Prodigy (23 page)

Day turns away from me and mutters something under his breath that I can’t quite catch.
I cross my arms. “Do you remember when I trusted
you,
even though everything I’d ever known told me that you were an enemy? I gave you
the benefit of the doubt, and I sacrificed everything for what I believed. I can tell
you right now that assassinating Anden will solve nothing. He’s the one person the
Republic actually needs—someone inside the system with enough power to change things.
How could you live with yourself after killing a person like that? Anden is
good.
”

“
So what
if he is?” Day says coldly. He’s gripping the countertop so tightly that his knuckles
have turned white. “Good, bad—what does it matter? He’s the
Elector.
”

I narrow my eyes. “Do you
really
believe that?”

Day shakes his head and laughs mirthlessly. “The Patriots are trying to start a revolution.
That’s what this country needs—not a
new
Elector, but
no
Elector. The Republic is broken beyond repair. Let the Colonies take over.”

“You don’t even know what the Colonies are like.”

“I know they’ve got to be better than this hellhole,” Day snaps.

I can tell that he’s not angry at just me, but he’s starting to sound childish and
it rubs me the wrong way. “You know why I agreed to help the Patriots?” I put a hand
on his upper arm, feeling the faint outline of a scar under the fabric. Day tenses
up at my touch. “Because I wanted to help
you.
You think everything’s my fault, don’t you? It’s my fault that your brother’s being
experimented on. It’s my fault that you had to leave the Patriots. It’s my fault that
Tess refused to come.”

“No . . .”
Day trails off as he wrings his hands in frustration. “It’s not all your fault. And
Tess . . . Tess is definitely my fault.” There’s genuine pain on his face—at this
point, I can’t tell who it’s for. So much has happened. I feel a curious pang of resentment
that makes blood rush in my ears even as it shames me. It’s not fair for me to be
jealous. After all, Day has known Tess for years, much longer than he’s known me,
so why shouldn’t he feel attached to her? Besides, Tess is sweet, selfless, healing.
I am not. Of course I know why Tess had abandoned him. It
is
because of me.

I study his face. “What happened between you and Tess?”

Day stares at the wall across from us, lost in thought, and I have to tap his foot
with mine to snap him out of it. “Tess kissed me,” he mutters. “And she feels like
I betrayed her . . . for you.”

My cheeks redden. I close my eyes, forcing the image of them kissing out of my thoughts.
This is so stupid. Isn’t it?
Tess has known Day for years—she has every right to kiss him. And hadn’t the Elector
kissed me too? Hadn’t I liked it? Anden suddenly feels a million miles away, like
he doesn’t matter at all. The only thing I can see is Day and Tess together. It’s
like a punch to the stomach.
We’re in the middle of a war. Don’t be pathetic.
“Why would you tell me that?”

“Would you rather I kept it a secret?” He looks ashamed, and he purses his lips.

I don’t know why, but Day never seems to have a problem making me feel like a fool.
I try pretending that it doesn’t bother me. “Tess will forgive you.” My words, meant
to be comforting and mature, sound hollow and fake instead. I passed the lie detector
test without a hitch while I was under arrest—why’s it so hard for me to deal with
this
?

After a while, he says in a quieter voice, “What do you think of him? Honestly?”

“I think he’s real,” I say, impressed with how calm I sound. Glad to steer our conversation
in a different direction. “Ambitious and compassionate, even if it makes him a little
impractical. Definitely not the brutal dictator the Patriots said he’ll become. He’s
young, and he needs the Republic’s people on his side. And he’s going to need help
if he’s going to change things.”

“June, we barely got away from the Patriots. Are you trying to say we should help
Anden
more
than we already have—that we should keep risking our lives for this goddy rich stranger
you barely know?” The venom in his eyes as he spits out the word
rich
startles me, making me feel like he’s insulting me too.

“What does class have to do with this?” Now I’m irritated too. “Are you really saying
you’d be glad to see him dead?”

“Yes. I
would
be glad to see Anden dead,” Day says through gritted teeth. “And I’d be glad to see
every single person in his government dead too, if it meant I could have my family
back.”

“That’s not like you. Anden’s death
won’t
fix things,” I insist.
How can I make him see?
“You can’t lump everyone into the same category, Day. Not everyone working for the
Republic is evil. What about me? Or my brother and parents? There
are
good people in the government—and they’re the ones who can spearhead permanent changes
for the Republic.”

“How can you possibly defend the government after everything they’ve done to you?
How could you not want to see the Republic collapse?”

“Well, I
don’t,
” I say angrily. “I want to see it
change
for the better. The Republic had its reasons in the beginning for controlling the
people—”

“Whoa. Wait a minute.” Day holds up his hands. His eyes are now alight with a rage
I’ve never seen. “Say that to me again. I dare you. The Republic had its
reasons
in the beginning? The Republic’s actions are
reasonable
?”

“You don’t know the whole story about how the Republic was formed. Anden told me how
the country started from anarchy, and that the people were the ones who—”

“So now you believe everything he says? Are you trying to tell me that it’s the
people’s
fault that the Republic’s the way it is?” Day’s voice rises. “That we brought all
this goddy crap on ourselves?
That’s
the justification for why his government tortures the poor?”

“No, I’m not trying to justify that—” Somehow, the history sounds much less viable
than it did when Anden was telling it.

“And now you think Anden can
fix
us with his half-wit ideas? This rich boy’s going to save us all?”

“Stop calling him that! It’s his
ideas
that might do it, not his
money.
Money doesn’t mean anything when—”

Day points a finger right at me. “Don’t ever say that to my face again. Money means
everything.
”

My cheeks flush. “No, it doesn’t.”

“Because you’ve never been without it.”

I wince. I want so desperately to respond, to explain that that’s not what I meant.
Money doesn’t define me, or Anden, or any of us.
Why couldn’t I have said
that
? Why is Day the only person I have trouble making a coherent argument to? “Day, please—”
I begin.

He jumps off the counter. “You know, maybe Tess was right about you.”

“Excuse me?” I snap back. “What is Tess right about?”

“You might have changed a little over the last few weeks, but deep down, you’re still
a Republic soldier. Through and through. You’re still loyal to those murderers. Have
you forgotten how my mother and brother died? Have you forgotten who killed your family
off?”

My own anger flares.
Are you purposely refusing to see things from my point of view?
I hop off the counter to face him. “I never forget anything. I’m here for
your
sake, I gave up
everything
for you. How
dare
you bring my family into this?”

“
You
brought
my
family into this!” he yells. “Into
all
of this! You and your beloved Republic!” Day spreads his arms out. “How dare
you
defend them, how dare
you
try to reason with yourself over why they are the way they are? It’s so easy for
you to say that, isn’t it, when you’ve lived your entire life in one of their high-rise
palaces? I bet you wouldn’t be so quick to logic it all out if you’d spent your life
digging up trash to eat in the slums.
Would you?
”

I’m so furious and hurt that I’m having trouble catching my breath. “That’s not fair,
Day. I didn’t
choose
to be born into this. I never wanted to hurt your family—”

“Well, you did.” I feel myself tremble and fall apart under his glare. “
You
led the soldiers right to my family’s door.
You’re
the reason they’re dead.” Day turns his back on me and storms out of the kitchen.
I stand there alone in the sudden silence, for once at a loss over what to do. The
lump in my throat threatens to choke me. My vision swims with tears.

Day thinks I’m being blindly faithful to the Elector instead of being logical. That
I can’t possibly be on his side and still loyal to the state.
Well,
am
I still loyal?
Hadn’t I answered that question correctly in the lie detector chamber? Am I jealous
of Tess? Jealous because she is a better person than I am?

And then, the thought so painful I can hardly bear it, no matter how angry his words
made me: He’s right. I can’t deny it. I
am
the reason Day lost everything that matters to him.

I SHOULDN’T HAVE YELLED AT HER. KINDA TERRIBLE thing to do, and I know it.

But instead of apologizing, I go back around the shelter and check the rooms again.
My hands are still unsteady; my mind is still fighting down the rush of adrenaline.
I’d said it—the words that have been stewing in my head for weeks. They’re out now,
and there’s no going back. Well, so what? I’m glad she knows. She
should
know. And to say that money means nothing—that phrase just flowed from her mouth,
natural as water. Memories fill my head of all the times we needed more, of everything
that could’ve been better with
more.
There was one afternoon, during a particularly bad week, when I came home early from
grade school to find four-year-old Eden rummaging in the fridge. He jumped when he
saw me step inside the house. In his hands was an empty can of beef hash. It’d been
half full that morning, precious leftovers from the night before that Mom had carefully
wrapped in foil and stored away for the next night’s supper. When Eden saw me staring
at the empty can in his hand, he dropped it on the kitchen floor and burst into tears.
“Please don’t tell Mom,” he begged.

I ran over to him and took him in my arms. He gripped my shirt with baby hands, burying
his face against me. “I won’t,” I whispered to him. “I promise.” I can still remember
how thin his arms were. Later that night, when Mom and John finally came home, I told
Mom that I’d caved in and eaten the leftover food. She slapped me hard, told me I
was old enough to know better. John gave me a disappointed speech. But who cares?
I didn’t mind.

I slam a door in the corridor in anger. Has June ever had to worry about stealing
half a can of beef hash? If she’d been poor, would she be so quick to forgive the
Republic?

The gun that the Patriots gave me sits heavily against my belt. The Elector’s assassination
would have given the Patriots the opportunity to take down the Republic. We would
have been the spark that lit a powder keg—but because of us—because of June—it fizzled
out. And for
what
? To watch this Elector go on to become just like his father? I want to laugh at the
idea that he’d free Eden. What a Republic lie. And now I’m no closer to saving him,
and I’ve lost Tess, and I’m right back to square one. On the run.

That’s the story of my life, yeah?

When I go back to the kitchen half an hour later, June’s not there anymore. Probably
off in one of the hallways, making mental notes to herself about every goddy crack
in the wall.

I throw open the kitchen’s drawers, empty out one of the burlap sacks, and start sorting
stacks of each type of food into it. Rice. Corn. Potato and mushroom soups. Three
boxes of crackers. (How nice—everything’s going to hell, but at least I can fill my
stomach.) I grab several bottles of water for each of us and then close up the sack.
Good enough for now. Soon we’ll have to be on our way again, and who knows how long
the rest of this tunnel is or when we’ll hit another shelter. We have to move forward
into the Colonies. Maybe they’ll be willing to help us when we get to the other side.
Then again, we might have to keep a low profile. We
did
ruin the assassination that the Colonies were sponsoring. I sigh deeply, wishing
I had more time to chat with Kaede, to coax out all her stories about living on the
other side of the warfront.

How did our plans turn into such a mess?

There’s a faint knock on the kitchen’s open door. I turn around to see June standing
there with her arms crossed. She’s unbuttoned her Republic coat, and the collar shirt
and vest underneath look rumpled. Her cheeks are more flushed than usual, and her
eyes are red, like she’s been crying. “The electric circuits in here aren’t feeding
into the Republic,” she says. If she
had
shed any tears, I sure as hell don’t hear them in her voice. “Their cables run down
through the other end of the tunnel, the part we haven’t covered yet.”

I go back to stacking cans. “So?” I mutter.

“That means they must be getting their power from the Colonies, right?”

“Guess so. Makes sense, yeah?” I straighten my back and pull the two burlap sacks
I’ve prepared tightly shut. “Well, at least it means the tunnel will lead out to the
surface somewhere, hopefully in the Colonies. When we’re ready to go we can just follow
the cables. We should probably get some rest first.”

I
’m just about to walk out of the kitchen and past June when she clears her throat
and speaks up. “Hey—did the Patriots teach you anything about fighting while you were
with them?”

I shake my head. “No. Why?”

June turns to face me. The kitchen entrance is narrow enough that her shoulders brush
past mine, raising goose bumps on my arms. I’m annoyed that she still has this effect
on me, in spite of everything. “While we were getting into the tunnel I noticed that
you were swinging at the Patriots from your arms . . . but that’s not very effective.
You should be swinging from your legs and hips.”

Her critique grates on my nerves, even though she’s giving it in a strangely hesitant
tone. “I don’t want to do this right now.”

“When are we going to do it if not now?” June leans against the door frame and points
toward the shelter’s entrance. “What if we bump into some soldiers?”

I sigh and put my hands up for a second. “If this is your way of apologizing after
a fight, then you really
suck
at it. Listen. I’m sorry I got angry earlier.” I hesitate, remembering my words.
I’m
not
sorry. But telling her that now won’t help anything. “Just give me a few minutes,
and I’ll feel better.”

“Come on, Day. What’ll happen when you find Eden and you need to protect him?” She
is
trying to apologize, in her own subtle way.
Well. At least she’s giving it a shot, however crappy she is at it.
I glare at her for a few seconds.

“All right,” I finally say. “Show me some moves, soldier. What you got up your sleeves?”

June gives me a small smile, then walks me over to the center of the shelter’s main
room. She stands beside me. “Ever read Ducain’s
The Art of the Fight
?”

“Does it look like I’ve had free time in my life to read?”

She ignores me, and I immediately feel bad for saying it. “Well, you’re already light
on your feet and you have flawless balance,” she continues. “But you don’t use those
strengths when you attack. It’s like you panic. You forget all about your speed advantage
and your center of mass.”

“My center of what?” I start to say, but she just taps the outside of my leg with
her boot.

“Stay on the balls of your feet and keep your legs shoulder width apart,” she goes
on. “Pretend you’re standing on train tracks with one foot forward.”

I’m a little surprised. June’s been watching my attacks closely, even though it usually
happens when all sorts of chaos is going on around us. And she’s right. I hadn’t even
realized that all my instincts of balance go right out the window when I try to fight.
I do as she says. “Okay. Now what?”

“Well, keep your chin down, for one.” She touches my hands, then lifts them up so
one fist stays close to the side of my cheek and the other hovers out in front of
my face. Her hands run along my arms, checking my posture. My skin tingles. “Most
people lean back and keep their chins high and jutted,” she says, her face close beside
mine. She taps my chin once. “That’s what you do too. And it’s just asking for a knockout.”

I try to focus on my own posture by putting two fists up. “How do you punch?”

June gently touches the tip of my chin, then the edge of my brow. “Remember, it’s
all about how
accurately
you can hit someone, not how
hard.
You’ll be able to knock out someone much larger if you catch them in the right spots.”

Before I know it, half an hour’s gone by. June teaches me one tactic after another—keeping
my shoulder up to protect my chin, catching my opponent off guard with fake moves,
overhand hits, underhand hits, leaning back and following through with kicks, leaping
out of the way with speed. Aiming for the vulnerable spots—eyes, neck, and so on.
I lunge out with everything I’ve got. When I try to catch her by surprise, she slips
from my grasp like water between rocks, fluid and constantly moving, and if I blink,
she’s behind me and twisting my arm up behind my back.

Finally, June trips me and pins me to the floor. Her hands push my wrists down. “See?”
she says. “Tricked you. You’re always staring at your opponent’s eyes—but that gives
you a bad peripheral view. If you want to track my arms and legs, you have to focus
on my chest.”

I raise my eyebrow at that. “Say no more.” My eyes shift downward.

June laughs, then turns a little red. We pause there for an instant, her hands still
holding my arms down, her legs across my stomach, both of us breathing heavily. Now
I understand why she suggested the impromptu sparring—I’m tired, and the exercise
has drained my anger. Even though she doesn’t say it, I can see her apology plainly
on her face, the tragic slant of her eyebrows and the slight quiver of unspoken words
on her lips. The sight finally softens me, albeit only a little. I’m still not sorry
about what I’d said to her earlier, true, but I’m also not being fair. Whatever I
lost, June has lost equally. She used to be rich, then she threw it away to save my
life. She’d played her part in my family’s deaths, but . . . I run a hand through
my hair, feeling guilty now. I can’t blame her for everything. And I can’t be alone
at a time like this, with no allies,
no
one I can turn to.

She sways.

I prop myself up on my elbows. “You okay?”

She shakes her head, frowns, and tries to shrug it off. “Fine. I think I picked up
a bug or something. Nothing big.”

I study her under the artificial light. Now that I’m paying closer attention to the
color of her face, I can see that she’s paler than usual, and that her cheeks look
flushed because her skin is so wan. I sit up higher, forcing her to slide off. Then
I press a hand to her forehead. Immediately I pull it away. “Man, you’re burning up.”

June starts to protest, but as if our training session has weakened her, she sways
again and steadies herself with one arm. “I’ll be fine,” she mumbles. “We should be
heading out, anyway.”

And here I’ve been angry with her, forgetting all she’s been through. Trot of the
year. I ease one of my arms around her back and wrap the other under her knees, then
scoop her up. She slumps against my chest, the heat of her brow startling against
my cool skin. “You need to rest.”

I carry her into one of the bunker rooms, pull off her boots, lay her down carefully
on a bed, and cover her with the blankets. She blinks at me. “I didn’t mean what I
said earlier.” Her eyes are dazed, but the emotion’s still there. “About money. And . . .
I didn’t—”

“Stop talking.” I smooth stray hairs from her forehead. What if she caught something
serious while under arrest? A plague virus? . . . But she’s upper class. She should
have vaccines.
I hope.
“I’m going to find you some medicine, okay? Just close your eyes.” June shakes her
head, frustrated, but she doesn’t try to argue.

After upending the entire shelter, I finally manage to hunt down an unopened bottle
of aspirin and return to June’s bedside with it. She takes a couple of pills. When
she starts shivering, I grab two more blankets from the other beds in the room and
cover her with them, but it doesn’t seem to help. “It’s okay. I’ll manage,” she whispers
right as I’m about to go hunting for more blankets. “Won’t really matter how high
you stack them—I just need my fever to break.” She hesitates, then reaches for my
hand. “Can you stay here?”

The weakness of her voice worries me more than anything. I climb into the bed, lie
beside her on top of the blankets, and pull her to me. June smiles a little, then
closes her eyes. The feel of her body’s curves against mine sends warmth coursing
through me. I’ve never thought of describing her beauty as delicate, because
delicate
just isn’t a word that fits June . . . but here, now that she’s sick, I realize just
how fragile she can be. Pink cheeks. Small, soft lips against large, closed eyes fringed
with the curve of dark lashes. I don’t like seeing her this delicate. The heat of
our argument lingers in the back of my mind, but for now I need to forget about it.
Fighting will only slow us down. We’ll deal with the problems between us later.

Slowly, we both doze off.

*   *   *

Something jerks me out of my sleep. A beeping sound. I listen to it for a while, trying
to pinpoint its location through my grogginess, and then crawl out of bed without
waking June. Before leaving the room, I lean over to touch her forehead again. Still
no better. Sweat beads on her brow, so her fever must’ve broken at least once, but
she’s as warm as ever.

When I follow the beeping sound out into the kitchen, I see a tiny beacon blinking
above the door that we’d come into the shelter from. Words flash below it in bright,
menacing red.