Liquid Crystal Nightingale

by EeLeen Lee

  “It’s not CIM this time,” replied her father. “If such a mandate reaches us all the way down here, then imagine from how high it comes.”

  “Our children should not be coerced into this experimental training...”

  “Do they know whether these implants will work or not?” Cerussa interrupted from the entranceway.

  Pleo replied, “Remember, they said they were ‘optimistic’? Do you believe them?”

  Silence ensued in the kitchen. Pleo took it to mean her parents and sister did not believe the optimism either.

  “There may be threats if you refuse,” began her father. “Some of our current benefits could be yanked away from us, from Blue Taro and Boxthorn.”

  “They’ll cut off the water? And send Spinels to drag Cerussa and me away?”

  “More indirect,” suggested her mother. “And less indiscreet.”

  “Khrysobe Spaceport,” said Pleo. “It’s the only way left.”

  Cerussa reminded Pleo, “They already know we exist. Especially after what happened, they know your face.”

  Her sister was right. The children of the other thirty-nine were waiting to dive into a vat of necessity Polyteknical had created and emerge saturated with the same colour. And Pleo did not believe she’d be so lucky to get her bail paid for a second time.

  CHAPTER SIX

  WAS IT POSSIBLE to outrun heat and noise?

  Not a chance, Marsh answered himself. The air inside the main concourse of the ’Cinth was warm and heavy. He checked the calendar on the station infoscreen again, which told him it was not the Festival of Gachala yet. A station announcement explained the packed crowd: maintenance work on three southbound lines.

  Marsh changed lines inside the ’Cinth to the Subaltern’s Parade. On the T-Car network map, the Subaltern’s Parade was a scarlet zigzag boring under Planisphere Mansions Park and terminating in the Retail Sector 6 hyper-elevated station; his destination every morning.

  You can’t outrun the smell.

  Not that he was able to run inside the ’Cinth. A distinct metallic tang cut through the announcements of departure times and the melange of sweat, lubricant oil from the tracks and ozone. Shoved into a haphazard queue by the remaining passengers from his T-Car ride, Marsh approached the phalanx of sentry turnstiles.

  He filed past two servitors hard at work, their telescopic arms spraying white foam over three bodies sprawled on the floor behind the sentry turnstiles. Three commuters had been shot dead by the turnstiles, most likely for trying to run through them. The foam generated a rising mound of streaky red and pink flurry as the bodies dissolved.

  “Dissolving’s faster than bagging the bodies up,” a woman remarked from behind Marsh. “Lucky for those who die straight away.”

  “I’ve seen some move,” a man replied. “Heard them screaming too. The turnstiles’ programmers like a bit of variety: bullets, acid sprays, even darts.”

  Marsh gripped his string of fare tokens, willing the queue to move faster. Sensors mounted on the turnstiles registered his presence and emitted a sonic frequency that broke one token. The fragments fell into an overflowing tray.

  Lightheaded from the commotion and witnessing the gory work of the servitors, Marsh found some space to sit at the grubby base of the nearest column, one of twelve sculpted to resemble giant flower stems. They supported the massive turquoise-tiled roof of the hypostyle main hall of the Water Hyacinth Terminal. He made out the drainage channels flowing across the ceiling in dendritic patterns and felt like a fish looking up at a cluster of water lily pads. Lighting panels had flaked away (or been torn off?) halfway up the columns or clung together in tatters.

  The servitors finished cleaning up and left. For a minute, three human-shaped spaces on the floor of the ’Cinth were shiny and pristine. Passengers poured out of the next T-Car, obscuring them. Marsh stood and plunged back into the throng.

  HE WAS TWO hours late for work when the ’Cinth released him.

  The early afternoon haze sank below the Chatoyance skyline and the next Shineshift was going to begin in three hours as Marsh began his delayed lunch of glass noodles, only eating for the sake of subsistence. He stood behind the display counter and stabbed a pair of chopsticks into a palm fibre tray of slippery translucent strands garnished with pomegranate seeds the size of his thumbnail. The juice dyed the noodles a vivid fuschia. He knew he should have bought something more substantial from a station vending machine this morning, but all the ones in the ’Cinth had been switched off to discourage the crowds from loitering.

  Giving up on the food, he snapped the chopsticks in half and left the remaining seeds in the tray. Marsh could have left the shop and walked to the Cormorants Leaping Foot Bridge and then along Aront Major Canal to Polyteknical, but the food was worse in the educational and industrial zones. Most of it was consumed intravenously, adapted to their denizens’ various body modifications, or compacted to translucent wafers and frangible bars overloaded with supplements, with nutritional emphasis on eye health and nerve function.

  During his first day on the job, Marsh had paid the price for being a food tourist during his lunch hour. After scarfing down a packet of vivid orange wafers and vomiting them up an hour later he had stumbled over to the nearest medical booth around the corner. The booth had drawn a pinprick blood sample and announced the result an agonising minute later—a mild vitamin A overdose. Capsules of powdered ginger root and diuretics slid out of the dispenser slot and on to a tray in front of Marsh. He swallowed them one at a time to counteract nausea and help flush out the excess nutrient, and he had remained inside the booth until his stomach had stopped heaving. Marsh’s throat now tightened at the memory.Experimenting with food ought to warrant Cabuchon military intervention.

  He didn’t like to leave the jewellery shop during lunch for another good reason—the view outside the main window was of the piazza in Retail Zone 12. Its fountain was adorned by a huge sculpture—three stallions hewn from weathered boulders of Shepherd Moon olivine and pietersite. Each horse was balanced on one leg and playing out a perpetual gallop in space and time as water spurted around them. When viewed directly from the front, all horses appeared to merge into a single charging form. The fountain lacked the ambition and grandeur of the marble behemoths in Cabuchon public parks, but the vibrant interplay of art and glinting water jets reminded him of home.

  Marsh resumed his place behind the shop counter and orientated himself towards the shop entrance. The shimmering crowning-shield over the arched doorway reinforced the self-tinting glass, reducing daytime and Shineshift glare. The crowning-shield had myriad uses for protection and containment, but its secondhand generator was unstable when not properly maintained. In an impromptu test of its integrity, Marsh retrieved a fragment of Desert Rose, crystallised gypsum, from the potch waste tray under the counter and hurled it at the door. The crystal bounced off the barrier and landed on the platform in the window.

  “Pick that up now!” snapped the woman standing on the platform behind a display leopard.

  “Sorry, ma’am.”

  “Call me madame!”

  He had almost forgotten about Jean-Ling Setona posing on the platform, for she did it so well. His employer was able to stay motionless for hours, even week-long stretches. Sometimes not all of her body was on display in the window: her upper body could be placed on a dais with her arms reaching skywards and festooned with bracelets and rings.

  Today, Setona was in a floor length black dress, and she had brought out the display leopard. Passers-by stopped to admire the big unmoving cat with amber-hued fur, the latest jewels set into every spot on its face and platinum claws. In person, Setona was a little underwhelming, like most former celebrities. She was still beautiful, like a piece of restored artwork, and her limbs were customisable, all printed skin and muscle coating laser-sintered titanium bones. Currently her exposed arms were covered in hexagonal sequins and gold embroidery. This was a nod to the matador-chic that had been in vogue on Chatoy
ance last year, according to Setona. Marsh took her word for it—she had years of experience in navigating the caprices of fashions in the Archer’s Ring.

  But Setona’s funerary choice of clothing and guardian animal meant only one thing—the Doyen was paying her a visit today.

  Marsh suddenly craved a flake of gypsum; nervous tension always triggered his pica. He went back into the storeroom for another cluster of Desert Rose sitting on the highest shelf. Snapping off a translucent flake, he placed it under his tongue and sucked hard. The jagged edges dug into the surrounding soft tissue and the gypsum’s powdery saltiness provided temporary distraction.

  AFTER SHINESHIFT’S END a tall shadow blotted out the streetlights twinkling through the doorway. From behind the display, Marsh switched off the crowning-shield over the shop entrance and braced his knees against the counter. He had glimpsed a group of Doyens before, loosely congregated on the expansive viewing deck of a sleek pleasure barge passing under a T-Car track, but it was always unnerving to see one up close. They were retired gemmologists and lapidarists but retained their implants and modifications after retirement, mostly out of professional pride.

  This Doyen had arrived without his usual towering Spinel bodyguards. Marsh took one look at him and decided to stare at the jewels displayed in the counter. The Doyen was like scaffolding in a human form with skin stretched over it, covered by a maroon overcoat in a grotesque acquiescence to fashion. His spindly physique seemed to be held together by sheer curiosity; he made straight for Marsh, who was brushing non-existent dust off the counter.

  “Are these new hydrogel beads?” asked the Doyen, tapping the countertop.

  Puzzled, Marsh looked down through the glass, scanning the rows of cut gemstones shining back at him.

  “I refer to the red beads in the tray.”

  Some Tier Dwellers had never eaten street food in their lives, Marsh thought, reaching to sweep his lunch tray off the counter. Setona would scold him again for not tidying up. It was too late, though, as the Doyen had already reached out one spindly hand and picked up a pomegranate seed. He extended the forcep of his index finger and pierced the seed. The juice squirted onto the counter in a fine spray and mottled the Doyen’s sleeve. Frantic, Marsh searched behind the counter for a cleaning cloth while the Doyen blinked slowly in contempt and flicked the seed onto the countertop, showing minute grid lines under the papery skin of his eyelids.

  “Deities were believed to dwell within a particle of gemstone. A handful could fill a room with the colours of a supernova. Now these novelties overwhelm the market.”

  Marsh crumpled up the cleaning cloth and dropped it behind the counter.

  “I regret to observe that Chatoyant retail standards are slipping—much like everything else in this city.” The Doyen directed his voice at the window platform, but kept his gaze on Marsh.

  “Only because what passes for fashion is slipping,” replied Setona.

  The Doyen swivelled around; the quick staccato movement implied delighted surprise.

  “She acknowledges me!” exclaimed the Doyen as he moved towards her, but Setona had already stepped off the platform and was walking towards the display counter. “After weeks of passing your shop and talking to you as you posed in the display window, you finally grant me an audience.”

  “You shouldn’t have tried to interrupt me when I was working,” Setona muttered, but the admonishment sounded as tired as she did. She popped the burst pomegranate seed into her mouth and arched a knowing, groomed eyebrow at Marsh.

  “Why don’t you hire automata to populate your window displays?” asked the Doyen.

  Setona tilted her head back as though astounded by his question. “The essence of being modrani is defined by presence. Standing still and suddenly flowing into the next pose at the perfect moment cannot be done by automata.”

  “I wish for the old days of automata servants,” sighed the Doyen. “Instead of these servitors. It’s like being surrounded by giant creaking insects.”

  “Common servitors, in use on the Tiers?” Setona paused. “Are standards slipping up there?”

  The Doyen waved his hand in dismissal. “Of course not. Except for the one I own, the other Tiers bore me... well, to tears.” When his wordplay failed to get the desired response from Setona, the Doyen hastily added, “A visit from you would make the Tiers less dull.”

  Setona shook her head and called to Marsh, “Wake up the display leopard.”

  “Yes, madame.” Setona had received many visits from admirers and former lovers, but she was tolerating the Doyen for longer than usual.

  He went to the window and jumped onto the platform. It swayed under his weight as he reached under one of the leopard’s ears to press a tiny copper square embedded in the skin. Like a human modrani, the display leopard could pose for hours without movement or sound. It yawned like it was waking up from a long nap, arched its back and growled at the Doyen. Marsh held on to its bejewelled collar to lead the big cat inside and into storage, but it had other ideas. Giving up, Marsh left the display leopard to lick itself in front of the counter.

  Setona stepped out of the shop entrance and surveyed the piazza, as if hoping for something to happen and give her a good reason to close up for the day. She kept her back to the Doyen as a brief motorised bubbling, like a rundown vending machine, emanated from him. The Doyen was clearing his throat.

  “Make it easier on yourself and leave Chatoyance,” said the Doyen. “Nothing has happened yet, but the city is still beyond the Demarcation.”

  “I’ll go when this place has had enough of me, or I of it. But who’s to say Cabuchon is still safer?” Setona dragged the question, sounding both curious and dismissive.

  “Provided the incompetent seat-warmers of the current ruling Corund can guarantee the entire Archer’s Ring security.” The Doyen stabbed the air before him with his forceps. Marsh noticed they were transparent, like fish scales, instead of the bone-white ones belonging to Polyteknical students.

  The Doyen mistook Marsh’s interest in his forceps for real attention. “All three systems should’ve abjured any form of expansion and concentrated on housekeeping. The Corund enjoys finding fault in the other ring settlements. Steris and Anium have already reinforced their defences.”

  “Aren’t these the same Corund members who also said nothing can breach the Demarcation?”

  “It’s not a single wall or barrier in space. Even the thousands of military satellites become useless when Archer’s Ring traitors have already let the enemy in.”

  “The ring settlements of Signet and Anium already seek their independence. Perhaps the enemies have always been on the inside,” said Marsh.

  “Trust me, one will notice.” Setona made an exaggerated sigh. “The canals can flood half of Chatoyance, yet when Chatoyants consult the highlights all they remember is the name of that family who built the canals.”

  The Doyen stepped aside to allow Marsh to lead the display leopard into storage.

  “Are you from the Third Wave?” asked the Doyen.

  “Marsh is Second Wave. From Europa,” chimed in Setona from the door.

  “‘Marsh’?” said the Doyen, struggling with name. It had never officially existed: it was a combination of ‘Mars’ and ‘Schist’, his surname. Most families had landing names which been assigned them arbitrarily upon arrival in order to speed up processing through Cabuchon. The more recent arrivals had raised objections to the procedure, and the landing names and their usage faded over the years.

  After three months in Chatoyant, Marsh had learned to avoid letting on that he was from Cabuchon. At best, it provoked insults or heated discussion; at worst, a challenge to a street brawl, as if he was a representative of the Corund Senate itself. No matter, Setona liked having him around since his presence kept thing interesting. Chatoyants loved stories: the more iridescent and embellished the better. Every major and minor detail crushed together like faience until the original tale was lost in repetitive or dig
ressive layers.

  Marsh also knew he looked too young to be descended from the Second Wave. Emboldened by catching the Doyen off guard, he continued:

  “My family on my mother’s side were lunar settlements administrative back in Home System. They oversaw the running of urbanised orbital rings, crater cities, and tunnel towns located around the shepherd moons of Saturn and Jupiter. Her father expected my mother to follow him into the family business, but instead she fled the tedium to join sea jade prospectors on Europa. She made enough to buy three places for herself, my father and her mother on the Second Wave.”

  “You should tell more stories like that. My customers always love a slice of personal history.” Setona clapped and glared at the Doyen as she added, “And those customers also include the ones who actually buy something.”

  The Doyen put Marsh back on the spot. “Let this Cabuchoner employee tell you about the Forty Pearl Miners.”

  “I read the highlights at the time,” replied Setona.

  “They were found covered with mother-of-pearl.” Marsh shuddered at the detail.

  The Doyen nodded. “Correct, except that ‘covered’ is not quite accurate. They would have died faster if they’d been covered. The Artisans are not mindless thugs if they can display such meticulous sadism when they strike a mining outpost.”

  “Why did Chatoyance Industrial establish a mining outpost so near the edge of the Spilled Ink Lacunae?” Setona asked with annoyance.

  The Doyen paused as though he was going to elaborate but jerked his shoulders in an approximation of a shrug. Or a shudder. The gesture was theatrical, although Marsh glimpsed a hint of terror slipping through, of what the Artisans would do to the citizens of the Archer’s Ring.

  Marsh did not want to know more and turned on the blackout mode for the crowning-shields over the windows. During Shineshift the whole street was lit up in a blinding display.