Then I wrench away. My palms break out in a cold sweat. What was that? I should have seen this coming and stopped myself right away. I put my hands on her shoulders. When I see the hurt pass across her eyes, I realize just how big of a mistake I’ve made.
“I can’t, Tess.”
Tess blows out an irritated breath. “What, are you married to June now?”
“No. I just . . .” My words flitter away, sad and powerless. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that—at least, not now.”
“What about the fact that June is kissing the Elector? What about that? Are you really going to be so loyal to someone you don’t even have?”
June, always June. I hate her for a moment, and wonder if everything would’ve been better if we’d never met. “This isn’t about June,” I say. “June is playing a role, Tess.” I edge away from Tess until we’re separated by a good foot. “I’m not ready for this to happen between us. You’re my best friend—I don’t want to mislead you when I don’t even know what I’m doing.”
Tess throws up her hands in indignation. “You kiss random girls on the street without a second thought. But you won’t even—”
“You’re not a random girl on the street,” I snap. “You’re Tess.”
Her eyes flash at me and she takes her frustration out on her lip, biting it so hard that she draws blood. “I don’t understand you, Day.” Each word hits me with measured force. “I don’t understand you at all, but I’m going to try to help you anyway. Can you really not see how your precious June has changed your life?”
I shut my eyes and press both hands against my temples. “Stop.”
“You think you’re in love with a girl you’ve known for less than a month, a girl who—who’s responsible for your mother’s death? For John’s?”
Echoes of what she’d said to me in the bunker room. “Damn it, Tess. It wasn’t her fault—”
“Wasn’t it?” Tess spits out. “Day, they shot your mother because of June! But you act like you love her? I’ve done nothing but help you—I have been at your side ever since the day we met. You think I’m being childish? Well, I don’t care. I’ve never said a word about the other girls you’ve been with, but I can’t bear to watch you choose a girl who has done nothing but hurt you. Has June even apologized to you for what happened, has she had to work for your forgiveness? What’s the matter with you?” At my silence, she puts her hand on my arm. “Well, do you love her?” she says more quietly. “Does she love you?”
Love her? I’d told her so in that Vegas bathroom, and I’d meant it. But she didn’t say it back, yeah? Maybe she never felt the same way—maybe I’m just deluding myself. “I don’t know, okay?” I reply. My words sound angrier than I actually am.
Tess is trembling. Now she nods, silently takes the ice pack from my side, and buttons my shirt back up. The chasm between us widens. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to reach the other side again. “You should be fine,” she says in a monotone as she turns her back on me. She stops in front of the door, her back to me. “Trust me, Day. I’m saying this for your sake. June will break your heart. I can see it already. She’ll shatter you into a million pieces.”
PIERRA’S OLAN COURT HALL.
SOMETIME AROUND 0900 HOURS.
29°F OUTSIDE.
THE DAY HAS FINALLY ARRIVED FOR ANDEN’S ASSASSINATION, and I have three hours before the Patriots make their move.
The night before, I had another visit from the same guard who had once given me a message from the Patriots. “Good work,” she whispered in my ear as I lay in bed, wide awake. “Tomorrow you’ll be pardoned by the Elector and his Senators, and they’ll release you at Pierra’s Olan Court Hall. Now, listen closely. When you’re all finished at the court hall, the Elector’s jeeps will escort all of you back to Pierra’s main military quarters. The Patriots will be waiting along that route.”
The soldier paused to see if I had any questions. But I just stared straight ahead. I could guess what the Patriots wanted me to do, anyway—they’ll want me to separate Anden from his guards. Then the Patriots will drag him out of his jeep and shoot him. They’ll record it, then announce it to the whole Republic using the rewired speakers and JumboTrons on Denver’s Capitol Tower.
When I didn’t say anything, the soldier cleared her throat and went on in a hurried voice, “Watch for an explosion on the road. When you hear it go off, have Anden order his convoy to take a different route. Make sure you separate the Elector from his guards—tell him to trust you. If you’ve done your job, he’ll follow your lead.” The soldier smiled briefly at me. “Once Anden is separated from the other jeeps, leave the rest to us.”
I spent the rest of that night in a fitful state.
Now, as I’m escorted into the main court hall building, I check the rooftops and alleys of the other buildings along the street, watching for Patriot eyes, wondering if one pair of them will be bright blue. Day will be amongst the Patriots out here today. Inside my black gloves, my hands are cold with sweat. Even if he saw my signal, will he understand what I meant by it? Will he know to drop what he’s doing and make a run for it? As I head toward the courtroom’s grand arched entrance, I memorize street names and locations out of habit—where the main military base is, where Pierra’s hospital rises in the distance. I feel like I can sense the Patriots getting into position. There’s a stillness in the air, even though the buildings here are tightly packed and the streets are narrow; both soldiers and civilians (most of them poor and assigned to tend to the troops) bustle noisily along the roads. Some of the uniformed soldiers on the street look at us a little too long. I note them carefully. There must be Patriots watching us. Even inside the hall, it’s cold enough for my breath to cloud, and I tremble nonstop. (The ceiling’s at least twenty feet high, and the floors are polished synthetic—judging from the sound of boots against it—wood. Not very conducive to retaining heat in winter.)
“How long is this going to take?” I ask one of the guards as they escort me to my seat at the front of the courtroom. My boots (warm, waterproof leather) echo harshly against the floors. I shiver in spite of the double-breasted coat I have on.
The guard I spoke to gives me an uncomfortable nod. “Not long, Ms. Iparis,” she replies with practiced politeness. “The Elector and Senators are in final deliberations. Probably going to take at least another half hour.” It’s interesting, really. Because the Elector himself will be pardoning me today, the guards aren’t sure exactly how to behave. Guard me like a criminal? Or kiss up like I’m a high-ranking Agent in one of the capital’s patrols?
The waiting drags on. I feel slightly dizzy. I’d been given some medicine after finally mentioning my symptoms to Anden earlier in the day, but it hasn’t helped. My head still feels warm, and I’m having trouble keeping count of the time in my head.
Finally, when I’ve counted off twenty-six minutes (possibly off by three or four seconds), Anden emerges from the doors at the far end of the room with a team of officials behind him. It’s clear that not everyone is happy; some Senators hang back, their mouths pulled into tight lines. I recognize Senator Kamion amongst them, the man Anden had been arguing with on the train here. His graying hair looks disheveled today. Another Senator I remember from occasional headlines, Senator O’Connor, a blubbery woman with limp red hair and a mouth not unlike a frog’s. I don’t know the others. Aside from the Senators, two young journalists flank Anden’s sides. One has his head down, taking dictation furiously on a notepad, while the second struggles to keep his voice recorder close enough to Anden.
I rise when they reach me. The Senators who were bickering amongst themselves fall silent. Anden nods at my guards. “June Iparis, Congress has pardoned you of all crimes against the Republic on the condition that you will continue to serve your nation to the best of your capabilities. Do we have an understanding, Ms. Iparis?”
I nod. Even this slight movement makes me light-headed. “Yes, Elector.” The scribe beside Anden frantically jots our w
ords down. His notepad’s screen flickers under his flying fingers.
Anden takes in my listlessness. He can tell that my condition hasn’t improved. “You will enter a period of probation as advised to me by my Senators, during which time you’ll be closely surveyed until we can all agree that you’re ready to return to duty. You’ll be assigned to the capital’s patrols. We’ll discuss which patrol you’ll be joining once we’re all settled at Pierra’s base this afternoon.” He raises his eyebrows and turns to his right and left. “Senators? Any comments?”
They remain silent. One of them finally speaks through a thinly veiled sneer. “Understand that you are not yet in the clear, Agent Iparis. You will be watched at all times. You should consider our decision an act of enormous mercy.”
“Thank you, Elector,” I reply, tapping my head in a brief salute as any soldier would. “Thank you, Senators.”
“Thank you for all of your help,” Anden says with a subtle bow. I keep my head lowered so I don’t have to meet his eyes, to see the double layer of meaning in his words—he’s thanking me for the help I supposedly gave in protecting him, and the help he wants from both Day and me.
Somewhere outside, Day is in position with the others. The thought makes me nauseous with anxiety.
The soldiers begin escorting our party back to the front of the conference hall and toward our respective rides. I take each step deliberately, trying hard to maintain my focus. Now is not the moment to fail because of illness. I keep my eyes on the hall’s entrance. Since our last train ride, this is the one idea I’ve settled on that just might work. Something to throw off all the Patriots’ timing—something I can do to prevent us from heading back toward Pierra’s main military hall.
I hope this works. I don’t think I can afford any mistakes.
With ten feet to the doors, I stumble. Instantly, I right myself again and continue walking, but then stumble again. Murmurs from the Senators rise up behind me. One of them snaps, “What is it?”
Then Anden is there, his face hovering above me. Two of his guards jump in front of him. “Elector, sir,” one says. “Please stay back. We’ll take care of this.”
“What happened?” Anden asks, first to the soldiers, then to me. “Are you injured?”
It’s not too hard to pretend I’m about to faint. The world around me fades, then sharpens again. My head hurts. I raise my head and make eye contact with Anden. Then I let myself collapse to the ground.
Startled exclamations buzz around me. Then my ears perk up when I hear Anden above them all, saying exactly what I’d hoped he would say: “Take her to the hospital. Immediately. ” He remembers my last piece of advice to him, what I’d said to him on the train.
“But, Elector—” protests the same guard who had barred him earlier.
Anden takes on a steely tone. “Are you questioning me, soldier?”
Strong hands help me back to my feet. We go through the doors and back out into the light of an overcast morning. I squint at the surroundings, still searching for suspicious faces. Are the guards holding me up potentially Patriots in disguise? I cast glances at them, but their expressions are completely blank. Adrenaline is rushing through me—I’ve made my move. The Patriots know I’ve deviated from the plan, but they don’t know if I did it intentionally. The important thing is that the hospital is on a route opposite the one leading to the Pierra base, where the Patriots are ready and waiting. Anden’s going to follow me. The Patriots won’t have time to readjust their positions.
And if the other Patriots hear about this, so should Day. I close my eyes and hope that he can follow through. I try sending a silent message to him. Run away. When you hear that I’ve deviated from the plan, run away as fast as you can.
A guard hoists me up into the backseat of one of the waiting jeeps. Anden and his soldiers get into the jeep in front of us. The Senators, bewildered and indignant, go to their regular cars. I have to force a smile off my face as I sit limply in my seat, peering out the windows. The jeep roars to life and pulls forward. Through the windshield, I see Anden’s jeep leading us away from the conference hall.
Then, just as I’m congratulating myself for such a stellar plan, I realize that our jeeps are still headed for the base. They’re not going toward the hospital at all. My momentary joy vanishes. Fear replaces it.
One of my guards notices too. “Hey, chauffeur,” he snaps at the soldier who’s driving. “Wrong way. Hospital’s on the left side of town.” He sighs. “Somebody get the Elector’s driver on his mike. We’re—”
The driver waves him off, presses one thick, gnarly hand against his ear in concentration, then glances back at us with a frown. “Negative. We just got orders to stay on our original course,” he replies. “Commander DeSoto says the Elector wants Ms. Iparis taken to the hospital afterward, instead.”
I freeze. Razor must be lying to Anden’s driver—I seriously doubt that Anden would have let him give the drivers such an order. Razor’s going ahead with the plan; he’s going to force us to take the intended route in any way that he can.
It doesn’t matter what the reason is. We’re still heading straight toward the Pierra base . . . straight into the Patriots’ waiting arms.
THE DAY OF THE ELECTOR’S ASSASSINATION IS finally here. It arrives like a looming hurricane of change, promising everything I’m anticipating and dreading. Anticipating: the Elector’s death. Dreading: June’s signal.
Or maybe it’s the other way around.
I still don’t know what to make of it. It leaves me on edge when I would otherwise feel nothing but a rising sense of enthusiasm. I tap restlessly on the hilt of my knife. Be careful, June. That’s the only certain thought running through my head. Be careful—for your sake, and for ours.
I’m perched precariously at the edge of a crumbling windowsill in an old shell of a building, four stories up and hidden from the street, with two grenades and a gun tucked securely at my belt. Like the rest of the Patriots, I’m dressed in a black Republic coat, so from a distance I look like a Republic soldier. A black stripe runs across my eyes again. The only thing distinguishing us is a white band on our left (instead of right) arms. From here, I can see the railroad tracks that run right along a neighboring street, slicing Pierra in half. Off to my right, in a small alley three buildings down, lies the entrance to the Patriots’ Pierra tunnel. Its underground bunker is empty now. I’m alone in this abandoned building, although I’m pretty sure Pascao can see me from his vantage point on a roof across the street. The thud of my heart against my ribs can probably be heard for miles.
I start thinking, for the hundredth time, about why June wants to stop the assassination. Did she uncover something the Patriots are keeping a secret from me? Or did she do what Tess had guessed she might do—did she betray us? I shake the thought stubbornly away.
June would never do that. Not after what the Republic did to her brother.
Maybe June wants to stop the assassination because she’s falling for the Elector. I shut my eyes as the image of them kissing flares up in my mind. No way. Would the June I know be that sentimental?
All the Patriots are in position—Runners on the roofs, poised with explosives; Hackers one building away from the tunnel entrance, ready to record and broadcast the Elector’s assassination; fighters positioned along the street below us in soldier or civilian garb, prepared to take the Elector’s guards down. Tess and a couple of Medics are scattered, ready to bring the injured into the tunnel. Tess specifically is hiding in the narrow street bordering the left side of my building. After the assassination, we’ll need to be ready to escape, and she’ll be the first one I’ll get.
And then there’s me. According to the plan, June’s supposed to steer the Elector away from the protection of his guards. When we see his jeep speed by alone, the Runners will cut off his escape routes with explosions. Then I head down to the street. After the Patriots have dragged Anden out of his car, I’m going to shoot him.
It’s the middle o
f the afternoon, but clouds keep the world around me a cold, ominous gray. I check my watch. It’s set on a timer for when the Elector’s jeeps are expected to come whizzing around the corner.
Fifteen minutes until showtime.
I’m shaking. Is the Elector really going to be dead in fifteen minutes—by my hand? Is this plan really going to work? After it’s all over, when are the Patriots going to help me find and rescue Eden? When I’d told Razor about seeing that boy on board the train, he’d given me a sympathetic response and said that he’s already started working to track Eden down. All I can do is believe him. I try to picture the Republic thrown into complete chaos, with the Elector’s assassination publicly broadcast on every JumboTron in the nation. If the people are already rioting, I can only imagine how they’ll react when they see me shoot the Elector. What then? Will the Colonies take advantage of the situation and surge right into the Republic, breaking past the warfront that’s held the two sides apart for so long?
A new government. A new order. I shiver with pent-up energy.
Of course, this doesn’t factor in June’s signal. I try to flex my fingers—my hands are clammy with cold sweat. Hell if I know what’s really going to happen today.
Static buzzes in my earpiece, and I pick up a few broken words from Pascao. “—Orange and Echo streets—clear—” His voice sharpens. “Day?”
“I’m here.”
“Fifteen minutes,” he says. “Quick review. Jordan’s setting off the first explosion. When the Elector’s jeep caravan reaches her street, she’ll toss her grenade. June will separate the Elector’s car from the others. I toss my grenade, then they’ll turn right down your street. You toss yours down when you see the caravan. Corner that jeep in—and then head down to the ground. Got it?”
“Yeah. Got it,” I reply. “Just hurry the hell up and get into your own position.”
Waiting here gives me a sick feeling in my stomach, taking me back to that evening when I’d waited for the plague patrols to show up at my mother’s door. Even that night seems better than today. My family was alive back then, and Tess and I were still on good terms. I practice taking several deep breaths and slowly letting them back out. In less than fifteen minutes, I’m going to see the Elector’s caravan—and June—come down this street. My fingers run along the edges of the grenades at my belt.