Storm (Swipe Series)

about Lily’s job working as Lamson’s assistant, of how he might be able to leverage that advantage. He told them about the general’s duty to hear the concerns of his people. But most of all, he told them, he just wasn’t afraid anymore. He’d been chased out of his home, he’d been tortured in a secret prison, he’d traveled this untravelable country twice now, he’d almost single-handedly averted a national drought, and—he hesitated to say this last part, but in the heat of the moment it all just came out anyway—he was pretty sure he’d come down with a case of Trumpet himself. He told them of the shot he’d had at his Pledge, even though he’d never gotten the Mark. He told them of the chills he had, even now, talking to them right here. He told them that the fact was, he was rapidly becoming a person with very little to lose. He’d found his mustard seed of faith. And with it, he would move mountains.
    Lily had promised— promised— that Project Trumpet would not be released. That the permadrought should be Logan’s sole concern. So he’d done her bidding. And not one week later, and her promises already rang false. Either Logan had been tricked into a fool’s errand after all, or something even more horrible was afoot. Either way, he intended to get to the bottom of it.
    So he was going, Logan told the Dust. Tomorrow morning, whether they approved of it or not—he was going.
    To Beacon’s Capitol steps. To the endgame.
    To confront General Lamson himself.

ELEVEN
    CAPITOL STEPS
    1
    L OGAN STOOD WITH ONE FOOT POISED ON the first of Beacon’s Capitol steps. It was a gray spring day. The rain had finally slowed to a drizzle, but the streets were still slick and the sky looked ready to open up again at any minute. The Markless looked on from their block-long pens, shouting at the IMP patrols and clinging to some claim of rights. A few broke free when they saw Logan approach the Capitol, but none of them dared come close—the two heavily armed IMPS standing guard at its entrance were more than enough to dissuade even the most disgruntled protesters of that.
    Only a madman would dare to climb those steps.
    But Logan wanted answers. So Logan did.
    Immediately, the IMPS swiveled their weapons toward him, training laser sights on Logan’s chest and head. He froze.
    But no shots were fired.
    He took another step and waited.
    Nothing.
    This dance continued until Logan was nearly halfway to the doors of the Capitol.
    Finally, the first IMP spoke. “Don’t come any closer,” he growled.
    Logan held his hands up in peace. “I’m here to see General Lamson.”
    “You can’t.”
    “It’s important.” Logan took another step.
    “I said don’t come any closer!” the Moderator warned again.
    “You don’t understand,” Logan told him. “I’m going to see the general whether you allow it or not.”
    The IMP’s taser rifle began to shake. This time, Logan paused. The standoff lasted several more tense moments before something happened to turn the whole situation on its head.
    Behind him, the skyscraper-sized wallscreens on every building across City Center suddenly flickered and changed in unison. Projections of advertisements disappeared and were replaced with an image of a courtyard, empty except for a simple podium sporting the new G.U. seal and a bouquet of microphones. A video feed. Live. Sent straight to Beacon (and everywhere else, for that matter) from Third Rome in Europe. Within that feed, the sun boiled bright across a cloudless sky. A breeze sang gently. Just-opened blossoms lined the scene, and their fresh colors burst and promised new life—in stark contrast with the morbid, beaten-down, urban sick-scape of Beacon.
    The crowd and IMPS alike stopped where they stood when the screens changed, and now a hush fell over the plaza as Chancellor Cylis himself stepped into the picture and out onto his great stage. He spoke into the microphones, hundreds of feet tall, his voice echoing across the Beacon City plateau, reaching every Marked and Markless for miles around.
    Logan watched from his perch halfway up the steps.
    “Fellow Marked,” the chancellor began. “Citizens of this great Global Union: I am deeply saddened to address you under such circumstances. In this first of many spring seasons as one Unified nation, in what should be a time of universal celebration, of peace and prosperity, we instead endure great tragedy and hardship. By now we all are too well aware of the