The Federation

Malcolm Morgan sat in his darkened study. He leaned forward slightly in his luxurious, overstuffed leather chair, resting his elbows upon his expensive mahogany desk and his chin in the crook of his thumbs and forefingers. His hands were folded as if in prayer. To an outsider, he would look as though he was brooding. But anyone who worked closely to Mr. Morgan would know that he was calculating—thinking through his plan step by step, again and again. After all, he was about to begin the most ambitious plan he had ever undertaken—and make no mistake, Mr. Morgan was not a man lacking in ambition.

He stared at his plasma screen TV, the only source of light in the office. It lit his face in flickering white light, and emphasized the deep wrinkles on his face and the dark circles under his eyes. He broke his hunched stance only to replay the video of newly elected President Tyler Morgan’s inaugural address yet again, as he had been doing repeatedly all day. His gray eyes were steely, determined. They contained not a trace of doubt.

The minutes ticked by. Eleven o’clock p.m., eleven fifteen. Eleven thirty. Mr. Morgan did not move an inch save for replaying President Morgan’s video. No one entered the room. No one knocked on the door. In fact, no one went near enough to the foreboding office for Mr. Morgan to hear their footsteps from through the closed door.

Finally, for the first time in the past fifteen hours, Mr. Morgan moved. He picked up the remote and turned off the TV. The room was smothered in darkness and intrusive silence. He leaned back in his chair and checked the lighted display of his watch. Eleven forty-five. “Mr. Carmichael,” he said softly, turning his chair to face the door and folding his hands in his lap.

Devon Carmichael must have been waiting for Mr. Morgan’s call, otherwise he would never have been able to hear it. But he opened the door and stood in the doorframe, casting a black shadow across the room. “Mr. Morgan?” he asked in guttural bass tones.

Mr. Morgan’s eyes glittered as he gave the order. “Please tell Mr. Finn that he may proceed.”

“Yes, sir.”

Carmichael closed the door behind him as he left the office. Mr. Morgan could hear his heavy footfalls and low orders as he went to call Mr. Finn. He could not hear the servants whispering among themselves or the maids inhaling fearfully as his men left the house, but he knew that they were doing so. The house was charged with the familiar energy of a plan being put into action.

Mr. Morgan walked over to a wall of television monitors and turned on one marked 22BJSEIG8. A live feed of the dwindling inaugural ball graced the screen. He watched the men, dressed to the nines in dashing tuxedos, and the women, stunning in their formal gowns, as they danced and twirled in and out of the camera’s view.

Soon, Malcolm Morgan thought, they shall be mine.

He shut off the monitor and turned back to his other TV, flipping it on and settling down in his chair to watch Tyler Mason’s inaugural address again, this time with a cold, satisfied smile curving his lips.