Legend

Commander Jameson lets out a sharp laugh. “Oh, Iparis,” she replies. “We’d be here all night if we kept negotiating. See how much faster that was? Much more persuasive to our target.” She looks away. “No matter. Time for you to get in a jeep. Back to headquarters.” She makes a quick motion with her hand, and Thomas barks out an order. The other soldiers hurry back into their formations. She climbs into the first jeep.

Thomas approaches, then tips his hat at me. “Congratulations, June.” He smiles. “I think you really did it. What a run! Did you see the look on Day’s face?”

You just murdered someone. I can’t bring myself to look at Thomas. Can’t bring myself to ask him how he can bear to follow orders so blindly. My eyes wander to where the woman’s body lies on the pavement. Medics have already surrounded the three wounded soldiers, and I know they’ll be placed carefully in the medic truck and taken back to headquarters. But the woman’s body lies unattended and abandoned. A few heads peek out at us from the other houses along the street. Some of them see the body and quickly turn away, while others keep a timid gaze on Thomas and me. Some small part of me wants to smile at the sight, to feel the joy of avenging my brother’s death. I pause, but the feeling doesn’t come. My hands clench and unclench. The pool of blood underneath the woman is starting to make me feel sick.

Remember, I tell myself, Day killed Metias. Day killed Metias, Day killed Metias.

The words echo empty and uncertain in my mind.

“Yeah,” I say to Thomas. My voice sounds like a stranger’s. “I think I really did it.”

PART TWO

THE GIRL WHO SHATTERS THE SHINING GLASS

THE WORLD’S A BLUR. I REMEMBER GUNS AND LOUD voices, and the splash of ice water over my head. Sometimes I recognize the sound of a key turning in a lock and the metallic smell of blood. Gas masks look down at me. Somebody won’t stop screaming. There’s a medic truck siren wailing all the time. I want to turn it off, and I keep trying to find its switch, but my arms feel weird. I can’t move them. A horrible pain in my left leg keeps my eyes and cheeks moist with tears. Maybe my entire leg’s wasted.

The moment the captain shot my mother plays over and over in my head, like a movie stuck on the same scene. I don’t understand why she doesn’t move out of the way. I yell at her to move, to duck, to do anything. But she just stays there until the bullet hits her and she crumples to the ground. Her face is pointed right at me—but it’s not my fault. It’s not.

The blurring comes into focus after an eternity. What’s it been, four or five days? A month, maybe? I have no idea. When I finally open my eyes, I see that I’m now in a small, windowless cell with four steel walls. Soldiers stand on either side of a small, vaultlike door. I grimace. My tongue is cracked and bone-dry. Tears have dried against my skin. Something that feels like metal cuffs binds my hands tightly to the back of a chair, and it takes me a second to realize that I’m sitting. My hair hangs over my face in stringy ribbons. Blood stains my vest. A sudden fear seizes me: my cap. I’m exposed.

Then I feel the pain in my left leg. It’s worse than anything I’ve ever experienced, worse even than the first time I got cut in that knee. I break out in a cold sweat and see stars flicker in the corners of my vision. At that moment, I would give anything for a painkiller, or ice to put out the fire in my injured thigh, or even another bullet to put me out of my misery. Tess, I need you. Where are you?

When I dare to look down at my leg, though, I see that it’s wrapped in a tight, blood-soaked bandage.

One of the soldiers notices me stirring. He presses his hand against his ear. “He’s awake, ma’am.”

Minutes later—maybe it’s hours—the metal door swings open and the commander who ordered my mother’s death strides in. She has her full uniform on, cloak and all, and her triple-arrow insignia shines silver under the fluorescent lights. Electricity. I’m in a government building. She says something to the soldiers on the other side of the door. Then it swings shut again, and she saunters over to me with a smile.

I’m not sure if the red haze clouding my vision is because of the pain from my leg or my rage at her presence.

The commander stops in front of my chair, then leans down close to my face. “My dear boy,” she says. I can hear the amusement in her voice. “I was so excited when they told me you were awake. I just had to come and see you myself. You should feel pretty lucky—the medics say you’re plague-free, even after spending time with that infected lot you call a family.”

I jerk back and spit at her. Even this movement is enough to make my leg tremble from white-hot pain.