The Prize of Dysprosium

Chapter XXVI: To the Stars Who Listen

Right now, dear reader, I'm putting the last touch into this book. It's been two weeks and we're at the edge of a siege. Either the White House falls tonight, or we get blasted to shreds by Pacifiers. I'm just about ready to walk out onto a stage to incite the masses. Everywhere outside are flags and banners in shapes matching the puzzle piece around my neck. Me and my newly-coloured blue hair is decorating half of them, the other half shows off Anton's face. The young man who declared his freedom from his father and died because of it. The explosion was filmed by some kids who liked the music, and it went viral within an hour. Soon everybody knew the story of how much of a monster the Potentate really is.

I'll be talking about him today on the stage. The boy I loved. About how he was killed for wanting peace. I also might very likely die today, but I'm not afraid of that. I'm afraid of not ending the cruelty that took away some of the kindest people in the world. I'm afraid that the Potentate won't pay for his actions. And I'm afraid that I don't know the whole truth yet. Because I've been thinking.

You may remember reader, that one way to win a game in Ars imperatoria is to turn the peasants against the monarch. Alle Bronze wanted the Potentate to appear as despicable as possible, that much is evident. And what is more despicable than murdering his son to save his own skin? It's true Potentate Thelonious have no quarrels killing people to stay in control, to stay in power, but neither does Alle Bronze. Mafalda's murder, which I'm sure was her doing, is proof of that.

Maybe the Ars imperatoria luminary was betting on me not figuring her out, of not putting two and two together. But the fact is that the rebels have an abundance of Pacifiers at their disposal – they wouldn't even have needed to reprogram them or figure out how the chips work, just needed to make their own robot out of the Pacifier bodies – as long as it could run and explode it could do the job. Scarlett must be more than capable of doing just that, and she hasn't said a word to me since Anton's death. And no kids in the lower parts of the city has mini-pads to record videos on unless they steal them or exchange them for favours, like filming a group of celebrating teenagers.

Maybe Alle even thought that the Potentate killing Anton would add fuel to the fire inside me which I've realized was lit the moment I opened my mouth to the tv-host.

It's possible I'm putting too much faith in her abilities, it's possible it was the Potentate's doing. But somehow the rebellion got a martyr and a rebel leader, just like Alle wanted.

I shouldn't speculate more about it now. Dr. Max says it's not good for my anxiety, but I haven't had one single attack since the explosion. I have no-one to fear for anymore. I have only the stories which have sustained me since my Middle School test.

And I've had enough of them; of the secrets and the lies. The world deserves to know every last one of them – even my own crazy theories, even the ones that will put the rebellion in a bad light. Garmen was right: I have to finish what I started. Which is why I'm writing this book. It's funny, I'd always pegged Grace to be the writer of the family, although it's a dead career. She would have done a much better job than me, but at least everything is out in the open now.

When I finish this, I'm going to hit send to every pad the rebellion has the number of, every satellite-connected tv-station, everything, so even if I die today, I'll know my words will survive. And I'm almost finished. There's only one secret left I need to tell.

Alle Bronze, I am now writing directly to you. I don't know whether I'm alive when you read this. I'm sure you'd rather that I be dead. I've brought you out from the shadows as the background Stromboli that you are, and you'll never be able to go back now. Everyone will know about you. I'm sure your brilliance played a part in your survival of the test. I still don't know how the Hell you figured it out.