by Lu, Marie
She’s keeping Tess a secret, I realize. For my sake? For Tess’s sake?
Then the Girl’s gone, and I’m left alone in the cell with the soldiers. They haul me off the chair, across the floor, and out the door. My bad leg drags along the tiles. I can’t hold back the tears that spring to my eyes. The pain makes me light-headed, like I’m drowning in a bottomless lake. The soldiers are taking me down a wide hallway that seems to be a mile long. Troops are everywhere, along with doctors wearing goggles and white gloves. I must be in the medical ward. Probably because of my leg.
My head slumps forward. I can’t hold it up anymore. In my mind, I see the image of my mother’s face as she lies crumpled on the ground. I didn’t do it, I want to scream, but no sound comes out. The pain of my wounded leg reclaims me.
At least Tess is safe. I try to send a mental warning to her, to tell her to get out of California and run as far as she can.
That’s when, halfway down the hall, something catches my attention. 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. It’s here. I turn my head to get a better look as we pass the double doors it’s sprayed on. The doors have no windows, but a gas-masked figure clad in white enters and I get a brief glimpse inside. I don’t see much more than blurs as we walk by—but I do manage to catch one thing. Something in a bag on a gurney. A body. On the bag is a red X.
Then the doors slide shut again, and we continue on.
A series of images begin to run through my mind. The red numbers. The three-lined X mark on my family’s door. The medic trucks that took Eden away. Eden’s eyes—black and bleeding.
They want something from my little brother. Something to do with his illness. I picture the three-lined X again.
What if it was no accident that Eden got the plague? What if it’s no accident when anyone gets it?
THAT EVENING, I FORCE MYSELF INTO A DRESS TO ATTEND an impromptu ball with Thomas on my arm. The gala is being held to celebrate the capture of a dangerous criminal, and to reward us all for bringing him to justice. Soldiers go out of their way to hold open doors for me when we arrive. Others throw me salutes. Clusters of chatting officials smile at me when I pass, and my name is scattered through almost every conversation I overhear. That’s the Iparis girl. . . . She looks awfully young. . . . Only fifteen years old, my friend. . . . The Elector himself is impressed. . . . Some words are more heavily laced with envy than others. Not as big a deal as you might think. . . . Truly it’s Commander Jameson that deserves the recognition. . . . Just a child . . .
No matter their tone, though, the topic is me.
I try to take pride in all this. 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. But even as I say it, I don’t believe 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.
I feel wrong . . . like I did a terrible thing by betraying a boy who trusted me.
“I’m glad you’re relieved,” Thomas says. “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. He touches my arm with one gloved hand. Before the murder of Day’s mother, I would’ve smiled at him. Now I feel a chill at his touch and pull away.
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. Both Thomas and Commander Jameson had insisted I wear something nice. Neither would tell me why. Commander Jameson had simply waved a dismissive hand when I asked her. “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 an illogical moment, I’d thought she might mean my brother. That somehow he had been brought back to life and I would see him on this night of celebration.
For now I just let Thomas navigate me around the crowds of generals and aristocrats.
I ended up choosing a corseted sapphire dress lined with tiny diamonds. One of my shoulders is covered in lace, and the other is hidden behind a long curtain of silk. My hair stays straight and loose—a discomfort for someone who spends most training days with her hair pulled securely away from her face. Thomas occasionally glances down at me, and his cheeks turn rosy. I don’t see what the big deal is, though. I’ve worn nicer dresses before, and this one feels too modern and lopsided. This dress could’ve bought a kid in the slum sectors several months’ worth of food.
“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.
At the mention of Commander Jameson, I turn my face away, unsure that I want Thomas to register my reaction. It seems that she’s already forgotten about what happened to Day’s mother, as if twenty years has passed. But I decide to be polite and look up at Thomas. “So soon?”
“The sooner the better, right?” The sudden edge in his voice startles me. “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.
I think back to the warmth of Day’s kiss, the way he’d bandaged my wound. Since his capture, I’ve puzzled over this a hundred times. The Day that killed my brother is a cruel, ruthless criminal. But who is the Day I met on the streets? Who is this boy that would risk his own safety for a girl he didn’t know? Who is the Day that grieves so deeply for his mother? 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. How could such a coldhearted criminal be a part of this family? The memory of Day bound to his chair, agonizing over his wounded leg, makes me both angry and confused. I could have killed him yesterday. I could’ve just loaded some bullets into my gun and shot him dead and been done with it. But I’d left my gun empty.
“Those street cons are all the same,” Thomas goes on, echoing what I said to Day in his cell. “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?”
The subject of Day’s younger brother isn’t something I’ve investigated. “Tell me,” I say, pausing to look at Thomas. “What exactly does the Republic want with that boy? Why take him to the hospital lab?”
Thomas lowers his voice. “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 frown. “They came just for him?”
“Well, many of them are here for a meeting of some sort. But they did make a point of stopping by the lab.”
“Why would the warfront be interested in Day’s little brother?”
Thomas shrugs. “If there’s something we need to hear about, the generals will tell us.”
Moments later, we’re intercepted by a large man with a scar from his chin to his ear. Chian. He grins broadly at the sight of us and puts a hand on my shoulder. “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.”
I manage a polite nod. “You are very kind, sir.”
Chian smiles, distorting his scar, and claps his gloved hands together. His uniform has enough badges and medals to sink him to the ocean’s bottom. 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. It also means he’s suffered the loss of a limb. His hands seem intact, so he must have a prosthetic leg. The subtle angle he’s leaning toward tells me that he favors his left.
“Follow me, Agent Iparis. And you too, Captain,” Chian instructs. “There’s someone who wants to meet you.”
This must be the person Commander Jameson mentioned. Thomas shoots me a secretive smile.
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. 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.
Chian holds open the curtain for us, then closes it behind him as we step inside.
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. I recognize a few. Some are generals from the warfront, the same ones Thomas mentioned earlier. One of them spots us and approaches, a younger official following close behind him. But as they leave the circle, the rest of the group rises and bows in their direction.
The older official is tall, with graying hair at his temples and a chiseled jaw. His skin looks wan and sickly. He wears a gold-rimmed monocle over his right eye. Chian is standing at attention, and when Thomas releases my arm, I look over to see him doing the same. The man waves a hand, and everyone relaxes their stance. Only now do I finally recognize him. 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. I also pick out the bodyguards scattered among the officials.
This is our Elector Primo.
“You must be Agent Iparis.” His lips tug upward at my stunned expression, but there is little warmth in his smile. He grasps my hand in one quick, firm shake. “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. “I congratulate you, my dear.”
I bow my head. “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.
The Elector motions to the young official beside him. “This is my son, Anden. Today is his twentieth birthday, so I thought I would bring him with me to this lovely celebration.”
I turn to Anden. He’s very much like his father, tall (six feet two inches) and quite regal looking, with dark curly hair. Like Day, he has some Asian blood. But unlike Day, his eyes are green and his expression uncertain. He wears white condor flight gloves with elaborate gold lining, which means he’s already completed fighter pilot training. Left-handed. Gold cuff links on the sleeves of his black military tuxedo coat have the Colorado coat of arms engraved on them. Which means he was born there. Scarlet waistcoat, double row of buttons. He wears his air force rank first, unlike the Elector.
Anden smiles at my lingering gaze, gives me a perfect bow, then takes my hand in his. Instead of shaking my hand like the Elector did, he holds it up to his lips and kisses the back of it. I’m embarrassed by how much my heart leaps. “Agent Iparis,” he says. His eyes stay on me for a moment.
“A pleasure,” I reply, unsure of what else to say.
“My son will run for the Elector’s position in late spring.” The Elector smiles at Anden, who bows. “Exciting, don’t you think?”
“I wish him great luck in the election, then, although I’m sure he will not need it.”
The Elector chuckles. “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. Anden follows in his wake. “Dismissed,” the Elector calls as he goes.
Chian ushers us out of the curtained area and back to the main ballroom. I can breathe again.
0100 HOURS. RUBY SECTOR.
73°F INDOORS.
After the celebration ends, Thomas escorts me back to my apartment without saying a word. He lingers for a moment outside my door.
I’m the first to break the silence. “Thanks,” I say. “That was fun.”
Thomas nods. “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. He’s unhappy, and I somehow feel responsible.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
“Hmm? Oh, I’m fine.” Thomas runs a hand through his slicked hair. A bit of gel comes off on his glove. “I didn’t know the Elector’s son would be there.” I see a mysterious emotion in his eyes—anger? Jealousy? It clouds his face and gives him an ugly look.
I shrug it off. “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.”
Thomas studies me. He doesn’t seem amused. “June, I’ve been meaning to ask you . . .” He hesitates. “When you were out with Day in Lake sector, did he kiss you?”
I pause. My mike. That’s how he knows—my mike must’ve turned on when we kissed, or perhaps I hadn’t shut it off properly. I meet Thomas’s gaze. “Yes,” I reply steadily, “he did.”
That same emotion returns to his eyes. “Why’d he do it?”
“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.”
We stand in silence for a moment. Then, before I can protest, one of Thomas’s gloved hands brushes my chin as he leans in to kiss me on the lips.
I pull away before his mouth can touch mine—but now his hand is around the back of my neck. I’m surprised at how repulsed I feel. All I can see standing in front of me is a man with blood on his hands.
Thomas gives me a long look. Then, finally, he releases me and moves away. I can read the displeasure in his eyes. “Good night, Ms. Iparis.” He hurries away down the hall before I can respond. I swallow. 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 wonder if he’ll act on this information and, if so, what he’ll do.
I watch him disappear, then open my door and slowly step inside.
Ollie greets me enthusiastically. I pet him, let him out onto our patio, and then throw off the lopsided dress and hop in the shower. When I’m done, I climb into a black vest and shorts.
I try in vain to sleep. But too much has happened today . . . Day’s interrogation, meeting the Elector Primo and his son, and then Thomas. 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. I rub my eyes, heavy with exhaustion. My mind whirls with information, attempting to process all of it and getting jumbled in the middle each time. I try to imagine my thoughts as blocks of data organized into neat little boxes, each clearly labeled. The pattern makes no sense tonight, though, and I’m too tired to make sense of it. The apartment feels empty and foreign. I almost miss the streets of Lake. My eyes wander over to a small chest sitting under my desk, full of the 200,000 Notes I received for capturing Day. I know I should put it in a safer place, but I can’t bring myself to touch it. After a while, I get out of bed, fill a glass with water, and wander over to my computer. If I’m not going to sleep, I might as well continue sifting through Day’s background and evidence.
I run a finger across my monitor, take a sip of water, and then enter my clearance code for accessing the Internet. I open the files Commander Jameson has forwarded to me. They’re full of scanned documents, photos, and newspaper articles. Every time I look through things like this, I hear Metias’s voice in my mind. “Some of our tech used to be better,” he’d tell me. “Before floods, before thousands of data centers were wiped out.” He would let out a mock sigh, then wink at me. “Something to be said for writing my journals by hand, eh?”
I skim through the information I’ve already read before, starting on the new documents. My mind sorts through the details.
BIRTH NAME: DANIEL ALTAN WING
AGE/GENDER: 15/M; PREV. LABELED DECEASED AT AGE 10
HEIGHT: 5’10”
WEIGHT: 147 LBS
BLOOD TYPE: O
HAIR: BLOND, LONG. FFFAD1.
EYES: BLUE. 3A8EDB.
SKIN: E2B279
DOMINANT ETHNICITY: MONGOLIAN
Interesting. High ratio for what grade school taught us was an extinct country.
SECONDARY ETHNICITY: CAUCASIAN
SECTOR: LAKE
FATHER: TAYLOR ARSLAN WING. DECEASED.
MOTHER: GRACE WING. DECEASED.
My mind pauses on this for a moment. Again I picture the woman crumpled on the street in her own blood, then quickly shake the image away.
SIBLINGS: JOHN SUREN WING, 19/M
EDEN BATAAR WING, 9/M
And then come the pages and pages of documents detailing Day’s past crimes. I try to skim these as fast as I can, but in the end I can’t help pausing on the last one.
FATALITIES: CAPTAIN METIAS IPARIS
I close my eyes. Ollie whimpers at my feet as if he knows what I’m reading, then shoves his nose against my leg. I keep a hand absently on his head.
