The Hangman's Revolution (W.A.R.P. 2)

Electric panic coursed through her limbs, but she fought to keep them from spasming.

Play dead, she told herself. Buy some time.

Strong fingers gripped her shoulders, and she knew the grip without having to look.

Thundercats.

The Traitor did this, she thought, hating that tiny malignant twist of flesh. The Traitor murdered me.

It was true that Chevie wasn’t currently dead, but there could be no doubt that this status would be short-lived.

Short-lived. Ha.

You’ll have to update your status to Single and Deceased.

The Traitor again. More jibber-jabber. Update her status? What did that even mean?

So Chevie sat still as a corpse, collecting herself, trying to breach the corona of pain around her head with mind-fingers.

“Charles Smart,” she heard a voice say.

It’s the hobbit’s voice.

Director Gunn.

“She talks about Charles Smart, and here he is in the colonel’s letter: Professor Charles Smart. Can you explain that?”

Professor Smart. He was one of the people from her visions. The old lady with the bird’s-nest hair had said that Smart was expecting her. Could it be that Smart was a real person?

Someone grunted a negative. One from Clover Vallicose’s grunt lexicon.

“It’s a mystery, Director,” said Lunka Witmeyer from behind Chevie. “But we have an order passed down through the years. Sealed by the holy seal until this very morning.”

Vallicose chimed in, her voice throbbing with religious fervor. “An order passed down from the Blessed Colonel Himself. It would be my honor to carry it out immediately.”

“No, Sister. Something is afoot here,” said the director. “Something outside the scope of my knowledge and influence.” Gunn moved things around on his desk. “And I don’t like things outside that circle. I like to bring them inside before I deal with them.”

Vallicose shuffled. “Are you ignoring the Blessed Colonel’s command, Director?”

There was a moment of tense silence in which Chevie believed absolutely that Vallicose would shoot her own superior if his next sentence was blasphemous.

“Of course not, Sister. And I do not appreciate your tone. I would simply prefer to have more information before the…sanctions…are implemented. This Smart person may have confederates.”

“The order is quite specific, Director. It has to be today.”

“I know that, Vallicose. I can read. Don’t forget who summoned you here.”

Waldo Gunn was a powerful man, but even he would have to tread carefully in this unique situation. A time-sensitive order from the colonel could not be ignored, or even deviated from in the slightest. His political adversaries would have him swinging in Hangman’s Square by dawn. Waldo Gunn could end up a homodermic installation in his own hall of fame.

Chevie heard Gunn’s fingers drumming the desktop. “Very well. We use the girl to confront this man Smart. See how he reacts. There must be some connection between them. Then, when you have established that connection, take ten minutes to interrogate him on-site. I must know if there is a danger to the colonel’s empire.”

This was shrewd: plant the idea that perhaps the Empire was at risk. Surely no one could object to his patriotism.

Vallicose grunted again, but it was a respectful, affirmative grunt. Their plan was set.

One of the hands on Chevie’s shoulders moved up to her neck and gripped tightly.

“This little one’s faking,” said Lunka Witmeyer. “She’s awake and eavesdropping.”

Chevie felt Director Gunn’s gaze swivel her way. She felt his eyes burn into her forehead, bringing a blush to her cheeks.

“Open your eyes, Cadet Savano,” said Waldo Gunn, “and you may yet live through this day.”

Chevie did as she was ordered and found herself handcuffed to a chair in front of Director Gunn’s desk. It seemed as though the Thundercats weren’t taking any more chances with Chevie’s newfound combat expertise.

On the desk was a photocopy of a citizen’s identity card. The man in the picture was in his seventies, with wild gray hair and a surprised expression. He wore a white lab coat with a selection of pens clipped to the lapels, several of which had leaked blotted ink patterns onto his coat.

He is real, thought Chevie.

“Professor Charles Smart,” said Director Gunn, confirming what Chevie somehow knew. “Who works in weapons R and D in the Mayfair facility. We thought Smart was one of our brightest scientists, but now we have compelling evidence that he is in fact a Jax spy.”

Chevie kept her face still. Emotion would only serve to damn her.

“Perhaps you are working together,” suggested Gunn.

“No, Director,” said Chevie. “I have never met this man or communicated with him.”

At least I don’t think so.

“So you are no Jax spy?”

Chevie straightened her shoulders, in spite of the strong hands bearing down on them. “Of course not, Director. I am a loyal citizen. I love God and Empire, sir.”

Gunn nodded, considering her words. “There is one way you can redeem yourself, prove to me that you are not a spy, and perhaps even get approval for a brain scan.”

“Anything, Director,” said Chevie earnestly. “I’ll do anything.”

Gunn nodded, seemingly with approval. He opened a desk drawer and withdrew a standard-issue sidearm. He laid it on the table, where it sat, squat, ugly, and black.

“Smart is a Jax spy, and he needs to be executed. I need a true patriot to pull the trigger. Are you a patriot, Cadet Savano?”

Chevie felt her body tense. She wanted to break free from the hands that restrained her and run from the room into some kind of world where teenagers did not have to answer such questions.

Director Waldo Gunn leaned forward so his beard brushed the desktop.

“Well, Cadet Savano, are you a patriot?”

Chevie nodded. “Yes, Director. I am a patriot. The Jax spy must be executed.”

She was a patriot, wasn’t she?

> Most of her, anyway.

But not Traitor Chevie.

Traitor Chevie was an anarchist. And which Chevron Savano would have her finger on the trigger when the time came?

So now Cadet Savano rode in a Chariot of Box automobile that purred across central London. It was said that central London had once had a carnival air about it, jammed from one dawn to the next with tourists and revelers. They said that the Ministry of Defense was once a theater where the stars of the stage plied their pretending trade. The Hall of Sanctions had been a huge restaurant that sold steak to anyone who could pay for it; all one had to do was take a seat and place an order. Even foreigners were welcome, they said; even heathens.

DeeDee Woollen had once confided in Chevie that her grandfather’s book showed pictures of young people in London dance halls without a care for curfew or modest dress.

DeeDee was always going to get herself in trouble, spreading stories like that.

Shot in the head for describing Grandpa’s pictures, said Traitor Chevie. Seems fair.

Perhaps London had once been a center of frivolous celebration, but now it was the hub of the Empire. Colonel Box had risen from the catacombs to claim New Albion, so it was fitting that it should serve as the nerve center for the entire Empire’s government. The sidewalks were still slick from their dawn scrub, and armies of civil-servant drones hurried along, reflected in the shining flagstones, eager to reach their office cubicles before morning services.

Chevie often wondered what it must have been like to live in a city of diversity, where everything didn’t have a gray sheen of sameness.

California. Someday I will watch the sunset from the beach. Even the party can’t control the ocean.

Don’t bet on it, kiddo. Traitor Chevie again. They control everything else in this crazy world. Even what you’re thinking.

Clover Vallicose was up front at the wheel. She flicked through a playlist of Boxite tunes on the stereo until she happened on the song “Spy Zodety” by sanctioned musician D Bob Jones. It told the story of American Boxite spy Woody Zodety, who resisted forty-eight hours of Jax torture before he was rescued. The famous golden oldie featured a bridge of screams, which were Zodety’s actual howls of pain, lifted from an interrogation-room tape.