The Pinkie is the ideal servant: tireless, unfeeling,

  and utterly self-sufficient. It requires no food, water, or rest.

  And, finest of all, the Pinkie requires no love.

  —GOLNAZ RAHMANI, HUMANOID ARCHITECT

  CHAPTER 10

  Dawn light creeps across the sky, slow and shy, as if unsure whether it’s welcome. My Pinkies have emerged from their recharging pods and stand in a line at the foot of my bed, waiting to get me ready for the day. While the robots apply my makeup and comb setting lotion into my hair, I replay the video attached to Dickie’s text.

  As I suspected, Dickie’s Pinkie chaperone managed to send a report to the Office of Student Affairs before the Copper destroyed its data storage chip.

  Now, we have the smoking gun.

  The footage opens with the Pinkie entering the green first-year carriage and scanning the rows for Jane Bradford. When the robot locates her, still shifting anxiously in her seat, lightning strikes the shield. The loud, sudden noise sends students into a panic, triggering a frantic scramble as bodies duck and roll for cover. Amid the chaos, the Copper unmuzzles the dogs. The beasts charge down the aisle with singular focus, muscles tensed, jaws snapping with wet fury. There’s no time for Jane to react. Before she can get up from her seat, the dogs’ teeth sink deep into her legs, ripping and shredding until her screams cause the other students to throw themselves against the exit doors in terror.

  The Copper notices the Pinkie filming. With a panicked curse, he charges down the aisle and bodychecks the robot into the wall. Static crackles through the footage as he bashes his gun into its chest, again and again, until the screen finally cuts to black.

  I turn away, nauseated by the sight of so much blood. When I met Jane on the courthouse steps a year ago, I never imagined I’d one day watch her die. Seeing her broken, lifeless face reminds me I can’t expect the rules I grew up with to apply here. This world is merciless, and so are the people in it.

  Five minutes before 7:00 a.m., I step onto my terrace and brace myself for more blood. After Dickie handed the authorities the video evidence of Jane’s murder, the Copper was immediately arrested and sentenced to death. Dad says the courts are moving faster than usual because President Reeve wants to make an example of the agitators.

  The cold front from yesterday’s storm has moved on, replaced by the mellow breeze of late summer. It’s the kind of day I’d spend at the river near my home. But instead of lounging on sun chairs with Vivian and Hillaire, our skin pink from the heat, with jazz from Big Band Beats playing softly in the background, I have to watch more people die.

  Executions in the campus Guillotine Yard occur at 7:00 a.m. sharp, a grim opening act to each day. None are broadcast beyond the university walls. Low-citizen students shuffle cautiously onto their private terraces, stiff as the starch in their pressed suits and day dresses. Across the yard, the high-citizen students watch as well, but differently. Their regal, sun-tanned faces linger on the condemned between puffs of cigars and sips from porcelain cups. Reclining on their terrace chairs, the Blues exude the charged stillness of predators drawn by the sight and smell of blood.

  Dad warned me that as a Public Person, I’d be surrounded by people who love death as much as I love life. At the time, I didn’t understand what he meant. The idea was too far removed from my world. But I understand it now.

  The Copper who murdered Jane is led out first.

  His mood is a stark contrast to the two students in line behind him. While they shuffle forward with blanched, tear-streaked faces, the Copper practically dances to the guillotine, a broad, unhinged grin stretched across his face. His wild, booming laughter echoes through the yard as the executioner forces him onto the bench and secures his neck in the yoke. I recognize the erratic behavior. With nothing left to lose, the Copper must’ve taken Bliss after his arrest, making sure he dies happily.

  According to Dickie, the Copper wasn’t working alone. During his interrogation, he sang like a canary, naming three other Coppers involved in the hit. They avoided the guillotine only because they didn’t deliver the killing blow. I’d still choose execution over the punishment they received: five years in Pearl Penitentiary, a prison disguised as a rehabilitation center where inmates endure grueling medical and psychological experiments.

  I avoid looking at the guillotine and instead use the binocular feature on my Bond to zoom in on the Copper’s wedding ring. It’s gold, with a pair of emeralds inlaid on top… no different from Dad’s.

  “Justice is rendered,” the executioner announces as he pulls the release lever. “May its echoes be heard.”

  The guillotine is too far away for me to hear the blade drop. I only know the Copper is dead when green blood splashes across his hand, beading on the wedding ring. All I can think is how surprised I am by my lack of closure. At the very least, I thought I’d feel a sense of justice for Jane. But even though the Copper got what he deserved and his death serves as a warning to other Bliss users who might be tempted to target those connected to the ban, I feel no relief. Deep down, I know the Copper wasn’t a mastermind pulling strings in the shadows. He was just another vulnerable person struggling with addiction. And as I stare at the green blood, now completely covering his wedding ring, I wish the blood were blue.

  Low-citizens didn’t create Bliss. We didn’t produce the drug, sell it, or benefit from its stranglehold on society. The high-citizens did all of that.

  The irony is that most Blues don’t even use Bliss. They know better than to indulge in their own poison. They deal it, legalize it, and push it for money, power, and control. But they don’t need Bliss because they already have something better: freedom. And they’ve made damn sure the only time we’ll taste anything close to it is through a drug-induced haze.

  When the executions end, I head to class, trailed by a cloud of ghosts: Jane Bradford, Charles Blackwell, the forty-nine Heretics, the Copper, and the two students beheaded after him. All of them cling to me like phantom limbs, weightless yet impossible to shake. Once you see the face of death, that’s it; it never leaves you.

  Outside my suite, I take the elevator down to the Green Dormitory parking garage and climb into the flashy hovercar my parents gifted me for my eighteenth birthday. It arrived on a cargo train early this morning. It’s a hot new luxury sports model, and while I’d normally welcome the attention, right now being noticed is the last thing I want.

  My Pinkie bodyguards squeeze into the back seat as I switch the hovercar to manual mode. Taking a deep breath, I push the throttle and lift out of the garage toward the Lecture Halls on the southwest side of campus.

  When I reach the first-year Lecture Hall, the lobby is an overcrowded mass of blue, green, orange, and purple. I struggle to carve a path through. Students gather in circles or sit in low-slung chairs, their voices overlapping in bursts of laughter and nervous chatter.

  The Pinkies escort me to my first class of the day, Civilized World History. I keep an eye on my surroundings as I walk, noticing that no one is following me or taking pictures this time. The change in behavior feels too sudden to be natural, leading me to wonder whether it’s due to the Copper’s execution.

  At the entrance to the lecture room, the whir of hoverboards makes me pause. I turn just as Edmund, Jack, and Dickie roar into the corridor on their boards, weaving through student traffic until they reach the end. Edmund and Jack brake in time, while Dickie’s landing goes awry. He stumbles, yelps, and spins to reveal a massive tear in the seat of his pants.

  Edmund kicks his hoverboard up into his hand, laughing so loudly it draws the attention of half the students in the hall. “Should I have held your hand for the dismount?”

  “I don’t need help,” Dickie snaps.

  “Your ass says otherwise,” Jack cuts in, pointing at the damage. “Why the hell aren’t you wearing underwear?”

  Dickie turns red and slaps a hand over the rip. “It’s… uncomfortable.”

  “So is the view,” Edmund says, shrugging off his suit jacket and tying it around Dickie’s waist.

  The jacket nearly swallows Dickie whole, hanging to his calves and making him look like a kid in his dad’s coat. Edmund and Jack barely manage a glance before doubling over, shoulders shaking as they fall into it. Dickie huffs, plants his hands on his hips, and mutters something about “needing room for things to breathe down there” as the three of them shuffle inside.

  The lecture room is an amphitheater, multi-tiered, so everyone has a clear view of the professor. The Blues sit at the very top, while the rest of us are spread throughout the lower levels.

  I keep my head down as I walk in, hoping Edmund won’t spot me. After what he did to Charlotte, I’d hoped our paths wouldn’t cross again. But now that I know he’s more than a vengeful ex-friend and that he’s engaged to Irene Hussey, I want to avoid him entirely.

  Jack and Dickie step into an elevator while Edmund lingers behind with a group of Blues. He greets each one with steady eye contact, offering polite smiles and handshakes as he talks. I jab the call button on a different elevator, waiting impatiently for it to open, then duck inside. My Pinkies file in behind me, along with four low-citizens who immediately crowd the control panel, swiping their Blood Rings to select the right floor.

  Just before the doors close, Edmund steps inside, whistling as he selects the button for the fourth floor. I retreat behind my wall of Pinkies and let my hair fall forward to hide my face. The low-citizens exchange restless glances, then edge toward the exit. One by one, they slip out again.

  I think about joining them until I realize it’ll make me look afraid. Backed into the corner of the elevator, I pretend to text on my Bond while keeping Edmund in my peripheral vision. He’s no longer a wreck of torn clothes, blood, and sweat, but he still moves with an energy that seems to leave heat streaks in the air. My gaze drops to his empty ring finger. Strange that he’s not wearing an engagement ring.

  Edmund plants his feet a little wider as the doors close, clearly pleased with the extra space. Then he notices the cluster of Pinkies around me, and his whistling stops.

  “Afraid, Miss Waldsten?”

  I look through my handbag, trying to seem indifferent. “After yesterday, I have a reason to be.”

  “Yesterday.” Edmund rubs his jaw, as if recalling a distant memory. “Ah, yes. Was I correct?”

  “About what?”

  “The Irasbis Gas.”

  The fact that he’s asking means Dickie didn’t bother to fill him in. “Yes. However, the gas disintegrated before we could test it. Miss Bradford is dead.”

  Edmund tilts his head, as if genuinely surprised. Up close, I notice his face is a shade tanner than yesterday. His dark brown hair, neatly parted to the left with finger waves and a swooped forelock, reminds me of the Blue who unleashed the eagle on the Heretic girl.

  “Did the Copper avoid arrest?” Edmund asks.

  “No. Mr. Langley’s Pinkie filmed the murder. Did you not see the execution this morning?”

  “I do not watch the executions.”

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  I glance up from my fake texting and squint at him in disbelief. The elevator reaches the third floor, where the Greens are seated, but even as the doors slide open, I remain inside. “Why not?”

  “Because I do not have to.”

  “That is not a reason.”

  “Well, it is the only answer I am going to give you.”

  Edmund waits for the Pinkies to file out, then steps closer, his saber scabbard shifting at his hip. I glance discreetly at the hilt. When I see the letter B etched into the metal, an unexpected wave of pain courses through me. B is only one level below the top competitive rank, the level I might’ve reached by now, if not for the weapons restriction.

  “The better question, Miss Waldsten,” Edmund says, “is why you do not look pleased that the Copper is dead.”

  His expression is curious now, as if he’s turning out my pockets with his eyes. I bite my tongue, resisting the urge to tell him the reason I’m unsatisfied is because his people caused the Bliss addictions in the first place. Instead, I force a shrug. “The punishment was just. I simply prefer not to celebrate death as I do life.”

  “Then you are in the minority.”

  “Does that make me wrong?”

  Edmund flashes a pointed smile. “Worse. It makes you unvirtuous.” The doors begin to close, and he sticks out his hand to hold them open. “Good luck, Miss Waldsten.”

  My feet drag as I step out, as if even my body is reluctant to leave. The way he twists my words back at me is more irritating than when Hillaire used to follow me through the house, mimicking everything I said with a thin, taunting sneer.

  “I have more use for advice than luck,” I say.

  “You want advice?” Edmund nods at my empty belt. “Carry a saber.”

  “I do not fence.”

  “Oh, really?” He steps closer, grinning, and brushes a finger across the scar on my chin. “Then what is this?”

  I step away from his outstretched hand and fidget with my earring as I reach for a lie. “My sister accidentally clipped me with an ice skate blade last winter.”

  Edmund’s mouth tightens, and I can’t tell whether he believes me. “How unfortunate. Why do you not fence?”

  “I do not care for it.”

  He crosses his arms and lets out a loud, grating laugh. “And I do not care for the color blue. Yet here we are.”

  The elevator doors close again, and this time I hold them open. My irritation flares at the intensity of his laughter. “But you care about the power blue gives you,” I say.

  Edmund’s laugh dies so quickly he almost chokes on it. “Yes. And so should you, seeing as I used it to assist you. If you truly celebrate life, Miss Waldsten, perhaps you should celebrate me for saving yours.”

  I want to know why he bothered. Since he’s engaged to Irene, why didn’t he kick me out of his salon or kill me himself? But I run out of time. The elevator doors close over Edmund’s face, now lit with a smug pride that makes me want to punch a hole through the control panel and leave him stranded. I turn away, heat rushing to my neck, wondering why I feel so flustered and, more than that, how the hell Charlotte could’ve ever been friends with him.

  She must’ve really loved Jack.

  ***

  By the time I reach my seat on the Green level, I’ve managed to ease my frustration, though the echo of Edmund’s laughter still lingers like the stench of the Irasbis Gas. I keep my eyes down, avoiding the other Green students as I settle into my desk. A digital tablet labeled with my name rests atop it. I power on the tablet and skim the guidelines, which state that no one, including Blues, may activate their Bond during class. Even worse, the professor can access our tablets, tracking every note we take and every search we make.

  At 8:30 a.m., Professor Rudolf Yates strides in. He’s a Purple, still handsome in his sixties, with silver hair streaked with black and a waxed pencil mustache. On his tip list, Harrison noted that Yates has a notoriously short fuse but is easily placated with a well-chosen box of cigars.

  Professor Yates sheds his fur-lined cape and steps onto the lecture platform. The platform powers on with a mechanical hum, rising into the air and gliding toward the holographic screens in the center of the hall. The screens form a suspended cube, ensuring every student has a clear view. Once in position, Professor Yates clasps his hands, bows his head, and says, “For this day and all its blessings, we thank the Civilized World.”

  Then he turns on us with a hawklike stare. “As many of you are likely aware, President Theodore Reeve is scheduled to address the nation this morning. With Headmistress Prew’s approval, I am postponing the start of our lecture so we may watch the address live. Given the challenges posed by the Bliss Prohibition Act, I believe it is in our collective interest to hear what the President has to say.”

  Around me, students trade curious glances, with some quietly debating whether Reeve will stand firm on the Bliss ban. As I listen, I try not to think about what it would mean if Reeve backed down: the target off my back, the chance to walk through the first-year Lecture Hall like a normal student, without every step feeling like I’m being hunted. Instead, I think of Mom’s words, that pain is the price of change, and I remind myself how long I’ve wanted life to be better for low-citizens.

  Professor Yates activates the cube-shaped screens with a remote, tuning in to the Civilized News Network. The screens show President Theodore Reeve in the rose garden of the presidential estate, the Golden Gate Manor. Behind him, his security detail stands at attention, hands clasped in front. They wear deep blue uniforms with golden epaulettes and sweeping one-shoulder capes. On their jackets, two large, mirrored gold eagle wings extend across the chest.

  Reeve, who’s nearly seven feet tall, has a face that strikes me as sad, as if a part of him is perpetually grieving, even when he smiles. His frame is built on broad, battle-ready shoulders that make his surroundings appear small, and his eyes remind me of lonely blue moons. His voice carries the quiet authority of someone who never needs to raise it, deepened by a warm, easy laugh that earns him an endless stream of admirers. Yet even in his mid-forties, he remains unmarried.

  I’ve always wondered why people call Reeve “golden”, since his hair is as black as the patches between stars. Dad says that when he and Reeve were students at Grandmaster, everyone called Reeve “The Golden Boy.” Now, decades later, they call him “The Golden Man.”

  Reeve exchanges a few words with his head of security, then strides to the podium. There’s a slight twitch in his hand as he walks, the kind you see just before someone pulls a trigger. Dad says Reeve is the only Blue he’s ever shared a drink with, but I doubt that means Dad trusts him. In the end, Blues always go back to their tables to drink with their own.

  “To my fellow Blues, and every Green, Orange, and Purple,” President Reeve begins. “During my campaign, I pledged to serve our democracy with unwavering fidelity. I stood with you in the fight to prohibit the misuse of artificial media and supported your efforts to safeguard the privacy and security of Bond data. As president of the Civilized World, it is my solemn obligation to honor the will of the majority and preserve the rule of law, ensuring it remains untouched and steadfast against any faction, force, or person who would seek to diminish it. Yesterday, our noble representatives carried out their duties with integrity, voting on the Bliss Prohibition Act. With the welfare of our great and glorious nation foremost in their minds, they chose to prohibit the use of Bliss. I have now signed this legislation into law. As of yesterday, the twenty-first of September, the use of Bliss was banned. From today onward, the production, sale, purchase, and use of Bliss are illegal.”

  Movement stirs on the high-citizen level of the lecture room; desks shift and chairs scrape against the marble, followed by the heavy drum of footsteps. I clench my hands in my lap, resisting the urge to look up.

  Cameras flash in the rose garden, capturing President Reeve from every angle. He speaks confidently as he continues, “Yet there are those among us who already seek to undermine the will of the majority. To protect our elected representatives, preserve our democratic institutions, and uphold the rule of law, I hereby announce that any attempt to threaten or harm the representatives who supported the Bliss Prohibition Act will be met with the fullest consequences permitted by law.”

  The Blues are at the railing now, their voices rising in wild, angry bursts as they jostle for space. A glass flies over the railing and shatters against the holographic screen, right where President Reeve’s face hovers. Water streaks down his image like tears. Two Pinkies rush forward to clean up the mess, but Professor Yates waves them back, his throat bobbing with a hard swallow. I keep my gaze fixed on the screen, still refusing to look up.

  Reeve continues, “As president and servant of the people, it is my solemn duty to ensure that no individual or group threatens your chosen representatives or the laws they enact. No one may place themselves above the law. Therefore, let it be clearly understood: any act of violence against our representatives and their families in retaliation for the lawful fulfillment of their mandates as lawmakers will be regarded not merely as an assault on an individual but as an attack on our Constitution itself—the noble and enduring charter established by the Nine Gentlemen to safeguard our great and glorious Civilized World. Any individual, whether a high-citizen or a low-citizen, will face equal punishment for dissent: the guillotine. An attack on our Constitution is an attack against the very foundations of our Civilized World and is therefore no different from the heinous crimes committed by the Heretics. To further discourage such threats, these executions will be broadcast to the entire nation.”

  Shouts of rage tear through the lecture room so violently that I can’t resist anymore. I look up. The high-citizens pack the railing in a frenzied horde, a wall of blue pressing so hard that the metal groans under their weight. The sight of their eyes, burning with feral, savage fury, sends an unexpected thrill through me. To them, Reeve’s words are more than policy; they’re a declaration of war. Never in the history of the Civilized World has a high-citizen been publicly executed. Watching a Blue die would dull the shine of their illusion of invincibility. We’d remember they’re still mortal.

  Pride surges through me, fueling a reckless defiance to stand with Dad against the Blues. Guilt and then sharp regret cut through me as I recall my words to him yesterday. I wish I hadn’t been so quick to feel discouraged. I wish I’d stood by him like Mom.

  “The weeks ahead will be arduous,” Reeve concludes, “filled with new and unwelcome discomfort. But amidst the struggle, when human temptation whispers surrender, remember this: purposeful adversity leads to greatness, and greatness to godhood.”

  The Blues’ roar drowns out the polite applause from the live audience in the rose garden. The sound reverberates through the hall, rising even as Professor Yates waves his hands for order. I scan the railing, half-expecting to see Edmund’s face twisted with the same rage as the others.

  But he’s not there.

  Instead, I see Irene Hussey, wearing a tweed ensemble and a stylish felt hat with a pheasant feather, as if she walked into the lecture room from a morning hunt. She stands with one hand on the railing, immune to the chaos on the Blue level. Her eyes, cold and unblinking, are locked on me.

  I hold Irene’s stare, even as a slow, eager smile curves her mouth. Without looking away, she extends her hand, all five fingers raised.

  My pulse skips as I try to make sense of the gesture. It isn’t a wave, nor is it fencing sign language.

  The only thing I know is that it’s a threat.

  ***

  It’s a long time before Professor Yates finally coaxes the Blues back into their seats. Sweat beads on his wrinkled forehead as he struggles to soothe their concerns, assuring them he understands their frustration and promising to do everything he can to support them through this difficult adjustment, including arranging sessions with recovery coaches or drug counselors for those in need. Each assurance pries another Blue away from the railing, one by one, like rocks breaking from a mountain, until at last, they’re all seated.

  Then the class bell rings.

  The sound propels me into action. I bolt toward the elevators before my Pinkies even switch out of standby mode. One elevator opens, revealing Edmund standing at the front of the car. Behind him, a dozen Blues turn their heads toward me, like a pack of bloodhounds catching a scent. One Blue slowly reaches for the saber in his scabbard. I step back, feeling the graphene alloy chest of a Pinkie at my spine.

  “This elevator is full, miss,” Edmund says. He hits the control panel, and as the doors slide shut, he cuts me a sharp look that says I should already be running.

  I spin away and take the stairs. My hands hang like dead weight at my sides, useless without a saber. I might as well have two stumps.

  President Reeve’s speech was careful and diplomatic. Still, it doesn’t change the dangerous reality that while a majority of representatives voted to ban Bliss, a majority of the public would keep it legal if given the chance. The nation is torn wide open now, with the lines drawn even deeper and bloodier, and my family is caught right in the middle.

  The next few lectures are unbearable, as if I’m sitting in a pot of water slowly heating around me. I spend Digital Rights & Cyber Law perched on the edge of my seat, a compact mirror propped on the desk so I can watch my back. Lunch in the dining hall is worse. Behind my wall of Pinkies, I track every clink of a tray, every shuffle of footsteps, every half-muted whisper that might be about me. By the time Political Theory & Governance rolls around, my focus is already slipping.

  Floor gymnastics gives me a little relief, and I finally breathe during the two hours of stretching, strength conditioning, and tumbling combinations. I don’t love gymnastics as much as I love fencing, but the workouts keep my body strong. The class is a stepping stone back to the piste, so I embrace it.

  At 6:00 p.m., when class finally ends for the day, my nerves are fried, so I head back to the Green Dormitory with my hovercar set to self-driving mode. The trip takes twice as long as this morning because both the streets and the aerial lanes are clogged with trams and hovercars crawling toward the beach. The campus recreation coordinators, sensing the students’ fragile mood, scheduled lavish parties all week to distract them from the Bliss withdrawals.

  Tonight’s is called Jazz & Juleps.

  Most students are at the party, so the Green Dormitory lobby is nearly empty when I walk in. I’m heading toward the elevators with my Pinkies when Harrison steps out of one. He’s dressed in a linen suit, wearing oval sunglasses and a slanted boater hat. The scent of coconut sunscreen clings to him, a sign he’s headed to the beach.

  When his eyes meet mine, he stiffens like a soldier caught dozing on duty. His eyebrows draw together, his expression torn as he starts toward me. Then, as if hitting an invisible wall, he halts. A quick shake of his head, and I understand.

  We can’t talk.

  Instead, he activates his Bond and sends a text:

  “Lily gave me an ultimatum. She said that if I don’t cut you off, she’ll kick me out of her entourage. Right now, she doesn’t know about my engagement to Viv, but if I want to keep it that way, I have to play it smart. I’m sorry, Lore. I hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but I’m backed into a corner. I have to choose my hard.”

  I read the message once, then twice, and nod.

  Harrison strides quickly out of the lobby without looking back.

  I expected this. There was no other way it could’ve gone, but still, my breath turns thin, as if I’ve inhaled something toxic. Growing up, I was never as popular as Vivian, but I was also never as unpopular as Hillaire. Until yesterday, I didn’t know what it was like to be shunned like a dead, stinking rat in the gutter.

  At this point, I feel like a Heretic: hunted, forced to scurry from shadow to shadow, hoping to go unseen.

  If I get caught, I’ll die like a Heretic, too.

  To the sound of thunderous applause.