Harmony

by Marjorie B. Kellogg

  Now’s when we need the magic, I sighed. Real magic. Would I ever be able to admit to Sam that he was right? I didn’t know it until he’d said it, but I wanted the magic to be real.

  The only one satisfied with the day was Louisa. Stationed mid-house, oblivious to all of Howie’s fits and starts, she happily played with her lighting. Her console gave her control over the color, focus, and intensity of each individual lamp and effect. She played it like a concert synthesizer, improvising entire scenes as she went along. Lou played and the computer recorded. She would edit the program later and revise it during subsequent rehearsals until she had a show she was happy with.

  When Liz called dinner break, Howie asked the company to stick around a moment. “Liz, get Sean out here.”

  Micah joined Louisa and me at the console. “We’ll work the break, get some food in here and start doing some real painting. Is Jane back yet?”

  I retrieved Louisa’s discarded headset and murmured, “Page Jane for Micah, will you?”

  Sean showed up carrying a half-gulped sandwich and a beer. “Christ, a man can’t even eat around here.” He grinned at Liz and did not bother to disguise a soft belch.

  “Can you get the trick working over dinner?” Howie demanded.

  “Hey, hey, easy does it, eh?”

  “Well, can you?”

  “Not tonight. Come on, we’ve got a preview next door.”

  Howie’s script slammed to the deck. “You know what? I don’t care about their preview! I’ve got to put this show in front of an audience in four days! Now, I’m running this theatre and I want equal service from the people being paid good money to get shows built on time! I can’t fucking work like this!”

  The Eye watched impassively as if refereeing a tennis match. Micah, Lou, and I drifted closer together.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” murmured Lou, “place your bets.”

  Sean jiggled his beer bottle against his thigh. “I didn’t make this schedule, pal.”

  “I don’t care who made it! The actors are ready, I’m ready, everybody’s ready but you, Sean!” Howie turned, paced away, turned back, punctuating with sharp jabs of his finger. “This show needs its parts together before we know what we have, ‘cept we gotta wait for you to get your goddamn shit together! I don’t care what your problem is! You’re holding up the whole process! I want your men on it, and I want ’em there the minute we’re out of here!”

  “No can do, even if I had all the men in the world.”

  “All right! If I give you the damn stage tonight, will you have it up and running by tomorrow?”

  “Could be. If you get the fuck outa here and let me work.”

  For a moment the only sound in the theatre was Howie’s labored breathing. Then he bent, snatched up his script, and pivoted away. “Liz, release the company for the evening. The shop has the stage.” He swept past Micah on his way up the aisle. “See? You got me doing your goddamn job for you.”

  I’d had it. When Sean headed back to the shop, I went after him. Sam blocked my way at the bottom of the aisle. “Come home with me.”

  “I have to work.”

  “For dinner, then. We’ll run back.”

  “I have to talk to Sean.”

  “Was I that bad this afternoon? Or maybe it was this morning…”

  I grinned, even blushed a little. “This is something I really have to do.”

  He stood close, not touching me. “Look, Rhys, we’re not going to have a lot of time together.”

  My heart quickened. “I know.”

  Sam sighed, backed off. “Being reliable again, eh? Damnable woman. I may just have to take you with me.” When I eyed him wistfully, he shifted, looked after Sean’s retreating back. “Hard case, that one.”

  “He didn’t used to be.”

  “No? What’s he so angry about?”

  “You, among other things.”

  “Yeah, I rub a lot of people the wrong way, until they get to know me—”

  “I meant all of you.”

  “Sure you did.” He leaned in, kissed my forehead, my neck, my throat. “Please. Come home with me…”

  “Sam…”

  “Go. Work. I’ll be back for you later when you’re too tired to resist.”

  * * *

  Sean was alone in his office with his feet up on his empty desk, staring at the wall.

  The door was ajar. The only light was the desk lamp beside him. I knocked.

  He didn’t look around. “Now what?”

  I eased in, leaned against the wall by the door, hearing the dry crinkle of Crossroads plans behind my head. The office was chillingly tidy. Not even the odd beer empty lying comfortably about. “Nothing. I… um, this is none of my business, but are you okay?”

  “Yah, I’m just great.” His feet, crossed on his desk, beat a jerky rhythm against each other. He had a crumpled sheet of paper in his lap. He was tearing off corners and wadding them up into little balls between his fingers, lining them up on the desktop. He already had a good number of them.

  “Sean, you know how Howie gets when he’s nervous. What would we all do for comic material if Howie behaved himself?”

  He didn’t seem to be listening. I perched on a corner of the desk, trying to fit commiseration, humor, and pleading into the same smile. I could see now what he was staring at: the season’s schedule, taped to the wall between drawings and other paperwork.

  He tossed a little wad at it. “Ah yes, where’s our old Sean, that laugh-and-smile boyo? Micah send you up here?”

  “No, he—”

  “He’s taking this so fuckin’ serious.”

  “He always does.”

  “Well, he wants something, he can come up here himself.”

  “Sean, Micah’s just as pissed at Howie as you are.”

  “Yeah? And how pissed is he at me?”

  Now I was wondering what demon of egotism had drawn me up here to negotiate in a war I didn’t understand the nature of. “He’s more hurt than anything.”

  Sean spun upright, scattering the little paper balls, slamming the chair against the desk. “What the hell does he want from me? Haven’t I killed myself enough for him before?”

  “You’re killing yourself now for Max Eider!”

  “Fuck Eider! Eider’s a lunatic!” He circled the room like the walls were bars. “Look, Bill Rand is a friend of mine. We go back. We… our families know each other. You want me to throw in my friend for some guys from nowhere, some friggin’ weirdos I don’t even know?”

  The wall behind me was prickly with the heads of pins holding up all the Crossroads drawings. “I thought Micah was your friend. He thought so, too.”

  “Then he oughta see I got a lot of shit on my plate! He oughta give me a fuckin’ break!”

  “He has, Sean. He didn’t dispute Crossroads getting precedence. He found you extra men, more money, gave you all the benefit of the doubt, but now they’re talking of canceling performances and Micah’s still trying to see what he’s got up there!”

  “I got men on it, dammit.”

  “It’s you he needs, Sean. Your special energy. Your expertise. Your valued advice and support. He needs the crew to know you’re behind him. This show is very important to him!”

  “This piece of crap? Crossroads is big, but at least it looks like something! You don’t mind busting your balls for something you can believe in. What’s Micah, crazy? Putting his name on the line for the likes of them? What am I supposed to think, either he’s a fool or he agrees with them?”

  “Why not ask Micah? Talk to him, Sean. Accuse him, fight with him if you have to, but talk to him!”

  “Don’t see him going out of his way to talk to me.” He moved around fitfully, his hands clenched. “Why’s this one so friggin’ important, anyway? Those guys don’t care about Art, they come here to proselytize. Bunch of friggin’ trouble-makers!”

  “They’re not!”

  “Yeah? Look at all the shit’s been stirred up since they
got here!”

  That propelled me off the desk. “You don’t know anything about them! You haven’t tried! You haven’t even been around!”

  “I hear, I hear. I hear from Ruth, I hear from Liz. I see ’em walking around here barefoot like they owned the place, making their own rules, jamming their mystical bullshit down our throats, spreading their Open Sky sedition around the place. They don’t like domes, let ’em go home! Plenty of people born here need the jobs. We don’t need importing subversives in from Outside!”

  “The Open Sky aren’t subversives or anarchists.” I was now on shaky ground, only parroting what I’d heard from the Eye. “They’re domer citizens who happen to think the world’s wealth should be spread around a little. That’s not unreasonable.”

  Sean pounced. “So you admit these guys are Open Sky?”

  “It’s no secret the Station Clans are sympathetic to certain Open Sky ideas. Jeez, Sean, you make it sound like some kind of conspiracy.”

  “What the hell else do you think it is? It’s the biggest there is! Christ, it’s people like you make us need to take things into our own hands now and then!” My stunned silence must have worried him. “Come on, don’t take it like that. We know they’re just using you kids, like they’re using Micah.”

  “We?”

  His eyes shifted away irritably. “Don’t give me that. I know you’ve been poking around, asking questions.” He sighed, rubbed his face viciously. “Aw, Christ, I don’t hold with all this secrecy stuff either. Always put my vote in against it, always get overruled. Lot of paranoia building in this town. That’s why this petition thing of yours is good, like I said. Gets things out in the open. Things gotta change in Harmony and change is never easy but we need it to survive. Once we get this all ironed out, you’ll know we did right. And you’ll see we take care of our friends.”

  “Do you, Sean? Look around. Some people who thought they were your friends are getting fucked, and you’re the one doing it!”

  Wanting to slam doors, wanting to run, I did neither. I turned and walked out, wishing I had somewhere safe to go, besides the very temporary refuge of Sam’s arms. Wading through the shop as through a jungle, I made myself smile cheerily at all the SecondGen carpenters who’d closed me out in the crew room earlier. I thought I had it under control until I reached the theatre and strode unblinking past Micah on my way to begin mixing paint.

  “We still can’t find Jane,” he complained. “Have you seen her?”

  I kept walking. “The crew says she went home.”

  “Gwinn?” he called after me. “Is everything all right?”

  I slowed, turned on him. “No!” I yelled. “I just had the fight with Sean you should be having!”

  Micah’s jaw sagged as if I’d hit him, and I burst into tears.

  * * *

  Micah forgave my outburst readily enough. He said he must be getting old—he couldn’t make sense of what was happening anymore.

  Later, Sam made me repeat everything Sean had said, word for word.

  Mali smiled pensively. “I’d say we aren’t quite orderly enough for Mr. Reilly. The specter of chaos haunts so many domer dreams.”

  “Not turning my back on him,” Sam declared. “Probably a major CDL organizer. Could be him hiring the thugs.”

  Cora’s legs were neatly curled up beneath her on a green velvet chaise in her sitting room. “No, Sean Reilly hates the Outside and is very conservative and no brilliant intellect, but he comes to Town Meeting regularly, speaks his mind. He’s an honest man who believes in the democratic process. The secrecy was bound to eat away at him sooner or later. I think we’re seeing factionalism within the CDL.”

  I wondered what Cora knew about the Outside. The Eye had made themselves so easily at home in her castle. A medieval madrigal floated up from the music room, as sweet as birdsong. Moussa was running the rest of the company through their nightly vocal exercises.

  “Factionalism can always be used to advantage,” said Mali.

  Cora pursed carefully crimsoned lips. “I wonder if I should have a little chat with Sean… ?”

  Omea stuck her head in. “Hello. Is Jane with you, Gwinn dear?”

  “I think she went back to the dorm.”

  Omea frowned gently. “Did anybody check?”

  “Urn, no. We thought maybe she needed some space.”

  “Perhaps. Well, good night.”

  Cora said, “In another world, my Sam-uel, you and Sean would be drinking buddies. You’d rely on him and he’d serve you well. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was Sean being used, by his CDL.”

  “I’m still not turning my back on him,” Sam muttered.

  “Talk to Sean, Cora,” I begged.

  * * *

  Sam rolled away from me in the bed. “I want you to do something for me.”

  I stretched languorously. “Didn’t I just do that?”

  “Reality time, love.” He rolled back, placed his hand between us, palm down on the sheet. “I want Ule to teach you how to use this.”

  He uncovered a thin, flat-bladed knife. The whole of it was six inches long at most, and I could tell it was very old. The handle was ebony chased with delicate rings of silver, smoothed to satin by many hands. It could have been a prop out of Crossroads, a marquesa’s graceful letter opener, but for its keen-honed edge. It was very beautiful and it made me more nervous than I could say.

  “I couldn’t.”

  “You can. Pick it up.”

  The knife nestled into my hand like an incubus taking up residence. The silky metal was eerily warm. I had to remind myself that Sam had been holding it. A knife is not a living thing.

  “Work with Ule, half hour a day. He says he’ll be happy to find the time. And you and I’ll run every day, build you up slowly.”

  “Sam, I can’t… carry a knife. I couldn’t…”

  “Kill a man?” he finished savagely. “What if it had been me out there instead of Pen?”

  “I… uh.” Sean Reilly was right to fear these people. They blew into Town like an injection of another reality, bringing their own set of rules and more violence in six weeks than I had witnessed in my entire dome-bred life. Stability just wasn’t one of their priorities.

  “What if it’s you out there someday and me not around to help?”

  The little knife assumed a totemic significance. The gift of a piece of Sam’s mysterious life. A sign, dare I hope, that I might be something more than a casual bed partner to him. I set it down on the sheet. It seemed to leave my hand reluctantly and my palm felt chill without it for minutes afterward.

  I laid my hands on Sam to warm them. “Of course you had to save Pen’s life. The problem’s not, you know, scruples or anything. It’s just, well, it wouldn’t feel real. It would feel like acting.”

  “Good, good. Half of life is acting.” He smiled at me oddly and his sky-colored eyes had never seemed clearer or more mysterious. “You’ve been playing those apprentice role games. You know how it’s done. So here’s your newest role, and it’s me going to prepare you for it: Gwinn Rhys, survivor.”

  SECOND TECH:

  I had my first session with Ule that Wednesday morning, in Cora’s parquet-floored music room, the ebony concert grand pushed into a corner, the silk bokhara rolled up against the wall.

  “Inept,” said Ule, “but not slow and not clumsy. Now, take up your blade, and take it up well. A blade’s like the magic: you use it as a last resort and no messing around when you do.”

  Take it up well? Sam watched, intent and silent on the window seat. I slid the little knife out of its sheath and folded my palm around the smooth, flesh-warm grip. It was like holding someone’s hand.

  “Yes!” Ule grinned happily. “This blade tells you how to handle it. This blade’s life is strong.” He nodded to Sam. “Good choice. It likes her.”

  Sam offered me his blandest smile. “He means it’s the right knife for you.”

  “When it knows you better,” Ule told me confiding
ly, “he’ll sing you its history.”

  Ule was not an easy teacher. He yelled at me when I made mistakes, mocked me when I stumbled with exhaustion. Sam never made a move to stop him. Not like learning from Micah, but at least I was smart enough to realize it was part of the training. I put up with it, to please Sam. When the lesson was done, Ule showed me where to strap on the soft leather leg sheath. He told me to wear it without the knife until I got used to having it there. I left it on under my coveralls when I went off to work, but I felt utterly foolish.

  When I arrived at the theatre, the vanishing trick was in place and the tracking units installed onstage. Micah was painting furiously while Louisa ran her edited cues. Light and darkness played in fast motion across the stage.

  “I’ve a few prop notes Te-Cucularit asked me to take care of,” I told Micah.

  He nodded absently. “Jane isn’t with you?”

  Worried at last, I instituted a search.

  The corridor offstage left was stuffed with potted plants. Live ones this time. A long-suffering assistant stage manager and a very grumbly prop runner were hauling them into the Eye’s dressing rooms. I found Mark overseeing delivery of the costumes. The rolling racks were a welcome blaze of color against the cold white counters and walls.

  “You got Jane with you?”

  “No, haven’t seen her.” He offered a richly patterned batik for my inspection and held it up against my chest. “You look fabulous in this color, G. I should make you something after. If there is an after.” He turned away abruptly to hang the costume on the rack. “Can you believe Wardrobe is already complaining about the greenery?” His usually deft fingers fumbled with the cloth.

  “Oh, Mark.” I put my arms around him. “Scared? You of all people, our fearless leader?”

  He leaned his head against mine. “You ever wonder how he’s doing Out There? You ever think about being Out There?”

  “All the time.” It wasn’t quite a lie. I didn’t used to think about it. Now I did. “They told you, didn’t they? About the Outside.”

  He nodded.

  “You think it’s all true?”

  “Yes. But I don’t know what it means, for me, for us.” He wiped at his eyes. “I’m worried about Thursday, G. I think there’s a strong chance these good citizens’ll vote us right out of Town.”