LEGACY RISING

by Rachel Eastwood

  The hair color was no accident of fumes—it was a bright neon up-do, unabashed—and the dress wasn’t the only thing about the man which seemed keen. He had an impish little grin already set onto his face, as if he knew some secret, as if he himself were quite brilliant. He was dressed like one of the elite, but he did not look it. He looked so . . . alive, by comparison with that lot.

  “I started a small riot downstairs,” Legacy answered plainly.

  She and the pink-haired stranger both glanced over at Dax.

  “Punched a guard,” he clarified. “How about you?”

  “Apparently, I’d already been blacklisted, and I had one of those nifty little stars etched next to my name,” he chirped. “Those are a coy little message to security, something about detaining me indefinitely for questioning in regards to some other, completely unrelated matter.” He rolled his eyes flippantly, but continued, “It’s direct fascism, I tell you.”

  “Hm. What’s your name?” Legacy asked.

  “Just Leopold,” he replied. “Nothing special, I keep trying to tell everyone. And how about you all?”

  “Dachs Ghrenadel, statistician,” Dax replied. “But my friends call me Dax.”

  “Legacy, the metalsmith,” she answered. “Exa Legacy, but I go by Legacy. Or Leg. Or Ex. Or Legs.”

  “Well, Legs, you do sound like a mite of trouble, forgive me for saying.” Leopold adjusted his unique frock coat and leaned slightly forward, lowering his voice. “So, what would the riot have been regarding?”

  Legacy and Dax exchanged a tense glance.

  “I—well—I had been approved to ask the duke a question.” Legacy had the explicit sensation of exposure, of examination from both sides, and glared at Leopold almost completely by accident. “Anyway, I noticed the way he was just . . . dismissing everyone, and seemed to be trying to get out of it, you know? To get the whole thing over as soon as possible. When I asked my question, it could be said that I got a little heated, and I just . . . starting talking.”

  “Talking about what?”

  Legacy opened her mouth, but hesitated. The unfairness of it all! But she’d already said too much, revealed too much, and Dax looked at her, observing the way she hung there, frozen.

  “Just—the stringent laws,” he answered for her. “And people responded because they know how it feels. We all know how it feels to want, and be denied, at every turn.”

  Legacy’s cheeks suddenly felt inconspicuously clotted.

  Leopold raised a slender pink eyebrow at Dax, oblivious to Legacy’s discomfort. “People . . . responded?”

  “Well, you know. They clapped and some started shouting. I punched a guy. The little things that make up a riot.”

  “That’s nothing to be shrugged off, Legacy,” Leopold said, turning back to her with a kind of pride. There was a pause wherein he examined her more thoughtfully, and then asked, “So, what was your question?”

  Augh, damnit.

  Legacy cleared her throat and looked down, praying Dax would rescue her again, but no aid came this time. She looked back up into Leopold’s waiting gaze and forged on, imagining that Dax simply wasn’t there, or at the least, had no ears.

  “I wanted to have the reasoning of the CCSS explained to me. I mean—I know, at first, only so many people could be maintained in Icarus, or in any of the air cities, and it was all part of the measures to ensure health in the citizenry. It was an issue of expense. Fewer sick people, less food wasted, less energy expended, more production, more—but— We had all just come up from Old Earth, anyway, so who knew, right? But now, you know, it’s been fifty years. And it’s just—I don’t know—it’s just that I’d like the opportunity to . . . make my own mistakes. No, not mistakes! Decisions. I’d like the opportunity to make my own decisions, and for other people to have that right, too. Is that so much? I’m even okay with letting the limitations stand on the birth rate, just one child seems all right, I guess, as long as the difference engines go. Because that’s not fair. I . . . I was paired with this guy, three years ago, who I don’t even . . .”

  Leopold’s eyes shifted knowingly between the anguished little revolutionary and her companion, the one in the rebreather, the one who had punched a guard. The one who would be ineligible for companion selection. His lip quirked, though the gesture wasn’t particularly kind.

  “Isn’t it always for love,” Leopold commented dryly. “When you make a speech, first of all, don’t use softeners like ‘I mean,’ or ‘right?’ They detract from your authority as a speaker. And plainly do not say ‘I don’t know.’ You do know. That’s why you’re standing up. That’s why you’re talking. And finally, don’t give them an inch, all right? Don’t tell them it’d be okay if they kept certain parts of the structure. Because they’ll use that. They’ll use that as their justification for every nut and bolt in the place.”

  Legacy frowned at the pink-haired man, suddenly doubting by the vitriol in his voice that he wasn’t perhaps responsible for some other crime, the one for which he would be questioned later in the night.

  “Who . . . are you?” she asked again.

  Leopold smiled. “Aren’t you clever,” he said. He glanced away from her again, toward the window, and then nodded in her direction, then at Dax. “You’ll want to be stepping back for a moment.”

  Though uncertain, she took a small step back. Dax gripped her shoulder protectively as a grappling hook came clattering into the window, its appendages scrambling independently of one another in search of a strong hold. The thin yet sturdy titanium legs spread and secured themselves with tiny suction cups into a low corner, and Legacy’s eyes bulged with disbelief.

  Gustav the Drunk vaulted onto the bench beneath the window, completely ignoring the pair of newcomers and suddenly not only sober but agile, swinging his legs over the sill and gripping the silver chain which had mysteriously arrived for them by means of grappling hook, disappearing down the backside of the tower.

  Leopold nodded at Legacy. “Neon,” he said. “My name is Neon.”

  “Oi!” one of the guards called, and a clatter of keys arose. “What’s that, there?”

  The pink-haired man sprang onto the sill.

  “Neon Trimpot,” Legacy breathed.

  “Aye, that’s the one,” he replied, grabbing the rope. “You’ll want to be quick right about now,” he said, gesturing. “Come on!” And with that, he too vanished over the side.

  Legacy shared a brief glance with Dax, interrupted by the squeal of the door’s horizontal bars receding, preparing for the door to swing open behind them. His eyes flared wide. “Go, go!” He nudged her up onto the sill, and she didn’t hesitate. The shouts of the guards and their footfalls were on her back as she pushed into open air with only the rope to hold onto, Dax tumbling after her.

  The grappling hook sank its suckered talons into the wall and began climbing back down with the crew, spider-like.

  The rest of their scurry was in silence—with the exception of the bellowing guards—until they dropped down into a jagged display of crystal bushes.

  The bush jangled merrily as Gustav stumbled first from it. Without wasting an instant, the fake drunk then took off running, out of the square and toward the park. He seemed to be running aimlessly, but then again, he’d also seemed drunk a minute ago.

  Neon leapt down into the bush next, and started to dash after his companion, but then stopped short and looked back to Legacy and Dax.

  Legacy landed with a jangle in the crystal bush, just as quickly expelled by its sharp leaves.

  “Ow! Shit!” Dax hissed, emerging behind her.

  “I don’t normally do this, but come on,” Neon said, nodding in the direction Gustav had ran, and then bolting himself.

  Legacy and Dax pounded after him, almost flying through the side streets of the business quarter. Legacy was strangely lighter than she had been in years.

  Chapter Three

  The abandoned world below the city streets of Icarus was a place of fungus a
nd mold, of cloud and cough. These were secret horrors which even Neon Trimpot had not beheld from his height. There was a twisted, poetically tragic beauty to the dying planet, for the memories of golden ages now melted down for scrap were still present. Skyscrapers overcome by mosses lined the horizon like decayed teeth, and mangrove trunks skewered the rusted engines of half-submerged cars. There were, of course, also the handful of geodesic domes tethered and floating some thousand feet above the Earth’s surface—Old Earth, they called it—but contemplation of these were lost on the peoples of Old Earth, as much as contemplation of these peoples was lost on the inhabitants of the New. The misfortunate denizens of Old Earth rarely paused to consider the lives which could’ve been afforded them, had they been born first rather than second. In fact, they didn’t pause to consider life at all.

  Coal 106 pitched the loose coal over her shoulder with a wide shovel, body covered in an unflattering gray smock and face masked by a rebreather, hidden much like Exa Legacy had been earlier that day. Unlike Legacy, however, Coal’s day would not complete at the end of an eight or nine hour shift. Coal’s day would complete when her body was on the verge of collapse. Even now, the sky was dark, the moon was out, and Coal’s arms trembled with each thrust into the pile of soot and stone.

  Coal was petite and, moreover, malnourished, but still layered in a fine musculature as a result of this constant strain. Her silver-white hair was kept trim. There was no utility to the indulgence of long hair. Even still, she was beautiful. Some indulgences could not be helped. Her heart-shaped bone structure flared out around a large pair of amber eyes, narrowed around a strong nose, and came to a point beneath one of those rare mouths with an upper lip as lush as the lower. The chief discrepancy between Exa Legacy and Coal 106 was that there was no aura of impertinence to the twenty-year-old coal miner. If anything, where Legacy’s eyes were limpid and liquid, Coal’s were flat and shiftless.

  There was no crack of relief, no flame of joy, even when the air horn blew to signal the end of the work day.

  Coal filtered into the exhausted trek of silent workers exiting the mine shaft, all masked as she was, all flat-eyed as she was.

  A large trolley awaited the emergent crew with a single headlight to pierce the grainy fog encroaching from all sides. A barren lot swept around them with the gleaming track of the trolley laid out, circling here and heading back from whence it came. This track would then carry them over a highway almost made unnavigable by earthquake and storm, hedged in decrepit structures. Further still in the distance were shadowy bogs.

  “Let me see it,” the driver, a gnarled old man whose name Coal either couldn’t remember or didn’t know, commanded her. It was entirely possible that his name was Coal, too.

  Coal obediently unsheathed her arm, and the man examined the stretched tattoo there, then tallied some symbols on a little machine attached to the trolley.

  “All right,” he muttered, gesturing, and Coal followed the sweep of his hand, taking her seat next to someone. She couldn’t be sure who because she hadn’t bothered to look. Besides, they all still wore their masks.

  It was as easy for Coal to get lost in the blank wall of her mind as it was for Legacy to be mired in daydream.

  The trolley filled with cropped haircuts and industrial rebreathers, all ages, genders, and races. Then the vehicle lurched off. As it trundled heavily along the shattered asphalt of the decrepit highway, stripped billboards strung in gossamer spider webbing came and went, as did monuments hemmed in clusters of pale mushroom. Coal’s eyes turned to observe none of it. The surface of the Earth was eerily silent, save the rumble of the trolley. There was no conversation between its passengers. No flutter of life in the sky or gleam of animal eye in the wilds.

  Within five minutes, the trolley lurched and deposited its cargo at a small, domed complex of sparse living spaces, quite similar to the domestic district of Icarus, yet worse. Yet much worse.

  Coal trudged to the next checkpoint, a sprawling cement court, hedged by stacks of crates, with a drain set into its center. There, a shriveled, glaring woman stood with a thick hose. There were bins off to the left for the soiled uniforms, and bins off to the right of fresh—but gray and frayed—towels. Coal undressed fully with no flinch of self-consciousness. She dumped her clothing into the SMALL bin—although she did not know that was what it said; she only recognized its position—and waited in another silent shuffle, only different by virtue of its nudity, until the woman with the hose could give her body a cursory, disinterested spray. The process was over in thirty seconds, and she retrieved her rebreather: the only item which was not shared indiscriminately amongst workers, and the only item which needed to be worn as often as possible. She wrapped her wet body in a gray towel and walked, in disposable slippers, to her personal unit.

  This was as small as Legacy’s bedroom, but with no warped dresser drawer, spill of cloth, no picture of any place. Only blank wall, scent of mildew, and a narrow cot. She had a washroom. That was the height of her luxury.

  Coal coughed weakly, shrugged off the towel, and went to lay in her bed. Her muscles groaned and released like rusted valves, and she coughed again. She supposed, if she wanted to root around in her minuscule vocabulary for a word which described this state, prostrate, solitary, and clean, it would be happy. Or maybe tired. Sick.

  She was often foggy-headed, lethargic, and suffering from chest pains. She never complained of them to one of the supervising staff, however. That wasn’t like her—or like anyone else. Complaining was simply not a part of this culture. Occasionally, if a supervisor thought her to look ill, Coal received a shot in the arm and was sent back to work. The chronic issues were not severe enough to warrant attention at her annual check-up.

  But Coal didn’t notice the cyclical manner of these examinations, how they always came when the heat went cool. The passage of a year was as meaningful to her as it was to any beast of burden. She didn’t know that she was twenty years old, soon to be twenty-one. She didn’t even really know that she was a she. Perhaps, in some ways, she’d absorbed and assimilated the data, but for the most part, it was . . . just . . . not important.

  The occupants of Old Earth had only one true calling, and that was work. Some, such as herself, mined coal. She was never called away to do anything else, save to eat, shower, move her waste, and sleep. Of course, there were other mines, too. Mines of feldspar, mines of zinc and lithium. Others didn’t mine at all, which would’ve seemed odd to Coal, if anything seemed odd to Coal: that a thing could do something other than mine. Still, some extracted antimony from ore, or perhaps they worked loading freight for delivery to wherever in the world it went next.

  Some were not really like Coal at all. Some of them wore clothing more complex than a simple gray smock, and they held themselves with a brightness, a quality of weighing and scheming and then comprehending, which was lost on her entirely. They took samples of the soil, or tilled fields of their mottled fungi. Not that Coal spoke to them, or to anyone, or thought on them, or anything.

  But sometimes they were in the trolley window as she passed.

  Lastly in the thin compendium of things Coal knew, there was a fate with which she had only been threatened as a small child. A place where the bad children would go, to wade in brackish waters and perhaps be told to collect lily pads and cattails. But that wasn’t the true reason they were sent. They were sent to fight the host of monsters in these peripheral swamps, a quest from which return was unlikely.

  But Coal didn’t really remember those threats anymore; it’d been so long ago. They’d made their impact at the time, and thusly served their purpose.

  Coal flipped onto her back and expelled an automatic sigh punctuated by another rasping cough. Her eyes slid to the one small window they’d given her, where she could see just the bottom half of a waxing moon.

  Resisting the whim to stand, she shoved the cot once, then again, and climbed back into bed.

  Now the moon was complete.


  It was the strangest thing, but sometimes she’d catch herself peering at this foreign body, and she would feel less alone. Not that she would call it loneliness; she wouldn’t call it anything. It was just an odd physical sensation which was always dismissed upon her report to the annual examination. She had been told for years now that the sharp little series of pangs in her chest—which she only truly suffered at night and which were different from the pain when she breathed—were nothing. “Those are quite common,” the attending physician would explain.

  But when she gazed up at that big, lonely pearl in the sky, the prickling needles would swell between her breasts, and become almost sweet.

  This would quickly abate and was easily dismissed. Almost an illusion, if not some illness.

  The airships moving overheard did not give her much pause, nor did the mysterious geodesic dome suspended so like the moon. Though it wasn’t completely separate from the planet on which she’d grown—connected to the earth by a series of cables—she never even considered exploring, inquiring, or attempting a gesture. The bustling metropolis encased in its bubble, and the smaller satellite island, just was, because it always had been. And from her position, so far away and so inattentive to curiosity, they were really nothing more than vague shapes.

  Meanwhile, Kaizen Taliko stared out his own window, though rather than barren and outfitted with bars, this one was fringed in a fine crushed silk and plated in bulletproof glass. He could not see the security detail both behind and in front of them; it was only just beginning to rain inside the dome. You could always tell when it was raining outside the dome, and for a moment, the world would feel real. Even if melancholy was a thread in that reality--or, hell, a theme--he supposed it was better than complete fabrication. Metal trees. Clockwork people.

  The cabin jostled over the city streets, its large, thin wheels doing nothing to absorb shock, and the driver occasionally applied the brakes to idle and exchange the proper clearances at whatever gate prior to continuing along the path. This had been Kaizen’s life, so far. Sit here. Stay here. Wait.