Code Vessel #1

Chapter 1

I released the breath I’d intentionally been holding for far too long, when the matchmaker finally finished her physical evaluation.

Everything from taking my measurements to testing my ability to balance things on my head while walking up and down stairs helped better form a picture of my worth as a person.

No squats though. They really should have added some kind of strength test. Imagine the husband I’d get if they picked matches based on how many people I could beat in isometrics.

I almost made myself laugh, but I managed to wrangle in any unsightly joy before it could manifest in my expression. I wasn’t happy to be here by any stretch, but sometimes the only way to deal with trauma was to laugh at it.

It felt better than crying anyway.

Today though, I was keeping it together better than I expected of myself.

I smiled for the pictures, kept good posture, and sucked in my stomach throughout the entire three-hour evaluation.

From stance to appearance, I should have been meeting every standard.

I’d even done the research to program the makeup design in my Appearance Alteration Module to the most current trends.

My lashes were longer than spider legs, and I had two millimeters of black glitter eyeliner that culminated into a sharp cat eye and twinkled like the night sky.

The pink blush pulled double duty of hiding my acne scars and bringing a splash of color to my otherwise pale complexion, while my lips were a sparkling white that matched the blanched, unpigmented hair and irises that beget my Station-Born heritage.

My usual platinum, waist-length waves were high and tight in interwoven braids, and the dress they’d given me, built of a confining silver fabric, wrapped around the shapes of my body in a way that left near nothing to the imagination.

I was a perfect doll, at least outwardly.

I should have a number of distinguished and enviable options among my matches.

So long as I could hold this same composure during the introduction and subsequent evaluations—err, dates, I mean—I’d have a good, comfortable life in the Democratic Territories of Mictlan.

Pretty lucky outcome for a girl who grew up homeless and getting into fights for food, I should say.

Just look pretty, be a good wife, and produce new soldiers. That was my greatest duty as a woman born of a Protectorate Space Station.

That was what the matchmaker told me, anyway. I just had to convince myself that I felt that way, too.

“Date of last menstrual cycle?” Madam Elladena asked so sternly it nearly felt like a threat. Lying was ill-advised, considering I’d been on medical monitoring since my eighteenth birthday three years ago. All nulliparous women were, and if I could help it, I’d meet that criteria forever.

Though without looking at my mandated tracking module, I struggled to recall the exact date. It had been at least a month and a half. Maybe two?

She tapped her finger against her tablet aggressively, while I searched for some event to link to the last time I needed my Sanitary Evac Unit.

“Date of last menstrual cycle, Miss Callan.” She repeated harshly, when I failed to come up with an answer in what should have been plenty of time.

She scowled, I think, but the amount of muscle paralyzer, wrinkle smoother, and makeup on her face meant it was only really distinguishable by her tone.

Matchmakers were too proper and sophisticated to use childish technology like appearance altering “A2s.” She had real skills and made real sacrifices. Just ask her, and she’d tell you all about it.

Don’t roll your eyes. She’ll stab you.

“I’m not sure.” I admitted, not to be defiant but out of genuine uncertainty.

I hadn’t had a consistent monthly cycle since I’d gotten my first one when I was ten, and I’d had no idea they were going to ask me that in my first evaluation.

I expected things like “what are your hobbies?” or “what do you look for in a partner?” considering I already fielded enough reproductive health questions in check-ups.

Couldn’t she just look up the data herself? Maybe this was a test.

I wasn’t passing if it was. I’d gone nearly an entire year without getting my period once, over four months twice. It really could pop up at any time—or not at all. Which never particularly bothered me. My fertility wasn’t as important to me as it was to the Territories.

On the contrary, my ‘fertility’ was a curse, in my opinion.

“You’re not sure? Do you not track it on your CHRONO?

You’re aware that it’s a prosecutable offense to neglect proper reporting in these dire times.

” Her eye lifted, as if she was trying to raise a brow in doubt.

Again, the tone was the only reason I actually figured that out.

I couldn’t say I was proud that I’d learned how to read the stone-faced evaluators over the years, but getting my wrists slapped in front of the whole class with an energy paddle enough times helped me figure it out the hard way.

“I have Polycystic Ovary Syndrome, Madam.” I explained, hoping that would be enough.

“There are times when it’s clockwork, and there are times when it’s a total surprise.

I always track the days, but I would need to look at my CHRONO to give you an exact date.

” While I was currently wearing my CHRONO—a small bracelet-like communication device that projected a screen onto the back of my hand—activating the projection and swiping around to get that information wasn’t permitted movement in front of a Madam.

“Have you not been prescribed hormone therapy?” Madam Elladena challenged, while her eyes never left my assessment logs. “Minor defects are not an excuse.”

Minor defects, huh. “I have, but it doesn’t always work perfectly.

My body still reacts unpredictably at times.

” I had that canned answer deep in my instincts.

There were few things in this world less predictable than an individual body’s reaction to hormonal fluctuations, and despite Mictlan’s obsession with reproduction, women’s bodies were so poorly studied that results could never be guaranteed.

It was an easy way to dodge the fact that I refused to administer the injections.

It’s not like my ‘defects’ were something that could be cured anyway.

The acne that plagued my teen years had finally cleared up—even if I still had some light scarring to show for it—but the chin hairs, the insulin resistance, and the heavy cycles seemed minor if it meant keeping myself less viable.

A little extra testosterone wasn’t going to kill me.

“I’ll see to it that your hormone dosage is modified accordingly to better address your issues.

” Wonderful. Just what I wanted. “I would hate for something like this to take away from your valuation,” she said as she typed something into my file.

The screen glowed red as she downgraded my Match Rating to reflect my now lowered value as a human being.

So much for the comfortable life, I suppose.

Comfort didn’t suit me anyway.

“Last date of intercourse?” She asked next, and I fought the urge to physically recoil at the question.

“Never, Madam,” I said, forcing myself to keep my chin up.

She nodded as she tapped the file again. This time the screen glowed green.

Great.

To be fair, I wouldn’t be stuck in a matchmaking session at all if I had been proactive enough to find a relationship before I’d turned twenty-one, so having been close enough to another person to be naked with them would be a stretch.

With the general attitude and expectations of the Territories, it had been especially difficult to convince myself that sex was anything other than playing a game of Russian Roulette with a flamethrower.

I was doing everything I could to live my life on my terms as long as I could prolong it, and any risk of pregnancy was too big.

If that meant dying a virgin, I didn’t care.

It wasn’t frowned upon to have sex prior to matching though.

If anything, promiscuity was encouraged, as even irresponsible breeding still resulted in population growth and post-war recovery.

Not to mention that getting married early meant matching wasn’t necessary.

It was only the single and unmotivated like myself who were such a waste of tax dollars.

But that was neither here nor there. I knew the question wasn’t proposed to shame me. On the contrary, as a Matchmaker, Madam Elladena had clients with specific demands, and the more criteria I could check off, the better my options were.

Not sure how I felt about anyone whose profile vocally preferred virgin blood though.

Actually, no, we were being honest today. I knew exactly how I felt about that.

“It says here you’re currently enrolled in the Medic Program at Medella University, and you’re on your third year now, correct?” She started going through my bio, pausing every now and again as she parsed something she would presumably use in my profile.

“Correct.” I nodded obediently.

“Not many women qualify to go to Medella. You must have earned high marks on your assessments.” She even recited compliments like they bored her.

They bored me, for sure. She tapped the screen some more.

Another green flare. Having ‘intelligent’ and ‘educated’ as a selling point was a positive, I guess.

“It also says here that your grades are below average and you’re unlikely to graduate within the standard four year allotment though, correct? ”