Legend (21 page)

All this flies through my head in a second before I can stop it. No way. This isn’t in line with Republic values. Why waste a prodigy in this way?

Unless they saw something dangerous in him. Some defiant spark, the same rebellious spirit he has now. Something that made them think it’d be riskier to educate him than to sacrifice his possible contributions to society. Last year thirty-eight kids scored higher than 1400.

Maybe the Republic would want to make this one disappear.

But Day is not just any prodigy. He has a perfect score.
What was it that made them nervous?

“Can I ask
you
a question now?” Day asks. “Is it my turn?”

“Yes.” I look over to the elevator, where a new rotation of guards has just arrived. I hold up a hand and tell them to stay where they are. “You can ask.”

“I want to know why they took Eden away. The plague. I know you rich folks have it easy—new plague vaccinations every year and whatever meds you need. But haven’t you wondered . . . haven’t you wondered why it never goes away? Or why it comes back so regularly?”

My eyes dart back to him. “What are you trying to say?”

Day manages to focus his eyes on me. “What I’m
trying
to say . . . yesterday, when they dragged me out of my cell, I saw that red
zero
stamped on some double doors in Batalla Hall. I’ve seen numbers like it in Lake too. Why would they show up in the poor sectors? What are they doing out there—what are they pumping into the sectors?”

I narrow my eyes. “You think the Republic is
intentionally
poisoning people? Day, you’re on dangerous ground.”

But Day doesn’t stop. Instead his voice takes on a more urgent tone. “That’s why they wanted Eden, right?” he whispers. “To see the results of their mutated plague virus? Why else?”

“They want to prevent whatever new disease he’s spreading.”

Day laughs, but again it makes him cough. “No. They’re using him. They’re using him.” His voice grows quiet. “They’re using him. . . .” His eyes grow heavy. The strain of talking has worn him out.

“You’re delirious,” I reply. But while Thomas’s touch now repulses me, I feel no revulsion toward Day. I
should
. But the feeling just doesn’t come. “A lie like that is treason against the Republic. Besides, why would Congress authorize such a thing?”

Day doesn’t take his eyes off me. And just when I think he’s lost the strength to respond, his voice comes out sounding even more insistent. “Think about it this way. How do they know what vaccines to give you every year? They
always
work. Don’t you find it strange that they can make vaccines that match the new plague that’s popped up? How can they predict which vaccine they’ll need?”

I sit back on my heels. I’ve never questioned the annual vaccinations we’re required to have—never had any reason to doubt them. And why should I?
My father used to work behind those double doors, working hard to find new ways to combat the plague.
No. I can’t listen to this anymore. I pluck my cape from the ground and tuck it under my arm.

“One more thing,” Day whispers as I stand. I glance down at him. His eyes burn right into me. “You think we go to labor camps if we fail? June, the only labor camps are the morgues in hospital basements.”

I don’t dare linger. Instead I walk away from the platform, away from Day. But my heart pounds against my chest. The soldiers waiting by the elevator stand even straighter as I approach. I arrange my face in an expression of pure irritation. “Unchain him,” I order one of the soldiers. “Take him down to the hospital wing and get that leg of his fixed. Give him some food and water. He won’t last the night otherwise.”

The soldier salutes me, but I don’t bother to look at him before shutting the elevator door.

WHEN I WAS YOUNG, METIAS WAS SOMETIMES CALLED AWAY
to deal with minor rebellions, and afterward he’d tell me about them. The story was always the same: a dozen or so poor folk (usually teens, sometimes older) causing trouble in one of the sectors, angry about the plague quarantines or taxes. Several dust bombs later, they were all arrested and taken to court.

But I’ve never seen a riot like this one, with hundreds of people risking their lives. Nothing even close to this.

“What’s wrong with these people?” I ask Thomas. “They’ve lost their minds.” We’re standing on the raised platform outside Batalla Hall with his entire patrol facing the crowd in front of us, while another of Commander Jameson’s patrols is pushing people back with shields and batons.

Earlier, I’d peeked in on Day as the doctor operated on his leg. I wonder if he’s awake and seeing this chaos on the hall monitors. I hope not. No need for him to see what he’s started. The thought of him—and his accusation against the Republic, that the Republic creates the plagues, kills kids who fail the Trial—fills me with rage. I pull my gun out of its holster. Might as well have it ready. “Ever seen something like this?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even.

Thomas shakes his head. “Only once. A long time ago.” Some of his dark hair falls across his face. It’s not combed back as nicely as usual—he must’ve been out in the crowds earlier. One hand lingers on the gun strapped to his belt, while the other rests on a rifle slung around his shoulder. He doesn’t look at me. He hasn’t looked at me straight on since he tried kissing me last night in the hall. “A bunch of fools,” he replies. “If they don’t back down soon, the commanders will make them regret it.”

I glance up to see several commanders standing on one of Batalla Hall’s balconies. It’s too dark now to be sure, but I don’t think Commander Jameson is with them. I know she’s giving orders through her mouthpiece, though, because Thomas listens intently with one hand pressed against his ear. But whatever she’s saying is only for Thomas, and I have no idea what she’s telling him. The crowd below us continues to push. I can tell from their clothes—torn shirts and trousers, mismatched shoes filled with holes—that almost all of them are from the poor sectors near the lake. Secretly, I will them to disperse.
Get out of here before things get worse.

Thomas leans over to me and nods toward the center of the crowd. “See that pitiful bunch?”

I’d already noticed what he’s pointing out, but I still follow his gaze politely. A group of protesters have streaked their hair scarlet, imitating the bloodstained lock Day had when he’d stood out here for his sentencing. “A poor choice for a hero,” Thomas goes on. “Day will be dead in less than a week.”

I nod once but say nothing.

A few screams echo from the crowd. One patrol has made its way around to the back of the square, and now they have the crowd boxed in, pushing people in toward the square’s center. I frown. This isn’t protocol for handling an unruly mob. In school, we were taught that dust bombs or tear gas is more than enough to do the job. But there’s no sign of that—none of the soldiers wear gas masks. And now yet another patrol has started chasing away the stragglers gathered outside the square, where the streets are too chaotic and narrow to protest properly.

“What’s Commander Jameson telling you?” I ask Thomas.

Thomas’s dark hair falls across his eyes and covers his expression. “She says to stay put and wait for her command.”

We don’t do anything for a good half hour. I keep one hand in my pocket, absently rubbing Day’s pendant. Somehow, the crowd reminds me of Skiz. There’s probably even some of the same people.

That’s when I see soldiers running along the tops of the square’s buildings. Some hurry along ledges, while others are gathered in a straight line across the roofs. Odd. Soldiers usually have black tassels and a single row of silver buttons on their jackets. Their arm insignias are navy blue or red or silver or gold. But these soldiers have no buttons on their jackets. Instead, a white stripe runs diagonally across their chests and their armbands are gray. It takes me another second to realize who they are.