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He gives me a devilish grin when he sees how flustered I look. “Oh, you’ll like what’s coming. Believe me, you won’t be sorry for joining up with us—we’re gonna usher in a whole new era for America. The Republic won’t know what hit it.” He goes into a series of excited gestures, first spreading his arms wide and then pretending to untie knots in the air. “Our Hackers spent the last few weeks quietly rewiring things in Denver’s Capitol Tower. Now, all we have to do is twist a wire on any of the building’s speakers—and bam, we’re broadcasting to the entire Republic.” He claps once and snaps his fingers. “Everyone will hear you. Revolutionary, yeah?”
Sounds like a more elaborate version of what I did in the alley of the ten-second place, back when I first confronted June in an attempt to get plague cures for Eden. When I’d done a crude rewiring of the alley’s speakers. But to rewire a capital building’s speakers to broadcast to the entire Republic? “Sounds like fun,” I say. “What are we broadcasting?”
Pascao blinks at me in surprise. “The Elector’s assassination, of course.” His eyes dart to Kaede, who nods, and then he pulls a small rectangular device from his pocket. He flips it open. “We’re gonna need to record all the evidence, every last detail as we drag him out of his car and put some bullets in him. Our Hackers will be ready to go at the Capitol Tower, where they’ve set up the JumboTrons to broadcast the assassination. We’ll declare our victory over the speakers to the entire Republic. Let’s see them try and stop that.”
The savagery of the plan sends chills down my spine. It reminds me of the way they’d taped and broadcasted John’s death—my death—to the whole country.
Pascao leans toward me, puts his hand against my ear, and whispers, “That’s not even the best part, Day.” He pulls away long enough to give me another huge, toothy grin. “Want to know what the best part is?”
I stiffen. “What?”
Pascao crosses his arms in satisfaction. “Razor thinks you should be the one to shoot the Elector.”
DENVER, COLORADO.
1937 HOURS.
24°F.
I ARRIVE IN THE CAPITAL BY TRAIN (STATION 42B) IN THE midst of a snowstorm, where a crowd has gathered on the train platform to see me. I peer at them through my frosted window as we slow to a standstill. Even though it’s freezing cold outside, these civilians are crowded behind a makeshift metal railing, pushing and shoving one another as if Lincoln or some other celebrity singer had just arrived. No less than two capital military patrols push back against them. Their muffled shouts reach me.
“Get back! Everyone’s to move behind the barriers. Behind the barriers! Anyone with a camera will be arrested on sight.”
It’s odd. Most of the civilians here seem poor. Helping Day must have given me a good reputation in the slum sectors. I rub at the thin wires of the paper clip ring on my finger. A habit I’ve already developed.
Thomas walks over to my aisle and leans over the seats to talk to the soldiers sitting alongside me. “Take her to the door,” he says. “Quickly.” His eyes flicker to me and then over the outfit I’m wearing (yellow prison vest, thin white collar shirt). He acts as though the conversation we had last night in the interrogation room never happened. I just concentrate on my lap. His face makes me sick to my stomach. “She’ll be cold out there,” he says to his men. “Make sure she has a coat.”
The soldiers point their guns at me (Model XM-2500, 700m range, smart rounds, can shoot through two layers of cement), then haul me to my feet. During the train ride, I’d watched these two soldiers with such intensity that their nerves must be completely shot by now.
My hand shackles clank together. With guns like that, one hit and I’d likely die of blood loss no matter where on my torso the bullet struck me. They probably think I’m planning a way to grab a gun from them when they’re not paying attention. (A ridiculous assumption, because with my shackles on I have no way of firing the rifle correctly.)
Now they lead me down the aisle and to the end of our train car, where four more soldiers wait at the open door that leads down to the station platform. A gust of cold wind hits us and I suck in my breath sharply. I’ve been near the warfront once, back when Metias and I went on our only mission together, but that was West Texas in the summer. I’ve never set foot in a city buried in snow like this. Thomas heads to the front of our little procession and motions for one of the soldiers to drape a coat over me. I take it gratefully.
The crowd (about ninety to a hundred people) goes completely silent when they see my bright yellow vest, and as I make my way down the steps I can feel their attention burning through me like a heat lamp. Most are shivering, thin and pale with threadbare clothes that can’t possibly keep them warm in this weather, wearing shoes riddled with holes. I can’t understand it. Despite the cold, they still came out here to see me get off a train—and who knows how long they’ve been waiting. Suddenly I feel guilty for accepting the coat.
We make it to the end of the platform and nearly into the station’s lobby when I hear one of the onlookers shouting. I spin around before the soldiers can stop me.
“Is Day alive?” a boy calls out. He’s probably older than I am, barely out of his teens, but so skinny and short that he could pass for my age if one didn’t pay attention to his face.
I lift my head and smile. Then a guard hits him across the face with the butt of his rifle, and my own soldiers grab my arms and force me back around. The crowd breaks into an uproar; shouts instantly fill the air. In the midst of it all, I hear a few call out, “Day lives! Day lives!”
