That Friday afternoon, the Alfonso cafe, located at the intersection of fourth and tenth, was busier than other times. The rain that started falling a few minutes ago had led many to stay there a while longer and ask for an extra round of what they were taking. Something hot, preferably; with the precipitation, the temperature had dropped.

There were the usual ones. Lawyers debating the latest court cases; the military and congressmen, gathered around a small table as if it were a Crisis Room, giving speeches about how important it was to bet on the maritime industry; the oldest retired soldiers sharing the same war stories they already shared the day before, and others who talked about things as momentous as the weather.

Everyone enjoyed the last hours of the day with a coffee in between; although most of them did so by occupying the tables in the center to stay away from the windows. This was a deliberate choice that, at least to Mr. Mizar, by now was as obvious as the reason for it.

They did it so as not to expose themselves to those who passed by on the street. Period. Perhaps because by staying there they gained a certain sense of protection. The security there was superb, few areas in the metropolis were as well guarded as that. But sometimes unforeseen events happened, and if one had a dirty conscience—like many of those present had—staying for a long time next to a glass wall was the same as becoming the object of desire of a thief behind a shop window.

Fools, Mizar called them.

He, who knew most of these people for work reasons or because they were regular Alfonso clients, preferred to sit next to the window to enjoy the view. He knew that, if it was written that an unforeseen event would happen to you, no matter how many qualms were taken, how many crystals there were between the potential victim and the attacker, fate would tamper with whatever to impose the tragedy.

The old wooden and glass entrance door opened, and the bell tolled once again, announcing customers. This time it was a group of prosecutors; Mizar knew it; a few hours ago, he’d seen them in the Imperial Citadel.

The youngest of the newcomers looked around; his eyes met Mizar’s and drew away with a spark of shyness. Then he exchanged a comment with another in the group, and they took their seats at the first table they found available.

They recognized me. They know who I am.

Mizar smiled proudly and took a sip of his tea. Then, he returned his brown eyes to the holo-newspaper on the table, and continued to delight in the article that said:

Chief Officer Mizar has finally been appointed Secretary of Defense, in recognition of his achievements in the arms industry of the Markabian Empire. Mizar, the man responsible for developing the technology that made the Grenadier Initiative possible, at the age of forty-eight has become the youngest member of the Imperial Council.

And in the holographic photograph, he was taking the stage, ready to receive the honorary title at the hands of an old military man in a long green cape.

Everyone in the cafe knew who he was, all right. Who could not recognize him, especially in that part of the city where magistrates and courts abounded? If he was already a well-known figure before being promoted, now that he carried such a high title, he was much more so.

The question was, how many of those present shared his enthusiasm? Was anyone present at the cafe who would have opposed his designation, had they had the chance?

He knew some people argued against him, saying that it was inconceivable to give the position of Secretary of Defense to someone who had not undergone traditional military training like many of his peers, while others argued it was disrespectful to families who had forged entire generations of military personnel, for a simple businessman to go so far.

Nonsense! Weren’t his merits the most important thing? The entire military scheme was based on merit, and he had done far more for the military than his detractors. The Markabian Empire had the mighty Grenadiers thanks to him! How many of those who were against him could boast of such a thing?

Mizar stared at his own reflection in the windowpane, and with his fingertips, evened out the gray that painted that white streak in his dark hair, just above his ears. He didn’t care about gray hair; he cared about looking pretty and flawless; there was no age limit to look good. Who would tell him otherwise? The same lunatic who had told him that coquettishness and military service didn’t go hand in hand? Well, that’s funny! He had it all: attitude, above all else; a physique that endured a daily round of aerobics, and a brilliant mind that most of his comrades had finally recognized.

He deactivated the plastic card of the Republic, the holo-newspaper he was reading, and activated the card of The Emperor, the next among the many publications he had bought. He searched for the pages that spoke of his triumph and let himself be enthralled by the article with the same enthusiasm with which he had done the previous ones.

Finally, he opened the special edition of Elite; the icing on the cake: A luxurious printed magazine, one of the few that was still in circulation, that this time reviewed his career, with images of him in his mansion and where his love for horse riding was portrayed. His good friend Lisa King, the editor-in-chief, knowing what was going on in the Senate, had dedicated the entire edition to him as a present.

“How not to,” she had told him. “Not every day one is decorated by the Imperial Council itself. Besides, you’re one of the few who still support a tradition as old as printed paper.”

“Where I come from,” he had answered with a wide smile, “we used to announce the progress my community made through paper. I keep fond memories of that time.”

He turned his eyes to the window again, but this time he did not stop at his reflection, but went right through it, and watched the rain falling on the city. It was beautiful. The night had darkened the surroundings of the cafe. Through the wet glass, the street lamps looked like balls of lights, suspended in a water curtain that wobbled gently.

The rain put him in a good mood. Besides, if good news were added to it…

Now the only thing missing was the finishing touch.

He took the last sip of his tea. The young waiter beside him tipped the kettle to pour him more, but he covered the cup with his hand. He was full.

“And you…” said Mizar, and opening the only one of the printed newspapers that he’d bought, he pointed to another photograph of himself where he was with the title in hand, in front of a formation of soldiers. “What do you say about this?”

The waiter, a thin young man with a handsome face covered with freckles, took a deep breath and gulped.

“Congratulations, Mr. Mizar,” he said; his voice trembling slightly between shyness and nervousness.

“Thanks, but you don’t have to congratulate me just for pleasing me, Jake,” Mizar smiled and took his eyes off of the newspaper to stare at the waiter. “I know we, the military, aren’t to the liking of people like you, but that’s no reason for you to feel uncomfortable around me. You know that, don’t you?” Lowering his arm, he hid his hand behind the tablecloth and touched the young man’s leg. “Or are we no longer friends? Huh?”

The waiter, petrified, took a quick glance at those behind the Secretary and then settled his eyes somewhere in the window. His white face had lit up like a campfire.

“Oh! Now I understand,” the Secretary said and looked at his custodians. “Don’t be intimidated by them, Jake. These dogs do not bite… Unless I ask them to.”

The waiter made an effort to keep his eyes out of the reach of the Secretary’s voracious eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Mizar,” he said.

The Secretary stood up, left the money on the table to pay the check, plus a generous tip, and picked up the holo-newspapers cards and the other publications. He brought his lips close to the young man’s ear and whispered: “Hope to see you later.”

And he left, and behind him, were his custodians: two Grenadiers dressed from head to toe in their shiny black and white armor; cutting-edge technology with an almost medieval look.

Mizar moved between the cafe tables with his publications under his arm, his head held high and a triumphant smile, knowing that he took with him the gaze of most customers and even their voices. Along the way, from the table to the exit door, the widespread murmur had been reduced to a few sounds: a teaspoon knocking on a cup and some isolated squeaking. The crackling of his shoes against the wooden floor, and the clink, clink, clink, provoked by the soldiers as they walked in their armor, became the only beat besides the soft background music.

He picked up his brown raincoat from the cloakroom, put it on, and went out into the open.

Clink, clink, rang the bell at Alfonso’s door, marking the end of his day there. Tomorrow he would be back at breakfast time, as usual.