Titan Song

by Leonard Petracci

  Street performers distracted us next, one a troupe from the Mediterranean that juggled balls of water as if they were glass, then wove the droplets through the air to cast rainbows and shadows across the onlookers. In the center, a more powerful Watermancer supported a meter-wide disk of water above a board, using it to magnify sunlight and etch the wood, smoke curling from the focal point to waft among the crowd. The picture seemed to be of the onlookers themselves, and he was auctioning it off to the highest bidder, with several tourists holding up wads of cash.

  “A coin for good luck!” proclaimed a woman as we walked past, bathing the area around us with every color of the rainbow from a mist of water droplets but keeping the light from touching our skin. “A small exchange for fortune.”

  Arial shook her head and continued walking, placing a hand over her pocket, and the woman wicked the light away around her, creating the inverse of a spotlight effect to cast her in darkness. Lucio pulled a face at her as we continued walking, and the woman spritzed him with mist, leaving him sputtering several seconds after we left the crowd.

  The crowd thinned as we kept walking, with less tourists filling the pavement and restaurants occupying both sides of the streets. Pastry chefs whipped concoctions with their fingers, altering the properties of their doughs by blasting in air or activating yeast in seconds. Signs advertised restaurants keeping Spicemasters on staff, with pictures and details of their history as well as a certificate proving the authenticity of their power. Entire shops were devoted to wine infusers, who were said to be able to distill emotions themselves into the liquid if they were powerful enough, letting the imbibers taste actual happiness.

  After another half hour of walking, zig-zagging as we stopped for directions every ten minutes, the architecture started to grow older. A plaza opened up with a fountain at the center circled by dancing statues, each stepping on mosaic tiles that mirrored the night sky. Powers leapt from their hands and back to the center, each bearing a form of the elements, extending out in thin stone arches wet from the spray. And at the far side of the plaza, taking up the entire expanse, was the Remus opera house.

  Marble columns stretched from roof to clutch at the street, while two massive iron doors were closed at the front, the rivets as big as my head. Engravings in the metal depicted a pair locked in a duet, with instruments supporting from behind, the musical notes of their voices meeting in a center arch and designed for them to part when the doors opened. Covering the walls were posters of upcoming shows, along with information on where to purchase tickets, and pictures of the performers.

  “Target acquired,” said Slugger, peering at the far right, where the picture of a girl smiled down at us, her dark hair flowing over olive skin. Underneath, the words Francesca, la voce di Roma played across the poster as well as the times she was playing.

  “There’s one tonight,” noted Arial. “Looks like four hours from now.”

  “Then that’s four hours to develop a plan,” I said, tapping the poster. “We don’t know when the Instructors will attack, so we need to act immediately. Ennia, Lucio—get us some tickets, cheap as you can, but not so far away that we can’t use our powers. Arial and I will scour the nearby shops for any information on her—books, magazines, anything. Slugger, circle the theater, see if there are any side doors where we can get in or out, or where the performers might use. The more we know, the better our chances. For the next few days, we’re to be ghosts—following her every move, unseen, until the attack arrives.”

  Chapter 21

  “Tickets?” I asked as dusk started to settle on the plaza.

  “Check!” said Lucio, fanning them out for us to see. “They let us in at twenty o’clock.”

  “So eight,” Arial corrected, looking up from a tabloid she had been poring over. “And I think we’ve scraped everything we can from these magazines. Not many are in English.”

  “Italian is similar enough to Latin semantically, however,” murmured Ennia, her eyes still scanning text, still sitting in the shade despite the disappearing sun, “which I had to learn for medical studies. Of course, many words like ‘cars’ or ‘microphones’ didn’t exist back then, but I can guess enough. The writing, however, seems pretty… derivative.”

  “They are tabloids, you know, gossip,” said Arial, ripping out a page. “Besides, here’s the information I could pull out. Looks like she’s not originally from Rome—she grew up in a smaller town off the coast, then moved here to follow her father’s political career. There was a scandal. Her father divorced her mother for a much younger waitress that worked across the street, making national news and propelling her to fame. She started in acting but moved to opera and choir singing after her latest movie netted her millions.”

  “From my articles, it appears she entered romantic relations with a member of another musical band for a year, and they recently broke it off, prompting her entrance into tragic productions,” added Ennia. “Just last month, she was pictured in a pink sportscar her father purchased her for her birthday, and the month before that arrested by the police for—well, I can’t read it, but looks like some sort of altercation.”

  She held up the magazine, showing two girls with mascara running down their faces, paparazzi surrounding them and models striking poses in the background.

  “Ah, yes, looks like it was with another actress, who, oh my—started dating her boyfriend,” said Ennia, leaning in further to the magazine, her finger trailing along the text as concern entered her voice.

  “You’re not actually getting interested in this, are you? Celebrity gossip is an entire industry here in the outside world. Chances are, that was staged to sell tickets.” said Arial, and Ennia straighten up, her cheeks flushing bright pink.

  “Of course not!” Ennia exclaimed. “But as Blenders, we hear much about the celebrities. Many have had alterations to their bodies using us, quite a few who would be embarrassed if the secret escaped to the public.”

  “Like who?” Lucio asked, and Ennia shook her head.

  “I promised not to tell when we used them as case studies,” said Ennia. “I don’t lie.”

  “Is it really lying if it was the truth when you told it?” asked Lucio. “Sounds like a loophole—”

  “Enough, we’re getting close to go-time,” I said, looking at the line forming in front of the theater, frowning when I noticed the disparity between our patched up clothing and the suits that several wore. “We’re splitting up here to make sure we get in. Ennia and Lucio, you two pair up and get close to the stage—Lucio, remember, your objective here is to give her a memory of me from the past and lodge it deep, something that we can use to gain her trust if she needs it. I’m going to search for another entrance from the inside, or make one, so we don’t have to buy tickets in the future. Arial, Slugger, you’re our tails—follow her once she leaves and make sure you aren’t seen. Once we know where she lives, we can keep tabs on her at all times and watch for any suspicious activity.”

  “Done deal,” said Slugger, and started walking over towards where he anticipated Francesca’s arrival, the side of the theater where we could just see limousines parked around the corner. “Eyes on the ground, no problem.”

  “I’ll watch from the roof. Need to find a place I can get up there unnoticed,” said Arial as she took off towards a side alley, walking backwards as she talked. “When night falls, it will be easier to fly unnoticed if I’m high enough. If she’s in that pink car, I can be a mile above the city without any problem spotting her.”

  Then Lucio and Ennia bore right, heading towards one entrance, while I departed towards the other, each of the lines steadily growing as we approached. Behind me in line, I heard the hushed whispers of a couple staring into my back as I shuffled forwards, running a quick hand through my hair and trying to project confidence with a high held chin. But in the window, I could see my worn out sneakers among the freshly polished leather, my t-shirt among the coats, and the small holes that tore through the sides of my je
ans too sporadically to be fashionable. As I approached admissions, Lucio and Ennia ducked in with a group of well-dressed school children, pushing their way to the middle of the herd just as they reached the door, managing to use them like a school of fish to gain entrance.

  The bouncer looked down at me when I arrived, his eyes turning to slits, his red vest barring my passage. He took the ticket, then shook his head, not even bothering to say a word—rather, crumpling it in one hand, while pointing back towards the street dismissively with the other.

  “I paid—” I started to say as his face hardened, and a security guard started to walk over from the center.

  “No dress, no entry,” he stated, and dropped the remains of the ticket in a bin next to him. “Go, and no trouble.”

  My hands formed fists, but I backed away, keeping my eyes on his. We are ghosts, I repeated in my mind, remembering what I had told the others. Grinding my heel on the pavement, I turned just before the security guard arrived, and disappeared back into the crowd.

  Chapter 22

  I circled around the back of the plaza just in time to see Arial’s hair disappearing over the lip of the opera house’s roof, then struck off parallel to the building, searching as I walked one street over. From his investigations, Slugger described a service door three-quarters of the way down, just behind a dumpster utilized by the janitors for after-show cleanup, judging by the bags of pamphlets and cups that filled its insides. True to his word, I spotted it between the gaps of two buildings, a blue painted door against the backdrop of white stone, almost a worse eyesore than the dumpster next to it. Speeding up my pace, I darted inwards, then halted just as I reached the alleyway intersection and spotted the hunched figure leaning over behind a pile of trash bags.

  I ducked into a recessed doorway just as he straightened, pocketing the lighter he had just used to ignite a cigarette that dangled from the corner of his mouth, then leaned against the wall and shut his eyes, taking lazy puffs. After a moment, he unbuttoned the top of his uniform, pulling at the collar to cool off and kicking off his shoes, resting his sock-covered feet on top of them.

  I frowned, my eyes darting to the custodian name tag above his pocket while trying to calculate how much time had elapsed since Lucio and Ennia had entered the theater. Any minute now, the show would be starting—and if the janitor was only needed afterwards, it would be a long smoke break. There was only one other door Slugger had mentioned, that one on the far side of the theater—but he’d also conceded that a crowded restaurant was just across the street, meaning I would easily be spotted if I tried anything involving powers.

  But as the janitor flipped the cigarette butt over his shoulder and into the dumpster, an idea struck me, and I prepared a small force point, just enough to produce a momentary tug. He pulled back out his pack of cigarettes for another, flicking it once against his palm, and just as the cartridge make contact, I threw the point towards his hand, yanking the pack from his grasp. It dropped to the ground, the cigarettes popping out as they yielded to my distortion of space, and I focused on one of them that landed perpendicular to the alley, pulling at it with the force point. It lurched as if it had been caught by a small breeze and took off down the street before he could bend over to pick up the others, bouncing over pebbles in a determined escape.

  The janitor cursed in Italian, scooping up its brothers in a hurried motion before taking off after the survivor, which now slowed about twenty feet away. As soon as he turned his back, I rushed towards the door, my feet silent on the pavement, my hand reaching for the handle just as he reached for the cigarette. The door jiggled but refused to open, the mechanism locked—and before he had a chance to turn, I summoned a dark orb from the pocket above my wrist, squeezing it down until it was no more than a centimeter in diameter, then punched it straight through the center of the lock. The mechanism gave way, the handle dropping limp and the door opening without resistance, a new peephole through the lock the only sign of tampering. By the time the janitor turned, I was inside with the door shut behind me and making my way down a dark corridor that formed the service hallways of the opera house.

  I slid by stacks of props, consisting of rolled up backdrops to recreate every instance of weather, a collection of gaudy wigs, and stacked wooden platforms painted black to blend into darkness. To my right, I heard the clattering of pots and pans and turned to see the kitchen, a chef with his back turned to me sautéing vegetables in a pan, the noise covering my steps as I shot forwards to snag an apron hanging from the wall behind him. Tying it on, I seized two covered plates before returning to the hallway, setting them on a small cart and rolling it forwards, adopting a bored look on my face and the hurried pace of someone under the dinner rush. Two chatting ushers slid past me as I continued walking, barely giving me a second look as the cart’s wheels squeaked against the floor and I made my way deeper into the building. In my mind, I reviewed a simple plan, one to accomplish two goals I’d set for myself that night.

  First, to see Francesca, so I could recognize her in passing on the street, and see those who surrounded her. Any of them could be hints or future leads to be used to our advantage.

  And second, to discover another alternate entrance to the theater. Naturally, the easiest way to find it would be when the rest of the servants were exiting—once I made it to the center, I’d follow them on their way out, seeing if any took separate routes. Otherwise, I could climb the stories after the show, searching for windows to unlock for Arial to cart us in, and making a mental note to ask her if there were any doors on the roof itself.

  The corridors grew more crowded, and soon other workers dodged past me like a flowing river, a few hip-checking my cart in annoyance on their way past through the narrow passageway. To my left, I heard chatter and saw the service doors leading out to the nosebleed audience seats. I passed the far back, and as I started moving closer to the front, the audience’s voices fell away as the inner lights dimmed. Then a voice pierced the darkness, a voice that both filled me with awe and sent shivers down my spine as I remembered the only other one I had ever heard like it. I froze, instantly drawn towards it, and left the cart to take a side door into the seating area, standing near invisible by a server’s table on the far edge as a single spotlight descended on the actress on stage.

  Her voice eclipsed the orchestra in the pit below her, such that the instruments and supporting singers seemed to hold it up, elevating it in a form of worship. The notes flew out in a flurry, striking between highs and lows as the spotlight on her split, and several other characters emerged on stage, circling around her and dressed as leaves falling towards the ground. With each passing note, one struck the floor, falling dead, the lights changing their cover from green to brown—and I realized that with her arms stretch outward, and with natural bark covering her dress, she represented the trunk holding them upwards. Then she sang a final note as the opening scene transitioned, the last leaf fell upon the ground to surround her in a spiral, and a quiver ran through the theater.

  At first, I thought it was applause, the stamping of feet that was accompanied by a quick murmur. But then the quiver came again, and beside me on the serving table, glasses of champagne clinked together, one falling to break its stem off on the floor. On stage, Francesca stumbled, losing her balance on the platform that held her above the falling leaves who had now begun to stir.

  Then the third quiver came—no, not a quiver, a spasm that slammed me back into the wall, catapulting the rest of the champagne into the crowd, which had now started screaming as plaster rained down from the ceiling.

  Chapter 23

  The glass panes that formed a railing around the above box seats shattered, raining glass down on the crowd, the blood from lacerations mingling with the red seats. An arc of light swept forwards, intertwining in a solid yellow banner that wrapped around the second story as another tremor arrived, catching spectators as they were bucked out of their seats and almost over the balcony. It shimmered with each collisi
on, wrapping the bodies in golden light that trickled to the floor like honey, the cocoons protecting the bodies even after they reached the ground.

  Streetlight burst in from a far wall as a patch of stonework turned to dust, flecks of pulverized rock pluming upwards like smoke into the air, choking the entire quarter of theater nearby. A massive gust of wind whistled out the hole, now the size of a refrigerator across, taking the debris with it as the crowd surged forwards to escape, pulling with them the two Specials that had created the exit way. At the back of the theater, emergency doors sprang open and a shouting attendant issued streamers of green lasers from her hands that pointed towards the exit, drawing in panicked audience members like landing aircraft.

  But for all the constructive powers rocketing around the opera, there were just as many that complicated the problem. Tickets had not been cheap, especially near the front of the theater, and the higher population of Specials responded with greater chaos than Regulars could have ever mustered. Theater seats buckled in front of a man who barreled through them and the crowd indiscriminately, flinging anything in his path away with superhuman strength. A panicked teenager tried to burn his way through the stone wall, succeeding only in leaving scorch marks and splashing flames onto the carpet, where the fibers started to smolder and catch. Another entrenched herself in a wall of protective ice—and while ensuring her safety, it blocked the path of a dozen others trying to escape down the aisle as they pounded on the transparent wall.