Dearly, Departed

by Lia Habel

  “How is your family?” I asked, throwing myself onto the overstuffed sofa.

  “Very well.” Pam turned to look at me. “You’ll come dine with us tomorrow night, won’t you?”

  “Love to,” I said, as golf scores floated by above us.

  “Now, young ladies, is this really the best use of your time?” Pamela and I glanced to the door, where Aunt Gene was standing in a wrap of purple shantung silk. Pam rose and curtsied respectfully.

  “We’ve not yet decided what we’ll be doing today,” I said shortly.

  “Oh! I was thinking that perhaps we could visit the shops downtown,” Pam said as she took her seat again. “They’re already starting to get spring fabrics in. Mother had this dress ordered for me—do you like it, by the by?—but she said I might have another.”

  I seized upon the opportunity. “I do like it, you know, it really suits you,” I began, hoping that a sudden whirlwind of girlish voices would be enough to drive my aunt off.

  “I have a better idea,” Aunt Gene interrupted firmly. We were both forced to hush up and look at her. She rewarded us with a syrupy smile. “Why don’t you join me in paying a call on the Allisters? I was just about to get dressed for it.”

  Oh, not the Allisters. Lord Allister liked nothing better than to show off his collection of stuffed birds, and Lady Allister barely ever said a word, leaving everyone around her feeling as if to sneeze was to impose upon her. And their son could be described as milquetoast at best. He made most of my teachers seem like raving degenerates.

  “Oh, can we?”

  I looked at Pam, whose face was alight with excitement.

  Aunt Gene’s smile widened. “Of course. Wait for me here.”

  The moment she was gone, I wormed across the fancy sofa cushions and gripped Pam’s arm. “What? Why in blazes would you want to visit with them?”

  Pam yanked her arm away and rubbed it reproachfully. “If you haven’t noticed—their son, Michael? Is cute.”

  I gaped at her. “I think the fumes are getting to you, living in the city. He is so boring.”

  She waved a hand. “But he’s pretty to look at.” She lifted her eyes to the ceiling. “Besides, do either of us have a choice as to where we’re going now?”

  The question struck me as cryptic. I wondered if she was talking about today’s trip or something more.

  Thirty minutes later we were in Aunt Gene’s carriage, Pam compulsively adjusting her bonnet, me meditating upon all of the ways it might be possible to kill myself with the in-cab stylus.

  The Allisters lived aboveground, about five minutes from the entrance to the Elysian Fields, twenty minutes from the city. Their manor, Vermil Park, was set far back from the road and surrounded by an ornate brass fence. Maybe it was electrified. And maybe I could fling myself against it …

  “So, Miss Roe,” Aunt Gene said after many minutes had passed in silence. “How are your studies progressing?”

  Pamela stopped fiddling with her hat, her hands sliding into her lap. “Very well, ma’am. I’m maintaining my academic grades, and I think I’ll be permitted to participate in archery competitions again this year … at least for the first part of the year.”

  “Why wouldn’t you be?” I asked her, drawn from my daydreams by the weirdness of her statement. “You’re amazing. You could go to the nationals. You can shoot an apple off a tree.”

  Pam cleared her throat. “Well, my mother is of the opinion that girls should stop focusing on things like that well before their debut. There are other things to focus on. Things that will be more important in the future.”

  I could tell she’d been fed a line. “Oh, come on.”

  “Your mother is a wise woman,” Aunt Gene said. Her eyes slowly gravitated toward me as I sat there, staring at my friend. “You’re both of an age now where such considerations should be foremost in your minds.”

  I kept my focus on Pam. “How long ago did she tell you this?”

  Pam looked to the mirrored window. “A few weeks ago.” Her voice stiffened slightly. “I thought I told you.”

  I hadn’t the faintest memory of this. Where had I been a few weeks ago?

  Watching my father’s war holo collection on endless repeat and burrowing my face into my pillow at night until my nose hurt.

  “Pam, I—”

  “Best behavior, girls,” Aunt Gene said as the carriage made a sudden turn. Pam looked away from the window. Her happy expression had been tarnished.

  The carriage drew to a stop, and Alencar helped us out. The Allisters’ butler was waiting for us and saw us in immediately, which told me that we were making a scheduled call. It was probably Lady Allister’s visiting day. Relief washed over me like cool water. That meant we were only going to stay for twenty minutes, at most. I could handle that. Half an hour, tops, and I’d be able to beg Pam for forgiveness.

  “Welcome, Mrs. Ortega.” Lady Allister stood to receive my aunt. She was a short, doughy woman with tightly curled brown hair, clad in a disgusting amount of pink.

  Pam and I hung back, saying nothing. As neither of us had debuted, we were not “officially” visiting. Aunt Gene didn’t even need to introduce us if she didn’t want to. But she did. “May I present my niece, Miss Nora Dearly, and her friend, Miss Pamela Roe?”

  We both dipped into curtsies. Lady Allister bestowed upon us a watery smile. “Of course. How charming. Please, sit.”

  We did.

  And the silence proceeded to swallow us up.

  It was up to Lady Allister to lead the conversation, if she felt like any. As usual, she didn’t. Previous visits had taught my aunt that it was futile to attempt to start one, and good manners prevented Pam and me from even trying.

  To save our sanity, we studied everything in the parlor, in turn. All of the fabrics were dyed shades of raspberry. The fireplace was of white marble, and large enough to roast two people, lengthwise, on a spit. Specimens from Lord Allister’s taxidermy collection were in evidence, all showy birds—swans, white peacocks. I knew that part of his fortune was invested in a large exotic animal preserve and gene bank in northern Nicaragua, but he clearly didn’t let the dead ones go to waste.

  Just as I was meeting Pam’s eyes again, trying to figure out if the regret I saw in them stemmed from her own problems or from the less than enthralling visit, the door opened and Michael Allister walked in.

  “Ahh, Michael,” Lady Allister said. Apparently she was awake. “How are you today, son?”

  Michael Allister was a sandy-haired boy of about sixteen. He was built well, but I’d never liked his face. It was too weak in the chin, too lofty in the nose. His almost comical expression of surprise faded once his eyes landed on me, and he offered me a broad smile before addressing Lady Allister. “Very well, Mother. I apologize for barging in. I had forgotten that it was your day to take calls.”

  “Oh no, dear, no trouble at all. In fact, why don’t you take the two young ladies for a walk? Young ladies should not be inside on a lovely day such as this—or young gentlemen, for that matter.”

  Aunt Gene’s look told me that I’d better go and that I had better enjoy it.

  Michael obediently bowed and waited for us. Pamela bounded to her feet, while I followed at a slower pace. We exited through a side door, the two of us lowering the veils attached to our bonnets to keep the sun from our skin.

  The Allisters’ lawn was large and flat, with carefully cloned peacocks making their gallant promenades under the trees and ducks bobbing on placid artificial ponds. It was an impressive sight.

  “So.” Michael folded his hands behind his back as he walked. “How are you finding the holidays so far?”

  “Very nice,” Pamela said.

  “Very … interesting,” I decided.

  Michael nodded slowly and looked at me. “You won’t be attending any of the holiday parties, I take it.”

  “Ah, no, no,” Pam said, despite the fact that he had been addressing me. “We’re not out yet.”

&nbs
p; Michael flashed Pam an odd look. “I’ll be kept from them myself,” he said, nonetheless. “I’ve been thinking of arranging something for the younger set. Holiday seems destined to be dreadfully dull otherwise.” He glanced in my direction again, and Pamela took the opportunity to scoot nearer to him.

  “Oh, I was speaking to Miss Dearly yesterday about doing that very thing! It would be splendid. Wouldn’t it be splendid, Miss Dearly?” Her eyes shot over at me.

  I owed her. Big-time. “Hmm. Splendid.”

  Pamela seemed gratified. Turning back to Michael, she went on. “I’d be happy to help with the planning! My father makes the best Christmas cake.”

  I mentally facepalmed. Pam’s father was a baker—not the best thing to remind a rich boy of, if she liked him. But I watched his face, and he didn’t seem put out. Rather, he appeared to be amused and was nodding liberally.

  I sent her a look that told her that she and Michael needed to be alone. I upped my pace a bit, elevating the hem of my skirt to make it easier to walk.

  The direction I headed in took me off of the manicured path and onto the lawn with the animals. For lack of anything better to do, I attempted to shadow a peacock. It gave forth its haunting caw when it saw me approaching, and headed in the other direction, leaving behind a long gem-colored tail feather. I stooped to pick it up. It flashed, brilliant, in the real sunlight.

  “And my cousin is headed to the front lines,” I heard Michael say. They were catching up to me.

  “Oh, how awful,” Pam sympathized.

  “Which company?” I asked, turning around.

  Michael’s eyes fell on the feather in my hand, and I held it out to him. It was technically his, after all. He shook his head. “Keep it, with my compliments. Ah, a new company, 145th.”

  This struck me as odd. “Another company? Where do they keep getting them? There’re only so many of us.”

  “There’re always grunts willing to sign up. As for the commanders—good second and third sons.”

  He was right, of course. Poor second and third sons. Only the firstborn could inherit property. Younger sons of the elite normally joined the armed forces or went into the clergy.

  Pamela tangled her fingers together under the ribbons of her purse and regarded Michael with a sincere, gentle expression. “I’ll pray that he will return safely.”

  “I will as well,” I said.

  “Ah, my thanks. That’ll free me up to pray that if he does suffer hardship, he shares it with at least a score of the Punks.” Michael started down the path again. “As if they stand any chance with this latest offensive. Filthy pigs—no morals, no religion, no thought for the future of their people. Disgusting.”

  I fell into step behind him and Pam, and for once managed to keep my opinions to myself. There were always the rumors—that Punk people took more than one husband or wife. That their regional delicacies included such things as bugs and interestingly shaped specimens of fungi. That they performed occult ceremonies where children were sacrificed to enormous, demon-possessed machines. Codswallop, all of it.

  “So, Miss Dearly,” Michael said, turning to walk backward. Pamela watched him over her shoulder. “You will want to help us with this party, won’t you?”

  Pamela’s eyes grew wide as my mouth opened.

  “If Miss Roe will have me,” I replied. Pam’s smile was worth the indignity of Michael’s self-satisfied nod.

  “Ladies!” Aunt Gene called from one of the mansion’s many doorways. “It’s time to be on our way.”

  “Ladies,” Michael echoed her, bowing.

  We said our goodbyes and headed across the lawn. I reached for Pam’s hand and whispered, “Finally, we can talk.”

  “About what?” she asked giddily.

  I sighed. I’d lost her.

  “We must hurry, girls,” Aunt Gene said, ushering us in the direction of the drive.

  “Why?” I asked, suddenly suspicious.

  “We’ve many other calls to make.”

  “What?”

  “Surely, niece, you understand that we are not so socially pathetic as to have only one house to visit.” Her smile was cold.

  As I climbed into the carriage, I once more contemplated my fate, and how the stylus would figure into it. Shoving it violently into my nose would probably be the best way to go. If I did it hard enough, I might be able to stab myself in the brain. A proper student’s suicide.

  * * *

  “That’s bad luck, you know,” had been Aunt Gene’s comment on my peacock feather. We’d just dropped the ecstatic Pamela off in town, and I hadn’t had a chance to get her alone all day.

  I considered that fairly bad luck.

  That evening found me lounging upon my father’s deathbed in my nightgown, drawing the feather under my nose. The lamps were lit and I was alone again, my aunt gone off to another party. Matilda had taken a legitimate night off, and was out with her current beau.

  I shut my eyes. Aunt Gene wouldn’t be home until late, and I was considering getting some blankets and sleeping in the study amidst my father’s things, the books and objects that he had treasured. Perhaps I should just get up and do it, before I fell asleep. We’d been shuttled from one house to another all day long, forced to smile and coo over annoying dogs and babies and make nicey-nice, and I was exhausted. Never again would I let that foul woman trick me into a carriage.

  Grumbling to myself, I rolled off the bed and stole into the hall, where I found bedclothes in one of the large cupboards. I reentered my father’s study and threw them in a pile on his desk, so I could have both hands free to untangle the blankets and lay them out.

  As I worked, I thought of Pam. I didn’t want to text or call her—I wanted to talk to her in person. Maybe a trip to the ice cream parlor tomorrow, far away from Aunt Gene. I needed to get her to spill, and I needed to spill to her. I’d been distracted lately, but I’d put everything right between us.

  Grief was one thing. Selfishness was another. I should’ve paid more attention to what was going on in her life.

  When I removed the last blanket from the desk, my eyes fell upon my father’s holo projector.

  Setting the blanket aside, I took a seat on the edge of the desk. I smoothed dust off the lenses with my fingertips and wiped them on his stained green ink blotter. The projector was a large one, high-definition, but otherwise shaped exactly like the little brass miniprojector that currently sat in my unpacked trunk upstairs.

  How many happy hours I had spent with my father, watching documentaries and war holos—especially A Definitive History of New Victoria. How often I had begged for the Definitive battle scenes! Almost as often as I had begged for a reading of The Jungle Book.

  For old times’ sake, I flicked the projector on and loaded it up.

  “Hello, Miss Dearly,” it said, recognizing me from my chip. “Resuming track, one:one scale.”

  Logically, I knew that the men who shimmered into being around me weren’t real. The lamplight even diluted them, making them appear more ephemeral than usual. The good manners that my mother had drilled into me as a child, however, kept me from stepping through them. Don’t play with the hologram, dear. It annoys other people, and spoils the illusion.

  So I stayed out of their way as Jeremiah Reed incited them to rebellion, keeping to the edge of the virtual crowd. I shut off the lights one by one, and their coloration became more vivid.

  “They’d give your jobs to machines, gentlemen!” Reed cried.

  “Fast-forward,” I said. “Three hundred seconds.”

  The holograph sped up, a swarm of lights playing over the walls of the room. With a whoosh and a sudden screaming explosion, I found myself in the middle of a battle, the Punks fighting tooth and nail against the red-coated New Victorian army for a few miles of land.

  I tried to get out of the way as the narrator droned on about tactics and geography, but the fighting was everywhere. My feet melted through the dying; bullets flew through my chest. Eventually I decided
just to stand there in the middle of it, all the yelling and violence. I didn’t find it frightening. I found it exciting.

  Even if these men had gone on to die, they had truly lived.

  “Play beginning!” I cried. “Thirty-two times speed!”

  I let the ice age bury me in white. I let the lava from Yellowstone come up to my knees, let the iridescent ash that would go on to blot out the sun rain down upon my face without ever touching it. The arrows describing humanity’s movements toward the Equator skimmed my waist. I’d never done anything like this before. It was amazing.

  It made me forget myself, for a few moments.

  “Back to mark five!”

  And then bombs were going off again, and New Victorian men were marching over me. I shut my eyes to take in the tramping of their feet, the calls for maneuvers, the gunfire.

  Faintly, over the voice of the holo’s narrator, I heard the sound of shouting.

  It wasn’t in the recording.

  My eyes popped open. I couldn’t see anything at first; the light from the holograph was still surging around me. “Stop program,” I said. The figures around me melted away, the darkness of the room suddenly overwhelming. I listened.

  There was definitely something outside. Talking, the crunch of gravel.

  My heart pounding, I moved stealthily over to the window, like I had the night before. The noise stopped by the time I got there.

  But I’d definitely heard something.

  I held my breath, steeling myself. I would look out to assure myself, just as I had the night before. Nothing there then, nothing there now. Probably just some little boys playing in the dark.

  I parted the curtains.

  A skeletal face peered back at me, blackened eyes rolling in sockets seemingly unsupported by flesh.

  It smiled.

  Its fist came sailing through the window. I screamed and reeled back. Then the entire world seemed to be exploding in on my father’s study, glass showering inward as even more … corpses pulled, leapt, slithered their way inside.