Terroristsis the word she’s looking for, but she’d only find it if she raided my mother’s illicit library, where the word pops up often to describe the events leading to the Rift and the eventual collapse of the former nation. Like her books, that word isshuttered away and gone from usage. Nobody wants easy access to the blueprints of rebellion.
“Silas deserved it.” This comes from a statuesque woman in a twilight purple gown who says this with finality, smacking her twilight purple lips together. “Those idiot religious zealots in the Southeast? They deserve barbarism.”
A stately older gentleman with epaulets on his shoulders clears his throat. Attention turns to him quickly—he’s the highest-ranking member of the Force, Chief Jones. His mere presence inspires adulation and fear amongst this flock of cravens. Not from me, since no matter how many meaningless yellow patches they sew into his uniform I will always outrank him. “The rebels will never take this region,” he says, bursting with confidence. “McGovern was old and weak. Leader Piccolo and I would never allow a rebel presence to build here.”
Chief Jones’s arrogant confidence is not surprising. Even if he inwardly worried about the pockets of rebellion, he’d never say it publicly. Papa bought his loyalty long ago, shored up by a friendship bonded by a fondness for power. The clearest memory I have of him is my mother scolding my father when he left a preadolescent me alone with the chief after a dinner meeting. We were never left alone together again.
“What do you think, young lady?” His voice gives me a start, and I assume his booming tone is directed at me. It isn’t.
He’s asking the woman standing in front of the beverage table, who looks up through a simple, light blue, figure-eight mask. A rogue strand of blond hair escapes her graceful bun and she swipes it away from her eyes. In contrast to the ball gowns of the other women in attendance, she wears a tailored black suit and blue tie. It’s not uncommon to see a woman in a suit, especially among Papa’s female employees or subregion leaders, but it would be uncommon for one of them to be so young. Perhaps she’s the daughter of someone important.
“What do I think about what?” A pair of amber eyes—inert but intense, like uncorked champagne—stare up with disinterest. Her voice is low and scratchy not because of age, but a natural huskiness, drawling like an old record.
“About the rebels, of course,” he replies. “You’re a young person… what is the feeling among those your age about the sudden rise of rebellion?”
“What rebellion? If there were a threat, I am sure half your top men would not be here getting inebriated.”
My mask hides my shock but not my snort of laughter. If I were a good hostess, I would intervene and politely tell her how rude it is to insult such a high-ranking official. However, I’m not a good hostess and high-ranking officials are usually twats and this one is especially twatty.
He peers down his nose at her. “It’s my duty to protect this city. I take that very seriously, young lady.”
She cocks an eyebrow, primed to respond. I eagerly anticipate her next verbal takedown, but she schools her features neutrally and doesn’t give me the satisfaction. “Sure.”
He continues pontificating despite the woman’s complete indifference. “You look young, and it’s usually the young who have their hackles up for rebellion. You are the ones who don’t understand that the systems we have in place protect everyone. These rebels, whatever they call themselves, they throw around the word freedom, but their concept of it is twisted,” he storms. “It is not a free-for-all, with the will of an uneducated public directing the fate of the rest. Freedom is safety. Freedom is protection.”
“I don’t believe I asked nor need for you to explain freedom to me.” Another woman in the group lets out a dramatically sharp gasp at the suited woman’s reply. “Nor do I think the man with his boot on the neck of the Underclass in this city knows much about the concept.”
Chief Jones bristles in a flush of anger at the affront. He looks about ready to punch this young woman in her face. “What insolence! Who are you?”
She takes a step closer to him, invading his personal space. Her eyes drag from his gold star badge up to his cold, steel eyes. “‘I’m Nobody, who are you?’”
This moronic slab of rock masquerading as a man couldn’t differentiate an Emily Dickinson quote from a hole in his head, but I can. There’s no time for me to wonder how she came upon a banned poet from the nineteenth century as Chief Jones is supremely pissed off and armed.
Years of etiquette classes put me into action quickly, snatching a drink from the punch bowl and sidling up to the incensed man. “Chief Jones.”
“Little Lucy! I apologize if I’ve caused any disturbance.” We share a sidelong glance at the woman who actually caused the disturbance. “My, my, don’t you look ravishing?” And there’s his hand on the small of my back. Heroically, I suppress the shiver lurking in my spine as his hand drifts lower.
“Hello, Miss Piccolo,” the woman says, pointedly ignoring Chief Jones.
Ignoring the dumb skip of my heart, I return my attention to the chief. “A fierce discussion is good for the heart, did you know that? Keeps a young man like you even younger.”
He preens, summarily distracted from the woman who caused his ire. She remains close, eyes burning into Chief Jones like she’s trying to set him ablaze with her gaze.
“Luciana!”
Papa’s voice sails over the orchestra and I find his stout figure waving at me from across the ballroom. The blond woman has disappeared from the punch table, much to my disappointment. She must be Upperclass—Papa would only invite wealthy patrons—but she’s somehow not an intolerablesnob. And we seem to share the hobby of antagonizing powerful men. Upperclass people with sympathies for the Underclass and no tongue on the boot of the Force are extremely uncommon. Tonight I may have found one, my white whale, and now she’s gone. Call me Ishmael.
“So sorry, Chief. Perhaps we can have a dance later?” I ask, looping his arm with mine and steering him toward Sergeant Miles, another rich policeman on the Force. Once the two men greet each other, I extricate myself from the chief and ready my harpoon.
I’m called to port before I can continue my hunt.
“Luciana,avvicinati.” Papa smiles, much too kindly, and I already know I’m going to hate whatever is about to happen. I approach with wary steps from one storm into another.
“This is Jimmy Junior. JJ, this is my beautiful daughter, Luciana.”
Jimmy Junior’s suit doesn’t quite fit his robust frame. Rumpled white socks are visible below where his pant leg strains valiantly to reach his shoes. His brown locks are slicked up like freshly cut winter grass. A crusty bit adorns the side of his lip, making him practically the most irresistible man in the room. This man-child extends his hand toward me, and I take it because Papa is watching.
Much to my disdain, he places a warm, mushy kiss on my knuckles. “A pleasure to meet you, Luciana. Leader Piccolo has been telling us of your beauty all night. I understand why he keeps you under lock and key.”
