Chapter 28: The Lives of Others
Caleb Tyler sat alone in the dim operations center of the Domestic Security Bureau, long after most of his subordinates had gone. It was past midnight, the hour when doubt often crept in on even the staunchest souls. On the wall before him, a dozen monitors glowed, each showing a different feed from the vast surveillance network. He could toggle between street cameras, phone call intercepts, social media scrapes, even hidden cameras in certain homes or offices of interest.
Tonight, he found himself drawn to one particular feed labeled Sector 12, Residence 44A. The video, in grainy black-and-white, was the living room of a small apartment. A middle-aged man sat at a table, head in hands – he had likely just returned from questioning at a local DSB office; Caleb recalled ordering a round of random interviews in Sector 12 after an anonymous anti-government pamphlet was found in a cafe. They hadn't arrested this man, only scared him. On the video, Caleb saw the man's wife approach and gently rub his shoulders, her face etched with worry. They spoke softly – no audio on this camera, but their body language was clear. The wife offered comfort, the husband shook his head, defeated.
Caleb switched to another feed, unsettled by the raw intimacy of that scene. Now came a wiretap playback: two teenage friends speaking in what they thought was a private phone call. He tuned in mid-conversation:
"…I miss you," one girl was saying, voice trembling. "School's not the same. I'm so sorry your brother—"
"Shh!" the other hissed. "We can't talk about that. They might be listening."
The line went silent, then the call cut. They were right to be afraid – Caleb had indeed been listening. He felt a twinge in his chest. A year ago, he would have dismissed it without thought: fear is good, it keeps them in line. But tonight, something about the quaver in that first girl's "I miss you" lingered in his mind. Two friends who couldn't even console each other because of him, of the system he upheld.
He rubbed his eyes, weary. On his desk lay a thick file stamped OPERATION SILENCE FOREVER. It was Marcus Hall's newest initiative, one Caleb had been tasked to refine: an ambitious program combining Chinese-model social credit scoring with advanced AI surveillance to anticipate dissent before it happened. It was the "next frontier of control," as Marcus had excitedly put it.
Caleb opened the file, scanning technical diagrams and policy drafts. Cameras on every corner feeding algorithms that flagged "anomalous behavior." Citizens assigned loyalty scores that determined their access to jobs, housing. Even private conversations analyzed for sentiment.
At another time, Caleb would have felt only pride at being entrusted with this plan. Now, a strange heaviness filled him. He flipped a page and was met with a proposed slogan for public rollout: "Silence is Security."
He stared at those words. In them he heard an echo of his own life: how much he had silenced within himself for the sake of duty.
His contemplation was interrupted by a soft knock. An junior agent – Anderson, fresh out of the academy – poked his head in. "Sir? I'm about to head out for the night. Is there anything you need?"
Caleb looked at the young man. Anderson had a clean-cut earnestness, reminiscent of how Caleb himself had been fifteen years ago. "No, that's fine," Caleb said quietly. "Get some rest."
The agent lingered a moment. "Sir, if I may… Are you alright? You've been here very late all week."
Caleb bristled at the personal query. "Just doing my job, Anderson. As we all must." His tone was sharper than intended. Anderson stiffened and quickly nodded, leaving with a mumbled apology.
With a heavy sigh, Caleb leaned back in his chair. He realized his hand had drifted to a folded note on his desk, something that had been haunting him for days. A suicide note. Not his – but one of his junior agents'.
Agent Miriam Lee had been a promising recruit, assigned to monitoring civil servant communications. A week ago, she'd taken her own life. The official reason circulated was stress. Unofficially, Caleb had learned Miriam left a note, found by her roommate, that the family had forwarded to the Bureau in confusion and fear.
Caleb had locked it in his drawer initially. Tonight, he had taken it out, uncertain why. Now he unfolded the small sheet and read it again:
"I can't do it anymore. I framed innocent people. I listened to their private moments and spun lies to make them guilty. Every night I see their faces. I'm sorry. I was too weak to refuse and too weak to continue. Please forgive me."
A drop of ink had smeared at the end, perhaps from a tear. Caleb swallowed. He remembered Miriam – bright-eyed, eager to serve Columbia. He'd praised her reports. Now she was ashes in a crematorium, and her apology lingered in his hands.
He carefully refolded the note. Officially, he should destroy it, erase the evidence of any moral crisis in his ranks. But instead, he slipped it into his wallet. He told himself it was to better understand warning signs in other agents, but deep down he knew that wasn't the only reason. Some part of him wanted to hold on to that kernel of humanity she'd expressed, even if through despair. As a reminder… of what? That even his agents had limits? That conscience could break even those trained to suppress it?
A soft beep drew his attention – an incoming report. A red banner flashed on a monitor: SECURITY CHECK TEAM B: COMPLETED RANDOM SEARCH – SUBJECT: FELIX ARCHER. Caleb clicked it reflexively.
Up came a live feed from Felix Archer's home, the visit already underway. Two DSB officers were rifling through Felix's study under the pretext of a security audit for all media figures. Felix himself stood in the corner, arms crossed, forced to watch as they went through his personal files and electronics.
Caleb zoomed in slightly. Felix's face was ashen, a bead of sweat on his brow despite the calm temperature. The officers found nothing incriminating – Felix wasn't foolish enough to keep anything at home after his brush with Marcus – but they took their time. One officer picked up a framed photograph from a shelf and examined it with a smirk. Caleb recognized it; intel dossiers always included personal details. It was Felix with an old friend, a fellow journalist who'd fled the country last year. A friend Felix had denounced on air during his loyalty test.
In the video, Felix spoke up quietly: "Careful with that, please." His voice strained.
The officer deliberately let the frame slip from his hand. It hit the floor with a crack. "Oops."
Felix flinched ever so slightly. He moved to pick it up, but the second officer stepped in front of him, continuing the "inspection" of a bookshelf.
Watching this, Caleb felt a surge of… what? Pity? No – Felix was a snake who'd sold lies to the public. But the humiliation of the scene was undeniable. Felix looked utterly alone, a man who knew even his compliance would never earn real trust.
After a few more minutes, the officers left. Felix sank into a chair in the now-emptied study (they'd knocked his books around, dumped a drawer). On the feed, Caleb saw him cover his face with his hands, shoulders quivering. Perhaps he was crying, or just shaking in anger. Either way, the once brash TV host looked broken.
Caleb terminated the feed. He had seen enough.
He stood and paced the dim room. On one wall hung a large map of Columbia dotted with lights indicating security threat levels across regions. All green – safe, silent.
This was what he had dedicated his life to achieving: total internal security. A part of him swelled with pride – mission accomplished. But another part felt hollower than ever.
He recalled a line from training years ago: "To protect the nation, we must be the unseen guardians, ever vigilant." He had believed it with zeal. Spied on neighbors, tapped phones, busted dissidents – all to guard Columbia from chaos. And indeed, there was no chaos now, no terrorism, no instability. But at what cost?
Caleb ran a hand through his hair. He thought of Agent Lee's apology note again. She said she "framed innocent people." Was he guilty of that too? Likely yes. He remembered doctoring a report on a professor to ensure her arrest, even though he knew some evidence was circumstantial. She could have been innocent – but he hadn't cared then.
He walked back to his desk and glanced at the Operation Silence Forever file. Implementation was slated for next year. It would tighten the noose even further, leaving nothing unobserved or unjudged by the state.
A sudden wave of disgust washed over him – but at whom? Himself? The citizens for being so weak? Or at the very necessity of such measures? He wasn't sure. Perhaps all of the above.
A soft buzzing on his phone – a secure message from Marcus: "Status?"
Caleb typed back automatically: "All quiet. Routine checks done. Nothing significant to report."
Marcus responded: "Good. President content. Go home, Tyler. You're as bad as Elaine with the late nights."
Caleb allowed a small smirk. Elaine Buchanan… She, too, had been under passive surveillance of late. Marcus trusted her outwardly, but trust was scarce in this inner court. Caleb had listened to a couple of her phone calls to her son abroad. She was careful – talked only of mundane things like weather and his job. But at the end of one call, after she thought she had hung up, the line caught a brief sound of her softly sobbing. Caleb had quietly deleted that part from the log – an odd mercy to spare her further scrutiny. He didn't even know why he did it; perhaps he felt she'd earned that small privacy.
He shut down the monitors one by one. One screen lingered on an image – a paused frame of that living room from Sector 12, the man and his wife in their sad embrace. Caleb turned it off and found himself staring at his own reflection in the black monitor.
The man who looked back at him was in his late 30s, eyes sharp but tired, features drawn. He wore the uniform of a hunter, but tonight he saw something hunted in his own eyes.
He remembered an old film he'd once watched in secret, The Lives of Others, about an East German Stasi agent whose surveillance on a couple had awakened his conscience. Caleb had scoffed at it back then – propaganda to make tyrants look human, he'd thought. Yet now, in a bitter twist, here he was: living that story in a way. Except there was no dramatic rebellion on his part, no act of saving someone. Just a gnawing doubt and a pocketed suicide note.
Enough. He shook it off, grabbing his coat. He would go home, get some sleep, and bury these thoughts by morning.
As he left the building, the cool air hit his face. Stars glittered above – one thing even this regime hadn't yet controlled. Caleb lit a cigarette and stood at the curb for a moment, looking at the empty streets. Cameras on every lamppost watched him back – his own design.
For an instant, he contemplated what it would mean to step out of line, to use his power to help rather than hound. But where would he even start? And it would mean his life, likely. He flicked ash and banished the thought. He was a zealot who'd lost his zeal – a dangerous limbo. He could only continue forward and hope he found meaning again in his duty.
Down the road, he saw a stray cat slink from a shadow, free to wander where it pleased. The cat paused to look at him, eyes gleaming, then darted across the road and disappeared. Caleb sighed. Even the strays are freer than the people now. It was a treasonous thought. He inhaled sharply and forced his mind to recite a mantra: Everything I do is for Columbia's security. Over and over, like a prayer, as he walked to his car.
The next morning, Felix Archer awoke on his couch to the sound of his door locking. The DSB officers had let themselves out after finishing their intrusive "search." His study was a wreck. Felix sat up, head pounding from a stress migraine, and gazed blankly at the broken photo frame on the floor. It was a picture of him and Jonah – his closest friend from his early journalism days. The friend he'd slandered on live television to save himself.
He reached down and picked up the cracked photo. A line of blood marked his palm – a shard of glass had cut him. Felix hardly felt it. He set the photo on the table and numbly pressed his handkerchief to the cut. They could randomly come into his home anytime, paw through his life, break what they wished. And he, the famous Felix Archer, could do nothing. I'm as much a prisoner as those in cells, he realized.
In that moment, Felix almost wished Marcus had found something damning, just to end this charade. But no – he would continue the facade daily on TV, proclaiming how glorious everything was, then come home to walls that might be listening and random midnight raids.
He stood, walked to the bathroom, and looked at himself in the mirror. The man staring back looked old, defeated. "Coward," he whispered to the reflection, voice thick. Tears he thought had dried up long ago welled anew. "You coward."
But he knew he'd persist in cowardice. He lacked the fire to do otherwise, at least for now. The regime owned him – his fear saw to that.
Across town, Elaine Buchanan finished a call with her son. She had to use vague language, but hearing his voice was a balm. When she gently advised him to extend his stay abroad for a year or two, he understood immediately – she was warning him not to come home. "Love you, mom," he said before hanging up, voice tight with worry. Elaine held the phone to her ear long after the dial tone, wishing she could truly speak to him.
She set the phone down and stared at her office wall. Framed accolades from earlier in her career adorned it – mementos of genuine political accomplishments in times of normalcy. Now they looked like relics. Her secretary pinged her that the morning brief was ready. Elaine straightened her suit, fixed her makeup, and put on her game face once more. She had a meeting with Trumbull in an hour to discuss further "loyalty reinforcement" measures in universities. She would likely concur and facilitate, as expected.
As she left her office, she thought how utterly alone she was despite being surrounded by colleagues. She trusted no one, and no one truly trusted her. Her only solace was that her son was safe far away.
Steeling herself, she muttered her own mantra under her breath as she walked the marbled halls: "I chose this. I will see it through." But another inner voice whispered, And it will destroy you before it's done. She hushed that voice; she had no time for self-pity.
In the heart of the presidential palace, Victor Trumbull reviewed reports with satisfaction. Dissent was nil, loyalty pledges were up, economy stable enough thanks to deals with friendly regimes. There would be international noise next week – the UN was set to vote on a resolution condemning human rights abuses in Columbia. Likely it would pass, but he'd already drafted a fiery rebuttal calling it fake news and interference. Some countries, like Russia and China, would back him publicly. Others would quietly keep trading. He could weather it.
All that mattered was that domestically he had crushed the opposition. His only frustration these days was boredom – ruling over a silent populace lacked the adrenaline of campaigning or fighting battles. But he reminded himself: Better bored than threatened. Paranoia still lurked – hence his pressing Marcus for ever more preemptive control – but he felt securely on his throne.
As Trumbull headed to a ribbon-cutting for a new "Unity Tower" downtown (a phallic new skyscraper he'd commissioned), he mused about his legacy. Perhaps history would forget the messy bits and call him the Father of the New Columbia. His propaganda certainly aimed for that.
He stepped out to the cheering of an orchestrated crowd, waving like an emperor. The people below cheered on cue, flags fluttering, but in more than a few, he noticed blank faces. It irked him, but he shrugged it off. They'll learn to genuinely love me in time, he told himself.
Yet even he, in a rare private moment, sometimes felt the emptiness. Late at night, wandering the halls of the presidential residence, he passed portraits of past leaders. Some had been loved, some hated, but all had someone to keep them company in the annals of history. Trumbull realized he might go down not as a hero or even a colorful villain, but as a cautionary tale. That thought he buried quickly whenever it surfaced – it was too close to doubt, and doubt was weakness.
So, under the omnipresent gaze of cameras and guards, life continued in Columbia. No one truly trusted anyone. Friends spoke in coded references, families practiced conversations before going out in public. The dictatorship was, by all appearances, stable and total.
But history has shown that regimes built on fear carry the seeds of their own demise. The question was not if something would crack, but when – and what it would be.
Perhaps it would be a high-ranking official's crisis of conscience, like Caleb's growing doubt, eventually tipping into action. Or a spark of outrage from a common citizen who'd lost too much, igniting others. Or maybe an international event that emboldened an underground resistance.
For now, though, those seeds remained buried under winter's frozen ground of repression. Caleb Tyler pocketed a dead agent's note and carried on, Felix Archer wiped his tears and went back to the camera, Elaine Buchanan put one foot in front of the other to serve a man she increasingly despised, and Karen Li in exile marshaled her will to keep the flame alive from afar.
The lives of others, the millions living under this heavy silence, continued in quiet desperation and guarded hope. Each day that passed without incident the regime counted as victory. Each day that passed in stifled yearning the people counted as one day closer to… something. They weren't sure what – they hardly dared dream.
But deep in their souls, even the most cowed individuals kept a tiny spark alive: a spark of doubt, of memory, of dream. Caleb felt it as unease in his gut, Elaine felt it as guilt, Felix as regret, Marcia as purpose, Karen as determination, and countless ordinary Columbians as an unnamed ache.
Trumbull's Columbia was a land of silence and surveillance, where the cost of every spoken word was weighed carefully. It was a victory of a sort – a kingdom of fear built brick by brick, microphone by microphone.
Yet even Trumbull, in his more honest moments, could sense it: a society cannot live indefinitely without truth and voice. One day, something would break. One day, perhaps, a chorus of those suppressed voices would burst forth, either in fury or jubilation, shattering the enforced quiet.
Until that day, the nation held its breath. The silence – heavy, eerie, absolute – was the testament to tyranny's present grip, and the prelude to whatever would come after.
And in the still of each night, if one listened closely at the right moment, one might hear it: the sound of a collective heart quietly beating, patient, persistent, waiting for the dawn when it could finally be heard again.
Chapter 29: Echoes Abroad
Karen Li straightened in her seat in the United Nations gallery, hands clenched in her lap as the debate raged on the floor below. The vast General Assembly hall was a sea of diplomats in dark suits and bright national costumes, but today all eyes were fixed on Columbia's empty chair. A French ambassador stood at the marble podium beneath the UN emblem, voice echoing in passionate indignation. "...the Republic of Columbia has seen a complete collapse of democracy," he declared, his words resonating in multiple languages through Karen's headset. "Thousands jailed or disappeared—judges, opposition members, ordinary citizens—victims of a regime that rules by fear. We cannot turn a blind eye," he urged, gripping the podium's edges. Around the hall, several delegates nodded gravely, some even applauding this rare, blunt condemnation of a once-leading nation now turned pariah.
From her high perch, Karen felt a surge of gratitude and sorrow. She blinked back tears as the ambassador catalogued her homeland's agony. Each phrase—political prisoners, ruthless crackdowns, stolen elections—was a painful reminder of all she'd fought against. Columbia, once a proud democracy and pillar of international order, was now spoken of in the same breath as the world's most oppressive regimes. It's all true, she thought, heart pounding. They know. The world was finally acknowledging the nightmare Victor Trumbull had unleashed.
As the French ambassador yielded the floor, a hush fell. Then the representative from China activated his microphone. He spoke in an icy, measured tone that made Karen's stomach clench. "We must respect national sovereignty," he said, gazing around with cool disapproval. "Columbia's internal matters are not for foreign powers to interfere in. Every nation has the right to maintain order and punish sedition as it sees fit." Behind him, the Russian delegate was nodding in agreement. Murmurs rippled through the assembly—outrage from European and Latin American states, but silent assent from a bloc of authoritarian-leaning governments. The split in the hall was stark. Karen bit her lip as the Chinese ambassador continued, "Sanctions or condemnations will only exacerbate tensions. We urge dialogue and non-intervention."
A few scattered claps arose—from regimes who themselves feared similar scrutiny—while many others sat in stony silence. Karen's chest burned with frustration. Dialogue? Non-intervention? She had watched for years as Trumbull hollowed out Columbia's democracy; the time for gentle words was long gone. They're buying his lies, she thought, knuckles white. Trumbull's propagandists had always framed his brutality as "restoring order" and foreign critics as meddlers. Now those same talking points were shielding him on the world stage.
The vote on the resolution followed. Karen leaned forward, hardly breathing. The resolution, introduced by a coalition of European and South American democracies, condemned Columbia's government for human rights abuses and called for an international investigation. On paper it was strong. But as delegates cast their votes, the outcome became painfully clear. The resolution received a majority—over a hundred nations in favor, with only a handful against—but in the Security Council it met a dead end. Russia and China raised their hands to veto any binding action. In the General Assembly, the language had been watered down to appease neutrals: "deep concern" instead of concrete measures. Karen closed her eyes as the assembly president announced the result. Condemnation, yes, but no collective action, she thought bitterly. The most forceful words had been cut or blunted in backroom deals.
Applause broke out from some sections—diplomats who took even the token rebuke as progress—but Karen felt only a hollow disappointment. A heavy weight settled in her chest. So this is how it ends: with polite outrage and little else. She forced herself to remain composed as delegates began to rise and exit. From across the hall, she caught sight of Columbia's own delegation: just two junior diplomats who had sat stiffly through the criticism. Elaine Buchanan was nowhere to be seen; Trumbull had not sent his top lieutenants to face this humiliation. In fact, Columbia's Foreign Minister had walked out an hour earlier after calling the debate a "sham full of lies." The empty seat under Columbia's flag now seemed a fitting symbol of Trumbull's isolation. He wouldn't even send a representative to listen—only underlings to deliver a brief, defiant rebuttal before vanishing behind closed doors.
Karen stood and gathered her bag of documents, her movements slow and deliberate while diplomats flowed out around her. She had spent the past week in these halls, working with NGOs, distributing leaflets about Columbia's political prisoners and atrocities. She'd helped organize a small photo exhibition in the lobby—haunting images of protesters being beaten, of candlelight vigils for the missing. Many delegates had paused to look, expressions horrified or sympathetic, and Karen had quietly provided context when asked. Perhaps those efforts had swayed a few votes today, she thought. But not enough. The resolution's failure to pass with teeth left her seething with disappointment.
As she stepped out into the corridor, a warm hand touched her elbow. "Ms. Li…" a low voice said. Karen turned to see the Swedish ambassador, one of the most outspoken supporters of the resolution, offering a gentle smile. "Walk with me," he murmured. She fell in beside him, and they joined the river of dignitaries flowing toward the grand atrium. Sunlight streamed through the tall glass facade, illuminating clusters of diplomats conversing in hushed tones.
"I'm sorry the resolution didn't go further," the ambassador said softly, switching to a confidential tone. "Certain powers…" He shook his head, frustration evident. "They wouldn't allow anything stronger. But please know many of us share your cause."
Karen mustered a faint smile. "Your speech meant a great deal. Thank you," she replied. Her voice wavered with exhaustion. Up close, the ambassador could see the toll these years had taken on her. She was only in her late thirties, but new streaks of gray touched Karen's black hair at the temples, and fine lines of stress marked her eyes.
He patted her arm kindly. "Don't lose heart. Things are shifting, even if slowly. The world knows the truth now." He glanced around, then added in a lower whisper, "We're arranging some unofficial assistance. Sweden has quietly increased refugee visas for dissidents from Columbia. And a few of us are pooling funds for secure communication devices to smuggle to the resistance."
Karen's eyes widened. "Truly? That's…that's incredible." Relief and gratitude flared inside her, momentarily easing her despair. "Our underground networks desperately need secure lines." Since Trumbull's regime had virtually shut down independent internet and filled the airwaves with propaganda, getting uncensored news in or out was perilous. Devices to circumvent censorship could be a lifeline.
The ambassador nodded. "We have a trusted diplomat in a neighboring country who can get them across the border." He pressed a card into her hand. "Contact me via this secure address. We'll coordinate."
Over his shoulder, a Canadian delegate approached, offering Karen a quick nod of solidarity. Others passed by with subtle gestures—a squeeze of her hand, a whispered "stay strong." A Latin American representative muttered, "If you ever need a safe haven for colleagues, call our embassy." Each quiet promise was a balm on Karen's wounded hope. Officially, their governments might be constrained, but behind the scenes, good people were willing to help.
"Thank you," Karen said earnestly to each, her throat tight. "Thank you, all of you."
The Swedish ambassador gave a parting smile. "Your courage inspires us. Keep fighting, Ms. Li. Columbia is fortunate to have you." With that, he slipped away into the crowd of dignitaries.
Karen stepped aside to let a group of ambassadors pass and found herself next to a tall window. She gazed out at the flags fluttering outside the UN headquarters, each one representing a nation—and noted the Columbian flag, once proudly flown, now viewed by many as a banner of tyranny. How did we fall this far? she thought, pressing a hand to the cool glass. Five years ago, Columbia had been a respected leader on the global stage. Now other nations whispered about sanctions, tribunals, even peacekeeping missions should the situation worsen. Trumbull had made her country into a cautionary tale.
She closed her eyes briefly. Scenes of home flooded her mind: grocery lines snaking around blocks, the shelves half-empty. Fuel trucks arriving under armed guard as people gathered with ration coupons. Old women trading stories in hushed voices about how much worse it had gotten this past year. A contact in Columbia's capital had told Karen only yesterday—via an encrypted message—that the currency had crashed. The Columbian peso's value was in freefall, black-market rates skyrocketing. Official media denies it, of course, Karen reflected. State news still boasted that the economy was strong and self-reliant, even as ordinary families were reduced to bartering.
Karen thought of Dr. Elena Marquez, a brilliant surgeon she knew who had fled Columbia just a month ago. Elena's hospital had run out of basic medicines thanks to the international sanctions biting hard. When she dared complain, the regime's watchdogs branded her "unpatriotic." Fearing arrest, she slipped across the border under the pretense of a medical conference and sought asylum abroad. She was one of many: a brain drain of Columbia's best and brightest. Scientists, engineers, professors—anyone who could escape was leaving rather than live under Trumbull's tightening grip. Professionals flee, and only the propaganda puppets and the trapped remained. It was a slow bleeding of the nation's lifeblood, one more crack in the dam that Karen prayed would one day burst.
Her phone vibrated in her purse: a secure text from an old colleague. Karen stepped into a quiet corner to read it. The message was terse but jolting: "Marcia testified. It's all over the news." Karen's heart leapt. Marcia Davenport.
Just a day earlier, her friend Marcia—renowned investigative journalist and one of Columbia's last truth-tellers—had taken a stand before an international tribunal. In The Hague, at the new International Human Rights Court convened by a coalition of nations, Marcia had provided testimony about the regime's crimes. She'd spent months covertly compiling evidence, risking her life to get affidavits and documents out of Columbia. Now, safely in exile, she was unleashing that truth on the world's stage.
Karen hurried to a nearby media room, where a wall-mounted television was tuned to a global news network. On screen was a hearing chamber: Marcia Davenport, stern and unflinching in a witness seat, speaking into a microphone. Karen turned up the volume.
"...death squads operating under President Trumbull's authority," Marcia was saying, her voice echoing in the hushed courtroom. She wore a modest black suit; a bandage was visible on her left hand—perhaps a memento of her daring escape through the border months ago. The camera panned to the international judges and observers, their faces solemn. "I have interviews with former soldiers who were ordered to fire on unarmed crowds, and documents showing the chain of command leading straight to the Presidential Palace," Marcia continued, lifting a folder of papers with a steady hand. "On June 17, 2028, government agents opened fire on a peaceful protest in Libertad Square. I was there. I saw bodies left in the street as a warning to others." Her voice caught for a moment, the only crack in her composure. Gasps fluttered through the chamber at her testimony.
Karen felt a chill and realized she had stopped breathing. Libertad Square—she remembered that day too. It was one of the worst massacres of the crackdown; dozens of demonstrators killed in cold blood. The regime bulldozed the memorials citizens tried to place afterward. Now the truth was on record in front of the world's jurists.
Marcia pressed on, regaining her firm tone. "I also have evidence of torture in secret prisons, carried out on direct orders from the highest levels. This includes the case of Congressman Rafael Ibanez, who was arrested and never officially charged; we now know he was beaten to death in custody. The regime's brutality meets the definition of crimes against humanity." Cameras flashed as her words landed. "I submit these files into evidence," Marcia said, passing the documents to the court officers, "so that the world may know what is happening in Columbia."
The feed cut back to the news anchors, who summarized that Marcia's testimony had caused an uproar. According to commentators, more countries were now calling for an international arrest warrant for key figures in Trumbull's government. Karen noted a running chyron: "Journalist testifies on Columbia atrocities; global pressure mounts." A tiny flicker of optimism lit within her. They can't hide anymore, she thought. The world's media was picking up the story; graphic details were leading headlines. For a regime that thrived on secrecy and lies, this exposure was a hit.
But her phone buzzed again. Another secure message, this time from a former aide in Columbia who had turned informant: "Govt response: Marcia convicted of treason in absentia. Life sentence if she returns. Also withdrew from human rights treaty." Karen frowned and read it twice. The regime had wasted no time retaliating. In a propaganda-laced show trial (surely without any real defense counsel present), Marcia Davenport had been sentenced in absentia to life imprisonment for "high treason." Of course, it was meaningless since Marcia was safe abroad, but the gesture was meant to scare others and discredit her testimony. State media would paint Marcia as a liar, a tool of foreign powers.
And there was more: Trumbull had ordered Columbia's withdrawal from several international agreements in a fit of pique. Within hours of Marcia's damning broadcast, Columbia had cut off ties with the International Criminal Court and voided its recognition of the human rights commission. An official statement decried these institutions as "biased tools of neo-colonial meddling." Karen's jaw tightened. Trumbull was doubling down on isolation, pulling Columbia further from the community of nations. He'd rather turn the country into a hermit kingdom than admit any wrongdoing.
She thought of the propaganda blitz that must be happening back home at that very moment. The state-run National News Network would be blaring about "foreign interference" and "heroic President Trumbull standing up to bullies." They'd trot out loyalist commentators—Felix Archer and his ilk—thundering that Columbia didn't need outsiders telling it what to do. They're building a siege mentality, Karen realized, to justify whatever comes next.
Squaring her shoulders, Karen stepped away from the TV. The UN session was over, but her work was not. In the coming days she would meet with human rights groups and sympathetic diplomats, strategizing next steps: perhaps pushing for a General Assembly special session since the Security Council was paralyzed, or coordinating with lawyers to support the new tribunal's investigation. It was uphill at every turn, but at least now the truth was out in the open. Trumbull could not fully silence that.
Outside the UN building, the late afternoon sun slanted across New York's East River. Karen walked down the steps where protesters had gathered. A small knot of Columbian exiles and activists stood with signs and banners: "Free Columbia", "Trumbull = Tyrant". They had been there all day. A few waved to Karen—some recognized her from news reports as a former congresswoman who defied Trumbull—and she went over to thank them. A tired-looking woman with a Columbian flag draped over her shoulders pressed a cup of water into Karen's hands. "You spoke for us in there, didn't you?" the woman asked, eyes shining.
Karen managed a smile. "I did what I could," she replied. "Many spoke. The world is starting to listen." The protester nodded fervently, hope and grief mingling on her face. She might have been a teacher or shopkeeper once, Karen thought, before exile turned her into a full-time activist.
After a few words of solidarity, Karen departed, winding through Manhattan's busy streets to the modest hotel where she and a few other dissidents were staying. In her room, she sat heavily on the edge of the bed. The day's events whirled in her mind: the impassioned speeches, the disappointments and quiet victories, Marcia's fearless testimony and the regime's furious backlash.
She turned on a small lamp as dusk settled, casting long shadows across the walls. From her window she could see the lights of the city come alive, utterly unlike the darkness that now fell each night on Columbia's curfew-silenced towns. Karen retrieved a worn notebook from her suitcase. Writing helped her focus her resolve. She began to scribble down impressions: "UN: Some progress. Res. watered down—veto by R/C. But moral victory? Allies offering covert aid. Marcia's testimony impactful—global media covering atrocities. Regime furious—retaliating with more isolation."
Her pen paused. She remembered something the Swedish ambassador had said: The world knows the truth now. It echoed in her mind with profound significance. For so long, Trumbull's regime controlled the narrative at home, blanketing the truth with lies. But now that façade was cracking on the international stage, even if only hairline fractures. Karen flipped to a fresh page and, with a steady hand, began a sort of letter—whether to herself, to her compatriots back home, or to the future she wasn't sure:
"They call him the Forever President, and he sits on a throne of fear, but he cannot hide the truth from the world," she wrote, the words flowing from a deep well of conviction. "Today the nations of the world heard our story. They have begun to speak, even if timidly. The truth is out, and it will only grow louder."
Her eyes stung, thinking of the countless Columbians still trapped under the regime's yoke, afraid to speak even in whispers. She thought of the quiet defiance that still lived in those people—the neighbor who secretly passed leaflets at night, the underground cell that hacked a government broadcast to play the old national anthem before being cut off, the families who still dared to remember what freedom felt like. The resilience of Columbia's people, she wrote slowly, has not been broken, not completely. It lives in each small act of courage, waiting for the moment to rise.
Karen took a breath and continued writing, almost as if addressing Trumbull himself across the distance: "You can isolate Columbia, but you cannot erase our ideals. You can rule by fear, but you cannot forever silence hope. The world sees you for what you are. And one day—perhaps sooner than you think—justice will come." She underlined that last phrase, her pen pressing hard into the paper. One day, justice will come.
She set the notebook aside and stood by the window, arms wrapped around herself. In the western sky, beyond the skyscrapers, heavy clouds were gathering, tinted orange by the last rays of sun. A storm was brewing for the night. Karen watched as a single star emerged in a gap between the clouds, shining defiantly against the encroaching darkness. She allowed herself a small, hopeful smile.
Trumbull's regime was mighty now—armed, entrenched, merciless. Tonight he would surely rant on state TV about foreign conspiracies and vow Columbia would stand "strong and alone." He might seem unstoppable, sitting in his fortified palace on his throne of fear. But the world knew the truth at last, and that truth was a spark no amount of propaganda could extinguish. Karen closed her eyes and imagined that spark catching inside Columbia someday, spreading like wildfire among her people when the time was right.
"Hold on," she whispered, as if speaking to every suffering soul back home. "Hold on to that truth. We'll make it back to you." A lone tear traced down her cheek, born of sorrow but ending in resolve. One day, justice will come. She believed it with every fiber of her being.
Outside, thunder rumbled faintly in the distance. Karen straightened, squared her shoulders, and looked out at the darkening horizon beyond the city lights. However long it took, she would see her country free again. The world was awake now, and so was she—more determined than ever to fight for Columbia's tomorrow. The world knows the truth—and one day, justice will come.
Chapter 30: The Dictator in Full
Victor Trumbull moved through the shadowed corridor of the Presidential Palace just past midnight, the tap of his footsteps muffled by thick Persian carpets. On the walls hung the portraits of those who came before him—Presidents of Columbia from decades past. In the dim light, their painted eyes seemed to follow him, a gauntlet of ghosts. Trumbull's lips curled into a faint sneer as he surveyed their faces. Fools, the lot of them, he thought. Weak.
He halted before one large oil portrait of Adam Monroe, the very man he had wrested back power from in that turbulent election of 2024. Monroe's depicted gaze was resolute and earnest, as if still championing the old republic's ideals. Trumbull felt a surge of contempt. This man had dared to stand against him—had tried to uphold term limits and constitutional restraints, as if those mattered more than the destiny of the nation. Monroe's portrait now hung off to the side, no longer in the place of honor. In fact, Trumbull had ordered it removed entirely at first, but an advisor cautioned that might look petty. So it remained, but exiled to a dim corner, half-obscured by shadow. Trumbull liked it that way; Monroe was literally sidelined in history now.
He moved on. There was an empty space on the wall where another portrait had once hung—a lighter square of wallpaper surrounded by older, sun-faded pattern. That had been President Sofia Ortega, the reformist who introduced the term-limit amendment decades ago. Trumbull had silently removed her portrait last year, deeming her legacy "irrelevant." After all, he had rendered term limits moot in one stroke. Where Ortega's face once presided, now there was nothing but a void. In time, Trumbull intended to fill that void with something—or someone—more fitting.
His eyes flickered to a few portraits he did admire: President Walker, who had led Columbia through a victorious war and centralized significant power in the 20th century, hung prominently. And there was a small painting of Nathaniel Greene, a president who had infamously skirted the law to crack down on communist "subversives" in the 1950s—Trumbull smirked approvingly at that one. These predecessors, though flawed, had at least understood that strength, not idealism, preserved a nation.
Finally Trumbull's gaze came to his own portrait, recently commissioned and already on display at the far end of the corridor. It was massive compared to the others, nearly floor to ceiling, illuminated by its own focused light. The artist had captured him in a heroic pose—hand on a pedestal bearing the Columbian flag, jaw set in resolve. The brass plaque read "Victor Trumbull – President (2025– )" with no end date, a not-so-subtle nod to his open-ended rule. Trumbull paused here, absorbing the sight. In the glow of the portrait lamp, the colors were rich and warm, and he had to admit, the likeness flattered him. The portrait made him appear a bit more muscular, a bit more youthful than reality perhaps, but it radiated authority.
"The greatest leader in our history," he murmured to himself, echoing the sycophantic praise he'd heard earlier that day on National News Network. The thought gave him a swell of satisfaction. Where those other presidents had faltered or clung to naive principles, he had succeeded. He had done what none of them dared: made himself President for Life in all but name, and bent every institution to his will. History would remember him for it—of this he was certain.
Trumbull turned away and continued on to his private office, the sanctum where he spent many late nights. The palace around him was silent. Since moving the seat of government to this fortified complex—an estate on the outskirts of the capital that he had expanded and walled in—nighttimes had become eerily still. He preferred it that way. The world outside might roil with discontent, but within these walls was order, his order. Armed guards patrolled beyond the thick bulletproof windows; electronic jammers ensured no drone or spy device could get near. Even the air here felt heavier, contained.
On his mahogany desk, lit by a green-shaded banker's lamp, sat two neat stacks of reports. Trumbull settled into his high-backed leather chair and adjusted his reading glasses. The first report, bound in a blue cover, was from his State Security Bureau—a summary of the state of the nation as compiled by Marcus Hall's team. Trumbull flipped it open and scanned the highlights, a slow grin tugging at his mouth. It was filled with good news. Dissent at record lows, one line read. Protests had been "eliminated" entirely after the last round of mass arrests. The new media regulations had cut off nearly all unsanctioned information flows; citizens were consuming 98% domestically approved content now. The economy, while strained by sanctions, was reportedly "stabilizing under state control," with rationing systems ensuring basic goods for loyal citizens. One chart even suggested that inflation was leveling off after the Central Bank's emergency measures. Trumbull nodded in satisfaction. The picture was one of a nation reining itself in under his firm hand, achieving equilibrium through discipline and sacrifice. Exactly the narrative he wanted.
He set the blue book aside and reached for the second report, this one in a plain manila folder. A Post-it note on the cover bore Elaine Buchanan's neat handwriting: "Confidential – Raw Intel". These were the unvarnished briefings that Elaine insisted he see, even if he often found them irksome. Trumbull pursed his lips and opened the folder. As expected, it contained the more "troubling signs" the regime's intelligence had picked up. He rifled through a few pages:
Underground pamphlets had been discovered circulating in two provinces—cheaply printed leaflets calling for passive resistance on National Unity Day. The security forces had seized a stash in one raid, but rumors were some still got out. The pamphlets bore a silhouette logo that Trumbull recognized: the symbol of the Free Columbia Movement, an opposition network thought decimated. So, they were still alive after all, he mused with a scowl.
Certain military units unhappy: A confidential memo from military intelligence noted low morale in the 5th Infantry Division stationed near the western border. This division was commanded by officers who had once been close to the ousted General Sturgis. Though Sturgis himself was now languishing in a military prison for defying orders, his influence apparently lingered. There were hints that some junior officers grumbled about the prolonged state of emergency and the use of the army against civilians. One even reported graffiti appearing inside a barracks reading "No Honor in Murdering Our Own." That had been swiftly painted over and the perpetrator quietly arrested, but the report deemed it a "sign of latent discontent among the ranks."
Trumbull's jaw tightened. Sturgis's poison, he thought. He had expected the military to fall in line after the purge of disloyal generals in '29, but perhaps more pruning was needed.
He flipped to a brief final note: International chatter – There was increasing discussion in foreign capitals about further sanctions and even talk of a formal international coalition to support "Columbian democracy." Trumbull snorted; paper tigers, all of it. They could talk and fume, but none would dare intervene directly. Still, Elaine had appended a cautionary line in red ink: "We should be prepared for cyber tactics or economic warfare." He frowned. She worried too much.
With a sound of disgust, Trumbull tossed the manila report aside, scattering its pages across the desk. "Nonsense," he muttered under his breath. Pamphlets and grumbling soldiers—these were pinpricks, nothing more. His regime had survived far worse in consolidating power. He wasn't about to lose sleep over a few malcontents' scribblings or the whining of foreign diplomats. Grabbing the blue report again, he flipped back to the section on public order, letting the positive numbers reaffirm what he chose to believe: he was firmly in control.
A soft knock came at the office door. Trumbull straightened. "Come in," he said. Elaine Buchanan stepped inside, clutching a thin sheaf of papers. She was still in her business suit despite the late hour, though she had removed her heels and walked on stockinged feet for relief. Her face was drawn with exhaustion, but she managed a polite smile.
"Sorry to disturb you, Mr. President," Elaine said quietly. "I have the final schedule and talking points for tomorrow's ceremony."
"Ah. Yes, come in, Elaine," Trumbull replied, waving her to approach. She had been by his side through so many long nights these past years, and he trusted her counsel—up to a point. He motioned toward the disarrayed intelligence folder on his desk. "I saw your notes. Always the worrier, aren't you?" he said, half-chiding, half-affectionate.
Elaine glanced at the scattered pages but did not comment on them directly. "I just like to ensure we're not caught off guard, sir." She stepped forward and placed the schedule in front of him.
Trumbull ignored the chair, choosing to stand by the desk as he skimmed the document. "Tomorrow – National Unity Day Parade, 10 AM..." The schedule was precise: a grand review of troops and armored vehicles through Republic Square, flyovers by fighter jets (fuel was expensive under rationing, but for propaganda pageantry he had made exceptions), and then his keynote address at noon sharp.
Elaine cleared her throat gently. "Security will be at maximum. We've screened attendees down to loyalists only. The capital is under curfew until the event, and we've been rounding up known dissidents preemptively." She spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, as if discussing a simple logistics plan. "Also, all broadcasts will carry your speech live. We want full coverage of the celebration of unity."
Trumbull grunted in approval. "Good. We'll show the world an unwavering front." He flipped to the talking points Elaine had prepared. The first lines read: "On this day, we celebrate the strength and unity of Columbia under one leadership, forging ahead despite those who try to divide us..." It was boilerplate stuff, though crafted to tug patriotic heartstrings.
He scanned further and his eyes narrowed at a phrase: "on the anniversary of our nation's founding and the ideals of our forefathers..." Trumbull tapped the page with irritation. "No," he said flatly. "Cut that out."
Elaine looked up, puzzled. "Sir?"
"This mention of the founding ideals and forefathers," Trumbull growled. "I don't want any reference to the old republic or past presidents in my speech." He almost spat the word forefathers. Those so-called ideals—liberty, democracy—were precisely what had nearly destroyed Columbia with chaos and weakness. "In fact, ensure none of the festivities invoke the old names or the old holidays. Those names mean nothing now," he added sharply. His voice echoed slightly in the quiet office.
Elaine pressed her lips together and nodded. "Understood." She took the paper and struck a line through the offending phrase with her pen. Trumbull watched her face as she did so. In the lamp's glow, Elaine's brown eyes were lowered, focused on her task. For an instant, he saw something in her expression—a flicker of hesitation, a shadow of sadness? It was gone almost too quickly to notice. Elaine resumed her professional mask as she said, "I'll have this rewritten immediately. The speech will focus only on the new era of unity you've created."
Trumbull gave a curt nod. "Good. The old Columbia is dead. Tomorrow we celebrate the Columbia I have built." He removed his glasses and tossed them on the desk, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Anything else?"
Elaine hesitated. "Only a minor note, sir. We've had reports of some small disturbances in the last hour—"
He waved a hand dismissively. "Handle it. I don't need the details." Trumbull was in no mood to hear about some trivial scuffle or a power outage spun as "sabotage" by his security chiefs. They always seemed to want to fret over such things.
Elaine inclined her head. "Of course. It's nothing major. Our forces have it under control." She gathered the schedule papers. "If you don't require anything further, I'll see to the final preparations and leave you to rest."
Trumbull studied her for a moment. There was a tightness at the corners of her mouth and dark circles under her eyes. She was tired—he'd worked her to the bone—but she remained efficient and outwardly loyal. A bit soft at times, but dependable, he thought. "Thank you, Elaine," he said, gentling his tone slightly. "Get some rest yourself. Big day tomorrow."
A ghost of a genuine smile appeared on her lips. "Yes, sir." As she turned to go, she paused. "It will be a big day," she repeated, almost to herself. "National Unity Day... after all these years."
He couldn't read her tone—was it pride? Irony? Before he could decide, Elaine gave a polite nod and exited the office, closing the door behind her.
Alone again, Trumbull exhaled and sank into his chair. The silence pressed in, comfortable and heavy. On the desk, the intelligence papers still lay strewn about. His gaze drifted to one sheet showing a grainy photo of a seized underground pamphlet. It bore the title "One Day, Freedom" in bold letters. He snorted and pushed it aside under the blue report. Delusional trash.
Instead, he opened a drawer and pulled out a leather-bound diary. Its black cover was unadorned save for a small presidential seal. Despite the late hour, he felt a surge of energy. The adrenaline of nearing total victory, perhaps. He flipped past earlier entries—brief notes from tumultuous days during the crackdown, reflections on his meetings with generals, even personal asides about who he could still trust. Tonight, on a fresh page, he uncapped his fountain pen.
For a moment, Trumbull stared at the blank page, the pen hovering. What to write at this pinnacle of his rule? The faint scratch of the fountain pen's nib touching paper was the only sound as he began to write in bold strokes:
"July 4, 2030" (the date, once celebrated as Independence Day, now co-opted under his regime).
He wrote confidently, "History will remember me as the one who saved this nation." The words flowed without doubt. He underlined saved with a firm line.
Trumbull continued, the pen racing across the page: "They called me a tyrant, a dictator—but I proved them all wrong. I restored order when no one else could. I kept our nation from falling apart." As he wrote, he felt the righteousness of his deeds filling him with warmth. He was crafting, in a sense, the legacy that would be taught one day—maybe even from this very diary if archivists preserved it.
He paused and read over what he'd inscribed. It's the rationalization of a tyrant, an inner voice whispered—a rare echo of self-awareness. He shoved that thought away. No, he told himself, it's the truth. He had saved Columbia—from chaos, from weakness, from traitors. Had he not stepped in with a heavy hand, the country would have splintered, or fallen prey to foreign interests, or worse. In his mind's eye, Trumbull conjured images of the anarchy he believed he averted: burning city streets, a feckless government bowing to globalists, Columbia's greatness fading into just another failed state. He alone had prevented that.
"All of it was necessary," he whispered under his breath, as if to reinforce the point. He realized he had spoken aloud into the empty office. The portraits down the hall couldn't hear him, but perhaps a listening device could. Not that it mattered—he controlled all the listening devices now. A wry smile touched his lips.
Suddenly, a flicker at the edges of his vision: a memory, unbidden. Trumbull closed his eyes. Against the darkness of his eyelids, shapes took form—a chaotic scene from years ago. He saw the marble steps of Columbia's Capitol building littered with broken glass and flags, the frenzied crowd that had once chanted his name until things spiraled beyond control. It was January 6, 2021, and he was watching a mob storm a legislature—his supporters, yes, but the violence of that day had turned many against him. He remembered his shock and rage as even some of his allies condemned the chaos. The bitterness of that betrayal still stung. Faces swirled in the memory: the Vice President who refused to bend that day, the advisors who urged conciliation afterward. Cowards, traitors, all of them. Trumbull's eyes snapped open, banishing the scene. He would not dwell on that nightmare flash of the past. It was history, and he had overcome it—no, avenged it by ensuring he'd never be at the mercy of fickle allies or voters again.
His mouth felt dry. Trumbull reached beside his desk and retrieved a familiar object: a chilled can of Diet Cola from the small refrigerator he kept stocked with them. The metal tab cracked with a hiss as he popped it open. He took a long sip, the artificially sweet fizz tickling his throat. It was a banal comfort, a habit he'd never given up even as President. In a strange way, the taste brought him back to simpler times—late nights in his private business office long before politics, crunching numbers with a soda at hand. The cola was his one concession to personal indulgence (he rarely drank alcohol). It steadied him. He set the can down, a ring of condensation forming on the mahogany.
The bitter visions of Jan 6 receded, and with them the fleeting doubt they brought. He could almost laugh now at those early missteps. They had underestimated him then. All of them—the judges, the senators, the media, the generals—they thought he would bow to their "norms." But he showed them. By the time they realized, it was too late; he was firmly back in power, dismantling any constraint on his will.
Trumbull picked up his pen again, continuing in the diary with renewed confidence: "I proved all my enemies wrong," he wrote, the nib scratching emphatically. "To those who betrayed me or lacked faith—Monroe, Rhodes, Greene, Sturgis, and the rest—I showed no mercy. They tried to stop the inevitable, and now they are nothing. History will vindicate me for eliminating those obstacles to Columbia's survival." As he jotted each name, he felt a grim satisfaction. Some of those figures were dead, some in prison, some silenced into irrelevance. I outlasted them all.
He imagined some future scholar reading these lines decades hence, finally understanding the genius of Victor Trumbull. Perhaps a statue of him would stand in Republic Square (likely renamed Trumbull Square by then), and children would learn how he ushered in a golden age after defeating the "traitors" and "global meddlers."
A distant boom reverberated through the night, so low it was almost indistinguishable from thunder. Trumbull paused his writing and glanced toward the window. A storm had indeed been forecast. The sky flashed faintly in reflection on the glass. Thunder, nothing more, he thought, unconcerned. If it was something else—perhaps the sound of a distant explosion or gunfire—the palace's thick walls and layered security muted it to irrelevance. Trumbull gave it no further thought. The capital was under tight lockdown; any disturbance would be swiftly crushed by his forces. Nothing would disrupt his night or the day to come.
He capped his pen, satisfied with what he'd recorded. Leaving the diary open to let the ink dry, Trumbull rose from his desk. The moment was at hand to savor everything he'd accomplished.
He walked over to the tall balcony doors and unlatched them. Stepping out, he was met by the warm, heavy air of a summer night. A high balustrade stretched along the edge of the palace's private balcony. From this vantage point, he could see the capital city sprawled before him. It was mostly dark—entire districts were under curfew, lights out in homes by mandate. The skyline that once twinkled with life now lay in a deep, tomb-like slumber. Only the governmental and military buildings were illuminated, bathed in the glow of floodlights.
Trumbull rested his hands on the cool stone railing. Directly across the way, covering the facade of what used to be the old Congress building, hung a colossal banner. It bore his own image several stories high, and beneath his stern face, a bold slogan was emblazoned: "One Columbia, One Leader." The banner was a recent addition for Unity Day, unfurled just that evening. In its stark light, the features of his face looked almost otherworldly watching over the silent city. Trumbull felt a rush of pride at the sight. The Capitol dome and the Supreme Court building flanked the square, but they were dark and inert—mere backdrops to his stage now. Once, those institutions thought themselves my equal. Not anymore.
A faint breeze stirred, rustling the edges of the banner. On another night, in another life, the city would have been alive with fireworks and celebrations for Independence Day. But those old traditions had been snuffed out. Instead, tomorrow tanks would roll where floats once did, and the only fireworks would be artillery salutes. Trumbull breathed in deeply, savoring the quiet. This heavy quiet was the fruit of victory: no protests, no dissent, just order. To him, the silence signified consent. Millions of people slumbered in enforced peace under his rule, not a peep from anyone brave or foolish enough to break curfew. If they feared him, well, fear and consent were close enough cousins in his book.
Behind Trumbull, back inside the doorway, a figure hovered in the shadows. An aide had approached—one of the overnight duty officers. The young man lingered hesitantly just at the threshold, a folder clutched in his hand. Trumbull could sense his presence without turning. Perhaps the aide had knocked softly on the open door or cleared his throat; the President had been too lost in thought to notice. Now he simply chose to ignore the intrusion. He suspected what the folder likely contained: some late-breaking report of a minor resistance action or a security alarm. The regime's watchdogs never slept, and they were quick to escalate every trivial incident, especially on the eve of a big event.
"Sir," the aide said softly, mustering courage, "pardon me... there's an update from city security—"
Trumbull lifted one hand from the railing in a silencing gesture, his back still to the door. He didn't even deign to look over his shoulder. "Not now," he said calmly, his voice carrying authority like a blade.
The aide fell silent. For a moment he lingered, uncertain whether to insist. The lights from the plaza cast Trumbull's tall figure in silhouette, an immovable statue against the night sky. After a beat, the aide bowed his head. "Yes, sir," he murmured, and retreated back into the office, closing the door with a nearly inaudible click. He would deliver the report in the morning, or perhaps to Elaine; the President clearly would not be disturbed tonight.
Trumbull remained on the balcony, scarcely acknowledging the interruption. He assumed if it were truly critical, someone like Marcus Hall would have called directly. No, it could wait. Everything could wait. This was his moment.
He drew himself up to his full height, squaring his shoulders. A swell of triumph filled his chest as he gazed out at the capital he ruled. The tableau below was one of absolute power: armored vehicles at key intersections, manned by loyal troops; spotlights cutting through the darkness to highlight giant national flags and posters of Trumbull's slogans plastered on buildings. On the grand avenue leading to Republic Square, he could make out rows of tanks parked and ready for the morning parade, their turrets dimly gleaming. There was no traffic, no civilian sound—only the occasional distant clank of a patrol or the hum of security drones hovering far above. The entire city felt like it was under his glass dome, each street and building a piece on his chessboard.
Trumbull let out a slow breath. He realized he was smiling—truly smiling—for the first time in a long while. It was all his. Every part of this nation, from the radio frequencies in the air to the bricks in the old Capitol, now belonged to him to command. He stretched out one arm over the balcony rail, almost in a gesture of benediction over the land. The movement was oddly paternal; in the back of his mind, he fancied himself as a father protecting a slumbering child—except the "child" was an entire country, and the protection was a prison of his making.
His hand was steady as it hovered above the silent city. The clouds overhead thickened, a low rumble of thunder rolling across the sky. Or was it something else? For a fleeting second, a faint orange glow lit one horizon—perhaps distant lightning, perhaps an electrical transformer blowing out in the outskirts. The rumble could have been thunder or the echo of an explosion miles away; it was impossible to tell. Trumbull's eyes narrowed, but he did not flinch or retract his outstretched hand. If it was thunder, it was fitting—nature itself applauding his triumph. If it was some desperate act of sabotage by a resistance cell, it was pathetic—too far, too small to matter here. Either way, he did not care. Let the storms come. He was firmly entrenched, unmoved.
A single drop of rain landed on the back of his hand, cool and startling. Trumbull looked up at the roiling clouds and chuckled under his breath. A storm on Unity Day—what will the propagandists spin that into? he wondered idly. A baptism of the new era? Perhaps he'd mention resilience in the rain during his speech. But that was tomorrow. Tonight, he owned the darkness and the silence.
He closed his hand into a fist and then relaxed it, feeling the night air against his palm. Everything he saw and everything beyond it was under his command. The thought was intoxicating. How many men in history had ever achieved what he had? To seize a great nation and hold it, bending even the world's outcry to mere background noise? He thought of the Napoleons and Caesars of old—men who took republics and made themselves emperors. History had scorned some of them at first, but with time, many were remembered as strong, decisive figures who shaped eras. So too, he believed, it would be with Victor Trumbull.
He allowed himself one final utterance, a quiet confirmation to crystallize this moment of absolute dominion. Leaning slightly over the rail, he surveyed his capital—its avenues and monuments draped in his image, its people invisible but contained under curfew, its very soul gripped by his hands. A fierce sense of possession flooded him. In a hushed whisper meant only for the night to hear, Victor Trumbull spoke his claim aloud:
"Mine."