CHAPTER 2

  The eagle returns to its perch with a triumphant flap of its wings. Orange blood glistens on its talons, dripping onto the balcony where the Blue still kneels. I don’t recognize him, but the gold hammer pin on his lapel marks him as a politician, one of thirty-three Blue Representatives who advocate for high-citizens.

  When the Blue finally rises, his shadow stretches across the amphitheater until it reaches the low-citizens below. All are still saluting. Their fingers tremble as they try to keep their arms raised, but no one dares to be the first to lower theirs.

  Things weren’t always this way.

  Dad says there was a time when we shared equal freedoms, when our merit-based system benefited everyone, and when no one held a monopoly on power. But at some point, the Blues began to outpace the rest of us. When oil reserves dwindled, they discovered new fields. When our technology faltered, they developed advanced methods to bridge the gaps. And when energy supplies ran dry, they didn’t just find alternatives; they pioneered entirely new systems of extraction.

  No one knows how the Blues always managed to find a solution. Maybe it was luck. Maybe it was corruption. Hillaire thinks it’s because they’re tribalistic, more united, and more willing to sacrifice for each other than the rest of us.

  Ultimately, though, I don’t care about the how. What matters is that the Blues’ contributions reshaped the entire Civilized World. They earned the title of high-citizens and were rewarded with superior genetic enhancements, elite positions in government and business, and a broader range of freedoms.

  Some low-citizens, like Dad, cling to the hope of rebalancing the scales, while others insist there’s no point in fighting back. “We’ve already been conquered,” they say. And in some ways, they’re right.

  The Blue gestures to the crowd with a sweep of his hand. “Proceed with civility,” he says. “And may you always be virtuous.”

  Arms fall at his signal. Eyes flick to the Heretic girl’s body, broken where she landed. Only when the corpse is cleared away does the shock of her brutal death begin to fade. Gradually, color returns to pale faces. Hesitant smiles reappear, drinks are refilled, and cigarettes relit.

  And then, applause.

  It begins on the Orange level with one pair of hands, then another. The sound spreads like a gust of wind—ten people, twenty—until the entire amphitheater roars. From the ground floor to the Blue level above, the structure trembles beneath a thunderous show of approval.

  I recognize this sound.

  Back when I fenced competitively, I earned applause for every arm I struck, every leg I sliced, and every drop of blood my blade drew. The crowd’s excitement thrived on the bloodshed, a frenzy that grew hungrier with each cut. But I don’t think death should be a public event.

  Even if Heretics are my enemies, I’m not about to clap to the beat of their bouncing, decapitated heads. Punishment like this, no matter how it’s branded, isn’t about justice or about sending a message to the Heretics. It’s about sending a message to all low-citizens, reminding us that while the Civilized World can give life, it can just as easily take it away.

  On the platform, the executioner rounds up all but three of the Heretics. Their bodies lie in a heap beside the guillotine. From their foaming mouths and glassy eyes, I realize they must have swallowed their neurotoxin pills during the eagle’s attack. A public stain of cowardice on their names, and worse, on their cause.

  Dad hasn’t moved since he saluted. Standing with his feet apart, he stares at the screen with troubled eyes. I know he isn’t numb to the sight of death, even if he acts like he is. I open the window and lean into the cool air rushing through my sweaty hair. My stomach feels like it’s swelling up through my ribs, making me thankful I skipped lunch.

  The air smells of rain. Clouds hang low and heavy over the estate grounds, dark with the threat of a storm. One side of the walnut tree is a tangle of quivering shadows, while the other glows warmly under the house lamps that the robot servants are turning on. I look at my older sister, Vivian, standing beneath the tree, bundled in a fur-lined camel hair coat. Her head is bowed, her face hidden by long black curls that shine like velvet. The way she twists her engagement ring shows she’s losing patience. Unlike Hillaire, she’s never cared for Bloody Sunday. She hates the spectacle of it. The only reason she joins us at the tree each week is because she hates being alone.

  A shower of leaves falls on Vivian’s head. She frowns up at the highest branch, where I know my younger sister, Hillaire, is perched. A chirping sound confirms the blue jay is there, too. “Loredana,” Hillaire calls in a deep-throated whisper. A hand shoots out of the darkness, waving in a wide arc.

  I don’t wave back.

  The sight of her fingers, thin and pale as chalk, makes me wonder how many executions she’s seen, how many deaths. One time, while showing me a sharpshooting competition video, Hillaire accidentally revealed her internet search history, so I know she goes behind Dad’s back and watches the Bloody Sunday reruns.

  I used to wonder why. At first, I thought she might be a gore junkie who gets her kicks from that kind of thing, but eventually I realized it’s because she believes watching Heretics die makes her virtuous. Among our family, Hillaire is the most fanatical supporter of the Civilized World. If Benjamin Bogart claimed he saw a flock of elephants with polka dots on their asses fly over his broadcasting studio, she wouldn’t question it. To her, our world is paradise.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  And up until a year ago, I might’ve agreed with her.

  The executioner salutes the Blues before returning to the show. No more Heretics take the neurotoxin pills, but the way they stare at the discarded capsules on the platform suggests they wish they had. One after another, they submit to the guillotine, and one after another, the blade takes their heads.

  I’m shivering now, struggling to hold myself together. I try to distract myself by counting the smudged fingerprints on the television screen until the executioner finally drops the last head onto the grass below the platform.

  Forty-nine Heretics, gone.

  “What a damn waste,” Dad mutters.

  I nod in agreement. Their violent lives changed nothing, nor did their violent deaths. It makes me wonder why the Heretics keep choosing terrorism. They want reform, yet they don’t even try pursuing change through politics—like Dad. As a Green Representative, he’s one of the few low-citizens making progress, and he’s doing it without blowing up his enemies at dinner in a public restaurant. Every time there’s a Heretic attack, it gives the Blues another excuse to take away more of our freedoms.

  While the executioner calls the cleanup crew, Benjamin Bogart announces an after-party in a moonlit garden beside the amphitheater. Swing dancing and Big Band tunes fill the air. Bubbling champagne flows as fireworks explode. There’s even a live performance by the famous jazz singer, Scarlet Du Pont.

  Dad, only required to watch the beheadings, jabs the power button on the television, and the pile of corpses disappears. He walks over to the bar, pours himself a brandy, tosses it back in one gulp, then turns to me with a questioning look. “So?”

  The worry on his face sparks a sudden wave of emotion in me. For a moment, I’m tempted to throw my arms around him, admit I was wrong to apply to Grandmaster University, and agree to stay home until I turn twenty-one. The problem is, if I drop out now, I’ll be postponing my only chance to fence again.

  “What happened to me was wrong, Dad,” I say. “And there’s only one way to fix it.”

  “Fix it?” His forehead furrows. “So that’s why you’re doing this?”

  I nod. “I figured you and Mom would’ve put it together by now.”

  He groans and drags a hand over his face.

  I don’t understand why he’s so surprised. Maybe it’s because I rarely talk about the attack, even when he and Mom press me. But I think about it all the time. In hindsight, it’s hard not to laugh at how quickly it all went to shit.

  A four-minute locker room fight. That’s all it took.

  I was the top-ranked junior fencer in the Green District, only one victory shy of winning the Junior Fencing World Championship. That win could’ve opened countless academic and career opportunities. But the night before the duel, I was attacked by a Blue, and because I fought back, I lost everything.

  I don’t regret killing him, not even when nightmares tear me from sleep. The judge himself admitted it was self-defense. But since the victim was a high-citizen, the judge knew better than to let me go free. He called it an illustration of consequences. What he really meant was revenge.

  I was suspended from fencing, and all my awards were revoked. I even lost my right to carry a weapon. The only way to lift the weapons restriction is to live “virtuously” as a Public Person for two years.

  “I’ve been patient for a long time, Dad,” I say. “But getting accepted to Grandmaster is an opportunity I can’t pass up. I can’t sit here sucking my thumb anymore. If this is what it takes to get my life back, I want to do it.”

  Dad tugs off his ascot with a disapproving scoff. “You shouldn’t become a Public Person just because you want to fence again, Loredana. You should do it because you’re ready.”

  “I am ready.”

  “Then, at the very least, consider a different university.”

  “Why? You went to Grandmaster, too.”

  “Yeah, because it was a completely different place back then.” He whips the air with his ascot. “Grandmaster used to be worth the hassle, but now it’s full of rats in shiny shoes, and it’ll chew you up and spit you out, even if you manage to steer clear of—”

  “But Grandmaster has the best fencing program,” I say. “I know you don’t think fencing is important, Dad, but it’s important to me.”

  “Of course, fencing is important, honey. It’s just not the most important.”

  There’s no heat in his words, but my stomach still bottoms out as if he punched it.

  Vivian has his smile. Hillaire has his cunning. I have everything else, from his looks to his humor to his temper. For a long time, I knew Dad secretly hoped I’d follow in his footsteps and pursue a political career. When I eventually chose a different path, the hammer pin on his lapel seemed to glint at me judgmentally, telling me that fencing is selfish and irrelevant in a world losing its freedoms to the high-citizens.

  But I’m not a politician. Even if I hate Blues as much as Dad does, hatred isn’t a qualification for leadership. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past year, it’s that no matter how skilled I might be or how badly I want to accomplish great things, not everyone is capable of changing the world.

  “I’ve made my decision,” I say.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Dad sighs in resignation. His strong-boned face, which still holds onto youth at forty-four, is beginning to look tired and worn, like a stone slowly eroded by an endless drip of water. He moves to the window and gazes out over the freshly manicured lawn where we hosted thousands of guests for the Green Ball last month; where we waltzed until midnight, then gathered in groups around the stage, waiting anxiously to see whether we were accepted to Grandmaster University; and where the light went out of Dad’s eyes when he found out I was.

  “I need a stronger drink,” he mutters, heading for the door.

  “I’m not saying you’re wrong,” I call after him.

  He stops in the doorway.

  “I’m not saying your advice is bad,” I continue, “or that I know more about surviving as a Public Person than you do. But I can’t keep living my life on pause. I know being a student at Grandmaster won’t be easy, and maybe someday I’ll regret ever setting foot on campus. But if you’ve taught me one thing, it’s that even hell can turn into an opportunity if you’re able to put up with being burned.”

  Dad flicks a glance at me, his mouth set in a hard line. “The worst part about hell isn’t the fire, honey. And it’s not who rules it either… It’s that once you’re there, you can never leave.”

  He continues down the corridor.

  I wait until his footsteps fade into a distant echo before checking the walnut tree. Hillaire and Vivian have gone—climbed down midway through the execution—but not the blue jay. Perched on the highest branch, ruffling its brilliant feathers, the bird stayed and watched until the very end.

  Of course, it did.

  The bastard is blue.