Legend Trilogy Boxed Set

  November 17

  You asked me why I seemed so out of it today. June, if you’re reading this, you probably remember this day, and now you’ll know why.

  I’ve been hunting for clues ever since my last entry here. For the past few months I’ve tried asking subtle questions of other lab workers, and of Dad’s old friends, and searching online. Well, today I found something.

  Today I finally managed to hack the Los Angeles deceased civilians database. Most complicated thing I’ve ever done. I was going about it the wrong way. There’s a security hole on their servers that I hadn’t noticed before because they’d buried it behind all sorts of—well, anyway, it resulted in me getting in. And much to my surprise, I actually found a report on our parents’ car accident.

  Except it was not an accident. June, I’ll never be able to say this to you out loud, so I desperately hope that you’ll see it here.

  Commander Baccarin, another former student of Chian (you remember Chian, right?), submitted the report. The report said that Dr. Michael Iparis had roused the suspicions of the Batalla Hall lab administrators when he first questioned the true purpose of his research. He’d always worked on understanding the plague viruses, of course, but he must have uncovered something that upset him enough to make him quietly file for a change in work assignment. Remember that, June? It was just a few weeks before the car crash.

  The rest of the report didn’t go into the plagues, but it told me what I needed to know. June, the Batalla Hall lab administrators ordered Commander Baccarin to keep an eye on our father. When Dad tried to get reassigned, Baccarin knew that he’d figured out the reason for his research. As you can imagine, this didn’t go over very well. Commander Baccarin was ordered to “find a way to smooth the whole matter over.” The report ends by saying that the matter was resolved, without military casualties.

  Dated a day after the car accident.

  They killed them.

  November 18

  They fixed the security hole on the server. I’ll have to find another way around it.

  November 22

  It turns out the deceased civilians database has more information about the plagues than I guessed. Of course I should’ve known that, what with the plagues killing off hundreds of people every year. But I always thought the plagues were spontaneous. They’re not.

  June bug, you need to know this. I don’t know when you’ll find these entries, but I know you’ll find them eventually. Listen to me carefully: when you are finished reading, don’t tell me you know about anything. I don’t want you doing something rash. Understand? Think about your safety first. You can find a way to help, I know you can. If anyone can, you can. But for my sake don’t do anything that’ll draw attention to you. I’ll kill myself if the Republic strikes you down for reacting to knowledge that I gave you.

  If you want to rebel, rebel from inside the system. That’s much more powerful than rebelling outside the system. And if you choose to rebel, bring me with you.

  Dad found out that the Republic engineers the annual plagues.

  They start off in the most obvious place. Those high-rise terraces full of grazing animals isn’t where most of our meat comes from. Did you know that? I should’ve guessed it. The Republic has thousands of underground factories for the animals. They’re hundreds of feet deep. At first Congress didn’t know what to do with the crazy viruses that kept developing down there and killing off entire factories of animals. Inconvenient, right? But then they remembered the Colonies war. And so every time an interesting new virus appears in the meat factories, the scientists take samples and craft them into viruses that can infect humans. Then they develop an equivalent vaccine and cure for it. And then they hand out mandatory vaccinations to everyone but a few slum sectors. Rumor has it that there’s a new strain developing in Lake and Alta and Winter.

  They pump that virus into the slum sectors through a system of underground pipes. Sometimes into the water supply, sometimes just directly into a few specific homes to see how it spreads. That starts off a new round of plague. When they think they’ve seen enough evidence for what that virus strain can do, they secretly prick everyone (everyone still alive, that is) in those sectors with the cure during a routine sweep, and the plague dies down until the next test strain. They also run individual plague experiments on some of the children who fail the Trial. They don’t go to labor camps, June.

  None of them do.

  They die.

  Do you see where I’m going with this? They use the plagues to cull the population of weak genes, the same way the Trials pick out the strongest. But they’re also creating viruses to use against the Colonies. They’ve been using biological weapons against them for years. I don’t give a damn what happens to the Colonies or exactly what our Republic wants to inflict on them—but June, our own people are lab rats. Dad worked in those labs, and when he tried to quit, they killed him. And Mom. They thought they would tell everybody. Who wants a mass riot? Certainly not Congress.

  We’re all going to die like this, June, if someone doesn’t step in. One of these days, a virus will get out of hand, and no vaccine or cure will be able to stop it.

  November 26

  Thomas knows. He knows what I suspect, that I think the government may have killed our parents intentionally.

  I keep wondering how he knew that I’d hacked into the deceased civilians database, and all I can think of is that I left a trace, and the tech guys who fixed that security hole found it and mentioned it to him. So he approached me earlier today and asked me about it.

  I told him I was still grieving over our parents’ deaths and got a little paranoid. Told him I didn’t find anything. I said you knew nothing about it, that he shouldn’t mention it to you. He said he’d keep it a secret. I think I can trust him. It’s just a little nerve-racking to have anyone know even the smallest bit about my suspicions. I mean, you know how he gets sometimes.

  I’ve made up my mind. By the end of the week, I’ll tell Commander Jameson that I’m going to withdraw from her patrol. I’ll complain about the hours and say that I don’t see you enough. Something like that. I’ll update here when I’m reassigned.

  I follow Metias’s instructions and delete every last trace of his blog.

  Then I curl up on the couch and sleep until Thomas calls. I press a button on my phone and the voice of my brother’s murderer fills my living room. Thomas, the soldier who would happily carry out any order from Commander Jameson, even if it’s to kill a childhood friend. The soldier who used Day as a convenient scapegoat.

  “June?” he says. “Are you all right? It’s almost ten hundred hours, and I haven’t seen you. Commander Jameson wants to know where you are.”

  “I’m not feeling well,” I manage. “I’m going to sleep awhile longer.”

  “Oh.” A pause. “What are your symptoms?”

  “I’ll be fine,” I reply. “Just dehydrated and feverish. I think I ate something bad last night at the café. Tell Commander Jameson I should feel a little better by evening.”

  “Okay, then. Sorry to hear it. Feel better soon.” Another pause. “If you’re still feeling sick by tonight, I’ll file a report and send the plague patrol over to check you. You know, protocol. And if you need me to come over, just call me.”

  You’re the last person I want to see. “I’ll let you know. Thanks.” I hang up.

  My head hurts. Too many memories, too many revelations. No wonder Commander Jameson had Metias’s body taken away so fast. I’d been stupid enough to think she did it out of sympathy. No wonder she organized his funeral. Even my test mission to track Day must’ve been a diversion to distract me while they tossed out any remaining evidence.

  I think back to the evening when Metias decided to resign from shadowing Chian and joining the Trial enforcers. He’d been quiet and withdrawn when he picked me up from school. “Are you all right?” I remember asking him.

  He didn’t answer. He just took my hand in his and headed for the tr
ain station. “Come on, June,” he said. “Let’s just go home.”

  When I looked at his gloves, I saw tiny specks of blood staining them.

  Metias didn’t touch his dinner, or ask me how my day went—which annoyed me until I realized just how upset he was. Finally, right before bedtime, I went over to where he was lying on the couch and snuggled under his arm. He kissed my forehead.

  “I love you,” I whispered, hoping to get something out of him.

  He turned to look at me. His eyes were so sad.

  “June,” he said, “I think I’m going to appeal for a different mentor tomorrow.”

  “You don’t like Chian?”

  Metias stayed silent for a while. Then he lowered his eyes as if ashamed. “I shot someone at the Trial stadium today.”

  This was what bothered him. I kept quiet and let him go on.

  Metias ran a hand through his hair. “I shot a girl. She’d failed her Trial and tried to escape the stadium. Chian screamed at me to shoot her . . . and I listened.”

  “Oh.” I didn’t know it back then, but now I can tell that Metias felt like he had shot me when he killed that little girl. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  Metias stared off into the distance. “Few people ever kill for the right reasons, June,” he said after a long silence. “Most do it for the wrong reasons. I just hope you never have to be in either category.”

  The memory fades, and I’m left hanging on to the ghosts of his words.

  I don’t move for the next few hours. When the Republic’s pledge starts up outside, I can hear the people on the streets below chanting along, but I don’t bother to stand. I don’t salute when the Elector Primo’s name comes up. Ollie sits next to me, staring, whining every now and then. I look back at him. I’m thinking, calculating. I have to do something. I think of Metias, of my parents, then of Day’s mother, and his brothers. The plague has gotten its claws around all of us, in one way or another. The plague murdered my parents. The plague infected Day’s brother. It killed Metias for uncovering the truth of it all. It took from me the people I love. And behind the plague is the Republic itself. The country I used to be proud of. The country that experiments on and kills children who fail the Trial. Labor camps—we’d all been fooled. Had the Republic murdered relatives of my Drake classmates too, all those people who died in combat or in accidents or of illnesses? What else is secret?

  I rise, walk over to my computer, and pick up my glass of water. I stare blankly into it. Somehow, the sight of my fingers’ disjointed reflections against the glass startles me—reminds me of Day’s bloody hands, of Metias’s broken body. This antique glass was a gift, supposedly imported from the Republic’s islands of South America. It’s worth 2,150 Notes. Someone could’ve bought a plague cure with the money spent on this glass that I use to drink water out of. Maybe the Republic doesn’t even own those islands. Maybe nothing I’ve been taught is true.

  In a sudden fit of anger, I lift the glass and hurl it against the wall. It shatters into a thousand glittering pieces. I stand there unmoving, trembling.

  If Metias and Day had met somewhere other than the hospital’s back streets, would they have become allies?

  The sun changes position. Afternoon comes. I still don’t move from where I stand.

  Finally, when the sunset bathes my apartment in orange and gold, I break out of my trance. I clean up the shining shards of broken glass. I dress in my full uniform. I make sure my hair is pulled back flawlessly, that my face is clean and calm and devoid of emotion. In the mirror, I look the same. But I am a different person inside. I’m a prodigy who knows the truth, and I know exactly what I’m going to do.

  I’m going to help Day escape.

  I TRY TO BREAK OUT OF MY PRISON TONIGHT. THIS is how it happens.

  As night falls on the third to last day of my life, I hear more shouting and pandemonium coming from the monitors outside my cell. Plague patrols have completely sealed off the Lake and Alta sectors. The steady rise and fall of gunfire coming from the screens tells me that the people living in those sectors must be facing off against the troops. Only one side has the advantage of guns. Guess who’s winning.

  My thoughts wander back to June. I shake my head, amazed by how much I’ve allowed myself to open up to her. I wonder what she’s doing right now and what she’s thinking about. Maybe she’s thinking about me. I wish she were here. Somehow I always feel better with her. It’s as if she can completely sympathize with my thoughts and help me channel them away, and I can always take comfort in her lovely face.

  Her face might give me courage, too. I’ve had trouble building up my courage without Tess, or John, or my mother.

  I’ve been thinking about this all day. If I can find a way out of this cell, and arm myself with a soldier’s weapons and vest, I have a fighting chance to get out of Batalla Hall. I’ve seen the outside of this building several times now. The sides are not as slick as the Central Hospital was, and if I manage to break out of a window I could run along one of the ledges wrapping around the side of the building, even with my healing leg. The soldiers won’t be able to follow me. They’d have to shoot at me from the ground or the air, but I’m fast when I can find footholds, and I can tolerate the pain in my hands. I’ll have to find some way to break John out too. Eden probably isn’t in Batalla Hall anymore, but I remember quite clearly what June said to me on the first day of my capture. The prisoner in 6822. That must be John . . . and I’m going to find him.

  But first I have to figure out how to get out of this cell.

  I look over at the soldiers lined up against the wall and near the door. There are four. Each wears a standard uniform: black boots, black shirt with a single row of silver buttons, dark gray trousers, bulletproof vest, and a single silver armband. Each has a close-range rifle and an additional gun in his belt’s holsters. My mind races. In a room like this, with four steel walls that bullets could bounce off of, the rifles probably use something other than lead ammo. Rubber, perhaps, to stun me if needed. Even tranquilizers. But nothing that can kill me or kill them. Nothing, that is, unless it’s shot from a very close range.

  I clear my throat. The soldiers turn to me. I wait a few more seconds, then make a gagging sound and hunch over. I shake my head as if to clear my thoughts, then lean back against the wall and close my eyes.

  The soldiers seem alert now. One of them points his rifle at me. They stay silent.

  I keep up my act for another few minutes, gagging twice more as the soldiers continue to watch me. Then, without warning, I pretend to dry heave, then burst into a fit of coughs.

  The soldiers look at each other. For the first time, I see an uncertain light come into their eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” one of them snaps at me. It’s the one with the cocked rifle. I don’t answer him. I pretend to concentrate too hard on holding back another heave.

  Another soldier glances at him. “Maybe it’s the plague.”

  “That’s nonsense. The medics checked him already.”

  The soldier shakes his head. “He was exposed to his brothers. That young one’s Patient Zero, isn’t he? Maybe the medics didn’t pick it up back then.”

  Patient Zero. I knew it. I gag again, trying to turn away from the guards as I do it, so they think I don’t want their attention. I heave and spit on the floor.

  The guards hesitate. Finally, the one with the cocked rifle nods at the soldier standing next to him. “Well, I don’t want to stick around in here if it is some weird mutated plague. Call for a bio team. Let’s have him brought to the medical ward cells.” The other soldier nods, then raps on the door. I hear it unlock from the outside. A soldier from the hallway ushers him outside, then quickly relocks the door.

  The first soldier walks toward me. “The rest of you, keep your rifles on him,” he says over his shoulder. He holds out a pair of handcuffs. I pretend not to notice his approach, so busy am I with my gagging and coughing. “Get up.” He grabs one of my arms and pulls me roughly t
o my feet. I grunt in pain.

  He reaches up and unlocks one of my hands from its chain, then clips it into the handcuffs. I don’t fight him. Then he unlocks the second hand. He gets ready to shove it into the handcuffs.

  Suddenly I twist, and for a split second I’m free. Before he can react, I whirl, yank the gun out of his holster, and point it straight at him. The other two guards fix their rifles on me, but they don’t fire. They can’t do it without hitting the first soldier.

  “Tell your boys outside to open the door,” I say to the soldier I’m holding hostage.

  He swallows hard. The other soldiers don’t dare to blink. “Open the door!” he shouts. There’s commotion in the hall, then a few clicks. The first soldier bares his teeth at me. “There are dozens of them out there,” he snaps. “You’ll never make it.”

  I just wink at him.

  The instant the door opens a sliver, I grab the soldier’s shirt and shove him against a wall. One of the others attempts to fire at me—I duck to the floor and roll. Shots are fired all around me. They sound like rubber pellets. I break out of my roll in time to trip a soldier flat on his back. Even this makes me grit my teeth in pain. Damn this sore leg. I dart right through the opening before they can close it.

  I take in the hallway scene in the blink of an eye. Soldiers litter the walkway. Ceiling tiles. Right-angle turn at the end of the hall. The walls say 4th Floor. The soldier who opened the door has started reacting—his hand goes to his gun as if in slow motion. I leap up, push off against one wall, and grip the top ledge of the door. My injured leg throws me off completely—I nearly fall back to the ground. More shots ring out. I swing up toward the ceiling and grab the crisscrossing metal between the tiles. Room 6822—sixth floor. I swing back down, kicking one soldier in the head with my good leg. He goes down, and I roll with him. I feel two rubber bullets hit him in the shoulder. He cries out. I crouch down and dart through the hall, dodging soldiers and guns, slipping out of the hands that reach for me.