A white figure gestured at him from down the slope and Hans smiled as he recognized Seraphin. He had gone to search for friendly faces in the crowd, saying that if he could find the largest gambling table, he could at least find Joshua. He’d wanted to discuss their plan for Union’s Day.
“Any luck?” Vermen asked as Seraphin reached the top of the hill.
Seraphin shook his head. “We’ll have to do without them. The crowd is too large.”
The Regarian turned around to scan the assembled citizens and took a deep breath. He pressed his lips together, his shoulders tense. Worried, Vermen guessed. He ought to be more nervous too, but something about the constellation of fires below calmed Hans’ nerves.
“How was the mood?” he asked.
“Grim. Expectant. Angry.”
Vermen didn’t know whether it meant good news or not. Anger meant they believed their story, but it could make such a massive gathering wild.
“You missed a broadcast from Henry,” Vermen said.
“No, I heard. Everybody down there has a receiver. They must not have wanted to miss anything. What do you think he meant?”
“With his change in wavelengths?” He had thought about it for a while. It made no sense for him to change how he broadcasted unless he thought he wouldn’t be heard otherwise. Although, Henry’s voice had been more distant and he’d struggled with static throughout the last month. Whatever had happened when Andeal disappeared, Schmitt had been forced to change his radio equipment to something worse than their original setup. “I would say we should keep an ear out for the National Radio’s wavelength.”
Seraphin’s concerned expression deepened into a frown. “He can’t sneak in there in the middle of the day.”
“I know, but…what else?” Vermen shrugged. “And if he planned on sneaking in, he wouldn’t want to give advance warning.”
They allowed for a silence to settle between them, both staring at the campfires. Vermen couldn’t help but wonder what went through his companion’s mind. What did he hope for? That by the end of the day the Clarin twins would be in prison? Dead? And what of the rebels? What would Seraphin Holt’s ragtag band of idealist criminals become after Union’s Day? If they succeeded they would have no purpose. Not unlike him.
“This is it, I guess,” he said. “End of the line.”
Seraphin’s mocking laughter carried through the clear night. “Tomorrow isn’t the end, Hans. It might even be another beginning. And remember, you promised to stay.”
“That’s not what I meant. I—”
“I know.” Seraphin put his hand on Vermen’s shoulder and smiled. “You leave whenever you want.” The hand slid down his arm until Seraphin slid his fingers between Vermen’s. “I just hope you’ll stay around.”
Hans didn’t retract his hand. Perhaps he should, but it felt good to know they would be together on the morrow, that no matter what would happen, they would have each other’s back. So instead he squeezed Seraphin’s more delicate hand and let a peaceful silence stretch on. Laughter drifted from the gathered crowd below and the wind carried the prickling scent of smoke to them. Vermen eventually turned to his companion.
“What will you do? After.”
Seraphin’s eyes hardened. “Dismantle the Clarins’ network of friends. They cannot have acted alone. We’ll need someone wilful and incorruptible in charge to help clean the Union up. And then…I might return to Regaria. It was never meant to be part of this Union.”
Hans couldn’t help but smile. No vacations for Seraphin, no matter what. A man like Seraphin didn’t sit still when he could see something in the world that needed to be fixed. And there would always be something wrong.
“I’ll be there,” Vermen said. “You can count on me.”
“I know.”
Seraphin leaned ever so slightly upon him. Hans smiled. He wasn’t ready to kiss him again, not yet, but he knew he would be one day. Every time he thought of leaving Seraphin, of no longer spending days walking by his side, a pit formed at the bottom of his stomach. He no longer tried to fight it. He had spent six years chasing a man to honor his brother’s memory. That was enough, he decided. He had his own life to pursue now. Starting in two days.
“It’s strange to think that after all this time, our fate rests in the hands of Henry Schmitt,” Seraphin said. “The poor man would barely look at me the first night.”
Vermen tried to counter the words but his stomach clenched as he realized he couldn’t. The Regarian was right. It all hinged on a single, noodle-obsessed man.
“We’re doomed.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Hundreds of thousands streamed into the city throughout the morning. The grim expectation from the previous evening had vanished. Strangers chatted with one another, sharing tales of their travels, trying to guess what the rebels had planned for this day. The lines of soldiers bordering the streets did not douse their good mood: they were so many, how could authorities dare do anything? Somewhere along the night, this had morphed from a chase after a handful of rebels to a mass protest.
Vermen, Seraphin, and Maniel had wormed their way into the great convoy. They’d thought to move unnoticed through the crowd but that illusion was soon crushed. Every now and then someone would spot Seraphin and come up to thank him, or wish him luck, or explain why they’d come or how they’d heard of him. Holt squirmed every time he heard his name. He answered in crisp, short sentences and forced himself to smile. His discomfort surprised Vermen. Hadn’t he set himself up to be the figurehead of this movement? But when he thought about it, Seraphin had never been a crowd person. He worked with brilliant efficiency in the background. Vermen wished the others would stop coming. Not only did it make Seraphin uneasy, but it was dangerous. They did not want the entire squad of soldiers to know where to shoot first.
The soldiers lined up and stared in dour silence, a hand already on their batons. They’d equipped themselves with shields and protective helmets. Every tenth soldier carried a gun for gas bombs and sound grenades. Good. They’d prepared for crowd control, not mass shootings—or at least, the men they were allowed to see had. Vermen expected the fully-geared troops to lay in wait, ready to close the trap. The corridor defined by rows of soldiers might be leading them straight into it.
He hoped the students from Altaer knew what they were doing but doubted they’d dealt with anything of this scale. They’d brought megaphones, all wore bright green shirts, and they chatted with each other through tiny radios. Unlike the cheerful protesters, they often exchanged worried glances, convened for quick discussions in a low tone, or stared at the armed policemen on the sidewalks.
They must sense it too, Vermen thought. Despite its apparent good mood, tension ran high in the crowd—a fire waiting to be lit.
Chances were, Schmitt’s next broadcasting would be the match.
* * *
Henry’s soldier uniform burned his skin, a big lie waiting to be discovered. He could not believe no one had called his bluff, that apart from a single question by a guard outside the National Radio, no one had intercepted President Kurtmann and him as they made their way to the top floor. The tower no longer scared Henry, despite being as empty on this holiday as during their nighttime visit. Perhaps it was the daylight filtering through the windows. Perhaps it was the president striding at his side with grim confidence.
Perhaps it was the spirit-lifting view from the great bay windows on the sixth floor, stealing Henry’s breath and washing away his fear.
Thousands had invaded the city below, tiny ants crawling in an endless line. The procession snaked through Treysh’s neighborhood, wrapped around the mountainside, and made its way toward the police headquarters. Its sheer length boggled his mind. Henry wondered if he knew anyone in there. Had Seraphin and Vermen made it in time? Were Maniel or Joshua or any other rebels still alive and marching with the protesters? Did Kinsi and Tia decide to take a more active role and step out of their home to join the fray?
&n
bsp; As Henry thought of his foster father, of how he’d distanced himself from the broadcast months ago, his amazement at the protest crumbled. True, the line was long, but it was narrow and stretched. Thousands marched below. But tens of thousands—perhaps even hundreds of thousands—had gathered in the plains. He had seen the campfires from the Great Whale. This wasn’t everyone. It was a fraction of those who’d traveled to Reverence. Henry’s hope-spurred confidence turned to a bitter taste in his mouth.
“Where is everyone?”
“In the plains,” Kurtmann said. “They came to witness, not participate. Come.”
The president hurried down the corridor, but Henry watched the slow crawl a bit longer. They’d walked so far to be in Reverence on Union’s Day. Why would they stay away? Why would they not join the others in the protest? He didn’t want them to take up arms and fight. Walking alongside everyone would be more than enough! Was that so much to ask? Henry tore himself from the infuriating view and joined Kurtmann in the main recording room. The president was examining the electronics with a frown.
“You’re here. Good. Set this up so I can broadcast from inside?”
Henry stared at the jumble of wires going around the machinery. Military music was playing again, exactly like their first night. What had Andeal done to fix it? Henry licked his lips, wiped his forehead. He’d been so panicked, he hadn’t paid any attention. He was too busy listening for footsteps or alarms while the competent members of his group had worked. But where were they now? Dead. Captured. Nowhere near to help.
“Well?” Kurtmann pressed him.
Henry lifted his hand, let it hover near a beige cable. Was that the one he’d moved? He hesitated, peered at the symbols on the machine for a clue, was sorely disappointed. Why did they make these things so complicated? Perhaps if his heart slowed, his mind wouldn’t spin so fast and he could remember. He snapped his eyes shut, pictured that night. A clock had ticked, three minutes past midnight. Andeal had told them…
“Pull the red cable.”
Andeal’s voice was so clear, it might as well be real. No, wait. Henry frowned. The voice was just behind him, and it sounded like it was in pain. Nothing like the tense but excited tone Andeal had that first night. His breath caught in his throat. Henry spun on his heels, his heart hammering inside his chest, and he peeked through his eyelids, half afraid to have imagined it all.
His clearly-not-dead friend leaned on the doorway, holding his side with one hand and Lenz Schmitt’s original recording in the other. A barely healed gash cut through his blond hair, above his left ear, and every breath seemed to pain him, but Andeal managed a crisp smile and shook the disc.
“Let’s get this show going, shall we?”
* * *
The streets’ enthusiastic atmosphere vanished when thousands of portable radios screeched in unison, the now-familiar-yet-still-painful sound announcing a final broadcast. Conversations died, breaths were held. They huddled around the nearest receiver, moist palms and speeding hearts. Vermen exchanged a long, worried look with Seraphin. Whatever Schmitt had in mind, it started now. Hans hoped the man would have more presence than in his previous broadcast.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to this special Union’s Day broadcast!”
Andeal’s cheerful tone sent a wave of shock through the crowd. They gasped and whispered, excited. Maniel bit down on her index finger, holding back a squeal or a sob, Vermen wasn’t quite sure. He had an urge to laugh he could barely control. Andeal’s deep voice brushed away so many of his doubts.
“Before we start, we have a request for you today. It’s a bit of a full-loop thing for the listeners of our very first broadcast, you’ll see. In order to have the greatest audience and the best quality broadcast we can, we’re going to borrow the National Radio’s wavelength again. So please, tune your receiver back there, and we’ll see you in a tick!”
The radio’s owner rushed to his homemade receiver and changed the wavelength. Maniel glanced about and wiped her eyes when she thought most weren’t looking. As Vermen’s surge of relief calmed down, however, he grew more uneasy. Something about Andeal’s voice bothered him. It sounded weaker than usual. Judging from Seraphin’s concerned frown, Hans wasn’t the only one to have noticed. Whatever had kept their friend off the air this last month still affected him. The background noise on the radio died, killing the crowd’s whispered conversations with it.
“Is everyone back?” Andeal asked. “Sure hope you are because our busy schedule isn’t waiting for anyone. So, it’s a special day. We had a special request. And now we have a very special guest. Someone at the heart of this story who’d like to share his…contribution to it, I guess.”
Vermen caught Seraphin’s gaze, but the Regarian looked just as confused as he was. Around them, suggestions began to fly, including many loud “It’s gotta be the White Renegade!”
The noise drowned Andeal’s next sentence and Seraphin soon snapped. “I’m right here, so shut it and listen, will you?”
Hans snickered as their blabber turned into gasps and apologies. Seraphin’s glare killed the last of it and they fell into an awkward silence. Low voices argued in the radio’s background but Vermen couldn’t make out the words exchanged. Then someone cleared his throat:
“Listeners, please welcome President Jacob Kurtmann.”
A deafening roar followed his announcement, shaking the streets under their feet and sending Vermen’s heart racing. How much strength could thousands muster? Their outcry had felt like a small earthquake. What would happen if they unleashed their anger on the city? If those who’d stayed outside joined? Vermen glanced at the soldiers lining the streets, no longer confident in the adequacy of their weaponry. This crowd might not be the kind you could control. He hoped whatever Jacob Kurtmann had to say would not be the final spark.
“Citizens of the Union, this will be my last address as your president.”
Kurtmann’s voice was calmer than Andeal’s, a tad more nasal. He paused, swallowed hard. Vermen held his breath. How had Andeal and Henry managed to get the president on the air for them?
“I want to start with the most important matter: the rebels’ story is true. All of it. The Threstle Plague was never a natural virus. It was created by bioengineer genius Galen Clarin and spread on purpose. The vaccine and cure I used to fight this illness were also created long before the first cases appeared. Everything was planned. I did not know at the time.”
President Kurtmann stopped once again, perhaps to let outraged reactions die, but he hadn’t needed to. A heavy silence reigned in Reverence’s streets. Everyone hung to the radio, too afraid to miss a word to move. Vermen licked his dried lips. His throat had turned raw and pasty.
“I discovered this truth two years after being elected from an old friend—not a powerful man by any account, only a husband who’d lost his love to this terrible curse. He came to me with a recording of the Clarin twins planning this operation. It was all there, in one conversation, their treachery laid out in no uncertain terms. That is where I failed you. I confronted Galen Clarin about this and he threatened to take me down with him. I chose to cling to power and never spoke of it again.”
Angry shouts greeted his confession. Vermen’s throat clutched as he evaluated the chances these men and women would turn into a violent mob in the next minutes. The tension gave him goosebumps. Would Altaer’s students be able to channel all the energy into a determined march on the headquarters? And what would this crowd, already on the verge of bursting, do once they arrived? Vermen wished Kurtmann would stop now, before it was too late. The president didn’t.
“I am undeserving of the love and trust you have granted me throughout the last decade. I am not a strong man, but I hope that in the end…” He stopped mid-sentence, took a deep breath. They could all hear the lump in his throat. His voice fell to a low whisper. “I hope you’ll remember that in the end, I did the right thing.”
Hans Vermen’s stomach clench
ed as he caught the fatalist undertone. Two long seconds stretched. No one spoke. They waited, eager to hear or learn of this ‘right thing’. Then Seraphin jumped to his feet with a soft swear.
The gunshot blasted through the low-quality receivers, distorted by static.
People screamed and gasped in horror, withdrawing from the radio, but all Vermen heard was the blood beating against his eardrums, Seraphin’s repeated swear, louder this time, and the heavy silence from the radio.
CHAPTER FORTY
A burning pain radiated from Andeal’s side. After his dangerous dive he’d been forced to half-crawl, half-march to Reverence. At first he had survived on berries from the forest, but as he grew nearer to the city, he encountered more and more people along the road, heading to the capital for Union’s Day. They shared supplies, stories, and well wishes. None of them could heal or help his broken ribs and he doubted it’d ever heal properly now, but it didn’t matter. He’d made his way into the National Radio Tower in time, recording in hand. Whatever happened after, he would have done his best. He just hoped Maniel still lived and that he would get to see her.
Henry touched his forearm, dragging him out of his daydreams.
“He’s ready.”
President Jacob Kurtmann stood inside the recording room, hands clasped behind his back, staring at him through the thick, soundproof glass. He seemed calm and solemn, but his thick line of tensed neck muscles betrayed him. Andeal redirected the sound to his microphone and gave the tall man a thumbs up. The president introduced himself in a deep voice and began his story.
“I don’t know how you did it,” Andeal said to his friend, “but this is the nail in their coffin.”
“Mostly, I insulted him. I wasn’t trying to convince him. I was terrified and angry to find out our president was even more of a coward than I was. Then they received reports saying you were dead…”
Viral Airwaves Page 31
