Prodigy

Page 13

They pull me to my feet and lead me back down the hall. By the time we’re in the sunlight, more than a few passing soldiers stop to watch. Thomas’s men shove me unceremoniously into a waiting patrol jeep’s backseat, chain my hands to the door, and lock my arms down in metal shackles. Thomas sits next to me and points his gun at my head. Ridiculous. The jeep ushers us back through the streets. The other two soldiers sitting in the jeep’s front watch me in the rearview mirror. They act like I’m some sort of untamed weapon—and in a way, I guess that’s true. The irony of it all makes me want to laugh. Day is a Republic soldier on board the RS Dynasty, and I am the Republic’s most valuable captive. We’ve switched places.
Thomas tries to ignore me as we travel, but my eyes never leave him. He seems tired, with pale lips and dark circles rimming his eyes. Stubble dots his chin, a surprise in itself—Thomas would normally never show his face without being perfectly clean shaven. Commander Jameson must’ve run him ragged for letting me escape from Batalla Hall. They probably interrogated him for it.
The minutes drag on. None of the soldiers talk. The one who drives us keeps his eyes firmly on the road, and all we can hear is the drone of the jeep’s engine and the muffled sounds from the streets outside. I swear the others must be able to hear the hammering of my heart too. From here I can see the jeep driving ahead of us, and through its back window I see occasional flashes of white fur that make me feel incredibly happy. Ollie. I wish he were in the same jeep as me.
Finally, I turn to Thomas. “Thank you for not hurting Ollie.”
I don’t expect him to answer. Captains don’t speak to criminals, he’d say. But to my surprise, he meets my gaze. For me, it seems, he’s still willing to break protocol. “Your dog turned out to be useful.”
He’s Metias’s dog. My anger starts rising again, but I push it back down. Useless to rage over something that won’t help my plans. It’s interesting that he kept Ollie alive at all—he could have tracked me down without him. Ollie’s not a police dog and has no training in sniffing down targets. He couldn’t have helped when they were trying to track me across half the country; he’s only useful in very close range. Which means that Thomas kept him alive for other reasons. Because he cares for me? Or . . . maybe he still cares for Metias. The thought startles me. Thomas’s stare flickers away when I don’t reply. Then there’s another long silence. “Where are you taking me?”
“You’ll be held in the High Desert Penitentiary until after your interrogation, and then the courts will decide where you’ll go.”
Time to put Razor’s plans to work. “After my interrogation, I can guarantee that the courts are going to send me to Denver.”
One of the guards sitting up front narrows his eyes at me, but Thomas holds up a hand. “Let her talk,” he says. “All that matters is that we deliver her unharmed.” Then he glances at me. He seems gaunter than the last time I saw him too—even his hair, combed neatly in a side part, is dull and limp. “And why is that?”
“I have information the Elector may be highly interested in.”
Thomas’s mouth twitches—he’s hungry to question me now, to uncover whatever secrets I might hold. But that’s outside of protocol, and he’s already broken enough rules by conversing idly with me. He seems to decide against pressing me further. “We’ll see what we can get out of you.”
Then I realize that it’s a little strange they’re sending me to a Vegas penitentiary at all. I should be interrogated and tried in my home state. “Why am I being held here?” I ask. “Shouldn’t I be on my way to Los Angeles?”
Thomas keeps his eyes forward now. “Quarantine,” he replies.
I frown. “What, it’s spread to Batalla now too?”
His answer sends a chill down my spine. “Los Angeles is under quarantine. All of it.”
* * *
HIGH DESERT PENITENTIARY.
ROOM 416 (20 × 12 SQUARE FEET).
2224 HOURS; SAME DAY AS MY CAPTURE.
I sit a few feet away from Thomas. Nothing but a flimsy table separates us—well, if I don’t count the number of soldiers standing guard beside him. They shift uncomfortably whenever I let my eyes rest on them. I sway a little in my chair, fighting back exhaustion, and clink the chains that keep my arms secured across my back. My mind is starting to wander—I keep thinking back on what Thomas said about Los Angeles and its quarantine. No time to dwell on that now, I tell myself, but the thoughts won’t go away. I try to picture Drake University marked with plague signs, Ruby sector’s streets crowded with plague patrols. How is that possible? How could the entire city be under quarantine?
We’ve been in this room for six hours, and Thomas has gotten nowhere with me. My answers to his questions lead us around in circles, and I’ve been doing it in a way so subtle that he doesn’t realize I’ve been manipulating the conversation until he’s wasted another hour. He’s tried threatening to kill Ollie. To which I threatened to carry any information I had to my grave. He’s tried threatening me. To which I reminded him of the taking-information-to-my-grave factor. He’s even tried some mind games—none of which went even remotely well. I just keep asking him why Los Angeles is under quarantine. I’ve been trained in interrogation tactics as much as he has, and it’s backfiring on him. He hasn’t gotten physical with me yet, the way he had with Day. (This is another interesting detail. It doesn’t matter how much Thomas cares for me—if his superiors order him to use physical force, he’ll do it. Since he hasn’t hurt me yet, it means Commander Jameson told him not to. Odd.) Even so, I can tell his patience with me is wearing thin.
“Tell me, Ms. Iparis,” he says after we’re silent for a moment. “What will it take for me to get something useful out of you?”
I keep my face expressionless. “Already told you that. I’ll trade you an answer for a request. I have information for the Elector.”
“You’re in no position to bargain. And you can’t keep this up indefinitely.” Thomas leans back in his chair and frowns. The fluorescent lights cast long shadows under his eyes. Against the undecorated white walls of the room (aside from two Republic flags and the Elector’s portrait), Thomas stands out ominously in his black-and-red captain’s uniform. Metias used to wear a uniform like that. “I know Day is alive, and you know how we can find him. You’ll talk after a few days without food or water.”
“Don’t assume what I will and won’t do, Thomas,” I reply. “As for Day, I should think the answer’s obvious. If he were alive, he’d head off to rescue his little brother. Any fool could guess that.”
Thomas tries to ignore my jab, but I can see the irritation on his face. “If he’s alive, he’ll never find his brother. That location is classified. I don’t need to know where Day wants to go. I need to know where he is.”
“It makes no difference. You’d never catch him anyway. He won’t fall for the same tricks twice.”
Thomas folds his arms. Was it really just a few weeks ago that the two of us sat together, eating dinner at a Los Angeles café? The thought of LA brings me right back to the quarantine news, and I picture the café empty, covered with quarantine notices.
“Ms. Iparis,” Thomas says, putting his palms flat on the table. “We can continue like this forever, and you can just keep being snide and shaking your head until you collapse from exhaustion. I don’t want to hurt you. You have a chance to redeem yourself to the Republic. In spite of everything you’ve done, I’ve received word from my higher-ups that they still consider you to be quite valuable.”
So. Commander Jameson was involved in making sure I’m not harmed during my interrogation. “How kind,” I reply, letting sarcasm seep into my words. “I’m luckier than Metias.”
Thomas sighs, bows his head, and squeezes the upper bridge of his nose in exasperation. He sits like that for a moment. Then he motions toward the other soldiers. “Everyone out,” he snaps.
When the soldiers have left us alone, he turns back to me and leans forward to put his arms on the table. “I’m sorry you have to be here,” he says quietly. “I hope you understand, Ms. Iparis, that I’m bound by my duty to do this.”
“Where’s Commander Jameson?” I reply. “She’s your puppet master, isn’t she? I would’ve thought she’d come interrogate me as well.”
Thomas doesn’t flinch at my taunt. “She’s containing Los Angeles at the moment, organizing the quarantine and reporting the situation to Congress. With all due respect, the world does not revolve around you.”
Containing Los Angeles. The words chill me. “Are the plagues really that bad right now?” I decide to ask yet again, keeping my eyes firmly fixed on Thomas’s face. “Is LA quarantined because of illness?”
He shakes his head. “Classified.”
“When will it be lifted? Are all the sectors quarantined?”
“Stop asking. I told you, the whole city is. Even if I knew when it would be lifted, I’d still have no reason to tell you.”
I know instantly by his expression that what he actually means is: Commander Jameson didn’t tell me what’s going on in the city, so I have no idea. Why would she need to keep him in the dark? “What happened in the city?” I press, hoping to get more out of him.
“That’s not relevant to your interrogation,” Thomas replies, tapping his fingers impatiently against his arm. “Los Angeles is no longer your concern, Ms. Iparis.”
“It’s my hometown,” I reply. “I grew up there. Metias died there. Of course it’s my concern.”
Thomas is quiet. His hand comes up to push dark hair away from his face, and his eyes search mine. Minutes tick by. “That’s what this is all about,” he finally mutters. I wonder if he’s saying this because he’s weary too after six hours in this room. “Ms. Iparis, what happened to your brother—”
“I know what happened,” I interrupt him. My voice trembles in rising anger. “You killed him. You sold him to the state.” The words hurt so much that I can barely squeeze them out.
His expression quivers. He lets out a cough and straightens in his chair. “The order came directly from Commander Jameson, and the last thing I’d do is disobey a direct order from her. You should know this rule as well as I do—although I have to admit you’ve never been very good at following it.”
“What, so you were just willing to hand him over like that, because he figured out how our parents died? He was your friend, Thomas. You grew up with him. Commander Jameson wouldn’t have given you the time of day—you wouldn’t be sitting across this table right now—if Metias hadn’t recommended you for her patrol. Or have you forgotten that?” My voice rises. “You couldn’t risk even a fraction of your own safety to help him?”