The Tragedy of Humans
The Tragedy of Humans: 1821 (cyberia remix)
1.
Arabelle enters her sister's room, steps over the intertwining masses of red, yellow and blue cables and wires before her eyes can adjust to the dark, and draws the curtains back.
"It's a nice day today, Rose," she says, squinting a bit at the neon-bright sun. "If you could, maybe you should get up and sit in the garden. Do a bit of embroidery. Your handkerchief is almost finished, isn't it?"
Rosalind is silent, a thin, sallow girl on her feathery bier, tucked beneath blankets. At the back of her neck are small thin wires, secured to ports by clever physicians. Her hands are limp against the sheets and are so thin that they look like android fingers almost, spidery veins like the thin blue wires attached to her, running through the flesh and blood of her hands, up her arms and ending just before the bent of her elbow. Her lashes are so thick that they look painted, brushing against the hollows under her eyes.
"Sister," says Arabelle, brushing a hand against her twin's cheek before kneeling in a small, round bare spot by the bed and putting her head down on the bed. "Come back to me."
Rosalind breathes as if she were alive. Arabelle opens her eyes and crawls into the bed next to her sister, under the blankets and wrapping her arms around the thin waist, trying not to count the ribs that stick out as if they were thin metal rods that technicians used connect the joints of each android, or perhaps of an injured human in the process of getting a prosthetic limb that they had lost in the war across the Channel weeks ago. Arabelle shifts so that her knees bend into the curve of Rosalind's, and the small of Rosalind's back is flush against her hips.
Arabelle closes her eyes and breathes with her sister.
2.
If Edmund had to describe his cousins, he'd say, "Chiaroscuro," and people would nod.
"Ahh," they'd say. "Right Honourable Stapleton is right."
Misses Arabelle and Rosalind Lamport's features are so delicate that they seem to wash themselves out, collapsing into pale cheeks and skin, eyes so dark and sunken that they look black, and hair so fine and light that it is almost white. In the summer, with their parasols held delicately above their heads, they seem like oil paintings; little small imperfections smoothed out by the artist's skill as he programs the exact line of their noses, the curves of their colourless lips and the black fringes around their eyes into the computer.
3.
According to the grapevine (http://wwww.grapevine.co.uk), Napoleon had decided not to invade Russia. His grip on Europe remained firm and the self-declared Emperor set his sights on England.
The proletariats are divided on this; some think it would be best to forge an alliance with their neighbours, to trade hardware and software indiscriminately across the border. Why together, they could create a cross-Channel cybermarket with the English working-class and conquer the economic world. But ambitious proletariats think different; they think that the English aristocracy treated the working-class poorly, putting on airs as they downloaded and installed expensive hardware and software in themselves, leaving scraps of fragmented or corrupt bits to be defragged and reinstalled into their weary little bodies running on outdated RAM. "We must crush the English," they say in clipped, wooden voices. "They will see the error of their ways."
Napoleon, human by the barest slivers, studies the royal family tree.
4.
The Earl of Warwick's registers are neatly kept in the family church, leather bindings in near perfect condition, parchment pages yellowed with age, but seldom opened or seen, preserved and watched by a conscientious vicar that checks the airtight room daily by placing his knobby fingers on a scanner to unlock the room.
Registers can tell stories. For instance, two generations ago, a Mr. Thomas Stapleton had joined the army. He downloaded the latest strategies and fighting techniques (smuggled from the Orient), kissed his mother before suiting up in his robot.
He came home three years later with a Catherine Stapleton, née Catherine de'Medici. She had very light hair, almost as white as her skin. Her eyes were very dark. They later called her the Countess of Warwick.
She had three children, all fair with eyes that were just as dark as their mother's. Reginald would eventually become the next Earl of Warwick. Theodore, her third and most beloved child, would die fighting Napoleon in his mother's native country.
Isabelle Stapleton would marry Mr. James Lamport (third son of a Marquis) and have twins. Polite Society would whisper, wondering if they had been programmed before birth to have the same blonde hair as their mother, the same dark eyes as their grandmother.
What the annals do not say: two hundred years ago, Peter Paul Reubens painted the French queen Marie de'Medici.
5.
Lady Warwick spares no expense on her niece's come-out ball. She orders reams of plush fabric, red as war's blood and promises her patronage to a talented programmer to adjust the functions of her androids so that they would sew and hang the new curtains perfectly across the windows. The floor gleams, stainless steel cut and scuffed so that it resembles the marble beneath it. The remote-controlled candles were engineered by a clever events technician. Even the orchestra is spectacular, androids that look and act human as they draw their bows across strings of false cellos and violins.
"Oh Aunt," Rosalind says with just the right amount of enthusiasm, "it's perfect."
"I'm glad," the Countess replies, switching the hologram off. The room is dark for a moment, and then brightens quietly, softly and gently. "But you must get ready now. Your guests will be arriving soon, and we must remove those dreadful curling papers from your hair."
A maid and their abigail help them dress, easing them carefully into the elaborate ballgowns.
"Mum, your dress is beautiful," the maid remarks as she eases the crimson fabric over her head, patting it on her petticoats. "It suits ye very well."
"Thank you," Arabelle replies. On the other side of the room, the abigail pulls Rosalind's muslim gown over her head. Her twin's body is almost anti-Odalisque in its slenderness; the white skin, long lines, and small little dark circles on her small breasts, the nipple becoming more prominent with the chill in the room. The undershirt slides on, and Rosalind sighs.
"Aunt sent out over three hundred invitation emails. I hope I don't make a fool of myself."
"You won't," Arabelle reassures
"I hope people will enjoy themselves. It'll look very poorly on us otherwise," Rosalind says. "I wonder if anyone will notice that our dresses are stitched by human hands. But don't you dare tell anyone; it will most definitely reflect on us. It's most impolite to brag."
"I know. Don't worry," Arabelle murmurs, wincing when the maid pulls too hard.
"Sorry mum. I just got the program to do hair arrangements a few days ago," she says. "I haven't enough RAM to process it, so it may hurt a wee bit."
Arabelle closes her eyes. "How much more RAM do you need?"
"Oh no, mum. S'fine," the maid says, cheerfully. "All done, mum."
Arabelle opens her eyes and looks in the mirror, touches her face and hair. The maid had woven viney, metal flowers in her hair, creeping trellises of silver in her pale locks.
"Oh Belle," sighs Rosalind. "You look beautiful."
Arabelle turns around, gasps. "Rose," she says. "You'll definitely be the darling of the ton looking like that."
"I look like an android next to you," laughs Rosalind, but she twirls around anyway, like a small child. Her silver dress sparkles, catches the light and reflects tiny rainbows onto the wall and Arabelle's face and arms. Tiny crystals have been sewn into the fabric, looking like small microchips. "You," Rosalind says, slipping her arm into Arabelle's, "are the rose tonight."
Arabelle presses her lips to her sister's cool cheek. "And you'll be the belle of the ball," she says.
6.
Arabelle is not looking forward to tonight. Crowds stifle her; Polite Society eats through her skin and into her sister. She brushes a hand against her wrist to check the time.
"They'll be arriving soon," a voice says in her ear. She spins around, trips and laughs when he catches her.
"Edmund, you gave me such a fright."
"Forgive me, 'coz. I didn't mean to." He releases her and looks at her, his cheeks almost as red as her dress. "You look beautiful."
"I take it you haven't seen Rose yet. She's the real beauty," replies Arabelle, examining Edmund.
"I've seen her. I still stand by my word," he says.
She laughs and taps him on the nose with her fan. "Flatterer. But Rose was always the prettier one."
"Not true," he says. "But never mind, I brought you a gift."
He gives her a box, and she looks at him before opening it. Nestled in cotton is a ruby pendant, glittering underneath the artificial candlelight.
"Oh, Edmund."
"Let me put it on you," he offers. She hands him the box and turns around. His fingers brush the back of her neck, linger and then draw back. "Suits you well, it does."
"I hope you brought Rose something. She'll be terribly disappointed if you didn't," Arabelle warns.
"Of course," he replies, and turns his head away so that she cannot see his face.
7.
It's their night tonight, but Arabelle feels like faulty software, her feet stumbling, dress too constricting, and the ruby around her neck feels like a noose. Rosalind's feet are light, her steps neat and manners as exquisite as her dress.
Rosalind shines almost as brightly as the microchips in her ears, the diamond nestled between her breasts. She laughs and twirls from one set of arms to another.
It is almost as if she were programmed to be perfect, jealous mamas murmur. But what would you expect from a de'Medici?
That dress is so vulgar. I'll wager that it's handmade.
Look at the way she smiles at all the men. She probably uploaded some of her French software so that she could fill her dance card. Poor girl; she doesn't realize that at her come out ball, men will naturally claim a place on her card. It must be the foreign blood.
Arabelle wishes desperately that Rosalind's ears were not preternaturally enhanced with small, glittering microchips when she sees the smile slip off her sister's face.
8.
Rosalind's engagement to the Marquis of Richmond surprises everyone and delights no one except Rosalind herself.
"They'll invite me to Almack's for sure. I'll be a Marquess," Rosalind said, spinning on her toes and hugging herself. "Oh Belle, I'm so happy."
The banns were emailed. Polite Society was abuzz with gossip over the hasty engagement. The Marquis shows up everyday, bearing gifts aplenty. Arabelle takes an immediate dislike to him.
"I do wish you would stop installing more hardware in yourself," Arabelle comments at one point. "And all that software can't be safe; at least run it through a scan at first."
"You worry too much, dearest Sister," laughs Rosalind. "Phillip would never do anything to hurt me."
"They say that he's a Napoleon sympathizer."
Rosalind waves an airy hand. "They say that we are too. When have you ever listened to the ton?"
Arabelle reaches out a hand to brush the new ports on the soft undersides of her sister's wrist, pressing her thumbs against the red and blue wires underneath the skin. "We used to upgrade ourselves together."
Rosalind catches her hands, holds them. They're unnaturally warm and hard, like metal that has been in the sun too long. "I love you, Sister. Nothing will ever replace you."
"Where is he getting all of this hardware and software? I didn't think the ton dealt with anyone outside the ton."
"Phillip is not so close-minded as that," Rosalind says, laughing. "Why Sister, it's almost as if someone had programmed your unnatural prejudice into you."
"I've never heard of any member of the aristocracy lowering themselves to speak to technologians," Arabelle replies, her manner as stiff as her sister's spine. "They concern themselves with real estate and the collection of rents from their lands."
"You are being unfair now," chides Rosalind. "Come now, Sister. Let us approach Father and ask him if you may upgrade your hardware. I suppose you're feeling quite outdated now, next to me."
Arabelle smiles and pulls her twin into a hug. "Even if you were to venture down to Hungerford Market to upgrade yourself, I will still feel outdated next to you, Dearest."
9.
Edmund's hair is not quite as light as theirs, Arabelle realizes during one of the rare moments she's left Rosalind's side to have dinner with her family. She cuts into her meat, tries to take a bite and fails. She puts the fork down and presses the heel of her palm into her eyes, trying not to think of Rosalind's white face and body underneath the comforter.
"'Coz?"
Arabelle looks up, sees everyone watching her with concern. She smiles, tries to pretend that things are normal, that Rosalind is human again and next to her. The tablecloth is as white as Rosalind's skin, as her own hand as she tries to pick her fork back up again. It shakes like a living thing.
"Arabelle!"
She collapses.
She wakes up in her room. It is very dark, very cold, and she removes the ethernet cable from her wrist. The external harddrive whirls, then stops. She slips her dressing gown and slippers on, ghosts out of her room and into Rosalind's. Edmund looks up.
"You ought to be resting."
She shrugs, and tries not to look as disconcerted as she feels. It hurts to be around people, to be around them without Rosalind. She says as much, and Edmund's brows draw together.
"'Coz, that's not healthy."
"I don't care," she says, wearily. "I want her back. What's wrong with her, Ed? What happened? What did he _give her_?"
"Arabelle." He stands and suddenly the room is too small. His palms are warm against her cheeks. "It was a virus. A modified Trojan."
"Why isn't the anti-virus working then?" she asks, frustrated and too weak to even look away.
"Because it's a French virus. Programmers are working on a cure, but they haven't found one yet. As far as we can tell, it wasn't supposed to react this way." He pulls her into a hug, gentle and light. "I'm sorry."
"What was it supposed to do?"
He pulls back. "Napoleon developed it. Rosalind was a test subject. Harcourt's a traitor."
"Ed, will you do me a favour?"
"Anything."
"Cure Rosalind."
"'Coz, we've tried everything we could."
She shakes her head. "Not Hungerford Market, I wager."
His breath hisses from his teeth. "They're _human_ there, Arabelle. Completely human. Unpredictable. Wild."
"Fix her," Arabelle says in a voice that shakes so hard that she can feel the small pieces of machinery and microchips inside of her vibrate, "Fix her, and I'll marry you."
10.
Hungerford Market creeps with pestilence and poverty, children with hidden fingers and arms tucked beneath loose shirts stolen from Petticoat Lane as they approach people going into pubs, thin spectrals wailing, "A floppy, sir? Me mum's sick." Edmund feels through his pockets for floppies, spare chips, but comes up blank each time.
Prostitutes call from nooks and crannies, their alleyways glow from the phosphorence of uncovered wires and discarded monitors. "Wouldn't ye like t'buy a girl a drink?" one calls. He hurries past them, trying not to breathe too quickly.
He steps into a pub, just barely avoids stepping in a puddle of gin and bile, and pushes his way towards an empty corner. There are wires everywhere, by the thousands. On the floor, strewn across the bar, the cheap aluminum tables and low stools that he assumes are supposed to be seats. Hanging from the ceiling are tens of monitors, all of varying sizes, hissing angry static as he leaps over sparks and tries his best not to look too hard at the thick blue cables that snake on top of the other wires.
Pushing a few wires off the stool, he sits. Wires converge on him, surrounding him, and sparking as they hit an invisible barrier. He recoils when one comes devastatingly close to his nose.
"That's an expensive firewall you've got," someone says before sliding a drink in front of him. "Not exactly recommended for these areas, but I suppose you toffs don't really know any better."
He looks up. A woman is watching him. She has no chips that he can see, no visible ports or wires sticking out.
He coughs. "Would you like to sit down?"
"I don't see why not," she says, her accent as refined as any earl's. He is tempted to ask her whether or not she downloaded the software into herself. Wires slither and mould themselves into a chair. She sits and leans back. "What brings you down here, Right Honourable Stapleton?"
He wants to say, "My cousin's ill." He wants to say, "The Marquis of Richmond infected my cousin." He wants to say, "I need help."
He says, "I'm in love."
The woman smiles. Her teeth are yellow and crooked, nothing like the articial rows of white that Edmund is used to. "You've come to the right place then."
11.
Arabelle feels the slow movement of Rosalind's body as they breathe. She brushes a hand against the back of her sister's neck, over the red imprints that small valleys of wires and cables have made.
"Come back, Dearest," she whispers in her sister's ear. "Please."
The knobs of Rosalind's spine press into her stomach and breasts through the fabrics of their dresses. Arabelle unhooks an ethernet cable from the juncture between her breasts, loops it through her neckline, and attaches it to an ethernet port between her sister's scapula.
"If you can't come back," she murmurs, "I'll come to you."
12.
The woman's name is Mouse and she is a hacker. She says that it's the name Mother Hubbard gave her, and Edmund is wise enough not to ask who Mother Hubbard is.
"Said that I was just like a mouse, getting into places that I oughtn't."
Her hair is very long and dark, matted and uneven in bits. She tells him that Phery trims it for her from time to time.
"Phery's my partner. His name's short for 'Peripheral', but he throws quite the tantrum if you call him that. He's a technician," she says. "Lost his leg in the war. Never did manage to recover from it, the poor thing."
Edmund's family is properly horrified by the newcomers with their pink flesh and eyes that are murky with humanness. The physician makes protesting noises when Phery begins to disconnect and push wires out of the way, throwing expensive hardware around as if it were no more than cheap glass.
"She prolly don't gots enough RAM to process these," he mumbles as he attaches an antique laptop to the ports to her legs, her stomach and small of her back. He pauses at a blue cable, peers at it and lets out a long, sharp breath. "Mouse, lookit this."
Mouse touches the port. It sparks dangerously and she pulls back.
"Someone's downloaded themselves into her."
Down the hall, Edmund knocks on Arabelle's door.
13.
Arabelle opens her eyes when the orchestra strikes up a waltz.
She is floating. Her knees are tucked close to her chest, and she hugs, shivering. It is very warm, a soft kind of warmth, almost like sunshine but not nearly as bright. She tries to move, and the chains around her tighten.
She screams.
They press into her white skin, trapping her curls in their silver links, her arms and legs, the small, soft white juncture between her thighs. They blossom from just between her breasts, retracting when music crescendoes.
"Sister."
Arabelle looks up. "Rose?"
Rosalind floats, her silver shoes touching the metal floor. Curtains swirl around the windows, draw themselves back and knot themselves into place. Artificial candles flare to life.
"You're beautiful," whispers Arabelle.
Rosalind's dress glitters, tiny microchips sewn into the fabric as she unfurls her wings. They are stainless steel, so new that Arabelle can see her reflection in it; a small, white curlicue of pain, wrapped with silver lines. The edges of each feather have been etched in sharp relief.
"Isn't it wonderful here?" Rosalind asks. "The virus can't find us. We can stay here and dance forever, Belle. We can host parties and entertain people forever, and it'll be wonderful. You can wear your red dress, and the orchestra will go on and on. I've some of their mp3s in my memory bank; they should remain uncorrupted for a while."
"Rose, it hurts," says Arabelle, leaning her forehead on her knees.
"Dance with me," Rosalind says, and draws Arabelle to her feet.
Arabelle dances the way she did not the night of her come-out ball, nimbly and neatly. Rosalind dances, wrapping her arms around Arabelle's waist and using her wings to lift them in the air, so that they are waltzing on warm air and metal wings. The waltz's tempo speeds up and so do they, laughing and spinning madly so that the room blurs into a haze of gold and crimson and silver.
It spins and spins, turning gold and crimson and silver into black. Arabelle feels Rosalind's metal hands, hard on her waist, hears the soft whirr and click of machinery inside her sister, and tastes metal (like blood, but not so bitter) when she kisses Rosalind's cheek.
"I love you," she whispers in the shell of Rosalind's ear.
Rosalind lets go and Arabelle falls.
She falls and falls until it is no longer dark, but red, and then blue. Her dress disintegrates, pieces falling off and floating back upwards.
_Class M Trojan. Mousie, I hope ye've got sumfink. Periphery's beginnin' ta erode._
_Give me a moment. I think I have her._
Chains, cool and familiar wrap themselves around Arabelle. She sobs when Rosalind's hand brushes her cheek.
"Stay with me, Sister."
"One birth, one person, Dearest," Arabelle answers.
_She's resisting. Phery, I need some more RAM._
Rosalind kisses her then, mouth to mouth. Her lips are cold and unnaturally sharp. Arabelle closes her eyes and relishes this, the feel of metal against bare skin, her sister's love downloading into her so that her veins are turning into small blue wires and her hands are beginning to elongate and transmute. There is a pain in her back, between her scapula, and Arabelle cries out, breaking the kiss.
_Found her._
Arabelle's body begins to change again, back to flesh and pinkness. Her hands curl into fists, crescent nail marks in the soft skin of her palms as the chains move against her skin.
"Arabelle," Rosalind calls, but she sounds very distant. "Don't leave me."
Her blood dyes the chains red, then black. Rosalind's voice, Rosalind's scent, Rosalind herself disappears.
Arabelle screams.
14.
Rosemary looks over her shoulder before flitting around the corner and up the stairs to the attic.
Mother and Father never allow her here. Neither does Nurse, but Rosemary thinks that she's old enough to see things that she oughtn't. Father says that she's too curious, like a kitten, but Rosemary doesn't like the comparison; she doesn't like the way kittens shed their soft fur or made noises when they were hungry. At least, her kitten was like that, but Rosemary gave it away to Nurse.
Underneath the door, there is a thin line of light that flickers. Rosemary hesitates then knocks and pushes it open.
"Hello," she says to the android. It looks very strange, its eyes so dark it looks like the black marbles her little brother plays with sometimes. It also has a mass of artificial hair from its shiny scalp, blonde like her own hair. "I'm Rosemary. Who are you?"
The android looks at her, and Rosemary looks back. The android is wearing a strange dress, sort of silver, but not quite. Its spidery hands are working on a piece of embroidery, weaving the needle in and out with a steady, easy rhythm. Rosemary smiles, and steps over sparking red wires and blue cables.
"I'm not supposed to be here, but please don't tell Mother or Nurse. What are you making?"
The android does not answer.
Too polite to push, but too curious to give up, Rosemary tiptoes. "Oh, wings. They're pretty, but why are they grey? They should be white."
Someone calls Rosemary's name, and she jerks back, startled. "I should go. I've been missing for a while. Can I come visit again?"
The android does not reply. The door opens, and Rosemary looks up guiltily at her mother.
"Rosemary, it's suppertime," her mother says in a tone that tells Rosemary that she's been very bad. "Go downstairs and get dressed. We'll talk about this later."
Rosemary smooths her skirt and jumps over the wires, pauses, and then goes back so she can press her lips to the android's cold cheeks. It feels funny, and she giggles, cheeks rosy with youth as she skips back. "She looks just like you, Mother," she says, wrapping her arms briefly around her waist and pressing her cheek against the solid, warm bump there.
"Rosemary Isabelle Marie Stapleton!"
Rosemary winces at the use of her full name and allows herself to be led out of the room and into her nursery.
"Heavens child, I've been searching all over for you." Nurse pulls Rosemary's dress over her head.
"I was visiting someone." She smooths the red skirt down, looks behind her at the spot just between her shoulderblades. Mother comes into the room and closes the door behind her. "Mother, do you think I'll ever have wings?"
"If you're good, God will grant them to you," Mother replies, watching Nurse fix her blonde curls.
"I'm going to be especially good so that I can have metal ones," Rosemary says, solemn in the way that only a five year old could be.
Mother crosses the room, kneels down so that she can look Rosemary in the eye. Her eyes are dark and hair blonde. Everyone says that Rosemary looks like Mother, but Mother says that it's not true. Rosemary blinks, her lashes sweeping against the curve of her eyes.
"If you're good," Mother repeats. She smells like flowers today, and sunshine. Warm, pretty things. Rosemary thinks about the android in the attic and thinks that Mother smells better. She kisses Mother's cheek, and is delighted to find that it's also very warm and soft.
"I'll be very good then," Rosemary promises. "Do you think they'll attach themselves to that hole in my back? The strange port?"
Mother's hand brushes against her back, just between her shoulderblades. "It's called an ethernet port."
"But will I get wings?" persisted Rosemary.
Arabelle pauses and takes her daughter's hand in her own and replies, "If you're good."
1.
Arabelle enters her sister's room, steps over the intertwining masses of red, yellow and blue cables and wires before her eyes can adjust to the dark, and draws the curtains back.
"It's a nice day today, Rose," she says, squinting a bit at the neon-bright sun. "If you could, maybe you should get up and sit in the garden. Do a bit of embroidery. Your handkerchief is almost finished, isn't it?"
Rosalind is silent, a thin, sallow girl on her feathery bier, tucked beneath blankets. At the back of her neck are small thin wires, secured to ports by clever physicians. Her hands are limp against the sheets and are so thin that they look like android fingers almost, spidery veins like the thin blue wires attached to her, running through the flesh and blood of her hands, up her arms and ending just before the bent of her elbow. Her lashes are so thick that they look painted, brushing against the hollows under her eyes.
"Sister," says Arabelle, brushing a hand against her twin's cheek before kneeling in a small, round bare spot by the bed and putting her head down on the bed. "Come back to me."
Rosalind breathes as if she were alive. Arabelle opens her eyes and crawls into the bed next to her sister, under the blankets and wrapping her arms around the thin waist, trying not to count the ribs that stick out as if they were thin metal rods that technicians used connect the joints of each android, or perhaps of an injured human in the process of getting a prosthetic limb that they had lost in the war across the Channel weeks ago. Arabelle shifts so that her knees bend into the curve of Rosalind's, and the small of Rosalind's back is flush against her hips.
Arabelle closes her eyes and breathes with her sister.
2.
If Edmund had to describe his cousins, he'd say, "Chiaroscuro," and people would nod.
"Ahh," they'd say. "Right Honourable Stapleton is right."
Misses Arabelle and Rosalind Lamport's features are so delicate that they seem to wash themselves out, collapsing into pale cheeks and skin, eyes so dark and sunken that they look black, and hair so fine and light that it is almost white. In the summer, with their parasols held delicately above their heads, they seem like oil paintings; little small imperfections smoothed out by the artist's skill as he programs the exact line of their noses, the curves of their colourless lips and the black fringes around their eyes into the computer.
3.
According to the grapevine (http://wwww.grapevine.co.uk), Napoleon had decided not to invade Russia. His grip on Europe remained firm and the self-declared Emperor set his sights on England.
The proletariats are divided on this; some think it would be best to forge an alliance with their neighbours, to trade hardware and software indiscriminately across the border. Why together, they could create a cross-Channel cybermarket with the English working-class and conquer the economic world. But ambitious proletariats think different; they think that the English aristocracy treated the working-class poorly, putting on airs as they downloaded and installed expensive hardware and software in themselves, leaving scraps of fragmented or corrupt bits to be defragged and reinstalled into their weary little bodies running on outdated RAM. "We must crush the English," they say in clipped, wooden voices. "They will see the error of their ways."
Napoleon, human by the barest slivers, studies the royal family tree.
4.
The Earl of Warwick's registers are neatly kept in the family church, leather bindings in near perfect condition, parchment pages yellowed with age, but seldom opened or seen, preserved and watched by a conscientious vicar that checks the airtight room daily by placing his knobby fingers on a scanner to unlock the room.
Registers can tell stories. For instance, two generations ago, a Mr. Thomas Stapleton had joined the army. He downloaded the latest strategies and fighting techniques (smuggled from the Orient), kissed his mother before suiting up in his robot.
He came home three years later with a Catherine Stapleton, née Catherine de'Medici. She had very light hair, almost as white as her skin. Her eyes were very dark. They later called her the Countess of Warwick.
She had three children, all fair with eyes that were just as dark as their mother's. Reginald would eventually become the next Earl of Warwick. Theodore, her third and most beloved child, would die fighting Napoleon in his mother's native country.
Isabelle Stapleton would marry Mr. James Lamport (third son of a Marquis) and have twins. Polite Society would whisper, wondering if they had been programmed before birth to have the same blonde hair as their mother, the same dark eyes as their grandmother.
What the annals do not say: two hundred years ago, Peter Paul Reubens painted the French queen Marie de'Medici.
5.
Lady Warwick spares no expense on her niece's come-out ball. She orders reams of plush fabric, red as war's blood and promises her patronage to a talented programmer to adjust the functions of her androids so that they would sew and hang the new curtains perfectly across the windows. The floor gleams, stainless steel cut and scuffed so that it resembles the marble beneath it. The remote-controlled candles were engineered by a clever events technician. Even the orchestra is spectacular, androids that look and act human as they draw their bows across strings of false cellos and violins.
"Oh Aunt," Rosalind says with just the right amount of enthusiasm, "it's perfect."
"I'm glad," the Countess replies, switching the hologram off. The room is dark for a moment, and then brightens quietly, softly and gently. "But you must get ready now. Your guests will be arriving soon, and we must remove those dreadful curling papers from your hair."
A maid and their abigail help them dress, easing them carefully into the elaborate ballgowns.
"Mum, your dress is beautiful," the maid remarks as she eases the crimson fabric over her head, patting it on her petticoats. "It suits ye very well."
"Thank you," Arabelle replies. On the other side of the room, the abigail pulls Rosalind's muslim gown over her head. Her twin's body is almost anti-Odalisque in its slenderness; the white skin, long lines, and small little dark circles on her small breasts, the nipple becoming more prominent with the chill in the room. The undershirt slides on, and Rosalind sighs.
"Aunt sent out over three hundred invitation emails. I hope I don't make a fool of myself."
"You won't," Arabelle reassures
"I hope people will enjoy themselves. It'll look very poorly on us otherwise," Rosalind says. "I wonder if anyone will notice that our dresses are stitched by human hands. But don't you dare tell anyone; it will most definitely reflect on us. It's most impolite to brag."
"I know. Don't worry," Arabelle murmurs, wincing when the maid pulls too hard.
"Sorry mum. I just got the program to do hair arrangements a few days ago," she says. "I haven't enough RAM to process it, so it may hurt a wee bit."
Arabelle closes her eyes. "How much more RAM do you need?"
"Oh no, mum. S'fine," the maid says, cheerfully. "All done, mum."
Arabelle opens her eyes and looks in the mirror, touches her face and hair. The maid had woven viney, metal flowers in her hair, creeping trellises of silver in her pale locks.
"Oh Belle," sighs Rosalind. "You look beautiful."
Arabelle turns around, gasps. "Rose," she says. "You'll definitely be the darling of the ton looking like that."
"I look like an android next to you," laughs Rosalind, but she twirls around anyway, like a small child. Her silver dress sparkles, catches the light and reflects tiny rainbows onto the wall and Arabelle's face and arms. Tiny crystals have been sewn into the fabric, looking like small microchips. "You," Rosalind says, slipping her arm into Arabelle's, "are the rose tonight."
Arabelle presses her lips to her sister's cool cheek. "And you'll be the belle of the ball," she says.
6.
Arabelle is not looking forward to tonight. Crowds stifle her; Polite Society eats through her skin and into her sister. She brushes a hand against her wrist to check the time.
"They'll be arriving soon," a voice says in her ear. She spins around, trips and laughs when he catches her.
"Edmund, you gave me such a fright."
"Forgive me, 'coz. I didn't mean to." He releases her and looks at her, his cheeks almost as red as her dress. "You look beautiful."
"I take it you haven't seen Rose yet. She's the real beauty," replies Arabelle, examining Edmund.
"I've seen her. I still stand by my word," he says.
She laughs and taps him on the nose with her fan. "Flatterer. But Rose was always the prettier one."
"Not true," he says. "But never mind, I brought you a gift."
He gives her a box, and she looks at him before opening it. Nestled in cotton is a ruby pendant, glittering underneath the artificial candlelight.
"Oh, Edmund."
"Let me put it on you," he offers. She hands him the box and turns around. His fingers brush the back of her neck, linger and then draw back. "Suits you well, it does."
"I hope you brought Rose something. She'll be terribly disappointed if you didn't," Arabelle warns.
"Of course," he replies, and turns his head away so that she cannot see his face.
7.
It's their night tonight, but Arabelle feels like faulty software, her feet stumbling, dress too constricting, and the ruby around her neck feels like a noose. Rosalind's feet are light, her steps neat and manners as exquisite as her dress.
Rosalind shines almost as brightly as the microchips in her ears, the diamond nestled between her breasts. She laughs and twirls from one set of arms to another.
It is almost as if she were programmed to be perfect, jealous mamas murmur. But what would you expect from a de'Medici?
That dress is so vulgar. I'll wager that it's handmade.
Look at the way she smiles at all the men. She probably uploaded some of her French software so that she could fill her dance card. Poor girl; she doesn't realize that at her come out ball, men will naturally claim a place on her card. It must be the foreign blood.
Arabelle wishes desperately that Rosalind's ears were not preternaturally enhanced with small, glittering microchips when she sees the smile slip off her sister's face.
8.
Rosalind's engagement to the Marquis of Richmond surprises everyone and delights no one except Rosalind herself.
"They'll invite me to Almack's for sure. I'll be a Marquess," Rosalind said, spinning on her toes and hugging herself. "Oh Belle, I'm so happy."
The banns were emailed. Polite Society was abuzz with gossip over the hasty engagement. The Marquis shows up everyday, bearing gifts aplenty. Arabelle takes an immediate dislike to him.
"I do wish you would stop installing more hardware in yourself," Arabelle comments at one point. "And all that software can't be safe; at least run it through a scan at first."
"You worry too much, dearest Sister," laughs Rosalind. "Phillip would never do anything to hurt me."
"They say that he's a Napoleon sympathizer."
Rosalind waves an airy hand. "They say that we are too. When have you ever listened to the ton?"
Arabelle reaches out a hand to brush the new ports on the soft undersides of her sister's wrist, pressing her thumbs against the red and blue wires underneath the skin. "We used to upgrade ourselves together."
Rosalind catches her hands, holds them. They're unnaturally warm and hard, like metal that has been in the sun too long. "I love you, Sister. Nothing will ever replace you."
"Where is he getting all of this hardware and software? I didn't think the ton dealt with anyone outside the ton."
"Phillip is not so close-minded as that," Rosalind says, laughing. "Why Sister, it's almost as if someone had programmed your unnatural prejudice into you."
"I've never heard of any member of the aristocracy lowering themselves to speak to technologians," Arabelle replies, her manner as stiff as her sister's spine. "They concern themselves with real estate and the collection of rents from their lands."
"You are being unfair now," chides Rosalind. "Come now, Sister. Let us approach Father and ask him if you may upgrade your hardware. I suppose you're feeling quite outdated now, next to me."
Arabelle smiles and pulls her twin into a hug. "Even if you were to venture down to Hungerford Market to upgrade yourself, I will still feel outdated next to you, Dearest."
9.
Edmund's hair is not quite as light as theirs, Arabelle realizes during one of the rare moments she's left Rosalind's side to have dinner with her family. She cuts into her meat, tries to take a bite and fails. She puts the fork down and presses the heel of her palm into her eyes, trying not to think of Rosalind's white face and body underneath the comforter.
"'Coz?"
Arabelle looks up, sees everyone watching her with concern. She smiles, tries to pretend that things are normal, that Rosalind is human again and next to her. The tablecloth is as white as Rosalind's skin, as her own hand as she tries to pick her fork back up again. It shakes like a living thing.
"Arabelle!"
She collapses.
She wakes up in her room. It is very dark, very cold, and she removes the ethernet cable from her wrist. The external harddrive whirls, then stops. She slips her dressing gown and slippers on, ghosts out of her room and into Rosalind's. Edmund looks up.
"You ought to be resting."
She shrugs, and tries not to look as disconcerted as she feels. It hurts to be around people, to be around them without Rosalind. She says as much, and Edmund's brows draw together.
"'Coz, that's not healthy."
"I don't care," she says, wearily. "I want her back. What's wrong with her, Ed? What happened? What did he _give her_?"
"Arabelle." He stands and suddenly the room is too small. His palms are warm against her cheeks. "It was a virus. A modified Trojan."
"Why isn't the anti-virus working then?" she asks, frustrated and too weak to even look away.
"Because it's a French virus. Programmers are working on a cure, but they haven't found one yet. As far as we can tell, it wasn't supposed to react this way." He pulls her into a hug, gentle and light. "I'm sorry."
"What was it supposed to do?"
He pulls back. "Napoleon developed it. Rosalind was a test subject. Harcourt's a traitor."
"Ed, will you do me a favour?"
"Anything."
"Cure Rosalind."
"'Coz, we've tried everything we could."
She shakes her head. "Not Hungerford Market, I wager."
His breath hisses from his teeth. "They're _human_ there, Arabelle. Completely human. Unpredictable. Wild."
"Fix her," Arabelle says in a voice that shakes so hard that she can feel the small pieces of machinery and microchips inside of her vibrate, "Fix her, and I'll marry you."
10.
Hungerford Market creeps with pestilence and poverty, children with hidden fingers and arms tucked beneath loose shirts stolen from Petticoat Lane as they approach people going into pubs, thin spectrals wailing, "A floppy, sir? Me mum's sick." Edmund feels through his pockets for floppies, spare chips, but comes up blank each time.
Prostitutes call from nooks and crannies, their alleyways glow from the phosphorence of uncovered wires and discarded monitors. "Wouldn't ye like t'buy a girl a drink?" one calls. He hurries past them, trying not to breathe too quickly.
He steps into a pub, just barely avoids stepping in a puddle of gin and bile, and pushes his way towards an empty corner. There are wires everywhere, by the thousands. On the floor, strewn across the bar, the cheap aluminum tables and low stools that he assumes are supposed to be seats. Hanging from the ceiling are tens of monitors, all of varying sizes, hissing angry static as he leaps over sparks and tries his best not to look too hard at the thick blue cables that snake on top of the other wires.
Pushing a few wires off the stool, he sits. Wires converge on him, surrounding him, and sparking as they hit an invisible barrier. He recoils when one comes devastatingly close to his nose.
"That's an expensive firewall you've got," someone says before sliding a drink in front of him. "Not exactly recommended for these areas, but I suppose you toffs don't really know any better."
He looks up. A woman is watching him. She has no chips that he can see, no visible ports or wires sticking out.
He coughs. "Would you like to sit down?"
"I don't see why not," she says, her accent as refined as any earl's. He is tempted to ask her whether or not she downloaded the software into herself. Wires slither and mould themselves into a chair. She sits and leans back. "What brings you down here, Right Honourable Stapleton?"
He wants to say, "My cousin's ill." He wants to say, "The Marquis of Richmond infected my cousin." He wants to say, "I need help."
He says, "I'm in love."
The woman smiles. Her teeth are yellow and crooked, nothing like the articial rows of white that Edmund is used to. "You've come to the right place then."
11.
Arabelle feels the slow movement of Rosalind's body as they breathe. She brushes a hand against the back of her sister's neck, over the red imprints that small valleys of wires and cables have made.
"Come back, Dearest," she whispers in her sister's ear. "Please."
The knobs of Rosalind's spine press into her stomach and breasts through the fabrics of their dresses. Arabelle unhooks an ethernet cable from the juncture between her breasts, loops it through her neckline, and attaches it to an ethernet port between her sister's scapula.
"If you can't come back," she murmurs, "I'll come to you."
12.
The woman's name is Mouse and she is a hacker. She says that it's the name Mother Hubbard gave her, and Edmund is wise enough not to ask who Mother Hubbard is.
"Said that I was just like a mouse, getting into places that I oughtn't."
Her hair is very long and dark, matted and uneven in bits. She tells him that Phery trims it for her from time to time.
"Phery's my partner. His name's short for 'Peripheral', but he throws quite the tantrum if you call him that. He's a technician," she says. "Lost his leg in the war. Never did manage to recover from it, the poor thing."
Edmund's family is properly horrified by the newcomers with their pink flesh and eyes that are murky with humanness. The physician makes protesting noises when Phery begins to disconnect and push wires out of the way, throwing expensive hardware around as if it were no more than cheap glass.
"She prolly don't gots enough RAM to process these," he mumbles as he attaches an antique laptop to the ports to her legs, her stomach and small of her back. He pauses at a blue cable, peers at it and lets out a long, sharp breath. "Mouse, lookit this."
Mouse touches the port. It sparks dangerously and she pulls back.
"Someone's downloaded themselves into her."
Down the hall, Edmund knocks on Arabelle's door.
13.
Arabelle opens her eyes when the orchestra strikes up a waltz.
She is floating. Her knees are tucked close to her chest, and she hugs, shivering. It is very warm, a soft kind of warmth, almost like sunshine but not nearly as bright. She tries to move, and the chains around her tighten.
She screams.
They press into her white skin, trapping her curls in their silver links, her arms and legs, the small, soft white juncture between her thighs. They blossom from just between her breasts, retracting when music crescendoes.
"Sister."
Arabelle looks up. "Rose?"
Rosalind floats, her silver shoes touching the metal floor. Curtains swirl around the windows, draw themselves back and knot themselves into place. Artificial candles flare to life.
"You're beautiful," whispers Arabelle.
Rosalind's dress glitters, tiny microchips sewn into the fabric as she unfurls her wings. They are stainless steel, so new that Arabelle can see her reflection in it; a small, white curlicue of pain, wrapped with silver lines. The edges of each feather have been etched in sharp relief.
"Isn't it wonderful here?" Rosalind asks. "The virus can't find us. We can stay here and dance forever, Belle. We can host parties and entertain people forever, and it'll be wonderful. You can wear your red dress, and the orchestra will go on and on. I've some of their mp3s in my memory bank; they should remain uncorrupted for a while."
"Rose, it hurts," says Arabelle, leaning her forehead on her knees.
"Dance with me," Rosalind says, and draws Arabelle to her feet.
Arabelle dances the way she did not the night of her come-out ball, nimbly and neatly. Rosalind dances, wrapping her arms around Arabelle's waist and using her wings to lift them in the air, so that they are waltzing on warm air and metal wings. The waltz's tempo speeds up and so do they, laughing and spinning madly so that the room blurs into a haze of gold and crimson and silver.
It spins and spins, turning gold and crimson and silver into black. Arabelle feels Rosalind's metal hands, hard on her waist, hears the soft whirr and click of machinery inside her sister, and tastes metal (like blood, but not so bitter) when she kisses Rosalind's cheek.
"I love you," she whispers in the shell of Rosalind's ear.
Rosalind lets go and Arabelle falls.
She falls and falls until it is no longer dark, but red, and then blue. Her dress disintegrates, pieces falling off and floating back upwards.
_Class M Trojan. Mousie, I hope ye've got sumfink. Periphery's beginnin' ta erode._
_Give me a moment. I think I have her._
Chains, cool and familiar wrap themselves around Arabelle. She sobs when Rosalind's hand brushes her cheek.
"Stay with me, Sister."
"One birth, one person, Dearest," Arabelle answers.
_She's resisting. Phery, I need some more RAM._
Rosalind kisses her then, mouth to mouth. Her lips are cold and unnaturally sharp. Arabelle closes her eyes and relishes this, the feel of metal against bare skin, her sister's love downloading into her so that her veins are turning into small blue wires and her hands are beginning to elongate and transmute. There is a pain in her back, between her scapula, and Arabelle cries out, breaking the kiss.
_Found her._
Arabelle's body begins to change again, back to flesh and pinkness. Her hands curl into fists, crescent nail marks in the soft skin of her palms as the chains move against her skin.
"Arabelle," Rosalind calls, but she sounds very distant. "Don't leave me."
Her blood dyes the chains red, then black. Rosalind's voice, Rosalind's scent, Rosalind herself disappears.
Arabelle screams.
14.
Rosemary looks over her shoulder before flitting around the corner and up the stairs to the attic.
Mother and Father never allow her here. Neither does Nurse, but Rosemary thinks that she's old enough to see things that she oughtn't. Father says that she's too curious, like a kitten, but Rosemary doesn't like the comparison; she doesn't like the way kittens shed their soft fur or made noises when they were hungry. At least, her kitten was like that, but Rosemary gave it away to Nurse.
Underneath the door, there is a thin line of light that flickers. Rosemary hesitates then knocks and pushes it open.
"Hello," she says to the android. It looks very strange, its eyes so dark it looks like the black marbles her little brother plays with sometimes. It also has a mass of artificial hair from its shiny scalp, blonde like her own hair. "I'm Rosemary. Who are you?"
The android looks at her, and Rosemary looks back. The android is wearing a strange dress, sort of silver, but not quite. Its spidery hands are working on a piece of embroidery, weaving the needle in and out with a steady, easy rhythm. Rosemary smiles, and steps over sparking red wires and blue cables.
"I'm not supposed to be here, but please don't tell Mother or Nurse. What are you making?"
The android does not answer.
Too polite to push, but too curious to give up, Rosemary tiptoes. "Oh, wings. They're pretty, but why are they grey? They should be white."
Someone calls Rosemary's name, and she jerks back, startled. "I should go. I've been missing for a while. Can I come visit again?"
The android does not reply. The door opens, and Rosemary looks up guiltily at her mother.
"Rosemary, it's suppertime," her mother says in a tone that tells Rosemary that she's been very bad. "Go downstairs and get dressed. We'll talk about this later."
Rosemary smooths her skirt and jumps over the wires, pauses, and then goes back so she can press her lips to the android's cold cheeks. It feels funny, and she giggles, cheeks rosy with youth as she skips back. "She looks just like you, Mother," she says, wrapping her arms briefly around her waist and pressing her cheek against the solid, warm bump there.
"Rosemary Isabelle Marie Stapleton!"
Rosemary winces at the use of her full name and allows herself to be led out of the room and into her nursery.
"Heavens child, I've been searching all over for you." Nurse pulls Rosemary's dress over her head.
"I was visiting someone." She smooths the red skirt down, looks behind her at the spot just between her shoulderblades. Mother comes into the room and closes the door behind her. "Mother, do you think I'll ever have wings?"
"If you're good, God will grant them to you," Mother replies, watching Nurse fix her blonde curls.
"I'm going to be especially good so that I can have metal ones," Rosemary says, solemn in the way that only a five year old could be.
Mother crosses the room, kneels down so that she can look Rosemary in the eye. Her eyes are dark and hair blonde. Everyone says that Rosemary looks like Mother, but Mother says that it's not true. Rosemary blinks, her lashes sweeping against the curve of her eyes.
"If you're good," Mother repeats. She smells like flowers today, and sunshine. Warm, pretty things. Rosemary thinks about the android in the attic and thinks that Mother smells better. She kisses Mother's cheek, and is delighted to find that it's also very warm and soft.
"I'll be very good then," Rosemary promises. "Do you think they'll attach themselves to that hole in my back? The strange port?"
Mother's hand brushes against her back, just between her shoulderblades. "It's called an ethernet port."
"But will I get wings?" persisted Rosemary.
Arabelle pauses and takes her daughter's hand in her own and replies, "If you're good."