Civility laws regulating behavior were not made to subjugate, but rather to elevate,

  for the highest standard can be achieved only at the highest cost.

  —VERA FLORES, A GUIDE TO ETIQUETTE

  CHAPTER 6

  Being a Public Person is like running through a minefield buck-naked in the dark while it’s pissing rain.

  Dad’s words echo in my mind as I watch flocks of surveillance drones circle the runway like vultures; their lenses track every movement, scanning for the slightest sign of uncivilized behavior. The stairway stretches before me, wet with rain, looking less like an exit and more like the threshold to my new life—one where I’ll have to maintain perfect posture and speak formally in public wherever I go until the day I die.

  But I trained for this. My body remembers every rule, falling effortlessly into the drills I’ve repeated thousands of times. I relax my shoulders, lift my chin, and gently lace my fingers in front of me as I begin to descend. Rain pounds on the umbrella the Pinkie holds above my head, matching the rhythm of my pulse. I take each step purposefully, keeping my weight balanced and my pace slow, even though the stairs are slick enough to send me tumbling. I take deep, steady breaths until I reach the bottom, where I curtsy to Harrison, who’s still waiting on the tarmac.

  He responds with a bow, his muscular frame braced against the biting wind. Rainwater runs down his caped rainproof overcoat, and his shoulders shudder under the weight of tension he can’t shake. Yet the smile he offers remains broad and polite, tugging at the skin around his eyes.

  We both know there’s no room for fear, no matter how much we might feel it. From now on, civility is survival.

  “Miss Waldsten, please allow me to escort you to your train carriage,” Harrison says.

  “You are most kind, Mr. Somerset.”

  I rest my hand on his arm. Behind us, Charlotte descends with careful grace, lifting the hem of her gown off the wet steps. I picture her practicing her posture alone in a hotel room mirror, with no friends or even her dad to advise her, and I can’t help but feel a sting of sadness.

  At the bottom of the stairs, she pulls on a pair of suede gloves and asks, “What is your train seat number, Miss Waldsten?”

  “17A.”

  Charlotte switches on her Bond. “Ah, how fortunate. Seat 17B is still vacant.”

  No. It’s a bad idea for her to sit with me, especially after that Copper swiped a copy of my ticket. “Miss Deering, perhaps you should consider sitting—”

  “The purchase has already been made.” Her face settles into that familiar, unshakable expression I’ve seen too many times to count. She’s not changing her mind. And if I’m honest, I don’t want her to.

  Three Pinkies with umbrellas guide us to a line of idling hoverbuses. Three are full, but the fourth is half empty, making it a safer choice if there’s trouble. The doors open to a rush of damp wool, tobacco smoke, and perfume. We step inside, and as I look around, I’m comforted by the sight of so many Greens.

  We shuffle down the aisle to the back of the hoverbus, where I catch a glimpse of the Copper through the panoramic bubble windows. He’s leaning against the jet’s doorway, helmet off, lighting a cigarette. Smoke drifts through the foggy air as he talks with the drones still hovering near the steps. He’s got that easy, flinty-eyed look of a man who enjoys his profession a little too much, or maybe just the power that comes with it.

  The drones’ headlights flash before they take off and soar toward Roaring Rails Station. Moments later, the hoverbus jerks forward and follows the same path.

  I glance around at the low-citizens filling the seats: a man in a herringbone gray coat tips back his fedora to watch the news on a floating holographic screen; two suntanned women dab lipstick onto their perfectly arched mouths, gossiping about campus nightlife; near the front, a group of Greens compare sabers, their eager voices tumbling over each other as they draw and show off the engravings on their hilts.

  So far, no one seems to recognize me, but I recognize one Green. He sits near the middle of the hoverbus, his elbow resting on the window at an angle that shows off his shiny platinum watch. He’s big-boned and broad-shouldered, with pomaded hair and a mustache as sharp as his tweed greatcoat. His complexion has a warm, late-summer hue that brings out the color in his narrow-set eyes. I’ve seen him once before, when he stopped by our house to pick up Harrison and Vivian for drinks at the Silver Stiletto Lounge. If push comes to shove, I’ll tell Harrison to ask him for help.

  But right now, I need to stay invisible.

  I step into the corner, wedging myself between Harrison’s shoulder and the wall, then check my Bond. There’s still no word from my family. Mom and my sisters are probably still asleep, unaware of the Bliss ban, but Dad should’ve called by now. He knows I wasn’t trained for this. He knows I’m an easy target without a saber. Why isn’t he calling?

  The hoverbus glides across the airstrip, passing parked jets and Coppers tugging the leads of police dogs. The rain-washed windows distort their stoic, watchful faces as we veer onto a cobbled drive leading to the train station. Harrison leans toward me, his voice low but clear. “Miss Waldsten, before we exit, there is a final piece of information you should be aware of.” He pauses, and the strain around his mouth tells me this hellish morning is about to get worse. “Actually, it is best if I show you.”

  “If you show us,” Charlotte interjects.

  “Yes, of course, Miss Deering.”

  Harrison sends us a link to a website with a feather-pen logo. I recognize the website as Quill, the official social media platform for Grandmaster students. In the trending topics section, I click the top hashtag and find it filled with posts about me, each featuring the same image: my slack-jawed face, taken straight from the family portrait Benjamin Bogart broadcast to the whole nation.

  “Has anyone managed to acquire #MissBliss’s class schedule?” one comment asks.

  “No. Only her dormitory suite number,” someone replies.

  “It might be helpful if we also obtain a list of #MissBliss’s extracurricular activities,” another person adds.

  MISS BLISS.

  The name is everywhere, attached to my picture as students scrutinize every detail of my life. One post says I love tap dancing, while another reveals I used to fence competitively. Shit. I want to curse out loud, but I follow the formal public rules and keep my mouth shut. A chill unfurls in my stomach and slowly spreads.

  “How have they acquired this information?” I ask Harrison.

  “From the Grandmaster newspaper. Every year, they publish detailed profiles of all the incoming students.”

  “Miss Waldsten, look at this,” Charlotte says, forwarding me a screenshot of a comment posted on Quill two minutes ago.

  “#MissBliss’s location is still unknown. So far, we have only verified the other six.”

  The other six? I scroll through the post’s replies, my hands trembling as I recognize more students’ names and faces. A few are first-years like me, whose parents voted to ban Bliss, but only one face is familiar.

  Her picture, taken at the Roaring Rails Station forty-five minutes ago, shows her sipping mimosas in a breakfast cafe with a group of friends. With her blonde kiss curls, shell-pink lips, and bold style, she looks just as I remember.

  I ran into her on the courthouse steps shortly before her father, Judge Bradford, sentenced me to a weapons restriction. We exchanged only a few words, but I could tell she thought I was beneath her—an uncivilized criminal who deserved to lose everything for daring to stand up to a Blue. Now, thanks to her Green Representative mother’s vote to ban Bliss, she’s fallen just as far.

  I exit Quill and work to calm my nerves as the hoverbus pulls up outside the train station. The heavy, arched doors open into a grand atrium of pale marble, black onyx, and frosted glass.

  I walk between Charlotte and Harrison as we enter the station. At the security checkpoint, Pinkies scan our bodies and carry-on items before we head into a departure hall filled with low-citizens. They move like schools of colorful fish, their laughter rising with the smooth jazz of street musicians—holographic performers whose translucent forms shift from silver to gold. Enormous, stacked glass chandeliers hang from the ceilings like ice formations, sparkling over the tops of the pink magnolia trees planted throughout the station. Despite the cheerful atmosphere, anxiety lurks beneath the students’ smiles, like rot under the shiny red skin of an apple. I realize I’m not the only one terrified of screwing up.

  As we approach the escalators, I start mapping the exits as my defense instructor taught me. The five main ones are too obvious to risk. The side exits near the ticketing concourse are better, but still uncomfortably crowded. My best bet is the maintenance access points, where Pinkies drift in from storage halls and loading docks. Less traffic. Fewer security cameras.

  Next, I shrink my profile. I raise my fur collar and keep my head down, staying close to the walls and away from the ceiling lights. Break line of sight first, then move fast, my defense instructor told me. But even with every lesson drilled into my head, attempting to remain unseen feels pointless. There are too many people, too many eyes scanning for a girl who matches my description: five-foot-nine, athletic build, long blonde hair, and a chin scar.

  A middle-aged man sitting outside a cafe notices me first. He lowers his cigar and scrutinizes me with the hard-boiled precision of a journalist or an off-duty Copper. Then a girl walking by, with a well-groomed spaniel on a leash, takes a photo with her Bond. I catch a quick flash of electric blue in her left eye.

  From there, the news spreads. Whispers ripple through the station as people on escalators stare down at me; others lean over the brass railings on the second and third floors, pointing and murmuring to each other. Chairs scrape against the marble floor as people leave their tables in shops and bars, heels clicking in a growing frenzy.

  “Do not turn around,” Harrison warns as he steps onto the escalator descending to our platform.

  I follow, even though every part of me knows a narrow choke point like this is the last place I should be during a chase. But it’s the only way to reach the train.

  “How many of them are students?” I ask, surprised at how steady my voice sounds. The loose scattering of people funnels onto the escalator behind us, closing in at the edges of my vision until the blur of bodies looks more like a mob than a crowd.

  Harrison glances back and counts with brisk bobs of his chin. “Around half are students, but I am acquainted with only four.”

  “You must confront them,” Charlotte says.

  “What they are doing is not illegal, Miss Deering.”

  “It is if we feel threatened, which I, for one, certainly do.” She pulls a cigarette from her purse, but it snaps in her fumbling hands.

  “And if they refuse to cease their pursuit?” Harrison asks.

  “Then you shall have grounds to file a report.”

  “No,” I cut in. “Reporting will risk escalation we cannot afford.”

  Charlotte scoffs and points her broken cigarette toward the mirrored escalator wall. The reflection shows an angry swarm of faces, all illuminated by the electric blue glow of their activated Bonds. “The situation has already escalated.”

  “If it had,” Harrison replies, “you would be holding a saber, not a cigarette.” He glances back one last time, shoulders tense, then swallows hard and faces forward. “Perhaps it is best if we increase our pace.”

  Charlotte grabs the hem of her gown and hurries down the escalator. I follow, mirroring her graceful movements despite my unease. Years of training have taught me to move this way, especially under pressure, but this is the first time I’ve had to stay composed while being stalked by an angry mob, many of whom would bash my skull against the escalator wall if they thought they could get away with it.

  I tuck my hands into my coat pockets, focusing on Dad’s daffodil brooch pinned to my dress until we reach the departure platform. Steam rises in gentle plumes, curling through the air as lines of students board a gleaming black-and-gold train.

  The Regal Express.

  It looms over us like a titan, its body a fusion of black steel and gold, with geometric details and decorative wheels that use magnetic propulsion to hover above the tracks. The train’s double-decker carriages stretch endlessly along the platform, their frosted glass panes refracting beams of light from the security drones patrolling overhead.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Though the train operates autonomously, a holographic engineer waves a flat-top cap from the engine cab. The holograph’s amplified voice booms across the platform: “Prepare for departure!”

  Harrison, Charlotte and I hurry down the platform to the rear of the train. There are twenty-five carriages, each marked with a yellow-gold plaque. CARRIAGE ONE: FACULTY. CARRIAGE NINE: BLUE FOURTH-YEAR STUDENTS. CARRIAGE FOURTEEN: PURPLE THIRD-YEAR STUDENTS. CARRIAGE NINETEEN: ORANGE SECOND-YEAR STUDENTS. And then, only a stone’s throw from the caboose, is Charlotte’s and my carriage, number twenty-four.

  But there’s no way to enter.

  At least a hundred students swarm the carriage, blocking the doors on both sides. Some huddle in circles, while others are distracted by their Bonds, probably checking Quill for clues about my location. A group of young men playing hacky sack at the edge of the crowd notices me first. One of them whistles to alert everyone. I freeze, swinging toward the nearest exit, but the mob behind us collapses into a wall of bodies and traps me inside.

  “Do not engage,” Harrison warns, shielding Charlotte and me with his arms.

  “And if they engage?” I ask.

  He nods toward the security drones circling overhead. All are equipped with electroshock tasers capable of hitting targets with pinpoint accuracy. “They will not.”

  Charlotte flares her nostrils, then activates her Bond: “Harry’s wrong,” she messages me. “Half of these poor bastards are dopesick. Bliss withdrawals make people more aggressive than the drug itself.”

  The crowd surges toward me—a flash flood of sweaty faces, dilated pupils, and necks bulging with angry veins. I spin and scan for an opening to escape. That’s when I spot the Greens from the hoverbus, riding an escalator down to the platform. Harrison’s mustached friend leads the group, a pipe between his teeth, his face shadowed beneath a tweed flat cap.

  I raise a hand to get his attention.

  The moment the Green’s gaze locks onto me, recognition flashes. He nods curtly, then turns to say something to his friends before the whole group carves a path to the center of the mob. Oranges and Purples move aside as the Greens pass, eyes trailing their tall frames and muscle-chorded arms.

  The man hands his pipe to one of his friends and bows to Harrison in greeting. “Mr. Somerset. Good day.”

  Harrison scrubs a hand down his sweaty face, looking so relieved I half expect him to pull the man in for a kiss. “Good day, Mr. Lee,” he says. “Might I trouble you to escort my friends and me to our door?”

  “It would be my pleasure.” Mr. Lee doffs his flat cap. “But first, I wish to formally request an introduction to Miss Waldsten.”

  Harrison frowns. “For what purpose? What are your intentions?”

  “I must admit, I feel inclined to ask you the same question. Why, Mr. Somerset, are you publicly associating yourself with such a controversial figure?”

  At first, I’m not sure what the Mr. Lee is playing at. If this is his idea of helping us, we’d be better off bodychecking our way to the door. But then he takes off his flat cap, revealing how tightly his skin is stretched over his broad cheekbones. His eyes, puffy and bloodshot, are ringed by dark, bruise-colored circles.

  Shit.

  “Miss Waldsten’s and my relationship is unrelated to politics,” Harrison replies.

  “I see.” Mr. Lee smooths his mustache, his hand betraying a slight tremor. “Is it then safe to assume you oppose the Bliss ban?”

  Harrison’s mouth pinches at the corners. His shoulders lift again, like an animal sensing danger in tall grass. “My personal beliefs are irrelevant.”

  “On the contrary, Mr. Somerset, I am exceedingly curious about where your loyalties lie.” Mr. Lee gestures to the crowd, where people are filming with their Bonds. “We all are.”

  Harrison’s face contorts as he realizes his friend has chosen a side. And it’s not ours. He turns to Mr. Lee, who watches us with a patient expression, as if it’s only a matter of time before he gets what he came for.

  Traitor.

  Anger courses through me. I clench my fists, tempted to call Mr. Lee a two-faced bastard, but I can’t. Aside from Coppers and Pinkies, it’s illegal to speak to strangers until a mutual acquaintance has formally introduced you.

  “My loyalties lie with the law of the Civilized World,” Harrison replies. “Now, I must insist that you stand aside.”

  “Introduce me to Miss Waldsten, and I shall.”

  A buzzing sound fills my ears as a text appears on my Bond:

  “What’s this asshole’s angle?” Charlotte writes.

  “I don’t know,” I reply. “He can’t do anything with the security drones watching, can he?”

  “Technically no, but…” Charlotte bites her lip, then swings her handbag higher on her arm.

  “What’s wrong?” I text.

  She pushes toward Harrison, who keeps speaking to Mr. Lee even as she yanks on his caped overcoat.

  “Until you have revealed your intentions, I am under no obligation to fulfill your request,” Harrison says.

  “My intentions shall remain between Miss Waldsten and me. However—” Mr. Lee presses a hand to his chest with an air of sincerity. “As a gentleman, I can assure you of an honorable exchange.”

  “If that is the case, then—” Harrison glances down at Charlotte, who’s still tugging on his coat. She rises on her tiptoes and whispers something into his ear that makes his eyes widen. I move closer, trying to overhear, when someone whistles loudly from the back of the crowd.

  D. F. A. D. The four notes haunt the air like a ghost, forming the intro to The Last Walk. The song is usually reserved for executions, but there’s a second, lesser-known occasion when it’s played: during death duels.

  Mr. Lee whirls on the crowd with a heated glare. As he searches for the source of the whistle, his coat flaps open, revealing the exquisitely carved hilt of a saber. Etched into the metal is the letter B, one of the top competitive ratings. Harrison is only a C, which puts Mr. Lee an entire tier above him.

  The sweat on my skin turns cold.

  “Well, Mr. Somerset?” Mr. Lee turns back to Harrison, his saber still in plain view. “Will you provide me with the introduction or not?”

  Harrison flares his nostrils, frustration radiating off him. I can see the wheels turning in his mind, but it’s hard not to panic as I consider what I’m capable of. Can I manage flèches and parries? Can I grip a saber with these swollen fingers?

  My eyes lock on Mr. Lee’s hands, waiting for the slightest movement toward his weapon. He’s wearing yellow wash-leather gloves, often used for driving sports cars, but they work just as well for dueling.

  No. Why the hell am I even thinking about this? I’m a Public Person now. Breaking my weapons restriction would earn me much more than a slap on the wrist. Best case, I get arrested. Worst case, I face execution.

  Harrison’s eyes drop to my injured hand, and he swallows hard, a bead of sweat sliding down his nose. I can see how close he is to caving, to making the introduction to save his own skin. The temptation is brief, gone in an instant, but it’s enough to make Hillaire’s warnings about him being a coward come rushing back.

  He draws a ragged breath. “Apologies, Mr. Lee, but I am unable to provide you with an introduction at this time.”

  The crowd erupts, buzzing angrily like a hornet’s nest Harrison just kicked.

  “Cut him down, Mr. Lee!” someone shouts.

  “Make him pay for protecting the lady,” another voice echoes.

  Mr. Lee straightens, his chest swelling as if the mob is fueling his determination. His fingertips brush the hilt of his saber. “If that is your decision, Mr. Somerset, I consider it an offense,” he says. “One I can—and will—repay.”

  “So, repay it.”

  Mr. Lee hesitates. “You are truly willing to risk your life to protect Miss Waldsten?”

  “I am,” Harrison says, reaching toward the scabbard on his belt. “Although I would advise you to tread carefully, sir. Consider the consequences of such a duel.”

  “I do not fear your blade.”

  “It is not my blade you should be afraid of.”

  Mr. Lee frowns, as if he doesn’t grasp Harrison’s meaning. The crowd murmurs around him, whispers spreading like a burning fuse. He turns, trying to listen to the chatter, but the noise from the security drones drowns out most of it. The only word that echoes loudly, passed through the crowd like a firecracker, is the one Harrison wants Mr. Lee to hear.

  Entourage.

  Harrison draws his saber with a quick flick of his wrist; a long graphene blade extends from the hilt, shining like a sliver of sunlight. He steps forward on his dominant foot and slides into en garde, his sword arm extended and the other tucked behind for balance.

  “I shall ask you, sir, for the last time… make your challenge, or make way.”

  Mr. Lee remains still, but the rigid click of his jaw makes it clear he understands what’s at stake. If he fights Harrison while Harrison is under the protection of an entourage, he’s directly challenging Harrison’s Blue.

  With a small, agitated grin, Mr. Lee withdraws his hand from his saber. Grumbling rises from the crowd as he pulls on his flat cap and takes his pipe back from his friend.

  Harrison retracts his blade, grabs my arm, and swiftly guides me toward the train.

  “A word of caution, Mr. Somerset,” Mr. Lee says as we pass. “Illegal or not, we both know the majority of Blues support Bliss. Maintain a public relationship with Miss Waldsten, and you do not merely risk making enemies; you risk losing allies.”

  Harrison’s grip tightens on my arm, but he keeps walking. The crowd shrinks back from us now, as if terrified of stepping on our shadows.

  At the carriage, I unlock the door with my Blood Ring. Charlotte and I hurry inside, but Harrison remains on the steps, his skin so pale it looks bloodless. “Here, Miss Waldsten and Miss Deering, is where I must depart.”

  “Mr. Somerset,” I call through the door. “Thank you for—”

  “I wish you luck at university, Miss Waldsten. Good day.”

  Harrison bows and closes the door before I can finish. I press my hand against the window, watching him push through the crowd. He stumbles, and I wince as he nearly trips on an uneven flagstone. He pauses, gathers himself, and continues walking. It’s the first time I’ve seen him so shaken, but I understand why. As Mr. Lee said, Harrison is risking his reputation and possibly his position in his Blue’s entourage unless he cuts ties with my family.

  And that includes Vivian.

  ***

  When Harrison disappears into the green third-year carriage, I send him a message through my Bond. I thank him for what he did and promise that if there’s ever a chance to return the favor, I will. The checkmark icon below the message turns yellow, showing Harrison has read it, but then he goes offline.

  My shoulders sink, but I tell myself I shouldn’t blame him. He has his own reputation and academic future to protect. Why should he risk it all for me? He shouldn’t. And neither should Charlotte. She’s always hated conflict, which makes me wonder if there’s more to her sticking around than wanting to avoid being alone.

  The green first-year carriage is as closely monitored as the departure platform. Rows of surveillance cameras hang from the ceiling, their high-powered lenses tracking every movement and whisper. For the first time in my life, I’m grateful for the lack of privacy. The cameras that once made me feel like a prisoner are now the only thing keeping me safe. Every passenger sits with perfect posture, hands folded, eyes straight ahead. A few steal glances at me as I follow Charlotte down the aisle, but I don’t acknowledge them. Asking other Greens for help is pointless. I understand that now.

  All my life, I was taught that it was high-citizens versus low-citizens, Blues versus the rest of us. And while that might still be true, I see now that those at the bottom are just as willing to cut my throat as those at the top. If even my own kind are willing to betray me, to kill me over a vote I’m not responsible for, then Dad is right.

  I can’t trust anyone.

  Near the back of the carriage, Charlotte and I settle into row seventeen. My seat has a strange odor, as if the previous passenger spilled fermented food on the cushion. I wrinkle my nose and run my hand along the seat, but it’s dry, with no visible stains.

  Charlotte takes a deep drag from a freshly lit cigarette. Around us, there are at least a dozen empty seats she could’ve booked—she still can—but instead, she reclines and flips through a fashion magazine.

  The Charlotte I know wouldn’t be so calm. She’d be crying or, at the very least, popping stress-relief pills. The suspicion that she’s hiding something flares even stronger.

  “Harry was scared… more scared than I’ve ever seen him,” I text her as I hand my coat to a Pinkie. “Why aren’t you?”

  “What do you mean? I’m scared enough to piss, Lore,” Charlotte replies. “I’ve just been in worse situations.”

  “Not with me, you haven’t.”

  “Well, maybe if I’d been with you, things wouldn’t have gotten as bad as they did.”

  “What things, specifically?”

  Charlotte exhales a cloud of smoke and flicks her hand dismissively. “It’s nothing a Gibson can’t fix. Think you can spot me this time? My dad hasn’t wired my student allowance yet.”

  “Why do you keep dodging my questions? And since when are you a morning drinker?”

  She jerks her chin toward the steam-covered platform outside, where the mob is still dispersing. “If I can die in the morning, I can drink in the morning.”

  Still unsatisfied, I press her further. “If you’re worried you might die, then why are you still here? You’re not staying with me because you feel guilty about leaving the first time, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Then why?”

  “Because…” Charlotte purses her lips, then stubs out her cigarette in an ashtray. “At this point, Lore, whether I’m with you or not doesn’t make a damn bit of difference. You’re not the only one with enemies, okay? You’re not the only one who has to skulk around with your tail between your legs, wondering if you’re going to live to see another day.”

  She plants her back to me, arms crossed over her chest. Through the window glass, I see her gnawing her lip, and I realize it’s time to stop. Even if I have more questions—about her enemies, her breakup with Jack, her friendship with Edmund—it’s clear the answers will come only on her terms.

  I sink deeper into my seat, staring blankly at a Pinkie taking food and drink orders in the aisle. Holographic menus float overhead, advertising a variety of aperitifs, fine wines, appetizers, full-course meals, and desserts. My stomach rumbles in response.

  Just then, the front door of the carriage slides open. A girl with blonde kiss curls enters, looking nothing like the photo I saw on Quill an hour ago. She has no mimosa. No friends. No smile. Her mascara is smudged down one cheek, and her nose is pink from crying. She holds a handkerchief to her lips as she moves down the aisle, searching for a seat.

  Then she spots me.

  The girl’s eyes light up, and to my surprise, she heads down the aisle toward the last empty seat in my row. Hell no. I grab my bag, a lacquered envelope purse, and slam it onto the empty seat.

  The girl stops, stares at the bag, then blushes bright red. Tears shimmer in her eyes as she pedals back down the aisle and slumps into the eighth row.

  I don’t feel guilty.

  Jane Bradford didn’t help me when I needed it. She didn’t spare me a word of support or offer a helping hand after her father gave me a weapons restriction.

  And for that, I won’t offer mine.

  Ahead, the Pinkie drones on, taking orders in a monotone voice. Each request is processed with the same preconfigured phrasing: “Would you care to make a request?” “Your request has been noted.” But when the robot reaches the eighth row, where Jane sits, its limbs start twitching.

  “Sir, I wish to place an order for a mint tea.” Jane sniffles. “With a slice of lemon. And please bring me a fresh handkerchief as well.”

  “Apologies, Miss Bradford,” the Pinkie responds. “I am unable to assist you at this time.”

  “Excuse me?” Her mouth bobs like a trout. “But, sir, it is your duty to serve me.”

  “Apologies, Miss Bradford,” the robot repeats. “I am unable to assist you at this time.”

  I lean into the aisle so far that I almost fall out of my seat. Is it glitching? It’s not the first time I’ve seen a robot flame out, but refusing to serve the daughter of a representative who voted to ban Bliss is too convenient.

  I use my Bond to snap a photo of the identification number on the Pinkie’s badge, then wait patiently as the robot continues taking orders. No more glitches. It serves the students with a polite smile until it reaches our row.

  “Miss Deering, would you care to make a request?” the Pinkie asks.

  “Indeed. A Gibson with three pickled onions, please.”

  “Your request has been noted.”

  “I would like the smoked salmon breakfast with truffled eggs, please,” I say. “And bill both of our orders to my student tab.”

  The Pinkie stiffens, its limbs twitching again. “Apologies, Miss Waldsten, I am unable to assist you at this time.”

  Heads turn toward me, whispers rustling through the carriage like paper. Jane spins toward the Pinkie, and when she notices its twitching limbs, her eyes widen. With a graceful lunge, she abandons her seat, heading for the exit. That’s when I realize Jane and I are both thinking the same thing.

  I have to get the hell off this train.