by Marie Lu
“I didn’t even need to say a word. My silence told her everything she needed to know. ‘Fetch Little Iparis when you get a chance,’ she said to me. ‘And well done, Captain.’
“I didn’t reply.”
Thomas stays silent; the scene fades. I find myself back in his prison cell, my cheeks streaked with tears, my heart sliced open as if he had stabbed me in the chest as surely as he’d stabbed my brother.
Thomas stares at the floor between us with hollow eyes. “I loved him, June,” he says after a moment. “I really did. Everything I did as a soldier, all my hard work and training, was to impress him.” His guard is finally down, and I can see the true depth of his torture now. His voice hardens, as if he is trying to convince himself of what he’s saying. “I answer to the Republic—Metias himself trained me to be what I am. Even he understood.”
I’m surprised by how much my heart is breaking for him. You could have helped Metias escape. You could have done something. Anything. You could have tried. But even now, Thomas doesn’t budge. He will never change, and he will never, ever know who Metias really was.
I finally realize the true reason he requested this meeting with me. He wanted to give a real confession. Just like during our conversation when he first arrested me, he is fishing desperately for my forgiveness, for something to justify—in any small way—what he did. He wants to believe what he did was warranted. He wants me to sympathize. He wants peace before he goes.
But he’s wasted his efforts on me. I cannot give him peace, even on his final day. Some things cannot be forgiven.
“I feel sorry for you,” I say quietly. “Because you’re so weak.”
Thomas tightens his lips. Still searching for some bit of validation he says, “I could’ve chosen Day’s route. I could have become a criminal. But I didn’t. I did everything right, you know. That was what Metias loved about me. He respected me. I followed all the rules, I obeyed all the laws, I worked my way up from where I started.” He leans toward me; his eyes grow more desperate. “I took an oath, June. I am still bound by that oath. I will die with honor for sacrificing everything I have—everything—for my country. And yet, Day is the legend, while I am to be executed.” His voice finally breaks with all his anguish and inner torment, the injustice he feels. “It makes no sense.”
I stand up. Behind me, the guards move toward the cell door. “You’re wrong,” I say sadly. “It makes perfect sense.”
“Why?”
“Because Day chose to walk in the light.” I turn my back on him for the last time. The door opens; the cell’s bars make way for the hall, a new rotation of prison guards, freedom. “And so did Metias.”
1532 HOURS.
That afternoon, I head to Denver University’s track with Ollie in an attempt to clear my thoughts. Outside, the sky looks yellow and hazy with the light of the afternoon sun. I try to picture the sky covered with the Colonies’ airships, ablaze with the fire from aerial dogfights and explosions. Twelve days before we need to offer something to the Colonies. Without Day’s help, how are we ever going to do that? The thought troubles me, but thankfully it helps keep the memories of Thomas and Commander Jameson out of my head. I pick up my pace. My running shoes pound against the pavement.
When I arrive at the track, I notice guards stationed at every entrance. At least four soldiers per gate. Anden must be doing his exercise routine somewhere out here too. The soldiers recognize me, let me through, and usher me into the stadium, where the track wraps around a large, open field. Anden’s nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he’s down in the stadium’s underground lockers.
I do a quick round of stretches while Ollie waits impatiently, dancing from paw to paw, and then I begin making my way down the track. I run faster and faster along the curved path until I’m sprinting around the turns, my hair streaming out behind me, Ollie panting at my side. I imagine Commander Jameson sprinting after me, gun in hand. Better be careful, Iparis. You might turn out just like me. When I loop around to the side of the track with targets set up, I skid to a halt, whip out the gun at my belt, and shoot at each of the targets in rapid succession. Four bull’s-eyes. Without pause, I loop around the track again and repeat my routine three times. Ten times. Fifteen times. Finally I stop, my heart beating a frantic tune against my chest.
I shift to a walk, slowly catching my breath, my thoughts whirling. If I had never met Day, could I have grown up to become Commander Jameson? Cold, calculating, merciless? Hadn’t I turned into exactly that when I first figured out who Day was? Hadn’t I led the soldiers—led Commander Jameson herself—to his family’s door, without a second thought for whether or not his family might be harmed? I reset my gun, then aim at the targets again. My bullets thud into the centers of the boards.
If Metias were alive, what would he have thought of what I did?
No. I can’t think about my brother without remembering Thomas’s confession from this morning. I fire my last bullet, then sit down in the middle of the track with Ollie and bury my head in my hands. I’m so tired. I don’t know if I can ever outrun how I used to be. And now I’m doing it all over again—trying to persuade Day to give up his brother again, trying to use him to the Republic’s advantage.
Finally I pick myself up, wipe the sweat from my brow, and head to the underground lockers. Ollie settles down to wait for me under the cool overhang near the doors; he laps hungrily at a pouch of water I set before him. I head down the stairs, then turn the corner. The air is humid from the showers, and the lone screen embedded at the end of the hall has a light film of mist over it. I walk down the corridor that splits off into the men’s and women’s locker rooms. A few voices echo from farther down the hall.
A second later, I see Anden emerge from the locker room with two guards walking alongside him. I blush in embarrassment at the sight. Anden looks like he just stepped out of the shower a few minutes ago, shirtless and still toweling off his damp hair, his lean muscles tense after his workout. He has a crisp collar shirt swung over one shoulder, the white of the fabric a startling contrast against the olive of his skin. One of the guards talks to him in hushed tones, and with a sinking feeling, I wonder whether it has something to do with the Colonies. A moment later, Anden glances up and finally notices me staring at them. The conversation pauses.
“Ms. Iparis,” Anden says, a polite smile covering up whatever might have been bothering him. He clears his throat, hands his towel to one of the guards, and pulls one arm through the sleeve of his collar shirt. “I apologize for my half-dressed state.”
I bow my head once, trying hard to look unfazed as all of their eyes fixate on me. “No worries, Elector.”
He nods at his guards. “Go ahead. I’ll meet you both at the stairs.”
The guards bow in unison, then leave us alone. Anden waits until they’ve disappeared around the corner before turning back to me. “I hope your morning went well enough,” he says as he starts buttoning up his shirt. His eyebrows furrow. “No trouble?”
“No trouble,” I confirm, unwilling to dwell on my conversation with Thomas.
“Good.” Anden runs a hand through his damp hair. “Then you’ve had a better morning than I. I spent several hours in a private conference with the President of Ross City, Antarctica—we’ve asked them for military help, in case of an invasion.” He sighs. “Antarctica sympathizes, but they aren’t easy to please. I don’t know whether we can get around using Day’s brother, and I don’t know how to persuade Day to allow it.”
“No one will be able to convince him,” I reply, crossing my arms. “Not even me. You say that I’m his weakness, but his greatest weakness is his family.”
Anden stays quiet for a moment. I study his face carefully, wondering what thoughts are going through his mind. The memory comes back to me of how merciless he can be when he chooses, how he didn’t flinch when sentencing Thomas to death, how he’d thrown Commander Jameson’s insult right back in her face, how he never hesitated to execute every single person who trie
d to destroy him. Deep underneath the soft voice and kind heart lies something cold. “Don’t force him,” I say. Anden looks at me in surprise. “I know that’s what you’re thinking.”
Anden finishes buttoning his shirt. “I can only do what I have to do, June,” he says gently. It almost sounds sad.
No. I will never let you hurt Day like that. Not the way I’ve already hurt him. “You’re the Elector. You don’t have to do anything. And if you care about the Republic, you won’t risk angering the one person who the public believes in.”
Too late, I bite my tongue. The people believe in Day, but they don’t believe in you. Anden winces visibly, and even though he doesn’t comment on it, I silently curse myself for my notorious turns of phrase. “I’m sorry,” I murmur. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
A long pause drags on before Anden speaks again. “It’s not as easy as it seems.” He shakes his head. A tiny bead of water drops from his hair onto his collar. “You would do differently? Risk an entire nation instead of one person? I can’t justify it. The Colonies will strike if we don’t give them an antidote, and this whole mess stemmed from something that I’m responsible for.”
“No, your father was responsible. That doesn’t mean you are.”
“Well, I’m my father’s son,” Anden replies, his voice suddenly stern. “What difference does it make?”
The words surprise both of us. I tighten my lips and decide not to comment on it, but my thoughts churn frantically. It does make a difference. But then I think back on what Anden had once told me about the Republic’s founding, how his father and the Electors before him had been forced to act in those dark, early years. Better be careful, Iparis. You might turn out just like me.
Perhaps I’m not the only one who needs to be careful.
Something showing on the screen at the end of the hall distracts me. I look toward it. There’s some news about Day; the footage shows some old video close-up of him and then a brief shot of the Denver hospital, but even though most of the video’s cut off, I can catch glimpses of crowds gathered in front of the building. Anden turns to look at the screen too. Are they protesting? What could they be protesting?
Daniel Altan Wing admitted to hospital for standard medical exam, to be released tomorrow
Anden presses a hand to his ear. An incoming call. He glances briefly at me, then clicks on his mike and says, “Yes?”
Silence. As the screen’s broadcast continues, Anden’s face turns pale. It reminds me for an instant of how pale Day had looked while at the banquet, and the two thoughts converge into a single, frightening thought. I suddenly know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that this is the secret Day’s been keeping from me. A horrible feeling builds in my chest.
“Who approved this footage’s release?” Anden says after a moment, his voice now a whisper. I hear anger in it. “There won’t be a next time. Inform me first. Is that understood?”
A lump rises in my throat. When his call finally ends, he drops his hand and gives me a long, grave look.
“It’s Day,” he says. “He’s at the hospital.”
“Why?” I demand.
“I’m so sorry.” He bows his head in a tragic gesture, then leans forward to whisper in my ear. He tells me. And suddenly I feel light-headed, like the entire world has funneled into a blur of motion, like none of this is real, like I’m standing right back at the Los Angeles Central Hospital on the night I knelt before Metias’s cold, lifeless body, staring into a face that I no longer recognized. My heartbeat slows to a stop. Everything stops. This can’t be real.
How can the boy who stirred an entire nation be dying?
THEY KEEP ME AT THE HOSPITAL OVERNIGHT BEFORE THEY release me to my apartment. By now, the news is out—bystanders had seen me wheeled out, had spread the word to other folks, and soon the wildfire was unstoppable, and the rumor’s been uttered in every corner of the city. I’ve seen the news cycles try to hide it twice already. I was in the hospital for a standard checkup; I was in the hospital to visit my brother. All sorts of goddy stories. But no one’s buying it.
I spend all day enjoying the luxury of a non-hospital bed, watching light, slushy snow falling outside our window, while Eden camps out on the bed by my feet and plays with a robotics kit we’d gotten from the Republic as a gift. He’s piecing together some sort of robot now; he matches up a magnetic Light cube—a palm-size box with mini screens on its sides—with several Arm, Leg, and Wing cubes to create what’s essentially a little flying JumboTron Man. He smiles in delight at it, then breaks the cubes apart and rearranges them into a pair of walking Legs that display JumboTron video feeds whenever they step down. I smile too, momentarily content that he’s content. If there’s one good thing about the Republic, it’s that they indulge Eden’s love for building stuff. Every other week we seem to get some new contraption that I’ve only ever seen upper-class kids own. I wonder if June’s the one who put in this special request for Eden, knowing what she does. Or maybe Anden just feels guilty for all the stuff his father put us through.
I wonder if she’s heard the news yet. She must have.
“Careful,” I say as Eden climbs up onto my bed and leans over to stand his new creation up at the edge of the window. His hands fumble around, feeling for the windowsill and the glass pane. “If you fall and break something, we’ll have to head back to the hospital, and I am not going to be happy about that.”
“You’re thinking about her again, aren’t you?” Eden fires smoothly back. His blind eyes stay squinted at the blocks standing barely an inch from his face. “You always change your voice.”
I blink at him in surprise. “What?”
He looks in my direction and raises an eyebrow at me, and the expression looks comical on his childlike face. “Oh, come on. It’s so obvious. What’s this June girl to you, anyway? The whole country gossips about you two, and when she asked you to come to Denver, you couldn’t pack us up fast enough. You told me to call her in case the Republic ever comes to take me away. You’re gonna have to spill sooner or later, yeah? You’re always talking about her.”
“I don’t talk about her all the time.”
“Uh-huh, right.”
I’m glad Eden can’t see my expression. I’ve yet to talk with him about June and her connection to the rest of our family—another good reason to stay away from her. “She’s a friend,” I finally reply.
“Do you like her?”
My eyes go back to studying the rainy scene outside our window. “Yeah.”
Eden waits for me to say more, but when I remain silent, he shrugs and goes back to his robot. “Fine,” he mutters. “Tell me whenever.”
As if on cue, my earpiece blares out a second of soft static, warning me of an incoming call. I accept it. A moment later, June’s whispered voice echoes in my ear. She doesn’t say anything about my illness—she just suggests, “Can we talk?”
I knew it’d only be a matter of time before I heard from her. I watch Eden playing for a second longer. “We gotta do it somewhere else,” I whisper back. My brother glances at me, momentarily curious at my words. I don’t want to ruin my first day out of the hospital by breaking my depressing prognosis to an eleven-year-old.
“How about a walk, then?”
I glance out the window. It’s dinnertime, and the cafés down on the street’s ground level are crowded with patrons, almost all of them huddled under hats, caps, umbrellas, and hoods, keeping to themselves in this twilight slush. Might be a good time to walk around without attracting too much attention. “How about this. Come on over, and we’ll head out from here.”
“Great,” June replies. She hangs up.
Ten minutes later, my doorbell rings and startles Eden to his feet—the new cube robot he built falls from my bed, three of its limbs snapping off. Eden turns his eyes in my direction. “Who’s there?” he asks.
“Don’t worry, kid,” I reply, walking over to the door. “It’s June.”
Eden’s shoulders relax at my wo
rds; a bright grin lights up his face, and he hops off the edge of the bed, leaving his block robot by the window. He feels his way toward the other end of the bed. “Well?” he demands. “Aren’t you gonna let her in?”
It seems like during the time I’d spent living on the streets, I’d been missing out on seeing Eden blossom. Quiet kid turned stubborn and headstrong. Can’t imagine how he inherited that. I sigh—I hate keeping things from him, but how do I explain this one? I’d told him over the past year who June is: a Republic girl who decided to help us out, a girl who’s now training to be the country’s future Princeps. I haven’t figured out yet how to tell him the rest—so I just don’t say anything about it at all.
June doesn’t smile when I open the door. She glances at Eden, then back to me. “Is that your brother?” she says quietly.
I nod. “You haven’t met him yet, have you?” I turn around and call out to him. “Eden. Manners.”
Eden waves from the bed. “Hi,” he calls out.
I step aside so that June can come in. She makes her way over to where Eden is, sits down next to him with a smile, and takes his small hand in hers. She shakes it twice. “Pleased to meet you, Eden,” she says, her voice gentle. I lean against the door to watch the exchange. “How are you doing?”
Eden shrugs. “Pretty good, I guess,” he replies. “Doctors say my eyes have stabilized. I’m taking ten different pills every day.” He tilts his head. “But I think I’ve been getting stronger.” He puffs out his chest a little, then strikes a mock pose by flexing his arms. His eyes are unfocused and pointing slightly to the left of June’s face. “How do I look?”
June laughs. “I have to say, you look better than most people I see. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
