Dedication (The Medicean Stars Saga Book 1) Read Online Free
Author: McCullough Crawford
more power, others handled, and still more shuffled sideways to different departments. Each time a document crosses his desk, another form must be generated and attached to validate Gavitte’s continued work.
It isn’t until with the after lunch complacency in full effect that he finds himself before the assembled congress giving a report that no one is listening to. He is speaking on the projected effects of the approaching spring weather on the people’s desire to travel longer distances and thereby increase the smog in the suburbs while reducing it in the cities. Behind him several charts are displayed, each one showing a statistical variation that was considered noteworthy by the statisticians on Gavitte’s staff. He is droning through the notes his aides prepared, not fully comprehending what he is saying, simply allowing his mouth to follow the course that has been set.
His mind wanders back to the morning and his commute, and a little taste of anger and frustration bubbles up, causing him to stumble with one of the relevant figures for the chart he is talking about. A couple members of the crowd before him giggle softly at his stumble before turning back to whatever tasks had been occupying them. The other members, who had been more thoroughly engrossed in their own business, glance up, but once they realize Gavitte is simply pausing in his speech, they to return to their other activities.
Gavitte’s cheeks flush a little with embarrassment that he messed up such an easy speech before the entire congress. He forces his mind back into gear and starts back into anticipated effects of moderately reduced smog on youth. His mind doesn’t have a chance to wander off again before something falls into place, and the anger and frustration come roaring back tenfold. No longer is the flush on his cheeks from embarrassment. Years of facing the complacency, smugness, and selfishness before him finally push him over the edge that he hadn’t know he’d been treading.
His head begins to race with thoughts of this morning: thoughts of the woman he’d lost, thoughts of this as-of-yet unknown woman named Angelina; someone out there is waiting for a signal. That someone believes in him but needs a sign, some sort of a signal that he is ready to do something. He pauses, this time intentionally, takes a sip of water, and opens his mouth once more.
This time he doesn’t speak about marginal statistics, now he is speaking about something important, something that matters.
Chapter 3
The Capital
Police Headquarters
In the heart of an edifice erected to proclaim the might of a civilization—if not through its architectural merit than through its shear mass—there is a room. This room, like many of its kind, is lit by a single source of light dangling from the ceiling by a single wire in the exact center, above a table that, despite its rough life, still manages to maintain a smooth reflective gloss. The shiny surface reflects the harsh light, preventing the hunched form of William from comfortably looking anywhere but directly at the dark government issued suit before him.
The interrogation is in the “good cop” stage.
“Now William, tell me again what you were doing at the airport,” the man in the suit asks kindly, as if his tone is enough to balance the psychological and emotional abuse and the night deprived of sleep, water, or any comfort besides the hard metal chair William is sitting in. William’s eyes stare through him. He has withdrawn, shutdown his interface with reality, and this interview will likely devolve in the same way as the myriad of others he has already endured. The faces above the suits may have changed several times, but the process is always the same: calm, fair questions, and if he doesn’t answer them in the way they want him to, shouting and threats, followed by time locked alone in complete darkness. The suit reaches down into his briefcase that is set neatly beside his chair and
It isn’t until with the after lunch complacency in full effect that he finds himself before the assembled congress giving a report that no one is listening to. He is speaking on the projected effects of the approaching spring weather on the people’s desire to travel longer distances and thereby increase the smog in the suburbs while reducing it in the cities. Behind him several charts are displayed, each one showing a statistical variation that was considered noteworthy by the statisticians on Gavitte’s staff. He is droning through the notes his aides prepared, not fully comprehending what he is saying, simply allowing his mouth to follow the course that has been set.
His mind wanders back to the morning and his commute, and a little taste of anger and frustration bubbles up, causing him to stumble with one of the relevant figures for the chart he is talking about. A couple members of the crowd before him giggle softly at his stumble before turning back to whatever tasks had been occupying them. The other members, who had been more thoroughly engrossed in their own business, glance up, but once they realize Gavitte is simply pausing in his speech, they to return to their other activities.
Gavitte’s cheeks flush a little with embarrassment that he messed up such an easy speech before the entire congress. He forces his mind back into gear and starts back into anticipated effects of moderately reduced smog on youth. His mind doesn’t have a chance to wander off again before something falls into place, and the anger and frustration come roaring back tenfold. No longer is the flush on his cheeks from embarrassment. Years of facing the complacency, smugness, and selfishness before him finally push him over the edge that he hadn’t know he’d been treading.
His head begins to race with thoughts of this morning: thoughts of the woman he’d lost, thoughts of this as-of-yet unknown woman named Angelina; someone out there is waiting for a signal. That someone believes in him but needs a sign, some sort of a signal that he is ready to do something. He pauses, this time intentionally, takes a sip of water, and opens his mouth once more.
This time he doesn’t speak about marginal statistics, now he is speaking about something important, something that matters.
Chapter 3
The Capital
Police Headquarters
In the heart of an edifice erected to proclaim the might of a civilization—if not through its architectural merit than through its shear mass—there is a room. This room, like many of its kind, is lit by a single source of light dangling from the ceiling by a single wire in the exact center, above a table that, despite its rough life, still manages to maintain a smooth reflective gloss. The shiny surface reflects the harsh light, preventing the hunched form of William from comfortably looking anywhere but directly at the dark government issued suit before him.
The interrogation is in the “good cop” stage.
“Now William, tell me again what you were doing at the airport,” the man in the suit asks kindly, as if his tone is enough to balance the psychological and emotional abuse and the night deprived of sleep, water, or any comfort besides the hard metal chair William is sitting in. William’s eyes stare through him. He has withdrawn, shutdown his interface with reality, and this interview will likely devolve in the same way as the myriad of others he has already endured. The faces above the suits may have changed several times, but the process is always the same: calm, fair questions, and if he doesn’t answer them in the way they want him to, shouting and threats, followed by time locked alone in complete darkness. The suit reaches down into his briefcase that is set neatly beside his chair and
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