The Hangman's Revolution by Eoin Colfer Page B

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.
    Vallicose grunted along with the screams, hammering the steering wheel with her gloved palm.
    “I love D Bob,” she said, with a tremor in her voice. “God speaks through him.” She called over her shoulder. “Did you ever see that video, Sister Witmeyer? The entire forty-eight-hour torture session is on the Boxnet. Zodety never