Prodigy (21 page)

P
IERRA’S
O
LAN
C
OURT
H
ALL.

S
OMETIME AROUND 0900
H
OURS.

29°
F
OUTSIDE.

T
HE DAY HAS FINALLY ARRIVED FOR
A
NDEN’S ASSASSINATION,
and I have three hours before the Patriots make their move.

The night before, I had another visit from the same guard who had once given me a
message from the Patriots. “Good work,” she whispered in my ear as I lay in bed, wide
awake. “Tomorrow you’ll be pardoned by the Elector and his Senators, and they’ll release
you at Pierra’s Olan Court Hall. Now, listen closely. When you’re all finished at
the court hall, the Elector’s jeeps will escort all of you back to Pierra’s main military
quarters. The Patriots will be waiting along that route.”

The soldier paused to see if I had any questions. But I just stared straight ahead.
I could guess what the Patriots wanted me to do, anyway—they’ll want me to separate
Anden from his guards. Then the Patriots will drag him out of his jeep and shoot him.
They’ll record it, then announce it to the whole Republic using the rewired speakers
and JumboTrons on Denver’s Capitol Tower.

When I didn’t say anything, the soldier cleared her throat and went on in a hurried
voice, “Watch for an explosion on the road. When you hear it go off, have Anden order
his convoy to take a different route. Make sure you separate the Elector from his
guards—tell him to trust you. If you’ve done your job, he’ll follow your lead.” The
soldier smiled briefly at me. “Once Anden is separated from the other jeeps, leave
the rest to us.”

I spent the rest of that night in a fitful state.

Now, as I’m escorted into the main court hall building, I check the rooftops and alleys
of the other buildings along the street, watching for Patriot eyes, wondering if one
pair of them will be bright blue. Day will be amongst the Patriots out here today.
Inside my black gloves, my hands are cold with sweat. Even if he saw my signal, will
he understand what I meant by it? Will he know to drop what he’s doing and make a
run for it? As I head toward the courtroom’s grand arched entrance, I memorize street
names and locations out of habit—where the main military base is, where Pierra’s hospital
rises in the distance. I feel like I can sense the Patriots getting into position.
There’s a stillness in the air, even though the buildings here are tightly packed
and the streets are narrow; both soldiers and civilians (most of them poor and assigned
to tend to the troops) bustle noisily along the roads. Some of the uniformed soldiers
on the street look at us a little too long. I note them carefully. There must be Patriots
watching us. Even inside the hall, it’s cold enough for my breath to cloud, and I
tremble nonstop. (The ceiling’s at least twenty feet high, and the floors are polished
synthetic—judging from the sound of boots against it—wood. Not very conducive to retaining
heat in winter.)

“How long is this going to take?” I ask one of the guards as they escort me to my
seat at the front of the courtroom. My boots (warm, waterproof leather) echo harshly
against the floors. I shiver in spite of the double-breasted coat I have on.

The guard I spoke to gives me an uncomfortable nod. “Not long, Ms. Iparis,” she replies
with practiced politeness. “The Elector and Senators are in final deliberations. Probably
going to take at least another half hour.” It’s interesting, really. Because the Elector
himself will be pardoning me today, the guards aren’t sure exactly how to behave.
Guard me like a criminal? Or kiss up like I’m a high-ranking Agent in one of the capital’s
patrols?

The waiting drags on. I feel slightly dizzy. I’d been given some medicine after finally
mentioning my symptoms to Anden earlier in the day, but it hasn’t helped. My head
still feels warm, and I’m having trouble keeping count of the time in my head.

Finally, when I’ve counted off twenty-six minutes (possibly off by three or four seconds),
Anden emerges from the doors at the far end of the room with a team of officials behind
him. It’s clear that not everyone is happy; some Senators hang back, their mouths
pulled into tight lines. I recognize Senator Kamion amongst them, the man Anden had
been arguing with on the train here. His graying hair looks disheveled today. Another
Senator I remember from occasional headlines, Senator O’Connor, a blubbery woman with
limp red hair and a mouth not unlike a frog’s. I don’t know the others. Aside from
the Senators, two young journalists flank Anden’s sides. One has his head down, taking
dictation furiously on a notepad, while the second struggles to keep his voice recorder
close enough to Anden.

I rise when they reach me. The Senators who were bickering amongst themselves fall
silent. Anden nods at my guards. “June Iparis, Congress has pardoned you of all crimes
against the Republic on the condition that you will continue to serve your nation
to the best of your capabilities. Do we have an understanding, Ms. Iparis?”

I nod. Even this slight movement makes me light-headed. “Yes, Elector.” The scribe
beside Anden frantically jots our words down. His notepad’s screen flickers under
his flying fingers.

Anden takes in my listlessness. He can tell that my condition hasn’t improved. “You
will enter a period of probation as advised to me by my Senators, during which time
you’ll be
closely
surveyed until we can all agree that you’re ready to return to duty. You’ll be assigned
to the capital’s patrols. We’ll discuss which patrol you’ll be joining once we’re
all settled at Pierra’s base this afternoon.” He raises his eyebrows and turns to
his right and left. “Senators? Any comments?”

They remain silent. One of them finally speaks through a thinly veiled sneer. “Understand
that you are not yet in the clear, Agent Iparis. You will be watched at all times.
You should consider our decision an act of enormous mercy.”

“Thank you, Elector,” I reply, tapping my head in a brief salute as any soldier would.
“Thank you, Senators.”

“Thank
you
for all of your help,” Anden says with a subtle bow. I keep my head lowered so I
don’t have to meet his eyes, to see the double layer of meaning in his words—he’s
thanking me for the help I supposedly gave in protecting him, and the help he wants
from both Day and me.

Somewhere outside, Day is in position with the others. The thought makes me nauseous
with anxiety.

The soldiers begin escorting our party back to the front of the conference hall and
toward our respective rides. I take each step deliberately, trying hard to maintain
my focus. Now is not the moment to fail because of illness. I keep my eyes on the
hall’s entrance. Since our last train ride, this is the one idea I’ve settled on that
just might work. Something to throw off all the Patriots’ timing—something I can do
to prevent us from heading back toward Pierra’s main military hall.

I hope this works. I don’t think I can afford any mistakes.

With ten feet to the doors, I stumble. Instantly, I right myself again and continue
walking, but then stumble again. Murmurs from the Senators rise up behind me. One
of them snaps, “What is it?”

Then Anden is there, his face hovering above me. Two of his guards jump in front of
him. “Elector, sir,” one says. “Please stay back. We’ll take care of this.”

“What happened?” Anden asks, first to the soldiers, then to me. “Are you injured?”

It’s not too hard to pretend I’m about to faint. The world around me fades, then sharpens
again. My head hurts. I raise my head and make eye contact with Anden. Then I let
myself collapse to the ground.

Startled exclamations buzz around me. Then my ears perk up when I hear Anden above
them all, saying exactly what I’d hoped he would say: “Take her to the hospital. Immediately.
” He remembers my last piece of advice to him, what I’d said to him on the train.

“But, Elector—” protests the same guard who had barred him earlier.

Anden takes on a steely tone. “Are you questioning me, soldier?”

Strong hands help me back to my feet. We go through the doors and back out into the
light of an overcast morning. I squint at the surroundings, still searching for suspicious
faces. Are the guards holding me up potentially Patriots in disguise? I cast glances
at them, but their expressions are completely blank. Adrenaline is rushing through
me—I’ve made my move. The Patriots know I’ve deviated from the plan, but they don’t
know if I did it intentionally. The important thing is that the hospital is on a route
opposite the one leading to the Pierra base, where the Patriots are ready and waiting.
Anden’s going to follow me. The Patriots won’t have time to readjust their positions.

And if the other Patriots hear about this, so should Day. I close my eyes and hope
that he can follow through. I try sending a silent message to him.
Run away. When you hear that I’ve deviated from the plan, run away as fast as you
can.

A guard hoists me up into the backseat of one of the waiting jeeps. Anden and his
soldiers get into the jeep in front of us. The Senators, bewildered and indignant,
go to their regular cars. I have to force a smile off my face as I sit limply in my
seat, peering out the windows. The jeep roars to life and pulls forward. Through the
windshield, I see Anden’s jeep leading us away from the conference hall.

Then, just as I’m congratulating myself for such a stellar plan, I realize that our
jeeps are still headed for the base. They’re not going toward the hospital at all.
My momentary joy vanishes. Fear replaces it.

One of my guards notices too. “Hey, chauffeur,” he snaps at the soldier who’s driving.
“Wrong way. Hospital’s on the left side of town.” He sighs. “Somebody get the Elector’s
driver on his mike. We’re—”

The driver waves him off, presses one thick, gnarly hand against his ear in concentration,
then glances back at us with a frown. “Negative. We just got orders to stay on our
original course,” he replies. “Commander DeSoto says the Elector wants Ms. Iparis
taken to the hospital afterward, instead.”

I freeze. Razor must be lying to Anden’s driver—I seriously doubt that Anden would
have let him give the drivers such an order. Razor’s going ahead with the plan; he’s
going to force us to take the intended route in any way that he can.

It doesn’t matter what the reason is. We’re still heading straight toward the Pierra
base . . . straight into the Patriots’ waiting arms.

THE DAY OF THE ELECTOR’S ASSASSINATION IS finally here. It arrives like a looming
hurricane of change, promising everything I’m anticipating and dreading. Anticipating:
the Elector’s death. Dreading: June’s signal.

Or maybe it’s the other way around.

I still don’t know what to make of it. It leaves me on edge when I would otherwise
feel nothing but a rising sense of enthusiasm. I tap restlessly on the hilt of my
knife.
Be careful, June.
That’s the only certain thought running through my head.
Be careful—for your sake, and for ours.

I’m perched precariously at the edge of a crumbling windowsill in an old shell of
a building, four stories up and hidden from the street, with two grenades and a gun
tucked securely at my belt. Like the rest of the Patriots, I’m dressed in a black
Republic coat, so from a distance I look like a Republic soldier. A black stripe runs
across my eyes again. The only thing distinguishing us is a white band on our left
(instead of right) arms. From here, I can see the railroad tracks that run right along
a neighboring street, slicing Pierra in half. Off to my right, in a small alley three
buildings down, lies the entrance to the Patriots’ Pierra tunnel. Its underground
bunker is empty now. I’m alone in this abandoned building, although I’m pretty sure
Pascao can see me from his vantage point on a roof across the street. The thud of
my heart against my ribs can probably be heard for miles.

I start thinking, for the hundredth time, about why June wants to stop the assassination.
Did she uncover something the Patriots are keeping a secret from me? Or did she do
what Tess had guessed she might do—did she betray us? I shake the thought stubbornly
away.

June would never do that. Not after what the Republic did to her brother.

Maybe June wants to stop the assassination because she’s falling for the Elector.
I shut my eyes as the image of them kissing flares up in my mind. No way.
Would the June I know be that sentimental?

All the Patriots are in position—Runners on the roofs, poised with explosives; Hackers
one building away from the tunnel entrance, ready to record and broadcast the Elector’s
assassination; fighters positioned along the street below us in soldier or civilian
garb, prepared to take the Elector’s guards down. Tess and a couple of Medics are
scattered, ready to bring the injured into the tunnel. Tess specifically is hiding
in the narrow street bordering the left side of my building. After the assassination,
we’ll need to be ready to escape, and she’ll be the first one I’ll get.

And then there’s me. According to the plan, June’s supposed to steer the Elector away
from the protection of his guards. When we see his jeep speed by alone, the Runners
will cut off his escape routes with explosions. Then I head down to the street. After
the Patriots have dragged Anden out of his car, I’m going to shoot him.

It’s the middle of the afternoon, but clouds keep the world around me a cold, ominous
gray. I check my watch. It’s set on a timer for when the Elector’s jeeps are expected
to come whizzing around the corner.

Fifteen minutes until showtime.

I’m shaking. Is the Elector really going to be dead in fifteen minutes—by my hand?
Is this plan really going to work? After it’s all over, when are the Patriots going
to help me find and rescue Eden? When I’d told Razor about seeing that boy on board
the train, he’d given me a sympathetic response and said that he’s already started
working to track Eden down. All I can do is believe him. I try to picture the Republic
thrown into complete chaos, with the Elector’s assassination publicly broadcast on
every JumboTron in the nation. If the people are already rioting, I can only imagine
how they’ll react when they see me shoot the Elector. What then? Will the Colonies
take advantage of the situation and surge right into the Republic, breaking past the
warfront that’s held the two sides apart for so long?

A new government. A new order. I shiver with pent-up energy.

Of course, this doesn’t factor in June’s signal. I try to flex my fingers—my hands
are clammy with cold sweat. Hell if I know what’s
really
going to happen today.

Static buzzes in my earpiece, and I pick up a few broken words from Pascao. “—Orange
and Echo streets—clear—” His voice sharpens. “Day?”

“I’m here.”

“Fifteen minutes,” he says. “Quick review. Jordan’s setting off the first explosion.
When the Elector’s jeep caravan reaches her street, she’ll toss her grenade. June
will separate the Elector’s car from the others. I toss my grenade, then they’ll turn
right down your street.
You
toss yours down when you see the caravan. Corner that jeep in—and then head down
to the ground. Got it?”

“Yeah. Got it,” I reply. “Just hurry the hell up and get into your own position.”

Waiting here gives me a sick feeling in my stomach, taking me back to that evening
when I’d waited for the plague patrols to show up at my mother’s door. Even that night
seems better than today. My family was alive back then, and Tess and I were still
on good terms. I practice taking several deep breaths and slowly letting them back
out. In less than fifteen minutes, I’m going to see the Elector’s caravan—and June—come
down this street. My fingers run along the edges of the grenades at my belt.

One minute passes, then another.

Three minutes. Four minutes. Five minutes. Each one drags by slower than the last.
My breaths quicken. What will June do? Is she right? What if she’s
wrong
? I think I’m ready to kill the Elector—I’ve been talking myself into this over the
last few days, even getting excited over it. Am I ready to save his life, someone
I can’t think about without feeling enraged? Am I ready to have his blood on my hands?
What does June know that I don’t? What does she know that makes him
so worth saving
?

Eight minutes.

Then, suddenly, Pascao comes back on. “Stand by. We’ve got a delay.”

I tense up. “Why?”

There’s a long pause. “Something’s wrong with June,” Pascao says in a hushed whisper.
“She fainted while leaving the courthouse. But don’t freak out—Razor says she’s fine.
We’re resetting the clocks for a two-minute delay. Got it?”

I rise a little from my crouch.
She’s making her move.
I know this instantly. Something tingles at the back of my mind, a sixth sense, warning
me that whatever I’d planned to do to the Elector will shift depending on what June
does next. “Why did she collapse?” I ask.

“Don’t know. Scouts say it looks like she got dizzy or something.”

“So she’s back on track now?”

“Sounds like we’re still moving forward.”

Still moving forward? Was June’s plan foiled? I get up, pace for a few steps, and
then return to my crouch. Something’s not right about this scenario. If we’re going
ahead with the plan, will I still see her come by in the same jeep as expected—and
against her will? Are the Patriots going to know she tried to deviate? The bad feeling
refuses to go away, no matter how hard I try to ignore it. Something’s
really
off.

Two agonizing minutes pass. In my anxiety, I’ve chipped away a large chunk of paint
from the hilt of my knife. My thumb’s covered in black flakes.

Several streets away, the first grenade explodes. The ground trembles, the building
shudders, and a cloud of dust rains down from the ceiling. The Elector’s jeeps must’ve
made an appearance.

I leave my vantage point at the windowsill, then head into the stairwell up to the
roof. I keep low, careful to stay out of sight. From here, I get a better view of
where smoke from the first explosion is rising, and I can hear the startled shouts
of soldiers near it. They’re about three blocks away. I flatten myself onto the broken
tiles of the roof as several guards come dashing down the street. They’re yelling
something incomprehensible—I’m willing to bet they’re bringing reinforcements over
to the bombing area. Too late. By the time they get there, the Elector’s jeep will
have turned the corner that we wanted it to turn.

I take out one of my grenades and hold it gingerly in my hand, reminding myself how
it works, reminding myself that if I throw it on time, I’ll be going against June’s
warning.
“It’s an impact grenade,”
Pascao had said.
“Blows the second it hits. Depress the strike lever. Pull the pin. Throw, and brace
yourself.”
Off in the distance, another explosion rocks the streets and an accompanying cloud
rises. Baxter was in charge of that one—now he’s somewhere on ground level over there,
hiding in an alley.

Two blocks away. The Elector is getting closer.

A third explosion goes off. This one’s much closer—the jeep must only be a block away.
I steady myself as the ground shakes from the impact. My turn’s coming up.
June,
I think.
Where are you?
If she makes a sudden move, what will
I
do? Over my earpiece, Pascao sounds urgent. “Steady,” he says.

And then I see something that makes me forget everything I’ve promised to do for the
Patriots. The door on the second jeep flies open, and out rolls a girl with a long
dark ponytail. She tumbles a few times, then struggles to her feet. She looks up to
the rooftops and waves her hands frantically in the air.

It’s June. She’s here. And there’s no doubt now that she does not want me to separate
the Elector from his guards.

Pascao’s voice comes on again. “Stay the course,” he hisses. “Ignore June—stay the
course, do you hear me?”

I don’t know what comes over me—an electric shudder runs down my spine.
No—June, you can’t stop now,
a part of me says.
I
want
the Elector dead. I want to get Eden back.

But then there’s June, waving her arms in the middle of a street full of danger, risking
her life to raise the alarm for me. Whatever her reason, it must be good. It
must
be. What do I do?
Trust her,
something deep inside of me says. I squeeze my eyes shut and bow my head.

Each second that ticks by now is a bridge between life and death.

Trust her.

Suddenly I jump up and run across the roof. Pascao shouts something angry at me over
the earpiece. I ignore him. As the vehicles pass next to the building I’m on, I pull
the pin from my grenade and throw it as far as I can down the block. Right in front
of where the Patriots want them to go.

“Day!” Pascao’s frantic voice. “No—what are you—!”

The grenade hits the street. I cover my ears and am instantly thrown off my feet as
a blast shakes the earth. The jeeps screech to a halt right in front of the explosion—the
Elector’s jeep tries to swerve around the rubble, but one of its tires bursts and
forces it to a stop. I’ve completely blocked off the street they were supposed to
go down, where the Patriots are waiting for the Elector. And the rest of the Elector’s
jeeps are still there, the entire caravan of them.

Now June’s sprinting toward the Elector’s vehicle. If she’s trying to save him, then
I have no time to waste. I hop back to my feet, swing over the side of the roof, and
grab on to the gutter at the edge of the building. Then I slide down. The gutter pipe
pops off the building, throwing me off balance, but I fling myself off it and grab
the edge of a nearby windowsill. My feet land on the second floor’s ledge. I hop down
to the first floor and roll.

The street’s absolute chaos. Through the shouts and smoke, I can see Republic soldiers
running toward the jeeps while the soldiers in the other jeeps rush out to get to
the Elector. Some of the Patriots in disguise are hesitating, confused over my mistimed
blast. It’s too late to separate the Elector’s jeep from the others now—there are
simply too many soldiers. Swarms of them are coming down the street. I feel numb,
in some ways as bewildered as they are, still unsure of why I’m going against everything
I planned to do.

“Tess!” I shout. She’s right where she’s supposed to be, frozen against the shadows
of my building. I reach her and grab her shoulders.

“What’s going on?” she shouts back, but I just whirl her around.

“Tunnel entrance, okay? Don’t ask!” I point her in the direction of the Patriots’
bunker. Where we were supposed to hide after the assassination. Tess’s mouth is open
in naked fear, but she does what I say, darting into the security of the building’s
shadows and disappearing from view.

Another explosion rocks the street behind me. The grenade must have come from one
of the other Runners. Even though they won’t get the Elector to their planned location,
they’re trying to block in the jeeps to make an attempt. Patriots must be running
around everywhere. They’re literally going to kill me for what I did. Me and Tess
have to reach the tunnel before they find us.

I run up to June right as she reaches the Elector’s jeep. There’s a man inside with
dark, wavy hair, and she’s shouting at him as she presses her hands against his window.
Another explosion goes off somewhere, forcing June to her knees. I throw myself over
her as debris and rubble rain down on us from every direction. A block of cement hits
my shoulder, making me shudder in pain. The Patriots are definitely trying to make
up for lost time, but the delay has already cost them dearly. If they get desperate,
I know they’ll just forget about broadcasting an actual kill and blow up the Elector’s
jeep instead. Republic soldiers are pouring into the street. I’m sure they’ve seen
me by now too. I hope Tess is safe in the hideout.