A satire of dysfunctional government and economic inequality.
Chapter II: Day/Page 16 CONTINUED FROM YESTERDAY. . . . “We can swoop in and wring the wings off those wankers in a week.”
The Admiral did not tire of the phrase. Plus, there were several new people in the room today who had not heard him say it before, and he wanted to ensure that they, too, had their chance to enjoy his pithy wit.
A flutter of feathers erupts from the far side of the table. “Impossible!” shouts the President.
“We need more time,” says another. “We can’t have only—”
The Minister holds up his hand to settle and silence the room. “Now Admiral, we all appreciate your dedication to duty, and are impressed by your eagerness to complete the reset so quickly, despite the unfortunate loss of life it entails, which we know you undoubtedly regret.”
“Mm… yeah… whatever,” mumbles the Admiral.
“But I’m sure you can appreciate the Professor’s need to gather as much scientific crap—I mean stuff—as he can from the planet. So let me rephrase the question: How long can you wait before sending in your Hawks?”
The Admiral rolls his eyes, shakes his head. “I guess we can wait one month for Doc’s team to do whatever it is they need to do,” he says, sounding irritated. The Admiral was a man of action. A doer, not a thinker. A charge forward, caution be damned, start shooting before you see the whites of their eyes, type of man. All this endless, pointless, thinking and talking and thinking again was pure torture. Like splinters of hot bamboo shoved deep under his talons.
The Minister looks to the President of LAAC.
“It’s not enough time,” he pleads. “It will take us two weeks just to get ready. First we need to—”
The Minister raises his hand again, turns back to the Admiral. “How much time can you give the Professor and his team? In other words, what is the very latest you can wait, to send your team in?”
All eyes fall to the stout, sharp-beaked, bristly Hawk. He likes the feeling. He likes holding people’s lives in his hand, gripping the vulnerable thumping pulse of the jugular beneath his whetted talons.
One heart beat—two heart beats—three heart beats—he releases.
“Ok… two months. I guess we can wait two months,” he says wearily. Then raising his voice, “But that’s it! Not one pud-pulling day more. After two months I’m sending my Hawks in, understood? I know that Doc here is all worried about the poor people on this one, blue, planet,”—he emphasizes each word with a mocking tone that sounds like whoopty, doopty, doo—“but I’ve got thousands of planets to worry about. And if that means stopping the clock on planet number zero-zero whatever the hell it is, then so be it. I don’t give a rat’s piddly pecker. After two months my Hawks are swooping in. Got it!”
He catches his breath, then continues . . . . . 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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