The note, stuck to the screen of Stephanie's computer--right in the center--could not possibly be missed. She frowned at it as she put down her purse; it was from Jackson, and it commanded her to come in and see him as soon as she arrived. This was not usual with him, but at the moment she didn't think much of it. Nothing was usual these days, not with riots exploding all over the country and Washington hunkering down into something like a war mode.

A week before--just a week--she would have responded to a request like this with alacrity. Not today; today she took her time, straightening her desk a bit, smiling, thinking about the developments taking place. Veteran, Cochise, and Pocahontas were all aboard an aircraft carrier--an aircraft carrier!--which was steaming toward Key West and Conch, along with a whole Navy task force. Under the command of, of all people, her old friend Admiral Hansen--until very recently known to her only as "Popeye." For better or for worse, the revolution was underway, and her only regret was that she wasn't playing a more essential role. She had been trying to get information from Jackson, but so far she'd accomplished little in that respect. One of her immediate goals, now, was to meet the already legendary Melanie Abbot, the woman the revolt had galvanized around and their titular leader.

Feeling that nothing could spoil her mood today, she peeled off the note, tossed it in her wastebasket, and went in to see Jackson. "You wanted to see me?" she asked as she opened the door.

He did not immediately look up from his desk. "Yes, Stephanie. Come in. And close the door behind you."

She frowned again. Some early morning sex? That wasn't like Jackson. Wondering if it was time for her to refuse, to tell him exactly what she thought of him--but knowing it was not, not yet--she walked on in and turned to close the door.

Only then did she see a uniformed guard, armed, standing beside it. He did not move or acknowledge her presence as she tentatively swung the door shut.

In a rush, a thousand thoughts raced through her head. I've been discovered, she told herself, I'm caught. They know what I've been doing on #injustice, they're going to arrest me for treason and take me out and shoot me in the head.

And in a way, it'll be a relief. Or at least it would have been six months ago. Now, she did not want to leave the movement she'd helped to found, just at the moment when their efforts might actually come to fruition. She turned back and walked to Jackson's desk, where she stood silently and waited. At first he continued to puzzle over some letter he'd received, and he too ignored her.

Finally he looked up. "First of all," he said, "I want to thank you for the work you've done on the clinic program. It hasn't really been very successful, but I suppose that isn't your fault. We have an underground in this country, Stephanie. An underground that's been sabotaging our best efforts." He waved a hand dismissively. "Doesn't matter right now, though. That program and a lot of other things have been put on hold until we get this unrest under control and find out who the traitors are who're coordinating it."

She started to relax a little. Nothing in his tone or manner suggested that he had any inkling of her involvement.

"I understand, Mr. Jackson," she said.

"Good." He leaned back in his chair. "Now, next matter of business: early this morning, the President met with his cabinet. A number of initiatives were discussed in light of the current crisis. One was that all federal agencies divest themselves of any employees who might harbor any sort of hostility toward the government. I'm afraid that includes you, Stephanie."

She frowned again. She was being fired? Now, of all times?

Jackson did not give her a chance to speak, he pressed on. "Now, you'll probably recall that I told you that after ten years in my employ, you'd be free to leave. I don't know if you've been keeping track, but we are almost at the end of that ten-year period now."

Oh, I have, Billy-ass, she said silently. I sure have. You do pick a hell of a time, though.

It didn't matter, though. She had a computer at home, she could stay in touch. And her input, in terms of what they'd asked her for, was going to minimal anyway.

"I did plan," Jackson was saying, "at the time I told you that, to have those old charges against you dismissed. But times change." He leaned back at gazed at her steadily. "At any rate, I am sorry to have to tell you that the charges have, as of this morning, been reinstated. You have been convicted of grand larceny and sentenced to death."

She blinked. Then she blinked again. "W-what?"

"I said, you are as of now a convicted felon. Your sentence is death."

"But - but - I haven't even been tried!"

He waved his hand again. "Not necessary. The papers you signed ten years ago waived your right to trial and appeals. All that was necessary was a judge's signature, and we have that."

"I didn't sign any papers ten years ago!"

"Of course you did, Stephanie. Don't you remember?" He shook his head. "At any rate, it does not matter. Stephanie, one program we've had in place for the past few years which has been very successful is the Corporate Program. Are you at all familiar with it?"

Stunned--horrified--she couldn't find her voice. She merely shook her head.

"The Corporate Program," Jackson went on, "allowed us to accept applications from large corporations to act as 'private executioners.'" He went on, explaining the details, many of which Stephanie hardly heard. "The bottom line is, the right to execute you has been sold to the Gallagher Corporation. You are to report to their Washington office on M Street at nine AM tomorrow; they will take custody of you and, I assume, transport you immediately to their holding facility in Montana."

Stephanie felt like she was about to pass out. After all this, after all these years, she was to be executed anyway? By a private executioner, for the entertainment of corporate clients? Based on a ten year old document bearing a signature that had, obviously, been forged? Even knowing as much as she did about the ways of modern Washington, she found this hard to accept.

She glanced back at the waiting officer. "He's here to take me into custody, then..."

Jackson shook his head. "No. He's here only as a safeguard, in the event that you might become--upset. We had a serious disaster with that on Isla de la Muerta, as you've probably by now heard." He sighed. "You've been with me a long time, Stephanie. I'm sure there are personal affairs you want to put in order. You may want to say good-bye to your gladiator friends. The usual protocol is immediate custody; as a consideration of your years working here I've been able to give you close to twenty-four hours." He gazed at her for a moment; his eyes looked very washed-out, he looked exhausted. "You have been," he continued, "unusually cooperative for a person in your situation. I know you will report, as required by law, tomorrow morning." His eyes flicked back toward the waiting and silent guard. "Of course, if by chance you do not, you will be apprehended and taken to the Gallagher offices by force. Don't imagine you can run or hide. Washington is going into lockdown today; we do not want the unrest taking place in the rest of the country spreading here." He paused, as if expecting her to say something. She did not, she just stared in disbelief. "Do you understand?" he asked her finally.

"I... I... yes... I..."

"Good. Go home, then. Obviously you aren't expected to work today." Still stunned, she didn't reply, she just turned and headed for the door. "You might want to thank me for the twenty-four hours," Jackson called after her. "There are a lot of employees in your position today, and few if any of them got twenty-four hours."

"Thank you Mr. Jackson," she said without affect as she walked through the door.

"Bear in mind that you are doing a service for your country," he yelled as she closed it behind herself.

The tears--tears of frustration, anger, and terror--came next. Half blinded, she fumbled for her phone. She managed, however, to make the call she needed to make; then, wiping her eyes, she headed for her car.

And once in it, headed for the Gladiator's Club.