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Finally, I stop him and say, “Look, just tell me straight up. How much longer do I have? If nothing works out?”
The doctor purses his lips, hesitates, and then shakes his head with a sigh. “Probably a month,” he admits. “Maybe two. We’re doing the best we can.”
A month or two. Well, they’ve been wrong in the past—a month or two probably means more like four or five. Still. I look toward the door, where Eden’s probably pressed against the wood and trying in vain to hear what we’re saying. Then I turn back to the doctor and swallow the lump in my throat. “Two months,” I echo. “Is there any chance?”
“We might try some riskier treatments, although those have side effects that may be fatal if you react badly to them. A surgery before you’re ready will likely kill you.” The doctor crosses his arms. His glasses catch the cold fluorescent light and shine in a way that blocks out his eyes entirely. He looks like a machine. “I would suggest, Day, that you begin getting your priorities in order.”
“My priorities in order?”
“Prepare your brother for the news,” he replies. “And settle any unfinished business.”
AT 0810 HOURS ON THE MORNING AFTER THE EMERGENCY banquet, Anden calls me. “It’s Captain Bryant,” he says. “He has put in his last request, and his last request is to see you.”
I sit at the edge of my bed, blinking away a night of fitful sleep, trying to work up the energy to understand what Anden is telling me.
“Tomorrow we transfer him to a prison on the other side of Denver to prepare for his final day. He’s asked if he can see you before then.”
“What does he want?”
“Whatever he has to say, he wants it heard by your ears alone,” Anden replies. “Remember, June—you have the option to refuse him. We don’t have to grant this last request.”
Tomorrow, Thomas will be dead. I wonder whether Anden feels any guilt over sentencing a soldier to die. The thought of facing Thomas alone in a jail cell sends a wave of panic through me, but I steel myself. Maybe Thomas has something to say about my brother. Do I want to hear it?
“I’ll see him,” I finally reply. “And hopefully this is the last time.”
Anden must hear something in my voice, because his words soften. “Of course. I’ll arrange for your escort.”
0930 HOURS.
DENVER STATE PENITENTIARY.
The hall where Thomas and Commander Jameson are being held is lit with cold, fluorescent light, and the sound of my boots echoes against the high ceiling. Several soldiers flank me, but aside from us, the hall feels empty and ominous. Portraits of Anden hang at sporadic intervals along the walls. My eyes stay focused on each of the cells we pass, studying them, details running through my mind in an effort to keep myself calm and focused. (32 × 32 feet in size, smooth steel walls, bulletproof glass, cams mounted outside of the cells instead of inside. Most of them are empty, and the ones that are filled hold three of the Senators who had plotted against Anden. This floor is reserved for prisoners associated specifically with Anden’s attempted assassination.)
“If you experience any trouble at all,” one of the soldiers says to me, tapping his cap in a polite bow, “just call us in. We’ll have that traitor down on the ground before he can make a move.”
“Thank you,” I reply, my eyes still fixed on the cells as we draw closer. I know I won’t need to do what he just said, because I know Thomas won’t ever disobey the Elector and try to hurt me. Thomas is many things, but he isn’t rebellious.
We reach the end of the hall where two adjacent cells sit, each one guarded by two soldiers.
Someone stirs in the cell closest to me. I turn toward the movement. I don’t even have time to study the cell’s interior before a woman raps her fingers against the steel bars. I jump, then swallow the cry that rises up in my throat as I stare into the face of Commander Jameson.
As she fixes her eyes on mine, she gives me a smile that makes me break out in a cold sweat. I remember this smile—she’d smiled like this on the night Metias died, when she approved me to become a junior agent in her patrol. There is no emotion there, nothing compassionate or even angry. Few things frighten me—but facing the cold, merciless expression of my brother’s true killer is one of them.
“Well,” she says in a low voice. “If it isn’t Iparis, come here to see us.” Her eyes flicker to me; the soldiers gather closer to me in a protective gesture. Don’t be afraid. I straighten as well as I can, then clench my jaw and force myself to face her without flinching.
“You’re wasting my time, Commander,” I say. “I’m not here for you. And the next time I see you will be the day you stand before the firing squad.”
She just smiles at me. “So brave, now that you have your handsome young Elector to hide behind. Isn’t that so?” When I narrow my eyes, she laughs. “Commander DeSoto would’ve been a better Elector than that boy could ever be. When the Colonies invade, they’ll burn this country to the ground. The people will regret ever putting their support behind a little boy.” She presses against the bars, as if trying to edge as close to me as possible. I swallow hard, but even through my fear, my anger boils under the surface. I don’t look away. It’s strange, but I think I see a sheen of gloss across her eyes, something that looks disconcerting above her unstable smile. “You were one of my favorites. Do you know why I was so interested in having you on my patrol? It’s because I saw myself reflected in you. We’re the same, you and I. I would’ve been Princeps, too, you know. I deserved it.”
