Gunpowder and Salt
Flash-fiction - by Sharmon Gazaway
Again: turn, toe, turn, toe. Balan arched her arm overhead in fourth position, her feet in fifth. She smoothed the cameo pink tulle that fell from her waist in limp pleats, studied her form in the mirror, and frowned. “All gunpowder and salt,” her Dear Parent often said. To her, about her to others.
She mimicked the pose in the 4-D holo-print of a Degas painting, the original destroyed long ago. Her parent had acquired it on the black-market after ballet had been outlawed for humans. He complained bitterly, and often, about the destruction of the arts, and the overreach of the Stellar Health Review.
Balan sprang, twirled on satin-shod toes—once, twice, fifty times in the silent studio, never tiring. Music flowed visually in a circuitous band around the hushed room, the wavelengths of light-music vibrating within her. She swanned, bowed, her fingers brushing the metalloid floor, her breast pressed flat against her thighs, folded like a pleated Degas fan.
The Dom Balan called Sylvie rolled into the studio and watched her finish her oeuvre. Sylvie applauded by flashing all her lights green. She didn’t use words, they didn’t need them. Sylvie’s pulsing yellow light told Balan it was time for the recital, then she rolled out to serve the guests.
In front of the mirror, Balan tied a pink ribbon around the braid that snaked down her spine, smoothed her bangs flat against her forehead. She was the image of a fourteen-year-old dancer, the embodiment of a Degas sculpture.
Her Dear Parent appeared at the door. A tight smile cinched his lips. “Ah, my Balanchine. The guests are here!” He stroked his pointed gray beard. “Come, my dear.” He held out his elbow to her, led her to the social arts hall and onto the genuine oak stage he’d paid dearly for.
A mere handful of the Intelligentsia that orbited her parent—and scientists like him—had been invited. They gathered around the stage, admiring the oak’s warm sheen and envying her parent.
Mrs. Atlas smiled at Balan, her Astral Blonde 851 corkscrew curls bobbing beneath her fascinator. “My, Professor, she is a specimen. Your hard work is certainly evident.”
“I’m unabashedly proud of her,” he said over the splash of the lavish water feature, and gestured for everyone to sit.
Mr. Atlas sat beside Mrs. Atlas, who fussed with her bristly honey-gold skirt. Sylvie passed a tray of finger foods—zesty alpaca squares and vegellic sugar prisms—then rolled to the Dom station in front of a blank wall.
“Well done,” Mr. Atlas said, nibbling the crunchy confection, brushing crumbs from his suit of black and white horizontal stripes. “Good domestics are impossible to find these days.”
“Yes,” agreed Mrs. Atlas. “I swear they’ve developed minds of their own.”
“Well, there’s a trick to that,” the Professor said, winking.
There was no music. Music was considered gauche when one also had the extravagance of a water feature on this arid exoplanet. Entirely colonized by Elites, MI-576 had its perks, but an abundance of water was not one of them.
Her parent waved the light dim. Balan drew herself up. Her critical debut. Tonight she would make her Dear Parent proud. She took her position stage center.
To the right of the stage a holo of a famous dancer from the past, Misty Copeland, blinked to life. Balan hesitated. This was not what she had practiced.
Her parent signaled her to begin. Sans music, Balan’s satin shoes whispered across the stage, en pointe. Pirouette, split leap, fouette! The guests’ eyes followed her, bounced from her to the holo twirling beside the stage. From time to time one guest would lift a finger, then another. Increasingly they focused on the holo of Copeland, and not on her. Mr. Atlas lifted his finger most often.
Balan leapt tirelessly, drained every last ounce of her skill. She drew on all those nights when, after her parent had told her to retire, she’d secretly pirouetted and leapt and toed—how she had danced!
She flutter-toed across the wood, arched her back and arms in impossible angles. Chin to the air, neck taut, straining, straining.
“You do see, now, do you not?” Balan heard her Dear Parent say to Mrs. Atlas.
Mrs. Atlas nodded, her corkscrews trembling. “Did you not teach it to smile, Professor?”
He stroked his beard. “Oh, yes. It just wouldn’t stick. I finally gave up and accepted her piquant de laideur.”
Instantly Balan stopped and bowed, forced her lips in an upward curve.
“Ah, yes, ‘a spice of ugliness’.” Mr. Atlas sighed.
“You were right, sir,” Mrs. Atlas added, “about not being able to capture the elusive component of grace in its movements. Still, a prototype you can be proud of. AI has made great strides in your capable hands—the pursuit of true art, without the unnerving mechanics of the Doms.”
“Even if she is all gunpowder and salt,” Mr. Atlas said, and they laughed.
Her parent pointed to the Atlases and with a smile and a nod, gestured for the other guests to file out.
“My dear Balan, come forward.”
Balan stepped up, hands clasped behind her.
“You are going with Mr. and Mrs. Atlas. They are moving to the unsettled colony, Machvel, and will need your help.”
“Mars is a positive wilderness,” said Mrs. Atlas.
This had not been part of Balan’s recital practice. She ransacked her memory matrix. There was no algorithm for this situation. “For what measure of time?”
“Why, from now on, my dear. They have purchased you. They outbid all the others. They are fond of your spice of ugliness, I think. You are their new Dom. I’m sure you’ll do well. No grace required.” His eyes rested on her pink ribbon with what she recognized as sadness. And disappointment.
“W-will I—” She’d never stuttered before. A glitch. “Will you ever see me again?”
“Oh, no. I’m too old to be star-hopping. And besides, I will be much too busy engineering my new model.” He smiled broadly. “Far superior.”
“Do tell Professor!”
“Well…she’ll ply oils and brushes instead of toe-shoes.”
“An AI artiste! Truly, you are a Renaissance Man!”
“Dear Parent, will I still be a dancer?” Balan blurted.
His eyes narrowed. “No. There’s no need for that. Now, is there?”
She was not allowed to take her things. Not her Degas holo-print, no tutus, not her pointe shoes with their much-fondled satin ribbons. She was given a Mars-issue black uniform.
As Balan followed the Atlases out, they passed by the Dom. Sylvie turned, faceless, to Balan, all her red lights flashing. She stared with filamentary eyes, then dropped her head.
