Dedication (The Medicean Stars Saga Book 1) by McCullough Crawford Page B

Resistance. But then again, what if this is all just in his head? She doesn’t even know him, more importantly he doesn’t even know her; who really are these people and what do they want with him?
    That thought sobers him enough to let his mind drift partially back, bringing the rest of the room into focus, and Gavitte finds himself partway through a discussion of how to move a potential popular revolt forward. The general who seems to run the installation is standing at the head of the table in front of the screen, leaning heavily on the table. His face is somewhat familiar, Gavitte has seen it somewhere before. He mulls through his experiences of the past few years until he stumbles upon it. This man is supposed to be dead. Gavitte had attended a memorial service in the Senate where he’d sat through hours of self-aggrandizing speeches supposedly commemorating this man and his command’s sacrifices at the Bay City University Riots. For the entire duration of the speeches, a portrait, with slightly less gray hair, had stood next to the podium with the same serious look as the man now standing before Gavitte, its image now a feature of Gavitte’s memory, and his name: General Lampard. If Gavitte’s recollection is correct, and this organization really is the Resistance the news is always going on about, the irony is most profound. Gavitte finds himself smiling at the corners of his mouth. Perhaps this might be a place where he can actually affect some change.
    The general’s sleeves are pushed up, revealing well-muscled but hairy arms. Gavitte, not really finding the view appealing, lets his gaze wander across the rest of the meeting’s attendees. They are an assortment of former military, obvious by their upright posture and crisp fatigues, and civilians who vary from a rough, bearded former rancher to a wiry fellow whose eyes continually dart around the room and who is continually fidgeting with the pen in front of him. Gavitte’s gaze continues around the table until it settles on her once more. As if sensing his eyes, she flicks her hair and glances in his direction. It seems almost as if energy is arcing between them, even though they only met each other a few days before. Despite the fact that they had barely spent any time together until the car ride up the mountain earlier today, his heart is pounding in his ears loudly enough it should be interrupting the meeting. The inexplicable tension continues to grow, but he forces his thoughts back to the discussion at hand, focusing in time to catch the former rancher in midsentence.
    “… I still don’t see why we don’t start him on the lecture series. Get him out to the people before the government can fabricate some sort of cover up.”
    “If we do that, he’ll make it through three towns before a sniper teams take him out,” responds Angelina with a glance across the table to Gavitte. He is certain the glance, as brief as it is, says so much more about why she would be upset by that outcome than how it would frustrate their organization’s plans.
    “But we can’t just let him disappear from the public’s imagination,” the rancher counters with an open palmed gesture.
    “If I could perhaps say something,” interrupts Gavitte, his mind slowly connecting back to reality. “I may not know anything about planning a revolution, but I do know something about campaigns. And one thing we are going to need is a truck load of material to distribute before you put anyone out there to make a public appearance. It gives the people a chance to understand your platform before you try and sell it to them. It also is a good idea to send in some organizers first to make sure you have a core of supporters to help steer the crowd in your favor.”
    “That is an idea,” the fidgeting man says, his voice flowing smoothly like oil and his eyes remaining shadowed despite the fluorescent glare in the room. “One that’s not too bad as well. Perhaps with that sort of