“What exactly are you planning?” I ask.
“When Makro gets on stage, Dorian and I will slip backstage and see if we can get our hands on this so-called Key.”
“Sweet,” Dex says, snagging the micro-computer and cracking his knuckles, wincing as he does so. He turns to face me, eyes bright. “It’s a heist!”
“It’s not a heist, Dex,” Lydia says disapprovingly. “It’s a tactical strategy which will hinder the Synthesizers’ progress, forestall their incorporation of Earth, and potentially stop the Synthesizers from acquiring superweapons of untold destructive potential.”
Dex nods in an apparent concession, but mouths at me, Totally a heist.
“Well, the Synthesizers know our faces,” Tori points out, breaking her silence. “We can’t just walk in.”
“Yes we can.” Dorian does his chameleon thing and his skin shifts from dark red to dark brown. His eyes and lips change color. He looks at us and winks.
Lydia, meanwhile, digs around behind the Carnegie’s countertop until she finds a vial of some milky-looking liquid. She downs it in a single gulp and I watch, amazed, as her translucent blue figure solidifies into light, fair skin. She puts her thumb into her mouth and puffs her cheeks out, miming blowing up a balloon, as her hair turns from stark white to dark black. The result is the appearance of a woman who looks vaguely familiar, but entirely unlike Lydia.
“Wicked,” Dex breathes. “Do you guys have ones for us?”
“No!” Mixy booms with laughter. “Earth-Son, if you drank that formula you would grow several more arms.”
“You seem to be doing fine.”
“Four arms is the maximum,” Mixy declares seriously. “Anything more is preposterous.”
“Well what are we supposed to do?”
“Disguises,” Dorian says as though it’s perfectly obvious.
“Mustaches, glasses, and big noses?” Dex crosses his arms.
Mixy gallops away and returns a few moments later with what looks like a few ordinary necklaces. Their chains are bright silver, but each has an oval, obsidian-black pendant on the chain. They look a lot like the communicators, only smaller.
“Put them on,” Lydia instructs, taking the necklaces from Mixy and distributing them to Tori, Dex, and me.
I hesitate, not wanting to take off the guitar-pick necklace Tori and Dex gave me. Tori notices and nods reassuringly. I unclasp the necklace, stowing it carefully in my pocket before replacing it with Mixy’s device.
“Now what?” Dex asks.
In answer, Lydia leans forward and grabs the pendant, pressing her thumb against it. A thin layer of what looks like white ink crawls upward from the pendant, creeping over Dex’s face. He closes his eyes as the questing liquid seeks out the remainder of his face, reaching his hairline and continuing to delve in among the fibers. The air around Dex’s head looks like its shimmering for a moment, then his face starts to move. Pinching in some parts, tucking in others, expanding and morphing in a flurry of motion. The liquid matches Dex’s skin tone, generates a few moles and marks here and there, then settles. “Same stuff as the Carnegie’s hull,” Lydia comments. “It can camouflage, but not as advanced. Still, it’ll fool most people.”
“What do you think?” Dex asks, looking from Tori to me. “How do I look?”
“See for yourself!” Dorian says, controlling one of the Carnegie’s wall and turning it reflective.
Dex walks over to the wall and examines his new face, testing it gently with questing fingers. “I look like I should be one of those idiots they hire to stand shirtless in the mall!” he exclaims, laughing delightedly. “I could be one of those idiots!”
I’m excited by this point, and I sit stone-still while Lydia activates my necklace. The white liquid feels like cold air on my face, but it’s remarkably lightweight. When it starts molding, it feels like somebody is giving my face a light massage. “There you go,” Lydia says.
I look at the others. “How does it look?!”
They look back at me, grimacing. Tori won’t even make eye contact. Dorian is the only one to say anything, which worries me. “Our greatest work yet!” he exclaims.
Suddenly worried, I turn to look at the Carnegie’s reflective wall. I almost scream, because I’m looking at an old woman’s face that looks like it’s about one exciting episode of MacGyver away from a heart-attack. I approach the mirror, feeling the wrinkly, sagging skin all over my face. “What gives?” I yell.
Lydia and Dorian are laughing behind me. Dex and Tori start too. Mixy comes up, hands questing for my face, and once he feels the mess of melted cheese that is my face, he starts booming with laughter too. I turn around and look at them, frowning furiously, but that only makes them laugh harder.
“Sorry!” Lydia says at last, breaking away from the crowd. “Couldn’t resist.” She comes up beside me and touches the pendant again, and in a flurry of motion the mask reshapes itself into a much younger male face. I look at the stranger on the mirror surface. His skin is the same light brown as mine, a shade I inherited from Mom. He’s got a stronger jaw, a Roman nose, and a fierce brow. Much better than the geriatric nightmare, at least.
Tori goes last, coming to stand beside me as the mask does its work. Hers is a more subtle transformation. Higher cheekbones, a wider nose, and lips that are a bit fuller than before. She looks different. Still pleasant looking. But not Tori. Not beautiful.
“What do you think?” she asks quietly.
“I thought you looked better before,” I say honestly.
Dex sighs loudly.
Mixy resumes his pilot’s chair and brings the Carnegie racing forward as Tori, Dex, and I take to observing through the dome. The rolling countryside gives way to roads and villages, each become gradually larger in our passing. Eventually, we see the skyline of Paris itself on the horizon, rising up against the backdrop of a large blue sky. I’ve never actually seen Paris. Come to think of it, I’ve never even been outside of the states.
Dex leans over and whispers into my ear, “La ville de l’amour.” The city of love.
I step hard on his foot.
Dorian ushers us back up to our rooms to change. I get jeans, a solid-color t-shirt, and a sharp blazer (which undoubtedly is the best part of my disguise). Dex ends up with a two pieces of Makro merch—shirt and hat—while Tori gets a yellow and black romper.
By the time we assemble again on the Carnegie’s deck, Mixy is piloting us with gentle drum taps through one of Paris’s crowded streets. We’re floating thirty or forty feet over the heads of noisy traffic and milling crowds. The Carnegie’s cloaking technology is apparently pretty good, because none of them seem the least bit aware that there’s a huge submarine floating over their heads.
Eventually, Mixy parks us in the middle of a narrow alley between two apartment buildings. We’re wedged tightly enough that it’s a miracle Mixy didn’t topple a building, let alone break any windows. I appreciate his skill as an eyeless pilot even more.
“We’ll head to the cargo hold and you can beam us down, Mixy,” Dorian says.
“What about our Resonators?” I ask.
“Yeah, because nothing says ‘low profile’ like a kid walking around with a Gibson strapped to his back.” Lydia rolls her eyes.
“But what if we need to fight?”
“Last resort,” Mixy says, handing a small disc to Dex. “Distress beacon. Only use it if you have no other options. I will send an ordinance with Resonators and bring the Carnegie if it’s activated.”
“Okay, got it,” Dex nods, pocketing the disc.
Once we’re down in the cargo bay, Mixy drops us to the street below by drafting a bit of Rez under us (Dex asks, but Dorian and Lydia refuse to call it a tractor beam).
“Viva le Pouls is six blocks south of here. Doors don’t open for a while, so we’ve got a little bit of time to kill. But we want to get a good feel for the security tonight, so we’ll get a table for dinner across the street from the club.”
“Great,” I sigh with relief. Protein-Pow might be the most complete meal in the universe, but my mouth is already watering at the thought of food made by humans, for humans.
We head out onto the main street and for the first half hour, we just walk and listen. Paris has an energy to it, bubbling and new. Mom and I never had the money for vacations, but she always talked about visiting France. I feel a pang of guilt being here without her, but to be fair, she got an Italian vacation.
We find Viva le Pouls on the corner of a busy intersection. The exterior of the club is a gaudy-looking marriage of stonework and polished steel, with huge windows running up and down most of the building’s three stories. Several banners hang high in the windows, each a large-format print of a Makro member. I study the pictures in passing, trying to see if there’s any hint of sinister android in those faces. But no, they look human enough.
Dorian leads us to a bistro across the street from Viva le Pouls, where he requests a table in fluent French. The hostess leads us to an outdoor table where we take our seats.
I bury my face back in my menu and wish that I’d have spent more time paying attention in school, if only so that I would have some idea of what I’m ordering. I could ask Dorian or Lydia, if I wanted to look like a twelve-year old. When the waiter comes around, everybody else seems to have a solid grasp of what they’re having. I stumble through the pronunciation of what I’m hoping is chicken, and the waiter leaves us to talk.
“Let me be clear that tonight is about stealth,” Dorian says quietly to the rest of us. “Get in and get out before Makro or Alpha knows what happened. Makro will be passing the Key off to Alpha after the show, so we should have a small window of opportunity.”
“When we get inside, we’re going to grab seats up in the balcony,” Lydia explains. “Dex: You’re going to set up your computer and monitor the levels of local Synthesizer communications. Any sudden spikes and we’ll know Alpha’s arrived.”
“Then what?” Dex asks, fingers running nervously toward the pencil behind his ear.
“Lydia and I will steal the Key, if we can. Destroy it, if we can’t. Gather intel either way.” Dorian’s tone is matter-of-fact.
“What should Tori and I do?” I ask.
“Stay with Dex and keep an eye out. If all goes according to plan, we’ll be in and out without a problem.”
“What’s Plan B?” Tori asks.
“Improvise,” Dorian shrugs. “You can improvise, right?”
Chapter Thirteen
Nobody thought to buy tickets. Dorian’s elegant solution is to find a group of teens outside Viva le Pouls and count off Euros until they’re casting excited glances between one another, eager to trade their tickets away. We stand in the queue for a while, surrounded by a young crowd buzzing with excitement. Eventually the doors open and we’re ushered into the main lobby of Viva le Pouls. The queue breaks up into several more lines progressing slowly as club staff scan tickets.
The atrium is relatively well lit, with high overhead lighting that pulses intermittently between blue and green. There’s a bar where some people are already camped out, slamming back cocktails. There are several merchandise tables where enthusiastic vendors are busy hocking Makro’s latest albums and accessories.
“Remember,” Dorian says to us. “Keep your heads down and stick to the plan.”
On the opposite side of the atrium there are three doors that enter onto the main level with two wide staircases that wrap up to the second level. Dorian leads us up the stairs. I can hear the rhythmic beat of a bass drum on the other side of the wall, along with the interspersed snapping of an electronic snare drum. The barest hint of a two-tone bass line floats through the air.
Dorian pauses to give us a reassuring nod before opening the second-level door into the concert area. House music pours out through the open door, heavy and bass-laden. We step forward into relative darkness, permeated every now and then by sweeping colored lights. I give my eyes a moment to adjust before stumbling forward after Dorian.
The hall’s second level is a rough horseshoe shape that looks down onto the main level and stage. A crew is working busily on stage making last-minute adjustments to lights, speakers, and four identical, slim turntables. The turntables don’t look like they’re holding actual vinyl, but instead look like the scratchboards DJs use to modulate electronic music. Just like Alpha’s Resonator had. Beside the scratchboards are a series of dials and MIDI-pad buttons.
The crowd below is already busy staking out territory as close to the stage as possible. We’re able to snag a corner booth in the back with a limited view of the stage. I slide in between Dex and Tori while Dorian and Lydia take the outside seats.
“Fire her up,” Dorian says to Dex.
Dex pulls out his wallet computer and unfolds it twice. A series of bumps rise up from the unfolded surface, arranging themselves like a familiar keyboard. Another fold up gives Dex a small display. “That’s not very inconspicuous,” I observe.
“Lean forward,” Lydia says, and so I lean around to look at the computer from her vantage. From the other side, it looks like Dex is just studiously examining sleeve art from one of Makro’s albums.
“Decent amounts of chatter,” Dex announces as loudly as he dares while the techno music continues pounding through the speakers. “I’ll use that as a base-line though. If it spikes, how do we get in touch with you without our communicators?”
“You don’t. If you think it’s an emergency,” Lydia mimes tapping a button, “call Mixy.”
“We’re going to make our move once Makro goes on stage,” Dorian informs us. “So until then, I guess we’ll just have to enjoy the sounds of this dumpster-fire of an excuse for music.” He points overhead at a nearby speaker.
Dorian slides over by Lydia and the two have some private conversation in hushed voices, leaving Dex, Tori, and me to entertain ourselves. Dex is busy monitoring his computer, so essentially it’s me and Tori doing our best to not make eye contact. More than once, I open my mouth to attempt conversation, but I can’t find anything to say.
“Would you two stop being so dumb?” Dex says finally, setting his hands down on the table. “I’m used to regular stupid, but this is advanced stupid.”
“What are we doing?” I ask defensively.
“Being awkward! Being weird!” Dex says. “And I mean weird, even in the context of all of this.” He swirls his finger around to indicate what I assume is a reference to the aliens, robots, and our current spy status.
“We’re not being weird,” Tori says angrily. “You’re weird.”
“Everybody knows that already. I mean, whatever’s going on between you two, figure it out!”
“We haven’t really talked about—” I start to say.
“Oh, you think?!” Dex interrupts. “I may be socially inept, but this is painful.” He points an accusatory finger at Tori. “You have been crushing on him since, like, the ninth grade!” Tori opens her mouth in protest, but Dex cuts her off and swings his finger to point at me. “And you have been too busy being wrapped up in yourself to even notice!”
Dorian and Lydia have stopped muttering to one another and are looking at Dex, nodding with approval.
“You have my blessing,” Dex finishes, annoyed, then returns to his computer.
The music and lights cut out without warning, and the entire concert hall is plunged into darkness. There’s a moment of startled silence, then the crowd erupts into cheering and applause as they realize the show is starting.
A woman’s voice booms over the speakers, melodic, short and clipped for two notes. “Do—Re!”
As the voice booms a bright spotlight sparks to life directly over the stage, pouring a beam of red light down. The column of light falls onto the first turn-table, where a lithe, sunglasses-wearing woman is standing. Her hair is a brilliant primary red, accentuated by the spotlight overhead. The woman spins a record and slides a dial, and the air fills with a steady electronic bass drum.
&n
bsp; “Mi—Fa!” a second voice booms in two more notes, and a shaft of blue light erupts from overhead, illuminating a second woman standing at the next turntable over. She looks identical to the other woman except for her bright blue hair. A snare drum cuts in, matching the bass drum on counts two and four.
“So—La!” a third voice cuts in, and a third shaft of brilliant green light pours down on a third woman with matching green hair. She leans forward, sliding dials as a syncopated, swung high-hat joins in with the drum and snare.
“Ti—Dah!” a final voice concludes, as one last column of yellow light lances down atop the last member of Makro. She smiles widely, brilliant yellow hair shining in the spotlight as she dials up a deep swell of bass notes tracing a jazz scale.
Dex yells something to us over the swelling noise.
“WHAT?” I shout back.
He takes a moment to write a note in his steno pad before flipping it over for me to see. THEIR NAMES. He points back to the stage. I see him mouth the words, Dore, Mifa, Sola, Tidah.
I nod my understanding and watch as the stage erupts into a brilliant display of strobing lights and dancing lasers. The crowd explodes into applause as Makro transitions from the relatively simple, bass-heavy mix of their intro into a synergy of techno and swing music. Two of the women cut in with samples of blaring brass and clarinets while the other members sample in heavy basslines over a modulated jazz drum set.
The 1920s had a baby with techno and called it Electro-Swing.
It’s kind of impressive. Makro dances in sync with flawless, machine precision. They’re wearing crisp grey suit jackets over black jumpsuits, further mixing old fashion with futurism. The crowd near the stage has spread out a bit to open up an area for dancing, where a few couples have already gathered to show off to the others. Again, it’s like swing dance, but mixed with modern shuffle steps that lean heavily on a driving bass drum.
Six Strings to Save the World Page 16
