CHAPTER 56
In the end, truth makes fools of us all.
THE TATTLER, TATTLETALE
Charlotte and I ride back to the Green Dormitory in an armored hovercar. No one speaks during the drive, from the Green students around us to the glassy-eyed Copper behind the control stick. We’re all sunk in the same haze, the smell of blood and burnt jet fuel clinging to our skin.
I keep seeing the Ranger jets, their panels welded crookedly, wings scored by grit, and armor patched in places with raw, jagged scrap. Ugly machines built to bruise the sky until it splits wide open over all of us.
I know I’m not the only one asking: Why now? Why attack us after seventy years of peace? Are we heading into another Shield War? The thought makes my stomach seize so hard I nearly gag. If so, it would mean going backward, reliving the same unending loss and destruction our grandparents endured.
At the Green Dormitory, Charlotte drifts after me to my suite. I barely realize I’m leading her. We glide through the foyer like shadows and slump onto the sofa in the salon, side by side, though we might as well be miles apart. For a long moment, we sit in a vacant, motionless silence.
Then Charlotte turns the television to The Civilized Voice.
Benjamin Bogart appears live on the scene at one of the bomb sites near Nickel Row City, right at the energy shield’s fragile border.
He’s dressed like every war correspondent our history lectures have described: a flak vest strapped over a crisp white shirt, a helmet secured under his chin, and a throat mic clipped to his collar.
A faint smear of lipstick streaks his jaw, as if he left Scarlet Du Pont’s side to dive straight into reporting.
My eyes fix on the lipstick, clinging to that small mark of the old world amid this chaos, as if it’s proof that something ordinary still exists.
Behind him, the ruins of an Offspring Institute smolder under the pulse of Copper sirens and searchlights.
Bogart squints into the camera, his eyes bloodshot from smoke curling through the wreckage.
“—in what officials are already calling an echo of the Shield War,” he says, pitching his voice above the noise.
“President Reeve is expected to address the nation within the hour, but for now, here is what we can confirm. There were thirty-four recorded breaches across the Civilized World tonight. Preliminary reports list nearly four thousand dead, with thousands more wounded. Infrastructure damage is extensive. Many innocent lives were lost, but tonight was not without heroism.”
The feed switches to drone footage of cities near the shield’s rim, where glass towers now stand gutted down to their steel skeletons.
Coppers cordon off streets still spewing smoke into the sky.
Another clip shows bodies being pulled from burning buildings, always by the same steady hands: a Blue lifts a crying child from the rubble, a Blue pulls a dazed Green to their feet, and a Blue hands out oxygen masks to Oranges lined up against a scorched barricade.
I grit my teeth at the sight because I know what Bogart is leaving out.
On the Sailing Strip tonight, the Blues were heroic, but so were the Greens, who dragged the Blues away from Ranger fire and carried them on their backs all the way to the hoverboats, ankle-deep in blood.
But none of that bravery flickers across Bogart’s feed now.
He continues speaking, as if unaffected by the fear that he’s so carefully feeding to the rest of us.
“The President has assured us that every Ranger incursion will be met with the full force of the Civilized World’s might.
Immediate military deployments are stabilizing all known strike sites.
Additional units have been released for community defense.
Citizens are urged to remain vigilant and report any suspicious activity near shield perimeters. ”
Behind Bogart, a military convoy rumbles through the haze, armored trucks crawling past as drones hover overhead, their searchlights sweeping broken windows for any sign of danger.
Charlotte’s hand finds mine on the sofa, and I squeeze it without looking at her. I can’t tear my eyes away from Bogart or the lie he’s polishing so brightly for every screen. Tonight, only the Blues get to be called brave.
“We are working to seal the breaches,” Bogart continues, his helmet tilting as an explosion flashes behind him, close enough to shake the camera feed.
“However, officials have stated that our current defenses are insufficient should these attacks persist. A special War Council will convene within the week to develop a comprehensive response. There is also early discussion of resurrecting legacy operations… among them, the Vanguard Program.”
My body turns cold at the name. I picture Edmund in a Vanguard jet cockpit, his helmet casting a shadow over his eyes as the jet ascends beyond the shield, heading straight into a storm of Ranger fire.
Charlotte draws a sharp breath as Bogart’s feed streams live footage from Charleston City, where hundreds of thousands fill the wide avenues outside the Golden Gate Manor beneath giant banners of double-headed eagles.
Some people cry openly, fists pressed to their lips as they cradle toddlers who don’t yet know the word war.
Others scream themselves hoarse, eyes red with grief and anger, jostling for space at the barricades manned by lines of Copper riot shields.
A group near the front lifts holographic signs: brING BACK THE VANGUARDS. REEVE, LEAD US. ONLY BLUES CAN SAVE US NOW.
They chant Reeve’s name over and over, like a single, desperate voice pleading for a father, a savior, a sword.
I see the truth as clearly now as that Ranger jet wing, pointing up from the water to the sky.
The Shield War is no longer history.
It’s today.
Sometime after midnight, Charlotte and I fall asleep on my couch.
We’re still in our bloodstained Fraternity uniforms, boots half-kicked off, the stale smell of sweat and smoke clinging to our hair.
Sleep pulls me under fast, straight into a scene so vivid that I don’t realize it’s a dream: Edmund stands at the center of the Sailing Strip, his saber lowered, weighing Blue against Green just as he did tonight.
But this time, he isn’t alone. His older brother, Richard, faceless like a shade, leans in close and whispers something in his ear.
Whatever the words are, they make Edmund turn and lift his blade toward the Greens. Toward me.
Then Edmund moves, head cocked downward, a beast tearing into the Greens with broad, merciless strokes.
His blade reflects the glare of his cold, savage eyes as he carves through bodies, and the marble floods with our blood.
Jack fights his way through the chaos, desperate to reach him, to pull the saber down and stop the slaughter.
Edmund lunges forward as if to embrace him, then sinks his teeth into Jack’s throat and tears a chunk free.
Jack crumples, choking on his own blood. Edmund turns to me, smiling, his mouth slick and green, his teeth dripping with the stain of everything I love.
I bolt upright so suddenly that the blanket tangled around my waist falls to the floor. Morning light glows in the windows, slanting across the floor and catching the gold trim on the furniture. I hunch forward on the sofa, trembling with relief as I’m pulled back to reality.
Across the salon, Charlotte sits beside an untouched breakfast spread, talking on her Bond with Jack and Dickie. Her voice is dulled by shock as she assures them neither of us is hurt.
I get up from the sofa to join her when my Bond pings with an alert. I open the message, which shows that William Lee has burned through seventy-four civil credits since last night: vandalism, public violence, destruction of campus property, and minor assault.
Part of me isn’t surprised he’s falling apart. With Vincent’s name cut from the system, William is cutting himself out right behind his brother, one reckless swing at a time.
Yet as I scroll through the deductions, it occurs to me that William should be dead.
According to the old codes, last night should’ve ended with Edmund driving his saber through William, too.
He should’ve hunted William down after the Ranger attack, whether on the shore of the Luminescent Lake or in his own suite, and buried the dishonor for good.
But he didn’t.
A rough exhale scrapes out of me, half disbelief, half confusion, and the longer I dwell on it, the deeper it grows.
Edmund stood on that piste and shouldered the shame himself rather than kill William.
The pardon won’t ruin his name—Vincent’s death bought him enough grace for that—but the Blue Fraternity won’t forgive it.
Grandmaster Lily might even put William down herself to scrub out the last of the stain.
But Edmund… it doesn’t fit.
I press my palms over my eyes until the darkness behind my lids turns red. Again and again, I see him last night, identifying bodies on the Sailing Strip, his face split with panic, his voice shredding itself on my name.
If it wasn’t Edmund behind the sabotage, draining my civil credits until I was three away from execution, then who was it? And more importantly, why?
I suck in a breath that tastes of stale sofa fabric and Charlotte’s perfume, trying to ease my tension, but it doesn’t help.
There’s too much I don’t understand, too many questions buried like landmines beneath my feet.
For the first time, I wonder if digging up every answer is worth it.
Maybe knowing will only bring more pain and loss, more of me gone for good.
“Miss Waldsten,” my Pinkie calls.
The robot emerges from my bedroom, holding a small black box.
“Your father contacted me this morning,” the robot says. “Given the recent events, he strongly advises you to wear your shield at all times.”
I nod, my throat still raw from inhaling too much smoke last night.
While the Pinkie secures the shield to my chest, I open my message inbox and feel a stab of guilt at the number of missed calls from my parents. I’m about to return Dad’s call when something else catches my eye: Vivian has called, too. Not just once, but eighteen times.
A chill of dark foreboding settles over me as I dial her number. She’s never called me this many times without texting to explain why. When she picks up, I whisper, “Vivian?”
All I hear in response is sobbing, momentarily broken by words tangled in hysteria. Harry. Coppers. Harry. Gone.
“Vivian, please slow down. I can’t understand you. What happened?”
Then, when the truth bursts through her wailing, another fault line splits open beneath my feet. I don’t realize I’ve shouted until Charlotte jerks up from the table, her coffee cup shattering on the floor.
“Harrison was arrested.”