by Eden Wolfe
She had to go to the fortress. She didn’t want to go to the fortress. But she had to. This was not a question of choice. She never particularly wanted to go there, but she understood the power it held over her.
It was her birthplace, after all.
This was not the first time that the unwanted desire came. Sometimes she resisted, shrugged her shoulders, and found a chore to fill her time.
But this night, she couldn't resist. There was something so crystal clear in the silent call of it. Soundless but alluring. Beckoning, but suspicious.
Something wasn’t right.
Rose pulled her body inward, shutting out any sound but that which didn’t belong. She tried to find it in her mind, moving her ears through the streets while she stayed still. Seeking out the disturbance.
A few women scurried in the direction of the caves as the blowout would soon commence. Rose paid them no mind.
There was an intrusion. A discord.
A stranger.
She began to walk. Through Cork Town, through the old power station. The sensation of night air on her cheeks was silken. She didn’t feel the cold.
She entered Geb.
The fortress waited for her. It was eight miles in the distance but visible atop the hill on the city's most eastern edge. It didn’t look big or small, dark or light. It was simply there.
She heard her name. Her old name. But the voice who spoke it was not calling to her.
She stopped, suddenly less sure.
All went silent again.
The sound of water and fabric. The familiar sound of washing, water splashing, and woman. A woman sighing at the effort.
Rose heard it immediately on the woman's breath.
Tiptoeing in movement that barely touched the earth, Rose kept silent in the shadows, an act she had perfected with time.
She heard the woman’s chest expand, the air transform in her lungs, the heat of the conversion, and her exhale. Her heart.
Her smell.
Sickly sweet.
Rose knew the smell of treachery. She had smelled it in her first moments on Earth.
This woman was not from Lower Earth. She did not belong at all.
A scout was living amongst them.
Again she heard her old name in the distance. If it wasn't calling to her, and yet she was there, should she go? Or should she keep her eyes on the stranger?
Frustrated at the double pull to watch the scout and follow her name, she stood paralyzed as the traitor finished hanging the laundry and went back inside. Rose backed away, staying close to the shadows, moving as silent as the night.
With each step, the fortress grew closer. Rose began to feel less sure. The scout had shaken her fragile resolve. A question began to form. Rose did not often allow these questions. She rarely liked the answers and so she did her best to avoid any thought of them at all. But this one was growing like a cancer, dormant, a small cyst in a back recess of her brain, she had shut out soon after her birth. Now it rose up, silent and toxic, and Rose again heard her old name. Her name, like a clap of thunder, coming closer with each step.
A longing rose from somewhere deep inside. Under her lungs, deep in her core. Hardly anyone had spoken that name to her, nearly no one in her whole life. She had tried to forget it, to be reborn, but a name never hides when it is your name. Her name, spoken on the lips of one in the fortress. Her name, echoing down from the far-off hills, from the far-off mountains beyond that. From beyond and behind the fortress, from the distance beyond.
Rainfields called to her again.
Rose shook her head to release herself from the pull.
The voice in the fortress spoke, "Ariane. Come, come."
Sounds of the city began to die out behind her. Hissing light posts and cat steps on windowsills faded away. She had a sensation she might have called fear, if she had known what to name it. A rising wave of questions with no answers.
She saw a glow in the upper window in the south wall of the fortress.
Rose took three steps and had crossed the square. Another step and she was at the base of the south wall. Three steps up and she was under the window of the third floor, fingertips holding between the stones, toes resting on the accidental ledge between rows.
She listened.
She knew this room, its dark walls glowing warm in candlelight, and nothing had changed. She had been born here, the place between birth and the rest of life. She knew these walls well.
From her perching place, she could see perfectly into the Queen’s quarters.
The Queen had her back to the window.
But the young woman across from her caught Rose’s eye. Her skin glowed in the moonlight and her deep green eyes were no color Rose had ever seen before.
Rose had spent the last five years avoiding a moment like this. Ever since the Future Queen began to make appearances in the capital.
"Ariane," the Queen uttered Rose’s original name, but she spoke it not to her. The false sister stood across from the Queen, the discussion deep and intense. The green eyes narrowed as the false sister stood taller, speaking harsh words, words no Royal should speak. Words about disappearance, who should be gone, who had no right to live.
The Queen spoke again, Rose’s name of old slapping her ears. The name that should have been hers. But it was now the name of a Future Queen.
She watched the Queen's face twist, dismissing the Ariane before her, chastising and mocking. The Queen’s words were silent to all human ears beyond the Queen’s quarters, so low was her voice. But Rose's ears weren't human.
Hers were the ears from the design of Queens.
“You do not understand, Ariane…,” her mother snarled.
The Queen - her mother - and the code they shared made Rose's blood curdle at the sound of her former name.
“Hush, someone is listening to us,” the false sister and her green eyes walked to the window.
Rose had to get away; it was more than unbearable. She leaped and ran. She ran in tripping spurts to leave her mother’s voice behind. Anything to get away from the fortress that should have been hers to lead.
Anything to forget again all that should have been.
Her former name echoed in her head as she tumbled away, running in spurts back into the depths of Geb, not caring about the scout or anyone else who might see her. She had to get home and crush herself into her bed, under the pillow, muffle the sounds away. Shut out the voices of former Queens inside her that lifted to the edge of her hearing.
Even as she ran away, she felt her mother’s heartbeat intensify within her own. Her mother’s voice whispered gently over the city, speaking what should have been her name.
“Ariane.”
16
Rhonda
The first drummer was only just beginning her set when Rhonda arrived. Just in time. She loved to be at the blowout from the first beat.
The rhythm grew and Rhonda felt it against her ribs, the echo in the cave was harsh, bouncing the sound back at them. Everyone stood still, only a finger twitch or neck tilt was appropriate.
It was only just beginning.
The blowout was not a place for folly. A few had pushed the limits too far, and that’s why Don Women were instated. Don Women made sure that participants regulated their behavior during a blowout. That way the mystic nature of the event was respected, and nothing untoward took place. They couldn't afford to have the royalty cracking down on them. These nights were too important. They were their only reprieve.
The beat moved into its second set, the speed not faster but the sounds growing complex. The drumming woman's hands were hardly visible in the cave wall's candlelight. Rhonda listened for the pattern.
The rise and fall, there it is.
It wouldn't be long now, not long until the beat kicked up and the second drummer joined.
Yes, yes, there she is.
The beat moved on, moved on strong and simple, a clear hit, left and right and left and right. Pause.
> Oh yes, yes, yes it's coming!
The first drummer did the quick successions, fingers flying as the second drummer watched, the third, fourth and fifth awaiting, eyes tracking each hit, each slap, and swipe.
Oh yes, come on, let's have it! Rhonda felt it more than thought it. Her hips were still and ready.
But the downbeat. She was waiting for the downbeat. Eager for it.
The others were feeling it too, the rumble in the room growing, ready, anxious for it.
There it is, the second drum, on the hard rhythm now, steady... steady...and...
The downbeat kicked in and the bodies began to sway, shoulders left, shoulders right. All bodies in the crowd swaying.
Rhonda saw others she knew around the cave. She thought she saw Edna, her neighbor and fellow cleaner, near the entrance, but it didn’t matter. None of them would speak this night. No one ever did.
Here it comes back. I hear it now. The pitch. The slap.
Yes.
The sounds were older than Lower Earth, the beating from days before Mist and before men ruled the whole planet. The sounds filled the women's feet as they stepped in place, legs bracing, they moved wider, hips left, hips right, the movements subtle, a warning, a hint cast out, though they didn’t dare anticipate it before it came.
Rhonda felt it rising in her, in all of them. That's what the blowout was for, this feeling, this old feeling that was “mother walking as we were inside, before we knew what a step was”. The steps left, right, hips swaying the steps up and down through fields, through forests and cities, through life. The unborn walking through mother's feet, through the world. Through life.
"Through life!" the drummer called to them and the second drummer thrust into the beat.
Hips and shoulders, bounced, moving in time, all ears felt the echoing of the sounds off the walls as the third and the fourth and fifth drummer kicked in. That was the moment. All bodies moved as one with the beat.
"Through life!" the drummers called out and the bodies jumped in organized chaos, into each other, into the walls, into every boundary.
This is it!
The beats ran, they grew, they swelled and then, there it was, the moment.
Yes, this is it. Rhonda felt the energy compress as the bodies slowed to a stop.
Only one drummer played, a single slap, and slap, and slap.
The bass joined.
Boom, slap. Boom, slap. Boomslap, boomslap, boomslapboomslap and it was building again, and again, and again and Rhonda couldn’t think of anything but the sound against her ribs, and she was jumping and rolling into it, into the others. They were all doing the same, moving the same. The blowout grew, exploded, as the bodies moved faster with the beat, the beat with the bodies, the running, and jumping, and rolling against the cave edges and Rhonda was with them and in them. A great explosion of them all.
"Through life!" she called out.
"Through life!" a voice echoed.
"Through life!" two more, and then more, and more voices join in the call.
Her body took over. She closed her eyes, lost in the darkness as the hundreds of bodies jumped into a single beat, forgetting their world, forgetting the fear, the disappearances, and death, the imposed ritual. The amulets bounced against their chests as the bodies flew into the night and danced until the coldest hour died out.
17
Irene
“Go, let me prepare.” Irene stood in the doorway of her chambers still in her nightclothes. The messenger had woken her with panicked pounding on the door.
“Any reply, ma'am?”
“It will come. Stay near the fortress. Speak of this to no one, you understand?”
“I never would have, Commandante.”
Irene closed the door and let her eyes shut for a moment.
She pulled on her uniform. Buttoned the cuffs. Flattened the collar. Thread her belt and pulled it tight.
Pinned her medals.
Slicked her hair back.
In her reflection, the Commandante saw the picture of dignity and poise.
But inside her head was panic.
The news had come via the Guard to a messenger; thank heavens it was a Lania of the ninth line and not one of the others who might have felt compelled to leak the intel. The guard had stumbled upon a scout without knowing at first. The giveaway, so reported, was the underclothes. A scout not like any scout they’d captured before.
A female scout.
A female scout from Upper Earth. The tides are changing. Whoever would have guessed they’d send a female?
The foreigner must have stolen garb on arrival in the dark counties, for that was just about the only place in Lower Earth where people wouldn't report something unusual. They were used to strangers arriving there. After all, it remained the haven for many of those who had been disappeared. Some couldn't bear the idea of returning to Geb, shame on their names as it was. The dark counties, as far away as the West Strangelands, were a perfect hive for those otherwise unwelcome in the other, more loyal, parts of the country. The Sisters who lived there were always ready to welcome a traitor in their midst. The Queen hadn’t listened to Irene’s protest about the Sisters being allowed to continue the way they did.
And now, a female scout.
It was impossible to know how long she'd been there. Even the guard who discovered her reported being shocked by the sight.
Elen Gillard, the Queen's guard who had arrested her, was known for her dedication and her physical abilities, but not her intellect.
Irene would be the first to interview the Gillard guard, though hours passed and she hadn’t yet arrived. No other soul was permitted to speak to Elen during the journey. Irene had been clear: not a soul to say a word, the voyage in silence. Elen Gillard would recount the details to the Commandante. That way Irene could brief the Queen before news spread.
Maeva is not going to like this at all. She's been in such an unusually fragile state. This better not put her over the edge.
“She’s here Commandante.”
Irene stood from her desk and controlled her pace, hoping she was hiding her desperation well.
Elen was seated on a bench in the corridor, waiting. She was such a different specimen, designed for her vocation. Her block of a body was an oversized visual mistake. Buzz-cut scalp that had no symmetry, parts of her skull were shaved flat over lumps of bone. Her broad shoulders and thick chest held no breasts, her ribs to waist to hips were a brick of muscle. There was nothing beautiful in Elen except her desperate loyalty to the Guard. She was third rank, responsible for the raids and night watches in the outer territories.
Irene carried herself according to the Ganese priestesses principle of bodily preservation. She kept her hair long, dark, and healthy, according to the Ganese traditions. Her curves were at once feminine and powerful. The Ganese had long been against genetic modification. Irene’s code was as natural as the original people of Gana who had inhabited the island long before the settlers came. Long before it was called Lower Earth. The old tribe never would have guessed that the refugees would become their rulers. Nor would they have guessed that Irene would lend her code for the first genetic copy of a Ganese.
Irene gently shook her head and focused in on the woman before her.
Elen stood from the bench and saluted.
“Tell me everything.” Irene had no patience for customary greetings, not now.
"I couldn't believe my eyes," Elen Gillard's eyes widened at the memory of it. “I was just going by, doing my normal rounds, the reasonable route and saving the tough line for later, you know?”
Elen paused for a reply but didn’t get one, so she continued. “I would be seeing people about, this and that, here and there, completely in the usual. But then this. The fabric was wrapped-like around her upper thighs. I wouldn't normally be looking like that, you know, the rules on privacy and all, but I was on duty and she was by the water, beautiful lady, somehow sparkling against the river edge, you sees, and -"
Elen stopped herself.
Irene could see it was on the tip of her tongue to confess to something shameful. Elen was known for it, these unusual sexual outbursts. If she wasn't so good at her work, they would have been done with her long ago. Flaw in the design.
But Elen’s instinctual response to threat had resulted in the apprehension of some of the country's worst traitors. So they kept her.
"Go on, don't worry about those details. They are irrelevant for now." Irene added, "You have done well."
Elen's face relaxed.
"So, there she was, and her underclothes, the fabric was a sort of burlap, the kind we learned about in Past Ages classes, and I don't have much of a mind for that, but the treatment from times gone by fascinated me, you know? During the menstruation time? We learned about this custom, the wrapping from torso to thighs. And it stuck I guess because there I was and I was watching it unfold in front of me, like right there, unrolling from her thighs, the blood dripping out and damn, I knew, I saw it, and thought 'Oh no!' because we'd been hearing of the scouts and blending activities they'd be doing, but damn, here it was right in front of me, one of them, hads to be because we don't use those old ways here, being advanced and all."
Elen straightened her spine. She leaned in close to Irene's face.
Irene tried to focus, but her patience was running thin.
The Gillard line. All bulk. I'm going to explode if she doesn't hurry it up.
"Madame Commandante, I swear to you that the moment I realized, I had her by the throat. I made sure she wouldn't talk, but I didn't go too far this time. I'm still living the shame from the Ganese woman you so rightly made me aware - "
"Shut up, Gillard, this is your chance to redeem yourself." Irene took in a deep breath. She needed more detail. "Now go further back. Tell me everything you saw her do before you apprehended her."
