“Why would anyone invade us?” I asked.

  “It says something about breeding stock,” Trent said. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Turn the page,” Si offered, his voice dead.

  I felt my heart fall into my stomach and struggled to breathe.

  “’Populations decimated in the wake of global environmental changes and war.’ What the hell?” Trent looked as sick as I felt.

  “There are colonies,” Si said, still not looking at us. As though the words were foul on his tongue and he was sickened to be speaking them. “The last vestiges of what is left of humanity. Surviving via trade just like us. Some of that trade,” he said, sucking in a fortifying breath, “was in Wánměi drones. Purchased to resupply their workforce in exchange for items we needed in order to maintain the lifestyle we’d come to love. “

  Not anything we hadn’t already concluded. Well, at least, about the drones.

  “At some stage,” Si went on, “those colonies started pressing for more information about Wánměi. How we could possibly survive behind closed borders. How we could create drones of such sophistication. A threat of invasion was finally issued. The Overseers paid them off by supplying something even more valuable than a workforce.”

  “Breeding stock,” I said, in a hushed whisper.

  Si nodded. “Sat-loc is inoperative. They’ll be able to access our Net. See that we’re defenceless.”

  “Have you checked their Net?” Trent asked.

  “Limited, but still viable,” he replied, finally turning to face us. “It’s where I found out the rest of this, once I knew what to look for from the memo. I’ve established where the colonies exist, what sort of level of threat physically they could provide. None have more than container ships in their navies. Some have air flight capabilities, but again at an extremely minimal capacity. All of them are thousands of miles away, except the city you can see from Hillsborough. That would be our greatest and most immediate threat.”

  “Or closest ally,” Trent countered.

  Si nodded contemplatively, then said, “But keeping our Net open could prove detrimental to our safety in the long run.”

  “That’s why,” I said, understanding fuelling my blood.

  General Chew-wen and my father had noble intent; protecting our nation from such a threat. But the threat escalated, and Shiloh evolved in order to keep us safe and healthy, as per her directives. My father saw it. Couldn’t stop it in time. Maybe Shiloh convinced Chew-wen he had to die. I don’t know. I may never know. But at some stage, she surpassed even Chew-wen.

  “Holy fucking shit,” Trent said with vehemence. “Tell Tan.”

  “And the Net?” Si asked.

  Trent turned and looked at me.

  “Do we close the borders again?” he asked, voice profoundly hollow to match the depth of shock in his devastated storm tossed eyes. “Keep ourselves safe?” The words sounded poisonous on his tongue. All colour had drained from his face.

  So long he’d believed in a free Wánměi. So long he’d believed in the image of a beautiful city on the banks of a river with a Pherres that matched our own. He’d hung the poster of Lunnon on the back of his door. Looked at it every single day.

  Now that city was a potential enemy. And we faced a reversion to constricted ways.

  “No,” I said softly, but the conviction was all there. “This is our paradise. Let it be their’s too.”

  “Lead by example?” Trent asked, a twitch to his lips.

  “Exactly.”

  All three of us turned to look out over the vast ocean, a promise that was now threatened, but did it have to be? Chew-wen and my father had been paranoid, driven to extremes by a fear founded in a time of global upset. Things had changed. The world was no longer fighting, but surviving. We’d carved out niches in what was left of our land.

  Shiloh had been made to protect us. Now she was gone, for better or worse. But I couldn’t help thinking it was for the better, because why had my father gone to so much trouble if life without her meant an even greater threat?

  Maybe it was time for humanity to stand tall. Free and alive. Survivors in an aftermath that had decimated numbers. Maybe it was our time to shine.

  Trent turned towards me. I felt Simon start to pull away. No doubt heading towards Tan to advise him of our discovery. Our desire to set an example. To not cave like Chew-wen had in the face of adversity.

  Wánměi may not be above all others. But we sure as hell could lead the way.

  “Let them come,” Trent whispered, deep bottomless blue pulling me in. “Let them see what a nation can create together.”

  I nodded my head, transfixed by this man, devoted to his honourable beliefs as much as he was. Connected to him in a way that would overcome all odds. That would give me courage and strength in the times to come.

  Wánměi was not perfect. But neither, it seemed, was the rest of the world.

  That discovery was gutting, demoralising, almost heart destroying.

  But I had Trent. I had my friends. And a nation that I knew would weather any storm.

  “No matter what the future holds,” he whispered, leaning forward and burying his face in my hair at the side of my neck, his body wrapped around mine, heat infusing me, love surrounding me and making me whole. “I have my paradise right here. In my arms. In my heart. In my soul.”

  I pulled back and looked up at him, stormy, deep blue eyes full of passion stared back.

  “I love you, Selena Carstairs. I love you, Lena Carr. I love you, my remarkable, reckless, Zebra. I… love… you.”

  I smiled, the sun shone down from a surprisingly cloudless sky, and I knew, despite the world not being as we’d hoped and dreamed it would be, that basking in the light with Trent at my side would always keep the darkness at bay.

  Just like he said my light did for him.

  “And if they threaten the heaven we have made,” he added, voice lowering to a distinct rumble, lips moving to hover above mine, “I will level the entire fucking world to keep you safe.”

  I believed him. Somehow he would. He’d stand against impossible odds, he’d fight and fall, and then get back up, time and again. And eventually, Trent Masters, the rebel leader of Free Wánměi, would win.

  Because that was just him.

  My returning smile was swallowed by his heavenly kiss.

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  Read on for a sneak peek at an interview with Trent Master by Nicola Claire:

  We met in a small open air café in Wáikěiton, the smell of star anise, cloves, cinnamon and fennel mixing on the heated breeze. Hawkers touted their vibrant, shimmering wares in Wáitaměi and Anglisc, turning Federal Street into a riotous cacophony of striking colours, lush scents and rich sounds.

  Trent Masters watched me from behind dark sunglasses, his nondescript clothing Citizen appropriate, his dark, messy hair borderline non-compliant. Sensual lips twisted into a smirk as I sat myself down, back straight, dress model, long brown hair brushed to a shining gleam.

  I blended in. He stood out like the supposed rebel he was said to be.

  "Citizen Claire," he offered in way of greeting.

  "I wasn't sure if you'd be here," I blurted, unable to stop myself from saying the first thing to spring to mind. This man rattled me, and he hadn't even said more than two words.

  I glanced around the bustling street, but no one was watching us; too busy with their eyes down over their vid-screens.

  "Curiosity," he murmured, lifting a coffee cup to his lips and watching me over the rim as he took a distracting sip.

  "Are you always so curious?" I asked.

  He let a breath out on a harsh laugh, replacing the mug on the table's surface with a decisive thump, and leaned back casually in his chair, deep blue eyes flashing behind tinted lenses.

  Everything he did threatened the world I lived in. This man who stared into the face of the Overseers and didn't blink.

  "Life would indeed be boring if we didn't open our eyes and see."

  I sucked in a horrified breath of air. He just smiled. The curve of his lips taunting me more than his inappropriate words just had.

  "You had questions," he urged.

  I grasped the lifeline greedily, pulling my vid-screen out of my handbag and swiping to find the list I'd prepared earlier.

  "Dangerous that," he murmured.

  My eyes shot to his face, but he wasn't looking at me. He was looking at the street-cams; Overseer cameras angled to film as much of the street as possible. Even this small slice of downtown Wánměi.

  "I'll delete them afterwards," I whispered.

  "It'll be too late by then," he commented without inflection.

  My hand shook as I lowered my vid-screen to my lap. The questions were innocuous. The Overseers wouldn't trifle themselves with half a dozen isolated words.

  Would they?

  I cleared my throat. He drank more of his coffee. Silent. Watchful. Body tensed as though he could move in the blink of an eye.

  "Who are you?" I asked, nervousness and fear making me ineloquent.

  "A Citizen of Wánměi just like you."

  "Are you really? Because I've heard otherwise."

  "And what have you heard, Citizen Claire?" he asked in a low, velvety voice. "Propaganda fuelled by manipulative and oppressive Overseers?"

  This man was a whispered word away from arrest.

  "I've heard that you're their leader," I whispered back.

  Thick arms crossed over a broad chest, stretching the fine material of his t-shirt. His knuckles were bloodied, as though he'd been in a fight. A bruise marred the tanned skin on his slightly stubbled cheek. I hadn't noticed before. I hadn't been looking.

  My eyes closed and unseeing.

  "I am what they need me to be," he finally said, his voice rougher and more threatening because of it.

  "What is it that you do?" I asked, fidgeting in my seat under that piercing stare.

  "I help where it is needed."

  "What kind of help?"

  "The kind that you would never need."

  For some ridiculous reason I felt put-out by that.

  "Why not me?" I demand, self-righteousness making me sound Elite.

  Trent leaned forward, elbows resting on the table top in a blatant show of non-model behaviour. The sudden need to not be here, not be seen with this man, consumed me. My eyes darted from Citizen to Citizen, knowing it was not my fellow compatriots I should beware of, but this man and those who surely watched him.

  The street-cams felt far more nefarious than they had ever been.

  "You live their lies," he whispered, barely loud enough for me to hear over the continued squawking of the stall owners. "You swallow their disinformation. You breathe their air as though it is clean." He leaned back in his seat, eyes flashing ire and something else; something lethal and menacing. "You don't ask. You don't think. You walk the path they have laid out for you without question, because you believe."

  "And you don't," I said softly. He only grunted

  "What do you hope to achieve?" I asked, after a strained few seconds, my blood thundering through my veins, my skin sticky with perspiration.

  He looked at me as though I was a lost cause, as though I was the epitome of all that he despised. His gaze trailed over my pristine sundress, lingering on the starched creases, the intricate hand sewn embroidery. It was my most treasured outfit, almost suitable for an Elite.

  I wondered what it was he saw when he looked at it. I wanted to ask, but he was already talking.

  "I hope to wake them up."

  I had no answer. No follow-up question. The words, spoken so steadily, but somehow laced with such unbridled emotion, were too much for a busy Wánměi street.

  They were too much for hidden shadows and quiet corners of private homes.

  They were too much to even think.

  "Are you mad?" I asked, visceral terror at being caught conversing like this making me bold and reckless.

  He smiled. It was clearly amused. Leaning back in his seat once again he surveyed me, this time with a hint of interest in those surprisingly mesmerising eyes.

  "You have teeth," he commented, apropos nothing. "I wonder if you have claws."

  I spluttered indignantly, straightening my posture, smoothing my hair.

  "The question, Citizen Claire," he said, as I attempted to put right externally what he had torn asunder internally, "is whether my brand of crazy is right. And your brand of madness is not."

  "My brand...?"

  "Complacency."

  "Complacency?" What on earth did he mean?

  He nodded his head. "Complacency is a rotting madness that steals into the heart of the nation and eats away all independent thought."

  I shook my head, strands of hair flying in a most inappropriate fashion. I had to end this.

  But one last question. One last look into the soul of a non-conformist with a death wish.

  "Who do you work with? Just Citizens? Or others?"

  He must have seen something on my face or heard it in my question. I'd tried to be nonchalant. Show no emotion whatsoever. But rumours abounded, even in strictly controlled Wánměi.

  Rumours of an Honourable Elite caught in the clutches of a rebel leader.

  He stiffened, his face darkening. The blue of his eyes going grey like a stormy sea. His hands clenched. A muscle in his jaw flickered. And then he leaned forward, his arm flying out like lightning, fingers wrapping around my wrist under the small table where we sat. The grip was sure to bruise.

  "What do you know?"

  "N..nothing," I stammered. His grip tightened. I let out a little mewl of protest and suddenly his hand was gone.

  He leaned back in his seat, then fished out some credits to throw down on the table's surface. The move so unfamiliar I jerked at the sight of the cash. Everyone paid with electronic cards.

  But not Trent Masters.

  He stood and I followed the sleek movement with wide open eyes, seeing more than I'd ever thought possible.

  This was real. He was real.

  He walked around the side of the table towards me, his eyes casually taking in the street, the cameras, the Citizens going about their day in complete ignorance, and then he leaned down and whispered in my ear.

  "If you print this, I will find you. I will make your life a living hell. Understand?"

  I nodded my head frantically.

  "There are no Elites, no Cardinals, no Overseers and no Citizens." His hot breath sent a shiver down the side of my neck, where he breathed the next words, not even a whisper. "In One Wánměi."

  And then he was gone, and I was shaking in my seat, wondering if it had happened, if I had indeed just met the leader of the rebel army, the one man it was said could free Wánměi.

  I startled at the sudden and efficient appearance of the waitress, who scooped the credits up as though paying in such a fashion was not unheard of. This was Wáikěiton. Was it so different from the rest of our city?

  No.

  "Wánměi above all others," she said, with the dip of her head as she went to leave.

  It was harder than it should have been to say the obligatory reply.

  But I managed, because not to do so was a luxury I didn't have.

  "Wánměi leads the way," I whispered to her back.

  My eyes followed the path Trent Masters had taken, now lost in a sea of disinterested faces. A man who believed he had that luxury.

  Yes, he was definitely mad.

  Read on for an interview with Nicola Claire:

  Where did you grow up, and how did this influence your writing & The Citizen Saga in particular?

  I'm a Kiwi, through and through. I had the wonderful luck of growing up in the North Island of New Zealand, or "The Land Of The Long White Cloud", (the Māori call it Aotearoa). I've lived up North, down South, and in the "Big Smoke" Auckland City, all of which feature at some point in my stories.

  Five years were spent as a Paramedic in Auckland, so I know that city pretty well. From its spectacular beauty, to its hidden secrets, I've probably caught a glimpse of it all. And that's why I choose Auckland as the setting for most of my books.

  The Citizen Saga hasn't missed out on this influence. Although the city-state of Wánměi isn't strictly based on Auckland, but a conglomerate of cities I have visited over the years. What did sneak into the story, though, were Auckland street names and suburbs, as well as Māori locations around New Zealand's largest city, depicted in the local languages I created for the Elite, Cardinal and Citizen stories.

  You might just be able to pick out the odd one, if you look really closely.

  When did you first start writing?

  The first memory I have of writing a "book" was in Primary (or Elementary) School. I was so proud of that story about a naughty little monkey and still have the stapled together booklet hidden away somewhere. Throughout school I wrote countless little tales, allowing my imagination to run free from time to time, but it wasn't until after I'd had children, lived life a little, seen a bit of the world, that I felt ready to really let those creative juices flow.

  My first attempt at an adult full length novel was a science fiction story about aliens. Yeah, I know, a rather big undertaking. Suffice it to say, that story will never see the light of day. But I had the bug, I wanted to get some of those fantasies swirling around inside my head out. Even if it was just for me.

  So I read, and read, and read some more. I analysed what genre I liked best, and what exactly it was I liked about it. Then I worked out what others liked about that genre too. At some point it all fell together and the first four books of the Kindred Series came to mind. I just started tapping away on the keyboard one morning and didn't stop for four or five months.