Ether Pulse

Clara Vance

Lady Althorp's salon smelled of forced orchids and the sweet vanity of the golden Ether that fueled the crystal chandeliers. An expensive, dense perfume floated in the warm air, mingling with the self-satisfied murmur of Seridia's elite. I felt like a doll on display in a shop window, dressed in a champagne-colored silk that probably cost more than the annual salary of ten workers, a smile fixed on my face that was beginning to ache in my jaw muscles. A toast to progress, to prosperity, to us. Always to us.

Across the room, I saw Lord Armand Vélain effortlessly float a glass of wine to the lips of an enraptured admirer, a small telekinetic flourish as common as it was boring in these circles. No one batted an eye. It was the natural order of things: they had the Gift, we had the Ether, and those below had… well, they were lucky enough to serve one or the other.

"Miss Vance, you are radiant tonight." The honeyed voice belonged to Sir Reginald Croft, a man whose fortune grew at the same rate as the Volkov Inc. smokestacks in the lower districts. "Allow me to say, that color enhances the sparkle in your eyes."

I forced my smile a degree wider. "You are too kind, Sir Reginald. Though I'm afraid the only sparkle I notice is that of excessively polished brass."

His smile faltered for a fraction of a second before recovering. It was the third time tonight I'd had to deflect cloying compliments or thinly veiled suggestions of a stroll through the ether-moonlit gardens. Being the unmarried and attractive daughter of Alistair Vance, a big shot at Silk & Steam, made me a coveted piece on the city's social and economic chessboard. A good match. A fine acquisition. It made my stomach turn.

"Clara, my dear." My father's voice, firm and pragmatic, cut through the conversation. "Sir Reginald, a pleasure. Excuse us for a moment."

He took my arm with a possessive familiarity, guiding me toward a large window overlooking the illuminated Terraces. My father was a man built with the same efficient and ruthless logic that ran his refineries. He loved order, profits, and, in his distant way, I suppose he loved me. But he didn't understand—nor did he want to understand—the words that burned inside me, the stories I longed to tell under a name that wasn't my own.

"You're distracted tonight, Clara," he said, his sharp gaze scanning the room. "Lord Julien Vélain has asked after you. An alliance with the Vélains, even a minor branch like his, would be… advantageous. In these uncertain times."

"Uncertain times for whom, Father?" I couldn't help it. The question came out sharper than I intended. "For those who polish brass or for those who breathe its fumes?"

He sighed, a sound of restrained impatience. "Don't start with your rich-girl idealism. Progress has a cost, it always has. Speaking of fumes, I've heard some minor complaints from the foremen near the Emerald Refinery. Nothing important, of course. Something about…" he made a vague gesture with his hand, "…the air quality, a persistent cough among the tenants of those overpopulated hives in the Sink. Probably the dampness or the usual poor hygiene. Silk & Steam cannot be held responsible for every cold in this city. Our efficiency is what keeps the lights on up here."

A persistent cough. The words resonated, a discordant note in the salon's symphony of self-satisfaction. I had heard similar rumors through my contacts, whispers of something more than a simple cold, something that burned the lungs and left a strange weakness in its wake. The emerald efficiency. At what price?

I maintained a neutral expression, nodding like the obedient daughter he thought he had. "Of course, Father. Efficiency above all."

But inside, the decision was already made. The facade of silk and smiles was cracking. As soon as I could slip away from the golden reception, I practically ran back to my chambers. The silk dress fell to the floor like a shed skin. I replaced it with sturdy trousers, a dark, high-necked blouse, and practical boots that had trod the mud of the Sink more times than my father could ever imagine. I tucked my hair under a simple cap.

In the mirror, I was no longer Clara Vance, heiress to a fortune from Silk & Steam. I was a shadow with a purpose, ready to descend into the city's bowels and seek the truth behind that "persistent cough."

*

The descent from the Terraces to the Sink was like crossing the border between two different worlds, separated by much more than altitude. Left behind were the golden glow and the perfumed air; down here, the air was a thick, tangible soup. It smelled of damp coal, rusted metal, the pungent stench of clogged canals, and above all, that new nuance that intensified as I neared my destination: a sweet, almost cloying chemical smell with a metallic aftertaste that stuck to the back of the throat.

It came, undoubtedly, from the dark monolith that rose above the low rooftops: the Emerald Refinery of Silk & Steam. Even in the grayish gloom of the overcast day, the vapor escaping from its main smokestack seemed to have a subtle, almost ghostly, greenish tint.

The housing block I was looking for was a hive of blackened brick, with windows like vacant eyes staring into a muddy inner courtyard. The clothes hanging out to dry dripped a mixture of rain and who-knew-what-else. I knocked on the first door I found with a half-detached sign. A woman with a haggard face, deep-set dark circles under her eyes, and an instinctive distrust in her gaze opened it.

"What do you want?" Her voice was raspy, interrupted by a deep, dry cough that seemed to shake her entire body.

"My name is Vera," I lied, offering the most reassuring smile I could muster, the one I used for my charity facade. "I work with a group that's trying to help… we've heard there are sick people around here. Respiratory problems."

The woman studied me for a moment, her sharp eyes searching for any sign of deceit. Perhaps it was my simple clothes, or perhaps her desperation was greater than her suspicion. Finally, she sighed, a whistling sound. "Sick… We're all sick here, miss. It's the air. Or the water. Or the Ether they dump on us day and night. Come in. But don't touch anything."

For the next hour, I went from door to door, hearing the same story with terrible variations. The dry cough that wouldn't go away, burning as if they had embers in their lungs. The crushing fatigue that made climbing a flight of stairs a Herculean task.

Several showed me, with shame, I must add, strange rashes on their skin, patches with an ugly greenish hue that itched incessantly. "It's the Emerald vapor," an old man whispered, looking toward the smoking chimney. "It poisons us slowly, and Silk & Steam doesn't care." The fear was palpable, but so was a bitter resignation. Who could they complain to? Who would listen to them?

I jotted everything down in my small notebook, feeling a mixture of icy fury and a deep sense of helplessness. The testimonies were consistent, the symptoms alarming. Armed with them, I headed to the small administrative office that Silk & Steam maintained near the refinery, a surprisingly clean building that contrasted with the surrounding filth.

Inside, the air smelled artificially of pine and efficiency. A receptionist with a fixed smile directed me to a middle-aged man in an impeccable suit and cold eyes, a Mr. Davies, Supervisor of Community Relations. I laid out my concerns, mentioning the testimonies, the symptoms, the proximity to the refinery.

He listened with condescending patience, pressing his fingertips together. "Miss… Vera, is it? We appreciate your civic concern. Silk & Steam takes the well-being of the communities where we operate very seriously. However," his smile widened, but it didn't reach his eyes, "I must point out that the conditions you describe are, unfortunately, common in areas with high population density and, let's be honest, certain… pre-existing sanitary deficiencies. Seasonal fluctuations, humidity… it all contributes. Our processes at the Emerald Refinery meet, and in fact exceed, all established safety and emissions standards."

"Even the greenish vapor? And the skin rashes with that same hue?" I pressed, my voice firmer than I intended.

Davies's smile froze. He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a confidential tone that was more threatening than reassuring. "Miss Vera, Seridia is a complex city. Sometimes, it's easy to misinterpret visual phenomena or to jump to conclusions based on unfortunate coincidences. Spreading misinformation, even with the best intentions, can have… unpleasant consequences. It could negatively affect community stability, confidence in progress… and the safety of those who insist on seeing problems where there is only efficiency. I would strongly recommend you leave these matters to the experts."

The message was clear. The truth was being buried under layers of corporate jargon and veiled threats. I left the office with my pulse racing, indignation burning in my chest. I had the testimonies. I had confirmation of their obstruction. Now, I just needed the right words. Dangerous words, printed on cheap paper, to try and crack their wall of silence. The pseudonym 'Vera Juste' was already forming in my mind. Justice. That's what these people deserved. And I was going to fight to give it to them, no matter the risk.

*

I left the Emerald Refinery without any major complications, but Supervisor Davies's veiled threat echoed in my ears like a slammed door. Efficiency. Community stability. Hollow words designed to hide the truth I had seen in the haggard eyes of the residents, that I had smelled in the sweet, poisonous air surrounding the Emerald Refinery. Because of this I was furious and determined, I needed a way out.

I ignored the noisy ether-cars that hummed lazily through the wider streets and headed on foot toward the back alleys of the printing district, a labyrinth of narrow lanes that smelled of stale ink and damp paper.

My sanctuary was a small rented room above a second-hand bookstore, paid for in cash and under a false name. There, with only the patter of rain against the dirty windowpane and the distant rumble of the city for company, I sat down at my worn-out typewriter.

The words flowed, fueled by indignation. I wrote about the cough that tore at the lungs, about the greenish stains on the skin, about the empty corporate smiles and the barely concealed threats. I poured the anonymous testimonies onto the paper, each word a small act of defiance. But I couldn't be direct. Not yet. Silk & Steam had eyes and ears everywhere, and their lawyers were as efficient as their refineries.

I had to hint, to question, to plant the seed of doubt without offering them a clear target to crush. Is this the true cost of the progress we enjoy? What invisible poison do we breathe in the name of efficiency?

It was then that the name emerged. Vera Juste. Truth and Justice. A pseudonym that was both a statement of intent and a necessary shield. Under that name, I could say what Clara Vance dared not.

With the manuscript finished—titled "The Price of Emerald Efficiency?"—I took it, hidden in a false bottom of my purse, to Arthur Finchley's clandestine printing press. Finchley's shop was a dusty facade that sold obsolete maps and faded postcards. The real action happened in the basement, among old presses and the pungent smell of ink and solvents.

Arthur was a man with slumped shoulders and perpetually worried eyes, a former idealistic journalist who had lost his position at a major newspaper for asking too many uncomfortable questions. Now he ran "The Spark," our little pamphlet of half-truths and dangerous questions, distributed by hand in the shadows.

He read my article under the flickering light of a cheap Ether bulb, his brow furrowing with each paragraph. "Are you sure about this, Vera?" he asked, his voice low and raspy. "Silk & Steam doesn't play fair. They've warned us before. This… this is pointing directly at the Emerald."

"Not directly, Arthur. I'm just asking questions. The questions they don't want anyone to ask," I replied, my determination hardening. "People are getting sick. Dying slowly. Someone has to say it."

He sighed, running a tired hand over his face. He knew I was right, but he also knew the risks. We had seen other underground publications shut down, their editors disappeared or ruined by fabricated lawsuits. We looked at each other for a long moment, the only sound the erratic hum of the lightbulb and the constant drip of some nearby pipe.

"Alright," he finally conceded. "But may the gods help us if they find out who's behind 'Vera Juste'."

We worked together, adjusting a word here, softening a phrase there, searching for the perfect balance between hard-hitting truth and plausible deniability. Then, with expert hands, Arthur set the plates. The noise of the old press filled the basement, each slam a heartbeat of rebellion.

Hours later, as the first hints of a gray dawn filtered through the cracks, a bundle of freshly printed pamphlets, smelling intensely of fresh ink, was ready. Arthur's usual distributors—street kids, disgruntled workers, sympathetic small merchants—would pick them up and circulate them discreetly through the lower districts, leaving them in taverns, pasting them on damp walls, passing them from hand to hand.

As I left the print shop, returning to the reality of being Clara Vance, I felt a strange mix of euphoria and an icy fear settling in my stomach. The spark had been lit. I had thrown a stone at the gleaming machinery of Silk & Steam. Now, all that was left was to wait and see what ripples it would cause... and what would try to crush me in return.