Dedication (The Medicean Stars Saga Book 1) Page 4

  It all comes back to him as he begins to run after her, making him stagger as if hit in the gut again. The name in his head during the morning news, the note he found in his pocket after being hit by the homeless man, and the strange message written upon it.

  “You are the Resistance, aren’t you?”

  “He’s a bright one, ain’t he?” comments the man running directly behind Gavitte.

  Angelina, who slowed enough to allow Gavitte to catch up, is now running directly in front him and keeps running for almost another thirty seconds before responding; this delay is, of course, fine by Gavitte, as her remarkably tight-fitting combat fatigues outline every movement of the muscle beneath, and the faint scent of roses easily cuts through the musty underground smell of the cavern.

  “He has made a public statement against the government from within, and he can’t just be whisked off to an institution and declared insane,” she says, sounding as if she is repeating the lines off a script and not really addressing either of their comments. “He is the figurehead this resistance needs.”

  With these words still swirling behind her, she picks up her pace and disappears into the darkness. Only her flashlight bobbing along reveals her location, and then the gloom swallows her completely. Gavitte tries to slow as his mind continues to churn, but the press of the others behind him keeps him moving. Without realizing that the path is no longer clear ahead of him, Gavitte is taken completely by surprise as they burst through a jungle of hanging fabric and into a well-lit camp. Standing amongst stacked boxes and computing equipment, she is the picture of rugged professionalism. Unlike Gavitte, whose face is flushed and covered in dust and muck, she looks crisp and clean as if she just walked out onto a parade ground to perform the morning review.

  “Welcome to our temporary camp,” she begins, her voice distant and her eyes looking everywhere but at Gavitte. “This was set up just for the extraction; we need to get everything packed up in the next few hours, or they’ll find us. Then we’ll be moving you to our central base of operations, but first we need to create a new identity for you to get you past the security checkpoints out there.” She vaguely waves to the far wall as the rest of the team enters, and they immediately begin breaking down equipment and packing the crates.

  Gavitte is led to a stool before a camera by one of leaders of his rescue party, who pushes him down with a gentle but firm hand and rotates him around until he is facing the correct direction.

  “Don’t worry about her,” he says, noting the puzzled look in Gavitte’s eyes as he stares at Angelina rummaging around a crate across the room. “She’ll warm up to you eventually. Now look here at this camera so we can start making your new identification card.”

  The flash blinds Gavitte leaving floating white shapes in his vision. He is then left alone as the entire party of rescuers breaks off from packing to huddle around a computer. They begin laughing and jabbing at the screen excitedly. Angelina does not join them and instead begins packing a small duffel from the contents of one of the crates.

  With a roll of her eyes and a vague gesture towards Gavitte, she heads over to knock some sense into the group of men. Gavitte, his mind still trying to catch up with recent events, takes the gesture to be a sign that he is no longer needed on the stool and follows Angelina over towards the monitor.

  “Just use the one we decided on before,” she tells the men, her voice carrying a note of command mixed with exasperation. “We need to hurry. He has to be on the train before they think to post security at the station.”

  The absurd alternative identities that had been creating so much merriment vanish from the screen and are replaced with one that looks almost like the Gavitte elected to office. But instead of occupation listed as politician, it is listed as professor, and the name is changed to Rosenburg.

  One of the rescue party grabs a makeup kit and begins applying some plaster and artfully placed shadows to his face to help reinforce the new persona. The look is topped off by a pair of round brass spectacles, and soon he looks at least ten years older.

  With the makeup complete, Angelina hands him a folder of papers and the duffel she had been packing. She leads him away from the others, who have begun breaking down the equipment in the room, and towards another tunnel. This tunnel is dry, as if not part of the network of sewers under the city, though the damp smell of earth and decay that is common in underground spaces still lingers here. As she leads him through a series of twists and turns too numerous to count she gives him instructions.

  “The folder contains your important documents: passport, tickets, and a research paper you’re supposed to be presenting at the conference you are going to,” she tells Gavitte. “The duffel contains everything a young professor such as yourself will need for a weekend conference in the mountains. You are to get on train number five from track one. We’ll meet you at the other end, but we can’t travel with you, as we are too well known. Take care and try to keep to yourself.”

  With the final words, her voice loses part of its bite of command and her eyes, which had still been avoiding him, stop their roving and lock onto his. She pauses, and Gavitte’s entire world seems to slow. Without warning she kisses him surprisingly passionately upon the lips before throwing him through another hidden opening into what appears to be a janitorial closet, complete with a dirty mop resting in brown water. The earthy smell of the tunnel had been wiped from Gavitte’s senses when she kissed him, replaced completely by her own earthy scent; now both are banished completely by the harsh bite of cleaning supplies.

  Before he can form any of the many questions boiling inside of him, the portal he had just crossed through shirks and then vanishes, leaving naught but an off-white cinder block wall behind. After standing stunned for a moment, Gavitte soon realizes that if this strange group of rescuers had no plan, then they wouldn’t have risked their lives to save him. Convincing himself that it is the only reasonable option and he is in no way influenced by the smell of roses and the taste of her lips, he concludes that he has only one option. He takes a deep breath, gathers up his duffel from where it was resting against a stack of new paper towels, pushes his new gold-rimmed spectacles up his enhanced nose, and hunches his shoulders as if under the weight of too many years before open books and flickering computer screens. He is now Professor Rosenburg heading to a conference in the mountains. Already he longs to catch a hint of Angelina’s smell again, but all traces of it have been erased from his nose.

  The professor opens the only door out of the closet and is instantly swept up into the crush of Union Station at rush hour. It is only after much jostling and a muttered curse or two that he makes it to the hall for surface trains. Here his new passport and ticket are required, though barely glanced at, as he is directed towards his train. Embarking, he finds a window seat on the second level near the middle of the car with no one in the entire row. The car seems subdued and peaceful despite the imminent departure of the train. As he sinks into the entirely too spacious accommodations, he lets out the breath that he didn’t realize he’d been holding since being thrown into the police van that afternoon. What has he gotten himself into? If he’d simply kept his mouth shut, he would have been able to continue on with his comfortable career. Now the future is far from certain, and yet Gavitte can’t help but feel that it is definitely brighter, and not just because a very good looking woman seems to be interested in him, though even he can’t convince himself that it is not a major factor.

  Soon the train begins its journey west, and it is not long before the gentle rocking and swaying of his carriage lulls him into a peaceful dream of mysterious women possessing finely crafted bodies and large assault rifles.

  Chapter 9

  Foothills of the Western Mountains

  A University Campus

  The mountains framing the University soar into the sky, shredding any clouds unlucky enough to attempt to cross over into the hills beyond. As Jon pushes open the door, the clouds are just beginning to tur
n pink along their undersides, almost as if their blood is spilling as they are gutted, but he cannot see the panorama yet as he is still caged by the building that he has spent the last several weeks of his life cooped up in. The courtyard he steps out into is ringed on all four sides by sheer cliffs of unfinished concrete, the shortest of which rises over two stories above him. Knowing there is nothing more exciting to look at than the ground, Jon hunkers down and pulls his coat collar up to protect his neck against the crisp autumn breeze that swirls across the gravel-filled courtyard.

  Walking briskly, he hurries across the open area towards a set of covered stairs that lead up to ground level and the rest of campus. When he reaches the first step, he stumbles slightly as a gust of wind howls down the dark stairwell, bringing with it an assortment of flyers torn loose from the walls and light posts around campus and the smell of an impending rain storm. Ducking his head lower, he charges up the stairs, challenging the weather to do its worst. Today he doesn’t even feel the cold bite of the wind. Today he gets some time off. Behind him in a nondescript room, behind a double-locked door, lies a stack of graded midterms and a rough draft of a journal article for his advisor to review when she returns to campus the following morning. Tonight, however, Jon has nothing except the prospect of a few beers with which to fill his night, and somewhere across campus in the depths of some greasy bar sits Ryan, already a few beers in and most certainly making eyes at every pretty girl in the place, but waiting for Jon to find him before he really starts the night. His friend has been bugging him since the semester started to join him for some sort of adventure or another, but the opportunities that had sounded so exciting to Jon’s innocent ears the year before have piled up and buried him.

  Once he is out of the wind tunnel formed by the stairs, the breeze subsides to a light caress, and Jon allows himself to relax a little as he contemplates the long walk before him. No amount of joy from this brief interlude of freedom can help him shake the feeling that everyone he passes has it better than he does. This feeling only grows as he heads through campus and away from the ugly monolith he calls home. Each building that he passes seems to be beautifully sculpted to not only complement those around it but also to embrace the open spaces between; each one is named for some prestigious alumnus who wanted to have his or her name be forever synonymous with the topic taught within.

  Jon is halfway through this gauntlet of architectural hubris when the collective clocks in each building signal the end of class. The previously deserted paths now find themselves inundated by a throng of younger students, all chattering away about the test they just sat through or the papers they just turned in.

  Trying to distance himself from their worry and speculation, he slows down and edges towards the left side of the path as it widens to pass a fountain. Unfortunately, the throng of students begins to splinter into smaller groups as the conversations shift toward their evening plans and how best to forget the last hour and a half of their lives. Resigning himself to his loss of solitude, Jon lets his mind wander and contemplates his own plans for the night. Maybe he’ll let Ryan talk him into staying out till the bars close, or maybe he’ll even find someone to go home with other than a grouchy cab driver. It’s unlikely that he’ll really forget about his responsibilities that thoroughly, but it is certainly pleasant to dream about the possibility.

  Cutting through an alley between two buildings that are covered in ivy and glistening in the light of the setting sun, Jon reaches the edge of campus, and the wind that had once only brought him swirling trash now brings him the mouthwatering smell of fried foods from a selection of ethnicities. Walking to the corner, he joins a crowd talking loudly and excitedly as they wait impatiently before descending on the sources of all those wonderful smells. The cars whiz by, equally oblivious to the crowd on the corner as the crowd is of them, until a computer somewhere nearby decides that it is time for the lights to change and for salivating mouths and parched throats to find relief. The lights cycle, and Jon finds himself swept across the street and off the confines of the campus for the first time in far too long.

  Making his way past the overpriced restaurants and bars that command the locations closest to the campus and the free-flowing cash of students too far in debt to care if their dinner is twice the price it should be, Jon continues past stores selling all the things students “need” before coming to another intersection. Here the road continues up into a residential area dominated by small apartments and large rent bills, but Jon is not destined for the house parties contained within them. His destination lies off to the right, down a small side street behind the glowing façade of a twenty-four hour night club. Jon pushes past the line waiting to get by the bouncer and heads down the street, past the dumpsters, to the discreet wooden sign above the ancient and abused door of his destination.

  Stepping through the door, Jon is greeted by the warm smell of freshly made pretzels and sour beer. The smell is all he can perceive at first as his eyes adjust, because even though the setting sun has left the street outside draped in shadows, the interior of this establishment has seen no more light than that cast by a trio of neon signs above the bar since its opening. It is a comforting place, where conversations can he held in private and good beer can be purchased at reasonable prices.

  ‘’Over here,” Jon can hear Ryan’s voice, and after a few seconds, he can even begin to make him out. He is seated in an alcove by one of the blacked-out windows set high in the walls. There is an empty pitcher of beer in front of him and two glasses, one with a film of beer foam and the other as clean as any glass gets in this place.

  Jon makes his way through the crowded mass of tables, weaving though the room and eventually making it to the booth. As he arrives, a waitress appears with another pitcher of beer. She sets the vessel down, spilling some foam onto the lovingly polished yet worn table. Wiping it up, she inquires if there is anything else they might need. Finding that they are satisfied, she tucks the towel back in her apron pocket with a wink and makes her way back to the bar.

  As Jon slides into the booth, Ryan fills the second glass with deliciously sweet and cold brew. While Jon struggles out of his jacket, Ryan’s boisterous presence commandeers the direction of the conversation.

  “So, you finally escaped that dungeon,” Ryan starts in. “It’s been what, like almost month since I’ve even seen you outside of it? And that was at the grocery store, so it totally doesn’t count. When was the last time you even thought of doing something social or something for yourself?”

  “Let’s see, when did I start grad school, six months ago?” Jon replies. “Then the last time I thought about doing something fun was about five months ago. About the time my advisor realized I existed and decided it’d be a good time start piling work onto me.”

  “Dude, you need a life. And a girl. Well maybe just a girl… At least something to get you out of the hole they stuff you in and call your office.”

  Jon shakes his head, smiling, and provides a halfhearted defense of his position.

  “There is a conference down in the city in a couple of days; my advisor and I are going to it to see what’s happening. I think I’ll be able to finagle a free lunch out of her…”

  Ryan laughs and makes a rude gesture with his hand.

  “As if that even counts. But whatever, you’re out here tonight, which means we’re going to have a damn good time until we run out of night to burn. Right?”

  Before Jon can answer, both men are distracted by a commotion by the bar; a few of the patrons stand up abruptly, yelling at the screen mounted in front of them. Without noticing that their chairs are overturned, the beer drinker closest to the corner where Jon and Ryan are leans over the bar to say something to the waitress while gesturing to the screen above her head. His companion turns to the room and calls for silence. Such an unusual broach of the discreet protocol in this establishment ensures that everyone pays attention.

  The waitress skips back the news program that had been p
laying until the segment that had so upset the men at the bar is at its beginning, and she turns up the volume so that everyone can hear and leans against the bar to watch.

  “Breaking news tonight from the Capital,” the generically good-looking newscaster begins. “Former Senator Gavitte suffered a mental breakdown yesterday during a speech before the Senate and is now suspected of high treason. He is currently a fugitive. Any who see him are requested to call the national crime reporting line immediately.” During the announcement, a portion of the screen is dedicated to footage of the senator in question undergoing what appears to be a full psychotic break down and being dragged from the Senate chamber.

  The crowd in the bar, initially perturbed by the interruption, has gone deathly quiet. Jon has just long enough to begin to wonder what all the fuss is about before the whole establishment erupts in angry conversation. Turning back to Ryan, he sees the same anger reflected in his face.

  “What’s going on?” Jon asks. “Did I miss something important that everyone else knows about?”

  “There is this video that’s been going viral around the whole school,” Ryan replies. “We’d all thought it was some sort of hoax, but it’s not. They’re actually trying to cover it up… Here, let me show you.”

  Ryan pulls a small screen from his pocket and flips it around so that Jon can see. There, within the palm of his friend’s hand, he sees the same video that was running behind the news cast, however this version has not been carefully edited and contains the complete audio of the speech. Jon leans over the table so that he can hear over the noise in the bar.

  At the beginning of the recording, the senator is simply standing at the podium with a chart projected behind him. He looks at his notes, as if gathering his thoughts, before launching into a long explanation of the data behind him. As Jon watches, something seems to change in the senator’s demeanor. He shifts, standing a little straighter, a little squarer to the camera, and his face seems to radiate an internal energy. Then the real speech starts. The speech is passionate, it is flowing, it pulls the listener in and demands a response, but most importantly, it looks to be entirely impromptu. The senator does not look at his notes; in fact, it looks as if they are completely forgotten, the pages remaining un-shuffled once he starts talking. His passion builds until—seemingly right before he can deliver his final point—he is interrupted by another senator. The interruption is so rude, so cold, and so at odds with the direction of the speech that it doesn’t even seem to register with the senator at the podium. He pauses to allow the interjection to work its way through his mind before continuing speaking.