Page 12 of Booked for Theft

I took my time chewing, wishing the heat of the dish could eradicate the evils infesting the United States. “Why do we need to steal copies if he provided all his copies?”

After a few moments, Bradley said, “According to this note, the copies are different depending on role in the senate, house, or congress, and the ‘debates’ are based on cues within their specific documents. He even provided the guidelines on how files, like the ones we received, can be leaked. The cues are to be removed. There is even a list of the people files can be leaked to without punishment. His role is to make arguments to guide the finished document to his version, which is flagged as being one stage below final. His notes include if the bills are geared towards rights eradications, military pursuits, or enhancing the draft. He has also been instructed to improve social services to curtail public outcry over the other bills.”

“That’s interesting. He’s being asked to be one of the ‘good’ guys?”

“Correct. He has his marching orders from the top included.”

Damn. While we’d heard rumors of the government being rigged, seeing direct evidence of it would leave me with far more questions than answers. I hunted through my meal for another potato, stabbed it, and went to work nibbling it, expecting my lips to burn along with the rest of me. “The government is really rigged.”

“It appears so. But if we’re going to prove it, we need to get copies of as many of the cues and files as we can before leaking it out.” Bradley grimaced. “And that’s after discussing if we want to actually open Pandora’s box. Once we unveil that our government is a hoax, there won’t be any turning back.”

In the days following our meeting with Dr. Castor, we’d discussed the situation, determining if we did find evidence of the government’s utter control over the country, there would only be one route available to the people: civil war. It would become the government and military against the people, and those who were afraid of the government’s retaliation would side with them—or those who benefit from the government’s decisions.

He stared at the screen, and his eyes narrowed. “And with the latest bills, there are few people who will stand with the government: government workers or those forced into the system already, I suspect.”

I shook my head. “If there were that many dissenters, we’d already be in a state of civil war.”

“Would we, though? Think about it, Janette. If you’re an adept, you live or die based on which side you choose. Those in the lower brackets have been conditioned to believe it would take a thousand of them to beat one of us. That’s not even remotely true. I think that the shootings have done an excellent job of making it clear a bullet can kill anybody. Once those without magic are armed, the playing field is heavily equalized. The issue is if people realize that—and if they invest in learning how to fire a gun well. Then you have the issue of the adepts. Until the recent bills, being an adept protected you from most government treachery. Adepts have been conditioned to protect themselves, and that means siding with the government. And they believe that they can take out hundreds of those without strong magic with a sweep of their hand. Some can. But adepts forget about guns and how guns in the hands of those without magic can change everything. But change would be paid in a sea of blood. Nobody, except the corrupted government, wants that.”

With a sinking feeling, I realized the government would accomplish their goals either way. If a civil war happened, millions would die before the smoke cleared. Fatalities would occur on both sides, and there were far fewer adepts than anyone else.

If everyone rose up, the adepts would fall eventually.

“Is there no way out of this without war?” I asked in a whisper, hating that I needed to ask the question.

What we did moving forward would be influenced by the answer. One death was one death too many, and I feared how many had already perished from the government’s machinations.

“If enough adepts joined forces with everyone else and there was a President of the United States who wasn’t bought into the system, it might be possible, but it would require a complete voter takeover. The entire country would have to unite, and the government is doing a good job of keeping everyone divided. There’s just no candidate that isn’t controlled by the government that everyone can agree on. And we have no idea how many within the government are being told they must vote a certain way.” Bradley eyed my food, sighed, and retrieved his own.

He had several small sample containers, and I foresaw disaster.

“If you try it, you’ll die,” I warned him.

“Mine is not as spicy as yours. I asked for training wheels.”

As I wanted him to survive, I slid over the mercy yogurt. “You’re going to pay if you try it and need the yogurt and milk.”

“I will pay with a smile, starting in about an hour if the new medication doesn’t work.” Heaving a sigh, he pulled a pill bottle from his pocket, gave it a shake, and retrieved a tiny pill. “While you were taking a politician for all his wealth, I was meeting with a doctor. I was under threat of death from a different doctor if I failed to attend the appointment she made for me.”

Ah. Dr. Castor must have gotten fed up with Bradley’s ability to dodge the conversation regarding his poor relationship with dairy. “And how did they torture you while I was talking with a politician?”

“They almost made me deal with a scope as punishment for my failure to come in earlier, but Dr. Castor rescued me; she was satisfied regarding our familial belief in genetic lactose intolerance rather than a treatable condition. It turns out I have an infection in my small intestine. I got to experience an infection purge, and I’m not happy about it. I cried.”

As Bradley had shit pain tolerance, I believed he’d cried real tears of pain. He would have bitten something or someone long before screaming or yelping, but his eyes betrayed him when inflicted with excessive amounts of pain. Having dealt with more than a few infections, I understood their intense level of pain—and how much removing them could hurt.

I needed to send Dr. Castor another card thanking her for having erased most of my memories of my recovery.

“And the pill?”

“It is an enzyme booster to help me digest lactose while the probiotics I’ve been prescribed have a chance to work and restore my digestive system to good working order. I’m to eat as much dairy as I can tolerate for the next week, taking one of these pills before each session. I’ve been warned I might not have a good night. But there’s a twenty percent chance I won’t react to the lactose at all now that the infection has been purged.” He opened one of the samplers, which proved to be the same dish I ate except paler in color. With a gulp, he grabbed a fork, stabbed a potato, and took a bite.

“You brave, foolish man.”

A few seconds later, he yelped and bolted for the kitchen and the supply of milk we kept for his ill-fated experiments with spicy food.

I waited for him to come back, armed with his preferred jug and a glass, before laughing at him. “Finish your sample and wait for the heat to settle before you try the next sample. Please tell me you got something sensible.”

“I got butter chicken, and it’s one step above mild. I was given my own tub of mercy yogurt, Janette.”