Regal postures in chrome, faces blank with dead-eyed indifference.
I hear a quiet yet unmistakable snicker. I look up, searching for the culprit, but everyone has their eyes locked on their plates or the table. All of it is polished so well that it could show me my reflection. Above us hangs a chandelier that looks almost menacing, like a thousand blades suspended by an invisible thread.
No one has greeted me, and I surmise that no one will. The table seems to stretch for miles.
And then a chrome hand rises, and for a moment, my chest loosens.
“I was sorry to leave you this morning, Fawl. Your seat heretofore will be at my side.”
Ben, my enormous husband, is looking down at a holopad.
My friend.
Heisa friend. Our chat went a long way in establishing at least a mutual understanding.
As I approach him, the low murmurs at the table turn to gasps, then to sharp, cruel laughter that bounces off the, unfeeling walls.
What did I do wrong?
Ben stands up quickly, his face becoming clearer as he nears—blotchy and thoroughly embarrassed. I thought we were supposed to be a team? He crosses the room in a few long strides, and before I can even muster a greeting, he’s draping a heavy coat over my shoulders.
In this room, we’ll be equals, he said the night before. But now, as he wraps the coat around me, I see just how ridiculous that notion was. The laughter at the table grows louder, the breakfasters struggling—and failing—to hide their snickers behind manicured brown hands.
Ben’s grip on my shoulders tightens as he steers me gently but firmly away from the laughter.
At the foot of the stairs, he looks up at me. “Did you see the clothes I sent to you?” His voice is tinged with something like an apology.
“Obviously,” I say, spreading my arms, feeling defensive and exposed all at once. “What’s the issue? This was the nicest thing there.”
“This…” He hesitates, lifting a corner of the fabric like it’s fragile. “These are undergarments, Fawl. You missed…layers. It’s bedroom attire.”
“Oh.” I bite back a nearly irrepressible desire to laugh. “Okay, okay, so I have to do some damage control with your… Who were all those lovely assholes out there laughing their guts out?”
“Family,” he replied, his tone softening. “But rest assured, they were laughing at me.” The lie is a kindness—who could laugh at him? How could he ever be the butt of a joke? “My bots were insufficient. I should have helped you. Can you finish getting dressed?”
I walk back up the stairs and throw on the heavy brocaded dress. It looks like something made to keep out the sun, and when I walk back down, the heavy velvet fabric keeps catching on my boots. The weight of it feels like a shackle.
And as I reach the bottom of the stairs, Ben’s eyes lift to meet mine, and there’s a flicker there like he, too, is sad to see me out of my light clothes.
At breakfast, it’s Michael, Ben’s brother, who breaks the silence first, flipping open the holopad with the kind of performative nonchalance that begs to be noticed. Michael’s hair is perfectly coifed thin wire coils; it’s the first time I’ve ever seen synergetic tensile. It blinks and twinkles like a holiday decoration. He sits with his legs crossed, one polished shoe dangling.
He clears his throat theatrically, scanning the shimmering holopad text in front of him, and then, with the glee of someone who actually fuckinglivesfor this shit, he reads aloud: “Ben Iku Makes His Private Titillation Our Public Concern.” He lets the words hang in the air, savoring the reaction.
Ben doesn’t flinch. He barely even blinks, which, given the circumstances, makes him seem far more inhuman than any of the cybernetic parts stitched into his body. He calmly lifts his own holopad, eyes flicking over the glowing text as if he’s browsing the obituaries.
Without looking up, Ben nods. “Yes, the opinion pieces abound. Like this one: ‘The Fall of the Iku Family: A Study in Hubris and Moral Degradation,’ published in the esteemedAboveground Weekly.”
Ben pauses. For all his smugness, even Michael shifts a little in his seat. Ben continues. “It says here that ‘the family’s unchecked greed and their grotesque indulgence in skin brides has left them vulnerable to public scrutiny and, worse, internal decay.’”
“Oh, that’s a good one,” Ben murmurs, almost to himself. “Internal decay.” His voice is quiet, but it silences the room.
Michael chuckles, though it comes out a little thinner than before. “Well, at leastAboveground Weeklyhas a certain flair for the dramatic. It’s quite the story. I mean, really, Ben, it’s almost an accomplishment to fit so much scandal into one marriage.”
“Almost,” Ben echoes, still not lifting his gaze from a small cup of coffee. The silence that follows is downright hostile. Everyone else at the table shifts in their seats, suddenly fascinated by their cutlery.
Michael puts the holopad down a little harder than necessary, “It’s a shame,” he says, eyes narrowing as he looks at Ben, “that you haven’t come out against this situation. Lord knows what Lily is thinking right now about your humiliation.”
Ben smiles then, a tight, calculated thing. “I’m notina situation. Marriages are arranged all the time. I am simply a husband. The humiliation is all yours, Michael.”
