We stop at an intersection. As we wait for a group of evacuees to cross in front of our jeep, I study the streets of downtown Los Angeles. Some things appear unchanged: Lines of soldiers bark orders at unruly refugees; other civilians stand on the sidelines and protest the influx of new people; the JumboTrons continue to flash encouraging messages of the Republic’s so-called victories on the warfront, reminding people: Don’t let the Colonies conquer your home! Support the cause!
My conversation with Eden replays in my mind.
I blink, then look closer at the streets. This time, the scenes I’d thought were familiar take on new context. The lines of soldiers barking orders are actually handing out rations to the new refugees. The civilians protesting the new people are actually being allowed to protest—soldiers look on, but their guns stay tucked away at their belts. And the JumboTrons’ propaganda, once images that looked so ominous to me, now seem like messages of optimism, a broadcast of hope in dark times, a desperate attempt to keep people’s spirits up. Not far from where our jeep’s stopped, I see a crowd of children evacuees surrounding a young soldier. He’s knelt to their eye level, and in his hands is some sort of puppet toy that he’s now using animatedly to tell the kids a story. I roll my window down. His voice is clear and upbeat. Now and then, the children laugh, their fear and confusion momentarily held at bay. Nearby, the parents look on with faces both exhausted and grateful.
The people and the Republic . . . are working together.
I frown at the unfamiliar thought. There’s no question that the Republic has done some horrible things to us all, that they might still be doing those things. But . . . maybe I’ve also been seeing the things I want to see. Maybe now that the old Elector is gone, the Republic’s soldiers have started to shed their masks too. Maybe they really are following Anden’s lead.
The jeep takes me first to see the apartment where Eden’s staying. He rushes out to greet me when we pull up, all unhappiness from our previous argument gone. “They said you caused a bunch of trouble out there,” he says as he and Lucy join me in the jeep. A disapproving look creeps onto his face. “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”
I give him a wry smile and ruffle his hair. “Now you know how I feel about your decision.”
By the time we end up outside the Los Angeles Central Hospital, word of our arrival has spread like wildfire and a huge crowd is waiting for my jeep. They’re screaming, crying, chanting—and it takes two patrols of soldiers to form enough of a walkway for them to usher us inside the hospital. I stare numbly at the people as I pass by. A lot of them have the scarlet streak in their hair, while others hold up signs. They shout out the same thing.
SAVE US.
I look away nervously. They’ve all seen and heard about what I did with the Patriots in Denver. But I’m not some invincible super-soldier—I’m a dying boy who’s about to be stuck, helpless, in the hospital while an enemy takes over our country.
Eden leans over my wheelchair’s handlebars. Even though he doesn’t say a word, I take one look at his solemn face and know exactly what’s running through his mind. The thought sends terror trickling down my spine.
I can save them, my little brother’s thinking. Let me save them.
Once we’re inside the hospital and the soldiers bar the doors, they wheel me up to the third-floor rooms. There, Eden waits outside while doctors strap a bunch of metal nodes and wires to me. They run a brain scan. Finally, they let me rest. Throughout it all, my head throbs continuously, sometimes so much that I feel like I’m moving even though I’m lying down on a bed. Nurses come in and give me some sort of injection. A couple of hours later, when I’m strong enough to sit up, a pair of doctors come to see me.
“What is it?” I ask before they can speak up. “Do I have three days left? What’s the deal?”
“Don’t worry,” one of them—the younger, more inexperienced one—assures me. “You still have a couple of months. Your prognosis hasn’t changed.”
“Oh,” I reply. Well, that’s a relief.
The older doctor scratches uncomfortably at his beard. “You can still move around and do normal activities—whatever those are,” he grumbles, “but don’t strain yourself. As for your treatments . . .” He pauses here, then peers at me from the top of his glasses. “We’re going to try some more radical drugs,” the doctor continues with an awkward expression. “But let me be clear, Day—our greatest enemy is time. We are fighting hard to prepare you for a very risky surgery, but the time that your medication needs may be longer than the time you have left. There’s only so much we can do.”
“What can we do?” I ask.
The doctor nods at the dripping fluid bag hanging next to me. “If you make it through the full course, you might be ready for surgery a few months from now.”
I lower my head. Do I have a few months left? They’re sure as hell cutting it close. “So,” I mutter, “I might be dead by the time the surgery comes around. Or there might not be a Republic left.”
My last comment drains the blood from the doctor’s face. He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t need to. No wonder the other doctors had warned me to get my affairs in order. Even in the best of circumstances, I might not pull through in time. But I might actually live long enough to see the Republic fall. The thought makes me shudder.
The only way Antarctica will help is if we provide proof of a cure against this plague, give them a reason to call in their troops to stop the Colonies’ invasion. And the only way to do that is to let Eden give himself over to the Republic.