Gravity is Heartless

by Sarah Lahey

  Then she sees Dalia on the floor. Her head is not fully attached to her body; her throat almost cut through. Quinn realizes it’s not her blood, it’s Dalia’s blood, which is a relief, but it’s still a murder scene. “Fuck, what happened?”

  “I got back from explorin’ an’ she was standin’ over you wit a strange-lookin’ hook-knife. Never seen a knife like tat before; it looked evil. I completely surprised ’er. She came straight at me, an I knocked ’er back, one punch, right in te face; she fell back, dropped te knife, an’ I got ta it first.”

  And you thought it was a good idea to behead her? They stare at the mess on the floor.

  Quinn picks up the vial of linctus. “She drugged me.”

  “I overheard a conversashun. It was Consortia, te one who wants ta be Tig’s wife. Te pretty one. We should cut tis one’s head off, te rest of it, an’ deliver it ta her.”

  “The pretty one?” Quinn makes a face.

  Geller shrugs. “She’s a looker. I’ve seen ’er in te courtyard. ’Tis her doin’. Let’s send a message. She won’t mess wit us again.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “’Twill send a clear message.”

  “Honestly, not my style—”

  “We should do it soon, quickness is te essence of war.” Geller takes the hook-blade, kneels beside the woman, and cuts through the remaining sinews and tendons. Dalia’s head is now off, totally detached from her body. Quinn is impressed by the sharpness of the knife but horrified by the head, which Geller holds by the hair. Dalia is a hideous, pallid, and ugly caricature.

  “No, definitely not.”

  “Just tink about it.”

  Together, they wrap the body and the head in the bedding and stow the pieces under the staircase. Then they clean the floor and walls and wash their hands and faces and change climate suits.

  After it’s done, they sit outside in the hot morning sun.

  “What sort of person tries to kill an unborn baby? My unborn baby. Bitch.”

  “She’s not pretty enough ta be tis fuckin’ mean.” Geller retrieves the sheet-wrapped, blood-soaked head from under the staircase. The dried blood is now brown and patchy on the white sheets. “I know where she is. I know where tey all are. Let your plans be dark an’ impenetrable as night, an’ when you move, fall like a tunderbolt.”

  “Reading too many war novels.”

  Geller checks the time on her Band. “Too early. We’ll wait until nightfall, when tey’re gathered for te evenin’ meal. It should be a public shamin’.”

  Quinn sighs. “Okay. I’m in. But this is just a warning, so she won’t try anything again. No one is going to die or lose their head.” Oh fuck, I can’t believe we’re actually going to do this.

  ***

  At dusk, Geller unpacks weapons from her backpack. She straps a set of knives to Quinn’s calf and another to her arm, then shoves a laser into her shorts.

  “’Tis just for looks. Show a little bit av midriff, tat’ll really upset te bitch.” She rolls up Quinn’s top and lowers her shorts.

  They enter the public courtyard and slink towards the covered balcony. It’s early evening, and twenty people have gathered for a communal meal around a large table.

  Geller hands Quinn the head. “It ’as ta be you.”

  Quinn agrees. She takes the horrific head gingerly, unwraps it, and holds it by the hair. Dalia’s expression has set. She now resembles a surprised zombie.

  Geller adjusts Quinn’s clothes again, showing off her baby bump. “For effect; she’ll see you’re still pregnant. It’ll destroy ’er emoshunally.”

  They move into an arc of light surrounding the table, and Quinn selects a knife. As Consortia leans forward, reaching for a glass of water, Quinn sends the knife flying into the back of her chair. The prattle of conversation halts, and all faces turn her way. She steps into the light, and Geller follows. Across the table, Louis reaches for his blade; Quinn flicks a knife into the center of his plate, and he pauses— shocked, she assumes, by both her bravado and her knife skills. Then he smiles at her.

  Pandemonium sets in. The diners slide back their chairs, fumbling for weapons—until Flax rises.

  “Calm down,” he commands. “Everyone stay in your seat, and keep your hands on the table, where I can see them.”

  Most obey.

  Quinn tosses the severed head to Consortia, and she catches it, a reflex reaction. It takes her a moment to realize what it is—a detached head—and another moment to understand that it’s Dalia’s detached head. She drops the head and reels back, shrieking. Then she realizes there’s blood on her hands, which is apparently worse than Dalia losing her head, because it’s then that her wailing lifts to an operatic notch. It’s an extraordinary, high-pitched, theatrical performance that leaves the audience stunned.

  Eventually, there’s an intermission as Consortia pauses for breath. Geller nudges Quinn; it’s time for her to deliver a warning.

  Quinn plucks the last knife from its sheath. “Ever try to hurt my baby again, I will slit your throat. Understand?”

  Consortia smiles insolently.

  Bitch. Quinn flicks the last knife. It nicks Consortia’s left ear, slices the lobe off. She delicately touches her ear, and when she sees the blood on her fingers, she promptly faints.

  Quinn winces. She probably shouldn’t have cut anything off— drawing blood would have been enough. Now the entire table rises. Weapons are drawn, and they’re all pointed at Quinn. Geller steps in front of her and raises her laser, but Flax won’t have any of it.

  “Sit!” he thunders.

  Everyone sits.

  Quinn glares at Consortia. “Do you understand? I will come after you and cut many, many more pieces from you”—she waves her finger toward Consortia—“fingers and toes and . . . noses, pieces like that. You will never be safe, and I will never stop.”

  The lobeless woman nods.

  “Enjoy your meal.”

  Forty-Eight

  An unremarkable ring.

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, QUINN sits on the side of her bed, holds her head in her hands, and laments her violent behavior. What the fuck have I done? I used to be a Pacifist. I abhorred violence. Now, now I’m hacking people apart. It’s this place. I need to get out of here. I need go home, back to Hobart, where my risk of death from despotic tyrants, creepy Transhumans, and extended family is greatly, greatly reduced.

  In Hobart, there’ll be no more strapping knives to her body and sleeping with a laser under her pillow. In Hobart, she has a bland little Pod in a quiet, nondescript zone of the city, and right now it looks particularly boring and peaceful. That’s exactly what she wants. All that normality that Hobart is offering—sign her up for that.

  ***

  Geller and Quinn meet Flax for morning tea in a room at the back of the main house called the Map Room—a nauseatingly busy space where the walls and ceiling are painted with ancient maps of pale blue oceans, dusty continents, and ships setting off to find new lands. Every architectural feature is engraved, molded, or frescoed. The art is New World and the architecture Renaissance but the furnishings are Islander; the room houses the Maldives’s cultural artifacts, displayed on shelves and stacked across tables and chairs. The decor is overwhelming, and the room has not adapted to the diverse cultural entities inhabiting it.

  In the far corner, Flax brews tea in an ancient samovar.

  “The family will be ostracized,” he says. “A bad strain, very bad. They have the manners of primates—always yelling, always fighting and bickering. It goes on and on and on. I will not miss them. But next time, maybe come talk to me first—a little less drama. Now, I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve organized a gathering so you can meet some of the better-behaved relatives. Nothing fancy.” He looks at Geller and Quinn with eyebrows raised, seeking approval.

  Quinn offers an indifferent shrug. All she wants to do is go home.

  “Sure,” says Geller. “Might be fun. How’s te ankle?”

  “Oh, l
et me show you.” Flax lifts his pants leg; the infection has cleared. “The patch worked, it’s like magic.”

  “Not magic,” Geller says. “’Tis science.”

  After adding hot liquid to a decorative teapot, Flax hands them ornamental cups, inlaid with blue and gold metal, but the vessels are too hot to hold. As the liquid cools, Geller circumnavigates the room, exploring the items on display: leather-bound books, metal bowls, vases, statues, instruments, masks, rings, and bracelets. She homes in on a woven bejeweled garland; after placing it carefully on her head, she checks her reflection in the glass.

  “It’s the crown of a king,” Flax tells her.

  Geller looks intrigued. “Is tere one for te queen?”

  Flax indicates a plain, jet-black wreath resting on a shelf. An unremarkable ring, fine and delicate.

  Geller collects it and places it on Quinn’s head with a mocking smile. “I tink we make a lovely pair.”

  Immediately, Quinn swoons. As she stumbles, she grabs a side table for support. Flax steps forward to help, but she waves him away and rights herself; it’s the heat, the tiredness, and the baby hormones, or maybe it’s the sickening effect of the décor, but she’s fine.

  Then it happens again. She’s overcome with dizziness, and the world around her spins. The furniture, tables, chairs, and cabinets tilt to one side, and she stumbles to a chair. Her head hurts, a whistling sensation penetrates her ears, and she begins to hyperventilate. Vertigo. She hasn’t had vertigo in years.

  Flax removes the crown. The world stops spinning, her headache abates, and the furniture rights itself.

  Geller places the crown of the king on Quinn’s head. “Suits you.” She grins.

  The main doors opens, and Tig ambles into the room. He looks ancient, weary, and unshaven. His gait is lopsided—a missed neural connection, Quinn assumes—and he has an exhausted look in his eyes. Flax graces his presence with a small bow, and Tig returns the gesture.

  Quinn’s heart bounds and jolts—the sight of him is elating. She steps back and takes in his weary appearance; she notes the dark creases around his hazel eyes, his disheveled clothes, and the dark, grimy marks down the side of his face, which she hopes are mud and not dried blood. She takes in all of him. She’s never seen anyone more heartwarming and charismatic than this man, standing at the entrance to this nauseatingly busy blue room decorated with oceans and dusty continents.

  Tig stares back at her with his piercing bionic eyes. “You okay?”

  Her hands quiver. She wants to speak; she wants to tell him everything that happened—all her mishaps and adventures while he was gone—but she fails to pull the words into coherent sentences. So she nods, and then she shrugs. She’s okay. More or less.

  He comes towards her and takes her quivering hand. “Cold?” he asks.

  She shakes her head. “Nervous.”

  He laughs softly, kisses her hand, and places it on her stomach— over her baby, over their baby—and for the first time in weeks, she feels safe. She leans into him, and his lips graze her forehead. She’s aware there are a hundred conversations they need to have, but right now she has absolutely nothing to say. Her left hand caresses his unshaven cheek, and she doesn’t restrain it. She notices that his titanium frame is exposed around his elbow, and she lightly touches the metal with her fingertips.

  “I can feel you,” he says. “I feel you more and I feel you faster—a thousand times faster—than you feel me.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yeah. Your sensors send signals a thousand times a second. Mine send them a million times a second.”

  Then you win.

  “And it does suit you,” he says. “Better than fucking wings.”

  Oh fuck, I’m still wearing the crown.

  ***

  Planck is not far behind Tig, and Quinn meets zir outside on the stoop of the main house. They share their news from the last two weeks. Maim and Kip had to present themselves and give testimony to Hexad, so Tig and Planck waited. Then Maim insisted that they escort her back to the Unus, and she wouldn’t take no for an answer. So again they waited until she was ready and it was safe to return.

  The meerkat stayed comatose since she left. It hasn’t moved or said a word. They brought him along, stashed in a bag. Planck says the midwifery course is going well; ze got distinctions for the first two assessments. Ze’ll certainly be qualified in time for delivery. Quinn doesn’t have the heart to tell zir that she found the perfect midwife in Celeste, and she only needs one. You can have too many midwives.

  Planck confirms ze’s heard about the afternoon celebration. “Just a small gathering,” ze says. “Afternoon drinks on the veranda. The main house has a good cellar. There are a couple of bottles of fine whisky that we could open to mark the occasion. I’m thinking . . . mint juleps. Mint loves this heat. It’s out of control in the herb garden. I’ll make a batch of sugar syrup. How does that sound?”

  “I can’t drink alcohol,” Quinn says, disappointed. After almost two weeks of being cooped up inside, drinking mint juleps in the shade of the veranda sounds like bliss.

  Planck grins. “I’ll make you a mocktail.”

  Terrific.

  ***

  Quinn is resting in preparation for the party when Geller enters their room with an armful of colorful fabrics. “Blue or green?” she asks.

  Quinn shrugs; she has no idea what Geller means.

  Geller drops the bundle of colored textiles. She rummages through the pile before finally pulling out up a blue dress, and then a green dress.

  “Which one do ya want? Te blue or te green?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Pick one.”

  “The green.”

  “Naw, you’ll look grander in de blue.” Geller tosses the dress at Quinn. “Meet ya outside in fifteen minutes.”

  The dress is a traditional costume, and it’s a fine garment—navy blue with a pewter sash and an array of color-coordinated scarves. The sash gleams like polished silver. The longs scarves are significant; she’s seen women wearing them. It’s a beautiful dress. She pulls it on and fastens the sash around her waist, tying it in a large bow, then drapes the colored scarves around her neck. She moves to the glass to examine her reflection—and balks. Oh, good lordt. I look like a clown. She undoes the bow and wraps the sash twice, and then three times, around her waist; it doesn’t help. She ditches the scarves and the sash and takes another look at herself in the glass. Now I look like a tent.

  She pulls the dress off and leaves it on the bed. It is a beautiful dress. The fabric is soft, and she likes the color. But she can’t wear it. I don’t belong here. I can’t see how this is going to work. She pulls on her climate suit and heads downstairs.

  Outside, thousands of guests mill in the main courtyard.

  Surely all these people aren’t here for the mint juleps. There’s no way we’ll have enough sugar syrup.

  Geller arrives, swathed in layers of green-colored fabrics, and Planck joins them, also dressed in ceremonial robes. Guests bow as they pass, acknowledging zir. Right, Quinn remembers. Ze’s their Knowledge Keeper. Ze plays an important part in their culture.

  “Is it a wedding?” one of the guests asks as he passes. “We heard they were getting married.”

  Quinn glares at Planck.

  “No,” Planck says quickly. Ze turns to Quinn. “It’s a drinks party,” ze reassures her.

  Quinn surveys the mass of people mingling under the covered verandas and spilling into the courtyard; she notes the multitude of additional guests arriving every minute. “You said a ‘small’ celebration,” she snaps. “There must a thousand people here.”

  “Snowballed, completely out of my control. I told ten people, and—what the fuck are you wearing?” Ze gapes at her clothes, she’s the only person wearing a climate suit. “You ignored the frock.”

  “I don’t care what I wear.”

  “It’s okay for you to dress up like a fairy for Dirac’s Salon, but you can’t
wear a nice frock to show respect for our culture? Everyone will be looking at you. Everyone. It’s important for you to assimilate. The severed head thing, very bad publicity—you’re not exactly winning friends.” Planck unhooks a colored sash from a colonnade and hands it to Quinn.

  What am I supposed to do with this?

  Geller nods. Quinn realizes she supposed to put the sash on, and that she’s outnumbered. Oh, good lordt. She slips behind a pillar, shimmies out of her climate suit, and wraps the sash around herself.

  She emerges with a sour look on her face. “I wasn’t a fairy; I was an angel,” she says.

  “I tought you were a bird.” Geller pulls another scarf from the colonnade and drapes it over Quinn’s shoulders.

  I’m wearing the curtains and suddenly I’ve assimilated.

  “On the surface, I was an angel; inside, I was a bird.” She glares at Planck. “And before you say anything, I had no choice.”

  “I believe you,” ze says, “but just so you know, I worked hard, very hard, to get you out of that. And, between you and me, stunning— absolutely stunning.”

  Forty-Nine

  This is no small affair.

  QUINN, GELLER, AND PLANCK enter the wide-colonnaded veranda of the main Renaissance house and gape in awe at the decorations. The verandah has been transformed—lavishly draped with greenery, ribbons, and floral bouquets. A shroud of petals carpets the floor. At the far end, a podium, swathed in multicolored veils, has been erected, and on the platform sit two ornately decorated chairs, positioned so that they face the crowd.

  A group of small children enters the colonnade. The girls are wrapped in colored scarves; their hair falls in ringlets under floral wreaths. The boys wear pantaloons and floral shirts. Their appearance draws a communal “ahhhh” from the guests as they make their way through the crowd, scattering flowers.