My heart is pounding frantically in my chest. My hands are clammy, unsteady. But I cannot make time to deal with my mind. Nazeera’s confessions might cost me my sanity. I can only pray she is mistaken. I can only hope that she will be proven desperately and woefully wrong and there’s no time, no time at all to deal with any of this. I can no longer make room in my day for these flimsy, unreliable human emotions.
I must live here now. In my own solitude.
Today I will be a soldier only, a perfect robot if need be, and stand tall, eyes betraying no emotion as our supreme commander Juliette Ferrars takes the stage.
We’re all here today, a small battalion posted up behind her like her own personal guard—myself, Delalieu, Castle, Kenji, Ian, Alia, Lily, Brendan, and Winston—even Nazeera and Haider, Lena, Stephan, Valentina, and Nicolás stand beside us, pretending to be supportive as she begins her speech. The only ones missing are Sonya, Sara, Kent, and James, who stayed behind on base. Kent cares little about anything these days but keeping James out of danger, and I can’t say I blame him. Sometimes I wish I could opt out of this life, too.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Steady myself. I just want this to be over.
The location of the biannual symposium is fairly fluid, and generally rotational. But in recognition of our new supreme commander, the event was relocated to Sector 45, an effort made possible entirely by Delalieu.
I can feel our collective group pulse with different kinds and levels of energy, but it’s all so meshed together I can’t tell fear and apathy apart. I’m focused instead on the audience and our leader, as their reactions are the most important. And of all the many events and symposiums I’ve attended over the years, I’ve never felt such an electric charge in the crowd as I do now.
554 of my fellow chief commanders and regents are in the audience, but so are their spouses, and even several members of their closest staff. It’s unprecedented: every invitation was accepted. No one wanted to miss the opportunity to meet the new seventeen-year-old leader of North America, no. They’re fascinated. They’re hungry. Wolves sitting in human skin, eager to tear into the flesh of the young girl they’ve already underestimated.
If Juliette’s powers didn’t offer her body a level of functional invincibility I’d be deeply concerned about her standing alone and unguarded in front of all her enemies. The civilians of this sector may be rooting for her, but the rest
of the continent has no interest in the disruption she’s brought to the land—or to the threat she poses to their ranks in The Reestablishment. These men and women standing before her today are paid to be loyal to another party. They have no sympathy for her cause, for her fight for the common people.
I have no idea how long they’ll let her speak before they rip into her. But I don’t have to wait long.
Juliette has only just started speaking—she’s only just begun talking about the many failures of The Reestablishment and the need for a new beginning when the crowd becomes suddenly restless. They stand up, raise their fists and my mind disconnects as they shout at her, the events unfolding before my eyes as if in slow motion. She doesn’t react.
One, two, sixteen people are on their feet now, and she keeps talking.
Half the room roars upward, angry words hurled in her direction and now I can feel her growing angrier, her frustration peaking, but somehow, she holds her ground. The more they protest, the more she projects her voice; she’s speaking so loudly now she’s practically shouting. I look quickly between her and the crowd, my mind working desperately to decide what to do. Kenji catches my eye and the two of us understand each other without speaking.
We have to intervene.
Juliette is now denouncing The Reestablishment’s plans to obliterate languages and literature; she’s outlining her hopes to transition the civilians out of the compounds; and she’s just begun addressing our issues with the climate when a shot is fired into the room.
There’s a moment of perfect silence, and then—
Juliette peels the dented bullet off her forehead. Tosses it to the ground.
The gentle, tinkling sound of metal on marble reverberates around the room.
Mass chaos.
Hundreds and hundreds of people are suddenly on their feet, all of them shouting at her, threatening her, pointing guns at her, and I can feel it, I can feel it spiraling out of control.
More shots ring out, and in the seconds it takes us to form a plan, we’re already too late. Brendan falls to the ground with a sudden, horrifying gasp. Winston screams; catches his body.
And that’s it.
Juliette goes suddenly still, and my mind slows down.
I can feel it before it happens: I can feel the change, the static in the air.
Heat ripples around her, tongues of power unfurling from her body like lightning preparing for a strike and there’s no time to do anything but hold my breath when, suddenly—
She screams.
Long. Loud. Violent.
The world seems to blur for just a second—for just a moment everything
seizes, freezes in place: contorted bodies; angry, distorted faces; all frozen in time—
Floorboards peel upward and fissure apart. Cracks like thunderclaps as they shatter up the walls. Light fixtures swing precariously before smashing to the floor.
And then, everyone.
Every single person in her line of sight. 554 people and all their guests.
Their faces, their bodies, the seats they sit in: sliced open like fresh fish. Their flesh feathers outward, swelling slowly as a steady gush of blood gathers in pools around their feet.
They all drop dead.
