CHAPTER 10 #3
“To my fellow Blues, and every Green, Orange, and Purple,” President Reeve begins.
“During my campaign, I pledged to serve our democracy with unwavering fidelity. I stood with you in the fight to prohibit the misuse of artificial media and supported your efforts to safeguard the privacy and security of Bond data. As president of the Civilized World, it is my solemn obligation to honor the will of the majority and preserve the rule of law, ensuring it remains untouched and steadfast against any faction, force, or person who would seek to diminish it. Yesterday, our noble representatives carried out their duties with integrity, voting on the Bliss Prohibition Act. With the welfare of our great and glorious nation foremost in their minds, they chose to prohibit the use of Bliss. I have now signed this legislation into law. As of yesterday, the twenty-first of September, the use of Bliss was banned. From today onward, the production, sale, purchase, and use of Bliss are illegal.”
Movement stirs on the high-citizen level of the lecture room; desks shift and chairs scrape against the marble, followed by the heavy drum of footsteps. I clench my hands in my lap, resisting the urge to look up.
Cameras flash in the rose garden, capturing President Reeve from every angle.
He speaks confidently as he continues, “Yet there are those among us who already seek to undermine the will of the majority. To protect our elected representatives, preserve our democratic institutions, and uphold the rule of law, I hereby announce that any attempt to threaten or harm the representatives who supported the Bliss Prohibition Act will be met with the fullest consequences permitted by law.”
The Blues are at the railing now, their voices rising in wild, angry bursts as they jostle for space.
A glass flies over the railing and shatters against the holographic screen, right where President Reeve’s face hovers.
Water streaks down his image like tears.
Two Pinkies rush forward to clean up the mess, but Professor Yates waves them back, his throat bobbing with a hard swallow.
I keep my gaze fixed on the screen, still refusing to look up.
Reeve continues, “As president and servant of the people, it is my solemn duty to ensure that no individual or group threatens your chosen representatives or the laws they enact. No one may place themselves above the law. Therefore, let it be clearly understood: any act of violence against our representatives and their families in retaliation for the lawful fulfillment of their mandates as lawmakers will be regarded not merely as an assault on an individual but as an attack on our Constitution itself—the noble and enduring charter established by the Nine Gentlemen to safeguard our great and glorious Civilized World. Any individual, whether a high-citizen or a low-citizen, will face equal punishment for dissent: the guillotine. An attack on our Constitution is an attack against the very foundations of our Civilized World and is therefore no different from the heinous crimes committed by the Heretics. To further discourage such threats, these executions will be broadcast to the entire nation.”
Shouts of rage tear through the lecture room so violently that I can’t resist anymore.
I look up. The high-citizens pack the railing in a frenzied horde, a wall of blue pressing so hard that the metal groans under their weight.
The sight of their eyes, burning with feral, savage fury, sends an unexpected thrill through me.
To them, Reeve’s words are more than policy; they’re a declaration of war.
Never in the history of the Civilized World has a high-citizen been publicly executed.
Watching a Blue die would dull the shine of their illusion of invincibility. We’d remember they’re still mortal.
Pride surges through me, fueling a reckless defiance to stand with Dad against the Blues. Guilt and then sharp regret cut through me as I recall my words to him yesterday. I wish I hadn’t been so quick to feel discouraged. I wish I’d stood by him like Mom.
“The weeks ahead will be arduous,” Reeve concludes, “filled with new and unwelcome discomfort. But amidst the struggle, when human temptation whispers surrender, remember this: purposeful adversity leads to greatness, and greatness to godhood.”
The Blues’ roar drowns out the polite applause from the live audience in the rose garden. The sound reverberates through the hall, rising even as Professor Yates waves his hands for order. I scan the railing, half-expecting to see Edmund’s face twisted with the same rage as the others.
But he’s not there.
Instead, I see Irene Hussey, wearing a tweed ensemble and a stylish felt hat with a pheasant feather, as if she walked into the lecture room from a morning hunt. She stands with one hand on the railing, immune to the chaos on the Blue level. Her eyes, cold and unblinking, are locked on me.
I hold Irene’s stare, even as a slow, eager smile curves her mouth. Without looking away, she extends her hand, all five fingers raised.
My pulse skips as I try to make sense of the gesture. It isn’t a wave, nor is it fencing sign language.
The only thing I know is that it’s a threat.
It’s a long time before Professor Yates finally coaxes the Blues back into their seats.
Sweat beads on his wrinkled forehead as he struggles to soothe their concerns, assuring them he understands their frustration and promising to do everything he can to support them through this difficult adjustment, including arranging sessions with recovery coaches or drug counselors for those in need.
Each assurance pries another Blue away from the railing, one by one, like rocks breaking from a mountain, until at last, they’re all seated.
Then the class bell rings.
The sound propels me into action. I bolt toward the elevators before my Pinkies even switch out of standby mode.
One elevator opens, revealing Edmund standing at the front of the car.
Behind him, a dozen Blues turn their heads toward me, like a pack of bloodhounds catching a scent.
One Blue slowly reaches for the saber in his scabbard.
I step back, feeling the graphene alloy chest of a Pinkie at my spine.
“This elevator is full, miss,” Edmund says. He hits the control panel, and as the doors slide shut, he cuts me a sharp look that says I should already be running.
I spin away and take the stairs. My hands hang like dead weight at my sides, useless without a saber. I might as well have two stumps.
President Reeve’s speech was careful and diplomatic.
Still, it doesn’t change the dangerous reality that while a majority of representatives voted to ban Bliss, a majority of the public would keep it legal if given the chance.
The nation is torn wide open now, with the lines drawn even deeper and bloodier, and my family is caught right in the middle.
The next few lectures are unbearable, as if I’m sitting in a pot of water slowly heating around me.
I spend Digital Rights & Cyber Law perched on the edge of my seat, a compact mirror propped on the desk so I can watch my back.
Lunch in the dining hall is worse. Behind my wall of Pinkies, I track every clink of a tray, every shuffle of footsteps, every half-muted whisper that might be about me.
By the time Political Theory & Governance rolls around, my focus is already slipping.
Floor gymnastics gives me a little relief, and I finally breathe during the two hours of stretching, strength conditioning, and tumbling combinations.
I don’t love gymnastics as much as I love fencing, but the workouts keep my body strong.
The class is a stepping stone back to the piste, so I embrace it.
At 6:00 p.m., when class finally ends for the day, my nerves are fried, so I head back to the Green Dormitory with my hovercar set to self-driving mode.
The trip takes twice as long as this morning because both the streets and the aerial lanes are clogged with trams and hovercars crawling toward the beach.
The campus recreation coordinators, sensing the students’ fragile mood, scheduled lavish parties all week to distract them from the Bliss withdrawals.
Tonight’s is called Jazz & Juleps.
Most students are at the party, so the Green Dormitory lobby is nearly empty when I walk in.
I’m heading toward the elevators with my Pinkies when Harrison steps out of one.
He’s dressed in a linen suit, wearing oval sunglasses and a slanted boater hat.
The scent of coconut sunscreen clings to him, a sign he’s headed to the beach.
When his eyes meet mine, he stiffens like a soldier caught dozing on duty. His eyebrows draw together, his expression torn as he starts toward me. Then, as if hitting an invisible wall, he halts. A quick shake of his head, and I understand.
We can’t talk.
Instead, he activates his Bond and sends a text:
“Lily gave me an ultimatum. She said that if I don’t cut you off, she’ll kick me out of her entourage.
Right now, she doesn’t know about my engagement to Viv, but if I want to keep it that way, I have to play it smart.
I’m sorry, Lore. I hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but I’m backed into a corner. I have to choose my hard.”
I read the message once, then twice, and nod.
Harrison strides quickly out of the lobby without looking back.
I expected this. There was no other way it could’ve gone, but still, my breath turns thin, as if I’ve inhaled something toxic.
Growing up, I was never as popular as Vivian, but I was also never as unpopular as Hillaire.
Until yesterday, I didn’t know what it was like to be shunned like a dead, stinking rat in the gutter.
At this point, I feel like a Heretic: hunted, forced to scurry from shadow to shadow, hoping to go unseen.
If I get caught, I’ll die like a Heretic, too.
To the sound of thunderous applause.