Chapter 25: The Coronation
The winter sun shone weak and pale on January 20, 2029, casting long blue shadows across Congress Hall in the capital. It should have been Inauguration Day for a new president. Instead, it was the day Columbia's presidency would become a throne. Inside the grand domed chamber of Congress Hall, Victor Trumbull savored the air of triumph like a man inhaling fine cigar smoke.
He stood at the dais at the front of the hall, surveying the scene before him. Rows of lawmakers packed the floor – every Senator, every remaining Representative loyal to the National Party, all assembled in a special joint session. Above them, in the gallery, the robed figures of the High Court sat in silent attendance. Well, most of the High Court, Trumbull noted with irritation. Chief Justice Margaret Greene's seat was conspicuously empty, officially due to "ill health." Trumbull curled his lip slightly; privately he suspected the old crow was boycotting this historic day in protest. Not that her defiance mattered now. He had a new Chief Justice ready to swear him in, one who was far more… cooperative.
The chamber was festooned with patriotism. Giant Columbian flags draped from the columns. Bunting in red, white, and blue swirled along the balconies. Military honor guards stood at rigid attention at every entrance, ceremonial sabers at their sides. A choir was assembled in one corner, fresh-faced young voices poised to sing the national anthem at the appropriate cue. The atmosphere was one of scripted pageantry – the stage-managing of legitimacy. Exactly as Trumbull wanted.
He caught a movement in the corner of his eye: Elaine Buchanan stepping up beside him on the dais. She offered a dutiful smile. Elaine was immaculate in a navy suit, but Trumbull could see dark circles under her eyes that even makeup couldn't hide. She'd been working relentlessly for weeks to ensure today went perfectly. He gave her a curt nod of acknowledgment and turned back to the assembled crowd.
Cameras were positioned throughout to broadcast this ceremony live across the nation. Screens outside in Capitol Plaza showed his stern, confident face to the hand-picked crowd gathered there. Felix Archer's voice droned softly from those speakers – Trumbull could hear him faintly through the half-open doors – providing florid commentary. "A momentous day… a New Constitutional Order… President Trumbull answering the call of the people to continue his leadership…" Felix laid it on thick. Trumbull allowed himself a small smile. Good. Let the people hear the grandeur.
The Speaker of the House, a loyal crony, approached the microphone. "All rise for the President of Columbia," he intoned. The assembled Congress stood as one, a rustle of fabric and a few coughs echoing in the dome. Many faces beamed up at Trumbull – eager, obsequious. Some looked more hesitant, but they all clapped on cue as rehearsed. In the gallery, the judges too stood (except that empty chair).
Trumbull felt a swell of satisfaction warm his chest. This was his moment. How long he had waited – two presidential terms, an election defeat he had overturned through cunning and force, a turbulent return to power, and then the relentless bending of every institution to his will. Now, at last, he was cementing what he'd always believed he deserved: indefinite rule.
He stepped forward to the podium where the new constitutional document lay. It was bound in leather, freshly printed on parchment that mimicked the style of the old Constitution. Of course, the text within was vastly different now. Elaine had summarized the changes for him earlier: the 22nd Amendment on term limits – gone. Newly passed amendments enshrining emergency powers – included. In effect, the president (he might soon favor the title Leader, but one step at a time) could now rule by decree permanently, as long as a thin veneer of Congress ratified it. And this Congress would; they had been purged and intimidated into total compliance.
Trumbull raised his right hand. In his left, he placed it on a heavy Bible held out by the new Chief Justice, Malcolm Reeves. Reeves's hand trembled slightly – he was nervous, perhaps overawed by the occasion. Trumbull allowed Reeves to speak the oath prompt.
"Do you, Victor Samuel Trumbull, swear to uphold and defend the New Constitutional Order of the Republic of Columbia…?" Reeves's voice rang out over the PA system, crackling in the cold air.
Trumbull's pulse quickened. He could feel every eye on him. This oath was largely theater – he himself had dictated its phrasing. Still, he spoke firmly, voice carrying through the hall: "I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute my duties as President and Leader of the nation, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the New Constitutional Order of the Republic of Columbia."
As he uttered the words, a strange sensation fluttered in his chest. This is it. He was effectively President-for-life now, no term limits, no question of reelection. The power was his until he decided otherwise. The realization was exhilarating. And yet, in that moment, his raised hand quivered almost imperceptibly. He tightened his fingers to hide the tremor, pressing down on the Bible to steady himself. Was it excitement or the weight of the crown settling on him? Possibly a flicker of nerves – he was human, after all, and this was unprecedented territory. Don't show weakness, he scolded himself silently. Cameras were everywhere. He kept his chin high, gaze unwavering.
The Chief Justice lowered the Bible, smiling obsequiously. "Congratulations, Mr. President," Reeves said, voice reverent.
Gun salutes boomed outside – twenty-one thunderous reports that rattled the windows. The choir launched into the national anthem, their harmonious voices swelling. Inside the hall, the lawmakers burst into applause on cue. It was the loud, unanimous clapping one might see in an authoritarian parliament – dutiful and choreographed. Trumbull drank it in, raising both arms in a gesture of triumph.
Elaine stepped forward with a ceremonial fountain pen crafted for the occasion. Before him on the podium lay the document everyone had assembled to witness: the amended Constitution. Trumbull took the pen and signed his name with a flourish on the cover page, right below the signatures of congressional leaders attesting to the ratification. His signature came out bold and dark, nearly tearing the paper with its assertive stroke. There. Done.
He lifted the parchment high for a moment, showing the room and the cameras. The applause rose even louder. Some in the room cheered, sycophantic cries of "Hear, hear!" echoing. Trumbull's chest swelled with pride. This was the pinnacle of his career, of his life's ambition. He had reshaped the nation's fundamental law in his image.
Elaine was beside him still, clapping politely. He glanced at her – her face was smiling, but her eyes… they looked distant, hollow. Perhaps she was just exhausted. He'd worry about his Chief of Staff's morale later; today required her absolute positivity. For now, he kept his attention outward.
His gaze drifted upward to the gallery, where the High Court justices sat. Most were applauding tepidly. One or two – including Justice Alvarez, a man he had appointed – nodded with genuine approval. But what caught Trumbull's eye were a handful of civilians in the gallery as well: family members of dignitaries invited to watch. In one corner, he spotted a trio of solemn faces – a middle-aged woman in black, accompanied by two sullen teenagers. She wasn't clapping, he realized. Her hands were together but not moving, her face a mask of stone. The two young people with her likewise stared down silently.
Trumbull felt a spark of annoyance. Who were they? Then it clicked: the widow and children of General Sturgis, likely. Yes, he recalled approving an invitation to show magnanimity – let the families of the "traitors" attend, to demonstrate the regime had nothing to hide. Now he regretted it. Their grief was evident even across the chamber, a seditious aura at odds with the celebratory script.
He flicked a finger discreetly. Marcus Hall, standing near a side door in dress uniform, caught the sign at once. Marcus followed his gaze and his jaw set; he whispered to a security officer. Within moments, two guards moved quietly toward the Sturgis family in the gallery, gently but firmly escorting them toward the exit. The woman didn't resist, but she held Trumbull's gaze with a burning look as she was led out. He felt a twinge of something – guilt? No, more like irritation and a hint of unease. He dismissed it. Collateral damage, he thought. Sturgis and Rhodes had sealed their fates. Their families were lucky to be merely disgraced, not imprisoned.
The anthem finished with a flourish, and another round of choreographed applause swept the hall. It was time for his speech. Trumbull stepped to the podium fully, adjusting the microphones. The room quieted expectantly.
He began in a solemn tone, "My fellow Columbians, today we witness the rebirth of our great nation." His voice echoed confidently. "Through trial and tribulation, we have emerged stronger, more united. The events of recent months tested us as never before. We faced lawlessness, rebellion, and the threat of chaos. But we triumphed."
His words flowed, a careful blend of lofty idealism and veiled menace. He spoke of unity, how Columbia had been saved from traitors who tried to tear it apart. "No longer will we be weakened by those who put their agenda above the people's safety," he proclaimed. "We have rooted out disloyalty, and in this New Constitutional Order, the will of the people – one people, one nation – will guide us forward under a leadership that will not waver."
At the mention of "one people, one nation," the chamber erupted in applause again – a line that had been deliberately fed to them to cheer. Trumbull let the praise wash over him, then continued, voice rising with emotion. He claimed this moment as the start of a golden era free from partisan bickering, free from "the shackles of term limits that prevented strong leadership from completing its mission." He painted himself as the servant of the people's will, saying that he humbly accepted the call to continue leading "for as long as I am needed, for as long as the people of Columbia desire."
As he uttered that, Elaine Buchanan felt a chill despite herself. Standing just behind him, she maintained her polite smile, but inside her stomach knotted. For as long as the people desire – and who will ever be allowed to say they don't? she thought wryly. She scanned the floor, the sea of enraptured or forcibly-enthusiastic faces. Most of these politicians had bent the knee completely. She saw Senator Ramsey, a veteran National Party member, clapping vigorously – the man had privately voiced doubts last year, but now he looked entirely on board, or at least pretending well.
Elaine's eyes wandered up to the gallery, where she noticed a figure near the back row standing very still, almost too still. It was a woman in a plain dark dress and a wide-brimmed hat, head bowed as if overcome. Something about her stance tugged at Elaine's memory. Just as Elaine realized Marcia Davenport? the woman lifted her face slightly. Yes – even with that wig and hat, Elaine recognized those eyes glistening with unshed tears of fury. It was Marcia, the journalist they hadn't managed to catch. Here, of all places, right under their noses.
Elaine's heart skipped. If Marcus spotted Marcia, the reporter would be arrested in an instant. But Elaine also realized Marcia wasn't causing a scene – she was simply recording. In the woman's hand, partially concealed by a handkerchief, Elaine glimpsed the lens of a small camera or phone pointed at the stage. Marcia was bearing witness, quietly. Their eyes met fleetingly across the distance. Elaine quickly shifted her gaze before anyone else caught on. She felt an unexpected swell of respect – and pity – for the brave reporter risking everything to document this dark coronation.
Trumbull's speech rolled on, gaining fervor. He launched into a tirade against the "traitors" one last time. "Let the events of 2028 be a lesson," he thundered, fist pounding the podium for emphasis. "Never again will we allow a fringe of malcontents to endanger our nation's stability. Those who conspired to overturn the people's government have been dealt with. Some fled, some have been arrested, and they will face justice." His voice dropped into a cold register at that line, and Elaine could see a few of the more timorous congressmen blanch.
In the gallery, Marcia's jaw tightened as she filmed. She knew who he meant – people like Karen Li in hiding, Sofia and others in prison, Rhodes and Sturgis awaiting sham trials. Trumbull continued, turning the page to a more magnanimous tone, "But to the average citizen, to the ordinary men and women who may have been misled by these agitators – I extend my hand. Columbia is one family. Let us heal now, together, under my leadership, which I pledge to devote wholly to your safety and prosperity."
The hall filled with awed murmurs. A carefully orchestrated moment arrived as the choir softly began a patriotic hymn in the background, underscoring the climactic sentiment of the speech. Felix Archer's voice could be heard from the broadcast speakers outside, hushed and reverent: "President Trumbull speaks of healing and unity, truly a historic moment…"
Trumbull raised his arms as if embracing the crowd. "With the blessings of Almighty God and the mandate of the people, I stand here not as a ruler imposed, but as a leader freely chosen to carry our nation onward. The burdens of office I will carry as long as I am needed, and not a day longer." That last line was a scripted lie, but it sounded reassuring. People in the hall nodded, some dabbing eyes as if moved.
He concluded with a flourish: "Columbia has been reborn today. Stronger. Safer. More united than ever before. We enter a new age of greatness. May we forever remain one people under one flag, marching forward as one Columbia!"
The room erupted. The politicians leapt to their feet in a standing ovation. The judges in the gallery politely stood as well. The military honor guard snapped their swords up in salute. The applause seemed to go on and on, a cacophony of clapping meant to show unanimous approval.
Elaine clapped too, mechanically, her palms stinging from the force of it. She scanned the crowd below – pure spectacle. It reminded her of old footage she'd seen of Soviet congresses or North Korean assemblies where no one dared be the first to stop applauding the dear leader. This is what we've become, she thought, a hollowness in her chest. She forced herself to keep clapping, even as the faces of those absent or destroyed by this regime flashed through her mind.
Finally, the Speaker signaled for the applause to subside. A military band struck up a triumphant march. The formal ceremony was complete: Victor Trumbull was now, in all but name, a dictator anointed by law and spectacle.
Trumbull stepped down from the dais to mingle and accept personal congratulations. Elaine moved with him as an escort, while Marcus Hall and other top aides closed in protectively. One by one, senators and representatives eagerly approached to shake Trumbull's hand. "Congratulations, Mr. President," said one with almost comical zeal. "A truly historic day," gushed another. Trumbull basked in it, laying heavy pats on backs, nodding at praise.
Elaine hung a step back, observing. Not everyone was entirely celebratory. She caught the strained smile of the Vice President – a man effectively powerless now and looking as if he knew it. He clapped along, but his eyes slid away from Trumbull's as they shook hands. Smart of him, Elaine mused, to fear showing any hint of ambition; Trumbull would likely eliminate the VP position entirely soon.
After interminable minutes of greetings, they proceeded out of the chamber to the front steps of Congress Hall for the public address to the crowds outside. Trumbull insisted on going out onto the balcony overlooking the plaza. It was freezing – bright sun but biting air. A few thousand selected loyalists and government employees were assembled below, waving mini flags. They cheered on cue as Trumbull appeared on the balcony, raising a gloved hand in a paternal wave.
Elaine stood behind him, hands clasped, forcing a bright expression. Felix's voice echoed from loudspeakers: "And there is President Trumbull, greeting the nation on this momentous day… the crowd's enthusiasm is palpable!" In truth, Elaine saw more rigid, orchestrated movements than genuine fervor below. Government supervisors placed throughout led chants of "Trum-bull! Trum-bull!" that the rest mimicked without much spirit.
Trumbull delivered a shorter, populist version of his speech to the public, hitting the key points again. From her vantage, Elaine could see down into the front sections of the crowd. The first rows were beaming supporters – some fanatic true believers with adoring gazes. But further back, she caught glimpses of ambivalence or even resentment: a man clapping with a scowl, a woman with tears on her face not of joy but of mourning. Likely some had been coerced to attend from federal workplaces or local party organizations.
As the President droned about unity, Elaine flitted her gaze aside – and saw Marcia Davenport once more. The journalist had managed to slip out of the gallery and into the plaza below. She now stood off to one side of the crowd, partially hidden behind a column, camera discreetly raised. Elaine noted a security officer not far from Marcia, scanning the crowd, but he hadn't spotted her. Marcia lowered her camera after a final shot, then vanished into the throng. She got what she came for, Elaine thought. There was a pang of relief in her chest that Marcia escaped detection. How odd, she realized, that she found herself quietly rooting for the very person exposing them. What had it come to, when Elaine Buchanan was inwardly cheering an enemy of the state simply for telling the truth?
Trumpets blared as Trumbull finished and waved once more. The ceremony was over. As they turned to go back inside, Elaine noticed something else: Trumbull's hand, gripping the railing, trembled again. Only slightly, but enough that she, standing close, could see the quiver in his fingers. He quickly withdrew it, hiding both hands in his greatcoat pockets. His face remained a mask of confident pride, but for the first time Elaine wondered if perhaps he felt it too – the precariousness beneath all the pomp. He had achieved everything he wanted, yet to rule a cowed nation by fear… perhaps even he sensed what a poisoned chalice it could be.
They proceeded indoors, where international dignitaries were waiting for a brief reception. Many foreign ambassadors had declined to attend in protest; others, notably from authoritarian-leaning countries, were present and effusive. The ambassador from Russia pumped Trumbull's hand enthusiastically, congratulating him on "strengthening Columbia." A representative from China gave a polite nod and slight smile – an endorsement of sorts from a fellow one-party state. Meanwhile, the European Union ambassadors were conspicuously absent, having walked out earlier that week in protest of the constitutional changes.
Trumbull hardly cared at this moment. Let them whine; he had all he needed domestically. Elaine sipped champagne and watched him hold court. The domestic media was fawning, the international press largely shut out of the building. She caught one foreign correspondent shouting a question from afar: "President Trumbull, what do you say to accusations you've made yourself a dictator?" Security promptly escorted the journalist away as Trumbull pretended not to hear. Elaine suppressed a grimace. It was a dictator's coronation, no denying it, but admitting that aloud was beyond taboo.
At one point, Trumbull motioned Elaine over. "Any update on Greene?" he asked under his breath, scowling. "She couldn't bother to show face today?"
Elaine kept her expression neutral. "Chief Justice Greene remains on medical leave, sir," she replied smoothly. "She sent her regards and regrets she couldn't witness this historic event." That last part was a fabrication, but she doubted he'd check.
Trumbull grunted. "Hmph. Probably for the best. Didn't need her sour presence." He scanned the room, then added in a lower tone, "Reeves will do fine as Chief Justice. We'll get the Court in line."
Elaine nodded obediently. Inside, she felt a pang for Greene – thank God the woman had gone underground; if she'd come and made a scene or refused to administer the oath, it would have been ugly. Elaine wondered if Greene had truly taken ill from stress or if it was an intentional protest disguised as illness. Knowing Greene, likely the latter. And now Greene's absence was being spun by propaganda as implicit endorsement – Felix on air had even remarked, "Chief Justice Greene's stepping aside today gracefully signaled her approval of the transition, making way for the next generation." A bald-faced lie, but one few could contradict publicly.
By early afternoon, the ceremonies concluded. The capital city prepared for an evening of "celebratory" parades and fireworks. Attendance was mandatory for many government employees, and strongly encouraged for the rest of the populace (with free food provided, as an incentive or bribe). The regime wanted images of jubilant crowds for the night's news – a final capstone on this coronation.
Elaine slipped away from the reception as soon as she politely could. She found a quiet alcove near a side exit and leaned against a marble pillar, closing her eyes. Her mind replayed the day's events. Grandiosity and horror, hand in hand. She knew history books – at least the honest ones abroad – would mark this as the death of Columbia's democracy. And she was second only to Trumbull in making it happen.
Before despair could swallow her, a soft voice interrupted. "Hell of a day, huh?" It was Felix Archer, sidling into the alcove, a half-empty champagne flute in hand. He looked dapper as always, but up close Elaine saw the same haunted look in his eyes she'd glimpsed during the crackdown.
She mustered a tight smile. "Historic," she replied quietly. "Everything went according to plan."
Felix chuckled, a dry brittle sound. "Yes. According to plan." He took a sip of champagne, though it clearly gave him no pleasure. "It's official now. We live in a dictatorship."
Elaine shot him a sharp look – such frank wording was dangerous, even whispered. But they were alone for the moment. She exhaled. "Yes, well… careful who hears you say that."
He shrugged. "Trust me, I'm exceedingly careful these days." A silence stretched, filled with all the things neither dared say openly. At last, Felix said under his breath, "How long do you think this can last?"
Elaine didn't answer immediately. Through a nearby window she could see a platoon of armed soldiers moving down Independence Avenue, taking up their positions for parade security. The people would cheer from the sidewalks because not to cheer was suspicious now. "I don't know," she whispered. "He's got what he wanted. But keeping it… that's another matter."
Felix followed her gaze. "No. Fear can only keep everyone in line for so long," he murmured. "Someday, something's bound to give." He drained his glass and set it on a ledge. "But until then, we have our roles to play, don't we?"
Elaine studied him. There was something in his tone – resignation, yes, but also a hint of challenge. Did he know that she suspected him? That Marcus had likely started keeping tabs on him? She chose her words carefully. "Just stay safe, Felix," she said softly. "We need all hands to maintain stability."
Felix managed a wry smile. "Stability. Right." He straightened his jacket. "Take care, Elaine."
He left then, walking back toward the press area where he was scheduled to broadcast the evening festivities. Elaine watched him go and felt a surge of loneliness. She had power, immense power as Chief of Staff to a dictator, yet she had never felt more isolated. In this new order, everyone wore masks and trusted no one fully. Even Marcus Hall, her colleague, was more Trumbull's creature now than an ally to her.
She squared her shoulders. No time for self-pity. The day wasn't over. She had to ensure the parades went off without a hitch and that any hint of protest was quashed swiftly. Already, she had reports of a lone heckler outside Congress Hall who'd shouted "Tyrant!" during the speech and was promptly hauled off by security. The cameras hadn't caught it, fortunately, or at least the broadcast cut away just in time. If that was the biggest disturbance today, they'd done well.
As Elaine stepped out to rejoin the staff motorcade, she allowed herself one fleeting thought: History was made today, and not in a good way. But such reflections were for midnight and whiskey, not now. Now she had a dictatorship to run.
That evening, Columbia's state television showed dazzling images of fireworks above the capital, of crowds waving flags as the President's motorcade rolled by, of Trumbull standing at a balcony basking in adulation. Felix Archer's voiceover framed it as a grateful nation celebrating a leader who "answered the call to continue his service beyond old constraints, ushering in a new era."
But many Columbians watched in sullen silence. They recognized staged theater when they saw it. Others did not watch at all, withdrawing in quiet protest. Internationally, reactions diverged: some democracies condemned the day's events as the illegal coronation of a despot. Other powers offered congratulations, signaling business as usual.
And in a tiny apartment in a European city, Karen Li streamed the broadcast on a laptop with clenched fists, memorizing every detail to report to exile communities. In a safehouse basement, Marcia Davenport finished uploading her footage of the day – including the moment Trumbull's hand shook and the forced expressions on the crowd – to foreign journalists hungry for real insight. The truth, they hoped, would pierce the wall of propaganda.
Victor Trumbull went to bed that night President of Columbia in title, but in truth something far more. He had achieved his lifelong dream of absolute power. And as he drifted to sleep, one hand reflexively twitched, that stubborn tremor refusing to fully fade. Perhaps deep in his subconscious, even he knew: a throne built on fear was a precarious seat indeed.
Chapter 26: Purges and Loyalty
Two weeks after the grand "coronation," Marcus Hall sat in his new office at the Domestic Security Bureau headquarters, a thick dossier open on his desk. Rain lashed the windows, and the muted gray of the winter afternoon light made the harsh overhead fluorescents necessary. Marcus didn't mind the gloom; it fit his task. Page by page, he reviewed lists of names, each accompanied by notes in clipped bureaucratic language: "questionable loyalty; observed hesitating on 1/8 orders; family ties to opposition." Next to some names, a red stamp: TERMINATE or DETENTION.
He flipped a page. Another section: mid-level civil servants suspected of disloyalty. Many of these he recognized from the "Schedule F Restoration Plan" he and Trumbull had developed long ago in exile – essentially a blueprint to purge the federal workforce of anyone not slavishly loyal. They had begun implementing it from day one of Trumbull's return, but now the net could be cast even wider. Marcus allowed himself a tight smile. No more obstacles. They could finally clean house thoroughly.
His office door opened and Caleb Tyler entered, uniform crisp, face devoid of expression. Caleb was now formally the Director of the DSB – the secret police by another name. Marcus had lobbied for him to get that position; Caleb's zeal and efficiency were unmatched. "Mr. Hall," he greeted. "The President is ready for you."
Marcus stood, tucking the dossier under his arm. It was time for the meeting he both relished and approached with caution: reviewing the purge list with Trumbull himself. If there was one thing Marcus understood about dictatorships, it was that the inner circle could never relax. Power begat paranoia, and no one was above suspicion in the long run. Not even he, perhaps. But Marcus considered himself indispensable at present – he was the architect of this security apparatus, after all.
They walked down a secure corridor towards a conference room. "How's the mood in the DSB?" Marcus asked Caleb as they went, keeping his tone conversational.
Caleb responded curtly, "Focused. We've doubled surveillance operations since the 20th. No significant unrest to report; the public's quiet."
Of course they were quiet, Marcus thought. They were terrified. As it should be. "Any internal issues?" he probed subtly. Caleb oversaw thousands of agents – and people with consciences might balk at some tasks now.
Caleb hesitated just a fraction. "One minor matter. An agent in training resigned abruptly yesterday. Cited family reasons."
Marcus glanced at him. "Family reasons," he repeated with a skeptical edge.
Caleb's jaw tightened. "We'll monitor him, sir. I suspect burnout. Nothing to worry the President with."
Marcus nodded. It was a tiny blip, nothing. The weak would weed themselves out, leaving a hardened core of loyal enforcers. Fine by him.
They entered the conference room. President Trumbull was already there at the head of the table, Elaine Buchanan sitting to his right. A couple of other inner circle figures – including General Holt, the newly appointed Defense Secretary – stood waiting. The atmosphere was brisk.
"Marcus, come in," Trumbull said, gesturing. "Let's get started." There was an energy to the President, a brisk impatience. He'd been in an expansive mood these last couple of weeks, buoyed by his formalized power, but also quick to anger at any lingering dissent.
Marcus took his seat and slid the dossier forward. Elaine offered a perfunctory smile of greeting, which he returned with a nod. Her face was drawn; Marcus suspected she hadn't been sleeping well. No matter – she was still executing her duties, which now included quietly drawing up lists of replacements for the purged officials.
Trumbull tapped the dossier. "This the list?"
"Yes, Mr. President," Marcus said. "Covering all departments. We've identified those whose loyalty is in question. Many were already flagged from before; others revealed themselves by hesitating during the crackdown or through intercepted communications expressing doubt."
Trumbull flipped it open, scanning names. "Hmph. Some of these clowns I should've fired months ago." He jabbed a finger at a name. "This one – Deputy Treasury Secretary Reed – what's his offense?"
"Reed privately complained about the emergency economic decrees, sir," Elaine answered softly. "He also did not immediately freeze opposition bank accounts when ordered; took him 48 hours."
Trumbull scowled. "Too long. Fire him. Actually, have DSB detain him a while, see what else he's been up to."
Marcus made a note. He already had recommended as much in the margin. They proceeded down the list.
For each name, Trumbull issued curt decisions: fire, arrest, demote, watch closely. His criteria were blunt. If someone showed even a whiff of hesitance in supporting the regime, they were gone. Career civil servants, military officers, regional administrators – no one was exempt. A few high-profile ones came up:
"Brigadier General Harper – he paused a moment before deploying troops on 1/8, I'm told," Marcus reported.
"Fire him. No, court-martial for dereliction," Trumbull snapped.
Elaine interjected carefully, "Perhaps a forced retirement, sir, to avoid unrest in the ranks? Harper is...popular among some troops."
Trumbull gave her a cold stare. "Fine. Retirement. But keep him monitored."
Marcus ticked off that Harper would be put under house surveillance permanently.
They reached a section with two of the most notable traitors: Rhodes and Sturgis. Trumbull's expression hardened as he read their names. "I want them dealt with. Immediately. What's the delay?"
General Holt cleared his throat. "Sir, the military tribunals are scheduled for next week. We can move them up if you wish. The outcomes are predetermined, of course." He shifted uncomfortably; Holt had been a friend of Rhodes once, Marcus recalled, which might explain a hint of unease.
Marcus spoke with crisp assurance: "Rhodes will be found guilty of treason. We recommend life imprisonment in Black Hollow Penitentiary – maximum security, isolated. Executing a long-standing ally could create martyrdom, sir, so a life sentence might be wiser. General Sturgis similarly – guilty, life at a separate facility."
Trumbull drummed his fingers. "I'd rather hang them both. But you're right about Rhodes. He'd milk martyrdom." He sneered, "The coward resigned and recorded that pathetic screed. Did he think it would spark a revolution? Fool."
Elaine glanced down, her face pained briefly. Rhodes had been her colleague for years. Marcus doubted she ever expected him to turn rebel.
"Life imprisonment then," Trumbull said. "Let them rot and be forgotten." He paused, then added darkly, "But make sure Rhodes is miserable, Marcus. If he ever leaks a letter or influences anyone from prison, I'll hold you accountable."
Marcus nodded. "Understood, sir. Black Hollow is… not a pleasant place. He will have no contact with the outside. We'll even censor his mail."
Trumbull grunted approvingly and moved on. "What about those turncoats in our own agencies? Any evidence Felix Archer was playing both sides?" He asked it casually, but Marcus had been waiting for this.
Marcus took a measured breath. "We received an anonymous tip that Archer had an unsanctioned communication on the night of January 8th. We investigated and found an encrypted message originated from his home, around midnight that night."
Trumbull's eyes narrowed. Elaine looked up sharply. Clearly, this was news to her too, Marcus thought. Good – he'd kept it tight.
"What did it say?" the President asked, lip curling.
"We weren't able to decrypt it fully," Marcus said. "But the metadata suggests it was to a known contact of Marcia Davenport." He deliberately didn't look at Elaine or Felix (who wasn't present, of course). Instead, he slid a printout of technical logs to Trumbull.
Trumbull snatched it, scanning with a frown. "So, Archer… It looks like he might have been feeling out Davenport?" He sounded almost disbelieving – Felix had been so publicly loyal.
Elaine interjected, voice calm but with a taut undercurrent, "Mr. President, Felix has been under immense stress. It's possible he was attempting to lure Davenport out, in an overeager bid to catch her. He wouldn't be foolish enough to truly betray us."
She was offering Felix a lifeline, Marcus realized. He wondered if that came from true belief or fear of losing a key propagandist. Perhaps both.
Marcus chose his words carefully. "I spoke to Felix about it, sir. He claimed he was conducting a freelance sting to gain Davenport's trust. He provided some plausible detail. However," – Marcus allowed a hint of steel – "I recommend we do not fully trust him going forward. We should keep him on a short leash."
Trumbull's expression darkened. "I don't like this at all. A man like Archer… If he's wavering, maybe we cut him loose."
Elaine blanched slightly. "Respectfully, sir, Felix Archer is a valuable asset. The public trusts him. Removing him abruptly could raise questions. And if he were to defect openly, he could do damage. Better to keep him where we can watch."
Trumbull brooded for a moment, then nodded. "Agreed. But I want to be sure of him. Marcus, scare him straight."
Marcus allowed himself a thin, predatory smile. "Already in motion. We've arranged a loyalty test."
He outlined it: that evening, on Felix's live show, he would be handed a breaking news bulletin to read – one that included denouncing by name a few individuals Felix personally cared about. Specifically, an old colleague who had quietly resigned in protest and a college friend rumored to be sympathetic to the opposition. The script would label them traitors and criminals, effectively destroying their reputations and likely leading to their arrest. Felix would have to read it with conviction. It was a calculated cruelty; Marcus wanted to see if Felix would balk.
Trumbull's eyebrows rose, and a cruel smile tugged at his lips. "That's diabolical, Marcus. I approve. If he flinches… well, then we know."
Elaine looked ill, but she said nothing. She knew better than to defend Felix too much; that could cast suspicion on her. Still, Marcus noted her fists clenched in her lap.
"Alright," Trumbull said, closing the dossier. "Proceed with all this. Clean house. Let's have it done by end of month." He leaned back. "Anything else?"
Marcus hesitated. There was one more item – one that required delicacy. "Only one, sir. The Karen Li problem."
At that name, Trumbull's jaw set in anger. Elaine sat up a bit straighter too, paying close attention.
"We haven't caught her yet," Marcus went on. "Our intel suggests she escaped the country shortly after the crackdown. Possibly to Canada or Europe."
Trumbull exhaled through his nose, nostrils flaring. "That woman… Always a thorn. Well, what do you propose? Extradition is unlikely if she's abroad."
Marcus's voice dropped to an icy tone. "We take care of her, even abroad. Quietly. I have assets – former contractors – who can be tasked off the books. Send a message that no traitor is safe, anywhere."
Elaine looked alarmed. "Assassinations on foreign soil? That could blow back politically—"
Trumbull cut her off with a slicing gesture. "No, Elaine, Marcus is right. We can't let exiles plot freely. If she thinks running will save her, she's wrong." He pointed a finger at Marcus. "Do it. But make sure it can't be traced to us. I don't need an international incident."
Marcus inclined his head. "Understood. It will be arranged subtly – an accident, perhaps."
Elaine swallowed, saying nothing, but Marcus could see the disapproval in her eyes. Soft, he thought. She still had those pesky morals, but she wouldn't dare openly object in this setting.
"Good," Trumbull said. "Now, I have a meeting with the economic council. Marcus, Caleb – make sure the first wave of dismissals and detentions is executed by tomorrow morning. I want a stack of resignation letters on my desk and a few high-profile arrests made by tonight for the news cycle."
"Yes, sir," they chorused.
The meeting adjourned. Marcus left with Caleb Tyler, both walking briskly to command the purge operation. In the hallway, Caleb gave a thin smile. "I'll enjoy picking up Reed and the others myself."
Marcus nodded. "Remember to coordinate with local teams. Quick and quiet. We don't need media fuss." He glanced at Caleb. The younger man was efficient, but Marcus caught a flicker of something in his eyes. Perhaps excitement, or was it uncertainty? Hard to read. Caleb had always been eager, but even he might be reaching the threshold of what one could stomach easily. They were about to tear through the fabric of government and society like a scythe.
Marcus put it out of mind and got to work.
That evening, the purge played out across the nation's capital and beyond. Deputy Secretary Reed never made it home; DSB agents intercepted him and escorted him to an "interview" from which he would not return. General Harper received a phone call informing him of immediate retirement – his attempt to protest was cut off as the line suddenly went dead, and within the hour MPs arrived to take him to a military hospital for a "checkup" (he'd end up under guard indefinitely).
One by one, dozens of officials were removed. Some were quietly driven to airports with one-way tickets and a warning to never speak publicly (the lucky ones who had foreign ties and were allowed to exile themselves). Others ended up in cells on suspicion of treason. A few, as Marcus had planned, met even darker fates: an Agriculture Department deputy, who had been feeding information to a journalist, was found in his garage that night, an apparent suicide by carbon monoxide. In truth, agents had staged it after silencing him. Another mid-level intelligence analyst who had voiced objections simply disappeared on her way to work, never to be seen again. Officially, she too had defected and fled – at least, that's what her bewildered family was told.
Elaine Buchanan watched these events unfold with a mounting sense of horror behind her composed facade. She spent the evening signing off on "resignations" and drafting press releases about a "planned reorganization to improve efficiency." It was like watching a guillotine fall in slow motion on colleagues she'd known for years. Some were spineless bureaucrats, sure, but others were genuinely good people trying to hold the government together. Now all gone or going. The uniformity of obedience after this purge would be total.
By midnight, she learned that Felix Archer had passed his loyalty test – in a manner of speaking. The broadcast she watched at her desk showed Felix reading the surprise bulletin without outward hesitation. He spoke the prepared lines, naming his former friend and colleague as traitors who had "collaborated with foreign agents." Elaine noticed, though, how his voice had gone flat, dead almost, as he did it. When the camera cut away, he looked like a man who'd been hollowed out. Marcus informed her Felix promptly went home after the show and drank himself into a stupor (the DSB had surveillance on him, naturally). He was broken, but he was theirs.
Elaine pitied him. She pitied them all – herself included. But pity was a luxury she couldn't indulge in for long. For now, she was spared from suspicion. Trumbull had even complimented her efficiency today, a rare thing. She realized with a shiver that he likely saw her as one of the last people he could fully trust – her and Marcus. And perhaps that was true. She had enabled everything for him, after all. If she betrayed him now, she'd not only be killed, she'd probably break him personally.
Despite her qualms, Elaine stayed the course. I made my bed, she thought bitterly, and now I lie in it, under constant guard. For she knew Marcus and Caleb likely kept tabs even on her communications now. Trust only went so far.
The following morning, the internal televisions in every government building displayed a stark announcement: "Restoring Integrity: Government Reorganization Underway." The news anchors explained that dozens of officials were stepping down or being reassigned to better serve the nation. Only glowing terms, no mention of disloyalty – outwardly it was framed like a positive shake-up. But everyone within those walls felt the chill. They all knew what it really meant: fall in line, or you're next.
In an underground safehouse abroad, Karen Li received word of the purge from a sympathetic contact still in Washington. She read the encrypted message on her phone with a heavy heart: "Rhodes, life sentence; Sturgis same. Many others out or detained. It's done – total control." She closed her eyes, grief and frustration crashing over her. So many she had hoped might secretly help from within – gone. Rhodes had tried, at the end, and now was locked away for life. The thought of that proud, conflicted man languishing alone in a cell made her ache. But at least he lived; they hadn't executed him. Small mercies.
Karen gently touched the leather briefcase beside her – containing the Constitution and documents Greene entrusted. These pages were now nothing more than relics in her homeland, but she vowed they would be sacred blueprints for rebuilding one day. We'll bring them back, she promised silently to Rhodes and Sturgis and all the unjustly imprisoned. We'll bring you back.
Her jaw set. She sent out messages to her contacts: urging those in exile to organize a formal resistance council, to lobby foreign governments for support, to not let the world forget what was happening in Columbia. It felt like trying to spark a flame in a hurricane, but she refused to believe all was hopeless. Yes, Trumbull had tightened his iron grip. But the tighter he squeezed, the more the anger would build beneath the surface.
Later that day, a piece of news came that bolstered her resolve slightly: a leak to the international press revealed graphic details of the January massacre, complete with photos. It caused an outcry in Europe and even some commentary in Asia. There was talk of a UN Human Rights Council condemnation. Small, possibly ineffectual gestures – but gestures nonetheless. Karen suspected Marcia Davenport's hand in that leak, perhaps aided by Felix's material. She sent a secure bravo to Marcia's known channel, hoping it reached her: "Saw the photos. The truth is out. Thank you."
Karen also heard whispers that a couple of foreign diplomats were quietly exploring the idea of recognizing a "Columbian government-in-exile" if one formed. It was a long shot, but the fact it was discussed at all gave her a spark of hope. Maybe not all the world would accept Trumbull's regime as legitimate long-term.
That night in her hiding place, Karen lit a small candle. One by one, she named the fallen and purged friends softly to herself, like a litany: "Miguel. Sofia. Senator Rhodes. General Sturgis. Lisa. Devon…" Some were dead, some imprisoned, some missing. She dedicated the flame of the candle to them. We fight on, she whispered. We carry you with us.
Back in Columbia, Marcus Hall surveyed the new landscape he'd helped create. It was a landscape of fear-fueled obedience. The President's inner circle was now pruned to true believers and those too terrified to be anything else. In effect, Columbia was under the control of a small junta-like clique: President Trumbull at the head, Marcus as enforcer, Caleb as his watchful agent, Elaine as the administrative brain, General Holt and a few generals commanding the armed forces, and Felix as the (outwardly) loyal voice.
In the corridors of power, hardly anyone dared whisper dissent now. One leader, one party, one truth – that was the creed. Marcus found it efficient and satisfying. He had never aspired to popularity, only to power and order. Now he had both, in spades.
Late in the evening, he stood by his office window. The rain had cleared, and the capital's skyline twinkled under a cold, starry night. On another building across town, he could see a massive billboard with President Trumbull's face and the slogan "STRONGER TOGETHER" illuminated. It hadn't taken long for the propaganda department to roll out a cult of personality in full force.
Marcus took a sip of whiskey and allowed himself a rare moment of reflection. We did it. They had pulled the nation into submission, bent it to their will. He told himself it was for the best – for stability, for a rebirth of greatness. And maybe he even believed it, in part. But as he watched a lone helicopter scudding across the night, a nagging thought tugged at him: nothing this absolute could last forever without consequence. There were no more circuit breakers in the system, no more "speed bumps," as he used to call conscientious officials. Only a straight highway to whatever future Trumbull decreed.
Marcus dismissed the thought. If something broke someday, so be it. He'd deal with it when it came. For now, his job was to maintain the regime's chokehold – and he excelled at his job.
In the darkness of Columbia's longest night, the flame of resistance was battered and weak. But it was not extinguished. As long as any remained who remembered freedom – a judge in hiding, a journalist underground, a former congresswoman in exile, a propagandist with a guilty conscience – the idea lived on. And in the hearts of ordinary people, traumatized and silenced, a quiet longing persisted for the day when they could speak and breathe freely again.
Chapter 26 ended with Karen Li dedicating her fight to fallen friends and Marcus Hall ensuring no dissent remained around the leader. The tyrant's inner circle was now smaller, more fanatic, and more paranoid than ever. Columbia's dictatorship had reached a uniform, suffocating completeness – a calm of fear that, by its very nature, could not hold forever.
Chapter 27: Silence Falls
Spring 2029 arrived in Columbia not with the usual sense of renewal, but with an eerie quiet blanketing the land. In city streets, the usual bustle of life continued superficially – shops opened, children went to school, people commuted to work – but an invisible weight pressed on every interaction. It was the weight of unsaid things, of careful glances over shoulders, of enforced silence.
Marcia Davenport noted it in her small leather-bound diary, writing by the dim light of dusk in a safehouse attic. She wrote in the third person, partly to distance herself from the pain:
"In the streets of the capital, a silence hangs heavier than any storm cloud. Citizens go about their business, eyes downcast. They speak of weather or work, never of the missing neighbor or the headlines they dare not trust. The absence of open conflict is not peace – it is fear distilled, the quiet of people who have buried their true thoughts deep inside."
She paused, listening. Outside, the city was mostly still. A curfew siren would wail soon for nightfall; it never failed to send a shudder through her. Setting her pen down, Marcia moved to the tiny gable window and peered out. Across the rooftops, she could see the silhouette of a family through a lit dining room window in the next building. It was a scene she'd observed often these past weeks – a family of five that took their meals in near silence.
Tonight, as usual, the father sat at the head of the table, mother and children around. The window was closed, of course, but Marcia could almost imagine the hushed conversation – or lack thereof. The teenage boy poked at his food, scowling at his plate. The little girl swung her legs, perhaps too young to fully understand but old enough to sense tension. The mother kept forcing a bright smile, saying something that made the boy nod curtly. They could have been any normal family eating dinner, yet Marcia had noticed the pattern: the same forced small talk about school or work. Never once in all her observations had she seen them laugh genuinely, or appear animated. As if an invisible guest sits among them – fear itself, Marcia mused.
Unbeknownst to Marcia, that family was indeed treading on eggshells. The eldest son – absent from the table this season – had been arrested in the January protests. His name was never spoken now; the parents had forbidden it, terrified a younger child might repeat it at school. So they talked about trivialities. Tonight, the father was commenting on a bland segment from state news about agricultural output, and the mother chimed in with praise for the weather. Anything safe. The teenage boy glared because he knew what they were doing – pretending everything was fine – and it made him angry and helpless. But even he didn't dare break the facade. Their cousin was gone, and none of them could acknowledge it aloud.
Marcia sighed and stepped back from the window. That tableau encapsulated Columbia now: reality buried beneath enforced "normalcy." She returned to her diary and continued writing in a flowing hand:
"At family dinners, they no longer toast to health or freedom. They chew quietly, swallowing not just food but the words they cannot say – names of loved ones taken, questions that have no safe answers."
She could recall her own childhood dinners, full of lively debate – her parents had been academics, always encouraging her to question and discuss events. That felt like another universe now.
She closed the diary for a moment, massaging her aching hand. Writing by hand was a precaution; digital records were too risky. She would later smuggle these notes into an online piece for foreign audiences, anonymized, to give the world a glimpse of daily life under Trumbull's regime. It was dangerous, but this was her resistance: to record and remember.
Down on the street, an ice cream vendor's bell jingled. Strange, at this hour just before curfew, but there it was – a tricycle cart with the melody playing. A few children tugged their mothers' hands, begging for a last-minute treat. Marcia watched as a young mother in a shawl hesitated, then quickly bought two cones for her little ones. The kids' eyes lit up; for a brief moment they laughed, messy drips of vanilla on their chins. The vendor moved on, and as the mother turned, her gaze fell on a poster plastered to a lamppost behind them – Trumbull's stern face above the slogan "LOYALTY, SECURITY, PROSPERITY." Marcia saw the mother's smile falter as she shepherded her kids home, pulling them close. Even ice cream couldn't fully chase away the climate of dread.
Marcia jotted another line: "Even joy is careful now. Laughter, if it comes, is quickly hushed as if the very sound is suspicious."
She thought back to something she'd heard a few days ago: in a primary school not far from here, a new pledge of allegiance had been introduced. A teacher who sympathized with Marcia's cause had secretly told her about it. The pledge included phrasing about obeying the Leader and preserving the nation's unity. The teacher had been given strict instructions to have her class recite it each morning.
One of the children in that class, a seven-year-old girl, had stumbled on the words the first time. She had learned the old pledge from her parents and got confused. The teacher – normally kind – had had to sternly correct the child in front of everyone. Later, quietly, she told Marcia she hated herself for it, but the school principal was watching and had warned them: any deviance might be reported to the Education Ministry.
Marcia imagined that scene: tiny voices chiming rote lines they barely understood, except one kid who hesitated because she remembered an "under liberty and justice for all" that was no longer there. And the hush that would fall, the fear in that child's eyes as the teacher's forced scolding came.
She wrote: "In classrooms, childhood innocence is measured by how quickly they forget yesterday's truths and parrot today's mandated lines. A little girl falters on the new pledge, recalling when the word 'freedom' was part of it. The teacher's reprimand is swift, and at recess that child stands alone, marked by others' fearful avoidance. Even playground friendships carry the risk of saying the wrong thing."
Marcia closed her eyes. She could almost hear the sound of children on a school playground – except now she knew even that was likely subdued. She'd heard of kids informing on their parents after "loyalty education" sessions at school, reporting any anti-leader sentiment overheard at home. Parents learned to guard their tongues even around their own offspring. What a grotesque perversion, she thought – family itself poisoned by mistrust.
Her musings were interrupted by a soft knock on the attic door. Marcia's heart quickened – any knock was alarming. But it was just Mrs. Alvarez, the kind widow who owned this house and sheltered her. The older woman poked her head in. "Everything alright, dear?" she asked in a low tone.
Marcia nodded and managed a smile. "Yes, just writing."
Mrs. Alvarez offered a sympathetic look. "I'm heading to evening mass shortly. You're welcome to join, if you feel safe enough. It might do you good."
Marcia hesitated. She hadn't been to a church in ages – partly out of lapsed faith, partly caution. But a quiet yearning in her stirred. Perhaps it would be good to slip in among others, even for a half hour, to not feel entirely alone in her thoughts. "Alright," she found herself saying. "I'll come."
They left just after curfew siren, which was risky; but the church was only a block away, and many neighbors would be heading there too – the regime still allowed church services, carefully monitored, as long as sermons stayed apolitical. They walked in silence, Marcia wearing a simple dress and coat borrowed from Mrs. Alvarez to blend in.
Inside St. Catherine's Church, candles cast a gentle glow on wooden pews. The place smelled of incense and gave an illusion of warmth against the gathering gloom outside. People filed in quietly, nodding to each other with the faintest of smiles. Marcia slipped into a pew near the middle with Mrs. Alvarez.
She observed the congregants: mostly older folks, some families. There were not as many as before – fear kept many away, or perhaps disillusionment. But those who came seemed to crave solace. A few individuals knelt and wept softly before the service started, perhaps praying for missing loved ones or guidance.
The priest, Father Santiago, was a gentle man who had served this parish for decades. He began the mass in the usual way, voice soothing as he led prayers and hymns. He was careful to never directly allude to politics or current events. But in his homily, he spoke about suffering and deliverance in a tone that left subtext hanging in the air.
"We recall the Israelites in bondage," he said, clear eyes sweeping over the pews. "They endured under Pharaoh, praying for deliverance. Many long years they suffered, but their faith gave them hope that one day they would be led to freedom." A pause. "My dear brothers and sisters, sometimes darkness reigns for a long time. But it is not eternal. We must hold on to what is right and just in our hearts, even if we dare not speak it aloud. Trust that the Lord hears the cries we cannot utter."
Marcia felt a lump in her throat. It was as open a reference to the present situation as the priest dared, couched in scripture and metaphor. She glanced around – several congregants were nodding subtly, tears in their eyes. They understood. This was their coded affirmation that they all knew things were not right, that this tyranny too would pass somehow.
She looked over at a couple pews ahead, where a stocky man in a trench coat sat with arms folded. He didn't bow his head or mouth the prayers – a state security observer, likely. His stony presence would normally chill the atmosphere. But tonight, it seemed the shared moment of hope via parable had emboldened people in a quiet way. A few exchanged gentle looks of solidarity that the agent couldn't possibly classify as seditious.
Marcia scribbled a mental note to record later: In church, hope is spoken in parables. The secret police man cannot arrest a Bible story. It was dangerous for the priest – he walked a fine line. But Father Santiago had just given his flock a precious gift: the knowledge that they were not alone in their pain, and that faith could still light a small candle against the darkness.
After mass, as people shuffled out into the night, a subtle change was noticeable. They walked a little taller, held their heads a bit higher. Not much, but enough that Marcia could see the difference between the way they arrived and the way they departed. She heard a woman whisper to another, "Deliverance from suffering… Amen." The other squeezed her hand before they parted ways.
Outside, under a streetlamp, Marcia caught two middle-aged men exchange a quick embrace. One murmured, "Stay safe, brother." It wasn't just a pleasantry; it was a mutual recognition of the trials they faced.
That wordless understanding among ordinary people – we're in this together, hold on – stirred Marcia's soul. She realized she hadn't felt a part of a community in a long time, hiding as she was. But these people, with their quiet bravery, were her community.
Walking back with Mrs. Alvarez, Marcia dared to ask, "Aren't you afraid to go to church and talk like that? With the agent there?"
The older woman gave a small, sad smile. "My dear, at my age, fear of them is less than fear of losing my soul. The church is one of the few places left we can gather without it being outright illegal. They tolerate it to keep up appearances. So we go, and we speak in ways they cannot quite punish. It's not much, but it keeps us human."
Back in the attic, Marcia poured these observations into her diary, her pen racing. She described the faces at church, the coded sermon, the agent's frustration at having nothing to report. She wrote of a nation of ghosts finding brief moments to whisper that they were still alive.
Later that week, a national holiday came – one that used to commemorate Columbia's founding principles. Now it was repurposed into a "Unity Day" parade extolling Trumbull's regime. Marcia watched some of it firsthand, blending into the crowd with a scarf covering her face.
The parade was a hollow spectacle. Floats carrying slogans about prosperity (even as many shops were half empty due to trade sanctions now biting), columns of soldiers marching (to remind citizens who held the guns), schoolchildren waving flags and forced smiles (their teachers nervously keeping them in line). President Trumbull stood on a grand balcony to review the procession, flanked by Elaine Buchanan and other top officials.
Marcia found a spot where she could see people's faces in the crowd when they thought no one was observing. The orchestrated cheers would rise whenever loudspeakers prompted them with patriotic music or when Trumbull waved. But in between those moments, the truth was written in their expressions. She saw boredom, fear, resignation. A middle-aged man clapped dutifully, but his eyes were elsewhere, distant. An elderly woman had tears on her cheeks not of joy, but of remembrance – perhaps remembering better times or someone lost.
Marcia discreetly snapped photos with a small camera hidden in her bag. Not of the parade floats – those were meaningless propaganda – but of the people. The empty eyes, the forced grins, the small child covering her ears at the fireworks, not in awe but in fear. She captured a shot of a young couple holding hands tightly, looking up at the podium not with admiration but with a quiet, smoldering resentment.
One image especially struck Marcia: a little boy perched on his father's shoulders, waving a miniature flag because everyone else was – but the boy's other hand was clutching a worn stuffed toy against his chest. He looked confused by all the commotion. The father's face was turned up to the balcony, and in his eyes Marcia saw not devotion, but a kind of challenge – as if daring the dictator to look back at the real people below. Of course, from so far away, Trumbull wouldn't see that man's gaze, but Marcia's camera did.
That evening she wrote a description of that moment: "The parade confetti settled in gutters along with the truth of the day: a celebration only in name. In the crowd a father lifted his son high, the boy too young to understand the chants. The father's eyes, however, told a story – one of defiance choked by duty. He clapped when required, but as the Leader's motorcade passed, the man did not cheer. He only held his child a little closer."
Marcia paused. She wondered, was that father an embittered former supporter? Or just an average Joe tired of being told to perform happiness? She'd never know, but the image would stay with her.
In the silence after the parade, Columbia felt more subdued than ever. Many interpreted the day as a warning: We have you under watch, even during celebrations. The forced gaiety left people more exhausted than joyful.
And so life under dictatorship in 2029 dragged on. People spoke softly, if at all, in public spaces. Long lines at government shops were met with quiet endurance – grumbling was dangerous with informants around. In workplaces, employees learned to recite the party lines in meetings, keeping their true thoughts buried.
One morning in mid-summer, a small thing happened that nonetheless spread in whispers. At a bakery in a provincial town, the owner was playing an old song on the radio – a nostalgic tune known for its lyric "our sweet land of liberty." A customer reported the song choice as subversive (since liberty was a word frowned upon now), and the baker was visited by police. They didn't arrest him – they knew well that might cause backlash over something so trivial – but they did confiscate his radio and give him a stern warning. The story of the "radio incident" circulated quietly among townsfolk, used as a cautionary tale but also a dark joke. People began to ironically call certain forbidden words "raisin bread" (because the baker used to bake raisin bread and got in trouble over a song). As in, "Careful, don't spread too much raisin bread in your chats." It was gallows humor, but a subtle form of resistance through language.
Marcia recorded anecdotes like that, marveling at human creativity even under oppression. The regime couldn't stamp out every whisper of dissent; they could only drive it underground.
Every night, when all was still, many Columbians lay in bed feeling the weight of all they didn't say in the day. Some quietly cried, some raged silently, some simply stared at the dark ceiling wondering how long life would be like this.
In one small apartment, a grandmother gently rocked her sleeping grandchild, humming a lullaby that had been forbidden because its original lyrics spoke of freedom. She hummed it anyway, quietly, replacing the dangerous word with "morning" just in case little ears repeated it. But in her heart she sang the true word. The baby slept peacefully, oblivious.
In another home, a young man scribbled graffiti in a hidden notebook – drawing a cartoon of Trumbull as a king with no clothes. He'd never dare spray it on a wall, but putting ink to paper gave him release. He hid the notebook under a floorboard each morning.
All these minor acts – humming a tune, drawing a secret cartoon, sharing a knowing look at church – were threads of an invisible tapestry of resistance.
Marcia closed one of her dispatches with an observation: "The loudest sound in Columbia today is silence. But beneath that silence, hearts still beat. You can hear it in a stray melody, a guarded whisper, a defiant glance. The regime's great triumph is making the country quiet – but it is the quiet of a field before a storm. How long, one wonders, can this silence hold?"
She knew not even she could answer that. It might be years; it might change in an instant if a spark somehow caught flame. Until then, the people endured with remarkable patience.
Back at St. Catherine's one Sunday, Father Santiago ended his sermon with a line that echoed in many souls: "Be still, and know that the truth lives within you, even if you dare not speak it." It was both a comfort and a subtle call to remember that silence did not mean consent.
The next morning, Elaine Buchanan read an intelligence brief noting increased religious "coded messaging" and suggesting possibly rotating out certain priests. She sighed and filed it for later. She was losing enthusiasm for micromanaging such things. Let them pray, she thought; what harm, if it kept them from rioting?
But Marcus Hall saw that brief and others. He frowned; he didn't like any hint of subtextual dissent. He began drafting a plan to replace a handful of clergy quietly with regime-friendly ones under administrative pretexts. The uniformity of tyranny had to extend everywhere, he reasoned.
Still, even Marcus couldn't purge people's inner thoughts. Not fully. And so 2029 progressed with a disquieting peace: no protests, no strikes, no speeches or petitions. Only the daily grind of life under watch. For the regime, this was success – total control without having to fire a bullet. For the people, it was survival – keep your head down and you might get through.
One summer twilight, as curfew bells tolled softly across the capital, a hush fell on the streets. In a small park, the statues of national heroes stood shadowed and silent; one of them, a famed freedom fighter of old, had had his inscription altered by the authorities to remove the word "democracy." Pigeons roosted on his shoulder, heedless of the change.
A lone figure – a woman – hurried past the park, coat drawn tight. At the gate, she paused and looked back at the statue. In the fading light, she could just make out where the bronze plaque had been crudely modified. She remembered the original words from childhood field trips. And in that moment, safe in her solitude, she whispered the original inscription under her breath: "Liberty and justice for all." Then she turned and vanished down the empty avenue, her whisper stolen by the breeze but not by forgetfulness.
The monuments might have been defaced, the newspapers muzzled, the voices stilled. But ordinary people held the memories of truth within them, quietly keeping the flame. Columbia's streets were silent now, yes – the silence of people who learned to speak with their eyes, their prayers, their guarded acts of kindness.
This, Marcia reflected, was the true cost of tyranny. Not just the blood and fear, but the suffocation of a nation's spirit, the weight of untold grief pressing on every moment. And yet, buried under that weight, seeds of hope remained, waiting for some future spring to break through.
As the year inched on, Marcia wrote fewer diary entries – partly to avoid repetition, partly because she sensed a change in the air. It was intangible, but after months of oppressive stability, she felt as if people were growing restless beneath the surface. The silence was still absolute on the outside, but she imagined it like a frozen lake – strong but with currents moving underneath. Cracks could form, if pressure built.
One evening in late 2029, she ended her notebook entry with a line that would later resonate: "Our silence is the hush before something yet to come. Even in this suffocating quiet, I believe – I must believe – that the voices of the oppressed are gathering strength for the day they can rise again. Until then, we live like ghosts, but ghosts remember everything."
With that, she closed her book, blew out her candle, and lay in the dark, listening to the silence of her city – a silence filled with unshed tears, unspoken prayers, and the unbroken, if muted, chorus of millions of hearts longing to be free.