Everything was unfolding just as he’d anticipated. No, more than anticipated—planned, orchestrated, set in motion with the strategic cunning of a chess master.

Sterne rose from his chair, casting one last appreciative glance at the bustling hive that was the Enclave. He circled the conference table, fingertips tracing its dark mahogany surface. In a few days, he would consolidate his power in this very room.

He crossed to the single door in the far wall, leading to the adjoining medical facility, here on the Citadel’s uppermost floor. Sterne’s gloating smile didn’t falter as his gaze flickered to the dull black wall opposite the windows—its pearl-like texture somehow always managing to appear dust-covered.

It housed the Givers’ inner sanctum, immediately adjacent to his conference room. Sterne welcomed the symbolism—the reminder of his close proximity to the ultimate power on the planet.

Doctor Campbell was just finishing her latest procedure as he entered the operating theater. Sterne paused to don a surgical mask. Campbell barely acknowledged his arrival, bent over the patient shackled to the operating table.

“Progress report,” he snapped, hoping to startle her. Dr. Campbell was a little too confident of her standing within the Citadel. The Councilor felt it was important to remind her of how easily he could have her removed.

Campbell’s eyes blazed at him over her surgical mask. Her open insolence was directly connected to her naive belief that she was irreplaceable. That will change in time, Maggie.

She removed her surgical gloves in slow, exaggerated motions, one finger at a time. The rubber snapped like an insolent teenager’s bubblegum. “Councilor Sterne, how nice of you to drop by. You’re just in time.”

She swept a dramatic arm to indicate her patient, a young woman in her early twenties. The patient stared wide-eyed into the circle of surgical lamps above the operating table, mouth open but not speaking. “Another Tracker, ready for deployment. The procedure was a success, and the Givers’ mental programming has been accepted.”

Sterne felt as if his heart would burst with triumph. He fished the disc out of an inner pocket in his jacket and held it aloft. “The Tracker’s not quite ready, Maggie.”

He grinned, taunting her with the disc. “The Givers and I have a special assignment for this one.”

Campbell scowled at him, her eyebrows tightening. The surgical mask covered most of her face, but her resentful eyes spoke volumes. “And yet you’re just bringing this to me now?”

Sterne handed her the disk, glancing down at the patient. She was young, perhaps not far from his own daughter’s age. He felt nothing over her imminent death—pity was reserved for Citizens of the Enclave, not wasted on the barbarians living outside their walls.

“What’s the program’s objective?” Dr. Campbell slid the disk into the computer station next to the operating table.

Sterne marveled at her insolent assumption that she deserved an explanation. Yet he couldn’t squander the opportunity to remind her of his special standing with the Givers, so he informed her anyway. “Let’s just say she’s going to put an end to the bickering and infighting on the Council.”

He waved a hand at a nearby office tower, visible through a side window. “So, my good doctor, if you’re adverse to explosions, steer clear of the Council chamber tomorrow evening.”

Campbell’s eyes lit up. Sterne recognized the look—the doctor, at heart, was a predator. They were two of a kind. He’d keep a wary eye on her, and once her usefulness was at a end . . .

The patient convulsed on the table, face twisting as the additional programming was absorbed. Dr. Campbell uttered a bleat of triumph, and Sterne just smiled.

The Givers would be pleased.