“This is more like the war room, really,” Emery answers. “The nerve center is much farther away.”

I give Mira a side-glance. A digital war, I hope. We need to get inside that Gala.

“Is Rayla Cadwell here?” I ask, searching the numerous faces in the lobby. “Have you been in contact with her?”

Pawel steps forward, his innocent brown eyes shy. “I sent word of your arrival the moment you pulled up to our doorstep. Your grandmother knows you’re safe.”

“How did you know Rayla is our grandmother?” Mira questions.

Emery simply shrugs. “I would recognize Lynn’s daughters anywhere. Even with your disguises.”

“You knew our mother?” I say.

“She was my best friend when we were young back in Denver,” Emery reveals. “We trained together under Rayla. I was to be Lynn’s right hand when she took over the cause. When she left, it fell to me.”

I glance at the rebellion leader’s right wrist. A lion’s head with a sword running through it covers most of her forearm, the blade’s point dipped in yellow.

“Did our mother have one too?” I ask, motioning to her tattoo. Mira examines the others’ wrists, also inked, a look of intent in her eyes.

Emery nods. “Of course. Tattoos are a mark of the Common. Lynn’s was a black-eyed Susan.”

Our mother must have gotten hers removed. There was no hint of it in the hologram videos.

“I wonder if our father had one too,” Mira muses out loud. “A blacklight tattoo, maybe, with ultraviolet ink?”

“If Darren marked himself, I never saw it,” Emery says.

“Is there any news of him?” I ask, fearing the answer.

“Roth had Darren moved to a new location after he blinked his coded message. We haven’t been able to locate him since,” Barend says. He wears thick combat boots, and there’s a pistol at his hip. “But finding him is a top priority for our members down in Texas.”

I nod stiffly. Stay alive until we find you, Father.

“Let me show you to your rooms. You can clean up, and then we can all talk more,” Pawel suggests helpfully.

“No,” Mira and I say in unison.

“Do you have anyone here capable of hacking into the Emergency Alert System?” I ask.

Emery twists her lips into a dangerous smirk. “Paramount Point houses all sorts of useful people.”

“Good,” I say.

My eyes sweep over the group standing in front of me and the hundreds of hotel room doors, each one potentially occupied by a man or woman with rebellion in their hearts.

More players in this larger game.

Let’s make our next move.

MIRA

Ava looks at me in the mirror with her green eyes. Her contacts are gone, and so is her raven-colored hair. Her locks are a fiery red once more, like an alarm. Like a beacon.

“There I am again,” Ava says evenly.

Music seeps in from the other room, echoes of our university choir floating around us like ghosts.

One child at a time, we built a lasting nation.

Stability!

Prosperity!

Family Planning is our foundation.

“It really is a catchy tune,” Ava says, patting down her stubborn bangs. “Too bad the lyrics are garbage.”

I fix my own green eyes on my reflection. I kept my blonde hair, wearing it loose and wild. It just feels right. Here I am, finally.

“We can write new words,” I tell her.

I smooth down my shirt and pluck off any lint or wisps of rogue hairs the camera might pick up. Ava clasps the high collar of her yellow jacket, looking every bit a bright flame. We both wear our faces bare, hiding behind nothing. Our identical features on full display.

I glance at my watch. 7:45 p.m. Almost show time.

Turning away from the mirror, I move to a set of chairs beside the door. I gaze soberly around the bedroom, which feels like a waiting room for an appointment long overdue.

Ava paces up and down the tiled floor, repeating a silent recitation.

“How’s your wrist?” I ask her.

“Healing quick.” She stops her marching and slowly peels back the bandage on her right arm. A snake curled in the shape of an infinity symbol marks her skin. Pops of gold and yellow adorn the scales, just like Rayla’s tattoo. “For renewal,” Ava told me when she chose her emblem. “A rebirth.”

My own tattoo itches and burns, like my growing intensity. I rise from my seat and move for the door just as the singing stops.

“I’m ready,” I announce and give her a strong nod.

She returns a grin. “I don’t know how else to say it, but I’m proud of you. Father would be proud too.”

“Father is proud,” I correct her. “He knows.”

Ava turns the handle, and we move from our quiet room, shoulder to shoulder, down the hall and toward the waiting rebellion.

I fold the sleeve of my shirt above the shiny pigment inked onto my right wrist, just over my microchip. I chose an eye as my emblem. Beautiful, bright, and solemn. The bottom row of lashes are the petals of a black-eyed Susan, the yellow curves shaped like tears. The government is always watching, but now so am I.

As we enter the first door on the top floor, the radiance of a dozen screens flash and scream at us. Dallas. The Governor’s Mansion. The Anniversary Gala.

The Common is watching you now, Roth.

Three lights illuminate two stools placed before a white background. Emery stands beside the camera, messing with the lens. I take a deep breath. I hear Ava take one too. We step into the flood of light and take our places.

Fireworks electrify the screens to my left. To my right, I see close-ups of stately guests strutting and cheering as they make their way toward a platform the length of a football field. I spot the president, his wife, their son. And directly before us on the screens, center stage, I see Roth, his mansion and opulent gardens behind him. Two screens the size of houses flank his regal shoulders. His bloated, severe face leers down on the crowd. Two gigantic eyes. Ever watchful.

Ava keeps still. Placid. Poised to strike. I breathe deeply to stop my rage from bubbling to the surface.

Roth moves to the front of the platform, a badge of mourning strapped around his uniformed arm. He stands soaking in his power, waiting for the smallest noise to settle. It takes only three seconds for a deafening hush to fall over the governor’s garden. Over everyone in our room.

His thin lips move, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. He motions to his wife and the empty chair beside her. A hologram of Halton, idealized and glorified in his noble Strake uniform, fills the seat where his grandson should be. I spot Halton’s former Gala date, Mckinley Ruiz, hovering behind his chair, making a show of her fake sorrow.

Roth moves his hand over his heart. A sharp buzz emanates from speakers in the ceiling above us, and Roth’s voice suddenly comes blaring through.

“Today is a celebration of the power of one.”

His eyes bore into mine. But I feel no fear. Only resilience. Grit. Strength.

“One Child, One Nation. One people.”

“Save the twins!” rings out from somewhere in the crowd of ritzy guests, an unexpected intrusion.

A perfect introduction.

“Now!” Ava calls out, sharp and strong.