And then my gaze connects with Chiyoko Sato. The big girl is standing at the back of the classroom, looking lost, just like me. . . . I remember the day of our very first shuttle run flight simulator assignment, when Hugo and I were nearly the last people in the room, and so was Chiyoko and her partner, a Latina girl with braids, who was yelling at her and giving her a hard time. That same girl is now far across the room, having found another partner.
Okay, I think, why not?
So I walk up to Chiyoko, who looks at me, her round face wearing the usual slightly startled expression.
“Hey,” I say. “Want to be my Pilot Partner?”
There is a pause.
“Okay . . .” Chiyoko says quietly.
“My name is Gwen Lark,” I remind her.
“I know.”
Yeah, I suppose she does. Hugo and I are the notorious losers of the previous Race. Now I’m kind of surprised she just agreed to work with me. I even feel a little guilty that she’s stuck with me.
Chiyoko and I find a console desk and take our seats. “Do you want to be the Pilot or the Co-Pilot?” I ask her carefully.
Her quiet answer again comes after the slightest pause. “I don’t care.”
I smile. “I don’t care either.” And then I glance at her. “We can figure that out after we practice together and see how it goes.”
“Okay.”
Chiyoko is apparently a girl of few words. Which is just fine with me.
All in all, this is definitely better than dealing with Hugo.
And then Instructor Okoi comes in and begins the class.
Afterwards I get a brief shift back at the CCO, and then have my Court Protocol class with Consul Denu. I arrive at the Consul’s quarters precisely on time, as the Consul demands of me, and knock politely.
Kem opens the door with a tiny friendly nod, and I go inside where Consul Suval Denu reposes in his comfortable chair, reading one of his elegant Atlantean literary journals on an Atlantean equivalent of a tablet. One thing I’ve learned over the course of my studies with him is that literature is considered to be a very high art in Atlantis, with a long, rich tradition, together with opera, chamber music, and other cultural forms of human expression. Consul Denu is a great connoisseur of the arts, and is incredibly well-read—something that I find most impressive about him.
Really, the more I know Consul Denu, the more I realize the complexity of this man. Underneath the extravagant foppish attire and manners—which I realize now is a kind of disguise, a ritualized costume—he combines the delicate subtlety of a poet and the steely mind of a diplomat.
I make a formal Atlantean high-ranking woman’s greeting, which is a form of a curtsey and salute combined—something he again expects of me. And then, before we begin today’s class, I politely tell him about my sudden needs in the cosmetics department.
“I hope I’m not overstepping, Consul Denu,” I say, “But this isn’t just a date. I have an obligation to look appropriately good for the Red Dance, since Pilot Xelio Vekahat himself has invited me. So I’m wondering if I might ask your help with my makeup?”
The Consul raises one arched brow at me, and looks me over. “My dear, yes, I see. Your obligation in this case is undeniable. And since I have all this at my disposal, I am happy to assist. But tell me, what will you wear?”
I sigh. “I’m still not sure,” I mutter. “I only know it must be red.”
“Ah, well you need to be sure by tomorrow, considering the Dance is the day after.”
“Okay, I am going to look at a whole bunch of dress patterns tonight.”
“You do that. And once you find the right one, send the file here so I can take a look at it. Remember, skin art must always match the outfit.”
I thank him genuinely, and we proceed with the class.
That night, my voice training with Aeson Kassiopei is an exercise in emotional torture—at least it feels that way for me.
He never brings up anything about the Red Dance or my upcoming date with Xelio, or even that now he knows for a fact that Logan and I are no longer together.
It’s as if he cares about none of it.
Soon, I feel overwhelming despair gathering inside me.
And when the half hour is over, I flee back to my own cabin while the despair rings loudly in my head, and then transforms into blazing anger.
I pull up my console and call up the search engine to find an appropriate beautiful dress. But all I can think of is not beautiful or elegant or stunning, but angry, crazy, wild.
It’s how I feel. And I need to channel this feeling into whatever it is I am going to wear.
I try to consult again the huge database of historical costumes from the previous dances. I think about the theme—red, heat, fire. And then I submerge deep inside myself and think—what do I have inside me that can express that red in a powerful way?
Because I need that wow factor.
Looking to get inspired, I open up the information page for the Red Dance itself, to see what’s on the program. And then I see it—interspersed with the actual zero gravity dancing there will be short vocal performances, open to the public, a kind of Atlantean version of karaoke. There’s even a footnote about how much Atlanteans love and value singing and music.
And then my wild idea hits me.
I think of Mom, singing opera to me when I was a kid. And me, singing along with her. Wow, I think. I still remember so many of the gorgeous arias she did, that I can probably easily repeat them. When I was little, I sang along with her—in a child’s voice, but still, I memorized the music and words. . . . All I would need to do now is call up the score and music and brush up on it overnight and I will be ready for the Red Dance.
And in that instant, everything—my look, my outfit, my song—comes to me in tongues of blazing red fire.
I open up the costume database and start looking for the template so I can build upon it the perfect costume for the Red Zero-G Dance. An hour later I’m done, and I send it off to the 3D printer, along with my body measurements template. And then I send a copy to Consul Denu, to let him figure out my matching cosmetics.
Finally, I look up the old operatic score and start remembering how it goes. . . .
My red song.
Then I send it to the Red Dance scheduling, to reserve my place in the vocalist lineup.
Chapter Thirty-Six
The next day—the day before the Red Zero-G Dance—is a madhouse, filled with the usual ship-wide aura of excitement.
Everywhere across the Fleet, teens are getting their outfits manufactured, keeping the 3D printers running non-stop. For many people it started even earlier, the night before, but I only know that my own costume is scheduled for pickup after 4:30 PM.
Anu is gone for most of the morning, since he’s aligned with the Red Quadrant and therefore has to help out with various Red Dance preparations. In his case, it’s acoustic tech stuff similar to Gennio’s role during the Blue Dance. And tomorrow, when the main setup and prep schedule begins, he’ll be gone again.
Gennio and I work in comfortable silence, and the CP is in and out of the office, making brief appearances, and then going to take care of ship business elsewhere.
It’s almost relaxing.
When Kassiopei returns just before lunch and gets behind his desk, I throw frequent glances at him, feeling hyper and upbeat. I can’t wait for him to see me tomorrow.
Only, there’s one fear that hits me suddenly. . . .
Will he be there?
Aeson Kassiopei hates dancing. He has no particular Quadrant obligations to be at the Red Dance. What if he decides not to attend at all?
I am so unsettled by the thought that all my crazed preparation will go to waste, that I actually gather the courage to broach the subject.
“Command Pilot,” I say carefully. “Are there any particular duties the CCO has tomorrow at the Zero-G Dance?”
Aeson looks up from his work, frowning at being interrupted. “What?”
I repeat the question.
“No, we have nothing scheduled,” he says, looking at me with an unreadable expression.
“Will you be attending to supervise, or anything?” There, I said it. I asked him point-blank.
“I will not be supervising,” he says, after the slightest pause. “As the ICS-2 commanding officer however, I do need to make an appearance. It will likely be brief.”
Disappointment strikes me hard.
“I hope you stay long enough to hear me sing,” I say suddenly.
His one brow rises as he looks at me. “Oh,” he says. “You signed up to be a vocalist?”
“Yup.” I allow myself a tiny brave smile.
He pauses, then nods. “It should be interesting to evaluate how your voice handles a musical piece. I’ll try to stay long enough to hear your performance.”
Later that afternoon I run to Manufacturing Deck on Level Six to pick up my completed outfit. It is pristinely wrapped in discreet plastic, and comes with matching shoes and all the accessories. All I’m missing is jewelry, but I tell myself sparkly bling is entirely unnecessary—I’ll look just fine without it.
I call up Gracie. This is the time for last minute advice, and I carefully open up the plastic to show her the costume.
“Oh!” Gracie parts her mouth and says, “Wooooooow! Gee Two, I can’t believe you’re wearing that! That’s just—”
“Awesome?” I finish for her.
“Well, yeah!” She continues gaping. “But I was gonna say, that doesn’t even seem like you! That’s just intense! And the fact that you’re going with Pilot Xelio Vekahat? Wow!”
I smile at my sister. “I know,” I say.
My smile—it is almost wicked.
I wake up in the morning of Red Dance day, super energized. All regular classes and work is cancelled, since each Dance day is basically a Fleet holiday.
I take my time lingering at breakfast. And then, since I don’t have to be at the CCO today at all, I consider either taking a long walk around the ship, or doing a short gym workout. But I decide against both, since I want to conserve every ounce of my strength—emotional and physical—for my upcoming performance tonight.
So instead I spend several hours holed up in my cabin, intermittently reading, laying out my costume for tonight, going over the music score of the aria I will be singing, actually singing it softly a few times, and then finally napping.
I break for lunch, then get back to it again, until dinner.
As the time grows closer to the Dance, I find that I am too nervous to eat.
Instead, I take a long shower, and then start fussing and putting on the dress.
At 6:30 PM, as I am not even close to being done with my hair—which I’m attempting to pin up into a tight updo, either a bun or chignon—I hear a soft tone sound at the door. I open it to find Kem standing there, holding a big box and a bag.
“Hello, Gwen, Consul Denu sent me to help you dress,” he says timidly with a smile.
“Oh!” I exclaim, holding my hair with one hand, and trying not to do any damage to my dress. “Thank you so much! I didn’t realize it was so late already, I was going to come by his quarters to pick up the makeup—”
“No need.” Kem points to the things he is holding, “I have everything here. May I come in?”
“Oh yeah, of course!”
Kem steps into the tiny cabin and starts setting up on the table surface.
“Your dress is very beautiful,” he says. “Consul Denu wanted me to say he approves your choice and color, and he has the recommended matching color Paints selected for you. I am going to apply the Paints in Imperial Court fashion, which will give you the most high couture look.”
“Oh my goodness,” I mutter, “I didn’t realize you would be doing my makeup! I’m sorry to put you to all this trouble! Are you sure? Maybe I can just do it myself?”
Kem shakes his head. “Oh no, it’s no trouble at all—it is what I do. And it’s the least I can do, after your very kind help during the Jump when I was so sick. For which I remain very thankful.”
“Oh,” I say, smiling. “Okay then.”
He nods shyly. And then he becomes businesslike.
“Gwen, please let go of your hair and stand up straight.”
I drop my partially pinned-up hair and do as he tells me.
“Now turn, please.”
Kem looks at me critically, his gaze sweeping up and down.
This is what he sees. . . .
The dress.
It is the color of blood. Deep dark blood, a profound midnight red that’s the closest to black I could make it when I chose the hue—Spanish flamenco at midnight.
The shape of the dress begins as a tight sleeveless sheath on top, with a plunging round neckline, clinging to my chest, waist, and hips like a second skin. . . . And then, as the delicate soft fabric flows down past my thighs and below, it starts to flare out gently around the legs all the way to my ankles—not in stiff flamenco fashion, but loose-hanging, fine as cobwebs, so that only if I spin or float in Zero-G, the skirt becomes a gradual great bell of translucent gauze around my feet. . . .
The fabric itself, delicate yet durable, has a mother-of-pearl sheen to it, so that it reflects the light, with a gradation from pure black to shimmering red.
The matching pair of deep red shoes with sharp pointy toes has slim two-inch heels—not too high, because I am just too much of a klutz to risk a dangerous mishap. They are basically pumps with abbreviated stilettos. I’ve tried them on, and I think I can manage to walk in them without tripping over myself.
Right now I’m barefoot, and the shoes are sitting on the floor, while I turn around in front of Kem to show him the fit of the dress.
“Very lovely,” he says. “Now let’s begin with your hair, and then I will apply Paints last.”
“What? You’re doing my hair too?” I glance at him with utmost relief. “Oh, thank God! Thank you so much! As you can see, I’m not doing too well here on my own!” And I point to my mess of an updo that appears to be done by a monkey.
“Of course,” he says. “Now, sit. And I will re-do your hair.”
Half an hour later, my hair is pulled tight against my scalp, with a gorgeous, compactly wound bun near the top of my head—everything is skin-tight, clean, austere lines, with not a wisp out of place. Because my hair is long and thick, Kem has to make a crown of braids to frame and circle the bun around its base. This hairstyle, with the bun raised high above the nape, does wonders—it reveals that my neck is far more elegant than I thought.
“On Atlantis, the current hair trends do not allow messy asymmetry. So, no hanging single curls or locks on any sides. You will instead look stern and perfect.”
“Sounds good to me,” I say with a smile, glancing at the small mirror and the sophisticated girl looking back at me.
“And now, the makeup.” And Kem begins working on my face.
First he uses a special foundation matte powder that is applied so lightly that it appears invisible, but adds a hint of both color and porcelain pallor to the skin of my face, neck, and upper chest. In a moment of quantum paradox, suddenly my skin appears ethereal. . . . Next, he uses a variety of color sticks to blend amazing dramatic shadows over my eyes, with the subtlety of a true artist. Then he applies gentle blush that finds and emphasizes my high cheekbones. Finally comes the razor-intense kohl eyeliner and mascara that transform my eyes into deep stunning things.
“My eyebrows are kind of thick—do you need to pluck anything?” I ask in trepidation.
“No,” he replies. “Plucking eyebrows is actually a common misconception—most women and men already have the natural brow shape that perfectly defines and emphasizes their eye socket. When they pluck, to make the ridiculous up-sweeping arches, they in fact detract from the true expressiveness of their face. Unless the brows are already naturally thin, plucked eyebrows take away the potential force and fierceness hidden in you, and change your face—not
in a good way.”
“Wow,” I mutter. “Sounds like a whole philosophy there.”
“Yes, it is. It is also an art, and you study it,” he says with some pride. “It’s true, in some cases, some adjustment is necessary to the features. But in your case, Gwen, you make it easy. Your eyebrows are neither too thick nor too thin, but perfectly shaped. They frame your eyes with power and distinction. And—no need for false eyelashes. Your natural eyelashes are precisely enough. I simply darkened the colors all around to emphasize the beauty of your wonderful blue irises.”
The very last is the lip color. He outlines my lips, then fills them with a rich blood-red cosmetic that has the juicy gloss of crushed cherries and black ink.
“Your lips have a truly fine harmonious shape. A full lower lip such as yours makes it easy to sculpt colors. Open your mouth. . . .”
I do as I’m told, and he continues fine-tuning the gradation of lip color at the corners with a fine-tipped brush.
When he is done, I look amazing.
Seriously, I can’t even begin to describe how good he made me look.
This is not me. . . .
I am someone else—a beautiful, shadowy, mysterious female.
I look fierce. Seductive. Dangerous.
I look like her, the one who will sing the Habanera tonight, with the intention to devastate.
Carmen.
I try to stand up, but Kem tells me firmly he is not done yet. “And now, the finishing touches,” he says with a little pleased smile.
He reaches into his magic bag and opens another small box. Inside is a beautiful jewel pendant—a great blood-red ruby, fixed in a delicate black metal filigree setting. The ruby is not faceted, but a smooth rounded cabochon. It is surrounded by tiny, sharply faceted black crystals that dance with black fire. Next to it in the box are two matching earrings, consisting of similar smaller ruby studs with sparkling garlands of black jewels, shaped like eyes of a peacock.
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