by Marie Lu
The commander nods. “Follow me. And please gag him, if you don’t mind. We wouldn’t want him yelling obscenities the whole time, would we?” The soldier salutes again, then stuffs a cloth into my mouth.
We make our way through the long halls. Again we pass the double doors with the red number—then several doors under heavy guard and still others with large glass panels. My mind whirls. I need a way to confirm my guess, a way to talk to someone. I’m weak from dehydration, and the pain has made me sick to my stomach.
Now and then, I see a person inside one of the glass-paneled rooms, cuffed to a wall and screaming. I can tell from their tattered uniforms that they are POWs from the Colonies. What if John’s inside one of these rooms? What will they do with him?
After what seems like an eternity, we step into an enormous main hall with a high ceiling. Outside, a crowd is chanting something, but I can’t make out the words. Soldiers line the row of doors that lead to the front of the building.
And then the soldiers part—we’re outside. The daylight blinds me, and I hear the shouts of hundreds of people. Commander Jameson holds up a hand, then turns to her right while the soldiers drag me up to a platform. Now I can finally see where I am. I’m in front of a building at the heart of Batalla, the military sector of Los Angeles. An enormous crowd has turned out to watch me, held back and patrolled by an almost equally large platoon of gun-wielding soldiers. I had no idea this many people cared enough to see me in person today. I raise my head as high as I can and see the JumboTrons embedded in the surrounding buildings. Every single one has a close-up of my face accompanied by frantic news headlines.
NOTORIOUS CRIMINAL KNOWN AS DAY ARRESTED, TO BE SENTENCED TODAY OUTSIDE BATALLA HALL
DANGEROUS MENACE TO SOCIETY FINALLY CAUGHT
TEEN RENEGADE KNOWN AS DAY CLAIMS TO WORK ALONE, NO AFFILIATION WITH THE PATRIOTS
I stare at my face on the JumboTrons. I’m bruised, bloody, and listless. A bright streak of blood stains one thick strand of my hair, painting a dark red streak into it. I must have a cut on my scalp.
For a moment I’m glad that my mother isn’t alive to see me like this.
The soldiers shove me toward a raised block of cement in the center of the platform. To my right, a judge cloaked in scarlet robes and gold buttons waits behind a podium. Commander Jameson stands beside him, and to her right is the Girl. She’s decked out in her full uniform again, stoic and alert. Her expressionless face is turned toward the crowd—but once, just once, she turns to look at me before quickly looking away.
“Order! Please, order in the crowd.” The judge’s voice crackles over the JumboTrons’ loudspeakers, but the people continue to shout, and soldiers push back against them. The entire front row is clogged with reporters, their cameras and microphones shoved in my direction.
Finally, one of the soldiers barks out a command. I look over at him. It’s the young captain who shot my mother. His soldiers fire several shots into the air. This settles the crowd. The judge waits a few seconds to make sure the silence holds, then adjusts his glasses.
“Thank you for your cooperation,” he begins. “I know this is a rather warm morning, so we’ll keep the sentencing brief. As you can see, our soldiers are present and serve to remind you all to keep calm during these proceedings. Let me begin with an official announcement that on December twenty-first, at eight thirty-six A.M., Ocean Standard Time, the fifteen-year-old criminal known as Day was arrested and taken into military custody.”
A huge cheer erupts. But as much as I expected this, I also hear something else that surprises me. Boos. Some—many—of the people in the crowd don’t have their fists in the air. A few of the louder protesters are approached by street police, cuffed, and dragged away.
One of the soldiers restraining me strikes me in the back with his rifle. I fall to my knees. The instant my wounded leg hits the cement, I scream as loud as I can. The sound’s muffled by my gag. The pain blinds me—my swollen leg trembles from the impact, and I can feel a gush of fresh blood on my bandages. I almost keel over before the soldiers prop me up. When I look toward the Girl, I see her wince at the sight of me and turn her eyes to the ground.
The judge ignores the commotion. He begins by listing off my crimes, then concludes, “In light of the defendant’s past felonies and, in particular, his offenses against the glorious nation of the Republic, the high court of California recommends the following verdict. Day is hereby sentenced to death—”
The crowd erupts again. The soldiers hold them back.
“—by firing squad, to be carried out four days from today, on December twenty-seventh at six P.M., Ocean Standard Time, in an undisclosed location—”
Four days. How will I save my brothers before then? I lift my head and fix my eyes on the crowd.
“—to be broadcast live across the city. Civilians are encouraged to stay vigilant for any possible criminal activity that may occur before and after the event—”
They will make an example of me.
“—and to report any suspicious activity immediately to the street police or to the police headquarters closest to you. This officially concludes our sentencing.”
The judge straightens and steps away from the podium. The crowd continues to push against the soldiers. They’re shouting, cheering, booing. I feel myself being dragged back onto my feet. Before they can start ushering me inside Batalla Hall, I catch a last glimpse of the Girl staring at me. Her expression looks blank . . . but behind it, something flickers. The same emotion I’d seen on her face before she knew my real identity. It’s only there for a moment and then it’s gone. I’m supposed to hate you for what you did, I think. But her eyes linger on me in a way that refuses to let me.
After the sentencing, Commander Jameson doesn’t let her soldiers take me back to my cell. Instead we step into an elevator held up by enormous cogs and chains and go up a level, then another, and another. The elevator takes us to the roof of Batalla Hall, twelve stories high, where the shadows from surrounding buildings don’t protect us from the sun.
Commander Jameson leads the soldiers to a flat circular stand in the middle of the roof, a stand with the Republic’s seal embedded in it and strings of heavy chains hooked around its rim. The Girl brings up the rear. I can still feel her eyes on my back. When we reach the center of the circle, the soldiers force me to stand while they bind my shackled hands and feet to the chains.
“Keep him up here for two days,” Commander Jameson says. Already the sun has blurred my vision and the world looks bathed in a haze of sparkling diamonds. The soldiers let go of me. I sink to the ground on my hands and my good knee, chains clacking as I go. “Agent Iparis, head this up. Check on him now and then and make sure he doesn’t die before his execution date.”
The Girl’s voice pipes up. “Yes, ma’am.”
“He’s allowed one cup of water a day. One food ration.” The commander smiles, then tightens her gloves. “Be creative when you’re giving it to him, if you wish. I’ll bet you can make him beg for it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good.” Commander Jameson addresses me one final time. “Looks like you’re finally behaving. Better late than never.” Then she walks away and disappears into the elevator with the Girl, leaving the rest of the soldiers to stand guard.
The afternoon is quiet.
I slip in and out of consciousness. My injured leg throbs to the beat of my heart, sometimes fast and sometimes slow, sometimes so hard that I think I’m going to pass out. My mouth cracks each time I move it. I try to think about where Eden might be—the Central Hospital lab, or a medical division of Batalla Hall, or even a train headed to the warfront. They’ll keep him alive, that I’m sure of. The Republic won’t kill him until the plague does.
But John. What they’ve done with him I can only guess. They may keep him alive, in case they want to squeeze more information out of me. Maybe both of us will be executed at the same time. Or he could already be dead. A new pain stabs at m
y chest. I think back to the day I took my Trial, when John came to pick me up and saw me being taken away in a train with others who had failed. After I’d escaped from the lab and developed the habit of watching my family from a distance, I occasionally saw John sitting at our dining room table with his head in his hands, sobbing. He’s never said it aloud, but I think he blames himself for what happened to me. He thinks he should have protected me more. Helped me study more. Something, anything.
If I can escape, I still have time to save them. I can still use my arms. And I have one good leg. I could still do it . . . if I only knew where they were. . . .
The world fades in and out. My head slumps against the cement stand, and my arms lie motionless against the chains. Memories of my Trial day flash before me.
The stadium. The other children. The soldiers guarding every entrance and exit. The velvet ropes that kept us separated from the kids of rich families.
The physical trial. The written exam. The interview.
The interview, more than anything. I remember the panel that questioned me—a group of six psychiatrists—and the official who’d led them, the man named Chian, who had a uniform adorned with medals. He asked the most questions. What is the Republic’s national pledge? Good, very good. It says here on your school report that you like history. What year did the Republic officially form? What do you enjoy doing in school? Reading . . . yes, very nice. A teacher once reported you for sneaking into a restricted area of the library, looking for old military texts. Can you tell me why you did that? What do you think of our illustrious Elector Primo? Yes, he is indeed a good man, and a great leader. But you are mistaken to call him those things, my boy. He’s not a man like you and me. The correct way to address him is our glorious father. Yes, your apology is accepted.
His questions went on forever, dozens and dozens of them, each more mind-bending than the last, until I couldn’t even be sure why I answered as I did. Chian wrote notes on my interview report the whole time, while one of his assistants recorded the session with a tiny microphone.
I thought I’d answered well enough. At least, I was careful to say things that I thought would please him.
But then they led me onto a train, and the train took us to the lab.
The memory makes me shiver even as the sun continues to beat down, baking my skin until it hurts. I have to save Eden, I say to myself over and over again. Eden turns ten . . . in one month. When he recovers from the plague, he’ll have to take the Trial. . . .
My injured leg feels like it could burst right out of my bandages and swell to the size of the roof.
Hours pass. I lose track of time. Soldiers rotate in and out of their shifts. The sun changes position.
Then, just as the sun mercifully starts to set, I see someone emerge from the elevator and make her way toward me.
I HARDLY RECOGNIZE DAY, EVEN THOUGH IT’S ONLY BEEN seven hours since the sentencing. He lies crumpled in the center of the Republic seal. His skin looks darker, and his hair is completely matted down with sweat. Dried blood still clings to one long strand of hair, as if he chose to dye it. It looks almost black now. He turns his head in my direction as I approach. I’m not sure if he can see me, though, because the sun hasn’t completely set and is probably blinding him.
Another prodigy—and not just an average one. I’ve met other prodigies before but certainly never one that the Republic decided to keep hidden. Especially one with a perfect score.
One of the soldiers lining the circular stand salutes me. He’s sweaty, and his pith helmet doesn’t protect his skin from the sun. “Agent Iparis,” he says. (His accent’s from Ruby sector, and his uniform’s row of buttons are freshly polished. Pays attention to details.)
I glance at the other soldiers before looking back at him. “You’re all dismissed for now. Tell your men to get some water and shade. And send an order up for your replacements to come early.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The soldier clicks his heels together before shouting a dismissal to the others.
When they leave the roof and I’m alone with Day, I remove my cape and kneel down to see his face better. He squints at me, but stays quiet. His lips are so cracked that a little blood has trickled down to his chin. He’s too weak to talk. I look down toward his wounded leg. It’s much worse than it was this morning, not surprisingly, and is swollen to twice its normal size. An infection must’ve set in. Blood oozes from the edges of the bandage.
I absently touch the knife wound at my own side. It doesn’t hurt as much anymore.
We’ll need to get that leg checked. I sigh, then remove the canteen hanging at my belt. “Here. Have some water. I’m not allowed to let you die yet.” I dribble water on his lips. He flinches at first, but then opens his mouth and lets me pour a thin stream in. I wait while he swallows (he takes forever) and then let him take another long drink.
“Thanks,” he whispers. He lets out a dry laugh. “Guess you can go now.”
I study him for a moment. His skin is burned and his face drenched with sweat, but his eyes are still bright, if a bit unfocused. I suddenly remember the first moment I saw him. Dust everywhere . . . and out of that emerged this beautiful boy with the bluest eyes I’d ever seen, holding his hand out to help me to my feet.
“Where are my brothers?” he whispers. “Are they both alive?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“And Tess is safe? No one’s arrested her?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“What are they doing with Eden?”
I think back to what Thomas told me, that the generals from the warfront have come to see him. “I don’t know.”
Day turns his head away and closes his eyes. He concentrates on breathing. “Well, don’t kill them,” he murmurs. “They didn’t do anything . . . and Eden . . . he’s not a lab rat, you know.” He’s silent for a minute. “I never got your name. Guess it’s no big deal now, is it? You already know mine.”
I stare at him. “My name is June Iparis.”
“June,” Day murmurs. I feel a strange warmth at the sound of my name on his lips. He turns to face me. “June, I’m sorry about your brother. I didn’t know anything would happen to him.”
I’m trained not to take the word of a prisoner—I know that they’ll lie, that they’ll say anything they can to make you vulnerable. But this feels different. Somehow . . . he sounds so genuine, so serious. What if he is telling me the truth? What if something else happened to Metias that night? I take a deep breath and force myself to look down. Logic above all else, I tell myself. Logic will save you when nothing else will.
“Hey.” I remember something else now. “Open your eyes again and look at me.”
He does as I say. I lean over to study him. Yes, it’s still there. That strange little blemish in one of his eyes, a ripple in an otherwise ocean-blue iris. “How did you get that thing in your eye?” I gesture at my own. “That imperfection?”
Something must’ve sounded funny, because Day laughs once before bursting into a coughing fit. “That imperfection was a gift from the Republic.”
“What do you mean?”
He hesitates. I can tell he’s having trouble forming his thoughts. “I’ve been in the lab of the Central Hospital before, you know. On the night I took my Trial.” He tries to lift a hand to point at his eye, but the chains clank together and drag his arm back down. “They injected something.”
I frown. “The night of your tenth birthday? What were you doing in the lab? You were supposed to be on your way to the labor camps.”
Day smiles as if he’s about to fall asleep. “I thought you were a smart one. . . .”
Apparently the sun hasn’t baked all the attitude out of him yet. “And what about your old knee injury?”
“Your Republic gave me that, too. On the same night I got my eye imperfection.”
“Why would the Republic give you those wounds, Day? Why would they want to damage someone who got a perfect fifteen hundred on his Trial score?”
This catches Day’s attention. “What are you talking about? I failed my Trial.”
He doesn’t know either. Of course he wouldn’t. I lower my voice to a whisper. “No, you didn’t. You got a perfect score.”
“Is this some kind of trick?” Day moves his injured leg a little and tenses up in pain. “A perfect score . . . hah. I don’t know anyone who’s ever gotten a fifteen hundred.”
I cross my arms. “I did.”
He raises an eyebrow at me. “You did? You’re the prodigy with the perfect score?”
“Yes.” I nod at him. “And apparently, so were you.”
Day rolls his eyes and looks away again. “That’s ridiculous.”
I shrug. “Believe what you want.”
“Doesn’t make sense. Shouldn’t I be in your position? Isn’t that the point of your precious Trial?” Day looks like he wants to stop, hesitates, and then continues. “They injected something into one of my eyes that stung like wasp poison. They also cut up my knee. With a scalpel. Then they force-fed me some kind of medicine, and the next thing I knew . . . I was lying in a hospital basement with a bunch of other corpses. But I wasn’t dead.” He laughs again. It sounds so weak. “Great birthday.”
They experimented on him. Probably for the military. This I’m sure of now, and the thought makes me ill. They were taking tiny tissue samples from his knee, as well as from his heart and his eye. His knee: they must have wanted to study his unusual physical abilities, his speed and agility. His eye: maybe it wasn’t an injection but an extraction, something to test why his vision was so sharp. His heart: they fed him medicine to see how low his heart rate could go, and they were probably disappointed when his heart temporarily stopped. That’s when they thought he died. The reasoning for all this becomes clear—they wanted to develop those tissue samples into something, I don’t know what—pills, contact lenses, whatever could improve our soldiers, to make them run faster, see better, think smarter, or endure harsher conditions.