Escaping Exodus

by Nicky Drayden

  It would be a death sentence, though. Where would we be without enough resources to feed our people? There isn’t enough room in our ship for any type of life, for sure, but even if we all returned to stasis, our bodies would still need nutrients, our engines would still need fuel. Even our hops from beast to beast take a toll. I bite my tongue, smile, try to be the daughter Matris wants me to be. I’ll have decades yet to learn, to observe, to find new solutions to centuries-old problems. Then, when it comes time for my reign, things will be different. Better.

  I sigh. My stomach grumbles. I’m not supposed to partake in the feast, symbolizing that I’ll put the needs of the ship above the needs of self. I’d tried to eat beforehand, but my attendants were so busy stuffing me into all these layers of dresses, sharpening the edges on my naxshi, and scolding me for my tardiness and unkemptness, that I hadn’t been able to get a word in, much less food in my mouth.

  Finally, the flame bearer comes before me, a young girl probably half my age. She calls me down in song, voice high like a gnat buzzing in my ears. I pitch my dress, kick off my shoes, and stand tall upon the seat of the chair.

  In file dozens of beastworkers, forming a single line between the flame bearer and the base of my chair. As they crouch down into fetal positions, foreheads pressed against the floor, I can’t help but search their faces for that familiar one I don’t dare wish to see. Matris wouldn’t make the mistake of inviting Adalla here, for sure—but still, hope springs. The next row files in, wedging their bodies on top and in between. After a few minutes, after all the rows of beastworkers have been piled on top of one another, in a wedge that leads from the floor right up to the tips of my toes, I step upon the first back, find my balance. Down I go, feeling the spines under the soles of my feet. Feeling the people who serve as the backbone of our ship, through their labor, their dedication, and the many who give their lives in the process. On occasions like these, the Contour class allows itself to remember simple truths.

  As I step down from the last back, I take the match from the flame bearer and light the ceremonial candle, a pillar of laced wax. When it burns out, the last of my childhood will be marked by its extinguished flame. I will be a woman, true and whole and judged in our way. The thought of that should frighten me more than it does. I stand, watching the flickering light, caught up in the moment, wishing for time to slow down or speed up, or do anything besides this monotonous flow of seconds in which I will have to set my life on a path with a person I know nothing about.

  There’s a tap on my shoulder—my ama. I turn and smile at her.

  “It’s time, Seske,” she whispers to me. “Just remember your steps, and you’ll do fine.”

  I nod, then look at the first suitor, her arms outstretched to me. All I have to do is follow her lead, dance for a few minutes. Maybe laugh and joke some about how awkward this all is. Her smile is kind, and her facial tattoos glint brightly—blue and gold patterns pop against the deep brown of her skin. Her hair in a wonderfully intricate braid that rests down upon her shoulder. Her arms are well muscled, her hands the same as they press to mine, but not rough, like she’s done labor. There’s something about the way she holds herself. Like a dancer. Then I realize: she is a dancer. I recognize her from one of the recitals that Matris sometimes drags me to.

  I stiffen. My nerves are now ten times worse than what they were before. My first dance with a professional? I can’t imagine how badly I’ll embarrass myself. The orchestra begins, the sound of sullen pipe organs filling the hall. My suitor nods at me, getting me ready and on beat. She guides me to my left, but my feet refuse to budge.

  The organ music becomes more intense. I glance over at the musicians, scaling the organic pipes, pumping the air sacs, and covering the openings so that the wheezing notes spew out in a pleasing chorus. They’re more acrobats than musicians. My glance has turned into a stare . . . I’m stalling, I realize, as my suitor taps me on the elbow.

  “One-two-three-four, and step . . .” she whispers at me, reminding me as the count rounds again. Another attempt at moving me fails. Now people are staring hard, half-eaten pastries hanging from their mouths. I hear their whispers even above the grind of music. “Just follow my lead,” she says to me, nothing but patience and kindness in her voice. “I’ll take care of you, I promise.”

  I know she’s just talking about the dance floor, but my mind gets all twisted up, and suddenly, I see her taking care of me in our home, snuggling under a blanket, baby bouncing on Daddy’s lap, big ol’ crib worm sucking at the baby’s thigh as she makes cooing sounds at us. It’s all so . . . so perfect. So easy. So wrong.

  “I’m sorry, please excuse me,” I say, then peel my hands from hers and run as fast as my feet can take me, ducking out of the view of all these strangers. I come to the doors: two guards stand there and refuse to budge. Can’t get away that easily. I duck through the crowd, head to a dark corner behind one of the buffet tables. I lurk, my hand reaching up top, pulling a fermented egg from the table, peeling back its fuzzy pink shell, and then stuffing it into my mouth.

  I want to cry, but I don’t dare smudge my patina. I’m going to have to go back out there eventually.

  “Napkin?” says a voice. A familiar voice. I look up and see that male accountancy guard next to me. He nods at the front of my dress. There’s a big goopy stain dribbling down it. “Patriline Wheytt Housley, at your service.”

  “What are you doing here?” I ask. It comes out harsher than I’d intended, but I’ve just embarrassed myself in front of six hundred people, so I hope he’ll forgive me. I take the napkin, wet it with a whole mouthful of spit, then go after the stain before it sets.

  “I received an invitation from Matris Paletoba.”

  “To be a guest, or to spy on me?” I say, giving him a once-over, checking for the bulge of his ledger in his pocket.

  “I kind of get the feeling I’m here to show off how progressive she is.”

  “Ah, another of her distractions. But somehow, I doubt you shaking hands with all the guests is going to overshadow me running off like that.” I relax some. It’s nice talking to someone who’s not trying to plan the next fifty years of my life.

  “I doubt anyone even noticed,” he says, another one of his bold, yet useless lies. “And you’re not the only one having an awful time. Everyone keeps asking me to fetch them tea or napkins.”

  “You fetched a napkin for me,” I say.

  “You’re different. I’d fetch tea and napkins for you any time. Can I help you up?” He extends a gloved hand. I take it.

  “Escort me back to the line?” I ask. I’m not sure I trust myself to get back there under my legs alone.

  “Absolutely,” he says. And then we’re walking, slowly, as if the floor were going to crumble beneath us. Still, I try to keep regal airs about me.

  “I don’t know if I can do this . . .” I mumble. “I don’t want to have to choose.”

  “Don’t think of them as suitors. This is just an opportunity to dance with a couple someones. That’s all. Maybe one will suit your fancy. Who knows? Either way, you don’t have to marry anyone.”

  “You don’t know Matris very well. I’ll be as good as engaged at the end of this night.”

  He says nothing, and I’m oddly grateful for that.

  Finally, we’re back before the dreaded line of possibilities for my future. Wheytt’s hand is still in mine, and despite his fingers trying to pull from my grip, I don’t let go. Suddenly, I want nothing more than to dance with him. Not because of his kindness, but because if I’m dancing with him, I can’t be dancing with them.

  I turn to him and take his other hand in mine. His eyebrows pitch over his goggles, and even though I can’t see his eyes, I can feel them locked on me in horror. “Matriling Kaleigh!”

  “I told you, you can call me Seske.”

  “Seske, everyone is staring.”

  “Let them. I can’t dance with any of those suitors. I don’t even know anything about them!�
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  “I can help with that,” he says, a whisper in my ear, a smirk in his voice. “Accountancy Guard trade secrets. What do you want to know?”

  “Everything that will fit in the time it takes to dance the molalari baret,” I tell him. “Just follow my lead.” I nod the count out, but the music hasn’t started. Probably won’t start. This is not whom I should be dancing with, after all. I do a practice count in my head and then make the first step; Wheytt follows along, adequately, and together, we fall in sync to an imaginary beat, and he whispers to me what he’s observed about each of my suitors. Once we’re a few counts in, the music finally starts up in an attempt to defuse an already awful amount of tension in the room. I just hang on to Wheytt’s words, hoping they’ll help me make a choice I don’t want to make.

  And once he’s done, I steel my gut and add a flourish on the next count. The crowd aahs, stoking a fire within me. I add more flourishes, each turn now, as everyone watches in stunned silence as muscle memory from my dance with the baby beast takes hold. Even my dancer suitor stares back at me, her jaw hanging wide.

  “Thank you,” I whisper to Wheytt, my cheek to his cheek, as I prepare for our final flourish. On the slide, I step off into a pirouette, steal the collective breath of the entire hall, then swirl until I’m face-to-face with a suitor. Wheytt had described him as well-read: he could see the book ink on his fingertips. He smells tar mint on his breath, covering up the cigars that he smokes, which means he’s not above breaking a few rules. And Wheytt noticed the trembling hands, even though they were clenched behind his back, which means he’s just as scared as I am.

  Plus, choosing a male suitor would fluster Matris, which would be a happy bonus.

  I bow, and he curtsies: eyes seem bright and honest enough, smile seems genuine. “Sir, may I have this dance?”

  “Most certainly,” he says, so much patina on his face that it crinkles around his eyes when he smiles. “I’d be honored.”

  His name is Doka. We dance, we laugh; he tells the best jokes. Three of his mothers are Senators. Not many matrilines wield such influence, which is likely why he’d ended up on the list of suitors. Three Senators tied to our line would earn Matris favors, for sure, and maybe they’d be less likely to unseat her from the throne, should her faulty decisions continue to haunt her. Doka has taken after his mothers, it seems, and runs circles around me in the game of politics. Never once does he shame me, nor is he ashamed for his odd interest in a realm strictly off-limits to husbands. I kind of almost admire him for that. Over the course of the evening, I dance with a couple other potential suitors but keep coming back to Doka. And even when our feet tire, we find a quiet corner, and he slips me a buttered biscuit, and it is then I know he is for me. Or at least, he could be.

  I glance at the candle: only inches left. I should do it now, declare him my suitor and confirm our engagement, and get it all over with in one fell swoop. I clear my throat, ready to speak the words that have terrified me right up until now, but then I see an almost familiar face staring at me—

  “Adalla,” I scream out. She stands there in a ball gown that would befit a matriarch’s wife. Her braids are so fine that her scalp shows, a weave of patterns denoting her lineage. Not an ichor smudge to be seen on her face. She smiles, but her eyes are so, so hesitant. Then I notice Sisterkin next to her, so proud of herself.

  “I thought it only fair that all your friends be in attendance on your special night,” Sisterkin says to me.

  “Oooh!” I squeal, then hug my sister tight. Oh, I know she’s up to something, but my arms need to be filled right now, and imagining my body pressed up against Adalla’s is giving me way too many feelings, so I settle for the next to last best thing. “Thank you,” I say to my sister, then introduce Adalla to Doka. His eyes have already read her beastworker braids, and yet his curtsy is as deep as it was for me.

  “Pleased to meet you. Any friend of Seske’s is a friend of mine.” He bats his gilded lashes.

  “I’m so glad you’re here, Adalla! I had hoped Sonovan would have sent you to deliver the tome that night after the quake.”

  “I was busy. We’re always busy.” Her voice is curt. Her eyes cut at Doka.

  “Oh,” I say. “Well. Busy is good.” There’s a long, awkward stretch.

  “Seske, why don’t I get some refreshments for our friend?” Doka says, sensing our need for a little space. Then he leans over, whispers in my ear. “I’ll sneak a couple buttered biscuits for you as well?” His lips touch my ear as he speaks. My eyes alight at his boldness, but I nod, and he’s off, and Adalla and I are alone, give or take about six hundred onlookers.

  “I should have come to visit you,” I say. “I just wasn’t sure my heart could handle it.”

  “We’ve all got our priorities,” she says, throwing a glance toward Doka at the buffet table. “He’s cute at least,” she offers. “I was kind of hoping you’d end up with a suitor who’s perpetually got a sprig of kettleworm wedged between their front teeth and a booger dangling from their nose.”

  I glance back at the candle burning through the minutes left before I enter womanhood, and only a sliver remains. Just enough time for one last reckless moment. My lips part. I move them closer to hers. “That day in the fissure, there was something between us, right?”

  “Maybe. But maybe that quake happened for a reason. Maybe there shouldn’t be anything between us.”

  “Then why do you want to be here now?”

  “I don’t. Your sister practically dragged me.”

  “Oh,” I say. If Sisterkin initiated this, it could only be a setup. A giant temptation. She thinks I’ll choose Adalla as my suitor, bring shame upon our name—any reason to have me tossed from the line so she could step in. Oh, I know she’s not even in the running, but any future Matris would listen to her, and she’d be the force behind it all. Well, I’m not falling for it.

  “I talked to my ama,” I say. “Turns out there’s another way we could be together without risking a scandal.”

  Adalla looks up at me, suddenly hopeful. My heart stills. There is something there, something I thought I’d been imagining.

  “I’ll marry well, strengthen the family lines. Then, two or three years from now, when I start to extend my family unit, I’ll bring you in as one of the heart-mothers.”

  “Cheating between family units is the biggest offense!”

  “We wouldn’t be cheating. Just close. Very close.” I touch her shoulder, running my hand down to her elbow. It lingers.

  Her eyes inflame. “I don’t want to be your pet, Seske,” she grates at me. “I don’t even know if I want to be your wife. I just want a chance to see where this will take us, to see if I even want this!”

  “Seske!” Matris says, interrupting this moment. Sisterkin stands next to her, a vicious little smile on her face. “Please, we need to get back to the ceremony. Now thank your friend for her well-wishes and let’s go.”

  “No,” I say.

  “No, what?” Matris demands.

  “I won’t say goodbye. She deserves my attention more than any of those strangers over there.”

  “You may visit with her another time then, but not today!” She grabs my elbow, but I pull free.

  Adalla stares at me, panic in her eyes. She wants to know if there’s any spark between us. I can give her that, at least. And if there is, well, we’ll figure something out. A quick glance back at the candle, and it’s just a thin layer of wax now, wick barely standing upright. I’ve got about one minute left before I’m fully a woman, before the rules of womanhood will fall on me. If this is just a childish folly, I will know it from this kiss.

  I press my lips to Adalla’s, soft and slickened with balms. The flavor of her mouth ignites my heart; her warmth fills me. I am lost and found and lost again. I move my arms to embrace her, and her hands pull me in so hard, it’s like she’s trying to make us one.

  Finally, too soon, we part. I have to force the next breath into me, because sh
e’s all but taken it away. Our eyes lock. Our fingers lock. Our hearts lock.

  Matris is wailing. I look over, and the flame is out. Our kiss—how long had it lasted? The families of the suitors are all up in arms; my fathers try to calm them, to reassure them, but then punches are thrown. There’s mayhem. It isn’t fair. Nothing is fair. My people’s future is dependent upon me being miserable, forced into a life I don’t want and never asked for.

  “Seske,” Adalla says, as if she can read my mind. “We can’t have this.”

  “But—” I say, but her finger presses to my lips, then she points to the wisp of candle smoke still lingering in the air.

  I run, fast as I can, grab a match from the flame bearer, and then yell above the shouting. “The light isn’t out yet. I can still choose!” I strike the match and hold it high in the smoky wisp dissipating before my eyes. At first, there’s nothing, but finally, a small bead of fire sits midair. It travels down, down, slowly.

  “Doka. Doka Taylan,” I say. “I choose Doka!”

  “Tay-li-an,” his head-mother corrects, enunciating each syllable like she wishes they were claps against my cheek. This should be a proud moment for her, for Doka. For my family, for our people. But I’ve completely ruined it for everyone. I cringe at the thought of how this event will be replayed in the Texts.

  Doka takes my side, smiling like the last five minutes hadn’t happened. “I am honored, Seske!” he says. “Let us all dance and rejoice in this arrangement. I cannot wait any longer. Let us dance. Let us all dance!” His voice is so commanding, so regal, that the guests cannot help but obey. And then we are dancing, me keeping a strict and steady count in my mind to keep from falling into a puddle of tears. On our first turn, I catch a glimpse of Adalla standing in the exact spot I’d left her, arms down at her sides, looking utterly deflated.

  On the next turn, she is gone.