Uranium Fist | Page 5

his family's view. He continued to watch them through the glass. Sara took hold of Rebecca's hand and took her back into the house to get ready for school. Rebecca hopped and skipped by her mother's side and Edward felt the smile warm his face.
The smooth interior of the limousine felt cool and refreshing. The faint scent of leather tantalised his nose, adding nuance to the summer flavours still lingering in the air from outside. He settled into the seat and flicked open his briefcase. Rebecca's latest painting from school greeted him with its childish hues and a six-year-old's strange perception of the human body. Lifting the picture, he held it up to the light and gently nodded his head. It would make a good addition to the gallery developing in his office.
Edward felt the car rock slightly with the chauffeur's weight and he sighed at the prospect of another day in the office. Perhaps he would phone home later, and arrange to meet Sara for an extended lunch. They could take in a gallery or two, or go to the theatre. Edward reached out to close his briefcase; his movement synchronised with the driver's motion to touch the ignition stud.
The very last thing Edward saw was the light rushing to engulf him as an explosion smothered the two human occupants in a ball of fire. The pressure mingled the two men's remains over the neighbourhood. Only close forensic examination ensured the right remains ended up in the right graves.
Rebecca and Sara came running out of the house to find burning debris scattered on the lawn. The child stared at the dying embers of her father's life and asked where Daddy had gone. Sara couldn't answer, only scream as she took in the wreckage of her life.
Days later, they found the charred drawing lodged in the branches of a tree.
TO this day, nobody knows who planted the bomb that killed Edward Wilton. Another mystery is how the assassins managed to penetrate the security that was an ever present and largely invisible shield around him.
In the aftermath of the bombing, Martial Law was hurriedly declared. The police and the local militia brutally cracked down on all forms of opposition. A wave of fear gripped Greyermede, already depressed share values slumped even further, and the whole planet held its breath as it pondered what - or who - would be next.
Perpetrators needed to be found. That was the only certainty. Politics played its part, and an enemy was quickly found and accused. A hitherto little known political party shot to the front pages. For the first time, much of Middle Greyermede heard the name of the Greyermede Communist Party (GCP).
Assassinations were nothing new. There had been a spate of them in recent years. None of them had involved such high profile figures as Edward Wilton; the slaying of the President of the Central Bank sent shockwaves that would inevitably be felt throughout the colonies to reach the Mother World itself.
So it began, but just then, nobody knew what was about to engulf humanity.
WHAT erupted on Greyermede and further afield, is merely a chapter in the age-old human story. It began long ago on a distant world on the rim of the galaxy we call the Milky Way. Ten millennia of civil war took humanity to the stars; and to new worlds on which to enact this Trans-millennial drama.
Too long in the distant past for this book. We must start much later. The beginning could be said to have arrived before Edward's untimely demise; emerging from the economic turbulence sweeping the advanced worlds and the political tremors that followed in its wake. Even that is far too early for our story to begin.
The end of Edward Wilton must be our beginning. His assassination was a point of change, a qualitative shift in the pattern of events that would touch everybody on this world - and many more beyond. The storm had broken, in an unexpected place, and it was the tempest of an age-old human dream leaping into flesh.
Tempest Rising

Chapter 1
THEY were waiting for me by the time I arrived. Rob Nidel looked up as I approached the table. David Carter was deep in conversation with Omar Nkruma and didn't notice me until I sat down and pulled the ashtray towards me. He smiled half-heartedly, and then turned back to his conversation.
Angela looked up from whatever private thoughts were occupying her mind. "Hello, Sue," she said quietly. There was little enthusiasm in her voice. I wondered if she was having second thoughts about the interview.
Nkruma played with his lighter and watched me with his unfathomable dark eyes. His were the most inexpressive features I have ever seen. Quite unlike Carter, dwarfed by Nkruma's bear-like frame, who had an animated - if gaunt -