Champion: A Legend Novel

by Marie Lu

  “Eden,” I suddenly whisper to him, pulling him close. His eyes widen at my urgent tone. “Listen close, yeah? If the Republic ever asks you to go with them, if I’m ever not home or I’m in the hospital and they come knocking on our door, don’t ever go with them. You understand me? You call me first, you scream for Lucy, you . . .” I hesitate. “You call for June Iparis.”

  “Your Princeps-Elect?”

  “She’s not my—” I grimace at another wave of pain. “Just do it. Call her. Tell her to stop them.”

  “I don’t understand—”

  “Promise me. Don’t go with them, whatever you do. Okay?” My answer’s cut short when a jolt of pain hits me hard enough to send me collapsing to the ground, curled up into a tight ball. I choke out a shriek—my head feels like it’s being split in two. I even put a trembling hand to the back of my head as if to make sure my brain’s not leaking out onto the floor. Somewhere above me, Eden is shouting. Lucy places another call to the doctor, this time frantic.

  “Just hurry!” she yells. “Hurry!”

  By the time the medics arrive, I’m fading in and out of consciousness. Through a cloud of haze and fog, I feel myself getting lifted off the kitchen floor and carried out of the apartment tower, then into a waiting ambulance that has been disguised to look like a regular police jeep. Is it snowing? A few light flakes drift onto my face, shocking me with pinpricks of coldness. I call out for Eden and Lucy—they respond from somewhere I can’t see.

  Then we’re in the ambulance and pulling away.

  All I see for a long time are blobs of color, fuzzy circles moving back and forth across my vision, like I’m peering through thick, bumpy glass. I try to recognize some of them. Are they people? I sure as hell hope so—otherwise I really must have died, or maybe I’m floating in the ocean and debris is just drifting all around me. That doesn’t make any sense, though, unless the doctors just decided to toss me right into the Pacific and forget about me. Where’s Eden? They must’ve taken him away. Just like in the nightmare. They’ve dragged him off to the labs.

  I can’t breathe.

  My hands try to fly up to my throat, but then someone shouts something and I feel weight against my arms, pinning me down. Something cold is going down my throat, choking me.

  “Calm down! You’re okay. Try to swallow.”

  I do as the voice says. Swallowing turns out to be more difficult than I thought, but I finally manage a gulp, and whatever the cold thing is slides right down my throat and into my stomach, chilling me to my core.

  “There,” the voice goes on, less agitated now. “Should help with any future headaches, I think.” He doesn’t seem to be talking to me anymore—and a second later, another voice chimes in.

  “Seems to be working a little, Doctor.”

  I must’ve passed out again after that, because the next time I wake up, the pattern on the ceiling’s different and late afternoon light is slanting into my room. I blink and look around. The excruciating pain in my head is gone, at least for now. I can also see clearly enough to know I’m in a hospital room, the ever-present portrait of Anden on one wall and a screen against another wall, broadcasting news. I groan, then close my eyes and let out a sigh. Stupid hospitals. So sick of them.

  “Patient is awake.” I turn to see a monitor near my bedside that recites the phrase. A second later, a real human’s voice pops up over its speakers. “Mister Wing?” it says.

  “Yeah?” I mutter back.

  “Excellent,” the voice replies. “Your brother will be in shortly to see you.”

  No sooner than her voice clicks off, my door bursts open and Eden comes running in with two exasperated nurses hot on his tail. “Daniel,” he gasps out, “you’re finally awake! Sure took you long enough.” His lack of sight catches up with him—he stumbles against the edge of a drawer before I can warn him, and the nurses have to catch him in their arms to keep him from falling to the floor.

  “Easy there, kid,” I call out. My voice sounds tired, even though I feel alert and pain-free. “How long was I out? Where is . . . ?” I pause, confused for a moment. That’s weird. What was our caretaker’s name again? I grasp for it in my thoughts. Lucy. “Where’s Lucy?” I finish.

  He doesn’t answer right away. When the nurses finally situate Eden beside me in bed, he crawls closer to me and flings his arms around my neck. To my shock, I realize that he’s crying. “Hey.” I pat his head. “Calm down—it’s okay. I’m awake.”

  “I thought you weren’t going to make it,” he murmurs. His pale eyes search for mine. “I thought you were gone.”

  “Well, I’m not. I’m right here.” I let him sob for a little while, his head buried against my chest, his tears blurring his glasses and staining my hospital gown. There’s a coping mechanism I’ve started using recently where I pretend to retreat back into the shell of my heart and crawl out of my body, like I’m not really here and am instead observing the world from another person’s perspective. Eden’s not my brother. He’s not even real. Nothing is real. Everything is illusion. It helps. I wait without emotion as Eden gradually composes himself, and then I carefully let myself back into my body.

  Finally, when he’s wiped away the last of his tears, he sits up and burrows in beside me. “Lucy’s filling out paperwork up front.” His voice still sounds a little shaky. “You’ve been out for about ten hours. They said they had to rush you out of our building through the main entrance—there just wasn’t any time to try sneaking you out.”

  “Did anyone see?”

  Eden rubs his temples in an attempt to remember. “Maybe. I don’t know. I can’t remember—I was too distracted. I spent all morning out in the waiting room because they wouldn’t let me inside.”

  “Do you know . . .” I swallow. “Have you heard anything from the doctors?”

  Eden sighs in relief. “Not really. But at least you’re okay now. The doctors said you had a bad reaction to the medicine they put you on. They’re taking you off it and trying something different.”

  The way Eden says this makes my heart beat faster. He doesn’t fully grasp the reality of the situation—he still thinks that the only reason I’d collapsed like that wasn’t because I’m getting worse, but because I just had a bad reaction. A sick, sinking feeling hits my stomach. Of course he’d be optimistic about it all; of course he thinks this is just a temporary setback. I’d been on that damn medication for the last two months after the first two rounds also stopped working, and with all the extra headaches and nightmares and nausea, I’d hoped that the pills had at least done some good, that they were successfully shrinking the problem spot in my hippocampus—their fancy word for the bottom of my brain. Apparently not. What if nothing works?

  I take a deep breath and put on a smile for my brother. “Well, at least they know now. Maybe they’ll try something better this time.”

  Eden smiles along, sweet and naïve. “Yeah.”

  Several minutes later, my doctor comes in and Eden moves back outside to the waiting room. As the doctor talks in a low voice to me about “our next options,” what treatments they’ll try to experiment with next, he also quietly tells me how small of a chance they have. Like I feared, my reaction wasn’t just some temporary medicine issue. “The medication is slowly shrinking the affected area,” the doctor says, but his expression stays grim. “Still, the area continues to fester, and your body has begun to reject the old medication, forcing us to search for new ones. We are quite simply racing against the clock, Day, trying to shrink it enough and pull it out before it can do its worst.” I listen to it all with a straight face; his voice sounds like it’s underwater, unimportant and out of focus.

  Finally, I stop him and say, “Look, just tell me straight up. How much longer do I have? If nothing works out?”

  The doctor purses his lips, hesitates, and then shakes his head with a sigh. “Probably a month,” he admits. “Maybe two. We’re doing the best we can.”

  A month or two. Well, they’ve been wr
ong in the past—a month or two probably means more like four or five. Still. I look toward the door, where Eden’s probably pressed against the wood and trying in vain to hear what we’re saying. Then I turn back to the doctor and swallow the lump in my throat. “Two months,” I echo. “Is there any chance?”

  “We might try some riskier treatments, although those have side effects that may be fatal if you react badly to them. A surgery before you’re ready will likely kill you.” The doctor crosses his arms. His glasses catch the cold fluorescent light and shine in a way that blocks out his eyes entirely. He looks like a machine. “I would suggest, Day, that you begin getting your priorities in order.”

  “My priorities in order?”

  “Prepare your brother for the news,” he replies. “And settle any unfinished business.”

  AT 0810 HOURS ON THE MORNING AFTER THE EMERGENCY banquet, Anden calls me. “It’s Captain Bryant,” he says. “He has put in his last request, and his last request is to see you.”

  I sit at the edge of my bed, blinking away a night of fitful sleep, trying to work up the energy to understand what Anden is telling me.

  “Tomorrow we transfer him to a prison on the other side of Denver to prepare for his final day. He’s asked if he can see you before then.”

  “What does he want?”

  “Whatever he has to say, he wants it heard by your ears alone,” Anden replies. “Remember, June—you have the option to refuse him. We don’t have to grant this last request.”

  Tomorrow, Thomas will be dead. I wonder whether Anden feels any guilt over sentencing a soldier to die. The thought of facing Thomas alone in a jail cell sends a wave of panic through me, but I steel myself. Maybe Thomas has something to say about my brother. Do I want to hear it?

  “I’ll see him,” I finally reply. “And hopefully this is the last time.”

  Anden must hear something in my voice, because his words soften. “Of course. I’ll arrange for your escort.”

  0930 HOURS.

  DENVER STATE PENITENTIARY.

  The hall where Thomas and Commander Jameson are being held is lit with cold, fluorescent light, and the sound of my boots echoes against the high ceiling. Several soldiers flank me, but aside from us, the hall feels empty and ominous. Portraits of Anden hang at sporadic intervals along the walls. My eyes stay focused on each of the cells we pass, studying them, details running through my mind in an effort to keep myself calm and focused. (32 × 32 feet in size, smooth steel walls, bulletproof glass, cams mounted outside of the cells instead of inside. Most of them are empty, and the ones that are filled hold three of the Senators who had plotted against Anden. This floor is reserved for prisoners associated specifically with Anden’s attempted assassination.)

  “If you experience any trouble at all,” one of the soldiers says to me, tapping his cap in a polite bow, “just call us in. We’ll have that traitor down on the ground before he can make a move.”

  “Thank you,” I reply, my eyes still fixed on the cells as we draw closer. I know I won’t need to do what he just said, because I know Thomas won’t ever disobey the Elector and try to hurt me. Thomas is many things, but he isn’t rebellious.

  We reach the end of the hall where two adjacent cells sit, each one guarded by two soldiers.

  Someone stirs in the cell closest to me. I turn toward the movement. I don’t even have time to study the cell’s interior before a woman raps her fingers against the steel bars. I jump, then swallow the cry that rises up in my throat as I stare into the face of Commander Jameson.

  As she fixes her eyes on mine, she gives me a smile that makes me break out in a cold sweat. I remember this smile—she’d smiled like this on the night Metias died, when she approved me to become a junior agent in her patrol. There is no emotion there, nothing compassionate or even angry. Few things frighten me—but facing the cold, merciless expression of my brother’s true killer is one of them.

  “Well,” she says in a low voice. “If it isn’t Iparis, come here to see us.” Her eyes flicker to me; the soldiers gather closer to me in a protective gesture. Don’t be afraid. I straighten as well as I can, then clench my jaw and force myself to face her without flinching.

  “You’re wasting my time, Commander,” I say. “I’m not here for you. And the next time I see you will be the day you stand before the firing squad.”

  She just smiles at me. “So brave, now that you have your handsome young Elector to hide behind. Isn’t that so?” When I narrow my eyes, she laughs. “Commander DeSoto would’ve been a better Elector than that boy could ever be. When the Colonies invade, they’ll burn this country to the ground. The people will regret ever putting their support behind a little boy.” She presses against the bars, as if trying to edge as close to me as possible. I swallow hard, but even through my fear, my anger boils under the surface. I don’t look away. It’s strange, but I think I see a sheen of gloss across her eyes, something that looks disconcerting above her unstable smile. “You were one of my favorites. Do you know why I was so interested in having you on my patrol? It’s because I saw myself reflected in you. We’re the same, you and I. I would’ve been Princeps, too, you know. I deserved it.”

  Goose bumps rise on my arms. A memory flashes through my mind of the night Metias died, when Commander Jameson escorted me to where his body lay. “Too bad that didn’t work out, isn’t it?” I snap. This time I can’t keep the venom out of my words. I hope they execute you as unceremoniously as they did Razor.

  Commander Jameson only laughs at me. Her eyes dilate. “Better be careful, Iparis,” she whispers. “You might turn out just like me.”

  The words chill me to the bone, and I finally have to turn away and break my stare away from hers. The soldiers guarding her cell don’t look at me; they just keep staring forward. I continue walking. Behind me, I can still hear her soft, low chuckle. My heart pounds against my ribs.

  Thomas is being held inside a rectangular cell with thick glass walls, thick enough that I can’t hear anything of what’s happening inside. I wait outside, steadying myself after my encounter with Commander Jameson. For an instant I wonder whether I should have stayed away and turned down his final request; maybe that would have been for the best.

  Still, if I leave now, I’ll have to face Commander Jameson again. I might need a little more time to prepare myself for that. So I take a deep breath and step toward the steel bars lining Thomas’s cell door. A guard opens it, lets two additional guards in after me, and then closes it behind us. Our footsteps echo in the small, empty chamber.

  Thomas gets up with a clank of his chains. He looks more disheveled than I’ve ever seen him, and I know that if his hands were completely free, he’d go about ironing his rumpled uniform and combing his unruly hair right away. But instead, Thomas clicks his heels together. Not until I tell him to relax his stance does he look at me.

  “It’s good to see you, Princeps-Elect,” he says. Is there a hint of sadness in his serious, stern face? “Thank you for indulging my final request. It won’t be long now before you’re rid of me entirely.”

  I shake my head, angry with myself, irritated that in spite of everything he has done, Thomas’s unshakable loyalty to the Republic still stirs a drop of sympathy from me. “Sit down and make yourself comfortable,” I tell him. He doesn’t hesitate for a second—in a uniform motion, we both kneel down onto the cold cell floor, him leaning against the cell wall, me folding my legs underneath me. We stay like that for a moment, letting the awkward silence between us linger.

  I speak up first. “You don’t need to be so loyal to the Republic anymore,” I reply. “You can let go, you know.”

  Thomas only shakes his head. “It’s the duty of a Republic soldier to be loyal to the end, and I’m still a soldier. I will be one until I die.”

  I don’t know why the thought of him dying tugs on my heartstrings in so many strange ways. I’m happy, relieved, angry, sad. “Why did you want to see me?” I finally ask.

  “Ms. I
paris, before tomorrow comes . . .” Thomas trails off for a second before continuing. “I want to tell you the full details of everything that happened to Metias that night at the hospital. I just feel . . . I feel like I owe it to you. If anyone should know, it’s you.”

  My heart begins to pound. Am I ready to relive all of that again—do I need to know this? Metias is gone; knowing the details of what happened will not bring him back. But I find myself meeting Thomas’s gaze with a calm, level look. He does owe it to me. More importantly, I owe it to my brother. After Thomas is executed, someone should carry on the memory of my brother’s death, of what really happened.

  Slowly, I steady my heartbeat. When I open my mouth, my voice cracks a little. “Fine,” I reply.

  His voice grows quieter. “I remember everything about that night. Every last detail.”

  “Tell me, then.”

  Like the obedient soldier he is, Thomas begins his story. “On the night of your brother’s death, I took a call from Commander Jameson. We were waiting with the jeeps outside the hospital’s entrance. Metias was chatting with a nurse in front of the main sliding doors. I stood behind the jeeps some distance away. Then the call came.”

  As Thomas speaks, the prison around us melts away and is replaced by the scene of that fateful night, the hospital and the military jeep and the soldiers, the streets as if I were walking right beside Thomas, seeing all that he saw. Reliving the events.

  “I whispered a greeting to Commander Jameson over my earpiece,” Thomas continues. “She didn’t bother greeting me back.

  “‘It has to be done tonight,’ she told me. ‘If we don’t act now, your captain may plan an act of treason against the Republic, or even against the Elector. I’m giving you a direct order, Lieutenant Bryant. Find a way to get Captain Iparis to a private spot tonight. I don’t care how you do it.’”

  Thomas looks me in the eye now and repeats, “An act of treason against the Republic. I tightened my jaw. I’d been dreading this inevitable call, ever since I’d first learned about Metias’s hacking into the deceased civilians’ databases. Keeping secrets from Commander Jameson was damn near impossible. My eyes darted to your brother at the entrance. ‘Yes, Commander,’ I whispered.