“Madam, the communications director sent me to ask the prime minister’s public relation’s aide if the prime minister wants to make a statement about the protests occurring around the empire. My name is Marco Anton. Can you please tell me who I should talk to?”
She stared at him for a moment, apparently processing what he said, pushed a few buttons on the console in front of her, turned to a vid-phone and pushed a button. Without saying a word, she motioned for him to go into the prime minister’s office.
“I’m supposed to talk to the public relation’s aide, not the prime minister,” he said in desperation.
She again motioned him to enter the door behind her leading toward the prime minister’s office.
Okay. The aide is in an office down the hall. Yeah, that must be it.
He gulped, settled his stomach, and moved forward to a place he’d never been before. As he walked through glass doors, a tube opened ahead of him as he approached. He entered, and it closed around him, circling and scanning every inch of his body. Probably to make sure he was not booby-trapped or wired with explosives.
After the scanner stopped, the tube door opened, and he walked down a long hallway. On wood-paneled walls hung exquisite paintings, interspersed with incredible statutes and works of art in recessed alcoves. From his art history class, he could identify works by Van Gogh, Picasso, Michelangelo, and others which looked very old and very expensive.
Marco saw no office doors on the walls of the hallway, but at the end of the hall stood two doors carved with the empire’s crest, each door ten to twelve-feet tall and made of some type of marble-like material. On either side of the doors stood two extremely large soldiers dressed in dress uniforms. He guessed them to be at least seven-feet tall. As he walked closer he realized they were probably androids or cyborgs. They wore no distinguishing bars or epilates on their uniforms identifying rank. Helmets completely covered their faces and he saw himself reflected in their visors as he walked toward them.
He heard about research being done on development of a totally cyborg military army, but it was the first time he’d seen the real thing. He got to within a few feet before the two soldiers pointed laser guns at him. He thought he was going to wet himself or faint right there. Before he did either, without uttering a sound, the guards moved back into “at ease” position and the doors slowly opened.
Taking a deep breath, Marco moved forward into the room. He had never seen an office like it. It was more like a suite than an office. The entire wall directly ahead of him seemed to be made from very thick glass with a clear, silent view of Boston Harbor. Although it was late April, he saw wind whipping up huge white caps in the harbor. It looked cold out there. The weather bulletins on his vid-phone this morning predicted an early spring snow storm for the weekend.
The prime minister designated Boston as capitol of the empire after he disbanded Congress in 2049 and changed the government to the parliament style of government. He told citizens he chose Boston because it was the oldest city in the empire. But Marco was sure it was probably because it was a safer location than just about anywhere else in the empire. It was isolated, with no access points from the east because of the ocean, and only a barren nuclear wasteland on the southwest side. The area was buried in cold, heavy snow nine months of the year.
As Marco walked into the office on deep, plush white carpeting, his feet made no sound. He nervously looked around, not quite sure where he was supposed to go in the cavernous room. Exquisite sculptures sat around the room, some at least ten-feet tall but not even close to touching the ceiling. Modern furniture sat in various conversational groupings. In the center crouched a huge conference table, large enough to seat fifty people. A secrecy dome perched above it, ready for lowering as needed. Against the north wall sat a large, open wine bar. On the opposite wall, a huge carved antique desk filled most of the area. Seated behind it was the prime minister, silently staring at him.
Marco gulped and bowed slightly, waiting for the prime minister to indicate he should move forward. After what seemed like an eternity, the prime minister beckoned him forward. His heart pounding, Marco moved forward and stopped as soon as the prime minister held up his hand, about three feet from his desk.
“Well, what is it, young man?”
Marco was surprised how weak the prime minister’s voice sounded in person. Apparently, his voice was enhanced for vid projection speeches. When Marco seemed unable to speak, he stood up and came from behind his desk, beckoning Marco toward a large white leather sofa on the right. He was about the same height as Marco, around 5’8” tall; again, not nearly as tall as what vids showed him. His face showed no ageing; clean shaven with no wrinkles. Marco knew the man had to be at least 110 years old, so he must be taking age-defying drugs. His thick, jet-black hair was combed straight back with a widow’s peak in front and long side burns. He had a thin build and dressed in pure white tunic and slacks, similar in style to what marines wore, but adorned only with a single imperial gold crest on the left pocket. His black shoes had been polished to a glass shine. His face seemed chiseled from white marble and was totally without expression. His thin lips were set in an emotionless line. Marco absorbed it all with a glance.
The prime minister walked toward a large white leather chair near the couch where he sat down, motioning Marco to sit on the couch. But Marco was too nervous to sit so he stood at rigid attention before the prime minister. Impatiently, the prime minister motioned for him to speak. At first his voice wouldn’t work, but finally he managed a squeak, cleared his throat and tried again.
“Your Excellency, my name is Marco Anton. Harry Munroe, your communications director, sent me to ask your public relations aide if you wanted to make any comments regarding the increasing protests on the University of Texas Austin City campus and in other locations.” He was pleased his voice finally stopped squeaking, even though he continued to quake inside.
“And you probably wonder why I did not designate my secretary or the aide to give you a response, rather than allowing you in to see me, am I correct?”
“Yes, sir, the question did cross my mind.”
“Well, Marco, there are two reasons. First, I’ve been getting good reports about your work from Harry. He says you are smart, creative and ambitious, so I decided to use this opportunity to meet you for myself. Secondly, I know all about your family business; another reason to get to know you. In fact, I know your father. Now sit.”
Marco sat. He had no choice. His legs suddenly seemed very weak. He was sure he turned pale at mention of his family’s business. He inwardly trembled that the prime minister might know about the illegal, black market aspects of the family business. He struggled to keep his face from showing his panic.
A slight cruel smile curved the corner of Altero’s small mouth as he waited for Marco to say something. Deciding he was better off not saying anything yet, Marco sat silently. The prime minister waved his hand over a console on a side table and a nearby door opened. A robot rolled into the room carrying a tray. On the tray sat two wine glasses, an open bottle of wine, and some pastries.
“Never too early for a good Bordeaux. And help yourself to something to eat. I am sure a young man like you is always hungry.”
He poured the wine and handed a glass to Marco. Marco sipped the wine, trying to keep his hand from shaking as he snagged a delicate pastry off the tray. He continued to keep his mouth shut except to nibble on the pastry, confident silence beat nervous jabbering.
Nodding his head, the prime minister sat back in his chair, sipped his wine, and said, “Before we discuss the protests, I want to hear from you what you think about the whole protest movement. I want your honest answer. I know you are a graduate of UTA.”
Marco hesitated. How much should he say? The most powerful man in the American empire literally had Marco’s life in his hands. But did he understand the impact Statute 648 had on the lives of citizen, especially energy grunts like Brogan’s parents? The question flas
hed through his mind in an instant as he struggled to come up with the best way to respond.
Oh, what the hell. Why not stir the bees nest a bit?
“Well, sir, since you asked, a lot of my generation have a hard time deciphering the rationale for Statute 648. While we understand the terrible impact subversive material and the radials had on our citizens prior to World War III, we can’t help but wonder if the statute goes too far.”
He paused, wondering if he had said too much. But Prime Minister Altero merely nodded and waved his hand for him to continue.
“For example, some of my friends grew up in energy grunt territory. Books are about their only form of entertainment. Their culture and way of life pretty much avoids electronics. The banning of printed material has been and will be devastating to them. It seems to me, if I were in their shoes, I’d protest the law, too.” Marco stopped, figuring he’d said enough.
“Go on,” the prime minister insisted.
“I’m sure you know a lot more than I do, sir, but won’t clamping down on their protests create martyrs for the protesters, rather than stopping the book hoarding? Why ban all books, rather than just a few the empire regards as subversive?”
Prime Minister Altero sat forward in his chair, his elbows resting on the arms, hands folded together under his chin, a thoughtful expression on his face, silent for a moment.
“You are correct. The original intent of the law was to ban certain subversive books. Unfortunately, too many local law enforcement flunkies took the law too literally and started banning all books and now it seems it cannot be stopped.
Marco managed to swallow his shock and nodded. “May I ask a couple of questions, sir?”
“Certainly, Marco. What are your questions?”
“Why are you asking me these questions and what does this have to do with my family?”
“Ah, I wondered when you would get to that. First, I need someone around me who isn’t afraid to tell me what he thinks. And you just proved to me you aren’t afraid to do so. As to your second question, I know the Italian Mafia is still operating in the Chicago Province. I choose to not do anything about it because so far, they help to keep other criminal elements under control. The amount they demand for protection and as a kickback from the black market is hardly worth efforts to shut them down. Live and let live, right? Besides, I come from an Italian family. Capish?”
“But, sir, I still don’t understand why you can’t stop the local law enforcement from banning all books.” He started to say something else, but before he could, the prime minister was suddenly standing directly in front of him.
His face was red, the veins on his next stood out and his eyes blazed, although his voice was low as he punctuated his words.
“Do. Not. Question. My. Decisions. Ever. My family was destroyed because of radicals during the war. I will not allow it to happen again. I will do whatever is necessary to stop any rebellion. Understand?”
Marco knew his mouth was open, so he slammed it shut and tried to make sense of the dramatic shift in mood. He was terrified. He quickly lowered his eyes and looked at the tops of shoes.
“Yes, sir. My apologies, sir.”
“Now, get out of my sight before I forget I know your father.”
Then in another dramatic shift in mood, the prime minister told him he would be contacting him again for his opinion on matters related to the protests.
Marco quickly eased out of the suite and reviewed in his mind everything he heard so far. While terrified at what seemed to be psychotic shifts in mood by the prime minister, his heart lifted at the possibility he might be able to do something to help the BL rebels from inside the prime minister’s pyramid.
He walked back to his desk in the communications department in a daze. He knew he dare not tell anyone what had just transpired, so when Harry came by his desk and ask him about it, he mumbled something about the prime minister’s office taking care of it. He needed to have a talk with his father, too. He wondered if Brogan, Bryan and the rest of the BL leadership council were going to be okay. The prime minister’s attitude toward anyone who crossed him did not bode well for the Book Liberators.
Chapter Three
No Turning Back
Before the assassin could fire his gun, Juan tackled him to the floor. The laser beam hit the ceiling, raining debris on to the heads of attendees. People started screaming.
Bryan frantically pushed his way through the crowd, most of them in frozen in shock from what had just happened. He grabbed Brogan to his chest, his body trembling.
“What’s wrong, Bryan?” Brogan asked in alarm, her voice muffled against his chest.
“Are you okay?”
“Of course, why? What’s going on?”
She pushed against him, trying to breathe and struggling against his strong grip.
“Someone just tried to kill you,” he managed to gasp.
“What? Where?”
He loosened his grip on her and she saw where he pointed to Juan sitting on top of a burly man, using his own handcuffs to subdue him. Juan ripped off the man’s ski mask; it was Kurt, a security guard at UTA. Brogan’s knees suddenly felt very shaky as the impact of what almost happened hit her. But Bryan kept a tight hold on her and looked down at her.
“I don’t know what I would have done if I lost you,” he whispered.
And without another word he leaned in to kiss her. Now she was weak in the knees. As she melted into his arms, Brogan forgot for a moment she had been the target of an assassin. When she finally came up for air, she had a huge grin on her face.
“Well,” she said, “It took you look enough.”
Bryan would never forget the first day he saw Brogan. Sure, there were lots of cute girls at UTA, but no one sparked any interest in him until he saw her walk into the religion study group. She was tall, taller than any other girls he knew. That appealed to him. At 6’5” tall, he got a crick in his neck always having to look down at most girls.
If her long legs were an indication, the woman was probably close to 6’ tall. She wore her auburn hair in a long, straight pony tail swinging across the back of her snug fitting, gray and orange UTA jumpsuit. As she turned her head to scan the room, he saw brilliant emerald green eyes looking at him, framed in a heart-shaped alabaster face.
His heart seemed to stop for a minute. She looked away and he suddenly felt he lost something precious. No woman had ever affected him this way before, and certainly not a woman he did not know.
He realized his mouth was open and snapped it shut, hoping he did not look as foolish as he felt. He shook his head, trying to get rid of a sudden strange thought bouncing around his brain. She is the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with.
Where in the world did that idea come from? He didn’t even know her name. She might be a terrible person for all he knew. He pulled up the latest news on his vid-phone trying to distract himself, but his heart raced. He couldn’t help it. He looked up and tried to casually see where the beautiful woman was sitting. Chairs were arranged in a large circle. Now she sat directly across from him. His heart stopped again as she smiled at him. But before he could find the courage to go over and introduce himself, the meeting started.
Study group met in the basement of United Community Church. Usually about twenty students from all backgrounds attended, representing a variety of religious denominations and even a couple of atheists. Discussions were always lively, interesting and challenging, although Bryan’s reserved demeanor meant he didn’t participate much.
Later, he did not recall the discussion topic. It was all he could do to not stare at the woman. Introductions at the beginning meant he at least knew her name: Brogan Finlay. She actively participated. Her articulate insights suggested a keen mind, only adding to positive attributes in his mental list. She must be brilliant, he considered, as he listened to her quote passages from several books to support her input.
When the meeting ended, he stumbled to his feet. But befor
e he could make it across the room to meet her, his best friend, Marco, grabbed him and started talking about the next Lacrosse game. By the time he eased away from Marco, Brogan was gone. He was bereft. He walked up to the study group leader, Rev. Dave Dunlap.
“Hey, Pastor D.”
“Hey, Bryan. How are you?”
“Good, Pastor. Question for you.”
“Sure. How can I help?”
“Do you keep attendee contact information?”
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t. Meetings are informal, and we don’t want anyone to think we are trying to proselytize, so we don’t ask for any contact info. Why?”
“Oh, nothing. Thanks, anyway.”
His broad shoulders hunched, he slowly headed out the door.
“Bryan, wait up! What’s your hurry? You left before I was done talking. And what’s with the chat with Pastor D?” Marco asked in his usual banter.
“Nothin ’man.”
“Come on. I saw you checking out the new girl. Is that why you were talking to Pastor D? Want to meet her?”
“Don’t mess with me, Marco,” Bryan scowled as he grabbed Marco by the arm.
“Whoa, you got it bad!”
Bryan tried to get a grip on himself, failing miserably. He ran his hands nervously through his curly black hair and rubbed his chiseled jaw, late-day dark beard stubble scratching his large hand.
“I haven’t even met her, but I know I must. There’s just something about her.”
“She’s a beauty, that’s for sure. Too tall and brainy for my tastes, but each to his own.”
“Quit stringy me along, man. What do you know about her?”
Marco laughed. “I’m just teasing. I don’t know her, but she is in my political science class. I think she’s a sophomore. So, you want me to see if I can arrange a meeting?”
The White Warrior Page 3