Shortest synopsis ever …
Meet “Leader” Rodger. One of the richest men in the world, but a world falling apart around him due to climate change, over-population, widespread regional wars, and the rise of authoritarian rule. But Rodger Visser (think Elon Musk of modern times or King Roger II of Medieval Europe, but not really!) has a plan. Plans within plans, actually. … But first there is that murder his fingerprints are on …
A little taste …
Rodger entered the room, a once-elegant dining room now nearly void of furniture but now moderately crowded with 20 or so people, almost all standing in front of Aaron, who, while being one of the first to arrive at the massive historic residence on Rua Agostinho Pacheco, repeatedly moved to the back of the crowd. Always wanting to be early, but not too early, Aaron had wasted a little time in a nearby urban park, the Jardim Botânico António Borges, but he had no trouble finding the house, as he overheard others complained of as they arrived.
Rodger entered from the back of the room after being escorted in from somewhere off to one side and brushed past Aaron, close enough for an aroma of the fresh, salty ocean to linger. Rodger swims, he took note, maybe in the bay, at the city beach; maybe with the now small gaggle of old-school local businessmen.
No, more likely his private pool is salt water.
Rodger said nothing to Aaron, to anyone, as he walked slowly, in almost measured steps, to the front of the small ballroom, near the front of the small raised area, a home stage for a grand piano at one time, Aaron thought. But Rodger did not actually step up onto the stage. He didn’t need the riser to be a head above most of the people in the audience.
In the same precise steps, he walked back and forth, just once in each direction, just long enough in duration for everyone to notice or be whispered to notice, to quiet or be whispered to quiet. Then he stopped by a small, low table near located on the center front edge, which was left alone by the crowd due to it having a small sign on it with the words “Reserved for Rodger”. Other than the sign, the table contained only a single, tall lamp of stained glass and metal, and a glass decanter filled with an almost clear liquid, its lid a drinking glass.
Rodger looked as if he, too, were made of stained glass and metal: bronzed face, stubble of silver hair forming a facial beard and a bowl of receding hairline; a black long-sleeved T-shirt, shining, probably of silk instead of cotton, but a scarf of bright reds and blues — a deep blue that matches his electric eyes.
With his desired attention, and quiet, attained, he spoke.
“By a show of hands,” Rodger said, scanning the crowd as if we were a theater audience, or a boardroom full of investors. “Who of you have read Jürgen Habermas?”
K.D. Norris 