2077, Abha Bhole

Future

Favre, 2077

by Abha Bhole

The afternoon sun blazed in the sky, bathing Paris in its golden glow. The view from my window would have been beautiful, were ‘President’ was replaced with ‘Governor’.

it not for the bombing. The Avenue des Champs-Élysées was littered with marble. Some pieces were the size of pebbles; others were larger than houses. The acrid stench of smoke still lingered in the air. Explosives. Ancient technology. It was no secret that the rebels were underfunded but this was an entirely new level, even for them.

The screen flashed image after image of anarchy and destruction. Favre. The name was repeated everywhere. Every emotion, from outrage and indignation to disappointment and scorn was attached to it. I remembered standing in the rubble, blinking as cameras flashed in my eyes. Voices shouted all around, demanding, questioning, complaining. Humans never stay still for long. We always want an answer; we always want cency. Nobody took them seriously at first,

someone to blame.

A shock wave had rippled through France. For now, the whole country was in silence, but it wouldn’t last long. The fallout from this would be immense. Another year of interviews, reporters and accusations. Everyone was accustomed to the attacks by now, but this was the first time the rebels had targeted something of cultural significance. This was their way of showing that they it took to have their Republic back, even if it meant destroying history.

I estimated at most another day before I was swarmed by the media. I had grown up in a world of cameras and microphones, hardly surprising considering that I was in charge of the country. After the Government of the French Republic had collapsed during the Climate Crisis, the entire democratic system was reshaped, and the position of Only last year, I had been elected and the bombings had begun during my term. I wore my mask constantly, trying to reassure the people that it would not be long before this was over. The rebels would tire themselves out and our military would swoop in to finish them off. In truth, I could see that it was only a matter of time before the country fell into civil war.

The rebellion was enabled through complawere serious, that they would do anything

brushing them off as fanatics. They were ignored even when civilians suffered in the scuffles. Riots were covered up; shootings were suppressed. Most of France only realised there was a problem after the first bombing. That false sense of security cost us our hard-won peace. It is said that those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it.

There were many who disagreed with the change in the system. At first, the protests were peaceful. Then came the riots, and then the rebellion. They attacked anything they found that was of importance, from transport lines to water purification plants. As time went on, they became more and more organised. They swayed hearts and minds; with people came power. It wasn’t long before they became large enough to spin their own narrative. They were the underdogs, the misunderstood heroes fighting to liberate France from the tyranny of my Government. They became like a cult; to them, their story was one of honour, justice in the face of oppression. Any of their number who thought differently were silenced.

There was a knock at my office door. “Governor Favre?” It was my secretary, Camille. “The fragment you requested.” She handed me a black case. “Thank you, Camille. That will be all.” She nodded and left. I placed the case onto my desk and opened it. Inside was a small piece of marble, not much bigger than my fist. There was a name scratched onto the fragment. “FAVRE”. My family name etched by the son of a soldier. He had fought in a war long ago. World War 2, they called it, although my ancestor had not been famous. My parents had told me the story more times than I could count. How the poor father of a struggling family had been killed on a battlefield. How his son, burning with grief and anger, had carved his name onto the arch with a chisel. I wondered what my ancestors would think of the young woman staring at this piece with my eyes. Eyes of cobalt blue lined with copper. An heirloom, a story passed down through generations. Investigations were being carried out, although there were no conclusive results yet. For all their crude technology, the rebels were masters of espionage. Several spies had been found within the government framework over the years and the hunt still continued. Everyone was monitored, constantly. Even I was not free from suspicion. Some might have argued that I was even more likely to be a mole, seeing as the attacks had intensified during my rule.

I sighed and went back to the window. By now the smaller pieces had been cleared away from the street. They would be transported to a lab to be examined. Later, collection units would come for the larger fragments. After it had been determined what kinds of explosives had been used, the remains of the arch would be safely stored away, until the rebels had been subdued and there was enough time and money for the monument to be reconstructed. If we

did ever manage to subdue them.