ALEGENDNOVEL

MARIELU

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LibraryofCongressCataloging-in-PublicationDataLu,Marie,1984–

Prodigy:aLegendnovel/MarieLu.p.cm.

Summary:JuneandDaymaketheirwaytoLasVegas,wheretheyjointherebelPatriotgroupandbecome

involvedinanassassinationplotagainsttheElectorinhopesofsavingtheRepublic.

[1.Fugitivesfromjustice—Fiction.2.Criminals—Fiction.3.Soldiers—Fiction.4.War—Fiction.5.

Government,Resistanceto—Fiction.6.Assassination—Fiction.7.Sciencefiction.]I.Title.

PZ7.L96768Pro2012[Fic]—dc232012003773ISBN978-1-101-60784-8

ToPrimoGallanosa,forbeingmylight

CONTENTS

TitlePageCopyrightDedicationMapJuneDayJuneDayJuneDayJuneDayJuneDay

JuneDayJuneDayJuneDayJuneDayJuneDayJuneDayJuneDayJuneDayJuneDay

JuneAcknowledgments

LASVEGAS,NEVADAREPUBLICOFAMERICA

POPULATION:7,427,431

JAN.4.1932HOURS.

OCEANSTANDARDTIME.THIRTY-FIVEDAYSAFTERMETIAS’SDEATH.

DAY JOLTSAWAKEBESIDEME.HIS BROW ISCOVERED with sweat, and his cheeks arewetwithtears.He’sbreathingheavily.

Ileanoverhimandbrushawetstrandofhairoutofhisface.Thescrapeonmyshoulder has scabbed over already, butmymovementmakesit throbagain.Daysits up, rubs a hand wearily across hiseyes, and glances around our swayingrailcaras if searching for something.Helooks first at the stacks of crates in one

darkcorner, thenat theburlap lining thefloorandthelittlesackoffoodandwatersittingbetweenus.It takeshimaminuteto reorient himself, to remember thatwe’rehitchingarideonatrainboundforVegas. A few seconds pass before hereleaseshisrigidpostureandletshimselfsagbackagainstthewall.

Igentlytaphishand.“Areyouokay?”That’sbecomemyconstantquestion.

Day shrugs. “Yeah,” he mutters.“Nightmare.”

Ninedayshavepassedsincewebrokeout of Batalla Hall and escaped LosAngeles. Since then, Day has hadnightmares every time he’s closed hiseyes.Whenwe first got away andwereable to catch a few hours of rest in an

abandoned train yard,Dayboltedawakescreaming.Wewereluckynosoldiersorstreet police heard him. After that, Ideveloped the habit of stroking his hairright after he falls asleep, of kissing hischeeksandforeheadandeyelids.Hestillwakes up gasping with tears, his eyeshunting frantically for all the thingshe’slost.Butatleasthedoesthissilently.

Sometimes, when Day is quiet likethis, Iwonderhowwellhe’shangingonto his sanity. The thought scares me. Ican’t afford to lose him. I keep tellingmyself it’s for practical reasons: we’dhave little chance of surviving alone atthis point, and his skills complementmine.Besides . . . I have no one left toprotect. I’ve had my share of tears too,

althoughIalwayswaituntilhe’sasleeptocry. I cried for Ollie last night. I feel alittle silly crying for my dog when theRepublic killed our families, but I can’thelp myself. Metias was the one who’dbrought himhome, awhite ball of giantpaws and floppy ears and warm browneyes, thesweetest,clumsiestcreature I’deverseen.Olliewasmyboy,andI’dlefthimbehind.

“What’d you dream?” I whisper toDay.

“Nothing memorable.” Day shifts,thenwincesasheaccidentallyscrapeshiswounded leg against the floor.His bodytenses up from the pain, and I can tellhow stiff his arms are beneath his shirt,knots of lean muscle earned from the

streets.Alaboredbreathescapeshislips.The way he’d pushed me against thatalleywall, the hunger in his first kiss. Istopfocusingonhismouthandshakeoffthememory,embarrassed.

He nods toward the railcar doors.“Where are we now? We should begettingclose,right?”

I get up, glad for the distraction, andbracemyselfagainsttherockingwallasIpeer out the railcar’s tiny window. Thelandscapehasn’tchangedmuch—endlessrows of apartment towers and factories,chimneys and old arching highways, allwashedintobluesandgrayishpurplesbythe afternoon rain. We’re still passingthrough slum sectors. They look almostidenticaltotheslumsinLosAngeles.Off

in the distance, an enormous damstretches halfway across my line ofvision. Iwait until a JumboTron flashesby,thensquinttoseethesmalllettersonthebottomcornerofthescreen.“BoulderCity,Nevada,” I say. “Really closenow.The train will probably stop here for awhile, but afterward it shouldn’t takemorethanthirty-fiveminutestoarriveinVegas.”

Day nods. He leans over, unties ourfoodsack,andsearchesforsomethingtoeat.“Good. Soonerwe get there, soonerwe’llfindthePatriots.”

Heseemsdistant.SometimesDaytellsme what his nightmares are about—failing his Trial or losing Tess on thestreets or running away from plague

patrols. Nightmares about being theRepublic’s most wanted criminal. Othertimes,when he’s like this and keeps hisdreams to himself, I know theymust beabouthis family—hismother’sdeath, orJohn’s.Maybe it’s better that he doesn’ttellmeaboutthose.Ihaveenoughofmyown dreams to haunt me, and I’m notsure I have the courage to know abouthis.

“You’re really set on finding thePatriots, aren’t you?” I say asDaypullsoutastalehunkof frieddough from thefood sack. This isn’t the first time I’vequestioned his insistence on coming toVegas, and I’m careful about the way Iapproachthetopic.Thelast thingIwantDay to think is that I don’t care about

Tess, or that I’m afraid tomeet upwiththe Republic’s notorious rebel group.“Tesswentwith themwillingly.Areweputtingherindangerbytryingtogetherback?”

Day doesn’t answer right away. Hetears the fried dough in half and offersme a piece. “Take some, yeah? Youhaven’teateninawhile.”

I hold a hand up politely. “No,thanks,” I reply. “I don’t like frieddough.”

InstantlyIwishIcouldstuffthewordsback inmymouth.Day lowers his eyesand puts the second half back into thefood sack, then quietly starts eating hisshare.Whatastupid,stupidthingformeto say. I don’t like fried dough. I can

practicallyhearwhat’sgoingthroughhishead.Poor little rich girl, with her posh

manners.Shecanaffordtodislikefood.Iscold myself in silence, then make amental note to treadmore carefully nexttime.

After a few mouthfuls, Day finallyresponds, “I’m not just going to leaveTess behind without knowing she’sokay.”

Of course he wouldn’t. Day wouldnever leave anyone he cares aboutbehind,especiallynottheorphangirlhe’sgrown up with on the streets. Iunderstandthepotentialvalueofmeetingthe Patriots too—after all, those rebelshad helped Day and me escape Los

Angeles. They’re large and wellorganized.Maybe theyhave informationabout what the Republic is doing withDay’s little brother, Eden. Maybe theycan even help heal Day’s festering legwound—ever since that fateful morningwhen Commander Jameson shot him inthe leg and arrested him, hiswound hasbeenona roller coasterofgettingbetterand then worse. Now his left leg is amassofbroken,bleedingflesh.Heneedsmedicalattention.

Still,wehaveoneproblem.“The Patriots won’t help us without

somesortofpayment,”Isay.“Whatcanwe give them?” For emphasis, I reachintomypockets anddigoutourmeagerstashofmoney.FourthousandNotes.All

Ihadonmebeforewemadearunforit.Ican’tbelievehowmuchImisstheluxuryof my old life. There are millions ofNotesundermyfamilyname,Notes thatI’llneverbeabletoaccessagain.

Day polishes off the dough andconsidersmywordswithhislipspressedtogether. “Yeah, I know,” he says,runningahandthroughhistangledblondhair. “But what do you suggest we do?Whoelsecanwegoto?”

I shake my head helplessly. Day isright about that—as little as I’d like tosee the Patriots again, our choices arepretty limited. Back when the Patriotshad first helped us escape from BatallaHall,whenDaywasstillunconsciousandIwaswoundedintheshoulder,I’dasked

the Patriots to let us go with them toVegas. I’dhoped theywouldcontinue tohelpus.

They’drefused.“You paid us to get Day out of his

execution.Youdidn’tpayustocarryyourwounded asses all the way to Vegas,”Kaedehadsaidtome.“Republicsoldiersarehotonyourtrail,forcryingoutloud.We’renotafull-servicesoupkitchen.I’mnot risking my neck for you two againunlessthere’smoneyinvolved.”

Upuntilthatpoint,I’dalmostbelievedthat the Patriots cared about us. ButKaede’swords had brought me back toreality.They’dhelpedusbecauseI’dpaidKaede 200,000 Republic Notes, themoneyI’dreceivedasarewardforDay’s

capture. Even then, it had taken somepersuasion before she sent her Patriotcomradesintohelpus.

Allowing Day to see Tess. HelpingDayfixhisbadleg.Givingusinfoaboutthe whereabouts of Day’s brother. Allthese things will require bribes. If onlyI’d had the chance to grabmoremoneybeforeweleft.

“Vegasistheworstpossiblecityforusto wander into by ourselves,” I say toDay as I gingerly rub my healingshoulder. “And the Patriots might notevengiveusanaudience.I’mjusttryingtomakesurewethinkthisthrough.”

“June, I know you’re not used tothinking of the Patriots as allies,” Dayreplies. “Youwere trained to hate them.

Buttheyareapotentialally.Itrustthemmore than I trust the Republic. Don’tyou?”

Idon’tknowifhemeansforhiswordsto sound insulting. Day has missed thepointI’mtryingtomake:thatthePatriotsprobablywon’thelpusandthenwe’llbestuck in a military city. But Day thinksI’m hesitating because I don’t trust thePatriots.That, deep down, I’m still JuneIparis, the Republic’s most celebratedprodigy . . . that I’m still loyal to thiscountry.Well,isthattrue?I’macriminalnow,andI’llneverbeabletogobacktothecomfortsofmyoldlife.The thoughtleaves a sick, empty feeling in mystomach,asifImissbeingtheRepublic’sdarling.MaybeIdo.

If I’m not the Republic’s darlinganymore,thenwhoamI?

“Okay.We’lltrytofindthePatriots,”Isay.It’sclearthatIwon’tbeabletocoaxhimintodoinganythingelse.

Daynods.“Thanks,”hewhispers.Thehintofasmileappearsonhislovelyface,pullingmeinwithitsirresistiblewarmth,buthedoesn’t trytohugme.Hedoesn’treach for my hand. He doesn’t scootcloser to let our shoulders touch, hedoesn’t stroke my hair, he doesn’twhisper reassuringly intomy ear or resthis head against mine. I hadn’t realizedhowmuchI’vegrowntocravetheselittlegestures. Somehow, in this moment, wefeelveryseparate.

Maybe his nightmare had been about

me.

***

It happens right afterwe reach themainstripofLasVegas.Theannouncement.

First of all, if there’s one place inVegasthatweshouldn’tbe, it’sthemainstrip. JumboTrons (six packed into eachblock)linebothsidesofthecity’sbusieststreet, their screens playing an endlessstream of news. Blinding clusters ofsearchlightssweepobsessivelyalong thewalls. The buildings heremust be twiceaslargeastheonesinLosAngeles.Thedowntown is dominated by toweringskyscrapers and enormous pyramid-shaped landing docks (eight of them,square bases, equilateral triangle sides)

withbrightlightsbeamingfromtheirtips.The desert air reeks of smoke and feelspainfully dry; no thirst-quenchinghurricanes here, nowaterfronts or lakes.Troopsmake theirwayupanddownthestreet (in oblong square formations,typical of Vegas), dressed in the black,navy-stripeduniformsofsoldiersrotatingout to and back from the warfront.Farther out, past this main street ofskyscrapers, are rows of fighter jets, allrolling into position on a wide strip ofairfield.Airshipsglideoverhead.

This is a military city, a world ofsoldiers.

The sun has just setwhenDay and Imakeourwayoutontothemainstripandhead toward the other end of the street.

Dayleansheavilyonmyshoulderaswetrytoblendinwiththecrowds,hisbreathshallow and his face drawnwith pain. Itry my best to support him withoutlooking out of place, but his weightmakesmewalkinanunbalancedline,asif I’d had toomuch to drink. “How arewedoing?”hemurmurs intomyear,hislips hot againstmy skin. I’mnot sure ifhe’shalf-deliriousfromthepainorifit’smy outfit, but I can’t say I mind hisblatant flirtation tonight. It’s a nicechangefromourawkwardtrainride.He’scareful to keep his head down, his eyeshiddenunderlonglashesandtiltedawayfromthesoldiersbustlingbackandforthalong the sidewalks. He shiftsuncomfortably in hismilitary jacket and

pants. A black soldier’s cap hides hiswhite-blond hair and blocks a goodportionofhisface.

“Well enough,” I reply. “Remember,you’re drunk. And happy. You’resupposed to be lusting over your escort.Trysmilingalittlemore.”

Dayplastersagiantartificialsmileonhisface.Ascharmingasever.“Aw,comeon, sweetheart. I thought I was doing aprettygoodjob.Igotmyarmaroundtheprettiestescortonthisblock—howcouldInot be lusting over you? Don’t I looklikeI’mlusting?Thisisme,lusting.”Hislashesflutteratme.

HelookssoridiculousthatIcan’thelplaughing. Another passerby glances atme. “Much better.” I shiver when he

nudges his face into the hollow of myneck.Stayincharacter.Concentrate.Thegold trinkets liningmywaist and anklesjingleaswewalk.“How’syourleg?”

Day pulls away a little. “Was doingfineuntilyoubroughtitup,”hewhispers,thenwincesashetripsoveracrackinthesidewalk. I tightenmy grip around him.“I’llmakeittoournextreststop.”

“Remember, two fingers against yourbrowifyouneedtostop.”

“Yeah,yeah.I’llletyouknowifI’mintrouble.”

Anotherpairofsoldierspushespastuswith their own escorts, grinning girlsdeckedout in sparkling eye shadow andelegantly painted face tattoos, theirbodiescoveredthinlybydancercostumes

andfakeredfeathers.Oneofthesoldierscatches sight ofme, laughs, and widenshisglazedeyes.

“What club you from, gorgeous?” heslurs.“Don’trememberyourfacearoundhere.” His hand goes for my exposedwaist, hungering for skin.Beforehe canreach me, Day’s arm whips out andshovesthesoldierroughlyaway.“Don’t touch her.” Day grins and

winks at the soldier, keeping up hiscarefreedemeanor,butthewarninginhiseyesandvoicemakestheothermanbackoff. He blinks at both of us, mumblessomethingunderhisbreath,andstaggersawaywithhisfriends.

I try to imitate theway those escortsgiggle, then give my hair a toss. “Next

time,justgowith it,”Ihiss inDay’searevenasIkisshimonthecheek,as ifhewere thebest customer ever. “Last thingweneedisafight.”

“What?”Dayshrugsandreturnstohispainful walk. “It’d be a pretty patheticfight.Hecouldbarelystand.”

I shake my head and decide not topointouttheirony.

Athirdgroupofsoldiersstumblespastusinaloud,drunkendaze.(Sevencadets,two lieutenants, gold armbands withDakota insignias,whichmeans they justarrived here from the north and haven’tyet exchanged their armbands for newoneswiththeirwarfrontbattalions.)Theyhave their arms wrapped around escortsfrom the Bellagio clubs—glittering girls

with scarlet chokers and B arm tattoos.These soldiers are probably stationed inthebarracksabovetheclubs.

Icheckmyowncostumeagain.Stolenfrom the dressing rooms of the SunPalace. On the surface, I seem like anyother escort. Gold chains and trinketsaroundmywaistandankles.Feathersandgold ribbons pinned into my scarlet(spray-painted),braidedhair. Smoky eyeshadow coated with glitter. A ferociousphoenix tattoo painted across my uppercheek and eyelid. Red silks leave myarms and waist exposed, and dark laceslinemyboots.

But there’s one thing onmy costumethattheothergirlsdon’twear.

A chain of thirteen little glittering

mirrors.They’repartiallyhiddenamongsttheother ornamentswrapped aroundmyankle,andfromadistanceitwouldseemlike another decoration. Completelyforgettable. But every now and then,when streetlights catch it, it becomes arow of brilliant, sparkling lights.Thirteen, thePatriots’ unofficial number.Thisisoursignaltothem.Theymustbewatching the main Vegas strip all thetime, so I know they’ll at least notice arowof flashing lightsonme.Andwhentheydo,they’llrecognizeusasthesamepairtheyhelpedrescueinLosAngeles.

The JumboTrons lining the streetcrackle for a second. The pledge shouldstart again any minute now. Unlike LosAngeles, Vegas runs the national pledge

five times a day—all the JumboTronswill pause in whatever ads or newsthey’re showing, replace them withenormous images of the Elector Primo,andthenplaythefollowingonthecity’sspeakersystem:Ipledgeallegiancetotheflagof thegreatRepublicofAmerica, toourElectorPrimo,toourgloriousstates,to unity against the Colonies, to ourimpendingvictory!

Not long ago, I used to recite thatpledgeeverymorningandafternoonwiththe same enthusiasm as anyone else,determined to keep the east coastColonies from taking control of ourpreciouswestcoastland.ThatwasbeforeI knew about the Republic’s role in myfamily’sdeaths.I’mnotsurewhatIthink

now.LettheColonieswin?The JumboTrons start broadcasting a

newsreel.Weeklyrecap.DayandIwatchtheheadlineszipbyonthescreens:

REPUBLIC TRIUMPHANTLY TAKESOVER MILES OF COLONIES’ LANDIN BATTLE FOR AMARILLO, EASTTEXAS

FLOODWARNINGCANCELLEDFORSACRAMENTO,CALIFORNIA

ELECTOR VISITS TROOPS ONNORTHERN WARFRONT, BOOSTSMORALE

Most of them are fairly uninteresting—theusualheadlinescominginfromthewarfront, updates on weather and laws,quarantinenoticesforVegas.

Then Day taps my shoulder and

gesturesatoneofthescreens.

QUARANTINE IN LOS ANGELESEXTENDED TO EMERALD, OPALSECTORS

“Gem sectors?” Day whispers. Myeyes are still fixed on the screen, eventhough the headline has passed. “Don’trichfolkslivethere?”

I’m not sure what to say in returnbecause I’m still trying to process theinformation myself. Emerald and Opalsectors...Isthisamistake?Orhavetheplagues in LA gotten serious enough tobebroadcastonVegasJumboTrons?I’venever, ever seen quarantines extendedinto the upper-class sectors. EmeraldsectorbordersRuby—doesthatmeanmyhome sector is going to be quarantined

too?Whataboutourvaccinations?Aren’ttheysupposedtopreventthingslikethis?I think back onMetias’s journal entries.Oneofthesedays,he’dsaid,therewillbeavirusunleashedthatnoneofuswillbeable to stop. I remember the thingsMetias had unveiled, the undergroundfactories, the rampant diseases . . . thesystematicplagues.Ashiverrunsthroughme. Los Angeles will quell it, I tellmyself. The plague will die down, justlikeitalwaysdoes.

More headlines sweep by. A familiaroneisaboutDay’sexecution.ItplaystheclipofthefiringsquadyardwhereDay’sbrother John took the bullets meant forDay, then fell facedown on the ground.Dayturnshiseyestothepavement.

Anotherheadlineisnewer.Itsaysthis:MISSINGSSNO:2001963034------------------------JUNEIPARISAGENT, LOS ANGELES CITYPATROLAGE/GENDER:15,FEMALEHEIGHT:5’4”HAIR:BROWNEYES:BROWNLAST SEEN NEAR BATALLA HALL,LOSANGELES,CA350,000REPUBLICNOTESREWARDIFSEEN,REPORTIMMEDIATELYTOYOURLOCALOFFICIALThat’s what the Republic wants their

people to think. That I’m missing, thatthey hope to bring me back safe and

sound.What they don’t say is that theyprobably want me dead. I helped thecountry’smostnotoriouscriminalescapehisexecution,aidedtherebelPatriotsinastaged uprising against a militaryheadquarters,andturnedmybackontheRepublic.

But they wouldn’t want thatinformationgoingpublic,sotheyhuntformequietly.Themissingreportshowsthephoto from my military ID—a face-forward,unsmilingshotofme,barefacedbut for a touch of gloss, dark hair tiedback inahighponytail, a goldRepublicseal gleaming against the black of mycoat. I’mgrateful that thephoenix tattoohideshalfofmyfacerightnow.

Wemakeit to themiddleof themain

stripbeforethespeakerscrackleagainforthepledge.DayandIstopwalking.Daystumbles again and almost falls, but Imanagetocatchhimfastenoughtokeephimupright.Peopleonthestreetlookupto theJumboTrons (except for a handfulof soldiers who line the edges of eachintersectioninordertoensureeveryone’sparticipation). The screens flicker. Theirimages vanish into blackness, and arethenreplacedbyhigh-definitionportraitsoftheElectorPrimo.Ipledgeallegiance—It’s almost comforting to repeat these

wordswith everyone else on the streets,atleastuntilIremindmyselfofallthat’schanged. I think back to the eveningwhen I’d first captured Day, when the

Elector and his son came to personallycongratulate me for putting a notoriouscriminal behind bars. I recall how theElector had looked in person. Theportraits on the JumboTrons show thesame green eyes, strong jaw, and curledlocksofdarkhair . . .buttheyleaveoutthe coldness in his expression and thesickly color of his skin. His portraitsmake him seem fatherly, with healthypinkcheeks.NothowIrememberhim.—to the flag of the great Republic of

America—Suddenly the broadcast pauses.

There’s silence on the streets, then achorus of confused whispers. I frown.Unusual. I’ve never seen the pledgeinterrupted, not even once. And the

JumboTron system is hooked up so onescreen’soutageshouldn’taffecttherest.

Day looks up to the stalled screenswhilemyeyesdart to thesoldiers liningthestreet.“Freakaccident?”hesays.Hislabored breathing worries me.Hang onjustalittlelonger.Wecan’tstophere.

I shake my head. “No. Look at thetroops.” I nod subtly in their direction.“They’ve changed their stances. Theirrifles aren’t slung over their shouldersanymore—they’re holding them now.They’rebracingthemselvesforareactionfromthecrowd.”

Dayshakeshisheadslowly.Helooksunsettlingly pale. “Something’shappened.”

The Elector’s portrait vanishes from

the JumboTrons and is immediatelyreplaced with a new series of images.They show a man who is the spittingimage of the Elector—only muchyounger, barely in his twenties,with thesamegreeneyesanddark,wavyhair.InaflashI recall the touchofexcitement I’dfelt when I first met him at thecelebratory ball. This is AndenStavropoulos, the son of the ElectorPrimo.

Day’s right. Something big hashappened.TheRepublic’sElectorhasdied.A new, upbeat voice takes over the

speakers.“Beforecontinuingourpledge,wemustinstructallsoldiersandciviliansto replace the Elector portraits in your

homes.Youmay pick up a new portraitfrom your local police headquarters.Inspections to ensure your cooperationwillcommenceintwoweeks.”

The voice announces the supposedresults of a nationwide election. Butthere’s not a single mention of theElector’s death. Or of his son’spromotion.

TheRepublichassimplymovedontothenextElectorwithoutskippingabeat,as ifAndenwere thesamepersonashisfather. My head swims—I try toremember what I’d learned in schoolabout choosing a new Elector. TheElectoralwayspicked thesuccessor,andanational electionwouldconfirm it. It’sno surprise thatAnden is next in line—

but our Elector had been in power fordecades, long before I was born. Nowhe’s gone. Our world has shifted in amatterofseconds.

Like me and Day, everyone on thestreet understands what the appropriatethingtodois:Asifoncue,weallbowtothe JumboTron portraits and recite therestofthepledge thathas reappearedonthe screens.“—to ourElectorPrimo, toour glorious states, to unity against theColonies,toourimpendingvictory!”Werepeat this over and over for as long asthe words stay on the screen, no onedaring to stop. I glance at the soldierslining the streets. Their hands havetightened on their rifles. Finally, afterwhat seems like hours, the words

disappear and the JumboTrons return totheir usual news rolls. We all beginwalking again, as if nothing hadhappened.

Then Day stumbles. This time I feelhim tremble, and my heart clenches.“Stay with me,” I whisper. To mysurprise I almost say, Stay with me,Metias.Itrytoholdhimup,butheslips.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs back. Hisface is shiny with sweat, his eyes shuttightly in pain. He holds two fingers tohisbrow.Stop.Hecan’tmakeit.

I look wildly around us. Too manysoldiers—westillhavealotofgroundtocover. “No, you have to,” I say firmly.“Staywithme.Youcanmakeit.”

Butit’snousethistime.BeforeIcan

catch him, he falls onto his hands andcollapsestotheground.

THEELECTORPRIMOISDEAD.This whole display seems pretty

anticlimactic, doesn��t it? You’dthink the Elector’s death would beaccompanied by a goddy funeralmarch of some sort, panic in thestreets, national mourning, marchingsoldiersfiringoffsalutes intothesky.An enormous banquet, flags flyinglow, white banners hanging overevery building. Something crackedlike that. But I haven’t lived longenoughtoseeanElectordie.Outsideof thepromotionof the lateElector’s

desired successor and some fakenational election for show, I wouldn’tknowhowitgoes.IguesstheRepublicjustpretendsit

never happened and skips rightahead to the next Elector. Now Iremember reading about this in oneof my grade school classes. Whenthe time comes for a new ElectorPrimo, the country must remind thepeople to focus on the positive.Mourning brings weakness andchaos. Moving forward is the onlyway. Yeah. The government’s thatscaredofshowinguncertaintytotheircivilians.ButIonlyhaveasecondtodwellon

this.

We’ve barely finished the newpledge when a rush of pain hits myleg.BeforeIcanstopmyself,Idoubleover and collapse down onto mygood knee.A couple of soldiers turntheirheadsinourdirection.IlaughasloudasIcan,pretendingthetearsinmy eyes are from amusement. Juneplaysalong,butIcanseethefearonher face. “Come on,” she whispersfrantically. One of her slender armswraps aroundmy waist, and I try totake the hand she offers me. Allaround the sidewalk, people arenoticing us for the first time. “Youhavetogetup.Comeon.”It takes all my strength to keep a

smile on my face. Focus on June. I

try to stand—then fall again. Damn.The pain is too much. White lightstabs at the back of my eyes.Breathe, I tellmyself.You can’t faintinthemiddleoftheVegasstrip.“What’sthematter,soldier?”A young, hazel-eyed corporal is

standing in front of uswith his armscrossed. I can tell he’s kind of in ahurry, but apparently it’s not urgentenoughtokeephimfromcheckingonus.Heraisesaneyebrowatme.“Areyou all right? You’re pale asporcelain,kid.”Run. I feel an urge to scream at

June. Get out of here—there’s stilltime. But she saves me fromspeaking. “You’llhave to forgivehim,

sir,” she says. “I’ve never seen aBellagiopatrondrinksomuch inonesitting.” She shakes her headregretfully and waves him back withone hand. “You might want to stepaway,” she continues. “I think heneeds to throw up.” I find myselfamazed—yet again—at howsmoothly she can become anotherperson.ThesamewayshefooledmeonthestreetsofLake.The corporal gives her an

ambivalent frownbefore turningbacktome.Hiseyes focusonmy injuredleg.Even though it’s hiddenunder athicklayerofpants,hestudiesit.“I’mnot sure your escort knows whatshe’s talking about. Seems like you

could use a trip to the hospital.” Heraises a hand to wave down apassingmedictruck.I shake my head. “No, thank you,

sir,” I manage to say with a weaklaugh. “This darling’s telling me toomanyjokes.Gottacatchmybreathisall—then gotta go sleep it off.We’re—”Buthe’snotpayingattentiontowhat

I’msaying.Icursesilently.Ifwegotothehospital,they’llfingerprintus,andthenthey’llknowexactlywhoweare—the Republic’s two most wantedfugitives.Idon’tdareglanceatJune,but I knowshe’s trying to findawayouttoo.Thensomeonepokesherheadout

frombehindthecorporal.She’s a girl both June and I

recognize right away, although I’venever seen her in a freshly polishedRepublic uniform before. A pair ofpilotgoggleshangsaroundherneck.She walks around the corporal andstands in front of me, smilingindulgently. “Hey!” she says. “Ithought that was you—I saw youstumbling around like a madman allthewaydownthestreet!”Thecorporalwatchesasshedrags

metomy feetandclapsmehardontheback. Iwince,butgiveheragrinthat says I’ve known her all my life.“Missedyou,”Idecidetosay.Thecorporalgesturesimpatientlyat

thenewgirl.“Youknowhim?”Thegirl flipsherblack,bobbedhair

andgiveshimthemostflirtatiousgrinI’veeverseen inmy life. “Know him,sir?We were in the same squadronour first year.” She winks at me.“Seemslikehe’sbeenuptonogoodintheclubsagain.”The corporal snorts in disinterest

androllshiseyes.“Airforcekids,eh?Well, make sure he doesn’t causeanotherpublicscene.I’vehalfamindto call your commander.” Then heseems to remember what he’d beenrushingtodoandhurriesaway.Iexhale.Couldwehavepulledany

closerofacall?After he leaves, the girl smiles

winsomely at me. Even under asleeve,Icantellthatoneofherarmsis in a cast. “My barracks are closeby,” she suggests. Her voice has anedge to it that tells me she’s nothappytoseeus.“Howaboutyourestthereforawhile?Youcanevenbringyournewplaything.”ThegirlnodsatJuneasshesaysthis.Kaede. She hasn’t changed a bit

sincetheafternoonImether,whenIthoughtshewasjustabartenderwithavinetattoo.BackbeforeIknewshewasaPatriot.“Leadtheway,”Ireply.Kaede helps June guide me down

another block. She stops us at theelaborately carved front doors of

Venezia, a high-rise set of barracks,thenushersuspastaboredentranceguardandthroughthebuilding’smainhall. The ceiling is high enough tomakemedizzy,andIcatchglimpsesofRepublicflagsandElectorportraitshanging between each stone pillarthat lines the walls. Guards arealready rushing to replace theportraits with updated ones. Kaedeguides us along while blabbing anonstopstreamofrandomsmalltalk.Herblackhair’sevenshorternow,cutstraight and evenwith her chin, andhersmooth-liddedeyesaresmudgedwith deep navy eye shadow. I nevernoticedthatsheandIareprettymuchthe same height. Soldiers swarm

backandforth,and Ikeepexpectingoneofthemtorecognizemefrommywanted ads and sound the alarm.They’ll notice June behind herdisguise.OrrealizethatKaedeisn’tarealsoldier.Thenthey’llallbeontopof us, and we won’t even have achance.But no one questions us, and my

limpactuallyhelpsusblendinhere;Ican see several other soldiers witharmand leg casts. Kaede guides usonto theelevators—I’venever riddenone, because I’ve never been in abuildingwithfullelectricity.Wegetoffontheeighthfloor.Fewersoldiersareup here. In fact, we pass through acompletelyemptysectionofhallway.

Here, she finally drops her perkyfaçade. “You two lookaboutasgoodasgutterrats,”Kaedemuttersasshetaps softly against one of the doors.“That leg still buggin’ you, yeah?You’reprettystubbornifyoucameallthe way out here to find us.” Shesneers at June. “Those goddyobnoxiouslightsstrungonyourdressnearlyblindedme.”Juneexchangesaglancewithme.I

know exactly what she’s thinking.How in the world can a group ofcriminals be living in one of Vegas’slargestmilitarybarracks?Something clicks behind the door.

Kaede throws it open, then walks inwith her arms outstretched.

“Welcome toourhumblehome,” shedeclares with a grand sweep of herhands.“Atleastforthenextfewdays.Nottooshabby,yeah?”Idon’tknowwhatIexpectedtosee.

A group of teens, maybe, or somelow-budgetoperation.Insteadweenteraroomwhereonly

twootherpeoplearewaitingforus. Ilook around in surprise. I’ve neverbeen inside a real Republic barrackbefore,butthisonemustbereservedfor officers—there’s no way they’duse this to house regular soldiers.Firstoff,it’snotalongroomwithrowsofbunkbeds. Itcouldbeanupscaleapartment for one or two officials.Thereareelectriclightsontheceiling

andinthelamps.Marbletilesofsilverand cream cover the floor, the wallsare painted in alternating shades ofoff-whiteandadeepwinecolor, andthecouchesandtableshavethickredrugs cushioning their legs. A smallmonitor sits flush against one of thewalls, mutely showing the samenewsreel that’s playing on theJumboTronsoutside.I letouta lowwhistle. “Not shabby

atall.”Ismile,butitfadesawaywhenI glance over at June. Her face istense beneath her phoenix tattoo.Even though her eyes stay neutral,she’s definitely unhappy and not asimpressedasIam.Well,whyshouldshebe?Ibetherownapartmenthad

been just as nice as this. Her eyeswander around the room in anorganizedsweep,noticingthingsthatI’d probably never see. Sharp andcalculating like any good Republicsoldier.Oneofherhandslingersnearherwaist,whereshekeepsapairofknives.An instant later, my attention turns

to a girl standing behind the centercouch.Shelockshereyesontomineandsquintsas if tomakesureshe’sreallyseeingme.Hermouthopensinshock,smallpink lips formed intoanO.Herhairistooshorttobraidnow—itdrapestothemiddleofherneckina messy bob.Wait a sec. My heartskipsabeat. Ihadn’t recognizedher

becauseofthathair.Tess.“You’rehere!” sheexclaims.Before

Icanreply,Tessrunsovertomeandthrows her arms around my neck. Ihobble backward, struggling to keepmy balance. “It’s really you—I can’tbelieveit,you’rehere!You’reokay!”Ican’tthinkstraight.Forasecond,I

can’tevenfeelthepaininmyleg.AllIcandoiswrapmyarmstightaroundTess’s waist, bury my head in hershoulder, and close my eyes. Theweight on my mind lifts and leavesme weak with relief. I take a deepbreath, taking comfort in herwarmthand the sweet scent of her hair. I’dseenhereverysingledaysinceIwas

twelveyearsold—butafteronlyafewweeksapart,Icansuddenlyseethatshe’snotthatten-year-oldkidI’dmetin a backalley.She seemsdifferent.Older. I feel something stir in mychest.“Gladtoseeyou,cousin,”Iwhisper.

“Youlookgood.”Tess just squeezes me tighter. I

realize that she’s holdingher breath;she’stryinghardnottocry.Kaedeistheonewhointerruptsthe

moment. “Enough,” she says. “Thisisn’tthedamnopera.”Webreakaparttolaughawkwardlyateachother,andTesswipeshereyeswiththebackofa hand. She exchanges anuncomfortable smile with June.

Finally, she turns away and hurriesback to where another person, aman,iswaiting.Kaede opens her mouth to say

something else, but the man stopsher with a gloved hand. Thissurprises me. Judging from howbossysheis,Iwould’veassumedthatKaede’sinchargeofthegroup.Can’timagine this girl taking orders fromanyone.Butnowshe justpursesherlips and flops onto the couch as theman rises to address us. He’s tall,probably inhisearlyforties,andbuiltwithabitofstrengthinhisshoulders.His skin is light brown and his curlyhair ispulledback intoashort, frizzytail. A pair of thin, black-rimmed

glassesrestonhisnose.“So.Youmustbe theonewe’veall

heard so much about,” he says.“Pleasedtomeetyou,Day.”I wish I could do better than

standing hunched over with pain.“Likewise.Thankyouforseeingus.”“Please forgiveus fornotescorting

you both to Vegas ourselves,” hesays apologetically, adjusting hisglasses. “It seems cold, but I don’tlikeriskingmyrebelsneedlessly.”Hiseyes swivel to June. “And I’mguessing you’re the Republic’sprodigy.”June inclinesherhead inagesture

thatoozeshighclass.“Your escort costume is so

convincing,though.Let’sjustconducta quick test to prove your identity.Pleasecloseyoureyes.”June hesitates for a second, then

obliges.Themanwavesahand toward the

frontof theroom. “Nowhit the targetonthewallwithoneofyourknives.”Iblink,thenstudythewalls.Target?

Ihadn’tevennoticedthatadartboardwith a three-ring target is on one ofthe walls near the door we camethrough. But June doesn’t miss abeat. She flips out a knife from herwaist, turns, and throws it straighttowardthedartboardwithoutopeninghereyes.Itslamsdeep into theboard, justa

fewinchesshyofthebull’s-eye.The man claps his hands. Even

Kaede utters a grunt of approval,followedbyarollofhereyes.“Oh,forchrissake,” I hear her mutter. Juneturns back to us and waits for theman’s response. I’m stunned intosilence.Never inmy lifehave Iseenanyonehandleablade like that.Andeven though I’ve seen plenty ofamazingthingsfromJune, this is thefirst time I’ve witnessed her using aweapon.Thesightsendsbotha thrilland a shiver through me, bringingmemories that I’ve forced into aclosetinmymind,thoughtsIneedtokeepburiedifIwanttostayfocused,keepgoing.

“Pleased to meet you, Ms. Iparis,”the man says, tucking his handsbehindhisback.“Now, tellme.Whatbringsyouhere?”June nods at me, so I speak up

instead. “We need your help,” I say.“Please.IcameforTess,butI’malsotryingtofindmybrotherEden.Idon’tknow what the Republic’s using himfororwherethey’rekeepinghim.Wefigured you were the only peopleoutsidethemilitarywhomightbeableto get information. And finally, itseems like my leg needs to beoperatedon.” I suck inmybreathasanother spasm of agony sears mywound.Themanglancesdownattheleg;hiseyebrowsfurrowinconcern.

“That’s quite a list,” he says. “Youshould sit. You seem a bit unsteadyon your feet.” He waits patiently formetomove,butwhenIdon’tbudge,he clears his throat. “Well, you’veintroduced yourselves—it’s only fairforme to do the same.My name isRazor, and I currently head thePatriots. I’ve been leading theorganization for quite a few years,longer than you’ve been causingtrouble on the streets of Lake. Youwant our help, Day, but I seem toremember your declining ourinvitationstojoinus.Severaltimes.”Heturnstotintedwindowsthatface

the pyramid-shaped landing docksliningthestrip.Theviewfromhereis

amazing. Airships glide back andforth in the night sky, covered inlights, several of them docking rightover the pyramids’ tops like puzzlepieces. Occasionally we seeformations of fighter jets, blackeaglelikeshapes, takingoff fromandlanding on the airship decks. It’s anever-ending stream of activity. Myeyes dart from building to building;thepyramiddocksinparticularwouldbe the easiest to run, with groovescutintoeachsideandsteplikeridgesliningtheiredges.I realize thatRazor iswaitingagain

for me to respond. “I wasn’t entirelycomfortable with your organization’sbodycount,”Ioffer.

“Butnowapparentlyyouare,”Razorsays.Hiswordsarescolding,buthistone is sympathetic as he puts hispalms together and presses thefingertips to his lips. “Because youneedus.Correct?”Well, I can’t argue with that. “I’m

sorry,” I say. “We’re running out ofoptions. But believe me, I’llunderstand if you turn us away. Justdon’t turn us in to the Republic,please.”Iforceasmile.Hechucklesatmysarcasm.Ifocus

onthecrookedbumpofhisnoseandwonder if he’d broken it before. “Atfirst, I was tempted to let you bothwanderVegasuntilyouwerecaught,”he continues. His voice has the

smoothnessofanaristocrat,culturedand charismatic. “I’ll be blunt withyou.Yourskillsarenotasvaluabletomeastheyusedtobe,Day.Overtheyears,we’ve recruitedotherRunners—and now, with all due respect,addinganotherone toour team isn’ta priority. Your friend alreadyknows”—he pauses to nod at June—“that thePatriotsarenota charity.You’re asking us for a great deal ofhelp.Whatwillyougiveusinreturn?Youcan’tbecarryingmuchmoney.”Junegivesmeapointed look.She

may have warned me about this onourtrainride,butIcan’tgiveupnow.If the Patriots turn us down, we’llreallybeonourown.“Wedon’thave

alotofmoney,”Iadmit.“I’mnotgoingto speak for June, but if there isanything I can do in exchange foryourhelp,justsaytheword.”Razorcrosseshisarms,thenwalks

to the apartment’s bar, an elaborategranite counter embedded into thewall and shelving dozens of glassbottles of all shapes and sizes. Hetakes his time pouring a drink; wewait. When he finishes preparing it,he takes the glass in one hand andwanders back to us. “There issomething you can offer,” he starts.“Fortunately,you’vearrivedonaveryinteresting night.” He takes a sip ofthedrinkandsitsdownonthecouch.“Asyouprobablylearnedwhiledown

on the street, the former ElectorPrimo died today—something manyin the Republic’s elite circles haveseen coming. At any rate, his son,Anden, is now the Republic’s newElector.Practicallyaboy,andgreatlydislikedbyhis father’sSenators.”Heleans forward, saying each wordcarefullyandwithweight.“RarelyhastheRepublicbeenasvulnerableasitis now. There will never be a bettertime to spark a revolution. Yourphysicalskillsmightbeexpendabletous, but thereare two things youcangiveus thatourotherRunnerscan’t.One: your fame, your status as thepeople’s champion. And two”—hepointshisdrinkatJune—“your lovely

friend.”Istiffenatthat,butRazor’seyesare

warm as honey and I find myselfwaiting to hear the rest of hisproposal.“I’d be happy to take you in, and

you’llbothbewellcaredfor.Day,wecanget youanexcellentdoctor, andpayforanoperationthat’llmakeyourlegbetter thannew. Idon’tknow thewhereabouts of your brother, but wecanhelpyoufindhim,andeventually,wecanhelpyoubothescapeintotheColonies if that’s what you want. Inreturn,we’d ask for your helpwith anewproject.Noquestionsasked.Butyou’ll both need to pledge yourallegiance to the Patriots before I’ll

reveal any details about what you’llbedoing.Thesearemyterms.Whatdoyouthink?”JunelooksfrommetoRazor.Then

she lifts her chin higher. “I’m in. I’llpledgeallegiancetothePatriots.”There’s a slight falter in herwords,

likesheknowsshe’s truly turnedherbackontheRepublic.Iswallowhard.I hadn’t expected her to agree soquickly—I’d thought she would needsome persuading before shecommittedherselftoagroupthatsheso obviously hated just a fewweeksago.The fact that she said yes tugsatmy heart. If June is giving herselftothePatriots, thenshemustrealizethat we have no better choice. And

she’s doing this formy sake. I raisemyownvoice.“Metoo.”Razorsmiles,risesfromthecouch,

and holds up his drink as if to toastus. Then he sets it down on thecoffee table and comes over to giveeach of us a firm handshake. “It’sofficial, then.You’regoing tohelpusassassinatethenewElectorPrimo.”

IDON’TTRUSTRAZOR.I don’t trust him because I don’t

understandhowhecanaffordtohideoutin such nice quarters. An officer’squarters, in Vegas of all places. Theserugsareeachworthatleast29,000Notes,made from some sort of expensivesynthetic fur. Ten electric lights in oneroom—all switched on. His uniform isspotless and new. He even has acustomized gun hanging on his belt.Stainless steel, probably lightweight,hand embellished. My brother used tohave guns like that. Eighteen thousand

Notes and up for a single one. What’smore, Razor’s gun must be hacked. Noway the Republic is tracking those forfingerprints or locations. Where did thePatriotsget themoneyandskills tohacksuchadvancedequipment?

Thisallleadsmetotwotheories:One—Razor must be some sort of

commander in the Republic, a double-crossingofficer.Howelsecanhestay inthis barrack apartment without beingdetected?

Two—thePatriotsarebeingfundedbysomeone with deep pockets. TheColonies?Possibly.

In spite of all my suspicions andguesses,Razor’s offer is still as good aswe’regoingtoget.Wehavenomoneyto

buy help on the black market, andwithout help, we have no chance offinding Eden or making it to theColonies. Also, I’m not even sure wecouldhaveturneddownRazor’soffer.Hecertainlyhasn’tthreatenedusinanyway,butIdoubthe’djustletuswalkbackoutontothestreets,either.

Outofthecornerofmyeye,IseeDaywaiting for my response to Razor’sstatement. All I need to see are thepaleness of his lips and the pain lacedacross his face, just a few of the dozensignsofhisfadingstrength.Atthispoint,I thinkhis lifedependsonourdealwithRazor.

“AssassinatingthenewElector,”Isay.“Done.” My words sound foreign and

distant. For a moment, I think back onmeetingAndenandhis late father at theball celebrating Day’s capture. Thethought of killing Anden makes mystomach churn. He’s the Republic’sElector now. After everything that’shappened to my family, I should behappyfortheopportunitytokillhim.ButI’mnot,anditconfusesme.

If Razor notices my hesitation, hedoesn’t show it. Instead, he nodsapprovingly. “I’ll put out an urgent callforaMedic.Theyprobablywon’tbeabletocomeuntilmidnight—that’swhen theshiftschange.It’sthefastestwecanbeonsuch a tight schedule. Meanwhile, let’sget you two out of those disguises andinto something more presentable.” He

glances over at Kaede. She’s leaningagainstthecouchwithhunchedshouldersand an irritated scowl, chewing absentlyonalockofherhair.“Showthemto theshower and give them a pair of freshuniforms. Afterward, we’ll have a latesupper, andwe can talkmore about ourplan.” He spreads his arms wide.“Welcome to the Patriots, my youngfriends.We’regladtohaveyou.”

And just like that, we’re officiallyboundtothem.Maybeit’snotsuchabadthing, either—maybe I never should’veargued with Day about this in the firstplace.Kaedemotionsforustofollowherinto an adjoining hall in the apartmentand guides us to a spacious bathroom,completewithmarble tilesandporcelain

sinks, mirror and toilet, bathtub andshower with frosted glass walls. I can’thelp admiring it all. This is wealthbeyond even what I had in my Rubysectorapartment.

“Don’tbeallnightaboutit,”shesays.“Take turns—or get cozy and showertogether, if that’s faster. Justbebackoutthere in a half hour.”Kaede grins atme(although the smile doesn’t touch hereyes), thengivesDaya thumbs-upasheleansheavily onmy shoulder. She turnsawayanddisappearsbackdown thehallbefore I can reply. I don’t think she’sforgiven me entirely for breaking herarm.

DayslouchestheinstantKaede’sgone.“Can you help me sit down?” he

whispers.I put the toilet cover down and ease

him gently onto it. He stretches out hisgoodleg,thentenseshisjawashetriestostraighten out the injured one. A moanescapes his lips. “I’ve gotta admit,” hemutters,“I’vehadbetterdays.”

“AtleastTessissafe,”Ireply.This eases some of the pain in his

eyes. “Yes,” he echoes, sighing deeply.“At least Tess is safe.” I feel anunexpected twinge of guilt. Tess’s facehad looked so sweet, so wholly good.And the two of them were separatedbecauseofme.

AmIgood?Idon’treallyknow.IhelpDaytakeoffhisjacketandcap.

Hislonghairdrapesinstringsacrossmy

arms.“Letmeseethatleg.”Ikneel,thenpull a knife from my belt. I slice thefabricofhispantleguptothemiddleofhis thigh. His leg muscles are lean andtense, and my hands tremble as theybrushup alonghis skin.Gingerly, I pullthe fabric apart to expose his bandagedwound.Webothsuck inourbreath.Thecloth has a massive circle of dark, wetblood, and underneath it, the wound isoozingand swelling. “ThatMedicbettergetheresoon,” Isay.“Areyousureyoucanshoweronyourown?”

Day jerks his eyes away, and hischeeksturnred.“OfcourseIcan.”

I raiseaneyebrowathim.“Youcan’tevenstand.”

“Fine.” He hesitates, then blushes. “I

guessIcouldusesomehelp.”Iswallow.“Well.Abathinstead,then.

Let’sdowhatwehavetodo.”Istartfillingupthebathtubwithwarm

water. Then, I take the knife and slowlycut through the blood-soaked bandageswrapped around Day’s wound. We sitthereinsilence,neitherofusmeetingtheother’s eyes. Thewound itself is as badas ever, a fist-size mass of pulped fleshthatDayavoidslookingat.

“You don’t have to do this,” hemutters, rolling his shoulders in anattempttorelax.

“Right.” I givehimawry smile. “I’lljustwait outside the bathroom door andcome help after you slip and knockyourselfout.”

“No,”Dayreplies.“Imean,youdon’thavetojointhePatriots.”

My smile dies. “Well, we don’t havemuch of a choice, do we? Razor wantsbothofusonboard,orhe’snotgoingtohelpusatall.”

Day’s hand touches my arm for asecond, stopping me in the middle ofuntyinghisboots.“Whatdoyouthinkoftheirplan?”

“Assassinating the new Elector?” Iturn away, concentrating on unlacing,then loosening each of his boots ascarefullyasIcan.It’saquestionIhaven’tfigured out yet, so I deflect it. “Well,whatdoyouthink?Imean,yougooutofyour way to avoid hurting people. Thismustbekindofashock.”

I’m startled when Day just shrugs.“There’s a time and place foreverything.” His voice is cold, harsherthan usual. “I never saw the point ofkillingRepublic soldiers. I mean, I hatethem, but they’re not the source. Theyjust obey their superiors. The Elector,though? Idon’tknow.Getting ridof theperson in charge of this whole goddysystemseemslikeasmallpricetopayforstartingarevolution.Don’tyouthink?”

I can’t help feeling some admirationfor Day’s attitude. What he says makesperfect sense. Still, I wonder if hewould’ve said the same thing a fewweeks ago, before everything that hadhappened to his family. I don’t daremention the time I’d been introduced to

Andenat thecelebratoryball. It’sharderto reconcile yourself to killing someonewho you’ve actually met—and admired—inperson.“Well, like Isaid.Wedon’thaveachoice.”

Day’s lips tighten.He knows I’m nottelling himwhat I really think. “ItmustbehardforyoutoturnyourbackonyourElector,” he says. His hands stay slackbesidehim.

Ikeepmyheaddownandstartpullingoffhisboots.

While I put his boots aside, Dayshrugs out of his jacket and startsunbuttoning his vest. It reminds me ofwhenI’dfirstmethimbackonthestreetsofLake.Backthen,hewouldtakeoffhisvesteverynightandgiveittoTesstouse

as a pillow. That was themost I’d everseenDayundress.Nowheunbuttonshiscollarshirt,exposingtherestofhisthroatandasliverofhischest.Iseethependantloopedaroundhisneck,theUnitedStatesquarterdollarcoveredwithsmoothmetalon both sides. In the quiet dark of therailcar, he’d told me about his father’sbringing it back from the warfront. Hepauseswhenhefinishesundoingthelastbutton,thencloseshiseyes.Icanseethepainslashedacrosshisface,andthesighttearsatme.TheRepublic’smostwantedcriminal is just a boy, sitting beforeme,suddenly vulnerable, laying all hisweaknessesoutformetosee.

I straighten and reach up to his shirt.Myhandstouchtheskinofhisshoulders.

Itrytokeepmybreathingeven,mymindsharp and calculated. But as I help himpullofftheshirtandrevealhisbarearmsand chest, I can feel the corners of mylogicgrowing fuzzy.Day is fit and leanunder his clothes, his skin surprisinglysmoothexceptforanoccasionalscar(hehasfourfaintonesonhischestandwaist,another one that’s a thin diagonal linerunning from left collarbone to right hipbone,andahealingscabonhisarm).Heholds me with his gaze. It’s hard todescribe Day to those who have neverseen him before—exotic, unique,overwhelming. He’s very close now,close enough for me to see the tinyrippled imperfection in the ocean of hisleft eye. His breaths come out hot and

shallow. Heat rises onmy cheeks, but Idon’twanttoturnaway.

“We’re in this together, right?” hewhispers. “Youandme?Youwant tobehere,yeah?”

There’sguiltinhisquestions.“Yes,”Ireply.“Ichosethis.”

Day pulls me close enough for ournosestotouch.“Iloveyou.”

My heart flips in excitement at thedesireinhisvoice—butatthesametime,the technical part of my brain instantlyflaresup.Highlyimprobable, it scoffs.Amonthago,hedidn’tevenknowIexisted.SoIblurtout,“No,youdon’t.Notyet.”

Day furrows his eyebrows, as if I’dhurthim.“Imeanit,”hesaysagainstmylips.

I’m helpless against the ache in hisvoice.Butstill.They’rejustthewordsofaboy in theheatof themoment. I try toforcemyselftosaythesamebacktohim,butthewordsfreezeonmytongue.Howcanhebesosureofthis?Icertainlydon’tunderstandallthesestrangenewfeelingsinsideme—amIherebecauseIlovehim,orbecauseIowehim?

Daydoesn’twait formyanswer.Oneof his hands trails aroundmywaist andthenflattensagainstmyback,pullingmeclosersothatI’mseatedonhisgoodleg.Agasp escapesme.Then he presses hislips against mine, and my mouth parts.His other hand reaches up to touch myface and neck; his fingers are at oncecoarseandrefined.Dayslowlymoveshis

lips away to kiss the side ofmymouth,thenmy cheek, then the line ofmy jaw.Mychest isnowsolidlyagainsthis, andmythighbrushesagainstthesoftridgeofhis hip bone. I close my eyes. Mythoughtsfeelmuffledanddistant,hiddenbehind a shimmery haze ofwarmth.Anundercurrent of practical details in mymindstrugglesuptothesurface.

“Kaede’s been gone for eightminutes,”IbreathethroughDay’skisses.“Theyexpectusbackoutthereintwenty-two.”

Day twines his hand throughmyhairandgentlypullsmyheadback,exposingmyneck.“Letthemwait,”hemurmurs.Ifeelhislipsworksoftlyalongtheskinofmythroat,eachkissrougherthanthelast,

more impatient, more urgent, hungrier.Hislipscomebackuptomymouth,andIcanfeel theremnantsofanyself-controlslipping away from him, replaced withsomething instinctive and savage. I loveyou, his lips are trying to convince me.They’remakingmesoweak that I’monthevergeof collapsing to the floor. I’vekissedafewboysinthepast...butDaymakesmefeellikeI’veneverbeenkissedbefore. Like theworld hasmelted awayintosomethingunimportant.

Suddenly he breaks free and groanssoftlyinpain.Iseehimsqueezehiseyesshut,thentakeadeep,shudderingbreath.My heart is pounding furiously againstmyribs.Theheat fadesbetweenus,andmy thoughts snap back into place as I

remember with a slow, sinking feelingwherewe are andwhat we still need todo. I’d forgotten that the water’s stillrunning—the tub is almost full. I reachoverand twist thefaucetback.The tiledfloor is cold against my knees. I’mtinglingallover.

“Ready?” I say, trying to steadymyself. Day nods wordlessly.Moment’sover; the brightness in his eyes hasdimmed.

Ipoursomeliquidbathgelintothetubandsplashthewaterarounduntilitfrothsup.ThenIgetoneofthetowelshanginginthebathroomandwrapitaroundDay’swaist. Now for the awkward part. Hemanages to fumbleunderneath the toweland loosenhispants,and Ihelphim tug

them off. The towel covers everythingthatneedstobecovered,but Istillavertmyeyes.

I help Day—now wearing nothingexceptforthetowelandhispendant—tohis feet, and after some struggling, wemanagetogethisgoodlegintothetubsoIcanlowerhimgentlyintothewater.I’mcareful tokeephisbadleghighanddry.Dayclencheshisjawtokeepfromcryingoutinpain.Bythetimehesettlesintothebath,hischeeksaremoistfromtears.

It takes fifteenminutes to scrub him,and all of his hair, clean. When we’refinished, I help him stand and closemyeyes as he grabs a dry towel to wraparoundhiswaist.Thethoughtofopeningmyeyesrightnowandseeinghimnaked

beforeme sends blood coursing fiercelythroughmyveins.Whatdoesanakedboylook like, anyway? I’mannoyedbyhowobvious the heat of my blush must be.Then the moment’s over; we spendanotherfewminutesstrugglingtogethimout of the tub. When he’s finally doneandsittingonthetoiletseatcover,Iwalkover to the bathroom door. I hadn’tnoticedbefore, but someonehadopenedthe door a crack and dropped off a newpair of soldier uniforms for us. Groundbattalionuniforms,withNevadabuttons.It’sgoing to feelweird tobeaRepublicsoldieragain.ButIbringtheminside.

Daygivesmeaweaksmile.“Thanks.Feelsgoodtobeclean.”

Hispainseemstobringbacktheworst

ofhismemoriesfromthelastfewweeks,andnowallhisemotionplaysoutplainlyonhisface.Hissmileshavebecomehalfofwhattheyusedtobe.It’sasifmostofhis happiness had died the night he lostJohn,andonlyatinysliceofitremains—mostlyapiecethathesavesforEdenandTess.Isecretlyhopehesavesapartofhisjoyformetoo.“Turnaroundandchangeinto your clothes,” I say. “And waitoutside the bathroom for me. I’ll bequick.”

***

We get back to the living room sevenminutes late. Razor and Kaede arewaitingforus.Tesssitsaloneonacornerof the couch, her legs folded up to her

chin, watching us with a guardedexpression. An instant later, I smell thearomas of baked chicken and potatoes.My eyes dart to the dining room tablewhere four dishes loaded with food sitneatly,beckoningtous.Itrynottoreacttothesmell,butmystomachrumbles.

“Excellent,”Razorsays,smilingatus.He letshiseyes lingeronme.“You twoclean up nicely.” Then he turns to Dayand shakes his head. “We arranged forsome food to be brought up, but sinceyou’re having surgery within the nextfewhours,you’regoing to have to keepyour stomach empty. I’m sorry—Iknowyou must be hungry. June, please helpyourself.”

Day’seyesarealsofixedonthefood.

“That’sjustgreat,”hemutters.IjointheothersatthetablewhileDay

stretches out on the couch and makeshimself as comfortable as he can. I’mabouttopickupmyplateandsitnexttohim, but Tess beats me to it, seatingherself on the edge of the couch so herback touches Day’s side. As Razor,Kaede,andIeatinsilenceatthetable,Ioccasionally steal glances at the couch.DayandTesstalkandlaughwiththeeaseof two people who have known eachotherforyears.Iconcentrateonmyfood,the heat of our bathroom encounter stillburningonmylips.

I’ve counted off five minutes in myheadwhenRazorfinallytakesasipofhisdrinkandleansback.Iwatchhimclosely,

still wonderingwhy one of the Patriots’leaders—the head of a group that I’dalways associated with savagery—is sopolite.“Ms.Iparis,”hesays.“HowmuchdoyouknowaboutournewElector?”

I shake my head. “Not much, I’mafraid.” Beside me, Kaede snorts andcontinuesdiggingintoherdinner.

“You’ve met him before, though,”Razor says, revealingwhat I’d hoped tokeep from Day. “That night at the ball,the one held to celebrateDay’s capture?He kissed your hand. Correct?” Daypauses in his conversation with Tess. Icringeinwardly.

Razor doesn’t seem to notice mydiscomfort. “Anden Stavropoulos is aninteresting young man,” he says. “The

lateElectorlovedhimagreatdeal.Nowthat Anden is Elector, the Senators areuneasy. The people are angry, and theycouldn’t care less if Anden is differentfrom the last Elector. No matter whatspeechesAndengivestopleasethem,allthey’re going to see is a wealthy manwho has no idea how to heal theirsuffering.They’refuriouswithAndenforletting Day’s execution go through, forhuntinghimdown,fornotsayingawordagainsthisfather’spolicies,forputtingapriceonfindingJune...thelistgoeson.The lateElector had an iron grip on themilitary. Now the people just see a boyking who has the chance to rise up andbecome another version of his father.These are the weaknesses we want to

exploit,andthisbringsustotheplanwecurrentlyhaveinmind.”

“Youseemtoknowagreatdealaboutthe young Elector. You also seem toknowagreatdealaboutwhathappenedatthecelebratoryball,”Ireply.Ican’tholdin my suspicion any longer. “I supposethat’sbecauseyouwerealsoaguestthatnight.Youmust be aRepublic officer—butwithoutarankhighenoughtogetyouanaudiencewiththeElector.”Istudytheroom’s rich velvet carpets and granitecounters. “These are your actual officequarters,aren’tthey?”

Razor seems a little put off by mycriticismofhisrank(which,asusual,isafactthatIhadn’tmeantasaninsult),butquicklybrushesitoffwithalaugh.“Ican

see there’ll be no secrets with you.Special girl. Well, my official title isCommander Andrew DeSoto, and I runthree of the capital’s city patrols. ThePatriots gave me my street name. I’vebeen organizing most of their missionsforalittleoveradecade.”

Day and Tess are both listeningintentlynow.“You’reaRepublicofficer,”Dayechoesuncertainly,hiseyesgluedtoRazor. “A commander from the capital.Hm.WhyareyouhelpingthePatriots?”

Razornods,restingbothofhiselbowsonthedinnertableandpressinghishandstogether. “I suppose I should start bygiving you both somedetails about howwework.ThePatriotshavebeenaroundfor thirty or so years—they started as a

loosecollectionofrebels.Withinthelastfifteenyears, they’vebanded together inan attempt to organize themselves andtheircause.”

“Razor’s coming changed everything,so I hear,” Kaede pipes up. “They’drotated through leaders all the time, andfunding had always been a problem.Razor’sconnectionstotheColonieshavebeen bringing in more money formissionsthaneverbefore.”

Metias had been busier over the lastcouple of years in dealing with PatriotattacksinLosAngeles,Irecall.

Razornods atKaede’swords. “We’refighting to reunite the Colonies and theRepublic, to return the United States toits former glory.” His eyes take on a

determinedgleam.“Andwe’rewillingtodowhateverittakestoachieveourgoal.”The old United States, I think, as

Razorcontinues.Dayhadmentioned theUnited States to me during our escapefrom Los Angeles, although I was stillskeptical. Until now. “How does theorganizationwork?”Iask.

“We keep an eye out for peoplewhohave the talents and skillswe need, andthenwetrytorecruit them,”Razorsays.“Usuallywe’regoodatgettingpeopleonboard,althoughsomepeople take longerthanothers.”HepausestotiphisglassinDay’s direction. “I am considered aLeader in the Patriots—there are only afew of us, working from the inside andarchitecting the rebels’ missions. Kaede

here is a Pilot.” Kaede waves a handaround as she continues to inhale herfood. “She joined us after she wasexpelledfromanAirshipAcademyintheColonies.Day’ssurgeon is aMedic, andyoung Tess here is aMedic in training.We also have Fighters,Runners, Scouts,Hackers, Escorts, and so on. I wouldplace you as a Fighter, June, althoughyour abilities seem to cross into severalcategories. And Day, of course, is thebestRunnerI’veeverseen.”Razorsmilesalittleandfinisheshisdrink.“Thetwoofyoushouldtechnicallybeanewcategoryaltogether.Celebrities.That’showyou’regoing tobemostuseful tous,and that’swhyIdidn’tthrowyoubothbackoutonthestreet.”

“So kind of you,”Day says. “What’stheplan?”

Razor points at me. “Earlier, I askedyou how much you knew about ourElector.Iheardafewrumorstoday.Theysay Anden was quite taken with you atthe ball. Someone heard him asking ifyoucouldbetransferredtoapatrolinthecapital. There’s even a rumor that hewantedyoutappedtotrainastheSenate’snextPrinceps.”

“ThenextPrinceps?”Ishakemyheadautomatically, overwhelmed with theidea. “Probably nothing more than arumor. Even ten years of trainingwouldn’t be enough to prepare me forthat.” Razor just laughs at mydeclaration.

“What’s a Princeps?”Day speaks up.He sounds annoyed. “Some of us aren’tversedintheRepublic’shierarchy.”

“The leader of the Senate,” Razorreplies casually, without turning in hisdirection.“TheElector’sshadow.His,orher,partnerincommand—andsometimesmore. It frequently turnsout thatway inthe end, after a requisite decade oftraining. Anden’s mother was the lastPrinceps,afterall.”

Iglance instinctively towardDay.Hisjaw is tight and he’s holding very still,littlesignsthatsaythathe’drathernotbehearingwhat theElector thinksofmeorthathemightwantmeasafuturepartner.I clear my throat. “Those rumors areexaggerated,” I insist again, just as

uncomfortable as Day is with thisconversation.“Evenifthatweretrue,I’dstill be one of several Princeps-in-training, and I can guarantee you thattheirotherchoiceswouldbeexperiencedSenators. But how are you planning touse that information in yourassassination?DoyouthinkI’mgoingto—”

Kaedebreaks throughmywordswitha loud laugh. “You’re blushing, Iparis,”she says. “Do you like the idea thatAnden’scrushin’onyou?”

“No!” I say, a bit too quickly.Now Ifeel theheat risingonmyface,althoughI’m pretty sure it’s because Kaede isirritatingme.

“Don’t be so goddy arrogant,” she

says. “Anden is a handsome guywith alot of power and a lot of options. It’sokay to feel flattered. I’m sure Dayunderstands.”

Razor saves me from responding byfrowning in disapproval. “Kaede.Please.” Shemakes a pouty face at himand returns to her meal. I glance at thecouch. Day is staring up at the ceiling.Afterashortpause,Razorgoeson.“Evennow, Anden can’t be sure that you dideverything against the Republic onpurpose.Forallheknows,youmayhavebeen taken hostage when Day escaped.Or forced to joinDay against yourwill.There’s enough uncertainty for him toinsist that the government list you as amissing person instead of a wanted

traitor. My point is this: Anden isinterested inyou, and thatmeanshecanbeinfluencedbywhatyoutellhim.”

“So you want me to go back to theRepublic?” I say. My words seem toecho. From the corner of my eye, I seeTess shift unhappily on the couch. Hermouth quivers with some unspokenphrase.

Razornods.“Exactly.Originally,IwasgoingtousespiesfrommyownRepublicpatrols to get close to Anden—but nowwehaveabetteralternative.You.YoutelltheElector that thePatriots aregoing totrytokillhim—buttheplanyoutellhimaboutwill be a decoy.While everyone’sdistractedwiththefakeplan,we’llstrikewiththerealone.Ourgoalisnotonlyto

kill Anden, but to turn the countrycompletely against him, so that hisregimewill be doomed even if our planfails.That’swhatyoutwocandoforus.Now, we’ve heard reports that the newElector is going to be heading for thewarfrontwithinthenextcoupleofweeks,togetupdatesandprogress reports fromhis colonels. The RS Dynasty airshiplaunches toward the warfront earlytomorrow afternoon, and all of mysquadronswillbeonit.Daywilljoinme,Kaede, and Tess on that ride. We’llorganizetherealassassination,andyou’llleadAndentoit.”Razorcrosseshisarmsand studies our faces, waiting for ourreactions.

Day finally finds his voice and

interrupts him. “This is going to beincrediblydangerousforJune,”hearguesas he props himself up straighter on thecouch.“Howcanyoubesureshe’llevenreach the Elector after the military getsherback?Howdoyouknowtheywon’tjust start torturing information out ofher?”

“Trustme,Iknowhowtoavoidthat,”Razor replies. “Ihaven’t forgotten aboutyour brother, either . . . If June can getcloseenoughtotheElector,shemayfindoutwhereEdenisonherown.”

Day’s eyes light up at that, and Tesssqueezeshisshoulder.

“As foryou,Day, I’venever seen thepublic rallybehindanyone theway theyhave for you. Did you know that

streaking your hair red has become afashion statement overnight?” RazorchucklesandwavesahandatDay’shead.“That’spower. Right now, you probablyhave just as much influence as theElector. Maybe more. If we can find awaytouseyourfametoworkthepeopleup into a frenzy, by the time theassassination happens, Congress will bepowerlesstostoparevolution.”

“Andwhatdoyouplantodowiththatrevolution?”Dayasks.

Razorleansforward,andhisfaceturnsdetermined, even hopeful. “Youwant toknowwhy I joined thePatriots? For thesame reasons you’ve been workingagainst the Republic. The Patriots knowhowyou’vesuffered—we’veallseen the

sacrifices you’ve made for your family,the pain the Republic has caused you.June,” Razor says, nodding at me. Icringe; I don’twant a reminder ofwhathappened to Metias. “I have seen yoursuffering too. Your whole familydestroyed by the nation youonce loved.I’ve lostcountof thenumberofPatriotswho have come from similarcircumstances.”

Day turns his stare back up at theceiling at themention of his family.Hiseyesstaydry,butwhenTess reachesoutandgrabshishand,hetightenshisfingersaroundhers.

“The world outside of the Republicisn’t perfect, but freedoms andopportunitiesdo exist out there, and all

weneed todo is let that light shine intotheRepublicitself.Ourcountryisonthebrink—allitneedsnowisahandtotipitover.”Heriseshalfwayoffhischairandpointsathischest.“Wecanbethathand.With a revolution, the Republic comescrashing down, and together with theColonieswecantakeitandrebuilditintosomethinggreat.It’llbetheUnitedStatesagain. Peoplewill live freely.Day, yourlittle brother will grow up in a betterplace.That’sworth riskingour lives for.That’sworthdyingfor.Isn’tit?”

I can tell Razor’s words are stirringsomethinginDay,coaxingoutagleaminhis eyes that takes me aback with itsintensity. “Something worth dying for,”Dayrepeats.

Ishouldbeexcitedtoo.Butsomehow,still,thethoughtoftheRepubliccrashingdown sends a pulse of nausea throughme. I don’t know if it’s brainwashing,yearsofRepublicdoctrinedrilledintomybrain.The feeling lingers, though, alongwithafloodofshameandself-hate.

EverythingIamfamiliarwithisgone.

THEMEDICSHOWSUPINAQUIETFLURRY SOMETIME after midnight.She preps me. Razor drags a tablefrom the living room to one of thesmaller bedrooms, where boxes ofrandom supplies—food, nails, paperclips,canteensofwater,younameit,they got it—are stacked in thecorners. She andKaede lay a sheetof thickplasticunder the table. Theystrap me down to the table with aseries of belts. The Medic carefullyprepares her metal instruments. Myleg lies exposed and bleeding. June

stays by my side while they do allthis, watching the Medic as if hersupervisionalonewillensurethat thewoman makes no mistakes. I waitimpatiently. Every moment thatpasses brings us closer to findingEden. Razor’s words stir me eachtime I think about them. Dunno—maybeIshould’ve joinedthePatriotsyearsago.Tess bustles efficiently about the

roomastheMedic’sassistant,puttinggloves on her hands after scrubbingup, handing her supplies, watchingthe process intently when there’snothingforhertodo.Shemanagestoavoid June. I can tell by Tess’sexpressionthatshe’snervousashell,

butshedoesn’tutterawordabout it.Thetwoofushadchattedwitheachother pretty easily during dinner,when she’d sat on the couch besideme—but something has changedbetween us. I can’t quite put myfingeronit.IfIdidn’tknowanybetter,I’d think that Tess was into me. Butit’s such a weird thought, I quicklypush it away.Tess, who’s practicallymy sister, the little orphan girl fromNimasector?Exceptshe’snot justa littleorphan

girl anymore. Now I can see distinctsigns of adulthood on her face: lessbabyfat,highcheekbones,eyesthatdon’t seem quite as enormous as Iremember. I wonder why I never

noticedthesechangesbefore.Itonlytook a few weeks of separation tobecomeobvious.Imustbedenseasagoddybrick,yeah?“Breathe,” June says beside me.

She sucks in a lungful of air as if todemonstratehowit’sdone.I stop puzzling over Tess and

realize that I’ve been holding mybreath. “Do you know how long it’lltake?”IaskJune.Shepatsmyhandsoothingly at the tension inmy tone,and I feelapinchofguilt. If itwasn’tfor me, she’d still be on her way totheColoniesrightnow.“A few hours.” June pauses as

Razor takes theMedicaside.Moneyexchanges hands—they shake on it.

TesshelpstheMedicputonamask,then gives me a thumbs-up. Juneturnsbacktome.“Why didn’t you tell me you’d met

the Elector before?” I whisper. “Youalwaystalkedabouthimlikehewasacompletestranger.”“He is a complete stranger,” June

replies. She waits for a while, likeshe’s double-checking her words. “Ijustdidn’tsee thepoint in tellingyou—Idon’tknow him,and Idon’t haveanyparticularfeelingstowardhim.”I think back to our kiss in the

bathroom. Then I picture the newElector’s portrait and imagine anolder June standing beside him asthefuturePrincepsoftheSenate.On

thearmof thewealthiestman in theRepublic.Andwhatam I, somedirtystreet con with two Notes in hispocket,thinkingI’llactuallybeabletohang on to this girl after spending afewweekswithher?Besides,have Ialready forgotten that June oncebelonged toanelite family—thatshewas mingling with people like theyoungElectorat fancydinnerpartiesand banquets back when I was stillhuntingforfoodinLake’strashbins?And this is the first time I’vepicturedherwithupper-classmen?IsuddenlyfeelsostupidfortellingherthatIloveher,asifI’dbeabletomakeherloveme in return like some common girlfrom the streets. She didn’t say it

back,anyway.Why do I even care? It shouldn’t

hurt this much. Should it? Don’t Ihave more important stuff to worryabout?TheMedicwalks over tome. June

squeezes my hand; I’m reluctant tolet go.She is from a different world,but she gave it all up for me.Sometimes I take this for granted,and then I wonder how I have thenerve to doubt her, when she’s sowillingtoputherselfindangerformysake. She could easily leave mebehind.Butshedoesn’t.Ichosethis,she’dtoldme.“Thanks,” I say to her. It’s all I can

manage.

June studies me, then gives me alight kisson the lips. “It’ll all beoverbeforeyouknowit,andthenyou’llbeable to scalebuildingsand runwallsas fastasyoueverdid.”She lingersfor a moment, then stands up andnods to the Medic and Tess. Thenshe’sgone.I close my eyes and take a

shuddering breath as the Medicapproaches. From this angle, I can’tseeTessat all.Well,whatever this’llfeel like,itcan’tbeasbadasgettingshotintheleg.Right?TheMediccoversmymouthwitha

damp cloth. I drift away into a long,darktunnel.

***

Sparks. Memories from somefarawayplace.I’m sitting with John at our little

living room table, both of usilluminated by the unsteady light ofthree candles. I’m nine. He’sfourteen. The table is as wobbly asit’s ever been—one of the legs isrotting away, and every other monthor so, we try to extend its life bynailingmoreslabsofcardboard to it.John has a thick book open beforehim. His eyebrows are scrunchedtogether in concentration. He readsanother line, stumbles on two of thewords,thenpatientlymovesontothenext.

“You look really tired,” I say. “Youshould probably go to bed. Mom’sgoing to be mad if she sees you’restillup.”“We’ll finish this page,” John

murmurs, only half listening. “Unlessyouneedtogotobed.”That makes me sit up straighter.

“I’mnottired,”Iinsist.We both hunch over the pages

again, and John reads the next lineoutloud.“‘InDenver,’”hesaysslowly,“‘after the . . . completion . . . of thenorthernWall, theElectorPrimo . . .officially...officially...’”“‘Deemed,’” I say, helping him

along.“‘Deemed . . . itacrime . . .’”John

pauseshere fora fewseconds, thenshakeshisheadandsighs.“‘Against,’”Isay.John frowns at the page. “Are you

sure? Can’t be the right word. Okaythen. ‘Against. Against the state toenterthe...’”Johnstops,leansbackin his chair, and rubs at his eyes.“You’re right, Danny,” he whispers.“MaybeIshouldgotobed.”“What’sthematter?”“The letters keep smearing on the

page.” John sighs and taps a fingeragainst the paper. “It’s making medizzy.”“Comeon.We’llstopafterthisline.”

I point to the line where he hadpaused, then find the word that was

giving him trouble. “‘Capital,’” I say.“‘A crime against the state to enterthe capital without first obtainingofficialmilitaryclearance.’”John smiles a little as I read the

sentence to him without a hitch.“You’lldo just fineonyourTrials,”hesays when I finish. “You and Edenboth. If I squeaked by, I know you’llpass with flying colors. You’ve got agoodheadonyourshoulders,kid.”I shrug off his praise. “I’m not that

excitedabouthighschool.”“Youshouldbe.Atleastyou’llgeta

chance to go. And if you do wellenough, the Republic might evenassignyoutoacollegeandputyouinthe military. That’s something to be

excitedabout,right?”Suddenly there’s pounding on our

front door. I jump. John pushes mebehindhim.“Whois it?”hecallsout.TheknockinggetslouderuntilIcovermyears toblockout thenoise.Momcomes out into the living room,holding a sleepy Eden in her arms,and asks us what’s going on. Johntakesastepforwardasiftoopenthedoor—but before he can, the doorswings open and a patrol of armedstreet police barge in. Standing infrontisagirlwithalongdarkponytailandagoldglintinherblackeyes.HernameisJune.“You’reunderarrest,”shesays,“for

the assassination of our glorious

Elector.”She lifts her gun and shoots John.

ThensheshootsMom.I’mscreamingat thetopofmy lungs,screamingsohard that my vocal cords snap.Everythinggoesblack.Ajoltofpainrunsthroughme.Now

I’m ten. I’mback in the LosAngelesCentral Hospital’s lab, locked awaywithwhoknowshowmanyothers,allstrappedtoseparategurneys,blindedby fluorescent lights. Doctors withface masks hover over me. I squintupatthem.Whyaretheykeepingmeawake? The lights are so bright—Ifeel . . . slow, my mind draggingthroughaseaofhaze.Isee thescalpels in theirhands.A

mess of mumbled words passesbetweenthem.ThenIfeelsomethingcold and metallic against my knee,and thenext thing I know, I archmyback and try to shriek. No soundcomesout.Iwanttotellthemtostopcuttingmy knee, but then somethingpiercesthebackofmyheadandpainexplodes my thoughts away. Myvisiontunnelsintoblindingwhite.Then I’mopeningmyeyesand I’m

lying in a dim basement that feelsuncomfortably warm. I’m alive bysomecrazyaccident.Thepain inmyknee makes me want to cry, but Iknow Ihave tostaysilent. I canseedark shapes around me, most ofthem laid out on the ground and

unmoving, while adults in lab coatswalk around, inspecting the bundlesonthefloor. Iwaitquietly, lyingtherewith my eyes closed into tiny slits,until those walking leave thechamber.ThenIpushmyselfupontomy feetand tearoffapant leg to tiearound my bleeding knee. I stumblethrough the darkness and feel alongthewallsuntilIfindadoorthatleadsoutside,thendragmyself intoabackalley.Iwalkoutintothelight,andthistime June is there, composed andunafraid,holdinghercoolhandouttohelpme.“Come on,” she whispers, putting

her armaroundmywaist. I hold herclose. “We’re in this together, right?

You and me?” We walk to the roadandleavethehospitallabbehind.Butthepeopleonthestreetallhave

Eden’swhite-blondcurls,eachwithascarletstreakofbloodcuttingthroughthestrands.Everydoorwepasshasa large, spray-painted red X with aline drawn through its center. Thatmeans everybody here has theplague.Amutantplague.Wewanderdownthestreets forwhatseems likedays, through air thick as molasses.I’msearchingformymother’shouse.Far in the distance, I can see theglistening cities of the Coloniesbeckoning to me, the promise of abetter world and a better life. I’mgoing to take John and Mom and

Edenthere,andwe’llbefreefromtheclutchesoftheRepublicatlast.Finally,wereachmymother’sdoor,

but when I push it open, the livingroomisempty.Mymotherisn’tthere.Johnisgone.Thesoldiersshothim,Iremember abruptly. I glance to myside,butJunehasvanished,andI’malone in the doorway. Only Eden’sleft . . .he’s lying inbed.WhenIgetclose enough for him to hear mecoming,heopenshiseyesandholdshishandsouttome.But his eyes aren’t blue. They’re

black, because his irises arebleeding.

***

I come to slowly, very slowly, out ofthe darkness. The base of my neckpulses the way it does when I’mrecovering from one of myheadaches. I know I’ve beendreaming, but all I remember is alingering feeling of dread, ofsomething horrible lurking rightbehind a locked door. A pillow iswedgedundermyhead.Atubepokesout of my arm and runs along thefloor. Everything’s out of focus. Istruggletosharpenmyvision,butallIcan see is the edge of a bed and acarpet on the floor and a girl sittingthere with her head resting on thebed.Atleast,Ithink it’sagirl.Foraninstant I think itmight be Eden, that

somehow the Patriots rescued himandbroughthimhere.The figure stirs.Now I see that it’s

Tess.“Hey,”Imurmur.Thewordslursout

of my mouth. “What’s up? Where’sJune?”Tessgrabsmyhandandstandsup,

stumblingover her reply in her rush.“You’re awake,” she says. “You’re—howareyoufeeling?”“Slow.” I try to touch her face. I’m

still not entirely convinced that she’sreal.Tess checks behind her at the

bedroom door to make sure no oneelseisthere.Sheholdsupafingertoher lips. “Don’t worry,” she says

quietly. “Youwon’t feelslow for long.The Medic seemed pretty happy.Soon you’ll be better than new andwe can head for the warfront to killtheElector.”It’sjarringtohearthewordkillcome

so smoothly out of Tess’s mouth.Then, an instant later, I realize thatmy leg doesn’t hurt—not even thesmallestbit.Itrytopropmyselfuptosee,andTesspushes the pillows upbehindmybacksoIcansit.Iglancedownatmyleg,almostafraidtolook.Tess sits beside me and unwraps

the white bandages that cover thearea where the wound was. Underthegauzearesmoothplatesofsteel,a mechanical knee where my bad

oneusedtobe,andmetalsheetsthatcoverhalfmyupperthigh.Igapeatit.Thepartswheremetalmeetsfleshonmy thigh and calf feelmolded tightlytogether, but only small bits ofrednessandswelling line theedges.Myvisionswims.Tess’s fingers drum expectantly

against my blankets, and she bitesherroundupperlip.“Well?Howdoesitfeel?”“It feels like . . . nothing. It’s not

painfulatall.” I runa tentative fingeroverthecoolmetal,tryingtogetusedto the foreignpartsembedded inmyleg. “She did all this? When can Iwalk again?Has it really healed thisquickly?”

Tess puffs up a little with pride. “Ihelped the Medic. You’re notsupposedtomovearoundmuchoverthe next twelve hours. To let thehealing salves settle and do theirwork.” Tess grins and the smilecrinklesuphereyesinafamiliarway.“It’s a standard operation for injuredwarfront soldiers. Pretty awesome,yeah? You should be able to use itlike a regular leg after that, maybeeven better. The doctor I helped isreally famous from the warfronthospitals, but she also does black-market work on the side, which islucky. While she was here, sheshowed me how to reset Kaede’sbrokenarmtoo,soit’dhealfaster.”

I wonder how much the Patriotsspent on this surgery. I’d seensoldierswithmetalpartsbefore,fromas little as a steel square on theirupper arms to asmuch as an entireleg replacedwithmetal. It can’tbeacheap operation, and from theappearance of my leg, the doctorused military-grade healing salves. Icanalreadytellhowmuchpowermyleg will have when I recover—andhowmuchmorequicklyI’llbeabletoget around.Howmuch sooner I canfindEden.“Yeah,”IsaytoTess.“It’samazing.”

IcranemyneckalittlesoIcanfocusonthebedroomdoor,but thismakesmedizzy.Myhead ispoundingupa

stormnow,andIcanhearlowvoicescoming from farther down the hall.“What’severyonedoing?”Tess glances over her shoulder

againand thenback tome. “They’retalking about the first phase of theplan. I’mnot in it, so I’msittingout.”Shehelpsmeliebackdown.Thenanawkward pause follows. I still can’tgetusedtohowdifferentTessseems.Tess notices me admiring her,hesitates,andsmilesawkwardly.“Whenallthisisfinished,”Ibegin,“I

want you to come with me to theColonies, okay?” Tess breaks into asmile, then smoothes my blanketsnervouslywith one hand as I go on.“If everything goes according to the

Patriots’ plans, and the Republicreallydoes fall, Idon’twantus tobecaughtinthechaos.Eden,June,you,andme.Gotit,cousin?”Tess’s burst of enthusiasm wanes.

She hesitates. “I don’t know, Day,”she says, glancing over toward thedooragain.“Why?Youafraid of thePatriots or

something?”“No...they’vebeengoodtomeso

far.”“Then why don’t you want to

come?” I askherquietly. I’mstartingto feel weak again, and it’s hard tokeepthingsfromgettingfoggy.“Backin Lake, we always said that we’descapetotheColoniestogetherifwe

gotthechance.Myfathertoldmethatthe Coloniesmust be a place full of—”“Freedom and opportunities. I

know.” Tess shakes her head. “It’sjustthat...”“Thatwhat?”One of Tess’s hands slides over to

tuckinsidemyown.Ipictureherasakidagain,backwhenIfirstfoundherrummaging through that garbage bininNimasector.Isthisreallythesamegirl? Her hands aren’t as small astheyusedtobe,althoughtheystillfitneatlyintomine.Shelooksupatme.“Day...I’mworriedaboutyou.”I blink. “What do you mean? The

surgery?”

Tess gives me an impatient shakeof her head. “No. I’m worried aboutyoubecauseofJune.”I breathe deeply, waiting for her to

continue,afraidofwhatshe’llsay.Tess’s voice changes into

somethingstrange,somethingIdon’trecognize. “Well . . . if June travelswith us . . . I mean, I know howattachedyouaretoher,butjustafewweeks ago she was a Republicsoldier.Don’tyouseethatexpressionshe gets now and then? Like shemisses theRepublic, or wants to gobackorsomething?What ifshetriestosabotageourplan,orturnsonyouwhile we’re trying to get to theColonies? The Patriots are already

takingprecautions—”“Stop.” I’ma littlesurprisedbyhow

loud and irritated I sound. I’ve neverraisedmyvoicetoTessbefore,andIregret it instantly. I can hear Tess’sjealousy ineverywordshesays, theway she spits June’s name out likeshe can’t wait to get it over with. “Iunderstand that it’s only been a fewweeks since everything’s happened.Of course she’s going to havemoments of uncertainty. Right? Still,she’s not loyal to the Republicanymore, and we’re in a dangerousplaceevenifwedon’ttravelwithher.Besides,Junehasskills thatnoneofushave.ShebrokemeoutofBatallaHall, for crying out loud. She can

keepussafe.”Tesspursesher lips. “Well,howdo

you feel about what the Patriots areplanning for her? What about herrelationshipwiththeElector?”“What relationship?” I hold up my

handsweakly,tryingtopretendthatitdoesn’t matter. “It’s all part of thegame.Shedoesn’tevenknowhim.”Tess shrugs. “She will soon,” she

whispers.“Whenshehastogetcloseenoughtomanipulatehim.”Hereyesloweragain.“I’llgowithyou,Day. I’dgo anywhere with you. But I justwanted to remindyouabout . . .her.Just in case you hadn’t thought ofthingsthatway.”“Everythingwillbeokay,” Imanage

tosay.“Justtrustme.”The tension finally passes. Tess’s

face softens into its familiarsweetness, and my irritation slipsaway as quickly as it had come.“You’vealwayswatchedoutforme,”Isaywithasmile.“Thanks,cousin.”Tess grins. “Someone has to,

yeah?”Shegesturesatmy rolled-upsleeves.“I’mgladtheuniformfitsyou,bytheway.Itseemedtoobigwhenitwas folded, but I guess it turned outall right.”Withoutwarning, she leansoverandgivesmeaquickkissonthecheek. She jumps away almostinstantly.Herfaceisbrightpink.Tesshas kissedme on the cheek before,whenshewasyounger,butthisisthe

first time I’ve felt somethingmore inhergesture.Itrytofigureouthow,inless than a month, Tess left herchildhood behind and became anadult. I cough uncomfortably. It’s anoddnewrelationship.Then she stands up and pulls her

hand away. She looks toward thedoor instead of at me. “Sorry, youshould be resting. I’ll check on youlater.Trytogobacktosleep.”That’s when I realize that Tess

must’vebeen theone todropoffouruniforms in the bathroom. Shemight’ve seenme kissing June. I trytothinkthroughthefoginmymind,tosay something to her before sheleaves, but she’s alreadywalked out

the door and disappeared down thehall.

0545HOURS.

VENEZIA.DAYONEASANOFFICIALMEMBEROFTHE

PATRIOTS.

I CHOSE NOT TO BE IN THE ROOM DURINGTHE SURGERY; Tess, of course, stayed toassisttheMedic.TheimageofDaylyingunconscious on the table, face pale andblank, head turned ninety degrees to theceiling, would remind me a little toomuch of the night I’d hunched overMetias’sdeadbodyinthehospitalalley.Iprefer not to let the Patriots see myweaknesses.SoIstayaway,sittingalone

ononeofthecouchesinthemainroom.I also keep my distance in order to

reallythinkaboutRazor’splanforme:I’m going to be arrested byRepublic

soldiers.I’m going to find a way to get a

private audience with the Elector, andthenI’mgoingtogainhistrust.

I’m going to tell him about a bogusassassination plot thatwill lead to a fullpardon of all my crimes against theRepublic.

Then I’m going to lure him to hisactualassassination.

That’s my role. Thinking about it isonething;pullingitoffisanother.IstudymyhandsandwonderwhetherI’mreadyto have blood on them, whether I’m

ready to kill someone. What was itMetiashadalwaystoldme?“Fewpeopleeverkillfortherightreasons,June.”Butthen I remember what Day said in thebathroom.“Getting rid of the person inchargeseemslikeasmallpricetopayforstarting a revolution. Don’t you thinkso?”

TheRepublic tookMetias away fromme. I think of the Trials, the lies aboutmy parents’ deaths. The engineeredplagues.Fromthisluxuryhigh-riseIcansee Vegas’s Trial stadium behind theskyscrapers, gleaming, off in thedistance. Few people kill for the rightreasons,butifanyreasonistherightone,itmustbethis.Isn’tit?

My hands are trembling slightly. I

steadythem.It’squietinthisapartmentnow.Razor

has leftagain (hesteppedoutat0332 infulluniform),andKaedeisdozingonthefarendofmycouch. If Iwere todropapinonthemarblefloorinhere,thesoundwould probably hurt my ears. After awhile, I turn my attention to the smallscreenon thewall. It’smuted,but I stillwatch the familiar cycle of news play.Floodwarnings,stormwarnings.Airshiparrival and departure times. Victoriesagainst the Colonies along the warfront.Sometimes I wonder whether theRepublic makes up those victories too,and whether we’re actually winning orlosing the war. The headlines roll on.There’s even a public announcement

warning that any civilian caught with ared streak in his or her hair will bearrestedonsight.

The news cycle ends abruptly. Istraighten when I see the next bit offootage:ThenewElectorisabouttogivehisfirstlivespeechtothepublic.

I hesitate, then glance over atKaede.Sheseemstobesleepingprettysoundly.Igetup,crosstheroomonlightfeet,thenskim a finger across themonitor to turnupthevolume.

The sound is tiny, but enough formetohear. IwatchasAnden (or rather, theElectorPrimo)stepsgracefullyup to thepodium.Henods to theusualbarrageofgovernment-appointed reporters in frontof him. He looks exactly the way I

remember him, a younger version ofhisfather,withslenderglassesandaregaltiltto his chin, dressed impeccably in aformal,gold-trimmedblackuniformwithdoublerowsofshiningbuttons.

“Now is a time of great change. Ourresolve is being tested more than ever,andthewarwithourenemyhasreachedaclimax,”he says.He speaksas thoughhisfatherhadn’tdied,asifhehadalwaysbeen our Elector Primo. “We have wonourlastthreewarfrontbattlesandseizedthreeoftheColonies’southerncities.Weare on the brink of victory, and itwon’tbe longbefore theRepublicspans to theedge of the Atlantic Ocean. It is ourmanifestdestiny.”

He goes on, reassuring the people of

our military’s strength and promisinglater announcements about changes hewants to implement—who knows howmuchof it is true. Igoback to studyinghis face. His voice is not unlike hisfather’s, but I find myself drawn to thesincerity in it. Twenty years old.Maybehe actually believes everything he’ssaying,ormaybehejustdoesagreatjobof hiding his doubts. I wonder how hefeelsabouthisfather’sdeath,andhowheis able, at press conferences like this, topullhimself together enough to play hisrole. No doubt Congress is eager tomanipulatesuchayoungnewElector, totrytoruntheshowbehindthescenesandpush him around like a chess piece.BasedonwhatRazor said, theymustbe

clashingdaily.Andenmightbeaspower-hungryashis fatherwas ifhe refuses tolistentotheSenateatall.

What exactly are the differencesbetween Anden and his father? WhatdoesAndenthinktheRepublicshouldbe—and for thatmatter,what do I think itshouldbe?

I mute the screen again and walkaway. Don’t dwell too deeply on whoAndenis.Ican’tthinkabouthimasifhewere a real person—a person I have tokill.

Finally, as the first raysofdawnstartspillingintotheroom,Tesscomesoutofthe bedroom with the news that Day isawake and alert. “He’s in good shape,”she says to Kaede. “Right now he’s

sittingup,andheshouldbeabletowalkaroundinafewhours.”Thensheseesmeand her smile fades. “Um. You can seehimifyouwant.”

Kaedecracksopenaneye,shrugs,andgoes back to sleep. I give Tess thefriendliestsmile Icanmanage, then takeadeepbreathandheadforthebedroom.

Day is propped up with pillows andcovered up to his chest with a thickblanket. He must be tired, but he stillwinkswhenheseesmewalkin,agesturethatmakesmyheartskipabeat.Hishairspills around him in a shining circle. Afewbentpaperclips lie inhis lap(takenfrom the supply boxes in the corner—Iguesshedid get up).Apparentlyhewasinthemiddleofmakingsomethingoutof

them.IletoutasighofreliefwhenIcantellthathe’snotinanypain.“Hey,”Isaytohim.“Gladtoseeyou’realive.”

“GladtoseeI’malivetoo,”hereplies.HiseyesfollowmeasIsitdownnexttohim on the bed. “Did I miss anythingwhileIwasout?”

“Yeah.Youmissed listening toKaedesnoreonthecouch.Forsomeonealwaysducking the law, that girl sure sleepssoundly.”

Day laughs a little. Imarvel again athishighspirits,somethingIhaven’tseenmuch of over the last few weeks. Mygazewanderstowheretheblanketcovershishealingleg.“Howisit?”

Day scoots the blanket aside.Underneath, there are plates of smooth

metal (steel and titanium) where hiswound had been. The Medic alsoreplaced his bad knee with an artificialone, and now a good third of his leg ismetallic. He reminds me of the soldierswho come back from thewarfront,withtheir synthetic hands and arms and legs,metalwhere skinused tobe.TheMedicmust be very familiar with war injuries.No doubt Razor’s officer connectionshelpedherobtainsomethingasexpensiveasthehealingsalvesshemusthaveusedonDay. Iputoutmyopenpalm,andheputshishandinmine.

“Howdoesitfeel?”Dayshakeshisheadincredulously.“It

feels like nothing. Completely light andpainless.”Amischievousgrincrosseshis

face. “Now you’ll get to see how I canreallyrunabuilding,darling.Notevenacracked knee to hold me back, yeah?Whatanicebirthdaypresent.”

“Birthday? I didn’t know. Happybelated,”Isaywithasmile.Myeyesgoto the paper clips strewn across his lap.“Whatareyoudoing?”

“Oh.”Daypicksuponeof the thingshe’smaking, something that looks likeametalcircle. “Just passing the time.”Heholds thecircleup to the light, and thentakes my hand. He presses it into mypalm.“Agiftforyou.”

I study it more closely. It’s made offour unfurled paper clips carefullyentwinedaroundone another in a spiral,and pulled together end to end so they

form a tiny ring. Simple and neat.Artistic,even. Icansee loveandcare inthetwistsofmetal,thelittlebendswhereDay’s fingers worked on the wire overandoveruntilitformedtherightcurves.He made it for me. I push it onto myfingeranditslideseffortlesslyintoplace.Gorgeous. I’m bashful, flattered intocomplete silence. Can’t remember thelasttimeanyoneactuallymadesomethingformeonhisown.

Day seems disappointed by myreaction, but hides it behind a carelesslaugh. “I know you rich folks have allyour fancy traditions, but in the poorsectors, engagements and gestures ofaffectionusuallygolikethis.”

Engagements?Myheartfluttersinmy

chest. I can’t help smiling. “With papercliprings?”Oh no. I’d meant it as an honest

question of curiosity, but don’t realize Isound sarcastic until the words arealreadyoutofmymouth.

Day blushes a little; I’m immediatelyangry at myself for slipping up again.“Withsomethinghandmade,”hecorrectsme after a beat. He’s looking down,clearly embarrassed, and I feel horribleforhavingtriggeredit.“Sorryit’skindofstupid- looking,”hesays ina lowvoice.“Wish I couldmake somethingnicer foryou.”

“No,no,”Iinterrupt,tryingtofixwhatI just said. “I really like it.” I run myfingers over the tiny ring, keeping my

eyes fixed on it so I don’t have tomeetDay’seyes.Does he assume that I don’tthink it’s good enough? Say something,June. Anything. My details comebubbling up. “Unplated galvanized steelwiring.This isgoodmaterial,youknow.Sturdier than the alloy ones, still bendy,andwon’trust.It’s—”

I stop when I see Day’s witheringstare. “I like it,” I repeat. Idiotic reply,June. Why don’t you punch him in thefacewhileyou’reat it. I turnevenmoreflustered when I remember that I haveactually pistol-whipped him in the facebefore.Romantic.

“You’rewelcome,”hesays,shovingacoupleof theunbentpaperclips intohispockets.

There’s a long pause. I’m not surewhat he wanted me to say back, but itprobably wasn’t a list of a paper clip’sphysical properties. Suddenly unsure ofmyself, I draw closer and rest my headagainst Day’s chest. He takes a quickbreath, as if I’d caught him by surprise,andthenhedrapeshisarmgentlyaroundme.There, that’sbetter. Iclosemyeyes.Oneofhishandscombsthroughmyhair,sendinggoosebumpsdownmyarms,andI allow myself to indulge in a littlemoment of fantasy—I imagine himrunning a finger along my jaw line,bringinghisfacedowntomine.

Dayleansovermyear.“Howareyoufeelingabouttheplan?”hewhispers.

I shrug, shoving my disappointment

away. Stupid of me to fantasize aboutkissing Day at a time like this. “Hasanyonetoldyouwhatyou’resupposedtodo?”

“No.But I’msure there’sgoing tobesomekindofnationalbroadcasttotellthecountry I’m still alive. I’m supposed tostir up trouble, right? Work the peopleintoafrenzy?”Daylaughsdryly,buthisface doesn’t look amused. “WhatevergetsmetoEden,Iguess.”

“Iguess,”Isay.Hepullsmeuprightthen,sothatIface

him. “I don’t know if they’ll let uscommunicatewith each other,” he says.HisvoicedropssolowIcanbarelyhearit. “The plan sounds good, but ifsomethinggoeswrong—”

“They’llkeepacloseeyeonme, I’msure,” I interrupt him. “Razor’s aRepublicofficer.Hecanfindawaytogetme out if it starts falling apart. As forcommunications . . .” I bite my lip,thinking.“I’llcomeupwithsomething.”

Day touches my chin, bringing mecloser until his nose brushes mine. “Ifanythinggoeswrong,ifyouchangeyourmind,ifyouneedhelp,yousendasignal,youhearme?”

Hiswordssendshiversdownmyneck.“Okay,”Iwhisper.

Daygivesmeasubtlenod, thenpullsawayandleansbackagainsthispillows.Ilet out my breath. “Are you ready?” heasks.There’smoretohissentence,Icantell,buthedoesn’t say it.Are you ready

tokilltheElector?Igivehimaforcedgrin.“ReadyasI’ll

everbe.”Westaylikethatforalongtime,until

thelightfilteringinfromthewindowsisbright and we hear the morning pledgeblaringoutacrossthecity.Finally,Ihearthefrontdoorswingopenandclose,andthen Razor’s voice. Footsteps approachthebedroom,andRazorpeeksinrightasIstraightenandsitup.

“How’s that leg of yours?” he asksDay.Hisfaceisascalmasever,hiseyesexpressionlessbehindhisglasses.

Daynods.“Good.”“Excellent.” Razor smiles

sympathetically. “I hope you’ve hadenough time with your boy, Ms. Iparis.

We’removingoutinanhour.”“I thought the Medic wanted me to

restitfor—”Daystartstosay.“Sorry,” Razor replies as he turns

away.“Wehaveanairshiptocatch.Don’tpushthatlegtoohardjustyet.”

THE PATRIOTS DISGUISE MEBEFOREWEHEADOUT.Kaedecutsmyhairsoitstopsright

below my shoulders, then she tintsthe white-blond strands a darkbrownishred.Sheusessomesortofspray to do it, something they canremovewithaspecialcleanseriftheyneed to strip the color out. Razorgives me a pair of brown contactlensesthatcompletelyhidethebrightblue ofmy eyes.Only I can tell thatit’sartificial;Icanstillseethetiny,tinyspecks of deep purple dotting my

irises.Thesecontactsarea luxury inthemselves—rich trots use them tochangetheireyecolor—forfun.Theywould’ve come in handy for me onthestreets if I’dhadaccess to them.Kaede adds a synthetic scar to mycheek, then finishes off my disguisewith a first-year air force uniform; afullblacksuitwithredstripesrunningalongeachpantleg.Finally, she equips me with a tiny

flesh-coloredearpieceandmike—thefirst embedded discreetly in my ear,thesecondinsidemycheek.Razor himself is decked out in a

custom Republic officer uniform.Kaedewearsaflawlessflightoutfit—a black jumpsuit with silver wing

stripeswrappedaroundbothsleeves,matching white condor gloves, andwinggoggles.She’snotaPilotinthePatriots for nothing—according toRazor,shecanpulloffasplit-Sintheairbetterthananyonehe’severseen.KaedeshouldhavenotroubleposingasaRepublicfighterpilot.Tessisalreadygone,whiskedaway

half an hour ago by a soldier whoRazorsaysisanotherPatriot.Tessistooyoungtopassasasoldierofanylevel, so getting her onto the RSDynasty means dressing her in asimple brown collar shirt andtrousers, the outfit of workers whooperate the airship’s hundreds ofstoves.

Andthenthere’sJune.June quietly watches my

transformation from the couch. Shehasn’t said much since our lastconversation over my recovery bed.Whiletherestofushaveourvariousgetups, June is unchanged—nomakeup, her eyes still dark andpenetrating, her hair still pulled backinthatshinytail.She’sdressedintheplain cadet uniform Razor gave uslast night. In fact, June doesn’t lookallthatdifferentfromthephotoonhermilitary ID. She’s the only one of uswho isn’t equipped with a mike andearpiece,forobviousreasons.Itrytocatch her gaze a few times whileKaedeworksonmyappearance.

Less than an hour later, we headdownthemainVegasstripinRazor’sofficer jeep. We pass several of thefirst pyramids—the Alexandria dock,the Luxor, the Cairo, the Sphinx.Allnamed after some ancient pre-Republiccivilization,orat leastthat’swhatwewere taught backwhen theRepublic actually allowed me inschool.Theylookdifferentduringtheday,withtheirbrightbeaconlightsoffand edges unlit, looming like giantblack tombs in the middle of thedesert. Soldiers bustle in and out oftheir entrances. It’s good to see somuchactivity—all thebetter forus toblend in. I gooverourownuniformsagain.Polishedandauthentic. Ican’t

getusedtoit,eventhoughJuneandIhave technically been passing assoldiers for weeks. The collarscratches at my neck, and thesleevesfeelwaytoostiff.Idon’tknowhow June could stand wearing thisstuff all the time. Does she at leastlike how it looks on me? Myshouldersdoseemalittlebroader.“Stop tugging on your uniform,”

June whispers when she sees mefiddlingwith theedgesofmymilitaryjacket. “You’re messing up itsalignment.”It’sthemostI’veheardhersayinan

hour.“You’rejustasnervous,”Ireply.June hesitates, then turns away

again. Her jaw is clenched as if to

keep herself fromblurting somethingout.“Justtryingtohelp,”shemutters.After a while, I reach over to

squeeze her hand once. Shesqueezesback.Finally, we reach the Pharaoh, the

landing dock where the RSDynastyis resting.Razorushersusout, thenhasus standat attention.Only Junefalls out of line, stopping besideRazor and facing off to one side ofthestreet.Iwatchherdiscreetly.A second later, another soldier

melts from the crowd and nods atRazor, thenatJune,whostraightensher shoulders, joins up behind thesoldier,anddisappearsback into thestreet crowd. Out of sight, just like

that. I exhale, hollowed out by hersuddenabsence.Iwon’tseeheragainuntilthewhole

thing’s over. If it all goes well.Don’tthinklikethat.Itwillgowell.We head inside with the tides of

othersoldiersfilingintoandoutofthePharaoh.Theinteriorishuge;beyondthe main entrance, the ceilingstretchesall thewayupto thetopofthe pyramid and endswith the baseof theRSDynasty, where I can seetiny figuresboarding throughamazeof ramps and walkways. Rows ofbarrack doors line each level of thepyramid’s sides. Long marquees oftext run across each wall with anever-ending onslaught of departure

and arrival times.Diagonal elevatorsrunalongeachof thepyramid’s fourmainedges.Here,Razor leavesusbehind.One

second he’s walking ahead, and thenexthetakesanabrupt turn throughthecrowdsandmelts inwiththeseaofuniforms.Kaedecontinueswalkingwithout hesitation, but slows enoughso we’re side by side. I can barelysee her lips move, but her voiceechoes with razor-sharp clarity frommyearpiece.“Razor will board theDynasty with

the other officers, butwe can’t go inwith thesoldiersorwe’llget ID’d.Sosneakinginisournextbestoption—”Myeyesgouptotheairship’sbase,

skimming across the nooks andcrannies lining its sides. I think backon the time when I broke into agroundedairshipandstole twobags’worth of canned food. Or the time Isank a smaller airship in LosAngeles’s lake by flooding itsengines. For both cases, there wasone easy way of getting inundetected. “The garbage chutes,” Imurmurbackthroughmyownmike.Kaedegivesmeaquick,approving

grin.“SpokenlikeatrueRunner.”We make our way through the

crowds until we reach an elevatorterminal at one of the pyramid’scorners. Here we blend in with thesmall group clustered in front of the

elevator door. Kaede clicks hermikeoff to make small talk with me, andI’m careful not to make eye contactwith the other soldiers. So many ofthemare younger than I’d imagined,even close to my age, and severalalready have permanent injuries—metal limbs like my own, a missingear,ahandcoveredwithburnscars.Iglance up again at theDynasty, thistime long enough to note all thegarbage chute openings along theside of the hull. If we’re going toshimmy ourway up into this airship,we’regoingtohavetodoitfast.Soon the elevator comes.We take

the nauseating ride up the diagonalsideof thepyramid, thenwait at the

topwhileeveryoneelsefilesout.Weexit last. As the others scatter toeither side of the top hall leadingtoward the airship’s entrance ramps,Kaedeturnstome.“Onemore flight for us,” she says,

nodding toward a narrower set ofstairsat theendof thehall that leadup to the pyramid’s inside ceiling. Istudy it quietly. She’s right. Thesestairsgorightupintotheceiling(andprobably leadup to the roof),andallalongthisceilingaremazesofmetalscaffoldingandcrisscrossingsupportbeams. From here, the dockedairship’s back side casts a shadowacross the ceiling that swathes thispartof it indarkness. Ifwecan leap

off the middle of this last flight ofstairsandclimbup into thatmessofmetal beams,we canmakeourwayover to the airship undetected in theshadows and climb up the dark sideof the hull. Plus, the air vents arenoisy this close up. That, alongwiththe noise and bustle of the base,shouldmaskanysoundswemake.Here’shopingmynewlegholdsup.

I stompdownon it twice to test it. Itdoesn’t hurt, but there’s a littlepressure where my flesh meets themetal, like it hasn’t completely fusedyet. Still, I can’t help smiling. “This’llbefun,yeah?”Isay.I’malmostbackinmyelement,atleastforamoment,backwhereI’matmybest.

We make our way up into theshadowy stairs, and theneachof ustakes the short leap up into thescaffolding and climbs into thebeams.Kaede’sfirst.Shestrugglesalittle with her bandaged arm, butmanages to get a good grip aftersome shuffling. Then it’s my turn. Iswing effortlessly up into the beamsand weave my body into theshadows. Leg’s good so far. Kaedewatchesmeapprovingly.“Feelingmightyfine,”Iwhisper.“Icanseethat.”We travel in silence. My pendant

slipsoutofmyshirtacoupleoftimesand I have to tuck it back in.SometimesIlookdownortowardthe

airship; the floor of the landing baseis packed with cadets of all ranks,and now that most of theDynasty’spreviouscrewhaverotatedoutoftheship, the new ones are starting toformlonglinesattheentranceramps.Iwatchaseachonepasses througha quick inspection, ID check, andbody scan. Far below us, morecadets are accumulating near theelevatordoors.SuddenlyIpause.“What’s the problem?” Kaede

snaps.Iholdupafinger.Myeyesarefixed

on the ground, frozen on a familiarfigure who’s cutting his way throughthecrowd.

Thomas.This trot’s tracked us all the way

fromLosAngeles.Hestopsnowandthen to question what seem likerandomsoldiers.Withhimisadogsowhite,itstandsoutlikeabeaconfromthis height. I rub my eyes to makesure I’m not hallucinating. Yep, he’sstillthere.Hecontinuestoweavehiswaythroughthecrowd,onehandonthegunathiswaist,theotherholdingthe leash to that enormous whiteshepherd. A small line of soldiersfollows him. My limbs turn numb foran instant, and suddenly all I see isThomasliftinghisgunandpointing itatmymother,Thomasbeatingmetoa pulp in a Batalla Hall interrogation

room.Myvisionswimsinred.Kaede notices what’s holding my

attentionandturnsherheaddowntothegroundfloortoo.Hervoicesnapsme back. “He’s here for June,” shewhispers.“Keepmoving.”Immediately I begin to crawl again,

even though my whole body’sshaking.“June?”Iwhisperback.Icanfeel my rage rising. “You guys puthim,ofallpeople,ontoJune’strail?”“Itwasforagoodreason.”“Andwhat’sthat?”Kaede sighs impatiently. “Thomas

won’thurther.”Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm. I

forcemyselftokeepgoing.NochoicebuttotrustKaedenow.Eyesforward.

Keepmoving.MyhandstrembleandI fight to steady them, to pushdownmy hatred. The thought of Thomasputting his hands on June is morethanIcanbear.IfIfocusonthatnow,I won’t be able to concentrate onanythingelse.Stay.Calm.Below us, Thomas’s patrol keeps

making their way through themasses. He’s gradually movingtowardtheelevators.Wereachthehulloftheship.From

here, I can see the line of soldierswaitingtogetinviatheramps.That’swhenIhearthewhiteshepherd’sfirstbark. Thomas and his soldiers arenow gathered at one of the elevator

terminals. The same one we wentthrough. The dog is barkingrelentlessly, his nose pointed at theelevator door, his tail wagging.Eyesforward.Keepmoving.I glance back down at the ground

level.Thomashasonehandpressedtightly against what must be hisearpiece. He stands there for aminute,asifstrugglingtounderstandsomething he’s hearing. Then,suddenly, he shouts at his men andthey start heading away from theelevators. Back into the crowds ofsoldiers.TheymusthavefoundJune.We make our way across the

shadowsofthepyramid’sceilinguntil

we’re perched close enough to thedarksideoftheship’shull.Itloomsagood dozen feet away from us, withonly a lone metal ladder runningverticallyup itsside to the topof theship’s deck. Kaede readjusts herbalance on the metal beams, thenturns back to me. “Make the firstjump,”shesays.“You’rebetter.”Timetomove.Kaedeshiftsenough

soIcangetagoodangleontheship.I adjust my footing, brace myself,hopemylegstaysintact,thentakeagiantleap.Mybodyslamsagainsttheladderbarswithamuffledthud,andIgrit my teeth to keep from yelling.Painlancesupanddownmyhealingleg. I wait for a few seconds, letting

the strain die down before I startclimbingagain. I can’t see thepatrolanymorefromthisbackside,butthatmeans—hopefully—that they can’tsee us either. Better yet, I hopethey’re gone. Behind me I hearKaede takeherown leapandhit theladderseveralfeetbelowme.Finally, I reach the garbage chute

opening. I launchoff from the ladder—my hands catch the side of thechute and my arms swing me rightintothedarkness.There’sanotherjoltof pain, but the leg still pulses withnewfound energy, strong for the firsttime in a long time. I dust off myhandsandstandup.The first thing Inoticeinsidethechuteisthecoldair.

They must have the insides of theshipcooledforthelaunch.Momentslater,Kaedeswingsinside

too. Shewinces, rubbing at the castof her still-injured arm, then shovesme in the chest. “Don’t just stop likethat in the middle of a climb,” shesnaps. “Always keep moving. Wecan’taffordforyoutobeimpulsive.”“Thendon’tgivemeareasontobe

impulsive,” I snap back. “Why didn’tyou tellme Thomas was coming forJune?”“I know your history with that

captain,” Kaede replies. She squintsinto the dark, thenmotions for us tostart climbing up the chute. “AndRazordidn’tthinkitwoulddoyouany

goodtoworryaboutitinadvance.”I’m ready to fire back, but Kaede

shoots me a warning glance. Witheffort,Imanagetoswallowmyanger.IremindmyselfofwhyI’mhere.Thisis for Eden. If Razor thinks June issafest under Thomas’s watch, thensobeit.ButwhataretheygoingtodowithJuneoncethey’vegother?Whatif something goes wrong, andCongressorthecourtsdosomethingthat Razor didn’t plan for? How canhebesosure thateverythingwill gosmoothly?Kaede and Imake our way up the

chuteuntilwe reach the lower levelsof the Dynasty. We stay hiddenbehind a stairwell in a lonely back

engine room until takeoff, when thesteampistonsflaretolifeandwefeelthe pressure of the rising ship pushagainstourfeetasitliftsfreefromthelanding base. I hear giant cablessnapping loose from the ship’s sidesand the roar of applause from thebase crew cheering anothersuccessfulliftoff.After a half hour passes,whenmy

anger’s finally had time to cool, weemerge from the stairwell. “Let’s gothis way,” Kaede murmurs as wereach a tiny room with two paths—one leading to the engines and theother leadingstraightupto the lowerfloors. “Sometimes they run surpriseinspections on the entrances to the

base deck. We might have fewerproblems in the engine rooms.” Shepauses, pressing a hand to her earandfrowninginconcentration.“Whatisit?”“Sounds like Razor is in,” she

replies.My leg feels a little sore as we

continue, and I find myself walkingwith a very slight limp. We head upanother stairwell that leads to theenginerooms,bumpingintoacoupleofsoldiersalongtheway,untilwehita floor marked “6” where the stairsstop.Wewanderdownthishall forawhile before pausing at a narrowdoor.AsignreadsTOENGINEROOMSA,B,C,D.

A loneguardwaitsby thedoor.Heglancesup,seesus,andstraightensfrom his slouch. “What do you twowant?”hemutters.We exchange casual salutes. “We

were sent here to see someone,”Kaedelies.“Engineroompersonnel.”“Yeah?Who?”HesquintsatKaede

in disapproval. “You’re a pilot, aren’tyou? You should be on the upperdeck.They’redoinginspections.”Kaede’s ready to protest, but I

interrupt her and put on a sheepishface.IsaytheonlythingIcanthinkofthat he probably won’t question. “Allright,soldiertosoldier,”Imuttertotheguard,sneakingasidewaysglanceatKaede.“We,ah...wewerehunting

foragoodplaceto...youknow.Wefigured the engine rooms shouldwork.” Igivehimanapologeticwink.“I’ve been trying to get a kiss out ofthis girl forweeks.Knee surgery gotin the way.” I pause here anddemonstrate an exaggerated versionofmylimpforhim.The guard suddenly grins and lets

out a surprised laugh, as if he’spleased to have a role in somethingnaughty. “Ah, I see,” he says,glancing sympathetically at my leg.“She’sacuteone.” I laughwithhim,whileKaedeplaysalongbyrollinghereyes.“Like you said,” Kaede tells the

guardasheunlocks thedoor forus.

“I’mlateforinspections.We’llbe fast—we’reheadinguptothetopdeckinafewminutes.”“Good luck, youpoor bastards,” he

calls to us as we head inside. Weexchangelazysaluteswithhim.“I had a really good story ready to

tell him,” Kaede whispers as we go.“Nice cover from you, though. Youthinkofthatoneallbyyourself?”Shesmiles slyly and looksme over fromheadtotoe.“ToobadIgotstuckwithsuchanuglysidekick.”I hold both hands up in mock

defense. “Too bad I got stuck withsuchaliar.”Wewalkalongacylindricalcorridor

bathedinadim,redlight.Evendown

here, flat screens roll a stream ofnews and airship updates. They’redisplaying a list of where all theRepublic’s active airships areheaded, along with their dates andschedules. Apparently twelve areairborneat themoment.Aswepassone of the screens, my eyes skimdowntotheRSDynasty.

REPUBLIC SHIP DYNASTY |DEPARTURE: 0851 OCEANSTANDARD TIME, 01.13 FROMPHARAOHDOCK,LASVEGAS,NV |ARRIVAL:1704BORDERSTANDARDTIME, 01.13 AT BLACKWELL DOCK,LAMAR,CO

Lamar.We’reheadedforawarfrontcity up north. One step closer to

Eden, I remind myself. June will befine. This mission will all be oversoon.Thefirstroomweenterisenormous

—rowsandrowsofgiantboilersandhissingvents,withdozensofworkersoperating each one. Some arechecking temperatures, while othersareshovingsomethinglikewhitecoalinto furnaces. They’re all dressed inthe same outfit Tess had on rightbeforesheleftusattheVenezia.Wehurry along through one of the rowsof boilers until we push through thenext door. One more stairwell. Thenweemergeonto theDynasty’s lowerdeck.Thisairship isenormous. I’vebeen

on board airships before, of course.WhenIwasthirteen,Isnuckontotheflight deck of the RS Pacifica andstole fuel from three F-170 fighterjets, thensold iton theblackmarketforagoodprice.But I’veneverbeeninside one of this size. Kaede leadsus out the door of the stairwell andonto ametalwalkway that opens upintoaviewofallthefloorsaboveus.Soldiers are everywhere. We walkwith them, careful to keep our facesexpressionless. Here on the lowestfloor,severalformationsoftroopsrunthrough drills. Doors line thecorridors, and in between every fourdoors is a flat screen displayingnews. The new Elector’s portrait

hangsaboveeachscreen.Theysuremovefast,don’tthey?Razor’sofficeisoneofahalfdozen

that line thewallsof the fourthdeck,withasilverRepublicsealembeddedin its door. Kaede knocks twice.WhenshehearsRazor’svoicecallingforus toenter,sheushersus inside,then shuts the door carefully behindher and snaps to attention. I followher lead.Our boots click against thehardwood floor. Something in theroom smells faintly like jasmine, andasItakeintheornate,sphericalwalllamps and the Elector’s portrait onthebackwall,Irealizehowchillyitisin here. Razor stands by his deskwith his hands behind his back, all

fancy in his formal commanderuniform, talking to awoman dressedinasimilaroutfit.It takesmeasecondtorealizethat

thewomanisCommanderJameson.Kaede and I both freeze in our

tracks. After the shock of seeingThomas, I’d simply assumed that ifCommanderJamesonwasanywherein Vegas, she’d be at the pyramiddock, monitoring her captain’sprogress.Ineverthoughtshe’dbeonthe ship. Why is she going to thewarfront?Razornods inourdirectionasboth

KaedeandIsalutehim.“Atease,”hesays to us, then turns his attentionback to Commander Jameson.

Beside me, I can sense Kaede’stension.My street instincts kick in. IfKaede’s anxious, that means thePatriots hadn’t planned onCommander Jameson’s being here.My eyes dart to the door’s lock; Iimagine myself whirling around,flinging the door open, and swingingover thebalcony railings to the deckbelow. The ship’s layout plays inmythoughts like a three-dimensionalmap.Ineedtobereadytoboltifsherecognizes me. Gotta have myescaperouteready.“I’vebeenadvisedtokeepmyeyes

open,”CommanderJamesonsaystoRazor.Heseemscompletelyunfazed—hisshouldersarerelaxed,andhe’s

wearing an easy smile. “And soshould you, DeSoto. If you noticeanything odd, come to me. I’ll beready.”“Of course.” Razor tips his head

respectfullyatCommanderJameson,even though his uniform’s insigniasindicate that he’s her senior. “All thebesttoyou,andtoLosAngeles.”They exchange casual salutes.

Then Commander Jameson beginswalking toward the door. I forcemyself to remain still, but everymuscleisscreamingatmetoescape.Commander Jameson passes me,

and I wait quietly as she scans mefromheadto toe.From thecornerofmyeyes, I cansee thehard linesof

herfaceandthethin,scarletslashofher lips.Behindherexpression isanicy nothingness—a complete lack ofemotion that injects both fear andhateintomyblood.ThenInoticethather hand is bandaged. Still injuredfromwhen she’d heldme captive atBatallaHall,when I’dbitten italmostdowntothebone.She knows who I am, I think. A

beadofsweattricklesdownmyback.Shemust know. Even with this briefglance,shecanseerightthroughmydisguise, this dark cropped hair andsynthetic scar and brown contactlenses. I wait for her to raise thealarm. My boots tilt against theground, ready to run.Myhealing leg

pulses.But the split second passes, and

CommanderJameson’sgazeswivelsawayasshereachesthedoor.Istepback from the cliff. “Your uniform isrumpled, soldier,” she calls back tome with distaste. “If I wereCommander DeSoto, I’d give you adozenlapsaspunishment.”She stepsaway,walks through the

door, and disappears. Kaede locksthe door again—her shouldersslouch, and I hear her let out abreath.“Niceone,”shesaystoRazoras she plops down on the office’scouch.Hervoicedripssarcasm.Razormotionsformetositaswell.

“We have you to thank, Kaede,” he

says.“Forouryoungfriend’sfirst-ratedisguise.” Kaede beams at hiscompliment. “I apologize for theunexpected surprise. CommanderJameson has gotten wind of June’sarrest.Shewanted toboard theshiptoseeifanythingelseturnedup.”Hesits down behind his desk. “She’stakingaplanebacktoVegasnow.”I feelweak.As I rest on the couch

besideKaede,Ican’thelpkeepinganeye on the windows in caseCommander Jameson comes backfor something. The windows aremade of frosted glass. Can anyonefrombelowseeusuphere?Kaede’s already relaxed again,

chattingupastormwithRazorabout

ournext steps.What timewe’ll land,when we should regroup in Lamar,whetherdecoysoldiersat thecapitalare in place. But I just sit and thinkabout Commander Jameson’sexpression. Of all the Republicofficers I’ve come across, exceptmaybe for Chian, only CommanderJameson’seyescanfreezemetomycore.Ifightdownthememoryofhowshe’d ordered my mother’s death—andJohn’sexecution. IfThomashasJune under arrest, what willCommanderJamesondotoher?CanRazor actually keep her protected? IclosemyeyesandtrytosendasilentthoughttoJune.Stay safe. I want to see you again

whenallthisisdone.

I CAN’T BRING MYSELF TO LOOK AT DAYAGAIN BEFORE leaving him behind. AsRazor’sPatriotwalksmeaway from thefrontentranceof thePharaohpyramid, Ikeepmy face pointed firmly away fromhim.It’sforthebest, I tellmyself. If themission goes well, it’ll only be a shortseparation.

Day’s concerns about my well-beingreallyhithomenow.Razor’splanformesounds good, but something could gowrong.What if, instead of takingme tosee theElector, I’m shot the instant I’mfound? Or they could strap me upside

down in an interrogation room and beatme senseless. I’ve seen it happen plentyoftimes.Icouldbedeadbeforethisdayis over, long before the Elector learnsI’ve been found. Amillion things couldgowrong.That’s why I have to focus, I remind

myself.AndIcan’tdothatifIstareintoDay’seyes.

Now the Patriot guidesme inside thepyramid and down a narrow walkwayrunningalongonesideofawall.It’sloudandchaoticinhere.Hundredsofsoldiersare milling around on the ground level.Razorhadtoldmetheywouldputmeinone of the empty barrack rooms on thefirst floor, where I would pretend to behidingbeforetryingtosneakonboardthe

RS Dynasty. When Republic soldiersknock down the door and come forme,I’m supposed to make a run for it. TogiveitallI’vegot.

My steps quicken to match myguide’s. Now we reach the end of thewalkway,where a secure door (five feetsixwide, ten feethigh) leadsaway fromthe main floor and into the hallways ofthefirstfloorbarracks.Theguideswipesa card across the door. It beeps, thenblinksgreenandslidesopen.

“Put up a fight when they come foryou,”thePatriottellsmeinavoiceIcanbarely hear. His appearance is nodifferent from any of the other soldiershere,with slicked-back hair and a blackuniform. “Make sure they believe you

don’twanttobecaught.YouweretryingtoturnyourselfinnearDenver.Okay?”

Inod.Hisattentionshiftsawayfromme.He

studies the hall, tilting his head up toinspect the ceiling. A row of securitycams lines this corridor, eight in total,onefacingthefrontofeachbarrackdoor.Beforewestepall theway into thehall,theguidepullsoutapocketknifeandusesit to clip off one of the shiny buttonslininghis jacket.Thenhebraceshimselfagainst the doorway, presses one footagainsteachside of the door frame, andleapsup.

Iglancebackdownthehall.Therearenoothersoldiershereatthemoment,butwhat if one suddenly turns the corner?

It’s no surprise if they captureme here(that’sourgoal,afterall),butwhataboutmyguide?

Hereachesuptowardthefirstsecuritycam, then uses the knife to scrape awaysomeoftherubbercoatingprotectingthecam’s wires. When a bit of the rubbercomes off and exposes the wiresunderneath, he wraps his fingers in thelengthofhissleeveandpressesthemetalbuttonagainstthewires.

A quiet burst of sparks. To mysurprise, every security cam along thehallblinksoff.

“How’d you break all of them withjustone—?”Istarttowhisper.

The guide jumps back down to theground andmotions forme to hurry up.

“I’maHacker,”hewhispersbackaswerun. “I’ve worked the command centershere before. I rewired things a little tosuit us.” He smiles proudly, showingeven white teeth. “But this is nothing.Justwait tillyouhearaboutwhatwe’vedonetoDenver’sCapitolTower.”

Impressive. If Metias joined thePatriots,he’dbeaHackertoo.Ifhewerealive.

Wesprintdownthehalluntilhestopsusatoneofthedoors.Barrack4A.Herehe pulls out a key card and swipes thedoor’saccesspanel. Itclicksandswingsopenalittle—inside,eightrowsofbunksandlockerssitinthedark.

TheHacker turns to faceme. “Razorwantsyouwaitingheretoensurethatthe

right soldiers capture you. He has aspecificpatrolinmind.”

Of course, makes perfect sense. Itconfirms that Razor doesn’t want mebeaten to a pulp by letting just anyRepublic patrol arrest me. “Who—?” Istarttoask.

ButhetapstheedgeofhismilitarycapbeforeIcanfinish.“We’llallbewatchingyourmissionfromthecams.Goodluck,”he whispers. Then he’s gone, hurryingdown the hall until he rounds a cornerandIcan’tseehimanymore.

I take adeepbreath. I’malone.Timetowaitforsoldierstoarrestme.

Iquicklystepinsidetheroomandshutthebarrackdoor. It’s pitch-black in here—no windows, not even a slit of light

from under the door. Certainly abelievable enough place for me to behiding.Idon’tbothermovingfartherintotheroom;Ialreadyknowwhatthelayoutis, rows of bunk beds and a communalbathroom.Ijustflattenmyselfagainstthewallrightnexttothedoor.Bettertostayhere.

Ireachoutinthedarknessandfindthedoorknob.Usingmyhandstomeasure,Igauge how far the knob is from theground (three feet six). That’s probablyhowmuchspaceisbetweenthedoorknobandthetopofthedoorframetoo.Ithinkback towhenwewere still standing outinthecorridor,picturinghowmuchspaceisbetweenthedoorframe’stopedgeandthe ceiling. It must’ve been a little less

thantwofeet.Okay.Nowallmydetailsareinplace.

I settle back against the wall, close myeyes,andwait.

Twelveminutesdragby.Then, farther down thehall outside, I

hearadog’sbark.Myeyespopopen.Ollie.I’drecognize

thatbarkanywhere—mydogisstillalive.Alive, by some miracle. Joy andconfusionwashoverme.Whatthehellishedoinghere?Ipressanearagainst thedoorandlisten.Severalmoresecondsofsilence.Then,Ihearthebarkagain.

Mywhiteshepherdishere.Now thoughts are racing through my

mind.The only reasonwhyOlliewouldbehereisbecausehe’swithapatrol—the

patrol that’s hunting me down. Andthere’s only one soldier who’d think tousemyowndogtosniffmeout:Thomas.The Hacker’s words come back to me.Razor wanted “the right soldiers” tocapture me. He had a specific patrol inmind.

Of course the patrol—the person—RazorhadinmindwouldbeThomas.

Thomas must’ve been assigned byCommander Jameson to trackmedown.He’s using Ollie to help. But of all thepatrols I’d prefer to be arrested by,Thomas’srankslastonthelist.Myhandsstart to shake. I don’t want to see mybrother’smurdereragain.

Ollie’s barking grows steadily louder.Withitcomethefirstsoundsoffootsteps

andvoices.IhearThomas’svoiceoutinthe corridor, shouting to his soldiers. IholdmybreathandremindmyselfofthenumbersI’dcalculated.

They’re right outside the door. Theirvoices have gone quiet, replaced byclicks(safetyonloadedguns,soundslikesome M-series, some standard-issuerifles).

The following seems to happen inslowmotion. The door creaks open andlight spills in. Immediately I make asmalljumpandsteponelegup—myfootlandssilentlyonthedoorknobasthedoorswings towardme.As the soldiers enterthe roomwith their guns drawn, I reachupandgrabthetopofthedoorframebyusing the doorknob as a step. I pull

myself up.Without a sound, I perch ontopoftheopendoorlikeacat.

They don’t see me. They probablycan’tseeanythingexceptthedarknessinhere.Icountthemallinaflash.Thomasleads thegroupwithOllieathisside(tomy surprise, Thomas doesn’t have hisgundrawn),andbehindhimareaclusterof four soldiers.Therearemore soldiersoutside the room, but I can’t tell howmany.

“She’sinhere,”oneofthemsays,withahandpressedtohisear.“Shehasn’thada chance to board any airships yet.Commander DeSoto just confirmed oneofhismensawherenter.”

Thomassaysnothing.Iwatchhimturntoobserve thedark room.Thenhisgaze

wandersupthedoor.Welockeyes.I leap down and knock him to the

ground. In a moment of blind rage, Iactuallywant tobreakhisneckwithmybarehands.It’dbesoeasy.

The other soldiers clamor for theirguns, but in the chaos I hear Thomaschoke out an order. “Don’t fire! Don’tfire!”Hegrabsmyarm.Ialmostmanagetobreakfreeanddartthroughthesoldiersandoutthedoorway,butasecondsoldiershovesmedown.They’reallonmenow,awhirlwindofuniformsseizingmyarmsand dragging me to my feet. Thomaskeepsshoutingathismentobecareful.

Razor was right about Thomas. He’llwant to keep me alive for Commander

Jameson.Finally, they cuffmy hands and push

me so hard against the floor that I can’tmove. I hear Thomas’s voice overhead.“Goodtoseeyouagain,Ms.Iparis.”Hisvoice shakes. “You’re under arrest forassaultingRepublic soldiers, forcreatinga disturbance in Batalla Hall, and forabandoningyourpost.Youhavetherightto remain silent. Anything you say canandwillbeusedagainstyouinacourtoflaw.” I notice he doesn’t say anythingaboutassistingacriminal.HestillhastopretendtheRepublicexecutedDay.

Theypullme tomy feet and leadmebackdownthehall.Bythetimewe’reinthe sunlight, more than a few passingsoldiers stop to watch. Thomas’s men

shovemeunceremoniouslyintoawaitingpatroljeep’sbackseat,chainmyhandstothe door, and lock my arms down inmetal shackles. Thomas sits next to meand points his gun at my head.Ridiculous. The jeep ushers us backthrough the streets. The other twosoldiers sitting in the jeep’s front watchme in the rearviewmirror.Theyact likeI’m some sort of untamedweapon—andinaway,Iguessthat’strue.Theironyofit allmakesmewant to laugh.Day is aRepublic soldier on board the RSDynasty, and I am the Republic’s mostvaluablecaptive.We’veswitchedplaces.

Thomas tries to ignore me as wetravel, butmyeyesnever leavehim.Heseems tired, with pale lips and dark

circlesrimminghiseyes.Stubbledotshischin,asurprisein itself—Thomaswouldnormally never show his face withoutbeing perfectly clean shaven.Commander Jameson must’ve run himraggedforlettingmeescapefromBatallaHall.Theyprobablyinterrogatedhimforit.

The minutes drag on. None of thesoldiers talk. The one who drives uskeepshiseyesfirmlyontheroad,andallwe can hear is the drone of the jeep’sengine and themuffled sounds from thestreetsoutside.Isweartheothersmustbeable to hear the hammering ofmy hearttoo.FromhereIcanseethejeepdrivingaheadofus,andthroughitsbackwindowIseeoccasional flashesofwhite fur that

make me feel incredibly happy. Ollie. Iwishhewereinthesamejeepasme.

Finally,IturntoThomas.“ThankyoufornothurtingOllie.”

Idon’texpecthimtoanswer.Captainsdon’tspeaktocriminals,he’dsay.Buttomysurprise,hemeetsmygaze.Forme,itseems,he’sstillwillingtobreakprotocol.“Yourdogturnedouttobeuseful.”He’s Metias’s dog. My anger starts

rising again, but I push it back down.Useless to rage over something thatwon’thelpmyplans. It’s interesting thathekeptOlliealiveatall—hecouldhavetrackedmedownwithouthim.Ollie’snota police dog and has no training insniffing down targets. He couldn’t havehelpedwhentheyweretryingtotrackme

acrosshalf the country; he’s only usefulin very close range. Which means thatThomaskepthimaliveforotherreasons.Becausehecares forme?Or . . .maybehe still cares for Metias. The thoughtstartlesme.Thomas’sstareflickersawaywhen I don’t reply.Then there’s anotherlongsilence.“Whereareyoutakingme?”

“You’ll be held in the High DesertPenitentiaryuntilafteryourinterrogation,and then the courts will decide whereyou’llgo.”

Time to put Razor’s plans to work.“Aftermy interrogation, I can guaranteethat the courts are going to send me toDenver.”

One of the guards sitting up frontnarrowshiseyesatme,butThomasholds

up a hand. “Let her talk,” he says. “Allthat matters is that we deliver herunharmed.” Then he glances at me. Heseems gaunter than the last time I sawhimtoo—evenhishair,combedneatlyinasidepart,isdullandlimp.“Andwhyisthat?”

“IhaveinformationtheElectormaybehighlyinterestedin.”

Thomas’s mouth twitches—he’shungry to question me now, to uncoverwhateversecrets Imighthold.But that’soutside of protocol, and he’s alreadybroken enough rules by conversing idlywith me. He seems to decide againstpressingme further. “We’ll seewhatwecangetoutofyou.”

Then I realize that it’s a little strange

they’re sending me to a Vegaspenitentiary at all. I should beinterrogated and tried inmy home state.“Why am I being held here?” I ask.“Shouldn’t I be on my way to LosAngeles?”

Thomas keeps his eyes forward now.“Quarantine,”hereplies.

I frown. “What, it’s spread toBatallanowtoo?”

His answer sends a chill down myspine.“Los Angeles is under quarantine.Allofit.”

***

HIGHDESERTPENITENTIARY.ROOM416(20×12SQUAREFEET).

2224HOURS;SAMEDAYASMYCAPTURE.

I sit a few feet away from Thomas.Nothingbutaflimsytableseparatesus—well, if I don’t count the number ofsoldiersstandingguardbesidehim.Theyshift uncomfortably whenever I let myeyes rest on them. I sway a little inmychair,fightingbackexhaustion,andclinkthe chains that keep my arms securedacross my back.My mind is starting towander—I keep thinking back on whatThomas said about Los Angeles and itsquarantine.Notimetodwellonthatnow,I tell myself, but the thoughts won’t goaway. I try to picture Drake Universitymarkedwithplaguesigns,Rubysector’sstreetscrowdedwithplaguepatrols.Howisthatpossible?Howcouldtheentirecitybeunderquarantine?

We’vebeeninthisroomforsixhours,andThomashasgottennowherewithme.My answers to his questions lead usaround in circles, and I’vebeendoing itinawaysosubtlethathedoesn’trealizeI’ve been manipulating the conversationuntilhe’swastedanotherhour.He’striedthreatening to kill Ollie. To which IthreatenedtocarryanyinformationIhadto my grave. He’s tried threateningme.Towhich I reminded him of the taking-information-to-my-grave factor. He’seven tried some mind games—none ofwhich went even remotely well. I justkeep asking him why Los Angeles isunder quarantine. I’ve been trained ininterrogation tactics as much as he has,and it’s backfiring on him. He hasn’t

gottenphysicalwithmeyet, theway hehadwithDay.(Thisisanotherinterestingdetail. It doesn’t matter how muchThomas cares for me—if his superiorsorderhim tousephysical force,he’lldoit.Sincehehasn’t hurtmeyet, itmeansCommander Jameson told him not to.Odd.)Evenso,Icantellhispatiencewithmeiswearingthin.

“Tell me, Ms. Iparis,” he says afterwe’resilent foramoment.“Whatwill ittakeformetogetsomethingusefuloutofyou?”

I keep my face expressionless.“Already told you that. I’ll trade you ananswer for a request. I have informationfortheElector.”

“You’reinnopositiontobargain.And

you can’t keep this up indefinitely.”Thomas leans back in his chair andfrowns. The fluorescent lights cast longshadows under his eyes. Against theundecorated white walls of the room(aside from two Republic flags and theElector’s portrait), Thomas stands outominously in his black-and-red captain’suniform.Metias used towear a uniformlike that. “I knowDay is alive, andyouknow howwe can find him.You’ll talkafterafewdayswithoutfoodorwater.”

“Don’t assumewhat Iwill andwon’tdo, Thomas,” I reply. “As for Day, Ishould think the answer’s obvious. If hewere alive, he’d head off to rescue hislittlebrother.Anyfoolcouldguessthat.”

Thomas tries to ignore my jab, but I

canseetheirritationonhisface.“Ifhe’salive, he’ll never find his brother. Thatlocation is classified. I don’t need toknowwhereDaywants to go. I need toknowwhereheis.”

“Itmakes no difference. You’d nevercatchhimanyway.Hewon’t fall for thesametrickstwice.”

Thomas folds his arms.Was it reallyjust a fewweeks ago that the two of ussat together, eating dinner at a LosAngelescafé?The thoughtofLAbringsmerightbacktothequarantinenews,andI picture the café empty, covered withquarantinenotices.

“Ms.Iparis,”Thomassays,puttinghispalmsflatonthetable.“Wecancontinuelike this forever, and you can just keep

being snide and shaking your head untilyou collapse from exhaustion. I don’twant to hurt you.You have a chance toredeemyourselftotheRepublic.Inspiteofeverythingyou’vedone,I’vereceivedword frommy higher-ups that they stillconsideryoutobequitevaluable.”

So. Commander Jameson wasinvolved inmakingsure I’mnotharmedduring my interrogation. “How kind,” Ireply, letting sarcasm seep into mywords.“I’mluckierthanMetias.”

Thomas sighs, bows his head, andsqueezes theupperbridgeofhisnose inexasperation. He sits like that for amoment. Then he motions toward theothersoldiers.“Everyoneout,”hesnaps.

When the soldiers have left us alone,

heturnsbacktomeandleansforwardtoputhisarmsonthetable.“I’msorryyouhavetobehere,”hesaysquietly.“Ihopeyou understand, Ms. Iparis, that I’mboundbymydutytodothis.”

“Where’s Commander Jameson?” Ireply. “She’s your puppet master, isn’tshe? I would’ve thought she’d comeinterrogatemeaswell.”

Thomas doesn’t flinch at my taunt.“She’s containing Los Angeles at themoment, organizing the quarantine andreporting thesituation toCongress.Withall due respect, the world does notrevolvearoundyou.”

Containing Los Angeles. The wordschillme.“Aretheplaguesreallythatbadright now?” I decide to ask yet again,

keeping my eyes firmly fixed onThomas’s face. “Is LA quarantinedbecauseofillness?”

Heshakeshishead.“Classified.”“When will it be lifted? Are all the

sectorsquarantined?”“Stop asking. I told you, the whole

cityis.EvenifIknewwhenitwouldbelifted,I’dstillhavenoreasontotellyou.”

Iknowinstantlybyhisexpressionthatwhat he actually means is: CommanderJamesondidn’ttellmewhat’sgoingoninthe city, so I have no idea.Why wouldsheneedtokeephiminthedark?“Whathappenedinthecity?”Ipress,hopingtogetmoreoutofhim.

“That’s not relevant to yourinterrogation,” Thomas replies, tapping

his fingers impatiently against his arm.“LosAngeles isno longeryourconcern,Ms.Iparis.”

“It’smy hometown,” I reply. “I grewupthere.Metiasdiedthere.Ofcourseit’smyconcern.”

Thomasisquiet.Hishandcomesuptopush dark hair away from his face, andhis eyes search mine. Minutes tick by.“That’swhatthisisallabout,”hefinallymutters. I wonder if he’s saying thisbecausehe’swearytooaftersixhoursinthisroom.“Ms.Iparis,whathappenedtoyourbrother—”

“I know what happened,” I interrupthim.My voice trembles in rising anger.“You killed him. You sold him to thestate.”ThewordshurtsomuchthatIcan

barelysqueezethemout.His expression quivers. He lets out a

cough and straightens in his chair. “Theorder came directly from CommanderJameson, and the last thing I’d do isdisobey a direct order from her. Youshould know this rule aswell as I do—although I have to admit you’ve neverbeenverygoodatfollowingit.”

“What, so you were just willing tohand him over like that, because hefiguredouthowourparentsdied?Hewasyour friend, Thomas. You grew upwithhim.CommanderJamesonwouldn’thavegivenyouthetimeofday—youwouldn’tbe sitting across this table right now—ifMetias hadn’t recommended you for herpatrol.Or have you forgotten that?”My

voice rises. “You couldn’t risk even afractionofyourownsafetytohelphim?”“It was a direct order,” Thomas

repeats. “Commander Jameson is not tobe questioned. What don’t youunderstandabout that?Sheknewthathehacked into the deceased persons’database,alongwithahostofotherhighsecurity government catalogs. Yourbrother broke the law, multiple times.Commander Jameson couldn’t have awell-respected captain of her patrolcommittingcrimesrightunderhernose.”

I narrow my eyes. “And that’s whyyou killed him in a dark alley, thenframed Day for it? Because you’dhappily followyourcommander’sordersrightoffacliff?”

Thomas slams his hand down on thetablehardenough tomakeme jump.“Itwas a signed order from the state ofCalifornia,” he shouts. “Do youunderstand what I’m saying? I had nobetter choice.”Thenhiseyeswiden—hehadn’texpectedthosewordstocomeout,notthatway.Theystunmetoo.Hekeepstalking,nowataquickerpace,seeminglydeterminedtoerasethewords.Astrangelightglows inhis eyes, something that Ican’t quite pinpoint.What is it? “I’m asoldier of the Republic. When I joinedthe military I took an oath to obey mysuperiors’ordersatallcosts.Metiastookthesameoath,andhebrokeit.”

There’s somethingoddabout thewayhe refers to Metias, a sort of hidden

emotionthatthrowsmeoff.“Thestateisbroken.” I take a deep breath. “Andyou’reacowardforleavingMetiasatitsmercy.”

Thomas’s eyes constrict as if I’dstabbed him. I study him closer, but henotices me analyzing him and jerks hisfaceaway,turningtothesideandhidinghisheadinhishands.

I think about my brother again, thistime flipping in my mind through hismanyyearsspent inThomas’s company.Metias had known Thomas since theywere kids, long before I was born.Whenever his father, our apartmentfloor’sjanitor,wouldbringThomasalongtoaccompanyhimduringhisworkshifts,ThomasandMetiaswouldplayforhours

onend.Militaryvideogames.Toyguns.AfterIcameintothepicture,Irememberthemany quiet conversations the two ofthemwouldshareinourlivingroom,andhow often they were together. I recallThomas’s Trial score: 1365. Great for apoor sector kid, but average for kids inRubysector.Metiaswasthefirst topickuponThomas’s intense interest inbeinga soldier. He’d spend entire afternoonsteaching Thomas everything he knew.Thomas would never have made it intoEmerald sector’s Highland Universitywithoutmybrother’shelp.

Mybreathsturnshallowassomethingfalls into place. I remember the wayMetias’s gaze would linger on Thomasduring their trainingsessions. I’dalways

assumed thatwas justmy brother’swayof studying Thomas’s posture andperformance for accuracy. I rememberhowpatientandgentleMetiaswaswhenexplainingthingstoThomas.Thewayhishand would touch Thomas’s shoulder.The night when I’d eaten edame at thatcafé with Thomas and Metias, whenMetias first stopped shadowing Chian.ThewayMetias’shandwouldsometimesrest on Thomas’s arm for a beat longerthan it had to. The chat I had with mybrotherwhen he took care ofme on thedayofhisinduction.Howhe’dlaughed.Idon’t need girlfriends. I’ve got a babysister to take care of. And it was true.He’d dated a couple of girls in college,but never for longer than a week, and

alwayswithpolitedisinterest.Soobvious.HowcouldInothaveseen

thisbefore?Of courseMetias never talked to me

about it. Officer and subordinaterelationships are strictly forbidden.Harshly punished. Metias had been theone to recommend Thomas forCommander Jameson’s patrol . . . Hemust have done it for Thomas’s sake,even though he knew that it meant anychance of a relationship would beimpossible.

Allofthisflashesthroughmythoughtsin a matter of seconds. “Metias was inlovewithyou,”Iwhisper.

Thomasdoesn’treply.“Well? Is it true? You must have

known.”Thomas still doesn’t answer. Instead,

he keeps his head in his hands andrepeats,“Itookanoath.”

“Waitaminute.Idon’tunderstand.”Ilean back against my chair and take adeep breath. My thoughts are now awhirling, jumbled mess. Thomas’ssilence tells me far more than anythinghe’ssaidaloud.

“Metias lovedyou,” I sayslowly.Mywords are quivering. “And did somuchfor you. But you still turned him in?” Ishakemyhead in disbelief. “Howcouldyou?”

Thomas looks up at me from hishands, a flash of confusion lighting hisface.“Ineverreportedhim.”

We face each other for a long time.Finally, I say through clenched teeth,“Tellmewhathappened,then.”

Thomas stares off into space.“Security admins found traces he leftbehind when he hacked through aloopholeinthesystem,”hereplies.“Intothe deceased civilians’ database. Theadmins reported it to me first, with theunderstanding that I would pass themessage to Commander Jameson. I’dalways warned Metias about hacking.Youcross theRepublic toomany times,and eventually you get burned. Stayloyal,stayfaithful.Butheneverlistened.Neitheroneofyoudo.”

“Soyoukepthissecret?”Thomas drops his head back into his

hands.“IconfrontedMetiasaboutitfirst.He admitted it to me. I promised him Iwouldn’t tell anyone, but deep down, Iwanted to. I have never kept anythingfrom Commander Jameson.” He pauseshere for a second. “Turns out that mysilencewouldn’thavemadeadifference.Thesecurityadminsdecidedtoforwardamessage on to Commander Jamesonanyway.That’showshefoundout.Thenshe tasked me with taking care ofMetias.”

I listen in shocked silence. Thomashadneverwanted tokillMetias. I try toimagineascenariothatIcanbear.Maybehe even tried to persuade CommanderJameson to assign the mission tosomeone else. But she refused, and he

chosetodoitanyway.IwonderwhetherMetiaseveractedon

his attraction, and whether Thomasreciprocated. Knowing Thomas, I doubtit.DidheloveMetiasback?HehadtriedtokissmethatnightafterthecelebrationforDay’scapture.“Thecelebratoryball,”I muse, aloud this time. I don’t need toexplainthateveningforThomastoknowwhatI’mtalkingabout.“Whenyoutriedto...”

ItrailoffasThomascontinuestostareat the floor, his expression oscillatingbetween blankness and pain. Finally, heruns a hand through his hair andmumbles, “I knelt over Metias andwatched him die. My hand was on thatknife.He...”

I wait, light-headed from the wordshe’ssaying.

“Hetoldmenottohurtyou,”Thomascontinues. “His last words were aboutyou. And I don’t know. At Day’sexecution,Itriedtocomeupwithawayto stop Commander Jameson fromarrestingyou.Butyoumakeitsohardforpeopletoprotectyou,June.Youbreaksomanyrules.JustlikeMetias.Thatnightattheball—when I lookedatyour face—”His voice cracks. “I thought I couldprotectyou,and that thebestwaymightbetokeepyouclosetome,totrytowinyou over. I don’t know,” he repeatsbitterly. “Even Metias had troublewatchingoutforyou.WhatchancedidIhaveofkeepingyousafe?”

The evening of Day’s execution.HadThomasbeentryingtohelpmeoutwhenhe escortedme down to see the electro-bomb storage basement? What ifCommander Jameson was preparing toarrestme,andThomastriedgettingtomefirst? To what, help me escape? I don’tunderstand.

“I did care for him, you know,” hesays through my silence. He pretendsbravado, some false professionalism.Still,Ihearatingeofsadness.“ButIamalsoasoldieroftheRepublic.IdidwhatIhadtodo.”

I shove the table aside and lunge forhim, even though I know I’m chaineddowntomychair.Thomasjumpsback.Istumbleagainstmy restraints, fall tomy

knees, and then grab for his leg. Foranything.You’resick.You’resotwisted.Iwant to kill him. I’ve never wantedanythingthismuchinmyentirelife.

No,that’snottrue.IwantMetiastobealiveagain.

Theguardsoutsidemust’veheard thecommotion because they come pouringin,andbeforeIknowitI’mpinneddownby several soldiers, cuffedwith an extrasetofshackles,anduntiedfrommychair.They drag me to my feet. I kick outfuriously, running through a list in myheadofeveryattackI’veever learnedinschool, trying frantically to free myself.Thomasissoclose.He’sonlyafewfeetaway.

Thomas just looks at me. His hands

dangle at his sides. “It was the mostmercifulwayforhimtogo,”hecallsout.ItmakesmenauseousIknowhe’sright,and that Metias would’ve almostcertainly been tortured to death hadThomasnottakenhimdowninthatalley.ButIdon’tcare.I’mblind,smotheredbymy anger and confusion. How could hedothattosomeoneheloved?Howcouldhepossiblyattempt to justify this?Whatiswrongwithhim?

AfterMetias’s death, on nights whenThomas sat alone in his home, did heeverstepout of his façade?Didhe evershed the soldier and let the civiliangrieve?

I’mdraggedoutoftheroomandbackdown thecorridor.Myhands tremble—I

fighttosteadymybreathing,tocalmmyracing heart, to pushMetias back into asafe corner ofmymind.A small part ofme had hoped that I was wrong aboutThomas.That hehadn’t been the one tokillmybrother.

By the next morning, all traces ofemotionhavedisappearedfromThomas’sface. He tells me the Denver court hasgottenwindofmyrequestfortheElectorand has decided to transfer me to theColoradoStatePenitentiary.

I’mofftothecapital.

WE TOUCH DOWN IN LAMAR,COLORADO, ON A COLD, rainymorning, right on schedule. Razorleaveswithhissquadron.KaedeandIwaitinthedarkstairwellleadingoutfrom the back entrance of his officeuntilthesoundsoutsidehavequietedandmostoftheship’screwhaveleft.This time there are no guardsperforming fingerprint scans or IDchecks, sowe can follow the last ofthesoldiersstraightofftheexitramp.Wemelt right in with the troops thatare actually here to fight for the

Republic.Sheets of icy rain pound the base

as we step out of the pyramid dockand into the formidable grayness ofthis place. The sky’s completelycovered with churning storm clouds.Landing docks line the side of thecracked cement street, an ominousrow of enormous black pyramidsstretchingoff in either direction, slickand shiny with rain. The air smellsstale,wet.Jeepspackedwithsoldiersdrive back and forth, splashing mudandgravelacrossthepavement.Thesoldiershereallhaveawidestripeofblack painted across their eyes fromone ear to the other. Must be somesort of crazywarfront style. The rest

of thecity looms in frontofus—grayskyscrapers that probably serve asbarracks for the soldiers, some newwith smooth sides and tinted glasswindows, others pockmarked andcrumbling as if they’ve been fed asteady diet of grenades. A few areash and ruins, some with just onewall left, pointing upward like abroken monument. No terracedbuildings here, no grassy levelsdottedwithherdsofcattle.We hurry along the street with our

stiffjacketcollarsturnedupinapitifulattempt to shield us from the rain.“Thisplacehasbeenbombed,yeah?”I mutter to Kaede. My teeth chatterwitheachword.

Kaede opens her mouth in mocksurprise. “Wow. You’re a crackedgenius,youknowthat?”“Idon’tgetit.”Istudythecrumbling

buildingsthatdotthehorizon.“What’swith the shell-shocked look here?Isn’t the actual fighting happeningfartheraway?”Kaedeleansinsotheothersoldiers

on the street don’t hear us. “TheColonieshavebeenpushinginalongthis part of the border since I was,what, seventeen?Anyway, foryears.They’ve probably gotten a goodhundred miles in from where theRepublicclaimstheColoradolineis.”After somany years of listening to

the constant bombardment of

Republic propaganda, it’s jarring tohearsomeonetellmethetruth.“What—soareyousayingtheColoniesarewinningthewar,then?”Iaskinalowvoice.“They’ve been winning for a while

now.Youheard it frommefirst.Giveit a few more years, kid, and theColonies will be right in yourbackyard.” She sounds kindadisgusted. Maybe there’s somelingering resentmentshehasagainsttheColonies.“Makeofthatwhatyouwill,” she mutters. “I’m just here forthemoney.”Ifallsilent.TheColonieswillbethe

new United States. Can it really bepossible that after all these years of

war,itmightfinallycometoanend?Itry to imagine a world without theRepublic—without the Elector, theTrials, the plagues. The Colonies asthe victor.Man, too good to be true.And with the Elector’s potentialassassination, this might all cometrue even sooner. I’m tempted topress her more on it, but Kaedeshushes me before I can start, andweendupwalkinginsilence.We make a turn several blocks

down and follow a double row ofrailroad tracks for what feels likeseveral miles. Finally, we stop whenwereachastreetcornerfar fromthebarracks, darkened by the shadowsof ruinedbuildingsalongside it.Lone

soldiers walk by here and there.“There’s a lull in the fighting rightnow,”Kaedemurmursasshesquintsdown the track. “Hasbeen for a fewdays. But it’ll pick up soon. You’regonna be so grateful to be hangingwith us; none of these Republicsoldierswillhavethe luxuryofhidingunderground when the bombs comerainingdown.”“Underground?”But Kaede’s attention is fixed on a

soldier walking straight toward usalong one side of the tracks. I blinkwateroutofmyeyesandtrytogetabetter look at him. He’s dressed nodifferentlyfromus,inasoakedcadetjacket with a diagonal flap of cloth

covering part of the buttons, andsingle silver stripes along eachshoulder.Hisdarkskinisslickbehindthe sheets of pouring rain, and hisshortcurlsareplasteredtohishead.Hisbreathcomesoutinwhiteclouds.When he gets closer, I can see thathiseyesareastartling,palegray.Hewalksbywithoutacknowledging

us, and gives Kaede the subtlestgesture: twofingersofhis righthandheldoutinaV.We cross the tracks and continue

for several more blocks. Here thebuildingsarecrowdedclose togetherand the streets are so narrow thatonlytwopeoplecanfitdownanalleyatatime.Thismusthaveoncebeen

anareawherecivilianslived.Manyofthewindowsareblownoutandothersarecoveredwith tatteredcloth. Iseea couple of people’s shadows insidethem, lit by flickering candles.Whoever isn’t a soldier in this townmustbedoingwhatmyfatherusedtodo—cooking,cleaning,andcaringforthe troops. Dad must’ve lived insqualor like this too whenever heheaded out to the warfront for histoursofduty.Kaede shakes me out of my

thoughts by pulling us abruptly intooneofthedark,narrowalleys.“Movefast,”shewhispers.“You know who you’re talking to,

right?”

Sheignoresme,kneelsdownalongtheedgeofonewallwhere there’sametal grating lining the ground, thentakesoutatinyblackdevicewithhergood arm. She runs it quickly alongan edge of the grating. A secondpasses. Then the grating lifts off theground on two hinges and silentlyslides open, revealing a black hole.It’s purposely designed to be wornand dirty, I realize, but this thing’sbeenmodifiedintoasecretentrance.Kaede stoops down and jumps intothe hole. I follow suit. My bootssplash into shallow water, and thegratingaboveusslidesshutagain.Kaedegrabsmyhandandleadsme

throughatunnel.Itsmellsstalehere,

like old stone and rain and rustedmetal. Ice-cold water drips from theceiling and throughmywet hair.Wetravelonlyafewfeetinbeforetakingasharprightturn,lettingthedarknessswallowuswhole.“There used to bemiles of tunnels

likethisinalmosteverywarfrontcity,”Kaedewhispersintothesilence.“Yeah?Whatweretheyfor?”“Rumor’s that all these old tunnels

used to be for eastern Americanstryingtosneakwesttogetawayfromthefloods.Evenbackbeforethewarbegan.Soeachofthesetunnelsgoesright under the warfront barricadesbetween the Republic and theColonies.” Kaede makes a sliding

motionwithherhandthatIcanbarelymakeoutinthegloom.“Afterthewarstarted, both countries started usingthem offensively, so the Republicdestroyed all the entrances withintheirbordersandtheColoniesdidthesameon the other end. ThePatriotsmanaged to dig out and rebuild fivetunnels in secret.We’ll be using thisLamar one”—she pauses to gestureat the dripping ceiling—“and one inPierra.Anearbycity.”Itrytoimaginewhatitmust’veonce

beenlike,atimewhentherewasn’taRepublic or Colonies and a singlecountry covered the middle of NorthAmerica. “And no one knows thesearehere?”

Kaede snorts. “You think we’d beusing these if the Republic knewabout them? Not even the Coloniesknow. But they’re great for Patriotmissions.”“DotheColoniessponsoryouguys,

then?”Kaede smiles a little at that. “Who

elsewouldgiveusenoughmoneytomaintain tunnels like this? I haven’tmet our sponsors over there yet—Razor handles those relationships.Butthemoneykeepscoming,sotheymust be satisfied with the job we’redoing.”Wewalk forawhilewithout talking.

Myeyeshaveadjustedenoughtothedarkness so that I can see rust

crustingthetunnel’ssides.Rivuletsofwater drip patterns across themetalwalls. “Are you happy that they’rewinning the war?” I say after a fewminutes.Hopefullyshe’swillingtotalkabout the Colonies again. “I mean,since they practically kicked you outof their country?Why’d you leave inthefirstplace?”Kaedelaughsbitterly.Thesoundof

our boots sloshing through waterechoes down the tunnel. “Yeah, Iguess I’m happy,” she says. “What’sthe alternative? Watching theRepublic win? You tell me what’sbetter. But you grew up in theRepublic. Who knows what you’dthinkoftheColonies.Youmightthink

it’saparadise.”“Is there a reason I shouldn’t?” I

reply. “My father used to tell mestories about the Colonies. He saidtherewerecitiescompletely lit upbyelectricity.”“Yourdadworkedforaresistanceor

something?”“I’m not sure. He never said it out

loud. We all assumed he must’vebeen doing something behind theRepublic’s back, though. He’d bringbackthese... trinketsrelatedtotheUnited States. Just odd things for anormalpersontohave.Hewouldtalkabout getting us all out of theRepublic someday.” I pause there,lost for amoment inanoldmemory.

My pendant feels heavy around myneck.“Don’tthinkI’lleverreallyknowwhathewasupto.”Kaedenods.“Well, Igrewupalong

one of the Colonies’ easterncoastlines,whereitborderstheSouthAtlantic.Ihaven’tbeenbackinyears—I’msurethewater’sgoneatleastadozen more feet inland by now.Anyway,IgotintooneoftheirAirshipAcademies and became one of theirtoppilotsintraining.”IftheColoniesdon’thavetheTrials,

I wonder how they choose who toadmit into their schools. “So, whathappened?”“Killed a guy,” Kaede replies. She

says it like it’s themostnatural thing

in the world. In the darkness, shedrawscloser tomeandpeersboldlyat my face. “What? Hey, don’t givemethat—itwasanaccident.Hewasjealous that our flight commanderslikedmesomuch,sohetriedtopushme over the edge of our airship. Idamagedoneofmyeyesgoodduringthat scuffle. I foundhim inhis lockerroomlaterandknockedhimout.”Shemakes a disgusted sound. “Turnedout I’d hit his head too hard, andhenever woke up. My sponsor pulledoutafterthatlittleincidenttaintedmyreputation with the corps—and notbecause I killed him, either. Whowantsanemployee—a fighterpilot—with a badeye, evenafter surgery?”

She stopswalking and points at herrighteye.“Iwasdamagedgoods.Myprice went way down. Anyway, theAcademy booted me out after mysponsor dropped me. It’s a shame,honestly.Imissedoutonmylastyearoftrainingbecauseofthatdamncon.”I don’t understand some of the

terms Kaede uses—corps,employees—but I decide to ask heraboutthemsomeothertime.I’msureI’ll gradually getmore info about theColonies out of her. For now, I stillwant toknowmoreabout thepeopleI’mworkingfor. “Andthenyou joinedthePatriots?”She flips her hand in a nonchalant

gestureandstretchesherarmsoutin

frontofher. I’m remindedofhow tallKaede is, how her shoulders line upwith mine. “Fact of the matter is,Razor pays me. Sometimes I evengettofly.ButI’mhereforthemoney,kid,andaslongasIkeepgettingmycash, I’ll do whatever I can to helpstitch the United States backtogether. If that means letting theRepublic collapse, fine. If it meansthegoddyColonies takingover, fine.Get this war over and the US thinggoing.Get people living normal livesagain.That’swhatIcareabout.”I can’t help feeling a little amused.

Even though Kaede tries to seemuncommitted, I can tell that she’sproud to be a Patriot. “Well, Tess

seems to like you well enough,” Ireply. “So I guess you must be allright.”Kaede laughs in earnest. “Gotta

admit, she’s a sweet one. I’m glad Ididn’t kill her in thatSkiz duel. You’llsee—there’snotasinglePatriotwhodoesn’t likeher.Don’t forget toshowsomelovetoyourlittlefriendnowandthen, okay? I know you’ve got thehots for June, but Tess is headoverheels mad for you. In case youcouldn’ttell.”Thatmakesmysmilefadealittle.“I

guess I just never really thoughtaboutherlikethat,”Imurmur.“Withher past, shedeserves some

love,yeah?”

IputmyhandoutandstopKaede.“Shetoldyouaboutherpast?”Kaede glances back at me. “She’s

never toldyouherstories,hasshe?”shesays,genuinelybewildered.“I could never get them out of her.

She always sidestepped it, and afterawhileIjustgaveuptrying.”Kaede sobers. “She probably

doesn’twantyoutofeelsorryforher,”she finally says. “She was theyoungestoffive.Shewasnineatthetime,Ithink.Parentscouldn’taffordtofeed all of them, so one night theylockedheroutofthehouseandneverletherbackin.Shesaidshepoundedonthedoorfordays.”Ican’tsayI’msurprisedtohearthis.

TheRepublic’ssolazywhenitcomesto dealing with street orphans thatnoneofusevergotasecondglance—my family’s love was all I had tohang on to inmy early street years.Apparently, Tess didn’t even havethat. No wonder she was so clingywhenIfirstmether.Imusthavebeenthe only person in the world whocaredabouther.“Ididn’tknow,”Iwhisper.“Well, now you do,” Kaede replies.

“Stick by her—you two are a goodmatch,y’know.”Itmakeshersnicker.“Both so damn optimistic. I’ve nevermet such a sunshine-and-rainbowspairofslumsectorcons.”I don’t respond. She’s right,

obviously—I’d never dwelled on thethought, but Tess and I are a goodmatch. She understands intimatelywhere I came from. She can cheermeuponmy darkest days. It’s as ifshe came from a perfectly happyhomeinsteadofwhatKaedejust toldme. I feel a relaxing warmth at thethought,realizingsuddenlyhowmuchI’manticipatingmeetingupwithTessagain.Whereshegoes,Igo,andviceversa.Peasinapod.Thenthere’sJune.Even the thought of her name

makes it hard forme to breathe. I’malmost embarrassed bymy reaction.AreJuneandIagoodmatch?No.It’sthefirstwordtopopintomymind.

Andyet,still.Our conversation fizzles out.

Sometimes I glance back over myshoulder,halfhopingtoseeahintoflight, half hoping I don’t. No lightmeans that the tunnel doesn’t runrightunderallthegratingsinthecity,visible to those walking by above.Thegroundalsofeelsslanted.We’retraveling deeper and deeperunderground. I force myself tobreathe evenly as the walls narrow,closing in aroundme.Goddy tunnel.WhatIwouldn’tgivetobebackintheopen.It takes forever, but finally I feel

Kaede come to an abrupt halt. Theechoofourbootsinthewatersounds

different now—I think we’ve stoppedin front of a solid structure of somesort.Maybeawall.“Thisusedtobearestbunkerforfugitives,”shemutters.“Near the back of this bunker thetunnelcontinueson,rightover to theColonies.” Kaede tries opening thedoor with a small lever at one side,and when that fails, she taps herknuckles softly against it in acomplicated series of ten or eleventaps.“Rocket,”shecallsout.Wewait,shivering.Nothing.Then,adimlittlerectangle

in thewallslidesopen,andapairofyellow-brown eyes blinks at us. “Hi,Kaede. Airship was right on time,yeah?” the girl behind the wall says

before narrowing her eyes at me.“Who’syourfriend?”“Day,” Kaede replies. “Now you

betterstopallthiscrapandletmein.I’mfreezing.”“All right, all right. Just checking.”

The eyes search me up and down.I’m surprised she can see much ofanythinginthisdarkness.Finally, thelittle rectangle slides shut. I hear afew beeps and a second voice. Thewall slides open to reveal a narrowcorridorwith a door at its other end.Before either of us make a move,three people step forward frombehind the wall and point guns rightatourheads.“Get in,” one of them barks at us.

It’sthegirlwhojustopenedthewall’speephole. We do as she says. Thewall closes behind us. “This week’scode?” she adds, cracking her gumloudly.“AlexanderHamilton,”Kaedereplies

impatiently.Now the three guns are pointed at

me insteadofKaede. “Day,eh?” thegirl says.She blows a quick bubble.“Yousureaboutthat?”Ittakesmeamomenttorealizethat

her second question is addressed toKaedeinsteadofme.Kaedesighsinexasperation and smacks the girl’sarm.“Yes,it’shim.Soknockitoff.”Theguns lower. I letoutabreath I

didn’t know I was holding. The girl

who letus ingestures forus towalktoward the second door, and whenwe reach it, sheslidesa littledevicesimilar to the oneKaedehadacrossthe door’s left side. A few morebeeps.“Goonin,”shetellsus.Thenshejutsherchinatme.“Anysuddenmoves and I’ll shoot you faster thanyoucanblink.”Theseconddoorslidesopen.Warm

air pours over us as we step into alarge room full of people bustlingaround tables and wall-mountedmonitors. Electric lights are on theceiling; a faint but distinct scent ofmoldandrustlingersintheair.Theremust be twenty, thirty people downhere, and the room still feels

spacious.A large projection of an insignia

decorates the room’s back wall, onethat I immediately recognize as theabbreviated version of the officialPatriot flag—a large silver star, withthree silverV stripesbelow it.Smarttoprojectit,Irealize,sotheycanpickup andmove out quickly if need be.Some of the monitors show theairship schedules I’d seen whileonboard the Dynasty. Others showsecurity cam–like footage streamingfromofficers’ roomsorwideshotsofLamar’scitystreetsorvideofromtheflight decks of airships right in thewarfront’s skies. One even has ashort rotation of morale-boosting

PatriotpropagandathatremindsmealittletoomuchoftheRepublic’sads;itsaysBRINGBACKTHESTATES, followedbyLANDOFTHEFREEandthenWEAREALL AMERICANS. Still others displayviews of continental America litteredwith multicolored dots—and two ofthemshowworldmaps.I gape at this for awhile.Never in

my lifehave Iseenaworldmap. I’mnot even sure if any exist in theRepublic. But here I can see theoceans that wrap their way aroundNorth America, the cut-up islandterritories labeled SOUTH AMERICA, atiny archipelago called the BritishIsles, gigantic landmasses calledAfrica and Antarctica, the country of

China (withabunchof little reddotssprinkled right in the ocean aroundtheedgeofitsland).This is the actual world, not the

world the Republic shows to itscivilians.Everyone in the room is watching

me. I turn away from the map andwaitforKaedetosaysomething.Shejust shrugsand slapsmeacross theback. My wet jacket makes asquishingsound.“ThisisDay.”They all wait in silence, although I

cansee the recognition lightup theireyeswhentheyhearmyname.Thensomebodywolf-whistles.Thatbreaksthe tension—there’s a chorus ofsnickers and laughs, then most

people go back to whatever theyweredoingbefore.Kaedeguidesmethroughthemess

of tables. A couple of people aregathered around some diagram,anothergroup isunpackingboxes;afewarejustrelaxing,watchingrerunsof some Republic soap opera. TwoPatriots sitting in front of a cornermonitor are tossing challenges backandforthastheyplayavideogame,racing some sort of spiky bluecreature across their screen bywavingtheirhandsinfrontofit.Eventhismust’vebeencustomized for thePatriots, as all the objects in thegameareblueandwhite.One boy snickers as I walk by.He

hasashockofdyedblondhairspikedupintoafauxhawk,darkbronzeskin,and a slight hunch to his broad,hulking shoulders, as if he’spermanently ready to pounce. Achunk of flesh is missing from hisearlobe.Irealizeit’sthesamepersonwhowolf-whistledearlier.“So. You’re the one who ditched

Tess, huh?” There’s an arroganceabout him that annoysme.He looksmeover indisdain. “Don’t knowwhya girl like her hangs with a con likeyou. A few nights in the Republic’sprisonssqueezealltheairouttayourchest?”I take a step toward him and grin

cheerfully. “With all due respect, I

don’t see the Republic tacking upwanted posterswithyour pretty faceonthem.”“Shut up.” Kaede pushes between

us and stabs a finger into the otherboy’schest.“Baxter,shouldn’tyoubegetting ready for tomorrow night’srun?”Theboyjustgruntsatmeandturns

away. “Still don’t understand whywe’re trusting a Republic lover,” hegrumbles.Kaedetapsmyshoulderandkeeps

walking. “Don’t mind that trot,” shetellsme.“Baxter’snotthebiggestfanof your girl June. He’s probablygonna give ya some trouble, so justtry to stay on his good side, yeah?

You’ll have to workwith him. He’s aRunnertoo.”“He is?” I say. I wouldn’t have

expected such amuscular person tobeafastRunner—butthenagain,hisstrengthmighthelphimreachplacesIcan’t.“Yup. You bumped him down the

hierarchyofRunners.”Kaedesmirks.“And you once messed up a Patriotmission that he was on. You neverevenrealizedit.”“Oh?Andwhatmissionwasthat?”“BombingAdministratorChian’scar,

inLosAngeles.”Wow—it’s beena long time since I

faced off againstChian.No idea thePatriotshadplannedanattackatthe

same time. “How tragic,” I reply,searchingthefacesintheroomafterBaxter’smentionofTess.“Ifyou’re lookingforTess,shebeat

ushere.She’swiththeotherMedics.”Kaede gestures toward the back ofthe room, where several doors linethewalls. “Probably in themedwardwatchingsomeonesewupawound.She’safastlearner,thatTess.”Kaedeleadsmepastthetablesand

theotherPatriots, thenstops in frontoftheworldmap.“Ibetyou’veneverseenanythinglikethis.”“Nope.”Istudythelandmasses,still

boggled by the idea that so manysocieties are functioning beyond theRepublic’s borders. In grade school

we’d learned that the parts of theworld not controlled by the Republicare just crumbling nations strugglingto get by. Are this many countriesstruggling to get by? Or are theydoingwell—maybeevenprospering?“Whatdoyouneedworldmapsfor?”“Ourmovement here has spawned

similaronesacrosstheglobe,”Kaedereplies,crossingherarms.“Whereverpeople are pissed at theirgovernments. Kinda morale-boostingforustoseeitonthewall.”Whensheseesmecontinuetoanalyzethemapwithaconcentratedfrown,sherunsaquickhandacrossthemiddleofNorthAmerica.“There’stheRepublicweallknow and love. And that’s the

Colonies.” She points to a smaller,more broken-up spread of landsharing the Republic’s easternborder. I study the red circlesdenoting cities in the Colonies. NewYork City, Pittsburgh, St. Louis,Nashville.Dotheyglowlikemyfathersaid?Kaedegoeson,sweepingherhand

up north and down south. “Canadaand Mexico each keep a strictdemilitarized zone betweenthemselves and both the Republicand Colonies. Mexico’s got her ownshare of Patriots. Then here’swhatever’sleftofSouthAmerica.Thisall used to be a huge continent too,y’know. Now it’s Brazil”—she points

toa large, triangular island far southof the Republic—“Chile, andArgentina.”Kaede cheerily points out what the

continentsareandwhattheyusedtobe. What I see as Norway, France,Spain,Germany,andtheBritishIslesused to be part of a larger placecalled Europe. The rest of Europe’speople, she says, fled to Africa.Mongolia and Russia aren’t extinctnations, contrary to Republicteachings. Australia used to be onesolid landmass. Then there are thesuperpowers. China’s enormous,floatingmetropolisesarebuiltentirelyoverthewaterandhavepermanentlyblack skies. “Hai Cheng,” Kaede

interjects. “Sea cities.” I learn thatAfrica wasn’t always the flourishing,technologically advanced continent itis today, gradually filling up withuniversities, skyscrapers, andinternational refugees. AndAntarctica,believeitornot,wasonceuninhabited and completely coveredin ice. Now, likeChina and Africa, ithouses theworld’s tech capitals andattracts a fair share of tourists. “TheRepublicandtheColonieshavesuchpathetic tech in comparison,” Kaedeadds. “I’d like to visit Antarcticasomeday.Supposedtobegorgeous.”ShetellsmetheUnitedStatesused

to be one of those superpowers.“Then came the war,” Kaede adds,

“andall their topthinkers literallyfledfor higher ground. Antarctica causedthe flooding, y’know. Things werealready going downhill, but then thesunwent haywire andmelted all theAntarctic ice.Flooding like youand Icouldn’t even imagine. Millionsdropped dead from the temperaturechanges. Now that must’ve been aspectacle,yeah?Thesunreset itselfeventually,but theclimatenever did.All that freshwater mixed up withseawater and nothing’s been thesamesince.”“TheRepublicnevertalksaboutany

ofthis.”Kaederollshereyes.“Oh,comeon.

It’s the Republic. Why would they?”

Shepoints towardonesmallmonitorin the corner that seems to bebroadcasting news headlines. “Youwanna seewhat theRepublic is likefromaforeigner’sperspective?Here.”When I pay closer attention to the

headlines,Irealizethatthevoiceoveris in a language I can’t understand.“Antarctican,”Kaedeexplainswhen Iglance questioningly at her. “We’refeeding in one of their channels.Readthecaptions.”Thescreenshowsanaerialviewof

acontinent,withthetextREPUBLICOF

AMERICA hovering over the land. Awoman’s voice narrates, and right atthebottomofthescreenisarunningmarqueeofher translatedwords:“—

to find newways of negotiating withthis heavily militarized rogue state,especially now that the transition ofpower to the Republic’s new Electoriscomplete.AfricanpresidentNtombiOkonjo proposed a halt today to theUnited Nations’ aid for the Republicuntil there is enough evidence of apeace treaty between the isolationistcountryanditseasternneighbor—”Isolationist. Militarized. Rogue. I

stare at the words. To me, theRepublic had been portrayed as theepitome of power, a ruthless,unstoppablemilitarymachine.Kaedegrinsattheexpressiononmyfaceasshe finally leads us away from themonitors. “Suddenly the Republic

doesn’t seem so powerful, does it?Puny little secretive state, grovelingfor international aid? I’m telling you,Day—all it takesisonegenerationtobrainwashapopulationandconvincethemthatrealitydoesn’texist.”We walk over to a table with two

slim comps sitting on it. The youngman hovering over one of thecomputers is the same guy who’dflashed Kaede a V sign on therailroadtracks,theonewithdarkskinandlighteyes.Kaedetapshimontheshoulder.Hedoesn’treactrightaway.Instead,hetypesafewlastlinesintowhatever’s on the screen and thenslides into a sitting position on thetable. I catch myself admiring his

grace.ARunnerforsure.Hecrosseshis arms and waits patiently forKaedetointroduceus.“Day, this is Pascao,” she says to

me. “Pascao’s the undisputed leaderof our Runners—he’s been eager tomeetyou,toputitlightly.”Pascaoholdsoutahandtome,his

paleeyesfixedintenselyonmine.Hegives me a brilliant white smile. “Apleasure,” he says in an excited,breathlessrush.Hischeeksflushredas I smile back at him. “Suffice it tosay we’ve all heard a great dealabout you. I’m your biggest fan.Biggestfan.”I don’t think anyone’s ever flirted

with me so blatantly before, except

maybe a boy I remember fromBlueridge sector. “Nice to meetanotherRunner,” I reply, shaking hishand.“I’msureI’llpickupsomenewtricksfromyou.”Hegivesmeadevilishgrinwhenhe

seeshow flustered I look. “Oh,you’lllike what’s coming. Believe me, youwon’tbesorryforjoiningupwithus—we’re gonna usher in a whole newera for America. The Republic won’tknow what hit it.” He goes into aseries of excited gestures, firstspreading his arms wide and thenpretending to untie knots in the air.“Our Hackers spent the last fewweeks quietly rewiring things inDenver’s Capitol Tower. Now, all we

have to do is twist a wire on any ofthe building’s speakers—and bam,we’re broadcasting to the entireRepublic.” He claps once and snapshis fingers. “Everyone will hear you.Revolutionary,yeah?”Sounds like a more elaborate

versionofwhatIdidinthealleyoftheten-second place, back when I firstconfrontedJune inanattempt togetplaguecuresforEden.WhenI’ddonea crude rewiring of the alley’sspeakers. But to rewire a capitalbuilding’s speakers to broadcast tothe entire Republic? “Sounds likefun,” I say. “What are webroadcasting?”Pascao blinks at me in surprise.

“The Elector’s assassination, ofcourse.”HiseyesdarttoKaede,whonods, and then he pulls a smallrectangular device from his pocket.Heflipsitopen.“We’regonnaneedtorecord all the evidence, every lastdetail as we drag him out of his carand put some bullets in him. OurHackers will be ready to go at theCapitol Tower, where they’ve set upthe JumboTrons to broadcast theassassination. We’ll declare ourvictoryoverthespeakerstotheentireRepublic.Let’sseethemtryandstopthat.”The savagery of the plan sends

chills downmy spine. It remindsmeof the way they’d taped and

broadcastedJohn’sdeath—mydeath—tothewholecountry.Pascao leans toward me, puts his

hand against my ear, and whispers,“That’s not even the best part, Day.”He pulls away long enough to giveme another huge, toothy grin. “Wanttoknowwhatthebestpartis?”Istiffen.“What?”Pascao crosses his arms in

satisfaction.“RazorthinksyoushouldbetheonetoshoottheElector.”

DENVER,COLORADO.

1937HOURS.

24°F.

IARRIVEINTHECAPITALBYTRAIN(STATION42B) INTHEmidstofasnowstorm,wherea crowd has gathered on the trainplatform to see me. I peer at themthroughmyfrostedwindowasweslowtoa standstill. Even though it’s freezingcoldoutside, theseciviliansarecrowdedbehindamakeshiftmetalrailing,pushingandshovingoneanotherasifLincolnorsome other celebrity singer had justarrived.Nolessthantwocapitalmilitary

patrols push back against them. Theirmuffledshoutsreachme.

“Getback!Everyone’stomovebehindthebarriers.Behind thebarriers!Anyonewithacamerawillbearrestedonsight.”

It’s odd. Most of the civilians hereseempoor.HelpingDaymusthavegivenmeagoodreputationintheslumsectors.I rub at the thin wires of the paper clipring on my finger. A habit I’ve alreadydeveloped.

Thomas walks over to my aisle andleansovertheseatstotalktothesoldierssitting alongside me. “Take her to thedoor,” he says. “Quickly.” His eyesflickertomeandthenovertheoutfitI’mwearing (yellow prison vest, thin whitecollar shirt). He acts as though the

conversation we had last night in theinterrogationroomneverhappened.Ijustconcentrate on my lap. His face makesme sick tomy stomach. “She’ll be coldout there,” he says to his men. “Makesureshehasacoat.”

The soldiers point their guns at me(Model XM-2500, 700m range, smartrounds, can shoot through two layers ofcement),thenhaulmetomyfeet.Duringthe train ride, I’d watched these twosoldiers with such intensity that theirnervesmustbecompletelyshotbynow.

Myhandshacklesclanktogether.Withguns like that, one hit and I’d likely dieof blood loss no matter where on mytorsothebulletstruckme.Theyprobablythink I’mplanning away to grab a gun

from them when they’re not payingattention. (A ridiculous assumption,because with my shackles on I have nowayoffiringtheriflecorrectly.)

Nowtheyleadmedowntheaisleandto the end of our train car, where fourmore soldierswait at the open door thatleadsdowntothestationplatform.Agustof cold wind hits us and I suck in mybreath sharply. I’ve been near thewarfront once, back whenMetias and Iwent on our only mission together, butthatwasWestTexas in thesummer.I’venever set foot in a city buried in snowlikethis.Thomasheadstothefrontofourlittle procession and motions for one ofthe soldiers to drape a coat over me. Itakeitgratefully.

Thecrowd(aboutninetytoahundredpeople)goescompletelysilentwhentheyseemybrightyellowvest,andasImakemyway down the steps I can feel theirattentionburning throughme like a heatlamp. Most are shivering, thin and palewith threadbare clothes that can’tpossiblykeepthemwarminthisweather,wearingshoesriddledwithholes. Ican’tunderstand it.Despite thecold, theystillcameoutheretoseemegetoffatrain—and who knows how long they’ve beenwaiting. Suddenly I feel guilty foracceptingthecoat.

Wemakeittotheendoftheplatformandnearlyintothestation’slobbywhenIhearoneoftheonlookersshouting.Ispinaroundbeforethesoldierscanstopme.

“Is Day alive?” a boy calls out. He’sprobably older than I am, barely out ofhisteens,butsoskinnyandshortthathecould pass formy age if one didn’t payattentiontohisface.

Iliftmyheadandsmile.Thenaguardhits himacross the facewith thebutt ofhis rifle, and my own soldiers grab myarms and force me back around. Thecrowd breaks into an uproar; shoutsinstantlyfilltheair.Inthemidstofitall,I hear a few call out, “Day lives! Daylives!”

“Keep moving,” Thomas barks. WepushintothelobbyandIfeelthecoldaircutabruptlyoffas thedoorshutsbehindus.

I didn’t say anything, but my smile

was enough.Yes.Day is alive. I’m surethePatriotswillappreciatemyenforcingthisrumorforthem.

Wemakeourway through thestationand into a trio of waiting jeeps. As weleavethestationandheadontoanarchingfreeway, I can’t help gaping at the citythat’s streaming past my window. Youusually need a good reason to come toDenver. No one but native civilians areallowed in without specific permission.The fact that I’m here and getting aglimpse of the city’s interior is unusual.Everything’s smothered under a blanketof white—but even through the snow Ican see the faint outline of a vast darkwall that traps Denver like giant leveesagainst floodwaters. The Armor. I read

about it during grade school, of course,but to see it with my own eyes issomethingdifferent.Theskyscrapersherearesotallthattheydisappearintothefogofsnow-ladenclouds,eachterracedlevelcoveredinthicksheetsofsnow,eachsidesecuredwith giantmetal support beams.Between buildings, I catch glimpses ofthe Capitol Tower. Now and then I seespotlights sweeping through the air andhelicopters circling the skyscrapers. Atone point, four fighter jets streak byabove us. I pause to admire them for amoment (they’re X-92 Reapers,experimental aircrafts that haven’t goneinto production outside the capital yet;buttheymusthavepassedtheirtestrunsif the engineers trust them to soar right

over the center of downtown Denver).The capital is every bit themilitary cityVegas is, and is even more intimidatingthanI’dimagined.

Thomas’s voice snaps me back toreality. “We’re taking you to ColburnHall,” he says from the jeep’s frontpassenger seat. “It’s a dining hall in theCapital Plaza where the Senatorssometimes convene for banquets. TheElectordinestherefrequently.”

Colburn?FromwhatI’veheard,that’sa very fancy meeting spot, especiallyconsidering how I was originally meantto stay at the Denver penitentiary. Thismust all be new info forThomas, too. Idon’t think he’s ever been inside thecapital,butlikeagoodsoldier,hedoesn’t

wasteanytimegawkingatthescenery.Ifind myself anxious to see what theCapital Plaza’s like—if it’s as large asI’ve imagined. “From there my patrolwill leave you behind, and you’ll bepassed along to one of CommanderDeSoto’s patrols.”Razor’spatrols, I addtomyself.“TheElectorwillmeetyouinthe Hall’s royal chamber. I suggest youbehaveappropriately.”

“Thanks for the tip,” I reply, smilingcoldly at Thomas’s reflection in therearviewmirror.“I’llbesuretogivehimmy best curtsy.” In reality, though, I’mstarting to feel nervous. The Elector issomeoneI’vebeentaughttoreveresincebirth, someone I thought I’d neverhesitate to give my life for. Even now,

even after everything I know about theRepublic, I still feel that deep-rootedcommitment trying to resurface, afamiliar blanket I want to wrap myselfwith. Strange. I didn’t feel this when IheardabouttheElector’sdeath,orwhenIsaw Anden’s first televised speech. It’sbeenhiddenuntil now,when I’monly afewhoursfromseeinghiminperson.

I’mnottheprizedprodigyIwaswhenwefirstmet.Whatwillhethinkofme?

***

COLBURNHALL,ROYALDININGCHAMBER.

Itechoesinhere.Isitaloneatoneendofa long table (twelve feet of darkcherrywood, hand-carved legs, ornate

goldtrimprobablypaintedonwithafine-detailmillimeterbrush),mybackstraightagainstthechair’sredvelvetcushioning.Faragainst theoppositewall,a fireplacecracklesandpops,withagiantportraitofthe new Elector hanging above it, andeight gold lamps light the sides of thechamber. Capital patrol soldiers areeverywhere—fifty-two line the walls,shoulder to shoulder, and six stand atattention to either side of me. It’s stillbitterlycoldoutside,butinhereit’swarmenough for the servants to have clothedmeinalightdressandthinleatherboots.My hair has been washed, dried, andbrushed, and it falls straight and shiningdowntothemiddleofmyback.It’sbeenadorned with strands of tiny cultivated

pearls (easilyworth two thousandNotesapiece). At first I admire them withgingertouches—butthenIrecallthepoorpeople gathered at the train station intheir threadbare clothes, and I pull myfingers away from my hair, disgustedwithmyself.Anotherservanthaddabbedtranslucentpowder acrossmy eyelids sotheygleaminthelowfirelight.Mydress,acreamywhiteaccentedbystormygrays,flows down to my feet in layers ofchiffon.Theinnercorsetmakesmeshortofbreath.Anexpensivedress,nodoubt;fiftythousandNotes?Sixty?

Theonlythingsthatseemoutofplacein this picture are the heavy metalshackles thatbindmyankles andwrists,chainingmedowntomychair.

A half hour passes before anothersoldier (wearing the distinctive black-and-red coat of the capital’s patrols)enters the chamber. This one holds thedoor open, stands at attention, and liftshis chin. “Our gloriousElector Primo isin the building,” he announces. “Pleaserise.”

Hetriestolooklikehe’stalkingtonoone in particular, but I’m the only onesitting.Ipushupfrommychairandstandwithaclinkofmychains.

Fivemoreminutespass.Then, justasI’mstarting towonderwhetheranyone’sgoing tocomeat all, ayoungmanstepsquietly through thedoorandnods to thesoldiersat theentrance.Theguardssnapto a salute. I can’t salute with these

shackledhands,andIcan’tboworcurtsyproperly either—so I just stay theway IamandfacetheElector.

Andenlooksalmostexactlylikehedidwhen I first met him at the celebratoryball—tallandregalandsophisticated,hisdark hair tidy, his evening coat ahandsome charcoal gray with gold pilotstripesonthesleevesandgoldepauletteson the shoulders. His green eyes aresolemn, though,andthere’saveryslightslouch to his shoulders, as if a newweight had settled there. It seems asthoughhisfather’sdeathhasaffectedhimafterall.

“Sit,please,”hesays,holdingawhiteglovedhand(condorflightgloves)outinmydirection.His voice is very soft, but

still carries in the large room. “I hopeyou’vebeencomfortable,Ms.Iparis.”

Idoashesays.“Ihave.Thankyou.”OnceAndenhasseatedhimselfat the

other end of the table and the soldiershave all gone back to their regularstances, he speaks again. “I receivedword that you requested to see me inperson. I imagine you don’t mindwearing the clothes I’ve provided.” Hepauses here for a split second, justenough time for a coy smile to light uphis features. “I thought you might notwant to spend dinner in a prisonuniform.”

There’s something patronizing abouthis tone that grates on my nerves.Howdarehedressmelikeadoll?anindignant

partofmethinks.At thesametime,I’mimpressed by his air of command, hisownership of his new status. He hassuddenlycomeintopower,agreatdealofit,andhewearsitsoconfidentlythatmyold feelings of loyalty press heavilyagainst my chest. The uncertainty he’donce had is quickly disappearing. Thisman was born to rule. Anden seems tohave developed an attraction to you,Razorhadtoldme.SoItiltmyfacedownand look up at him through my lashes.“Why are you treating me so well? IthoughtIwasanenemyofthestatenow.”

“I would be ashamed to treat ourRepublic’s most famous prodigy like aprisoner,” he says as he carefullystraightens his forks, knives, and

champagne glass into perfect alignment.“Youdon’tfindthisunpleasant,doyou?”

“Not at all.” I glance around thechamberagain,memorizingthepositionsofthelamps,thewalldécor,thelocationof each soldier, and the weapons theycarry. The elaborate elegance of thisencounter makes me realize that Andenhasn’t arranged the dress and the dinnerjust to be flirtatious. He wants newsabouthowwellhe’streatingmetoleaktothe public, I think. He wants people toknowthatthenewElectoristakinggoodcare of Day’s savior. My initial distastewavers—this new thought intrigues me.Anden must be very aware of his poorpublicreputation.Perhapshe’shopingforthe people’s support. If that’s the case,

then he’s taking pains to do somethingthatour lastElector cared little about. Italso makes me wonder: If Anden isactually looking for public approval,whatdoeshe thinkofDay?Hecertainlywon’twin people over by announcing amanhunt for the Republic’s mostcelebratedcriminal.

Twoservantsbringouttraysoffood(asalad with real strawberries, andexquisitelyroastedporkbellywithheartsof palm), while two others place freshwhite cloth napkins across our laps andpour champagne into our glasses. Theseservants are from the upper class (theywalkwith the signature precision of theelite), although probably not of the rankthatmyfamilyhad.

Thenthemostcuriousthinghappens.The servant pouring Anden’s

champagnebrings thebottle tooclose tohisglass.Ittipsover,andtheliquidspillsalloverthetablecloth,thentheglassrollsoffthetableandshattersonthefloor.

The servant lets out a squeak anddrops to her hands andknees.Red curlstumbleoutoftheneatbuntiedbehindherhead;afewstrandsfallacrossherface.Inoticehow dainty and perfect her handsare—definitely an upper-class girl. “Sosorry, Elector,” she says over and over.“So sorry. I’ll have the cloth changedrightawayandgetyouanewglass.”

Idon’tknowwhatIexpectedAndentodo.Scoldher?Giveherasternwarning?Frown, at least? But to my shock, he

pushes back his chair, stands up, andholdsouthishandtoher.Thegirlseemstohavefrozen.Herbrowneyesgowide,and her lips tremble. In one motionAnden leansdown, takesbothherhandsinhis,andpullsherup.“It’sjustaglassof champagne,” he says lightly. “Don’tcutyourself.”Andenwavesahandatoneof the soldiers near the door. “A broomandtray,please.Thankyou.”

The soldier nods in a hurry. “Ofcourse,Elector.”

While the servant rushes away for anewglassandajanitorcomesintosweepthebrokenonesafelyaway,Andentakeshis seat again with all the grace ofroyalty.Hepicksupaforkandknifewithimpeccable etiquette, then cuts a small

pieceofpork. “So tellme,Agent Iparis.Whydidyouwant to seeme inperson?And what happened on the evening ofDay’sexecution?”

I followhis lead, pickingupmyownforkandknifeandcuttingintomymeat.Thechainsonmywristsareexactlylongenoughforme toeat,as ifsomeonehadtaken the trouble tomeasure themout. Ipush the surprise of the champagneincident out of my mind and startplantingthestorythatRazormadeupforme.“IdidhelpDayescapehisexecution,and the Patriots helped me. But after itwas over, they wouldn’t let me go. ItseemedlikeI’dfinallygottenawayfromthemwhenyourguardsarrestedme.”

Anden blinks slowly. I wonder if he

believes anything I’m saying. “You’vebeen with the Patriots for the last twoweeks?” he says after I’ve finishedchewing a slice of pork. The food’sexquisite; the meat so tender, itpracticallymeltsinmymouth.

“Yes.”“I see.” Anden’s voice tightens with

distrust.Hedabs hismouthwith a clothnapkin, then puts his silverware downand leans back. “So.Day is alive, or hewas when you left him? Is he alsoworkingwiththePatriots?”

“When I left, he was. I don’t knowaboutnow.”

“Whyisheworkingwith them,whenhealwaysavoidedtheminthepast?”

I shrug a little, trying to feign

puzzlement. “He needs help finding hisbrother,andhe’s indebted to thePatriotsfor fixing his leg. He had an infectedbulletwoundfrom...allthis.”

Anden pauses long enough to take asmall sip of champagne. “Why did youhelphimescape?”

I flexmywristso that thecuffsdon’tleave imprints against my skin. Myshacklesclank loudlyagainsteachother.“Becausehedidn’tkillmybrother.”

“CaptainMetiasIparis.”Thesoundofmy brother’s full name sends awave ofanguish throughme.Doesheknowhowmy brother died? “I’m sorry for yourloss.” Anden bows his head a little, anunexpected sign of respect thatmakes alumpriseinmythroat.

“I remember reading about yourbrotherwhenIwasyounger,youknow,”hecontinues.“I readabouthisgrades inschool, how well he performed on hisTrial, and especially how good he waswithcomps.”

I spear a strawberry, chew itthoughtfully,thenswallow.“Ineverknewmybrotherhadsuchanesteemedfan.”

“Iwasn’tafanofhim,perse,althoughhe was certainly impressive.” Andenpicks up his new champagne glass andsips.“Iwasafanofyou.”Remember, be obvious. Make him

think you’re flattered. And attracted tohim.He is handsome, for sure—so I trytofocuson that.The light fromthewalllampscatchesthewavyedgesofhishair,

making it shine; his olive skin has awarm,goldenglow;hiseyesarerichwiththe color of spring leaves. Gradually Ifeel a blush growing on my cheeks.Good, keep going. He’s some mix ofLatin blood, but the ever-so-slight slantof his large eyes and the delicateness ofhisbrowrevealahintofAsianheritage.Like Day. Suddenly, my attentionscatters,andall Icansee ismeandDaykissing in that Vegas bathroom. Irememberhisbarechest,his lipsagainstmy neck, his intoxicating defiance thatmakes Anden pale by comparison. Thesubtle blush on my cheeks flares intobrightheat.

The Elector tilts his head to the sideand smiles. I take a deep breath and

composemyself. Thank goodness I stillmanagedtogetthereactionIwasaimingfor.

“Have you thought about why theRepublichasbeensolenient,givenyourbetrayalofthestate?”Andensays,toyingidly with his fork. “Anyone else wouldalready have been executed. But notyou.” He straightens in his chair. “TheRepublic has been watching you sinceyouscoredthatperfectfifteenhundredonyourTrial.I’veheardaboutyourgrades,and your performance in Drake’safternoon drills. Several Congressmennominated you for political assignmentbefore you even finished your freshmanyear at Drake. But they ultimatelydecided to assign you to the military

instead, because your personality has‘officer’ written all over it. You’re acelebrity in the innercircles.Your beingconvicted of disloyalty would be atremendouslosstotheRepublic.”

Does Anden know the truth of howmyparentsandMetiaswerekilled?Thattheir disloyalty cost them their lives?DoestheRepublicvaluemesomuchthatthey’rehesitanttoexecutemedespitemyrecent crime and traitorous family ties?“Howdid you seeme around theDrakecampus?” I say. “I don’t rememberhearingthatyouvisitedtheuniversity.”

Andencutsintoaheartofpalmonhisplate. “Oh no.Youwouldn’t have heardit.”

I give him a quizzical frown. “Were

you . . . a student atDrakewhile Iwasthere?”

Andennods.“Theadministrationkeptmy identitya secret. Iwasseventeen—asophomore—whenyoucametoDrakeattwelve. We all heard a lot about you,obviously—andyourantics.”Hegrinsatthat,andhiseyessparklemischievously.

The Elector’s son had been walkingamongst the rest of us at Drake, and Ididn’tevenknowit.Mychestswellswithpride at the thought of the Republic’sleader taking notice of me on campus.Then I shakemy head, guilty for likingtheattention.“Well,Ihopenoteverythingyouheardwasbad.”

Anden reveals a dimple in his leftcheek when he laughs. It’s a soothing

sound.“No.Noteverything.”EvenIhavetosmile.“Mygradeswere

good, but I’m pretty sure my dean’ssecretary is happy I won’t be hauntingherofficeanymore.”

“Miss Whitaker?” Anden shakes hishead.Foramomenthedropshis formalfaçade, ignoring etiquette by slouchingback in his chair and making a circulargesturewithhisfork.“I’dbeencalledinto her office too, which was funnybecause she had no ideawho Iwas. I’dgotten into trouble for switching out theheavypracticeriflesinthegymforfoamones.”

“That was you?” I exclaim. Iremember that incident well. Freshmanyear, drill class. The foam rifles had

looked so real. When the students hadbentdowninunisontopickupwhattheythought were heavy guns, they’d allyankedthefoamonesupsohardthathalfthestudentstoppledoverbackwardfromthe force.Thememorygets a real laughoutofme. “Thatwasbrilliant.Thedrillcaptainwassomad.”

“Everyone needs to get in trouble atleast once in college, right?” Andensmirks anddrumshis fingers against hischampagneglass.“Youalwaysseemedtocause the most trouble, though. Didn’tyou force one of your classes toevacuate?”

“Yes. Republic History Three-oh-two.”Itrytorubmyneckinmomentaryembarrassment,butmyshacklesstopme.

“The senior sitting next to me said Iwouldn’t be able to hit the fire alarmleverwithhistraininggun.”

“Ah. I can see you’ve always madegoodchoices.”

“Iwasajunior.Stillkindofimmature,Iadmit,”Ireply.

“Idisagree.All thingsconsidered, I’dsay you were well beyond your years.”He smiles, and my cheeks turn pinkagain. “You have the poise of someonemuch older than fifteen. I was glad tofinally meet you at the celebratory ballthatnight.”

AmIreallysittinghere,eatingdinnerandreminiscingaboutgoodoldAcademydayswiththeElectorPrimo?Surreal.I’mstunnedbyhoweasyit is to talk tohim,

thisdiscussionoffamiliarthingsinatimewhensomuchstrangenesssurroundsmylife, a conversation where I can’taccidentally offend anyone with anoffhandclass-relatedremark.

ThenIrememberwhyI’mreallyhere.Thefoodinmymouthturnstoash.ThisisallforDay.Resentmentfloodsthroughme,eventhoughI’mwrongforfeelingit.Am I? I wonder if I’m really ready tomurdersomeoneforhissake.

A soldier peeks through the chamberentrance. He salutes Anden, then clearshis throat uncomfortably as he realizesthathemust’vecuttheElectoroffinthemiddleofourconversation.Andengiveshimagood-naturedsmileandwaveshimin.“Sir,SenatorBaruseKamionwantsa

wordwithyou,”thesoldiersays.“Tell the Senator I’m busy,” Anden

replies. “I’ll contact him after mydinner.”

“I’mafraidhe insisted thatyouspeakto him now. It’s about the, ah . . .” Thesoldierconsidersme,thenhurriesovertowhisperinAnden’sear.Istillcatchsomeofit,though.“Thestadiums.Hewantstogive . . . message . . . should end yourdinnerrightaway.”

Andenraisesaneyebrow.“Isthatwhathe said?Well. I’ll decidewhenmyowndinner ends,” he says. “Deliver thatmessage back to Senator Kamionwhenever you see fit. Tell him that thenext Senator to send me an impertinentmessagewillanswertomedirectly.”

The soldier salutes vigorously, hischestpuffedouta littleat the thoughtofdelivering a message like this to aSenator.“Yes,sir.Rightaway.”

“What’s your name, soldier?” Andenasksbeforehecanleave.

“LieutenantFelipeGarza,sir.”Andensmiles.“Thankyou,Lieutenant

Garza,” he says. “I will remember thisfavor.”

The soldier tries to keep a straightface, but I can seepride inhis eyes andthe smile right below the surface. Hebows toAnden.“Elector,youhonorme.Thankyou,sir.”Thenhestepsout.

I observe the exchange withfascination. Razor had been right aboutone thing—there is definitely tension

betweentheSenateandtheirnewElector.ButAndenisnofool.He’sbeeninpowerfor less than a week, and already he’sdoing exactly what he should be: tryingtocementthemilitary’sloyaltytohim.Iwonderwhatelsehe’sdoingtowin theirtrust. The Republic army had beenfiercelyfaithfultohisfather;infact,thatloyaltywasprobablywhatmade the lateElector so powerful. Anden knows this,and he’s making his move as early aspossible. The Senate’s complaints areuseless against a military that backsAndenwithoutquestion.But they don’t back Anden without

question,Iremindmyself.There’sRazor,and his men. Traitors in the military’sranksaremovingintoplace.

“So.” Anden delicately cuts anotherslice of pork. “You brought me all theway here to tell me that you helped acriminalescape?”

Foramomentthere’snosoundexceptthe clinking of Anden’s fork against hisplate. Razor’s instructions echo in mymind—thethingsIneedtosay,theorderI need to say them in. “No . . . I camehere to tell you about an assassinationplotagainstyou.”

Anden puts his fork down and holdstwoslenderfingersupinthedirectionofthesoldiers.“Leaveus.”

“Elector,sir,”oneofthemstartstosay.“We’renottoleaveyoualone.”

Anden pulls a gun from his belt (anelegant black model I’ve never seen

before)andplaces iton the tablenext tohisplate.“It’sallright,Captain,”hesays.“I’llbequitesafe.Now,please,everyone.Leaveus.”

The woman Anden called Captaingestures to her soldiers, and they filesilently from the room. Even the sixguards standing next to me leave. I amalone in this chamber with the Electorhimself, separated by twelve feet ofcherrywood.

Andenleansbothofhiselbowsonthetableandtentshisfingers together.“Youcameheretowarnme?”

“Idid.”“But I heard you were caught in

Vegas.Whydidn’tyouturnyourselfin?”“Iwasonmywayhere,tothecapital.

Iwantedtoget toDenverbefore turningmyself in so I’d have a better chance oftalking to you. I definitely wasn’tplanning to be arrested by a randompatrolinVegas.”

“AndhowdidyougetawayfromthePatriots?” Anden gives me a hesitant,skeptical look. “Where are they now?Surelytheymustbepursuingyou.”

Ipause, lowermyeyes,andclearmythroat.“IhoppedaVegas-boundtrainthenightImanagedtogetaway.”

Andenstaysquiet foramoment, thenputs down his fork and dabs hismouth.I’m not sure if he believes my escapestoryornot.“Andwhatwere theirplansforyou,ifyouhadn’tgottenaway?”Keep it vague fornow. “Idon’tknow

all the details about what they hadplannedforme,”Ireply.“ButIdoknowthey’re planning some sort of attack atoneofyourmorale-boosting stops alongthewarfront, and that Iwas supposed tohelp them. Lamar, Westwick, andBurlington were places they mentioned.The Patriots have people in place too,Anden—people here in your innercircle.”

IknowI’m takinga riskbyusinghisfirstname,butI’mtryingtokeepournewrapport going. Anden doesn’t seem tonotice—he just leans over his plate andstudiesme.“Howdoyouknowthis?”hesays.“DothePatriotsrealizeyouknow?IsDayinvolvedinallthistoo?”

I shake my head. “I was never

supposedtofindout.Ihaven’tspokentoDaysinceIleft.”

“Would you say that you’re friendswithhim?”

A bit of an odd question. Maybe hewants tofindDay?“Yes,”Ireply, tryingnot to distract myself with memories ofDay’s hands entwined in my hair. “Hehashisreasonsforstaying—Ihavemineforleaving.Butyes,Ithinkso.”

Anden nods his thanks. “You saidtherearepeople inmyinnercircle thatIneedtoknowabout.Who?”

Iputmy forkdownand lean forwardacross the table. “There are two soldiersinyourpersonalguardwhoaregoing tomakeanattempt.”

Anden blanches. “My guards are

carefullychosenforme.Verycarefully.”“Andwhochooses them?”Icrossmy

arms. My hair falls over one shoulder,and I can see the pearls gleaming fromthecornerofmyeye.“Itdoesn’tmatterifyoubelievemeornot.Investigate.EitherI’mright,andyouwon’tbedead,orI’mwrong,andthenI’llbedead.”

Tomysurprise,Andengetsoutofhischair, straightens, andwalks over tomyendofthetable.Hesitsinthechairnexttomineandscootsitclosertome.Iblinkashestudiesmyface.

“June.” His voice is so soft, barelyaboveawhisper.“Iwanttotrustyou...andIwantyoutotrustme.”He knows I’m hiding something. He

can see through my deception, and he

wantsmetoknowit.Andenleansagainstthe table and tucks his hands into histrouserpockets. “Whenmy fatherdied,”hebegins, saying eachword slowly andvery quietly, as if he were treadingdangerous waters, “I was completelyalone. I sat at his bedside as he passed.Still,I’mgratefulforit—Ineverhadthatchance with my mother. I know how itfeels,June,beingtheonlyoneleft.”

My throat tightens painfully.Win histrust.That’smyrole,mysole reasonforbeing here. “I’m sorry to hear that,” Iwhisper.“Andaboutyourmother.”

Andeninclineshishead,acceptingmycondolences. “My mother was theSenate’sPrinceps.My father never oncetalkedabouther...butI’mgladthey’re

togethernow.”I’d heard rumors about the late

Princeps. How she’d died of someautoimmune disease right after givingbirth.OnlytheElectorcannamealeaderfor theSenate—so therehasn’tbeenoneintwodecades,notsinceAnden’smotherdied. I try to forget the comfort I’d feltwhiletalkingtohimaboutDrake,butit’shardertodothanIthought.ThinkofDay.I remind myself how excited he’d beenaboutthePatriots’plan,andaboutanewRepublic. “I’m glad your parents are atpeace,” I say. “I do understand how itfeelstoloselovedones.”

Anden contemplates my words withtwo fingers pressed to his lips. His jawlooks tight and uncomfortable. He may

havetakenownershipofhisrole,buthe’sstill a boy, I realize. His father cut afearsome figure, but Anden? He’s notstrong enough to hold this countrytogether by himself. Suddenly I’mreminded of the early nights afterMetias’s murder, when I wept until thedark hours before dawn with mybrother’s lifeless face burned into mythoughts. Does Anden have the samesleeplessnights?Whatmustitfeelliketolose a father that you aren’t allowed topubliclymourn,however evil that fatherwas?DidAndenlovehim?

I wait as he watches me, my dinnerlong forgotten. After what feels likehours,Andenlowershishandsandsighs.“It’snosecretthathe’dbeenillforalong

time. When you’ve been waiting for aloved one to die . . . for years . . .”Hewinces visibly here, allowing me to seevery naked pain. “Well, I’m sure it is adifferent feeling fromwhen that passingcomes...unexpectedly.”Helooksupatmerightashesaysthelastword.

I’mnot surewhetherhe’s referring tomyparentsortoMetias—perhapstoboth—but the way he says it leaves littledoubtinmymind.He’stryingtosaythathe knows what happened to my family.Andthathedisapproves.

“I know what your experience withassumptions is. Some people think Ipoisoned my father, so I could take hisplace.”

It’s almost like he’s trying to talk to

meincode.You’donceassumedthatDayhad killed your brother. That yourparents’ deaths were accidents. But nowyouknowthetruth.

“The people of the Republic assumethat I’m their enemy.That I’m the samemanmyfatherwas.ThatIdon’twantthiscountry to change. They think I’m anempty figurehead, a puppet who simplyinherited a throne through my father’swill.”Afterabriefhesitation,heturnshiseyes on me with an intensity that takesmy breath away. “I’m not. But if I stayalone . . . if I remain the only one left,then I can’t change anything. If I stayalone,Iamthesameasmyfather.”

No wonder he wanted to have thisdinner with me. Something

groundbreakingisstirringinAnden.Andhe needs me. He doesn’t have thepeople’ssupport,andhedoesn’thavetheSenate’s.Heneedssomeone towinoverthepeopleforhim.Andthetwopeopleinthe Republic with the most power overthepeople...aremeandDay.

Theturninthisconversationconfusesme. Anden isn’t—doesn’t seem to be—the man the Patriots described; afigurehead standing in the way of aglorious revolution. If he actually wantstowinoverthepeople,ifAndenistellingthetruth...whywouldthePatriotswanthimdead?MaybeI’mmissingsomething.Maybe there’s something about AndenthatRazorknowsandthatIdon’t.

“Can I trust you?” Anden says. His

expression has changed into somethingearnest, with lifted eyebrows andwidenedeyes.

Iliftmychinandmeethisgaze.CanItrust him? I’m not sure, but for now, Iwhisperthesafeanswer.“Yes.”

Anden straightens and pushes awayfrom the table. I can’t quite tell if hebelievesme.“We’llkeepthisbetweenus.I’ll tellmyguardsaboutyourwarning.Ihope we find your pair of traitors.”Anden smiles at me, then tilts his headandsmiles.“Ifwedofindthem,June,I’dlikeforustotalkagain.Weseemtohavea lot in common.” His words make mycheeksburn.

And that’s it. “Please, finishdinneratyour leisure.My soldierswill bring you

back to your cell quarters when you’reready.”

Imurmuraquiet thanks.Anden turnsaway and heads out of the chamber assoldiers file back inside, the echoingclatteroftheirbootsbreakingthesilencethat had permeated this space onlymoments earlier. I turn my head downandpretendtopickattherestofmyfood.There’s more to Anden than I’d firstthought. Only now do I realize that mybreath is coming out shorter than usual,and that my heart is racing. Can I trustAnden? Or do I trust Razor? I steadymyself against the edge of the table.Whatever the truth is, I’ll have to playthisallverycarefully.

***

After dinner, instead of being taken to atypical prison cell, I’m delivered to aclean, luxurious apartment, a carpetedchamber with thick double doors and alarge, soft bed. There are no windows.Aside from the bed, there’s no furnitureintheroomatall,nothingformetopickup and turn into a weapon. The onlydecoration is the ever-present portrait ofAnden,embeddedinto theplasterofonewall. I locate the security camimmediately—it’srightabovethedoubledoors,asmall,subtleknobintheceiling.Ahalf-dozenguardsstandreadyoutside.

I doze fitfully throughout the night.Soldiers rotate shifts. Early in themorningaguardtapsmeawake.“Sofar,

sogood,”shewhispers.“Rememberwhotheenemyis.”Thenshestepsoutof thechamberandanewguardreplacesher.

I dress silently in a warm velvetnightgown,mysensesnowonhighalert,my hands shaking ever so slightly. Theshackles on my wrists clank softly. Icouldn’thavebeensurebefore,butnowIknow that the Patriots are watching myevery step. Razor’s soldiers are slowlygetting into position and closing in. Imight never see that guard again—butnow I study the face of every soldieraroundme,wonderingwho is loyal, andwhoisaPatriot.

ANOTHERDREAM.I’mupwaytooearlyonthemorning

of my eighth birthday. Light has juststarted filtering in through ourwindows,chasingawaythenavyandgrayof adisappearingnight. I sit upinbedandrubmyeyes.Ahalf-emptyglass of water balances near theedgeof theoldnight table.Our loneplant—an ivy that Eden draggedhomefromsomejunkyard—sitsinthecorner,vinessnakingacrossthefloor,searching for sun. John’s snoringloudlyinhiscorner.Hisfeetstickout

from under a patched blanket andhang off the end of the cot. Eden’snowhere to be seen; he’s probablywithMom.Usually if Iwakeup tooearly Ican

liebackdownandthinkofsomethingcalming, like a bird or a lake, andeventually relax enough to snooze alittle longer. But it’s no good today. Iswing my legs over the side of thebedandpullmismatchedsocksovermyfeet.The instant I step into the living

room, I know something’s off. MomliesasleeponthecouchwithEdeninherarms,theblanketpulleduptohershoulders. But Dad isn’t here. Myeyes dart around the room. He just

gotbackfromthewarfront lastnight,andheusuallystayshomeforatleastthree or four days. It’s too soon forhimtobegone.“Dad?” I whisper. Mom stirs a little

andIfallsilentagain.Then I hear the faint sound of our

screen door against wood. My eyeswiden. I hurry over to the door andpokemyheadoutside.Arushofcoolairgreetsme.“Dad?”Iwhisperagain.At first, no one’s there. Then I see

hisshapeemergefromtheshadows.Dad.I start running—I don’t care if the

dirt and pavement scratch methrough the threadbare fabric of mysocks. The figure in the shadows

walks a fewmore steps, then hearsmeand turnsaround.Now I seemyfather’s light brown hair and narrow,honey-colored eyes, that faint scruffon his chin, his tall frame, hiseffortlessly graceful stance. MomalwayssaidhelookedlikehesteppedrightoutofsomeoldMongolianfable.Ibreakintoasprint.“Dad,” I blurt outwhen I reachhim

intheshadows.Hekneelsdownandscoops me into his arms. “You’releavingalready?”“I’msorry,Daniel,”hewhispers.He

soundstired.“I’vebeencalledbacktothewarfront.”My eyes well up with tears.

“Already?”

“Youneedtogetback inthehouseright now. Don’t let the street policeseeyoucausingascene.”“But you just got here,” I try to

argue. “You—it’s my birthday today,andI—”My father puts a hand on each of

my shoulders. His eyes are twowarnings,fullofeverythinghewisheshecouldsayoutloud.Iwant tostay,he’stryingtotellme.ButIhavetogo.You know the drill. Don’t talk aboutthis. Instead, he says, “Go backhome, Daniel. Kiss your mother forme.”My voice starts to shake, but I tell

myselftobebrave.“Whenwillweseeyouagain?”

“I’llcomebacksoon.Iloveyou.”Heputs a hand on my head. “Keep aneye out for when I come back, allright?”I nod. He lingers with me for a

moment, then gets up and walksaway.Igohome.That was the last time I ever saw

him.

***

A day’s passed. I’m sitting alone onmyassignedPatriotbedinoneofthebunk rooms, studying the pendantloopedaroundmyneck.Myhairfallsaroundmy face,makingme feel likeI’m lookingat thependant throughabrightveil.Beforemyshowerearlier,

Kaede had given me a bottle of gelthat stripped the fake color frommyhair. For the next part of the plan,she’dtoldme.Someoneknocksonthedoor.“Day?” The voice sounds muffled

from the other side of the wood. Ittakesmeasecondtoreorientmyselfand recognize Tess. I’d woken upfrom a nightmare about my eighthbirthday.Icanstillseeeverythinglikeit happened yesterday, andmy eyesfeel red and swollen from crying.When I woke up, my mind startedproducing images of Eden strappedto a gurney, screaming as lab techsinject him with chemicals, and Johnstanding blindfolded before a squad

ofsoldiers.AndMom. Ican’tstopallthisgoddystuff from replaying inmyhead,anditpissesmeoffsomuch.IfI findEden,what then?How thehelldo I take him from the Republic? Ihave to assume that Razor will beabletohelpmegethimback.Andinordertogethimback,I’veabsolutelygottomakesureAndendies.My arms are sore from spending

most of the morning under Kaede’sand Pascao’s supervision, learninghow to shoot a gun. “Don’t worry ifyoumisstheElector,”Pascaosaidaswe worked on my aim. He ran hishandsalongmyarmenoughtomakemeblush.“Won’tmatter.Therewillbeotherswithyouwhowillfinishthejob,

regardless. Razor just wants theimage of you pointing a gun at theElector. Isn’t it perfect? The Elector,at the warfront to give morale-boosting speeches to the soldiers,gunneddownwithhundredsoftroopsin thevicinity.Oh, the irony!”Pascaothen gave me one of his signaturegrins. “The people’s hero kills thetyrant.Whatastorythatwillbe.”Yeah—whatastory,indeed.“Day?” Tess says from behind the

door.“Areyouinthere?Razorwantsto talk to you.” Oh, right. She’s stilloutthere,callingforme.“Yeah,youcancomein,”Ireply.Tess pokes her head inside. “Hey,”

she says. “How long have you been

inhere?”Begoodtoher,Kaedehadtoldme.

You twomatch. I shootTessasmallsmileingreeting.“Noidea,”Ireply.“Iwasgettingsomerest.Couplehours,maybe?”“Razor’s asking for you out in the

main room. They’re running a livefeedofJune. I thoughtyoumightbe—”Livefeed?Shemusthavemade it.

She’s still okay. I jump to my feet.Finally, an update on June—thethought of seeing her again, even ifit’s on a grainy security cam,makesmedizzywithanticipation.“I’llberightout.”As we head down the short hall

toward the main room, a number ofotherPatriotsgreetTess.Shesmileseach time, exchanging gentle jokesand laughs as if she’s known themforever. Two boys give her good-naturedpatsonhershoulder.“Hurry the hell up, kids. Don’t

wannakeepRazorwaiting.”Webothturn toseeKaede jogpast us in thedirection of the main room. Shepauses to swing one arm aroundTess’s neck, then ruffles her hairlovingly and plants a playful kiss onher cheek. “I swear—you’re theslowestofthebunch,sweetheart.”Tess laughs and shoves her off.

Kaedewinks back before picking upher pace, disappearing around the

corner into themain room. I lookon,alittlesurprisedatKaede’sdisplayofaffection. Not something I’d expectfrom her. I’d never thought about itbefore, but now I realize just howgoodTessisatformingnewbonds—Isense thePatriots’ ease around her,thesameeaseI’dalwaysfeltwithheronthestreets.That’sherstrength,nodoubt.Sheheals.She’scomforting.ThenBaxter passes us. Tess turns

her eyes downward as he brushesherarm,and Inoticehimgiveherabriefnodbeforeglaringatme.Whenhe’s out of earshot, I lean over toTess.“What’shisdeal?”Iwhisper.She just shrugs and brushes my

armwithherhand.“Don’tmindhim,”

she replies, repeating what Kaedehad said backwhen I first arrived atthetunnel.“Hehasmoodswings.”Tellmeaboutit,Ithinkdarkly.“Ifhe

givesyouahardtime,letmeknow,”Imutter.Tessshrugsagain.“It’sokay,Day.I

canhandlehim.”I suddenly feel a little stupid,

offering my help like an arrogantknight in shining armor when Tessprobably has dozens of new friendseagertohelpherout.Whenshecanhelpherself.Bythetimewe’vemadeitouttothe

main room, a small crowd hasgathered in frontofoneof the largerwallscreens,whereatapeofsecurity

camfootageisplaying.Razorisnearthe front of the crowd with his armscasually crossed, while Pascao andKaede stand beside him. They seemeandmotionmeover.“Day,” Razor says, clappingme on

theshoulder.Kaedegivesmeaquicknod in greeting. “Good to see youhere. Are you okay? I heard you’vebeenalittledownthismorning.”Hisconcern’sactuallykindanice—it

reminds me of the way my fatherused to talk tome. “I’m fine,” I reply.“Justtiredfromthetrip.”“Understandable. It was a stressful

flight.”Hegesturesup to thescreen.“OurHackersgotusfootageofJune.The audio’s separated out, but you’ll

get tohear itsoonenough. I thoughtyou’d want to see the videoregardless.”My eyes are glued to the screen.

Theimagesarecrispandcolorful,asif we’re hovering right there in thecorner of the room. I see an ornatedining chamber with an elegantlydecorated dinner table and soldiersliningthewalls.TheyoungElector isseatedatoneendof the table. Junesitsat theother,wearingagorgeousdressthatmakesmyheartbeatspeedup. When I’d been the Republic’sprisoner, they’d beatenme to a pulpand thrownme inadirty cell.June’sincarceration seems more like avacation. I’m relieved for her, but at

thesametime,I’malittlebitter.Evenafter betraying the Republic, peoplewith June’s pedigree get to coast,whilepeoplelikemesuffer.Everyone watches me watching

June. “Gladshe’sdoinggood,” I sayto the screen. Already I’m disgustedwith myself for dwelling on suchmeanthoughts.“Cleverofher tostart talking to the

Elector about their college years atDrake,”Razorsays,summarizingtheaudio as the video plays. “Sheplanted the story. They’re going tohavehertakealiedetectortestnext,I’d imagine,andwe’llhaveastraightpath to Anden if she’s good enoughto pass it.Our next phase tomorrow

nightshouldrunsmoothly.”Ifshe’sgoodenough topass it.An

earlybond.“Good,” I reply, tryingnottoletmyfacebetraymythoughts.Butas the footage continues, and I seeAnden order the soldiers out of thechamber, I feel a knot tighten in mythroat. This guy’s all sophistication,power, and authority.He leans closeto say something to June, and theylaugh and drink champagne. I canpicturethemtogether.Theymatch.“She is doing a good job,” Tess

says, tucking her hair behind herears. “The Elector’s completely intoher.”I want to dispute this, but Pascao

chimesinbrightly.“Tess’stotallyright

—seethatglowinhiseyes?That’saman won over right there, I can tellyouthat.He’sheadoverheelsforourgirl. She’ll have him completelyhookedinacoupledays.”Razor nods, but his enthusiasm is

more subdued. “True,” he says. “Butwe’ll need to make sure Andendoesn’tgetintoJune’sheadtoo.He’sa born politician. I’ll find a way tohaveawordwithJune.”I’m glad that Razor speaks sense

andcautionduringatimelikethis,butI have to turn away from the screennow.Ineverconsideredtheideathathe might be able to get into June’shead.Everyone’scommentsfadeasIstop

listening. Tess is right, of course; Ican see the desire on the Elector’sface. He gets up now and walks towhereJunesitsshackledtothechair,then leans in close to talk to her. Iwince. How could anyone resistJune? She’s perfect in too manyways. Then I realize that I’m notupsetoverAnden’sattractiontoher—he’s gonna be dead soon anyway,right? What makes me sick is thatJune doesn’t look like she’s fakingherlaughterinthisvideo.Shealmostseems to be having a good time.She’s on par with men like him:aristocrats. Made for the Republic’supper-classlife.Howcansheeverbehappy with someone like me,

someone with nothing but a handfulof paper clips in his pockets? I turnand start to walk away from thecrowd.I’veseenallIwanttosee.“Waitup!”IlookovermyshouldertoseeTess

hurryingafterme,herhair flying intoher face.She skids into step besideme. “Are you okay?” she asks,studying my expression as we headbackdownthehalltowardmyroom.“I’llbefine,”Ireply.“Whyshouldn’tI

be? Everything’s going just . . .perfectly.”Igiveheratensesmile.“Okay. I know. I just want tomake

sure.”Tessgivesmeadimpledgrin,andIsoftentowardheragain.“I’m fine, cousin. Seriously. You’re

safe, I’m safe, the Patriots are ontrack, and they’ll helpme find Eden.That’sallIcanaskfor.”Tessbrightensatmywords,andher

lips curl up into a teasing smirk.“There’s been some gossip aboutyou,youknow.”I lift my eyebrows playfully. “Oh,

really?Whatkindofgossip?”“Rumors that you’re alive and well

are spreading like wildfire—it’s allanyone’s talking about. Your name’sspray-painted on walls all over thecountry, even over the Elector’sportraits in some places. Can youbelievethat?Protestsarepoppingupeverywhere.They’reallchantingyourname.” Tess’s energy wanes some.

“Even the quarantined folks in LosAngeles. I guess the whole city’sunderquarantinenow.”“They’vesealedLosAngeles?”This

takesmeaback.We’d learnedaboutthegemsectorsbeingfencedoff,butI’veneverheardofsuchalarge-scalequarantine.“Whatfor?Theplagues?”“Not for the plagues.” Tess’s eyes

getwiderwith excitement. “For riots.The Republic’s broadcasting itofficially as a plague quarantine, butthe truth is that the whole city’srebelling against the new Elector.Rumors are spreading that theElector is hunting you down witheverything he’s got, and somePatriotsaretellingpeoplethatAnden

was the one who ordered—er, whoordered your family’s . . .” Tesshesitates,turningbrightred.“Anyway,thePatriotsaretryingtomakeAndensound bad, worse than his father.Razor says the LA protests are agreat opportunity for us. The capitalhashad tocall in thousandsofextratroops.”“A great opportunity,” I echo,

remembering how the Republic hadput down the last protest in LosAngeles.“Yep,andit’sallthankstoyou,Day.

You triggered it—or, at least, therumor that you’re alive did. They’reinspired by your escape, and pissedabout how you’re being treated.

You’re the one thing the Republiccan’t seem to control. Everybody’slooking to you, Day. They’re waitingforyournextmove.”I swallow, not daring to believe it.

Thatcan’tbepossible—theRepublicwouldneverletrebellionsgetthatfarout of control inoneof the country’sbiggest cities. Would they? Are thepeople actually overwhelming thelocal military there? And are theyrebelling because of me? They’rewaitingforyournextmove.ButhellifIevenknowwhat that’ssupposed tobe.I’mjusttryingtofindmybrother—that’s it, that’s all. I shakemy head,forcingdownasuddentideoffear.I’dwanted the power to fight back,

yeah?That’swhat Iwas trying todofor all these years, wasn’t I? Nowthey’rehanding thepower tome. . .but I don’t know what to do with it.“Yeah, right,” Imanage to reply. “Areyoukiddingme?I’mjustastreetconfromLA.”“Yeah. A famous one.” Tess’s

infectious smile instantly lightensmymood.Shenudgesme in thearmaswe reach the door to my room. Westepinside.“Comeon,Day.Don’tyourememberwhythePatriotsagreedtorecruit you in the first place? Razorsaid you could become as powerfulas the new Elector himself.Everybody in thecountryknowswhoyou are. And most of them actually

like you. Something to be proud of,yeah?”I just walk over to my bed and sit

down. I don’t even notice right awaythatTessseatsherselfbesideme.She sobers at my silence. “You

reallycareaboutthisone,don’tyou?”shesays,smoothing thecoversoverthebedwithonehand.“She’snotlikethegirlsyouusedtofoolaroundwithinLake.”“What?” I reply, confused for a

second.Tess thinks I’mstillbroodingabout Anden’s infatuation with June.Tess’s own cheeks are turning pinknow, and I suddenly feeluncomfortablywarmsittingalonewithher, her big eyes fixed on me, her

crushunmistakable.I’vealwaysbeensmoothathandlinggirlswho’ve likedme, but they were strangers. Girlswho’d pass in and out of my lifewithout consequence. Tess isdifferent.Idon’tknowwhattodowiththe idea thatwecouldbemore thanfriends. “Well, what do youwantmetosay?”Iask.Iwanttohitmyselfassoonasitcomesoutofmymouth.“Stop worrying—I’m sure she’ll be

fine.”Shespitsoutthatlastwordwithsudden venom, then goes quietagain. Yeah, I definitely said thewrongthing.“I didn’t join the Patriots because I

wantedto,youknow.”Tessrisesfromthebedandstandsoverme,herback

stiff, her hands clenching andunclenching. “I joined the Patriotsbecause of you. Because I wasworried sick about you after Junetook you away and arrested you. Ithought I could talk them into savingyou—but I don’t have the bargainingpower June has. June can dowhatevershewantstoyou,andyou’dstill take her back. June can doanything she wants to theRepublic,and they’ll take her back too.” Tessraises her voice. “Whenever Juneneeds something, she gets results,butmyneedsaren’tworthabucketofpig’s blood. Maybe if I were theRepublic’s darling, you’d care aboutmetoo.”

Her words cut deep. “That’s nottrue,” I say, getting up and grabbingherhands.“Howcouldyouevensaythat? We grew up on the streetstogether.Youhaveanyideawhatthatmeanstome?”Shepursesher lips tight and looks

up,tryingnottocry.“Day,”shebeginsagain,“haveyoueverwonderedwhyyoulikeJunesomuch?Imean—well—given how you were arrested andall—”I shake my head. “What do you

mean?”She takes a deep breath. “I’ve

heardofthisthingsomewherebefore,on the JumboTrons or something,where they were talking about

prisoners from the Colonies. Abouthow kidnapping victims fall for theircaptors.”I frown. The Tess I know is fading

away into a cloud of suspicion anddark thoughts. “You think I like Junebecauseshearrestedme?YoureallythinkI’mthattwistedinthehead?”“Day?” Tess says carefully. “June

turnedyouin.”I throwdownTess’shands. “Idon’t

wanttotalkaboutthis.”Tess shakes her head mournfully,

her eyes glossy with unshed tears.“Shekilledyourmother,Day.”I takeastepback fromTess. I feel

like I’ve been slapped in the face.“Shedidn’tdoit,”Isay.

“She may as well have,” Tesswhispers.I can feel my defenses rising up

again, closing me off. “You’reforgetting that she also helped meescape.Shesavedme.Look,areyou—”“I’vesavedyoudozensoftimes.But

ifIturnedyouin,andyourfamilydiedforit,wouldyouforgiveme?”I swallow. “Tess, I’d forgive you for

justaboutanything.”“Even if I was responsible for your

mom’s death? No, I don’t think youwould.” She fixes her eyes onmine.Hervoicecarriesahintofharshnessnow, armoredwith an edge of steel.“That’s what I mean. You treat June

differently.”“Doesn’t mean I don’t care about

you.”Tess ignores my reply and barrels

on. “If you had to choose betweensaving either me or June, and youhadnotimetowaste...whatwouldyoudo?”Ican feelmy facegoingredasmy

frustrationbuilds.“Whowouldyousave?”Tessusesa

sleevetowipeherfaceandwaitsformyanswer.I sigh impatiently. Just tell her the

goddy truth. “You, all right? I’d saveyou.”Shesoftens,andinthatmomentthe

ugliness of jealousy and hate is

smoothedaway.All it takes isa littlesweetness for Tess to turn back intoanangel.“Why?”“Idon’tknow.”Irunahandthrough

my hair, unable to figure out why Ican’ttakecontrolofthisconversation.“Because June wouldn’t need myhelp.”Stupid, so stupid. I almost couldn’t

havesaidanythingworse.ThewordsspilledoutbeforeIcouldstopmyself,and now it’s too late to take themback. That’s not even the rightreason. I would’ve saved Tessbecause she’sTess, because I can’tbeartoimaginesomethinghappeningtoher.ButIdon’thavetimetoexplainthat. Tess turns and starts walking

awayfromme.“Thanksforyourpity,”shesays.Ihurryover toher,butwhen I take

herhand, she jerksaway. “I’msorry.That’s not what I meant. I don’t pityyou.Tess,I—”“It’s fine,” she snaps. “It’s just the

truth, yeah? Well, you’ll be reunitedwith June soon enough. If shedecides not to go back to theRepublic.” She knows how cold herwords are, but she doesn’t try tosugarcoatthem.“Baxterthinksyou’regoingto betray us, you know. That’swhy he doesn’t like you. He’s beentrying to convince me of that eversinceIfirstjoined.Idunno...maybehe’sright.”

She leaves me standing alone inthehall.Guiltslicesthroughmyskin,openingveinsasitgoes.Apartofmeisangry—IwanttodefendJune,andtellTessallthethingsJunehadgivenupformysake.But...isTessright?AmIjustdeludingmyself?

IHADANIGHTMARELASTNIGHT. IDREAMTTHAT ANDEN pardoned Day for all hiscrimes.ThenIsawthePatriotsdraggingDay onto a dark street and putting abullet in his chest. Razor turned to meand said,“Your punishment, Ms. Iparis,for working with the Elector.” I jerkedawake in a sweat, tremblinguncontrollably.

A day and night (more specifically,twenty-threehours)passbeforeIsee theElectoragain.This time Imeethim inaliedetectionroom.

Asguardsleadmedownthehalltoan

ensemble of waiting jeeps outside, I gooverall the things I’ve learned atDrakeabout how lie detectors work. Theexaminer’sgoingtotrytointimidateme;they’re going to use my weaknessesagainstme.They’lluseMetias’sdeath,ormyparents,ormaybeevenOllie.They’llcertainlyuseDay.SoIconcentrateonthehall we’re walking down, think abouteachofmyweaknessesinturn,andthenpresseachonedeep into thebackofmymind.Isilencethem.

We drive through the capital forseveral blocks. This time I see the citysmothered in the gray half glow of asnowy morning, soldiers and workershurryingalongthesidewalksthroughthespotsoflightthatstreetlampscastonthe

slickpavement.TheJumboTronshereareenormous, some towering fifteen stories,and thespeakers lining thebuildingsarenewer than those in LA—they don’tmake the announcer’s voice crackle.Wepass the Capitol Tower. I study its slickwalls, how sheets of glass protect eachbalcony so anyone giving a speech willbeproperlyshielded.TheoldElectorhadoncebeenattackedthatway,backbeforetheglasswentup—someonehadtriedtoshootathimallthewayuponthefortiethfloor.TheRepublichadbeenquicktoputup the barriers after that. The Tower’sJumboTrons have wet streaks distortingtheimagesontheirscreens,butIcanstillread some of the headlines as we passthem.

Afamiliaronecatchesmyattention.

DANIEL ALTAN WING EXECUTEDDEC.26BYFIRINGSQUAD

Why are they still broadcasting that,when all the other headlines from thesametimehavelongsincemadewayformore recentnews?Maybe they’re tryingtoconvincepeoplethatit’strue.

Anotheroneflashesby.

ELECTOR TO ANNOUNCE FIRSTLAW OF NEW YEAR TODAY ATDENVERCAPITOLTOWER

Iwanttopauseandreadthisheadlineagain—but the car speeds past and thenthe ride’s over. My car door opens.Soldiers grabmy arms and pullme out.I’minstantlydeafenedbyshoutsfromthe

crowdofonlookersanddozensoffederalpressreportersclicking their littlesquarecamerascreensatme.WhenItakeinthepeople surrounding us, I notice that inadditiontothosewhoareherejusttoseeme, there are others. A lot of others.They’reprotestinginthestreets,shoutingslurs about the Elector, and beingdragged off by police. Several wavehomemadesignsovertheirheadsevenasguardstakethemaway.JuneIparisIsInnocent!saysone.WhereIsDay?saysanother.Oneoftheguardsnudgesmeforward.

“Nothing for you to see,” he snaps,hurryingmeupalongseriesofstepsandinto the giant corridor of somegovernment building. Behind us, the

noise from outside fades away into theechoes of our footsteps. Ninety-twoseconds later, we stop before a set ofwideglassdoors.Thensomeonescansathin card (about three by five incheslarge,black,withareflectivesheenandagold Republic seal logo in one corner)acrosstheentryscreen,andwestepin.

The lie detection room is cylindrical,withalowdomedroofandtwelvesilvercolumnslining theroundedwall.Guardsstrap me standing into a machine thatencirclesmyarms andwristswithmetalbands, and press cold metal nodes(fourteen of them) onto my neck andcheeks and forehead, my palms andankles and feet. There are so manysoldiers in here—twenty in total. Six of

them are the examination team, withwhite armbands and transparent greenshades.Thedoorsaremadeofflawlesslyclear glass (it’s imprinted with a faintsymbol of a circle cut in half, whichmeans it’s one-way bulletproof glass, soifIsomehowbrokefree,soldiersoutsidethe room could shoot me through theglassbutIwouldn’tbeabletoshootbackatthemorbreakout).Outsidetheroom,Isee Anden standing with two Senatorsand twenty-four more guards. He looksunhappy,andisdeepinconversationwiththe Senators, who try to cloak theirdispleasurewithfake,obedientsmiles.

“Ms. Iparis,” the lead examiner says.Her eyes are a very pale green, her hairblond, her skin porcelain white. She

scrutinizes my face calmly beforepressing on a small black device she’sholding in her right hand. “My name isDr.Sadhwani.We’regoing to ask you aseries of questions.As you are a formerRepublicagent, I’msureyouunderstandas well as I do how capable thesemachines are. We’ll catch the smallesttwitch of movement from you. Theslightest trembling of your hands. Istronglyadviseyoutotellusthetruth.”

Herwords are all just pretest hype—she’s trying to convince me of thecomplete power of this lie detectiondevice.She thinks themoreI fear it, themorereactionI’llshow.Imeethereyes.Takeslow,normalbreaths.Eyesrelaxed,mouth straight. “Fine withme,” I reply.

“Ihavenothingtohide.”Thedoctorbusiesherselfstudyingthe

nodes stuck to my skin, then theprojectionsofmy face that are probablybeing broadcast around the roombehindme. Her own eyes are darting aroundnervously, and tiny beads of sweat aredotting the very top of her forehead.She’sprobablynever testedsuchawell-known enemy of the state before, andcertainly not in front of someone asimportantastheElector.

Asexpected,Dr.Sadhwanistartswithsimple, irrelevant questions. “Is yournameJuneIparis?”

“Yes.”“Whenisyourbirthday?”“Julyeleventh.”

“Andyourage?”“Fifteen years, five months, and

twenty-eight days.” My tone stays flatand emotionless. Each time I answer, Ipause for several seconds and let mybreathing become shallower, which inturn makes my heart pump faster. Ifthey’remeasuringmyphysicalrates,thenlet them see fluctuations during thecontrol questions. It’llmake it harder totellwhenI’mactuallylying.

“Whatgradeschooldidyouattend?”“HarionGold.”“Andafterthat?”“Bespecific,”Ireply.Dr. Sadhwani recoils slightly, then

recovers.“Allright,Ms.Iparis,”shesays,this time with irritation in her voice.

“What high school did you attend afterHarionGold?”

I face the audience watching mebehind theglass.TheSenatorsavoidmystare by pretending fascination with thewires snaking around me, but Andenlooks back at me without hesitation.“HarionHigh.”

“Forhowlong?”“Twoyears.”“Andthen—”I let my temper go up, so that they

might think I’m having troublecontrolling my emotions (and my examresults).“And thenIspent threeyearsatDrakeUniversity,”Isnap.“IgotacceptedwhenIwastwelveandgraduatedwhenIwasfifteen,becauseIwasjustthatgood.

Doesthatansweryourquestion?”She hates me now. “Yes,” she says

tightly.“Good.Thenlet’smoveon.”Theexaminerpursesherlipsandlooks

back down at her black device so shedoesn’thavetomeetmyeyes.“Haveyoueverliedbefore?”sheasks.

She’smovingontomorecomplicatedquestions.Ispeedupmybreathingagain.“Yes.”

“Have you lied to any military orgovernmentofficials?”

“Yes.”RightafterIanswerthisquestion,Isee

astrangeseriesofsparksat theedgesofmyvision.Iblinktwice.Theydisappear,and the room comes back into focus. I

hesitate for a second—but when Dr.Sadhwani notices this and typessomething on her device, I forcemyselftoturnbackintoablankslate.

“Have you ever lied to any of yourprofessorsatDrake?”

“No.”“Haveyoueverliedtoyourbrother?”Suddenly the room vanishes. A

shimmeringimagereplacesit—afamiliarliving room bathed in warm afternoonlightcomesintofocus,andawhitepuppysleepsnexttomyfeet.Atall,dark-hairedteenager sits next to me with his armscrossed.It’sMetias.Hefrownsandleansforward with his elbows resting on hisknees.

“Haveyoueverliedtome,June?”

Iblinkinshockatthescene.Thisisallfake, I tell myself. The lie detector isconjuring up illusions that are designedto break me down. I’d heard of deviceslike this being used near the warfront,whereamachinecansimulatesequencestoplayout inyourmindbycopying thebrain’sabilitytocreatevividdreams.ButMetias looks so real, it’s like I couldreach out and tuck his dark hair behindhisear,or feelmy tinyhand inhis largeone. I can almost believe that I’m rightthere in the room with him. I close myeyes, but the image stays embedded inmymind,brightasdaylight.

“Yes,” I say. It’s the truth. Metias’seyes gowidewith surprise and sadness,thenhevanishesalongwithOllieandthe

rest of the apartment. I’m back in themiddle of the gray lie detector room,standingbeforeDr.Sadhwaniasshejotsdown more notes. She gives me anapproving nod for answering correctly. Itry to steady my hands as they stayclenchedandtremblingatmysides.

“Very good,” shemurmurs amomentlater.

My words sound as cold as ice. “Doyouplanonusingmybrotheragainstmefortherestofthesequestions?”

She looksawayfromhernotesagain.“Yousawyourbrother?”Sheseemsmorerelaxed now, and the sweat on herforeheadhasfadedaway.

So. They can’t control what visionspopup,andtheycan’tseewhatIsee.But

they’re able to trigger something thatforcesthesememoriesuptothesurface.Ikeepmy head high andmy eyes on thedoctor.“Yes.”

The questions continue.Which gradedidyouskipduringyour timeatDrake?Sophomore year. How many conductwarningsdidyoureceivewhenyouwereat Drake? Eighteen. Prior to yourbrother’s death, had you ever hadnegative thoughts about the Republic?No.

Onandon.She’stryingtodesensitizemybrain,Irealize,tomakemelowermyguardso she’ll be able to see aphysicalreaction when she does ask somethingrelevant.Twicemore I seeMetias.Eachtimeithappens,Itakeadeepbreathand

force myself to hold it in for severalseconds. They grill me about how Iescaped from the Patriots, what thebombingmission was for. I repeat whatI’d told Anden at our dinner. So far, sogood. The detector says I’ve told thetruth.

“IsDayalive?”And thenDaymaterializes in frontof

me.He’s standingonlya few feet away,withblueeyessoreflectivethatIcanseemyselfinthem.Aneasygrinlightsuphisface when he seesme. Suddenly I achefor him so much that I feel like I’mfalling. He’s not real. This is all asimulation. I let my breathing steady.“Yes.”

“WhydidyouhelpDayescape,when

you knew that he’s wanted for somanycrimes against the Republic?Might youhavefeelingsforhim?”

A dangerous question. I harden myheartagainstit.“No.Isimplydidn’twanthimtodieatmyhandsfortheonecrimehedidn’tcommit.”

Thedoctorpausesinhernote-takingtoraise an eyebrow atme. “You risked anawfullotforsomeoneyouhardlyknow.”

I narrow my eyes. “That doesn’t saymuch about your character. Perhaps youshouldwait until someone’s about to beexecutedforamistakeyoumade.”

Shedoesn’trespondtotheacidinmywords.TheillusionofDayvanishes.Igeta fewmore irrelevant control questions,then: “Are you and Day affiliated with

thePatriots?”Dayappearsagain.Thistimeheleans

incloseenoughforhishairtobrush,lightas silk, againstmy cheeks. He pullsmetoward him for a long kiss. The scenevanishes, replaced abruptly by a stormynight and Day struggling through therain, blood dripping from his leg andleaving a trail behind him. He collapsesonto his knees in front of Razor beforethewholescenedisappearsagain.Ifighttokeepmyvoicesteady.“Iwas.”

“Is there going to be an assassinationattemptonourgloriousElector?”

Noneedformetolieonthisone.Iletmy gazewander toAnden,who nods atme in what I assume is encouragement.“Yes.”

“And are the Patriots aware that youknowabouttheirassassinationplans?”

“No,theyarenot.”Dr. Sadhwani looks over at her

colleagues,andafterseveralsecondsshenodsand turnsback tome.The detectorsays I’ve told the truth. “Are theresoldiers close to the Elector who maysupportthisassassinationattempt?”

“Yes.”Severalmoresecondsofsilencewhile

she checks with her colleagues on myanswer. Again, she nods. This time sheturns around to face Anden and hisSenators.“She’stellingthetruth.”

Andennodsback.“Good,”hesays,hisvoice muffled through the glass.“Continue, please.” The Senators keep

theirarmscrossedandtheirlipstight.Dr. Sadhwani’s questions are

ceaseless, drowning me in their never-ending torrent. When will theassassinationattempttakeplace?OntheElector’s planned route to the warfrontcity of Lamar, Colorado. Do you knowwhere the Elector will be safe? Yes.Whereshouldhego instead?Adifferentbordercity. IsDaygoing tobeapartofthis assassination attempt?Yes. Why isheinvolved?He’sindebtedtothePatriotsforfixinghisinjuredleg.

“Lamar,” Dr. Sadhwani murmurs asshe types more notes into her blackdevice. “I guess the Elector will beswitchinghisroute.”

Another piece of the plan falls into

place.Thequestionsfinallycometoanend.

Dr.Sadhwaniturnsawayfrommetotalkwith the others, while I let a breath outandsagagainstthedetectormachine.I’vebeen in here for exactly two hours andfive minutes. My eyes meet Anden’s.He’s still standing near the glass doors,surroundedonbothsidesbysoldiers,hisarmscrossedtightlyoverhischest.

“Wait,”hesays.TheexaminerspauseintheirdeliberationstolookoverattheirElector. “I have a last question for ourguest.”

Dr.Sadhwaniblinksandwavesatme.“Ofcourse,Elector.Please.”

Anden walks closer to the glassseparating us. “Why are you helping

me?”Ipushbackmyshouldersandmeethis

eyes.“BecauseIwanttobepardoned.”“AreyouloyaltotheRepublic?”A final collage of memories comes

into focus. I see myself holding mybrother’shandonthestreetsofourRubysector, our arms raised in salute to theJumboTrons as we recite the pledge.There’sMetias’s face,hissmileandalsohis strained look of worry on the lastnightIsawhim.IseetheRepublicflagsat my brother’s funeral. Metias’s secretonline entries scroll past my eyes—hiswords of warning, his anger at theRepublic. IseeThomaspointinghisgunat Day’s mother; I see her head snapbackward at the bullet’s impact. She

crumples. It’s my fault. I see Thomasclutching his head in the interrogationroom, tortured, blindingly obedient,forevercaptivetowhathedid.

I’m not loyal anymore. Am I stillloyal? I am right here in the Republic’scapital, helping the Patriots assassinatethe new Elector. A man I once pledgedmyallegianceto.Iamgoingtokillhim,and then I’mgoing to runaway. I knowthattheliedetectorisgoingtorevealmybetrayal—I’mdistracted, consumedwiththe conflict of needing to make thingsright with Day, but hating to leave theRepublicatthemercyofthePatriots.

A shudder runs through me. They’rejust images. Just memories. I remainsilentuntilmyheartbeatsteadies.Iclose

my eyes, take a deep breath, and thenopenthemagain.“Yes,”Isay.“IamloyaltotheRepublic.”

Iwait for the liedetector to flare red,tobeep, toreveal thatI’mlying.But themachineisquiet.Dr.Sadhwanikeepsherheaddownandtypesinhernotepad.

“She’stellingthetruth,”Dr.Sadhwanifinallysays.

I’ve passed. I can’t believe it. Themachine says I’m telling the truth. Butit’sonlyamachine.

***

Later that night, I sit on the edgeofmybedwithmyheadinmyhands.Shacklesstillhang frommywrists, but otherwiseI’mfree tomovearound. Icanstillhear

the sounds of occasional muffledconversation outside my room, though.Thoseguardsarestillthere.

I’m so exhausted. I shouldn’t be,technically,sinceIhaven’tdoneanythingphysically straining since I was firstarrested. But Dr. Sadhwani’s questionswhirl inmymind and combinewith thethingsThomas had said tome, hauntingmeuntil I have to clutchmyhead in anattempt to ward off the headache.Somewhereout there, thegovernment isdebating whether or not they shouldpardon me. I’m shivering a little, eventhoughIknowtheroomiswarm.Classicsignsofanoncomingillness,I

thinkdarkly.Maybe it’s the plague. Theironyofthatsendsahintofsadness—and

fear—through me. But I’m vaccinated.It’sprobablyjustacold—afterall,MetiashadalwayssaidIwasalittlesensitivetochangesinweather.

Metias. Now that I’m alone, I letmyselfworry.Mylastanswerduringtheliedetectortestshouldhavethrownaredflag.But it didn’t.Does thatmean Iamstill loyal to the Republic, without evenbeing aware of it? Somewhere, deepdown, the machine could sense mydoubts about carrying out theassassination.

ButifIdecidenottoplayoutmyrole,whatwillhappentoDay?I’llneedawaytocontacthimwithoutRazorfindingout.Andthenwhat?Day’scertainlynotgoingtoseetheElectorthewayIseehim.And

besides, I have no backup plan. Think,June. I have to come up with analternativethatwillkeepusallalive.If you want to rebel,Metias had told

me,rebel from inside the system. I keepdwelling on this memory, although myshiveringmakesithardtoconcentrate.

Suddenly I hear a commotion outsidethe door. There’s the sound of heelsclickingsmartlytogether,thetelltalesignof an official coming to see me. I waitquietly. The doorknob finally turns.Andenstepsin.

“Elector, sir, are you sure you don’twantafewguardswithyou—”

Andenjustshakeshisheadandwavesa hand at the soldiers outside the door.“Please, don’t trouble yourselves,” he

says. “I’d like a private word with Ms.Iparis. It’ll only take a minute.” Hiswords remind me of the ones I spokewhenI’dvisitedDayinhiscellatBatallaHall.

ThesoldiergivesAndenaquicksaluteandclosesthedoor,leavingthetwoofusalone. I look up fromwhere I’m sittingontheedgeofmybed.Theshacklesthatbindmy hands clink in the silence. TheElector isn’t in his usual formal garb;insteadhewears a full-lengthblack coatwitharedstripethatrunsdownthefront,and the rest of his clothes are elegantlysimple (black collar shirt, a darkwaistcoatwithsixshiningbuttons,blacktrousers, black pilot boots). His hair isglossy and neatly combed. A lone gun

hangs at his waist, but he wouldn’t beabletodrawitfastenoughtoshootmeifI decided to attack him. He’s genuinelytryingtoshowhisfaithinme.

RazorhadtoldmethatifIwastofinda moment when I could assassinateAndenonmy own, I should do it. Takethe opportunity. But now here he is,unexpectedlyvulnerablebeforeme,andIdon’tmakeasinglegesture.Besides,ifItry to kill him here, there’s zero chanceI’llseeDayagain—orsurvive.

Andensitsdownbesideme,carefultoleave some distance between us.Suddenly I’m embarrassed by myappearance—slouched and weary, withundonehairandnightclothes,seatednexttotheRepublic’shandsomeprince.ButI

still straighten and tilt my head up asgracefully as I can. I am June Iparis, Iremindmyself. I’mnot going to let himseethechaosI’mfeeling.

“I wanted to let you know that youwere right,” he starts. There’s genuinewarmthinhisvoice.“Twosoldiersinmyguard went missing this afternoon. Ranaway.”

The twoPatriot decoyshave escaped,as planned. I sigh and give him arehearsed look of relief, just in caseRazor is watching. “Where are theynow?”

“We’re not sure. Scouts are trying totrackthem.”Andenrubshisglovedhandstogether for a moment. “CommanderDeSoto has instated a new rotation of

soldiersthatwillaccompanyus.”Razor. He is putting his own soldiers

inplace,graduallymovinginforthekill.“I’d like to thank you for your help,

June,” Anden goes on. “I want toapologizefortheliedetectortestyouhadto undergo. I know it must have beenunpleasant foryou,but itwasnecessary.Atanyrate, I’mgrateful foryourhonestanswers. You’ll stay here with us for afew more days, until we’re sure thedanger of thePatriots’ plans is past.Wemay still have some questions for you.After that, we will figure out how tointegrate you back into the Republic’sranks.”

“Thank you,” I say, even though thewordsarecompletelyhollow.

Andenleansin.“ImeantwhatIsaidatour dinner,” he whispers, his wordsrushed and his mouth barely moving.He’s nervous. A sudden paranoia seizesme—I tap a finger against my lips andgivehimapointedlook.Hiseyeswiden,but he doesn’t shy away. He gentlytouches my chin, then pulls me towardhim as if hewere going to kissme. Hestopshislipsrightbesidemyown,lettingthemresteversoslightlyagainsttheskinofmylowercheek.Tinglesrundownmyspine and along with them, anundercurrentofguilt.

“So the cams don’t pick it up,” hewhispers. This is a betterway to talk inprivate;ifaguardwere topokehisheadinside the door, it would seem like

Anden’s stealing a kiss instead ofwhispering with me. A safer rumor tospread.AndthePatriotswouldjustthinkI’mgoingalongwiththeirplans.

Anden’s breath is warm against myskin.“Ineedyourhelp,”hemurmurs.“Ifyouwerepardoned of all crimes againsttheRepublic and set free,would youbeable to contact Day? Or is yourrelationship with him over now thatyou’renotwiththePatriots?”

I bite my lip. The way Anden saysrelationshipmakesitsoundlikehethinksthere was once something between Dayandme.Once.“Whydoyouwantmetocontacthim?”Iask.

Hiswords have a quiet, commandingurgency that gives me goose bumps.

“You and Day are the most celebratedpeople in theRepublic. If I can formanalliance with you both, I can win thepeople. Then instead of quellingrebellionsandtryingtokeepthingsfromfalling apart, I can concentrate onimplementing the changes this countryneeds.”

I feel light-headed. This is sudden,startling, and for amoment I can’t eventhinkofagoodresponse.Andenistakinga huge risk talking to me like this. Iswallow,mycheeksstillburningfromhisproximity. I shifta little so Icanseehiseyes.“Whyshouldwe trustyou?” I say,myvoicesteady.“WhatmakesyouthinkDaywantstohelpyou?”

Anden’s eyes are clear with purpose.

“I’m going to change the Republic, andI’m going to start by releasing Day’sbrother.”

Mymouth turnsdry.Suddenly Iwishwewere talking loudenough forDay tohear.“You’regoingtoreleaseEden?”

“He never should have been taken inthefirstplace.I’llreleasehimalongwithany others being used along thewarfront.”

“Where is he?” Iwhisper. “When areyou—”

“Eden has been traveling along thewarfront for the past few weeks. Myfatherhadtakenhim,alongwithadozenothers, as part of a new war initiative.They’re basically being used as livingbiological weapons.” Anden’s face

darkens. “I’m going to stop this madcircus.Tomorrowmyorderwillgoout—Edenwillbetakenfromthewarfrontandcaredforinthecapital.”

Thisisnew.Thischangeseverything.IhavetofindawaytotellDayabout

Eden’srelease,beforeheandthePatriotskilltheonepersonwiththepowertofreehim.What’sthebestwaytocommunicatewithhim?ThePatriotsmustbewatchingall of mymoves from the cams, I think,lettingmymind spin. I’ll need to signalhim.Day’s face appears inmy thoughtsandIwanttoruntohim.Iwantsomuchtotellhimthisgoodnews.Is it good news? My practical side

pulls at me, warning me to take thisslowly. Anden might be lying, and this

could all be a trap. But if it was justanother attempt to arrest Day, then whywouldn’t he just threaten to kill Eden?That would bring Day out of hiding.Instead,he’slettingEdengo.

Anden waits patiently through mysilence. “I need Day to trust me,” hemurmurs.

I put my arms around his neck andmovemylipsclosertohisear.Hesmellslike sandalwood and clean wool. “I’llneed to find a way to contact him, andconvince him. But if you release hisbrother, he will trust you,” I whisperback.

“I’m going to win your trust too. Iwantyoutohavefaithinme.Ihavefaithin you. I’ve had faith in you for a very

long time.”He’s quiet for a second.Hisbreathing has quickened, and his eyeschange abruptly. Gone is that sense ofdistantauthority,andinthismomenthe’sjustayoungman,ahumanbeing,andtheelectricitybetweenusis toomuch.Inaninstant,heturnshisfaceandhislipsmeetmine.

I closemyeyes. It is so light.Barelythere, yet I can’t help but want a littlemore. With Day, there’s a fire and ahunger between us, even anger, somedeepdesperationandneed.WithAnden,though, the kiss is all delicacy andrefined grace, aristocratic manners,power,andelegance.Pleasureandshamewash through me. Can Day see thisthrough the cams? The thought stabs at

me.It lasts formere seconds, thenAnden

pulls away. I let out a breath, open myeyes, and let the rest of the room comeback into focus.He’s spent enough timehere—any longer and theguardsoutsidemightstarttoworry.“I’msorrytodisturbyou,” he says, bowing his head slightlybefore standing up and straightening hiscoat.He’spulledbackintotheshelterofformality, but there’s a slightawkwardness in his stance, and a faintsmileontheedgesofhislips.“Getsomerest.We’lltalktomorrow.”

Once he’s gone and the room hasfallenbackintoathicksilence,Icurlupwithmykneesatmychin.Mylipsburnfrom his touch. I let my mind wrap

aroundwhatAnden just said tome, andmyfingersrunrepeatedlyoverthepaperclip ring on my hand. The Patriots hadwanted Day and me to join them inassassinating this young Elector. Byassassinatinghim,theyclaimed,we’dbestoking the fires of a revolution thatwouldfreeusfromtheRepublic.Thatwecould bring back the glory of the oldUnitedStates.Butwhat does thatmean,really?Whatwill theUnitedStateshavethat Anden can’t give the Republic?Freedom? Peace? Prosperity? Will theRepublic become a country full ofbeautifully lit skyscrapers and clean,wealthy sectors? The Patriots hadpromised Day that they would find hisbrother and help us escape to the

Colonies.ButifAndencandoallofthesethingswiththerightsupportandtherightdetermination, if we won’t need to fleeinto the Colonies, then what is thisassassination accomplishing? Andenisn’t remotely likehis father. In fact,hisfirstofficialactastheElectorisundoingsomething his father had put in place—he’sgoingtofreeEden,maybeevenstopthe plague experiments. If we keep himinpower,wouldhechange theRepublicforthebetter?Wouldn’thebethecatalystthatMetiashadwishedfor inhisdefiantjournalentries?

There’sabiggerproblemIcan’twrapmy head around. Razor must know, onsome level, that Anden isn’t a dictatorlikehisfatherwas.Afterall,Razor’shigh

enough of a rank to hear any rumors ofAnden’srebelliousnature.He’dtoldDayandmethatCongressdislikedAnden...but he never told us why they wereclashing.

Why would he want to murder ayoung Elector who would help thePatriotsestablishanewRepublic?

Inthemidstofmychurningthoughts,though,onestaysclear.

Iknowforcertainwheremyloyaltieslie now. I won’t help Razor assassinatetheElector.ButIhavetowarnDay,sohedoesn’t followthroughwith thePatriots’plans.

Ineedasignal.ThenIrealizethattheremightbeone

way to do it, as long as he’s watching

footageofme alongwith the rest of thePatriots.Hewon’t knowwhy I’m doingit,butit’sbetterthannothing.Ilowermyhead slightly, then lift my hand withDay’spaperclipringonitandpresstwofingersagainst thesideofmybrow.Ouragreedsignalwhenwe’dfirstarrivedonthestreetsofVegas.Stop.

LATER THAT NIGHT, I HEAD OUTTOTHEMAINconference roomandjointheotherstohearaboutthenextphase of the mission. Razor’s backagain.FourPatriotscontinuetoworkin a smaller cluster at one corner oftheroom,mostlyHackersfromwhatIcantell, analyzinghowspeakersaremounted on some building or other.I’m starting to recognize a few ofthem—oneoftheHackersisbaldandbuiltlikeatank,ifabitshort;anotherhas a giant nose set between half-mooneyesonaverythinface;athird

one is a girlmissing an eye. Almosteveryonehasascarofsomesort.Myattention wanders to Razor, who’saddressing the crowd at the front ofthe room, his figure outlined in lightwithalltheworldmapscreensbehindhim. I cranemy neck to see if I cancatch Tess milling around with theothers, to take her aside and try toapologize.When I finally catch sightof her, though, she’s standingwith afew otherMedics in training, holdingout some sort of green herb in herpalmandpatiently explaininghowtouse it.OrsoI think. Idecidetosavemyapology for later. Itdoesn’t seemlike she needs me right now. Thethought makes me sad and oddly

uncomfortable.“Day!”Tessfinallynoticesme.Igive

heraquickwaveinreturn.She makes her way over to me,

thenpullsouttwopillsandasmallrollof clean bandages from her pocket.She pushes them into my hands.“Stay safe tonight, okay?” she saysbreathlessly, fixing me with a firmstare. There’s no sign of the earliertensionbetweenus.“Iknowhowyougetwhenyouradrenaline’spumping.Don’t do anything too crazy.” Tessnods at the blue pills in my hand.“They’ll warm you up if it’s too coldoutthere.”Actsoldenoughtobemycaretaker,

I swear. Tess’s concern leaves a

warm feeling in my stomach.“Thanks, cousin,” I reply, tucking hergiftsawayinmyownpockets.“Hey,I—”She stopsmyapologywith a hand

onmyarm.Hereyesareaswideasever, so comforting that I findmyselfwishing she could come with me.“Whatever.Just...promisemeyou’llbecareful.”So quick to forgive, in spite of

everything.Hadshesaidthosethingsto me earlier in the heat of themoment? Is she still angry? I leanover and give her a brief hug. “Ipromise. And yoube safe too.” Shesqueezesmywaistinresponse,thenheads off to rejoin the other young

Medics before I can attempt myapologyagain.Aftershe’sgone,Iturnmyattention

backonRazor.Hepointstoagrainyvideo that shows some street nearthe Lamar train tracks Kaede and Ihadpassedearlier.Apairofsoldiershurryacross thescreen, their collarsflipped up against the falling sleet,eachof themmunchingonsteamingempanadas.Mymouthwatersat thesight. ThePatriots’ canned food is aluxury,but,man,whatIwouldn’tgiveforahotmeatpastry. “Firstofall, I’dlike to reassure everyone that ourplansareontherighttrack,”hesays.“OurAgenthassuccessfullymetwiththe Elector and told him about our

decoyassassinationplan.”Hecirclesanareaof thescreenwithhis finger.“OriginallytheElectorhadplannedtovisit San Angelo on his morale-boosting tour, then head here toLamar. Now word is that he’ll becomingtoPierrainstead.Afewofoursoldiers will be accompanying theElector instead of his original troop.”Razor’seyessweepoverme,thenhegesturestothescreenandfallssilent.A video replaces the grainy Lamar

train track scene; we’re seeingfootageofabedroom.ThefirstthingInotice is a slender figure seated ontheedgeofabed,herknees tuckeduptoherchin.June?Buttheroomisaniceone—certainlydoesn’tlooklike

a prison cell to me—and the bedlooks soft and thickly layered withblankets I would’ve killed to havebackinLake.Someone grabs my arm. “Hey.

There you are, hotshot.” Pascao’sstandingbesideme,thatpermanentlycheerygrinplasteredalloverhisfaceandthosepalegrayeyespulsingwithexcitement.“Hey,”Ireply,givinghimaquicknod

in greeting before turning myattention back to the screen. Razorhasstartedgivingthegroupageneraloverview of the next phase of theplans,butPascaotugsonmysleeveagain.“You,me,anda fewotherRunners

areheadingoutinacoupleofhours.”His eyes flicker to the video beforesettlingbackonme.“Listenup.Razorwantedme to givemy crew a morespecific rundown than the one he’sdelivering to the group. I just briefedBaxterandJordan.”I’m barely paying attention to

Pascaoanymorebecausenow I cantellthatthesmallfigureonthebedisJune. It must be her, what with theway she pushes her hair behind hershouldersandanalyzestheroomwitha sweeping gaze. She’s dressed inpretty cozy-looking nightclothes, butshe’sshiveringas if the room’scold.Isthiselegantbedchamberreallyherprisoncell?Tess’swordscomeback

tome.Day,haveyouforgotten?Junekilled

yourmother.Pascao tugs onmy armagain and

forcesmetofacehim,thenleadsmeto the back of the group. “Listenup,Day,” he whispers again. “There’s ashipment coming into Lamar tonight,by train. It’ll have cartloads of guns,gear, food,andwhateverelseforthewarfrontsoldiers,alongwithawholeensemble of lab equipment. We’regoing to steal some supplies anddestroya railcar’sworthofgrenadesonit.That’sourmissiontonight.”Now June’s talking to the guard

standing near the door, but I canbarely hear her. Razor’s done

addressing the room and has fallendeepintoconversationwithtwootherPatriots, both of them occasionallygesturing up at the screen, thendrawing out something on theirpalms. “What’s the point of blowingupacartloadofgrenades?”Iask.“This mission is the decoy

assassination. The Elector wasoriginally scheduled to come here toLamar,atleastbeforeJunehadatalkwith him.Ourmission tonight shouldconvince the Elector, if he isn’tconvinced already, that June wastelling him the truth. Plus, it’ll be anicechancetostealafewgrenades.”Pascao rubshishands togetherwithalmost maniacal glee. “Mmmm.

Nitroglycerin.” I raise an eyebrow.“Me and three other Runners aregonnadothetrainjob,butwe’llneeda special Runner to distract thesoldiersandguards.”“Whatdoyoumean,special?”“What I mean,” Pascao says

pointedly, “is that this is why Razordecided to recruit you, Day. This isourfirstchancetoshowtheRepublicthatyou’realive. It’swhyKaedehadyou strip the dye from your hair.When word gets out that you wereseen in Lamar, taking down aRepublic train, people are gonna gonuts. The Republic’s notorious littlecriminal,stillupandaboutevenafterthe government’s attempt to execute

him? If that doesn’t stir up people’ssenseofrebellion,nothingwill.That’swhatwe’reaimingfor—chaos.Bythetimewe’redone,thepublicwillbesopumped about you that they’ll besalivating for revolution. It’s theperfect atmosphere for the Elector’sassassination.”Pascao’s excitement makes me

smile a little. Messing with theRepublic?This iswhat Iwasborn todo. “Give me more details,” I say,moving my hand in a come-hithergesture.Pascao checks to make sure

Razor’s still going through the planswith the others, then winks at me.“Our team is gonna unhook the

grenaderailcaracoupleofmilesfromthestation—bythetimewegetthere,Idon’twant there tobemore thanahandfulofsoldiersguardingthetrain.Becareful,now.Thereusuallyaren’tmany troops near those train tracks,but tonight’s different. The RepublicwillbeonthehuntforusafterhearingJune’s warning about the decoyassassination. Watch for extrasoldiers. Buy us the time we need,andmakesuretheyspotyou.”“Fine.I’llgetyouyourtime.”Icross

my arms and point at him. “You justtellmewhereIneedtogo.”Pascaogrinsandslapsmehardon

the back. “Great. You’re the bestRunneroutofusby far—you’ll throw

thosesoldiersoffwithoutahitch.Joinup with me in two hours near theentrance where you came in. We’regonna have a ball.” He snaps hisfingers. “Oh, and don’t mind Baxter.He’s just sore that you get specialtreatmentfrombothmeandTess.”Assoonashewalksaway,myeyes

gobacktothevideoscreenandstayfrozen on June’s figure. As itcontinues playing, pieces of Razor’sconversation with the other Patriotsreachme. “—enough to hear what’sgoingon,”he’ssaying. “Shehashiminposition.”On the video, June seems to be

dozing, with her knees tucked up toherchin.There’snosoundatall this

time,butIdon’tthinkmuchofit.ThenIseesomeonestepinsidehercell,ayoung man with dark hair and anelegant black cloak. It’s the Elector.He bends down and starts talking toher, but I can’t make out what he’ssaying. When he gets close to her,June tensesup. I can feel the blooddrainingfrommyface.Allthechatterandbustle aroundme fades into thedistance. The Elector puts a handunderJune’schinandbringsherfacetoward his own. He is takingsomething that I thoughtwas just forme, and I feel a sudden, shatteringsense of loss. Iwant to ripmy eyesaway,butevenfromthecornerofmyvision, Icanstillseehimkissingher.

Itseemstolastforever.I watch numbly as they finally pull

awayfromeachotherandtheElectorsteps out of the room, leaving Junealone, curled up on the bed.What’sgoing through hermind right now? Ican’t watch any longer. I’m about toturnmyback,readytofollowPascaoout of the crowdandaway from thisscene.But then something catches my

eye.Ilookupatthemonitor.Andjustintime,IseeJuneholduptwofingerstoherbrowinoursignal.

***

It’s pastmidnight whenPascao,me,and three other Runners paint wide

blackstripesacrossoureyesandsuitourselves up in dark warfrontuniforms andmilitary caps. Then weheadoutofthePatriots’undergroundhideout for the first time since Iarrived.A couple of soldiers wanderby now and then, but we see moreclustersof troopsasweheadfartherout of our neighborhood and crossthe train tracks. The sky’s stillcompletely covered with clouds, andunder the dim streetlights, I can seethin sheets of sleet falling. Thepavement’s slickwith drizzle and icyslush,and theairsmellsstale, likeamixofsmokeandmold.Ipullmystiffcollar higher, swallow one of Tess’sblue pills, and actually wish I was

backwithherinLosAngeles’shumidslums. I tap the dust bomb hiddeninside my jacket, double-checkingthat it’s dry. In theback ofmymind,the scene between June and theElectorplaysonrepeat.June’s signal was for me. Which

partoftheplandoesshewantmetostop?DoesshewantmetoforfeitthePatriots’ mission and escape? If Idefectnow,whatwillhappen toher?The signal could’ve meant a millionthings. It could even mean she’sdecided to stay with the Republic. Ishake the thought furiously frommymind. No, she wouldn’t do that. Noteven if the Elector himself wantedher?Wouldthatmakeherstay?

I also remember that the videofootageofthemdidn’thavesoundonit.Everyother videowe’veseenhashad crisp sound—Razor eveninsisted on making sure the volumewas turned up. Had the Patriotsstripped it from this one? Are theyhidingsomething?Pascaostopsus in theshadowsof

analleynotfarfromthetrainstation.“Train arrives in fifteen minutes,” hesays, his breath rising in clouds.“Baxter, Iris,you twocomewithme.”The girl named Iris—long and lean,with deep-set eyes that constantlydart around—smiles, but Baxterglowersandtightenshisjaw.Iignorehim and try not to think about

whatever he’s trying to put in Tess’smindaboutme.Pascaopoints to thethirdRunner,apetitegirlwithcopper-colored braids who keeps sneakingglancesatme. “Jordan,you’regoingto pinpoint the right railcar for us.”ShegivesPascaoathumbs-up.Pascao’seyesshifttome.“Day,”he

whispers.“Youknowyourdrill.”I tug the edge of my cap. “Got it,

cousin.” Whatever June means, thisisnotimeformetoleavethePatriotsbehind.Tess isstillback there in thebunker, and I have no idea whereEdenis.NowayI’mgoingtoputbothoftheminjeopardy.“Keep those soldiers busy, yeah?

Makethemhateyou.”

“That’smyspecialty.”Igestureupattheslantedroofsandcrumblingwallstowering around us. To a Runner,thoseroofsarelikegiantslidesmadesmoothbyice.IsayasilentthankstoTess—alreadythebluepilliswarmingme up from the inside out, assoothingasabowlofhotsouponanicyevening.Pascaogivesmeawidegrin.“Well

then.Let’sshowthemagoodtime.”Iwatchtheothershurryawayalong

therailroadtracksthroughtheveilofsleet. Then I step farther into theshadows and study the buildings.Eachoneisoldandpockmarkedwithfootholds—and to make things evenmore fun, they all have rustedmetal

beams crisscrossing their walls.Some have top floors that arecompletelyblownoffandopentothenight sky. Others have slanted, tiledroofs. In spite of everything, I can’thelp feeling a twinge of anticipation.These buildings are a Runner’sparadise.I turn back down the street toward

the train station. There are at leasttwoclustersofsoldiers,maybemorethat I can’t see on the other side.Somearelinedupalongthetracksinexpectation, their rifles hoisted, theblack stripes across their eyesgleamingwetlyintherain.Ireachuptomyfaceandcheckmyownstripe.Then I pull my military cap down

tighteronmyhead.Showtime.I get a good foothold on one wall

and shimmy my way up toward theroof.Every time I tuckmy leg in,mycalf brushes against my artificial legimplant. The metal is freezing cold,eventhroughfabric.Severalsecondslater,I’mperchedbehindacrumblingchimneythreestoriesup.FromhereIcan see that, just as I expected,there’sathirdgroupofsoldiersontheothersideofthetrainstation.Imakemy way to the other end of thebuilding and then leap silently frombuildingtobuildinguntil I’montopofaslantedroof.NowI’mcloseenoughtoseeexpressionsonsoldiers’faces.Ireachintomyjacket,makesuremy

dustbombisstillmostlydry,andthencrouchthereontherooftowait.Afewminutespass.Then I stand up, pull out the dust

bomb,andflingitasfarfromthetrainstationasIcan.Boom. It explodes in a giant cloud

the moment it hits the ground.Instantly the dust swallows up thatentire block and races down thestreetsinrollingwaves.Ihearshoutsfromthesoldiersnearthetrainstation—one of them yells out, “There!Threeblocksdown!”Waytostatetheobvious, soldier. A group of thembreaks away from the station andstartshurryingtowardwherethedustcloudhasblanketedthestreets.

I slide down the slanted roof.Shingles break off here and there,sending showers of icemist into theair, but through all the shouting andrunning below me I can’t even hearmyself. The roof itself is slippery aswetglass. Ipickupspeed.Thesleetwhips harder against my cheeks—IbracemyselfasIreachthebottomofthe roofand then launch into theair.From theground I probably look likesomesortofphantom.Mybootshit theslantedroofof the

next building, this one right next tothe train station. The soldiers stilltherearedistracted,staringdownthestreettowardthedust.Idoalittlehopatthebottomofthissecondroof,then

grabontothesideofastreetlightandslideallthewaydownthepoletotheground. I land with a quick, muffledcrunch on the pavement’s streaks ofice.“Followme!”Ishoutat thesoldiers.

They see me for the first time, justanother nondescript soldier with adark uniformand black stripe acrosstheeyes.“There’sanattackononeofour warehouses. Could be thePatriots finallyshowing their faces.” Igesture to both of the groups left.“Everyone. Commander’s orders,hurry!” Then I turn onmy heels andstartrunningawayfromthem.Sure enough, the sound of their

poundingbootssoonfollows.Noway

would these soldiers dare riskdisobeyingtheircommander,evenifitmeans leaving the stationmomentarily unguarded. Sometimesyou gotta love the Republic’s irondiscipline.Ikeeprunning.When I’ve led the soldiers four or

fiveblocksdown,pastthedustcloudand several warehouses, I suddenlyveer off down a narrow corridor.Beforetheycanturnthecorner,Irunstraight at one of the alley’s walls—and when I’m several feet away Ijumpupandkickoffagainstthebrick.Myhandsshootout. Igrabonto thesecondfloor’s ledgeand it’sonly theworkofthemomenttospringuptoit.

Myfeetlandsolidlyontheledge.By the time the soldiers have

rushed into the same alley, I’vemeltedintotheshadowedcreviceofasecond-floor window. I hear the firstones pause, then their bewilderedexclamations.Now’s as good a timeasany,Ithink.Ireachupandpullmycap off, letting my white-blond hairtumble loose. One of the soldiersturnshisheadupfastenoughtoseeme dart out of the window creviceandturnthecornerfromthesecond-floor ledge. “Did you see that?”someone shouts incredulously. “WasthatDay?”As I jammy feet into thespaces of old bricks and pull myselfup to the third floor, the soldiers’

tones go from confused to angry.Someone shouts at the others toshoot me down. I just grit my teethandleapuptothethirdfloor.Thefirstbulletsricochetoffthewall.

Onehitsinchesawayfrommyhand.Idon’tstop—insteadIlungeuptowardthe top floor and swing up onto theslanted rooftop in one move. Moresparks light up the bricks belowme.OffinthedistanceIseethestation—thetrain’sarrived,halfhiddenbehindsteam,andparkedunattendedexceptforseveralsoldierswhohavesteppedoffthetrainitself.I scamper up the roof and slide

downitsotherhalf,thentakeanotherflying leap to the next roof. Down

below, some of the soldiers havestartedrushingbacktowardthetrain.Maybe they’ve finally realized thatthis isall adiversion.Myeyes leavethestationonlywhenIgoflyingontoanotherrooftop.Twoblocksaway.Then,anexplosion.Abright,furious

cloud rolls up from farther down therailroad tracks, and evenmy rooftopvantage point shudders. The impactmakesmelosemybalanceandfalltomy knees.There’s the blast Pascaohadmentioned. I take in the infernofor a moment, pondering. A lot ofsoldiersaregoingtobeheadingoverthere—it’sdangerous,butifmyjobisto let the Republic know I’m alive, I

better make sure I’m seen by asmany people as possible. I pushmyself back onto my feet and runfaster, stuffing my hair back up intomy cap as I go. The soldiers belowhave split into two groups—onedashing toward the explosion, theothercontinuingtotrailme.Suddenly I skid to a stop. The

soldiers rush right past the buildingI’m on. Without wasting anothersecond, I slide down the roof andswing down from the edge of thegutter. Boot into foothold. One afteranother. I jump down to thepavement.Thesoldiersprobably justrealized they’d lost me, but I’malreadyblendingintotheshadowson

theground.Now I’m runningsteadilyalongthestreetas if I’mjustanothersoldier.Iheadforthetrain.The sleet’s coming down harder.

Theblazeleftoverfromtheexplosionlightsup thenightsky,and I’mcloseenough to the train to hear shoutsand pounding feet. Did Pascao andthe others get out safely? I quickenmy steps. Other soldiers materializethrough thesleet,and I fall smoothlyinto line with them as we jogalongside the train. They’re rushingtowardthefire.“What happened?” one of them

shoutsatanother.“Don’t know—I heard some spark

setoffthecargo.”

“That’s impossible!The railcarsareallcovered—”“Somebody get ahold of

Commander DeSoto. The Patriotsmade their move—send word to theElector—they’re—”They continue on; I miss the last

halfof thesentence. IgraduallyslowuntilI’matthebackoftheline,thenIdart away into the tiny slit betweentworailcars.AllthesoldiersIcanseearestillheaded for theblaze.Othersare in the areawhere I’d set off thedustbomb,andtheoneswho’dbeenchasing me are probably stillbewildered,combingthestreetsIwasrunning.IwaituntilI’mcertainthere’snooneelsenearme.ThenIslideout

from between the railcars and runalong theopposite sideof the tracksthat the other soldiers were on. I letmyhair looseagain.NowI justneedto choose the rightmoment tomakemygrandappearance.There are small markings on each

railcar that I pass. Coal. Trackedguns.Ammunition.Food.I’mtemptedtostopat the lastone,but that’s justtheLakepartofme talking. I remindmyselfthatI’mnotscavengingonthestreetsanymoreandthatthePatriotshave a full pantry in theirheadquarters. I forcemyself to keepgoing.Moremarkings.Morewarfrontsupplies.Then I pass a marking that forces

me to stop. A shiver runs down myarms and legs. I quickly jog back tosee themarked railcar again, just incaseI’dimaginedit.Nope.Thereitis,embossedintothe

metal. The one I’d recognizeanywhere.Thethree-linedX.Mymindwhirls—

I see the red spray-painted symbolscarringmymother’sdoor,theplaguepatrolsmaking theirway fromhouseto house in Lake, Eden being takenaway. There’s no way this symbolcould mean anything other than thefact that my brother, or somethingrelatedtohim, isonthistrain.AllmyinterestinthePatriots’plangoesrightout of my head. Eden might be in

here.I can tell the two sliding car doors

are locked, so I take a few stepsback, then run at it.When I’m closeenough, I jump, takethreefaststepsagainst the car’s side, grab the topedgeofthecar,andpullmyselfup.There’s a circularmetal seal in the

middle of this railcar’s roof thatthey’re probably using to access theinterior. I crawl over to it, run myfingersalongtheedges,andfindfourlatches holding the seal down.Feverishly I pry them loose. Thesoldiers should be coming back anysecond now. I push against the sealwithall thestrength I’vegot. Itslidesopen a crack, just enough forme to

jumpin.I land with a soft thud. It’s dark

enough so I can’t see anything atfirst.Ireachoutmyhandsandtouchwhatfeelslikearoundglasssurface.Slowly I begin to make out mysurroundings.I’m standing in front of a glass

cylinder almost as tall and wide asthe railcar,with smoothmetal casingon top and bottom. It emits a veryfaintblueglow.Asmallfigureislyingonthefloor inside,with tubespokingout of one of his arms. I know rightaway that it’saboy.Hishair isshortandcleanandamessofsoftwaves,andhe’sdressed inawhite jumpsuitthatmakeshimstandoutagainstthe

darkness.A loud buzzing in my ears blocks

out anything and everything. It’sEden. It’s Eden. Itmust be him. I’vehit the jackpot—I can’t believe myluck.He’srighthere,I’vefoundhiminthe middle of nowhere, in all thevastnessof theRepublic, inastrokeof insane coincidence. I can get himout.WecanescapeintotheColoniessooner than I ever thought possible.Wecanescapetonight.I rush over to the cylinder and

pound my fist on the glass, halfhoping it shatters even though I cantell that it’s at least a foot thick andalmost certainly bulletproof. For aninstant Idon’tknow ifhecanhear it.

But then his eyes open. They dartaround in a weird, unfocused waybeforeattemptingtosettleonme.It takes me a long moment to

process the fact that this boy is notEden.The bitter taste of disappointment

stings my tongue. He’s so small, socloseinagetomybrother,thatIcan’tstop the image of Eden’s face fromoverwhelming me. Others exist whowere also marked with unusualstrains of plague? Well, of coursetherewouldbe.WhywouldEdenbetheonlyoneintheentirecountry?Theboyand I just faceeachother

forawhile.Ithinkhecanseeme,buthe can’t seem to fix his gaze; he

keepssquintinginawaythatremindsmeofTess’snearsightedness.Eden.I thinkbackto thewayhis iriseshadbledfromtheplague...fromthewaythis boy’s trying to gauge me, I cantell that he’s almost entirely blind. Asymptom my brother probably hastoo.Hesuddenlysnapsoutofhistrance

andcrawlsover tomeas fastashecan. He presses both his handsagainst the glass. His eyes are apale, opaque brown, not the creepyblack that Eden’s had been when Ilastsawhim,butthebottomhalvesofbothirisesaredarkpurplewithblood.Does thatmean this boy—thatEden—isgettingbetter,becausetheblood

is draining away, or worse, becausethebloodisdrainingin?Eden’siriseshadbeencompletelyfilledwithbloodthelasttimeIsawhim.“Who’s there?” he says. The glass

muffleshis voice.Hestill can’t focusonmeevenatthiscloserange.I snap out of my trance too. “A

friend,” I replyhoarsely. “I’mgoing toget you out.” At that, his eyes popopen—hope instantly blossoms onhis small face. My hands run alongthe glass and search for something,anything, that can open this goddycylinder. “How do you operate thisthing?Isitsafe?”The boy pounds frantically against

the glass. He’s terrified. “Help me,

please!” he exclaims, his voicetrembling. “Get me out—please getmeoutofhere!”His words break my heart. Is this

whatEden’sdoing,terrifiedandblind,waitinginsomedarkrailcarformetosavehim?Ihavetogetthisboyout.Isteady myself against the cylinder.“Youhavetostaycalm,kid.Allright?Don’tpanic.What’syourname?Whatcityisyourfamilyfrom?”Tearshavestarted to rundown the

boy’sface.“Myname’sSamVatanchi—my family’s in Helena, Montana.”Heshakeshisheadvigorously.“Theydon’tknowwhereIwent.CanyoutellthemIwanttocomehome?Canyou—”

No,Ican’t.I’msogoddyhelpless. Iwant to punch straight through therailcar’s metal sides. “I’ll do what Ican.Howdoyouopenthiscylinder?”Iaskagain.“Isitsafetoopen?”The boy points frantically to the

cylinder’s other side. I can tell he’stryinghardtocontainhisfright.“Okay—okay.”He pauses in an attempt tothink. “Um, it’s safe. I think. There’ssomething over there that they typeinto,” he replies. “I can hear thebeeps and then it makes the tubeopen.”I rush to where he’s pointing. Is it

myimagination,ordoIhearthefaintsounds of boots pounding againstpavement? “It’s some sort of glass

screen,” I say. The word LOCKED

stretchesacross it in red type. I turnback to the boy and knock on theglass. His eyes swivel toward thesound.“Isthereapassword?Howdotheytypeitin?”“I don’t know!” The boy throws his

hands up; his words contort with asob.“Please,just—”Damnit,heremindsmesomuchof

Eden. His tears aremakingmy owneyes water. “Come on,” I coax,fighting to keep my words strong.Gotta stay in control. “Think. Anyother way this thing opens, asidefromthekeypad?”Heshakeshishead.“Idon’tknow.I

don’tknow!”

I can already imagine what Edenwould say, if he was this boy. He’dsaysomethingtechnical, thinking likethe little engineer that he is.Somethinglike,“Doyouhaveasharpedge?Tryfindingamanualtrigger!”Steel yourself. I pull out the knife

that’s always at my belt. I’d seenEden take gadgets apart before andreconfigure all the inner wires andcircuitboards.MaybeIshouldtrythesamething.Iplacethebladeagainstthetinyslit

runningalongthekeypad’sedgeandcarefullyapplysomepressure.Whennothing happens, I push harder untilthe blade bends.Doesn’t help at all.“It’s too tight,” I mutter. If only June

werehere.She’dprobably figureouthowthisthingworksinhalfasecond.Theboyand I shareabriefmomentofsilence.Hischindropstohischestandhiseyesclose;heknowsthere’snowaytoopenit.Ineedtorescuehim.Ineedtosave

Eden.Itmakesmewanttoscream.It’s not my imagination—I do hear

thesoldiersgettingcloser.Theymustbechecking thecompartments. “Talktome,Sam,”Isay.“Areyoustillsick?Whataretheydoingtoyou?”Theboywipeshisnose.Thelightof

hopehasalreadyfadedfromhisface.“Whoareyou?”“Someone who wants to help,” I

whisper. “The more you tell me, the

easieritwillbeformetofixthis.”“I’mnotsickanymore,”Samreplies

inarush,likeheknowswe’rerunningout of time, “but they say I’ve gotsomethinginmyblood.Theycall itadormant virus.” He stops to think.“They givememedicine to keepmefrom getting sick again.” He rubs athisblindeyes,wordlesslybeggingmeto save him. “Every time the trainstops,theytakeabloodsamplefromme.”“Anyideawhatcitiesyou’vealready

beento?”“Dunno . . . I heard the name

Bismarckonce...”Theboytrailsoffashethinks.“AndYankton?”Both are warfront cities up in

Dakota. I think about the transportthey’re using for him. It probablymaintains a sterile environment, sopeople can go in and take a bloodsample,thenmixthemwithwhateveractivates the dormant virus. Thetubes in his arms might just be forfeeding.Mybestguess is that they’reusing

him as a bioweapon against theColonies.He’sbeenturnedintoalabrat.JustlikeEden.Thethoughtofmybrotherbeingshippedaroundlikethisthreatens to drown me. “Where aretheytakingyounext?”Idemand.“Idon’tknow!Ijust...Iwanttogo

home!”Somewhere along the warfront. I

can only imagine how many othersare being paraded up and down thewarfront line. I picture Eden huddledin one of these trains. The boy hasstarted to wail again, but I forcemyselftocuthimoff.“Listentome—doyouknowofaboynamedEden?Haveyouheardthatnamementionedanywhere?”His cries grow louder. “No—I don’t

—knowwho—!”I can’t linger anymore. Somehow I

manage to tear my eyes away fromthe boy’s and run to the railcar’ssliding doors. The soldiers’ footstepsare louder now—they can’t be morethanfiveorsixcarsaway.I takeonelastglancebackattheboy.“I’msorry.

Ihavetogo.”Itkillsmetosaythesewords.The boy starts to cry again. His

hands pound against the cylinder’sthickglass.“No!”Hisvoicebreaks.“Itold you everything I know—pleasedon’tleavemehere!”I can’t bear to listen anymore. I

force myself to step up the sidelatches of one sliding door and getcloseenoughtotherailcar’sceilingtograbtheedgeofthetopcircularseal.I pull myself out into the night airagain, back into the sleet that stingsmy eyes and whips ice against myface, and struggle to regain mycomposure. I’m so ashamed ofmyself. This boy had given me

whatever help he could, and this ishow I repay him?By running formylife?Soldiers are inspecting the cars

some fifty feet away. I slide the sealback into place and shimmy flatagainsttheroofuntilI’vereachedtheedge. I swing down and land on theground.Pascao materializes out of the

shadows,hispalegrayeyesflashingin thedark.Hemust’vebeen lookingforme. “Why thehellareyouhere?”hewhispers. “Youwere supposed tomake a scene near the explosion,yeah?Wherewereyou?”I’m in no mood to play nice. “Not

now,” I snap as I start running

alongsidePascao.Timetoheadbacktoourundergroundtunnel.Everythingwhizzespastusinasurrealfog.Pascao opens his mouth to say

something else, hesitates when heseesmyface,anddecidestodropit.“Er . . . ,” he starts again, this timemore quietly, “well, you did goodenough. Probably got the word outthatyou’realive,evenwithoutall theextra fireworks.Your runup thereonthe roofs was pretty amazing. We’llseetomorrowmorninghowthepublicreacts to your appearance here.”When I don’t reply, he bites his lipandleavesitatthat.I have no choice but to wait until

Razor’s finished with the

assassination before they help merescue Eden. A tide of rage againstthe youngElector swells up inme. Ihate you. I hate you with everythingI’vegot,andIswearI’mgoingtoputabullet inyou the first chance I get.For the first time since I joined thePatriots,Iactuallyfindmyselfexcitedfortheassassination.I’mgoingtodoeverythingtomakesuretheRepubliccannevertouchmybrotheragain.Inthechaosof theburningfireand

shouting of troops, we slip awaydown theother sideof the townandbackintothenight.

LESS THAN TWO DAYS BEFORE THEELECTOR’S ACTUAL assassination. Thirtyhoursformetostopit.

ThesunhasjustsetwhentheElector,alongwithsixSenatorsandat least fourguard patrols (forty-eight soldiers),boards a train headed for the warfrontcity of Pierra. I’m ridingwith them too.This is the first time I’m traveling as apassengerinsteadofaprisoner,sotonightI’m dressed in warm winter tights andsoft leatherboots (noheelsor steel toes,so I can’t use them as weapons) and ahooded duffle cape that’s deep scarlet

with silver trim. No more shackles.Anden even makes sure I have gloves(soft leather, black and red), and for thefirst time since arriving in Denver, myfingers don’t feel cold. My hair is theway it’s always been, clean and dry,pulledbackintoahighponytail. Inspiteof all this,my head feelswarm andmymuscles ache. All the lamps along thestation platform are off, and no onebesidestheElector’sensembleisinsight.We board the train in complete silence.Anden’s sudden detour from Lamar toPierraisprobablysomethingmostoftheSenatorsdon’tevenknowabout.

My guards lead me into my ownprivate railcar, a car so luxurious that Iknow I’m in here only because Anden

insisted on it. It’s twice as long as thestandard railcars (a good nine hundredsquare feet, with six velvet curtains andAnden’s ever-present portrait hangingagainst the right wall). The guards leadmetothecentertableofthecar,thenpullout a seat for me. I feel a strangedetachment from it all, likenone of it isquitereal—it’sasifIwereexactlywhereI used to be, a wealthy girl taking herrightful place amongst the Republic’selite.

“If you need anything, let us know,”one of them says.He sounds polite, butthe tightness ofhis jawgives awayhownervousheisaroundme.

There are no sounds now except forthe subtle rattle of the train on tracks. I

try not to focus directly on the soldiers,but from the corner ofmy eye, I watchthem closely. Are there any Patriotsdisguisedas soldierson this train? If so,dotheysuspectmyshiftingloyalties?

We wait together in a thick silence.The snow has started up again, pilingagainst my window’s outside corners.Curlsofwhitefrostdecoratetheglass.Itreminds me of Metias’s funeral, of mywhitedressandThomas’spolishedwhitesuit,thewhitelilacsandwhitecarpets.

Thetrainpicksupspeed.Ileantowardthe window until my cheek almosttouches the cold glass,watching silentlyasweapproach the loomingArmorwallthat surrounds Denver. Even in thedarkness I can see the train tunnels

carvedintotheArmor;someofthemarecompletely sealedwith solidmetalgateswhileothersremainopenfornightfreighttopassthrough.Ourtrainhurtlesintooneofthetunnels—Iguesstrainsleavingthecapitaldon’tneed to stop for inspection,especially if the Elector has approvedthem. As we leave the enormous wallbehind,Iseeaninboundtrainslowingforinspectionatacheckpoint.

Wecontinueon,meltingawayintothenight.Therain-wornskyscrapersofslumsectors stream past the windows, thenow-familiarviewofhowpeopleliveontheoutskirtsofacity.I’mtootiredtopaymuch attention to the details. My mindgoesoverwhatAndensaidtomethelastnight,whichleadsmebacktotheendless

problemofhowtowarnAndenandkeepDay safe at the same time. The Patriotswillknow I’vebetrayed them if I revealtheassassinationplottoAndentooearly.I need to time my steps so any plandeviations happen right before theassassination, when I can reach Dayeasily.

I wish I could tell Anden now. Tellhim everything, get it over with. In aworld without Day, that’s what I woulddo.InaworldwithoutDay,many thingswould be different. I think about thenightmares I’ve been having, thehaunting thought of Razor putting abulletinDay’schest.Thepaperclipringsitsheavyonmyfinger.Again,Ilifttwofingers tomy brow. If Day didn’t catch

my first signal, I hope he sees this one.Theguardsdon’tseemtothinkI’mdoinganything unusual; it looks like I’m justrestingmyhead.Therailcarswaystoonesideandawaveofdizzinesswashesoverme.MaybethiscoldIhavecomingon—if it really is a cold, that is, and notsomething more serious—is starting toaffect my logic. Still, I don’t raise arequestfordoctorsormedicine.Medicineinhibits the real immune system, so I’vealwayspreferredfightingillnessesonmyown(muchtoMetias’sexasperation).

WhydosomanyofmythoughtsleadbacktoMetias?

An aggravated man’s voice distractsme frommywandering thoughts. I turnfrom thewindowandback to the inside

ofmyrailcar.Itsoundslikeanolderman.I sit straighter in my chair and can seetwo figures walking toward me throughthetinywindowonmyrailcardoor.OneisthemanI’djustheard,shortandpear-shaped, with a scruffy gray beard andsmall,bulbousnose.TheotherisAnden.I strain to hear what they’re saying—atfirst,all Icanmakeoutarebrokenhintsof their conversation, but their wordssharpenastheydrawclosertomyrailcar.

“Elector, please—I’m telling you thisfor your own good. Acts of rebellionneedtobemetwithseverepunishment.Ifyoudon’treactappropriately,it’llonlybea matter of time before everything isthrownintoupheaval.”

Andenlistenspatientlywithhishands

behindhisbackandhisheadtilteddowntoward the man. “Thank you for yourconcern,SenatorKamion,butmymindismadeup.Nowishardlythetimetomeetthe unrest in Los Angeles with militaryforce.”

Myearsperkupatthis.Theoldermanspreads his arms wide in a gesture ofirritation.“Push the people back in line.You need that right now, Elector.Demonstrateyourwill.”

Andenshakeshishead.“It’llpushthepeopleovertheedge,Senator.UsingfatalforcebeforeIhaveachancetopublicizeall the changes I have in mind? No. Iwon’t issue such a command.That’smywill.”

The Senator scratches at his beard in

irritation and puts a hand on Anden’selbow.“Thepublicisalreadyupinarmsagainstyou, andyour leniencywill looklike weakness—not just externally, butinternally too. The LA Trial admins arecomplainingaboutourlackofresponse—the protests have forced them to cancelseveraldays’worthofexaminations.”

Anden’s mouth tightens into a sternline.“I thinkyouknowhowIfeelabouttheTrials,Senator.”

“I do,” the Senator replies sullenly.“That’sadiscussionforanothertime.Butifyoudon’t issueorders thatallowus tostop the rioting, I can guarantee thatyou’ll be getting an earful from theSenateandtheLosAngelespatrols.”

Anden pauses to raise an eyebrow at

him. “Is that so? I’m sorry. Iwas underthe impression that our Senate and ourmilitary understand exactly how muchweightmywordscarry.”

The Senator wipes sweat from hisbrow.“Well,thatis—ofcoursetheSenatewill bow to your wishes, sir, but I justmeant—well—”

“HelpmeconvincetheotherSenatorsthatthisisthewrongtimeforustocomedown on the public.” Anden pauses toface the man and claps him on theshoulder.“Idon’twant tomakeenemiesinCongress,Senator. Iwantyour fellowdelegatesandthenationalcourttorespectmy decisions as they did with myfather’s. Using fatal force to put downrioterswillonlyincitemoreangertoward

thestate.”“But,sir—”Andenstopsoutsidemyrailcar.“We’ll

finishthisdiscussionlater,”hesays.“I’mtired.” Even though his reply ismuffledby the doors between us, I can hear thesteelinhiswords.

The Senator mumbles something andbows his head. When Anden nods, theman turns around and hurries away.Anden watches him go, then opens thedoortomyrailcar.Theguardssalutehim.

Wenodateachother.“I’ve come to deliver your release

terms,June.”Andenspeakstomewithadistant formality, perhaps due to thechilly conversation he just had with theSenator.Thekisshe’dgivenmelastnight

feelslikeahallucination.Evenso,seeinghimgivesmeapeculiarsenseofcomfort,and I catch myself relaxing against mychair as if Iwere in the company of anoldfriend.“LastnightwereceivedwordthattherewasanattackinLamar.Atrainwasdestroyedinanexplosion—thetrainIwassupposedtobeon.Idon’tknowthefinalwordonwho’s responsible,andwefailed to catch any of the attackers, butwe assume that they were the Patriots.We have teams hunting for them therenow.”

“Gladtobeofservice,Elector,”Isay.My hands grip each other tightly inmylap, reminding me of the luxurioussoftness of my gloves. Should I feel sosafeandsecure in thiselite railcarwhile

Day is probably on the run with thePatriots?

“Ifyoucanthinkofanyotherdetails,Ms.Iparis,pleasefeelfreetosharethem.You’rebackintheRepublicnow;you’reone of us, and I give youmyword thatyouhavenothingtofear.Oncewearrivein Pierra, your record will be scrubbedclean.I’llpersonallyseetoit thatyou’rereinstatedtoyourformerrank—althoughyou’ll be placed in a different citypatrol.”Andenputs ahand tohismouthandclearshisthroat.“I’verecommendedyouforaDenverteam.”

“Thankyou,” I reply softly.Anden isfallingrightintothePatriots’trap.

“Some Senators feel that we’ve beentoo generous with you, but everyone

agrees that you’re our best hope oftracking down the Patriots’ leaders.”Anden walks closer and takes a seatbeforeme.“I’msure they’ll try tostrikeagain,andIwantyoutoleadmymenininterceptingfutureattempts.”

“You are too kind, Elector. I’mhonored,”Ireply,loweringmyheadinahalf bow. “And if you don’t mind myasking, will my dog be pardoned aswell?”

Anden chuckles a little. “Your dog isbeing cared for in the capital; he’ll bewaitingforyouwhenyouarrive.”

ImeetAnden’seyesandholdthemfora moment. His pupils dilate and hischeeksflushslightly.“Icanseewhy theSenate would be unhappy with your

leniency,”Ifinallysay.“Butit’struethatnoonecankeepyousafer thanIcan.” Ineedaminutealonewithhim.“Buttheremust be another reason you’re being sokindtome.Isn’tthere?”

Anden swallows and looks up at hisownportrait.Myeyesdart to theguardsstanding at the railcar’s doors. As if heknowswhatI’mthinking,Andenwavesahand at the soldiers, thenmotions up atthecamsintherailcar.Thesoldiersleave,and a moment later the cams’ red,blinkinglightsflickoff.Forthefirsttime,nooneiswatchingus.Wearetrulyalone.“Thetruthis,”Andencontinues,“you’vebecome very popular with the public. Ifword gets out that the country’s mostgifted prodigy is being convicted of

treason—or even demoted for disloyalty—well, you can see how poorly thatwould reflect on the Republic. And onme.EvenCongressknowsthis.”

My hands curl back and retreat intomy lap. “Your father’s Senate and youhavesomewhatdifferentmoral codes,” Isay, mulling over the conversation I’doverheard between Anden and SenatorKamionmomentsago.“OrsoIgather.”

Heshakeshisheadandsmilesbitterly.“Toputitlightly.”

“Ididn’tknowyoudisliked theTrialssomuch.”

Anden nods. He doesn’t seemsurprised that I overheard hisconversation.“TheTrialsareanoutdatedway of choosing our country’s best and

brightest.”It’s odd to hear this coming from the

Elector’sownmouth.“WhyistheSenateso intent on keeping them?What’s theirinvestmentintheTrials?”

Andenshrugs.“It’salongstory.Backwhen the Republic first implementedthem,theywere...somewhatdifferent.”

I lean forward. I’ve never heard anystories about the Republic that weren’tfiltered through the country’s school orpublicmessaging systems—andnow theElector himself is going to tell me one.“Howweretheydifferent?”Iask.

“Myfatherwas...verycharismatic.”Andenactuallysoundsabitdefensive.

Weird reply. “I’m sure he must havehad his ways,” I say, careful to keep

neutral.Andencrosseshislegsandleansback.

“I don’t like what the Republic hasbecome,” he says, forming each wordslowly and thoughtfully. “But I cannotsaythatIdon’tunderstandwhythingsarelike this. My father had his reasons fordoingwhathedid.”

Ifrownathim.Puzzling.Hadn’tIjustheardhimarguingagainstcrackingdownonrioters?“Whatdoyoumean?”

Andenopensandcloseshismouthasif tryingtofindtherightwords.“Beforemyfather became theElector, theTrialswere voluntary.” He pauses when hehears me suck my breath in. “Hardlyanyone knows that—it was a long timeago.”

The Trials were once voluntary. Theidea is completely foreign to me. “Whydidhechangeit?”Isay.

“Like I said, it’s a long story. Mostpeople will never know the truth aboutthe Republic’s formation, and for goodreason.”Herunsahandthroughhiswavyhair, then leans one elbow on thewindowsill.“Doyouwanttoknow?”

What a perfectly rhetorical question.Behind Anden’s words is a certainloneliness. I hadn’t thought about itbefore,butnowI realize that Imightbeone of the only people he’s ever talkedfreelywith.Ileanforward,nod,andwaitforhimtocontinue.

“The Republic was originally formedin the middle of the worst crisis North

America—and theworld, for thatmatter—had ever seen,” he begins.“Floodwaters had destroyed America’seastern coastline, andmillions of peoplefromtheeastwerepouringintothewest.Therewere far toomany people for ourstates to take in. No jobs. No food, noshelter.The country had lost itsmind tofear and panic. Rioting was out ofcontrol. Protesters were draggingsoldiers, policemen, and peacekeepersout of their cars, then beating them todeathorsettingthemonfire.Everyshopwas looted, every window broken.” Hetakes a deep breath. “The federalgovernment tried their best to maintainorder,butonedisasterafteranothermadeit impossible. They had no money to

handleallthesecrises.Itbecameabsoluteanarchy.”

A time when the Republic had nocontrol over its people? Impossible. Ihave a hard time picturing it, until Irealize that Anden might instead bereferring to the government of the oldUnitedStates.

“Then our first Elector seized power.He was a young officer in the military,justafewyearsolderthanIamnow,andambitious enough to win the support ofunhappy troops in thewest.HedeclaredtheRepublica separatecountry, secededfrom the Union, and placed the westundermartial law. Soldiers could fire atwill, and after seeing their comradestortured and killed in the streets, they

took every advantage of their newfoundpower. It became us versus them—themilitaryversusthepeople.”Andenlooksdownathisshinyloafers,asifashamed.“Many people were killed before thesoldiers were able to win control of theRepublic.”

I can’t help wondering what Metiaswould’vethoughtofthis.Ormyparents.Would they have approved?Would theyhaveforcedorderoutofchaos like that?“What about theColonies?” I ask. “Didtheytakeadvantageofallthis?”

“The eastern half of North Americawasevenworseoffatthetime.Halftheirland was underwater. When theRepublic’s first Elector sealed theborders, theirpeoplehadnoplace togo.

So they declared war on us.” Andenstraightens. “After all this, the Electorvowednever to let theRepublic fall thatwayagain,soheandtheSenategavethemilitaryanunprecedentedlevelofpower,which has lasted to this day. My fatherand the Electors before him have madesureitstaysthatway.”

He shakes his head and rubs his facewith his hands before continuing. “TheTrialswere supposed to encourage hardwork and athleticism, to produce moremilitary-quality people—and they did.But theywerealsoused toweedout theweak—and the defiant. And gradually,they were also used to controloverpopulation.”

The weak and the defiant. I shiver.

Day had fallen into the latter category.“So, you know what happens to thechildren who fail the Trial?” I say. “Itwasdonetocontrolthepopulation?”

“Yes.”Andenwincesevenashe triesto explain it. “The Trialsmade sense inthebeginning.Theyweremeanttoenticethe best and fittest to join the military.Over time, they shifted to being offeredinallschools.Thatwasn’tenoughformyfather,though...hewantedonlythebestto survive. Anyone else was, frankly,considered a waste of space andresources.Myfatheralwaystoldmethatthe Trials were absolutely necessary forthe Republic to flourish. And he won alot of support in the Senate for makingthe examinations mandatory, especially

after we started winning more battlesbecauseofit.”

Myhandsareclaspedsotightlyinmylap that they’re starting to feel numb.“Well,doyouthinkyourfather’spoliciesworked?”Iaskquietly.

Anden lowers his head. He searchesfor the right words. “How can I answerthat? His policies did work. The Trialsdidmake our armies stronger.Does thatmakewhat hedid right, though? I thinkaboutitallthetime.”

I bitemy lip, suddenly understandingthe confusionAndenmust feel, his loveforhis fatherwarringwithhisvisionforthe Republic. “What’s right is relative,isn’tit?”Iask.

Andennods.“Insomeways,itdoesn’t

matterwhyitallstarted,orifitwaseverright. The thing is—over time, the lawsevolvedandtwisted.Thingschanged.Atfirst theTrialsweren’tgiven tochildren,and they didn’t favor the wealthy. Theplagues . . .” He hesitates at this, thenshies away from the subject altogether.“The public is angry, but the Senate isafraidtochangethingsthatmightleadtothem losing control again.And to them,the Trials are a way to reinforce theRepublic’spower.”

There’saprofoundsadnessinAnden’sface. I can sense the shame he feels forbelongingtosuchalegacy.“I’msorry,”Isayinalowvoice.Ifeelasuddenurgetotouchhishand, to findaway tocomforthim.

Anden’slipstugupwardintoahesitantsmile. I can clearly see his desire, hisdangerous weakness, the way he longsforme.IfIeverdoubteditbefore,Iknowforcertainnow.Iquicklyturnaway,halfhoping thatgazingatasnowylandscapemight bring some of its coolness to mycheeks.

“Tellme,”hemurmurs.“Whatwouldyoudoifyouwereme?Whatwouldyourfirst action be as the Elector of theRepublic?”

Ianswerwithouthesitation.“Winoverthe people,” I say. “The Senate wouldhave no power over you if the publiccouldthreatenthemwithrevolution.Youneed the people at your back, and theyneedaleader.”

Andenleansbackinhischair;someofthe railcar’s warm lamplight catchesagainsthiscoatandoutlineshimingold.Something in our conversation hasinspired an idea in him; maybe it’s anidea he had all along. “You’d make agoodSenator,June,”hesays.“You’dbeagoodallytoyourElector—andthepubliclovesyou.”

Mymind starts spinning. Icould stayhere in the Republic and help Anden.BecomeaSenatorwhenI’moldenough.Getmylifeback.LeaveDaybehindwiththe Patriots. I know how selfish thisthinking is, but I can’t stop myself.What’s so wrong with being selfish,anyway? I thinkbitterly. Icould just tellAnden everything about the Patriots’

plansrightnow—withoutcaringwhetherword will get back to the Patriots orwhether they’llhurtDaybecauseof it—andreturntolivingawealthy,securelifeas an elite government worker. I couldhonor my brother’s memory by slowlychanging the country from the inside.Couldn’tI?

Horrible. I release this dark fantasy.The thought of leaving Day behind insuch a way, of betraying him socompletely, of never wrappingmy armsaround him again, of never ever seeinghimagain,makesmeclenchmyteethinpain. I close my eyes for a second andrememberhisgentle,callousedhands,hispassionateferocity.No,Icouldneverdoit. I know this with such blinding

certainty that it frightens me. Aftereverything we’ve both sacrificed, surelywe deserve a life—or something—togetherafterthisisallover?EscapingtotheColonies,orrebuildingtheRepublic?AndenwantsDay’shelp;wecanallworktogether.Howcould I bear to turn awayfromthatlightattheendofthetunnel?Ineedtogetbacktohim.IneedtotellDayeverything.

Firstthingsfirst.Itrytoformulatethebestway towarnAndennow thatwe’refinally alone. There’s not much I cansafely say. Tell him too much and hemight do something that tips off thePatriots.Still,Idecidetotrymybest.Atthe very least, I need him to trust mewithout question. I need him behindme

whenIsabotagethePatriots’detour.“Do you believe inme?” This time I

dobrushhishandwithmyown.Andenstiffens,butdoesn’tpullaway.

His eyes search my face, perhapswondering what had gone through mymindwhenIclosedmyeyes.“PerhapsIshould ask you the same question,” hereplies,ahesitantsmileonhislips.

Bothofusarespeakingontwolevels,referring to secrets shared. Inodathim,hoping he’ll take my words seriously.“Then do what I say when we get toPierra.Promise?EverythingIsay.”

He tilts his head, his eyebrowsfurrowedinpuzzlement, thenshrugsandnods yes. He seems to understand thatI’mtrying to tellhimsomethingwithout

sayingitaloud.Whenthetimecomesforthe Patriots to act, I hope Andenremembershispromise.

ME, PASCAO, AND THE OTHERRUNNERS SPEND A full half dayaboveground after the train job,huddled in alleys or on top ofabandoned roofs, dodging thesoldiers that comb the streets nearthestation.Notuntilthesunbeginstoset do we finally get a chance toreturn, one by one, to the Patriots’underground quarters. NeitherPascaonorIbringupwhathappenedby the train. Jordan, the shyRunnerwiththecopperbraids,asksmetwiceifI’mokay.Ijustshrugheroff.

Yeah, something’s wrong. Isn’t thattheunderstatementoftheyear.Bythetimewemakeourwayback,

everyoneisgettingreadytoleaveforPierra—some are destroyingdocuments, while others are wipingthe comps clean of data. Pascao’svoiceisawelcomedistraction.“Well done, Day,” he says. He’s

sittingata tableagainst theshelter’sback wall. He opens the side of hisjacket,wherehe’sstasheddozensofpacked grenades stolen from thetrain. He carefully packs each oneinto a box stacked with empty eggcrates.He gestures up at a monitoron the far right of the back wall. It’sshowing footage from a large city

square, where a group of peoplehave crowded around somethingspray-painted against the side of abuilding.“Checkitout.”Ireadwhatthepeoplehavepainted

on the wall. Day lives! is scrawledacross the building at least three orfour times. The onlookers arecheering—some are even holdinghandmade signs with the samephrasewrittenonthem.If my thoughts weren’t on Eden’s

whereabouts or June’s cryptic signalor Tess, I would be excited to seewhatI’vestirredup.“Thanks,” I reply,maybea little too

sharply.“Gladtheylikedourstunt.”Pascao hums cheerfully under his

breath,oblivioustomytone.“GoseeifyoucanhelpJordan.”AsImakemywaytothehall,Ipass

Tess.Baxteriswalkingbesideher—ittakesmeasecondtorealizethathe’stryingtoputanarmaroundherneckand murmur something in her ear.Tess brushes him away when sheseesme.I’mabouttosaysomethingtoherwhenBaxterbumpsmehardinthe shoulder, hard enough to knockmebackacoupleofstepsandsendthe cap flying off my head. My hairtumblesdown.Baxter smirks at me, the black

soldier stripe still obscuring most ofhis face. “Make some room,” hesnaps.“Thinkyouownthisplace?”

I clench my teeth, but Tess’s wideeyes make me hold back. He’sharmless, I tell myself. “Just get thehell out of my way,” I reply stiffly,turningaway.Behind me I hear Baxter mutter

something under his breath. It’senough to make me stop and facehimagain.Myeyesnarrow.“Saythatagain.”Hegrins,shoveshishands intohis

pockets, and lifts his chin. “I said,jealous that your girl’s whoringaroundwiththeElector?”I’m almost able to swallow that.

Almost. But at that moment, TessbreakshersilenceandshovesBaxterwith both hands. “Hey,” she says.

“Leavehimalone,all right?He’shadaroughnight.”Baxtergruntssomethinginirritation.

Then he shoves Tessunceremoniously back. “You’re anidiot for believing in this Republiclover,littlegirl.”My rage explodes. I’ve never been

fond of fistfights—I always tried tosteer clear of themon the streets ofLake. But all the anger that’s beenbuilding inside me floods my veinswhenIseeBaxterlayhandsonTess.I lunge forward and punch him in

thejawashardasIcan.He crashes into one of the tables

and onto the ground. Instantly theothersnearbyburst intowhoopsand

hollers, forming a makeshift circlearound the two of us. Before Baxtercangettohisfeet,I leaponhim.Myfistconnectstwicewithhisface.He lets out a snarl. Suddenly his

weight advantage takes over. Hepushesmehardenough to sendmeflying into the side of a comp desk,then pulls me up, grabs my jacket,and slams me against the wall. Heliftsmeclearoffmy feet, thendropsme and smashes his fist into mystomach, knocking the breath out ofme. “Youain’t oneof us.You’re oneof them,” he hisses. “Did you detourfromourtrainmissiononpurpose?”Ifeel a knee ram into my side. “Well,I’m gonna kill you, you dirty damn

trot.I’mgonnaskinyoualive.”I’m too furious to feel the pain. I

manage to tuck one of my legs up,thenkickhiminthechestashardasIcan. From the corner of my eye Inotice some Patriots quicklyexchangingbets.An improvisedSkizduel. For an instant Baxter remindsmeofThomas,andsuddenlyallIseeismyoldstreetinLake,withThomaspointing his gun at my mother andsoldiers dragging John away into awaitingjeep.StrappingEdenintothatlab gurney. Arresting June. HurtingTess. The edges of my vision turnscarlet. I lunge for him again andswingathisface.But Baxter’s ready for me. He

knocks my arm out of the way andthrowshisfullweightagainstme.Mybackslamsdownhardontheground.Baxtergrins,thengrabsmyneckandgets ready to shove his fist into thesideofmyface.Abruptlyheletsgo.Isuckinadeep

breathashisweightleavesmychest,then clutch my head as one of myheadacheseruptsinfull-scaleagony.Somewhere above me I can hearTess,thenPascaoshoutingatBaxterto back off. Everyone’s talking atonce.One . . .Two . . .Three . . . Icountoffnumbersinmyhead,hopingthis little exercise distracts me fromthepain.Itusedtobesomucheasiertowardoff theseheadaches.Maybe

Baxter had hitme in the head and Idon’tevenknowit.“Are youokay?”NowTess’s hands

areonmyarmandpullingmetomyfeet.I’m still dizzy with pain from my

headache, but the rage has passed.Abruptly I’m aware of the burningsoreness in my side. “Fine,” I replyhoarsely,inspectingherface.“Didhehurt you?” Baxter is glaring at mefrom where Pascao’s trying to talkhimdown.Alreadytheothersaroundus have returned to their business,probably disappointed that the fightdidn’t last longer. I wonder whothey’vedecidedthewinneris.“I’m okay,” Tess says. She runs a

hand hurriedly through her bobbedhair.“Don’tworry.”“Tess!”Pascaocallsouttous.“See

ifDayneedsanypatchingup.We’reonaschedulehere.”Tess leads me down the hall and

away from the common room. Wewalk into one of the bunker roomsthat’s been turned into a makeshifthospital, then shut the door. We’resurroundedbyshelvespiledhighwithan assortment of pill bottles andboxesofbandages.Atablesitsinthemiddle of the room, leaving only anarrow space towalk around.Now IleanagainstthetableasTessrollsuphersleeves.“Doyouhurtanywhere?”sheasks.

“I’mfine,”Irepeat.ButthemomentIsay that, I wince and clutch at myside. “Okay, maybe a little bangedup.”“Letmesee,”Tesssaysfirmly.She

bats my hand aside, then unbuttonsmy shirt. It’s not like Tess has neverseen me shirtless (I’ve lost count ofhow many times she’s had to patchme up), but now there’s anawkwardness that hangs heavilybetween us. Her cheeks burn brightpinkassherunsherhandacrossmychest, along my stomach, thenpressesherfingersagainstmysides.Iinhalesharplywhenshetouchesa

sensitivespot.“Yeah,that’swherehiskneegotme.”

Tess studies my face. “Feelnauseous?”“No.”“Youshouldn’thavedonethat,”she

saysassheworks.“Say‘ah.’”Iopenmy mouth for her. She touches atissue tomy nose, inspects bothmyears, and then hurries out for amoment.Shecomesbackwithanicepack.“Here.Holdthisonthespot.”I do what she tells me. “You’ve

becomeveryprofessional.”“I’velearnedalotfromthePatriots,”

Tess replies. When she stopsinspecting my chest long enough tofaceme,sheholdsmygazewithherown.“Baxterjustdoesn’tlikeyour...attraction to a former Republic

soldier,” she mutters. “But don’t lethim get to you like that, okay? Nopointingettingyourselfkilled.”I remember Baxter’s arm around

Tess’sneck;my temper flaresagain,and suddenly I feel a need to guardTess the way I did back on thestreets.“Hey,cousin,”Isaysoftly.“I’mreallysorryaboutwhat Isaid toyou.About...youknow.”Tess’sblushdeepens.I struggle to find the right words.

“You don’t need me to take care ofyou,” I say with an embarrassedlaugh, then tap her nose once. “Imean, you’ve probably fussed overme a thousand times. I’ve alwaysneeded your help more than you’ve

neededmine.”Tess draws closer and lowers her

eyes shyly, a gesture that helps meforget my troubles. Sometimes Iforget how nice Tess’s steadydevotionis,arockIcouldalwaysleanon during the worst of times. Eventhough our days in Lake were astruggle, right now they seem somuchsimpler. I catchmyselfwishingwe could go back to that, sharingscrapsoffoodandwhateverelsewecouldscroungeup.IfJunewerehere,what would’ve happened? Sheprobably would’ve attacked Baxterherself. And she probably would’vedoneahellofabetter jobthanIdid,justlikeeverythingelse.Shewouldn’t

haveneededmeatall.Tess’shandlingersonmychest,but

she’s not checking for bruisesanymore. I become aware of howclose she is. Her eyes wander backuptomine,largeandliquidbrown...and unlike June’s, so easy to read.TheimageofJunekissingtheElectorpops into my mind again, arecollectionthattwistsinmystomachlikea knife.Before I can think aboutanythingelse,Tessleansforwardandpresses her lips against mine. Mymind is blank, completely takenaback.Abrieftinglerunsthroughme.Inmynumbness,Iletherlinger.Then I wrench away. My palms

breakout inacoldsweat.Whatwas

that?Ishouldhaveseenthiscomingand stoppedmyself right away. I putmy hands on her shoulders.When Isee thehurt passacrosshereyes, Irealize justhowbigofamistake I’vemade.“Ican’t,Tess.”Tess blows out an irritated breath.

“What,areyoumarriedtoJunenow?”“No.Ijust...”Mywordsflitteraway,

sad and powerless. “I’m sorry. Ishouldn’t have done that—at least,notnow.”“What about the fact that June is

kissingtheElector?Whataboutthat?Areyoureallygoingtobesoloyaltosomeoneyoudon’tevenhave?”June,alwaysJune. Ihateher fora

moment, and wonder if everythingwould’ve been better if we’d nevermet. “This isn’t about June,” I say.“June isplayinga role,Tess.” IedgeawayfromTessuntilwe’reseparatedbyagoodfoot.“I’mnotreadyforthisto happen between us. You’re mybest friend—I don’t want to misleadyouwhenIdon’tevenknowwhatI’mdoing.”Tess throws up her hands in

indignation.“Youkissrandomgirlsonthe street without a second thought.Butyouwon’teven—”“You’re not a random girl on the

street,”Isnap.“You’reTess.”Hereyesflashatmeandshetakes

her frustrationoutonher lip,biting it

sohardthatshedrawsblood.“Idon’tunderstandyou,Day.”Eachwordhitsme with measured force. “I don’tunderstandyouatall,butI’mgoingtotry to help you anyway. Can youreallynotseehowyourpreciousJunehaschangedyourlife?”I shut my eyes and press both

handsagainstmytemples.“Stop.”“You think you’re in lovewith a girl

you’veknownforlessthanamonth,agirl who—who’s responsible for yourmother’sdeath?ForJohn’s?”Echoesofwhatshe’dsaidtomein

the bunker room. “Damn it, Tess. Itwasn’therfault—”“Wasn’t it?” Tess spits out. “Day,

they shot your mother because of

June!But youact like you loveher?I’ve done nothing but help you—Ihavebeenatyoursideeversincetheday we met. You think I’m beingchildish?Well,Idon’tcare.I’veneversaid a word about the other girlsyou’ve beenwith, but I can’t bear towatch you choose a girl who hasdonenothingbuthurtyou.HasJuneeven apologized to you for whathappened, has she had to work foryour forgiveness?What’s the matterwith you?” At my silence, she putsher hand on my arm. “Well, do youlove her?” she says more quietly.“Doessheloveyou?”Love her? I’d told her so in that

Vegasbathroom,andI’dmeantit.But

she didn’t say it back, yeah?Maybesheneverfeltthesameway—maybeI’m just deluding myself. “I don’tknow,okay?”Ireply.MywordssoundangrierthanIactuallyam.Tess is trembling. Now she nods,

silently takes the ice pack from myside, and buttons my shirt back up.The chasm between us widens. IwonderifI’lleverbeabletoreachtheothersideagain.“Youshouldbefine,”shesaysinamonotoneassheturnsherbackonme.Shestopsinfrontofthedoor, herback tome. “Trustme,Day. I’m saying this for your sake.Junewillbreakyourheart.Icanseeitalready. She’ll shatter you into amillionpieces.”

PIERRA’SOLANCOURTHALL.

SOMETIMEAROUND0900HOURS.

29°FOUTSIDE.

THE DAY HAS FINALLY ARRIVED FORANDEN’SASSASSINATION,andIhave threehours before the Patriots make theirmove.

The night before, I had another visitfromthesameguardwhohadoncegivenme a message from the Patriots. “Goodwork,” shewhispered inmyearas I layinbed,wideawake.“Tomorrowyou’llbepardonedbytheElectorandhisSenators,and they’ll release you at Pierra’s Olan

Court Hall. Now, listen closely. Whenyou’re all finished at the court hall, theElector’sjeepswillescortallofyoubackto Pierra’s main military quarters. ThePatriotswillbewaitingalongthatroute.”

ThesoldierpausedtoseeifIhadanyquestions.ButIjuststaredstraightahead.I could guess what the Patriots wantedme to do, anyway—they’ll want me toseparateAndenfromhisguards.ThenthePatriotswilldraghimoutofhisjeepandshoot him. They’ll record it, thenannounce it to thewholeRepublicusingtherewiredspeakersandJumboTronsonDenver’sCapitolTower.

WhenIdidn’tsayanything,thesoldiercleared her throat and went on in ahurriedvoice,“Watchforanexplosionon

the road.When you hear it go off, haveAnden order his convoy to take adifferent route. Make sure you separatetheElector fromhis guards—tell him totrust you. If you’ve doneyour job, he’llfollow your lead.” The soldier smiledbriefly atme. “OnceAnden is separatedfromtheotherjeeps,leavetheresttous.”

Ispenttherestofthatnightinafitfulstate.

Now, as I’m escorted into the maincourt hall building, I check the rooftopsandalleysoftheotherbuildingsalongthestreet, watching for Patriot eyes,wondering if one pair of them will bebright blue. Day will be amongst thePatriots out here today. Inside my blackgloves, my hands are cold with sweat.

Even if he saw my signal, will heunderstand what I meant by it?Will heknowtodropwhathe’sdoingandmakearun for it? As I head toward thecourtroom’s grand arched entrance, Imemorizestreetnamesand locationsoutof habit—where the main military baseis, where Pierra’s hospital rises in thedistance. I feel like I can sense thePatriots getting into position. There’s astillness in the air, even though thebuildingsherearetightlypackedand thestreets are narrow; both soldiers andcivilians(mostofthempoorandassignedtotendtothetroops)bustlenoisilyalongtheroads.Someoftheuniformedsoldiersonthestreetlookatusalittletoolong.Inote them carefully. There must be

Patriotswatchingus.Eveninsidethehall,it’s cold enough formy breath to cloud,and I tremble nonstop. (The ceiling’s atleast twenty feethigh,and the floorsarepolished synthetic—judging from thesound of boots against it—wood. Notvery conducive to retaining heat inwinter.)

“Howlongisthisgoingtotake?”Iaskoneoftheguardsastheyescortmetomyseat at the front of the courtroom. Myboots (warm, waterproof leather) echoharshlyagainstthefloors.Ishiverinspiteofthedouble-breastedcoatIhaveon.

The guard I spoke to gives me anuncomfortable nod. “Not long, Ms.Iparis,” she replies with practicedpoliteness.“TheElectorandSenatorsare

in final deliberations. Probably going totake at least another half hour.” It’sinteresting, really. Because the Electorhimselfwill be pardoningme today, theguardsaren’tsureexactlyhowtobehave.Guardmelikeacriminal?OrkissuplikeI’m a high-ranking Agent in one of thecapital’spatrols?

The waiting drags on. I feel slightlydizzy.I’dbeengivensomemedicineafterfinally mentioning my symptoms toAnden earlier in the day, but it hasn’thelped.Myheadstillfeelswarm,andI’mhavingtroublekeepingcountofthetimeinmyhead.

Finally,whenI’vecountedofftwenty-sixminutes(possiblyoffbythreeorfourseconds),Andenemergesfromthedoors

atthefarendoftheroomwithateamofofficials behind him. It’s clear that noteveryone is happy; some Senators hangback,theirmouthspulledintotightlines.I recognize Senator Kamion amongstthem, the man Anden had been arguingwith on the train here. His graying hairlooksdisheveledtoday.AnotherSenatorIremember from occasional headlines,Senator O’Connor, a blubbery womanwithlimpredhairandamouthnotunlikea frog’s. I don’t know the others. AsidefromtheSenators, twoyoung journalistsflank Anden’s sides. One has his headdown, taking dictation furiously on anotepad, while the second struggles tokeep his voice recorder close enough toAnden.

I rise when they reach me. TheSenators who were bickering amongstthemselvesfallsilent.Andennodsatmyguards. “June Iparis, Congress haspardoned you of all crimes against theRepublic on the condition that you willcontinue to serveyournation to thebestof your capabilities. Do we have anunderstanding,Ms.Iparis?”

I nod. Even this slight movementmakes me light-headed. “Yes, Elector.”The scribe beside Anden frantically jotsour words down. His notepad’s screenflickersunderhisflyingfingers.

Andentakesinmylistlessness.Hecantell that my condition hasn’t improved.“Youwill enter a period of probation asadvised to me by my Senators, during

which time you’ll be closely surveyeduntilwecanallagreethatyou’rereadytoreturn to duty.You’ll be assigned to thecapital’s patrols. We’ll discuss whichpatrol you’ll be joining once we’re allsettledatPierra’sbasethisafternoon.”Heraiseshiseyebrowsandturnstohis rightandleft.“Senators?Anycomments?”

They remain silent. One of themfinally speaks through a thinly veiledsneer.“Understandthatyouarenotyetinthe clear, Agent Iparis. You will bewatchedatalltimes.Youshouldconsiderourdecisionanactofenormousmercy.”

“Thankyou,Elector,” I reply, tappingmy head in a brief salute as any soldierwould.“Thankyou,Senators.”

“Thank you for all of your help,”

Andensayswithasubtlebow.IkeepmyheadloweredsoIdon’thavetomeethiseyes, to see thedouble layerofmeaningin his words—he’s thanking me for thehelpIsupposedlygaveinprotectinghim,andthehelphewantsfrombothDayandme.

Somewhereoutside,Dayisinpositionwith the others. The thought makes menauseouswithanxiety.

Thesoldiersbeginescortingourpartyback to the front of the conference halland toward our respective rides. I takeeach step deliberately, trying hard tomaintain my focus. Now is not themomenttofailbecauseofillness.Ikeepmyeyesonthehall’sentrance.Sinceourlast train ride, this is the one idea I’ve

settled on that just might work.Something to throw off all the Patriots’timing—somethingIcandotopreventusfrom heading back toward Pierra’smainmilitaryhall.

I hope thisworks. I don’t think I canaffordanymistakes.

With ten feet to the doors, I stumble.Instantly, I right myself again andcontinuewalking,butthenstumbleagain.Murmurs from the Senators rise upbehindme.Oneofthemsnaps,“Whatisit?”

ThenAndenisthere,hisfacehoveringabove me. Two of his guards jump infront of him. “Elector, sir,” one says.“Please stay back. We’ll take care ofthis.”

“Whathappened?”Andenasks,firsttothe soldiers, then to me. “Are youinjured?”

It’s not toohard topretend I’mabouttofaint.Theworldaroundmefades,thensharpensagain.Myheadhurts.Iraisemyhead andmake eye contactwithAnden.ThenIletmyselfcollapsetotheground.

Startledexclamationsbuzzaroundme.ThenmyearsperkupwhenIhearAndenabove them all, saying exactly what I’dhoped he would say: “Take her to thehospital. Immediately. ” He remembersmy lastpieceofadvice tohim,what I’dsaidtohimonthetrain.

“But, Elector—” protests the sameguardwhohadbarredhimearlier.

Andentakesonasteelytone.“Areyou

questioningme,soldier?”Stronghandshelpmebacktomyfeet.

We go through the doors and back outinto the light of an overcast morning. Isquintatthesurroundings,stillsearchingfor suspicious faces. Are the guardsholding me up potentially Patriots indisguise?Icastglancesatthem,buttheirexpressions are completely blank.Adrenaline is rushing through me—I’vemademymove. The Patriots know I’vedeviated from the plan, but they don’tknow if I did it intentionally. Theimportantthingisthatthehospitalisonaroute opposite the one leading to thePierrabase,where thePatriots are readyandwaiting.Anden’sgoingtofollowme.ThePatriotswon’t have time to readjust

theirpositions.And if the other Patriots hear about

this,soshouldDay. Iclosemyeyesandhope that he can follow through. I trysending a silent message to him. Runaway.When you hear that I’ve deviatedfrom the plan, run away as fast as youcan.

Aguardhoistsmeupintothebackseatof one of the waiting jeeps. Anden andhis soldiers get into the jeep in front ofus. The Senators, bewildered andindignant,gototheirregularcars.IhavetoforceasmileoffmyfaceasIsitlimplyinmyseat,peeringoutthewindows.Thejeep roars to life and pulls forward.Through the windshield, I see Anden’sjeepleadingusawayfromtheconference

hall.Then, just as I’m congratulating

myself for such a stellar plan, I realizethat our jeeps are still headed for thebase. They’re not going toward thehospital at all. My momentary joyvanishes.Fearreplacesit.

One of my guards notices too. “Hey,chauffeur,”hesnapsat thesoldierwho’sdriving. “Wrong way. Hospital’s on theleftsideof town.”Hesighs.“Somebodyget the Elector’s driver on his mike.We’re—”

Thedriverwaveshimoff,pressesonethick, gnarly hand against his ear inconcentration, then glances back at uswith a frown. “Negative. We just gotorderstostayonouroriginalcourse,”he

replies. “Commander DeSoto says theElector wants Ms. Iparis taken to thehospitalafterward,instead.”

I freeze. Razor must be lying toAnden’s driver—I seriously doubt thatAnden would have let him give thedrivers such an order. Razor’s goingaheadwith the plan; he’s going to forceus to take the intended route inanywaythathecan.

It doesn’t matter what the reason is.We’re still heading straight toward thePierrabase . . .straight into thePatriots’waitingarms.

THE DAY OF THE ELECTOR’SASSASSINATION IS finally here. Itarrives like a looming hurricane ofchange, promising everything I’manticipating and dreading.Anticipating: the Elector’s death.Dreading:June’ssignal.Ormaybeit’stheotherwayaround.Istilldon’tknowwhattomakeofit.

It leaves me on edge when I wouldotherwise feel nothing but a risingsenseofenthusiasm. I tap restlesslyon the hilt of my knife. Be careful,June. That’s theonly certain thought

running throughmyhead.Becareful—foryoursake,andforours.I’m perched precariously at the

edgeof a crumblingwindowsill inanoldshellofabuilding,fourstoriesupand hidden from the street, with twogrenadesandagun tuckedsecurelyat my belt. Like the rest of thePatriots, I’m dressed in a blackRepublic coat, so from a distance Ilook like a Republic soldier. A blackstripe runs across my eyes again.The only thing distinguishing us is awhite band on our left (instead ofright)arms.Fromhere,Icanseetherailroad tracks that run right along aneighboring street, slicing Pierra inhalf.Off tomy right, in a small alley

three buildings down, lies theentrancetothePatriots’Pierratunnel.Itsundergroundbunkerisemptynow.I’malone in thisabandonedbuilding,although I’m pretty sure Pascao canseeme from his vantage point on aroofacrossthestreet.Thethudofmyheartagainstmyribscanprobablybeheardformiles.I start thinking, for the hundredth

time, about why June wants to stopthe assassination. Did she uncoversomethingthePatriotsarekeepingasecret fromme?OrdidshedowhatTesshadguessedshemightdo—didshe betray us? I shake the thoughtstubbornlyaway.Junewouldneverdothat.Notafter

whattheRepublicdidtoherbrother.Maybe June wants to stop the

assassination because she’s fallingfortheElector.Ishutmyeyesastheimageofthemkissingflaresupinmymind.Noway.WouldtheJuneIknowbethatsentimental?All the Patriots are in position—

Runners on the roofs, poised withexplosives; Hackers one buildingawayfromthetunnelentrance,readytorecordandbroadcasttheElector’sassassination; fighters positionedalongthestreetbelowusinsoldierorcivilian garb, prepared to take theElector’s guards down. Tess and acoupleofMedicsarescattered,readyto bring the injured into the tunnel.

Tess specifically is hiding in thenarrow street bordering the left sideof my building. After theassassination,we’llneedtobereadytoescape,andshe’llbe the firstoneI’llget.And then there’s me. According to

the plan, June’s supposed to steertheElector away from the protectionofhisguards.Whenweseehis jeepspeedbyalone, theRunnerswill cutoffhisescaperouteswithexplosions.ThenIheaddowntothestreet.AfterthePatriotshavedraggedAndenoutofhiscar,I’mgoingtoshoothim.It’s themiddleof theafternoon,but

clouds keep the world around me acold, ominous gray. I check my

watch.It’ssetonatimerforwhentheElector’sjeepsareexpectedtocomewhizzingaroundthecorner.Fifteenminutesuntilshowtime.I’m shaking. Is the Elector really

goingtobedeadinfifteenminutes—bymyhand?Isthisplanreallygoingtowork?After it’s all over,when arethePatriotsgoingtohelpmefindandrescue Eden? When I’d told Razorabout seeing that boy on board thetrain, he’d given me a sympatheticresponse and said that he’s alreadystartedworking to track Eden down.All I can do is believe him. I try topicture the Republic thrown intocomplete chaos, with the Elector’sassassination publicly broadcast on

everyJumboTroninthenation.If thepeoplearealreadyrioting, Icanonlyimagine how they’ll react when theyseemeshoottheElector.Whatthen?Will the Colonies take advantage ofthe situation and surge right into theRepublic, breaking past the warfrontthat’sheld the twosidesapart forsolong?A new government. A new order. I

shiverwithpent-upenergy.Of course, this doesn’t factor in

June’s signal. I try to flexmy fingers—my hands are clammy with coldsweat. Hell if I know what’s reallygoingtohappentoday.Staticbuzzes inmyearpiece,andI

pick up a few broken words from

Pascao.“—OrangeandEchostreets—clear—”Hisvoicesharpens.“Day?”“I’mhere.”“Fifteen minutes,” he says. “Quick

review. Jordan’s setting off the firstexplosion. When the Elector’s jeepcaravan reaches her street, she’lltoss her grenade. Junewill separatethe Elector’s car from the others. Itoss my grenade, then they’ll turnrightdownyourstreet.Youtossyoursdown when you see the caravan.Corner that jeep in—and then headdowntotheground.Gotit?”“Yeah.Gotit,”Ireply.“Justhurrythe

hell up and get into your ownposition.”Waitingheregivesmeasickfeeling

inmystomach,takingmebacktothatevening when I’d waited for theplague patrols to show up at mymother’sdoor.Eventhatnightseemsbetterthantoday.Myfamilywasaliveback then, and Tess and I were stillon good terms. I practice takingseveral deep breaths and slowlyletting them back out. In less thanfifteenminutes, I’m going to see theElector’s caravan—and June—comedownthisstreet.Myfingersrunalongtheedgesofthegrenadesatmybelt.Oneminutepasses,thenanother.Three minutes. Four minutes. Five

minutes. Each one drags by slowerthan the last. My breaths quicken.WhatwillJunedo?Issheright?What

ifshe’swrong?IthinkI’mreadytokilltheElector—I’ve been talkingmyselfintothisoverthelast fewdays,evengettingexcitedover it.Am I ready tosave his life, someone I can’t thinkaboutwithout feeling enraged?Am Iready to have his blood on myhands?What does June know that Idon’t? What does she know thatmakeshimsoworthsaving?Eightminutes.Then, suddenly, Pascao comes

back on. “Stand by. We’ve got adelay.”Itenseup.“Why?”There’sa longpause.“Something’s

wrong with June,” Pascao says in ahushed whisper. “She fainted while

leaving the courthouse. But don’tfreak out—Razor says she’s fine.We’re resetting the clocks for a two-minutedelay.Gotit?”I risea little frommycrouch.She’s

making her move. I know thisinstantly. Something tingles at theback of my mind, a sixth sense,warningmethatwhateverI’dplannedto do to the Elector will shiftdepending on what June does next.“Whydidshecollapse?”Iask.“Don’tknow.Scoutssayitlookslike

shegotdizzyorsomething.”“Soshe’sbackontracknow?”“Sounds like we’re still moving

forward.”Still moving forward? Was June’s

plan foiled? I get up, pace for a fewsteps,and then return tomycrouch.Something’s not right about thisscenario. If we’re going ahead withtheplan,willIstillseehercomebyinthe same jeep as expected—andagainst her will? Are the Patriotsgoing to know she tried to deviate?The bad feeling refuses to go away,nomatterhowhard I try to ignore it.Something’sreallyoff.Twoagonizingminutespass. Inmy

anxiety, I’ve chipped away a largechunk of paint from the hilt of myknife. My thumb’s covered in blackflakes.Several streets away, the first

grenade explodes. The ground

trembles, the building shudders, anda cloud of dust rains down from theceiling. The Elector’s jeeps must’vemadeanappearance.I leave my vantage point at the

windowsill, then head into thestairwell up to the roof. I keep low,careful to stay out of sight. Fromhere, I get a better view of wheresmoke from the first explosion isrising, and I can hear the startledshouts of soldiers near it. They’reabout three blocks away. I flattenmyself onto the broken tiles of theroofasseveralguardscomedashingdown the street. They’re yellingsomething incomprehensible—I’mwilling to bet they’re bringing

reinforcements over to the bombingarea. Too late. By the time they getthere, the Elector’s jeep will haveturnedthecornerthatwewantedittoturn.I takeoutoneofmygrenadesand

holditgingerlyinmyhand,remindingmyselfhowitworks,remindingmyselfthat if I throw iton time, I’llbegoingagainst June’s warning. “It’s animpact grenade,” Pascao had said.“Blowsthesecondithits.Depressthestrike lever. Pull the pin. Throw, andbrace yourself.” Off in the distance,another explosion rocks the streetsand an accompanying cloud rises.Baxter was in charge of that one—nowhe’ssomewhereongroundlevel

overthere,hidinginanalley.Two blocks away. The Elector is

gettingcloser.A third explosion goes off. This

one’s much closer—the jeep mustonlybeablockaway.Isteadymyselfas the ground shakes from theimpact.My turn’s comingup.June, Ithink.Whereareyou?Ifshemakesasudden move, what will I do? Overmyearpiece,Pascao soundsurgent.“Steady,”hesays.And then I see something that

makes me forget everything I’vepromised to do for the Patriots. Thedoor on the second jeep flies open,and out rolls a girl with a long darkponytail. She tumbles a few times,

thenstruggles toher feet.She looksup to the rooftops and waves herhandsfranticallyintheair.It’sJune.She’shere.Andthere’sno

doubtnowthatshedoesnotwantmeto separate the Elector from hisguards.Pascao’s voice comes on again.

“Stay thecourse,”hehisses. “IgnoreJune—stay the course, do you hearme?”Idon’tknowwhatcomesoverme—

an electric shudder runs down myspine.No—June,youcan’tstopnow,apartofmesays. Iwant theElectordead.IwanttogetEdenback.But then there’s June, waving her

arms in themiddle of a street full of

danger, risking her life to raise thealarmforme.Whateverherreason,itmustbegood. Itmustbe.Whatdo Ido?Trusther,somethingdeep insideofmesays. I squeezemyeyesshutandbowmyhead.Eachsecond that ticksbynow isa

bridgebetweenlifeanddeath.Trusther.Suddenly I jumpupandrunacross

the roof. Pascao shouts somethingangry at me over the earpiece. Iignorehim.Asthevehiclespassnextto the building I’m on, I pull the pinfrommygrenadeand throw it as farasIcandowntheblock.Rightinfrontof where the Patriots want them togo.

“Day!”Pascao’sfranticvoice.“No—whatareyou—!”Thegrenadehits thestreet. Icover

my ears and am instantly thrown offmy feetasa blast shakes the earth.The jeeps screech to a halt right infront of the explosion—the Elector’sjeep tries to swerve around therubble,butoneof itstiresburstsandforces it to a stop. I’ve completelyblocked off the street they weresupposed to go down, where thePatriots are waiting for the Elector.AndtherestoftheElector’sjeepsarestillthere,theentirecaravanofthem.Now June’s sprinting toward the

Elector’s vehicle. If she’s trying tosave him, then I have no time to

waste. I hop back tomy feet, swingoverthesideoftheroof,andgrabonto the gutter at the edge of thebuilding. Then I slide down. Thegutter pipe pops off the building,throwing me off balance, but I flingmyself off it and grab the edge of anearby windowsill. My feet land onthesecond floor’s ledge. Ihopdowntothefirstfloorandroll.The street’s absolute chaos.

Throughtheshoutsandsmoke,IcanseeRepublicsoldiersrunningtowardthe jeeps while the soldiers in theother jeeps rush out to get to theElector. Some of the Patriots indisguisearehesitating,confusedovermy mistimed blast. It’s too late to

separate the Elector’s jeep from theothers now—there are simply toomany soldiers. Swarms of them arecomingdown thestreet. I feelnumb,in somewaysasbewilderedas theyare, still unsure of why I’m goingagainsteverythingIplannedtodo.“Tess!” I shout. She’s right where

she’ssupposedtobe, frozenagainstthe shadows of my building. I reachherandgrabhershoulders.“What’s going on?” she shouts

back,butIjustwhirlheraround.“Tunnelentrance,okay?Don’task!”

I point her in the direction of thePatriots’ bunker. Where we weresupposed to hide after theassassination. Tess’s mouth is open

in naked fear, but she does what Isay, darting into the security of thebuilding’s shadows and disappearingfromview.Another explosion rocks the street

behind me. The grenade must havecomefromoneoftheotherRunners.Even though they won’t get theElector to their planned location,they’re trying toblock in the jeeps tomake an attempt. Patriots must berunning around everywhere. They’reliterallygoingtokillmeforwhatIdid.MeandTesshavetoreachthetunnelbeforetheyfindus.I run up to June right as she

reaches theElector’s jeep.There’saman insidewithdark,wavyhair, and

she’sshoutingathimasshepressesher hands against his window.Another explosion goes offsomewhere, forcing June to herknees. I throw myself over her asdebris and rubble rain down on usfrom every direction. A block ofcementhitsmyshoulder,makingmeshudder in pain. The Patriots aredefinitely trying to make up for losttime, but the delay has already costthem dearly. If they get desperate, Iknow they’ll just forget aboutbroadcasting an actual kill and blowup the Elector’s jeep instead.Republicsoldiersarepouringintothestreet. I’m sure they’ve seen me bynow too. I hope Tess is safe in the

hideout.“June!” She looks dazed and

bewildered, but then she recognizesme.Notimeforgreetingsnow.A bullet zips overhead. I duck and

shieldJuneagain;oneofthesoldiersnearusgetsshot in the leg.Please,fortheloveof—PleaseletTessmakeitsafelytothetunnelentrance.Iwhirlaround and meet the Elector’s wideeyes through thewindow.So, this isthe guy who kissed June—he’s talland good-looking and rich, and he’sgoing to uphold all of his father’slaws. He’s the boy king whosymbolizes everything the Republicis; thewarwith theColonies that ledtoEden’sillness,thelawsthatputmy

family in the slums and led to theirdeaths, the laws that sent me off tobeexecutedbecause I’d failedsomestupid goddy test when I was ten.Thisguy is theRepublic. Ishouldkillhimrightnow.But then I think of June. If June

knows a reason we should protecthimfromthePatriots,andbelieves itenough to risk her life—and mine—then I’m going to trust her. If Irefused, I’dbebreaking tieswithherforever. Can I live with that? Thethoughtofthatchillsmetothebone.Ipoint down the street toward theexplosion and do something I neverthought I’ddo inmywhole life. I yellas loud as I can for the soldiers.

“Back up the jeeps! Barricade thestreet! Protect theElector!” Then, asother soldiers reach the Elector, Ishout frantically at them, “Get theElectoroutof thiscar!Gethimawayfrom here—they’re going to blow itup!”June yanks us down as another

bullethitsthegroundnearus.“Comeon,” I shout.She followsme.Behindus,dozensofRepublicsoldiershavearrived on the scene. We catch aquick glimpse of the Elector gettingout of his jeep, then being hurriedaway behind the protection of hissoldiers.Bulletsfly.DidIjustseeonehit theElector in thechest?No—justhis upper arm. Then he disappears,

lostbehindaseaofsoldiers.He’ssaved.He’sgoingtomakeit.I

can hardly breathe at the thought—Idon’t know if I should be happy orfurious. After all that buildup, theElector’s assassination has failedbecauseofmeandJune.WhathaveIdone?“That’s Day!” someone calls out.

“He’s alive!” But I don’t dare turnaroundagain.IsqueezeJune’shandtighterandwedartaroundtherubbleandsmoke.We bump into our first Patriot.

Baxter. He stops short for a secondwhenheseesus,thenseizesJune’sarm. “You!” he spits out. She’s tooquick for him, though. Before I can

draw the gun at my waist, June’sslipped right out of his grasp. Hegrabs for us again—but someoneelse knocks him flat on his facebeforewecanmakeanothermove.ImeetKaede’sburningeyes.She waves her hands furiously at

us.“Gettosafety!”sheyells.“Beforethe others find you!” There’s deepshock on her face—is she stunnedthat the plan fell apart? Does sheknowwehadanything to dowith it?She must know.Why is she turningon the Patriots too? Then she runsaway. I letmyeyes followher foraninstant. Sure enough, Anden isnowhere to be seen and Republicsoldiershavestartedfiringbackupat

theroofs.Anden is nowhere to be seen, I

think again. Has the assassinationattemptofficiallyfailed?Wekeep runninguntilwe’reon the

othersideoftheexplosion.Suddenlythere arePatriots everywhere; someare running toward the soldiers andlookingforawaytoshoottheElector,andothersare fleeing for the tunnel.Runningafterus.Another explosion shakes the

street��someone has tried in vainto stop the Elector with anothergrenade.Maybetheyfinallymanagedtoblowuphis jeep.Where’sRazor?Isheoutforourbloodnow?Ipicturehis calm, fatherly face alight with

rage.We finally reach the narrow alley

thatleadstothetunnel,barelyaheadofthePatriotshotonourtail.Tess is there, huddled in the

shadows against the wall. I want toscream. Why didn’t she jump downinto the tunnel and head for thehideout? “Inside, now,” I say. “Youweren’tsupposedtowaitforme.”But she doesn’tmove. Instead she

stands in front of us with her fistsclenched, her eyes flickering backand forth between me and June. Irush over and grab her hand, thenpull her along with us to one of thesmall metal gratings that line wherethe alley’s walls meet the ground. I

can hear the first signs of Patriotsbehind us. Please, I beg silently.Please let us be the first ones toreachthehideout.“They’re coming,” June says, her

eyesfixedonaspotdownthealley.“Let themtry tocatchus.” I runmy

hands frantically across the metalgrating,thenpryitopen.ThePatriotsaregettingcloser.Too

close.I stand up. “Get out of the way,” I

say to Tess and June. Then I pull asecond grenade from my belt, yankout the pin, and toss it toward thealleyway’s opening. We throwourselves to the ground and coverourheadswithourhands.

Boom!A deafening blast. It shouldslow the Patriots down some, but Ican already see silhouettes comingthroughthedebrisandtowardus.June runs to the open tunnel

entrancebymyside.Iletherjumpinfirst,thenturntoTessandextendmyhand. “Come on, Tess,” I say. “Wedon’thavemuchtime.”Tess looks at my open hand and

takesastepback.Inthatinstant,theworld around us seems to freeze.She’s not going to come with us.There’s anger and shock and guiltand sadness all wrapped up in herthinlittleface.I try again. “Come on!” I shout.

“Please, Tess—I can’t leave you

here.”Tess’s eyes rip through me. “I’m

sorry, Day,” she gasps. “But I cantake care of myself. So don’t try tocome after me.” Then she tears hereyes away from me and runs backtoward the Patriots. She’s rejoiningthem? I watch her go, stunned intosilence, my hand still outstretched.ThePatriotsaresoclosenow.Baxter’s words. He’d warned Tess

this whole time that I would betraythem. And I did. I did exactly whatBaxtersaidI’ddo,andnowTesshasto live with it. I’ve let her down sobad.June’stheonewhosavesme.“Day,

jump!” she yells up at me, snapping

meoutofthemoment.I force myself to turn away from

Tessandjumpintothehole.Mybootssplashintoshallow,icywaterrightasIhearthefirstPatriotreachus.Junegrabsmyhand.“Go!”shehisses.We sprint down the black tunnel.

Behindus Ihearsomeoneelsedropdownandstartrunningafterus.Thenanother.They’reallcoming.“Got any more grenades?” June

shoutsaswerun.Ireachdowntomybelt.“One.”Ipull

the last grenade out, then toss thepin. If we use this, there’s no goingback.We could be stuck down hereforever—but there’s no other choice,andJuneknowsit.

I shout a warning behind us, andthrow the grenade. The closestPatriot seesme do it and scramblestoastop.Thenhestartsyellingattheotherstogetback.Wekeepsprinting.The blast lifts us clear off our feet

and sendsus flying. I hit the groundhard, skidding through icywater andslush for several seconds beforecoming to a stop. My head rings—Ipress my palms hard against mytemples in an attempt to stop it. Noluck, though. A headache bursts mymind wide open, drowning out all ofmythoughts,andIsqueezemyeyesshut at the blinding pain.One, two,three...Long seconds drag by. My head

throbswith the impactofa thousandhammers.Istruggletobreathe.Then, mercifully, it starts to fade. I

open my eyes in the darkness—theground has settled again, and eventhough I can still hear people talkingbehind us, they’re muffled, as ifcomingfromtheothersideofathickdoor.Gingerly I pullmyself up intoasittingposition.June’sleaningagainstthe side of the tunnel, rubbing herarm. We’re both facing the spacewe’dcomefrom.A hollow tunnel stood there just

seconds ago, but now a pile ofconcreteand rubblehavecompletelysealedofftheentrance.We’ve made it. But all I feel is

emptiness.

WHENIWASFIVEYEARSOLD,METIASTOOKMETOSEEOURparents’graves.Itwasthefirst time he’d been to the site since theactual funeral. I don’t think he couldstand being reminded of what hadhappened. Most of Los Angeles’scivilians—even a good number of theupper class—are assigned a one-square-footslotintheirlocalcemeteryhigh-riseandasingleopaqueglassboxinwhichtostorealovedone’sashes.ButMetiaspaidoffthecemeteryofficialsandgotafour-square-footslotforMomandDad,alongwith engraved crystal headstones. We

stood there in front of the headstoneswithourwhiteclothesandwhiteflowers.IspentthewholetimestaringatMetias.Ican still remember his tight jaw, hisneatlybrushedhair,hischeeksdampandglistening. Most of all I remember hiseyes, heavy with sadness, too old for aseventeen-year-oldboy.

DaylookedthatwaywhenhelearnedabouthisbrotherJohn’sdeath.Andnow,as we make our way along theundergroundtunnelandoutofPierra,hehasthoseeyesagain.

***

Wespendfifty-twominutes(orfifty-one?I’mnotsure.Myheadfeelsfeverishandlight) jogging through the dark wetness

of the tunnel. For a while we’d heardangryshoutscomingfromtheothersideof themountain of twisted concrete thatseparates us from the Patriots and theRepublic’ssoldiers.Buteventually thosesounds faded to silence as we rusheddeeper and deeper into the tunnel. ThePatriots probably had to flee from theoncomingtroops.Maybethesoldiersaretrying to excavate the rubble out of thetunnel. We have no idea, so we keepgoing.

It’squietnow.Theonlysoundsareourragged breathing, our boots splashinginto shallow, slushy puddles, and thedrip,drip,dripofice-coldwaterfromtheceiling that runs down our necks. Daygrips my hand tightly as we run. His

fingers are cold and rubbery withwetness, but I still cling to them. It’ssodark down here that I can barely seeDay’soutlineinfrontofme.Did Anden survive the assault? I

wonder.Or did the Patriots manage toassassinatehim?The thoughtmakes theblood rush in my ears. The last time Iplayed the role of double agent, I’dgottensomeonekilled.Andenhadputhisfaith in me, and because of that, hecould’ve died today—maybe he did die.Thepricepeopleseemtopayforcrossingmypath.

This thought triggers another. Whydidn’tTesscomedownwithus?Iwanttoask,butoddlyenough,Dayhasn’tsaidaword about her since we entered this

tunnel. They’d had an argument, thatmuchIknow.Ihopeshe’sokay.HadshechosentostaywiththePatriots?

Finally,Daystopsinfrontofawall.Inearlycollapseagainsthim,andasuddenwaveofreliefandpanichitsme.Ishouldbe able to run farther than this, but I’mexhausted.Isthisadeadend?Haspartofthe tunnel collapsed on itself, and nowwe’retrappedfrombothsides?

But Day puts his hand against thesurface in the darkness. “We can resthere,” he whispers. They’re the firstwords he’s spoken since we got downhere.“IstayedinoneoftheseinLamar.”

Razor had mentioned the Patriots’getawaytunnelsonce.Dayrunshishandalongtheedgeofthedoorwhereitmeets

the wall. Finally, he finds what he’ssearching for, a small sliding leverstickingoutfromathintwelve-inchslot.Hepullsitfromoneendtotheother.Thedooropenswithaclick.

Atfirst,wejuststepintoablackhole.Although I can’t see anything, I listenclosely tohowour footstepsareechoingaroundtheroomandguess that there’salow ceiling, probably only a few feettaller than the tunnel itself (ten, maybeelevenfeethigh),andwhenIputahandalongonewallIcantellit’sstraight,notcurved.Arectangularroom.

“Here it is,”Daymutters. I hear himpressandreleasesomething,andartificiallight floods the space. “Let’s hope it’sempty.”

It’s not a large chamber, but itwouldbe big enough to fit twenty or thirtypeoplecomfortably,evenuptoahundredif they were crammed in. Against thebackwall are twodoors leadingoff intodark hallways. All the walls havemonitors, thick and clunky along theedges,withclumsierdesignthantheonesused inmostRepublichalls. Iwonder ifthe Patriots installed these or if they’reold tech left over from when thesetunnelswerefirstbuilt.

While Day wanders through the firsthallatthebackofthemainroom,hisgundrawn,Icheckthesecondone.Therearetwosmallerroomshere,withfivesetsofbunkbedsineachone,andatthefarendofthehallisasmalldoorthatleadsback

intothedark,endlesstunnel.I’mwillingto bet that the hall Day is in also has atunnelentrance.As Iwander from bunkto bunk, I run my hand along the wallwhere people had scrawled their namesand initials.Thisway to salvation. J.D.Edward, one says. The only way out isdeath.MariaMárques,saysanother.

“Allclear?”Daysaysfrombehindme.Inodathim.“Clear.Ithinkwe’resafe

fornow.”He sighs, lets his shoulders slump,

then runs a hand wearily through histangled hair. It’s only been a few dayssince the last time I saw him, butsomehow it feels like somuch longer. Iwalkovertohim.Hiseyeswanderacrossmy face as if taking me in for the first

time. He must have a million questionsforme,buthejustliftsahandandpushesalockofmyhairintoplace.I’mnotsureifIfeeldizzyfromillnessoremotion.I’dalmostforgottenhowhistouchmakesmefeel. Iwant to fall into thepurity that isDay, soaking in his simple honesty, hisheart that sits open and beating on hissleeve.

“Hey,”hemurmurs.I wrapmy arms around him, and we

hold each other tightly. I closemy eyes,letting myself sink against Day’s bodyandthewarmthofhisbreathonmyneck.Hishandsbrushthroughmyhairandrundownmyback,holdingontomelikehe’safraidtoletgo.Hepullsawayenoughtomeetmyeyes.He leans forwardas if to

kissme...butthen,forsomereason,hestops himself, and pulls me back into ahug.Holdinghimiscomforting,butstill.

Somethinghaschanged.We make our way into the kitchen

(two hundred twenty-five square feet,judging by the number of tiles on thesquarefloor),diguptwocansoffoodandbottles of water, squeeze onto thecounters,andsettle inforabreak.Day’ssilent. I wait expectantly as we share acan of pasta drowning in tomato sauce,but he still doesn’t utter a word. Heseems to be thinking. About the foiledplan? About Tess? Or perhaps he’s notthinking at all, but still stunned intosilence. I stay quiet too. I would prefernottoputwordsinhismouth.

“I saw yourwarning signal from oneof the security cam videos,” he finallysaysafterseventeenminuteshavepassed.“Ididn’tknowexactlywhatyouwantedmetodo,butIgotthegeneralidea.”

I notice he doesn’t mention the kissbetweenAndenandme,eventhoughI’msure he saw it. “Thanks.” My visiondarkens for a secondand I blink rapidlyto try to focus. Maybe I need moremedicine.“I’m...sorryforforcingyouinto a tough spot. I’d tried to make thejeeps takeadifferent route inPierra,butitdidn’tworkout.”

“Thatwas thewhole delaywhen youcollapsed, right? I was afraid youmight’vegottenhurt.”

I chew thoughtfully for a moment.

Food should taste great right now, butI’m not hungry at all. I should tell himabout Eden’s freedom right away, butDay’s tone—somehow like athunderstorm on the horizon—holds meback.Had thePatriots been able to hearall of my conversations with Anden? Ifso, then Day might already know.“Razor’slyingtousaboutwhyhewantstheElectordead.Idon’tknowwhyyet—but the thingshe’s toldus justdon’taddup.” I pause, wondering if Razor hasalready been detained by Republicofficials. If not now, then soon. TheRepublic should know by the end oftoday that Razor specifically instructedthejeepdriverstostayoncourse,leadingAndenrightintothetrap.

Day shrugs and concentrates on thefood. “Who knows what he and thePatriotsaredoingnow?”

Iwonder if he says this because he’sthinking about Tess. The way she’dlookedathimbeforeweescapedintothetunnel...Idecidenottoaskaboutwhatmighthavehappenedbetweenthem.Still,my imagination conjures up a vision ofthem on the couch together, socomfortableandrelaxedlikethey’dbeenwhenwe firstmet thePatriots inVegas,Day resting his head in Tess’s lap. Tessleaning down to brush her lips over his.My stomach tightens in discomfort.Butshe didn’t come, I remind myself.Whathappened between them? I picture TessarguingwithDayaboutme.

“So,”hesaysinamonotone.“TellmewhatyoufoundoutabouttheElectorthatmade you decide that we should betraythePatriots.”

Hedoesn’tknowaboutEden,afterall.Iputdownmywaterandpursemy lips.“TheElectorfreedyourbrother.”

Day’sforkstopsinmidair.“What?”“Andenlethimgo—onthedayafterI

gaveyouthesignal.Edenisunderfederalprotection in Denver. Anden hates whattheRepublicdid toyour family . . . andhe wants to win back our trust—yoursandmine.” I reach over forDay’s hand,but he snatches it away. My breathescapes me in a disappointed sigh. Iwasn’tsurehowhe’dtakethisnews,buta part of me hoped that he would just

be...happy.“Anden is completely opposed to the

late Elector’s politics,” I go on. “Hewants to stop the Trials, and the plagueexperiments.” I hesitate. Day is stillstaringat the canof pasta, fork in hand,buthe’snoteatinganylonger.“Hewantstomakeall theseradicalchanges,butheneeds towin the public’s favor first.Hebasicallybeggedmeforourhelp.”

Day’s expression quivers. “That’s it?That’s why you decided to throw thePatriots’entireplanoutthewindow?”herepliesbitterly.“SotheElectorcanbribeme inexchange formysupport?Soundslikeadamnjoke,ifyouaskme.Howdoyouknowhe’stellingthetruth,June?Didyou actually get proof that he released

Eden?”I put my hand on his arm. This is

exactly what I feared from Day, but hehaseveryrighttobesuspicious.HowcanI explain the gut instinct I have aboutAnden’s personality, or the fact that I’dseen the honesty in his eyes? I knowAnden releasedDay’sbrother. Iknow it.But Day wasn’t there in the room. Hedoesn’tknowAnden.Hehasnoreasontotrust him. “Anden is different.Youhaveto believe me, Day. He released Eden,and not just because he wants us to dosomethingforhim.”

Day’s words are cold and distant. “Isaid,doyouhaveanyproof?”

I sigh, taking my hand off his arm.“No,”Iadmit.“Idon’t.”

Daysnapsoutofhisdazeanddigshisforkbackintothecan.Hedoesitsohardthat the fork’shandlebends. “Heplayedyou.You, of all people. TheRepublic isnot going tochange.Rightnow thenewElector’syoung,stupidashell,andfullofit,andhejustwantstomakepeopletakehim seriously. He’ll say anything. Oncethings settle down, you’ll see his truecolors. I guarantee it. He’s no differentfromhis father—just another goddy richtrotwithdeeppocketsandamouthfuloflies.”

It irritatesme thatDay thinks I’m sogullible. “Young and full of it?” I giveDay a little shove, trying to lighten themood.“Remindsmeofsomeone.”

Once this would have made Day

laugh, but now he just glares at me. “Isawaboy inLamar,”hecontinues. “Hewas my brother’s age. For a minute, Ithought he was Eden. He was beingshippedaroundinagiantglasstube,likesome sort of science experiment. I triedtogethimout,but Icouldn’t.Theboy’sblood is beingused as abioweapon thatthey’re trying to launch into theColonies.” Day throws his fork into thesink. “That’s what your pretty Elector’sdoingtomybrother.Now,youstillthinkhereleasedhim?”

Ireachoverandputmyhandoverhis.“CongresshadsentEdento thewarfrontbefore Anden was Elector. Anden justreleasedhimtheotherday.He’s—”

Day shrugs me off, his expression a

mix of frustration and confusion. Hereadjusts the sleeves of his collar shirtback up to his elbows. “Why do youbelieveinthisguysomuch?”

“Whatdoyoumean?”He gets angrier as he goes. “I mean,

the only reason I didn’t smash yourElector’s car window and put a knifethrough his throat was because of you.BecauseIknewyoumust’vehadagoodreason. But now it seems like you justtake hiswords on faith.What happenedtoallthatlogicofyours?”

Idon’tlikethewayhecallsAndenmyElector, as if Day and I were still onopposing sides. “I’m telling you thetruth,”Isayquietly.“Besides,lasttimeIchecked,you’renotamurderer.”

Day turns away fromme andmutterssomething under his breath that I can’tquite catch. I cross my arms. “Do youremember when I trusted you, eventhough everything I’d ever known toldme thatyouwereanenemy? Igaveyouthebenefitof thedoubt, and I sacrificedeverythingforwhat Ibelieved. Ican tellyou right now that assassinating Andenwill solve nothing. He’s the one personthe Republic actually needs—someoneinside the systemwith enough power tochange things.How could you livewithyourself after killing a person like that?Andenisgood.”

“Sowhat if he is?” Day says coldly.He’s gripping the countertop so tightlythat his knuckles have turned white.

“Good, bad—what does it matter? He’stheElector.”

I narrow my eyes. “Do you reallybelievethat?”

Day shakes his head and laughsmirthlessly. “The Patriots are trying tostart a revolution. That’s what thiscountryneeds—notanewElector,butnoElector. The Republic is broken beyondrepair.LettheColoniestakeover.”

“You don’t even know what theColoniesarelike.”

“I know they’ve got to be better thanthishellhole,”Daysnaps.

Icantellthathe’snotangryatjustme,buthe’s starting to soundchildishand itrubsmethewrongway.“YouknowwhyI agreed to help the Patriots?” I put a

handon his upper arm, feeling the faintoutline of a scar under the fabric. Daytensesupatmytouch.“BecauseIwantedto help you. You think everything’s myfault, don’t you? It’s my fault that yourbrother’sbeingexperimentedon. It’smyfault that you had to leave the Patriots.It’smyfaultthatTessrefusedtocome.”“No . . .”Day trailsoff ashewrings

hishandsinfrustration.“It’snotallyourfault.AndTess. . .Tessisdefinitelymyfault.”There’sgenuinepainonhisface—at this point, I can’t tellwho it’s for.Somuchhashappened.Ifeelacuriouspangof resentment that makes blood rush inmyearsevenasitshamesme.It’snotfairforme to be jealous. After all, Day hasknownTess for years,much longer than

he’sknownme,sowhyshouldn’thefeelattached to her? Besides, Tess is sweet,selfless, healing. I am not. Of course IknowwhyTesshadabandonedhim.Itisbecauseofme.

I study his face. “What happenedbetweenyouandTess?”

Daystaresat thewallacross fromus,lostinthought,andIhavetotaphisfootwith mine to snap him out of it. “Tesskissed me,” he mutters. “And she feelslikeIbetrayedher...foryou.”

My cheeks redden. I close my eyes,forcing the imageof themkissingoutofmy thoughts. This is so stupid. Isn’t it?Tess has knownDay for years—she hasevery right to kiss him. And hadn’t theElectorkissedmetoo?Hadn’tI likedit?

Anden suddenly feels a million milesaway, like he doesn’t matter at all. Theonly thing I can see is Day and Tesstogether.It’slikeapunchtothestomach.We’re in the middle of a war. Don’t bepathetic.“Whywouldyoutellmethat?”

“Wouldyourather Ikept itasecret?”Helooksashamed,andhepurseshislips.

I don’t know why, but Day neverseemstohaveaproblemmakingmefeellikeafool.Itrypretendingthatitdoesn’tbother me. “Tess will forgive you.”Mywords, meant to be comforting andmature,soundhollowandfakeinstead.Ipassedtheliedetectortestwithoutahitchwhile I was under arrest—why’s it sohardformetodealwiththis?

After a while, he says in a quieter

voice, “What do you think of him?Honestly?”

“I think he’s real,” I say, impressedwithhowcalmIsound.Gladtosteerourconversation in a different direction.“Ambitiousandcompassionate,evenifitmakeshimalittleimpractical.Definitelynot the brutal dictator the Patriots saidhe’ll become.He’s young, and he needsthe Republic’s people on his side. Andhe’s going to need help if he’s going tochangethings.”

“June, we barely got away from thePatriots.AreyoutryingtosayweshouldhelpAndenmorethanwealreadyhave—thatweshouldkeepriskingour livesforthis goddy rich stranger you barelyknow?”Thevenominhiseyesashespits

outthewordrichstartlesme,makingmefeellikehe’sinsultingmetoo.

“What does class have to do withthis?” Now I’m irritated too. “Are youreally saying you’d be glad to see himdead?”

“Yes. I would be glad to see Andendead,” Day says through gritted teeth.“And I’d be glad to see every singleperson in his government dead too, if itmeantIcouldhavemyfamilyback.”

“That’s not like you. Anden’s deathwon’t fix things,” I insist. How can Imakehimsee?“Youcan’tlumpeveryoneinto the same category, Day. Noteveryone working for the Republic isevil.Whataboutme?Ormybrotherandparents? There are good people in the

government—and they’re the ones whocanspearheadpermanentchangesfortheRepublic.”

“How can you possibly defend thegovernment after everything they’vedonetoyou?HowcouldyounotwanttoseetheRepubliccollapse?”

“Well, Idon’t,” I say angrily. “Iwantto see it change for the better. TheRepublichaditsreasonsinthebeginningforcontrollingthepeople—”

“Whoa.Waitaminute.”Dayholdsuphishands.Hiseyesarenowalightwitharage I’ve never seen. “Say that to meagain. I dare you. The Republic had itsreasonsinthebeginning?TheRepublic’sactionsarereasonable?”

“You don’t know the whole story

about how the Republic was formed.Anden told me how the country startedfrom anarchy, and that the people weretheoneswho—”

“So now you believe everything hesays?Are you trying to tellme that it’sthepeople’s fault that theRepublic’s theway it is?” Day’s voice rises. “That webroughtallthisgoddycraponourselves?That’s the justification for why hisgovernmenttorturesthepoor?”

“No, I’m not trying to justify that—”Somehow, the history sounds much lessviablethanitdidwhenAndenwastellingit.

“AndnowyouthinkAndencanfixuswith his half-wit ideas? This rich boy’sgoingtosaveusall?”

“Stop calling him that! It’s his ideasthat might do it, not hismoney. Moneydoesn’tmeananythingwhen—”

Daypointsafingerrightatme.“Don’tever say that to my face again. Moneymeanseverything.”

Mycheeksflush.“No,itdoesn’t.”“Because you’ve never been without

it.”I wince. I want so desperately to

respond, toexplain that that’snotwhatImeant. Money doesn’t define me, orAnden,oranyofus.Whycouldn’tIhavesaid that?Why isDay theonlyperson Ihavetroublemakingacoherentargumentto?“Day,please—”Ibegin.

Hejumpsoffthecounter.“Youknow,maybeTesswasrightaboutyou.”

“Excuse me?” I snap back. “What isTessrightabout?”

“Youmighthavechangedalittleoverthe last few weeks, but deep down,you’re still a Republic soldier. Throughand through. You’re still loyal to thosemurderers. Have you forgotten how mymother and brother died? Have youforgottenwhokilledyourfamilyoff?”

My own anger flares. Are youpurposelyrefusing tosee things frommypoint of view? I hop off the counter toface him. “I never forget anything. I’mhereforyour sake, I gave upeverythingforyou.Howdare youbringmy familyintothis?”

“Youbroughtmy family into this!”heyells. “Into all of this! You and your

belovedRepublic!”Dayspreadshisarmsout. “How dare you defend them, howdareyou trytoreasonwithyourselfoverwhy they are the way they are? It’s soeasy for you to say that, isn’t it, whenyou’ve lived your entire life in one oftheir high-rise palaces? I bet youwouldn’tbesoquicktologicitalloutifyou’dspentyourlifediggingup trash toeatintheslums.Wouldyou?”

I’msofuriousandhurtthatI’mhavingtrouble catching my breath. “That’s notfair,Day. Ididn’tchoose tobeborn intothis. I neverwanted to hurt your family—”

“Well,youdid.”Ifeelmyselftrembleand fall apart under his glare. “You ledthe soldiers right to my family’s door.

You’re the reason they’re dead.” Dayturns his back onme and storms out ofthe kitchen. I stand there alone in thesudden silence, for once at a loss overwhat to do. The lump in my throatthreatens tochokeme.Myvisionswimswithtears.

Day thinks I’m being blindly faithfulto the Elector instead of being logical.That I can’t possibly be on his side andstill loyal to the state. Well, am I stillloyal? Hadn’t I answered that questioncorrectlyintheliedetectorchamber?AmIjealousofTess?JealousbecausesheisabetterpersonthanIam?

Andthen,thethoughtsopainfulIcanhardly bear it, no matter how angry hiswordsmademe:He’s right. Ican’tdeny

it. I am the reason Day lost everythingthatmatterstohim.

I SHOULDN’T HAVE YELLED ATHER.KINDATERRIBLE thing to do,andIknowit.Butinsteadofapologizing,Igoback

around the shelter and check therooms again. My hands are stillunsteady; my mind is still fightingdown the rushofadrenaline. I’d saidit—thewordsthathavebeenstewingin my head for weeks. They’re outnow,andthere’snogoingback.Well,so what? I’m glad she knows. Sheshould know.And to say thatmoneymeans nothing—that phrase just

flowed from her mouth, natural aswater.Memoriesfillmyheadofallthetimesweneededmore,ofeverythingthat could’ve been better withmore.There was one afternoon, during aparticularly bad week, when I camehomeearlyfromgradeschool to findfour-year-oldEden rummaging in thefridge. He jumped when he sawmestep inside the house. In his handswas an empty can of beef hash. It’dbeen half full that morning, preciousleftovers from the night before thatMom had carefully wrapped in foiland stored away for the next night’ssupper. When Eden saw me staringat the empty can in his hand, hedropped it on the kitchen floor and

burst into tears. “Please don’t tellMom,”hebegged.Iranovertohimandtookhiminmy

arms.Hegrippedmy shirtwith babyhands,buryinghisfaceagainstme.“Iwon’t,” I whispered to him. “Ipromise.” I can still remember howthin his arms were. Later that night,when Mom and John finally camehome, I told Mom that I’d caved inand eaten the leftover food. Sheslappedme hard, told me I was oldenoughtoknowbetter.Johngavemea disappointed speech. But whocares?Ididn’tmind.I slam a door in the corridor in

anger. Has June ever had to worryabout stealing half a can of beef

hash? If she’dbeenpoor,would shebesoquicktoforgivetheRepublic?The gun that the Patriots gaveme

sits heavily against my belt. TheElector’s assassination would havegiven the Patriots the opportunity totake down the Republic. We wouldhavebeenthesparkthatlitapowderkeg—butbecauseofus—becauseofJune—itfizzledout.Andforwhat?Towatch this Elector go on to becomejustlikehisfather?Iwanttolaughatthe idea thathe’d freeEden.WhataRepubliclie.AndnowI’mnoclosertosaving him, and I’ve lost Tess, andI’m rightback tosquareone.On therun.That’sthestoryofmylife,yeah?

When I go back to the kitchen halfan hour later, June’s not thereanymore. Probably off in one of thehallways, making mental notes toherself about every goddy crack inthewall.I throwopen thekitchen’sdrawers,

empty out one of the burlap sacks,andstart sorting stacksof each typeoffoodintoit.Rice.Corn.Potatoandmushroom soups. Three boxes ofcrackers. (How nice—everything’sgoingtohell,butatleastIcanfillmystomach.) I grab several bottles ofwater for each of us and then closeup the sack. Good enough for now.Soon we’ll have to be on our wayagain, andwho knows how long the

restof this tunnel isorwhenwe’llhitanother shelter. We have to moveforward into the Colonies. Maybethey’ll bewilling to help uswhenwegettotheotherside.Thenagain,wemighthavetokeepa lowprofile.Wedid ruin the assassination that theColonies were sponsoring. I sighdeeply, wishing I had more time tochat with Kaede, to coax out all herstoriesabout livingon theother sideofthewarfront.Howdidourplans turn into sucha

mess?There’s a faint knock on the

kitchen’s opendoor. I turn around tosee June standing there with herarms crossed. She’s unbuttoned her

Republiccoat,andthecollarshirtandvest underneath look rumpled. Hercheeksaremore flushed thanusual,andhereyesarered,likeshe’sbeencrying. “The electric circuits in herearen’t feeding into theRepublic,”shesays. If she had shed any tears, Isure as hell don’t hear them in hervoice.“Theircablesrundownthroughthe other end of the tunnel, the partwehaven’tcoveredyet.”I go back to stacking cans. “So?” I

mutter.“That means they must be getting

theirpowerfromtheColonies,right?”“Guess so. Makes sense, yeah?” I

straightenmy back and pull the twoburlap sacks I’ve prepared tightly

shut. “Well, at least it means thetunnel will lead out to the surfacesomewhere, hopefully in theColonies.Whenwe’rereadytogowecanjustfollowthecables.Weshouldprobablygetsomerestfirst.”I’m just about to walk out of the

kitchen and past June when sheclearsherthroatandspeaksup.“Hey—didthePatriotsteachyouanythingabout fighting while you were withthem?”Ishakemyhead.“No.Why?”June turns to faceme.Thekitchen

entrance is narrow enough that hershoulders brush past mine, raisinggoose bumps on my arms. I’mannoyed that she still has this effect

onme, in spite of everything. “Whilewe were getting into the tunnel InoticedthatyouwereswingingatthePatriotsfromyourarms...butthat’snot very effective. You should beswingingfromyourlegsandhips.”Her critique grates on my nerves,

even though she’s giving it in astrangely hesitant tone. “I don’twanttodothisrightnow.”“When are we going to do it if not

now?” June leans against the doorframeandpointstowardtheshelter’sentrance. “What if we bump intosomesoldiers?”I sigh and put my hands up for a

second. “If this is your way ofapologizing after a fight, then you

reallysuckatit.Listen.I’msorryIgotangry earlier.” I hesitate,rememberingmywords.I’mnotsorry.But telling her that now won’t helpanything. “Just give me a fewminutes,andI’llfeelbetter.”“Come on, Day. What’ll happen

whenyoufindEdenandyouneedtoprotect him?” She is trying toapologize, in her own subtle way.Well. At least she’s giving it a shot,howevercrappysheisatit.Iglareatherforafewseconds.“All right,” I finally say. “Show me

some moves, soldier. What you gotupyoursleeves?”June givesme a small smile, then

walks me over to the center of the

shelter’s main room. She standsbesideme. “Ever read Ducain’sTheArtoftheFight?”“Does it look like I’vehad free time

inmylifetoread?”She ignoresme, and I immediately

feel bad for saying it. “Well, you’realready light on your feet and youhave flawless balance,” shecontinues. “But you don’t use thosestrengths when you attack. It’s likeyou panic. You forget all about yourspeed advantage and your center ofmass.”“My center ofwhat?” I start to say,

butshejusttapstheoutsideofmylegwithherboot.“Stay on the balls of your feet and

keepyourlegsshoulderwidthapart,”she goes on. “Pretend you’restandingontraintrackswithonefootforward.”I’m a little surprised. June’s been

watching my attacks closely, eventhough it usually happens when allsortsofchaosisgoingonaroundus.Andshe’sright.Ihadn’tevenrealizedthat all my instincts of balance goright out the window when I try tofight. I do as she says. “Okay. Nowwhat?”“Well, keep your chin down, for

one.” She touches my hands, thenliftsthemupsoonefiststaysclosetothe side of my cheek and the otherhovers out in front of my face. Her

hands run along my arms, checkingmy posture. My skin tingles. “Mostpeopleleanbackandkeeptheirchinshigh and jutted,” she says, her faceclosebesidemine.Shetapsmychinonce. “That’s what you do too. Andit’sjustaskingforaknockout.”Itrytofocusonmyownpostureby

putting two fists up. “How do youpunch?”June gently touches the tip of my

chin, then the edge of my brow.“Remember, it’s all about howaccurately you can hit someone, nothowhard.You’llbeabletoknockoutsomeone much larger if you catchthemintherightspots.”BeforeIknowit,halfanhour’sgone

by. June teachesmeone tacticafteranother—keepingmy shoulder up toprotect my chin, catching myopponent off guardwith fakemoves,overhand hits, underhand hits,leaning back and following throughwithkicks,leapingoutofthewaywithspeed. Aiming for the vulnerablespots—eyes,neck,andsoon.Ilungeout with everything I’ve got. When Itrytocatchherbysurprise,sheslipsfrom my grasp like water betweenrocks, fluid and constantly moving,and if I blink, she’s behind me andtwistingmyarmupbehindmyback.Finally, June tripsme and pinsme

tothefloor.Herhandspushmywristsdown.“See?”shesays.“Trickedyou.

You’re always staring at youropponent’s eyes—but that gives youabadperipheralview. If youwant totrackmyarmsand legs,youhave tofocusonmychest.”Iraisemyeyebrowat that.“Sayno

more.”Myeyesshiftdownward.June laughs, then turnsa little red.

We pause there for an instant, herhandsstillholdingmyarmsdown,herlegs acrossmy stomach, both of usbreathing heavily. Now I understandwhy she suggested the impromptusparring—I’m tired, and the exercisehas drained my anger. Even thoughshe doesn’t say it, I can see herapologyplainlyonherface,thetragicslant of her eyebrows and the slight

quiverofunspokenwordsonherlips.The sight finally softens me, albeitonly a little. I’m still not sorry aboutwhat I’d said to her earlier, true, butI’m also not being fair. Whatever Ilost,Junehas lostequally.Sheusedtobe rich, thenshe threw it away tosavemylife.She’dplayedherpartinmy family’s deaths, but . . . I run ahand through my hair, feeling guiltynow.Ican’tblameherforeverything.And I can’t be alone at a time likethis,withnoallies,noone Ican turnto.Shesways.Ipropmyselfuponmyelbows.“You

okay?”She shakes her head, frowns, and

tries to shrug it off. “Fine. I think Ipicked up a bug or something.Nothingbig.”I studyher under theartificial light.

Now that I’m paying closer attentiontothecolorofherface,Icanseethatshe’s paler than usual, and that hercheekslookflushedbecauseherskinissowan. Isituphigher, forcingherto slide off. Then I press a hand toher forehead. Immediately I pull itaway.“Man,you’reburningup.”Junestarts toprotest, but as if our

training session has weakened her,sheswaysagainandsteadiesherselfwith one arm. “I’ll be fine,” shemumbles. “We should be headingout,anyway.”

And here I’ve been angrywith her,forgettingallshe’sbeenthrough.Trotof the year. I ease one of my armsaround her back andwrap the otherunderherknees, thenscoopherup.She slumps against my chest, theheatofherbrowstartlingagainstmycoolskin.“Youneedtorest.”I carry her into one of the bunker

rooms, pull off her boots, lay herdown carefully on a bed, and coverher with the blankets. She blinks atme.“Ididn’tmeanwhatIsaidearlier.”Her eyes are dazed, but theemotion’s still there. “About money.And...Ididn’t—”“Stop talking.” I smooth stray hairs

fromherforehead.Whatifshecaught

something serious while underarrest?Aplaguevirus?...Butshe’supper class. She should havevaccines. I hope. “I’m going to findyousomemedicine,okay?Justcloseyour eyes.” June shakes her head,frustrated, but she doesn’t try toargue.After upending the entire shelter, I

finally manage to hunt down anunopenedbottleofaspirinandreturntoJune’sbedsidewithit.Shetakesacouple of pills. When she startsshivering, I grab two more blanketsfrom theotherbeds in the roomandcover her with them, but it doesn’tseemtohelp. “It’sokay. I’llmanage,”shewhispersrightasI’mabouttogo

hunting for more blankets. “Won’treallymatterhowhighyoustackthem—Ijustneedmyfevertobreak.”Shehesitates, then reaches formyhand.“Canyoustayhere?”Theweaknessof her voiceworries

me more than anything. I climb intothebed, liebesideher on topof theblankets, and pull her to me. Junesmiles a little, then closes her eyes.Thefeelofherbody’scurvesagainstminesendswarmthcoursingthroughme. I’ve never thought of describingher beauty as delicate, becausedelicate just isn’t a word that fitsJune . . . but here, now that she’ssick,Irealizejusthowfragileshecanbe. Pink cheeks. Small, soft lips

against large, closed eyes fringedwith thecurveofdark lashes. Idon’tlikeseeingherthisdelicate.Theheatofourargumentlingersinthebackofmymind,butfornowIneedtoforgetabout it. Fighting will only slow usdown. We’ll deal with the problemsbetweenuslater.Slowly,webothdozeoff.

***

Something jerksmeoutofmysleep.A beeping sound. I listen to it for awhile, trying to pinpoint its locationthrough my grogginess, and thencrawloutofbedwithoutwakingJune.Before leaving the room, I lean overto touch her forehead again. Still no

better.Sweat beadsonher brow, soher fever must’ve broken at leastonce,butshe’saswarmasever.When I follow the beeping sound

out into the kitchen, I see a tinybeacon blinking above the door thatwe’d come into the shelter from.Words flash below it in bright,menacingred.APPROACHING—400FT

A cold fear seizes me. Someonemust be coming down the tunneltoward the shelter—Patriots, maybe,or Republic soldiers. Can’t decidewhichwouldbeworse. Iwhirlonmyheelsandhurry towhere I’d stackedour burlap sacks of food and water,thenemptysomecansout of oneof

them.Whenthebag’slightenough,Ipull my arms through both sackstrings like it’s a backpack and thenrushtoJune’sbedside.Shestirswithasoftmoan.“Hey,” I whisper, trying to sound

calm and reassuring. I bend downand stroke her hair. “It’s time to go.Come here.” I push the blanketsaside, keeping one to wrap aroundher,pullherbootsontoher feet,andhoistherintomyarms.Shestrugglesfor a moment as if she thinks she’sfalling, but I just hang on tighter.“Easy,” I murmur against her hair.“I’vegotyou.”She settles into my embrace, half-

conscious.

Weleavetheshelterandheadbackinto the darkness of the tunnel, mybootssplashingthroughpuddlesandmud. June’s breath is shallow andquick, hot with fever. Behind us, thealarm grows quieter until we roundseveralbends, then it fades toasofthum. I half expect to hear footstepscomingafterus,butsoonthehumofthealarm fadesaway too,andwe’relefttotravelinsilence.Tome,itfeelslike hours have passed—althoughJunemutters that “it’sbeen forty-twominutes and thirty-three seconds.”Wetrudgeon.Thisstretchoftunnelismuchlonger

than the first, and dimly lit with theoccasional flickering fixture. At some

pointIfinallystopandslumpdownina dry section, sipping on water andcannedsoup(atleast,Ithinkit’ssoup—I can’t see much in this darknessso I just pop the lid off the first tin Igrab). June’s shivering again, whichis no surprise. It’s cold down here,cold enough for me to see the faintclouds of my breath. I wrap theblanket tighter around June, checkherforeheadonemoretime,andthentry to feed her some soup. Sherefusesit.“I’mnothungry,”shemutters.When

sheshiftsherheadagainstmychest,Ifeeltheheatofherbrowthroughmyshirt.Isqueezeherhand.Myarmsareso

numb that even this seems difficult.“Fine.Butyou’regoingtohavesomewater,okay?”“Fine.” June huddles closer to me

andrestsherheadinmylap.IwishIcould figure out a way to keep herwarm.“Aretheystillfollowingus?”I squintdown into theblackdepths

we came from. “No,” I lie. “We lostthemalongtimeago.Justrelaxanddon’tworry,buttrytostayawake.”June nods. She fiddles with

something on her hand, and when Ilookcloser,Irealizeit’sthepaperclipring.She rubs it as if it cangiveherstrength. “Help me out. Tell me astory.”Hereyesarehalf-closednow,eventhoughIcantellshe’sstruggling

to keep them open. She’s speakingsosoftly that Ihave to leanoverhermouthtohearit.“What kind of story?” I reply,

determined to keep her from fadingintounconsciousness.“I don’t know.” June tilts her head

slightlytofaceme.Afterapause,shesayssleepily,“Tellmeaboutyourfirstkiss.Howwasit?”Herquestionconfusesmeatfirst—

nogirl I’veever knownhas likedmetalkingaboutothergirlsinfrontofher.But then I realize that this is June,andthatshemightbeusing jealousytokeepherselffromdozingoff.Ican’thelp smiling in the dark. Always sogoddyclever,thisone.“Iwastwelve,”

Imurmur.“Thegirlwassixteen.”June’s eyes become more alert.

“Youmust’ve been quite the smoothtalker.”I shrug. “Maybe. I was clumsier

backthen—almostgotmyselfkilledafew times.Anyway,shewasworkingapier inLakewithherdad,andshecaughtmetryingtosmugglefoodoutof their crates. I talked her out ofturningmein,andaspartofourdeal,she led me off to a back alley nearthewater.”Junetriestolaugh,butitcomesout

as a coughing fit. “And she kissedyouthere?”Igrin.“Youcouldsaythat.”She manages to raise a curious

eyebrow at my short reply, which Itake as a good sign. At least she’sawake now. I lean closer to her andputmylipsnexttoherear.Mybreathstirs softwisps of her hair. “The firsttime I saw you, when you steppedinto that Skiz ring against Kaede, Ithought you were the most beautifulgirl I’deverseen. Icould’vewatchedyou forever. The first time I kissedyou . . .” That memory overpowersme now, taking me by surprise. Iremember every last detail of it,almost enough to push away thelingeringimagesoftheElectorpullingJunetohim.“Well,thatmightaswellhavebeenmyfirstkissever.”Even in the dark, I see hints of a

smilecreepontoherface.“Yeah.Youareasmoothtalker.”I give her a wounded frown.

“Sweetheart,wouldIeverlietoyou?”“Don’ttry.I’dseerightthroughit.”I give her a low laugh. “Fair

enough.”Our words sound light and almost

carefree, but we can both feel thestrain behind them. The effort oftrying to forget, to push down. Theconsequence of things neither of uscanevertakeback.We linger there for a few more

minutes. Then I wrap up ourbelongings,carefullypickherup,andcontinue down the tunnel. My armsare shaking now, and each breath I

take sounds ragged. There are nosignsofanysheltersahead.Despitethetunnel’swetnessandthecold,I’msweatingasifit’sthemiddleofaLosAngeles summer—my breaksbecome more and more frequent,until I finally stop at another drystretchoftunnelandcollapseagainstthewall.“Just taking a quick breather,” I

reassure June as I give her somewater.“Ithinkwe’realmostthere.”Just as she said earlier, she can

seerightthroughmylie.“Wecan’tgoany farther,” she says weakly. “Let’srest. You’ll never last another hourlikethis.”Ibrushoffherwords.“Thistunnel’s

got to end somewhere. We musthavegonerightunderthewarfrontbynow, which means we’re already onColonies land.” I pause—therealization hitsme at the same timemy words come out, sending a thrilldownmyspine.Coloniesland.As if on cue, a sound comes from

somewhere beyond the tunnel,somewherefaraboveus. I fallsilent.We listen for a while, and soon thesound comes back—a whirring,humming noise muffled through theearth, coming from some massiveobject.“Is that anairship out there?” June

asks.The sound fades away, but not

before it brings an icy cold breezeinto the tunnel. I glanceup. I’d beentoo exhausted to notice earlier, butnow I can just make out a tiny,rectangular sliver of light. An exit tothesurface.Infact,thereareseveralof them lining the ceiling in sporadicintervals; we’ve probably beenpassingthemforagoodwhile.Iforcemyselfback tomy feetandreachupto run my finger along the edge ofthat sliver. Smooth, frozen metal. Igiveitatentativepush.Itshifts. Ipushharderonthemetal

and start sliding it to one side.Eventhough I can tell that it’s nighttimeoutside, the light coming into thetunnel is more than we’ve been

getting for the past few hours, and Iactuallyfindmyselfsquinting.Ittakesme a second to realize thatsomething cold and light is fallinggently onto my face. I swat at it,confused fora second,until I realizethat they’re—I think—snowflakes.Myheartbeat quickens. When I’ve slidthemetalas faras itwillgo, I shrugoffmyRepublicmilitaryjacket.Nofungetting shot by soldiers right whenwe’vereachedthepromisedland.When I’ve stripped down to my

collar shirt and waistcoat, I jump upand grab the sides of the opening,arms trembling, then pull myself uphalfway to seewherewe are. Somesortofdarkcorridor.Nobodyaround.

I jump back down and take June’shands,butshe’sstartingtofadeawayintosleepagain.“Staywithme,” Imurmur,gathering

her inmyarms. “See if you canpullyourself up.” June unwinds theblanket. Ikneelandhelpherstepuponto my shoulders. She wobbles,breathingheavily,butmanagestopullherselftothesurface.Ifollowwithherblanket tucked under an arm, thenpop up through the groundwith onethrust.We come up into a dark, narrow

alleynotunlikewherewecamefrom,and for a second I wonder ifsomehow we’ve come all the waybackaround into theRepublicagain.

Wouldn’tthatbesomething.Butaftera while, I can tell that this isn’t theRepublic at all. The ground is evenand nicely paved under a patchylayer of snow, and the wall iscompletely covered with brightlycolored posters of grinning soldiersandsmilingchildren.Onthecornerofeach poster is a symbol that Irecognize after a few seconds. Agold, falconlikebird.Witha shiverofexcitement, I realize how closely itresembles the bird imprinted on mypendant.June’s notices theposters too.Her

eyes are wide and hazy with fever,her breath rising in faint clouds ofsteam.Allaroundusarewhatappear

tobemilitarybarracks,coveredfromtop to bottom with the same brightposters.Streetlightslinebothsidesofthe road in neat, orderly patterns.This must be where the tunnel andthose underground shelters get theirelectricity. A cold wind blows moresnowinourfaces.Junesuddenlygrabsmyhand.She

sucksinherbreathatthesametimeIdo. “Day . . . over there.” She’strembling uncontrollably against me,but I can’t tell if it’s from the cold orfromwhatwe’reseeing.Stretching out before us, peeking

throughthegapsbetweenthemilitarybuildings, is a city: tall, shiningskyscrapers reachingup through low

clouds and delicate snow, and eachbuilding illuminated by beautiful bluelights that pour from almost everywindow and every floor. Fighter jetsline the skyscrapers’ rooftops. Theentire landscape is aglow. My handtightensaroundJune’s.Wejuststandthere, unable for a second to doanything else. It’s exactly how myfatherdescribedit.We’vereachedaglitteringcityinthe

ColoniesofAmerica.

METIAS HAD ALWAYS TOLD ME THATWHENEVERIDOGETsick,Ipulloutallthestops.

I know it’s cold, but I can’t tellwhatthetemperatureis.Iknowit’snight,butIcan’ttellwhattimeitis.IknowDayandI have somehow made it across theborderandintotheColonies,butI’mtootiredtofigureoutwhichoftheirstateswecrossed into. Day’s arm is wrappedtightly around my waist, supporting meeventhoughIcanfeelhimshakingfromtheeffortofcarryingmeforsolong.Hewhispersencouraginglytome,urgingme

on. Just a little longer, he says. Theremust be hospitals this close to thewarfront.Mylegsaretremblingfromtheeffort of keepingme up, but I refuse tofaintnow.Wecrunchthroughlightsnow,our eyes fixed on the sparkling citybeforeus.

The buildings range between fivestoriesandhundredsofstoriestall,someof them disappearing into low clouds.The sight is familiar in some ways andentirely new in others: The walls arelined with foreign flags shaped likeswallowtails,colorednavyblueandgold;the buildings have archway designscarved into their sides; and fighter jetsline each rooftop. They’re distinctlydifferent models from the ones in the

Republic, with a strange reverse-swept-wing structure that makes themtridentlikeinappearance.Thejets’wingsareallpaintedwithferociousgoldbirds,aswellasasymbolIdon’trecognize.Nowonder Ialwaysheard that theColonieshadabetterairforcethantheRepublic—these jets are newer than the ones I’mused to and, considering their rooftopplacements, must all be able to performverticaltakeoffsandlandingseffortlessly.This warfront city seems more thanpreparedtodefenditself.

And the people. They’re everywhere,both soldiers and civilians crowding thestreets, huddled under hooded coats toshieldthemselvesfromthesnow.Astheypassunder theneonglowof lights, their

faces are tinted shades of green, orange,and purple. I’m too exhausted to do aproperanalysisofthem,buttheonethingInoticeisthatalloftheirclothes—boots,pants, shirts, coats—have a variety ofemblems and words on them. I’mshocked by the sheer number of ads onthe walls—they stretch on as far as theeye can see, sometimes bunched socloselytogetherthattheycompletelyhidethewallsbeneaththem.Theyseemtobeadvertising anything and everythingunder the sun, things I’ve never seen orheardofbefore.Corp-sponsoredschools?Christmas?

Wepassonewindowwhereabunchofminiature screens are displayed, eachbroadcastingnews and videos. SALE! the

window display reads. 30% OFF UNTILMONDAY! Some channels’ broadcastingprograms are familiar—headlines fromthe warfront, political conferences.DESCON CORP SCORES ANOTHER VICTORYFOR COLONIES ON DAKOTA/MINNESOTABORDER. REPUBLIC RUBBLE AVAILABLE FORPURCHASEASSOUVENIRS!Othersbroadcastmovies, something the Republic onlyshows in rich sector theaters. Mostscreensareshowingcommercials.Unlikethe Republic’s propaganda commercials,it’sasiftheseadsweretryingtopersuadetheir population to buy things. Iwonderwhat kind of government runs a placelike this. Maybe they don’t have agovernmentatall.

“My father once told me that theColonies’ cities are like glitter from far

away,”Daysays.Hiseyesskipfromonebrightlycoloredadtothenextashehelpsme through the shuffle of people. “It’sexactly like he described, but I can’tfigure out all these ads. Aren’t theystrange?”

Inodback. In theRepublic,adshaveorganized displays with a consistent,distinctgovernmentstylethatremainsthesamenomatterwhereinthecountryyouare.Here,theadsdon’tfollowanysortofcolor theory. They’re jumbled, amishmashofneonandflashinglights.Asif they weren’t made by any sort ofcentral government, but by a number ofsmaller,independentgroups.

One ad shows a video of a smilingofficerinauniform.Thevoiceoversays:

“Tribune Police Department. Need toreport a crime? Only 500 Note depositneeded!”Underneaththeofficer,insmallprint, are the words: TRIBUNE POLICEDEPARTMENT IS A SUBSIDIARY OF DESCONCORP.

Another ad says NEXT NATIONWIDEEHL* CHECK SPONSORED BY CLOUD—JAN.27.NEEDSOMEHELPTOPASS?NEWMEDITECHJOYENCE PILLS NOW AVAILABLE AT ALLSTORES!Belowthis,anothersmallasteriskis followed by the text: EHL, EMPLOYEEHAPPINESSLEVEL.

A third ad actually makes me do adouble take.Itshowsavideoofrowsofyoung children, all dressed in the exactsame clothes, smiling the biggest smilesI’veeverseen.When the text comesup,it reads FIND YOUR PERFECT SON,

DAUGHTER, OR EMPLOYEE. SWAPSHOPFRANCHISE STORES ARE A SUBSIDIARY OFEVERGREENENT. I frown,puzzled.Maybethis is how theColonies run orphanagesorthelike.Isn’tit?

Aswemovealong,Inoticethatthere’sone unchanging image in the bottomright-handcornerofeachad. It’sagiantsymbol of a circle split into fourquadrants, with a smaller symbol insideeach of the quadrants. Underneath it inblocklettersisthefollowing:

THECOLONIESOFAMERICA

CLOUD.MEDITECH.DESCON.EVERGREEN

AFREESTATEISACORPORATESTATE

Abruptly I feel Day’s breath warmagainstmyear.“June,”hewhispers.

“Whatisit?”“Someone’sfollowingus.”Another detail I should’ve noticed

first. I’ve lost count of the number ofthingsI’mfailingtocatch.“Canyouseehisface?”

“No.Butjudgingfromthefigure,it’sagirl,” he replies. I wait for a few moreseconds, then chance a look back.NothingbutaseaofColonians.Whoeveritwas,she’salreadydisappearedintothecrowds.

“Probablyjustafalsealarm,”Imutter.“SomeColoniesgirl.”

Day’s eyes sweep the street,perplexed, then he shrugs it off. Iwouldn’tbesurprisedifwewerestartingtoseethings,especiallyamongstallthese

strange new glittering lights andfluorescentads.

A person approaches us right as weturnourattentionbacktothestreet.Fivefoot seven, droopy cheeks, tannish pinkskin,afewstrandsofblackhairpeekingout fromaheavy snowcap, a flat tabletin her hand. She has a scarf wrappedtightly around her neck (synthetic wool,judging from the uniform texture), andlittleicecrystalsclingtothefabricunderher chinwhere her breath has frozen onit. Her sleeve has the words StreetProctor sewn on, right above anotherstrangesymbol.“You’renotshowingup.Corp?” shemutters to us.Her eyes stayfixedon the tablet,whichhas amaplikeimage and moving bubbles on it. Each

bubble seems to correspond to a personon the street. She must mean we’re notshowingupon there.Then I realize thattherearemanypeoplelikeherdottingthestreet, all wearing the same dark bluecoat.

“Corp?”sherepeatsimpatiently.Day’sabouttoreplywhenIstophim.

“Meditech,”Iblurtout,rememberingthefournamesfromtheadswe’veseen.

Thewomanpauses togiveouroutfits(dirty collar shirts, black trousers, andboots) a disapproving once-over. “Youmust be new,” she adds to herself,tapping something out on her tablet.“You’re a long way from where you’resupposed to be, then. Don’t know ifyou’ve had your orientations yet, but

Meditech will dock you hard if you’relate.”Thenshegivesusafakesmileandlaunches into an oddly perky routine.“I’m sponsored by Cloud Corp. Stop inTribuneCentralSquaretobuyournewestlineofbread!”Hermouthsnapsbackintothe sullen line it was in before, and shehurries away. I watch as she stops apersonfartherdownthestreet,launchingintothesameperformance.

“There’s something off about thiscity,”IwhispertoDayaswestruggleon.

Day’s grip on me is tight and tense.“That’s why I didn’t ask her where theclosesthospitalwas,”hereplies.Anotherwave of dizziness hits me. “Hang inthere.We’llfiguresomethingout.”

I try torespond,butnowIcanbarely

seewhereI’mgoing.Daysayssomethingtome,but Ican’tunderstandaword—itsounds like he’s underwater. “What didyousay?”Theworldisspinningnow.Mykneesbuckle.

“I said, maybe we. . . stop one. . .hospital...”

Ifeelmyselffalling,andmyarmsandlegs are coming up around me in aprotectiveball,andsomewhereoverheadDay’s beautiful blue eyes hold me. Heputs his hands on my shoulders, but itfeelslikehe’samillionmilesaway.Itrytospeak,butmymouthfeelslikeit’sfullofsand.Isinkintodarkness.

***

Aflashofgoldandgray.Someone’scool

hand againstmy forehead. I reach up totouchit,buttheinstantmyfingersbrushagainst the skin, the handmelts away. Ican’t stop shivering—it’s unimaginablycoldinhere.

When I finally manage to open myeyes, I find myself lying on a simplewhitecotwithmyheadinDay’slap,andDay has one of his arms draped aroundmywaist. Amoment later I realize thathe’s watching another person—anotherthreepeople—standing in the roomwithus. (They’re wearing the distinctiveuniforms of warfront Colonies soldiers:navymilitarypeacoatsstuddedwithgoldbuttons and epaulettes, with gold andwhite stripes running along the bottomedge and that signature gold falcon

embroideredoneachsleeve.)Ishakemyhead.Aprettygenericbreakdown.I’msoslowrightnow.

“Through the tunnels,” Day says.Lights on the ceiling blindme. I hadn’tnoticedthemthereearlier.

“How long have you been in theColonies?” one of the other men asks.Hisaccentsoundsstrange.Hehasapalemustache and limp, greasy hair, and thelighting gives him a sickly complexion.“Better be honest, boy. DesCon doesn’ttolerateliars.”

“We just got here tonight,” Dayreplies.

“Andwhere did you come from?DoyouworkforthePatriots?”

Even in my haze, I know this is a

dangerous question. They are not goingtobehappyiftheyfindoutthatwe’retheones who botched their plans for theElector. Maybe they don’t even knowwhat happened yet. Razor did say thatthey update the Colonies onlysporadically.

Dayrealizesthequestion’sdangertoo,because he evades it. “We came herealone.”He pauses, and then I hear himspeakwithahintofimpatience.“Please,she’sburningupwithfever.Takeustoahospital, and I’ll tell you anything youwant.Ididn’tcomeallthiswaytoseeherdieinapolicestation.”

“Hospital’s going to cost you, son,”themananswers.

Daypats one ofmypockets anddigs

out our littlewadofNotes. I notice thathis gun is now gone, probablyconfiscated. “We have four thousandRepublic—”

Thesoldierscuthimoffwithsnickers.“Boy, four thousand Republic Noteswon’t buy you a bowl of soup,” one ofthemsays.“Besides,you’rebothgoingtowaithereuntilourcommandershowsup.Then you’ll be sent to our POWcompoundforstandardinterrogation.”

POWcompound.ForsomereasonthistriggersthememoryofwhenMetiastookme on amission over a year ago,whenwe’d tracked that Colonies prisoner ofwar deep through the Republic’s statesand killed him in Yellowstone City. Iremember the blood on the ground,

soaking that soldier’s navy uniform. Amoment of panic seizes me and I reachuptograbDay’scollar.Theothermeninthe room make a startled noise. I hearseveralmetallicclicks.

Day’sarmtightensprotectivelyaroundme.“Easythere,”hewhispers.

“What’sthegirl’sname?”Dayturnsbacktothemen.“Sarah,”he

lies.“She’snotathreat—she’sjustreallysick.”

The men say something that makesDay angry, butmyworld is becoming awild chaos of colors again, and I sinkback into a delirious half sleep. I hearloudvoices,thentheswingingsoundofaheavy door, and then nothing for a longtime. Sometimes I think I see Metias

standing in the corner of the barrack,watchingme.OthertimeshechangesintoThomas, and I can’t decide if I shouldfeel anger or grief at the sight of him.Sometimes I recognize Day’s handsagainst mine. He tells me to relax, thateverything will be okay. The visionsdisappear.

Afterwhatseemslikehours,Istart tohear faint, broken snippets ofconversationagain.

“—fromtheRepublic?”“Yes.”“You’reDay?”“That’sme.”Some shuffling sounds, then

expressions of incredulity. “No, Irecognize him,” someone keeps saying.

“I recognize him, I recognize him. He’stheone.”

More shuffling. Then I feelDay rise,andIcollapsealoneontothecoldsheetsofthecotbeneathme.They’vetakenhimsomewhere.They’vetakenhimaway.

Iwanttoclingtothisthought,butmyfeverish delirium takes over and I driftbacktoblack.

***

I’m in my Ruby sector apartment, myhead on a pillow damp with sweat, mybody covered by a thin blanket andbathedingoldenlightfromtheafternoonsun filtering in through our windows.Ollie sleepsnearby,hisenormouspuppypaws resting lazily on the cool marble

tiles. I realize that thisdoesn’tmakeanysense, because I’m almost sixteen andOllieshouldbenineyearsold.Imustbedreaming.

A wet towel touches my forehead—Ilook up to seeMetias sitting besideme,carefully placing the towel so waterdoesn’tdripinmyeyes.

“Hey,Junebug,”hesayswithasmile.“Aren’t you going to be late for

something?”Iwhisper.There’sanaggingfeeling in my stomach that Metias isn’tsupposed to be here. Like he’s late forsomething.

But my brother just shakes his head,making several chunks of dark hair fallacrosshisface.Thesunlightsuphiseyeswith glints of gold. “Well, I can’t just

leaveyoualonehere,canI?”He laughs,and the sound fills me with so muchhappiness that I think I might burst.“Face it,you’re stuckwithme.Noweatyour soup. I don’t care how gross youthinkitis.”

Itakeasip.IswearIcanalmosttasteit.“Areyoureallygoingtostayherewithme?”

Metias bends down and kisses myforehead. “Forever and ever, kid, untilyou’resickandtiredofseeingme.”

Ismile.“You’realwaystakingcareofme. When will you ever have time forThomas?”

Metiashesitatesatmywords,andthenchuckles. “I can’t keep anything secretwithyouhere,canI?”

“You could have told me about youguys, youknow.”Thewords are painfulfor me to say, but I’m not entirely surewhy.IfeellikeI’mforgettingsomethingimportant.“Iwouldn’thave toldanyone.Were you just worried CommanderJamesonwouldfindoutandsplityouandThomasintodifferentpatrols?”

Metias lowers his head, and hisshoulders fall. “I never really had areasontobringitup.”

“Doyoulovehim?”I remember that I’m dreaming, and

whateverMetiasmightsayissimplymyown thoughts projected into his image.Still, I ache when he looks down andanswerswithaslightnodofhishead.

“I thought I did,” he replies. I can

barelyhearhim.“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. He meets

mygazewitheyesfulloftears.I try to reach up and wrap my arms

around his neck. But then the sceneshifts, the light fades, and suddenly I’mlying in a dim whitewashed room on abedthatisn’tmyown.Metiasdisappearsintowisps.Caring forme inhisplace isDay,hisfaceframedbyhairthecoloroflight, his hands readjusting the towel onmy forehead, his eyes studying mineintensely.

“Hey,Sarah,” he says.He’s using thefake name he made up for me. “Don’tworry,you’resafe.”

Iblinkat thesuddenchangeinscene.“Safe?”

“Colonies police picked us up. Theytook us to a small hospital after theyfoundoutwho I am. I guess they’ve allheard about me over here, and it’sworking out to our benefit.” Day givesmeasheepishgrin.

But this time I’m so disappointed tosee Day, so bitterly sad that I’ve lostMetias to the shallows of my dreamsagain, that I have tobitemy lip tokeepmyself from crying. My arms feel soweak. I probably couldn’t havewrappedthem aroundmy brother’s neck anyway,and because I didn’t, I couldn’t keepMetiasfromfloatingaway.

Day’sgrinfades—hesensesmygrief.He reaches over and touches my cheekwith one hand. His face is so close,

radiant in the soft evening glow. I liftmyselfupwithwhatlittlestrengthIhaveand let him pullme close. “Oh,Day,” Iwhisper intohishair,myvoicebreakingwithallthesobsI’vebeenholdingback.“I reallymiss him. Imiss him somuch.And I’m so sorry, I am so sorry foreverything.” I repeat it over and overagain, thewords I said toMetias inmydreamandthewordsIwillsaytoDayfortherestofmylife.

Day tightens his embrace. His handbrushesthroughmyhair,andherocksmegentlylikeI’machild.Iclingtohimfordear life, unable to catch my breath,drowning in my fever and sorrow andemptiness.

Metias is gone again. He is always

gone.

IT TAKES JUNEAHALFHOURTOFINALLYFALLBACKasleep, loadedup on whatever drugs a Coloniesnurse injected into her arm. She’dbeensobbingoverherbrotheragain,and it was like she’d fallen down ahole and crumpled in onherself, herbleeding heart torn open for all tosee.Those strongdark eyesof hers—now, theirexpressionwas just . . .broken. I wince. Of course, I knowexactly what it feels like to lose anolder brother. I watch as her eyesdance around behind closed lids,

probably deep in another nightmarethat I can’t help her out of. So I justdo what she always does for me—Ismooth down her hair and kiss herdamp foreheadandcheeksand lips.It doesn’t seem to help, but I do itanyway.Thehospitalisrelativelyquiet,buta

few sounds form a blanket of whitenoiseinmyhead:There’safaintwhircoming from the ceiling lights, andsome sort of dim commotion on thestreets outside. Like in theRepublic,a screen mounted to the wallbroadcasts a stream of warfrontnews.Unlike theRepublic, the newsis peppered with commercials thewaythestreetsoutsidehadbeen,for

thingsthatIdon’tcomprehend.Istopwatchingafterawhile.Ikeepthinkingabout the waymymother comfortedEden when he first got the plague,how she whispered soothing wordsand touched his face with her poorbandaged hands, how John wouldcome to the bedside with a bowl ofsoup.I’m so sorry for everything, June

hadsaid.Several minutes later, a soldier

opens the door to our hospital roomandwalks over tome. It’s the samesoldierwho’drealizedwhoIwasandhad us delivered to this twenty-storyhospital.Shehaltsinfrontofmeandgives me a quick bow. Like I’m an

officer or something. Just assurprising is the fact that she’s theonly soldier in the room with us.These guys must not see me andJune as threats. No handcuffs, noteven a guard to watch our door. Dothey know that we’re the ones whobotched the Elector’s assassination?If they’re sponsoring the Patriots,they’re bound to find out sooner orlater. Maybe they don’t know weworked for the Patriots at all. Razorhadaddedusfairlylateinthegame.“Your friend is stable, I presume?”

Her eyes rest on June. I just nod.Best if no one here figures out thatJune is the Republic’s belovedprodigy. “Given her condition,” the

soldieradds,“she’llneedtostayhereuntil she’s well enough to movearound on her own. You’re welcometo stay with her in here, or DesConCorpwould be happy to sponsor anadditionalroomforyou.”DesConCorp—moreColonieslingo

Idon’tunderstand.But farbe it frommetostartquestioningthesourceoftheirgenerosity.IfI’mfamousenoughover here to get star treatment in ahospital, then I’ll take it for all it’sworth. “Thanks,” I reply. “I’m finestayinginhere.”“We’llhaveanextrabedbrought in

for you,” she says,motioning towardtheroom’semptyspace.“We’llcomecheckonyouagaininthemorning.”

I go back to my vigil over June.Whentheguarddoesn’t leave,I lookup at her and raise my eyebrows.Sheturnsred.“AnythingelseIcandoforyou?”She shrugs it off and tries to look

nonchalant. “No. I just . . .so,you’reDanielAltanWing,eh?”Shesaysmyname like she’s trying it on for size.“EvergreenEntkeepsprintingstoriesaboutyouintheirtabs.TheRepublicRebel,thePhantom,theWildCard—they probably come up with a newname and photo for you every day.Say you escaped a Los Angelesprison all by yourself. Hey, did youreallydatethatsingerLincoln?”Theideaisso ludicrousthat Ihave

tolaugh.Ididn’tknowColonianskeptup with the Republic’s government-appointed propaganda singers.“Lincoln’salittleoldforme,don’tyouthink?”My laugh breaks the tension, and

the soldier laughs along with me.“Well, this week you are. Last weekEvergreen Ent reported that you’ddodgedallthebulletsfromaRepublicfiring squad and escaped yourexecution.” The soldier goes back tolaughingagain,butIfallsilent.No, I didn’t dodge any bullets. I let

myolderbrothertakethemforme.The soldier’s laugh trickles away

awkwardly when she sees myexpression.Sheclearsherthroat.“As

forthattunnelyoutwocamethrough,we’ve sealed it up. Third one we’vesealed in a month. Every now andthen Republic refugees come in justlike you did, you know, and thepeople living in Tribune have gottenreally tired of dealing with them. Noone likes civilians from an enemyterritorysuddenlytakingupresidencein one’s hometown. We usually endup kicking them back over thewarfront. You’re a lucky one.” Thesoldiersighs.“Backintheday,thisallused to be the United States ofAmerica.Youknowthat,yes?”My quarter pendant suddenly feels

heavyaroundmyneck.“Iknow.”“Well, do you know about the

floods? Came fast, in less than twoyears,andwipedouthalfof the low-lying south. Places Reps like youhave probably never even heard of.Louisiana, gone. Florida, Georgia,Alabama, Mississippi, Carolinas,gone.Sofastyou’dsweartheyneverexisted in the first place, at least ifyou couldn’t still see some of theirbuildings peeking out far off in theocean.”“And that’s why you guys came

here?”“More land in the west. You have

any idea how many refugees therewere? Then the west built a wall tokeep the easterners fromovercrowding their states, from the

top of the Dakotas down throughTexas.”Thesoldierslamsonefistintothe palm of her other hand. “So wehad to build tunnels to get in. Thereused to be thousands of them backwhen the migration was at its peak.Then the war started. When theRepublicstartedusing the tunnels tolaunch surprise assaults on us, wesealed them all off. The war’s beengoingonforsolongthatmostpeopledon’t even remember that the fight’saboutland.Butwhenthefloodwatersfinally settled, things over herestabilized. And we became theColonies of America.” She says thiswith her chest puffed out. “This warwon’t go on for much longer—we’ve

beenwinningforawhilenow.”I remember Kaede telling me that

the Colonies were winning the warwhenwefirsttoucheddowninLamar.Ihadn’tthoughttoomuchofitthen—after all, what’s one person’sassumption? Rumor? But now thissoldier’ssayingitlikeit’sthetruth.Bothofuspauseasthecommotion

outside the building gets louder. I tiltmyhead.Therehavebeencrowdsofpeople coming and going from thehospitaleversincewegothere,butIhadn’t thoughtabout it.Now I think Ihearmyname. “Doyouknowwhat’sgoing on out there?” I ask. “Canwemovemyfriendtoaquieterroom?”Thesoldiercrossesherarms.“Want

to see all the commotion foryourself?”Shegesturesformetogetupandfollowher.Theshoutingoutsidehasreacheda

thunderous pitch. When the soldierswingsthebalcony’sdoorsopenandleads us out into the night air, I’mgreeted by a gust of icy wind and ahuge chorus of cheers. Flashinglightsblindme—forasecondallIcando is stand there against the metalrailings and take in the scene. It’ssome insanely latehourof thenight,buttheremustbehundredsofpeoplebelow our window, oblivious to thesnow-packedground.Alloftheireyesare turned up to me. Many of themhold up homemade signs.Welcome

toourside!onesays.ThePhantomLives,saysanother.Take Down the Republic, says a

third.Therearedozensofthem.Day:Our Honorary Colonian!Welcome toTribune, Day! Our home is yourhome!TheyknowwhoIam.Now the soldier points at me and

smiles for the crowd. “This is Day,”sheshouts.Another eruption of cheers. I stay

frozen where I am. What’re yousupposed to do when a bunch ofpeople are yelling your name likethey’recompletelycracked?Ihavenogoddy clue. So I raisemy hand andwave,whichbrings their shrieks toa

higherpitch.“You’reacelebrityhere,”thesoldier

says to me over the noise. Sheseemstobemuchmoreinterestedinthis than I am. “The one rebel theRepublic can’t seem to get theirhands on. Trust me, you’ll beplastered all over the tabs bymorning.EvergreenEntisgoingtobedyingtointerviewyou.”She keeps talking, but I’m not

payingattentiontoheranymore.Oneof the people holding up signs hascaughtmyattention. It’sagirlwithascarfwrappedaroundhermouthandahoodiecoveringpartofherface.ButIcantellit’sKaede.Myheadfeels light. InstantlyI think

backon theblinking redalarmdownin the bunker, warning June andmeofsomeoneapproachingthehideout.IrecallthepersonIthoughthadbeenfollowing us down the Colonies’streets. Was it Kaede? Does thatmean that other Patriots are heretoo? She’s holding up a sign that’salmostlostintheseaofothers.Thesignsays:Youhavetogoback.

Now.

I’M DREAMING AGAIN. I’M SURE OF ITBECAUSEMETIASishere,andIknowhe’ssupposedtobedead.ThistimeI’mreadyfor it, and I keep a tight rein on myemotions.

MetiasandIarewalkinginthestreetsof Pierra. All around us, Republicsoldiers run around rubble andexplosions, but to the two of us,everything seems quiet and slow, likewe’rewatchingamovieinextremeslowmotion. Showers of dirt and shrapnelfrom grenades bounce harmlessly off ofus. I feel invincible,or invisible.Oneor

theother,maybeboth.“Something’sjustnotrighthere,”Isay

to my brother. My eyes go up to theroofs, then back down to the chaoticstreets.WhereisAnden?

Metias gives me a thoughtful frown.Hewalkswithhishandsbehindhisback,gracefulas any captain ought to be, andthe gold tassels on his uniform clinksoftlytogetherashegoes.“Icantellthisscene is bothering you,” he replies,scratchingat thefaintscruffonhischin.Unlike Thomas, he’d always been a bitlax about the military’s grooming rules.“Talktome.”

“This scene,” I say, pointing aroundus.“Thiswholeplan.Something’soff.”

Metias steps over a pile of concrete

rubble.“What’soff?”“Him.” I point up to the roof. For

some reason, Razor is standing there inplain sight,watching everythinghappen.His arms are crossed. “Something’s notrightabouthim.”

“Well,Junebug,reasonitout,”Metiassays.

Icountoffonmyfingers.“WhenIgotinto the jeep behind the Elector’s, thedrivers’ instructions were clear. TheElector told them to take me to thehospital.”

“Andthen?”“AndthenRazororderedthedriversto

take the assassination route anyway. Hecompletely ignored the Elector’scommand.Hemust’ve toldAnden that I

insistedontheassassinationroute.It’stheonlywayAndenwould’vegonewithit.”

Metias shrugs. “What does it mean?That Razor simply wanted to force theassassinationthrough?”

“No. If the assassination happened,everyone would know who ignored theElector’s order. Everyone would knowthatRazorwas the onewhoordered thejeepsforward.”IgrabMetias’sarm.“TheRepublicwouldknow thatRazor tried tokillAnden.”

Metias tightens his lips. “WhywouldRazor put himself in such obviousdanger?Whatelsewasstrange?”

Iturnbacktothestreet’sslow-movingchaos. “Well, right from the beginning,he was able to bring Patriots into his

Vegas officer quarters so easily. He gothisPatriotsonandoffthatairshipasifitwerenothing.It’slikehehassuperhumanabilitiestohideout.”

“Maybehedoes,”Metiassays.“Afterall, he has theColonies sponsoring him,doesn’the?”

“That’strue.”Irunahandthroughmyhairinfrustration.Inthisdreamstate,myfingers are numb and I can’t feel thestrands running against my skin. “Itdoesn’t make sense. They should havecalled off the assassination. Razorshouldn’thavegonethroughwithitatall,not after I disrupted it. They would’vegone back to their quarters, thoughtthingsthroughagain,andthenattemptedanotherstrike.Maybeinamonthortwo.

WhywouldRazorputhispositionatriskif the assassination was in danger offailing?”

Metias watches as a Republic soldierrunspastus.ThesoldiertiltshisheadupatRazorstandingontheroofandsalutes.

“If the Colonies are behind thePatriots,” my brother says, “and theyknow who Day is, shouldn’t you bothhave been taken straight to talk withwhomeverisincharge?”

I shrug. I think back on the time IspentwithAnden.His radicalnewlaws,his new way of thinking. Then Irememberhis tensionwithCongressandtheSenators.

And that’s when the dream breaksapart. My eyes snap open. I’ve figured

outwhyRazorbothersmesomuch.TheColoniesaren’t sponsoringRazor

—infact,theColonieshavenoideawhatthePatriots are up to.That’swhyRazorwent aheadwith the plan—of course hehad no fear of the Republic finding outthatheworkedforthePatriots.

The Republic had hired Razor toassassinateAnden.

AFTER THE SOLDIER AND I LEFTTHE BALCONY AND the throng ofpeople outside our hospital room, Imade sure guards stood outside ourdoor(“Incaseanyfanscomebargingin,” the soldier said before she left),then requested extra blankets andmedicineforJune.Ididn’twanttogetupandseeKaedestillstandingbelowthe balcony. Gradually, the shoutsoutside started to die down.Eventually, everything sank intosilence.Nowwe’recompletelyalone,except for the guards standing

outsideourdoor.Everything’sreadytogo,butIstand

unmovingat June’sbedside.There’snothing in here I can make into aweapon, so if we really do need tomake a run for it tonight, all we canhopeforisthatwewon’thavetofightanyone.Thatnoonewillnoticewe’regoneuntilmorning.I get up and walk to the balcony.

The snow on the ground below iscompletely trampled and dark withthe dirt of boots. Kaede isn’t thereanymore, of course. I soak in theColonies landscape for a while,puzzling once again over Kaede’ssign.WhywouldKaede tellme to return

to theRepublic? Isshe trying to trapmeorwarnme?Then again—if shewanted to hurt us, why did she hitBaxterandletusgoinPierra?She’deven urged us to escape before theotherPatriotscouldgettous.IturntoJune, who’s still sleeping. Herbreathing ismoreevennow,and theflush on her cheeks is lesspronouncedthanitwasseveralhoursago.Still,Idon’tdaredisturbher.Moreminutesdragby.Iwaittosee

if Kaede will try again. After thedizzying speed of everything that’shappenedtous,I’mnotusedtobeingstuckhere like this.Suddenly there’stoomuchtime.A thud sounds out against the

balcony doors. I jump to my feet.Maybeabranchbrokeoffatree,orashingle fell from the roof. Iwaitnow,alert. Nothing happens for a while.Thenthere’sanotherthudagainsttheglass.IgetupfromJune’sbed,walkover

to the balcony doors, and carefullypeekoutthroughtheglass.Noone’sthere. My eyes skip to the balconyfloor. There, in plain sight, are twosmall rocks—onewith a note tied toit.I unlock the balcony door, slide it

opena little, andgrab the note fromthe rock. Then I lock the door againandopenthenoteup.Thewordsarehastilyscrawled.

Come outside. I’m alone. Emergency.Heretohelp.Wehavetotalk.—K

Emergency. Icrumple thenote inmyhand. What does she think is anemergency? Isn’t everything anemergency right now? She hadhelped us escape—but that doesn’tmeanI’mreadytotrusther.Not a minute has passed before a

third rockhits thedoor.This time, itsmessagereads:

If you don’t talk to me now, you’regonnaregretit.—K

My temper rises at the threat.Kaede does have the power to turnus in for messing up the Patriots’

plans. I stay where I am, rereadingthenoteinmyhands.Maybe just fora fewminutes, I tellmyself.That’s it.Just longenoughtoseewhatKaedewants.ThenI’mcomingbackinside.Igrabmycoat,takeadeepbreath,

and step back over to the balconydoors. My fingers quietly undo thelatch. A cold wind hits my face as Isneak out onto the balcony, crouchlow,lockthebalconydoors,andpushthem closed. If anyone’s going tobreakintohurtJune,they’regoingtohave to make enough noise to alertthe guards outside. I leap down thesideofthebalcony,twistaround,andgrabontotheledgewithmyhands.Ilowermyself down until I’m dangling

halfwaybetweenthefirstandsecondfloors.ThenIletgo.My boots land in powdered snow

withasoftcrunch.Itakealastlookatthe second floor ledge, memorizewhere thishospitalbuilding ison thestreet,thentuckmyhairintomycoatandflattenmyselfagainstthewall.Thestreetsareemptyandsilentat

thishour.IwaitagainstthesideofthebuildingforaminutebeforeIstepout.Come on, Kaede. My breath comesoutinshortburstsofsteam.Myeyesscourthenooksandcranniesaroundme, checking for danger. But I’m allalone.You wanted me to meet yououthere?Well,I’mhere.“Talk to me,” I whisper under my

breath as I walk alongside thebuilding. My eyes search for streetpatrols,butnoone’southere.Suddenly I pause.There’s a subtle

shadow crouched in one of thenearbyalleys.Itenseup.“Comeout,”Iwhisper loudenoughforthepersontohearme.“Iknowyou’rethere.”Kaede materializes out of the

shadows,thenwavesmeover.“Walkwithme,”shewhispersback.“Hurry.”She scurries off into a narrow alleyhidden behind a row of snow-ladenbushes. We go down the alleywayuntil it crosses a wider street, whichKaedeturnsontosharply.Ihurryafterher. My eyes search every corner. Igauge all the spots where I can

shimmy up to a higher floor in caseanyone tries to takeme by surprise.Everyhaironmyneckstandsonend,rigidwithtension.Kaede gradually slows her walk

until we’re side by side. She’swearing the same pants and bootsthat she had on during the attemptearlier in the day, but has switchedouthermilitaryjacketforawoolcloakandscarf.Herfaceisscrubbedcleanoftheblackstripe.“Allright,befastaboutthis,”Isayto

her.“Idon’twanttoleaveJunefortoolong. What are you doing here?” Imake sure to keep a good distancebetweenus,just incaseshedecidesto get happy with a knife or

something.Wedoseemtobealone,I’llgiveherthatmuch,butIstillmakesurewestayonamainstreetwhereIcan get away if I need to. A fewColonies workers hurry past us,aglowfromthe lightsofbuildingads.Kaede’s eyes glitter with near-franticanxiety, a look that’s completelyforeignonherface.“I couldn’t climb up to your room,”

she says. The scarf around hermouth muffles her words, and shepushes it down impatiently. “Damnguards would hear me. That’s whyyou’re the Runner, not me. I swearthat I’m not here to harm yourpreciousJune.Ifshe’sjustbyherselfup there, she’s gonna be fine. We’ll

bequick.”“Didyoufollowusdownthroughthe

tunnel?”Kaede nods. “Managed to clear

enough rubble away to squeezethrough.”“Wherearetheothers?”She pulls her gloves on tighter,

blows warm air on her hands, andmuttersindisgustabout theweather.“They’renothere.Justme. Ineededtowarnyou.”A sick feeling rises inmy stomach.

“Aboutwhat?IsitTess?”Kaede stops what she’s doing to

poke me hard in the ribs.“Assassination was botched.” Sheholds up two hands before I can

interrupt. “Yeah, yeah, I know you’realreadyawareofthis.AlotofPatriotshave been arrested. Some of themgotawaytoo—ourTessdid,at least.She ranwitha fewofourPilotsandRunners. Pascao and Baxter too.” Ispitoutacurse.Tess.Ifeelasuddencompulsion to chase her, to makesure she’s safe—and then Iremember the last thing she said tome. Kaede plunges on as wecontinuetowalk.“Idon’tknowwherethey are now. But here’s what youdon’t know. I didn’t even know, untilyou and June stopped theassassination. Jordan—the Runnergirl, you remember, right?—uncovered all this info from a comp

driveandhanded itoff tooneofourHackers.” She takes a deep breath,stops,andturnsherheaddowntotheground. Her voice’s usual strengthfades. “Day, Razor played all of us.He lied to the Patriots, then handedthemovertotheRepublic.”Ihaltinmywalk.“What?”“Razor told us that the Colonies

hiredustokilltheElectorandstartarevolution,” Kaede says. “But that’snottrue.Foundoutonthedayoftheassassination that the Republic’sSenate is sponsoring the Patriots.”She shakes her head. “Do youbelieve that?TheRepublic hired thePatriotstoassassinateAnden.”I’m silent. Stunned. June’s words

echo inmymind,howshe’d toldmethat Congress dislikes their newElector, how she thought Razor waslying. The things he’s told us don’taddup,she’dsaid.“Blindsided all of us—except for

Razor,” Kaede says when I don’trespond. We start walking again.“The Senators want Anden dead.They figured they could use us andpintheblameonustoo.”My blood is racing so fast I can

barely hear myself speak. “WhywouldRazorsellout thePatriots likethat?Hasn’thebeenwith themforadecade?AndIthoughtCongresswastryingnottocausearevolution.”Kaede slumps her shoulders and

lets out a breath of steam. “He gotcaught working for the Patriots acouple of years ago. So he made adeal with Congress: He leads thePatriots intokillingAnden, theyoungrevolutionary spitfire, and Congressforgets about his traitorous ties. Attheendofitall,RazorgetstobethenewElector—andwithyouandJuneworkingforhim,hecomesofflikethepeople’s hero or something. Thepublic would think that the Patriotstook over the government, when it’sreally only the Republic all overagain.Razordoesn’twanttheUnitedStates tobe restored—he justwantsto preserve himself. And he’ll joinwhatever side’s most convenient to

achievethat.”I close my eyes. My world is

spinning. Hadn’t June warned meaboutRazor?All this time, I’ve beenworking for the Republic’s Senators.They’re the ones who want Andendead. No wonder the Colonies don’tseem to have any idea what thePatriots are up to. Then I open myeyes. “But they failed,” I say. “Andenisstillalive.”“Andenisstillalive,”Kaederepeats.

“Thankfully.”IshouldhavetrustedJuneallalong.

My anger toward the young Electorshuddersand trembles,growsweak.Does thismean . . . that he actuallydidreleaseEden?Ismybrother free

andsafe? IstudyKaede. “Youcameall the way here to tell me that?” Iwhisper.“Yup.Knowwhy?”Sheleanscloser,

until her nose is almost touchingmine.“Andenisabouttolosehisgripon the country. The people are thisclose to revolting against him.” Sheholds two fingers close together. “Ifhe falls, we’re gonna have a lot oftrouble stopping Razor from takingover the Republic. Right now,Anden’s fighting for control of themilitarywhileRazorandCommanderJamesonaretryingtowrestleitawayfromhim.Thegovernment’sabouttosplitintwo.”“Wait—Commander Jameson?” I

ask.“There was a chat transcript

recorded between her andRazor onthat compdrive.Remember how weran into her on board the RSDynasty?” Kaede replies. “Razormade it sound like he had no ideashe’dbethere.But I thinkshetotallyrecognizedyou.Shemust’vewantedto see you with her own eyes. Toknow that you were truly a part ofRazor’s plans.” Kaede grimaces. “Ishould’vesensedsomethingoffaboutRazor.IwaswrongaboutAndentoo.”“Whydoyoucarewhathappens to

theRepublic?” Isay.Thewindwhipssnow flurries up from the street,echoing the coldness in my words.

“Andwhynow?”“I was in it for themoney—I admit

that.” Kaede shakes her head andsetshermouthinatightline.“Butfirstof all—I didn’t get paid, because theplan didn’t go off. Second, I didn’tsign up to destroy the country, tohand all theRepublic’s civilians rightbacktoanothergoddyElector.”Thenshetrailsoffa little,andhereyesgomisty.“Idon’tknow...maybeIwashopingthatthePatriotscouldgivemea nobler goal than making money.Joining these two cracked nationsback together. That would’ve beennice.”The winter wind stings my face.

Kaede doesn’t need to tell me why

shecameallthewayheretogetme.After hearing this, I know why. IrememberwhatTesssaidtomebackin Lamar.They’re all looking to you,Day. They’re waiting for your nextmove.Imightbetheonlypersonwhocan save Anden now. I am the onlypersonthattheRepublic’speoplewilllistento.We fall silent and sink farther into

the shadows as a pair of Coloniespolice guards rush by. Snow fliesunderneath their boots. I watch untilthey disappear down the last alleywe’d come through.Where are theygoing?WhenKaedejustcontinueswalking

with her scarf covering her mouth

again, I say, “What about theColonies?”“What about them?” she mutters

throughfabric.“What about letting the Republic

collapseandtheColoniestakeover?Whataboutthatidea?”“It was never about letting the

Colonieswin. ThePatriots areaboutre-creating the United States.However that can be accomplished.”Kaedepauses,thenmotionsforustoturndownadifferentstreet.Wewalktwomoreblocksbeforeshestopsusin front of an enormous row ofdilapidatedbuildings.“What’s this?” IaskKaede,butshe

doesn’t respond. I turn back to the

buildinginfrontofme.It’saboutthirtyor so stories tall, but stretchesunbroken for several city blocks.Every few dozen yards, tiny, darkentrances are carved into thecompound’sbottomfloor.Waterdripsfrom the sides, from windows anddecayingbalconies,carvinguglylinesoffungusintothewalls.Thestructurestretches on down the street fromwherewestand—fromtheskyitmustlooklikeagiganticblackcinderblock.Igapeatit.Afterseeingthelightsof

the Colonies’ skyscrapers, it’sshockingto know that a building likethis exists over here. I’ve seenabandonedRepublic complexes thatlook better than this. The windows

and corridors are squeezed soclosely together that no light couldpossibly get down to the bottom. Ipeer inside one of the blackentrances.Darkness, nothing. The sound of

dripping water and faint footstepsechoes from inside.Nowand then, Isee a flickering light go by, as ifsomeone’s in there with a lantern. Ipeer up at the higher floors.Most ofthe windows are cracked andshattered, or missing altogether.Some of them have plastic tapedacross the opening.Old pots on thebalconies catch dripping water, andseveralhavelinesoftatteredclothinghanging off the ledges. There must

be people living in there. But thethoughtmakesmeshiver.Ilookbackonce at the glittering skyscrapers onthe block right behind us, thenforward at this rotting cementstructure.Acommotionattheendofthestreet

catchesourattention. I tearmyeyesaway from the compound. A blockdown, there’s a middle-aged womanin men’s boots and a shabby coatpleadingatthetopofherlungswithapair ofmendressed in heavyplasticgear.Bothhaveclearvisorscoveringtheir faces and large, wide-brimmedhatsontheirheads.“Watch,”Kaedewhispers.Thenshe

drags us into one of the dark

entrancesbetween twodoorson thecompound’s ground level. We leanourheadsslightlysothatwecanhearwhat’sgoingon.Eventhoughthey’refairly far away, the woman’s voicecarries clearly across the quiet, icyair.“—just missed one payment this

year,”thewoman’ssaying.“Icanrunto thebank first thing in themorningand give you as many Notes as Ihave—”One of the men interrupts her.

“DesCon policy, ma’am. We cannotinvestigatecrimesforcustomerswhohavebeendelinquentonpaymentstotheirlocalpolice.”Thewomanisintears,wringingher

hands so hard that I feel like she’sgoingtorubherskinrightoff. “Theremustbesomethingyoucando,”shesays. “Something I can give you oranotherpolicedepartmentI—”The secondman shakes his head.

“All police departments shareDesCon’s policy. Who’s youremployer?”“Cloud Corp,” the woman says

hopefully. As if this info mightpersuadethemtohelpher.“Cloud Corp discourages its

workers from being out past elevenP.M.”Henodsupatthecompound.“Ifyou don’t return to your home,DesConCorpwillreportyoutoCloudandyoumightloseyourjob.”

“But they’ve stolen everything Ihave!” The woman breaks into loudsobs. “My door is completely—completelybashedin—allofmyfoodand clothesare gone.Themenwhodid it live onmy floor—if you pleasecomewithme,youcancatchthem—Iknowwhichapartmenttheylivein—”The two men have already started

walkingaway.Thewomanscampersbehind them, begging for help, evenastheykeepignoringher.“But my home—if you don’t do

something—how will I—” she keepssaying. The men repeat theirwarningstoreporther.After they’re gone, I turn back to

Kaede.“Whatwasthat?”

“Wasn’t it obvious?” Kaede repliessarcasticallyaswestepout fromthebuilding’sdarknessandbackintothestreet.We’re quiet. Finally, Kaede says,

“The working class gets shaftedeverywhere, don’t they? My point isthis:TheColoniesarebetterthantheRepublicinsomeways.Butbelieveitor not, the reverse is also true. Nosuchthingasthestupidutopiayou’vebeen fantasizingabout,Day.Doesn’texist.Therewasnopointtryingtotellyou that before. It’s just somethingyouhadtoseeforyourself.”We start heading back to the

hospital.TwomoreColoniessoldiershurry past us, neither of them

bothering to take us in. A millionthoughts whirl through my head. Myfathermustneverhavesetfootinsidethe Colonies—or if he did, he onlyskimmed the surface of it, the wayJuneandIhadwhenwefirstarrived.Alumprisesinmythroat.“Doyou trustAnden?” Isayaftera

moment. “Is heworth saving? Is theRepublicworthsaving?”Kaede makes several more turns.

Finally,shestopsnexttoashopwithminiaturescreensinitswindow,eachone broadcasting different Coloniesprogramming. Kaede guides us intothestore’stinysidestreet,wherethedarkness of the night swallows us.She pauses to motion at the

broadcasting screens inside thestore.Irememberpassingashoplikethis on our way into the city. “TheColoniesalwaysshownewssnatchedfrom Republic airwaves,” she says.“They have a whole channel for it.This news bite has been on repeateversincethefailedassassination.”My eyes wander over to the

headlinesonthemonitor.AtfirstIjuststare blankly, lost in my churningthoughts about the Patriots, but amoment later I realize that thebroadcast isn’t about warfrontskirmishes or Colonies news, butabouttheRepublic’sElector.Asurgeofdislikeinstinctivelycoursesthroughme at the sight of Anden on the

screen.Istraintohearthenewscast,wondering how differently theColonies would interpret the sameevents.A caption runs under Anden’s

recorded address. I read it indisbelief.ELECTORFREESYOUNGERBROTHEROF

NOTORIOUS REBEL “DAY”; TO ADDRESSPUBLIC TOMORROW FROM CAPITOL

TOWER.

“Asof today,” theElector says inaprerecorded video, “Eden BataarWing is officially freed from militaryservice and, as thanks for hiscontributions,exempt fromtheTrials.Allothersbeingtransportedalongthewarfront have been released to their

familiesaswell.”Ihavetorubmyeyesandreadthe

captionsagain.They’re still there. The Elector has

freedEden.Suddenly I can’t feel the cold air

anymore. I can’t feel anything. Mylegsfeelweak.Mybreathkeepstimewiththehammeringofmyheart.Thiscan’tberight.TheElectorisprobablyannouncing this publicly so he canlure me back into the Republic andintohisservice.He’stryingtotrickmeandmakehimself lookgood.There’snowayhewould’vereleasedEden—andalltheothers,theboyI’dseenonthe train—of his own accord. Nopossibleway.

No possible way? Even aftereverything June had told me, evenafter what Kaede just said? Evennow, I don’t trust Anden? What’swrongwithme?Then, as I continue watching, the

Elector’s recorded address makesway foravideoshowingEden beingescorted out of a courthouse,shackle-free and dressed in clothesthatusuallybelongonthechildofanelitefamily.His blond curls areneatly brushed.

He searches the streets with blindeyes, but he’s smiling. I push myhand deeper into the snow in anattempttosteadymyself.Edenlookshealthy,welltakencareof.Whenwas

thisfilmed?Anden’snewscast finally ends, and

now the video shows footage of thefailed assassination attempt followedby a reel of warfront battles. ThecaptionsarewildlydifferentfromwhatI’dseeintheRepublic.FAILED ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT ON

REPUBLIC’S NEW ELECTOR PRIMO, THELATESTSIGNOFUNRESTINREPUBLIC

The caption is wrapped up by asmaller line in the corner of thescreen that says THIS BROADCAST

BROUGHT TO YOU BY EVERGREEN ENT.The now-familiar circular symbol isbesideit.“Make up your own mind about

Anden,”Kaedemutters.Shestopsto

wipesnowflakesoffhereyelashes.I was wrong. The certainty of this

sitsinmystomachlikeadeadweight,arockofguilt forturningsoviciouslyon June when she’d tried to explainall of it to me in the undergroundshelter. The awful things I’d said toher. I think of the strange, unsettlingads I’ve seen here, the crumblingliving quarters of the poor, thedisappointment I feel inknowing thatthe Colonies aren’t the shiningbeacon my father imagined. Hisdreamofglitteringskyscrapersandabetterlifewasjustthat.IremembermydreamofwhatI’ddo

afterallthiswasover...runintotheColonieswith June, Tess, Eden . . .

start a new life, leave the Republicbehind. Maybe I’ve been trying toescape to the wrong place and runawayfromthewrongthings.Ithinkofall the times I clashed with soldiers.The hatred I had for Anden andeveryone who grew up rich. Then IpicturetheslumsthatI’dgrownupin.IdespisetheRepublic,don’tI?Iwanttoseethemcollapse,yeah?Butonlynow do I make the distinction—Idespise the Republic’s laws, but Ilove the Republic itself. I love thepeople. I’mnot justdoing this for theElector;I’mdoingthisforthem.“Are the speakers at the Capitol

Tower still hooked up to theJumboTrons?”IaskKaede.

“As far as I know, yeah,” shereplies. “Withall thecommotionoverthe last forty-eight hours, no one’snoticedthemodifiedwiring.”My eyes go to the rooftops, where

fighter jets lie in wait. “Are you asgoodofapilotasyousay?”Iask.Kaede shrugs her shoulders and

grins.“Better.”Slowly, a plan starts to form inmy

mind.Another pair of Colonies soldiers

runs by. This time, an unsettlingfeelingcreepsdownmyneck.Thesesoldiers, like the last ones, also turndown thealleywe’d come through. Imakesuretherearenomorecoming,then hurry out into the darkness of

thestreet.No,no.Notnow.Kaede follows close behind. “What

is it?” shewhispers. “You just turnedaswhiteasagoddysnowstorm.”I’dleftheraloneandvulnerableina

place I once thought would be oursafehaven.I’dlefthertothewolves.Andifsomethinghappenstohernowbecauseofme...Ibreakintoarun.“I think they’re heading toward thehospital,”Isay.“ForJune.”

I SNAP OUT OF MY DREAM, LIFT MY HEAD,ANDMYEYESsweepthearea.Theillusionof Metias vanishes. I’m in a hospitalroom,andDayisnowheretobeseen.It’sthemiddleof thenight.Hadn’twebeenin here earlier? I have a vaguerecollection of Day at my bedside, andDay stepping out onto the balcony togreet a cheering crowd. Now he’s nothere.Wheredidhego?

It takes me another second, light-headedasIam, tofigureoutwhatwokemeup.Iamnotaloneintheroom.TherearehalfadozenColoniessoldiersinhere.

Atallsoldierwithlongredhairhoistshergunandpointsitatme.

“That’s the one?” she asks, keepingmeinherlineoffire.

An older male soldier nods. “Yup.Didn’tknowDaywashidingaRepublicsoldier.Thisgirl isnoneother thanJuneIparis. The Republic’s most well-knownprodigy. DesCon Corp will be happy.Thisprisoner’sgoingtobeworthalotofmoney.”Hegivesmeacoldsmile.“Now,mydear.TelluswhereDaywent.”

***

Sixteen minutes have passed. Thesoldiers have secured my hands behindmy back with a temporary set of cuffs.Mymouthisgagged.Threeofthemstand

near the room’s open door, while theothers guard the balcony. I groan. Eventhough my fever is gone and my jointsdon’t ache, my head still feels dizzy.(WheredidDaygo?)

One of the soldiers talks into anearpiece. “Yes,” he says. A pause, andthen, “We’re moving her to a cell.DesCon’sgoingtogetalotofgoodinfooutofthisone.We’llsendDayalongforquestioning once we get hold of him.”Anothersoldierisholdingthedooropenwith his boot. They’re waiting for agurney to arrive, I realize, so they cantake me away. That means I probablyhavelessthantwoorthreeminutestogetmyselfoutofthis.

Iclenchdownonmygag,forcedown

my nausea, and swallow. My thoughtsand memories are getting jumbled up. Iblink, wondering if I’m hallucinating.The Patriots are being sponsored by theRepublic.Whydidn’tIseethatearlier?Itwassoobvious,rightfromthebeginning—the elaborate furnishings in theapartment,howeasilyRazorcouldgetusfrom place to place without gettingcaught.

Now I watch the soldier continue totalkintohisearpiece.HowdoIwarnDaynow? He must have left through thebalconydoors—whenhecomesback,I’llbe gone and they’ll be here, ready toquestion him. They might even thinkwe’re Republic spies. I run a fingerrepeatedlyacrossmypaperclipring.

Thepaperclipring.Myfingerstopsmoving.ThenIinchit

gradually off my ring finger behind mybackand try tounfurl itsspiralingmetalwires.Asoldierglancesatme,butIclosemyeyesand letout a softmoanofpainthrough my gag. He returns to hisconversation. I let my fingers run downthespiralingringandpullitstraight.Thepaper clips were twisted six times. Iunfurlthefirsttwo.ThenIstraightenouttherestofthepaperclipandbenditintowhat I hope is a stretched-out Z shape.The movement makes both of my armscramppainfully.

Suddenly one of the balcony soldiersstops talking to check the streets below.He stays like that for a while, his eyes

searching. If he heard Day, Day musthave vanished again. The soldierscrutinizes the roofs, then loses interestandgoesback intohis stance.Far downthe hospital corridor, I hear peopletalking and the unmistakable sound ofwheels against the tiled floor. They’rebringingthegurney.

Ihave tohurry. I insertone, then twoof the bent paper clips into the lock onmycuffs.My arms are killingme, but Idon’t have time to rest them.Gingerly Ipushoneofthewiresaroundinthelock,feelingitscrapeagainstthelock’sinterioruntilitfinallyhitsthetumbler.Itwistthepaperclip,pushingthetumbleraside.

“DesCon’s on their way with somebackup,” one soldier murmurs. As he

saysit,Imovethesecondpaperclipandhearthepininthelockgiveatiny,almostimperceptible click. Two soldiers and anurse wheel the gurney into my room,stop for a moment inside the doorway,then roll it inmydirection.The lockonmychainsopens—Ifeelthecuffscomingoff my hands with a soft clank. Onesoldier fixesmilkyblue eyesonmeandpulls his thick lips into a frown. Henotices the subtle change in myexpression,andheard theclickingsoundaswell.Hiseyesflicktomyarms.

If I’m going to make a break for it,now’smyonlychance.

SuddenlyItwisttothesideofthebedand jump off. The chains fall back intothe bed and my feet hit the floor.

Dizzinesshitsmelikeawallofwater,butI manage to keep it at bay. The soldierwith his gun pointed atme shouts out awarning,buthe’s too slow. I kickout atthe gurney as hard as I can—it topplesover, taking down one soldier with it.Another soldier grabs atme, but I duckandmanage to slipoutofhisgrasp.Myeyesfocusonthebalcony.

But there are still three soldiersstanding over there. They rush at me. Iavoid twoof them, but the third catchesme around my shoulders and wraps anarmacrossmyneck.Hethrowsmedown,knockingthebreathoutofme.Istrugglefranticallytofreemyself.

“Stay down!” one exclaims, whileanothertriestosnapanewsetofcuffson

mywrists.He lets out a howl as I twistaround and sink my teeth deep into hisarm.

Nogood.I’mcaptured,I’marrested.Suddenly the balcony’s glass door

shatters into a million pieces. Thesoldiers spin around, bewildered.Everything is whirling. In the midst ofshouts and footsteps, I see two peoplebreakingintotheroomfromthebalcony.One’s a girl I recognize.Kaede? I thinkincredulously.

TheotherisDay.Kaedekicksonesoldierintheneck—

Day barrels into the soldier holding medownandknockshimtothefloor.Beforeanyone can react, Day’s up again. Hegrabsmyhandsandyanksmetomyfeet.

Kaede’s already at the balcony ledge.“Don’tshoot them!”Ihearasoldiercallout behind us. “They’re valuableproperty!” Day rushes us onto thebalcony, then leaps onto the railing’sledgeinonebound.HeandKaedetrytopullme upright as two other guards runtowardus.

But I start sinking to my knees. Mysudden burst of energy is no match formylingeringillness—I’mtooweak.Dayjumps back down from the ledge andkneels beside me. Kaede lets out awhoop,tacklingoneofthesoldierstotheground. “See you there!” she yells backat us. Then she rushes inside the roomamid all the confusion, throwing theguardsoff.Iseeherslipoutoftheirgrasp

andvanishdownthecorridor.Day takesmy arms, thenwraps them

aroundhisneck.“Don’tletgo.”Whenhestraightens,ItightenmylegsaroundhimandclingtohisbackashardasIcan.Heclimbs onto the balcony ledge, bootscrunching through broken glass, andleaps onto the outcropping that wrapsaround the second floor. Immediately Iunderstandwherewe’regoing.We’reallheadingfortheroof,wherefighterjetslieinwait.Kaedeistakingthestairs.We’retravelingbyamoredirectroute.

We edge out onto the second-floorledge. Ihangonfordear life.StrandsofDay’s hair brush against my face as hepulls us up to the third floor’soutcropping. I feel his rapid breathing,

his muscles hard against my skin. Twomore floors to go.A soldier attempts tofollowus,decidesagainst it, thenrushesbackinsidetotakethestairs.

Day struggles with his footing as hepullsusuponemorefloor.We’realmostattheroof.Thesoldiersstartspillingoutonto the lawn below. I can see thempointingtheirgunsupatus.Daygritshisteethandsetsmedownontheledge.“Gofirst,”hewhispers,thengivesmeaboost.I grab the top ledge, gather all mystrength,andpull.WhenIfinallymakeitover the edge, I whirl around and grabDay’s hand.He leaps onto the roof too.My eyes go to a streak of dark redstaining his hand. Hemust’ve injured itintheclimb.

I feel so light-headed. “Your hand,” Istarttosay,buthejustshakeshisheadatme,wrapshisarmaroundmywaist,andguidesustowardthenearestofthefighterjetsliningtheroof.Soldiersstartfloodingout of the roof’s entrance door—I get agood look at the one running fastesttowardus.Kaede.

KAEDE WASTES NO TIME. SHEGESTURESTOWARD the fighter jetclosesttousandsprintsuptherampto its cockpit. Shots ring out. Juneleans heavily against me. I can feelher strength fading, so I pick her upandcarryherclosetomychest.Thesoldiers who have reached the roofmove faster once they see whatKaede’s up to. But she’s too farahead of them. I rush us toward theramp.The jet’s engine roars to life aswe

reach the ramp’s first step, and right

belowtheaircraft,twolargeexhaustsslowly tilt downward to face theground. We’re gearing up for astraightshoot intothesky.“Hurrythehell up!” Kaede screams from thecockpit. Then she ducks back out ofviewandspitsoutastringofcurses.“Let me down,” June says. She

hops back onto her own feet,stumbles, and then straightens totakethefirsttwosteps.Istaybehindher, my eyes fixed on the soldiers.They’re almost here. June managesto reach the top of the ramp andclimbintothecockpit.Ihurryhalfwayup the ramp before a soldier grabsmy pant leg and yanks me backdown. Remember balance. Stay on

the balls of your feet. Catch him attherightspots.June’sfightinglessonrushes throughmy head all at once.When the soldier swings at me, Iduckdown,movetohisside,andhithimashardas I can right belowhisribcage.Hecollapsesontooneknee.Liverblow.AnothertwosoldiersreachmeandI

brace myself. But then one of themshrieks,fallingbackwardofftherampwithabulletwound tohisshoulder. Iglance up at the cockpit. June hasKaede’sgunand is takingaimat thesoldiers. I turnback to thestepsandhop up to the top, where June’salready buckled in the middle seatrightbehindKaede.“Getin,already!”

Kaede snaps. The engines let outanotherhigh-pitchedroar.Behindme,severalguardshavestartedclimbingupthefirstfewsteps.I leap onto the metal railing lining

theedgeoftheramp,grabthesideofthe cockpit, and push with all mystrength. The ramp teeters for asecond—then starts toppling over.Soldiers shout warnings and flingthemselves out of the way. By thetime it smashes onto the roof, I’malreadyinthejetandbucklingmyselfinto the last seat. Kaede slides thecockpit shut. I feelmy stomachdropas we shoot straight up off the roofandabovethebuildings.Throughthecockpit’s glass, I can see pilots

rushing into the jets on nearbybuildings as well as the second onesittingonthehospital’sroof.“Damn it all,” Kaede spits out from

the front. “I’m gonna kill them—theygot me in my side.” I feel the jet’sexhausts shift. “Hang on. This isgonnabeawildride.”Westoprising.Theenginesgrowto

a deafening roar. Then we shootforward.Theworld rushes at us andpressureinmyheadbuildsasKaedepushes the jet fasterand faster.Sheletsoutawhoop.AlmostimmediatelyI hear a voice crackling through thecockpit.“Pilot,youareordered to landyour

aircraft immediately.” The speaker

sounds nervous. Must be a jetfollowing us. “We will open fire. Irepeat, land immediately, or we willopenfire.”“Onlyonejetintheairafterus.Let’s

fix that. Suck in your breath, guys.”Kaede turns violently, and I almostblackoutfromthepressurechange.“Allyouallright?”IcallouttoJune.

Shesayssomethingback,butIcan’thearherovertheroaroftheengines.SuddenlyKaedeyanksaknobback

and pushes a lever all the wayforward.Myheadslamsintothesideofthecockpit.Wespinafullhundred-eightydegreesinlessthanasecond.I see a jet flying straight for us at aterrifying speed. Instinctively I throw

myhandsup.EvenJuneyellsout,“Kaede,that—”Kaede opens fire. A shower of

brightlightstreaksfromourjettotheone in frontof us.Theengines yankus forward and up. An explosionsounds behind us—the other jetmust’ve gotten hit in the fuel tank ortaken a shot straight through itscockpit.“They’ll be hard-pressed to tail us

now,” she shouts. “We’re too farahead and they won’t want to crossthe warfront. I’m gonna push thisbaby to its max—we’ll be in theRepublic in a couple of minutes.” Idon’taskhowshe’splanningtopassthrough the warfront without getting

shotdown.When I look through the cockpit at

theColonies’ toweringbuildings, I letout a breath and slump in my seat.Glittering lights, shining skyscrapers,everythingmyfatherhaddescribedtomeon the fewnightsayear thatwewere able to see him. It’s so lovelyfromadistance.“So,” Kaede says, “I’m not just

burningupfuelfornothing,amI?Day—we’restillheadingforDenver?”“Yes,”Ireply.“What’stheplan?”Junestillsounds

weak, but there’s a burning purposebehind it, thesense thatwe’reabouttodosomethingpivotal.Shecan tellthat something has changed inside

me.Ifeelstrangelycalm.“We’reheaded

for the Capitol Tower,” I reply. “I’mgoing to announce my support ofAndentotheRepublic.”

A COUPLE OF MINUTES TO GET INTO THEREPUBLIC’S border. That means, at thespeedwe’regoing(easilymorethaneighthundred miles per hour; we all felt asudden pressure change aswe broke thesound barrier, like being dragged out ofdeepmud), we’re only two dozen or somiles from the warfront and severalhundred from Denver. Day tells meeverything that Kaede shared with him,about the Patriots and the true colors ofRazor, about Eden, then Congress’sdetermination to oust the Elector.EverythingI’ddiscoveredandthensome.

Myheadwasinafogwhenwe’dboltedfrom the room andmade ourway up tothe hospital roof. Now, after the coldoutside air and the speed ofKaede’s airmaneuver, I can calculate details a littlemoreclearly.

“We’re closing in on the warfront,”Kaede says. The instant those wordscomeoutofhermouth,Ihearthedistantsound of explosions. They’re muffled,butwemust be thousands of feet in theairandIcanstillfeeltheshockeachtimethey go off. There’s a sudden lift and Ipress intomy seat. She’s trying to pushthejetashighasitcangosowedon’tgetshotoutof theskybygroundmissiles. Iforce myself to take deep, calmingbreathsaswecontinuetoclimb.Myears

popendlessly.IwatchasKaedefallsintoformation with a squadron of Coloniesjets. “We’re gonna need to break fromthemsoon,”shemutters.There’spain inher voice, probably from her gunshotwound.“Hangtight.”

“Day?”Imanagetocallout.Idon’thearanything,andforasecond

I think he blacked out. Then he replies,“Still here.” He sounds detached, likehe’sfightingtostayconscious.

“Denver’s a few minutes away,”Kaedesays.

Westabilizeagain.WhenIpeeroutofthecockpitdownatthepocketsofcloudsfarbelowus,Icatchmybreath.Airships(easilymore thanahundredandfifty,asfar as the eye can see) dot the sky like

miniaturedaggerssoaringthroughtheair,stretching in lines off into the horizon.The Colonies’ ships all have a distinctgold stripe down the middle of theirrunways thatwecan seeeven fromwayuphere.Notfarinfrontofthemisawidestrip of empty airspace where sparks oflight and smoke fly back and forth, andon the other side are rows of airships Ican recognize: Republic ships, markedwith a bloodred star on the side of eachhull.Jetsareragingindogfightsalloverthe place. We must be a good fivehundred feet above them—but I’m notsureifthat’sasafeenoughdistance.

An alarm on Kaede’s control boardbeeps. A voice rings out in the cockpit.“Pilot,youarenotclearedfor thisarea,”

itsays.(Male,Coloniesaccent.)“This isnot your squadron. You’re ordered tolandonDesConNineimmediately.”

“Negative,” Kaede replies. She pullsourjetupandkeepsclimbing.

“Pilot, you are ordered to land onDesConNineimmediately.”

Kaedeturnsoffhermikeforaninstantand looks back at us. She seems a littletoo happy about our situation. “Goddytalker’sfollowingus,”shesaysinamockauthoritative tone. “We got two hot onour tail.” Then she flips the mike onagain and replies brightly, “Negative,DesCon.I’mgonnashootyououtof thesky.”

The person in the other plane soundsshocked and angry this time. “Change

courseandgetthisone—”Kaede lets out an ear-piercing shout.

“Split the sky, boys!” She rockets usforward and up at blinding speed, thengoes into a spin. Streaks of light shootpast the cockpit window—the two jetstailingusmust’vegottencloseenoughtoopen fire. I feel my stomach drop asKaede goes into a sudden nosedive,killingourengineintheprocess.Wedropat apace that turnsmyvisionblackandwhite.Ifeelmyselffadingaway.

AninstantlaterIjoltawake.Imust’veblackedout.

We’re falling. We’re plummeting totheearth.Theairshipsbelowusgrow insize—itlookslikewe’reheadingstraightat the deck of one of them. No, we’re

goingwaytoofast;we’llbesmashedintopieces.Morestreaksoflightrushpastus.Thejetsfollowingaredivingafterus.

Then, without warning, Kaede firestheenginesagain.They roar to life.Shepullsbackhardonaleverandthewholejet spins in a half circle so the nose isfacing up again. I’m almost sucked intomychairatthesuddenchange.Myvisionblacksoutagain,andthistimeIhavenoidea howmuch time has passed. A fewseconds? Minutes? I realize we’rechargingbackupintothesky.

The other jets zoom down. They’retryingtopullup,butit’stoolate.Behindus, a huge explosion shakes us hard inour seats—the jets must’ve struck thedeck of the airship with the force of a

dozen bombs. Orange-and-yellow firechurnsupwardfromoneof theColoniesships. We’re now zooming across theempty airspace between the twocountries, and Kaede sends us intoanotherspinthatsavesusfromabarrageof fire. We cross the airspace and cutthrough the sky over the Republic’sairships.OneloneColoniesjet,lostinthechaos. I gape at the scene outside,wondering if the Republic is confusedthat the Colonies attacked one of theirownjets. Ifanything, that’swhatboughtus enough time to cross the warfrontspace.

“Bestsplit-Syou’veeverseen,Ibet,”Kaedesayswithalaugh.Itsoundsmorestrainedthanusual.

Not far fromus now are the loomingtowers of Denver and its forbiddingArmor, shrouded in a permanent sea ofsmogandhaze.Behindus,Ihearthefirstsounds of gunfire as Republic jets starttailingusinanattempttoshootusdown.

“How are we going to get inside?”DayshoutsasKaedespinsthejet,sendsamissile backward, and pushes us to gofaster.

“I’llgetusin,”sheshoutsback.“Wecan’tmakeitifwegooverhead,”

I reply. “The Armor has missiles liningeveryside of thatwall. They’ll shoot usdownbeforewe everget across into thecity.”

“Nocity’simpenetrable.”Kaedesendsthe jet lower even as the Republic jets

continuetopursueus.“IknowwhatI’mdoing.”

We’reclosinginfastonDenver.IcanseetheloominggraywallsoftheArmorrising up before us, a barricade likenothing else in the Republic, and theheavy gray pillars (each a hundred feetapart from the next) lining its sides. Iclosemyeyes.Noway—noway—Kaedecan get us over that. A squadron of jetscouldgetover,maybe,andeventhenit’llbealongshot.Ipictureamissilehittingusandourseatsejectingusoutover thecity’sskies,theshotsthey’llfireupatourparachutes,ourbodiesplummetingtotheground. The Armor is close now. Theymust’veseenusapproachingforawhile,andtheirweaponswillbetrainedonus.I

bet they’ve never seen a rogueColoniesjetbefore.

ThenKaededives.Notjustanydive—she’s headed down at almost ninetydegrees, ready to send us smashing intothe earth. Behind me, Day sucks in hisbreath.Thebuildingsbelowrushupatus.She’s lost control of the jet. I know it.We’vebeenhit.

Atthelastsecond,Kaedepullsup.Weskimabove thebuildingsatmachspeed,soclose that the roofs seem like they’regoing to rip thebottom rightoffour jet.Immediately Kaede starts slowing downthe jet, until we’re cruising at a speedbarely fast enough to keep us airborne.SuddenlyIrealizewhatshe’sgoingtodo.It’scompletelystupid.She’snottakingus

overtheArmoratall—she’sgoingtotryto squeeze the jet through the openingthat the trains use to pass in and out ofDenver.Thesametunnels I’dseenwhenI’d taken that train ridewith theElector.Of course. The surface-to-air missilesystemsmountedalongtheArmor’swallaren’t designed to take down anythinglike us from the ground, because theycan’t shoot at such a low angle. Andmachinegunsonthewallaren’tpowerfulenough.ButifKaededoesn’taimexactlyright,we’ll explodeagainst thewall andburstintoflames.We’recloseenoughformetoseesoldiersrunningbackandforthon top of the wall of the Armor. Theircommunicationsmustbeflyingfast.

But itdoesn’tmatter at this rate.One

second theArmor’s severalhundred feetinfrontofus,andthenext,we’rehurtlingtowardthedarkentranceofanopentraintunnel.

“Holdon!”Kaede shouts.Shepushesthejetlower,asifthatwerepossible.Theentrance yawns at us with its gapingmouth.

We’renotgoingtomakeit.Thetunneliswaytoosmall.

Thenwe’re inside, and for an instantthe tunnel’s pitch-black. Bright sparksburst from each end of the jet as thewingstearthroughtheentrance’ssides.Arumbling sound comes from above us.They’re rushing to shut the entrance, Irealize,butthey’retoolate.

Another second.We zoom out of the

entrance and into Denver. Kaede slamsthe jet’s lever the opposite way in anattempttoslowusdownevenmore.

“Pull up, pull up!” Day yells.Buildings zip past us.We’re too low totheground—andheadingstraight for thesideofatallbarrack.

Kaede veers sharply to one side. Wemiss the building by a hair. Thenwe’redown,reallydown.Thejetslamsintotheground and skids, flinging our bodiesforwardhardagainstourseatbelts.Ifeellike my limbs are ripping off. Civiliansand soldiers alike runoutof thewayoneither side of the street. A few sparkscrack the cockpit; it’s random gunfire, Irealize, from shocked soldiers. Crowdsline the roads several blocks away from

us—theygapeatthejetcareeningacrossthepavement.

Wefinallycometoahaltwhenoneofthewingscatches the sideof abuilding,sending us crashing sideways into analley.Ijerkroughlybackagainstmyseat.OurcanopypopsopenbeforeIcanevencatch my breath. I manage to undo myseatbeltandleapdizzilyupontotheedgeofthecockpit.“Kaede.”I’msquintingtoseeherandDaythroughthesmoke.“Wehaveto—”

Mywordsdieonmytongue.Kaede’sslumpedagainstthepilotseat,herbucklestill wrapped around her. Her pilotgoggles sit on top of her head—I guesssheneverevenbothered to put themon.Hereyespointvacantlyatthebuttonson

her control panel. A small bloodstainsoaks the frontofher shirt,not far fromthewound she’d receivedwhenwe firstgot into the jet.One of the stray bulletshadgonestraightthroughthecanopyandinto her when we crash-landed. Kaede,who just minutes ago had seemedinvincible.

Foramoment,I’mfrozen.Thesoundsof chaos aroundmedull, and the smokecoverseverythingexceptmeandKaede’sbodystrappedintothepilotseat.Asmallvoicemanagestoechothroughmymind,penetrating the black-and-white fog ofnumbness, a familiar, pulsing light thatgetsmegoingagain.Move,ittellsme.Now.I tear my eyes away, then search

franticallyforDay.He’snotsittinginthejetanymore.Iscrambleontotheedgeofthewingandslidedownblindlythroughthe smoke and wreckage until I hit theground on my hands and knees. I can’tseeathing.

Then, through the smoke,Day rushesup to me. He pulls me to my feet. I’msuddenly reminded of the first time I’dever seen him, materializing out ofnothingnesswithhisblueeyesanddust-streakedface,holdingouthishandtome.His face is slashed with agony. Hemust’veseenKaedetoo.

“There you are—I thought you’dalready gotten out,” he whispers as westumble through the jet’s wreckage.“Makeforthecrowd.”Mylegsache.Our

crash landingmusthavegivenmehead-to-toebruises.

We pause underneath one of thewrecked wings just as the first soldiersrush to the jet. Half of them form amakeshift barrier to keep civilians out,their backs turned to us. Other soldiersshinelightsacrossthesmokeandtwistedmetal, scanning for survivors. One ofthemmust’ve spottedKaede because heshouts something at the others andmotions themover.“It’saColonies jet,”he shouts, sounding incredulous. “A jetmade it past the Armor and right intoDenver.”We’re temporarilyhidden fromview under thiswing, but they’ll see usany second now. The makeshift soldierbarricadeseparatesusfromthecrowds.

Allaroundusand throughout thecityare thesoundsofbreakingglass, roaringfires, screaming, chanting people—onlythose closest to our jet’swreckage seemto realize that a Colonies jet crashed atall. I glance atwhere theCapitolTowerlooms. Anden’s voice is ringing fromeverycityblockand fromevery speaker—a live feed of his image must bebroadcasting to every JumboTron in thecity . . . and in the nation. I look on asseveral furious rioters fling Molotovcocktailsatthesoldiers.Thepeoplehaveno idea that Congress is sitting back,waitingfortheirangertospillenoughtoput Razor in Anden’s place. There’s noway Anden will be able to calm thiscrowd. I imagine the same protests

sparking up across the country, in everystreet and city. If the Patriots hadsucceeded in publicly broadcasting theElector’sdeathfromtheCapitolTower’sspeakers, therewould alreadyhavebeenarevolution.

“Now,”Daysays.We rush out from under the wing,

taking the soldier barricade completelyoffguard.Beforeanyofthemcangraborshoot at us,we’re through, ducking intothecrowdandmeltinginwiththepeople.Instantly Day lowers his head and pullsusthroughthethickpocketsofarmsandlegs.Hishandisclenchedfiercelyaroundmine.My breath comes out ragged andforced,butIrefusetoslowusdownnow.Ipushon.Peopleshoutinsurpriseaswe

barrelthrough.Behindus,thesoldiersraisethealarm.

“There!”oneyells.Afewshotsringout.They’reafterus.

We barrel ahead through the crowd.NowandthenIhearpeopleexclaim,“Isthat Day?” “Did Day come back in aColoniesjet?”WhenIglancebehindus,Icantellthathalfthesoldiersareheadingthe wrong way, unable to tell whichdirectionwetook.Acoupleofothersarestillhotonour trail.We’re only a blockawayfromtheCapitolTowernow,buttome it seems like miles. Occasionally, Igetaglimpseofitthroughallthebodiespushing and shoving around. TheJumboTrons show Anden standing on abalcony, a tiny, lone figure dressed in

blackandred,holdinghishandsoutinagestureofappeal.HeneedsDay’shelp.Behindus, four soldiers aregradually

catchingup.Thechasesapsawaythelastofmystrength.I’mpanting,strugglingtobreathe.Day isalreadyslowingdown tokeep pace with me, but I can tell we’llnevermake it at this rate. I squeeze hishandandshakemyhead.

“You have to go ahead,” I tell Dayfirmly.

“You’re cracked.” He purses his lipsand pulls us forward faster. “We’realmostthere.”“No.” I lean closer to him as we

continue to make our way through thepeople.“This isouroneshot.Neitherof

us will make it if I keep slowing usdown.”

Day hesitates, torn. We’ve alreadybeen separated once before—now he’swondering if letting me go means he’llnever see me again. But we don’t havetimeforhimtodwellonthis.“Ican’trunfast, but I can hide in the crowd. Trustme.”

Without warning, he grabs my waist,pullsmeintoatightembrace,andkissesmehardonthelips.They’reburninghot.Ikisshimbackfiercelyandrunmyhandsalong his back. “I’m sorry I didn’tbelieve you,” he breathes. “Hide, staysafe. See you soon.” Then he squeezesmyhandandvanishes.Isuckinabreathoficycoldair.Moveit,June.Notimeto

waste.I stop where I am, turn around, and

crouch down right as the soldiers reachme. The first one doesn’t even see mecoming. One second he’s running—thenextI’vetrippedhimandhe’sflatonhisback.Idon’tdarestoptolook—instead,Istagger back into the furious crowd,weavingmywaythroughpeoplewithmyhead down until the soldiers have fallenfar behind. I can’t believe how manypeoplearehere.Fightsbetweenciviliansand street police are breaking outeverywhere. Above it all, theJumboTrons display live feeds ofAnden’s face, his expression grave; he’spleading from behind the protectiveglass.

Six minutes pass. I’m only a dozenyardsfromthebaseoftheCapitolTowerwhenInotice that thepeoplearoundmeare slowly falling silent. They’re nolongerfocusedonAnden.

“Upthere!”onepersonshouts.They’re pointing at a boywith torch-

bright hair, who’s perched on a TowerbalconyontheoppositesideofthesamefloorasAnden.Thebalcony’sprotectiveglass catches some of the street’s light,andfromhere,theboyisglowing.Icatchmybreathandpause.It’sDay.

BY THE TIME I REACH THECAPITOL TOWER, I’M soaked insweat.Mybodyburnswithpain. Igoaround to one of its sides that isn’tfacing the main square, then surveythe crowd as people shove roughlypastmeinbothdirections.Allaroundus are blinding JumboTrons, eachdisplaying theexactsame thing—theyoung Elector, pleading in vain withthe people to return home and staysafe,todispersebeforethingsgetoutofhand.He’s trying to console themby dictating his plans for reforming

the Republic, doing away with theTrials and changing the way theircareer assignments are given. But Ican tell this goddy political talk isn’tgoing tocomeclose tosatisfying thecrowd. And even though Anden isolder and wiser than June and me,he’smissingthatcrucialpiece.The people don’t believe him, and

theydon’tbelieveinhim.I bet Congress is watching all this

with delight. Razor too. Does Andeneven know that Razor was the onebehind the plot? I narrow my eyes,thenleapuptograbthesecondfloorledge of the wired building. I try topretendthatJuneisrightbehindme,cheeringmeon.

Thespeakersdoseem tobewiredup the way Kaede had describedbackwhenwewereinLamar.Ibenddown at the ledge right below therooftoptostudythewires.Yep.WiredinalmostthesamewayI’ddoneitonthe night I first met June in thatmidnightalley,whereI’daskedherforplague cures through the speakersystem. Except this time, I’ll bespeakingnottoanalleywaybuttotheRepublic’s entire capital. To thecountry.The wind stings my cheeks and

whistles past my ears in gales,forcing me to constantly adjust myfooting. I could die right now. I havenowayof knowing if the soldiers on

the rooftops will shoot me downbefore I can reach relative safetybehind a balcony’s wall of glass,dozens of feet above the rest of thecrowd. Or maybe they’ll recognizewhoIamandholdtheirfire.I climb until I reach the tenth floor,

the same floor that the Elector’sbalcony is on, then crouch for asecondtolookdown.I’mhighenough—the instant I turn thecornerof thisbuilding, everyone will see me. Themasses are most concentrated onthisside, their facesturneduptotheElector, their fists raised in anger.Evenfromhere,Icanseehowmanyof them have that scarlet streakpainted into theirhair.Apparently the

Republic’sattempts tooutlaw itdon’tworksowellwheneveryonewantstodoit.On the edges of the square, street

police and soldiers are striking outmercilesslywiththeirbatons,pushingpeoplebackwithrowsof transparentshields. I’m surprised there’s noshooting. My hands start shaking inrage. There are few things asintimidating as hundreds of Republicsoldiers decked out in faceless riotgear, standing in grim, dark linesagainst a mass of unarmedprotesters.Iflattenmyselfagainstthewall and take a few breaths of coldnight air, struggling to stay calm.Struggling to remind myself of June

and June’s brother and the Elector,and that behind some of thosefaceless Republic masks are goodpeople,withparentsandsiblingsandchildren. IhopeAnden is the reasonnoshotshaverungout—thathehastold his soldiers not to fire on thiscrowd. I have to believe that.Otherwise, I’ll never convince thepeopleofwhatI’mabouttosay.“Don’t be afraid,” I whisper to

myself,myeyessqueezedshut.“Youcan’taffordit.”Then I step out from the shadows,

hurry along the ledge until I turn thecorner of the building, and hop intothe closest balcony I can find. I facethe central square. The protective

balcony glass cuts off about a footovermyhead,but I canstill feel thewind siphoning in fromabove. I takeoff my cap and toss it over the topedge. It floats down to the ground,carriedsidewaysbythewind.Myhairstreams out all around me. I benddown, twist one of the speakers’wires,andholdthespeakeruplikeamegaphone.ThenIwait.Atfirstnoonenoticesme.Butsoon

one face turns up in my direction,probably attracted by the brightnessof my hair, and then another face,and then another. A small group. Itgrowsintoseveraldozen,allof thempointing up at me. The roars andangrychantsbelowbegintosubside.

I wonder if June sees me. Thesoldiers lining other roofs have theirguns fixed on me—but they don’tshoot. They’re stuck with me in thisawkward, tense limbo. Iwant to run.TodowhatIalwaysdo,havealwaysdone,forthelastfiveyearsofmylife.Escape,fleeintotheshadows.Butthistime,Istandmyground.I’m

tiredofrunning.The crowd grows quieter as more

andmore turn their faces up to seeme. At first, I hear incredulouschatter.Evensomelaughs.Thatcan’tbeDay, I imagine themmuttering tooneanother.Someimposter.But thelonger I stay here, the louder theyget.Everyonehas turned towardme

now.My eyeswander over towhereAnden is on his balcony; even he’slookingatmenow. Iholdmybreath,hopingthathedoesn’tdecidetoordermeshot.Isheonmyside?Then they’reallchantingmyname.

Day! Day! Day! I can hardly believemy ears. They’re chanting for me,and their voices echo down everyblock and reach every street. I stayfrozenwhereIam,stillclingingtomymakeshiftmegaphone,unabletotearmyeyesaway from the crowds. I liftthespeakertomylips.“People of the Republic!” I shout.

“Doyouhearme?”My words blare out from every

speaker in the square—probably

everyspeaker in thecountry, forall Iknow. It startles me. The peoplebelow letoutacheer thatmakes thegroundtremble.Thesoldiersmust’vegottenahurriedorder fromsomeoneinCongress,because I see someofthem hoist their weapons higher. Asinglebullet zips through the air andhits the glass, sparking as it goes. Idon’tmove.TheElectormakesaquick gesture

at theguardsstandingwithhim,andtheyallpressahandtotheirearsandtalk into their mikes. Maybe he’stelling them not to harmme. I forcemyselftobelieveit.“I wouldn’t do that,” I shout in the

direction that the lone bullet had

come from. Keep yourself steady.Thepeople’s cheers turn intoa roar.“You don’t want an uprising, do you,Congress?”Day!Day!Day!“Today, Congress, I give you an

ultimatum.” My eyes shift to theJumboTrons. “You’ve arrested anumberofPatriotsforacrimeyouareresponsible for.Release them.All ofthem. If you don’t, I will call yourpeopletoaction,andyouwillhavearevolution on your hands. Butprobably not the kind you werehoping for.” The civilians scream outtheirapproval.Thechantscontinueatafeverishpitch.“People of the Republic.” They

cheermeonasIcontinue.“Listentome. Today, I give all of you anultimatum.”Theirchantsgoonuntiltheyrealize

that I’ve fallen silent, and then theytoo begin to quiet down. I hold thespeakercloser.“MynameisDay.”Myvoice fills the air. “I’ve fought thesame injustices that you’re here toprotest right now. I’ve suffered thesame things you’ve suffered. Likeyou, I’ve watched my friends andfamily die at the hands of Republicsoldiers.” I blink away thememoriesthat threaten to overtake me. Keepgoing.“I’vebeenstarved,beaten,andhumiliated. I’ve been tortured,insulted,andsuppressed.I’velivedin

theslumswithyou.I’veriskedmylifefor you.Andyou’ve riskedyour livesforme.We have risked our lives forour country—not the country we livein now, but the country we hope tohave.Youareall,everysingleoneofyou,ahero.”Joyful cheers answer me, even as

guardsbelowtryinvaintobringdownand arrest stragglers, while othersoldiers are trying fruitlessly todisable the rewired speaker system.Congress is afraid, I realize. They’reafraid of me, like they’ve alwaysbeen. So I keep going—I tell thepeople what had happened to mymother and brothers, and what hadhappened to June. I tell them about

the Patriots, and about the Senate’sattempttoassassinateAnden.IhopeRazor’s listening to all this andseething. Throughout it all, thecrowd’sattentionneverwavers.“Do you trust me?” I shout. The

crowd answers with a unified voice.The sea of people and theirdeafening roarsareoverwhelming. Ifmymotherwasstill here, ifDadandJohn were here, would they besmilingupatme rightnow? I takeadeep,shudderingbreath.Finishwhatyou camehere todo. I focuson thepeople, and on the young Elector. Igather my strength. Then I say thewordsInevereverthoughtI’dsay.“Peopleof theRepublic,know your

enemy.YourenemyistheRepublic’sway of life, the laws and traditionsthat hold us down, the governmentthatbroughtushere.ThelateElector.Congress.” I raisemy armand pointtoward Anden. “But the new Electoris...Not.Your.Enemy!”Thepeoplegrow silent. Their eyes are foreverfixed on me. “You think yourCongresswants toend theTrials,orhelpyourfamilies?It’salie.”IpointatAndenwhenIsaythis,willingmyself,for the first time, to trust him. “TheElector is young and ambitious, andheisnothisfather.Hewantstofightforyou,justasIfightforyou,butfirsthe needs you to give him thatchance. And if you put your might

behindhimand lifthimup,hewill liftus up. He will change things for us,onestepata time.Hecanbuild thatcountry we all hope we can have. Icameheretonightforyouall—andforhim.Doyoutrustme?”Iliftmyvoice:“Peopleof theRepublic,doyoutrustme?”Silence. Then, a few chants. More

joinin.Theyraisetheireyesandfiststome, their shouts ceaseless, a tideofchange.“Thenraiseyourvoicesforyour Elector, as I have, and he willraisehisforyou!”Thecheersaredeafening,drowning

out anything and everything. TheyoungElectorkeepshiseyesonme,and I realize, at last, that June is

right.Idon’twanttoseetheRepubliccollapse.Iwanttoseeitchange.

TWO DAYS HAVE PASSED. OR, MOREPRECISELY, FIFTY-two hours and eightminutes have passed since Day climbedto the top of the Capitol Tower andannounced his support for our Elector.WheneverIclosemyeyes,Icanstillseehim up there, his hair gleaming like abeacon of light against the night, hiswordsringingoutclearandstrongacrossthe city and the country. Whenever Idream,Icanfeeltheburnofhislastkissonmy lips, the fire and fear behind hiseyes.EverypersonintheRepublicheardhim that night. He gave power back to

AndenandAndenwonover thecountry,allinoneblow.

This is my second day in a hospitalchamberon theoutskirtsofDenver.ThesecondafternoonwithoutDayatmyside.In a room several doors down, Day isundergoingthesametests,bothtoensurehis health and make sure the Coloniesdidn’timplantanymonitoringdevices inhishead.He’sgoing tobe reunitedwithhisbrotheratanyminute.Mydoctorhasarrivedtocheckonmyrecovery—buthewon’tbedoing it in any sort of privacy.Infact,whenIstudymyroom’sceiling,Isee security cameras at every corner,broadcastingmyimagelivetothepublic.The Republic is afraid to give peopleeven the slightest sense that Day and I

aren’tbeingtakencareof.AmonitoronthewallshowsmeDay’s

chamber.ItistheonlyreasonIagreedtobe separated from him for this long. IwishIcouldtalktohim.Assoonastheystop runningX-rays and sensors onme,I’mputtingonamike.

“Good morning to you, Ms. Iparis,”my doctor says tome as nurses dotmyskin with six sensors. I mumble agreetinginreturn,butmyattentionstaysonthecamfootageofDaytalkingtohisown doctor. His arms are crossed in adefiant stance and his expression’sskeptical. Now and then his attentionfocusesonaspotonthewallthatIcan’tsee. I wonder if he’s watching methroughacamtoo.

My doctor notices what’s distractingme and wearily answers my questionbeforeIcanaskit.“You’llseehimsoon,Ms. Iparis. Okay? I promise. Now, youknowthedrill.Closeyoureyesandtakeadeepbreath.”

I bite downmy frustration and do ashesays.Lightsflickerbehindmyeyelids,and then a cold, tingly sensation runsthrough my brain and down my spine.Theyputagel-likemaskovermymouthandnose.Ialwayshavetotellmyselfnotto panic during this sequence, to fightdown the claustrophobia and feeling ofdrowning. They’re just testing me, Irepeatquietly.They’retestingmeforanyremnants of Colonies brainwashing, formental stability, for whether or not the

Elector—the Republic—can trust mefully.That’sall.

Hoursgoby.Finally, it stops,and thedoctortellsmeIcanopenmyeyesagain.

“Well done, Iparis,” he says as hetypes something out on his notepad.“Your cough may linger, but I thinkyou’vesurvivedtheworstofyourillness.You can stay longer if you’d like”—hesmiles at the exasperated frown on myface—“but if you’d prefer to bedischarged to your new apartment, wecan arrange that today as well. At anyrate, the glorious Elector is anxious tospeakwithyoubeforeyouleavehere.”

“HowisDay?”Iask. It’sdifficult forme to keep the impatience out of myvoice.“WhencanIseehim?”

The doctor frowns. “Didn’t we justdiscussthis?Daywillbereleasedshortlyafter you. First he’ll need to see hisbrother.”

I study his face carefully. There’s areason the doctor hesitated just now—something about Day’s recovery. I cansee the subtle twitch under the doctor’sfacial muscles. He knows something Idon’t.

The doctor snaps me back to reality.He drops his notepad to his side,straightens,andplants an artificial smileon his face. “Well, that’s all for today.Tomorrow we’ll begin your formalintegration back into the Republic, withyournewcareerassignment.TheElectorwill arrive in a fewminutes, and you’ll

have some time beforehand to regainyour bearings.” With that, he and thenurses take their sensors and machinesandleavemealone.

I sitonmybedandkeepmyeyesonthe door. A dark red cloak is wrappedaroundmyshoulders,butIstilldon’tfeelentirelywarm in this room.By the timeAndencomesintoseeme,I’mshivering.

He steps inside with his signaturegrace, wearing silent dark boots andblackscarfanduniform,hiscurlsofhairperfectly trimmed, thin-rimmed glassessittingneatlyon his nose.Whenhe seesme, he smiles and salutes. The gesturereminds me painfully of Metias, and Ihavetofocusdownonmyfeetforafewseconds to composemyself. Fortunately,

heseemstothinkI’mbowing.“Elector,”Igreethim.He smiles;hisgreeneyes sweepover

me.“Howareyoufeeling,June?”Ismileback.“Wellenough.”Anden laughs a little and lowers his

head.He steps closer, but hedoesn’t trytositnexttomeonthebed.Icanstillseethe attraction in his eyes, the way helingers on every word I say and everymoveImake.Surelyhemusthaveheardrumors by now about my relationshipwith Day? If he knows, though, hedoesn’t reveal it. “The Republic,” hecontinues, embarrassed that I’ve caughthimstaring,“that is, thegovernmenthasdecided that you are fit to return to themilitarywithyouroriginalrankintact.As

anAgent,hereinDenver.”So, I’m not going back to Los

Angeles. The last I heard, LA’squarantine had been lifted after Andenbegan an investigation into the Senate’straitors—and both Razor andCommander Jameson were arrested fortreason. I can only imagine how muchJamesonhatesDayandmenow...eventhe thoughtofwhat the furyonher facemust look like sends a chill down myspine.

“Thankyou,”Isayafterawhile.“I’mverygrateful.”

Anden waves a hand in the air. “Noneed.YouandDayhavedonemeagreatservice.”

I give him a quick, casual salute.

Already Day’s influence is being felt—after his impromptu speech, Congressand the military obeyed Anden inallowing protesters to return unpunishedto their homes and releasing thePatriotswho had been arrested during theassassination attempt (under monitoredconditions).IftheSenatedidn’tfearDaybefore, they do now. He has the powerfor the time being to ignite a full-scalerevolutionwithonlyafewchoicewords.“But. . .”Anden’svolumedropsand

he pulls his hands out of his pockets tocrosstheminfrontofhischest.“Ihaveadifferentpropositionforyou.Ithinkyoudeserve a more important position thanAgent.”

AmemorysurfacesofwhenIwason

thattrainwithhim,oftheunspokenofferhanging on his lips. “What kind ofposition?”

For the first time, he decides to sitdown with me on the edge of my bed.He’ssoclosenowthatIcanfeelthelightwhisperofhisbreathonmyskinandseethe stubble shadowing his chin. “June,”hebegins, “theRepublic has never beenmoreunstablethanitisnow.Daybroughtitbackfromthebrinkofcollapse,butI’mstillrulingduringdangeroustimes.Manyof the Senators are battling for controlamongstthemselves,andmanypeopleinthecountryarehopingformetomakeawrong move.” Anden falls silent for asecond.“Onemomentwon’tkeepme inthe people’s favor forever, and I can’t

holdthecountrytogetheralone.”Iknowhe’stellingthetruth.Icansee

the exhaustion in his face, and thefrustration that comes with beingresponsibleforhiscountry.

“WhenmyfatherwasayoungElector,he and my mother ruled together. TheElector and his Princeps. He was nevermore powerful than he was during thattime.I’dlikeanallytoo,someonesmartand strong whom I can trust with morepowerthananyoneelseinCongress.”Mybreathing turns shallow as I take in theoffer he’s circling around. “I want apartnerwhohasherfingeronthepulseofthe people, someone extraordinarilytalented at everything she does, andsomeonewhosharesmyideasabouthow

tocreateanation.Ofcourse,onecouldn’tgofromAgenttoPrincepsintheblinkofaneye.Onewouldneedintensetraining,instruction, and education. Anopportunitytogrowintothepositionoverthe course of many years, decades, tofirst learn as a Senator and then as theSenate’s leader. This is not training tobestow lightly, especially upon someonewithout Senate experience. Of course,there would be other Princeps-Electsshadowingmeaswell.”Hepauseshere;histoneshifts.“Whatdoyouthink?”

Ishakemyhead,stillnotquitesureofwhat exactly Anden is offering. There’sthechancetobethePrinceps—apositionsecondonlytotheElector.Iwouldspendalmosteverywakingmoment ofmy life

in Anden’s company, shadowing hiseverystepforat least tenyears. Iwouldnever seeDay.Thisoffermakes the lifeI’d imaginedwithhimwaverunsteadily.IsAnden offering this promotion purelybased on what he thinks of mycapabilities—orishelettinghisemotionsinfluencehim,promotingmeinthehopesthathemightgetachancetospendmoretime with me? And how can I possiblycompete with other potential Princeps-Elects, some of whom will probably bedecades my senior, perhaps alreadySenators?Itakeadeepbreath,thentrytoaskhiminadiplomaticway.“Elector,”Ibegin.“Idon’tthink—”

“Iwon’t pressure you,” he interrupts,then swallows and smiles hesitantly.

“You are absolutely free to turn thisdown. And you can be a Princepswithout . . .” Is Anden blushing? “Youdon’t have to,” he says instead. “I—theRepublic—wouldonlybegrateful ifyoudid.”

“I don’t know if I have that kind oftalent,” I say. “You need someone somuchbetterthanIcouldeverbe.”

Anden takesbothofmyhands inhis.“You were born to shake the Republic.June,thereisnoonebetter.”

THEDOCTORSDIDN’TLIKEMEINTHE BEGINNING. The feeling waspretty mutual, of course—I haven’texactly had the best experiences inhospitals.Two days ago, when they finally

managedtogetmeoffthebalconyofDenver’sCapitolTowerandcalmthemassive throngs of people cheeringme on, they strapped me into anambulance and took me straight tothe hospital. There, I shattered adoctor’sglassesand kicked overmyroom’smetaltrayswhentheytriedto

checkmeforinjuries.“Youputahandonme,”I’dsnappedatthem,“andI’llbreak your goddy necks.” Thehospital staff had to tie me down. Iscreamed myself hoarse for Eden,demandingtoseehim,threateningtoburn down the entire hospital if theydidn’tdeliverhim.IshoutedforJune.I yelled for proof that the Patriotswere released. I asked to seeKaede’s body, begging them to giveheraproperburial.Theybroadcastedmyreactionslive

to the public because of the crowdsthat had gathered by the hospital,demandingtoseeIwasbeingtreatedproperly. But gradually I calmeddown,andafterseeingmealive, the

crowds in Denver began to calmdowntoo.“Now, this doesn’t mean you won’t

be closelywatched,”my doctor saysas I’m given a set ofRepublic collarshirts and military trousers. Hemumbles so the security camerascan’tpickupwhathe’ssaying. I canbarelyseehiseyesthroughtheglareacross his tiny, round glasses. “Butyou’ve been fully pardoned by theElector,andyourbrotherEdenshouldbearrivingatthehospitalanyminutenow.”I’m quiet. After everything that’s

happened since Eden was firststricken by the plague, I can barelycomprehend that the Republic is

going to give him back to me. All Icando issmileat thedoctor throughgritted teeth. He smiles back at mewithanexpressionfullofdislikeashegoes on about my test results andwhereI’mgoingtoliveafterallthisisover. I know he doesn’t want to behere,buthedoesn’tsay italoud,notwith all these cameras on. From thecorner of my eye I can see the onemonitor on the wall that shows mewhat they’re doing to June. Sheappears safe, undergoing the sameinspectionsasme.Buttheanxiety inmythroatrefusestogoaway.“There’sonelastthingI’dliketotell

you inprivate,” thedoctorgoeson. Ilisten halfheartedly. “Quite important.

Something we’ve discovered in yourX-raysthatyoushouldknowabout.”I lean forward to hear him better.

But at that instant, the room’sintercomblares to life. “Eden BataarWingishere,Doctor,”itsays.“PleaseinformDay.”Eden.Edenishere.Suddenly Icouldn’tcare lessabout

whatevermygoddyX-rayresultsare.Eden is outside, right beyond mycell’sdoor.Thedoctortriestotellmesomething, but I just push past him,throwthedooropen,andstumbleoutintothecorridor.At first I don’t see him. There are

too many nurses wandering throughthe halls. Then I notice the small

figureswinginghislegsononeofthehall’s benches, his skin healthy andhisheadfullofwayward,white-blondcurls, dressed in an overly largeschooluniformandkid-sizeboots.Heseems taller, but maybe that’sbecausehe’sabletositupstraighternow. When he turns toward me, Irealize that he’swearing a thick pairof black-rimmed glasses. His eyesare a light,milky purple, reminiscentof the young boy I’d seen in therailcaronthatcold,sleet-fillednight.“Eden,”Icallouthoarsely.His eyes stay unfocused, but an

amazing smile blooms on his face.He gets up and tries towalk towardme,buthestopswhenhecan’tseem

totellwhereexactlyIam.“Isthatyou,Daniel?” he says with shakyhesitation.I run to him, scoop him up in my

arms, and hold him tight. “Yeah,” Iwhisper.“It’sDaniel.”Eden just cries. Sobs wrack his

body.HetightenshisarmsaroundmynecksofiercelythatIdon’tthinkhe’llever let go. I take a deep breath tocontain my own tears. The plaguehastakenmostofhisvision,buthe’shere,aliveandwell,strongenoughtowalkand talk.That’senough forme.“Goodtoseeyouagain,kid,”Ichokeout, ruffling his hair with one hand.“Missedyou.”I don’t know how long we stay

there.Minutes?Hours?Butitdoesn’tmatter.Timeticksbyonelongsecondafteranother,andImakethemomentstretchoutasmuchasIcan.It’sasifI’m standing here and hugging myentire family. He is everything thatmeansanything.AtleastIhavethis.Ihearacoughbehindme.“Day,”thedoctorsays.He’sleaning

against theopendoorofmycell,hisface grave and shadowy under thefluorescent light. I gently put Edendown, keeping one hand on hisshoulder.“Comewithme.Thiswillbequick,Ipromise.I,ah...”Hepausesat the sight of Eden. “I recommendyoukeepyourbrotherouthere.Justfor now. I assure you that you’ll be

backinafewminutes,andthenyou’llboth be driven to your newapartment.”Istaywhere Iam,unwilling to trust

him.“I promise,” he says again. “If I’m

lying,well,youhaveenoughpowertoasktheElectortoarrestmeforit.”Well, that’s basically true. I wait a

whilelonger,chewingontheinsideofmy cheek, and then I pat Eden’shead. “I’ll be right back, okay? Stayon the bench. Don’t go anywhere. Ifsomeone tries to make you move,youscream.Gotit?”Edenwipesahandacrosshisnose

andnods.Iguidehimbacktothebench,then

follow the doctor into my cell. Heshutsthedoorwithasoftclick.“What is it?” I say impatiently. My

eyes can’t stop turning toward thedoor, like it’ll vanish into the wall if Idon’tstayvigilant.Againstthecornerwall, June’s monitor shows herwaitingaloneinherroom.But the doctor doesn’t seem

annoyedwithme this time.Heclicksa button on the wall and mutterssomethingaboutturningthesoundoffon the cameras. “Like I was sayingbefore you left . . . As part of yourtests,wescannedyourbraintoseeifit had been altered by the Colonies.We didn’t find anything to worryabout . . . but we ran across

something else.” He turns around,clicksasmalldevice,andpointstoanilluminated screen on the wall. It’sdisplaying an image of my brain. Ifrownat it, unable tomake sense ofwhatI’mseeing.Thedoctorpointstoadarksplotchnearthebottomoftheimage. “We saw this near your lefthippocampus. We think it’s old,probably years old, and has beenslowlyworseningovertime.”Ipuzzleoveritforawhile,thenturn

backtothedoctor.Itstillseemstrivialto me, especially when Eden iswaiting out in the hall. Especiallywhen I’ll be able to see June again.“And?Whatelse?”“Have you had any severe

headaches?Lately, orwithin the lastfewyears?”Yes. Of course I have. I’ve had

headaches ever since the night thattheLosAngelesCentralHospital rantestsonme,thenightIwassupposedtodie,whenIranaway.Inod.He folds his arms. “Our records

show that you had been . . .experimentedonafteryoufailedyourTrial. There were some testsconducted on your brain. You . . .ah”—he coughs, struggling for theright words—“were meant tosuccumb rather quickly, but yousurvived. Well, it seems that theeffects have finally started catchingup to you.” He switches to a low

whisper.“Nobodyknowsaboutthis—not even the Elector.We don’t wantthe country tobe thrownback intoarevolutionary state. Initially wethought that we could cure it with acombination of surgery andmedication,butwhenwestudied theproblem areas closer, we realizedthat everything is so entwined withhealthy matter in your hippocampusthatitwouldbeimpossibletostabilizethe situation without severelyimpairingyourcognitivecapacity.”Iswallowhard.“So?Whatdoesthat

mean?”The doctor removes his glasses

with a sigh. “It means, Day, thatyou’redying.”

2007HOURS.

TWODAYSSINCEMYRELEASE.

OXFORD HIGH-RISE, LODO SECTOR,

DENVER.

72°FINSIDE.

DAY WAS RELEASED YESTERDAY AT SEVENA.M. I’D CALLED him three times sincethen,eachtimewithnoanswer.Itwasn’tuntil a coupleofhoursago that I finallyheard his voice over my earpiece. “Areyoufreetoday,June?”I’dshiveredatthesoftnessofhisvoice.“MindifIstopby?Iwanttotalktoyou.”

“Comeonover,”I’dreplied.Andthat

wasprettymuchallwesaidtoeachother.He’llbeheresoon.I’membarrassedto

admit that even though I tried busyingmyself for the last hour by tidying theapartmentandbrushingOllie’scoat,allIcanreallythinkaboutiswhatDaywantstodiscuss.

It’s strange to have a living spacethat’s my own again, furnished withmyriadnewandunfamiliar things.Sleekcouches, elaborate chandeliers, glasstables,hardwoodfloors.Luxurious itemsthatInolongerfeelentirelycomfortableowning. Outside my window, a lightspringsnowfalls.Olliesleepsbesidemeononeofthetwosofas.Aftermyreleasefromthehospital,soldiersescortedmebyjeep here to theOxfordHigh-Rise—and

thefirstthingIsawwhenIsteppedinsidewasOllie,histailwagginglikecrazy,hisnosepushingeagerlyintomyhand.Theytold me the Elector had long agorequestedthatmydogbesent toDenverand taken care of. Right after Thomashad arrested me. Now they’ve returnedhim, this smallpieceofMetias, tome. Iwonderwhat Thomas thinks of all this.Will he just follow protocol as alwaysand bow the next time he sees me,pledging his undying loyalty? MaybeAnden has ordered his arrest alongsidethoseofCommanderJamesonandRazor.I can’t decide how thatwouldmakemefeel.

Yesterday they buried Kaede. Theywouldhavegivenher a cremationanda

tiny plain marking on the wall of afuneraltower,butIinsistedonsomethingnicer. A real plot. A square foot of herownspace.Anden,ofcourse,obliged.IfKaedewere still alive,wherewould shebe?Would theRepublichave eventuallyinductedherintotheirairforce?HasDayvisitedhergravesiteyet?Doesheblamehimselfforherdeath,asIblamemyself?Is this perhapswhy he’s waited so longafterhishospitalreleasetocontactme?

Whathappensnow?Wheredowegofromhere?

2012hours.Day’slate.Ikeepmyeyesglued to thedoor,unable todoanythingelse,afraidI’llmisshimifIblink.

2015hours.Asoftbellechoesthroughthe apartment. Ollie stirs, perks up his

ears,andwhines.He’shere. Ipracticallyleapoffthecouch.Dayissolightonhisfeet that even my dog can’t hear himwalkingdownthehalloutside.

I open the door—then freeze. ThehelloI’dpreparedhaltsinmythroat.Dayis standing before me, hands in hispockets, breathtaking in a brand-newRepublicuniform (black,withdarkgraystripes running down the sides of histrousers and around the bottoms of hissleeves, a thick diagonal collar on hismilitary coat that’s cut in the style ofDenver’s capital troops, and elegantwhite neoprene gloves that I can seepeeking out from his trouser pockets,each decorated with a thin gold chain).His hair spills past his shoulders in a

shining sheet and is sprinkled with thedelicate spring snow fallingoutside.Hiseyes are bright, startlingly blue, andlovely;afewsnowflakesglimmeronthelonglashesthatfringethem.Icanhardlybearthesight.OnlynowdoIrealizethatI’ve never actually seen him dressed upin any kind of formal attire, let aloneformalsoldier attire. I hadn’t thought topreparemyself for a vision like this, forwhat his beauty might look like undercircumstancesthatwouldactuallyshowitoff.

Daynoticesmyexpressionandoffersmeawrygrin.“Itwasforaquickphoto,”he says, pointing at his outfit, “of meshaking hands with the Elector. Not mychoice. Obviously. I better not regret

throwingmysupportbehindthisguy.”“Evaded the crowds gathered outside

your place?” I finally say. I composemyselflongenoughtoquirkmylipsintoareturnsmile.“RumorhasitthatpeoplearecallingforyoutobethenewElector.”

Hescowlsinexasperationandmakesagrumpysound.“DayforElector?Right.Idon’teven like theRepublic yet. That’lltake some getting used to. Now, theevading I can do. I’d rather not facepeople right now.” I hear a hint ofsadnessthere,somethingthat tellsmehedidindeedvisitKaede’sgrave.Heclearshis throat when he notices me studyinghim, then handsme a small velvet box.There’s a polite distance in his gesturethatpuzzlesme.“Pickedituponmyway

here.Foryou,sweetheart.”A small murmur of surprise escapes

me. “Thanks.” I take the box gingerly,admiring it for a moment, and then tiltmyheadathim.“What’stheoccasion?”

Daytuckshishairbehindoneearandtries to appear uncaring. “Just thought itlookedpretty.”

I open the box carefully, then take asharpbreathwhenIseewhat’sinside—asilverchainwithasmallteardrop-shapedruby pendant bordered with tinydiamonds.Threeslender silverwires arewrappedaround theruby itself.“It’s . . .gorgeous,” Isay.Mycheeksburn. “Thismust have been so expensive.” Sincewhen did I start using cordial socialnicetieswhentalkingtoDay?

He shakes his head. “Apparently theRepublic is throwing money at me tokeepme happy. Ruby’s your birthstone,yeah? Well, I just figured you shouldhave a nicer keepsake from me than aringmadeoutofgoddypaperclips.”HepatsOllieonthehead,thenmakesashowof admiring my apartment. “Nice place.A lot like mine.” Day’s been given asimilar, heavily guarded apartment acoupleofblocksdownthesamestreet.

“Thank you,” I say again, gingerlysettingtheboxonmykitchencounterforthe time being. Then I wink at him. “Istill liked my paper clip ring best,though.”

For a split second, happiness crosseshisface.Iwanttothrowmyarmsaround

him and pull his lips tomy own, but—there’saweighttohisposturethatmakesmefeellikeIshouldkeepmydistance.

I venture a hesitant guess at what’sbotheringhim.“How’sEden?”

“He’sdoingwell enough.”Daygazesaroundtheroomonemoretime,thenletshis eyes settle on me again. “All thingsconsidered,ofcourse.”

I lower my head. “I’m . . . sorry tohearabouthisvision.He’s—”

“He’s alive,”Day cutsme off gently.“I’mhappyenoughabout that.” Inod inawkwardagreement,andwe lapse intoalongpause.

Finally,Isay,“Youwantedtotalk.”“Yes.” Day looks down, fidgets with

hisgloves,thenshoveshishandsintohis

pockets. “I heard about the promotionAndenofferedyou.”

I turn away and sit on my couch. Ithasn’t even been forty-eight hours andalreadyI’veseen thenewspopup twiceonthecity’sJumboTrons:

JUNEIPARISTAPPEDTOTRAINFORPRINCEPSPOSITION

I should be happy thatDay’s the onewho brought it up—I’d been trying tofigure out a good way to approach thesubject,andnowIdon’thaveto.Still,mypulsequickens and I findmyself feelingasnervousasIfeared.Maybehe’supsetthatIdidn’tmentionitrightaway.“Howmuchhaveyou alreadyheard?” I ask ashecomesovertositbesideme.Hisknee

gently grazes my thigh. Even this lighttouch sends butterflies dancing in mystomach.Iglanceathisface tosee ifhedid it on purpose, but Day’s lips aredrawnintoanuncomfortableline,asifheknows where he’s going to take thisconversationbutdoesn’twanttodoit.

“I heard through the grapevine thatyou’d have to shadow Anden’s everystep, yeah? You’d train to become hisPrinceps.Thatalltrue?”

Isigh,slumpmyshoulders,andletmyhead sink into my hands. Hearing DaysaythismakesmefeelthegravityofthecommitmentI’dhavetomake.OfcourseI understand the practical reasons whyAnden would tap me for this—I hope Iamsomeonewhocanhelptransformthe

Republic. All of my military training,everythingMetias ever toldme—IknowI’m a good fit for the Republic’sgovernment. But . . . “Yes, all true,” Ireply, then add hastily, “It’s not amarriageproposal—nothinglikethat.It’saprofessionalposition,andI’dbeoneofseveral competing for the position. Butit’d mean weeks . . . well . . .monthsaway at a time. Away from . . .” Awayfromyou,Iwanttosay.Butitsoundstoocheesy, and I decide not to finish thesentence. Instead, I give him all thedetails that have been running throughmy mind. I tell him about the gruelingschedule of a Princeps-Elect, how I’dplan to give myself breathing room if Iwere to agree to it all, that I’m unsure

howmuchofmyselfIwanttogivetotheRepublic. After a while I know I’vestarted rambling, but it feels so good toget everything offmy chest, to baremytroubles to the boy I care about, that Idon’ttrytostopmyself.Ifanyoneinmylifedeservestoheareverything,it’sDay.

“I don’t knowwhat to tell Anden,” Ifinish. “He hasn’t pressured me, but Ineedtogivehimananswersoon.”

Daydoesn’treply.Myfloodofwordshangs in the silence between us. I can’tdescribe the emotion on his face—something lost, something ripped fromhis gaze and strewn across the floor. Adeep, quiet sadness that tears me apart.What’sgoingthroughDay’smind?Doeshebelieveme?Doeshe think, like Idid

when I first heard it, that Anden isoffering this because of a personalinterestinme?Ishesadbecauseitwouldmean ten years of barely seeing eachother? I watch him and wait, trying toanticipatewhat he’ll say.Of course he’sgoing to be unhappy with the idea, ofcoursehe’llprotest.I’mnothappymyselfwith—

Day suddenly speaks up. “Take theoffer,”hemurmurs.

I lean toward him, because I don’tthinkIheardhimcorrectly.“What?”

Day studies me carefully. His handtwitches a little, as if he wants to lift itand touchmy cheek. Instead, it stays athisside.“Icamehere to tellyou to takehisoffer,”herepeatssoftly.

I blink. My throat hurts; my visionswimsinahazeoflight.Thatcan’tbetheright response—I had expected a dozendifferent answers from Day except forthat one. Or perhaps it’s not his answerthat shocks me so much as theway hesaidit.Likehe’slettinggo.Istareathimfor a moment, wondering if I’veimagined it. But his expression—sad,distant—stays thesame. I turnawayandshift to the edge of the couch, andthrough thenumbness inmymind I canonlyremembertowhisper,“Why?”

“Why not?” Day asks. His voice isdetached,crumpledlikeadeadflower.

I don’t understand.Maybe he’s beingsarcastic.Ormaybehe’sgoingtosaythathestillwantstofindawaytobetogether.

But he doesn’t add anything else to hisanswer.Whywould he askme to acceptthis offer? I’d thought he would be sohappy that all thiswas finally over, thatwecouldtryourhandatsomesemblanceofnormallifeagain,whateverthatis.It’dbe so easy for me to figure out somecompromisewithAnden’soffer, or evento just turn it down altogether. Whydidn’thesuggestthat?IthoughtDaywasthemoreemotionalofthetwoofus.

Day smiles bitterly when I don’trespondrightaway.Wesitwithourhandsseparated, letting theworldhangheavilybetween us, hearing the seconds ticksoundlessly by.After a fewminutes, hetakes a deepbreath and says, “I, ah . . .have something else I should tell you

too.”I nod quietly, waiting for him to

continue.Afraidofwhathe’llsay.Afraidhe’llexplainwhy.

Hehesitatesforalongtime,butwhenhe does speak, he shakes his head andgivesme a tragic little laugh. I can tellhe’s changed his mind, taking a secretand folding it back into his heart. “Youknow, sometimes I wonder what thingswould be like if I just . . .met you oneday. Like normal people do. If I justwalkedbyyouonsomestreetonesunnymorning and thought you were cute,stopped,shookyourhand,andsaid, ‘Hi,I’mDaniel.’”

I close my eyes at such a sweetthought.Howfreeingthatwouldbe.How

easy.“Ifonly,”Iwhisper.Day picks at the gold chain on his

glove.“AndenistheElectorPrimooftheentire Republic. There might never beanotherchancelikethis.”

Iknowwhathe’stryingtosay.“Don’tworry, it’s not like I can’t influence theRepublicifIturnthisofferdown,orfindsomemiddleground.Thisisnottheonlyway—”

“Hear me out, June,” he says softly,holding up both hands to stop me. “Idon’tknowifI’llhavethegutstosayallthisagain.” I trembleat thewayhis lipsformmyname.Hegivesmeasmilethatshatters something inside me. I don’tknowwhy,buthisexpression isas ifhewereseeingmefor the last time.“Come

on, you and I both knowwhat needs tohappen.We’veonlyknowneachotherfora couple of months. But I’ve spent myentire life fighting the system that theElector now wants to change. Andyou . . . well, your family suffered asmuch as mine did.” He pauses, and hiseyes take on a faraway appearance. “Imightbeokayatspewingspeechesfromthe top of a building, and at working acrowd. I don’t know anything aboutpolitics. I can only be a figurehead.Butyou . . . you’ve always been everythingthatthepeopleneed.Youhavethechancetochangethings.”Hetakesmyhandandtouches the spotonmy fingerwherehisringusedtosit.Ifeelthecallusesonhispalms, the aching gentleness of his

gesture.“It’syourdecision,ofcourse,butyouknowwhat ithas tobe.Don’tmakeupyourmindjustbecauseyoufeelguiltyor something. Don’t worry about me. Iknow that’swhyyou’reholdingback—Icanseeitonyourface.”

Still,Isaynothing.Whatishetalkingabout?Seewhatonmy face?Whatdo Ilooklikerightnow?

Day sighs at my silence. His face isunbearable. “June,” he says slowly.Behindhiswords,hisvoicesoundslikeitmight break at any moment. “It willnever,everworkoutbetweenus.”

And here is the real reason why. Ishakemyhead,unwillingtoheartherest.Notthis.Pleasedon’tsay it,Day,pleasedon’t say it. “We’ll figure out a way,” I

begin to say. The details come pouringout. “I can work in the capital’s patrolsfor a while. That would be a morefeasible option, anyway. Shadow aSenator, if I really want to go intopolitics.TwelveoftheSenators—”

Day can’t even look at me. “Weweren’tmeant to be. There are just . . .toomanythingsthathavehappened.”Hegrowsquieter.“Toomanythings.”

The weight of it hits me. This hasnothingtodowiththePrincepsposition,andeverythingtodowithsomethingelse.Day would be saying all this even ifAnden never offered anything. Ourargument in the underground tunnel. Iwanttosayhowwrongheis,butIcan’tevenarguehispoint.Becausehe’s right.

How could I possibly think that we’dneversuffertheconsequencesofwhatI’ddonetohim?HowcouldIbesoarroganttoassumeitwouldallworkoutforusintheend, thatmydoingacoupleofgooddeeds could make up for all the pain Icausedhim?Thetruthwillneverchange.Nomatter howhardhe tries, every timehe looks atme,he’ll seewhathappenedtohisfamily.He’llseewhatIdid.Itwillalways haunt him; it will forever standbetweenus.Ineedtolethimgo.Icanfeelthetearsthreateningtospill

frommy eyes, but I don’t dare let themfall.“So,”Iwhisper,myvoicetremblingfrom the effort. “Is that it? Aftereverything?” Even as I say it, I know

there’snopoint.Thedamagehasalreadybeendone.Thereisnoturningback.

Day hunches over and presses hishandsagainsthiseyes.“I’msosorry,”hewhispers.

Longsecondspass.Afteraneternity,Iswallowhard.Iwill

not cry. Love is illogical, love hasconsequences—Ididthistomyself,andIshouldbeabletotakeit.Sotakeit,June.I am the one who should be sorry.Finally, insteadof sayingwhat Iwant tosay,Imanagetowrestledownthetremorinmyvoiceandgiveamoreappropriateanswer.WhatIshouldsay.

“I’llletAndenknow.”Day runs a hand through his hair,

opens his mouth to say something, and

closes it again. I can tell there’s anotherpart of thiswhole scenario that he’s nottellingme,butIdon’tpressit.Itwouldn’tmake a difference, anyway—there arealreadyenough reasonswhyweweren’tmeanttobe.Hiseyescatchthemoonlightspilling in from the windows. Anothermoment passes between us, filled withnothing but the whisper of breathing.“Well, I—” His voice cracks, and heclenches his hands into fists. He staysthere for a second, steeling himself. “Ishouldletyougetsomesleep.Youmustbe tired.” He rises and straightens hiscoat. We exchange a final, parting nod.Then he gives me a polite bow, turnsaround, and startswalking away. “Goodnight,June.”

My heart is ripped open, shredded,leaking blood. I can’t let him leave likethis. We’ve been through too much toturnintostrangers.Afarewellbetweenusshould be more than a polite bow.SuddenlyIfindmyfeetandrushtowardhim right as he reaches the door. “Day,wait—”

He spins around. Before I can sayanythingelse,hestepsforwardandtakesmy face in his hands. Then he’s kissingmeonelasttime,overwhelmingmewithhis warmth, breathing life and love andachingsorrowintome.I throwmyarmsaround his neck as he wraps his aroundmy waist. My lips part for him and hismouth moves desperately against mine,devouringme, takingeverybreath that I

have.Don’tgo, Ipleadwordlessly.But Ican taste the good-bye on his lips, andnowIcannolongerholdbackmytears.He’strembling.Hisfaceiswet.Ihangontohimlikehe’lldisappearifIletgo,likeI’ll be left alone in this dark room,standing in the empty air. Day, the boyfrom the streetswith nothing except theclothesonhisbackandtheearnestnessinhiseyes,ownsmyheart.

Heisbeauty,insideandout.He is the silver lining in a world of

darkness.Heismylight.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Writing Prodigy was a thoroughly differentexperience from writing Legend, one thatinvolvedmanypanicattacksandmuchdesperatesobbing in front of my laptop, and one thatinvolved digging much deeper into mycharacters’ cores and unearthing their darkestthoughts andmemories.Luckily forme, I havethesupportofanamazinggroupofpeoplewhohelpedmeputthisbooktogether:

TomyliteraryagentKristinNelson,forbeingthe first setofeyeson thismanuscript. Iwoulddie in a quicksand swampwithout your adviceand feedback. To the entire team at NLA, foralways getting my back. To beta readerextraordinaireEllenOh,forseeinganearlydraftofProdigyandknockingsomesenseintomeonsome very crucial scenes. To JJ, for being my

freakishlysharpsoundingboardandbetareaderasProdigygraduallyformed.

To my unbelievable pair of editors, JenBesserandAriLewin,fortakingthefirstdraftofProdigy and transforming it into somethingmuch greater than I could create on my own.Thanks for pushing me hard to strengthen mycharacters, world, and plot; anyone who thinksthatbooksdon’tget editedanymorehas clearlynever worked with either of you. You areamazing.(Specialshout-outtoLittlePrimo!)

To theentire teamatPutnamChildren’sandPenguin Young Readers for their never-endingsupport—Don Weisberg, Shauna Fay, AnnaJarzab,JessicaSchoffel,ElyseMarshall,ScottieBowditch, Lori Thorn, Linda McCarthy, ErinDempsey, Shanta Newlin, Emily Romero, ErinGallagher, Mia Garcia, Lisa Kelly, CourtneyWood,MarieKent, and everyone elsewho hashelpedgivelifetobothLegendandProdigy.Noauthorcouldaskforagreatersupportgroup.

TotheawesometeamsatCBSFilms,Temple

Hill, and UTA for the continued dedication toLegend: Wolfgang Hammer, Grey Munford,Matt Gilhooley, Ally Mielnicki, ChristineBatista, Isaac Klausner, Wyck Godfrey, MartyBowen,GinaMartinez,Kassie Evashevski, andWayne Alexander. I can’t believe how much Iluckedout.

Toall of thebloggers, reviewers, andmediawho covered Legend and Prodigy, and to thebooksellers around the nation who put bothbooksintothehandsofshoppers.Thankyousomuch—I am so grateful for all that you do inconnectingtherightbookstotherightreaders.

To my amazing readers and fans, for theenthusiastic letters and kind encouragement.EverytimeIsawyourmessagesaboutLegend,Ibecame that much more motivated to makeProdigyasgoodasIpossiblycould.Thankyoufortakingthetimetoreadmybooks.

Andfinally,tothefambam,mymom,Andre,andallofmyfriends.Thankyousomuchforallofyoursupport—youguysareirreplaceable.

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