His fingers were so close to the gun holstered at his hip. “Leslie, why didn’t you tell me our men were going to blast holes in the Dome?”
From the absolute steadiness of her expression, it was obvious Leslie had been prepared for and unconcerned by the question. “The airstream surrounding the Citadel is a countermeasure in case Shepherd unleashes the virus before our bombs might cleanse it from existence.”
The virus was airborne, heavy winds would only spread it faster. Her excuse was so lacking in substance, that Corday could not contain his feelings of despair. “Without protection from the elements, it will grow uninhabitable in the city. You’ve condemned our people to the Undercroft.”
“Really, Corday... you can be so dramatic.” Waving him off, Leslie marched to the edge of the roof, assuring the only way Corday might hear her continued explanation was to follow at her heels like a dog. “Yes it will be difficult at first. Given the state of manufacturing and resources, projections show it will take four years to repair the damage. In the meantime, citizens unnecessary to the immediate reconstruction of the Dome will be safe underground. Those key to the effort of restoring our city will find sanctuary in the Premier’s Sector.”
Some would live in grandeur and luxury while others wasted away in the dark. “I see.”
She hesitated, looked him in the eye. “This was the only way to ensure change. Sacrifice must come from all of us.”
And what was she going to sacrifice?
He hated her in that moment. Even so, he nodded as if he understood. Staring down at the madness, Corday found that the number of angry citizens circling the Citadel had increased, compacting into a single waving mass working to reach the steps.
Followers were shooting at them like fish in a barrel.
They were dying for nothing, in fact they would all die should Leslie’s bombs detonate. Cutting a glance back to the smirking woman at his side, he knew she saw his distrust. It seemed pointless to continue his charade. After all, he’d already condemned them all.
Corday’s lip almost shook when he asked. “He told me your name is Svana. Is it true?”
The corners of her mouth curved up from smirk to smile. Impudent, she asked, the question coming out as absolute confirmation, “Who?”
Behind them a rough edged voice rang out. “It’s time, Svana. Shepherd has sent me. He wishes to negotiate the terms of his surrender.”
Like Leslie, he’d appeared with no sound.
No longer was Shepherd’s minion dressed in the blacks of Followers. He looked like any other civilian. Or he would have, if he didn’t have such a massive firearm resting in slack arms.
Turning her back to the carnage below, Leslie held up her hand, signaling to her men all was well. Once they had lowered their weapons, she offered a twisted greeting. “Jules, I expected you sooner. Hasn’t this gone on long enough?”
Seeing him in the daylight, Corday found the Beta to be only a ghost of a person. There was something wrong with the way his eyes tracked their movement, a lifelessness to his face. When he spoke his voice was not only disinterested, it was dead. “It has.”
“Fine.” Leslie nodded, crossing her arms over her chest. “Kill these men, and let’s make our way.”
Before the word kill had crossed Svana’s lips, the Beta acted. In a blur he’d shouldered his rifle and showered a spray of bullets on Leslie Kantor’s bodyguards. As the untried rebels fell, only two had squeezed off return fire before their death—a single bullet embedding in the concrete at Jules’s feet.
Lowering his weapon, he scowled at the woman, disgusted by the men’s utter lack of skill when it came to actual combat. “You did not train them well.”
Leslie ignored the taunt. Instead, her focus was on where Corday lay. The impact of a bullet had knocked him down, a growing bloodstain marking his thigh. Rattled breath twisted his groans. One hand to his wound, he scrambled to lift his weapon.
All it took was Leslie’s foot atop his wrist to stop the pathetic attempted attack.
Reaching down to take Corday’s gun for her own, she complained. “He’s still alive.”
Jules’s answer was dry. “Shepherd desires that this one suffer.”
“Poetic.” Pointing his gun at his skull, the woman seemed to debate the benefits of letting Corday meet a cold, lonely death on the roof. Maybe it was the way he cursed her name over and over. Maybe it was because he had been her plaything for so long. Either way, she took a step back. “Fine. I will give Shepherd this one last concession.”
On the edge of the roof, standing confident and free, she cut a glance at the Follower and explained her deeper thinking. “He forced my hand, you know. This wasn’t how I wanted it to be. Shepherd made me do this. You understand that, Jules.”