Page 23 of Because I Killed Him
The Copper turns to Harrison. “Blood Ring, please.”
Harrison extends his hand, revealing a green meteorite ring glinting on his left thumb. Inside the ring are microneedles designed to draw blood for identification tests.
The Copper scans the ring with a biometric device to verify Harrison’s identity. “Welcome back to the Rainbow District, Mr. Somerset,” he says. “You are now cleared to deboard.”
Harrison descends the stairs, sheltered by a Pinkie holding an umbrella, and waits for us at the bottom. Charlotte is next, but the Copper skips past her, pulling up beside me as closely as a pickpocket. His breath rasps inside his helmet, and his clothes smell of tobacco mixed with something fragrant and chemical.Bliss.
Now that the Copper is so close, I can see his dilated pupils through the T-visor of his helmet. He’s already going through withdrawals.
“Train ticket, please,” he says.
“Is that necessary, sir?”
“It is if you wish to avoid any unpleasantness.” The Copper steps closer, fingers twitching toward the handcuffs on his belt, and I realize I’m not in a position to argue. As I send him the ticket through my Bond, I glance anxiously at Charlotte.
She nods encouragingly, though her hands are fidgeting. “I have not yet purchased a ticket, sir,” she says. “Must I do so before deboarding?”
“No.” The Copper examines my ticket a moment longer, his boot tapping the floor. Then, with a wave of his hand, he uses the biometric device to scan my Blood Ring. “Welcome to public life, Miss Waldsten. You are now cleared to deboard.”
I perform a stiff curtsy, then move to the doorway and immediately check my Bond. In the center of the screen, a square chart with a number appears:five hundred. Like every Public Person, I start with five hundred civil credits, but the number fluctuates based on my behavior.
If my civil credit score drops below two hundred, I’ll be expelled.
If it drops below one hundred, I’ll be arrested.
And if it drops below fifty, I’ll be executed.
Civility laws regulating behavior were not made to subjugate, but rather to elevate, for the highest standard can be achieved only at the highest cost.
—VERA FLORES, A GUIDE TO ETIQUETTE
CHAPTER 5
Being a Public Person is like running through a minefield buck-naked in the dark while it’s pissing rain.
Dad’s words echo in my mind as I watch flocks of surveillance drones circle the runway like vultures; their lenses track every movement, scanning for the slightest sign of uncivilized behavior. The stairway stretches before me, wet with rain, looking less like an exit and more like the threshold to my new life—one where I’ll have to maintain perfect posture and speak formally in public wherever I go until the day I die.
But I trained for this. My body remembers every rule, falling effortlessly into the drills I’ve repeated thousands of times. I relax my shoulders, lift my chin, and gently lace my fingers in front of me as I begin to descend. Rain pounds on the umbrella the Pinkie holds above my head, matching the rhythm of my pulse. I take each step purposefully, keeping my weight balanced and my pace slow, even though the stairs are slick enough to send me tumbling. I take deep, steady breaths until I reach the bottom, where I curtsy to Harrison, who’s still waiting on the tarmac.
He responds with a bow, his muscular frame braced against the biting wind. Rainwater runs down his caped rainproof overcoat, and his shoulders shudder under the weight of tension he can’t shake. Yet the smile he offers remains broad and polite, tugging at the skin around his eyes.
We both know there’s no room for fear, no matter how much we mightfeel it. From now on, civility is survival.
“Miss Waldsten, please allow me to escort you to your train carriage,” Harrison says.
“You are most kind, Mr. Somerset.”
I rest my hand on his arm. Behind us, Charlotte descends with careful grace, lifting the hem of her gown off the wet steps. I picture her practicing her posture alone in a hotel room mirror, with no friends or even her dad to advise her, and I can’t help but feel a sting of sadness.
At the bottom of the stairs, she pulls on a pair of suede gloves and asks, “What is your train seat number, Miss Waldsten?”
“17A.”
Charlotte switches on her Bond. “Ah, how fortunate. Seat 17B is still vacant.”
No.It’s a bad idea for her to sit with me, especially after that Copper swiped a copy of my ticket. “Miss Deering, perhaps you should consider sitting—”
“The purchase has already been made.” Her face settles into that familiar, unshakable expression I’ve seen too many times to count. She’s not changing her mind. And if I’m honest, I don’t want her to.
