by Marie Lu
Even in the dark, I see hints of a smile creep onto her face. “Yeah. You are a smooth talker.”
I give her a wounded frown. “Sweetheart, would I ever lie to you?”
“Don’t try. I’d see right through it.”
I give her a low laugh. “Fair enough.”
Our words sound light and almost carefree, but we can both feel the strain behind them. The effort of trying to forget, to push down. The consequence of things neither of us can ever take back.
We linger there for a few more minutes. Then I wrap up our belongings, carefully pick her up, and continue down the tunnel. My arms are shaking now, and each breath I take sounds ragged. There are no signs of any shelters ahead. Despite the tunnel’s wetness and the cold, I’m sweating as if it’s the middle of a Los Angeles summer—my breaks become more and more frequent, until I finally stop at another dry stretch of tunnel and collapse against the wall.
“Just taking a quick breather,” I reassure June as I give her some water. “I think we’re almost there.”
Just as she said earlier, she can see right through my lie. “We can’t go any farther,” she says weakly. “Let’s rest. You’ll never last another hour like this.”
I brush off her words. “This tunnel’s got to end somewhere. We must have gone right under the warfront by now, which means we’re already on Colonies land.” I pause—the realization hits me at the same time my words come out, sending a thrill down my spine. Colonies land.
As if on cue, a sound comes from somewhere beyond the tunnel, somewhere far above us. I fall silent. We listen for a while, and soon the sound comes back—a whirring, humming noise muffled through the earth, coming from some massive object.
“Is that an airship out there?” June asks.
The sound fades away, but not before it brings an icy cold breeze into the tunnel. I glance up. I’d been too exhausted to notice earlier, but now I can just make out a tiny, rectangular sliver of light. An exit to the surface. In fact, there are several of them lining the ceiling in sporadic intervals; we’ve probably been passing them for a good while. I force myself back to my feet and reach up to run my finger along the edge of that sliver. Smooth, frozen metal. I give it a tentative push.
It shifts. I push harder on the metal and start sliding it to one side. Even though I can tell that it’s nighttime outside, the light coming into the tunnel is more than we’ve been getting for the past few hours, and I actually find myself squinting. It takes me a second to realize that something cold and light is falling gently onto my face. I swat at it, confused for a second, until I realize that they’re—I think—snowflakes. My heartbeat quickens. When I’ve slid the metal as far as it will go, I shrug off my Republic military jacket. No fun getting shot by soldiers right when we’ve reached the promised land.
When I’ve stripped down to my collar shirt and waistcoat, I jump up and grab the sides of the opening, arms trembling, then pull myself up halfway to see where we are. Some sort of dark corridor. Nobody around. I jump back down and take June’s hands, but she’s starting to fade away into sleep again.
“Stay with me,” I murmur, gathering her in my arms. “See if you can pull yourself up.” June unwinds the blanket. I kneel and help her step up onto my shoulders. She wobbles, breathing heavily, but manages to pull herself to the surface. I follow with her blanket tucked under an arm, then pop up through the ground with one thrust.
We come up into a dark, narrow alley not unlike where we came from, and for a second I wonder if somehow we’ve come all the way back around into the Republic again. Wouldn’t that be something. But after a while, I can tell that this isn’t the Republic at all. The ground is even and nicely paved under a patchy layer of snow, and the wall is completely covered with brightly colored posters of grinning soldiers and smiling children. On the corner of each poster is a symbol that I recognize after a few seconds. A gold, falconlike bird. With a shiver of excitement, I realize how closely it resembles the bird imprinted on my pendant.
June’s notices the posters too. Her eyes are wide and hazy with fever, her breath rising in faint clouds of steam. All around us are what appear to be military barracks, covered from top to bottom with the same bright posters. Streetlights line both sides of the road in neat, orderly patterns. This must be where the tunnel and those underground shelters get their electricity. A cold wind blows more snow in our faces.
June suddenly grabs my hand. She sucks in her breath at the same time I do. “Day . . . over there.” She’s trembling uncontrollably against me, but I can’t tell if it’s from the cold or from what we’re seeing.
Stretching out before us, peeking through the gaps between the military buildings, is a city: tall, shining skyscrapers reaching up through low clouds and delicate snow, and each building illuminated by beautiful blue lights that pour from almost every window and every floor. Fighter jets line the skyscrapers’ rooftops. The entire landscape is aglow. My hand tightens around June’s. We just stand there, unable for a second to do anything else. It’s exactly how my father described it.
We’ve reached a glittering city in the Colonies of America.
METIAS HAD ALWAYS TOLD ME THAT WHENEVER I DO GET sick, I pull out all the stops.
I know it’s cold, but I can’t tell what the temperature is. I know it’s night, but I can’t tell what time it is. I know Day and I have somehow made it across the border and into the Colonies, but I’m too tired to figure out which of their states we crossed into. Day’s arm is wrapped tightly around my waist, supporting me even though I can feel him shaking from the effort of carrying me for so long. He whispers encouragingly to me, urging me on. Just a little longer, he says. There must be hospitals this close to the warfront. My legs are trembling from the effort of keeping me up, but I refuse to faint now. We crunch through light snow, our eyes fixed on the sparkling city before us.
The buildings range between five stories and hundreds of stories tall, some of them disappearing into low clouds. The sight is familiar in some ways and entirely new in others: The walls are lined with foreign flags shaped like swallowtails, colored navy blue and gold; the buildings have archway designs carved into their sides; and fighter jets line each rooftop. They’re distinctly different models from the ones in the Republic, with a strange reverse-swept-wing structure that makes them tridentlike in appearance. The jets’ wings are all painted with ferocious gold birds, as well as a symbol I don’t recognize. No wonder I always heard that the Colonies had a better air force than the Republic—these jets are newer than the ones I’m used to and, considering their rooftop placements, must all be able to perform vertical takeoffs and landings effortlessly. This warfront city seems more than prepared to defend itself.
And the people. They’re everywhere, both soldiers and civilians crowding the streets, huddled under hooded coats to shield themselves from the snow. As they pass under the neon glow of lights, their faces are tinted shades of green, orange, and purple. I’m too exhausted to do a proper analysis of them, but the one thing I notice is that all of their clothes—boots, pants, shirts, coats—have a variety of emblems and words on them. I’m shocked by the sheer number of ads on the walls—they stretch on as far as the eye can see, sometimes bunched so closely together that they completely hide the walls beneath them. They seem to be advertising anything and everything under the sun, things I’ve never seen or heard of before. Corp-sponsored schools? Christmas?
We pass one window where a bunch of miniature screens are displayed, each broadcasting news and videos. SALE! the window display reads. 30% OFF UNTIL MONDAY! Some channels’ broadcasting programs are familiar—headlines from the warfront, political conferences. DESCON CORP SCORES ANOTHER VICTORY FOR COLONIES ON DAKOTA/MINNESOTA BORDER. REPUBLIC RUBBLE AVAILABLE FOR PURCHASE AS SOUVENIRS! Others broadcast movies, something the Republic only shows in rich sector theaters. Most screens are showing commercials. Unlike the Republic’s propaganda commercials, it’s as if these ads were trying to persuade their population
to buy things. I wonder what kind of government runs a place like this. Maybe they don’t have a government at all.
“My father once told me that the Colonies’ cities are like glitter from far away,” Day says. His eyes skip from one brightly colored ad to the next as he helps me through the shuffle of people. “It’s exactly like he described, but I can’t figure out all these ads. Aren’t they strange?”
I nod back. In the Republic, ads have organized displays with a consistent, distinct government style that remains the same no matter where in the country you are. Here, the ads don’t follow any sort of color theory. They’re jumbled, a mishmash of neon and flashing lights. As if they weren’t made by any sort of central government, but by a number of smaller, independent groups.
One ad shows a video of a smiling officer in a uniform. The voiceover says: “Tribune Police Department. Need to report a crime? Only 500 Note deposit needed!” Underneath the officer, in small print, are the words: TRIBUNE POLICE DEPARTMENT IS A SUBSIDIARY OF DESCON CORP.
Another ad says NEXT NATIONWIDE EHL* CHECK SPONSORED BY CLOUD—JAN. 27. NEED SOME HELP TO PASS? NEW MEDITECH JOYENCE PILLS NOW AVAILABLE AT ALL STORES! Below this, another small asterisk is followed by the text: EHL, EMPLOYEE HAPPINESS LEVEL.
A third ad actually makes me do a double take. It shows a video of rows of young children, all dressed in the exact same clothes, smiling the biggest smiles I’ve ever seen. When the text comes up, it reads FIND YOUR PERFECT SON, DAUGHTER, OR EMPLOYEE. SWAPSHOP FRANCHISE STORES ARE A SUBSIDIARY OF EVERGREEN ENT. I frown, puzzled. Maybe this is how the Colonies run orphanages or the like. Isn’t it?
As we move along, I notice that there’s one unchanging image in the bottom right-hand corner of each ad. It’s a giant symbol of a circle split into four quadrants, with a smaller symbol inside each of the quadrants. Underneath it in block letters is the following:
THE COLONIES OF AMERICA
C L O U D . M E D I T E C H . D E S C O N . E V E R G R E E N
A FREE STATE IS A CORPORATE STATE
Abruptly I feel Day’s breath warm against my ear. “June,” he whispers.
“What is it?”
“Someone’s following us.”
Another detail I should’ve noticed first. I’ve lost count of the number of things I’m failing to catch. “Can you see his face?”
“No. But judging from the figure, it’s a girl,” he replies. I wait for a few more seconds, then chance a look back. Nothing but a sea of Colonians. Whoever it was, she’s already disappeared into the crowds.
“Probably just a false alarm,” I mutter. “Some Colonies girl.”
Day’s eyes sweep the street, perplexed, then he shrugs it off. I wouldn’t be surprised if we were starting to see things, especially amongst all these strange new glittering lights and fluorescent ads.
A person approaches us right as we turn our attention back to the street. Five foot seven, droopy cheeks, tannish pink skin, a few strands of black hair peeking out from a heavy snow cap, a flat tablet in her hand. She has a scarf wrapped tightly around her neck (synthetic wool, judging from the uniform texture), and little ice crystals cling to the fabric under her chin where her breath has frozen on it. Her sleeve has the words Street Proctor sewn on, right above another strange symbol. “You’re not showing up. Corp?” she mutters to us. Her eyes stay fixed on the tablet, which has a maplike image and moving bubbles on it. Each bubble seems to correspond to a person on the street. She must mean we’re not showing up on there. Then I realize that there are many people like her dotting the street, all wearing the same dark blue coat.
“Corp?” she repeats impatiently.
Day’s about to reply when I stop him. “Meditech,” I blurt out, remembering the four names from the ads we’ve seen.
The woman pauses to give our outfits (dirty collar shirts, black trousers, and boots) a disapproving once-over. “You must be new,” she adds to herself, tapping something out on her tablet. “You’re a long way from where you’re supposed to be, then. Don’t know if you’ve had your orientations yet, but Meditech will dock you hard if you’re late.” Then she gives us a fake smile and launches into an oddly perky routine. “I’m sponsored by Cloud Corp. Stop in Tribune Central Square to buy our newest line of bread!” Her mouth snaps back into the sullen line it was in before, and she hurries away. I watch as she stops a person farther down the street, launching into the same performance.
“There’s something off about this city,” I whisper to Day as we struggle on.
Day’s grip on me is tight and tense. “That’s why I didn’t ask her where the closest hospital was,” he replies. Another wave of dizziness hits me. “Hang in there. We’ll figure something out.”
I try to respond, but now I can barely see where I’m going. Day says something to me, but I can’t understand a word—it sounds like he’s underwater. “What did you say?” The world is spinning now. My knees buckle.
“I said, maybe we. . . stop one. . . hospital. . . ”
I feel myself falling, and my arms and legs are coming up around me in a protective ball, and somewhere overhead Day’s beautiful blue eyes hold me. He puts his hands on my shoulders, but it feels like he’s a million miles away. I try to speak, but my mouth feels like it’s full of sand. I sink into darkness.
* * *
A flash of gold and gray. Someone’s cool hand against my forehead. I reach up to touch it, but the instant my fingers brush against the skin, the hand melts away. I can’t stop shivering—it’s unimaginably cold in here.
When I finally manage to open my eyes, I find myself lying on a simple white cot with my head in Day’s lap, and Day has one of his arms draped around my waist. A moment later I realize that he’s watching another person—another three people—standing in the room with us. (They’re wearing the distinctive uniforms of warfront Colonies soldiers: navy military peacoats studded with gold buttons and epaulettes, with gold and white stripes running along the bottom edge and that signature gold falcon embroidered on each sleeve.) I shake my head. A pretty generic breakdown. I’m so slow right now.
“Through the tunnels,” Day says. Lights on the ceiling blind me. I hadn’t noticed them there earlier.
“How long have you been in the Colonies?” one of the other men asks. His accent sounds strange. He has a pale mustache and limp, greasy hair, and the lighting gives him a sickly complexion. “Better be honest, boy. DesCon doesn’t tolerate liars.”
“We just got here tonight,” Day replies.
“And where did you come from? Do you work for the Patriots?”
Even in my haze, I know this is a dangerous question. They are not going to be happy if they find out that we’re the ones who botched their plans for the Elector. Maybe they don’t even know what happened yet. Razor did say that they update the Colonies only sporadically.
Day realizes the question’s danger too, because he evades it. “We came here alone.” He pauses, and then I hear him speak with a hint of impatience. “Please, she’s burning up with fever. Take us to a hospital, and I’ll tell you anything you want. I didn’t come all this way to see her die in a police station.”
“Hospital’s going to cost you, son,” the man answers.
Day pats one of my pockets and digs out our little wad of Notes. I notice that his gun is now gone, probably confiscated. “We have four thousand Republic—”
The soldiers cut him off with snickers. “Boy, four thousand Republic Notes won’t buy you a bowl of soup,” one of them says. “Besides, you’re both going to wait here until our commander shows up. Then you’ll be sent to our POW compound for standard interrogation.”
POW compound. For some reason this triggers the memory of when Metias took me on a mission over a year ago, when we’d tracked that Colonies prisoner of war deep through the Republic’s states and killed him in Yellowstone City. I remember the blood on the ground, soaking that soldier’s navy uniform. A moment of panic seizes me and I reach up to grab Day’s collar. The ot
her men in the room make a startled noise. I hear several metallic clicks.
Day’s arm tightens protectively around me. “Easy there,” he whispers.
“What’s the girl’s name?”
Day turns back to the men. “Sarah,” he lies. “She’s not a threat—she’s just really sick.”
The men say something that makes Day angry, but my world is becoming a wild chaos of colors again, and I sink back into a delirious half sleep. I hear loud voices, then the swinging sound of a heavy door, and then nothing for a long time. Sometimes I think I see Metias standing in the corner of the barrack, watching me. Other times he changes into Thomas, and I can’t decide if I should feel anger or grief at the sight of him. Sometimes I recognize Day’s hands against mine. He tells me to relax, that everything will be okay. The visions disappear.
After what seems like hours, I start to hear faint, broken snippets of conversation again.
“—from the Republic?”
“Yes.”
“You’re Day?”
“That’s me.”
Some shuffling sounds, then expressions of incredulity. “No, I recognize him,” someone keeps saying. “I recognize him, I recognize him. He’s the one.”
More shuffling. Then I feel Day rise, and I collapse alone onto the cold sheets of the cot beneath me. They’ve taken him somewhere. They’ve taken him away.
I want to cling to this thought, but my feverish delirium takes over and I drift back to black.
* * *
I’m in my Ruby sector apartment, my head on a pillow damp with sweat, my body covered by a thin blanket and bathed in golden light from the afternoon sun filtering in through our windows. Ollie sleeps nearby, his enormous puppy paws resting lazily on the cool marble tiles. I realize that this doesn’t make any sense, because I’m almost sixteen and Ollie should be nine years old. I must be dreaming.
A wet towel touches my forehead—I look up to see Metias sitting beside me, carefully placing the towel so water doesn’t drip in my eyes.
