CHAPTER 3 #2
I stiffen. There’s no way I’m letting her shift the blame. “How the hell could you have had no choice? Did Jack force you to cut me off?”
“No. Of course not. It wasn’t because of him.” She pauses, a hint of fear flashing across her face. “It was… because of his best friend.”
“Buckle up. We’re taking off,” Harrison calls.
The moment he steps out of the corridor, Charlotte returns to her seat on the sofa and lets her hair fall over her face.
I watch, stunned, as she opens a Polo magazine and flips through the articles as if I weren’t even here.
What the hell does she mean? Why would Jack’s best friend be involved in this?
Confusion washes over me, followed by a terrible feeling of being cheated, as if the moment meant to give me closure has been snatched away.
Charlotte and I keep to ourselves during the first leg of the flight. Pinkies serve appetizers and champagne cocktails at the dining table, though the spread remains untouched. Charlotte is still staring at the Polo magazine in her lap, her expression blank, as if she’s not seeing the words.
From the dining table, I keep glancing at her, fighting the urge to demand the whole truth.
Who is Jack’s best friend? And what’s his problem with me?
Is he someone who opposes Dad’s politics and pressured Charlotte to cut me off because of my last name?
I don’t understand it. And now that she’s tossed me a few scraps, I’m starving for the rest.
Harrison, who’s aware of the bad blood between Charlotte and me, avoids the tension by calling Vivian.
He communicates with her through his Bond, a computer interface chip embedded in his brain’s cerebral cortex.
Almost everyone has one—myself included—because it’s more advanced and convenient than a mobile phone.
With a Bond, you don’t have to type with your fingers; the device decodes brain signals, letting you browse the internet or send messages with just a thought.
The only people who refuse to get one are those like Dad, who don’t trust the technology, and others like Vivian, who don’t understand it.
When Harrison finishes his call and deactivates his Bond, his left eye shifts from electric blue back to its original green. Grabbing a bottle of vitamins from his jacket, he slides one into his mouth and heads to the custom putting green that winds through the middle of the lounge.
“We need to talk,” he says, nodding toward a black velvet sofa near the putting green. “Both of you, please sit.”
“I can hear you just fine over here,” Charlotte calls from the bar, where a Pinkie is mixing her a Gibson cocktail.
“You want to talk about your final tip?” I ask, half expecting him to repeat Dad’s warning to steer clear of the Blues.
“Yeah.” Harrison rolls up his sleeves and takes a putter from a Pinkie. “Look, I know you two aren’t friends anymore, but if you want to survive at Grandmaster, you’re better off sticking together.”
Charlotte and I exchange a tense, prickly glance from opposite sides of the lounge. Harrison sighs and shakes his head as if our disagreement is a spitball compared to the bullets we’re about to face.
But I don’t care.
“I’ll just stick with you, Harry,” I say.
“That’s not possible.”
“Why not?” He’s a third-year student, so we won’t have any lectures together, but that doesn’t explain why he can’t be around outside of class or on weekends.
“We’ll get to that.” Harrison lines up his shot, his leather-laced brogues sinking into the turf, then taps the golf ball into the hole. “Ten years ago, seven percent of low-citizens got executed before graduating from Grandmaster. Now it’s eleven percent. Do you know what’s behind the spike?”
“Is this some kind of trick question?” Charlotte murmurs as the Pinkie sets her Gibson on the bar. She tastes the cocktail, then nods in approval. “It’s obviously because of the Blues.”
“Partly. Mostly, it’s because of other low-citizens—Oranges, Purples, even Greens like us.
Plenty of them will pretend to like you.
Some might even mean it. But the second it pays to turn on you, they will.
It happens all the time. I’ve seen low-citizens report their friends, their partners, even their families.
You can’t trust them. Most would hand you over to the Coppers for a pat on the head from a Blue. ”
Harrison’s words echo Dad’s advice, and even though I already know about Grandmaster’s skyrocketing execution rate, thinking about it sends a cold, tingling sensation through me.
Growing up in the Green District, I always felt safe among my kind.
Sure, some Greens are rough around the edges, but most are easygoing, orderly, and care about keeping the peace. I never even saw litter on the streets.
In the Civilized World—everywhere except Grandmaster—the execution rate is four percent, which is high but nothing compared to the university’s death rate.
Many say you’d have to be a danger-blind lunatic to enroll now, and maybe they’re right.
But the benefits make the risk worthwhile for some.
If you survive and graduate, your future is secure, and your odds of execution drop to match everyone else’s.
“How have you managed to do so well?” I ask Harrison. He brought up execution rates for a reason, and from the way he keeps shifting his stance, I can tell he’s reluctant to explain why.
“Because I’ve got protection.”
Charlotte sips her cocktail, silent, her eyebrow arching curiously.
“From whom?” I ask. “The professors?”
“No. Most of the professors are low-citizens. They don’t have that kind of power.” He lines up another shot, taking his time, as if deliberately avoiding my gaze. “My protection comes from a Blue.”
Charlotte chokes on her Gibson, spraying liquid across the bar. A Pinkie darts to her side and offers her a linen handkerchief, which she uses to wipe her mouth. Harrison ignores our reactions as he taps the golf ball into the hole.
His calm only makes me more confused. Even though I understand exactly what he’s implying, I can’t fully wrap my head around it.
He’s talking about entourages, groups of low-citizens who serve the Blues in exchange for favors.
Entourages are rare and mostly limited to the worlds of business and politics, but Dad hates them enough to rant about them weekly.
It never even crossed my mind that they might exist at Grandmaster University.
Why the hell would Harrison do this? Why trust a Blue? The questions claw their way up, but I force them down, reminding myself he’s been at Grandmaster for three years, while I’ve never even set foot on campus.
“Seems reckless, Harry,” is all I say.
He props the golf club on his shoulder defensively.
“Half the low-citizens at Grandmaster get protection from Blues, and the other half would if they could. Blues invite us into their entourages every day. Yeah, it’s risky, but it’s worth it.
Being in an entourage doesn’t just protect you from other low-citizens—it protects you from other Blues, too. ”
Charlotte tosses the handkerchief onto the bar, as if shocked he’s admitting this, while I’m shocked he’s defending it.
I know Harrison hates the Blues as much as I do.
I’ve lost count of how many times he’s railed against their corruption at dinners with my family.
And now, even after accusing them of being tyrants, he’s sold out for a spot in one of their pockets.
“Blues don’t do anything for free,” I say. “What’s the trade?”
Harrison meets my gaze as if he’s about to sell me something. “It’s different in every entourage, but… usually, we do service work.”
“Service work? Like what Pinkies do?”
“You could say that.”
He lowers the golf club from his shoulder, grabs another ball, and casually resumes putting.
I watch him, trying to figure out why he’d agree to this.
No one, not even criminals, does manual labor in the Civilized World.
I’ve never scrubbed a floor or taken out the trash in my life.
All the grunt work, from cleaning sewers to breaking rocks in quarries, is done by Pinkies.
Blues aren’t asking low-citizens to serve them because they need help; it’s a power move, a humiliation.
“Drop the dance already, Harry,” Charlotte says, stubbing out her half-smoked cigarette. “If you’re going to rope us into this, you might as well give it to us straight. The real trade is sex, right? Sex in exchange for protection?”
“Sometimes,” Harrison admits, still focused on his game. “But not always. Most Blues aren’t interested in low-citizens like that. They think we’re beneath them. In my three years at Grandmaster, I’ve only heard of it happening a handful of times.”
Depending on the size of the hand, that could mean ten or fifty times.
“And what about you, Harry?” I ask. “Is your Blue a woman?”
For the first time in the conversation, a flicker of shame crosses his face. “Yeah. Lily. She doesn’t blackmail me or anyone in her entourage for sex, but she does expect us to go everywhere with her. That’s why you won’t see me much.”
“Sounds like slavery to me,” Charlotte mutters.
Harrison shrugs and taps another ball into the hole. “Call it what you want. Every low-citizen, including you two, is in the same boat as me. The difference is, I don’t have to worry about drowning anymore.”
“Better to choke on water than to choke on a chain around our necks,” I say.
Harrison pauses mid-swing, his jaw tightening, as if he expected hostility from Charlotte rather than from me. But I’m not the one he needs to worry about.
“Does Vivian know you’re in an entourage?” I ask.
“Of course, she does. And she’s fine with it.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Ask her yourself, then.”