by Victoria Lee
“Power’s on everywhere east of the university.”
“I swear they’re fucking with us.” She slapped the edge of the counter with the magazine and shook her head. “Look, I’m fixin’ to take one of them water bottles—you won’t tell Larry, right? He won’t know better. Camera’s dead.”
“Go ahead,” Noam said, and when she grabbed a bottle out of the cooler, she tossed him one too.
He usually liked to play around with scripts during his shifts at the store, mostly writing little games for himself—internet in the city wasn’t good enough for activism—but for once he found himself adrift in this new analog sea. He had a book, but it was too hot to concentrate. His shirt plastered against his skin, and every time he moved, it dragged against his shoulder blades, waves of humidity swimming over his nape.
He held the water bottle to the side of his face, but that only felt cold for a second. His mind circled round and round its imaginary map of the slums. What if someone got sick? There were elderly here, children. If they weren’t citizens, that meant they didn’t have insurance. How were they supposed to get medical care at a proper hospital? The tent clinics wouldn’t have power, so there’d be no help there.
If people died, it was Noam’s fault. He wasn’t stupid enough to pretend he hadn’t thought about this when he came up with the plan. He was responsible. Telling himself those victims were only hypothetical was lying.
Noam preferred the lie.
Two days. Just two days, then Lehrer would publicly denounce Sacha for failing to fix the problem in good time, would personally supply free generators to those in need.
Of course, generators wouldn’t bring the internet back. That was the real endgame here. No email, no messaging, and most importantly, no news.
He picked up one of the pamphlets left behind by the girl who had the shift before him, although he had every word memorized.
THE TYRANNY OF HAROLD SACHA.
He and Lehrer spent a while making sure the wording was perfect. Lehrer had a hundred years’ experience in rhetoric, so he knew what worked. Noam paid street kids ten argents to plaster these all over the city, and it’d been worth the price. Folks were talking. On his way in, Noam had spotted the pamphlets tucked into back pockets, stacked on the edges of food carts for customers to take, scattered in the gutters.
He’d also seen the immigration officials rounding up people two streets over, tagging them for deportation.
Right now, these pamphlets were the only link the refugees had to the outside world. Without internet, print was communication. Noam and Lehrer controlled the flow of information. And when that information said exactly what people wanted to hear, it could be very effective indeed.
The door opened and a fresh wave of heat poured into the store, bearing Brennan on its crest.
“I got your note,” Brennan said.
Noam slid off the plastic desk chair. Standing upright put him a couple inches taller than Brennan, though it didn’t feel like it when he was behind this counter. “I didn’t mean to be cryptic,” he said. “I just didn’t think I could talk about this at the center.”
And Lehrer would probably notice Noam going over there to meet with Brennan. There was that.
Then again, in his government suit, hair all gelled back, Brennan wasn’t exactly flying under the radar coming here either.
“Yes, you haven’t been to the Center in a while, have you? Linda mentioned it.”
“I know. I’m sorry, things have been—” Noam waved his hand and made a face. “Never mind. Listen. I looked into the power outages. I read that people thought Sacha might be behind it, and . . . well, with my ability, that’s an answerable question.”
“Ah, yes.” Brennan drummed his fingers atop the pamphlet on the counter. “I saw these. Noam, you shouldn’t believe everything you read. They’re just propaganda. There’s no evidence Sacha had anything to do with the outages.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” Noam fiddled with the unscrewed cap of his water bottle. It wasn’t real anxiety, just an affectation. He didn’t want to come across too scripted, but he had to make sure Brennan walked away from this with the right ideas. Noam needed him pushing the refugees toward reaction, not acceptance. “It looked like failing circuit breakers. And there was a problem with the breakers, but it was caused by a rootkit installed in the electrical system mainframe. Somebody hacked the power grid and scheduled a massive blackout. Then the rootkit executed a script that made it look like a circuit breaker issue.”
“I don’t speak hacker, Noam.”
“The point is,” Noam insisted, clenching the water bottle cap in his free hand, “someone made the power go out on purpose. And they made it so it only affected the refugee zone.”
Brennan frowned, gaze slipping down to the pamphlet, although he didn’t pick it up. At first Noam thought he wasn’t going to speak at all—like maybe Noam wasn’t convincing enough, or Brennan just didn’t want to believe him—but then he said, “Plenty of people don’t like the refugees. How do you know it was Sacha?”
“Hacktivists sign their work. If you have a message, you want that message to get conveyed, right? So you take credit for whatever you did, either writing your name into the script or claiming it on social media or something. But not this. There’s nothing on the rootkit about who wrote it or why, and no one’s come out online taking responsibility.”
“That’s a stretch, Noam.”
“It’s not a stretch!” Noam slapped the bottle cap down onto the counter. “What other evidence do you want? Am I supposed to have traced it back to Sacha’s home computer or something? I know he did it. Or more likely paid someone to do it. But he did it.”
Brennan didn’t so much as blink. “Even if that’s true, I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do. We’re guests in this country, Noam. Fighting for better treatment is one thing. Fighting against the occupation, for better pay, for health insurance, even for citizenship—fine. But we can’t depose a sitting chancellor.”
I don’t see why the hell not. “Fine,” Noam snapped. Beneath his hand the bottle cap contorted, losing its shape to conform to the hills and valleys of his palm. Almost hot enough to blister. “Fight, then. You’re the one among us with any kind of influence. Why aren’t you doing something?”
For the briefest moment, Brennan looked pained. The expression was gone so quickly Noam might have imagined it. “There are rules. We have to work within those boundaries if we want to be taken seriously. I’ll organize a protest. We’ll march on the government complex. This is how progress happens, Noam. It’s slow and frustrating, but this is reality.”
“Since when?” Sweat cut a slick line down the back of Noam’s neck. Heat was a living thing pulsing beneath his skin like a second heartbeat. He sucked in a sharp breath, and the pen he’d been chewing on earlier rolled off the counter. The sound it made when it hit the floor was too loud. Violent. “The last time this country saw real change was in 2018, but I don’t recall it taking all that long.”
“A different time.”
“Not that different. The Lehrer brothers’ militia didn’t do much peaceful protesting either.”
Brennan’s gaze went sharp. “Do I look like Calix Lehrer to you?”
“No. More’s the pity.”
Silence followed. It stretched out like saltwater taffy, until all Noam could hear was his own rage buzzing between his ears.
At long last, Brennan slid the pamphlet off the side of the counter and folded it along neat lines. It was wet; it had gotten caught in the puddle of condensation from Noam’s water bottle.
“You’re angry. I understand. We’re all angry, Noam. But you should take care that anger doesn’t blind you to reason.” He paused, glancing down at the pamphlet even though the text was nearly unreadable now. “You’ve always been a bright boy. What happened to your parents was criminal, but now you have a chance to go back to school and make something of yourself. With the cards in your deck,
one day you could effect real and lasting change in this country. Don’t be shortsighted.”
Brennan tucked the pamphlet into his jacket pocket. In its place he set down a few coins.
“For a water bottle.”
After he left, it was several seconds before Noam could think to sit down. And then several more before he could concentrate to sharpen his power enough to cut the mutated plastic bottle cap off his palm.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A note, signed with Lehrer’s name, waited for Noam after he finished field training one Saturday evening.
It wasn’t in code, but it didn’t have to be. Noam knew exactly what this was about, because yesterday he’d cut power to the west side again.
People were incandescent with rage. By the time Noam arrived and Lehrer was opening the study door, Noam’d read through the past six hours’ worth of live updates on social media.
“Did you tell anyone you were coming?”
“No,” Noam said. “Of course not.”
Lehrer nodded once, then allowed Noam a small smile. “Then you’d better come in,” he said, “before people start asking why I have teenage boys visiting my apartment in the middle of the night.”
He gestured Noam into the study. Noam paid attention, again, when Lehrer undid the wards to his apartment, but they were as opaque as ever. One day, Noam thought, trailing his own bluish magic through Lehrer’s characteristic gold. One day I’ll figure it out.
Lehrer’s apartment was cool tonight, the windows all thrown open to let the summer breeze ripple in past the curtains.
“How are people reacting to the power outage?” Lehrer asked him.
“As you might expect.” Noam leaned to give Wolf the scratch behind the ears he demanded, Wolf’s tail happily knocking against Noam’s leg. “They’re furious. They’ll be even angrier once they read the new pamphlets.”
“Good. Would you like a drink?”
This time, Noam felt the magic in the air before Lehrer even gestured; a cabinet unlocked, and two glasses plus a bottle flew to hover in the air between them.
Interesting. So Lehrer really didn’t need the gestures at all; they were just habit. Or perhaps not even that. A farce? If opponents thought Lehrer needed hand movements to perform magic, then they’d be watching for them, giving Lehrer the advantage.
“Have you tried scotch before?” Lehrer asked, pouring both glasses.
Noam shook his head.
“Well then, you’re in for a treat. This is an Islay single malt—very peaty and very good. Smell it first.”
Noam did. It felt like breathing in campfire smoke.
“Drink,” Lehrer said.
The taste was much the same, a hot streak burning its way down the back of Noam’s throat as he swallowed. Lehrer was watching; he wouldn’t miss the heat that bloomed in Noam’s cheeks.
“It takes some getting used to,” Lehrer said, though when he took a sip it was with his characteristic control. “Please, sit. Relax. Can I get you anything else? Something to eat, perhaps, before we discuss our next move?”
“No. Thank you.”
Noam wasn’t the sort of person who ought to be holding a glass of expensive scotch and sitting on the defense minister’s sofa. The friction between his world and Lehrer’s scratched against his every nerve.
“Thank you, by the way,” Lehrer said, claiming the armchair opposite. “For everything you’re doing to help with this. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”
“Oh—no, I’m happy to help.” Wait, that sounded wrong. “I want Sacha gone as much as you do, I mean.” Noam took a hasty sip of scotch to cover his embarrassment. It didn’t burn so badly this time.
“Mmm. Adalwolf would have hated this whole plan. He never wanted me to take power.”
The blood went still in Noam’s veins. Lehrer so rarely talked about his brother. Noam felt like if he moved too suddenly, the moment would shatter.
Lehrer sipped his drink, eyes falling shut. He didn’t seem like he was going to elaborate, so after a while, Noam said, “He was . . . wouldn’t he be happy, though? To see what you’ve made of Carolinia.” It felt false to say he would have been proud when Noam had never known him.
Lehrer made a vague gesture. “Adalwolf didn’t live to see Carolinia established. A witching state . . . yes, he would have wanted that. But now? Overcrowded with the disenfranchised and headed by a baseline like Sacha? I don’t think he would have liked that much at all.”
“But he wouldn’t like you ruling any better?” Noam asked, feeling oddly like he was questioning Lehrer’s own past and half expecting Lehrer to scold him for it. “You’ll return Carolinia to the way it was meant to be.”
“Adalwolf was of the belief,” Lehrer said, “that what I experienced in the hospital made me ill suited for leadership. He believed the trauma did irreparable damage to my mind.”
Noam nearly recoiled, but Lehrer was perfectly calm, swirling scotch in his glass and swinging one foot idly.
“You don’t do things by half measures,” Noam said, battering down the anger that smoldered below his breastbone. Adalwolf Lehrer had been dead for a hundred years. “That’s all.”
When Lehrer smiled this time, it didn’t reach his eyes. “Quite.”
Noam didn’t like that look on Lehrer’s face. It was too strange, too—mechanical. As if it had been pieced together as carefully as the wards around this room.
He fumbled for something to say, anything else. He didn’t want Lehrer to change the subject to the coup, not just yet, even if that’s why Lehrer had brought him here. It felt like, in this moment, Lehrer had chosen to let Noam past the shields he had drawn around his private life. Noam didn’t want that to end. “My . . . I don’t think my parents would have liked me being here, actually. Not the coup; they’d have loved that. Being a witching, though.”
“Really?”
Noam rubbed the edge of his thumb against the lip of his glass. “I don’t know. I guess I’m not exactly part of the revolutionary proletariat anymore, am I?”
Lehrer’s expression eased, something more human softening the edges of his mouth again. “I don’t know if I’d say that,” he said. “Consider yourself part of the proletariat vanguard in the Leninist sense. A professional revolutionary.” He nodded at the room surrounding them, the faded wallpaper and worn curtains. “All this . . . it’s ephemera. When I take power, it won’t be for myself. I might be one man, but I represent a dictatorship of the proletariat.”
“You know, I’ve read Lenin and I still think that sounds bad,” Noam said, grinning.
“Have you?” Lehrer gave him an arch look. “Then you know the quote. ‘Dictatorship does not necessarily mean the abolition of democracy for the class that exercises the dictatorship over other classes, but for the class over which the dictatorship is exercised.’ The dictatorship of the proletariat is true social democracy.”
Noam watched Lehrer over the rim of his glass. “Sacha was democratically elected, you mean,” he said eventually. “But he’s still a dictator because his power disenfranchises refugees and the working poor.”
“Very good.” Lehrer tipped his drink in Noam’s direction. “Knowing that, how could your parents have been anything but proud? You are creating a future for this world, Noam. For refugees, for witchings, for anyone who has ever been oppressed by a system that saw them as tools or weapons but never people.”
Noam’s chest convulsed in a way that made him feel abruptly short of breath; he put the scotch down on the coffee table.
“You should have talked to my mom,” he said after a second. “She was so passionate about Marxist theory. I couldn’t keep up with her half the time, her mind moved so fast.”
“And your father?”
“He was brilliant, but he wasn’t into philosophy. ‘Too much talking,’ he’d say. ‘Not enough doing.’”
Lehrer laughed. “Oh, Adalwolf would have said the same. He gave me such a hard time for reading books instead of sp
ending extra time at the range. That I was a telekinetic who could make the bullet hit my target never seemed to factor into the argument.”
Another hint from Lehrer’s past. Noam seized upon it, like catching fireflies in the dark. “Was that your presenting power? Telekinesis?”
“Oh, no. I learned it early, though. I drove my parents mad sending the saltshaker dancing round the dinner table.”
The image was comical, for all Noam had no mental image whatsoever of Lehrer as a child.
He tried picturing Lehrer his own age instead, sixteen, surviving what Lehrer had survived. Leading a coup. Sitting on a couch just like this one, with State and Revolution open on his knee and a cigarette held between his fingers.
Noam had the sudden urge to reach over and press his hand to Lehrer’s wrist. He wondered what Lehrer would do if he did.
There was no chance to find out. Lehrer’s smile faltered, and a moment later he set his drink aside and stood, narrowed eyes fixed on the door.
“What is it?” Noam asked.
“Sacha’s outside.”
The shell of that soft moment they’d shared cracked. Noam straightened, tension a sudden ache in his neck.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Lehrer said.
“It’s eleven at night!”
“Chancellors don’t abide by good manners.” There was a cold set to Lehrer’s expression that Noam didn’t like one bit. Lehrer nodded toward another hall, this one heading away from the study and toward a darkened warren of rooms. “Second door on the right is Dara’s room. Go in there and shut the door. Take your glass with you. Don’t come out until I say.”
Noam wasn’t about to disobey. Even so, he couldn’t resist looking back over his shoulder as he headed down the hall; Lehrer, in the middle of the room, stood as still and perfect as a black-and-white photograph.
The interior of the bedroom was dark, but even so, Noam could tell it was devoid of any of Dara’s personal effects—Dara’s room in name only, it seemed. Noam didn’t dare turn on the lights. He just closed his eyes and leaned against the inside of the shut door, rebreathing his own humid air. Out there he sensed the movement of Lehrer’s wristwatch across the floor and down the hall toward the study. Then Sacha’s voice, with its gratingly perfect enunciation.
