Exodia Read Online Free PDF Page A

the sheep if the windmill no
longer worked to fill the pond.
    “ Oh, no,” Katie said, “the
lambs will get around the edge of the fence if the water recedes
any more.”

 
     

 
     
    Chapter 3 The Fugitive
     
    From the second page of the
Ledger:
    He went out to where his own
people were. He saw a man beating one of his own. He killed him and
hid him .
     
    AFTER A PRETTY sleepless night I
resolve to stay as far away as possible from the B streets in the
Red slum. It ought to be easy except that now, with the early
spring morning light, I forget my resolution and I’m tempted to
retrace my steps to look for Lydia.
    I need to darken my tattoo though I
might have an advantage with her if I let her see how reddish it is
now. Maybe that’s part of the prophecy.
    I dress as quickly as possible, putting
on a long sleeve shirt even though it’s warm, and sneak through the
capitol building to my grandfather’s quarters. The capitol is a
collection of office buildings that were easiest to fortify,
convert into living and working spaces, and use as the Executive
President’s year-round command center. While it’s guarded at the
gate and randomly around the grounds, it’s pretty lax inside. My
mother called it the palace or the castle when I was little, but I
see it now as not much better than the homes in the slum, just
bigger. Half our windows are boarded up or broken. The air
conditioning is rarely effective and the lighting only works
because of the expensive generators that run on fuel my grandfather
stockpiled before the last civil uprising.
    I peer down the hallway that leads to
the Defense President’s residence, a suite of three rooms where I
can usually find Jamie–if I’m sure his father is not around. Right
now I don’t know. I cross over to the hall leading to the stairs. I
don’t think Jamie would be interested in this, so I won’t include
him. I’m not sure I trust him anyway.
    I reach my grandfather’s quarters and
as I expected there’s no guard. The room just down the hall is an
old conference room turned into a library. It’s the room my nanny
brought me to when she taught me to read and write, before I had
tutors, before I was allowed to socialize or be schooled with the
children of the secretaries, generals, and governors who rotate
through our political world. I haven’t been back to this room in
years.
    The door doesn’t lock. I step inside
and close it softly. The light is good in here. The east facing
windows are fairly clean. Enough light pours in to make my job
easier. I start with an old SCR and set it on the table by the
window, flick the tab, and let it soak in the solar rays while I
scan the shelves for what I hope is here.
    I read the labels on the stacked boxes.
Many are neatly identified with names and dates or acronyms and
numbers, printed out on stickers. Some look hastily compiled with
handwritten codes. These are the ones that should hold the key. I
bring a pile of them to the table and study the codes. I decide on
the four whose nearly illegible categories begin with
“Pr”.
    I slip the first one into the SCR and
the screen loads up immediately. I expect a password prompt, but
the touch-screen glows with audio, video, and reader options. I
pick the video option but nothing happens. I pull the box out and
set it on the shelf to my left.
    Box “Pr-4-13-2051-D2” gives a similar
result–no video. I’m not particularly patient, but with this one I
try the audio option. It begins to play and an odd voice, not the
usual computer-generated one, recites the code followed by
“unsubstantiated psychic forecast by trained level 6 subject,
non-aided.” The audio stops. That’s it. I pull it out.
    Three’s the charm, I think, but the
door opens and a guard steps in.
    I have the box I pulled out in my left
hand and the third box in my right hand. I look over my shoulder,
raise my eyebrows, but say nothing. I’m guilty of so much more than
being in the archive room.
    “ Hey,