The Trials were once voluntary. The idea is completely foreign to me. “Why did he change it?” I say.
“Like I said, it’s a long story. Most people will never know the truth about the Republic’s formation, and for good reason.” He runs a hand through his wavy hair, then leans one elbow on the windowsill. “Do you want to know?”
What a perfectly rhetorical question. Behind Anden’s words is a certain loneliness. I hadn’t thought about it before, but now I realize that I might be one of the only people he’s ever talked freely with. I lean forward, nod, and wait for him to continue.
“The Republic was originally formed in the middle of the worst crisis North America—and the world, for that matter—had ever seen,” he begins. “Floodwaters had destroyed America’s eastern coastline, and millions of people from the east were pouring into the west. There were far too many people for our states to take in. No jobs. No food, no shelter. The country had lost its mind to fear and panic. Rioting was out of control. Protesters were dragging soldiers, policemen, and peacekeepers out of their cars, then beating them to death or setting them on fire. Every shop was looted, every window broken.” He takes a deep breath. “The federal government tried their best to maintain order, but one disaster after another made it impossible. They had no money to handle all these crises. It became absolute anarchy.”
A time when the Republic had no control over its people? Impossible. I have a hard time picturing it, until I realize that Anden might instead be referring to the government of the old United States.
“Then our first Elector seized power. He was a young officer in the military, just a few years older than I am now, and ambitious enough to win the support of unhappy troops in the west. He declared the Republic a separate country, seceded from the Union, and placed the west under martial law. Soldiers could fire at will, and after seeing their comrades tortured and killed in the streets, they took every advantage of their newfound power. It became us versus them—the military versus the people.” Anden looks down at his shiny loafers, as if ashamed. “Many people were killed before the soldiers were able to win control of the Republic.”
I can’t help wondering what Metias would’ve thought of this. Or my parents. Would they have approved? Would they have forced order out of chaos like that? “What about the Colonies?” I ask. “Did they take advantage of all this?”
“The eastern half of North America was even worse off at the time. Half their land was underwater. When the Republic’s first Elector sealed the borders, their people had no place to go. So they declared war on us.” Anden straightens. “After all this, the Elector vowed never to let the Republic fall that way again, so he and the Senate gave the military an unprecedented level of power, which has lasted to this day. My father and the Electors before him have made sure it stays that way.”
He shakes his head and rubs his face with his hands before continuing. “The Trials were supposed to encourage hard work and athleticism, to produce more military-quality people—and they did. But they were also used to weed out the weak—and the defiant. And gradually, they were also used to control overpopulation.”
The weak and the defiant. I shiver. Day had fallen into the latter category. “So, you know what happens to the children who fail the Trial?” I say. “It was done to control the population?”
“Yes.” Anden winces even as he tries to explain it. “The Trials made sense in the beginning. They were meant to entice the best and fittest to join the military. Over time, they shifted to being offered in all schools. That wasn’t enough for my father, though . . . he wanted only the best to survive. Anyone else was, frankly, considered a waste of space and resources. My father always told me that the Trials were absolutely necessary for the Republic to flourish. And he won a lot of support in the Senate for making the examinations mandatory, especially after we started winning more battles because of it.”
My hands are clasped so tightly in my lap that they’re starting to feel numb. “Well, do you think your father’s policies worked?” I ask quietly.
Anden lowers his head. He searches for the right words. “How can I answer that? His policies did work. The Trials did make our armies stronger. Does that make what he did right, though? I think about it all the time.”
I bite my lip, suddenly understanding the confusion Anden must feel, his love for his father warring with his vision for the Republic. “What’s right is relative, isn’t it?” I ask.
Anden nods. “In some ways, it doesn’t matter why it all started, or if it was ever right. The thing is—over time, the laws evolved and twisted. Things changed. At first the Trials weren’t given to children, and they didn’t favor the wealthy. The plagues . . .” He hesitates at this, then shies away from the subject altogether. “The public is angry, but the Senate is afraid to change things that might lead to them losing control again. And to them, the Trials are a way to reinforce the Republic’s power.”
There’s a profound sadness in Anden’s face. I can sense the shame he feels for belonging to such a legacy. “I’m sorry,” I say in a low voice. I feel a sudden urge to touch his hand, to find a way to comfort him.
Anden’s lips tug upward into a hesitant smile. I can clearly see his desire, his dangerous weakness, the way he longs for me. If I ever doubted it before, I know for certain now. I quickly turn away, half hoping that gazing at a snowy landscape might bring some of its coolness to my cheeks.
“Tell me,” he murmurs. “What would you do if you were me? What would your first action be as the Elector of the Republic?”
I answer without hesitation. “Win over the people,” I say. “The Senate would have no power over you if the public could threaten them with revolution. You need the people at your back, and they need a leader.”
Anden leans back in his chair; some of the railcar’s warm lamplight catches against his coat and outlines him in gold. Something in our conversation has inspired an idea in him; maybe it’s an idea he had all along. “You’d make a good Senator, June,” he says. “You’d be a good ally to your Elector—and the public loves you.”
My mind starts spinning. I could stay here in the Republic and help Anden. Become a Senator when I’m old enough. Get my life back. Leave Day behind with the Patriots. I know how selfish this thinking is, but I can’t stop myself. What’s so wrong with being selfish, anyway? I think bitterly. I could just tell Anden everything about the Patriots’ plans right now—without caring whether word will get back to the Patriots or whether they’ll hurt Day because of it—and return to living a wealthy, secure life as an elite government worker. I could honor my brother’s memory by slowly changing the country from the inside. Couldn’t I?
Horrible. I release this dark fantasy. The thought of leaving Day behind in such a way, of betraying him so completely, of never wrapping my arms around him again, of never ever seeing him again, makes me clench my teeth in pain. I close my eyes for a second and remember his gentle, calloused hands, his passionate ferocity. No, I could never do it. I know this with such blinding certainty that it frightens me. After everything we’ve both sacrificed, surely we deserve a life—or something—together after this is all over? Escaping to the Colonies, or rebuilding the Republic? Anden wants Day’s help; we can all work together. How could I bear to turn away from that light at the end of the tunnel? I need to get back to him. I need to tell Day everything.
First things first. I try to formulate the best way to warn Anden now that we’re finally alone. There’s not much I can safely say. Tell him too much and he might do something that tips off the Patriots. Still, I decide to try my best. At the very least, I need him to trust me without question. I need him behind me when I sabotage the Patriots’ detour.
“Do you believe in me?” This time I do brush his hand with my own.
Anden stiffens, but doesn’t pull away. His eyes search my face, perhaps wondering what had gone through my mind when I closed my eyes. “Perhaps I should ask you the same question,” he replies, a h
esitant smile on his lips.
Both of us are speaking on two levels, referring to secrets shared. I nod at him, hoping he’ll take my words seriously. “Then do what I say when we get to Pierra. Promise? Everything I say.”
He tilts his head, his eyebrows furrowed in puzzlement, then shrugs and nods yes. He seems to understand that I’m trying to tell him something without saying it aloud. When the time comes for the Patriots to act, I hope Anden remembers his promise.
ME, PASCAO, AND THE OTHER RUNNERS SPEND A full half day aboveground after the train job, huddled in alleys or on top of abandoned roofs, dodging the soldiers that comb the streets near the station. Not until the sun begins to set do we finally get a chance to return, one by one, to the Patriots’ underground quarters. Neither Pascao nor I bring up what happened by the train. Jordan, the shy Runner with the copper braids, asks me twice if I’m okay. I just shrug her off.
Yeah, something’s wrong. Isn’t that the understatement of the year.
By the time we make our way back, everyone is getting ready to leave for Pierra—some are destroying documents, while others are wiping the comps clean of data. Pascao’s voice is a welcome distraction.
“Well done, Day,” he says. He’s sitting at a table against the shelter’s back wall. He opens the side of his jacket, where he’s stashed dozens of packed grenades stolen from the train. He carefully packs each one into a box stacked with empty egg crates. He gestures up at a monitor on the far right of the back wall. It’s showing footage from a large city square, where a group of people have crowded around something spray-painted against the side of a building. “Check it out.”
I read what the people have painted on the wall. Day lives! is scrawled across the building at least three or four times. The onlookers are cheering—some are even holding handmade signs with the same phrase written on them.
If my thoughts weren’t on Eden’s whereabouts or June’s cryptic signal or Tess, I would be excited to see what I’ve stirred up.
“Thanks,” I reply, maybe a little too sharply. “Glad they liked our stunt.”
Pascao hums cheerfully under his breath, oblivious to my tone. “Go see if you can help Jordan.”
As I make my way to the hall, I pass Tess. Baxter is walking beside her—it takes me a second to realize that he’s trying to put an arm around her neck and murmur something in her ear. Tess brushes him away when she sees me. I’m about to say something to her when Baxter bumps me hard in the shoulder, hard enough to knock me back a couple of steps and send the cap flying off my head. My hair tumbles down.
Baxter smirks at me, the black soldier stripe still obscuring most of his face. “Make some room,” he snaps. “Think you own this place?”
I clench my teeth, but Tess’s wide eyes make me hold back. He’s harmless, I tell myself. “Just get the hell out of my way,” I reply stiffly, turning away.
Behind me I hear Baxter mutter something under his breath. It’s enough to make me stop and face him again. My eyes narrow. “Say that again.”
He grins, shoves his hands into his pockets, and lifts his chin. “I said, jealous that your girl’s whoring around with the Elector?”
I’m almost able to swallow that. Almost. But at that moment, Tess breaks her silence and shoves Baxter with both hands. “Hey,” she says. “Leave him alone, all right? He’s had a rough night.”
Baxter grunts something in irritation. Then he shoves Tess unceremoniously back. “You’re an idiot for believing in this Republic lover, little girl.”
My rage explodes. I’ve never been fond of fistfights—I always tried to steer clear of them on the streets of Lake. But all the anger that’s been building inside me floods my veins when I see Baxter lay hands on Tess.
I lunge forward and punch him in the jaw as hard as I can.
He crashes into one of the tables and onto the ground. Instantly the others nearby burst into whoops and hollers, forming a makeshift circle around the two of us. Before Baxter can get to his feet, I leap on him. My fist connects twice with his face.
He lets out a snarl. Suddenly his weight advantage takes over. He pushes me hard enough to send me flying into the side of a comp desk, then pulls me up, grabs my jacket, and slams me against the wall. He lifts me clear off my feet, then drops me and smashes his fist into my stomach, knocking the breath out of me. “You ain’t one of us. You’re one of them,” he hisses. “Did you detour from our train mission on purpose?” I feel a knee ram into my side. “Well, I’m gonna kill you, you dirty damn trot. I’m gonna skin you alive.”
I’m too furious to feel the pain. I manage to tuck one of my legs up, then kick him in the chest as hard as I can. From the corner of my eye I notice some Patriots quickly exchanging bets. An improvised Skiz duel. For an instant Baxter reminds me of Thomas, and suddenly all I see is my old street in Lake, with Thomas pointing his gun at my mother and soldiers dragging John away into a waiting jeep. Strapping Eden into that lab gurney. Arresting June. Hurting Tess. The edges of my vision turn scarlet. I lunge for him again and swing at his face.
But Baxter’s ready for me. He knocks my arm out of the way and throws his full weight against me. My back slams down hard on the ground. Baxter grins, then grabs my neck and gets ready to shove his fist into the side of my face.
Abruptly he lets go. I suck in a deep breath as his weight leaves my chest, then clutch my head as one of my headaches erupts in full-scale agony. Somewhere above me I can hear Tess, then Pascao shouting at Baxter to back off. Everyone’s talking at once. One . . . Two . . . Three . . . I count off numbers in my head, hoping this little exercise distracts me from the pain. It used to be so much easier to ward off these headaches. Maybe Baxter had hit me in the head and I don’t even know it.
“Are you okay?” Now Tess’s hands are on my arm and pulling me to my feet.
I’m still dizzy with pain from my headache, but the rage has passed. Abruptly I’m aware of the burning soreness in my side. “Fine,” I reply hoarsely, inspecting her face. “Did he hurt you?” Baxter is glaring at me from where Pascao’s trying to talk him down. Already the others around us have returned to their business, probably disappointed that the fight didn’t last longer. I wonder who they’ve decided the winner is.
“I’m okay,” Tess says. She runs a hand hurriedly through her bobbed hair. “Don’t worry.”
“Tess!” Pascao calls out to us. “See if Day needs any patching up. We’re on a schedule here.”
Tess leads me down the hall and away from the common room. We walk into one of the bunker rooms that’s been turned into a makeshift hospital, then shut the door. We’re surrounded by shelves piled high with an assortment of pill bottles and boxes of bandages. A table sits in the middle of the room, leaving only a narrow space to walk around. Now I lean against the table as Tess rolls up her sleeves. “Do you hurt anywhere?” she asks.
“I’m fine,” I repeat. But the moment I say that, I wince and clutch at my side. “Okay, maybe a little banged up.”
“Let me see,” Tess says firmly. She bats my hand aside, then unbuttons my shirt. It’s not like Tess has never seen me shirtless (I’ve lost count of how many times she’s had to patch me up), but now there’s an awkwardness that hangs heavily between us. Her cheeks burn bright pink as she runs her hand across my chest, along my stomach, then presses her fingers against my sides.
I inhale sharply when she touches a sensitive spot. “Yeah, that’s where his knee got me.”
Tess studies my face. “Feel nauseous?”
“No.”
“You shouldn’t have done that,” she says as she works. “Say ‘ah.’” I open my mouth for her. She touches a tissue to my nose, inspects both my ears, and then hurries out for a moment. She comes back with an ice pack. “Here. Hold this on the spot.”
I do what she tells me. “You’ve become very professional.”
“I’ve learned a lot from the Patriots,” Tess replies. When she stops inspecting my chest long enough to face me, she holds my g
aze with her own. “Baxter just doesn’t like your . . . attraction to a former Republic soldier,” she mutters. “But don’t let him get to you like that, okay? No point in getting yourself killed.”
I remember Baxter’s arm around Tess’s neck; my temper flares again, and suddenly I feel a need to guard Tess the way I did back on the streets. “Hey, cousin,” I say softly. “I’m really sorry about what I said to you. About . . . you know.”
Tess’s blush deepens.
I struggle to find the right words. “You don’t need me to take care of you,” I say with an embarrassed laugh, then tap her nose once. “I mean, you’ve probably fussed over me a thousand times. I’ve always needed your help more than you’ve needed mine.”
Tess draws closer and lowers her eyes shyly, a gesture that helps me forget my troubles. Sometimes I forget how nice Tess’s steady devotion is, a rock I could always lean on during the worst of times. Even though our days in Lake were a struggle, right now they seem so much simpler. I catch myself wishing we could go back to that, sharing scraps of food and whatever else we could scrounge up. If June were here, what would’ve happened? She probably would’ve attacked Baxter herself. And she probably would’ve done a hell of a better job than I did, just like everything else. She wouldn’t have needed me at all.
Tess’s hand lingers on my chest, but she’s not checking for bruises anymore. I become aware of how close she is. Her eyes wander back up to mine, large and liquid brown . . . and unlike June’s, so easy to read. The image of June kissing the Elector pops into my mind again, a recollection that twists in my stomach like a knife. Before I can think about anything else, Tess leans forward and presses her lips against mine. My mind is blank, completely taken aback. A brief tingle runs through me.
In my numbness, I let her linger.