The Hall of the Imperial High Council, largely unchanged in its external façade since the country’s foundational days, was not nearly as imposing or awe-inspiring as most of the nation’s Territorial Council structures. If one compared the structure to a larger metropolitan library, there wouldn’t, at first blush, be much of a difference, visually.
This, of course, changed the moment one actually stepped into the glass-fronted entrance vestibule on the north side of the brick building. X-ray machines stood only ten yards away from the cunningly mirrored glass front doors, with conveyor belts and plastic bins for those entering to empty their pockets into. Four Imperial Army officers, M-16 rifles slung at the ready, camo ceramic-plated combat armor BDUs worn with full kit, could always be found on duty there, manning the machines and keeping any kind of foolishness discouraged with an air of barely restrained violence. In the last fifty years, there had only been three attempts to breach the building by unauthorized persons- all three had ended in hails of gunfire with no loss of military personnel.
Just beyond these soldiers stood a trio of double-doors, the central of them propped open to reveal a plain corridor which came to a four-way intersection in the center of the building. To the left and right at this central point were office suites, one for each member of the High Council and their staff. Straight across, however, was the Council chamber itself, where the vital matters of the Empire’s legal and social life and systems were debated, discussed, and ultimately, voted upon.
If one headed toward that broad chamber, however, they would also find a narrow door to the left just after the corridor junction, a lone soldier stationed beside it. This soldier was always dressed in the black dress uniform of a member of the Imperial Army, but their name tag, rank insignia, and any medals earned in service were to be removed prior to assignment. They were also to wear a kind of ski mask to conceal their identity.
Nobody wanted this post, as there was one final part of their duty uniform put in place to augment their purpose; wrapped around their ankles and wrists were high-yield explosive devices, all of them synced up to detonate at the flip of a switch by the officer in charge of the Emperor’s personal security.
Beyond the door this guard protected was a concrete stairwell, which led down into the sublevel below the Council Hall. This sublevel held only a singular room, the vast and ostentatiously dubbed ‘Throat of the Emperor’, a kind of throne room in which the nation’s spiritual and legal leader would settle him or herself when in the nation’s capital in an official capacity.
As Councilman Caleb White, High Councilman of the 7th Territory, walked past the upper door and its black-clad guard, he silently thanked God All-Mighty that His Holiness, Emperor James Orry, was not present. The whole building took on an oppressive aura when the old man was within its walls, and that bomb-strapped guard made him all the more nervous on such occasions. Caleb knew all too well the tension of this posting, as he’d held it himself for almost six months during his own time in the Imperial Army.
Caleb paused on his way to the Council chamber, giving himself a brief once-over in the floor-length mirror situated a few yards from the tall oak doors into the room. At six-foot-three and just over two-hundred pounds, his shoulders broad and squared chin ever stuck slightly out, he cut a slightly imposing figure himself. This had served him well during his time in uniform, and even better since leaving the military and moving into the political arena. Starting as a Territorial Councilman in the 7th, where he’d been born and raised, he had swept his first bid for office with ease, and the two follow-up campaigns had been a breeze as well.
The 7th Territory played host to the Army’s primary training bases. As a veteran with an accomplished record, he’d stepped into office with a firmly established support base. This had carried him, after three two-year terms as a Territorial Councilman, into a seat on the High Council with a wider margin than any other elected official in the Empire’s long and glorious history.
Furthermore, it had won him two more terms in the same seat. He would have to start putting together his next reelection campaign soon, he mused as he straightened his salt-and-pepper crew cut in the mirror. But that was a matter to consider later. For today, he had much bigger fish to fry, as the saying went, and it was his sincere hope that the other members of the High Council would join him in attending to the matter he intended to bring up.
Through the tall oak doors he strode, their hinges echoing in the wide, dark-paneled Council Chamber. The room was arranged in a manner reminiscent of an amphitheater, with the center of the room set in a focused depression. This was dominated by a long, gunmetal gray table, twenty feet long and four feet wide, with six plush rolling office chairs situated on each side, no seats at either end of the table.
It had been constructed, Caleb knew, from a section of a ship’s hull, the Triumphant. This vessel had been the ship which carried Emperor Thaddeus Billings across the Atlantic to Germany at the end of the Second World War, where he accepted the formal surrender of the Third Reich. And it had also been this vessel which played host to the public execution of Adolph Hitler, shot dead by a squad of sharpshooter volunteers for the task.
When the world’s great enemy had been shot, he’d fallen backward over the railing of the deck, his bloody body smacking against the prow of the ship before landing in the water. This table, at which Caleb and the other members of the High Council sat, had been made with that precise point of impact near its center. Emperor Billings had been a good and pious leader, but he’d had a sadistic streak a mile long, as well.
Four of the other seats were already occupied by the time Caleb started down the shallow steps toward the table, the High Councilmen from the First, Third, Ninth and Eleventh Territories already present and prepared with their binders and stacks of papers. Taking his usual seat, he inclined his head toward his nearest neighbor.
“Dana,” he said, setting his own binder down before him.
“Caleb, good of you to be early for a change,” said Dana Curino, Councilwoman of the Ninth Territory. “How was the drive in?”
“They finally finished the roadwork on Dorian, so it was actually pretty smooth,” he replied. “I mean, they were only a month late on it, so that’s an improvement.” There were mild chuckles from his fellow Councilmen, and within ten minutes, all twelve Territory representatives were present and accounted for. Looking to a large wheeled whiteboard off to one side of the long table, Caleb took a deep breath; according to a chart that had been re-drawn countless times on the left side of the board, he would be opening the day’s business.
Rising from his seat, Caleb walked over to a small table on the first level of risers, where sat a demure, almost non-descript middle aged man with a laptop computer, audio recorder, and steno notepad arranged at hand. Caleb just raised an eyebrow at the clerk, who handed him a thin manila folder labeled ‘PRIOR BUSINESS’.
Caleb returned to the table, remaining standing as he turned the folder open and took out the top sheet. “To begin session today, reading from our prior business,” he began, looking to the sheet. “First, to continue to debate the establishment of an Empire-wide identification system for automotive licensure. A show of hands if you will to indicate whether or not to proceed with this discussion today,” he said, looking around the table at his peers. “Four ayes. Those opposed?” Here, he raised his own hand, and counted the others as well. “Eight nays. This issue to be tabled for today,” he said. “Onward now. Second, to debate the issue of ordering the Third Naval Fleet to return to home stations for repair and restock. For discussion?” He raised his own hand, as did everyone else at the table. “Ayes have it, unanimous confirmation.”
Onward he went down the list, until all previous business was established for discussion or tabling for another day. “Now, on to new business,” Caleb said, clearing his throat. “I, for one, should like to begin. Any objections?” Silence met him, and he proceeded after a meaningful pause. “We need to discuss the state of the trade war between our glorious Empire and the nation of Arika.”
Groans and slight shakings of heads greeted him now, though, he had fully expected that none of his colleagues would be eager to talk about this particular issue. “I wouldn’t necessarily call it a trade war, Councilman White,” said the Sixth Territory’s High Councilwoman, Amy Klobuchar. An even-keeled, effective, eloquent politician, she had been serving on the High Council for nearly a decade, breezing to re-election every time she had run. “Arika has imposed a number of tariffs on exported goods from us, yes, but they’re largely because of cultural expectations and restrictions. We can’t blame them for that.”
“Bullshit,” snapped Donald Grier, Councilman of the First. If a Basset Hound could be made to walk upright and wear cheap, frumpy suits, it would look not much unlike the 73-year-old Councilman who grinned combatively from behind his thick spectacles. His balding pate practically gleamed in the high-intensity lights beaming down from over the central pit of the Council chamber. “They’ve been adding more and more to their list of items to be charged a tariff ever since Desco Corp moved their headquarters back here to the Empire!”
“And why did Desco do that, Donald,” chimed in the Councilwoman of the Twelfth, Nancy Pelosi. Of all of the current members of the High Council, she had served the longest, with a total of thirty-four years as the representative of the westernmost Territory of the Empire. There had been a single three-year blip after her fourth term, when she had been voted out, but her replacement had proven to be such a bungler that the people of her Territory had put her back in after his lone three-year term. “They did that because we threatened to raise the corporate tax rate on companies headquartered here and exporting their labor overseas. Again,” she added.
“And that would have been the right thing to do,” said Caleb, still standing as the day’s Primary Speaker. Each day’s session rotated to another Council member to lead debate and discussion, and Caleb had been waiting patiently until his turn came around to bring up the trade war issue, which had been on everyone’s mind, but which nobody had seemed willing to present to the floor. “Arika as a country is antithetical to everything we stand for as a people, and as a culture. The Weiland Empire is a proudly Christian nation, and those in power in Arika will never treat fairly with us. We can believe in tolerance, but cannot allow another nation to abuse that tolerance to the detriment of companies and consumers in our own lands.”
Nobody among them spoke for several minutes, until finally, Brad Hollins, of the Tenth Territory, cleared his throat. “Are we to consider tariffs of our own, then? On goods shipped from Arika?”
“That would be my recommendation,” said Caleb, finally opening his binder and drawing out twelve papers. He kept one for himself, then handed the rest to Jenine Simons to his right, of the Eighth. “I’ve put together a list of imports to assess tariffs on, as well as a rationale for each to release in public statements if we’re asked about them. As you may suspect, I’ve been thinking on this issue for a couple of weeks.”
What followed was a couple of hours of spirited discussion and argument, the result of which was an agreement that they would table the matter until Friday, when they would hold a vote on the list. The only other member who had new business to address was Councilman McConnell, of the Third Territory. He had been asked by several reps from the Ganges Corporation about the possibility of getting some transport exemptions issued to their transport drivers, and promised to bring it up in session. The very idea set Caleb’s teeth on edge; he didn’t care one whit for the e-commerce giant, which he viewed as a threat to the traditional way of life in the Empire. So much did he despise them that he’d always been overjoyed that there were no Ganges facilities in the Territory he represented.
As expected, though, only he and Donald Grier objected to the issuance of such an exemption. The matter would be written up and sent to His Holiness for signature, and that was that. Yet as the session came to a close, Caleb felt more than a little good about the results of the day’s work, which included an agreement that after the week was up, the Council would adjourn for a week to return to their home Territories for a much-needed break.
It would be good to head home, Caleb thought.
**
Caleb had been home for all of an hour, relaxing in the bedroom he had transformed into a small study/home office with a copy of Andrzej Sapkowski’s much-beloved ‘Witcher’ novel, “Sword of Destiny”, when his chief Territorial aide, a pale young man named Andrew Linski, knocked once on the doorframe. Lanky and angular, the continued impression Caleb had of Andrew was of a praying mantis that had grown to human size and pulled a false skin over its body, tucking its extra legs in against its torso to fit comfortably. Sallow and sickly-looking, the young man even frequently had an almost greenish tint to his cheeks.
Despite this appearance, however, Caleb knew that young Mr. Linski was more than capable; he’d served in the Imperial Army’s Shadow Corps for four years before being quietly discharged. An old comrade from Caleb’s unit had found out about Andrew’s need for employ, and reached out to the High Councilman. Caleb had brought Andrew on staff immediately.
“I thought this might deserve your immediate attention, sir,” Andrew said, his voice soft but traveling almost as if guided directly into Caleb’s ear. Seated in a plush green armchair in the corner of his study, the Councilman set his paperback book on the side table to his left and motioned Andrew within. The aide presently slipped over to his side, seeming to cross the room without moving even his ankles to propel himself. Yet there he was in a blink, offering a thin folder to Caleb before folding his hands together behind his back, standing at a kind of parade rest.
Caleb opened the folder upon a cleanly spaced, typed up report. The letterhead atop the sheet was his own, obviously put together by Andrew prior to being brought to his study. Caleb carefully read through the text, his irritation mounting with each line. When he was finished with the report, he closed the folder and handed it back to his aide. “When did you hear about this?”
“Two days ago, sir,” Andrew replied. “I was about to call you about the matter when I heard that you’d been adjourned for a weeklong break of session,” the younger man replied languidly. “I do hope you aren’t cross with me for withholding until your return.”
“Not at all, Andrew. And you were right to wait until after I’d had my coffee to bring me this.” Caleb turned his head to look out the study’s wide window, which offered a splendid view of the park which neighbored his mid-sized Brownstone home. He lived on the outskirts of the city of Nerris, smack dab in the center of the Territory, and only four miles from the Nerris Army Base. The majority of people he saw walking and at play in the park were, he knew, active or reserve members of the military forces and their families, people he shared a bond with. What would they think about the information in Andrew’s report, he wondered.
“Do you need anything right away in response, sir,” Andrew asked.
“Yes,” Caleb replied. “Find out when the Territorial Council is holding its next session for me, and send a missive to them that I’ll be attending personally. After that,” he said, taking a deep breath and collecting his book in hand once more. “You are dismissed until I reach out.”
“Very good, sir,” Andrew said. Caleb looked at his book without seeing the words for a moment, and when he looked up to ask the aide to shut the door behind him, he found himself alone in the study, the door already securely closed.
**
The following morning brought with it an iron sky, faint screes of misty rain falling over the region in a soggy blanket that drove the pedestrian traffic along the city’s sidewalks scurrying for cover everywhere they went. Caleb knew the demographic breakdown of the city almost as well as he knew the broader breakdown of the Territory as a whole; being a resident, ostensibly, of the city itself, he felt it was his responsibility to have a grasp of his own lived-in terrain. Like the 7th itself, the metro consisted mainly of Impirial military veterans, reservists and active duty members, some few of whom he saw wore their service dress uniforms of camo BDUs as they milled about the downtown area.
It was always encouraging to see these comrades-in-arms.
“Shouldn’t we be turning up here, Andrew,” he asked from the back seat. His aide didn’t even move his head as he replied.
“Seventh Street is presently undergoing repairs along the west stretch,” Andrew said evenly. “The project won’t be finished for another estimated three weeks. Whispers and murmurs around town make it plain that the workmen on the assigned crews are trying to stretch the work out, since they have no public works projects lined up immediately after just yet.”
“Perhaps I’ll bring that issue up as well with the council,” Caleb commented, looking down Seventh as Andrew drove through the intersection at which they would normally turn. True to those mentioned whispers and murmurs, the High Councilman spotted at least four different vest-sporting workmen standing about, seeming to be putting zero effort into actually fixing the road.
Eight minutes later, Andrew pulled the Town Car to the curb fronting the squat concrete building which served as the Territorial Council Hall. “I’ll await your call when your business is concluded, sir, and come pick you up,” Andrew said, unlocking the doors.
“Thank you, Andrew.” Caleb grabbed the handle of his messenger bag and clambered out of the car, letting the misting rain fall unimpeded on his head. He climbed the four shallow steps and headed into the entry vestibule of the building, an officious chamber dominated by a broad central oak check-in desk. There sat behind the desk only a single security officer, but he was clearly no private firm employee; he wore the dress greens of an Impirial Army soldier, and stood to attention the moment Caleb came within ten feet of the desk.
The soldier snapped off a smart salute to him. “Councilman White, sir,” the soldier reported. Caleb took in the two stripes on the man’s left sleeve and the black name plate, Weeks.
“At ease, corporal Weeks,” Caleb responded. “Is the council in session yet for the day?”
“Not yet, sir,” the corporal replied, settling back down into his seat and referring to an old-fashioned brown register book on the desk’s surface. He ran one finger down the page with the most recent date. “Three of the five council members are present, just waiting on Menken and Tipper, sir.”
“I’m going to head on in,” Caleb said, making to move around the desk to his right. When the soldier shot up and around the desk, he smiled a little inside; respect is one thing, but being lax in one’s duties is another, he thought.
“I apologize, major, but I have protocol to follow,” the corporal said as he held out one hand for the Councilman’s bag, his other hovering on the holster of his sidearm. “You understand.” Not a question, but a statement. Caleb appreciated the soldier’s confidence, handing over his messenger bag without complaint or resistance.
Though the corporal had ticked all the boxes on his mental checklist so far, Caleb felt a mild touch of disapproval when the soldier failed to step out of arm’s reach to set the bag on the desk, turning his body physically away from the Councilman to root around with both hands to check the bag. After half a minute, he nodded, handing the bag back to Caleb.
“All clear, Councilman White,” he said. “Proceed on,” he added, indicating the open doorway to Caleb’s right of the desk. He headed through, hearing a distinct hum as he passed through the doorframe, making a mental note of it to inquire with the Territorial council members.
Caleb now stood in a rounded hub, with six narrow corridors splitting off it in different directions. A bronze plaque stood over the entry point of each corridor, indicating which district each corridor was assigned to represent within the 7th Territory, with the sixth and shortest hallway terminating in ceiling-high, dark oak double doors, the right one standing partly open. The plaque over this last archway, situated to his left, read ‘COUNCIL CHAMBER’.
Wasting no time, Caleb made his way toward the Territorial council’s chamber, mentally preparing himself. Unlike the High Council’s meetings, Territorial councils’ debates, discussions and votes were open to any member of the public who cleared the security check in the entrance of the building. As he slipped soundlessly through the crack in the doorway, Caleb spotted a couple of well-dressed individuals seated in the section of the chamber reserved for the public and members of the press, notepads in lap and pens in hand.
Arranged like a kind of courtroom, the gallery was split in half by a central aisle, seating on either side. This was separated from the main floor at the front of the chamber, where a horseshoe-shaped piece of tall furniture, fashioned like a judge’s panel bench, by a waist-high wooden barricade. In the dead center of the barricade was a saloon-style swing door, also waist-high, on the other side of which stood another armed guard in combat BDUs, three black stripes on his left bicep, the stripes crowned by a pair of rifles crossed in an ‘X’.
“Sergeant-at-Arms,” Caleb said with a nod to the soldier, whose own rifle was slung in rest position over her shoulder. She stood only half an inch shorter than Caleb, with the flat, stoic non-expression of a longtime veteran who knows their duty and takes it almost deadly serious. Past her, he could hear half-whispered discussion among the three council members who had already arrived. “I’m High Councilman Caleb White,” said Caleb.
“I’m aware of who you are, major,” the sergeant responded, her eyes fixed on a point somewhere near his chin, he believed. “I’ve voted for you twice.” A grin threatened at the left corner of her mouth, quickly squashed as she cleared her throat. “State your business with the council, sir.”
“I’m here to observe and address the council,” he answered. “I’m happy to stand off to one side until such time as I need to speak to them.”
“That’s a negative, major,” she replied with a slight shake of her head. “Procedure is for any wishing to address the council to be seated to the right,” she said, pointing to Caleb’s right side of the gallery. Only one other person was seated in that half of the room, a dowdy woman of late-middle-age in a simple green cardigan and black khakis holding a heavy beige purse in her lap.
“You recognize that I’m not simply a member of the public, sergeant,” he said, feeling the faint hint of irritation climbing up his back.
“The second you set foot inside this building, you are exactly that, sir,” she replied, her tone not adjusting even a fraction. Her right hand seemed to tighten a little on the sling strap of her rifle, the only indication of her own rising tension at this confrontation. “I mean no disrespect to you or your office and station, sir, but there are protocols, rules. Please, major,” she said, once more pointing to his right.
Caleb let out a sigh, nodded to the sergeant, and made his way five seats in on the front row of the gallery, easing down into his seat. The final two members of the council arrived a little over five minutes later, and as soon as they got to their customary seats, all five stood together around the horseshoe bench.
“This session of the 7th Territorial council is hereby begun in earnest,” one of the members declared in a thunderous voice, one which carried well through the chamber. He was a thick fellow, well-acquainted with food from the look of him. A fringe of salt-white hair ringed three sides of his head, and his squinty eyes looked pinched behind blocky, thick spectacles as he half-turned to observe the gallery. “Not much of an audience in here today, but that suits me fine,” he said, reaching down and flicking something at his seat.
Caleb heard a short whine of feedback as unseen speakers set somewhere overhead came online. He finally recognized the stout little black nubs on the horseshoe bench as microphones. One of the three female council members raised an eyebrow in his direction, and a smile quirked her mouth.
“Major, it’s good to see you here,” she said. “But I must confess to some confusion; why are you in the gallery, and not in here at our guest speaker table,” she asked, waving a hand toward a low, long table that had several chairs seated at it, also equipped with microphones.
“That was my doing, ma’am,” said the sergeant, turning away from the gallery to address the council. “Protocol dictates that unless the entire council requests I allow someone through the barricade, they are to remain on that side, ma’am.” There came a kind of low, throaty grumble from at least one of the council members in response.
Caleb rose from his seat and brought his free right hand up in a small vie for their attention. “I commend the sergeant for her attention to regulations, councilmen. It’s good to see this level of commitment to them.” There was a general noise of assent, and then the council gave the sergeant the go-ahead to let the major through the batwing doors into their portion of the chamber.
Caleb took a seat at the guest speakers’ table, pulling the two folders he’d brought with him out of his messenger bag and sitting back silently, listening intently to the proceedings of the council. It had been a long time since he’d served on this Territorial council, and he’d forgotten how much smoother things ran on this level of governance.
For starters, there was no need to have a clerk read back the vital minutes from the previous session, as was required of the High Council. This made Territorial matters flow more naturally, and seemed to allow for everyone to stay on the same page. Secondly, there appeared to be an established order in who spoke, turn by turn, which was a change from how it had been done back in his days on the Territorial council.
It was almost two hours and one visit to the attached restroom before the council went quiet for a minute before councilman Belcher, the white-haired older gentleman who had rung in the day’s session, stood up and looked squarely over at Caleb. “High Councilman White, this is where we would normally open the floor to inquiries from the public. If it pleases you, we will begin with the resident who has been patiently waiting in the gallery first,” he said, waving a hand toward the dowdy woman in the green cardigan.
“Citizens first,” Caleb replied. The woman was directed then toward the sergeant-at-arms, who offered her a wireless microphone. She had but a single inquiry for the council, regarding the possibility of delaying a road repair project in the fourth district until such time as another, neighboring repair could be completed.
“We just don’t want to add another set of turnarounds and alternative routes when the area is already congested,” she finished. The council heard her out, briefly discussed the matter, and agreed unanimously to issue a stay order on the second project until such time as the first one was finished. Pleased with their response, the woman fairly beamed as she exited the council chamber and made her way, presumably, home.
With the public’s only inquiry tended to, the council turned their collective attention to Caleb, who cleared his throat and flicked the switch by his microphone to the ‘On’ position. “Thank you for hearing me today, members of the 7th Territorial council,” he began. He opened the first of his folders, and pulled out the top sheet, squaring it to himself before scanning the text and clearing his throat. “I’d like to begin with a prepared statement.”
“Proceed,” said councilwoman Doyle, the juniormost member.
“Thank you. It has come to my attention that approximately two and a half weeks ago, a representative of the Ganges Corporation came to address this council, requesting the issuance of permits to purchase and develop a vacant lot in the area of Nerris. The purpose of this location would be to serve host to a brand new Order Processing Center for the e-retail giant.
“It is public record that this vacant property was, until just two years ago, owned and utilized by the Nerris Impirial Army Training Center. The facility located on the property had served as an equipment storage facility, and was also used in the training of quartermasters for all branches of our Armed Services, Army, Navy and Air Force. While the location of training and storage has been shifted to a northern quadrant within the base proper, it is my belief that this facility should be reclaimed by the government, and refurbished into a historical site.”
Caleb paused, waiting for the inevitable question. Thankfully, Doyle indulged him. “On what grounds would this be a historical site, sir?”
“Thank you for asking,” Caleb said, now drawing out the second sheet from his first folder and squaring it to himself. “First erected in the year of Our Lord 1928, the Nerris Impirial Base became only the second primary location for training of our military forces since the establishment of the Empire. The grounds and structure I mentioned a few minutes ago was among the very first built on that property, and as such, has served as a proud symbol of all we have accomplished as a nation, as a people. It is, therefor, my view that the property should be reclaimed by the Empire’s Armed Forces and renovated into a historical tourist location for the education of the public.”
Following this statement, there came some soft murmuring from the council, all of whom had switched their microphones off to confer quietly with one another. Belcher finally turned his microphone on and turned around in his seat halfway to look at Caleb while addressing him.
“I believe we should, at this time, take a half-hour recess in order that we might discuss and formulate some questions for you, major,” he said toward his microphone. “Sergeant, if you would clear the room, please.” Taking his cue but leaving his folders and messenger bag at the guest speaker table, Caleb stood up with the reporters in the gallery and made his way out of the chamber, the sergeant following behind them with her rifle strap held tight in her hand.
As they cleared the double doors, the High Councilman about-faced to look the soldier squarely in the eyes. He didn’t like what he saw there. “This isn’t the norm, is it, sergeant,” he asked quietly, soas not to be overheard by the press reps still walking away from the council chamber doors.
“No, sir, it isn’t,” she said succinctly. “Normally when they break for recess, they don’t ask me to clear the room.” Caleb wasn’t sure what to make of this, but his gut tightened up on him. He paced back and forth in the hallway for almost the entire recess, pausing to use the nearby restroom near the end of the time. When he returned to the corridor, he kept pacing until the sergeant put her hand over her right ear, in which he’d spotted a translucent earpiece. “The council chamber is now reopen,” the soldier declared, about-facing and pushing through into the chamber.
Caleb returned to the guest speaker’s table, keeping his eyes locked down on his folders and papers. The Territorial council had all looked closed-faced and inscrutable when he came in, and the tension in his abdomen didn’t loosen up. After a minute, Belcher cleared his throat and switched on his microphone.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” he began, addressing the handful of people who had returned to the gallery. “During our recess, we the members of the council held a brief discussion regarding the major’s proposal regarding the possible establishment of a historical site designation for the publicly available property near Nerris Military Base. It is our determination, at this time, that such a designation would not serve as valuable a purpose as the requisition of the area by Ganges Corporation.” There came a pause, and the scratching of pens on notepads in the gallery to Caleb’s right. He felt his hands tighten into fists in his lap under the guest speaker table, heard the grinding of his teeth in his own head. “The citizenry of the Seventh Territory will benefit, economically, from the employment opportunities that an Order Processing Centre will provide when Ganges builds such a facility in that area. It is also our understanding, from the proposed plans submitted to us by one of their representatives, that a Shipping Post will also be established there, providing further employment and skillbuilding opportunities for the public.
“Given these factors, we hereby bring to public view a vote. All in favor of major Caleb White’s proposal to designate this property a historical site?” No hands among the council members went up, and Caleb relaxed his hands, moving now to put his papers and folders back in his messenger bag. He would wait until the vote was finalized before leaving, but he wasn’t going to sit entirely still for this farce. Let the reporters make of it what they will, he thought angrily to himself. “And those opposed,” Belcher said, leading the raising of all five hands. “Let the record reflect a unanimous decision to allow the mentioned property to remain available for purchase to a private entity.” Belcher waited until the stenographer, seated at the far side of the chamber from Caleb, finished clacking away on her machine. “Moving on, then,” Belcher said.
Caleb rose from the guest speaker’s table, slung the strap over his shoulder, and headed out of the Territorial council chamber. The pressure on the hinges of his jaw began to throb by the time he contacted his aide to come get him out in front of the building.