Page 20 of Because I Killed Him
The sound that tore from my throat wasn’t a snarl or even a scream, but a wild, primal cry born from the pure terror of almost certain death.
I grasped the saber firmly, holding the blade in a high outside guard as Charles advanced, the locker door raised like a shield. I waited, knees bent and ready, before swinging in a whirling arc of shimmering graphene.
First, I knocked the locker door from his grip. Then I aimed to kill.
I wake with a ragged moan, curled in a defensive position, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets. My heart pounds in my ears, drowning out the low rumble of the jet. I roll over and draw back the curtains beside the bed. It’s still dark. The storm rages on, lightning cracking across the sky, wind pounding the hull, but Harrison’s jet glides smoothly, without turbulence.
Crawling to the edge of the bed, I wipe sweat from my face with the hem of my nightgown. I breathe deeply, inhaling through my nose and exhaling through my mouth, trying to push away the images, but the dream still lingers. It isn’t something I wake from; it wakes with me.
At this point, I’ve relived the attack hundreds of times. But tonight, for the first time, it occurs to me that Charles and I never spoke during oursemifinal duel, or even in the locker room. Maybe that’s why the memory sometimes feels surreal, as if I didn’t kill a man but a ghost. And maybe now that ghost is haunting me.
The bedside lamp switches on, casting a silvery glow across the room. I shuffle into the lavatory, grab a bottle from my toiletry bag, and pour nine white pills into my hand; they’re the vitamins I have to take twice daily without fail.
Blues have to take a lot more.
Nothing, it turns out, comes for free. Every genetic enhancement requires specialized supplements that keep us alive by compensating for what our engineered bodies can’t sustain. Our accelerated metabolisms burn through nutrients quickly, and our hyperactive immune systems produce waste that demands constant antioxidant cleansing. The irony is almost laughable. The traits that make us superior to past humans—denser muscles, sharper minds, longer lifespans—also make us vulnerable. Without supplements, we weaken quickly, and our advantages become deadly liabilities.
The good news is we’ve never experienced a supplement shortage.
I chew the vitamins dry, the bitter chalkiness sticking to my tongue. Back in the bedroom, I pause, weighing whether to shower first or have breakfast, when a loud knock sounds at the door.
“Lore—open up,” Charlotte cries.
The tremor in her voice makes me fling open the door before asking a single question. She’s standing in the hallway, dressed in a green silk-satin gown that seems to flow down her body like water. Her makeup is dewy and bright, her hair swept up with an emerald comb. But her breath comes out short, as if she just escaped a party that ended in a shootout.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“It’s better if Harry tells you.”
I rush down the hallway into the lounge, where Harrison sits cross-legged on one of the sofas. Like me, he’s still in his pajamas, his hair tousled from sleep, and his face is paler than the porcelain espresso cup in his hand.
“Lore, you should sit.”
“I don’t want to sit, Harry. Tell me what’s going on.”
The deep, tense ridges in his face reveal what he won’t say. He turns ona large holographic screen in the lounge, opens the internet, and pulls up The Civilized Voice’s website. The breaking news story features a grinning photo of Dad under the headline, BLISS BANNED: AN UNHAPPY ENDING FOR THE HAPPY DRUG?
Cold shock courses through my body, turning into chills as it reaches my arms. The switch—the one only high-citizens are allowed to flip—has just been flipped by a low-citizen. And it was Dad who did it.
“Play the video, Harry,” Charlotte urges.
Harrison clicks on the latest report from Benjamin Bogart. The video shows Bogart seated behind a desk in a gold-and-chrome broadcasting studio in Charleston City, flanked by two statues of double-headed eagles. The love-struck smile from the photos of him wrapped in Scarlet Du Pont’s arms has vanished, replaced by a solemn expression that’s as stiff as his purple pinstripe suit.
“Good day, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to The Civilized Voice,” he says. “I am your host, Benjamin Bogart, reporting live from the Rainbow District with breaking news. At 5:00 a.m. this morning, representatives from across the Civilized World gathered in the council chamber to decide the fate of the Bliss Prohibition Act. The event was a battle many will not soon forget, a thriller from start to finish. In a shocking twist, the motion passed with forty-seven votes in favor and forty-six against. The final, tie-breaking vote was cast by Green Representative Bruce Waldsten, an outspoken critic of Bliss who has long campaigned against the drug’s legal circulation.”
The screen cuts to the council chamber, a grand hall with fluted geometric pillars and tiered chandeliers, featuring private booths for the ninety-three representatives. The Blues have thirty-three representatives, while the Greens, Oranges, and Purples each have twenty.
The footage, taken immediately after the vote, shows Dad surrounded by shouting Blues at the podium. They tower over him in their midnight blue velvet suits and silk chiffon gowns, their faces twisted with rage. Dad remains calm, but a slight tremor in his hand makes it clear he’s feeling the pressure. Instinctively, my hand rises, reaching out as if I could touch his and hold it still.
“In another unprecedented turn of events,” Bogart continues as thecamera cuts back to him, “President Reeve has signed the bill, making Bliss officially illegal in our great and glorious Civilized World. The news is sparking protests nationwide, especially outside the Capitol Estate, where the vote took place. For the first time in our history, high-citizens and low-citizens are marching together, united in their desire to overturn what many are calling a tyrannical decision.”
The screen splits, showing protest footage of Blues leading the charge to re-legalize Bliss: militaristic marches, flashing signs, and catchy slogans. The protests seem too organized to be spontaneous, suggesting they were planned for this specific outcome. Most Blues support keeping Bliss legal, especially since they control its production, distribution, and sales. One of the few high-citizens who has publicly opposed the drug is President Reeve.
“And now, to answer theburningquestion on everyone’s minds,” Bogart says, “who exactly is Green Representative Bruce Waldsten? To many, he’s known for his unpopular stance on digital privacy, but behind the curtain, he is a family man—husband to public relations expert Evelyn Waldsten and father of three daughters, Miss Vivian, Miss Loredana, and Miss Hillaire Waldsten.”
A family photo from one of Dad’s political events appears on the screen; Mom and Dad are holding hands, Vivian flashes a flirty smile, Hillaire stands stiffly with her hands in her pockets, and there I am, slack-jawed and caught off guard by the photographer. I try to breathe, but my throat locks up, forcing the air back out in a strangled gasp.
“That skeevy bastard,” Charlotte growls. “How’s he getting away with showing the faces of Private People? It’s illegal.”
