Prodigy

long the rest of this tunnel is or when we’ll hit another shelter. We have to move forward into the Colonies. Maybe they’ll be willing to help us when we get to the other side. Then again, we might have to keep a low profile. We
did
ruin the assassination that the Colonies were sponsoring. I sigh deeply, wishing I had more time to chat with Kaede, to coax out all her stories about living on the other side of the warfront.
    How did our plans turn into such a mess?
    There’s a faint knock on the kitchen’s open door. I turn around to see June standing there with her arms crossed. She’s unbuttoned her Republic coat, and the collar shirt and vest underneath look rumpled. Her cheeks are more flushed than usual, and her eyes are red, like she’s been crying. “The electric circuits in here aren’t feeding into the Republic,” she says. If she
had
shed any tears, I sure as hell don’t hear them in her voice. “Their cables run down through the other end of the tunnel, the part we haven’t covered yet.”
    I go back to stacking cans. “So?” I mutter.
    “That means they must be getting their power from the Colonies, right?”
    “Guess so. Makes sense, yeah?” I straighten my back and pull the two burlap sacks I’ve prepared tightly shut. “Well, at least it means the tunnel will lead out to the surface somewhere, hopefully in the Colonies. When we’re ready to go we can just follow the cables. We should probably get some rest first.”
    I’m just about to walk out of the kitchen and past June when she clears her throat and speaks up. “Hey—did the Patriots teach you anything about fighting while you were with them?”
    I shake my head. “No. Why?”
    June turns to face me. The kitchen entrance is narrow enough that her shoulders brush past mine, raising goose bumps on my arms. I’m annoyed that she still has this effect on me, in spite of everything. “While we were getting into the tunnel I noticed that you were swinging at the Patriots from your arms . . . but that’s not very effective. You should be swinging from your legs and hips.”
    Her critique grates on my nerves, even though she’s giving it in a strangely hesitant tone. “I don’t want to do this right now.”
    “When are we going to do it if not now?” June leans against the door frame and points toward the shelter’s entrance. “What if we bump into some soldiers?”
    I sigh and put my hands up for a second. “If this is your way of apologizing after a fight, then you really
suck
at it. Listen. I’m sorry I got angry earlier.” I hesitate, remembering my words. I’m
not
sorry. But telling her that now won’t help anything. “Just give me a few minutes, and I’ll feel better.”
    “Come on, Day. What’ll happen when you find Eden and you need to protect him?” She
is
trying to apologize, in her own subtle way.
Well. At least she’s giving it a shot, however crappy she is at it.
I glare at her for a few seconds.
    “All right,” I finally say. “Show me some moves, soldier. What you got up your sleeves?”
    June gives me a small smile, then walks me over to the center of the shelter’s main room. She stands beside me. “Ever read Ducain’s
The Art of the Fight
?”
    “Does it look like I’ve had free time in my life to read?”
    She ignores me, and I immediately feel bad for saying it. “Well, you’re already light on your feet and you have flawless balance,” she continues. “But you don’t use those strengths when you attack. It’s like you panic. You forget all about your speed advantage and your center of mass.”
    “My center of what?” I start to say, but she just taps the outside of my leg with her boot.
    “Stay on the balls of your feet and keep your legs shoulder width apart,” she goes on. “Pretend you’re standing on train tracks with one foot forward.”
    I’m a little surprised. June’s been watching my attacks closely, even though it usually happens when all sorts of chaos is going on around us. And she’s right. I hadn’t even realized that all my instincts of balance go right out the window when I try to fight. I do as she says. “Okay. Now what?”
    “Well, keep your chin down, for one.” She touches my hands, then lifts them up so one fist stays close to the side of my cheek and the other hovers out in front of my face. Her hands run along my arms, checking my posture. My skin tingles. “Most people lean back and keep their chins high and jutted,” she says, her face