Thirty-Eight
New York, New York
Klaudia beckoned Nadiya, Giselle, and Julian into her room. On the surface, she knew she looked calm—this was the same performance
she had given all her life. Mock assurance. False confidence. She was as much a showman as Julian, in a way. But her hands
shook as she opened the door, and when she glanced up, she saw Julian staring down at them. He had noticed. He had always
been able to see under her mask.
Her room was dark; she had kept the shades drawn. Klaudia didn’t want to look at the New York skyline, the sharp-edged buildings
glittering like broken glass. She didn’t want to calculate the precise distance between her hotel and an apartment on the
Upper West Side. This was as close as she had been to her father in nearly four years.
Stop it, she chided herself as she felt her throat begin to tighten. He’s not here. You’ll never see him again.
Once inside, Giselle perched on the edge of the couch and twisted her hands in her lap. “What are we supposed to do? I don’t
want to kill anyone. I can’t.”
“That’s the least of our concerns,” Julian said. He stood at the foot of Klaudia’s bed with his arms folded across his chest.
“After the gala, and after maybe a few days back at Valeran for Dr. Iver’s parody of a graduation ceremony, and then Deckard
is dropping us into enemy territory with some forged documents and those flimsy Auric guns. We’re more likely to get captured
and hanged before we reach Satow.”
“They wouldn’t hang you,” Nadiya said. She was leaning against the wall by the window. “They would keep you as a hostage and torture you to extort your father.”
“Oh, well, in that case—”
“None of that is going to happen,” said Klaudia. “We’re getting out of here. Tomorrow.”
“I suppose you already have a plan, don’t you?” Julian arched a brow.
“Pieces of one.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
It wasn’t nearly as impressive as Julian was suggesting. In truth, Klaudia had been turning over the idea of escape in her
mind ever since they had woken up from the simulation. She had suspected it was a suicide mission all along, but Deckard’s
order to destroy the cube had confirmed it. He didn’t want Satow rescued; he wanted Satow killed, which meant the four of
them were expendable. If it required too many resources to get them out, Klaudia had no doubts whatsoever that Deckard would
leave them for dead.
He had given them the imitation L-pills for a reason. He wanted to prepare them for the most likely eventuality—the one where
they were martyrs, not heroes.
“We need to blow Deckard’s plan wide open,” Klaudia said. “Put it on the front page of the New York Times. He’ll be hamstrung by the public’s outrage. If we play our cards right, we can expose everything.”
“But how?” Giselle asked. “We’re trapped here, aren’t we?”
“Theoretically,” said Klaudia. “But I don’t believe Chane for a second when he says that the gala will be discreet. He’s too
much of a narcissist. There will be photographers, and information will leak. Which means we have to do something to draw
as much attention to ourselves as possible. Something the guests won’t be able to resist gossiping about.”
Nadiya frowned. “Like what?”
“I have some thoughts.”
“Not that I don’t have faith in you,” Julian said, “but you might be idealizing the general public. Don’t you think they’re
more likely to hate us for shirking our patriotic duty? What’s to stop them from seeing us as traitors?”
“The political value we provide to Chane’s enemies. There are plenty of senators and congresspeople who have been fighting
big tech’s overreach. Deckard is clearly circling some sort of larger deal with him, and we can expose that, too. But I suspect
people would support us even just to get under Chane’s skin.”
“Well, I don’t doubt that he has enemies,” said Nadiya. “His hairdresser, for one.”
“All right,” Julian said cautiously. “So we appeal to the other side of the aisle. That means the old-guard Democrats and
the centrist Republicans. And anyone whose intern has to help them turn on their computer.” He grimaced. “My father’s demographic.”
“Yes,” Klaudia agreed. “Which is why we’re going to need him.”
Immediately the color drained from Julian’s face. “What?”
“We still have to make a grand exit tomorrow night. In the middle of the gala, for maximum dramatic effect.” She paused. “Is
there any way you could contact your father?”
Julian said nothing, and a tense silence settled over the room. Nadiya and Giselle were watching him expectantly. Klaudia
noticed the way his fingers curled and uncurled, knuckles turning white and nails digging into his palm.
“I don’t think these phones make outside calls,” he replied at last. “Deckard wouldn’t be so careless.”
“If I can get you to a phone,” Klaudia said, projecting more confidence than she felt, “will you do it?”
Julian’s gaze dropped. She had never seen him look so cowed.
For an instant she regretted what she had said, regretted mentioning his father at all.
She didn’t know how Julian had left things with him, but surely his father couldn’t be pleased that his eldest son and golden boy—and, presumably, his heir—was a criminal and a political disgrace.
Maybe she had gone too far. Klaudia didn’t like thinking that she might have hurt him.
After another long stretch of silence, Julian lifted his gaze.
“Okay,” he said quietly.
“Thank you,” said Klaudia, feeling a thrum of relief. “Now, a phone . . .”
She trailed off, but before her short-lived relief could turn to hopelessness, Giselle spoke up.
“Chane has a phone,” she said hesitantly. “I could try and . . . convince him.” She paused for a moment. “But I think he likes
you, Klaudia.”
Klaudia stiffened.
“No,” said Julian. “Absolutely not.”
“It’s fine,” Klaudia said. She kept her voice level, even as her heart briefly skipped its beats. “That makes sense. Okay.”
She paused again, trying to steel herself, to imagine the scenario that Giselle had presented. “I’ll do it. I’ll get his phone
from him.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Julian, without delay.
A rush of gratitude warmed Klaudia’s chest, and it gave her the resolve to say, “All right. Then let’s go.”
They followed Chane’s security guards like a trail of breadcrumbs, leading to the roof. At each checkpoint, the guards demanded
them show their hands and made Julian empty his pockets. Klaudia looked pointedly at the bulk of Kevlar underneath the guards’
clothes. Chane, for all his projected informality, was taking no chances.
When they found Chane, he was pacing around the perimeter of the helipad, shouting into his phone. The wind whipped his stringy hair in all directions, and made his exact words inaudible. But his face was red with emotion.
“You don’t have to do this,” said Julian quietly.
“I won’t have to give him much,” Klaudia said. “He’s easily flattered.”
They approached, and the instant that Chane spotted them, he hung up his phone and shoved it into his breast pocket. Assuming
that same wide but toothless grin, he said, “Hey, guys! What’s up?”
His casualness made everything seem easier. Drawing a breath, Klaudia said, “We just wanted to meet with you one-on-one. To
see if we could nudge you in the right direction.”
“Awesome,” said Chane, looking them both up and down. “But this is actually two-on-one, yeah?” His gaze lingered on Julian.
“Right,” Julian said tonelessly. “I must’ve forgotten how to count.”
Klaudia’s heart beat faster. This was a precarious plan, by turns bold and plain stupid. One of her teachers at Valeran, Professor
Sokolov, had said that was where genius lived—in the space between bravery and recklessness. He had said it while they were
reading Clausewitz, who asserted that defense was always the superior position. Offensive maneuvers were more often doomed
to failure. It was why Klaudia so rarely undertook them.
But she had no other choice now. And so, summoning all her courage, and shedding all the disgust she felt at the prospect,
Klaudia pretended to trip forward, falling into Chane’s waiting arms.
He seized her instantly, his grip tight as he clutched her to his chest. Chane had to feel that she was shaking, had to see
the flush that had risen to her cheeks, but she was sure he would mistake it for flustered flirtation. Taking advantage of
his bewilderment and shock, Klaudia subtly knocked the phone from his breast pocket.
To cover up the noise of it clattering to the ground, she said loudly, “Oh! I’m so sorry! These shoes—”
With one foot, she kicked the phone across the rooftop toward Julian. Chane was still distracted by his sudden physical contact with Klaudia and he didn’t notice Julian kneel down to pick it up.
In a split second, Chane had his arms tightly around her waist. None too subtly, one of his hands grazed her hip, and his
knees wedged between her thighs.
“No worries,” Chane said. Even though she was now upright, he didn’t slacken his grip. “Are you, like, super clumsy? It’s
cute.”
Klaudia’s stomach churned. In her periphery, she saw Julian duck behind one of the large roof vents, phone to his ear. She
had previously expressed concern that Chane’s phone would be locked, but he had looked at her assuredly and said, Rich people don’t password protect anything. Not even someone like Chane. They can’t envision a world where anyone can take
something from them.
“Only sometimes,” Klaudia said, raising the pitch of her voice to sound what she hoped came across as bubbly. “Only when I’m, um, intimidated.” There, she thought, cringing internally. There was nothing Chane wanted more than to be admired.
“Yeah?” Chane’s smile grew languid, stretching the skin of his face. “Well, I can show you something really cool I’m working on, if you want. If you come to my room later. I’ve heard you’re good at games.”
Klaudia thought she might be ill. But at that precise moment, Julian emerged from behind the air vent. Chane hadn’t even noticed
his absence. He dropped the phone, kicking it back across the ground to Klaudia, who was so relieved to have an escape that