by Kody Boye
“Because there’s no need to lie about this when the Countess has already spoken.”
“What?”
The young man named Ashton steps forward, holding what appears to be a large, flat device with a glass screen embedded within it.
“Show them,” Dusty says.
A push of a button, followed by the swipe of his fingers along the glass screen, is all it takes to reveal an image taken of the side of the Commandant’s head.
Ashton taps the screen.
The image turns into a video, and begins to play.
The Commandant says, “This is outrageous.”
And the Countess screams, “HOW COULD THIS HAVE HAPPENED? HOW COULD WE NOT HAVE KNOWN?”
Then a long, low wail escapes her chest, followed by a shriek that I could’ve never possibly imagined.
“We need to remain calm,” Commandant Logan Dane says.
“CALM?” the Countess replies. “You want me to remain calm?” She laughs—a cold, bitter sound that raises the hairs on the back of my neck. “You are absolutely ridiculous.”
“We cannot allow our emotions to get the best of us.”
“My girls are dead! Our future is altered! My Spire is in ruins!” She shrieks again before spinning and knocking an array of wine glasses off a table. They shatter, creating a cacophony of smashing glass that rips through what I now realize is a recording taken from a Dame’s headpiece. “It’s time for us to act!”
“What’re you—” the Commandant begins.
The Countess turns toward someone off-camera. Then she says, “Begin preparations to launch the Serenity Configuration. NOW.”
“But your highness,” a woman who I now realize is a Revered Mother says, “are you sure that’s—”
The Countess doesn’t scream, doesn’t cry, doesn’t act. She simply turns to face the Revered Mother and says, “I’m sure.”
Then the feed goes dead, and the video screen with it.
All Wu, Ceyonne and I can do is stare.
The first to speak is not me, though, regardless of my position or my shock on the matter.
No.
The first to speak is Wu.
She asks, “What is the Serenity Configuration?”
“The Serenity Configuration,” Dusty begins, “was, at one point, a proposed method of attack that would occur against the North if a disastrous event occurred. It would involve the launch of five bombs—known as Serenities—from a choice position within the capitol, and, if allowed to fall, would undoubtedly decimate, if not completely annihilate, the North.”
“But it wouldn’t end the war,” I say.
“No. It wouldn’t. If anything, it would cause the extinction of the human species—and, possibly, life on the planet as we know it.”
“So what does this mean for us? Why keep us here if we’re all going to die anyway?”
“There’s a chance we could stop this, Kelendra. But we need your help to do it.”
“Mine?” I ask, startled. “How am I supposed to—”
“You, Ceyonne Marsden, and Wu Dao, are the only three Beautiful Ones that are left within the Glittering City. If you banded together to speak out about the attack that is to occur, then maybe—maybe—we could prevent it from happening.”
“And then what? Die when the bombs start falling on us?” I scoff. “No. That’s not going to work. You and I both know it.”
“We have to do something to prevent the Serenity Configuration from being launched. Everyone’s lives depend on it.”
“Say we did talk,” Ceyonne starts, “and the North found out. Wouldn’t they just launch a counterattack anyway?”
“We do not the extend of the North’s nuclear capabilities.”
“And you know those of the South?” Wu asks.
“The woman who recorded this footage was able to get us this close to the Countess and the Commandant. Do you not think we understand the Serenity Configuration?”
“I—” Wu starts. “I mean, I don’t—”
Dusty narrows his eyes.
I swallow the lump rising in my throat and say, “We don’t know if nuclear war will happen if the Countess launches her bombs.”
“Actually, we do. Her bombs alone would cause irreparable damage to the climate within what was once the United States. If the North decided to retaliate in kind out of sheer spite, then the number of bombs that would be exchanged between the two countries would cause a complete nuclear winter, which would kill many people both here and in countries beyond our borders.”
“So you’re saying we have to do something,” Ceyonne says, “all because you wouldn’t warn the Countess.”
“The attack was inevitable. Even if we had warned the authorities, there is no way for us to know if we would have been taken seriously. We may have simply been locked up—or, worse: jailed for terroristic threats against the Great South.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “This is as much on you as it is on us.”
“Which is why I propose working together in an attempt to save not only our country, but our world.”
“But you don’t know if it will,” I reply. “You don’t know if it’ll stop the bombs.”
“If we start a revolution, it just might.”
I blink, stunned. “I—” I begin. “I don’t—”
“The three of you are the last rallying cry for your people. If you do not do something now, or at least soon, then everything you know and love will turn to dust, or die from the result of fire, radiation, or starvation shortly thereafter.”
I am unable to keep from trembling.
To think that everything we know could simply be reduced to ash is utterly incomprehensible. It’s like stepping foot on the Moon, or on another planet: on one hand, it could be possible in one way, but on another…
I pause.
On another, I want to think, it’s impossible to fathom, yet too realistic to ignore.
If we don’t do something—anything—then there is a definite chance that everything could be turned to dust.
Dust.
Like ash in the wind on my wedding day, blowing finely over the wreckage of what could one day be our hopes and futures.
I swallow the lump in my throat as it threatens to develop once more and face the man named Dusty McGee head on. “When was this video taken?” I ask.
“Late last night,” the man replies. “There are protocols that must be followed before the Serenity Configuration can be launched. The First Ladies from the five territories, who each represent a parallel territory to the North, must agree to launch the bombs. If one of the five even thinks to refuse, the Configuration cannot be launched.”
“So… we just have to convince the people to riot,” I say, “or revolt, or… start a revolution.”
“Whatever it takes to stop the launch of the bombs.”
“You have to let us think. You’re putting our lives in danger by putting us at the forefront of this… revolution.”
“Think fast, girls. Your families’ lives are at stake, as are those of everyone else you do and do not know.”
Dusty and the Southern Saints then turn and walk away.
“Wait!” I call out, snaring my fingers through the metal gate.
The group stops moving.
“How long do we have?” I then ask.
“One hour,” Dusty says.
“One hour?” Ceyonne replies. “How do you expect us to—”
They walk away without comment.
And we, left to our own devices, are made to bask in the knowledge that only we can stop what is to occur.
I couldn’t imagine a greater pressure if I tried.
While standing here, looking on at the darkness at the edge of the lamplight, I try to consider every possibility, but find that none of them offer any true advantages.
You cannot run, my conscience offers, because there’s nowhere to run.
And you cannot hide, my conscience chides, because there’s nowhere to
hide.
No land—no bunker—would ever save us from the calamity that will occur if the Countess fires her Serenity Configuration.
So, with that being said: what can we do?
I turn to look at Wu and Ceyonne—to try and gauge what it is that they may say or do or believe or think—and find that neither of them appear determined. Instead, they look lost: like travelers in a land that is not their own. I can’t blame them, because surely they are feeling just as I am, nor can I ask them to think for others before themselves.
In the end, it all comes down to us.
If we choose wrong, or even believe the wrong thing, then everything—
Everything—
—will be over.
Our lives. The lives our families. The lives of everyone and everything in not only our country, but possibly our world.
I struggle not to doubt myself over what is undoubtedly the most important decision of my life.
A sigh escapes my lips.
Ceyonne lifts her eyes to look at me.
Wu asks, “What’re we gonna do?”
And I, so lost and unsure, simply respond, “I don’t know.”
Neither girl offers a word of response.
I don’t expect them to, though. For all I know, they feel just as I do—lost and alone and completely and utterly trapped. Here, in this place, in this space, we are completely at the mercy of not only the Southern Saints, but the ramifications of the North’s actions as we know them.
There’s no denying what will happen if we do not make a decision, and soon.
The world as we know it will change forever.
And it will all be on our shoulders.
As I stand here, trying my hardest not to succumb to tears for everything my actions have done, I turn to look at Ceyonne and Wu, only to see that they are just as conflicted as I am.
“You know,” I begin, “that this might be the end of it all.”
“The end of what?” Wu asks.
“The fame. The fortune. The security.”
“I don’t even care about that,” the girl laughs. “Not anyone. Not after everything that’s happened.”
“Neither do I,” Ceyonne offers. “I’d gladly go back to the Sandstone Hills if it meant everything would go back to normal.”
“But that’s the thing,” I say. “Everything won’t go back to normal. We’re…” I pause.
Wu and Ceyonne lift their eyes.
“We’re tainted,” I say, “by everything we’ve been through, by everything we’ve done. We could refuse to do what they want—or, at least, try to—but… I don’t think we have much choice in the matter.”
“Not while we’re locked behind this door we don’t,” Wu says.
I turn my head to regard the metal gate between us and sigh.
As the truth of the matter becomes clear, and the hopelessness I feel as a result of it comes crashing down, I long, for one brief moment, to start this whole thing over.
The Procession—
The Inception—
My Wedding—
My Purpose—
Had I known this would happen, I would’ve run the day the Mother Terra came to town.
At least then I’d live knowing there wasn’t blood on my hands.
Dusty McGee and the other members of the Southern Saints allow us the time necessary to determine what it is we might do. During our short hour, which seems to stretch infinitely before us, we work to scheme many things, and plot out several courses of action that we feel might be able to sway the people of the Great South.
The only problem?
Anything we do could bring down the North, and because of that, hasten the inevitable.
You have to do this, I think as I stand at the metal gate, waiting for someone—anyone—to draw forward. You can’t back down.
To say that I’m afraid would be an understatement. To know that my friends feel the same as well?
I shake my head.
I know I can’t think about this—that I shouldn’t think about it—and yet, I realize now just how precarious a situation I have placed the three of us in.
Is this really better than death? I think.
I frown as I consider this reality. Knowing that my actions both saved and doomed Ceyonne and Wu is a torture I would never wish own anyone. On one hand, they have the chance to live a life of their choosing, free of the imprisonment of the body and soul that an act of terrorism creates.
On another, though, I wonder:
Would they have been better off dying?
Had I, with my golden hand and lucky straw, sentenced them to something worse than death?
That fault in my logic is torturous, and leaves me reeling with the possibilities.
I hear footsteps behind me.
I tense.
Someone draws forward.
“Kel,” Ceyonne says.
“Yeah?” I ask, struggling to hold myself together in what is undoubtedly my darkest moment.
“I’m sorry if I made you feel guilty for everything that’s happened.”
“It’s not entirely my fault,” I admit, swallowing a breath of air but refusing to turn to meet my friend’s gaze. “If it weren’t for this… this Process… I would still be home. We all would. And we wouldn’t have to worry about whether our world is going to come to an end.”
“Would it really be so bad?” Ceyonne offers. “When there’s so much pain and suffering?”
“It’s not our choice to decide who lives and who dies, Ceyonne.”
“I know. It… it shouldn’t be, at least. But… right now… it technically is.”
“Which is why we have to go through with one of our plans,” I say. “There’s three of them. None of them are particularly good, but… but one of them might get us out of this, and save the world as we know it.”
“More people are going to die because of what we’ll try to do.”
“I know.”
“We might die.”
I close my eyes.
Ceyonne steps forward. “Have you made peace with that fact?”
“I don’t think anyone our age can make peace with the fact that we might die.”
My friend says nothing. Instead, she lifts her eyes and says, “They’re coming.”
The wavering lantern light appears in the distance.
Wu draws up alongside us and asks, “Are we ready?”
Ceyonne nods.
I purse my lips.
We take hold of the bars before us in preparation of what will soon be done.
Within moments, Dusty, Patrice, and Ashton are drawing forward—and though none of them carry any physical burdens, they appear to be weighed down with the effort of the entire world.
Dusty is the first to speak. He says, “Have you come to a decision?”
And I, in response, simply say, “We believe so.”
“What have you decided?”
“We realized that here are three options we could take,” I say, and slowly but surely feel the unease begin to unravel in my chest. “None of them are exactly pleasant.”
“We figured as much,” Patrice replies, crossing her arms over the chest.
“The first option,” I begin, “is to go to the media directly with the evidence that you have presented to us.”
“The only problem with this,” Wu continues, “is that it leaves us vulnerable to attack from the North if the story gets out.”
“Naturally,” Dusty says.
“The second option,” Ceyonne says, “is to draw a crowd near where the Spire once stood and declare that our combined Purposes be in combatting the threat of nuclear war. We believe that our presences, combined with the evidence you have presented us, will inspire the public to rebel against the idea of launching bombs.”
“This is the second riskiest idea we came up with,” I say.
“And your first?” Dusty asks. “What might that be?”
“Kidnapping the First Lady of the Glittering city.�
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Dusty blinks.
Patrice stares.
Ceyonne and Wu turn their heads to look at me, their gazes filled with determination.
I turn my head back to face Dusty and say, “This was the last plan we came up with. We also believe it is the best course of action, since it would prevent the other First Ladies of the Great South from launching the Serenity Configuration.”
“This is crazy,” Ashton says. “You can’t honestly believe that we can do any of these?”
“Quite the opposite,” Dusty counters. “I believe we can do all three.”
“All three?” the young man asks.
Dusty nods. “Yes. All three.”
“How?” Patrice asks.
“The fist thing we would have to do is locate, capture, and then bring First Lady Rosanna here. As Kelendra said: the absence of a First Lady will prevent the Countess from firing her Serenity bombs. She cannot—and I repeat: cannot, under the Commandant’s law—fire a nuclear weapon without the approval of all five territories within the Great South.”
“What’s the second thing we would do?”
“The second would be to establish contact with a member of the media. I believe Kelendra can arrange this. Can you not?”
“I think so,” I say.
“How?” Wu frowns, then adds, “Wait! You mean—”
“The reporter,” Ceyonne finishes. “The one Mother Terra tried to have fired after your wedding.”
“I believe she’s still working for Capitol City News,” I say. “I’m sure I could arrange a meeting with her if I reached out.”
“And finally,” Dusty McGee says, “we would have to make a plea to the public to ensure that your voices are heard. This would require the three of you appearing in public—and putting yourselves in the face of danger.”
“Can we not do that on the news?” I ask. “Behind a camera?”
“There are people are experts in manipulating videos.”
“What do you mean?” Wu asks.
“Imagine you sat someone in front of a camera and ask them to say something. You say it, and it’s recorded, but it isn’t immediately released. Instead, an artist—who uses both photo-manipulation and audio recording skills—takes bits and pieces of audio from other clips and arranges them into the video, essentially recreating what the person is saying, right down to the way their mouth is moving.”
