Don't Eat the Messenger

Work intrudes more and more into our home life. Even meals.

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The flakes of pepper arranged themselves delicately on the salad. As Collin G watched them, they moved again, and then a third time into a different pattern.

“Damn headquarters. Can’t I even have a meal in peace?” Collin reached into the pocket of his dark blue flight suit for his military-issue pad and took down the message. Studying the flakes, he murmured, “Anything else, Cappy?”

The flakes moved again, paused long enough for Collin to scribe his staccato black letters, then they coalesced into a single dark stack and jumped into his coat pocket with a flash.

Satisfied no one had noticed, Collin studied the patterns he’d traced out. Massive arms shipments in Sector 17. Boru Cahal suspected. Finally: Seven hours transit; ship leaves 1400.

“1400. Less than an hour. Great.” Collin muttered a string of curses that would make a Marine’s drill sergeant proud and waved at the waitress for a to-go box. “They’re getting my bill for the ulcer. I swear they are.” He tossed some credits on the table and bolted for the door so he’d have time to pack.

By Lyndi Alexander

From: United States

Website: http://lyndialexander.wordpress.com

Facebook URL: https://www.facebook.com/lyndialexander13/