CHAPTER 17 #2
Charlotte smirks. She takes out her case and slips a cigarette between her lips, deliberately not offering him one.
Then she pulls out her emerald-studded lighter, only to find the fluid has run dry.
Jack spins his lighter in his fingers with a grin, the metallic click loud in the tense silence.
Charlotte grits her teeth until the cigarette in her mouth snaps in half.
The ride to pick up Dickie feels longer than two minutes.
Charlotte mutters under her breath as she fusses with her silk scarf and cloche hat, each movement a futile attempt to hide her shaved head.
Jack stares out the window, drumming his fingers against his thigh, his usual swagger dimmed but restless.
It feels like being stuck in a lifeboat with two people determined to poke holes in it rather than share it, even if it means sinking themselves.
I count the seconds until we reach the Orange Dormitory.
When the hovercar stops at a curb near the entrance, I text Dad: “Can you talk tonight?”
Four days have passed since the assassination attempt on President Reeve, and aside from telling Dad about Irene’s attack, we’ve barely exchanged more than a few hurried words.
His schedule has been a whirlwind of interviews, calls, meetings, and events.
With his name on everyone’s lips, he’s being pulled in a hundred directions.
Even a family group call hasn’t made the cut.
“Can’t tonight, honey,” Dad replies. “Got the press conference.”
“Right. I forgot,” I text as a sinking feeling settles in.
The press conference, a joint event with President Reeve and Winston Glass, marks Winston’s first public appearance in ten years.
The official focus is on how Winston’s energy shield saved Reeve’s life, but Dad claims Winston’s real goal is to quash the frenzy surrounding the shields.
Demand is soaring despite limited supply.
Due to their glaring flaws, the shields are still years away from hitting the market.
For now, I’m one of the few people who have one…
or at least I was. Sergeant Croft still hasn’t returned my shield, and at this point, I’m starting to think Edmund might’ve been right.
Croft is either keeping the shield for himself or has already sold it for a fortune.
After everything he did to help me, I don’t regret lending it to him, but I do regret being so careless.
I should’ve found a way to make sure I got it back.
The hovercar door swings open, and the rich scent of chocolate wafts into the cabin.
Dickie clambers in, trailed by his Pinkie chaperone, then sprawls across the seat beside me.
One hand holds a half-empty mug of hot cocoa, while the other grips his prized carbon-fiber airplane, its wing bent at an odd angle.
“I need help,” Dickie declares, tossing the damaged toy at Jack.
Jack snatches the plane from the air and inspects the break. “What happened this time?”
“Nothing I can be blamed for. I rolled over on it in my sleep.”
“Why can’t you fix it yourself?” Charlotte interjects. “I thought you were supposed to be smart.”
Dickie shrugs, wiping his chocolate-smeared hand across the seat upholstery. “I’m smart where it counts, broad. You, on the other hand… if I put your brain in a bird, the bird would fly backwar—”
A hard look from Jack silences him.
“The bird would what?” Charlotte bristles.
“Forget it.” Dickie props his feet on the seat across from him. “Not worth it today. Not on a Thursday.”
“What’s special about Thursdays?” I ask.
Rather than answer, Dickie sips loudly from his hot chocolate. Jack, meanwhile, pulls a repair kit from his pocket and begins smoothing the plane’s bent wing. Charlotte shoots me a look, half annoyance, half exasperation, then slumps back into her seat.
The hovercar coasts toward the Blue Dormitory, where the tiered streets are jammed with traffic.
Hovercars inch forward in congested aerial lanes, their shiny exteriors reflecting curious looks from students lingering on the sidewalks below.
Ahead, the dormitory is locked down. Copper hovercars patrol the perimeter, and above, two helicopters drone in slow circles, their mounted lasers scanning the rooftops.
Somewhere inside, eighteen Blue students are confined to their suites under house arrest until their trials begin.
No one knows how long it will take—weeks, months, maybe longer.
Dad once said that politics can slow justice to a crawl.
The Coppers, the media, and even the judges are hyper-focused on the Blues involved in the attempt on Reeve’s life.
The rest of the trials are on the back burner until the high-profile one concludes.
Edmund’s hovercar parks as close as the barricades allow. We step into the charged atmosphere and head toward the dormitory entrance, where armed Coppers stand guard. After a quick flash of our entourage badges, we’re waved through.
Inside, the elevator takes us to Edmund’s floor. The doors open onto a long corridor lined with gold sconces, as quiet as a blackout. The only signs of life are the Coppers stationed outside the suites of the arrested Blue students.
Irene Hussey’s suite is one of them.
Every night since her arrest, I go to sleep convinced I’ll wake to news that she’s been released and the charges dropped. Just another high-citizen scandal swept away before the sun blinks over the horizon.
But somehow, she’s still locked up.
I picture her now, pacing the luxurious confines of her suite, shackled by an ankle monitor. She’s prohibited from attending classes in person and is reduced to staring at her Bond screen, connected to the outside world through pixelated walls.
I don’t pity her.
Months from now, when the Blues who tried to kill Reeve are convicted and executed, Irene’s trial will finally take place. And I’ll be there, called to testify against her and her group of friends.
Inside Edmund’s suite, we wait in the foyer. We’re expected to gather here each morning at 6:55 a.m., five minutes before the execution begins. Edmund, Jack, and Dickie always skip out, but Charlotte and I are forced to watch.
Edmund appears on the dot, framed in the doorway with two Pinkies beside him.
One fastens his Altimor pocket watch to his vest, while the other secures his scabbard.
He draws his saber halfway to check its balance, then slides it back.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a handkerchief.
As he wipes the back of his neck, his jaw tightens and his fingers shudder against the cloth.
“Good morning,” I say.
“Good?” Edmund laughs, almost at himself. “We’ll find out soon enough.” He grabs his coat from a Pinkie, then waves for us to follow him out of the suite.
“Wait,” Charlotte calls. “Aren’t you going to wait for Lore and me to finish watching the execution?”
“You’ll have to skip it. Today’s Thursday,” Jack says.
I glance toward the terraces, where students are already gathering to watch the Guillotine Yard below. “What’s so special about Thursdays?” I ask, hoping for an answer this time.
But Edmund, Jack, and Dickie are already heading out, their voices rising and falling as they discuss plans for night surfing.
“We can do better than the usual,” Edmund says.
“You could try the spot where they saw that shark last week.” Dickie drains the last of his hot chocolate with a dry chuckle. “I’ll watch from the shore.”
“How much better?” Jack asks Edmund, a glint in his eye.
“Bring your stun guns.”
Charlotte and I trade a rattled glance as the boys walk out the door, then rush after them, our formal posture slipping as we hurry to catch up.
Edmund never mentioned skipping executions when he explained the rules of his entourage. He never said that following his rules would require me to break the law.
By the time we reach his hovercar, my Bond buzzes with a notification.
7:02 A.M.: ABSENCE FROM EXECUTION ATTENDANCE. MINUS 10 CIVIL CREDITS.
Heat flushes my face. For Edmund, ten civil credits are spare change lost in the couch cushions. But for Charlotte and me, the loss is far more than we can afford on a whim. I glance at my Bond, and the pitiful balance glares back at me: 344 credits.
How the hell are Jack and Dickie getting away with this?
As we climb into the hovercar, I steal a glance at the blue bands on their Blood Rings, now fully visible, as if they want Charlotte and me to see them. They’ve worn them uncovered ever since we joined the entourage.
Again, it makes me wonder how much power Edmund has given Jack and Dickie. Are they still like Charlotte and me, still low-citizens? Or have they become something more?