Prodigy

thing on my costume that the other girls don’t wear.
    A chain of thirteen little glittering mirrors. They’re partially hidden amongst the other ornaments wrapped around my ankle, and from a distance it would seem like another decoration. Completely forgettable. But every now and then, when streetlights catch it, it becomes a row of brilliant, sparkling lights. Thirteen, the Patriots’ unofficial number. This is our signal to them. They must be watching the main Vegas strip all the time, so I know they’ll at least notice a row of flashing lights on me. And when they do, they’ll recognize us as the same pair they helped rescue in Los Angeles.
    The JumboTrons lining the street crackle for a second. The pledge should start again any minute now. Unlike Los Angeles, Vegas runs the national pledge five times a day—all the JumboTrons will pause in whatever ads or news they’re showing, replace them with enormous images of the Elector Primo, and then play the following on the city’s speaker system:
I pledge allegiance to the flag of the great Republic of America, to our Elector Primo, to our glorious states, to unity against the Colonies, to our impending victory!
    Not long ago, I used to recite that pledge every morning and afternoon with the same enthusiasm as anyone else, determined to keep the east coast Colonies from taking control of our precious west coast land. That was before I knew about the Republic’s role in my family’s deaths. I’m not sure what I think now. Let the Colonies win?
    The JumboTrons start broadcasting a newsreel. Weekly recap. Day and I watch the headlines zip by on the screens:
    REPUBLIC TRIUMPHANTLY TAKES OVER MILES OF COLONIES’ LAND IN BATTLE FOR AMARILLO, EAST TEXAS
    FLOOD WARNING CANCELLED FOR SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
    ELECTOR VISITS TROOPS ON NORTHERN WARFRONT, BOOSTS MORALE
    Most of them are fairly uninteresting—the usual headlines coming in from the warfront, updates on weather and laws, quarantine notices for Vegas.
    Then Day taps my shoulder and gestures at one of the screens.
    QUARANTINE IN LOS ANGELES EXTENDED TO EMERALD, OPAL SECTORS
    “Gem sectors?” Day whispers. My eyes are still fixed on the screen, even though the headline has passed. “Don’t rich folks live there?”
    I’m not sure what to say in return because I’m still trying to process the information myself. Emerald and Opal sectors . . . Is this a mistake? Or have the plagues in LA gotten serious enough to be broadcast on
Vegas
JumboTrons? I’ve never,
ever
seen quarantines extended into the upper-class sectors. Emerald sector borders Ruby—does that mean my home sector is going to be quarantined too? What about our vaccinations? Aren’t they supposed to prevent things like this? I think back on Metias’s journal entries.
One of these days,
he’d said,
there will be a virus unleashed that none of us will be able to stop.
I remember the things Metias had unveiled, the underground factories, the rampant diseases . . . the systematic plagues. A shiver runs through me. Los Angeles will quell it, I tell myself. The plague will die down, just like it always does.
    More headlines sweep by. A familiar one is about Day’s execution. It plays the clip of the firing squad yard where Day’s brother John took the bullets meant for Day, then fell facedown on the ground. Day turns his eyes to the pavement.
    Another headline is newer. It says this:

    MISSING
    SS NO: 2001963034
    ------------------------
    JUNE IPARIS
    AGENT, LOS ANGELES CITY PATROL
    AGE/GENDER: 15, FEMALE
    HEIGHT: 5’4”
    HAIR: BROWN
    EYES: BROWN
    LAST SEEN NEAR BATALLA HALL, LOS ANGELES, CA
    350,000 REPUBLIC NOTES REWARD
    IF SEEN, REPORT IMMEDIATELY TO YOUR LOCAL OFFICIAL

    That’s what the Republic wants their people to think. That I’m missing, that they hope to bring me back safe and sound. What they
don’t
say is that they probably want me dead. I helped the country’s most notorious criminal escape his execution, aided the rebel Patriots in a staged uprising against a military headquarters, and turned my back on the Republic.
    But they wouldn’t want that information going public, so they hunt for me quietly. The missing report shows the photo from my military ID—a face-forward, unsmiling shot of me, barefaced but for a touch of gloss, dark hair tied back in a high ponytail, a gold Republic seal gleaming against the black of my coat. I’m grateful that the phoenix tattoo hides half of my face right now.
    We make it to the