by Eden Wolfe
Marian. The Queen’s Guard. She who disguised herself as a Sister in the Strangelands and had committed such horrors there… Ariane knew exactly who she was, though she had changed so much.
She is a distortion of her former self.
Ariane watched the murderer, an explosion of who she had been, all perspectives and all angles stretched. The face half-alive, half-dead, seeming to rot under the moonlight. Ariane was clenched between fear and disgust.
The woman-beast turned its head, snapped it like a whip, and caught Ariane’s eye.
Ariane jumped back and away, silent at windspeed, flying sideways into an old tree trunk half sawed down.
She saw me. I saw her.
The eyes had blasted through Ariane, wide eyes, massive eyes that looked fist-like, inhuman, overgrown for their sockets.
Are we being followed?
Ariane tore herself out of the sight of the memory to scan her surroundings in manic review.
Scent.
Sight.
Sensation of ground movement.
Sound, silent. Where are her footsteps? Let her walk away. Where is the sound of her steps?
Not daring a breath, Ariane waited. A short moment later, the humming recommenced, and the footsteps carried on in the direction they had been heading from the start.
Ariane held the air on her tongue, feeling the stakes growing higher before her.
There is no predictable conclusion to our arrival in Geb.
Lying flat against the river loch, Aria in the south sought to understand the sensations running through her body. She'd heard the head snap, knew it was looking away from her, but felt the gaze land on herself. Not herself.
On her other-self.
She burned under it, panicking, feeling infant-like in cold sweats. It wasn't her experience, she wasn't the one being sought, but she felt it deep into herself until the air turned to wood and she was against it. The other one was against it. She was against river rock and tree trunk, in two places at once. She fought her logic to accept it.
She couldn’t see the scene, too far, too blurred. Her mind stayed at a distance while inside she was flying, blood rushing to the heart pumping faster and harder against her will. The other's fear vividly inside her.
The humming continued, grating, low discord, and Aria felt the other relax. Resting her head against the side of the loch, she wondered how life would continue with half of herself always somewhere else, with someone else.
Is this how it is to be, forever?
The question rose and had no answer. Firing calculations predicted scenarios without certainty. There was no answer to a question never before asked.
In unison, they restarted their movement from their separate locations, heading east. First low, then growing taller, they simultaneously recognized the need to act "normal". To walk as the common people walked. Draw no attention. Blend.
Listen to the city, they shared their thought.
The collective breath of Geb surfaced and settled with the sounds of lives closing down for the night. Closing doors, closing cupboards, closing shutters, closing eyes. First children, fluttering eyelashes, and slowly the rest of the city’s inhabitants.
Ariane listened to sighs and whines, complaints of this and that, meaningless words, light sorrows, and gentle pains. A cry from over there, a momentary wail, the commonness, so common. Ariane marveled at the simplicity of it.
They took cautious steps, a regular pace, regular gait, shoulders held suspended between alert and feigned disinterest.
Sobbing.
Someone sobbing without voice but with such raw emotion that they felt the weight of it. The sound carrying across the city to them. The voice behind the cries was familiar, known to them. A voice of their childhood. A voice that had once soothed them.
And then deceived them.
Archer.
Emptying their lungs of air, they controlled the rising heat on their necks. They observed their anger, and then set it aside.
No rashness, no revenge.
Not now, not yet.
Let him heave it all up, his guts and his heart.
Let him taste his treachery, eat the bile of it.
Now is not the time to confront him.
That time will come.
Walking the southern perimeter, Aria saw the skyline. The rocky cliffs of the west that blended into the fortress. She sat on the hill to absorb it before her, determining the safest route to avoid risk. At least as much as could be foreseen.
Central Tower drove up in the middle of it all, a shocking phallus from the angle where she sat.
Incredible that it was allowed to remain standing. But then, it had been built by men in the height of their power, just before they were to lose it all. It fit well with man's history that this symbol was their hospice and comfort.
Turning her eyes to the fortress, she assessed it for movement. From her position, she could only distinguish the heavy curtains masking lamplight.
The fortress. It was supposed to be her seat, her great reward for killing the infiltrator. That had been the story, the lies, they’d been told.
Nothing is as it was supposed to be.
Northbound, Ariane rounded the old power station. The electrical combines whirred, deafening those who lived in its wake, the very few who lived in the Power Hub. Ariane adjusted her hearing to listen through it. The last stop before Cork Town commune, the limbo between modern life and life on the outskirts. Outskirts of the city - outskirts of society - the border between them was marked by the power station.
Ariane looked down the unpaved path that was the only entry to the windy alleys of Cork Town, unafraid of being spotted. No one would recognize her in these parts; everyone here had their own story to tell. She carried on forward, pulled deeper into the city. The buildings began to rise around her. Low at first, then swiftly lifting higher into the sky, old blocks blended with new blocks, the concrete's grey darkened in night's shadow. The moon was barely visible; the light it cast was weak.
A woman passed her, oblivious, uninterested. Ariane noted the shape of her hips, which were perfectly like her own. This woman stepped with habitual rise to rise, just as she did. There were no accidents in their design, Ariane was sure.
They have pulled from our DNA for the Willing Woman program.
Another woman crossed, an older woman with her jaw set.
Set like Ariane's was set. So clearly her own.
Focus. Or we will be too distracted in our own image to hear danger when it comes.
Aria in the south heard the words of her other self, recommitted to her path, and walked dead into the center of town.
She caught a scent but couldn’t place it.
She sought throughout her own memory and the planted memories of the old voices in her. She ran the scent through, but there was no clear match. Too weak a reference, but she understood clearly.
This scent does not belong.
Ariane in the north heard the thought and resisted the urge to run inwards to the city. She kept her gait steady, her vision clear.
And then the scent hit her too.
Rounding an apartment block it struck her, pungent, unrecognizable. Slowly, even slower, she sought it out.
Hound to fox.
Aria in the south ran the alleys, near invisible, her speed unnoticed in the break between buildings. She took the risk; the scent demanded it. And then she was there.
A wood stove burned in the ground floor apartment of a Cork Town street. Here was the origin of this scent. Aria saw a woman kneeling in front of it. The woman's back was rounded over, looking at something in her lap. Her shoulders lifted, her head rose. Aria saw her profile. She was almost right, but yet not quite. The curve of her nose, the angle of her brow. Aria inhaled sharply as Ariane arrived beside her. They gazed a moment longer before sharing the thought.
She is not one of us.
The woman stood and turned, as Aria and Ariane pulled themselves out of sight agai
nst the concrete window block. Backs to the wall, hidden in shadow. They heard the woman's steps, heavier than any in Lower Earth when her heel struck the ground. It was the smallest of details. The woman may have passed unnoticed in the street, but for Aria and Ariane, it was all too obvious.
A scout is living amongst us.
They looked at each other in the fading dusk light and ran through the hosts of possibilities, the predictions, the ratio of likely to impossible.
Nothing was impossible anymore.
Their logic had been faulty from the start, but the neural pathways autocorrected and laid avenues before them hereto dismissed on the wind.
Time passed this way, hooked eye to eye while the worlds of danger and possibility spoke through them until they were interrupted with a raindrop. It landed on Ariane's cheek, and the other saw it. All thought paused and they shared a nod to find shelter.
An abandoned sewer duct gave them privacy and peace. The small pipe warded off curious onlookers. They pulled their bodies in tight to each other, sliding first pointed feet, interwoven knees, hip to hip, and bust to bust with arms stretched overhead. They slithered inwards to the pipe and to each other.
Mouth to ear they heard each other's near-stopped breath. Ariane with head on top rested her cheek on the other. And while it seemed they could get no closer than they were, they came to hold each other in embrace, the resting muscles now pulling in tighter, their cheeks pressed. The Ariane of Strangelands felt the warm breath from the Aria of Gana above her. It met her own exhale on its procession; the air rolled seamlessly from one face to the next, across the landscape of themselves. The two breaths moved as one into the black metal of the pipe below.
They moved on before dawn, having shared the night in turns of rest, changing heart rate their sign to take guard. They glided outwards from their resting place, gentle writhing to free themselves from the pipe's constraint. The outline of Central Tower consumed their view and together they began winding their way towards it.
Ariane slid into the crack of a slightly open window where a child slept. She re-emerged with fresh clothes, close enough in size for an appearance of decency. They slipped on the leather soles as they walked.
The sun threatened to rise as they calculated entry points to the Tower.
Front, impossible. Rear, challenging but possible. Windows and half balconies of fire ladders, preferred.
Everything appeared shut tight against the night's rain.
If we are fast.
If we are agile.
If we can maneuver quickly enough.
They took the first ladder in a jump, the second in a step, and then tried the next window on the rung. Locked shut. Thrusting upwards they pressed against each entry for some give. And they found one.
It lifted easily below her fingers, and the other nodded approval. They were hidden enough by the metal fire escape that their entry would be unnoticed.
50
Roman
Roman's mind raced at the Queen’s words. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
The backroom men were right. She’s going to cancel the Male Program.
He tried to control his thoughts and just listen without weighing all the consequences at once.
The Queen took a deep breath and continued. "Our resources are limited. Time is running out. We've been at this for a very, very long time, but the urgency of this cannot be overtaken by a pipe dream. Roman, we need to move on. We need to prepare this world for the inevitable. War will be on our doorstep within this generation."
"My Queen, I - "
She lifted her hand, but her eyes stayed trained on him in that disquieting way she so often did. He felt like he was being eaten alive, being absorbed into her.
Roman looked to Archer, who stood in the corner, staring, unmoving. He’d been a wreck ever since he’d reemerged in the Tower two days earlier. His skin had yellowed.
"I am sure you have much to say,” she waved her hand. “But first, listen. I am no fool, I know you have access to the records. But beyond all that, you must understand that when I was born, I was among thousands who wanted my place." She took a deep, almost labored breath. "What set me apart was not simply superiority. No, no. I was born with an instinct that goes back to our first generation. Perhaps the greatest gift the Mist gave us, passed down the royal lines." She came close to him. She took his hand and placed his thumb on her cheek, his fingers wrapping along the side of her neck. He kept his grip loose, but she squeezed his hand, encouraging him to grasp her throat tight.
"Feel this. When I call on them, feel what happens, and don't try to explain it."
She closed her eyes. He was wary but knew better than to speak. He couldn’t imagine what was going to happen. So he waited.
Her eyes tensed, her brow pulled in, and then he felt it, the rushing, the blood that moved like a waterfall, blood flying through and across her body. He felt it, a mad river rush, chaos over rapids and crashing, her blood crashing into itself. His hand pulled tighter into her, like a magnet pull, he worried he was strangling her, but he couldn’t stop it. He finally forced his hand to pull away.
Is she human? Even our designs can’t produce that.
"This is how I know, Roman."
He was frozen on the spot. The backroom men were both right and wrong. She was something apart from the rest - he'd felt it in her.
He'd felt it with his own hands.
"Do you need me to explain it any more to you?"
Still, there must be a chance, however small.
"What happens to the Male Program?"
"It's on pause. It's not over. Nothing is ever really over. But we have to focus now. The time has come, Roman. Today. We need to look across the entire country and put ourselves one generation from now. Come with me.” She took his hand and led him to the window. Below the people were starting to come together, a gentle movement of masses and the occasional laugh or call that rose above the din. He searched for the right words, the right argument, but the rush of her blood had washed his head clear. He was walking in a dream.
"You see? They know nothing of what is to come. But we do. Roman, I don't want to order you. I want you to see what I see, and tell me what must be done." She guided his head delicately to the window, fingertips under his chin. "What do you see?"
He hesitated. "Ignorance."
"Yes."
"Peacefulness."
"Yes."
"Laughter."
"Yes."
He looked at the Queen. "Life."
"Yes," she smiled, so beautiful, so soft. "Life worth preserving."
He nodded.
But it was not only life he saw.
He saw death. Death of every man who ever could have been. That was what she was telling him. There would be no pause on the Program. They would all be long dead before any chance of a living boy would be viable. He felt it.
And there was nothing he could do.
"You want a campaign?"
"Yes, Roman, a campaign. One that will ensure we have enough to fight when the day comes. An evolution of the Willing Women to something more, something greater. A program for the next generation of Lower Earth."
"How many?"
"That's your job, Roman. You’re not just a scientist anymore."
Roman cocked his head.
A political role? Perhaps this isn’t the end.
He looked at Archer, who hadn’t shown the slightest reaction. Hadn’t made a sound. His forehead had a light layer of sweat as he looked off somewhere in the distance with his lips slightly parted.
Roman felt the Queen looking at him sideways, curious, waiting. Her brow melted with bemusement.
"You will be making history, Roman. You - and the next Queen."
Next Queen? Already?
He could only nod.
Scouts among them. War. A new Queen. A massive program of increasing population. He saw there was only one path available to him. Everything else closed, every other fant
asy, every other hope.
This is what she is telling me. There is only one answer I can give.
"I must get to work."
"I'll expect you to report daily."
"Yes, my Queen."
"You call me Maeva now. Everything has changed."
"Yes, Maeva."
And she left. As quick as she came, she was gone. Archer, who hadn't moved since the Queen led him in, continued to stare at the space where she'd stood. Roman glanced at the latest male sequence on his desk and prayed this day didn’t mark the death of his dream.
How painful, this explaining at every turn.
Maeva rushed back to the fortress. Having Roman on her side was the most important first development, especially given Archer's fragility. When his hand was wrapped around her neck, she could see it in his eyes, she knew she had him. She’d squeezed his hand tighter, curious at his reaction.
The flow of the blood struck him hard.
His touch felt good. It was so rare she felt touch like this. Meaningful touch. She relished it, the heat, the variety of each finger, each finger's pressure, separate, quivering. She’d closed her eyes for just a moment to take it in. His touch blended with her rushing blood. The voices screeched from within, excited. They always loved it when she felt threatened. An ecstasy resonated somewhere deep inside her, somewhere forgotten, in someone else's life.
She let him release her.
It will all move ahead now. Roman will see to it. And he certainly won’t stray with Archer looking over his shoulder.
Archer, notwithstanding his current state.
An announcement rang out, not with Mary's voice, but a man's. Adam and Sara jolted upright at the sound.
"Colleagues. This is Roman of the first line, nineteenth floor. On this Tuesday of fourteen generations since the Mist."
Across the building, movement ground to halt. Roman's voice echoed through hallways, labs, clinics, and offices. Faces found each other with confusion, curiosity, fear. This was unprecedented.
