4: The Countdown Begins

Chapter 0

Inscribed on the statue of Cleopatra the First, The 75th and final president of the United States of America and the 1st Leader of the United Provinces of the American Empire.

Fear is pain arising from the anticipation of evil.

-Aristotle

Chapter 0

Nefertiti I

 Heir to the Throne of UPAE

Columbian Complex (C.C.)

5/16/44

                She has killed three people in her life.

                It should have been four.

It was blistering hot, when she met the fourth. The temperature soared above one hundred degrees, baking even the snakes that slept in the sand. Not that the temperature was unusual, but that did not change the fact that it was stifling. The heat was sluggish and unstoppable, penetrating every cranny with its oppressive, stinking breath. Even the fans that whirred and rocked in every window did no good, powered only on the thinly available batteries that remained usable after a solar black out. The attendants with hand fans were even worse, by simply being in the room they increased the temperature, and there was no end in sight. The air conditioning would be dead for hours yet.

                The heat probably poisoned her mind, because obviously she was not thinking straight when she opened her mouth to say, “Mother, may I ask you something?”

                “That depends on the question.” The woman replied, voice like the air between lightning and thunder.

                “It always does, does it not?” Nefertiti replies, black eyes flashing with the depths of her wisdom, rare for someone pushing twelve. A light, merciless laugh responds, bouncing off the marble pillars and returning to the sender in eerie bursts of twisted echo.  “Well?” asked the girl, waiting for a response. She trotted up the last few steps, skirt clutched in her hands. With every movement the fan-stimulated breeze brushed the smell of melting plastic and dying foliage against her face.

                “If you must, Nefertiti,” responded Mother, waving a ringed finger languidly. Nefertiti flowered into her seat, skirt puddleing about her as she sighed and fidgeted with her necklace, which was too heavy and really unnecessary. They were just meeting a captured Provincial Governor from the Republic of Antarctica, not even close to smelling like special. Yet they had to dress exquisitely. It was definitely too hot for such frivolity. And while the clothes were throttling, the jewelry was worse. It obviously found joy in pinching the back of her neck and staunching the flow of blood to her fingers and making her sweat more than she already was. Thank glory she did not have to stand Mother’s lion headdress, let alone walk slow enough to prevent it from slipping from her skull. It must be extraordinarily difficult when sweating, except as she examines Mother’s brow, not a drop has been produced. 

                The heat. Even the cotton blouse is sticking to her skin. At least it was white.

                “Mother,” she stalls, wishing with all her heart she could have resisted the need to ask this question. It had pestered her for years, and finally she has the courage to ask. She watches the emerald eyes of the lion that wrapped its maw around Mother’s head, fur metallic gold and gleaming in the summer sun.

“Of your six consorts, The Bold, The Honest, The Beauty, The Intellect, The Lover, The Humorous and The Fighter; who is my father?” The lion’s eyes are less menacing than her Mother’s.