It’s not half bad for a Dividian, you think. A glance shows the video’s been watched two million times. A clip of you dancing on the beach last week had double that number, but still, not bad for a Dividian.
“Stage in twenty seconds,” Zeta announces.
You nod, shedding stylists to glide through the backstage labyrinth. You like the quiet darkness, but you like the bright chaos even more. A thousand cameras flash as you take the stage. You brush a dark lock behind your ear because you know Bravos is watching, and he’ll love that little display of calm control. When you flash your commercial smile, the media attendants swoon. Automated applause echoes out from each of the metallic chair mannequins.
Life has readied you for the stage. You know to keep your eyes level, your back straight, and your legs crossed. The designer’s auction only finished an hour before the interview. Seven thousand legions pile into your personal account from some off-brand company just so you’ll wear their jacket during the live feed. It has the most absurd silver loops you’ve ever seen for buttons and a vintage collar. Not really your style, but the video will feed through the Chats and before long you’ll see it featured in storefronts on Promenade Avenue. A little sacrifice for a little pocket change never hurt.
House lights come up and you get your first look at the audience. People are still bidding for seats, so the faces and clothes keep changing inside the vacant, crystal mannequins. Bidding on the front row’s even fiercer than usual. You watch the faces change. Bearded men replaced by bald women, diva stylists outbidding political dignitaries. Everyone wants a taste of you.
Overhead, a clock ticks down bright-red numbers. When it hits zero, the auctions will end and the interview will begin. Only the back row’s not subject to the grappling of public hands. You promised yourself you wouldn’t look there before the interview, that it’s the grown-up thing to do this all on your own, but you can’t help it. You’ve always needed them.
Father and Mother sit in their customary seats, back left. Father’s hair is swept into a traditional topknot. So old-fashioned, but he makes it look classic somehow. You know most men who’ve won the Races put on weight as the years pass. Fifteen years of endless training lead to fifteen years of banquets and parades. But not for your father. In the same way his haircut and uniform are timeless, so is he. A mark of something better, something the years can’t wash away.
Beside him, your mother. That famously pointed chin, those famously watchful eyes. After her victory in the Races, women actually purchased illegal surgeries, hoping to look a little more like the famous Prama. The government agencies had so much trouble regulating the industry that they just changed the law instead. For three years in a row, your mother was Going Girl magazine’s “Most Desirable Bachelorette in Furia”!
Until she married your father.
The perfect couple.
Which left you with only one choice: to follow in their perfect footsteps.
The red numbers vanish. You lift your chin and turn as the crystal mannequin in the opposite seat animates, filling with color. A blue suit and pink buttons. The famous showman, Maxim, sweeps a robotic hand through his perfectly combed hair and smiles for the cameras.
“We’re back and live with our coverage of this year’s Races. But there are some people who would argue that our coverage is only beginning as we arrive at the interview that everyone in Furia has been waiting for. Gods be good, Pippa, you look astonishing.”
Smile once at the audience, once at Maxim, prepared answer.
“All thanks to the designers at Press Emporium and the unbelievable makeup artists that Flight Forever sends over before every interview. Where would I be without those girls? They’re the ones who inspired my catchphrase, after all. You remember it, Maxim?”
The showman smiles. “I’m really not sure I’ve heard anything about a catchphrase.”
Incredulous look, wink at the audience, wide smile.
“Really? And I thought you were the kind of guy who knew things.” Second wide smile. “Let’s see if my real fans know it: I totally believe in luck. In fact, the harder I work…”
Raise an eyebrow to cue the audience.
Everyone shouts, “The more I have of it!”
Maxim claps his hands and smiles. Your publicist found that quote in some gods-awful library up north. The team ran through catchphrases for hours before settling on that one. You know they’ll be filling back orders on the glittering T-shirts you designed for weeks to come. Your father said you should be more focused on training than sales, but you’ve always been a best-of-both-worlds kind of girl.
“Pippa,” Maxim says, leaning conspiratorially close. “If we’re being honest, last year’s event was overshadowed by the knowledge that you would be eligible for the Races this year. It doesn’t mean we weren’t entertained, but we were simply ecstatic to get to this year’s ride. Everyone was very pleased when you decided to submit your name in your first qualifying year. Was there any pushback on that?”
Amusement, a shake of the head, firm voice.
“Not at all, Maxim. My father preached caution in the past, but after seeing me in training sessions and on the amateur circuit, he withdrew those concerns. It’s pretty clear now that I’m ready. As the daughter of two former champions, this is in my blood. I’m not here to put on a good show or smile for the cameras, Maxim. I’m here to win.”
“As sharp as your mother and as fiery as your father!” He looks back to the audience. “I’m glad you’re up to the challenge. We’ve been looking forward to this, so much so that we just set the record for audience calls! Ready to field your fans’ biggest questions, Pippa?”
Soft smile, playful wink. “Of course, Maxim.”
“All right, let’s get to it!”
The interviewing mannequin shimmers. Maxim’s tie disappears and a woman with a bright-red scarf and square-framed glasses replaces him. You smile as your first caller lets out a rather hideous squeal and wiggles with delight in her seat.
“It’s actually you! You! Here! In front of me!”
You smile wider. “Pippa, at your service.”
“Well, I just had to ask you about what happened with Bravos.”
Show a flash of anger. Follow with a playful front. Respond with a question.
“I thought he’d come up tonight. What did you want to know about Bravos?”
You keep your smile steady as a knife. Only two days ago, you and Bravos put on quite a performance for your dinner guests. He contradicted you on something. You pointed out how boring his tie was. It wasn’t long before the Chats were full of rumors about Furia’s favorite couple. Were they really breaking up?
“Well,” the fan says. “I’ve followed your romance since day one on the Chats! So hot and steamy and just, I don’t know, fun. But the reports claim it’s over. Say it isn’t so.”
“It is so.” Every audience member punches their gasp buttons. The room fills with robotic sadness and you’re careful to let it die down before continuing. “Bravos and I had our time. But in a few weeks, he becomes my enemy. Anyone standing between me and the finish line can only ever be that: an enemy.”
You know the words are lifted directly from your father’s first interview. The publicity team concluded you looked soft in the eyes of other contestants and that you needed to adopt some of your father’s intensity. Loom larger and look wilder. It was easier to take Father’s words and carve your own threats out of them.
The fan nods sympathetically before the interviewing mannequin goes blank again. There’s a lottery shuffle of faces and clothes before a thin man with dark eyebrows and a severely angled face appears. You smile as his eyes widen in surprise.
“Oh dear gods.”
You laugh. “A mere mortal most days. What’s your question?”
He blinks before speaking. “I was wondering abo
ut your training. The Chats say you were in Baybou last week and the Sunsickle Islands before that. Some of the other contestants post training videos every day. Are you really as prepared as Etzli or Revel?”
Bite the lip, exasperated sigh, firm eyes.
“I saw a few of those videos. Impressive, but nothing I saw in any of them has me worried. I’m one of three contestants riding a pureborn phoenix. I went to Baybou to get him accustomed to the thinner air. Then I visited the Sunsickle Islands so I could practice quick water and land transitions. People only ever see the pictures of me sunbathing on the beach or attending Crossing matches, but every hour in between the stolen photos is spent training. I’m ready, sir, and any competitor who thinks I’m not is just giving me one more way to beat them.”
Applause buttons flood the room with noise. The next fan doesn’t look a day over twelve. But she doesn’t stutter through a question or shake with nerves. She’s focused, a young Ashlord girl who looks like she’s trying to learn a valuable lesson from a worthy teacher.
“Pippa,” she enunciates clearly. “How are you going to handle the Longhand?”
Nod seriously, keep chin raised, show no fear.
“So you saw that announcement yesterday?” Proud smile, little wink. “I suppose the entire Empire’s heard about Adrian Ford by now. Looks big, doesn’t he?”
The girl gives a nod, grinning. “I wouldn’t want to wrestle him.”
You laugh. “Me neither. Fortunately, this isn’t a wrestling match. It’s the Races. Adrian made a lot of noise yesterday, but remember, that’s all thunder ever is. Noise. It’s the lightning you have to worry about. Ever seen a good storm out on the plains?” The girl nods. “You always see the strikes before you hear the boom. That’s how I’ll handle the Longhand. I’ll ride hard and I won’t look back. I’ll be in the distance, and he’ll just be the noise that follows.”
The girl nods like she’s the lightning, too.
“Besides, we know the Longhands aren’t accustomed to winning.”
That draws a laugh from the crowd. You watch the mannequin spin through an endless sea of faces. It stops on a fourth fan. Pretty eyes, round face, hair styled short like most middle-aged women in Furia. She doesn’t smile and she isn’t nervous.
“Pippa, I wanted to know something.” The voice isn’t familiar, but you hear something in her tone that’s like a second language. Your fame has negative consequences, too. It comes with denouncers and haters. You know the kind of words that always dance with a tone like this one. “How many Beholder shots did you pose for? How many marriages are you planning on ruining as you put yourself out there for money? Do you have any idea how it makes us feel?”
It’s the only question you’re not ready to answer. The natural cues don’t come. You stare at her, wondering how to lie to her and to the cameras and to everyone, but she doesn’t let you get that far. The mannequin lunges out of its chair. You duck back instinctively, but the chair you’re sitting in is high-backed, and your escape routes are all cut off. Your eyes widen as the metallic hands reach for your throat.
And fall short. The machine’s fail-safe system hums to life and the hands hang lifelessly in the air, just a few inches from your neck. The audience stares in horror until Maxim’s blue tie appears and the mannequin takes its seat again. He sweeps a hand through that perfect hair and starts to apologize.
“We’re so sorry about that, Pippa. Always a few people out there trying to ruin the fun.”
He’s smiling, but you see his head tilt slightly to one side, and you know his producers are feeding him some fresh bit of news. You remember he’s got a show to put on. To him, that’s all that matters tonight. Not you and not your feelings and not your privacy.
“We are receiving reports,” he says, “of several sources claiming these Beholder shots do exist. My producers would kill me if I didn’t take the time and at least ask—”
“This is done,” you say, because if it’s not done now, you’re going to get burned to ashes in front of a live audience. “Thank you for your time, Maxim. Goodbye.”
You’re backstage in seconds, crew swarming around you, studio door opening. One photo shoot. That’s all it was. You did one Beholder session. It wasn’t even anything scandalous. A few pictures of you in a bathing suit. A little skin, but nothing you don’t see on the streets of Furia every day. Your publicist was all warnings, but the cash was too good to pass up.
Beholder shots of a girl like you sell very well. Only twenty-seven were produced. For each picture, only the first person to open the portrait can see the contents. That’s the two-way beauty of Beholder shots. It gives the buyer something private and unique, something only they can see. And it promises anonymity. You agreed to do it because you thought no one could prove the picture was of you, because no one but the first Beholder can see it.
“What are they saying?” you hiss.
Zeta just shakes her head. “He says it’s a completely revealing shot. The descriptions are crass and crude, but the account’s been seconded already. It’s a nightmare.”
“But they’re lying. You can’t see anything in those photos.”
She frowns back. “It doesn’t matter now.”
And she’s right. It doesn’t matter. Beholder shots work both ways. No one can disprove what they’re saying because no one else can see the shots. All that matters is what they’ve said, and the doubt they’ve already planted in the mind of every fan, every critic.
“We release a statement,” you say. “Dismiss the rumors.”
“Not yet,” Zeta replies. “Go home. Be with your family. I’ll have to come up with a whole new branding strategy. Give me a few hours. I’ll come by tonight.”
“Great,” you say. “Just great.”
But your mind’s skipping ahead. You’re trying to imagine what your parents will say, what they’ll think. And then Bravos. You never told him, either. Dreading all of it, you change into your sponsored evening wear, wrap yourself up in a summer scarf, and storm out of the room. Reporters catch you at the back exit, flash bulbs bursting, but you don’t answer questions as you mount your phoenix.
Instead, you smile wide, look unconcerned, and show them no fear.
The next day there are seven million views.
Farian’s page on the Chats has two thousand new subscribers. Our older videos are getting clicks, too. We skip the second half of the school day, apologizing to Doctor Vass, so the two of us can monitor our pages and make money on all the advertising. We knock on the back door of Amaya’s bar just after lunch hour and she grins us inside.
“Imelda Beru,” she says. “I didn’t know Alchemists could fly. Lucky you didn’t break your neck, girl. Take any hub you want. I’m not expecting anyone else this afternoon.”
Every house in Furia has dual connections to the Chats, but our village is a far cry from Furia, or any city with decent tech. Most homes have incoming feeds, because watching Crossing matches or the Races is a national expectation, regardless of creed or homeland. Outgoing feeds are costlier and a lot less common. I know the town hall has a few hubs. Our village’s overseeing Ashlord, Oxanos, likes to complain about how slow the feeds are in our scab of a town. Amaya’s place is the only business that’s taken a swing at the modern world.
“Thanks, Amaya,” Farian says. “Normal rates?”
She shakes her head. “Free of charge.”
Farian frowns at her. “We finally have money to pay you, and you don’t want it?”
“On the house,” she repeats. “For Imelda’s birthday.”
Farian snorts a laugh. I thank her, but both she and Farian know I hate birthdays. Farian’s played nice for once, not mentioning it all morning, but that just makes me think he’s got some stupid gift wrapped somewhere for me. Every year I dance away from the ridiculousness of the celebration, and every year it still finds
me. There’s nothing worse than being celebrated for an event in which I was basically a nonparticipant.
Farian’s still laughing as we set up Amaya’s equipment. He hooks me into the first hub before hooking himself into the second. Farian knows how to work a camera, but he’s even better on the business side of things. He diverts incoming messages about our old videos to my screen. Little companies have sent us a few offers, gambling on the hope that views continue to come.
But the real cash will come from the auction he’s running for our next big advertising spot on the Trust Fall video. I watch his fingers dance over the keys. He pulls up financials on one page and starts reading through our numbers for the last twenty hours.
“We’ve almost peaked,” he says. “They’ll move on to a new video tomorrow, but we’ve already pulled more money for this than all of our other videos combined.”
It’s hard to believe. “What’s the take?”
“Three thousand legions?”
“No way,” I say, eyeing the screen over his shoulder. “There’s no way it’s that much.”
“On top of whatever we get from this final auction.”
“Music to my ears,” I say, grinning. “Where’d the views come from?”
“Riders,” he replies. “Bravos and Etzli both shared the video. Actual riders, Imelda.”
“Hey, I am an actual rider.”
He ignores me. “Most of the views are from Furia, obviously, but we’ve got people from every corner of the Empire watching. Someone even interviewed Martial this morning.”
Farian pulls the video onto his screen. The old Dividian victor stands with some self-styled Ashlord princess of a reporter. She’s got the dark eyes and those impossible collarbones, skin as rusty as a sunset. I was born knowing my place in the world was beneath people like her. It’s easier to convince myself that’s the truth when all of them look like timeless beauties.
Ashlords Page 3