Prodigy

Page 17

She tells me the United States used to be one of those superpowers. “Then came the war,” Kaede adds, “and all their top thinkers literally fled for higher ground. Antarctica caused the flooding, y’know. Things were already going downhill, but then the sun went haywire and melted all the Antarctic ice. Flooding like you and I couldn’t even imagine. Millions dropped dead from the temperature changes. Now that must’ve been a spectacle, yeah? The sun reset itself eventually, but the climate never did. All that freshwater mixed up with seawater and nothing’s been the same since.”
“The Republic never talks about any of this.”
Kaede rolls her eyes. “Oh, come on. It’s the Republic. Why would they?” She points toward one small monitor in the corner that seems to be broadcasting news headlines. “You wanna see what the Republic is like from a foreigner’s perspective? Here.”
When I pay closer attention to the headlines, I realize that the voiceover is in a language I can’t understand. “Antarctican,” Kaede explains when I glance questioningly at her. “We’re feeding in one of their channels. Read the captions.”
The screen shows an aerial view of a continent, with the text REPUBLIC OF AMERICA hovering over the land. A woman’s voice narrates, and right at the bottom of the screen is a running marquee of her translated words: “—to find new ways of negotiating with this heavily militarized rogue state, especially now that the transition of power to the Republic’s new Elector is complete. African president Ntombi Okonjo proposed a halt today to the United Nations’ aid for the Republic until there is enough evidence of a peace treaty between the isolationist country and its eastern neighbor—”
Isolationist. Militarized. Rogue. I stare at the words. To me, the Republic had been portrayed as the epitome of power, a ruthless, unstoppable military machine. Kaede grins at the expression on my face as she finally leads us away from the monitors. “Suddenly the Republic doesn’t seem so powerful, does it? Puny little secretive state, groveling for international aid? I’m telling you, Day—all it takes is one generation to brainwash a population and convince them that reality doesn’t exist.”
We walk over to a table with two slim comps sitting on it. The young man hovering over one of the computers is the same guy who’d flashed Kaede a V sign on the railroad tracks, the one with dark skin and light eyes. Kaede taps him on the shoulder. He doesn’t react right away. Instead, he types a few last lines into whatever’s on the screen and then slides into a sitting position on the table. I catch myself admiring his grace. A Runner for sure. He crosses his arms and waits patiently for Kaede to introduce us.
“Day, this is Pascao,” she says to me. “Pascao’s the undisputed leader of our Runners—he’s been eager to meet you, to put it lightly.”
Pascao holds out a hand to me, his pale eyes fixed intensely on mine. He gives me a brilliant white smile. “A pleasure,” he says in an excited, breathless rush. His cheeks flush red as I smile back at him. “Suffice it to say we’ve all heard a great deal about you. I’m your biggest fan. Biggest fan.”
I don’t think anyone’s ever flirted with me so blatantly before, except maybe a boy I remember from Blueridge sector. “Nice to meet another Runner,” I reply, shaking his hand. “I’m sure I’ll pick up some new tricks from you.”
He gives me a devilish grin when he sees how flustered I look. “Oh, you’ll like what’s coming. Believe me, you won’t be sorry for joining up with us—we’re gonna usher in a whole new era for America. The Republic won’t know what hit it.” He goes into a series of excited gestures, first spreading his arms wide and then pretending to untie knots in the air. “Our Hackers spent the last few weeks quietly rewiring things in Denver’s Capitol Tower. Now, all we have to do is twist a wire on any of the building’s speakers—and bam, we’re broadcasting to the entire Republic.” He claps once and snaps his fingers. “Everyone will hear you. Revolutionary, yeah?”
Sounds like a more elaborate version of what I did in the alley of the ten-second place, back when I first confronted June in an attempt to get plague cures for Eden. When I’d done a crude rewiring of the alley’s speakers. But to rewire a capital building’s speakers to broadcast to the entire Republic? “Sounds like fun,” I say. “What are we broadcasting?”
Pascao blinks at me in surprise. “The Elector’s assassination, of course.” His eyes dart to Kaede, who nods, and then he pulls a small rectangular device from his pocket. He flips it open. “We’re gonna need to record all the evidence, every last detail as we drag him out of his car and put some bullets in him. Our Hackers will be ready to go at the Capitol Tower, where they’ve set up the JumboTrons to broadcast the assassination. We’ll declare our victory over the speakers to the entire Republic. Let’s see them try and stop that.”
The savagery of the plan sends chills down my spine. It reminds me of the way they’d taped and broadcasted John’s death—my death—to the whole country.
Pascao leans toward me, puts his hand against my ear, and whispers, “That’s not even the best part, Day.” He pulls away long enough to give me another huge, toothy grin. “Want to know what the best part is?”
I stiffen. “What?”
Pascao crosses his arms in satisfaction. “Razor thinks you should be the one to shoot the Elector.”
DENVER, COLORADO.
1937 HOURS.
24°F.
I ARRIVE IN THE CAPITAL BY TRAIN (STATION 42B) IN THE midst of a snowstorm, where a crowd has gathered on the train platform to see me. I peer at them through my frosted window as we slow to a standstill. Even though it’s freezing cold outside, these civilians are crowded behind a makeshift metal railing, pushing and shoving one another as if Lincoln or some other celebrity singer had just arrived. No less than two capital military patrols push back against them. Their muffled shouts reach me.
“Get back! Everyone’s to move behind the barriers. Behind the barriers! Anyone with a camera will be arrested on sight.”
It’s odd. Most of the civilians here seem poor. Helping Day must have given me a good reputation in the slum sectors. I rub at the thin wires of the paper clip ring on my finger. A habit I’ve already developed.
Thomas walks over to my aisle and leans over the seats to talk to the soldiers sitting alongside me. “Take her to the door,” he says. “Quickly.” His eyes flicker to me and then over the outfit I’m wearing (yellow prison vest, thin white collar shirt). He acts as though the conversation we had last night in the interrogation room never happened. I just concentrate on my lap. His face makes me sick to my stomach. “She’ll be cold out there,” he says to his men. “Make sure she has a coat.”
The soldiers point their guns at me (Model XM-2500, 700m range, smart rounds, can shoot through two layers of cement), then haul me to my feet. During the train ride, I’d watched these two soldiers with such intensity that their nerves must be completely shot by now.
My hand shackles clank together. With guns like that, one hit and I’d likely die of blood loss no matter where on my torso the bullet struck me. They probably think I’m planning a way to grab a gun from them when they’re not paying attention. (A ridiculous assumption, because with my shackles on I have no way of firing the rifle correctly.)
Now they lead me down the aisle and to the end of our train car, where four more soldiers wait at the open door that leads down to the station platform. A gust of cold wind hits us and I suck in my breath sharply. I’ve been near the warfront once, back when Metias and I went on our only mission together, but that was West Texas in the summer. I’ve never set foot in a city buried in snow like this. Thomas heads to the front of our little procession and motions for one of the soldiers to drape a coat over me. I take it gratefully.
The crowd (about ninety to a hundred people) goes completely silent when they see my bright yellow vest, and as I make my way down the steps I can feel their attention burning through me like a heat lamp. Most are shivering, thin and pale with threadbare clothes that can’t possibly keep them warm in this weather, wearing shoes riddled with holes. I can’t understand it. Despite the cold, they still came out here to see me get off a train—and who knows how long they’ve been waiting. Suddenly I feel guilty for accepting the coat.
We make it to the end of the platform and nearly into the station’s lobby when I hear one of the onlookers shouting. I spin around before the soldiers can stop me.
“Is Day alive?” a boy calls out. He’s probably older than I am, barely out of his teens, but so skinny and short that he could pass for my age if one didn’t pay attention to his face.
I lift my head and smile. Then a guard hits him across the face with the butt of his rifle, and my own soldiers grab my arms and force me back around. The crowd breaks into an uproar; shouts instantly fill the air. In the midst of it all, I hear a few call out, “Day lives! Day lives!”
“Keep moving,” Thomas barks. We push into the lobby and I feel the cold air cut abruptly off as the door shuts behind us.
I didn’t say anything, but my smile was enough. Yes. Day is alive. I’m sure the Patriots will appreciate my enforcing this rumor for them.
We make our way through the station and into a trio of waiting jeeps. As we leave the station and head onto an arching freeway, I can’t help gaping at the city that’s streaming past my window. You usually need a good reason to come to Denver. No one but native civilians are allowed in without specific permission. The fact that I’m here and getting a glimpse of the city’s interior is unusual. Everything’s smothered under a blanket of white—but even through the snow I can see the faint outline of a vast dark wall that traps Denver like giant levees against floodwaters. The Armor. I read about it during grade school, of course, but to see it with my own eyes is something different. The skyscrapers here are so tall that they disappear into the fog of snow-laden clouds, each terraced level covered in thick sheets of snow, each side secured with giant metal support beams. Between buildings, I catch glimpses of the Capitol Tower. Now and then I see spotlights sweeping through the air and helicopters circling the skyscrapers. At one point, four fighter jets streak by above us. I pause to admire them for a moment (they’re X-92 Reapers, experimental aircrafts that haven’t gone into production outside the capital yet; but they must have passed their test runs if the engineers trust them to soar right over the center of downtown Denver). The capital is every bit the military city Vegas is, and is even more intimidating than I’d imagined.
Thomas’s voice snaps me back to reality. “We’re taking you to Colburn Hall,” he says from the jeep’s front passenger seat. “It’s a dining hall in the Capital Plaza where the Senators sometimes convene for banquets. The Elector dines there frequently.”
Colburn? From what I’ve heard, that’s a very fancy meeting spot, especially considering how I was originally meant to stay at the Denver penitentiary. This must all be new info for Thomas, too. I don’t think he’s ever been inside the capital, but like a good soldier, he doesn’t waste any time gawking at the scenery. I find myself anxious to see what the Capital Plaza’s like—if it’s as large as I’ve imagined. “From there my patrol will leave you behind, and you’ll be passed along to one of Commander DeSoto’s patrols.” Razor’s patrols, I add to myself. “The Elector will meet you in the Hall’s royal chamber. I suggest you behave appropriately.”