“EDEN.”
It’s the first word out of Day’s mouth. The JumboTrons continue broadcasting their ominous scarlet notice as the alarm echoes across the city, deafening me with its rhythmic roar and blotting out all other sounds in the city. Along the street, others are peeking out of windows and pouring out from building entrances, as bewildered as we are over the unusual alarm. Soldiers are flooding into formation on the street, shouting into their earpieces as they see the approaching enemy. I run right beside him, thoughts and numbers racing through my mind as we go. (Four seconds. Twelve seconds. Fifteen seconds a block, which means seventy-five seconds until we reach Day’s apartment if we keep up our pace. Is there a faster route? And Ollie. I need to get him out of my apartment and to my side.) A strange focus grips me, just like it had the moment I first freed Day from Batalla Hall all those months ago, like the moment Day climbed the Capitol Tower to address the people and I led soldiers off his trail. I may turn into a silent, uncomfortable observer in the Senate chamber, but out here on the streets, in the midst of chaos, I can think. I can act.
I remember reading about and rehearsing for this particular alarm back in high school, although Los Angeles is so far away from the Colonies that even those practice drills were rare. The alarm was to be used only if enemy forces attacked our city, if they were right at the city’s borders and barging their way in. I don’t know what the process is like in Denver, but I imagine it can’t be that different—we are to evacuate immediately, then seek out the closest assigned underground bunker and board subways that will shuttle us to a safer city. After I entered college and officially became a soldier, the drill changed for me: Soldiers are to report immediately to a location their commanding officers give them over their earpieces. We must be ready for war at a moment’s notice.
But I’ve never heard the alarm used for a real attack on a Republic city, because there hasn’t been one yet. Most attacks were thwarted before they could reach us. Until now. And as I run alongside Day, I know exactly what must be going through his mind. It triggers a familiar guilt in my stomach.
Day has never heard the alarm before, nor has he ever gone through a drill for it. This is because he’s from a poor sector. I was never sure before, and I admit that I never thought much about it, but seeing Day’s confused expression makes it all very clear. The underground bunkers are only for the upper class, the gem sectors. The poor are left to fend for themselves.
Overhead, an engine screams by. A Republic jet. Then several more. Shouts rise up and mix with the alarm—I brace myself for a call from Anden at any moment. Then, far off along the horizon, I see the first orange glows light up along the Armor. The Republic is launching a counterattack from the walls. This is really happening. But it shouldn’t be. The Colonies had given us time, however little, to hand over an antidote to them—and since that ultimatum, only four days have passed. My anger flares. Did they want to catch us off guard in such an extreme way?
I grab Day’s hand and pick up my pace. “Can you call Eden?” I shout.
“Yeah,” Day gasps out. Immediately I can tell that he doesn’t have the stamina he used to have—his breathing is slightly labored, his steps slightly slower. A lump lodges in my throat. Somehow, this is the first evidence of his fading health that hits home, and my heart clenches. Behind us, another explosion reverberates across the night air. I tighten my hold on his hand.
“Tell Eden to be ready at your complex’s entrance,” I shout. “I know where we can go.”
An urgent voice comes over my earpiece. It’s Anden. “Where are you?” he says. I shiver as I detect a faint hint of fear in his words—another thing I rarely hear. “I’m at the Capitol Tower. I’ll send a jeep to pick you up.”
“Send a jeep to Day’s apartment. I’ll be there in a minute. And Ollie—my dog—”
“I’ll have him sent to the bunkers immediately,” Anden says. “Be careful.” Then a click sounds out, and I hear static for a second before my earpiece goes dark. Beside me, Day repeats my instructions for Eden over his own mike.
By the time we reach the apartment complex, Republic jets are screaming by every other second, painting dozens of trails into the evening sky. Crowds of people have already started gathering outside the complex and are being guided in various directions by city patrols. A jolt of fear seizes me when I realize that some of the jets on the horizon are not Republic jets at all—but unfamiliar enemy ones. If they’re this close, then they must’ve gotten past our longer range missiles. Two larger black dots hover at the end of the sky. Colonies airships.
Day sees Eden before I do. He’s a small, golden-haired figure clutching the railings by the apartment complex’s entrance door, squinting in vain at the sea of people around him. Their caretaker stands behind him with both of her hands firmly on his shoulders. “Eden!” Day calls out. The boy jerks his head in our direction. Day hops up the steps and scoops him into his arms, then turns back to me. “Where do we go?” he shouts.
“The Elector’s sending a jeep for us,” I reply in his ear, so that the others don’t hear. Already a few people are casting us glances of recognition even as they stream past us in a haze of panic. I pull my coat collars as high up as they can go, then bow my head. Come on, I mutter to myself.
“June,” Day says. I meet his eyes. “What’s gonna happen to the other sectors?”
There’s the question I’ve been dreading. What will happen to the poor sectors? I hesitate, and in that brief moment of silence, Day realizes the answer. His lips tighten into a thin line. A deep rage rises in his eyes.
The jeep’s arrival saves me from answering right away. It screeches to a stop several feet from where the others have crowded around, and inside I see Anden wave once at me from the passenger’s side. “Let’s go,” I urge Day. We make our way down the steps as a soldier opens the door for us. Day helps Eden and their caretaker inside first, and when they’re both buckled up, we climb in. The jeep takes off at breakneck pace as more Republic jets fly by overhead. Off in the distance, another bright orange cloud mushrooms up from the Armor. Is it me, or did that seem like a closer hit than before? (Perhaps closer by a good hundred feet, given the size of the explosion.)
“Glad to see you all safe,” Anden says without turning around. He utters a quick greeting at each of us, then mumbles a command to the driver, who makes a sharp turn around the next block. Eden lets out a startled yelp. The caretaker squeezes his shoulders and tries to soothe him.
“Why take the slower route?” Anden says as we veer down a narrow street. The ground shakes from another far-off impact.
“Apologies, Elector,” the driver calls back. “Word’s that several explosions have gone off inside the Armor—our fastest route’s not safe. They bombed a few jeeps on the other side of Denver.”
“Any injuries?”
“Not too many, luckily. Couple jeeps overturned—several prisoners escaped, and one soldier’s dead.”
“Which prisoners?”
“We’re still confirming.”
A nasty premonition hits me. When I’d gone to see Thomas, there had been a rotation of guards standing in front of Commander Jameson’s cell. When I left, the guards were different.
Anden makes a frustrated sound, then turns to glance back at us. “We’re headed to an underground hold called Subterrain One. Should you need to enter or leave the hold, my guards will scan your thumbs at its gateway. You heard our driver—it’s not safe to head out on your own. Understand?”
The driver presses a hand to his ear, blanches, and looks at Anden. “Sir, we have confirmation on the escaped prisoners. There were three.” He hesitates, then swallows. “Captain Thomas Bryant. Lieutenant Patrick Murrey. Commander Natasha Jameson.”
My world lurches. I knew it. I knew it. Just yesterday I’d seen Commander Jameson securely behind bars, and talked to Thomas while he was withering away in prison. They couldn’t have gone far, I tell myself. “Anden,” I whisper, forcing my senses straight. “Yesterday, when I went to see Thomas, there had been a different rotation of guards. Were those soldiers supposed to be there?” Day and I exchange a quick look, and for an instant I feel as if the entire world is playing us for fools, weaving our lives into one cruel joke.
“Find the prisoners,” Anden snaps into his mike. His own face has turned white. “Shoot them on sight.” He glances back at me while he continues talking. “And get me the guards that were on duty. Now.”
I cringe as yet another explosion makes the ground tremble. They couldn’t have gone far. They’ll be captured and shot by the end of the day. I repeat these words to myself over and over. No, something else is at work here. My mind flits through the possibilities:
It’s no coincidence that Commander Jameson managed to escape, that the Colonies’ attack happened on the same day she was being transferred. There must be other traitors in the Republic’s ranks, soldiers that Anden hasn’t rooted out yet. Commander Jameson may have been passing information to the Colonies through them. After all, the Colonies somehow knew when our Armor soldiers would rotate shifts, and particularly that today we had fewer Armor soldiers stationed than usual due to the food poisoning. They knew to strike at our weakest moment.
If that’s the case, then the Colonies may have been planning an attack for months. Perhaps even before the plague outbreak.
And Thomas. Was he in on the whole thing? Unless he was trying to warn me. That’s why he asked for me yesterday. For his final request, but also in hopes that I would notice something off about the guards. My heartbeat quickens. But why wouldn’t he just shout a warning?
“What happens next?” I ask numbly.
Anden leans his head against the seat. He’s probably thinking through a similar list of possibilities about the escaped prisoners, but he doesn’t say it aloud. “Our jets are all engaged right outside Denver. The Armor should hold for a good while, but there’s a strong chance more Colonies forces are on their way. We’re going to need help. Other nearby cities have been alerted and are sending their troops for reinforcement, but”—Anden pauses to look over his shoulder at me—“it might not be enough. While we keep funneling civilians underground, June, you and I need to have a private talk right away.”
“Where are you evacuating the poor to, Elector?” Day pipes up quietly.
Anden turns in his seat again. He meets Day’s hostile blue eyes with as level a look as he can manage. I notice that he avoids looking at Eden. “I have troops on their way to the outer sectors,” he says. “They’ll find shelter for the civilians and defend them until I give a command otherwise.”
“No underground bunkers for them, I guess,” Day replies coldly.
“I’m sorry.” Anden lets out a long breath. “The bunkers were built a long time ago, before my father even became the Elector. We’re working on adding more.”
Day leans forward and narrows his eyes. His right hand grips Eden’s tightly. “Then split the bunkers up between the sectors. Half poor, half rich. The upper class should risk their necks out in the open as much as the lower class.”
“No,” Anden says firmly, even though I hear regret in his words. He makes the mistake of arguing this point with Day, and I can’t stop him. “If we were to do that, the logistics would be a nightmare. The outer sectors don’t have the same evacuation routes—if explosions hit the city, hundreds of thousands more people would be vulnerable in the open because we wouldn’t be able to organize everyone in time. We evacuate the gem sectors first. Then we can—”
“Do it!” Day shouts. “I don’t care about your damn logistics!”
Anden’s face hardens. “You will not talk back to me like that,” he snaps. There’s steel in his voice that I recognize from Commander Jameson’s trial. “I am your Elector.”
“And I put you there,” Day snaps back. “Fine, you wanna talk logically? I’m game. If you don’t make a bigger effort to protect the poor right now, I can practically guarantee that you’ll have a full-on riot on your hands. Do you really want that while the Colonies are attacking? Like you said, you’re the Elector. But you won’t be if the rest of the country’s poor hears about how you’re handling this, and even I might not be able to stop them from starting a revolution. They already think the Republic’s trying to kill me off. How long do you think the Republic can hold up against a war from both the outside and the inside?”
Anden’s facing forward again. “This conversation’s over.” As always, his voice is dangerously quiet, but we can hear every single word.
Day lets out a curse and slumps back in his seat. I exchange a glance with him, then shake my head. Day has a point, of course, and so does Anden. The problem is that we don’t have time for all this nonsense. After a moment of silence, I lean forward in my seat, clear my throat, and try an alternative.
“We should evacuate the poor into the wealthy sectors,” I say. “They’ll still be aboveground, but the wealthy sectors sit in the heart of Denver, not along the Armor where the fighting is happening. It’s a flawed plan, but the poor will also see that we’re making a concerted effort to protect them. Then, as the people in the bunkers are gradually evacuated to LA via underground subways, we’ll have the time and space to start filtering everyone else underground as well.”
Day mutters something under his breath, but at the same time he grunts in reluctant approval. He shoots me a grateful look. “Sounds like a better plan to me. At least the people’ll have something.” A second later, I figure out what it was that he’d muttered. You’d make a better Elector than this fool.
Anden’s quiet for a moment as he considers my words. Then he nods in agreement and presses a hand against his ear. “Commander Greene,” he says, then launches into a series of orders.
I meet Day’s eyes. He still looks upset, but at least his eyes aren’t burning in anger like they were a second ago. He turns his attention back on Lucy, who has an arm wrapped protectively around Eden. He’s curled up in the corner of the jeep’s seat with his legs tucked up and his arms wrapped around them. He squints at the scene blurring by, but I’m not sure how much of it he can actually make out. I reach across Day and touch Eden’s shoulder. He tenses up immediately. “It’s okay, it’s June,” I say. “And don’t worry. We’re going to be fine, do you hear?”
“Why did the Colonies break through?” Eden asks, turning his wide, purple-toned eyes on me and Day.
I swallow hard. Neither of us answers him. Finally, after he repeats his question, Day hugs him closer and whispers something in his ear. Eden settles down against his brother’s shoulder. He still looks unhappy and scared, but the terror is at least tempered, and we manage to finish the rest of the ride without saying another word.
It feels like an eternity (in actuality the trip takes a mere two minutes and twelve seconds), but we finally arrive at a nondescript building near the heart of downtown Denver, a thirty-story high-rise covered with crisscrossing support beams on all four of its sides. Dozens of city patrols are mixed in with crowds of civilians, organizing them into groups at the entrance. Our driver pulls the jeep up to the side of the building, where patrols let us through the door of a makeshift fence. Through the window, I see soldiers click their heels together in sharp salutes as we pass by. One of them is holding Ollie on a leash. I slump in relief at the sight of him. When the jeep halts, two of them promptly open the doors for us. Anden steps out—immediately he’s surrounded by four patrol captains, all feverishly updating him on how the evacuation is going. My dog pulls his soldier frantically to my side. I thank the soldier, take over the leash, and rub Ollie’s head. He’s panting in distress.
“This way, Ms. Iparis,” the soldier who opens my door says. Day follows behind me in a tense silence, his hand still clutched tightly around Eden’s. Lucy comes out last. I look over my shoulder to where Anden’s now deep in conversation with his captains—he pauses to exchange a quick look with me. His eyes dart to Eden. I know that the thought he has must be the same thought running through Day’s mind: Keep Eden safe. I nod, signaling to him that I understand, and then we move past a crowd of waiting evacuees and I lose sight of him.
Instead of dealing with the lineup of civilians at the entrance, soldiers escort us through a separate entrance and down a winding set of stairs, until we reach a dimly lit hallway that ends in a set of wide, steel double doors. The guards standing at the entrance shift their stance when they recognize me.
“This way, Ms. Iparis,” they say. One of them stiffens at the sight of Day, but looks quickly away when Day meets his stare. The doors swing open for us.
We’re greeted by a blast of warm, humid air and a scene of orderly chaos. The room we’ve stepped into seems like an enormous warehouse (half the size of a Trial stadium, three dozen fluorescents, and six rows of steel beams lining the ceiling), with a lone JumboTron on the left wall blasting instructions to the upper-class evacuees who mill all around us. Amongst them are a handful of poor-sector people (fourteen of them, to be exact), those who must have been the housekeepers and janitors of some of the gem-sector’s homes. To my disappointment, I see soldiers separating them out into a different line. Several upper-class people cast them sympathetic looks, while others glare in disdain.
Day sees them too. “Guess we’re all created equal,” he mutters. I say nothing.
A few smaller rooms line the right wall. At the far end of the room, the end of a parked subway train rests inside a tunnel, and crowds of both soldiers and civilians have gathered along both of its platforms. The soldiers are attempting to organize the crowds of bewildered, frightened people onto the subway. Where it will take them, I can only guess.
Beside me, Day watches the scene with silent, simmering eyes. His hand stays clamped on Eden’s. I wonder whether he’s taking note of the aristocratic clothing that most of these evacuees are wearing.
“Apologies for the mess,” a guard says to me as she escorts us toward one of the smaller rooms. She taps the edge of her cap politely. “We are in the early stages of evacuations, and as you can see, the first wave is still in progress. We can have you, as well as Day and his family, on the first wave as well, if you don’t mind resting for a moment in a private suite.”
Mariana and Serge might already be waiting in rooms of their own. “Thank you,” I reply. We walk past several doors, their long, rectangular windows revealing empty, blank rooms with portraits of Anden hanging on their walls. A couple look as if they have been reserved for high-ranking officials, while others appear to be holding people who must have caused trouble—detainees with sullen faces flanked by pairs of soldiers. One room that we pass by holds several people surrounded by guards.
It is this room that makes me pause. I recognize one of the people in there. Is it really her? “Wait,” I call out, stepping closer to the window. No doubt about it—I see a young girl with wide eyes and a blunt, messy bob of a haircut, sitting in a chair beside a gray-eyed boy and three others who look more ragged than I recall. I glance at our soldier. “What are they doing in there?”
Day follows my lead. When he sees what I see, he sucks in a sharp breath. “Get us in there,” he whispers to me. His voice takes on a desperate urgency. “Please.”
“These are prisoners, Ms. Iparis,” the soldier replies, puzzled by our interest. “I don’t recommend—”
I tighten my lips. “I want to see them,” I interrupt.
The soldier hesitates, glances around the room, and then nods reluctantly. “Of course,” she replies. She steps toward the door and opens it, then ushers us in. Lucy stays right outside with her hand tightly gripping Eden’s. The door closes behind us.
I find myself staring straight at Tess and a handful of Patriots.