CHAPTER 23

PART I

"Hello, Panem," I said as I looked into the camera lens. "This is Peeta Mellark, and I have a special guest with me on this edition of Panem United. I'm very happy to welcome Andromeda Snow to the show." I turned to Andromeda, who was seated to my right, and smiled. "Thank you for being here with us, Meda."

Andromeda returned my smile somewhat nervously. "Thank you for having me," she replied softly.

"Meda," I continued, "I'm sure that the people that view this show – both in the Capitol and in the Districts – will notice that you have a very recognizable last name."

"That's because I'm President Coriolanus Snow's granddaughter," she said matter-of-factly.

"President Snow is the single most powerful man in Panem," I pointed out. "Yet here you are, in District Thirteen, at the very center of the Rebellion. So, would you call yourself a Loyalist, or a Rebel?"

"A Rebel," Meda said, her voice firm.

"How long have you felt this way?" I asked. "More specifically, was there a moment when you thought that your views had more in common with the Rebellion than they did with the Capitol?"

"Yes. When I visited you and Katniss Everdeen in District Twelve."

"I remember that day," I said with a nod. "Could you perhaps tell the people viewing this show about it?"

Meda took a deep breath. "I asked my grandfather if I could meet you and Katniss in District Twelve as a present for my fourteenth birthday." She blushed slightly. "Katniss had been my favorite Victor – that is, until you won the Quarter Quell." She twisted her hands nervously in her lap. "It sounds silly now, but I had a huge crush on you." I had known all this before, of course – but now, Andromeda Snow's schoolgirl crush on Peeta Mellark would be broadcast to the entire nation.

"I don't think it sounds silly at all," I replied sincerely. "It's very flattering, actually." Out of the corner of my eye I could see Plutarch Heavensbee holding up a hand-held electronic note-board. STAY ON TOPIC! "Was this the first time you had met Victors before?"

Meda shook her head. "Oh, no. I'd met lots of Victors. But this was the first time I had ever traveled to a Victor's home district."

"And what did you see in District Twelve?" I asked gently.

"Poverty," Meda all but whispered. "People living in shacks. Skinny from not having enough to eat." She paused for a moment. "Katniss put on an archery demonstration for me, and killed a squirrel living in a tree in the middle of Victors' Village. And she told me, before she became a Victor, that she used to live in one of those shacks and ate squirrels, so she wouldn't starve."

"You didn't know how people in District Twelve lived before your visit?" I asked.

Meda shook her head. "I just knew that they mined coal."

"And learning how people lived in District Twelve made you sympathetic to the Rebellion?"

"It made me think," Meda replied. "You see, in the Capitol, how district people live is not something that's taught in schools. We learned what each district produces, but that's about it. No one ever said anything about how poor some of the district people were, or how badly the Peacekeepers treated them."

"Do you think most people that live in the Capitol were kept ignorant about the conditions in the districts?" I asked.

Meda nodded. "And the ones that knew – like my grandfather – didn't seem to care."

"Let's talk about your grandfather for a moment, Meda." I shifted slightly in my seat. "He knows that you're here in Thirteen of your own free will. When you spoke to him, did he seem angry?"

"No." Meda shook her head. "He seemed hurt that I would betray him."

"When you talk to him again, what do you think you will say?"

Meda took a deep breath. "I'll tell him that I love him, but I had to do what was right."

"Speaking of love," I said with a smile, "I understand that you've made some new 'friends' here in Thirteen."

Meda blushed slightly. "You're talking about July, aren't you?"

"Yes," I nodded. "I'm talking about July. Tell us about how you met."

"His name is July Barrow," Meda said. "We met in the hospital. I was working there, and he was a patient. He was wounded during your rescue from the Capitol."

"And you became friends?" I asked.

"I'd never met anyone like him," Meda admitted. "He's smart, and funny, and he…"

Meda's voice trailed off as if she realized that she was on the verge of revealing too much. "I met July back in District Twelve," I said quickly. "He was one of the Community Home kids and was a big part of the Reaping Day Uprising." July's humble roots are sure to give Coriolanus Snow fits, I said to myself as I stifled a laugh. July was considered poor, even in the poorest district – and his active participation in the Rebellion is a bonus.

"I know where he's from," Meda said, somewhat defensively. "And I don't care," she added defiantly. "I like him. A lot."

"And that's all that really matters, isn't it?" I asked with a smile.

"That's the only thing that matters," Meda replied firmly.

"Meda, I want to thank you again for being here with us today," I said. "But before we go, is there any message that you would like to pass on to your grandfather?"

Meda nodded. "Yes." She turned and gazed directly into the camera. "Grandpa, no matter what happens, I want you to know that I have never stopped loving you." I watched her carefully as a single tear rolled slowly down her cheek. "You have the power to stop this war. There's been enough killing. Please, please give the order. The sooner you do this, this sooner you and I can see each other again." Meda was crying quietly now and choked back a sob as her emotions got the better of her, her final word a heartfelt plea.

"Please."

PART II

"Okay, Plutarch," Boggs said tiredly, "let's have it."

"Peeta's interviews are very effective in the districts," Plutarch replied carefully. "As far as the Capitol is concerned – well, that's a lot tougher to gauge."

We had been summoned to an informal meeting by Boggs shortly after I had concluded my interview with Andromeda Snow. These meeting tended to be short and to the point – and this one looked like it would be no different.

"And that brings us to my next item," Boggs said as he scribbled something in his ever-present notebook. "The Capitol, and specifically Minister Quintus Blackstone." He turned to Beetee. "Has he attempted contact again?"

Beetee shook his head. "Not since his initial broadcast."

"And that should be a big red flag, Colonel," Haymitch chimed in. "He calls, asks for our terms for the Capitol's surrender, and we never hear from him after that?"

Boggs nodded in agreement. "Exactly. That tells me that Blackstone is not acting as the head of government, but rather acting on his own."

"So, what does that mean?" I asked, my voice tinged with alarm. I was positive that Blackstone reaching out to us meant that the war would soon be over – or, at least, I had been positive.

"Maybe nothing," Boggs replied thoughtfully. "And maybe everything." He turned to Plutarch. "You're our resident expert on Capitol politics. What's the chain of command like after Snow?"

"There isn't one," Plutarch replied simply.

"So, if Snow was dead, or incapacitated to the point where he couldn't perform his duties –" Boggs said.

"– there would be a huge power vacuum," Plutarch finished. "Snow kept it muddied like that deliberately. He didn't want to have an ambitious second-in-command drooling over the reins of power and plotting behind his back."

"So, Blackstone would be just another player in a power struggle?" Haymitch asked.

"There's someone here that can answer that better than I can," Plutarch said, as he turned to a man standing in the background, his arms crossed over his chest. "Casca?"

Casca Bishop - Coriolanus Snow's former personal bodyguard, and the man most responsible for my rescue from what would have been my nationally televised execution - stepped forward. "Blackstone is Minister of Security," he explained. "As such, he controls virtually every Peacekeeper in Panem. However, the Peacekeepers swear an oath to President Snow, and not to the nation of Panem."

"Hmmph," Haymitch grunted as he jerked his thumb towards Silenus Festuca and Darius Potter – two former Peacekeepers, now valued members of the Rebellion. "Guess they didn't take their oath too serious, then."

"Don't take the Peacekeeper's Oath lightly, Haymitch," Darius admonished. "I can assure you that there's a good number of Peacekeepers out there, still fighting, whose sole motivation is loyalty to President Snow."

"And don't think that Blackstone can't influence events, with or without Peacekeeper support," Festuca added. "He did manage to divert a nuke ticketed for District Ten into a barren stretch of desert."

"Be that as it may," Boggs pointed out, "sabotaging one missile is not exactly a coup."

"I think that we can agree that Minister Blackstone most likely will not use any direct military action against President Snow," Plutarch said. "For now, we shouldn't alter any plans already in the works. Continue as though Blackstone never contacted us to begin with. If he contacts us again, we can try to get an idea then on how he plans to surrender the Capitol to us."

"So, we do nothing?" Katniss asked sharply. "What kind of plan is that?"

"We continue to put pressure on the Capitol," Boggs explained. "We've effectively cut their supply lines, and their strategic reserves are dwindling rapidly. Once we are able to resume offensive operations in spring we should have the Capitol completely surrounded."

"Which will do no good, as long as Snow is still in power," Haymitch muttered.

"Have faith, Haymitch," Plutarch said cheerfully. "You forget, we have Snow's biggest weakness right here in District Thirteen. And, unless I miss my guess, we will be hearing from him once he sees Andromeda on the latest episode of Panem United."

I could only wonder how Snow will react once he sees me interviewing Andromeda – and he realizes that his beloved granddaughter has completely, irrevocably, turned Rebel.

PART III

Coriolanus Snow didn't think that his day could get any worse than it already was – until, at Security Minister Blackstone's urging, he turned on the Holo-TV and watched as the traitor Peeta Mellark interviewed his granddaughter.

Snow rubbed his hands against his temples as Andromeda spoke. Watching this isn't helping my damned headache, he thought. He reached out with one trembling hand and picked up a water glass, his eyes never leaving the holographic image of his granddaughter as she continued to speak. Snow sipped at the water, unmindful of the bloody sores in his mouth tingeing the water pink as he drank, even as Andromeda was speaking about some District Twelve Community Home boy that she had taken up with.

"A Community Home boy," he muttered savagely. "From District Twelve, no less. The lowest of the low." He blinked as the image of his granddaughter suddenly blurred, focused, and blurred again. Snow set his water glass on the table and angrily punched a button on his desk.

Spartacus Knight, Snow's personal bodyguard, instantly appeared in the door. "Yes, sir?"

"Inform the Information Minister that she is to immediately report to me here," Snow ordered tightly. "Perhaps she will be able to explain to me exactly why these pirate broadcasts keep breaking into the Capitol networks – and, at the same time, advise me as to what measures she is taking to prevent this propaganda from polluting our airwaves in the future."

"Yes, sir," Spartacus said. He turned to leave, hesitated, and then turned back towards Snow. "President Snow? Are you feeling all right, sir?"

"I'm fine," Snow snapped. He waved his hand towards the door dismissively. "Now do as I've ordered."

Snow rubbed his hand over his eyes as Spartacus shut the door behind him. I'm fine, he said to himself. Just tired. So tired.

PART IV

I was at dinner with Katniss and Johanna Mason when Minister Blackstone contacted District Thirteen again.

Meals had become an extension of the work day for us. This dinner was no different. My next segment of Panem United was to feature both Katniss and Johanna. The challenge for me was to attempt to draw out of Katniss a very personal, painful time in her life – the death of her father. Johanna presented a different challenge – try to get her to speak of her life immediately following her Victory, when Snow tried to coerce her into joining his stable of Victor prostitutes.

Fulvia wanted Katniss to reveal what it had been like to be one of Snow's prostitutes. I regarded the battle that I had fought with both her and Plutarch to change Katniss's topic of conversation as well-fought. I won – barely – but my Victory had its cost – and the trade-off was convincing Katniss to open up and talk about the single most painful time in her life. I could tell that Katniss was less than thrilled about having to speak about her father, but that wasn't my biggest challenge. No, my biggest challenge would be to prevent Johanna in becoming too graphic when she spoke about exactly what Snow wanted her to do.

Needless to say, conversation was a bit tense. So, when the runner found us and told us to immediately report to Beetee's lab (I made it a point to not wear my commicuff at meals), I couldn't move fast enough to comply.

Katniss, Johanna, and I were the last to arrive in Beetee's lab.

Boggs fixed me with a baleful stare as we entered. "You were issued that commicuff for a reason," he grumbled. "Valuable time was wasted sending runners to look for you. I trust we won't need to have this conversation again?"

I could tell that Boggs was genuinely irked about the delay. "No, sir," I replied meekly.

"What's the big emergency, anyway?" Johanna asked.

Boggs glanced uncertainly at Johanna. "You aren't cleared for this, Miss Mason," he said. To me, he added, "Why did you bring her along?"

"She was with us when your runner found us," Katniss explained, a note of irritation creeping into her voice. "She's here. What's the harm?"

"Like Colonel – excuse me, President Boggs said," Jackson replied stiffly, "Mason isn't cleared for this –"

"And Enobaria is?" Katniss interrupted archly. "Don't forget, my mother and sister both work in the hospital. They both hear things, like conversations between patients and their visitors."

Jackson's eyes flashed angrily. "You leave Eno out of this!" she snapped.

Beetee cleared his throat. "I suggest that the matter of Johanna's clearance be discussed later," he said softly. "Colonel, perhaps you should respond to Minister Blackstone's call – before he tires of waiting and breaks the connection."

"Blackstone?" Johanna repeated in amazement. "Security Minister Blackstone?" She whistled softly. "He's calling here?"

"I agree," Boggs replied to Beetee as he picked up the microphone. To Johanna he said, in a I will be obeyed voice, "Miss Mason, you may stay, as long as you keep silent. And remember - everything you hear in this room is classified. Do you understand?"

Johanna simply nodded as Boggs raised the microphone to his mouth. "Station calling, this is Boggs, District Thirteen. Standing by."

"Took you long enough. Blackstone here," a voice crackled over the speaker. "I would like to speak with my daughter. Put her on." Blackstone paused, and then added, "Please."

Boggs glanced up, his hand cupping the microphone. "Effie went to fetch her," Haymitch assured him. "They should be here –"

At that moment Effie, along with Sperantia Blackstone, entered the lab. "Stand by, Minister," Boggs said as he beckoned Sperantia forward.

Sperantia wore a puzzled expression on her face as she and Effie approached. "Mrs. Abernathy said you wanted to see me?"

Boggs smiled reassuringly at Sperantia. "Someone wants to talk to you," he said. Into the microphone, he said, "She's right here, Minister. Stand by."

Boggs held the microphone out to Sperantia. "Speak into this part here," he explained. "It's voice-activated."

She took the microphone and held it close to her mouth. "Hello?"

"Speri." Even through the static, the emotion in Blackstone's voice was apparent. "How – how are you?"

Speri's breath caught in her throat. "Dad?" Her chin trembled slightly as she spoke. "It's you? Really you?"

"It's me, Speri. How are they treating you? Are you well?"

"I – I'm fine, Dad," she managed to choke out. "How are you? And how is Mother?"

"We're both well, Speri." Blackstone paused. "We've been worried about you. We didn't know if you were…I mean, until we saw you on the holo broadcast…"

"I'm sorry if I worried you." Speri blinked back tears and rubbed her free hand awkwardly across her eyes. "I couldn't talk to you until now."

"I know." Blackstone said thickly. "And don't apologize. I know that you being there wasn't your idea."

"No," Speri replied slowly. "But I'm glad I'm here." A puzzled look crossed her face. "Dad, how are you talking to me right now? Did President Snow –"

"President Snow doesn't know about this communication," Blackstone said. "I can't explain now." He paused for a moment. "Speri, I don't have much time. I need to speak to President Boggs again. I – I just wanted to hear your voice first."

Speri glanced up at Boggs, a stricken look on her face. "Can't we just talk for a minute more? Please?"

"Your father is calling us at great risk to himself," Boggs explained gently. "I'm sorry."

"Speri?" Blackstone said. "Listen to President Boggs. We'll talk again soon. All right?"

"I love you, Dad," Speri sobbed. "And Mother, too. Tell her I love her."

"I – we love you too, Speri," Blackstone replied softly. "Be good," he added. "Goodbye for now."

Boggs reached his hand out for the microphone. "Goodbye, Dad," Speri whispered, and then reluctantly handed the microphone to Boggs. "Thank you," she said softly.

"You'll talk to him again soon," Boggs promised, as Effie stepped forward and gently took Speri's arm to lead her out of the lab.

Boggs raised the microphone to his mouth but waited until Effie left the lab with Speri before he spoke. "It's Boggs, Minister."

"Thank you for allowing me to speak with my daughter," Blackstone said.

"Of course," Boggs replied. "Minister, like you said, you haven't much time, and we have some questions for you."

"You wish to know how I plan on surrendering the Capitol while President Snow is still in power?" Blackstone asked bluntly.

"That is a matter of concern to us," Boggs admitted. "Do you have an answer?"

"Not yet. Suffice to say, however, that there will be no further missile attacks on any of the districts. Our lead engineers and technicians have discovered numerous problems with the degradation of the guidance systems in our remaining missile fleet. These issues will take time to correct."

"In the meantime," Boggs said tightly, "the fighting continues."

"This winter has been especially brutal," Blackstone pointed out. "Offensive operations, both Rebel and Loyalist, have been severely hampered by inclement weather. There's no real fighting going on anywhere."

"Spring is not far off, Minister," Boggs said patiently. "We desire to capture the Capitol intact – but many field commanders are sick of the fighting and want to bring this war to a speedy end. I can't guarantee that these commanders won't act independently and launch their own offensives against the Capitol once the weather cooperates."

"And if I can deliver the Capitol to you before such actions become necessary?"

Boggs snorted. "Minister, you can't even tell us how you plan to surrender the Capitol. I have it on good authority that the Peacekeeper force is controlled by President Snow, and not by you. And if Snow orders them to keep fighting –"

"It's not just the Peacekeepers that you have to concern yourself with," Blackstone interrupted. "It's the Gamemakers. Snow has ordered Head Gamemaker Seneca Crane to install a series of traps throughout the Capitol, like the traps found in Hunger Games arenas, that will make any sort of invasion very expensive for the Rebels. And the Gamemakers do not operate under any authority other than Snow's."

I shared a quick look with Katniss. Snow was turning the Capitol into a giant, urban arena. I couldn't help but shudder at the thought of facing the horrors of my arena on the streets of the Capitol – and, from the look on her face, I could tell that Katniss felt the same way.

Boggs cupped one hand over his microphone. "Can they do that?" he asked Plutarch.

Plutarch nodded slowly. "Seneca has seventy-five years of Games to draw upon for inspiration. It wouldn't take much to booby-trap every street – every block. A ground offensive would be chewed up and spit out. And all the while, Peacekeeper casualties would be minimal."

"Thank you for the intel, Minister," Boggs said into his microphone. "Hopefully, it won't come to a ground offensive."

"I, of course, will continue to work towards a peaceful end to this conflict," Blackstone replied. "I must know, however, what terms you will offer for our eventual surrender."

"Minister, as you are currently in no position to surrender anything, I am in no position to offer anything," Boggs said firmly. "There are no terms. Your surrender must be unconditional."

"I feared that would be your response," Blackstone said sadly. "I must go now. I strongly urge you to reconsider. Thank you again for allowing me to speak with my daughter. Blackstone out."

"Minister?" Boggs said. "Minister?"

"He's ended his transmission," Beetee said as he glanced up from the transmitter. "He can't hear you."

"Well," Haymitch drawled, "all that accomplished was to let us know that Snow intends for one more Hunger Games to be fought – and this one inside the Capitol. Where," he added dryly, "the odds will be in no one's favor."

Katniss and Johanna summed up their feelings with a single word. "Shit."

PART V

I was not sleeping well that night at all.

Katniss and I had both left Beetee's lab in a very subdued mood. Ever since Blackstone's first transmission, we had both been guardedly optimistic that the Minister would be able to deliver on his promise of a quick surrender. It had been a real let-down to hear Blackstone admit that he couldn't really deliver on his offer. In fact, Boggs was considering the possibility that Blackstone couldn't really do anything at all to shorten the war, much less deliver an intact Capitol into Rebel hands – that he was simply trying to curry favor with the Rebel leadership, in anticipation of an eventual Rebel victory.

Then there was the revelation that Snow intended to turn the Capitol into one giant killing field. There had been some discussion between Boggs, Zander, Jackson, and Silenus Festuca after Blackstone's call that centered on potential strategies for neutralizing the Gamemaker-inspired traps that Snow had ordered. These strategies included saturation bombing of the Rebel axis of advance, the use of artillery to open movement lanes, and even detonating a high-altitude nuclear weapon to fry any electronic components that operated these traps.

The first two were bad enough. Using nukes was the stuff of nightmares.

I finally gave up on sleep and rolled out of bed – carefully, so as not to disturb Katniss – and padded to the bathroom. I tiredly rubbed my hands over my face as I peered at my reflection in the mirror. The image that stared back looked at least twenty years older than me. I grunted, the sound a mix of disbelief and resignation, before I turned out the light and stepped from the bathroom into my quarters – only to discover, to my shock, Gamma Churchill perched on the foot of my bed.

"Everything come out all right?" she asked with a smirk.

I shook my head as I made my way back to the bed. "It's been a long day, Gamma," I grumbled. "Gale decide to stay away again?"

"He's still sulking," Gamma replied with a laugh. "Don't worry, Townie. I won't take up much of your time."

Katniss let out a soft snore as she rolled over in bed. "No wonder you can't sleep," Gamma laughed. "Not with Everdeen sawing wood like that."

"Get to the point," I muttered as I settled down onto the bed, careful not to wake Katniss.

"I have a message," Gamma announced dramatically. "Here it is – 'you're due for a stroke of good fortune.'"

"That's it?" I asked. "That's all there is?"

"That's it, Townie," Gamma replied cheerfully. "Mean anything to you?"

"No," I practically snapped. "Your little riddles never do."

"Maybe not at first," Gamma said slyly, "but they always have meaning."

She had me there. Almost every ghostly visit from Gamma (and Gale) was accompanied by a riddle that, at first, made no sense at first. Only later, after the event that the riddle had foretold had come to pass, was I able to understand the message. I was sure that this one would be no different – but I couldn't for the life of me find the solution.

"All right," I said begrudgingly. "You have a point."

"I always do," Gamma said with a chuckle as she leaned forward and placed her fingertips against my forehead. "Now go back to sleep."

She pushed my head back. "Peeta, wake up."

My eyes snapped open and I found myself staring up into Katniss's face. "What?"

"You were talking in your sleep," Katniss said softly. She tenderly brushed a stray lock of hair from my forehead. "Are you okay?"

"Talking?" I asked in feigned amazement. "To who?"

Katniss shrugged. "Something about a 'stroke of good fortune.'"

I caught her hand and kissed her fingertips gently. "Well, at least my dreams have a positive message," I murmured.

Katniss smiled and then laid her head on my chest, snuggling close to me. "Get some sleep, Peeta," she whispered.

I kissed the top of her head. "G'night, Katniss."

After a few minutes, her deep, even breathing told me that Katniss had fallen back asleep. I wish it was that easy for me. The only problem was, I couldn't stop thinking about Gamma's cryptic message.

"You're due for a stroke of good fortune."

I stared up into the gloom as sleep once again evaded me and wondered just what the hell she meant.

PART VI

The persistent pressure in Coriolanus Snow's bladder forced him awake.

"Lights," he mumbled, blinking rapidly as the voice-activated lights softly flared, filling his bedroom with a soft yellow glow. He squinted slightly, his vision blurred as his eyes fought to focus on something, anything, in his luxuriously appointed bedroom suite. With effort, he managed to lock his gaze onto the bathroom door, and he groaned as he painfully swung his legs out of bed, his joints creaking with every movement.

Snow paused, and then, with another painful effort, pushed himself erect, teetering unsteadily as his legs straightened. He took a deep, shaky breath before stepping towards the bathroom – and gasped as a sudden, blinding pain knifed through his head. Snow's legs buckled beneath him and he groped for the bed as he sunk to the thick carpet, the blanket tearing loose from his ineffectual grasp as his knees hit the floor and he bent at the waist, moaning in pain.

Snow tried, and failed, to raise his hands to his head. He toppled over, his shoulder and head striking the floor as inarticulate sounds of pain continued to pour from his mouth. The call button, gleaming dull ivory on his nightstand, seemed to taunt him, just out of reach of his nerveless fingers. He barely noticed as his bladder emptied suddenly, soaking his nightshirt and the carpet beneath him with warm, sticky urine.

A new, stabbing pain exploded behind Snow's eyes. He opened his mouth to scream but managed only a gurgling moan as his stomach twisted, heaved, and he vomited violently. His arms and legs trembled as a single thought raced through his mind. I'm dying. I'm dying! I'M DYING!

That was Snow's last thought as he finally, blissfully, sunk into cool unconsciousness.

Quintus Blackstone sat at the breakfast table, across from his wife, and grimaced as he took a swallow of chicory coffee. He tried to ignore the taste as he scrolled through a series of low-priority messages and duty log entries that he had received since he had gone to bed the previous night.

What I wouldn't give for a decent cup of coffee, he thought as he scrolled through his messages. There were shortages of everything in the Capitol, thanks to the Rebel blockades, and real coffee was virtually non-existent. Blackstone paused in his scrolling and read a message from his deputy, Antonius. Guidance system issue on missiles on schedule, the message read. Anticipate completion in two days. Blackstone nodded slightly. Within two days, there would not be a single operational missile left in the Capitol. The message, of course, was in a code that only Blackstone and Antonius understood. Now, Blackstone said to himself, I need be convincing the next time I talk to Snow –

Blackstone's phone suddenly rang, causing his wife, who had been sitting and staring vacantly at the far wall, to jump. Poor woman, Blackstone thought as he scooped up his phone. I wish I could tell her that I spoke to Sperantia, and that she's all right. Blackstone glanced at the Caller ID display. Duty Officer, it read simply. Blackstone shrugged, stabbed the ACCEPT CALL button, and raised the phone to his ear.

"Blackstone," he said tersely.

"I'm sorry to disturb you at home, Minister," a man's apologetic voice said. "This is the Duty Officer at the District Affairs Ministry, sir. Minister Hammersmith's compliments, sir. He's requested that you meet him at the Presidential Palace as soon as possible."

Blackstone frowned. Hammersmith? What the hell does he want? "I assume that Minister Hammersmith didn't deign to explain to you why?" Blackstone asked dryly.

"No, sir," the duty officer said. "Just that you are to proceed to the Palace ASAP."

Blackstone sighed and rubbed one hand across his face. "Please inform Minister Hammersmith that I will be there forthwith," he instructed, and then broke the connection with a stab of his finger.

"What's going on?" Vesta Blackstone asked, somewhat fearfully.

"That was Hammersmith's duty officer," Blackstone replied brusquely. He pulled up a number from his Contacts list and tapped a finger on the contact before raising the phone to his ear. "Please call for my car, Vesta. I have to leave in a few –"

"Presidential Palace," a feminine voice announced. "How may I help you, Minister Blackstone?"

"Is the President available?" Blackstone asked. "There is a matter of some urgency that I need to speak to him about."

"President Snow is unavailable at this time, Minister," the voice replied smoothly. "Have you spoken with Minister Hammersmith yet?"

"His duty officer just called me," Blackstone admitted. "I would like to know why I've been summoned to the Palace."

"Your questions will be answered once you arrive here," the voice assured him. "We will see you shortly. Goodbye, Minister."

Blackstone glanced at his wife as the connection was broken. "What the hell is going on?" he muttered.

"Your car will be here in two minutes, Quintus," Vesta said softly. "Best not to keep President Snow waiting."

Blackstone nodded, and then picked up his coffee cup and downed the remainder in a single gulp. He stood, bent down, and kissed his wife gently on her cheek. "I'll call you once I learn what's going on."

As he turned to leave, Vesta said hopefully, "Perhaps the President has news of Sperantia and Andromeda."

Blackstone barely hesitated. "I'm sure she's well, Vesta," he muttered, and then hurried out of the dining room before his resolve crumbled, and he told his wife that he had, very recently, spoken with his very-much alive and well daughter.

Quintus Blackstone glanced around the circular conference table at his fellow ministers, and, for the hundredth time, secretly marveled that Coriolanus Snow had somehow managed to build a round table with a well-defined head. The old man's a romantic, Blackstone said to himself. Caught up in pre-Catastrophe legends of ancient kings wielding magic swords. Well, we're not knights of the realm, Excalibur is a myth, and his "kingdom" is ablaze with rebellion.

The soft buzz of conversation suddenly died as the door to the ornately appointed room opened, and the portly, silver-haired figure of Cassius Hammersmith, Minister of District Affairs, entered the room, followed by a small, dark-haired man, slightly younger than Blackstone. There was a collective gasp from the assembled ministers when they recognized the dark-haired man – for his father was the most powerful man in the nation of Panem.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Hammersmith wheezed dramatically, and unnecessarily, "his Excellency, Marcellus Snow."

Blackstone, along with the others, rose to his feet. Excellency, my ass, he thought. Marcellus Snow was a minor bureaucrat in Coriolanus Snow's protocol office. What the hell is he doing here? Unless –

"Please take your seats," Marcellus Snow said softly as he took the place normally reserved for his father. His voice had an unpleasant, nasally, reedy sound, and Blackstone winced inwardly as he sat down.

"I won't waste valuable time," Snow continued. "My father, President Coriolanus Snow, was discovered unconscious on the floor of his master suite this morning when his personal valet went to awaken him. He was rushed to the Presidential Suite at Victor's Mercy Hospital where his physicians have just completed their initial diagnosis of his condition."

Snow paused and scanned the stunned faces of the assembled Ministers. "My father had an undiagnosed brain aneurysm, aggravated by stress and overwork, that ruptured sometime after midnight. He's suffered a massive hemorrhagic stroke and is currently in a coma and unresponsive."

Exclamations of surprise erupted from the Ministers. Snow held up his hands ineffectually as he tried to regain control of the meeting. Finally, Minister Cassius Hammersmith stood, his face set in a solemn mask, and raised one hand. "Quiet, everyone," he said firmly. "Quiet, please!"

Slowly the cacophony died. Blackstone glanced at his fellow Ministers. All wore expressions of shock on their faces, and two were openly crying. I must be careful, he said to himself. If anyone suspects my true feelings –

The Minister of Health raised one hand. "Excellency, do the doctors have a prognosis yet?"

Snow shook his head. "It's too early to tell, Doctor – or so I was informed by my father's medical team. But the attending neurologist was not optimistic. She indicated that, due to the nature and size of this stroke, my father may never walk again. He may not be able to speak intelligently. He may never awaken from his coma."

The Minister of Information asked the unspoken question. "We have no Vice President. There are no clear lines of succession. This would be priority in normal times, but now, in time of war, it's critical. Who will lead?"

The corners of Snow's mouth barely twitched. "I will."

It became perfectly clear to Blackstone, as he glanced from Marcellus Snow to Cassius Hammersmith, exactly what was happening here. It's a power grab, Blackstone said to himself. Marcellus Snow is a figurehead. A puppet. And Hammersmith is the puppet master. He'll be the true authority in Panem.

Hammersmith was speaking. "Obviously, this is an emergency. We, the Ministers of Panem, must put this to a vote. Here. Today. This nation will not survive unless we choose an interim leader. And Marcellus Snow is the most logical choice."

"Excellency, how long will you retain the authority of President?" This question was asked by the Minister of Transportation.

"As soon as my father is able to resume his duties, I shall, of course, step aside," Snow replied. "If he is not capable of resuming his duties, I shall remain in office until the Rebellion has been crushed and peace once again returns to Panem. At that time, we shall hold elections to choose a new President."

Murmurs of assent rose from the Ministers. Sheep, Blackstone thought bitterly. Coriolanus Snow has been President for so long that many here don't remember anyone else ever holding the office. They're shitting themselves at the thought of not having someone to tell them what to do.

"A vote," Hammersmith was saying. "All in favor of installing Marcellus Snow as Interim President, say 'aye.'"

A chorus of "ayes" filled the room. "Aye," Blackstone found himself muttering. Now is not the time, nor the place, to challenge Hammersmith. I need muscle.

"Opposed?" Hammersmith asked. Silence was the only response.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Hammersmith intoned, "I give you Interim President Marcellus Snow. May he lead us with his father's strength and wisdom."

Don't throw up here, Blackstone thought urgently, as polite applause filled the conference room.

PART VII

"Hold the elevator!"

I had just stepped into the elevator – on my way to a production meeting with Plutarch and Fulvia to discuss my next show – when Jackson appeared, jogging down the hallway towards the elevator. I jerked back on the control lever with one hand while sliding the cage open with the other. Jackson slipped through the opening, nodding her thanks with a quick jerk of her head, and spoke a single word as I closed the cage door and the elevator jerked into motion.

"Ten."

"I get off at Eleven," I replied dryly. "But I'm sure you can find your way up one more level."

The significance of her destination level was not lost on me. Enobaria had her quarters on Level Ten. "Going to see Enobaria?" I asked casually.

Jackson paused before replying. "Yes," she said tersely.

"Oh." We rode in silence for a couple of levels before I spoke again. "It's none of my business, but are you two –"

"You're right," Jackson snapped. "It's none of your fucking business!"

"Sorry," I muttered. Two more levels creaked slowly by. I idly wondered if I had selected the slowest elevator in District Thirteen.

"Shit," Jackson finally murmured. "I'm sorry. To answer your question – yes. We are."

"I didn't mean to pry," I said sincerely. "I was just curious. That's all."

"You wouldn't believe some of the snide comments I've heard," Jackson said bitterly. "You know the kind. The ones that people say when they pretend that they don't know you're there – but they intend for you to overhear anyway."

I thought back to the time in District Twelve between Katniss's Games and mine – and all the shit that I had to endure. "I understand."

Jackson chuckled and shook her head, her laughter tinged with more bitterness. "I really think you do understand," she said.

Deftly, I worked the elevator controls, and the elevator slowed to a stop. "I do indeed." I slid the cage door open with a clang. "Say hello to Enobaria for me."

"I will," Jackson said, as the corners of her mouth twitched upwards. As I stepped out of the elevator, I felt my commicuff vibrate against my wrist. I glanced down at the screen and quickly read the message. It was from Boggs, ordering me to Beetee's lab.

I turned back towards Jackson. "Did you get –" she began.

I nodded and stepped back into the elevator. "Yeah."

"Must be another message from Blackstone," Jackson muttered as I closed the door behind me. "I wonder what this one's about?"

"We'll find out soon enough," I replied as the elevator jerked into motion.

The transmission from Blackstone had already ended by the time Jackson and I got to Beetee's lab.

"Have a seat," Boggs said. "We're still waiting on two others."

I glanced around the room. The usual group was there – Boggs, Plutarch, Haymitch, Zander, Festuca, Potter, Beetee, and Katniss. I wondered who else we were waiting for. "Who are we waiting on?" I asked.

"Doctors Aurelius and Picardo," Beetee replied.

"Is someone sick?" Jackson asked.

"No one here," Haymitch said mysteriously, as he shifted around in his chair, trying to find a more comfortable position for his still-healing leg – broken when the hovercraft he had been riding in crashed during the nuclear attack in District Eight.

I was wondering about that cryptic remark when Aurelius entered the room. "Picardo is in surgery," he explained. He glanced around the lab with interest. It was his first visit to Beetee's sanctuary.

"Thank you for responding so quickly, Doctor," Boggs said. "Please have a seat."

"I don't understand," Aurelius said as he sat. "Is anyone here ill?"

"I need you to listen to a transmission we received a short while ago," Boggs explained. "From this point, you are to regard everything that you hear as classified."

"I understand," Aurelius said slowly.

Boggs nodded once. "Very well. We have been in communication with Quintus Blackstone, the Minister of Security for Panem. We're working with him to try to bring this war to a quick end."

Aurelius raised his eyebrows in surprise at this news. "What does this have to do with Picardo or myself?" he asked.

"Just listen, Doctor," Boggs said. He nodded to Beetee. "Play it."

Beetee pressed a button on a digital recorder. "Station calling, this is Beetee Latier, in District Thirteen," Beetee's voice said from the recorder.

"This is Blackstone," a terse voice replied. "Is Boggs there?"

"I've sent for him," Beetee's voice said. "He'll be here shortly."

"No time," Blackstone's voice said. "I don't have much time. You need to record this."

"I'm recording, Minister," Beetee's calm voice said reassuringly. "Go ahead."

"President Snow has been hospitalized," Blackstone said hurriedly. "He's in a coma. His doctors say he had an undiagnosed brain aneurysm that ruptured sometime last night, causing a massive hemorrhagic –"

Beetee glanced up. "That's it," he said as he stopped the recorder.

"I'm concerned about the abrupt way the transmission ended," Boggs said. "I'm afraid that Blackstone may have been discovered." He turned to Aurelius. "What do you think he was trying to tell us?"

"In simple terms, an aneurysm is a weak spot on a blood vessel," Aurelius explained slowly. "These spots tend to bulge outward, like a balloon. Eventually, if they grow too large, an aneurysm can rupture and cause uncontrolled internal bleeding." He paused and glanced around at all of us before continuing. "If President Snow suffered a ruptured brain aneurysm, then that almost certainly precipitated a hemorrhagic stroke. In my opinion, that was the missing part of the Minister's transmission."

I listened in shock as Aurelius finished his clinical description of what happened to President Snow, and Gamma Churchill's cryptic message finally made perfect sense.

You're due for a stroke of good fortune.