Chapter 4: Terrorist on the Table — The Key of Oslov

Volume 19: Oslov Unraveled

Chapter 4 Terrorist on the Table

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

28 October, year 374, 12:13 a.m.

Detmer felt very lucky not to suffer from claustrophobia. Bror led them down one tunnel, up another, down a flight of stairs, through a trapdoor, into another passage so narrow it was practically a crawlspace, down yet another tunnel … it was a nightmare. The whole time, Detmer kept a tight grip on the hand of his Upstart companion, unsure whether he was trying to reassure her or himself.Both of them were trembling, and not just with cold. At one point, while they waited for Bror to climb a ladder and open a hatch in the ceiling, she said, “I’m Gregoria. You?”Strange that she used only her first name—how was Detmer supposed to know her status? Maybe she was afraid of acknowledging it in front of Bror, a Laborer who might want to use her as a hostage.He responded in kind: “Detmer.”The hatch led into another tunnel, down which they headed toward a faint light. As they approached, it brightened, and Gregoria said, “That’s not candles.”“A lantern?”“No, it’s blue. Someone has a generator.”Sure enough, they finally emerged into an enormous, vaulted basement lit by a few widely spaced fluorescent tubes, the rest sunk in shadows.“The power’s on!” Normally, Detmer would have found this place gloomy and hideous. He had never been so happy to see fluorescents before. The air was warmer, vibrating with the familiar thrum of a heat pump. “Thank everything green! Bror, where are we? Where’s Tilrey?”Bror ushered them in front of him, to the foot of a flight of concrete stairs. Two young Laborers in loose workout clothes sat on the bottom step, playing cards.They scrambled to their feet, and Bror said to them, “The True Hearth never stops burning.”One of the Laborers repeated the phrase in a Karkei accent, his gaze moving over Detmer and Gregoria. In the hand without the cards, he held a long length of steel pipe. “More guests for the storage room?” he asked, eyes narrowing with a knowing glint.“Just one.” Bror took Gregoria by the shoulder and tugged her gently away from Detmer toward the Karkei youth. “You’re gonna be all right,” he said softly to her. And to the young man, “Will you make sure she gets a chance to shower? Fresh clothes? Do it as a favor to me.”“We’re not mistreatin’ any of them,” the youth said, taking Gregoria by the arm. He was sleek and handsome, not your typical tough, but Detmer didn’t like the looks of that pipe.“I know, lad. I’m just telling you to be extra kind.”The youth took a step away from the stairs, toward the shadows at the rear of the basement. Detmer tried to follow. “Where are you taking her?”“Shh. It’s okay.” Bror patted him on the shoulder. Then he turned to Gregoria, who had a sour expression of dread frozen on her face, as if she wasn’t sure whether it was worse to go or stay. “We have others like you here, Fir’n. Admins, even Councillors. You’ll be safe with them, I promise.”“Safe where?” She looked pale. “Where’s Detmer going?”“Upstairs.” Bror nodded at the other young man, who rose briskly from the steps as if he’d been commanded. “He’ll have tea with the director and then see his boyfriend. Don’t worry about him!”“I—what?” But Detmer had no time to think. The second youth was already grabbing him and marching him up the stairs.“You said I’d see Tilrey!” he yelled downward, planting his feet and doing his best to resist.“I didn’t say that,” Bror called from below. His tone was still friendly. “But you are going to do something for Tilrey—and for all of us. Once your friend Blas knows you’re here in the Brothel, he’ll come running.”*The Council chamber was in an uproar. Things were happening so fast that for now Tilrey could only stand beside Gersha, a helpless spectator.He was waiting for Blas Lindblom to accuse him of murder. So far, though, everyone seemed to be ignoring Davita’s son’s outburst, his claim to know who the real killer was.General Atteivian’s voice rose above the tumult, giving orders to his troops. “Take the murderer into custody!”The soldiers advanced on Stefan. But Blas apparently wasn’t giving him up so easily. He seized the boy’s hand and dragged him up the steps to the Council table, putting its massive wooden bulk between them and their pursuers. Bors Dartán skittered after them.“I’m the Examining Magistrate! Everyone hold off till I’ve presented my case!” Blas’s voice boomed above the excited cries of Councillors and Programmers. He squinted down at the crowd as if looking for someone.Tilrey fought an impulse to hide. The last thing he needed right now was to be accused of Lindahl’s murderer. He was guilty, even if he hadn’t wielded the knife.Bors Dartán would probably be all too happy to tell the Council about Tilrey’s role in the True Hearth. But Einara wouldn’t want that, would she? Didn’t she want him alive and on her side?“This young man nearly died this evening,” Blas orated, pinning his mother with pitiless eyes. “How many of you know that your Inner Security Council tried to calm the mob by killing Stefan Altmering in cold blood? How many of you care?”There were gasps, mostly from the younger Councillors. Tilrey thought the senior ones didn’t seem surprised.I can’t just confess everything. Should I confess everything? Besha had said to wait until Stefan “took the floor.” But Stefan didn’t look likely to start telling his side of the story; he was practically hiding behind Blas.Everyone’s attention had shifted to Davita, standing very upright in the aisle beside the general. They were waiting for her to handle the situation.She aimed a steely gaze at her beloved son. Knowing how close she’d come to collapse in the tunnel, Tilrey had to admire her. “Blas, stop grandstanding.”“Yes, please,” Councillor Saldegren said. “That’s some accusation to make during a crisis, young man! Especially directed at your own mother.”“Vanya, shush. My son doesn’t lie,” Davita said, turning to address the amphitheater. “I raised him well. Could I have a chair at the table?”Tilrey and the general both sped to obey, but Tilrey was quicker. He sprang up the steps and pulled out a chair from the Council table. Then he leapt to the ground, offered Davita his arm, and led her to a seat where she could face her accuser.“Perfect. Thank you.” Davita patted his arm, silently telling him to stay beside her.Tilrey stayed. For years he had worked to make himself indispensable to Davita, apparently with success. But he wasn’t sure why he was still jumping to do her bidding. What good would it do once she knew the truth?Seeing his mother with Tilrey, Blas went crimson. Tilrey could feel the heat of his rage. He didn’t try to meet the younger man’s eyes.I can’t hide anymore. Not now.“And some water,” Davita said to General Atteivian, who dispatched two of his men to fulfill the command.“He had Lindahl killed, Mother!” Blas sputtered, clearly unable to hold it in anymore. He stabbed a finger at Tilrey. “He’s the one you want! Lindahl caught Bronn committing treason in Harbour and had to be silenced. I have witnesses!”Tilrey stared down at the familiar grain of the Council table. All around him, he heard the gasps and muffled exclamations of people who were reacting to the accusation—shocked, skeptical. For now.“Who’s he saying did it?” a woman’s voice asked.“The kettle boy.”“The actor?”“No, the secretary. Gádden’s piece.”“Nonsense.” Davita barely raised her voice, but her tone silenced her son. “We don’t have time for these conspiracy theories when the Republic is under attack. We’ll sort out Lindahl’s death later.”“Unless Lindahl’s murderer caused the attack!” Blas sounded so frantic that Tilrey couldn’t help looking up. He saw a glaze of desperation on the younger man’s eyes. “Do you not hear me, Mother? Why won’t you see?”“Everyone! Order! I can’t hear myself think! Now, where were we?” Davita glanced from Blas to Bors to Stefan, so stern that even her son shut his mouth.Tilrey kept his expression blank, but his mind whirled. If he revealed himself as a rebel now, Blas would be triumphant. Stefan would be exonerated. And he and Gersha would be outnumbered—unless Janta somehow came to their rescue.Besha had said to wait. He scanned the amphitheater for his treacherous friend, hoping for a signal, but couldn’t find him.“My son has a noble heart. He’s made himself the champion of the oppressed.” Davita was using her resonant, speech-giving voice. “But when the fate of the Republic is at stake, we must use every possible method to save it. So yes—I ordered the whore’s death.” A careless wave at Stefan, as if he were barely a person. “Extra-judicial executions have precedent.”“They do indeed,” Saldegren assured the room, making Tilrey wonder if he were part of this Inner Security Council. “As long as the boy is alive, the mob has a reason to tear this city apart, and all of us are in danger.”Vreya Akeina rose from her seat. “Maybe. But if you want to order a perhaps innocent person’s death, you should at least consult the full Council.”“Security dictates secrecy!” someone else shouted.“Please!” Davita waved away the debaters as if they were pesky flies. “I exercised executive privilege. You can discipline me for that later. But right now, we have no time to waste. If we don’t take back our Net”— she glanced at the white-haired Programmer who had tried to get her attention earlier— “then everyone in this city will freeze to death, starting with those poor, foolish rebels. They don’t have generators to keep them warm.”Again Tilrey felt the half-amused frustration he’d experienced in the tunnel. Did she really think the rebels weren’t why the lights were off? How could she not see that the crisis and her own actions were connected?This time, he wasn’t alone—people were gaping and whispering. Only Gersha didn’t look confused.Saldegren spoke up, sounding embarrassed. “The blackout isn’t happening all over the city, Fir’n Magistrate. It’s just the Core and the first two Rings. Whoever did this may have, er, some sympathy with the mob.”Davita gripped Tilrey’s arm—distractedly, as if she needed any support she could get. He knew she wasn’t used to being surprised. “The Outer Rings have power?”General Atteivian nodded gravely. “Disruptors in the other Rings are swarming the Constabularies, Fir’n Magistrate. Trying to take our arsenals. Our troops are doing their best to protect sensitive targets. But it’s tricky with communications down.”“And the rebels know we’re trapped in here! That’s not generator power we’re seeing!”This cry came from one of the smocked Programmers, an excitable-looking man of about Tilrey’s age. He pointed up at the long tracks of angled LED lights that threaded through the rafters, every one of them blazing. “I didn’t say anything before, because I didn’t want to alarm anyone. But that’s not backup power. Someone’s restored full power!”“Not possible.” The general turned to one of his lieutenants. “The rest of the Core is still dark, correct?”From the door of the chamber, a soldier cried, “Yes, Fir!”“Then we shouldn’t have full power here, either,” the Programmer said. “The generator powers only essential functions. All these lights—it’s the hacker doing it! They’re mocking us!”Commotion broke out again. Since the chamber had no windows, several people surged through the door and out into the corridor to see for themselves that the Core blackout hadn’t ended.“Someone’s targeting us! Playing with us!”“Who are they? Shirkers can’t hack the Net!”Councillors were firing rapid questions at Programmers. Was it a hacker? How had the firewall failed? Were they really locked out of the Net? How was that possible when they had built it?Only Gersha stood still among them, a silent question for Tilrey in his eyes. What do we do now?Davita sagged in her chair, her fingers digging into Tilrey’s arm. “Order!” she snapped. “Stop panicking, all of you! You’re not schoolchildren!”Blas advanced on her. “Look right beside you, Mother, and you’ll see who’s responsible for all this. I’m just trying to protect you!”“Shut up, all of you!” someone shrilled. “Shut up, or I’ll turn the lights off again!”The room went dead silent.It was Bors Dartán. He’d jumped onto the Council table and stood atop it, glaring down at Davita and all the others who thought they were his betters.An Upstart fucked me on this table once. Tilrey remembered with sudden, random clarity how hard the oak had been on his knees.The table had a long history. Edvard Whyberg and his friends had drawn up the Republic’s constitution there. Majority Leader Verán had used it to humiliate the absent Malsha through Tilrey’s body. And now Bors had made it into a podium.Bors extended a hand to Stefan, who still stood on the floor. Stefan didn’t budge, his eyes wide with fear.Blas had turned from his mother to gaze at Bors with wide, horrified eyes. Clearly, he hadn’t expected this. “What the fuck? You don’t control the power!”Movement below in the amphitheater caught Tilrey’s eye. General Atteivian was motioning to his men, ushering them up the steps.“Oh, don’t I?” Bors’s pale face dripped sweat. He raised a fist that was holding something, perhaps an electronic device. “Watch me!”The soldiers inched around the table. Bors swung around just in time to make them freeze in place.“No closer!” he cried. “Stay where you are, or I send the panic signal. Do you know what that does?”“I don’t, no.”That was Davita. All the heads in the room turned toward her as she released Tilrey’s arm to clasp his hand instead, pressing her palm to his. “Honestly, I’m lost,” she said to Bors. “Who are you? Why are you threatening us?”Her voice was so cool. But Tilrey felt the dampness of her palm against his.“Dartán, Bors. Int/Sec analyst, second class.” Bors was trembling visibly, yet Tilrey had to admire how he stood his ground.“Dartán!” That was Niko Karishkov, Bors’s former boss, off in the crowd. “Have you lost your mind? What the fuck are you doing?”Bors ignored him. “We have control of everything now, Fir’n Magistrate,” he told Davita. “Your light, your heat, your Net, your weapons. If I press just slightly with my index finger, a missile will launch from one of your bases. It will be aimed straight at this building.”Frightened gasps came from the crowd below. A few other people scoffed.Davita said evenly, “Whoever you are, wherever you came from, you’re bluffing. You don’t control anything.”Bors flushed. His mouth worked for a second, and his gaze lighted on Tilrey, still holding Davita’s hand.In a distant way, Tilrey realized he was sweating, too. Was Bors asking him to reveal himself now? Wouldn’t that simply ensure they all died together?Maybe he needed to speak up, though, to confirm that Bors had power over the Net so that Davita would believe it. Besha had said to wait. But if Bors wasn’t bluffing, then waiting made no sense.He was opening his mouth to say something that would calm everyone down—what?—when the lights went out again, plunging the room into near-blackness.This time, several people screamed—tiny screams, quickly stifled, as if they’d seen a ghost. With only a few candles left burning, the high-ceilinged room felt much darker than it had earlier.An instant later, the lights blazed back on. The heat pumps hummed.“You see?” Bors’s voice was quaking, though his words were confident. “We are in control.”“They’re watching us through the cameras. He’s signaling to them with his device,” someone said tensely behind Tilrey, too low for Bors to hear. “If we trace the signal to its source, we can destroy the exile manually.”The exile? Who did these Programmers think they were dealing with? Tilrey wondered. Surely they didn’t believe Malsha had returned from the grave?Davita was still focused on Bors. “You’re a terrorist, then.” “Not a terrorist! A reformer. I believe in Whyberg, the true Whyberg. You’re the one who betrayed your own people by firing on civilians and s-s-subverting the process of justice.”“What would a shirker know about justice?” Davita asked loftily.“More than you.”“So you’re not afraid to die?”The question came from Besha, stalking up the steps to the table. The soldiers moved to block him, but the general shook his head.What was Besha playing at now? Tilrey wondered.“You know this Dissident?” Davita asked her husband.Besha took a seat at the foot of the Council table, facing Davita, and propped his head on a fist. “You look ridiculous standing on the table, Analyst Dartán. Come down here with us and talk.”Bors shook his head. Sweat coursed down his neck. “If they touch me,” he said, nodding at the soldiers, “we blow this place sky-high. And no, Councillor Linbeck, I’m not scared. I’m ready to die.”“Who exactly is ‘we’?” Davita asked.The man behind Tilrey said in a low voice, “I’m going up to the balcony to check the cams, see which one they’re using. But what we really need is that fool’s device. It’s probably a transceiver.”“Dartán’s gone mad,” Karishkov announced. He had made his way onto the platform. “He’s always been loyal before.”“Mad or not, he must want something.” Besha turned to Davita. “Can we at least find out what he wants?”“We don’t negotiate—”“With terrorists, I know.” Besha gave Tilrey a significant look over Davita’s shoulder—a look that said Wait. “But that device of yours is putting my family in mortal danger. So you’ll have to forgive me for trying everything I can to save them.”“Besha,” Davita said warningly.Besha tipped his head up to address Bors. “Could you let Blas leave the building, please? If you don’t, I’ll assume you want him as a hostage.”“I’m not afraid to stay.” Blas bit out the words. “I’m here for justice.”“He’ll be safer outside,” Tilrey said under his breath.“Everyone stays!” Bors was turning purple from the sheer effort of facing down all these self-important Upstarts. Tilrey couldn’t help sympathizing with him.“We’re willing to state our demands,” Bors continued. “But if anyone lays a hand on me or Stefan, we all die.”He had to be bluffing. Tilrey couldn’t imagine Janta firing a missile on the Council chamber—surely not with Ceill so nearby in the Funnel.But then again, he hadn’t anticipated any of Janta’s actions in the past month. And did Janta even know where Ceill was? Did Janta care about anyone but Ceill?Under his breath, Tilrey said to Davita, “It might be good to buy some time, Fir’n. I think the Progs want to analyze that device of his.”“Fine, then, if we must.” Davita sighed. “Gersha, Saldegren, I want you up here. Akeina, too. Let’s hear what this little terrorist has to say.”

28 October, year 374, 12:13 a.m.

Both of them were trembling, and not just with cold. At one point, while they waited for Bror to climb a ladder and open a hatch in the ceiling, she said, “I’m Gregoria. You?”

Strange that she used only her first name—how was Detmer supposed to know her status? Maybe she was afraid of acknowledging it in front of Bror, a Laborer who might want to use her as a hostage.

He responded in kind: “Detmer.”

The hatch led into another tunnel, down which they headed toward a faint light. As they approached, it brightened, and Gregoria said, “That’s not candles.”

“A lantern?”

“No, it’s blue. Someone has a generator.”

Sure enough, they finally emerged into an enormous, vaulted basement lit by a few widely spaced fluorescent tubes, the rest sunk in shadows.

“The power’s on!” Normally, Detmer would have found this place gloomy and hideous. He had never been so happy to see fluorescents before. The air was warmer, vibrating with the familiar thrum of a heat pump. “Thank everything green! Bror, where are we? Where’s Tilrey?”

Bror ushered them in front of him, to the foot of a flight of concrete stairs. Two young Laborers in loose workout clothes sat on the bottom step, playing cards.

They scrambled to their feet, and Bror said to them, “The True Hearth never stops burning.”

One of the Laborers repeated the phrase in a Karkei accent, his gaze moving over Detmer and Gregoria. In the hand without the cards, he held a long length of steel pipe. “More guests for the storage room?” he asked, eyes narrowing with a knowing glint.

“Just one.” Bror took Gregoria by the shoulder and tugged her gently away from Detmer toward the Karkei youth. “You’re gonna be all right,” he said softly to her. And to the young man, “Will you make sure she gets a chance to shower? Fresh clothes? Do it as a favor to me.”

“We’re not mistreatin’ any of them,” the youth said, taking Gregoria by the arm. He was sleek and handsome, not your typical tough, but Detmer didn’t like the looks of that pipe.

“I know, lad. I’m just telling you to be extra kind.”

The youth took a step away from the stairs, toward the shadows at the rear of the basement. Detmer tried to follow. “Where are you taking her?”

“Shh. It’s okay.” Bror patted him on the shoulder. Then he turned to Gregoria, who had a sour expression of dread frozen on her face, as if she wasn’t sure whether it was worse to go or stay. “We have others like you here, Fir’n. Admins, even Councillors. You’ll be safe with them, I promise.”

“Safe where?” She looked pale. “Where’s Detmer going?”

“Upstairs.” Bror nodded at the other young man, who rose briskly from the steps as if he’d been commanded. “He’ll have tea with the director and then see his boyfriend. Don’t worry about him!”

“I—what?” But Detmer had no time to think. The second youth was already grabbing him and marching him up the stairs.

“You said I’d see Tilrey!” he yelled downward, planting his feet and doing his best to resist.

“I didn’t say that,” Bror called from below. His tone was still friendly. “But you are going to do something for Tilrey—and for all of us. Once your friend Blas knows you’re here in the Brothel, he’ll come running.”

The Council chamber was in an uproar. Things were happening so fast that for now Tilrey could only stand beside Gersha, a helpless spectator.

He was waiting for Blas Lindblom to accuse him of murder. So far, though, everyone seemed to be ignoring Davita’s son’s outburst, his claim to know who the real killer was.

General Atteivian’s voice rose above the tumult, giving orders to his troops. “Take the murderer into custody!”

The soldiers advanced on Stefan. But Blas apparently wasn’t giving him up so easily. He seized the boy’s hand and dragged him up the steps to the Council table, putting its massive wooden bulk between them and their pursuers. Bors Dartán skittered after them.

“I’m the Examining Magistrate! Everyone hold off till I’ve presented my case!” Blas’s voice boomed above the excited cries of Councillors and Programmers. He squinted down at the crowd as if looking for someone.

Tilrey fought an impulse to hide. The last thing he needed right now was to be accused of Lindahl’s murderer. He was guilty, even if he hadn’t wielded the knife.

Bors Dartán would probably be all too happy to tell the Council about Tilrey’s role in the True Hearth. But Einara wouldn’t want that, would she? Didn’t she want him alive and on her side?

“This young man nearly died this evening,” Blas orated, pinning his mother with pitiless eyes. “How many of you know that your Inner Security Council tried to calm the mob by killing Stefan Altmering in cold blood? How many of you care?”

There were gasps, mostly from the younger Councillors. Tilrey thought the senior ones didn’t seem surprised.

I can’t just confess everything. Should I confess everything? Besha had said to wait until Stefan “took the floor.” But Stefan didn’t look likely to start telling his side of the story; he was practically hiding behind Blas.

Everyone’s attention had shifted to Davita, standing very upright in the aisle beside the general. They were waiting for her to handle the situation.

She aimed a steely gaze at her beloved son. Knowing how close she’d come to collapse in the tunnel, Tilrey had to admire her. “Blas, stop grandstanding.”

“Yes, please,” Councillor Saldegren said. “That’s some accusation to make during a crisis, young man! Especially directed at your own mother.”

“Vanya, shush. My son doesn’t lie,” Davita said, turning to address the amphitheater. “I raised him well. Could I have a chair at the table?”

Tilrey and the general both sped to obey, but Tilrey was quicker. He sprang up the steps and pulled out a chair from the Council table. Then he leapt to the ground, offered Davita his arm, and led her to a seat where she could face her accuser.

“Perfect. Thank you.” Davita patted his arm, silently telling him to stay beside her.

Tilrey stayed. For years he had worked to make himself indispensable to Davita, apparently with success. But he wasn’t sure why he was still jumping to do her bidding. What good would it do once she knew the truth?

Seeing his mother with Tilrey, Blas went crimson. Tilrey could feel the heat of his rage. He didn’t try to meet the younger man’s eyes.

I can’t hide anymore. Not now.

“And some water,” Davita said to General Atteivian, who dispatched two of his men to fulfill the command.

“He had Lindahl killed, Mother!” Blas sputtered, clearly unable to hold it in anymore. He stabbed a finger at Tilrey. “He’s the one you want! Lindahl caught Bronn committing treason in Harbour and had to be silenced. I have witnesses!”

Tilrey stared down at the familiar grain of the Council table. All around him, he heard the gasps and muffled exclamations of people who were reacting to the accusation—shocked, skeptical. For now.

“Who’s he saying did it?” a woman’s voice asked.

“The kettle boy.”

“The actor?”

“No, the secretary. Gádden’s piece.”

“Nonsense.” Davita barely raised her voice, but her tone silenced her son. “We don’t have time for these conspiracy theories when the Republic is under attack. We’ll sort out Lindahl’s death later.”

“Unless Lindahl’s murderer caused the attack!” Blas sounded so frantic that Tilrey couldn’t help looking up. He saw a glaze of desperation on the younger man’s eyes. “Do you not hear me, Mother? Why won’t you see?”

“Everyone! Order! I can’t hear myself think! Now, where were we?” Davita glanced from Blas to Bors to Stefan, so stern that even her son shut his mouth.

Tilrey kept his expression blank, but his mind whirled. If he revealed himself as a rebel now, Blas would be triumphant. Stefan would be exonerated. And he and Gersha would be outnumbered—unless Janta somehow came to their rescue.

Besha had said to wait. He scanned the amphitheater for his treacherous friend, hoping for a signal, but couldn’t find him.

“My son has a noble heart. He’s made himself the champion of the oppressed.” Davita was using her resonant, speech-giving voice. “But when the fate of the Republic is at stake, we must use every possible method to save it. So yes—I ordered the whore’s death.” A careless wave at Stefan, as if he were barely a person. “Extra-judicial executions have precedent.”

“They do indeed,” Saldegren assured the room, making Tilrey wonder if he were part of this Inner Security Council. “As long as the boy is alive, the mob has a reason to tear this city apart, and all of us are in danger.”

Vreya Akeina rose from her seat. “Maybe. But if you want to order a perhaps innocent person’s death, you should at least consult the full Council.”

“Security dictates secrecy!” someone else shouted.

“Please!” Davita waved away the debaters as if they were pesky flies. “I exercised executive privilege. You can discipline me for that later. But right now, we have no time to waste. If we don’t take back our Net”— she glanced at the white-haired Programmer who had tried to get her attention earlier— “then everyone in this city will freeze to death, starting with those poor, foolish rebels. They don’t have generators to keep them warm.”

Again Tilrey felt the half-amused frustration he’d experienced in the tunnel. Did she really think the rebels weren’t why the lights were off? How could she not see that the crisis and her own actions were connected?

This time, he wasn’t alone—people were gaping and whispering. Only Gersha didn’t look confused.

Saldegren spoke up, sounding embarrassed. “The blackout isn’t happening all over the city, Fir’n Magistrate. It’s just the Core and the first two Rings. Whoever did this may have, er, some sympathy with the mob.”

Davita gripped Tilrey’s arm—distractedly, as if she needed any support she could get. He knew she wasn’t used to being surprised. “The Outer Rings have power?”

General Atteivian nodded gravely. “Disruptors in the other Rings are swarming the Constabularies, Fir’n Magistrate. Trying to take our arsenals. Our troops are doing their best to protect sensitive targets. But it’s tricky with communications down.”

“And the rebels know we’re trapped in here! That’s not generator power we’re seeing!”

This cry came from one of the smocked Programmers, an excitable-looking man of about Tilrey’s age. He pointed up at the long tracks of angled LED lights that threaded through the rafters, every one of them blazing. “I didn’t say anything before, because I didn’t want to alarm anyone. But that’s not backup power. Someone’s restored full power!”

“Not possible.” The general turned to one of his lieutenants. “The rest of the Core is still dark, correct?”

From the door of the chamber, a soldier cried, “Yes, Fir!”

“Then we shouldn’t have full power here, either,” the Programmer said. “The generator powers only essential functions. All these lights—it’s the hacker doing it! They’re mocking us!”

Commotion broke out again. Since the chamber had no windows, several people surged through the door and out into the corridor to see for themselves that the Core blackout hadn’t ended.

“Someone’s targeting us! Playing with us!”

“Who are they? Shirkers can’t hack the Net!”

Councillors were firing rapid questions at Programmers. Was it a hacker? How had the firewall failed? Were they really locked out of the Net? How was that possible when they had built it?

Only Gersha stood still among them, a silent question for Tilrey in his eyes. What do we do now?

Davita sagged in her chair, her fingers digging into Tilrey’s arm. “Order!” she snapped. “Stop panicking, all of you! You’re not schoolchildren!”

Blas advanced on her. “Look right beside you, Mother, and you’ll see who’s responsible for all this. I’m just trying to protect you!”

“Shut up, all of you!” someone shrilled. “Shut up, or I’ll turn the lights off again!”

The room went dead silent.

It was Bors Dartán. He’d jumped onto the Council table and stood atop it, glaring down at Davita and all the others who thought they were his betters.

An Upstart fucked me on this table once. Tilrey remembered with sudden, random clarity how hard the oak had been on his knees.

The table had a long history. Edvard Whyberg and his friends had drawn up the Republic’s constitution there. Majority Leader Verán had used it to humiliate the absent Malsha through Tilrey’s body. And now Bors had made it into a podium.

Bors extended a hand to Stefan, who still stood on the floor. Stefan didn’t budge, his eyes wide with fear.

Blas had turned from his mother to gaze at Bors with wide, horrified eyes. Clearly, he hadn’t expected this. “What the fuck? You don’t control the power!”

Movement below in the amphitheater caught Tilrey’s eye. General Atteivian was motioning to his men, ushering them up the steps.

“Oh, don’t I?” Bors’s pale face dripped sweat. He raised a fist that was holding something, perhaps an electronic device. “Watch me!”

The soldiers inched around the table. Bors swung around just in time to make them freeze in place.

“No closer!” he cried. “Stay where you are, or I send the panic signal. Do you know what that does?”

“I don’t, no.”

That was Davita. All the heads in the room turned toward her as she released Tilrey’s arm to clasp his hand instead, pressing her palm to his. “Honestly, I’m lost,” she said to Bors. “Who are you? Why are you threatening us?”

Her voice was so cool. But Tilrey felt the dampness of her palm against his.

“Dartán, Bors. Int/Sec analyst, second class.” Bors was trembling visibly, yet Tilrey had to admire how he stood his ground.

“Dartán!” That was Niko Karishkov, Bors’s former boss, off in the crowd. “Have you lost your mind? What the fuck are you doing?”

Bors ignored him. “We have control of everything now, Fir’n Magistrate,” he told Davita. “Your light, your heat, your Net, your weapons. If I press just slightly with my index finger, a missile will launch from one of your bases. It will be aimed straight at this building.”

Frightened gasps came from the crowd below. A few other people scoffed.

Davita said evenly, “Whoever you are, wherever you came from, you’re bluffing. You don’t control anything.”

Bors flushed. His mouth worked for a second, and his gaze lighted on Tilrey, still holding Davita’s hand.

In a distant way, Tilrey realized he was sweating, too. Was Bors asking him to reveal himself now? Wouldn’t that simply ensure they all died together?

Maybe he needed to speak up, though, to confirm that Bors had power over the Net so that Davita would believe it. Besha had said to wait. But if Bors wasn’t bluffing, then waiting made no sense.

He was opening his mouth to say something that would calm everyone down—what?—when the lights went out again, plunging the room into near-blackness.

This time, several people screamed—tiny screams, quickly stifled, as if they’d seen a ghost. With only a few candles left burning, the high-ceilinged room felt much darker than it had earlier.

An instant later, the lights blazed back on. The heat pumps hummed.

“You see?” Bors’s voice was quaking, though his words were confident. “We are in control.”

“They’re watching us through the cameras. He’s signaling to them with his device,” someone said tensely behind Tilrey, too low for Bors to hear. “If we trace the signal to its source, we can destroy the exile manually.”

The exile? Who did these Programmers think they were dealing with? Tilrey wondered. Surely they didn’t believe Malsha had returned from the grave?

Davita was still focused on Bors. “You’re a terrorist, then.”

“Not a terrorist! A reformer. I believe in Whyberg, the true Whyberg. You’re the one who betrayed your own people by firing on civilians and s-s-subverting the process of justice.”

“What would a shirker know about justice?” Davita asked loftily.

“More than you.”

“So you’re not afraid to die?”

The question came from Besha, stalking up the steps to the table. The soldiers moved to block him, but the general shook his head.

What was Besha playing at now? Tilrey wondered.

“You know this Dissident?” Davita asked her husband.

Besha took a seat at the foot of the Council table, facing Davita, and propped his head on a fist. “You look ridiculous standing on the table, Analyst Dartán. Come down here with us and talk.”

Bors shook his head. Sweat coursed down his neck. “If they touch me,” he said, nodding at the soldiers, “we blow this place sky-high. And no, Councillor Linbeck, I’m not scared. I’m ready to die.”

“Who exactly is ‘we’?” Davita asked.

The man behind Tilrey said in a low voice, “I’m going up to the balcony to check the cams, see which one they’re using. But what we really need is that fool’s device. It’s probably a transceiver.”

“Dartán’s gone mad,” Karishkov announced. He had made his way onto the platform. “He’s always been loyal before.”

“Mad or not, he must want something.” Besha turned to Davita. “Can we at least find out what he wants?”

“We don’t negotiate—”

“With terrorists, I know.” Besha gave Tilrey a significant look over Davita’s shoulder—a look that said Wait. “But that device of yours is putting my family in mortal danger. So you’ll have to forgive me for trying everything I can to save them.”

“Besha,” Davita said warningly.

Besha tipped his head up to address Bors. “Could you let Blas leave the building, please? If you don’t, I’ll assume you want him as a hostage.”

“I’m not afraid to stay.” Blas bit out the words. “I’m here for justice.”

“He’ll be safer outside,” Tilrey said under his breath.

“Everyone stays!” Bors was turning purple from the sheer effort of facing down all these self-important Upstarts. Tilrey couldn’t help sympathizing with him.

“We’re willing to state our demands,” Bors continued. “But if anyone lays a hand on me or Stefan, we all die.”

He had to be bluffing. Tilrey couldn’t imagine Janta firing a missile on the Council chamber—surely not with Ceill so nearby in the Funnel.

But then again, he hadn’t anticipated any of Janta’s actions in the past month. And did Janta even know where Ceill was? Did Janta care about anyone but Ceill?

Under his breath, Tilrey said to Davita, “It might be good to buy some time, Fir’n. I think the Progs want to analyze that device of his.”

“Fine, then, if we must.” Davita sighed. “Gersha, Saldegren, I want you up here. Akeina, too. Let’s hear what this little terrorist has to say.”

Chapter End Notes

Scenes involving large crowds of people, all with different backstories and interests, are very hard to write! But I knew this story needed a few of them. Please bear with me as I wade through this type of storytelling that is definitely not my element. :)

Chapter End Notes