I stand on the subway platform of the commuter station as the train rushes past. The blast of air hits me as the brakes screech and the cars come to a lumbering halt. I push my way toward the opening doors with the rest of the crowd and squeeze aboard. The doors close, the conductor makes an unintelligible announcement over the loudspeaker, and the train once again speeds on in its journey toward the Government District.
I look down to check that my uniform was not affected by the jostling of those around me, an obsession of mine at this point, but the work I've done to earn the right to wear it makes it this way. Once again, however, the name tag is noticeably absent. Even here, in the heart of the Capitol, I feel it is not safe to reveal who I really am. I glance over to a younger woman who looks up to me and smiles respectfully which reinforces my decision. All these people see is a servant of the nation, not the descendant of the one who enslaved it. I smile back and nod.
Stop after stop and the commuters begin to filter out of the doors as their destinations are reached. My stop comes last, Capitol Center. A few other uniforms of various services exit the train with me and head towards the escalators. As the moving stairs bring us back into brilliant sunlight from the depths below, I reach for my beret, fit it to my head, and begin the five block walk to the Ministry of Defense. It is a massive stone and marble behemoth constructed decades ago to serve as the official headquarters of the Peacekeepers, but since the Revolution, thousands of free souls from all over Panem now call it their place of work. Its façade is decorated with idyllic scenes of peace of tranquility from the Twelve Districts (13 has still yet to be added, a fact often maligned by that district's representatives in the legislature). Previously, these scenes were more ironic than anything else. Everyone knew that the so called "Peacekeepers" were nothing of the sort, but now there is a real belief that the work being done inside is actually for the good of the country rather than for its continued subservience.
I walk up fifty marble steps, through the massive bronze doors that guard the entrance, and into the cathedral sized front lobby. Sunlight streams in from the skylights and glints off the black marble floor. In the very center, lies a ten foot wide, by ten foot long, by ten foot tall white marble pedestal. It is empty now and kept that way on purpose. Until the fall of the Capitol, that pedestal housed a fifty foot tall statue of my grandfather. The victorious rebels pulled it down, hauled it down the front steps, and proceeded to smash it to pieces in the square below. The remains are currently on permanent display in Freedom Park a few blocks away. They have become a popular tourist destination for the newly emancipated District Folk with means to travel to the once off-limits Capitol. I can't imagine how many people across Panem now have a picture of themselves standing in front of President Snow's eternally stoic yet cracked face in their family photo album.
I approach the bank of ten elevators in the rear of the lobby. A security guard stops me and holds out a small black box. I mindlessly flash my communicuff across its surface. A flashing green holographic picture of my face appears floating in mid-air a few inches above it.
"Good morning, Colonel. Have a nice a day," the guard says before waving me past.
"You too," I say as I walk toward the elevator.
I press a button, the doors open and I enter the car. It is only after I am safely alone and heading downward into the underground labyrinth that I feel it is safe. I reach into my pocket, pull out my nametag and affix it to my shirt. I can only be myself down here, away from the prying eyes of the public.
I arrive at Sub-basement 10 and the elevator lets me out into a sterile white hallway. At the far end is a set of silver doors simply marked "Central Briefing." Another guard and another check of my communicuff and I am inside a dimly lit circular room two hundred feet across. Banks of computer monitors surround the edges of the space and are all attended by a small army of technicians and analysts pouring over reports from all over the world. Since mankind's past wars have destroyed the global satellite network that once dominated world communications, it is now up to teams of highly trained intelligence specialists to receive briefs from our various networks and spies we have stationed across the planet, decipher them, and compile them into meaningful data. It is a slow, laborious process, but we have no alternative.
A massive holographic globe is projected into the center of the room fifteen feet over a wooden conference table. Despite having seating for twenty-five, only four places are set. This is the usual for briefings as the table is only full during national emergencies. An analyst hands me a print-out of the daily briefs before taking her place at the table. There are a few minutes till the President arrives, so I sit down next to her to see if anything significant has occurred since the last briefing. Nothing, no changes.
I curse under my breath as I realize that any mention of the Sixteen has once again been omitted. My view is that this chain of events is indeed a threat to national security simply because whoever is doing this has the capability to travel across Panem in total secrecy, target civilians whose identities are supposed to be a closely guarded State secret, and disappear again without leaving behind any evidence. My view is not shared. Except for myself, the Sixteen are seen as a painful reminder of a past that is best left forgotten.
The doors open, and in walk two figures. A large, muscular man in a uniform not dissimilar from my own and a short, graying woman dressed in a very demure navy blue suit. The first is General Wade Sturm, Chief of the United Districts of Panem Defense Forces. He was a young rebel leader from District 2 during the Revolution, significant considering that District's particular loyalty to the Capitol. Since so many of his family actually sided with the Regime, he has a particular personal hatred of anything associated with it, especially me. If he had his way, I'd probably be spending the rest of my life suffering in the newly re-opened graphite mines of District 13, as far away from the seat of government as possible. The woman is President Driva Holmes, a true rarity among career politicians because despite her no-nonsense groomed exterior, she actually makes a fairly good impression of being a decent human being. Originally from District 6, she was not directly involved in the fighting of the Revolution, but was instrumental in building a stable government afterward. She was that District's first representative in the legislature after the war and soon earned enough respect from her compatriots to be nominated to the office of President.
The two take their seats at the table across from me. Sturm gives his usual malicious glare indicating that he is ready the briefing. President Holmes shuffles through some notes of her own before saying:
"Alright, what's going on in the world that affects Panem today?"
I begin. "Tensions are still high across the East Asian Frontier," I say as the analyst next to me rotates the holographic globe to the appropriate angle. "Pirates associated with the Nippon Shogunate are beginning to raid commerce vessels with more impunity as they attempt to negotiate the Kuomingtang straights to reach the mainland. Though there have been no overt military actions as of yet, opening up trade with the east could become more dangerous."
The President asks a few pointed questions about whether or not our naval force has reached a sufficient level to combat the increased pirate threat. I simply respond with the same facts that we have presented for the past two years as international trade has become an increased priority. She makes a few scribbles on the notepad in front of her and we move on.
"The Trans-European Commonwealth has recently launched another offensive against the rebel stronghold of Britannia, but again the rebel's strategic use of anti-aircraft defenses has stopped any real forward momentum that TEC forces were hoping to build…"
After the global war which devastated the planet almost three centuries ago, the entire face of the earth changed. Over half of the world's population was lost to the violence and resulting hunger and disease. Most established governments collapsed into ruin. The natural progression was that the weak became subordinated to the strong. However, there were two distinctly different results. Many countries retreated back toward earlier forms of governance, even into downright tribalism. However, a few countries gathered together into tight centrally controlled oligarchies with varying degrees of limited personal freedom. Panem was one of them, the Trans-European Commonwealth was another. But unlike Panem, which decided to limit the distribution of technological advancements to merely the citizens of its Capitol, The Commonwealth, or TEC for short, forced technology upon its entire population. Every citizen had the best health care, plenty of highly nutritious food grown in underground hydroponic gardens and a sterile living unit in one of dozens of steel cities that soared upwards to the sky. However, this came at a terrible price. The citizens of the TEC also had the most advanced surveillance system ever devised. Any form of dissent or anti-government sentiment was detected and crushed within hours. Over the decades, the populace simply became a race of mindless drones with no hope of liberation or freedom. The few brave souls that resisted this punishing onslaught, fortified themselves on the island of Britannia and have lived independently, but under constant bombardment for the better part of two centuries. After the Revolution, our agents have started to reach out to the Britannia rebels with little success. Due to our own limitations, we have been unable to provide any sources of real aid and we fear that Britannia may not be able to last more than a few more years at this rate.
I continue my briefing and we come to its conclusion. Both General Sturm and President Holmes seemed satisfied, but I am not.
"Excellent as always, Colonel Snow, keep up the good work," President Holmes says packing up her notes. "I'll have a lot to discuss at this afternoon's meeting of the legislative defense sub-committee." As much as I hate to admit it, General Sturm knows me better than I'd like and sees that I'm about to say something more. He gives me an angry, slow shake of his head, but I pretend not to notice.
"There is one more thing, Madame President," I say resolutely. "I think we need to continue to reexamine the case files of the missing fourteen." General Sturm slams his hand down on the table with a loud bang that makes the analysts sitting at their computers jump. I am unfazed.
"We've been over this, Snow! I realize that this issue has some personal meaning for you (I could swear that by the way he says "personal" he's hoping that I'm the next to disappear) but the UDP can simply not expend any more energy that could be used for other things on this wild goose chase!"
"Sir, it is not a wild goose chase! Whoever is doing this obviously has breached our highest levels of security to find out information on the Sixteen and could easily have acquired other highly sensitive information that could be used to destroy everything we've worked for! I refuse to believe that this person or persons is perfect. There must be something! Something we've missed. If I could just have a few more resources at my disposal we could stop this now…"
"Out of the Question!"
"That's enough, both of you!" President Holmes' voice silences us both. "Colonel Snow, I understand how difficult this must be for you. Your service to the UDP has been of the highest caliber and I wish we could do something more, but I'm afraid that General Sturm is correct. Without clues, we have nothing more to go on. There have been no other signs that any other classified information has been compromised and until that happens, I simply cannot in good conscience dedicate any more resources to this issue than I have already. I have approved the move of your sister to the Capitol and the additional security elements for her and your protection but that is all we can do. Period. Do you understand?"
It is pointless to continue fighting when both of them are against me.
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Good," she says as she stands up from the table. General Sturm and I also both rise in unison. He flashes me a look that lets me know I will pay dearly for my actions at a later date. Honestly, I don't care. "Also, Colonel Snow, don't forget that you have your monthly armaments briefing with Mr. Ohm at the Special Defense Lab today at precisely 1300. I don't want to get any reports from him that you were late again. He's a very busy man."
"No, Ma'am. I'll be on time."
"Excellent, Good Day to you, Colonel." She and General Sturm exit Central Briefing without any further comment. As I collect my notes, the analyst who's been sitting next to me the whole time flashes an understanding look in my direction.
"Well, at least somebody here cares about us," I think.