by C. A. Gray
“Well, I know they’re not now, so they won’t hurt me!”
“NO!” Jackson roared. He was only inches away from me. I could feel his breath on my face.
“Why not, Jackson?” asked Alec. His voice was a challenge, and he stepped forward, glaring at him. “You’re fine letting all the rest of us risk our necks. Why not Kate? What makes her so special?”
Jackson glanced at Alec, but he turned back to me in a moment. He looked at me with a tightly controlled emotion I could not name.
“She’s no more valuable than the rest of us,” Alec sneered. “No more than Kenny or Andrew. No more than Maggie.” He pronounced the last name like a weapon, and I winced.
“He’s right,” I told Jackson softly. “I’m no more valuable than any of you.”
“It’s got nothing to do with that. It’s the plan itself that won’t work,” Jackson snapped. “If everyone wakes up at the same moment, there will be mass chaos. And besides that, I wouldn’t want you on my team. You can’t hunt. You can’t fight. You’d only be in the way.”
I tried not to let that sting. “Maybe so, but that’s not what I’m proposing,” I retorted. “There is one thing I am good at, one thing that none of the rest of you can do. I’m a news anchor, remember?” I glanced at Alec pointedly. “Everyone in the entire Republic knows my face. They trust me. Every bit as much as the rebels distrust me.”
A slow smile of admiration spread across Alec’s face. I turned back to Jackson hopefully, but he shook his head.
“No. That’s too much, too fast, like I said before,” he declared. “You can’t just tell people the truth out of the clear blue when they’re not ready for it—”
“But they would be ready if we bombed the control centers at the same time! You guys bomb them while I go on the air!”
“How many control centers are there, Kate?” Jackson demanded. “You think that’s gonna be easy? And what if we don’t time it perfectly—we blow up the control centers but tell the people nothing. You think they can withstand the shock of that? You think there won’t be anarchy? You think that wouldn’t make the caves here targets to the Potentate? The Crone was right about that much!”
Tears of anger and frustration stung my eyes now, but I ignored them. “So what do you want us to do, nothing?”
“Nothing rash, yes!” Jackson shot back. He took a deep breath, to calm himself, and said in a much more controlled tone, “We have to amass an army first. A small one, little by little. Interrupt signals a bit at a time if we can, get people to start to question. Keep going in and doing raids—that, we know we can do. Grow slowly, at a rate we know we can sustain out here—we can’t suddenly have more people than we have caves or food to feed them. Then we can plan—figure out where we can go when we grow bigger, before we blow up the control centers.”
I caught my breath—that meant he was considering it eventually, at least.
“It is a good idea,” he conceded, “but if we do that too soon without alternate ideas, we’ll just cast the Republic back into anarchy again, like it was right after the US fell. The people aren’t ready—and even if they were, we don’t have the resources to support them all here. And if you start telling everyone your story before we’re ready to liberate people and give them an alternative, the impact of it will be wasted.” He stopped, shaking his head. “Kate, you’re right, you’re the ace up our sleeve. But we can’t throw it away on a crap hand. We have to save it for the proper time.” He glanced at Alec and gave him a tired smile. “Cheating at poker analogies. My tribute to Kenny.”
“What are you, the authority on what the hunters should and shouldn’t do now? You’ve been here for like a week,” Alec muttered back. But he didn’t protest more than that—probably because he knew Jackson was right.
So did I, unfortunately.
Jackson looked at Alec and said, “I’ll come and find you when we’re finished, all right?”
Alec shook his head, let out a passive aggressive puff of air through his nostrils, and walked away.
When he was gone, I sniffed, “So you want me to just sit here and do nothing, I suppose, useless as ever, while you go off and save everyone yourself?”
Jackson closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them again, the way he looked at me was disarming. I shivered.
“Take care of the refugees,” he said gently. “That might not be as grand as what you want to do, and what you may do later—but it’s still important work.”
I gave a tiny, bitter laugh. “You say that as if I’m not one of the refugees myself.”
He shrugged. “Sometimes the best way to forget your problems is to go help someone else with theirs.”
“What do you do, just spout proverbs or something?”
He laughed a little. “Sometimes I channel my Uncle Patrick. Bad habit, I’m trying to kick it.”
After a long silence, I sniffed, wiping my face with my hand. “I’m sorry about Kenny,” I murmured.
He nodded, staring off into the trees. “Yeah,” he said at last. “I was starting to like that guy.”
Chapter 28: Ben Voltolini
Ben Voltolini reclined at the mahogany desk in his study, swirling a crystal glass of scotch, when his cell phone rang.
The screen lit up, Jefferson Collins. The Speaker for the Tribunal. He thought about ignoring it—it was such a lovely afternoon, he didn’t much feel like doing any real business. But then he remembered that the last time Collins had called him on his personal phone, there had been a cave-in at the mines, resulting in hundreds of deaths and millions of lost capital for the nation. He’d needed to give a speech on the air that night, demonstrating concern for the bereaved… and he’d also needed to move all his personal stock out of the mines before the news broke.
Not that anyone would have noticed or cared if he hadn’t. But one could never be too careful.
On the third ring, he picked up.
“Yeah.” He listened for a few seconds. “Wait, slow down,” he said, his brow knitting, “that doesn’t make any—” He paused. “Who the hell is Jackson MacNamera?” Then, “All right, all right, fine.” He clicked the phone off without a farewell, glancing expectantly at the net screen across the study next to the mirror.
A few minutes later, the Republic’s seal lit up the screen, and the anthem played. Once it finished, Jillian’s flawless face appeared on the screen. “Breaking news,” she said, her face a mask of vapid concern, “an escaped terrorist by the name of Jackson MacNamera is wanted for the murder of three federal agents.” A photo of the young man appeared on the screen, and Voltolini scrutinized him. The boy had been unconscious in one of the federal buildings at the time the photo was taken, but Voltolini could still make out the broad shoulders of a fighter, and the rippling muscles beneath the garb of a sailor. His face was slack, though; clearly he’d been drugged.
“He is considered to be armed and very dangerous,” Jillian went on. “MacNamera has also been linked to the escape of known Enemy of State, Brenda Halfpenny, and may also have kidnapped government agent Roger Dunne.” Brenda’s picture appeared next, a middle-aged executive with sleek black hair, thin lips and squinty eyes, beside a photo of the expressionless nondescript Dunne.
“MacNamera is believed to be working with a team of rebels against our government, two of whom died in MacNamera’s raid. The others, still at large, have not set foot in the Republic for years, including Nick Salazar, Alec Chambers—son of rebels executed for their crimes years ago, Jacob Henderson, Pete Thorne, Eric Sansbury, and Harry Krauss.” Their photos appeared as thumbnails in the corner of the screen. “All of them returned to the Republic for the first time on the same day that MacNamera carried out his raid—and it was discovered that Thorne, Sansbury, Henderson, and Krauss vanished with a second EOS, Nelson Armstrong, on the same day.” Here Nelson’s picture appeared, giving the camera a toothy smile, his burly arms crossed over his chest. His looked as if it had been taken for an ID photo.<
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The photos of the others vanished, and Jackson’s slack face reappeared in the corner as Jillian went on, “MacNamera appears to wield a persuasive power reminiscent of cult leader Timothy Gordon. Here to recount the memory of Gordon’s power over his followers, I have with me Sociology Professor Geena Ryan. Geena, refresh our memories on Gordon’s—almost religious following?”
The camera cut to a squat woman with close-cropped, thick blond hair, a wide face like a toad’s, and exceptionally thick lips that smacked when she spoke. “Well, Jillian, Timothy Gordon was a political rebel who spread lies about our Potentate and our government, and surprisingly he managed to amass quite a following, as you said, about twenty two years ago.”
A photo of a man with a thick brown mustache in an orange jumper appeared, and the caption read, ‘Timothy Gordon, just before his execution by firing squad for treason.’
Geena Ryan went on, “He called for rebellion, even a revolution, among his followers, leading to the untimely deaths of hundreds of citizens. This occurred only six months after the birth of our glorious nation.”
Voltolini remembered this well. Six months was the serologic window of the viral strain he released on the public when he rose to power. It wore off a significant portion of the population at the same time, and the control center signals had not yet been perfected—which was why Gordon had been able to persuade such a large number of people to follow him. He’d never have had the same opportunity today.
So why was Jackson MacNamera able to gain a following now then, with no such advantages?
Jillian nodded, her face screwed up in concern. “I see. And what makes you compare terrorist Jackson MacNamera to him?”
“I compare them because both of them attracted a following quickly and easily. Eyewitness reports of the murders of the two government agents state that quite a few additional citizens, eight in fact, willingly followed MacNamera and Halfpenny on the spot. There was even a rumor that Roger Dunne, who initially confronted MacNamera with his colleagues, was not abducted but actually followed him willingly as well.”
Jillian exclaimed, “My goodness, how could a government agent betray our nation like that?”
“That’s part of why scholars are comparing MacNamera to Gordon,” Geena Ryan went on, nodding. “Such a thing is otherwise unheard of.”
“Yet as far as we know,” Jillian cut in, “MacNamera has not yet returned to the Republic since the incident.”
“He’ll be back,” declared Geena. “His type always comes back. He won’t be satisfied with eight or nine, any more than Timothy Gordon was satisfied with a handful of converts—he’ll try to indoctrinate as many impressionable minds as he can get.”
“That’s right,” Jillian nodded, “so it’s important for ordinary citizens to be on guard.” Here she turned back to the camera, and said with her best public-warning face, “Should you see MacNamera, do not approach him yourself, as he is considered to be very dangerous. Instead, it is imperative that you notify the authorities of his presence immediately. Those who fail to do so will be considered his accomplices, and shall be penalized accordingly.”
Geena nodded her affirmation, her thick lips spreading across her face in what was probably meant to be a smile. The broadcast ended with the seal of the Republic and its anthem, just as it had begun.
Voltolini stared at the dark screen for a long second without moving. Then his eyes moved to the crystal glass of scotch. In one motion, he hurled it against the wall just below the net screen, where it shattered.
Two hours later, Voltolini strode in to the conference hall on the second floor of the palace, dressed in a black t-shirt beneath a black sport coat, and dark colored jeans. He was the most under-dressed man in the room; every member of the Tribunal wore a full suit, with not a hair out of place. Voltolini insisted that they present themselves as the face of the public while on any and every official duty. He looked out over the faces in the room, all fifty-five of them.
Fifty-five. His lucky number.
“Gentlemen,” boomed Voltolini. “And ladies,” he added with a charming smile to the two women in the first row. “You know why you all are here.”
No one spoke, and he nodded, as if their silence affirmed it. “This new potential rebel leader, Jackson MacNamera, must be stopped. In one visit, ten citizens followed him, two of whom were already marked by the control centers as Enemies of State and slated for elimination. It’s possible another might have been one of our own agents. Where did he take them?”
When no one spoke, he turned to Jefferson Collins, a frail old man with a flowing white beard. He stood up and said, “We don’t know, Your Excellency.”
Voltolini regarded him for a long moment, and did not speak. Collins shuddered just slightly. “You don’t know? And what does the control center data have to say on the subject?” The old man moved his mouth like he was fumbling for words, and Voltolini went on, “Surely if they could pick up MacNamera’s brain waves, as well as those of five other former rebels who had disappeared and reappeared with him on that same raid, the control centers tracked them until they disappeared from our borders. So where did they vanish?”
“Oh!” gulped Collins. He looked around the room for help, but blank faces stared back at him. “I—don’t know, sir. But we can find out!”
“Do that,” said Voltolini, smiling graciously. The trouble with choosing the members of the Tribunal based on their willingness to follow orders was that that trait rarely coincided with intelligence and initiative. Too often, Tribunal members failed to see the glaringly obvious. He went on, “And while we’re on the subject—why was I not informed of this yesterday, right when it occurred? How is it that Jillian Reynolds got the memo before I did?”
“W-well, sir,” stammered Collins, “we just assumed you’d seen the first broadcast!”
“I did not,” said Voltolini, too pleasantly. “I was out hunting, as you well know. Off the grid.”
Collins bowed his head, and took a step back, like a scolded animal.
Voltolini turned back to the rest of the room and snapped his fingers. “Hendricks! Get a team of soldiers together and keep them on standby. As soon as we find out where MacNamera and his rebels disappeared, we’ll send in the soldiers on foot after them. They can’t have vanished completely. Everyone leaves traces. Make sure the soldiers you assemble are familiar with tracking.”
Hendricks nodded meekly, scribbling his instructions on his notepad.
Voltolini turned back to the rest of the Tribunal and declared, “Recognize this for what it is, gentlemen: the stirrings of a revolution. If we want to squelch it before it has a chance to be full-blown, we must act now, and fast, before MacNamera has a chance to gain any momentum.”
“Please, Your Excellency,” Hendricks stood up, licking his lips furtively, “and what shall I tell the soldiers they are to do once they find the rebels? Kill them, I suppose?”
Voltolini regarded him for a moment with a faraway expression, and then said very slowly, “No. Destroy their headquarters first, whatever it may be. Tell them to bring enough napalm with them to obliterate the place, even if it’s a stronghold in the side of a mountain. Tell them also to raid the weapons of the old United States military. Don’t give them our agents’ guns, give them the old school stuff. If MacNamera can be taken alive, then take him alive. We want to make a public example of him.” He nodded slowly, satisfied with his own orders. Then he added, offhand, “Kill the others.”
Chapter 29: Jackson
The sunrise peeked out over the treetops, bathing the cemetery and Kenny and Andrew’s rough-hewn caskets in reddish golden light. The children had picked wildflowers and laid them on top. The younger ones didn’t seem to understand what was going on, but the older ones stood stock-still, fat tears tracing the curves of their cheeks.
Father Edwards, the oldest member of the community, presided over the funeral just as if he had been a priest, though I understoo
d he wasn’t. He was just the closest the community had. Almost everyone turned out for the funeral—even the Crone and the Council members who had so vehemently opposed the mission that led to their deaths.
I wasn’t sure if I’d ever truly hated anybody before, but what I felt for the Crone after what she tried to do to Nick was the closest thing to it that I’d ever experienced. The sight of her face triggered a spike in my blood pressure, an increase in my heart rate, and a very intense emotion… like anger, but less transient. I wasn’t sure how I knew it was less transient in the moment, but I suppose it was because I couldn’t think of anything I could possibly find out about her that would change my present opinion.
And my present opinion was that she was evil. Not that she was a flawed human being who occasionally made poor choices… no. She was evil, pure and simple—she and Uruguay Stone and most of the Council, except for that Ethan kid.
Evil by itself wouldn’t be enough for me to hate someone, though, because I’d known evil before. I remembered the gangs that had tried to destroy Frjósöm when I was growing up. What was different this time was that she was evil, plus something else that made her wickedness unendurable…
Power.
That was it. She was an evil dictator. It seemed she had quite as much power in the caves as the Potentate had in the Republic.
No, not quite as much, I corrected myself. If she’d been completely omnipotent, Nick and Molly would be banished right now. Or we’d have a third casket for Nick.
Sam and Violet, the hillbilly couple, stood on one side of me, while Brenda Halfpenny stood on my other, with Roger Dunne beside her. Kate caught my eye on the other side of Kenny’s casket; she had her arm around Rachel, Kenny’s widow, whose face was buried in her hands. I smiled at Kate, distracted, and nodded my approval. She gave me a halfhearted smile in return. I flashed back to the conversation we’d had last night.
“I want to be useful to you guys,” she’d said. “In the Revolution.”