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Authors: Allen Steele
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one of the few surviving members of the Alabama , had long since moved to the outskirts of Bridgeton. Yet as antiquated as it was, the family home remained as a testament to the fortitude of the first settlers.
Government House stood at the edge of the district not far from the Grange Hall, itself long since converted into a historical museum. Although the original wood-frame structure was left untouched, with Captain Lee’s life-size statue still holding vigil out front, a couple of years ago a limestone addition had been raised behind it, providing additional office space for the Federation’s ever-growing government. The coupe entered a paved driveway beside the building and came to a halt in front of a rear door. Two blueshirts were waiting for their arrival; as the coupe settled upon its skirts, they assumed positions on each side of its passenger doors, their airpulse rifles at the ready. Jorge wondered whether they were simply an honor guard, or if someone seriously believed that an armed escort was necessary.
“Oh, hell,” Sawyer muttered, plainly irritated by the Militia presence. “I was afraid of something like this.” Stepping from the vehicle, he scowled at the blueshirts. “Thank you, gentlemen, but we don’t need...”
“Sorry, General. President’s orders.” The soldier to the right made no move to leave. “We’re to make sure nothing interferes with you...”
“Walking ten feet to the door. Right.” Sawyer blew out his cheeks as an exasperated sigh. “Whatever you say, but I’m having words with the president the next time I see him.”
Jorge almost laughed out loud. Only Sawyer Lee would have the nerve to stand up to the president of the Coyote Federation. On the other hand, since Sawyer had refused to publicly endorse Charles Edgar during the last election, he probably took it as his right to oppose the president. But Jorge wisely refrained from saying anything as he climbed out of the coupe, Inez and her mother behind him, and followed Sawyer and the two soldiers to the door.
The guest quarters were located on the third floor of the new wing, their limestone walls and floors disguised by faux-birch panels and shagshair carpeting. Everyone in the group had been assigned an individual room; after two weeks of sharing a dome tent with five other men, Jorge was ready for a little privacy, and although his room was hardly the luxury suite Sawyer had led him to expect, he nonetheless looked forward to sleeping in a bed instead of a cot. But when he saw the blueshirts take up positions at each end of the hallway, he couldn’t help but feel that he’d been put in a velvet prison . . . and wondered why President Edgar had gone to such trouble to post guards.
Before they retired, Sawyer told the others that someone would come to fetch them first thing in the morning. Their briefing was scheduled for 0900 sharp, and they would be expected to be ready by then. Closing the door behind him, Jorge glanced at his watch. It was already 0147. Barely enough time to catch a few winks; he hoped breakfast would be provided.
No matter. It had been a long trip from Algonquin, and all he wanted to do just then was sleep. Civilian clothes had been laid out on the bed. Tossing them on a chair, he sat down on the bed to undress, but he had only just removed his boots when there was a quiet knock at the door.
“Yeah, come in,” he growled. He expected that it was Sawyer, dropping by to discuss one thing or another, but when the door opened, he was startled to see Melissa instead.
“My apologies.” She quietly shut the door behind her. “I know it’s late, but I wonder if I could have a word with you?”
“Of course, ma’am.” Jorge was instantly awake. He stood up. “Always happy to . . .”
“I rather doubt that, considering the hour, but I appreciate the courtesy all the same.” A soft smile appeared. “And it’s not necessary to call me ‘ma’am.’ I know we’ve never met until
Government House stood at the edge of the district not far from the Grange Hall, itself long since converted into a historical museum. Although the original wood-frame structure was left untouched, with Captain Lee’s life-size statue still holding vigil out front, a couple of years ago a limestone addition had been raised behind it, providing additional office space for the Federation’s ever-growing government. The coupe entered a paved driveway beside the building and came to a halt in front of a rear door. Two blueshirts were waiting for their arrival; as the coupe settled upon its skirts, they assumed positions on each side of its passenger doors, their airpulse rifles at the ready. Jorge wondered whether they were simply an honor guard, or if someone seriously believed that an armed escort was necessary.
“Oh, hell,” Sawyer muttered, plainly irritated by the Militia presence. “I was afraid of something like this.” Stepping from the vehicle, he scowled at the blueshirts. “Thank you, gentlemen, but we don’t need...”
“Sorry, General. President’s orders.” The soldier to the right made no move to leave. “We’re to make sure nothing interferes with you...”
“Walking ten feet to the door. Right.” Sawyer blew out his cheeks as an exasperated sigh. “Whatever you say, but I’m having words with the president the next time I see him.”
Jorge almost laughed out loud. Only Sawyer Lee would have the nerve to stand up to the president of the Coyote Federation. On the other hand, since Sawyer had refused to publicly endorse Charles Edgar during the last election, he probably took it as his right to oppose the president. But Jorge wisely refrained from saying anything as he climbed out of the coupe, Inez and her mother behind him, and followed Sawyer and the two soldiers to the door.
The guest quarters were located on the third floor of the new wing, their limestone walls and floors disguised by faux-birch panels and shagshair carpeting. Everyone in the group had been assigned an individual room; after two weeks of sharing a dome tent with five other men, Jorge was ready for a little privacy, and although his room was hardly the luxury suite Sawyer had led him to expect, he nonetheless looked forward to sleeping in a bed instead of a cot. But when he saw the blueshirts take up positions at each end of the hallway, he couldn’t help but feel that he’d been put in a velvet prison . . . and wondered why President Edgar had gone to such trouble to post guards.
Before they retired, Sawyer told the others that someone would come to fetch them first thing in the morning. Their briefing was scheduled for 0900 sharp, and they would be expected to be ready by then. Closing the door behind him, Jorge glanced at his watch. It was already 0147. Barely enough time to catch a few winks; he hoped breakfast would be provided.
No matter. It had been a long trip from Algonquin, and all he wanted to do just then was sleep. Civilian clothes had been laid out on the bed. Tossing them on a chair, he sat down on the bed to undress, but he had only just removed his boots when there was a quiet knock at the door.
“Yeah, come in,” he growled. He expected that it was Sawyer, dropping by to discuss one thing or another, but when the door opened, he was startled to see Melissa instead.
“My apologies.” She quietly shut the door behind her. “I know it’s late, but I wonder if I could have a word with you?”
“Of course, ma’am.” Jorge was instantly awake. He stood up. “Always happy to . . .”
“I rather doubt that, considering the hour, but I appreciate the courtesy all the same.” A soft smile appeared. “And it’s not necessary to call me ‘ma’am.’ I know we’ve never met until
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