Penumbra

by Dan Ackerman

  Mama had died, and then Mother had gone and died, too, and he’d become Autarch…Really, he’d been worse off then than he was now.

  Maybe he’d ruined his sense of self and overall health. Maybe this was as good as it got.

  Shit, if it was, he should probably find someone to have his kids, because he couldn’t be long for this world if this was as good as it got.

  What would happen to Eden if he died without an heir? He had cousins. That would have to do.

  He curled his lip thinking of his cousins. Some of them were too much like their father and the others were too afraid of their father to be worthwhile.

  He rinsed his hair, dressed, and went to surprise Uncle Winslow for breakfast.

  Winslow hugged him and told the same stories he always told. He both complimented and complained about their breakfast in the same cheerful tone so that Arden didn’t know which was which. He had no idea if ‘very cooked’ or ‘just as dry as the desert’ were good or bad.

  He honestly didn’t care, either.

  “You look happy today, Arden,” Winslow noted as he spread jam over his biscuit.

  Arden stirred his oatmeal. “Do I? What’s that look like?”

  “Those sweet little dimples on your cheeks, for one.” Winslow reached over and gently pinched Arden’s cheek.

  “Winnie.” He pushed his hand away. “I’m not five.”

  “You were such a cute little thing then. Chubby little cheeks.”

  Arden reached over and patted Winslow’s cheek. “Wonder where I got them from.”

  “Ah, what’s the harm in spoiling a child a little? You’re only young once.”

  Arden had to make himself smile.

  “You’re still so young…” Winslow sighed.

  “Winnie?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Mama, she, um. She and Mother were happy together.”

  “Very happy.”

  “How did they fall in love?” he asked.

  “Oh. Hmm.” Winslow wiped his mouth. He leaned back in his chair. “It started with you, Ardi.”

  A pleasant warmth bubbled through Arden.

  “Your mother decided it was time to have an heir. She interviewed potential fathers, potential surrogates, settled on the two she did. The whole time Rani carried you, the Autarch watched over her like a hawk. Do this, do that, blah blah.” Winslow waved a hand.

  That didn’t surprise Arden.

  “Rani liked that. She liked being taken care of. She was always such a child like that. And the Autarch liked that Rani listened. They, just…they made sense together. Isn’t that nice?”

  “It’s lovely,” Arden agreed.

  It sounded awful, honestly, but his mothers had been much different people than he was. But it was nice that they’d loved each other, even if they’d only gotten thirteen years together. Maybe closer to fourteen, if he counted Mama’s pregnancy and the fact that she hadn’t dropped dead on exactly his thirteenth birthday.

  “Why?” Winslow asked.

  Arden shrugged. “Thinking about how awful it would be if Uncle Morris inherited the position.”

  Winslow grimaced. He and the other Stones had never cared much for the Torre family. The feeling had been more or less mutual, with the exception of Mama and Mother themselves.

  Arden had to side with the Stones. They might have been silly and indulgent, but at least they were fun. He didn’t even share genes with the Stones and he liked them better.

  Sounding mildly concerned, Winslow told him, “You’re still young, Ardi, you’ve got time. Children are work, best not to rush in before you’re ready.”

  “Oh, idle fantasy only, Winnie,” he assured seriously.

  He had about another quarter of a century before he started to worry about being past his prime for child-rearing. Mother hadn’t decided to have an heir until her eighties and she’d still been spry.

  Before she’d gotten sick.

  What an awful sickness, it had shriveled up her mind and her body. All the resources on Eden had meant nothing.

  If Morris Torre hadn’t been such a shit, he might have sat as regent for a decade. Who wanted a twenty-three-year-old as Autarch? Most of his schoolmates had still been tooling around in elective lessons, playing sports, and refining their taste in hobbies.

  Even in his darkest moments, Arden could at least rest assured he’d done better than Uncle Morris would have. Based on the reports that came out of the med centers he supervised, everyone on decks six and seven would take to the halls to celebrate if Morris dropped dead.

  “You never had kids, Winnie,” Arden pointed out.

  “I suppose I didn’t. I guess I wasn’t inclined towards it. Some men are better as uncles.”

  “You’re an amazing uncle.”

  “Flatterer.”

  “An absolutely fabulous marvel of an uncle.”

  Winslow blushed and smiled. “Oh, go on, Ardi, don’t tease an old man.”

  “You’re not old, Winnie! I need you around for at least a hundred more years.”

  Winslow chuckled. He put some jam on a biscuit and passed it to Arden. “Try this, it’s much too sweet!”

  Arden ate it and agreed, “Pretty sweet.”

  “Your hair looks nice. Did you do something with it?”

  “Brushed it.”

  Winslow clucked his tongue.

  Arden reached over to ruffle his curls. “What about these! Do you brush them?”

  “Arden!” Winslow scolded. He even managed to appear convincingly cross before he smiled. “You’re a very fresh boy.”

  Arden grinned at him. He reached over to hold Winslow’s hand. “Eventually someone’s going to find it becoming.”

  Winslow laughed and tightened his pudgy fingers around Arden’s thin ones.

  Arden put Rhys in charge of organizing the thrall side of the elections. Or, at least, he had in his head. He had yet to tell Rhys.

  He would tell Rhys as soon as he stopped looking so happy with himself. He thought he’d talked Arden into making a concession on something, some edit in the conspectus that they’d bickered about before.

  Arden had taken the correction Rhys wanted personally at first and he’d argued about it out of spite until he’d stopped to listen to what Rhys had to say.

  It had made sense, too much sense to ignore.

  He reached his hand across the table in the Public Chamber, palm up and open.

  Rhys regarded it warily.

  Arden wiggled his fingers.

  Rhys took his hand.

  “I want you to organize the elections for the thralls.”

  Rhys tried to take his hand back, but Arden didn’t let go. He sighed. “In a month?”

  “Just, uh, you know, do it the same way we do the peers.”

  “There are a lot more workers!”

  Arden smiled at him. “You can have help. Do you want help?”

  “Do you…Arden—”

  Arden grinned. “I like it when you say my name.”

  “Have I done something to give you the impression that I can do the work of half a dozen people?” Rhys demanded.

  “You sort of have.”

  “Disabuse yourself of the notion immediately,” Rhys requested.

  “How many people do you want?”

  “Thirty.”

  Arden returned, “Twenty, paid, full-time. As many volunteers as you want, as long as they’re not missing work.”

  “And tablets for them?”

  “Mmmm, ten refurbished ones.”

  Rhys frowned.

  “I’m not made of money!”

  Rhys’s face shifted through about a dozen emotions, none of them favorable.

  Arden tittered. He squeezed Rhys’s hand and leaned over to kiss him. “I had you there, didn’t I!”

  “It isn’t funny.”

  “It was a little funny.”

  Arden settled back in his chair. “Are we done with this?”

  “Almost.”

  “Can w
e finish it tomorrow?”

  “You just dropped an enormous burden in my lap—”

  Arden blew a raspberry. “Fine. We’ll finish it now.” He dragged his tablet over. Not much work remained.

  Distracted, he checked the list of nominees. Nineteen people running. Two had targeted thralls as their demographic. The rest hadn’t paid their new voters any attention.

  “Do you know Cole Baker?” Arden asked.

  “Not personally, no, but everyone knows who he is.”

  “You read a lot of poetry?”

  “I like to read,” Rhys answered. He attempted to sound casual.

  Arden narrowed his eyes. “You like Cole’s poetry?”

  “Um. Yes.”

  “You like love poems.”

  “Sure. Aren’t we working on something?”

  “You like love poems, or you like subversive anti-capitalist poetry disguised as love poems?” Arden asked.

  Rhys cleared his throat. “Hmm? No, I just. You know. I guess I’m a romantic.”

  “So you do think I’m an idiot.”

  “Arden,” Rhys sighed.

  Arden gave a little shimmy. “I really like when you say my name.”

  Rhys took his hair out from his bun, ruffled his fingers through it, and retied it. He fidgeted with his clothes. He didn’t look at Arden.

  “It’s okay, you know. That you don’t like how things are,” Arden said.

  Rhys eyed him.

  “It’s not working and all of the weight is bearing down on, on you. People like you. The thralls. We’re making changes, I promise, but I’m not looking to start a revolution. It will take time, but we’ll fix things.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know yet. But we can figure it out.”

  “Okay.”

  Arden came over to perch on the table near Rhys. “I promise.”

  Rhys nodded.

  He put a hand on Rhys’s shoulder. “I don’t like it either. Or this. It’s all new. New things—”

  “Terrify you,” Rhys finished for him. His voice came out strangely, wet and thick.

  “Hey.”

  He shook his head.

  Arden tightened his grip on his shoulder. “Rhys.”

  He shook his head again but put his hand over Arden’s. He pressed his cheek against their hands.

  Arden touched his hair.

  Rhys sniffled.

  “Do you want a drink of water?”

  He licked his lips, then nodded. “Please.”

  Arden handed him one of the glasses left over from their lunch.

  Rhys sipped the water and wiped his nose. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. We’ll, uh. I know we can do this.” He gave Rhys a small smile.

  Rhys returned it, tight-lipped.

  “Do you want to come over tonight?”

  “I think…I think I should get started on the election.”

  “Oh. Sure.”

  “A different night,” Rhys promised.

  “Okay.” He checked the time. “Do you want to get started now?”

  “Please.”

  Arden slid off the table.

  Rhys stood abruptly. He pulled Arden into a tight hug.

  Arden patted his back, not sure what else to do. They’d never hugged, not in a purely platonic way. Physical affection between them usually didn’t come from Rhys and that which did come never amounted to anything more than carnal. Arden had written it off as part of his personality or maybe part of his upbringing. “Are you alright?”

  Rhys nodded. He cradled the back of Arden’s head and kissed his temple. “Yeah.”

  “Okay.”

  After a minute or so, Rhys’s grip loosened. He stepped back, looking embarrassed.

  Arden smiled. He kissed his cheek. “Maybe you’re tired. Why don’t you get some rest tonight? Worry about the election tomorrow.”

  “No, I—”

  “I won’t pay you until tomorrow!” Arden half-teased, half-threatened. “Get a really good night’s sleep. That’s a direct order from your Autarch.”

  Rhys chuckled. “Fine.”

  “Send me a list of who you want to work with, I’ll change their work orders over in the morning.”

  Rhys nodded.

  Arden gave him a push towards the door. “Go, before I change my mind.”

  “About what?”

  “About whatever I want!” He pushed Rhys more firmly this time.

  Rhys went, glanced back once, then walked out of the Public Chamber.

  Arden stayed a while longer to finish the conspectus. He stared at the nominees for Council. He knew all of them. He didn’t feel strongly one way or another about most of them. Bull had thrown his name in, or someone had nominated him, and Arden knew he wouldn’t confirm him if he won a seat.

  Cathie would be pissed, but Arden couldn’t sit through Council meetings with him.

  He also wouldn’t confirm Ulrich Narrows, not based on personal dislike, but because Ulrich embezzled. Oh, he’d avoided a conviction, but Arden wouldn’t let him anywhere near the Public Chamber and the the Council they managed.

  To Arden’s excitement, Shayla Mbye had a nomination. She’d always impressed him with a level-headedness that seemed to be the product of sheer will alone. He hoped she won a seat.

  He headed back to his room for an early night.

  He’d had a lot of those lately, but he preferred them to sleepless ones.

  Halfway back, he bumped into a few of his mother’s friends, wrinkled old women with their feet firmly in their second century. With bright eyes and pinched mouths, they looked him over and invited him to come along with them to dinner.

  He accepted. He had no choice.

  He listened to everything they said with rapt attention. Mother had brought him to many social events with these women and had chastised him frequently and harshly when he’d ignored them or seemed like he’d ignored them.

  He wondered if his mothers had ever considered another child, either as a companion for him or as a failsafe if Arden turned out a disappointment. If they had, they’d never spoken of it to him.

  Maybe he would have liked that, a sibling or two.

  Much more likely, he would have hated it. Having to share Mama? He would have terrorized whoever had come after him.

  Maybe he was meant to be the youngest child. He should have had an older sibling, someone for Mother to focus on, while he could stay safe and cozy in Mama’s arms.

  Another child could have happened if Mama hadn’t died.

  Her death had happened abruptly, not illness, but an accident.

  Hopefully, an accident and not a murder. Her lift had crashed, taking her life and the life of two of her friends.

  “You’re just on another planet, aren’t you!” scolded one of the ladies.

  “I’m sorry, Eula. I was thinking about Mama and Mother.”

  The women exchanged pitying looks.

  One placed a knotty hand on his. “We all think about your mothers. They were such lovely friends to us.”

  He forced himself to smile.

  “Good women,” another agreed.

  “And you so young, too, to have lost both of them…” a third sighed.

  Arden lost his grip on the smile. He sipped his drink and pushed some food around his plate.

  Home, he needed to go home. He made an excuse to leave as early as he could. It took forever, but he did escape eventually.

  He curled up in his bed.

  He resisted the urge to ask Rhys to come over.

  Instead, he messaged Cathie and asked if she was busy. She had plans with friends already but invited him out to join her.

  He declined.

  He tried Cole and Mace, and even Zira, and got similar answers.

  Finally, the inevitable took its course. That spiral of uncomfortable emotions. He’d coped with them in other ways before, but this time he called for a shot of Nine.

  The time it took the thrall to bring the shot dragged,
slow, nearly agonizing.

  When the thrall did arrive, Arden called for them to bring it to his bedroom.

  They came, eyes down.

  “Took you long enough,” he said.

  “I beg your forgiveness, Your Eminence,” the thrall murmured.

  He reached for the shot, then hesitated. He pulled his hand back and placed it on his hip.

  The thrall remained still.

  Arden sighed. “How often do you answer my calls?”

  “Your Eminence?”

  “I mean, how often do you come to my room, bring me stuff?”

  “Uh. Frequently, Your Eminence.”

  Arden looked the woman up and down. A little older than he was and unfamiliar to him. “What, like, once a month, twice a month…?”

  “Almost every day, Your Eminence.”

  “Are you bullshitting me?”

  “Um. No, Your Eminence.”

  “Alright. Well. What’s your name?”

  Shakily, she began, “Seven four three—”

  “No, your name.”

  “Fari, Your Eminence.”

  Arden took the glass. “Thanks, Fari.”

  She remained stock still.

  “You can go.”

  She scurried out faster than thralls he’d thrown things at.

  Fuck, he’d really been a beast. Throwing things at people. No wonder Rhys hadn’t liked him.

  Instead of thinking about that any further, he threw back the shot and flopped onto his bed. He fell asleep before he made it all the way under the covers.

  He woke up fully clothed, excepting his shoes, and twisted up in his blanket. He squinted up at the face of the man who’d woken him. “Mace?”

  “Oh, Ardi, that hurts!” Cole scolded. “You know we aren’t even twins.”

  “Could have fooled me.”

  “My eyes are much greener than Mace’s!”

  “Still both hazel,” Arden reminded.

  “And now he’s got that stupid haircut. Professional. He looks like a careerist.” Cole jumped on to the bed beside Arden. “You didn’t message me back and I got sort of worried you might be doing that thing you do.”

  “Which one?”

  “Oh, you know.” Cole stretched out on the bed beside him and propped his chin up on one hand. “With the formulas and the regrettable choice of bedmates.”

  “Regrettable?”

  “The one who threw up on you, the one who stole your robe—”

  “I gave him the robe!” Arden protested.