Tried and executed. June, gone. Dreading the possibility is one thing; hearing it spelled out to me and then using it to blackmail me is another. My mind spins frantically for ways they could escape instead, to find asylum in another country. Maybe the Antarcticans can keep June and the others overseas and protected in case the Colonies overrun the country. There must be a way. But . . . what about the rest of us? What’s to stop the Colonies from harming my brother?
“How do I know you’ll keep your word?” I finally manage to croak.
“To show you my genuine nature, I give you my word that the Colonies have ceased their attacks as of this morning, and I will not resume them for three days. If you agree to my proposition, you just guaranteed the safety of the Republic’s people . . . and of your loved ones. So, let the choice be yours.” The Chancellor laughs a little. “And I recommend that you keep our conversation to yourself.”
“I’ll think about it,” I whisper.
“Wonderful.” The Chancellor’s voice brightens. “Like I said, as soon as possible. After three days, I’ll expect to hear back from you on making a public announcement to the Republic. This can be the start of a very fruitful relationship. Time is of the essence—I know you understand this more than anyone.”
Then the call ends. The silence is deafening. I sit in the thick of our conversation for a while, soaking it in. Thoughts run endlessly through my mind . . . Eden, June, the Republic, the Elector. Their blood on your hands. The frustration and fear bubbling inside my chest threatens to drown me in its tide. The Chancellor’s smart, I’ll give him that—he knows exactly what my weaknesses are and he’s going to try to use them to his advantage. But two can play at this. I have to warn June—and I’ll have to do it quietly. If the Colonies find out that I’ve passed the word along instead of keeping my mouth shut and doing as the Chancellor says, then who knows what tricks they might try to pull. But maybe we can use this to our advantage. My mind whirls. Maybe we can fool the Chancellor at his own game.
Suddenly, a shriek echoes from the hallway outside that raises every hair on my skin. I turn my head in the sound’s direction. Somebody’s coming down the corridor against her will—whoever it is must be putting up a pretty damn good fight.
“I’m not infected,” the voice protests. It grows louder until it’s right outside my door, then fades as the sounds of the voice and gurney wheels travel farther down the hall. I recognize the voice right away. “Run your tests again. It’s nothing. I’m not infected.”
Even though I don’t know exactly what’s going on, I’m instantly sure of one thing—the sickness spreading through the Colonies has a new victim.
Tess.
FOR THE FIRST TIME IN THE REPUBLIC’S HISTORY, THERE is no capital to land in.
We touch down at an airfield located on the southern edge of Drake University at 1600 hours, not a quarter mile away from where I used to attend all of my Republic History classes. The afternoon is disconcertingly sunny. Has it really been less than a year since everything happened? As we step off the plane and wait for our luggage to unload, I look around in a dull stupor. The campus, both nostalgic and strange to me, is emptier than I remember—many of the seniors, I hear, have been pushed through graduation early in order to send them off to the warfront to fight for the Republic’s survival. I walk in silence through the campus streets a few steps behind Anden, while Mariana and Serge, as part of their Senator nature, keep up a steady stream of chatter with their otherwise quiet Elector. Ollie stays close to my side, the hackles up on his neck. The main Drake quad, normally crowded with passing students, is now home to pockets of refugees brought over from Denver and a few neighboring cities. An unfamiliar, eerie sight.
By the time we reach a series of jeeps waiting for us and begin traveling through Batalla sector, I notice the various things throughout LA that have changed. Evacuation centers have popped up where Batalla sector meets Blueridge, where the military buildings give way to civilian high-rises, and many of the older, half-abandoned buildings along this poor sector have been hastily converted into evacuation centers. Large crowds of disheveled Denver refugees crowd the entrances, all hoping to be lucky enough to get a room assignment. One glance tells me that, naturally, the people waiting here are probably all from Denver’s poor sectors.
“Where are we placing the upper-class families?” I ask Anden. “In a gem sector, I’m sure?” I find it difficult now to say something like this without a sharp edge in my voice.
Anden looks unhappy, but he calmly answers, “In Ruby. You, Mariana, and Serge will all have apartments there.” He reads my expression. “I know what you’re thinking. But I can’t afford to have our wealthy families revolting against me for forcing them into evacuation centers in the poor sectors. I did set a number of spaces in Ruby to be allocated for the poor—they’ll be assigned to them on a lottery system.”
I don’t answer, simply because I have nothing to argue against. What is there to do about this situation? It’s not like Anden can uproot the entire country’s infrastructure in the span of a year. As I look on through the window, a growing group of protesters gathers along the edge of a guarded refugee zone. MOVE TO THE OUTSKIRTS! one of their signs says. KEEP THEM QUARANTINED!
The sight sends a shiver down my spine. It doesn’t seem so different from what had happened in the Republic’s early years, when the west protested the people fleeing in from the east.
We ride in silence for a while. Then, suddenly, Anden presses his hand against his ear and motions to the driver. “Turn on the screen,” he tells him, gesturing to the small monitor embedded into the jeep’s seats. “General Marshall says the Colonies are broadcasting something onto our twelfth channel.”
We all watch as the monitor comes to life. At first we only see a blank, black screen, but then the broadcast comes in, and I look on as the Colonies slogan and seal appear over an oscillating Colonies flag.
THE COLONIES OF AMERICA
CLOUD . MEDITECH . DESCON . EVERGREEN
A FREE STATE IS A CORPORATE STATE
Then, an evening landscape of a beautiful, sparkling city comes up, completely covered in thousands of twinkling blue lights. “Citizens of the Republic,” a grandiose voice says. “Welcome to the Colonies of America. As many of you already know, the Colonies have overrun the Republic capital of Denver and, as such, have declared an unofficial victory over the tyrannical regime that has kept you all under its thumb. After over a hundred years of suffering, you are now free.” The landscape changes to a top-down map of both the Republic and the Colonies—except this time, the line dividing the two nations is gone. A shiver runs down my spine. “In the weeks to come, you will all be integrated into our system of fair competition and freedom. You are a citizen of the Colonies. What does that mean, you might wonder?”
The voiceover pauses, and the imagery shifts to a happy family holding a check in front of them. “As a new citizen, each of you will be entitled to at least five thousand Colonies Notes, equivalent to sixty thousand Republic Notes, granted from one of our four main corps that you decide to work for. The higher your current income, the higher we’ll pay you. You will no longer answer to the Republic’s street police but to DesCon’s city patrols, your own private neighborhood police dedicated to serving you. Your employer will no longer be the Republic, but one of our four distinguished corps, where you can apply for a fulfilling career.” The video shifts again to scenes of happy workers, proud, smiling faces hovering over suits and ties. “We offer you, citizens, the freedom of choice.”
The freedom of choice. Images flash through my mind of what I’d seen in the Colonies when Day and I first ventured into their territory. The crowds of workers, the dilapidated slums of the poor. The advertisements printed all over the people’s clothes. The commercials that covered every square inch of the buildings. Most of all, DesCon’s police, the way they had refused to help the robbed woman who had missed her payments to their department. Is this the future of the Republic? And suddenly I feel nauseous, because I cannot say whether the people would be better off in the Republic or the Colonies.
The broadcast continues. “We only ask that you return a small favor to us.” The video shifts again, this time to a scene of people protesting in solidarity. “If you, as a civilian, have grievances with the Republic, now is the time to voice them. If you are courageous enough to stage protests throughout your respective cities, the Colonies will pay you an additional five thousand Colonies Notes, as well as grant you a one-year discount on all of our Cloud Corp grocery goods. Simply send your proof of participation to any DesCon headquarters in Denver, Colorado, along with your name and mailing address.”
So, this explains the various protests popping up around the city. Even their propaganda sounds like an advertisement. A dangerously tempting one. “Declaring victory a little too soon,” I say under my breath.
“They’re trying to turn the people against us,” Anden murmurs in reply. “They announced a ceasefire this morning, perhaps as a chance to disseminate propaganda like this.”
“I doubt it will be effective,” I say, although I don’t sound as confident as I should. All these years of anti-Colonies propaganda are going to be difficult for the Colonies to work around. Aren’t they?
Anden’s jeep finally slows to a halt. I frown, confused for a second. Instead of taking me back to a high-rise for my temporary apartment, we are now parked in front of the Los Angeles Central Hospital. The place where Metias died. I glance at Anden. “What are we doing here?” I ask.
“Day’s here,” Anden replies. His voice catches a little when he speaks Day’s name.
“Why?”
Anden doesn’t look at me. He seems reluctant to discuss it. “He collapsed during the evacuation to LA,” he explains. “The series of explosions we used to knock out the underground tunnels apparently triggered one of his severe headaches. The doctors have started another round of treatment for him.” Anden pauses, then gives me a grave stare. “There’s another reason we’re here. But you’ll see for yourself.”
The jeep comes to a halt. I climb out, then wait for Anden. A feeling of dread slowly creeps through me. What if Day’s illness has gotten worse? What if he isn’t going to pull through? Is that why he’s here? There’s no reason for Day to ever set foot inside this building again, not unless he was forced to, not after everything this hospital put him through.
Together, Anden and I head into the building with soldiers flanking us. We travel up to the fourth floor, where one of the soldiers swipes us inside, and then step into the Central Hospital’s lab floor. The tense feeling in my stomach only tightens as we go.
Finally, we stop in front of a smaller series of rooms that line the side of the main lab floor. As we go through one of these doors, I see Day. He’s standing outside a room with glass walls, smoking one of his blue cigarettes and looking on as someone inside gets inspected by lab technicians in full body suits. What makes me lose my breath, though, is that he’s leaning heavily on a pair of crutches. How long has he been here? He looks exhausted, pale, and distant. I wonder what new drugs the doctors are trying on him. The thought is a sudden, stabbing reminder of Day’s waning life, the few seconds he has left, slowly ticking by.