by Lu, Marie
No wonder there were so many parts of the machine that felt to me like they didn’t need to exist. Maybe it’s because the machine was never meant to just take down the Level system. Maybe Hann’s invention is also designed to bring it back up.
When I glance up, I see Daniel’s eyes locked on mine. This, at least, is something he recognizes in me—when he sees the flash of an idea on my face.
“What are you thinking, Eden?” he asks.
It’s time for someone else to run this place. Hann’s last words to me flash through my thoughts, searing and clear.
“What if Hann is going to rebuild it?” I say automatically. “The Level system, I mean?” I point to several parts of the machine that I hadn’t figured out. “What if he’s going to implement a new system, one that has him at the helm?”
The pause that follows is thick and ominous.
June finally nods at me. “How much do you know about his device?” she asks.
“Not enough,” I reply.
“Any is better than none.” She raises an eyebrow at me. “I hate to say it, but your meddling might be just the thing that takes Hann down.”
DANIEL
Everything about the Republic feels familiar and strange.
I’m quiet as I walk with June during sunset through the streets of inner Los Angeles, where we’d met so long ago. When I’d first come back here with Eden, I hadn’t had the time or guts to wander through my old haunts. Now that I do, I remember why I’d hesitated.
June walks with me, content to let me take it all in. Antarctica’s slick high-rises and chaotic, jumbled floors are a distant world compared with this place. The red-gold haze hovering over the lake in downtown Los Angeles, iron waterwheels churning in the water. The smell of fried dough and boiled goose eggs and pygmy-pig hot dogs filling the streets. The divide between the rich and poor, the Gem districts and the other districts, still stark. These images are clear between the holes in my memory, and with them, I think I can piece together the rest of what my childhood had been on these streets.
But there are things I don’t recognize. No more Xs spray-painted against doors. No more plague patrols haunting the streets of my own neighborhood. There are vegetable gardens now, patches of green striping the ground here and there, the result of people being allowed to create and sell products. And most of all …
Scaffolding. Everywhere. Buildings—crumbling towers, subpar housing—are being torn down and built back up again, and the bones of steel construction sites line the horizon. Plans for parks, private shops, safer neighborhoods.
“It’s been a decade,” June says as she notices my gaze lingering on the horizon’s cranes. As always, she is breaking down my thoughts. “But change is still slow to come. Anden has been trying to bridge this gap with some new work projects. We can’t afford any of this, but Anden’s confident he can get international investments to keep our pace going. I hope he’s right.”
My thoughts waver from the Republic to the feeling of June’s smooth hand sliding into mine. She edges closer to me as we near the water. The awkwardness between us is still there, lingering, but at least it’s been dulled. I savor her touch. The memory of her in my arms several nights earlier comes back to me now in a wave of warmth. Somehow, beside her, this whirlwind of lost memories and dark places stills in me, and I can remember things better.
I pause at an intersection marked with the edge of the lake on one side and a pair of towers rising up on the other. One of the towers is old, just as I remember it—ramshackle layers of concrete long streaked by water and grime, the lowest floor a barely lit entrance to a bar and the upper floors made colorful with lines of drying clothes and plants draping haphazardly down rusted balcony ledges.
The other tower is new, a structure of straight lines and polished stone, its sides draped with crimson-and-black Republic banners. Over the steps leading up to the entrance are words I’ve never seen engraved on a building here: REPUBLIC HISTORY MUSEUM.
I look at June, and she gives me a terse nod. “Come on.” She tugs slightly on my hand and starts making her way up the stairs. “They just finished it this year.”
I nod wordlessly and follow her. It’s better than standing in the middle of the street, lost in memories I don’t want. Trying to keep the fear of my past at bay.
Inside, curators in red and black stand at the entrances of the museum’s many rooms. They bow their heads in recognition at the sight of us. Our boots echo against the stone floors.
We stare at the exhibits in silence. This is a memorial to the horrors of the past. The child-size outfit of a Trial taker, plain and white, now framed and hanging. A plague patrol uniform encased within glass, its gas mask rusted and faceless. Portraits of the late Elector and those who came before him, all lining the back wall. Anden had banned his portrait being hung everywhere not long after the end of the war with the Colonies. I guess one of them ended up in here.
We step between the rooms without speaking. There are old videos from the JumboTrons, the pledge that we used to recite every morning, giant maps hanging by steel cables from the ceiling, indicating how and where the borders of America had changed over the years. There are even rooms dedicated to America before the Republic, when we were unified with the Colonies. I stare, overwhelmed, at placards describing the events that led up to the war that divided us. They’ve named it Coranda’s War, after the young general who first staged a coup and became the first Elector Primo of the Republic.
They don’t call it the Civil War. There had already been one that split the nation before, hundreds of years ago, during a time when the enslavement of human beings was legal based on nothing but the color of one’s skin. There is an entire room dedicated to that, to the unified, sinister America before we existed.
We linger in this room so long that the curators have to ask us to leave as they close for the night. I don’t say a word. Maybe the United States was only ever united for some. Maybe this place has always been a dystopia.
The sun is dipping below the clouds as we step out of the museum’s entrance again, and the light against the haze on the lake casts the sky and water in gold. I stand there with June for a moment, taking in the intersection.
“There used to be a row of pawn shops and food stalls where this museum now is,” I finally say, then point to the bar across the street. “I first met Kaede there.” The memories are scattered and broken—a faded image of a dim interior, an Asian girl with a vine tattoo on her neck leaning over the bar counter to give me a clue. Then, a narrow alley, a crowd gathered in dirty, dingy rings, their voices hoarse from yelling. Me, watching a young Tess cut her way through the throngs to place a bet for us.
“This is where I first saw you,” I say in a low voice, my eyes lingering on the narrow street between the two towers. The space is empty now, the shouts of those Skiz duel gamblers nothing more than an echo from the past.
June’s face is serious. She doesn’t turn in the direction of the alley, and I realize with a jolt that it’s because it reminds her of the darkest time in her life, because I recognize the same grim look in her eyes as I’d seen back then. The memory sparks in me, clear and in focus, another piece of her puzzle coming back to me.
“I don’t like coming here,” she finally says in a quiet voice. “It reminds me too much of his death. Of everything that happened after.”
She doesn’t need to say her brother’s name. Metias. I try to remember the first time I’d seen him, and I can’t. To me, he’s nothing but a blur of a Republic uniform in the night. Instead, I see an image of John, his jacket thrown over his shoulder as he heads home wearily from a long shift at the factory. I recall him reading by candlelight, one word, slowly and steadily, after another.
June has adjusted better than any of us. But even so, she’s afraid of the past. Just like I am. We may not be the same people we used to be. Maybe we’ll never find our way back to that place. But we bear the same scars from the same old wounds.
I reach out and touc
h her hand. “You’re here,” I reply, pulling her close. “Living in the future, changing the world around you. He’ll always be a part of your story.”
She leans into me, and I close my eyes as she rests her chin against my shoulders, her straight, confident body suddenly tired. She doesn’t answer. She knows I understand what it’s like to love a brother, to hurt for one’s absence, and to worry for the one who’s still here.
“You need to talk to him,” she says, pulling away too soon. Her eyes turn up to me. “Eden. He is you now, in the position you were once in.”
I put my hands in my pockets again and look out at the shining water.
“He’s the only one of us who has any understanding at all of Dominic Hann’s work. It’s not the first time a nation has suddenly come to rest on his shoulders. He needs to know that you get him, Daniel. That you can see the past like he does, not like we do. That you’ll be there for him now. He can’t move forward and figure this out without you.”
See the past like he does.
I look in the direction of where our current residence is, a sleek condo far off in a Gem district. I think of Eden’s faraway look, his haunted expression when the house is quiet and he thinks no one is around. I think of the defiant anger in his gaze whenever we argue. He had learned that from both his older brothers, from John and from me. And maybe, in my singular drive to protect him, I’ve never acknowledged that he can use his defiance in the same way John and I once had. To change things.
Some pasts can’t be left behind. They must be fought.
* * *
When the sun finally goes down, Los Angeles transforms back into the evening view I know so well—the dark, grungy streets, pockets of the city grid dark as some sectors have scheduled blackouts in order to conserve electricity.
I’m perched on a ledge overlooking our place when Eden heads into the entrance. He expects me, because he automatically turns his head up without me even moving a muscle.
“Spying again?” he calls up at me with a raised brow.
I shrug, turning my eyes up to the sprinkle of city lights leading toward the horizon. “Just idling until you came home. Not like there isn’t a precedent for you being in trouble when you go missing.”
I hop down from the ledge and lean against the apartment entrance. He’s pale, and I can tell that behind his hesitant exterior is a deep undercurrent of guilt over everything that had happened. Deep, dark circles rim the bottom of his eyes.
A flicker of pain washes over me. Hann had done this to him. But so had I.
“Hey,” I say quietly, nodding toward the Lake sector’s skyline. Just studying the familiar cityscape sends another current of fear and dread through me. But this time, I force it away. I have to do this for him. “I’m going out for a run. Come join me?”
Eden’s eyes widen slightly in surprise. He knows I’ve never really trusted his physical capabilities, and the invitation catches him off guard. It only twists the knife deeper in my chest. Had I tried protecting him every chance I could, only to turn into yet another person who has hurt him?
Then, to my relief, Eden nods. A faint smile hovers on his lips. “Sure. But you’re gonna have to lead the way.”
EDEN
Daniel’s definition of a run, of course, is different from everyone else’s. In all the years he’s spent darting across roofs and shimmying slick as oil between balconies and railings, he has never asked me to come with him or taught me how he does it or even mentioned where he goes. The one time when I was fourteen and tried to follow him up the side of a wall, I fell on my back and hit my tailbone hard enough to limp for several days.
“Where are we going?” I ask him now as we head out of our complex. We’re dressed in comfortable clothes—loose pants scrunched at the ankles, soft hooded jackets, shoes with good traction. Nervous energy buzzes in my head.
Daniel doesn’t seem bothered. He walks in front of me with the absolute assurance of someone who knows where he’s going. His mess of blond hair bounces with each step he takes. I try to keep pace with his strides.
“How well do you think you know the Lake District?” he says to me over his shoulder.
I shrug. It’s hard to think about our old neighborhood when we’re staying in the middle of this Gem district. “I remember our street,” I reply. “John’s factory. Mom’s workplace. The alleys where we used to play street hockey. Why?”
In the night, shadows cut across Daniel’s face and hide his expression from view. He casts me a sidelong glance as he turns us in the direction of the humbler districts. It’s easy to see them from this hilltop view, the areas of the city where lights turn sparse.
“Just follow me,” he says, turning into a narrow street that leads to a set of tracks. “I figure it’s time I show you what my memory of our past looks like.”
It’s an old subway stop, the concrete thick with layers of graffiti. My brother nods down the track to where the first glimmers of a train’s light flicker in the darkness.
“Keep close to me,” he says. “We’re going to take it easy today, but over time, I’ll show you how I make my way through tougher areas of the city.”
Over time. “You mean, you’re going to take me with you on some of your outings in Ross City?”
He gives me a brief smile as the subway pulls up to a stop. “I’ll think about it,” he replies. “If there’s a Ross City to return to.” Then he ushers us into the train, and the glass doors close behind us.
Half an hour later, we emerge onto the cracked, humble streets of Lake.
I have a vague recollection of this intersection—it’s where I used to walk through on my way to school, at least before everything happened. I look curiously on as Daniel walks up to the building wall of an alley and tests his boot against the crumbling brick. Then he steps back and points up to show me.
“See this?” he says, touching the cracks in the brick. “If you step up on something at this height, you should be able to grab on to the second floor’s ledge.” Before I can respond, he backs up a bit, then darts at the wall and kicks off against the brick. He reaches up and swings himself onto the ledge, then shimmies over to the closest balcony he sees. I look on, stunned, as he swings his legs over the balcony railings and then hops up to perch against them.
“Okay,” I say slowly, eyeing the brick. “Just give me a sec.”
On my first try, my boot slips against the brick and I fall on my back. It takes me four more tries before I finally grip on well enough to grab the second-floor ledge. Then I pull myself up laboriously, inching carefully along the wall until I reach the balcony. Daniel grabs my arm and helps me climb over it.
I eye him, waiting for him to scold me for being careless, for that worried light to appear in his eyes. But he just shrugs. “The more you practice, the easier it’ll get,” he replies. “If you end up in trouble in the Undercity again, you’ll know how to make a quick escape.”
I look at him in surprise. “You’d actually be okay with me going down to the Undercity by myself?”
He gives me a withering look. “After everything we’ve already been through with Hann? You wandering the Undercity sounds like day care.” He nods to the side of the building, where a thick pair of cables crisscrosses between the alley’s two buildings. “Come on. I’ll show you where I used to stay.”
I follow him gingerly onto the cables. He steps rapidly along them, as sure-footed as if he were walking on the street. Where he used to stay. “John always said you never strayed far from the house,” I call to him as I try to keep my balance.
“I never told John about all the places I went,” he replies. “It was safer that way.”
Daniel waits patiently as I take an extra few minutes to cross the wires. Then we make our way onto a flat rooftop, and from there, take a metal ladder up another floor. With each step, we go deeper into the heart of Lake, until I can see the vast, dark shoreline, the water lapping idly below us. I’m drenched in sweat by now, and my breath come
s shallow as I try to keep pace with Daniel.
Finally, he stops us on a street crowded with crooked sheds and shuttered stalls, all closed for the night. I’ve never been this way before. Trash piles in heaps on the sides of the streets, and tattered clothes line the sides of each stall. It looks like some kind of marketplace.
Daniel nods up at the second story of stalls stacked on top of the first. He points to an empty one, then the shadows behind it. I follow him up the side of the first-floor stalls until our boots clang against the tin metal sheets of the roofs. The second level of stalls is low enough that we have to duck our heads. Daniel leads us into the shadows where the stalls are stacked against the wall.
Here, the wall itself is crumbling away, so that there are tiny concave pockets of loose brick hidden behind the second-story stalls’ cloth drapes. It’s just enough space for a person to curl up without being seen.
Daniel crouches here for a moment, his eyes distant. His entire body is tense, and his hands fiddle restlessly. He swallows hard. It looks like it’s taking everything in him to be back here.
“When I first started roaming the streets,” he says, “I’d end up looking for these crumbling pockets in the markets. They were high and dry, for the most part, and the street police wouldn’t bother you if they did a sweep through the neighborhood. You could get a decent night’s sleep and no one would ever know you were in there.”
I stare in disbelief at the tiny pocket of space. It’s filthy and dark, littered with brick and dirt. “You’d sleep here?” I whisper.
He nods. “For years. It wasn’t so bad. I liked that it was right in the markets. Made it easier to steal food.”
His lips have tightened now. I look at him, wondering what kind of effort it takes for him to dredge these memories up. He has never talked about the details of his street life with me before. I knew nothing about how he survived, what he had to do, where he had to live. Now I try to picture my brother—the legend of the Republic, the star of Ross City—curled into a tight ball in this pitiful place, scrounging for a meal.