The Legend Trilogy Collection (17 page)

I pull away before his mouth can touch mine—but now his hand is around the back of my neck. I’m surprised at how repulsed I feel. All I can see standing in front of me is a man with blood on his hands.

Thomas gives me a long look. Then, finally, he releases me and moves away. I can read the displeasure in his eyes. “Good night, Ms. Iparis.” He hurries away down the hall before I can respond. I swallow. I certainly can’t get in trouble for staying in character while out on the streets, but it doesn’t take a genius to see how upset Thomas is. I wonder if he’ll act on this information and, if so, what he’ll do.

I watch him disappear, then open my door and slowly step inside.

Ollie greets me enthusiastically. I pet him, let him out onto our patio, and then throw off the lopsided dress and hop in the shower. When I’m done, I climb into a black vest and shorts.

I try in vain to sleep. But too much has happened today . . . Day’s interrogation, meeting the Elector Primo and his son, and then Thomas. Metias’s crime scene returns to my thoughts—but as I replay it in my mind, I see his face turn into that of Day’s mother. I rub my eyes, heavy with exhaustion. My mind whirls with information, attempting to process all of it and getting jumbled in the middle each time. I try to imagine my thoughts as blocks of data organized into neat little boxes, each clearly labeled. The pattern makes no sense tonight, though, and I’m too tired to make sense of it. The apartment feels empty and foreign. I almost miss the streets of Lake. My eyes wander over to a small chest sitting under my desk, full of the 200,000 Notes I received for capturing Day. I know I should put it in a safer place, but I can’t bring myself to touch it. After a while, I get out of bed, fill a glass with water, and wander over to my computer. If I’m not going to sleep, I might as well continue sifting through Day’s background and evidence.

I run a finger across my monitor, take a sip of water, and then enter my clearance code for accessing the Internet. I open the files Commander Jameson has forwarded to me. They’re full of scanned documents, photos, and newspaper articles. Every time I look through things like this, I hear Metias’s voice in my mind. “Some of our tech used to be better,” he’d tell me. “Before floods, before thousands of data centers were wiped out.” He would let out a mock sigh, then wink at me. “Something to be said for writing my journals by hand, eh?”

I skim through the information I’ve already read before, starting on the new documents. My mind sorts through the details.

BIRTH NAME:
DANIEL ALTAN WING

AGE/GENDER:
15/M; PREV. LABELED DECEASED AT AGE 10

HEIGHT:
5’10”

WEIGHT:
147 LBS

BLOOD TYPE:
O

HAIR:
BLOND, LONG. FFFAD1.

EYES:
BLUE. 3A8EDB.

SKIN:
E2B279

DOMINANT ETHNICITY:
MONGOLIAN

Interesting. High ratio for what grade school taught us was an extinct country.

SECONDARY ETHNICITY:
CAUCASIAN

SECTOR:
LAKE

FATHER:
TAYLOR ARSLAN WING. DECEASED.

MOTHER:
GRACE WING. DECEASED.

My mind pauses on this for a moment. Again I picture the woman crumpled on the street in her own blood, then quickly shake the image away.

SIBLINGS:
JOHN SUREN WING, 19/M
EDEN BATAAR WING, 9/M

And then come the pages and pages of documents detailing Day’s past crimes. I try to skim these as fast as I can, but in the end I can’t help pausing on the last one.

FATALITIES:
CAPTAIN METIAS IPARIS

I close my eyes. Ollie whimpers at my feet as if he knows what I’m reading, then shoves his nose against my leg. I keep a hand absently on his head.

I didn’t kill your brother.
That’s what he told me.
But you might as well have put a gun to my mother’s head.

I force myself to scroll to a different document. I’ve already memorized that crime report from back to front, anyway.

Then something catches my eye. I sit up straighter. The document in front of me shows Day’s Trial score. It’s a scanned paper with a giant red stamp on it, very different from the bright blue stamp I’d seen on mine.

DANIEL ALTAN WING

SCORE:
674 / 1500

FAILED

Something about that number bothers me . . . 674? I’ve never heard of anyone scoring so low. One person I knew in grade school did fail, inevitably, but his score was close to 1000. Most failing scores are something like 890. Or 825. Always 800-plus. And those are the kids that are expected to fail, the ones who don’t pay attention or don’t have the capacity to.

But
674
?

“He’s too smart for that,” I say under my breath. I read it over again in case I missed something. But the number’s still there. Impossible. Day is well-spoken and logical, and he can read and write. He should have passed his Trial’s interview portion. He’s the most agile person I’ve ever met—he should have aced his Trial’s physical. With high scores on those sections, it should have been impossible for him to score lower than 850—still failing, but higher than 674. And he would’ve gotten 850 only if he left his entire written portion blank.

Commander Jameson will not be happy with me,
I think. I open up a search engine and point to a classified URL.

Final Trial scores are common knowledge, but the actual Trial documents are never revealed—not even to criminal investigators. But my brother was Metias, and we never had trouble finding our way into the Trial databases with his hacks. I close my eyes, recounting what he’d taught me.

Determine the OS and get root privs. See if you can reach the remote system. Know your target, and secure your machine.

I find an open port in the system after an hour of scanning and then take over admin privileges. The site beeps once before displaying a single search bar. I soundlessly tap out Day’s name on my desk.

DANIEL ALTAN WING.

The front page of his Trial document comes up. The score still says 674 / 1500. I scroll to the next page. Day’s answers. Some of the questions are multiple-choice, while others require several sentences to answer. I skim through all thirty-two pages before I confirm something very odd.

There are no red marks. In fact, every single one of his answers is untouched. His Trial looks as pristine as mine.

I scroll all the way back to the first page. Then I read each question carefully and answer it in my head. It takes me an hour to go through all of them.

Every answer matches.

When I reach the end of his Trial document, I see the separate scores for his interview and physical sections. Both are perfect. The only thing that’s weird is a brief note written next to his interview score:
Attention.

Day didn’t fail his Trial. Not even close. In fact, he got the same score I did: 1500 / 1500. I am no longer the Republic’s only prodigy with a perfect score.

“GET ON YOUR FEET. IT’S TIME.”

The butt of a rifle hits me in the ribs. I’m yanked out of a dream-filled sleep—first of my mother walking me to grade school, then of Eden’s bleeding irises and the red number under our porch. Two pairs of hands drag me up before I can see properly, and I scream as my wounded leg tries to take some of my weight. I didn’t think it was possible for it to hurt more than it did yesterday, but it does. Tears spring to my eyes. When my vision sharpens, I can tell that my leg is swollen under the bandages. I want to scream again, but my mouth is too dry.

The soldiers drag me out of my cell. The commander who had visited me the day before is waiting in the hall for us, and when she sees me, she breaks into a smile. “Good morning, Day,” she says. “How are you?”

I don’t reply. One of the soldiers pauses to give the commander a quick salute. “Commander Jameson,” he says, “are you ready for him to proceed to sentencing?”

The commander nods. “Follow me. And please gag him, if you don’t mind. We wouldn’t want him yelling obscenities the whole time, would we?” The soldier salutes again, then stuffs a cloth into my mouth.

We make our way through the long halls. Again we pass the double doors with the red number—then several doors under heavy guard and still others with large glass panels. My mind whirls. I need a way to confirm my guess, a way to talk to someone. I’m weak from dehydration, and the pain has made me sick to my stomach.

Now and then, I see a person inside one of the glass-paneled rooms, cuffed to a wall and screaming. I can tell from their tattered uniforms that they are POWs from the Colonies.
What if John’s inside one of these rooms? What will they do with him?

After what seems like an eternity, we step into an enormous main hall with a high ceiling. Outside, a crowd is chanting something, but I can’t make out the words. Soldiers line the row of doors that lead to the front of the building.

And then the soldiers part—we’re outside. The daylight blinds me, and I hear the shouts of hundreds of people. Commander Jameson holds up a hand, then turns to her right while the soldiers drag me up to a platform. Now I can finally see where I am. I’m in front of a building at the heart of Batalla, the military sector of Los Angeles. An enormous crowd has turned out to watch me, held back and patrolled by an almost equally large platoon of gun-wielding soldiers. I had no idea this many people cared enough to see me in person today. I raise my head as high as I can and see the JumboTrons embedded in the surrounding buildings. Every single one has a close-up of my face accompanied by frantic news headlines.

NOTORIOUS CRIMINAL KNOWN AS DAY ARRESTED, TO BE SENTENCED TODAY OUTSIDE BATALLA HALL

DANGEROUS MENACE TO SOCIETY FINALLY CAUGHT

TEEN RENEGADE KNOWN AS DAY CLAIMS TO WORK ALONE, NO AFFILIATION WITH THE PATRIOTS

I stare at my face on the JumboTrons. I’m bruised, bloody, and listless. A bright streak of blood stains one thick strand of my hair, painting a dark red streak into it. I must have a cut on my scalp.

For a moment I’m glad that my mother isn’t alive to see me like this.

The soldiers shove me toward a raised block of cement in the center of the platform. To my right, a judge cloaked in scarlet robes and gold buttons waits behind a podium. Commander Jameson stands beside him, and to her right is the Girl. She’s decked out in her full uniform again, stoic and alert. Her expressionless face is turned toward the crowd—but once, just once, she turns to look at me before quickly looking away.

“Order! Please, order in the crowd.” The judge’s voice crackles over the JumboTrons’ loudspeakers, but the people continue to shout, and soldiers push back against them. The entire front row is clogged with reporters, their cameras and microphones shoved in my direction.

Finally, one of the soldiers barks out a command. I look over at him. It’s the young captain who shot my mother. His soldiers fire several shots into the air. This settles the crowd. The judge waits a few seconds to make sure the silence holds, then adjusts his glasses.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” he begins. “I know this is a rather warm morning, so we’ll keep the sentencing brief. As you can see, our soldiers are present and serve to remind you all to keep calm during these proceedings. Let me begin with an official announcement that on December twenty-first, at eight thirty-six
A.M.,
Ocean Standard Time, the fifteen-year-old criminal known as Day was arrested and taken into military custody.”

A huge cheer erupts. But as much as I expected this, I also hear something else that surprises me. Boos. Some—many—of the people in the crowd don’t have their fists in the air. A few of the louder protesters are approached by street police, cuffed, and dragged away.

One of the soldiers restraining me strikes me in the back with his rifle. I fall to my knees. The instant my wounded leg hits the cement, I scream as loud as I can. The sound’s muffled by my gag. The pain blinds me—my swollen leg trembles from the impact, and I can feel a gush of fresh blood on my bandages. I almost keel over before the soldiers prop me up. When I look toward the Girl, I see her wince at the sight of me and turn her eyes to the ground.

The judge ignores the commotion. He begins by listing off my crimes, then concludes, “In light of the defendant’s past felonies and, in particular, his offenses against the glorious nation of the Republic, the high court of California recommends the following verdict. Day is hereby sentenced to death—”

The crowd erupts again. The soldiers hold them back.

“—by firing squad, to be carried out four days from today, on December twenty-seventh at six
P.M.,
Ocean Standard Time, in an undisclosed location—”

Four days. How will I save my brothers before then?
I lift my head and fix my eyes on the crowd.

“—to be broadcast live across the city. Civilians are encouraged to stay vigilant for any possible criminal activity that may occur before and after the event—”

They will make an example of me.

“—and to report any suspicious activity immediately to the street police or to the police headquarters closest to you. This officially concludes our sentencing.”

The judge straightens and steps away from the podium. The crowd continues to push against the soldiers. They’re shouting, cheering, booing. I feel myself being dragged back onto my feet. Before they can start ushering me inside Batalla Hall, I catch a last glimpse of the Girl staring at me. Her expression looks blank . . . but behind it, something flickers. The same emotion I’d seen on her face before she knew my real identity. It’s only there for a moment and then it’s gone.
I’m supposed to hate you for what you did,
I think. But her eyes linger on me in a way that refuses to let me.

After the sentencing, Commander Jameson doesn’t let her soldiers take me back to my cell. Instead we step into an elevator held up by enormous cogs and chains and go up a level, then another, and another. The elevator takes us to the roof of Batalla Hall, twelve stories high, where the shadows from surrounding buildings don’t protect us from the sun.

Commander Jameson leads the soldiers to a flat circular stand in the middle of the roof, a stand with the Republic’s seal embedded in it and strings of heavy chains hooked around its rim. The Girl brings up the rear. I can still feel her eyes on my back. When we reach the center of the circle, the soldiers force me to stand while they bind my shackled hands and feet to the chains.

“Keep him up here for two days,” Commander Jameson says. Already the sun has blurred my vision and the world looks bathed in a haze of sparkling diamonds. The soldiers let go of me. I sink to the ground on my hands and my good knee, chains clacking as I go. “Agent Iparis, head this up. Check on him now and then and make sure he doesn’t die before his execution date.”

The Girl’s voice pipes up. “Yes, ma’am.”

“He’s allowed one cup of water a day. One food ration.” The commander smiles, then tightens her gloves. “Be creative when you’re giving it to him, if you wish. I’ll bet you can make him beg for it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.” Commander Jameson addresses me one final time. “Looks like you’re finally behaving. Better late than never.” Then she walks away and disappears into the elevator with the Girl, leaving the rest of the soldiers to stand guard.

The afternoon is quiet.

I slip in and out of consciousness. My injured leg throbs to the beat of my heart, sometimes fast and sometimes slow, sometimes so hard that I think I’m going to pass out. My mouth cracks each time I move it. I try to think about where Eden might be—the Central Hospital lab, or a medical division of Batalla Hall, or even a train headed to the warfront. They’ll keep him alive, that I’m sure of. The Republic won’t kill him until the plague does.

But John. What they’ve done with him I can only guess. They may keep him alive, in case they want to squeeze more information out of me. Maybe both of us will be executed at the same time. Or he could already be dead. A new pain stabs at my chest. I think back to the day I took my Trial, when John came to pick me up and saw me being taken away in a train with others who had failed. After I’d escaped from the lab and developed the habit of watching my family from a distance, I occasionally saw John sitting at our dining room table with his head in his hands, sobbing. He’s never said it aloud, but I think he blames himself for what happened to me. He thinks he should have protected me more. Helped me study more. Something,
anything.

If I can escape, I still have time to save them. I can still use my arms. And I have one good leg. I could still do it . . . if I only knew where they were. . . .

The world fades in and out. My head slumps against the cement stand, and my arms lie motionless against the chains. Memories of my Trial day flash before me.

The stadium. The other children. The soldiers guarding every entrance and exit. The velvet ropes that kept us separated from the kids of rich families.

The physical trial. The written exam. The interview.

The interview, more than anything. I remember the panel that questioned me—a group of six psychiatrists—and the official who’d led them, the man named Chian, who had a uniform adorned with medals. He asked the most questions.
What is the Republic’s national pledge? Good, very good. It says here on your school report that you like history. What year did the Republic officially form? What do you enjoy doing in school? Reading . . . yes, very nice. A teacher once reported you for sneaking into a restricted area of the library, looking for old military texts. Can you tell me why you did that? What do you think of our illustrious Elector Primo? Yes, he is indeed a good man, and a great leader. But you are mistaken to call him those things, my boy. He’s not a man like you and me. The correct way to address him is
our glorious father
. Yes, your apology is accepted.

His questions went on forever, dozens and dozens of them, each more mind-bending than the last, until I couldn’t even be sure why I answered as I did. Chian wrote notes on my interview report the whole time, while one of his assistants recorded the session with a tiny microphone.

I thought I’d answered well enough. At least, I was careful to say things that I thought would please him.

But then they led me onto a train, and the train took us to the lab.

The memory makes me shiver even as the sun continues to beat down, baking my skin until it hurts.
I have to save Eden,
I say to myself over and over again.
Eden turns ten . . . in one month. When he recovers from the plague, he’ll have to take the Trial. . . .

My injured leg feels like it could burst right out of my bandages and swell to the size of the roof.

Hours pass. I lose track of time. Soldiers rotate in and out of their shifts. The sun changes position.

Then, just as the sun mercifully starts to set, I see someone emerge from the elevator and make her way toward me.