Displaced

Chapter 2

As James Whittier was being revived, he was dreaming. His father was lecturing him again. “Most people are lazy, wanting someone to take responsibility for their needs, and will think they are giving power to those who provide them,” his father said in his dream. He always seemed to go on incessantly. Usually, James wanted to strangle him just to shut him up. His father had been a successful political figure and had constantly lectured him about the things he had learned in what he referred to as “the hard way.” “As long as the little people think that you have the answers, they’ll do what you tell them,” his father continued inside his head. “But as soon as they lose faith in you, head for the hills. People won’t give you anything! You have to take it from them! And you have to do so in such a manner that they think it’s their idea and to their benefit. Politicians have to be magicians, using subtle means and misdirection to get their agendas supported by the governed.”

The elder Whittier had died while James was in his second year of college. He was glad of it as that meant he was paroled from his father’s incessant lecturing. At times of stress, though, all he could hear inside his head was the endless pontificating of his father. “People want the government to provide everything for them and to have the power to act on their behalf,” his father’s voice continued. “To have that power, you have to be part of that government. They must never know that governments get in the way, most of the time, and are never for the benefit of the governed.”

James’ father had been a true disciple in the religion of government and had wanted his son to be its acolyte. And James had done his best to continue his father’s legacy. The first time James had been caught cheating he was six and was punished — not for cheating, but for getting caught. “What most people call ‘truth’ is not as objective as they may think; in fact, it is very subjective,” the voice inside his head continued. “To a politician, ‘truth’ is whatever the politician says it is. Therefore, no politician lies. No such thing as a lie; facts are fluid things that can be interpreted any way that suits the needs of the moment.”

James had managed to get into a good prep school on his father’s name and even managed to letter in a couple of sports without ever playing. Some of his fellow students said that he bribed, bought, and blackmailed his way through school. They were correct, of course, but James chalked it up to jealousy that they hadn’t thought of it first. His father had said he had accomplished a few “small feats” without dishonoring their good name.

When he had first learned the name of the school he would attend, James hired a few investigators without his father’s knowledge. Their job was to find some indiscretions of the Headmaster, one Potiphar Grimsdale. Once found, his man had gone to Grimsdale with the proper inducements so that by the time James entered his office for his initial interview, he was admitted. By the time the year was out, Grimsdale was paying him through a second party for not disclosing those indiscretions. After four years, James’ bank account was greatly enhanced, and he had several sports letters, a high grade-point average, and many letters of recommendation to his father’s alma mater.

In college, James managed to get his degree without working too hard. The right amount of money here, a bit of pressure there, and before he knew it, he was graduated. A few weeks later, he ran for mayor of Athens, Ohio. By the time James W. Whittier III was sworn in as mayor, nothing gave him more pleasure than bending another’s will to his own. He knew he would willingly sacrifice millions of people for his own ends. He had no doubts that his view of reality was correct and that others should be willing to sacrifice themselves for that view. He liked having power; he would do anything to get it. And he would do everything necessary to hold on to it.

After his revival, the basic meal, and the briefing, Whittier looked around at the rest of his fellow pilgrims. "What an undesirable bunch this is," he thought. As more joined the count, Whittier made a mental note of a couple of them as possible confederates, based on their size and their perceived low intelligence. An idea was beginning to percolate in his brain.

When everyone moved outside the ship, Whittier managed to get a big, older man, who had introduced himself as Burns, aside. “See if you can find one or two other men we can trust,” he said conspiratorially. Burns nodded. “If we move quickly, we can be in charge of this mob. It may not be worth much, but I think being able to eat regularly is worth something,” Whittier told him.

“I’ll see what I can come up with,” Burns acknowledged quietly.

“Do it discreetly,” Whittier whispered adamantly. “You do know what discreetly means?” he inquired, the condescension evident. "He needs to know who the boss is," he thought. Burns nodded, and Whittier could see the other man’s face flush at the insult. He moved off to mingle with the rest of the crowd.