The sheet ran out, but the couple were still spinning around, held in a violent embrace. I saw then that they were not bound except by each other’s arms. They were twenty feet from the ground, then two, in the space of half an instant.
At the moment of contact, the gravity generator beneath the floor reversed, and the couple swung out of its reach.
They would live.
We gasped, then burst into desperate applause.
The sound filled the expanse of the ballroom like thunder, but people only clapped harder. I saw more than a few tears among the observers, and I myself struggled to comprehend what had just happened. The dance had been flawlessly executed; the music breathtaking. But the applause was more intense than that: a couple bound themselves together and invited an inevitable death. I understood in pieces, then grasped the whole at last: we applauded their defiance.
But An did not clap. She looked from me to Isaiah and back again, until her delicate features locked onto my wrists.
I’d removed the cuffs when we entered, letting them slip down the inside of my robe and into an urn near the door. She didn’t call the guards. She didn’t even appear to disapprove. Instead, she took in the rapt, unguarded expression on my face and my bare wrists with the look of a birdwatcher who finds that the sparrow she tracked is actually a raptor.
“You are perhaps more dangerous than you seem, Charlotte Turner.”
But I had found some conclusions of my own. “I think the same could be said of you, An.”
The extent of her acknowledgement was the slightest lift of the brow. She disappeared into the crowd without saying goodbye. Shan’s eyes followed her and were soon joined by the rest of him. I blinked, somewhat surprised. Even Isaiah was nowhere to be seen. A slow smile caught my lips.
I was free to crash the party alone.
Twelve
I turned my attention to the three scenes surrounding the center floor, starting with a hanging garden generously speckled with red flowers. Not lotus blossoms, but something similar. Lilies, I thought. Dark red lilies. They hung from the ceiling in triplets and wove their way through the lush green trenchers that lined the walls. They were tied to the ropes of a long, willowy swing.
Next around the floor came a rock garden strewn with embroidered cushions, complete with a short, babbling stream, and last was an area set in twilight, draped with sheer red canopies. The overall effect was cohesive: a gorgeous, large-scale scene of silk, marble, and mahogany strung together with varying blood red accents at every stage.
And of course, there was the food.
Long, slender banquet tables ran between each stage of the party, nearly buckling under the weight of their bounty. The table nearest me was a work of art on its own, boasting layers of exotically carved vegetables and a selection of cheeses that would make a Frenchman blush, all draped with figs and honeycombs.
There was a seafood table so big it extended nearly half the length of the cavernous room, which I prowled with wary interest. Tiny cards marked the name of each dish in Mandarin, Hindi, and finally English: fried rice with black pepper and anemone, tom yam kung, scallops with oranges and watercress, crab laksa, rose wine, shrimp soup, and lobster bao. The stacks of platters were intertwined with rubbery lengths of pickled octopus tentacles that tapered into slender, artfully positioned curls. I thought them best avoided.
I recognized nothing on the most beautiful table of all: the sweets. Glazed buns bursting with what must have been jam overflowed onto a platter of pillowy white pastries, frosted cakes in the shape of tiny dragons, and long brown sticks covered in perfect candy spheres.
My stomach grumbled impetuously.
I made a mental note to hit the cheese table first, followed by two rounds of each dessert table, and planned to round out my meal with enough seafood to populate an aquarium. I hadn’t had real seafood in ages. There was none to speak of on board the North American Ark, and in juvy, our options had been limited to microwaved fish sticks harvested weekly from the bowels of the deep freeze.
I’d skip the vegetables for now. They’d take up too much room in my stomach, and we had plenty of those in the Remnant. I pressed my hands together in anticipation. It was a strong plan.
Unfortunately, Isaiah had other concerns in mind. He appeared at my side out of nowhere to crush my dreams of glycemic, near-coma bliss. “Somewhere, the European ambassador is here with his wife,” he said, all business. “She started out on the Asian Ark. They’ve been building bridges here since day one.”
“So we have some catching up to do.”
“Sure do. But they’re not necessarily against us. Haven’t made any public statements either way. I reckon they’ve got their suspicions about the disappearance of Ark Five, but that’ll affect the Commander, too,” he said, referencing the sudden, unexplained loss of one of the Arks immediately after the meteor struck. “If we can get Europe on our side, their support would go far.” He smiled easily, as though we were discussing the music. “I wonder who else is here.”
“It’s a lot bigger than I expected.”
“The party?”
“The Ark.”
“You’ll do fine. Come on, let’s say hi.”
Duty called, so I steeled my stomach for the time being and slipped into the mingling throng, still holding Isaiah’s arm. He followed lightly, conscious of the slightest pressure from my fingertips, and easily missed running into anyone.
Shan stood at the other end of the dance floor, wearing a golden robe and black pants. An, on the other hand, wore a silver robe and hose combo made of raw silk. It was tailored to her slim build like a second skin, making her look perfectly modern, as though she were attending some upscale holiday party back on Earth. She stood slightly behind Shan, but as we drew nearer, it became apparent that they were involved in a conversation of some kind.
From the size of the forced smile on Shan’s face, I’d say it was something important.
I pulled Isaiah to the right, hiding our path among the more innocent partygoers.
“Mr. Underwood,” said a strange voice. “Madam Ambassador. Welcome.”
I turned to see a pale man, maybe twenty-five years old, wearing a matte brown robe, make his way through the crowd behind us. “Good evening to you both.”
“Hi,” I said, extending a hand. His grip was not warm, exactly, but it was not so cold as to bar easy conversation, especially when coupled with the eagerness of his tone.
“How intriguing to meet you in person, Your Highness.” His voice was naturally quiet and marked by an unmistakable French accent. I had to wonder whether people kept addressing Isaiah with different titles on purpose in order to slight him, or if they were genuinely confused as to how to refer to his position. I, for example, was solidly in the latter category.
“Just Isaiah will do,” said Isaiah. “The king thing came with the election. I’m afraid we weren’t thinking how it would look to the rest of the world when we came up with it.”
“A man of the people.”
Isaiah returned the handshake while appearing not to notice the barest hint of sarcasm in the man’s words. To me, he seemed to walk a fine line between good-natured and cautious, like a man who genuinely needed the information he sought, and I was reminded of An’s statement that what affects one Ark affects them all.
“I am Charles Eiffel,” he continued, as though any pleasantries would be a waste of our time. “Do tell us about this Remnant you’ve managed to create. Do you consider yourselves a democracy?”
“We are,” Isaiah answered. “With respect to our hosts, it was the only way to ensure we were fairly representing everyone, circumstances being what they were.”
“I see,” he said. “It is curious that your American republic seems to have failed you, then.” His tone achieved an impossible blend of kindness and directness. In spite of the sharpness of his words, I found myself liking him.
Isaiah was unaffected either way. “Meaning?”
“Your ch
oice of Commander Everest for the North American Ark. Your government’s signature on the Treaty of Phoenix. Any of the things your elections have brought you. The Remnant recognizes none of these.”
“None of those things recognize us, either. But we are prepared to support it, given an equal foothold. Was it Sartre who said, ‘Freedom is what we do with what has been done to us?’ We came close to that on Earth, as did your own continent, toward the end. And now, we must win it back.”
“Well,” said Eiffel, with considerably more warmth, “freedom will have its champions, n’est-ce pas?” He nodded to Isaiah, who slid gracefully back to the crowd, presumably intending for me to continue the conversation without him.
“Hey, Mr. Eiffel,” I said, “are you related to the guy who designed the tower?”
“Please, call me Charles. And yes, that was my great-great-great grandfather. I owe him a considerable debt. It is undoubtedly why I was selected as an architect of the European Ark.”
“Which part did you work on? Wait, did you design the Biosphere?” The European Biosphere was the greatest wonder of all the Arks. Apparently, it boasted more trees than the Black Forest. In the years after its announcement, West had spoken of little else. When he spoke to me at all.
“That honor went to my colleague, Madam Schiff. I believe she is around here somewhere,” he answered brightly, observing my enthusiasm. “I thought I might be asked to work on the Biosphere. I’m an engineer by training, but popular opinion seemed to support my invitation to oversee the Nouveau-Louvre. I’ve always had an affinity for nature. I must say, I greatly admire Madam Schiff’s creation.”
“My brother does, too,” I said, grinning. “Back on Earth, he had a greenhouse. Biggest tomatoes you ever saw. I think he must have bio-engineered them, somehow.”
“Is that so?” Charles said appreciatively. “You and he will have to visit my Ark, one day. I have heard that the new tomato strains will be cause for some celebration.” He offered me an elbow, a gesture I’d lately associated with Isaiah. “Now. On to our present business.” We took a turn around the dance floor, our voices lowered slightly. “I see you’ve been placed at a similar disadvantage.”
“Oh?”
He placed a hand over my arm, which was carefully draped around his, and pressed my sleeve back several inches. “A kuang band.”
“Ah. That.”
“Take heart,” he said, pulling on his own sleeve to reveal a similar band. “It’s not just the upstart republics they’ve tagged.”
I had to smile.
“So we have some things in common,” Charles continued in an easygoing manner. “But unlike your Monsieur Underwood, who calls himself a king, the Queen of Europe actually is a monarch.”
“Wait, so no Parliament? Or Congress, or whatever?” I asked.
“We have one, certainly, but her decisions are final. Theoretically, in any event. She has yet to contradict their orders. Only the South Americans have attempted a direct democracy in advance of our arrival on Eirenea.” He looked at me sideways. “And now you, the Remnant.”
“Well, it’s working, right? I mean, the South American Ark is at peace,” I said. “That proves that success is possible for the Remnant as well, given the chance.”
He inclined his head. We wended our way through the thickening crowd, smiling and remarking at the decorations. Every so often, Mr. Eiffel introduced me to someone, and we’d exchange pleasantries. Then after we’d passed on, he would whisper little comments in my ear. “He was lately the Minister of the Global Seed Vault. Delightful man.” Or, “Marvelous lady. Discovered the plant genomes that allowed us to engineer the Biosphere. I doubt we’d have survived without her!”
At last, we were seated in the rock garden section of the party, next to the river. I took a careful seat on a wide rock near the water. Eiffel waved at a tray of drinks, which made its way quickly toward our little circle. He lifted a long stem and passed it to me, then took another for himself. “So, Charlotte,” he said, giving me an evaluative look. “To what shall we toast?”
I lifted my glass. “To peace. To Eirenea.”
“Hear, hear,” he said, settling himself on an iron bench opposite me, and we sipped together. The drink was bubbly and sweet, and it appeared to be extracted from some exotic fruit.
Exotic. What did that word even mean anymore? A pine tree was more rare than a ghost orchid up here. I shook my head and took another sip.
“Who has a river in a party, anyway?” I said aloud.
“It sends a message, you know,” said Charles. “Loose-running water is quite the feat on a spaceship. A few buckets of this in the right vent, and we’d all be taking a nap together while life support sorted itself.”
I considered that. “Almost makes it more like a threat than a treat.”
Charles looked me over again, this time with a slightly more appreciative eye. “I do tire of all the secrets,” he said.
I lifted my wrist, letting the sleeve fall back. “You’re not alone there, apparently. So tell me about the Nouveau-Louvre. That couldn’t have been an easy undertaking.”
Charles fiddled with the stem of his glass. “It was not. But I think, in the end, we got it perfectly right.”
“Was it just the Louvre you got your art from?” I asked.
“Oh, no, my dear. Certainly not. We drew from every collection in Europe, public and private. Applications were coming in every day for ten years, down to the very last week. And how does one even choose? The ancients, the moderns. Statues. Paintings. High concept. The Impressionists. The lot of them, even the artists who’d yet to make a name for themselves. And only us to judge them. An impossible task, to be sure.”
“So, how did you choose, in the end?”
Charles leaned close, letting his hand dabble through the water. “There was quite a team we pulled together. Historians, architects. Archeologists, of course, and even some artists. In the end, there were twenty of us. We got to be close, working together all those days. We were so diligent, especially at first.”
His tone obscured some deeper emotion, but he didn’t seem sad, exactly. More like hesitant, as though he’d decided to tell me something, but wasn’t sure what I’d do with it.
“That sounds… well, that’s good, right? You had a lot of work to do.”
His smile was somewhat distant. “And we were so proud of all our work. We mapped every possible metric for consideration: the popularity of the piece, its influence, the artist’s other contributions to the form. And over time, we arrived at a singular conclusion. There could be only one consideration that mattered.”
He paused, straightening, and splattered the water from his hand. Then he pulled a crisp cotton handkerchief from his coat and dried himself methodically, pulling the white cloth across every knuckle and between each finger.
I wasn’t sure how to proceed. “Just one?”
Charles nodded.
“I can’t even imagine. What was your conclusion? I mean, which pieces did you save?”
He met my eye with a perfectly steady gaze, which he seemed determined to hold. “In the end, almost none of them.”
Now it was my turn to fiddle with my glass. “None.”
He spread his hands in front of his knees. “We had so many resources. So many workers. They’d build anything we wanted. All that bureaucratic nonsense was over with. Whatever we wanted, we snapped our fingers, and it appeared at our door. The machines, the workers, the scientists! Any work of art on the continent. And do you know what we did with it?”
I shook my head. My tongue felt dry, and I took a nervous sip of my drink, but suddenly, its sweetness was cloying. What was he telling me?
He continued, his intensity building. “We built our room on board the Ark. We were given an entire level. Full oxygen, life support, everything.”
My breath came harder, and I slid back involuntarily.
“And we brought in incubators. And formula. And the nappies, Charlotte. So many nappie
s.”
“Nappies,” I gasped. “Do you mean—”
“Diapers, of course. Instead of art, we saved babies. Hundreds and hundreds of babies.”
I could not have been more surprised if he’d told me they’d resurrected Picasso and Da Vinci for a tea party with Giotto.
“You see, Ambassador, we twenty thought long and hard about what made a thing worth saving, and we could only ever have arrived at a single answer, working as earnestly as we were: life. To create art is an essentially human endeavor. Without life, the greatest masterpieces of history turned to so many splotches on canvas before our eyes. We needn’t worry about art at all if there were never to be any more artists. So that is what we did, Ambassador. We saved art itself.”
He sat back, nodding to himself, and allowed his words to sink in. I had a sudden flashback to a sketching class I’d wandered into one night in the Remnant. It was taught by a man so old that his hands appeared to be carved from gnarled wood around the stump of his charcoal. He hadn’t even been famous back on Earth, but word of his talents had spread, and I’d wanted to see his work for myself. He sketched, and as the night wore on, hands, faces, arms, and whole people blossomed upon his paper. It was the most popular event the Remnant ever organized. By the end of the evening, his hands were beautiful to me.
I thought that I understood Charles Eiffel.
I looked out over the center floor, where the streamer-clad troupe was just finishing its performance. The gravity generator beneath the stage must have been set to reduced power mid-show, because now, the dancers were leaping through the air at impossible heights.
Impossible on Earth, I supposed. Up here, I never knew what was possible or not, and just like that, another word lost its meaning. If I were only a little different—perhaps if I’d never been to juvy—the thought would have made me want to curl up in bed with the covers over my head.
The Remnant Page 8
