Page 101 of Because I Killed Him
I’m about to ask why she’s so tense when I notice a Pinkie approaching from behind, gripping a fine-gauge needle. Vivian’s breath catches as the Pinkie tilts her head, exposing the delicate stretch of muscle above her collarbone. The robot wipes the area with a sterilizing wipe, then slides the needle into the muscle above her clavicle.
It’s her Steriline shot, the yearly injection all women are legally forced to take from the day they start menstruating to prevent pregnancy. Vivian lets out a soft groan as the Pinkie administers the shot, which contains nanoparticles engineered to circulate through her bloodstream and prevent ovulation.
Pregnancy is often dangerous, health experts say. It’s a risk to women’s health and bodies, which are too valuable to be damaged by hair loss, stretch marks, vaginal tearing, or abdominal muscle separation. So the government banned it years ago.
Now, couples enter a weekly lottery, and the winners are granted permission to have children. The winners send their sperm and eggs to the Offspring Institute, where embryos are engineered in sterile labs and grown in artificial wombs. That’s how all of us were born. Vivian. Hillaire. Me. Everyone.
When the Pinkie finally withdraws the needle, Vivian exhales in relief. Her shoulders relax, and her fingers brush the injection site absently. Then her eyes meet mine through the phone screen, and her lips curve into a faint smile. “Okay,” she says. “I can talk now.”
I nod, but my chest tightens. Being forced to get the Steriline shot is one thing; it’s painful, invasive, and, for someone like me who’s never even had a boyfriend, pointless. But watching the shot being administered is different, like stepping on a flower that’s trying to grow.
“How are the wedding plans coming along?” I ask, attempting to change the subject.
Vivian lights up instantly. She shrugs on a silk robe, sprawls on her bed, and launches into a full-on spill about her gown, the menu, the music, and the floral arrangements. I half listen, thinking instead about how close she is to becoming a Public Person, and how relieved I’ll be when she’s finally married.
Partly because she loves Harrison. Mostly because the system is built to reward married couples so aggressively that almost no low-citizens ever opt out. On their wedding day, Vivian and Harrison will each receive three thousand civil credits. Their accounts will merge, their housing rank will jump, and Harrison will finally be granted legal access to his inheritance. In some cases, marriage even commutes or delays a sentence to the guillotine if the couple has children. That fact alone is enough to make marriage and family feel less like a choice and more like a necessary commitment.
Vivian keeps talking, barely stopping to breathe. For once, I don’t mind. It’s nice to listen to something that doesn’t involve thinly veiled power plays. She’s so sure of what she wants and where she’s headed. My life, meanwhile, is a spilled bag of beads, rolling in a hundred directions. All I know is that I want to fence. All I can think about is that I can’t.
After ten minutes, Vivian finally pauses to take a sip of sparkling water. Her gaze flicks back to me, and her eyes widen as she realizes how long she’s been talking.
“I’m sorry, Lore,” she says. “I haven’t even asked how you’re doing.”
“I’m fine,” I say, brushing it off. “Just called to make a trade.”
Vivian shifts up onto her knees, her eyes sparking with interest. The way she surveys the room behind me through the screen is telling, as if she’s already thinking about what she can squeeze out of me.
“What’s it going to cost me?” she asks.
“One of those.”
I point to the Vanguard badges hanging on the wall behind her, so shiny I’m sure she polished them recently.
High-citizen or low-citizen, it doesn’t matter—everyone loves the Vanguards. It’s one of the few topics that unites people across all bloodcolors. As a pilot, I’m sure Edmund would be especially eager to own a flight-suit badge from one of the elite fighters who once protected the Civilized World’s energy shield. Back then, their jets tore through the skies, engines roaring as they held the line against external threats. The Vanguards were legends. Ghosts in the clouds. The shield’s first and last line of defense.
But their glory days are long gone. With no attacks on the shield for seventy years, the Vanguard program was deemed outdated and replaced by AI patrols. Now the Vanguards are little more than a footnote in history, their flight suit badges reduced to collectibles people like Vivian hang on their walls.
Vivian’s eyes narrow. “Since when do you care about the Vanguards?”
“It’s not for me,” I say. “It’s a birthday gift.”
“For whom?”
“Someone who’d appreciate it.”
Vivian glides to the wall and traces the badges with her fingers, her eyes filling with quiet reverence. I think the real reason she loves them so much is that they prove our world is capable of producing heroes… or at least it used to be.
Over her shoulder, she studies me for a long moment. Then she turns back to her display with a sigh. “Which one do you want?”
This is the tricky part. If I want to pull this off, I need to give Edmund the right badge. He won’t be impressed by a generic Vanguard whose military record blends in with the rest. He’ll want something irreplaceable, which means it has to be personal.
My eyes settle on the name Ernest Prew. Edmund’s grandfather.The Hellion.
Even though Ernest is now dead, his legacy remains as alive as I am. He was a Vanguard who single-handedly defended a breach in the energy shield for three hours, long enough for reinforcements to arrive and keep the Civilized World intact. I have no idea how Harrison got his hands on Ernest’s badge, only that it probably cost enough to make a Blue sweat.
“The Hellion’s badge,” I say.
Vivian spins around, one hand pressed against the wall. A flash of surprise crosses her face, sharp as her painted nails, and for a moment, Ithink she’ll shut me down and call me crazy for even asking.
