CHAPTER 16 #2
To the left of the stage, a group of politicians who support the Bliss Prohibition Act watches with approval.
Among them is Dad. His satin tuxedo blends into the crowd, but his posture is all sharp edges, as if he’s not here to socialize.
His gaze flicks over Reeve now and then, stoic yet attentive.
Reeve speaks of unity, weaving a vision of high-citizens and low-citizens working together for the good of the Civilized World. Applause ripples through the room as he paints a picture of a stronger, fairer society. But when he mentions the Bliss Prohibition Act, the atmosphere seems to sour.
“With the ban in place,” Reeve continues, “we shall finally be a nation without a crutch, a nation without—”
A loud, jarring pop cuts through his words. The crowd gasps, then falls silent for a fraction of a second. Rafe Hardy moves, his hand twitching toward his pistol as his eyes scan the ballroom.
Another pop, louder this time.
The video slows, each frame lingering in agonizing detail. The first angle shows two plasma bullets carving through the air, leaving streaks of searing light. As they arc toward Reeve, the camera tracks their trajectory: two shots aimed directly at his forehead.
Then comes the flash.
Winston Glass’s shield, brilliant and impossible, erupts in a burst of light that engulfs Reeve in a protective wall of energy.
The pulse is so powerful it knocks Rafe Hardy back, slamming him into the wall and dropping him to the floor.
My heart thunders as I take in the sight.
From this angle, the shield is overwhelming, as if Reeve stands at the center of the sun itself.
The plasma bullets slam into the shield with relentless force, the first bullet disintegrating on impact.
The shield pulses once, twice, then jagged cracks spread across its surface, and the shield shatters.
The second bullet breaks through and grazes Reeve’s shoulder.
Chaos erupts so violently that I barely see the blur of motion slam into Reeve.
Dad. Amazement and terror hit me at once as he tackles the president, driving him to the ground as a third shot cracks through the air.
Dad’s arms lock around Reeve, twisting to shield him.
Dad’s back forms a barrier, bracing for the bullet, but it speeds past and hits the wall behind them with a dull thud.
Pride burns through me, and I can barely see the rest of the footage through the hot tears in my eyes.
Rafe Hardy staggers to his feet. Behind him, a wave of Coppers floods the stage, a thunder of boots and drawn weapons.
As they form a barricade around the Reeve and Dad, the camera pans to the ballroom, where high-citizens and low-citizens alike scramble over each other in a frenzied stampede toward the exits.
Screams slice the air, tangled with the shriek of alarms and the Coppers’ barked commands as they work to secure an escape route.
Back on stage, the camera zooms in on Dad. His face, streaked with Reeve’s blue blood, is hard to look at, carved with a desperation so fierce it’s clear he’s driven by more than political loyalty.
My thoughts flash back to the photo in the Blue lounge: Dad and Reeve, arms slung over each other’s shoulders, grinning as if they had the world in their pockets.
Now, that history between them reveals itself in the way Dad shields Reeve with his body, holding his hands steady even as they’re drenched in Reeve’s blood.
He’s not just protecting the president.
He’s protecting his friend.
The Coppers escort Dad and Reeve away behind a moving wall of bulletproof shields.
The camera zooms out to reveal the aftermath.
The ballroom is a wasteland of overturned chairs, shattered glass, and discarded stilettos.
The scene lingers briefly, the destruction clashing with the opulence, before the screen cuts back to Bogart.
He’s still standing in the rose garden, but now Dad is beside him.
I’m only half-aware of Edmund watching me as a tear drips from my chin onto my clenched hands.
I’ve never felt a desire so strong as the one that hits me now.
I wish I could be with Dad, hugging him and telling him how proud and grateful I am—despite the Bliss ban, despite everything it’s cost our family, and despite what it might cost us in the future.
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand as Bogart interviews Dad about the assassination attempt, praising his courageous intervention that saved the president.
Dad stands tall in his tailcoat tuxedo, looking put together except for a swollen welt on the side of his cheek.
Bogart calls him the man who stood between Reeve and death.
Dad downplays the credit, pointing instead to Winston Glass’s energy shield.
“Your dad?” Edmund asks, nodding toward the screen.
The question pulls me back to the hovercar and the cold press of leather against my back. “Yes,” I reply, not bothering to hide the pride in my voice.
Edmund watches the feed silently for a moment. His brows are slanted downward, narrowed in thought, as if he’s slotting this new variable into place and trying to predict the fallout.
“Your life’s going to be different now,” he tells me.
From the way he says it, I can’t tell whether he means for better or worse. I’m about to ask when I notice his eyes drift from my face down to my chest.
I know what he’s searching for. My fingers brush the bruised skin beneath the fabric of my gown where my energy shield used to be. I mentioned the shield when I told Edmund about Irene’s attack. He hadn’t seemed interested then, at least not the way he is now.
And he’s not the only one.
By morning, half the Civilized World will be scrambling to get their hands on Winston Glass’s shields. What happened tonight is history, rewritten in real time and broadcast live into every home. The defense technology no one thought possible has finally become a reality.
For decades, our brightest minds tried and failed to develop personal energy shields.
They were just theories, a whisper of possibility locked behind layers of impossible science.
But from adaptive sensing to live calibration, Winston Glass managed to break through every barrier.
He was already respected for inventing the Bond, but this achievement will immortalize him.
“I don’t have the shield anymore,” I say. “I lent it to a Copper.”
“Lent it?” Edmund smiles to himself, and I know he thinks it was stupid to let the shield out of my sight. Maybe it was. But I don’t regret helping Sergeant Croft.
“Yes. Lent it.”
“Well, I hope you weren’t too attached. The Copper’s probably already got it listed for a fortune. Hell, maybe I’ll take it off his hands myself.”
It’s possible. But Sergeant Croft struck me as one of the good ones. Even if I’m not sure he’ll give it back, I want to believe he will.
When Edmund switches off the television, I forget all about the shield. The screen goes dark, taking the rose garden, Bogart, and, worst of all, Dad with it. It’s a cruel reminder that I’m not with him and that we’re fighting on entirely different battlefields.
I turn my head enough to view Edmund’s profile, dimming as the electric blue light fades from his left eye. “Please, Mr. Prew. I wish to finish the interview.”
“Bogart’s gonna rerun it all week.”
The hovercar veers smoothly inland. Through the window, the ocean line falls away behind us. In its place, the manicured lawns and iron-crowned hedgerows of campus rise. We’re still ten minutes from the dormitories, plenty of time to hear the rest of Dad’s interview.
But Edmund holds the line.
“The Coppers will pay you a visit,” he says. “Tomorrow. Maybe tonight.”
His voice is so casual, so matter-of-fact, that it takes me a moment to grasp what he means. “For a witness statement?”
“Yeah. But that’s just the start. There will be a trial, Miss Waldsten.”
A trial. The word falls like a gavel, and suddenly his slight lean toward niceness makes sense.
“How convenient for you, Mr. Prew, that I’m now in your entourage,” I say. “You need me.”
Edmund’s head tilts coolly, just enough to feign confusion. “Need is a strong word, Miss Waldsten. I need to take a piss right now. I need a good whiskey on Saturdays. I don’t need you.”
“I think you do,” I say. “I think you need me to testify against your fiancée.”
He doesn’t deny it.
And now I see it all too clearly: Edmund didn’t bring me into his entourage out of generosity or even to honor our formal agreement. He did it because he had no choice. I’m the one thing standing between him and his freedom.
If I die before they get me on the stand, there’s no case. Irene walks free, and Edmund is trapped in marriage to her. That’s why I’m here. That’s why he’s suddenly playing nice. He’s not protecting me; he’s protecting his witness.
“To be clear,” Edmund says, “yeah, I want you to testify against Miss Hussey, but you’re gonna be called to testify no matter what.”
“Yes,” I agree, “but now I have leverage.”
The lines in his face deepen.
“I will not be used and discarded at your convenience,” I continue. “Do not think I failed to notice the time constraint you placed on my entourage membership. One year is precisely enough to see the trial through. Precisely enough until my usefulness expires. Then you intend to cast me—”
“We’re not friends, Miss Waldsten,” Edmund cuts in. “We’re not even allies. I don’t owe you anything beyond what we agreed to.”
“You do,” I say, “if you wish for me to cooperate.”
He leans closer, the movement a challenge. “So, you’re threatening me now?”
“I am negotiating.”
He tips his chin up, eyes narrowing as if trying to spot the bluff in my face.
But he won’t find one.