by Tom Isbell
The trio is taken to a waiting room and asked to sit on benches.
“Where were you?” Book asks Hope, when Heywood and the soldiers disappear.
“At the Department of Records.”
“The Department of Records? Doing what?”
“Digging,” she says, and her tone makes it clear she won’t explain any more than that.
The three of them wait for nearly an hour, hearing the muffled conversations that drift through canvas. Hope has nearly dozed off by the time a Brown Shirt sticks his head through one of the flaps.
“All right,” he says. “Follow me.”
The three are ushered through a final series of tunnels and tents, reaching a chamber that’s the most elaborately furnished of them all. Ornate rugs line the floor, and wingback chairs are spread around like chess pieces on a board.
Behind a large wooden desk sits an older woman wearing a dark suit, a cream-colored blouse, and a plain necklace. She has short, reddish-brown hair. Although it’s the dead of night, she pores over a series of documents like it’s the middle of a workday. Hope feels a pang of disappointment. This isn’t President Vasquez.
The woman finishes writing, leans back in her chair, and makes a steeple of her fingertips. She smiles warmly, but Hope notices the deep bags under her eyes. She looks as tired as Hope feels.
“My name is Jocelyn Perrella,” she says. “I’m overseeing the transition from President Vasquez to President-Elect Maddox. I know you wanted to meet personally with the president, but I’m sure you can appreciate how busy he is, what with the inauguration and commemoration. He sends his regrets and asked if I would meet with you instead. Are we all fine with that?”
It seems less a question than a statement.
“Yes, ma’am,” the three say in unison.
“Good.” She nods first toward James Heywood and then to a woman sitting in the corner, scribbling furiously. “You’ve already met James, and I’ve asked one of the staff to take notes, so we have a clear record of your statements.”
“Thank you,” Hope says.
“No, thank you,” Perrella says. “Your letter was eye-opening, to say the least, and I’m sure what you’re about to tell us will be a big help to the Republic as we move forward.”
Hope, Book, and Cat start with basic introductions, and when they draw up their sleeves to show their tattoos, it’s easy to note the shared glance of concern between Perrella and Heywood.
“What camps were you at?” Perrella asks.
“Liberty and Freedom,” Hope explains.
“So you’re orphans.”
“Now, yes,” Hope says.
“Been there how long?”
“Pretty much my whole life,” Book says.
“Less than a year for me,” Hope says.
“Same,” Cat adds.
Jocelyn Perrella studies them a moment. Her fingertips dance on the envelope sitting on the corner of her desk.
“I read your letter. Saw those pictures. But for the benefit of this hearing, would you mind telling me, in your own words, everything that’s happened to you?”
Hope and Book take turns describing all that they’ve experienced, starting with the discovery of Cat outside Camp Liberty and going through each of the atrocities they witnessed—which are many. Hope watches the woman’s face as Book explains. On more than one occasion, she shows genuine surprise. For Hope, it feels good to finally share this story with someone willing to listen.
When they finish, the older woman removes her glasses, lays them carefully on the table, and rubs the bridge of her nose with her thumb and index finger. It’s almost as if she’s hoping to massage away this situation.
She turns to Hope. “Why’d you break into the Department of Records earlier this evening?”
“I was looking for something,” Hope answers.
“Did you find it?”
“Only partially.”
“I see. Well, next time, you should go through the proper channels and not damage government property.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Hope murmurs. Her face burns.
“When the soldiers discovered you, you were examining the folder of Dr. Uzair Samadi. Why?”
She hesitates before saying, “He was my father.”
“Dr. Samadi was your father?” Hope nods, and the woman shares another glance with James Heywood. “Is that why you came here? To read about your father?”
“No. We came here to warn you about Chancellor Maddox. But when I saw the Department of Records—”
“You just figured you would break in and find your father’s file.”
“Something like that, yes.”
“And did you find anything interesting?”
Hope starts to answer but then stops herself. She could be mistaken, but the tone of the conversation feels suddenly different. Hope gives her head a shake.
“So you don’t care to share what you discovered?” the woman prompts.
“No, ma’am.”
Jocelyn Perrella nods grimly. “And all three of you are convinced Chancellor Maddox is up to no good?”
“That’s right.”
“Based on what?”
Was the woman not listening? “Based on everything Book and I just told you,” Hope says impatiently. “Based on everything she did. The people she tortured, the people she killed. The weapons she’s stockpiling at the Eagle’s Nest. Stuff we saw with our own eyes.”
“I see,” Perrella says, and sighs. “And what do you want me to do about it?”
Hope can’t believe what she’s hearing. “What do you mean, what do we want you to do about it?” she sputters. “We want you to stop her!”
“You realize you’re talking about the next president of the Republic of the True America.”
“Not if the current president prevents her from taking over—”
“It’s not a matter of President Vasquez preventing her from taking over. The election is done. The people voted. This is a democracy.”
“Yeah, but if the people knew—”
“What? How she’s revived the Western Federation? How its unemployment numbers are the lowest in the country? How it has the fewest reported cases of unrest?”
Hope feels like she’s in a bad dream. This can’t be happening. The woman can’t possibly be saying this.
“I don’t know anything about those statistics,” Hope says, “or whether they’re true or not—”
“Trust me, they’re true.”
“—but they don’t alter the fact that Chancellor Maddox is a cold-blooded killer.”
Jocelyn Perrella smiles grimly.
“I have an idea,” she says, giving one of the Brown Shirts a nod. “Why don’t we find out the truth so we can end this game of speculation?”
Hope doesn’t understand what the woman is getting at, even when the Brown Shirt disappears from the room and reappears a moment later … with Chancellor Maddox at his side. The chancellor’s blond hair is as perfect as ever. A beauty-queen smile plasters her face. Her ankle-length coat drapes across her shoulders.
“Yes, these are the ones,” Maddox says with a self-satisfied air. “These are the terrorists who are trying to bring down the country.”
36.
FOR THE LONGEST TIME, no one spoke. Chancellor Maddox was calling us terrorists? Here all this time I thought we were the good guys.
“Which crime would you like to answer to first?” Maddox said. “Running away from your resettlement camp? Burning down an infirmary? Killing soldiers of the Republic? Oh, and let’s not forget your little stunt with the avalanche. Thank goodness Dr. Gallingham and I had just left camp.”
She took a step forward until she stood next to Jocelyn Perrella’s desk. Her eyes blazed. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out what you were saying about me? I’m the next president of the Republic, you little turds!”
I was too stunned to speak. One moment we were heroes, warning the president’s aides about the dangers of Chancellor M
addox—and the next we were traitors.
“How do you explain those weapons at the launch facility?” Hope asked.
The president-elect actually laughed, a condescending kind of chuckle that suggested this was better left to the adults.
“I don’t doubt that you saw a launch facility, and I don’t doubt that there were a number of rifles there. Frankly, I can’t think of a better place to store weapons. Can you?”
“Then why were you moving them to the Eagle’s Nest?”
“First of all, there’s nothing unusual about moving arms and ammunition from one site to another—that’s standard military procedure. Especially in a time of rebellion,” she added pointedly. “And secondly, I’ve never heard of this Eagle’s Nest and doubt that it even exists.”
“What’re you talking about?” Hope sputtered. “Of course it exists. It’s your headquarters.”
“Now I know you’re lying. Everybody knows I’m stationed at Camp Freedom.” She turned her head to share a smile with Jocelyn Perrella.
“But I saw it,” Hope said. “I was there!”
“I see. And my soldiers just let you into this fictional place?”
“I broke in.”
“So you broke into ‘my headquarters,’ where you mistakenly thought I would be, even though you’d allegedly seen firsthand how I treated so many of your friends? Why is your story not making much sense to me?” She sent a condescending smirk in Perrella’s direction.
Hope looked at me and I looked at Heywood, appealing for understanding. He stared back at me with cold, indifferent eyes.
“How about Camp Freedom?” I asked desperately.
“How about it?” Maddox replied.
“It was a concentration camp. Twins were experimented on there, tortured, killed. Girls died because the doctors injected poison into their veins. Hope’s sister was murdered right before her eyes.”
“Yes, I saw the pictures you gave to Mr. Heywood. But how do we know when they were taken? Or what they really represent? As far as I can tell, they show some girls with bruises and sad expressions.”
“But it’s all true!” Hope blurted. “It was my own sister. Dr. Gallingham dunked us in the freezing water! I survived, but Faith didn’t! And then you did this to me!” She angled her cheeks to the president-elect.
“You honestly think I would carve up a girl’s face?”
“Yes, because you did!”
Hope was hyperventilating so much that I was afraid she might pass out.
Maddox gave a nod to Jocelyn Perrella, and the head of the presidential transition team slid open a desk drawer and pulled out a large manila envelope. She slowly removed its contents: a thin stack of eight-by-ten photographs. She arranged them neatly on her desk.
“Take a look,” Maddox said.
We leaned forward. They were pictures of Camp Freedom.
But they weren’t the Camp Freedom that we knew. This was like some dream Camp Freedom from the past, where all the buildings were freshly painted and there were flower beds and manicured lawns. Signs on the buildings read Rec Room, Swimming Pool, Library. Even stranger were the groups of smiling, giggling children. A far cry from the Camp Freedom we had experienced.
“I don’t know about you,” Jocelyn Perrella said, “but this doesn’t look so bad to me.”
“Maybe this is how it used to be,” I said. “Way back when. But it’s not that way now.”
“You sure about that?”
“Positive.”
“Funny,” Perrella said, “because Chancellor Maddox invited us there just two weeks ago, and that’s when we took these pictures. It’s exactly how it looked.”
Air left me. What was going on? It was like we’d stepped through a portal into some universe I didn’t recognize.
“And perhaps you can tell me this,” Chancellor Maddox said sweetly. “Why are the graduates of Camp Freedom so happy?”
“What’re you talking about?” Hope said in disbelief. “They’re not happy. The ones who manage to survive are the most tortured people alive.”
“The reports claim otherwise. The girls graduating from Camp Freedom are consistently the most well-adjusted, the brightest, the happiest of all our young people. They’re the ones we need most in leadership positions. So you see, it’s not a concentration camp, but rather the very model of how all resettlement camps should be.” With her long, elegant fingers, she gestured to the pictures on the desk. “It might be that you’re just jealous.”
My mouth hung open dumbly. This was all some kind of massive conspiracy, but there was no way for us to prove it. That’s when I noticed that a half dozen Brown Shirts had slipped into the tent and were now standing directly behind us.
“One last thing,” Chancellor Maddox said, removing a piece of paper from an inner pocket of her coat. She placed the paper on the desk, then rotated it so we could read it. It was a short typed letter, addressed to My Fellow Inmates of Camp Liberty.
It’s up to us, the letter read, to bring this government down—now. Whatever it takes, these leaders must be destroyed.
The signature below the sentences was familiar. It was mine.
“Where did you—”
“Apparently soldiers found it in your bunk after your escape from Camp Liberty,” Maddox said. “Do you deny writing it?”
“Yes, I deny writing it!”
“And yet that’s your signature, is it not?”
I wanted to say no, but one look told me it was absolutely my signature. I didn’t know how they’d forged it—maybe they’d taken it from the report I’d filed after we first found Cat—but it was definitely mine.
When I didn’t answer, President-Elect Maddox turned to one of the Brown Shirts.
“Sergeant, take these three terrorists away and lock them up. President Vasquez asked that I give them a trial, and I just did. They’re guilty of high treason. A week from tomorrow we’ll hang them, right before the inauguration. A little present for the new Congress—to show what we do to terrorists.”
Before we had a chance to respond, the soldiers stepped forward, grabbed our arms, and roughly pushed us out of the room.
37.
THEY’RE WHISKED AWAY DOWN a long, dark passage, led outdoors, then marched across town to a large canvas tent. Inside it is an enormous steel cage—the New Washington jail. The guards toss the three of them into it, slam the door shut, and lock it with a key.
Hope, Book, and Cat stand there a moment. Then Hope goes to one of the cots and begins stripping blankets and throwing them to the floor, preparing her bed. No one says anything. They’ve been outwitted by a former beauty queen. Their private audience with the authorities only made things worse. Now they’re going to be hanged.
“Did you notice?” Cat says out of the blue.
“Notice what?” Hope asks.
“The Brown Shirts.”
Hope gives a glance to the flap in the tent, where armed soldiers stand on the other side. “What about them?”
“No badges,” he says.
Cat’s right. Hope’s father always told her those three inverted triangles weren’t a symbol of patriotism as much as they were one of hatred, and her entire life she’s feared them. They represented an attitude: I belong and you don’t. But here in the capital, there are none. Why?
“Maybe they’ve come up with something new,” Book says. “New president, new symbol.”
“Maybe,” Cat says. But she can tell he doesn’t think so. She doesn’t either.
When she finally drifts off to sleep, it’s not triangles or even her upcoming execution that occupies her thoughts. It’s one simple nagging question. What is Chancellor Maddox really up to?
The sad thing is that she’ll never find out. Her body will be dangling from a rope in downtown New Washington before Maddox’s true intentions are revealed.
Days pass and the Conclave nears, and with the passage of time there’s an increase of excitement in the capital city. Through a crack in the canvas at th
e back of their tent, Hope watches as people hurry to and fro in preparation for the festivities. It’s easy to see their anticipation for the big events: the inauguration, the commemoration … the hanging.
Cutting through the noise is the persistent sound of hammers, and Hope can’t help but wonder if it’s from workers building an execution scaffolding. If so, each nail pounded in feels like it’s going straight into their coffins.
“You think they’ll let us speak?” Book says one evening. All three lie on their beds, staring up through the steel bars at the tent’s ceiling.
“What’re you talking about?” Hope asks.
“Before they hang us. It’s customary for a prisoner facing execution to get to say some final words.”
“I doubt it,” Hope says. “The last thing Chancellor Maddox wants is three terrorists speaking publicly.”
“Yeah, but if she’s not president yet, who says we can’t? So what if?”
Cat rolls his eyes. “You and words. Me, I don’t plan on saying anything. I came into this world not speaking, and I plan to exit the same.”
Book can’t help but smile. Typical Cat.
He turns to Hope. “How about you?”
She thinks a moment. “I guess I’d tell Chancellor Maddox that she can carve up my outer world, but not my inner one.”
“Now you’re talking.”
“And that she’s not half the person my father was.”
“Good.”
“And that if she wants to be a real leader, she should bring people together instead of splitting them apart. Anyone can be divisive, but it takes someone special to unite people.”
“I like it.”
They’re quiet a moment. Hope didn’t mean to say so much, but now that she has, she’s glad.
“How about you, Book?” Hope asks. “Lemme guess: some famous quote?”
“I’ve thought about that. At the end of A Tale of Two Cities, right before Sydney Carton goes to the guillotine, he thinks, ‘It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.’”
“That’s not bad.”
“But then there’s Nathan Hale, who was hanged in the Revolutionary War. His final words were ‘I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country.’”