SAGE SACRIFICES

CHAPTER ONE

Normally, it’s women who die in childbirth.

Though, to be fair, mine was hardly a normal pregnancy and my son was no ordinary newborn. If I’m being honest, I mean, if I had to be pinned to the wall about it, there’s still no way I could’ve avoided straying into this madness. Not in the way it all went down.

Not at the start, anyway. Nope. I’d been over the moon.

The day my world slipped sideways, I was on aching knees, forehead pressed against the pearly white porcelain with an idiotic grin that could stretch no wider. Shoulders trembling, knuckles waxy, I gripped that premium seat ring for all it was worth. Oh, how I had needed that vomigeddon to end. Yet, even as I spat the sick from my tongue, my cheeks appled red-hot for all that stupid, unrestrained smiling. Blinking away balmy tears, my dreamy gaze drifted to an ugly chip in my Cosmo-Not Tonight Honey manicure. Because damn it. I’d broken a nail. Even that hadn’t crushed my spirits, though. Not that day. Crazy right?

What did I care then about the ruin of an overpriced mani-pedi? My cares were incautiously single-minded, and I had reason to be optimistic. Careless Bliss—my mother’s favorite nail color. Believe me, that woman would sooner starve than be caught dead with untidy nails. So, I hid the damning defect in the curl of my palm and embraced the cool comfort of that tankless one-piece like it was my last friend in the world—the SweetCheeks Deluxe, a chic whoopsiedash against expensive grout work. So easy to clean, it sells itself.

Dabbing dewy eyes with an Angel Soft tissue, my slimy mouth with another, I could finally do nothing more than dry heave the remains of my ill-advised breakfast—a stale slice of cold pizza. With a weary left hand grasping the seat’s quiet-close lid, I let my heavy head loll to one side on the soft inner-cushion of my clammy elbow.

That’s when my Thumb-Butler blinked, vibrated on the travertine tile with a succession of incoming messages. The relentless ding, ding, ding had no regard for the persistent ache in my queasy gut. I stretched a leg to reach my handheld and slid it toward me with pedicured toes. Believe me, the awkward move was far preferable to lifting my brain-cramping head.

Roman had texted champagne emojis, three of them. I should put on a party dress. He had big news. He was taking me some place fancy for dinner. Like, how was I supposed to make that happen? As if I’d been in any kind of shape for date night.

Married less than a year, I was already Frumpty-Dumpty. But second marriages were different. Right? Do-overs. Do it right the second time. Though the second time—you’re pressed for time. Well, not anymore.

Ha! I was the one with the big news. Roman’s news was nothing compared to mine. I was already sure of it, in my sweet, blinding happiness. Boy, had I big news for him.

I texted red hearts in reply, Rock His World red.

Collapsing into a blissful ball, wet hair slapping the stone, cold floor and against all conventional beauty advice, I crushed my whole face in a blitz of micro-wrinkles and gaped at the ugly underside of the fluted, double wall-mount with matching clam-shell sinks. What a hellscape. Why do we never design such spaces for curling up sick on the bathmat? I wish I could go back to that day, to that moment. Stay behind. Redo the entire powder room.

Hell, I might’ve been the first interior designer with the cavalier audacity to upend social conformity and boldly finish the underside of that dreadful vanity—lauded for a shrewd and discerning eye. But none of that matters now. Eyes are useless to the heart that’s blind.

Instead, I crawled into the shower, dialed up a crazy-luxurious six minutes of hot, DamNear Wholly Water, and ventured forth into the future with nary a care in sight and the sheer nirvana of my extra plush, resort-style, KindaCotton bath towel—oh how I miss that truly scandalous weave. I’d never know happiness quite like that again.

***

We were seated at a corner table, dressed in fine linen. Candles oozed a romantic ambiance. I hadn’t been in that dining room since before the grand opening, not since my consult with the interior design team. Some of my very best work. Lucrative too.

Upmarket synth-flowers were an elegant touch with a hint of neo-lavender and faux sandalwood. How he’d gotten us into Papyrology on the six-hundredth-and-sixteenth floor of the TELOCA Tower, I’ll never know. Believe me, such a coup was nearly impossible without reservations weeks in advance.

Roman really had gone all out. No other hot spot in the entire city could claim a perch higher. As the hovercab rose past the heavy smog line, we arrived well-above mid-level. It took no more than one express lift and a long transversal to get us to the exclusive dining room. Outside the oversized windows, the busy city skyline glittered in its evening glow. Adverts and light air traffic zipped between the many lower skyscrapers, reaching but failing to know such glorious heights.

Such a gentleman. He took the stole from my shoulders, the one he bought for my birthday, the kind with real fur from long-extinct creatures—way too extravagant, but that was so Roman—in our honeymoon phase. Spare no expense.

He kissed me on the cheek as he pulled out my chair.

Of course, he frowned. Almost imperceptibly, but I saw it. The corners of his mouth pursed, stiffened, when I declined the wine menu and asked for fresh spring water instead. His Friends of the Vine—whoever they were—would’ve been taken aghast in righteous indignation, I know. Hotty-toddy wine clubs can be so snobbish like that.

The thought suddenly struck me as funny. So, I bit my lips hard, pressing them together to keep an oversized grin from giving me away. Hell, these days fresh water was more expensive than a decent house wine, anyway.

I simply couldn’t look him straight in the eyes. Not yet.

I decided not to tell him my news. How dramatic, right? I would show it to him. Even though my Anarcha 3000 wristband—the one I loved so much because it was the whole reason I ever met Roman in the first place—blinked with the likely prognosis, my mother badgered me to confirm it the old-fashioned way. So, I had the plastic stick with my happy results in a Ziplock, jammed into my favorite Been There and Black velvet clutch.

When the moment was right, I would hand it over. Watch the fine lines of his face crease and deepen, his handsome face, as he realized what it meant for us. We were finally going to be the picture-perfect family, climbing the social ranks and, no doubt—the increased square footage of the undeniably pro-natal. And I was eager to see the tears of joy in his eyes, his Blue My Mind eyes. So, I resolved to let him go first. I shouldn’t have. He was altogether way too grim.

“I have good news and bad news,” he began.

I wrinkled my nose in that little way that frequently made him smile like a randy schoolboy. “Then, by all means, keep the bad news to yourself.”

Only, he didn’t smile like a randy schoolboy. His face fell even lower.

“There’s no need to panic, darling, but we must be ready for what’s coming.”

“You know me.” I put a hand to my chest. “Life’s too short to wait ‘til you’re ready.”

“Sage. This is serious.” He was killing the vibe. “I need you to trust me here. If we’re smart, act fast, we can be out in front of this thing.”

“What thing?” I reclined in the creamy pseudo-silk wingback.

I had thought we were out for a night on the town.

“It won’t make your tabloid news.” He nodded to my Thumb-Butler. “But they’re doing all they can to hide a huge collapse in agroecology.”

“They?” I fought the urge to roll my eyes.

“Those monocrats at Transglobal.” Roman's jaw tightened the way it always did when he spoke of Transglobal.There never was any shortage of depressing news.

“It’s always something, isn’t it?”

“It’s far more serious this time.” He tugged at the tablecloth. “Worse than you know.” Roman had always been one to worry too much.

“Worse, how?” I leaned in, lowered my voice. “Street-level riots worse?”

“The last resurrection of nightcrawlers.” His gaze held mine. “Lost.”

“Earthworms?” My shoulders dropped their tension. “Is that really such a big deal?”

I never understood his politics. But honestly, I trusted Roman with my life. If it hadn’t been for him, my mother would’ve been thrown into a widow’s reformatory, right? He was the only one who knew how to void that hideous footnote in my father’s bottom-third, corporate-click-wrap, Final Attestation—fucking fine print. Thank God he knew how to authenticate that objection.

So, if Roman needed to vent about a little antediluvian worm charming, I was only too happy to oblige. Though eager to get to my news, I may have drummed my fingers on the table.

“Those fools.” He flashed a palm at the ceiling. “Nano-sieving. They literally stripped the soil of all microbial life.” He must’ve noticed my expression. “Sage, darling. Worms don’t lie.”

“What does that even mean?” I folded my arms and reclined in my chair. “Another market crash? I thought you said you had good news.”

“I do.” He leaned in. “They’ve lifted the ban against off-world horticulture.”

“Space Gardens?” I bit my lip. How would that go? The implosion of Oceania Botanicals was all too fresh in our collective memories. So much heart-wrenching ruin after the collapse of the Eastern Seaboard.

“Something better.” His eyes lit with excitement. “We’ve been given the green light.”

Green light for what? He waited for my reaction. I had nothing. Except, an uncomfortable prickling at the nape of my neck. It crawled down my spine like a black widow spider. With a tight grimace, I shrugged and rolled one uneasy shoulder.

“To harvest alien microfauna.”

“Really? Sounds risky.” I had thought a botanist like Roman would be more averse to the threat of invasive species. “What happened to Earth Only?”

“Our biosphere depends on diversity.” He couldn’t contain that adorable hint of enthusiasm in his voice. “And here’s the best part—we’ve already got a crew ready to launch.”

“What do you mean?” I sat forward again. “A crew? Ready to launch?”

“This is our best chance. We can make a real difference here.” His raised eyebrows implored me to share his eagerness. “There’s a huge bonus, Sage. For first-volunteers.”

“You didn’t.” I held in a sharp breath. Oh, no. No. No. What had he done?

“Sage. Sweetheart. There are special allowances, but only for early-adopters.”

“Tell me you didn’t.”

“It’s a really big deal,” he said. “We’re lucky to have this opportunity. And it’s only for thirty-six months.” I could already see how much it meant to him. “Darling, it’s more money than my father ever made in his whole pitiful life.”

I was dumbstruck. I couldn’t wrap my mind around this thing for which he was asking my approval, as though that were required. My stomach lurched, a knotted spasm.

Could I deny him this dream?

I’d lost the urge to grin wildly. “Roman, is it safe? The Merkabah Mining disaster?”

“There’s always risks, sure.” He took my hand in his. “But it’s not like in the old rocket days. Space travel is so much safer now. You could go with me.”

“What?”

“You’re invited to come too.” His eyes sparkled with the flickering light of the Quik-Wick. “Only a few of us are permitted to bring spouses.” He kissed the back of my hand. “Think of it as a long, jet-setter’s cruise. Sweetheart. It’s an incredible opportunity.”

“I, I can’t.” I raked teeth across my bottom lip. The evening was not going as planned. Thirty-six months, three short years, suddenly seemed like an eternity.

He let go of my outstretched hand. Empty, I withdrew it back into my lap. A tightness gripped my chest as his face furrowed with disappointment. Shit. I should’ve let him know I’d quit the birth control, right? I chewed my lower lip.

I could tell this was something he earnestly wanted, as though his entire career depended upon it. It hadn’t been that long since his company suffered a deep and early round of personnel cuts. He’d worried then about losing the job. That hardly seemed like a concern now. Outer space? This expedition was sure to cost the company a fortune. Obviously, he failed to fully appreciate how much they valued him. So why couldn’t he wait? Go on the next mission?

I pinched my neck and shook my head. “Roman, I just can’t.”

“Of course you can.” He stared out the window. “You have to.” His gaze dropped to the tightening grip of his fingers around the stem of his wineglass. “Otherwise, we’re apart for the next three years.” His mind was already made up. I saw it in the set of his jawline.

My shoulders withered. He was going with or without me. Tears flooded the brims of my eyes. Biting my lips between exasperated teeth, I fought those tears back.

“You can’t go either,” I blurted. “I’m pregnant.”

His back stiffened. He gaped at me.

I fumbled with the clasp on my clutch.

Before I could even pull out that stupid Ziplock, he took a hold of my hand and smoothly slipped off my wristband. He scrolled through the many diagnostical screens. The ones I never did learn how to read. Of course, he knew how to decipher all that medical data. His company made those damn things. He’d worked on that project himself.

It was the whole reason I’d never, ever part with my Anarcha 3000. It was special to me. I’d sooner give up my Thumb-Butler. He said that wearing mine, paired with his, well, we were always connected that way—a bio-digital bonding. Cyber-fidelity. He’d have it no other way. Oh God, how I’d loved him for that. Something my first marriage clearly didn’t enjoy.

And by the look on his face, he’d never even used it to snoop on me. Had no idea I’d quit the birth control. Because our marriage was about trust. Right?

My stomach twisted into a wet knot. Had I just broken that trust?

The test strip buried in my clutch felt like it weighed nothing and everything all at once. A single tear slipped from my eyes. I mean, he knew how badly I wanted to be a mother. But I probably shouldn’t have sprung it on him like that. Right? But—he had to’ve known. Believe me, I only ever did what I did to make both our dreams come true.

His frown deepened. I could tell from the small muscle that rippled at his jawline, date night was not going as he’d planned for it either. Was he grinding his teeth?

I held the plastic baggie—unzipping, then zipping, then unzipping the little plastic zipper along its little plastic track. I mean, c’mon. What was with the tragic expression? It was the very last thing I’d imagined this moment would be for him. For me.

I sucked in my lower lip. I studied him for any sign of his true mood. But he remained silent, stoic. Did he think I might not be a good mother? Would he leave me? How could I raise this child without him? I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t know what else to say.

So many couples had trouble trying to conceive these days. And he’s the one who said we shouldn’t wait too much longer, not at my age. Though to be fair, he was older.

Wasn’t this good news? A happy surprise? Where were his priorities?

For several uncomfortable minutes, neither of us said anything.

Then he looked into my eyes, deeply, and his expression finally softened.

“You’re right.” He relented a smile, closing the fold of the small screen of my wristband. “You can’t go in your condition.” He put the wristband aside. “So neither can I.”

I melted. My shoulders settled with a sigh. He did love me most. Then the tears really flowed, like when they open the floodgates at New Niagara.

I almost couldn’t hold them back as another slipped down my face.

“Dr. Roman Pherren.” I put the back of his fingers to my lips and kissed them. “You’re the best husband in the whole of the universe.”

He gently brushed the beads of moisture from my cheek and gazed into my eyes. “That’s all I ever wanted to be for you, darling.”

***

On the way home, he ordered prenatal vitamins from his company, Sturddlefish Industries. Shit. Why hadn’t I thought of that? I relented a cringing wince. Probably should’ve been taking those a lot sooner. Maybe because Sturddlefish was the furthest thing from my mind. No place for a creative like me, right? A bland, faceless, fat company, in the black because of all those white collars. It hadn’t nearly enough color. That was Roman’s world.

With my gaze out the diffusion screen of the high-polymer sunroof—staring at the high-rises above, up to the heavens—I hadn’t wanted to think about nightcrawlers or space missions or the unbearable heat at street level. With my head on Roman’s shoulder, I’d simply let him take over. Why not? Life was good, yeah? I was going to be a new mother.