Free The War Chamber by B. Roman Page A

about to take place instead of a solemn confrontation that could bring devastating results.
    David wonders if this is how the Roman gladiators felt before a deadly fight, or how the Christians felt as they were about to be devoured by lions to the delight of the blood-thirsty audience.
    On the dais are twelve women, comprising the War Council. The judge and jury combined, David thinks to himself. Does it have to be unanimous or a majority vote? Will he win if he persuades seven of them, or does he need nine votes, or ten?
    The president of the Council, a surprisingly fragile looking woman for such an ominous position, bangs her gavel for order and quiet. She positions her eyeglasses onto a somber face framed by grey hair, then begins to read the rules of the debate: Three minutes maximum for opening arguments each. A one minute rebuttal each. A thirty-second closing each. Then the vote and the Council's decision. Right then and there. No retiring for the evening to take things under advisement. Cut and dried. Thumbs up or thumbs down.
    Sechmet is called forward to state his case. He takes the podium assertively - arrogantly cock-sure, David thinks. He is impressive in carefully tailored clothing that allows him to move freely and suavely. His black hair glistens. His dark eyes are piercing, almost menacing. When he speaks, he is eloquent.
    “We have digressed from a technologically superior culture into a hoe-wielding peasantry. We have knowledge that we cannot use, machinery that cannot be employed. This waste of minds and materials is more sinful than the aggressive encroachment on foreign territories. All we ask is to be able to live to our potential, to find our niche in a dynamic, progressive world.
    “I do not advocate war. I advocate a posture of power and strength. For without that, our neighboring countries will view us as weak and conquerable, and what little we have left will soon be gone. We will be slaves. And I would rather die than be slave to any man ever again.”What kind of legacy is that for our children? What kind of legacy do we leave with things the way they are in Coronadus? A strong defense is all I ask. And then a strong economy will follow. Coronadus will rise like a Phoenix from the ashes, and find its place in the global community. The alternative is death, to our future, to our spirit, to our souls.”
    “He makes a strong argument, Bianca,” David whispers, feeling his confidence sink like a brick. “Like the people in Port Avalon.”
    “But he lies, David,” Bianca says, shoring him up. “He tells the people what they want to hear. You and I both know his primary objective is world dominance, and with the Moon Singer he would have it.”
    “Then why can't you just tell them? They'd believe you before they'd believe me. You're the one they call the Chosen One.”
    “It's only out of respect for my family's heritage,” Bianca says, lying about the true reason. It would do no good, she knows, to tell David the truth about the name they call her. It is her shame and her guilt. To have survived at the expense of someone else's life still haunts her, even though that other person tried to kill her and many others. Some unexplained force intervened and saved Bianca's life. Only someone who has been Chosen to live, by the gods or the only God, could have survived such an onslaught without a weapon. The others all died mercilessly. She wishes she had died along with them.
    “I don't have omniscience over the people here,” Bianca continues. “They can and they do disagree with me. But I have influence and use it when it's important.”
    “I would categorize this as important,” David remarks brusquely. “Besides, you're on the Council.”
    “Not exactly. I'm only called if the vote is tied.”
    “Then you debate him.”
    “No, women don't debate. They judge. And they don't all think as I do.”
    “I'm not sure I do either, anymore.”
    “David, you have to be sure. Remember the