Liquid Crystal Nightingale

by EeLeen Lee

  The second fla-tessen class of the week was a mixed-ability session which involved more drills and sparring, and less emphasis on footwork. Flames danced inside a double-handled ornate bronze ting set into a high niche at the far end of the hall. During her first lesson Pleo had stood near the doors with the other students while Saurebaras told them the vessel was sacred and associated with the process of transformation:

  “Every week the barrier between ability and ego burn away in this hall. What will be left is your essence, which in time will steer you to your moment of grace.”

  The objective of today’s session was made obvious by Saurebaras barking across the hall every five minutes:

  “Strike the wasps’ nest like a sparrow!”

  Students were to focus on developing speed and economy of movement. Saurebaras always conducted a strict session, but Pleo suspected fear rather than discipline kept the students in check. Adepts reveled in telling Novices of how a fla-tessen demonstration for Cabuchon defence contractors had gone awry, leaving fragments of the audience members’ bones and skin inlaid in Saurebaras’s personal fan and caltrops.

  Now all the Adepts occupied the far side of the multi-purpose hall, busy practicing a routine. Pleo watched with admiration as they threw off their red and black shawls in perfect sync, spinning to catch them before they fell to the floor. The wall behind the Adepts was overlaid with a projection of a construction site: four towering shapes draped with orange fabric. The image flickered and vanished when the Adepts reached the end of their routine.

  “And repeat once more!” Saurebaras instructed the Adepts before reminding them, “The flicker stands in for the moment of unveiling.”

  When the image reappeared Pleo glimpsed the Aront corporate logo swirling on the orange fabric: branching lines enclosed in a diamond.

  Someone thumped Pleo on her back—it was Gia Aront, who asked, “Aren’t you supposed to be involved in that?”

  “‘That’?”

  “The Monument to the Forty,” Gia said with mock patience, eyes backlit by the reappearing projection.

  So the apparatchik from the Corund had told the truth. The promise of a memorial fulfilled as described but without consulting the families of the Forty.

  The Adepts resumed their routine but Pleo was not watching them anymore. She slapped her palm with her fan, broadcasting her anger.

  “I thought Saurebaras would have asked you,” continued Gia. “Given your father’s survivor status.”

  “I’m involved whether I’m dancing onstage or not!” rejoined Pleo. “You only wish you’d made Adept in time for the ceremony.”

  Saurebaras coughed once in their direction, making Pleo and Gia Aront step away from each other.

  Pleo’s training fan kept closing of its own volition in mid-strike or parry. The tendrils pricked her palm and the fingers of her left hand itched every time she shook the fan to force it shut. Saurebaras came up behind her, wrapped a bony hand around Pleo’s wrist and suddenly released it.

  “You aren’t sparring yet, so hold your training fan like a fallen nestling with a broken wing. See it as such in your mind.”

  Pleo could not decide whether she was more fed up with the endless stream of avian metaphors from Saurebaras or struggling with a stubborn fan. She closed her eyes and recalled cradling Cerussa’s bloodied face in her hands a year ago. What had surprised Pleo the most was the weight of Cerussa’s body. She was heavier dead then than when Pleo had discovered her slumped over at her desk in their shared bedroom after studying overlong.

  Pleo shifted her position in the gym as, in her mind’s eye, she moved her sister from side to side to check for signs of life. To no avail: Cerussa’s soul had escaped before her head hit the desk. A page of moth-wing paper, torn from Cerussa’s journal, was stuck to the desk and bore the note:

  I finally heard the nightingale. Bring me to the Leroi if you can—your Ceri.

  With a soft moist click the fan unfurled its translucent membranes and remained open.

  When Pleo heard her parents hammering on the locked bedroom door and calling her name, Pleo quickly closed Cerussa’s unseeing eyes. Like a giant ornate fish gill, the fan immediately closed up again. The membranes were whip-strong when folded together, and the handles concealed a retractable blade—blunted, for a training fan.

  An Adept struck a standing chrome bell, and the low note reverberated around the hall to indicate the start of another sparring session. Students hung close to the wall opposite the giant screens, performing warm-up exercises and wrapping their fla-tessen shawls around their necks or waists. Saurebaras handed out castanets to a few adepts-in-waiting and clicks echoed around the hall in rhythmic ta-ra-ta-ra patterns. Pleo hated fan-induced rashes or when a stray castanet took off a layer of skin, but not so much as the sparring sessions themselves. The looming screens on the wall at the back of the hall recorded each bout and broadcast rear-projected footage of each sparring pair frame by frame. Saurebaras loved to dissect technique and make an example out of bad form.

  Pleo felt a hard tap on her shoulder and turned around. Gia had dropped to curtsey, holding the folds of her skirt out towards Pleo. Invitations to spar could not be refused in class. Pleo returned the gesture and saw Gia’s yellow eyes flashing in glee, probably checking Pleo’s face for signs of nervousness. This was how some fighters intimidated each other before a bout, revelling in building up the spectacle. When Pleo curtseyed again, nonplussed, Gia swore in exasperation. Another Near-Adept noticed the exchange, sucked in her breath and ran to tell Saurebaras. Normally students of a higher level refereed bouts between those of the same or lower level. Judging from his reaction, Pleo knew no one wanted to be responsible for refereeing this match.

  The bout was to be quick—both women would compete to five touches within a three-minute time limit. Pleo was sure she wouldn’t last five seconds, after which she could go rest in the far corner of the hall or run back into the changing room, stuff her fan, shawl and shift down the nearest disposal chute and quit fla-tessen for good.

  Six Adepts gathered around Gia and her, but the other students maintained a respectful distance. Wasn’t it only last term when Gia had, with great skill and accuracy, hurled her castanets at a boy across the hall because she thought he was laughing at her performance? The Aront family had paid for the boy’s emergency medical treatment and reattached nose to hush up the incident.

  “Near-Adept Gia Aront and Low-Intermediary Pleo Tanza—on the piste now,” Saurebaras called out as the outline of a piste—a rectangle outlined in red—materialised on the floor in front of her. The responsive liddicoate fabric of Pleo’s fla-tessen shawl drew itself closer to her skin and wicked away her sweat.

  The area inside the piste was lead white, a callback to the early method of refereeing fights by observing blood-splatter patterns on sandstone flooring. At the end of the piste a black oval was marked out: each fighter took their place inside their oval, which moved with them. When viewed from above, the piste appeared like a dynamic, ever-shifting Venn diagram, ovals separating and intersecting from second to second.

  Pleo and Gia curtsied four times—once to their spectators, once to the ting, once to Saurebaras and once to each other. Gia tapped her heel on the floor once to signal her readiness and Pleo followed suite. Their combined gestures activated the ovals, which clicked and scuttled into action as both fighters moved.

  “Three minutes!” Saurebaras announced and clapped her hands twice.

  The training fan remained under Pleo’s control as she tried to focus on Gia, now spinning around like a dervish. Pleo stayed close to the edges of the piste, moving from corner to corner, but yelped as tiny spikes on the perimeter of the oval pricked her ankle when she stepped into the penalty area. Once your opponent took to the centre of the piste, you had to keep moving. Gia suddenly stopped turning and lunged at Pleo with her castanet, slicing across and just missing her nose. In a flurry of evasive panic, Pleo dropped her fan outside the piste.
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  “Halt,” cried Saurebaras, making both women freeze in their current positions. “No attacks to the face—this is your first warning!”

  “She was careless—” replied Gia.

  “Did I give you permission to speak?” Saurebaras cut Gia off. She told Pleo, “Retrieve your fan.”

  Pleo bent down and picked up her fan. It sent out its tendrils into her palm again and remained open, much to her relief because she had neither the time nor mental fortitude to visualise Cerussa’s death again. Charging in, Gia feinted an elbow strike and kneed Pleo in the shoulder, sending her back onto the white floor. Gia’s control impressed Pleo despite the throbbing pain; the blow had been hard but not hard enough to dislocate the shoulder and warrant Gia’s disqualification.

  From her position on the floor, Pleo threw her fan at Gia. It rose and grazed Gia’s face before spinning back to return to Pleo’s outstretched hand.

  “Halt! Pleo Tanza, this is your first warning for face attacks.” Saurebaras stamped.

  But Pleo heard gasps mixed with a smattering of light applause for the move. Gia stopped dead as her oval continued rotating around her, and slowly touched her fingertip to her face. A wide jagged slash stretched from the corner of Gia’s upper lip to her temple and a trickle of blood extended the line of the wound down her chin and neck. The blade of Pleo’s fan had unsheathed in mid-flight and cut Gia in the face. Gia extended her index finger forcep and traced it over the cut, and at the back of the hall, the screens replayed the footage as if to compound Gia’s humiliation.

  Training fan blades are supposed to be blunt. Something had gone very wrong and Pleo knew she had to withdraw right now. She tossed her fan outside the piste before raising both hands in surrender.

  “You cheating bitch and coward! Don’t try and make it easier on yourself!” Gia swore and pressed the corner of her shawl over her injury.

  But there was no point in continuing, and Pleo, already fatigued, didn’t know how long she would last against an enraged, wounded Gia. Saurebaras nodded at Pleo, satisfied with her gesture, and tried to wave Gia over.

  “Gia, you require first aid and your sparring partner has surrendered—do acknowledge her.”

  Gia ignored Saurebaras and remained on the piste, glaring at Pleo. She made four staccato claps, which signalled a request for a rematch.

  No, Pleo mouthed the word at Gia, picking up her training fan with its bloodied blade and handing it to Saurebaras.

  “Acknowledge that there’ll be no rematch,” Saurebaras insisted to Gia, “or never step foot into a fla-tessen class again.”

  Gia curtsied once and stormed off the piste. Pleo turned on her heel in wearied misery and heard murmured snatches of conversation from around the hall:

  “Who is the low-intermediary with the streaks of mica in her hair?”

  “There are no streaks in her hair.”

  “Look again. Her hair colour changes when she moves—it’s so distracting.”

  “Her fighting style is unusual and yet ingenious—no wonder Gia lost the bout.”

  Pleo sought refuge at the back of the hall and took off her shawl. She dropped it on the floor and the shawl folded itself up. Outside the piste, she didn’t need the liddicoate garment’s protection: it would have been useless against Gia and the resources of House Aront at her disposal. She would make Pleo pay for that fluke hit—a minor humiliation for any Adept—but Gia had a reputation as a candidate to uphold, although her prospects for advancement would be less favourable after her latest conduct.

  The surrounding air stirred as something flew past the back of Pleo’s head. She heard a tearing and her head instantly felt lighter. Pleo put her hand to the back of her neck and felt cool air stirring on her scalp as her coiled bun of hair tumbled to the floor. She heard Gia cackling in triumph as she caught the castanet. Maybe the severed bun was an adequate redress for the cut on her face.

  “Pocket,” Pleo commanded her skirt.

  A small pleat of cloth bunched up near her right hip. She picked up frayed mass of hair and stuffed it into the fold, which closed up by itself. The asking price of her hair at 16000 uta would be reduced to 8000 unless the place near her home could rebond her hair at a discount, but she didn’t know of anywhere that could repair her pride. Her supplements would be reduced as part of the disciplinary action for injuring Gia, and possibly delay her hair’s regrowth by several months.

  Her father once told her the best way to handle bullies who worked in the same mine shaft: “The key is to make them stop. Ignore them and they become more daring, and with tight schedules and fifty miners under me, the problem spreads. Sometimes, allow yourself a necessary show of force.”

  Pleo’s plan to get off Chatoyance was now delayed. She retrieved her shawl, curtsied to Gia and returned the four staccato claps.

  Rematch accepted.

  Taken aback, Gia did not acknowledge at first and stood gawping at Pleo. Pleo clapped again until Gia curtseyed to her. A tall male Adept noticed their gestures, and hurried to the back of the hall to whisper in Saurebaras’s ear.

  “Call for recess now? Don’t be ridiculous,” Saurebaras exclaimed, having noticed the pair.

  To Pleo’s surprise Saurebaras did not command them to stand down. Instead, she did a quick pirouette in apparent delight and crossed the hall with her characteristic flowing strides. She stopped by Gia.

  “Gia, if you insist on this madness I must demote you to Low-Intermediate.”

  “This mining scum fucked up my face, madame!”

  “Watch your language in my hall. Speak like the Tier Dweller you are,” tutted Saurebaras, holding Gia’s chin between thumb and forefinger as she examined the wound.

  Pleo saw a forcep emerge from under Saurebaras’s thumbnail, and she used its tip to probe the cut. Pleo never considered the possibility that Saurebaras had also been through Polyteknical. Unless her implants differed from the official versions and were obtained via other means...

  Patting Gia on the cheek, Saurebaras said, “Tell your parents it won’t scar, with the proper course of treatment. You’ll be beautiful again.”

  She then turned to Pleo. “And what do I tell your family, since you insist on this rematch? What if you acquire a slash on your face too? Or worse?”

  Pleo thought of her home in the aftermath of the Incident and Cerussa’s suicide. She replied, “Nothing, madame. If they notice they won’t care what happens.”

  Saurebaras nodded and gestured to the tall Adept to prepare another training piste and retrieve another training fan from the prep area.

  Both Gia and Pleo took up their positions in the new piste.

  “I’ll remind you both of the rematch rules: all areas of body, except the face, are now permitted. The bout stops with the first touch. One minute.”

  The Adept emerged from inside the changing room and handed Pleo another fan and half a stick of grip powder. This time she checked the blade and found it to be blunt. Satisfied, she crushed the stick and rubbed the powder into her left palm.

  Saurebaras called for both women to begin. Pleo darted forwards. The fighters’ ovals intersected on the piste with a furious clicking sound. Gia threw a castanet at Pleo but she held her shawl in front of her face to block the attack. Since Pleo had not issued a command to her shawl it did not fortify itself against an incoming projectile. She saw the silver weave of liddicoate fibres in detailed close-up before the castanet slashed across her mouth. Pleo lost her hold on her shawl and licked her lips—no splash of blood, but the skin was broken.

  Gia cursed as the castanet returned to her grasp. She dropped her other castanet and brandished her fan.

  Open up! Pleo pleaded with her fan as she grasped both sides and tried to force it. She gave up as the fan unsheathed the blade in the handle instead. Lunging back, Gia went into an anti-clockwise spin and prepared to launch her opened fan with a flick of her wrist. In utter desperation, Pleo hurled her closed fan at Gia, hoping to deflect hers in mid air.

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bsp; Overconfident, Gia did an exaggerated swerve, and her shawl billowed out in front of her, obscuring her from Pleo’s view for a second. Before the shawl settled, Gia fell backwards and hit the floor with a thump Pleo felt rather than felt.

  “Halt!” called Saurebaras, holding up a hand. The entire hall fell silent. At first Pleo saw Gia lying on the piste, inside her now deactivated oval. As she took a step towards Gia, Pleo felt her own oval nip at her ankles. She looked down and found that it had shrunk itself around her feet.

  “Maintain your last position,” commanded Saurebaras, and her voice was subdued. All eyes were on the looming screens. Pleo watched the replay footage with a strange fascination: onscreen, Gia completed her spin and threw her opened fan, but Pleo’s closed fan had intercepted it in mid-flight with uncanny timing, its blade snagging on a membrane. The combined momentum of both fans had directed them back to Gia. Now the tang of Pleo’s fan jutted out of Gia’s eye socket, while the opened fan covered the other eye, its spokes opening and closing on their own.

  Pleo heard her voice call out to Gia, but she didn’t move. What moved instead were the fans, both pulsating as the leaves reverted to their marine-sponge feeding traits, drawing Gia’s blood into their membranes.

  Still believing in a ruse, Pleo broke out of her oval and rushed over to her.

  “Stay in your piste!” Saurebaras commanded again.

  Pleo stopped at the sight of fresh blood pooling in Gia’s piste.

  Cerussa, I’ve avenged you. Sooner than expected.

  A red lagoon formed around Gia’s head and neck, reminding Pleo of the false-colour images captured of lakes on alien moons. Saurebaras clapped six times to dismiss the other students. Pleo saw them disperse and leave the hall in a grateful hurry.

  She wiped her forehead with her shawl, but the liddicoate fibres could not remove the cold sweat of fear.

  Vengeance? Not like this.

  “No one touch her. Let the floor perform its function,” said Suarebaras.