Prodigy

Page 19

“Have you thought about why the Republic has been so lenient, given your betrayal of the state?” Anden says, toying idly with his fork. “Anyone else would already have been executed. But not you.” He straightens in his chair. “The Republic has been watching you since you scored that perfect fifteen hundred on your Trial. I’ve heard about your grades, and your performance in Drake’s afternoon drills. Several Congressmen nominated you for political assignment before you even finished your freshman year at Drake. But they ultimately decided to assign you to the military instead, because your personality has ‘officer’ written all over it. You’re a celebrity in the inner circles. Your being convicted of disloyalty would be a tremendous loss to the Republic.”
Does Anden know the truth of how my parents and Metias were killed? That their disloyalty cost them their lives? Does the Republic value me so much that they’re hesitant to execute me despite my recent crime and traitorous family ties? “How did you see me around the Drake campus?” I say. “I don’t remember hearing that you visited the university.”
Anden cuts into a heart of palm on his plate. “Oh no. You wouldn’t have heard it.”
I give him a quizzical frown. “Were you . . . a student at Drake while I was there?”
Anden nods. “The administration kept my identity a secret. I was seventeen—a sophomore—when you came to Drake at twelve. We all heard a lot about you, obviously—and your antics.” He grins at that, and his eyes sparkle mischievously.
The Elector’s son had been walking amongst the rest of us at Drake, and I didn’t even know it. My chest swells with pride at the thought of the Republic’s leader taking notice of me on campus. Then I shake my head, guilty for liking the attention. “Well, I hope not everything you heard was bad.”
Anden reveals a dimple in his left cheek when he laughs. It’s a soothing sound. “No. Not everything.”
Even I have to smile. “My grades were good, but I’m pretty sure my dean’s secretary is happy I won’t be haunting her office anymore.”
“Miss Whitaker?” Anden shakes his head. For a moment he drops his formal façade, ignoring etiquette by slouching back in his chair and making a circular gesture with his fork. “I’d been called in to her office too, which was funny because she had no idea who I was. I’d gotten into trouble for switching out the heavy practice rifles in the gym for foam ones.”
“That was you?” I exclaim. I remember that incident well. Freshman year, drill class. The foam rifles had looked so real. When the students had bent down in unison to pick up what they thought were heavy guns, they’d all yanked the foam ones up so hard that half the students toppled over backward from the force. The memory gets a real laugh out of me. “That was brilliant. The drill captain was so mad.”
“Everyone needs to get in trouble at least once in college, right?” Anden smirks and drums his fingers against his champagne glass. “You always seemed to cause the most trouble, though. Didn’t you force one of your classes to evacuate?”
“Yes. Republic History Three-oh-two.” I try to rub my neck in momentary embarrassment, but my shackles stop me. “The senior sitting next to me said I wouldn’t be able to hit the fire alarm lever with his training gun.”
“Ah. I can see you’ve always made good choices.”
“I was a junior. Still kind of immature, I admit,” I reply.
“I disagree. All things considered, I’d say you were well beyond your years.” He smiles, and my cheeks turn pink again. “You have the poise of someone much older than fifteen. I was glad to finally meet you at the celebratory ball that night.”
Am I really sitting here, eating dinner and reminiscing about good old Academy days with the Elector Primo? Surreal. I’m stunned by how easy it is to talk to him, this discussion of familiar things in a time when so much strangeness surrounds my life, a conversation where I can’t accidentally offend anyone with an offhand class-related remark.
Then I remember why I’m really here. The food in my mouth turns to ash. This is all for Day. Resentment floods through me, even though I’m wrong for feeling it. Am I? I wonder if I’m really ready to murder someone for his sake.
A soldier peeks through the chamber entrance. He salutes Anden, then clears his throat uncomfortably as he realizes that he must’ve cut the Elector off in the middle of our conversation. Anden gives him a good-natured smile and waves him in. “Sir, Senator Baruse Kamion wants a word with you,” the soldier says.
“Tell the Senator I’m busy,” Anden replies. “I’ll contact him after my dinner.”
“I’m afraid he insisted that you speak to him now. It’s about the, ah . . .” The soldier considers me, then hurries over to whisper in Anden’s ear. I still catch some of it, though. “The stadiums. He wants to give . . . message . . . should end your dinner right away.”
Anden raises an eyebrow. “Is that what he said? Well. I’ll decide when my own dinner ends,” he says. “Deliver that message back to Senator Kamion whenever you see fit. Tell him that the next Senator to send me an impertinent message will answer to me directly.”
The soldier salutes vigorously, his chest puffed out a little at the thought of delivering a message like this to a Senator. “Yes, sir. Right away.”
“What’s your name, soldier?” Anden asks before he can leave.
“Lieutenant Felipe Garza, sir.”
Anden smiles. “Thank you, Lieutenant Garza,” he says. “I will remember this favor.”
The soldier tries to keep a straight face, but I can see pride in his eyes and the smile right below the surface. He bows to Anden. “Elector, you honor me. Thank you, sir.” Then he steps out.
I observe the exchange with fascination. Razor had been right about one thing—there is definitely tension between the Senate and their new Elector. But Anden is no fool. He’s been in power for less than a week, and already he’s doing exactly what he should be: trying to cement the military’s loyalty to him. I wonder what else he’s doing to win their trust. The Republic army had been fiercely faithful to his father; in fact, that loyalty was probably what made the late Elector so powerful. Anden knows this, and he’s making his move as early as possible. The Senate’s complaints are useless against a military that backs Anden without question.
But they don’t back Anden without question, I remind myself. There’s Razor, and his men. Traitors in the military’s ranks are moving into place.
“So.” Anden delicately cuts another slice of pork. “You brought me all the way here to tell me that you helped a criminal escape?”
For a moment there’s no sound except the clinking of Anden’s fork against his plate. Razor’s instructions echo in my mind—the things I need to say, the order I need to say them in. “No . . . I came here to tell you about an assassination plot against you.”
Anden puts his fork down and holds two slender fingers up in the direction of the soldiers. “Leave us.”
“Elector, sir,” one of them starts to say. “We’re not to leave you alone.”
Anden pulls a gun from his belt (an elegant black model I’ve never seen before) and places it on the table next to his plate. “It’s all right, Captain,” he says. “I’ll be quite safe. Now, please, everyone. Leave us.”
The woman Anden called Captain gestures to her soldiers, and they file silently from the room. Even the six guards standing next to me leave. I am alone in this chamber with the Elector himself, separated by twelve feet of cherrywood.
Anden leans both of his elbows on the table and tents his fingers together. “You came here to warn me?”
“I did.”
“But I heard you were caught in Vegas. Why didn’t you turn yourself in?”
“I was on my way here, to the capital. I wanted to get to Denver before turning myself in so I’d have a better chance of talking to you. I definitely wasn’t planning to be arrested by a random patrol in Vegas.”
“And how did you get away from the Patriots?” Anden gives me a hesitant, skeptical look. “Where are they now? Surely they must be pursuing you.”
I pause, lower my eyes, and clear my throat. “I hopped a Vegas-bound train the night I managed to get away.”
Anden stays quiet for a moment, then puts down his fork and dabs his mouth. I’m not sure if he believes my escape story or not. “And what were their plans for you, if you hadn’t gotten away?”
Keep it vague for now. “I don’t know all the details about what they had planned for me,” I reply. “But I do know they’re planning some sort of attack at one of your morale-boosting stops along the warfront, and that I was supposed to help them. Lamar, Westwick, and Burlington were places they mentioned. The Patriots have people in place too, Anden—people here in your inner circle.”
I know I’m taking a risk by using his first name, but I’m trying to keep our new rapport going. Anden doesn’t seem to notice—he just leans over his plate and studies me. “How do you know this?” he says. “Do the Patriots realize you know? Is Day involved in all this too?”
I shake my head. “I was never supposed to find out. I haven’t spoken to Day since I left.”
“Would you say that you’re friends with him?”
A bit of an odd question. Maybe he wants to find Day? “Yes,” I reply, trying not to distract myself with memories of Day’s hands entwined in my hair. “He has his reasons for staying—I have mine for leaving. But yes, I think so.”
Anden nods his thanks. “You said there are people in my inner circle that I need to know about. Who?”
I put my fork down and lean forward across the table. “There are two soldiers in your personal guard who are going to make an attempt.”
Anden blanches. “My guards are carefully chosen for me. Very carefully.”
“And who chooses them?” I cross my arms. My hair falls over one shoulder, and I can see the pearls gleaming from the corner of my eye. “It doesn’t matter if you believe me or not. Investigate. Either I’m right, and you won’t be dead, or I’m wrong, and then I’ll be dead.”
To my surprise, Anden gets out of his chair, straightens, and walks over to my end of the table. He sits in the chair next to mine and scoots it closer to me. I blink as he studies my face.
“June.” His voice is so soft, barely above a whisper. “I want to trust you . . . and I want you to trust me.”
He knows I’m hiding something. He can see through my deception, and he wants me to know it. Anden leans against the table and tucks his hands into his trouser pockets. “When my father died,” he begins, saying each word slowly and very quietly, as if he were treading dangerous waters, “I was completely alone. I sat at his bedside as he passed. Still, I’m grateful for it—I never had that chance with my mother. I know how it feels, June, being the only one left.”