Under Strange Suns Read Online Free PDF Page B

commercial space pilot’s license. Azziz had written a letter of recommendation to get her into the program. The same man who had murdered tens of thousands had gone out of his way to boost her career.
    No, no balancing the equities. The man was a monster. A dozen acts of kindness do not counterbalance a vast evil.
    So did she want to open the box? What would a monster send her? Should she open it? Maybe she should call the FBI? Was there even still a functioning federal government to sanction the Federal Bureau of Investigation? Or did that matter? She wasn’t certain how the FBI was structured.
    Nor was she entirely up to speed on the hierarchy and organization of the Federal Government, though she’d been getting a crash course from the television. The harried, frightened-looking talking heads she’d heard through the night seemed uncertain, offering contradictory opinions. Some, pale and haggard despite studio makeup, suggested the United States no longer existed, that power now devolved to the individual states. Others advocated for imposition of martial law; lots of shaky video feed of uniformed soldiers scrambling aboard vehicles hinted this was a likely prospect. Still others ran down the list of presidential succession, updating the search for surviving senators, congressmen, or secretaries of the President’s cabinet. An update developed over the hours, indicating the Secretary of State was alive, and next in line to assume the Presidency. Details remained unclear. Some reported she was en route from a summit in South Africa. Other reports suggested she’d already landed in Philadelphia, declaring it the new capital of the Republic. Still others denied she’d ever left Johannesburg.
    Everyone–from haggard, stumble-tongue anchors to bleary-eyed, pale guests–appeared stunned, sharing a national sense of disbelief, bewilderment, and shaking fury. Unsurprisingly, no firm consensus had emerged by the time Brooklynn had muted the volume, eyes no longer registering the scroll of information at the bottom of the screen, seeing but not absorbing the news of riots, looting, re-direction of the fleets, the responses of foreign governments–promises of solidarity and aid, gloating claims that the chickens had finally come home to roost, confusion, military mobilizations. All the players stumbling into position to fill a power vacuum, still uncertain if there was a power vacuum.
    But assuming the FBI remained active, would she somehow be implicating herself, opening herself up to lynch mobs as a suspected accomplice? Not worth the risk. For now she would keep it to herself. The FBI would probably come knocking on her door eventually, once agents had tracked down everyone Azziz had spoken to over the last few weeks and discovered he had sent a package. No reason to rush that prospect. Brooklynn concluded that the fact the FBI hadn’t yet arrived on her doorstep was evidence of the extent of the chaos sown by the destruction of DC.
    Part of her wanted to throw the box away, shove it into a furnace with a broom handle so as not to touch it. The thought of physical contact with something Azziz’s fingers had touched revolted her.
    What it came down to at last was simple curiosity. She couldn’t not open the box. She slit open the tape, lifted the flaps. Saw the stacks of documents.
    Brooklynn began to read.
    The coffee pot was empty by the time she finished. She was staring again, this time not blankly. Fucking Azziz. That a monster could still give her this. It made no sense. She hated him not one whit less, but she couldn’t deny a sense of gratitude for this...gift. Of course, he could have given this to her at any time over the past decades. So fuck him. Fuck him and move on, give her mind full rein to deal with the surge of plans, overlapping and confused. But plans nonetheless, with a definite goal.
    She would need a spaceship. That would require money. Brooklynn had some savings, assuming the banks remained