by Marie Lu
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 for 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.
I can’t stop thinking about Frankie’s lifeless face. Or the way Thomas’s head snapped back when the Colonies soldiers shot him. I wince as it replays in my mind. I wait in silence for another half hour, watching as the screen’s footage changes from the Denver battle to headlines about how I’d helped slow down the invading Colonies troops. More people are in the streets now, with their scarlet streaks and handmade signs. They really think I’m making a difference. I rub a hand across my face. They don’t understand that I’m just a boy—I’d never meant to get involved so deeply in any of this. Without the Patriots, June, or Anden, I couldn’t have done anything. I’m useless on my own.
Static suddenly blares out of my earpiece; an incoming call. I jump. Then, an unfamiliar male voice in my ear: “Mr. Wing,” the man says. “I presume it’s you?”
I scowl. “Who’s this?”
“Mr. Wing,” the man says, adding a flourish of cracked excitement that sends a chill down my spine. “This is the Chancellor of the Colonies. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
The Chancellor? I swallow hard. Yeah, right. “Is this some sort of joke?” I snap into the mike. “Some hacker kid—”
“Come now. This wouldn’t be a very funny joke, now would it?”
I didn’t know the Colonies could access our earpiece streams and make calls like this. I frown, then lower my voice. “How’d you get in?” Are the Colonies winning in Denver? Did the city fall already, right after we finished evacuating it?
“I have my ways,” the man replies, his voice dead calm. “It seems that some of your people have defected to our side. I can’t say I blame them.”
Someone in the Republic must have given up info to the Colonies to allow them to use our data streams like this. Suddenly my thoughts rush back to the job I’d done with the Patriots, where the Colonies soldiers had shot Thomas in the head—the image sends a violent shudder through me, and I force myself to push it away. Commander Jameson.
“I hope I’m not inconveniencing you,” the Chancellor says before I can respond, “given your condition and such. And I’m sure you must be feeling a bit tired after your little escapade in Denver. I’m impressed, I must say.”
I don’t respond to that. I wonder what else he knows—whether he knows which hospital I’m currently lying in . . . or worse, where our new apartment is, where Eden’s staying. “What do you want?” I finally whisper.
I can practically hear the Chancellor’s smile over my earpiece. “I’d hate to waste your time, so let’s get to the meat of this conversation. I realize that the Republic’s current Elector is this young Anden Stavropoulos fellow.” His tone is condescending. “But come now, both you and I know who really runs your country. And that’s you. The people love you, Day. When my troops first went into Denver, do you know what they told me? ‘The civilians have plastered poster
s of Day on the walls. They want to see him back on the screens.’ They have been very stubborn to cooperate with my men, and it’s a surprisingly tiresome process to get them to comply.”
My anger slowly burns. “Leave the civilians out of it,” I say through a clenched jaw. “They didn’t ask for you to barge into their homes.”
“But you forget,” the Chancellor says in a coaxing voice. “Your Republic has done the exact same thing to them for decades—didn’t they do it to your own family? We are invading the Republic because of what they did to us. This virus they’ve sent across the border. Exactly where do your loyalties lie, and why? And do you realize, my boy, how incredible your position is at your age, how you have your finger on the pulse of this nation? How much power you hold—”
“Your point, Chancellor?”
“I know you’re dying. I also know you have a younger brother who you would love to see grow up.”
“You bring Eden into this again, and this conversation’s over.”
“Very well. Just bear with me. In the Colonies, Meditech Corp handles all of our hospitals and treatments, and I can guarantee you they would do a much finer job dealing with your case than anything the Republic can offer. So here’s the deal. You can slowly whittle away whatever’s left of your life, staying loyal to a country that’s not loyal to you—or you can do something for us. You can publicly ask the Republic’s people to accept the Colonies, and help this country fall under the rule of something better. You can get treatment in a quality place. Wouldn’t that be nice? Surely you deserve more than what you’re getting.”
A scornful laugh forces its way out of me. “Yeah, right. You expect me to believe that?”
“Well now,” the Chancellor says, trying to sound amused, but this time I detect darkness in his words. “I can see this is a losing argument. If you choose to fight for the Republic, I’ll respect that decision. I only hope that the best will happen for you and your brother, even after we establish our place firmly in the Republic. But I’m a businessman, Day, and I like to work with a Plan B in mind. So, let me ask you this instead.” He pauses for a second. “The Princeps-Elect June Iparis. Do you love her?”
An icy claw grips my chest. “Why?”
“Well.” The Chancellor lets his voice turn somber. “You have to see this situation from my point of view,” he says gently. “The Colonies will win, inevitably, at this rate. Ms. Iparis is one of the people sitting at the heart of the losing government. Now, son, I want you to think about this. What do you suppose happens to the ruling government on the losing side of a war?”
My hands tremble. This is a thought that has floated in the dark recesses of my mind, something I’ve refused to think about. Until now. “Are you threatening her?” I whisper.
The Chancellor tsks in disapproval at my tone. “I’m only being reasonable. What do you think will happen to her once we declare victory? Do you really think we will let live a girl who is on track to become the leader of the Republic’s Senate? This is how all civilized nations work, Day, and it’s been that way for centuries. For millennia. After all, I’m sure your Elector executed those who stood against him. Didn’t he?” I stay silent. “Ms. Iparis, along with the Elector and his Senate, will be tried and executed. That is what happens to a losing government in a war, Day.” His voice turns serious. “If you don’t cooperate with us, then you might have to live with their blood on your hands. But if you do cooperate, I might find a way to pardon them of their war crimes. And what’s more,” he adds, “you can have all the comforts of a quality life. You won’t need to worry for your family’s safety ever again. You won’t have to worry for the Republic’s people either. They don’t know any better; the common folk never know what’s good for them. But you and I do, don’t we? You know they’re better off without the Republic’s rule. Sometimes they just don’t understand their choices—they need their decisions made for them. After all, you chose to manipulate the people yourself when you wanted them to accept your new Elector. Am I correct?”
Tried and executed. June, gone. Dreading the possibility is one thing; hearing it spelled out to me and then using it to blackmail me is another. My mind spins frantically for ways they could escape instead, to find asylum in another country. Maybe the Antarcticans can keep June and the others overseas and protected in case the Colonies overrun the country. There must be a way. But . . . what about the rest of us? What’s to stop the Colonies from harming my brother?
“How do I know you’ll keep your word?” I finally manage to croak.
“To show you my genuine nature, I give you my word that the Colonies have ceased their attacks as of this morning, and I will not resume them for three days. If you agree to my proposition, you just guaranteed the safety of the Republic’s people . . . and of your loved ones. So, let the choice be yours.” The Chancellor laughs a little. “And I recommend that you keep our conversation to yourself.”
“I’ll think about it,” I whisper.
“Wonderful.” The Chancellor’s voice brightens. “Like I said, as soon as possible. After three days, I’ll expect to hear back from you on making a public announcement to the Republic. This can be the start of a very fruitful relationship. Time is of the essence—I know you understand this more than anyone.”
Then the call ends. The silence is deafening. I sit in the thick of our conversation for a while, soaking it in. Thoughts run endlessly through my mind . . . Eden, June, the Republic, the Elector. Their blood on your hands. The frustration and fear bubbling inside my chest threatens to drown me in its tide. The Chancellor’s smart, I’ll give him that—he knows exactly what my weaknesses are and he’s going to try to use them to his advantage. But two can play at this. I have to warn June—and I’ll have to do it quietly. If the Colonies find out that I’ve passed the word along instead of keeping my mouth shut and doing as the Chancellor says, then who knows what tricks they might try to pull. But maybe we can use this to our advantage. My mind whirls. Maybe we can fool the Chancellor at his own game.
Suddenly, a shriek echoes from the hallway outside that raises every hair on my skin. I turn my head in the sound’s direction. Somebody’s coming down the corridor against her will—whoever it is must be putting up a pretty damn good fight.
“I’m not infected,” the voice protests. It grows louder until it’s right outside my door, then fades as the sounds of the voice and gurney wheels travel farther down the hall. I recognize the voice right away. “Run your tests again. It’s nothing. I’m not infected.”
Even though I don’t know exactly what’s going on, I’m instantly sure of one thing—the sickness spreading through the Colonies has a new victim.
Tess.
FOR THE FIRST TIME IN THE REPUBLIC’S HISTORY, THERE is no capital to land in.
We touch down at an airfield located on the southern edge of Drake University at 1600 hours, not a quarter mile away from where I used to attend all of my Republic History classes. The afternoon is disconcertingly sunny. Has it really been less than a year since everything happened? As we step off the plane and wait for our luggage to unload, I look around in a dull stupor. The campus, both nostalgic and strange to me, is emptier than I remember—many of the seniors, I hear, have been pushed through graduation early in order to send them off to the warfront to fight for the Republic’s survival. I walk in silence through the campus streets a few steps behind Anden, while Mariana and Serge, as part of their Senator nature, keep up a steady stream of chatter with their otherwise quiet Elector. Ollie stays close to my side, the hackles up on his neck. The main Drake quad, normally crowded with passing students, is now home to pockets of refugees brought over from Denver and a few neighboring cities. An unfamiliar, eerie sight.
By the time we reach a series of jeeps waiting for us and begin traveling through Batalla sector, I notice the various things throughout LA that have changed. Evacuation centers have popped up where Batalla sector meets Blueridge, where the military buildings give way to civilian h
igh-rises, and many of the older, half-abandoned buildings along this poor sector have been hastily converted into evacuation centers. Large crowds of disheveled Denver refugees crowd the entrances, all hoping to be lucky enough to get a room assignment. One glance tells me that, naturally, the people waiting here are probably all from Denver’s poor sectors.
“Where are we placing the upper-class families?” I ask Anden. “In a gem sector, I’m sure?” I find it difficult now to say something like this without a sharp edge in my voice.
Anden looks unhappy, but he calmly answers, “In Ruby. You, Mariana, and Serge will all have apartments there.” He reads my expression. “I know what you’re thinking. But I can’t afford to have our wealthy families revolting against me for forcing them into evacuation centers in the poor sectors. I did set a number of spaces in Ruby to be allocated for the poor—they’ll be assigned to them on a lottery system.”
I don’t answer, simply because I have nothing to argue against. What is there to do about this situation? It’s not like Anden can uproot the entire country’s infrastructure in the span of a year. As I look on through the window, a growing group of protesters gathers along the edge of a guarded refugee zone. MOVE TO THE OUTSKIRTS! one of their signs says. KEEP THEM QUARANTINED!
The sight sends a shiver down my spine. It doesn’t seem so different from what had happened in the Republic’s early years, when the west protested the people fleeing in from the east.
We ride in silence for a while. Then, suddenly, Anden presses his hand against his ear and motions to the driver. “Turn on the screen,” he tells him, gesturing to the small monitor embedded into the jeep’s seats. “General Marshall says the Colonies are broadcasting something onto our twelfth channel.”
We all watch as the monitor comes to life. At first we only see a blank, black screen, but then the broadcast comes in, and I look on as the Colonies slogan and seal appear over an oscillating Colonies flag.