CHAPTER 22 #2
I massage my sore shoulder muscle, thinking the third girl’s intel is good.
The jazz seductress, with smoke in her voice and fire in her heels, will indeed be flown in for a single night to croon beneath a thousand diamond lights.
But that’s only part of the story. The main reason Scarlet du Pont accepted the booking is the venue, the Lotus Lounge.
It’s a velvet-drenched high-roller club on the Moonshine Mile that’s become so notorious, even people outside the university know its name.
Dickie told me that the price for entry isn’t money, but a hefty transfer of civil credits.
“We absolutely must secure an invitation,” the second girl declares.
“There is no way to do that without a contact in Mr. Prew’s entourage,” the first replies, smoothing her lavender drop-waist gown as if the point needs emphasis.
“I have heard Mr. Prew’s low-citizens are very kind,” the third girl says, her voice pitched loud enough to reach me. “Generous, even.”
I press the thawing ice pack harder against my shoulder, embarrassed to realize they think I can help. I would if I could. I’d invite a hundred low-citizens just to see the pissed-off look on the high-citizens’ faces.
“Apologies, ladies,” I say. “I cannot secure you an invitation, as I am not invited myself.”
All three swivel toward me, wide-eyed.
“You are not invited?” the first girl asks. “But you are in Mr. Prew’s entourage, Miss Waldsten. How is that possible?”
“I requested the evening off,” I say, fidgeting with my drop earring.
I politely excuse myself, and as I step into the hall, my shoulder starts to ache again, but I barely notice.
Charlotte and I are both in Edmund’s entourage, yet neither of us made the guest list. I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t sting—being overlooked like a dust ball in the corner always does.
But I remind myself that Edmund and I aren’t friends; we’re business partners under contract.
And in contracts, nothing comes free. Kindness is just another form of currency, and every so-called favor is a debt waiting to be collected.
That’s why I need to find the perfect birthday gift.
If I can give Edmund something that pays off my ever-growing tab—for the civil credits and his protection in the Tangerine Tree—that’s a start.
Better still would be to find something valuable enough to shift the balance between us, because I’m tired of every breath that I take feeling like it’s on loan.
If I can give Edmund something he couldn’t get on his own, maybe, for once, the scales will tip back.
The trouble is, I don’t know what that thing is. What can someone like me give someone like him? I don’t know what he needs, let alone what he likes. The truth is, I hardly know anything about him.
I’ve been racking my brain, trying to come up with something that doesn’t look like I grabbed it off a sale rack at the campus strip. I even asked Dickie, but he brushed me off with a smirk, guarding his ideas like state secrets.
All I’ve got is a single clue: Edmund’s pocket watch, made by a brand called Altimor.
Thanks to Mom and Vivian, I can rattle off most luxury brands as easily as fencing footwork, but I’ve never even heard of Altimor. That means the pocket watch is either so exclusive it’s out of reach for people like me, or it’s special. An heirloom, maybe.
After class, when Edmund cuts me loose for the day, I head straight to the study in my suite. My Pinkie sets a champagne cocktail on the desk beside me as I open the internet on my Bond and search “Altimor.”
The top result leads me to a trendy website filled with luxury watches, many priced nearly as high as my hovercar.
They look almost identical to Edmund’s pocket watch, each displaying the nine time zones of the Civilized World.
As I study the fashion models—men and women dressed in bomber jackets, sheepskin-lined suits, and sunglasses that reflect airplane wings—I realize that Altimor is a precision toolmaker for pilots.
Suddenly, small details about Edmund start to make sense.
His constant use of eye drops must be because pilots often get dry eyes at high altitudes, where the air is thin and humidity drops.
His face and hands, which are a shade tanner than the rest of him, show the uneven exposure you’d get in a cockpit, with sunlight pouring through the glass.
A pilot. That’s what he is, or maybe what he’s training to be.
I lean back in my chair and sip my cocktail, smiling as I picture him soaring over campus in a flashy jet, the Prew name splashed across its side. I know exactly what to give him now. The trouble is, getting the gift will mean striking a deal with Vivian.
And deals with her never come cheap.
I waste no time calling Vivian on video.
The screen shows her perched at her bedroom vanity, as if posing for a magazine shoot.
The light from the makeup mirror trails over her body, tracing the curves of her chest and the lines of her toned stomach.
She’s only half-dressed, wearing a green lace bra and panties that stand out against her artificially tanned skin.
The only thing she keeps on is her equestrian helmet, with her rich black hair neatly pinned beneath it.
She must’ve recently returned from her weekly ride with Mom.
“Hey, Lore,” Vivian says, setting her phone at an angle to keep me in view. Her tone is casual, but her brow furrows slightly, and her lips press into a distracted line. “Just give me a second.”
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.