Antonius had dreaded the presentation of the materials on the Steelworks, but even he could not have anticipated how horrible it would be. The charts he himself had drawn up during his interrogations were displayed, and documents dating to before he had been born were read into evidence.
It was unclear what exactly the prosecution was trying to achieve. They talked about various matters of company policy as if they were crimes and not how business was ordinarily conducted. They made it sound as if every single excess carried out by local bosses had been the result of a great conspiracy orchestrated by Grandma.
"They can't condemn you without condemning every single businessperson in the world," Lee said encouragingly. The former minister sat on his right most days at lunch; Blues sat on his left.
"I hope so, too." Antonius ate his soup. It was completely tasteless, no spices, barely any salt. The bread, too, had the taste and texture of cardboard. "They are acting as if it is illegal to run a corporation. All they have proved so far is that I was in charge of the Steelworks."
Blues sighed next to him and chewed on her bread. She had been crushed by the documents alleging that she had had responsibility over punishments on the construction sites of the Arenas. Antonius did not see what she had to worry about. The punishments there had been much the same as everywhere else.
"My husband says our son is still in Eight," Lee said. "Your cousin?"
"Still there." The guards had gleefully explained that the POWs were rebuilding what they had destroyed. Antonius did not argue with them. Grandma would have told him that he always needed to defend family, but Antonius was having enough difficulties defending himself, let alone Cousin Aimee, who was not on trial for her life.
"How are your kids doing?" Lee asked Antonius and Blues.
"My son is doing fine," Antonius said. "The house has been converted to a homeless shelter, and he says he is enjoying helping out." Thinking about unwashed hordes walking on Grandma's carpets made Antonius feel unwell. Poor Octavia was at wits' end. All of the other houses had been confiscated, so they had nowhere else to go.
Lee smiled. "At least the little ones can adapt. How are yours?" he asked Blues.
Blues shrugged. "My father's still ill, and he's not getting along with my husband at all. My brother is stuck playing mediator."
"Isn't he the wastrel playboy?" Lee asked.
Blues nearly dropped her bread into her cup of water. "He wishes," she grumbled. "I'm sure he thinks of himself as a playboy, though." She bit into the bread. "The littlest ones keep on asking for me."
"Same," Coll said morosely from the other table. Antonius did not like the younger man much, as Coll took the prosecution's accusations entirely too seriously and threatened to break apart the united front with every word he said. "I have no idea how my wife is supposed to explain to them that Daddy is going to be executed."
"You are not going to be executed!" Dovek chimed in from across the room. "Mr. Coll, where did you even get such a crazy idea from?"
Coll crossed his arms on his chest. Like Antonius, the younger man was tall and becoming more slender by the day. "The evidence?"
"I do not see why you are so worried," Antonius said. "It is all nonsense."
Blues looked at him worriedly. "But they made it clear that, during the past four years, you were the one in charge of the Steelworks. In charge of everything."
"And so? I could have told them that myself. If they think they can make me responsible for every little thing, they are sorely mistaken."
Coll twitched at that, but said nothing. Perhaps he was just afraid. As minister, he had been a pliable puppet of Snow, making no decisions independently. It only stood to reason that he would be upset when forced to answer for the alleged crimes he most certainly could not have committed.
"That's not what I meant," Blues said, lethargically sipping some water. "They're going to enter video evidence against us. That's what I'm worried about."
Antonius did not see how video evidence would hurt Blues - she had not been responsible for the Hunger Games, only for construction. "I do not see how blurry footage of some local manager or officer mishandling the workers can hurt me," he said.
Coll clapped a hand to his palm. "The working conditions?"
"Same as everywhere else," Antonius replied, unsure what he was going on about.
"That's what I'm worried about," Coll said, and tore a piece of bread off with his teeth. Next to him, Best was tearing the bread into small pieces with his hands.
Antonius understood what Coll meant. Thirteen had had the luxury of a population that did what it was told, which had given them the ability to have the resources reach everyone. In other parts of the country, it had not been so easy. Antonius had serious doubts about the judge from Twelve, but she was only one person, and the rest of the judges were from a respectable background. They would not be susceptible to the sort of rabble-rousing propaganda the prosecution was sure to put out.
One of the guards, a woman of around thirty with a '10' badge on her shoulder, asked Coll how old his children were. Warden Vance was not in the room, which meant that the more lax Tiller was in charge.
"Oldest is eight, littlest ones are almost one."
"How many do you have?"
"Six, with two sets of twins."
The guard nodded. "Impressive."
"Mine are long-grown," Lee said, echoed by the others sitting at the table.
"I have just the one," Antonius said. "He is nine."
"I've got five. Eldest is eleven, littlest is one." Blues sighed.
"I've actually got three of my own - ten, seven, and two," the guard said. "They're going to be moving here soon."
Antonius wished he could see his son. He had already missed so much - how much more of his son's life would he be away from him for?
"So," the guard continued, "what's it like to have kids in the Capitol?"
Lee raised his eyebrows. "I can assure you that your judge had her own children in the same conditions as us," he said.
"You adopted, how would you know?" Brack hissed at him.
The guard shrugged. She glanced around before sitting down on the bench next to Lee. "But I didn't have my kids in the same conditions as workers here."
"I fail to see how that is relevant," Lee said icily.
"How is all this relevant?" Brack demanded. "Let me answer the question." She turned to the guard. "It was alright, I suppose."
"How much did it hurt?"
Brack shook her head. "It wasn't pain, more of a discomfort. The painkillers stop you from feeling actual pain, but you're still aware that your flesh is stretching and tearing."
"That's nice," the guard said enviously. "I don't remember it, but I was in so much pain, half the county could hear me screaming." Lee looked slightly ill at ease.
"Your hospital ran out of painkillers?" Blues asked.
The guard chuckled. "I couldn't afford the hospital. I only had a single trained midwife we paid with a chicken, and a bunch of relatives."
"Oh, no," Brack said sincerely. Antonius did pity the guard. He had been in the room with Octavia every second of the way when Achilleus had been born, and he had seen how horribly difficult it was to bring a child into the world.
Lee was gnawing on his spoon absent-mindedly. The slight older man was the reason why the guard had needed to 'afford' a hospital in the first place. Antonius had done the numbers. It would have been better for the economy to pay for everyone's healthcare instead of letting workers die in childbirth or from diseases vaccinations against which existed. Snow's hatred of the Districts, however, had gone beyond any rational economic calculations.
The guard and Brack launched into a conversation about childbirth positions. Some of the guards were eager to talk about their lives and compare common experiences, others were taciturn or even sullen. This guard was one of the friendlier ones. Antonius was able to follow the conversation - he remembered well how the staff had done their best to help Octavia get more comfortable. And to think that she had not even been that uncomfortable, by general standards. If she had squeezed his hand so much it had left bruises, less well-off men must have gotten their hands broken by their wives.
"I'm glad I adopted mine," Kirji said with a shudder.
Lee chuckled. "You were as likely to have a biological child as my husband and I." Kirji had shared with them that her husband was infertile.
"And nobody could say that your husband was not the father," Brack added. That had been the most common bit of gossip floating around society at all levels.
"Yes - because it was obvious he wasn't the father when we had a five-month-old out of nowhere."
"A rare case of the mother not being the mother," Lee joked.
"Rare?" Kirji asked with a nod at Grass. "Hardly rare."
Blues began to amiably chatter with the guard about babies. In hindsight, engineer had always been a good conversationalist, despite her seeming lack of social skills. She would not have been able to rise so high if she had truly been only capable of talking about arches and titanium alloys.
Listening to the dialogue made Antonius wonder how Lee would be worked into the prosecution's absurd notion of a conspiracy. Would they accuse him of conspiring to deprive the Districts of proper healthcare? That would be closer to the truth than Antonius liked to admit. On several occasions, his factories had been shuttered for days and weeks due to epidemics of preventable illnesses such as smallpox, typhus, and influenza. Antonius wanted to tell Lee exactly what he thought about his policies, but Dovek was right. They needed to maintain a united front or they would all go down.
Everyone was crowded around the list, eager to see who would be going up today. Rye checked it as well, even though she already knew what would be on it.
Rafael Aumbaev- direct examination of Lucius Founder
Isabella Jinwe - continuation of presentation of materials on Count One.
At last, a witness to break up the deadly-dull monotony. Aumbaev was an attorney from One, and Founder had been the deputy minister of internal affairs before retiring ten years ago as well as a spy for Thirteen for decades, having been contacted after semi-publicly making semi-radical comments. There didn't appear to be much rhyme or reason to which attorney handled what - Rye herself was currently working on Count Two, preparing for the presentation of materials on Toplak's involvement with the Games. But then again, none of the attorneys had ever come closer to the Games than having an acquaintance's cousin's coworker's local streetsweeper die. It would be a different matter once they got into Count Three. There, it would be divided by District, with each team speaking about its home. Anna Goldfield was in charge of that for Nine.
Rye stepped away from the crowd and walked into the courtroom. Many of the reporters had trickled away already, but many had remained. Thanks to Founder's upcoming testimony, the seating section was full again. Some had formed little clusters, others were sitting on their own. She sat down in her customary seat, savouring the coolness of the air.
Count One was finally drawing to a close. The 'boring history class', as the press had termed it, was almost over. Irons had agreed to let specific atrocities be handled on Counts Three and Four and curtail how much was said about the Games so that Rye and the rest of them had something to say. Rye knew that popular interest in the trial was gone. The average person had no interest in charts outlining who had been in charge of what sub-sub-department. The gallery was full, but it would be mostly empty after Founder's testimony ended. Hopefully, Count Two would keep their attention. Rye knew that some very interesting witnesses were being lined up.
But first, Founder would testify. Sanchez had done a great job of controlling the trial so far, but how would he do with witness testimony? Rye sat back in her chair and waited.
"Is everyone ready?" Raymond asked, taking his place at the door. Dora smoothed out her robe and made sure that she was standing in the right place. "Alright. Let's go." The Chair looked nervous - he wasn't sure if he would be able to stay in control during a cross-examination.
He pushed open the door and led the way into the courtroom to the sound of the marshal commanding everyone to rise. Dora looked around the courtroom discreetly. Was it her imagination or were there really more journalists than yesterday? She took her seat, glad for the cushioning of her chair. Some of the defendants were sitting on top of blankets.
The marshal recited the usual phrases, and now it was Raymond's cue.
"I call on the prosecutor of District One."
Amber Vargas stood up. "Mr. Aumbaev will represent District One today." She sat down, and Aumbaev stood up and approached the lectern. He was in civilian clothing.
"The Prosecution would like to call as first witness for the Prosecution Lucius Founder."
Raymond paused for a fraction of a second. "The Tribunal wishes to state that the examination of the witness you propose to call must be limited to Count One, a common plan or conspiracy." They had agreed on that in closed session to avoid a discussion of materials on Count Four in the middle of presentations on Count One. As it was, Founder would be testifying about government policy even though that had been dealt with weeks ago by the prosecution.
"The Prosecution will endeavour to restrict itself to the topic," Aumbaev said, "but there is no clear dividing line between Count One and the other counts."
"The Prosecution has managed to restrict itself to relevant material so far," Raymond said. He spoke in an emotionless flat voice, but Dora could feel the sarcasm radiating off him. "Does the Defense have any objections before the witness is brought in?" Silence. Even the defense had not been able to find something to complain about here. "Very well. You may bring in the witness."
Lucius Founder was an old man who whispered his oath into the microphone. He was wearing a suit that hung like a sack on his narrow frame. His face showed clear signs of weight loss. He, having been so high up in the hierarchy, had been warned about self-incrimination, but he had still chosen to testify. This would be about the conspiracy to deliberately implement inequitable living conditions. In the dock, Dovek looked combative. The two had worked together in the ministry for decades.
"The witness may be seated," Raymond said, noticing that Founder was still standing. The older man sat down in the witness stand, hands on the sides. He did not look worried at all. This was the sort of witness who thought they had nothing to hide and was sincerely eager to help the court.
"Witness, for the record, please state your name, age, and address," Aumbaev began.
"Lucius Emily Founder, eighty-one years old, 306b/5-708 Dufferin Street." That was not the sort of address at which a former deputy minister could have been expected to live. He must have lost his own apartment to bombings and been given this one on account of his age and ill health.
"What was your occupation?"
"Civil servant." Founder's voice was weak, but the microphone amplified it.
"When did you enter the civil service?"
Mary suspected that the audience had expected the wrong things from a witness. Instead of the juicy tales of espionage they must have expected, Aumbaev had Founder describe who had been subordinate to whom until Sanchez broke in to tell him to get to the point. They then moved on to the purge Snow had orchestrated immediately after coming to power. That made the functionaries in the dock uncomfortable - all of them had benefited from that purge in some way.
"My superior at the time, Augusta Loup, told me that Snow would be consolidating power and that I needed to lie low for a while," Founder said. "She was asked to send to the Ministry of State Security - which was soon renamed the National Committee of Internal Affairs - a list of everyone who was allegedly disloyal. She sent in the names of the most corrupt ones."
"What happened to them?"
Founder thought about it for a few seconds. "A few of the biggest names were tried and executed. Others were dismissed from their jobs or had their promotions blocked. I do not remember now everyone's individual fates."
Next to Mary, Xander Mendel rubbed his forehead with a thumb and forefinger. "We already know all of this," he whispered to Mary. The younger prosecutor was seldom in the courtroom as he was busy working on the Peacekeepers' trial, which would be starting very soon.
"Do they?" she replied in an equally low voice, nodding at the audience. "If we can make this trial serve a didactic purpose without damaging the trial, we need to seize the opportunity. Founder is proof that the conflict wasn't Capitol versus Districts, it was Snow and his gang versus Panem. Even very high-up people realized that it was wrong, which means it is perfectly reasonable to demand of the others why they did not do likewise."
Mendel looked at the audience. District delegations were brought in every day, their expenses fully covered. It had taken Mary some time to come around to the idea of a didactic trial, but she had eventually been forced to admit that calling a few witnesses would not damage its integrity. Yes, it would be a waste of time, all this information could be demonstrated with documents, but the media was already complaining about alleged wastes of time. If these delegations came away from this session thinking that there had been people in the government willing to risk their lives to make the country a better place, that could only be a good thing.
The direct examination continued. Founder described the sorts of fields he had been responsible for and the conferences he had attended. He also talked about the defendants he had known before, not adding anything new. The matter of Founder's espionage was only addressed obliquely.
The cross-examination was much the same. A few of the defense lawyers tried to get Founder to describe their clients in a positive light. Low cross-examined him about the information he had passed on to Thirteen.
"Witness, are you saying you were aware of this change to reprisal policy?"
"I was," Founder agreed.
"And, despite your beliefs, you did nothing to alter it?"
Founder shook his head. "I passed the information on to Thirteen."
"Yes, but you did not try to make the policy less extreme, even though you said before you had the power to do that."
Founder said nothing. He ran a hand over his mostly bald head and took a sip of water.
"Witness, why did you not prevent this cruel policy from being implemented when you had the power to do so?" Low was clearly fishing for something she could use to exonerate Dovek as well.
Mary saw Founder's jaw clench. He ran a hand over his head again. "I was worried about protecting my cover," he said abruptly, dropping his hands to his lap. "I was afraid that pushing for milder policy might make me fall under suspicion. I was a coward."
That would not help Dovek's case.
"Witness, you spied for Thirteen for three decades. Clearly, you were no coward then."
Founder shrugged. "All I had to do was leave my notes in a certain place when my housecleaner came over. I deluded myself into thinking I would never be uncovered." He looked around the courtroom, as if surprised to discover himself testifying for the prosecution instead of being on trial for espionage. "Well, I suppose I was correct on that count."
The defendants laughed, except for Dovek, who glared at his onetime coworker. Talvian also looked a little bit ill at ease. She hated being reminded that the almighty NCIA had, in reality, been a gathering of incompetents who let someone literally run away from them. That runner would testify during Count Four - crimes against humanity, political persecution more specifically.
The cross-examination ended, and Isabella Jinwe stepped up to the lectern, sheaf of notes in hand. She flipped through one thick book and paused, hand halfway down a page. Isabella put that book down and took another, reading the title on the cover. While she could read almost as fast as she had been able to when she had her eyes, reading out loud was harder. Mary had suggested Isabella not stress herself out over the presentations, but the prosecutor from Two had insisted. She wanted to demonstrate to everyone who had lost their sight during the fighting that they could continue living life in much the same way as before.
Mary glanced down at her watch. Lunch break would be soon.
At the restaurant, Thumeka was surprised to see Mikola also there. "Hey," she said, trying to get his attention.
Mikola whirled around. "Hey. Why don't you join us?"
Uncertainly, Thumeka sat down at his table. "Aren't you meeting someone?" He had said so when the four of them had gone their separate ways for lunch.
"It's not a date," Mikola replied with a shrug. "The more, the merrier." He paused. "Though I don't even know this person. She's a correspondent from Poland, just arrived here. Thought I'd be neighbourly and invite her."
It would be interesting to talk to another Eastern European. Poland kept on oscillating between isolationism and getting involved with its neighbours' wars, which could not have been easy to live in. Thumeka began to study the menu, but just as she finished ordering, an accented voice asked in English, "Are you Mikola Krasiuk?"
"Yes, I am."
The speaker walked around the table to a free chair. She wore a loose black shirt and skirt and a light-blue kerchief and looked rather dark for a Pole - her hair was black, her eyes were nearly as dark as Thumeka's, and while she was very pale compared to her, she looked a little bit more tan than Mikola, or perhaps that was the result of spending a lot of time outside in this weather. "Where are you from?" the woman asked curiously.
"Harare, Zimbabwe."
"Minsk, Belarus."
"I'm Esther Abramowicz. I'm from Poland. Częstochowa." She sat down and began to peruse the menu, and Thumeka noticed that she was wearing a little pennant, a six-pointed star, on a necklace that must have fallen out of her shirt when she sat down. "It's nice to meet a fellow Eastern European."
Thumeka was a little bit taken aback. She had never heard of the place, which meant that it was quite small - so what was a religious minority doing there? And if she was a little bit taken aback, Mikola looked like he had been hit on the head. He took something out of his pocket - a small kippah - and put it on with a wink. He had told them that he had a Jewish background, but Thumeka hadn't known he cared about religion. "Very nice to meet you, too. This restaurant is not a good place to eat for someone like you, I'm afraid."
"I noticed," Abramowicz replied, closing the menu. "I just got here, and I already met three others - I do hope they're not living off crackers."
Mikola chuckled and looked around. No sign of the server. "Even crackers here are probably not kosher," he grumbled. "The way they pushed minority religions under the carpet here - it's got to be some kind of record."
"I thought there were communities?"
As a teenager, Thumeka had read contradictory articles. In Panem, religion was suppressed. No, it was ignored. No, the state had officially been Christian. No, the official religion was some brand of dictator-worship. Now, they knew for sure. As usual, the truth was more complicated than any simple statement. "There are plenty," Thumeka said. "McCollum and Snow left religious institutions alone out of fear of angering the devout, but it was never mentioned in the media. I know that the last governor - well, they were called mayors then, but it's the same thing - of Eleven was a fanatic Christian fundamenalist, and he was allowed to get away with it."
For obvious reasons, Abramowicz winced.
"Yeah. Government didn't want those sorts of things strengthening identities, but when everything's falling to pieces, that doesn't mean much."
"He was famous for his televised 'apologies'," Thumeka chimed in. "Usually, people would be forced to apologise for having said something bad about the government, but sometimes people would announce things like 'I apologise for mistreating a portrait of Snow and for not believing in Jesus our Lord'."
"Awful." The server arrived, and they placed their orders. "I think one of the 'Hunger Games' survivors was Jewish?"
"Yes," Thumeka said. She knew that very well - a large chunk of footage of the Games that year had been smuggled out. She had been seventeen then. "Diana Cohen, Sixty-First Hunger Games."
Mikola smiled. "I can tell from the name."
"Well, yes. She's quite observant too, she took her prayer-book into the Arena. She was eighteen then. The Arena was a drought-stricken forest in the Midwest. Cohen killed four with a knife, but when it was down to the last five, none of them could find each other. After a few days of that, a forest fire was started. It went out of control and killed four in bare minutes. Ratings had never been higher." And Thumeka had watched several hours' worth of footage of that. It was then that she had realized she could be a war correspondent. Normal people would have been affected by the sight.
Abramowicz was uncomfortable at the mention of ratings. "Horrible," she whispered.
Mikola muttered something and adjusted his kippah. "Now, forgive me for the odd question, but what were you doing in Częstochowa?" He clearly wanted to change the topic.
"My mother moved there from Warsaw when she was young," Abramowicz said, relieved. "She's a historian who got a job at a museum there. Married my father - they work in the same museum." She gestured to her outfit with a laugh. "I'd say I'm pretty devout, I don't use electronics on Shabbos or anything. My husband's technically a Christian, but he's agnostic, and he's happy with me raising the kids to be Jewish."
Mikola nodded. "I don't even know a letter of Hebrew. I don't wear this," he said, pointing to his head, "because if I do, the Israelis will probably turn up and try to talk to me on their level, and I'd just feel like an idiot." That was an elegant evasion of the fact that he probably would have been harassed for it.
Thumeka was a minority in some ways back home, but it was a non-issue because of her flawless multilingualism, and also because society back home was simply more tolerant. From her experiences in Europe, especially during the English civil war that she covered, she knew it was very different in other places.
Mikola's phone chimed. He took it out, looked at the screen, and his eyes nearly fell out of their sockets. "Someone's inviting me to synagogue on Saturday," he said, befuddled. He looked around the room, as if trying to find someone. "How do they know?"
"That's amazing," Abramowicz said with a laugh. She also looked around, trying to find the person who had sent the text. "You wore your kippah for, what, a minute?"
Mikola put his phone back in his pocket. "In any case, how are you enjoying Panem so far?" he asked Abramowicz.
The Polish correspondent adjusted her kerchief. "I've never been to a country that just got out of a civil war," she said. "I was working in Australia before this, covering the border conflicts in the outback."
"So the temperature must be familiar," Thumeka joked. The others laughed. "To be honest, this is like no civil war aftermath I've ever witnessed. I was stationed in England back then - even when the peace accords were signed, there was constant sporadic fighting. Here, it's like a house of cards collapsed and now everything is still."
Abramowicz nodded. "England didn't get any humanitarian aid," she pointed out.
"That, and the lack of real support for the regime. Most people thought - if not Snow, then who? And now that they see who, they're fine with it, or at least don't care."
Mikola sipped his water. "I think there was more support for him than that."
The question of consent or coercion had always been a big one among historians who studied Panem. The civil war was, for now, firmly in the domain of political science, but it was debated there as well. "What do you think of the trial so far?" Thumeka asked Abramowicz.
"I don't know what to think," she replied. "It's such an odd move. I knew that trials would be used, but that business with Coin - I'm impressed they didn't start fighting again. And I don't know what gave the government the idea for the trial they've got going on right now. I flipped through the transcripts - they give the defense more latitude than you'd usually see in the trial of someone accused of some common crime."
Mikola nodded and adjusted his kippah again. "Thirteen's government had a couple of historians consulting them on the plans for recovery. Apparently there is a precedent for this kind of trial - one happened in Argentina just on the eve of the Cataclysm. Plus there's a somewhat older precedent for a fair post-war trial, too."
"A fair post-war trial? Seems like an oxymoron to me."
"It seemed crazy to me, too," Thumeka said. "I looked them up - it was actually even crazier than this. It wasn't after a civil war, it was after a war between countries, and the victorious powers sat in judgement over the vanquished. It was a fair trial."
Abramowicz raised her eyebrows. "I'll have to do some reading about that. An international trial? How could that work?" She picked up the menu and flipped through it idly. "Maybe I'll get an apple."
Thumeka looked down at her own menu. The cheap ink had smeared all over the grey paper, but the words were still legible. She decided to get the beef noodles.
"Can you imagine that?" Mikola asked. "Countries working together? Did you read about that massive argument the International Space Agency had when that solar panel on the ISS needed to be replaced?"
The biggest supranational organisation was the International Soccer League. The ISA was a distant second. Belonging to its membership list meant that a country was worthy of attention on the global stage. "No," Thumeka said. "They have that debate every year or so."
"They've even turned sending humanitarian aid to Panem into a competition," Abramowicz said. "No wonder they have peace now - they're having the great powers one-up each other in sending in food and supplies." She paused. "Maybe they're just curious to see Panem."
Everyone was. Places like England were in a semi-permanent state of civil war, so there was hardly anything to take note of there. But Panem had always been that outlier, the rogue state, the only one who secretly refused to destroy its nuclear weaponry, isolationist to the point of autarchy and so secretive, the flu pandemic forty years back had passed it by. Everyone had assumed that District Thirteen would give up on its struggle and join the free world one day. Instead, it had orchestrated a successful civil war. No wonder journalists and correspondents were still flocking here.
"What do you think of the defendants?" Mikola asked.
Abramowicz shrugged. "They look so normal."
"They are normal," Mikola said firmly. "If our politicians got absolute power, they'd have been like that, too - to say nothing of that Chaterhan."
Thumeka imagined the CEOs back home if they had control over a monopoly and half the country. It was not a pleasant mental image.
The radio suddenly stopped blasting the evening news. Antonius gulped and continued reading his novel. If they tried to play that infernal song about him again-
Jaunty guitar, not at all the slower bouncing rhythm Antonius heard in his nightmares. He relaxed and leaned back against the wall to listen, only to get the shock of his life when he heard the lyrics.
All my life, I've been roaming the streets here
And I'm ready to wander some more
And everyone here, they live their own life
And won't tell you how to live yours.
But there is a place in the heart of the city
Lit so bright, it will draw any gaze.
There, any and all will be taught what is what
And quickly rethink all their ways.
The evening loudmouth speaks!
The heroic worker of our time now arises!
The evening loudmouth speaks!
More truthful, more honest, and better than all-
That is him!
The evening loudmouth speaks!
Whatever he's told, he will tell the crowds
Any question, the answer will stun
The nation's in danger, and so are our mores,
Our traditions: the whip and the gun.
He shines like a newly made dollar
He drips condescension and scorn
And when children die at the hands of the state,
He'll explain that more will be born!
The evening loudmouth speaks!
When the truth is required, he'll define what it is.
The evening loudmouth speaks!
A symbol of a nation, epoch, and era -
That is him!
The evening loudmouth speaks!
There was only one thought in Antonius' mind - Lark was going to be furious. And indeed, he had hardly formulated that thought before Lark was demanding the guards turn the radio down.
"Why?" the NCO on duty demanded. "It's a nice song."
Lark told the NCO exactly what he thought of her and the song.
"But everyone else seems fine with it," she said.
"That's because it's an insult directed at me!"
Antonius hid a smile. The guard watching over him giggled.
"How do you know? It doesn't mention you."
Lark replied with another torrent of curses before falling silent. Antonius had never liked him - loudmouth was the perfect word, for he had been Panem's most infamous televised screamer for a decade or so. He had always avoided watching his program, even if it was mandatory.
It was odd how two people could be so different despite having had the same job. Lark still held to his convictions - admirable, perhaps, but also irritating in a person such as him. Antonius had heard him use slurs in the presence of District people. His fellow propagandist was the opposite. Antonius had never watched Slice before, he had first found out about her existence when he read the indictment, but it was hard for him to imagine her screaming about traitors. She was about his age but could have passed for a teenager, quiet, kind, and one of the most crushed by evidence of atrocities.
Antonius put down his book and ran a hand through his hair. The conspiracy case was almost over, and it had been smoke without fire. The prosecution had been able to prove that Antonius had had control over the Steelworks, no more and no less. Some of his codefendants had been less lucky. Dovek, Bright, Lux, Cotillion, and many others would have difficulty explaining away their signatures. For the first time in a long while, Antonius felt more or less secure. Maybe this would be a real, fair trial. Maybe they would punish the guilty and let him go.
"Have you read about the incident with the bra poisoning?"
Miroslav shook his head; Ledge's eyes lit up. Stressed as he was, he was desperate to do the one thing he still had the energy for - tell Miroslav crazy stories. "Alright, so the NCIA uncovered that Kiandra Mbowe, a fairly well-known criminal attorney, was spying for Thirteen. They decided to kill her that way, using nerve agents, when she was holidaying in the countryside. Snuck into her cottage and smeared poison on her bra. Thing is, they got the dose wrong! She fell into a coma, but paramedics were able to arrive and give her an antidote - the poison belongs to the same class of toxins as a widespread kind of pesticides, so they recognized the symptoms. Did you read the investigation on the NCIA poisons, at least?"
Ledge sounded as if he would be very disappointed if the answer was negative. "I glanced at it. Novice-class, Dandelion-class, and W-class, I believe?"
"Exactly. They used Novice-class poison on Mbowe."
"But when she was hospitalized, as I assume she was, couldn't the order simply be given to withhold proper treatment, or poison her again, or something?"
Ledge smirked. "That would require the NCIA to use logic. Alright, so Mbowe is in a coma in a hospital, completely vulnerable, but nobody can agree on the plan of action. They had to call up Talvian, who was giving birth at the moment, to request further orders, but she pretty much told them exactly what she thought of their professional competence, so they were leaderless. And since nothing could happen without up there giving the order, everyone continued to run around like headless chickens until Talvian was available - her births were always difficult because of her size, so it took a few days for her to recover enough to do any kind of work."
It was interesting how Ledge was able to speak of society exactly as it had been but acted as if it was just a fact of life. "What do you think of that?" he asked.
"What do you want me to think? That was just how things were. Stupid in hindsight, but what was I supposed to do?"
"Good point," Miroslav said, hiding his unhappiness. Ledge was so close to understanding the futility of the regime, but instead of treating it as a tragedy, he acted as if it was a massive joke. "So, what happened to Mbowe?"
"She recovered eventually and defected to Thirteen shortly afterward, later moving to Newfoundland. I don't think anyone even bothered to report her disappearance to Talvian." Ledge chuckled. "Serves Talvian right. She acted as if she was some sort of flawless spymaster, but in reality, she couldn't even poison a bra right! Ha!" He paused. "It's not really funny, though. Several of the doctors who treated Mbowe were murdered - God alone knows why, they treated her symptoms and nothing more, if they suspected it wasn't pesticides, anyone could have. I still can't believe I'm sitting in the same dock as Talvian. Doctor, have you asked her what she thinks about all this?"
Rye had read rumours that some of the defendants still felt good about their chances. She had no idea how they could still delude themselves. They had all been proven to have been tightly enmeshed in the web of crime, from Dovek down to Slice.
As Rye unsteadily made her way back to her billet after an evening out, she thought about the heaps of evidence Jinwe and her team were dropping on the Tribunal every day. Signatures. Signatures. Signatures. Orders to 'handle the Rebel threat'. Orders to 'raise the productivity'. Orders to 'acquire more research specimens'. Next week, they would begin the case on Count Two, and the consequences of some of those orders would be testifying in the courtroom.
It was strange to think that anything existed outside the courtroom. Out in the countryside, wildfire season had begun - but also not really begun, thanks to the Great Powers sending in resources for the prevention and putting out of forest fires. Even cynical as Rye was, she had always thought that massive wildfires that made it impossible to breathe in her city for months on end were unavoidable. It turned out that they were very much avoidable - it was just that the money for controlled burns, clearing strips of earth to act as barriers, buying equipment, and paying foresters and firefighters had simply been stolen.
"Hello," a voice growled from behind Rye. She spun around, coming face-to-face with a short and skinny man in a mask, dark glasses, and gloves. "So now we have to put up with you, too?" He grabbed her by the shoulders and slammed her against the wall. Heart hammering, Rye tried to fight back, but her punches rolled off the man like water. She tried to kick him in the stomach but he stepped aside, sweeping her other foot and making her fall down. Pain lanced up her arm.
"What are you doing?" Rye demanded.
The man laughed. Or was he a man? He sounded very young. Rye looked to the side. On the bigger streets the lights were lit, but in the smaller alleys, it was quite dark. She hadn't thought anyone would ever try to attack her. The area around the Justice Building was probably the best-patrolled in the entire country.
"Fuck you," the boy said, kicking her in the side.
Rye scrambled up, dropping her bag. She hadn't been in a fight since elementary school and had no idea what to do. Her breath wheezed in her ears, and she felt exhausted. Laughing, the man stepped forward, punched her in the stomach, and threw her down by the neck. Rye tried to grab his leg, but he just kicked her. What did he want? To beat her to death? He kicked her over and over until he got bored and left, not touching her bag.
Everything hurt. Rye tried to stretch out her limbs but couldn't. She was lying on the warm pavement and one of her eyes refused to open. Every movement sent jolts of pain through her body, especially in her stomach. The thought of potentially having internal bleeding made her climb awkwardly to her feet and stumble off in the direction of the hospital.
It was late in the evening, so nobody paid any attention to an injured person stumbling along. In the hospital, the harried doctor stopped showing any sympathy at all as soon as she realized Rye had been drunk, assumed she had fallen down the stairs, and didn't let her get a word in edgewise. At least she didn't have any serious damage other than some bad bruises on her abdomen.
Back in the billet, Rye nearly collided with Jinwe in the corridor. "What happened to you?" the prosecutor from Two asked.
"How do you know something happened?" Rye asked, confused. She sat down on a small bench to take off her shoes.
"You're limping. I didn't even recognize your footfalls, they're so messed up."
Rye took off the first shoe, wincing at the effort. Using the muscles of her abdomen hurt. "Revanchist attacked me - or someone who just really doesn't like any elites. Didn't take my bag or go through my pockets, so I assume it was ideological."
"Has to be pretty rich, to not even take your laptop." She paused. Rye took off her other shoe and stood up gingerly. "Or maybe they assumed you're less likely to chase down someone who merely assaulted you."
"Probably the latter," Rye conceded. "I won't be able to recognize him, but a laptop can be traced."
"At least you know the gender," Jinwe said optimistically.
"Gender and approximate age - he sounded like a teenager."
Nora Pillar walked into the corridor and her mouth dropped open. "What happened to you?" the assistant prosecutor from Two asked.
"You should see the other one," Rye mock-bragged. "I think I managed to headbutt him in the knee. Ow." Movement brought another stab of pain. "I need to go lie down."
Somehow, Rye managed to make her way up, thanks to Carver's ramp. She walked into her room and nearly gave Hudson a heart attack.
"Maybe we should have you present looking like that," her roommate joked, looking up from a book.
"Ha-ha." Rye undressed and looked at her abdomen. It didn't look too bad, but bruises took time to really appear. And she still couldn't see out of one eye. "You think if I tell my husband I was this close to winning, he'd believe me?"
Hudson raised her eyebrows. "You look like you got your ass handed to you."
Rye didn't feel anything about that other than the pain in her body. Of course a young man trounced her handily. She was over forty and not a fighter. Rye went to the bathroom and wanted to laugh out loud when she saw her face. She had a black eye and one of her cheeks was covered with scratches. "Maybe if I can't get out of bed tomorrow, I'll get to sleep in."
"Or our great leader will make you read documents with us associates," Hudson prophesied.
Rye resolved to get to the courthouse tomorrow even if she had to crawl.
"Look," Talvian whispered. Everyone around her looked - at a prosecutor who had clearly lost a fight the other night.
"She got wrecked," Krechet said confidently. "Just look at how she's moving. I'm surprised she even bothered showing up today. If I felt that bad, I'd stay in my cell."
"Bar fight?" Grass suggested.
"She's got to be at least forty, I doubt it." Krechet tried and failed to stretch out his legs. Antonius also had that problem, though not to so great an extent. Talvian, of course, had plenty of legroom. "But who knows. I hear they're just as bored with this crap as we are."
Today, there would be another witness, a judge who would testify about how punishments had been decided on from above. Antonius had occasionally made use of the courts to get rid of someone - that was simply how things had gone. Everyone had done it.
Antonius did not care about the witness. He was tired and bored. He had slept poorly the other night, suffering from nightmares about Warden Vance. When would this nonsense end already?
A/N: The fundamentalist ex-mayor of Eleven is inspired by Ramzan Kadyrov, the radical Islamist governor of Chechnya who created the genre of televised apologies. Life in dictatorships being what it is, 'apologies' became a meme in Russia, whenever a politician said something Islamophobic people would joke about Kadyrov making them apologise.
The song is partially a translation of Boris Grebenschikov's legendary 'Вечерний мудозвон'. If you know Russian and haven't heard it yet, please do. It made Vladimir Soloviev explode, and everything that makes Soloviev explode is worthwhile.
Novice-class poison is, of course, a reference to Novichok (it's a literal translation of the word), and the underwear poisoning is a reference to how Alexey Navalny was nearly killed by means of Novichok-laced underpants.