Shatter City Page 2

  “Me or them?” I ask.

  There are five people fussing around me—sewing the bottom of my dress, adjusting my jewelry, checking the batteries on my lifters, fixing my hair.

  No one answers.

  The party thrums the floor beneath our feet, shakes the walls around us. Light pulses through the slim gap between the double doors waiting to let me in.

  I get that tickle in my stomach. All those eyes on me, just like in my nightmares. Will they see through my act and finally realize that I’m Frey?

  “Ready,” someone finally says. One by one, the others repeat the word and take a step back.

  “Final dress check,” Dona says. “Spin it up.”

  Maltia, my sister’s fashion mistress, waves a hand, and I feel my arm hairs start to tingle. The magnetic lifters woven into the fibers of my dress are coming to life.

  A small galaxy of metal shards detaches from the hem, rising into the air. At first it’s shiny chaos, but soon the shards find their proper orbits. I’m standing at the center of an intricate mechanism, as if a solar system has formed around me.

  Dona takes a moment to drink it in before she speaks again.

  “Proximity check?”

  Maltia steps closer, inside the orbiting metal. The shards sense her and react, slipping from their paths to envelop her as well. For a moment, we’re together inside our own private celestial clock. It’s oddly intimate, but Maltia doesn’t meet my eye.

  As she steps out again, my satellites artfully avoid her.

  “Perfect,” Dona says, and they all clap for me, as if I had anything to do with this dress. “Entrance in four minutes.”

  I look around. “Where’s Col?”

  It comes out too eager—Dona gives me a look. She’ll be watching us tonight. But I have a plan to convince her that my feelings for Col are purely mercenary.

  “On his way,” Dona says. “Which reminds me, one last jewelry check.”

  At these words, the others lower their eyes.

  Dona steps forward, parting the orbiting metal around me. She holds up a wafer of flat circuitry, presses it against my neck.

  The bomb collar makes a soft click.

  I stand there, stunned, as Dona pulls the collar open. Its weight lifts from my shoulders, my heart, my future.

  But the feeling only lasts a moment—then another click.

  When I look in the mirror, I see that she’s slipped on a jewel that matches my dress. As if the collar was decoration.

  Col comes in, flanked by two bodyguards. They look like soldiers stuffed into formal wear, but Col was born to dress this way. The morning suit and tie are a dull gray at first, but the threads turn reflective as he draws near. The color of my dress glints along his body.

  He hesitates, wary of the satellites in orbit around me. But when he reaches for my hand, the shards adjust, taking up stations around his arm.

  Col glances at the jewel around my neck and smiles.

  “Lovely necklace,” he says.

  “Thanks. It’s the same old thing, though. Just a new stone.”

  “Entrance in one minute!” Dona calls.

  Col adjusts his cuffs, his eyes on my collar again. “You aren’t bored of it?”

  “A family heirloom. I don’t go anywhere without it.”

  He takes my arm in his, straightening to make our entrance.

  “Family is important,” he says.

  Dress to move, he whispered on the terrace.

  Is he planning an escape tomorrow?

  There’ll be soldiers, security drones, half the Shreve military on standby. Neither of us is armed with so much as a pulse knife, and the collars will kill us on command.

  That’s why I’ve given up on running away. There will never be any freedom while my father still breathes. The only solution is for me to end him with the whole world watching, and then declare myself and my sister rulers of—

  “Smile, you two,” Dona says. “Entrance in five, four, three …”

  The doors swing open, and a wave of sound rushes over us, a galaxy of light, an ocean of eyes and hovercams.

  I barely have time to put on Rafi’s smile.

  After a moment of applause from the crowd, my sister’s friends swarm us. Their possessive bubble surrounds me, a human version of my metal satellites.

  “You’re so beautiful, Rafia!”

  “I love that dress.”

  “So brilliant—letting the randoms vote on your outfit!”

  “Can I touch one of your little planets?”

  I’ve studied Rafi’s friends my whole life, so I’d know who to wave to in a crowd. But before this month, I never really talked to them. As part of my deal with my father, my presence is required at all their parties.

  I used to envy my sister for her friends, but every minute with them is full of terror that I’ll say the wrong thing.

  I know their faces, their names. But they’re strangers to me.

  Their eyes shift from me to Col.

  “So this is the boy you’ve been hiding,” one says—Katya, who changes her face once a week. For this party, her little finger has been surged into a tiny snake.

  “I can see why,” Demeter says. “He looks even better in person.”

  “Rebel boys are so rugged,” Sirius says, his flash tattoos spinning. “Should I get one too?”

  They all go silent, waiting for me to respond with something cutting. To remind them that they’re just rich kids, while I am the first daughter of Shreve.

  The attention freezes me, like when my father expects Rafia’s wit from my mouth. But then Col pulls me close, and the metal shards take up orbit around us both.

  “Did you say rebel?” he asks. “I’m the first son of Victoria.”

  Sirius frowns at him. “So?”

  “Rebels don’t have cities,” I tell him. “Col, these are my friends. Apologies that they’re so manners-missing.”

  I wave my hand. Suddenly polite and obedient, they step forward one by one to introduce themselves.

  “So this is real between you two?” Sirius asks. His dark eyes are full of glitter implants. “That’s what everyone’s asking.”

  “Of course it is.” I idly brush one of my satellites aside. “As real as having my own city.”

  This takes a moment to click. It’s Demeter, whose mother commands the Shreve police force, who speaks up first.

  “You’re moving to Victoria after you’re married?”

  “We’re going to rule Victoria,” I say.

  Katya’s eyes glisten with sudden tears. “You’re leaving us!”

  I shrug. “Who says you can’t come along?”

  Demeter sputters, then grins an apology at Col. “Sorry. But that place is so culture-missing.”

  “When we’re done with it, Victoria will be the envy of Shreve.” I wave my hand at the party—the safety fireworks, the fountains of bubbly, the hoverdancers over our heads. “None of this matters when the whole world hates us.”

  Now my sister’s friends are scandalized. A little nervous, even, uncertain if I’m setting a trap. Maybe they’re checking to see if the dust has crashed again.

  It hasn’t, but Katya decides to be brave. “Raffles is right. My school in Paris won’t accept Shreve trade credits anymore. They make us pay tuition in gold, like smugglers!”

  “We can’t buy decent caviar anymore,” Demeter says. “No one wants to sell to us!”

  “I wasn’t invited to the London Equestrian Ball this year!”

  “My publicist told me to stay home tonight! She said coming to this bash wasn’t worth the reputational—” Sirius freezes, his flash tattoos spinning with terror.

  I ignore the insult, taking Col’s hand.

  “We’re going to rebuild Victoria, make it the best city. The rest of the world will adore us for it.”

  There is a moment of cautious silence. Then Katya starts clapping, her eyes brimming again. “I knew you’d fix this, Raffles! I’ll follow you anywhere!”
/>   The others join in the applause.

  Of course, I’m saying all this for the dust, for Dona, not these bubbleheads. But some of it is even true. We’re going to rebuild everything in Victoria that my father destroyed. After we’ve destroyed my father.

  “Won’t living in a foreign city be nervous-making?” Demeter asks. “Is it even safe?”

  “With Col beside me? Victorians love him.”

  “Not them.” She leans forward to mock whisper. “Your sister.”

  Another hush comes over our little bubble—Rafi’s friends remembering that there were always two of us. One sister invited them to dinner, gave tasteful birthday presents, let them bask in her fame and power. The other, they only brushed shoulders with on the dance floor … but she was a killer.

  And none of them ever noticed.

  “Frey would never hurt me,” I say firmly.

  Hearing my name entrances them. At all those parties, we’ve never really talked about me. My father’s publicity machine has spread the rumor that the whole speech was faked. That Rafi was drugged, and Frey was a Victorian agent with impostor surge.

  No one close to him believes it.

  “What was it like, having an extra you?” Katya asks.

  “I wish my parents had made me a secret twin,” Demeter says. “Someone to take my exams!”

  “She’d probably fail them. Remember that speech? Frey was so dirty.”

  “Still, if you needed a kidney transplant—no waiting for one to grow!”

  It’s my turn to say something bubbly, but I can’t. After everything our father has done to us, they still see Frey as an accessory. A spare.

  Suddenly I need to leave.

  I manage a smile. “We have to mingle now, bubbleheads. Don’t be strangers.”

  “You should talk, Raffles! You went missing for the whole war!”

  “You’re so much better now.”

  “Love the dress!”

  I guide us out of the VIP area, my fingernails in Col’s arm.

  My heart gradually settles. It’s more crowded out here, but no one knows my sister personally. People offer their congratulations without swarming us.

  “Your friends seem nice,” Col says.

  “Sorry.”

  He shrugs. “I’m used to awkward conversations with your crowd, Rafia. But it’s even stranger now that …”

  His voice trails away. Now that I’m the captive of my family’s murderers. And engaged to their daughter.

  “They’re just bubbleheads,” I say.

  That’s what Rafi always called them when she got home from parties. I thought she was just trying to make me feel better for having no friends of my own. But she was right.

  The whole time we were growing up, I never saw that she was as lonely as me.

  Does Rafi have new friends now? Somehow I can’t imagine her enjoying the company of rebels and Victorian resistance fighters.

  “I’ll get used to them,” Col says.

  “Don’t bother. None of them are brave enough to follow us to Victoria.”

  “Maybe Victoria will come to them.” He gestures at someone approaching us. They’re wearing a dress almost as magnificent as mine. It’s built from whorls of high-res flatscreen fabric that shows clouds rolling across a dark sky, a human-shaped storm blowing straight at me.

  It takes a moment to recognize them—the last time I saw Yandre, they were wearing a sneak suit and body armor.

  A rebel commando is here at my party.

  I try not to freeze.

  Yandre was one of the rebels who stormed this tower with me during our attack on Shreve. A mortal enemy of my father—yet here they are at my bash, undisguised.

  “Let me introduce an old friend,” Col says. “Yandre Marin.”

  Yandre extends a hand. “A pleasure, Rafia. Though I feel like we’ve already met.”

  I try to look confused. “Have I seen you on the feeds?”

  “I was at your welcome bash in Victoria. But that wasn’t really you, was it?”

  “Right, you met my sister! I was watching that night, and saw you three together. I looked you up—your father is a … novelist?”

  “You have a good memory.”

  “You made an impression.” Actually, I can’t remember what novelist means, only that Yandre’s father is a famous one. Famous enough to wrangle his child an invitation to my engagement bash, it seems.

  We disabled my father’s spy dust the night of the attack, and Yandre’s rebel allegiance was a secret. Even Col didn’t know until the war began.

  But why take the risk of coming here?

  “It’s lovely to meet the real you at last.” Yandre steps closer, and my metal satellites drift outward to surround us.

  I expect a whispered message, some explanation for this act of daring. But Yandre simply looks me up and down and says, “You and Frey really are alike.”

  “Genetically identical,” I say. “But different in every other way.”

  A knowing smile. “Except taste in men?”

  “Not according to Col.” I give him a look. “He says he and Frey were just allies.”

  Col shrugs. “I never said just allies.”

  I turn back to Yandre. “The plot thickens!”

  “With Col, it always does.”

  We keep up this bubble-talk, me trying to figure out why Yandre isn’t out in the wild with the other rebels and the last free Victorians—and my sister.

  My heart stutters a little. Maybe they’ve brought me word from Rafi.

  Col didn’t miss a beat when Yandre appeared. Like he knew they were coming … which is impossible. Security watches him every second. There’s no way anyone could sneak him a message.

  I take a risk: “Will you be joining us tomorrow?”

  Yandre blinks. “Tomorrow?”

  “Col and I are appearing in public, to show everyone how in love we are. It might be persuasive to have one of his old friends with us.”

  Both Col and Yandre hesitate—the silence lasts a split second too long.

  Then Yandre says, “Sorry, but I’m expected home. I’ve been traveling since the war began. Haven’t seen my parents in ages.”

  “Of course,” I say. So Yandre is headed back out to the wild to rejoin the rebels.

  Or maybe the rebels will be here tomorrow in force. Coming to save me.

  For a moment, my heart swells.

  But it’s too soon to run. I have to kill my father first.

  “Don’t go to any trouble on our account,” I add lightly. “Please.”

  Yandre nods. Do they understand what I’m saying?

  I don’t need your help. I have my own plans.

  “May I?” Yandre reaches toward me. “You have a hair out of place.”

  “How awful. Yes, please.”

  We stand there inside the clockwork of my dress, its shards glittering in the party lights around us, as Yandre smooths my hair.

  My skin sparkles at their touch.

  “Did you feel that?” Yandre asks. “Must be the magnetics in your dress. How many lifters do you suppose you’re wearing?”

  I shrug. “A dozen?”

  “No, more than that! It’d take at least a hundred to get this dress to move.”

  Eyes alight, they step back from me, parting a dozen orbits.

  My ears echo with those last three words—dress to move.

  Something is definitely happening tomorrow.

  After the bash, my father summons me to his study.

  “I’m tired, Daddy.”

  “This won’t take long,” the bedroom says in his voice.

  I let out a dramatic sigh. My head is spinning from the party, and I have to be ready for whatever Yandre and the rebels are planning for tomorrow’s event.

  I need sleep, not a conversation with my father.

  So I do what Rafi would—ignore him, sitting here letting nanos clean the pores of my face.

  A minute later, all the lights in my bedroom snap on, bri
ghter than daylight. Just like during her tantrums in the old days—the room won’t darken again until my father gets his way.

  “Fine, I’m coming.” I start wiping nanos off my face. But the lights don’t dim.

  He must be watching, so instead of changing into real clothes I throw a coat over my pajamas. I head to the secure elevator, looking like a vagabond.

  Bright lights turn on in the corridor, leading me all the way.

  “You were exquisite tonight,” my father says. “Preparation, execution, all of it.”

  I don’t answer. I’m still not used to this. Being alone with him was one duty I never had to perform as Frey.

  His study is at the tower’s apex, just beneath the hoverpad. Curved windows look out across the dark horizon. The fireplace burns real wood, hissing wet and angry.

  As Rafi, I’ve learned that our father’s firewood is flown in from a special source in the Amazon. The leather in these chairs isn’t vat grown, but made from real animals, raised and slaughtered for this sole purpose. The gently curving windows were ground by a master telescope maker in Japan.

  So much care put into all of his possessions. But there he sits, unhappy, glowering into the flames.

  I stay standing, wearing Rafi’s best sulk face.

  “The metrics were better than expected,” he says. “At the peak, three million viewers.”

  “Hate-watchers? Or did they like us?”

  He shrugs, still looking at the fire. “Who cares? The numbers ticked up every time you two were on-screen together.”

  I feel Rafi’s smirk on my face. “And you thought no one would believe us as a couple.”

  “I said that?” My father waves away my answer. “Didn’t think you could pull it off. After your meltdown during the war, it looked like you were gone for good. But you’re hitting all your marks. You’ve kept your part of the bargain. Clever girl.”

  An unwelcome trickle of pride rills me. After sixteen years of my father pretending I don’t exist, some small part of me still craves his approval.

  I tell myself that it’s just the pleasure of my plan working. I need him to trust me, to depend on me.

  He doesn’t look up from the flames. “But maybe not as clever as you think. I know what you’re up to.”