by Mark Teppo
They passed these towers, tiers long abandoned. Lith grew larger and darker.
The smell of it, Djonn realized, was more than Raeda’s dramatic talk. Rot, like a bird had crawled into a basket to die, but much worse. The tower itself, broken, she’d said, somewhere far below, made the stench.
Raeda slowed her approach, lifted a foot from the wings’ footsling, and landed on Lith in a cloud of dark dust. Djonn heard her coughing as he tried his own approach, wobbling and flying way too fast to step out.
"Careful!" Raeda shouted.
Djonn furled his wings in desperation, dropped hard to the tower’s splintered bone lip, and scrambled for purchase. His wings banged the tower’s edge before Raeda grabbed his arm to steady him. Blood bloomed through the knees of his robes.
"You’re too clumsy for this, Djonn," she said. "You should wait up here."
Wait. On the blackening bones of Lith. No.
"What are we doing here?" he asked.
"You need a treasure, right?"
Djonn nodded. His message bird landed on his shoulder and poked at his ear, demanding food. He obliged, absently.
"Then you must go where the center isn’t grown out, way down, where no one comes to salvage." She said it matter-of-fact and held her arms out. Lith.
"How did you know?" They stood far below the occupied city.
"Heard my uncle talk about it once with my gran."
Djonn frowned. His father had helped her uncle with a gambling debt, but the price had been steep.
"What did your gran say?"
"That this place is very old. People died here when the tower cracked. There are ghosts."
Djonn looked around. All he saw was dead bone, rotting while the city grew past it. His knees pulsed with pain.
"You can stay up here," she said again.
He shook his head. "I broke the ticker. I’ll find something better to replace it with, or I won’t go back."
"You broke something else, too," Raeda said, her voice filled with regret.
Djonn looked over his shoulder. His clumsy landing had bent his left wing. Two bone battens poked through the silk at odd angles.
Father would skip the hanging and throw him right into the clouds.
"It’s all right," he lied, hoping his voice wouldn’t break. "Maybe we’ll find something to patch them with downtower."
Raeda watched him. She’d seen Djonn’s brothers yank him back from near-disastrous falls. Heard them laugh at how clumsy he was and threaten to tether him like a baby, so they could reel him up. Djonn looked away from the pity in her eyes.
"You can send the bird, call for help."
He shook his head. "Let’s go," he said, determined not to trip or stumble in front of her. His broken wing dragged behind him with a skittering sound.
He uncoiled the ladder and looked for something to tie it to. The uneven roof presented cracks and rough spurs, but he didn’t think it would hold two climbers.
Raeda saw it too. "You go down. I’ll hold the rope. Then I’ll fly down."
"How far?"
She shrugged. "Ladder won’t reach more than four tiers."
Djonn thought about the clouds. About his brothers, the ticker, his broken wing. "We should go farther."
Raeda grumbled. "Would be faster if you stayed up top."
"No."
The tower creaked and groaned as he climbed down the ladder’s knots. He passed tier after blackened tier. Each smelled worse than the ones before. But Raeda was right, the central core hadn’t grown out. Among the tossed and broken walls of the living quarters he passed, Djonn saw shadows piled high.
"This is good enough," Raeda said at the eighth tier.
"It isn’t," he answered and lowered the rope again. Her stories always began long, long ago. They argued until they’d descended sixteen tiers.
"Lower than our great-grandparents," he whispered. His calves and shoulders throbbed.
"Much," Raeda agreed.
Lower and darker. Tendrils of cloud curled over the tier’s dark bone floors. Something rattled in the shadows.
Only a bird, Djonn thought. We’ll get the treasure and get out.
Raeda spoke, not looking at him. "Do you know a story called ‘Bone Forest’?"
He shook his head. Focused on her words, rather than listening for sounds from the tower.
"My gran knew it. She’d lost everything but the story’s name by the time I knew her. I thought maybe your brothers—since they go to the markets."
"What’s a forest?"
"Dunno."
Raeda, distracted by the lost story, fell silent. She walked across the filthy floor. Djonn watched her feet, lost in their whispers. When she stepped on a goose-sized pile of feathers, dry bones cracked. Raeda cried out once and fell to her knees. A splintered goose rib pierced her left footwrap.
Djonn looked around for help. Lith, he remembered, held only ghosts. Then he knelt beside Raeda. He placed his hand flat against her heel and tugged at the splinter. She bit her lip and stayed silent. Djonn pulled again and the splinter came loose. Raeda lay down with her foot raised above her head.
"Bad luck," Djonn said. His voice cracked. "We’ll get help now." His bird shifted on his shoulder.
"No. Get your treasure, then we’ll send the bird." Raeda’s voice wavered. "Look," she pointed. Something glinted on the floor beyond her reach, under layers of dust and grime.
Djonn bent to brush at the dust. His fingers touched cold metal, a bone handle. A knife. Father had many knives.
He stepped over it. Brushed at the dust beyond with his fingers. Uncovered small bones, knobby and jumbled, then long bones, bigger than his arm. A pile of curved bones and tiered bones. Djonn cleaned off the last of them and realized they’d make a grown man, though the skull was missing. He yelped.
His message bird startled and flew away. Djonn cursed after it, and at his own clumsiness.
Raeda crawled over. "Sat down and died, looks like. No one around to throw him over the edge."
"What happened to his head?"
"A bird took it for the eyeballs, like as not," she made a gnashing sound with her teeth, and Djonn paled.
"Aw, Raeda!" He felt sick and bent over, his back turned to her. He stared at the tower’s dark wall, not really seeing anything. Stared at the dark shadow against the wall for a heartbeat, two. Then he blinked. Rust-rimed metal, a bone handle on the lid, half hidden by rags and piles of rotting feathers. "Oh," he whispered.
Raeda followed his glance and whistled. "Look what we found."
She crawled faster than he could scramble, and beat him to it.
She fingered the rusted latches, then rubbed them with scourweed pulled from a pocket of her robe. A shadow passed by the tower. Another bird, Djonn thought.
Long-sealed hinges squealed as the box’s top swung open. Inside was more metal than Djonn had seen in his life. Long pieces of it, sharp at the ends. Short bits, clawed bits, a long strip with symbols like the ticker. He’d seen Father hold one of the clawed things, once. Saw him cradle it like a bird, call it a tool, the rarest kind of treasure. There were nails too, plenty of them. Metal needles. And a strange two-legged thing with a piece of charcoal clamped to one leg. He snatched that from the box before Raeda slammed the lid down.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Thinking." She sat on the box and looked out at the blue sky beyond the black tower. The sun was high in its arc now.
Djonn tried to guess Raeda’s thoughts. He wasn’t sure what to think himself, except that she sat on his treasure. Metal. A pile of it.
"It’s mine," he finally said. "I gave you my wings for it."
She looked at him a long time. "And you don’t have any way to get it out of here, do you, sad-face brokenwings?" Djonn’s brothers called her that, when they thought she couldn’t hear. She rose, favoring her heel, and pulled at the box handle. The contents rattled. "It’s too heavy to fly."
"We have to try," Djonn said with a screech.
"It’s mine."
"And what is mine, Djonn?" Raeda’s chin tilted up.
Djonn nearly whispered "What could you possibly want?" because his mother had said it to him so often, but he knew. Raeda wanted to leave. With the box and his wings, she’d be free.
Djonn wanted to say, "Yes, take me with you," and "No, you can’t," all at the same time.
His fingers tightened around the tool that held the charcoal. One leg ended in a sharp point.
"You have your wings. Help me get this back home and I’ll give you some of what’s inside."
She shook her head slowly. "I’m not going back. I’ll make my own luck in the city, somewhere your father and my uncle can’t find me." She had the box open again and began picking through the metal.
A shadow, backlit by the sun and bright sky, fell over her.
"That’s exactly what you won’t be doing."
A man stood on the ledge, furling his dark wings. He cracked his knuckles and stared at the box, and at both of them.
"Uncle," Raeda whispered.
Despite her uncle blocking the light, Djonn could see Raeda’s face. Her eyes narrowed, and she looked from Maru to the box and back.
Any hope Djonn had that this was a rescue evaporated.
"Been watching you, Rae," Maru said. He jerked his chin at Djonn. "Boy’s dad says you haven’t brought in near enough salvage lately. Been putting a lot of pressure on me. So I saw you launch that bird."
Djonn’s mouth formed an ‘o’. Father’s story about helping Raeda was a lie.
Still, Maru was a way out. Djonn could make a deal.
"Help us get the box back," Djonn said, speaking forcefully, like his father would. "And my father will forget your debt, I know it."
Maru laughed. "Boy, you don’t know your father. Let’s see what you found."
He eyed the box and whistled like Raeda had.
"The whole tower saw you two fly off, Rae," he muttered. "Won’t be long before half the city is searching Lith for treasure. What else did you find?"
"Only that. And him," Raeda pointed at the skeleton. "And this," she raised the knife, pointed towards her uncle.
"Ingrate girl," Maru growled. He lunged for Raeda, and she dodged but kept her grip on the box. The box slowed her, and he knocked the knife to the ground. It skittered on the floor, stopping at Djonn’s feet.
Djonn looked at the knife, remembering the times his brothers had taken bone knives away from him. You’d kill yourself with something that sharp, they’d laughed.
Maru grappled with Raeda and stepped hard on her hurt foot. She howled and crumpled. He dragged her up with one arm, her hand pinned behind her, against her furled wings. He reached for the box.
Djonn wrapped his fingers around the knife while Maru wasn’t looking.
"You’re not worth much, you lying sack of bones," Maru hissed at Raeda. He spun on Djonn, who barely managed to hide the knife in his robes, next to the pointed tool. "And you, you wingbroken fledge. Your father and brothers have taken the lifeblood of half my folk. What should be done with you?
Djonn thought for two heartbeats. "You have to let us go. People will come, they’ll see. You said so yourself."
"They’ll see what? A broken winged boy. Maybe that’s something your father will take as full payment."
Bad to worse. Djonn wrapped his hand around the knife.
Maru swung the box of metal and Raeda towards the tower ledge. "Can’t fly with both," he laughed, and changed his grip on the girl.
Djonn’s heart pounded now-yes-now. He rushed Maru, blade held as Raeda had, all his weight behind the knife.
Maru heard him coming. He dropped the box, grabbed Djonn’s arm and squeezed. The knife clattered to the ledge, wobbled, and flipped. It fell end over end towards the clouds. Djonn whimpered.
Maru pinned Djonn’s hand by his shoulder blade, as his brothers did.
Raeda shouted as her uncle turned once again to hold her out over the ledge.
Djonn’s other hand shot out from his robes on its own, holding the tool with charcoal and the sharp point. He didn’t think. He drove the point hard into Maru’s ear until he heard a crack. The man dropped to the floor, thrashing, and Raeda fell, catching herself by one hand on the ledge.
Djonn dove to the floor and clasped her hand.
"I won’t drop you," he said.
Maru kicked behind them once more and stopped. Djonn pulled hard while Raeda scrambled and, soon, they both knelt on the ledge. In the distance, Djonn could see flyers headed towards Lith: four pairs of yellow wings still high in the sky. His father and brothers.
Djonn drew a deep breath and opened the box. Picked out five sharp tools and one metal strip. Held them out to Raeda.
"Go fast. Before they come."
Her eyes widened. She straightened her yellow robes and secured the tools in a hidden pocket. She put her hand out, and pulled him up to standing. "Thank you for catching me," she said. She took a hesitant step forward on her injured foot, then another, until she limped across the tier to a ledge on the far side of the tower’s circumference. She leapt from the edge, snapping her gray wings open at the last minute.
Djonn bent to pull the weapon from Maru’s ear. The tool wasn’t meant for that. He could tell.
By the time Djonn’s father and brothers landed, he’d figured out what the tool was for: drawing circles. He’d traced small and large circles on the dark bone floor, the charcoal invisible against the rotting tower.
He tucked the tool away in his robes and showed his father the metal box. He showed him the skeleton.
"Box was too heavy for him. Dragged him down."
Djonn’s father clasped his shoulder.
"And Raeda?" one brother asked. His other brothers looked around the dark tier, at the dead man, at Djonn, who stood with one foot on the box.
Djonn peered over the ledge, to the clouds below, counted three calm heartbeats, then met their eyes for five more.
He watched them shift uncomfortably, caught between him and the clouds. "I couldn’t hold her," he said.
We All Look Like Harrie
— Andrew Penn Romine
We all look like Harrie, when we can afford it. Even the boys. Even the girls.
Harrie styles sleek, gauzy silks of warm hues at dusk, electrified. We fling ourselves into perilous orbits around Harrie, either frosting in the far reaches of the night, or burning in the tempests of Harrie’s miniature sun. Harrie whirls in private circles across the LED galaxies of the club floor, silver boots pulsing. Dancing with everyone. Dancing with no one.
Just one of Harrie’s shimmery outfits costs more that the Gross Domestic Product of our little island. Our imitations, sweatshop-cheap, pale by comparison. We conceal the shoddy weave with the coruscating patterns of glims and ghost-silk that opaques in the UV lights of the club. Some of these things we make ourselves in the long, dry hours of the day. And with aching fingers we fasten them on our bodies, also sleek—but with hunger. In the short, damp hours of the night, we join the dance.
Harrie doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care. Most of the time, neither do we.
From the mainland comes a thick drink the color of porridge. Klense. Lose weight. New-tone. Health-glow. Aluminum cans like bullets, with pull-tabs and wide mouths. We kiss the metal lips and suck deep, careful not to cut our tongues.
Careful. Careful.
Harrie loves Klense, too, alloying the healthful brew with perfumed arracks and percolated brandies. Sometimes the bottles get passed around the near orbits, rogue comets with scintillating pixels like starbursts flashing every time they are upended. We toss them ever outward, until they fade, heat-death, batteries gone cold in the outer dark of the club floor.
One night, Harrie arrives at the club, jawbone shaved to a point, glims dangling like spittle from a filament sprouting from a newly sharp chin. Months consuming Klense have given Harrie a cadaverous aspect. We black circles under our eyes, alloy our own Klense with cheap arrack, dissolve
tabs of appetite suppressant in the brew.
Our surgeries are more surface than Harrie’s. Titanium horns. Glow worms—short, sparking cilia and the braided tails. Swirl tats. One dancer gallops the shuddering floor with hardened, bare feet like hooves. He’s gamine-thin, a rattle of bones. Harrie embraces him, lets him sip from the fortified Klense, and we all sigh in desire and jealousy as their sweat stripes dayglo rivulets down their slender, knobby limbs.
Hoof-boy is fished from under a rotting pier in Cobble Quay the next silver-bright morning. Sliced open, hollowed out by organ thieves. He’s still smiling, though. When the sun drops, we dance for him, and for his place by Harrie’s side. No one shares a drink that night, but every one dances.
Viva Harrie! Viva Harrie! A call and response to our brightest star. Harrie is naked, hurtling bolts of discarded fabric and stim-ware into our grasping, grateful hands. We clutch these priceless baubles, weeping with cosmic joy. Harrie spins faster, pulling us closer.
Another dancer found in a stinking alley off Tropic Street, eyes gone, a clean, surgical job. Lungs butterflied to reveal the empty cavity where the liver and kidneys once rested. The dancer’s forearm removed, too, but the hand left behind, clutching a pink echo-ring that repeats a ghostly beat of the club last night. One of Harrie’s.
So we hear. None of us actually sees it happen.
Nu-Klense and Diet-Klense. Bubble-Kleen. A cheap knock-off, only pock-heads drink that.
Harrie still drinks Klense, we all drink Klense, mostly. But some of us don’t dance so close anymore.
The fashions change. Ghost-silks are bilge. Now: diamond-threads, turtleSkin. Bio-plug grass pelts that scintillate with our moods. Harrie herky-jerks, a string puppet in passé sun-scarves, not even a scrap of turtleSkin dangling from those frantic hips.
Now from Harrie, Viva! Viva! but we’re not listening to that beat, we don’t need the cast-off shrouds of a dying star. We drift from the thinning gravity well, finding our own orbits.
A new brand from the mainland, FastRQ, sniffed or under the tongue. Colors and rage and ice-cool joy. It’s Layalle who shows us how to unroll the scoop right from the lid. On our own, we find the cheapest prices on the candy-lacquered tins like squirming beetles in the wire baskets of the street vendors.