A satire of dysfunctional government and economic inequality.
Chapter II: Day/Page 10
“Wise men speak because they have something to say; fools because they have to say something.”
― Plato [427-347 BC]
CONTINUED FROM YESTERDAY. . . . Forty-two floors below the LAAC conference room where the meeting with the LSP is taking place, our intrepid young graduate student is sitting cross-legged on the flag-stones of a dusty dungeon like that found in venerable academic institutions across the universe, sifting with keen expeditious eyes through data disks from the nuclear-tainted planet for the past 10,000 years. Her copper-colored feathers are smooth and flush across her face and throat; slightly thicker over the narrow brows hooding brilliant emerald-green eyes—giving her that characteristically-intense Falcon gaze—and then the rust-speckled plumage runs evenly over the crest of her head, getting longer and thicker in back like a close, bronze helmet, ending at her lean bony shoulders. From her collar-bone down her amber skin is smooth, with just a hint of coppery down.
She wears a white T-shirt, short black skirt with black leggings, and the mandatory dark hooded-cloak worn by all students of the Academy. Instead of the traditional hard-soled shoes generally worn by others, she favors sturdy leather boots, which make her long, thin legs look longer and thinner.
But the copper-colored Falcon likes the way her boots look. They make her appear tough, capable, and strong, despite standing just over five feet tall and weighing only a hundred pounds. And, unlike the other brightly-dappled birds seen cooing about on campus, her only concession to any form of colorful display are the delicate gracile talons on her nimble fingers and slender toes, which she is fond of painting glossy-red.
From a distance, sitting cross-legged under her cloak, hunched over on the cold stone floor in the corner of the dusky basement of the school’s archives, she could be mistaken for one napping on a pile of laundry. The feathers on her head are ruffled and slightly oily looking. Eager to go through more data for clues to the type of intelligent life that had evolved on the remote planet she discovered—on her planet—she rose early from bed and rushed down to the archives without preening, where she has remained until now, hunched on the floor sorting data disks.
She is startled by the clatter of . . . . TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Gregory James
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