The Sky Is Yours

by Chandler Klang Smith

  “You’re the dead girl,” she tells Swanny now.

  Swanny laughs. The sound is like glass breaking. It feels like shards in her throat. She thinks of Etta from Canfield Manor, the scene in which she succumbs to the hysteria that “bubbled up from some deep internal spring,” but the thought only makes her laugh harder. “Is that a threat?”

  “I…I saw your ghost on the stage. You sang…”

  “Are you Duncan’s ex-girlfriend?” Swanny inquires.

  “Ex?”

  “Perhaps you don’t know. Duncan and I are to be married tomorrow.”

  The girl draws her knees protectively to her chest. They emerge, bony islands in the plastic sea.

  “Does that make us sisters?” she asks.

  “No,” Swanny says sweetly. “That makes you dispensable. Redundant. Do you know what those words mean?”

  “Um…”

  “He’s going to toss you out with the garbage.”

  The girl nibbles her lip. Her bite is uncorrected, with protruding central incisors and diastema. Swanny has read that such flaws are a sign of an oral fixation, or poor breeding, or both. Her own mouth itches with its unborn tooth.

  “I like it here,” the girl murmurs. She doesn’t sound too sure.

  “How very inconvenient for you.”

  Back out in the hallway, Swanny closes the door behind her and pauses for a moment, thinking, before starting the long walk back toward the golden elevator. She has met her husband. The house still hums. She passes door after door; her stride quickens; the carpet patterns blur beneath her feet.

  The celadon vase doesn’t break the first time she smashes it into the end table. But the second time, it does. And then the crunch of ancient china and flower stems is so satisfying as she stomps them into the carpet. In fact, she is so focused on grinding each shard of pottery into absolute dust that she does not even notice the elevator door has pinged open until Osmond Ripple, still aboard, clears his throat.

  “Pardon me.” Swanny retrieves her fur coat from where she dropped it on the floor. “I seem to have had a little accident.”

  “I can see that.” He closes the book he holds on his lap and beckons. “Well, no matter. The whole house will be yours soon enough. Perhaps you’ll do us all a favor, demoiselle, and burn it to the ground.”

  * A ubiquitous graffiti tag in the burning metropolis, the two-headed wingless dragon—or leggy snake—pictured Empire Island’s nemeses rendered cageable and earthbound, fused to each other as if by a nuclear explosion, weeping tears of blood. It was widely regarded as a symbol of hope.

  10

  COURTING DISASTER

  When Ripple was a kid, he and his pooch Hooligan used to spear-hunt big game in the wilds of the imagination. They were stouthearted slayers with their foam harpoons and shrapnel-grade pith helmets (rare gifts from Uncle Osmond, who bopped them both on the head and warned them—with a wild gleam in his eye—to watch out for snarks). They tromped through the underbrush, sniffing bent branches, measuring rogue footprints in handspans; they tuned their ears to crackles and thuds below the range of ordinary perception. Nothing escaped them. In the darkest jungle, Ripple often thought to himself, the fiercest predator is me.

  Which was probably true in the darkest jungle where they ever went exploring, because that jungle was the greenhouse in the heart of the mansion, where trees grew up to three stories, straining toward the geodesic glass of the skydome. There, the air hung moist, stinky with leaf breath and aflutter with twelve nonindigenous species of trapped butterflies. Even though it was still, technically, inside, the space felt more outdoors than outdoors, overgrown and maybe even a little bit treacherous: unlike the other rooms in the house, with their Sorcerer’s Apprentices and semiholographic Toob screens, which gave up their mysteries at the push of a button, the greenhouse kept its secrets well. It seemed possible for almost anything to be lurking there, under the green prehistoric light that filtered through the fronds. But Ripple didn’t have any doubt in his mind that when he found the beast in question, he’d vanquish it, uffishly and with maximum flair.

  Today, though, knowing the foe he seeks, he isn’t so confident of his success. Ripple powers through the groundcover, cursing and swatting away the little monarchs and Caligula thibeta that beat the air around his face. On the scent. When he parts the dense vegetation—he’s in the area packed with neck-high bulrushes—he reveals his quarry, hulking on a stone bench barely four feet away, all decked out in ruffles and lace, pouting beside the artificial pond.

  Like it or not, he has to bring this one back alive.

  “Wench, they sent me to find you. Soup’s on.”

  Swanny doesn’t turn around to look at him. Her voice is brittle and aggrieved: “How can you think of food at a time like this?”

  “Because it’s dinnertime.”

  Swanny tosses a pebble at the water. It banks off a lily pad and disappears without a splash. “So. Who is she?”

  “Who is who?”

  “You know exactly whom I mean.”

  “She’s—” Ripple isn’t even sure what the honest answer would be. He doesn’t want to explain, and he definitely doesn’t want to apologize. “She’s just a friend.”

  “Do you invite all of your friends to your…ball pit?”

  He does, actually, but it sounds dirty the way she says it. “Listen, I’m not some no-pubes grail boy. I’m a man. I do what a man does.”

  “Please. You’re a child.”

  “And you’re so mature. You think I don’t know about your little tantrum in the hall? I got news for you: that vase was a collectible.”

  “I haven’t the slightest notion what you’re talking about.”

  Her reply is so airy, so assured, that Ripple almost lets it slide. She’s no damsel, but her flesh is creamy and inviting, agreeably squished into the boning of her dress. When the dusk light from the skydome hits her curls just so, he remembers why he used to tug it to her Skin Pics. Woman: the most dangerous game. He reminds himself to show no mercy. He aims straight for the heart. “Did you think I was in love with you or something?”

  Boom. Swanny’s disappointment is so total, it’s like the extinction of a species. When she finally spits out a reply, Ripple isn’t even sure if her words are directed at him, or at the entire course of her life leading up to the chain of events that summoned her from Wonland County and brought her to this place: “What a waste.”

  * * *

  Pippi and Humphrey stroll down the Hall of Ancestors, now dressed for dinner, shoulder-padded in their suit jackets, chartreuse and navy respectively. Humphrey breaks the companionable silence: “I’m glad we’re getting a chance to speak candidly before the ceremony. Without the lawyers present.”

  Her suspicion is piqued: “Is there something you were reluctant to disclose?”

  “No, no, of course not. This position really is a terrific opportunity for the baroness to come into her own and play an integral role in the future of the family.”

  “In consultation with Duncan, of course.”

  “Pippi, let’s be frank. He’s my son. My affection for him goes without saying. But he’s not up to the task. The scale of our holdings—it’s considerable. The real estate, of course, but also the controlling interests, the shell corporations, the vulture funds, the offshore accounts…” Humphrey hesitates, scrutinizes his loafer tassels. “Sometimes I’m afraid he takes after his mother.”

  Pippi is all condolences: “You mustn’t blame yourself for that.”

  “Marriage is not a decision to make emotionally. I learned that the hard way. Which is why I’m so relieved about nailing down this deal. We were in talks with some other families, but none of them compared, in terms of the total package.”

  “Swanny is a top-drawer candidate, by any objective standard. Of course I’m biased, but the test scores don’t lie.”

  “I don’t just mean Swanny. I’m hoping you’ll stay on in an advisory capacity.” He smiles ruefully. “It’
s been too long since I’ve had a sounding board for executive-level decisions.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “If you’d like to take a look at the financials, I’d be happy to show you the books after dinner, over a cognac in my office. There are some exciting new additions to the portfolio.”

  Pippi grasps his bespoke sleeve. “It’s a date.”

  * * *

  Upstairs in the locked guest room, Abby is still watching the Toob. The Lady used to call it “the hypnotist’s jukebox,” and though Abby still isn’t quite sure what those words mean, she’s beginning to understand. She’s watched four hours now: four solid blocks of content, interrupted briefly by edutainment specials about fire-retardant fashion and an edible rodent charcuterie in South Crookbridge. She thinks of the toaster she met this morning, the Electric City flowing through its cord from an unnamed source. The Toob is a toaster of black-hex enchantment: a toaster full of souls.

  A girl looks through the other side of the Toob screen, as if gazing into a window, or a mirror. She looks like Abby: blond hair, tan skin, spectral cheekbones. The only difference is her eyes, jade green instead of dawn blue.

  “You are not alone,” she tells Abby, close enough to touch. Though the surface of the screen is flat—Abby’s checked—she seems to lean a little ways into the room.

  “I am not alone,” Abby murmurs back. She huddles under the blanket she’s unplugged from the wall. Abby wonders if the girl in the Toob knows she’s in a Toob. She wonders if she can see out, and if so, what she sees. Maybe when you’re inside the Toob, it doesn’t seem like you’re in a sleek white box at all. Maybe it seems like you’re in a locked cell where there’s nothing to do but look at a screen flashing rainbow colors and lithe bodies, and through that very screen, others see you.

  Maybe Abby is a Girl in the Toob.

  “If you’re one of the countless women in this city affected by hideous, disfiguring burns, you may feel you can’t go on. But now there’s hope—with Graftisil.”

  A different woman appears in place of the first one. “My scabs started sloughing off the first day!” she exclaims. She has a thick chunk of hair covering half her face. RESULTS MAY NOT BE TYPICAL scrolls across the bottom of the screen.

  Clack. Clackety-clack.

  Abby twists around, startled. The knob turns on the locked door. She imagines Dunk’s father, who dragged her here, returning to take “further disciplinary action,” like he threatened. Or worse yet, the chortling People Machine, with his wire hair and riddle tongue. But when the door opens, it’s Katya, clad in a dress that shimmers like the bay in sunshine, that sparkles like broken glass. Abby takes one look at her and bursts into tears.

  “Oh dear,” says Katya. She steps inside and deftly strokes the side of the Toob with her hand, as if soothing it. Immediately the people vanish. “Poor little one. You didn’t know how to turn it off.”

  “I want to see Dunk.”

  “Dunky is at dinner with his wife.”

  Abby covers her face with both hands. She sees Dunk’s body in her mind, every part: the curly hair on his belly, the scar on his knuckle from Power Jousting. The column of his throat bobbing as he chugs. After a moment, she feels the mattress slosh. Katya has sat down beside her.

  “You shouldn’t worry,” Katya says quietly. “He can never love her. A mother knows.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. She is big and fat and will boss him around. They may have babies, but they’ll never make love. They’ll have their babies in a tube.”

  Abby sniffles. “So that’s how it works.” She glances at the darkened Toob. “You’re born into it.”

  “Yes,” says Katya. Her sadness makes her face almost old.

  “OK.”

  Katya hesitates. “Abby. We’re not so different, you and I.”

  “We’re not?”

  “I don’t belong here either. Humphrey also found me and brought me back from somewhere else.”

  “Somewhere trashy?”

  “Somewhere trashy.”

  “Do you ever miss it?”

  “Even if I did, I could never go back.”

  “Why not?”

  “I have forgotten how to survive alone. You must be careful that you don’t forget.” She stands up. “I came to make sure you had your dinner. Did Hummer show you where the dumbwaiter is?”

  Abby shakes her head. Katya stands up and presses on a panel in the wall. It retracts, revealing a serving tray under a silver dome.

  “Still hot,” she says without touching it. “Eat.”

  * * *

  Downstairs in the dining room, the molecular gastronomist has outdone himself. Every course is freeze-dried, liquefied, aerated, cubed, sphered, crystallized, cold-smoked, or on fire. Familiar flavors haunt alien textures like déjà vu: wasabi pop rocks, beet dust, salmon thread, marrow foam, bourbon ice. It’s erudite, mocking food, food that laughs at one’s attempts to understand it. Swanny savors it. It seems only right that in this place, every form of nourishment is a parody of itself.

  “Of course, the long-term effects of the mutiny remain to be seen,” says Humphrey. “It hasn’t even been a fiscal year since the walkouts. Some of the literature I’ve been reading suggests that this is the time to invest in private-sector emergency service providers. But that raises the question, without the Metropolitan Fire Department functioning, how is anyone going to keep living in the city at all?”

  “I don’t understand how these mutineers think they can simply abandon their civic responsibility,” Pippi opines. “If they don’t want to be conscripted, they should pay for their exemptions like everyone else. And honestly, what are they planning to do instead? They have no prospects. It isn’t as though their educations are going to waste. This city is all they know, and yet they want to let it burn.”

  “Too bad they shut that shit down, I’d’ve made a pretty great fireman,” Ripple puts in. “The main thing is, no fear. I don’t even know what fear is.”

  “Duncan, the next time this mongrel begs at the table, I’ll be feeding him cyanide tablets from the panic room,” grumbles Osmond, forcefully shoving a black furry creature away from his wheelchair. “Begone, you barnyard abomination.”

  “My God,” says Pippi, “does that dog have hands?”

  “Katya got him a hybrid. Damned if I know why.” Humphrey helps himself to another ladleful of liquid foie. “The apehound’s since been discontinued, incidentally.”

  “Dunky had no brother.” Katya slides into her seat. “He needed a playmate.”

  “It seems he has no shortage of those,” Swanny murmurs, patting her lips with a napkin. Osmond snorts.

  “Low disease resistance, engineering defects, you name it.” Humphrey mops his plate with a roll. “It’s incredible that thing has lived as long as it has. It takes more heart medications than I do.”

  “He can’t throw for shit, but he can catch a Whamball pretty good.” Ripple feeds Hooligan a nugget of Hollandaise, and the dog slaps him a high-five. The fingers are stubby and monkeyish, but with an opposable thumb. “And he’s a hella tackle.”

  “Pets do teach one such life lessons. I remember, when I was a child, I had a newt, can you imagine?”

  “Funny, Mother, I never had a pet.”

  “You were out there in the countryside, darling.” Pippi sinks her knife into a sweetbread. “Don’t you remember when we had raccoons under the veranda?”

  “Baroness, we’re all quite impressed with your musical talents,” Humphrey says. “Maybe we could persuade you to perform a few airs after the wedding. We have a klangflugel in the upstairs parlor, just collecting dust.”

  Osmond begins lifting bourbon cubes from the steaming dry-ice tureen and dropping them directly into his mouth with the tongs.

  “Perhaps there’s a reason for that.” Swanny drains her glass. “I’d think we’d be better off with recordings.”

  “Nonsense. It can be a delightful instrument in the right hands.”

/>   Swanny’s in the 98th percentile for note accuracy, with marks of distinction in dynamics and tempo control, but she’s in no humor to make her mother proud. “I make it sound like a tuned typewriter.”

  Pippi flashes a warning: “Darling, you’re being absurd.”

  “Perhaps I am. Ours isn’t always so well tuned.”

  “She plays like an angel.”

  “Mother, you’re too kind.”

  “Dunky plays drums,” Katya offers.

  “The tintinnabulation of a child’s pots and pans. As if any of us could forget.” Half-melted cubes roll like marbles in Osmond’s mouth. “I credit your son entirely with the ontogenesis of my Exploding Head Syndrome.”

  The waiter clears Swanny’s spotless plate. She leans around him for a better look. “Your head appears intact enough.”

  “But my mind, mon cygne, my cherished mind: that’s been rent asunder.”

  “A pity. You might have made a splendid conversationalist.”

  “I would have made a splendid lover.” Osmond is visibly drooling. He wipes his mouth with a swath of his caftan. “Perhaps like you, I would have been sent for by a faraway kingdom and married to the throne.”

  “Wonland is hardly ‘faraway.’ It’s less than an hour by flying machine. Though that isn’t my preferred form of transportation,” Swanny adds darkly.

  “They do say it’s exhilarating to fly.” Pippi lifts her dripping talons from the fingerbowl. “I worked on that campaign, you know. ‘The Sky Is Yours.’ ”

  “Rise above,” Ripple agrees.

  “You’ll never get me up in one of those things,” counters Swanny. Only this morning, she longed to be swept up and away. But that desire, along with so many others, is foreign to her now. Her arms feel enormous tonight. “All that bumping and jostling, up and down, up and down. The very thought gives me the most terrible nausea.”

  Osmond lifts his glass unsteadily. “I’d like to propose a toast.”