The Last First Daughter

By Abbie Fine

Lindy is the only surviving member of the First Family.

During the first television broadcast in a decade, direct from the White House, terrorists attack. Eighteen-year-old Lindy escapes thanks to her secret service officer, Henry, and now finds her country under the control of a cruel, oppressive regime—and she and Henry the targets of a countrywide manhunt.

Using fake identities and Lindy’s engineering skills, which allow her to build a network of radios, Lindy and Henry join a group planning to fight back against the new regime. Lindy must decide if she can sacrifice the relationship closest to her heart, her safety, and possibly her life to give millions of others hope for their future, and take back the White House.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evernight Teen
• Release date: Dec 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781773395050

Book preview

Part One: Exiled

Chapter One

Television will broadcast today for the first time in almost ten years and I will be the first thing viewers see.

But not if I cut the cable in my hand. I don’t mean to think it, but the idea leaps up like a perfect solution. My pulse accelerates as I scan the workshop. I spy the wire cutters within arm’s length and my fingers twitch. If I ruin this cable, the broadcast won’t happen today. I won’t have to stand with my family, pretending to project the perfect image of security and happiness to the whole country. No need to act calm in front of the camera while questions bounce back and forth rapid-fire in my brain. How will the country react to getting telecommunications back after a decade of silence? Even with all the preparations, what do we really know about—

The tap, tap, tap of a pencil on a notepad brings me back to the moment. Celene sighs and slides the notebook to me, equations scribbled all over it.

Looks like you’re finished with the cable inventory. Will you check my work on this equation here? Celene taps the spot on the paper she means. I want to be absolutely sure the cable lengths won’t cause any static.

I try to swallow but the pounding in my throat, and the guilt, makes it impossible. I put the cable down and pull Celene’s notebook to me. I grin a little when I recognize the equation. Even as I question why we’re doing what we’re doing—and fantasize about sabotaging the whole thing—I can’t stop helping with every technical detail that I can. We checked these cable lengths several days ago, but I do it again for Celene. She leads the entire re-networking effort for the White House, along the way teaching me everything she knows about electronics and networks. Being with Celene in this workshop is my favorite part of any day… Taking things apart, figuring out how each piece works. She’s done so much for me. I couldn’t sabotage her today—after seven years, and this is the moment it all must work. I know this progress needs to happen, and it’s irrational to think delaying it one day will make a difference. I’m about to give the a-okay on these cable lengths when a crew comes in rolling carts.

We’re here for the last of the equipment, Ms. Hernandez, says a crew member.

Celene stands, looking to me. I nod my approval and hand back the notebook.

Okay, it’s ready, Celene says. She supervises the tech crew carefully as they empty out her workshop, protesting when one guy starts to let my neatly rolled, undamaged cable slip and unwind. I’ll be right behind you, she says as they exit the room.

Celene gives my arm a quick squeeze and appraises the soft fabric of my cardigan between her fingers. Miss Rosalind, so fancy!

I look down at my formal clothes—a stiff burgundy dress with matching shoes, a black cardigan, and tights. So fussy compared to Celene’s practical cargo pants and long-sleeve shirt. I don’t feel like myself. I wish I could operate the equipment with you instead of being in front of the camera.

Me too, Lind. I could use your skilled eye during the broadcast. Celene’s gaze sweeps over the mostly empty workshop in front of us where only tools and spare parts remain. "This is seven years of work about to pay off, if it works. It’s kind of unreal."

It will work, I say. Because Celene’s work is perfection. Because I didn’t cut the cable. My stomach churns—I wonder if I’ll be sick.

I like your confidence. Celene sighs again. I guess we better get a move on, eh? Good luck up there, Lind. She gives me one last squeeze and turns to follow her equipment to the Press Room.

I find my sister in our prep room. Our stylist, Adriana—we’ve never had one until this week—combs Miranda’s hair. When I enter, she turns her attention on me.

There you are. Is that dust? Adriana pats away the streak on the front of my dress. Let’s take this ponytail out. You have gorgeous hair. Adriana tugs the elastic out and fluffs my wavy brown hair. There. You look like a young lady.

I have the impulse to tell her that no eighteen-year-old about to be seen in front of the whole country wants to appear like a young lady, but my nerves are too high for sassy commentary. I bite the inside of my cheek and seek my comfort, my sister. She tugs at the satin bow on the back of her purple dress. At least my outfit isn’t that bad.

Miranda, you look so … beautiful, I say. I fail to keep a straight face.

Lindy. I look like an eight-year-old.

Yeah, you kinda do. We both laugh.

Adriana must have a hearing problem. I told her multiple times I’m fifteen, but she still insists on this bow like I’m a baby, Miranda says. The broadcast has everyone acting crazy. She scrunches her mouth and crosses her eyes, and I stifle a laugh with an impulsive sister hug.

I’d go crazy, too, if it weren’t for you, I say. I’m, uhh … I’m not sure I can pull this off.

She takes my hand. You worry too much. We’ve done hundreds of public appearances.

I know. But it’s different this time. It’s television! The whole country will be watching, and I just worry it’s a step back to—

"Not the whole country, Lind. So many people will be out of range. Anyway, we don’t even have to speak this time. Just stand there and smile. And you’re the prettiest. Well, besides Ben." She grins, and right on cue, our brother bursts through the door with our father right behind.

Ben is prettier than both of us, isn’t he? she says. We both laugh again and I try to shake off my doubts.

I study our father and brother. I have never seen them dressed so formally, in these black, well-fitted suits. Ben suddenly looks like an adult to me, although he’s only one year older. Ben shoots Miranda and me his classic wicked grin as Adriana straightens his tie. I can see that he will be like our father one day—that he already resembles our father—and that he will do great, important things.

The door swings open again and this time one of the producers pops his head in. Okay, we’re fifteen minutes out. Everyone clear how this will work?

Adriana jumps forward with a question before anyone else can respond. Clear how this works? No, actually, I barely remember television. I try to recall what I experienced at age eight and younger—a vague impression of looking at screens of light. Of stories moving and talking. But that could easily be memories of storybook characters come to life in my imagination, not television.

Miss Edwards. A tap on my shoulder startles me and I slap a hand away before thinking. Whoa, there! That’s some fighter instinct!

It’s Henry. He’s the newest and youngest member of our security team. A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth at the same instant I notice a different kind of nervousness in my belly—somehow Henry always makes me feel very comfortable and uncomfortable at the same time. Before I can think of a clever response, Henry says, I’m sorry I startled you. It’s time to go.

Thank you, I say, and I’m sorry for swatting you. I wasn’t paying attention, I guess.

There’s a lot to think about today, Henry says.

Yes! I finally look him in the eye—striking hazel-green eyes that stand out against his golden-brown skin. I can’t pin it down exactly, but his eyes aren’t just striking because it’s uncommon to see a black guy with light eyes. It’s the way he looks at me, it makes me want to tell him all my anxieties about the first broadcast. But a security officer doesn’t want me to dump my feelings on him—that’s not his job. I can’t think of anything else to say so I press my lips together.

Henry clears his throat. Speaking off-duty, Miss Edwards, you look very pretty today.

I don’t have the opportunity to respond—Henry turns away quickly and begins talking on his hand-held radio—but he said exactly the right thing to make me think maybe I can get through my television debut. For the first time today, a genuine smile spreads across my face.

****

The Press Room has never looked like this. There are people packed into every corner. Miranda was right about the broadcast making people act crazy. Through the chaos, I spot Celene setting up the last of her broadcast equipment. Her movements are quick and measured and comforting. I wish I had something to do with my hands.

My mother stands surrounded, as always, with people asking her questions—demanding answers. It hurts my head just watching her respond to a half dozen people in a matter of minutes. She stands tall with the poise of a ballerina, her expression pleasant and neutral. My brow has been furrowed with worry all week, but not my mother: her suit and her forehead remain miraculously wrinkle-free.

I’ll be ready after I have a moment with my family. Two minutes, please, my mother says. The staffers still crowding her instantly disperse. My heart squeezes, partly in pride toward her, partly in anxiety that I could never command respect so effortlessly like that.

My dad drapes his arms over my shoulders and my mom’s—careful not to mess up our hair. My stand-up routine is ready, he says.

My siblings and I giggle, Miranda the loudest. Mom sighs and plants a kiss on his mouth.

I wouldn’t do that to our country, Mom says. More laughter. It’s two minutes, probably to the second, of hugs, compliments, smiles, jokes, encouragement, laughter, and I love yous. It goes by so fast.

Too fast.

And then we are lining up for the broadcast.

Mom, I say. My voice comes out more strained than I planned.

Lindy, love. My mother turns to me, and looks at only me. You worry, I know. She places her hands on either side of my face and kisses my forehead. I worry, too.

Yeah?

Madame President, someone says in an authoritative tone, but she stays looking at me. She clasps both her hands around mine, and I know what she’s going to say.

Of course. But I remember our deal, and that helps me to be strong.

Yes, but I just wonder if this—

It’s time, Lindy, love, she says. We have to work.

She waits for my nod, and even though I don’t want to let her go yet, I give her the nod of understanding she needs. She turns away to do her job, and she doesn’t glance back.

It’s all a blur—the lights, the commands, the thrilled call we’re live! and the applause erupting in the room. My mother speaks to the camera and to the crowded room beyond. I can’t focus on the words, but her tone comes across soothing yet confident. My heart beats too fast, a flurry of panic inside me as I remain totally still. My brother and sister stand so confident and genuine beside me. I worry my tentative smile will break—that I’ll appear self-conscious and uncomfortable, and ruin this for the family. If I could focus on something familiar … but the light blinds me. As another mini applause bursts out, I slide sideways a step, apart from my family and out of the brightest glare of lights, to get a view of Celene operating the camera. She focuses absolutely on her task, smiling, and the riot inside me slows. I take a deep, calming breath.

Then a dark expression shadows Celene’s face.

Too fast.

A lurch of movement and noise unsettles the whole room, but I can’t pinpoint the source. An object arcs through the air toward my family. As I take a step toward them, strong arms crush me and lift me right off my feet, carry me away from the commotion and shove me to the ground, knocking the breath out of me. Just as a deafening explosion rips through the room. Shaking the world. A blast of heat envelops me. A shockwave rocks through my body.

We’re under attack.

Henry’s face appears inches from my mine and he mouths something but I can’t tell what. Henry carried me away. Away from my family. I start to get up and a sickly green smoke spreading this way burns the back of my throat. Henry mouths something else—or else I just can’t hear anything. I jerk violently when something covers my mouth and nose and pulls tight around my head, but then I give in. It’s a gas mask—our security staff carries them everywhere since chemical weapons became prevalent in the last war. Henry wears one, too. He pins me to the ground with his arm and shoulder, tucking both our heads low to the ground.

A new panic rises in me as I struggle to take full breaths. Is this mask working? I try to sit up but Henry’s hand presses firmly on my back. I want to resist so badly, but as soon as my muscles twitch to move, Henry rubs my back. Okay, I’ll take his warning.

And we wait.

I don’t know how long we lie unnoticed. Twenty minutes? I try to concentrate on breathing and stillness, but my mind keeps going back to what I obsessed about all week: will there be negative consequences of this first broadcast? Resistance to this step toward our old ways of total reliance on technology? What’s the big picture here? And all morning others told me to stop worrying.

But now look at us. Whoever is behind this attack us must oppose this progress, or detect a weakness. We should’ve known something bad would happen. But what’s the point now, we’re under attack! Stop thinking, Rosalind, stop, stop, stop…

Tears run down my face. When did I start crying? Then Henry whispers directly in my ear, Are you hurt?

I can hear again. I jolt back to this horrifying reality. I start to get up.

Easy! He applies pressure to my back again, keeping me from standing.

But my family, I say, not even sure if he can hear me through the mask.

"I know. Shh. Henry squats low and peers around the corner. Shit! This time Henry pulls his mask aside. There’s more of them—they are doing a sweep."

Henry motions for me to wait, but we both peek around the corner at the same time. A person in a neon-yellow jumpsuit with a full gas mask approaches the people lying on the ground. He raises a gun to each one in succession and the bodies jerk in time to the ear-splitting crack. Again and again and again. I duck back around the corner, into the shadow.

Stop, stop, stop. I can’t hear anything over my own heartbeat pounding stop. I have to go find my family. I need to see my family. My gut twists. I know the worst has happened.

A neon shape turns the corner to face us and Henry springs into action. Henry’s hand presses against the terrifying masked face, he gives one powerful crank of his arms, twisting the enemy’s neck, then gently lowers the neon shape to the ground. I blink, trying not to process what I just saw. Henry doesn’t look at me. He takes a shallow breath, then a deeper one, and peers around the corner.

Okay, they’re gone for now—easy to see in yellow—but they’ll be back, Henry says.

My family is…

Yes. But I am going to check now. I hope… He doesn’t finish that thought. He doesn’t need to. I hope, too. Then we’re going through the tunnels to the garage. Stay right behind me.

I follow Henry into the room—the room where moments before I worried about how my smile appeared on camera. So stupid. Henry does a quick search for survivors. I already know he’ll be unsuccessful. I gag when I see the mess of bodies and blood and fabric that must include my family. A purple satin ribbon sticks out, edges singed.

My world is over.

I stand in the center of the room, numbly scanning the space, and look directly into the camera. The camera. The light blinks. It’s still on! A million thoughts run through my head at once—what horrors have played on the first broadcast, if Celene made it, that I’ll never see my family again, and how I hate these murderers in yellow, whoever they are. They probably think they killed me, too, but I stand in front of the camera, with the poisonous smoke mostly gone, providing a clear view. I should hide in this moment, but I do not.

I don’t know what force of adrenaline powers me now. I pull the gas mask off my face, making my identity unmistakable. I look straight into the camera—to the people of the United States, and to the enemy. I speak without a plan… This is Rosalind Edwards. I pause, willing myself not to break into tears again. I need to be strong. Citizens … be strong.

Shouts down the hall make me flinch. Henry says something. I don’t know if I’ve done the right thing—what have I done?—but I take one last look into the camera and then move out of its view, to Henry. He’s frowning, fists clenched.

Let’s go. I’m right behind you, I say. I press to his side and place the gas mask back over my nose and mouth. I’ve alerted everyone that I’m still alive.

Voices echo louder, closer, but I can’t tell from which direction. I run behind Henry, focusing on his movements. We take many turns, the hallways of my home now confusing to me. We pause a few times to listen. I hear footsteps. They must be right behind us—but no one appears. At the next corner, Henry turns back to me. He stands so close.

We’re blocked. Trapped, he says, barely audible. I can understand because he’s moved the mask so I can see his lips. I’ll fire, then we move. Don’t stop. Got it?

I nod. This is it—we either escape now or we don’t.

I stay tucked close to the wall as Henry turns the corner. Four, five shots explode through the narrow hallway. At least one shot comes in our direction, glass shattering right behind me, cutting my arms and cheek. I lunge forward only an instant after Henry does. We step right over neon-clothed bodies and blood, and we run down the last hallways until we reach the garage.

Somehow, we’ve made it, and we’re standing in front of a motorcycle.

Henry scans my injuries quickly and must determine that I’ll be fine. Put this on. He hands me a black leather jacket. I do, though it’s much too big. By the time I have the jacket on, Henry sits on the bike, holding his hand out to me. I climb onto the bike behind him, unsure how I can carry out all these actions while my mind screams. Helmet goes on. My heart screams. Screams for my family—father, mother, brother, and sister. They are not here. They are gone.

Henry is here, asking me to hold on tight and pulling my arms around him.

We’ll take the back exit of the garage—we just have to hope they aren’t expecting us to make it out alive, he says, and the engine roars to life.

The terrorists must not expect it. We exit the garage and move through the city streets without being followed. As we pause in an alley, Henry lifts the panel of his helmet and says, I’m going to head somewhere very far from here.

I fumble with my helmet to meet his gaze.

I know. They’re going to be looking for me.

Chapter Two

My mind turns over and over in a panic, as fast as the wheels of Henry’s motorcycle as we make our desperate escape from Washington, DC. From my home. Those terrorists bombed my home, gassed everyone, and then shot them. They killed my family. Celene’s panic-stricken expression, faceless neon shapes, my sister’s broken body buried beneath singed ribbon. My mind cannot comprehend these images—these facts.

So, so violent.

The attack on our country ten years ago was nothing compared to this horror. That attack didn’t involve violence—not directly. Those terrorists didn’t target human lives with bombs, guns, biological weapons, or anything like that. Instead they attacked our communications: Internet, television, phone, and radio. They were not soldiers, they were an army of hackers. The hacker-terrorists programmed satellites to spin out of orbit and data centers to overheat and catch fire—they did the same to cell phone towers. They even destroyed the main infrastructure centers of the nearly-obsolete landline telephone network. The effect was coordinated and synchronized, leaving the country entirely without communication systems. And without the means to communicate constantly, things fell apart quickly. We depended on technology completely, and then we had nothing: people had no way to get information, businesses could not run because they relied on computers, no one had access to money because almost all transactions were conducted over the Internet. No money led to looting, violence … anger and chaos and eventual apathy.

That attack was devastating, but my family lived.

It blindsided my mother, President for little more than a year when the hackers took down the grid. At first the government was of little help to citizens because the government also had no systems in place to tackle this kind of situation entirely without telecommunications. Even the military disbanded, except for a small force that relocated right to Washington. It started the period some analyst people call the Silent Decade and began my mother’s exceptionally long term as president—with all telecommunications down, they couldn’t organize a national election.

As Henry and I speed along dark, two-lane highways and then darker, winding roads, it occurs to me that the Silent Decade did end today, as we all planned. It just didn’t end in the way that we’d planned. Is the same group responsible, or are these new terrorists? I wonder what this new era of terror will be called in the history books.

My mother speaks about the history books often—how this action or that decision will be remembered in the history books. It’s a guide, she says. A way that any person can evaluate big decisions. She always asks me, how do you want to be remembered in the history books?

Paper books stopped being popular a few years before the grid went down—another thing society regretted when we couldn’t access book files on the Internet anymore—so the phrase history books sounds a bit old-fashioned. Mother says it’s just not the same to say, How will this be remembered in the history files? I can hear the sarcastic and goofy way she always says, "history fi-les," and a laugh forms in my chest.

Oh God. The way she said. My mother. The way she spoke. She won’t be … speaking…

My thoughts are interrupted by my own choking sob. I hold on to Henry tighter as the turns get sharper and I try not to think.

****

Some hours later when I am numb—physically, emotionally—Henry stops the motorcycle in the corner of a driveway in a heavily wooded neighborhood. I don’t know where we are. The house seems warm and welcoming, though only one light glows inside. There’s a porch with a pair of rocking chairs, and I have the urge to sit and just rock.

Miss Edwards? Henry nudges me gently with his elbow, my arms still wrapped tightly around him—how long has he been trying to get my attention? It seems he needs me to get off the bike. I swing down awkwardly.

He fiddles with his hand radio. Static. I’m not picking up anything, he says. He shoves the radio in its holster and looks toward the house. But we’ll follow the protocols. I’ll just be ten minutes. Will you be okay out here? You’ll be absolutely safe.

I can’t seem to form a response or ask the questions in my mind: Where are we? What are we doing? So I just nod, pull Henry’s jacket closer around me, and scrunch my toes.

Are you cold? You’re cold. Okay, I’ll be quick. He starts to go and then turns back. I can’t take you inside with me. Protocol. If the First Family receives a threat, members must be kept hidden until Head of Security calls the situation secure. So no one can know you’re with me, not even… He trails off and shakes his head.

An older woman answers the door and lets out a wail when she sees Henry. The light silhouettes their embrace in the doorway for a moment, so intimate that I look away. Eventually the door closes. It must be his mother. If she saw the broadcast, she wouldn’t expect to see him alive.

I will never hug my mother again. She will never remind me about our deal.

I remember that day so, so clearly. The day the grid went down. My siblings and I kept pestering our parents about when we could play on the computer again or watch TV. We asked, "But why can’t we watch, Mommy? At that my mother said, with a look sharper than any we’d seen before, You’re not watching television or playing on the computer, do not ask again." She left the room like a storm. Ben and Miranda burst into tears, but I didn’t cry. I wanted my mother to know that I understood—that I didn’t care about computers or TV. So I snuck into her private office and waited for her. When she finally came in, she didn’t see me right away. Now ten years later, I can still picture her puffy eyes, disheveled suit, and slumped posture. She started to cry. To sob. Because she thought no one was looking. It made my insides flip inside out. I went to her and she held me. We held each other, leaning against the door, and we cried together, not speaking. When we finally quieted, she bent down to wipe my tear streaked cheeks. She took both my hands in hers.

It’s okay to cry, Lindy. Sometimes we have to let it out. But we’re going to be strong now, right? We’re going to work really hard to make this better and we’re going to be strong. Deal?

Even at age eight, I understood that she said these words more for herself than for me. But my heart still swelled with pride as I said, Deal. My mother smiled just for me and I felt like I could handle anything.

I should be working to make this better right now. But I can’t clear my head. I try to focus on thinking out a plan, but I start to cry. I can’t do anything except sob.

I have only one clear thought: I’m so lucky to have Henry. I don’t have to make any decisions just yet because Henry knows the protocols. He emerges from the house sometime later with two bags. He puts them down.

Here, uhh, for your cuts. He shows me the supplies in his hands and steps toward me cautiously. I don’t resist when he cleans the wounds on my cheek and arm. It should probably sting, but I don’t feel it.

The whole thing was on the broadcast, he says. The explosion, the gas. You. When he finishes, I raise my hand to feel a bandage on my cheek. My arm, too.

They’ve been replaying the violent part on loop, but you were on just the once, when it was live, Henry says. There’s a scrolling message to stay indoors and stay tuned.

He pulls out some clothes and sturdy boots from one of the bags.

My sister’s. I think they will fit you. Those shoes are useless, yeah?

I want to give his comment an appreciative laugh but it doesn’t quite come out. I do manage a thank you as I discard the heels. I clutch the clothes, looking around for an appropriate place to change. The woods?

Oh, sorry! Henry whips around to give me privacy. I’m sorry.

I put the clothes down and reach for the zipper on the back of my dress but it sticks. This is embarrassing. Um … do you think…?

Yeah, sorry. Turning around now, Henry says. I feel his hands at the back of my neck, gently pushing my hair aside and finding the zipper. His hand stops at my lower back, and he moves away again. Okay, he says.

I change quickly. The clothes fit well enough, even if the sleeves and pants are a little too short. At least the boots fit.

It’s