The Liberty Box Trilogy

by C. A. Gray

  I nodded, grateful Jean was on my side, at least. “Yes. That should work.” Then I added, “It’ll have to.”

  Will returned then, bearing implements in each hand: an icepick, and a pocket knife. He pressed a button on the side of the knife, and the blade shot up. As he set them on the table in front of me, he said, “I want you to know I don’t support this stupid idea, and if there is anything at all I can say to dissuade you, I will.” He sighed. “But since it’s clear you don’t want my protection anyway, and you’re gonna do what you’re gonna do, here. Please try not to die, all right?”

  I looked at the weapons on the table before me, and back up at Will. His voice was so full of pain, but I didn't know what I could say to make him feel better. What he’d said was absolutely correct. So instead, I pulled the ponytail elastic out of my hair and wrapped my hair around the ice pick instead, tucking it into a twist and securing it against my head. It worked. I pulled my hair back out again, and tested the end of the ice pick with my finger. Not quite sharp enough to cut through ribs like butter; I’d have to give it a bit of a shove for that. But, serviceable in a pinch. I tucked the pocket knife into my bra to make sure it fit without leaving a strange bulge, and indeed, it fit perfectly. I slid it out again and pushed the button: the whole process took maybe four seconds. If I practiced, I could get it under two.

  I looked back up at Will again. “Thank you,” I whispered.

  He ran a hand through his hair and turned away from me without reply.

  Chapter 27: Jackson

  As we drove away from the hideout in Friedrichsburg, instead of seeing the road and the trees and the people in the van around me, all I saw was Kate’s face. She was still standing there on the driveway, asking me to come back and say goodbye to her.

  I hadn’t done it. In the moment, leaving without a big scene seemed like the right thing to do: after all, we had already said goodbye. I’d told her I loved her, and she’d stood there and said absolutely nothing. She’d had plenty of time to come after me later, too, but she didn’t until the very last second. In fact, everything about her behavior toward me from the moment she’d arrived had screamed that she wanted nothing more to do with me.

  Except at the very end. She’d called out my name, and I… didn’t want to make everyone wait? Didn’t want to cause a scene, especially in front of Will? What?

  I knew now, from the regret roiling in the pit of my stomach, that I’d made the wrong choice. I’d known it by the time we reached the end of the block, actually. But by then, what could I have done? Told Charlie to stop and run back to her?

  Yes. That’s exactly what I should have done.

  But I didn’t. Now I’d never know what might have happened if I had.

  I knew all these thoughts were useless now. Grandfather would scold me for indulging them, and Uncle Patrick would tell me I’m ‘too emotional for my own good.’

  The past is the past, I told myself. Kate would send her message to Jillian. After that, she would go with Will to New Estonia. Of course she will. What could she otherwise do here all by herself? The only reasonable alternative would have been going to the palace with us to help rescue her parents. At this point, the very fact that she stayed behind meant she’d have to go with Will.

  She’d be safe in New Estonia, and she’d be happy eventually. It might take some time, but she’d loved Will once. Maybe she still did, but even if she’d changed as much as she said she had, she could probably grow to love him again. They could have a normal life together.

  Maybe I regretted not finding out what she’d wanted to say to me on the driveway, but I had to focus on what I had learned from our unexpected meeting. I’d found out for sure that at least she no longer believed me to be the villain she thought I was when we were both captive in the palace. I’d told her—a non-brainwashed version of her—that I loved her. She hadn’t said it back. She could have, but she didn’t. That’s what I’d needed: closure. Since I couldn’t undo the past anyway, that’s what I would have to focus on—not what might have happened, if.

  Besides, I’d probably be dead soon anyway. If I really loved Kate, then I would want her to have as good a life as possible in this chaos, after I was gone. It was time for me to let go.

  I heard the sound of metal on metal and turned around to the seat behind me. Molly sliced open cans of beans.

  “Lunch,” she told me, handing the cans around the van along with spoons she’d also pilfered from the house. Everyone except Charlie ate, since he couldn’t easily eat and drive at the same time. Alec would switch off with him soon enough, and then he’d have his turn.

  Alec broke the silence as we all chewed. “So are we planning to stop and disguise Jackson, or what? We won’t get far if he still looks like him.”

  I looked up, and Nick chimed in, “Hmm. Good point. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me before.” He added to me, “You are probably the second most recognizable man in the Republic at this point.”

  “That could be an asset,” I pointed out. “I can be a decoy. If they get a glimpse of me, every guard around the palace will be all over me, and nobody will pay any attention to the rest of you.”

  “No way, are you crazy?” said Charlie. “They’ll just gun you down, and you can bet they’ll be real bullets this time. Plus they’ll know you wouldn’t be alone. They’ll come looking for the rest of us next.”

  “The decoy idea is a good one though,” Alec pointed out.

  “No need. We’ll be there at night.” Nick reminded him. “A decoy would draw attention, and the less attention we get, the better. Disguises just in case are probably a good idea though—as an extra layer of protection for all of us. Every one of us has been on the news at some point. Except Joe, but at least some of those around the palace will recognize you too,” he added to Joe.

  “They’ll all recognize me, I can promise you that,” Joe muttered.

  We entered the city of Galway and came to an intersection where I saw the silver screen on the side of a building crackle to life. The emblem of the Republic appeared.

  “This can’t be Kate’s tip already,” I murmured, mostly to myself. We’d only been gone a few hours.

  “Could be, if they just used the hotline like she suggested,” Nick answered.

  Jillian appeared—I wondered if that was her real hair, or a wig. It was a little too perfect. She grinned her plastic smile at the camera and said, “Good afternoon, citizens of the Republic. Today I’m afraid I bring you breaking news of a most disturbing nature. Yesterday, I announced with a heavy heart that two of my former colleagues, Grant Pool and Michael Cox, had become Enemies of State and were put to death for their crimes. Since then, we’ve received more information from a reliable source that their behavior was not an isolated incident, but rather part of an organized terrorist plot to destroy what are known as repeaters. Repeaters are devices that propagate signals sent by our government’s control centers, since the signals sent by the centers themselves are not strong enough to reach the outermost parts of the Republic. Some of you may know, but many of you will not, that the control centers are one of the ways that the government protects us from outside threats, pinpointing possible terrorists or other unregistered citizens within hours so that they can be arrested. Since the centers themselves are heavily guarded, the repeaters seemed a much more reasonable target to these terrorists. Needless to say, your government officials have substantially increased the security surrounding the repeaters. You can all rest easy tonight, knowing that any terrorist organizations who might attempt to destroy repeaters in the future shall encounter justice.”

  The inhabitants of our van let out a collective whoop.

  “Yeah! Go Kate!” cried Nick. “I never would’ve thought it would be that easy!”

  “She’s just saved a lot of lives,” Molly agreed. “I’m frankly shocked that Jillian got the tip and then just turned around and put it on the air, though.”

 
Nick shrugged. “If she thought it came from a reliable source, why not?”

  The broadcast went on, and the same historian who had spoken with Jillian yesterday reappeared to pick up where he left off in their series on “Benjamin Voltolini, Savior of the Republic.” Those words appeared on the screen like a title, and faded away as the interviewee’s name appeared in its place: “with acclaimed historian Peter Fleming.”

  “Yesterday, we covered the boy Ben Voltolini’s early years,” recapped Fleming. “He was born to a working class Italian family in the former United States. His father worked in construction, and his mother was a homemaker and devoutly religious. Ben was expected and encouraged to follow in his father’s footsteps in the construction business, and indeed he did—but it was soon discovered that he had an aptitude for business. Much against his parents’ wishes, Ben dropped out of high school and began working at the same company as his father. The general manager quickly took an interest in him. Ben was promoted in record time, first to foreman, then to assistant manager and then to site General Manager. Once the company realized that he had a knack for negotiation, they apprenticed him to the vice president and sent him to their corporate office in New York at the tender age of twenty-two…”

  “Why are we sitting here listening to this crap?” Alec demanded. “It’s all lies anyway. Drive!”

  Charlie looked around at Alec, startled out of his apparent fascination. “Sorry—I’ve heard most of this before, but not since waking up. I wonder if any of it’s true.”

  “It is,” Joe murmured. “Those basic facts, anyway.” Everyone turned to look at him, and he said, “Heath told me a lot about Voltolini’s growing up years before I ever met him personally.”

  “How old was Heath when he met him?” Charlie asked, looking at Joe in the rearview mirror.

  “Third grade.”

  Charlie raised his eyebrows, and Jacob let out a low whistle. “Hard to imagine he was ever that young. I wonder what the devil is like as a third grader?”

  “He said he seemed like a normal-ish kid back then,” Joe shrugged, staring out the window. Then he snorted, adding, “Except he read Machiavelli.”

  “As a third grader?” asked Jacob.

  “He had a lot of pent-up anger.”

  “And then he grew up to be a sociopath,” Charlie concluded, stepping on the gas. “The end.”

  “So, order of business,” said Nick as they sped away from the screen. “Disguises. Before we do anything else.”

  Chapter 28: Kate

  The following day after we sent the tipoff to Jillian, Jean and Will worked on strategies on how to get another message through to New Estonia. While they did this, I went out into the woods behind the dilapidated house for hours, sitting with my back against a tree. I focused on the wind, on the pressure of my body on the ground and on the tree bark, and on my affirmations.

  I am strong and capable.

  When I set my mind on a goal, I can accomplish it.

  I am creative and resourceful.

  I am fearless.

  I took these by turns, mulling over each one before moving on to the next. I knew that saying them didn’t necessarily make them so, but the more I repeated them to myself, the more I would believe them… and the more I believed them, the more likely I was to behave in accordance with them when the time came. It was like a self-fulfilling prophecy. And when I “heard” the opposite—from the voices in my past, like Will’s, well meaning though he was, or like Charlie’s, or for that matter almost anyone else who had ever known me in my former life, I’d be prepared. I could counter the lies with the truth I desperately needed to be able to carry out my mission.

  Then I’d focus on the specific truths I knew I’d need on Republic soil:

  The Potentate is evil.

  He killed Maggie. He killed everyone in the caves and in Beckenshire. He almost killed Charlie, me, and my parents, and Mom and Dad are his prisoners now. He imprisoned Jackson, and would have killed him too.

  Jackson is fighting for freedom. He is good.

  He loves me.

  No, I couldn’t leave that part out, as much as it hurt to dwell on it now. I knew what the targeted signals were going to try to tell me about him once I got back on the grid—that he was a murderer, that he’d brainwashed me into thinking I cared for him and he was manipulating me for his own purposes. I had to be ready for them.

  A real thought feels like me, I reminded myself. A control center thought feels shiny and glossy, like it comes from outside of me.

  I focused again on the wind rustling my hair and caressing my skin, and I breathed in the crisp, clean air. Ben Voltolini’s face floated before my inner eye: the deep set black eyes and the taunting, arrogant curve of his lips. I clenched my fists involuntarily.

  You cannot have me this time.

  By the end of that day, Will and Jean told me they thought they had gotten two messages through to New Estonia, using a net screen at a house twenty miles from ours, just in case the agents tracked the signals. One of the messages described the locations of the control centers under construction on their own soil so they could investigate them, per Joe’s specifications. The other told them that the rebels in the Republic planned to destroy our central control center soon, and they feared anarchy and rioting might result. Will told me he’d asked them to consider aiding us in our fight against Voltolini for their own best interest as well as ours, since construction of control centers on New Estonian soil “ought to be viewed as an act of war.” He also requested that, should we be so fortunate as to prevail against Voltolini and the Tribunal, New Estonia might aid us in the restoration of some semblance of order.

  “Jean and I are going to drive to the docks tomorrow morning,” Will told me, “at first light. We’ll smuggle ourselves on board as cargo.” He reached across the table and clamped his hand over mine, stopping me from spooning another helping of instant mashed potatoes into my mouth. “This is your last chance, Kate.”

  I set down my spoon and rested my other hand on top of his. “I know.”

  That evening before bed, I felt an almost overwhelming oppression, but I wasn’t sure if I was primarily sad or anxious or afraid, or some combination of all three.

  I wandered into the living room where we’d all had our initial council with the rest of the rebels. I’d noticed the battered old piano in the corner on that first day, but I’d been too focused on Jackson and what was being said to pay much attention to it. Surely it was a relic from the old United States, since nobody in the Republic manufactured anything so frivolous as a piano. I’d been fortunate enough growing up to know a handful of people who possessed such relics, though. That was how I’d learned to play.

  It beckoned to me now. I use to play in part to release emotions—songs and music had a way of expressing perfectly what I lacked the words to say, even to myself.

  I opened the lid and slid it back to see yellowed keys, some of which were halfway compressed. Probably every piano I’d ever touched looked the same in reality… I just never knew it because I saw only affluence at the time. I thought I’d been playing on polished baby grands, but perhaps every one of them was as weather-beaten as this one. I sat down at the bench and ran through a few scales, wincing at how out of tune it was—but even still, something in my soul expanded at the sound. It had only been months since I’d touched a piano, but it felt like so much longer.

  The song that came to me at first was Debussy’s Clair de Lune, because it was haunting and sad and beautiful all at the same time. I closed my eyes, swaying as I played, wanting it to express my emotions for me. It almost did, but not quite.

  When I’d finished, for some reason the chords of a song I’d heard on the radio as a child came back to me, called Only In My Dreams. After a few false starts, I played it from memory, singing the lyrics softly to myself:

  May the wind be always at your back

  And your face set toward the sea;


  Don’t turn back toward the shore,

  Don’t shed a single tear for me.

  I long to keep you by my side,

  But I know that can never be;

  Love must let go, must not hold tight,

  So I must set you free.

  Just as I was about to sing the chorus, about how my lover would come to me again only in my dreams, I stopped, feeling a pair of eyes on my back.

  “I’d say those lyrics are utter rubbish, and you should just come, if that’s how you feel about it,” Will said. “But somehow I don’t think you were singing that for me.”

  I turned, and he sat down on the bench beside me. I slipped my arm around him the way I’d done a thousand times before, and lay my head on his shoulder. It didn’t feel like it once did, though—somehow the gesture now felt as if he were Charlie, or my dad. I’m not quite sure how, but I felt that he understood that too in the way he squeezed me back.

  “You’ll become some prominent political figure there,” I laughed softly. “I’m sure of it. You’ll save the country, and the king will knight you or something afterwards.”

  He snorted a little. “I don't think they do that anymore.”

  “You’ll be the first. And then you’ll marry the princess.”

  “Is that supposed to be comforting?” He pulled back to look at me. “I suppose you think that’s the kind of woman I need—pampered and spoiled?”

  “I know what kind of woman you don’t need,” I murmured meaningfully, pulling back to look at him. “We’d make each other miserable as we are now, Will. You know we would. We’d be fighting all the time.”

  He sighed, and looked away from me. “Yeah, I know,” he said at last. Then he turned back to me with an expression of suppressed pain. “I suppose you’re hoping you’ll find him again, and that the two of you will live happily ever after when this is all over.”