The Mother Warrior Read online

  Esther, like Claudette, had unobtrusively stayed hidden on the emperor’s staff, doing nothing to indicate her Book Liberator affiliation. Although crippled by arthritis, Esther was a quiet and efficient as a housekeeper, overseeing the cleaning robots. The emperor often forgot she was there. A big mistake; one which eventually cost him his life.

  The I-chip, or intelligence chip, implanted in the emperor’s brain to provide him with information on virtually any subject, had developed lesions around it, not at all unusual for anyone with the chips. But Emperor Priest kept putting off the rather simple corrective surgery for fear he would be assassinated while under anesthetic.

  He had a right to be paranoid. The BL rebels have attempted to assassinate him dozens of time, which is why he has remained secluded in the bunker located off the old Big Dig in the Boston underground since his pyramid was damaged.

  But the pain and headaches have become unbearable. He has no choice. Strong pain injections and medicine implants are not helping. He must have the surgery.

  Since he moved into the bunker, the only ones allowed inside are the one remaining cyborg, directly tied to his DNA, and Esther. All communication with his commanders is done through vid-phone.

  Two commanders obey his every whim: Major Jaqueline Grimes, his chief of security, and General Jamil Hawthorne, head of the empire’s marines who fight the rebels.

  The major and general have developed a warped sexual relationship because they believe they can trust no one else. The major was the primary test subject for an extremely painful exoskeletal treatment to make her immune to all pain and make her extremely strong. She desperately tries to feel something with increasingly stronger sexual deviations.

  The major and general know about the emperor’s headaches. Esther has kept them informed. They don’t know she has also kept the BL rebels informed.

  Esther’s husband and son were killed during a raid by the emperor’s marines. She is totally committed to the rebel cause and has bided her time, looking for the chance for revenge. Bent over by the severe arthritis, her white hair purposely limp, scraggly and falling into her face, she wears drab janitorial tunics too large for her tiny frame.

  When the emperor finally decided to have the short surgery to repair the lesions in his brain, the auto-doc told him he must have a human to help him recover. The emperor chose Esther.

  Esther realized this was the perfect time to assassinate the emperor, but if she does, everyone will know it was her. How to kill him without getting blamed? The auto-doc provides her with the perfect cover when he instructs her on how to keep the wound clean after the surgery.

  In his paranoia, the psychotic emperor rarely bathes or cuts his fingernails. If she can somehow get him to touch the wound-site with his hands, the dirt on his hands should cause an infection. She was sure an infection so close to the brain could be fatal; especially if not caught in time. And that’s exactly what happened.

  Esther was able to have the emperor touch the wound-site with his dirty hands when she asked him to hold the bandage she was attempting to use to cover the surgery site. She then sealed the bacteria into the site with an unsanitary glue, covered it with a medical gauze and unplugged the auto-doc.

  Within three days, the emperor had a raging fever. Pretending panic, she called Major Grimes on her vid-phone and reported the emperor’s fever.

  When she hung up, she exited the bunker, went to her tiny apartment, packed a few things and using a forged T-chip, boarded a train to Mexico City and disappeared into the BL ranks.

  As soon as Major Grimes got the call from Esther, she contacted the general. While they were talking, she was interrupted by a call from the emperor’s cyborg. “Emperor Priest is unresponsive. My circuits are breaking....” And the transmission ended.

  “Damn it!” the general said, “That means the emperor is dead. The cyborg’s circuits are tied directly to the emperor. If he dies, so does the cyborg. What do we do now? That place is like a fortress. We can’t get in to verify anything.”

  “Calm down, Jamil. Now is not the time to panic. Think about it. If the cyborg is no longer functioning, the only ones standing in our way to take over the empire are the two marines standing guard at the door and they probably do not have a clue what is going on. And Esther will be easy to dispose of.

  “We could take over and claim the emperor died from complications from the surgery; which is the case. We could forge some papers saying he turned the leadership over to us before he had the surgery. What do you say, Jamil? Want to become co-rulers?”

  Chapter Three

  Putting Demons to Rest

  It took me a year, but finally my memoirs are finished. I have done my best to exorcise the demons which plague my sleep; to forgive myself for the terrible things I did and to accept God’s forgiveness. The struggle to forgive those who destroyed the people I loved was longer and more difficult, but necessary if I was going to live a life without violence and revenge. When I completed the emotional wrestling, I was exhausted but felt cleansed and refreshed.

  Now it is time to find my family. I can only hope they are still in Cosala, otherwise I have no idea where to look for them. Dad is more than sixty years old now and my daughter is almost seventeen. Although I am only in my forties, my hair is totally white and has been since I was in my twenties. The White Warrior nickname came about not only because of my white hair but because of the all-white body armor given to me by the Canadians. I wore it when I fought with the rebel army; but that’s another story for my journal.

  My diet is sparse, since I must scrounge for food wherever and whenever I can find it. I remain thin like most starving American citizens, an increasingly large portion of the population. I was practically naked when I escaped from the slave camp in the Mississippi bayou two years ago. It took me a year to recover from the slave camp while slowly traveling by foot to the Texas Province.

  My wardrobe consists of an old tattered, men’s, temperature-adjusting jumpsuit I found in a culvert and a pair of men’s combat boots. The jumpsuit must have belonged to a University of Texas student, since I can still see the faded outline of a UT logo on one of the pockets. Both the jumpsuit and boots are a bit big, but that’s okay. I stuff rags in the boots to keep them from falling off. I’d rather people who see me not know if I’m a man or a woman; it saves a lot of unnecessary problems. Not that I can’t defend myself, because I can. I learned a lot about self-defense as a rebel and kept up my skills in the slave camp. But I’m determined to use what I learned only as a last resort and for self-defense from now on. I am determined my lethal White Warrior killing days are over.

  I look around the Caves of Sonoma, making sure all traces of my stay are erased, carefully camouflaging the back entrance with piles of sagebrush to protect the books from troopers and wandering packs of coyotes. Wild coyotes have become increasingly a problem in west Texas as more and more energy grunts move out of the area and the coyotes are unmolested.

  The energy grunts flight south to get away from the emperor’s troopers leave the solar panels and wind turbines without anyone to repair them. The result is increasingly short supplies of energy in the only remaining metropolitan areas across the country. Starvation is rising in the cities, as more and more citizens who worked in the food production farms flee the emperor’s control in the Chicago Province, the only major source of food for the nation’s citizens.

  I found several blank journals among the books and put them into my worn backpack, along with several pencils. Dad’s whittling knives, which I can use to keep the pencils sharp, were hidden with the books.

  It is good to be able to write each day, despite the emperor’s edict forbidding it. But I intend to stay completely out of the emperor’s sight from now on. I’m confident he thinks I’m dead, along with the other remaining BL council members. But I hope my friends are alive and now in hiding: Marco, Allison and Juan.

  For the past year, while writing, I lived on the freeze-dried goods my
mother stored in the cellar just south of the house. Fortunately, most of the food is still in great shape. Some water is all it takes to reconstitute the food.

  Now I carefully select a variety of the remaining freeze-dried packets to add to my backpack. Too many will make the backpack heavy and I have nothing else to use to carry food. My backpack is filled, not only with food, but the completed journals of the White Warrior story. It is heavy, but I refuse to leave my journals behind.

  I know the west Texas area well, so I’m confident I can easily find water when I need it, at least until I get into old Mexico. By then, hopefully, water will be abundant in the mountains. I have no money, so I will trust God to provide after my food runs out. The only weapons I carry are the military grade knives Dad stored in the cellar. I polished and sharpened them to be able to use them for hunting game and protecting myself, if I must.

  It was early morning, as I headed south. Although I have no idea what happened to the old atlas Scotty gave Bryan and me when we escaped from Austin City many years ago, if my memory is correct, the atlas indicated I need to travel directly south toward Chihuahua, Mexico, and then southeast, across the Sierra Madre Mountains to Cosala. Figuring out directions is easy, if the sun is shining. In the morning, I will keep the sun on my left and in the afternoon, it will be on my right as I head south. It is early fall, so the weather should not be a problem. It will be cold in the mountains, but I’m confident I’ll either catch a ride or find warm clothing somewhere.

  Bryan and I made many trips back and forth to Cosala on Book Liberator business. I know it will take 30 to 45 days if I walk the entire distance of almost 800 miles. But maybe I can hitch a ride with someone or travel the hobo way, hidden among the produce in a train between Chihuahua and Los Mochis, across the mountains, to the Gulf of California. My spirits are high as I shift the heavy backpack to a more comfortable position and head toward my remaining family, clinging to the hope they are still alive.

  Chapter Four

  An Impatient Adolescent

  Emily’s emerald green eyes flashed, and her long black curls bounced as she stamped a foot impatiently. She had her hands on the hips of her green pajama-like tunic and slacks, standard garb for the natives in the Cosala village. Only her eyes gave away the fact she was not a native. She spoke Spanish fluently and her skin was dark brown from hours in the sun.

  “I don’t care what either of you say, Pop-Pops!” She said indignantly. “I’m too old to require a chaperone to go to the village dance. And you can’t make me stay home, either.”

  Stephen and Frank struggled to keep from smiling as they saw their granddaughter attempt to exert her independence by acting like a child. They knew in a few minutes the volatile flame of her temper would extinguish and she would be remorseful at her own indignity.

  The two of them had been her only parents for most of her life; they knew her well. Frank was the primary parent, since Stephen spent most of his time now in Mexico City training new recruits for what remained of the BL rebel army. When Bryan was alive, he and Brogan spent much of their time away on BL business. Although they regretted every moment they spent away from their daughter, Frank delighted in the chance to allow his granddaughter to fill the emptiness left when his wife died in the San Antonio prison.

  “Ah, come on, Em,” Mateo pleaded. “If you don’t let me be your escort, you know your Pops won’t let you go.”

  Emily furrowed her brow and scowled at her self-appointed big brother, son of General Juan Veracruz, head of the BL rebel army. At 23, Mateo was six years older but almost four inches shorter than Emily. He had voluntarily filled the position of big brother since Juan dropped him off for a visit before the last BL council meeting more than 12 years earlier. To keep him safe from the war, Frank agreed to let him stay in Cosala.

  Over the years, Mateo was a huge help with Emily, who could be a handful sometimes. She was incredibly bright, but she also had a strong will. Mateo knew exactly what to do to reign her in when she needed it. He joined the BL rebels when he was eighteen but was currently home on leave. He wore the standard issue BL rebel body armor under a similar peasant outfit to Emily’s, only in beige.

  Emily had grown to her six-feet in height by the time she was twelve. She was lanky, like her parents, but was now showing definite womanly curves. All three men knew how beautiful she was but apparently, she did not. She had no idea the impact she had on men who saw her, most thinking her to be much older than she was because of her height.

  She was right at the age where she needed her mother to help her through such deep waters. But nobody knew where Brogan was, or if she was even alive. There had been no word from her in more than twelve years.

  And, like the snap of a finger, Emily’s flash of independence was suddenly extinguished. She flopped dejectedly on to a convenient boulder near the campfire site. Even though they now had a cooking shack, they kept the campfire as a central area for family gatherings.

  Mateo had always been able to manage her better than her two grandfathers. Emily let out a big sigh.

  “Okay,” and then frowned up at Mateo. “But don’t you dare hover over me and scowl at all the boys like you did last time. Deal?”

  Mateo struggled to keep from laughing at her serious tone. “Deal. Now go finish getting ready, or you’ll be late, and all the boys will be spoken for.”

  Emily rushed into her wooden hut to get ready.

  The smile flashing across her beautiful face is a sight to behold, thought Brogan, as she wearily struggled up the narrow path to the clearing. I’ve missed so much of her life.

  She looked at her father Frank and her beloved Bryan’s father, Stephen. They had both aged but were still handsome men. They looked trim and fit; undoubtedly the rigors of rural life were good for keeping them that way. She noticed their hair was gray, and both wore trimmed beards. And that must be Mateo. What a good-looking young man he is. So much like his father.

  She did not say anything until Herman, now gray around the muzzle, barked a joyful welcome and slowly got to his feet to greet her. His age was showing. He must be close to 20 years old now. The men all had their backs to her and did not see her until she spoke quietly.

  “Hello, Dad, Stephen, Mateo.”

  The three men turned around in shock at the sound of a familiar voice. They stood frozen for a moment, not recognizing the ragged woman with the huge backpack. And then all three men rushed forward as they realized it was Brogan, surrounding her with hugs, tears and a barrage of questions. Before she could say anything, a querulous voice was heard.

  “Mother?”

  “Hello, Emily. How are you, sweetheart?” Brogan dropped the backpack and started to limp toward her daughter, her arms open.

  Emily stayed at the entrance of her hut, a wave of emotions cascading across her face: anger, hurt, longing, love. Brogan took another faltering step toward her, but Emily held up her hand.

  The cold voice of her daughter was like a stab in her heart. “Where in the hell have you been for the past twelve years? You couldn’t even send a message? And you just come waltzing in here and expect to pick up where we left off? I don’t think so. Go back where you came from.”

  She turned and stomped back into her hut, tears streaming down her beautiful face.

  Mateo, bewildered at her reaction, looked at Brogan, shook his head and followed Emily into the hut.

  It was too much for Brogan. She fell to the ground, too broken and exhausted to even cry. Emily’s reaction was the last thing she expected. Yes, she’d been gone for twelve years, but most of the time was as a slave in the Mississippi bayou. She had no way to contact anyone and it was thoughts of her family which kept her alive.

  Herman plodded over, gently stuck his head under her arm and licked her face, his tail wagging furiously. The large tan and brown German Shepherd had been not only a family member since before Emily’s birth, but he saved Brogan and Bryan’s life more than once when they were on BL missions.

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bsp; Frank knelt in the hard dirt beside his stricken daughter. “Give her time, honey. You’ve given her quite a shock. You’ve given us all quite a shock. We all thought you were dead.”

  He lifted her chin, forcing her to look at him as tears filled his eyes. “I never gave up hope, but I began to fear Emily was all the family I had left.”

  He grabbed her and held on for dear life. Stephen joined him in surrounding his daughter-in-law with their love and welcoming her home.

  They could hear Mateo shouting at Emily in the hut. “How dare you speak to your mother like that? You did not even give her a chance to tell you why she has been gone for so long. Did you even look at her? It is obvious, she has been through hell. Now you get back out there and apologize to your mother. Give her the benefit of the doubt and at least listen to her story before you go off half-cocked. Do you hear me, young lady? You better start learning how to control your temper.”

  The two voices continued to murmur as Brogan struggled to stand up, her mouth open in shock at Mateo’s words to Emily. She looked at her Dad, questions in her eyes.

  “Sometimes Mateo is the only one who can make her see sense,” he said with a shrug. “He has been like a big brother to her. Don’t worry, she’ll come around. I think she is going through another teenager rebellion stage. She really is a very loving, caring child. Just give her time. She does have just a bit of a temper. Can’t imagine where she got it,” he said facetiously.

  Brogan smiled. As a child, she remembered her own struggles with flashes of temper.