When did we become gods? Was it the day we ended poverty and famine? The day we cured disease? No. We became gods the day humanity finally understood that we are not meant to be believers. We
are meant to be believed in.
—THEODORE REEVE, th 27PRESIDENT OF THE CIVILIZED WORLD
CHAPTER 1
There are thirty rooms in Waldsten Mansion, but one is always locked. At the far end of the east wing, three floors up, the room waits with its paneled shutters thrown open. An old walnut tree grows beneath the windows, and one branch reaches high enough to touch the glass. From that branch, you can look directly into the room, which is empty except for a dry bar and a dusty, outdated television mounted on the wall. Every Sunday night, my sisters and I flip a coin to decide who will climb the walnut tree and spy on Dad.
He’s never late.
At 6:45 p.m., he enters the room and stands in the blue glow of the television, striking a match to light his cigar. The ridges of his face are as sharp as the cut of his fine wool suit. Only his green eyes soften him, but when they harden and narrow on the flashing screen, I know the Sunday
executions have begun.
Today is Sunday. Bloody Sunday.
For the first time in my life, I don’t join my sisters for the coin flip. The ceiling fans cool the sweat on my hairline as I walk down the long corridor toward the execution viewing room. The sliding door is half open, wide enough to reveal Dad pacing in front of the television. His strides are quick and restless, stopping short before starting again. He’s only three inches taller than me, but I always feel small next to him.
I rap my knuckles on the doorframe, and the sound makes Dad turn,
smoke curling around his tense mouth. “I told you to get here at six-thirty.”
“No, you didn’t. You said to arrive around six-thirty.”
“Six-fifty isn’t around six-thirty, Loredana. It’s down the street from it.”
“I… lost track of time.”
Movement draws my attention to the window, where a blue jay perches on the ledge outside. The bird pecks at the glass a few times, its feathers a brushstroke of color in the dusk, before its beady eyes lock onto me. I meet the bird’s stare, and its head tilts as if it can see past my calm expression to the moment earlier, when I was crouched on the elevator floor, sweating as I stared at the control panel, working up the courage to press the third-floor button.
“You look like you’re about to lose a lot more than that.” Dad pulls a bottle of anti-vomit pills from the pocket of his suit jacket.
I take a pill and clench it in my fist. “I’m not gonna throw up. I’d just rather not watch people die for entertainment, even if they deserve it.”
“Well, get used to it. At Grandmaster University, you’ll see executions every day.” He puffs on his cigar, his face twisting grimly. “Some of them might even be your friends.”
“So, that’s why you want me to watch Bloody Sunday? To test me?”
“Test you?” Dad raises an eyebrow. “No, Loredana. If you’re not ready by now, you’re already laid out cold. This isn’t a test. It’s a reminder. Being a Public Person is like running through a minefield buck-naked in the dark while it’s pissing rain. One wrong move, and you’re done. The world out there isn’t classrooms and drills. It’s teeth. And no amount of studying prepares you for when they sink in.” He jerks his chin toward the television.
“Not even Bloody Sunday. Not until you’re backed into a corner with no one to save you but yourself.”
“I already learned that a year ago,” I say quietly.
Dad pauses, his fingers tightening around his cigar, then sighs. “I know, honey. But as ugly as that night was, it was only a ripple compared to the wave that’s coming.”
I squeeze the anti-vomit pill until a chalky streak appears on my skin. The memory of that night comes screaming back, raw and bloody, and I try to imagine its horror magnified, something I’ll have to relive on repeat for the rest of my life. That’s what I’m willingly stepping into. For eighteen years, the Civilized World allowed me to live under my parents’ protection as a Private Person. My life here at home is small but full. Safe. Tomorrow, when
I leave to study at Grandmaster University, I’ll become a Public Person.
From that moment on, every mistake I make will be stamped on my record, a stain that can only be washed away with blood.
Dad stubs out his cigar in an ashtray on the bar and checks his wristwatch.
“Almost time, honey. Last chance to take the pill.”
I stare at the pill, sweating in my palm, hesitating until I hear the blue jay dart away in a rush of feathers. The bird’s wings spread wide, catching the wind as it circles the walnut tree. Somewhere among the leafy branches, I know one of my sisters is watching, whoever won the coin flip. Vivian thinks I’ll make it halfway through the execution, while Hillaire is convinced I’ll choke completely.
“You won’t last two beheadings,” she told me.
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because you want justice to be neat. You want it to feel right. But real justice is messy and has nothing to do with feelings at all.”
Hillaire’s words still sting, but I remind myself that neither of my sisters knows what happened a year ago. They think this is the first time I’ll watch someone die, so I don’t blame them for betting against me.
I slip the pill into my pocket, let out a slow breath, and turn to Dad. “I’m ready.”
He switches the television to the Civilized World’s main news channel, the Civilized News Network. The broadcast shows a raised platform of polished marble, so clean and white it glows like moonlight. The fluted columns are narrow, as sleek as rolled cigarettes, and their facades are carved with the stoic faces of former presidents. The gold-plated insignia of a double-headed eagle is emblazoned on the platform’s floor.
I hear a loud, rhythmic tap before the executioner enters the frame, his bright red boots gliding smoothly as he ascends the platform and takes his place before the cameras. A gold, visored helmet conceals his face, and he wears a red velvet three-piece suit with a silk ascot tucked neatly into his waistcoat.
The executioner bows solemnly, then clasps his hands behind his back and approaches the guillotine. It’s an elegant structure of gold posts, with an angled blade that gleams like a crooked grin. Beneath the blade is a yoke to hold heads in place. The executioner tests the lever, then cuts his thumb on the blade, bright green blood welling from the split skin. He raises his bleeding hand overhead and salutes with his middle and index fingers.
Cheers erupt from the television, but the noise barely registers. My eyes stay fixed on the executioner, on his proud, upturned head, on how he holds his blood aloft as if signaling the other Greens watching. Greens like me.
Like Dad. Like everyone in our family.
“You think it’s hard for him to kill other Greens?” I ask.
Dad grunts. “If it is, he knows better than to show it. Every low-citizen knows better.”
The words cut deeper than a guillotine blade ever could. I don’t hate my green blood—I never have—but I resent that it makes me feel inferior. As a low-citizen, I have a will of my own, yet no freedom to exercise it. The only freedom I have is to let the high-citizens tear out my spine and beat me with it.
“Here comes the preening peacock.” Dad turns up the television volume as a young man in a pinstripe suit joins the executioner on the platform. His face draws every eye like a stage light, and when he smiles, his teeth gleam beneath his boxed Chevron mustache. Hillaire says Benjamin Bogart has the highest ratings of any media pundit because he’s smart, but judging by his fan sites and stalkers, I think it’s because he’s handsome.
“Good day, ladies and gentlemen. Good day, my friends.” Bogart throws his arms wide. “Welcome to another week’s end, when our great and glorious Civilized World rebalances the scales of justice by purging the unvirtuous.
Welcome to Bloody Sunday!”
The crowd erupts in applause.
My breath catches as the broadcast drones ascend and pull back, revealing the entire expanse of the Guillotine Yard. The central platform sits at the heart of a four-story amphitheater, with tiered seating arranged in concentric circles. The spectators—tens of thousands—appear like a mosaic, each a colorful part of a glittering, thunderous whole. The broadcast drones avoid filming the fourth level, as if it doesn’t exist.
Bogart salutes the cameras with a practiced smile before introducing the three low-citizen groups. He begins with his own, the Purples, arranged along the bottom tier like a living art gallery. Even from a distance, their beauty distracts me from my unease. The women’s eyes seem to call out like daydreams, and the men move as if the sun shines a little brighter wherever they go.
“It’s a wonder these bastards make it past their bedroom mirrors in the morning,” Dad mutters.
I force a weak smile, still staring. Every detail of the Purples’ bodies looks meticulously crafted, genetically engineered in labs to dominate the worlds of art, fashion, and entertainment.
Bogart lingers on the Purples a moment longer before moving to the second tier, where the Oranges sit. His smile thins at the sight of their plain, unremarkable faces, as if their lack of beauty offends him. The Oranges are less enjoyable to look at, I’ll admit, but Dad says they’re smart enough to talk a bullet out of a gun.
Bogart signals for the cameras to move on with a snap of his fingers. I stand taller, and when the third tier comes into view, filled with the Greens, a spark of pride runs through me. We’re built for strength, stealth, and heightened senses—everything the Civilized World expects of soldiers or law enforcement. With the low crime rate, most of us end up in sports arenas, earning our glory through physical prowess.
The broadcast drones scatter like a flock of birds, capturing close-ups of low-citizens in their finery. Men in black tailcoats sip brandy from crystal-cut glasses while placing bets as if they’re at the races. Who will die with honor?
Who will beg for mercy? Women in jewel-toned gowns whisper behind feather fans, their eyes fixed on Benjamin Bogart through gold binoculars.
Almost everyone, from the young to the old, smokes cigars and pipes, though cigarettes are most common. Once considered unhealthy, tobacco is now a symbol of our victory over disease.
“This evening, we are honored by the presence of numerous distinguished individuals,” Bogart continues. “From politicians to celebrities, professors to business magnates, these figures lead by example, consistently demonstrating the importance of the two great virtues: civility and obedience. My friends, to those watching from afar, witness the life that awaits if you, too, are virtuous.” Bogart gestures to the amphitheater. “And the death that awaits if you are not.” He gestures to the guillotine.
As the crowd breaks into applause, Bogart’s eyes lift to the sky. The cameras are zoomed in too closely to show the entire amphitheater, but I know he’s looking at the fourth level, where the high-citizens sit.
The Blues.
Bogart clears his throat and nervously brushes his mustache with his thumb. He signals to someone off-camera, and a moment later, the orchestra begins. Violins pierce the air with a sharp, stabbing sound, followed by the deep resonance of cellos, violas, and double basses. The orchestra swells into
a harsh, mournful march that reverberates through the soles of my feet. It’s my first time hearing The Last Walk, but I know it by reputation; it’s a song reserved solely for executions and death duels.
The broadcast drones cut back to Bogart, showing him standing with his feet planted wide, from an overhead shot. “And now, my friends,” he shouts, “I invite you all once again to witness the consequence of defiance, of disobedience. It is a brutal consequence, to be sure, but a just one… An uncivilized death for an uncivilized crime.”
The music swells as the condemned arrive. Forty-nine low-citizens are led forward, their hands bound with motion-sensing cuffs designed to shock them if they try to escape. Each low-citizen wears a formal execution suit or gown, pure white so the blood will be visible. My eyes drift to the rings on their thumbs, each one indicating their blood color. There isn’t a single Blue among the group, but I’m not surprised. High-citizens rarely face execution, and when they do, it’s never turned into a public spectacle.
“Are all of these low-citizens Heretics?” I ask Dad as the cameras track their pale, terror-stricken faces.
“Yes.” He looks at me, his expression conveying that he wants me to understand what he’s saying, not just hear it. “Every criminal gets the guillotine, Loredana. But Heretics… they’re the only ones who get it on live television. Bloody Sunday might seem like trashy entertainment for the masses, but it’s not. It’s a warning against treason.”
Judging by the execution rate, the warning seems to be having the opposite effect. Today, there are forty-nine Heretics, and last week, there were nearly sixty. It makes me wonder whether they fear death at all or whether their treasonous beliefs are so strong that they see it as a price worth paying. The thought unsettles me because I can’t imagine dying for an idea.
The only thing I can see myself dying for is my family.
One of the Heretics, a petite, freckled girl who’s tenth in line, looks only slightly older than me. Her eyes keep darting toward a clean-shaven, middle- aged man at the front. With their deep-set eyes and curly reddish hair, they appear related. Still, the father refrains from acknowledging his daughter.
Instead, he stares at the guillotine with his teeth clenched, his expression as tight as a fist.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” Bogart says with a sweeping gesture, “it is with great honor and glorious pleasure that I introduce you to Bloody Sunday’s only recurring character. To some, he is a friend; to others, a foe.
But to the condemned, he is known as the black hood… the headsman… the
executioner.”
The applause roars.
The broadcast drones turn toward the executioner as he approaches the Heretics, carrying a small, gold box. The lid is cracked open, revealing a pile of neurotoxin pills inside. One pill is enough to kill a dozen men, but the death is swift and painless, offering a merciful alternative to those too afraid to face the guillotine.
The executioner moves along the line of Heretics, pushing a neurotoxin pill into each open mouth. “You who are condemned to die may now do so,” he says, “with courage or with cowardice.”
The Heretic father spits the pill onto the platform and grinds it under his boot. Nodding to his daughter, he urges her to do the same. The girl’s hands tremor as she obeys, tears burning in her eyes like chemical smoke. She’s young, probably raised on her father’s fanaticism. Still, it’s hard to feel sorry for her when I remember the media coverage of Heretic attacks: bombs planted on crowded sidewalks and in busy cafes, aimed at corrupt Blues but killing far more innocent bystanders, most of them low-citizens like us. I recall images of teenagers torn apart in theater rows, and any pity I might have dissolves. The Blues are tyrants, yes, but Dad says that in their attempt to overthrow the Blues, the Heretics became what they were trying to destroy.
By the time The Last Walk concludes, the executioner has finished administering the neurotoxin pills. Half of the Heretics crush the pills beneath their feet, while the others discreetly spit them into their palms. The executioner discards the empty box, then grabs the Heretic father by one arm and leads him toward the guillotine.
The amphitheater falls silent. The executioner instructs the Heretic father to lie on a gold bench, his neck positioned beneath the suspended blade. As the yoke clicks shut around his head, the broadcast drones amplify the ragged sound of his breathing. The executioner’s movements are gentle, almost tender, as if tucking a child in for bed, and the sight turns my stomach.
“Don’t look away, Loredana,” Dad says.
“I won’t,” I reply, knowing it’s not really a choice. He’ll accuse me of being unprepared if I’m unable to watch. His rough, gritted hands are unrecognizable from the ones that taught me to use a fencing saber, cleaned my scrapes after I fell off my hoverboard, and played moody jazz on the
saxophone after family dinner.
I changed Dad’s hands. My sisters did, too. The scars and calluses came from years of training, during which he pushed us to the edge and then kicked us headfirst over. “The day you don’t need my protection is the day you can consider yourself strong,” he used to say.
The broadcast drones zoom in on the Heretic father’s face. His lips curl into a defiant sneer as the executioner rests a hand on the release lever. For a moment, I imagine myself in the Heretic father’s place, my head strapped into the cold yoke and my spine pressed against the hard bench. Would I resist? Would I plead for mercy? Or, as a last-ditch effort to preserve my
dignity, could I die just as bravely?
I hope I’ll never know the answer.
“Justice is rendered,” the executioner announces. “Let its echoes be heard.”
The blade falls with a sickening thud, slicing through the Heretic father’s neck with a spray of orange blood that makes the acid in my stomach pitch up
my throat.
Two.
Now I’ve seen two people die.
Adrenaline surges through me like a second heartbeat. My vision narrows, and the room’s lights spin dizzyingly along the walls. I feel for the anti-vomit pill in my pocket and grip it, fighting the urge to swallow it dry.
From the corner of my eye, I notice Dad assessing my reaction to the decapitated body and to the roar of the crowd as the executioner catches the rolling head and raises it toward the high-citizens like an offering. I know what he’s thinking. He’s wondering whether the violence is enough to make me change my mind about becoming a Public Person. I wish it were. I wish I could drop out of Grandmaster University and stay home until I turn twenty- one, when citizens are required to become Public People. But I can’t.
Because what happened last year changed everything.
“You doing all right?” Dad asks softly.
I nod.
And it’s not a lie.
Somewhere beyond my horror, a growing calm and even a sense of relief emerge, because there’s a difference between this death and the first. With this death, I watched from a distance as someone else’s blade took a life. But with the first, the blade was mine.
I refocus on the broadcast, where the crowd has erupted, boiling in the stands like insects driven mad. Their cheers rise and fall in a joyful, undulating rhythm until a fierce scream cuts through the noise. The broadcast drones pan to the Heretic daughter, who’s broken free of the lineup. She stumbles full tilt toward the executioner, her face torn between grief and rage.
Her fist punches the air as she yells, “Without the freedom to, I choose
freedom from!”
The crowd gasps.
Dad’s hands curl at his sides, knuckles whitening. “Shit.”
The moment I recognize the banned Heretic slogan, I tense up, too. “Has this ever happened before?”
“Once every couple of years.” Dad rakes a hand through his light brown hair. “It never ends well.”
The executioner throws the severed head off the platform. As it rolls across the grass below, the Heretic girl begins to sob. The executioner charges her, and she drops to her knees, covering her face with her arms. Five more Heretics break from the line and scramble to form a shield around her until their motion-triggered handcuffs activate. The electrodes deliver violent currents through their muscles, and all at once they collapse, their bodies locking up and jerking uncontrollably.
The executioner seizes the Heretic girl by her hair. He drags her, screaming and thrashing, toward the guillotine until a voice resounds from
above.
“HALT.”
The executioner tenses like a wire, and so do I. I can almost feel the floor slipping away beneath me as the broadcast drones rise from the low-citizen tiers to the fourth level and focus on a wrought-iron balcony adorned with
intricate scrollwork.
It’s empty except for a man.
He’s taller than most Blues, nearly seven feet. His face is chiseled like a cliff edge, and his single-breasted suit stretches over an enormous, muscular frame. The pomade in his well-groomed blond hair gleams under the stage lights, but it’s his expression that draws my attention: calm, entirely detached from the chaos below, his mouth set in a firm line. His eyes, blue as a bruise, scan the scene with authority.
Perched beside him is a live two-headed eagle, as large as a battering ram, with a pair of rustling white-and-brown wings. Both hooked beaks click as
the bird tugs at the jesses binding its leg. Its movements are taut and restless, as if it senses prey out of reach.
I’ve seen a few Blues in person, and just as a lightning strike shocks and awes, so do they. Beauty. Intelligence. Strength. The high-citizens were once engineered solely for endurance, but now they have access to all our genetic enhancements and more. Some low-citizens believe they’re perfect humans, while others think they’ve transcended humanity itself. But if Blues have truly become gods, there’s one thing they don’t share with the gods people
used to believe in.
They’re unloved.
“From which injustice do you wish to be freed, Heretic?” the Blue asks.
The executioner shoves the girl to her knees, and her head jerks forward from the force. She steadies herself, her eyes blazing as she looks up at the Blue. Before speaking, she rises, her legs trembling with the effort. “From yours,” she cries. “Your blood might be high, but truth is higher.”
The Blue tilts his head in challenge. “What is truth?”
“It’s order,” her voice swells. “If our world had any, tyrants like you would be the lowest of all.”
“You claim your blood is higher than mine?”
“Not my blood. My beliefs.”
Murmurs of outrage ripple behind the Blue, where hundreds of other high- citizens watch off-camera. The Blue silences them with a glance. Then he bows his head and slowly lowers himself onto one knee. “So be it, Heretic.
You shall receive your order, and it will elevate you higher than Green, Purple, and Orange. You shall even rise higher than Blue.”
He unfastens the jesses from the two-headed eagle’s leg. The bird screeches, its wings snapping open as it leaps from the perch and dives. The Heretic line breaks. Their screams clash as they scatter across the platform, ducking and rolling for cover. But the eagle is already locked onto its target.
When the Heretic girl throws herself behind the guillotine’s beams for cover, the eagle swoops around and tears at her bare hands with its talons. Most of her fingers are shredded before she’s hoisted, kicking and screaming, from the platform. With a sudden burst of strength, the eagle lifts off, the Heretic girl struggling in its grip.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Dad growls, grabbing my hand. “You don’t have to watch this, honey.”
“Yes, I do,” I try to say, but no words come out. More than watching a
Heretic execution, I need to see what happens when you challenge a Blue.
Because starting tomorrow, I’ll be living among them.
The eagle’s mighty wings beat through the air. It soars higher and higher, so high it would vanish into the darkness if the broadcast drones didn’t track it. The Heretic girl never stops fighting. Even as the eagle’s talons sink into her shoulders and blood soaks the back of her dress, she keeps kicking, biting, and struggling. Then, with a ferocious shriek, the eagle releases her from its grip.
My stomach flips with her as she falls, twisting and turning. I tighten my grip on Dad’s hand and focus on the top of the screen, where a scattering of stars appears in the darkening sky. At the sound of a loud crack, Dad lets go of my hand. Instead of a body, I find only a streak of orange blood along the edge of the execution platform. The Heretic girl must’ve struck it before she
fell onto the grass below.
Silence.
No one claps or cheers. Even Bogart, who’s hosted over three hundred executions, stands frozen, his face ghostly white, his mouth hanging open as if he’s unused to improvising. He probably receives a prompt through his earpiece from one of his producers, because he abruptly spins on his heel, faces the Blues, and performs the official Civilized World salute: two fingers for the virtues of civility and obedience.
All the low-citizens in the amphitheater follow his example.
Dad, too.
“Loredana,” he says, urging me to join in. My arm feels stiff as I press my index and middle fingers together, then raise my hand alongside Dad’s.
Countless times I’ve used the salute to greet others, but this time it feels like
more than a show of respect.
It feels like worship.
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.
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.
