“Excuse me, Calea?” The voice belonged to a rather handsome young man. “I suppose you remember me?” Rodin had been a Student a level above Calea when he graduated. He had begun three levels above, but Calea had worked hard and fast.
“I do. I have a memory.”
He smiled. “Yes, you do. And an astounding one at that, I recall. Not the only thing you excel at, either, it seems.” He indicated the festivities. “I’ve read the papers. It took me three times, but I finally followed. It’ll take me longer to replicate it on my own. Your magical technique is very delicate.”
“Why bother? Let the Architects bother with the menial labor.”
“No, it’ll be a nice challenge, and I need to keep in practice. I haven’t much reason to practice fine manipulation otherwise. But that’s not important right now. I actually came over here hoping you’d give me the honor of a dance.”
“No.”
His face fell momentarily and what returned was a little less certain. “I’m not sure what I expected. If not yes, then an excuse.”
“I won’t dance. End of story.”
He glanced down at her feet, and she grew angry. “No. And tell everyone. No dancing. I’m here to enjoy myself, so I’d be pleased if you’d leave me alone.”
He gave a little nod, almost a mock bow, but not quite. “I’m sorry.”
Almetter had snuck away at the start of the conversation, to grant them “privacy.” Calea grabbed a glass and a plate of cheese and fruit and headed to the corner of the roof, away from the crowd. A dreadful turmoil raged against her ribcage, demanding tears. She took deep breaths, clenching and unclenching her right fist with slow, deliberate motion. She bottled up the storm, pressed down the cork, and held it firmly in place until the danger had passed.
The dark city lay beneath her, music and foreign acquaintances behind. She floated, unanchored and alone.
She set her empty glass down. Someone was near.
“Go away.”
“I cannot.”
“No one’s going to attack me here. Now or ever.”
“I’ve been informed otherwise.”
“So you insist on babysitting me.”
“I’m here to protect you.”
Calea turned. The man stood nearer than she had supposed. He was taller than she was, and thick–thick-faced, thick-armed, thick-shouldered. Thick-headed, no doubt. “What’s your name?”
“Bron.”
“Do you know why the Overseer assigned you to me?”
“Not specifically. I was told to protect you. That is all I need know.”
“I’ll show you why.” The storm was bottled; the alcohol was working. She’d show him she didn’t care. She set her untouched plate on the roof-ledge beside her glass and began peeling her right-hand glove off mid-bicep. Nearly from shoulder to fingertip, metal and wire. Gears and hinges worked with the faintest creak as she unflexed her fingers. “A year ago, this was impossible. I would have had to wear a 100-pound backpack to power this, or perform a dozen intricate magical manipulations minute by minute. The power source on this is the size of what should be my humerus. So, apparently, I’m in danger.”
“I understand.”
“Quicker than you look, then. Or are you just pretending to humor me? Explain.”
“Magic is power. When magic is stored in a battery, portable power. You make the battery smaller, you increase its range and application. You’ve created something everyone wants.”
Calea clapped. “Very good. You earn a passing grade. I’ll recommend you for a level up. Now, if you want to be helpful, get me something to drink. I’m parched.”
“You’ve had plenty.”
Calea pulled her glove back on, pulling it tight at the fingers, and got her own drink. She was feeling light; the prosthetics normally made her feel heavy. Essendr was at the table, too. He was in his late forties, bearded, rather tight in the belly, and perpetually tragic-looking due to the tilt of his eyes and mouth. He’d found a wife during his time Guiding Section Four, a homely, non-Select thing. They were talking closely when Calea saw them. “Essendr! Nice party. When’d you have yours, sometime before I was born?”
He smiled sadly. “Something like that, yes. I was a rather different man then.”
“Skinnier, I hope.”
He nodded amiably. “Less happy, more hopeful, so to speak.”
His wife added, “I’d just like to say again, Calea, how proud we are of you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Neither Essendr nor his wife could find an answer. Bron intruded, “It means you’ve had a bit to drink.”
“That’s not what it means!” She grabbed a glass and poured it down her throat before Bron could take it from her. “It means you pity me. This isn’t a celebration. It’s therapy. That’s what you all think. I made myself an arm and a leg and everyone thinks it’s a big deal. It isn’t. I haven’t even started. This was a hobby, something I did to pass the time. But you’re all so anxious to make me feel good about myself, show me I’m almost your equals. Isn’t that right?” Essendr was pale-faced, his wife red. Calea laughed at the contrast.
Bron touched her shoulder and she jumped as if stabbed. “Get off me!”
Others were beginning to gather around, though they still pretended to be absorbed in other conversations, but Calea noticed. “Closer, closer! What have you heard about me? It’s all true, every last bit of it. Even the parts that contradict. Who’d like to dance with me, take me out for a test run? No one? Where’s Rodin? Rodin, I change my mind. Let’s sweep across the dance floor, and let these fine folks take notes. Sketches, too, like good scientists. Rodin? Where are you?”
Bron grabbed her again and did not let go when she tried to escape. With an iron grip, he pinched her shoulder and led her away. She cursed and screamed, and he, in her ear, said softly, “Be quiet. Don’t make this worse.”
He ushered her to a far corner, away from the lights, near the stairs. She was crying now, shuddering in his grasp. The bottle had cracked; the storm was loosed. “How dare you! How dare you!”
“I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“They can’t hurt me,” she screamed, voice raw. “But you–you–!” She turned away, bawling uncontrollably. She felt his presence, silent, unreadable, unmoving, relentless. She wanted to squirm. She could take any insult; she could not take this. But she forced herself to stop crying. She forced it down, beat it down, crammed it tight, tight, into a crevice. It would come out again, unexpectedly, but for now, she was calm.
She hated him.
“I’ll have you fired,” she said.
“I don’t think they will listen. I’m good at what I do.”
“No one’s trying to kill me.”
He did not answer. He met her gaze then, suddenly, looked down. “You’re right. I will remain at a distance.”
“I’m returning to my room. You enjoy yourself up here.”
“Of course. Thank you.”
Calea studied him for a moment longer. She would repay him for what he had done to her. Carefully, she made her way down the stairs, listening for the sound of her knee. She could hear it; that would have to be fixed.
Bron watched her go and waited. Then he descended, following her.
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