I nod back. In the Republic, ads have organized displays with a consistent, distinct government style that remains the same no matter where in the country you are. Here, the ads don’t follow any sort of color theory. They’re jumbled, a mishmash of neon and flashing lights. As if they weren’t made by any sort of central government, but by a number of smaller, independent groups.
One ad shows a video of a smiling officer in a uniform. The voiceover says: “Tribune Police Department. Need to report a crime? Only 500 Note deposit needed!” Underneath the officer, in small print, are the words: TRIBUNE POLICE DEPARTMENT IS A SUBSIDIARY OF DESCON CORP.
Another ad says NEXT NATIONWIDE EHL* CHECK SPONSORED BY CLOUD—JAN. 27. NEED SOME HELP TO PASS? NEW MEDITECH JOYENCE PILLS NOW AVAILABLE AT ALL STORES! Below this, another small asterisk is followed by the text: EHL, EMPLOYEE HAPPINESS LEVEL.
A third ad actually makes me do a double take. It shows a video of rows of young children, all dressed in the exact same clothes, smiling the biggest smiles I’ve ever seen. When the text comes up, it reads FIND YOUR PERFECT SON, DAUGHTER, OR EMPLOYEE. SWAPSHOP FRANCHISE STORES ARE A SUBSIDIARY OF EVERGREEN ENT. I frown, puzzled. Maybe this is how the Colonies run orphanages or the like. Isn’t it?
As we move along, I notice that there’s one unchanging image in the bottom right-hand corner of each ad. It’s a giant symbol of a circle split into four quadrants, with a smaller symbol inside each of the quadrants. Underneath it in block letters is the following:
THE COLONIES OF AMERICA
C L O U D . M E D I T E C H . D E S C O N . E V E R G R E E N
A FREE STATE IS A CORPORATE STATE
Abruptly I feel Day’s breath warm against my ear. “June,” he whispers.
“What is it?”
“Someone’s following us.”
Another detail I should’ve noticed first. I’ve lost count of the number of things I’m failing to catch. “Can you see his face?”
“No. But judging from the figure, it’s a girl,” he replies. I wait for a few more seconds, then chance a look back. Nothing but a sea of Colonians. Whoever it was, she’s already disappeared into the crowds.
“Probably just a false alarm,” I mutter. “Some Colonies girl.”
Day’s eyes sweep the street, perplexed, then he shrugs it off. I wouldn’t be surprised if we were starting to see things, especially amongst all these strange new glittering lights and fluorescent ads.
A person approaches us right as we turn our attention back to the street. Five foot seven, droopy cheeks, tannish pink skin, a few strands of black hair peeking out from a heavy snow cap, a flat tablet in her hand. She has a scarf wrapped tightly around her neck (synthetic wool, judging from the uniform texture), and little ice crystals cling to the fabric under her chin where her breath has frozen on it. Her sleeve has the words Street Proctor sewn on, right above another strange symbol. “You’re not showing up. Corp?” she mutters to us. Her eyes stay fixed on the tablet, which has a maplike image and moving bubbles on it. Each bubble seems to correspond to a person on the street. She must mean we’re not showing up on there. Then I realize that there are many people like her dotting the street, all wearing the same dark blue coat.
“Corp?” she repeats impatiently.
Day’s about to reply when I stop him. “Meditech,” I blurt out, remembering the four names from the ads we’ve seen.
The woman pauses to give our outfits (dirty collar shirts, black trousers, and boots) a disapproving once-over. “You must be new,” she adds to herself, tapping something out on her tablet. “You’re a long way from where you’re supposed to be, then. Don’t know if you’ve had your orientations yet, but Meditech will dock you hard if you’re late.” Then she gives us a fake smile and launches into an oddly perky routine. “I’m sponsored by Cloud Corp. Stop in Tribune Central Square to buy our newest line of bread!” Her mouth snaps back into the sullen line it was in before, and she hurries away. I watch as she stops a person farther down the street, launching into the same performance.
“There’s something off about this city,” I whisper to Day as we struggle on.
Day’s grip on me is tight and tense. “That’s why I didn’t ask her where the closest hospital was,” he replies. Another wave of dizziness hits me. “Hang in there. We’ll figure something out.”
I try to respond, but now I can barely see where I’m going. Day says something to me, but I can’t understand a word—it sounds like he’s underwater. “What did you say?” The world is spinning now. My knees buckle.
“I said, maybe we. . . stop one. . . hospital. . . ”
I feel myself falling, and my arms and legs are coming up around me in a protective ball, and somewhere overhead Day’s beautiful blue eyes hold me. He puts his hands on my shoulders, but it feels like he’s a million miles away. I try to speak, but my mouth feels like it’s full of sand. I sink into darkness.
A flash of gold and gray. Someone’s cool hand against my forehead. I reach up to touch it, but the instant my fingers brush against the skin, the hand melts away. I can’t stop shivering—it’s unimaginably cold in here.
When I finally manage to open my eyes, I find myself lying on a simple white cot with my head in Day’s lap, and Day has one of his arms draped around my waist. A moment later I realize that he’s watching another person—another three people—standing in the room with us. (They’re wearing the distinctive uniforms of warfront Colonies soldiers: navy military peacoats studded with gold buttons and epaulettes, with gold and white stripes running along the bottom edge and that signature gold falcon embroidered on each sleeve.) I shake my head. A pretty generic breakdown. I’m so slow right now.
“Through the tunnels,” Day says. Lights on the ceiling blind me. I hadn’t noticed them there earlier.
“How long have you been in the Colonies?” one of the other men asks. His accent sounds strange. He has a pale mustache and limp, greasy hair, and the lighting gives him a sickly complexion. “Better be honest, boy. DesCon doesn’t tolerate liars.”
“We just got here tonight,” Day replies.
“And where did you come from? Do you work for the Patriots?”
Even in my haze, I know this is a dangerous question. They are not going to be happy if they find out that we’re the ones who botched their plans for the Elector. Maybe they don’t even know what happened yet. Razor did say that they update the Colonies only sporadically.
Day realizes the question’s danger too, because he evades it. “We came here alone.” He pauses, and then I hear him speak with a hint of impatience. “Please, she’s burning up with fever. Take us to a hospital, and I’ll tell you anything you want. I didn’t come all this way to see her die in a police station.”
“Hospital’s going to cost you, son,” the man answers.
Day pats one of my pockets and digs out our little wad of Notes. I notice that his gun is now gone, probably confiscated. “We have four thousand Republic—”
The soldiers cut him off with snickers. “Boy, four thousand Republic Notes won’t buy you a bowl of soup,” one of them says. “Besides, you’re both going to wait here until our commander shows up. Then you’ll be sent to our POW compound for standard interrogation.”
POW compound. For some reason this triggers the memory of when Metias took me on a mission over a year ago, when we’d tracked that Colonies prisoner of war deep through the Republic’s states and killed him in Yellowstone City. I remember the blood on the ground, soaking that soldier’s navy uniform. A moment of panic seizes me and I reach up to grab Day’s collar. The other men in the room make a startled noise. I hear several metallic clicks.
Day’s arm tightens protectively around me. “Easy there,” he whispers.
“What’s the girl’s name?”
Day turns back to the men. “Sarah,” he lies. “She’s not a threat—she’s just really sick.”
The men say something that makes Day angry, but my world is becoming a wild chaos of colors again, and I sink back into a delirious half sleep. I hear loud voices, then the swinging sound of a heavy door, and then nothing for a long time. Sometimes I think I see Metias standing in the corner of the barrack, watching me. Other times he changes into Thomas, and I can’t decide if I should feel anger or grief at the sight of him. Sometimes I recognize Day’s hands against mine. He tells me to relax, that everything will be okay. The visions disappear.
After what seems like hours, I start to hear faint, broken snippets of conversation again.
“—from the Republic?”
“Yes.”
“You’re Day?”
“That’s me.”
Some shuffling sounds, then expressions of incredulity. “No, I recognize him,” someone keeps saying. “I recognize him, I recognize him. He’s the one.”
More shuffling. Then I feel Day rise, and I collapse alone onto the cold sheets of the cot beneath me. They’ve taken him somewhere. They’ve taken him away.
I want to cling to this thought, but my feverish delirium takes over and I drift back to black.
I’m in my Ruby sector apartment, my head on a pillow damp with sweat, my body covered by a thin blanket and bathed in golden light from the afternoon sun filtering in through our windows. Ollie sleeps nearby, his enormous puppy paws resting lazily on the cool marble tiles. I realize that this doesn’t make any sense, because I’m almost sixteen and Ollie should be nine years old. I must be dreaming.
A wet towel touches my forehead—I look up to see Metias sitting beside me, carefully placing the towel so water doesn’t drip in my eyes.
“Hey, Junebug,” he says with a smile.
“Aren’t you going to be late for something?” I whisper. There’s a nagging feeling in my stomach that Metias isn’t supposed to be here. Like he’s late for something.
But my brother just shakes his head, making several chunks of dark hair fall across his face. The sun lights up his eyes with glints of gold. “Well, I can’t just leave you alone here, can I?” He laughs, and the sound fills me with so much happiness that I think I might burst. “Face it, you’re stuck with me. Now eat your soup. I don’t care how gross you think it is.”
I take a sip. I swear I can almost taste it. “Are you really going to stay here with me?”
Metias bends down and kisses my forehead. “Forever and ever, kid, until you’re sick and tired of seeing me.”
I smile. “You’re always taking care of me. When will you ever have time for Thomas?”
Metias hesitates at my words, and then chuckles. “I can’t keep anything secret with you here, can I?”
“You could have told me about you guys, you know.” The words are painful for me to say, but I’m not entirely sure why. I feel like I’m forgetting something important. “I wouldn’t have told anyone. Were you just worried Commander Jameson would find out and split you and Thomas into different patrols?”