“We can go after her,” Ian said. “She deserves to die for what she did to Eli, and now Midas.”
Dominic shook his head. “Midas brought it on himself. We got what we came here for.”
They all stared down at the bundle in his arms. A healthy baby boy with pale, pink skin. They could already see Michael’s likeness in the infant’s face.
“Sebastian,” Peter said.
The child watched them with large brown eyes, saliva bubbling from its moving lips. It reached for them with tiny fingers.
“Come on,” Dominic said, nodding toward the canyon’s entrance. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Chapter 23
The nurse shivered.
She stood watching the infant through the bulletproof glass, awash in the cold glow of the strip lighting overhead. The corridor was silent, though she could almost hear the creaking of the place about to collapse from the weight of all the earth and stone resting on top of it. That wouldn’t happen, of course; but since she’d started working here, the thought of having a whole mountain resting over the facility never failed to make her anxious.
A set of double doors opened to her left. She looked to see her friend, a fellow nurse, shuffling toward her.
“Annabel,” her friend said, rubbing her hands together. “Aren’t you cold?”
“Hi, Susan,” Annabel said, her gaze shifting back to the infant behind the glass, the only one in the next room. “I guess I’m used to it.”
“Hmm.”
Both nurses focused on the incubator and the tiny person inside.
“How many people had to die for us to have him?” Annabel said.
She could feel Susan frowning at her—could almost sense her friend’s unease as if by telepathic means. But Annabel was no telepath. It was just her intuition, nothing else.
“The cameras,” Susan whispered, nudging her and glancing upward.
Annabel looked to her right. The camera perched in the corner was like some kind of electronic vulture. She wanted to show the wretched thing her middle finger. But who knew what such a gesture would bring? She’d heard rumors about disrespectful employees of the research facility being taken outside and never being heard from again.
But those were just rumors, weren’t they? She looked again at the squirming infant behind the glass, a warm tide of pity rising in her chest.
“Poor child. He’ll spend the rest of his life under these cameras.”
“I suppose.” Susan paused, then breathed out in frustration. “Shouldn’t we be getting back? Our shift’s almost over.”
“Maybe.”
“Come on.” Susan waved her along. “Let’s get some breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Annabel hugged herself, eyes on the infant, unable to pull away. She couldn’t help but fantasize once more about returning the child to Michael Cairne—the boy’s rightful father—if Michael were ever to break into this place. That would take a miracle, though.
Susan looked around in obvious discomfort before settling her gaze on the infant. She leaned in close to Annabel’s ear and spoke in a whisper.
“Do you think he’ll try to come for the baby?”
Annabel gave a light shrug. “We’ll see.”
The double doors swung open with a heavy thump. Annabel and Susan looked in time to see Director Jonas Kole, second cousin to the One President, emerge into the corridor, backed by two men in caps and uniforms carrying automatic weapons.
Susan let out a squeak of terror. Annabel kept silent.
“Your shift’s over, ladies. May I ask what you’re doing here?”
Jonas was a big man with shoulders like the back end of a dump truck. He would have been handsome were his features not so blunt and cruel. He held a clipboard in front of his chest like a small shield—as if, deep down, he was actually afraid of the people he bossed around.
“We were just watching over the child,” Annabel said.
“That is an unacceptable explanation of events. The rules state that gossip among the nursing staff is expressly prohibited. This is strike two for you.” He looked at Annabel. “Another transgression and you could be looking at a termination of your services to the One President.”
The way he said “termination” drove a chill down Annabel’s back. Termination meant death. No one ever openly acknowledged it—they weren’t allowed to—but it was well known.
“My apologies, Director Kole.”
Annabel lowered her gaze and made herself appear to wither before the man. He gave a satisfied grunt and made a note on his clipboard.
“Very well. Be on your way, both of you.”
Annabel glanced once more at the baby. He was the color of pale honey with a light shell of blond hair already starting to sprout from his tiny skull. A beautiful blond baby boy.
“Come along now,” the director said, frowning at her.
He grabbed Annabel’s arm and pulled her forward. She managed to look once more at the crib and the name of the child in bold lettering beneath his wrinkled feet—a name every man, woman, and child in the Western Democratic People’s Republic of America would someday recognize.
CAIRNE, AARON.
Chapter 24
The crowd gathered in the outdoor arena, glad to be past the checkpoints and away from the bomb-sniffing dogs flashing teeth that could tear through bone. The light was draining from the overcast sky and it was cold. Up ahead, the stage on which Harris Kole was set to appear looked small beneath an enormous screen displaying a digital version of the People’s Republic flag. It rippled in a recorded breeze, displaying its proud golden emblem against a crimson background.
Tonight was the nation’s fiftieth anniversary. Tonight Harris Kole would wish another fifty years of prosperous socialism upon them.
Trumpets blared from a dozen tower speakers. The nation’s anthem began to play, supported by an orchestra in the background. The people sang. Many of the older citizens broke down in tears as the smiling face of Harold Targin Kole flashed onscreen alongside a smaller but no less proud depiction of his son, Harris Kole, in a cream-colored three-piece suit. The younger Kole looked off in the distance, eyes narrowed in heroic pride.
“Long live Harris Kole,” someone shouted once the anthem had finished playing. Many took up the cry until everyone was cheering.
“Long live! Long live! Long live!”
A man’s voice erupted from the speakers and began to narrate the story of the Western Democratic People’s Republic of America, how it had overcome enormous obstacles to defeat the armies of the East and establish an independent, wealthy, and educated nation unlike any mankind had ever known.
Over images of the Kole family helping farmers, industrialists, and students, the narrator told of the nation’s continuing success and its enduring promise of free education, free medical treatment, and free rations and shelter for every family.
The people cheered because it allowed them to forget that every single one of those promises had been broken. They cheered because it felt good to cheer as one entity; however miserable any individual in that crowd might have been, they were all in this together.
Suffering together—and now, cheering together.
The Party members had their own balconies from which to view the show, and they too were cheering, because they didn’t have it as bad as the people in the arena below. Staring down at that massive, stinking crowd, they thanked their lucky stars—and the Kole family—for the way things had worked out. The Party would always protect them, as long as they kept their mouths shut and any radical ideas to themselves.
The documentary lasted fifteen minutes. The flag of the People’s Republic appeared once more on the massive screen as well as on the many smaller ones, followed by a sound like bombs exploding as the sky burst into light. An extravagant display of fireworks followed. Colored light splashed over the crowd—first red, then green, then purple, blue, and yellow. Few remembered ever having seen such an impress
ive display of light.
Planes flew overhead, their bellies opening to drop thousands of tiny slips. The people gasped in wonder as the pink pieces of paper rained down on them. When they realized what it was—not confetti but something much more valuable—they fought and clawed at each other to gather as many as they could.
Ration slips were difficult to come by these days. Each one represented a piece of a meal, and the people of the Republic were hungry.
A few citizens were trampled to death in the ensuing commotion. The bodies weren’t a problem; soldiers in full riot gear took care of them, dragging them out by the ankles. The remaining citizens cheered at the promise of having food for the next few days. They cheered for Harris Kole and his benevolent ways.
Finally the time came for the One President to address the crowd. With all the fanfare of a Roman emperor, Harris Kole walked onstage, dressed in a black suit with a regal red-and-gold cape thrown back over one shoulder. Six of his men followed so closely they could have touched him. Kole’s face filled the large screen. His face split into a smile over the cheering crowd.
He arrived at the podium, its bouquet of microphones almost touching his chin, and beamed a smile over the crowd.
“Citizens of the People’s Republic, loyal supporters of our great, governing Party, rejoice, I say, for today we stand together as a democratic nation with fifty glorious years of rich history behind us.”
He raised a fist into the air. The people cheered and howled. Many of them were hungry now and tired of standing. The One President’s speeches often lasted two hours or more. This one could go on all night.
“And may we have fifty more!” He shook his fist, teeth bared. “My children. Many of you were young when I came to power, and I hope you know that I never stopped loving you as I do my own sons and daughters.”
The screen flashed with color. A photograph appeared, fifty feet tall, of Harris Kole surrounded by children, his left arm around a grinning boy sitting happily on his lap, his right hand pinching the cheek of a smiling little girl standing next to him.
“And now I have it on good authority that our capitalist neighbors to the east are in the midst of civil war caused by ment terrorists—and can you imagine if I had let that happen here?”
The image changed to a black-and-white picture of a ruined city that appeared to have been bombed into submission. The people booed.
“Our greatest enemy is divided, and with our increased military forces, which the people of this great nation have spent decades proudly building under my supervision—”
The image of the ruined city flickered. A sputtering sound erupted from the speakers. The crowd hushed suddenly and so did Harris Kole. He looked back to see what had happened. By then, the screen had gone back to normal and the sputtering sound had died away.
He cleared his throat. “As I was saying…”
A faint clicking sound, accompanied by a low hum, drifted out of the speakers. It reminded many in the crowd of the clicking noise their illegal radios made whenever the dial came to rest on an Eastern station steeped in dead air.
“God damn it,” they heard the One President say, muffled as he turned to look back at his men.
With a flick of his wrist, he sent a few of them running to investigate the source of the interference. As he turned back to face the crowd, which was now dead silent, a strange message appeared on the large screen, written in neat gray letters that drifted from corner to corner.
SIGNAL LOST
The crowd drew in a collective breath, the hiss so loud that Harris Kole responded by squinting at them, like he was seeing them for the first time, and maybe he was. When he spoke, his voice came out slow, uneven—nervous.
“We will not let technical difficulties ruin the majesty of tonight’s—”
He stopped suddenly, his eyes going wide. The crowd viewed his sudden change in demeanor on all four of the satellite screens. The large one in the center continued to bounce around its SIGNAL LOST message, though the smaller screens did an excellent job of showing the sheen of sweat gathering on his brow, the way his left eyelid twitched as if a fly had landed there.
“What do you want?” Kole said in a shaky voice. His eyes had taken on a distant look, almost as though he were watching a gathering storm coming over the horizon. He shook his head and blinked as if to clear his vision.
He turned to the uniformed men flanking him and released a roar of anger. Their mouths dropped open in shock. They opened even wider as Harris Kole yanked a pistol out of one man’s holster and aimed it at him.
The men stepped back, hands jerking toward their weapons; an instinctive response. He may have been their absolute leader, but the effect of having a gun pointed at you was the same no matter who aimed it. They cringed before him, unsure of how to respond.
A woman in the crowd shrieked. Kole turned to face the crowd, gun held forward. More people screamed and shouted as he put the gun to his own temple.
“No one move,” Kole said, clearly surprised at the words leaving his mouth, “or the dictator will die.”
The SIGNAL LOST message disappeared, leaving the screen in the center blacker than the night sky. What happened next caused perhaps the biggest shock of the night: a face flashed on the big screen, so large and vivid it was as if the face of a god had appeared in actual flesh before them.
A portion of the crowd, mostly those under the age of thirty, recognized the youthful, if gaunt, face from smuggled pamphlets and illegal sketches. It was the face of Michael Cairne.
“If this screen gets cut, Harris Kole dies,” he said. “He is under my control and will do as I say. Get on your knees.”
Harris Kole dropped immediately, landing on his knees with the pistol still held to his right temple. Beneath a brow spotted with sweat, his eyes seemed ready to roll out of his skull. The satellite screens had continued to display the One President in this new position.
Looming over him, Michael’s face stood clear and tall, covered in a week-old beard that clung to his jaw and cheeks like black stains. His hair was long enough to tuck back behind his ears, jet black and greasy. The dark green of his shirt suggested a uniform worn in rugged wilderness.
When he spoke his voice was not deep, but it was crisp and clear, each word spoken with the precision of a steady blade slashing a line into the air.
“My name is Michael Cairne,” he said, “and tonight marks the beginning of a war against the men who would give you another fifty years of cruelty, lies, and oppression. I’ve had to live in these conditions the same as you, since I was a boy growing up in New Sancta City, always waiting for the next ration slip so I could eat scraps not even fit for a dog. I won’t stand for it anymore. Will you?”
The crowd remained silent. They were listening, waiting for his next words. Could this really be happening? Was someone actually speaking out against the regime? It was unheard of.
Beneath the enormous face, Harris Kole kneeled with the pistol pressed to his right temple. He stared pleadingly at the crowd, eyes darting from left to right.
“This nation will find prosperity and freedom,” Michael said, “but not under the boot heels of men like Harris Kole, who deprive you of your dignity and your rights in the name of the greater good. We are done being hungry. We are done being poor. Starting tonight, we will take back what’s ours!”
There were no cheers. The people simply looked up at those cracked lips and narrowed brown eyes. Despite the zoom on the smaller screens, they barely noticed Harris Kole’s face, one eye of which was warped by the force of the barrel pressed to his right temple.
“Stop it,” Kole shouted. “Get out of my head!”
Michael’s eyes narrowed slightly. In response, Harris Kole pointed the gun straight up and fired, then returned the barrel to its original position against his temple. The crowd gasped. His bodyguards and officers, crowded along the back of the stage, cowered.
“Tonight is the fiftieth year of our suffering,” Michael said
. “Fifty long years of oppression, torture, imprisonment, and hunger. Fifty years of being told that you are not strong enough to provide for yourselves, that you must sacrifice your freedom so everyone may suffer equally. Fifty years of being treated like simple-minded children by a government in love with its own power.
“It ends tonight. I ask you to join me in raising your faces proudly and declaring the value of your own minds and hearts. You are now a collective of free individuals, and you will thrive on the values of independence, autonomy, friendship, and love. Not sacrifice for the greater good, not worship of a man and his father who would rape your mothers, wives, and daughters, and enslave your brothers and sons, and take ownership of your property in the name of a state that imprisons you for speaking your mind. This is your moment to shrug off your chains and work together to be free—to reclaim your dignity as human beings.
“Join me tonight in saying good-bye to Harris Kole.”
Standing taller now, the people in the audience watched as Michael touched the side of his head.
“No,” Harris Kole shouted.
The gun went off, snapping the One President’s head against his shoulder. His body flopped to the floor, the gun slipping from his hand. The people saw all of this on the smaller screens, but their eyes quickly returned to the face on the big screen. Michael Cairne was smiling, and yet there was no trace of amusement anywhere on his face. It was a cold smile, one that reflected the secret joy of the people in the crowd, the satisfaction of their deepest desire to watch Harris Kole pay for his crimes against them.
“In a matter of seconds,” Michael said, “there will be explosions along the wall encircling this country. The Line will be no more. For some of you, this will not be a gift but a curse. That is for you to decide. Will you mourn the old life, or welcome the new?” He tipped his head in a gesture almost like a salute. “Good night, brothers and sisters.”
The screen went black and the words SIGNAL LOST appeared once more. The crowd kept silent. Together, they held their breaths.
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