“Your message seemed to imply that you know of only two earth Cylinders.” Cylinders! That’s what they’re called. I knew there was a fancy name for them.
“Yes,” I say. “You’re saying there’s a third…Cylinder that my father didn’t tell me about?”
Dr. Kane laughs, his face lifting into a jovial expression that seems out of place on his usually serious face. “A third? No, not a third.”
Then what? “I’m not following,” I say.
“Did you really think your father would allow Lecter to win?” Kane asks.
I let his words sink in for a moment. My father was a lot of things—cruel, evil, maniacal—but he was anything but a fool. He knew when he was beat. He had two Cylinders and Lecter controlled the exit for one of them, as well as the New City and its citizens. Plus, my father had a good thing going as leader of the Tri-Realms. But he did hate to lose.
“You’re saying he was plotting to overthrow him?”
Dr. Kane claps his hands together like I’m a baby who’s just said his first word. “President Nailin, your father, hated Lecter with a passion.”
“At least we had one thing in common,” I say.
He continues as if I hadn’t spoken. “And he knew the one major advantage he had was in numbers. The New City was a fledgling compared to the mighty eagle your father commanded. A mass attack by a significant portion of the sun dweller army would undoubtedly be successful.”
I rub my forehead, fighting the urge to close my eyes. “Yeah, but without a third transporter, a bigger one, there’s no way he’d be able to get enough troops to the surface. Look, Dr. Kane, it’s great getting an inside look at my father’s twisted mind, but I really don’t have time—”
“There’s not just a third Cylinder,” Kane says, cutting me off, “there’s a fourth and a fifth and as many as there are subchapters in the Sun Realm.” He smiles broadly, looking as fresh as if it was the middle of the day and not the middle of the night.
“What?” I blurt out. “You mean…” He can’t mean…
“To answer the question from your message, we can get ten thousand soldiers to the surface in about five hours.”
I stare straight ahead, wondering whether I fell asleep at my desk, dreaming about miracles, like the sun dweller citizens coming to save us. I want to pinch myself, but I resist the urge. “There are thirty-seven Cylinders,” I say. “One in each of the subchapters and two in the Capitol.” It’s not a question, so Kane doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t deny it either. I continue thinking out loud. “And the thirty five that are outside the Capitol, they’re much larger?” I do some quick math in my head. “They can carry fifty, sixty soldiers?”
Kane nods. “Fifty,” he says.
“Holy crap,” I breathe.
“That’s what I thought you might say. Shall I get them prepped and manned?”
“Hell yeah,” I say.
With a curt, businesslike nod, Dr. Kane exits, leaving me stunned, gripping the desk with two hands. I was expecting an answer more like never—not five hours. With only the two small Cylinders we could’ve only transported twenty to thirty soldiers an hour. We wouldn’t even have a force worth attacking with until long after the Tri-Tribes had attacked and been massacred. And Adele? She’d be left on the inside with Lecter, to die a spy’s death the moment she was discovered.
But now…
Now we can attack with numbers, destroy the Glassy army, and take down the madman at the helm!
I realize I’m standing, my chest buzzing with excitement, my hands clenched at my sides. I’m thankful there’s not a mirror in front of me, because if there was, who would I see? Would I see Tristan, son of Jocelyn Nailin, fighting for the good of the people? Or would I see Tristan, son of President Nailin, seeker of power and control?
I shake my head. No. No. This isn’t about power; it never was. I don’t even want to be the president. I just want this to be over, to go back to getting to know Adele, to building a relationship with her that doesn’t include secret missions and assassinations and the end of the world.
Taking a deep breath, I unfurl my fingers, bring them up and run them through my hair, which is longer than it’s ever been. When this is all over, I’ll get a haircut.
Exiting my father’s old office, I make my way out of the governmental side of the palace and into the place I used to call home, where my memories are a collage of happy and sad moments, built on the foundation of a loveless marriage that ended in my mother’s death. In the foyer is the photograph that was always my favorite, the one where my father looks like he’d rather be anywhere else, a rare moment where he was captured as he truly was. My brother, my mother, and I are all smiling, laughing, happy.
I grab it and smash it on the ground, scattering chips of glass around my feet. I extract the photo, stare at it for a second, and then tear it about a quarter of the way from the left. Setting down the larger piece on a table, I stare at the small strip in my hands. My father’s angry, bored eyes look back at me.
“Bastard,” I say, and then rip it once, twice, and again and again until the stack of paper’s too thick for me to shred with my bare hands. A strange energy running through me, I toss the pieces in the air, letting them fall like rain around my shoulders, all the way to the floor, where they mingle with the broken glass.
I leave my father in pieces on the floor, taking the rest of my dead family with me to my bedroom, where I set the picture reverently on the table beside the bed.
As the wall clock flips over to four in the morning, I pull back the covers and crawl in, fully clothed, hoping to catch a few hours’ sleep before day three really begins.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Adele
I take her hand, which is cold and clammy. Even as she pulls me through the window, I can’t stop staring at her, the dead woman before me. I can’t reconcile what I’m seeing with President Nailin’s words ringing in my ears, mocking Tristan even as he destroyed every last bit of childish hope he had left: I killed her with my bare hands! And I loved watching the life drain out of her face; loved kissing her lips as I held her down and she took her last breath; loved feeling her body go cold as we lay in bed together one last time.
It never happened. He lied about Tristan’s mom. Not dead. Not murdered. Here, in the New City, in…Lecter’s house? But why?
Even as she closes the window behind us, I whirl on her, anger bright in my eyes. “What are you doing here?” I accuse.
“Adele, it’s not what you—”
I’m not listening to excuses, to more lies. “He thinks you’re dead, you know? It crushed him, destroyed him, broke him. Even after your...husband”—I spit out the word—“was dead, he grieved for you.”
There’s genuine shock on her face. “Edward’s dead?” she says.
“Sorry to break it to you,” I say, still feeling flushed.
“Thank God,” she says. I look around the room, trying to distract my anger. There’s no time for this, no time for voices from the dead, no time for a woman who abandoned her children to the whims of an evil man.
Like everywhere else, the room is small and bland. But it does have a real bed, decent size, too, taking up most of the space. There’s a pillow on the floor beside it, along with a blanket. Were those thrown there in haste when she heard the gunshots, or was she sleeping on the floor?
“Adele,” Jocelyn says, cutting off my internal question. She’s biting her lip and her eyes are wet, though no tears have fallen.
I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry I snapped at you,” I say. “Tristan will be beyond excited that you’re alive. I’m glad you’re alive. But…” I let the thought float away.