"A bullet scraped me."
"A bunch of fools," he replies.
"A fake death—a claim that John’s infected with the plague. If I can help him escape from Batalla Hall tomorrow night, I’ll need you and a couple of Patriots to get him out of the sector. Keep him safe."
"A family I know had their door marked recently."
"A foolish attempt," she says.
"A good boy, that Metias was. A great apprentice. Imagine my disappointment when he was reassigned to the city patrols. He told me he just didn’t have the smarts to judge the Trials or organize the kids who finished taking them. Such a modest one. Always smarter than he thought he was—just like you." He grins at me.
"A lamp’s lit. Look at those candles. Mom would never waste candles if no one was home."
"A lie like that is treason against the Republic. Besides, why would Congress authorize such a thing?"
"A little sleep will do you good."
"A perfect score . . . hah. I don’t know anyone who’s ever gotten a fifteen hundred."
"A pity you chose the life of a criminal. You could have become a celebrity in your own right, you know, with a face like that. Free plague vaccinations every year. Wouldn’t that have been nice?"
"A pleasure to meet you, young sir. Tell me, Mr. Graham, why did the Colonies send you over to our fine Republic? To spread their lies?"
"A pleasure," I reply, unsure of what else to say.
"A poor choice for a hero," Thomas goes on.
"A www. Is that what’s got you down? I’ve seen the way you look at her. You want her bad, yeah? Is that something you’re also trying to earn your way up to, trot? Hate to burst your bubble, but I didn’t force her into anything."
"About all of it."
"According to the Republic’s databases," she goes on, "Daniel Altan Wing died five years ago from smallpox, in one of our labor camps."
"After the first eruptions," he said, "white volcanic ash rained from the sky for months. The dead and dying were covered in it. So now to wear white is to remember the dead."
"Agent Iparis! Tonight is your night. You’re a star! I tell you, my dear, everyone in the higher circles is talking about your prodigious performance. Especially your commander—she’s gushing about you like you’re her daughter. Congratulations on your agent promotion and that nice little reward. Two hundred thousand Notes should buy you a dozen elegant dresses."
"Agent Iparis, head this up. Check on him now and then and make sure he doesn’t die before his execution date."
"Agent Iparis," he says.
"Ah, Captain!" she exclaims.
"Ah, that’s right," she says, as if it is the first time she’s heard it.
"Ah, there’s the announcement now." Thomas glances back to the movie screen and points at the commercial that comes on.
"All right," Kaede says.
"All right. We’ll go to the warfront and find out where Eden is, then cross the border. The Colonies will probably welcome us—maybe even help us."
"Almost enough for cures. How’s Eden?"
"Almost there," he says.
"Am I all right?" she says.
"An electro-bomb’s gone missing." The dangling lights overhead cast mean shadows across his face.
"An impressive effort tonight. You are truly as agile as Agent Iparis claimed. I hate seeing such talents wasted on worthless criminals, but life isn’t very fair, is it?" She smiles at me.
"And I don’t know why. That’s the worst part, Day. I don’t know why he died. Why would someone want him dead?"
"And I hope to hell you’re right."
"And I know you won’t leave your family to die."
"And Tess is safe? No one’s arrested her?"
"And apparently, so were you."
"And cut those too."
"And does everyone around here know how to make a dust bomb?"
"And forty-four seconds. How do you like that?"
"And there’s more where that came from. But I need you to listen to me, and I don’t have much time."
"And they’ve pitted us against each other."
"And to think you were forced to spend so much time in his company. I’m amazed he didn’t kill you in your sleep. I’m—" Thomas pauses, then decides against finishing his sentence.
"And what about your old knee injury?"
"And why?"
"And?" I say.
"Answer the question, June."
"Any final requests? If you wish a last look at your brother or a last prayer, you’d better let us know now. It’s the only privilege you’ll get before you die."
"Any listening devices?"
"Any luck today?"
"Are they both alive?"
"Are you all right? It’s almost ten hundred hours, and I haven’t seen you. Commander Jameson wants to know where you are."
"Are you all right?"
"Are you all right?" I ask.
"Are you all right?" I remember asking him.
"Are you cooking a chicken in there?" he says.
"Are you going to help me?"
"Are you going to help me?" I ask again.
"Are you hurt anywhere else?" I run my hands down her other arm, then gently touch her waist and her legs.
"Are you sure?" Thomas sounds more alert now.
"Are you there, Iparis?" It’s Commander Jameson.
"As do you." As we settle down to watch the stands, I make some notes to myself.
"As soon as the rain stops," he says, "I want to head out toward Vegas. I want to find Tess and make sure she’s safe with the Patriots before we move on to the warfront to find Eden. I can’t just leave her behind. I have to know that she’s better off with them than with us." It’s as if he’s trying to convince me that this is the right thing to do.
"At least Day’s good for something." His hair is carefully combed back, and he looks taller than usual in a flawless, tasseled captain’s uniform.
"At least we got ourselves another medic in the Patriots now." She pats her cast and winks at Tess.
"At the hands of that nasty boy. What a shame!" Chian narrows his eyes, making his eyebrows look even bushier.
"Be careful," I murmur.
"Be quick about it."
"Because today the plague patrol is coming for your family. They’re taking them away."
"Because you were right," she whispers.
"Before floods, before thousands of data centers were wiped out." He would let out a mock sigh, then wink at me.
"Believe me when I say I would love to stay and chat with you, but I have a training session to lead. There’s also a person much more eager to see you than I am. I’ll let her take it from here." The commander exits without another word.
"Believe what you want."
"Best place might be somewhere obvious to everyone. Give it to one of the boys, maybe as a locket. People will think it’s just a child’s ornament. But if soldiers find it in the house in a raid, hidden under some floorboard, they’ll know for sure that it’s important."
"Better than expected."
"Bite your tongue, cousin. Haven’t you had enough brushes with death for one day?"
"Breathe in for me." I do as she says.
"But I did find it strange that you spent so much time questioning Day. Do you feel sorry for him now? Did you set something up to—"
"But I don’t really have much choice."
"But I have to say I am looking forward to it. Do you know the details about how it’ll go?"
"But I thought it was quite a coincidence. Few people have access down here, and everyone else was more or less accounted for last night."
"But I’d rather not wake her."
"But he gave me clues."
"But it’s Commander Jameson." I blinked through swollen eyes.
"But that doesn’t mean we won’t find his body later."
"But the Republic must know by now that they made a mistake. You have to run, Day. While you can."
"But they might know something about Day."
"But think of it this way. You can walk away right now, with two hundred thousand Notes and a rather handy weapon, and never lift a finger to help me. I’m putting my trust in you and in the Patriots. I’m begging you to put your trust in me."
"But we can’t destroy it. We have to safeguard it—for all we know, this might be the last coin of its kind in the world." He folded my mother’s fingers over the coin.
"But you won’t. I can see it on your face."
"But you’re a fool to stay with someone like me."
"But you’re right—it might be enough to convince my boss to let me help you out. But how can we be sure this isn’t a trap? You sold Day to the Republic. What if you’re lying to me too?"
"Bye, Thomas. Thanks for the ride." I smile back at him before stepping out of the jeep.
"Calling it a night," I murmur.
"Can I ask you a question now?" Day asks.
"Can I be admitted, cousin?" I call to her.
"Can I help you get home?"
"Can you hear me?" she says.
"Can you repeat that, Ms. Iparis?"
"Can’t let your stolen goods go to waste, can I?"
"Captain Metias Iparis is outside the gate," a voice replies.
"Captain says he’ll arrive shortly."
"Cheer up, Thomas." Metias reaches over and claps him on the back.
"Chian has a personal grudge against Day," he whispers.
"Choose! Choose! Choose!"
"Choose! Choose!"
"Come here, boy." He sighs, then envelops me in a hug.
"Come on, Captain," he says.
"Come on, June," he said.
"Come on, let’s follow him!" Tess exclaims.
"Come on," I said.
"Come on," he urges.
"Come on. You’re going to get a girlfriend someday."
"Come out," I say.
"Commander Jameson asked me to detain you," he says.
"Commander Jameson has requested that you come with me to the hospital as soon as possible." Thomas hesitates for a second.
"Commander Jameson says to keep you on your mission if your injury isn’t bothering you too much. She’s preoccupied with the patrol right now. But I’m warning you. If your mike goes dark again for more than a few hours, I’m going to send soldiers after you—whether or not it blows your cover. Understand?"
"Commander Jameson suggested it, and she got the courts to approve it. I think she’s still pretty mad about how hard Day bit her hand when he tried to escape."
"Commander Jameson," he says, "are you ready for him to proceed to sentencing?"
"Commander Jameson’s here to see the prisoner." The prisoner.
"Commander, don’t!" I blurt out, but she ignores me.
"Commander?"
"Congratulations, June." He smiles.
"Connect the two circuits," he murmurs.
"Consider this a pop quiz. This soldier’s identity should motivate you to get it right."
"Cop her."
"Corner of Figueroa and Watson. That’s the special plague case we’re meant to investigate tomorrow morning. You’re sure it’s Day?" he asks again.
"Create chaos in Batalla Square, as much chaos as you can manage. Enough chaos to force most of the soldiers guarding the back exits to enter the square and help contain the crowd—if only for a couple of minutes. That’s what the electro-bomb might help you with. Set it off in the air, and it’ll shake up the ground in Batalla Hall and around it. It shouldn’t hurt anyone, but it’ll definitely stir up some panic. And if the guns in the vicinity are disabled, they can’t shoot at Day even if they see him escaping along a rooftop. They’ll have to chase him or try their luck with less accurate stun guns."
"Damn it, June," he says.
"Damn it," Day says under his breath.
"Daniel is dead," I reply.
"Daniel?" Her fingers brush the hair from my eyes.
"Daniel?" she whispers.
"Day . . . it didn’t go according to my plan. I wanted to get both of you out. I could have done it. But . . ."
"Day can’t hide from the government forever—sooner or later we’ll dig that street brat out and make an example out of him. He’s no match for you, especially when you put your mind to something."
"Day doesn’t seem like the kind of boy who goes around saving people."
"Day is just a criminal on death row. His words shouldn’t matter to a girl of your standing."
"Day may be a popular figure out here on the streets, but he’s still one guy. What’s in it for us? Just the joy of getting him on board? The Patriots aren’t going to risk a dozen lives just to free a single criminal. It’s inefficient."
"Day will be dead in less than a week."
"Day, can you say, honestly and truly . . . that you didn’t kill Metias?"
"Day," Tess whispers.
"Day."
"Day." Her voice echoes down the street.
"Day’s heading toward Figueroa and Watson right now. I’m on his tail."
"Delicious," he says.
"Despite your reflexes."
"Did he say who’s sick? Is it Eden? Mom?"
"Did you assault a cadet standing guard at the edge of the Alta sector’s quarantine zone?"
"Did you find anything yet?"
"Did you hear something?" she whispers.
"Did you hear that Day’s sick brother, the little one, tried to spit on Commander Jameson yesterday? Tried to infect her with whatever mutated plague he’s carrying?"
"Did you set fire to a series of ten F-472 fighter jets parked at the Burbank air force base right before they were to head out to the warfront?"
"Didn’t want to completely crush your ego."
"Dismissed," the Elector calls as he goes.
"Diversion." My eyes lock onto Kaede’s.
"Do you know anything about Tess yet? If she’s alive?"
"Do you know what he’s been telling people?"
"Do you know where Eden is?" John finally breaks the silence.
"Does she honestly think we can guard anything after pulling an all-nighter? I was so out of it today that the Colonies’ Chancellor himself could’ve walked into Batalla Hall and I wouldn’t have known it."
"Doesn’t make sense. Shouldn’t I be in your position? Isn’t that the point of your precious Trial?" Day looks like he wants to stop, hesitates, and then continues.
"Doesn’t seem like a fair fight," she calls out.
"Don’t be so suspicious. He had a son who worked at the warfront. He died of the plague a few years ago." I yelp when Tess ties a finishing knot on the bandage.
"Don’t be stupid, Junebug. Of course Mom took care of you. And she was much better at it than I am."
"Don’t be stupid. If the soldiers catch you, you’ll all die. You know that." John’s frustrated expression makes me feel guilty for dismissing his help so quickly.
"Don’t bother, Thomas." I reach out and touch his arm, to distract him.
"Don’t call people that, Junebug. It’s rude. And she can’t kick me off her patrol for missing the ceremony. Besides," he added with a wink, "I can always hack into their database and wipe my record clean."
"Don’t ever do that again, you hear me? Don’t you dare."
"Don’t go back out there. It’s too dangerous."
"Don’t go out alone. News from the warfront is they’re cutting power to residences tonight to save energy for the airfield bases. So stay put, okay? The streets’ll be darker than usual."
"Don’t know if that’s what you wanted to hear."
"Don’t question it. You don’t have time for that." I hesitate.
"Don’t try it again," she says, "because you won’t be able to do it alone. You’ll need my help."
"Don’t worry," she says.
"Drop your weapons."
"Duck." I release my grip and shove him hard enough to make him fall to his knees.
"EAT SOMETHING, YEAH?"
"Each day means a new twenty-four hours. Each day means everything’s possible again. You live in the moment, you die in the moment, you take it all one day at a time." He looks toward the railway car’s open door, where streaks of dark water blanket the world.
"East, maybe. I’m more used to the inner sectors."
"Easy, there."
"Eden always gets sick, you know," I say after a while.
"Eden first," Mom whispers.
"Eden is dead," she says.
"Eden will be okay. Maybe this virus is less dangerous and he’ll recover on his own." There’s a pause.
"Elector’s Waltz," I murmur, recognizing the song.
"Emerson Adam Graham."
"Emerson what? Be specific."
"Emerson."
"Ever seen something like this?" I ask, trying to keep my voice even.
"Everyone out. I want a private word with the prisoner." She nods up at the security cameras positioned in each corner.
"Everyone will keep an eye on you," he reassures me.
"Everything is in place, Iparis," the commander replies.
"Everything working?"
"Exciting, don’t you think?"
"Execute him! Kill him now! Make sure the square broadcasts it!"
"Executioners."
"Fair enough."
"Fair enough." And with that, he leans his head back against the wall, sighs, and closes his eyes.
"Fantastic."
"Fetch me what you have. And see if you can raise a better brat."
"Few people ever kill for the right reasons, June," he said after a long silence.
"Fifteen."
"Fine Republic," he snaps.
"Fine."
"Fire at will!" he shouts.
"First things first. Day’s brother John. I plan to help him escape tomorrow night. No earlier than eleven P.M., no later than eleven thirty." Kaede gives me an incredulous look, but I ignore her.
"First your parents, and now your brother. I can’t imagine how hard it is for you."
"Five minutes. Say what you want and be done with it." I nod wordlessly.
"Follow Thomas down to the lobby, and I’ll meet you there."
"Follow me, Agent Iparis. And you too, Captain," Chian instructs.
"Follow me. And please gag him, if you don’t mind. We wouldn’t want him yelling obscenities the whole time, would we?" The soldier salutes again, then stuffs a cloth into my mouth.
"For John. An early birthday gift." My older brother turns nineteen later this week.
"For figuring out that the Republic killed your parents? And Day’s been framed?"
"For once, Iparis," she’d said, "do what you’re told and don’t question it." Then she added something about a surprise, the unexpected appearance of someone I care very much about.
"For once, I’d appreciate it if you would let me do my daily tours of duty without worrying myself sick over what you’re up to."
"For the moment. I’m glad to see you’re okay too. What are you doing here?"
"Forever and ever, kid, until you’re sick and tired of seeing me."
"Form up," she says.
"Found it missing in the early morning after I went knocking on your apartment door. You said you were up on the roof last night, right? Do you know anything about this?"
"Four forty-five P.M.," she says.
"Fourteen floors," I call back.
"Freeze. Stay where you are."
"From here, the sewers will take him deeper into the city or west to the ocean. He’ll choose the city—he’s probably too wounded to do otherwise. But it’s impossible to track him accurately now. If he has any sense, he’ll have taken half a dozen turns down there and done it in the sewer water too. He wouldn’t have touched the walls. He’ll give us nothing to track."
"GET ON YOUR FEET. IT’S TIME."
"Get back here!" one of them yells.
"Get him!" Commander Jameson yells out.
"Get this boy off the gurney and put him in some chains," she barks.
"Get up." He grabs one of my arms and pulls me roughly to my feet.
"Girl," he says, looking at Tess, "do you think he can leave by tomorrow night?"
"Glad to hear it," I say, looking sideways at Tess.
"Go to your induction. I’ll be sick either way."
"Going dark." I click my microphone off.
"Good morning, Day," she says.
"Good night, Ms. Iparis." He hurries away down the hall before I can respond.
"Good to find another person who knows what a Canto knot is. But I travel a lot, my friend. I see and know a lot of people, people who I might not be affiliated with."
"Good to know the flood warnings are still in place."
"Good to know," I said.
"Good. I’m glad to hear it."
"Good. Now, Day is obviously going to be trickier. His execution happens two evenings from now, at exactly six P.M. Ten minutes before that, I’ll be the first person leading him to the firing squad yard. I have a secure access ID—I should be able to get Day out through one of the east hall’s six back exits. Have some Patriots wait for us there. I expect a crowd of at least two thousand to show up for the execution, which means a crew of at least eighty security guards. The back exits need to be as sparsely guarded as possible. Do something—anything—to make sure most of the soldiers have to go help there. If the first block past Batalla Hall doesn’t have a lot of security, you’ll have enough of a head start to escape."
"Good. Send him in." She releases the button and points a finger at me.
"Good." Commander Jameson addresses me one final time.
"Got a minor injury in a Skiz fight. Nothing serious."
"Got it," Thomas says, and his side falls silent.
"Got what approved?"
"Grace," he said to Mom, "look what I found."
"Great birthday."
"Guess you can go now."
"Hands up. You’re under arrest for theft, vandalism, and trespassing."
"Hardly. They’ve graduated you early. Follow me—there’s something I want you to see."
"Have some."
"He almost died once when he was a baby. He caught some kind of pox, and had fevers and rashes and cried nonstop for a week. The soldiers came close to marking our door. But it obviously wasn’t the plague, and no one else seemed to have it." I shake my head.
"He did."
"He didn’t mean it, sir," John repeats.
"He knew what he was doing, Day." Tears appear in her eyes, too.
"He left," I whisper.
"He likes to be acquainted with cute girls."
"He looks thinner," I mutter.
"He might need our help."
"He never mentioned this to me. Last night he—well, I’ll take it up with Commander Jameson."
"He said it was all classified," I lie.
"He shouldn’t have done it," I whisper.
"He was exposed to his brothers. That young one’s Patient Zero, isn’t he? Maybe the medics didn’t pick it up back then."
"Hear that, Ollie?" I whisper.
"Hell if I know what that means. Neither does anyone else, for that matter." She leans over the counter toward me and lowers her voice.
"Hello, Ms. Iparis," he says.
"Hello," she says.
"Here. Have some water. I’m not allowed to let you die yet." I dribble water on his lips.
"Here’s how it works, Mr. Wing. I’m going to ask you a question, and you’re going to give me an answer. Let’s start with an easy one. How old are you?"
"Hey!" I said.
"Hey," I called out to her.
"Hey," I said again, "mind if I join you?"
"Hey," I say, tugging his ear the way I did when I was a kid, "I’m sorry I made you worry."
"Hey," I say.
"Hey," he replies.
"Hey," he says.
"Hey." I remember something else now.
"He’ll have no time to get them out, so he’ll probably hide them somewhere in the house. We should take them to Batalla Hall’s hospital wing. No one’s to be hurt. I want them there for questioning."
"He’ll start cooperating if he knows what’s good for him."
"He’s alive and walking around," Tess replies.
"He’s also left-handed. Interesting. He’s ambidextrous."
"He’s awake, ma’am."
"He’s here for his sister."
"He’s lost more weight. But he’s still alert, and he recognizes us. I think he has a few more weeks."
"He’s talking about me," I agree.
"He’s telling people that he has plague cures for someone who needs it. He says he knows that you’re injured. He never gave a name, but he must be talking about you."
"He’s too smart for that," I say under my breath.
"He’s very perceptive, isn’t he?"
"Hide it somewhere." My father paused for a second, then looked at John and me.
"Hmm? Do what?"
"Hmm? Oh, I’m fine." Thomas runs a hand through his slicked hair.
"Hold steady, June. Pay attention to the crowd."
"Hold still! Damn it, boy, I’m not going to hurt you."
"Hold still," he mutters.
"Hollow?" I put my ear against the ice-cold metal.
"How about this one?"
"How about this?"
"How about you answer that question first?" she snaps.
"How are my boys?" my father said after he finally let go of Mom.
"How are my brothers?"
"How are you feeling, my dear?" he asks.
"How are you feeling?"
"How are you?"
"How did you escape the labor camps? How did you end up terrorizing Los Angeles when you should’ve been working for the Republic?"
"How did you get that thing in your eye?" I gesture at my own.
"How do they know we’re in the Lake sector?"
"How do you do that?" I ask her.
"How do you know?"
"How do you know?" I ask.
"How fast did you climb those fourteen stories?"
"How is Day? Is he okay?"
"How old are you?"
"How’s your wound healing, by the way?"
"Hurry up," Commander Jameson snaps at me.
"I SHOULD BE THE ONE GOING OUT THERE. NOT YOU."
"I am right."
"I am so sorry for your loss," they say.
"I assume you made someone angry," she says, then snaps her fingers at the soldiers.
"I can barely stay awake," Metias had told me after his first night shift.
"I can see silver Notes peeking out of that man’s purse, for example." She flicks her eyes toward one of the customers at a vendor.
"I can see why Drake labeled you a troublemaker," she says.
"I can see why you’ve survived on the streets."
"I can take care of myself. Day isn’t a fool—if I have a team following me through the city, he’ll notice it in no time."
"I can tell subtle differences between colors, even though they may look a little blurry," Tess replies.
"I can’t say. Much of it is confidential. But I do know that several generals from the warfront have come to see him."
"I congratulate you, my dear."
"I couldn’t find any cures, and I didn’t have time to do a search."
"I couldn’t help it. But at least now it’s over with."
"I couldn’t sleep. I went up to the roof for a while and watched the streets."
"I could’ve taken it. I’ll fight back."
"I did not kill your brother." I reach out to touch her hand and wince at the pain that shoots up my arm.
"I did see you visit your family’s quarantine zone last night, and I overheard some guards talking about today’s sweep. They mentioned the house with the three-lined X. Hurry. I’m trying to help you—and I’m telling you that you have to go to them right now."
"I did."
"I didn’t do it," I say.
"I didn’t do it," she replies.
"I didn’t kill your brother." He pulls me close.
"I didn’t know the Elector’s son would be there." I see a mysterious emotion in his eyes—anger?
"I didn’t mean to hit him!" I yell back.
"I don’t deserve it."
"I don’t have a home."
"I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you this," he begins.
"I don’t know who did. I’m sorry for injuring him at all—but I had to save my own life. I wish I’d had more time to think it through."
"I don’t know, but I think so."
"I don’t know," I murmur back.
"I don’t know. I have no interest in her." She nods at one of the soldiers.
"I don’t know."
"I don’t need girlfriends. I’ve got a baby sister to take care of."
"I don’t think so," she replies.
"I don’t think ‘excited’ is the best term for how I’m feeling," I reply.
"I don’t trust you enough for that. You can talk to us two, and I’ll see if it’s worth passing along."
"I don’t want to do this." Thomas’s voice grows softer.
"I don’t want you putting yourself in unnecessary danger. If there’s any way for me to help you, I’ll do it. Maybe I can sneak out with you sometimes and—"
"I don’t work for the government."
"I found these caught in the folds of your clothes and figured you might want them for your slingshot or something." She stuffs the bag into one of my pockets.
"I get back from a morning of dealing with the Patriot rebels and what do I hear about? Helicopters two blocks from Drake. A girl scaling a skyscraper."
"I guess so."
"I guess suppressants are better than nothing. I’ve dropped it off at your mother’s home already, along with your gift bundle. I went through the back and handed them all off to John. He says to tell you thanks."
"I hang around the edge of Batalla a lot. I like to watch the cadets practice."
"I have a few questions for you."
"I have no access to Eden, although I’m sure he’s still alive. John is doing as well as can be expected." When she looks up again, I see confusion and sadness in her eyes.
"I have no way of knowing where she is. She should be safe, as long as she stays low. I haven’t mentioned her to anyone. She hasn’t appeared in any of the recent arrests . . . or deaths."
"I have what you need," I say, and wave around the vial for emphasis.
"I haven’t gotten anything useful out of him yet. He’ll be dead soon, anyway."
"I hear he’s telling people he wants to give a plague cure to someone—one person only. That this person will know who he’s talking about."
"I heard you had a private conversation with Day this afternoon," Thomas says to me as we sit together, eating bowls of edame in a café.
"I hope that brother of yours starts doing a better job of minding you, because if you end up in my office one more time this quarter—"
"I hope you don’t mind waiting a few hours before eating," he says to me.
"I just don’t want you to go alone."
"I just heard about a man who’s been looking for you."
"I just want to make sure they’re okay."
"I knew you’d be a bigger nuisance than you’re worth. You have a knack for wasting my soldiers’ time. Not to mention the soldiers of several other commanders."
"I know I’m slowing you down." But I feel a surge of regret even as the words come out of my mouth.
"I know this is a rather warm morning, so we’ll keep the sentencing brief. As you can see, our soldiers are present and serve to remind you all to keep calm during these proceedings. Let me begin with an official announcement that on December twenty-first, at eight thirty-six A.M., Ocean Standard Time, the fifteen-year-old criminal known as Day was arrested and taken into military custody."
"I know what you mean." I reach over and pat his hand to reassure him.
"I know you need this," I say, gesturing again at the vial.
"I know you’re here, and I know why." She points toward John and my mother.
"I know you’re looking for me. You want t’see me so badly that you’ve been wandering through Alta’s bars for over an hour. What do you want? A rematch or something?"
"I know," I reply.
"I know." I take off my backpack and toss it to Kaede.
"I left him behind a long time ago."
"I live on the sector’s edge. Pretty safe there so far."
"I lost both my knives," I mutter, so that the man doesn’t hear me.
"I love you," I whispered, hoping to get something out of him.
"I loved your brother very much, you know," he continues with overdone sympathy.
"I might as well be talking to a dog." But to myself I think, Day’s words will matter if he’s telling the truth.
"I missed that ball on purpose." John laughs as he turns and jogs over to the ball.
"I need the bathroom," I whisper, my voice hoarse.
"I never did ask you about your street name. Why ‘Day’?"
"I never got your name. Guess it’s no big deal now, is it? You already know mine."
"I passed my Trial!"
"I promise I’ll have the money soon. All I need is one more lucky break, and I’ll be there, and we’ll have it for him."
"I promise you, I couldn’t have."
"I really miss him," she whispers.
"I received a full history of your grades there. Perfect scores—you’ve already finished most of your courses in half the number of years, yes? They also say you’re quite a troublemaker. Is this true?"
"I remember him as a kid—you should’ve seen him. He used to run around your parents’ living room, holding out his hand like a little gun. He was destined to enter our squads."
"I said I’ll see you tomorrow."
"I saw the helicopters over Drake at noon and had a . . . . suspicion June might’ve been involved."
"I scavenge on the streets. I end up traveling a lot."
"I shot a girl. She’d failed her Trial and tried to escape the stadium. Chian screamed at me to shoot her . . . and I listened."
"I shot someone at the Trial stadium today."
"I shouldn’t have watched the Skiz fight at all, but what can I say? Your friend looked like she could use some help." Then she shifts her gaze to me.
"I should’ve never saved you from that Skiz fight. I should’ve left you to die."
"I studied my brother’s crime scene report again last night." Her voice trickles to a whisper so that I have to lean forward to hear her.
"I suppose I should call you Daniel, though. Daniel Altan Wing. I managed to get that much out of your brother John."
"I suppose you must be excited, what with everything that’s going on," Thomas says as we file into the theater.
"I think I can leave you guys alone after another day," I say after a while.
"I think I got stabbed."
"I think I really did it."
"I think he would have preferred the firing squad."
"I think you really did it. What a run! Did you see the look on Day’s face?"
"I thought he would be around for a long time, you know, someone I could always lean on. He was all I had left. And now he’s gone, and I wish I knew why." She shakes her head slowly, as if defeated, and then lets her eyes meet mine again.
"I thought you were a smart one. . . ."
"I tied him up and delivered food to some quarantined families. Bite me."
"I told him that our airships will target his hometown next." She turns back to the prisoner.
"I want justice. And I want to free the boy who didn’t kill my brother."
"I want the current guards dismissed and thrown off my patrol."
"I want to ask you something, just out of curiosity. You heard anything about a man around here in the last few days, someone who says he has plague meds?"
"I want to give you this," I reply, handing the money to Kaede.
"I want to help Day escape before his execution. And I’ve heard that the Patriots have wanted to recruit him for a long time. You probably don’t want to see him dead, either. Maybe the Patriots and I can come to some sort of arrangement."
"I want to know why they took Eden away. The plague. I know you rich folks have it easy—new plague vaccinations every year and whatever meds you need. But haven’t you wondered . . . haven’t you wondered why it never goes away? Or why it comes back so regularly?"
"I want to leave too."
"I want to see my brother John," I say.
"I want to see you stand for your execution, and I won’t have you dying from infection before I’m through with you."
"I wanted my family to be safe too."
"I was afraid they’d mistake you for Day and shoot at you."
"I was pretty sick when you first met me. Remember how grimy I looked?"
"I was so excited when they told me you were awake. I just had to come and see you myself. You should feel pretty lucky—the medics say you’re plague-free, even after spending time with that infected lot you call a family."
"I was so pleased when Commander Jameson told me that you’d be tracking him. His case needs a pair of fresh eyes, and you’re just the doll to do it. What a gem of a test mission, eh?"
"I was wondering when you’d come." I hesitate for a second.
"I wish I could have stopped Thomas. You and I are enemies, make no mistake about that . . . but I did not wish for such a thing to happen." Then she straightens and begins to turn away.
"I wish him great luck in the election, then, although I’m sure he will not need it."
"I wonder what we would’ve been like if I’d been born into a life more like yours, and you had been born into mine. Would we be just like we are now? Would I be one of the Republic’s top soldiers? And would you be a famous criminal?"
"I won’t be long, I promise. I’m really sorry."
"I won’t have you saying that in my house, John."
"I won’t hurt you," I whisper in his ear.
"I won’t."
"I work for the Republic. We know a lot of things, some that might surprise you."
"I would highly suggest you not try that again," she snaps.
"I would rather die than see them hurt you. Understand?"
"I wouldn’t be caught dead in one of those rings. Just taking a break from the sun. You seem like nice company, you know. I mean, as long as you don’t have the plague."
"If I ever kill, I’ll do it on my own terms."
"If I hear so much as one pair of footsteps heading our way," Kaede says, "I’ll kill you right here. Understand?"
"If I knew any of these people, do you really think I’d tell you?"
"If a boy killed someone you loved, wouldn’t you keep trying to figure out why he’d done it? I thought he might talk to me if the guards weren’t around. But I’ve given up on him. I’ll be happier when he’s dead."
"If there’s something we need to hear about, the generals will tell us."
"If they don’t back down soon, the commanders will make them regret it."
"If you don’t mind, Commander," he says, "has something happened? What’s going on?"
"If you see me floating unconscious out to sea, though—by all means, come and get me."
"If you want to leave in the morning, just go," I said to her.
"If you wanted me to wake up, you could’ve just tapped me."
"If you’re still feeling sick by tonight, I’ll file a report and send the plague patrol over to check you. You know, protocol. And if you need me to come over, just call me."
"Ill-tempered until the end, aren’t you?" She releases my head and tilts my chin up with a finger.
"Impressive aim. The knife is one of a pair, correct? See this pattern painted on the bottom of the blade? It cuts off abruptly."
"In case you didn’t know."
"In central Lake now. I’m going dark for a bit."
"In the southern swamplands between the two warfronts. It’s a genuine coin from nineteen-ninety. See the name? United States. It was real."
"Injured your hand yesterday, Ms. Whitaker?" I say after a while.
"Investigation?" I ask him with a frown.
"Iparis, accompany the guards back to this boy’s cell. I’ll return shortly." June salutes, then follows John out of the cell while soldiers approach me and tie my hands behind my back.
"Is he alive?"
"Is it my turn?"
"Is it true? How high up did you get?"
"Is my family okay? Did some of the medicine survive my fall?"
"Is she alive? What’d you do with her?"
"Is that a challenge, kid?" she shouts.
"Is that a serious question? Don’t we all want more money? Can you ever have enough?"
"Is that so?" I whisper back.
"Is that what you’re saving up all that money for? A plague cure?"
"Is that you?"
"Is there any particular reason why you’re nicer than usual today?"
"Is there still room tonight? I can pay."
"Is this some kind of trick?" Day moves his injured leg a little and tenses up in pain.
"It depends. Do you have money?"
"It doesn’t seem to be contagious. And Eden’s skin still looks good. No bleeding."
"It doesn’t seem to be helping you. I can ask Commander Jameson to send someone else to give Day his water rations. I hate to think of you having to interact so much with your brother’s murderer."
"It has all its official labels, the stamp of approval. I assure you it’s the real thing."
"It matters because if you hadn’t escaped, my brother would be alive right now. And I want to make sure no other filthy street con assigned to the labor camps escapes the system—so that this scenario won’t play out ever again."
"It means a lot. I know Metias would be proud that he gave his life for his country."
"It seems like you’re in an awful hurry to stock up."
"It should’ve been me!"
"It sounded like . . . something gurgling," she whispers.
"It was quite a precise job. And when I think of precise, I think of one person. You."
"It’s Daniel."
"It’s Eden. John says everyone else is fine for now. But Eden can talk and seems alert enough. He tried to get out of bed and help your mother fix the leak under your sink, to prove he felt strong, but of course she sent him back to bed. She ripped up two of her shirts to use as cool cloths for Eden’s fever, so John said if you find any more clothes that fit Mom, he’d be happy to take them."
"It’s a pleasure to see you."
"It’s a trap. We’ll leave immediately."
"It’s all right. Let us hear what our friend has to say against the Republic."
"It’s five past midnight. I’ll give you two minutes. Then I leave."
"It’s hardly your fault. Your sister was caught scaling a high-rise during her lunch hour today. She’d wandered two blocks off campus to do it. As you know, students are to use only the climbing walls on campus for physical training, and leaving the campus in the middle of the day is forbidden—"
"It’s hollow."
"It’s me, Mom," I say.
"It’s more of an order than a request."
"It’s more proof." At first my father tried to show it only to Mom, but I managed to get a good look as he turned it over in his hands.
"It’s not that bad," she lies.
"It’s strange being here with you. I hardly know you. But . . . sometimes it feels like we’re the same person born into two different worlds."
"It’s strange," I say to Day later, as we both curl up on the floor.
"It’s the only way to survive, isn’t it?"
"It’s too dangerous for you if I stay. Trust me." My eyes flick to Mom, who’s working hard to keep her own fear in check while telling Eden a story.
"It’s too dangerous here, Day. You know it is. Arizona or Colorado would be safer—or come on, even Barstow. I don’t mind the outskirts."
"It’s unfortunate it’s under these circumstances again," he replies.
"It’s you," I say.
"I—" I begin.
"I—I can pay you. We don’t have much, but you can take whatever you want. Please." John’s hand comes down and grabs my arm.
"I’d be careful if I were you, boy," he spits.
"I’d be happy to take you in dead, if you prefer."
"I’d like to know what you’ve been up to, Ms. Iparis. I’ve been trying to contact you for the past twenty-four hours. I was ready to send some soldiers to collect you—and you and I both know how happy Commander Jameson would be about that."
"I’d like you to meet my mother," I say to her.
"I’d say that’s a win."
"I’ll be counting down the minutes!" Then she storms away and slams the cell door behind her.
"I’ll be fine," I reply.
"I’ll be fine." I smile.
"I’ll be home as early as I can. We have a lot to talk about." He puts his hands on my shoulders, ignores my puzzled look, and gives me a quick kiss on my forehead.
"I’ll be home late tonight," he says.
"I’ll be inducted either way," he said.
"I’ll be right back."
"I’ll go get us some water." She jumps up and heads down the open stairwell to the water’s edge.
"I’ll have some if you do," I say.
"I’ll leave that to you."
"I’ll let you know. Thanks." I hang up.
"I’ll look less suspicious than you," I reply.
"I’ll make a metal casing for it, something that covers both sides. I’ll weld it shut so the coin’s secure inside."
"I’ll see you on your execution day."
"I’ll see you soon."
"I’ll see you tomorrow."
"I’ll take my chances. And you didn’t have to come with me. You could’ve waited for me back in Alta."
"I’ll tell you nothing. You can try as hard as you want, but I’ll tell you nothing."
"I’ll tell you why it matters," she hisses.
"I’m a careful girl, when I’m not angry."
"I’m afraid that’s as long as I can keep you. The plague patrol’s going to do another sweep soon." He hesitates.
"I’m befriending a criminal, and pushing away people I’ve known my entire life."
"I’m faster this way. Seriously. Better that only one of us is out there hunting for the money. You won’t do Mom any good if you’re dead."
"I’m glad you think so." He drops fifty Notes on our table as the waiter comes by.
"I’m glad you’re relieved," Thomas says.
"I’m going to head down to the water. I’ll be back in a minute."
"I’m going to leave you here for a bit, so you can collect your thoughts. Meet me in two minutes in the third-floor stairwell so you can give the photographers some room." She glances once at Metias’s body before she turns away—for a brief second, her face softens.
"I’m going to see what we have for soup." I hear him leave the bedroom.
"I’m going to show you a series of photos, Mr. Wing," he says.
"I’m going to sleep awhile longer."
"I’m going to throw them off."
"I’m grateful for your help."
"I’m grateful for yours."
"I’m guessing Kaede was no friend of yours."
"I’m guessing they didn’t catch the person," I say to Thomas.
"I’m heading out to the track. Where’s Metias?"
"I’m here to negotiate with you." I meet her stare with calm eyes.
"I’m here," I murmur.
"I’m kinda proud of that one."
"I’m letting go," I whisper to the doctor.
"I’m looking forward to your execution, Day," she snarls at me.
"I’m not accusing you of anything, June." His expression turns tragic, even pleading.
"I’m not as good as she is," he whispers.
"I’m not cold and I’m not bleeding," I say to him.
"I’m not feeling well," I manage.
"I’m not going to wait for him to kill off my soldiers," she snaps back at me.
"I’m not going to wait up for you," I call after him, but by now he’s already inside and the jeep’s pulling away with him inside of it.
"I’m of the understanding that you are almost done with your training as an agent, correct? That you’ve already finished your courses on tracking?"
"I’m okay." When I push wet strands of her hair behind her ears, she looks up at me.
"I’m overseeing the lab at Los Angeles Central. They’re delivering vials of some mutated virus there—it shouldn’t take all night. And I already told you no. No missions." Metias hesitates.
"I’m personally devastated by the way he died," he says.
"I’m proud of you, Johnny. Good job."
"I’m so sorry for that," he says.
"I’m sorry about that, by the way," I say, gesturing at her arm.
"I’m sorry about your mother. My commander had promised me she wouldn’t hurt any civilians, and she went back on her word. I . . ." Her voice quivers.
"I’m sorry you had to deal with Thomas yesterday."
"I’m sorry," I whispered.
"I’m sorry," Thomas says abruptly to me.
"I’m sorry. Metias has been killed."
"I’m sure as hell not meeting him, whoever he is—but I got to admit, I’m curious to see what he has to say. What if he does have plague cures?"
"I’m sure you understand why I did it. I still have the wound you gave me."
"I’m well," I say again.
"I’m well."
"I’ve also included an electro-bomb. Level three. Worth six thousand Notes. It’ll disable guns for two minutes in a half-mile radius. I’m sure you know how difficult it can be to get one on the black market."
"I’ve got sixteen hundred Notes," I whisper.
"I’ve got to go," I say.
"I’ve never heard of the plague showing up there."
"I’ve never worked with the Patriots," I snap.
"John and I never got sick."
"June, I’m sorry about your brother. I didn’t know anything would happen to him."
"June, I’ve been meaning to ask you . . ." He hesitates.
"June, are you listening to me?"
"June," Day murmurs.
"June," a boy named Dorian says as he tags alongside us.
"June," he said, "I think I’m going to appeal for a different mentor tomorrow."
"June." Thomas’s voice breaks me out of my thoughts.
"June?" he says.
"June—"
"June—ah—Ms. Iparis won’t learn a thing if you keep praising her for breaking the rules."
"June’s heading home." Then he puts a hand firmly on my shoulder and guides me away from my classmates.
"Just because you pulled some pranks and played charity worker to some street scum? Well, let me tell you a secret. I’m from a poor sector too. But I followed the rules. I worked my way up, I earned my country’s respect. The rest of you people just sit around and complain and blame the state for your bad luck. Bunch of dirty, lazy cons." He punches me again.
"Just decided to waltz in here and break a few girls’ hearts? Or are you fighting?" She nods toward the Skiz fight.
"Just dehydrated and feverish. I think I ate something bad last night at the café. Tell Commander Jameson I should feel a little better by evening."
"Just some water, please," I say.
"Kaede, I need your help. I need to talk to the Patriots."
"Keep him up here for two days," Commander Jameson says.
"Keep moving, cousin," I mutter under my breath as Tess stops to laugh at some young gambler’s joke.
"Keep your clothes on."
"Kind of a luxury for a family of your type. You like wasting money often?"
"Know this person?"
"Know what I think? I think this guy’s just crazy."
"Lake boy, yeah?" she asks.
"Lake isn’t safe right now," I say.
"Leftover cases from an imported gift sent straight to our glorious Elector himself. Goes until six o’clock." His eyes dart around nervously as he says this.
"Let me ask you this, though. How the hell are you going to get Day out of the building at all? You think you’re going to be the only soldier escorting him to the firing squad? Other soldiers will probably flank you. Hell, a whole patrol might join you."
"Let me tell you a short story," she says.
"Let’s get this over with," I whisper.
"Let’s just go home."
"Let’s start again, shall we? What’s your name?"
"Let’s take him in," he says.
"Look!" he said.
"Look," I say.
"Look. Don’t worry about me." Through the glass, I see the spy arch his back in agony.
"Looks like you’re finally behaving. Better late than never." Then she walks away and disappears into the elevator with the Girl, leaving the rest of the soldiers to stand guard.
"Love you, Junebug," he says, his trademark good-bye.
"Lucky person, yeah?"
"Make sure it’s exactly five minutes, not a second more." Then she presses a hand to her ear and starts barking out more orders.
"Make them work for it. Punch someone if you have to." John gives me a sad, crooked smile.
"Maybe it’s the plague."
"Maybe the hospital will let down its guard after a couple weeks." But in my heart I know better.
"Maybe their reader’s broken," she suggests.
"Maybe they’re not home?"
"Maybe you should be the one to help us steal some food, not me," he continues.
"Maybe you should stop seeing him," he suggests after another long silence.
"Maybe you’ll be of use after all. I’ve called ahead to Drake and told them that you are dismissed from further training. You were almost done with your coursework anyway."
"Maybe you’ve forgotten that you still have two brothers. Both at the mercy of the Republic. Watch your tongue, unless you want to see their bodies lined up next to your mother’s."
"Maybe," I say.
"Medic trucks will be at the house tomorrow. We’re to take the inhabitants to the Central Hospital."
"Metias is doing a better job than our dead parents," I reply, maybe more sharply than I intended.
"Metias was very attentive during the time I mentored him. Natural leader. Did he ever tell you about that?"
"Metias, did our mother take care of me when I was sick? Did she do things like this?"
"Mom, listen. The plague patrol is coming, and they have a medic truck with them. Whatever virus Eden has . . . They’re coming to get him. We have to hide you all."
"Money is the most important thing in the world, you know. Money can buy you happiness, and I don’t care what anyone else thinks. It’ll buy you relief, status, friends, safety . . . all sorts of things."
"More or less accounted for?" I say it sarcastically enough to make him blush.
"Morning," I say to her.
"Most do it for the wrong reasons. I just hope you never have to be in either category."
"Move it, Iparis. Time is of the essence." Her eyes flicker to Ollie in the backseat.
"Move out!"
"Mr. Emerson Adam Graham, of East Texas." Commander Jameson says it in a light, coaxing voice.
"Mr. Wing," he says.
"Mr. Wing," she says to me after a while.
"Ms. Iparis told me about what you did to her on the streets. How dare you force yourself onto someone of her rank."
"Ms. Iparis," he says, "you’re under investigation. Follow me."
"Ms. Iparis." Thomas’s voice comes out as a tiny hum that only I can hear.
"Ms. Iparis?" Thomas says.
"Must be a stronger strain."
"My Daniel. You’re alive. This must be a dream."
"My apologies."
"My brother was a better leader than I’ll ever be."
"My commander wants me to ask you some standard procedural questions before your execution date. We’ll try to keep it cordial, although of course we started off on the wrong foot."
"My dear boy," she says.
"My hands are tired," she says.
"My men will be at the entrances tonight."
"My mother will punish him for his behavior. He’s young and doesn’t know any better."
"My name is June Iparis."
"My name is Tess," she whispered.
"My name’s Metias. If you have any questions, come see me."
"My name’s Tess," I hear her say.
"My orders were to ask you a series of questions," he says tightly.
"My own soldiers had to be called in to help, which means my schedule is entirely disrupted. I’ve already had one of my best men sent in here with lacerations on his face. Filthy cons like you don’t know how to treat our military boys." She shoves my face away in disgust and turns her back on me.
"My son will run for the Elector’s position in late spring." The Elector smiles at Anden, who bows.
"Nah. I got this a long time ago." He hesitates, then decides against saying anything more about it.
"Neither of us is sick yet," she says.
"Never seen her in my life."
"Never seen him before."
"Nice of you to ask." I’m amazed she even cares.
"Nice of you to say so."
"Nice to hear something honest." I can’t break away from his stare.
"Nice try. You’re not going anywhere until you graduate and get assigned to your own patrol."
"No big deal." But I grit my teeth even as I say it.
"No goddy clue. You cost me a thousand Notes."
"No kidding. He said he wants this person to meet him at midnight, tonight, at the ten-second place."
"No matter. Time for you to get in a jeep. Back to headquarters." She makes a quick motion with her hand, and Thomas barks out an order.
"No offense. Just thought I’d ask. And how do you know I don’t work for someone else? Don’t you think you’re giving the government too much credit?"
"No way I’m taking you to see any other Patriots," she says.
"No, sir."
"No, stay with us!"
"No, you didn’t. You got a perfect score."
"No, you’re not."
"No," I snap.
"No," she said.
"No. I don’t think so." I lower my voice until it’s barely a whisper.
"No. I’m okay." I peer in the open window at my mother’s house, then catch my first glimpse of a familiar face.
"No. Tess was down there because she likes seeing the action and she’s a little nearsighted. I like watching from a distance."
"No. They’re using him. They’re using him." His voice grows quiet.
"No. They’ve tried recruiting me before, but I prefer to work alone."
"No. You take care of me the best," I murmured.
"No." It’s John’s voice.
"Nonsense, my dear," he says.
"Nope, no luck. I’ll try some public places tomorrow."
"Nope."
"Not a problem, Captain." The dean secretary waves her hand dismissively.
"Not good," he says.
"Not so loud, cousin." My voice comes out in a whisper through dry lips.
"Not sure. A boy and girl helped me get out of the Skiz chaos. The girl bandaged up my wound. I’m staying with them temporarily until I can walk better."
"Not that. The way you looked at him. Don’t you have any brains at all? You never look at an officer like that, do you understand? You want to get us all killed?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"Not yet," John replies.
"Nothing more than a wounded shoulder? Maybe you should’ve double-checked." There’s a deep fury in her eyes, something that takes me aback.
"Nothing," I reply.
"Now I’m giving you a chance to save yours. Turn yourself in. Please. No one will get hurt."
"Now stop nagging me."
"Of course not." The Girl leans back and carefully lies down.
"Of course," I mutter.
"Of course. You’re fifteen. You went fourteen floors up a—" He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and steadies himself.
"Oh, Iparis," she replies.
"Oh, come on, that’s not all. I can tell you’d give anything to take a swing at me. So do it. I dare you."
"Oh, is that all you’re worried about? A bunch of renegade Trial takers who managed to escape their deaths? Those ten-year-olds are a dangerous bunch, yeah? I’m telling you that you got your facts wrong. I didn’t kill your brother. But you killed my mother. You might as well have held the gun to her head!"
"Oh, sure, even kids. It’s easy." I look at her.
"Oh, sure. You killed my mother. You can imagine I’m dying to help you out."
"Oh, that was the other reason I wanted to see you last night. I wasn’t supposed to tell you—it’s supposed to be a surprise."
"Oh, trust me. I know."
"Oh." A pause.
"Oh." I didn’t know it back then, but now I can tell that Metias felt like he had shot me when he killed that little girl.
"Oh? What’s that?"
"Okay, Iparis," she says to the Girl.
"Okay, genius." Kaede laughs, a little too sarcastically.
"Okay, then. Sorry to hear it. Feel better soon." Another pause.
"Okay," I whisper.
"Okay," she replies.
"Okay," she whispered, so softly that I could barely hear her.
"Okay. We’ll have people over here twenty-four seven."
"Okay."
"One last time. Please."
"One more thing," Day whispers as I stand.
"One night a week, remember? Just let me check up on them one night a week."
"One of your headaches coming on?"
"Only once. A long time ago." Some of his dark hair falls across his face.
"Open up!"
"Open up," a man calls out.
"Open your eyes again and look at me."
"Or do you have skills to offer, as I’m sure you do—"
"Order! Please, order in the crowd." The judge’s voice crackles over the JumboTrons’ loudspeakers, but the people continue to shout, and soldiers push back against them.
"Ouch," I mutter as I rub my forehead.
"Over there," he snaps.
"Pat him down."
"Patched things up a bit. You’ll be able to stand for your execution." He pauses.
"People may find it easier to trust me." We’re standing in front of a window in Batalla Hall’s north wing, watching Commander Jameson at work on the other side of the glass.
"Perhaps he found me attractive. But most likely it was because he drank some cheap wine. I went with it. Didn’t want to compromise the mission after coming so far."
"Plague patrol," a voice calls out.
"Plague’s popped up in the Zein sector this time."
"Please continue."
"Please what?" Then I sighed, embarrassed by my irritation.
"Please, please."
"Please," she said.
"Please. Just let me in. I want to see you."
"Poor Eden." After a pause, she continues.
"Poor boy. You truly believed you could break out of a military stronghold, didn’t you?"
"Probably a month or more. We’ll find plague medicine before then, I’m sure of it."
"Protesters in front of Batalla Hall," she snaps.
"Protesters?"
"Put your hands up."
"Really? You think so?"
"Really?" I shake my head.
"Release the doctor!" he shouts.
"Ridiculous. Couldn’t the commander pick a less dramatic moment for this nonsense?"
"Right," he mutters.
"Right. We’ve already deployed. See you in a few."
"See for yourself."
"See that pitiful bunch?"
"See you later, Ms. Iparis," he says, tipping his hat.
"See? Evidence." He pressed it into her palm.
"Seen this girl before?"
"She always drags me past the bars around here and makes us wait nearby while she listens to whatever anthems they’re playing inside. I don’t know. Must be a girl thing."
"She did you a favor by not assigning you to the warfront. . . . She’ll be upset you’re skipping. Won’t she mark it on your record? You don’t want to be kicked out like some street con."
"She must’ve come in handy when she fixed up your leg."
"She prefers for me to escort you."
"She says to stay put and wait for her command."
"She seems very fragile," I whisper.
"She’s a bartender from the rim of Alta and Winter. Just a recent acquaintance."
"She’s just one less slum con to deal with."
"She’s looking forward to your execution, Mr. Wing. I can guarantee you that."
"Shoot, and you’ll hit him instead," I call out to the soldiers from beneath my handkerchief.
"Should be hard for any patrol to track us in this weather." I pause to watch him.
"Show me." The doctor lifts a trembling hand and pulls the fridge door open.
"Sir! Sir!" John darts in front of me and holds his hands out to the policeman.
"Sit back down," he says.
"Six minutes," I whisper back to my brother.
"So John turned back. He bought us time and he went back to the hall. They thought he was you. He even wore your blindfold. They grabbed him and took him back to the firing squad yard." She shakes her head again.
"So soon?"
"So tell me," I decide to ask.
"So there is, Daniel." He glanced up at our mother.
"So they are."
"So you want revenge for your brother’s death or something? Gonna turn your back on the Republic for Day’s sake?"
"So your brother’s friend murdered him, huh?" Kaede lets out a low whistle.
"So, Girl," I say after a while, "thanks for your help today. For Tess, I mean. Where’d you learn to fight like that? You broke Kaede’s arm without even trying."
"So, tell me," he whispers.
"So. Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll continue with my patrol’s projects. For you, let’s test out your skills with a practice run. Show me how you’d track Day. Maybe you’ll get somewhere. Maybe not. But you’re a set of fresh young eyes, and if you impress me, I’ll promote you to be a full agent on this patrol. I’ll make you famous—the youngest agent out there."
"So. You’re Day, then."
"Some chili for you. It’s not the best, but it’ll fill you up. I’ll bring you some bread, too." Before either of us can say anything, he hurries out of the room with the rest of his groceries.
"Some of it." Tess helps me back down before leaning her elbows on my bed.
"Some of our tech used to be better," he’d tell me.
"Some of the stuff we saved up this week. It’ll make for a nice celebration once they pass the inspection." I dig through the little pile of goodies inside the bundle, then hold up a used pair of goggles.
"Some years ago, we caught a young renegade who had a great deal in common with you. Bold and brash, stupidly defiant, just as inconvenient. He tried to escape before his execution date too. Do you know what happened to him, Mr. Wing?" She reaches over, puts her hand on my forehead, and pushes me backward until my head presses against the wall.
"Somebody has to keep an eye on you." Two years younger than me—although sometimes she sounds old enough to be my caretaker.
"Someday you’ll die in a worse way than he did," I snap back.
"Someone needs to save Eden. So John saved you. As any brother would."
"Someone tampered with the security cams down here, so we have no footage." He taps his gun.
"Someone you care about will wish you’d come out to greet me." I look at the time on my goggles.
"Something bothering you?"
"Something to be said for writing my journals by hand, eh?"
"Something’s wrong," I whisper.
"Sometimes, Commander. Am I in trouble? Did they expel me?"
"Soon the plague will have blown through, and you can come back to visit. We have more than enough money for two train tickets."
"Sore loser, huh? Here, I’ll make you feel better. I’ll tell you all about what it was like. Hearing about it is the next best thing, isn’t it?"
"Sore," I mutter.
"Sorry to hear it, Day," Tess says.
"Sorry to hear it. You should try to swing more from your arm and not from your wrist."
"Sorry t’hear it."
"Sorry!" I shout.
"Sorry," I mutter.
"Sorry," he murmurs.
"Sorry," she replies.
"Sounds like you’re a fan of Lincoln, yeah?"
"Stay back!"
"Stay back, June!"
"Stay back, Tess," she says.
"Stay here," I whisper.
"Still don’t see them?" Tess whispers.
"Stop crying. I’m not going to hurt you." I knelt down beside her.
"Stop her!"
"Stop, please!" John rushes back to the policeman and stands firmly between the two of us.
"Street brats," he mutters.
"Such an honor to meet you, sir. It is my pleasure, Elector, to do what I can for our country." I’m amazed by how calm my voice is.
"Surely breaking a rule once in a while is tolerable, especially if you’re doing it to beef up your skills for the Republic’s sake. Victory against the Colonies. Right?"
"Suspended for a week? Do you want to explain this to me?" he demands.
"Take good care of her. She’s worth it."
"Take him away," she calls out to the soldiers holding me.
"Take him down to the hospital wing and get that leg of his fixed. Give him some food and water. He won’t last the night otherwise."
"Talk to me," he says.
"Tanagashi is pretty far away. You came all this way to see a Skiz fight?"
"Tanagashi sector. I mean, I used to live there."
"Tell me about what might have happened here, cadet," Commander Jameson demands.
"Tell me what happened. Why did he do it?" I shout.
"Tell me where my brothers are."
"Tell me where to get the plague cures."
"Tell me," I say, pausing to look at Thomas.
"Tell them—"
"Tell your boys outside to open the door," I say to the soldier I’m holding hostage.
"Tell your men to stand down," I shout, scrambling out of his grasp.
"Ten-second place?"
"Terrace accident. I tend cows."
"Tess loves music," he replies.
"Tess," I say.
"Tess. Is she your younger sister?"
"Tess?" I squint into the darkness.
"Thank you again, sir, for letting us stay here."
"Thank you for coming," I say.
"Thank you for finding this." I wonder if she can hear the sadness in my voice.
"Thank you for giving it back to me."
"Thank you for your cooperation," he begins.
"Thank you for your help," Metias says to the dean secretary.
"Thank you, my dear. That will be all. Please, Agent Iparis, enjoy yourself tonight. I hope we have a chance to meet again." Then he turns away.
"Thank you, sir," I say.
"Thank you," she murmurs to Tess.
"Thanks, I guess," I whisper.
"Thanks, but I prefer to work alone."
"Thanks, cousin, but I don’t drink. I like to stay alert."
"Thanks, cousin," I say.
"Thanks," I say.
"Thanks," I whisper.
"Thanks," he whispers.
"Thanks. But I’ll be fine. We’ll execute Day tomorrow, and I’ll feel much better afterward. Like you said. Won’t be long now."
"Thanks. When I feel better, I’m tracking Kaede down."
"Thanks. You too."
"Thanks. You’re very kind."
"Thanks." He doesn’t look back at me, but I can see his lips tilt up at the edges.
"Thanks." I blink water out of my eyes.
"That dress polishes you up like a fresh snow blossom."
"That imperfection was a gift from the Republic."
"That imperfection?"
"That is—I mean, you look well for the circumstances, given all that’s happened."
"That kid made it as far as the stairwell before we got him. When his execution date came, the court granted me permission to kill him personally instead of putting him in front of the firing squad." Her hand tightens on my forehead.
"That must be some sort of record. Not that, you know, you’re supposed to do it."
"That should heal soon, if it doesn’t get infected. But you might want to rest a couple of days. You can stay with us."
"That sounds vague. Did I show up on the security cams? Did Commander Jameson put you up to this?"
"That was fun."
"That was when you began your little crime spree on the streets, I guess. Five years. Seems like you grew used to getting away with things. Started letting your guard down, didn’t you? Did you ever work for anybody? Did anybody ever work for you? Were you ever affiliated with the Patriots?"
"That will be all, Mr. Wing," he says in a low voice.
"That will be all, Mr. Wing."
"That’ll do for now."
"That’s John!" I shout over the rain.
"That’s a nasty one, but nothing that can’t heal. I’ll try to find some goat milk for you in the morning. It’s good for you. Until then you’ll just have to spit on it. It’ll help with infections."
"That’s better." The Girl lowers her gun a little.
"That’s good." I study his face.
"That’s irrelevant."
"That’s it. We’re done here."
"That’s nonsense. The medics checked him already."
"That’s not a police dog, kid." Even now, her demeanor is unflinching.
"That’s odd," I say out loud.
"That’s our guy. And I’m going to get him."
"That’s really something," I continue.
"That’s ridiculous."
"That’s right. My brother."
"That’s the guy. I don’t think he’s very happy that I got a kiss from you and he hasn’t. So he interrogated me about the Patriots. Apparently Kaede’s a Patriot. Small world, huh?"
"That’s where he made his getaway," I say.
"That’s why I brought this. There are two hundred thousand Notes in there, minus what I handed you earlier. A decent fortune. It’s my reward money for capturing Day, and it should be enough payment for your assistance." My voice lowers.
"That’s why they wanted Eden, right?" he whispers.
"The Colonies want our land," the ads declare.
"The boy is John! What was he doing out there, out in the yard?"
"The captain named Metias."
"The commander informed me that they’ll sentence Day tomorrow morning," Thomas says a moment later, after we finish greeting a captain from the Emerald sector.
"The night of your tenth birthday? What were you doing in the lab? You were supposed to be on your way to the labor camps."
"The pauses in your keystrokes are off. You’re favoring your left hand."
"The people you’ll see are suspected of Patriot involvement."
"The prisoner in 6822. Cut off his fingers."
"The reception must have been bad, because I had it on. It was pretty windy last night."
"The rest of you, keep your rifles on him," he says over his shoulder.
"The second knife is stuck in the wall of the stairwell."
"The sooner the better, right?" The sudden edge in his voice startles me.
"Then fetch me that chicken too," the policeman says.
"Then send for extra troops. I want backup when Day shows up to protect his family." I remember the way Day had crawled under the floorboards.
"Then you must be responsible for stealing sixteen thousand five hundred Notes from there as well."
"There wasn’t enough time." She pauses.
"There will be other soldiers. But who says they can’t be Patriots in disguise?"
"There’s no time to explain." I try to ignore the expression in her eyes.
"There’s no time to run."
"There’s someone who wants to meet you."
"There’s something brewing," one of the police says.
"There’s something in your vest pocket, Dad," I said.
"These gentlemen tell me great things about you. That you’re a prodigy. And more important, you’ve put one of our most irritating criminals behind bars. So I thought it fitting that I congratulate you in person. If we had more patriotic young people like you, with minds as sharp as yours, we’d have won the war against the Colonies long ago. Wouldn’t you agree?" He pauses to look around at the others, and everyone murmurs in agreement.
"They are no longer your concern." She takes several steps forward.
"They came just for him?"
"They didn’t do anything . . . and Eden . . . he’s not a lab rat, you know." He’s silent for a minute.
"They don’t," I reply.
"They found another one," Tess says.
"They haven’t eaten dinner. They haven’t sat down by the table in hours." I shift and stretch out my bad knee.
"They injected something into one of my eyes that stung like wasp poison. They also cut up my knee. With a scalpel. Then they force-fed me some kind of medicine, and the next thing I knew . . . I was lying in a hospital basement with a bunch of other corpses. But I wasn’t dead." He laughs again.
"They want an execution? They’ll get one." He starts running away from us.
"They want to prevent whatever new disease he’s spreading."
"They want what they don’t have. Don’t let them conquer your homes! Support the cause!"
"They were good knives."
"They’re attacking the street police."
"They’re coming for Eden. You have to hide him."
"They’re here!" she shouts.
"They’re not dispersing them, Thomas. They’re trapping them in."
"They’re using him. . . ." His eyes grow heavy.
"They’ve lost their minds." We’re standing on the raised platform outside Batalla Hall with his entire patrol facing the crowd in front of us, while another of Commander Jameson’s patrols is pushing people back with shields and batons.
"Think about it this way. How do they know what vaccines to give you every year? They always work. Don’t you find it strange that they can make vaccines that match the new plague that’s popped up? How can they predict which vaccine they’ll need?"
"Think he’s Day?" Thomas asks.
"Think you can get away with something like that, boy?" he shouts.
"Think you’re a star, don’t you?" he says.
"This is Daniel, my little brother. He didn’t mean it."
"This is a dangerous thing to own," she whispered.
"This is my son, Anden. Today is his twentieth birthday, so I thought I would bring him with me to this lovely celebration."
"This is pocket change to the Patriots," she says after she finishes.
"This isn’t college. You don’t question my actions."
"Thomas!" I want to say more, but at that instant, shots ring out from both the roofs and the platform.
"Thomas, I’ll see you tomorrow."
"Thomas," I whisper, "I found him."
"Thomas. Take him back to his cell. And put some qualified guards on his watch, for once." She releases my chin and rubs her gloved hands together.
"Thomas." I tap him and point up to the roofs.
"Thomas?"
"Those street cons are all the same," Thomas goes on, echoing what I said to Day in his cell.
"Time for a few confessions. Were you responsible for the break-in at the Arcadia bank?"
"Tipped him off about whom you work for, didn’t you? Well, it’s your first time on your own. I have the recordings at any rate. See you back at Batalla Hall." Her rebuke stings a little.
"Tired?"
"To see the results of their mutated plague virus? Why else?"
"Today?"
"Tonight. Isn’t it great? You won’t have to agonize through another whole day."
"Try as hard as you want."
"Twelve hundred Notes can’t buy you this vial. What else do you have? Valuables? Jewelry?"
"Twelve hundred Notes."
"Unchain him," I order one of the soldiers.
"Under the porch," she whispers.
"Vendors always trust a girl more, especially one like you."
"Very clever of you."
"Very funny."
"Very well." I let myself think over my plans again, details of which have been running through my mind ever since I met Kaede last night.
"Wait for my word—no one’s to be harmed—" I start to say, but the static cuts off.
"Wait." With great effort, I swallow my temper and clear my throat.
"Waiting room’s on the left. Have a seat."
"Walk better?" Thomas’s voice rises.
"Was in a fight," I say, panting.
"Wasting a day of your life watching me sit in a cell. What fun."
"We have real Tsingtao beer today," he murmurs.
"We have to brace ourselves for the worst, Mom. In case Eden . . ."
"We haven’t caught the guy," he admits after a moment.
"We lost the Skiz bet, so there’s no money left for food right now."
"We met the Elector himself. Can you believe it? I call that a successful night. I’m glad you and Commander Jameson convinced me to wear something nice."
"We need to leave the city," she says.
"We should change those bandages." He gets up and, without disturbing Tess, deftly pulls a roll of white wraps from her pocket.
"We should leave the city for a couple weeks, yeah?" She tries to keep her voice calm, but the fear is there.
"We shouldn’t have traveled so much today—but y’know, putting some distance between you and the Skiz folks wasn’t such a bad idea."
"Well . . . can’t be any more dangerous than your crazy hospital break-in, yeah?"
"Well done, Agent Iparis." June gives her a quick salute.
"Well, I don’t want to stick around in here if it is some weird mutated plague. Call for a bio team. Let’s have him brought to the medical ward cells." The other soldier nods, then raps on the door.
"Well, I know I’ll be monitoring the soldiers in the square." Thomas keeps his attention on the rotating commercials (our side currently shows a bright, gaudy Is your child ’s Trial coming up? Send him to Ace Trials for a free tutoring consultation!).
"Well, I stopped by your apartment in the middle of the night. I knocked for a long time, but you didn’t answer. It sounded like Ollie was there, so I knew you didn’t go to the track. Where were you?"
"Well, I’ll say." He lets out a laugh that makes me cringe.
"Well, I’m sorry you lost your chicken," I blurt out.
"Well, be careful." Thomas pauses for a moment.
"Well, don’t kill them," he murmurs.
"Well, go on. What about the square?"
"Well, many of them are here for a meeting of some sort. But they did make a point of stopping by the lab."
"Well, what did you have in mind?"
"Well, you heard Mr. Graham," she says.
"Well, you’re not going to go that long again with your mike off, you hear me?" he says.
"Were you responsible for the death of a city patrol captain during a raid on the Los Angeles Central Hospital? Did you steal medical supplies and break into floor three?"
"Were you responsible for vandalizing the Department of Intra-Defense two years ago, and destroying the engines of two warfront airships?"
"We’d be here all night if we kept negotiating. See how much faster that was? Much more persuasive to our target." She looks away.
"We’ll be on our way by then." Tess picks up a bottle of something clear—alcohol, I guess—and wets the edge of the bandage with it.
"We’ll be there, if you can make it."
"We’ll see," I finally say.
"We’ll see. Guess I’m picky like that."
"We’ll stay here for the night." I look at the Girl.
"We’ll stay here until late morning," he says as he works.
"We’re in Valencia. On the outskirts. The Patriots took us as far as they were willing. They’ve moved on to Vegas." June blinks water from her eyes.
"We’re moving up Day’s execution time."
"We’re not going to make it." Between us, Day has faded into a semiconscious state.
"We’re not keeping this in our house."
"We’re taking him alive!"
"We’re very grateful," I say.
"We’ve always wanted Day. He’d make a perfect Runner for us, y’know? But we’re not in the business of doing good deeds. We’re professionals, we have a long agenda, and it doesn’t involve charity projects." Tess opens her mouth to protest, but Kaede motions for her to stay quiet.
"We’ve tried a variety of tactics to catch Day in the past, but none of them have worked," Jameson told me just before she sent me home.
"We’ve tried your tactic. Now let’s try mine." She turns to the dark-haired captain and nods once.
"What . . . what happened? Are you all right? How did you get me out of Batalla Hall? Do they know you helped me?"
"What I’m trying to say . . . yesterday, when they dragged me out of my cell, I saw that red zero stamped on some double doors in Batalla Hall. I’ve seen numbers like it in Lake too. Why would they show up in the poor sectors? What are they doing out there—what are they pumping into the sectors?"
"What a beautiful boy you are." She gives me a smile laced with poison.
"What a joke! Poor little rich girl’s fallen in love with the Republic’s most famous criminal. And it’s even worse since you’re the reason he’s there in the first place. Right?"
"What a pleasure to formally meet you. I was beginning to worry that I’d never get the chance."
"What a shame. You sure you don’t wanna beer to go with that? Must hurt."
"What a waste of a good soldier." Then she shakes her head and leaves.
"What about our plan? Commander, with all due respect, we didn’t discuss killing civilians."
"What about you? Were you in the crowd?"
"What am I doing?" I whisper to Ollie, who tilts his head at me from where he’s lying on the couch.
"What are they doing with Eden?"
"What are they doing?" My voice rises.
"What are they going to do?"
"What are you doing here? Tell me what happened." He tries to steady his voice, but he knows something’s terribly wrong—something so serious that it forced me to reveal myself to my entire family.
"What are you going to do about it?"
"What are you talking about? I failed my Trial."
"What are you trying to say?"
"What are your symptoms?"
"What did you do?"
"What did you hear the first time?"
"What did you say to him?"
"What do I want?" I ask him.
"What do you mean by that?"
"What do you mean, they’re coming for my family? How do you know this?"
"What do you mean?"
"What do you mean?" Day says.
"What do you want for the cure, cousin?"
"What does it matter? I’m here now."
"What else can I tell you? Did they do at least another pass on the inventory check? Are you sure something’s missing?"
"What exactly does the Republic want with that boy? Why take him to the hospital lab?"
"What fun you are, my beautiful boy."
"What happened to your eye, kid?"
"What happened?"
"What happened?" she asks.
"What have you done with Eden?"
"What if you get sick?"
"What is it?"
"What is it?" June replies.
"What kind of minor injury is this?"
"What makes ya think I fight?"
"What makes you think I’m a Patriot?"
"What makes you think that, Ms. Iparis?"
"What part of Lake are you from? Are you from another sector?" She studies the Girl’s wound.
"What the hell is this!" She continues to shout at her soldiers.
"What the hell were you thinking? Did you know you’d wandered right off campus?"
"What was that?" she blurts out.
"What was your Trial score?"
"What were you doing at my door in the middle of the night? Was it anything urgent? I didn’t miss something from Commander Jameson, did I?"
"What will we do with it?"
"What?" He stops wringing out his hair.
"Whatever," she says.
"What—" I begin to say, until I see John pull the blindfold off of Day’s neck.
"What’d you bring them?"
"What’d you say to him?" I ask Commander Jameson.
"What’ll it be?" she asks.
"What’s Commander Jameson telling you?" I ask Thomas.
"What’s going on? Where are you?"
"What’s wrong with these people?" I ask Thomas.
"What’s wrong?" His face turns pale at my expression.
"What’s wrong?" one of them snaps at me.
"What’s your name?" Commander Jameson asks him again.
"When June returns to campus, she’ll be on her best behavior."
"When you stand out there," John continues in a hoarse voice, "keep your chin up, all right? Don’t let them get to you."
"When you were out with Day in Lake sector, did he kiss you?"
"Where am I? Are you all right?"
"Where am I?"
"Where are my brothers?" My voice comes out as a hoarse croak.
"Where are my brothers?" he whispers.
"Where are they going?" she asks.
"Where are you going? Can I come with you?"
"Where did you find this?" Mom asked.
"Where will you go?" the boy asks.
"Where’s my brother?"
"Who did this to you?"
"Who do you think gave him that scar?"
"Who do you think is looking for you?" she asks after a while.
"Who knows what the crowd might do. They’re probably already gathering. As for you—you’ll probably be inside. Leading Day to the yard. Commander Jameson will tell us more when it’s time."
"Who said anything about you, sweetheart?" He takes off his vest, folds it neatly, and places it on the ground next to one of the trash bin’s wheels.
"Who would want to hurt Metias?" I ask him.
"Whoever hit him with this knife either stabbed him from close range or has an incredibly strong throwing arm. Right-handed." I run my fingers along the blood-caked handle.
"Whoever it was survived a two-and-a-half-story jump and still had enough strength to escape."
"Whose house are we in?"
"Who’s next?"
"Why did you save me?" she asks.
"Why didn’t she just call me?" I ask.
"Why do you ask?"
"Why do you care?"
"Why do you need so much money?"
"Why would the Republic give you those wounds, Day? Why would they want to damage someone who got a perfect fifteen hundred on his Trial score?"
"Why would the warfront be interested in Day’s little brother?"
"Why wouldn’t I be? You’ve probably lived on the streets as long as I have. You should know the answer to that, yeah?"
"Why? You afraid of me or something? Only brave enough to shoot people’s mothers?"
"Why?" My voice starts to rise.
"Why’d he do it?"
"Why’s he helping us?" I ask Tess in a low voice.
"Wipe some of that filth off your face. And if you touch me again, I’ll fill you with bullets."
"Withhold water from him for the rest of the day and move him to a cell at the end of the hall. Maybe he’ll be less temperamental in the morning." It’s weird to see the soldier salute someone so young.
"Won’t be long now."
"Wow, you’re a risk-taker. But your fighting is pretty impressive. I bet you don’t have much trouble on your own."
"Wrong answer. Let me be clear. You give me another wrong answer, and I’ll make sure you can hear your brother John’s screams all the way from here. You give me a third wrong answer, and your little brother, Eden, can share the same fate."
"Ya look like fun." Tess looks around, bewildered.
"Yeah . . . but she’s tougher than she looks."
"Yeah, I heard about that. There’s a bunch of people trying to find him."
"Yeah, close enough. It was really Tess I wanted to keep safe with my dust bomb, you know."
"Yeah, guess so."
"Yeah, is that what you told Metias?"
"Yeah, that’s a sad story. Tell me what the hell this has t’do with the Patriots."
"Yeah, you looked pretty awful."
"Yeah," I say to Thomas.
"Yeah. I’ve never seen Commander Jameson look so proud of any of her soldiers before. You’re the Republic’s golden girl." But then he falls right back into silence.
"Yeah. That’s what you say every time, Junebug. Is Drake not keeping your brain busy enough? If not, then I don’t know what will."
"Yeah. You’ve been coming here every night this week."
"Yes I do. What could possibly take this long?"
"Yes, Captain," the nurse says.
"Yes, Commander," I manage to say.
"Yes, I’m aware of that," Metias interrupts, looking at me out of the corner of his eye.
"Yes, June. I twisted my wrist yesterday in a game of kivaball."
"Yes, ma’am."
"Yes, ma’am." As several of them hurry to click off the cameras, I see her take out two knives sheathed at her belt.
"Yes, ma’am." The soldier clicks his heels together before shouting a dismissal to the others.
"Yes, ma’am." Thomas salutes again, then starts barking out orders.
"Yes, ma’am." Thomas salutes and steps forward.
"Yes, sir," I say.
"Yes," I reply steadily, "he did."
"Yes," I say.
"Yes. No doubt about it."
"Yes. Rioters." Commander Jameson grabs my face.
"Yes."
"Yes." I look over to the elevator, where a new rotation of guards has just arrived.
"Yes." I nod at him.
"Yes." I pause.
"Yes?"
"You and I may have the same enemy," I say.
"You are very kind, sir."
"You bet big, don’t you? Sorry about that. She made me angry." She shifts.
"You call this a republic? You kill your own people and torture those who used to be your brothers?" I roll my eyes at that.
"You called for me, Commander," I say.
"You can ask."
"You can get out through the back door. Straight into the hall, on your left."
"You can see how well I did on my own today." She shakes her head.
"You can stay longer, if all you’re going to do is wander the streets somewhere else. I could use a good fighter like you. We can make quick cash in Skiz fights and split our food supplies. We’ll both do better."
"You can thank your captain friend for this."
"You can’t just leave like that!"
"You can’t stay there forever," the commander shouts up at me.
"You can’t trace or tag them online," he always said.
"You did!" My father clapped John on the back and shook his hand as if he were a man.
"You did? You’re the prodigy with the perfect score?"
"You didn’t bring your earpiece with you. I tried calling you but just got static."
"You didn’t do it," he repeats back at me.
"You didn’t have to stand up for me," I snap.
"You didn’t tell John what happened, did you?"
"You do the honors."
"You don’t have to come. Take a different route to the warfront and meet me there. We can decide on a rendezvous point. Better just to risk one of us than both."
"You don’t have to sit here with me, you know," I said to him after the pledge finished.
"You don’t have to talk me into it. But I’m coming with you."
"You don’t have to wake me up or say good-bye or anything." My eyelids were growing heavy, but she stayed wide awake, staring unblinkingly at me, even as I fell asleep.
"You don’t know that."
"You don’t like Chian?"
"You don’t need my help. You’re lying," she says.
"You don’t wanna see this."
"You don’t want two infected knees. I’ll help you clean them up and then you can be on your way again. You can have some of my food too. Pretty good deal, right?"
"You don’t? Where are your parents?"
"You followed me last night." I tell myself that I should be angry—but I don’t feel anything except confusion.
"You found it at the hospital that night, didn’t you? That’s how you recognized me when you finally found me—I must’ve reached for it."
"You get right to the point."
"You got that right."
"You guys must be loving this," I say after a while.
"You had it," I whisper.
"You have a right to be suspicious of me," I say.
"You have any tracking gear?" she says.
"You hit it too far," I protest.
"You like answering all my questions with your own questions?"
"You live close by?" I asked her.
"You look lovely, June."
"You look terrible."
"You managed to pass your Trial," I say.
"You may claim no affiliation with them, but perhaps some have crossed your path. And perhaps you’d like to help us find them."
"You might catch the plague down here."
"You might have a crack in one of your ribs, but definitely no breaks. You should heal quickly enough. Anyway, the man didn’t ask our names and so I didn’t ask his. Best not to know. I told him why you got yourself injured like this. I think it reminded him of his son."
"You must be Agent Iparis." His lips tug upward at my stunned expression, but there is little warmth in his smile.
"You must be as thrilled as I am to meet again. Call it an act of extreme kindness that I requested your leg be bandaged up," she snaps.
"You must be exhausted today. You’d better tell Commander Jameson, if you don’t want her to work you too hard."
"You need backup. Be reasonable. If something happens to you along the way, how will I know you’re in trouble?"
"You need more time," John says.
"You pulled a close one there—closest one yet. If I hadn’t found someone to take us in, I don’t think you would’ve made it."
"You really scared me today," he says.
"You should go find her," I say.
"You should have taken me with you," I whisper to him.
"You should leave now," he whispers.
"You should still be careful what you’re encouraging Ms. Iparis to do, especially with your parents gone."
"You still have time," Tess says to me.
"You sure you can make it by yourself?" she asks.
"You think I can keep that from him? Everyone’s heard about the break-in at the hospital by now, and John knows you’re hurt. He’s pretty angry about it."
"You think I did this?"
"You think the Republic is intentionally poisoning people? Day, you’re on dangerous ground."
"You think we go to labor camps if we fail? June, the only labor camps are the morgues in hospital basements."
"You threw everything away." I bring a hand up to touch her face, to wipe rain from her eyelashes.
"You try to walk in the light."
"You wait here. I’ll follow him. Keep low and stay quiet—someone will come back for you."
"You want a sip?" he asks me.
"You want your family to be safe. I understand that," she continues.
"You weren’t home last night."
"You won’t find it if you haven’t found it yet."
"You, there," he calls out.
"You. You’re just a kid—you never even went to college, you failed your Trial! How were you ever able to outsmart soldiers on the streets? How do you cause so much trouble?" She bares her teeth at me.
"Your Republic gave me that, too. On the same night I got my eye imperfection."
"Your Republic won’t last another decade. And all the better, too—once the Colonies take over your land, they’ll make better use of it than you have—"
"Your brother, Metias, is dead," she says.
"Your brother. I didn’t kill him—I couldn’t have. Unlike you trigger-happy trots, I don’t kill people."
"Your cloak knot. Don’t know what it is, but it sure doesn’t look civilian."
"Your entire life—your beliefs . . . Why would you do that for me?"
"Your face looks awful." There’s concern—and something else—in her expression.
"Your family had their door marked, didn’t they?"
"You’ll have your troops," he manages to say.
"You’ll need better reflexes than that if you want to pass your Trial’s physical tier."
"You’re a Republic soldier, and you turned Day in. Why should we trust you?"
"You’re a perceptive one, Girl," the boy says quietly.
"You’re a scary kid. So scare them. Okay? All the way until the end."
"You’re absolutely sure."
"You’re all dismissed for now. Tell your men to get some water and shade. And send an order up for your replacements to come early."
"You’re awake," he says to me.
"You’re awake."
"You’re being careful, right?" he asks.
"You’re brilliant," he says.
"You’re completely cracked. Listen to me, and listen to me good. All right? You never fight back. Ever. You do what the officers tell you, and you don’t argue with them." Some of the anger fades from his eyes.
"You’re delirious," I reply.
"You’re free. Get out of California while you can. They’ll keep hunting for us."
"You’re in Batalla Hall’s hospital wing. Agent Iparis ordered me to fix up your leg. Apparently we’re not allowed to let you die before your formal execution."
"You’re living a sweet life, you know. Tucked in a cozy apartment in some rich sector. You know if the Republic finds out you’ve been talking to me, they’ll put you in front of a firing squad. Same as Day."
"You’re lucky to have her with you." My eyes go to his leg.
"You’re lucky, then." I grow serious.
"You’re nearsighted. How can you see so much of what’s around you?"
"You’re not alone out there unless you choose to be."
"You’re not from the Lake sector, are you?"
"You’re not going to leave me too, are you? You’ll stay with me longer than Mom and Dad did?"
"You’re not going to take me in alive."
"You’re right," I say without missing a beat.
"You’re so kind," she says.
"You’re suicidal. You know how impossible this sounds?"
"You’re too late," she says.
"You’re very attractive."
"You’re very kind," I reply.
"You’re wasting your time," I call back to him.
"You’ve been knocked out for over two days. How are you feeling?"
"Yup," I murmur.
"—and to report any suspicious activity immediately to the street police or to the police headquarters closest to you. This officially concludes our sentencing."
"—by firing squad, to be carried out four days from today, on December twenty-seventh at six P.M., Ocean Standard Time, in an undisclosed location—"
"—from around the lake’s edge." The man tightens his gloves.
"—to be broadcast live across the city. Civilians are encouraged to stay vigilant for any possible criminal activity that may occur before and after the event—"
("The shutters on that building’s third-floor windows must’ve been scavenged from a rich sector. Solid cherrywood.")
(A serrated knife, just as I thought. Kaede is not a normal street beggar. She has the skills to get her hands on a nice weapon like that—which means she might be in the same line of business as Day. If I weren’t undercover, I’d arrest her right now and take her in for questioning.)
(Actually, she finds me.)
(Brass buttons, military boots, a blue pin on his sleeve. Which means he had disguised himself as a soldier, and we caught him near San Diego, the only city that requires everyone to wear those blue pins. I can tell what gave him away too. One of the brass buttons looks slightly flatter than those made in the Republic. He must have stitched on that button by himself—a button from an old Colonies uniform. Stupid. A mistake only a Colonies spy would make.)
(Can’t these street beggars stay a little farther from our jeep?)
(Eleven seconds so far. One hundred and nine seconds left before guns are functional again.)
(He’s discovered his gun is useless.)
(His accent’s from Ruby sector, and his uniform’s row of buttons are freshly polished. Pays attention to details.)
(I don’t know why, but she’s crazy good at this game.)
(I know why we’re down here now. They’ve discovered the missing electro-bomb that I gave to Kaede. Normally, inventory check wouldn’t happen until the end of the month. But Thomas must’ve had it done this morning.)
(Male. He has a light accent—he’s not from Oregon or Nevada or Arizona or New Mexico or West Texas or any other Republic state. Native Southern Californian. He uses the familiar term cousin, something Lake sector civilians often use. He’s close enough to have seen me put the vial away. He’s not so close that the speakers can catch his voice clearly. He must be on an adjacent block with a good vantage point—a high floor.)
(Ninety-seven seconds left. Thirty-three soldiers heading opposite me—twelve heading in my direction—some flat screens have gone dark—must be the power cut—others show pandemonium in the crowd outside—something’s falling from the sky into the square—money! The Patriots are raining money down from the roofs. Half the crowd’s fighting to get out of the square while the other half’s scrambling for the Notes.)
(Not his first time. He’s definitely kissed other girls before, and quite a few at that. He’s—he seems like he’s short of breath. . . . )
(Notes, not Republic gold. He robs the upper class but doesn’t have the ability to rob the extremely wealthy. He’s probably a one-man operation.)
(Perhaps fifteen stories tall, judging from how the buildings on the shore sit and how the land slopes from the shoreline. Approximately six stories should be underwater.)
(Six feet long, human; feet and limbs look intact under the cloth; definitely didn’t fall naturally like that, so someone had to lay him out.)
(So far, every Patriot we’ve hunted down has killed himself before getting taken in.)
(That’s what the clicking sound was. He’s rewired the speakers so he can talk to me without giving away his location.)
(The Patriots. The electro-bomb. They’ve set it off in the square. They came after all, right on schedule, right before Day is to enter the firing squad yard. Which means all the guns in this building should be disabled for exactly two minutes. Thank you, Kaede.)
(The alley is narrow. He could have found enough footholds to jump his way up the walls to the second or third floors—all while using the guards’ weapons against them. Probably got them to shoot at each other. Probably smashed through a window. That would’ve taken just a few seconds. What he did once he got inside, I have no idea.)
(There is a streak of black grease on his forehead, probably from his own index finger. Which means he just finished polishing his rifle earlier in the evening, and his patrol’s inspection is tomorrow.)
(They have blue stripes on their sleeves—soldiers back from the warfront, or soldiers rotating out to the warfront. They keep their guns by their sides, with both hands on the weapon.)
(Waiting room is empty; they’ve cleared out all patients; guards are clustered near the stairwell entrance; that’s probably where the crime scene starts.)
(We’re covering about 5 feet a second; 27 times 5 equals 135 feet. In 135 feet, guns will be reactivated. I can already hear soldiers’ boots in the corridors adjacent to ours, pounding on the floor. Probably searching for us. We need at least 23 more seconds to get to the doors before they catch us in this hall. They’ll shoot us dead long before we can get out.)
, the soldiers remove my shackles and unchain me from my prison wall.
------------------------------------–
0001 HOURS.
0100 HOURS.
0317 HOURS.
0625 HOURS.
0800 HOURS.
1.
1347 HOURS.
1912 HOURS.
2.
200,000 REPUBLIC NOTES FOR
2329 HOURS.
2340 HOURS.
26
318
3A
52°F.
64°F OUTSIDE.
72°F INDOORS.
78°F.
A CRACK OF LIGHTNING, AN EXPLOSION OF THUNDER, the sound of pounding rain.
A Republic agent is going to help me escape.
A Sunday afternoon.
A bad fall, maybe.
A beautiful mystery.
A bird on one side, a man’s profile on the other.
A bit of gel comes off on his glove.
A black mask covers my face and infrared goggles shield my eyes.
A body.
A bottle of nectar wine sits between us.
A breath.
A bright afternoon in Lake sector.
A bright streak of blood stains one thick strand of my hair, painting a dark red streak into it.
A clicking sound echoes from somewhere far away, and the cat sitting on the trash can makes a run for it.
A couple of soldiers try to help her, but she shoves them away.
A cracked thought hits me and I want to laugh.
A criminal, a fugitive.
A dagger.
A dark, long-sleeved shirt is tied around my waist.
A decades-old car rattles by.
A deep gash runs across her shoulder, staining her shirt with blood.
A deep scarlet rage flashes across his face.
A dirty pair of goggles—probably protection against bar fights—hangs around her neck.
A distant siren shakes me out of my sleep.
A dog’s wet nose nudges my hand.
A familiar voice sounds out above me.
A few are about the Patriots—this time for another bombing up in Sacramento that killed half a dozen soldiers.
A few cadets, eleven-year-olds with yellow stripes on their sleeves, linger on the steps outside an academy, the old and worn Walt Disney Concert Hall letters almost completely faded.
A few even celebrate, because the Republic gives them one thousand Notes as a condolence gift.
A few girls notice me and blush when I look at them.
A few heads peek out at us from the other houses along the street.
A few more shots ring out.
A few of the louder protesters are approached by street police, cuffed, and dragged away.
A few others are tapped for politics and Congress, and some are chosen to stay behind and teach.
A few screams echo from the crowd.
A few terraces still have animals grazing at this hour.
A full minute of static passes before I hear Thomas answer me.
A good place for Day and me to take shelter.
A grin breaks out on her face.
A group of protesters have streaked their hair scarlet, imitating the bloodstained lock Day had when he’d stood out here for his sentencing.
A gust of freezing air hits us.
A hand grabs my chin.
A horrible pain in my left leg keeps my eyes and cheeks moist with tears.
A huge cheer erupts.
A knife slips out from the bottom of her tank top and clatters to the ground.
A laugh bubbles out of my throat and turns into a coughing fit.
A layer of smoke hovers perpetually over the water’s edge.
A line of soldiers hoist their guns, then point them at the boy.
A lone medic truck pulls up behind the military jeeps.
A lot of them must hate me.
A loud crash rings out from our house.
A low growl rumbles in Ollie’s throat.
A man walks in, shaking dirty drops of rain from an umbrella.
A memory flashes through my mind.
A memory of my seven-year-old self launching the flaming snowball into the police headquarters flickers through my mind.
A misspelled word.
A moment later, I realize what she wants to show me and where we are walking.
A month, maybe?
A new pain stabs at my chest.
A noise comes from one end of the crowd.
A nurse is cleaning bloody equipment at the sink.
A nurse spots me first, just outside the main doors.
A pair of medics come out last.
A pair of street police.
A panicked person is a dead person.
A part of me recalls the way he saved me from the Skiz fight, that he had helped me heal this burning wound in my side, that his hands had been so gentle.
A part of me wants to apologize, but I’m too overwhelmed by what just happened, too angry or anxious or relieved.
A perfect time to nab me before other recruiters do.
A pop.
A pretty weapon like that doesn’t cost much on the market—480 Notes, less than a stove.
A projection comes up.
A response to a command.
A second confirmation of Metias’s death.
A second later, I bolt upright.
A second later, I hear a familiar voice.
A secret code.
A series of images begin to run through my mind.
A sharp pain in my stomach forces a gasp out of me.
A shiver runs down my spine.
A shower of sparks.
A shriek echoes from the other end of the street.
A sick feeling rises in my stomach.
A slight pause.
A slow grin spreads across his face.
A small black backpack strapped to my shoulders.
A small parcel of money with a proposition.
A small red number—a zero—printed in the same style as the ones I’d seen underneath the porch of our house and under the banks of our sector’s lake.
A soldier from the hallway ushers him outside, then quickly relocks the door.
A soldier must’ve hit him across the head, or maybe his leg is giving him trouble.
A soldier must’ve hit me with the butt of a rifle.
A spasm of pain shoots up my injured leg.
A splash of turquoise in the corner of the balcony catches my eye.
A stab wound.
A standard-issue military cap.
A street policeman approaches and tells me to stop loitering, to keep moving.
A sudden fear seizes me: my cap.
A teacher once reported you for sneaking into a restricted area of the library, looking for old military texts.
A terrible feeling builds up in my chest—I know where this is going.
A terrifying question emerges in my mind, a question I’m too afraid to bring up.
A thick, full-length cape made from some sort of rich velvet.
A thin black aviator jacket.
A third one is short, only a paragraph long, and complains about working two night shifts in a row.
A tiny white-gold brooch of the Republic seal is clipped on its bodice.
A tooth skids across the floor.
A trait from our father.
A universal joke, but she still laughs.
A video recap plays behind the headline.
A vine tattoo snakes down her neck and disappears into her corseted shirt.
A voice yells out, "He’s hit!"
A volley of sparks engulfs the infected woman.
A wave of noise hits me—the gurgling and hissing sound that Tess heard earlier.
A website.
A white page pops up.
A white stripe runs down the center of it, all the way to the floor.
AGAIN.
AGE/GENDER: 15/M; PREV.
ALL LOS ANGELES CIVILIANS REQUIRED TO
AND HINDERING THE WAR EFFORT
AT LEAST 80°F.
About an hour passes.
About the same age my brother was.
Above me I can hear furious voices coming from the third-floor window as the soldiers realize they’re going to have to double back into the laboratory to disable the alarm.
Absolutely not, Iparis.
After GC 1/1: Heap: 8/12 MB
After I’d escaped from the lab and developed the habit of watching my family from a distance, I occasionally saw John sitting at our dining room table with his head in his hands, sobbing.
After a few minutes, Metias continues in a calmer voice.
After a few minutes, he comes back on again.
After a moment, June takes my hand and holds it against her cheek.
After a moment, she tells the soldier to hold off.
After a while I get up and look through the peephole.
After a while, I fall back into a deep sleep.
After a while, I get out of bed, fill a glass with water, and wander over to my computer.
After a while, I hear his breathing grow steady and see his head droop, and I know he’s fallen asleep.
After a while, I lift my head to see what Eden’s drawing now.
After a while, I rise and join Tess and the Girl.
After a while, I sit at a table near the front of the room, facing the flower-strewn altar that’ll soon be occupied with a line of people reading their eulogies to my brother.
After a while, she hurries back inside to tend to Eden, who has started to cry.
After a while, the policeman rewraps the money and tucks it into his vest pocket.
After all, Commander Jameson had given me only a few minutes to analyze Metias’s body, and I’d used the time poorly—but how could I have concentrated?
After an eternity, the headache finally starts to fade.
After he does this a couple times, I realize that he must have some sort of wound on his upper arm that stretches painfully whenever he reaches too far up or down.
After ignoring their offers for a while, I stopped hearing from them.
After several minutes, the shaft dead-ends.
After several more minutes of flirting, I say good-bye to the bartender girl and leave.
After the celebration ends, Thomas escorts me back to my apartment without saying a word.
After the sentencing, Commander Jameson doesn’t let her soldiers take me back to my cell.
After what seems like an eternity, we step into an enormous main hall with a high ceiling.
Afternoon approaches.
Afternoon comes.
Again I picture the woman crumpled on the street in her own blood, then quickly shake the image away.
Again we pass the double doors with the red number—then several doors under heavy guard and still others with large glass panels.
Ah.
All I can picture are Tess’s hunched, narrow shoulders and wide eyes.
All I can see standing in front of me is a man with blood on his hands.
All around me the JumboTrons blare their colorful campaigns, the sound of their ads distorted and jolty from the city speakers.
All around us I see candlelight flickering to life from window to glassless window, and here and there the locals light small fires along the edges of alleys.
All except Metias.
All eyes are on me.
All my anger and fear and anxiety now zero in on the back of his head.
All my anxiety might be for nothing.
All my training would have me block his hand and pin it to the ground.
All of them come from the journals written in the last few months.
All the air squeezes out of my chest.
All the lights in this military sector are on.
All the mourners wear their best whites.
All the photos on this page are taken at an angle.
All this flies through my head in a second before I can stop it.
All three are making thumbs-up gestures.
Almost like the streak of grease that was on Thomas’s forehead when I first saw him that night.
Already I could see tears welling up in her eyes.
Already she has started to circle me, stalking me like prey.
Already the sun has blurred my vision and the world looks bathed in a haze of sparkling diamonds.
Already the whispers have started in the streets and dark alleys, rumors that Day has cheated death once again.
Although it’s covered up by his sleeve, I can see that a sizable circle of blood stains the cloth there.
Although my side still burns, the pain is a little duller and I can walk with less effort than yesterday.
Always 800-plus.
Am I dreaming?
Am I?
An ID tag dangles from her neck.
An alarm goes off as I burst through the stairwell door.
An alarm will sound any minute now.
An elaborate Canto knot holds the top of her robe firmly in place.
An enormous crowd has turned out to watch me, held back and patrolled by an almost equally large platoon of gun-wielding soldiers.
An escort on a street corner who slipped me a note.
An expression I’ve never seen before, even when I first met her on the streets.
An hour.
An infection must’ve set in.
An inferior child with bad genes is no use to the country.
An old memory struggles to resurface—a needle injected into one of my eyes, a cold metal gurney and an overhead light—but it vanishes as soon as it comes.
An orphan would be a huge inconvenience.
And I have a sudden fear that somehow, some way, what he said in the dream will come true.
And I have one good leg.
And I let myself cry.
And Mom.
And Tess.
And Thomas knows it.
And a gun.
And as for what Day told me ... my temper rises at the thought of it.
And behind the plague is the Republic itself.
And get away with it?
And he would’ve gotten 850 only if he left his entire written portion blank.
And him showing up is all I hope for tonight—a clue, a starting point, a narrower direction, something personal about this boy criminal.
And if I discover proof that someone else killed Metias, for whatever reason, then I have no reason to hate him at all.
And if I feel like my afternoon drills aren’t teaching me enough about how to climb walls while carrying weapons, then ... well, it wasn’t my fault I had to scale the side of a nineteen-story building with a XM-621 gun strapped to my back.
And if she was lying ... well, why would she lie about saving me?
And if that much money was involved, he certainly would have planned more thoroughly and known when the laboratory’s next shipment of plague medicine would arrive.
And if we can’t even catch him, how are we going to win the war?
And if you choose to rebel, bring me with you.
And it’ll take several more minutes before the soldier I’d grabbed realizes that his ID tag is missing.
And just when I think he’s lost the strength to respond, his voice comes out sounding even more insistent.
And much to my surprise, I actually found a report on our parents’ car accident.
And not only that, but she reminds me of someone.
And now yet another patrol has started chasing away the stragglers gathered outside the square, where the streets are too chaotic and narrow to protest properly.
And now, because of my idiocy, she has tracked me right to my family.
And she’d be forced to take the Trial because she never took it before.
And so every time an interesting new virus appears in the meat factories, the scientists take samples and craft them into viruses that can infect humans.
And standing in front of him, unmoving and unprotected, is the Girl.
And still others might just be out there because of morbid curiosity.
And that a young Republic soldier helped him do it.
And that was that.
And that’s when I remember, with a nauseating feeling, the pendant in my pocket.
And the Republic will be happy that they’ve made an example out of another criminal.
And the medic truck sirens, almost certainly headed for Figueroa and Watson, have come by just as Thomas promised they would.
And then I remember the Skiz fight and the knife and the boy who saved me.
And then John’s in the cell, flanked by two guards.
And then come the pages and pages of documents detailing Day’s past crimes.
And then smoke and sparks pour from the guns.
And then the soldiers part—we’re outside.
And then the time comes.
And then they hand out mandatory vaccinations to everyone but a few slum sectors.
And those are the kids that are expected to fail, the ones who don’t pay attention or don’t have the capacity to.
And what will the Elector do about it?
And whenever that happens, the news spreads all over campus.
And why should I?
And yet ... a part of me still wants to kiss her, no matter how cracked a move it might be.
And yet.
Anden follows in his wake.
Anden smiles at my lingering gaze, gives me a perfect bow, then takes my hand in his.
Anger boils up in my chest.
Anger flashes across June’s face.
Another breath.
Another is a small red number:
Another is about the celebration we had together when I scored a 1500 on my Trial.
Another photo pops up.
Another photo.
Another possible sponsor is the Patriots—but if Day had been working for them on this job, one of the Patriots would’ve drawn their signature flag (thirteen red and white stripes, with fifty white dots on a blue rectangle) on a wall somewhere near the crime scene by now.
Another prodigy—and not just an average one.
Another soldier glances at him.
Another spells out his first week in Commander Jameson’s patrol.
Another time it was a boy with black eyes and no hair at all.
Another time, he broke into a bank vault but left the four security guards at its back entrance untouched—although a bit stupefied.
Another voice sounds in my head.
Anything to stop this mind-numbing wait.
Apparently Day has some detailed knowledge of how government uniforms look.
Apparently Kaede is a Patriot.
Apparently she just wants to slap me around with it.
Apparently the sun hasn’t baked all the attitude out of him yet.
Are they dying because of me?
Are we doing the right thing by following our orders?
Arisna Whitaker, the dean secretary herself, is seated behind her desk, tapping on its glass—no doubt typing up my report.
As I approach the third-floor door, I tear the ID tag off my necklace and pause long enough to swipe it against the door’s reader.
As I follow, Thomas gives me a small smile.
As I’m dragged toward the elevators, I see several large monitors—something I pause to admire for a second, as I’ve never seen them in the Lake sector—broadcasting exactly what Commander Jameson just told us.
As I’m licking the last of the chili off my fingers, I hear a door close somewhere in the house and, moments later, footsteps rushing toward our room.
As Metias opens the door and steps inside, I can see some girls out in the hall stifling smiles behind their hands.
As for Thomas ... he rarely sounds so firm with me.
As for my lost pendant, well ... for an instant I’m glad that my mother can’t find out about this, because it would break her heart.
As for my mother ... I’m not strong enough to think about her right now.
As if I’ve never been wounded before.
As if from a great distance, I can see that Thomas is still speaking, gesturing with his hands, pulling me to him for a hug.
As if his mother’s body might still be lying there on the street.
As my eyes stay turned up toward the roofs, I notice Commander Jameson step out onto the top of Batalla Hall flanked by soldiers.
As night falls on the third to last day of my life, I hear more shouting and pandemonium coming from the monitors outside my cell.
As soon as I ask this question, I hear a door close, then footsteps in the room next to ours.
As we draw near, I can see the crisscrossed lines of yellow tape surrounding the bottom of the tower, the clusters of city patrol soldiers (red stripes on their sleeves, like Metias), as well as some photographers and street police, the black vans and medic trucks.
As you can imagine, this didn’t go over very well.
At 6:00 A.
At first Congress didn’t know what to do with the crazy viruses that kept developing down there and killing off entire factories of animals.
At first I can’t make out what the shapes are—they seem jumbled, littered in random patterns under his busy hand.
At first I think it might be a trick of the light, but I notice it again when we pass by a bakery and admire the loaves of bread.
At first I think it’s a part of the faint pattern on the knife, but these marks are on top of the blood.
At first she whimpered and started to crawl away, but when I didn’t move, she paused to stare at me.
At first there’s nothing.
At first, nothing happens.
At least I have a family to worry about.
At least I managed to get some medicine.
At least I’ll get to see something other than gray cell walls, if only for a little while.
At least Tess is safe.
At least according to the Republic.
At least all three of them are healthy enough to walk.
At least they’re both still alive.
At least twice a month, I see my Wanted poster flashed on the JumboTrons scattered throughout downtown Los Angeles.
At least, I was careful to say things that I thought would please him.
At least, it seems like the home I remember.
At most other universities, there wouldn’t be so many student soldiers, but at Drake, almost all of us are well on our way to career assignments in the Republic’s military.
At some point, June joins us and falls into step near the back of the soldiers.
At that moment, I wanted to ask him why he was always gone even after his warfront rotation should’ve returned him home, why he never came to see us.
At that moment, I would give anything for a painkiller, or ice to put out the fire in my injured thigh, or even another bullet to put me out of my misery.
At the mention of Commander Jameson, I turn my face away, unsure that I want Thomas to register my reaction.
At the mention of John’s name, I lean forward and instantly regret it as my leg explodes in pain.
At this moment all I’m thinking about is what I’d give up for the chance to kiss her or to run my fingers through her dark hair.
Attendants linger at the doors of grocery stores and coffee shops, trying to win customers over.
Await further orders.
BARSTOW, CALIFORNIA.
BATALLA SECTOR.
BIRTH NAME: DANIEL ALTAN WING
BLOOD TYPE: ♢
BUT I SEE him get up and leave in the middle of the night, so I follow him.
BY FIRING SQUAD
BY FIRING SQUAD.
Back down the hall.
Back then, we all worried that John would be the one to fail the Trial, considering his trouble with reading.
Back to drag Day out into the yard.
Back toward the firing squad yard.
Barstow, quieter than inner Los Angeles, is still overcrowded with people.
Batalla Hall moves away from us.
Beautiful.
Because while the electric lights of downtown make for some nice sightseeing, I can also see the Trial stadium looming off in the east.
Become someone successful, or even famous.
Before GC: Heap: 42/54 MB
Before I black out, I realize that my pendant is no longer looped around my neck.
Before I can answer, the static cuts off.
Before I can think much about it, I hear footsteps and then a voice approaching the pier above us.
Before a publicized criminal goes off to face the firing squad, Batalla Hall broadcasts footage of them to all the JumboTrons in the square.
Before any of the soldiers can point a gun in our direction, I whip out one of my knives and hold it close to the man’s throat.
Before any of us can move, the policeman pulls a knife from his boot and marches over to me.
Before he can fire, my knife hits him hard in the shoulder and he falls backward with a thud.
Before he can react, I whirl, yank the gun out of his holster, and point it straight at him.
Before she can even catch her breath properly, she lets out an angry shout and lunges for me again.
Before she can stop me, I dart out of her grasp and sink my teeth deep into her hand.
Before the murder of Day’s mother, I would’ve smiled at him.
Before the robbery at this bank, Day had already appeared on our records three times.
Before they can start ushering me inside Batalla Hall, I catch a last glimpse of the Girl staring at me.
Before us looms the theater room’s giant Cube, a four-sided projector screen with one side pointed toward each block of seats.
Behind me I hear the laboratory door burst open and soldiers spill out.
Behind me, I hear splashes and the sounds of echoing voices.
Behind me, Thomas reaches for his gun as if in slow motion.
Behind me, a large circle of customers are cheering on a Skiz fight.
Behind the details flashing through my mind emerges a black, rising hatred.
Behind the facade lies a vast floor with no halls and no doors—just a gigantic room, doctors and nurses behind white masks, test tubes and pipettes, incubators and gurneys.
Behind the glass, the spy suddenly yells something at Commander Jameson and thrashes violently against his chains.
Behind us I hear a huge roar of cheers as one of the fighters goes down.
Beside her, I notice the boy glance at me.
Beside me, the doctor bows his head.
Besides ... I’d miss her.
Besides, Day wasn’t a mercenary in any of his past crimes.
Besides, I don’t want to know her name.
Besides, maybe I’m fooling myself to begin with—maybe the Girl is wrong and the patrols aren’t even coming for my family.
Besides.
Besides—if June doesn’t succeed with whatever she’s planning, I’ll get to stop picturing John and my mother and Tess and Eden and everyone in my head.
Best not to throw wild guesses at Thomas right now, lest he decide to jump the gun and send troops after me.
Best to keep her out of this.
Birds are uneasy.
Bits of blood stain the hilt.
Bits of dried blood flake off onto my hands.
Black hiking boots.
Blood lingers on my tongue—I shudder at the metallic taste.
Blood oozes from the edges of the bandage.
Blood runs from his mouth to his forehead and hair and drips onto the floor beneath him.
Blood stains his shirt.
Blood stains my vest.
Boats chug around the lake, careful to avoid the giant water turbines churning along the edge, and the shore’s flood sirens are quiet and unlit.
Boos.
Both Thomas and Commander Jameson had insisted I wear something nice.
Both her hands are wrapped in thick bandages—she must’ve cut herself on broken bottles or empty tins while cleaning out the trash cans around Union Station today.
Both of her knees had the skin ripped right off them, and the flesh underneath was scarlet and raw.
Bought them with 150 Notes from our stash.
Brave thoughts, but am I ready to follow through on them?
Broken lanterns and glass shards litter the floor of this room, and paint is peeling from every wall.
Brown clouds covered the sky.
Bullets rain down on the square.
Bullets spark all around me.
But 674?
But Day doesn’t stop.
But Day is not just any prodigy.
But Drake is the Republic’s best university, and seeing as how the best are always assigned into the military, our drill room is packed with students.
But Eden ... this time Eden was lying in bed with a cloth on his forehead.
But I always thought the plagues were spontaneous.
But I am a different person inside.
But I am.
But I can already hear Commander Jameson’s retort.
But I can see her preparing to kick.
But I can see the grin spreading on her face, and I realize that even though she thinks I’m crazy, she has also agreed to help.
But I can’t handle memories of Metias right now.
But I can’t win a fight against Thomas and all these guards without the element of surprise.
But I decide to be polite and look up at Thomas.
But I don’t mention to her why my parents died or what Metias had revealed about the plagues in his blog entries.
But I don’t remember seeing this before.
But I don’t.
But I doubt the crime scene photographer was so rushed that he would take such a bad set of photos.
But I fake some excitement.
But I force my temper down.
But I have a good view of them.
But I have to try.
But I just nod.
But I just see the Girl.
But I know Tess would’ve given me sad puppy eyes for the rest of the day.
But I know he’s close enough to see me himself.
But I know he’s going to be there.
But I know they’re here.
But I say nothing.
But I should not have said anything about the skinny girl they shoved into the ring.
But I smile graciously and bow my head, because I know they mean well.
But I try.
But I’d left my gun empty.
But I’m not giving up yet.
But I’m not in the mood to hear his voice right now.
But I’m ready for them—I hide behind the open fridge door as bullets ricochet off it.
But I’m tied to an operating table by a pair of belts.
But I’ve never seen a riot like this one, with hundreds of people risking their lives.
But John.
But John’s done nothing wrong.
But John’s the only one who knows I’m alive, and he’s promised not to tell Mom or Eden.
But Metias fixes his full attention on me.
But although I made her cry a few times, when I looked over my shoulder she’d still be there, trailing me a short distance away.
But as much as I expected this, I also hear something else that surprises me.
But as they leave the circle, the rest of the group rises and bows in their direction.
But at the same time, there’s an innocence that makes her completely different from most of the people I’ve met.
But becoming a union—that has never happened, and that will never happen.
But even as I say it, I don’t believe it.
But every now and then, when I steal a glance at the Girl, or feel her eyes on me, I helplessly drift back to thinking about her.
But every time I have this thought, I push it away—because Tess would be back on the Republic’s grid if she ever joined a real family.
But first I have to figure out how to get out of this cell.
But for my sake don’t do anything that’ll draw attention to you.
But he doesn’t set roadside bombs.
But he doesn’t.
But he remains expressionless, his gun still drawn.
But he was no fool, either.
But her eyes burn in the light, and although it’s hot and might be my imagination, I think I see a small smile on the girl’s face.
But her eyes linger on me in a way that refuses to let me.
But her icy demeanor stops me.
But his hand doesn’t move away from his gun.
But how would Eden keep up?
But instead I cover my ears.
But instead I stay hidden behind a chimney on a roof, crouched like a coward.
But instead the Girl just shakes her head.
But it startles me so much that without thinking I blurt out, "I could say the same about you." I pause.
But it’s going to happen anyway, starting tomorrow morning.
But it’s obvious she’s in pain.
But it’s pointless to say now.
But it’s too late now.
But my brother was Metias, and we never had trouble finding our way into the Trial databases with his hacks.
But my heart pounds against my chest.
But my legs can barely move, as if I’m wading through a thick sludge.
But my thoughts churn into rising panic.
But my wound has slowed me down.
But never in his tone of voice.
But no one talks about Day.
But nothing good can come out of falling for someone on the streets.
But nothing that can kill me or kill them.
But now I do nothing but sit perfectly still.
But now I’ll never know what he had to say.
But now he is my matched enemy—my target.
But now its screws and dials sit worn and lifeless in our laps.
But off in the distance, I hear the medic truck’s siren growing louder.
But she’s wrong.
But somehow the bread and cheese—still fresh from the shop where Tess had traded a few precious Notes for it—doesn’t seem tempting.
But something else distracted me.
But something seems different about the Girl this morning.
But that doesn’t make sense.
But that doesn’t mean I’ll leave her on her own.
But that was it.
But that’s not all.
But the alley is empty.
But the biggest thing that doesn’t compute for me is this: Day has never killed anyone before.
But the boy acts like this wine is the best thing in the world.
But the feeling just doesn’t come.
But the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
But the hospital is a dangerous place, and a sponsor would’ve had to pay Day a great deal of money.
But the instant the new girl steps into the circle and I see her stance ... I know I’ve made a big mistake.
But the number’s still there.
But the police here aren’t looking for us in the way police back in the metropolis must be.
But the real problem with having a gun isn’t the expense.
But the woman’s body lies unattended and abandoned.
But then I remember my brother’s words.
But then I’d thought that maybe I could pick up some valuable information from a group like this—so many locals, some who might even know Day personally.
But then again, maybe he’s really trying to make up with me.
But then they led me onto a train, and the train took us to the lab.
But then they remembered the Colonies war.
But then we’re off.
But there are a dozen reasons I can’t go, and Tess knows it.
But there are far more than a dozen soldiers in front of our house.
But there’s no sign of that—none of the soldiers wear gas masks.
But they’re also creating viruses to use against the Colonies.
But they’re here, some from afternoon drills and others from my Republic History 421 class.
But this feels different.
But this time I noticed that the last photo in that album felt unusually thick.
But too much has happened today ... Day’s interrogation, meeting the Elector Primo and his son, and then Thomas.
But unlike Day, his eyes are green and his expression uncertain.
But whatever she’s saying is only for Thomas, and I have no idea what she’s telling him.
But when he speaks, his voice has a sad tinge to it.
But while Thomas’s touch now repulses me, I feel no revulsion toward Day.
But who is the Day I met on the streets?
But you are mistaken to call him those things, my boy.
But you might as well have put a gun to my mother’s head.
By "people over here twenty-four seven," I know Thomas means he’s the only one there, listening for me.
By the door, I see Commander Jameson smile.
By the end of the week, I’ll tell Commander Jameson that I’m going to withdraw from her patrol.
By the time I finish going through all twelve of Metias’s journals, I’ve uncovered twenty-four misspelled words.
By the time we reach one of Drake’s outer streets and I climb into the backseat of our waiting military jeep, Metias can barely contain his anger.
COLONIES IN MADISON, DAKOTA.
Can she make it without someone there to watch her back?
Can you tell me why you did that?
Candles flicker by the shuttered bedroom window.
Can’t blame him.
Can’t bring myself to ask him how he can bear to follow orders so blindly.
Ceiling tiles.
Certainly not Congress.
Change of plans.
Chian holds open the curtain for us, then closes it behind him as we step inside.
Chian is a rather large man and has worked for the Trial’s administration for as long as I can remember.
Chian is not a man to make into an enemy.
Chian is standing at attention, and when Thomas releases my arm, I look over to see him doing the same.
Chian laughs.
Chian leads us through the banquet hall and across the dance floor, toward a thick navy curtain walling off a large part of the room.
Chian made me take the Trial twice because I got a perfect score in record time (one hour ten minutes).
Chian saws off a huge piece of steak and shoves it in his mouth.
Chian shushes me with a wave of his hand.
Chian smiles, distorting his scar, and claps his gloved hands together.
Chian ushers us out of the curtained area and back to the main ballroom.
Chian wrote notes on my interview report the whole time, while one of his assistants recorded the session with a tiny microphone.
Chian.
Clean bandages cover up the wound.
Clouds of steam float high in the distance.
Clusters of chatting officials smile at me when I pass, and my name is scattered through almost every conversation I overhear.
Combinations fly through my mind until one of them makes me pause.
Commander Baccarin was ordered to "find a way to smooth the whole matter over." The report ends by saying that the matter was resolved, without military casualties.
Commander Baccarin, another former student of Chian (you remember Chian, right?), submitted the report.
Commander Jameson bends down and smiles at him.
Commander Jameson chose not to tell me about this.
Commander Jameson convincing the court to move his execution up a whole day is unusual in itself.
Commander Jameson did not tell me that she intended to kill anyone from the house—we were supposed to take them all back to Batalla Hall for arrest and questioning.
Commander Jameson disappears out the door.
Commander Jameson doesn’t believe I can accomplish anything on this mission—her lack of interest is imprinted in every word of Thomas’s response.
Commander Jameson doesn’t bother to return my gesture.
Commander Jameson fixes her furious gaze on him.
Commander Jameson glances at June, but makes no motion to leave.
Commander Jameson had simply waved a dismissive hand when I asked her.
Commander Jameson halts in front of the white sheet, then bends down and throws it aside.
Commander Jameson has a pair of scissors in her hand.
Commander Jameson holds up a hand, then turns to her right while the soldiers drag me up to a platform.
Commander Jameson keeps her eyes forward and her hands behind her back.
Commander Jameson keeps pressing a hand against her ear, listening intently, then shouting orders.
Commander Jameson leads the soldiers to a flat circular stand in the middle of the roof, a stand with the Republic’s seal embedded in it and strings of heavy chains hooked around its rim.
Commander Jameson lets out a laugh.
Commander Jameson lets out a sharp laugh.
Commander Jameson lifts her chin.
Commander Jameson looks at me and pulls the pistol from her belt.
Commander Jameson must’ve sent him.
Commander Jameson nods.
Commander Jameson officially promoted him to fill my brother’s position, but Thomas has little power over what I choose to do on this test mission, and it drives him crazy.
Commander Jameson seems to relax a little, obviously relieved that my request is finished.
Commander Jameson shouldn’t need much convincing to let me escort Day out, and even Thomas sounds like he understands that I want to.
Commander Jameson sighs and nods to Thomas.
Commander Jameson sits opposite me on the far side of our banquet table, and between her and Thomas are three of my Drake classmates.
Commander Jameson slams me into the wall.
Commander Jameson smiles at Thomas, who smiles back.
Commander Jameson smiles.
Commander Jameson stands beside him, and to her right is the Girl.
Commander Jameson stops him before he can hit the spy again.
Commander Jameson walks over to me, bends down, and rests her elbow on one knee.
Commander Jameson walks up to my car door and raps twice on the window to get my attention.
Commander Jameson will boot me right off her patrol if we do something expensive like that, with nothing to show for it.
Commander Jameson will not be happy with me, I think.
Commander Jameson’s voice blares out from the intercoms a second later.
Congress bars you from high school.
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Could a teenage boy really wound him like that?
Create a free website or blog at WordPress.
Cryptic notes scrawled on alley walls above where I slept.
Curse this knife wound.
D L W G W U N O W M J W U T C E E L O F O O M B
DANGEROUS MENACE TO SOCIETY FINALLY CAUGHT
DANIEL ALTAN WING
DANIEL ALTAN WING EXECUTED DEC.
DANIEL ALTAN WING EXECUTED TODAY
DANIEL ALTAN WING.
DAY MUST HAVE THOUGHT I’D FALLEN ASLEEP.
DAY WILL BE EXECUTED TOMORROW EVENING.
DECEASED.
DESTRUCTION OF MILITARY PROPERTY,
DOMINANT ETHNICITY: MONGOLIAN
DRAKE UNIVERSITY, BATALLA SECTOR.
DURING THE FEW HOURS OF SLEEP I MANAGE TO GET before dawn, I dream of home.
Dad found out that the Republic engineers the annual plagues.
Dad had taken a photo of his workplace.
Dad never talked to us about his work.
Dad worked in those labs, and when he tried to quit, they killed him.
Dad’s official job in the Republic was to clean up after the warfront’s soldiers, of course, but there were always hints that this wasn’t the only job he had.
Damn this sore leg.
Damn trots.
Dark blood stains his shirt, his shoulder, his hands, the grooves of the knife hilt.
Dated a day after the car accident.
Day appears in my dreams.
Day could also have a sponsor who hired him to pull this stunt.
Day couldn’t have gone far—he has less than a half-minute lead on me.
Day could’ve made his escape without killing him.
Day did?
Day didn’t fail his Trial.
Day doesn’t take his eyes off me.
Day goes on one motorcycle—I go on another.
Day is good for forcing me into this dress, I want to say, but instead I just smooth down the already smooth fabric of my gown.
Day is well-spoken and logical, and he can read and write.
Day keeps a cap on and tilted low over his eyes.
Day killed Metias, Day killed Metias.
Day killed my brother.
Day laughs, but again it makes him cough.
Day leans toward me.
Day lets out a scream of agony, then goes down amid a circle of soldiers.
Day looks at me.
Day looks unsteady, as if he might pass out.
Day manages to focus his eyes on me.
Day once told me that he’d met Kaede in a bar here, at the edge of Alta and Winter.
Day pulls me to him.
Day rolls his eyes and looks away again.
Day scowls.
Day sighs.
Day smiles as if he’s about to fall asleep.
Day takes off his cap and wrings out his hair.
Day turns his head away and closes his eyes.
Day was there, in the hospital.
Day won’t be scampering up walls and stairwells for at least another week.
Day’s answers.
Day’s exploits used to fascinate me.
Day’s eyes look so terrified—so vulnerable—that suddenly it takes all my strength to lie to him.
Day’s pendant necklace sits snugly in my pocket.
Day’s pendant.
Defying him again.
Details race instantly through my mind.
Details zip around me like a highway of thoughts.
Determine the OS and get root privs.
Did Day hold some sort of grudge?
Did I really kiss her last night?
Did you know that?
Dim streaks of light, gray and waning, are filtering in through a nearby window.
Do you know what Dad wrote at the bottom of that photo?
Do you see where I’m going with this?
Doctors and soldiers look up at me with startled faces.
Does Thomas know something he’s keeping from me?
Does that make me the same as Thomas?
Don’t get too close to her, you trot.
Don’t let him get to you.
Dozens of soldiers stand in clusters around us.
Dried blood still clings to one long strand of hair, as if he chose to dye it.
During the chase, I broke three ribs and had a knife buried in my leg.
Dust everywhere ... and out of that emerged this beautiful boy with the bluest eyes I’d ever seen, holding his hand out to help me to my feet.
Dust rains down from the ceiling, and sparks flicker through the air.
EDB.
EDEN SITS on the floor, drawing some sort of loopy shape on the floorboards.
EVACUATIONS MANDATED FOR:
EYES: BLUE.
Each gun has a sensor on it that reports its user’s hand shape, thumbprints, and location.
Each has a close-range rifle and an additional gun in his belt’s holsters.
Each of them wears a gas mask.
Each time I pull myself forward, I have to close my eyes and remind myself to breathe, that the metal walls around me are not closing in.
Each time she wins, she gets a cut of the overall bet on her opponent.
Each wears a standard uniform: black boots, black shirt with a single row of silver buttons, dark gray trousers, bulletproof vest, and a single silver armband.
Earlier in the day, I risked a peek at my mother’s house.
Earlier in the day, Tess had traded five Notes for a bucket of pygmy pig’s blood from the back alley of a kitchen.
Earlier, I’d peeked in on Day as the doctor operated on his leg.
Eden always seems to be drawing in my dreams.
Eden has already disappeared inside the medic truck.
Eden is doodling something on paper at the other end of the table.
Eden is only four and sits on our front door’s steps, looking on as John and I play a game of street hockey.
Eden lets out a pained yelp, and his head lolls to one side, resting against John’s neck.
Eden probably isn’t in Batalla Hall anymore, but I remember quite clearly what June said to me on the first day of my capture.
Eden screams and runs inside.
Eden turns ten ... in one month.
Eden walks by, then peeks out the window at the approaching soldiers and points some handmade metal contraption at them.
Eden wasn’t born yet—he was still inside Mom’s growing belly.
Eden will be okay for a while, and I don’t mind dealing with John’s lectures.
Eden would never have to stand outside our door on his tenth birthday, waiting for a bus to take him to the Trial stadium.
Eden.
Eden’s eyes—black and bleeding.
Electric lights shine from each floor—a luxury only government buildings and the elite’s homes can afford.
Electricity.
Enough to feed us for months ... but not enough to buy my family vials of plague medicine.
Especially one with a perfect score.
Even Commander Jameson, who’s testing me with this first task, knows we won’t get a glimpse of him.
Even Tess recognizes the sound.
Even as I hear the shouts of soldiers behind us, in the hall leading to the firing squad, I force myself to turn around and keep going.
Even at that age, I understood my father’s concern.
Even at this age, Eden is the most intelligent of us, and instead of joining in, he chooses to sit there tinkering with parts of an old turbine engine.
Even falling for her.
Even from a distance, I could tell that he’d already lost some weight.
Even if June’s plans fail, even if I’m going to be isolated and friendless when I head out to the firing squad ... I’m going to fight.
Even if one of them is infected, it’s early enough that they’ll still have a chance to recover.
Even if there is a knifelike slice in the sleeve over his shoulder, I can’t see it at this angle.
Even in this darkness, I can’t take my eyes off him.
Even my test mission to track Day must’ve been a diversion to distract me while they tossed out any remaining evidence.
Even now, exhausted and messy and completely soaked, he has an untamed sort of grace about him.
Even so, his eyes look glossier, and the blue irises take on a lovely, reflective sheen.
Even the Trial stadiums have postponed the Trials scheduled for the day the storm will arrive.
Even the hour has changed.
Even this makes me grit my teeth in pain.
Even this movement is enough to make my leg tremble from white-hot pain.
Even though Day and I know otherwise.
Even though his fingers are callused from years on the streets, they’re so careful and gentle that I feel heat rising on my cheeks.
Even tranquilizers.
Even with the door closed behind him, I can still hear the whispers and giggles from outside.
Every answer matches.
Every breath hurts.
Every few minutes he gets up and asks me to critique his art.
Every muscle in my body wants to end this now.
Every now and then, I hear another faint breath from the loudspeakers.
Every now and then, a tank rolls through, followed by several platoons of troops.
Every other memory from my childhood—looking out into the auditorium as I receive an award, or having soup made for me when I’m sick, or being scolded, or tucked into bed—those are with Metias.
Every photo is taken from an angle facing away from his wounds.
Every single one has a close-up of my face accompanied by frantic news headlines.
Every time I look through things like this, I hear Metias’s voice in my mind.
Every time they stop at a home, one soldier pounds on the door while a second stands next to him with his gun drawn.
Every wall on this floor is collapsed, so I can walk straight out to the building’s edge and ease my legs into the water.
Everyone knows the rules: if you’re chosen, you fight.
Everyone stops in the streets and goes still as the pledge starts.
Everything about me is stripped of color, just as Metias has been stripped from my life.
Everything around me looks blurred at the edges, as if I’m sprinting.
Everything feels dirty.
Everything happens so fast that I can barely register all of it.
Everything here feels wrong somehow, everything about this room—as if it’s all an illusion that will shatter if I reach out and touch it.
Everything’s going to work out.
Except for a few details that only I would notice.
Except it was not an accident.
Except this is all a lie.
Except we have no injured soldiers coming back to Los Angeles.
FAILED
FATALITIES: CAPTAIN METIAS IPARIS
FATHER: TAYLOR ARSLAN WING.
FFFADL.
FILE NO: 462178-3233 "DAY"
FOLLOW ME JUNE BUG.
FOR PATRIOT REBELS.
FOR THE EXECUTION OF DANIEL ALTAN WING.
Familiar noises surround me: street vendors call out to passersby, selling boiled goose eggs and fried dough and hot dogs.
Far be it from me to waste perfectly good food, especially when we should be saving everything we have for plague meds.
Farther across the lake I can see downtown Los Angeles sitting right next to the shore.
Feetfirst.
Fewer motorcycles and cars pass by on the streets.
Fifteen hundred Notes.
Fifty minutes.
Final Trial scores are common knowledge, but the actual Trial documents are never revealed—not even to criminal investigators.
Final requests.
Finally I hear footsteps approaching.
Finally I just gave up trying to talk to her.
Finally I put the journal aside and drift off into sleep.
Finally Kaede taps me frantically with her other hand.
Finally he tightens the bandage, tugs my shirt back into place, and pulls away.
Finally we reach the gleaming, terraced high-rises of Ruby, and we’re home.
Finally, I manage to add, "Well, I think you’ve had too much wine, my friend." I keep my voice as light as I can.
Finally, I pull my gloves on and tie a black handkerchief around my mouth and nose.
Finally, after what seems like an eternity, I hear a commotion out in the hall.
Finally, one of the soldiers barks out a command.
Finally, right before bedtime, I went over to where he was lying on the couch and snuggled under his arm.
Finally, she glances over at the edge of the roof.
Finally, she looks at me.
Finally, the last soldier shuts the door behind him and reaches for something tucked at his waist.
Finally, the one with the cocked rifle nods at the soldier standing next to him.
Finally, we arrive at the halls that lead into the firing squad yard.
Finally, when the sunset bathes my apartment in orange and gold, I break out of my trance.
First I make sure the knife in the photo is indeed buried in his chest.
First I type in Metias’s hack that allows me to access the Internet.
Five houses remain.
Five minutes, ten minutes, thirty minutes, an hour.
Five nights out in the field now.
Focus, I remind myself angrily.
Following close behind are soldiers restraining John, who shouts at them to leave our mother alone.
Footsteps echo above me, and I know he must’ve crossed the room to hug her.
Footsteps out in the hall.
Footsteps thundering everywhere.
For Tess’s sake?
For a brief moment, I’m actually glad that Metias isn’t the one waiting at the door.
For a brief moment, I’m lost to my surroundings.
For a girl with no family and no home, Tess is surprisingly optimistic.
For a moment I lie there blinded, completely helpless.
For a moment I’m glad that my mother isn’t alive to see me like this.
For a moment she looks so sweet that I can’t help but laugh.
For a moment, just a split second, I’m on Day’s side.
For a second I can see only blinding white light—the taste of blood fills my mouth.
For a while we thought he might work for the Colonies—but his jobs are crude, without high-tech equipment or noticeable funding behind them.
For an illogical moment, I’d thought she might mean my brother.
For an instant I can’t remember anything—not even my name.
For an instant, I think he might kiss me.
For my sake?
For once, my bad knee helps my disguise.
For several seconds, John and I just stare at each other.
For the first time in a long time, I feel like a little brother.
For the first time since waking up on the gurney, I realize I’m exhausted and slump my head against my chest.
For the first time, I look down at my body.
For the first time, I see an uncertain light come into their eyes.
For you.
Forty hours ago, I laid out a plan for tracking Day to Commander Jameson.
Forty minutes.
Four days.
Four pages of text, one page of photos.
From a distance, I blend in completely with those walking around me.
From here I can see all of downtown Los Angeles, as well as many of its surrounding sectors, and the thin rim of land that separates the enormous lake from the Pacific Ocean.
From here I can see just a hint of the person lying inside.
From here I can see the crowd of people gathered in the abandoned building next door.
From my pocket, I pull the three silver bullets Tess had given me, the three bullets from my hospital break-in.
From the corner of eye, I see Tess wince as well.
From the corner of my eye, I can see her watching me.
From the corner of my eye, I can see that Thomas is still looking at me.
From the corner of my eye, I see another black-clad official standing next to Thomas.
From the other beggars I hear stories about plague victims, which areas the police seem most nervous about, and which have started to recover.
From the outside, the third floor is completely hidden behind elaborate stone carvings and worn Republic flags.
From the rooftops I could already tell that there were about a dozen bars that matched the location and his description—here on the ground, I count out nine of them.
From up close I can see that Eden’s dark eyes have somehow turned black.
From where we sit, we can taste the salt in the air and see the lights of downtown Los Angeles reflected on the water.
Gas masks look down at me.
Get out of here before things get worse.
Giant waterwheels and turbines churn along the water’s edge behind veils of smoke.
Go down there! Why are you hiding on this roof?
God—am I making excuses to protect this boy now?
Going by the unspoken rules of Skiz, she must now fight until she loses a round—until her opponent throws her to the ground.
Going to the plague-infected areas of Lake makes her nervous, and she always comes back scratching at her arms—as if she can feel an infection spreading on her skin.
Gold cuff links on the sleeves of his black military tuxedo coat have the Colorado coat of arms engraved on them.
Good, very good.
Growing up, Thomas was awkward but always polite, especially to me.
Guards line the walls of this hospital room.
Guards with blank faces stand at the door, while two others hold my shackled arms.
Guess she doesn’t appreciate the "cousin" affection.
Guess this bar tolerates illegal gambling.
Guess who’s winning.
Guilt takes its place.
Guns are reactivated.
HAIR: BLOND, LONG.
HEIGHT: 5’10”
HURRICANE EVONIA HAS FINALLY STARTED TO CALM DOWN, but the rain, heavy and cold, continues to fall in sheets.
Had my brother done something to him in the past?
Had the Republic murdered relatives of my Drake classmates too, all those people who died in combat or in accidents or of illnesses?
Half a dozen of the onlookers are following me, and most of them look enraged.
Half an hour later, the boy starts to notice my fatigue again.
Halfway up, I grab the railing and fling myself to the next highest curve.
Have I done something to piss her off?
Have I just shamed the memory of my brother?
Have the streets of Lake turned me into some simpleminded girl?
He administered mine.
He approaches me and crosses his arms.
He asked the most questions.
He begins by listing off my crimes, then concludes, "In light of the defendant’s past felonies and, in particular, his offenses against the glorious nation of the Republic, the high court of California recommends the following verdict. Day is hereby sentenced to death—"
He blames me for his loss.
He breaks into a quarantine zone, enters a house marked with a three-lined X, and reappears several minutes later.
He calls Tess back and guides us over to one of the alleys, where a series of large metal trash bins sit wedged between two walls.
He can sense my exhaustion without my uttering a word.
He can’t lose Tess, too.
He carries a brown paper bag in his hands.
He catches it before the breeze can blow it away.
He catches my gaze for a second, and then he looks toward the rest of the patrol standing on the platform with us.
He chuckled, then took out the object.
He clears his throat.
He collapses facedown in the dirt.
He concentrates on breathing.
He cries out.
He didn’t answer.
He didn’t hesitate—not for a second—to obey our commander.
He didn’t want me to get hurt.
He didn’t want me to get in trouble.
He didn’t want me to resist Commander Jameson’s orders.
He does as I say.
He doesn’t act like a desperate street kid.
He doesn’t attempt assassinations.
He doesn’t blush, and his eyes don’t dart away.
He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t stop to question what I say, doesn’t even wonder why I didn’t tell him right away.
He doesn’t kill.
He doesn’t know either.
He doesn’t know what I’m thinking, but I know he recognizes the emotion on my face.
He doesn’t look at me.
He doesn’t miss a beat.
He doesn’t seem amused.
He doesn’t shoot soldiers.
He draws a little nearer.
He favors his left leg, for instance.
He fed me a purple slice of orange.
He flinches at first, but then opens his mouth and lets me pour a thin stream in.
He gestures toward the refrigerators.
He gets ready to shove it into the handcuffs.
He gives me a curious look and frowns slightly, as if he’s just remembered something.
He gives me a look laced with mischief.
He gives me a smile.
He glances at me now, notices me studying him, and pauses for a second.
He glances at the first photo projected on the wall.
He goes down, and I roll with him.
He grabs my collar and pulls me close.
He grabs my shoulders, then shakes me hard.
He grasps my hand in one quick, firm shake.
He grins at that.
He grins broadly at the sight of us and puts a hand on my shoulder.
He grins.
He had grabbed at the ghost of a necklace, the ghost of some trinket or thread.
He had managed to grow his hair long enough to tie it back in a tail.
He had taken me and Thomas, who was still in school, out to the Tanagashi sector, where I ate my first bowl of pork edame, with spaghetti and sweet onion rolls.
He has a gun pointed straight at my chest, but to my surprise, he doesn’t fire it.
He has a perfect score.
He has a strange expression, as if he’s angry or disappointed that I’ve forced him from his orderly state.
He has bright blue eyes, dirt on his face, and a beat-up old cap on, and at this moment, I think he might be the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen.
He has so many more sides to him that I wonder if he has always lived in these poor sectors.
He has some sort of agenda to stop us from winning against the Colonies.
He hasn’t looked at me straight on since he tried kissing me last night in the hall.
He heads back toward Batalla Hall with several soldiers.
He held up a certificate.
He helps me to my feet.
He hits me again, then one of his knees slams into my stomach.
He hits me two more times.
He holds my hands in his own, and my heart pounds at the touch.
He holds out a pair of handcuffs.
He invites me to an early movie showing before we have to report to Batalla Hall.
He is already dead.
He is really sorry.
He just took my hand in his and headed for the train station.
He keeps an arm around my shoulders.
He kept one hand pressed protectively on her stomach.
He kissed my forehead.
He kisses me before I can say more.
He kisses me gently at first and then, as if he’s reaching for something more, he pushes me against the wall and kisses me harder.
He knows what I suspect, that I think the government may have killed our parents intentionally.
He laughs again.
He leads me down the stairwell, two flights down, until we enter the basement where execution rooms, electric grids, and storage chambers line the halls.
He leans against the wall beside me and rests his arms against his knees.
He lets me stare out at the darkened city as we go, occasionally shooting me a hesitant glance.
He lets out a dry laugh.
He lets out a scornful chuckle, but I can tell his anger is already fading.
He lets out a strangled whimper, and I can feel him sweating under my grip.
He lies crumpled in the center of the Republic seal.
He lifts the bandage away from my wound.
He lifts the knife and gets ready to hit me across the face with its handle.
He lingers for a moment outside my door.
He looks around the room as if searching for something he’s lost.
He looks as tidy as ever, with his perfectly slicked hair and perfectly ironed uniform.
He looks at me for a while without smiling, as if he knows what I’m doing, then returns to his vigil.
He looks at my mother again.
He looks different in person than he does in his portraits or on the city’s JumboTrons, where his skin has a much warmer color and no wrinkles.
He looks just like me.
He looks like an angel, if a broken one.
He looks like he wants to say something more, then decides against it and turns his eyes away.
He looks thinner and paler than he did before.
He looks uncomfortable being in the same room as me, and his expression says that he really hates me.
He looks worse now—as if all the color has been stripped from his skin.
He may not let himself lose his ability to focus, but I can tell that the wine has relaxed him.
He must be telling her about my injury, asking her if it’s safe to keep me out here alone.
He must have similar questions about me, how I’m able to pick out so many details of his life.
He needs plague meds desperately enough.
He never gets to finish that sentence.
He never looks up, but I can tell he’s listening to John’s story as well, laughing at the appropriate places.
He never would’ve written down anything that could be used as evidence.
He nods.
He offers this idea with such sincerity that I have to smile.
He once torched a whole squadron of fighter jets on an empty airfield in the middle of the night and has on two occasions grounded airships by crippling their engines.
He once vandalized the side of a military building.
He only shrugs, then peels off his gloves and starts washing his hands at one of the sinks.
He orders his men to spread out.
He passed his Trial fair and square.
He patted my cheek and smiled at John.
He points it at the room’s blank wall.
He presses his hand against his ear.
He probably disapproves of my stunts even more than Metias does.
He probably feels Metias’s absence as much as I do.
He pulls away first.
He pulls me to him.
He pushes one of them forward to give us some room.
He puts a hand on his belt, and I see the gleam of his gun’s handle.
He raises an eyebrow at me.
He reaches behind one of his boots and pulls out what looks like a compact kitchen knife (patternless silver handle, worn edge—he’s used it plenty of times before, and to saw through things much tougher than cloth).
He reaches into his cloak and pulls out a small gray remote.
He reaches up and unlocks one of my hands from its chain, then clips it into the handcuffs.
He reaches up to touch my face.
He realizes that I’ve noticed his limp.
He returns my smile.
He said he’d keep it a secret.
He says nothing in return.
He sees my gesture and quickly adjusts his posture.
He should have passed his Trial’s interview portion.
He shouts something at her, something angry, and before Tess can apologize, I see him shove her roughly into the ring’s center.
He shrinks away.
He sits beside me and loosens the bottom two buttons of my shirt, then pushes it up until he exposes my bandaged waist.
He smiles at the sight of me, although there’s little joy in it.
He snaps his fingers at me, my cue to get up.
He sprays a third, vertical line on my mother’s door, cutting the X in half.
He squints at me, but stays quiet.
He stays quiet for a moment, one hand absently playing with my hair.
He stumbles and falls against the pavement.
He tells me to be careful, and that he will be monitoring anything that transmits through my microphone.
He thinks he should have protected me more.
He thought I had cheated.
He tightens his jaw, then balls up his fist and punches the spy hard in the stomach.
He tips his cap politely, as if in apology, then takes one of my arms and begins leading me away from Day’s soldiers.
He told me this because I’d asked him what our parents’ funeral was like.
He touches my arm with one gloved hand.
He touches the edge of his cap politely.
He trusts me—truly, stupidly, wholeheartedly trusts me.
He tumbles to the ground.
He turns and leaves the room without a word.
He turns his head in my direction as I approach.
He turns to climb back into the jeep.
He turns to face me.
He walks with what looks like a fake limp, and his mouth looks more like my father’s than my mother’s.
He was also careless enough to leave the ID tag behind.
He was trying to protect me.
He wears a gold-rimmed monocle over his right eye.
He wears goggles and a face mask.
He wears his air force rank first, unlike the Elector.
He wears white condor flight gloves with elaborate gold lining, which means he’s already completed fighter pilot training.
He went somewhere last night.
He winces, but doesn’t apologize for his change in tone.
He wipes a thumb across his mouth and smiles at me.
He won’t have a chance to do that tonight, though.
He won’t say it out loud, though.
He works fourteen-hour shifts in the neighborhood plant’s friction stoves and always comes home rubbing his eyes from the smoke.
He would have balked at letting me go undercover in the Lake sector for days on end, without a pair of strong backups and a team to follow me.
Heavy boots follow in their wake.
Help them! But that would only reveal their relation to me, and their fates would be sealed.
Help?
Helped me study more.
Her arm whacks my head.
Her cape hangs all the way to her feet, swathing her in gold-trimmed black.
Her cheeks turn pink as she works.
Her commander crosses her arms.
Her expression doesn’t change.
Her expression looks blank ... but behind it, something flickers.
Her expressionless face is turned toward the crowd—but once, just once, she turns to look at me before quickly looking away.
Her eyes are ice-cold.
Her eyes burn into mine.
Her eyes dart between John and me.
Her eyes dart to the blood on my arms and face.
Her eyes glint in the darkness.
Her eyes grow suspicious, then they widen.
Her eyes immediately shift to the bandage on my face.
Her eyes stay fixed on me.
Her face might give me courage, too.
Her hair smells like bread and cinnamon from the shop.
Her hair was short and blunt, cut off abruptly right below her chin, and red in the sunlight.
Her hand oozes blood.
Her hands are all bandaged up again.
Her injured hands tremble.
Her kick whooshes past me.
Her long ponytail swings behind.
Her other arm is wrapped in a tight cast.
Her sadness makes her impossibly beautiful, like snow blanketing a barren landscape.
Her thin lips are painted an angry stroke of red, and in the night her auburn hair looks dark brown—almost black.
Her tone doesn’t change.
Her touch sends warmth coursing through me.
Her voice is much colder than the Girl’s.
Her words are so similar to my thoughts about my mother that I can barely breathe.
Here is what’s really bothering him—I guess he found out about the kiss.
Here she has a precise, deliberate step, unmistakably that of the Republic’s elite.
Here the rooftops are too fragile for my air rope launcher.
He’d always loved our parents’ old-fashioned ways, and kept handwritten journals just like how they’d kept all these paper photos.
He’d always worked on understanding the plague viruses, of course, but he must have uncovered something that upset him enough to make him quietly file for a change in work assignment.
He’d asked me (unsuccessfully) to the annual Drake ball two years in a row.
He’d been quiet and withdrawn when he picked me up from school.
He’d carried out the extermination as if he were preparing for a routine plague sweep or for a night guarding an airfield.
He’d never have to follow dozens of other children up the stadium stairs and into the inner circle, or run laps while Trial admins study his breathing and posture, or answer pages and pages of stupid multiple-choice questions, or survive an interview in front of a half circle of impatient officials.
He’d never have to wait in one of several groups afterward, unsure which groups would return home and which group would be sent off to the so-called "labor camps."
He’d see my getup and know that I’m headed out to the track.
He’d stolen a case of bottles from a shop at Winter sector’s edge earlier in the evening and sold all but this one for a grand total of 650 Notes.
He’d wanted to talk to me about something important, right before he left.
He’ll know exactly where the ten-second place is, and that I’m either an agent sent by the government or by the black-market dealers that pay taxes to the government.
He’s a former acquaintance of our parents, so his presence is not unexpected—but why right next to me?
He’s a skilled official.
He’s about four or five years old, with cheeks still round with baby fat.
He’s afraid something might happen to me one day—like the car crash that took our parents.
He’s already lost his mother.
He’s amused.
He’s as flushed as I am.
He’s attacked the Republic’s military assets on his own, slowed down shipments to the warfront, and destroyed our warfront-bound airships and fighter jets.
He’s breathing hard now.
He’s caring, responsible.
He’s clever.
He’s dangling upside down in the interrogation room right now.
He’s decked out in his full uniform: black officer coat with double rows of gold buttons, gloves (neoprene, spectra lining, captain rank embroidery), shining epaulettes on his shoulders, formal military hat, black trousers, polished boots.
He’s drawing them with a bloodred crayon.
He’s exchanged his military clothes for an elegant, white-vested suit, and his hair is freshly cut.
He’s furious.
He’s in a good mood.
He’s listening patiently to one of his soldiers, but I see him study my face as if out of habit.
He’s never said it aloud, but I think he blames himself for what happened to me.
He’s never taken jobs for hire as far as I know, and it’s unlikely he’d start now.
He’s not a man like you and me.
He’s not going to show his face.
He’s screaming something unintelligible at us.
He’s sleeping soundly, but has pressed himself tightly against the side of the couch.
He’s so close to my face now that I can feel his breath against my cheek.
He’s stolen money, food, and goods.
He’s sweaty, and his pith helmet doesn’t protect his skin from the sun.
He’s taken the cap off his head, for once, and combed through the tangles in his hair.
He’s talking the whole time, but I can’t hear him.
He’s the most agile person I’ve ever met—he should have aced his Trial’s physical.
He’s the only piece of Metias I have left.
He’s too weak to talk.
He’s unhappy, and I somehow feel responsible.
He’s very much like his father, tall (six feet two inches) and quite regal looking, with dark curly hair.
He’s very pale and a little chubby, with bushy eyebrows and kindly eyes.
He’s waiting there for me to make my next move.
He’s wearing his old newsboy cap, but I can see a few strands of white-blond hair beneath it.
High ratio for what grade school taught us was an extinct country.
Hints like the stories he sometimes told about the Colonies and their glittering cities, their advanced technology and festive holidays.
His Trial looks as pristine as mine.
His agility is on par with the top students at Drake.
His blond hair spills out from beneath it.
His breath is shallow and raspy, so loud that I can hear it from down here.
His brother.
His commander sent him to kill a runaway prisoner of war from the Colonies.
His curls flash white-blond in the flickering lamplight.
His description didn’t match anything we have on file for Day—but the truth is, we know little about what he looks like, except that he’s young, like the kid at the hospital tonight.
His eye: maybe it wasn’t an injection but an extraction, something to test why his vision was so sharp.
His eyes are closed now.
His eyes are locked on mine.
His eyes burn right into me.
His eyes dart to me.
His eyes have taken on a furious glow, but he still holds back.
His eyes look me up and down.
His eyes stay on me for a moment.
His face is perfectly symmetrical, a mix of Anglo and Asian, beautiful behind the dirt and smudges.
His father had been a janitor for our apartment high-rise before he died, his late mother a cook at my grade school.
His guards turn away and hurry back the way they came.
His hair falls around his shoulders like a silk drape, one streak of it scarlet with blood, and his eyes look pained.
His hair, like most who live in our sector, hangs down past his shoulders and is tied back into a simple tail.
His hand reflexively moves to his gun.
His hands are shaking.
His hands brush against my waist as he works.
His hands seem intact, so he must have a prosthetic leg.
His head sways to one side—his bright blue eyes look dull and unfocused.
His heart: they fed him medicine to see how low his heart rate could go, and they were probably disappointed when his heart temporarily stopped.
His job was to clean up after the Republic’s soldiers, so he was usually gone, and Mom was left to raise us boys on her own.
His knee: they must have wanted to study his unusual physical abilities, his speed and agility.
His lips are so cracked that a little blood has trickled down to his chin.
His lips are warm and so soft—his hair brushes against my face.
His long hair brushes against me, and his eyes drown me in their depths.
His long, white-blond hair hangs in dirty strings, and he doesn’t even seem to notice that some of it is plastered across his face.
His look-alike brother, John, did not seem like a bad person when I questioned him in his cell—bargaining his life for Day’s, bargaining hidden money for Eden’s freedom.
His mouth feels warm and soft, and when he kisses me harder, I wrap my arm around his neck and kiss him back.
His posture tells me that he’s exhausted.
His questions went on forever, dozens and dozens of them, each more mind-bending than the last, until I couldn’t even be sure why I answered as I did.
His right eye is slightly paler than his left.
His shoes are caked with dirt—I know Mom must’ve scolded him about that.
His shoulders are slightly broader than mine.
His skin brushes against mine.
His skin is burned and his face drenched with sweat, but his eyes are still bright, if a bit unfocused.
His skin is burning hot.
His skin looked wan, and his voice sounded weak and hoarse.
His skin looks darker, and his hair is completely matted down with sweat.
His skin looks tan, not pale like I’d assumed it would.
His skin looks wan and sickly.
His soldiers fire several shots into the air.
His teeth are beautiful, the loveliest I’ve seen so far on these streets.
His uniform has enough badges and medals to sink him to the ocean’s bottom.
His vest is smudged with red clay.
His voice can make me forget about all the details running through my mind, bringing with it emotions of desire or fear instead, sometimes even anger, but always triggering something.
His voice grows excited.
His weak point.
His words could have come right out of Metias’s mouth.
His words distort the scars on his face—a slice across the bridge of his nose, and another jagged mark that goes from his ear to the bottom of his chin.
His words run through my mind until I can’t even understand them anymore.
Hit with balls of feet.
Hot and mucky.
Hours drag by.
Hours pass.
How can I laugh so soon after my brother’s death?
How could such a coldhearted criminal be a part of this family?
How did he break into this bank in ten seconds, with four armed guards at the back entrance?
How do I face a mother who’s thought I was dead for so many years?
How had that fateful night played out?
How ironic.
How will I save my brothers before then?
Hundreds more are in custody.
I ALMOST KISSED THE GIRL LAST NIGHT.
I CAN’T STOP THINKING ABOUT DAY.
I DON’T HAVE TO SAY MUCH MORE TO CONVINCE DAY TO move.
I DON’T KNOW IF IT’S BECAUSE COMMANDER JAMESON has taken pity on me, or if she really does feel the loss of Metias, one of her most valued soldiers, but she helps me arrange his funeral—even though she’s never done that for one of her soldiers before.
I HARDLY RECOGNIZE DAY, EVEN THOUGH IT’S ONLY BEEN seven hours since the sentencing.
I HAVE NIGHTMARES AGAIN.
I LEARNED AT DRAKE THAT THE BEST WAY TO TRAVEL UNSEEN at night is by rooftop.
I REMEMBER GUNS AND LOUD voices, and the splash of ice water over my head.
I STILL REMEMBER THE DAY THAT MY BROTHER MISSED HIS induction ceremony into the Republic military.
I TRY TO BREAK OUT OF MY PRISON TONIGHT.
I WAKE UP AT DAWN.
I absently touch the knife wound at my own side.
I ache to pull her to me now and press my lips against hers and wash away the sorrow in her eyes.
I almost keel over before the soldiers prop me up.
I almost miss the streets of Lake.
I already hate him as much as I hate anything about the Colonies—he’s not affiliated with the Patriots, that’s for sure, but that just makes him more of a coward.
I already have John.
I already know how agile Day is.
I already know what he’s going to say.
I also pick out the bodyguards scattered among the officials.
I am no longer the Republic’s only prodigy with a perfect score.
I am respected, discussed, gossiped about.
I am smart.
I arch my back and scream.
I arrange my face in an expression of pure irritation.
I ask Eden for help, but he just giggles and tells us to do it ourselves.
I ask each bartender if he knows a girl with a vine tattoo.
I ask him to take care of Ollie while I’m gone.
I avoid it by turning away.
I barely catch it with the butt of my broom.
I begin breathing again.
I begin with Metias, and then his death.
I bend down and heave the manhole cover up, then lower myself down the ladder and into the blackness.
I bet they think I’m real desperate.
I bite down as hard as I can, until I taste blood.
I bite my tongue.
I blindly reach out a hand for my brother, and then I remember that he’s no longer there to take it.
I block her first two punches, but her third punch catches me across the jaw and makes my head spin.
I blush scarlet and thank every god in the world for the darkness surrounding us.
I bolt.
I bow my head respectfully to the Republic flags.
I bow my head.
I brace myself for the feeling of a blade against my skin.
I brace myself for the worst.
I brace myself.
I break into a run.
I break out in a cold sweat and see stars flicker in the corners of my vision.
I break out of my roll in time to trip a soldier flat on his back.
I brush aside more dirt, but no other symbols or words appear.
I bump my way through the mess of tables and chairs—snatching food from a couple of unguarded plates as I go, then stuffing it beneath my shirt—until I reach the bar.
I burst through the first-floor door into a sea of chaos.
I call out for her.
I call to him several times, but he refuses to walk any closer, so I’m forced to follow Commander Jameson and leave him behind.
I can afford to linger with these two for one more night, until I heal enough to return to tracking down information about Day.
I can barely make out the details on his shoulder and even on the knife.
I can breathe again.
I can feel my feet hanging off the end of a bed.
I can feel the soldiers’ eyes on me as I enter the bathroom and lock the door.
I can hear her humming some faint tune.
I can hear him yelling at me, but I don’t dare waste time looking back.
I can hear my mother’s voice toward the back, where our one bedroom is.
I can hear the amusement in her voice.
I can hear the buzz of other people in her office in the background.
I can keep saving up for Eden’s plague medicine.
I can only imagine how stressed-out he must’ve been over the last few hours.
I can read the displeasure in his eyes.
I can see Union Station several blocks away.
I can see her intelligence in every question she asks me and every observation she makes.
I can see the center of her bandage turning a dark red.
I can smell the moisture in the air.
I can still feel her eyes on my back.
I can still feel her lips against mine, the smooth, soft skin of her face and arms, the slight trembling of her hands.
I can still hear the noise and chaos from the onlookers.
I can still hear us laughing, still smell the warm aromas of baked chicken and fresh bread.
I can still remember his words.
I can still remember the relief in his eyes, the tremor of joy in his words.
I can still remember when Dad brought it home.
I can still use my arms.
I can tell Mom’s scolding him for something or other, probably for letting Eden peek out the window.
I can tell from the Girl’s face that she knows this already.
I can tell from their clothes—torn shirts and trousers, mismatched shoes filled with holes—that almost all of them are from the poor sectors near the lake.
I can tell from their tattered uniforms that they are POWs from the Colonies.
I can tell his leg is hurting.
I can tell it still hurts him to use his fingers, and his nails are dark with dried blood.
I can tell now that the building we’re perched on is abandoned and boarded up, and only two JumboTrons along this entire block are functional.
I can tell she’s still not convinced.
I can tell that it’s almost all our money.
I can tell the suit is brand-new.
I can understand that well enough.
I can’t believe I managed to pull away.
I can’t believe my stupidity.
I can’t bring myself to look at Thomas.
I can’t contain my anger anymore.
I can’t even concentrate enough to count them.
I can’t feel sorry for a Republic agent.
I can’t find the anger I used to have toward him.
I can’t forget the rifle grease smeared on the hilt of the knife that killed my brother.
I can’t get John out now—the entire day will be spent preparing for Day’s execution.
I can’t get the sound of those machine guns out of my head.
I can’t have its tracker follow me now.
I can’t hear the voice-over, but the text headlines are unmistakable: Disturbance outside Batalla Hall.
I can’t help Day escape.
I can’t help choking out a laugh.
I can’t help grinning, even though my face screams in pain.
I can’t help smiling.
I can’t hold back the tears that spring to my eyes.
I can’t hold it up anymore.
I can’t hold on any longer.
I can’t keep the memory of him away now that I’m staring at my pendant again.
I can’t keep the surprise from my face.
I can’t listen to this anymore.
I can’t make out my expression.
I can’t move them.
I can’t remember the first few.
I can’t see any of the blade.
I can’t see them once they rush inside, but I know the drill: a soldier will draw a blood sample from each family member, then plug it into a handheld reader and check for the plague.
I can’t smile back.
I can’t speak through the pain, so I just try to keep my eyes focused on him.
I can’t speak.
I can’t stop imagining what will happen if the soldiers mark my mother’s door.
I can’t stop thinking about John.
I can’t tell him that I own copies of all of Lincoln’s songs as well as some signed memorabilia, that I’ve seen her perform political anthems live at a city banquet or that she once wrote a song honoring each of the Republic’s warfront generals.
I can’t tell if adrenaline is keeping me from feeling other effects of my fall.
I can’t tell what she is, which isn’t unusual around here—Native, maybe, or Caucasian.
I can’t tell where he’s broadcasting from.
I can’t tell which shocks her more ... that I’m alive or that John seems to know all about it.
I can’t understand what she wants from me.
I carefully inch my way down to the ground—I’m agile, but I’m not Day—and follow shadowed alleys to the lakefront.
I catch a glimpse of our porch from where I lie on the ground.
I catch a glimpse of the gun at his belt.
I catch it with my broom and knock it back.
I certainly can’t get in trouble for staying in character while out on the streets, but it doesn’t take a genius to see how upset Thomas is.
I check each fight, although I’ve learned my lesson about standing far enough away from the circles.
I check them again to make sure there are no cracks in the glass.
I clean up the shining shards of broken glass.
I cleaned the girl’s knees with alcohol stolen from a bar, letting her bite down on a rag so she wouldn’t shriek and draw attention to us.
I clear my throat and concentrate on making my way to the water’s edge.
I clear my throat.
I clench my fist and spit right in his face.
I clench the loose dirt under me and make as tight a fist as I can.
I click my tongue and turn on my mike.
I climb to the roof of a nearby building.
I close my eyes and bury my head in my arms so that no one can see my face.
I close my eyes and think of Metias, of all my favorite memories and even the ones I’d rather forget, and I picture him bathed in light.
I close my eyes and try to think.
I close my eyes, recounting what he’d taught me.
I close my eyes.
I close my eyes—I’d trusted this girl, had been duped into kissing her.
I close the photo and click on another one.
I clutch my bleeding side as tightly as I can, and when I look around, I see money exchanging hands.
I collapse on the ground.
I concentrate on scratching Ollie behind his ears.
I cough, trying to spit out the dirt that fills my mouth.
I could barely make out her face because of all the soot on it.
I could destroy the airship altogether before it heads off to the warfront.
I could have killed him yesterday.
I could help John, Eden, and my mother escape right now, and risk running into the plague patrols or street police.
I could help them get to Arizona, or maybe West Texas, and after a while maybe the patrols won’t bother searching for them anymore.
I could hitch a ride on an airship, siphon off its precious fuel, then sell it on the market or divvy it up to people who need it.
I could still do it ... if I only knew where they were... .
I could tear the skin off her face right now if I weren’t tied up.
I could’ve just loaded some bullets into my gun and shot him dead and been done with it.
I count at least twenty, maybe more, all with white masks tied tightly around their mouths.
I count off the minutes to keep myself from passing out.
I count off the seconds in my head.
I count ten minutes off in my head, long enough so that new patients have arrived in the waiting room and the soldiers are less interested in me.
I count the houses between where the soldiers are now and where my family lives.
I count to three in my head, then bring my arms as far back as I can and give the shaft cover a mighty shove.
I cross my arms.
I cross the room with the doctor, then stop at the refrigerators.
I crouch down and dart through the hall, dodging soldiers and guns, slipping out of the hands that reach for me.
I crouch in the darkness for a while, look over my shoulder at the empty streets, then push aside the board and fall to my knees.
I crouch there, for once at a loss, unable to move.
I curl up and begin to fade away.
I curl up in a fetal position.
I curse myself for risking so much money in a Skiz bet instead of finding a more reliable way to get cash.
I curse silently under my breath and start to turn away—
I dart over to the loose board, carefully pull it aside a couple of feet, and then squeeze my way out.
I dart right through the opening before they can close it.
I decide not to ask why he doesn’t fight in Skiz himself.
I devour it all.
I didn’t act fast enough, and the brief hesitation in my voice was enough to convince him that he couldn’t trust me.
I didn’t do it, I want to scream, but no sound comes out.
I didn’t kill your brother.
I didn’t know our parents long enough to miss them in the same way Metias does.
I didn’t know that June had lost her parents—although I should have guessed it from the way she carries herself.
I didn’t think it was possible for it to hurt more than it did yesterday, but it does.
I distract myself by studying the details of his outfit.
I do not plan on catching Day tonight.
I do what John says and keep my chin up, my eyes blank.
I don’t answer him.
I don’t argue.
I don’t bother to wait for Tess’s reply before I take off down the street.
I don’t bring my guns—I don’t want anyone to track me to the plague sectors.
I don’t care how light he is on his feet—you just don’t jump out of buildings and then expect to be able to walk properly afterward.
I don’t care if soldiers find us in this railway car and drag us away.
I don’t care.
I don’t dare let the recognition show on my face.
I don’t dare linger.
I don’t dare move from my vigil.
I don’t dare take my eyes off her.
I don’t eat anything.
I don’t even get a chance to step inside the bar.
I don’t even inch from the sting of her words.
I don’t even plan on seeing him.
I don’t even stop when I accidentally collide with an old man.
I don’t expect June to take this question seriously, but she does.
I don’t feel like entertaining anyone.
I don’t fight him.
I don’t give a damn what happens to the Colonies or exactly what our Republic wants to inflict on them—but June, our own people are lab rats.
I don’t have to go far—none of these shafts will lead to the third floor.
I don’t hesitate.
I don’t just think I’m smart.
I don’t know if this is what sets off my anger.
I don’t know what I plan to do—wave my arms in front of the soldiers?
I don’t know when you’ll find these entries, but I know you’ll find them eventually.
I don’t know.
I don’t mind risking my own life.
I don’t move for the next few hours.
I don’t really understand what just happened.
I don’t reply.
I don’t salute when the Elector Primo’s name comes up.
I don’t see much more than blurs as we walk by—but I do manage to catch one thing.
I don’t see what the big deal is, though.
I don’t take in any details of the scene.
I don’t think I’ll ever smile again.
I don’t understand it.
I don’t wait around to hear Thomas’s reply.
I don’t wait to see him get up.
I don’t want her to think that she wrapped my wound badly, so I add, "Much better than yesterday, though."
I don’t want him to see the truth.
I don’t want to be anywhere else.
I don’t want to guess how long some of them have been here, or how much they had to pay to get in.
I don’t want to leave them so soon.
I don’t want to think about the possibility of losing Eden.
I don’t want you doing something rash.
I double over when I reach her and lean on my knees.
I doubt she even remembers what it is.
I doubt she planned for this.
I dream that Day has his arms wrapped around me and is kissing me again and again, his hands running up my arms and through my hair and around my waist, his chest pressed against mine, his breath against my cheeks and neck and ears.
I dress in a bathroom on the observation and analysis floor.
I dress in my full uniform.
I drop my own knife to the ground.
I ended up choosing a corseted sapphire dress lined with tiny diamonds.
I enlarge the photo again.
I especially shouldn’t be glad that I did it.
I estimate the direction the sewer cap is turned in.
I even tell Thomas, as we wander the lavish ballroom with its endless banquet tables and chandeliers, that arresting Day has filled the gaping hole Metias’s death left in my life.
I even tried shouting at her.
I exchange a brief smile with Tess, who gathers up our winnings and stuffs it into the pouch.
I exchange a desperate look with my mother.
I exchange a friendly look with Thomas, the soldier in the driver’s seat.
I exchange a look with John and keep going.
I exchange a look with her, and I can tell that this is something she’s been trying in vain to convince Kaede to do ever since Day was arrested.
I exchange a strained smile with them.
I fall asleep with Day’s words ringing in my ears.
I fall back to the ground.
I fall silent.
I fall to my knees.
I feel a brief pang of guilt for my coldness and decide to nod back at him.
I feel a strange warmth at the sound of my name on his lips.
I feel a surprising pang of guilt.
I feel a tear on my cheek and quickly wipe it away.
I feel a weird tinge of sympathy and quickly push it away.
I feel hands pin my arms and legs down.
I feel my cheeks growing warm and suddenly look away, glad for the coming darkness.
I feel myself being dragged back onto my feet.
I feel nothing.
I feel the knife at his waist against my own skin, and I tremble.
I feel two rubber bullets hit him in the shoulder.
I feel wrong ... like I did a terrible thing by betraying a boy who trusted me.
I fight hard to breathe.
I fight to clear my head.
I fight to concentrate, but I feel myself fall to the floor.
I fight to contain my irritation.
I find a dark spot in the alley and collapse.
I find a third word: bourgeoisie, spelled bowrgeoisie.
I find an open port in the system after an hour of scanning and then take over admin privileges.
I find myself itching to break into a smile—I know this is news that will make Day very happy.
I find myself looking forward to the execution.
I find nothing substantial the next day, or the day after that.
I fit another bullet to my slingshot and point it in the Girl’s direction.
I fit one of them into my makeshift slingshot.
I fit the last bullet into my slingshot and point it straight at her.
I flinch when she touches it to where a bullet had grazed my arm.
I flinch, but then I open my mouth to catch some of it.
I flinched in surprise.
I flip through Metias’s writing and reread the little notes Dad liked to leave at the bottom of their photos.
I focus on the sound of the siren to distract myself.
I follow Metias’s instructions and delete every last trace of his blog.
I force myself to look on as they try to pry information out of him.
I force myself to scroll to a different document.
I force myself to think.
I freeze.
I frown, confused.
I frown, then brush aside more of the dirt to get a better look.
I frown.
I gag again, trying to turn away from the guards as I do it, so they think I don’t want their attention.
I gasp for air.
I gather my thoughts for two days.
I get a good look at some of the protesters as we pass the last monitor, the ones clustered together under the street lights.
I get one good glimpse of the stairwell, a large, cylindrical chamber with tall plaster walls and tiny windows.
I get to my feet and limp down the stairs one at a time, careful not to slip off the side and plummet down to the water.
I gingerly move my ankle in a circle.
I give Thomas a frown this time.
I give a shout and try to bolt upright.
I give an annoyed sigh.
I give her a small smile, then sit up straighter and stretch my hand out toward her face.
I glance at Commander Jameson.
I glance at Tess.
I glance at him.
I glance at the doctor.
I glance at the other soldiers before looking back at him.
I glance back once, half expecting to see a black-clad figure following me.
I glance back toward the soldiers.
I glance behind me and manage a smile for them.
I glance behind me, but can’t see her face.
I glance down at him.
I glance one last time through the vent at the bedroom, then make my way out from under the porch, into the shadows, and away into the city.
I glance over at Chian and study the scar.
I glance several times at my mother’s window, but don’t see anyone.
I glance to the protesters in the square, then back up to the roofs.
I glance up at Commander Jameson, who stares at me as if she’s reading my thoughts.
I glance up at him.
I glance up to see Thomas bow, then take the seat beside me.
I glance up to see several commanders standing on one of Batalla Hall’s balconies.
I glance up to where the boy is swinging his legs.
I glare at him.
I go around the bank’s back side until I’m standing in front of a parking lot at the end of an alleyway.
I go back to the crime report from the Central Hospital.
I go back to the same page, then try to make sense of it.
I go to a Chinese-themed bar covered in graffiti.
I grab Tess’s hand and we make our way out of the bedroom, down the hall and through the back door.
I grab at them in vain.
I grab her by the shoulders and push her back against the chimney.
I grab several bottles of suppressants and shove them into my shirt.
I grab the edge of our roof, then swing up onto it.
I grab the first person I see—a young doctor standing close to the door.
I grimace.
I grin.
I grit my teeth and close my eyes—I can do nothing in this situation.
I grit my teeth and pull out my second knife so that I now have one in each hand.
I grit my teeth and try not to look at Thomas.
I grunt in pain.
I had committed my first perfect crime.
I had no idea this many people cared enough to see me in person today.
I had to laugh at that.
I hadn’t studied the photos as closely as I should have.
I half expect his eyes to flutter, his mouth to smile.
I hate my calculations.
I have a hunch that they are doling out cures right now, just as Metias said, and in a few more weeks, this plague will have "magically" trickled away.
I have a plan.
I have a sudden urge to comfort her.
I have an appointment to keep.
I have no choice.
I have no idea.
I have no more strength to fight.
I have no other place to write this, so I’ll write it here.
I have no sympathy for a criminal, I remind myself harshly.
I have no time to stop what happens next.
I have no use for such sentiments.
I have nothing to lose and she has nothing to gain.
I have on an elaborate white gown, laced and corseted, with a silk overskirt and draped layers in the back.
I have one more block.
I have to act quickly.
I have to do something.
I have to force myself to keep enough distance between us so that he doesn’t know I’m following him.
I have to get to John.
I have to grit my teeth to keep from shouting back at her.
I have to hide my embarrassment.
I have to laugh a little at myself.
I have to lean into the wind to keep from falling over.
I have to reach them before the soldiers do.
I have to save Eden, I say to myself over and over again.
I have to swallow hard to keep my eyes dry.
I have what the Republic considers good genes—and better genes make for better soldiers make for better chance of victory against the Colonies, my professors always say.
I haven’t had the nerve to think about my execution date.
I haven’t seen June in such clothes before.
I haven’t seen this look on Thomas’s face often; it chills me.
I head all the way down to the floor of the building that sits right at the water’s surface.
I hear Thomas curse.
I hear a commotion in the halls somewhere behind us.
I hear a sigh from the other end.
I hear her voice again, this time loud enough to understand.
I hear it unlock from the outside.
I hear shouts, then screams.
I hear some commotion in the background, some static, and then his faint voice along with Commander Jameson’s.
I hear something click, then feel cold metal against my temple.
I hear the boos start.
I hear the faint sound of rain.
I hear the occasional lap of waves.
I heave a sigh, readjust the black handkerchief covering my face, and bend down to lift the cover.
I heave and spit on the floor.
I help Mom in next.
I hesitate for a split second, then hold up one finger again.
I hesitate.
I hit my head hard enough to send the world spinning.
I hit the paper ball back as hard as I can.
I hold June’s gaze with my own.
I hold a finger to my lips.
I hold her hand.
I hold my side—and that’s when I feel something warm and wet at my waist.
I hold up a hand and tell them to stay where they are.
I hold up one finger.
I hope it’s good enough.
I hope not.
I hope the darkness hides the rising color in my cheeks.
I hope they get to upgrade those supports soon.
I hope.
I huddle against the chimney.
I huddle behind the chimney.
I hug him back without realizing what I’m doing.
I hunch my shoulders so that the black of my outfit and hair help me melt into the darkness.
I hurry over to the porch and slide the board to one side.
I hurry silently to the back of our house, get a good foothold on a loose brick, and fling myself upward.
I ignore Ms.
I ignore the boy’s low laugh.
I ignore the fact that the spy’s hair is straight and dark like my own, and his skin is pale, and his youth reminds me of Metias over and over again.
I ignore them and continue to walk.
I ignore them and keep going.
I imagine her hunched shoulders, her head in her hands, her brave face finally gone.
I imagine the crowd outside.
I inch along as fast as I can.
I jerk back and spit at her.
I just nod.
I just shrug.
I just stare at him.
I just want to be here, safe against Day’s body, wrapped in his tight embrace.
I just wink at him.
I keep a hand absently on his head.
I keep my eyes locked steadily on his face and cross my arms.
I keep my eyes on Tess.
I keep my hands pressed against my side for good measure.
I keep my original direction planted firmly in my mind.
I keep my voice upbeat.
I keep one hand in my pocket, absently rubbing Day’s pendant.
I keep pushing until my back hits a surface that’s hard and smooth.
I keep still, my eyes fixed on the entrance.
I keep the rising panic off my face.
I keep up my act for another few minutes, gagging twice more as the soldiers continue to watch me.
I keep wondering how he knew that I’d hacked into the deceased civilians database, and all I can think of is that I left a trace, and the tech guys who fixed that security hole found it and mentioned it to him.
I kept quiet and let him go on.
I kneel before him and smooth strands of his dark hair away from his face.
I kneel in front of June and clutch my head in both hands, then sink to the floor.
I knew it.
I know I should put it in a safer place, but I can’t bring myself to touch it.
I know enough now.
I know exactly what Metias wants me to do.
I know five P.
I know he doesn’t mean this as a compliment, but I can’t help smiling.
I know he’s here.
I know he’s watching me.
I know she’s giving orders through her mouthpiece, though, because Thomas listens intently with one hand pressed against his ear.
I know something has gone wrong the instant Thomas shows up at our door.
I know that house.
I know this because I can see the subtle movements in her face, her satisfaction at making something out or her frustration at not being able to.
I know this because I’ve been there before.
I know this because we found a stolen ID tag lying halfway up the third-floor stairwell, which led us to the soldier pictured on the tag, who stammered out a description of what the boy looked like.
I know this room is supposed to be more or less soundproof ... but I swear I hear the sound of guns and the vibrations of distant screams.
I know what he’s going to do.
I know what’s coming.
I know.
I laugh in her face.
I laugh.
I lay feverishly in bed while Metias sat by my side, his brow furrowed with worry.
I lay my head back down on the pillow.
I lean a little bit out from behind the chimney.
I lean back and study the Girl’s face.
I lean back on the couch, then close my eyes so I can picture the words in my mind.
I lean down and put my ear against the ground.
I lean forward in my chair and start reading.
I lean forward on the ledge, so far that Tess grips my arm to make sure I don’t topple to the ground.
I lean forward to rest my arms on top of his seat.
I lean my head back too and stare up at the clothes hanging above us.
I lean over to study him.
I lean toward her.
I leap as far as I can and manage to grab the edge of the windowsill with one hand.
I leap up, push off against one wall, and grip the top ledge of the door.
I learned earlier why Commander Jameson pulled me out of Drake.
I let Kaede check both my ears and my mouth.
I let Kaede hit me one last time.
I let her have the couch, while I laid out my shirt as a pillow and tried to get comfortable on the pavement.
I let her strike first.
I let out a breath.
I let out a deep breath.
I let out a long breath.
I lie on the couch with my arm draped over Ollie.
I lie quietly for a while, eyes open, trying to catch my breath.
I lie unmoving for a moment, wide-awake in the darkness.
I lift my chin.
I lift my head and fix my eyes on the crowd.
I lift my head and look toward the door.
I lift my head as far as I can and look down at my leg.
I lift my head off his shoulder and look at him.
I like reading their little notes, it feels like they can still talk to me.
I limp back to her.
I limp into the shadows.
I limp through the streets along the rim of Alta and Winter sector, along the lake and out in the open, lost in the crowded shuffle of other people.
I limp to the edge of the rooftop and stare down from the railing.
I limped over to her.
I lock the door and stuff the key into my pocket and let Thomas guide us through the darkness to the stairs.
I look around and see rows of city speakers on the roofs, a stray cat whose tail twitches over the lid of a trash can, an abandoned kiosk with old anti-Colonies bulletins tacked all over it.
I look around, as if there might be a surveillance camera in the room.
I look around, confused.
I look at Ollie.
I look at Tess again.
I look at Tess in alarm.
I look at Tess.
I look at her mouth—the same lips I kissed are now coated in a light sheen of gloss.
I look at her.
I look at it in wonder.
I look at the camera.
I look at the screens.
I look away from Thomas and toward the altar, so he doesn’t see the tears in my eyes.
I look away from the lake to see her holding out a piece of bread and cheese, gesturing for me to take it.
I look away, embarrassed.
I look back at Thomas with a steady face.
I look back at Thomas.
I look back at him.
I look back at the horizon, click my tongue, and turn on my microphone.
I look down and see the soldiers spill from another house.
I look down at my brother’s face again.
I look down toward his wounded leg.
I look down.
I look on as the prisoner continues to scream.
I look on helplessly as she runs right into a soldier, and when she tries to turn away from him, he grabs her and throws her to the ground.
I look over at him.
I look over at the soldiers lined up against the wall and near the door.
I look pretty awesome tonight.
I look through the vent, and in the slivers of light I can see pieces of a curved stairwell.
I look toward the dark alley that my brother’s feet point to and notice the sewer cover several yards away.
I look up at June.
I look up in mild surprise.
I lose my grip, scrape myself against the wall, and crash to the ground.
I lose track of time.
I lost it.
I lower my voice to a whisper.
I lunge forward.
I make a clicking sound with my tongue to turn off my microphone.
I make a mental note of his face too.
I make a mental note of the page.
I make a point not to look anywhere close to where Day’s house is—or perhaps, was.
I make a point to take several turns and walk in the filthy sewer water.
I make it down to the bottom of the building faster than I thought I would.
I make my way over there, then crouch beside the bedroom’s vent and look in.
I make my way straight back toward the firing squad yard.
I make my way through the back alleys, careful to avoid the streetlights, the street police, and the endless street crowd.
I make my way to the top of my high-rise, until I’m standing alone on the roof with the wind whistling all around me.
I make myself sound grateful, thoughtful.
I make sure my hair is pulled back flawlessly, that my face is clean and calm and devoid of emotion.
I make sure that the sound of my crying doesn’t wake Tess and the boy.
I make them look bad.
I make up my mind.
I make you this promise: your life is mine.
I manage a polite nod.
I manage a smile.
I manage to smile back.
I mean, you know how he gets sometimes.
I meet Thomas’s gaze.
I meet her gaze.
I mumble the pledge under my breath, but stay silent in the last two passages when the street police aren’t looking my way.
I must be delirious because I think I hear sympathy in her voice.
I must be in the medical ward.
I must be losing my mind.
I must have a cut on my scalp.
I must’ve cracked a rib.
I narrow my eyes at Kaede.
I narrow my eyes at the bottom of the page.
I narrow my eyes.
I need a miracle now.
I need a way to confirm my guess, a way to talk to someone.
I need to find a sewer cover.
I need to find her now, before I have to return to Batalla Hall in the morning and go over details of Day’s botched escape with Commander Jameson.
I need to learn this, to familiarize myself with this.
I need to look genderless, generic, unidentifiable.
I need to look like a black-market dealer, someone rich enough to afford plague cures.
I nod and smile.
I nod at John.
I nod at her.
I nod at the scars on her arms and the bruises on her hands.
I nod once but say nothing.
I nod quietly.
I nod toward the building.
I nod when he steadies me and asks me to do something.
I nod wordlessly and continue along the shore.
I nod, because that’s what she wants me to do.
I nod.
I note where all the soldiers are standing—two by the secretary’s window, two by the doctor’s door far in the distance, several near the elevators, each wearing ID tags—and then I drop my eyes to the floor.
I notice other things too: how familiar he is with streets far from the Lake sector, as if he could walk them blindfolded; how nimble his fingers are when they smooth down the wrinkles at his shirt’s waist; how he looks at buildings as if memorizing them.
I notice that she has a few tiny freckles on her nose.
I observe my rescuer all day as I follow him around the Alta sector of Los Angeles.
I only need to get far enough to pop out into one of the hospital’s stairwells, away from the soldiers on the first floor.
I only shrugged.
I open and close my mouth.
I open my eyes and focus back on my brother’s body.
I open my eyes, then lift my hand and study the pendant necklace again.
I open my eyes, then look back at the last page I’d read in Metias’s journal.
I open my eyes, then squint at the water falling into them.
I open my eyes.
I open the back door and dash up the few steps leading to our living room.
I open the files Commander Jameson has forwarded to me.
I open up a search engine and point to a classified URL.
I pass the time by forcing myself to think through Day’s history.
I pat his arm.
I pause for a second and squint into the night.
I pause for a second as John runs to fetch the ball again.
I pause, but the feeling doesn’t come.
I pause.
I pet him, let him out onto our patio, and then throw off the lopsided dress and hop in the shower.
I pick out the line of black-clad soldiers struggling to contain the crowd near the front.
I picture Eden and John and force myself to calm down, force away the pain.
I picture his face, so beautiful even after pain and torture and grief, his blue eyes bright and sincere.
I picture the three-lined X again.
I plan to take advantage of it as much as I can.
I play it for a while before I stumble across a combination that makes me open my eyes.
I pledge allegiance to the flag of the great Republic of America, to our Elector Primo, to our glorious states, to unity against the Colonies, to our impending victory!
I pluck my cape from the ground and tuck it under my arm.
I point myself in the direction that I remember Day going the previous night, south toward Union Station.
I pointed John to the ventilation shaft.
I pray the plaster is soft enough, then leap off the stairs and throw myself toward the wall.
I press a button on my phone and the voice of my brother’s murderer fills my living room.
I press forward.
I press my fists against my closed eyes and take a deep breath.
I press my knife harder against his neck, careful not to cut him.
I press my lips together in thought.
I pretend not to notice his approach, so busy am I with my gagging and coughing.
I pretend to be angry, as if she’s just whispered something insulting.
I pretend to concentrate too hard on holding back another heave.
I promise.
I pull away before his mouth can touch mine—but now his hand is around the back of my neck.
I pull back my arm.
I pull four knives from my belt, hold them out slowly so she can see, then toss them to the alley floor.
I pull my gun out of its holster.
I pull my hair back into a tight ponytail and tuck the tail into the shirt so it’s pressed flat against my back.
I pull my hood over my head in case I forget when we finally get out of the car.
I pull out a slice of chicken I found in the back of a café’s kitchen and force myself to munch on it, ignoring the slime of cold grease.
I pull out the sea daisies that I had tucked into my shirt’s sleeve.
I pull the cloth tight and tie it off.
I pull the sewer cover back in place.
I pull the worn cap off my head.
I push my fists harder into the dirt.
I push myself farther back against the bank, and some of the loose dirt and rocks give way.
I push myself off the couch several minutes later, then wander over to my desk and turn on my computer.
I push myself up onto my knees.
I push one hand against my ear and feel for blood.
I put an arm around her shoulder.
I put on an air of annoyance.
I put them down and shuffle through the rest of the stuff.
I put up the defenses and shells that my brother taught me—there are eyes everywhere online.
I quicken my pace and try to ignore the pain.
I quicken my pace.
I quickly feel my way to the stairwell.
I quickly scan the faces of the other soldiers, wondering if Metias himself is here as well.
I quietly make a list of these letters in my head, starting with the d in refridgerator.
I raise my head as high as I can and see the JumboTrons embedded in the surrounding buildings.
I raise my voice.
I reach a large trash bin and swing myself up onto it, then get ready to jump to a second-floor windowsill.
I reach around, unzip my backpack, and pull out a thick wad of Notes.
I reach instinctively for the knife at my belt before I see who my attacker is.
I reach out and let my hand sink into the thick white fur around his neck, and he drops his head into my lap with a sigh.
I reach the firing squad hall and take in the scene in an instant: three unconscious soldiers.
I reach the stairs and jump up three at a time, counting the seconds since the electro-bomb went off.
I reach up to touch my pendant necklace for comfort, but then I remember that it’s no longer around my neck.
I read it over again in case I missed something.
I read through pages and pages of his old entries, all of them about irrelevant, mundane things.
I realize I’m still trying to fight my way out of the soldiers’ grasp.
I realize a second later that the man is walking in step with someone else.
I realize that I’d been holding it in while his eyes kept me frozen in place.
I realize that his cheeks are rosy too.
I realize that the mouthpiece in my cheek is still turned off.
I realize that we are now inside the yellow tape.
I recall the sound of Day’s crackly voice from the speakers and compare it quietly to this boy’s.
I recognize a few.
I recognize some of Metias’s professors, fellow soldiers, and superiors.
I refocus.
I release a breath.
I release her.
I release him and nearly fall to my knees.
I remember how calm she had always seemed when I was little, with her soothing voice and gentle smile.
I remember none of this.
I remember studying his face.
I remember the fire trucks that came whizzing around the corner shortly thereafter, and the charred remains of the police building’s west wing.
I remember the hospital entrance, the stolen ID tag and the stairwell and the laboratory, the long fall, my knife thrown at the captain, the sewers.
I remember the last dream I have before I wake up, though.
I remember the night that set this all in motion, the night I saw the soldiers mark my mother’s door.
I remember the panel that questioned me—a group of six psychiatrists—and the official who’d led them, the man named Chian, who had a uniform adorned with medals.
I remember the two of them were in full uniform—Metias with his jacket open and shirt hanging loose; Thomas neatly buttoned up, with his hair carefully slicked back.
I remember watching him peel that orange for me; he cut one long, efficient line in the fruit’s peel, then removed it all in one piece.
I remind myself to watch him more closely when I get upstairs and not let this injury distract me.
I reminded John to stay out of Eden’s room when he could.
I remove a vial from a holster at my belt.
I return to the alley before Day can find me missing.
I rip open my long-sleeved shirt and let it billow out behind me as thoughts zip through my head.
I rise, walk over to my computer, and pick up my glass of water.
I rock back and forth as hard as I can.
I roll four times and crash into the wall on the other side of the street.
I roll my eyes.
I rub my eyes, heavy with exhaustion.
I rub my temples.
I run a finger across my monitor, take a sip of water, and then enter my clearance code for accessing the Internet.
I run a hand through my hair in frustration.
I run faster.
I run the letters through my mind several more times, to make sure my assumption is correct.
I run this thought over and over again in my head.
I run up behind them and kick the soldier’s feet out from under him.
I rush to take Mom’s injured hands in my own.
I said you knew nothing about it, that he shouldn’t mention it to you.
I say yes.
I scan the roofs.
I scan the scene of blood and bodies and prisoners.
I scoot closer to her.
I scowl at her.
I scowl.
I scramble from under the porch and hurry to the back door.
I scramble the letters over and over again in my head, trying to come up with various combinations of words.
I scream something.
I scroll all the way back to the first page.
I scroll through the report again, searching for pages I might have missed.
I scroll to the next page.
I search the crowd, but Tess is nowhere to be seen.
I see Day’s photo in the middle of it.
I see June make the most subtle movement with her lips.
I see Metias tense up to fire his gun.
I see Tess scurry into the safety of the crowd.
I see his fingers creep closer to his gun’s trigger, but one of the other soldiers shakes his head.
I see it when he sits down or gets up—the slightest hesitation when he bends his knee.
I see one patrol going from door to door, pretending to do another routine sweep.
I see the boy convulse with each shot.
I see the footage of me sitting in my cell.
I shake my head again.
I shake my head as if to clear my thoughts, then lean back against the wall and close my eyes.
I shake my head, amazed by how much I’ve allowed myself to open up to her.
I shake my head.
I shift the way I walk.
I shift the words around, trying to form a sentence that makes sense, and when that fails, I move the letters around to see if each one might be an anagram for something else.
I shift to turn toward her.
I shoot Tess an irritated glance.
I should be dead right now, filled with bullets.
I should be hungry.
I should have let her fend for herself.
I should have seen this earlier.
I should.
I shouldn’t have done it, I tell myself.
I shouldn’t have kissed her.
I should’ve guessed it.
I should’ve seen the tiny flash of light near her wrist.
I shove Thomas hard against the wall before he can regain his balance.
I shove her away.
I show him the pouch.
I shrug after a moment.
I shrug it off.
I shrug.
I shuffle to the closest chair and sit.
I sidestep.
I sigh, sit up, and grab one of Metias’s journals off the coffee table.
I sigh, then remove the canteen hanging at my belt.
I sighed and dropped my canvas bag to the ground, then held out a hand to her.
I silently scold myself—what a game to involve myself in.
I sink to the ground on my hands and my good knee, chains clacking as I go.
I sit back and stare at the first photo again.
I sit back on my heels.
I sit on a crumbling window ledge three stories up, hidden from view behind rusted steel beams.
I sit on my couch with Ollie, staring off into space.
I sit up and look around.
I sit up straight and swing my legs over the side of the bed.
I sit up straighter.
I skim through all thirty-two pages before I confirm something very odd.
I skim through the information I’ve already read before, starting on the new documents.
I slide it carefully back into place.
I slide the board aside.
I slip in and out of consciousness.
I slump back down onto the gurney and close my eyes.
I smell chili and bread.
I smile a little, then glance casually back to the screen.
I smile at her.
I smile at him.
I smile at that.
I smile at them from where I stand by the door.
I smile behind my mask.
I smile genuinely at her.
I smile, then reach down to untie the cloth.
I smile.
I smile—I have plenty of wounds for the hospital to treat now.
I snap my fingers twice, then listen to Day’s voice over and over.
I sneak through the back alleys until I’m standing by our crumbling backyard fence.
I snort at that.
I snort.
I soundlessly tap out Day’s name on my desk.
I spend most of this first morning pretending to dig around in the garbage bins.
I splash water on my face and scrub until most of the pig’s blood and mud have come off.
I sprint down the street, my wound throbbing in protest.
I squeeze out of the shaft and dart up the steps.
I squint at its smooth surface, its lack of patterns.
I squint at the surface.
I squint in the blinding light.
I squint through the rain.
I squint, trying to see through it.
I stab one knife straight into the plaster.
I stand inside, waiting as the minutes tick by.
I stand there unmoving, trembling.
I stare at her and keep my expression carefully blank.
I stare at him awhile longer, still unable to speak.
I stare at him for a while.
I stare at him.
I stare at his neck but see nothing hanging around it.
I stare at my face on the JumboTrons.
I stare at the Girl in silence, not sure how to respond.
I stare at the date.
I stare at the screen, then dare to imagine the alternative.
I stare at the security cams and imagine what the square’s crowd looks like.
I stare at the shafts of light coming through the vents.
I stare blankly into it.
I stare down at the dead body of a soldier clad in military black, a knife still protruding from his chest.
I stare levelly at him.
I stare straight ahead at the reflective metal decorations lining the stairwell, at the distorted reflections of Ollie and me.
I start telling Kaede and Tess about everything I’ve discovered.
I start to tremble.
I stay silent.
I stay there for a while, quietly studying it.
I stay where I am as two soldiers check me for weapons.
I stayed silent.
I step out of the jeep and give her a quick salute.
I still can’t get used to the crumbling walls, the lines of worn clothing hanging from balconies, the clusters of young beggars hoping for a bite to eat from passersby ... but at the very least, my disdain has faded.
I still don’t know what made me stop and talk to her that afternoon.
I still don’t move from where I stand.
I still feel nothing but that deep numbness.
I stop for a second just outside, checking the direction and distance of the patrols.
I stopped to look my brother directly in the eyes.
I stopped trying to convince him to call me June—he’ll never change.
I store the misspelled words in my head.
I strain to hear voices, footsteps, anything that might come from my house.
I strain to hear what he’s saying to one of the nurses.
I struggle for something smart to say in return, but to my embarrassment, I feel tears well up in my eyes.
I struggle to my feet.
I study her stance.
I study him for a moment.
I study it for a second longer, shake my head, and decide to move on.
I stuff the pendant back into my pocket and rise.
I stumble along in the sewers, my vision going in and out of focus, one of my hands pressed hard against my side.
I stumble into a Skiz fight.
I suck in my breath at the sight of her.
I suddenly feel dizzy.
I suddenly remember the first moment I saw him.
I swallow hard and try to stay calm.
I swallow hard, warning myself not to get too excited.
I swallow hard.
I swallow.
I swing back down, kicking one soldier in the head with my good leg.
I swing toward the window and let go of the knife buried in the wall.
I swing up toward the ceiling and grab the crisscrossing metal between the tiles.
I take a bite of pork so I don’t have to answer.
I take a breath before he touches his lips to mine.
I take a closer look at the bank’s alleyway.
I take a deep breath and force myself to look down.
I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and tell myself to concentrate this time.
I take a deep breath, then step out of the shadows and stumble toward the hospital’s entrance.
I take a deep breath.
I take a large bite out of the bread and cheese.
I take a moment to meet his eyes.
I take a shuddering breath.
I take another bite before answering.
I take her by the shoulders.
I take his hand.
I take in the hallway scene in the blink of an eye.
I take it anyway.
I take more turns.
I take note of everything, no matter how small the detail.
I take that back.
I take the gun out from my belt and fling it to the ground.
I take the knife and slice through all the wires on the bottom of the electric grid.
I take the long way through Batalla, through the sector’s side roads and abandoned buildings, not stopping until I’m a good distance outside of military grounds.
I take the pendant out of my pocket.
I taste the wine on his lips.
I tear a strip of cloth from the bottom of my shirt and try to wrap her wound the way Tess would.
I tell her about my hunt for Day and what had happened when I turned him in.
I tell myself not to look back.
I tell myself that Metias is not the one whom Thomas is now torturing.
I tense up.
I thank her and stumble toward the sliding doors.
I thank the man, though, and step inside.
I think I can hear the rumble of footsteps overhead, the shouts of soldiers.
I think I can trust him.
I think I saw something ... there.
I think I’m going to pass out.
I think I’ve cracked a rib.
I think about contacting Thomas.
I think about it from several angles, but keep coming to the same conclusion.
I think back to how we were on the streets of Lake, when he would risk his safety because I needed to rest.
I think back to the day I took my Trial, when John came to pick me up and saw me being taken away in a train with others who had failed.
I think back to the day he visited us after six months without a word.
I think back to the evening when Metias decided to resign from shadowing Chian and joining the Trial enforcers.
I think back to the two cans our caretaker had placed on the dresser.
I think back to the warmth of Day’s kiss, the way he’d bandaged my wound.
I think back to what Thomas told me, that the generals from the warfront have come to see him.
I think back with some shame on the night of Metias’s funeral, when I’d left a giant steak untouched on my plate, without a second thought.
I think of Eden’s face, of the medicine he and John and my mother will need, and of the strange red X with the line through it.
I think of Metias, of my parents, then of Day’s mother, and his brothers.
I thought I’d answered well enough.
I throw my knife at him with all my strength.
I throw open the door.
I tighten my grip on my remaining knife.
I tighten my jaw at the sight.
I tighten my jaw.
I tighten the clasp that holds my cloak in place (steel sprayed with bronze, probably imported from West Texas), then head off toward the stairs that will take me outside Batalla Hall and down toward the Arcadia bank where I’m supposed to meet Day.
I tighten the cloak around me and realize that I’ve started to sweat in the warmth of the night.
I tilt my head a little as I look at the spy.
I tilt my head in her direction.
I told him I was still grieving over our parents’ deaths and got a little paranoid.
I tracked him into an alley in Yellowstone City, Montana, and Metias shot him.
I tried asking her to leave.
I trip and fall against him.
I try in vain to sleep.
I try scrambling to my feet, but stumble and fall again.
I try to click my microphone on, but my tongue feels slow and covered with sand.
I try to draw on the anger I felt last night.
I try to focus.
I try to get up, but my feet feel glued to the ground.
I try to hear what the other policeman has to say, but by now the two have walked far enough that their voices have turned to murmurs.
I try to ignore the strange X on my family’s door and make my way directly to the floorboards lining the side of the porch.
I try to imagine how Day looks.
I try to imagine my thoughts as blocks of data organized into neat little boxes, each clearly labeled.
I try to keep my expression from changing, but my heart stops beating for a second.
I try to keep my focus on his hands.
I try to keep my thoughts on Eden, on the money I need to collect before it’s too late, but I start thinking up new ways to mess with the Republic’s war campaign instead.
I try to look amused.
I try to meet Thomas’s eyes again in the rearview mirror, but he keeps his gaze on the road.
I try to read her eyes, to see if I can guess what her plans are.
I try to remember the night I faced Metias—the moment when he had his gun pointed at me and I had my knife pointed at him.
I try to remember what the knife looked like on the night it happened, when I had a chance to look at it myself.
I try to run to her.
I try to send a mental warning to her, to tell her to get out of California and run as far as she can.
I try to sit up, but I move too fast and have to bite my lip from the pain.
I try to skim these as fast as I can, but in the end I can’t help pausing on the last one.
I try to smile back.
I try to smile for her sake.
I try to speak, but something lodges in my throat, and my words don’t come out.
I try to spring back to my feet, but someone knocks me down again, and a sharp pain makes my back twitch.
I try to take a mental snapshot of this day.
I try to take pride in all this.
I try to think about where Eden might be—the Central Hospital lab, or a medical division of Batalla Hall, or even a train headed to the warfront.
I tuck a handful of sea daisies into the sleeve of my shirt and a couple of Notes into my pocket for good measure.
I tuck my slingshot away and play a few rounds of Rock, Paper, Scissors with Tess.
I turn and start back down the alley.
I turn back around.
I turn back to the Girl.
I turn it in my hands and hold it higher.
I turn my face away so I don’t have to watch him.
I turn my head to get a better look as we pass the double doors it’s sprayed on.
I turn to Anden.
I turn to face her, and she pretends to study the water instead, as if embarrassed to be caught looking.
I turn without a word, roll my shirtsleeves back up to my elbows, and flip my collar up.
I turn, tuck the vial back onto my belt, and start to walk away.
I twist my hair up over my head and then stuff it back inside my cap.
I twist out of John’s grasp.
I unzip my boots and tear open the inner soles to reveal my knives, then tuck them into my belt.
I use her momentum against her and strike her hard when her back’s turned.
I use my good arm to prop myself up and wince.
I used to hide down here sometimes when I was younger, back when my brothers and I would play hide-and-seek.
I utter a trio of low whistles that sounds like a cricket; it takes a few tries before John hears it and turns around.
I wait a few more seconds, then make a gagging sound and hunch over.
I wait another minute, trying to distract myself by petting Ollie.
I wait for another minute, just to be sure I hadn’t misread Day’s exit.
I wait for the realization to sink in.
I wait in the shadows near my mother’s house, close enough so I can actually peek through the gaps of our backyard’s rickety fence.
I wait in the shadows of a back alley one block from the Los Angeles Central Hospital and watch its staff spill in and out of the main entrance.
I wait two seconds before speaking again.
I wait until she’s ready to charge.
I wait until the soldiers have spread out around the hospital’s perimeter and the man named Metias has immersed himself in conversation with two of his men.
I wait while he swallows (he takes forever) and then let him take another long drink.
I wait, listening for another breath over the speakers.
I wait.
I waited for a moment, not wanting to scare her like I had the others.
I wake with a start.
I wander through several bars without luck.
I want nothing more than to curl into a ball in the corner of my cell and sleep.
I want to ask about Metias, about what happened here.
I want to get up and scream in his face, to hurt him somehow.
I want to hate him for confusing me so much.
I want to laugh.
I want to rush out from under here and knock on our door.
I want to scream again, but my mouth is too dry.
I want to scream at him.
I want to snatch it from her hand, but the chains weigh me down.
I want to tell Day that it’s insane to head for a military city like Vegas.
I want to tell them to wait for John, but I know it’s no use.
I want to turn it off, and I keep trying to find its switch, but my arms feel weird.
I was assigned here, to the country’s top university, at twelve, four years ahead of schedule.
I was going about it the wrong way.
I was seven years old, and Metias was nineteen.
I was still young enough to hug his leg.
I was there the day I failed my Trial, the day I was supposed to die.
I watch as he files his nails down by scraping them with the edge of his knife.
I watch as he stabs his knife into the bottle’s cork, then pops it out and throws his head back for a long swig.
I watch as his eyes take on a faraway look.
I watch as she listens to other gamblers discuss the fighters.
I watch her go.
I watch her lips as they curl into a smile.
I watch him as we continue, wishing I weren’t chained so I could beat this man to the ground.
I watch him disappear, then open my door and slowly step inside.
I watch him for a moment, waiting for him to expose those brilliant eyes to the world again.
I watch my classmates run along a giant track surrounded by a 360-degree screen simulating some desolate warfront road.
I watch the different emotions flash across her face—disbelief, joy, confusion—before she takes a step forward.
I wave him off.
I wave my hand dismissively.
I wear a newsboy cap over it.
I wear the army trousers our caretaker gave me with a thin collared shirt Tess found in a garbage bin.
I whirl around to see Metias, the young captain from the hospital’s entrance, facing me.
I whirl to face June.
I will hunt you down.
I will myself to stay silent.
I will scour the streets of Los Angeles for you.
I will trick you and deceive you, lie, cheat and steal to find you, tempt you out of your hiding place, and chase you until you have nowhere else to run.
I wince as my weight transfers onto my bad leg.
I wince in imaginary pain.
I wince.
I wipe away the tears from under one of her eyes.
I wish I could be in the room with all of them when I deliver this stuff.
I wish I could figure out who she reminds me of.
I wish I could go back to that night in the alley for just one second.
I wish I knew what revelations she’d had.
I wish I’d studied the wounds more closely in person when I had the chance.
I wish Ollie could have come with us too.
I wish she were here.
I wish the Republic would hurry up and win this war already so that for once we might actually get a whole month of nonstop electricity.
I wish we could get our hands on one of the soldiers’ guns.
I wish you were older, though, because I can’t quite bring myself to tell a fifteen-year-old girl what I found—especially when you should be celebrating.
I wonder how it happened or whether it’s something he was born with.
I wonder how large an operation the Patriots are.
I wonder if I can catch the plague from these people, even though I’m vaccinated.
I wonder if Ollie’s imagining that now.
I wonder if he’ll act on this information and, if so, what he’ll do.
I wonder if he’s awake and seeing this chaos on the hall monitors.
I wonder if the doctor can feel how fast my heart is beating.
I wonder what she’s doing right now and what she’s thinking about.
I wonder what she’s whispering to Eden now.
I wonder what the pledge sounded like before we went to war against the Colonies.
I wonder who used to live here—no one’s cracked enough to let their portrait of the Elector sit discarded on the floor like that.
I won’t be allowed to force Day to come to me—which leaves me only one option.
I won’t have time to get them out.
I would rather die than see them hurt you.
I wouldn’t trust her with anyone else.
I would’ve expected his bright eyes to look dimmer in the night, but instead they seem to reflect the light coming from the windows above us.
I yelp on cue when they touch my arms or stomach.
IM SITTING IN MY DEAN SECRETARY’S OFFICE.
INFORMATION LEADING TO ARREST
IT’S GODDY HOT EVEN THIS LATE IN THE AFTERNOON.
If Dad hid it somewhere, they’d find it.
If Day hit Metias’s shoulder, then how did the knife end up in my brother’s chest?
If I can climb high enough, they won’t be able to catch me.
If I can escape, I still have time to save them.
If I can find a way out of this cell, and arm myself with a soldier’s weapons and vest, I have a fighting chance to get out of Batalla Hall.
If I can get him out, we can help each other escape.
If I can—
If I fight too well, people might get suspicious.
If I hadn’t gone to that hospital, if I hadn’t crossed paths with June’s brother, if I’d found a plague cure somewhere else ... would things be different?
If I need to live like a Lake citizen, I’ll have to eat like one.
If I run right now, though, I’m a dead girl.
If I was a goddy rich sector boy, I’d be admitted without charge.
If I weren’t busy hunting for information, I’d take my time with this girl, chat her up and maybe get a kiss or three out of her.
If I’d been in her place, would I have done anything differently?
If I’m caught here and anyone discovers what I’m doing, they’ll probably kill me.
If I’m going to help John escape tonight, I’d better make sure I keep Thomas feeling good about our relationship.
If I’m not going to sleep, I might as well continue sifting through Day’s background and evidence.
If June is planning to help me escape, she sure is pushing her luck to the limits.
If Metias and Day had met somewhere other than the hospital’s back streets, would they have become allies?
If Thomas already knew last night, that means she told him yesterday evening, at the latest, before sending him home.
If anyone can, you can.
If it were up to me, I’d cross the whole country alone and escape into the Colonies first chance I got.
If my brother had any other enemies, surely there’d be a clue somewhere in his writing.
If no one opens the door within ten seconds, the first soldier kicks it in.
If only Commander Jameson hadn’t pushed the execution up a day.
If only the hospital had cures.
If she had not led to the death of my mother and my capture, if I did not wish she were dead, I would find her absolutely breathtaking.
If she hadn’t been responsible for getting Tess out of the ring, I would’ve left her to fend for herself.
If someone catches me now, I’ll be forced to run anyway.
If that didn’t give me away, nothing would.
If the Republic’s most-wanted criminal can pull that off, then how are we ever going to catch him if we’re not just as fast?
If the brothers continue on and I run back to fight the soldiers, I’ll probably only take down a few before they overwhelm me.
If the patrols are already after Eden, then it won’t make things any worse if John and Mom just leave their jobs and run.
If they catch me and fingerprint me, it’s over for both of us.
If they see me dressed like this, equipped with infrared goggles, they’ll question me for sure.
If they’re smart, they’ll be ready at any minute to bribe the street police with their winnings—unless they’re willing to admit out loud that they’re making tax-free money.
If we arrest Day today, what will happen to her?
If we run out of bandages, that’s where I can get some fresh ones.
If worse came to worst, maybe the plague would be a more merciful way to go.
If you want to rebel, rebel from inside the system.
If you’re in this unlucky category, the Republic sends officials to your family’s home.
If you’re lucky, Congress will let you die without first sending you to the labs to be examined for imperfections.
Immediately students hurry over.
Impossible.
Impressive eye.
In a few hours we’ll need to head out.
In a room like this, with four steel walls that bullets could bounce off of, the rifles probably use something other than lead ammo.
In a sudden fit of anger, I lift the glass and hurl it against the wall.
In an attempt to distract myself, I’m piecing together a makeshift slingshot out of old PVC pipes.
In fact, I don’t know if anyone has ever taken my word so readily before.
In fact, I would have traveled by rooftop if I weren’t going to the financial sector, where guards line the roofs.
In fact, I’m almost certain that the soldiers have been back at least once, because the X is bright and the paint’s fresh.
In fact, every single one of his answers is untouched.
In fact, he got the same score I did: 1500 / 1500.
In fact, it seems like he can’t wait to get out of this room and far away from me.
In fact, the view makes me pause.
In front of one, a high-ranking official with red tassels and a commander’s hat stands waiting.
In her hand I see the rifle she used to hit me.
In her palm is my pendant necklace, the smooth bumps on its surface scraped and dirty but still more or less whole, the necklace part lying in a pile in her palm.
In its place appears what looks like a blog.
In my mind I conjure up a memory of her face, soft and beautiful and concerned, her eyes bright blue and her mouth rosy and smiling.
In my mind, I make a silent promise to my brother’s killer.
In my mind, I see the image of my mother’s face as she lies crumpled on the ground.
In my mind, I turn to him and give him a final farewell.
In one corner, an old portrait of the Elector Primo lies faceup on the ground.
In one move, I shatter it.
In one of his past crimes, he crept into a quarantine zone by tying up a street policeman.
In other words, the Republic has no idea what I look like.
In school, we were taught that dust bombs or tear gas is more than enough to do the job.
In that instant, I realize that he knows exactly who I am.
In the dark, we can pass for twins.
In the dust and chaos, we hurry down the street and disappear into the afternoon’s lengthening shadows.
In the glow of the JumboTrons, Tess and I can see the soldiers at the end of the street as they inspect each home, their black capes shiny and worn loose in the heat.
In the mirror, I look the same.
In the morning, they’ll start receiving small rations of food and water and simply wait to recover.
In this moment, I don’t care about the pain in my shoulder.
Inconvenient, right?
Instantly I feel guilty.
Instantly I feel how stuffy and hot the room is.
Instantly I leap out of the way— my eyes dart up.
Instantly other soldiers point their guns up toward the roof.
Instead I find myself staring into a pair of oceans—one perfect, the other blemished by that tiny ripple.
Instead I walk away from the platform, away from Day.
Instead he leaps to his feet, pinpoints the direction that the sirens are coming from, and darts out of the alley.
Instead his voice takes on a more urgent tone.
Instead of cringing, I give him a nasty stare and hold my ground.
Instead of shaking my hand like the Elector did, he holds it up to his lips and kisses the back of it.
Instead we step into an elevator held up by enormous cogs and chains and go up a level, then another, and another.
Instead, I smile.
Instead, each one has a gun slung around his shoulder.
Instead, she puts her knives back by her belt and pulls out a canteen of water.
Interesting.
Interrogation chambers.
Ironic coming from an expert hacker.
Is all this ignorance about the plan just a mask to hide the truth—or is Commander Jameson keeping him in the dark as well?
Is it worse that he followed the orders so faithfully or that he doesn’t even know that this is what I want him to apologize for?
Is she alive?
Is she trying to find a way to trust me?
Is she trying to throw me into a trap?
Is this it?
It already feels like forever.
It also means he’s suffered the loss of a limb.
It belongs to Day—fingerprints told us that much.
It bounces right off, of course—harmless paper—but it’s enough to make the policeman stop in his tracks.
It can’t be ...
It clouds his face and gives him an ugly look.
It comes and goes.
It could be a cigarette lighter, a gun trigger, the speakers, or a flickering streetlight; it could be anything.
It could be on this street—it could be several blocks down, from a higher floor.
It couldn’t all be spillover from the chest—there must be another wound.
It couldn’t have been accidental—that knife went straight through Metias’s heart.
It doesn’t hurt as much anymore.
It doesn’t take much evidence to start an investigation against someone.
It feels like a match lit against my skin.
It feels like an eternity.
It has a secret; I just don’t know what.
It hits him right in the knee and sends him tumbling forward.
It killed Metias for uncovering the truth of it all.
It lights up the JumboTrons in all its multicolored glory:
It lingers there for a while.
It looks almost black now.
It looks festive, dark blue text and photos over a white and green patterned background.
It looks like he came from his patrol duties straight to my campus.
It looks out of place up there.
It makes me uneasy.
It makes no sense.
It might be the same day, although I feel like I’ve slept far too long for that.
It must be John.
It must be killing him.
It must have cost him a fortune.
It never ceases to amaze me how quickly he gets around the sectors.
It only makes me angrier.
It says here on your school report that you like history.
It scrapes his neck so hard that I see blood spray from the impact.
It seems that she’s already forgotten about what happened to Day’s mother, as if twenty years has passed.
It shatters into a thousand glittering pieces.
It shows a steady stream of ads and news updates while we wait.
It sounds so weak.
It takes a half hour for everyone to find their seats and another half hour for the waiters to start arriving with plates of food.
It takes all my control to keep the smile on my face.
It takes all my remaining strength to drag myself onto the street.
It takes me a minute to realize that the boy who had saved me is sitting in the corner of the room, dangling his legs over the balcony and looking out toward the water.
It takes me a minute to recognize her.
It takes me a minute to wake up.
It takes me a moment to realize I’m kissing him just as hungrily.
It takes me a moment to realize something.
It takes me a moment to turn my attention to the other prisoner we pulled from the house, a young man who’s probably Day’s brother or cousin.
It takes me an hour to go through all of them.
It takes me another ten minutes to reach the place outside of Lake where I met Day.
It took from me the people I love.
It took her a long time to put her hand in mine.
It turns out the deceased civilians database has more information about the plagues than I guessed.
It was blurry and oversaturated, but I could make out the shape of a young man on a gurney pleading for his life with a bright red biohazard sign imprinted on his hospital gown.
It was just a few weeks before the car crash.
It was self-improvement, for the sake of my country.
It was taken several weeks before they died.
It was the very last one in the very last photo album they owned, and I’d never noticed it before because Dad had hidden it behind a larger photo.
It whizzes past John and hits the wall behind him.
It would be something—wouldn’t it?
It’ll tell us which quarters have plague, he’d said.
It’s Commander Jameson.
It’s June.
It’s a circular disk with nothing engraved on it, something we found lying on the floor of the hospital’s stairwell along with the stolen ID.
It’s a clean cut made with a smooth-edged blade.
It’s a cloudy night with no moon, and I can’t even make out the crumbling Bank Tower sign at the top of the building.
It’s a good day.
It’s a little stiff, but otherwise pretty painless—no torn muscles, no serious swelling.
It’s a man’s voice, and his footsteps sound oddly heavy.
It’s a number, just like Tess and I had seen by the bank of the lake, except this time it says: 2544
It’s a plague victim.
It’s a scanned paper with a giant red stamp on it, very different from the bright blue stamp I’d seen on mine.
It’s a simple Rose knot, something any worker would use.
It’s a tradition.
It’s about a Republic girl who captures a Colonies spy.
It’s about all we can do for disguises right now.
It’s all I need to know.
It’s almost always the slum-sector kids who fail.
It’s as if she can completely sympathize with my thoughts and help me channel them away, and I can always take comfort in her lovely face.
It’s cheap stuff, probably made from those bland sea grapes that grow in ocean water.
It’s dark.
It’s early evening, but it’s already pitch-black outside, and the JumboTrons’ reflections are visible in the street’s puddles.
It’s easy to pick out where the wealthy sectors border the poorest ones—where the steady light from electricity gives way to flickering lanterns, bonfires, and steam power plants.
It’s either a serious injury that never quite healed, or a minor but recent one.
It’s enough to make my eyes sting, to make me clench my teeth.
It’s far too expensive, and headquarters won’t approve.
It’s grainy, and details are almost impossible to make out, but something triggers an old memory that makes my stomach churn.
It’s here.
It’s just a little nerve-racking to have anyone know even the smallest bit about my suspicions.
It’s louder and higher-pitched than the others because military trucks get first priority.
It’s mostly tins of meat and potato hash I stole from an airship’s cafeteria, and an old pair of shoes with intact soles.
It’s much worse than it was this morning, not surprisingly, and is swollen to twice its normal size.
It’s my fault she’s dead.
It’s my favorite and least-favorite view.
It’s nightfall again, a good forty-eight hours since the soldiers marked my mother’s door.
It’s not combed back as nicely as usual—he must’ve been out in the crowds earlier.
It’s not even a hot day today—it’s perfect, in fact.
It’s not from any religion I know of.
It’s not like Eden can just withdraw from his assigned school.
It’s not like John and Mom can just pick up and leave their assigned jobs to flee with me, not without raising an alert.
It’s odd.
It’s only there for a moment and then it’s gone.
It’s strange to hear her say my old name again.
It’s such an unconscious movement that I doubt he even realizes he did it.
It’s tech stolen from the Colonies, Dad once said, although of course the Republic would never tell you that.
It’s that it’s so easy to trace back to you.
It’s the first time anyone other than Tess has brought up my family to me.
It’s the one with the cocked rifle.
It’s the photos that I decide to take a closer look at.
It’s the same expression she wore the very first night I met her—hopeful, curious, and fearful all at once.
It’s the way she’s leaned against me since the very first week I knew her, when I’d spotted her in an alley in Nima sector.
It’s the young captain who shot my mother.
It’s too dark now to be sure, but I don’t think Commander Jameson is with them.
It’s too late now.
It’s too warm here, there’s too much heat on my face.
It’s two minutes past midnight.
It’s what I would have done.
It’s worse than anything I’ve ever experienced, worse even than the first time I got cut in that knee.
It’s worth 2,150 Notes.
It’s worth nothing in terms of money—cheap nickel and copper, the necklace part made of plastic.
I’M DREAMING THAT I’M HOME AGAIN.
I’M NOT WORRIED ABOUT LOSING THIS FIGHT.
I’d already noticed what he’s pointing out, but I still follow his gaze politely.
I’d always managed to get through reading the text of the report, but I could never bring myself to study the photos.
I’d been stupid enough to think she did it out of sympathy.
I’d let myself get carried away with the last person I ever wanted to like.
I’d never doubted that the murderer was anyone but Day.
I’d once been fascinated by his legend—all the stories I’d heard before I met him.
I’d promised myself not to call for backup unless I had no choice, and I’m certainly not going to ruin my cover over a street brawl.
I’d seen it hit his shoulder, so far from his chest that it couldn’t possibly have killed him.
I’d thrown it at him ... it had hit his shoulder.
I’d wanted more.
I’d wanted nothing to do with brawls.
I’d wanted to let him out of the apartment, hide him in an alley and then go back for him.
I’d wanted to tell Commander Jameson what the easiest solution would be—to simply round up everyone in the Lake sector whose doors are marked.
I’ll complain about the hours and say that I don’t see you enough.
I’ll find a way to save you, Eden.
I’ll free Day, shout out a signal, then John will emerge from the wall like a ghost and escape with us.
I’ll have no time to get uniforms for them.
I’ll have to find another way around it.
I’ll have to find some way to break John out too.
I’ll have to go to him.
I’ll have to wait another hour before I know their fate.
I’ll help you.
I’ll kill myself if the Republic strikes you down for reacting to knowledge that I gave you.
I’ll need time to deliver uniforms to her before the execution—time to help several of the Patriots sneak inside.
I’ll update here when I’m reassigned.
I’m a prodigy who knows the truth, and I know exactly what I’m going to do.
I’m about to respond when I see another movement in the shadows behind Kaede.
I’m afraid something will happen so quickly that I’ll miss it if I blink.
I’m alert enough to think about which direction I’m moving in and concentrate on heading toward the Lake sector.
I’m almost at the exit.
I’m alone with Commander Jameson and a new rotation of soldiers standing near the cell’s door.
I’m amazed—shocked, really—at how silently she can travel.
I’m an outcast.
I’m ashamed of them, and I try not to make a sound.
I’m ashamed to admit that I enjoyed my brief time with him in his prison cell.
I’m bruised, bloody, and listless.
I’m careful not to touch the walls.
I’m careful not to walk under the streetlamps.
I’m careful to stay in the shadows, even on this stormy night.
I’m clothed in a brown pair of army trousers, and my bare chest and arm are bandaged.
I’m crouched, motionless, behind the chimney.
I’m dangling halfway between my launching place and the window.
I’m dressed in my training uniform and a black and red vest with my boots laced and my hair tied back in a tight ponytail.
I’m embarrassed by how much my heart leaps.
I’m even close enough to make out some of their conversations.
I’m exposed.
I’m famous all right, but I don’t think it’s what she had in mind.
I’m free to walk around in my cell, but instead I just sit there and lean against the wall, my arms resting on my knees.
I’m frustrated by the lack of news, but relieved at the same time.
I’m glad that the two of us are sitting a good distance apart.
I’m going to help Day escape.
I’m grateful I don’t have to talk to Thomas anymore and can think in silence.
I’m grateful to this mystery girl for helping Tess out, but with my money on the line, I decide to play it safe.
I’m helpless.
I’m here, I’m right behind you!
I’m in a dark alley.
I’m in a government building.
I’m in a huge room filled with rows of gurneys and chemicals boiling under metal hoods.
I’m in front of a building at the heart of Batalla, the military sector of Los Angeles.
I’m in real danger of fainting now.
I’m in the Lake sector, watching the strengthening daylight paint the churning waterwheels and turbines gold.
I’m in what looks like a child’s abandoned bedroom.
I’m more worried that I’ll accidentally kill my opponent.
I’m nine.
I’m not a superstitious person, but when I wake up from this dream, this painfully clear memory of John, I have the most horrible feeling in my chest.
I’m not even sure why.
I’m not far now.
I’m not sure I even have one.
I’m not sure if he can see me, though, because the sun hasn’t completely set and is probably blinding him.
I’m not sure if the red haze clouding my vision is because of the pain from my leg or my rage at her presence.
I’m now near the rear of the building, and several alleys branch off behind me into the darkness.
I’m on the rooftop of a high-rise tower.
I’m practically invisible at that height—the people on the ground keep their attention fixed on the street—and besides, up there I get the best view of where I’m headed.
I’m quick to cover up my hesitation.
I’m restless tonight and, as always, she can sense it.
I’m running in the streets of Lake.
I’m running out of time.
I’m sitting right next to a chimney, soaking wet.
I’m slowly growing used to talking about Metias in past tense.
I’m so angry with myself that I can’t stop my voice from shaking.
I’m still upset about losing the bet.
I’m suddenly her little boy again.
I’m supposed to be analyzing the crime scene ... but I can’t concentrate.
I’m supposed to hate you for what you did, I think.
I’m sure John hated working at the steam plant, but at least he got to leave the house and take his mind off things for a while.
I’m sure of it.
I’m surprised at how repulsed I feel.
I’m surprised at how young she looks, even younger than when I first met her.
I’m surprised to see them—I’d never been good at making friends during my three years in college, considering my age and my hefty course load.
I’m sweating by the time I near our house, still quiet and taped off as part of the quarantine.
I’m tempted to click my microphone on and tell Thomas to send soldiers, but I keep silent.
I’m the first one to speak.
I’m the first to break the silence.
I’m the only person in the entire Republic with a perfect 1500 score on her Trial.
I’m thinking, calculating.
I’m too afraid to dwell on the thought.
I’m too ashamed to say it straight to the face of two people living in the poor sectors.
I’m trained not to take the word of a prisoner—I know that they’ll lie, that they’ll say anything they can to make you vulnerable.
I’m trapped.
I’m very careful about the type of knot I use to tie my shoelaces.
I’m weak from dehydration, and the pain has made me sick to my stomach.
I’m wearing long black sleeves inside a striped black vest, slender black pants tucked into boots, and a long black robe that wraps around my shoulders and covers me like a blanket.
I’m wearing my good pair of shoes—boots made of dark leather worn soft over time, with strong laces and steel toes.
I’m willing to bet I’m the only Drake student who’s ever managed to get eight reports in one quarter without being expelled.
I’m yanked out of a dream-filled sleep—first of my mother walking me to grade school, then of Eden’s bleeding irises and the red number under our porch.
I’ve acted like an idiot in front of Metias’s murderer.
I’ve already memorized that crime report from back to front, anyway.
I’ve also streaked mud on my cheeks, for good measure.
I’ve barely walked out of an adjacent alley and am heading toward this bar’s side door when I feel something fly right past my shoulder.
I’ve been complimented on my appearance before.
I’ve been looking through them ever since Thomas left, hoping that the thing Metias had wanted to talk to me about is mentioned somewhere.
I’ve been stabbed, I realize in a panic.
I’ve been thinking about this all day.
I’ve been trained to deal with guys like this, to watch them from the other side of the glass.
I’ve been trying to find clues for weeks.
I’ve broken the law over and over again.
I’ve earned perfect grades at Drake for three years.
I’ve gone too far to turn back now.
I’ve had trouble building up my courage without Tess, or John, or my mother.
I’ve heard good reviews.
I’ve hidden a knife flat against the sole of each boot.
I’ve kissed plenty of beautiful girls before, but not like this one.
I’ve looked at the photos enough times now to keep myself from turning away, but it still leaves a queasy feeling in my stomach.
I’ve made up my mind.
I’ve memorized every detail of this room (hand-cut marble floors imported from Dakota, 324 plastic square ceiling tiles, twenty feet of gray drapes hanging to either side of the glorious Elector’s portrait on the office’s back wall, a thirty-inch screen on the side wall, with the sound muted and a headline that reads: "TRAITOROUS ‘PATRIOTS’ GROUP BOMBS LOCAL MILITARY STATION, KILLS FIVE" followed by "REPUBLIC DEFEATS COLONIES IN BATTLE FOR HILLSBORO").
I’ve met other prodigies before but certainly never one that the Republic decided to keep hidden.
I’ve never heard of anyone scoring so low.
I’ve never questioned the annual vaccinations we’re required to have—never had any reason to doubt them.
I’ve only eaten half an apple since my encounter with the strange government agent last night.
I’ve pulled my hair back into a tight, high ponytail.
I’ve seen it in the past—and the onlookers in the square love it.
I’ve seen the outside of this building several times now.
I’ve taken advantage of Day’s greatest weakness.
I’ve tucked my hair inside the collar of my shirt and wrapped an old scarf—now soggy—across the lower half of my face.
I’ve worn nicer dresses before, and this one feels too modern and lopsided.
JUMBOTRON VIEWING ONLY.
JUNE BUG.
Jealousy?
John adjusts Eden on his shoulder, then kneels down and crawls into the space.
John and Day (with a blindfold loose around his neck, which the guards must’ve put over his eyes right before the bomb went off) are fighting with a fourth.
John and Eden.
John and I are crouched together on the sofa, trying in vain to fix the radio that we’ve had in our family for years.
John and I look pretty similar, although he’s grown a little stockier from long days at the plant.
John and I support him between us—I guide us into a narrower hall branching away from the firing squad corridors and we start making our way toward the exits.
John and my mother are certainly strong enough to run.
John continues pleading with him.
John could only carry him for so long.
John gave him a big, toothy grin.
John gently lifts him onto his shoulder, whispering soothing words as he does.
John glances at me.
John grabs me again.
John had recently been assigned to work at our local steam plant.
John hits a crumpled ball of paper toward me.
John hits the ball to me.
John is looking toward the other side of the bedroom, where Mom must be standing.
John is rinsing a washcloth in a nearby basin.
John is sitting on the edge of the bed with his arms crossed.
John is the strongest of us, but he has a patient, gentle streak that I didn’t inherit.
John is thirteen, just barely starting his growth spurt.
John isn’t usually in such a great mood.
John just grins.
John looks away and back toward the bed.
John makes an angry sound.
John nods, although I can tell he wants to say more.
John punches him in the jaw.
John pushes me farther behind himself.
John put me first, always.
John reaches the policeman before he can reach me.
John shakes his head.
John sighs.
John sits with our mother at one end of the dining table, reading to her from a book of old Republic tales.
John stays silent.
John stops walking, and I feel Day’s weight shift over to me.
John tries to say something comforting to Mom, but she just brushes it off and apologizes to John for our lost meal.
John waited patiently to greet him, hands in his pockets.
John warned me not to pull any more stunts, in case I get myself killed.
John whirls around in my direction.
John whirls to face me when Mom is gone.
John won’t ever say it to my face, but I know that I am Eden’s only chance.
John would give him high fives whenever he did it on his own.
John, she mouths.
John.
John’s going to do it.
John’s warming some sort of soup in the kitchen.
Joy and happiness follow.
July 12
JumboTrons, always on, regardless of power shortages, display the latest warnings about floods and quarantines.
June and the captain leave.
June bug, you need to know this.
June cries out in pain, and I realize that she’s injured.
June crosses her arms.
June doesn’t look at me again.
June had mentioned him before.
June has never looked more beautiful than she does now, unadorned and honest, vulnerable yet invincible.
June just stares at me, as if trying to decide whether or not to answer my questions.
June looks down.
June nods quietly, then takes my hand and drops the pendant into my palm.
June nods quietly.
June promised to help me—she must’ve planned something for John, too.
June pulls away from me the instant she utters the last word.
June says nothing.
June squirts some water directly into my mouth, then puts the canteen away.
June stands by as soldiers chain me to the wall again.
June stays silent for a long while, with her eyes cast down.
June stops some distance away from me and, as I struggle to my feet, she looks down at her watch.
June tightens her lips.
June wants to help me?
June was not the one who shot my mother.
June winces.
June, I’ll never be able to say this to you out loud, so I desperately hope that you’ll see it here.
June, if you’re reading this, you probably remember this day, and now you’ll know why.
June, the Batalla Hall lab administrators ordered Commander Baccarin to keep an eye on our father.
June, you can easily delete all traces of this blog at any time by pressing your right palm against the screen and typing: Ctrl+Shift+S+F.
June.
June’s eyes are intense, burning.
June’s eyes search mine.
June’s hand rests on my head.
June’s.
Just a child ...
Just a display for the soldiers, I guess.
Just a score to settle.
Just hazy recollections of long, adult legs shuffling around our apartment and hands lifting me from my high chair.
Just in case.
Just like him, she works for the military.
Just like how they call me "Girl," they use nothing to identify who he is.
Just like we agreed.
Kaede flips her hair at the audience and strikes a mock pose for them, which makes them go wild.
Kaede flips through the bills with the hand on her good arm and tests one on the tip of her tongue.
Kaede forces herself onto her feet, even though most Skiz fights would’ve called her fall the end of the round.
Kaede grunts in disbelief.
Kaede has already won a match.
Kaede hesitates, then lowers her arm and guides us deeper into the shadows of the alley.
Kaede is going to be my best ally for Day’s upcoming execution.
Kaede is the very same bartender I met days ago while passing through the Alta sector.
Kaede kicks them out of my range.
Kaede laughs at her and says something I can’t quite make out.
Kaede laughs.
Kaede lets out a dry laugh.
Kaede looks slowly around the circle, shaking her head or sometimes tilting it to one side.
Kaede narrows her eyes at me.
Kaede raises an eyebrow.
Kaede seems amused by the whole thing.
Kaede shoots her an angry look and presses me harder against the wall.
Kaede shrugs.
Kaede strikes early and hard, lunging out and striking the other girl viciously across the face.
Kaede strikes like a bull, a battering ram.
Kaede studies my face a little longer.
Kaede takes a deep breath.
Kaede toys with her like a cat playing with her food before lashing out again with her fist.
Kaede unzips the backpack and sorts through the contents.
Kaede whirls around to face me again.
Kaede’s defeat cost me a thousand Notes.
Kaede’s fist punches hard into my side, and I feel a terrible, sharp pain.
Kaede’s nonchalant tone annoys me, but I brush it aside.
Kind of a shame.
Knees bent.
Knives at my belt.
Knockout.
Know your target, and secure your machine.
Knowing him, he probably built that gadget to measure how far away someone is, or something like that.
LABELED DECEASED AT AGE 10
LIMITED SPACE AVAILABLE.
LOS ANGELES DECLARES OFFICIAL HUNT
Labor camps.
Labor camps—we’d all been fooled.
Land, land, land.
Large, luminous eyes peer at me from behind Kaede.
Last night she was as into me as I was into her—but today she’s distant, withdrawn.
Last year thirty-eight kids scored higher than 1400.
Left-handed.
Legend
Let me take your hand, and I will give you mine.
Like Day, he has some Asian blood.
Like all guns, it has precision, guided by magnets and electric currents, and can accurately shoot a target three blocks away.
Like me.
Like other people in our sector who have realized who I am and helped me in the past, he doesn’t exactly disapprove of the trouble I cause for the Republic.
Like some sort of liquid, or steam.
Like they’re annexing us or doing us some kind of favor.
Listen to me carefully: when you are finished reading, don’t tell me you know about anything.
Logic above all else, I tell myself.
Logic will save you when nothing else will.
Long after Thomas has escorted me back to my apartment and left, and long after midnight has passed, I sit awake at my computer and study Metias’s crime report.
Looks like our caretaker hasn’t reported us.
Lots of kids on the streets of Lake try to keep their identities a secret, especially after participating in something illegal like a Skiz fight.
Lunge at him with everything I’ve got, knock him unconscious, then reach Day and make a run for the exits.
M.
MOTHER: GRACE WING.
MY APARTMENT.
MY FIRST INSTINCT IS TO ATTACK THOMAS.
MY MOTHER THINKS I’M DEAD.
MY NEW EXECUTION TIME COMES WITHOUT ANY fanfare but the occasional crack of thunder coming from outside the building.
Many of them moan in pain—one person lies unmoving on the floor.
Maybe Day didn’t kill Metias, I tell myself.
Maybe I can find a way to sneak them onto a cargo train, and help them escape inland to ... somewhere, I don’t know.
Maybe I can steal a good-bye kiss from her before I step into the yard.
Maybe I should get a job, I think.
Maybe I shouldn’t have helped her.
Maybe a few of them are protesting, although it can’t be as serious as last time or I’d probably hear some of it from the hall.
Maybe all around the sector.
Maybe both of us will be executed at the same time.
Maybe for me, but not him.
Maybe he knows what I suspect.
Maybe he’s remembering when I used to tag along after him and Metias, asking them inane questions about how the military worked.
Maybe he’s testing me.
Maybe it was given to him by someone he has emotional ties with.
Maybe it was someone else.
Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise.
Maybe it’s a good luck charm.
Maybe it’s the dizzying pain from my wound that makes me reckless.
Maybe it’s the expression in her eyes, something at once coolly logical and fiercely defiant... .
Maybe my entire leg’s wasted.
Maybe not even Metias.
Maybe nothing I’ve been taught is true.
Maybe she cares for me.
Maybe she’s there, too afraid to see it happen and too afraid to miss it.
Maybe she’s thinking about me.
Maybe she’s walking toward me.
Maybe some of them still pity me, would still be willing to protest for me.
Maybe the Republic doesn’t even own those islands.
Maybe the Republic would want to make this one disappear.
Maybe the heat had made me soft, or maybe I was just in a good mood because I’d found a restaurant that had thrown out an entire day’s worth of old sandwiches.
Maybe the other photos are classified.
Maybe this is the same person he tried to steal plague medicine for.
Maybe this whole evening is just bait.
Maybe we could find refuge in the usual spots Tess and I hide.
Maybe when I’m older and Metias doesn’t faint at the idea of me dating ...
Medics have already surrounded the three wounded soldiers, and I know they’ll be placed carefully in the medic truck and taken back to headquarters.
Memories of my Trial day flash before me.
Metal support beams crisscross their walls.
Metias can’t be tortured.
Metias cuts him off with a stern look.
Metias did pick me once—once—for a mission last year, when all third-year Drake students had to shadow an assigned military branch.
Metias didn’t touch his dinner, or ask me how my day went—which annoyed me until I realized just how upset he was.
Metias doesn’t say another word as we make our way down the corridors, past the manicured lawns of the central quad and the glorious Elector’s statue, and finally through one of the indoor gyms.
Metias flashes through my mind.
Metias gets out first.
Metias had been the one to recommend Thomas (who had a high Trial score) to be assigned to the prestigious city patrols, despite his humble background.
Metias had filed an appeal, and he was reassigned to Commander Jameson’s patrol.
Metias had fretted over such small things.
Metias had told me never to judge the poor like that.
Metias hated him.
Metias ignored me and placed another cool towel on my head.
Metias is too far away to hear me.
Metias kissed me on my forehead.
Metias laughed.
Metias loves me again.
Metias must be her relative.
Metias narrows his eyes.
Metias once told me that it was not always this way, that only after the first floods and volcanic eruptions, after the Republic built a barrier along the warfront to keep the Colonies’ deserters from fleeing illegally into our territory, did people start mourning for the dead by wearing white.
Metias ran a hand through his hair.
Metias reached over to push sweaty strands of my hair away from my face.
Metias should have taken me with him.
Metias stared off into the distance.
Metias stayed silent for a while.
Metias tapped my nose disapprovingly.
Metias taps the edge of his hat in a polite salute.
Metias turns around from his place in the passenger seat and narrows his eyes at me.
Metias waits until the door has slammed shut before turning to me and lowering his voice.
Metias would kill you for this, Thomas, if he were alive.
Metias would’ve shaken his head at me.
Metias’s cold, lifeless face tilts up to the sky, and his hair fans out in a small circle under his head.
Metias’s crime scene returns to my thoughts—but as I replay it in my mind, I see his face turn into that of Day’s mother.
Metias’s future career is here! March 12th.
Metias’s mouth tightens into a line, and a familiar, strained look appears in his eyes.
Metias’s nickname for me.
Metias’s old journals are still strewn on the coffee table, along with our parents’ photo albums.
Michael Iparis had roused the suspicions of the Batalla Hall lab administrators when he first questioned the true purpose of his research.
Might as well have it ready.
Might as well hide my face.
Military jeeps stack up along the street as they wait for approval to enter the underground parking lots.
Minutes later, we see John and my mother wander past the window, deep in conversation.
Minutes later—maybe it’s hours—the metal door swings open and the commander who ordered my mother’s death strides in.
Mom and I carefully help Eden sit up.
Mom holds a bandaged hand over her mouth.
Mom hurries back inside.
Mom nods encouragingly to him when he gets through an entire page without flipping words or letters around.
Mom smiled at me.
Mom stands alone in our tiny kitchen, trying to cook dinner.
Mom takes my hand tightly in hers.
Mom will probably never see them here.
Moments later I see Mom walk across the room and sit at the edge of Eden’s bed.
Moments later, I catch sight of a sewer cap on the street.
Moments later, we’re intercepted by a large man with a scar from his chin to his ear.
Mom’s favorite.
Mom’s voice is firm.
Money and one less mouth to feed?
More likely, this guy’s pretty far behind in paying his bimonthly government taxes.
More photos.
More seconds pass.
More shots ring out.
More strange faces.
More time passes.
More unfamiliar faces.
Most complicated thing I’ve ever done.
Most failing scores are something like 890.
Most important, dry.
Most of Day’s past crimes involve saving people.
Most of the pictures on the screens are of happy things: smiling children standing under a bright blue sky, tourists posing before the Golden Gate Ruins, Republic commercials in neon colors.
Ms.
Must be what my hair looks like too.
Must’ve happened quickly too, to be such a straight line—I can’t imagine Chian holding still while someone sliced him like that.
My arms and legs freeze up.
My arms burn from the effort.
My arms, stomach, and face are smeared with it.
My attention is back on the cheering crowd.
My back slams into the wall.
My bad leg drags along the tiles.
My black trousers are tucked into my boots and I carry a pair of gloves and a black handkerchief in my pockets.
My body hurts all over.
My body trembles from the pain.
My boots go back on my feet.
My breath catches in my throat.
My breath escapes me in a gasp.
My brother had once promised to stay at my side forever.
My brother has been dead for 120 hours.
My brother smiled.
My brother was probably worrying about me while I moped in my cell like a selfish brat.
My brother would never have done this by accident.
My brother.
My brothers and I played with her when we were younger—freeze tag and street hockey with iron pokers and crumpled paper.
My bullet wound has begun to throb, and I lean against the wall for support.
My bullet wound still burns and my ribs ache something fierce, but this time I’m strong enough to sit up without too much trouble.
My cap is pulled low, and I’ve added to my disguise with a bandage patch over my left eye.
My cheek still stings from the knife handle, and my stomach burns from the policeman’s kick.
My chest aches at the thought of the danger she’s put herself in.
My chest throbs.
My cloak knot is indeed a Canto knot, a sturdy knot that military officials like to use.
My dream is still seared into my mind.
My ears are drowning in the noise.
My ears ring from the spy’s screams.
My ears still ring from the gunfire... .
My eyelids are coated with glittering white eye shadow, my lashes are bathed in snow, the puffy redness under my eyes erased by shining white powder.
My eyelids grow heavy.
My eyelids were growing heavy.
My eyes are fixed on the small one-story house across the road.
My eyes bulge out.
My eyes dart back to him.
My eyes dart to Eden.
My eyes dart to Thomas, wondering if he feels the same horror I do.
My eyes dart to her lips.
My eyes dart to the speakers lining the roofs.
My eyes dart toward the sound and my hand whips to the knife sheathed at my belt.
My eyes flick there for a second.
My eyes glaze over at the familiar buildings we pass.
My eyes grow heavy as I continue to read.
My eyes jump to the tiny windows in the stairwell’s plaster walls.
My eyes meet his.
My eyes shift from the time on my visor to the shadows of the roofs.
My eyes skim the flat-screen panels lining the hall as we pass by—the people in the square look restless, shifting like waves on a stormy day, and I pick out the lines of soldiers fencing them in.
My eyes stay down.
My eyes wander over to a small chest sitting under my desk, full of the 200,000 Notes I received for capturing Day.
My eyes wander over to the computer desk.
My eyes wander to the clothes hanging overhead, several stories up.
My eyes wander to the girl she just picked out to be her next challenger.
My eyes wander to where the woman’s body lies on the pavement.
My eyes water from the pain of my wounds.
My eyes widen.
My family will stand frozen in our living room long after the soldiers have left.
My father had given me that pendant, and now I’d been careless enough to lose it.
My father had worked behind those double doors—Metias had mentored under Chian in overseeing the Trials.
My father hesitated, then ushered us all into the bedroom.
My father nodded.
My father used to work behind those double doors, working hard to find new ways to combat the plague.
My father would’ve laughed.
My father.
My fingers tap rhythmically against the hilt of my knife.
My first mission.
My first tracking mission: Day.
My flailing arm knocks over a tray somewhere.
My free hand is clipped into the handcuffs that are still hanging off the other wrist.
My goggles wash most of the color out of the scene.
My guards make room as June enters the cell in full uniform, flanked by Commander Jameson and several other soldiers.
My hair grows tangled and dull in the heat and smoke, and dirt has started to coat my face.
My hair hangs loose down my shoulders.
My hair hangs over my face in stringy ribbons.
My hair stays straight and loose—a discomfort for someone who spends most training days with her hair pulled securely away from her face.
My hair tumbles down in a tangled mess.
My hair, as usual, is tucked inside an old newsboy cap.
My half-sleeve collared shirt came from a thrift emporium at the border between Lake and Winter.
My hand digs into my pocket and pulls out Day’s pendant.
My hand flies to my neck—there’s no pendant to grab.
My hands clench and unclench.
My hands fiddle with the pendant tied around my neck.
My hands go automatically up to my hair, which is loose and hanging past my shoulders.
My hands start shaking so hard that I press them against Metias’s clothes in an attempt to steady them.
My hands start to shake.
My hands tremble as I grab his black robes for balance.
My head hurts.
My head pounds with excitement and dread, anticipation and worry.
My head rocks back, and I taste blood in my mouth.
My head slumps against the cement stand, and my arms lie motionless against the chains.
My head slumps forward.
My head swims.
My head throbs with a blinding, stabbing headache.
My hearing piece crackles faintly with static.
My heart hammers against my chest.
My heart leaps into my throat.
My heart pounds.
My heart sinks.
My heart skips a beat.
My heart starts beating faster.
My heart starts to pound.
My injured leg feels like it could burst right out of my bandages and swell to the size of the roof.
My injured leg throbs to the beat of my heart, sometimes fast and sometimes slow, sometimes so hard that I think I’m going to pass out.
My injured leg throws me off completely—I nearly fall back to the ground.
My injuries are catching up to me now.
My injuries are screaming now.
My leather boots squeak against the floor tiles.
My long fall to the ground.
My mike.
My mind pauses on this for a moment.
My mind races from the events in the square, to Day’s appearance on the rooftop, to Day’s outrageous claims about the plague and the Trial, and then back to Thomas.
My mind races.
My mind screams at me to collect my thoughts.
My mind screams for a solution.
My mind sorts through the details.
My mind wanders to the stash of stolen money that Tess and I have hidden.
My mind whirls with information, attempting to process all of it and getting jumbled in the middle each time.
My mind whirls.
My mother and John seemed okay, at least strong enough to stand and walk around.
My mother has rushed out to the entrance, with Eden hidden behind her.
My mother lets out a startled cry.
My mother must be up late watching Eden.
My mother opens it immediately, lets the soldiers in, and then closes it.
My mother rushes out a few seconds later with a cloth bundle.
My mother used to hope that I would rise up from my humble roots.
My mother used to tuck me in, smoothing down my blankets and whispering a promise of good dreams.
My mother’s eyes gleamed with excitement, but she still gave Dad a grave look.
My mouth cracks each time I move it.
My old knee injury was worse back then—and I can remember stumbling in my rush.
My other hand doesn’t leave the handle of my gun.
My outfit is not meant for them.
My pendant sits in my pocket.
My recorder sits on the edge of the coffee table.
My senses gradually sharpen—now I’m very aware of the pain in my side and arm.
My shackles clank.
My stomach growls.
My stomach rumbles.
My style is too precise for a simple street beggar.
My thoughts wander around and then zoom in on what June whispered to me.
My thoughts wander back to June.
My throat barely vibrates.
My tongue is cracked and bone-dry.
My trousers are torn and smeared with dirt—my boots’ leather is flaking off.
My vision goes dark.
My vision gradually comes back.
My voice comes out cool and collected.
My voice sounds like a stranger’s.
My white shepherd puppy, Ollie, was asleep on our apartment’s cool marble floor.
My words come out cool and detached.
My words force a little smile out of John.
My wound burns, but I grit my teeth and maintain my grip on her arm.
My wounded arm gushes blood, and I scream from the effort.
My wounds are still healing.
NEARLY 2000 HOURS.
NO AFFILIATION WITH THE PATRIOTS
NOTORIOUS CRIMINAL KNOWN AS DAY ARRESTED,
Naturally.
Neither John nor I argue.
Neither of us says a word.
Neither of us says anything.
Neither would tell me why.
Never any reason to risk both of us if I don’t have to.
Never in my life have I known Metias to misspell anything.
New shifts of street police begin making their rounds.
Next time I’ll join her.
Next to her is a dark-haired young man in a captain’s uniform.
Next to me, Tess jerks awake and grabs my arm.
Next to the JumboTrons are flickering streetlights, and under those walk crowds of night-shift workers, police, and merchants.
Night will fall in about an hour or so, and I have a wounded stranger added to my duties.
No Kaede.
No doubt someone has discovered Metias by now, and they might even have headed down into the sewers, too.
No matter how sharp my intuition is, no matter how well I do at Drake or how perfectly I score in defense and target practice and hand-to-hand combat, Metias’s eyes always hold that fear.
No matter their tone, though, the topic is me.
No matter.
No more torn trousers or muddy boots; no dirt on her face.
No need for him to get suspicious.
No need for him to see what he’s started.
No one dares take his eyes off of me.
No one enters or leaves the home after that—at least, not when anyone’s looking.
No one ever has.
No one’s ever gotten this—well, except for some kid a few years ago who the military made a goddy fuss over.
No one’s supposed to get hurt.
No other reason to risk slapping fake Tsingtao labels on bottles of his home brew.
No plague patrols wander the streets, and the only sounds come from occasional cars and the distant blare of JumboTron ads.
No questions asked.
No reason to write them down for someone else to find.
No rules?
No shooting in the hospital.
No soldiers, no police.
No surprise on his face, no emotion in his eyes.
No vine tattoo yet.
No way will the military let this slide.
No way.
No wonder Commander Jameson had Metias’s body taken away so fast.
No wonder she organized his funeral.
No, I can’t be sure the voice belongs to him.
No, at least 120.
No, no, John.
No, no.
No, nothing.
No, pretty’s not the right word.
No, that’s stupid.
No, you can’t.
No.
None of the soldiers have dust bombs or tear gas.
None of them do.
Nope, too blurry.
Nor is it an ambulance’s siren.
Not a good place to get caught by street police and taken downtown for questioning.
Not a strand or thread out of place.
Not as big a deal as you might think... .
Not bad.
Not even a click.
Not even close.
Not even the kiosk’s layers of paper bulletins move.
Not far ahead is an object covered in a white sheet.
Not for this massacre he’s leaving behind.
Not if Kaede wants to live.
Not in this sea of workers with factory injuries.
Not long ago they had seemed like the greatest enemy in the world.
Not long ago, Metias would’ve dozed there with his arm draped around Ollie’s back.
Not much time before backup power kicks in.
Not only do I have the only perfect score in the nation—I’m probably also the only kid who has ever taken the Trial twice.
Not really talked to.
Not really what you’d expect from our enemy.
Not that I can see the storm from my cell, of course, with its empty steel walls and security cams and nervous soldiers—so I can only guess at what the sky looks like.
Not unless they want to become fugitives like me.
Not while I’m watching.
Nothing even close to this.
Nothing like me.
Nothing makes sense anymore.
Nothing unusual, really.
Nothing yet, a good sign.
Nothing yet.
Nothing, that is, unless it’s shot from a very close range.
Nothing.
November 17
November 18
November 22
November 26
Now Day and I struggle through the rain back to the rail yard where we’re going to set up camp.
Now I can feel that same sense of fascination returning.
Now I can finally see where I am.
Now I can hear the crowd.
Now I can look over the roof at the JumboTrons lining the walls.
Now I can’t help looking at his face.
Now I double-click on the first photos and enlarge them to full screen.
Now I feel a chill at his touch and pull away.
Now I force myself to concentrate on meeting up with John.
Now I have to.
Now I recognize him.
Now I scan the area as I go.
Now I see Mom’s shadow stop in the middle of the room.
Now I try playing this game again.
Now I wander among the guests, lost and aimless, responding to the sympathetic words of those around me with appropriate, practiced replies.
Now I’m moving with all speed and no stealth.
Now I’m on the alert.
Now Metias refuses to take me anywhere.
Now Thomas takes a deep breath.
Now and then he winces when he moves his arm.
Now and then, I see a person inside one of the glass-paneled rooms, cuffed to a wall and screaming.
Now and then, I see people who have a bright scarlet streak painted into their hair.
Now and then, a passing car.
Now he snarls and spits blood at our boots, making me wipe mine against the ground in disgust.
Now he’ll face the firing squad in only eight hours, right as the sun starts to set.
Now he’s trapped here, with no way to help Eden.
Now my mother knows I’m the criminal she sees on all the JumboTron warnings.
Now she suddenly has one less in Metias’s patrol, and she’s looking to add an agent.
Obviously I’m not dead, but it’s safer for her to think so.
Occasionally I pause to make sure the trucks are still going in the direction I think they are.
Of all the things I could’ve imagined coming out of her mouth, this is certainly not one of them.
Of all the things he’s said, I don’t know why this catches me off guard.
Of course I should’ve known that, what with the plagues killing off hundreds of people every year.
Of course he wouldn’t.
Of course it’s Eden—still acting like a little engineer even with the plague.
Of course the Republic would announce Day’s execution as successful.
Of course, I shouldn’t expect any help from him.
Of course.
Off in the distance, the first signs of light are turning the horizon a murky gray.
Off to the financial district.
Oh, hell no.
Old railway cars litter the junkyard, faded and rusted with age.
Ollie follows me out of the apartment, and I tell him to stay close.
Ollie greets me enthusiastically.
Ollie is barking up a storm.
Ollie jumps down next to me.
Ollie jumps into the backseat and sticks his head out the window.
Ollie lets out a whine.
Ollie looks back at me with mournful eyes.
Ollie looks back at me with that universal dog wisdom, then promptly goes back to sleep.
Ollie sits next to me, staring, whining every now and then.
Ollie snores a little and rubs his head against my hand.
Ollie whimpers at my feet as if he knows what I’m reading, then shoves his nose against my leg.
Ollie whines next to me.
On a normal day, with no knife wound, I never would’ve let a detail like that go unnoticed.
On instinct, I swing the slingshot toward him and fire.
On my left side is a man named Chian who organizes and oversees all Trials taken in Los Angeles.
On the bag is a red X.
On the coffee table, stacks of our parents’ old photos from Metias’s bedroom closet are strewn across the glass.
On the fourth day, I make my way to the rim of Lake and Blueridge and decide to spend my time wandering through the bars.
On the other side of the frosted glass door, I can see a bunch of my classmates (seniors, all at least four years older than me) hanging around in an attempt to hear what’s going on.
On the third day, I call Commander Jameson.
Once I’m a fair distance from the alley, I take a deep breath and quicken my pace.
Once in the bathroom, I abandon my sick routine.
Once the gunfire stops, I look out from the chimney and see the Girl still standing there.
Once there, I crouch in the shadows of a chimney and turn my mike on.
One enormous, spiraling set of stairs.
One entry talks about the night of his induction ceremony into Commander Jameson’s squad, when I’d fallen ill.
One even calls out to me.
One hand lingers on the gun strapped to his belt, while the other rests on a rifle slung around his shoulder.
One minute passes.
One of his hands rests against my stomach.
One of my hands clutches a pendant necklace, a piece of evidence I’ve been studying for a while now.
One of my hands comes up to touch her face.
One of my shoulders is covered in lace, and the other is hidden behind a long curtain of silk.
One of the fighters is stirring up the onlookers by waving her arms and yelling.
One of the nurses tries to hold me down.
One of the others attempts to fire at me—I duck to the floor and roll.
One of the soldiers is the young captain I saw earlier, the man named Metias.
One of the soldiers lining the circular stand salutes me.
One of the soldiers notices me stirring.
One of the soldiers pauses to give the commander a quick salute.
One of the soldiers restraining me strikes me in the back with his rifle.
One of the soldiers standing near her lifts his gun higher.
One of the stray bullets scrapes me and searing pain shoots up my arm.
One of them points his rifle at me.
One of them shakes a can of spray paint and draws a giant red X on the door.
One of them shows an updated profile of Day—this time featuring a boy with long, black hair.
One of them spots us and approaches, a younger official following close behind him.
One of these days, a virus will get out of hand, and no vaccine or cure will be able to stop it.
One of these is the Republic’s flag, imprinted faintly against the metal.
One patrol has made its way around to the back of the square, and now they have the crowd boxed in, pushing people in toward the square’s center.
One person I knew in grade school did fail, inevitably, but his score was close to 1000.
One plague victim isn’t much of a threat.
One soldier kicks him hard enough to knock him out.
One step closer to a vial of cure.
One thing I do know.
One time it was a boy with glasses and a head full of thick copper curls.
Only a few bruises remain.
Only a serrated knife could have torn my skin that way.
Only fifteen years old, my friend... .
Only for Metias do I wear this unnecessarily exquisite gown, to show without words how much I love him.
Only now do I finally recognize him.
Only one line of text appears at the top.
Only one side has the advantage of guns.
Or 825.
Or die.
Or does she really mean it?
Or he could already be dead.
Or maybe it’s me who’s changed.
Or something.
Or target the electric grids of Batalla or the airfield bases, cut their power and shut them down.
Or they’d send a doctor for free straight up to where I live.
Or they’ll kill them.
Or worse, they’d learn about her affiliation with me and interrogate her.
Other soldiers run along rooftops and ledges, hurrying into position with their rifles.
Other than that, all I have is a tiny microphone and an even tinier earpiece.
Other than the distant sounds of night-shift crowds and occasional JumboTron broadcasts, it’s a peaceful evening, just like at home.
Other than when I was tending to her scrapes, she never let me get near her.
Others throw me salutes.
Otherwise, the boy who didn’t kill my brother will die tonight.
Our caretaker hurries into the room, a tattered robe draped over his pajamas.
Our father had tried to resign the day before he and Mom were killed in a car wreck.
Our father left early the next morning, before the sun even rose.
Our house had been searched on routine inspections by troops before, just like every other house on our street.
Our house’s fence shields me from view, but through the cracks I can see the soldiers waiting outside the door.
Our illustrious Elector Primo had just accepted another four-year presidential term.
Our time ends all too quickly.
Out here I can hear the medic trucks much more clearly.
Outside, a crowd is chanting something, but I can’t make out the words.
Outside, the hurricane rages on.
Over the years we’ve learned to stockpile the extra money we steal and stash it away for emergencies.
Overhead I hear someone bang on our door.
PART ONE
PART TWO
Pain hits me in waves, this time from the wounds that must cover me.
Pain runs through my healing arm, and I hear the silver bullets Tess took from my clothes clink together in my pocket.
Pain shoots through my leg.
Papers and reports cover my stomach.
Pat yourself on the back because you’ll get instant access to six years of high school and then four at the top universities in the Republic: Drake, Stanford, and Brenan.
Patient Zero.
Pearls line the choker wrapped around my throat.
People (mostly workers hired from the slums) pack the first-floor stands even with the lights out, hunched over bowls of cheap food in the ground level cafés.
People in the crowd collapse like levees in a flood.
People pack every seat in the house today, in spite of the windy weather and impending blackouts.
Perhaps he’s even wondering what I’ll figure out about him next.
Perhaps she wanted to throw me off just to test my reaction.
Plague patrols have completely sealed off the Lake and Alta sectors.
Please stop.
Pocket change?
Poor crime scene photography.
Probably because of my leg.
Probably for the military.
Probably lots of money and power, yeah?
QUARANTINE LIFTED ON LAKE AND
REPUBLIC WINS DECISIVE VICTORY AGAINST
RUBY SECTOR.
Railroad city.
Rain blankets the world around me and wind whistles through my drenched shirt, threatening to lift me off my feet.
Ramshackle buildings.
Reading ... yes, very nice.
Refridgerator.
Relax muscles.
Remember that, June?
Remember, I tell myself, Day killed Metias.
Republic flag stands are positioned at both ends of the curtain, and as we approach, I see that the curtain has a faint pattern of the flag on it as well.
Resigning, April 6.
Right-angle turn at the end of the hall.
Roll.
Room 6822—sixth floor.
Rubber, perhaps, to stun me if needed.
Ruins of older buildings dot the lake, buildings abandoned by business owners and residents when the floodwaters rose.
Rumor has it that Day once scaled five stories in less than eight seconds.
Rumor has it that there’s a new strain developing in Lake and Alta and Winter.
Run it.
SAME NIGHT.
SCORE: 674 / 1500
SECONDARY ETHNICITY: CAUCASIAN
SECTOR: LAKE
SEEK SHELTER AT FIVE STORIES OR HIGHER.
SHE WON’T TELL ME HER NAME.
SIBLINGS: JOHN SUREN WING, 19/M EDEN BATAAR WING, 9/M
SKIN: E2B279
STANDING ROOM ONLY IN FRONT OF BATALLA HALL ON THURSDAY, DECEMBER 26, AT 1700 HOURS.
Same expression.
Same hair, same eyes.
Sandbags, lamps, and portable radios are rationed out too.
Scarlet waistcoat and elaborate, belted boots.
Scarlet waistcoat, double row of buttons.
Search every street in the Republic if I have to.
Second floor, third floor.
Secretly, I will them to disperse.
See if you can reach the remote system.
September 15
Seventy hours ago, I gained clearance to search the Internet and found out as much about Day as I could.
Seventy-two seconds.
Several different things could happen after you take the Trial.
Several dust bombs later, they were all arrested and taken to court.
Several men grin at me as I pass by.
Several minutes later, they lead me out.
Several more medic trucks come and go, dropping off soldiers, some with broken limbs, some with gashes on their heads or lacerations on their legs.
Several nights later, I dipped a ball of crushed ice into a can of gasoline, let the oil coat the ice in a thick layer, and lit it.
Several of them saw me being yanked out of our afternoon drill class (today’s lesson: how to load and unload the XM-621 rifle) by a menacing pair of guards.
Several of them scream.
Several other military jeeps cross our intersection, and I see the blank faces of their soldiers.
Several passersby almost step on it.
Several seconds pass.
Several sharp pains stab me as she presses her fingers delicately against different parts of my chest.
Several soldiers climb out and greet the nurses while others unpack the truck’s boxes.
Several soldiers drag a struggling boy out into the center of the yard.
Several times I stop in an alley to gather my thoughts.
Shadows conceal her expression.
She absently touches her side and then makes a clicking sound with her tongue as if out of habit.
She actually sounds a little apologetic, like that will help.
She asks them a few questions of her own.
She bares her teeth at me and lunges forward at full speed, her fist raised.
She bats John’s hand away when a bout of her chronic coughing hits her.
She brushes a stray hair from her face and leans over me.
She calls out desperately to the policeman.
She can escape a raid much more easily than I can.
She can’t hear me.
She climbs into the first jeep.
She clutches her hand, performing an agonized dance while I blink, fighting to stay awake.
She collapses to the ground on her knees and her good arm.
She collapses, then goes still.
She comes out with a tightly tied bag of chicken meat lined with cloth rags.
She disguised it surprisingly well on the streets.
She doesn’t answer me, not in words.
She doesn’t even blink.
She doesn’t even look at me.
She doesn’t know what to do with her hands, so she keeps reaching for her wound, then stopping herself.
She doesn’t look at me.
She doesn’t open it.
She doesn’t say anything, but I can see the pleasure in her body language, the way she hunches hungrily over the bills and runs her good hand across their crisp surfaces.
She doesn’t say anything.
She doesn’t see it coming—she falls heavily on her back.
She doesn’t stop walking.
She doesn’t trust me.
She finishes writing and then nods at one of the guards.
She flexes her wrists, then bounces on her feet and shakes out her arms.
She followed me around as I scavenged in garbage bins, picking out old clothes and edible bits of leftover food.
She gives me a cautious smile, then glances nervously at Kaede.
She gives me a cold look.
She gives me a skeptical glance.
She gives me a slow smile.
She gives me a smile, one that fills the room with light, and I smile back.
She glances at Thomas, who salutes her.
She glances in my direction.
She glances over at us and motions us in with a flip of her hand.
She grins, then winks at me and looks back to the crowd.
She grins.
She hands money to the person organizing bets—a big, burly guy.
She has her full uniform on, cloak and all, and her triple-arrow insignia shines silver under the fluorescent lights.
She has her hair pulled back in a short braid, and her lips are pink and smiling.
She has no reason to trick me now... .
She hasn’t moved.
She hesitates again.
She hesitates at the sight of me but quickly regains her composure.
She hesitates for a moment.
She holds a finger up to her lips.
She holds down a button.
She holds up a clear plastic bag with three silver bullets inside.
She ignores my sarcasm.
She jerked away and held up her scratched hands to shield her face.
She jumps to her feet and takes my hands.
She just nods quietly at me and tells me to relax.
She just shrugs.
She kicks my chair back until it can go no further, then slams my head against the wall.
She knows better than to say mine, but she keeps on talking.
She leads me to Eden’s bed.
She leans her head on my shoulder.
She leans on the counter.
She leans over me, so close that her lips touch my ear and I can feel her breath against my skin.
She lets out a grunt of delight when she reaches the electro-bomb, and her eyes widen when she holds up the metallic sphere to inspect it.
She lets out a laugh.
She looks at me with tragic eyes.
She looks at me without pity before she returns to scribbling on a notepad.
She looks at me.
She looks awfully young... .
She looks back up at me.
She looks healthy enough, although dark circles have appeared under her eyes.
She looks up from wrapping the fresh bandage around my arm.
She loses her balance and nearly falls.
She loves her soldiers.
She lowers her voice to a whisper that only I can hear.
She lunges at me again.
She makes a disgusted face, but now she seems interested in me.
She may have even killed Tess.
She motions at the other soldiers.
She motions to one of the soldiers standing by the door.
She murmurs something I can’t understand, and looks away.
She murmurs something comforting to him and leans over to brush his hair from his face.
She must have discovered something—who really killed her brother, or some other truth about the Republic.
She must have followed me out of curiosity.
She must have found something.
She must’ve been deteriorating for months, because her skin is cracked and bleeding everywhere, and I find myself wondering how the soldiers could have missed this one during previous inspections.
She must’ve seen the recognition on my face.
She narrows her eyes at me.
She nodded.
She points at the deep indent we’ve made in the bank.
She raises an eyebrow at me.
She ran so fast that she tripped, falling onto the asphalt on her hands and knees.
She refuses to say anything about why she chose to do it.
She rolls her eyes.
She says something to the soldiers on the other side of the door.
She scoots close enough for me to feel her bare arm against mine.
She screams in pain.
She seems calm, unfazed by the sea of soldiers surrounding her.
She seems different today.
She seems tense.
She seems to take in and analyze my every word.
She shakes her head.
She shook her head again.
She should think I’d be glad to hear that Day is to die twenty-five hours earlier than planned.
She shrieks.
She sits several feet away with her back against the wall, her eyes pointed out toward the street, her face grave with concentration.
She smiles at me.
She snaps her fingers.
She sounds furious.
She speaks into her mouthpiece.
She splashes some of the cool liquid on my face.
She squints to get a better look.
She stands on her tiptoes behind several taller people, straining for a good look.
She stared back at me without a word.
She stares at me, and then seats herself in front of me with her legs folded underneath her.
She starts smiling again, her confidence returning.
She starts walking away, and I’m forced to hurry along beside her, struggling to fall into step.
She steps forward with her right foot.
She still looks wary of me.
She stops typing to glare at me.
She studied it closely.
She studies me a moment, then nods.
She stumbles around for a while, disoriented, then charges forward, only to trip and fall to her knees.
She stumbles, and the crowd roars with laughter.
She takes a small breath—I move away, afraid that I’ve hurt her.
She tightens her own mask around her mouth.
She tries to take a step back into the crowd, but they block her path.
She turns against the bank so that her back now faces out toward the lake.
She turns left and right, desperate to see my face, but all she finds are strangers and street police and soldiers.
She wanted him on her patrol.
She wants a confession.
She was a girl who’d lost her brother, and someone had led her to believe I did it, and in anguish she had tracked me down.
She was not the one who brought the plague into my home.
She was outraged by Metias’s death—she even arranged for his funeral.
She was skinny as a rail, with a tattered shirt and trousers.
She was still there in the morning.
She was the one who made him captain.
She watches me quietly.
She wears a fancy uniform: gold epaulettes shine from the top of her cloaked military robe, white ropes loop around her shoulders, and a double-arrow insignia is printed on both sleeves.
She winces as she breaks up some frozen corn kernels with the flat edge of a knife.
She winks at me and starts circling again.
She wipes a bit of blood from her mouth.
She’d needed my help so much in those early years that I sometimes forget just how much I rely on her now.
She’ll find me and help me to safety.
She’ll help me save my brothers.
She’s a little paler than other girls I see in the sector, and has large dark eyes that shine with flecks of gold in the waning light.
She’s crying now.
She’s decked out in her full uniform again, stoic and alert.
She’s had her eye on me for a long time.
She’s inside preparing it—and the smell of meat and broth is so good that we keep the door propped open a little so we can catch a whiff of it out here, too.
She’s keeping Tess a secret, I realize.
She’s kind of pretty in the flickering lamplight, with glittering green powder over her smooth-lidded eyes and a short, black, bobbed haircut.
She’s left-handed.
She’s nearsighted, but somehow she’s able to pick out the differences between the fruit vendors and the vegetable vendors, the faces of the various merchants, who has money and who doesn’t.
She’s nearsighted.
She’s not cynical or jaded.
She’s pretty in a way that distracts me just like she did in the Skiz ring.
She’s searching for something, I realize.
She’s shivering.
She’s sitting awkwardly against the wall of the chimney, oblivious to the rain that runs down her face.
She’s so lovely.
She’s testing me, but I don’t know why.
She’s thinking ... if I’m right about her brother, then what else am I right about?
She’s trying to console me, but I’m not in the mood.
Shining, luxurious epaulettes draping from each of her shoulders.
Shortly after midnight, I get dressed in all black.
Shots are fired all around me.
Shouts and footsteps echo from inside the laboratory.
Shouts come from around the building’s corner.
Silence.
Silver epaulettes sit on each shoulder.
Simple makeup adorns her face, and her hair is flawless in its high ponytail.
Since his capture, I’ve puzzled over this a hundred times.
Six seconds.
Sixty seconds.
Slouched next to me, almost invisible against the night in a black outfit, is June.
Slowly, I line up the leftover letters and try to form words with them.
Small slivers of light come from between the floorboards in the rooms above me.
So I decide to do what he says.
So I didn’t.
So I tread carefully.
So I’m left with my homemade weapons, PVC pipe slingshots, and other trinkets.
So Metias brought me along with him, and together we chased the POW deeper and deeper into our territory, away from the dividing fences and the strip of land running from Dakota to West Texas that separates the Republic and the Colonies, away from the warfront where airships dot the sky.
So are Metias’s journals, and a booklet where he used to save little mementos of the things we did together—an opera, late-night dinners, early practices at the track.
So be it.
So he approached me earlier today and asked me about it.
So he must feel just as numb as I do.
So is one of my legs.
So much for warning myself against falling for people on the streets.
So this is what the Republic thinks of children who fail the Trial.
So why Metias?
So.
Soldiers are going through the crowd and rounding them up for arrest—but they don’t seem to care.
Soldiers everywhere.
Soldiers go out of their way to hold open doors for me when we arrive.
Soldiers hurry over to me and start undoing the gurney’s belts.
Soldiers line the row of doors that lead to the front of the building.
Soldiers litter the walkway.
Soldiers rotate in and out of my cell.
Soldiers rotate in and out of their shifts.
Soldiers rush back and forth in the hallway.
Soldiers rush to them, cuffing their arms behind their backs, forcing them together into clusters.
Soldiers rushing out to the square.
Soldiers stand on either side of a small, vaultlike door.
Soldiers stumble over each other.
Soldiers will be on their way back now.
Some are generals from the warfront, the same ones Thomas mentioned earlier.
Some areas are blocked off.
Some commotion on the other side.
Some defiant spark, the same rebellious spirit he has now.
Some girl has made her way to the front of the ring, where she stares at Kaede.
Some have full gas masks on.
Some of the beggars look too young to have even taken the Trial.
Some of the blossoms are crumpled now, but I prop them up as carefully as I can and gently pat down dirt around them.
Some of the questions are multiple-choice, while others require several sentences to answer.
Some of them have black goggles on so I can’t see their eyes at all.
Some of them have painted a bloodred streak into their hair.
Some of them see the body and quickly turn away, while others keep a timid gaze on Thomas and me.
Some police report, with pictures of a person I don’t recognize.
Some secret emotion darts across his eyes.
Some small part of me makes a mental note to apologize to him later.
Some small part of me wants to smile at the sight, to feel the joy of avenging my brother’s death.
Some words are more heavily laced with envy than others.
Somebody won’t stop screaming.
Someday I’ll see him again, and we’ll tell our stories to each other ... but for now I lock him safely away, in a place where I can draw on his strength.
Somehow ... he sounds so genuine, so serious.
Somehow I always feel better with her.
Somehow I must’ve made her angry too.
Somehow he manages to get a hold of the soldier’s gun, although another soldier instantly knocks it from his hands.
Somehow, the crowd reminds me of Skiz.
Somehow, the sight of my fingers’ disjointed reflections against the glass startles me—reminds me of Day’s bloody hands, of Metias’s broken body.
Somehow, this has become the closest relationship I have with the other Drake students.
Someone checks them for proper IDs.
Someone could’ve bought a plague cure with the money spent on this glass that I use to drink water out of.
Someone else is here with us.
Someone grabs my leg and yanks hard.
Someone leaps down from the second floor, lunges for me, and knocks both of us into the shadows.
Someone must’ve set off a dust bomb.
Someone needs to hold her.
Someone raps loudly on the door.
Something about that number bothers me ... 674?
Something about this girl ... I don’t know what it is.
Something aches in my chest.
Something changes in his eyes, and I know he recognizes me, the boy who had pretended to stagger into the hospital.
Something in a bag on a gurney.
Something like that.
Something must’ve sounded funny, because Day laughs once before bursting into a coughing fit.
Something red in the dirt beside the daisies catches my eye.
Something stirs in the shadows across the street.
Something that feels like metal cuffs binds my hands tightly to the back of a chair, and it takes me a second to realize that I’m sitting.
Something that made them think it’d be riskier to educate him than to sacrifice his possible contributions to society.
Something that wasn’t there before.
Something to do with his illness.
Something, anything.
Something’s wrong here.
Sometimes I catch an admiring glance from a well-wisher across the room, which I ignore.
Sometimes I hear strange sounds, something like a bubbling test tube and a sigh of steam pipes, a breath of air.
Sometimes I recognize the sound of a key turning in a lock and the metallic smell of blood.
Sometimes I wish I could find her a good home, some kind family willing to take her in.
Sometimes I wish I had that much discipline.
Sometimes I’m black, sometimes white, sometimes olive or brown or yellow or red or whatever else they can think of.
Sometimes he talks about us.
Sometimes into the water supply, sometimes just directly into a few specific homes to see how it spreads.
Sometimes when they emerge, they mark a house by painting a big red X on the front door.
Somewhere ahead of me, Tess is running too, but she doesn’t know where I am.
Somewhere far away, the wailing of flood sirens.
Somewhere in the distance the Republic’s pledge has started blaring from the city’s speakers.
Somewhere in the halls that lead back to his old cells lie two guards passed out on the floor.
Some—many—of the people in the crowd don’t have their fists in the air.
Sparks fly.
Spots explode across my vision.
Stacks of old photo albums and Metias’s journals clutter up the coffee table.
Stars burst across my vision.
Starting tomorrow, Thomas is taking over Metias’s position for the time being—and I’m entering the patrol as a detective agent in training.
Static blares for a second in my tiny earpiece.
Static buzzes from my earpiece.
Static, then a voice comes through one of the soldiers’ earpieces.
Stay calm, I tell myself.
Stay calm.
Stay strong.
Still nothing.
Still watching over them.
Still, it’s not so bad being called something proper.
Stop, Mom.
Storm’s past.
Straight through his intelligent, stupid, stubborn, overprotective heart.
Strange.
Stray dogs take shelter instead of wandering.
Street light reflects off her vine tattoo, and heavy black makeup outlines her eyes.
Street police who are unhappy with their bribes sometimes break up Skiz fights, arresting people as they go, and as a result, I never stand with the crowd when Tess and I watch the fights.
Stupid boy! It’s a wonder you’ve evaded the government for so long—but you can’t hide now, not when your own family or friends are at risk.
Stupid me.
Subdued, maybe, even sad.
Such a small, stupid thing.
Such is the life of a fifteen-year-old senior in a university meant for sixteen and up.
Suddenly I feel guilty for talking about my problems so much over the last few days.
Suddenly I hear a pop and a few shrieks, and in the next instant they release me.
Suddenly I look closer at the knife in the photo.
Suddenly I remember.
Suddenly I tense up.
Suddenly I twist, and for a split second I’m free.
Suddenly I wonder if Tess was the one to bandage up that arm.
Suddenly I’m looking directly into Commander Jameson’s eyes.
Suddenly I’m overwhelmed with missing her.
Suddenly an explosion rocks the entire corridor, throwing us against the wall.
Suddenly everything comes rushing back to me.
Suddenly, a voice rings out from below.
Sure enough, a circular bump was pressed against the cloth.
Sure enough, before long I see glimpses of Day’s old cap peeking out far ahead of me in the crowd.
Sure enough, they continue on a path straight for our neighborhood.
Surely Day isn’t a complete stranger to everyone in Lake, and if anyone knows who he is, it’s the crowd that watches illegal Skiz fights.
Surely the Republic knows best?
Surely the Republic wouldn’t give a girl my age such a high rank.
Surely the crowd must know that this fight’s going to be a no-brainer.
Surprises don’t sound like fun right now.
Surprisingly clean.
Surprisingly, one of the badges is purple and gold, which means Chian was a war hero once—although I have a hard time believing that he ever risked his life to save his comrades.
Surviving a two-and-a-half-story fall proves that much.
Sweat beads on his forehead.
TANAGASHI SECTOR.
TEEN RENEGADE KNOWN AS DAY CLAIMS TO WORK ALONE,
THAT EVENING, I FORCE MYSELF INTO A DRESS TO ATTEND an impromptu ball with Thomas on my arm.
THAT NIGHT, THOMAS SPENDS HALF AN HOUR STANDING outside my door, trying out a dozen different kinds of apologies.
THAT’S WHAT I would have done if he’d caught me without so many soldiers around.
THE BOY AND I SIT TOGETHER IN THE BACK OF ANOTHER alley while Tess sleeps a short distance away.
THE BOY WHO WALKS IN THE LIGHT
THE GIRL WHO SHATTERS THE SHINING GLASS
THE LIGHT MAKES ME SQUINT (where is it coming from—behind me?), and for an instant I’m disoriented, unsure of why I’m sleeping in an abandoned building facing the ocean with sea daisies growing at my feet.
THE LIGHTS IN BATALLA HALL ARE COLD AND FLUORESCENT.
THE RAIN HAS STARTED.
THE RULES FOR WATCHING—AND BETTING ON—a Skiz fight are simple enough.
THE WOMAN THOMAS SHOOTS HASN’T EVEN CRUMPLED TO the ground yet when I see the boy launch himself from the rooftop.
THE WORLD’S A BLUR.
THIS TIME THEY’RE OF TESS.
THIS is how it happens.
THREE DAYS LATER.
TO BE SENTENCED TODAY OUTSIDE BATALLA HALL
TWO NIGHTS BEFORE MY EXECUTION DATE, I HAVE a slew of dreams while trying to sleep against my cell’s wall.
Tears have dried against my skin.
Tears spill down my cheeks.
Tears spring to my eyes.
Tears stream down my cheeks.
Ten minutes later, I find another one.
Tess and I are sitting in the sand underneath a pier, at the part of the lake that crosses into our sector.
Tess and I could buy five of them if we wanted... .
Tess and the boy sit at the top of the building, several stories above me, safely out of hearing range.
Tess bites her lip.
Tess blushes and glances down at her shoes.
Tess bolts out of her sleep.
Tess does the same.
Tess doesn’t smile this time.
Tess gives me a panicked look.
Tess gives me a tragic smile.
Tess glances at me—her eyes refocus.
Tess has pushed her way past one of the larger gamblers.
Tess hears it, though, and casts me a quick, concerned glance.
Tess helps me wrap both of my hands in cloth before I go to avoid leaving fingerprints anywhere.
Tess hurries over when she sees me stir.
Tess is down there with them, her delicate frame nearly lost in the shuffle, with a pouch of our money and a smile on her face.
Tess is dozing on the edge of the bed with her head tucked into her arms.
Tess is happy to do it.
Tess knows her stuff.
Tess laughs and gives me a look that I can’t quite read.
Tess laughs, but her eyes stay focused on the downtown lights.
Tess leans against the room’s other window, watching me closely.
Tess lets out a sigh.
Tess lets out a tiny gasp.
Tess looks at her in surprise.
Tess looks at me.
Tess moves closer.
Tess must have joined the Patriots.
Tess never refers to him by name.
Tess nods, a small smile on her face.
Tess nods, then casts our bet in favor of Kaede.
Tess opens her mouth to reply, but before she can say anything, the soldiers are exiting my house, single file, expressionless.
Tess purses her lips.
Tess recognizes the pain on my face and stays quiet while I keep my eyes closed and wait it out.
Tess reminds me of Metias, of how he’d nursed me back to health on the day of his induction.
Tess rolls her eyes.
Tess seems surprised for a moment, then impressed.
Tess sees the worry in my eyes and puts a hand on my forehead.
Tess shoots a questioning look at me.
Tess shrugs.
Tess sits down and unceremoniously rests her head on it, as if it’s an old habit.
Tess slumps to the ground and rests her head against the alley wall.
Tess smiles again, but I can tell even she feels a little uncomfortable with this newcomer.
Tess snatches up a few clean bandages and stuffs them under her shirt.
Tess squints at the stands from under our awning.
Tess stares at me.
Tess steps forward.
Tess sucks in her breath.
Tess tries to calm me.
Tess tries to distract me by nodding at the cloth bundle near my feet.
Tess waits for a moment when no one is paying attention to her, then glances up quickly in my direction.
Tess walks ahead of us, completely unperturbed by her surroundings, her stride cheerful and carefree.
Tess watches her with hopeful eyes.
Tess watches him go with a look of increasing fright.
Tess whispers, "No news is good news, right?"
Tess will be there, waiting for me.
Tess will be there.
Tess! I shout.
Tess, I need you.
Tess, though, is slender and wily.
Tess.
Tess’s face comes into focus.
Tess’s smile fades.
Tess’s voice drifts over to me.
Tess’s voice shakes me out of my vigil.
That I ever wanted to ache for.
That cautious expression still blankets her eyes.
That fear never leaves his face.
That gets them buzzing again.
That girl is named Kaede, or so the crowd’s chants tell me.
That idea is in their best interest, after all, since I hear the floods have claimed much more of their land than ours.
That many misspelled words from Metias can be nothing other than a message to me—the one person who was most likely to go through his writing.
That means they must’ve caught Tess too.
That must be John ... and I’m going to find him.
That night, Thomas escorts me back to my apartment and kisses me on the cheek before he leaves.
That night, we camped out behind a pawn shop that had a pair of old chairs and a ripped-up couch lying in its alley.
That same emotion returns to his eyes.
That somehow he had been brought back to life and I would see him on this night of celebration.
That someone else has killed Metias.
That starts off a new round of plague.
That strange little blemish in one of his eyes, a ripple in an otherwise ocean-blue iris.
That the Republic is intentionally spreading the plague in the poor sectors.
That was money toward a vial of cure.
That would be impossible.
That would draw Day out of hiding.
That would make this his eleventh term.
That’s about it.
That’s all it’s ever been about.
That’s all our bedroom has.
That’s another reason why I don’t think he’s connected to the Patriots.
That’s how he knows—my mike must’ve turned on when we kissed, or perhaps I hadn’t shut it off properly.
That’s how they see us, a poor little fringe nation, as if they’re the more powerful one.
That’s it.
That’s much more powerful than rebelling outside the system.
That’s not his only injury.
That’s the Iparis girl... .
That’s the third floor, a laboratory, where the blood samples and medicines will be.
That’s the worst weakness you can have, right up there with having a family stuck in a quarantined zone or a street orphan needing you.
That’s what he told me.
That’s when I hear Thomas, the young captain, say, "Ms. Iparis."
That’s when I realize something.
That’s when I see a gesture which jolts my mind completely back into place: before he lies down to sleep, he grabs at something around his neck.
That’s when Thomas throws me to the ground so hard that I feel the wound in my side break open.
That’s when something happens.
That’s when the world around me goes silent.
That’s when they thought he died.
That’s when, halfway down the hall, something catches my attention.
That’s why they hate me, why I’m not the most dangerous criminal in the country, but the most wanted.
The Arcadia bank lies on a quiet street.
The Colonies want us to think that letting them take over is a good thing.
The Colonies.
The Day that killed my brother is a cruel, ruthless criminal.
The Elector chuckles.
The Elector himself is impressed... .
The Elector motions to the young official beside him.
The Girl brings up the rear.
The Girl crosses her arms and regards me with a penetrating glare.
The Girl doesn’t flinch.
The Girl doesn’t move her gun away.
The Girl doesn’t reply.
The Girl glances back at me.
The Girl hesitates.
The Girl is clean and polished, her dark hair pulled back into a high, glossy ponytail.
The Girl laughs.
The Girl looks at me again.
The Girl looks directly at me.
The Girl looks down, then takes a gun from her belt and strikes me hard across the face.
The Girl looks like she’s been awake for a while already.
The Girl raises an eyebrow at me.
The Girl rattles off a few more past offenses, some of which I can barely remember.
The Girl shakes her head.
The Girl shrugs.
The Girl smiles at me, as if she knows something I don’t.
The Girl smiles for the first time, but there’s something eternally cautious about her eyes.
The Girl steps forward.
The Girl’s face hardens—but behind that I can see something waver, if only for a moment, and she looks like the girl I’d met on the streets.
The Girl’s smile fades.
The Girl’s voice becomes more pleading, even urgent.
The Girl’s voice pipes up.
The Glory of the Flag, he tells me.
The Patriots came for us.
The Patriots had tried in vain to recruit me.
The Patriots might not be able to meet me today.
The Patriots must find her useful.
The Patriots must have deep pockets.
The Republic didn’t sign an import deal with China (or, as the Republic likes to claim, "conquer China and take over its businesses") just to send quality imports to the slum sectors.
The Republic has thousands of underground factories for the animals.
The Republic won’t kill him until the plague does.
The Republic’s favorite little prodigy is in trouble again.
The Thomas that follows Commander Jameson’s orders without question is a different Thomas from the one who worried about my safety in the Lake sector.
The Zein sector is a good thirty miles away from here—but what if the strange red mark on my mother’s door means that they’re infected with this new strain?
The afternoon is quiet.
The air in the shaft smells strange, and I’m grateful for the handkerchief around my face.
The air smells like pipe smoke and fried meat and gas lamps.
The alley falls silent again.
The alley turns quiet again.
The anger in Kaede’s eyes has turned into skepticism.
The anxiety on his face unnerves me, because I always expect him to be the strongest of us.
The apartment feels empty and foreign.
The attendant at the door gives me a wide smile that’s missing several teeth and quickly ushers me in.
The bartender doesn’t bother to check my age.
The bartender shrugs.
The bedroom looks exactly the same, the few things in it old and worn but still comfortable.
The best places to hide during hurricanes.
The blood on the knife’s hilt is dark, but there’s another mark there too, something darker than the blood.
The blurring comes into focus after an eternity.
The blurry hospital scene shifts, and I realize I’m staring up at a similar fluorescent light and that a doctor is hovering over me.
The blurry image shows a girl with long hair—longer than the bobbed cut I remember.
The boy glances at me from where he’s walking by my side.
The boy has given her his vest again.
The boy is John.
The boy keeps his eyes forward.
The boy lands on one of the soldiers and knocks him to the ground in a shower of dirt.
The boy laughs.
The boy looks at me.
The boy pulls the rest of the old bandages away from my waist, tosses them aside, and starts wrapping the new bandages around me.
The boy returns my look.
The boy sees the strain on my face.
The boy shifts his eyes away.
The boy speaks up.
The boy stops in the center of the yard.
The boy who I now know is Day lets out a wrenching scream and charges at the nearest soldier even as they close in around him.
The boy’s blindfolded, with hands cuffed tightly behind him.
The bullet misses its mark (she was aiming for his kneecap)—but it hits the flesh of his outer thigh.
The butt of a rifle hits me in the ribs.
The café is the same one that we visited when Metias was alive.
The cap flips off his head.
The captain lifts his gun and points it at my mother.
The car smells damp (like rubber and metal and fresh sweat—a group of people must’ve ridden in here recently).
The challenger crashes to the ground, hitting her head on the cement floor, where she lies in a daze.
The change in my execution date must not have helped her any, either.
The churning sound of metal pushing water.
The clock on my visor says 2353 HOURS.
The commander just smiles again and snaps her fingers at the soldiers behind her.
The commander nods.
The commander shakes her head at my silence.
The commander stops in front of my chair, then leans down close to my face.
The commander who had visited me the day before is waiting in the hall for us, and when she sees me, she breaks into a smile.
The commercial is nothing but a digital flyer, a single still image.
The cooler air clears my head.
The correct way to address him is our glorious father.
The country I used to be proud of.
The country that experiments on and kills children who fail the Trial.
The cover flies off.
The crowd below us continues to push.
The crowd chants back.
The crowd cheers, and several people help the girl stumble out of the ring.
The crowd cheers.
The crowd continues to push against the soldiers.
The crowd erupts again.
The crowd goes nuts.
The crowd lets out another cheer, and Kaede smiles.
The crowd roars.
The crowd screams in approval.
The crowd’s chant changes.
The daylight blinds me, and I hear the shouts of hundreds of people.
The details flit away.
The details rush in, and I start talking.
The diminshed pain in my leg is such a relief that I try to savor it, but pieces of my nightmare still linger in my mind, too fresh to put away.
The doctor gives me an impatient look.
The doctor must’ve injected me with something to keep me from flailing too much during the operation.
The doctor trembles in my grasp.
The document in front of me shows Day’s Trial score.
The door swings open to reveal a young man dressed in black, with dark hair that falls over his eyes.
The door swings open.
The doors have no windows, but a gas-masked figure clad in white enters and I get a brief glimpse inside.
The edges of my vision are blurring now.
The elevator takes us to the roof of Batalla Hall, twelve stories high, where the shadows from surrounding buildings don’t protect us from the sun.
The entire basement goes black.
The entire front row is clogged with reporters, their cameras and microphones shoved in my direction.
The explosion.
The expression on her face tells me she knows exactly who I’m talking about.
The extra money was enough to buy a whole chicken.
The family that lives there once had a little girl my age.
The feel of Day’s lips, our heated kiss, and his hands running across my skin—it should all mean nothing to me now.
The fight lasts for less than a minute.
The figure standing there looks small enough, with a delicate frame and hair that seems to be tied back in a messy braid.
The fingerprints on the ID tag are the same prints found just last month at a crime scene linked to Day, prints that don’t match any civilian the Republic has on record.
The firing squad quickly files out.
The firing squad, the hallway, the flat screens.
The first soldier walks toward me.
The first two years I’d spent wandering the streets by myself were lonely ones.
The floor is an immaculate white, almost beautiful, and—most important—empty.
The flowers are proof to myself that I’m still alive.
The footsteps behind me sound far away now, as if they are on a different path than I am.
The front page of his Trial document comes up.
The gala is being held to celebrate the capture of a dangerous criminal, and to reward us all for bringing him to justice.
The girl facing me looks furious.
The girl is olive-skinned, with furrowed brows and an uncertain expression.
The girl named Kaede tilts her head at me and grins as we face each other in the ring.
The girl shakes her head at Kaede.
The government must’ve found something at the hospital and wants to lure me into a trap.
The ground rushes up at me.
The ground’s surprisingly cold.
The guards hesitate.
The guards in the room barely have time to unlock the door and move out of the way before Commander Jameson bursts in, clearly annoyed.
The gunfire lasts only a minute, if that—but it seems like forever.
The gunshots are deafening.
The hairdresser piled my hair high on my head, with loose ringlets cascading over one shoulder, and a white rose pinned behind my ear.
The hallway’s empty.
The handle clicks—I’m in.
The hard surface I’d had my back against is actually a sheet of metal.
The headache is gone and it’s dark outside.
The headline playing on them takes my breath away.
The hit knocks me loose.
The hospital is ghostly white on the inside.
The hospital spans the first twelve floors of the building, but I’m only interested in the one without windows.
The hospital’s tower looms just a few blocks away.
The hours drag on into evening, then night.
The idea makes me snort a little.
The image of John’s lifeless body displayed on the JumboTron makes me light-headed.
The impact knocks the wind out of me.
The instant I got within ten feet of the girl, she let out a strangled cry and darted away.
The instant my wounded leg hits the cement, I scream as loud as I can.
The instant the door opens a sliver, I grab the soldier’s shirt and shove him against a wall.
The interview, more than anything.
The interview.
The judge ignores the commotion.
The judge straightens and steps away from the podium.
The judge waits a few seconds to make sure the silence holds, then adjusts his glasses.
The knife handle whips me across the face.
The lab in Batalla Hall.
The lake’s edge sits just a few blocks away.
The last thing I see is the silhouette of a girl off in the distance.
The leader of the group is a young, dark-haired man dressed all in black, except for two rows of silver buttons that line his officer jacket.
The light blinks green.
The lights in all residential buildings have gone off, just as Metias had said they would, and nothing but oil lamps light the apartment.
The limp is so slight that I can’t tell when he’s walking beside Tess and me.
The little microphone picks up my throat’s vibrations.
The long lashes work particularly well for Metias.
The longer I stare at the black smears on the knife hilt, the more convinced I am that they’re remnants of rifle grease.
The look on her face is so heartbreaking that I wish for a second that I could hold her.
The loudspeakers that line the roofs of the buildings crackle and pop, and JumboTrons pause in their ads—or, in some cases, warnings about another Patriot rebel attack—to show a video of our flag.
The man grunts, his expression uncertain, and awkwardly nods his head.
The man named Metias watches me as I pass.
The man nods once.
The man now furrows his bushy eyebrows at me and claps a hand on my bare shoulder.
The man starts cleaning up the room, grabbing my empty bowl and wiping down the dresser.
The man tips his cap to her.
The man waves a hand, and everyone relaxes their stance.
The man waves them off.
The medic trucks that took Eden away.
The medic truck’s sirens sound distant for a moment—they’re making a turn somewhere—and then all of a sudden, they’re deafening.
The medicine.
The memory fades, and I’m left hanging on to the ghosts of his words.
The memory makes me shiver even as the sun continues to beat down, baking my skin until it hurts.
The memory of Day bound to his chair, agonizing over his wounded leg, makes me both angry and confused.
The mention of Day standing before a firing squad sends chills down my spine.
The minutes drag on.
The most recent one shows our parents standing with a young Metias in front of Batalla Hall.
The movie starts.
The night at the hospital flashes through my thoughts—my disguise, Metias watching me as I entered the hospital, the young doctor I’d held hostage, the bullets bouncing off the refrigerators.
The night feels surprisingly cool.
The night’s humidity is thick.
The number looks faded with age, the paint chipped away in little flakes.
The nurse doesn’t look at me again.
The office is quiet except for the faint hum coming from the dean secretary’s computer.
The older official is tall, with graying hair at his temples and a chiseled jaw.
The oncoming hurricane (fifth one this year) shows its first signs as soon as Thomas and I step out onto the streets—an ominous gale, a gust of ice-cold wind, startling in the otherwise humid air.
The onlookers in the square will gasp and shriek—sometimes in delight—when the shooting happens.
The only colors come from the Republic flags and circular gold Republic seal hanging behind the room’s front altar, the portrait of our glorious Elector looming above them all.
The only letters left after that are three W’s, then CTOOMD.
The only light comes from several antique streetlamps lining the edge of the lake.
The only problem that comes up is when you’re too infamous to risk placing a public bet and possibly getting picked up by the police.
The other children.
The other doctors and nurses freeze.
The other girl wavers.
The other soldiers click their heels together.
The other soldiers hurry back into their formations.
The other thing these trucks are used for around here is to transport special plague cases to the labs, due to their better emergency equipment.
The other two guards fix their rifles on me, but they don’t fire.
The others around me stay a good distance away, apparently eager to avoid an awkward conversation.
The others must’ve been called to help contain the square—but they won’t be long now.
The pain blinds me—my swollen leg trembles from the impact, and I can feel a gush of fresh blood on my bandages.
The pain goes on, like a pick slamming repeatedly into the back of my head.
The pain in my leg only fuels my anger.
The pain makes me light-headed and angry.
The pain makes me light-headed, like I’m drowning in a bottomless lake.
The pain of my wounded leg reclaims me.
The pattern makes no sense tonight, though, and I’m too tired to make sense of it.
The physical trial.
The plague has gotten its claws around all of us, in one way or another.
The plague has hit the Lake sector hard.
The plague infected Day’s brother.
The plague might end Eden’s life before he even gets to take the Trial.
The plague murdered my parents.
The plaster is giving way.
The police brought him back with two broken arms, his face bloody and bruised.
The policeman didn’t have a scratch on him (except a black eye).
The policeman opens it and checks each Note.
The policeman pauses to consider John’s offer.
The policeman shoves John out of his way.
The policeman takes it, slings it over his shoulder, and casts me one more disgusted look.
The policeman walks over and kicks me in my side.
The pool of blood underneath the woman is starting to make me feel sick.
The prisoner in 6822.
The question I’d been afraid to think about escapes before I can stop it.
The rain has washed his face clean.
The rain stings my wounded shoulder.
The rainy night when Metias first started working for Chian.
The reasoning for all this becomes clear—they wanted to develop those tissue samples into something, I don’t know what—pills, contact lenses, whatever could improve our soldiers, to make them run faster, see better, think smarter, or endure harsher conditions.
The red numbers.
The report said that Dr.
The rest of the report didn’t go into the plagues, but it told me what I needed to know.
The rifle grease on his forehead gives him a bewildered look.
The rising eastern sun is now high enough to bathe the entire lake in a shade of murky gold, and I can see the tiny strip of land that separates the lake from the Pacific Ocean.
The risk is too great.
The same emotion I’d seen on her face before she knew my real identity.
The scarlet stripe of blood in his hair is gone.
The scenery changes from inner Batalla sector’s hundred-floor skyscrapers to densely packed barrack towers and civilian complexes, each one only twenty to thirty stories high, with red guiding lights blinking on their roofs, most with all their paint stripped off after this year’s rash of storms.
The score still says 674 / 1500.
The sea daisies that I laid under the vents are still there, untouched, but they’ve already withered and died.
The second-shift workers are slowly making their way home.
The seconds drag on.
The security cameras haven’t triggered an alarm in time to lock down the stairwell.
The security cameras must be focused on me.
The shackles on my wrist clank together.
The shaft can’t be more than two feet wide in any direction.
The shock hasn’t even hit him yet.
The sides are not as slick as the Central Hospital was, and if I manage to break out of a window I could run along one of the ledges wrapping around the side of the building, even with my healing leg.
The sight makes me light-headed.
The sight of them makes me wonder whether I’ve been living over an underground meat factory all this time.
The silence drags on.
The silence makes me think of Metias.
The sirens continue to wail outside—they must be less than a couple of blocks away by now.
The site beeps once before displaying a single search bar.
The skin around my wound burns.
The sky churns in fury.
The sky looks more overcast than usual—signs of a rainstorm.
The smell of chicken fills the air.
The soldier crumples, clutching frantically at his mask.
The soldier goes limp.
The soldier in charge salutes.
The soldier lifts his gun and aims.
The soldier lifts his gun and points it at Tess.
The soldier looks at me in disgust while some of the others snicker.
The soldier must be a new recruit.
The soldier nods.
The soldier pushes me away and points toward the end of the hall with his gun.
The soldier reaches up and sprays one long, red, diagonal line on our door.
The soldier rejoins his comrades.
The soldier salutes me, but I don’t bother to look at him before shutting the elevator door.
The soldier shakes his head.
The soldier who opened the door has started reacting—his hand goes to his gun as if in slow motion.
The soldier who used Day as a convenient scapegoat.
The soldier with the drawn weapon approaches, while the eleven others stay where they are and look on.
The soldiers are still hesitating—but one of them calls out to me.
The soldiers are taking me down a wide hallway that seems to be a mile long.
The soldiers are too afraid to reply.
The soldiers can still come through any door, but I won’t be able to get out.
The soldiers can’t see me up here, with our wide chimney and the shadows cast by the taller buildings around us.
The soldiers don’t even like calling me by my name.
The soldiers drag me out of my cell.
The soldiers fire a volley of bullets at me.
The soldiers guarding every entrance and exit.
The soldiers have found them—they’ve broken through the floorboards and dug them out.
The soldiers hold them back.
The soldiers let go of me.
The soldiers look at each other.
The soldiers open fire.
The soldiers pound on the door.
The soldiers pull me off the gurney and onto my feet.
The soldiers seem alert now.
The soldiers shift on their feet—a few raise their weapons.
The soldiers shove him into the second jeep.
The soldiers shove me toward a raised block of cement in the center of the platform.
The soldiers standing in my cell have more weapons than usual, along with gas masks and protective vests.
The soldiers turn to me.
The soldiers waiting by the elevator stand even straighter as I approach.
The soldiers won’t be able to follow me.
The sooner this is all over, the sooner I can sneak my gifts to John.
The sound of them rises and falls, a steady tide of human voices.
The sound’s muffled by my gag.
The spot where Metias usually sits is empty.
The spy glares at each of us in turn.
The spy lets out a weak laugh.
The spy looks away from her and says nothing.
The spy swallows hard.
The spy’s eyes bulge out, and he coughs up more blood onto the floor.
The spy’s face is scarlet from hanging upside down for too long.
The square is probably filled with people by now.
The stadium.
The steady rise and fall of gunfire coming from the screens tells me that the people living in those sectors must be facing off against the troops.
The steps of this building definitely used to be part of a stairwell, but now they sit open to the outside.
The story was always the same: a dozen or so poor folk (usually teens, sometimes older) causing trouble in one of the sectors, angry about the plague quarantines or taxes.
The strain of talking has worn him out.
The strange X on our door is still there, as prominent as ever.
The strange X still marked the door.
The street police won’t know I’m on a mission.
The streets haven’t broken her.
The students pressed against the door’s glass abruptly disperse, and their shadows move aside to make room for a tall silhouette.
The subject of Day’s younger brother isn’t something I’ve investigated.
The subtle angle he’s leaning toward tells me that he favors his left.
The sun changes position.
The sun’s still in the sky, and I can feel beads of sweat on my face.
The suspicious look on her face sends a wave of shame through me.
The ten-second place.
The third, a girl who couldn’t have been more than ten years old, stayed where she was, trembling when she saw me.
The thought fills me with excitement and dread.
The thought makes me blind with rage.
The thought makes my heart quicken.
The thought of Ollie barking at soldiers breaking into my apartment, scared and alone, brings a lump to my throat.
The thought of him—and his accusation against the Republic, that the Republic creates the plagues, kills kids who fail the Trial—fills me with rage.
The three-lined X mark on my family’s door.
The time on my visor shows 0007 HOURS.
The tiny microphone at my mouth makes my voice sound like a man’s.
The tiny microphone inside my cheek vibrates a little.
The troops must be firing on the crowd in the square.
The velvet ropes that kept us separated from the kids of rich families.
The video shows the square in front of Batalla Hall packed with several hundred people.
The voice is barely a whisper, but through the speakers it sounds broken and startling, so crackly that I have trouble understanding him.
The voice sounds so crackled and distorted from the speakers that there are parts I can’t understand.
The voices get a little closer, then farther.
The wallpaper is blue and yellow, and peeling at the corners.
The walls say 4th Floor.
The war’s been intense lately, and with several decades of infrastructure funding diverted to supplying the warfront, I don’t know if these buildings would hold up well in another earthquake.
The whispers stay whispers, because no one wants to draw the Republic’s attention.
The whole process takes ten minutes.
The window shatters, and I’m suddenly out in the night again and falling, falling, falling like a star to the first floor.
The word is refrigerator, spelled with an extra d.
The words come spilling out of my mouth in a rage.
The words echo empty and uncertain in my mind.
The words have barely left my mouth when the boy leans closer and places his hand on my cheek.
The words start to blur together on the page, until I can’t quite understand what each entry means anymore.
The world fades in and out.
The written exam.
The youngest ones talk about their parents or how to pickpocket a soldier.
Their footsteps clomp overhead and I see their figures walk along the beginning of the pier.
Their guns are focused on me now.
Then Congress hires you and you make lots of money.
Then Day’s head lolls against my shoulder.
Then I change the direction I’m walking.
Then I crawl into the dark, stale-smelling crevice, and pull the board back into place behind me.
Then I curl up on the couch and sleep until Thomas calls.
Then I dart forward, duck down, and trip her.
Then I disable my browser’s history, and type in the URL with trembling fingers.
Then I drop my hand with a sigh.
Then I ease my way through a crack in the fence, push aside the loose board, and crawl underneath the porch.
Then I feel the pain in my left leg.
Then I find her.
Then I glance at my computer.
Then I hear Thomas’s voice.
Then I hear a click, see a faint light scan across my skin, and the white page disappears.
Then I hear a faint sound, a whoosh—then a hissing and gurgling.
Then I hold my empty hands out to both of them.
Then I kick open the door and rush into the light.
Then I launched it with a slingshot through the window of our local police headquarters.
Then I lean my head against his and begin to cry.
Then I lean over Tess, grab my beaten newsboy cap from the chair, and pull it on.
Then I lean toward the coffee table and start sifting through all the pages of Metias’s journals.
Then I leave the porch and head around to the house’s back door, where I meet my brother in the darkness.
Then I look at Metias’s shoulder.
Then I point the slingshot at one of the soldiers holding John, pull back as far as I can, and fire.
Then I read each question carefully and answer it in my head.
Then I realize I’m not hearing the normal wail of a police siren.
Then I realize from the hollow sound of her gun’s click that her gun isn’t loaded.
Then I realize that the Girl is standing next to me.
Then I remember that Chian had mentored Metias before he joined Commander Jameson’s squad.
Then I scoot after them, wiping away any marks we made in the dirt, and carefully lifting the board back into place.
Then I see someone else—someone smaller, with a more delicate frame—enter the cell with the swoosh of a black cape.
Then I see that it’s not Tess, but my mother, who lies in a puddle of blood.
Then I see the commander step forward.
Then I skipped my sophomore year.
Then I stand up, pretend to stumble, and lurch toward the closest soldier.
Then I step out of the ring and start shoving my way out of the circle.
Then I stop myself.
Then I take out Day’s pendant necklace from my pocket, holding it up slightly so I can study its smooth bumps.
Then I take out the soldier’s ID tag, clip it to my pendant necklace, and stuff myself headfirst into the shaft’s tunnel.
Then I try something else—what if Metias wanted me to put together the individual letters that are either missing from each word or in the word when they aren’t supposed to be there?
Then I turn and stagger toward the restroom.
Then I untie the black collared shirt from around my waist and put it on, buttoning it up all the way to my neck and clipping my suspenders over it.
Then I yank the knife out from his belt, reach for the electric grid box, and pull it open.
Then Kaede shouts back, "Who the hell you think ya are, talking t’me like that? Think you’re better?" She points at the girl, and the crowd lets out a cheer.
Then Mom will put on her usual brave face, only to sit up through the night, quietly wiping tears away.
Then a faint sound comes from my earpiece.
Then a fourth one: emanating, spelled emamating.
Then a photo pops up of someone I do recognize.
Then fifteen minutes.
Then he crouches down behind it, motions for Tess and me to sit down, and begins unbuttoning his vest.
Then he ducks back inside and disappears from view.
Then he leans uncomfortably close.
Then he leaves us behind.
Then he looked at me.
Then he looks up at my mother.
Then he lowered his eyes as if ashamed.
Then he never came home again.
Then he places the knife flat between my skin and the bandages and rips the cloth.
Then he pulls two cans from the paper bag and sets them down on a dresser.
Then he quickly looks back down at my wound.
Then he regains his composure, and as I struggle to regain mine, he leans back against the wall beside me and sighs.
Then he shoots her in the head.
Then he smiles, as if he knows what sort of effect he has, and turns away.
Then he sprays another line, making an X.
Then he turns around.
Then he unlocks the second hand.
Then it swings shut again, and she saunters over to me with a smile.
Then my eyes wander to the white coffin next to them.
Then she aims at Day’s left leg and fires.
Then she buries her head against my shoulder.
Then she can sit on my shoulders and finally get to see the fights, instead of calling unwanted attention to herself.
Then she names one more crime, my latest.
Then she shoves one finger into my chest.
Then she studied my face, like she wanted to guess my reaction.
Then she taps them hesitantly on their shoulders, says something, and pushes her way forward.
Then she wouldn’t have sent any photos with this report at all.
Then someone’s wrestling with me, and the soldiers go down, and Kaede runs past my line of vision.
Then something catches my eye.
Then something heavy hits me across the face.
Then suddenly I’m back in the hospital lab again, and the doctors and nurses are standing over me.
Then the Girl’s gone, and I’m left alone in the cell with the soldiers.
Then the doors slide shut again, and we continue on.
Then the face-off with Metias, the way I’d thrown my knife at him.
Then the silence returns.
Then the soldiers come to a sudden stop halfway down the corridor, a good distance away from my cell.
Then the video cuts to the yard, where the firing squad lines up.
Then the voice comes back.
Then there’s a voice telling me to get up.
Then there’s my criminal report.
Then they cuff him, blindfold and gag him, and drag him into one of the waiting jeeps.
Then they develop an equivalent vaccine and cure for it.
Then they’re on me, dragging me to my feet and back to the screaming crowd.
Then today, wiping the tears from my cheek.
Then two soldiers with gas masks emerge from behind the house, dragging my mother between them.
Then two, then four, and then finally, ten minutes.
Then we arrive at the elevators and the soldiers shove me inside.
Then we reach the exits, burst out into the street, and a pair of soldiers is upon us.
Then, I make a mistake.
Then, June leans over again and whispers in my ear.
Then, a voice I recognize.
Then, a week later, his apprenticeship with Chian ended abruptly.
Then, as if she had remembered something, she shook her head.
Then, before I can protest, one of Thomas’s gloved hands brushes my chin as he leans in to kiss me on the lips.
Then, finally, he releases me and moves away.
Then, just as the sun mercifully starts to set, I see someone emerge from the elevator and make her way toward me.
Then, she finally releases me and nods at my belt.
Then, when they step back, she leans down near my face.
Then, without warning, I pretend to dry heave, then burst into a fit of coughs.
Then, words that seize my heart.
There are 97, 98 dead.
There are even a couple of my classmates from Drake.
There are four.
There are no red marks.
There are six brief entries here.
There are twelve velvet chairs arranged in a circle, and in each sits an official in full black uniform, his or her shoulders adorned with shining gold epaulettes, sipping from delicate glasses.
There was, after all, no evidence.
There, Commander Jameson waves away the soldiers guarding it and ushers me through.
There, I wait in the shadows.
There’d been three helicopters.
There’s a bowl with some steam rising from it on the dresser next to the bed and a small loaf of bread balanced on the bowl’s edge.
There’s a brief silence.
There’s a brief, horrible silence.
There’s a chorus of clicks as all the doors in the stairwell lock from the inside.
There’s a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach.
There’s a medic truck siren wailing all the time.
There’s a pillow under my head.
There’s a security hole on their servers that I hadn’t noticed before because they’d buried it behind all sorts of—well, anyway, it resulted in me getting in.
There’s a small patch of sea daisies growing from a crack in the floor.
There’s a symbol here, something inscribed underneath all the dirt and pebbles.
There’s absolutely no reflection in them, and I realize with horror that they’re black because his irises are bleeding.
There’s also anti-Colonies propaganda.
There’s jealousy in his voice.
There’s no choice now.
There’s no need to.
There’s no wind tonight.
There’s nothing but cold fury in her eyes.
There’s our obligatory portrait of the Elector hanging on the wall, surrounded by a handful of our own photos, as if he were a member of our family.
There’s probably a whole system of pipes down there, something that leads all the way out to the lake.
There’s probably even some of the same people.
There’s something behind our parents’ death, and I’m going to find out what it is.
There’s something comforting about hanging around with Tess and this boy, as if the absence of Metias hasn’t entirely stripped me of everyone who cares about me.
There’s something oily and unpleasant about him.
There’s that tension in his eyes again.
There’s the tattered mattress Eden’s on, and next to it is the scratched-up chest of drawers that I used to doodle on.
These I have more trouble reading.
These I steer clear of—the soldiers have marked them as quarantine zones.
These black marks look like rifle grease.
These goggles were a lucky steal from a military supply shipment.
These thoughts keep me occupied.
These two got me out of serious trouble.
These two have a strange way of making me lose my composure.
They all look like Metias to me, and I have to breathe a little harder, walk a little faster, anything to stay focused.
They all look so similar—dim lantern light, smoke and chaos, the occasional Skiz fight happening in a dark corner.
They also run individual plague experiments on some of the children who fail the Trial.
They always have a different photo running alongside the report.
They can’t do it without hitting the first soldier.
They continue to talk.
They could be hot on my trail with a pack of dogs.
They couldn’t get me off the side of the building by scaling it themselves, so they pulled me off with a net.
They die.
They do take the little pouch of Notes tied to my belt, my payment for entering the hospital.
They don’t find the knives tucked in my boots.
They don’t go to labor camps, June.
They don’t seem to know much of anything about me, except that I’m young and that when they run my fingerprints they don’t find a match in their databases.
They drag me kicking and shouting back to my cell.
They experimented on him.
They feed your image live to the square until your execution time comes, then they cut to the firing squad yard inside Batalla Hall, and then they show you marching out to face the executioners.
They fixed the security hole on the server.
They get treated at the warfront’s border.
They grab us and lead us toward their motorcycles.
They haul me off the chair, across the floor, and out the door.
They killed them.
They look black, thick and textured.
They make your parents sign a contract giving the government full custody over you.
They may keep him alive, in case they want to squeeze more information out of me.
They mix together into a confusing sludge of familiar and strange faces, something that sounds like Tess’s laughter, something else that sounds like June’s voice.
They must be cheering right now.
They must have arrested her—and now they’re using her for something.
They must have gathered near the door, ready to open it as soon as they hear a fist against the wood.
They must have run a second check through the area.
They never found out who did it, and I never came forward.
They pump that virus into the slum sectors through a system of underground pipes.
They really think I’ll do something cracked.
They roll silently down into the sand.
They say that you’ve been sent away to the Republic’s labor camps and that your family will not see you again.
They see her now.
They slice the dirt floor into pieces, and I can just make out the crumpled sea daisies.
They sound like rubber pellets.
They spread the word: someone has plague medicine for you, come to the ten-second place.
They start off in the most obvious place.
They stay silent.
They take my hand and shake their heads.
They talk about the best places to find food, the best places to find fresh water.
They thought they would tell everybody.
They unchain you so you have the chance to do something entertaining.
They use the plagues to cull the population of weak genes, the same way the Trials pick out the strongest.
They want more information before they execute me.
They want something from my little brother.
They were a strong, bright blue once, just like mine, but sorrow has faded them.
They were lurking near the back exits.
They were taking tiny tissue samples from his knee, as well as from his heart and his eye.
They will make an example of me.
They won’t be expecting someone to fight back right now, especially someone they can’t see.
They’d found something suspicious, I guess.
They’d have to shoot at me from the ground or the air, but I’m fast when I can find footholds, and I can tolerate the pain in my hands.
They’d never miss a chance to claim victory.
They’ll come back in no time.
They’ll forget about me in a couple of minutes.
They’ll keep him alive, that I’m sure of.
They’ll play reruns of the footage for several days afterward.
They’ll probably also bring along plague meds, though, to tempt me out into the open.
They’ll seal off the poor sectors entirely and arrest every last rioter in the square.
They’ll send a guy to the ten-second place at midnight, and then place soldiers along the back alley.
They’ll still reach John and Day.
They’re all trying to talk to me, but I can’t understand any of them.
They’re almost here.
They’re coming for Eden.
They’re cutting open my knee again, pulling back my flesh to reveal the bones underneath, scraping at it with their scalpels.
They’re full of scanned documents, photos, and newspaper articles.
They’re getting closer.
They’re going to have to fill me with bullets to get me to stay still.
They’re holding their rifles out in front of them, attempting to load and unload as fast as they can while running.
They’re hundreds of feet deep.
They’re not.
They’re protesting because of me.
They’re returning me to my cell, I guess, at least for now.
They’re shaking.
They’re shouting, cheering, booing.
They’re the gamblers, I think, the ones who care the most.
They’re too far away for me to reach from the stairs themselves.
They’ve already been quarantined, anyway.
They’ve been using biological weapons against them for years.
They’ve covered the bare floors with white carpets; round white banquet tables overflowing with white lilacs fill the room.
They’ve made her stronger instead.
They’ve sent her to hunt me down.
They’ve stopped outside our home and are getting ready to force their way in.
They’ve strapped Eden to a gurney and are wheeling him toward the medic truck.
Things shouldn’t be like this for John.
Think about your safety first.
Thirty hours ago, I sent one scout to every plague-infected sector in Los Angeles—Winter, Blueridge, Lake, and Alta.
Thirty minutes pass.
Thirty-two hours ago she approved it.
This I’m sure of now, and the thought makes me ill.
This afternoon I’m crouched behind the chimney of a crumbling, one-story warehouse.
This antique glass was a gift, supposedly imported from the Republic’s islands of South America.
This brief thought makes my heart ache.
This catches Day’s attention.
This catches her off guard.
This challenger will be lucky if Kaede lets her live.
This could mean so many things.
This dress could’ve bought a kid in the slum sectors several months’ worth of food.
This girl can point out a detail on the streets a mile away.
This girl doesn’t seem to fear the crowd’s wrath.
This girl either actually believes all that made-up crap or she’s taunting me.
This girl strikes like a viper.
This is a boy from the slums.
This is a boy who must’ve barely passed his Trial.
This is a scene I know well.
This is a siren from a military medic truck, the ones used for transporting injured soldiers to the hospital.
This is all wrong.
This is as good a place as any to dig up information.
This is for June’s eyes only.
This is my first coherent thought as we reach the bottom floor of our high-rise and climb into a waiting jeep.
This is our Elector Primo.
This is probably my favorite view from our shabby, beautiful little Lake sector.
This is the captain who shot my mother.
This is the girl who’d just knocked me to a state of half consciousness in the hallway.
This is the voice of my brother’s murderer.
This is why she hunted me down.
This isn’t a public broadcast, I realize.
This isn’t in line with Republic values.
This isn’t just a metal structure to hold up the lake’s shores.
This isn’t protocol for handling an unruly mob.
This makes Day smile a little—but it disappears as fast as it comes.
This makes me smile.
This may be it for me.
This may have been the last voice my brother heard.
This memory flashes through my mind in an instant.
This might even be the reason why Tess joined the Patriots in the first place—to beg them to save Day.
This must be standard agent dress code for special events.
This must be the person Commander Jameson mentioned.
This must be why he’d pulled all the boxes out of the closet that fateful afternoon ... this might be the important thing he’d wanted to talk about.
This new girl has taken Tess’s place, whether she meant to or not.
This one is about an exhausting week of cleanup duty after Hurricane Elijah tore through Los Angeles.
This report is incomplete.
This settles the crowd.
This spy’s young, probably in his late twenties.
This surprises me a little.
This surprises me too—I’ve never seen anyone refuse to fight.
This time I strike some sort of nerve with the Girl.
This time I’ve sprayed my white-blond strands a deep black, as if I’d dipped them in crude oil.
This time he shoots me an amused look.
This time her smile is gone—I’ve succeeded in angering her.
This time it comes from my tiny earpiece.
This time the girl nods.
This time the word is elevation, but Metias spells it elevatien.
This time, however, I hear what sounds like the faintest sigh.
This time, there’s a dragging sound mixed in with the crisp march of the soldiers.
This trot’s going to choose Tess.
This used to be an apartment complex, but it’s fallen into disrepair.
This was what bothered him.
This will be my eighth report this quarter.
Thomas and I, and another soldier standing close to the interrogation room’s door, hurry inside and spread out near the back wall.
Thomas approaches, then tips his hat at me.
Thomas clears his throat.
Thomas clicks the remote.
Thomas doesn’t question a single one of my terse responses.
Thomas doesn’t reply, but I see him swallow hard in an effort not to react.
Thomas doesn’t reply.
Thomas doesn’t say anything else.
Thomas finally shouts an order to cease fire, and those in the crowd who haven’t been shot fall to their knees and throw their hands up over their heads.
Thomas flips open a knife and grabs one of the spy’s fingers.
Thomas gives me a long look.
Thomas gives me a stern look.
Thomas gives me an approving look over his mask, but Commander Jameson just frowns at me.
Thomas glances at me before stepping off the platform—his face is grave, even guilty, but I know with a sinking feeling that he feels guilty only for throwing me to the ground.
Thomas goes through them without blinking an eye or questioning my responses.
Thomas goes to work on him, and after a while, the other soldier in the room has to join him to hold the spy in place.
Thomas grabs my neck.
Thomas grins.
Thomas had spent a great deal of effort convincing me to "forgive" him, to let him take me out to dinner.
Thomas has always been disciplined.
Thomas hits the spy across the face with the hilt of his knife.
Thomas is silent for a moment.
Thomas is trying so hard to hold his composure.
Thomas knows.
Thomas leans over to me and nods toward the center of the crowd.
Thomas looks on with a serious face.
Thomas looks toward the tower and tries to see what I see—the broken third-floor stairwell window, the taped-off section right below it, the soldiers searching alleyways, the lack of ambulances.
Thomas looks unconvinced.
Thomas lowers his voice.
Thomas makes a disapproving sound in his throat, but I break into a grin.
Thomas manages to ignore me again.
Thomas might be several years younger than Metias and a subordinate on his patrol, but he’s more disciplined than anyone I know.
Thomas must be furious with me.
Thomas narrows his eyes, then shrugs.
Thomas nods.
Thomas notices me craning my neck for a better view.
Thomas occasionally glances down at me, and his cheeks turn rosy.
Thomas opens his mouth to say something, then decides against it and goes back to concentrating on the road.
Thomas relaxes a little, but he still studies my face.
Thomas seems taken aback by my tone.
Thomas shakes his head.
Thomas shoots me a secretive smile.
Thomas shows up at my door.
Thomas shrugs.
Thomas sits in the driver’s seat and makes sure my seat belt is buckled.
Thomas snaps his fingers.
Thomas stops the jeep right behind the lines at a red light and gives Metias an exasperated look.
Thomas stops us at the bottom of the stairs.
Thomas studies me.
Thomas sucks in his breath.
Thomas suddenly murmurs something into his mike.
Thomas teased me over my messy pigtails, but Metias was quiet.
Thomas turns his eyes back to the road (he seems to count to three in his head before letting the jeep go forward).
Thomas watches me eat.
Thomas, I whisper, but it comes out as Metias.
Thomas, stop.
Thomas, the soldier who would happily carry out any order from Commander Jameson, even if it’s to kill a childhood friend.
Thomas.
Thomas’s choice of location doesn’t ease my thoughts.
Thomas’s dark hair falls across his eyes and covers his expression.
Thomas’s hand touches mine again.
Thomas’s kind smile makes me weak, and suddenly I feel like Metias is the one sitting next to me and telling me everything is going to be okay, reassuring me that the Republic won’t fail me.
Those high-rise terraces full of grazing animals isn’t where most of our meat comes from.
Those were only the incidents where we found fingerprints—I can only guess at the number of other crimes he’s committed.
Thousands of people in Lake could match that voice.
Three more blocks.
Through the floor’s gaps, I see my mother sitting at Eden’s bedside.
Throughout the morning, we hunt for more opportunities to make money—naive police to pickpocket, stuff in trash bins to resell, unguarded pier crates to pry open—and when that’s done, we find a new spot to camp for the night.
Time for my escape—or my death?
Time is running out, and it’s all this girl’s fault.
Tiny trickles of blood still seep from where Kaede’s knife stabbed me, but thankfully, there are no signs of infection.
To celebrate, Mom sold one of her two dresses and an assortment of old pots, and spent all last week taking over shifts from her coworkers.
To draw me out?
To follow him.
To get me to say something by accident?
To my left I see the waiting room, just like the nurse said, a huge space packed with people sporting injuries of all shapes and sizes.
To my right, a judge cloaked in scarlet robes and gold buttons waits behind a podium.
To my surprise, he appears peaceful.
To see if I would refuse, and then take this information to Commander Jameson?
Today I finally managed to hack the Los Angeles deceased civilians database.
Today I found a photograph taken by our late father.
Today I’m out on my own—Tess is keeping a low profile several streets down, tucked away on a hidden second-floor ledge.
Today they caught a spy from the Colonies who was secretly spreading propaganda about "how the Republic is lying to you!" Spies are usually shipped out to Denver, but if they’re caught in a big city like Los Angeles, we take them before the capital does.
Today was not different.
Told him I didn’t find anything.
Tomorrow morning, then, first thing.
Tonight I’m on my way back to the border of Lake and Alta, where I’d gotten into the Skiz fight with Kaede.
Too many memories, too many revelations.
Too naive, too easily manipulated.
Too soon, soldiers come to take Metias to the morgue.
Troops are everywhere, along with doctors wearing goggles and white gloves.
Trucks deliver extra jugs of drinking water and canned food to the high-rise residents.
Truly it’s Commander Jameson that deserves the recognition... .
Tsingtao beer?
Turn the questions back around.
Twenty minutes.
Twenty-five hundred Notes.
Twenty-nine hours ago, I attended my brother’s funeral.
Twenty-seven seconds.
Twenty-six of them, if you count a caboose missing half of one side, all Union Pacific.
Two and a half hours.
Two candles light the room.
Two hours.
Two military jeeps are parked next to the medic truck.
Two misspelled words.
Two more blocks.
Two more heads popped up out of the garbage bin.
Two more soldiers join him.
Two nights later, as we sat together by a crude fire, she finally spoke to me.
Two of them, an older woman and a teenage boy, immediately scrambled out of the mess and ran down the alley.
Two pairs of hands drag me up before I can see properly, and I scream as my wounded leg tries to take some of my weight.
Two people help Kaede out of the ring (she shoots me a look of hatred before she turns away), and the rest of the onlookers start up their chant.
Two soldiers drag me out into a familiar hallway.
Two soldiers pick up the boy’s body and take him away to the cremation chambers.
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, IN GOD WE TRUST, QUARTER DOLLAR embossed on one side, and LIBERTY and 1990 on the other.
Uncertain.
Under all this, Barstow’s lone JumboTron broadcasts the news coming in from Los Angeles.
Understand?
Units responding.
Unless she suspects something.
Unless they saw something dangerous in him.
Usually I can hear something suspicious before Tess does, but this time I hear nothing at all.
Usually something happens: the criminal’s resolve starts breaking down, and he begs and pleads with the guards or tries to cut a deal or an extension, or sometimes even tries to break out.
Usually this would work to her advantage and throw off her opponents, but I’ve trained for this.
WANTED BY THE REPUBLIC
WANTED FOR ASSAULT, ARSON, THEFT,
WE RIDE UP SEVERAL FLOORS UNTIL I HEAR THE elevator’s chains come to a scraping halt.
WEIGHT: 147 LBS
WHEN I WAS SEVEN YEARS OLD, MY FATHER CAME home from the warfront for a week’s leave.
WHEN I WAS YOUNG, METIAS WAS SOMETIMES CALLED AWAY to deal with minor rebellions, and afterward he’d tell me about them.
WHEN JUNE VISITS ME AGAIN THE NEXT MORNING, even she looks shocked—if just for a second—at my figure, slumped against one wall of my cell.
WHEN THE GIRL HAS FINALLY FALLEN ASLEEP, I LEAVE her with Tess and head off to visit my family again.
WINTER SECTORS.
WWW FOLLOW ME JUNE BUG DOT COM
Wait for John, I want to say.
Walking around all day hasn’t helped things, and the pain is returning like wildfire.
Warm enough.
Was it just this afternoon that he’d picked me up from Drake?
Water never tasted so good.
Way too distracting.
We blend into the shadows.
We both shrink farther into the shadows.
We both stay still for a long moment.
We continue taking turns—large swigs for him, small sips for me—until he recorks the bottle, seeming to put it away the instant he feels it dulling his awareness.
We could hear the loudspeakers outside playing the Republic’s national pledge.
We don’t do anything for a good half hour.
We drive past half of Batalla sector and through a few poor blocks.
We escape the worst of the sun by hanging out near the market vendors in the poorest part of Lake.
We exchange good-byes, and John’s two guards grab his arms to lead him out of my cell and back into his own.
We exit the hospital room.
We fall into an uncomfortable silence.
We have at least a slim chance against one plague patrol.
We have the same eyes, black with a gold glint, the same long lashes and dark hair.
We head into the hospital.
We hit the ball some more.
We huddle in the darkest corner, where we can barely even see each other.
We keep going.
We keep ourselves pressed as closely against the side of the bank as we can so idle soldiers and drunk workers above can’t see us past all the grass and rocks.
We leave downtown Los Angeles behind and travel up the winding highway in silence.
We lie there together, watching the lightning and listening to the thunder, and waiting for the beginning of a rainy dawn.
We look on in silence as the soldiers draw closer to my family’s house.
We make our way out the back entrance.
We make our way through silent back alleys for six blocks until we finally slow down.
We make our way through the long halls.
We pass by the afternoon drills I’m supposed to be participating in.
We placed an order for ice cream and two whole chickens, and at one point in the evening, I even experimented with making a chicken and ice cream sandwich, which maybe wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had.
We play fast and furious for several minutes, neither of us missing, sometimes making such ridiculous jumps to get the ball that Eden falls over laughing.
We round the corner and head for the stairwell.
We sit in silence for a moment.
We stand in silence for a moment.
We stand outside one of the rooms I’d noticed earlier, the ones with clear glass windows.
We stand there for an instant, staring at each other, unsure of what to do.
We stare at each other for a moment.
We stare at each other in bewildered silence, like neither of us can quite grasp what just happened.
We stay here, unmoving, frozen in the rain.
We step out into open air, this time at the back of the building.
We wait in silence for several minutes until I hear footsteps come down the hall again.
We walk down a first-floor hall until we reach an emergency exit door at the very end of it.
We would see him only one more time after that.
Wealthy families like ours always have elaborate funerals—Metias’s takes place inside a building with soaring baroque archways and stained-glass windows.
Weapons are not supposed to be part of a Skiz fight ... but this is hardly a fight where the crowd follows all the rules.
Well, I guess we should just get it all out of the way.
Well, he’s a better person than I am, I think bitterly.
Wet sand crunches under my feet.
We’ll defeat them first or die trying.
We’ll need to get that leg checked.
We’re a good 250 feet from the exits.
We’re a good fifty feet away from them.
We’re all going to die like this, June, if someone doesn’t step in.
We’re definitely in the outskirts.
We’re silent for a while.
We’re still alive.
We’re still sitting underneath the pier, but it’s probably a couple hours before dawn, and the skyline has already gone dark.
We’ve cast one thousand Notes, almost all our money, in favor of Kaede.
What I don’t understand is why he’s here—why he even cares that Metias died.
What I see makes me dizzy with horror.
What Thomas had done to Metias.
What a brownnoser—especially after what she’d just said about Metias.
What a bunch of cons, men who had barely passed their Trials.
What a stupid puppet of the state.
What a thought at a time like this.
What a thoughtful government.
What am I doing, yelling at her?
What am I thinking?
What are they doing?
What could hurt her so badly that she, with all her privileges, would turn against the Republic?
What do you enjoy doing in school?
What do you think of our illustrious Elector Primo?
What does it feel like to stand in front of a firing squad with no way out?
What does she want me to say?
What else is secret?
What face matches up to this voice?
What happened?
What happens next is a blur.
What has she done with Tess?
What if Commander Jameson took them out to hide something from me?
What if Commander Jameson took them out to spare me the pain?
What if John’s inside one of these rooms?
What if he is telling me the truth?
What if it was no accident that Eden got the plague?
What if it’s no accident when anyone gets it?
What if something else happened to Metias that night?
What if the Republic figures out what it is?
What if they trace it back to my family?
What is the Republic’s national pledge?
What they’ve done with him I can only guess.
What was it that made them nervous?
What will happen when we reach the yard?
What will they do to him?
What will they do with him?
What year did the Republic officially form?
Whatever Tess did last night seems to be working.
Whatever made them mark our door in the first place has apparently stuck around.
What’s it been, four or five days?
When Dad tried to get reassigned, Baccarin knew that he’d figured out the reason for his research.
When Eden was a toddler, John and I used to hold his hands and help him walk from one end of this room to the other.
When I brush away more of the rocks and dirt, I see that the metal is lodged deep in the bank, so that it’s probably what’s holding the bank up in the first place.
When I can’t look at the photos any longer, I go back to the couch and sift through Metias’s journals again.
When I dare to look down at my leg, though, I see that it’s wrapped in a tight, blood-soaked bandage.
When I do, my voice is smooth and calm and shows no sign of my rage.
When I don’t see anything else, I lower my head and crawl under the porch.
When I fiddled with it, the secret photo fell out.
When I finally fall asleep, I have a bad dream, and Metias is in it.
When I finally open my eyes, I see that I’m now in a small, windowless cell with four steel walls.
When I find a quiet alley to rest in, with a few other beggars already asleep in the garbage bins, I curl into a dark corner and click my microphone on.
When I finish, I use the tip of one of my knives to unscrew the cover to the bathroom’s ventilation shaft.
When I first met Tess three years ago, she was a skinny ten-year-old orphan rummaging through trash bins in the Nima sector.
When I first saw this crowd of gamblers, I’d wanted to leave it alone.
When I grow tired and light-headed from walking, he stops all of us and finds water for me while I rest.
When I lie down in my apartment for a brief rest later in the afternoon, I dream of him.
When I look at my reflection in the lake, I realize that I look exactly like a street beggar now.
When I look back at Thomas, his hair has fallen across his face and a cruel pleasure has replaced his usual kindness.
When I look back to the dining table, John and Mom are still there, but Eden’s gone.
When I look closer, I realize that he’s drawing soldiers breaking into our home.
When I look down at Ollie, I see that the fur on his back is standing up.
When I look into the depths, I can see that this old library continues for many floors.
When I look over my shoulder, I see Tess standing in the alley with her wide eyes locked on my vanishing figure.
When I look over my shoulder, I see a small group of soldiers rush to where I’d fallen, pointing out the broken glass and blood.
When I look to my side, I see a boy holding out his hand to me.
When I look toward the Girl, I see her wince at the sight of me and turn her eyes to the ground.
When I look up at the sky, I see an endless field of churning clouds, jet-black and furious, illuminated by lightning.
When I looked at his gloves, I saw tiny specks of blood staining them.
When I met John later behind our house, he told me that Eden hadn’t eaten since the last time I came by.
When I open my eyes, Day is watching me.
When I open the door, Thomas coughs nervously at the surprised look on my face and pretends to smile.
When I pull away from it and look closer at the metal, I notice symbols carved on its surface.
When I pull her into an embrace, she wipes a tear from my cheek and kisses me.
When I see Kaede nod her head in Tess’s direction, I rise up from my crouch.
When I see the next ladder leading up to the surface, I take my chances and pull myself up.
When I shift my feet, I can feel the cool metal against my skin.
When I shift, I let out a moan and close my eyes.
When I take a good look across the sector, I see that red tape lines almost every block, and plague patrol soldiers with gas masks and black capes stand at every street corner.
When I tracked Day’s family down and watched Thomas shoot his mother, when I looked on today as the crowd in the square was gunned down ... I stood by both times and did nothing.
When I try to brush them off, they stick to my skin.
When I try to move the leg a little, I notice with surprise that the pain is far less than before.
When I try to stand, I realize that I’ve sprained one of my ankles, too.
When I turn around, I see what she’s pointing to.
When I turn my attention back to the window, I see the part of downtown that sits inside Batalla.
When I wake up again, I don’t know how much time has passed.
When I wake up and find myself alone again, I can hardly breathe.
When I wake up, I lie still for a while and let Day’s words run through my head.
When I was little, Metias played word games with me—he’d throw a bunch of letter blocks onto the table and ask me what words I could form with them.
When I was slipping in and out of sleep, I’d made a mental note of the direction he took (south, toward Union Station).
When I’m done, I climb into a black vest and shorts.
When I’m finally convinced he’s gone, I lie awake on the couch for another hour.
When I’m finally inside the apartment, I curl up on the couch and rest my arm on Ollie’s back.
When I’m sure that no one is patrolling the street, I dart through the shadows toward the house and crawl to a broken board that leads under the porch.
When I’ve caught my breath, I blink away my fuzzy vision and study my surroundings.
When I’ve managed to calm down, I take a closer look at Kaede’s new opponent.
When I’ve managed to walk outside the building, I risk a look behind me.
When Kaede comes at me again, I dart away and twist her arm in a tight hold.
When Kaede sees my eyes dart away, she raises her voice.
When Metias finally speaks again, he sounds grudgingly curious.
When Thomas doesn’t respond, I look up toward the boy again.
When evening finally comes and the Girl has dozed off into a fitful sleep, I ask Tess to stay with her so I can sneak away to check on my family.
When evening finally comes and the sun’s heat begins to fade, we make our way back to the water’s edge and search for a place to camp.
When he came home that time, the city patrols did a routine inspection of our house, then dragged Dad off to the local police headquarters for questioning.
When he does, he sounds oddly detached.
When he does, there’s such a tender quality to his voice that I can’t help looking up at him.
When he recovers from the plague, he’ll have to take the Trial... .
When he was safely inside and we’d draped curtains over the windows, he wrapped his arms around Mom and kissed her for such a long time.
When lightning streaks over the sky, her dark eyes shine like gold.
When my vision sharpens, I can tell that my leg is swollen under the bandages.
When she tries to pull away, I continue to hold on, twisting the broken arm behind her back until I see the blood drain from her face.
When she’s gone, I sit down next to the Girl, and my hand accidentally brushes past her waist.
When the Elector Primo’s name comes on, we salute toward the capital.
When the Girl starts to protest, she pushes her aside.
When the Republic’s pledge starts up outside, I can hear the people on the streets below chanting along, but I don’t bother to stand.
When the jeep finally rolls to a stop, Commander Jameson breaks away from the group of guards she’s standing with and marches over to my car door.
When the pledge ends, life resumes.
When the soldiers give the nurse a thumbs-up, she points me toward the entrance.
When the soldiers leave and the door slams shut behind June, she walks over and crouches beside me.
When they got to the part mentioning our president, Metias stood and saluted in the direction of the capital.
When they leave the roof and I’m alone with Day, I remove my cape and kneel down to see his face better.
When they think they’ve seen enough evidence for what that virus strain can do, they secretly prick everyone (everyone still alive, that is) in those sectors with the cure during a routine sweep, and the plague dies down until the next test strain.
When we finally reach an empty car (a 450 square foot covered hopper car with two sliding doors—one rusted shut, the other halfway open; must be designed for carrying dry bulk freight) safely tucked behind three others at the back of the yard, we climb inside and settle down in a corner.
When we reach the center of the circle, the soldiers force me to stand while they bind my shackled hands and feet to the chains.
Whenever I cry over losing them, I cry because I don’t have any memories of them.
Whenever he thrashes, Commander Jameson stomps on the chain around his neck and chokes him until he stops.
Whenever my hand accidentally brushed her hair or bumped her arm, she would flinch as if burned by steam from a kettle.
Where am I?
Where are you going! I waste a second looking back at him, torn in that instant, wondering if I should chase after him.
Where are you?
Where did all this dust come from?
Where is Tess now?
Which left one logical option.
Which means he probably didn’t steal it, and it has a different meaning for him and is worth carrying around with the risk of losing or dropping it.
Which means he was born there.
Whitaker gives Metias a brilliant smile.
Whitaker sighs and leans back in her chair.
Whitaker’s desk beeps three times.
Whitaker’s false smile as I follow my brother out of the office and into the hall.
Who is the Day that grieves so deeply for his mother?
Who is this boy that would risk his own safety for a girl he didn’t know?
Who knew the deceased civilians database was so difficult to hack?
Who knows how this cracked plague is spreading.
Who knows what happens to someone with a score that high?
Who knows where they’ve been.
Who knows—maybe they’ll even give me a clue.
Who wants a mass riot?
Who will help her when she can’t make out the shadows at night?
Who would hire an untested mercenary?
Why he did this, I can’t be sure.
Why waste a prodigy in this way?
Why weren’t there close-up photos of the actual wounds?
Why would Commander Jameson want to hide the details of my brother’s murder from me?
Why would we poison and kill our own people?
Why wouldn’t she tell me?
Will they destroy it?
With a great effort, he lowers his arms and exhales.
With a knife, and in one throw, she can skewer a hot dog from an unattended stand.
With high scores on those sections, it should have been impossible for him to score lower than 850—still failing, but higher than 674.
With one hand, I pull it into a messy tail and twist it into a tight knot.
Without hesitating, I reach a hand out and press it flat against my monitor.
Words stick to my tongue and refuse to come out.
Worse than nothing.
Would Eden be safe?
Would my mother and John still be alive?
Xs mark rows and rows of doors.
Yeah, right, and the Elector is fairly elected every term, too.
Yeah, right.
Yeah, yeah.
Yes, he is indeed a good man, and a great leader.
Yes, it’s still there.
Yes, your apology is accepted.
Yesterday was your fifteenth birthday.
Yet another stranger pops up on the wall.
Yet he’d taken this photo.
Yet.
You asked me why I seemed so out of it today.
You bet on that person.
You can find a way to help, I know you can.
You can’t go alone on a classified mission, June, he would say.
You fail.
You get a good score, somewhere between 1250 and 1449 points.
You get a perfect score—1500 points.
You get to continue on to high school, and then you’re assigned to a college.
You join the poor, like my family.
You just murdered someone.
You know I flip through our parents’ pictures all the time.
You might get hurt.
You pick who you think will win.
You score between a 1450 and a 1499.
You squeak by with a score between 1000 and 1249.
You won’t be able to do it alone.
Young and athletic, probably, and lean from years on the streets.
Your parents have to nod and agree.
You’ll have to think of something else.
You’ll need my help.
You’ll probably either drown while working the water turbines or get steamed to death in the power plants.
You’re the last person I want to see.
ZEIN, GRIFFITH, WINTER, FOREST.
Zero seconds.