CHAPTER 5 #3
No. Why the hell am I even thinking about this? I’m a Public Person now. Breaking my weapons restriction would earn me much more than a slap on the wrist. Best case, I get arrested. Worst case, I face execution.
Harrison’s eyes drop to my injured hand, and he swallows hard, a bead of sweat sliding down his nose.
I can see how close he is to caving, to making the introduction to save his own skin.
The temptation is brief, gone in an instant, but it’s enough to make Hillaire’s warnings about him being a coward come rushing back.
He draws a ragged breath. “Apologies, Mr. Lee, but I am unable to provide you with an introduction at this time.”
The crowd erupts, buzzing angrily like a hornet’s nest Harrison just kicked.
“Cut him down, Mr. Lee!” someone shouts.
“Make him pay for protecting the lady,” another voice echoes.
Mr. Lee straightens, his chest swelling as if the mob is fueling his determination. His fingertips brush the hilt of his saber. “If that is your decision, Mr. Somerset, I consider it an offense,” he says. “One I can—and will—repay.”
“So, repay it.”
Mr. Lee hesitates. “You are truly willing to risk your life to protect Miss Waldsten?”
“I am,” Harrison says, reaching toward the scabbard on his belt. “Although I would advise you to tread carefully, sir. Consider the consequences of such a duel.”
“I do not fear your blade.”
“It is not my blade you should be afraid of.”
Mr. Lee frowns, as if he doesn’t grasp Harrison’s meaning.
The crowd murmurs around him, whispers spreading like a burning fuse.
He turns, trying to listen to the chatter, but the noise from the security drones drowns out most of it.
The only word that echoes loudly, passed through the crowd like a firecracker, is the one Harrison wants Mr. Lee to hear.
Entourage.
Harrison draws his saber with a quick flick of his wrist; a long graphene blade extends from the hilt, shining like a sliver of sunlight. He steps forward on his dominant foot and slides into en garde, his sword arm extended and the other tucked behind for balance.
“I shall ask you, sir, for the last time… make your challenge, or make way.”
Mr. Lee remains still, but the rigid click of his jaw makes it clear he understands what’s at stake. If he fights Harrison while Harrison is under the protection of an entourage, he’s directly challenging Harrison’s Blue.
With a small, agitated grin, Mr. Lee withdraws his hand from his saber. Grumbling rises from the crowd as he pulls on his flat cap and takes his pipe back from his friend.
Harrison retracts his blade, grabs my arm, and swiftly guides me toward the train.
“A word of caution, Mr. Somerset,” Mr. Lee says as we pass. “Illegal or not, we both know the majority of Blues support Bliss. Maintain a public relationship with Miss Waldsten, and you do not merely risk making enemies; you risk losing allies.”
Harrison’s grip tightens on my arm, but he keeps walking. The crowd shrinks back from us now, as if terrified of stepping on our shadows.
At the carriage, I unlock the door with my Blood Ring. Charlotte and I hurry inside, but Harrison remains on the steps, his skin so pale it looks bloodless. “Here, Miss Waldsten and Miss Deering, is where I must depart.”
“Mr. Somerset,” I call through the door. “Thank you for—”
“I wish you luck at university, Miss Waldsten. Good day.”
Harrison bows and closes the door before I can finish.
I press my hand against the window, watching him push through the crowd.
He stumbles, and I wince as he nearly trips on an uneven flagstone.
He pauses, gathers himself, and continues walking.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him so shaken, but I understand why.
As Mr. Lee said, Harrison is risking his reputation and possibly his position in his Blue’s entourage unless he cuts ties with my family.
And that includes Vivian.
When Harrison disappears into the green third-year carriage, I send him a message through my Bond.
I thank him for what he did and promise that if there’s ever a chance to return the favor, I will.
The checkmark icon below the message turns yellow, showing Harrison has read it, but then he goes offline.
My shoulders sink, but I tell myself I shouldn’t blame him.
He has his own reputation and academic future to protect.
Why should he risk it all for me? He shouldn’t.
And neither should Charlotte. She’s always hated conflict, which makes me wonder if there’s more to her sticking around than wanting to avoid being alone.
The green first-year carriage is as closely monitored as the departure platform.
Rows of surveillance cameras hang from the ceiling, their high-powered lenses tracking every movement and whisper.
For the first time in my life, I’m grateful for the lack of privacy.
The cameras that once made me feel like a prisoner are now the only thing keeping me safe.
Every passenger sits with perfect posture, hands folded, eyes straight ahead.
A few steal glances at me as I follow Charlotte down the aisle, but I don’t acknowledge them.
Asking other Greens for help is pointless. I understand that now.
All my life, I was taught that it was high-citizens versus low-citizens, Blues versus the rest of us.
And while that might still be true, I see now that those at the bottom are just as willing to cut my throat as those at the top.
If even my own kind are willing to betray me, to kill me over a vote I’m not responsible for, then Dad is right.
I can’t trust anyone.
Near the back of the carriage, Charlotte and I settle into row seventeen. My seat has a strange odor, as if the previous passenger spilled fermented food on the cushion. I wrinkle my nose and run my hand along the seat, but it’s dry, with no visible stains.
Charlotte takes a deep drag from a freshly lit cigarette. Around us, there are at least a dozen empty seats she could’ve booked—she still can—but instead, she reclines and flips through a fashion magazine.
The Charlotte I know wouldn’t be so calm. She’d be crying or, at the very least, popping stress-relief pills. The suspicion that she’s hiding something flares even stronger.
“Harry was scared… more scared than I’ve ever seen him,” I text her as I hand my coat to a Pinkie. “Why aren’t you?”
“What do you mean? I’m scared enough to piss, Lore,” Charlotte replies. “I’ve just been in worse situations.”
“Not with me, you haven’t.”
“Well, maybe if I’d been with you, things wouldn’t have gotten as bad as they did.”
“What things, specifically?”
Charlotte exhales a cloud of smoke and flicks her hand dismissively. “It’s nothing a Gibson can’t fix. Think you can spot me this time? My dad hasn’t wired my student allowance yet.”
“Why do you keep dodging my questions? And since when are you a morning drinker?”
She jerks her chin toward the steam-covered platform outside, where the mob is still dispersing. “If I can die in the morning, I can drink in the morning.”
Still unsatisfied, I press her further. “If you’re worried you might die, then why are you still here? You’re not staying with me because you feel guilty about leaving the first time, are you?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Because…” Charlotte purses her lips, then stubs out her cigarette in an ashtray.
“At this point, Lore, whether I’m with you or not doesn’t make a damn bit of difference.
You’re not the only one with enemies, okay?
You’re not the only one who has to skulk around with your tail between your legs, wondering if you’re going to live to see another day. ”
She plants her back to me, arms crossed over her chest. Through the window glass, I see her gnawing her lip, and I realize it’s time to stop. Even if I have more questions—about her enemies, her breakup with Jack, her friendship with Edmund—it’s clear the answers will come only on her terms.
I sink deeper into my seat, staring blankly at a Pinkie taking food and drink orders in the aisle. Holographic menus float overhead, advertising a variety of aperitifs, fine wines, appetizers, full-course meals, and desserts. My stomach rumbles in response.
Just then, the front door of the carriage slides open.
A girl with blonde kiss curls enters, looking nothing like the photo I saw on Quill an hour ago.
She has no mimosa. No friends. No smile.
Her mascara is smudged down one cheek, and her nose is pink from crying.
She holds a handkerchief to her lips as she moves down the aisle, searching for a seat.
Then she spots me.
The girl’s eyes light up, and to my surprise, she heads down the aisle toward the last empty seat in my row. Hell no. I grab my bag, a lacquered envelope purse, and slam it onto the empty seat.
The girl stops, stares at the bag, then blushes bright red. Tears shimmer in her eyes as she pedals back down the aisle and slumps into the eighth row.
I don’t feel guilty.
Jane Bradford didn’t help me when I needed it. She didn’t spare me a word of support or offer a helping hand after her father gave me a weapons restriction.
And for that, I won’t offer mine.
Ahead, the Pinkie drones on, taking orders in a monotone voice. Each request is processed with the same preconfigured phrasing: “Would you care to make a request?” “Your request has been noted.” But when the robot reaches the eighth row, where Jane sits, its limbs start twitching.
“Sir, I wish to place an order for a mint tea.” Jane sniffles. “With a slice of lemon. And please bring me a fresh handkerchief as well.”
“Apologies, Miss Bradford,” the Pinkie responds. “I am unable to assist you at this time.”
“Excuse me?” Her mouth bobs like a trout. “But, sir, it is your duty to serve me.”
“Apologies, Miss Bradford,” the robot repeats. “I am unable to assist you at this time.”
I lean into the aisle so far that I almost fall out of my seat. Is it glitching? It’s not the first time I’ve seen a robot flame out, but refusing to serve the daughter of a representative who voted to ban Bliss is too convenient.
I use my Bond to snap a photo of the identification number on the Pinkie’s badge, then wait patiently as the robot continues taking orders. No more glitches. It serves the students with a polite smile until it reaches our row.
“Miss Deering, would you care to make a request?” the Pinkie asks.
“Indeed. A Gibson with three pickled onions, please.”
“Your request has been noted.”
“I would like the smoked salmon breakfast with truffled eggs, please,” I say. “And bill both of our orders to my student tab.”
The Pinkie stiffens, its limbs twitching again. “Apologies, Miss Waldsten, I am unable to assist you at this time.”
Heads turn toward me, whispers rustling through the carriage like paper. Jane spins toward the Pinkie, and when she notices its twitching limbs, her eyes widen. With a graceful lunge, she abandons her seat, heading for the exit. That’s when I realize Jane and I are both thinking the same thing.
I have to get the hell off this train.