CHAPTER 52 #2
Jerome extends his hand, his Blood Ring tilted toward me, waiting. I hesitate, then step forward and scan my ring against his. Instead of the standard civilian file that appears on my Bond screen when I’m introduced to new people, I see a classified dossier.
INTERNAL PERSONNEL DOSSIER:
Agency: Office of Civil Integrity (Brasscoat Division)
IDENTITY CONFIRMATION:
Name: Jerome W. Glass
Signature: Glass, J.W.
Image: A headshot of him, younger but with the same grin and the same eyes that don’t match it at all.
The text goes on for pages, but almost all the information is redacted. Slowly, I lift my eyes from the screen to Jerome. “You’re… a Brasscoat?”
He flashes the same wide grin from the file, harmless until it’s not. “Congratulations, Waldsten. You’ve just been drafted.”
I settle into stillness for a long moment, seeing Jerome as I should’ve from the start: his height, his strength, the easy, disarming confidence tucked neatly behind a professor’s coat.
It makes perfect sense why he became a Brasscoat.
Like Winston, Jerome has spent his life trying to scrub away the stain of Frederick Glass, who was Winston’s father and Jerome’s grandfather.
Frederick was more than a rabble-rouser; he was one of the architects of the Heretic ideology, among the first to stand on a pulpit and convince desperate low-citizens that tearing down the energy shield was a fair price for a shot at a better world.
Frederick fueled every violent impulse within the Heretic ranks, transforming anger into a cult of righteous cruelty.
Although he ultimately became a martyr, beheaded like a hero to his followers, by then the seeds were too deeply planted to dig out.
Frederick turned discontent into dogma, and dogma into slaughter.
It’s his words the Heretics still shout before they bomb a government building or poison a city water supply: Without the freedom to, I choose freedom from.
Now, Winston tries to wash away Frederick’s sins by creating miracles the Civilized World can’t live without. And Jerome is doing it his way, as a Brasscoat hunting down his grandfather’s disciples one by one, feeding them to the guillotine so no one ever dares call him Frederick’s grandson.
Jerome still puts me on edge. He’s still a trainwreck, somehow rattling forward, but I’m looking at the crossroads ahead differently now, as a chance to do something that actually matters.
I offer my hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Glass.”
Jerome bristles at the name, then smooths it over with a handshake.
“Let me put this to you straight, Waldsten. I don’t do blackmail.
If you don’t like my offer and decide to walk out of this room for good, you keep the Aegis until the Section Twenty-Seven hit ends.
When it’s over, I take the Aegis back, and you walk away three hundred civil credits richer.
” He leans in and taps the Aegis on my thumb.
“I’m looking for someone dedicated, not someone who said yes because they’re scared of getting whacked. Got me?”
I nod.
He walks around the desk, opens a drawer, and pulls out an energy drink.
The label—Ascend—flashes as he cracks open the lid.
It’s the same energy drink students chug during all-night study sessions before exams. You’re only supposed to have two a day, but judging by the pile of empty cans on Jerome’s desk, this one is at least his fourth. His heart must be begging for mercy.
“It’s worth mentioning right out of the gate,” Jerome says, taking a long sip, “that the job I’m offering doesn’t officially start until next year.
If you accept, you don’t breathe a word of this to anyone but your parents.
Slip once, and I’ll bury you where the secret should’ve stayed.
Do you know what classified means, Waldsten? ”
“Yes,” I say, though alarm bells ring in my head. Charlotte. My sisters. I can’t explain away an Aegis with a flip of my hair.
“And we’re not doing any of that flowery formal-agreement shit, either,” he adds, waving the can. “You say yes, you work for us, and that’s it. If you flake or screw me, the Aegis deactivates. Then I come by to collect it.”
“I understand.”
“Top. Now, strap in. This is where the wires cross.” Jerome slams the can onto the desk with a dull thud.
“We’ve got an entire network of Heretics operating in the shadow of our asses, right here on campus.
Most are smart enough not to meet face-to-face.
Instead, they hole up in an encrypted VR forum they call The Flamingo Club.
They only log in during the academic year. Once summer hits, they ghost.”
“Next year, when you’re back from break, you’ll go in, poke around, and help me ID as many of these bastards as you can. Interested?”
I put on the most nonchalant expression I can manage as I weigh his offer.
A job like this will demand more than snooping.
The Flamingo Club members are all students; the moment I enter that forum, they’ll want proof I belong.
They’ll want to see me bleed the way they do, and I’ll have to pretend.
That means reshaping my entire life into a lie, which, if I’m honest, doesn’t scare me as much as it should.
I can lie. I can sell whatever bullshit the Heretics need to hear.
What worries me is the margin for error. One slip, one wrong word, and I’ll be exposed as a Brasscoat informant, landing on the target list of every Heretic in the Civilized World. Worse, I won’t see them coming, but they’ll know exactly where to find me.
I know I don’t have to accept this job. I could refuse the deal, walk out of this sweltering hot room, and go back to my old life, the one where I only existed to survive.
Or I could do something more.
“I assume there’s a failsafe,” I say. “Some way to keep me from getting tagged as an actual Heretic?”
“Of course.” Jerome snorts. “Our director already signed off on this op. You, and the handful of other eyes and ears we’ve planted, are documented in black and white. Official assets. You won’t be legally tied to the Heretics.
“But publicly?” He tilts his head and smirks. “Publicly, you’ll have to smell like one of them. That’s the fun part. It helps that you’ve already killed a Blue—good for street cred. Still, they’ll test you, Waldsten. In the forum, sure, but maybe face-to-face, too. You’ll have to pass.”
My stomach twists.
“Don’t worry.” Jerome lifts the can in a mock toast. “I’ll be right there, sweetheart. Teaching you how to fake it. How to lie down and screw the Heretics like you mean it.”
“I’ll do it,” I say.
He wipes a bead of energy drink from his mouth, laughing under his breath. “That was quick. Sure you don’t wanna think about it first? I can give you six minutes.”
“I’m sure,” I say.
And I mean it.
Even if Blues are the true enemy, Heretics aren’t far behind. Taking out one of their nests—especially one that’s likely coordinating attacks that kill twice as many innocent low-citizens as corrupt Blues—would be a start, a first step toward changing things the way Dad does.
“I want to get to work now,” I add. “While I’m home for the summer.”
Jerome’s eyes narrow, then he grins. “You asking for my number, Waldsten?”
I cross my arms, already immune to the jabs. “Yes. So get used to my voice. I’ll have questions.”
“Got one now?”
“A few. How’d you find out about this forum? The Flamingo Club?”
“A Heretic spilled it during an interrogation. A sixth-year called Weathers.”
Immediately, I know he’s talking about Eve Weathers, our former Grandmaster. I see her in my mind, dragged out of Green Dormitory in her pajamas, her lip split open, yet her head still held high.
“It was luck, really,” Jerome goes on. “She wasn’t even on our radar. The Coppers were investigating her first.”
“For what?”
“For being a Vulgar.”
He says it like an inside joke, a throwback to my fight with Edmund in the rain. But I’m not laughing because that’s not me. Loving someone outside your blood color is one thing, but being a Vulgar is something else entirely.
“By the way,” Jerome says. “I hope it goes without saying that you’re gonna need to steer clear of Blues until this op is over.
You don’t join their entourages. You don’t talk to them.
Hell, you don’t even crack a smile their way.
One wrong look at your Blue boyfriend and the Heretics will know you’re not one of them. ”
I touch the Aegis on my thumb, a restless weight settling in my chest. It feels like a big commitment, though I can’t quite say why. My relationship with Edmund is over, as broken as the wire daffodil I threw at him.
“I have an Aegis,” I point out. “Won’t that alone give me away? The Heretics will know I’m not one of them.”
“Only if they know you have it.” Jerome takes my hand, his fingers closing over my thumb as he squeezes the Aegis until it glows blue. Then he slides the Aegis beneath my Blood Ring, where it settles with a soft click.
“Where’d it go?” I ask. “In my Blood Ring?”
“Kind of. Don’t fiddle with it or take it off to show anyone.
If you do, I’ll know.” He sips from his energy drink.
“It’s an Aegis designed for informants. Anyone who connects to your Bond—Heretics, Coppers, whoever—will see a fake home screen.
They won’t know you have an Aegis or how many civil credits you’re sitting on.
Which is a lot, by the way, so don’t get tempted to start helping poor bastards in need. You’ll raise suspicion.”
Jerome checks the clock as if he’s got somewhere else to be. “Any other questions?”
“Just one. Who are the other students? The ones going into the Flamingo Club with me?”
“Better if you don’t know. If the Heretics crack you, we don’t want the whole operation unraveling around you.”
I nod. Fair enough.