The white paint along the walls was spotless, as was the polished surface of the Council’s Ruling Bench—a half-moon-shaped oak table in the middle. Everything had been cleaned and polished to perfection for this all-important summit, including the equally-spaced positions of the three chairs tucked under the table.
Ten rectangular placards hung along the curved walls, each with the silo’s name, Nirvana, stenciled in the center. Above the name was an infinity symbol that stretched from one end of the letters to the other.
The signs had been installed in precise 36-degree increments around the room to symbolize the purity of logic and the balance of order.
Edison always had a specific agenda in everything he did, deciding that this room was the most important area of the silo.
He’d also written famous quotes on white posters placed between each of the logo signs. It wasn’t clear if he thought they were needed for decoration, or to further his idea of motivation and symmetry.
Krista scanned a few quotes, taking in their wisdom:
Honesty is the First Chapter in the Book of Wisdom. ~Thomas Edison
Truth is Rarely Pure and Never Simple. ~Oscar Wilde
Truth Carries the Weight of the Victims, While Justice Frees the Soul of the Damned. ~Jack Bunker
The First Duty of Society is to Uncover the Truth. ~Frank Cartwright
A raised platform stood a few yards beyond the Ruling Bench, much like a judge’s stand in a court of law. It featured a simple wooden desk and high-back leather chair, both of which belonged to the curator of Nirvana: Dr. Stuart Edison.
He’d designed The Council’s Ruling Process to be quick and efficient, allowing the various Section Heads to handle complaints and other matters needing a leadership vote.
All decisions were final.
There were no appeals.
No stays.
No objections.
No procedural logistics to trip over, either, like warrants, probable cause, witnesses, or cross-examinations.
It made the need for lawyers obsolete, and the same could be said for the need of a jury of your peers. Or the need to face your accuser. Everything was timed to keep the process moving and reach a decision quickly among those standing in judgment.
Each Section Chief voted for their respective rank and file. Normally Krista was seated in one of the three chairs, hearing the complaint and whatever summary evidence was available before making her decision.
Now she was on the other side of the tribunal, bringing charges against a young girl. A girl who ignored the rules, pretending she was immune to their reach.
The side door to the chamber opened and in walked the remaining members of the Ruling Committee, each wearing an ankle-length ceremonial robe to denote their status. The robes featured a rainbow of primary colors, vertically striped in six-inch increments. Edison had designed the garments, including the infinity symbol sewn across the chest in honor of his slain wife, June.
Fifty-one-year-old physician Dr. Liz Blackwell sat down first, her slender frame nestling into the center chair with precision. She leaned forward to adjust her position, bringing the legs of the chair farther under the bench in a screech. The sudden weight shift sent her black hair into a wiggle, jostling the subtle wave of curls that reached the top of her shoulders.
Despite Liz’s age, her hair hadn’t begun to turn gray. Good genes, Krista figured, admiring the porcelain shine across the doc’s smooth cheeks and her perfectly white teeth. Not a wrinkle in sight. Everything about the woman screamed she was in control.
Liz adjusted her glasses, touching a finger against the bridge of her slim, rectangular frames, then brought her hands together on the wood surface, as if a famous teacher was about to walk into the class and demand her attention.
Krista respected Liz, not only for her intelligence and good nature, but also for her accomplishments in the world before The Event. It takes something special inside to push through life with a clear plan in place. In truth, anyone who sets out to become a doctor and does so in record time has that drive.
However, Krista never understood why the brilliant woman seemed to defer to whatever Edison wanted. Certainly, the Harvard-educated doctor had her own opinions. She couldn’t possibly agree with Edison every single time. Yet she did. It wouldn’t be easy gaining her vote.
Supply Chief Rod Zimmer sat down next, taking the seat on Liz Blackwell’s right. His salt and pepper hair, mustache, and beard were a bit unruly, but their distinctive look made him distinguished. His handlebar mustache extended out well beyond his cheeks, curving upward at the ends.
Nobody knew his true age, but if Krista had to guess, Zimmer was in his late fifties or early sixties.
He reminded her of a distinguished Confederate General from the Civil War era. His accent and mannerisms screamed Southern gentleman—probably from Alabama or Georgia. Again, nobody knew for sure. He wasn’t the kind of man to share tidbits about himself or his background.
His keen eyes were like those of an eagle, always locked on target, taking in every fact while searching for the next kill. His wrinkled skin sagged around his slender nose with equal balance on each side, giving him a look of both predator and prey.
Engineering Chief Alexander Morse entered the chamber next, laboring across the floor with the aid of a walker. He shuffled the unstable device a foot at a time until he was able to sit down in the remaining seat with a grimace. The ebony-skinned scientist sent a gentle smile Krista’s way, then a head nod, his chest pumping for air in recovery.
His wide nose was his most distinctive feature, breaking up his round cheeks and sun-damaged complexion. He kept his hair short and temper long, measuring every syllable before he spoke, as if he were running out of words. Morse was the oldest of the Council, clocking in at north of seventy.
The final attendee was the man himself: Dr. Stuart Edison, Professor and Chairman. He, too, wore a ceremonial robe, only his was all black instead of a mix of colors like the others.
Edison walked past the Ruling Bench and climbed the steps to his perch atop the raised platform in the back of the room.
He sat in his chair and spun it slightly to roll himself behind his desk. The only item missing from the scene was a white wig sitting on his head, reminiscent of colonial days—long before the United States spun off on its own, in a flurry of bullets and death.
Edison cleared his throat, then made eye contact with Krista. “By order of the Nirvana Code of Conduct, I, as Chairman of the Ruling Council, hereby declare this meeting open. We have a series of complaints to hear today, all of which are being brought by Security Chief Carr. Established rules and procedures dictate that we hear the grievances first, then the facts of the case will be submitted and rebuttal heard. Each phase of the process will be delivered by Chief Carr and Chief Carr alone, with ten minutes allocated for Q & A thereafter. Judgment will then be reached by those in attendance today. Since I stand in opposition, I will abstain unless the ruling process ends in a deadlock. Security Chief Carr, you now have the floor. Please read your complaint, then begin outlining the facts and deliver your prepared rebuttal. You have fifteen minutes to complete testimony. The clock starts now.”
Krista nodded, then began her delivery, choosing her most sincere tone. “Thank you, Chairman Edison and distinguished members of the Ruling Council. I stand before you today with a conflicted heart. As you know, Nirvana is primarily a community of hope and compassion for all those weary souls who request entry. But in order to survive in a world that’s been decimated and nearly extinguished by man, Nirvana must also stand for law and order, both of which must apply equally to all those who choose to live within her walls,” Krista said, taking a moment to fire down another breath.