Formal agreements are unbreakable once sealed with a Blood Ring scan

  and an embrace. Ambiguous results may be contested in court; however,

  once a verdict is delivered, the losing party is bound by its terms. Should honor

  fail to move their hearts, the guillotine shall remove their heads.

  —TITLE 17 OF THE CIVILIZED WORLD CODE,

  SECTION 8: FORMAL AGREEMENTS

  CHAPTER 10

  Even amid the echoing shrieks from the salons around us, I’m sure we’re not under attack. If we were, the Border Watch would’ve dispatched more than a single patrol squadron. But if it wasn’t an attack, what hit the shield?

  I grab the window ledge and pull myself up. My breath comes in short gasps as I stagger toward the table, where Charlotte slumps in a chair. Jack leans over her arm, checking for a sting.

  “You hurt?” he asks.

  “No.” She yanks her arm back.

  Jack’s sigh of relief only seems to anger her more. Charlotte brushes past him and stomps to the other end of the table, just as Dickie, still trembling, knocks over the vase of hydrangeas.

  A gruff voice from the overhead speakers breaks the silence.

  “Attention all passengers. This is Lieutenant James Percy. The Border Watch confirms the shield was struck by lightning due to a malfunction in the rod arrays.”

  Charlotte and I exchange a look of relief.

  “In the event of further strikes, we are advised to maintain speed. Until we reach Grandmaster University, all uninjured passengers must remain seated. Should you require medical attention, dial 43-711, and a paramedic will be dispatched to your carriage. I thank you in advance for your civilized cooperation. May you always be virtuous.”

  The Copper switches to the Big Band Beats radio station. Smooth jazz flows through the room, contrasting with the chaos in the lavatory, where Edmund is bent over the sink, water blasting out, veins bulging, teeth chattering, his fists slamming water into his face.

  Dickie offers a towel. Jack grabs a champagne chiller from the table and brings it over. Edmund seizes the bottle, pours the champagne into his mouth, then dumps the ice bucket over his head. Water drips down his trousers, splashing around his boots. He grips the sink’s edges, knuckles white, straining so hard the fixture groans as if it’s about to break free from the wall.

  “You doing all right, Ed?” Jack asks.

  Edmund blows out a spray of water through clenched teeth.

  “Hm… looks bad, I’d say.” Dickie leans in, squinting at the angry red deathstalker sting on Edmund’s forearm. “Can’t be worse than when I shot you with that taser, though.”

  “At least then I was drunk,” Edmund says, pushing off the sink. Water zigzags across the carpet from his soaked clothes and dripping hair. He scrubs the towel over his head and stalks out of the lavatory, collapsing into a chair with his legs splayed wide.

  I edge closer, staring in disbelief. “You were stung.”

  Edmund’s fingers tighten around the towel. “And?”

  “And that means we won.”

  He yanks the towel off his head so fast it cracks the air like a whip. Jack lets out a dry laugh. Dickie throws up his hands.

  “Um, hello?” Dickie says. “Did you forget the part where the train almost got knocked out of the sky?”

  “The lightning strike counts as interference, darling,” Jack says. “Which means no deal.”

  Edmund’s chair screeches as he stands. He towers over me like a rearing stallion, eyes bright, jaw tense. “Do you intend to win through dishonorable means, Miss Waldsten?”

  “Drop it, Lore,” Charlotte says, her voice prickling with warning.

  She grabs my waist from behind, but I break free. Interference or not, I’m not surrendering this win, especially when it’s my only shot at saving Jane.

  “It was not Miss Deering and me who suggested the challenge during a storm,” I tell Edmund. “You did. That means you accepted the risk of sudden, loud noises that might provoke a sting.”

  Edmund lifts his chin as if recalling the moment. The muscles in his face bunch up, pulling at the cut above his eyebrow.

  “There was a storm,” he says slowly. “But no lightning or thunder. Not until now.”

  Liar. I remember it clearly—the flash, the boom—right as Jack poured the shots.

  “If you refuse to honor your end of the bargain, Mr. Prew, I shall take it to—”

  “To the courts?” Edmund tosses the towel onto the table. “By all means, Miss Waldsten. Report me. But in a case where it is your word against mine, who do you think the courts will believe?”

  “They will believe the evidence.”

  He shows his teeth. “What kind of evidence could you possibly have that outweighs the word of a Blue?”

  “Video.”

  Edmund’s eyes narrow on Jack and Dickie.

  “She’s bluffing,” Jack says.

  “Definitely,” Dickie agrees. “I was watching her the whole time—no blue in her eye.”

  “I never said I used my Bond,” I reply.

  Edmund dials in. His gaze tracks my arms, sides, and hips until it settles on the daffodil brooch pinned above my chest. Then his foot shifts, suddenly and fiercely, as if he’s about to lunge, rip off the brooch, and crush it in front of me.

  But I know he won’t. Even for a Blue, breaking a formal agreement is a capital crime, the kind they still use the guillotine for.

  Edmund drags his foot back, slower this time, as if trying to stall. But there are no loopholes in formal agreements, at least that I’m aware of. Which means it must be a blow to his pride to bow to a Green, just as it’s a blow to mine to bow to a Blue.

  He looks me over again, this time more closely, as if seeing me for the first time. I hold his gaze, even though his eyes are intimidating, burning like a high-beam glare. I trusted my parents’ warnings about the Prews, but now I finally understand what they meant.

  The muscles in Edmund’s neck tighten as he bows stiffly. “Make your request.”

  Charlotte exhales sharply, and her shoulders lift in relief. I feel it, too, like the weight I’ve been carrying all day is finally easing.

  “Miss Bradford,” I say. “I want you to save her life.”

  Edmund’s eyebrows rise. “You are certain?”

  I clutch the corners of my soiled dress, hesitating.

  Suddenly, I’m not sure.

  What if helping Jane is a waste, like being given a diamond and then flushing it down the toilet? What if she doesn’t thank me or even care that I helped her? What if her father never hears a word about this, and I’m left with nothing to show for it but a favor I’ll never get back?

  The smarter choice would be to ask Edmund for something cruel and punishing he can’t wriggle out of, something that will humiliate him the way he humiliated Charlotte. But then I see Jane again, staring back at me from the eighth row of the green first-year carriage, her eyes wide with the same blinding terror I’ve been feeling all day.

  I try to push the image away. Dad says we shouldn’t stick our necks out for other low-citizens unless we’re willing to lose them. I know he’s right, but at the same time, it occurs to me that he doesn’t follow his own advice. Dad doesn’t skulk around with his eyes lowered and his mouth shut. His entire life is a risk. And maybe that’s why he’s one of the few low-citizens changing things.

  I glance at Edmund, still watching me, still waiting.

  “Yes,” I say. “I am sure. Whether you save Miss Bradford by inviting her to your salon or by entering the green first-year carriage to protect her yourself, the choice is yours.”

  He steps closer, and for a moment I feel as if he sees through me, as if there’s a crack in my skull and he’s staring straight through it.

  Still, he nods in acceptance.

  “And you?” Edmund says, barely turning his head toward Charlotte.

  She points at Jack. “His Blood Ring. Whatever allows him to break the behavior laws—I want one, too.”

  “No.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because ownership of the object cannot be forcibly transferred,” Edmund says. “Doing so would require me to violate a formal agreement between Mr. Carroway and me.”

  Charlotte snorts. “I didn’t ask you to take it from him. I said I want my own.”

  “Tough luck, Deering,” Dickie pipes up from the table. “The gift bag’s empty. Ed only had two. Gave one to me and one to Jack. So, sniff around someplace else.”

  “I don’t want anything else.”

  I glance between Jack’s and Dickie’s hands, both still gloved, and my curiosity grows. Whatever gift Edmund has given them is exceptionally valuable, and that’s the strange part. Blues don’t hand us anything unless there’s a string attached or a spotlight waiting.

  Edmund rolls his sleeve down over the sting, watching Charlotte coolly. “Perhaps you should take some time to consider your request, Miss Deering. As a gentleman, I shall even offer you a piece of advice.”

  Charlotte lifts her chin. “Go on.”

  “Do not get your arm cut off by trying to reach too high.”

  Her jaw hardens, but her cheeks are flushed now, two flags of rage.

  Edmund smooths his hair with a quick swipe of his fingers, then reaches for his greatcoat. He shrugs into it and adjusts each cuff before fastening the gold buttons to cover the wreckage of his shirt, still damp and streaked with blood.

  “Do you intend to retrieve Miss Bradford now?” I ask him.

  “No. The legal maximum capacity of my salon is five. Therefore, to accommodate Miss Bradford, I am taking my leave.”

  “Then who shall retrieve her?”

  “The Pinkie.” Edmund gives me a tight, close-lipped smile. “I extended Miss Bradford an invitation nearly twenty minutes ago.”

  I remember. Edmund sent a Pinkie somewhere before the shot duel began. But that doesn’t make sense. Why would he offer help to a low-citizen girl being hunted? Most Blues wouldn’t hesitate to pick the daisies from our graves. If he’s breaking ranks, he’s risking something.

  “If that is true,” I say, “and you invited her before I made the request, then I am owed another.”

  Edmund laughs dryly. “You are owed nothing. The timing is irrelevant. What matters is that your request has been fulfilled.”

  “Why did you fulfill it? What do you get out of helping Miss Bradford?”

  “I get what I always want,” he says, fastening the last button on his coat. “Another friend.”

  Edmund moves to the table, where the scorpions are still trapped beneath whiskey glasses. The one that stung him is dead. Due to the way they’ve been engineered, deathstalkers only get one shot before they die, a single gift of poison in exchange for their lives.

  He knocks the glass aside and picks up the corpse, lifting it to his mouth, biting off the stinger, and chewing it flat with slow, grinding focus before tossing the rest onto the table. It’s tradition: survive a deathstalker, eat the stinger.

  Edmund is still chewing when he retrieves his burnt-out cigar, clips it, lights it, and takes a pull as he turns toward the door.

  I call after him. “You still have not told me what’s causing the odor on my dress.”

  He swallows the stinger, glances back, and points the cigar at me. “Irasbis Gas. It is a chemical aerosol designed to disrupt brain neurotransmitters and induce hyper-aggression.”

  He can’t mean our brains. If he did, I’d already be dead.

  “Which type of brain?”

  Edmund slides the cigar between his teeth and walks out.

  “Canine.”

  ***

  I stand by the armor-covered window, my shoulders rising and falling with each breath. The salon around me is a blur of indistinct faces and hushed voices, but every so often, the skeleton clock on the wall keeps me tethered to the passage of time. Thirty minutes have passed since the Pinkie left to pick up Jane. Far too long. Either the train’s armor is preventing her from crossing carriages, she refused Edmund’s invitation, or she’s dead.

  Dead like I almost was.

  Now more than ever, I’m sure the Copper intended to kill us both in the tunnel, at least until Jack showed up. Narcotic dogs are well-trained and rarely attack humans without cause. No one would have questioned the Copper when he removed their muzzles, thinking they were sniffing out illegal stashes of Bliss.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  But they weren’t. The dogs were sniffing out the Irasbis Gas that marked Jane and me as targets.

  The hair on my nape stands up as I recall the dogs lunging at me when I left the lavatory. If the Copper had released them on Jane and me in the pitch-black tunnel, we wouldn’t have seen them coming. We would’ve swung blindly while being torn apart. With the security cameras sabotaged and no witnesses, the truth would’ve died with us. People might’ve assumed Jane and I provoked the dogs, saying we got what we deserved.

  The only issue is the cleanup. How did the Copper plan to explain a reprogrammed Pinkie and the sabotaged security cameras? How did he plan to erase all traces of the Irasbis Gas from our seats and our mutilated bodies? One thing is for sure: the hit wasn’t carried out by a single person.

  Charlotte is sitting on a sofa, her red-rimmed eyes fixed on Jack. Her manicured nails dig into the armrests as if she’s about to lunge and tackle him to the floor. Jack ignores her as he uses a torque wrench to finish repairing the toy airplane. More than ever, I want to know what happened between them and how Edmund was involved, but now isn’t the right time to ask.

  “Fixed.” Jack tosses the airplane to Dickie. “Try not to fly it into the bathtub again.”

  “As a wise man, I never make the same mistake twice,” Dickie replies.

  Jack grabs a bottle of whiskey from the bar cart, salutes Dickie with it, and heads for the door.

  Charlotte calls out after him shrilly. “I’ll never forgive you for what you did.”

  Jack stops, his fist tightening around the neck of the whiskey bottle. “I warned you not to come.”

  “What other choice did I have? If we’d stayed in the green first-year carriage, Lore would’ve died. And I thought—”

  “You thought what?”

  “I—” Charlotte’s voice falters, small and frail. “I thought you’d protect me.”

  “That’s not my job, darling. Not anymore.”

  “But Jack—” She rocks out of her chair. “What about Rosamund? I know you’re mad, and I know you don’t believe me when I say I never meant for things to go as far as they did, but you and Edmund are the only people she listens to. If you don’t step in, she’s going to come for me.”

  Jack remains turned, but I catch his reflection in the wall mirror. His drunk, bloodshot eyes aren’t nearly as cold as his tone. “You’ve still got a favor from Ed. Be smart about it.”

  He leaves.

  Charlotte’s desperation fades into the same vacant stare she wore on Harrison’s jet. I reach for her shoulder, but she squeezes her eyes shut and vanishes into the cool dimness of the lavatory.

  As she shuts the door, I feel like it’s closing on me. Again. Charlotte and I used to share everything, but over the two years we were apart, she’s built an entirely new life I know nothing about. Jack, Dickie, Edmund, and now some girl named Rosamund. Given the similarity of her name to Edmund’s, I assume she’s his twin sister.

  At the table, Dickie fiddles with the control panel on his airplane's belly. As I walk over to him, he says, “Don’t look at me. I don’t know a thing.”

  “And that doesn’t bother you?”

  He shrugs. “We’ve all got our secrets.”

  I nod, unable to argue with that.

  Minutes pass quietly. Dickie alternates between inspecting the airplane and trying to contact the Pinkie through his Bond. Each attempt fails. Finally, he parks himself in front of the salon’s door and taps his foot impatiently.

  “Why do you need Edmund’s Pinkie?” I ask.

  “It’s not Ed’s,” Dickie says. “It’s mine. And I’m not allowed to go anywhere without it because I’m a minor.”

  “So, it’s your babysitter?”

  “No. My chaperone.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “The difference is the snitching.” Dickie glares at the door. “That shifty robot records everything I say and do, then sends the footage to the Office of Student Affairs to make sure I’m not engaging in any ‘adult activity’. It’s oppression, if you ask me. A violation of my rights.”

  Maybe it is. But at least Dickie doesn’t have to follow the formal behavior laws. Given how he seems to blurt out every thought that pops into his head, he probably wouldn’t last long under those restrictions.

  We fall into silence again. Ten minutes later, the train finally begins to slow. The jazz playing over the PA system cuts off, and a metallic clatter echoes outside as the armor retracts into the undercarriage. The windows frame a living painting of blue sky and snow-capped mountains. A rainbow spills across bright clouds, with the glowing crescent arching over hills and rivers that wind through pine forests like strings of sapphires. In the distance, nestled in a valley between jagged peaks, Grandmaster University finally appears.

  The Jewel of the Civilized World.

  Dickie and I rush to the window.

  The campus is enormous, the size of a city, and is almost entirely walled in by mountains. Only the west side is open, stretching to the shores of a clear, blue ocean that glitters like a waypoint where the stars gather until nightfall. Armed Coppers guard the campus borders from stone watchtowers, while flocks of security drones patrol the sky, casting shadows over the ornate brick dormitories, waterfront Fraternity Houses, historic Lecture Halls, and cobblestone streets polished to a shine by more than a century of footsteps.

  I learned everything about Grandmaster University from Hillaire, including details I hadn’t asked for or cared to know. Designed by Oranges and built by Pinkies, it’s a fusion of Art Deco and Art Nouveau styles. The buildings are so different from each other that it’s like two hearts beating in the same body, one trying to dominate while the other tries to seduce.

  The Art Deco style immediately catches the eye: black, white, and gold, with sharp edges and clean lines. The marble and limestone buildings rise so high they look like stairways to the clouds, their facades crowned with gleaming metal spires. The smooth, fluted columns overshadow lush groves of beech and magnolia trees. Between the large, expansive windows, panels of stylized sunbursts and zigzags glow like veins of gold.

  Art Deco is too pristine and polished for my taste, almost authoritative. The chrome reflects the light of the world like the guillotine blade reflects our blood.

  I prefer the university’s softer side, designed in the Art Nouveau style. The smooth, organic lines of the buildings flow like vines, bending and twisting in fluid patterns that seem to move with you. Wrought-iron railings border every terrace, their swirling patterns adorned with roses, jasmine, and ivy. The walls are covered in mosaics of floral tiles—blues, greens, reds, and yellows—that seem to blush as you pass by.

  To me, Art Nouveau gives Grandmaster its soul. The way it blooms like a bright, welcoming flower makes me feel this place isn’t just for the high-citizens; it’s for all of us.

  The train descends onto a track that winds through the mountains. I crack the window and breathe in the salty coastal air. The smell of Irasbis Gas on my dress isn’t as irritating as before. Maybe it’s fading, or I’ve just gotten used to it.

  Charlotte exits the lavatory and joins Dickie and me at the window as we approach the university’s border wall. It’s fifty feet high, with a main entrance on the east side. After a quick security check, the border patrol allows us to pass. We glide into the campus’s central train station, where fourteen other trains have already arrived. Ours is the last. The campus accommodates seventy thousand people, thirty thousand of them students. The rest are professors, Coppers, Pinkies, and other university personnel.

  As soon as our train stops, the doors open to a flood of students. Greens, Oranges, and Purples spill onto the platform, heading to personal vehicles or the campus trams on the level below.

  As I pull on my fur-lined velvet coat, I debate whether to take a cab or the tram. I’m so exhausted I could sleep for days. More than anything, I want to be in my dormitory suite, safe, for the first time since I left home. So when Dickie offers Charlotte and me a ride, I agree immediately.

  “We’ll be out of here in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” he says as he strolls to the door. “Just gotta grab my Pinkie.”

  “I’ll come with you,” I say, not wanting to lose track of him or, worse, run into Edmund if he returns to the salon.

  Charlotte, who hasn’t spoken since coming out of the lavatory, follows us to the main deck, where the halls are silent and empty. Through the stained-glass doors, I see Blues still relaxing in their salons, as if it’s a fashion faux pas to disembark upon arrival.

  At the bottom of the stairs, I turn too quickly and bump into someone. The impact knocks me to the floor, and I swing my arms back to break my fall. When I see the polished two-tone shoes, I realize it’s a Pinkie—the same one who refused to serve Jane and me in the green first-year carriage.

  “Pardon me, Miss Waldsten,” the robot says. “Allow me to assist you.”

  It grabs me by the waist and lifts me to my feet. I barely register the gesture before I realize that, unless the robot’s programming error was fixed, it wouldn’t be allowed to help me. I activate my Bond and find a reply from the Pinkie support website: Remote system check completed. No errors detected.

  I bite back a curse. This shouldn’t be possible. If the Copper has an accomplice at the support website, or if he somehow restored the Pinkie to its default setting before the system check, his plan is more sophisticated than I thought.

  Hurrying to the door of the green first-year carriage, I swipe my Blood Ring over the scanner.

  Access denied.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Charlotte pushes past me and tries scanning her Blood Ring.

  Access denied.

  “Stand aside, broads.”

  Dickie pulls off his glove as he wriggles between us. He hunches over, trying to hide his hand, but when he swipes it across the scanner, I catch a glimpse of something glowing on the edge of his Blood Ring: a thin blue band, bright as a halo.

  Charlotte and I exchange a startled glance. The law states that no one, not even Blues, is allowed to wear the colors of other Bloods. So what the hell am I looking at? What exactly does the blue band do, and are Dickie and Jack the only people who have one, or do other low-citizens have them as well? Using the camera inside my daffodil brooch, I snap a photo of Dickie’s hand before he pulls his glove back on.

  Access granted.

  The door opens to a cloying, metallic odor that immediately puts me on alert. The students in the green first-year carriage are gone, as are the Copper and his dogs. A forensic team in coveralls and clear face shields is canvassing the carriage, which is blocked off with metal barriers at both ends. One investigator photographs a long, streaking bloodstain on the carpet, as if someone were dragged up and down the aisle; another uses swabs and a vacuum device to collect biological samples from the seats in row eight; two others hoist a body into a dark vinyl bag.

  The body lies face-up, covered in puncture marks. Shredded skin hangs from the limbs like peeling bark; deeper wounds expose the glistening pink nerves of the face. I recognize the short, blonde kiss curls, matted thickly with green blood. Jane.

  I spin away from her dead body, cupping my mouth.

  Charlotte’s chest heaves. “That lying bastard,” she texts me. “Edmund said he sent the Pinkie.”

  Maybe he did. Given the stakes, I doubt he’d break his side of the bargain. I crouch and peer underneath the rows of seats. There, between the ninth and tenth rows, I spot Dickie’s Pinkie sprawled across the carpet. The robot’s face and chest cavity are smashed in, wires sparking as if it’s been trampled by a stampede of feet.

  I alert Dickie to the situation, and he hops over the barrier to retrieve the robot’s data storage chip.

  “Halt,” calls the primary on the scene, a Copper in black ribbed coveralls. “This carriage is off-limits to civilians.”

  The primary strides toward us with an imposing frown that makes Dickie puff out his chest. Dickie removes his glove, baring his squirrel-like teeth, and flicks out his hand.

  “I’ve got a problem,” he says. “Unless you want me to turn that badge of yours into toilet paper, you’d better fix it.”

  The primary arches an eyebrow at the blue band on Dickie’s Blood Ring, looking as confused as I am. He scans the Blood Ring with a portable device, and when Dickie’s information appears on the screen, his confusion turns to fear, the kind I thought only Blues had the power to create.

  The primary offers a slight bow. “Forgive me, Mr. Langley. I was not aware to whom I was speaking. How may I assist you?”

  “You can start by explaining what the devil is going on in here?”

  “We are still working to establish the details, sir.” The primary lifts his face shield. “Two narcotic dogs were brought in to inspect the carriage for Bliss. The animals became agitated when the energy shield was struck and attacked. One student was killed, and two others were injured before we arrived.”

  “And my Pinkie?” Dickie presses. “Did the dogs damage it, too?”

  “No, sir. The damage occurred as the students fled the attack. The carriage is not equipped with surveillance cameras, so we attempted to salvage the humanoid’s data storage chip, but it was destroyed.”

  What the hell is he talking about?

  “Excuse me, sir—are those not surveillance cameras?” I point to the row of devices mounted on the ceiling.

  “No, miss,” the primary replies. “They are oxycleaners.”

  My heart drops so low I feel it in my guts. If the devices are air purifiers, the green first-year carriage is a surveillance-free zone. The Blues established them all over the Civilized World to encourage us to snitch. Reporting uncivilized behavior might not earn you many friends, but for every successful report, you get fifty civil credits.

  “For the time being, my team will need to keep your humanoid,” the primary tells Dickie. “I will return it to you personally once we have released the scene. The incident is not being investigated as a homicide, so you may expect it back as early as this evening.”

  “Not a homicide?” I say. “How is that possible when there is Irasbis Gas all over the carriage?”

  The primary’s eyebrows flatten into a hard gray line. “Irasbis Gas, miss? We have found no such evidence.”

  “Not even after testing Miss Bradford’s body?”

  “No.”

  That’s impossible. If there’s no trace of Irasbis Gas, why would the dogs single her out in a packed carriage? I gesture to my dress. “Test me, sir. We believe the Copper stationed in this carriage doused my seat with it. That is why I was forced to take refuge in the blue first-year carriage.”

  “As you wish, miss.”

  The primary retrieves a forensic sampling device with a frustrated twitch in his step. His confusion appears genuine, and he shows no signs of Bliss withdrawal, which makes me doubt he’s working with the Copper who killed Jane. He probably thinks we’re wasting his time.

  A moment later, the primary returns with a spectrometer for molecular analysis. As he sweeps the device over my dress, the holographic interface displays a list of detected samples: velvet, tobacco ash, sweat, skin cells, and hair fibers.

  But no Irasbis Gas.

  “What the devil?” Dickie plants his hands on his hips. “The broad had it on her dress for the past hour. I smelled it myself.”

  “I do not doubt your claim, Mr. Langley.” The primary hands the spectrometer to an assistant. “Irasbis Gas is designed for covert operations. Once activated by body heat and moisture, the microcapsules break down the gas, causing it to disintegrate within a set timeframe.”

  That’s why the smell on my dress started fading. The Copper chose a method of killing Jane and me where the evidence self-destructs.

  Dickie folds his arms and scoffs. “So, you’re saying it just vanished into thin air?”

  “Yes, Mr. Langley,” the primary says. “Once Irasbis Gas disintegrates, even our most advanced spectrometers cannot detect it. Without surveillance footage, our only evidence is testimony. I assure you that we will interview the witnesses thoroughly. However, the students have already told us the incident did not appear organized or deliberate.”

  Bullshit.

  What’s more likely is that the students know the Copper murdered Jane but are too afraid to report it. Doing so risks pissing off other Bliss-addicted Coppers and will definitely piss off the Blues. Given how furious the high-citizens are about the ban, I wouldn’t be surprised if they ordered the hit themselves.

  After promising to keep Dickie updated, the primary repeats that the carriage is off-limits to civilians. Our presence is disruptive, he says, and if we contaminate the scene, his neck will be on the line.

  Dickie, Charlotte, and I step out of the green first-year carriage in a gloomy line and walk across the bustling platform, where students wait for trams or special luggage deliveries. Defeat looms over me. If the Copper gets away with Jane’s murder, others will follow, picking us off one by one until everyone connected to the Bliss Prohibition Act is dead.

  Dickie guides us into a private parking lot outside the train station. Jack waits in the driver’s seat of a matte green hovercar with flared fenders, gullwing doors, and a decorative Art Deco grille set into the nose. The power core roars at idle, raw and overclocked, making it stand out from the others like a grenade in a field of dandelions.

  Charlotte wrinkles her nose as she slides into a plush leather seat and fastens her seatbelt. She pushes her coat under her butt and tucks her arms in, clearly disgusted by the idea of touching anything.

  I grip the back of Dickie’s headrest as Jack lifts out of the parking lot. Jack turns on the radio—a catchy Big Band tune that’s topped the charts for the past month—but no one sings along. Charlotte smokes quietly across from me; Dickie picks at his nails, as if nervous about leaving the train station without a chaperone; and I wonder whether it’s possible to access the passenger manifest for the green first-year carriage. With Charlotte’s and Dickie’s help, maybe we can convince a student to testify against the Copper.

  Or maybe…

  “Dickie.” I tap his shoulder. “Did your Pinkie film all the time, or only when it was with you?”

  Dickie props his feet on the dashboard with a sigh, clearly bored with this topic. “All the time, I guess.”

  “And how often did the robot send reports to the Office of Student Affairs?”

  “I don’t know, but—” Dickie’s eyes bug out in realization. “I think once every five or ten minutes.”

  “And do you have access to those reports?”

  He slaps his knee with a triumphant chuckle. “No, but I can get it.”

  I swell up in my seat. For the first time all day, the ground beneath my feet feels more solid than quicksand. The Copper wouldn’t have risked attacking the Pinkie if it hadn’t witnessed Jane’s murder. And if the robot managed to send a report to the Office of Student Affairs before the Copper destroyed its data chip, we’ll have all the evidence we need to nail that bastard to the wall.

  Jack follows the line of hovercars lifting out of the station into an aerial lane leading to the dormitories. Below, another street extends past the Regal Express, crowded with parked luxury vehicles and private chauffeurs. Pinkies linger at curb level with parasols, cigars, and silver cocktail trays, poised to serve the Blues.

  Steam hisses from the train’s undercarriage as the doors swing open wide. The high-citizens disembark in small groups, either all Blues or one Blue flanked by a low-citizen entourage. They move as if they have pills of immortality melting on their tongues. They’re man-made gods with sun-warmed skin and sport-sculpted bodies, dressed in custom suits and gowns crafted by Lemon, the most expensive fashion brand money can buy.

  Watching them flood the platform, laughing and shouting, unbound by behavior laws, ignites a spark of envy in me.

  I spot Harrison crossing the crowded platform, trailing behind his Blue. His face looks cloudy and grim, as if he got an earful on the ride. I won’t blame him if he keeps his distance on campus, but I hope his avoidance ends with me. If he calls off his engagement to Vivian, she’ll never recover. She’ll blame Dad for ruining her life. And if that happens, the fractures in our family will widen into a full break.

  Moments later, Edmund steps off the blue first-year carriage with a tall, elegant woman beside him. She’s holding a springer spaniel like a handbag and wearing a midnight blue gown with beaded detailing and a long, sheer train. Her porcelain skin is taut with muscle, and her upturned blue eyes sweep over the crowd as if she owns it. A cloche-style headpiece fits closely over her sleek black bob, cut stylishly at the jaw; every strand is purposeful, just like the rest of her. Whoever designed her genetic profile seemed to value beauty and strength equally.

  Charlotte tracks Edmund and the woman for a few steps, frowning deeply. Then she draws a sharp breath and slaps the back of Jack’s head. “What the hell, Jack? That’s Edmund’s fiancée?”

  Jack squints at the woman. “Yeah. So?”

  “So, you told me he was engaged to an Irene. Not the Irene.”

  “I didn’t realize the Irenes had a leader, darling.”

  Charlotte lets out a dry snort, but her face remains grave. She elbows me in the ribs. “It’s bad, Lore… like lose every civil credit you’ve got bad. Edmund’s fiancée is a Hussey.”

  I duck below the window with a curse, hoping neither of them spots Jack’s hovercar. The name triggers memories of Dad pacing his study, ranting to Mom about the Husseys’ slimeball tactics: planted hit pieces, bought-off journalists, smear campaigns that painted him as a bribe-taker, an adulterer, even a secret Bliss addict. The Husseys have been driving a knife into his ribs since the day he started pushing for the Bliss ban, twisting it every chance they get. They wield an even greater sphere of influence than the Prews, primarily because they founded Rapture, the largest Bliss manufacturer in the Civilized World.

  Of all the Blues, of all the families, why the hell did it have to be her?