by Marie Lu
“I don’t know!” The boy throws his hands up; his words contort with a sob. “Please, just—”
Damn it, he reminds me so much of Eden. His tears are making my own eyes water. “Come on,” I coax, fighting to keep my words strong. Gotta stay in control. “Think. Any other way this thing opens, aside from the keypad?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know!”
I can already imagine what Eden would say, if he was this boy. He’d say something technical, thinking like the little engineer that he is. Something like, “Do you have a sharp edge? Try finding a manual trigger!”
Steel yourself. I pull out the knife that’s always at my belt. I’d seen Eden take gadgets apart before and reconfigure all the inner wires and circuit boards. Maybe I should try the same thing.
I place the blade against the tiny slit running along the keypad’s edge and carefully apply some pressure. When nothing happens, I push harder until the blade bends. Doesn’t help at all. “It’s too tight,” I mutter. If only June were here. She’d probably figure out how this thing works in half a second. The boy and I share a brief moment of silence. His chin drops to his chest and his eyes close; he knows there’s no way to open it.
I need to rescue him. I need to save Eden. It makes me want to scream.
It’s not my imagination—I do hear the soldiers getting closer. They must be checking the compartments. “Talk to me, Sam,” I say. “Are you still sick? What are they doing to you?”
The boy wipes his nose. The light of hope has already faded from his face. “Who are you?”
“Someone who wants to help,” I whisper. “The more you tell me, the easier it will be for me to fix this.”
“I’m not sick anymore,” Sam replies in a rush, like he knows we’re running out of time, “but they say I’ve got something in my blood. They call it a dormant virus.” He stops to think. “They give me medicine to keep me from getting sick again.” He rubs at his blind eyes, wordlessly begging me to save him. “Every time the train stops, they take a blood sample from me.”
“Any idea what cities you’ve already been to?”
“Dunno . . . I heard the name Bismarck once . . .” The boy trails off as he thinks. “And Yankton?”
Both are warfront cities up in Dakota. I think about the transport they’re using for him. It probably maintains a sterile environment, so people can go in and take a blood sample, then mix them with whatever activates the dormant virus. The tubes in his arms might just be for feeding.
My best guess is that they’re using him as a bioweapon against the Colonies. He’s been turned into a lab rat. Just like Eden. The thought of my brother being shipped around like this threatens to drown me. “Where are they taking you next?” I demand.
“I don’t know! I just . . . I want to go home!”
Somewhere along the warfront. I can only imagine how many others are being paraded up and down the warfront line. I picture Eden huddled in one of these trains. The boy has started to wail again, but I force myself to cut him off. “Listen to me—do you know of a boy named Eden? Have you heard that name mentioned anywhere?”
His cries grow louder. “No—I don’t—know who—!”
I can’t linger anymore. Somehow I manage to tear my eyes away from the boy’s and run to the railcar’s sliding doors. The soldiers’ footsteps are louder now—they can’t be more than five or six cars away. I take one last glance back at the boy. “I’m sorry. I have to go.” It kills me to say these words.
The boy starts to cry again. His hands pound against the cylinder’s thick glass. “No!” His voice breaks. “I told you everything I know—please don’t leave me here!”
I can’t bear to listen anymore. I force myself to step up the side latches of one sliding door and get close enough to the railcar’s ceiling to grab the edge of the top circular seal. I pull myself out into the night air again, back into the sleet that stings my eyes and whips ice against my face, and struggle to regain my composure. I’m so ashamed of myself. This boy had given me whatever help he could, and this is how I repay him? By running for my life?
Soldiers are inspecting the cars some fifty feet away. I slide the seal back into place and shimmy flat against the roof until I’ve reached the edge. I swing down and land on the ground.
Pascao materializes out of the shadows, his pale gray eyes flashing in the dark. He must’ve been looking for me. “Why the hell are you here?” he whispers. “You were supposed to make a scene near the explosion, yeah? Where were you?”
I’m in no mood to play nice. “Not now,” I snap as I start running alongside Pascao. Time to head back to our underground tunnel. Everything whizzes past us in a surreal fog.
Pascao opens his mouth to say something else, hesitates when he sees my face, and decides to drop it. “Er . . . ,” he starts again, this time more quietly, “well, you did good enough. Probably got the word out that you’re alive, even without all the extra fireworks. Your run up there on the roofs was pretty amazing. We’ll see tomorrow morning how the public reacts to your appearance here.” When I don’t reply, he bites his lip and leaves it at that.
I have no choice but to wait until Razor’s finished with the assassination before they help me rescue Eden. A tide of rage against the young Elector swells up in me. I hate you. I hate you with everything I’ve got, and I swear I’m going to put a bullet in you the first chance I get. For the first time since I joined the Patriots, I actually find myself excited for the assassination. I’m going to do everything to make sure the Republic can never touch my brother again.
In the chaos of the burning fire and shouting of troops, we slip away down the other side of the town and back into the night.
LESS THAN TWO DAYS BEFORE THE ELECTOR’S ACTUAL assassination. Thirty hours for me to stop it.
The sun has just set when the Elector, along with six Senators and at least four guard patrols (forty-eight soldiers), boards a train headed for the warfront city of Pierra. I’m riding with them too. This is the first time I’m traveling as a passenger instead of a prisoner, so tonight I’m dressed in warm winter tights and soft leather boots (no heels or steel toes, so I can’t use them as weapons) and a hooded duffle cape that’s deep scarlet with silver trim. No more shackles. Anden even makes sure I have gloves (soft leather, black and red), and for the first time since arriving in Denver, my fingers don’t feel cold. My hair is the way it’s always been, clean and dry, pulled back into a high ponytail. In spite of all this, my head feels warm and my muscles ache. All the lamps along the station platform are off, and no one besides the Elector’s ensemble is in sight. We board the train in complete silence. Anden’s sudden detour from Lamar to Pierra is probably something most of the Senators don’t even know about.
My guards lead me into my own private railcar, a car so luxurious that I know I’m in here only because Anden insisted on it. It’s twice as long as the standard railcars (a good nine hundred square feet, with six velvet curtains and Anden’s ever-present portrait hanging against the right wall). The guards lead me to the center table of the car, then pull out a seat for me. I feel a strange detachment from it all, like none of it is quite real—it’s as if I were exactly where I used to be, a wealthy girl taking her rightful place amongst the Republic’s elite.
“If you need anything, let us know,” one of them says. He sounds polite, but the tightness of his jaw gives away how nervous he is around me.
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 trai
n 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 why 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.”
