Rebels (12 page)

He smirks.

I follow his gaze over my shoulder. Four more samurai stand poised, swords drawn, eyes targeted on me. One opens his mouth wide and gives a bloodcurdling screech.

“Liv—”

◊  ◊  ◊

“—ia!”

I blink. The samurai are gone, as is the garden. The brook, the winding trees, and the neon fish all have disappeared. I'm stretched across my hovering four-poster sleeper, covered in a sheen of sweat, every muscle aching. Instinctively, I reach for my sheathed zinger hanging on the post next to me.

“Do not,” says a voice, low and lethal. I drop my hand and look upward.

Governess is holding my access chip between two fingers. She has removed it from my wrist, instantly ending the program. Even if I could immediately return to it, my progress wouldn't have been saved and I'd have to start the encounter all over. Her expression is disagreeable, to say the very least.

“I hope you found that activity a suitable distraction. Perhaps there are more appropriate uses of your time?”

“I was fighting a class-five samurai, Governess. Higher than Master even allows!”

I know the last part was a mistake the moment it comes out of my mouth.

“Indeed. Oh, Livia . . .”

Governess believes swordsmanship to be an intolerable waste of time. As for the Archives, they should be used solely for enrichment, as a means of accessing ancient ruins and places of worship that vanished centuries ago.

The Sistine Chapel. Taj Mahal. The Gardens of Babylon.

Places of refinement, she calls them. Places of unimaginable boredom, I say.

I can't tell Governess this, or anything else that matters. Especially not now, a week before what she calls “the most important day of my life.”

“Can you begin to fathom the extraordinary number of preparations necessary that—”

“Yes,” I say.

“—an event of this magnitude—”

“Yes,” I say again.

“—entails?” she finishes on a high note.
Cue the guilt
, I think. “I daresay, you do not consider my feelings. Not for one moment. The utter exhaustion innate in overseeing the multitude of obligations necessary for a ball thrown in
your honor
 . . .”

“Of course I do, Governess dear,” I say halfheartedly.

Cue the indignant lecture
.

“There is preparation,” she says. “You have obligations, Livia. You are well aware you should be en route to Etiquette Training, and I turn my back for one—”

“What did she do now?”

Marius stands in the doorway, a placid smile on her face.

“Marius! How lovely!” I say, sitting up quickly.
Saved
.

Marius glides over, putting a tiny, delicate hand to Governess's large, bony shoulder. Instantly, the tension drains from her face. Marius has this effect on people. Her voice is rich and smooth, and her face shines like sunlight has been implanted under her skin. But
for her it's natural, not an enhancement. Her robes are always perfectly draped around her tiny frame, and her laughter contains just the right amount of music.

Governess welcomes Marius as warmly as I do, but for different reasons. Marius is an outlet to share her vexations, of which I am usually the cause. “A week until her debut,” Governess tells Marius, “and where do you suppose I find her? In the Archives, of all places!”

“Indeed,” says Marius calmly.

“And she has Etiquette Training! Not to mention the various—”

“Poor Governess! You are a wonder. All those preparations! I cannot fathom the enormity of the pressure, my dear.” Governess nods vigorously and gives a dramatic sigh. “And somehow, you persevere. And look lovely doing so.”

Governess glows, and I marvel at Marius. She is most likely the only woman in all of Indra capable of silencing Governess.

“Tell you what. I shall have my driver transport her in our sky speeder. She might well arrive just in time. He is wonderful, my driver. Chauffeured for the High Council chancellor, as you know.” Governess nods, as though the plan has already been agreed upon. “And that will afford you a well-deserved break. Must not wear yourself down, my dear. We need your strength. I will take the young lady off your hands. A small outing, I think, will serve both of you well.”

My heart soars.

“Lovely of you, Marius, but entirely unnecessary,” says Governess.

“Yes, of course it is necessary. Even
you
need to recharge.” At this, Governess smiles, which is a rare gesture indeed. Marius turns to me. “How does that sound, my love? Shall we? I found an enchanting little hideout in the Archives where we can stop afterward.”

“Yes!” I say quickly. “I mean, that sounds absolutely delightful, Marius.”

Governess sighs again. I know that sigh. It is the sound Waslo has made too many times.

◊  ◊  ◊

I hate Etiquette on a good day, and today is not one of those.

Today is cinching.

Though it is one of my last days, it will be a long and painful one.

Marius's driver is as skilled as she proclaims. He races across the sky, dodging shuttles and rigs, swooping through clouds. Due to our status, we are allowed to cut through other islands' restricted airspace. Rigs and other craft must secure permits; that is why Helix is often left unlooked upon, except from afar. The ride is so exciting, I nearly forget where I'm headed. If it were only so easy.

Anything is preferential to cinching. Even dining instruction, which consists of everything
but
food consumption. According to Etiquette Tutor, “Silverware must be properly positioned. Salad fork to the left of plate, then meat fork accompanied by fish fork. Salad knife to the right of plate, then meat knife, then soup spoon. Of this be wary: soup spoon, not fruit spoon. The incorrect utensil speaks volumes.”

Conversational Intercourse is even worse. Endless simulations from centuries predating the Great Catastrophe. A time, I come to understand, when the human species took great pleasure in posing charmingly in ball gowns and discussing
absolutely nothing
. It seems we have adopted the very worst of their habits.

“Lovely to make your acquaintance, Lady Ingrasol,” I say to my partner. “Indeed, the weather is divine. I do so enjoy these summer evenings. And do tell, what of the progress on your lavish garden?”

There is only so much inconsequential chatter I can withstand before I find myself telling Lady Ingrasol that if she doesn't refrain from another speech pertaining to this season's glove length, I would, quite regrettably, be forced to enhance her eye with my salad fork.

I failed that unit. Incorrect utensil usage, I suppose.

◊  ◊  ◊

“Breathe,” Etiquette Tutor says, “drawing from your diaphragm, slowly and deliberately. Remember to be calm. Remember, you are ladies.”

I glance at the other “ladies.” We are all strapped into our cinchers, a network of cords restraining our bodies. Each of us is plagued by deficient skeletal structures. For some girls, the straps are tighter over their belly or chest, while others have the pressure focused on their pelvis and hips.

The overall purpose: ensuring our waists are shrunk to the absolute minimum.

Etiquette Tutor has an impossible figure. It is stated to be our ideal, yet she has no cohabitant. The closest she has is her enhancement specialist.

The other girls don't appear the least bit uncomfortable, smiling at each other and engaging in polite conversation. They practice for their own Emergence Ball Grand Dinner, daintily holding tiny cakes between thumb and forefinger, nibbling and perfecting the art of being utterly enchanting. Each is thinking of how their own ball will unfold, dreams of perfection almost overcrowding her learned manners.

The pain, it seems, doesn't affect them. Or perhaps they hide it better than I do. Despite the niceties, one must keep in mind that this is a competition.

Somehow, Marius has arranged my ball to be the first of the season. It is apparently quite the honor to have at my whim a full complement of suitors. To me that only means more of them to dispatch.

“Another pull,” says Etiquette Tutor. “Big smiles, girls.” She circles the room, adjusting each cincher with a gradual increase of pressure. We will bend, but not break, before her. I wince before she even touches my crank. When she does, it's swift and forceful.

The pain shoots up my spine. I clench my teeth, my eyes watering.
Control yourself
, I think, as if it's a viable option.

A moan escapes my mouth. It draws every eye in the room. The girls act completely surprised, though I know they are not. My failure is expected. As are their whispers and giggles.

Next to me, Mica makes no effort to hide her utter disgust. Of all the girls, she's the one I despise the most.

“Livia!” Etiquette Tutor calls in her moderately toned way. “Show some control. Do you plan on making such unattractive vocalizations at your ball? With thousands of eyes upon you?”

We are taught that politeness is of the utmost importance. Yet I find the concept difficult to master, especially when verging on the loss of consciousness due to a lack of oxygen. Or maybe it was the endless monotony of years of lessons I deemed a waste of time; I could no longer bite my tongue.

“I do not plan . . . on wearing . . . a cincher . . . . at my ball!” I gasp, my ribs grinding together.

“Is that so, Livia?”

“I will wear my corset if I must.”

“A Proper Young Woman needn't use the corset. You cannot be dependent on the corset!”

With that, Etiquette Tutor gives me another crank. To which I give her an even louder groan.

“Your fellow trainees are undergoing precisely the same exercise, yet they do not appear distorted in the slightest. What value in a tiny waist do they see that you do not? I must assume you believe your fellow trainees to be fools, am I not correct?”

I glance around the room, but the girls avoid my gaze. Glaring, as they are well aware, would be highly distasteful.

Mica makes little effort to hide hers; she was always the pioneer when it came to hating me.

The others believe in the value of cinching because each has practiced it religiously since receiving her first training cincher at age six. Governess saw to it I wouldn't be deprived the same honor, though I promptly hid mine in the storage quarters. I put her replacement to good use as well: target practice. After four more attempts, Governess conceded. “Fortunately, your waist is already smaller than average,” she said, exasperated.

“Due to swordsmanship,” I told her. “Lucky for you, I didn't choose needlepoint.”

“Are you not seeking a wide choice of cohabitant?” says Etiquette Tutor. “Or do you find it dismissible that the Proper Young Men deem you attractive?”

The pain only grows in intensity. They're all watching me now and enjoying the spectacle. An enticing distraction, their favorite folly: watching the Cosmo Airess be put in her rightful place.

The least I can do is give them a spectacle par excellence. I catch Etiquette Tutor's gaze and stare at her, unflinching, as I force my words to sound calm and measured.

“My cohabitant of choice . . . will care about things that truly matter.”

Silence. One of the girls flattens her tiny cake between two fingers, her jaw dropping at my utter audacity. Another gasps, and I wonder where she found the breath.

I force my face high, giving them a sufficient view.
I am Livia Cosmo
.
And yes, I am as incorrect and inappropriate and, I daresay, improper as you imagined
.
And your opinions do not matter to me. Not in the least.

I force a smile. My last day brings with it the promise that the pain will stop. It just feels like it won't happen anytime soon.

Her eyes flashing, Etiquette Tutor strides to my contraption and makes a swift adjustment. I choke on my own disobedience.

“Manners,” she hisses.

Mica catches my eye and mouths a single word, her lips puckering as though the word is sour.

Orphan
.

◊  ◊  ◊

Once, a very long time ago, Mica didn't consider
orphan
to be a dirty word.

I was very little then. For all I knew, the entire universe was Helix Island, the population consisting of Veda, Governess, and myself. There were many others, of course—Marius and Waslo, Life Guide and maids and gardeners. Still, it never occurred to me that they came from somewhere beyond. I believed Helix to be the center of existence, and myself the center of Helix.

That was before I knew better.

A time when I ran the grounds in bloomers without worrying at soiling the whiteness. I climbed synth-trees and scraped my knees. This was a time when Governess knew how to comfort. When hungry, I ate. Tired, I curled up in my tiny sleeper and fell into a dreamless state. Before I knew what it meant to be a Proper Young Woman.

I did as I pleased and there were no questions. They pitied me, perhaps, and believed the coddling necessary. Poor little orphan Livia, motherless and fatherless and all alone in the world. Yet I never felt alone, with Veda and Governess and endless gardens and an entire island of secrets.

Perhaps I'm making a romance of memory and warming my recollection. For soon I would come to understand the world beyond Helix—the one I never knew existed—would be far crueler than I could have imagined.

◊  ◊  ◊

The first time I stood at the edge of Helix Island was after Sash Training. I was still in Mica's favor then.

“Sash binding is meant to challenge, thus replicating the transition from innocence to womanly obligation,” Etiquette Tutor told us, watching us fumble. “Your sash is a true sign you are a Proper Indrithian Woman.”

Long after the others had finished their tidy bows, I was still at work. I couldn't get it right, smiling through my frustration, fingers growing dumb and slow, unable to solve this puzzle on my back.