Independence

LINDA: 1

Linda Hsu's main residence was the penthouse atop Tower 2 of the State Residential Complex, a two-minute walk from the Capitol. She had lived there since the Towers' completion, now nearly 15 years ago. In that time, the view from her terrace 10 high-ceilinged stories above street level had not appreciably changed. If she walked to the easternmost corner of her rooftop garden, as she did now, and let her gaze sweep westward, she had a panoramic view of the city. First came the black Capitol Pyramid, then State Residential Towers 1, 3, 5 and 7, and finally the gleaming Condor Flag Party Building, with National Defense Highway 5 arcing gracefully around it. On clear spring evenings, like this one, she could even make out the boxy Tower Bridge, a dash of illuminated metal cutting across the black Sacramento River. She leaned up against the glass balcony wall, turned her back to the wind and lit a cigarette.

A woman of her rank wasn't really bound by rationing, of course, but she'd cut back on smoking just the same. For the last year or so, she'd managed to limit herself to two smokes a day, one before breakfast and the other before bed. It had become routine. When she had no work to do – which, as the Foreign Affairs Secretary for a nation that had no foreign affairs, was most of the time – she thought of her two smokes as bookends to each day,, a way of confirming that despite nothing happening, time had actually passed. She also liked the rush of vertigo she felt as she peered over the edge. She had no real interest in jumping, but it was always reassuring to know the option was there.

It was a very nice apartment. Sleek, modern, lightly but tastefully furnished, with the same concrete walls and oak flooring as the other high officials' penthouses. In her 55 years, it was the most spacious place she'd ever called her own. She knew she should feel lucky.

It was still warm out. Sacramento seemed to struggle with transitory seasons, but it did usually have them; the last vestiges of spring chill had apparently broken, giving way to the unrelenting sun. Just days ago it had still been occasionally chilly, the predawn and post-sunset hours cold enough to warrant a sweater. This week, still barely into May, it felt like a switch had been flicked. Tonight Linda's light jacket hung unused on her coat rack, and she wore the sleeves of her linen blouse rolled-up like a mechanic tuning up an engine. Below her, pedestrians thronged the sidewalks with bare arms and calves. She didn't relish the change, having never quite adjusted to the dry Valley heat, but at least this year the pre-summer plenary wouldn't feel quite so premature.

Neon murals snaked their way up the Residential Towers, golden poppies and two-tone tidy tips and sheaves of bluebells, casting the Capitol Mall in their soft, steady glow. Traffic noise echoed in the vast gullies of the streets. On the horizon, the highway glittered with red and gold specks, and the lights of an express Quetzalcoatl train inched into view. She watched the city, lulled as always by its perpetual motion. Her smoke dwindled to the filter.

"Excuse me, Madam Secretary."

The sound of the back door latching shut roused her. Linda turned around, holding the cigarette between her fingertips. "Yes?"

Across the terrace stood one of the newer members of her Golden Guard detail, a youngish six-foot brunette Puma with Jacobs embroidered on her name tape. She approached Linda and offered her a folded half-sheet of paper. Linda took it, thumbing it open with her non-dominant hand.

"Secretary de la Torre called," Jacobs said as Linda skimmed the note. "He requests a private meeting over breakfast."

"Did he say what about?" Linda glanced up, frowning. Above de la Torre's name, the Puma had scrawled an address and 9 A.M., but nothing else.

"No."

"Shit," she muttered, passing the note back to Jacobs, who pocketed it. "He knows I'm never up that early."