat with pain.
Leo looked for the first time into the mark's face. He was still young, though twice Leo's age. His face remained calm, almost reassuring. His hair was combed straight back and down to shoulder length. The eyes were large and luminous even in the minimal light. He seemed to want to calm Leo, to reassure him and draw him into talk, "Easy, easy, easy now..."
Leo dropped his eyes, where crimson drops of blood had begun to accumulate before him. Was the guy trying to stall? Was someone in the deli calling police right now? Or was someone creeping up behind?
Seasoned by experience, Leo could see a stalemate coming. The more the man hung on to his canvas bag, the more Leo was convinced to want it. Even though he now had three little punctures from Leo's homemade weapon, he was
still the larger, older, and stronger of the two. Leo couldn't afford the time for a stalling tactic, and he couldn't hope to overpower the mark by force, either. Yet, he wanted that bag...
"Okay. Talk! What?" he barked.
The man continued. "Okay. Easy. I know you're hurting. I know it's rough out here. I know you need to do whatever you're doing. ‑‑ but it doesn't have to be this way. There's something better we can do. Just be calm Be calm. Let me talk to you just for a minute." The voice was strong, persuasive.
Leo suddenly looked away, raised his left hand toward his forehead, and blurted out in a childish tone, "My parents died and left me!"
The man reached one bleeding hand toward Leo's shoulder in a sympathetic gesture and moved closer, continuing to talk, "I see... " A mistake!
Leo lashed out with his dagger into the unprotected midriff. He punctured through the man's coat, but a single blow with the short wire blade would not stop the man, who clumsily tried to catch at Leo's arm while he stabbed again and again.
The ground became slippery with blood. The man's coat was soaked, the canvas bag was covered with gore, yet the man would not go down. Even his voice continued, "Easy. Easy."
Time and the mark's superior size were against Leo. He couldn't continue the same stabbing motion; only the slippery blood had prevented his arm from being grasped. The same slimy gore caused Leo to fear losing his grip on the makeshift handle. As soon as he found a good hold, the bleeding hulk could still pull Leo down and pin him while the police or vigilantes came.
Desperately, Leo took his last, best shot. He arced his arm up, over the other's guard, then down. Into one luminous eye the blade sank! Leo was able to step back as the towering man came crashing to his knees at last.
Exhausted now, but still in a hurry, Leo stood just out of reach of the bleeding cyclops and tried to decide how to lift the prize over the dying man's head without risking being grabbed.
The man was stock still, one eye staring blankly ahead, just as he had been staring when Leo first had spotted him in the delicatessen. Perhaps he was finishing some thought he'd started then, or perhaps his brain was stupefied...
He circled around behind then put his full weight into a kick high on the back of the dying man, who then crashed down face forward and lay still. Leo then busied himself in extricating his bloody prize by disconnecting the strap. But the blood soaked victim rolled over and grasped his arm!
From his blood‑frothed mouth came one last word, "Easy", then the cold grip relaxed, whether out of kindness or because he had died at last, Leo would never know, but he was free, and he had the canvas bag.
**
Leo was put in a rage when he returned to his squatter’s room and learned that the bag he had just stolen contained nothing but worthless books and papers. Why had the guy seemed to treasure it so? Why did he die trying to keep it? Leo slung it disdainfully into a corner, where it lay for the rest of the day.
The next morning, however, Leo began to paw through it. The first book he opened was, “The Only Way Forward,” by someone named Paul Kerr. He found himself in complete agreement with its first line, “The end of human existence has come into view.”
Leo looked around his shabby hideout. One wall had been largely burned in some forgotten fire that had consumed most of the building. The other walls were covered with smoke damage and mold. Growing cracks revealed the uncertainty of any future existence. The only artifacts of Leo’s existence were leftover spoils of Leo’s most recent period of begging, scrounging, and petty crime. His “home” was no better nor worse than his last hideout, and his next would likely be worse as the city and everyone in it continued to degenerate.
Leo suddenly realized that he might have liked the young man he had murdered for these few books. He felt an affinity for him because, unlike anybody else that Leo had ever met, he was at least looking at the world as it is and studying possible solutions. Leo had done the first part of that all too well, and, now, for the first time, was taking up the second.
He nestled into a corner, near the room’s only small window, and began to read. The book explained that the different strata of society, with different and competing aims, had brought the planet to ruin. The solution was to create a new society. That problem, it explained, was as old as striated society itself. Humanity, Paul Kerr asserted, had always managed to resolve its problems once the problems were made clear to a sufficient number of people. If the problem was that methods of producing and using energy had produced a poisonous and overheated planet, then the answer was to shut down those methods and seek new ones. If the problem was that one stratum of society ruled all the others in a careless and dangerous manner, then they had to be removed from power. Paul Kerr called for a moratorium on energy use, and he called on all the lower strata of society to join together in resisting their rulers. The book was short, simple, easy to read, and, given what Leo knew of the world, almost impossible to refute.
Leo stayed in the rest of the day and did the best he could to read the other books, but they were too foreign. Even the English-language ones were about inaccessible places and times. Among the loose papers in Leo’s purloined bag, though, was a leaflet calling for public demonstrations in Central Square each evening at dusk. One of the speakers listed was Paul Kerr. Leo knew that these people would not be hard to find.
**
Finding the revolutionaries and joining them turned out to be even easier than Leo Torres had thought. They accepted him enthusiastically, especially because he was not like them. The revolutionaries were a largely homogeneous group of younger people, mostly students with ordinary workers among them. They were pleased to hear what Leo had read, and they never asked him how he had acquired his first books.
They were a lot like the young man he had killed. They had a measure of commitment and courage that belied their softness. They might not know how to fight, but they didn’t let their lack of ability lead them to defeatism. Although they were a close knit and loyal group, they made a point of being open to all newcomers, such as Leo. They did not belittle his inferior academic schooling, and they treasured his ability to get around the decaying city’s obstacles, particularly the police and the growing armed militias.
Their goal was to reach as many people as possible with their message of energy moratorium. Explained simply, it was a moratorium on pollution and a moratorium on cooperation with the present society’s rulers. The strategies, beyond speaking, holding classes, and distributing their written message, was to engage in acts of defiance so that great masses of people would know what to do, and would have the courage and inspiration to do it. They set an example by avoiding the use of automobiles and most weaponry. Leo liked being a part of things and having associates, but despite the group’s overall commitment to non-violent struggle, he obtained and always kept a sharp knife.
Their group was comparatively small. Within a reasonable period, Leo became known to the leaders. Because of one particular act of defiance, and because it did not go as planned, Leo became known far beyond the circle of his compatriots.
Workers at American Textiles were on strike, and had been striking for weeks. The Corporate Board of Directors refused to meet with the workers’ representatives. The stalemate was dragging on, and government intervention clearly favored the bosses. Leo’s group joined in strike support and assistance work, but they wanted to do more. They decided on a plan of direct confrontation. The team that included Leo would actually break in on a Board of Directors meeting and accuse them, face-to-face, of crimes against their employees. Hopefully, the striking employees would take heart from knowing that their oppressors were, after all, just people, just as vulnerable, and could be confronted, like anyone else. In the best-case scenario, the revolutionaries would exact some kind of confession from part of the corporate board. In the worst case, they would show that the striking workers’ allies would go to any lengths to support their fight.
The first part went fairly easily. Leo and a dozen strong young men infiltrated the building at different points, then came together in the conference room where the bosses were meeting. They pushed through the door and confronted the surprised bosses. There were only 6 of them, fat and balding in luxurious rainment. Their voices rose in unanimous outrage at the trespassers on their sanctified ruling roost.
At that point, though, things began to go wrong. Guards had called in police and militiamen. Shots were being fired in the courtyard below. Innocent workers, completely unaware of events, were being shot down. The small group of revolutionaries had unintentionally set off what might become a general massacre. The team leader, unsure of what to do, decided to withdraw. Unfortunately, though, in the confusing melee, the last thing he said to any of his team as he abandoned the conference room was, “Don’t let them leave.” He said it to Leo Torres.
Leo found himself standing alone by the room’s only exit, with six of the city’s most prestigious, and angriest, patricians. And they wanted out! They charged together against Leo, and he drew the only defensive weapon he had. For better or for worst, circumstances had come together to put into this dangerous situation the only revolutionary actually prepared to carry out his ill-informed instructions. He would not let the six men leave.
The ones in the rear, more frightened than they would have ever admitted, pushed against the ones in the front, who pushed where they should never have pushed, against Leo Torres. He dispatched the first one with a sharp poke to his carotid, the second one fell with a slash across his throat, and the third went down spurting blood from his heart. As the others fell forward, Leo created a gruesome pile of blood and dead matter in less than a minute. Then he stood back by the door to await instructions.
The approaching rattle of armed men caused Leo to change his plans. He had, after all, already accomplished his one instruction, “Don’t let them leave.” None of them were leaving, at least not alive, and Leo had to make use of a window to scramble down the outside of the building, in full view of all the workers below. As he finally dropped the last few feet from the fire escape and stood on firm ground, he realized that the workers in the courtyard were not screaming. They were cheering for Leo Torres!
The next day, when the slaughter of the corporate board became known. The leadership of Leo’s revolutionary group held an emergency council. What had happened was completely outside the scope of their strategies and was seen as a tremendous blunder that might cost them any credibility with the general populace. At the same time, they realize that Leo had performed his duties as he understood them and could not be faulted. They decided to make no statement and take no action.
Within a few days, Leo’s legend was complete. According to this complete misunderstanding of what had happened, Leo Torres had been the leader of the raid and had planned every detail. Upon entering the Corporate Board room, Leo had presented a “final offer” of surrender to the wealthy board. When they refused it, he purposely killed them.
The story was embellished and retold throughout the city, then through the nation and the world. Leo Torres, who had actually made a simple mistake and used what was basically his only outstanding ability, became a hero, a mastermind, the strongest and most determined of all the young people struggling for justice in every pocket of the Earth.
With some reluctance and disagreement among them, Leo’s organization did not correct the legend. Leo remained a loyal member and continued to carry out assignments. The legend of the “final offer” lived its own life outside the actual events that led, eventually, to triumph in the city and in most of the world.
In the revolutionary battles, Leo took pride in his fighting abilities. Others knew him as a reliable and strong member of their fighting forces. Neither Leo nor any of those who knew the actual story talked about the legend of the “final offer.” But the rest of the world did.
**
While a warrior’s fame may live forever, his actual usefulness is short. As revolutionary fighting gave way to celebration, Leo Torres found himself less and less a part of the revolution that he had helped create. He remained a member of the highest revolutionary council, but it was an honorary position for him, as he almost never attended meetings. There, they spoke of engineering problems, inventions, economic incentives, and administering justice. None of those matters interested Leo. Even worse, they intimidated him and unintentionally made him even more painfully aware of his diminished contribution.
On the other hand, life became uncommonly easy. Leo could wander from public meeting to public meeting, or, more often, from saloon to saloon, and be greeted as a hero everywhere. As weeks passed, the friends were fewer but the saloons remained.
In one of those bars, Paul Kerr had found him on a long summer day. “Do you think your life is over?” Kerr asked a sodden and befuddled Leo.
“What do you care what I think?” Leo shrugged.
“If you think it’s over, that’s the final word. It is over. If you don’t think it’s over, then maybe you could use some help.”
“Want me to cut a ribbon at a new building for you? Going to build another automobile dam?” The building of seawalls on beaches, using abandoned automobiles, had become a popular form of public celebration.
“There are plenty of figureheads. That’s mostly all I do. But it’s not for you and never was. I want to know if you’re ready to get back to work doing something useful.”
“I still have my knife. Want me to murder somebody?” Leo slurred with angry exasperation.
“I want you to sober up. I want you to return to usefulness, to yourself and to the rest of us. I want you to stop dying and start living.”
Leo stared toward the wall indifferently, but he was listening. “To get you sobered up and back on track, I want you to take a small, virtually insignificant assignment far away from here. I want you to go where nobody knows you and carry out a task, even though it’s a small task. It’s so small that nobody cares about it except, maybe, me. Nobody is likely to care how it comes out, except, possibly, you. I want you to finish this one, then I want you to come back here and get another one, and then another. That’s how we live, making progress, not sinking into the sewers the way you’ve been doing. I want you to start caring.”
“OK,” Leo said as he reluctantly turned at last to face his old friend, “What do I have to do?”
Kerr said, “I want you to go to Oklahoma.”