2100 HOURS.

ROOM 3323, LEVEL INFINITY HOTEL, ROSS CITY.

ALL OF US HAVE SETTLED INTO OUR INDIVIDUAL HOTEL rooms. Ollie’s resting at the foot of my bed, completely knocked out after an exhausting day. I can’t imagine falling asleep, though. After a while, I get up quietly, leave three treats for Ollie near the door, and step out. I wander the halls with my virtual glasses tucked into my pocket, relieved to see the world as it really is again without the onslaught of hovering numbers and words. I don’t know where I’m going, but eventually I end up two floors higher and not far from Anden’s room. It’s quieter up here. Anden might be the only one staying on this floor, along with a few guards.

As I go, I pass a door that leads into a large chamber that must be some public, central room on this floor. I turn back and peer inside. The place looks whitewashed, probably because I don’t have my virtual glasses on and can’t see all the simulations; the room is partitioned into a series of tall cylinder-like booths, each one a circle of tall, transparent slabs of glass. Interesting. I have one of those cylinder booths in a corner of my hotel room, although I haven’t bothered trying it yet. I look around the hall, then push gingerly on the door. It slides open without a sound.

I step inside and as soon as the door slides shut behind me, the room declares something in Antarctican that I can’t understand. I take my virtual glasses out of my pocket and put them on. Automatically, the room’s voice brightens and repeats her phrase, this time in English. “Welcome to the simulation room, June Iparis.” I see my virtual score go up by ten points, congratulating me for using a simulation room for the very first time. Just as I suspected, the room now looks bright and full of colors, and the glass walls of the cylindrical rooms have all sorts of moving displays on them.

Your access to the portal away from home! one panel says. Use in conjunction with your virtual glasses for a fully immersive experience. Behind the text is a lush video depicting what look like beautiful scenes from around the world. I wonder whether their portal is their way of connecting to the Internet. Suddenly, my interest piques. I’ve never browsed the Internet outside of the Republic, never seen the world for what it was without the Republic’s masks and filters. I approach one of the glass cylinder booths and step inside. The glass around me lights up.

“Hello, June,” it says. “What can I find for you?”

What should I look up? I decide to try out the first thing that pops into my head. I hesitantly reply, wondering whether it’ll just read my voice. “Daniel Altan Wing,” I say. How much does the rest of the world know about Day?

Suddenly everything around me vanishes. Instead, I’m standing in a white circle with hundreds—thousands—of hovering rectangular screens all around me, each one covered with images and videos and text. At first I don’t know what to do, so I just stay where I am, staring in wonder at the images all around me. Each screen has different info on Day. Many of them are news articles. The one closest to me is playing an old video of Day standing on top of the Capitol Tower balcony, rousing the people to support Anden. When I look at it long enough (three seconds), a voice starts talking. “In this video, Daniel Altan Wing—also known as Day—gives his support to the Republic’s new Elector and prevents a national uprising. Source: The Republic of America’s public archives. See whole article?”

My eyes flicker to another screen, and the voice from the first screen fades. This second screen comes to life as I look on, playing a video interviewing some girl I don’t know, with light brown skin and pale hazel eyes. She sports a scarlet streak in her hair. She says, “I’ve lived in Nairobi for the past five years, but we’d never heard of him until videos of his strikes against the R-oh-A started popping up online. Now I belong to a club—” The video pauses there, and the same soothing voice from earlier says, “Source: Kenya Broadcasting Corporation. See whole video?”

I take a careful step forward. Each time I move, the rectangular screens rearrange around me to showcase the next circle of images for me to peruse. Images of Day pop up from when he and I were still working for the Patriots—I see one blurry image of Day looking over his shoulder, a smirk on his lips. It makes me blush, so I quickly glance away. I look through two more rounds of them, then decide to change my search. This time I search for something I’ve always been curious about. “The United States of America,” I say.

The screens with videos and images of Day vanish, leaving me strangely disappointed. A new set of screens flip up around me, and I can almost feel a slight breeze as they shift into place. The first thing that pops up is an image that I instantly recognize as the full flag that the Patriots both use and base their symbol on. The voiceover says, “The flag of the former United States of America. Source: Wikiversity, the Free Academy. United States History One-oh-two, Grade Eleven. See full entry? For textual version, say ‘Text.’”

“See full entry,” I say. The screen zooms in toward me, engulfing me in its contents. I blink, momentarily thrown off by the rushing images. When I open my eyes again, I nearly stumble. I’m hovering in the sky over a landscape that looks both familiar and strange. The outline of it appears to be some version of North America, except there’s no lake stretching from Los Angeles to San Francisco, and the Colonies’ territory looks much larger than I remember. Clouds float by below my feet. When I reach a hesitant foot down, I smudge part of the clouds and can actually feel the cool air whistling beneath my shoes.

The voiceover begins. “The United States of America—also known as the USA, the United States, the US, America, and the States—was a prominent country in North America composed of fifty states held together as a federal constitutional republic. It first declared independence from England on July 4, 1776, and became recognized on September 3, 1783. The United States unofficially split into two countries on October 1, 2054 and officially became the western Republic of America and the eastern Colonies of America on March 14, 2055.”

Here the voiceover pauses, then shifts. “Skip to a subtopic? Popular subtopics: the Three-Year Flood, the Flood of 2046, the Republic of America, the Colonies of America.”

A series of bright blue markers appear over the west and east coasts of North America. I stare at them for a moment, my heart pounding, before I reach out and try to touch a marker near the southern coastline of the Colonies. To my surprise, I can feel the texture of the landscape under my finger. “The Colonies of America,” I say.

The world rushes up at me with dizzying speed. I’m now standing on what feels like solid ground, and all around me are thousands of people huddled together in makeshift shelters in a flooded cityscape, while hundreds are launching an all-out attack against soldiers decked out in uniforms I don’t recognize. Behind the soldiers are crates and sacks of what look like rations.

“Unlike the Republic of America,” the voiceover starts, “where the government enforced rule through martial law in order to crack down on the influx of refugees into its borders, the Colonies of America formed on March 14, 2055 after corporations seized control of the federal government (the former United States, see higher index) following the latter’s failure to handle debt accumulated from the Flood of 2046.” I take a few steps forward—it’s as if I’m right here in the middle of the scene, standing just a few dozen feet from where the people are rioting. My surroundings look shaky and pixelated, as if rendered from someone’s personal videos. “In this civilian recording, the city of Atlanta stages a fifteen-day riot against the United States Federal Emergency Management Agency. Similar riots appeared in all eastern cities over the course of three months, after which the cities declared loyalty to the military corporation DesCon, which possessed funds the beleaguered government did not.”

The scene blurs and clears, placing me in the center of an enormous campus full of buildings, each displaying a symbol I recognize as the DesCon logo. “Along with twelve other corporations, DesCon contributed its funds to aid the civilians. By early 2058, the United States government ceased to exist altogether in the east and was replaced with the Colonies of America, formed by a coalition of the country’s top thirteen corporations and bolstered by their joint profits. After a series of mergers, the Colonies of America now consists of four ruling corporations: DesCon, Cloud, Meditech, and Evergreen. Skip to a specific corporation?”

I stay silent, watching the rest of the immersive video unfold until it finally pauses on the last frame, an unsettling image of a desperate civilian shielding his face from a soldier’s hoisted gun. Then I remove my virtual glasses, rub my eyes, and step out of the now-blank and sterile-looking glass cylinder. My footsteps echo in the empty chamber. I feel dizzy and numb from the sudden lack of moving images.

How can two countries with such radically different philosophies ever reunite? What hope do we possibly have of transforming the Republic and the Colonies into what they once were? Or perhaps they’re not as drastically different as I think they are. Aren’t the Colonies’ corporations and the Republic’s government really the same thing? Absolute power is absolute power, no matter what it’s called. Isn’t it?

I exit the chamber, lost in thought, and as I turn the corner to head to my room, I almost bump right into Anden.

“June?” he blurts out when he sees me. His wavy hair is slightly disheveled, as if he’s been raking his hands through it, and his collar shirt is crumpled, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the buttons near his neck undone. He manages to compose himself enough to offer me a smile and a bow. “What are you doing up here?”

“Just exploring.” I return his smile. I’m too tired to mention all my online research. “I’m not sure what I’m doing here, to be honest.”

Anden laughs softly. “Me either. I’ve been wandering the halls for over an hour.” We pause for a moment. Then he turns back in the direction of his suite and gives me a questioning look. “The Antarcticans won’t help us, but they’ve been kind enough to send a bottle of their best wine up to my room. Care to have a sip? I could use some company—and some advice.”

Advice from his lowliest Princeps-Elect? I fall into step with him, all too aware of the closeness between us. “How very polite of them,” I reply.

“Exceedingly polite,” he murmurs under his breath so that I can barely hear him. “Next they’ll be throwing us a parade.”

Anden’s suite is nicer, of course, than my own—at least the Antarcticans did him that courtesy. A curved glass window runs along half of the wall, giving us a breathtaking view of Ross City engulfed in thousands of twinkling lights. The Antarcticans must be simulating this nightfall too, considering how it’s supposed to be summer down here—but the simulation seems flawless. I think back on the dome-like film we passed through as we descended into the city. Maybe it acts like a giant screen too. Streaks dance quietly across the sky in sheets of breathtaking color, turquoise and magenta and gold, all of them swirling together and vanishing and reappearing against a backdrop of stars. I catch my breath. Must be imitating the aurora australis. I’d read about these southern lights during our weekly lessons, although I hadn’t expected them to look this beautiful, simulation or not.

“Nice view,” I say.

Anden grins wryly, a small spark of amusement shining through his otherwise weary mood. “The useless advantages of being the Republic’s Elector,” he replies. “I’ve been reassured that we can see through this glass, but that no one from outside can see us. Then again, perhaps they’re just messing with me.”

We settle into soft chairs near the window. Anden pours us both glasses of wine. “One of the accused guards confessed about Commander Jameson,” he says as he hands a glass to me. “Republic soldiers unhappy with my rule, paid off by the Colonies. The Colonies is taking advantage of Commander Jameson’s knowledge of our military. She might even still be within our borders.”

I sip my wine numbly. So, it was all true. I desperately wish I could go back in time to when I’d visited Thomas in his cell, that I could have noticed the unusual setup in time. And she could still be within our borders. Where is Thomas?

“Rest assured,” Anden says when he sees my expression, “that we’re doing everything we can to find her.”

Everything we can might not be enough. Not with our attention and soldiers spread out so thin, trying to fight a war on so many sides. “What do we do now?”

“We return to the Republic tomorrow morning,” he replies. “That’s what we do. And we’ll push the Colonies back without the Antarcticans’ help.”

“Are you really going to give up some of our land to them?” I ask after a pause.

Anden swirls the wine in his glass before taking a sip. “I haven’t turned them down yet,” he says. I can hear the disgust with himself in his voice. His father must’ve seen such a move as the ultimate betrayal of his country.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly, unsure how to console him.

“I’m sorry too. The good news is I’ve received word that Day and his brother have both successfully evacuated to Los Angeles.” He exhales a long breath. “I don’t want to force him into anything, but I might be running out of options. He’s keeping his word, you know. He’d agreed to help us in any way he could, short of giving up his brother. He’s trying to help, in the hopes that it’ll guilt me out of asking for Eden. I wish we’d brought him. I wish he could see the situation from my point of view.” He looks down.

My heart squeezes again at the thought of Day being killed in action, and settles in relief at the news that he has survived unscathed. “What if we persuade the Antarcticans to take Day in for his treatment? It might be his only chance at surviving his illness, and it might at least make him consider the risk of letting Eden undergo experimentation.”

Anden shakes his head. “We have nothing to bargain with. Antarctica has offered as much help to us as they’re willing. They won’t trouble themselves with taking in one of our patients.”

Deep down, I know this too. It’s just a final, desperate idea from me. I understand, as well as he does, that Day would never hand over his brother in exchange for saving his own life. My eyes wander back to the display of light outside.

“I don’t blame him, not at all,” Anden says after a pause. “I should have stopped those bioweapons the instant they named me Elector. The very same day my father died. If I were smart, that’s what I would’ve done. But it’s too late to dwell on that now. Day has every right to refuse.”

I feel a swell of sympathy for him. If he forcefully takes Eden into custody, Day will no doubt call the people to rise up in revolt. If he respects Day’s decision, he risks not finding a cure in time and allowing the Colonies to take over our capital—and our country. If he hands over a piece of our land to Antarctica, the people may see him as a traitor. And if our ports are sealed, we won’t be receiving any imports or supplies at all.

And yet, I can’t blame Day either. I try to put myself in his shoes. The Republic tries to kill me as a ten-year-old; they experiment on me before I escape. I live the next few years in the harshest slums of Los Angeles. I watch the Republic poison my family, kill my mother and older brother, and blind my younger brother with their engineered plagues. Because of the Republic’s experiments, I’m slowly dying. And now, after all the lies and cruelty, the Republic approaches me, begging for my help. Begging for me to allow them to experiment once again on my younger brother, experiments that can’t guarantee his absolute safety. What would I say? I would probably refuse, just as he did. It’s true that my own family suffered horrible fates at the hands of the Republic . . . but Day had been on the front lines, watching everything unfold from the time he was small. It’s a miracle that Day had given his support to Anden in the first place.

Anden and I sip wine for four more minutes, watching the city lights in silence.

“I envy Day, you know,” he says, his voice as soft as ever. “I’m jealous that he gets to make decisions with his heart. Every choice he makes is honest, and the people love him for it. He can afford to use his heart.” His face darkens. “But the world outside of the Republic is so much more complicated. There’s just no room for emotion, is there? All of our countries’ relations are held together with a fragile web of diplomatic threads, and these threads are what prevent us from helping one another.”

Something’s broken in his voice. “There’s no room for emotion on the political stage,” I reply, putting my wineglass down. I’m not sure if I’m helping, but the words come out anyway. I don’t even know if I believe them. “When emotion fails, logic will save you. You might envy Day, but you’ll never be him and he’ll never be you. He isn’t the Republic’s Elector. He’s a boy protecting his brother. You are a politician. You have to make decisions that break your heart, that hurt and deceive, that no one else will understand. It’s your duty.” Even as I say this, though, I feel the doubt in the back of my mind, the seeds that Day has planted.

Without emotion, what’s the point of being human?

Anden’s eyes are heavy with sadness. He slouches, and for a moment I can see him as he really is, a young ruler standing alone against a tide of opposition and attempting to bear the burden of his country on his own shoulders, with a Senate cooperating only out of fear. “I miss my father sometimes,” he says. “I know I shouldn’t admit that, but it’s true. I know the rest of the world sees him as a monster.” He puts his wineglass down on the side table, then buries his head in his hands and rubs his face once.

My heart aches for him. At least I can grieve for my brother without fear of others’ hatred. What must it be like to know that the parent you once loved was responsible for such evil acts?

“Don’t feel guilty for your grief,” I say softly. “He was still your father.”

His gaze comes to rest on me, and as if pulled by some invisible hand, he leans forward. He wavers there, hovering precariously between desire and reason. He is so close now, close enough that if I were to move even a little, our lips might brush against each other. I feel his breath faintly against my skin, the warmth of his nearness, the quiet gentleness of his love. In this moment, I feel myself drawn to him.

“June . . . ,” he whispers. His eyes dance across my face.

Then he touches my chin with one hand, coaxes me forward, and kisses me.

I close my eyes. I should stop him, but I don’t want to. There is something electrifying about the bare passion in the young Elector of the Republic, the way he leans into me, his desire exposed even beneath his unfailing politeness. How he opens his heart for no one but me. How in spite of everything working against him, he still has the strength to step out every day with his chin up and his back straight. How he soldiers on, for the sake of his country. As do we all. I let myself succumb. He breaks away from my lips to kiss my cheek. Then the soft line of my jaw, right under my ear. Then my neck, just the softest whisper of a touch. A shiver sweeps through me. I can feel him holding back, and I know that what he really wants to do is to lace his fingers through my hair and drown himself in me.

But he doesn’t. He knows, as much as I do, that this isn’t real.

I have to stop. And with a pained effort, I pull away. I struggle to catch my breath. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I can’t.”

Anden looks down, embarrassed. But not surprised. His cheeks flush a faint pink in the dim light of the room, and he runs a hand through his hair. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he murmurs. We fall silent for a few uncomfortable seconds, until Anden sighs and leans all the way back. I slouch a little, both disappointed and relieved. “I . . . know you care deeply for Day. I know I can’t hope to compete with that.” He grimaces. “That was inappropriate of me. My apologies, June.”

I have a fleeting urge to kiss him again, to tell him that I do care, and to erase the pain and shame on his face that tugs at my heart. But I also know I don’t love him, and I can’t lead him on like this. I know the real reason we went so far is that I couldn’t bear to turn him away in his darkest moment. That I wished, deep down . . . he were someone else. The truth fills me with guilt. “I should go,” I say sadly.

Anden moves farther from me. He seems more alone than ever. Still, he composes himself and bows his head respectfully. His moment of weakness has passed, and his usual politeness takes over. As always, he hides his pain well. Then he stands up and holds a hand out to me. “I’ll walk you back to your room. Get some rest—we’ll leave in the early morning.”

I stand too, but I don’t take his hand. “It’s fine. I can find my own way back.” I avoid meeting his eyes; I don’t want to see how everything I say only hurts him more. Then I turn toward the door and leave him behind.

Ollie greets me with a wagging tail when I return to my room. After a petting session, I decide to try out the Internet portal in my room while he curls up nearby and falls promptly asleep. I run a search on Anden, as well as on his father. My room’s portal is a simplified version of the portals I used earlier, without interactive textures and immersive sounds attached, but it’s still miles beyond anything I’ve seen in the Republic. I sift quietly through the search results. Most are staged photos and propaganda videos that I recognize—Anden having his portrait done as a young boy, the former Elector standing in front of Anden at official press events and meetings. Even the international community seems to have little information on the relationship between father and son. But the deeper I dig, the more I stumble across moments of something surprisingly genuine. I see a video of Anden as a four-year-old, holding his salute with a solemn young face while his father patiently shows him how. I find a photo of the late Elector holding a crying, frightened Anden in his arms and whispering something into his ear, oblivious to the crowd that surrounds them. I see a clip of him angrily shoving the international press away from his small son, of him clutching Anden’s hand so tightly that his knuckles have turned white. I stumble across a rare interview between him and a reporter from Africa, who asks him what he cares about the most in the Republic.

“My son,” the late Elector answers without hesitation. His expression never softens, but the edges of his voice shift slightly. “My son will always be everything to me, because someday he will be everything to the Republic.” He pauses for a second to smile at the reporter. Inside that smile, I think I see glimpses of a different man who once existed. “My son . . . reminds me.”

*

We had initially planned to return to the capital the next morning—but the news comes just as we board our jet in Ross City. It comes earlier than we thought it would.

Denver has fallen to the Colonies.