Unhappiness is a disease, and I discovered the cure.

  —GREGORY SAVILE, INVENTOR OF BLISS

  CHAPTER 5

  The sun of my adulthood rises painfully. I toss in my sheets, only vaguely aware I’m dreaming as I relive the four hellish minutes when a Blue almost killed me.

  I didn’t know Charles Blackwell personally, but locker-room gossip painted a clear picture. He was born into a high-ranking military family, took up fencing as a kid, and quickly rose to become a top-ranked junior Blue fencer. I also learned that his dad was a nasty bastard, an old, leathery bull who demanded perfection from his only son.

  In hindsight, maybe that’s why Charles snapped, why his anger burned so fiercely when I beat him in the semifinal duel by a narrow one-point margin. I’ll never forget his eyes—steel blue and blazing, filled with something darker than defeat—as they fixed on the scoreboard in the Hall of Arms fencing arena.

  But I never expected Charles would try to kill me.

  I was alone in the women’s locker room, dressing for a family dinner to celebrate my victory, when he walked in. His brown curls stuck flatly to his scalp, still sweaty from our duel, and his square-jawed face was calm. But the way he balanced on the balls of his feet, hands twitching at his sides, made me realize why he’d come.

  I bolted toward my sports bag, where the hilt of my saber stuck out of the side pocket like a fang. Just before grabbing it, I hesitated. Was I allowed to fight back? By law, low-citizens could only fight high-citizens in supervised settings with rules and witnesses. But this situation? I wasn’t sure it counted.

  While I hesitated, Charles acted. He charged through the locker room like a battering ram, using the full force of his body, and slammed into me. I’d taken plenty of hits during boxing drills with my defense instructor, but never like this. My head banged against the lockers as we hit the floor, and for a moment, the ceiling lights spun hazily around me. Warm, sticky blood pooled from my scalp before I felt a red, slamming pain in my skull.

  Charles forced me down, his knees pinning my arms. The more I struggled, the more the pain kept me in place. Burning. Numbing. My bones felt like they might snap under the weight of his body. I couldn’t break free, no matter how wildly I thrashed; each push was like hitting a wall of steel.

  The worst realization of my life hit me then. I could win in an arena with rules and referees. I could win when I had time to plan and could focus my strength on the most strategic attack. I’d already beaten Charles in a fencing duel, less than twenty minutes earlier. But here, in hand-to-hand combat, when it was kill or be killed, I was no match for him.

  His fingers wrapped around my neck and squeezed with such force I was sure he intended to strangle me. My vision blurred, my eyes straining as my lungs expelled a ragged hiss. Charles leaned in, his lips curling into a cruel smile, as if he’d known I was the weaker one and was relishing the proof.

  My body started losing all sensation, and I noticed the strangest things: a toilet running in one of the stalls, a silk robe hanging on the locker above me, and Charles’s canines. One tooth was longer and sharper than the other. A small detail. Insignificant. But enough to hold my focus and keep me awake.

  Fight back. Fight back or die.

  Adrenaline surged, unleashing a brutal burst of strength I didn’t know I had. I drove my head forward like a hammer. It was pure coincidence that, just as I did, Charles relaxed his grip and lowered his head to speak, possibly to gloat over his win. I’d never know. The force of our heads colliding was enough to break his nose. I heard the satisfying crack before a bolt of pain shot through my forehead.

  His weight shifted as he cupped his broken nose. It was all I needed to free one hand. I swung at his throat, a move my defense instructor had coached me on countless times. I felt Charles’s windpipe crunch under my knuckles before he collapsed off me. I wasn’t sure if he was down for good. A throat hit could be deadly, but I didn’t waste time checking his condition.

  I shoved away from his writhing body, twisted onto my belly, and reached for my saber. My fingers closed around the hilt, and I activated it with a snap. The blade shot out in a gleaming flash of graphene, slicing through the flesh of his forearm.

  Charles recoiled ferociously, like an animal. Then he was on his feet, his breath coming in hoarse, broken gasps.

  I staggered to my feet, dizziness rushing in. As blood streamed into my eyes and black spots spun at the edges of my vision, I watched him rip the door off one of the lockers. Blood streaked his face like war paint, mixing with mine into a gruesome blue-and-green mask. The heavy soles of his fencing boots thudded against the floor, each step like a war drum, and I knew then I had no choice.

  Kill or be killed.

  The sound that tore from my throat wasn’t a snarl or even a scream, but a wild, primal cry born from the pure terror of almost certain death.

  I grasped the saber firmly, holding the blade in a high outside guard as Charles advanced, the locker door raised like a shield. I waited, knees bent and ready, before swinging in a whirling arc of shimmering graphene.

  First, I knocked the locker door from his grip. Then I aimed to kill.

  ***

  I wake with a ragged moan, curled in a defensive position, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets. My heart pounds in my ears, drowning out the low rumble of the jet. I roll over and draw back the curtains beside the bed. It’s still dark. The storm rages on, lightning cracking across the sky, wind pounding the hull, but Harrison’s jet glides smoothly, without turbulence.

  Crawling to the edge of the bed, I wipe sweat from my face with the hem of my nightgown. I breathe deeply, inhaling through my nose and exhaling through my mouth, trying to push away the images, but the dream still lingers. It isn’t something I wake from; it wakes with me.

  At this point, I’ve relived the attack hundreds of times. But tonight, for the first time, it occurs to me that Charles and I never spoke during our semifinal duel, or even in the locker room. Maybe that’s why the memory sometimes feels surreal, as if I didn’t kill a man but a ghost. And maybe now that ghost is haunting me.

  The bedside lamp switches on, casting a silvery glow across the room. I shuffle into the lavatory, grab a bottle from my toiletry bag, and pour nine white pills into my hand; they’re the vitamins I have to take twice daily without fail.

  Blues have to take a lot more.

  Nothing, it turns out, comes for free. Every genetic enhancement requires specialized supplements that keep us alive by compensating for what our engineered bodies can’t sustain. Our accelerated metabolisms burn through nutrients quickly, and our hyperactive immune systems produce waste that demands constant antioxidant cleansing. The irony is almost laughable. The traits that make us superior to past humans—denser muscles, sharper minds, longer lifespans—also make us vulnerable. Without supplements, we weaken quickly, and our advantages become deadly liabilities.

  The good news is we’ve never experienced a supplement shortage.

  I chew the vitamins dry, the bitter chalkiness sticking to my tongue. Back in the bedroom, I pause, weighing whether to shower first or have breakfast, when a loud knock sounds at the door.

  “Lore—open up,” Charlotte cries.

  The tremor in her voice makes me fling open the door before asking a single question. She’s standing in the hallway, dressed in a green silk-satin gown that seems to flow down her body like water. Her makeup is dewy and bright, her hair swept up with an emerald comb. But her breath comes out short, as if she just escaped a party that ended in a shootout.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “It’s better if Harry tells you.”

  I rush down the hallway into the lounge, where Harrison sits cross-legged on one of the sofas. Like me, he’s still in his pajamas, his hair tousled from sleep, and his face is paler than the porcelain espresso cup in his hand.

  “Lore, you should sit.”

  “I don’t want to sit, Harry. Tell me what’s going on.”

  The deep, tense ridges in his face reveal what he won’t say. He turns on a large holographic screen in the lounge, opens the internet, and pulls up The Civilized Voice’s website. The breaking news story features a grinning photo of Dad under the headline, BLISS BANNED: AN UNHAPPY ENDING FOR THE HAPPY DRUG?

  Cold shock courses through my body, turning into chills as it reaches my arms. The switch—the one only high-citizens are allowed to flip—has just been flipped by a low-citizen. And it was Dad who did it.

  “Play the video, Harry,” Charlotte urges.

  Harrison clicks on the latest report from Benjamin Bogart. The video shows Bogart seated behind a desk in a gold-and-chrome broadcasting studio in Charleston City, flanked by two statues of double-headed eagles. The love-struck smile from the photos of him wrapped in Scarlet Du Pont’s arms has vanished, replaced by a solemn expression that’s as stiff as his purple pinstripe suit.

  “Good day, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to The Civilized Voice,” he says. “I am your host, Benjamin Bogart, reporting live from the Rainbow District with breaking news. At 5:00 a.m. this morning, representatives from across the Civilized World gathered in the council chamber to decide the fate of the Bliss Prohibition Act. The event was a battle many will not soon forget, a thriller from start to finish. In a shocking twist, the motion passed with forty-seven votes in favor and forty-six against. The final, tie-breaking vote was cast by Green Representative Bruce Waldsten, an outspoken critic of Bliss who has long campaigned against the drug’s legal circulation.”

  The screen cuts to the council chamber, a grand hall with fluted geometric pillars and tiered chandeliers, featuring private booths for the ninety-three representatives. The Blues have thirty-three representatives, while the Greens, Oranges, and Purples each have twenty.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  The footage, taken immediately after the vote, shows Dad surrounded by shouting Blues at the podium. They tower over him in their midnight blue velvet suits and silk chiffon gowns, their faces twisted with rage. Dad remains calm, but a slight tremor in his hand makes it clear he’s feeling the pressure. Instinctively, my hand rises, reaching out as if I could touch his and hold it still.

  “In another unprecedented turn of events,” Bogart continues as the camera cuts back to him, “President Reeve has signed the bill, making Bliss officially illegal in our great and glorious Civilized World. The news is sparking protests nationwide, especially outside the Capitol Estate, where the vote took place. For the first time in our history, high-citizens and low-citizens are marching together, united in their desire to overturn what many are calling a tyrannical decision.”

  The screen splits, showing protest footage of Blues leading the charge to re-legalize Bliss: militaristic marches, flashing signs, and catchy slogans. The protests seem too organized to be spontaneous, suggesting they were planned for this specific outcome. Most Blues support keeping Bliss legal, especially since they control its production, distribution, and sales. One of the few high-citizens who has publicly opposed the drug is President Reeve.

  “And now, to answer the burning question on everyone’s minds,” Bogart says, “who exactly is Green Representative Bruce Waldsten? To many, he’s known for his unpopular stance on digital privacy, but behind the curtain, he is a family man—husband to public relations expert Evelyn Waldsten and father of three daughters, Miss Vivian, Miss Loredana, and Miss Hillaire Waldsten.”

  A family photo from one of Dad’s political events appears on the screen; Mom and Dad are holding hands, Vivian flashes a flirty smile, Hillaire stands stiffly with her hands in her pockets, and there I am, slack-jawed and caught off guard by the photographer. I try to breathe, but my throat locks up, forcing the air back out in a strangled gasp.

  “That skeevy bastard,” Charlotte growls. “How’s he getting away with showing the faces of Private People? It’s illegal.”

  “No. It isn’t,” Harrison counters. “Not when it’s for reporting purposes.”

  “Reporting purposes, my ass. That purple-eyed insect is probably on the Blues’ payroll.”

  Right now, I don’t care whose payroll Bogart is on. Not only is he painting Dad as a villain, but he’s also broadcasting our faces to millions of people who want us dead. Even if murder sends you to the guillotine, desperate people in withdrawal won’t care. They’ll come for me at Grandmaster, for Dad at the Capitol Estate, and for Mom, Hillaire, and Vivian at home.

  “Harry, you have to turn the plane around,” I say.

  “I would if I could, Lore, but we don’t have enough fuel.”

  “Then we’ll refuel when we land. You and Charlotte can deboard, and I’ll fly home alone.”

  Harrison and Charlotte trade a glance, almost too quick to catch, but it communicates the situation clearly.

  “The Coppers inspect every aircraft that lands,” Harrison says. “You’re still a Private Person, Lore, and you don’t have special permission to enter the Rainbow District. Unless you become a Public Person, they’ll slap you with an illegal entry charge.”

  “How is that possible if I don’t leave the plane?”

  “Because landing is considered entry.”

  I glance out the window, searching for a glimpse of the Rainbow District in the distance, feeling like I’m going to be sick. The sky remains overcast, with a soft pink-and-gold glow from the sunrise tracing the clouds. I check my Bond, expecting a flood of messages from my parents, but my inbox is empty. Neither of them answers when I try to call. Mom is probably still asleep, while Dad is likely still in the council chamber, where personal devices are banned.

  I turn into the corridor, making it only halfway to my bedroom before panic sets in. The protest footage from Bogart’s broadcast flashes through my mind, fast and disjointed, like the aftermath of a car crash. I brace myself against the wall, my chest locking up as I imagine a violent mob waiting for me on the landing strip at Roaring Rails Station.

  We expected this, I remind myself. Whenever my family talked about the possibility of Bliss being banned, Dad warned that the backlash from losing access to the drug could be strong enough to blow a hole in the side of the Civilized World. And yet a part of me is still surprised.

  Heels click on the floor behind me, followed by warm fingers touching my shoulder. “What can I do, Lore?” Charlotte asks.

  “Check if Harrison’s got a parachute in the cargo hold.”

  “The plane isn’t high enough, Lore. Not unless you can jump from a thousand feet.”

  She knows I’m not serious, but I appreciate that she humors me.

  Harrison approaches us with a determined stride, as if already looking for solutions. His Bond is activated, and his skin looks ghostly in the blue glow of his left eye. “How many security drones does your family have?” he asks.

  “Ten, I think. Maybe a few more.”

  “Ten? You’ll need fifty now. I’ll have them at your house by tonight.” He works on his Bond for a moment longer, then pauses to look at me. “My advice isn’t just advice anymore, Lore. You need to join an entourage.”

  “How?” I ask. “Most Blues use Bliss, so why would they protect the daughter of the man who banned it?”

  “They wouldn’t,” Charlotte cuts in. She shoots Harrison a glare, as if telling him to drop the entourage idea, then glides her hand comfortingly down my back.

  “Attention passengers, we are approaching the end of our descent,” an automated voice crackles over the PA system. “Please prepare for landing.”

  Harrison jumps up as if realizing he’s still in his pajamas. He excuses himself, nearly bumping into a Pinkie carrying a large black case as he hurries toward his bedroom. The robot gracefully sidesteps him, then approaches me with a curtsy.

  “Good day, Miss Waldsten. Please allow me to assist.”

  I walk mechanically as I follow the Pinkie to the sofa, where it opens the black case and uses the makeup inside to restore color to my face. I force myself to stay still as the robot paints my lips and curls my lashes, but its gentle touch only heightens my anxiety. Even if there’s a way out, some legal loophole I can use to get home to my family, I don’t have the time or the expertise to figure it out. The best I can hope for is that Dad is right: As rotten as our system is, we still have the rule of law.

  The Pinkie works quickly, styling my hair into loose finger waves and pinning it back with a gold chevron comb. My diamond jewelry shifts against my sweaty neck as I slip into a green, floor-length gown with a column silhouette and short beaded fringe sleeves.

  As the Pinkie fastens the buttons, Charlotte drops onto a sofa beside me and lights a cigarette with trembling fingers. “Harry’s advice about us sticking together doesn’t sound so bad now, does it?”

  I face her slowly. “You’re seriously thinking about staying with me?”

  “Of course.”

  “What about your reputation?”

  Charlotte snorts and taps ash into Harrison’s empty espresso cup. “In case it isn’t obvious, my life went to shit after Jack and I broke up. I lost him, I lost all my fancy new friends, and I had a falling-out with my dad.” She shrugs, as if she’s talking more to herself than to me. “The truth is, Lore, I’ve been on my own for the past year.”

  “What do you mean? Where were you living?”

  “Hotels, mostly.” She takes a restless drag on her cigarette. “It was fine for a while, but… I realized I don’t like being alone.”

  I’ve realized something, too. Charlotte has changed far more in the past two years than I have. She’s so unrecognizable that if she told me she’d started dealing on the black market, I’d nod and ask what she’s selling.

  Charlotte clears her throat stiffly, then points her cigarette toward the window. “Looks like we’re landing.”

  The jet sinks lower, the floor shuddering beneath our stilettos as we touch down on the runway. Through the rain-streaked window, I see armed police and security drones swarming the airstairs of other jets, checking manifests and conducting inspections. On the tarmac, shiny double-decker hoverbuses shuttle passengers to the Roaring Rails Station, their windows dark, power cores humming above the wind. Through the dwindling rain, the train station emerges, a winding maze of ornate stone buildings stretching into the first blush of sunrise. Statues of waltzing figures loom out of the morning fog, surrounded by marble balustrades that crouch over busy terrace cafes and restaurants. Digital screens flash live footage of hovertrains arriving and departing, like the station's heartbeat.

  “You two ready?” Harrison calls as he strides into the lounge. He’s dressed to the nines, with a double-breasted jacket fitted close through the waist, high-waisted trousers sharp with a crease, and shiny patent-leather shoes. A saber hangs from his belt, retracted so only the hilt is visible.

  “Depends on what you mean by ready.” Charlotte points at his saber. “You don’t think you’re actually gonna have to use that, do you?”

  “We’ll know soon enough.” Harrison’s eyes drop to my waist, and his forehead furrows when he notices I’m unarmed. “Where’s your saber?”

  I move toward the hallway mirror, trying to look calm as I pin the daffodil brooch Dad gave me to my dress. “I don’t have it on me.”

  Through the mirror’s reflection, I catch Charlotte arching an eyebrow. “Since when do you not carry a saber?”

  A Pinkie hands me a fur-lined velvet coat from a stand near the cabin door, and I slip into it, still struggling to control my nerves. Lying has always come easily to me, and sometimes I even enjoy the rush, but not this time.

  “I left it in my luggage because I can’t fight right now.” I fidget with my diamond drop earring, then remove my glove and show them my hand. The skin is still raw and scabbed from last night’s fight with my sisters.

  Harrison gives the injury a quick look, and his jaw tightens. “This isn’t good, Lore. I didn’t realize I’d have to defend both of us.”

  “You mean all three of us,” Charlotte interrupts.

  Harrison frowns and looks her over. “You’re hurt, too?”

  “No. I never learned to fence.”

  “Oh, for shit’s sake.” He drags a hand down his face.

  The humiliation burning through me is too painful to hide. I never meant for Harrison to have to protect me. I wasn’t even supposed to fly with him until last night.

  “I’m sorry, Harry,” I say.

  “It’s… fine.” He rakes his fingers through his hair, where sweat mingles with the waxy pomade. “Let’s just get to the Blood Ring scan.”

  We follow him to the front of the jet, where the cabin door is already open, letting in a gust of cold wind that blows rain into my face. Harrison, Charlotte, and I straighten our postures as heavy footsteps slam against the airstairs below. Red security drone lasers sweep over me as a muscular man in a black-and-silver T-visor helmet appears in the doorway. His black three-piece suit matches the gleam of his knee-high boots, and he wears a one-shoulder cape with a firearm holster strapped to his hip. The lightning-bolt insignia on his shoulder boards and collar patch indicates he’s a police officer. A Copper.

  Harrison and the Copper exchange a bow, then the Copper releases the drones. Their mechanical wings beat the air as they glide into every corner of the cabin, scanning for illegal contraband.

  “How many passengers are on board your aircraft?” the Copper asks Harrison.

  “Three, sir.”

  “Any Private People?”

  Harrison gestures to Charlotte and me. “Two, sir.”

  The Copper’s attention shifts to us, lingering longer on me than on Charlotte. His head tilts slightly, as if he recognizes me from the news, but I can’t tell whether that’s good or bad. I notice a small dent in the side of his helmet, as if someone tried to smash his skull with a rock.

  A moment later, the drones return to the front of the cabin and hover behind the Copper. “Aircraft cleared,” one reports.

  The Copper turns to Harrison. “Blood Ring, please.”

  Harrison extends his hand, revealing a green meteorite ring glinting on his left thumb. Inside the ring are microneedles designed to draw blood for identification tests.

  The Copper scans the ring with a biometric device to verify Harrison’s identity. “Welcome back to the Rainbow District, Mr. Somerset,” he says. “You are now cleared to deboard.”

  Harrison descends the stairs, sheltered by a Pinkie holding an umbrella, and waits for us at the bottom. Charlotte is next, but the Copper skips past her, pulling up beside me as closely as a pickpocket. His breath rasps inside his helmet, and his clothes smell of tobacco mixed with something fragrant and chemical. Bliss.

  Now that the Copper is so close, I can see his dilated pupils through the T-visor of his helmet. He’s already going through withdrawals.

  “Train ticket, please,” he says.

  “Is that necessary, sir?”

  “It is if you wish to avoid any unpleasantness.” The Copper steps closer, fingers twitching toward the handcuffs on his belt, and I realize I’m not in a position to argue. As I send him the ticket through my Bond, I glance anxiously at Charlotte.

  She nods encouragingly, though her hands are fidgeting. “I have not yet purchased a ticket, sir,” she says. “Must I do so before deboarding?”

  “No.” The Copper examines my ticket a moment longer, his boot tapping the floor. Then, with a wave of his hand, he uses the biometric device to scan my Blood Ring. “Welcome to public life, Miss Waldsten. You are now cleared to deboard.”

  I perform a stiff curtsy, then move to the doorway and immediately check my Bond. In the center of the screen, a square chart with a number appears: five hundred. Like every Public Person, I start with five hundred civil credits, but the number fluctuates based on my behavior.

  If my civil credit score drops below two hundred, I’ll be expelled.

  If it drops below one hundred, I’ll be arrested.

  And if it drops below fifty, I’ll be executed.