Roland stood behind him, his skin and lips so pale that Seph thought he was about to pass out. “How do they treat the demoted out there?” he whispered. “Is everyone going to know?”
Seph struggled with his talk box, working his mouth behind his sealed lips, and managed to croak out, “Probably.”
“Fuck.”
Seph turned to the Face Maker.
For nearly his entire life, Seph had shown his pride in the old ways by painting himself every morning.
But now he was expected to use his talents and his mutilation to remind his fellow Paintclad of their place.
There was no pride in that.
He pulled his hair back, and then just as he’d been taught, he held his fingers over the hole in his throat as he leaned into the Face Maker, feeling the whoosh of the base layer, the light tickle of the detail spray.
He pulled his head out and gestured for Roland to do the same.
Roland swallowed hard, closed his eyes tightly, and stuck his face into the Face Maker. When he pulled back out, he crashed to his knees in front of the toilet and emptied the contents of his stomach into it.
Seph touched up his lips when he was done.
“I’ll be fine,” Roland said. “I can do this.”
With shaky hands, Roland helped Seph pour his morning mash down his throat, then they dressed in their identical high-collared black outfits—Seph carefully wrapping a black gauze scarf around his neck to protect his throat-hole—and headed for the door.
Seph opened it, staring at his blue-tinted world, and gripped the doorframe with gloved hands.
Damn the Takers. Damn the Unadorned. Damn the Skinless Empress.
And damn him for not having done more to try to change things before he’d gotten caught.
They took the early crawler to Old Town, sitting close to each other, but not touching. Seph’s gloved hands kept drifting up to his sealed mouth, and every time, he forced them back down into his lap. Next to him, Roland stared up at the sky canal, his expression unreadable behind his paint. Seph couldn’t imagine what he was going through. He suspected the reverse was also true.
The public Walls still displayed Mauro’s lifeless corpse, alternating it with images of an exploding volcano and messages exhorting people to return to the old ways. “Earth was weak! It never deserved our devotion! Only our own traditions will save us!”
As if traditions could stand up to a supervolcano.
Still, Mauro had gotten the job done. The Adorned and Paintclad now knew the truth.
But the Masked had paid the price for them.
As the crawler crossed into Old Town, Seph was amazed at the level of activity so early in the morning. The Empress’s call to return to the old ways apparently had gone out to more than just him. Dozens of vendors were setting up shop, many of whom Seph had never seen before, and as the crawler scuttled past the breadpod vendor, she raised three fingers in a silent salute. A couple others noticed, and did the same.
“What does that mean?” Roland murmured.
Seph shrugged.
The crawler’s driver crooked one finger over her shoulder. When they moved closer, she said, “One finger for each of you, one for Mauro.”
Seph wondered how long it would be until the Caste Police started removing fingers.
When they arrived at the shop, there was already a line of about a dozen people standing outside, all with white base on their faces, all clutching vellums. Persis was among them, and she stepped forward as Seph got off of the crawler. “Order told us to come here this morning,” she said, holding up the printout of her assigned design. “It said you’re supposed to paint us.” She flashed three fingers at him and grinned.
He shook his head and tried to say that he didn’t deserve to be honored in the same way as Mauro, but his talk box wouldn’t cooperate.
Roland clasped Seph’s shoulders from behind and said, “Don’t ask any more of him.”
“I…I just want him to paint me. The fingers…they’re just remembrance.”
“Just flash two,” Roland muttered. “I didn’t do anything.”
Apparently, Seph wasn’t alone in his feelings.
Seph took the vellum from Persis and looked out at the small crowd.
They all looked back expectantly.
If he had any courage, he’d throw this vellum to the ground, refuse to paint any faces, be arrested and dragged off in front of everyone…
…and scare them away from ever going up against the Caste Police ever again.
No. Open rebellion wasn’t the answer. They’d tried that, and it had failed.
If they were going to take the caste system down, they would have to work more subtly than that.
And with a face like his, he no longer was able to work subtly.
Three fingers. Maybe the point was that he and Roland had survived. That they were here, unashamed, displaying their punishments without flinching.
The cloudscrapers wanted him to be an example? Well then, he’d be an example of someone who had paid the price for insurrection, and he would make his people understand that it had been a price well worth paying.
And eventually, he’d figure out a way to do something more effective, if someone else didn’t beat him to it.
He looked at Roland, who met his gaze with sudden understanding. Roland clasped his hand and gave it a quick squeeze. “Fuck Order,” he said. “I’m in.”
Seph curled his fused lips into a genuine smile, and ushered his first customer through the door of his shop.
Notes on “Brushstrokes”
The impetus for this story was my desire to write about pretty boys in pretty makeup doing pretty things to each other. Then I realized I needed a plot. 12,000 words later, I had a story. In the original draft, Seph was a pretty little milquetoast, but in revisions, I gave him a backbone, which drastically improved the story (and gave it extra sex, which is always a bonus).
—Acknowledgments—
When Apex contacted me to see if I’d like to release a short story collection, my first thought was that they were insane. “It’s too early in my career! What are they thinking?” Then my ego stepped in and said, “Shut up, you.” Thank you, ego. I can always count on you.
So as you’ve probably noticed, I have conversations with myself. That’s because I’m a writer, and we’re all nuts. In fact, writers are just sociopaths with a great coping mechanism. Instead of doing horrible things to flesh and blood creatures, we do horrible things to creatures made of pixels and ink and imagination. It’s fabulous. We get to contemplate all sorts of terrible acts, and when we write them down, people pay us money and tell us we’re geniuses! Huzzah!
Here are just some of the people who have supported my coping mechanism over the years:
First off, I need to thank my writing group: BRAWL. We’ve never actually determined what “BRAWL” stands for, other than agreeing that the B is for “Boston.” They vetted just about every story in this collection and made them stronger. Thank you.
I also need to thank the instructors of the Viable Paradise writing workshop for their invaluable lessons about both the business and the craft of writing. So thank you to Jim Macdonald, Debra Doyle, Jim Kelly, Steve Gould, Patrick Nielsen Hayden, and Teresa Nielsen Hayden, and also to Laura Mixon who came along later when I was one of the support staff for the workshop. Thanks also to my fellow students, and the students the two years I was staff. And additional thanks to Teresa for giving me the title for this collection. I never would have come up with something this evocative on my own.
But wait, there’s more! Needless to say, I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Jason Sizemore from Apex Magazine. He’s been a tireless supporter of mine ever since buying “Big Sister/Little Sister,” and I couldn’t be more grateful. And speaking of Apex, I also need to thank Geoffrey Girard, the editor of the tome you’re holding in your hands. The other editor who’s really helped me out is William Sanders from Helix. The exposure he’s garnered
for my stories has been awe-inspiring.
On the writing front, Ellen Klages and Michael Burstein—two excellent genre writers whose work couldn’t be more different—have not only advised me, but have continually given me encouragement when things have looked bleak.
Can I thank WisCon as a whole? Sure, why not. Hell, I should also thank all my friends and family who’ve rooted for me over the years, and everyone who reads my LiveJournal, but if I mention them each by name, this will start getting ridiculous.
Of course, I can’t forget my husband and my cats for the love and support they’ve shown me over the years. Okay, so my stories creep my husband out, and the cats can’t read, but they encourage me nonetheless. So I love them anyway.
And finally, thank you, dear reader. You’re why I do this. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t bother writing down all the icky things in my head. Thank you for giving me the excuse to indulge myself.
Author Bio
Jennifer Pelland has spent nearly her entire life in the state of Massachusetts, growing up in the western half of the state then fleeing east for college and beyond. Because life doesn’t offer enough chances to make funny voices, she does radio theater and has been known to belly dance from time to time. Jennifer shares her home with an Andy, three cats, and an impractical amount of books.
Don’t miss Jennifer Pelland’s debut novel Machine!
Machine
Jennifer Pelland
Machine follows Celia’s maladjustment to being downloaded to a bioandroid body and divorced by her wife. A science fiction novel that explores trends in society and technology.
2012 Best Science Fiction of the Year—B&N.com
ISBN: 978-1937009137 (Trade Paperback)
ISBN: 978-1465720054
Pages: 316
Available at ApexBookCompany.com
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