A state of disobedience

Cemetery, Dei Gloria Mission, Waco, Texas

Ranks and files of caskets, twenty-six of them undersized, stretched across an open area that was part of the Mission's old Spanish cemetery. Among hundreds of witnesses and participants to the funeral, only a few were related in any way to the victims. Elpidia, seated in a wheelchair—and with her arm and shoulder still plastered—was one of these.

Juanita, her husband, and Schmidt were there, too, of course. In fact, all of Juanita's family that could make it had shown up to bid farewell to their Uncle Jorge. The four boys, Carlos, who worked on Wall Street, Thomas and Roderigo, both still in college, and Mario the youngest and still in high school, stood flanking their mother and father, like an honor guard.

It was her youngest son, Mario—a fine strapping, handsome boy, not too different from his late uncle—who had taken upon himself the duty of pushing Elpidia's wheelchair around . . . that, and offering what comfort he could.

Comforted by Mario or not, Elpidia still wept continuously. All assumed it was for her baby. They were only half right, however. Elpi also wept for her priest and for fallen Miguel, the only men in her miserable life to date who had ever treated her decently for any length of time.

The priest presiding had finished with his portion. The time had come for Juanita to have her say. Tired, and with the fatigue and stress showing on her face from a night spent preparing to speak, she stood. Patting Elpi's good shoulder, Juanita turned then and walked steadily to a podium, her progress followed by the cameras that fed directly to Stone's Internet node and from there to the rest of the world.

Juanita began calmly, "The people who did this, who committed this horrible crime, believe that they have accounted for everything; that they have foreseen everything. They think that with their guns they have frightened half of us into submission . . . and with their taxes bribed the rest of us into acquiescence.

"They think that they can get away with anything—murder, mayhem, massacre—by just showing some teeth on a television, promising to steal some more money only so they can give it back . . . after it takes that expensive night on the town in Washington, to be sure . . . and telling us how they feel our pain."

Juani's face grew bitter. " 'Feel our pain' . . . so they claim. Do they? Did they feel it when they roasted twenty-six of our children alive in a storm shelter? Did they feel it when they blasted a priest of God to bits with their gunships' rockets and machine guns? 'Feel our pain'? They can no more do that than they can feel our rage."

Among the crowd, many began softly to weep, joining their cries to Elpidia's. Schmidt—himself—found the need to wipe his eyes.

"But why not?" Juanita continued. "What have they to fear from us, after all? Haven't they frightened—the half—and bribed the other half?"

Bitterness fell away before rage. "Oh the fools, the fools, the stupid . . . Stupid . . . STUPID and utterly contemptible fools." Juani stopped for breath before continuing. She stepped away to put her hand on her brother's casket. "They have left us our sacred Texan dead. And while Texas, under their yoke, holds these dead, Texas will never be at peace.

"For I have had a vision. And with this vision I speak to those who think themselves my people's masters, and I speak to them in my people's name. Beware, you tyrants in Washington. Beware of the day that is coming. Beware, you sanctimonious hypocrites. Beware of the risen people. Do you think, you tyrants, that law is stronger than life? Do you think, you hypocrites, that your fascist propaganda can outweigh mankind's desire to be free?"

Looking directly into the camera now, face grown red even through her olive complexion, Juanita pronounced the future. "We will try it out with you. We will take back what you have stolen. We will be free."