by Lu, Marie
There are no sounds now except for the subtle rattle of the train on tracks. I try not to focus directly on the soldiers, but from the corner of my eye, I watch them closely. Are there any Patriots disguised as soldiers on this train? If so, do they suspect my shifting loyalties?
We wait together in a thick silence. The snow has started up again, piling against my window’s outside corners. Curls of white frost decorate the glass. It reminds me of Metias’s funeral, of my white dress and Thomas’s polished white suit, the white lilacs and white carpets.
The train picks up speed. I lean toward the window until my cheek almost touches the cold glass, watching silently as we approach the looming Armor wall that surrounds Denver. Even in the darkness I can see the train tunnels carved into the Armor; some of them are completely sealed with solid metal gates while others remain open for night freight to pass through. Our train hurtles into one of the tunnels—I guess trains leaving the capital don’t need to stop for inspection, especially if the Elector has approved them. As we leave the enormous wall behind, I see an inbound train slowing for inspection at a checkpoint.
We continue on, melting away into the night. The rain-worn skyscrapers of slum sectors stream past the windows, the now-familiar view of how people live on the outskirts of a city. I’m too tired to pay much attention to the details. My mind goes over what Anden said to me the last night, which leads me back to the endless problem of how to warn Anden and keep Day safe at the same time. The Patriots will know I’ve betrayed them if I reveal the assassination plot to Anden too early. I need to time my steps so any plan deviations happen right before the assassination, when I can reach Day easily.
I wish I could tell Anden now. Tell him everything, get it over with. In a world without Day, that’s what I would do. In a world without Day, many things would be different. I think about the nightmares I’ve been having, the haunting thought of Razor putting a bullet in Day’s chest. The paper clip ring sits heavy on my finger. Again, I lift two fingers to my brow. If Day didn’t catch my first signal, I hope he sees this one. The guards don’t seem to think I’m doing anything unusual; it looks like I’m just resting my head. The railcar sways to one side and a wave of dizziness washes over me. Maybe this cold I have coming on—if it really is a cold, that is, and not something more serious—is starting to affect my logic. Still, I don’t raise a request for doctors or medicine. Medicine inhibits the real immune system, so I’ve always preferred fighting illnesses on my own (much to Metias’s exasperation).
Why do so many of my thoughts lead back to Metias?
An aggravated man’s voice distracts me from my wandering thoughts. I turn from the window and back to the inside of my railcar. It sounds like an older man. I sit straighter in my chair and can see two figures walking toward me through the tiny window on my railcar door. One is the man I’d just heard, short and pear-shaped, with a scruffy gray beard and small, bulbous nose. The other is Anden. I strain to hear what they’re saying—at first, all I can make out are broken hints of their conversation, but their words sharpen as they draw closer to my railcar.
“Elector, please—I’m telling you this for your own good. Acts of rebellion need to be met with severe punishment. If you don’t react appropriately, it’ll only be a matter of time before everything is thrown into upheaval.”
Anden listens patiently with his hands behind his back and his head tilted down toward the man. “Thank you for your concern, Senator Kamion, but my mind is made up. Now is hardly the time to meet the unrest in Los Angeles with military force.”
My ears perk up at this. The older man spreads his arms wide in a gesture of irritation. “Push the people back in line. You need that right now, Elector. Demonstrate your will.”
Anden shakes his head. “It’ll push the people over the edge, Senator. Using fatal force before I have a chance to publicize all the changes I have in mind? No. I won’t issue such a command. That’s my will.”
The Senator scratches at his beard in irritation and puts a hand on Anden’s elbow. “The public is already up in arms against you, and your leniency will look like weakness—not just externally, but internally too. The LA Trial admins are complaining about our lack of response—the protests have forced them to cancel several days’ worth of examinations.”
Anden’s mouth tightens into a stern line. “I think you know how I feel about the Trials, Senator.”
“I do,” the Senator replies sullenly. “That’s a discussion for another time. But if you don’t issue orders that allow us to stop the rioting, I can guarantee that you’ll be getting an earful from the Senate and the Los Angeles patrols.”
Anden pauses to raise an eyebrow at him. “Is that so? I’m sorry. I was under the impression that our Senate and our military understand exactly how much weight my words carry.”
The Senator wipes sweat from his brow. “Well, that is—of course the Senate will bow to your wishes, sir, but I just meant—well—”
“Help me convince the other Senators that this is the wrong time for us to come down on the public.” Anden pauses to face the man and claps him on the shoulder. “I don’t want to make enemies in Congress, Senator. I want your fellow delegates and the national court to respect my decisions as they did with my father’s. Using fatal force to put down rioters will only incite more anger toward the state.”
“But, sir—”
Anden stops outside my railcar. “We’ll finish this discussion later,” he says. “I’m tired.” Even though his reply is muffled by the doors between us, I can hear the steel in his words.
The Senator mumbles something and bows his head. When Anden nods, the man turns around and hurries away. Anden watches him go, then opens the door to my railcar. The guards salute him.
We nod at each other.
“I’ve come to deliver your release terms, June.” Anden speaks to me with a distant formality, perhaps due to the chilly conversation he just had with the Senator. The kiss he’d given me last night feels like a hallucination. Even so, seeing him gives me a peculiar sense of comfort, and I catch myself relaxing against my chair as if I were in the company of an old friend. “Last night we received word that there was an attack in Lamar. A train was destroyed in an explosion—the train I was supposed to be on. I don’t know the final word on who’s responsible, and we failed to catch any of the attackers, but we assume that they were the Patriots. We have teams hunting for them there now.”
“Glad to be of service, Elector,” I say. My hands grip each other tightly in my lap, reminding me of the luxurious softness of my gloves. Should I feel so safe and secure in this elite railcar while Day is probably on the run with the Patriots?
“If you can think of any other details, Ms. Iparis, please feel free to share them. You’re back in the Republic now; you’re one of us, and I give you my word that you have nothing to fear. Once we arrive in Pierra, your record will be scrubbed clean. I’ll personally see to it that you’re reinstated to your former rank—although you’ll be placed in a different city patrol.” Anden puts a hand to his mouth and clears his throat. “I’ve recommended you for a Denver team.”
“Thank you,” I reply softly. Anden is falling right into the Patriots’ trap.
“Some Senators feel that we’ve been too generous with you, but everyone agrees that you’re our best hope of tracking down the Patriots’ leaders.” Anden walks closer and takes a seat before me. “I’m sure they’ll try to strike again, and I want you to lead my men in intercepting future attempts.”
“You are too kind, Elector. I’m honored,” I reply, lowering my head in a half bow. “And if you don’t mind my asking, will my dog be pardoned as well?”
Anden chuckles a little. “Your dog is being cared for in the capital; he’ll be waiting for you when you arrive.”
I meet Anden’s eyes and hold them for a moment. His pupils dilate and his cheeks flush slightly. “I can see w
hy the Senate would be unhappy with your leniency,” I finally say. “But it’s true that no one can keep you safer than I can.” I need a minute alone with him. “But there must be another reason you’re being so kind to me. Isn’t there?”
Anden swallows and looks up at his own portrait. My eyes dart to the guards standing at the railcar’s doors. As if he knows what I’m thinking, Anden waves a hand at the soldiers, then motions up at the cams in the railcar. The soldiers leave, and a moment later the cams’ red, blinking lights flick off. For the first time, no one is watching us. We are truly alone. “The truth is,” Anden continues, “you’ve become very popular with the public. If word gets out that the country’s most gifted prodigy is being convicted of treason—or even demoted for disloyalty—well, you can see how poorly that would reflect on the Republic. And on me. Even Congress knows this.”
My hands curl back and retreat into my lap. “Your father’s Senate and you have somewhat different moral codes,” I say, mulling over the conversation I’d overheard between Anden and Senator Kamion moments ago. “Or so I gather.”
He shakes his head and smiles bitterly. “To put it lightly.”
“I didn’t know you disliked the Trials so much.”
Anden nods. He doesn’t seem surprised that I overheard his conversation. “The Trials are an outdated way of choosing our country’s best and brightest.”
It’s odd to hear this coming from the Elector’s own mouth. “Why is the Senate so intent on keeping them? What’s their investment in the Trials?”
Anden shrugs. “It’s a long story. Back when the Republic first implemented them, they were . . . somewhat different.”
I lean forward. I’ve never heard any stories about the Republic that weren’t filtered through the country’s school or public messaging systems—and now the Elector himself is going to tell me one. “How were they different?” I ask.
“My father was . . . very charismatic.” Anden actually sounds a bit defensive.
Weird reply. “I’m sure he must have had his ways,” I say, careful to keep neutral.
Anden crosses his legs and leans back. “I don’t like what the Republic has become,” he says, forming each word slowly and thoughtfully. “But I cannot say that I don’t understand why things are like this. My father had his reasons for doing what he did.”
I frown at him. Puzzling. Hadn’t I just heard him arguing against cracking down on rioters? “What do you mean?”
Anden opens and closes his mouth as if trying to find the right words. “Before my father became the Elector, the Trials were voluntary.” He pauses when he hears me suck my breath in. “Hardly anyone knows that—it was a long time ago.”
The Trials were once voluntary. The idea is completely foreign to me. “Why did he change it?” I say.
“Like I said, it’s a long story. Most people will never know the truth about the Republic’s formation, and for good reason.” He runs a hand through his wavy hair, then leans one elbow on the windowsill. “Do you want to know?”
What a perfectly rhetorical question. Behind Anden’s words is a certain loneliness. I hadn’t thought about it before, but now I realize that I might be one of the only people he’s ever talked freely with. I lean forward, nod, and wait for him to continue.
“The Republic was originally formed in the middle of the worst crisis North America—and the world, for that matter—had ever seen,” he begins. “Floodwaters had destroyed America’s eastern coastline, and millions of people from the east were pouring into the west. There were far too many people for our states to take in. No jobs. No food, no shelter. The country had lost its mind to fear and panic. Rioting was out of control. Protesters were dragging soldiers, policemen, and peacekeepers out of their cars, then beating them to death or setting them on fire. Every shop was looted, every window broken.” He takes a deep breath. “The federal government tried their best to maintain order, but one disaster after another made it impossible. They had no money to handle all these crises. It became absolute anarchy.”
A time when the Republic had no control over its people? Impossible. I have a hard time picturing it, until I realize that Anden might instead be referring to the government of the old United States.
“Then our first Elector seized power. He was a young officer in the military, just a few years older than I am now, and ambitious enough to win the support of unhappy troops in the west. He declared the Republic a separate country, seceded from the Union, and placed the west under martial law. Soldiers could fire at will, and after seeing their comrades tortured and killed in the streets, they took every advantage of their newfound power. It became us versus them—the military versus the people.” Anden looks down at his shiny loafers, as if ashamed. “Many people were killed before the soldiers were able to win control of the Republic.”
I can’t help wondering what Metias would’ve thought of this. Or my parents. Would they have approved? Would they have forced order out of chaos like that? “What about the Colonies?” I ask. “Did they take advantage of all this?”
“The eastern half of North America was even worse off at the time. Half their land was underwater. When the Republic’s first Elector sealed the borders, their people had no place to go. So they declared war on us.” Anden straightens. “After all this, the Elector vowed never to let the Republic fall that way again, so he and the Senate gave the military an unprecedented level of power, which has lasted to this day. My father and the Electors before him have made sure it stays that way.”
He shakes his head and rubs his face with his hands before continuing. “The Trials were supposed to encourage hard work and athleticism, to produce more military-quality people—and they did. But they were also used to weed out the weak—and the defiant. And gradually, they were also used to control overpopulation.”
The weak and the defiant. I shiver. Day had fallen into the latter category. “So, you know what happens to the children who fail the Trial?” I say. “It was done to control the population?”
“Yes.” Anden winces even as he tries to explain it. “The Trials made sense in the beginning. They were meant to entice the best and fittest to join the military. Over time, they shifted to being offered in all schools. That wasn’t enough for my father, though . . . he wanted only the best to survive. Anyone else was, frankly, considered a waste of space and resources. My father always told me that the Trials were absolutely necessary for the Republic to flourish. And he won a lot of support in the Senate for making the examinations mandatory, especially after we started winning more battles because of it.”
My hands are clasped so tightly in my lap that they’re starting to feel numb. “Well, do you think your father’s policies worked?” I ask quietly.
Anden lowers his head. He searches for the right words. “How can I answer that? His policies did work. The Trials did make our armies stronger. Does that make what he did right, though? I think about it all the time.”
I bite my lip, suddenly understanding the confusion Anden must feel, his love for his father warring with his vision for the Republic. “What’s right is relative, isn’t it?” I ask.
Anden nods. “In some ways, it doesn’t matter why it all started, or if it was ever right. The thing is—over time, the laws evolved and twisted. Things changed. At first the Trials weren’t given to children, and they didn’t favor the wealthy. The plagues . . .” He hesitates at this, then shies away from the subject altogether. “The public is angry, but the Senate is afraid to change things that might lead to them losing control again. And to them, the Trials are a way to reinforce the Republic’s power.”
There’s a profound sadness in Anden’s face. I can sense the shame he feels for belonging to such a legacy. “I’m sorry,” I say in a low voice. I feel a sudden urge to touch his hand, to find a way to comfort him.
Anden’s lips tug upward into a hesitant smile. I can clearly see his de
sire, his dangerous weakness, the way he longs for me. If I ever doubted it before, I know for certain now. I quickly turn away, half hoping that gazing at a snowy landscape might bring some of its coolness to my cheeks.
“Tell me,” he murmurs. “What would you do if you were me? What would your first action be as the Elector of the Republic?”
I answer without hesitation. “Win over the people,” I say. “The Senate would have no power over you if the public could threaten them with revolution. You need the people at your back, and they need a leader.”
Anden leans back in his chair; some of the railcar’s warm lamplight catches against his coat and outlines him in gold. Something in our conversation has inspired an idea in him; maybe it’s an idea he had all along. “You’d make a good Senator, June,” he says. “You’d be a good ally to your Elector—and the public loves you.”
My mind starts spinning. I could stay here in the Republic and help Anden. Become a Senator when I’m old enough. Get my life back. Leave Day behind with the Patriots. I know how selfish this thinking is, but I can’t stop myself. What’s so wrong with being selfish, anyway? I think bitterly. I could just tell Anden everything about the Patriots’ plans right now—without caring whether word will get back to the Patriots or whether they’ll hurt Day because of it—and return to living a wealthy, secure life as an elite government worker. I could honor my brother’s memory by slowly changing the country from the inside. Couldn’t I?
Horrible. I release this dark fantasy. The thought of leaving Day behind in such a way, of betraying him so completely, of never wrapping my arms around him again, of never ever seeing him again, makes me clench my teeth in pain. I close my eyes for a second and remember his gentle, calloused hands, his passionate ferocity. No, I could never do it. I know this with such blinding certainty that it frightens me. After everything we’ve both sacrificed, surely we deserve a life—or something—together after this is all over? Escaping to the Colonies, or rebuilding the Republic? Anden wants Day’s help; we can all work together. How could I bear to turn away from that light at the end of the tunnel? I need to get back to him. I need to tell Day everything.
