Prodigy

NV | A RRIVAL: 1704 B ORDER S TANDARD T IME, 01.13 AT B LACKWELL D OCK, L AMAR, CO
    Lamar. We’re headed for a warfront city up north. One step closer to Eden, I remind myself. June will be fine. This mission will all be over soon.
    The first room we enter is enormous—rows and rows of giant boilers and hissing vents, with dozens of workers operating each one. Some are checking temperatures, while others are shoving something like white coal into furnaces. They’re all dressed in the same outfit Tess had on right before she left us at the Venezia. We hurry along through one of the rows of boilers until we push through the next door. One more stairwell. Then we emerge onto the
Dynasty
’s lower deck.
    This airship is enormous. I’ve been on board airships before, of course. When I was thirteen, I snuck onto the flight deck of the RS
Pacifica
and stole fuel from three F-170 fighter jets, then sold it on the black market for a good price. But I’ve never been inside one of this size. Kaede leads us out the door of the stairwell and onto a metal walkway that opens up into a view of all the floors above us. Soldiers are everywhere. We walk with them, careful to keep our faces expressionless. Here on the lowest floor, several formations of troops run through drills. Doors line the corridors, and in between every four doors is a flat screen displaying news. The new Elector’s portrait hangs above each screen. They sure move fast, don’t they?
    Razor’s office is one of a half dozen that line the walls of the fourth deck, with a silver Republic seal embedded in its door. Kaede knocks twice. When she hears Razor’s voice calling for us to enter, she ushers us inside, then shuts the door carefully behind her and snaps to attention. I follow her lead. Our boots click against the hardwood floor. Something in the room smells faintly like jasmine, and as I take in the ornate, spherical wall lamps and the Elector’s portrait on the back wall, I realize how chilly it is in here. Razor stands by his desk with his hands behind his back, all fancy in his formal commander uniform, talking to a woman dressed in a similar outfit.
    It takes me a second to realize that the woman is Commander Jameson.
    Kaede and I both freeze in our tracks. After the shock of seeing Thomas, I’d simply assumed that if Commander Jameson was anywhere in Vegas, she’d be at the pyramid dock, monitoring her captain’s progress. I never thought she’d be on the ship. Why is she going to the warfront?
    Razor nods in our direction as both Kaede and I salute him. “At ease,” he says to us, then turns his attention back to Commander Jameson. Beside me, I can sense Kaede’s tension. My street instincts kick in. If Kaede’s anxious, that means the Patriots hadn’t planned on Commander Jameson’s being here. My eyes dart to the door’s lock; I imagine myself whirling around, flinging the door open, and swinging over the balcony railings to the deck below. The ship’s layout plays in my thoughts like a three-dimensional map. I need to be ready to bolt if she recognizes me. Gotta have my escape route ready.
    “I’ve been advised to keep my eyes open,” Commander Jameson says to Razor. He seems completely unfazed—his shoulders are relaxed, and he’s wearing an easy smile. “And so should you, DeSoto. If you notice anything odd, come to me. I’ll be ready.”
    “Of course.” Razor tips his head respectfully at Commander Jameson, even though his uniform’s insignias indicate that he’s her senior. “All the best to you, and to Los Angeles.”
    They exchange casual salutes. Then Commander Jameson begins walking toward the door. I force myself to remain still, but every muscle is screaming at me to escape.
    Commander Jameson passes me, and I wait quietly as she scans me from head to toe. From the corner of my eyes, I can see the hard lines of her face and the thin, scarlet slash of her lips. Behind her expression is an icy nothingness—a complete lack of emotion that injects both fear and hate into my blood. Then I notice that her hand is bandaged. Still injured from when she’d held me captive at Batalla Hall, when I’d bitten it almost down to the bone.
    She knows who I am,
I think. A bead of sweat trickles down my back. She must know. Even with this brief glance, she can see right through my disguise, this dark cropped hair and synthetic scar and brown contact lenses. I wait for her to raise the alarm. My boots tilt against the