by Marie Lu
Hours drag by. I find myself looking forward to the execution. At least I’ll get to see something other than gray cell walls, if only for a little while. Anything to stop this mind-numbing wait. 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.
Soldiers rotate in and out of my cell. I know five P.M. must be close. The square is probably filled with people by now. Tess. Maybe she’s there, too afraid to see it happen and too afraid to miss it.
Footsteps out in the hall. Then, a voice I recognize. June’s. I lift my head and look toward the door. Is this it? Time for my escape—or my death?
The door swings open. My guards make room as June enters the cell in full uniform, flanked by Commander Jameson and several other soldiers. I suck in my breath at the sight of her. I haven’t seen June in such clothes before. Shining, luxurious epaulettes draping from each of her shoulders. A thick, full-length cape made from some sort of rich velvet. Scarlet waistcoat and elaborate, belted boots. A standard-issue military cap. Simple makeup adorns her face, and her hair is flawless in its high ponytail. This must be standard agent dress code for special events.
June stops some distance away from me and, as I struggle to my feet, she looks down at her watch. “Four forty-five P.M.,” she says. She looks back up at me. I try to read her eyes, to see if I can guess what her plans are. “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.”
Of course. Final requests. I stare at her and keep my expression carefully blank. What does she want me to say? June’s eyes are intense, burning.
“I—” I begin. All eyes are on me.
I see June make the most subtle movement with her lips. John, she mouths. I glance at Commander Jameson.
“I want to see my brother John,” I say. “One last time. Please.”
The commander gives me an impatient nod and snaps her fingers, then mutters something to the soldier that approaches her. He salutes, then leaves. She looks back at me. “Granted.” My heart pounds harder. June exchanges the briefest look with me, but before I can focus on her, she turns away to ask Commander Jameson something.
“Everything is in place, Iparis,” the commander replies. “Now stop nagging me.”
We wait in silence for several minutes until I hear footsteps come down the hall again. This time, there’s a dragging sound mixed in with the crisp march of the soldiers. It must be John. I swallow hard. June doesn’t look at me again.
And then John’s in the cell, flanked by two guards. He looks thinner and paler than he did before. 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. Must be what my hair looks like too. He smiles at the sight of me, although there’s little joy in it. I try to smile back.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” he replies.
June crosses her arms. “Five minutes. Say what you want and be done with it.” I nod wordlessly.
Commander Jameson glances at June, but makes no motion to leave. “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. Her eyes stay fixed on me.
For several seconds, John and I just stare at each other. I try to speak, but something lodges in my throat, and my words don’t come out. Things shouldn’t be like this for John. Maybe for me, but not him. I’m an outcast. A criminal, a fugitive. I’ve broken the law over and over again. But John’s done nothing wrong. He passed his Trial fair and square. He’s caring, responsible. Nothing like me.
“Do you know where Eden is?” John finally breaks the silence. “Is he alive?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know, but I think so.”
“When you stand out there,” John continues in a hoarse voice, “keep your chin up, all right? Don’t let them get to you.”
“I won’t.”
“Make them work for it. Punch someone if you have to.” John gives me a sad, crooked smile. “You’re a scary kid. So scare them. Okay? All the way until the end.”
For the first time in a long time, I feel like a little brother. I have to swallow hard to keep my eyes dry. “Okay,” I whisper.
Our time ends all too quickly. We exchange good-byes, and John’s two guards grab his arms to lead him out of my cell and back into his own. Commander Jameson seems to relax a little, obviously relieved that my request is finished. She motions at the other soldiers. “Form up,” she says. “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. Commander Jameson disappears out the door.
I take a deep breath. I need a miracle now.
Several minutes later, they lead me out. I do what John says and keep my chin up, my eyes blank. Now I can hear the crowd. The sound of them rises and falls, a steady tide of human voices. 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. Now and then, I see people who have a bright scarlet streak painted into their hair. Soldiers are going through the crowd and rounding them up for arrest—but they don’t seem to care.
At some point, June joins us and falls into step near the back of the soldiers. I glance behind me, but can’t see her face. The seconds drag on. What will happen when we reach the yard?
Finally, we arrive at the halls that lead into the firing squad yard.
That’s when I hear Thomas, the young captain, say, “Ms. Iparis.”
“What is it?” June replies.
Then, words that seize my heart. I doubt she planned for this.
“Ms. Iparis,” he says, “you’re under investigation. Follow me.”
MY FIRST INSTINCT IS TO ATTACK THOMAS. THAT’S WHAT I would have done if he’d caught me without so many soldiers around. Lunge at him with everything I’ve got, knock him unconscious, then reach Day and make a run for the exits. I already have John. Somewhere in the halls that lead back to his old cells lie two guards passed out on the floor. I pointed John to the ventilation shaft. He’s waiting there for me to make my next move. I’ll free Day, shout out a signal, then John will emerge from the wall like a ghost and escape with us. But I can’t win a fight against Thomas and all these guards without the element of surprise.
So I decide to do what he says. “Investigation?” I ask him with a frown. He tips his cap politely, as if in apology, then takes one of my arms and begins leading me away from Day’s soldiers.
“Commander Jameson asked me to detain you,” he says. We round the corner and head for the stairwell. Two more soldiers join him. “I have a few questions for you.”
I put on an air of annoyance. “Ridiculous. Couldn’t the commander pick a less dramatic moment for this nonsense?”
Thomas doesn’t reply.
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. (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.) I keep the rising panic off my face. Focus, I remind myself angrily. A panicked person is a dead person.
Thomas stops us at the bottom of the stairs. He puts a hand on his belt, and I see the gleam of his gun’s handle. “An electro-bomb’s gone missing.” The dangling lights overhead cast mean shadows across his face. “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?”
I keep my eyes locked steadily on his face and cross my arms. “You think I did this?”
“I
’m not accusing you of anything, June.” His expression turns tragic, even pleading. But his hand doesn’t move away from his gun. “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.”
“More or less accounted for?” I say it sarcastically enough to make him blush. “That sounds vague. Did I show up on the security cams? Did Commander Jameson put you up to this?”
“Answer the question, June.”
I glare at him. He winces, but doesn’t apologize for his change in tone. This may be it for me.
“I didn’t do it,” I say.
Thomas looks unconvinced. “You didn’t do it,” he repeats back at me.
“What else can I tell you? Did they do at least another pass on the inventory check? Are you sure something’s missing?”
Thomas clears his throat. “Someone tampered with the security cams down here, so we have no footage.” He taps his gun. “It was quite a precise job. And when I think of precise, I think of one person. You.”
My heart starts beating faster.
“I don’t want to do this.” Thomas’s voice grows softer. “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—”
He never gets to finish that sentence.
Suddenly an explosion rocks the entire corridor, throwing us against the wall. Dust rains down from the ceiling, and sparks flicker through the air. (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.)
I shove Thomas hard against the wall before he can regain his balance. Then I yank the knife out from his belt, reach for the electric grid box, and pull it open. Behind me, Thomas reaches for his gun as if in slow motion.
“Stop her!”
I take the knife and slice through all the wires on the bottom of the electric grid.
A pop. A shower of sparks. The entire basement goes black.
I hear Thomas curse. (He’s discovered his gun is useless.) Soldiers stumble over each other. I quickly feel my way to the stairwell.
“June!” Thomas shouts from somewhere behind me. “You don’t get it—it’s for your own good!”
The words come spilling out of my mouth in a rage. “Yeah, is that what you told Metias?”
Not much time before backup power kicks in. I don’t wait around to hear Thomas’s reply. I reach the stairs and jump up three at a time, counting the seconds since the electro-bomb went off. (Eleven seconds so far. One hundred and nine seconds left before guns are functional again.)
I burst through the first-floor door into a sea of chaos. Soldiers rushing out to the square. Footsteps thundering everywhere. I make my way straight back toward the firing squad yard. Details zip around me like a highway of thoughts. (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.)
Seventy-two seconds. I reach the firing squad hall and take in the scene in an instant: three unconscious soldiers. 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. The others must’ve been called to help contain the square—but they won’t be long now. They’ll come back in no time. I run up behind them and kick the soldier’s feet out from under him. He tumbles to the ground. John punches him in the jaw. The soldier goes limp.
Sixty seconds. Day looks unsteady, as if he might pass out. A soldier must’ve hit him across the head, or maybe his leg is giving him trouble. 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. Commander Jameson’s voice blares out from the intercoms a second later. She sounds furious.
“Execute him! Kill him now! Make sure the square broadcasts it!”
“Damn it,” Day says under his breath. His head sways to one side—his bright blue eyes look dull and unfocused. I exchange a look with John and keep going. Soldiers will be on their way back now. Back to drag Day out into the yard.
Twenty-seven seconds.
We’re a good 250 feet from the exits. (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.)
I hate my calculations.
John glances at me. “We’re not going to make it.” Between us, Day has faded into a semiconscious state. 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. They’ll still reach John and Day.
John stops walking, and I feel Day’s weight shift over to me. “What—” I begin to say, until I see John pull the blindfold off of Day’s neck. Then he turns around. My eyes widen. I know what he’s going to do. “No, stay with us!”
“You need more time,” John says. “They want an execution? They’ll get one.” He starts running away from us. Back down the hall.
Back toward the firing squad yard.
No. No, no, John. Where are you going! I waste a second looking back at him, torn in that instant, wondering if I should chase after him.
John’s going to do it.
Then Day’s head lolls against my shoulder. Six seconds. I have no choice. 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.
Zero seconds.
Guns are reactivated. We keep going. More seconds pass. I hear a commotion in the halls somewhere behind us. I tell myself not to look back.
Then we reach the exits, burst out into the street, and a pair of soldiers is upon us. I have no more strength to fight. But I try. Then someone’s wrestling with me, and the soldiers go down, and Kaede runs past my line of vision. “They’re here!” she shouts. “Move out!”
They were lurking near the back exits. Just like we agreed. The Patriots came for us. I want to tell them to wait for John, but I know it’s no use. They grab us and lead us toward their motorcycles. I take the gun out from my belt and fling it to the ground. I can’t have its tracker follow me now. Day goes on one motorcycle—I go on another. Wait for John, I want to say.
But then we’re off. Batalla Hall moves away from us.
A CRACK OF LIGHTNING, AN EXPLOSION OF THUNDER, the sound of pounding rain. Somewhere far away, the wailing of flood sirens.
I open my eyes, then squint at the water falling into them. For an instant I can’t remember anything—not even my name. Where am I? What happened? I’m sitting right next to a chimney, soaking wet. I’m on the rooftop of a high-rise tower. Rain blankets the world around me and wind whistles through my drenched shirt, threatening to lift me off my feet. I huddle against the chimney. When I look up at the sky, I see an endless field of churning clouds, jet-black and furious, illuminated by lightning.
Suddenly I remember. The firing squad, the hallway, the flat screens. John. The explosion. Soldiers everywhere. June. I should be dead right now, filled with bullets.
“You’re awake.”
Slouched next to me, almost invisible against the night in a black outfit, is June. She’s sitting awkwardly against the wall of the chimney, oblivious to the rain that runs down her face. I shift to turn toward her. A spasm of pain shoots up my injured leg. Words stick to my tongue and refuse
to come out.
“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. “You’re free. Get out of California while you can. They’ll keep hunting for us.”
I open and close my mouth. Am I dreaming? I scoot closer to her. One of my hands comes up to touch her face. “What . . . what happened? Are you all right? How did you get me out of Batalla Hall? Do they know you helped me?”
June just stares at me, as if trying to decide whether or not to answer my questions. Finally, she glances over at the edge of the roof. “See for yourself.”
I struggle to my feet. Now I can look over the roof at the JumboTrons lining the walls. I limp to the edge of the rooftop and stare down from the railing. We’re definitely in the outskirts. 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 look at the screens.
The headline playing on them takes my breath away.
DANIEL ALTAN WING EXECUTED TODAY
BY FIRING SQUAD
A video recap plays behind the headline. I see the footage of me sitting in my cell. I look at the camera. Then the video cuts to the yard, where the firing squad lines up. Several soldiers drag a struggling boy out into the center of the yard. I remember none of this. The boy’s blindfolded, with hands cuffed tightly behind him. He looks just like me.
Except for a few details that only I would notice. His shoulders are slightly broader than mine. He walks with what looks like a fake limp, and his mouth looks more like my father’s than my mother’s.
I squint through the rain. It can’t be . . .
The boy stops in the center of the yard. His guards turn away and hurry back the way they came. A line of soldiers hoist their guns, then point them at the boy. There’s a brief, horrible silence. And then smoke and sparks pour from the guns. I see the boy convulse with each shot. He collapses facedown in the dirt. A few more shots ring out. Then the silence returns.
