SAGE SACRIFICES

VOICECAPTURE

SERVICELOG

FEEDNOTE ONE

Normally, it’s women who die in childbirth. But this isn’t normal. None of it. Not by a long shot. Normal kicked off her heels and tripped out of here ages ago. This is madness, the furthest possible thing from—it’s blasphemy. That’s what it is. Art Deco in Shabby Chic.

And people are dead, now. Dead, dead.

And the sin of it is—it’s left to me.

I mean, this whistle ain’t gonna blow the lid off itself. Oh, no. I’m what they never saw coming—the easy-going, third martini at the company picnic, the scorching burn in that first bite of lava-hot pizza, the suspicious mole in the mirror, you know the one, refusing not to be an irregular pain-in-the ass.

I am never not underestimated.

No one thinks me clever enough to secret-squirrel away so many scandalous acorns, certainly not in the maintenance log of a cyber-kinetic vacuum.

Because what choice do I—wait.

Hello?

Who’s there?

***

Okay, listen. Normal dove for cover when they molested common sense and murdered the last best chance we have left to survive this miserable tramwreck.

I know they’re lying to me.

A mother knows. It’s instinctive, gnawing at my bones. Deeper still. Simmering in my spinal fluid. Because mothers cultivate the miracle of life in our bellies. Our bellies.

We don’t stand idly by with hands in our pockets. No.

We carry inside of us the very spark of the divine. The terrifying wonder of it. We know it in our hearts that pump oxygen to it. Sustain it. Love it. It stirs in us, coursing through oceans of sanguine red—oh.

Shit.

Do you think it’s still in my blood?

I can’t with this right now.

VOICECAPTURE

SERVICELOG

FEEDNOTE TWO

Okay, look. If I’m being honest, I mean, if I had to be pinned to the wall about it, there’s nothing I could’ve done to avoid this hi-octane shitshow.

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, hiccupping with laughter. Shoulders trembling, knuckles waxy, a dewy swelter steeping my skin, I gripped that premium seat ring for all it was worth.

Yet, smirking back at me in the polished sheen of that Kiss Me Chrome handle, my idiotic grin could stretch no wider. Even as I spat the sick from my tongue, my cheeks appled red-hot for all that stupid, unrestrained smiling.

Oh, how I had needed that vomigeddon to end.

But what to do? So, I smashed the HeavenScent spritzer and winced off the hot, salty tears as my dreamy gaze drifted, slow-blinked, strayed 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 like it was my last best-friend in the world, I wrapped both arms around and soaked in the cooling comfort of that tankless one-piece—the SweetCheeks Deluxe, a chic little whoopsie-dash. Sleek against expensive grout work. So easy to clean, it sells itself.

Dabbing my dewy eyes with an Angel Soft tissue, my slippery mouth with another, I could finally do nothing more than dry heave the remains of an ill-advised breakfast—a stale, cold slice of day-old stuffed-crust. With my weary left hand grasping the seat’s quiet-close lid, I let my heavy head loll to one side, find respite 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 pierced the dull throb in my aching head like a ball-peen hammer, with no regard for the seismic unrest tossing my tummy. 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 skull.

Roman 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.

Wet hair slapping the stone-cold floor, collapsing into a blissful ball of delirium—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 all too often disregarded 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—soft as a synthetic kitten.

Oh, how I miss that truly scandalous weave.

***

Roman really had gone all out. 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.

As the hovercab ascended past the grunge-brown smog line, we soared well-above mid-level landing at a three-quarter skyport. It took no more than one long, transversal Sit-a-Spell and a final private-express before we promptly reached the exclusive dining room.

True to his word, the venue did not disappoint. Striding into that Michelin-starred splendor, my heart skipped a beat, maybe two. The last time my sling backs set foot in that dining room, the place smelled of fresh paint and dusty drywall. I hadn’t stood there since my consult with the interior design team. Some of my best work. Lucrative too.

So, I slowed my roll to take it all in.

A string quartet set a classy mood vamping a Mozart divertimento as white-gloved waitstaff drifted discreetly between seatings of the city’s elite. Giant bouquets of upmarket synth-flowers were an elegant touch with a hint of neo-lavender and faux sandalwood.

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. No other hot spot within city ramparts could claim a perch higher.

Ushered uplevel, we were seated at a corner table, dressed in fine linen. 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. Posh, vanilla-scented, polyethylene candles flickered thin dancing shadows between us.

Of course, he frowned. Almost imperceptibly, but the corners of his mouth pursed, stiffened, when I declined the wine menu and asked for fresh spring water instead. No doubt, his Friends of the Vine—whomever I imagined 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.

“This is nice, right? And you, my darling—are a vision.” Though to be fair, he was the dreamboat in his designer-chic, Retro-Grayed ballroom-jacket.

“Don't look now.” He tipped a nod. “But I think the Governor’s here.”

“Really?” I looked anyway. “Who's she with?”

“Hard to say. But. I’ll bet you a bottle of the Vintner’s Reserve Realgar.” His wink flattered his grin. “That’s her side piece, on the left. No doubt your mother would know.”

“Oh, Stop.” Though, he wasn’t wrong. And I’d been blown away, clearly underestimating what was to be the full impact of his yet-to-be-dropped, big, banner bombshell.

He waited a tick, dangling his hook, only to watch me take it all in. “Stunning, isn't it?”

“At this height,” I gushed. “I'm apt to get altitude sickness.”

“Don't be bashful, darling. This elevation is exactly where we belong.”

“Oh, Roman. If this is our future—”

“Our future’s precisely why I've brought you here.”

“Oh? You're an awful tease.” I fluttered my eyelids, matching the unexpected ripple of anticipation quivering the walls of my still-queasy stomach. “Do tell.”

Because of course, I’d planned to upstage whatever small surprise he’d concocted with a crackin’ showstopper of my own. How dramatic, right?

I decided not to tell him my news. I’d show it to him. Even though my Anarcha 3000 wristband—all the rage, thepreeminent, top-shelf rad-scanner, designer-chic—the one I loved so much because it was the whole reason I’d even met Roman in the first place—blinked with the likely prognosis, my mother had badgered me to confirm it the old-fashioned way.

So, I had a 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 suddenly, 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 voice 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.” Roman’s hands straightened the flatware on either side of his gilded charger. “I need you to trust me here.” His gaze sailed right through me. “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 griped about Transglobal. There never was any shortage of depressing news.

“It’s always something, isn’t it?” He was totally killing the vibe.

“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 shot up to meet 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 ended up in a widow’s reformatory. He was the only one who knew how to void that hideous footnote in my father’s bottom-third, Final Attestation—fucking fine-printed, corporate click-wrap. 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 ruin after the collapse of the Eastern Seaboard.

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

He waited on my reaction. I rolled an uneasy shoulder. Green light? For what, precisely? I had nothing except, a distant prickling at the nape of my neck. It crawled down my spine like a black widow spider. With no more than a thin, tense grimace, I shrugged.

“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 the boyish 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 adapters.”

“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.”

The room began to close in on me. An anchor of dread dropped my stomach to the floor. I couldn’t wrap my mind around this thing for which he was asking my approval, as though that were required. I folded my hands to keep them from trembling.

“Roman, is it safe? The Merkabah Lunar Mining disaster?”

“There’s always risks, sure.” He reached for my hand. “But it’s not like in the old rocket days. Space travel is much safer now.” His outstretched palm waited. “You could go with me.”

I gripped his fingers, hard. “What?”

I’d lost the urge to grin wildly. Could I deny him this dream?

“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 fingers. “Think of it as a long, jet-setter’s cruise. Sweetheart. It’s an incredible opportunity.”

I raked my teeth across my bottom lip. “I, I can’t.”

He abandoned my hand. Empty, I withdrew it back into my lap. The evening was not going as planned. Thirty-six months, three short years, suddenly seemed like an eternity. His face furrowed with disappointment, my mouth went as dry as the Las Cruces Desert. I chewed at my lower lip. Shit. I should’ve let him know I’d quit the birth control. Right?

With his eyelids pressed close, he took a deep breath as though his entire career depended on this. 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. Then 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 mean teeth, I fought those tears back.

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