Prodigy (22 page)

“June!” She looks dazed and bewildered, but then she recognizes me. No time for greetings
now.

A bullet zips overhead. I duck and shield June again; one of the soldiers near us
gets shot in the leg.
Please, for the love of— Please let Tess make it safely to the tunnel entrance.
I whirl around and meet the Elector’s wide eyes through the window. So, this is the
guy who kissed June—he’s tall and good-looking and rich, and he’s going to uphold
all of his father’s laws. He’s the boy king who symbolizes everything the Republic
is; the war with the Colonies that led to Eden’s illness, the laws that put my family
in the slums and led to their deaths, the laws that sent me off to be executed because
I’d failed some stupid goddy test when I was ten. This guy
is
the Republic. I should kill him right now.

But then I think of June. If June knows a reason we should protect him from the Patriots,
and believes it enough to risk her life—and mine—then I’m going to trust her. If I
refused, I’d be breaking ties with her forever.
Can I live with that?
The thought of that chills me to the bone. I point down the street toward the explosion
and do something I never thought I’d do in my whole life. I yell as loud as I can
for the soldiers.
“Back up the jeeps! Barricade the street! Protect the Elector!”
Then, as other soldiers reach the Elector, I shout frantically at them, “Get the
Elector out of this car! Get him away from here—they’re going to blow it up!”

June yanks us down as another bullet hits the ground near us. “Come on,” I shout.
She follows me. Behind us, dozens of Republic soldiers have arrived on the scene.
We catch a quick glimpse of the Elector getting out of his jeep, then being hurried
away behind the protection of his soldiers. Bullets fly. Did I just see one hit the
Elector in the chest? No—just his upper arm. Then he disappears, lost behind a sea
of soldiers.

He’s saved. He’s going to make it. I can hardly breathe at the thought—I don’t know
if I should be happy or furious. After all that buildup, the Elector’s assassination
has failed because of me and June.

What have I done?

“That’s Day!”
someone calls out.
“He’s alive!”
But I don’t dare turn around again. I squeeze June’s hand tighter and we dart around
the rubble and smoke.

We bump into our first Patriot. Baxter. He stops short for a second when he sees us,
then seizes June’s arm.
“You!”
he spits out. She’s too quick for him, though. Before I can draw the gun at my waist,
June’s slipped right out of his grasp. He grabs for us again—but someone else knocks
him flat on his face before we can make another move. I meet Kaede’s burning eyes.

She waves her hands furiously at us. “Get to safety!” she yells. “Before the others
find you!” There’s deep shock on her face—is she stunned that the plan fell apart?
Does she know we had anything to do with it? She must know.
Why is she turning on the Patriots too?
Then she runs away. I let my eyes follow her for an instant. Sure enough, Anden is
nowhere to be seen and Republic soldiers have started firing back up at the roofs.

Anden is nowhere to be seen,
I think again. Has the assassination attempt officially failed?

We keep running until we’re on the other side of the explosion. Suddenly there are
Patriots everywhere; some are running toward the soldiers and looking for a way to
shoot the Elector, and others are fleeing for the tunnel. Running after
us.

Another explosion shakes the street��someone has tried in vain to stop the Elector
with another grenade. Maybe they finally managed to blow up his jeep.
Where’s Razor?
Is he out for our blood now? I picture his calm, fatherly face alight with rage.

We finally reach the narrow alley that leads to the tunnel, barely ahead of the Patriots
hot on our tail.

Tess is there, huddled in the shadows against the wall. I want to scream. Why didn’t
she jump down into the tunnel and head for the hideout? “Inside, now,” I say. “You
weren’t supposed to wait for me.”

But she doesn’t move. Instead she stands in front of us with her fists clenched, her
eyes flickering back and forth between me and June. I rush over and grab her hand,
then pull her along with us to one of the small metal gratings that line where the
alley’s walls meet the ground. I can hear the first signs of Patriots behind us.
Please,
I beg silently.
Please let us be the first ones to reach the hideout.

“They’re coming,” June says, her eyes fixed on a spot down the alley.

“Let them try to catch us.” I run my hands frantically across the metal grating, then
pry it open.

The Patriots are getting closer. Too close.

I stand up. “Get out of the way,” I say to Tess and June. Then I pull a second grenade
from my belt, yank out the pin, and toss it toward the alleyway’s opening. We throw
ourselves to the ground and cover our heads with our hands.

Boom!
A deafening blast. It should slow the Patriots down some, but I can already see silhouettes
coming through the debris and toward us.

June runs to the open tunnel entrance by my side. I let her jump in first, then turn
to Tess and extend my hand. “Come
on,
Tess,” I say. “We don’t have much time.”

Tess looks at my open hand and takes a step back. In that instant, the world around
us seems to freeze. She’s not going to come with us. There’s anger and shock and guilt
and sadness all wrapped up in her thin little face.

I try again. “Come on!” I shout. “
Please,
Tess—I can’t leave you here.”

Tess’s eyes rip through me. “I’m sorry, Day,” she gasps. “But I can take care of myself.
So don’t try to come after me.” Then she tears her eyes away from me and runs back
toward the Patriots.
She’s rejoining them?
I watch her go, stunned into silence, my hand still outstretched. The Patriots are
so close now.

Baxter’s words. He’d warned Tess this whole time that I would betray them. And I did.
I did exactly what Baxter said I’d do, and now Tess has to live with it.
I’ve let her down so bad.

June’s the one who saves me. “Day,
jump
!” she yells up at me, snapping me out of the moment.

I force myself to turn away from Tess and jump into the hole. My boots splash into
shallow, icy water right as I hear the first Patriot reach us. June grabs my hand.
“Go!” she hisses.

We sprint down the black tunnel. Behind us I hear someone else drop down and start
running after us. Then another. They’re all coming.

“Got any more grenades?” June shouts as we run.

I reach down to my belt. “One.” I pull the last grenade out, then toss the pin. If
we use this, there’s no going back. We could be stuck down here forever—but there’s
no other choice, and June knows it.

I shout a warning behind us, and throw the grenade. The closest Patriot sees me do
it and scrambles to a stop. Then he starts yelling at the others to get back. We keep
sprinting.

The blast lifts us clear off our feet and sends us flying. I hit the ground hard,
skidding through icy water and slush for several seconds before coming to a stop.
My head rings—I press my palms hard against my temples in an attempt to stop it. No
luck, though. A headache bursts my mind wide open, drowning out all of my thoughts,
and I squeeze my eyes shut at the blinding pain.
One, two, three . . .

Long seconds drag by. My head throbs with the impact of a thousand hammers. I struggle
to breathe.

Then, mercifully, it starts to fade. I open my eyes in the darkness—the ground has
settled again, and even though I can still hear people talking behind us, they’re
muffled, as if coming from the other side of a thick door. Gingerly I pull myself
up into a sitting position. June’s leaning against the side of the tunnel, rubbing
her arm. We’re both facing the space we’d come from.

A hollow tunnel stood there just seconds ago, but now a pile of concrete and rubble
have completely sealed off the entrance.

We’ve made it. But all I feel is emptiness.

W
HEN
I
WAS FIVE YEARS OLD,
M
ETIAS TOOK ME TO SEE
OUR
parents’ graves. It was the first time he’d been to the site since the actual funeral.
I don’t think he could stand being reminded of what had happened. Most of Los Angeles’s
civilians—even a good number of the upper class—are assigned a one-square-foot slot
in their local cemetery high-rise and a single opaque glass box in which to store
a loved one’s ashes. But Metias paid off the cemetery officials and got a four-square-foot
slot for Mom and Dad, along with engraved crystal headstones. We stood there in front
of the headstones with our white clothes and white flowers. I spent the whole time
staring at Metias. I can still remember his tight jaw, his neatly brushed hair, his
cheeks damp and glistening. Most of all I remember his eyes, heavy with sadness, too
old for a seventeen-year-old boy.

Day looked that way when he learned about his brother John’s death. And now, as we
make our way along the underground tunnel and out of Pierra, he has those eyes again.

*   *   *

We spend fifty-two minutes (or fifty-one? I’m not sure. My head feels feverish and
light) jogging through the dark wetness of the tunnel. For a while we’d heard angry
shouts coming from the other side of the mountain of twisted concrete that separates
us from the Patriots and the Republic’s soldiers. But eventually those sounds faded
to silence as we rushed deeper and deeper into the tunnel. The Patriots probably had
to flee from the oncoming troops. Maybe the soldiers are trying to excavate the rubble
out of the tunnel. We have no idea, so we keep going.

It’s quiet now. The only sounds are our ragged breathing, our boots splashing into
shallow, slushy puddles, and the
drip, drip, drip
of ice-cold water from the ceiling that runs down our necks. Day grips my hand tightly
as we run. His fingers are cold and rubbery with wetness, but I still cling to them.
It’s so dark down here that I can barely see Day’s outline in front of me.

Did Anden survive the assault?
I wonder.
Or did the Patriots manage to assassinate him?
The thought makes the blood rush in my ears. The last time I played the role of double
agent, I’d gotten someone killed. Anden had put his faith in me, and because of that,
he could’ve died today—maybe he
did
die. The price people seem to pay for crossing my path.

This thought triggers another.
Why didn’t Tess come down with us?
I want to ask, but oddly enough, Day hasn’t said a word about her since we entered
this tunnel. They’d had an argument, that much I know.
I hope she’s okay.
Had she chosen to stay with the Patriots?

Finally, Day stops in front of a wall. I nearly collapse against him, and a sudden
wave of relief and panic hits me. I should be able to run farther than this, but I’m
exhausted. Is this a dead end? Has part of the tunnel collapsed on itself, and now
we’re trapped from both sides?

But Day puts his hand against the surface in the darkness. “We can rest here,” he
whispers. They’re the first words he’s spoken since we got down here. “I stayed in
one of these in Lamar.”

Razor had mentioned the Patriots’ getaway tunnels once. Day runs his hand along the
edge of the door where it meets the wall. Finally, he finds what he’s searching for,
a small sliding lever sticking out from a thin twelve-inch slot. He pulls it from
one end to the other. The door opens with a click.

At first, we just step into a black hole. Although I can’t see anything, I listen
closely to how our footsteps are echoing around the room and guess that there’s a
low ceiling, probably only a few feet taller than the tunnel itself (ten, maybe eleven
feet high), and when I put a hand along one wall I can tell it’s straight, not curved.
A rectangular room.

“Here it is,” Day mutters. I hear him press and release something, and artificial
light floods the space. “Let’s hope it’s empty.”

It’s not a large chamber, but it would be big enough to fit twenty or thirty people
comfortably, even up to a hundred if they were crammed in. Against the back wall are
two doors leading off into dark hallways. All the walls have monitors, thick and clunky
along the edges, with clumsier design than the ones used in most Republic halls. I
wonder if the Patriots installed these or if they’re old tech left over from when
these tunnels were first built.

While Day wanders through the first hall at the back of the main room, his gun drawn,
I check the second one. There are two smaller rooms here, with five sets of bunk beds
in each one, and at the far end of the hall is a small door that leads back into the
dark, endless tunnel. I’m willing to bet that the hall Day is in also has a tunnel
entrance. As I wander from bunk to bunk, I run my hand along the wall where people
had scrawled their names and initials.
This way to salvation. J. D. Edward,
one says.
The only way out is death. Maria Márques,
says another.

“All clear?” Day says from behind me.

I nod at him. “Clear. I think we’re safe for now.”

He sighs, lets his shoulders slump, then runs a hand wearily through his tangled hair.
It’s only been a few days since the last time I saw him, but somehow it feels like
so much longer. I walk over to him. His eyes wander across my face as if taking me
in for the first time. He must have a million questions for me, but he just lifts
a hand and pushes a lock of my hair into place. I’m not sure if I feel dizzy from
illness or emotion. I’d almost forgotten how his touch makes me feel. I want to fall
into the purity that is Day, soaking in his simple honesty, his heart that sits open
and beating on his sleeve.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

I wrap my arms around him, and we hold each other tightly. I close my eyes, letting
myself sink against Day’s body and the warmth of his breath on my neck. His hands
brush through my hair and run down my back, holding on to me like he’s afraid to let
go. He pulls away enough to meet my eyes. He leans forward as if to kiss me . . .
but then, for some reason, he stops himself, and pulls me back into a hug. Holding
him is comforting, but still.

Something has changed.

We make our way into the kitchen (two hundred twenty-five square feet, judging by
the number of tiles on the square floor), dig up two cans of food and bottles of water,
squeeze onto the counters, and settle in for a break. Day’s silent. I wait expectantly
as we share a can of pasta drowning in tomato sauce, but he still doesn’t utter a
word. He seems to be thinking. About the foiled plan? About Tess? Or perhaps he’s
not thinking at all, but still stunned into silence. I stay quiet too. I would prefer
not to put words in his mouth.

“I saw your warning signal from one of the security cam videos,” he finally says after
seventeen minutes have passed. “I didn’t know exactly what you wanted me to do, but
I got the general idea.”

I notice he doesn’t mention the kiss between Anden and me, even though I’m sure he
saw it. “Thanks.” My vision darkens for a second and I blink rapidly to try to focus.
Maybe I need more medicine. “I’m . . . sorry for forcing you into a tough spot. I’d
tried to make the jeeps take a different route in Pierra, but it didn’t work out.”

“That was the whole delay when you collapsed, right? I was afraid you might’ve gotten
hurt.”

I chew thoughtfully for a moment. Food should taste great right now, but I’m not hungry
at all. I should tell him about Eden’s freedom right away, but Day’s tone—somehow
like a thunderstorm on the horizon—holds me back. Had the Patriots been able to hear
all of my conversations with Anden? If so, then Day might already know. “Razor’s lying
to us about why he wants the Elector dead. I don’t know why yet—but the things he’s
told us just don’t add up.” I pause, wondering if Razor has already been detained
by Republic officials. If not now, then soon. The Republic should know by the end
of today that Razor specifically instructed the jeep drivers to stay on course, leading
Anden right into the trap.

Day shrugs and concentrates on the food. “Who knows
what
he and the Patriots are doing now?”

I wonder if he says this because he’s thinking about Tess. The way she’d looked at
him before we escaped into the tunnel . . . I decide not to ask about what might have
happened between them. Still, my imagination conjures up a vision of them on the couch
together, so comfortable and relaxed like they’d been when we first met the Patriots
in Vegas, Day resting his head in Tess’s lap. Tess leaning down to brush her lips
over his. My stomach tightens in discomfort.
But she didn’t come,
I remind myself. What happened between them? I picture Tess arguing with Day about
me.

“So,” he says in a monotone. “Tell me what you found out about the Elector that made
you decide that we should betray the Patriots.”

He doesn’t know about Eden, after all. I put down my water and purse my lips. “The
Elector freed your brother.”

Day’s fork stops in midair. “What?”

“Anden let him go—on the day after I gave you the signal. Eden is under federal protection
in Denver. Anden hates what the Republic did to your family . . . and he wants to
win back our trust—yours and mine.” I reach over for Day’s hand, but he snatches it
away. My breath escapes me in a disappointed sigh. I wasn’t sure how he’d take this
news, but a part of me hoped that he would just be . . . happy.

“Anden is completely opposed to the late Elector’s politics,” I go on. “He wants to
stop the Trials, and the plague experiments.” I hesitate. Day is still staring at
the can of pasta, fork in hand, but he’s not eating any longer. “He wants to make
all these radical changes, but he needs to win the public’s favor first. He basically
begged me for our help.”

Day’s expression quivers. “That’s it?
That’s
why you decided to throw the Patriots’ entire plan out the window?” he replies bitterly.
“So the Elector can bribe me in exchange for my support? Sounds like a damn joke,
if you ask me. How do you know he’s telling the truth, June? Did you actually get
proof that he released Eden?”

I put my hand on his arm. This is exactly what I feared from Day, but he has every
right to be suspicious. How can I explain the gut instinct I have about Anden’s personality,
or the fact that I’d seen the honesty in his eyes? I know Anden released Day’s brother.
I
know
it. But Day wasn’t there in the room.
He
doesn’t know Anden. He has no reason to trust him. “Anden is different. You have
to believe me, Day. He released Eden, and not just because he wants us to do something
for him.”

Day’s words are cold and distant. “I
said,
do you have any proof?”

I sigh, taking my hand off his arm. “No,” I admit. “I don’t.”

Day snaps out of his daze and digs his fork back into the can. He does it so hard
that the fork’s handle bends. “He played you.
You,
of all people. The Republic is
not
going to change. Right now the new Elector’s young, stupid as hell, and full of it,
and he just wants to make people take him seriously. He’ll say anything. Once things
settle down, you’ll see his true colors. I guarantee it. He’s no different from his
father—just another goddy rich trot with deep pockets and a mouthful of lies.”

It irritates me that Day thinks I’m so gullible. “Young and full of it?” I give Day
a little shove, trying to lighten the mood. “Reminds me of someone.”

Once this would have made Day laugh, but now he just glares at me. “I saw a boy in
Lamar,” he continues. “He was my brother’s age. For a minute, I thought he
was
Eden. He was being shipped around in a giant glass tube, like some sort of science
experiment. I tried to get him out, but I couldn’t. The boy’s blood is being used
as a bioweapon that they’re trying to launch into the Colonies.” Day throws his fork
into the sink. “
That’s
what your pretty Elector’s doing to my brother. Now, you still think he released
him?”

I reach over and put my hand over his. “Congress had sent Eden to the warfront before
Anden was Elector. Anden just released him the other day. He’s—”

Day shrugs me off, his expression a mix of frustration and confusion. He readjusts
the sleeves of his collar shirt back up to his elbows. “Why do you believe in this
guy so much?”

“What do you mean?”

He gets angrier as he goes. “I mean, the only reason I didn’t smash your Elector’s
car window and put a knife through his throat was because of
you.
Because I knew
you
must’ve had a good reason. But now it seems like you just take his words on faith.
What happened to all that logic of yours?”

I don’t like the way he calls Anden
my
Elector, as if Day and I were still on opposing sides. “I’m telling you the truth,”
I say quietly. “Besides, last time I checked, you’re not a murderer.”