June
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.
Thomas shakes his head. “Only once. A long time ago.” Some of his dark hair falls across his face. It’s not combed back as nicely as usual—he must’ve been out in the crowds earlier. One hand lingers on the gun strapped to his belt, while the other rests on a rifle slung around his shoulder. He doesn’t look at me. He hasn’t looked at me straight on since he tried kissing me last night in the hall. “A bunch of fools,” he replies. “If they don’t back down soon, the commanders will make them regret it.”
I glance up to see several commanders standing on one of Batalla Hall’s balconies. It’s too dark now to be sure, but I don’t think Commander Jameson is with them. I know she’s giving orders through her mouthpiece, though, because Thomas listens intently with one hand pressed against his ear. But whatever she’s saying is only for Thomas, and I have no idea what she’s telling him. The crowd below us continues to push. I can tell from their clothes—torn shirts and trousers, mismatched shoes filled with holes—that almost all of them are from the poor sectors near the lake. Secretly, I will them to disperse. Get out of here before things get worse.
Thomas leans over to me and nods toward the center of the crowd. “See that pitiful bunch?”
I’d already noticed what he’s pointing out, but I still follow his gaze politely. A group of protesters have streaked their hair scarlet, imitating the bloodstained lock Day had when he’d stood out here for his sentencing. “A poor choice for a hero,” Thomas goes on. “Day will be dead in less than a week.”
I nod once but say nothing.
A few screams echo from the crowd. One patrol has made its way around to the back of the square, and now they have the crowd boxed in, pushing people in toward the square’s center. I frown. This isn’t protocol for handling an unruly mob. In school, we were taught that dust bombs or tear gas is more than enough to do the job. But there’s no sign of that—none of the soldiers wear gas masks. And now yet another patrol has started chasing away the stragglers gathered outside the square, where the streets are too chaotic and narrow to protest properly.
“What’s Commander Jameson telling you?” I ask Thomas.
Thomas’s dark hair falls across his eyes and covers his expression. “She says to stay put and wait for her command.”
We don’t do anything for a good half hour. I keep one hand in my pocket, absently rubbing Day’s pendant. Somehow, the crowd reminds me of Skiz. There’s probably even some of the same people.
That’s when I see soldiers running along the tops of the square’s buildings. Some hurry along ledges, while others are gathered in a straight line across the roofs. Odd. Soldiers usually have black tassels and a single row of silver buttons on their jackets. Their arm insignias are navy blue or red or silver or gold. But these soldiers have no buttons on their jackets. Instead, a white stripe runs diagonally across their chests and their armbands are gray. It takes me another second to realize who they are.
“Thomas.” I tap him and point up to the roofs. “Executioners.”
No surprise on his face, no emotion in his eyes. He clears his throat. “So they are.”
“What are they doing?” My voice rises. I glance to the protesters in the square, then back up to the roofs. None of the soldiers have dust bombs or tear gas. Instead, each one has a gun slung around his shoulder. “They’re not dispersing them, Thomas. They’re trapping them in.”
Thomas gives me a stern look. “Hold steady, June. Pay attention to the crowd.”
As my eyes stay turned up toward the roofs, I notice Commander Jameson step out onto the top of Batalla Hall flanked by soldiers. She speaks into her mouthpiece.
Several seconds pass. A terrible feeling builds up in my chest—I know where this is going.
Thomas suddenly murmurs something into his mike. A response to a command. I glance at him. He catches my gaze for a second, and then he looks toward the rest of the patrol standing on the platform with us. “Fire at will!” he shouts.
“Thomas!” I want to say more, but at that instant, shots ring out from both the roofs and the platform. I lunge forward. I don’t know what I plan to do—wave my arms in front of the soldiers?—but Thomas grabs my shoulder before I can step forward.
“Stay back, June!”
“Tell your men to stand down,” I shout, scrambling out of his grasp. “Tell them—”
That’s when Thomas throws me to the ground so hard that I feel the wound in my side break open.
“Damn it, June,” he says. “Stay back!”
The ground’s surprisingly cold. I crouch there, for once at a loss, unable to move. I don’t really understand what just happened. The skin around my wound burns. Bullets rain down on the square. People in the crowd collapse like levees in a flood. Thomas, stop. Please stop. I want to get up and scream in his face, to hurt him somehow. Metias would kill you for this, Thomas, if he were alive. But instead I cover my ears. The gunshots are deafening.
The gunfire lasts only a minute, if that—but it seems like forever. Thomas finally shouts an order to cease fire, and those in the crowd who haven’t been shot fall to their knees and throw their hands up over their heads. Soldiers rush to them, cuffing their arms behind their backs, forcing them together into clusters. I push myself up onto my knees. My ears still ring from the gunfire. … I scan the scene of blood and bodies and prisoners. There are 97, 98 dead. No, at least 120. Hundreds more are in custody. I can’t even concentrate enough to count them.
Thomas glances at me before stepping off the platform—his face is grave, even guilty, but I know with a sinking feeling that he feels guilty only for throwing me to the ground. Not for this massacre he’s leaving behind. He heads back toward Batalla Hall with several soldiers. I turn my face away so I don’t have to watch him.