Page 225 of Because I Killed Him
At last, I’m home.
Only a fool believes his life is governed by his choices alone. The wise understand that the choices of others carry just as much weight to influence, shape, and sometimes even to alter the course of a life… for better or for worse.
—HEDY BISHOP, AN ORANGE
CHAPTER 54
Holding my saber breaks a dam inside me, sealed for so long that the rush feels like it’s drowning me. With the hilt settled in my grip, I want more than to hold it. I want to swing the blade and land a final touch.
Jack will duel Edmund at the Mensur in a few hours.
But I wish it weren’t Jack.
I wish it were me.
I rub my stiff leg as my Pinkie dresses me in my Fraternity uniform. The cloth support wrap remains snug around my thigh, but the pain has eased, leaving only a lingering stiffness in my muscles. I mentally test my form, from the advance to the lunge. With my injury and nearly two years away from proper fencing, am I still as skilled as I used to be? Would I be good enough to win?
I know the answer. I knew it the moment I watched that footage from the death duel in the Tangerine Tree, where Edmund moved like something forged for the blade, cutting down two Blues who challenged him.
No, I wouldn’t be good enough.
But I’d still try. I’d still want to show Edmund that when he called me helpless, when he calledDadhelpless, he created someone as driven as he is.
The Pinkie adjusts my green-and-black Fraternity jacket over my shoulders, then sets the flat-top cap on my head, its visor slanted down overmy eyes. Finally, the robot fastens my scabbard around my waist, my saber hilt tucked inside.
I head to the parking garage, slide into my hovercar, and drive to the front of the Green Dormitory to pick up Charlotte. While I wait, I activate my Bond and pull up the news. The top story reveals that President Reeve has announced he’s launching an investigation into civil credit fraud. Bogart doesn’t say it outright, but everyone knows who Reeve will drag into the light by the end of this: his own kind, the Blues.
Bogart avoids showing the crowds in Charleston City who support Reeve, but it doesn’t matter. Dad already sent me drone footage of streets filled with low-citizens, bodies packed shoulder to shoulder for miles, some chanting until their voices break, others collapsing against each other and weeping. Reeve moves through the masses like hope made flesh; low-citizens drop to their knees as he passes and claw at the cuffs of his trousers. Bogart ignores the footage and instead speaks of the Blues’ glory and years of sacrifice, reminding us of the dark days they carried us through and warning that those dark days could return sooner than we think. His words are cautious and vague, the same old loyalty dressed up in a new sense of dread.
While Bogart speaks, my eyes drift past the campus buildings to the beach, where the edge of the energy shield arcs upward into the sky. Tonight, it seems to crackle differently, thinner somehow, more fragile than before. For the first time in a long while, I don’t see the shield as both a prison and a protector.
I see only a protector.
And I want it to hold.
When Charlotte and I arrive at the Green Fraternity, the drinking hall is already packed with first-year Greens in uniform. After everything that’s happened over the last few weeks—the Blue guilty verdict, the Blue execution, the viral footage of me killing Charles Blackwell, and the civil credit fraud investigation—the entire Fraternity crackles like a fuse burning toward the powder. I know the Greens want blood tonight. This fight has become more than a duel; it’s meant to prove that if we can beatthe Blues with a blade, maybe we can beat them in areas that matter far more.
But there’s just one problem.
Jack is drunk.
Charlotte watches him from the crowd, her face twisted with horror and guilt. He’s backed into a corner with Harrison and Vincent, his cap askew, his words slurring as he insists that he only took a couple of shots to take the edge off. Yet his body sways as if he’s one shot short of forgetting how his legs work.
“This is how I always fight, boys,” Jack says. “Fought almost every duel this year like this.”
“Damn it, Carroway,” Harrison barks. His hand keeps running through his hair as if he’s about to rip it out. “This isn’t a street scuffle. It’s theMensur. Clean fight. No liquor, no pills, no boost. You know the rules.”
Vincent shakes his head. His eyes are too gentle for this mess, the kind of hard-won mercy that comes from overcoming addiction himself. “Did it ever occur to you, Jack, that the bottle’s the only fight you’re losing tonight? That maybe alcohol is your enemy?”
Jack throws his arms wide, his grin dull and crooked. “Mama always said to love my enemy.”
Harrison lets out a muffled groan and covers his eyes. His pale face looks bloodless, taut with panic. “You’re out, Carroway. It’s not just reckless; it’s illegal. If you step onto the piste like this and the Blues call it, you’ll be disqualified. Wealllose.”
Jack rubs his mouth, his jaw flexing under his palm. The tremor in his throat undoes me, because sad doesn’t begin to cover it. After all the hours he’s spent training with Edmund, after fighting so hard to stay sober these past months, I know he must’ve been pushed to the brink to pick up a whiskey bottle. Charlotte seems to realize this, too. She sinks into a chair and drops her head into her hands, as if blaming herself for choosing today, of all days, to reopen old wounds.
But regret can’t undo what’s done. Jack’s shame is clear on his face, and the whiskey on his breath is strong enough to alert every Blue on the Sailing Strip. Unless someone steps up now, we’re finished.
So I take my chance.
