Dawnwind 1: Last Man Standing by George R. Shirer

smiling.
    “Mister Epcott, I’m Fi Mosu, from the Junian Information Network.   I’d like to ask you some questions.”
    John made a show of glancing at his timeband.   “Well, I am on my way to meet some friends, but I suppose I could answer a question or two.”
    Mosu’s youthful face lit up.   “Wonderful!   Can you tell our viewers how you’re doing?”
    “I’m fine,” said John.
    “I’m sure our viewers will be pleased to know that, sir.   Can you tell us your feelings about this Zerraxi outrage?”
    John arched an eyebrow.   “Zerraxi outrage?”
    “The unprovoked attacks on innocents by members of a bestial race!”
    “That,” said John, carefully, “is a dangerous generalization to make.”
    “Can you deny that the Zerraxi are dangerous?”
    “What a silly question.   Of course I can’t deny that some Zerraxi are dangerous, but you don’t judge an entire species based on the actions of a few criminals.”
    Mosu frowned and then decided to change tactics.   “You seem remarkably forgiving.”
    John smiled.   “I’ve had the support of good friends during a trying time.   Speaking of good friends, Mr. Mosu, I have to go now, or I’ll be late.”
    He did not wait for the reporter to comment, simply nodded and stepped past him to the groundcar.   As John slid inside, he turned and smiled pleasantly at the reporter, who was looking less than pleased.   The groundcar’s door slid shut and the auto-driver asked for his destination.   John told it where he wanted to go, then settled back in the seat to think about things.
    * * * * *
      The Junian Guard Institute was east of the city, beyond a broad expanse of preserved forest.   It was, for all practical purposes, a small city of its own.   Access to the Institute grounds was tightly controlled and all visitors had to check in at the main gates.   The fact that the Institute had gates at all was an oddity in Junian culture.   It was, John thought, less about security and more about psychology, sending a very subtle signal to cadets and visitors alike that the Guard was separate.
    John’s public groundcar could not enter the Institute, so he climbed out and presented himself to the guardsmen at the gate.   After a brief wait, he was allowed to enter the grounds, where an Institute groundcar transported him to the main academic complex.
    The Institute’s main building was a nine-story tower. It loomed over the smaller buildings that seemed to have sprung up in its shade.   All the academic buildings were windowless, their exteriors resembling dark orange stone.   Stone paths connected the buildings at ground level.   Cadets in dark gray hurried between the buildings, weaving between guardsmen wearing black and green uniforms, and the more brightly dressed civilian instructors.
    It was almost 1600 hours when John stepped into the main building and made his way to an information desk.   The cadet on duty gave him directions to Instructor Lewij’s office.   John noted the curiosity in the young woman’s eyes, but she did not ask any questions, other than if he would like someone to guide him.   John politely declined, thanked the cadet for her help and continued on his way.
    Lewij’s office was a cozy space on the fifth floor with soft pink walls and orange carpeting.   The woman herself sat in a plush chair, wearing her usual gray robes.   She was fiddling with a PIN when John arrived, her plump face bearing an expression of mild irritation.
    “You look like you just bit into something sour, instructor.”
    Lewij looked up, her dark yellow eyebrows raised in surprise.   “John.   Is it 1600 already?”   She pushed back the sleeve of her robe and glanced at her timeband.   “Merciful pantheon! Where does the time go?”
    Shaking her head, Lewij hopped out of her chair, threw her PIN on the seat, and greeted John with a warm hug.   Imiro Lewij was a short, plump woman with coarse, pale skin and long yellow hair.