I, Cassandra

25 | AMADI EZENWA

'I am going to give you a code,' de Pommier says, crisp, cutting a swathe through my despondence, 'it is the ignition code. Your security key and thumbprint will also be required to launch the weapons. You must do so within five seconds after you enter the code, or the launch will abort.'

'What weapons?' I ask, quiet. I regret it right away. I don't want to know.

'B. anthracis,' she answers, terse. 'Airborne release of spores.'

'Anthrax,' I breathe. All this time, I have been sitting on weapons which I was taught contravened all our laws . . . I glance at the coordinates. One centres on the half-million at the wall, the other, on the second group further south. 'What about my men along that section of the wall?' I ask. 'Am I being ordered to leave them to die?'

'No. Your men are with Akron's team.'

I say nothing. She remains silent, giving me time, letting me digest the enormity of my orders. I shake my head. No. It's too much. She is asking me to murder almost a million people, to poison the land for centuries to come. Nothing can survive anthrax.

'Major?' de Pommier prompts me, low. 'Are you ready to take down the code?'

'Why must we do this?' I blurt, my thoughts skittering, chaotic, seeking a way out. 'Can't we just leave them there, the barrier—'

'Has been breached,' de Pommier interrupts, tight.

'What?' I demand, reaching for my tablet, powering it up, frantic. 'I don't understand, there have been no alarms.'

'A hydraulics technician opened the underground vents. Section 80C is fast becoming compromised due to one man's outdated idea of equality,' de Pommier says, placid, without a hint of acrimony. 'Akron's men contained the breach, but it is not enough. We have three days before the wall's inner defences fail. According to our models, this is the most efficient . . . solution.'

Another wave of nausea slams into me. My tablet lights up. A wall of blinking red fills the screen. Perimeter breaches. Fires. Ventilation pipes damaged. Hydraulic fluid leaks. I sink onto my chair, stunned. I have failed.

'Ma'am, I—'

'Major, we are running out of time, no?' she says, calm, though her voice has turned cold and faintly hostile. 'You are being offered the chance to rectify your error and protect the restriction zone.' She pauses as someone gives her a message. 'If necessary, Major Akron is prepared to relieve you of your duty,' she says, before pausing again to murmur something to someone. 'Or,' she continues, coming back to me, her accent thickening, impatient, 'you take the code, go to the arsenal, use the weapons, and reap the rewards. It is your choice.'

I stare at the alerts blinking on my tablet's screen, sickened. There is no choice. If I don't do it, Akron will. I'll go to prison for treason, and he'll go to Alpha VII. Either way, those people are going to die. Twelve years ago I vowed I would do anything to get into Alpha VII, to be able to make Adiana my wife. And here it is—my one chance, my only chance. I pick up the pen and ask for the code. Ten minutes later, alone in the arsenal, I launch the weapons and monitor the successful release of their deadly cargo, condemning nine-hundred thousand men, women, and children to death.

***

Two days later, I am outside Adiana's apartment building in my military uniform—its breast emblazoned with my new rank—clutching an expensive bouquet of long-stemmed roses. A luxury I can now afford. With my promotion, a whole new world has opened up to me: wealth, opportunities, top-level clearance, and a photo op with the Prime Minister to receive his congratulations for my 'courage' in the face of adversity. By day, I am a hero, celebrated by the news outlets, the sanitised version fed to the people carefully spun by de Pommier's PR team. But at night, alone with what I have become, I dream of children coughing up blood and gasping for air, their thin bodies wracked by virulent fever. As I move past their emaciated little bodies, spread out under a scorching sky, they look at me, their eyes haunted, condemning me—calling me what I am. Murderer.

I can't eat. I can barely keep water down. de Pommier has been keeping a close eye on me, sending me to four different shrinks. But what is there to say? I sit there with my hands on my knees, numb, locked in guilt. I killed almost a million people so Adiana and I could survive what anyone with eyes can see is already on its way, even here, as far north as Alpha VI.

I try not to think about the fact Adiana hasn't contacted me since I have been all over the news. I convince myself she's been waiting for me to come to her, that her pride has been holding her back. So I have come to her—as soon I could bring myself to face her.

I buzz her apartment. Nothing. I try again. Still nothing. Strange. A shimmer of uncertainty ripples through me. She's always home on Saturday mornings. Always. It's when she has coffee with her father. It's the only time I have ever known with certainty where she is. Within the glass-walled foyer, the doorman hurries over to me. He pushes the door open and a blast of air-conditioned air washes over me.

'Colonel Ezenwa,' he says, quiet, pulling his cap from his head, respectful. He steps back, his eyes sliding away from mine, unreadable. 'It's an honour. Please come in.'

'You're new,' I say as I follow him inside, noting the droid who used to work behind the reception desk is gone.

'Ah, yes,' he demurs, holding his cap with both hands in front of his groin, like a soldier. 'It's just temporary, the droid will be back in a week or so, once things settle here.'

I blink. A nameless surge of misgiving hurtles through me. 'What do you mean, 'once things settle'?'