Chapter 11 - The Broadcast of Lies
Chaos erupted inside the underground gallery.
Principal Shaw seized Autumn from behind.
Elena pulled him away.
Richard lunged toward the master server.
Willa reached it first.
She inserted the second key.
The screen changed.
MASTER ACCESS CONFIRMED
Multiple options appeared.
Erase archive.
Transfer archive.
Open public ledger.
Willa selected transfer.
A warning appeared.
EXTERNAL CONNECTION UNAVAILABLE
Richard laughed breathlessly.
“I told you. No signal.”
Autumn struggled with Principal Shaw.
“There’s a cable channel behind the east cabinet!”
Willa ran toward it.
Richard caught her by the shoulder.
She struck him with the metal key.
He stumbled but did not release her.
“You think releasing names will help the victims?” he demanded. “Some of them rebuilt their lives. You will drag them back into public humiliation.”
“That should be their choice.”
“It was never yours.”
“It became mine when you stole from me.”
Elena seized a heavy frame stand and brought it down between them.
Richard released Willa.
She reached the east cabinet and pushed it aside.
A network port appeared in the wall.
Willa connected Elliot’s portable drive.
The server recognized the device.
Transfer began.
One percent.
Three percent.
Five.
Above them, a microphone amplified Richard’s prerecorded introduction.
His voice filled Founders Hall.
“Tonight we celebrate not only artistic excellence, but the courage of a new generation.”
Autumn looked upward bitterly.
“He recorded it in case anything went wrong.”
Principal Shaw broke free from Elena and ran toward the server.
Autumn tripped him.
He struck the stone floor.
Transfer: nineteen percent.
Richard removed his phone and typed a command.
Red lights began flashing.
REMOTE ERASURE INITIATED
A countdown appeared.
Five minutes.
Willa connected her phone to the cable channel and called Elliot.
This time, the signal worked.
His voice came through.
“Willa?”
“Open the live broadcast.”
“I’m ready.”
“Put us on now.”
The screens inside Founders Hall changed just as the velvet curtain began to rise.
Instead of the mural, guests saw a shaky video feed from the hidden gallery.
They saw stolen paintings.
Rows of files.
Elena’s portraits.
Principal Shaw on the floor.
Richard Vale standing beside the archive server.
Murmurs spread through the reception.
Willa faced the camera.
“My name is Willa Hart. The mural being unveiled tonight was stolen from me.”
Richard rushed toward the phone.
Elena blocked him.
Willa continued.
“For decades, Ashbourne Academy has taken work from students without power and awarded it to students whose families could protect the lie.”
Elliot overlaid the handwritten index on the broadcast.
Names filled the screen.
Source students.
False winners.
Payments.
Trustees.
Teachers.
Guests inside Founders Hall began shouting.
Some demanded the feed be stopped.
Others raised phones.
The broadcast escaped the academy within seconds.
Students streamed it.
Parents copied it.
The investigative reporter transmitted it to her network.
Richard heard notifications sounding above them.
His face changed.
For the first time, he understood that control had left the room.
Then the server countdown reached three minutes.
Transfer: forty-two percent.
“We need more time,” Willa said.
Elliot answered through the phone.
“I’m trying to slow the deletion.”
“Can you?”
“Not remotely.”
Autumn looked at the master server.
“There’s a manual cooling shutdown.”
Richard turned toward her.
“Don’t.”
“If the server overheats, the erasure stops.”
“And the drives could be destroyed.”
“Or preserved.”
Autumn ran toward the cooling controls.
Richard caught her.
He raised his hand.
Willa remembered the bruise.
She stepped forward.
But Autumn was faster.
She struck her father across the face.
The sound echoed through the gallery.
“This is the last thing I ever give you,” she said.
Then she pulled the cooling lever.
The server fans stopped.
Temperature warnings covered the screen.
Deletion paused.
Transfer accelerated.
Fifty-eight percent.
Sixty-four.
Seventy-one.
Smoke rose from one cabinet.
Elena grabbed Willa’s arm.
“We have to leave.”
“Not yet.”
Flames appeared behind the ventilation grid.
Transfer: eighty-three percent.
Principal Shaw crawled toward the emergency alarm.
Richard remained motionless, staring at Autumn as though she were a stranger.
Ninety percent.
The gallery filled with smoke.
Ninety-six.
May you like
Ninety-eight.
The screen went black.
