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Jackson twisted a little in his chair, trying to get comfortable. A woman padded make up onto his face, mopping up the sweat that was already beading his brow from the hot lights. In front of him
a camera hummed into life, a red light glowing, a light that he’d been told to watch closely, to keep his eyes focused on. His stomach throbbed with nerves, and he felt sweat roll down his back under the clean, white shirt he was wearing. How had it come to this? How was he about to betray his country?
Behind the camera he could just make out three men. One was the camera man, his hand already raised to count him on to the air. The other two were faceless in the shadows, would remain faceless for the whole broadcast. It wouldn’t do for rebel Apocolyte leaders to give away their identity, not at this point. The camera man’s fingers dropped from three to two, and Jackson took a deep breath trying to steady himself. The words he was about to say swam in his mind. The makeup girl swiftly left the small podium, and he was alone as the count dropped again from two to one. Just a moment. One more moment. Jackson
The camera man’s fingers dropped from three to two, and Jackson took a deep breath trying to steady himself. The words he was about to say swam in his mind. The makeup girl swiftly left the small podium, and he was alone as the count dropped again from two to one. Just a moment. One more moment. Jackson prayed in his mind. Please God, give me the strength, he said, silently. He remembered the old prayer of Serenity. Give me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. Hot, white lights flashed on and the red camera light brightened, and Jackson smiled. He was on air. It was now or never. To betray his country or to save his country. Give me the wisdom. “People of the UCSA,” he began. “My name is Anthony Jackson. And I have a message for you.”
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