Three (Article 5 #3)(66)

One looked very similar to the map in the radio room in Endurance, stuck with red and green pins, but not just on the eastern side of the country, on the western half as well.

“Things change,” he said.

One of the maps highlighted the countries of the world in faded colors and he tapped Mexico, then let his hand linger over the spot. His gaze grew distant.

He couldn’t have been telling the truth—no country took U.S. citizens, especially after President Scarboro had made it illegal to jump the borders. The War had plunged the world into a depression, and when Scarboro had made economic independence a cornerstone of Reformation, it had finally abandoned us to rebuild on our own.

My gaze continued down the wall to a stack of flat wooden crates.

“You want to take a look?” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

I followed him to the boxes, where he pulled back the top lid. “Do you know what this is?”

My mouth fell open. Inside was a glass case, nestled in straw, and inside it was an old document, yellowed with age.

“IN CONGRESS, July 4, 1776” was written across the top. And just underneath: “The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America.”

“It’s the Declaration of Independence,” I said. “Is this real? I thought Scarboro had it put in the archives during the Reformation Act.”

“He did,” said the man with a troubled look. “Ah, the archives. The greatest collection of noncompliant literature since the Vatican. I’m glad to see you recognize it.”

“I haven’t even seen a picture of it since I was a kid,” I said. “How’d you get it?”

“My people managed to get a few things out before I was kicked out of town.”

I wasn’t sure what he meant by that. My gaze traveled down the page, stopping on the following words:

That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.

Jesse had told me something just like that in Endurance.

“Who are you?” I asked.

The front door opened before he could answer, and noise outside drew my attention. Laughter filtered in through the blue night. Laughter and cheering, and something else.

Singing.

Two figures stood in the doorway—the angry man with the goatee, Max, who based on his expression was still less than amused by our presence, and Jesse, who blinked when he found me. He saluted again, this time at the old librarian. This place had certainly changed his demeanor.

“Sergeant Major Waite,” introduced Max, but from the twitch in the librarian’s eye I wasn’t so sure he didn’t recognize Chase’s uncle.

“Sorry to bother you, sir,” said Jesse. He stood straighter than I’d ever seen, like he wasn’t even capable of the sarcasm I was so used to hearing come out of his mouth.

I smoothed out my sweatshirt, realizing I’d underestimated this man’s importance to the compound. The librarian only waved his hand.

“Please,” he said, dismissing Jesse’s show of respect. “Those times are long past.”

“Not for me,” said Jesse.

The man nodded somberly, then saluted him back. “Thank you, soldier.”

It finally occurred to me where I’d seen him before. Years ago, before the War, on the cover of one of my mother’s magazines.

“Oh,” I said, my eyes growing wide. A second later Jesse had reached for my arm and was escorting me from the building.

“Was that…”

“Yes,” said Jesse. “It was.”

The president before Scarboro. The man who’d lost in his reelection, blamed for the insurgents’ attacks on the major cities. The one who took the fall only to have Project Restart pick up the broken pieces.

“I didn’t know. I’m such an idiot,” I said, wondering if I should have told him about the hijacked Statutes and the fallen bases, and everything else I’d heard in the radio room in Endurance. I was suddenly unsure what I was supposed to share.

“Wait here,” said Jesse bluntly, leaving me on the porch. The door closed in my face.

“Is it true? Is he really here?”

I turned to find Chase climbing the stairs, speculation quirking his brows.

“I think so,” I said. “I was just kicked out. I guess Jesse’s making a report.”

“Or an apology,” said Chase. This hadn’t occurred to me. At my expectant look, Chase added, “I overhead Max telling Corporal Blackstone that the last time Jesse was here he went down the hill on a routine supply run and came back with ten soldiers on his tail. It took some effort to”—he hesitated, frowned—“cover things up.”

“What did he do?”

“Hard to say,” said Chase. “Riling people up is what it sounds like.”

I remembered Polo saying that he knew Jesse from a demonstration outside the draft board. If that was truth, he’d been in the game a long time.

Inside, Max was saying something I couldn’t make out.

“We have the same goal, sir.” At Jesse’s voice, Chase and I both turned our gazes to the door, as if it might spontaneously open again.