by EeLeen Lee
Silicone... tacky... shell bikini and wig... much tackier.
Setona shut the shop door, kicked the costume away and stepped onto the platform. She took a deep breath, grasped the tank’s edges and tipped herself in, head first. She must allow the tank be her sanctuary for now. Water buoyed her extremities and stilled her mind, taking the strain off posing for too long. Startled fish darted around her as she righted herself and clasped her hands over her diaphragm, another gesture from her modrani days. She closed her eyes; to an observer she may have appeared to be praying or centring herself, but she was in fact eliminating possible conflict and career-ruining actions. After all, you can’t slap or punch someone with clasped hands.
A knock on the window side of the tank. Startled, Setona opened her eyes and saw three teenage girls jump back: one of them had her hand still half-raised to tap on the glass again.
Get away from here, Setona mouthed as she pressed her face against the glass. Unless you want to end up in this tank with me.
All three girls yelped and scurried away in their transparent raincoats, worn over patchwork A-line dresses. Wearing what passes for fashion. It irked her to recall the Doyen’s words, but they were not untrue. It helped to think of him as such, because she was not sure what he was now, less organic and more whirring parts.
Setona floated over to the interior-facing side of the tank and surfaced, watching Marsh lay the girl on the counter. She splashed water at the door protected by the crowning-shield and the water drops bounced across the shop and wet the back of Marsh’s neck. He turned around with a pained expression.
“Leave her where you found her.”
“She’s not dead.”
Setona kicked a piece of coral so hard it pierced the sole of her foot. Her brief relaxation in the tank had done nothing to suppress her frustration.
“I’d feed you to the display leopard if it could eat,” she fumed as she clambered out of the tank and limped off the platform, dripping. Her modrani skin and hair were manufactured to repel water and she was dry in a minute.
“Cerussa!” the girl suddenly gasped.
“Why is she calling out the names of minerals?” asked Setona, massaging her temple. Such randomness was too much to deal with right now.
Marsh shrugged. “She’s a Polyteknical student and—”
“Ma?” A weak voice interrupted both of them.
Setona heard the girl lying on the counter mumble again before she coughed up cloudy fluid onto the counter, and her body strained upward before she passed out again. In response, Marsh placed his folded coat under her head, turned her head to one side, and searched around for a spare rag.
“Are you sure you don’t know her?” Setona asked him again.
“I know she exists—I see her on the same T-Car as me every morning, on the way to Polyteknical station. She writes her life story on the walls of the T-Car. I think Cerussa is a close relation.”
“But still,” insisted Setona, “how do you know she’s a Polyteknical student?”
“Look at her hands.”
Marsh held one hand up for Setona’s scrutiny—the closed fingers were knobbly and calloused. Blood under the nails told Setona the girl had been in a fight. She coughed again and stirred. Setona watched with fascination as the girl’s hand unclenched and a bone-white forcep slid out from under the index fingernail.
“Grafted tools of profession,” said Setona, trying to sound unimpressed while various scenarios played out in her head. She went back into the stockroom and came out with a tube of epitheliax for the girl’s leg. “I’ve seen them before. Most people in the lapidary and gem assessment lines acquire them over the course of a career. Of course, there’re always exceptions; some modrani get fitted out with them for novelty’s sake. The darling Doyen is nothing but a support system for them.”
“Compared to the work done on her, he’s a heap of outdated equipment bent in the form of a human,” replied Marsh. He tried to examine the forcep, but it quickly retracted. “Did you see that? The reflex is so exquisite, these implanted tools are so seamless, so—”
“Valuable. And patented—and shot through with serial numbers.”
When these facts did not dispel Marsh’s admiration, Setona continued, “Such traceability is deterrent enough for most street-level criminal elements.”
“Still, why does Polyteknical let its students walk around with these implants?”
“Polyteknical is smart not to draw unwanted attention to the implants. If they act like they’re normal mundane tools of profession, no one would know otherwise.”
She put enough edge in her voice to make him put down the girl’s hand, but Setona saw the idea germinating in his mind and she knew what would be worse than turning her boutique into a crime scene: turning it into a chop shop. Serial numbers never entirely put the dealers and middlemen off.
She ought to dismiss him right now to forestall that eventuality. But he was the only hiree that had stuck around for longer than a few months. Setona had run background checks on Marsh through her modrani networks, the secret handshakes and connections that ensured the safety of modranis before accepting a job with a client. It was a force of habit; in practice, Setona took a perverse delight in unpredictability. She was testing the water with Marsh—and Marsh, who had told her of his need to lay low, was similarly up for testing the water with Setona.
What she discovered about Marsh did not faze her. He had stolen art and jewellery from the family vault owned by the Lascaris, a family with senior members in the Corund.
“Stealing for money is stupid,” Marsh had told her. “There are less risky ways to get it.”
“You did it for the thrill?”
“I was smitten.” He tried to sound vague.
With the thrill of stealing those pieces, or with Nina Lascaris, or her brother? Setona had not asked.
Unprompted, Marsh continued. “Beauty for beauty’s sake, and all that bullshit… No one was hurt and there were no victims. People like the Lascaris can’t be victims of theft. There’s nothing they lack, nothing they don’t already own and nothing they desire.”
Mysteriously, the charges were dropped, and no further action taken. No victims indeed. Apparently, Marsh had been telling the truth.
If Setona stared hard enough at the four stallion statues of the fountain they started galloping towards her. Maybe they were display animals, waiting to be activated during an emergency.
“Those serial numbers will be the end of me. And you. Get rid of the Polyteknical girl before Shineshift. She shouldn’t be here.”
“I have the feeling she didn’t choose to end up in the fountain.”
The girl stirred and rolled onto her side. Her grey eyes were wide open and the cloudiness in them had faded. She propped herself up on one elbow.
“Hey, take it easy.” Marsh stepped in front of her. “You’ve had a shock.”
At the sound of his voice, the girl’s eyes darted to and fro, focussing on something neither Setona or Marsh could see. She bent forward and put her hands on her thighs as though she was about to vomit. Concerned about the floor, Setona moved to redirect her to the storeroom where there was a washbasin.
The girl lashed out and stabbed Marsh in the shoulder with her forceps. With a yell he let go of her.
And it happened so fast. Out of five forceps that went in; four came out. Setona saw the girl wince when she pulled them out, and in a curious move she reached out to him again as if to retrieve the forcep, but then shook her head by way of apology. The girl left Marsh clutching his shoulder while she ran out of the shop door, half-stumbling away from the fountain and down a side street before Setona could react.
Setona helped Marsh up and onto the work bench behind the counter.
“I was naïve,” he admitted.
“You are naïve,” she said. “But not in the ways that count.”
Setona went into the stockroom and returned with a vial of milky fluid. She cracked it open and poured
the contents directly onto Marsh’s wounds.
“Watch out, it’ll sting.”
Marsh sucked his breath through his teeth.
“Epithelialix paste with collagen serum,” Setona told him. “A modrani trade secret. Contrary to popular belief, our jobs can be quite dangerous.”
Marsh felt his shoulder and was surprised to feel uninjured skin where his wounds were located. The bleeding had stopped.
“It looks much better, but the injuries are still there.”
“Will it help with scarring?”
Setona shook her head. “That’s up to you.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Temple of Gachala Visitor Information and Rules
Kindly observe the following for your safety and to enhance your time here
Enter the east gate and make your way to the west gate.
The central courtyard is off limits during the day due to the strong reflective properties of the temple roof.
DO NOT CROSS the heat shield boundary surrounding the central courtyard. It is there for your protection. The Temple, its committee, and its affiliates will not be responsible for any accidents, injury, damage to personal property or death arising from or during your visit.
Do not hesitate to join the nuns and worshippers in the main Hall of Radiance. Your presence will never be deemed intrusive or heretical. The All-Encompassing Solar Palace of Gachala welcomes all those with authentic purpose.
AT NIGHT THE temple was at rest, all its spiritual duties on hold until sunrise. By extension, Temple Plaza was quieter than a museum after midnight. Pleo bent over one of the numerous public drinking fountains, gulping down handfuls of water. When her thirst had been quenched, she admired the serene beauty of the cantilevered teal roof stretching over the sloped glass facade. The architecture was something out of a dream, an alien sky over a geometric iceberg.
The scene before her renewed Pleo’s hope for sanctuary, her most urgent need for now and—fingers crossed—within reach. She couldn’t remember much after getting carried out of the infirmary by Saurebaras: a fracas with a medical bot, a grimy ceiling moving above her, possibly a tunnel, and her mind weaving in and out of consciousness. Dull, heavy pain came on in waves, then dissipated to a sudden floatiness. She had woken up in a shop full of gemstones, a tall beautiful woman with glittering arms and eyes, and the man she had seen in the same T-Car every morning on the way to Polyteknical. Then she had run.
The crowning-shield barrier covering the east gate of the plaza was turned off. Hopeful, she went up to the bolted grid and shook the gate. The heavy metallic creaks echoed through the plaza’s expanse, amplified by the laminar granite flagstones and Gachalan sun discs set into each one.
Dawn was still far, not for another six hours. Pleo never came here at night: no one ever did. There was no reason to visit a temple dedicated to the sun when the sun wasn’t shining. But it did not mean no one was watching.
“Reverend sisters! Help me please!”
The high gate remained shut to her pleas, so she let go of it. Sanctuary was definitely off-limits, and her fate already decided by the nuns who were watching her now and taking in her audacity. Last year she was a scrappy miner’s daughter who had stopped going to temple. Now she was a wanted fugitive with a missing implant.
The burgundy wood grain of the inner door looked familiar. She reached in and traced all forceps of her right hand over it, although the almond scent of fresh oil told her the door was a very recent addition. Her analysis revealed it was petrified Catru teak. Pleo was dismayed that her mother’s donation of fifty uta a week went towards this.
A shape stepped inside the other side of the plaza, directly opposite the east gate. Pleo thought the Temple had sent a nun out to see to her. The hooded figure remained still. Apart from herself it was the only other presence in the plaza.
Was it a Gachalan nun still begging for alms at this time of night? Impossible, their sermon hours were from sunrise to sunset and their robes were not such an unnerving light-swallowing black. And it couldn’t be a Charon, a disposer of the dead. This would make it the second time she encountered a Charon—a statistical impossibility. More so than other Chatoyants, who if pressed neither denied nor acknowledged their very existence.
She couldn’t make out a face, only metallic glints where its face should be. The figure stood very still and looked at Pleo—or in her direction, as much as a being with no visible face could ever look at anyone.
But she had committed the taboo of looking back at a Charon when she had left Cerussa at Leroi Minor. Now this figure was here to claim its due. Its continued silence spoke to Pleo, as if to say, why, in spite of the warnings laid out in the ritual, did you look back?
Now it glided towards, reminding her of Saurebaras.
Fear rose within her. It froze her to the spot, but she marshalled all of her willpower at the last second before it came too close.
“Who are you?”
No answer. For a second she tried to convince herself it was an illusion, or a hallucination she had conjured up. It had marked Pleo and would keep going, whether through her or by her—but when it had carried out its purpose it would disappear, or return to wherever it came from.
The figure passed through the beam of a flickering street lamp, throwing shadows on the flagstones. It must be real, but Pleo drew no comfort from the discovery. It did not matter what was after her.
If this thing really was Cerussa it’d tell you to leave and return home.
Pleo held on to that thought as she backed away from it and retreated further inside Temple Plaza and to the Sun Canal. She ran the rest of the way. She was pissed off that she couldn’t even think of her safety in this situation without Cerussa haunting her.
She went down the steps of the flooded canal bank, wading into the chilly water until it was at knee height. Pleo sensed micro life and other animals stirred up and fleeing at her intrusion. They were more than welcome to consume her body if that hooded thing killed her. Much more dignity in dying that way. Not to be retrieved by Polyteknical, stripped of her implants, hair and eyes before being sewn up like a doll.
She sloshed her way along the bank, periodically checking the bank steps as they bobbed and receded behind her. The hooded thing was nowhere to be seen, and Pleo slowed down out of relief. Like a vampire of ancient lore, it dared not cross running water. Now all she had to do was find the next set of steps, climb up them and onto the long thoroughfare of Gachala Avenue.
When Pleo glimpsed the darkened steps, she forgot about being tired and soaking wet. As she approached, the water in front of her churned and the hooded thing rose out of the water in front of her, straight-backed as if rising from a coffin. Water dripped off its robes, now plastered to a body that was eerily thin.
Pleo screamed and dodged the thing’s outstretched arm. It managed to grab her shoulder and clamp one sodden, fabric-wrapped hand across her mouth. With her remaining forceps she slashed at the hand, tearing off matted threads. She jammed her elbow spur into the side of the thing, feeling the spike drive through more layers of cloth. The hooded thing didn’t cry out or give any indication that it felt pain.
Despite the silence, the elbow spur proved effective, making the thing loosen its grip, and Pleo broke free, towards the steps. She grabbed the railing and clambered out and halfway up the steps. The hooded thing half-floated, half-walked to the bottom of the steps. Pleo extended her arm towards it, her forceps held like claws.
“Show yourself!” Pleo swiped at the hooded thing’s face. The tips of her forceps caught and dragged across rough metal. She intuited iron oxide, steel, and aluminium from the tactile feedback, but drew back her hand, startled by the unexpected sensation. When the fabric tore away she knew why—a tight rusted metal mesh concealed the face of the thing. She heard a muffled gurgling from where the throat was supposed to be, as if exposing its masked face had affected its breathing.
Pleo saw a chance and took it. She climbed a few more steps
, hoping gravity was on her side when she hit the unhooded thing in the chest area with a fla-tessen hand strike. It fell back into the water with a soft splash. She ran up the stairs and stopped to check that the thing was not following her. She saw it float away from her before drifting to the opposite bank.
Satisfied with the distance put between her and the thing, Pleo hurried towards Gachala Avenue before a Canal Newt spotted her. Going back to her dorm or home was now out of the question. Whoever had sent that hooded thing would send more.
The next best option was a room that had belonged to the late Gia Aront.
Pleo wished the temple had admitted her—crossing the heatshield boundary into the courtyard was less risky.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
WHAT’S WORSE THAN getting pieced back together?
Dumortier heard his urine trickling through a catheter and into a bag. He wasn’t aware of waking up; instead, he regained consciousness in several drawn-out stages, each step accompanied by an increasing sensation that he was floating.
Getting pieced back in the wrong order.
He tried to make a fist with his injured hand. So far still functional, but he winced when he tried doing so with the other. Shards from the broken splinter heart were still embedded in his wrist and palm, the raw wounds visible through the clear membranes of collagen dressing. He could not feel his lower body, but he was relieved to see the cast of self-mending plaster encasing his hips and legs when he craned his neck downwards.
Still in one piece—fractured and bloodied, but that was good enough for now.
