XXIII

Blair arranged the five pencils resting against the rim of the gray vase, their finely sharpened tips pointed toward the vents in the ceiling blowing out crisp, sanitized air. Each pencil was labeled with a different phrase: Chance Taker, Trend Setter, Fear Slayer, Rule Maker, Patriarchy Smasher. She’d have to find out where Maxine had found these treasures that so completely summed up Blair.

She had been flattered. So much so that she had almost been speechless upon opening the gift.

Almost.

The severe points of the pencils matched the sleek angles of her pristine office. Six months ago, mere moments after her latest promotion, when her cuff had been updated with ownership access to the office space, Blair had sent in a work order to have every piece of drab, cookie-cutter furniture removed. She wasn’t like any of the other MediCenter employees no matter their titles, and she certainly wouldn’t work from a cloned office. Plus, her office doubled as a living space since she spent more time here than her Zone One downtown high-rise apartment.

It had taken Blair less than a day to choose her new furnishings, complete with black velvet chairs and a sleek silver chandelier that hung over the center of the room like the blade of a guillotine. One of her former assistants had compared her decor to a fortress—Blair had overheard him talking about it after she’d let him go. He’d stomped around melodramatically, braying about the peaks and points of the black and gray furniture Blair surrounded herself with as a metaphor for her fortress-like personality. But another word for fortress was stronghold, and Blair was most definitely strong. She’d taken it as a compliment.

The door hissed open. Blair yanked her nub of a fingernail from her mouth and flattened her hands against her lap as Maxine’s kitten heels tap-tapped against the sleek tile and quieted when she stepped onto the plush throw rug. “I got your message,” her assistant said, “Did you want to stream the mission live or would you like to start from the beginning?” Maxine blinked expectantly at Blair, her brown eyes glistening in the sharp overhead lighting. Unlike Cath, who seemed to soften in the shadows, Blair bristled with the mere thought of being in the dark. She needed her space to be so brightly lit that it was practically on fire.

“The beginning.” Blair folded her hands across the smooth top of her uncluttered onyx desk, and expertly kicked off her shoes without moving the top half of her body. “I want to see everything as they saw it. It’s ridiculous that you even have to ask me. I should have been here, ready and waiting to stream it live, not in a mind-numbing meeting.”

The tip of Maxine’s pink nose wiggled with a sniff as her fingers fluttered over her holopad. “I agree.”

The Key’s red logo seemed to envelop the wall as it unfurled across the expansive holoscreen that hovered opposite Blair’s desk.

“Can you believe they had me travel all the way across the river on the MAX for that Eastside marketing meeting,” Blair said, “like I’m some kind of cube worker whose thoughts are so small that it takes dozens just like me to come up with one idea good enough to use?” Blair still wasn’t sure what had offended her more. The fact that someone with a higher title within the corporation considered her just another face in the crowd of zombie cubicle workers, or the fact that the Key hadn’t provided her with a complimentary Pearl ride.

“Someone has to lead the regular people.” Maxine sucked in a breath, her lips tightening into an O.

“Tell me.” Blair nodded encouragingly, already able to read Maxine. The independent, decisive, and competent assistant was a lovely change of pace. It wasn’t until Maxine that Blair had realized how much time she spent fighting or calculating her next battle strategy with her previous assistants. She was never truly at ease, and she never would be as long as her relationship with Maxine was tethered to the MediCenter, but Blair appreciated the possibility that they could maybe one day be friends. For now, there was only one person on the planet who could get Blair to release her guard completely. But she’d been so busy clawing her way up the MediCenter ladder that she hadn’t spent quality time with her brother in months and, until Denny fixed his comlink, they also wouldn’t be chatting anytime soon.

Maxine settled into the black chair opposite Blair. “Well, you didn’t hear it from me, but the marketing pod has been totally uninspired lately. To the point that there have been talks of reassignment within the department.” Her arched brows shot toward her hairline. “All the way up the chain.”

A soldier clad in Key Corp tactical gear stood frozen in the still image that appeared on the screen behind Maxine. Tree trunks wider than the man himself shot up from the ground on all sides.

Blair crossed and uncrossed her legs. She was already late to the videocast . . .

“And have you heard who’s in the running for the head position?” Maxine continued, excitement driving her delicate eyebrows toward the deep widow’s peak of her short blond hair.

Head of marketing wasn’t the title Blair had her eye on. But a title was a title. Besides, all of her titles thus far had been like ill-fitting pants, kept on long enough to prove they weren’t right, and cast off for a better fit.

Blair silently set her jaw and reclasped her hands while her toes tapped under her desk.

“Well, I’ve heard who it’s not.” Maxine tucked her holopad under her arm and sniffled. “And it’s not you.”

If Blair were the violent type, she would have snatched one of those pointed pencils and reached across her desk and given Maxine something to sniffle about. Instead, she cleared her throat and planted her bare feet on the plush rug. “Good. I don’t want the position anyway.”

Red.

“Of course.” Maxine settled against the high back of the velvet chair. “I can’t picture you over on the Eastside. You belong at the MediCenter.” Her lips again tightened into that gossipy little O. “But I can’t say that I wasn’t curious as to the reason why anyone would not consider you for a titled position. So I looked into it.”

Blair bit down on the inside of her cheeks.

“I don’t know if you knew this . . .” Sass tacked itself to Maxine’s tone. “But the MediCenter director can’t hold any other titles.”

Blair squeezed her fingers together so tightly her ragged nailbeds drained of color.

Maxine scooted to the edge of her seat. “You’re on the board’s list of candidates!”

Copper pooled against the sides of Blair’s tongue as she carved slivers in her cheeks. “Of course I am.”

She’d expected to be considered by the board. More than that, Blair expected to be the next MediCenter director. But expecting something and it coming to fruition were two different beasts. She’d learned that early on, made adjustments in her thinking, and now had her own office and troop of cube workers looking to her for guidance.

Maxine tucked her hair behind her ears. “You knew?”

Blair’s expression was flint. “Yes.”

Black.

“Well, I apologize for unnecessarily taking up your time.” Maxine shuffled stiffly in her seat and freed her holopad from under her arm. “And I will do everything in my power to assure you’re appointed.”

“Maxine,” Blair said, as the petite blond stood and turned to face the holoscreen. “I do love to know all of the buzz, so if you would . . .” Her pulse increased and her palms grew clammy as the confirmation tunneled through each section of her brain. She ran the tip of her finger across her bottom lip. She’d made it to the final round. She, Blair Iris Scott, was being seriously considered for the head position of the Westfall MediCenter. It had always been possible, and everyone knew she’d sacrificed her life for the opportunity, but this was real. This wasn’t in her head or tacked on the vision board she kept in her private virtual meditation chamber. This was actually happening.

Momma and Daddy would be so proud.

Her throat tightened with the thought, and her body heated as she fought back the memories thundering behind her eyes.

“Blair, I will always let you know what I hear. Even if it means you’re hearing it twice.” Maxine’s lips sharpened with a smile.

Blair nodded her thanks.

Maxine understood Blair. Perhaps she was a stronghold too.

“So, just a quick note before I leave you to catch up on current events.” Maxine’s perfect Key Corp–red nails clacked against her holopad as she flitted to Blair’s side. “The production team on the Zone Seven raid video tried to get a statement from Dr. Scott, but she declined to comment.”

“Of course she declined to comment. She’s the director of Career Services. I’m sure she has nothing to say about Zone Seven raids.” They should have come to Blair. With her history, she had more than enough to say. “Unless . . .” Blair’s gaze snapped up to Maxine. “She’s another one the board is considering, isn’t she?”

Blair sounded surprised, although she wasn’t in the slightest. Cath should be up for consideration.

But Blair should win.

“Yes, but don’t worry.” Maxine winced. “Not that you are, or anything. I only meant that Dr. Scott won’t get very far if she’s unable to type up a simple statement about the raid. That’s not nearly as difficult as the live speech you had to make the other morning.”

Blair’s chest puffed slightly. She hadn’t stopped criticizing herself for all that she could have done, but she supposed she had done better than most.

With a flick of her wrist, Maxine threw Blair’s calendar from her holopad onto the holoscreen. “I already contacted the head of the production team. You have an on-camera interview between your meetings tomorrow.”

Blair didn’t know what to say. Between this and the color-coded and expertly researched file Maxine had given her on Preston Darby, Blair was . . . pleased? Whatever the feeling was, it was rather strange.

“Unless you’d rather I call and cancel . . .”

“Absolutely not. This is my chance.” Blair wet her lips. “My chance to inform our fine citizens of whatever the corporation deems necessary.” She smiled to herself. Truly a Cath-like recovery.

“Maxine, you and everyone else know that Cath and I are very close.” She paused to add emphasis to the statement as she folded her hands in front of her the same way Cath did when she explained something serious. “And I do appreciate your excitement and ability to seize an opportunity—but she is the closest thing I have to a mother. We mustn’t forget that.” The corner of Blair’s lip itched with a sly grin. “While still working to claim Holbrook’s title, of course.”

Maxine nodded.

“And get a new card for Holbrook’s widow, what’s-her-face. I should sign it myself this time.” Blair huffed. “While you’re at it, go ahead and have my funeral attire dyed black.” She’d wanted to standout as much as possible while also appearing respectful, but perhaps she’d have a better edge if people thought she was grieving as much as Cath. The board was clearly comparing them, so she had to try harder to embody everything everyone loved about Cath, while maintaining her own ruthlessness and persistence. It shouldn’t be too hard. She’d been pouring herself into different molds for as long as she could remember.

“I’m on it.” Maxine tapped out notes as she headed to the door. “And Holly will play the feeds whenever you’re ready. I loaded both the version that we’ll show the public as well as the actual footage.” She scanned her cuff and the door closed noiselessly behind her.

Blair settled into her plush velvet seat and crisscrossed her legs underneath her. She stretched, brushing the top of her chair with her fingertips. She’d told the designer that she wanted a throne, and he had delivered.

“Holly, play the version that’s been approved for citizen viewing.” Blair trailed her fingers over the metal-studded armrests as the holoscreen image changed, replaced again by the Key’s vibrant red logo.

“To health. To life. To the future. We are the Key.” Blair said the words along with the version of her own voice that she’d had programmed into Holly.

“Good afternoon, citizens.” Vaughn Kelley stared into the camera. His expertly maintained caterpillar eyebrows twitched with each inflection. Blair often wondered if that had been taught, a sort of signature he’d perfected over the years of being Westfall’s go-to news anchor, or if it was natural, if his brows and his vocal cords had been stitched together since birth. “We have reporters on the ground in Zone Seven to bring you live, up-to-date information on the current raids and how they are impacting the safety of our community.” Vaughn flicked his attention between the cameras as the studio bots changed angles. His tailored blue blazer matched the intense aqua of his eyes and stood out in stark contrast against the white backdrop beaming behind him.

Live, up-to-date information . . .

Blair didn’t stifle her eye roll.

One of the many false truths the Key fed to its citizens. Black lies of necessity. Protection and safety and helpfulness wrapped into an easily digested nugget of censor-enriched truth. That may sound confusing to some, only because some people had too much faith in what citizens would do if given the whole truth and nothing but the truth. And Blair, more than anyone, understood how facts created monsters.

Only real emergencies or causes for celebration were reported in real time. This video may not go out for days. And, up until the Eos attacks, there had never been a real emergency in Westfall. Real emergencies had occurred overseas and in other New American cities where Eos cells had been active for years, but Westfall had seemed immune. Apparently, no city was safe from Eos.

Vaughn’s eyebrows twitched as he snapped his gaze to another camera. “Now, over to Chad Sandhar, reporting live from Zone Seven.”

Flames seemed to engulf the wall of Blair’s office as the view switched from Vaughn’s sterile newsroom to the fires blazing throughout Westfall’s outermost zone.

The corner of Blair’s mouth curled with a grin.

The camera steadied and zoomed in on a row of Key Corp soldiers, their black, flame-retardant uniforms rising from the charred and barren field like so many more lifeless husks. The black earth and withered trees told the story of the Key’s previous voyages to the wooded forbidden zone. Soldiers would be deployed to Zone Seven and beyond again and again until the fingers of the Key stretched black and charred throughout the land. And, if—No, when Blair was appointed director, the land surrounding Westfall would be the first thing up in flames.

The camera swung around to Chad Sandhar, reporting on scene, decked out in red gear. The thin paper face mask loosely hanging from his ears was streaked gray with soot, and tears carved clean tracks down his smudged cheeks. “What we’re seeing now, Vaughn, are our very own brave and dependable Key Corp soldiers torching the Zone Seven area behind me so no bacteria, viruses, or germs can develop and mutate or hop species, like the bird and swine flus that plagued our ancestors and led to the mutated Cerberus strain.” Chad waved the camera away as a bout of dry, hacking coughs overtook him.

The camera panned to the right and slowly zoomed in on flames licking nearby treetops.

“Vaughn,” Chad continued, a hoarseness clawing at his voice. “I’m out here in flame retardant gear issued by the corporation and specially made to withstand these conditions. And, I have to say, I am having a hard time maintaining my cool.” The view widened to again encompass the reporter as he brushed a gloved hand down the red Key Corp zip-up suit. “These soldiers, our soldiers, are out here protecting our community while wearing at least fifty pounds more than I am. I do not know how they’re able to handle it. It’s—” Another cough. “It’s mighty impressive. If you see one of these amazing people in the street, give them a big thank you. It’s the least we can do for what they’re doing to protect us.”

A crack splintered the smoke-filled air.

“Look out! Look out!” a soldier shouted over the flames as he ran up to the reporter.

The camera jerked as the soldier herded Chad and the cameraman to the safety.

The view went blurry for a moment before the camera stabilized and refocused on the flame-filled field behind them. The charred carcass of a two-story tall tree slammed to the ground, spraying fiery black bark into the air.

“I didn’t see—man, that—close.” Chad’s voice cut in and out as he adjusted his microphone. “Thank you.”

The camera expertly swooped back to the reporter as he regained his composure and turned his attention to the helmeted soldier. “What’s your name, soldier?”

“Major Owens.” He holstered his flame thrower and adjusted the straps of the large square pack hooked over his shoulders. “Rhett Owens,” the soldier said, looking past Chad at the line of flames behind them. The once brilliant red stripes streaking the arm of Owens’s uniform were now the same stale, muted red of dried blood.

Chad motioned to the faceless man. “Major, we’d be on our way to the MediCenter if it wasn’t for your quick action.”

“It’s my duty.” The helmet bobbed with a nod. “And I’m proud to serve Westfall and the Key.” Sweat streaked through the soot plastering his neck.

“Can you tell me what these duties mean to our community? Our citizens would love to hear firsthand.” Chad dragged a gloved hand across his own forehead before adjusting his facemask.

Rhett removed his helmet and secured it under his arm. “Leaving this zone and the lands beyond to grow wild would only result in another outbreak. We have all heard the term concrete jungle. Cerberus nearly eviscerated our species because of the wildness of the concrete jungle in cities like Westfall. This”—he lifted a gloved hand toward the ferocious flames burning brilliant orange and yellow and red behind him—“would be a true jungle where Cerberus and who knows what else would thrive and mutate. We are lucky enough to have great minds within the Key Corporation, who have recognized this threat and who send teams like mine all over the globe to ensure these wilds—concrete or nature made—will never get so far out of control that they again threaten us.” Rhett’s golden amber eyes bored into the camera. “We truly do have the Key to thank for our continued survival.”

Blair’s lips twisted into a satisfied smirk. “Well, well, Major Owens. Perhaps we should chat.” An assistant, even one as skilled as Maxine, could only help a woman like Blair reach a certain level of power. There were some things—so few Blair could count them on one hand—only a male protégé could provide. Like a spider, Blair had left many dried-up, shriveled husks of men in a trail behind her.

The “live” footage ended, seamlessly transitioning back to Vaughn in his light-drenched studio. “I don’t know about you,” the anchor said, “but I for one am supremely grateful for the Key and soldiers like Major Rhett Owens who risk their lives to keep us safe.” The camera angle changed, and Vaughn shifted his attention without missing a beat. “And our gracious Key Corp is hosting the annual Rose Festival at Waterfront Park this weekend. We’ll report live and cannot wait to see you there, where we all will show our gratitude.”

The image froze on Vaughn and his overly active eyebrows.

Blair tented her fingers and swiveled her chair away from her desk to look out her windows. Soon, she would own this city. She’d earned it, and, more importantly, she’d burn anyone who got in her way.