Dreaming Metal

by Melissa Scott

  The transformer made a dull sound like a distant bell, and I stepped back as it put down wheels and rumbled slowly through the door. The karakuri followed, each one lowering the webbing carefully behind it, and I walked after them back toward the open lift doors. Celeste’s face swam at the head of the little procession, the ghost-icon mirroring the copper karakuri, who in turn mirrored me. It was a weird image, a wonderful image, and I filed it for later use. Celeste walked the karakuri into the lift, and I closed the doors behind them, shutting out Celeste’s face. The icon winked on again as I reached for the controls, and I smiled up at her, suddenly and unreasonably happy.

  “Ready for the show, Celeste?”

  #Oh, yes,# she answered, and I entirely believed her.

  The ASM was gone by the time we reached the stage level. I left Celeste to deal with bringing the karakuri into position, and went back to the stage manager’s console to check the settings. The boards were at standby, hold lights flickering from every screen except the one that monitored Celeste. The headbox was cabled to the side, connect indicators glowing steady green, and I edged it farther out of the way before turning my attention to the board. A yellow textnote popped to life as soon as my eyes met the system’s tightbeam, and I squinted at it until the IPUs brought it into focus: your construct is cabled, and I’ve foregrounded your settings package. Sorry it’s not fully up, but I wasn’t sure of your standards. It was signed with a name glyph I didn’t recognize, but I made a note of it anyway—she’d done the right things, both with Celeste and with the system—and blinked the note away.

  “George, are you around?” I was checking the boards as I spoke, pulling my setting to the active spaces, reassuring myself that everything was there, all the subroutines and visuals and the files for the virtual aspects of the performance. I don’t have to perform in the virtual—most of the Tin Hau’s audience isn’t wired—but it’s become a matter of pride, even if it is the hardest part of the act. A lot of the important cues happen in the virtual; it’s not easy to disguise them.

  “I’m here,” George answered from the stage, then his voice came from the little speaker in the console itself. “Will Celeste be running the act, or Aeris?”

  “Celeste.”

  “Very good.”

  I could almost feel him drifting away, and said quickly, “Wait.”

  “Yes?”

  “Bring the stage controls on-line, please. I’m showing lockouts on five channels.”

  “One moment.” There was a little pause. “All channels are now open.”

  “Thanks.” I ran my hand over the control pad, bringing up the virtual keys, entered the last codes. “I heard you had some problems last night, George.”

  “That is a security issue,” the construct answered, almost primly. “I’m afraid I’m not able to discuss it with you at this time.”

  “Suit yourself.” I entered another string of codes, effectively locking him out of the stage systems for the duration of the run-through, a petty but irresistible response. “Celeste logged the problem down in the keeping?”

  “That’s correct. A maintenance crew will be sent there as soon as possible.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and Celeste’s icon appeared where the note had been.

  “Everything is ready.”

  “Haya.” I checked the readings a final time. “All right, George, that’ll be all.”

  “Thank you.” A tiny white star vanished from my vision, an icon I hadn’t noticed until it was gone.

  Celeste said, “I’m to run the whole act, you said?”

  “That’s right.” I smiled at the icon, in spite of knowing better. “You said you were ready.”

  “I am.” Her expression didn’t change, but I thought her voice softened. “Thank you.” Her icon vanished, and I felt the first touch of the stage systems on my suit. #Places.#

  It was a mere flicker of sound, like the touch of a breeze, but more than enough to carry the information I needed. I walked out onto the stage, taking my place behind one of the two slim columns that decorate my set. They look too small, too thin, to hide anything, but that look is deceptive, and the mirrored surfaces are very forgiving. Celeste was patching the rest of the stage systems through to my suit, a not quite painful warmth along my arms, prickly as a sunburn. The visuals were too bright, too, the bars of purple light that crisscrossed the stage and the tracking strip that floated just below my line of sight strong enough to hide my view of the stage.

  #Lower my monitor half a level, Celeste,# I said, and felt the itching sensation ease. The lights faded as well, visible, but no longer obscuring anything, and I nodded. #That’s good, thanks.#

  #Stage set ready, karakuri read, visuals primed,# Celeste announced. #Ready?#

  #Ready,# I answered, and took a slow, careful breath.

  #Steady. Go on five,# Celeste said, and tuned her voice to a soothing drone. #On four… three… two… one. Begin Appearance.#

  Her voice faded slightly, so that all I heard were the necessary cues, and then I heard my own voice from beyond the rising curtain. The copper karakuri was hidden within the hologram, invisible even to virtual sight, which should have shown it like a fly in amber.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please accept my apologies for the technical problem. We’ve had a slight malfunction in the lighting computer, and the show will have to proceed without the lighting effect planned for this evening.”

  I braced myself, ready to hit my mark, but a part of my mind was considering the opening, acknowledging that it was probably time for a change. The act needed a new introduction as well as a new ending, and the image I’d seen in the keeping was probably a good place to start.

  “Then we will have to try—this.” The karakuri’s arm rose, “tossing” the holographic ball she had been holding, and the stage lighting flashed full on for a moment, the position and colors effectively hiding the stage for a crucial second before they settled to the production settings. In that second, I took my place, holographic smoke curling around my ankles, and walked forward into the new light, smiling, arms held out to welcome the applause. The music swelled—hard djensi, the music I’d grown up with, not at all like Fanning’s sound—and Celeste whispered in my ear.

  #Compression.#

  This was the most purely mechanical of the illusions. I stepped to one side, posing, gestured widely, and the apparatus trundled in under its own power, guided by the purple beams. That would show, would let anyone in the audience who was wired think they’d seen something they shouldn’t, and blind them to the signals that were flashing past them just below the beams. The bronze karakuri stepped back into the shadows at the stage edge, not quite offstage, out of sight of the audience—more distraction—and Celeste brought the gold and silver karakuri downstage. The gold is covered with a web of wires, a network like a radar cage suspended above its skin, framing its shape, and I turned it to display that fragile lace. Then I brought it back upstage to the press, the familiar shape—it really was a Tongas stamp, before I modified it, still looks identical to the machines the line-workers use every day—and stepped back again to let the audience take in the contrast between the karakuri’s deceptive fragility and the massive weight of the press. A light flashed once in front of my eyes, signaling that everything was ready, and the gold turned toward the press, ready to take its place between the plates. The silver moved with it, something I hadn’t scripted, and I started to frown, but in that moment it held out its hand and helped the gold into the press. The gold reclined with serpentine grace, gleaming against the old iron, the lights striking sparks of light from its polished skin and reflecting from the weight poised above it. The silver looked at me, and reached for the lever, resting one delicate hand on the tip. Again, it wasn’t scripted, but it was effective, and I nodded, keeping my face grave, planning to give Celeste hell later.

  The press tilted, the lower weight lifting as the upper plate came down, and the karakuri shifted slightly to leave its feet and head o
utside the grasp. The press closed, slow and inexorable, with a groan of metal, and then tilted back again to show the plates completely closed, the gold’s head and feet protruding from the ends. In the old days, when this was my big illusion, I’d ask a line-worker to check the press out first, make sure it wasn’t modified; Muthana said there wasn’t time to do that anymore, but with him running a short show now, I might ask again.

  The karakuri turned her head, showing the serene face still faintly smiling, and another faint icon flashed behind my eyes. I gestured to the silver, motioning for it to lift the lever, and it did so with only the slightest hesitation. The press reversed itself, lifting and then lowering to reveal the karakuri reclining unharmed in the metal jaws. Part of the illusion relies on people recognizing the Tongas stamp, but not all of it: no matter where I’d shown it, there were always gasps and murmurs when it reappeared unharmed, almost as loud as there would have been for a human assistant. The silver moved again to help it down, and I came forward to take its free hand, so that three of us bowed together, like actors.

  #Disassembly,# Celeste murmured, and the gold released me, turned to join the bronze as it brought a set of wheeled cabinets on stage.

  Automatically, I turned my head so that my moving lips wouldn’t be seen from the audience. #Celeste. No more surprises.#

  #It looked good, what I did.#

  It had, too, and I’d probably keep it, but that wasn’t the point. #Yeh, but I need to know exactly what’s going to happen when we’re onstage. I could get hurt, you know.#

  The karakuri had taken up their positions beside the cabinets, were spinning them to show off the empty interiors. Celeste said, #I forgot. If I have other ideas, may I show them later?#

  #Do you—# I broke off, watching the karakuri out of the corner of my eye. There was no time for this conversation; if Celeste had ideas, I could wait to find out about them. #Yeh, later.#

  #All right. Later.# Her voice faded, and I turned my attention to the next illusion.

  Disassembly was actually the simplest of the group, a tried-and-true illusion—older than spaceflight, even, or so people said—that worked for me because I used the karakuri to full advantage. I placed each one in its cylinder, fastened the support strap, then removed legs and arms and finally heads, piling them all on a worktable that rolled out from the wings to receive them. When I’d finished, I folded the tarp that had covered the worktable up and over the pile of parts, and closed the cylinders one by one, hiding the metal torsos that hung there, bright against the soft black lining fabric. Celeste released another flash, and the parts vanished, leaving the tarp empty. I unfolded and shook it, just to prove it, then gestured to the cylinders. Celeste raised all four doors simultaneously, to reveal the karakuri reconstructed, but with the parts mixed wildly, a gold leg on the silver body, silver head on the bronze. That usually got a laugh—relief and release; the karakuri look that little bit too human to make it comfortable to see them taken apart like this—and I mimed a sigh, gesturing for Celeste to close the cylinders again. The covers came down slowly, and I brought my hands together in apparent concentration. I gestured again, pointed to each side, and then flung my hands wide. The cylinders vanished, revealing the karakuri fully restored, each with its proper parts. They bowed, and Celeste whispered in my ear again.

  #Vanishment.#

  This, too, was a classic, possibly as old as the basic illusion in Disassembly, but what makes it unusual is that the covering cloth vanishes along with the karakuri. It’s a real cloth, too, not virtual—I used to let the audience feel it for themselves, before Muthana shortened each act’s time to fit more people into the show—and another conjurer once offered me ten thousand wu for the apparatus. I told him he could have it for seven thousand, but not until I was tired of it, and I was expecting that to be a long time away. A lot of what makes this work is the setup, the gold karakuri suddenly treated like a ha’o princess out of a high-class videomanga, and I took my time with it, Celeste tracking my tempo perfectly. The gold vanished, replaced by the red-enamel box; I made it reappear between the silver and the bronze, and stepped back to let them take their bow.

  #Transformation,# Celeste murmured, and the bronze karakuri turned to bring on the transformer. #George says ba’ Muthana is here already. Should I let him in?#

  Under normal circumstances, I don’t let anyone, even Muthana, watch my rehearsals, but he’d come to see the new illusion. #Yeh. But this is an exception, Celeste, not a rule.#

  #Confirmed.#

  I saw a square of light appear at the back of the auditorium as Muthana opened one of the rear doors, and then it vanished again. I couldn’t see him—wouldn’t see him unless and until he came down to the front row of seats—but I couldn’t help being well aware of his presence. The bronze moved the transformer into position center stage, turning it to show it from all sides and empty, and Celeste framed it in a web of lights. The music changed, moved down the scale, a weird little riff that resolved to a steady three-chord pulse. The bronze stepped up into the opening and sank into the metal, began to disappear into it even as the silver followed. The gold came next, folding into the frame, drawn in by the last reaching hands. The transformer contracted abruptly, a movement that should have crushed anything contained in it, and I heard Muthana gasp in the front row.

  I ignored him, gestured instead to the transformer. It opened again, the karakuri began to reappear, flowing out of the metal as though they were somehow liquid, dragging the copper with them as they came. Celeste had managed to get the speed up, and I had to bite back a smile. The three karakuri pulled the copper all the way out of the frame, and it came forward as though to take a bow. This was the hardest part of the illusion, the culmination of its effect, and I took a deep breath, flourishing the sheet of silk as though I was going to vanish it. I lifted it a final time, letting it hide us both, and it fell to the stage behind me. A split second later, I stepped through the transformer’s open space, and came forward to join the karakuri, bringing them forward into the bow. At a second gesture, Celeste’s face-icon joined us and we bowed together. In the silence at the end of my music, I heard Muthana clapping.

  #End it, Celeste,# I said, and felt the confirmation pulse through my suit. I could see Muthana now, still clapping as he rose from his seat and came to the edge of the stage. I squatted there to wait for him, and only then realized how hard I was sweating. I wiped my face carefully on the hem of my tunic, glad I hadn’t put on full makeup, and felt the stage sensations trickle away from me as Celeste brought the systems down to standby.

  “Not political,” Muthana said, with scorn, but he was still smiling. I waited. “You’re pushing buttons, Fortune, that’s for sure.”

  I know. I said, “Is it a problem?”

  “It’s spectacular,” Muthana said. “No, I don’t think it’s a problem. It’s not explicit, and I think it’s good—I’m willing to take a chance on it.”

  Now that he’d said yes, I felt compelled to play devil’s advocate. “Realpeace isn’t making a name for tolerance. I’m prepared to hold this until things settle.”

  As soon as I’d said it, I hoped he wouldn’t take me up on it, and was relieved when he shook his head. “No. I’m not going to let them intimidate me. And, speaking of which, I’m putting in some new security, I’ll need to give you codes and get passwords.”

  “That’s new,” I said.

  He lifted his hand, counting the reasons coolie-style on his fingers. “First, we need to change the codes anyway, after the break-in—that’s just common sense. Second, I don’t like the way Realpeace has been trying to make this coolies against everyone else, and I sure as hell don’t like being threatened over it. And third—” He touched his thumb, his smile going crooked. “Third, I can afford to do it, because I spoke to the owners, and they’ve agreed that it’s appropriate to try to ride out the problem. They don’t like being threatened, either.”

  That, not unreasonably, would have been the deciding
factor: new security arrangements would be expensive, and if I was Muthana, I’d want to make sure the owners approved the payments first. “I didn’t know there’d been threats here.”

  He shrugged. “Realpeace sees us—sees all the Empires—as a threat to coolie culture, watering down what’s good and mixing it up with alien, farang, ideas. There hasn’t been anything overt, mind you, but after last night, I don’t intend to sit back and wait for it to blow over.”

  Translated, that meant that Muthana had chosen to go out on a limb to protect the theater—and, not incidentally, his acts. And he’d persuaded the owners to go along with it. “Thanks, Binnie,” I said, and wished I had adequate words.

  #Fortune,# Celeste said, and in the same instant George spoke from the downstage monitor.

  “Bi’ Fortune, bi’ Terez and a guest would like to speak with you.”

  “Ah,” Muthana said. “You can get the new codes from her, then.”

  “Haya,” I said, and glanced at the monitor. “All right, George, tell them to come on in.”

  “Thank you,” the construct answered.

  Muthana looked up at me. “Have you heard Fire/Work’s new songs, Fortune?”

  “Not really. Not yet.” I saw the door at the back of the hall open, spilling light briefly into the aisle, and two shapes momentarily silhouetted against it.

  “You should.” Muthana pushed himself away from the stage. “It’s very good, very strong—important music.”

  That was what everyone had said about Hati, when they were starting out. I shivered, and tried to tell myself it was just the sweat cooling on my back. “Important music’s getting people killed these days, Binnie.”

  “I don’t intend for that to happen here,” he answered, and started up the aisle.

  I swung around to sit on the edge of the stage between two of the monitors, wincing at my stiffened muslces, and Terez and her guest came into the light. The stranger was a big woman, easily a head taller than Terez, and broad-shouldered in proportion—handsome, too, with a strong fair face and yanqui eyes. I smiled, and Terez lifted a hand in greeting.