CHAPTER 23 #2
Rosamund finishes her cigarette while Jack speaks, then hands the stub to her monkey, who promptly snuffs it out in an ashtray.
She keeps her eyes on me, smiling with the tolerance of someone politely enduring an interruption.
When Jack mentions I’m the daughter of Bruce Waldsten, one of her eyebrows arches in quiet disdain, the same way it did when she greeted Irene in the dining hall.
For a moment, I’m sure that once the introduction ends, Rosamund will make her dislike of Charlotte and me known to everyone.
But when Jack finishes, it’s as if we vanish.
Rosamund turns to Jack and straightens his bowtie with a warm, loving smile, as if the rest of us are intruding on a private moment.
Her cheeks flush softly as she sinks onto the couch beside him and rests a hand on his shoulder, her fingers curving around the shape of his muscles.
Charlotte’s face hardens into a blank, distant mask that looks habitual.
But Jack doesn’t appear any more at ease.
He offers Rosamund a tight-lipped smile, then edges away enough to break her touch.
Rosamund leans toward him again, this time letting her arm drape over the headrest behind him.
That’s when I notice the four scratches on her inner bicep.
They’re probably from her pet monkey, but the fact that they look so much like Edmund’s scratches sets off an alarm in my head.
Just then, the door swings open, and Professor Yates strides in, followed by two Pinkies carrying a locked, gold-trimmed box. The robots set the box on Yates’s desk, then retreat to the corner. Students lean forward in their seats with interest.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Professor Yates announces, shrugging off his fur-lined coat with dramatic flair. “Today is a very special day. A day of firsts, when you shall glimpse something few have had the privilege of seeing.”
The room buzzes with voices as students exchange excited glances. Yates strokes his waxed mustache, a sly grin forming on his lips, then steps onto the floating lecture platform and glides toward the cube of holographic screens in the room’s center.
“However,” Yates adds, raising a hand, “before you receive your reward, we must first determine your worthiness.”
He snaps his fingers, and the screens light up with a burst of footage.
My breath catches as I realize the footage is from the day the energy shield was first activated.
Millions pack the streets, their bodies pressed together for miles, eyes fixed skyward.
They cheer and clap, waving flags, until a deep rumble shakes the ground.
Sparks rain down on the crowd as the shield surges to life from the earth, a luminous yellow wall rising until it seems to swallow the sky.
The shield vanishes into the clouds like a god ascending, sealing us inside.
A protector.
And a prison.
Professor Yates steers his floating platform toward the Green level. “William Lee.” He shakes his cane at Vincent’s younger brother. “How long ago was the Civilized World founded?”
“On May 13th, it will be exactly two hundred years,” William replies coolly.
“Correct.” Professor Yates moves on and selects a Purple with a shiny bob and a kiss curl pressed to her forehead. “And why was it founded?”
The Purple pauses, glancing around as if to make sure everyone is paying attention.
“The Civilized World was established after an international dispute over technology,” she replies.
“While we sought to push the boundaries of scientific advancement, other nations feared such progress. They demanded we cease all experimentation in genetic engineering, AI expansion, and brain-computer interface implants, or face nuclear retaliation.” A small, knowing smile lifts her lips.
“So, we chose survival. We built the shield. We preserved our future. And we lived in peace.”
The lecture room erupts in proud applause. I touch my daffodil brooch reflexively as I stare at the image of the shield on the screen: yellow, blinding, endless.
We lived in peace, yes. But it didn’t last.
Professor Yates switches to a new reel of footage, and the mood shifts instantly.
Gone is the celebration, the hope for a better future.
Now the shield is crowded with Vanguards, their dark shapes swarming like vultures in a feeding frenzy, relentless in their defense.
Missiles tear through glowing cracks in the shield and plunge toward the city below.
The screen erupts in explosions, waves of heat boiling upward.
Smoke rises in thick columns that swallow the crumbling skyline.
Bodies lie scattered in the streets, piled so high in some places that they block doors and windows.
The class watches with wide eyes, hands frozen above their digital tablets. A few students cup their mouths, or flinch in discomfort. Dickie, the outlier, bounces in his seat, his arm raised, eager for the next question.
Instead, Professor Yates calls on Rosamund. “Miss Prew, how long did we live in peace?”
She props her chin on her hand, her gaze drifting in and out as if she’s lost in a haze. “Nearly a hundred years,” she says, drawing each word like silk through her teeth. “Then they struck. Unprovoked. And the Shield War began.”
“Correct.” Professor Yates’s eyes twinkle. “A most excellent response, Miss Prew.” Then his gaze settles on me, and the warmth vanishes. “And who are they, Miss Waldsten?”
All eyes turn to me, thick with pity.
No one likes to talk about what lies beyond the shield.
The truth lies in a chapter of our history we’ve tried to forget, buried so deep it surfaces only in classes like this one.
We might’ve once belonged to that world, but it’s been lost to us for two centuries.
Now the land beyond our borders is a shadowy wilderness, vast and unknown.
We call it the Open Range. And those who inhabit it…
“The Rangers,” I say quietly.
The word feels like a threat when spoken aloud, even though I have no mental image to attach to it. During the Shield War, almost no one saw a Ranger up close. Dad says there’s footage, but only the top brass has access to it.
Maybe that’s why we fear the Rangers. Even after an extensive, bloody war, they’re still faceless monsters lurking in the dark.
“Correct, Miss Waldsten,” Professor Yates says with a brisk nod. Then he sails away and selects a hook-nosed Orange for the final question. “How long did the Shield War last—”
“Thirty years,” Dickie blurts.
He’s out of his seat, breathing heavily, his eyes wild, desperate to finally answer a question. “No treaty was ever signed. No peace was ever declared. But the Rangers stopped attacking once they realized they couldn’t bring down the shield.”
Professor Yates spins around, sucking his teeth. He starts to speak, ready to scold Dickie, until his gaze falls on the blue gleam of Dickie’s Aegis. He halts abruptly, a muscle twitching in his jaw, then turns away and drifts back to the center of the room.
“Well done, ladies and gentlemen,” Professor Yates announces. “Through your knowledge of our history—our sacred inheritance—you have proven your worth. Now, you shall receive your reward.”
He unlocks the box on his desk with a biometric scan. Students in the front rows lean forward, craning their necks, eager for a glimpse.
But for me, what’s inside is already clear.
A Ranger artifact, the only genuine one ever recovered. Dad told me the professors have been showing it to first-years at Grandmaster since the Shield War ended. Now, instead of imagining the artifact from Dad’s description, I’ll see it for myself.
The box creaks open, and a collective gasp rings out.
The artifact is smaller than I expected, a curved steel object resembling a hooked claw. At the tip is a rowel, a toothed wheel that spins with movement. The steel is shiny but worn smooth from use. From war.
Professor Yates scans the room, clearly savoring the students’ fascination. “Can anyone tell me what this is?”
“It’s a spur,” Jack calls out, his eyes sparking as he stares at it. “It attaches to the back of a boot and is used to control horses… and as a weapon.”
“Correct.” Professor Yates stomps his cane. Then, with a grin, he points his cane at the spur. “Those who wish for a closer look may form an orderly line.”
The high-citizens go first, their eyes rife with curiosity, while low-citizens jostle for a place in line behind them.
I don’t join in. I’m already closer than I want to be.
That thing… that spur radiates nothing but dread. It’s a promise of the destruction that will follow if the Rangers ever breach our defenses.
Seventy years have passed since their last missile.
Most believe the Rangers have abandoned the fight for good, content to live outside the Civilized World on their own land among their own people.
Even if they decide to bomb us again, the Blues say it won’t matter.
Our technology has advanced too much, and the shield is now too strong to breach.
But the Blues are overlooking one thing.
The Heretics. The thousands of traitors hidden among us, working desperately to organize an attack strong enough to bring down the shield.
And to let the Rangers in.