by Marie Lu
As soon as he walks away, my eyes go back to the video screen and stay frozen on June’s figure. As it continues playing, pieces of Razor’s conversation with the other Patriots reach me. “—enough to hear what’s going on,” he’s saying. “She has him in position.”
On the video, June seems to be dozing, with her knees tucked up to her chin. There’s no sound at all this time, but I don’t think much of it. Then I see someone step inside her cell, a young man with dark hair and an elegant black cloak. It’s the Elector. He bends down and starts talking to her, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. When he gets close to her, June tenses up. I can feel the blood draining from my face. All the chatter and bustle around me fades into the distance. The Elector puts a hand under June’s chin and brings her face toward his own. He is taking something that I thought was just for me, and I feel a sudden, shattering sense of loss. I want to rip my eyes away, but even from the corner of my vision, I can still see him kissing her. It seems to last forever.
I watch numbly as they finally pull away from each other and the Elector steps out of the room, leaving June alone, curled up on the bed. What’s going through her mind right now? I can’t watch any longer. I’m about to turn my back, ready to follow Pascao out of the crowd and away from this scene.
But then something catches my eye. I look up at the monitor. And just in time, I see June hold up two fingers to her brow in our signal.
* * *
It’s past midnight when Pascao, me, and three other Runners paint wide black stripes across our eyes and suit ourselves up in dark warfront uniforms and military caps. Then we head out of the Patriots’ underground hideout for the first time since I arrived. A couple of soldiers wander by now and then, but we see more clusters of troops as we head farther out of our neighborhood and cross the train tracks. The sky’s still completely covered with clouds, and under the dim streetlights, I can see thin sheets of sleet falling. The pavement’s slick with drizzle and icy slush, and the air smells stale, like a mix of smoke and mold. I pull my stiff collar higher, swallow one of Tess’s blue pills, and actually wish I was back with her in Los Angeles’s humid slums. I tap the dust bomb hidden inside my jacket, double-checking that it’s dry. In the back of my mind, the scene between June and the Elector plays on repeat.
June’s signal was for me. Which part of the plan does she want me to stop? Does she want me to forfeit the Patriots’ mission and escape? If I defect now, what will happen to her? The signal could’ve meant a million things. It could even mean she’s decided to stay with the Republic. I shake the thought furiously from my mind. No, she wouldn’t do that. Not even if the Elector himself wanted her? Would that make her stay?
I also remember that the video footage of them didn’t have sound on it. Every other video we’ve seen has had crisp sound—Razor even insisted on making sure the volume was turned up. Had the Patriots stripped it from this one? Are they hiding something?
Pascao stops us in the shadows of an alley not far from the train station. “Train arrives in fifteen minutes,” he says, his breath rising in clouds. “Baxter, Iris, you two come with me.” The girl named Iris—long and lean, with deep-set eyes that constantly dart around—smiles, but Baxter glowers and tightens his jaw. I ignore him and try not to think about whatever he’s trying to put in Tess’s mind about me. Pascao points to the third Runner, a petite girl with copper-colored braids who keeps sneaking glances at me. “Jordan, you’re going to pinpoint the right railcar for us.” She gives Pascao a thumbs-up.
Pascao’s eyes shift to me. “Day,” he whispers. “You know your drill.”
I tug the edge of my cap. “Got it, cousin.” Whatever June means, this is no time for me to leave the Patriots behind. Tess is still back there in the bunker, and I have no idea where Eden is. No way I’m going to put both of them in jeopardy.
“Keep those soldiers busy, yeah? Make them hate you.”
“That’s my specialty.” I gesture up at the slanted roofs and crumbling walls towering around us. To a Runner, those roofs are like giant slides made smooth by ice. I say a silent thanks to Tess—already the blue pill is warming me up from the inside out, as soothing as a bowl of hot soup on an icy evening.
Pascao gives me a wide grin. “Well then. Let’s show them a good time.”
I watch the others hurry away along the railroad tracks through the veil of sleet. Then I step farther into the shadows and study the buildings. Each one is old and pockmarked with footholds—and to make things even more fun, they all have rusted metal beams crisscrossing their walls. Some have top floors that are completely blown off and open to the night sky. Others have slanted, tiled roofs. In spite of everything, I can’t help feeling a twinge of anticipation. These buildings are a Runner’s paradise.
I turn back down the street toward the train station. There are at least two clusters of soldiers, maybe more that I can’t see on the other side. Some are lined up along the tracks in expectation, their rifles hoisted, the black stripes across their eyes gleaming wetly in the rain. I reach up to my face and check my own stripe. Then I pull my military cap down tighter on my head. Showtime.
I get a good foothold on one wall and shimmy my way up toward the roof. Every time I tuck my leg in, my calf brushes against my artificial leg implant. The metal is freezing cold, even through fabric. Several seconds later, I’m perched behind a crumbling chimney three stories up. From here I can see that, just as I expected, there’s a third group of soldiers on the other side of the train station. I make my way to the other end of the building and then leap silently from building to building until I’m on top of a slanted roof. Now I’m close enough to see expressions on soldiers’ faces. I reach into my jacket, make sure my dust bomb is still mostly dry, and then crouch there on the roof to wait.
A few minutes pass.
Then I stand up, pull out the dust bomb, and fling it as far from the train station as I can.
Boom. It explodes in a giant cloud the moment it hits the ground. Instantly the dust swallows up that entire block and races down the streets in rolling waves. I hear shouts from the soldiers near the train station—one of them yells out, “There! Three blocks down!” Way to state the obvious, soldier. A group of them breaks away from the station and starts hurrying toward where the dust cloud has blanketed the streets.
I slide down the slanted roof. Shingles break off here and there, sending showers of ice mist into the air, but through all the shouting and running below me I can’t even hear myself. The roof itself is slippery as wet glass. I pick up speed. The sleet whips harder against my cheeks—I brace myself as I reach the bottom of the roof and then launch into the air. From the ground I probably look like some sort of phantom.
My boots hit the slanted roof of the next building, this one right next to the train station. The soldiers still there are distracted, staring down the street toward the dust. I do a little hop at the bottom of this second roof, then grab on to the side of a streetlight and slide all the way down the pole to the ground. I land with a quick, muffled crunch on the pavement’s streaks of ice.
“Follow me!” I shout at the soldiers. They see me for the first time, just another nondescript soldier with a dark uniform and black stripe across the eyes. “There’s an attack on one of our warehouses. Could be the Patriots finally showing their faces.” I gesture to both of the groups left. “Everyone. Commander’s orders, hurry!” Then I turn on my heels and start running away from them.
Sure enough, the sound of their pounding boots soon follows. No way would these soldiers dare risk disobeying their commander, even if it means leaving the station momentarily unguarded. Sometimes you gotta love the Republic’s iron discipline.
I keep running.
When I’ve led the soldiers four or five blocks down, past the dust cloud and several warehouses, I suddenly veer off down a narrow corridor. Before they can turn the corner, I run straight at one of the alley’s walls—and when I’m several feet away I jump up and kick off agai
nst the brick. My hands shoot out. I grab on to the second floor’s ledge and it’s only the work of the moment to spring up to it. My feet land solidly on the ledge.
By the time the soldiers have rushed into the same alley, I’ve melted into the shadowed crevice of a second-floor window. I hear the first ones pause, then their bewildered exclamations. Now’s as good a time as any, I think. I reach up and pull my cap off, letting my white-blond hair tumble loose. One of the soldiers turns his head up fast enough to see me dart out of the window crevice and turn the corner from the second-floor ledge. “Did you see that?” someone shouts incredulously. “Was that Day?” As I jam my feet into the spaces of old bricks and pull myself up to the third floor, the soldiers’ tones go from confused to angry. Someone shouts at the others to shoot me down. I just grit my teeth and leap up to the third floor.
The first bullets ricochet off the wall. One hits inches away from my hand. I don’t stop—instead I lunge up toward the top floor and swing up onto the slanted rooftop in one move. More sparks light up the bricks below me. Off in the distance I see the station—the train’s arrived, half hidden behind steam, and parked unattended except for several soldiers who have stepped off the train itself.
I scamper up the roof and slide down its other half, then take another flying leap to the next roof. Down below, some of the soldiers have started rushing back toward the train. Maybe they’ve finally realized that this is all a diversion. My eyes leave the station only when I go flying onto another rooftop.
Two blocks away.
Then, an explosion. A bright, furious cloud rolls up from farther down the railroad tracks, and even my rooftop vantage point shudders. The impact makes me lose my balance and fall to my knees. There’s the blast Pascao had mentioned. I take in the inferno for a moment, pondering. A lot of soldiers are going to be heading over there—it’s dangerous, but if my job is to let the Republic know I’m alive, I better make sure I’m seen by as many people as possible. I push myself back onto my feet and run faster, stuffing my hair back up into my cap as I go. The soldiers below have split into two groups—one dashing toward the explosion, the other continuing to trail me.
Suddenly I skid to a stop. The soldiers rush right past the building I’m on. Without wasting another second, I slide down the roof and swing down from the edge of the gutter. Boot into foothold. One after another. I jump down to the pavement. The soldiers probably just realized they’d lost me, but I’m already blending into the shadows on the ground. Now I’m running steadily along the street as if I’m just another soldier. I head for the train.
The sleet’s coming down harder. The blaze left over from the explosion lights up the night sky, and I’m close enough to the train to hear shouts and pounding feet. Did Pascao and the others get out safely? I quicken my steps. Other soldiers materialize through the sleet, and I fall smoothly into line with them as we jog alongside the train. They’re rushing toward the fire.
“What happened?” one of them shouts at another.
“Don’t know—I heard some spark set off the cargo.”
“That’s impossible! The railcars are all covered—”
“Somebody get ahold of Commander DeSoto. The Patriots made their move—send word to the Elector—they’re—”
They continue on; I miss the last half of the sentence. I gradually slow until I’m at the back of the line, then I dart away into the tiny slit between two railcars. All the soldiers I can see are still headed for the blaze. Others are in the area where I’d set off the dust bomb, and the ones who’d been chasing me are probably still bewildered, combing the streets I was running. I wait until I’m certain there’s no one else near me. Then I slide out from between the railcars and run along the opposite side of the tracks that the other soldiers were on. I let my hair loose again. Now I just need to choose the right moment to make my grand appearance.
There are small markings on each railcar that I pass. Coal. Tracked guns. Ammunition. Food. I’m tempted to stop at the last one, but that’s just the Lake part of me talking. I remind myself that I’m not scavenging on the streets anymore and that the Patriots have a full pantry in their headquarters. I force myself to keep going. More markings. More warfront supplies.
Then I pass a marking that forces me to stop. A shiver runs down my arms and legs. I quickly jog back to see the marked railcar again, just in case I’d imagined it.
Nope. There it is, embossed into the metal. The one I’d recognize anywhere.
The three-lined X. My mind whirls—I see the red spray-painted symbol scarring my mother’s door, the plague patrols making their way from house to house in Lake, Eden being taken away. There’s no way this symbol could mean anything other than the fact that my brother, or something related to him, is on this train. All my interest in the Patriots’ plan goes right out of my head. Eden might be in here.
I can tell the two sliding car doors are locked, so I take a few steps back, then run at it. When I’m close enough, I jump, take three fast steps against the car’s side, grab the top edge of the car, and pull myself up.
There’s a circular metal seal in the middle of this railcar’s roof that they’re probably using to access the interior. I crawl over to it, run my fingers along the edges, and find four latches holding the seal down. Feverishly I pry them loose. The soldiers should be coming back any second now. I push against the seal with all the strength I’ve got. It slides open a crack, just enough for me to jump in.
I land with a soft thud. It’s dark enough so I can’t see anything at first. I reach out my hands and touch what feels like a round glass surface. Slowly I begin to make out my surroundings.
I’m standing in front of a glass cylinder almost as tall and wide as the railcar, with smooth metal casing on top and bottom. It emits a very faint blue glow. A small figure is lying on the floor inside, with tubes poking out of one of his arms. I know right away that it’s a boy. His hair is short and clean and a mess of soft waves, and he’s dressed in a white jumpsuit that makes him stand out against the darkness.
A loud buzzing in my ears blocks out anything and everything. It’s Eden. It’s Eden. It must be him. I’ve hit the jackpot—I can’t believe my luck. He’s right here, I’ve found him in the middle of nowhere, in all the vastness of the Republic, in a stroke of insane coincidence. I can get him out. We can escape into the Colonies sooner than I ever thought possible. We can escape tonight.
I rush over to the cylinder and pound my fist on the glass, half hoping it shatters even though I can tell that it’s at least a foot thick and almost certainly bulletproof. For an instant I don’t know if he can hear it. But then his eyes open. They dart around in a weird, unfocused way before attempting to settle on me.
It takes me a long moment to process the fact that this boy is not Eden.
The bitter taste of disappointment stings my tongue. He’s so small, so close in age to my brother, that I can’t stop the image of Eden’s face from overwhelming me. Others exist who were also marked with unusual strains of plague? Well, of course there would be. Why would Eden be the only one in the entire country?
The boy and I just face each other for a while. I think he can see me, but he can’t seem to fix his gaze; he keeps squinting in a way that reminds me of Tess’s nearsightedness. Eden. I think back to the way his irises had bled from the plague . . . from the way this boy’s trying to gauge me, I can tell that he’s almost entirely blind. A symptom my brother probably has too.
He suddenly snaps out of his trance and crawls over to me as fast as he can. He presses both his hands against the glass. His eyes are a pale, opaque brown, not the creepy black that Eden’s had been when I last saw him, but the bottom halves of both irises are dark purple with blood. Does that mean this boy—that Eden—is getting better, because the blood is draining away, or worse, because the blood is draining in? Eden’s irises had been completely filled with blood the last time I saw him.
“Who’s there?” he says. The glass muffles his voice.
He still can’t focus on me even at this close range.
I snap out of my trance too. “A friend,” I reply hoarsely. “I’m going to get you out.” At that, his eyes pop open—hope instantly blossoms on his small face. My hands run along the glass and search for something, anything, that can open this goddy cylinder. “How do you operate this thing? Is it safe?”
The boy pounds frantically against the glass. He’s terrified. “Help me, please!” he exclaims, his voice trembling. “Get me out—please get me out of here!”
His words break my heart. Is this what Eden’s doing, terrified and blind, waiting in some dark railcar for me to save him? I have to get this boy out. I steady myself against the cylinder. “You have to stay calm, kid. All right? Don’t panic. What’s your name? What city is your family from?”
Tears have started to run down the boy’s face. “My name’s Sam Vatanchi—my family’s in Helena, Montana.” He shakes his head vigorously. “They don’t know where I went. Can you tell them I want to come home? Can you—”
No, I can’t. I’m so goddy helpless. I want to punch straight through the railcar’s metal sides. “I’ll do what I can. How do you open this cylinder?” I ask again. “Is it safe to open?”
The boy points frantically to the cylinder’s other side. I can tell he’s trying hard to contain his fright. “Okay—okay.” He pauses in an attempt to think. “Um, it’s safe. I think. There’s something over there that they type into,” he replies. “I can hear the beeps and then it makes the tube open.”
I rush to where he’s pointing. Is it my imagination, or do I hear the faint sounds of boots pounding against pavement? “It’s some sort of glass screen,” I say. The word LOCKED stretches across it in red type. I turn back to the boy and knock on the glass. His eyes swivel toward the sound. “Is there a password? How do they type it in?”
