Legend

I slump back down onto the gurney and close my eyes. The diminshed pain in my leg is such a relief that I try to savor it, but pieces of my nightmare still linger in my mind, too fresh to put away. Where is Tess now? Can she make it without someone there to watch her back? She’s nearsighted. Who will help her when she can’t make out the shadows at night?

As for my mother . . . I’m not strong enough to think about her right now.

Someone raps loudly on the door. “Open up,” a man calls out. “Commander Jameson’s here to see the prisoner.” The prisoner. I smile at that. The soldiers don’t even like calling me by my name.

The guards in the room barely have time to unlock the door and move out of the way before Commander Jameson bursts in, clearly annoyed. She snaps her fingers. “Get this boy off the gurney and put him in some chains,” she barks. Then she shoves one finger into my chest. “You. You’re just a kid—you never even went to college, you failed your Trial! How were you ever able to outsmart soldiers on the streets? How do you cause so much trouble?” She bares her teeth at me. “I knew you’d be a bigger nuisance than you’re worth. You have a knack for wasting my soldiers’ time. Not to mention the soldiers of several other commanders.”

I have to grit my teeth to keep from shouting back at her. Soldiers hurry over to me and start undoing the gurney’s belts.

Beside me, the doctor bows his head. “If you don’t mind, Commander,” he says, “has something happened? What’s going on?”

Commander Jameson fixes her furious gaze on him. He shrinks away. “Protesters in front of Batalla Hall,” she snaps. “They’re attacking the street police.”

The soldiers pull me off the gurney and onto my feet. I wince as my weight transfers onto my bad leg. “Protesters?”

“Yes. Rioters.” Commander Jameson grabs my face. “My own soldiers had to be called in to help, which means my schedule is entirely disrupted. I’ve already had one of my best men sent in here with lacerations on his face. Filthy cons like you don’t know how to treat our military boys.” She shoves my face away in disgust and turns her back on me. “Take him away,” she calls out to the soldiers holding me. “Be quick about it.”

We exit the hospital room. Soldiers rush back and forth in the hallway. Commander Jameson keeps pressing a hand against her ear, listening intently, then shouting orders. As I’m dragged toward the elevators, I see several large monitors—something I pause to admire for a second, as I’ve never seen them in the Lake sector—broadcasting exactly what Commander Jameson just told us. I can’t hear the voice-over, but the text headlines are unmistakable: Disturbance outside Batalla Hall. Units responding. Await further orders. This isn’t a public broadcast, I realize. The video shows the square in front of Batalla Hall packed with several hundred people. I pick out the line of black-clad soldiers struggling to contain the crowd near the front. Other soldiers run along rooftops and ledges, hurrying into position with their rifles. I get a good look at some of the protesters as we pass the last monitor, the ones clustered together under the street lights.

Some of them have painted a bloodred streak into their hair.

Then we arrive at the elevators and the soldiers shove me inside. They’re protesting because of me. The thought fills me with excitement and dread. No way will the military let this slide. They’ll seal off the poor sectors entirely and arrest every last rioter in the square.

Or they’ll kill them.

WHEN I WAS YOUNG, METIAS 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.