Glitter + Ashes

by Dave Ring

  “That’s okay. There are different ways of dealing with having no time left.” The bolts rattled out and the armor opened. The Pilot closed her eyes and sat still. Just breathed. Surprisingly, the mechanic left her alone. The Pilot heard her checking the coil gun’s magazine. She had fired most of the ammunition, and the twisting rail still glowed a very faint orange.

  “Jesus. How did you get blood on my beautiful paint job?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” the Pilot said.

  The mechanic looked down at her. Like she could feel everything the Pilot had, or hadn’t, through the armor plate. Like she could see something the Pilot kept hidden in the dark.

  “Sure,” Caydee said, “let me get you out of there.”

  Days pass in a strange way underground. Caydee sleeps whenever she can, and wakes when the Pilot and her mech need her. The machine needs her a lot. The Pilot, she’s less sure about. Sometimes individual minutes seem to take hours, like she can focus on a single problem for a week and find she’s ticked one thing off a list of a thousand and it’s only been five minutes and she has to move on. The Pilot distracts her through all of this, skewing the cascade of Caydee’s thoughts, even when she’s not around. She’s talked to her so much, and the Pilot never says anything. Caydee is sort of getting used to it; she talks to the mech the same way, and it never answers, so what’s the difference?

  “Anything you want me to look at? I can fix anything,” Caydee says. The Pilot is giving the machine her usual intense scrutiny. She turns from the mech suddenly, and meets Caydee’s eyes. A little awkward, because Caydee is used to the staring thing being unrequited.

  “Things that shouldn’t scare me do, and things that should don’t,” the Pilot says.

  Caydee is, for the first time in a long while, speechless. The Pilot looks at her expectantly, as if there was any kind of answer to that. Her eyes are the kind of blue the sky maybe was, once, but Caydee has never seen. She searches for something to say and comes up empty. The Pilot starts climbing the mech, and Caydee offers her a hand up. The Pilot almost takes it. Balks. Caydee powers the suit and buttons her up in silence.

  “Am I ready?” the suit’s speakers say.

  “Almost done,” Caydee replies.

  She bolts the chest plate in, and pulls the red spray can she usually uses to circle fault points off her utility webbing. She paints a little smiley face on the armor plate. The front camera bulbs watch her.

  “All better. Get out there.”

  She can’t tell if the Pilot laughs, but the mech lingers for a second before turning for the door.

  Caydee looks up. “Anything wrong?” she yells. The mech is facing the bay door, but one camera bulb gimbals to keep looking down at her. The machine reaches out one huge hand. Caydee reaches up to hold one of the fingers. The moment is quiet, briefly.

  “This probably looks really awesome. Can I walk you to the door?”

  The mech’s hand drops and it stomps off.

  Caydee smiles anyway.“Good luck!” she yells, as the Pilot marches her machine toward the bay doors.

  Scavenging missions take a long time, unless the pilots come charging back in a swirl of ash and darkness in a few minutes because everything went wrong. Some of the mechanics fret, some sleep or leave to get something to eat, if there is anything to eat.

  Caydee stays in her little pool of light and stows her tools. Arranges everything in rows as neatly and lovingly as a gardener in hydroponics planting seeds. Time passes aimlessly for a change, maybe a lot of it, until her earpiece crackles and the alarm klaxons go off.

  In the far darkness of the bay, the doors crack open, screaming on their rails. Four mechs went out. One returns.

  Caydee’s finger trembles when it touches her earpiece. In other pools of light, other technicians draw breath to speak at the same moment she does. Four questions for which there can only be one answer.

  “Pilot, respond,” Caydee says. Static. Her heart falls into her stomach. The mech stomps mechanically past the first few stations and stops in front of her. The coil gun rail is red hot, and the armor pitted with high velocity impacts. The central plate has a single conical hole bored into it, the shining metal looking liquid under the lights. The smiley face is gone. A rush of adrenaline makes Caydee feel like she’s vibrating. She grabs her impact wrench and climbs.

  “CKEM strike, somebody call the medics!”

  The bolts rattle as she guns them out. The entire plate is slightly concave. It won’t hinge loose when Caydee tries to pull it free. She drops the impact wrench and pulls out a vapor torch.

  The mech’s interior is full of hemostatic foam and blood. The suit has used every emergency system it has. Caydee torches the Pilot’s harness and manages not to set her on fire. She reaches in and pulls and the muscles in her shoulders scream. She ignores them. The kinetic energy penetrator has bored a hole in the armor and sent a semi-molten arrow through it, the Pilot, and out the back of the suit. The wound is somewhere beneath her jawline, and the foam has only partially stopped her bleeding. She looks like a ghost.

  More hands help Caydee pull the Pilot down, and in a few seconds she’s alone again. The foam is pink and tacky on her hands. The mech stands empty before her, as suddenly fragile as a punctured and empty eggshell. Caydee starts shaking.

  The Pilot knew this about her mechanic; she would find Caydee sleeplessly working on the mech, because it was the only thing she could fix. She couldn’t close wounds, or staunch blood, or light the sky or mend hearts, so she’d be working in a fever to get the mech back into working order. The Pilot wasn’t sure when she learned all this, but she knew. She wanted to see it, and the reasons for that were harder to explain.

  She made a good prophetess, even on unsteady feet. The Pilot walked gingerly, trying not to turn her head, toward the pool of light and sparks in the bay. Watched the muscles on Caydee’s back tense as she worked, and felt a twist of heat cut through the chilly air.. She banished the sensation immediately, but found it insistent, like a signal return on a radar track. Distant, but unsafe to ignore.

  The Pilot spoke. Her throat still hurt, and all she managed to do was croak.

  “Pilot!” The mechanic struggled to put down her tools without doing anything dangerous. Caydee hurled herself toward her, stopping awkwardly at the last possible moment.

  “Wait, fuck. Are you okay? Can I give you a squeeze?” She fidgeted desperately.

  The Pilot tilted her head up to show Caydee an uneven lozenge of metallic fabric stretching from under her chin to just below her right ear.

  “The weave is still bonding, but I’ll be operational in a day or two. The penetrator missed my spine, so it was just a bleed injury. Survive the first twelve hours and you’re in the clear.”

  Caydee took off one of her gloves and reached out very tentatively to touch the mesh.

  “Can you feel anything through it?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t want to touch it.”

  “I do,” Caydee said, and did. The Pilot felt it. Like someone touching her through a veil. Caydee’s fingers reached the edge of the mesh and met skin. The Pilot closed her eyes and tried to remember, idly, the last time she had really touched anyone.

  “I really need to give you a hug, okay?”

  The Pilot nodded, and more of the mechanic came into contact with her. She was very warm, and smelled like the mech, but a lot more alive. Caydee exhaled deeply, and the hot rush of it tickled the Pilot’s neck. She pulled back a little. Their cheeks brushed.

  “Better,” Caydee said. There was room for something between them. A perfect amount of space. The Pilot dropped her chin, closed it off, and their foreheads touched gently. The mechanic failed to let her go, and the Pilot let herself be held for a moment before looking up. Their eyes met. Travelers in the dark.

  “What is this?” the Pilot said.

  “Wrenching,” Caydee replied, letting the Pilot go and wiping at her face. She left grease marks and little glitteri
ng flecks of metal on her cheeks. Time didn’t bother to pass. The Pilot found her hands being held.

  “Come on,” Caydee said after a while, letting her go. “I’ll show you how I’m going to keep you alive.”

  Soon, scandalously soon, the Pilot is ready to go back out. The mech, of course, is pristine.

  “Clear,” the Pilot says, “button me up.”

  Caydee climbs easily up the mech.

  “Well, it can’t go any worse than last time.” She takes off a glove and finds some pretense to reach in and accidentally let her fingers brush the Pilot’s ear. “Are you ever going to talk to me about what it’s like out there?”

  “Dark and cold,” the Pilot says.

  “Two words. I’m making progress.”

  She’s trapped until the mechanic finishes powering up the machine. Caydee leans in to kiss the Pilot for good luck as if it was something they’d done a hundred times before. The Pilot balks. Turns her head and closes her eyes.

  “This doesn’t mean anything and cannot go anywhere.”

  Caydee laughs. Not childishly. From somewhere deep and old.

  “You are not very good at this.”

  “I’m also not wrong.”

  “I know.”

  The pilot opens her eyes. The mechanic is smiling at her sweetly, like she knows something very simple and wants her to understand it without making her feel bad.

  “What?”

  “You don’t stop feeling when there’s no hope, you feel because there is no hope. You have everything backward. There is nothing wrong with this. Check it out.”

  Caydee leans forward, one hand gripping the armor frame, and joins the corner of her lips to the Pilot’s. Nuzzles and turns her head so that the Pilot has to turn with her. The Pilot tastes a little sweat on her lips. The feeling of the kiss is that of being plugged into a battery, of feeling a charge that makes everything that comes after possible. When it breaks it leaves electricity.

  “The world is broken. You’re broken. I get it. I’m not. Okay?”

  The Pilot meets Caydee’s eyes, soft and brown, and tilts her head up. Their lips touch again, for a little longer, until Caydee’s twist into a smile.

  “See? Not wrong. Now, can I call you something other than ‘Pilot?’”

  “Pilot is fine,” the Pilot replies, but there’s something other than emptiness in her eyes.

  “Fine. Go out there, Pilot, and come home. That’s it. Go out there and then come back to me.”

  The Pilot nods, and Caydee lowers the plates and bolts shut her armor against the world.

  Twelve minutes before the Dawn

  Virtus’ heart fluttered like a caged bird as he waited in the wings for the emcee Our Glass to call the category. No. He smoothed the dress over his thighs. Aurora was cool and shining bright as the rippling lights in the sky. As bold and commanding as thunder. Virtus’ heart slowed as he tried to channel Aurora to the fore. The pieces kept slipping in his mind.

  Focus! Everything depended on this performance: the standing of the House, his reputation, everything! If he failed—no. He was spiralling. Virtus took a deep breath and reached for Aurora’s majesty.

  Two-and-a-half hours before the Dawn

  “Right, now that your quongs are out of the way, take your bagaga and pull it back between your legs. That’s right, tuck it right up between those sweet cheeks.”

  Virtus stifled a laugh as Dame Fyne Kaffeh instructed her newest protégay in the fine art of feminine impersonation.

  “It’s tickling my nether eyeh,” Pharrah moaned.

  “Count your blessings, then,” Dame Fyne shot back. “Now get that wig on, girl! Your category is coming up.” She turned to Virtus. “Be with you in a moment, love.”

  “Thank you, Dame Fyne,” Virtus murmured. “I know it’s last minute.”

  A great grey pearl fell from his lips as Virtus spoke. He caught it with practiced ease and tucked it into one of the many small pockets sewn into his clothing.

  “Half an hour, messecaffers!” Someone hollered from the door. “OTA Triple-E in half an hour!”

  “Thank you, half,” was the chorused reply. The room, already a crowded and chaotic whirl, erupted into frantic activity. Makeup and wigs were swiftly applied, corsets were cinched for the gods, and a small spat broke out over an iron rod enchanted to produce the perfect curl.

  “Hey,” a voice murmured in Virtus’ ear, “you got this. Because I got you.”

  Virtus smiled as Thom’s leather-clad arms encircled him. Virtus inhaled his scent and sank back into Thom’s embrace.

  “You’ve won what, two categories tonight?” Thom flexed, squeezing Virtus’ chest. “Cake. You’re going to be great as Aurora. If you can win that easily as yourself, you’re going to slay when you drag up.”

  “But I’ve never done it in public before,” Virtus protested. “She’s never allowed me to. Mother—”

  “Can fuck right off,” Thom interrupted him. “Forget what she thinks. It doesn’t matter. Tonight is about you. About Aurora. About winning on your terms. Not about what will or won’t irritate the Dragon Lady of House Valenziaga.” Thom paused, cocking his head to one side. “I mean, is there anything that doesn’t irritate her?”

  “Honest compliments. Impeccable couture. Seeing her rivals ruthlessly ground beneath her heels.”

  Each sentence was punctuated with the appearance of a rose. These Virtus absently threw into the churning crowd in the dressing room. Someone would snatch them up and use them before they faded.

  “I thought my family was bad.” Thom fidgeted. “Your mother really takes the cake, though. Of course, I haven’t met her in person to know.”

  It was a familiar complaint and Virtus waved it off. “Believe me, it’s safer that way. She’d hate you.”

  “I think I could handle it.”

  “When I was seven, someone sent a blind assassin after her. He carved out his own heart in remorse as soon as he heard her speak.”

  “You’re fucking joking.”

  “She keeps it on her vanity. I can show you if you don’t believe me.” Virtus stared disconsolately into the mirror. “I’m just a pale shadow of her glory.” The truth of that belief was bitter on Virtus’ tongue and dropped wormwood and carnelians from his lips.

  Before Thom could disagree, Dame Fyne swept up to them, a set of elaborate brunette wigs in her arms.

  “Now,” the motherly drag quean said, “tell me about Aurora. Who is she? I need to know so we can choose the right riah.” She set them out in front of Virtus, who cleared the cluttered table to make space, brushing aside various cosmetics and plucking an antique comb from the tangle.

  “Whichever one is darkest, as the night before the dawn,” Virtus answered, absently. Who was Aurora? He had pieces, but—Virtus tensed, his hands clenched, and the comb between his fingers snapped.

  “Oh no!” Virtus looked from the pieces to Dame Fyne. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to break it.”

  “Don’t sweat it, dearheart.” If Dame Fyne was put out, she hid it with the skill of the long-suffering. “It’s easily fixed. We’re Queans of the City, girl, remember that! And we’re gonna do what queans have always done: take something broken and make it beautiful! Paul? Paul Ari, get your tuchas over here. I need that pot of vlacquer.”

  A butch sylph in a tuxedo and black patent leather brogues breezed through the crowd, a small earthenware pot in hand. Dame Fyne uncapped it and carefully selected a brush. “You,” she snapped her fingers at Thom, “make yourself useful and hold that comb,” and with deft hands began to apply the iridescent glop to the fracture line.

  “We can’t risk getting any of this stuff on your hands, m’dear,” she said to Virtus. “It’s utterly vicious. Viscous? Vicious. Anyway, it’s the second-stickiest stuff I’ve ever had on my hands.” She winked broadly.

  Virtus managed a smile. Thom snickered outright.

  “There,” Dame Fyne said brightly. “Better than new.” She held up the comb.
A glittering line of iridescent vlacquer cut prettily through the original design, fusing the two halves once again into a solid whole.

  “I’m on!” Pharrah squealed, bouncing over to her drag mother. “Wish me luck!”

  “Good luck, lovely.” Dame Fyne squeezed Pharrah’s shoulder in a rough display of affection. Pharrah briefly touched her fingers to the older quean’s hand and smiled. Virtus blinked rapidly and turned away for a moment, swallowing several times to clear a mix of envy and sorrow from his throat. Things with his mother were never that sweet, nor that simple.

  Half a day before the Dawn

  Virtus looked down at the City, spread around the towers of House Valenziaga. Virtus had been summoned and was being made to wait. By his own mother. You’d think her son would rate better treatment. Still, at least the view was nice.

  Every window faced edgeward, this close to the centre, with an unbroken view all the way to the kaleidoscope sky above the City’s outskirts. Well, unbroken except for the void-dark hole punched through the city where the House Yvonnrae had, until recently, stood. As he watched, a patch of crimson bloomed at the edge of the sky, flecks of gold flashing at the heart of it. Somewhere, in some faraway world, a cataclysm had struck and sent a fragment spinning away, to be drawn to the City like yarn to a spindle. The Edgerunner gangs would be out in force as soon as the worldmote drew close enough, to salvage and scavenge, picking it clean long before it settled into place as part of the City. That is, if the thing didn’t crumble to nothingness first, pulled apart by the strange tidal forces that dominated the Verge.

  Virtus’ heart beat faster; his stomach fluttered. The thrill of the ‘run edged through him, half memory, half anticipation. That thrill never wore off, partly because Virtus could so rarely sneak out to the Verge himself. He hadn’t managed it since that broken palace tore itself apart nearly two weeks ago. His mother did not approve of her only son and heir slumming it at the edges of the City.

  “Stop sulking at that window.” The command lashed out at him from behind.