Chapter 1
I Wish they Wouldn’t Call Anymore
The phones never stopped at the Ministry of Communication.
Ring. Ring. Ring. A single shrill note became a swarm.
Thwack! Thwack! Red handsets slammed home—again, again—as if that might dam the flood.
It didn’t. It never did.
Stress had already unspooled the floor. Even Ivry—once the primmest of the lot, hair in a high bun, grey blazer sharp, black pencil skirt straight—showed a crack in her poise. Her hair hung down, knotted and messy; her shirt collar was crooked; a button had popped from her blazer with the sheer force of killing calls. The whole room teetered on the lip of a riot—ironic, given the very real and present riots occurring elsewhere.
Through all of it, there was Rowan—the youngest “elected” director the Ministry had ever had. “Elected” is generous: he was put forward, a few hands went up, and that was that.
The decision was sewn up days earlier, when the last minister was caught doing cocaine in the local high school’s back room after a presentation on civic values. Still, the feat was impressive. Climbing that fast inside the administration takes work—hard work—and the other kind of clever work too.
Everyone in the Ministry knew it, and most respected him for it. Rowan was a clear upgrade.
For starters, about five in six roles at the Ministry were women, and the last minister was notoriously grabby and lecherous. Several phone operators wound up reassigned after his wife caught them performing “extra duties”. Of course, there were a few who missed his way of doing things, but they mostly kept it to themselves—or were quietly demoted when Rowan took over.
Today would be Rowan’s final test. Everyone in the office watched him pace from room to room. He’d been at it for three days without so much as a wink of sleep. The few workers still holding it together took his focus—and his refusal to quit—as a signal to push on. With the country coming apart, seeing their director shoulder the work instead of shouting about it lit something in them.
The truth was, of course, far less heroic. For three days Rowan hunted down every document, memo, and scrap bearing his name—fed it to the shredder, then walked the ribbons to the furnace. When he finished, he hoped there’d be little trace of his time as head of the Ministry. His tenure would read like a black hole in the record. The only trace clung to him: soot and burnt toner in his clothes, a furnace-smell in his hair. He’d ditch the suit the moment his getaway window opened— and he could feel that moment closing fast.
“Sir.” A high-pitched voice tried to cut through the room’s noise.
It was so small it barely reached Rowan’s ear—nowhere near enough to pull him from his work.
“Sir!” The second try hit its mark, and Rowan finally looked up.
It was Isabella, his personal assistant and direct phone operator. She wore a light-blue floral dress that did her no favours, and her blonde hair—shoulder-length, usually pinned back—now hung loose and static-frayed. She was holding the red phone to her ear while pointing at Rowan in a attempt to keep his attention.
“I’ve got a message from the MP’s down south they are reporting rebels as close as 12th street.”
12th street, that was still several blocks from the city centre. It meant they still had some time, they hadn’t advance too far in the last day or so. Yesterday’s report mentioned 15th street so at that pace they still had some more time to figure things out.
“Good. Tell the Captain of the Central Guard—we finally have good news.”
Isabella hovered with her notepad. “Do you want me to ask about his wife?”
“…Why?” Rowan blinked.
“It’s polite. Builds rapport. It’s in the handbook.”
“Uhh… let’s skip that for now. Keep it short.”
God, Isabella was naïve—but at least she’d read the handbook. Rowan hadn’t. That was probably why he’d picked her as his PA in the first place. Keeping a true believer on staff made him look like a team player. Plus, she was genuinely kind—too kind for most ministers. He’d knocked back a dozen invitations to dinner at her place to “meet Mum” before finally caving.
She lived in a small 2DK apartment which was standard for a government worker who lived with her mother. Inside, the hallway was narrow and straight, lined with coats that never quite dried and a shoe rack that always seemed one pair short of tidy. The kitchen was a square of scrubbed linoleum and humming appliances: a small gas stove with enamel chipped at the corners, a dented kettle, and cabinets the color of old paper. One window faced a courtyard of bare trees and laundry lines; its frame probably sweated in winter and got stuck in summer. He had nearly given her mother a heart attack when he had shown up. The older generation would have never dreamed of having a minister visit their home for dinner.
“Sir.”
“Yes, Isabella.”
“They’ve just told me the captain’s been shot.”
“Fuck… by who?” Rowan was genuinely concerned Central was only two blocks away.
“By the guy on the line—he said as much. It’s another coup.”
“Shit is it everyone?”
“Hold a moment.” She lifted a finger, head tilted.
“Yes… uh-huh…” She flinched.
“Looks like someone’s shot him now.”
“Tell me what’s happening!” Snaped Rowan.
“Hold… one moment.” She eased the receiver away; the room heard the snap and crackle of gunfire on the other line. Then back to her ear.
“Yes… of course.”
She set it down with care, as if not to disturb those on the other side.
“They said they’ll call me back.”
Rowan didn’t have time to think—today was the day. He slipped into his office and opened the drawer: standard-issue 9 mm, a pack of cigarettes, his ID. No time for the furnace downstairs. He pocketed the cigarettes, tucked the pistol at the small of his back, and let his eyes pass once over the desk. The name plaque was already in pieces—taken apart yesterday, unnoticed. He tore the ID into mouth-sized bits and swallowed, then stepped back onto the floor.
“Okay, just a few more things to take care of,” he thought. He picked up an unused phone from a nearby desk. The worker hadn’t been seen for at least a week, who knew if he was alive or dead. He dialed the number for the Interior ministry. Someone on the other side picked up after only a few rings.
“Could you please patch me through to recruitment?” he asked.
A moment later the dial tone changed and another voice picked up on the other side.
“Hi, yes would it be possible to some new hirers from the ministry of communication? Today of you wouldn’t mind. Kind of urgent…. Yes, interns will do no need to dig deeper, just nerd them ASAP…. No worries thank you.”
Now that that was done, just one final thing for Rowan to do. He marched to the centre of the floor and stood in front of the large oil portrait of himself that hung on the wall. He took it down and stared at it for a moment.
“God, I look great in that suit.”
Rowan dropped the portrait and smashed the frame with his heel, then tore the canvas free, rolled it up, and slipped it into his coat pocket.
“Sir.” It was Isabella again, holding the phone to her ear. “It looks like they’ve regained control of Central. The coup has failed.”
What a relief—getting out of the building would be much harder if Central had fallen.
BOOM.
The bang was enormous, shattering two of the east-facing windows and covering a few workers in glass. Everyone, including Rowan, ran to the window. From the office you could see the entire west side of the Central Ministry reduced to rubble; the street was littered with debris.
Rowan rushed back to Isabella’s desk. “All right, that’s it—time to go. Isabella, get your coat.”
“Do I bring my meeting shoes?”
“No. No, we’re going for a drive.”
Issabela started packing her desk but before he could tell her to stop, he heard someone walk behind him.
“Minister, what do we do now?” It was a young man who’s name for the life of him couldn’t remember.
In that moment Rowant thought long and hard about what his last words would be as Minister of communications.
“Take the afternoon off, but make sure you punch out before our do. You hear that everyone go home just make sure you punch out!”
That would do.
Rowan grabbed Isabella by the wrist and steered her toward the door.
“Where are we going, sir?”
“We’re getting out of the city, Izzy.” They reached the door and turned right into the fire escape. Behind them, the rest of the staff were already grabbing their things and heading out.
“How long will we be gone?”
“A while.” On the third-floor landing, they could see the Ministry of Agriculture mid-evacuation as well.
“But you don’t have any overnight clothes.”
“I’ll get some new ones.” On the first floor, a woman stopped short in front of him; Rowan ran into her and knocked her down. He didn’t break stride, then glanced back to make sure she was okay—only to realize it wasn’t a woman at all, but Ivan, the deputy minister for Technology. His long, ill-fitting blond wig had skittered across the concrete. They locked eyes for a beat before Ivan snatched up the wig, jammed it back on, and hurried out through a side door.
The approached the side exit, only a few more steps and they where out.
“Sir, one last thing.”
“Yes, Izzy?”
“Can we pick up my mum.”
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