Another Force

By DJ Rockland

The terrorist threat has long been eliminated, but a far more sinister and dangerous threat looms. In the world of 2107 two brothers must find one another and navigate the ravages of war and the dangers of politics to create a new world that is not only safe but human.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rockland Properties, LLC
• Release date: Feb 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9780692837429

Book preview

Prologue

The car swung in wild, wide arcs, first left then right and left again to avoid the rocks cascading down the canyon wall. Where did they come from all of a sudden? he muttered.

His heart raced with the adrenaline pumped into his system by the sudden crisis, and he fought to collect himself. Calm but alert, he told himself, as he scanned for another obstacle.

He saw none. The car’s headlights blazed through the night air, revealing a road free of debris or other vehicles for half a kilometer.

The last incident replayed over and over in his mind. Rocks fell loose down the canyon walls, to be sure, but not rocks that big...

Focus on controlling the car, he told himself. The canyon highway was narrow, and his vehicle was designed for speed not tight control. The natural curve presented by the canyon highway was a big enough challenge. He wanted no others.

The tunnel approached and the driver relaxed. There was a difficult stretch of road on the other side, but he should be fine, he told himself. After the near miss, he looked forward to the straighter road of the tunnel. Once through the tunnel, the canyon opened up, and despite the turns, the highway was easy to see.

The thought calmed him, and his breathing returned to normal.

He noticed a light reflecting in his rearview mirror.

Car?

A vehicle, like the rocks, came from nowhere.

What the...

He glanced in the mirror. Undeterred by the twists and curves of the canyon road, the car behind him moved faster and faster. They entered the tunnel, but if the trailing car continued...

Wham! His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of bending metal and broken plastic. The jolt knocked his car sideways, and he careened off the guardrail. The magnetic lock in the tires compensated and brought the nose of the vehicle back in line.

He caught his breath, and shot a glimpse in the mirror.

Like the howling of a banshee, the crashing sound of the two vehicles screamed. His car lunged forward with the impact.

The rear vehicle hit him again. They left the tunnel and his car was out of control.

He stepped on the brakes in the first curve, but the pursuer hit him in the turn. This time, however, rather than a jolt, the trailing vehicle locked onto his car like a child’s magnetic pull toy. The tandem traveled too fast for the curves.

He heard the grinding of metal on metal as the two cars ripped the guardrail. The screech of the twisted frames, combined with his vehicle’s warning systems, created an unbearable cacophony of high pitched noise. His vehicle controller screamed at him to take action, but other forces controlled his car, and he was helpless.

The vehicle’s onboard controller warned of possible lock failure if this speed was maintained. He pulled and yanked at the steering wheel for almost 200 meters before a 90 degree south turn loomed ahead.

This was the turn he feared and his body shook with dread.

Within fifty meters of the curve, he abandoned all hope and let go of the wheel. He leaned back in a vain attempt to calm himself.

Adrenaline raced his heartbeat once again, and perspiration ran in chaotic ripples across his forehead and neck. The rivers of sweat soaked his freshly starched white dress shirt. He watched as events unfolded in front of him and saw his car moving in slow motion, like an old movie in a theatre.

He thought back on the earlier events of this evening, and realized none of this was coincidental.

I was foolish to think I could trick him, he said. He comforted himself with the thought that his family would be safe - at least for now. Elizabeth would know what to do. She’ll take care of them. I love you, my darling!

The trailing car set its brakes, but it was too late. He grabbed for the wheel one last time and jerked in an attempt to stay on the highway, but the magnetic lock between his car and the tires failed. The car flipped and rolled for almost 150 meters down the canyon wall, eventually coming to rest on the desert floor. The rubber spheres, which only moments before were the tires carrying their owner on the highway above, rolled to the canyon floor like the playthings of a giant child. The safety systems in the car deployed and prevented the driver from an immediate death. They could not, however prevent the internal injuries and the series of blunt force trauma the driver sustained.

As he lay twisted in the rubble, searing pain shot through his body. He wished for death.

He focused on Elizabeth and the children, and all they had planned. He thought of what his life had been; the good he had done, and with regret, the mistakes he had made.

He felt his life ebbing away, like a wave from the sea pulling back from the shore. He regretted their fight tonight.

I love you, he whispered his last breath, if you only knew how much.

The Malibu District Coroner’s office pronounced Jacob Jonathan Bruder dead at the scene. He recorded the cause of death as an unforced accident, combined with the driver’s failure to recognize conditions.

Book 1

A great deal of intelligence can be invested in ignorance when the need for illusion is deep.

Saul Bellow, To Jerusalem and Back

Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die, life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly.

Langston Hughes, Dreams

Beware of false knowledge, it is more dangerous than ignorance.

George Bernard Shaw

Chapter 1

The rusty blade swung in a wide arc over his head, and the cut landed only centimeters from the thief’s hand. The ax man’s eyes were wide with rage, his face flushed, and his few wisps of hair stood on end. Sweat stood like raindrops on his cheeks and high forehead.

The ax cut the table in a familiar place. Jagged slices of missing wood from the rough cut lumber of the table provided evidence that the ax had been here before.

Joniver jumped back from the table and out of range of the weapon, pulling his hands close to his body.

My name is Joniver; it is not Jon! he said, as he stood up straight, his face smeared with anger. Joniver towered over Michaels, the ax wielding vendor. Joniver moved quickly and deftly, so Michaels’ ax did little to deter him.

The ax flew through the air again, just missing Joniver and throwing Michaels off balance.

I don’t care what your name is, Michaels said. "You were trying to steal my apples! I want you called Gone!"

The ax took flight once more, striking again on the table’s edge. The sharp edge went deep and stuck fast. While Michaels lumbered to get around the table and pull the weapon free, Joniver grabbed two apples and ran.

They’re rotten anyway! he said over his shoulder. He heard only the string of curses and obscenities spewed from Michaels’ mouth.

Joniver and his best friend Olinar ran opposite Michaels and deeper into the sea of tables and vendors who made up Market Day. Today was Tuesday, and every Tuesday was Market Day for the citizens in the Peachtree sector.

Every Tuesday, Joniver and Olinar made the rounds, but thanks to a rusty ax, today was a more exciting Tuesday than most. Once out of sight of Michaels, Joniver tossed the two apples to Olinar.

Don’t you want one? Olinar asked.

Joniver pulled up his sleeve and two more apples rolled down his arm into his palm. No, I’m good.

Their laughter filled the sky like a bubbling brook cutting through a forest.

That idiot Michaels will never learn, will he? Joniver said. He’s as dense as a block.

So much concern for apples. They are not worth the 12 cents he charges for them.

They wouldn’t be worth it if he gave them away for free!

The lying cheat; he’s only getting what he deserves!

A warm wind blew through their hair and momentarily inflated their hoodie sweatshirts.

You gotta be more careful, Olinar said between bites, the blow-head almost caught you this time.

Whatever!

The two walked on, mindless of the beautiful day around them. And it was an absolutely gorgeous day, especially for this time of year. The sun shone bright and high in a clear blue, cloudless sky. The coolness of the air and the bright sunshine combined to give the day an energizing feel. The day, along with his rebel nature, had combined to stiffen Joniver’s resolve to get the apples.

He was no thief; well, he was a thief, but not a common thief, at least not by his definition. He stole only from those who deserved it.

Joniver is a shortened form of Jonathan Oliver, and he refused to be called Jon by anyone. He had no explanation as to why he was called Joniver and not Jonathan or Jonathan Oliver. Before she died, his mother always called him Joniver and so it stuck.

He is tall, but his 210 pounds did little to fill his sleeves, especially above the elbows. He has darker skin than most, and unlike anyone else, he has penetrating, crystal blue eyes. He also likes to eat - a lot. His insatiable physical hunger was not represented well by his slender frame, but it was there nonetheless.

His hunger was partially why he stole the apples from Michaels. He believed Michaels was a thief, and to Joniver, Michaels represented all that was wrong with the world. He felt not an ounce of guilt taking the man’s goods. Michaels cheated others of both their money and their lives, or at least their quality of life. Joniver considered anything he stole from the man to be justice.

Joniver and Olinar walked on, going nowhere and getting there slowly. The noise roiled around them and the crowd thickened and thinned in an almost rhythmic pattern before them. They did not notice. The vendors called and the patrons bargained, but it was simply background to Joniver and Olinar. They walked, but not with real purpose, dragging their hands along the edge of - and picking up splinters from - the lumber used to construct the vendor tables at market.

Suddenly Joniver tensed and stopped short.

What? Olinar said, but then he smelled it too. Something was burning. The Market had good food, but this was not the smell of something cooking. Is that what I think it is?

Joniver nodded, and the two took off following their noses. They followed up one aisle and then down another. They turned a corner around a table full of shoes, then yet another by a vendor selling pies, following the trail that cut the air. They were like two blood hounds in the hunt. They cornered around a clothing vendor’s stand, when they spotted a small crowd gathered at the end of the market area. After working their way through, they saw, and felt, what before they only smelled.

The spectacle was horrifying.

The bonfire flames lapped at least as tall as the boys, like the giant tongues of a gorged mouth. But it was the fuel that disturbed Joniver. Guardsmen stood around the fire pit and threw boxes of books into the blaze. As Joniver and Olinar watched, occasionally a tome would fall from its crate or a Guardsman would overthrow the flames and the book would fall to the pavement with a loud slap. Joniver jerked each time a book hit.

Olinar saw his friend’s mind plotting. Don’t do it, Dude. It’s not worth it. Those Guardsmen are not Michaels and those books are not apples.

Joniver’s shoulders slumped. He loved to read. He read vociferously anything he could get his hands on, and he read with great understanding. He possessed a photographic memory, but no one Joniver knew, or knew of, would have cared. But he cared. Joniver’s reading and comprehension allowed him to steal books, read them in minutes, and return them without there being any knowledge of a theft.

Now he watched hundreds - maybe thousands - of books burned. Burned because the stupid company marked them as terrorist material, and therefore a threat to the safety and security of the sector. Joniver was so angry he wanted to cry, but he dared not. He wished he could rinse his memory of this hideous sight.

Olinar grabbed his arm and pulled him away. Joniver turned and the two walked slowly back toward the market.

After a few steps, he looked up and there she was, standing along the back edge of the gathered onlookers.

Joniver stopped, if only briefly. His eyes softened, and even though he would never admit it, his heart jumped. A lump formed in his throat.

Olinar noticed the reaction, and he slapped his friend on the arm with the back of his hand. Man, the girl has you tied up!

He laughed, smacking his hands together. He could not stop laughing at his friend’s reaction to the beautiful member of the opposite sex.  Whoooo-heeee! Olinar horned out.

No, she doesn’t, Joniver said. He dropped his head, shot a sideways glance at Olinar and grinned, But she is something to look at.

That she is, my friend, that she is. He laughed, and the two walked on.

Each gave the girl a half-hearted wave, as they headed back toward the market.

Emily noticed them and she returned their attempt at appearing casual with a big smile and wave.

Joniver smelled lilacs.

Among the unpleasant odors floating around, there was a very pleasant one he knew, one he always knew. It was Emily. She always smelled like lilacs. He did not know why or how, but despite the foul smell of the burning books, the smell of meat at the vendor table, the smell of all kinds of cooking in the market, she smelled like lilacs.

Joniver let the feeling sink in. He felt the relaxation and energy sweep over him, like stepping into a waterfall.

He had not even known what lilacs were until he met her. After meeting her the first time, he found out all he could about them. He now loved to smell lilacs, but it was not the fragrance. He loved being around her, although he had never even screwed up the courage to so much as ask her to go for a walk.

Emily had a beautiful big smile and an infectious laugh, which sounded like the color of autumn leaves. But it was her eyes, Joniver thought. I could melt into her dark brown eyes.

She had beautifully smooth olive skin as rich as fresh butter, but for Joniver, her eyes held him captive.

One day, I’ll ask Emily out.

From somewhere he heard a voice, Joniver, when will one day get here, my friend?

But Olinar broke the moment, punching his arm, Hey, doesn’t Emily live in your building?

Yep. She lives there with her aunt.

Her dad died or something, right?

Yes, Joniver said. Nana told me Emily was little when it happened. Her dad got drunk or something and fell down some steps and broke his neck.

Really? Olinar said. She found him?

Joniver nodded. Trying to find answers in a liquor bottle, Nana says. Emily’s aunt found her at the bottom of the stairs crying and trying to lift him by his shirt. He had puked and it was all over her and gross.

Hmm, where was her mom? Olinar asked.

She died having Emily. At least that’s what Nana said.

Olinar paused for a moment with his head lowered. He thought for a moment. Why don’t you see if you can get your Nana to cook for you two?  You know, a little dinner and a cuddle?

Joniver shot him a disgusted look. Right, with Nana there!

Send your Nana on an errand or something. Be creative! Besides, she’s cool. She’ll go for it!

"You are a dingle-doofus," Joniver said.

Olinar babbled on about something he had seen, and the two quickly picked up their friendly banter. They moved on jostling and cajoling one another as they walked. With nothing to accomplish and nowhere to go, they walked and enjoyed the laziness of it.

The world is as it should be, Joniver could not help but think, and he smiled.

***

Emily picked up her basket and watched the two of them walk away. They were hopeless, she thought.

She knew both of them, and even knew they had been eyeing her of late, but she had also taken note of them. Joniver was cute, in fact he was more than cute. Her aunt had once said he was hot, which only made Emily blush.

He was good looking, but he had zero ambition. He walked through the market each Tuesday doing nothing, except occasionally picking a fight. Emily did not admire him or his cavalier attitude. She wanted someone with more solidity, more depth, and more drive than she had ever seen from Joniver.

She knew he was interested in her, but he had never so much as asked her to go anywhere or do anything. She did not tolerate a coward. The words of her aunt rang a continuous warning to her: Don’t be reckless with your love, Emily. Emily determined not to be, and Joniver was the definition of reckless. Emily had lost too much already, and she would waste neither time nor energy on guys like these two.

Emily’s mind hurled her back to the night she lost her dad. She cried for a long time after finding him. She could see her little hands tugging on his damn shirt with all her might. He didn’t move. He just lay there, splayed out like a raggedy doll with flesh. Her Aunt Naomi knelt beside her and picked her up, Shhh...there, there. Come with me and it’ll be all right. I love you. Come on, hold on tight. Shhh...

Emily always remembered those words because it was all right, and her aunt did love her. She had made it all right.

Emily found in her Aunt Naomi the mother and father she never had. In some ways she could not have had a better thing happen to her; she grew up with her aunt in a loving environment insulated from many of the worries and challenges others her age had to face.

She also was free of the company Kid Kamps, which turned out kids who were, Emily thought, more than a little weird.

Emily looked around and despite the problems everywhere she turned, she saw possibilities. She knew things were going to be better soon. I just know it, Aunt Naomi, she said. Things can’t stay like this forever. I just know it! I can feel it.

Her aunt would smile and give her a gentle hug. All right, she would say, come on, hold me tight!

***

Joniver trekked home from the market that afternoon, walking through the cluttered streets of broken down cars and strewn trash. The building he lived in with his grandmother had once been a remarkable structure. Although they did not live in the wealthy district, their neighborhood had never endured a terrorist incident, nor had it been any part of the street fights, which had been so common almost a century earlier. Not so much as even a barracks or supply depot had been built here.

Dodging the effects of the war was both advantageous and unfortunate. It meant the original construction had gone largely unaltered through all the fighting accompanying the World Revolution, but it also meant there had been little reason to pour any resources into maintenance of the structure. So there it stood, with its peeling plaster and broken glass windows.

Olinar always told Joniver the building had a lean to it. Like the Leaning Pizza Tower in Italy before they bombed it.

Because Joniver read more than company propaganda, he knew Olinar’s identification of the Tower of Pisa, was not only incorrect, it was laughable. Still, he said nothing, letting Olinar enjoy his joke.

The building did lean slightly forward toward the street, which the cracking brickwork and creaking interior metal stairway only accented for anyone who cared to notice. But Joniver liked the building very much, and even more so he liked the people who occupied the other apartments alongside him and his grandmother.

Joniver enjoyed being with most of the building’s tenants, the only exception was a man on the sixth floor who cursed loudly at odd hours of the night.

The guy was just goofy, Joniver thought, as he remembered the evening he came out and poured some kind of orange mixture through the middle of the winding stairwell. The slurry fell all the way to the first floor, staining handrails as it fell. The stuff sat, congealing on the floor for a day and a half, until Ms. Huddleston from the second floor took a mop and bucket to the mess.

Not everyone had a mop and bucket, Joniver thought.

Joniver smiled, thinking of Ms. Huddleston. She always had a good word for him, and she always had something baked for him at Christmas. Joniver knew she did it for everyone, but she always told Joniver it was just for him. She made everyone feel special.

Joniver thought, I wonder where she gets the money to-

Joniver! Joniver!

Joniver heard his grandmother calling him. He had just turned the corner and headed toward his building. Joniver heard that at one time, the building had been called Peachtree Towers, but he did not know why. He had never seen peach trees anywhere in, or around, the structure, nor had he heard of there ever being any.

Joniver! he heard his grandmother yell through a window in the third floor. She had removed an improvised window insert to peek her head outside.

Young man, I need you up here and I mean now! she said in an angry tone. Then she broke out in a big smile and girlish chuckle.

Joniver smiled at her and yelled back, Coming Nana!

Neither Joniver, nor his grandmother, had anyway to know it, but grandmothers have never changed. They were now as they always had been, filled with a little mischief and a lot of love for their grandkids. Joniver’s Nana was no different. Her name was Ruth, and she loved her grandson with a love of indescribable warmth and boundless depth. She always encouraged him, prodded him when necessary, disciplined him as needed, and hugged him as much as he would allow. Joniver was blessed with a truly remarkable grandmother, and although he failed to tell her often enough, he knew it, too.

He opened the steel plate door to the building, and the massive piece of metal swung outward in a slow arc, creaking its protest on the rusted hinges. He did not even bother looking at the elevator, as it was rarely in service, and sprinted up six flights of stairs to the third floor and his flat. He and his grandmother occupied apartment 3C, just to the right after touching foot on the third floor landing.

Joniver turned, wiped his feet on the mat Nana kept outside the door, and turned the knob to go in. Just as he did so, he noticed another door close down the hall. Someone else had been on the floor. Someone Joniver had not noticed. But now, as the far door closed, he realized he saw Emily go inside. He also knew she had been looking his way.

Familiar feelings of light-headedness and weakness took charge of his body, as the smell of lilacs took charge of his mind. His blood rushed, and every cell in his skin rippled with pure emotion.

Maybe Olinar’s right after all, he told himself.

He refocused on the door knob in his hand and pushed past the threshold into his flat. His grandmother stood waiting, and they hugged and she kissed his cheek.

How was your day? Did you get anything at market? How is Olinar’s father?

Nana! Can I get the first question answered before you shoot out 423 more? He smiled, and headed to wash up. A mouthwatering dinner called out and Joniver was ready to eat.

I didn’t think it was 423, Nana said.

Their apartment was small, and Joniver was across the great room in three strides. Nana always told Joniver how blessed they were to have such a wonderful place to live; they each had their own bedroom and they had enough space in the great room to cook and sit down for dinner.

Nana, our flat seems just like everyone else’s, Joniver said.

No, Nana would say, it’s ours! Joniver would just laugh and hug his Nana. You’re right, Nana! It’s ours!

A single light fixture of three LED bulbs hung from the center of the room and tonight, candles purchased from the market bathed the room with warmth. Shadows danced on the walls like invisible entertainers, inviting Nana and Joniver to relax and enjoy the evening show.

In the case of the candles used tonight, purchased was not the correct description, Joniver noted. He stole them the week before at market. No matter, the vendor he lifted them from was a worthless fellow. As Olinar said, He’s a waste of skin.

Nana’s wonderful cooking filled the room with the delicious aroma of steaming cabbage and pinto beans. She had also set out some freshly made cornbread. Although he did not know why, Joniver and his grandmother ate better than most families in the neighborhood.

He did not think about this tonight, however, because tonight he was starved. Smelling the food and seeing the warmth, he realized just how famished he was and looked at the food with eager, hungry eyes. He sat and filled his plate, obeying the anxious anticipation of his taste buds.

Joniver, said his grandmother, we pray first. You know that!

Oh, yes, Nana, he replied. We pray first. You go ahead.

His tone was not mocking, but it was not serious either. Joniver did not get the whole praying thing. If there was something or someone worth praying to, he - or she, or it - had done a pretty lousy job of giving people in this neighborhood the proper incentive to pray. Why Nana insisted on it was beyond him, but he loved her, and so he always agreed without protest.

He grabbed the corner off a cornbread square, and brought it to his mouth as his grandmother mouthed words that she ritualistically said prior to each meal. Joniver tasted the warmth and goodness of what his Nana had made, and felt nothing could be better. He didn’t care about her prayer or why she prayed, this stuff was good.

The world is as it should be, he thought.

Chapter 2

Jacob jolted from his sleep, his head throbbing with pain. He sprang up in his bunk peering through the ghostly moonlight of the early morning hours. He was certain he had made a sound of some kind as he woke, but as he gazed at his bunk mates, no one in the barracks stirred. Using only the bluish yellow moonlight, Jacob inspected the forms of each of his 24 company-mates sleeping in neat rows. He studied each humped form, looking for any sign of interrupted slumber.

He detected no activity of any kind. Only the dust particles provided any movement, dancing in the moonbeams like a great company in a choreographed musical.

It’s too quiet, even for this time of night, Jacob told himself.

There usually was noise somewhere in the camp. He listened, but he heard nothing, save the faint closing of car doors far off in the distance.

He let out a slow uneven, but silent sigh, relieved at his good fortune. His eyes continued to survey the room.

This is critical, he thought. He could not, would not, show the weakness of having a nightmare, especially here. Guardsman Applicants did not have nightmares.

"I do not have nightmares," he said in a soft whisper.

He looked again around the room, searching from floor to ceiling, inspecting every corner of the room and each bunk.

He then looked down to his sweat stained undershirt and underwear. His light gray T-shirt was stained so dark with sweat, the black block lettering, Property of Defense Ministry, could scarcely be read. The stains on his briefs suggested an embarrassment unwanted by any man.

He decided to change and get back in bed before anyone noticed. He could not afford the negative marks he might, would, he thought, receive if this was known. He was fighting to get his score into the Top Tier of all applicants - of all time, and small things were what stood between him and his objective.

I cannot allow anything to dominate me or prevent my move into the Top Tier, he whispered. This was a rare feat, and he was so close. He wanted it badly. Nothing now stood in his way, and he would not allow the nocturnal events of his imagination to be an obstacle either.

Nightmares are silly and childish, he thought, and everyone knows it

Jacob was the most gifted of all the applicants here. He was stronger, faster, more intelligent and better in a crisis than any of them. He knew it and his instructors as well as peers knew it. They saw it every day.

He routinely ran the obstacle course in faster and faster times, setting record after record. His ability to look at strategic plans and decipher, not only the most important part but the critical part, was nothing less than impressive. Jacob had all the necessary tools. He was on the track in life he wanted and there was nothing in his way.

A nightmare will not defeat me, he thought. I can control my thoughts and therefore my dreams. Everyone knows this.

He repeated the mantra, attempting to convince an unseen and unheard detractor, but there were none. There were none here, nor in the camp. Jacob’s only detractors were the ones he brought with him, and these he always kept close at hand, ready at a moment’s notice to roam free in the wasteland of his consciousness.

Why do I have the nightmares? Nightmares indicate weakness. Everyone knows this. I should not be having nightmares; other people have nightmares, not me and not now.

He shook his head and dismissed all thoughts of the past few minutes. Had it been minutes or hours?

He wasn’t sure.

None of this mattered, it would not happen again, he thought. I can’t remember what the nightmare was about, but it felt familiar somehow, he thought.

I couldn’t break free? Or was it something...

He shook his head repeatedly, as if to shake out the images and thoughts of the recent events that were unfolded in his subconscious.

He swung his long, taunt legs around and flattened both of his bare feet on the cold hard concrete surface of the barracks floor. The sudden burst of coolness on the soles of his feet was energizing. He stood and went to the washroom, a sheen of sweat glistened on his upper arms and shoulders. His body glowed in the last fading rods of moonlight, which cut through the fabric of the night sky and into the barracks. Morning was overtaking them.

Daytime would soon be the master.

This is the way the world works, and everyone knows it, Jacob told himself.

He walked through the moonbeams, unconcerned with anything other than what had just happened. He looked at the glint of moonlight in the sheen of sweat on his arms, and saw he was covered in sweat from head to toe.

He growled in anger and wanted nothing more than to get this filth washed off and disappear for a few moments more of sleep. In a cosmic, nocturnal arm wrestle, the moon was losing the battle with the approaching day, and Jacob’s opportunity would soon be lost.

He flipped the water valve, which delivered an 18-second spurt of fluid. After a three-second delay, the water drizzled into his hands.

He splashed himself in the face and neck, and held his hand on the back of his neck for several seconds. He wanted more water, but restrictions prevented any additional discharge at this hour.

Damn it!

Water was in short supply. Jacob did not understand why it was in short supply. There were a lot of people to be sure, but as he traveled for training and patrols, he saw vast lakes and reservoirs full of water. He had seen