Canary

Mars smelled like blood.

Before what scientists called the Amalgamation, no one had ever had reason to wonder what the different planets smelled like. Why would that information ever be necessary? The non-Earth members of the solar system were distant, largely unattainable ideas, aromas hidden under atmospheric irregularity and the thick black shield of space helmets. Then the Sun’s magnetism reversed, and the bodies in the solar system collided to make Solar Pangaea, the thing that never should have been made.

Now it was a fact of verity.

Mars reeked of iron. And warpaint, and everything that painted a picture of red.

Sub-Auva Septem had met a Jupiterian man once whose eyes had grown a sort of transparent third lid. Protection, he’d explained, from the atmosphere that was at best turbulent. Almost all Neptunians were more fish than human, and Venusians tended towards moon-white eyes and golden blood. The latter was not strictly useful, but the Venusians liked to pretend it made them somehow superior to all the rest. At least, Carlétois did.

The air was hot and distinctly heavy, almost pregnant- like kneeling in front of a car exhaust and breathing in the fumes. Auva didn’t know why the Martians grew teeth slightly larger than normal, or why their fingers were slightly longer than normal. She was not keen on finding out.

Carlétois reclined on a stone lounge draped with what looked like a quilt of jackrabbit fur and lizard skins. The hated heart-shaped locket, the sister to the one at Auva’s neck, was archaic and rusted between her sharp, spotlessly pale collarbones. She was very lordly, and Auva hated her composure more than most people hate a bullet to the foot. The fact that evil doesn’t make someone rabid and ever-cackling, surrounded by red light and gaping ghosts. The fact that evil can be beautiful.

The rest of the council leaned towards Carlétois like windowsill flowers without enough sun. Venusians had this sort of otherworldly, eerie beauty to which even esteemed ambassadors seemed to fall prey. It seemed, for the moment, to make them forget how much they all despised the Venus precinct.

Auva didn’t hear quite when the focus shifted from foxeye copper shipments to her, but she sensed it.

“Ambassador Carlétois,” hissed the Mercurian ambassador. His skin had the yellow-brown, scaly consistency of an iguana’s, and his voice was not far off. “Forgive me for the interruption, but is that your famed Earthen captive I see?”

The council of seven each shifted their gazes to Auva as if they hadn’t been sneaking glances since the commencement of the meeting. She tried shrinking closer to the wall, melting into the shadows, but they had all seen her, and now the long, low Red Ballroom of Mars was charged with a hungry sort of curiosity.

Carlétois did not look irritated by the query. She was nothing if not vain, and showing off her antique toy contrived the better part of her pleasure.

“Curse those infamous Mercurian eyes,” she purred. “Yes. My Canary. My mother found her when she was nought but a babe, without friend or family. We took her into our home, and she’s been a lovely household pet ever since.”

More than likely, they all knew the story. Carlétois, however, relished the telling of it, so the concilroom did too.

The Neptunian Ambassador fixed Auva with a glassy black stare. She had the sort of voice Auva imagined a crocodile would have if it could speak, accompanied by the whistling of air through the gills on her neck. “Is it true they can make the old noises?”

Carlétois gave an indulgent nod.

“I’ve never heard Earthen song before,” came a voice from a far corner of the room.

Carlétois gave Auva a coaxing look that made the back of her neck prickle. “Canary, dear. Could you give the fine people a demonstration?”

Auva had long since broken and begun responding to Canary. It was her Mistress’ pet name, and it was so widely circulated now that Auva doubted anyone knew her real name but her.

Sub-Auva Septem. Born under the star Auva in the seventh month. Her name was the only thing her parents had left her before their death, other than the heart locket that had been stolen by Carlétois’ family and twisted into something with which to hurt.

Auva was old. Her voice was exhausted from overuse. It was, as far as she knew, the only singing voice left in the world. The rest had been hunted down, before the leftover monsters realized they had a taste for beauty. Some rogue packs still hunted Earthens, for profit or just for the knowledge that they were purging the world of the less feeble.

Auva sang. She had always known the song, but she didn’t know how or why. It had sounded pretty on her tongue twenty years ago and only declined since its peak. Though she had admittedly never been as skilled a singer as the Others thought, they couldn’t tell the difference. Her mother had been a real singer.

At the end of the song, the silence was disturbed only by the memory of the last note.

The Mars ambassador broke the pause, his beast of burden teeth flashing in a smile that looked curiously like a grimace. The skin around his eyes was black, by paint or genetics Auva didn’t know. “She truly is a marvel. It will be a shame when she dies. Inferior breeding, you know.”

Carlétois tensed, and so did Auva. “I have recordings of her voice sufficient to last a good long while.”

The Mars warlord smirked around his mouthful of teeth. “That’s hardly the real thing, is it?”

Carlétois’ gaze was unwavering. “I don’t see how this pertains to the subject at hand.”

The rest of the ambassadors were drawn to the opening notes of conflict like they had been drawn to Carlétois.

Mars feigned nonchalance, but there was ill-hidden eagerness in his face. “The Mars precinct has found something you may find intriguing.”

“It must be something truly miraculous to interest me.”

Mars said nothing, but his grin widened. He whistled- Auva wondered how he managed it with the structure of his mouth- and two servants pressed open the red doors of the councilroom.

The servants did not come into the room, but rather shoved something else in. Someone else.

A little boy, no older than ten, stood in the middle of the fur-carpeted floor. Carlétois’ eyes had no color, but if they did the pupils would have swallowed up the irises.

She could not disguise the greed in her voice. “Is that an Earthen child?”

The Martian ambassador echoed her indulgent nod. “I’d like to propose a trade. I think you know where this is going. As a token of my good will, I’ll exchange this young one for your old one. That’s decades more music.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What’s in it for you?”

Mars shrugged. “Venusian favor in future trades and territory disputes.”

Carlétois seemed to accept the answer. She looked at the boy. He shrunk beneath her lightning-white gaze. His warm brown curls matched his wide, tear-blurred eyes. He cast around the room, desperate for a face that was not weighing his worth, and snagged on Auva.

“Let’s see if he’s worth the trouble,” Carlétois purred. “Sing, Earthen.”

His gaze on Auva was entreating.

“Sing. Now. Play the fiddle. Whatever you do.”

“He’s got a touch of performance anxiety,” the Martian ambassador cut in, “but the sweetest voice you’ve ever heard.”

The boy remained silent.

“If I may,” The Saturnian ambassador, her skin shining every percievable color in the lamplight, crossed the room and knelt in front of the child.

“What’s your name?” Her voice was what you heard in fever dreams, and in its softness it demanded an answer.

The boy just shook his head, dark eyes sad. He pointed at his ear.

From where she stood, Auva could see the Martian ambassador trying furiously to catch the boy’s eye over Saturn’s shoulder. He made an almost imperceptible slicing motion across his neck. The boy saw and his face went slack. He dropped his hand.

The Saturnian ambassador looked back at Mars, then to the boy. Understanding. “He’s deaf.”

“No, he’s not,” the Martian ambassador barked. “He’s shy. There are too many people here.”

“Mazrog,” Carlétois said pleasantly. She was the blue strands in a wildfire, “did you just try to trade me a singer who can’t sing?”

“I would never. We’ve been in business for decades, you know I wouldn’t.”

“I also know you’re a liar. You tried to steal my Canary with a placebo.”

The boy, it seemed, could not hear what was being said, but he seemed to catch the essence of the debate. He looked rooted to the middle of the floor.

There was shouting now. On Mazrog’s side- Carlétois had always been a cold-burning flame, even as a little girl trying to make a still-resistant Auva sing for her eleventh birthday party. The other ambassadors had joined in after a moment: shouting always attracts company.

The room’s attention had quite left the boy. Auva waved him over and took him by the shoulders. “Run,” she over enunciated, thrusting a knobbly hand at the doors. Mazrog would surely kill him now that the trade was blown. Martian authority was as unforgiving as its terrain.

She prayed he got the message, and he did. He broke off in a creeping gait, then a run, then a life-or-death sprint for the doors. The Saturnian ambassador’s eyes followed him out, but she said nothing. She was not shouting. No one else noticed.

The Neltunian ambassador was the second to notice the elephant in the room. “Why are we still shouting?” She drawled. “He’s gone.”

Carlétois looked around and swore with disproportionate grace. Carlétois had an aversion to loose threads, and though the boy was of no use to her, it would irritate her to let him go. “Find him. Now.”

A few of the ambassadors deeper into Carlétois’ pocket started up. Auva edged towards the doors.

“Canary,” Carlétois gritted out. “What are you doing, pet?”

Auva kept a steady walk towards the doors until her body made an old, brittle wall. She put on her best mask of bravery, the kind she’d had when she’d first realized she did not want to be a slave. “Let him go.”

Carlétois edged towards her. “I think you overestimate your value to me,” she hissed with quiet venom.

Auva gulped, but steeled her resolve. Her life had been stolen from her. She was going to change something if she died trying.

Carlétois towered over her. “I’ll count to three, dearest, and if you’re not out of the way by three…”

She let Auva fill in the blank.

“One.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Two.”

Her fingers moved towards her own locket. The Saturnian ambassador grimaced, but knew better than to make a move. The rest of them looked eager.

Auva finished for her.

“Three.”

Carlétois, face made of silver and ice, opened the locket her family had stolen from Auva. On one side was a photo of Auva’s parents. On the other side was a little silver button that her parents had not put there. Auva felt her own locket begin to tighten around her throat. Hers had been built as a choker, and it crept along the base of her neck like a python.

Tighter. Tighter. Tighter.

Auva felt like she would never breathe again. She sank to the ground, but she didn’t move out of the doorway. This was her last stand. Even if it accomplished nothing, she would hold her ground.

Carlétois sighed. “I didn’t want to do this. I really didn’t. But…” She knelt down and took Auva’s chin in her hand.

“Your voice has always been a little flat.”

From the locket, Auva’s parents smiled down at her.