Awakening, 2nd edition

by Kuili, Ray N.

  “The biggest thing that struck me was the sheer bombardment of ideas throughout the book. If I were a high school or even college literature teacher, this is the kind of book I would assign my students. Awakening is ripe for classroom discussion.”

  — Probably Fiction

  “Without giving too much away, the ending leaves the reader positively shaken. With a twist that is just as curious as the rest of the story, I was left entertained yet contemplative. This is truly one of the more admirable qualities of this novel. It does not simply serve as a good read, but one that leaves the reader thinking about broader issues. Awakening is a novel I would recommend for those who are looking for a thriller that is unique and powerful in its own right.”

  — OneTitle Magazine

  A Novel by

  Ray N. Kuili

  Copyright © 2012 Ray N. Kuili. All rights reserved.

  First Kindle Edition: July 2012

  Second Kindle Edition: November 2012

  For information, contacts, updates, and additional material, visit : raynkuili.com

  LICENSE

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon .com and purchase your own copy. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author ’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  DISCLAIMER

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author ’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Prefa c e

  Chapte r On e

  Cha p ter Tw o

  Chap t er Three

  Chapter Fo ur

  Chapter Fi ve

  Cha p te r Si x

  Chap t er Se ven

  Chap t er Ei g h t

  Chap t er Nine

  Epilo g u e

  Epilogue

  A Free Sample from Ov erdose

  About th e Author

  Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac.

  Henry A. Kissinger

  Pr ef a ce

  October 3, 1815

  On board HMS Northumberland

  “What is it, Bertran?”

  “A whale, sir. Two or three, actually.”

  “People . . . t hey spend years out at sea and yet remain more interested in a stupid piece of meat than in the great emperor. What about the officers?”

  “They are there as well, sir.”

  “And these are supposedly the best of the best. The crown jewels of their army. They ’ve been honored with escorting the greatest person of their time, and whom do they see? A common prisoner who should be fed and guarded! Five years ago, every one of them would have bribed and killed for a chance to dine with me—even though I was their enemy. Now . . . now they find a stupid fish far more fascinating.”

  “They are just people, sir.”

  “Precisely, Bertran. Precisely. Just people. How far away are we?”

  “At breakfast, the captain said it would take us another twenty days or so—if the wind stays steady.”

  “Twenty days. Twenty days . . . My time used to be priceless. Now it ’s become so cheap. It wasn ’t so long ago that in twenty days I could shake up all of France . . . the entire nation. Do you remember? From Cannes to Paris, from a handful of devoted people to the throne. And now? Now I am bound to spend the same amount of time, the same twenty days, watching these imbeciles take more interest in dumb sea creatures than in the Emperor of the French. And I will only get twenty days closer to the grave—just as they will.”

  “You’ve always taught us patience, sir.”

  “Patience is a useful virtue when you have hope. Now hope is gone. Saint Helena isn ’t Elba. This time they ’ve learned their lesson. Oh, they ’ve learned it well . . . Nevertheless, you have a point. Unlike these poor morons, I ’ll have immortality awaiting me by my deathbed. As for them, if anybody even remembers their names, it would be only because they guarded me on this trip to my last haven.”

  “You’re absolutely right, sir. If, a hundred years from now, people are still debating the biggest role a single man can play in history, they will definitely bring up your name.”

  “Oh, they will debate it; you can be assured of that. These little people—these petty bourgeois—they love talking about this. They love questioning the influence of the great men. And while they ’re busy doing that, great men make history. Without people like me, the history of humankind would be a history of the chomping masses. Crowds turn into nations only when they have somebody who is capable of leading them to greatness. Then they keep elevating you to the tallest pedestals, until envy and treason come along and overthrow you.”

  “Sir, they could take your throne away from you, but not your greatness.”

  “I know, Bertran. I know. And this is the eternal source of my pain. I don ’t care that my name will be slandered across the world. It is simply beneath my dignity. Throw a diamond into the mud, and years later the mud will be gone and forgotten, but the diamond will still shine. And I don ’t care that I will be guarded by some merde -heads, while other merde -heads plunder the empire I ’ve built. But to live knowing that I won ’t achieve anything anymore . . . That I ’m just counting the days till my last breath, that my future holds no new achievement . . . t his is the torment that darkens everything. Alexander! That ’s someone who would ’ve understood the pain I have to live with.”

  “I think I understand you, sir.”

  “Yes, Bertran. I never doubted your loyalty.”

  “Sir—”

  “Do you remember that hog back in the port? The words he was yelling like a madman? About a bloody tyrant spawned by the revolution.”

  “Yes, sir, I do. I was so sorry that it was beyond my powers to silence that man.”

  “This is what they think. This is what they all think. For them, a great man is merely a creation of circumstances. As if circumstances ever created a man! They don ’t understand that every man is his own ultimate creation. It is beyond their petty minds that a man who was born for great power will always achieve it. He will achieve it not because—but in spite—of any circumstances. This is what makes a man great.”

  Ch a p ter One

  Rain persisted beyond all reason.

  It thudded relentlessly on the window, as if it didn ’t have enough room to play in the moist air that hung over the darkened lake and the gloomy mountains. It asked for immediate permission to enter. In fact, it demanded permission, with the manners of a drunken sailor. Its actions clearly signaled that it was dying to enter the room and put the place to rights.

  From rain’s point of view, the room was awfully, miserably dry. All these waterless walls; the dry floor; the stiff, dehydrated books on the shelves —rain considered this shameful dryness a personal challenge.

  But the man in the room paid no attention to the noise. Rain doubled, then tripled its efforts, brought in wind and darkness as powerful allies, and with a visible satisfaction, turned the light room into a dark cave full of staccato knocking. The man ignored these monumental efforts as well. He only checked the window and turned on the desk lamp, its soft light immediately annulling the results of rain’s irresponsible actions .

  The man had no time for rain’s tantrums. He had a job to do.

  Taking sheets of paper from the stack on his left, he glanced over them, then wrote something with a sharp pencil, his hand flying in soft,
precise movements. It seemed he wasn ’t enjoying his work, as the shadow of concern rarely left his face. He kept re-reading his notes, made changes, and shook his head in doubt. At one point, he even stopped working and sat motionless, his eyes fixed, unseeing, on the window.

  But sometimes an ironic smile would brighten his well-groomed face and deepen the crow ’s-feet around his eyes. At moments like this, it was clear that the man was simply taking his work seriously, and there was nothing unpleasant about it. The sheet with comments would fly to his right side, and the next one would leave the stack to take its place before him.

  Finally, the last sheet made its trip to the stack on the right. The man stretched enjoyably, reclined back, and glanced with visible satisfaction at the result of his hard work. Then, apparently for the first time, he noticed the chaos beyond the window. The shadow of concern came back to his face as he looked at the dark lake, nearly invisible by now. A second later, having for whatever reason decided not to worry, he brightened again and reached for the phone.

  “Done!” he declared victoriously. “Finished and forgotten. But hear me well—this is the first and the last time I ’m doing this on Friday. Consider this an experiment. And a failed one. Next week I ’m back to my regular Saturday arrangement, and nobody in the entire world can change that. Eleven bits of feedback are way too much for one evening! What? Who said they ’re all the same? They are all unique, young lady, every single one of them. Of course the task is the same. But it ’s never quite the same. You should ’ve seen what these people have done to the couple of rooms upstairs. Same . . .”

  He even snorted at this suggestion.

  “You should be ashamed of even thinking about this. People put everything at stake, essentially risk their lives, fight like dogs . . . and I ’d be writing the same feedback? I need a full day for this. I need my breakfast, and I need my Saturday morning for this work. I should ’ve known better when I agreed. Now I have to spend the night here.

  “Yes, six days a week. And this is the right thing to do. Don ’t worry about me – I ’ll have some rest when I need it. Come again? Reduce the group size ? You ’re not serious, are you? Of all the numbers in the world, this one cannot be changed . You know that. It ’s our fat sacred cow! Pi is easier to change than this one. Ah, you were kidding . . . People spent years perfecting the system, so it ’s almost inappropriate to joke about it. There should be eleven of them. Not more, not less. Precisely eleven people, for precisely five days. So that on the first day they can ’t even memorize all the names, and on the last day . . . w ell, you know what happens on the last day. It ’s eleven-five, the golden rule of our business. This way everything that ’s supposed to happen happens.”

  Robert

  The red Porsche turned out to be quite an ass. It passed Robert easily on the right, and confidently established itself straight in front of Robert ’s car, its rear radiating arrogance and disdain. Then , in an obvious attempt to further demonstrate its superiority , the car blasted away. Robert smiled. That was exactly what he needed after this long day.

  Thrum-thuri-thram-thiri . . . Thrum-thiri-thram-thiri . . . Rrrahh . . . Rrrahh . The loud vibrant music pulsated in t he car, filling the space with its rigid sound. Robert turned the volume up to the maximum. Real speed calls for a real accompaniment. A brief glance to the right ; a ll clear , no cops around. The anti-radar has been silent too. Not that it really matter s though . . . Thrum-thiri-thram-thiri . . . Rrrahh . . . Rrrahh . Robert bent forward slightly, feeling the rigid rhythm penetrating every cell of his body. Then he slowly floored the gas pedal. Somewhere inside the car the hungry engine roared up obediently, increasing the mad rotation of its parts .

  A silver ancient chariot , which could have made a great addition to a car museum , closed up on the right and immediately disappeared behind. Robert didn ’t catch the driver ’s face, but had no doubts about the kind of language the chariot ’s owner would be using to express his feelings about blazing objects on the highway. On the left , a monstrous dirty trailer emerged and in a few seconds disappeared along with its deafening rattle and stinky exhaust. Rrrahh . . . Rrrahh . . .

  Now the Porsche was merely a few yards away. Robert almost unnoticeably turned the wheel to the left and a moment later was riding next to the joyfully cruising Porsche. Honking wasn ’t necessary—the driver looked around on his own. For a second or two Robert looked straight into his eyes, having established that weird high-velocity momentary eye contact that highways had introduced to humankind. It wouldn ’t have been fun had this been a teenager who ’d just got his lice nse. But this particular specimen was definitely used to being the King of the Road. So he had it coming . . .

  Smiling in the utmost charming way, Robert extended his right arm and presented a well-know n gesture to the stunned specimen . The s pecimen ’s astonishment was clearly amplified by the view of Robert ’s left hand, which was busy performing the same action. Then, without returning his hands to the steering wheel and relying only on his left knee to hold it, Robert pushed the gas pedal all the way to the floor. The red hand of the tachometer jumped up in indignation, the motor ’s roar outvoiced the pulsating sound of music and the Porsche carrying its appalled driver was left behind.

  Robert leaned back. The straight road ahead pointed towards the horizon like a sharp arrow. He touched the smooth knob. It was time to turn the volume down. Rrrahh . . . Rrrahh . . . Good album. A precise match for this kind of road entertainment.

  One day it’d be nice to trade a career in management for professional racing. There ’s nothing better than this feeling of an unstoppable blaze, of the blasting speed that, if not handled right, would smash you in a split second. Wrong, there ’s one thing that comes close. Very close actually. Rock climbing. That trip last summer . . . Monstrous brownish red rocks piled up in eternal chaos under the cloudless shrill eye-hurting blue sky. Naked interweaving roots of writhing trees drilling the rocks in an endless attempt to penetrate deeper. And the crumbling stone underneath his right foot. That was some lo-ong fall . . .

  Later, Sandra told him that this time she had been sure he wouldn ’t make it. The luck had to stop somewhere. But it didn ’t stop on that day. And Sandra, Sandra of steel, Sandra “The Cat , ” famous across three continents for her bitter tongue and unbreakable strength, hung on him and cried like a schoolgirl when he finally returned, his face a bloody mask and his left arm motionless.

  Getting this spice of life every day surely would feel different. You can ’t get this blood-boiling feeling at work. But the pay is fair. And it isn ’t boring. You can live with that level of boredom knowing that it pays for your mortgage, equipment, and trips around the world. Sometimes you even get a company-sponsored trip. Like the one happening next week. A workshop of mystery. . .

  “Robert, I’d like to emphasize again how highly I think of you. You ’re one of the strongest managers of your level across the entire division, and you have such great potential. This training gives you an excellent opportunity to advance your skills. And you have no idea who ’s taken a direct interest in sending you over there.”

  Say, I do have an idea. Not that I really care though. Nevertheless, this trip sounds more exciting than another week at work. He said that it was somewhere up in the mountains. I wonder if they ’ve got any good climbing spots out there . . .

  Kevin

  “May I?”

  “Sure, Kevin. Come in, please.”

  “Thank you, Cheryl. Do you have a few minutes?”

  “You know that I can always find a minute for you, don't you?”

  “Yes, I know and I really, really appreciate it. It's amazing how you manage to find time for everyone. You're so busy, yet your door is always open.”

  “I'm just doing my job. Sit down, please. So, Kevin, how can I help?”

  “You see, I don't even know where to begin . . . Do you remember the problem we discussed a few months ago?”

  “Is it Dennis again?”

&nb
sp; “Right. You're so good at guessing things. Yes, it is about him. It just seems that things haven't been going really well and I figured you should know about it . . .”

  “What is it this time? Is it again about not letting you speak openly?”

  “No, not really. It's something else . . . But you know I'm not so sure about this anymore. It felt right when I was walking to your office, but now . . . ugh . . . I’m just not sure. I respect Dennis, he's a very nice person, I wish him well, I admire him . . . and now it almost feels like I'm going over his head and complaining to his boss . . . It’s true, we don't see eye to eye on some things, but it's okay. I ’d better go . . . Sorry about taking your time.”

  “Now, Kevin, would you please stay and tell me what's going on. You came to see me ; you're obviously concerned and it's my responsibility to know what's been bothering you.”

  “But, Cheryl . . .”

  “Please. Don't worry. I know that you of all people would never complain without a good reason. So please do tell.”

  “All right. It's about the way he runs the team. Long story short, I have some ideas about how things should be done and quite obviously he doesn't see things the way I do. That's pretty much it.”

  “Kevin, did you just come here to vent? You have to give me specifics or there isn't a whole lot I can do about the situation.”

  “Well, Dennis and I . . . we seem to have a disagreement about our team's priorities. I think— okay, to put it simply I agree with the goals that you've outlined for the entire organization. You know me, I'd be the first one to tell you if I thought you were wrong. But the goals are great, the priorities are crisp and clear, there's a great direction . . . I mean, everything is in place. So it's a shame to see all of this being ignored. Just a shame. And for no good reason whatsoever. Not to mention these rumors . . .”