Dedication (The Medicean Stars Saga Book 1) by McCullough Crawford Page B
Authors: McCullough Crawford
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mere survival, there is a purpose behind his every thought; he has something to gain or something to lose, but not both.
It all happens in the time it takes for his heart to skip a beat. Then, before his heart can explode with the sudden wave of emotion, he is slapped back to reality by the screeching of metal. His moment of distraction almost results in the machine destroying a piece of metal he was working, and the arm holding it as well. Quick reactions allow him to claw the piece back into position and start again. He only earns a cuff about the head from the overseer, as nothing was actually damaged and production was only stalled slightly.
Throughout the rest of the day, he keeps glancing up, hoping to catch her eye again, but every time he does, the steam is either too dense to see through, or she is absorbed in her work. The day seems to go by faster, measured in glances at her.
Chapter 17
Western Mountains
Abandoned Military Base
Gavitte is sitting in his room; the overhead light is turned off, the only illumination a single desk lamp pulled low over the table at which he is hunched. His form casts a bulbous shadow that leaves the majority of the rest of the room dark. Only shafts of light slip by him to illuminate the surroundings. The reason he is hunched alone in the dark is the organizational chart on the table.
The chart is covered in redacted names and missing information, as it portrays the location and relative seniority of the few members of the loose organization referred to as the Resistance who have managed to contact each other. The chart contains very few names, despite the generally reported pervasiveness of the Resistance. Gavitte ponders the difference between the media’s portrayal of this organization and the truth he’s seen since his arrival in the mountains. Certainly everyone he has met is tough and independent, but they are certainly not the crazed zealots bent on global anarchy that appear on the evening news. The names hidden behind the black ink are not the kind of names generally belonging to those involved in an organization blamed with terrorist activities. These names belong to average citizens who, having had enough of the situation being forced upon them, had gotten a couple of friends together to see if they could do anything about it.
To Gavitte, each name represents a potential regional campaign manager, the local voice that is not only dedicated to his cause, but also knows the people to whom he will be talking. He pores over the chart, grappling with the problem of trying to sync the locations of the cells with polling data that sits in stacks along the left edge of the table. He knows that any campaign that he starts must begin somewhere that allows it to gain momentum quickly and quietly, before word trickles up to the government and they squash it. The only problem for him is that where General Lampard has worked the hardest on placing his agents and making contact with sympathetic groups are the areas least likely to support any movement with Gavitte as its figurehead, despite the hard work of those very same agents. Some areas of the country are too deeply entrenched in the government’s tradition or else benefit too thoroughly from its graft and corruption to pay heed to Gavitte’s message. On the other hand, a victory in one such area would upset the entire balance that the ruling families have worked so hard to maintain.
His head drops in frustration. What he needs is so clear, so simple and fundamental, but it doesn’t exist. He can’t seem to wrap his mind into the right shape to see the pattern that has to be present. There has to be some angle that he can work, some way to meld the polling demographics from the areas in which the Resistance is respected into some sort of parallel track with the platform that he represents. Somehow, with a few tweaks, he knows he can even make the Resistance palatable in the areas where they’d had no traction
It all happens in the time it takes for his heart to skip a beat. Then, before his heart can explode with the sudden wave of emotion, he is slapped back to reality by the screeching of metal. His moment of distraction almost results in the machine destroying a piece of metal he was working, and the arm holding it as well. Quick reactions allow him to claw the piece back into position and start again. He only earns a cuff about the head from the overseer, as nothing was actually damaged and production was only stalled slightly.
Throughout the rest of the day, he keeps glancing up, hoping to catch her eye again, but every time he does, the steam is either too dense to see through, or she is absorbed in her work. The day seems to go by faster, measured in glances at her.
Chapter 17
Western Mountains
Abandoned Military Base
Gavitte is sitting in his room; the overhead light is turned off, the only illumination a single desk lamp pulled low over the table at which he is hunched. His form casts a bulbous shadow that leaves the majority of the rest of the room dark. Only shafts of light slip by him to illuminate the surroundings. The reason he is hunched alone in the dark is the organizational chart on the table.
The chart is covered in redacted names and missing information, as it portrays the location and relative seniority of the few members of the loose organization referred to as the Resistance who have managed to contact each other. The chart contains very few names, despite the generally reported pervasiveness of the Resistance. Gavitte ponders the difference between the media’s portrayal of this organization and the truth he’s seen since his arrival in the mountains. Certainly everyone he has met is tough and independent, but they are certainly not the crazed zealots bent on global anarchy that appear on the evening news. The names hidden behind the black ink are not the kind of names generally belonging to those involved in an organization blamed with terrorist activities. These names belong to average citizens who, having had enough of the situation being forced upon them, had gotten a couple of friends together to see if they could do anything about it.
To Gavitte, each name represents a potential regional campaign manager, the local voice that is not only dedicated to his cause, but also knows the people to whom he will be talking. He pores over the chart, grappling with the problem of trying to sync the locations of the cells with polling data that sits in stacks along the left edge of the table. He knows that any campaign that he starts must begin somewhere that allows it to gain momentum quickly and quietly, before word trickles up to the government and they squash it. The only problem for him is that where General Lampard has worked the hardest on placing his agents and making contact with sympathetic groups are the areas least likely to support any movement with Gavitte as its figurehead, despite the hard work of those very same agents. Some areas of the country are too deeply entrenched in the government’s tradition or else benefit too thoroughly from its graft and corruption to pay heed to Gavitte’s message. On the other hand, a victory in one such area would upset the entire balance that the ruling families have worked so hard to maintain.
His head drops in frustration. What he needs is so clear, so simple and fundamental, but it doesn’t exist. He can’t seem to wrap his mind into the right shape to see the pattern that has to be present. There has to be some angle that he can work, some way to meld the polling demographics from the areas in which the Resistance is respected into some sort of parallel track with the platform that he represents. Somehow, with a few tweaks, he knows he can even make the Resistance palatable in the areas where they’d had no traction
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