Stardust

     In the weeks following July's first appointment with Ophelia, psych appointments became a regular, if irritating, part of her routine. The little paper slips showed up at her door every couple of days, evening out to about three or four mornings a week; while some of the others had appointment slots in the afternoons and even the evenings, July's were usually in the morning, and always before lunch.

     This meant it was very off-putting when, late one drowsy afternoon, while she was waiting for her turn on some sort of brightly-colored fighting game, Matt tapped her on the shoulder with one dark claw and said “Wright, will you come with me?”

     She took a moment to properly take in the alien's arrival. He was hovering over the couch with his frill wiggling cheerfully; that day, his ridiculous outfit of choice included a floral-patterned bow-tie and a shiny rainbow-striped belt that looked as though it was made of plastic, and he was clutching a fat three-ring binder with crumpled pages sticking out of it at all angles.

     July looked back over to the others on the couch. Axel was fixated on the screen, hunched over his game controller, furiously jabbing at a series of buttons that made the scantily-clad woman on his side do a series of flying kicks on Mels' character. From the other side of the couch, Mels said “Fuck the fuck off, you absolute—”

     The television emitted a series of bright, cheerful chimes as its screen flashed; Axel whooped over the noise, letting his controller fall to his lap.

     “Wright,” Matt said, more urgently this time. Feeling rather overwhelmed, July gently nudged Axel's shoulder.

     He tore his attention away from the game to give July a quick once-over. “It'll be fine, it's just a medical appointment. Yeah?” The last part was directed toward Matt, who bounced on the balls of his feet, overly-large Dusty-regulation boots clonking on the floor, and gave a thumbs-up.

     “Medical?” Wasn't that what her appointments with Ophelia were—medical check-ins?

     “I'll kick your ass when you get back,” Mels said gaily. She was already flipping through the onscreen list of level stages at a dizzying speed that left July unable to register the details of any of them.

     No-one seemed concerned. July still had her doubts, but she nonetheless allowed a Dusty to corral her to a mystery location for the second time in one week; this time, no-one was waiting for her in the hall, and Nea was nowhere in sight.

     Matt hurried her out of the patient hub and through a series of twisting, pipe-filled corridors, all similarly dark and musty and vaguely, inexplicably damp. Unlike her last excursion, they did not cross any massive open-air walkways or enter the looming maw of another of the fleet's baffling ship-buildings, nor did they enter a long, dim hall full of gently-glowing sliding doors that opened onto cocoons of wet, dark red slop; this trip stayed firmly within the confines of the medical building, only lasting a handful of corridors before they entered a tiny, dark room, where a Dusty was sitting at a long desk filled with buttons and screens and wires of mysterious function. There was a large window over the desk; it took up almost the entirety of the wall.

     It really was some kind of medical appointment. July would have been lying if she tried to say she wasn't a little disappointed; it had been nice to feel the sun on her face again.

     As the door shut behind them with a quiet beep, the other Dusty in the room stood up, letting July get a better look at him—his frill was bright, electric-blue and his scales were a shade darker beige than Matt's—and began speaking in an incomprehensible series of hisses and sharp consonants. Matt placed his overflowing binder on the desktop and opened it, flipping between pages and pointing as he engaged in what seemed to be a very spirited conversation.

     Behind the window was a featureless, entirely white room; it looked very similar to the rooms back in the patient hub, just without furniture. There was a door at the end of the desk, slightly ajar, a thin strip of smooth white floor visible at its base.

     July shifted uncomfortably.

     Matt's conversation seemed to be progressing; he tapped one of the screens with a finger and it lit up, displaying a combination of spirals and geometric shapes that he continued to manipulate with one claw as he hissed.

     While Matt moved shapes around on his screen, the blue-frilled Dusty came over to July with a spray of wires in-hand and motioned as if to stick one on her chest; July shied away from this, but then Matt said, with a vaguely judgmental air, “Oh, please, don't get all chickenhearted on me now,” and her ears flushed brilliantly hot. She subjected herself to the alien's poking and prodding; the wires ended in little round pieces of metal, which he peeled a thin strip of backing off and began adhering one-by-one to her collarbones. Once he'd finished with that, he strapped a small black box to her wrist with velcro, and another at her neck.

     Before July really registered what was going on, the blue-frilled Dusty had already silently bundled her through the door and into the featureless room; the door closed with a final-sounding hiss-beep-clunk and absolute silence descended on the empty room.

     It was almost calming. July looked around—there was still nothing to see from this angle; the only feature of note was a large covered drain in the middle of the floor, like the showers from her dim memories of middle-school locker rooms. Even the window wasn't actually a window from this side; it was a glossy black pane, entirely opaque.

     Harsh static suddenly crackled—seemingly from nowhere and everywhere at once—then Matt's voice sounded, fuzzy around the edges. “Wright, are you ready?”

     “Um.” July stalled out. She turned in a couple of slow, awkward circles, trying to find the source of the sound, or at least a microphone she could speak into or something, but the walls and floor remained featureless and unhelpful.

     “You can talk normally, I'll hear you.”

     Her tongue felt thick and heavy. She mustered up what little saliva she could and swallowed hard, rolling her jaw around in its socket a couple of times before replying. “Ready for what?”

     “We'll be assessing your respiratory function today. When you hear the beep, please stay calm and try to breathe normally.”

     “Wait—” July said, but another burst of static drowned out her interjection. She turned to the window and waved, mouthing Hey? repeatedly, but Matt's voice did not return; instead, a low hiss sounded from somewhere overhead. A quick glance up showed nothing obvious on the ceiling; it was the same plain white as the rest of the room.

     As she examined the ceiling, the hiss steadily built in volume, til it sounded like a hose on full blast—then there was a loud beep.

     Nothing happened.

     July strode up to the window and knocked on it urgently, making her best puzzled expression, then pointed to her ear and gestured vaguely in the air. Nothing continued to happen.

     As the hissing sound progressed, razor-blades scraping over her eardrums, it took on a shifting, dynamic quality—it reminded July of something being poured from a great height.

     She gave up on harassing the Dusties and turned back around. It didn't seem like anything was different; the room was still sterile, blank, unyielding. Or—everything seemed altogether unchanged until July's eyes snapped to a subtle movement on the ceiling, a shift in the air, something she couldn't quite make out.

     All along the edge of the ceiling was a series of tiny black dots lined up in a perfect row, each dot only the size of a grain of rice. The air around the dots shifted and rippled, like she was looking at them through a running stream; as July approached the far wall, the hissing noise grew louder, and when she stood on her tiptoes and craned her neck, she could make out needle-thin arcs of something ejecting from the little dots.

     Holes—the dots were holes. The hissing grew even louder and the arcs grew in size and density, taking on a light brown hue as they did; they were streams of particulate, and as they jetted out and down into the air, they slowed and dispersed, forming the beginnings of dust clouds—

     —July stumbled backwards.

     Literally—she tripped over her own feet and fell back against the window with a clatter. Stardust began to pool visibly on the floor—she yanked the collar of her t-shirt up over her mouth and nose, scanning the room for something—anything—something to use as a mask, a way out, a weapon and someone to use it on.

     “Hey,” she said, and then she turned and began banging on the glass with her free fist, shouting this time, “HEY!”

     There was no response. July's breathing was ragged and hot beneath the rapidly-dampening fabric of her shirt. She beat her fist fruitlessly against the glass over and over again, shocks of pain rattling the bones in her palm, but no matter how hard she hit, it wouldn't break, didn't even crack—it wasn't going to do anything—she shoved herself away from the window and stumbled back into the middle of the room.

     It was dark. Red and orange light flickered over the walls teasingly; stardust spiked and coiled around her, filling her ears with snaps and crackles and senseless, childish laughter. Coils of smoke forced themselves into her eye membranes and sank through her shirt to nest in her throat, choking her til her head spun and her vision blurred.

     It wasn't real.

     Red-orange-white smeared together in July's vision, a terrible, nauseating kaleidoscope coated in a film of tears. Somehow, she found herself dragging her body along the wall toward the door, nearly invisible save for the dark seams limning it; there was no keycard reader, no knob, no handle on this side—she lay her whole body against it and dug the nails of her free hand into the seam, clawed at the edge where it lay flush against the wall. June's giggles were pitchy and breathy and horribly, oppressively unending.

     Her vision narrowed til all she could see was her hand scrabbling at the door and the awful light dancing mockingly over her. Flashes illuminated her skin—scars stark crimson, then bubbling-fresh—she made a noise somewhere between a shout and a dry-heave, dropped her shirt collar, dug the fingers of both hands into the doorjamb, and pulled.

     It did nothing.

     July yanked again—and again—on her third try, she lost purchase and toppled over. She hit the ground hip-first, pain lancing through her pelvic bones as the brunt of her weight rattled through them. Stardust danced delightedly around her fallen form, crawling into every crevice of her uncovered face, hot and stinking like a campfire. She flung her arms over her face—curled in on herself—her breath came shallow and slow, her knees pressed into her diaphragm, her chest crushed in a paralyzing vice—hot licks of flame lapped at her exposed skin.

     Time passed. It was impossible to tell long she stayed in the fetal position; the only thing July became aware of as she lay there, trembling and panting, sweat pooling on her skin, was that nothing else was happening. The hissing sound faded into the background, then trailed off entirely, and it took the heat with it, leaving her silently shivering in a puddle of damp, chilly fluid. Her heartbeat slowed.

     Once everything was silent again, July let one arm drop from her face to cautiously peer around the room.

     It was empty. Sterile. Bland. There was no fire; there wasn't even any stardust floating around the floor.

     Static crackled; July's heart leapt, every muscle in her body going rigid simultaneously.

     But it was just the intercom, bringing Matt's voice down from the heavens to scold her. “I told you to stay calm.”

###

     “I want to show you something.”

     You peered down at June, a brattish instinct surging within you. She was glaring up at you from the foot of the garden wall, her hands on her hips, all shimmery-gold braids and bright white blazer. The air was cooler than normal; a breeze skimmed the top of the wall, ruffling the treetops and sending your skirt wafting up around your splayed knees. It was almost certain that your underwear were on full display to anyone on the ground, and since you knew June would absolutely hate this, you spread your legs further, kicking your heels idly against the mismatched cobble of the wall.

     “The last time someone said that to me in here,” you said, “it didn't go too well.”

     “I know what I'm doing.” On anyone else, you would have referred to the stubborn set of June's lips as “pouting;” she wouldn't have liked that, though. “Just hop over the wall, I'll be there in a sec.”

     You weren't feeling particularly compliant after the day you'd had, but June was your sister. With a begrudging sigh, you swung your legs over the wall—still in a decidedly unladylike manner, you weren't going to make that many sacrifices—and leapt to the ground on the other side. There was a surge of adrenaline as your stomach dropped out from under you and a sharp, jolting exhale when you hit the ground—then a heady blur of color and sweet, damp meadow-smell as you rolled in the grass for a few turns before springing to your feet.

     The meadow was not overcast anymore; the sky was as cloudless and azure as it had ever been, and the rolling green fields stretched out endlessly in every direction, no lakes or oceans or cities or spaceships to be seen. The dark, moss-covered stone of the garden wall was the only structure for miles.

     Rusty squeals pierced the air as the wrought-iron gate in the wall creaked open. June came breezing out, a hefty beige bag slung over one shoulder; she dropped it at your feet, expressionless.

     “There's some stuff I should teach you.” Her face was turned to the ground as she spoke; your stomach did a queasy flip as you failed to catch her eye. One of her hands gestured ambiguously in the direction of the bag.

     You knelt and began yanking the buckles open one-by-one; there were at least a dozen strapping the top flap down, and it took a surprising amount of focus to undo the whole contraption—this wasn't helped by June continuing to monologue in your ear, “I know you don't like Dusties, but just—do me a favor and listen, okay?” and so on. To your disappointment, once you'd undone the last buckle and yanked the top flap open, the bag's contents proved to be a pile of dark gray fabric and plates of dingy metal.

     “We're going to go off-planet one day,” June said, “and when we do, I need you.”

     You pulled your gaze from the depths of the duffle to stare blankly up at her. “Me?”

     June still wasn't meeting your eyes; she was staring at the duffle herself, as if she was conversing directly with the dirt-smudged pile of tan canvas. “I need a sword hand. I'm going to be Daddy's, at first—I've spent years training—but I don't want that forever.”

     With that, June shrugged her blazer off in a single fluid motion and let it fall to the grass in a crumpled pile; her crisp white button-down was tucked into a complicated-looking array of dull buckles and dark leather belts at her waist, which held up two sheaths, one on each hip. She unstrapped one and tossed it to the ground at your feet.

     There was a beat. You stared at the belt-and-sheath that lay in front of you; it was a thin-handled beast, almost dainty, two delicate coils of metal unfurling out from the guard into elegant spirals. It looked ridiculous.

     “A sword hand.” Your voice was entirely monotone.

     “For duels.” June drew the sword still at her waist—it was an exact copy of the one in front of you, and it made a high, quick sound against the leather that, despite your reservations, quickened your blood. Her weight shifted—a strange calm settled over her face—and she began carefully drawing her body through a series of poses as she spoke, sword extended, then drawn back, one foot leading, then the other.

     “In high society, you need a hand to represent you in duels—it's how you resolve conflicts. Political, personal, whatever—” Abruptly, June lunged forward, striking her blade through mid-air, and froze, holding it straight and steady. She inhaled audibly through her nose, her profile statuesque against the dazzlingly bright sky, then: “Ophelia says there's different etiquette from fleet to fleet, but it's all the same principle.” She slowly began shifting back, letting her sword drop and bringing her heels back together. “If you're important at all, you need a hand to represent and defend your reputation—and you'd better have one by the time you first get challenged.”

     Then, suddenly, June twirled around, braids swinging behind her like a whip, and pointed the sword toward the wall. Its tip held steady once more as she held the pose, leaned all the way into one bent knee, free arm extended behind her. “Daddy used to be Remus's hand, but he hasn't needed one in years.”

     Against your will, your nose wrinkled distastefully. An image manifested in your mind—a generic balding white man on the Senate floor, sword raised, facing off against a Dusty in a suit and tie. It was your opinion that everyone involved in that image should die.

     Affecting a casual air, you clambered to your feet, turning the whole affair over in your mind. You made a performance out of examining the wet grass stuck to your knees, carefully picking it off your skin piece-by-piece as you thought. “What if I say no?”

     “You'll make me sad.” Out of the corner of your eye, you caught June giving you an exaggerated pout before she dropped her sword and leaned back against the wall. “Who else could I pick, anyway? Nea's incredible, but she's a fucking klutz.”

     “I don't know, literally anyone else?” There couldn't possibly have been zero trained swordsmen in the country eager to become some sort of ceremonial duelist for a rich girl. It sounded like the exact sort of useless bullshit you associated with all rich people, regardless of species or political position. With an exasperated huff, you gave up on your grass-removal efforts and crossed your arms over your chest, lips twisting into an involuntary grimace. “Have your Daddy hire someone.”

     She threw you a condescending look. “I don't trust anyone else.”

     You stared at her mulishly.

     It was a mistake to finally look at her. The longer you stared into her glossy black eyes, the worse you felt; goosebumps pricked up and down the flesh of your arms and neck, and you found yourself nauseously considering, for the first time, the fact that she would remember your behavior toward her in the morning. This made you so unsteady that you didn't know what to think, and as you reeled dumbly, doing a mental line-dance around the boundaries you'd constructed between dream and reality, a light breeze passed between the two of you, carrying the bloody smell of wet iron on its back.

     To your relief, June was the first to break eye contact, her brows collapsing into a worried furrow. “July, you don't get it—I'm asking you to become my hand. An extension of myself.”

     She shifted her weight back; your eyes were irresistibly drawn to the sword as she raised it aloft. One blade-thin ray of sun hit its stormcloud surface and refracted right into your eyes. You had to squint.

     “You wouldn't just be doing a job—you'd be pledging yourself to me. I'd be your patron—that means something.” June's voice had gone all soft and husky, a ragged note creeping in at the ends of her sentences. “For me and for you—we'd be considered like one person, do you get it? Your actions would reflect on me—and all my protection, all my status, my power, you'd get all of that, too—no-one else could be that in-sync with me, I couldn't trust anyone else like that—we're each other's hearts, remember?”

     The sword was moving—slowly—coming a hair's breadth away from your face, then turning til the flat of the blade pressed up against your cheek. Goosebumps rippled from your shoulders to wash over your spine, chilly waves wracking your body in sync with your pulse pounding dully in your ears; you couldn't bear to let her catch your eye again, just stared at the lightly-freckled snub of her nose til you went cross-eyed.

     “You know my heart. You can't help but know my heart, because it's in your chest.” The tip of the blade trailed down the hollow of your neck, brushing feather-light over your skin to rest just over your pounding heart. It felt like the force of your heartbeat should have jarred it, but it stayed perfectly still, barely dimpling your flesh. “I need my sister. Please.”

     The last word was barely a whisper.

     The swordtip burned hot on your skin. It rested just over the neckline of your dress, razor-edge kissing the hem. You drew one trembling hand up to press your fingertips against the flat of the blade.

     “I'll think about it.”

     June laughed. Some invisible tension in the air ruptured; her sword dropped to the ground, apparently forgotten, as she pulled you into a hug right then and there, scooping you into her arms at an angle made slightly awkward by the bag still lying between the two of you. Her body was soft and yielding, the crook of her neck perfectly sized to slot your face into and breathe deep; cloying florals filled your nose and the uneasiness in your stomach settled.

     After that, June seemed entirely at ease, chatting animatedly as she unpacked the duffle bag; she seemed quite happy, even eager, to explain its contents to you in detail. The fabric turned out to be a uniform—a standard hand's uniform in this fleet, apparently—made from tough shimmery material not unlike the bulletproof vests and sturdy jackets you used to wear.

     June helped you try it on; the layers proved confusing, and she had to explain the order in which you should don them, which was a bit of a blow to your ego. There was an undershirt and under-shorts so gossamer-thin, you were surprised you didn't tear them pulling them on, and then slim, high-waisted pants that clung to your hips like cling-wrap and a high-collared shirt with dull gunmetal buttons all down the front; the knees and elbows were reinforced with plates of beat-up, dark metal, the same shade as the sword. Over the shirt went a slim vest made of tiny overlapping metal plates that gave the impression of scales; it was tight and squashed your breasts against your chest, straightening out all your curves.

     The sheath—or scabbard, as June quickly corrected you—hung from a belt strapped to your waist via a series of buckles and loops on your vest. You felt ungainly and imbalanced with a massive stick strapped to one side. It kept butting against your thigh, making you feel as though you were about to trip.

     Finally, June withdrew a pair of beat-up combat boots—”Not regulation, but you keep going barefoot in here”—alongside another tangle of leather and dulled, greasy metal. You were much more excited than was reasonable over the boots and wasted no time lacing them up; it wasn't until you'd tied your laces into a double-knot that you realized June was still waiting with the last uniform contraption. Without a word, she knelt at your feet and strapped the final piece onto your boots—two leather gray covers that wrapped around your ankles and the tops of your feet. At the back of each cover, protruding from your heel, was a nasty-looking metal spike, both a good five or six inches long and curved slightly upward.

     “They're traditional,” June said as you prodded one curiously. It felt sharp enough to cut skin if you pressed too hard. “You don't really use them anymore. Ophelia told me some fleets still use their feet to duel—the claws, you know? Never in politics, though.”

     As soon as you were dressed, June began walking you through a series of exercises; how to hold your sword (rapier), where to place your fingers on the handle (grip), the precise positions of your feet to start, where the rapier's weight should fall. Once the initial dismay of using a weapon so inconvenient and foolish had passed, it felt surprisingly natural to let June position your limbs for you, her red-tipped nails skimming your legs and arms with gentle pressure, pulling your hips into position, pressing the whole of her body against yours so you could feel her micro-movements—the way her muscles shifted and tensed—and mimic them.

     With her lips against your ear and her arm supporting your own, extended with the rapier pointing straight out, you felt very strange. It wasn't exactly unpleasant—it was a focused kind of strangeness, a linear lightheadedness that took your mind thoroughly off more existential matters. You took a deep breath, chest expanding against her soft form pressed up against your back; you swore you could feel her body heat even through the vest.

     “Why do you guys get to leave the planet?” you eventually said.

     “We're all going into space eventually, dummy.” She flicked her finger against your earlobe teasingly. “Don't tell me you wanna stay in this shithole forever.”

     That felt unfair. The environment might have had its fair share of issues, but you wouldn't call the entire planet a shithole. “I don't know. I like New York.”

     June dropped her hand from your arm and stepped out of your shared lunge; you followed her instinctively, keeping your hips pressed back against hers, the tip of your sword drooping. “Yeah, okay. But think about what else is out there—places we can't even imagine, places the Dusties can help us settle.” She took another step back—you started to follow, but one hand on your shoulder held you in place, then spun you around to face her. “They've got an empire that spans across entire galaxies, and out of all the countries on this planet, they picked us to ally with—we'd be fucking stupid not to take this chance.”

     This time, you were able to meet her eyes. They were crinkled at the corners just slightly, a hopeful smile tugging at her lips.

     “I guess,” you said.

###

     July woke up the next morning to insistent knocking on her door.

     It took her a minute to drag her sore, groggy body out of bed and slump over to see what the big deal was this time. When she opened the door, the big deal turned out to be Cas, looking even more wan and gaunt than usual, purplish bags under their liquid-dark eyes and their loose curls frizzy. Their eyes flicked up and down the hallway anxiously, their hand frozen in the air as if mid-knock.

     It felt very difficult to swallow. July touched her hair lightly with one hand, suddenly aware of her horrible bedhead.

     “Neither of us have been entirely honest with each other,” Cas said abruptly.

     The phantom weight of a rapier at her hip made July's breath hitch. She wasn't sure what to say.

     “I would like,” Cas said, every word falling from their mouth as if they were forcing them out, “to fix that.”

     July kept staring at Cas, who stared quietly back. Their eye contact was lingering and searching; she couldn't read their face, but it didn't seem angry, or frustrated, or even scornful. They were just… looking at her, quiet and calm, their hands now dropped to fiddle with each other in front of their body.

     Finally, she stepped back from the door. “Come on in.”