Metamorphosisters

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. It didn't matter if the space was infinite, the size of a coffin, or a pill; a vacuum is a vacuum. Beatrix waited, trying to keep herself calm. No one would hear her scream in that small space. She tried to tell herself it wasn't a coffin because she was not dead. It's a bed, that's it, a cozy bed. She tried to slow her breathing and actually sleep, but sleep would not come. Not after the evening she had...

Hours earlier...

Beatrix awoke from her unexpected nap. Her studio space looked like chaos to everyone but her - drawings of dresses, fabric swatches, and decapitated dress forms were all about the space. This fashion show was weeks in the making. She had been sleep-deprived working for the last two straight days working on the finishing touches of the collection. She made sure every dress fit every model and artist in the show. Her last three season's shows were only twelve-piece collections, and those shows were stressful enough. This show was thirty-two pieces. An endeavor she never imagined taking on, and in six weeks, no less. A nearly impossible task. Alayne gave her a credit line of fifteen thousand for fabric and materials, but only one assistant to help, "For the cause," as Alayne put it. It wasn't enough for Beatrix's standards of work. And Alayne wouldn't be satisfied with whatever she produced. It wouldn't be big enough, or believable enough, or a great enough show. What did Alayne know about fashion anyways? Alayne was one step away from a jumpsuit at any given time.

Beatrix toiled over each outfit, getting to the point of, "this will have to be good enough." She then steamed each garment, put it in its bag, labeled it, and put it on the final rack. At least Alayne gave her two security guards to help her and her assistant. She told them if they can operate a gun, they can operate a steamer. In that last hour she was grateful for the help, the four of them were out of the studio and loaded onto the transport in time to get to the theater.

When the four of them arrived at the theater, the front of the theater was an eerie, empty calm of a hand full of ushers placing programs on chairs. The back of the theater was a cacophony of chaos. Beatrix was one of four shows in the theater that evening; hers was the grand finale. Even though it was the last show of the night, the first three would go by quickly as they were only standard twelve-piece collections and hers nearly triple and everything else that went into it. Alayne worked better under pressure than Beatrix did, but this was Beatrix's arena of expertise - she was in charge here, she was in command for once. "Nigel," she barked to her assistant. "I need pairs of the walking models in five minutes." She scanned the back stage space. This will work. "I can fit one automaton now and another after the models."

"Copy that." Nigel replied as he took off. Before he stepped out of the door, he opened the cabinet, turned on the automaton model, spoke a command into it, and it stepped to Beatrix.

The automaton approached Beatrix, "Model 143 standing by."

Beatrix stood up straight and turned around, the blank dress form-like automaton was right next to her, closer than she sensed. She jumped a little to its presence, more than a little on edge given everything going on. She caught her breath in her throat, coughed, swallowed, and composed herself again. She pulled dress '4A' from the rack and put it on the automaton. She then put the corresponding drive into its port. A virtual touch screen popped open. Beatrix entered the pass commands and the automaton began to change. What was once a blank, rolling dress form began to open up into her programmed model. The arms and legs filled in the sleeves and pant legs. The rolling base retracted. The programmed shoes illuminated. The projected face with styled hair, make up, and expression came into place. Once the automaton appeared to be fully filled out, the virtual touch screen had a few more command prompts. Beatrix grimaced, punched them in reluctantly, and had the automaton go to its pre-programmed place before the show. By the time she was finished with that and pulling the walking model garments forward, Nigel was returning with the two models, the living models. The processed repeated until the fashion show began. Nigel and the security guards kept her interruptions to a minimum. Everyone had tasks to do; Beatrix was not going to let anyone distract her from the biggest fashion show of her career.

The third fashion show began and there would be a brief intermission before her grand finale show went on. Beatrix's focus on her work began to boil into all-out pre-show nerves. Her stomach began to churn and it caused her to burp repeatedly; embarrassing to say the least. She made eyes at the other designer and the collection going on before her. Quinlin came up around the same time as her through the fashion district though in a different house. They had different styles and wouldn't have had reason or chance to collaborate. She respected Quinlin's work, if not a little brash and tacky a couple seasons back, but everyone experiments. This was the first time they ever showed in the same theater on the same night. Quinlin watched her models and automatons walk down the runway, making commentary about the responses from the crowd and the movement of her garments. The pair of them locked eyes and gave respectful nods to each other before Quinlin walked out onto the runway with her signature model in their ensemble. While Beatrix didn't know Quinlin beyond acquaintanceship and hearing her name in passing, she was in awe and inspired by her collection. The beaming expression and tears in the corners of Quinlin's eyes were clear in the monitors across the back stage. That will be me soon.

As Quinlin's models returned back stage, Beatrix's final countdown began. She called the stage managers to start placing the models, automatons, rigging, light changes, and more. "I need models one through three in place ready to go. Aerialists four and five in their rigs for safety checks. The hanging chain artist is not to be disturbed as of now." She walked with purpose between each check. Her virtual pad lit up from her forearm as every last programming detail was being finalized.

"How's everything going," a woman's voice asked.

"You have the fucking nerve to show up now and ask me that?" Beatrix did not turn from where she was crouched next to a model hand-ironing a wrinkled hem. "I told you not to sit down once you were dressed," she chirped up to the model. He quietly and apologized and didn't move much. She stood up and straightened his collar and reminded him of his cues. Seeing his twitching nerves on his face, she eased him, "You're perfect." He gave Beatrix a little smile and a nod. She left him and went to the finishing touches on the next model-aerialist. She checked the stretch and the fit of the fabric and the flow of the parts that were going to move on her ensemble.

"Are you ready for tonight?" The woman asked again.

"Does it fucking look like I'm ready? I had six weeks to put on the biggest show of my career, and you decide to ask me now? Fuck you." Beatrix turned around, ready to slap or do worse to her older sister, Alayne. She glanced at her forearm pad at the clock. "Where were you three days or three weeks ago?" She went to the next automaton and confirmed the programming in it for the third time.

Alayne whispered in her ear. "I was also planning for tonight, in case you forgot. You weren't the only one depending on your show; more than the fifteen grand on you invested in this. You know what a successful show means?"

Beatrix lifted the wrist of the automaton and turned out the cuff of the blouse, "You see this? Blood. My blood. This whole event is stained with the blood, sweat, and sacrifice of everyone who is working on it. It isn't just you. I'm not doing this 'just because.'" Beatrix was beyond stressed at this point, and Alayne, deservedly so, was the recipient of her ire. She moved to the next walking model, tousled her hair and ironed a silk where she stood. "You put this show on me 'Laney. If you expected me to do anything less than what I say so on it, you're fucking mistaken." She turned back and saw her sister was gone. Agitating Alayne as Always.

Before she knew it, the lights were down, and she was making her way to the front of the theater to announce her collection. She stepped out on the runway to a courteous, welcoming applause as a spotlight hit her. She smiled and took it all in, eyeing the hundreds of faces on either side of the runway. She felt the vocal modulator on the side of her throat kick in and she knew the next words she would speak would emote through the entire theater, no matter how softly she spoke them. "Good evening and welcome back. Before I debut this collection, I wanted to take a moment and thank some of our esteemed guests who came out tonight, without whom, this would not be possible: The Imperial Dignitaries, The Foreign High Dignitaries, The Shuttle Keyholders, The Glitterati, and most of all, a generous grant from our hosts: the Xurio Family. For without them..." In the moment she paused, everything that she had done and was about to do, sank in, there truly was no going back. "This wouldn't be happening." She raised her arms wide and smiled with pride, "This is the dream show I have been planning in my heart of hearts for a decade. What you are about to see is the very expression of the soul of my people. The joy and anguish, pleasure and pain." She looked around the theater and saw the head of the Xurio Family sitting two seats behind the Imperial Ruler. "Tragedy, revolution, and someday, triumph." The spotlight went out and she walked back stage.

The show began. Chains fell from the top of the theater and the aerialist spun down them releasing silks soaked in red light - the microfibers lit and emitted in a way that made them flow like a river. A river of bright, bloody-looking silk. Her body hung limp for a moment through the loud, withdrawn gasp of the crowd. She knew. She was trained. She knew she could hear every link in her chains touch all the way to where they almost met the floor and they sway back and forth. When the second was right, she released a bellow that could be heard through every seat in the theater, in every egress, hallway, dressing room, and down the street. A sweet, painful howl that was just as much a war cry as it was music. Unlike Beatrix, the aerialist made the sound without a voice modulator. Beatrix watched from her virtual pad and a tear fell from her eye. She sniffed it back and away. You're tired. You're not missing this moment because of tears. Music began low; slow ominous pulsing contrasting the aerialists cries between her climbs and falls in the chains. In a final long, spinning roll down the chains, she looked like she would crash into the floor but stopped herself right before she could impact with a final wail. She then let herself collapse to the floor the last couple inches, looking like a corpse. The red microfiber lit silk draped around her and faded out, leaving the whole theater in the void of darkness. The gasp and applause of the theater over took the music. When it began to fade, Beatrix cued a model, "Go."

The first walking model stepped out and the spot light hit her to a different energy level and tone of applause. Beatrix turned off her virtual monitor and handed the programming cuff to Nigel. "You know what to do," she said solemnly.

Nigel looked at her unsure for a moment. "Alayne really doesn't tell you anything, does she?" Out of the corner of her eye was Quinlin with a piece of folded paper and what looked like a blank, walking mannequin.

"It's programmed to your DNA and to have three of your vocal responses. These three ought to do it," Quinlin said.

Beatrix wasn't often at a loss for words, but apparently Quinlin had them for her. She opened up the folded paper and spoke the three phrases, "Sounds good...Oh, thank you...The dream is not over yet." As soon as the last word was spoken, the mannequin's whole body shifted and changed into a duplicate of Beatrix herself. She had been well taught in programming by her younger sister Daria, but golem programming was rare, old, and refined beyond the automatons that were readily available to everyone.

Quinlin took the cuff and put it on the programmed golem of Beatrix. "For the cause. Go!" She shoved the real Beatrix and Nigel into two of the automaton boxes. Even inside the crate, she could hear the music, the commotion of the back stage, her show was going on without her; without the real her. The crates were moved quickly. While the voices were short and muffled, she knew the voices of the two security guards going back out of the checkpoints and onto the transports. She knew every second and musical note in conjunction with each garment and performer in her show. Weeks in the making and she was missing seeing it, at least in person. She wondered whether she would ever have a chance to do something like this ever again. Chances are, no, never again. Not like this - the grand scale, spectacular, the ambiance, the influence that audience could have had. The clothes she could have made. The life she could have had. She adjusted in the small crate of a box. Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. It didn't matter if the space was infinite, the size of a coffin, or a pill; a vacuum is a vacuum. Beatrix waited, trying to keep herself calm. It's a bed, just a cozy bed. No one would hear her scream in that small space. She tried to tell herself it wasn't a coffin because she was not dead; as much as it felt like one.

After her thirty-second model made the final pass down the runway with her, or rather, the golem of her was on the runway with cheers and applause for her collection. The golem would take a bow and say, "Oh, Thank you. Oh, Thank you. The dream is not over yet." That golem would smile. The audience of aristocrats, imperial dignitaries, and even the head of the Xurio family would politely applaud for her grand fashion show with music, aerialists, automatons, and illuminated silks. It's a bed it's just a cozy bed. Beatrix tried to sleep, but sleep would not come. She had been awake for almost two days straight preparing for the final steps of that fashion show. Beatrix couldn't tell if she was picturing the show again, or seeing through the eyes and ears of the golem; they were genetically tied now. It was the final bow: thunderous applause, Quinlin's breaking voice, "For the cause," and the systematic exploding of bombs inside the twelve automaton models as the entire theater went up in flames.