The train pulled into Union Station in the early evening. The women were instructed to ease from the undercarriage at the same time as the train slowly moved into the station. The darkness helped them to avoid being seen. They walked nonchalantly on to the train platform and looked up at a large hologram of downtown Chicago City. Michigan Avenue was only a few blocks north of the station. Per the hologram, a ticket station sat on the South 400 block, just outside the inner-city dome. That’s probably where Marco’s dad was to meet them.
For a moment, they panicked, wondering how he would recognize them. “Knowing Marco,” Allison said with a grin, “he’s probably given him a detailed description of both us, so I doubt if there is anything to worry about.”
“I hope you’re right.” Brogan shivered as she stopped outside the train station. Strong winds were blowing off Lake Michigan, making it very cold. “Glad we don’t need to walk very far. It is freezing here.”
“Maybe part of the reason the cold seems so bad is because we are both so skinny now.” Allison grinned. “Could be just one of the perks of being in prison. Best crash diet ever.”
“But not one I want to go through again,” Brogan replied with a scowl.
“You got that right, girlfriend,” Allison agreed. “I’d rather be fat than lose weight the way we did.”
Sometimes fierce gusts whipping around the dome and whirling around their legs almost knocked them off their feet. Ice on the sidewalks made them extremely slippery. No wonder they called Chicago the Windy City. They hadn’t asked Marco what month it was, but it must be either December or January by the looks of holiday decorations still hanging across streets and in shop windows. A few robo taxis with passengers appeared and disappeared through blowing snow, but otherwise they saw no one.
Up ahead they saw the ticket station. In front of it sat a luxurious, long black robo sedan.
“Do you know if Marco’s parents are rich? Brogan asked Allison.
“No, but it wouldn’t surprise me. He has always given off a kind of playboy vibe, don’t you think?”
As they approached the car, a short but muscular man stepped out it. He wore an expensive looking wool outer tunic with a plaid scarf around his neck. He bowed slightly as he reached out his hand, “Allison and Brogan, I presume?”
“And you must be Mr. Anton?”
“I am. And delighted to meet you. Marco Junior speaks highly of both of you. Please, get in the car where it is much warmer. We can talk on the way to our home. And please, call me Papa Marco.”
The plush car was unlike anything either of them had ever seen before, warmth surrounding them as they sank into luxurious seats.
“James,” Mr. Anton instructed the car, “Back to the estate, please.”
“Yes, Mr. Anton,” an automated voice with a British accent responded as the robo-car eased on to the street and smoothly moved forward.
“Now what will it be, ladies? As cold as it is how about a scotch or a whiskey to warm you up?”
“A scotch sounds great, thank you, sir,” Brogan replied.
“Same here,” Allison echoed.
The robo-car moved so smoothly not a drop spilled as Papa Marco poured their drinks. The two women allowed the warmth of the car, luxurious surroundings and the delicious scotch to sooth their tired and aching bodies. What a contrast to where they were just twenty-four hours earlier. They appreciated the fact Marco’s father showed no reaction to their disheveled and smelly appearances, treating them as though they were royalty.
“We can’t thank you enough, sir, for taking us in,” Brogan started in, “and I don’t know how much Marco has told you about why we need help, but we literally owe our lives to him, and now to you.”
“Not another word, my dears. Any friends of my son are friends of mine. There is a lot to discuss, but now is not the time, is it. Why don’t you just sit back and enjoy the ride. You can even sleep if you want to. I’m sure you are both exhausted. It isn’t a long drive to our estate in Lake Forest, just north of the dome. I’ll awaken you upon our arrival.”
The warm environment and good scotch put both women to sleep as though a light turned off. As they slept, Marco’s father looked at them, tears in his eyes as he remembered what his son told him they endured at the hands of the monster Priest. Emperor indeed. He was nothing more than a thug; a monster who needed to be dealt with. And he would, if the Mafia had anything to say about it. But the Mafia knew it was too early to ruffle Priest’s feathers right now, just as he struggled for control; now he was the most dangerous. They would bide their time.
He sipped his scotch and his hand tightened on an exquisitely monogramed glass as he recalled the visit last month from one of Priest’s lackeys. His words still rang in his ears.
“Mr. Anton, your son is wanted for treason. If you do not tell us where he is, we will confiscate your business and everything you own and put you and your entire family in prison.”
The young man had the audacity to storm into his downtown business office, the arrogant prick, without an appointment. There he stood in his newly minted red imperial uniform, trimmed in gold, a ceremonial sword on his side. He looked comical, except for the heavily armed and very large marines who stood on either side of him.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I have neither seen nor heard from my son in over a year. But I will certainly give him your message if I do.”
It had only taken a few well-placed vid-calls to get Priest’s representative kicked out. But he knew he, or someone else from his staff, would be back before long. The inept tails sent to watch to see if Marco Junior showed up had been easy to shed as he left to pick up the women. The emperor’s goons were amateurs compared to members of the Mafia family. He had all kinds of tricks up his sleeve they didn’t know about, such as the hidden exit from his family estate; the exit he used to pick up these young women from the train station.
Sure, he could have sent a member of his security detail, but he wanted to see these young women for himself. It was clear from the last encrypted conversation he had with Marco Junior he loved Allison. He’d been frantic with worry about her, one of the reasons why Papa Marco had helped his son with laser guns, and men to break her out of prison.
She must be plucky, along with her friend, Brogan, to escape on their own from the emperor’s prison. They both looked like they were in bad physical shape, let alone the hidden emotional traumas they suffered. He didn’t particularly mind the smell now coming from them as they warmed up. He’d smelled worse during the war. But he hated what he saw had been done to them: where hair had been torn out, dark circles under their eyes, the way their eyes jerked even in their sleep, and the tenseness in their emaciated bodies. The horrors they endured would haunt them the rest of their lives. Brogan seemed to be the most damaged. He noticed how lightly she seemed to sleep, her body tense and frequently twitching as though in pain.
He leaned his head back against the body molding seat and mentally charted things he needed to do in the days and months ahead to support the rebels behind the scenes and de-throne this so-called emperor before he destroyed America.
Using his ear buds, he turned on his vid-phone to listen for any news of Brogan and Allison’s escape. It wasn’t long before he located a news vid showing prison photos of them. They worded the vid propaganda to make the two women appear to be dangerous criminals.
Citizens are warned to be on the lookout for two dangerous Book Liberator rebels, Allison Simpson and Brogan Finlay-Douglass.
The news commentator gave a detailed physical description of them. Just then, Papa Marco was awakened from his concentration by the automated voice of the car.
“Sir, we approach the estate.”
“James is there any sign of the surveillance team at the front entrance?”
“No, sir. According to security data, the team left one hour ago.”
“Okay, drive us in through the front entrance.”
Located north of Chicago, near Lake Michigan, the for
mer Swift mansion was hidden in 50 acres of pristine forest preserve, outside the city’s dome. It took a lot of bribes to keep Altero’s government from taking it over after WWIII, but the estate had been in the Anton family since the 21st Century and he had no intention of letting Priest have it now.
As the auto-bot car drove up a long, tree-lined driveway, he admired, as he always did, the beauty of the estate. Although now bare of leaves and laden with pure white snow, the ancient oak trees were still beautiful. Through the twilight, the twinkling lights of the castle-like building came into view, something from a fairy tale. Built in the 19th Century, it cost him a fortune to add solar heating and cooling and to make sure the utilities blended with the façade of the building.
The rugged outer stone was a dark charcoal gray. Large round towers stood at all four corners of the four-story house, giving it a mediaeval appearance. Large bedroom suites on the second floor, each larger than most citizen’s residences, sat one in each corner of the massive building. Each suite contained two large canopied beds, a living room suite, conversational settees, its own bathroom and huge walk-in closet. His partner had hired one of the best decorators in Chicago City to design each suite to fit a different historical period.
In the center entry way, a long spiral staircase meandered from the second floor to the foyer. The ceiling of the foyer was the full four-stories high with a stained-glass dome reflecting thousands of twinkling colors on the polished tile floor. Left of the entry way, a large ballroom and dining hall could easily accommodate one hundred people, with the kitchen on the west side. Three massive crystal chandeliers hung over the antique mahogany Queen Anne style table running the full length of the room. It was rumored royalty from Great Britain were guests at the mansion at an extravagant dinner and ball in the early 1900’s.
To the right of the entry way sat his library and study. Because of the ban on books he added a secret compartment behind shelves to be able to access the thousands of books his family gathered over the past two centuries. Shelves in front of the contraband books contained priceless works of art. His massive desk was carved from a fallen Sequoia tree, carefully shipped to Chicago City after the war. Banks of vid screens covered one entire wall where he kept track of his various business ventures.
Directly behind the entry way on the north side, the sun room shone, his partner Maria’s favorite room. Designed to look like a glass-domed Grecian temple, the solar paneled ceiling and walls formed an exquisite greenhouse containing hundreds of varieties of exquisite rare flowers. White wicker furniture scattered among the flowers were topped with colorful fabric cushions. The solar-powered temperature-controls made the room a year-round tropical forest.
The modern kitchen was added off the dining room and a large living room area sat beyond his study. A fitness area occupied a corner in the basement. At the time the house was built, the basement included a dozen changing rooms for women and another dozen for men, all made from Grecian marble. They were used by guests when they went swimming in the Olympic-sized swimming pool in the back of the house. Because more than nine months of the year were now cold and snow, the pool was covered but no longer used. Now the changing areas in the basement were primarily storage areas.
A separate garage included dozens of varieties of antique cars, robo-cars and motorcycles. A team of servants and robots kept the house running, the antique and robo-cars tuned, and the yards maintained. A stable full of pure-bred horses sat behind the mansion. Criminal and complete background checks were required on every servant before acceptance into Papa Marco’s employment. Paid very well, some servants lived at the mansion, if they chose, with the third and fourth floors of the towers established as servants’ quarters.
Now, as the large car purred up to the entrance, Marco gently shook the two women awake. They came awake with a start, both wide-eyed and tense as though expecting something terrible to greet them.
“It’s okay, ladies, it’s just me, Papa Marco.”
It took them a few seconds to clear the cobwebs of sleep before they accepted the fact they were safe. He helped them out of the car and up steps into the entry way. Warily they looked around, still trying to adjust to their surroundings. An antique clock struck 8 pm and both women jumped. They both laughed nervously when they finally identified the sound.
Maria walked in from the sun room. She was a tiny woman, about 5’2” tall, built like a porcelain doll. She wore her black hair in a short bob, accentuating her high cheekbones. Although probably in her 60’s, she appeared to be no more than 35 years old. She dressed in an exquisite tunic of yellow silk, a perfect frame for her features. Black silk slippers covered her tiny feet. She had a beautiful smile. Allison could see where Marco Junior got his good looks.
Although she expected them, Maria’s shock was clear as she saw their obviously terrible physical condition. Tears filled her eyes.
“Welcome to our home,” she managed to say, “You are welcome to stay as long as you can. First, how about some hot baths and some clean, warm clothes?”
Before the women answered, Maria clapped her hands and a robot entered the room.
“Jamesette, please lead our two guests to the Duchess Suite. Run hot baths for both and make sure warm pajamas, slippers and robes are laid out for them. Oh, and prepare a light meal for them of hot tea, soup, cheese and crackers.”
She turned to them. “I hope it sounds okay?”
“It sounds like heaven, Mrs. Anton,” Brogan replied. “We don’t know how to possibly thank you enough.” Allison echoed her comments.
“Nonsense. And call me Maria. You are friends of my son, and that’s good enough for me. Now, shoo. We’ll talk in the morning, after a good night’s rest. Oh, before I forget. Do either of you need medical attention?”
“I don’t believe that will be necessary, Ma’am,” Allison said with a wry smile. “I am a doctor.”
Maria did not say anything, just raised an eyebrow and nodded as she realized this was Marco’s love. She and Papa Marco had not had time to chat before he left for his mysterious errand to the train station. She turned and followed her partner into his study where he had gone after they arrived. The women followed the robot and spent the next hour trying to scrub off all remnants of their prison stay.
After their hot baths, they struggled to stay awake, but managed to fill their stomachs first. They tumbled into the most luxurious beds either of them ever slept in. The two queen sized beds were soft as clouds. For the first night in six months, Allison had no nightmares. Brogan, however, paced the floor several times during the night whenever she awaked from another nightmare. She finally managed a couple of hours of uninterrupted sleep early in the morning. The sun awakened them, peeking through the pure white gauzy curtains on the 12-foot-high, multi-pane windows in their room, rather than the strident voices of prison guards their alarm clock.
The women stretched luxuriously and sleepily absorbed their surroundings in the daylight. Though their bodies still ached from their ordeal, their hearts filled with hope. Brogan started to get out of the bed and suddenly felt a stab of incredible pain. She could feel something wet gushing from between her legs. She cried out in agony.
Allison jumped out of her bed and rushed over. Her medical training quickly kicked in as she guessed what happened: probably a hemorrhage. So much activity during the escape must have somehow caused a rupture. Rushing to the door she yelled for help and rushed back to Brogan, now lying in a fetal position on the bed, groaning in pain.
“Brogan, I need for you to stretch out and separate your legs for me. I need to stop the bleeding.”
She ran to the bathroom and grabbed some towels and began to apply pressure where the bleeding was coming from. Maria rushed into the room, followed by a robot.
“What is it?” she asked anxiously.
“Brogan is hemorrhaging. I need to stop the bleeding and fast. Any sterile dressings anywhere?”
“Yes. We keep a First Aid kit well stocked and a mi
niature auto-doc on the premises.”
She turned to the robot. “Jamesette, bring the First Aid kit from the linen closet and call the auto-doc. Quickly.”
Maria turned back to Allison. “Now what?”
“We can’t take her to the hospital, since they will probably report us to the authorities. I need to perform surgery to stop the bleeding. Is there some place suitable for surgery, relatively clean with good lighting?”
Papa Marco strode into the room, still in his bathrobe, overhearing the question. “The kitchen sounds perfect. The crew is meticulous about keeping everything spotless. I will have some servants carry her to the kitchen. What else do you need?”
“Although I’m not trained in gynecology, I have some basic knowledge and the auto-doc can provide a step by step surgical procedure for a hysterectomy laparoscopically. I’m guessing all the rapes Brogan endured is what has caused the hemorrhage. The trip and the hot bath probably caused the scar tissue to break loose and the only way to stop the bleeding now is surgery.”
Papa Marco rushed out of the room, calling for help, while Allison maintained pressure on Brogan’s abdomen. Within minutes, the staff carried Brogan into the kitchen and prepped her for surgery. The First Aid kit included just about everything she needed, including some needles for the IV and transfusion. She improvised an IV using some tubing she found in the kitchen along with some pastry bags. She started a saline solution drip. Getting weaker by the minute from blood loss, Brogan managed to tell Allison her blood type: O positive. Since Papa Marco had the same blood type, he volunteered to give blood. Allison showed one of the servants how to keep pressure on the abdomen while she rigged up the blood transfusion and IV.
The step by step surgical procedure for a hysterectomy played on the vid-screen over the kitchen counter where Brogan lay. The auto-doc stood by the surgical area, ready to assist, showing a scan of the uterus on a side-panel of the vid-screen. Allison calmly reviewed each step. The scan from the auto-doc clearly showed a ragged tear to the posterior wall of the uterus. Papa Marco brought her some anesthesia used for a surgery on one of the horses. With some quick vid-research and input from the auto-doc, Allison calculated how much to use on Brogan, based on her estimated height and weight. Allison knew she had no choice; if she did not repair the damage quickly, Brogan would die. So, she took a calming deep breath and proceeded, despite the risk.
The White Warrior Page 27