CHAPTER 12 #2
My last thread of hope is the petition I sent to Dad. He’ll forward it to Judge Bradford, and I’ll know before Sunday whether my weapons restriction can be lifted temporarily. It’s a long shot, but it’s the best I’ve got.
I still haven’t told Dad about Irene’s threat. He already knows plenty of people want our family dead. Adding Irene to the list would only push him to confront her parents, and that’s a war I can’t afford to start without proof.
So, I wait.
Charlotte and I pore over the Speakeasy’s blueprints, committing every detail to memory. As I scroll through the endless rooms, it quickly becomes clear that in a place like this, survival is a game of inches.
The Speakeasy is a seven-story lodge nestled deep in a grove of cypress trees atop rugged cliffs that drop straight into the ocean. The only way there is by hovership. The Blues have their own grand portico entrance, while the rest of us are funneled through narrow, almost-hidden side doors.
Inside the Speakeasy, each floor has a unique shape. The first floor is the Oval, the seventh is the Hexagon, and the others fall somewhere in between. On each floor, there are over a hundred rooms, each a potential threat or escape.
Charlotte and I work in the private study of my suite. We huddle over my desk, our Bonds linked so we can share screens. We have the Speakeasy’s blueprints, a map of the surrounding area, access to online forums full of insider tips, and we’re tracking the Stag Leap Gala hashtag on Quill.
Between hurried bites of food served by Pinkies, we examine every room of interest, marking hiding spots, tracing escape routes, and memorizing the ventilation shafts that wind like veins through the lodge.
The shafts are narrow and confined, but they lead to hidden pockets within the sprawling chaos.
We memorize ten paths, each leading to a room where we can barricade ourselves if necessary.
If one path fails, we have a backup. If that fails, there’s another. And another.
But time is running out.
On Friday, we’re forced to break for class and the nightly group call with my family.
By Saturday, our exhaustion turns the hours into a formless blur.
But the Speakeasy is so vast and intricate that we allow ourselves only a few hours of sleep at a time.
Every room, hallway, and corner could hide something…
or someone. My eyes burn and droop from lack of rest. My brain feels overstuffed with information that slips through my fingers like sand, vanishing before I can grasp it.
But every time I start to doze off, a Pinkie is there to jolt me awake.
I can’t afford to overlook anything, especially with Irene’s threat looming over me. I might be strong, but I know my limits. Without my saber, facing Irene in close combat will only get me killed.
By Saturday evening, I’m so drained I have to take an energy tablet. The artificial boost keeps me pacing in circles while Charlotte brushes her hair at my desk to calm her nerves. Two Pinkies quiz us relentlessly on the Speakeasy’s blueprints, testing our knowledge of every floor and room.
As I answer, I try to ignore the nightlife pulsing through the windows of my suite.
One moment, it’s the rowdy laughter of night golfers on the green; the next, it’s the distant hum of speedboats cutting across the water.
Only once do I give in and peek through the curtains.
A yellow moon hangs low over campus, like a coin tossed into the night.
Students stroll the cobbled streets in eveningwear, their chatter blending with the whir of hoverboards and the beat of jazz spilling from half-open club doors.
Somewhere, a woman sings at her window, her voice drifting like perfume on a breeze.
The dark irony is that, beneath all the carefree smiles, I know these low-citizens are as caged as I am.
The only difference is that they don’t have to fight for every moment of safety beyond their dormitory doors.
If the Bliss ban had failed, I’d be out there too, catching a show at the theater, tap dancing in clubs, or sipping cocktails at a beach bar, without worrying whether my drink is spiked with a neurotoxin pill.
Instead, the laughter and lights outside clash cruelly with the stillness inside my suite. Every tick of the clock feels heavy, as if it carries the weight of life or death.
By the time Charlotte stumbles back to her suite, I can barely stand without feeling dizzy.
My head drops to my desk, exhaustion pulling me into peaceful darkness, but it’s short-lived.
The Pinkies awaken me with soft yet insistent hands and guide me to my vanity.
The robots dress me, apply makeup, and style my hair into finger waves, then lead me onto the balcony to watch the daily execution.
The morning sun stings my eyes so sharply that I trip over a potted fern left carelessly in my path. I catch myself with a silent curse, but it still costs me a civil credit, deducted on the spot.
494 left.
I keep my gaze away from the Guillotine Yard and focus instead on the Blue Dormitory terraces beyond.
All but one are crowded with high-citizens lounging beneath shaded sun chairs.
The vacant terrace is on the fourth floor, almost directly across from mine, and it’s filled with Pinkies cleaning up after what looks like a party from the night before.
I can’t help but wonder whether the terrace belongs to Edmund.
He told me he doesn’t watch the executions. Maybe he meant it.
The longer I stare at the terrace, the more its emptiness draws me in, like a small pocket of freedom in a world that offers none to people like me.
I keep my eyes on it as two students are led toward the guillotine, their final moments unfolding under the gazes of classmates and supposed friends.
As the executioner pulls the lever, releasing the blade onto their necks, I wonder what brought them to this point.
How many civil credits did these students lose over mistakes as trivial as mine?
A careless stumble. A poorly chosen word.
A second too slow to obey. Small, forgettable slips that, layer by layer, build into something heavy enough to crush you.
When the execution ends and I return indoors, my body is shaking so uncontrollably that I can barely read the time on my wristwatch.
Only ten hours left until the Stag Leap Gala.
I head back to my study and try to focus on the Speakeasy’s blueprints, but my thoughts scatter and ricochet like stray bullets.
My willpower is fraying at the edges, ready to break. One more pull and I’ll come apart.
Thankfully, an incoming call from Dad snaps me out of it.
His face appears on the screen when I answer, but it’s not the restless, sleep-deprived one I’ve come to expect.
He’s in his office at the Capitol Estate, surrounded by the organized chaos of staff rushing to prepare for tonight’s Bridge Banquet at the Golden Gate Manor.
The annual event aims to strengthen ties between high-citizens and low-citizens, serving as a symbolic gesture to bridge the gaps that still divide us.
In the corner of the office, Dad is hunched over a pool table, chalking his cue.
He leans forward, takes the shot, and sinks the one-ball into the corner pocket.
Pool is a game he plays for only two reasons: when he’s feeling unexpectedly bad or unexpectedly good.
The faint, almost imperceptible smile on his face hints at the latter.
“Hey, Loredana, you got a minute?” he asks.
I blink, trying to look calm rather than strung out on caffeine. “Did Judge Bradford suspend my weapons restriction?”
Dad takes another shot, then shakes his head. “No. Bradford said doing so would risk his integrity as an upholder of the law.”
Integrity. What bullshit. Bradford lost his integrity the moment he sentenced me to the restriction. I slump against the wall, too drained to stand upright. “Then why the hell are you so… happy?”
Dad lines up his next shot. The cue glides across the table as he sinks the two-ball with a soft thud. “Because I just got off the phone with Winston Glass.”
The name hits harder than if Dad had attached a defibrillator to my chest and shocked me. “What, you mean the Winston Glass?”
“Yeah, honey.” Dad’s smile widens. “That one.”
I sink into a nearby chair, feeling the ground tilt beneath me.
Calling someone like Winston Glass a tech mogul would be an insult.
He’s considered the brightest Orange who ever lived, the man who single-handedly transformed our technological landscape.
His company, Cerebrum, provided us with the Bond, advanced hover technology, and many of our genetic enhancements.
Even Blues are forced to tread carefully around him.
“How, Dad?” I ask.
Dad hands the pool cue to one of his staffers and steps into the lavatory, the only quiet space in his office. “Winston and I knew each other years ago, long before he became the name everyone knows. I didn’t expect much when I reached out, but he took the call.”
I frown, and for the first time, the clear image I’ve always had of my father blurs.
When it refocuses, shadows darken the edges, revealing parts of him I don’t fully understand.
At home, he’s Dad. Out here, he’s a man playing a hundred other roles, with ties that reach closer to power than I ever realized.
“Did the call go well?”
“Better than well.” Dad closes the lavatory door, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Winston is on our side, Loredana. No daylight between his views on Bliss and ours. He’s going to help the people being targeted—including you.”
I lean in, my pulse quickening. “Help us how?”
“By sending us a gift.”