by Lu, Marie
“Not to my knowledge.”
“What are they doing with Eden?”
I think back to what Thomas told me, that the generals from the warfront have come to see him. “I don’t know.”
Day turns his head away and closes his eyes. He concentrates on breathing. “Well, don’t kill them,” he murmurs. “They didn’t do anything . . . and Eden . . . he’s not a lab rat, you know.” He’s silent for a minute. “I never got your name. Guess it’s no big deal now, is it? You already know mine.”
I stare at him. “My name is June Iparis.”
“June,” Day murmurs. I feel a strange warmth at the sound of my name on his lips. He turns to face me. “June, I’m sorry about your brother. I didn’t know anything would happen to him.”
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. But this feels different. Somehow . . . he sounds so genuine, so serious. What if he is telling me the truth? What if something else happened to Metias that night? I take a deep breath and force myself to look down. Logic above all else, I tell myself. Logic will save you when nothing else will.
“Hey.” I remember something else now. “Open your eyes again and look at me.”
He does as I say. I lean over to study him. Yes, it’s still there. That strange little blemish in one of his eyes, a ripple in an otherwise ocean-blue iris. “How did you get that thing in your eye?” I gesture at my own. “That imperfection?”
Something must’ve sounded funny, because Day laughs once before bursting into a coughing fit. “That imperfection was a gift from the Republic.”
“What do you mean?”
He hesitates. I can tell he’s having trouble forming his thoughts. “I’ve been in the lab of the Central Hospital before, you know. On the night I took my Trial.” He tries to lift a hand to point at his eye, but the chains clank together and drag his arm back down. “They injected something.”
I frown. “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.”
Day smiles as if he’s about to fall asleep. “I thought you were a smart one. . . .”
Apparently the sun hasn’t baked all the attitude out of him yet. “And what about your old knee injury?”
“Your Republic gave me that, too. On the same night I got my eye imperfection.”
“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?”
This catches Day’s attention. “What are you talking about? I failed my Trial.”
He doesn’t know either. Of course he wouldn’t. I lower my voice to a whisper. “No, you didn’t. You got a perfect score.”
“Is this some kind of trick?” Day moves his injured leg a little and tenses up in pain. “A perfect score . . . hah. I don’t know anyone who’s ever gotten a fifteen hundred.”
I cross my arms. “I did.”
He raises an eyebrow at me. “You did? You’re the prodigy with the perfect score?”
“Yes.” I nod at him. “And apparently, so were you.”
Day rolls his eyes and looks away again. “That’s ridiculous.”
I shrug. “Believe what you want.”
“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. “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. It sounds so weak. “Great birthday.”
They experimented on him. Probably for the military. This I’m sure of now, and the thought makes me ill. They were taking tiny tissue samples from his knee, as well as from his heart and his eye. His knee: they must have wanted to study his unusual physical abilities, his speed and agility. His eye: maybe it wasn’t an injection but an extraction, something to test why his vision was so sharp. 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. That’s when they thought he died. 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.
All this flies through my head in a second before I can stop it. No way. This isn’t in line with Republic values. Why waste a prodigy in this way?
Unless they saw something dangerous in him. Some defiant spark, the same rebellious spirit he has now. Something that made them think it’d be riskier to educate him than to sacrifice his possible contributions to society. Last year thirty-eight kids scored higher than 1400.
Maybe the Republic would want to make this one dis-appear.
But Day is not just any prodigy. He has a perfect score. What was it that made them nervous?
“Can I ask you a question now?” Day asks. “Is it my turn?”
“Yes.” I look over to the elevator, where a new rotation of guards has just arrived. I hold up a hand and tell them to stay where they are. “You can ask.”
“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?”
My eyes dart back to him. “What are you trying to say?”
Day manages to focus his eyes on 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?”
I narrow my eyes. “You think the Republic is intentionally poisoning people? Day, you’re on dangerous ground.”
But Day doesn’t stop. Instead his voice takes on a more urgent tone. “That’s why they wanted Eden, right?” he whispers. “To see the results of their mutated plague virus? Why else?”
“They want to prevent whatever new disease he’s spreading.”
Day laughs, but again it makes him cough. “No. They’re using him. They’re using him.” His voice grows quiet. “They’re using him. . . .” His eyes grow heavy. The strain of talking has worn him out.
“You’re delirious,” I reply. But while Thomas’s touch now repulses me, I feel no revulsion toward Day. I should. But the feeling just doesn’t come. “A lie like that is treason against the Republic. Besides, why would Congress authorize such a thing?”
Day doesn’t take his eyes off me. And just when I think he’s lost the strength to respond, his voice comes out sounding even more insistent. “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?”
I sit back on my heels. I’ve never questioned the annual vaccinations we’re required to have—never had any reason to doubt them. And why should I? My father used to work behind those double doors, working hard to find new ways to combat the plague. No. I can’t listen to this anymore. I pluck my cape from the ground and tuck it under my arm.
“One more thing,” Day whispers as I stand. I glance down at him. His eyes burn right into me. “You think we go to labor camps if we fail? June, the only labor camps are the morgues in hospital basements.”
I don’t dare linger. Instead I walk away
from the platform, away from Day. But my heart pounds against my chest. The soldiers waiting by the elevator stand even straighter as I approach. I arrange my face in an expression of pure irritation. “Unchain him,” I order one of the soldiers. “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.”
The soldier salutes me, but I don’t bother to look at him before shutting the elevator door.
I HAVE NIGHTMARES AGAIN. THIS TIME THEY’RE OF TESS.
I’m running in the streets of Lake. Somewhere ahead of me, Tess is running too, but she doesn’t know where I am. She turns left and right, desperate to see my face, but all she finds are strangers and street police and soldiers. I call out for her. But my legs can barely move, as if I’m wading through a thick sludge.
Tess! I shout. I’m here, I’m right behind you!
She can’t hear me. 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 scream something. The soldier lifts his gun and points it at Tess. Then I see that it’s not Tess, but my mother, who lies in a puddle of blood. I try to run to her. But instead I stay hidden behind a chimney on a roof, crouched like a coward. It’s my fault she’s dead.
Then suddenly I’m back in the hospital lab again, and the doctors and nurses are standing over me. I squint in the blinding light. Pain shoots through my leg. They’re cutting open my knee again, pulling back my flesh to reveal the bones underneath, scraping at it with their scalpels. I arch my back and scream. One of the nurses tries to hold me down. My flailing arm knocks over a tray somewhere.
“Hold still! Damn it, boy, I’m not going to hurt you.”
It takes me a minute to wake up. 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. He wears goggles and a face mask. I give a shout and try to bolt upright. But I’m tied to an operating table by a pair of belts.
The doctor sighs and slides his face mask down. “Look at me. Bandaging up a criminal like you when I could be helping soldiers from the warfront.”
I look around, confused. Guards line the walls of this hospital room. A nurse is cleaning bloody equipment at the sink. “Where am I?”
The doctor gives me an impatient look. “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.”
I lift my head as far as I can and look down at my leg. Clean bandages cover up the wound. When I try to move the leg a little, I notice with surprise that the pain is far less than before. I glance at the doctor. “What did you do?”
He only shrugs, then peels off his gloves and starts washing his hands at one of the sinks. “Patched things up a bit. You’ll be able to stand for your execution.” He pauses. “Don’t know if that’s what you wanted to hear.”
I slump back down onto the gurney and close my eyes. 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. Where is Tess now? Can she make it without someone there to watch her back? She’s near-sighted. Who will help her when she can’t make out the shadows at night?
As for my mother . . . I’m not strong enough to think about her right now.
Someone raps loudly on the door. “Open up,” a man calls out. “Commander Jameson’s here to see the prisoner.” The prisoner. I smile at that. The soldiers don’t even like calling me by my name.
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. She snaps her fingers. “Get this boy off the gurney and put him in some chains,” she barks. Then she shoves one finger into my chest. “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. “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 have to grit my teeth to keep from shouting back at her. Soldiers hurry over to me and start undoing the gurney’s belts.
Beside me, the doctor bows his head. “If you don’t mind, Commander,” he says, “has something happened? What’s going on?”
Commander Jameson fixes her furious gaze on him. He shrinks away. “Protesters in front of Batalla Hall,” she snaps. “They’re attacking the street police.”
The soldiers pull me off the gurney and onto my feet. I wince as my weight transfers onto my bad leg. “Protesters?”
“Yes. Rioters.” Commander Jameson grabs my face. “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. “Take him away,” she calls out to the soldiers holding me. “Be quick about it.”
We exit the hospital room. Soldiers rush back and forth in the hallway. Commander Jameson keeps pressing a hand against her ear, listening intently, then shouting orders. 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. I can’t hear the voice-over, but the text headlines are unmistakable: Disturbance outside Batalla Hall. Units responding. Await further orders. This isn’t a public broadcast, I realize. The video shows the square in front of Batalla Hall packed with several hundred people. I pick out the line of black-clad soldiers struggling to contain the crowd near the front. Other soldiers run along rooftops and ledges, hurrying into position with their rifles. I get a good look at some of the protesters as we pass the last monitor, the ones clustered together under the street lights.
Some of them have painted a bloodred streak into their hair.
Then we arrive at the elevators and the soldiers shove me inside. They’re protesting because of me. The thought fills me with excitement and dread. No way will the military let this slide. They’ll seal off the poor sectors entirely and arrest every last rioter in the square.
Or they’ll kill them.
WHEN I WAS YOUNG, METIAS WAS SOMETIMES CALLED AWAY to deal with minor rebellions, and afterward he’d tell me about them. 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. Several dust bombs later, they were all arrested and taken to court.
But I’ve never seen a riot like this one, with hundreds of people risking their lives. Nothing even close to this.
“What’s wrong with these people?” I ask Thomas. “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.
Earlier, I’d peeked in on Day as the doctor operated on his leg. I wonder if he’s awake and seeing this chaos on the hall monitors. I hope not. No need for him to see what he’s started. 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. I pull my gun out of its holster. Might as well have it ready. “Ever seen something like this?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even.
Thomas shakes his head. “Only once. A long time ago.” Some of his dark hair falls across his face. It’s not combed back as nicely as usual—he must’ve been out in the crowds earlier. One hand lingers on the gun strapped to his belt, while the other rests on a rifle slung around his shoulder. He doesn’t lo
ok at me. He hasn’t looked at me straight on since he tried kissing me last night in the hall. “A bunch of fools,” he replies. “If they don’t back down soon, the commanders will make them regret it.”
I glance up to see several commanders standing on one of Batalla Hall’s balconies. It’s too dark now to be sure, but I don’t think Commander Jameson is with them. I know she’s giving orders through her mouthpiece, though, because Thomas listens intently with one hand pressed against his ear. But whatever she’s saying is only for Thomas, and I have no idea what she’s telling him. The crowd below us continues to push. 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. Secretly, I will them to disperse. Get out of here before things get worse.
Thomas leans over to me and nods toward the center of the crowd. “See that pitiful bunch?”
I’d already noticed what he’s pointing out, but I still follow his gaze politely. 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 poor choice for a hero,” Thomas goes on. “Day will be dead in less than a week.”
I nod once but say nothing.
A few screams echo from the crowd. 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. I frown. This isn’t protocol for handling an unruly mob. In school, we were taught that dust bombs or tear gas is more than enough to do the job. But there’s no sign of that—none of the soldiers wear gas masks. 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.
“What’s Commander Jameson telling you?” I ask Thomas.
Thomas’s dark hair falls across his eyes and covers his expression. “She says to stay put and wait for her command.”
