by C. A. Gray
I bristled. “Ben is a gentleman, how dare you! He’s been nothing but kind to me from the moment I arrived!”
“Ben?” Jackson gave a hollow laugh.
Suddenly I wanted to hurt him. So I added, “They want me to be the one to kill you, you know. Not actually pull the trigger, but give the order. Do the voice-over, like I used to for high profile executions.” I had no idea if this was true or not, but it seemed plausible. Maybe I’d overheard it somewhere. “You deserve no less, for what you did to all those members of the Tribunal!”
“Yeah. I figured,” Jackson sighed, his voice strained. “Otherwise I’d be dead already, I’m sure.” He tilted his head to the side, such that his face caught the moonlight. “So what’s stopping you, Kate?”
I opened my mouth and closed it again. He stood there watching me, his reddish eyes full of such tenderness and pain that I was sure he couldn’t possibly fake it.
I didn’t trust myself to stand there anymore. I felt like I might explode—or perhaps try to break him free.
Ben was right, I thought. He is dangerous. I’m not ready for this…
Without another word, I turned on my heels and fled.
Chapter 8: Kate
I don’t think I slept that night at all. My flight from the dungeon was all a blur—the next thing I knew, I was back in my gold bedroom bathed in moonlight, trembling under the silk sheets.
It wasn’t until then, when I recalled Jackson’s face, that I even noticed the bruises. They were healing, and not as readily apparent in moonlight as they might have been in daytime, but he’d been hurt not long ago.
Over and over I heard his words in my mind: “My heart broke, so I knew it must belong to you.” I cried into my pillow until I had no tears left, no energy left, until all I could do was lay there and breathe.
Did I love him? Did I hate him?
Should I love him, or should I hate him? I had no idea.
Intermingled with these tortured thoughts were memories of Charlie and my parents: they came in flashes, but they felt fuzzy somehow, almost like they were behind a veil or a smokescreen. A stolen car. The roof of the palace. Jackson in the backseat. The broadcasting studio. Charlie’s face just before Jackson told him to run… just before they captured Jackson and took me to the palace.
Ben said my family had been killed, and I should be grief-stricken over their deaths. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe him—why would he lie to me? Yet the words just didn’t ring true. Perhaps this was because he’d never given me any specifics on how or when or where they’d died… all he said was that it was Jackson’s fault. But how could it have been? Jackson was taken into custody right after their escape…
In my heart, I knew my family was alive. I couldn’t explain it, I just knew they were. Ben was mistaken somehow, that was all.
Jackson had been beaten. That didn’t make sense either, unless Jackson had fought back and the agents had no choice. Ben was kind and humane to his prisoners, even murderers and rebel leaders like Jackson. Wasn’t he?
But I’d never seen such a broken man before. Jackson looked as if he’d lost the will to fight.
It’s an act, I thought. That’s how he’s luring me in. He’s just acting helpless, so I’ll trust him.
That was another thing: I’d started noticing that some of my thoughts, like that one, felt… off… in a way I could barely put my finger on. The only way I could describe them to myself was shiny, like a veneer. They didn’t feel like me. If I listened to those kinds of thoughts without question, they packed an emotional punch—and I almost let that one carry me away in paroxysms of fear and loathing for the man I’d left behind me down in the dungeon. But if instead I stopped, even just for a few seconds, and considered the thought before I accepted it, that was when I noticed its ‘shininess.’
It was so exhausting to examine every single thought that came into my head.
Maybe I should just ask Ben to have Jackson executed and be done with it. No more wondering who was telling the truth after that. It would all be over. I’d be free.
Then I imagined Jackson on execution hill, watching me with those tortured reddish brown eyes, and I felt my chest start to constrict.
Not again…
I couldn’t catch my breath. It was like I was suffocating on my own windpipe. The desperation, the sheer terror that came with that was something I’d never experienced before.
Breathe, said the calm, steady voice in my mind again. Take a deep breath in, as deep as you can make it, and hold it. Now, tense every muscle in your body, from your toes all the way up your legs, your abs, your arms, your fingers, and your face. Squeeze as hard as you can. Hold it. Okay. Release your breath, and with it, relax all your muscles. One at a time, from your face all the way back down to your toes.
It was Jackson’s voice. He’d been coaching my mom through a panic attack, just like this one. I followed his instructions, and felt my body release. My eyes welled with tears again. I tried to force my mind away from the image of Jackson’s execution, but it refused to obey. As if on repeat, the theater in my head showed me Jackson crumpling to the ground, riddled with bullets. The regular kind. The ones that leave holes.
At some point I must have drifted off, because the sunlight streaming in through the window woke me, along with Ingrid’s heels click-clacking on the hardwood floors around my bathroom. She set up a gilded silver coffee pot beside a china cup, and brought my breakfast tray over to the night stand beside me.
“Madam has had a rough night,” Ingrid observed. I said nothing, wanting her to go away. She went on, “His Excellency has returned from his travels for the time being; he would like to see you for brunch in an hour, so I’ve brought you only fruit this morning.”
Rebellions. That’s where he’d been: pockets of rebellions had broken out in the Republic.
“Does that mean the rebellions have been quelled?” I asked her.
Ingrid arched her pencil-thin brows at me and said imperially, “His Excellency has given strict orders that Madam is not to be bothered with such things.”
“I’m a reporter, not a pet in a gilded cage!”
The words flew out of my mouth before I could check them. Ingrid’s eyes grew wide, but her face otherwise did not register my outburst at all. She’d be reporting that to Ben, no doubt.
Well, so what? I thought. I wasn’t a prisoner, I was Ben’s guest. Perhaps he was even courting me—I wasn’t quite sure. Either way, I had to be allowed to speak my mind. This keeping me from the news business was absurd, and I would tell him so.
Ben waited for me in the garden, on white wicker chairs with blue and white striped cushions. Immaculately trimmed honeysuckle vines crawled up the trellis all around us, shielding us from the sun. He stood to greet me, smiling and pulling me in to kiss my cheek. I could smell the pungent, musky scent of his aftershave.
“I’ve missed you, my dear.” He gestured to the chair opposite him. “How did you sleep?” I scrutinized his face, and noted the redness in his eyes and the bags beneath them. He didn’t sleep particularly well, either, I thought.
“Poorly,” I told him, and decided to get right to the point. “Ben, what’s been going on in the Republic? Why are there rebellions?”
He waved his hand at me, accepting a refill of coffee from one of his servants. “Oh, darling, don’t concern yourself—”
“No!” I stamped my foot, the coffee sloshing from my cup to the saucer beneath it. He looked up at me, startled, and narrowed his eyes. For half a second I felt a flutter of fear, but I’d come this far. “Ben, you’re treating me like some kind of ‘kept’ woman. I’m a reporter! Why do you want me in the dark?”
Ben watched me for a long, cold minute as he set his saucer down on the glass-topped wicker table in front of us. His whole face tightened. At last he relaxed, and said, “Always were a spitfire, weren’t you, my dear?” He took up his cup again, sipping it, and the moment passed. He told
me dismissively, “You’ve been ill, Kate. You are still ill. As I understand it, your attacks persist.” He raised his eyebrows at me over his saucer. “You’re very fragile right now, and I need you to get well. I don’t tell you these things because I believe unpleasant news will hinder your progress.”
“Then don’t tell me all the gory details, but at least tell me what’s happening,” I insisted. “These ‘attacks’ you’re talking about only come when I’m having a hard time sorting out truth from lies. The more integrated a picture of reality I can get, the faster I’ll get better. I’m sure of that. So please, Ben.” I leaned forward, and he took my hand, rubbing his thumb over the top of it. I tried to suppress the involuntary shudder this produced, and persisted with my plea. “Tell me about the rebellions. Tell me what really happened to my family. Tell me what really happened to Will.”
The servants arrived with our brunch: cinnamon rolls, omelets, sausage and bacon, fritters and quiches, with more coffee and thick fresh cream.
For a brief flash, I remembered the family I’d seen on my way out of Friedrichsburg, all sitting on their front porch, emaciated. The children had had ribs sticking out from beneath their threadbare t-shirts.
Ben reached for a cinnamon roll, raising an eyebrow at me. “All right then. The rebellions have popped up in four adjacent cities so far. We still have MacNamera in custody, yet it’s his message that’s spreading somehow. He must have other operatives working for him still on the outside.”
I had a flash of Nick—the kind hunter who had saved me in the forest. “Nick was the leader, not Jackson,” I said without thinking.
Ben looked up at me, his expression changing. “Oh?” For the first time in this entire conversation, he seemed actually interested in what I had to say.
Another flash—Beckenshire. Leveled. “He’s dead though,” I murmured.
But was he? He’d been in Friedrichsburg, not Beckenshire, when I’d left… just like Will.
“How did Will die?” I blurted. “You said he died because of Jackson, but how? What happened?”
The curtain fell back over Ben’s face. “I meant it had been MacNamera’s influence that killed him. His brainwashing.” He turned back to me, searching my face. “MacNamera must be a very persuasive and charismatic leader, to have so many followers so dedicated to his teachings that they are willing to give up their own lives, even after MacNamera himself is no longer there to lead them.”
Persuasive. Charismatic. I tried on those words, picturing the face of the man I’d left in the dungeon last night. Did they fit?
I looked at the man sitting in front of me, and tried them on again. Persuasive. Charismatic.
Like a glove.
My chest started to constrict again.
“Take your time, my darling,” said Ben, sitting back in his chair and sipping his coffee while I fought for my next breath.
Once the excruciating experience had passed and I felt the feeling return to my extremities again, I said, “I think I need to get away for awhile.”
Ben glanced at me, interested. “Get away? From where? I hope you don’t mean from me!” He chuckled.
I met his gaze in earnest. “You’ve been incredibly kind to me, and frankly I don’t know why you’ve done it, but… I just need to get my bearings and sort out my thoughts. I’ll go back to my old apartment. I think I’m strong enough to—”
“Absolutely not,” Ben declared, his mouth full of cinnamon roll. He set down his plate, and the hooded dark eyes stared me down.
Flash—the last time he’d given me that expression, he’d been in the judge’s seat, peering down at me.
Why had I been on trial?
“With all due respect, Your Excellency,” I returned, using the title on purpose, “I’m not a prisoner here, am I? Can I not come and go as I please?”
“You are not a prisoner, Kate, no. You are a patient. And patients cannot merely leave the hospital at their own whim.”
“And who is my doctor? You?” I stood up, too angry to either finish my breakfast or check my outburst.
The Potentate rose too, his movements slow and controlled. I felt another stab of fear. Ben won’t hurt me, I told myself. But I couldn’t quite believe it.
Through gritted teeth, he said, “Please remember, my darling, that however cozy our arrangements have been up to this point, I am the leader of this nation and you are my subject. I have been nothing but good to you. I think you will agree?” He gestured to the brunch, and to my expensive imported clothing. Today Ingrid put me in yet another low-cut dress, this one floral and linen. “Of the two of us, you are the one who has been brainwashed for the past month and you are only just now returning to yourself. I do not think my request unreasonable that you stay here until your recovery is complete. But the fact remains that, unreasonable or no, I have every right to request anything of you that I like.”
I don’t know if that meant what it sounded like it meant. It couldn’t possibly. But the way his hand stroked my arm, and his eyes lingered on the cut of my dress made me think of Jackson’s words last night.
Please tell me Voltolini isn’t using you for a plaything. I don’t think I could stand that.
“Excuse me,” I murmured. “I don’t feel well.” I dropped my napkin on the table. Thankfully, Ben allowed me to hurry away.
Chapter 9: Voltolini
Ben Voltolini sat back in his white wicker chair as Kate fled, sipping his coffee with a sigh of annoyance.
She might be more trouble than she’s worth, he thought. But he knew it wasn’t true. Prior to her broadcast, he still held most of the Republic in the palm of his hands—yet ever since, despite the fact that he had both Kate and MacNamera essentially in custody, pockets of rebellions continued to spring up in disparate districts where somehow, control center signals no longer had any effect.
Coincidence? Surely not.
He saw Williams approach across the lawn, adjusting the headset in his ear. He looked grim.
“Your Excellency,” Williams barked curtly.
Voltolini sighed. “Out with it.” He took another bite of fritter. Might as well at least enjoy his brunch while he could.
“You were right, sir. Just this morning a new rebellion broke out in Raven. That makes five total.”
Voltolini finished washing down his bite of fritter with a sip of coffee, letting the coffee flow over his tongue and savoring the flavor. He’d told Williams yesterday that either Raven or Carthage would be next. They were the neighboring cities to Pensington, and the rebellion seemed to spread from one city to the next—like a forest fire.
“The control center signals in Raven?” Voltolini asked.
“Working according to all Barrett’s team can deduce, like all the other cities,” replied Williams. “Joe and everybody in the IT wing says the same—the problem isn’t on their end, so it must be in the individual control centers, though they seem to be receiving the signals from us just fine. Yet the people aren’t responding to the signals at all.”
Voltolini leaned forward, thought for a minute, and then pounded his open palm against the glass table, making all the plates rattle.
“We stamped out every last hint of rebellion in Pensington! Every single rebel leader dead or in custody, and the rest—docile by the time I left, signals or no! So how did this happen? I want answers!”
Williams paused for a moment, as if weighing his words. “All due respect, sir, but until we can identify why the signals aren’t working and fix them, I’m not sure any show of military power or eloquent speeches from yourself will make a difference. As you once said, use force to suppress a rebellion—”
“Oh, shut up. Don’t use my own words against me,” Voltolini snapped. The speech Williams referred to was one he’d delivered to the Tribunal over twenty years ago, explaining why force would not work against riots, and why his own method was superior. Use force to suppress a rebellion, and you’ll curb it for awhile, h
e’d said. Maybe it will even appear as if you’ve won. But if the reason for the rioting remains—in this case, poverty, desperation, and starvation—count on it that suppression by force will only turn a riot into a revolution.
Wasn’t that exactly what was happening now? Twenty years later, Voltolini’s elegant solution to the rebellion problem had begun to fail for unknown reasons… even Joe couldn’t diagnose it.
Couldn’t, or wouldn’t? Voltolini wondered. He’d have Hurst threaten him some more, see if he could tell which it was.
Of course, the inevitable riots that followed left him with no remaining course of action but force. Which clearly wasn’t working.
“And Barrett? Has she any new ideas?” Voltolini demanded, tossing back the last of his coffee. He added under his breath, looking at the empty mug, “I need something stronger than this.” He snapped his fingers and an immaculate waiter rushed to his side. He whispered his request, and the waiter bowed, hurrying away.
Williams replied, “Barrett’s team is working around the clock, re-testing every aspect of the signaling systems, but so far everything seems to be in working order. We’ve brought Joe in three times to check the code, and he says the same—”
“He would say the same, because he hates me and he wants the control centers to fail!”
“Joe will never compromise himself in order to do you any harm, whether actively or passively,” said Williams. “I think he’s telling the truth. Between you and me, I think they’re stumped, sir.”
The waiter reappeared at Voltolini’s side, with a steaming pot of coffee, and a glass bottle of bourbon. The waiter began to fill the mug with coffee, but Voltolini waved him away, like swatting at a fly. Then he dumped the coffee on the grass, and refilled it with bourbon and only a splash of coffee on top. The waiter’s eyebrows raised infinitesimally before he scampered away.
“Send Barrett to Hurst, then,” Voltolini barked at Williams, taking a swig of his concoction. Hurst was the Chief Executioner.
