CHAPTER 8 #3
As I pull on my fur-lined velvet coat, I debate whether to take a cab or the tram. I’m so exhausted I could sleep for days. More than anything, I want to be in my dormitory suite, safe, for the first time since I left home. So when Dickie offers Charlotte and me a ride, I agree immediately.
“We’ll be out of here in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” he says as he strolls to the door. “Just gotta grab my Pinkie.”
“I’ll come with you,” I say, not wanting to lose track of him or, worse, run into Edmund if he returns to the salon.
Charlotte, who hasn’t spoken since coming out of the lavatory, follows us to the main deck, where the halls are silent and empty. Through the stained-glass doors, I see Blues still relaxing in their salons, as if it’s a fashion faux pas to disembark upon arrival.
At the bottom of the stairs, I turn too quickly and bump into someone. The impact knocks me to the floor, and I swing my arms back to break my fall. When I see the polished two-tone shoes, I realize it’s a Pinkie—the same one who refused to serve Jane and me in the green first-year carriage.
“Pardon me, Miss Waldsten,” the robot says. “Allow me to assist you.”
It grabs me by the waist and lifts me to my feet.
I barely register the gesture before I realize that, unless the robot’s programming error was fixed, it wouldn’t be allowed to help me.
I activate my Bond and find a reply from the Pinkie support website: Remote system check completed. No errors detected.
I bite back a curse. This shouldn’t be possible. If the Copper has an accomplice at the support website, or if he somehow restored the Pinkie to its default setting before the system check, his plan is more sophisticated than I thought.
Hurrying to the door of the green first-year carriage, I swipe my Blood Ring over the scanner.
Access denied.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Charlotte pushes past me and tries scanning her Blood Ring.
Access denied.
“Stand aside, broads.”
Dickie pulls off his glove as he wriggles between us. He hunches over, trying to hide his hand, but when he swipes it across the scanner, I catch a glimpse of something glowing on the edge of his Blood Ring: a thin blue band, bright as a halo.
Charlotte and I exchange a startled glance.
The law states that no one, not even Blues, is allowed to wear the colors of other Bloods.
So what the hell am I looking at? What exactly does the blue band do, and are Dickie and Jack the only people who have one, or do other low-citizens have them as well?
Using the camera inside my daffodil brooch, I snap a photo of Dickie’s hand before he pulls his glove back on.
Access granted.
The door opens to a cloying, metallic odor that immediately puts me on alert.
The students in the green first-year carriage are gone, as are the Copper and his dogs.
A forensic team in coveralls and clear face shields is canvassing the carriage, which is blocked off with metal barriers at both ends.
One investigator photographs a long, streaking bloodstain on the carpet, as if someone were dragged up and down the aisle; another uses swabs and a vacuum device to collect biological samples from the seats in row eight; two others hoist a body into a dark vinyl bag.
The body lies face-up, covered in puncture marks. Shredded skin hangs from the limbs like peeling bark; deeper wounds expose the glistening pink nerves of the face. I recognize the short, blonde kiss curls, matted thickly with green blood. Jane.
I spin away from her dead body, cupping my mouth.
Charlotte’s chest heaves. “That lying bastard,” she texts me. “Edmund said he sent the Pinkie.”
Maybe he did. Given the stakes, I doubt he’d break his side of the bargain.
I crouch and peer underneath the rows of seats.
There, between the ninth and tenth rows, I spot Dickie’s Pinkie sprawled across the carpet.
The robot’s face and chest cavity are smashed in, wires sparking as if it’s been trampled by a stampede of feet.
I alert Dickie to the situation, and he hops over the barrier to retrieve the robot’s data storage chip.
“Halt,” calls the primary on the scene, a Copper in black ribbed coveralls. “This carriage is off-limits to civilians.”
The primary strides toward us with an imposing frown that makes Dickie puff out his chest. Dickie removes his glove, baring his squirrel-like teeth, and flicks out his hand.
“I’ve got a problem,” he says. “Unless you want me to turn that badge of yours into toilet paper, you’d better fix it.”
The primary arches an eyebrow at the blue band on Dickie’s Blood Ring, looking as confused as I am. He scans the Blood Ring with a portable device, and when Dickie’s information appears on the screen, his confusion turns to fear, the kind I thought only Blues had the power to create.
The primary offers a slight bow. “Forgive me, Mr. Langley. I was not aware to whom I was speaking. How may I assist you?”
“You can start by explaining what the devil is going on in here?”
“We are still working to establish the details, sir.” The primary lifts his face shield.
“Two narcotic dogs were brought in to inspect the carriage for Bliss. The animals became agitated when the energy shield was struck and attacked. One student was killed, and two others were injured before we arrived.”
“And my Pinkie?” Dickie presses. “Did the dogs damage it, too?”
“No, sir. The damage occurred as the students fled the attack. The carriage is not equipped with surveillance cameras, so we attempted to salvage the humanoid’s data storage chip, but it was destroyed.”
What the hell is he talking about?
“Excuse me, sir—are those not surveillance cameras?” I point to the row of devices mounted on the ceiling.
“No, miss,” the primary replies. “They are oxycleaners.”
My heart drops so low I feel it in my guts.
If the devices are air purifiers, the green first-year carriage is a surveillance-free zone.
The Blues established them all over the Civilized World to encourage us to snitch.
Reporting uncivilized behavior might not earn you many friends, but for every successful report, you get fifty civil credits.
“For the time being, my team will need to keep your humanoid,” the primary tells Dickie. “I will return it to you personally once we have released the scene. The incident is not being investigated as a homicide, so you may expect it back as early as this evening.”
“Not a homicide?” I say. “How is that possible when there is Irasbis Gas all over the carriage?”
The primary’s eyebrows flatten into a hard gray line. “Irasbis Gas, miss? We have found no such evidence.”
“Not even after testing Miss Bradford’s body?”
“No.”
That’s impossible. If there’s no trace of Irasbis Gas, why would the dogs single her out in a packed carriage? I gesture to my dress. “Test me, sir. We believe the Copper stationed in this carriage doused my seat with it. That is why I was forced to take refuge in the blue first-year carriage.”
“As you wish, miss.”
The primary retrieves a forensic sampling device with a frustrated twitch in his step. His confusion appears genuine, and he shows no signs of Bliss withdrawal, which makes me doubt he’s working with the Copper who killed Jane. He probably thinks we’re wasting his time.
A moment later, the primary returns with a spectrometer for molecular analysis. As he sweeps the device over my dress, the holographic interface displays a list of detected samples: velvet, tobacco ash, sweat, skin cells, and hair fibers.
But no Irasbis Gas.
“What the devil?” Dickie plants his hands on his hips. “The broad had it on her dress for the past hour. I smelled it myself.”
“I do not doubt your claim, Mr. Langley.” The primary hands the spectrometer to an assistant. “Irasbis Gas is designed for covert operations. Once activated by body heat and moisture, the microcapsules break down the gas, causing it to disintegrate within a set timeframe.”
That’s why the smell on my dress started fading. The Copper chose a method of killing Jane and me where the evidence self-destructs.
Dickie folds his arms and scoffs. “So, you’re saying it just vanished into thin air?”
“Yes, Mr. Langley,” the primary says. “Once Irasbis Gas disintegrates, even our most advanced spectrometers cannot detect it. Without surveillance footage, our only evidence is testimony. I assure you that we will interview the witnesses thoroughly. However, the students have already told us the incident did not appear organized or deliberate.”
Bullshit.
What’s more likely is that the students know the Copper murdered Jane but are too afraid to report it.
Doing so risks pissing off other Bliss-addicted Coppers and will definitely piss off the Blues.
Given how furious the high-citizens are about the ban, I wouldn’t be surprised if they ordered the hit themselves.
After promising to keep Dickie updated, the primary repeats that the carriage is off-limits to civilians. Our presence is disruptive, he says, and if we contaminate the scene, his neck will be on the line.
Dickie, Charlotte, and I step out of the green first-year carriage in a gloomy line and walk across the bustling platform, where students wait for trams or special luggage deliveries.
Defeat looms over me. If the Copper gets away with Jane’s murder, others will follow, picking us off one by one until everyone connected to the Bliss Prohibition Act is dead.
Dickie guides us into a private parking lot outside the train station.
Jack waits in the driver’s seat of a matte green hovercar with flared fenders, gullwing doors, and a decorative Art Deco grille set into the nose.
The power core roars at idle, raw and overclocked, making it stand out from the others like a grenade in a field of dandelions.
Charlotte wrinkles her nose as she slides into a plush leather seat and fastens her seatbelt. She pushes her coat under her butt and tucks her arms in, clearly disgusted by the idea of touching anything.
I grip the back of Dickie’s headrest as Jack lifts out of the parking lot.
Jack turns on the radio—a catchy Big Band tune that’s topped the charts for the past month—but no one sings along.
Charlotte smokes quietly across from me; Dickie picks at his nails, as if nervous about leaving the train station without a chaperone; and I wonder whether it’s possible to access the passenger manifest for the green first-year carriage.
With Charlotte’s and Dickie’s help, maybe we can convince a student to testify against the Copper.
Or maybe…
“Dickie.” I tap his shoulder. “Did your Pinkie film all the time, or only when it was with you?”
Dickie props his feet on the dashboard with a sigh, clearly bored with this topic. “All the time, I guess.”
“And how often did the robot send reports to the Office of Student Affairs?”
“I don’t know, but—” Dickie’s eyes bug out in realization. “I think once every five or ten minutes.”
“And do you have access to those reports?”
He slaps his knee with a triumphant chuckle. “No, but I can get it.”
I swell up in my seat. For the first time all day, the ground beneath my feet feels more solid than quicksand.
The Copper wouldn’t have risked attacking the Pinkie if it hadn’t witnessed Jane’s murder.
And if the robot managed to send a report to the Office of Student Affairs before the Copper destroyed its data chip, we’ll have all the evidence we need to nail that bastard to the wall.
Jack follows the line of hovercars lifting out of the station into an aerial lane leading to the dormitories.
Below, another street extends past the Regal Express, crowded with parked luxury vehicles and private chauffeurs.
Pinkies linger at curb level with parasols, cigars, and silver cocktail trays, poised to serve the Blues.
Steam hisses from the train’s undercarriage as the doors swing open wide.
The high-citizens disembark in small groups, either all Blues or one Blue flanked by a low-citizen entourage.
They move as if they have pills of immortality melting on their tongues.
They’re man-made gods with sun-warmed skin and sport-sculpted bodies, dressed in custom suits and gowns crafted by Lemon, the most expensive fashion brand money can buy.
Watching them flood the platform, laughing and shouting, unbound by behavior laws, ignites a spark of envy in me.
I spot Harrison crossing the crowded platform, trailing behind his Blue.
His face looks cloudy and grim, as if he got an earful on the ride.
I won’t blame him if he keeps his distance on campus, but I hope his avoidance ends with me.
If he calls off his engagement to Vivian, she’ll never recover.
She’ll blame Dad for ruining her life. And if that happens, the fractures in our family will widen into a full break.
Moments later, Edmund steps off the blue first-year carriage with a tall, elegant woman beside him.
She’s holding a springer spaniel like a handbag and wearing a midnight blue gown with beaded detailing and a long, sheer train.
Her porcelain skin is taut with muscle, and her upturned blue eyes sweep over the crowd as if she owns it.
A cloche-style headpiece fits closely over her sleek black bob, cut stylishly at the jaw; every strand is purposeful, just like the rest of her.
Whoever designed her genetic profile seemed to value beauty and strength equally.
Charlotte tracks Edmund and the woman for a few steps, frowning deeply. Then she draws a sharp breath and slaps the back of Jack’s head. “What the hell, Jack? That’s Edmund’s fiancée?”
Jack squints at the woman. “Yeah. So?”
“So, you told me he was engaged to an Irene. Not the Irene.”
“I didn’t realize the Irenes had a leader, darling.”
Charlotte lets out a dry snort, but her face remains grave. She elbows me in the ribs. “It’s bad, Lore… like lose every civil credit you’ve got bad. Edmund’s fiancée is a Hussey.”
I duck below the window with a curse, hoping neither of them spots Jack’s hovercar.
The name triggers memories of Dad pacing his study, ranting to Mom about the Husseys’ slimeball tactics: planted hit pieces, bought-off journalists, smear campaigns that painted him as a bribe-taker, an adulterer, even a secret Bliss addict.
The Husseys have been driving a knife into his ribs since the day he started pushing for the Bliss ban, twisting it every chance they get.
They wield an even greater sphere of influence than the Prews, primarily because they founded Rapture, the largest Bliss manufacturer in the Civilized World.
Of all the Blues, of all the families, why the hell did it have to be her?