“The Death of Dassault”
by Alexandra Ulrey
“Philanthropist, politician, and businessman Arlo Dassault found dead in his home,” the monotone voice read off without tone or inflection, each word carrying no more meaning to Aeryn Hawkes than the one previous.
“President Blackhorn-Kabara of the Decentralized Protectorate of California has stated that our country has lost ‘a good man’ and ‘one of the finest political leaders of our age.’ Dassault was a close confidant and long-time friend to President Blackhorn-Kabara. According to a coroner’s report, he took his own life approximately seventeen hours ago in the locked study of his home. There is reportedly no evidence of foul play. Cabinet member Navarre, another close friend of Dassault, stated that his death was ‘unexpected, even to those with whom he was close’ and that ‘no one ever saw him unhappy. He was always laughing, always kind. Somber, sometimes, but never sad. It truly is a silent pandemic.’ Indeed, Dassault stepped out of the public spotlight a little over a month ago and is reported to have been working from home during this time. There are no records of Dassault seeking mental health counseling or support in the weeks before his death. Other reports that he-”
“Screen, off,” Aeryn said, bored of the story.
A moment of silence preceded the sound of a door sliding open, accompanied by the slap of treads on the hard floor and the soft whir of a processor as a vaguely pear-shaped android barely as tall as her hip entered the room. In its three-pronged approximation of hands, it held a small tray, on which sat a single envelope made of real paper. Real, slightly off-white paper.
Curious, Aeryn picked it up, the tips of her nails clacking coldly against the cold metal of the tray. The android lowered its arms.
“It looks like It’s an invitation,” she noted aloud with the sort of mild fascination one might feel when observing a new kind of insect for the first time. This was certainly more interesting than the daily news. The corners of her lips turned up as she flipped it over and read the information on the back.
This was not an invitation she would be turning down.
“That is correct,” the android repeated in a cool feminine voice that was not quite human and not quite robot. “You have been invited to the celebration of life of the late Arlo Dassault. Allow me to offer my condolences; I am sorry for your loss, Miss Hawkes.”
“We weren’t close,” she remarked airily. Her eyes didn’t leave never left the invitation. “My father knew him. I never met him.”
“The arrival of this invitation indicates that the estate of Mr. Dassault would want you to be in attendance regardless of your connection to the deceased. Published information indicates that it is an exclusive affair.”
“Oh, I’m sure. I do hear he was someone important.” A beat. “You’re dismissed, ET3.” The little android hummed for a second as it processed her words, then slipped back out through the door. The sound of treads faded.
Once the door had closed again, Aeryn carefully opened the heavy off-white envelope, making sure not to rip the unmarked paper. Paper like this was expensive nowadays.
She liked expensive.
Inside was just one piece of paper, much thinner and finer than the paper of the envelope. Each word, calligraphed in elegant black ink, glittered dully like the carapace of a beetle. She perused the rest of it carefully. Her android had been correct, it was an invitation to the celebration of life for the one and only Arlo Dassault, there was nothing written about a funeral.
Aeryn pondered for a moment longer, idly turning over the invitation in her hand. It was no secret that Dassault had lived an interesting life. He’d died an interesting death, or at least the tabloids thought so. He was bound to throw an interesting party, even if he wasn’t alive to attend it.
One more time she glanced down at the invitation, to ensure the date was correct. The celebration would be held in two weeks at Dassault’s massive estate, a place lacquered in a thick layer of fame in and of itself.
Aeryn would be clearing her calendar for that day.
…
Aeryn admired herself in the mirror, red dress bleeding off her shoulders. No one wore black to funerals anymore, and no one would be caught dead in the color at a celebration of life. The light of her vanity winked at her like a sleazy date as if it agreed red was the color for her, the bulb burning gold like a frantic firefly, born to die.
After a second, she turned away from the mirror and heaved in a breath, the smell of cigarette smoke mixed with expensive perfume filling her lungs. Tonight, it felt like the air itself was holding its breath around Aeryn. The footage playing on the screen in front of her showed that Dassault’s mansion glowed with all of its usual colors, but it felt wrong. Tonight, it seemed like the mansion was the bioluminescent fish in the dark, glowing so that all of the revelers could see the bright lights and none of the sharp, sharp teeth.
“Screen, off,” Aeryn commanded, mildly unsettled.
She stared at the empty black screen for a second longer before picking up her mascara and continuing with her routine.
Just as Aeryn swept another layer of glossy arterial-blood-red lipstick on, the screen buzzed. Her perfectly pouty scarlet lips twisted into a frown as she opened the message. It was marked ‘unknown sender.’ Her own dark eyes reflected in the glass. They widened as she took in the words before her.
“Don’t go,” the message read. “Dassault’s death was not a suicide.”