by Lyndsay Ely
Flossie materialized out of the onlookers, all peachy skin and bouncing pink lace. “Problem, Olivia?”
“Not anymore.” The bartender whistled. A pair of Tin Men ran over. “Give him a shot.”
One of the Tin Men jabbed the man with a shock stick. He bucked as every muscle contracted at once, a cry of pain trapped behind clenched teeth.
“Your turn,” said Olivia.
Flossie addressed the offender. “I’m sorry, sir, but your patronage is no longer welcome in Casimir. Olivia, sweetie, you want to bust his other hand before they toss him out?”
Olivia shrugged. “Why not?”
“No!” he cried. “No, I’m sorry, please don’t!”
“Oh, don’t apologize to me, hon. Apologize to Kitty.”
The man sniffled at the young woman. “I’m sorry, Kitty. I swear I am.”
“Now, sir.” Flossie leaned closer, her smile as doll-like as the rest of her. “If you ever try to come here again, Olivia will shoot you. Happily. Understand?”
He nodded vigorously. At Olivia’s command, the Tin Men dragged him away.
Flossie put her arm around Kitty. “Come here, sweetie. You wanna take the rest of the night off?”
“Thanks, Flossie. I’m okay.” She rubbed the tops of her arms. “He wouldn’t quit pinching me. It hurt! I told him that wasn’t my thing and someone else would be happy to accommodate him, but he just wouldn’t stop.”
Olivia returned to her spot behind the bar. She picked up the pitcher and pointedly refilled Pity’s and Max’s glasses.
“Message received,” said Duchess. He and Garland wandered off. Luster was already engaged with the appreciative customer, sitting on her lap and offering a pill from a silver tin.
Pity raised an eyebrow at Olivia. “You’re pretty dangerous for a bartender.”
“Well, bartender and deputy head of security.” Olivia grabbed a bottle. “For all the professions I’ve pursued in my time, they all seem to come down to the same thing eventually.”
The same thing. The thought echoed in Pity’s mind. Selene… Casimir… they didn’t hesitate to protect their own. She saw Finn fall again, murdered by thieves who cared no more about putting a bullet into her as they would a rabid dog. Would you have hesitated to see them executed for it? The answer came quick and clear: No. But what did it say about Pity that she’d leave the difficult part to someone else?
The only steel in her is in those guns.
That wasn’t true. She might not be tough enough for security work, might have failed to save Finn, but she wasn’t a coward. She wasn’t. And Max was right. There were some folks the world was better off without.
She turned to him. “Okay. I understand.”
“Understand what?”
“What Olivia just did… and the Theatre and Beeks. It’s all different kinds of justice, right?”
He thought for a moment. “That’s a good way of putting it.”
Justice, she repeated to herself. I can handle justice.
“Look,” Max said, “even if you’re in a show with a Finale, what are the chances the audience would pick you? A bullet is fast. Simple. The Theatre’s audience? They want a show.”
There were no clocks in the Gallery, and Pity had no idea what time it was when they finally stumbled back to her room. She was exhausted and barefoot, shoes dangling in one hand.
“How in the world does Luster get around in these? My feet are killing me! Wearing them is like trying to walk on river stones!” Despite nursing her drinks all night, Pity felt warm all over. Words tumbled recklessly from her mouth. “Have you ever walked on river stones? You know how they get all mossy and slippery?”
Max laughed. “I can’t say I have. Have you ever gone swimming in the ocean?”
“Are you kidding? I think Cessation is as close to an ocean as I’ve ever been.” She unlocked the door and tossed the shoes into the corner. “Good riddance.”
Max pointed. “Looks like someone left you a present.”
On the table was a small satchel with half a dozen boxes on top of it. An orange note sat beside the pile.
“‘Dearest Pity,’” she read, affecting dramatic intonation. “‘A little something for tomorrow’s rehearsal. See you at noon, sharp! Ever yours, Halcyon.’” She picked up one of the boxes. It rattled when she shook it. “I know that sound!”
Inside, bullets were stacked in neat layers. She picked one out. The smooth, cool casing was oddly soothing.
“Halcyon gives the best gifts.” Max took the note from her hand. She felt a fresh flush of warmth when his fingers brushed hers. “Noon? I should let you get some sleep.”
Pity gripped the bullet. She didn’t want to sleep. And she didn’t really want Max to go, either. Her earlier anxiety was gone, replaced by an unfamiliar energy, and she knew that if Max left, if the night ended, then the energy would, too.
But there was Selene’s mandate to keep in mind. Pity hadn’t earned her place in the Theatre yet. And if she failed in that, she’d be saying good-bye to Max for more than a few hours.
“You’re right,” she said. “It’s late. And if I want to stick around, I better be able to shoot straight, right?”
Yet when he was gone, Pity lay wide-awake in bed, rolling the bullet back and forth between her fingers, back and forth, until it was so warm it felt a part of her.
CHAPTER 12
Halcyon was waiting when she arrived at the arena the next day.
“We never hold rehearsals the day after a show,” he explained, “so it is the optimal time to begin your acclimation.”
Pity examined the deserted stands, hand resting on the satchel of bullets beside her gun belt. The ecstatic screams of a thousand voices sounded in her memory. Will they cheer for me? she wondered. Scream for her the way they screamed for Scylla and Beeks? Her eyes sought the spot where he had died, but all evidence of the previous night’s show was gone. Pushing the dark thoughts to the back of her mind, Pity drew one of her guns and aimed it into the seats. She spun around slowly, letting herself get a feel for it.
A head popped up in one of the boxes—Widmer, the mechanic from the garage. “Not quite yet, please!”
She flipped the barrel toward the ceiling. “Sorry. I wasn’t going to fire.”
“No, but the enthusiasm is appreciated.” Halcyon grinned his mad grin. “So tell me, what did you think of last night’s performance?”
“It was”—she chose her words carefully—“like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”
“Of course not!” He scowled. “That’s because you can only see it here! Never mind, never mind, let’s get started. Widmer, how are we coming?”
“Almost done. Just a few more adjustments.” Widmer stood. “There!” He climbed over the lip of the box and lowered himself down to the stage floor. “Let’s give it a try.”
“Give what a try?” said Pity.
“The device that’s going to keep you from killing the audience,” Halcyon said. “As dramatic as that would be, I do believe it would affect the long-term viability of the act.”
Widmer fiddled with a display screen he carried. “I’ve always wanted a reason to use this tech. Sadly, the amount of power it draws doesn’t make it good for much.”
He pressed the display again. There was a sudden shift in the air around them, a low vibration, so faint that Pity wondered if she imagined it.
Widmer pointed at the stands. “Take a shot now.”
“There’s no target.”
“Just aim into the stands like you were before. Go on.”
Pity raised her gun.
Bang!
Sparks exploded midair, at the boundary where the stage ended and the boxes began.
“Brilliant!” said Halcyon. “Pity, do it again!”
She fired over and over, until her gun was empty. Every bullet detonated like the first. “That’s amazing.”
“Runs all around the edge.” Widmer smiled proudly. “And wait until you see what else I
’ve got rigged! Get ready now.”
A tube appeared out of the floor and spat three glass globes into the air. Pity hesitated for only a heartbeat. She drew her second gun and fired. The globes exploded. At the opposite edge of the floor, another three launched. She felled two, but her third shot missed and a sphere landed on the floor, rolling to a stop a few feet away.
“Dammit.” She rubbed her eyes. “Guess I’m still a little worn around the edges.”
“Nonsense!” said Halcyon. “No performer is perfect all the time. Why, we used to have a young man who swallowed swords…” He stopped. “Actually, you don’t need to hear that story. Tsk—such a tragedy. But my point is that practice makes perfect!”
Pity reloaded. “So am I going to be shooting at launched targets all the time or—” She stopped. Halcyon was staring at her.
“Well, that won’t do,” he said.
“What?”
“That! It’s rather slow and dull isn’t it?”
She looked down at the half empty cylinder. “Well, if you want me to keep shooting I’m going to need to reload sometimes.”
“I know, I know, but there’s no showmanship to it!” He waved a hand erratically. “We shan’t worry about that right now. I’ll get Eva to work with you—she’s got a good head for choreography. Now back to work!”
Halcyon and Widmer retreated to a box, giving Pity the run of the arena. At first, the globes launched at regular intervals, and she picked them off leisurely. Then Widmer upped the pace. Soon she was moving back and forth in the ring, spinning and twisting, ears straining for the faint thwip that accompanied each launch. Her heart pounded, but her fatigue was forgotten. She stayed focused on the challenge, rushing to reload between each volley. She wasn’t always fast enough, but by the time Halcyon called to her to stop, she had destroyed a score of targets for each one that had made it to the floor.
“Very impressive,” said Halcyon. “I think that’s enough for today.”
Pity holstered her weapons and wiped the sweat from her brow. She was tired, but it was a good, glowing tired. The best she’d felt in days. “When do I have to do this for real?”
“When I think you’re ready. For now, practice, practice, practice! Here, tomorrow, same time. Until then, my dear”—he gave her a deep bow—“I bid you good afternoon!” He strode off in the direction of his office.
Widmer came up beside her. “So,” he said, “what are your feelings on fireworks?”
Stomach quivering, Pity forced herself to look over the edge. Casimir’s twenty-odd floors stood solid beneath her feet, but every time a breeze blew, her knees turned to pudding. Cessation spread out below her, dark as a blood blister against the pale desert. The black river of asphalt that had delivered her to Casimir cut through its midst, flowing to the oasis within an oasis.
Could you make it out there alone? A week had passed since she arrived, and though she pondered the question daily, no definitive answer ever came.
Pity turned back to the cool canopy of trees. A perfume of flowers enveloped her as an older man in a crisp suit strode past. She recognized him from the Gallery. Last night he had been entrenched at the tables, throwing hand after hand of dice, only pausing long enough to drink, belch, and grope whoever happened to be within reaching distance. This morning he inclined his head politely at Pity and continued strolling.
She returned the silent greeting and ran a hand over a cluster of flowers, their pale blue petals as soft as silk. The garden covered the entirety of the roof, a lush labyrinth of greenery and stone paths. It was nicknamed Eden, despite being one of the few places where people seemed to keep all their clothes on. Of Casimir’s many delights—which included lavish dining rooms, a library full of books, and even a cinema hall—Eden was her favorite.
“Morning.” Max appeared from one of the paths. “Enjoying the garden?”
She nodded. “It’s so peaceful. And I’ve never been so high before.”
He went to the edge. “Ugh, I hate that part.”
“So why are you looking?”
He smirked, the silver rings in his lips reflecting a flash of sun. “Not liking something isn’t the same as being afraid of it.”
“It’s so quiet.” She gazed out over the city. “Hard to believe what it turns into when the sun goes down. On the commune, days are busy. Nights are as quiet as… well, as now.”
“It only looks quiet.” Max took a measuring tape from his pocket. “Sorry to interrupt, but I was looking for you for a reason. If you’re going to perform in the Theatre, you’ll need a costume. So I need some measurements.”
Pity eyed the tape. “I hope that means I’ll be wearing more than paint.”
His mouth turned up at the corner. “Do you want to go somewhere more private?”
She glanced around the nearly deserted garden. “This seems to be about as private as it gets around here.”
“Can’t argue with that. Stand up straight,” Max instructed. “Put out your arms.”
She obeyed. Max laid the tape from her shoulder to her wrist. He pulled out a small notebook and pencil and made a notation. Then he measured Pity from shoulder to hip. His touch was practiced, professional, but her stomach fluttered each time his fingers brushed against her. This is his job, she told herself. But that didn’t quell the sensations kindled within her. She stared straight ahead, face warm.
“You said you weren’t born in Cessation,” she said as a distraction. “So where did you live before here?”
“I’ve been around a few places. More than a few.”
“Have you been to Columbia?”
“Yes.” There was a brusqueness in the reply. “It’s not a place I’m fond of.”
“Why not? I’ve heard it’s something to be seen.”
“Oh, it’s a fine place to live,” he conceded. “If you have wealth and influence. For everyone else… Well, Olivia wasn’t exaggerating when she said you’d have been lucky to find a bed to rent. Trust me, you’re better off here.” He stepped back a pace. “Uh, I also need to measure your… Well, keep your arms out, please.”
Pity’s cheeks tingled—red as beets, she was certain. She raised her eyes to the sky as he looped the measuring tape around her torso, bringing it back together at the swell of her chest. She searched for something else to say, but her tongue felt tacked to the roof of her mouth. No secret flirtation or hayloft kisses from the boys on the commune had left her feeling half as flustered. Finally, Max let the tape fall. He took note of her waist and then dropped to one knee.
“Your, uh, inseam,” he said.
Was it her imagination or was there a flush to his face, too? Her heart thumped as his knuckles brushed against her thigh. She lowered her arms and concentrated on a puff of cloud. An agonizing moment later, she heard the scratch of pencil against paper.
Max stood. “Done. Wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“Not at all,” Pity replied, a touch too lightly.
Dense silence floated between them.
“Do you want to go for a walk?” Max said hurriedly.
“Where?”
He pointed over the edge of the building. “There’s more to Cessation than Cas.”
“Is it… safe?”
“Of course. You’re under Miss Selene’s umbrella right now. No one will lay a hand on us. They know what would happen if they did.”
The Rousseaus? Pity guessed silently. Or maybe the Zidanes?
“Right,” she said aloud. “I think I’ll bring my guns anyway.”
Pity kept a hand resting on the butt of one gun as they left Casimir’s protective circle and entered the maze of buildings. Her veins thrummed, but more with excitement than with fear. As midday approached, the city was coming to life. The streets were rougher and dirtier beyond Casimir’s boundaries, but not what she had expected. The gritty, garish cloak of night had been put aside. Normal-looking folks carried on with normal-looking errands. People greeted one another with smiles, and a pack of children played in
the streets.
They walked slowly so she could take everything in. Max bought them skewers of grilled meat from a street vendor and a bag of oranges. He was right—the streets seemed safe enough during the day, and Pity was pleased to see pairs of Tin Men patrolling at intervals. Even when they passed dim doorways that leaked smoke and other ill odors—where jagged men and women lingered, skin sallow and eyes cold—no one gave them any trouble. A few even nodded politely.
Miss Selene’s umbrella casts a nice shade, Pity thought.
Max paused before an alley. “Hold on a second.”
A moment later, a young boy melted out of the shadows. He was skinny, his clothes faded and threadbare, but he looked healthy enough. Pity guessed he was about ten.
“Hey, Tye,” said Max. “Anything interesting going on?”
The boy’s eyes flickered to her. “There’s a new girl in the Theatre,” he said flatly. “People say she’s a sharpshooter.”
“Smart-ass,” said Max. “Anything else?”
“A big group of dissidents came in early this morning. They’re camped over by the smoke dens.”
“Where’d they come from?”
Tye shrugged. “Dunno. Looks like they seen a fight, though.”
“Hmm.” Max handed the bag of oranges to him, along with some currency. “Thanks.”
The boy faded back into the alley.
“Who was that?” asked Pity.
“One of Cessation’s strays. Good eyes.” He started walking again. “When I first got here, I knew no one, had nothing but some paints and brushes. I spent my first night huddled in an alley, hungry and cold. Some kids found me. I didn’t know what to do, so I painted them a picture on a scrap of wood. They took it and brought me some food. I return the favor now and again.”
“That’s sweet,” said Pity. “So you going to tell me where we’re headed?”
“Shopping.”
“Shopping?”
“What’s the matter?” he said. “You don’t like—”
A shout sounded ahead of them. An instant later a young man careened around a corner, three Old Reds on his heels. The nearest Red got close enough to shove him, and he went sprawling into a wall. Trapped, he pressed his back to the dirty brick as the pursuers closed in around him.