by Marie Lu
My heart squeezes again at the thought of Day being killed in action, and settles in relief at the news that he has survived unscathed. “What if we persuade the Antarcticans to take Day in for his treatment? It might be his only chance at surviving his illness, and it might at least make him consider the risk of letting Eden undergo experimentation.”
Anden shakes his head. “We have nothing to bargain with. Antarctica has offered as much help to us as they’re willing. They won’t trouble themselves with taking in one of our patients.”
Deep down, I know this too. It’s just a final, desperate idea from me. I understand, as well as he does, that Day would never hand over his brother in exchange for saving his own life. My eyes wander back to the display of light outside.
“I don’t blame him, not at all,” Anden says after a pause. “I should have stopped those bioweapons the instant they named me Elector. The very same day my father died. If I were smart, that’s what I would’ve done. But it’s too late to dwell on that now. Day has every right to refuse.”
I feel a swell of sympathy for him. If he forcefully takes Eden into custody, Day will no doubt call the people to rise up in revolt. If he respects Day’s decision, he risks not finding a cure in time and allowing the Colonies to take over our capital—and our country. If he hands over a piece of our land to Antarctica, the people may see him as a traitor. And if our ports are sealed, we won’t be receiving any imports or supplies at all.
And yet, I can’t blame Day either. I try to put myself in his shoes. The Republic tries to kill me as a ten-year-old; they experiment on me before I escape. I live the next few years in the harshest slums of Los Angeles. I watch the Republic poison my family, kill my mother and older brother, and blind my younger brother with their engineered plagues. Because of the Republic’s experiments, I’m slowly dying. And now, after all the lies and cruelty, the Republic approaches me, begging for my help. Begging for me to allow them to experiment once again on my younger brother, experiments that can’t guarantee his absolute safety. What would I say? I would probably refuse, just as he did. It’s true that my own family suffered horrible fates at the hands of the Republic . . . but Day had been on the front lines, watching everything unfold from the time he was small. It’s a miracle that Day had given his support to Anden in the first place.
Anden and I sip wine for four more minutes, watching the city lights in silence.
“I envy Day, you know,” he says, his voice as soft as ever. “I’m jealous that he gets to make decisions with his heart. Every choice he makes is honest, and the people love him for it. He can afford to use his heart.” His face darkens. “But the world outside of the Republic is so much more complicated. There’s just no room for emotion, is there? All of our countries’ relations are held together with a fragile web of diplomatic threads, and these threads are what prevent us from helping one another.”
Something’s broken in his voice. “There’s no room for emotion on the political stage,” I reply, putting my wineglass down. I’m not sure if I’m helping, but the words come out anyway. I don’t even know if I believe them. “When emotion fails, logic will save you. You might envy Day, but you’ll never be him and he’ll never be you. He isn’t the Republic’s Elector. He’s a boy protecting his brother. You are a politician. You have to make decisions that break your heart, that hurt and deceive, that no one else will understand. It’s your duty.” Even as I say this, though, I feel the doubt in the back of my mind, the seeds that Day has planted.
Without emotion, what’s the point of being human?
Anden’s eyes are heavy with sadness. He slouches, and for a moment I can see him as he really is, a young ruler standing alone against a tide of opposition and attempting to bear the burden of his country on his own shoulders, with a Senate cooperating only out of fear. “I miss my father sometimes,” he says. “I know I shouldn’t admit that, but it’s true. I know the rest of the world sees him as a monster.” He puts his wineglass down on the side table, then buries his head in his hands and rubs his face once.
My heart aches for him. At least I can grieve for my brother without fear of others’ hatred. What must it be like to know that the parent you once loved was responsible for such evil acts?
“Don’t feel guilty for your grief,” I say softly. “He was still your father.”
His gaze comes to rest on me, and as if pulled by some invisible hand, he leans forward. He wavers there, hovering precariously between desire and reason. He is so close now, close enough that if I were to move even a little, our lips might brush against each other. I feel his breath faintly against my skin, the warmth of his nearness, the quiet gentleness of his love. In this moment, I feel myself drawn to him.
“June . . . ,” he whispers. His eyes dance across my face.
Then he touches my chin with one hand, coaxes me forward, and kisses me.
I close my eyes. I should stop him, but I don’t want to. There is something electrifying about the bare passion in the young Elector of the Republic, the way he leans into me, his desire exposed even beneath his unfailing politeness. How he opens his heart for no one but me. How in spite of everything working against him, he still has the strength to step out every day with his chin up and his back straight. How he soldiers on, for the sake of his country. As do we all. I let myself succumb. He breaks away from my lips to kiss my cheek. Then the soft line of my jaw, right under my ear. Then my neck, just the softest whisper of a touch. A shiver sweeps through me. I can feel him holding back, and I know that what he really wants to do is to lace his fingers through my hair and drown himself in me.
But he doesn’t. He knows, as much as I do, that this isn’t real.
I have to stop. And with a pained effort, I pull away. I struggle to catch my breath. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I can’t.”
Anden looks down, embarrassed. But not surprised. His cheeks flush a faint pink in the dim light of the room, and he runs a hand through his hair. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he murmurs. We fall silent for a few uncomfortable seconds, until Anden sighs and leans all the way back. I slouch a little, both disappointed and relieved. “I . . . know you care deeply for Day. I know I can’t hope to compete with that.” He grimaces. “That was inappropriate of me. My apologies, June.”
I have a fleeting urge to kiss him again, to tell him that I do care, and to erase the pain and shame on his face that tugs at my heart. But I also know I don’t love him, and I can’t lead him on like this. I know the real reason we went so far is that I couldn’t bear to turn him away in his darkest moment. That I wished, deep down . . . he were someone else. The truth fills me with guilt. “I should go,” I say sadly.
Anden moves farther from me. He seems more alone than ever. Still, he composes himself and bows his head respectfully. His moment of weakness has passed, and his usual politeness takes over. As always, he hides his pain well. Then he stands up and holds a hand out to me. “I’ll walk you back to your room. Get some rest—we’ll leave in the early morning.”
I stand too, but I don’t take his hand. “It’s fine. I can find my own way back.” I avoid meeting his eyes; I don’t want to see how everything I say only hurts him more. Then I turn toward the door and leave him behind.
Ollie greets me with a wagging tail when I return to my room. After a petting session, I decide to try out the Internet portal in my room while he curls up nearby and falls promptly asleep. I run a search on Anden, as well as on his father. My room’s portal is a simplified version of the portals I used earlier, without interactive textures and immersive sounds attached, but it’s still miles beyond anything I’ve seen in the Republic. I sift quietly through the search results. Most are staged photos and propaganda videos that I recognize—Anden having his portrait done as a young boy, the former Elector standing in front of Anden at official press events and meetings. Even the international community seems to have little information on the relationship between father and son. But the deeper I dig, the more
I stumble across moments of something surprisingly genuine. I see a video of Anden as a four-year-old, holding his salute with a solemn young face while his father patiently shows him how. I find a photo of the late Elector holding a crying, frightened Anden in his arms and whispering something into his ear, oblivious to the crowd that surrounds them. I see a clip of him angrily shoving the international press away from his small son, of him clutching Anden’s hand so tightly that his knuckles have turned white. I stumble across a rare interview between him and a reporter from Africa, who asks him what he cares about the most in the Republic.
“My son,” the late Elector answers without hesitation. His expression never softens, but the edges of his voice shift slightly. “My son will always be everything to me, because someday he will be everything to the Republic.” He pauses for a second to smile at the reporter. Inside that smile, I think I see glimpses of a different man who once existed. “My son . . . reminds me.”
* * *
We had initially planned to return to the capital the next morning—but the news comes just as we board our jet in Ross City. It comes earlier than we thought it would.
Denver has fallen to the Colonies.
“DAY. WE’RE HERE.”
I open my eyes groggily to the gentle sound of Tess’s voice. She smiles down at me. There’s pressure on my head, and when I reach up to touch my hair, I realize that bandages are wrapped around my forehead. My cut hand is also now covered in clean white linen. It takes me another second to notice that I’m sitting in a wheelchair.
“Oh, come on,” I immediately blurt out. “A goddy wheelchair?” My head feels foggy and light, the familiar sensation of coming off a dose of painkillers. “Where are we? What happened to me?”
“You’ll probably need to stop at a hospital when we get off the train. They think all the commotion triggered a bad response in you.” Tess walks beside me as some soldier pushes me down the length of the train car. Up ahead, I see Pascao and the other Patriots getting off the train. “We’re in Los Angeles. We’re back home.”
“Where are Eden and Lucy?” I ask. “Do you know?”
“They’ve already settled into your temporary apartment in Ruby sector,” Tess replies. She’s quiet for a second. “Guess a gem sector’s your home now.”
Home. I fall silent as we exit the train and stream out onto the platform with the other soldiers. Los Angeles feels as warm as ever, a typical hazy day in late fall, and the yellowish light makes me squint. The wheelchair feels so foreign and annoying. I have a sudden urge to bolt out of it and kick it onto the tracks. I am a Runner—I’m not supposed to be stuck in this cracked thing. Another bad response, this time triggered by commotion? I grit my teeth at how weak I’ve become. The doctor’s last prognosis haunts me. A month, maybe two. The frequency of severe headaches has definitely been increasing.
The soldiers help me into a jeep. Before we leave, Tess reaches through my open car window and gives me a quick hug. The sudden warmth from her startles me. All I can do is hug her back, savoring the brief moment. We stare at each other until the jeep finally pulls away from the station and Tess’s figure disappears around a bend. Even then, I keep turning around in my seat to see if I can spot her.
We stop at an intersection. As we wait for a group of evacuees to cross in front of our jeep, I study the streets of downtown Los Angeles. Some things appear unchanged: Lines of soldiers bark orders at unruly refugees; other civilians stand on the sidelines and protest the influx of new people; the JumboTrons continue to flash encouraging messages of the Republic’s so-called victories on the warfront, reminding people: Don’t let the Colonies conquer your home! Support the cause!
My conversation with Eden replays in my mind.
I blink, then look closer at the streets. This time, the scenes I’d thought were familiar take on new context. The lines of soldiers barking orders are actually handing out rations to the new refugees. The civilians protesting the new people are actually being allowed to protest—soldiers look on, but their guns stay tucked away at their belts. And the JumboTrons’ propaganda, once images that looked so ominous to me, now seem like messages of optimism, a broadcast of hope in dark times, a desperate attempt to keep people’s spirits up. Not far from where our jeep’s stopped, I see a crowd of children evacuees surrounding a young soldier. He’s knelt to their eye level, and in his hands is some sort of puppet toy that he’s now using animatedly to tell the kids a story. I roll my window down. His voice is clear and upbeat. Now and then, the children laugh, their fear and confusion momentarily held at bay. Nearby, the parents look on with faces both exhausted and grateful.
The people and the Republic . . . are working together.
I frown at the unfamiliar thought. There’s no question that the Republic has done some horrible things to us all, that they might still be doing those things. But . . . maybe I’ve also been seeing the things I want to see. Maybe now that the old Elector is gone, the Republic’s soldiers have started to shed their masks too. Maybe they really are following Anden’s lead.
The jeep takes me first to see the apartment where Eden’s staying. He rushes out to greet me when we pull up, all unhappiness from our previous argument gone. “They said you caused a bunch of trouble out there,” he says as he and Lucy join me in the jeep. A disapproving look creeps onto his face. “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”
I give him a wry smile and ruffle his hair. “Now you know how I feel about your decision.”
By the time we end up outside the Los Angeles Central Hospital, word of our arrival has spread like wildfire and a huge crowd is waiting for my jeep. They’re screaming, crying, chanting—and it takes two patrols of soldiers to form enough of a walkway for them to usher us inside the hospital. I stare numbly at the people as I pass by. A lot of them have the scarlet streak in their hair, while others hold up signs. They shout out the same thing.
SAVE US.
I look away nervously. They’ve all seen and heard about what I did with the Patriots in Denver. But I’m not some invincible super-soldier—I’m a dying boy who’s about to be stuck, helpless, in the hospital while an enemy takes over our country.
Eden leans over my wheelchair’s handlebars. Even though he doesn’t say a word, I take one look at his solemn face and know exactly what’s running through his mind. The thought sends terror trickling down my spine.
I can save them, my little brother’s thinking. Let me save them.
Once we’re inside the hospital and the soldiers bar the doors, they wheel me up to the third-floor rooms. There, Eden waits outside while doctors strap a bunch of metal nodes and wires to me. They run a brain scan. Finally, they let me rest. Throughout it all, my head throbs continuously, sometimes so much that I feel like I’m moving even though I’m lying down on a bed. Nurses come in and give me some sort of injection. A couple of hours later, when I’m strong enough to sit up, a pair of doctors come to see me.
“What is it?” I ask before they can speak up. “Do I have three days left? What’s the deal?”
“Don’t worry,” one of them—the younger, more inexperienced one—assures me. “You still have a couple of months. Your prognosis hasn’t changed.”
“Oh,” I reply. Well, that’s a relief.
The older doctor scratches uncomfortably at his beard. “You can still move around and do normal activities—whatever those are,” he grumbles, “but don’t strain yourself. As for your treatments . . .” He pauses here, then peers at me from the top of his glasses. “We’re going to try some more radical drugs,” the doctor continues with an awkward expression. “But let me be clear, Day—our greatest enemy is time. We are fighting hard to prepare you for a very risky surgery, but the time that your medication needs may be longer than the time you have left. There’s only so much we can do.”
“What can we do?” I ask.
The doctor nods at the dripping fluid bag hanging next to me. “If you make it through the full course, you might be ready f
or surgery a few months from now.”
I lower my head. Do I have a few months left? They’re sure as hell cutting it close. “So,” I mutter, “I might be dead by the time the surgery comes around. Or there might not be a Republic left.”
My last comment drains the blood from the doctor’s face. He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t need to. No wonder the other doctors had warned me to get my affairs in order. Even in the best of circumstances, I might not pull through in time. But I might actually live long enough to see the Republic fall. The thought makes me shudder.
The only way Antarctica will help is if we provide proof of a cure against this plague, give them a reason to call in their troops to stop the Colonies’ invasion. And the only way to do that is to let Eden give himself over to the Republic.
* * *
The medicine knocks me out, and it’s a full day before I come around. When the doctors aren’t there, I test my legs by taking short walks around my room. I feel strong enough to go without a wheelchair. Still, I stumble when I try to stretch too thin and spring from one end of the room to the other. Nope. I sigh in frustration, then pull myself back into bed. My eyes shift to a screen on the wall, where footage from Denver is playing. I can tell that the Republic is careful about how much of it they show. I’d seen firsthand how it looked when the Colonies’ troops started rolling in, but on the screen there are only faraway shots of the city. The viewer can just see smoke rising from several buildings and the ominous row of Colonies airships hovering near the edge of the Armor. Then it cuts to footage of Republic jets lining up on the airfield, preparing to launch into battle. For once, I’m glad that the propaganda’s in place. There’s just no point in scaring the hell out of the whole country. Might as well show that the Republic’s fighting back.