The Legend Trilogy Collection (19 page)

W
HEN
I
WAS YOUNG
, M
ETIAS WAS SOMETIMES CALLED AWAY
to deal with minor rebellions, and afterward he’d tell me about them. The story was always the same: a dozen or so poor folk (usually teens, sometimes older) causing trouble in one of the sectors, angry about the plague quarantines or taxes. Several dust bombs later, they were all arrested and taken to court.

But I’ve never seen a riot like this one, with hundreds of people risking their lives. Nothing even close to this.

“What’s wrong with these people?” I ask Thomas. “They’ve lost their minds.” We’re standing on the raised platform outside Batalla Hall with his entire patrol facing the crowd in front of us, while another of Commander Jameson’s patrols is pushing people back with shields and batons.

Earlier, I’d peeked in on Day as the doctor operated on his leg. I wonder if he’s awake and seeing this chaos on the hall monitors. I hope not. No need for him to see what he’s started. The thought of him—and his accusation against the Republic, that the Republic creates the plagues, kills kids who fail the Trial—fills me with rage. I pull my gun out of its holster. Might as well have it ready. “Ever seen something like this?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even.

Thomas shakes his head. “Only once. A long time ago.” Some of his dark hair falls across his face. It’s not combed back as nicely as usual—he must’ve been out in the crowds earlier. One hand lingers on the gun strapped to his belt, while the other rests on a rifle slung around his shoulder. He doesn’t look at me. He hasn’t looked at me straight on since he tried kissing me last night in the hall. “A bunch of fools,” he replies. “If they don’t back down soon, the commanders will make them regret it.”

I glance up to see several commanders standing on one of Batalla Hall’s balconies. It’s too dark now to be sure, but I don’t think Commander Jameson is with them. I know she’s giving orders through her mouthpiece, though, because Thomas listens intently with one hand pressed against his ear. But whatever she’s saying is only for Thomas, and I have no idea what she’s telling him. The crowd below us continues to push. I can tell from their clothes—torn shirts and trousers, mismatched shoes filled with holes—that almost all of them are from the poor sectors near the lake. Secretly, I will them to disperse.
Get out of here before things get worse.

Thomas leans over to me and nods toward the center of the crowd. “See that pitiful bunch?”

I’d already noticed what he’s pointing out, but I still follow his gaze politely. A group of protesters have streaked their hair scarlet, imitating the bloodstained lock Day had when he’d stood out here for his sentencing. “A poor choice for a hero,” Thomas goes on. “Day will be dead in less than a week.”

I nod once but say nothing.

A few screams echo from the crowd. One patrol has made its way around to the back of the square, and now they have the crowd boxed in, pushing people in toward the square’s center. I frown. This isn’t protocol for handling an unruly mob. In school, we were taught that dust bombs or tear gas is more than enough to do the job. But there’s no sign of that—none of the soldiers wear gas masks. And now yet another patrol has started chasing away the stragglers gathered outside the square, where the streets are too chaotic and narrow to protest properly.

“What’s Commander Jameson telling you?” I ask Thomas.

Thomas’s dark hair falls across his eyes and covers his expression. “She says to stay put and wait for her command.”

We don’t do anything for a good half hour. I keep one hand in my pocket, absently rubbing Day’s pendant. Somehow, the crowd reminds me of Skiz. There’s probably even some of the same people.

That’s when I see soldiers running along the tops of the square’s buildings. Some hurry along ledges, while others are gathered in a straight line across the roofs. Odd. Soldiers usually have black tassels and a single row of silver buttons on their jackets. Their arm insignias are navy blue or red or silver or gold. But these soldiers have no buttons on their jackets. Instead, a white stripe runs diagonally across their chests and their armbands are gray. It takes me another second to realize who they are.

“Thomas.” I tap him and point up to the roofs. “Executioners.”

No surprise on his face, no emotion in his eyes. He clears his throat. “So they are.”

“What are they doing?” My voice rises. I glance to the protesters in the square, then back up to the roofs. None of the soldiers have dust bombs or tear gas. Instead, each one has a gun slung around his shoulder. “They’re not dispersing them, Thomas. They’re trapping them in.”

Thomas gives me a stern look. “Hold steady, June. Pay attention to the crowd.”

As my eyes stay turned up toward the roofs, I notice Commander Jameson step out onto the top of Batalla Hall flanked by soldiers. She speaks into her mouthpiece.

Several seconds pass. A terrible feeling builds up in my chest—I know where this is going.

Thomas suddenly murmurs something into his mike. A response to a command. I glance at him. He catches my gaze for a second, and then he looks toward the rest of the patrol standing on the platform with us. “Fire at will!” he shouts.

“Thomas!” I want to say more, but at that instant, shots ring out from both the roofs and the platform. I lunge forward. I don’t know what I plan to do—wave my arms in front of the soldiers?—but Thomas grabs my shoulder before I can step forward.

“Stay back, June!”

“Tell your men to stand down,” I shout, scrambling out of his grasp. “Tell them—”

That’s when Thomas throws me to the ground so hard that I feel the wound in my side break open.

“Damn it, June,” he says.
“Stay back!”

The ground’s surprisingly cold. I crouch there, for once at a loss, unable to move. I don’t really understand what just happened. The skin around my wound burns. Bullets rain down on the square. People in the crowd collapse like levees in a flood.
Thomas, stop. Please stop.
I want to get up and scream in his face, to hurt him somehow.
Metias would kill you for this, Thomas, if he were alive.
But instead I cover my ears. The gunshots are deafening.

The gunfire lasts only a minute, if that—but it seems like forever. Thomas finally shouts an order to cease fire, and those in the crowd who haven’t been shot fall to their knees and throw their hands up over their heads. Soldiers rush to them, cuffing their arms behind their backs, forcing them together into clusters. I push myself up onto my knees. My ears still ring from the gunfire. . . . I scan the scene of blood and bodies and prisoners. There are 97, 98 dead. No, at least 120. Hundreds more are in custody. I can’t even concentrate enough to count them.

Thomas glances at me before stepping off the platform—his face is grave, even guilty, but I know with a sinking feeling that he feels guilty only for throwing me to the ground. Not for this massacre he’s leaving behind. He heads back toward Batalla Hall with several soldiers. I turn my face away so I don’t have to watch him.

WE RIDE UP SEVERAL FLOORS UNTIL I HEAR THE
elevator’s chains come to a scraping halt. Two soldiers drag me out into a familiar hallway. They’re returning me to my cell, I guess, at least for now. For the first time since waking up on the gurney, I realize I’m exhausted and slump my head against my chest. The doctor must’ve injected me with something to keep me from flailing too much during the operation. Everything around me looks blurred at the edges, as if I’m sprinting.

Then the soldiers come to a sudden stop halfway down the corridor, a good distance away from my cell. I look up in mild surprise. We stand outside one of the rooms I’d noticed earlier, the ones with clear glass windows. Interrogation chambers. So. They want more information before they execute me.

Static, then a voice comes through one of the soldiers’ earpieces. The soldier nods. “Let’s take him in,” he says. “Captain says he’ll arrive shortly.”

I stand inside, waiting as the minutes tick by. Guards with blank faces stand at the door, while two others hold my shackled arms. I know this room is supposed to be more or less soundproof . . . but I swear I hear the sound of guns and the vibrations of distant screams. My heart pounds. The troops must be firing on the crowd in the square. Are they dying because of me?

More time passes. I wait. My eyelids grow heavy. I want nothing more than to curl into a ball in the corner of my cell and sleep.

Finally I hear footsteps approaching. The door swings open to reveal a young man dressed in black, with dark hair that falls over his eyes. Silver epaulettes sit on each shoulder. The other soldiers click their heels together.

The man waves them off. Now I recognize him. This is the captain who shot my mother. June had mentioned him before. Thomas. Commander Jameson must’ve sent him.

“Mr. Wing,” he says. He approaches me and crosses his arms. “What a pleasure to formally meet you. I was beginning to worry that I’d never get the chance.”

I will myself to stay silent. He looks uncomfortable being in the same room as me, and his expression says that he
really
hates me.

“My commander wants me to ask you some standard procedural questions before your execution date. We’ll try to keep it cordial, although of course we started off on the wrong foot.”

I can’t help choking out a laugh. “Really? You think so?”

Thomas doesn’t reply, but I see him swallow hard in an effort not to react. He reaches into his cloak and pulls out a small gray remote. He points it at the room’s blank wall. A projection comes up. Some police report, with pictures of a person I don’t recognize.

“I’m going to show you a series of photos, Mr. Wing,” he says. “The people you’ll see are suspected of Patriot involvement.”

The Patriots had tried in vain to recruit me. Cryptic notes scrawled on alley walls above where I slept. An escort on a street corner who slipped me a note. A small parcel of money with a proposition. After ignoring their offers for a while, I stopped hearing from them. “I’ve never worked with the Patriots,” I snap. “If I ever kill, I’ll do it on my own terms.”

“You may claim no affiliation with them, but perhaps some have crossed your path. And perhaps you’d like to help us find them.”

“Oh, sure. You killed my mother. You can imagine I’m
dying
to help you out.”

Thomas manages to ignore me again. He glances at the first photo projected on the wall. “Know this person?”

I shake my head. “Never seen him before.”

Thomas clicks the remote. Another photo pops up. “How about this one?”

“Nope.”

Another photo. “How about this?”

“Nope.”

Yet another stranger pops up on the wall. “Seen this girl before?”

“Never seen her in my life.”

More unfamiliar faces. Thomas goes through them without blinking an eye or questioning my responses. What a stupid puppet of the state. I watch him as we continue, wishing I weren’t chained so I could beat this man to the ground.

More photos. More strange faces. Thomas doesn’t question a single one of my terse responses. In fact, it seems like he can’t wait to get out of this room and far away from me.

Then a photo pops up of someone I do recognize. The blurry image shows a girl with long hair—longer than the bobbed cut I remember. No vine tattoo yet. Apparently Kaede is a Patriot.

I don’t dare let the recognition show on my face. “Look,” I say. “If I knew any of these people, do you really think I’d tell you?”

Thomas is trying so hard to hold his composure. “That will be all, Mr. Wing.”

“Oh, come on, that’s not all. I can tell you’d give anything to take a swing at me. So do it. I dare you.”

His eyes have taken on a furious glow, but he still holds back. “My orders were to ask you a series of questions,” he says tightly. “That’s it. We’re done here.”

“Why? You afraid of me or something? Only brave enough to shoot people’s mothers?”

Thomas narrows his eyes, then shrugs. “She’s just one less slum con to deal with.”

I clench my fist and spit right in his face.

This seems to break his resolve. His left fist hits me hard across the jaw, and my head snaps to the side. Spots explode before my eyes.

“Think you’re a star, don’t you?” he says. “Just because you pulled some pranks and played charity worker to some street scum? Well, let me tell you a secret.
I’m
from a poor sector too. But I followed the rules. I worked my way up, I
earned
my country’s respect. The rest of you people just sit around and complain and blame the state for your bad luck. Bunch of dirty, lazy cons.” He punches me again. My head rocks back, and I taste blood in my mouth. My body trembles from the pain. He grabs my collar and pulls me close. My shackles clank. “Ms. Iparis told me about what you did to her on the streets. How
dare
you force yourself onto someone of her rank.”

Ah. Here is what’s really bothering him—I guess he found out about the kiss. I can’t help grinning, even though my face screams in pain. “Awww. Is that what’s got you down? I’ve seen the way you look at her. You want her bad, yeah? Is that something you’re also trying to
earn
your way up to, trot? Hate to burst your bubble, but I didn’t force her into
anything
.”

A deep scarlet rage flashes across his face. “She’s looking forward to your execution, Mr. Wing. I can guarantee you
that
.”

I laugh. “Sore loser, huh? Here, I’ll make you feel better. I’ll tell you all about what it was like. Hearing about it is the next best thing, isn’t it?”

Thomas grabs my neck. His hands are shaking. “I’d be careful if I were you, boy,” he spits. “Maybe you’ve forgotten that you still have two brothers. Both at the mercy of the Republic. Watch your tongue, unless you want to see their bodies lined up next to your mother’s.”

He hits me again, then one of his knees slams into my stomach. I gasp for air. I picture Eden and John and force myself to calm down, force away the pain.
Stay strong. Don’t let him get to you.

He hits me two more times. He’s breathing hard now. With a great effort, he lowers his arms and exhales. “That will be all, Mr. Wing,” he says in a low voice. “I’ll see you on your execution day.”

I can’t speak through the pain, so I just try to keep my eyes focused on him. He has a strange expression, as if he’s angry or disappointed that I’ve forced him from his orderly state.

He turns and leaves the room without a word.