Deadwire

by A K Blake

  Of course, he had to admit that his dream job, while light years ahead of his work at the compound, wasn’t turning out to be quite all that he had hoped. He had surmised rather quickly that Personal Political Liaison, due to being exactly the sort of cushy position he’d been drooling over, was not exactly awarded on a meritocratic basis. On the contrary, each party seemed to reserve it specifically as a sweetener to placate large donors. And who had that kind of excess cash and wanted to spend it on not racing antigrav vehicles or box seats to gladiator games? Who had the connections that made it easy to get even more people to donate their money to not those awesome things? Old people, that was who, the older the better, from what he could tell. There were about fifteen other Political Liaisons between the Munificent, Progressive, and Royalist Parties, none of whom seemed to have been born his side of the last millennium. They frequently fell asleep in their chairs and had to be carried to their rooms by the human staff. When they weren’t snoozing, they were bothering the giver girls or deafly shouting their own glory days stories to anyone unfortunate enough to be within hearing distance.

  One of them was coming at him now, his eyelids already drooping, his nose red like a cherry tomato. Kaius made to escape, but the old geezer managed to shuffle directly into his path.

  “There you are, Kaius, you young buck! Why don’t you come on over here and have a drink with us?” He clamped his knobby-knuckled hand down heavily on Kaius’ shoulder, leaning most of his weight against him. “I was just saying to Frendeo that I looked about like you when I was your age, although taller I think, and probably a bit more blond. I had that cleft chin that drives the girls wild. This one time, I was at a picture with this brunette firecracker—this was before the days of holovids you see—she was a real feisty one that girl. Now was what her name? Anella? Anbrienna? Ann something…”

  Kaius gritted his teeth. Drowan Calandra VII was the aging patriarch of one of the oldest monied families in Laemia, certainly much older than his own. In fact, the Calandra family had been around since before the current dePulchari dynasty, something Drowan was fond of recounting at every possible opportunity. As was the case with nearly all aristocrats, he was a staunch Royalist, believing with casual and unshakeable certainty in the importance of maintaining the status quo, i.e. keeping himself in power. The only reason Kaius’ family supported the Progressives’ crazy agenda instead of siding with the Royalists was that, despite having been established for nearly two thousand years, the Amicus family was still considered “new money.” No matter how many charities and causes he donated to, his father couldn’t get them an invite to the Royalist inner circle.

  Following several failed attempts to weasel their way in with their party of choice, his parents had called him into the drawing room one night when he was only about fifty in order to tell him with much fervor and enthusiasm that they had recently converted to the New High Church of Anointed Saints. Pointedly ignoring his confusion, his mother had told him to go get ready for service. When Kaius asked her if it wouldn’t be unusual to show up without a copy of the seraphic canon, she paused for only a moment before replying loftily that they would buy one on the way to church. They made sure to sit next to Representative deManthus on the first night, and Kaius had been part of the glorious Progressive living hell ever since.

  “Ah, the truth is old boy, things haven’t been doing so well for old Drowan lately. You wonder no doubt what could possibly vex someone as wise and well off as myself, but take some advice from your elders: never cheat. Or at least, never take pictures. The wife always knows. Dieda take it how she found me out this time.” He sighed heavily, his breath laden with whiskey. “Now I’ve got to do the full apology tour, flower arrangements every day, spending time with her family, diamonds bigger than all her friends. It’s exhausting I tell you. Hardly even worth the odd bit of fun.”

  “Mm, terrible. Thank you for all the sage advice, I’m learning so much.”

  “Welcome you are, my boy, not everyone is willing to help out a young rival like I am.”

  “Me? Your rival? Never.”

  “Ah, don’t feel badly about it. You’ll get there some night.”

  “One can only hope, hope and dream...”

  “Indeed, that’s the spirit!”

  After what felt like an eternity he managed to duck away from Drowan, ordering a drink from the bar that he was pleased to see contained real gold flakes. Sipping on it, he surveyed the scene. Basilla had not yet arrived. A true master of the art of arriving late, her golden throne sat at the far end of the hall with a spotlight on it, unoccupied. The Progressives were at their usual table, with their usual expressions of disdain. It seemed extravagant balls were not in keeping with their pious principles. He made himself busy for a few moments, talking to the first non-ancient guest he found at the bar, looking casually over at them. Cleric Ascara narrowed his eyes in his direction but after a few moments turned away. It wasn’t exactly glowing praise, but at least he hadn’t been sent packing. Yet. Only two more nights to go before it was once again smooth sailing.

  Iona and a few givers he’d never learned the names of were standing several yards away. She was easy to spot out, due to her utter inability to pretend to enjoy herself, a sour smile painted on her face as she dealt with some old grandpa in a suit that was at least a century behind the times. It appeared she had gotten ahold of some gold body paint from someone, probably that forward one, Lulu something? Normally he found such things tacky, but seeing her, he found himself admitting there were exceptions. She wouldn’t be winning any fashion awards this decade, but in a strange way it suited her. The paint shimmered in a way that was almost subtle, gracing the planes of her chiseled cheekbones, radiating from the flat backs of her shoulders. It even managed to cling to her riotous mane of hair, the shimmering corkscrew locks straining to be free of the band that held them. With the gold paint against her dark skin, looking at her was like seeing a woman-shaped cutout of the night sky: Iona, the cosmos incarnate.

  She was different from the other givers Kaius had encountered, not soft or cloyingly in the way that many female givers cultivated. With her there was no fluttering voice, no carefully practiced facade of knowing experience or incredible naivety. He liked the way she was hard and lean, her body taut like the string of a bow. And she was blunt, seemingly entirely devoid of the ability to fawn and flirt with people she didn’t care for. He worried sometimes about where that lack of guile might land her, but there was also something he admired about it, a righteousness to her social failings from which he could not look away.

  Iona finally broke free and made her way over, the train of her gossamer gown trailing the floor behind her. Kaius nodded.

  “Io. You look ravishing, as always.”

  “And you look like a robot. I’m sure it’s very in vogue.”

  “Oh, trust me, you’re going to be seeing this face on every fashion blog as soon as you wake up tomorrow night. If you’re lucky, you might even be in the picture.”

  “I’ll hold my breath.”

  He gestured at the bartender to bring another drink.

  “So how goes the fishing tonight? That one friend of yours sink her hooks into any more big spenders?”

  “Lux? No, I think she’s settled on the duke. Trying to reel him all the way in.”

  Iona’s drink arrived.

  “Good health.”

  “Good blood.”

  They sipped on it in companionable silence. Kaius finished his with a final swig.

  “Would you like to dance?”

  “You read my mind.”

  She reached for his hand without hesitation, and there was something about her look that bruised him. Kaius liked her, that much he would admit, even if only to himself. But there was a guilt behind it, a knowledge that it was selfish to start down such a path. It was one that many had been on before and that, like those others, would quickly come to a messy and ruinous end, he on to other lovers and her left robbed of the be
st years of her youth, waiting to die alone.

  He knew vampires who liked it that way, preferred the affection of humans to that of their own kind. In fact, there were countless odes written to the pure nature of such relationships, built upon the idea that human love was somehow more complete in its brevity and one-sided loyalty, that to love a human was to catch a butterfly, cup water in one’s hands, grasp beams of moonlight, etc. Yet all he could think about was what happened to the butterfly when he was done with it, unable to fly due to his touch, hours of life left to crawl about on its grounded legs in the dust.

  ***

  “Alright, I can’t keep going.”

  More than ten songs later, Iona found herself out of breath.

  “You’re getting good, we’ll be winning competitions before you know it.”

  “Maybe you will. I’ll just stand around and clap.”

  Kaius laughed, then stopped abruptly, pulling a comically frightened face.

  “The Progressive’s are looking at me. No offense, but you’re not exactly the kind of exclusive clientele they want me scoping out. I’d better go butter up some old rich lady and get them a donation. You’ll be ok here?”

  “...sure.”

  With that he was gone, leaving her still catching her breath. Almost instantly, Iona felt a heated rush of air against her skin. The celebrity vampire from the night before appeared, flashing to her side as if he had been waiting for an opening. He smiled at her, more of a leer, the movement elongating his already hawkish nose.

  “You are quite the elusive one. Always giving me the slip. Now that I have your attention, however, I believe you still owe me some blood.”

  Too tired and annoyed to respond properly, Iona simply showed him the crown on her veingard. Vampire sight being what it was, even when customers were drunk they normally saw the marking before they spoke. Clearly Sylton was an exception. Apparently thinking she meant to offer him blood, he reached for her arm, but she pulled back.

  “Sir, as I explained last night, I don’t give blood to guests. I am companioned to Her Majesty.”

  “Well surely she doesn’t drink that much all by herself. I’d say you have a little left to spare.”

  She laughed incredulously but tapered off when it was clear he was not joking. Looking at him, she had the feeling again that she was ignoring something significant. It was as if cogs in her brain were turning and clicking but failing to catch. She tried a stronger tone.

  “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I am bound to give only to the Queen herself. You are welcome to take it up with Her Majesty if you wish.”

  “Well we all have a choice, now, don’t we? I’m not asking so much.”

  He leaned in close, creating an intimacy she wanted immediately to undo.

  “I won’t tell the others. I can keep a secret.”

  Kaius was already across the hall, trying to sell some potential donor on the Progressive agenda, whatever that was. There would be no help from that corner. Lux was dancing with her fourth customer of the night, drunk and high from the loss of blood, and Hann wouldn’t have come to her rescue even if he had been aware it was needed. She had no idea where Obrax was.

  “As I have explained several times over now, I couldn’t even if I wanted to, and seeing as I don—"

  The vampire exploded suddenly, like a bomb going off, perfectly still one moment and furious the next. He grabbed her by the shoulders, his hands hot like brands, pinching her arms to her sides. There was a roaring noise nearly indistinguishable from the rush of blood in her ears, a growling that she could feel in her ribs as it radiated from his body and through hers. The vampire’s mouth was open, his fangs fully extended, the pupils of his eyes so wide and black she thought they might swallow her whole. Though he was moving at hyper speed, it was as if time slowed, enough for her to feel the bite of his nails in the soft flesh of her arms, to notice the shine of the lights against his teeth. She felt the hard and fast pulse of her jugular vein, beating like a beacon as his jaw moved inexorably toward it.

  Then, as suddenly as the attack had started, he was gone. All she saw was a blur of white as his body was knocked to one side, his arms still gripping hers, so that Iona was ripped from his grasp and flung in the opposite direction. She fell hard against the marble floor, pain shooting through her right hip and shoulder.

  Scrambling, she righted herself and stood up as quickly as possible, but she felt incredibly exposed, her full weight on the uninjured leg and her hurt elbow tucked in tight against her body. The vampire was already standing as well, though now with him was the last person she had expected to come to her aid, the white-robed cleric from the Progressive’s compound. He stood next to Sylton, one arm around his shoulders in a position that might have looked friendly, were she not close enough to hear the clear threat in his voice.

  “...believe I sufficiently impressed upon you the importance at least appearing to be civilized. You may consider this is your final reminder that you are disposable. Do not flatter yourself to think that there are not more where you came from. Do I make myself clear?”

  Sylton nodded stiffly, his head bowed. This was apparently not enough for the cleric, who shook him by the neck roughly.

  “Do you understand?”

  “I understand. Please forgive me, Cleric. I will be better.”

  “Yes, you will. Or you will be finished. Now, apologize to the girl, and get back to the table before you do anything else stupid.”

  He let go of Sylton, and it was all Iona could do not to back away as he came toward her. He stopped a few feet away, not meeting her gaze, but looking somewhere in her general direction.

  “My apologies. I am unaccustomed to the norms of this place. I should have known that I could not ask you for blood.”

  He looked up then, straight into her eyes. However, far from repentant, his expression was dark with anger.

  “Trust me, I will not make the mistake of asking again.”

  Iona shivered. It was Kaius that had convinced her to leave her pulsor knife at home during the jubilee, citing increased security and scrutiny. She was suddenly furious at him, though stronger than her anger was the knowledge, clear down to her bones, that it would not have done her any good. They were too quick. She was too weak. She’d grown smug with herself, satisfied with her petty hacking and anonymous pricking at her enemies. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t the kind of brute power that they had.

  She managed a shallow nod, as Sylton walked away. The cleric replaced him at her side, his hand touching her elbow in what she supposed was meant to appear as a show of support, but which cleverly trapped her there with him.

  “My apologies. You would do well not to discuss this unfortunate circumstance involving Sylton with anyone else. Believe me when I tell you that spreading gossip of this nature is not in your best interest.”

  “Oh? I would think the Progressives are getting quite adept at deflecting bad publicity lately.”

  “Be that as it may, further damaging the reputation of your employer is a poor decision. I think even one so inexperienced as yourself would be able to work that out. That said, you may trust that any medical bills will be taken care of, and I will personally take steps to prevent such unseemly events from recurring.”

  She glowered. “I’d rather know what’s going on here. Who is that? Why can’t I find anything about him on FreeNet?”

  His face creased into a barely perceptible frown. “I think further information would only serve to stoke the fire that I am currently attempting to quench. I am happy to provide a bit of a monetary incentive on your paycheck if that is what you’re after, but further investigation in this vein will end poorly. I must reiterate that we preemptively appreciate your discretion in this matter. May I trust that we are at an accord?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “As we do in all things.”

  She wondered darkly, not for the first time, what sort of thoughts when on in t
hat skull-like head of his. After a moment’s pause, she nodded. She could always continue her explorations without his help, though so far she’d hit only dead ends. It was as if the vampire did not exist. But it was clear asking the Cleric would get her nowhere.

  “Good.”

  He appeared satisfied, releasing her arm and moving to a more acceptable distance.

  “You are doing excellent work here for the Party. We are very pleased with your success. If there are any other pressing matters, I will be in touch.”

  She watched him walk away, trying not to breathe too deeply from her battered ribs. From her pain, resentment spread, coating her faster than the bruises.

  Chapter 16

  The Queen arrived late to the gold ball, even later than was fashionable, her unexpected entrance causing a stir and nearly ruining Lux’s good buzz. Lux and the Duke had been chatting, his hand laid loosely across her knee, a heavily jeweled ring on one finger that sparkled almost as much as the champagne.

  The usual hush made its way through the crowd, though it was followed by more whispering than usual. That would be the Prince and his father. They always did know how to make a stir. Only, it wasn’t. In fact, they were nowhere to be seen. Lux turned lazily in the direction of the dias, noticing as she did so a familiar liquidized feeling in her limbs, as if they were at once floating and water-logged. Perhaps she’d gone a bit hard on the rum, considering all the transfusion pills she’d been taking lately. They did the trick in terms of staving off rejection, but they tended to magnify the effects of alcohol. It was worse when she couldn’t get a matching blood type, and what with the high demand for optime and commodus during the jubilee, she’d been forced to use a simplex instead. She could tell it was wearing on her, making her tired faster. Her head felt like a barely tethered balloon.

  Yet her own state of health was practically glowing in comparison with Her Majesty’s. Seeing her make her way to the resplendent golden throne, bent forward and hobbling like an old crone, her handmade designer dress obscured by an eyesore of a blanket someone had wrapped around her, Lux couldn’t think why she had bothered coming out. The Prince and Consort Rex were in attendance after all, she realized, though they were in the crowd rather than on the dias. Even the Consort Rex was being social for once, no doubt trying to make up for the dismal spectacle his wife was creating. Lux would never let herself be seen in that kind of state, ugly and weak. And while Lux prided herself on her well-honed public persona, even she had to admit that the Queen’s image was better maintained, under usual circumstances at least. The gold night seemed the worst of all possible nights to show such vulnerability, with the Progressives moving against her at home and the Ithscans moving against her abroad. If it were Lux, she’d fire her public relations person on the spot.