ALEGENDNOVEL

MARIELU

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MapillustrationbyPeterBollinger.

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 he