Deadwire

by A K Blake

  ***

  “Lux, are you up?”

  Iona knocked loudly on her door. They had made plans the night before to get breakfast, and, despite being tired, what truly sounded good to Iona at the moment was a distraction. After a few moments of muffled cursing and the sound of something falling, Lux appeared.

  “Hello, Io. You look even worse than yesterday. Browsing the FreeNet again?”

  “Not exactly. But I could say the same about you.”

  Lux didn’t look quite well. Her skin, though normally pale, had a pallor to it. It sagged in places, and there was a dullness when the light hit it in place of her usual shine. Her mahogany curls hung limp. She looked, in a word, drained.

  “I’m making tea, have a seat.”

  Lux’s room was down the main thoroughfare from Iona’s. While the interior layout was the same, the space itself was almost unrecognizable. Artfully mismatched chairs sat opposite one another across a plush rug, and velveteen cloth hangings made the small room seem almost cozy on purpose. Against the far wall was an additional clothes rack, which displayed her impressive collection of shimmering, voluminous ball gowns. Iona settled into a crochet patterned chair.

  “How was the rest of your day?”

  “Mm, it was nice.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Lux smiled slyly, a bit of the color and vigor returning to her cheeks. “I may have had a little unofficial party of my own.”

  For a moment Iona had no idea what she meant. Then Lux swept her long hair behind her ears, perhaps in a misplaced effort to conceal the two puncture marks on her neck that were revealed as she did so. Suddenly the pieces began to fall together in Iona’s foggy, sleep-deprived brain.

  “Ah. Representative Vrai’s son I suppose.”

  “Yes, well, I don’t normally entertain here, but he had a bit of a roommate issue, something about a stuffy relative staying with him. Also, he was cute, don’t you think? The pay wasn’t bad either. Usually the attractive ones try to talk you down, but he practically jumped at the sticker price. I might have to start charging more, I’ve been getting the feeling that as a palace giver I might be on the low end for privates.” Lux rummaged in the cabinet above the stove, coming away with two festive mugs. “So, what about you? Just straight to bed then, or...” She trailed off suggestively.

  “Yes, just bed for me.”

  Lux cocked her head, perhaps detecting notes of spite in Iona’s voice, but then the tea kettle whistled, and she turned back to grab it off the range. Iona decided to change the subject.

  “I’m supposed to meet the Queen tonight.”

  “Ooh, how exciting! It’s finally happening. What are you going to wear?”

  “I don’t know, I hadn’t really thought about it.”

  “Well you should, you don’t want to make a bad impression. I mean, it’s like a first meeting with a client or, for your reference, maybe a first date.” Lux handed Iona her tea and set her own cup on a bedside table. “I assume you’ve had lovers?”

  Iona was taken by surprise, a sudden an involuntary shiver running through her. Everyone in the village had known what happened to Jedrick. She had never had to talk or rehash, never needed to say aloud the words that made it real. Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded.

  “See, well, it’s like that. You don’t want to come bed the first time with unwashed hair, or bad breath, or any old thing on. Then you’re going to be too busy worrying about the superficial things to really concentrate on the moment. You want satin, you want perfection. You want to control as many aspects of the situation beforehand as you can.”

  Lux opened the doors to her closet, the upper half of her body disappearing into it. Part of Iona felt relieved, though there was part of her as well that almost wished Lux would return to fully interrogate her in her typical way, clear the air which had been forever trapped. But she did not, instead returning triumphantly with a device Iona had not seen yet and what looked like a bag of blood.

  “Don’t mind me.”

  Lux screwed one end of a tube to the bottom of the blood bag and removed her veinguard cover, screwing the other end of the tube into a replacement cuff that she fitted in its place. She flipped a switch on the device, and a Iona heard a whirring noise as the blood in the bag began to disappear, pumped directly into Lux’s veins.

  “You just...carry bags of blood around with you?”

  “I hardly carry them around. I have a refrigerator in my closet I try to keep stocked.”

  “Where do you get it?”

  “There’s plenty of commodus and simplex 2 on the market. Some of the commoduses make almost as much selling to us givers as we do selling to vampires. There are also a lot of retired givers with higher quality stuff to sell, but personally I think young blood is better. People get worried their clients will know if they use a different kind, but it’s not like they won’t notice if your blood tastes like an eighty year old’s. Me, I stick to the shitty stuff, younger the better, and take a few flavor supplements. I’ve never had any complaints.”

  “It’s not bad for you?”

  She shrugged. “That’s what the chelation pills are for. Sometimes you can get an iron buildup, which really ruins your flavoring. But from what I’ve heard, the doctors at the palace practically promote transfusing. They’ll give you the pills without asking any questions.”

  Iona watched as the bright liquid bubbled, seeping away and into the arm of its new owner. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she thought some of Lux’s color was beginning to return. Lux opened a drawer in the table on which her tea was sitting and took out a small cylinder marked “renYOU Skin.” Moving aside her hair, she sprayed something over the wounds. And after a few moments the holes began to close.

  “Doesn’t it hurt? Giving...that way?”

  “It does at first, but the juice kicks in pretty fast.”

  “Juice?”

  “Whatever, the chemical that comes from their fangs. People call it different things, but it’s basically a painkiller. The anesthetic in the veinguards is similar, but nowhere near as good. Honestly, it’s the best high you can get.”

  The look on Lux’s face when she talked about being bitten was somehow disturbing, her lips parted and her eyes far away. Iona cleared her throat, which seemed to snap her from her reverie.

  “Well, this is almost empty.” It wasn’t clear if she was referring to the blood bag or her mug of tea. “Shall we head down?”

  ***

  After breakfast, Iona dithered over what to wear for the better part of an hour. Her room was strewn with rejects, billowing shirts and sheer dresses, tossed aside as if she were some kind of prima donna. But, like Lux has said, it was a show, wasn’t it? She wanted to make the right impression, one that conveyed strength without looking like she was trying too hard. None of her clothes seemed to convey anything other than pretty, which was to say weak.

  If she had been in her right mind she would have been more focused on the upcoming meeting, one that could have serious ramifications for her future here and the new life she was haphazardly building for herself, instead of remembering the fear as the vampire had put his hand across her mouth, the terror of waking up with a stranger in her bed. She needed to go hunting, gather those supplies, the sooner the better. She would sleep better with a pulsor knife under her pillow.

  In the end, she decided to go with heels, because she had heard that Her Majesty was tall and didn’t want to be dwarfed, and the plainest pantsuit she could find. Feeling as prepared as she could, a full three quarters of an hour ahead of schedule, she departed for the Lesser Hall.

  While the second floor was cluttered, if cozy, the first floor was a different story entirely. Late in the night, when the sun was beginning to show, there was always a party going, but during twilight it had the hushed feel of a cemetery. The spaces were open and arching, sparsely decorated in a minimalist style. There was a grand library, two ballrooms, a throne room, a parliamentary hall, and any
number of staterooms, offices, anterooms, and waiting areas. It was all made of marble and steel, pristine and intimidating.

  Her spore let out a pinging noise, and she flinched as it echoed raucously. She hadn’t gotten the date wrong, surely? However, upon checking her spore, (and setting it to silent), her mood swung from anxious to exhilarated. It was her automatic notification system, the one she’d added to her hacking program to alert her when it had been triggered and installed. She was now the proud owner of some Progressive peon’s login information. While this person might have nothing of use to her, and she would likely have to wade through hours of pointless messages with no certainty of finding anything, at least it was a start.

  ***

  The Lesser Hall was tucked away toward the back of the building, its doors shielded from view by a deep, overhanging arch, so that Iona accidentally walked past them the first time. Yet as she drew closer she began to marvel at how she could have missed them. They were massive, made of a reddish wood, the grainy surface gnarled in places and shiny in others from the many hands that had touched it. Carved into the door were designs that, while well preserved, were crude and roughly hewn. It was certainly nothing like the rest of the first floor. In the stone above the archway was carved “Shu-Durul” and below it, by way of translation, “king-root.”

  As she tried to make sense of the hieroglyphs, and it slowly dawned on her that this was not a new story but one she knew well.

  In the beginning, there was devastation. The sky was dark and cold, the skin of the world gray like ash. The earth was dead with no living thing. Only rock survived. Yet Dieda roamed the wasteland, her belly heavy with labor. As she journeyed, her feet bled, making the first springs. As she toiled, she wept, forming the first stars. Around her all was silent and cold, yet she bore in her womb the seeds of creation.

  The door was sectioned into scenes, the figures drawn in thick lines. The first was of a rough female figure, her breasts enlarged and pointed, her stomach a complete sphere. In her face was anguish, made all the more raw by the primitive artistry. It looked anything but maternal. This was not a benevolent goddess but a titan, massive and immovable as a mountain.

  Dieda, in her wisdom, knew that light was needed to grow plants and sustain animals. And so, when her time was upon her, she gave birth to twins, hanging in the sky the sun and the moon. Plants began to grow on the rocks, and ice began to melt, making the sea. Creatures grew in the water and on land, spreading across the earth. Seeing that it was good, Dieda made vampyre-kind, stealing pieces of her own shadow, so that they were shaped after her figure. Recognizing the superiority of the night,for its cool breath and soft light, she gave it to her chosen people.

  Yet they cried out, toiling all night and seeking shelter from the hot day. They grew weak and feeble on the blood of animals. So, from the tears of Gamen, the first vampyre king, Dieda created human-kind. The human was a lesser creature in vampyre’s image, given to provide labor and sustenance. Her people were happy, having humans to serve them, and Dieda set vampyres as the keepers of all the beings on the planet.

  In the village, some tellers would change this slightly, claiming that Dieda had created human and vampire at once and divided day and night equally among her people. Yet, as Iona looked closer, the door seemed to stray from either telling. Where were the characteristic fangs on the figure with the crown? Surely King Gamen was not meant to be human. Such a thing would be heresy...

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the doors. They swung inward, silent and smooth, as if weightless. The vampire who had opened them stood motionless in the doorway as Iona stared.

  The Prince was tall and slender, with jutting shoulders and sharp hip bones. He had full lips and high cheeks that would have made him look regal, even had he not been of royal blood. The dim light from inside shone against his skin, a richer brown even than hers. Iona had never met anyone that looked like her. She had memories of her mother, vague snapshots that could have easily been imagined, and a single photograph that she only now realized with a pang had been left in her workshop in the village.

  But this vampire was alive, for all that he stood as if rooted in stone. He was beautiful in a way she had never been able to see herself, a study in contrast, his limbs imbued with gleaming lines of light. The look he gave her, his eyes a fierce golden shade of brown, a hawk’s eyes, made it hard to breathe.

  “Admiring the view?”

  Iona flushed. She hadn’t realized she was looking quite so baldly. Then the Prince turned toward the carving, and relief flooded her.

  “It is quite a piece.”

  “Yes! Yes, it is.”

  “My mother had it brought over from the archeological dig in Libera a few centuries ago. It’s a particular favorite of mine. Do you see the landscape of the wasted world in the first panel? Some art historians see mountains of rock, while others claim it is like a city skyline, meant to represent the kingdom of hell. Personally, I like to think the Reincarnists have it right, that our current civilization is like a phoenix, rising from the ashes of an older one. But then, I am considered something of a maverick among the Prehistoric Art community.”

  He turned back toward her. “And what do you think, little human, human with skin like mine?”

  Not sure what to say, having not previously given the background of the panel much thought, Iona was saved when the Prince appeared to hear something from inside. He half turned, just the left side of his body rippling, and spoke over his shoulder toward the back of the hall. His voice reverberated against the hard surfaces of the room with a soft rattle.

  “Just chatting with your new giver. I have a feeling we might have much in common. But we will have to continue another time. Until then, cousin.”

  He tipped his head at her, a ghost of a smile on his face. Then he was gone, whisking past so quickly she could feel his wind sweep against her.

  “Enter. Shut the door behind you.”

  A second voice was wholly different, harsh, taute, and female. It had none of the luster or breathe of her son’s. It echoed, as if it came from deep inside a cave.

  Iona stepped over the threshold and understood the reason for this strange effect. The hall was constructed entirely of stone, with rows of columns on either side that stretched toward the ceiling like the columns of a crypt. Gathering the doors, she shut them one at a time, the wood smooth and chilled like marble against her fingers. Though this hall was not large when compared with the other state rooms, it had a silence and age that made her feel small. Iona tread lightly down a center aisle that was outlined by a lighter stone than the rest of the floor, trying to keep her steps from echoing. The blocks were ancient, rough in some places while smooth in others, and not flush. She wished she had worn flatter shoes.

  While at first it seemed to stretch unendingly into blackness, it became clear as she walked that there was a light at the opposite end, a bright pinpoint that made her squint against the contrast. As she drew closer, she saw that it was a spotlight, its yellow halo trained on a dias built of modern materials. There was a podium in the center, behind which stood the Queen.

  Iona had wondered if she would be disappointed. After seeing a plethora of the image-conscious depictions of Her Majesty throughout the palace, she had thought surely it would be impossible to live up to the power, the poise, the regalness that each of them so carefully conveyed. Yet Basilla transcended it all. Her skin gleamed, smooth and white, practically glowing from within. Her hair, when she moved her head, sliced at her collar as unflinchingly as in the portraits. Even the straightness of her back, the lines from her neck to her forearms, they appeared correct, right somehow. She was the perfect specimen, proportional, radiant, strong.

  “...of stewardship and respect that must not be forgotten in our haste to rush headlong into the future. One would not expect a child to alter the laws of gravity, nor would one wish them to have such power. So we too must remember our place before God and be ever mindful of
the dangers of overstepping it.”

  Basilla did not pander and rarely smiled. She paused every so often for emphasis, letting each point sink in as she rehearsed her speech. Her eyes were sharp, as they had been in the photograph Iona had studied, but when she looked in Iona’s direction, Iona had the strange feeling that she did not see her. Despite this, the presence of her, even from several yards away, was palpable.

  “Stop, stop! Where is my flag pin, was I not wearing it when we recorded? Tezin, have one of the editors add it to my lapel.”

  Suddenly Basilla disappeared, only black space where she had been a moment ago. Iona drew a breath sharply, but then Basilla flickered in and out of place, not like a usual vampire but like something ethereal, like a ghost, before stabilizing. There was suddenly a gleaming emblem on her chest, a pin in the shape of the Laemian flag. Iona’s brain whirled. What was happening? The pieces all seemed to be before her, but she could not think what they made up.

  Then a second figure stood, rising from a lone seat in the front row, creating an inky silhouette against the holographic version of herself. The Queen stood facing the holograph, her arms crossed, back straight. The light hit her square on and broke around her, like a stream against a stone.

  “Moving on.”

  Iona stood very still. The hologram started back up, while the physical Basilla remained standing. Iona watched her, noting the differences now. In the flesh, she was still strong, still tall. She had poise. But she was older, the lines of her body less even. One shoulder was ever so slightly higher than the other, and her stomach less taute. Even so, Iona thought that if she had seen the real thing first, she might have been just as impressed. The Queen was in impeccable shape, her iconic gray helmet full and wiry. But now it was impossible to say.

  The speech wound down without Iona hearing another word of it, and suddenly the lowlights came up. She felt exposed. Like an animal in the brush, she fought the urge to duck behind something to avoid being seen. But Basilla turned before she could decide, the liquid movement belying her age, and Iona thought now that she did look like a bit like her son. They had the same burnished brown eyes, same gaze that pinned you in place like a bug: hawk’s eyes.