Twenty-Two
Rural Virginia
JANE LIN: Where are you?
JANE LIN: Are you all right?
JANE LIN: I’m so sorry about everything. Just let me know if you’re okay.
JANE LIN: Mikhail and I are going to eat on the lawn. Meet us there?
Klaudia’s tablet lit up again and again. She turned it over, screen face down, and lay back against her pillows. Since the
Thymos tournament, she had not left her room, ignoring Jane’s messages and the wooziness of hunger and thirst. She could not
bring herself to walk down the halls of Valeran, enduring the stares and whispers.
The whispers: She’s lost it, she’s gone crazy, she’s slipped. It wasn’t merely that Klaudia Shimonova had finally been defeated; it was the manner in which it had happened. Everyone
knew that Julian had thrown the game. Even before their confrontation in the corridor, there had been no doubt.
Klaudia didn’t know if it had been his intention all along, to humiliate her in such an intricate way. If it was, Julian was
an even better actor than she had given him credit for. He had looked genuinely concerned, almost stricken.
Like you needed my help. The echo of his words scraped her raw. What if she hadn’t made the mistake? What if she hadn’t been so tired that day, so
worn down, so afraid? What if Carter hadn’t—
Klaudia rose from the bed and paced to the window. She stared out through the glass, and Valeran warped and shifted, blurred by her exhaustion. The world, made hostile and strange.
She had tried to keep it all controlled and safe, barren and frigid, and yet here she was: weak, unstable, all the things
she had sworn she would never be. Her father would have pinned her to the wall and pressed down on her throat until, in a
raspy voice, she recited the answer he was looking for, swore that she would do better next time. She almost wished he were
here now. The pain, in its own strange way, would have calmed her.
But her thoughts kept returning to Julian, staring at her from across the stage. That awful, ruinous thing in his gaze: compassion. It was worse than anger, worse than hate. He had seen the fragile parts of Klaudia that she had spent her whole life trying
to annihilate.
PROFESSOR NARENDRA: Klaudia, come to my office when you have the chance, please.
She had ignored the notification for an hour, thinking it was another message from Jane. When Klaudia saw Professor Narendra’s
name, her stomach fluttered with panic. A litany of possibilities, from the realistic to the utterly absurd, ran through her
mind. Was she being punished? Had she lost her chance at a top appointment? Would her graduation be deferred? She could see
the way the story might be spun—out of petulance and bitterness, she had attacked a fellow student.
Klaudia dressed, pinned back her hair, and set off for the main building, heart beating at a painful clip. To her great relief,
she didn’t run into any of her fellow students. She shuddered to imagine what a confrontation with Carter would entail. Or
Julian.
She climbed the stairs to the third floor and paused for a moment outside Professor Narendra’s office, steeling herself. Then she knocked.
“Come in.”
Klaudia entered. She had been in this office many times before, for their private tutoring. Professor Narendra’s Columbia
doctorate was mounted on the wall. All his papers were arranged in neat piles. A framed photo on his desk showed him shaking
hands with Robert Jervis.
Professor Narendra stood in front of his desk, leaning slightly against the polished mahogany surface. His jacket was off,
shirtsleeves rolled up his elbows, giving him an appearance of casualness that slightly ebbed Klaudia’s fear. Surely he would
look more stern if he was going to expel her.
“Klaudia,” he said. “Please sit.”
She approached the armchair but didn’t lower herself into it. Instead, she gripped the back of the chair and said, “I’m sorry
I didn’t see your message right away.”
“Don’t apologize,” said Professor Narendra. “Thank you for coming in.”
“Of course,” said Klaudia, still feeling uneasy.
“I should have called you in sooner,” Professor Narendra went on, “but there were a number of things—never mind. I asked you
to come because I wanted to say that I’m very sorry.”
Her stomach jolted. “Sorry for what?”
“I—and my fellow colleagues—have been far too hard on you. Our expectations have been unrealistic. I can’t imagine the pressure
you must have been under. As educators, it’s our job to teach, but we are also responsible for the welfare of our students.
Physical and psychological. And of everyone, I am the most guilty for failing you in that respect.”
Klaudia stared at the floor, eyes tracing the pattern of the carpet. This was worse than anything she had feared. It was not only gossip among the students, but faculty, too. And the unspoken implication was that some of them had seen it coming—or, at least, that it had seemed inevitable.
She had the sensation of falling, of feeling the height in the soles of her feet. Without a word, Klaudia sat down in the
armchair.
“You’re a generationally talented strategist, Klaudia,” Professor Narendra said, more softly now. “But you can’t sacrifice
everything else to be that.”
She hated the tenderness in his voice. She hated how it made her chest ache.
Klaudia lifted her head. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”
Professor Narendra’s mouth thinned. “Klaudia . . .”
“Is there anything else you need from me?”
With a quiet exhale, Professor Narendra walked around his desk and tapped his tablet. “Yes, actually,” he said. “Dr. Iver
wants to see you in the subbasement.”
Every building of any consequence in America, even one as old as Valeran, had a deep, steel-fortified subbasement. Valeran’s
was labyrinthine: dark, twisting metal corridors, fluorescent lights guttering in a way that made Klaudia feel slightly ill.
It was their fallout shelter, where students were corralled during bimonthly drills. Klaudia had only ever seen the opening
of the first corridor. Pressed shoulder to shoulder with Jane, she had squeezed her eyes shut as the earsplitting noise simulating
the detonation of a nuclear bomb was piped through the speakers on the wall. Now she wound through the halls, following the
directions Professor Narendra had given her.
Left, right, left, left, right. At the end of the corridor was a heavy steel door.
It looked airtight, as if it belonged in the bowels of a submarine.
Oddly enough, her fear abated further. Surely Dr. Iver wouldn’t make her descend into the subbasement just to tell her she was no longer a candidate for a DOD appointment.
With a new sense of assurance, Klaudia pushed open the door.
But it wasn’t Dr. Iver who stood in the cramped and windowless chamber. It was Julian.
She froze in place, the door creaking shut behind her. Julian looked as bewildered as she felt. His brow furrowed and his
lips parted, but before he could speak, Klaudia demanded, “What are you doing here?”
“Dr. Iver told me to come.”
Was he lying? Klaudia dug her fingernails into her palm. “Me too.” A beat passed, and she found that she couldn’t contain
her anger. “Aren’t you satisfied?” she asked. “Haven’t you taken enough?”
Julian inhaled, which made his chest swell. “I’m not capable of taking anything from you.”
“You’re implying that I lost it all myself?”
“No,” he replied. “I’m saying that you’re too good to lose to someone like me.”
Klaudia almost laughed. “That’s why you handed me the win, surely.”
“You would have won, if there hadn’t been . . . extenuating circumstances.” Julian’s gaze was sharp. “You would have beaten
me, Klaudia, and you know it. If not for—”
If not for Carter. The unspoken words made her throat burn. Even if it was true, it was cold comfort. Extenuating circumstances were just excuses. Justifications. They didn’t matter. There was only security and risk, gained ground and scorched earth.
She was the black box, everything inside her irrelevant to the game being played.
“If you really wanted to help me, you would have thrown the match more convincingly.” She hated how petulant her voice sounded.
“I wasn’t exactly thinking straight,” Julian bit out.
Klaudia found that hard to believe. He had played perfectly up until that moment. “And why is that?”
“Because you make me feel like I’m losing my mind.”
She recoiled, heart thumping. Was he saying it just to fluster her? She wouldn’t put it past him. Billionaire or not, no one
could win a major election at age eighteen without calculated charm.
“You didn’t show it,” she said. “You made the best possible move every turn.”
“Well, you also make me play better than I ever have before.” He sounded disgruntled. “Just to meet you on your level. I’ve
never had to try so hard. Does that satisfy you?”
“What a privileged life you’ve led,” said Klaudia, “for beating me to be your greatest challenge.”
“I never pretended otherwise.”
Klaudia searched Julian’s face. He was wearing a dressing on his cheek, which meant he had actually gone to the infirmary
to treat the tiny cut inflicted by the shattered glass. A part of her was glad that she had marred his otherwise perfect,
aristocratic features.
It seemed only fair. Julian had wormed his way into her friend group, driving a wedge between her and Jane and Mikhail; he
had taken her poise and superiority and, it appeared, even her sanity. She hoped the cut on his cheek left a scar.
Julian met her gaze unflinchingly. Before either of them could speak again, the door swung open.
Klaudia turned, expecting to see Dr. Iver. Instead, it was a girl in a Valeran uniform—another student, though one Klaudia
didn’t recognize. She had waist-length, tousled red hair and a face that was pretty in an innocent way, the impression augmented
by her dazed expression.
Even more, Klaudia could not have predicted the Appalachian twang in her voice when she asked, “What are you doing here?”
“Dr. Iver told us to come,” said Julian—speaking for both of them, to Klaudia’s annoyance. Striding forward, he held out his
hand. “Julian Joyce-Young the Third.”
The girl frowned. The name meant nothing to her.
“Giselle Buckley,” she replied. She reached out and took Julian’s hand. Then she looked expectantly in Klaudia’s direction.
Klaudia folded her arms across her chest. “Klaudia Shimonova.”
There was no recognition in the girl’s eyes, which perplexed Klaudia. If she had been at Valeran for any length of time, surely
she would at least know Klaudia’s name. Had she never checked the ranking board? Klaudia couldn’t recall seeing a Giselle Buckley appear there at all.
Klaudia also couldn’t recall passing her in the dining hall or the corridors. She was certain she would have noticed her distinctive
red hair. And that provincial drawl.
“I suppose Dr. Iver didn’t explain anything to you, either,” Julian said.
Giselle shook her head. “I just got a message on my tablet. I didn’t even know there was a subbasement. It took me thirty
minutes to find my way here.” She laughed softly, sheepishly. “I haven’t been here very long, so I’m not sure . . . is this
normal?”
“No,” Klaudia said. “Not at all.”
The three of them regarded each other in silence. Klaudia was abruptly aware that Giselle was not just pretty but beautiful,
and consummately American. A perky nose, a slender figure, a guileless stare. Klaudia couldn’t help but think that if she
had looked more like Giselle, her trial might not have gone so disastrously. The news coverage might have been more sympathetic.
The judge more inclined to leniency.
These thoughts scattered when the door opened once more.
Another girl stepped in, and this time Klaudia recognized her.
There was surely not a soul at Valeran who didn’t know Nadiya Karam, Dr. Iver’s ward, the school’s preeminent soldier, Klaudia’s equivalent among the tactical combat students.
Klaudia had never exchanged more than a few words with her in passing, but her reputation was nothing short of legendary.
Only Nadiya didn’t look very regal or assured at the moment. Her gaze was oddly hollow, her posture poor. Her knuckles were
mottled with rather violent-looking bruises, red and fresh, and only partially concealed beneath bandages. It occurred to
Klaudia as vaguely humorous that the two people among them sporting bandages were Nadiya and Julian. Or it would have been humorous, if Nadiya’s diminished appearance weren’t so alarming.
Nadiya didn’t spare either Klaudia or Julian a glance. Instead, her gaze fixed on Giselle, and her eyes flared with something
that resembled panic.
“Nadiya—” Giselle began.
Nadiya flinched, almost as if she’d been struck. “What are you doing here?”
“Dr. Iver told me to come,” Giselle said. “He told all of us . . .”
Finally, Nadiya glanced around the room. Klaudia met her stare and they both gave brisk nods of recognition. But when her
gaze settled on Julian, she frowned. “Who are you?”
“Julian Joyce-Young the Third,” he said, in his most gregarious mayoral voice. He offered his hand.
Nadiya looked at him with suspicion and didn’t take it. “I’m not familiar.”
Faintly, the affable look faded from Julian’s face. “And you are?”
“Nadiya.” Her eyes narrowed. “Nadiya Karam.”
“I’m afraid I’m not familiar,” Julian said, with a slight quirk of his lips.
But his attempt at sardonic humor landed flatly, and a sudden chill descended over the room. Julian withdrew his hand. Klaudia was trying to discern the relationship between Nadiya and Giselle, who clearly knew one another, though there was something distinctly charged about their interactions.
Yet before she had an opportunity to ask, the door opened again. This time—at last—it was Dr. Iver. He was trailed by an unfamiliar
man in a crisp black suit and dark sunglasses, ill-fitted to the gloom of the small underground chamber.
Dr. Iver looked at each of them in turn, though his gaze didn’t linger—not even on Nadiya. That signature enigmatic smile
was on his face.
“Thank you all for responding to my invitation so promptly,” he said.
“It seemed more like an order than an invitation,” said Julian coolly.
Dr. Iver ignored him. “I apologize for the cryptic nature of my request. But this is a matter of utmost discretion. The four
of you have been selected for a very . . . consequential opportunity.”
“Consequential?” Nadiya echoed. Her voice had a strained quality. “What does that mean?”
The dark-suited man stepped forward. He removed his sunglasses, but even without them, his face was unreadable, almost blank.
There were no distinctive features to it, nothing Klaudia could conjure a description for. The sense of complete anonymity
made her skin prickle.
“Let me introduce myself,” he said. “Deckard. CIA.”