CHAPTER 15 #3
Edmund sets his teeth as he listens, his fist tightening in his pocket. The concern on his face catches me off guard, and I wonder whether he’s one of the few Blues left who still supports Reeve.
“Is the president alive?” Edmund asks the Copper.
“Yes, Mr. Prew. He has been admitted to Pembroke Hospital, but his condition remains uncertain.”
Alive.
The word is so overwhelming that I bury my face in my hands.
Hoverships are already evacuating students, ferrying them back to the beach.
Directly in my line of sight, a Medevac helicopter idles as the bodies of three students are loaded inside.
Coppers move across the area like a living, breathing net closing around the Speakeasy.
I spot Sergeant Arthur Croft among them, uninjured and alert.
He strides with purpose, helping a dozen Coppers escort four Blues through the gardens toward the open doors of an armored transport.
Students stop to gape as the Blues pass, and so do I. The Blues are cuffed, not with the slim restraints high-citizens usually get, but with heavy-duty shackles I know all too well. They’re programmable, designed to shock anyone who resists.
It can only mean one thing.
The coup failed.
If it had succeeded, there’d be no law and order, and certainly no high-citizen arrests. For a moment, I forget the horror of the night and believe there’s hope.
Then the image of the shackled Blues drags me back.
Irene isn’t among them.
She stands beneath a cypress tree, her friends clustered behind her like shadows.
The women watch in stunned silence, their faces deathly pale as the arrested Blues are forced into the armored transport.
An unlit cigar hangs from Irene’s mouth, and when she notices the shackles, she bites down hard, as if jolted by shock.
Yet beneath it, I see the tremor of fear, the slow, dawning realization that she could be next.
The transport doors slam shut with an echoing thud, and Irene’s gaze sweeps the garden until her eyes lock onto me.
Her body stiffens, bristling with such rage that I’m sure she’ll lunge at me.
Then Sergeant Croft steps forward.
“Miss Hussey,” he calls, striding toward her with a squad of Coppers at his back. “You are hereby under arrest for attempted murder. Your privileges are suspended. You will comply, or you will be restrained.”
Irene’s hand twitches toward the saber at her hip.
Her teeth clamp down harder on the cigar as her fingers grip the hilt, white-knuckled and trembling.
She shifts into en garde, her legs planted and her body poised to strike.
Her eyes rake wildly over the crowd, frantic and searching, until they settle on Edmund.
And just like that, a glimmer of hope lights her face, as if she believes he’ll draw. As if she thinks her fiancé will come charging in, saber raised, ready to fight for her.
Edmund meets Irene’s stare through the wall of Coppers.
His back is planted to me, his face hidden, but I notice him pull something from his pocket as he starts toward her.
Sergeant Croft warns him to stop, his voice commanding, until he sees what Edmund is holding.
Then he signals for the Coppers to let him through.
The hope in Irene’s eyes burns brighter.
She speaks to Edmund as he stops beside her, but instead of responding, he raises the platinum lighter in his hand.
With a flick of the flint wheel, he lights the cigar in her mouth.
Irene’s eyes widen in stunned disbelief as Edmund slips the lighter back into his pocket, turns away, and walks toward me through the crowd.
Under the glare of the Copper transport lights, I see Irene spit the cigar from her mouth and scrub both hands desperately down her face.
When Edmund reaches me, he strips off his glove and scans his Blood Ring against mine.
The sharp beep that follows cracks like a gunshot.
Moments later, the smoke clears, and a notification appears on my Bond.
My student profile opens, filled with personal details, but it’s the gleaming new badge on my avatar that steals my breath.
It’s blue, shaped like the Prew family crest, and stamped with Edmund’s name.
I’m in his entourage.
“Is this badge public, Mr. Prew?” I ask, my voice barely cutting through the roar of his hovercar as it pulls up to the curb.
“Yes,” Edmund says as a Pinkie holds the door open. “You might not like me, Miss Waldsten, but you will love being my friend.”
He slides into the backseat.
I pause beside the open door, bracing against the cold night wind as I glance back at Irene.
Her expression has changed, now animated by personal scorn, as if I’ve stolen something from her.
Maybe I have. Her blue eyes, patient and certain, hold the promise of death.
What I see in her face runs deeper than anger or betrayal.
It’s devastation, the kind that eats straight through the meat of the heart.
Irene resists no further. Even as Sergeant Croft confiscates her saber and cuffs her wrists, she stands motionless, watching me, that silent promise filling the space between us.
As I step into the hovercar with her fiancé, her words from the Trophy Club echo back, the cutting lecture on pleasantries and triumphs.
I smile.
And this time, it isn’t forced.