2- Dozier

Dozier

Despite going to bed later than planned and drinking more than intended, Senator Bradford Dozier woke promptly at daybreak. Too many years of regimented structure, he thought sadly, reaching for a meditab and water.

But it could be worse. Provided he didn’t squander the extra time by throwing up, it would give him an opportunity to prepare for the day. He had been working towards this most of his adult life. The Grand Realignment was finally here. After half a century of a galaxy sliding backwards into pig ignorant anarchy, there was finally a glimmer of hope. By Dozier’s hand, the old trade routes were re-opening and long-term contracts were being signed. Economic growth was more than a possibility – it was a reality.

But first, he needed to steady the riot in his gut and the throbbing in his head.

Dozier slapped another tab on his neck and closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing. The tab dissolved, further dulling the pain. He clenched and unclenched his fists as his stomach churned. Did he eat last night? Based on the angry waves of bile, he guessed not.

He may have passed back out as when he opened his eyes again. It was brighter in the room, and he no longer felt like he had been scraped off the bottom of someone’s boot. Just kicked repeatedly by one. Was there still time to prep? He wouldn’t know until he got up, which he still wasn’t sure he wanted to do.

The Grand Realignment, he reminded himself. It was going to happen with or without him, so he might as well get moving and make sure it went off as he had planned it.

He managed to get in and out of the bathroom without stumbling or vomiting, so he made his way to the small kitchen of his apartment. On the opposite side of the room was a couch. On the couch was a large lump of blankets in the shape of his uncle, Whitman. The cause of the hangover.

Dozier crept by him, partially wanting to wake him but more inclined to be on more secure footing before attempting conversation. He loved his father’s brother, but Whitman could be single-minded in thought and deed. If Whitman was going to wake up and continue his diatribes from the night before, Dozier wanted to be caffeinated.

Speaking of which, he had coffee. Real coffee. A first in a long time.  He brewed a pot.

How many years did he have to reuse synthetic coffee grounds, carefully drying them out for another brew, ignoring the pungent stench of expired fabricated food? They made it stink so you know you should recycle it, not reuse it. But as supply was overshadowed by demand, the health warnings disappeared from the news feeds. Nobody wanted to be reminded of the risk. Not when there was nothing for it.

And when the material for synthetics dried up, he and everyone else on Eres Prime was forced to switch to nutritabs. A meditab was one thing but getting sustenance from something you slapped on your neck? Like he was some sort of deep-space grease monkey? It would have been laughable had it not been so sad.

Coffee brewed, he poured a cup and sipped it, relishing the freshness, the naturalness. The hangover receding, Dozier felt more confident going into the day. He tapped the implant on the side of his head and pinged his admin, whom he knew would answer before the second ring. He might as well be an Augmented given the little amount of sleep he needed. “Jordan,” he said, “how are we looking?”

“We’re good, sir,” was the reply. “The Bellzator dignitaries arrived late last night. They were the last of the lot.”

“And everyone’s ready for this morning?” It was a ridiculous question. Of course everyone was. His poor physical and mental states were ganging up on him, giving him the jitters. Why had he drank so much last night?

“Everything’s all set, sir. When should we be expecting you?”

He checked the time. Damn, he did oversleep. “Momentarily, Jordan. Give me forty-five minutes and I’ll meet you in the center hall.”

Dozier was relieved Bellzator made good on their promise. They had been cagey through the negotiations, but their location was key. Any of the other seven could have dropped out without much fanfare, but too many routes went through the Bellzator system to not bring them into the fold.

Oddly enough, their demands were less financial than sovereign. What were the regulations, what were the concessions of privacy, who ultimately had judicial control over the routes? Dozier was used to that guarded mentality – most of the systems had an overdeveloped sense of self-interest post-Empire – but Bellzator took that to a new level. And since none of the half dozen contingency plans Dozier and his team worked up were even close to optimal, they had finagled under great duress a compromise. There was a black hole of oversight through that region of space, but a majority of the old routes were re-opened.

From the couch, a groan.

The way Whitman was going on last night, you would have thought he was the architect behind the Grand Realignment. And the way Whitman was drinking, you would have thought he was the younger man. From the sound across the room, the 76-year old might be feeling his age.

Dozier poured another cup for his uncle and walked over to the couch, staring at his uncle.

The youngest of his father’s six siblings, Whitman and Dozier had been simpatico since day one. The 12-year gap in age made them less uncle and nephew and more like siblings. As Dozier was an only child with a widowed parent, it was a kinship he relished. He had been born in a curious time – who thought empires could fall? How could something so abstract impact the Dozier clan so personally? Whitman knew how to translate confusion into comprehension and sadness into rage.

“Here,” Dozier said, placing the cup and a meditab on the modest table besides the equally modest couch that was in the modest apartment in the modest part of Eres Major, the grandiose-yet-unimaginatively named capital of Eres Major. Modesty had been Dozier’s default setting since joining public service. There were no affectations to him. He was as he appeared. Modestly modest, doing his modest best to make the galaxy a better place.

Whitford groaned again, sat up, and grabbed the cup of coffee. “What time is it?” he asked.

“Early, but I need to get moving soon. How are you feeling?”

His uncle grinned. “I’ve been better but it’s been a long time since I’ve had real booze. You knew the right places.” He eyed the meditab but let it be. He had an unnatural aversion to modern medicine.

Dozier shrugged. “It’s part of the Grand Realignment. There’s been a steady influx of goods for the past few weeks. There were some on the committee who insisted we not share with the locals and reserve it for the ceremony. I argued that doing so made everything less for the people than for the elites. We’re not reopening the trade routes for the few in charge. We’re doing it for the families that have struggled for the past fifty years. We’re doing it for those who’ve been forgotten.” The words were familiar, but Dozier couldn’t decide if it was because he had said as much sometime during the celebration or because it was part of the same stump speech he had been giving the past fifteen years.

“So you said last night. I believe that got us a free round of drinks too.”

Dozier almost replied with “Everything was free,” but that wasn’t quite right. Dozier himself had sacrificed quite a bit in the past decade and a half. The Grand Realignment was his child and it had not been an easy birth. He had given up quite a bit to bring it to life, starting with any semblance of a personal life and continuing with a gradual scraping away of morals and scruples. But that was old news to both and an uncharacteristic indulgence in self-pity, so instead he shrugged and said, “It was unnecessary.”

“People are happy again. Unlike your father, the majority of the galaxy did not support a bunch of shit talking rebels who knew exactly fuck all about anything other than breaking things. You’re bringing us back from anarchy. We’re embracing civilization again.”

There it is, Dozier thought. He was not the only one armed with a greatest hits of talking points. The difference being Whitman leaned towards the emotional. The war didn’t just break the empire – it fractured his family and while Dozier occasionally wondered how much responsibility for that particular tragedy stemmed from Whitman’s obstinance, it was never more than a fleeting thought. Dozier lost his father as well. He just managed the loss better.

It helped – if “helped” could ever be the right word – that Dozier’s father, as kind and caring a parent as he could be, was hopelessly lost to the idea of the Resistance being on the right side of history. Between the oldest and youngest brothers was an endless stream of arguments, a stalemate of ideologies, and a young child torn between a father who should have been infallible and the relative whom he idolized. His father may have won the battle when the Empire fell, but the detritus left in its wake made Whitford the ultimate winner of the war for Dozier.

“I’m not arguing with you, Whit. I’m just saying we have so much more to give back to the planet. And to the galaxy.” We’re arguing with platitudes, Dozier thought. It’s too early for this.

“The false modesty looks good on camera but less so right now.”

“There’s nothing false about it,” Dozier snapped. “I take great pride in what I’ve done. But I’m also not going to preen about and demand adulation. Not now. Not when there’s so much more to accomplish. We’re not even half done. The journey-“

“-is only beginning,” Whitman interrupted. He paused, then held up his hands. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have made you defensive. Not on today of all days. I’m proud of you, Bradford. That’s all. You’ve done amazing things. It just wouldn’t kill you to take a victory lap once in a while.”

Dozier sighed. “There’s time for that once the Grand Realignment is in place. Right now I need to shake off this hangover and get started on the day.”

Whitman got off the couch. “Tell me you have actual food to go with this coffee.”

Okay, Dozier thought, maybe I can flex a little. “Just take a look,” he replied with a grin.