The object sprang apart in my hands, as if some magnet had been undone. She took the half with my initials on it and—holding it palm up herself—said, “We don’t marry in Tavros.” “I know.” She hushed me. “ ’Tis a phylactery . . . my phylactery.” I almost dropped it. It was a sample of her genetic material, a crystallized blood sample and a digital copy laser-etched in quartz. A piece of her, preserved forever. “At home we . . . give them to one another. When one of us amasses enough social credit to . . . to have a child.” “But . . . we can’t,” I said, and had to shut my eyes to stop the tears
...more
