Page 46 of Because I Killed Him
Maybe it is. But at least Dickie doesn’t have to follow the formal behavior laws. Given how he seems to blurt out every thought that pops into his head, he probably wouldn’t last long under those restrictions.
We fall into silence again. Ten minutes later, the train finally begins to slow. The jazz playing over the PA system cuts off, and a metallic clatter echoes outside as the armor retracts into the undercarriage. The windows frame a living painting of blue sky and snow-capped mountains. A rainbow spills across bright clouds, with the glowing crescent arching over hills and rivers that wind through pine forests like strings of sapphires. In the distance, nestled in a valley between jagged peaks, Grandmaster University finally appears.
The Jewel of the Civilized World.
Dickie and I rush to the window.
The campus is enormous, the size of a city, and is almost entirely walled in by mountains. Only the west side is open, stretching to the shores of a clear, blue ocean that glitters like a waypoint where the stars gather until nightfall. Armed Coppers guard the campus borders from stone watchtowers, while flocks of security drones patrol the sky, casting shadows over the ornate brick dormitories, waterfront Fraternity Houses, historic Lecture Halls, and cobblestone streets polished to a shine by more than a century of footsteps.
I learned everything about Grandmaster University from Hillaire, including details I hadn’t asked for or cared to know. Designed by Oranges and built by Pinkies, it’s a fusion of Art Deco and Art Nouveau styles. The buildings are so different from each other that it’s like two hearts beating in the same body, one trying to dominate while the other tries to seduce.
The Art Deco style immediately catches the eye: black, white, and gold, with sharp edges and clean lines. The marble and limestone buildings rise so high they look like stairways to the clouds, their facades crowned with gleaming metal spires. The smooth, fluted columns overshadow lush groves of beech and magnolia trees. Between the large, expansivewindows, panels of stylized sunbursts and zigzags glow like veins of gold.
Art Deco is too pristine and polished for my taste, almost authoritative. The chrome reflects the light of the world like the guillotine blade reflects our blood.
I prefer the university’s softer side, designed in the Art Nouveau style. The smooth, organic lines of the buildings flow like vines, bending and twisting in fluid patterns that seem to move with you. Wrought-iron railings border every terrace, their swirling patterns adorned with roses, jasmine, and ivy. The walls are covered in mosaics of floral tiles—blues, greens, reds, and yellows—that seem to blush as you pass by.
To me, Art Nouveau gives Grandmaster its soul. The way it blooms like a bright, welcoming flower makes me feel this place isn’t just for the high-citizens; it’s for all of us.
The train descends onto a track that winds through the mountains. I crack the window and breathe in the salty coastal air. The smell of Irasbis Gas on my dress isn’t as irritating as before. Maybe it’s fading, or I’ve just gotten used to it.
Charlotte exits the lavatory and joins Dickie and me at the window as we approach the university’s border wall. It’s fifty feet high, with a main entrance on the east side. After a quick security check, the border patrol allows us to pass. We glide into the campus’s central train station, where fourteen other trains have already arrived. Ours is the last. The campus accommodates seventy thousand people, thirty thousand of them students. The rest are professors, Coppers, Pinkies, and other university personnel.
As soon as our train stops, the doors open to a flood of students. Greens, Oranges, and Purples spill onto the platform, heading to personal vehicles or the campus trams on the level below.
As I pull on my fur-lined velvet coat, I debate whether to take a cab or the tram. I’m so exhausted I could sleep for days. More than anything, I want to be in my dormitory suite, safe, for the first time since I left home. So when Dickie offers Charlotte and me a ride, I agree immediately.
“We’ll be out of here in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” he says as he strolls to the door. “Just gotta grab my Pinkie.”
“I’ll come with you,” I say, not wanting to lose track of him or, worse, run into Edmund if he returns to the salon.
Charlotte, who hasn’t spoken since coming out of the lavatory, follows us to the main deck, where the halls are silent and empty. Through the stained-glass doors, I see Blues still relaxing in their salons, as if it’s a fashion faux pas to disembark upon arrival.
At the bottom of the stairs, I turn too quickly and bump into someone. The impact knocks me to the floor, and I swing my arms back to break my fall. When I see the polished two-tone shoes, I realize it’s a Pinkie—the same one who refused to serve Jane and me in the green first-year carriage.
“Pardon me, Miss Waldsten,” the robot says. “Allow me to assist you.”
It grabs me by the waist and lifts me to my feet. I barely register the gesture before I realize that, unless the robot’s programming error was fixed, it wouldn’t be allowed to help me. I activate my Bond and find a reply from the Pinkie support website:Remote system check completed. No errors detected.
I bite back a curse. This shouldn’t be possible. If the Copper has an accomplice at the support website, or if he somehow restored the Pinkie to its default setting before the system check, his plan is more sophisticated than I thought.
Hurrying to the door of the green first-year carriage, I swipe my Blood Ring over the scanner.
Access denied.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Charlotte pushes past me and tries scanning her Blood Ring.
Access denied.
“Stand aside, broads.”
Dickie pulls off his glove as he wriggles between us. He hunches over, trying to hide his hand, but when he swipes it across the scanner, I catch a glimpse of something glowing on the edge of his Blood Ring: a thin blue band, bright as a halo.
Charlotte and I exchange a startled glance. The law states that no one, not even Blues, is allowed to wear the colors of other Bloods. So what the hell am I looking at? What exactly does the blue band do, and are Dickie and Jack the only people who have one, or do other low-citizens have them as well? Using the camera inside my daffodil brooch, I snap a photo of Dickie’s hand before he pulls his glove back on.
Access granted.
The door opens to a cloying, metallic odor that immediately puts me on alert. The students in the green first-year carriage are gone, as are the Copper and his dogs. A forensic team in coveralls and clear face shields is canvassing the carriage, which is blocked off with metal barriers at both ends. One investigator photographs a long, streaking bloodstain on the carpet, as if someone were dragged up and down the aisle; another uses swabs and a vacuum device to collect biological samples from the seats in row eight; two others hoist a body into a dark vinyl bag.
