Prodigy (18 page)

I turn back down the street toward the train station. There are at least two clusters
of soldiers, maybe more that I can’t see on the other side. Some are lined up along
the tracks in expectation, their rifles hoisted, the black stripes across their eyes
gleaming wetly in the rain. I reach up to my face and check my own stripe. Then I
pull my military cap down tighter on my head. Showtime.

I get a good foothold on one wall and shimmy my way up toward the roof. Every time
I tuck my leg in, my calf brushes against my artificial leg implant. The metal is
freezing cold, even through fabric. Several seconds later, I’m perched behind a crumbling
chimney three stories up. From here I can see that, just as I expected, there’s a
third group of soldiers on the other side of the train station. I make my way to the
other end of the building and then leap silently from building to building until I’m
on top of a slanted roof. Now I’m close enough to see expressions on soldiers’ faces.
I reach into my jacket, make sure my dust bomb is still mostly dry, and then crouch
there on the roof to wait.

A few minutes pass.

Then I stand up, pull out the dust bomb, and fling it as far from the train station
as I can.

Boom.
It explodes in a giant cloud the moment it hits the ground. Instantly the dust swallows
up that entire block and races down the streets in rolling waves. I hear shouts from
the soldiers near the train station—one of them yells out, “There! Three blocks down!”
Way to state the obvious, soldier.
A group of them breaks away from the station and starts hurrying toward where the
dust cloud has blanketed the streets.

I slide down the slanted roof. Shingles break off here and there, sending showers
of ice mist into the air, but through all the shouting and running below me I can’t
even hear myself. The roof itself is slippery as wet glass. I pick up speed. The sleet
whips harder against my cheeks—I brace myself as I reach the bottom of the roof and
then launch into the air. From the ground I probably look like some sort of phantom.

My boots hit the slanted roof of the next building, this one right next to the train
station. The soldiers still there are distracted, staring down the street toward the
dust. I do a little hop at the bottom of this second roof, then grab on to the side
of a streetlight and slide all the way down the pole to the ground. I land with a
quick, muffled crunch on the pavement’s streaks of ice.

“Follow me!” I shout at the soldiers. They see me for the first time, just another
nondescript soldier with a dark uniform and black stripe across the eyes. “There’s
an attack on one of our warehouses. Could be the Patriots finally showing their faces.”
I gesture to both of the groups left. “
Everyone.
Commander’s orders, hurry!” Then I turn on my heels and start running away from them.

Sure enough, the sound of their pounding boots soon follows. No way would these soldiers
dare risk disobeying their commander, even if it means leaving the station momentarily
unguarded. Sometimes you gotta love the Republic’s iron discipline.

I keep running.

When I’ve led the soldiers four or five blocks down, past the dust cloud and several
warehouses, I suddenly veer off down a narrow corridor. Before they can turn the corner,
I run straight at one of the alley’s walls—and when I’m several feet away I jump up
and kick off against the brick. My hands shoot out. I grab on to the second floor’s
ledge and it’s only the work of the moment to spring up to it. My feet land solidly
on the ledge.

By the time the soldiers have rushed into the same alley, I’ve melted into the shadowed
crevice of a second-floor window. I hear the first ones pause, then their bewildered
exclamations.
Now’s as good a time as any,
I think. I reach up and pull my cap off, letting my white-blond hair tumble loose.
One of the soldiers turns his head up fast enough to see me dart out of the window
crevice and turn the corner from the second-floor ledge. “Did you see that?” someone
shouts incredulously. “Was that Day?” As I jam my feet into the spaces of old bricks
and pull myself up to the third floor, the soldiers’ tones go from confused to angry.
Someone shouts at the others to shoot me down. I just grit my teeth and leap up to
the third floor.

The first bullets ricochet off the wall. One hits inches away from my hand. I don’t
stop—instead I lunge up toward the top floor and swing up onto the slanted rooftop
in one move. More sparks light up the bricks below me. Off in the distance I see the
station—the train’s arrived, half hidden behind steam, and parked unattended except
for several soldiers who have stepped off the train itself.

I scamper up the roof and slide down its other half, then take another flying leap
to the next roof. Down below, some of the soldiers have started rushing back toward
the train. Maybe they’ve finally realized that this is all a diversion. My eyes leave
the station only when I go flying onto another rooftop.

Two blocks away.

Then, an explosion. A bright, furious cloud rolls up from farther down the railroad
tracks, and even my rooftop vantage point shudders. The impact makes me lose my balance
and fall to my knees.
There’s the blast Pascao had mentioned.
I take in the inferno for a moment, pondering. A lot of soldiers are going to be
heading over there—it’s dangerous, but if my job is to let the Republic know I’m alive,
I better make sure I’m seen by as many people as possible. I push myself back onto
my feet and run faster, stuffing my hair back up into my cap as I go. The soldiers
below have split into two groups—one dashing toward the explosion, the other continuing
to trail me.

Suddenly I skid to a stop. The soldiers rush right past the building I’m on. Without
wasting another second, I slide down the roof and swing down from the edge of the
gutter. Boot into foothold. One after another. I jump down to the pavement. The soldiers
probably
just
realized they’d lost me, but I’m already blending into the shadows on the ground.
Now I’m running steadily along the street as if I’m just another soldier. I head for
the train.

The sleet’s coming down harder. The blaze left over from the explosion lights up the
night sky, and I’m close enough to the train to hear shouts and pounding feet. Did
Pascao and the others get out safely? I quicken my steps. Other soldiers materialize
through the sleet, and I fall smoothly into line with them as we jog alongside the
train. They’re rushing toward the fire.

“What happened?” one of them shouts at another.

“Don’t know—I heard some spark set off the cargo.”

“That’s impossible! The railcars are all covered—”

“Somebody get ahold of Commander DeSoto. The Patriots made their move—send word to
the Elector—they’re—”

They continue on; I miss the last half of the sentence. I gradually slow until I’m
at the back of the line, then I dart away into the tiny slit between two railcars.
All the soldiers I can see are still headed for the blaze. Others are in the area
where I’d set off the dust bomb, and the ones who’d been chasing me are probably still
bewildered, combing the streets I was running. I wait until I’m certain there’s no
one else near me. Then I slide out from between the railcars and run along the opposite
side of the tracks that the other soldiers were on. I let my hair loose again. Now
I just need to choose the right moment to make my grand appearance.

There are small markings on each railcar that I pass. Coal. Tracked guns. Ammunition.
Food. I’m tempted to stop at the last one, but that’s just the Lake part of me talking.
I remind myself that I’m not scavenging on the streets anymore and that the Patriots
have a full pantry in their headquarters. I force myself to keep going. More markings.
More warfront supplies.

Then I pass a marking that forces me to stop. A shiver runs down my arms and legs.
I quickly jog back to see the marked railcar again, just in case I’d imagined it.

Nope. There it is, embossed into the metal. The one I’d recognize anywhere.

The three-lined X. My mind whirls—I see the red spray-painted symbol scarring my mother’s
door, the plague patrols making their way from house to house in Lake, Eden being
taken away. There’s no way this symbol could mean anything other than the fact that
my brother, or something related to him, is on this train. All my interest in the
Patriots’ plan goes right out of my head.
Eden might be in here.

I can tell the two sliding car doors are locked, so I take a few steps back, then
run at it. When I’m close enough, I jump, take three fast steps against the car’s
side, grab the top edge of the car, and pull myself up.

There’s a circular metal seal in the middle of this railcar’s roof that they’re probably
using to access the interior. I crawl over to it, run my fingers along the edges,
and find four latches holding the seal down. Feverishly I pry them loose. The soldiers
should be coming back any second now. I push against the seal with all the strength
I’ve got. It slides open a crack, just enough for me to jump in.

I land with a soft thud. It’s dark enough so I can’t see anything at first. I reach
out my hands and touch what feels like a round glass surface. Slowly I begin to make
out my surroundings.

I’m standing in front of a glass cylinder almost as tall and wide as the railcar,
with smooth metal casing on top and bottom. It emits a very faint blue glow. A small
figure is lying on the floor inside, with tubes poking out of one of his arms. I know
right away that it’s a boy. His hair is short and clean and a mess of soft waves,
and he’s dressed in a white jumpsuit that makes him stand out against the darkness.

A loud buzzing in my ears blocks out anything and everything. It’s Eden.
It’s Eden.
It must be him. I’ve hit the jackpot—I can’t believe my luck. He’s right here, I’ve
found him in the middle of nowhere, in all the vastness of the Republic, in a stroke
of insane coincidence. I can get him out. We can escape into the Colonies sooner than
I ever thought possible. We can escape
tonight.

I rush over to the cylinder and pound my fist on the glass, half hoping it shatters
even though I can tell that it’s at least a foot thick and almost certainly bulletproof.
For an instant I don’t know if he can hear it. But then his eyes open. They dart around
in a weird, unfocused way before attempting to settle on me.

It takes me a long moment to process the fact that this boy is not Eden.

The bitter taste of disappointment stings my tongue. He’s so small,
so
close in age to my brother, that I can’t stop the image of Eden’s face from overwhelming
me.
Others exist who were also marked with unusual strains of plague?
Well, of course there would be. Why would Eden be the only one in the entire country?

The boy and I just face each other for a while. I
think
he can see me, but he can’t seem to fix his gaze; he keeps squinting in a way that
reminds me of Tess’s nearsightedness.
Eden.
I think back to the way his irises had bled from the plague . . . from the way this
boy’s trying to gauge me, I can tell that he’s almost entirely blind. A symptom my
brother probably has too.

He suddenly snaps out of his trance and crawls over to me as fast as he can. He presses
both his hands against the glass. His eyes are a pale, opaque brown, not the creepy
black that Eden’s had been when I last saw him, but the bottom halves of both irises
are dark purple with blood. Does that mean this boy—that Eden—is getting better, because
the blood is draining
away,
or worse, because the blood is draining
in
? Eden’s irises had been completely filled with blood the last time I saw him.

“Who’s there?” he says. The glass muffles his voice. He still can’t focus on me even
at this close range.

I snap out of my trance too. “A friend,” I reply hoarsely. “I’m going to get you out.”
At that, his eyes pop open—hope instantly blossoms on his small face. My hands run
along the glass and search for something,
anything,
that can open this goddy cylinder. “How do you operate this thing? Is it safe?”

The boy pounds frantically against the glass. He’s terrified. “Help me, please!” he
exclaims, his voice trembling. “Get me out—please get me out of here!”

His words break my heart. Is this what Eden’s doing, terrified and blind, waiting
in some dark railcar for me to save him?
I have to get this boy out.
I steady myself against the cylinder. “You have to stay calm, kid. All right? Don’t
panic. What’s your name? What city is your family from?”

Tears have started to run down the boy’s face. “My name’s Sam Vatanchi—my family’s
in Helena, Montana.” He shakes his head vigorously. “They don’t know where I went.
Can you tell them I want to come home? Can you—”

No, I can’t. I’m so goddy helpless.
I want to punch straight through the railcar’s metal sides. “I’ll do what I can.
How do you open this cylinder?” I ask again. “Is it
safe
to open?”

The boy points frantically to the cylinder’s other side. I can tell he’s trying hard
to contain his fright. “Okay—okay.” He pauses in an attempt to think. “Um, it’s safe.
I think. There’s something over there that they type into,” he replies. “I can hear
the beeps and then it makes the tube open.”

I rush to where he’s pointing.
Is it my imagination, or do I hear the faint sounds of boots pounding against pavement?
“It’s some sort of glass screen,” I say. The word
LOCKED
stretches across it in red type. I turn back to the boy and knock on the glass. His
eyes swivel toward the sound. “Is there a password? How do they type it in?”

“I don’t know!” The boy throws his hands up; his words contort with a sob. “Please,
just—”

Damn it, he reminds me
so much
of Eden. His tears are making my own eyes water. “Come on,” I coax, fighting to keep
my words strong. Gotta stay in control. “
Think.
Any other way this thing opens, aside from the keypad?”