Dedication (The Medicean Stars Saga Book 1)

The Medicean Stars Saga

Part One

Dedication

McCullough Crawford

The following is a work of fiction. All resemblance to actual events, places, persons, or organizations is purely coincidental.

First Digital Edition

Copyright © 2013 McCullough Crawford

All rights reserved

Cover Design: Rhianon Schuman

A special debt of gratitude is owed to my editor, whose treatment of my manuscript left it KO’d.

The Suburbs

Near a Regional Airport

It is one of those nights when everything seems to be shrouded in cotton wool. The footfalls of the drunks staggering home from bars seem to be absorbed by the green lawns and cookie cutter houses. A soft rain begins to fall upon those who, for lack of anything better to do, remain outside trying to create a moment of fun. A moment that, come Monday morning, they will pretend not to remember while simultaneously restyling the pictures and mistakes into something they’ll later call the best years of their lives.

It is Saturday evening in a suburb of a major city. Specifically, it is a damp Saturday evening in one of many neighborhoods that seem to blend and twist together like so many spilled entrails. Streets wind together and apart with no respect for the topography or any logical pattern, instead following the designer's artistic vision. Each one shaped to give the community a sense of inclusion and unity, yet more effectively serving as the layout of a casino: trapping its residents within and cutting them off from the real world.

Nearby at the local airport, which used to serve crop dusters but now only services the private jets of executives, a small knot of people, young enough to require their parents for support yet old enough to yearn for independence, stand huddled by the fence. Plastic laughter rips through the haze of lightly falling rain, easily audible to anyone lurking on the far side of a grassy knoll that separates the airport from the wide winding suburban road named after some invasive species of tree.

“Come on, take a shot.”

“Yeah quit being a little baby, William.”

The third voice is one lacking conviction: “But I have to drive home tonight, and I don’t want to get arrested.”

“You won’t get in trouble; we do it all the time.”

“Oh all right I guess,” the statement is weak, seeming to be swept along by the current of the others’ convictions. Only his last statement seems to contain any emotional weight: “I don’t care what my parents think.”

The resulting sputtering and laughter can only mean one thing. The night progresses, one leads to two, two to three, and finally when the bottle is empty and the laughter seems strained even to those in the huddle, it is time for these few to join the streams of other forms weaving their way through the night to the shelter of their homes.

William, previously identifiable by the hesitancy in his voice, is now just another form struggling to place one foot before the other as he heads towards the expensive yet inefficient family vehicle that has never seen the entire family ride in it at once. Keys become slippery minnows that seem to jump from his hands every time one is separated from another.

After the fourth time the keys clang upon the wet pavement, William’s resigned form sags against the reflective fiberglass and chrome. Before he can collapse completely, his body is thrown to the ground, its arm twisted out of its socket and a light shone in its face. The light shocks a sense of sobriety into what is otherwise a haze of alcohol thicker than the clouds shrouding the city this autumn evening.

“Pseudo-Citizen number 3742 region 8B27, you are hereby served notice: You are under arrest for illegal and potential terrorist activities. You are hereby sentenced to thirty years government service.”

“On a personal note: may your un-patriotic hide be beaten to death in the first month,” the voice coming from somewhere behind the glaring light continues. Its breath is pungent, managing to cut through William’s numbed senses with the odor of pickled onions and garlic.

“Wha…?” That is as far as the query makes it before the darkness that had been hovering at arm’s length behind a gloved fist closes William off from the world with a wet smack. The form that was once defiant and proud of his individualism is now broken and chained lying still upon the ground.

The Capital

A Deserted Street

Closer to the center of the city that is slowly drowning in the light drizzle, a man hunkers down, pulling his collar up as if to protect his neck from a biting wind. Yet no breeze stirs the trash in the gutter. Behind his hunched form rises the grand skyline characteristic of a capital belonging to a nation that was once powerful enough to control the world. The disrepair and age visible through the haze and darkness tells the story of this particular country’s decline.

He approaches a bus stop, and the glare cast by an ad selling dish soap with a woman’s well-endowed chest illuminates his face. At first glance, it would seem that he is pushing the end of his first century as pale light illuminates all of the creases and hollows brought on by a lifetime of stress and worry. However a second glance, such as the one that the shadow approaching might be likely to give, reveals that the man passing the bus stop is only in his mid-thirties. Further inspection would reveal that he is in fact the youngest member of the Senate: David Gavitte, a man elected for his young face and forceful speeches calling for a change, neither of which seem to have the youthful vigor they once did.

Gavitte’s identity is known to the shadow who, upon seeing Gavitte, pauses to check the arrival of the next bus, and seeing that it will not be approaching imminently, lurches out of the shadows. Weaving back and forth with all appearances of having a higher alcohol content than a bottle of whiskey, the shadow stumbles into Gavitte, grabs him by the shoulder as if steadying himself, and shoves his face up close. His weathered and bulbous features come near enough that Gavitte is unable to focus clearly on any part without his eyes crossing.

“This is for your political change.” His breath strangely devoid of fumes, the shadow rams his fist into Gavitte’s stomach knocking his wind out and doubling him over. The shadow retreats down the nearest alley and disappears into the night, leaving Gavitte on his knees before the perfectly formed breasts coated in soap suds.

Not two minutes pass, with Gavitte still gasping for air on his knees, before the wail of sirens and the flash of multicolored lights announce the arrival of three squad cars down the wide avenue. Pulling up on their emergency brakes and skidding to a halt, the uniforms leap onto the pavement surrounding Gavitte’s huddled form.

“Sir, are you alright?”

“Was anything taken,” a second toy soldier demands.

Upon getting no response, the third uniform steps closer as if to place a reassuring hand upon the crouched man’s shoulder. Reaching out, he suddenly jerks back as if bitten, remembering the officer who just a few months ago had been publicly crucified for performing a similar act to a prostitute. Instead of potential self-ruination, he settles for crouching out of arms reach and inquiring gruffly:

“Sir… I said Sir, are you all right?”

“Do I look bloody well all right to you? When was last time you saw a man puking in a bus stop who was all right.”

“Can we have some identification please?”

“When I catch my breath you idiot.”

“Sir, that was not a request that was an order.” Drawing their sidearms, the uniforms suddenly appear comfortable. “Stand up and place both hands on the hood of the car. Now.”

Staggering to his feet, Gavitte makes his way toward the ungainly slab of curved metal as instructed. With both hands planted firmly and his solar plexus still lodged somewhere just above his heart, he is instructed to spread his legs. At least while standing, the force of gravity prevents his bile from rising and spewing itself all over the police car, and Gavitte is able to preserve some shred of dignity.

Upon frisking him, the uniforms discover the identification they had demanded earlier in a readily accessible pocket. The third uniform, who earlier had been tempted to offer comfort, discovers the billfold and passes it to the higher-ranking second officer.

The second officer reads the card once, then again, pauses for a moment, whips out his scanner, and sends in a copy to be verified at headquarters. While he is waiting on the response, he scrutinizes his captive’s face, though before he can get too far the verification comes through and he must act.

“Sir, you have my apologies.” The second officer’s tone immediately changes, almost groveling as he releases Gavitte. “We did not recognize you. If we had known you were a senator we would have been more accepting of your situation.”

“Don’t worry I’m not going to have you fired, you were just doing your jobs.”

“Thank you very much sir,” the second officer says, visibly relieved by Gavitte’s assurance.

“Now just give me my wallet and let me go home.”

After returning Gavitte’s wallet, the uniforms apologize once more, salute crisply, and dive back into the safety of their cars, disappearing into the night with a screech of tires. The cars leave only a thin haze of tire smoke that quickly dissipates, and an exhausted Gavitte has the solitary task of returning to his apartment to sleep. Just another assault in the city at night is hardly reason for the police to stick around, even if the victim is a member of the political elite.

However, sleep is not likely to happen, despite exhaustion hanging across his mind like the haze outside. When Gavitte rounds the second landing in his moderately expensive apartment building, his hand brushes against the front pocket of his wool overcoat revealing the existence of something that shouldn’t be there, something that definitely wasn’t there when he left his cluttered office. Pausing under the filtered glow of a sulfur street lamp coming through the window on the landing, he pulls forth the oddest piece of paper he has ever seen: crisp around the edges, as if toasted, and oily in middle. Written delicately on one side are the words:

It felt all wrong

I wanted it to be right

It has been too long

I waited for it to be right

You turned my heart

It turned my mind

You don’t know your part

But I hope you find

It feels right

I want it to be right

It won’t be long

We can make it right

On the other side in a different hand are the words:

WE WAIT JUST FOR YOUR SIGNAL...

He continues up the stairs, in all appearances another drunk stumbling home after being kicked out of the local pub, but his numbness is not chemically induced. The nightly routine of shower, food, and setting the alarm for the early morning commute go by as noticed as if they hadn’t happened, his mind on other things.

What can this possibly mean? Who would leave me such a note? And what is it they expect of me? All this runs through Gavitte’s head on a repeating loop before the rest of the night floods back from where it was banished by the strange note.

“This is for your political change.”

The implications of the note and its strange mode of delivery keep Gavitte tossing and turning all night in his large yet strangely empty apartment, with visions of a revolution and the overthrow of the ruling families running through his mind.

*

The following morning, with impeccable timing, a small switch is thrown inside a slightly larger layer cake of silicon and rare metals resulting in a disturbance of the peace. Before the disturbance, there had been nothing but an exhausted and tormented politician lying tangled in the sheets of a bed once meant for two. Now there is a loud intruder blaring forth from tiny speakers. The sun hasn’t even begun to fight the haze and smog that creeps through the streets when the clock switches from 4:59 to 5:00, triggering the introduction of another, and entirely inappropriate, character to this strangely peaceful scene. Gavitte is twisted in the layers of blankets and sheets like a knitting needle is twisted amongst strands of yarn yet his face is relaxed and his breathing comes slow and steady.

“… low 50s at the coast. Last night’s storm should have passed, leaving nothing but glorious sunshine for the day and highs around 90 all across the great city. And that’s the weather. Back to you Tony, how’s the crime forecast for today?”

“Thanks [ANGELINA], today looks to be normal day…”

“What was that?” Gavitte shoots straight up in bed as the confused mumble escapes his lips. The weather report sounded exactly as it always does yet Gavitte’s mind registered something strange, something half felt or merely suggested that his sleep-fogged mind knows doesn’t belong. He reaches for it but it slips through his mental grasp like sand through an open hand.

“…only five murders predicted today, none in the upper classes…”

“That is not her name!?!” As only the suddenly awakened can, Gavitte’s confusion turns to instant and ineffectual rage as his mind recognizes the incongruences that it had manufactured. His rage is potent enough for him to swing the blankets from his legs and shift slightly closer to the edge of the bed. It storms through his mind but fades quickly; succumbing to the alluring drag of his still warm pillow. Fighting the urge to sink back down into its inviting embrace he reaches under the bed and fumbles for a worn pair of slippers. As his mind slowly clears he focuses on the newscast fully, and nothing is out of the ordinary. The voices continue with their normal banter as if unaware of the mental state of their audience.

“… how’s that sound Karen? Looks like it’s going to be another beautiful day in paradise,” Tony continues as if the awakening Gavitte and his confusion do not exist. “Now it’s time to pay the bills, don’t go anywhere, because if you do the advertisers won’t pay us.”

The laughter fades into the commercial for the newest all-purpose luxury mode of transport that has worse fuel efficiency than a barrel of crude oil lit on fire trying to roll itself up a hill.

Gavitte’s mind races with thoughts of the strange anomalies of last night and this morning.

“Who is Angelina? What is this about a heart being turned?” Gavitte muses aloud as he finally locates the missing right slipper of the pair and pushes himself off the bed and onto the cold floor. The odd note responsible for his restless night floats gently to the floor and settles against his foot. Carrying it into the bathroom, he flips open the toilet and, suddenly feeling like he is in the middle of something suspect, tosses the strange piece of paper into the water. Before he can reach the lever, the paper dissolves, leaving nothing but a suspended cloud of ink that holds the rough shape of the letters before quickly dissipating.

Again his routine is completed without any attention or focus from the weary and confused senator, leaving Gavitte descending an escalator in a long tiled tunnel still lost in thought. The escalator travels down to the series of tubes that crisscross the city, weaving in and out of a web of infrastructure that was left behind as the city strove to grow higher and higher. Here all of the city’s inhabitants interact on equal footing. Here beneath all that is built upon the broken Earth, a beggar can look a rich man in the eye and propose business. In the warrens beneath the city the protective layers of technology, chrome, and glass that normally separate the citizens from each other as they sit in traffic on the roads above or hunch at a desk in one of the towers that loom over them are gone. Here the only defense for respectable citizens is the layers of finely woven cloth forming their suit and the disdainful glare of indifference that is reserved for the meanest of vagabonds.

Yet none of this is even remotely near the surface of his mind as Gavitte fights through the turnstile that always jams. His mind is still consumed by the same two questions that struck him when he first woke. Just another commuter lost in his own world, he pushes his way onto the crowded train designed for a city half the population of the one it now services. Gavitte passes his commute to the center of the city with his face pressed to an image of the finely sculpted abs of a man proclaiming the benefits of drinking health water and his mind lost in a circle of musing.

All too vividly he remembers a year ago when she had left for the last time. It had started as any other fight, over something inconsequential, the details have faded along with the pain of losing her, but one thing remains fresh. One wound is continually opened and dashed lightly with salt. The real reason she left, even if to an observer it was the dishes stacked on the counter, was his rise through the political ranks.

When they’d met on the outskirts of a rally on campus when they were finishing school, they’d recognized a kindred passion in each other. The system was broken and they were the only ones who could fix it. Their political passion quickly spilled over into the personal aspects of their lives, drawing them closer together and fanning the flames that seemed to leap between them. The first time she’d left him was shortly after they’d moved in together. It had made sense for him to pay for the apartment, he had a better paying job and more money saved then she did, but she felt she was losing her ability to determine her own fate.

It took him nearly two weeks to coax her off her friend’s couch and back into the apartment and his life. Treading carefully, he slowly convinced her that he could help her while honoring her independence. When they graduated, he swallowed his pride and took a job that promised a secure and steady rate of growth. If he worked hard and allowed goals to be dictated by others, he knew he would eventually be quite comfortable, and maybe then he could follow his dreams once more. She on the other hand seemed to only have her ideals and dreams sharpened by contact with the world beyond the cozy walls of their university campus. Continually frustrated by bureaucracy, she moved from job to job, never staying long enough with any organization to build any level of seniority in its ranks, always trying to make a difference; to instigate some sort of change. Meanwhile he resolved to keep his head down and support her as best he could.