“The sooner the better, right?” The sudden edge in his voice startles me. “And to think you were forced to spend so much time in his company. I’m amazed he didn’t kill you in your sleep. I’m—” Thomas pauses, then decides against finishing his sentence.
I think back to the warmth of Day’s kiss, the way he’d bandaged my wound. Since his capture, I’ve puzzled over this a hundred times. The Day that killed my brother is a cruel, ruthless criminal. But who is the Day I met on the streets? Who is this boy that would risk his own safety for a girl he didn’t know? Who is the Day that grieves so deeply for his mother? His look-alike brother, John, did not seem like a bad person when I questioned him in his cell—bargaining his life for Day’s, bargaining hidden money for Eden’s freedom. How could such a coldhearted criminal be a part of this family? The memory of Day bound to his chair, agonizing over his wounded leg, makes me both angry and confused. I could have killed him yesterday. I could’ve just loaded some bullets into my gun and shot him dead and been done with it. But I’d left my gun empty.
“Those street cons are all the same,” Thomas goes on, echoing what I said to Day in his cell. “Did you hear that Day’s sick brother, the little one, tried to spit on Commander Jameson yesterday? Tried to infect her with whatever mutated plague he’s carrying?”
The subject of Day’s younger brother isn’t something I’ve investigated. “Tell me,” I say, pausing to look at Thomas. “What exactly does the Republic want with that boy? Why take him to the hospital lab?”
Thomas lowers his voice. “I can’t say. Much of it is confidential. But I do know that several generals from the warfront have come to see him.”
I frown. “They came just for him?”
“Well, many of them are here for a meeting of some sort. But they did make a point of stopping by the lab.”
“Why would the warfront be interested in Day’s little brother?”
Thomas shrugs. “If there’s something we need to hear about, the generals will tell us.”
Moments later, we’re intercepted by a large man with a scar from his chin to his ear. Chian. He grins broadly at the sight of us and puts a hand on my shoulder. “Agent Iparis! Tonight is your night. You’re a star! I tell you, my dear, everyone in the higher circles is talking about your prodigious performance. Especially your commander—she’s gushing about you like you’re her daughter. Congratulations on your agent promotion and that nice little reward. Two hundred thousand Notes should buy you a dozen elegant dresses.”
I manage a polite nod. “You are very kind, sir.”
Chian smiles, distorting his scar, and claps his gloved hands together. His uniform has enough badges and medals to sink him to the ocean’s bottom. Surprisingly, one of the badges is purple and gold, which means Chian was a war hero once—although I have a hard time believing that he ever risked his life to save his comrades. It also means he’s suffered the loss of a limb. His hands seem intact, so he must have a prosthetic leg. The subtle angle he’s leaning toward tells me that he favors his left.
“Follow me, Agent Iparis. And you too, Captain,” Chian instructs. “There’s someone who wants to meet you.”
This must be the person Commander Jameson mentioned. Thomas shoots me a secretive smile.
Chian leads us through the banquet hall and across the dance floor, toward a thick navy curtain walling off a large part of the room. Republic flag stands are positioned at both ends of the curtain, and as we approach, I see that the curtain has a faint pattern of the flag on it as well.
Chian holds open the curtain for us, then closes it behind him as we step inside.
There are twelve velvet chairs arranged in a circle, and in each sits an official in full black uniform, his or her shoulders adorned with shining gold epaulettes, sipping from delicate glasses. I recognize a few. Some are generals from the warfront, the same ones Thomas mentioned earlier. One of them spots us and approaches, a younger official following close behind him. But as they leave the circle, the rest of the group rises and bows in their direction.
The older official is tall, with graying hair at his temples and a chiseled jaw. His skin looks wan and sickly. He wears a gold-rimmed monocle over his right eye. Chian is standing at attention, and when Thomas releases my arm, I look over to see him doing the same. The man waves a hand, and everyone relaxes their stance. Only now do I finally recognize him. He looks different in person than he does in his portraits or on the city’s JumboTrons, where his skin has a much warmer color and no wrinkles. I also pick out the bodyguards scattered among the officials.
This is our Elector Primo.
“You must be Agent Iparis.” His lips tug upward at my stunned expression, but there is little warmth in his smile. He grasps my hand in one quick, firm shake. “These gentlemen tell me great things about you. That you’re a prodigy. And more important, you’ve put one of our most irritating criminals behind bars. So I thought it fitting that I congratulate you in person. If we had more patriotic young people like you, with minds as sharp as yours, we’d have won the war against the Colonies long ago. Wouldn’t you agree?” He pauses to look around at the others, and everyone murmurs in agreement. “I congratulate you, my dear.”
I bow my head. “Such an honor to meet you, sir. It is my pleasure, Elector, to do what I can for our country.” I’m amazed by how calm my voice is.
The Elector motions to the young official beside him. “This is my son, Anden. Today is his twentieth birthday, so I thought I would bring him with me to this lovely celebration.”
I turn to Anden. He’s very much like his father, tall (six feet two inches) and quite regal looking, with dark curly hair. Like Day, he has some Asian blood. But unlike Day, his eyes are green and his expression uncertain. He wears white condor flight gloves with elaborate gold lining, which means he’s already completed fighter pilot training. Left-handed. Gold cuff links on the sleeves of his black military tuxedo coat have the Colorado coat of arms engraved on them. Which means he was born there. Scarlet waistcoat, double row of buttons. He wears his air force rank first, unlike the Elector.
Anden smiles at my lingering gaze, gives me a perfect bow, then takes my hand in his. Instead of shaking my hand like the Elector did, he holds it up to his lips and kisses the back of it. I’m embarrassed by how much my heart leaps. “Agent Iparis,” he says. His eyes stay on me for a moment.
“A pleasure,” I reply, unsure of what else to say.
“My son will run for the Elector’s position in late spring.” The Elector smiles at Anden, who bows. “Exciting, don’t you think?”
“I wish him great luck in the election, then, although I’m sure he will not need it.”
The Elector chuckles. “Thank you, my dear. That will be all. Please, Agent Iparis, enjoy yourself tonight. I hope we have a chance to meet again.” Then he turns away. Anden follows in his wake. “Dismissed,” the Elector calls as he goes.
Chian ushers us out of the curtained area and back to the main ballroom. I can breathe again.
0100 HOURS. RUBY SECTOR.
73°F INDOORS.
After the celebration ends, Thomas escorts me back to my apartment without saying a word. He lingers for a moment outside my door.
I’m the first to break the silence. “Thanks,” I say. “That was fun.”
Thomas nods. “Yeah. I’ve never seen Commander Jameson look so proud of any of her soldiers before. You’re the Republic’s golden girl.” But then he falls right back into silence. He’s unhappy, and I somehow feel responsible.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
“Hmm? Oh, I’m fine.” Thomas runs a hand through his slicked hair. A bit of gel comes off on his glove. “I didn’t know the Elector’s son would be there.” I see a mysterious emotion in his eyes—anger? Jealousy? It clouds his face and gives him an ugly look.
I shrug it off. “We met the Elector himself. Can you believe it? I call that a successful night. I’m glad you and Commander Jameson convinced me to wear s
omething nice.”
Thomas studies me. He doesn’t seem amused. “June, I’ve been meaning to ask you . . .” He hesitates. “When you were out with Day in Lake sector, did he kiss you?”
I pause. My mike. That’s how he knows—my mike must’ve turned on when we kissed, or perhaps I hadn’t shut it off properly. I meet Thomas’s gaze. “Yes,” I reply steadily, “he did.”
That same emotion returns to his eyes. “Why’d he do it?”
“Perhaps he found me attractive. But most likely it was because he drank some cheap wine. I went with it. Didn’t want to compromise the mission after coming so far.”
We stand in silence for a moment. Then, before I can protest, one of Thomas’s gloved hands brushes my chin as he leans in to kiss me on the lips.
I pull away before his mouth can touch mine—but now his hand is around the back of my neck. I’m surprised at how repulsed I feel. All I can see standing in front of me is a man with blood on his hands.
Thomas gives me a long look. Then, finally, he releases me and moves away. I can read the displeasure in his eyes. “Good night, Ms. Iparis.” He hurries away down the hall before I can respond. I swallow. I certainly can’t get in trouble for staying in character while out on the streets, but it doesn’t take a genius to see how upset Thomas is. I wonder if he’ll act on this information and, if so, what he’ll do.
I watch him disappear, then open my door and slowly step inside.
Ollie greets me enthusiastically. I pet him, let him out onto our patio, and then throw off the lopsided dress and hop in the shower. When I’m done, I climb into a black vest and shorts.
I try in vain to sleep. But too much has happened today . . . Day’s interrogation, meeting the Elector Primo and his son, and then Thomas. Metias’s crime scene returns to my thoughts—but as I replay it in my mind, I see his face turn into that of Day’s mother. I rub my eyes, heavy with exhaustion. My mind whirls with information, attempting to process all of it and getting jumbled in the middle each time. I try to imagine my thoughts as blocks of data organized into neat little boxes, each clearly labeled. The pattern makes no sense tonight, though, and I’m too tired to make sense of it. The apartment feels empty and foreign. I almost miss the streets of Lake. My eyes wander over to a small chest sitting under my desk, full of the 200,000 Notes I received for capturing Day. I know I should put it in a safer place, but I can’t bring myself to touch it. After a while, I get out of bed, fill a glass with water, and wander over to my computer. If I’m not going to sleep, I might as well continue sifting through Day’s background and evidence.
I run a finger across my monitor, take a sip of water, and then enter my clearance code for accessing the Internet. I open the files Commander Jameson has forwarded to me. They’re full of scanned documents, photos, and newspaper articles. Every time I look through things like this, I hear Metias’s voice in my mind. “Some of our tech used to be better,” he’d tell me. “Before floods, before thousands of data centers were wiped out.” He would let out a mock sigh, then wink at me. “Something to be said for writing my journals by hand, eh?”
I skim through the information I’ve already read before, starting on the new documents. My mind sorts through the details.
BIRTH NAME: DANIEL ALTAN WING
AGE/GENDER: 15/M; PREV. LABELED DECEASED AT AGE 10
HEIGHT: 5’10”
WEIGHT: 147 LBS
BLOOD TYPE: ♢
HAIR: BLOND, LONG. FFFADL.
EYES: BLUE. 3AEDB.
SKIN: E2B279
DOMINANT ETHNICITY: MONGOLIAN
Interesting. High ratio for what grade school taught us was an extinct country.
SECONDARY ETHNICITY: CAUCASIAN
SECTOR: LAKE
FATHER: TAYLOR ARSLAN WING. DECEASED.
MOTHER: GRACE WING. DECEASED.
My mind pauses on this for a moment. Again I picture the woman crumpled on the street in her own blood, then quickly shake the image away.
SIBLINGS: JOHN SUREN WING, 19/M EDEN BATAAR WING, 9/M
And then come the pages and pages of documents detailing Day’s past crimes. I try to skim these as fast as I can, but in the end I can’t help pausing on the last one.
FATALITIES: CAPTAIN METIAS IPARIS
I close my eyes. Ollie whimpers at my feet as if he knows what I’m reading, then shoves his nose against my leg. I keep a hand absently on his head.
I didn’t kill your brother. That’s what he told me. But you might as well have put a gun to my mother’s head.
I force myself to scroll to a different document. I’ve already memorized that crime report from back to front, anyway.
Then something catches my eye. I sit up straighter. The document in front of me shows Day’s Trial score. It’s a scanned paper with a giant red stamp on it, very different from the bright blue stamp I’d seen on mine.
DANIEL ALTAN WING
SCORE: 674 / 1500
FAILED
Something about that number bothers me . . . 674? I’ve never heard of anyone scoring so low. One person I knew in grade school did fail, inevitably, but his score was close to 1000. Most failing scores are something like 890. Or 825. Always 800-plus. And those are the kids that are expected to fail, the ones who don’t pay attention or don’t have the capacity to.
But 674?
“He’s too smart for that,” I say under my breath. I read it over again in case I missed something. But the number’s still there. Impossible. Day is well-spoken and logical, and he can read and write. He should have passed his Trial’s interview portion. He’s the most agile person I’ve ever met—he should have aced his Trial’s physical. With high scores on those sections, it should have been impossible for him to score lower than 850—still failing, but higher than 674. And he would’ve gotten 850 only if he left his entire written portion blank.
Commander Jameson will not be happy with me, I think. I open up a search engine and point to a classified URL.
Final Trial scores are common knowledge, but the actual Trial documents are never revealed—not even to criminal investigators. But my brother was Metias, and we never had trouble finding our way into the Trial databases with his hacks. I close my eyes, recounting what he’d taught me.
Determine the OS and get root privs. See if you can reach the remote system. Know your target, and secure your machine.
I find an open port in the system after an hour of scanning and then take over admin privileges. The site beeps once before displaying a single search bar. I soundlessly tap out Day’s name on my desk.
DANIEL ALTAN WING.
The front page of his Trial document comes up. The score still says 674 / 1500. I scroll to the next page. Day’s answers. Some of the questions are multiple-choice, while others require several sentences to answer. I skim through all thirty-two pages before I confirm something very odd.
There are no red marks. In fact, every single one of his answers is untouched. His Trial looks as pristine as mine.
I scroll all the way back to the first page. Then I read each question carefully and answer it in my head. It takes me an hour to go through all of them.
Every answer matches.
When I reach the end of his Trial document, I see the separate scores for his interview and physical sections. Both are perfect. The only thing that’s weird is a brief note written next to his interview score: Attention.
Day didn’t fail his Trial. Not even close. In fact, he got the same score I did: 1500 / 1500. I am no longer the Republic’s only prodigy with a perfect score.
“GET ON YOUR FEET. IT’S TIME.”
The butt of a rifle hits me in the ribs. I’m yanked out of a dream-filled sleep—first of my mother walking me to grade school, then of Eden’s bleeding irises and the red number under our porch. Two pairs of hands drag me up before I can see properly, and I scream as my wounded leg tries to take some of my weight. I didn’t think it was possible for it to hurt more than it did yesterday, but it does. Tears sprin
g to my eyes. When my vision sharpens, I can tell that my leg is swollen under the bandages. I want to scream again, but my mouth is too dry.
The soldiers drag me out of my cell. The commander who had visited me the day before is waiting in the hall for us, and when she sees me, she breaks into a smile. “Good morning, Day,” she says. “How are you?”
I don’t reply. One of the soldiers pauses to give the commander a quick salute. “Commander Jameson,” he says, “are you ready for him to proceed to sentencing?”
The commander nods. “Follow me. And please gag him, if you don’t mind. We wouldn’t want him yelling obscenities the whole time, would we?” The soldier salutes again, then stuffs a cloth into my mouth.
We make our way through the long halls. Again we pass the double doors with the red number—then several doors under heavy guard and still others with large glass panels. My mind whirls. I need a way to confirm my guess, a way to talk to someone. I’m weak from dehydration, and the pain has made me sick to my stomach.
Now and then, I see a person inside one of the glass-paneled rooms, cuffed to a wall and screaming. I can tell from their tattered uniforms that they are POWs from the Colonies. What if John’s inside one of these rooms? What will they do with him?
After what seems like an eternity, we step into an enormous main hall with a high ceiling. Outside, a crowd is chanting something, but I can’t make out the words. Soldiers line the row of doors that lead to the front of the building.
And then the soldiers part—we’re outside. The daylight blinds me, and I hear the shouts of hundreds of people. Commander Jameson holds up a hand, then turns to her right while the soldiers drag me up to a platform. Now I can finally see where I am. I’m in front of a building at the heart of Batalla, the military sector of Los Angeles. An enormous crowd has turned out to watch me, held back and patrolled by an almost equally large platoon of gun-wielding soldiers. I had no idea this many people cared enough to see me in person today. I raise my head as high as I can and see the JumboTrons embedded in the surrounding buildings. Every single one has a close-up of my face accompanied by frantic news headlines.