CHAPTER NINE

 

 

SAUREBARAS INSTRUCTED A senior Adept to lead the warm-up session in the hall. While the students arranged themselves into rows, she nudged open one of the double doors and threaded her body through the gap.

The senior Adepts were more than capable of leading the first half of the class. She would not be missed for too long. The corridor was empty, so she set off running, passing the two Spinels posted outside. She aimed to execute a flying somersault over the balustrade at the end of the corridor and to finish with a soft landing, pirouetting like a sycamore seed, in the Garden of Contemplation below.

She reached the end of the corridor, and was about to touch the balustrade when the reconditioning took effect. It was always the same flow of sensations: a split second of heightened perception and nausea, followed by a whip of liquid metal bursting out of her chest and lashing itself around her neck. Finally, blurred vision and her legs seizing up under her.

Saurebaras stumbled backwards as if the balustrade had scorched her. Released from a lab tutorial, a throng of students rushed past and she let them sweep her against the wall. If she tried moving too soon, the metal whip took on a python’s strength and tightened its grip.

A student called out for assistance. One of the Spinels stepped away from her post and barrelled through the human tide. She picked up Saurebaras by the waist and carried her away like a rolled-up carpet. The Spinel was about to head in the direction of the infirmary when Saurebaras summoned enough strength to point to a nearby bench.

The infirmary was a place of repair, not recuperation, not for a prisoner like her. Under her head she felt the metal surface, worn down by years of students sitting and waiting on it. She craned her neck to avoid the glare of ceiling lights and saw the Spinel resume her position next to her comrade. Both guards whispered to each other and cocked their heads in Saurebaras’s direction.

She wished the guards would drop the pretence of their presence being necessary. Better still, leave her wherever she was every time she defied the reconditioning. The guards never spoke to her, but she was well versed in their body language and gestures by now. A periodic shifting of weight from one leg to the other and glances exchanged with each other. These movements seemed to say: we hate to see you hurl yourself against the bars of this invisible prison. Don’t resist. Be grateful they gave you a second chance. Why keep torturing yourself?

To this last question, her answer was: they buried me, and my art. The guards thought she was resisting when she was actually testing the confines of her cage. She’d grown to tolerate the reconditioning over time and learned, via agonising trial and error, to work within its confines, and recognised how it inadvertently guided her in its own twisted way.

The noise and foot traffic in the corridor made her yearn for the private gardens on the Madrugal tier. They were more sprawling than Polyteknical’s and less cluttered with geodes and intersecting paths.

She had discovered how much the Madrugals adored birds in those gardens. This had been on the morning after her promotion to instructor’s assistant, three years before the development of oversized fla-tessen halls, rattling pistes, and the washed-out incessant observation of the screens. A pair of cranes cleaned and shook their black-tipped flight feathers while perching on the roof of an octagonal gazebo. The thick carpet of dew on the surrounding grass was not generated by humidifiers, and peacocks hooted around Saurebaras as she strolled along a stone path lined with crushed seashells.

Like a modrani parading on a catwalk the male peacock strutted towards her, its iridescent blue tail feathers trailing behind it. Saurebaras recognised the bird’s challenge and opened her new fan, matte black with transparent membranes, one of two prototypes recently developed by Ignazia. These fans were not classed as training or Adept types, since those terms had not been established when fla-tessen accoutrements were still in development. The peacock raised and shook its tail in a dominant gesture, making the gold and teal background feathers shimmer while the indigo eyespots remained still. Once Saurebaras’s vision had filled up with the illusion of a raging gold and teal vortex, the peacock reared its head and spat oily black bile at her.

Saurebaras blocked each incoming bile droplet with the opened fan so quickly that the liquid dissipated into fine spray. Unnerved by its opponent’s alacrity, the peacock dropped its tail feathers and retreated behind the gazebo, its sustained cries startling the cranes from their unceasing watch.

Applause exploded from behind Saurebaras as she caught her breath. Two meaty palms belonging to Patriach Madrugal slapped together in common time.

“You have the instincts and stage presence of a tiger.” He beamed.

“You’re most kind, but thank you.”

He held out his hand. Saurebaras hesitated before she took it, reminding herself that enduring his company was also part of the performance. The skin of his palm felt thin and dry, but warm.

This is nothing but theatre. Afterwards you’ll retire to the pavilion for some real indigo peony tea and as many squares of spun sugar gauze to place on your tongue as you wish.

“Do you choose from a set of pre-planned routines when you move against an opponent, or is it all instinctual?”

“Neither.”

How could she begin to explain such intricate processes to this jaded Tier Dweller? Every body—even Madrugal’s with its overindulged waist—moving through the kinesphere wrests artistry from it, consciously or subconsciously. She saw through her dance partners and opponents like water in a basin.

“Saurebaras possesses enough humility for all three of us,” Madrugal called out to Ignazia, his wife and Saurebaras’s teacher.

“The accents at the end of her movements are still too vague.” In imitation of the peacock, Ignazia jerked her head from side to side to demonstrate what Saurebaras had failed to achieve. “More definition and less whimsy, please. Especially with your flourishes.”

Madrugal did not defer to her assessment. “Her rhythmic precision is beyond visceral.” He addressed Saurebaras again. “Whenever you land or jump from the middle of the beat, my stomach ties itself in knots and my heart bursts with joy.”

A chorus of birdsong started up, overpowering Madrugal’s voice as he continued to praise Saurebaras’s speed and grace to an unconvinced Ignazia. Saurebaras picked up a fallen peacock feather, smiling even though she had heard all it before.

She had seen through him long before the testing stage, and was expecting Ignazia Madrugal to cease their private conversation—which she soon did.

“Put the test fan down on the bench,” ordered Ignazia. “Make sure it doesn’t drip venom onto any more of my new lawn.”

Saurebaras placed the fan on a nearby bench carved out of a single pallasite meteorite made of iron and nickel. The black peacock venom was still dripping from its opened membranes as Ignazia picked it up. Saurebaras observed the venom pooling around the bottle-green olivine crystals set into the bench.

“Fan membranes display a slightly improved absorbency over previous test batch,” said Saurebaras.

“I suggest you proceed with this batch,” said Ignazia.

“How much more uta will we have to bleed on another batch?” Madrugal frowned.

“At least ten more rounds of accessories testing are required before I’m satisfied. Then we give our military contractors their much-anticipated demonstration before the year’s end.”

Ignazia nodded at Saurebaras to indicate her involvement.

“You will allow her to perform the demonstration?” asked Madrugal.

“She’s more than capable by now. It’ll be a ‘touch-and-retreat’ style of display. If the contractors remain unconvinced by the end, she could always kill a Tagmat guard to make a point.” Ignazia noted her husband’s furrowed brow and quickly said, “I’m joking.”

Her perfectionist tone changed when she noticed Saurebaras describing a figure of eight in the air with the peacock feather. “Do you have anything else to add, Arodasi?”

Without hesitation Saurebaras held out the feather. “Put more of these eyes on my fans.”

Ignazia looked askance at her husband. “We have already finalised the aesthetics over the previous year.”

“‘Intention fashions the weapon. And—’” began Saurebaras, ready to launch into an oft-repeated speech about the value of distraction.

“I know!” snapped Ignazia. “I coined that so you don’t need to quote it at me.”

Saurebaras ran a finger along the feather’s shaft, waiting for Ignazia’s mood to subside. “I know it’s a last-minute detail, but it’d enhance the demonstration. I’d perform better.”

Madrugal nodded in tentative agreement.

“We’re creating a new physical language with every moment. There’s still so much potential.”

“I’ll consider your request,” said Ignazia as she picked up the test fan. Before she and Madrugal left the garden she told Saurebaras, “Remember: we found you dancing for uta along the bank of the Leroi—I can easily put you back there.”

Against Saurebaras’s expectations, six fans were custom made and delivered to Saurebaras within a fortnight. They arrived suspended in a sealed gift box filled with brine solution. The fans were mesmerizingly beautiful when she opened them for inspection; the vivid turquoise eyespots stared at her from the membranes. But their inconsistent placement irked Saurebaras at first; some eyes were too near the ribs, others right in the centre. Ignazia still had final say over the end product.

Saurebaras was down to her last fan when she realised Ignazia’s one-upmanship had done her an indirect favour: the fans’ unique patterns forced her to adapt to them. When faced with the unexpected, it helped to shut out distractions. She used the peacock feather eyes on the fans as a focus for her daily meditation—Be stillness incarnate. When the world is whipping itself into a frenzied blur around you become and remain the eye.

Years later, this mantra served Saurebaras well when a stale perfume, a blend of oakmoss and benzoin spiked with citrus, heralded Matriarch Aront’s arrival with her private security detail. Saurebaras was prepared to be courteous, but planned to cut short the visit by feigning a mild injury.

The perfume seeped through the reinforced door of Saurebaras’s private living quarters. Does the Gorgon subject all of her friends and associates to this odour? Don’t these Tier Dwellers send proxies to attend to matters in their place?

Saurebaras forgot about her planned charade when she saw how nondescript and absurd the Matriarch appeared out of context, where she was not hamming it up at some official function or swanning around the other Tiers. One hulking Dogtooth guard waited outside while the other entered first, sweeping the place. Strings of multicoloured beads dangling from the low ceiling brushed the top of the guard’s head. Satisfied there were no threats, he gestured for the Matriarch to come inside.

She walked with a stiff gait, trying not to let the overhanging coloured beads affect the tilt of her head. Her jaw twitched and clicked sporadically, as if it was prepared to dislocate itself at any moment and swallow trays of delicacies or people’s reputations whole. Apart from Gia’s attendance, the Aronts had no stake in Polyteknical or interest in fla-tessen, and as far as Saurebaras was aware, there no reason for the Matriarch to make an unannounced visit. Of course, she still wanted to inject drama into this tiny space by barging through the narrow doorway.

Fixed in the beam of her disconcerting yellow gaze, Saurebaras hesitated under the decorative beads, repelled and yet amused by the thought that Matriarch Aront was going to plant a big wet kiss her cheek.

And yet she imposed no such familiarity upon Saurebaras during that initial meeting: holding out a hand for her to kiss a ring set with a glittering black diamond as large as a quail’s egg. Saurebaras slowly dropped into a deep curtsy and the Matriarch tsked with impatience, flexing her finger and making the flesh bulge around the thick gold band. The choice of jewellery struck Saurebaras as odd; it lacked the characteristic Tier Dweller ostentation. Was Matriarch Aront in mourning, and for whom?

“I’ve never dropped in to visit you before.”

That voice can scour years of rust off the oldest canal bridge in seconds. She pressed her hands to her temples.

“A delightful surprise, Matriarch!” Saurebaras effused, removing her hands from her temples, and clapped like a child presented with a choice of gifts. At the same time she wondered when had Matriarch Aront become so concerned about Gia’s progress, or the genuine lack of it, that it justified a personal visit?

Matriarch Aront remained Sphinx-like. Without turning, she gestured to the guard to leave Saurebaras’s quarters.

“Is this about Gia’s involvement in the unveiling ceremony to the new monument Aront Corp is building?” asked Saurebaras, trying to buy time. “I told your daughter only Adepts dance in public shows, and one only attains Adept level on merit.”

“I applaud your integrity,” replied Matriarch Aront, “but I’m here regarding your involvement in another matter.”

“Such as?”

“Did you know the choosing of a successor is the most delicate issue for family businesses?”

And does Matriarch Aront always begin with an irrelevant question?

“The issue is better discussed with your husband,” said Saurebaras.

But her question proved far from irrelevant, when Matriarch Aront mentioned a familiar name. “Oh, believe me, I’ve tried, so many times, to discuss Gia’s future with him. He’s much too sentimental.” Her dusky yellow eyes were moist with fervent purpose. Machinations had been set into motion long before her presence in this room, all worked out with a pathological precision. “It’s all scheduled.”

As she spoke, Matriarch Aront lifted three fingers as though bestowing a benediction on Saurebaras, who was both chilled and infuriated by the gesture.

This is bad theatre, but you’re miles above it. Act nonplussed. Show this woman that you’re unflappable and that you’ve been through much worse. Tier Dwellers are so used to buying people with a snap of their fingers. And burying them once they’ve outlived their usefulness.

But the relentless precision of the decisions broke her resolve.

“Monster!” Saurebaras had finally spat, despite herself, the word freezing the air in her quarters. “You and your husband, both sick, corrupt monsters!”

“But ahh, ones who think ahead,” replied Matriarch Aront, without expression. “You’re past any sort of refusal now. Be a part of this as I now ask, or face the consequences.”

The ground was prepared, no matter how much Saurebaras resisted. Rankling at this intimidation in her private space, Saurebaras visualised a swift blow between the shoulder blades, enough to make warm spinal fluid and blood shoot out of the Matriarch’s bulbous nose. Anything to halt these plans, make this awful machinery judder to a halt forever.

But as always, her reconditioning reflex took over and locked her joints in place. The steel whip emerged from her chest and lashed her arms to her sides.

“It helps to remember you don’t have a choice, madame. Nothing more can happen to you,” Matriarch Aront said lazily, as she brought her face close to Saurebaras’s, intensifying the reek of perfume. “Chatoyance has already done its worst to you.”

She poked Saurebaras in the chest, making her flinch. The Matriarch raised a tattooed eyebrow, no doubt impressed at the reconditioning she must have heard rumours about.

At this slight Saurebaras retaliated like the peacock in Madrugals’ garden. She spat at the Matriarch’s golden eyes but missed, flecking her forehead and hairpiece.

A Dogtooth stepped forward to deal with Saurebaras, but Matriarch Aront waved him back. She saw Matriarch Aront pull back her arm before feeling a different sort of pain—a slap across her face, making her forget about the steel whip around her body for a moment.

“They’ve buried you, but used your own body as a coffin.”

And three of her personal guards relayed Matriarch Aront out of the room, no doubt to bathe in foully perfumed waters again. As she left, she pinned a posy of stiff white flowers on the door jamb, flowers that were made of dogs’ claws; an Aront calling card.

After the visit, Saurebaras realised she had been wrong about the Aronts: they had suborned her. It was crucial that Saurebaras had to transform from the eye of the storm into shimmering chaos around them to thwart their plans.

“I can become so inspired that I could explode with what is inside of me,” Saurebaras had told Ignazia during the fla-tessen trials. Now these words took on a new, unexpected meaning.

The sense of her ghastly purpose consumed Saurebaras until she could no longer keep her fragile surface tension under control. She had no choice but to be swallowed up into the maelstrom kept at bay by the reconditioning. Face down and confront every secret and demon that, for most people, would be quietly lurking in their subconscious, but for her were building funeral pyres and waging battles.

When she did ultimately resurface, she did so with the radiant serenity of a goddess, as if she was reborn with no trace of the agonies that had threatened to overcome her.

If Ignazia hadn’t been so dismissive of thoughtforms she would still be alive, long enough to be flabbergasted by Saurebaras’s mastery. The body, via the mind, had its own set of memories, and Saurebaras drew on hers when she dove into the inner pit. Her thoughtform never needed summoning—it was always with her, tugging on the chains of the reconditioning. The shawl stretched and twisted around itself until it became as hard and gnarled as a flail. A little crude, but she dispensed with grace and artistry at this moment. Deadly force required less energy but more precision.

Never a problem for Saurebaras.

Back on the bench Saurebaras waited for time and her body to snap back into rhythm. Three years of baseline frustration and discomfort had blossomed over the past weeks into imminent dread and guilt over what the Aronts were forcing her to do.

In her plans, the Matriarch had chosen another victim.

It was not Gia.