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The soldier paused to see if I had any questions. But I just stared straight ahead. I could guess what the Patriots wanted me to do, anyway—they’ll want me to separate Anden from his guards. Then the Patriots will drag him out of his jeep and shoot him. They’ll record it, then announce it to the whole Republic using the rewired speakers and JumboTrons on Denver’s Capitol Tower.
When I didn’t say anything, the soldier cleared her throat and went on in a hurried voice, “Watch for an explosion on the road. When you hear it go off, have Anden order his convoy to take a different route. Make sure you separate the Elector from his guards—tell him to trust you. If you’ve done your job, he’ll follow your lead.” The soldier smiled briefly at me. “Once Anden is separated from the other jeeps, leave the rest to us.”
I spent the rest of that night in a fitful state.
Now, as I’m escorted into the main court hall building, I check the rooftops and alleys of the other buildings along the street, watching for Patriot eyes, wondering if one pair of them will be bright blue. Day will be amongst the Patriots out here today. Inside my black gloves, my hands are cold with sweat. Even if he saw my signal, will he understand what I meant by it? Will he know to drop what he’s doing and make a run for it? As I head toward the courtroom’s grand arched entrance, I memorize street names and locations out of habit—where the main military base is, where Pierra’s hospital rises in the distance. I feel like I can sense the Patriots getting into position. There’s a stillness in the air, even though the buildings here are tightly packed and the streets are narrow; both soldiers and civilians (most of them poor and assigned to tend to the troops) bustle noisily along the roads. Some of the uniformed soldiers on the street look at us a little too long. I note them carefully. There must be Patriots watching us. Even inside the hall, it’s cold enough for my breath to cloud, and I tremble nonstop. (The ceiling’s at least twenty feet high, and the floors are polished synthetic—judging from the sound of boots against it—wood. Not very conducive to retaining heat in winter.)
“How long is this going to take?” I ask one of the guards as they escort me to my seat at the front of the courtroom. My boots (warm, waterproof leather) echo harshly against the floors. I shiver in spite of the double-breasted coat I have on.
The guard I spoke to gives me an uncomfortable nod. “Not long, Ms. Iparis,” she replies with practiced politeness. “The Elector and Senators are in final deliberations. Probably going to take at least another half hour.” It’s interesting, really. Because the Elector himself will be pardoning me today, the guards aren’t sure exactly how to behave. Guard me like a criminal? Or kiss up like I’m a high-ranking Agent in one of the capital’s patrols?
The waiting drags on. I feel slightly dizzy. I’d been given some medicine after finally mentioning my symptoms to Anden earlier in the day, but it hasn’t helped. My head still feels warm, and I’m having trouble keeping count of the time in my head.
Finally, when I’ve counted off twenty-six minutes (possibly off by three or four seconds), Anden emerges from the doors at the far end of the room with a team of officials behind him. It’s clear that not everyone is happy; some Senators hang back, their mouths pulled into tight lines. I recognize Senator Kamion amongst them, the man Anden had been arguing with on the train here. His graying hair looks disheveled today. Another Senator I remember from occasional headlines, Senator O’Connor, a blubbery woman with limp red hair and a mouth not unlike a frog’s. I don’t know the others. Aside from the Senators, two young journalists flank Anden’s sides. One has his head down, taking dictation furiously on a notepad, while the second struggles to keep his voice recorder close enough to Anden.
I rise when they reach me. The Senators who were bickering amongst themselves fall silent. Anden nods at my guards. “June Iparis, Congress has pardoned you of all crimes against the Republic on the condition that you will continue to serve your nation to the best of your capabilities. Do we have an understanding, Ms. Iparis?”
I nod. Even this slight movement makes me light-headed. “Yes, Elector.” The scribe beside Anden frantically jots our words down. His notepad’s screen flickers under his flying fingers.
Anden takes in my listlessness. He can tell that my condition hasn’t improved. “You will enter a period of probation as advised to me by my Senators, during which time you’ll be closely surveyed until we can all agree that you’re ready to return to duty. You’ll be assigned to the capital’s patrols. We’ll discuss which patrol you’ll be joining once we’re all settled at Pierra’s base this afternoon.” He raises his eyebrows and turns to his right and left. “Senators? Any comments?”
They remain silent. One of them finally speaks through a thinly veiled sneer. “Understand that you are not yet in the clear, Agent Iparis. You will be watched at all times. You should consider our decision an act of enormous mercy.”
“Thank you, Elector,” I reply, tapping my head in a brief salute as any soldier would. “Thank you, Senators.”
“Thank you for all of your help,” Anden says with a subtle bow. I keep my head lowered so I don’t have to meet his eyes, to see the double layer of meaning in his words—he’s thanking me for the help I supposedly gave in protecting him, and the help he wants from both Day and me.
Somewhere outside, Day is in position with the others. The thought makes me nauseous with anxiety.
