TRUE STORM

TRUE STORM - CHAPTER 6

Two men stand beside the long mahogany table in dark pinstripe suits. They could be anyone, these mercs, and are as dull as wallpaper. It's the men beside them who are interesting. Lasters, and not all that well off. One Laster wears a rumpled brown suit that looks like it was made for someone else, too big at the collar and too short in the arms. With his graying hair swept up in long waves over his temples, he looks like a professor from another era. His companion is younger, though the lines around his eyes and the weathered, chapped pink skin of his face makes him look years older. He wears the uniform of many a Laster: the long jean overalls with a thick sweater underneath. Glancing around the room with obvious mistrust, he cracks his thick knuckles uncomfortably every few seconds.

I reckon I don't blame him. The Lasters are completely outflanked. Besides the two in pinstripe suits, against the glass of the tall windows, stand a row of faceless dark-clad mercs. Four behind, two more at the door, and another two stand sentry at the entrance. The heavy cluck cluck cluck of a grandfather clock marks time through the drafty room. The men in suits don't speak to us, don't acknowledge us. The Lasters seem ill at ease. I notice that the younger one's eyes, especially, dart back and forth from the fixtures to the large oil paintings of heavy-jowled Upper Circle men.

I've been in this room before, of course, visiting our father. It's one of the government buildings, the oldest, and, in my opinion, the prettiest of the three buildings where the senators rule Dominion and beyond. It could be a mansion of the Upper Circle: wood-paneled walls and vaulted ceilings give the place an air of elegance. The soft leather chairs are leftovers of a bygone age, and its glass and brass lamps lend my thoughts to cozy libraries and teas.

A moment later, Colonel Deakins limps into the room in scarlet military dress. Face shiny and red from exertion, he stops to wink at me before sitting down opposite Storm and me. I lean over, but my elbow slips on the over-waxed wood of the table and I accidentally smash my nose into my companion's large, unmoving shoulder. It smells like him, a rich symphony of musk and a hint of cloves. He glances down at me, his expression softening with amusement.

"Sorry," I say, hitching myself straight and rubbing at my nose. "Wh-What are we doing here, exactly?"

The corners of his mouth turn down. "We're getting to the bottom of a few things." He taps the tip of my nose. His touch jolts me awake.

And just in time, too. In walks Senator Theodore Nash, glowing with good health, and behind him, Senator Josiah Gillis. My breath hitches in my throat and I cough slightly. A huge hand slaps me on the back. I'm sure Storm intends it to be a light tap, but it echoes through my bones.

"Good," Nash says as he seats himself across from the Lasters. "Everyone is here. Shall we begin?" He pours himself a glass of water from the pitcher in front of him and drinks with relish. The glass is emptied in seconds. He refills it again and shares an unholy smile with us.

Storm gathers himself, and it's as though he pulls the oxygen from the room.

"It's time we talk about the future," he tells the men solemnly. "I'm sure our friends here"—he indicates the Lasters with a sweep of his hand—"agree with me. It's time we have equal and proportionate government before the chaos sets in. I've called you all here to discuss setting up a transitional council with representatives from each group that will help us solve some of our worst current challenges and maybe head off some of our future ones."

I stifle a gasp. It's unthinkable.

"Now really, Mr. Storm," the colonel blusters. He taps a meaty fist on the table in front of us. The others are just as shocked, it seems. Senator Gillis looks turned to stone.