“Computer.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Contact Regional Governors Jimenez, Walston, and Prince, and inform them that I want to speak to them immediately.”
“Yes, Mr. President. Standby, please.”
Less than a minute later, the three governors were in front of the president’s desk in the form of holograms. They exchanged pleasantries with the leader of the UAE, who was eager to get down to business.
“I trust you all know the reason for this meeting?”
“We do, Mr. President.” Roberto Jimenez spoke for the three of them.
“Were the three of you contacted by Governor Weygandt?”
They nodded in unison.
“May I ask why you chose not to join his cause?”
“Simply put, Mr. President, we felt it was a decision that needed to be made by you,” Governor Jimenez explained.
President Sterling reigned in his budding anger. “My thoughts exactly. I think Jim and his supporters got caught up in the good governor’s passion and acted rashly.”
Lori Prince responded. “Mr. President, I advised caution to Governor Weygandt for that very reason. I urged him to take some time and not let emotion guide his actions. I also strongly encouraged him to discuss the matter with you before proceeding.”
Simon Sterling sat in restrained silence, his piercing stare pinning the trio of governors where they stood. After an uncomfortable interlude, he continued. “The three of you were right not to act on such a delicate matter. While I sympathize with the ordeal Jim’s experienced, his actions were hasty and unwise. The crusade he embarked upon is a fool’s errand and will never see the light of day. We simply do not have the resources to carry out such a monumental task. Our nation is crumbling, and it will take every ounce of our resources to keep our little house of cards from crashing down on us.”
The three regional governors could read between the lines – the slave trade was getting the job done and would be allowed to continue.
President Sterling sneered at the shimmering holograms and paused long enough to ensure that his expectations were understood. Without so much as a word, Simon tapped a button on his desk and terminated the link. As he headed to the south lawn for his morning walk, the president was joined by his protégé, Regional Governor Jackson Butler, the man who’d relieved Howard Beck of his home so President Sterling could take up residence there.
“Good morning, Mr. President.”
“Happy birthday, my dear boy.”
“I didn’t realize you knew. Thank you, Mr. President.”
“Thirty-eight?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“The youngest of all the regional governors by fifteen years.”
“I wasn’t aware of that, Mr. President.”
“Every fruitful endeavor requires youth. Youth brings a forward-looking perspective, the absence of which is profound amongst those of my generation. We’re obsessed with the past and find the notion of change both terrifying and superfluous. We need young minds to broaden our time-warped viewpoint.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. I’m pushing forty, yet you make me sound like a college student; it’s quite refreshing.”
“You’re welcome, Jackson. I’d like to ask you a question.”
“Of course, Mr. President.”
“I’m counting on your honesty. The other regional governors are far too frightened of me to risk making me angry. Are you afraid of me, Jackson?”
“Should I be, Mr. President?” Jackson shot a grin at Simon.
Simon laughed. “Just as I thought. Good.” Simon stopped walking and looked Jackson in the eye. “Do you think The Pulse Zone is worth saving? I’m not asking whether or not you can do it, I want to know if you think it’s worth it.”
“No, I don’t think it’s worth it.”
“Why?”
“Well, the most obvious answer is The Silent Warriors. They were an issue before The Pulse and they’ll continue to be an issue no matter what we do. That being said, they’re not the primary reason for my answer.”
“What is?”
“Damage has been done that I doubt can be reversed. The Pulse Zone is becoming a wasteland in more ways than one. The only way people feel safe is to band together in fortified communities. Even if we could wave a magic wand and put the broken pieces of The Pulse Zone back together, the people are far too frightened to consider themselves part of something larger than their own communities. The idea of contributing anything outside their own strongholds has become foreign to them. They simply don’t trust in anything. If they venture outside their own walls, they face being kidnapped by slavers or murdered for the clothes on their backs, or even worse – for sport.”
“Even when we restore their utilities? Electricity and clean water don’t make a difference?”
“Not really. They’re still starving and dying from commonplace diseases that weren’t even a threat before The Pulse. It might sound silly, but I also think they’re still getting over Internet addiction.”
“That does sound silly.”
“It might, but it’s true. We lived in a connected society that was used to having the world at its fingertips.”
“We lived in a spoiled society is more like it.”
“I agree.”
“Thank you for your frankness. I trust everything went according to plan?”
“Perfectly, Mr. President.”
“Does Jim suspect anything?”
“Not a thing, sir. He trusts me implicitly. I told him I would do everything in my power to ensure that what happened to his grandchildren would never occur again.”
“Good. You were right, young man. This fiasco proved the perfect opportunity to discover where loyalties reside amongst the eight people I’ve chosen to help me run this country.”
“What did you think of the outcome, Mr. President?”
“I wasn’t surprised by the three that refused to go along with the idea.”
“What do you want me to do about Jim?”
“Kill him; make it look like an accident. Then we’ll see how the others react.
CHAPTER THREE
Christina Dupree awoke in the back of an eighteen-wheeler. She assumed it was the middle of the night because light wasn’t peeking through the tiny air holes in the roof of the fifty-four-foot-long container. The ten-year-old had given up trying to keep track of the days. If they were lucky, the thugs would let them out once a day to move around and go to the bathroom. Every time they opened the doors, someone would scream, begging to be set free. My father will give you money! My son is in the military; he’s a very important man! My children need me! The answer was always the same – a bullet in the head. Chrissy and the other children would cry at the sight of it; no child should bear witness to the atrocities taking place within that sweltering metal prison cell. Angry glances from the armed men prompted the adults to calm and silence the children.
It had been a long time since the last break, and Chrissy needed to use the bathroom. She knew the other people around her weren’t waiting to stop and had been relieving themselves on the truck floor. She could smell it and occasionally had to shift her body away from the warm streams of urine trickling past. She had curled up in the arms of an elderly woman and eventually fell asleep. The kindhearted woman stroked Chrissy’s hair and sang soothingly to her until she drifted off to sleep. Chrissy wasn’t sure, but she could have sworn the old woman called her Angela several times during the night. It seemed strange, but Chrissy was too exhausted to correct her.