by Kody Boye
“How is that possible?” Ceyonne frowns. “That seems like something that shouldn’t exist.”
“Computers, Miss Marsden, are what make that possible. They were doing this back before the three of you were even born to sow discord amongst the once-American people. Aa’eesha Dane was the primary focus of what they used to call deepfakes.”
“Deepfakes?” I ask.
Dusty nods. “Yes. It’s technology rooted in special effects imagery, and artificial intelligence in computers.”
“What does this mean for us, though?” Wu asks. “Does that mean we can’t be on camera?”
“Yes. It does.” Dusty pauses, then sighs. He then says, “We can’t risk exposing your existence only for people—or, more aptly, the Countess’ media team—to believe that you are simply computer-generated images. You have to appear in the flesh to make this work.”
“This is so confusing,” I say, snaring my fingers through the metal grates before leaning my head against the cold gate. “I just… I wish there was a way to make this safe for all of us.”
“No one safe now, Mrs. Cross.”
I swallow the lump in my throat, then exhale before lifting my eyes to face the older man. “How long do we have to do this?” I ask.
“The Countess will likely refuse to use telecommunications systems simply because of the present threat to the country. This means that SAD agents will have to travel to the five territories and gather the First Ladies from each in order to bring them to the capital for deliberation.”
“So… how long?”
“A week, at most.”
A sigh escapes me.
Wu and Ceyonne step forward to rest their hands on my shoulders.
Dusty closes his eyes and says, “I’m sorry, girls. Your ideas are the best we have, and the most affordable to human life.”
“You’ll help us though,” Wu says. “Right?”
“Yes. The Southern Saints will do everything in their power to ensure your message is sent.” Dusty looks to Patrice, Ashton, then back to us. “Tomorrow, we’ll rise and get to work.”
“Do you want us to—” Ceyonne starts.
Dusty shakes his head. “No. We need nothing other than for you to rest right now. Tomorrow will be a hard and grueling day.”
“Thank you,” Wu says.
As the three members of the Southern Saints walk away, I realize something that strikes me to the core.
They said they would do everything to make sure our message was delivered.
Dusty McGee said nothing about keeping us safe.
I struggle to sleep on a night where everything is about to change. Cold as can be in a space underground, and feeling far more alone than I could have ever possibly imagined in a world full of people, I close my eyes and fight the urge to cry, but find myself doing just that regardless.
How could you have been so stupid?
This is the thought that haunts me. Like a dying ember in a pit of flame it burns, ever stoked by the winds of change. I want so desperately for it to be extinguished by something—anything—but know that is not likely to happen.
No.
I know this because guilt, as distant a friend as I’ve tried to let it be, always remains close.
First it was my mother, who in her grief abandoned me to what she thought was a better world. Then it was Daniel, tall and strong and loving as could be. A bullet to the brain he’d taken to save me. And now—
Now—
I wonder if it will be Ceyonne and Wu, who are just as much victims in this whole thing as I am, if not even more.
I swallow the lump in my throat and adjust myself beneath one of the small blankets we’d managed to pull from the supply boxes—hoping, to the Great God, that warmth will soon find me, or I it. However, I do not feel that will be the case.
“Are you still awake?” Wu asks.
I roll over slightly to look at her in the light streaming from our electric lantern. “Yeah,” I say. “I am.”
Ceyonne sleeps at the far edge of the blanket, breathing contentedly the night away, while Wu, situated beside me, looks on with her bright eyes, as if waiting for me to say something further. When I don’t, and I simply roll over to face her, she scoots closer and says, “I’m sorry for how I acted last night.”
“You don’t have to be sorry,” I reply. “You were scared. We all were.”
“Still. I shouldn’t have doubted you, or your intentions. You just wanted to keep us safe.”
“Now I feel like I’ve led us right into a trap.”
To this, Wu has no reply. Rather, she extends a hand to take my own and say, “Do you want to pray?”
Pray?
How will praying help anything?
“I didn’t take you to be the praying type,” I say.
“I think we all are, when times are tough and we’re not sure where to turn to.”
“But do you think the Great God will really be listening to us? Just two teenaged girls? When so many others have died?”
“Have you never found strength when you least expected it?” Wu asks.
I have. That much is a given. From leaving the Sandstone Hills, to attacking Ceyonne’s assailant on the train, to running from the bomb at our wedding, the attack on the Rita Blanca, our flight from the Spire, and more, I have found, at times, strength that should not have been given. I’d always considered myself a resilient person, a resilient woman, and yet, I shouldn’t have survived the things that I have.
No.
Which leaves me only two schools of thought: that I somehow inspired the strength within me to survive, or someone else was watching out for me.
But was it the Great God?
I don’t know; and for that reason, realize that I cannot deny Wu’s blessing, even if it’s only temporary. So, for that reason, I reach out, take hold of her hand, and say, “Okay.”
The girl bows her head and closes her eyes. “To the Great God above,” she whispers, “hear my plea in this hour of unease: please, protect the three of us from whatever harm that may come our way, and bless us so that we do the right thing in the presence of those who want us hurt. We know that you can’t save all of us, so… if it is us that you are meant to work through, give us the courage to save our friends, our families, and our world. Blessed be.”
“Blessed be,” I whisper.
Wu opens her eyes to look at me. “Do you feel better?” she asks.
“I don’t think so,” I reply.
“That’s okay. Sometimes, I don’t feel better either, but at least I know that someone was listening.”
Someone.
Was He really, though?
Fact is: I don’t know, and probably never will.
For that reason, I withdraw my hand from Wu’s, close my eyes, then say, “Goodnight” before rolling over to face the metal gate once more.
I do not know what will happen come time we awaken.
All I know is that, as of now, we have seven days to change our world—for either the better, or the worse.
Five
A hand cranking the gate out of place awakens us the following morning.
“Rise and shine,” Patrice says.
I open my eyes to find that more lanterns have been lit, and that the people residing here have awoken for yet another day. Tired, disoriented, and most of all, aching, I push myself upright and then stand just in time for Ceyonne and Wu to join me at my sides.
“What time is it?” Ceyonne asks.
“Early dawn,” Patrice replies, gesturing the three of us forward with a wave of her fingers. “Come. We must eat, then prepare.”
Prepare.
It is a word so damning that at first I feel uneasy. My chest tightens, slowly pressing down on my lungs like a vice meant to crush the hard shell of a crustacean. I soon realize, however, that this is a familiar feeling—and that no matter how badly I wish it to be gone, it is not likely to disappear.
For that reason, I swallow a breath, then make
move to follow Patrice.
Wu and Ceyonne follow in kind.
At this hour of the morning, people are just beginning to rise. From converted storefronts men and women and even, I see, small children appear. The latter are not as common, likely because these people were driven out of need rather than actual want, but regardless, it is their eyes that judge us as we walk, whose faces brighten as they see three beautiful girls who were not in their presence before.
“Mommy,” one child says. “Who are they?”
“They’re Beautiful Ones, dear,” the woman then replies, “and they are the last of their kind.”
Her declaration is chilling, and causes me to shiver even though I am bundled beneath a small fur coat. I don’t even bother to turn and see whether or not Ceyonne and Wu have heard the comment, or reacted to it just the same. There’s no point. In the end, it would only show weakness.
I disguise the sigh that follows as a yawn and say, “Where are we going?”
“Not far,” Patrice says. “There’s an old bar we use to cook our food. This is where we gather every morning.”
“How many of you are here?”
“Twenty-seven. The three of you make thirty.”
“And you’re able to feed all of these people?” Ceyonne asks. “How?”
“We have our ways.”
Ceyonne doesn’t bother to question her further.
Instead, Patrice leads us for another fifty feet, then comes to a halt outside a business that was once called The Saloon. Here, she takes hold of, shakes the metal gate, and calls, “Jeremiah!”
“Yeah!” a man calls back.
“Let’s open up! These people are hungry!”
A tall, lanky black man emerges from a side door behind a winding bar, then approaches the metal gate shortly thereafter. He offers a small smile before saying, “Sorry. We’re running a little late this morning. Dusty didn’t want to wake up.”
“Do you blame him? Especially considering what happened last night?”
Jeremiah sighs and says, “No. I don’t.” He then reaches forward and twists a lock opposite Patrice. “It’s open.”
Within moments, the gate is lifted, and over two-dozen people draw forward to file into the old restaurant.
Patrice gestures Wu, Ceyonne and myself toward the bar just in time for Dusty to emerge, a bandana around his head and a layer of sweat on his face. “Sorry, Patrice,” he says. “We’re running a bit late this morning.”
“Jeremiah said,” she replies, crossing her arms over her chest. “Do we enough for three more?”
“We factored them in, yes.”
“Good.” Patrice turns her head to face us. “Hope you girls are okay with rice and beans.”
“We don’t mind,” I say, turning my head to look at Ceyonne and Wu. “Do we?”
Both girls nod. I can only imagine that they’re as thankful as I am that we even get food, considering we’ve intruded on the Saints’ sacred space.
Dusty nods and calls, “Everyone! You know the drill! Line up!”
The crowd tapers into a single-file line and begins to advance toward the bar. It is here that several other men—including the two who came to warn us of Dusty’s impending revelation—appear from the kitchen, each carrying trays of food, which they pass to the first three men and women in the line. The process continues like this for nearly ten minutes, at which point Ceyonne, Wu and myself—who have stood beside Patrice in silent anticipation—draw forward to accept our own meager portions of fried rice and cooked beans.
“Thank you,” is all Wu and Ceyonne can say.
I merely nod, and make move to lead the three of us toward an empty table.
A hand on my shoulder stops me. “You’ll eat with us,” Patrice says.
“Are you—” I start.
The woman narrows her eyes.
I swallow, but make move to follow.
Within moments, we are stepping into an old office, in which there is a large desk, around which we are meant to seat ourselves. We wait for Dusty to file into the room, then seat ourselves in the chairs opposite him.
I have just begun to put food in my mouth when Eugene, Carter and Ashton step into the room, each bearing their own plates of food.
“I take it you are the Saints?” Ceyonne asks.
“We are all Saints here,” Dusty says. “All brothers and sisters against the South’s oppressive system.”
“But the five of you are important,” I say. “You have to be. Why would we be here otherwise?”
Patrice nods.
Ashton flicks his gaze between us three girls, then turns his gaze toward Dusty. “I take it this is where we’re going to discuss what we’re going to do?”
“Exactly,” the man says. “Patrice. Make sure that door is locked.”
The woman locks and bolts the door, then pulls up a fold-out chair and seats herself at the edge of the desk before directing her attention to Dusty.
The silver-haired man leans back in his seat and says, “We’ve been discussing the logistics of the scenarios you’ve come up with, and have developed a somewhat-feasible plan based on your ideas.”
The three of us stare in silence.
The man smirks and lifts his fork to gather some rice and beans into his mouth. He chews, almost thoughtfully, for several long moments, then swallows before saying, “Our first order of business is to apprehend the First Lady of the Glittering City.”
“Do we know where she is?” Wu asks.
To which Dusty replies with, “Ashton is working on that as we speak.”
The three of us turn our head to look at the auburn-haired man.
“Ashton,” Patrice begins, “was the youngest security officer in the city before he abandoned his duties and became a part of the Southern Saints.”
“Security officer?” Ceyonne frowns. “I thought that only women were SADs?”
“Correct,” Ashton says. “I wasn’t a SAD. I was what you call a C.S.O.—otherwise known as a City Security Officer. My job was to monitor the influx of data coming into the city, but specifically: details surrounding those who entered it.”
“In other words,” Patrice says, “Ashton was an immigration officer.”
“How does that help us?” I ask.
“It helps us in many ways,” Dusty says. “For one: Ashton had access to the entire security network of the Glittering City. Secondly: it means that he knows all the dirty little secrets surrounding security protocol.”
“I know where people live, where they go, and where they work,” he says.
“So… First Lady Rosanna didn’t live in the Spire,” I offer, matter-of-factly.
“No. She didn’t. That was merely her station during official business hours.”
“So you know where she lives.”
Ashton flashes a smiles and says, “Exactly. However—therein lies our problem.”
Everyone falls silent.
Dusty and Patrice turn their heads to regard the young man.
In response, Ashton clears his throat and says, “In the event of a terrorist attack, the Glittering City’s politicians are meant to be housed in high-security locations. Think of them as luxury hotels, but only for the city’s elite. However—that does not mean that they have to be in those locations.”
“So...” I pause. “Do you know where she is?”
“Amelia Beckinsdale bugged her personal vehicle the night the Spire fell. We know exactly where the First Lady’s vehicle is at all times.”
“But… not her specifically.”
Ashton sighs and shakes his head. “No. But… it’s a start, and it leaves us in a position where we can easily monitor where she’s going, and when she’s going there.”
“So where is her vehicle now?”
The young man glances at Dusty, who merely nods and says, “Show them.”
Ashton turns, withdraws the large black device with the glass touchscreen, then summons several windows upon its surface. He sorts through
them before twisting the device around before saying, “There.”
A single blue dot was marked on the outskirts of town—right near the Ceres Farmlands.
“She’d really go there?” Ceyonne asks. “After what happened to Kel?”
“She owns luxury estate in the area,” Dusty says, “on a hill that overlooks the Farmlands. There’s literally no way to get in there without being watched by high-security cameras.”
“Which means we have to disable them,” Wu offers.
To which Ashton nods and says, “Exactly.”
“How?”
“Leave the technical aspects to me. Getting in will be the easy part. Getting her out, however, will be another story entirely.”
“Which is why we propose this,” Patrice says, and turns her attention solely on me. “We use you as bait.”
“Me?” I ask. “Bait?”
“You’d be caught red-handed with that blonde hair of yours,” Eugene grumbles from a table at the far edge of the room. “That’d have to fixed.”
“You’re gonna dye my hair? Just to make me bait?”
“Are you particular attached to the color?”
“I—”
“Your friends have dark hair,” Patrice says, “and from everything I know about beauty salons, it takes chemicals to lighten hair.”
“It’d be easier to just dye yours,” Dusty says.
“You have dye?”
Dusty nods. “Yes. We do.”
“Why do you have hair dye?”
“Because we need to be able to change our appearances at any moment,” he says. “You’ll look like a different person with dark hair.”
“But… won’t she… recognize me?”
“The idea is to trick her into believing you’re Kelendra Cross, and to get her to let her guard down long enough to get the gate open.”
“At which point we’ll disable whatever guards might be present and storm the building.”
“You say disable,” Ceyonne says. “Does that mean you’ll—”
Dusty blinks.
Ceyonne purses her lips.
The man then says, “Disabling is putting what we’ll do lightly. If we have to resort to more than just stunning them, then we’ll do it.”
