The Legend Trilogy Collection

by Lu, Marie

  We don’t do anything for a good half hour. I keep one hand in my pocket, absently rubbing Day’s pendant. Somehow, the crowd reminds me of Skiz. There’s probably even some of the same people.

  That’s when I see soldiers running along the tops of the square’s buildings. Some hurry along ledges, while others are gathered in a straight line across the roofs. Odd. Soldiers usually have black tassels and a single row of silver buttons on their jackets. Their arm insignias are navy blue or red or silver or gold. But these soldiers have no buttons on their jackets. Instead, a white stripe runs diagonally across their chests and their armbands are gray. It takes me another second to realize who they are.

  “Thomas.” I tap him and point up to the roofs. “Executioners.”

  No surprise on his face, no emotion in his eyes. He clears his throat. “So they are.”

  “What are they doing?” My voice rises. I glance to the protesters in the square, then back up to the roofs. None of the soldiers have dust bombs or tear gas. Instead, each one has a gun slung around his shoulder. “They’re not dispersing them, Thomas. They’re trapping them in.”

  Thomas gives me a stern look. “Hold steady, June. Pay attention to the crowd.”

  As my eyes stay turned up toward the roofs, I notice Commander Jameson step out onto the top of Batalla Hall flanked by soldiers. She speaks into her mouthpiece.

  Several seconds pass. A terrible feeling builds up in my chest—I know where this is going.

  Thomas suddenly murmurs something into his mike. A response to a command. I glance at him. He catches my gaze for a second, and then he looks toward the rest of the patrol standing on the platform with us. “Fire at will!” he shouts.

  “Thomas!” I want to say more, but at that instant, shots ring out from both the roofs and the platform. I lunge forward. I don’t know what I plan to do—wave my arms in front of the soldiers?—but Thomas grabs my shoulder before I can step forward.

  “Stay back, June!”

  “Tell your men to stand down,” I shout, scrambling out of his grasp. “Tell them—”

  That’s when Thomas throws me to the ground so hard that I feel the wound in my side break open.

  “Damn it, June,” he says. “Stay back!”

  The ground’s surprisingly cold. I crouch there, for once at a loss, unable to move. I don’t really understand what just happened. The skin around my wound burns. Bullets rain down on the square. People in the crowd collapse like levees in a flood. Thomas, stop. Please stop. I want to get up and scream in his face, to hurt him somehow. Metias would kill you for this, Thomas, if he were alive. But instead I cover my ears. The gunshots are deafening.

  The gunfire lasts only a minute, if that—but it seems like forever. Thomas finally shouts an order to cease fire, and those in the crowd who haven’t been shot fall to their knees and throw their hands up over their heads. Soldiers rush to them, cuffing their arms behind their backs, forcing them together into clusters. I push myself up onto my knees. My ears still ring from the gunfire. . . . I scan the scene of blood and bodies and prisoners. There are 97, 98 dead. No, at least 120. Hundreds more are in custody. I can’t even concentrate enough to count them.

  Thomas glances at me before stepping off the platform—his face is grave, even guilty, but I know with a sinking feeling that he feels guilty only for throwing me to the ground. Not for this massacre he’s leaving behind. He heads back toward Batalla Hall with several soldiers. I turn my face away so I don’t have to watch him.

  WE RIDE UP SEVERAL FLOORS UNTIL I HEAR THE elevator’s chains come to a scraping halt. Two soldiers drag me out into a familiar hallway. They’re returning me to my cell, I guess, at least for now. For the first time since waking up on the gurney, I realize I’m exhausted and slump my head against my chest. The doctor must’ve injected me with something to keep me from flailing too much during the operation. Everything around me looks blurred at the edges, as if I’m sprinting.

  Then the soldiers come to a sudden stop halfway down the corridor, a good distance away from my cell. I look up in mild surprise. We stand outside one of the rooms I’d noticed earlier, the ones with clear glass windows. Interrogation chambers. So. They want more information before they execute me.

  Static, then a voice comes through one of the soldiers’ earpieces. The soldier nods. “Let’s take him in,” he says. “Captain says he’ll arrive shortly.”

  I stand inside, waiting as the minutes tick by. Guards with blank faces stand at the door, while two others hold my shackled arms. I know this room is supposed to be more or less soundproof . . . but I swear I hear the sound of guns and the vibrations of distant screams. My heart pounds. The troops must be firing on the crowd in the square. Are they dying because of me?

  More time passes. I wait. My eyelids grow heavy. I want nothing more than to curl into a ball in the corner of my cell and sleep.

  Finally I hear footsteps approaching. The door swings open to reveal a young man dressed in black, with dark hair that falls over his eyes. Silver epaulettes sit on each shoulder. The other soldiers click their heels together.

  The man waves them off. Now I recognize him. This is the captain who shot my mother. June had mentioned him before. Thomas. Commander Jameson must’ve sent him.

  “Mr. Wing,” he says. He approaches me and crosses his arms. “What a pleasure to formally meet you. I was beginning to worry that I’d never get the chance.”

  I will myself to stay silent. He looks uncomfortable being in the same room as me, and his expression says that he really hates me.

  “My commander wants me to ask you some standard procedural questions before your execution date. We’ll try to keep it cordial, although of course we started off on the wrong foot.”

  I can’t help choking out a laugh. “Really? You think so?”

  Thomas doesn’t reply, but I see him swallow hard in an effort not to react. He reaches into his cloak and pulls out a small gray remote. He points it at the room’s blank wall. A projection comes up. Some police report, with pictures of a person I don’t recognize.

  “I’m going to show you a series of photos, Mr. Wing,” he says. “The people you’ll see are suspected of Patriot involvement.”

  The Patriots had tried in vain to recruit me. Cryptic notes scrawled on alley walls above where I slept. An escort on a street corner who slipped me a note. A small parcel of money with a proposition. After ignoring their offers for a while, I stopped hearing from them. “I’ve never worked with the Patriots,” I snap. “If I ever kill, I’ll do it on my own terms.”

  “You may claim no affiliation with them, but perhaps some have crossed your path. And perhaps you’d like to help us find them.”

  “Oh, sure. You killed my mother. You can imagine I’m dying to help you out.”

  Thomas manages to ignore me again. He glances at the first photo projected on the wall. “Know this person?”

  I shake my head. “Never seen him before.”

  Thomas clicks the remote. Another photo pops up. “How about this one?”

  “Nope.”

  Another photo. “How about this?”

  “Nope.”

  Yet another stranger pops up on the wall. “Seen this girl before?”

  “Never seen her in my life.”

  More unfamiliar faces. Thomas goes through them without blinking an eye or questioning my responses. What a stupid puppet of the state. I watch him as we continue, wishing I weren’t chained so I could beat this man to the ground.

  More photos. More strange faces. Thomas doesn’t question a single one of my terse responses. In fact, it seems like he can’t wait to get out of this room and far away from me.

  Then a photo pops up of someone I do recognize. The blurry image shows a girl with long hair—longer than the bobbed cut I remember. No vine tattoo yet. Apparentl
y Kaede is a Patriot.

  I don’t dare let the recognition show on my face. “Look,” I say. “If I knew any of these people, do you really think I’d tell you?”

  Thomas is trying so hard to hold his composure. “That will be all, Mr. Wing.”

  “Oh, come on, that’s not all. I can tell you’d give anything to take a swing at me. So do it. I dare you.”

  His eyes have taken on a furious glow, but he still holds back. “My orders were to ask you a series of questions,” he says tightly. “That’s it. We’re done here.”

  “Why? You afraid of me or something? Only brave enough to shoot people’s mothers?”

  Thomas narrows his eyes, then shrugs. “She’s just one less slum con to deal with.”

  I clench my fist and spit right in his face.

  This seems to break his resolve. His left fist hits me hard across the jaw, and my head snaps to the side. Spots explode before my eyes.

  “Think you’re a star, don’t you?” he says. “Just because you pulled some pranks and played charity worker to some street scum? Well, let me tell you a secret. I’m from a poor sector too. But I followed the rules. I worked my way up, I earned my country’s respect. The rest of you people just sit around and complain and blame the state for your bad luck. Bunch of dirty, lazy cons.” He punches me again. My head rocks back, and I taste blood in my mouth. My body trembles from the pain. He grabs my collar and pulls me close. My shackles clank. “Ms. Iparis told me about what you did to her on the streets. How dare you force yourself onto someone of her rank.”

  Ah. Here is what’s really bothering him—I guess he found out about the kiss. I can’t help grinning, even though my face screams in pain. “Awww. Is that what’s got you down? I’ve seen the way you look at her. You want her bad, yeah? Is that something you’re also trying to earn your way up to, trot? Hate to burst your bubble, but I didn’t force her into anything.”

  A deep scarlet rage flashes across his face. “She’s looking forward to your execution, Mr. Wing. I can guarantee you that.”

  I laugh. “Sore loser, huh? Here, I’ll make you feel better. I’ll tell you all about what it was like. Hearing about it is the next best thing, isn’t it?”

  Thomas grabs my neck. His hands are shaking. “I’d be careful if I were you, boy,” he spits. “Maybe you’ve forgotten that you still have two brothers. Both at the mercy of the Republic. Watch your tongue, unless you want to see their bodies lined up next to your mother’s.”

  He hits me again, then one of his knees slams into my stomach. I gasp for air. I picture Eden and John and force myself to calm down, force away the pain. Stay strong. Don’t let him get to you.

  He hits me two more times. He’s breathing hard now. With a great effort, he lowers his arms and exhales. “That will be all, Mr. Wing,” he says in a low voice. “I’ll see you on your execution day.”

  I can’t speak through the pain, so I just try to keep my eyes focused on him. He has a strange expression, as if he’s angry or disappointed that I’ve forced him from his orderly state.

  He turns and leaves the room without a word.

  THAT NIGHT, THOMAS SPENDS HALF AN HOUR STANDING outside my door, trying out a dozen different kinds of apologies. He is really sorry. He didn’t want me to get hurt. He didn’t want me to resist Commander Jameson’s orders. He didn’t want me to get in trouble. He was trying to protect me.

  I sit on my couch with Ollie, staring off into space. I can’t get the sound of those machine guns out of my head. Thomas has always been disciplined.

  Today was not different. He didn’t hesitate—not for a second—to obey our commander. He’d carried out the extermination as if he were preparing for a routine plague sweep or for a night guarding an airfield. Is it worse that he followed the orders so faithfully or that he doesn’t even know that this is what I want him to apologize for?

  “June, are you listening to me?”

  I concentrate on scratching Ollie behind his ears. Metias’s old journals are still strewn on the coffee table, along with our parents’ photo albums. “You’re wasting your time,” I call back to him.

  “Please. Just let me in. I want to see you.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “I won’t be long, I promise. I’m really sorry.”

  “Thomas, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “June—”

  I raise my voice. “I said I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Silence.

  I wait another minute, trying to distract myself by petting Ollie. After a while I get up and look through the peephole. The hallway’s empty.

  When I’m finally convinced he’s gone, I lie awake on the couch for another hour. My mind races from the events in the square, to Day’s appearance on the rooftop, to Day’s outrageous claims about the plague and the Trial, and then back to Thomas. The Thomas that follows Commander Jameson’s orders without question is a different Thomas from the one who worried about my safety in the Lake sector. Growing up, Thomas was awkward but always polite, especially to me. Or maybe it’s me who’s changed. When I tracked Day’s family down and watched Thomas shoot his mother, when I looked on today as the crowd in the square was gunned down . . . I stood by both times and did nothing. Does that make me the same as Thomas? Are we doing the right thing by following our orders? Surely the Republic knows best?

  And as for what Day told me . . . my temper rises at the thought of it. My father had worked behind those double doors—Metias had mentored under Chian in overseeing the Trials. Why would we poison and kill our own people?

  I sigh, sit up, and grab one of Metias’s journals off the coffee table.

  This one is about an exhausting week of cleanup duty after Hurricane Elijah tore through Los Angeles. Another spells out his first week in Commander Jameson’s patrol. A third one is short, only a paragraph long, and complains about working two night shifts in a row. This makes me smile. I can still remember his words. “I can barely stay awake,” Metias had told me after his first night shift. “Does she honestly think we can guard anything after pulling an all-nighter? I was so out of it today that the Colonies’ Chancellor himself could’ve walked into Batalla Hall and I wouldn’t have known it.”

  I feel a tear on my cheek and quickly wipe it away. Ollie whines next to me. I reach out and let my hand sink into the thick white fur around his neck, and he drops his head into my lap with a sigh.

  Metias had fretted over such small things.

  My eyes grow heavy as I continue to read. The words start to blur together on the page, until I can’t quite understand what each entry means anymore. Finally I put the journal aside and drift off into sleep.

  Day appears in my dreams. He holds my hands in his own, and my heart pounds at the touch. His hair falls around his shoulders like a silk drape, one streak of it scarlet with blood, and his eyes look pained. “I didn’t kill your brother.” He pulls me close. “I promise you, I couldn’t have.”

  When I wake up, I lie still for a while and let Day’s words run through my head. My eyes wander over to the computer desk. How had that fateful night played out? If Day hit Metias’s shoulder, then how did the knife end up in my brother’s chest? This brief thought makes my heart ache. I look at Ollie.

  “Who would want to hurt Metias?” I ask him. Ollie looks back at me with mournful eyes. “And why?”

  I push myself off the couch several minutes later, then wander over to my desk and turn on my computer.

  I go back to the crime report from the Central Hospital. Four pages of text, one page of photos. It’s the photos that I decide to take a closer look at. After all, Commander Jameson had given me only a few minutes to analyze Metias’s body, and I’d used the time poorly—but how could I have concentrated? I’d never doubted that the murderer was anyone but Day. I hadn’t studied the photos as closel
y as I should have.

  Now I double-click on the first photos and enlarge them to full screen. The sight makes me light-headed. Metias’s cold, lifeless face tilts up to the sky, and his hair fans out in a small circle under his head. Blood stains his shirt. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and tell myself to concentrate this time. I’d always managed to get through reading the text of the report, but I could never bring myself to study the photos. Now I have to. I open my eyes and focus back on my brother’s body. I wish I’d studied the wounds more closely in person when I had the chance.

  First I make sure the knife in the photo is indeed buried in his chest. Bits of blood stain the hilt. I can’t see any of the blade. Then I look at Metias’s shoulder.

  Although it’s covered up by his sleeve, I can see that a sizable circle of blood stains the cloth there. It couldn’t all be spillover from the chest—there must be another wound. I enlarge the photo again. Nope, too blurry. Even if there is a knifelike slice in the sleeve over his shoulder, I can’t see it at this angle.

  I close the photo and click on another one.

  That’s when I realize something. All the photos on this page are taken at an angle. I can barely make out the details on his shoulder and even on the knife. I frown. Poor crime scene photography. Why weren’t there close-up photos of the actual wounds? I scroll through the report again, searching for pages I might have missed. But that was it. I go back to the same page, then try to make sense of it.

  Maybe the other photos are classified. What if Commander Jameson took them out to spare me the pain? I shake my head. No, that’s stupid. Then she wouldn’t have sent any photos with this report at all. I stare at the screen, then dare to imagine the alternative.

  What if Commander Jameson took them out to hide something from me?

  No, no. I sit back and stare at the first photo again. Why would Commander Jameson want to hide the details of my brother’s murder from me? She loves her soldiers. She was outraged by Metias’s death—she even arranged for his funeral. She wanted him on her patrol. She was the one who made him captain.