by numbness welcomes a bit of pain, don’t they? The silky coil of smoke unfolded before him, and Kaizen attempted to loosen his shoulders, to let his neck fell back and just . . . let it . . . go.
His father was going to kill him. He’d taken out Newton-2’s key for a moment of peace, and Johannes had been commanded to go take a stroll around the block, and here Kaizen was, alone, finally alone, stretched out at the foot of yet another stairwell, smoking one of his cigarettes. Not one of his cigarettes, one of his father’s cigarettes. There were only two handfuls left in the whole castle, and he’d smuggled three onto the carriage in recompense for being forced to attend this banal interview. Malthus had it in mind that Kaizen needed the exposure, the experience, and in his heart of hearts, he was vindictive about the night before. When Dyna Logan suggested that Kaizen attend the public image salvage, Malthus seized upon it.
But his father didn’t know where he was. His father was busy preserving the social order of Icarus, and Kaizen, for a few more minutes, was just like a real boy.
He pulled another drag deep into his lungs. It burned all the way down.
The door in front of him gave way to a low-lidded, smirking girl with silvery dreadlocks—except the cluster of black there, at her ear—and a pinwheeling mechanical assistant, a brass insect with slender, stained glass wings. The smoking boy coughed and sat up straight.
“Kaizen,” she greeted, as if this was often how they met—which it was. There was something different about her today. She wasn’t quite the Legacy of before, tentative, discerning, and she also wasn’t like anyone from Kaizen’s daily life. Gone was all stiffness and formality, replaced with a languid state of presence and a casual, slouching gait. For God’s sake, she was a woman in trouser suspenders with a single, fraying sleeve wrapped around her neck.
“Legacy,” he replied.
“What’s that smell?” she asked, taking her seat beside him. “What have you got there?”
“Oh, a—a cigarette,” he answered, brandishing the dwindling cylinder. “Have you never?” Well, of course she hasn’t, you idiot, he thought. There were less than two dozen in the entire castle; his father had purchased them as a novelty from a rare antiques auction in Heliopolis the year before. “You should try some of this one. They’re really marvelous, you just . . . pull it in from the other end. It’s called a drag. ”
Legacy’s fingers slid over his to claim the cigarette between hers, and she took the slender vessel to her lips. His heart stuttered at the way her eyelashes kissed closed in welcome to the smoke, the way her mouth closed so readily upon an invention wholly unknown . . .
But it was only a second before she convulsed and spewed its runoff back into the air.
“It’s just like the smog!” she cried. “Poisonous!”
“It’s not a poison.” Kaizen delicately took possession of the thing, ashing it onto the stairs. “You just have to get used to it.” He took another draw.
“Yeah, well. That’s true of all poisons.”
Kaizen considered. “All right, then,” he allowed. “All I know is that it helps me unwind when I’ve been wound up. So, what are you doing here?”
“Oh . . .” Her eyes shifted as she scoured her memory for exactly why she was here. “I needed to speak with my Compatible Companion.”
Of course. Kaizen’s eyes panned away. Of course she’s got a Companion; look at her. Good stock, as Dad would say. It probably took all day for the difference engines to find someone even close, but they did. They would have to. Of course she’s been matched. Of course. Couldn’t let her slip through their steel fingers.
“Your
His father was going to kill him. He’d taken out Newton-2’s key for a moment of peace, and Johannes had been commanded to go take a stroll around the block, and here Kaizen was, alone, finally alone, stretched out at the foot of yet another stairwell, smoking one of his cigarettes. Not one of his cigarettes, one of his father’s cigarettes. There were only two handfuls left in the whole castle, and he’d smuggled three onto the carriage in recompense for being forced to attend this banal interview. Malthus had it in mind that Kaizen needed the exposure, the experience, and in his heart of hearts, he was vindictive about the night before. When Dyna Logan suggested that Kaizen attend the public image salvage, Malthus seized upon it.
But his father didn’t know where he was. His father was busy preserving the social order of Icarus, and Kaizen, for a few more minutes, was just like a real boy.
He pulled another drag deep into his lungs. It burned all the way down.
The door in front of him gave way to a low-lidded, smirking girl with silvery dreadlocks—except the cluster of black there, at her ear—and a pinwheeling mechanical assistant, a brass insect with slender, stained glass wings. The smoking boy coughed and sat up straight.
“Kaizen,” she greeted, as if this was often how they met—which it was. There was something different about her today. She wasn’t quite the Legacy of before, tentative, discerning, and she also wasn’t like anyone from Kaizen’s daily life. Gone was all stiffness and formality, replaced with a languid state of presence and a casual, slouching gait. For God’s sake, she was a woman in trouser suspenders with a single, fraying sleeve wrapped around her neck.
“Legacy,” he replied.
“What’s that smell?” she asked, taking her seat beside him. “What have you got there?”
“Oh, a—a cigarette,” he answered, brandishing the dwindling cylinder. “Have you never?” Well, of course she hasn’t, you idiot, he thought. There were less than two dozen in the entire castle; his father had purchased them as a novelty from a rare antiques auction in Heliopolis the year before. “You should try some of this one. They’re really marvelous, you just . . . pull it in from the other end. It’s called a drag. ”
Legacy’s fingers slid over his to claim the cigarette between hers, and she took the slender vessel to her lips. His heart stuttered at the way her eyelashes kissed closed in welcome to the smoke, the way her mouth closed so readily upon an invention wholly unknown . . .
But it was only a second before she convulsed and spewed its runoff back into the air.
“It’s just like the smog!” she cried. “Poisonous!”
“It’s not a poison.” Kaizen delicately took possession of the thing, ashing it onto the stairs. “You just have to get used to it.” He took another draw.
“Yeah, well. That’s true of all poisons.”
Kaizen considered. “All right, then,” he allowed. “All I know is that it helps me unwind when I’ve been wound up. So, what are you doing here?”
“Oh . . .” Her eyes shifted as she scoured her memory for exactly why she was here. “I needed to speak with my Compatible Companion.”
Of course. Kaizen’s eyes panned away. Of course she’s got a Companion; look at her. Good stock, as Dad would say. It probably took all day for the difference engines to find someone even close, but they did. They would have to. Of course she’s been matched. Of course. Couldn’t let her slip through their steel fingers.
“Your
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