The Legend Trilogy Collection (72 page)

A scornful laugh forces its way out of me. “Yeah, right. You expect me to believe that?”

“Well now,” the Chancellor says, trying to sound amused, but this time I detect darkness in his words. “I can see this is a losing argument. If you choose to fight for the Republic, I’ll respect that decision. I only hope that the best will happen for you and your brother, even after we establish our place firmly in the Republic. But I’m a businessman, Day, and I like to work with a Plan B in mind. So, let me ask you this instead.” He pauses for a second. “The Princeps-Elect June Iparis. Do you love her?”

An icy claw grips my chest. “Why?”

“Well.” The Chancellor lets his voice turn somber. “You have to see this situation from my point of view,” he says gently. “The Colonies will win, inevitably, at this rate. Ms. Iparis is one of the people sitting at the heart of the losing government. Now, son, I want you to think about this. What do you suppose happens to the ruling government on the losing side of a war?”

My hands tremble. This is a thought that has floated in the dark recesses of my mind, something I’ve refused to think about. Until now. “Are you threatening her?” I whisper.

The Chancellor
tsks
in disapproval at my tone. “I’m only being reasonable. What do you think will happen to her once we declare victory? Do you
really
think we will let live a girl who is on track to become the leader of the Republic’s Senate? This is how all civilized nations work, Day, and it’s been that way for centuries. For millennia. After all, I’m sure your Elector executed those who stood against him. Didn’t he?” I stay silent. “Ms. Iparis, along with the Elector and his Senate, will be tried and executed.
That
is what happens to a losing government in a war, Day.” His voice turns serious. “If you don’t cooperate with us, then you might have to live with their blood on your hands. But if you
do
cooperate, I might find a way to pardon them of their war crimes. And what’s more,” he adds, “you can have all the comforts of a quality life. You won’t need to worry for your family’s safety ever again. You won’t have to worry for the Republic’s people either. They don’t know any better; the common folk never know what’s good for them. But you and I do, don’t we? You know they’re better off without the Republic’s rule. Sometimes they just don’t understand their choices—they need their decisions made for them. After all, you chose to manipulate the people yourself when you wanted them to accept your new Elector. Am I correct?”

Tried and executed.
June, gone.
Dreading the possibility is one thing; hearing it spelled out to me and then using it to blackmail me is another. My mind spins frantically for ways they could escape instead, to find asylum in another country. Maybe the Antarcticans can keep June and the others overseas and protected in case the Colonies overrun the country. There must be a way. But . . . what about the rest of us? What’s to stop the Colonies from harming my brother?

“How do I know you’ll keep your word?” I finally manage to croak.

“To show you my genuine nature, I give you my word that the Colonies have ceased their attacks as of this morning, and I will not resume them for three days. If you agree to my proposition, you just guaranteed the safety of the Republic’s people . . . and of your loved ones. So, let the choice be yours.” The Chancellor laughs a little. “And I recommend that you keep our conversation to yourself.”

“I’ll think about it,” I whisper.

“Wonderful.” The Chancellor’s voice brightens. “Like I said, as soon as possible. After three days, I’ll expect to hear back from you on making a public announcement to the Republic. This can be the start of a very fruitful relationship. Time is of the essence—I know you understand this more than anyone.”

Then the call ends. The silence is deafening. I sit in the thick of our conversation for a while, soaking it in. Thoughts run endlessly through my mind . . . Eden, June, the Republic, the Elector.
Their blood on your hands.
The frustration and fear bubbling inside my chest threatens to drown me in its tide. The Chancellor’s smart, I’ll give him that—he knows exactly what my weaknesses are and he’s going to try to use them to his advantage. But two can play at this. I have to warn June—and I’ll have to do it quietly. If the Colonies find out that I’ve passed the word along instead of keeping my mouth shut and doing as the Chancellor says, then who knows what tricks they might try to pull. But maybe we can use this to our advantage. My mind whirls. Maybe we can fool the Chancellor at his own game.

Suddenly, a shriek echoes from the hallway outside that raises every hair on my skin. I turn my head in the sound’s direction. Somebody’s coming down the corridor against her will—whoever it is must be putting up a pretty damn good fight.

“I’m
not
infected,” the voice protests. It grows louder until it’s right outside my door, then fades as the sounds of the voice and gurney wheels travel farther down the hall. I recognize the voice right away. “Run your tests again. It’s nothing. I’m
not infected.
”

Even though I don’t know exactly what’s going on, I’m instantly sure of one thing—the sickness spreading through the Colonies has a new victim.

Tess.

F
OR THE FIRST TIME IN THE
R
EPUBLIC’S HISTORY, THERE
is no capital to land in.

We touch down at an airfield located on the southern edge of Drake University at 1600 hours, not a quarter mile away from where I used to attend all of my Republic History classes. The afternoon is disconcertingly sunny. Has it really been less than a year since everything happened? As we step off the plane and wait for our luggage to unload, I look around in a dull stupor. The campus, both nostalgic and strange to me, is emptier than I remember—many of the seniors, I hear, have been pushed through graduation early in order to send them off to the warfront to fight for the Republic’s survival. I walk in silence through the campus streets a few steps behind Anden, while Mariana and Serge, as part of their Senator nature, keep up a steady stream of chatter with their otherwise quiet Elector. Ollie stays close to my side, the hackles up on his neck. The main Drake quad, normally crowded with passing students, is now home to pockets of refugees brought over from Denver and a few neighboring cities. An unfamiliar, eerie sight.

By the time we reach a series of jeeps waiting for us and begin traveling through Batalla sector, I notice the various things throughout LA that have changed. Evacuation centers have popped up where Batalla sector meets Blueridge, where the military buildings give way to civilian high-rises, and many of the older, half-abandoned buildings along this poor sector have been hastily converted into evacuation centers. Large crowds of disheveled Denver refugees crowd the entrances, all hoping to be lucky enough to get a room assignment. One glance tells me that, naturally, the people waiting here are probably all from Denver’s poor sectors.

“Where are we placing the upper-class families?” I ask Anden. “In a gem sector, I’m sure?” I find it difficult now to say something like this without a sharp edge in my voice.

Anden looks unhappy, but he calmly answers, “In Ruby. You, Mariana, and Serge will all have apartments there.” He reads my expression. “I know what you’re thinking. But I can’t afford to have our wealthy families revolting against me for forcing them into evacuation centers in the poor sectors. I
did
set a number of spaces in Ruby to be allocated for the poor—they’ll be assigned to them on a lottery system.”

I don’t answer, simply because I have nothing to argue against. What
is
there to do about this situation? It’s not like Anden can uproot the entire country’s infrastructure in the span of a year. As I look on through the window, a growing group of protesters gathers along the edge of a guarded refugee zone.
MOVE TO THE OUTSKIRTS!
one of their signs says.
KEEP THEM QUARANTINED!

The sight sends a shiver down my spine. It doesn’t seem so different from what had happened in the Republic’s early years, when the west protested the people fleeing in from the east.

We ride in silence for a while. Then, suddenly, Anden presses his hand against his ear and motions to the driver. “Turn on the screen,” he tells him, gesturing to the small monitor embedded into the jeep’s seats. “General Marshall says the Colonies are broadcasting something onto our twelfth channel.”

We all watch as the monitor comes to life. At first we only see a blank, black screen, but then the broadcast comes in, and I look on as the Colonies slogan and seal appear over an oscillating Colonies flag.

THE COLONIES OF AMERICA

CLOUD . MEDITECH . DESCON . EVERGREEN

A FREE STATE IS A CORPORATE STATE

Then, an evening landscape of a beautiful, sparkling city comes up, completely covered in thousands of twinkling blue lights. “Citizens of the Republic,” a grandiose voice says. “Welcome to the Colonies of America. As many of you already know, the Colonies have overrun the Republic capital of Denver and, as such, have declared an unofficial victory over the tyrannical regime that has kept you all under its thumb. After over a hundred years of suffering, you are now free.” The landscape changes to a top-down map of both the Republic and the Colonies—except this time, the line dividing the two nations is gone. A shiver runs down my spine. “In the weeks to come, you will all be integrated into our system of fair competition and freedom. You are a citizen of the Colonies. What does that mean, you might wonder?”

The voiceover pauses, and the imagery shifts to a happy family holding a check in front of them. “As a new citizen, each of you will be entitled to at least five thousand Colonies Notes, equivalent to sixty thousand Republic Notes, granted from one of our four main corps that you decide to work for. The higher your current income, the higher we’ll pay you. You will no longer answer to the Republic’s street police but to DesCon’s city patrols, your own private neighborhood police dedicated to serving
you.
Your employer will no longer be the Republic, but one of our four distinguished corps, where you can apply for a fulfilling career.” The video shifts again to scenes of happy workers, proud, smiling faces hovering over suits and ties. “We offer you, citizens, the freedom of choice.”

The freedom of choice.
Images flash through my mind of what I’d seen in the Colonies when Day and I first ventured into their territory. The crowds of workers, the dilapidated slums of the poor. The advertisements printed all over the people’s clothes. The commercials that covered every square inch of the buildings. Most of all, DesCon’s police, the way they had refused to help the robbed woman who had missed her payments to their department. Is this the future of the Republic? And suddenly I feel nauseous, because I cannot say whether the people would be better off in the Republic or the Colonies.

The broadcast continues. “We only ask that you return a small favor to us.” The video shifts again, this time to a scene of people protesting in solidarity. “If you, as a civilian, have grievances with the Republic, now is the time to voice them. If you are courageous enough to stage protests throughout your respective cities, the Colonies will pay you an additional five thousand Colonies Notes, as well as grant you a one-year discount on all of our Cloud Corp grocery goods. Simply send your proof of participation to any DesCon headquarters in Denver, Colorado, along with your name and mailing address.”

So, this explains the various protests popping up around the city. Even their propaganda sounds like an advertisement. A dangerously tempting one. “Declaring victory a little too soon,” I say under my breath.

“They’re trying to turn the people against us,” Anden murmurs in reply. “They announced a ceasefire this morning, perhaps as a chance to disseminate propaganda like this.”

“I doubt it will be effective,” I say, although I don’t sound as confident as I should. All these years of anti-Colonies propaganda are going to be difficult for the Colonies to work around. Aren’t they?

Anden’s jeep finally slows to a halt. I frown, confused for a second. Instead of taking me back to a high-rise for my temporary apartment, we are now parked in front of the Los Angeles Central Hospital. The place where Metias died. I glance at Anden. “What are we doing here?” I ask.

“Day’s here,” Anden replies. His voice catches a little when he speaks Day’s name.

“Why?”

Anden doesn’t look at me. He seems reluctant to discuss it. “He collapsed during the evacuation to LA,” he explains. “The series of explosions we used to knock out the underground tunnels apparently triggered one of his severe headaches. The doctors have started another round of treatment for him.” Anden pauses, then gives me a grave stare. “There’s another reason we’re here. But you’ll see for yourself.”

The jeep comes to a halt. I climb out, then wait for Anden. A feeling of dread slowly creeps through me. What if Day’s illness has gotten worse? What if he isn’t going to pull through? Is that why he’s here? There’s no reason for Day to ever set foot inside this building again, not unless he was forced to, not after everything this hospital put him through.

Together, Anden and I head into the building with soldiers flanking us. We travel up to the fourth floor, where one of the soldiers swipes us inside, and then step into the Central Hospital’s lab floor. The tense feeling in my stomach only tightens as we go.

Finally, we stop in front of a smaller series of rooms that line the side of the main lab floor. As we go through one of these doors, I see Day. He’s standing outside a room with glass walls, smoking one of his blue cigarettes and looking on as someone inside gets inspected by lab technicians in full body suits. What makes me lose my breath, though, is that he’s leaning heavily on a pair of crutches. How long has he been here? He looks exhausted, pale, and distant. I wonder what new drugs the doctors are trying on him. The thought is a sudden, stabbing reminder of Day’s waning life, the few seconds he has left, slowly ticking by.

Standing beside him are a few lab techs with white jumpsuit gear and goggles dangling from their necks, each of them watching the room and typing away on their notepads. A short distance away, Pascao’s deep in conversation with the other Patriots. They leave Day alone.

“Day?” I say as we approach.

He looks over to me—a dozen emotions flicker through his eyes, some that make my cheeks flush. Then he notices Anden. He manages to give the Elector a stiff bow of his head, then turns back to watching the patient on the other side of the glass. Tess.

“What’s going on?” I ask Day.

He takes another puff of his cigarette and lowers his eyes. “They won’t let me in. They think she might’ve come down with whatever this new plague is,” he says. His voice is quiet, but I can hear an undercurrent of frustration and anger. “They’ve already run tests on me and the other Patriots. Tess is the only one who didn’t come up clean.”

Tess bats away one of the lab techs’ hands, then stumbles backward as if she’s having trouble keeping her balance. Sweat forms on her forehead and drips down her neck. The whites of her eyes have a sickly yellow tint to them, and when I look closely, I can tell that she’s squinting in an effort to see everything around her—something that reminds me of her nearsightedness, the way she used to squint at the streets of Lake. Her hands are trembling. I swallow hard at the sight. The Patriots couldn’t have been exposed for long to the Colonies soldiers, but apparently it was long enough for some soldier carrying the virus to pass it to one of them. It’s also a very real possibility that the Colonies are purposefully spreading the disease right back to us, now that they’re in our territory. My insides turn cold as I remember a line from Metias’s old journals:
One day we’ll create a virus that no one will be able to stop.
And that just might bring about the downfall of the entire Republic.

One of the lab techs turns to me and offers a quick explanation. “The virus looks like a mutation of one of our past plague experiments,” she says, shooting Day a nervous glance (he must have given her a hard time about this earlier) before continuing. “As far as we can tell from the statistics the Colonies have released, the virus seems to have a low uptake rate among healthy adults, but when it does infect someone, the disease progresses rapidly and the fatality rate is very high. We’re seeing infection-to-death times of about a week.” She turns momentarily to Tess on the other side of the glass. “She’s showing some early symptoms—fever, dizziness, jaundice, and the symptom that points us to one of our own manufactured viruses, temporary or possibly permanent blindness.”

Beside me, Day clenches his crutches so hard that his knuckles look white. Knowing him, I wonder whether he’s already had several fights with the lab techs, trying to force his way in to see her or scream at them to leave her alone. I know he must be picturing Eden right now, with his purple, half-blind eyes, and in this moment a deep hatred for the former Republic fills my chest. My father had worked behind those experimental lab doors. He had tried to quit once he found out what they were actually doing with all those local LA plagues, and he gave his life as a result. Is that country really behind us now? Can our reputation ever change in the eyes of the outside world—or of the Colonies?

“She tried to save Frankie,” Day whispers, his eyes still fixed on Tess. “She’d made it back inside the Armor right after we did. I thought Thomas was going to kill her.” His voice turns bitter. “But maybe she’s already marked for death.”

“Thomas?” I whisper.

“Thomas is dead,” he murmurs. “When Pascao and I were fleeing to the Armor, I saw him stand and face the Colonies soldiers alone. He kept firing at them until they shot him in the head.” He flinches at this final sentence.

Thomas is dead.

I blink twice, suddenly numb from head to toe. I shouldn’t be shocked. Why am I shocked? I was prepared for this. The soldier who had stabbed my brother through the heart, who had shot Day’s mother . . . he’s gone. And of course he would have died in this way—defending the Republic until the end, unwavering in his insane loyalty to a state that had already turned her back on him. I also understand right away why this has affected Day so much.
Shot through the head.
I feel empty at the news. Exhausted. Numb. My shoulders sag.