He walked to his seat at the head of the table, turned with a flourish and sat down. His purple and gold robe glowed in the rays of sunlight that filtered through the bulletproof stained glass windows of the Council room. The twin Princes, Anthony on his right and John on his left, were next to be seated.
Jamal remained standing, shifting from foot to foot, his eyes darting about as his hands shuffled the papers he held. Even though Jamal was fanatically loyal to the King, he was always apprehensive in the presence of His Majesty. He had seen too many of the King’s tantrums to be otherwise.
“We are waiting,” rumbled the King and the ire in his voice warned that this had better be good.
“Sire,” Jamal said hesitantly. “I have the Roads and Power report you requested and the Commander of the Royal Intelligence Service awaits an audience to impart the latest news from the front, as well as a scouting report concerning His Majesty’s future subjects.”
A gleam of interest stirred in Joey’s eyes. He had come here prepared to be imperiously pissed off at having been pulled away from his favorite pastime, but he was always interested in learning about “future subjects”.
After all, business before pleasure, he thought.
“Let’s hear your report, Jamal,” he commanded.
As Jamal Rashid began, the King allowed his mind to drift. Joey had learned from his reading of the Roman, Vegetius, that in the time of Rome, roads were the key to empire. Back then good roads meant good communications. Now that the Impact had destroyed civilization and ionized the atmosphere, making radio communications over any significant distance unreliable, good roads again meant good communications, enabling him to keep in touch with the farthest reaches of his domain.
He was vaguely pleased to hear Jamal estimate the population of his empire at slightly over two million, counting slaves. Since almost eighty percent of those he conquered ended up in chains, it was good to count slaves. The other twenty percent of the population were members of the privileged class or in the military.
Joey exploited the fact that survivors everywhere longed for the comforts of their lost civilization. He decreed that running water, sewer and electrical power be restored to any people who came under his control. He also saw to it that any marauders, other than his own, were suppressed. These actions, together with his efforts to rebuild and maintain the roads, allowed him to masquerade as a man restoring civilization. He gave his subjects a measure of comfort and security in a world that failed to do so. All he asked in return was that his word be law. Little enough to demand in exchange, he thought.
At first, many of his newly conquered subjects rationalized their loss of freedom as a just exchange for added security and comfort, ignoring Benjamin Franklin’s advice that, “Those who would give up essential liberty to purchase a little temporary safety, deserve neither liberty nor safety.” For as soon as the King’s agents infiltrated them in numbers sufficient to prevent the formation of an effective resistance movement, things changed. The King’s demands increased dramatically, as did his slave drafts. Joey knew the power to tax was the power to destroy, so he carefully maintained their standard of living at a level just high enough to allow them to be bled indefinitely. Even so, it wasn’t long until many of his subjects, especially women, were wishing for the good old days of anarchy.
Who would believe being a King could be such a bore, Joey thought, as Jamal droned on about newly repaired roads and power plants. The news was important, but it just didn’t excite him anymore. His mind continued to drift.
Before the asteroid hit, he was Joey the Giant, minor mobster, major freak. Anyone as big as Joey was a freak, of course, but there were other reasons people called him that, reasons he had kept hidden then.
As a child, Joey learned that people do judge books by their covers. Small, balding guys with skinny legs and glasses are computer geeks or accountants. Large men are big dumb jocks, the bigger, the dumber. Joey, as his nickname implied, was big enough to be thought stupid, a misconception he was quick to exploit.
He quit high school before he got his diploma, but only because he was ambitious. They weren’t teaching him what he wanted to know, which was how to control people. Joey joined the Mafia as an enforcer, something his abnormal strength and Sicilian name made easy. The mob knew how to control people. The mob had real power. He decided to learn what he could from them and from the books he read when no one was watching. Soon, using his twin sons as enforcers, he had carved out a small territory in which drugs, prostitution and gambling were the staples.
He was smart enough to keep both his brains and ambition well hidden from his superiors. If his competitors and bosses bought the act, they would underestimate him. He practiced the phrase, “Gee boss, I dunno,” and used it a lot around higher-level wise guys, smiling inwardly while they rolled their eyes and explained things he understood far better than they.
The Mafia taught Joey that patience was the right hand of ambition. One day he knew he would be the Godfather; but it would take time and more money than he could ever accumulate playing by the Family’s rules. He established a highly profitable gunrunning business, keeping its existence from his superiors, never sharing the profits, hoarding money, guns and manpower against the time he would be strong enough to make his move.
Murphy’s Law caught up to Joey before he was ready. An ill-conceived raid on an Army convoy coupled with being sold out by a spy he had planted in his boss’s organization led to his downfall. His boss, furious at having been duped, decided to make an example of him. Joey and his sons were taken into the desert and were literally looking death in the face when the asteroid hit. The confusion enabled them to kill their captors and escape. Joey owed his life to the rock that killed civilization.
It was a turning point and he called it the Day of Divine Revelation; the day God revealed to Joey his destiny. His guns and men came out of hiding. Within a couple of months Joseph, as he now insisted on being called, was organizing the gangs that were forming. He was well-read enough to know that, in Medieval Europe, this was how kingdoms were born.
It took Joseph Scarlatti and his sons seven years to conquer California and another five to annex Oregon and what was left of Nevada. He still had men fighting in Washington, but it would soon fall. Twelve years after The Dying Time he had an empire and was addressed as Your Majesty, or King Joseph. But Joseph’s ambition could not be sated. It grew with each victory. Now he wanted the world.
His greatest pleasure came from adding new lands and people to his empire. By contrast, he hated administration. Paperwork bored him, so he appointed Ministers and other flunkies to handle it, knowing a few of them would intrigue against him. Just as he couldn’t avoid all the “clerk work”, he couldn’t avoid all the risks entailed in delegating some of his power; but he could minimize both. He escaped his boredom and instilled great fear in his followers by rewarding informers and by indulging his most depraved appetites. His lips twisted into a smile. He still remembered when...
He gave a slight start as he realized Jamal had finished speaking and that all eyes were upon him awaiting a reply. What was it the man had said last? Oh, yeah, something about in conclusion, blah, blah and should he now summon the Commander of the Royal Intelligence Services.
“Send him in,” Joey said, as he returned to being The King.
Massive oak doors at the end of the room opened and a large, swarthy, well-dressed man stepped through. At six-feet-four, two hundred-fifty pounds, Nicolo Bonetti would have dwarfed most men, but compared to King Joseph and his sons he looked like a child. He walked briskly to the end of the table and bowed.
“Your Majesty,” Nicolo began, his voice full and rich. “I have the great honor to announce that your realm now extends over Washington. The Spokane settlements fell last week and for all intents and purposes that puts Washington within the Empire.”
He paused as he noted the beginnings of a smile on the King’s face. It’s always best to begin with good news,
he thought and wished that was all he had to deliver. “There are still a few isolated bands of resistance in the eastern part of the state and several communities in Idaho are well fortified, but they pose no serious threat to the establishment of the Pax Royal.”
“What about the raiding parties we sent into the other states?” Prince John asked. Several regiments had been dispatched to Montana, Wyoming, Utah, Colorado, Arizona and New Mexico to launch probing attacks on the population centers there. Prince Anthony believed there was nothing like a swift surprise attack to test the mettle of an enemy. John had disagreed, but their father let Anthony have his way.
The smile vanished from Bonetti’s face.
“Mixed results, Your Highness,” he reported. Leave it to John to bring that up. Nicolo hated being the bearer of bad news. More than once the King had killed the messenger. “There are some fairly well-armed militia groups in Montana, but they haven’t united and it should be relatively easy to pick them off one at a time.”
“The Arizona force, under Colonel Janko, took Flagstaff. According to our agents and scouts that and the seaport of Kingman are the only towns in the state with more than three thousand survivors. The rest of the population is scattered among ranches, small towns and nomads.”
“Nomads?” King Joseph questioned.
“Mostly Indians, or gangs of criminals, Your Majesty,” Nicolo explained. “There are several bands of nomads roaming those mountain states. Militarily, they are of no consequence.” The King nodded, satisfied for the moment.
“Colonel Janko reports he’s mopping up a few pockets of resistance, but aside from the Kingman seaport, which is well fortified, Arizona can be considered secure. In Wyoming, our men took Sheridan and Laramie, then attacked a large tribe of Indians...” He paused to take a sip of water. He was coming to the hard part. The King and both Princes could hear a “but” coming.
John couldn’t wait. “But?”
“They were defeated.” Nicolo shrugged helplessly, knowing that he had only delivered the appetizer. He really wasn’t looking forward to the main course.
“How?” King Joseph demanded.
“The reports are confused, Your Majesty,” Nicolo began. “Some of the men say the main body was wiped out in a landslide, but others say they were being beaten badly before then.”
Silence descended over the room while the King and his sons digested this. There would have to be reprisals.
At last the King spoke and there was steel in his voice. “Who was in command?”
“A Colonel Reynolds, Your Grace.”
“Was he among the survivors?”
“No, my King.”
“Then have his family put to death. I cannot allow such incompetence to go unpunished.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Nicolo scribbled a note on a pad he carried. So far, so good. At least the Royal Temper hadn’t focused on him yet.
“What about Utah and Colorado?” John asked.
Nicolo swallowed hard. This was the main course. He hoped it would go down as easily as the appetizer.
“We haven’t heard from the Utah battalion. None of their messengers met the last ship. In fact...”
“And Colorado?” John smelled blood.
“Our forces were, uh, destroyed,” Nicolo gulped. Best get it over with.
“WHAT?” The King shouted. He slammed his massive fists onto the table, causing it to jump.
Nicolo flinched, but stood his ground. Not so much from bravery. He was just too scared to move. When he found his voice he loathed the quiver in it. “We just don’t know what happened in Utah, Your Majesty. And so far only one man has made it back from the Colorado raid. He says our men were strafed by tiny planes and helicopters. He wasn’t very clear on the details, Sire, just that they had an air force.”
“What place were we attacking in Colorado?” the King asked. From the menace in his tone and the red flush on his face, it appeared his temper was approaching critical mass.
“The Freeholds, Your Majesty.” Nicolo pointed to a map. “Southwest of Denver.”
“And you say they have planes and helicopters?”
“Well, uh, not real planes, like those Your Majesty commands. That is, they weren’t any kind of planes our man had seen before.”
“And why didn’t we know about these planes before we attacked?” Off to the side, Jamal Rashid and Prince John exchanged pleased glances. Nicolo wasn’t a special favorite of theirs and it was good to see him taken down a notch or two.
Nicolo cringed mentally. That sort of question put his competence as commander of the Royal Intelligence Service in doubt. He would have to answer carefully.
“When the rangers scouted them, there was nothing to suggest they had an air force, my King,” he said with almost imperceptible emphasis on the word rangers. “The Freeholds looked like just another settlement of farmers. There was no airstrip, no hangars, not even a windsock.” That should do it. After all, the rangers weren’t part of his command. It wasn’t his fault they didn’t do their job right. They were part of the King’s Army.
“I see,” the King glowered. “So my rangers were at fault, eh. And where, Bonetti, where the hell were your spies?”
God, Nicolo thought, feeling the sweat pop out on his brow. So now I’m Bonetti. When he’s pleased he calls me Nicolo, or even Nicky. He hadn’t meant to imply that the King was to blame. He glanced swiftly at Prince Anthony, his only source of possible support. Anthony, who had looked interested at the mention of tiny planes, was studiously ignoring him. Nicolo knew he must take great care not to offend the King further. The injustice of his situation rankled though.
“The Freeholds is a very close knit community, Your Majesty,” Nicolo said softly. “They don’t trust strangers. The same is true of the people in Utah. These places take time to infiltrate.” Unspoken were the words, more time than you gave me. “Anyone attempting to do so must have a solid cover. Still, we are seeding agents in both communities. We’ve made a good start, but we’re not established yet. However, by the time Your Majesty launches the invasion, my people will be in place.”
“They’d better be,” the King threatened, switching off his temper like an electric light. Though Joey often pretended to lose control, he rarely did. He smiled inwardly as Nicolo’s posture softened and the man began to relax. Fear was Joey’s favorite tool.
“One of my men has located an ideal invasion site, Your Majesty,” Nicolo continued, trying not to sound as relieved as he felt. He believed he would survive now. It was touch and go there for a minute. He had saved this small piece of dessert for last, hoping to change the subject.
“And where might that be?” Prince Anthony asked, offering token support now that the battle was over. Anthony’s casual dress, baseball cap, tee shirt and jeans, contrasted sharply to John’s crisp uniform; but it was Anthony who, without conscious effort, projected the airs of royalty.
“Western Utah, Sire, near the town of Nephi.”
“And what, if anything, has this fiasco taught you about our future subjects’ military capabilities?” Prince John interjected. He wasn’t letting Nicolo off the hook so easily.
But for the first time in what felt like ages, Nicolo was ahead in the game. He had been expecting such a question and had his answer ready; an answer he knew would please the King. “They appear to have no armor or artillery,” he replied.
“No armor?” questioned the King. His smile, which had vanished with the bad news, was threatening to return. Perhaps it hadn’t been such a disaster after all? An increase in the slave drafts would replace the soldiers lost in the probing attacks.
“No artillery?” asked Anthony.
“None,” Nicolo stated, with a tentative smile.
“You’re certain,” John challenged, upset at seeing Bonetti weasel out from under his father’s disapproval this way. If Nicolo was gone he might be able to absorb the Royal Intelligence Service.
Nicolo’s smile almost faltered, before he reasser
ted complete control over his face. It went against his nature to make statements he couldn’t hedge, but this time he felt confident he could predict the future accurately.
John caught the brief flicker in Bonetti’s smile. But then Bonetti had white, even teeth, like Anthony and John tended to notice good teeth, comparing them with more than a touch of envy to his own rotten mouthful.
“As certain as I can be this early in the game,” Nicolo stated. “Of course, we don’t know anything about the Mormons in Utah yet, but while the Freeholders were able to hide a couple of small aircraft, there’s no way they could have hidden tanks and howitzers.”
“Why wouldn’t they have armor?” the King asked. Tanks were among his favorite toys.
“Roads, Your Majesty,” Nicolo explained. “These areas experienced massive earthquakes and they’re only beginning to recover. Roads there are blocked by landslides, downed bridges and wrecked or abandoned cars. The quake damage is so severe in some cases roads simply end in canyons or cliffs. The whole area is such a mess, the troops attacking the Freeholds were forced to disable and abandon their light tank along the way.”
“At least we can do something about roads!” Anthony stated. If there was one thing the slave gangs of the Empire were good at, it was repairing roads.
“What of that other matter?” the King asked, bringing up old business. John smiled widely, forgetting for the moment to hide his rotten teeth. Jamal caught a flash of red and glint of light off John’s beret as the prince nodded toward him.
Nicolo’s smile faltered. Shit! Of all the times to bring that up. Just when he thought he might escape with his hide intact. “Your Majesty, we are still looking. There are hints the Garcias have fled to Wyoming or Colorado. Perhaps once we begin the invasion Your Grace would spare me a few men to continue the search.”
The Dying Time (Book 2): After The Dying Time Page 6