Page 13 of Because I Killed Him
The wall clock strikes 9:00 p.m., and I feel every eye in the room turn toward me. Mom grips my hand, panic flashing in her eyes. Vivian lets out a soft, startled gasp.
For a moment, no one speaks. The silence, cold and suffocating, pressesdown on my chest like a stone. Years I spent training for public life, preparing for every rule and scenario, except one: saying goodbye.
It happens quickly, a haze of voices, arms, and tears I can barely process. My mind starts to drift, as if I’m watching the scene through a foggy window. Vivian sniffles as she kisses Harrison on the lips and me on the cheek. Mom wraps me in her arms, her eyes shining as she whispers, “I love you.”
Hillaire lingers stiffly in the corner. She lifts her hand in a wave, the same one she gave me from the walnut tree during the execution, and this time, I wave back.
A blurry moment later, Harrison and I climb into his hovercar. The cabin smells of leather and rain, and its soft brown seats are accented with shiny brass fittings. As the vehicle lifts off the ground, Vivian calls from the portico, her voice drowned out by the roar of the power core. I catch fragments of her words, something about Harrison and me taking care of each other. Then we’re off, gliding down the cobblestone drive, lampposts rushing past as rain splatters against the windshield.
It suddenly strikes me that this is the first time I’ve ever left home on my own. Until now, all my teachers were Pinkies, and every exam was taken online. That’s how it is for all Private Persons, kept separate to limit our time in public. But tomorrow, I’ll be at Grandmaster, far from the safety of home, subject to all the laws of public life, with no way to turn back. The thought burns in my mind until a jagged bolt of lightning splits the sky, snapping me out of it.
“You’re sure we can fly through this?” I ask Harrison.
He nods, scrolling through the weather forecast on the holographic dashboard. “Yeah, my dad’s got a Bulletwing 890. Its anti-grav system generates a force field that’s designed for storms like this. We’ll have to fly lower, and the trip will take twice as long, but don’t worry—” He winks. “You won’t even spill your drink.”
Reassured, I turn on the radio and tune into Big Band Beats. Bold jazz fills the cabin, easing the pressure in my chest. We merge onto the freeway and head east toward the coast, the hovercar speeding above the rain-slick road. The night is starless, with the sky layered in storm clouds as thick as curtains drawn too tight. But as we approach the coastline, a soft glowbegins to spread along the horizon. It grows brighter and brighter until a shimmering wall comes into view, emerging from the ocean like the spine of a giant and vanishing into the storm above.
The energy shield.
Ten miles high and three thousand miles wide, the radiant dome of electromagnetic energy encircles the entire Civilized World. Its surface features a lattice-like pattern that flickers periodically, as if alive, designed to admit only what we need—sunlight, rain, natural wind flow—while blocking everything else. Always active, the shield defends us against attacks from land, air, and sea.
Harrison observes the shield with a proud smile, while I can hardly look at it. The Blues call it an unbreachable front line, locking out threats, but sometimes I wonder if it’s the opposite.
I wonder if the shield is locking us in.
The man who hates technology is a man who hates himself, for technology is not separate from humanity; it is an extension of humanity.
—WINSTON GLASS,
FOUNDER & CEO OF CEREBRUM
CHAPTER 3
For most of the drive to Harrison’s estate, I gaze out the window in silence. The Green District stretches across 600,000 square miles of shining cities and hidden towns. As a child, I preferred the countryside, with its low, grassy hills and quiet forests, where I could wander freely, away from prying ears, security cameras, and drones. It was where I felt safest and often happiest.
But right now, even the scenery isn’t enough to distract me from Charlotte. I don’t want to see her, especially under these circumstances. If I’m stuck on a plane with her for hours on end, I don’t think I’ll be able to hold myself together. The last thing I want is for her to see that I’m still hurt by what she did to me.
But I’m so tired of wondering. I’ve spent nearly two years trying to make sense of why she abandoned me, replaying the day she blocked my number again and again. I’ve only ever had suspicions, never a clear explanation I could call the truth. Maybe confronting her is the only way to burn the bitterness out of my heart.
She was eighteen the last time I saw her, so she’s twenty now. I wonder how much she’s changed, if she has at all, and whether she regrets cutting me out of her life. Mom says it’s common for people to drift apart from friends when they start dating, and that maybe Charlotte stopped talking tome because she felt torn between two kinds of love. But I could never bring myself to believe that.
I was happy for her. I didn’t meet her boyfriend back then, and I still haven’t met him. The only explanation that ever made sense was that she had traded me in for her boyfriend’s friend group. Maybe I stopped being interesting. Or worse, maybe she outgrew our friendship.
Next to me, Harrison loosens his tie with one hand and drapes the other across the back of my headrest. Even though he’s in the driver’s seat, he doesn’t need to steer or operate the pedals as we pass rows of ivy-covered villas and stone mansions. The hovercar drives itself.
He alternates between whistling along with the radio and falling into stone-faced silence. I know he’s nervous about returning to Grandmaster. There are so many rules about public manners that even Mom and Dad still feel uneasy in crowds.
“Did Viv send you my tip list?” he asks, taking a sip from a silver flask. He offers me a drink, but I shake my head, still buzzing from the half bottle of wine I had at dinner.
“Yeah. She sent it this morning. Thanks for taking the time to put it together.”
“The tips on that list aren’t laws; they’re more like unwritten rules. Had I known about them when I first started, it would’ve saved me a lot of trouble.” Harrison huffs a laugh, but it’s edged with nervousness. His mind seems distant. “The reason I bring it up is… well, there’s one piece of advice I left out. I thought it might be better to tell you in person.”
“What is it?”
He pauses, curling his fingers tightly over one knee. “Charlotte should know, too, so I’ll wait until we’re in the air.”
We plunge into a long tunnel filled with speeding hovercars, its granite walls lit by wrought-iron lanterns and flashy advertisement screens. The colors sweep across Harrison’s face like a spotlight, revealing his tense, shifting muscles. Whatever his final tip is, the fact that he didn’t write it down can only mean one of two things: it’s about the Blues, or he doesn’t want Vivian to know.
