Page 77

“You’re part of this now,” he snarled. “You took the serum. You lived because I allowed it. Now, you’ll do what you’re told, or you’ll no longer be of use to me.”

My father’s ashen, lifeless face floated to the forefront of my mind. I knew exactly what that meant.

“What did you do to me?” I demanded. “Am I cursed like you now? Stuck with immortality?”

He fixed me with a furious glare. “You act like it’d be such a terrible punishment, but no. One dose is enough to heal, not to halt the aging process. You’ll need many more doses for that. Play your part and perhaps I’ll be generous with you again one day.”

I was about to blurt out that I’d never want his kind of generosity, but Hamilton interrupted us from the entrance to the tent.

“Sir, guests are being admitted at the gate now. Once the crowd is gathered, it’ll be time. Are you ready?”

He said it as much to me as to Julius, his eyes flitting between us.

“Yes, Major, that’ll be all,” Julius said imperiously, as though nothing had happened between us. “Is the mega screen prepared? We’ll be showing B-roll of the Sole Survivor’s greatest appearances as she speaks. A sort of farewell tour.”

I managed to keep my face neutral as Hamilton replied, “It’s all prepared. The livestream is also broadcasting to every compound as expected, according to the tech department. Are you still planning to speak after the Sole Survivor, sir?”

Julius nodded, waving him off. “Naturally. I’ll wait here until it’s time, though. Finish my drink.”

“Of course, sir,” Hamilton said with an agreeable nod that I sensed he’d given to the Sire many times. “I’ll leave a few of my squad here as guard. I’m sure you’ll be able to hear everything from here, but they’ll alert you anyway when it’s time.”

“Very good, Major. Perhaps a promotion will be in your future after this assignment. And we’ll see what more we can do for…it’s your niece, isn’t it?”

Hamilton’s mouth tightened slightly, but he merely answered, “Yes, sir. I appreciate your help.”

There was no more talk after that. Hamilton stood at the entrance until he received a radio call from one of the other soldiers, letting him know that the crowd was now assembled. Indeed, I could hear the crowd noise getting louder and louder. No doubt their hunger was making them impatient; the festival was always full of delicious food.

I was about to spoil their appetites.

Hamilton eventually gave me a nod, and I followed him outside, heading toward the stage from the back.

“We have control of the mega screen,” he said to me in a low voice. “The video will play right before you go on. You have a few minutes, at best, before all hell breaks loose. Use them well.”

I gave him a brief nod. “You’ll handle Julius?”

“No problems there. When it’s over, I’ll help you find your husband. Hopefully he’s on his way.”

He sounded dubious, but I wasn’t. John would be there; it was simply a matter of how to find him through the chaos of the White Rose attack. I still wasn’t certain what he was tasked to do beforehand—he still insisted it was safer for me not to know in case I was ever questioned—but I trusted him. He’d find a way.

“You can do this, Claire,” Hamilton murmured in parting. “Remember what I said: it has to be you.”

On edge, I waited at the back of the stage, enduring the soundtrack of my father’s execution once again, as well as the crowd’s reactions. At first, there were simply murmurs of confusion; they didn’t know if they were watching a film or not. Eventually, there were collective gasps, and then louder sounds of alarm. When the video ended, I walked up the steps onto the stage and headed for the podium that’d been prepared for me.

As soon as I looked out at all the bemused, horrified faces of the people, as well as the lens of a live feed camera in the distance, my courage nearly failed me. There were more murmurs in the crowd, growing louder, growing more urgent.

Why would they listen to me? Who was I, and what had I done to make them listen?

You are your father’s daughter, a sad voice in my head said, and perhaps that was all that was needed. I wasn’t a fighter, and my gift was never my strength.

My gift was my softness. The songs I sang and the paintings I made. The way I made John laugh, and the way I held him close when he was hurting. The fear and vulnerability I knew well, and thus reached out for in others. And the undying, unchanging, ridiculous hope I had for people—the vehemence with which I still, in spite of everything, believed in their goodness. My gift was humanity in the face of shattering darkness.

So, I took a deep breath, and began to speak into the microphone.

“Nearly fifteen years ago, my father was killed by a rogue regime that wanted to silence him and others who threatened to expose them. Not only did they steal his life and shatter my family, but they used his flesh and blood and bones to fuel their machine, to enrich themselves and ensure they stayed in power forever. They drank deep from his lifeblood—and from the lifeblood of all their citizens of all the compounds they pretended were created to keep us safe and preserve humanity—and they made themselves immortal.”

More frantic murmuring throughout the crowd. People exchanged nervous looks, but their eyes were glued to me. They wanted to hear me, and that was all I needed.

“What you saw in that video was how they make a drug they call Immortalis. When a person injects it regularly, it halts the aging process and makes the user impervious to injury through rapid cell regeneration. But in order to create the drug, you must sacrifice a life. So, when people disappeared, they told us that they ran away, that they had an accident, or that they were criminals or terrorists. The truth was far uglier: the compounds were created in part to ensure a steady, constant stream of fresh blood to manufacture Immortalis for a small group of elites who, even now, use it to extend their lives and prosper at the expense of all of us.”