The Citizen: Lost Empire, #2

By E.B. Dawson

WHAT IF YOU WERE MEANT FOR MORE THAN YOU COULD IMAGINE?

 

As the nation of Riyen tries to recover from a shocking revelation, Anissa finds herself completely isolated from her friends. Struggling with bitterness, guilt, and grief, her passion for justice threatens to turn into a quest for vengeance. But when her true identity comes into question, she will uncover a life-altering truth that will shake the world to its core. 

 

"This book takes all the beauty of The Traveler, expands on it, and then blows it out of the water...there are moments of intense action, beautifully complex character study, and hints of poetry through the work. E.B. Dawson shines as she teases out complex politics and the spirit of travel and adventure..."

-J.E. Purrazzi, author of the Malfunction Trilogy

• Language: English
• Publisher: E.B. Dawson
• Release date: Oct 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386914082

E.B. Dawson

E.B. Dawson was born out of time. Raised in the remote regions of a developing nation, traveling to America was as good as traveling thirty years into the future. So, it’s really no wonder that she writes science fiction and fantasy. Her stories acknowledge darkness, but empower and encourage people to keep on fighting, no matter how difficult their circumstances may be. And as an avid philosopher, she infuses her work with Socratic questions. When not writing, she tries to make a difference in the world by showing love and compassion to those most broken.

Book preview

Shock

Rain descended from the heavens to the earth along tangled green and blue highways. It was a downward flood made up of billions of soldiers, claiming every leaf, vine, and twisted branch. The sound of battle on the upper canopy was muffled on the jungle floor, but spare ammunition and collateral damage trickled down here and there.

Anissa huddled under the thick leaves of a palmetto. Her heart thudded dully against the barrel of her hollow chest, sending an eerie drumbeat, as lifeless as it was regular, through the subconscious of the jungle. In response the jungle wept slick, muddy tears. But Anissa had never felt more alone.

Brett was dead. He had been nothing but kind, patient, and protective and she had got him killed. She hadn’t even been able to bury him. She had landed them too close to the road and a passing patrol had forced her to flee into the jungle and leave his body behind. Hours later she realized she had lost the metal neckpiece that Rodge had made for her to help stabilize her traveling. She had searched for it for two hours to no avail. Now she just had to hope that she had grown strong enough to completely control her travel.

A deep despair settled across her vision and poisoned the marrow in her bones. She saw everything clearly as if a map had been etched in granite. The determined inevitability of it all bogged her down—filling her pores with black-water weight until her moral inertia had doubled. There was no moving now—not even if she wanted to.

The fight was over. Perhaps there had never been a fight, just an extended struggle against the suffocating fog of fate. And didn’t fate take sadistic pleasure in snuffing lives? And hadn’t she become its chosen instrument? No more. No more tangling in the complicated politics of dangerous parties. No more reckless endangerment. No more noble causes. The good and evil would battle on as always. One would necessarily prevail. But she could have no say in the matter. She would grow roots like these trees, dig deep, drink in the rain, and never hurt another soul again. Deep in this tangled web of jungle she would grow smooth, brown bark that shed itself every six months and blue-green leaves the size of books. Every morning she would welcome the wings of the cockatoos as they greeted the pink sunrise and every evening she would fall asleep to the sound of cicadas. And no one would ever find her.

She sat for hours this way, fingering her mother’s amulet which still hung around her neck, her thoughts tumbling like the breakers of the ocean. She had put them off long enough and now they rolled in one after another, leaving her dull and tired. But after a while the surf settled and she was left with two clear thoughts. One of them involved building a shelter and fire. As tempting as it was to try and become one with the jungle, the decay and transformation could become quite uncomfortable. So she rose from her cold quarters under the tree and got to work with a comfortable, if damp, efficiency.

The movement and purpose consoled her. Her mind slept fitfully, but it was the first it had slept all day, and her muscles and fingers spoke reassurance to her that not everything had been lost. By the time she had a rough shelter and a fire, the cicadas were singing their approval. She had gathered some blue tubers and peppery herbs and soon had them wrapped in leaves and baking. The wafting, orange, hickory smoke wrapped around her and dried her soggy skin, smoking her heart in the process. It had shriveled, but it would preserve.

The night crept in through the vines, or perhaps the smoke ensconced the light, and the jungle changed its voice. It spoke of layers and layers of indomitable life. Killed and cut back, harvested, and trampled, the ocean depths of the jungle persevered. There might be peace in the jungle, but it was a rare, vicious peace—accustomed to pain and death. Tonight it suited Anissa very well. The frogs and insects drowned out her thoughts. The vines and fronds formed the familiar walls of her bower. And the crackle of her fire teased her into a refreshing slumber.

She awoke with her troubled mind scrubbed clean and the will to be productive. But her work was not the work of a revolutionary, a politician, an advocate, or even a traveler. It was the work of a housekeeper whose house was the jungle. She tended the fire and gathered more fuel. She repaired and improved her lean-to shelter. And with some extended effort she caught live dinner.

The blue-green jungle did not stare with mournful eyes, or pat her on the back, or explain to her that it wasn’t her fault. It ignored her grief. And its tiny occupants took a taste of her as they would any other creature. But the soil accepted her tears.

When the week was over and she left her little camp, her hair had twisted like the wild vines, a second skin had formed over and she welcomed it as protection against the nibbling insects. But more than that her smoked heart had absorbed enough nutrition to move forward.

On that first day under the palmetto she had set on two purposes. The first had materialized through the week in the form of simple survival. The second one was what motivated her to leave her little camp and venture out: Hawthorne would pay.

Aftermath

From his apartment on the fifteenth floor, Eric Carson had a first class view of downtown Riyen. The pinnacles and spires which Anissa had hated had always been a comfort to him. They were tall, majestic, and inflexible, glowing now in the setting sun. They had always been bigger than his problems—his reassurance that all was right with the world. But today they struck him as artificial. It was a false strength—built on ignorance. Today it appeared a mockery of reality. Those towers stood tall and immovable. But the people of Riyen were in crisis. Even at this height he could see them. Their movement was erratic and emotional. Their world had been turned upside down and those towers and turrets had no word of comfort to provide.

They were not alone in the universe. Eric Carson had known this for some time. And yet, he found his world had been equally shaken. The scenes in the courtroom kept replaying in his head, interspersed by those hellish minutes in Angapo as he had watched the Angapoan rebel Yusul beat Anissa and had been helpless to stop it. As always, his thoughts came back around to their morbid finale, obsessing over every word of Hawthorne’s threats.

The cop is with her. He kept repeating it to himself, over and over, as if to ward off his evil thoughts. Brett is with her. She can hide in the jungle. If he had had his way he might have stayed there forever, refusing to move forward, mustering all his mental strength and willing her to be safe. But his phone rang. Director Tors needed him at the police station.

Carson faced little opposition in the streets and no one stopped him, although a few faces turned his way. But the scene changed as he neared the station. People were gravitating toward it like bees returning to their hive—as if they sensed that this was now the center of affairs. A sergeant on post monitoring the crowd spotted him almost instantly. He charged toward him with singular purpose, his square face turning red as if he expected a fight. Carson slowed his pace and the crowd parted. The sergeant grabbed hold of his arm as if he were detaining him.

You’re needed inside, sir.

Carson instinctively shook him off. Where do you think I’m headed?

The officer’s face turned a deeper shade of red and his face seemed to become more square. But he kept his mouth shut and followed closely on Carson’s tail.

The scene inside the station was almost frantic. Its population had doubled in the past three hours. Knots of people had collected in clusters around desks, in conference rooms, and in private offices. Assistants shuffled between them in sprints, frequently dislodging pencils and papers from desks. Carson thought it looked less like a police station and more like a newsroom. Perhaps it had forcibly evolved into a hybrid due to recent events. He caught sight of polies, lawyers, reporters, and influential citizens mixed in among the detectives and petty officers.

At the far end of the building, through the glass walls, Director Tors sat in her office—a perfect picture of sophisticated calm. Indeed, calm seemed to emanate from her, soaking into the figures in her office. But they may as well have been a lifeless painting hanging on the back wall of a bewildered assembly. Without thought of whether he was welcome or qualified, he instinctively moved to join this painted assembly, and as he passed through the room, faces everywhere followed him. Director Tors spotted him early on and she watched him approach. The room seemed to hold its breath as he opened the glass door and when he closed it behind him he could hear no trace of sound leaking through.

We were beginning to worry, Tors said.

I had an unexpected visitor.

Director Tors hardly noticed the comment and Carson chose for the moment not to elaborate. Captain Agatha Travis stood with her arms crossed stoically, gazing out the one window. Janelle Merrow slouched in an armchair with her feet placed irreverently on the coffee table. Sitting beside her in stiff contrast, was Dr. Garrett Answorth. His long face was white and drawn. Carson instinctively took the chair farthest away from him.

You’d better get him up to speed, Answorth said stiffly.

We’re having a bit more trouble than we anticipated, Tors spoke quietly. The Gov is pushing heavily for your arrest.

They’re going into military lockdown, Janelle interjected with a smirk.

They’ve declared a state of national emergency, Travis explained evenly. Citizens are being asked to return to their homes for the night.

I’m going to need you to stay here until things calm down, Tors said.

Carson’s usually expressionless face took on a hint of dejection. And do you think it will?

It’s all reactionary, Mr. Carson. People don’t reason well after a crisis. Give me some time to have a few conversations. Until then you’d better settle in for the night.

Just what I’ve always wanted—a slumber party, Janelle mumbled.

We have temporary quarters available for you.

Janelle and Captain Travis were led to one room, Carson and Answorth to another. They weren’t detention cells as Janelle had secretly hoped, but interview rooms with cots in them. No lock was placed on the door, but a sentry stood guard for their protection.

Carson stared moodily at the floor, the ceiling, anything but the man across from him. As time passed he noticed the station around them settling down. The anxiety, the flurry, and the frantic gathering of information had been shepherded into clear orders and an almost reverent hush had settled over everyone. It did little to ease Carson’s mind.

Sentence

One night in the police station quickly turned into two. Two into three. And three into four. This was not for lack of effort on the part of Director Tors. Whenever Carson did see her she looked like she had hardly slept. Still the bureaucratic wheels spun round in the mud without gaining traction. Carson remained dutifully passive for the first thirty hours, after which he emerged stealthily and convinced an unsuspecting young office aid to give him the latest briefings. Director Tors eyed him coolly when he was caught.

I just want to help. I have contacts and I know how to talk to these people.

I think you’ve done all the talking that you need to. She continued a bit more gently. Mr. Carson, you cannot be involved in your own defense this time.

Don’t we have a right to know what’s going on?

There is some question of whether you have any rights at all.

What’s that supposed to mean? He asked.

Opponents are arguing that you knowingly forfeited your rights as citizens when you openly rebelled against government policy—

And has a corruption committee even examined those policies, yet? They shouldn’t be wasting their time—

Mr. Carson, I am doing everything that I can. Do as I say and stay out of it, or you will only make the problem worse.

They were treated with courtesy. All of their needs were provided for and many liberties besides. But by the end of the week Carson was about ready to pull his hair out. Garrett was moody and anxious over the separation from Natasha and his newborn. He would sit for hours at a time staring at a wall or writing in the notebook that was provided for him, only occasionally casting annoyed glances at Carson, who appeared to have adopted the attention span of a two-year-old. There was little that could occupy him above half-an-hour.

He would begin to read only to put the book down and initiate a series of push-ups. He would leave the room for coffee, but wouldn’t actually drink it. Once, when he had acquired a collection of cups he lined them all up and began target practice with wads of paper and paperclips. But his favorite activity seemed to be pacing the room, and—after the angry looks of his cellmate wore him down—tapping his fingers restlessly on his crossed legs. Neither man considered the other an option for conversation. 

After that first night they didn’t see Travis or Janelle again until the end of the week. They found out later that it was one of the terms of their comfortable confinement. Finally, at the end of six days, Tors brought all four of them into her office. Carson was only a little surprised to see his uncle there. Tors’ face was pale and John Carson’s eyebrows were furrowed.

It’s not good. Her struggle to find words confirmed this. We have done everything we can...but I’m afraid you’ve all been sentenced to five years.

We’ve had no trial, Carson said.

You really think that would stop them? Janelle spoke acidly.

Answorth was staring vacantly at the carpet. Travis remained pensive.

They have claimed you are a threat to national security. John Carson was well known for his patient, deliberate way of speaking. But Eric recognized that he spoke quickly and his hands moved frequently as if unable to sit still.

Doesn’t the public understand that the government’s been corrupted? Carson asked.

They have taken full control of the media. The public is being fed Hawthorne’s propaganda, Tors said.

Well, that’s no surprise. Another obligatory comment from Janelle.

I have been lobbying all week with people I have known my entire professional career, John rejoined. Again, Eric noticed the anxiety in his tone. I have never seen such resistance—and not from selfishness, ignorance, or apathy, but fear. I think there is much more going on here than we know.

Garrett’s eyes were still on the floor. So they win?

No, Dr. Answorth. But it may take longer for the truth to come out.

Carson’s lips had become very tight. They’re going to hunt Anissa down, and they’re going to kill her.

You don’t know that, Tors answered quickly. She is probably a lot safer than you four. I know Brett Gavelis. He’ll protect her.

But Carson looked at his uncle and John sighed heavily.

Tors cleared her throat several times. I don’t think I need to tell you that I don’t agree with their sentence. I’m prepared to help you look for other options.

Are you talking about running? Travis asked in a low voice.

I can’t sit back and let them silence you.

But if we run, won’t we look guilty? Answorth asked.

We can’t fight the whole nation on this, said Travis. We aren’t prepared for that.

We’ll build our forces, Tors spoke forcefully. We’ll spread the word and keep resisting.

We can’t disappear without doing you harm, Carson said.

Don’t worry about me.

As if on cue the doors at the far end of the floor swung open and a platoon of federal agents poured through. Tors rose indignantly, re-buttoning her suit jacket. She reached her office door before they did, swinging it open and crossing her arms.

What’s going on here?

We’re taking custody of the prisoners.

You’ll have them tomorrow. We agreed there was no reason to move them tonight, she protested.

I guess some of the higher ups changed their minds.

This is ridiculous. We have done nothing but cooperate.

Don’t make this difficult, Director. We’re taking the prisoners. All you have to decide is whether you’d like to be one of them.

John Carson stepped forward. We understand the situation, gentlemen. Just give us time to adjust to it. Or would you like to create a scene on the steps of the station?

We’re due back within the hour.

I understand. I just want five minutes with my nephew. Can’t you give us five minutes?

Five minutes, Mr. Carson, came the gruff reply.

John took his nephew by the arm into a side office. Once the door had closed his manner completely changed. The respectable statesman melted.

You need to run. His hands were trembling and his eyes were pale. Go out the back door there. I will stall them for as long as I can.

Eric had never seen his uncle like this. What are you talking about—

I cannot let you go to prison, I will not.

The building’s likely surrounded. I wouldn’t get twenty feet.

There’s a car out back waiting for you—

John, what’s going on?

It should be your father here and not me.

Eric’s eyes dropped to the floor. There’s no sense in that kind of talk.

No, Eric, you don’t understand. There were things he wanted to tell you. He shared a secret with my father—one they would never tell me, but I think it had to do with the Robsons.

What about the Robsons? Eric’s head came up sharply.

I know that he kept close tabs on them throughout his life. Eric, you have not seen the things that I’ve seen. There are dark truths being hidden by our government and I think they are somehow connected to our family and to the Robsons. I fear that if you go to prison, they will kill you.

Eric stared incredulously at his uncle—a man who inhaled reason with every breath. If this man was shaken and paranoid, he must have reason to be.

What can we do?

John was breathing heavily.

If what you say is true, and I run—they may just as well shoot me. There was a tap on the door. It’s too late to run. We have to fight this another way, John. You have to turn the political tide.

Eric, I’ve tried. I don’t know what else to do.

Keep fighting.

The door opened. Time’s up, Mr. Carson.

Watch yourself, Eric.

I will. Find out what you can...and about that other family you mentioned.

John Carson looked a hundred years older as he watched his nephew being handcuffed and led away.  Eric’s mind was racing. What secrets was the Gov hiding? What were they so afraid of that they had to back Hawthorne unconditionally? And what connection did his family have to the Robsons? The other three were being handcuffed around him. He heard Tors speak very deliberately to Dr. Answorth.

Don’t worry about a thing. I will take care of everything. She was referencing his family, of course. Janelle was staring defiantly at anyone who would meet her gaze. But Agatha Travis appeared almost bored with the proceedings. Was this it? Was this the end? Was he being led to a hushed up kill job? What about the others? What about Anissa?

They were leaving the station now. A sea of faces greeted them—spectators wanting a glimpse of the criminals who had caused so much havoc. Troubled citizens who wanted to see order restored. Carson could not seem to focus on their faces. A path had been preserved through the throng. Sentries stood guard in two rows to keep the swells of people at bay. Voices rose as the prisoners emerged. And then something else happened.

One voice rose above the cacophony in a clear, resonating tone. At first Carson thought someone was giving a speech. But then he recognized whose voice it was and he searched quickly for the boy’s face. For a moment the crowds too seemed perplexed. But eventually all faces turned in one of two directions.

The district station was hemmed in by two large skyscrapers, each equipped with a digital advertisement display. But now these wall-sized advertisements had been replaced with the face of a young man.

Alright people listen up. This is it. This is the moment when you choose whether to lose your freedom or not. This is your nation. Stop letting the government feed you lies.

The initial murmurs of surprise dropped into a dead silence as the young man, Rodge McGuinness, continued. "How many of you were in that courtroom a week ago? You remember when Eric Carson proved that there is a whole other world out there? The government’s been lying about it. They say they’ve been lying for your protection, but are