by Ben Stevens
“Feroz Pantera.” Maya turned away from the mirror, spinning in her chair to gaze upon Lucy. “I love you.”
Lucy nodded her head almost imperceptibly, stepped to the side, and held the door open for Maya.
“I love you too, my lady.”
Was there a more perfect place for a goddess than on a stage, in front of thousands of screaming fans? Were the audience’s rabid adorations not some kind of worship? Did the masses not idolize their celebrities? The arrangement was perfect and very befitting of gods and men. Or in this case, goddess and vampire.
Maya was thrilled to be in the limelight again. The sounds of the roaring cheers, the blissed-out looks of fans in the front rows, the constellations of lighters in the dark, the light-show production, the smells coming from the food court and writhing sea of humanity. And above it all, she was there in the center, on the pedestal, being worshiped.
Maya was a goddess of song, always had been, and always would be. She was its living embodiment. She used song to shape Strange. As she strung a melody together, she was capable of voicing an incantation that moved the spheres of the cosmos as well as touched the hearts and minds of men. She was a musician, a performer, and performers needed an audience like… well, like a god needs worshipers.
Add to all that her persona as Lily Sapphire and the doors that it opened. They were the perfect front for a prominent leader in the Resistance and a situation that was as perfect for Maya as she hoped tonight’s plan would be.
Each show was like a living thing. It had its own flavor, its own personality. Like the varying cuisines of the different regions within a nation or culture, the shows she performed could be similar in many ways, but each had its certain uniqueness. The undercurrent of excitement running through the ether this night was strong, and its scent carried a top note of nervousness. She hadn’t felt nearly this skittish when she had walked onto that stage in Home, knowing full well that she was going to be arrested and imprisoned by the Ministry of Social Purity. She had been calm then, confident in the manifestation of her destiny. She’d known without a shadow of a doubt that Lucy would find Jon, and all would work out as it did.
Tonight, however… Tonight was different. This hadn’t been in the big plan. This was a segue, an impromptu pièce de résistance, a spontaneous coup d’état. Something didn’t sit right with her, though she couldn’t put her finger on it. Something kept reminding her of her late husband.
What is it? she had thought as she’d walked, not even realizing she had finished her stroll up the back ramp from the green room area and reached the zenith of the stage. Ratt had noticed, however, and had lit her up with his floodlights, provoking a cheer from the crowd and snapping her out of her troubled daydream.
The show must go on.
Ratt had killed the spotlights as quickly as he had turned them on. A few beats of darkness, its black void filled with the cheers, applause, and whistles of the crowd, and then a dizzying array of colorful lights had sprayed across the city center as Ratt dropped the beat. With that, the show had kicked off.
Maya gave as good as she got. Her performance for the vampires and their human slaves was every bit the equal to the show she’d put on back in Home. Like any great stage performer, she did not attempt to stymie the bubbling kettle of nervous fear inside her. Instead, she channeled it into her act, using it as fuel. She moved like the music itself and brought every member of her audience along for the ride as one song bled into the next.
Ratt maintained his position up in the recently constructed catwalks above the stage, working the lights and preparing for the grand finale.
Lucy was in the DJ booth, waiting, pretending to be working.
In actuality, the whole show came from Maya’s Strange—the sounds, the music, everything. The music itself was, for all intents and purposes, a type of spirit that she channeled. It was archetypal, archaic. She was the goddess of song and drew her musical accompaniment from the collective subconscious of humankind. She functioned as a medium for the music and directed its flow like a conductor. It was no wonder that her persona, Lily Sapphire, was the most popular act in the land. Every bit of her show was drawn from the desires and dream-pleasure centers of the listeners. Her music touched them each deeply. All were delighted by her showmanship and eternal beauty as well as her spell.
As she summoned, channeled, and directed the music, Maya as Lily pranced, danced, pouted, and captivated. All were enchanted. All were completely oblivious to the fact that she was slowly working an enchantment of a different kind throughout the show. A grand ritual was being pieced together slowly but surely.
17
Jon and Carbine could hear the music in the city from their position up the small mountain almost as well as if it had been coming from within their camp. They had been watching the stage with great anticipation since Maya’s last transmission from the green room.
“Okay, boys… it's showtime,” she had said, and with that, Jon had set himself into motion. He double-checked the clasps and buckles on his body armor, re-tightened the laces on his side-zips, and lifted his hammer. Its textured grip felt good in his hands and soothed his nerves.
Carbine got into the most comfortable position he could and sat, railgun at the ready, hood up to block out any wind, dust, or distraction from his sniper focus.
The second after the music bounced up the canyon and landed in their ears, the two friends spoke their farewells.
“Good luck, buddy,” Carbine said from under his hood.
“Same to you,” Jon said, ignoring the sense of dread in his mind after speaking, and hoping the mods Ratt had made to Carbine’s rifle before departing did the trick.
If the plan failed and everything went to shit, it was very likely that Carbine would be the only one of them to survive, given the distance between him and New Puebla, but how long he would survive on his own, Jon could not say.
“Don’t worry, Jon. I’ve got your back,” Carbine said again from under the sniper’s hood, his eyes never leaving the scope of the railgun. There was a hint of uncharacteristic seriousness in his voice.
“You always have.”
In between the spoken words lay a silent “Thank you” and “You’re my best friend.”
Jon didn’t have to say it. He knew Carbine knew it. Without another word, Jon was sprinting down the side of the mountain, leaping over small boulders and swathes of prickle-bush. His heightened strength and reflexes made him every bit as agile as a mountain cat, every bit as strong as a mountain bear. He felt invincible and god-like, every bit the equal of the vampiric titans in the city below. He felt alive.
Between the cover of darkness and the distraction of the concert, Jon was not worried about being spotted as he traversed his way down the slope and then across the valley floor. He didn’t even attempt to be stealthy. Time was of the essence. He had to make it to the city gates before the finale, hopefully before. With every step in his long stride, he grew more exhilarated. The voice, that voice he’d first heard the day after graduation, the voice that had changed his life, sang to him through his earpiece and called him to the city like a siren. He would not fail her. Not tonight, not ever.
Jon ran on through the darkness, with Maya providing the soundtrack to his sneak attack. As he approached the city, he could see the outlines of the sentries up on the wall.
Far fewer than normal, Jon noted, happy that they had correctly guessed that the Lily Sapphire concert would draw many away from their responsibilities. Jon continued his run, only slightly slower as he crouched down some, rolling his back and doing his best to reduce his profile. He changed his straight-line approach to a strategic zig-zag, moving from one scraggly bush to the next. When he came to the last bunch of branches before the one-hundred-yard open space around the city walls, he paused. Even in the dark, he could see the sentries.
He slowly scanned the ridge-line of the wall. There were at least four that were in a position to spot him; the others were too far awa
y. There may be more, perhaps sitting down, he had no way of knowing for sure, but he and Carbine had done a preliminary scan with the railgun’s scope before Maya had started the show. That search had revealed no surprises behind the ramparts or rudimentary guard shacks that dotted the perimeter of the city like fence posts along a cattle pen. He could only hope that things remained the same now as then, and if they had changed, he could hope that Carbine would notice them before they noticed Jon.
Jon squinted into the night and studied the two sentries closest to his location.
Can it be? Jon was amazed at their luck. Perhaps the masters of New Puebla had grown lax from years of success and survival. There were few beasts from the Drops stupid enough to attack a fortified city head-on, and few beasts conniving enough to attempt infiltration. Whatever the reason, Jon didn’t care; he only smiled to himself and gave thanks.
The two guards closest to him had their backs to the expanse. From their vantage point on the wall, they could see the concert that they had not been allowed to attend, and they were every bit as entranced by it as the citizens who had been.
Satisfied with his surveillance and good fortune, Jon left the cover of his scrub and sprinted toward the base of the city wall as fast as his burning body would go. If the soldiers on the wall had been even remotely doing their job, Jon’s ninja charge would have been undone.
He found, much to his chagrin, that when he pushed his body to the limits of its capability, the fire that burned within him grew stronger and brighter.
At first, he didn’t notice; he was focused on running, and running fast. He reached top speed the moment before he noticed his glow and surely would have made the wild horses of the scrub proud. He moved like a force of nature, a trail of dust billowing in his wake, semi-obscured by the blanket of night. But he shone like a beacon in that darkness, causing both himself and the dust trail to resemble a comet of some kind, streaking across the dark, straight toward the city.
It was his glowing fingertips that alerted him to his folly as they pumped in and out of his peripheral vision with each amazing stride. He slowed instantly and broke his focus, looking down at himself. Most of his body was covered by his torso armor, cargo pants, and boots, but the remaining exposed skin was more than enough to betray his location to anyone looking. His neck, face, and hands burned like the sun itself were just beneath his skin, which in the eerie light looked paper-thin.
His run slowed to a walk; then, three steps later, he stopped entirely. He stared at his hands in amazement, his eyes tracing the rivers of his arteries and their capillary tributaries. Cold realization in contrast to his body’s heat came crashing down over his head like a bucket of ice water, and he realized that he was standing, glowing, out in the open, halfway between cover and the city wall. Eyes quickened with fear glanced up to the top of the wall. Four sentries still, bobbing their heads to the relentless beat thumping from the city center square.
Run, you idiot!
Jon chided himself and snapped out of his paralysis, making a break for the wall. It was too late to do anything about the fire within him. It would most likely take several minutes to cool down, and that would leave him standing out in the open and darkness. If any of the guards just happened to turn their heads to glance in the direction of their duty…
He ran, albeit not as fast as before, his eyes darting from one sentry to the next, his heart pounding more from a feeling of dread certitude that he would be spotted than the effort of sprinting.
C’mon… C’mon!
At last, with a sense of bewildered surprise, he made it to the base of the city wall. He flattened his form against the cold stones and slowed his breathing, using the mindfulness in athletics technique he’d been taught in the Academy. Base of the wall or not, the glow coming off his body cast a lantern’s shine out into the scrub and surely could catch the eye of a sentry, who would, more likely than not, take him for a small fire; he had to cool down fast.
He waited there, still as the stones he leaned against, breathing and listening to his slowing heartbeat form an irregular rhythm with the Lily Sapphire concert in his earpiece. He watched the fire behind his skin fade to soft pink, and then slowly disappear like the headlights of an automobile with a dying battery. His hands pressed against the wall, and he began to study it with them.
If the irresponsible guards on the wall inspired a theory that the ruling class of New Puebla had grown cocky in their so far very successful battle for survival, then the construction of the city’s walls proved that theory. Technically, the wall was a wall, but it was hardly defensive. Sure, it might be thick and heavy and would probably hold up great against a charging Drop-Beastie. It would likely perform very well against incoming gunfire and the various sorts of exploding ordnance available to the survivors, freedom fighters, and banditos of the post-Storm world. But against an infiltrator, it was more of a help than a hindrance.
No effort whatsoever had been made to shape the urbanite or even make the edges flush. The result was a spectacular gift-horse display of footholds and handholds that would rival any pre-Storm climbing gym. Once again, Jon gave thanks for his fortune and then slung his hammer across his back, grateful also for the leather sling he had built from scrap while Ratt had built the palanquin. Hand over hand, foot over foot, Jon began to climb the wall.
He reached the top without complication and pulled himself up, chin-up style, to recon his surroundings. He had, as hoped, come to the top of the wall extremely close to one of the sentries. The man still had his back to the scrub and Jon and was watching the concert, his head bobbing softly. He sat with one butt cheek on a rusty drum, its label long eroded, and dangled one leg, his heel bouncing off the drum now and again. Jon, maintaining his chin-up with ease, turned his head farther to the left to look down the wall past the man on the drum and saw another sentry. This man was also watching the concert and stood on one leg as he leaned against a guard shack post. Making his best impression of a submarine's periscope, Jon rotated his head now to the right and scanned for the two sentries that he knew would be there.
The one closest to him sat fully on the edge of the wall, his back completely to the scrub, and grinned at the show in the distance like a simpleton. Jon could see the man’s face clearly (the first one of the bunch so far) and saw no red eyes. Furthermore, he saw the edges of the man’s Citizen Stamp peeking out from under the collar of his shirt.
Humans. Of course the ruling class would have the privilege of attending the concert, while the humans, even the vampire sympathizers, would have to pull duty.
The thought brought mixed feelings. If the guards that Jon needed to get past were all human soldiers, it would undoubtedly make his infiltration infinitely easier, but at the same time, it just meant that there were more vampires in close proximity to Maya, more right there to try to deal with her once she attempted to deal with them. It also meant potentially having to kill humans—a prospect that unsettled him. He was here to free them, not slay them. If there was any way possible to succeed in his mission without forcing a human citizen, even one that served the darkness, to pay the ultimate price, Jon was determined to find it.
He lowered himself back down below the edge of the wall and found a foothold that enabled him to more or less rest. He paused and listened intently to Maya’s singing. She was about halfway through the Moon Song; she had told him that this set would mimic the set from the Home show. She didn’t need to remind him what that set was—Jon had it memorized, every note, every step of every dance, every expression on her face. It had been burned into his mind forever. It had been, after all, his first encounter with divinity.
After the Moon Song comes… Jon thought and then began to do some mental math.
I’ve got about ten minutes till the finale… perfect. Jon dropped down to the foothold beneath the one he was resting on and then began to make his way to his right, horizontally across the wall to the guard who was sitting on the edge, pacing himself with the Moon So
ng.
“My Queen, it has begun.”
“Excellent. Rise. Thank you, Raphael,” Sofia said and smiled wickedly. Her right-hand man, Raphael, would make a fine mate when this was all over. A new moon had risen over New Puebla. Soon her husband and his brood would be dead. Sofia would feast on half the city to celebrate and then force the other half to build her an armored transport, something that could roam the reaches of the Earth while protecting her and her loyalists from the harmful rays of the daylight sun. Nothing would be able to stop them. They would bring the Hunger with them, spread over the land, creating an army and feeding on whomever they pleased. It was good to be queen.
Raphael rose from his knee and stood before her, matching her smile with a satisfied smirk of his own.
“Did my dear husband receive the tip?” she inquired.
“Most assuredly, Queen. My spies informed him of a plot against his new pet. He still thinks that he cannot be harmed, that after the execution of your cousin, and the revelations that came from it, that you wouldn’t dare to attack him. He was overheard saying as much.”
“He is truly an idiot if he thinks that after what happened, after what he did, putting food before us, I wouldn’t find out about his imprisoned god.” Sofia laughed and traced a lacquered fingernail across the bespoke suit that enshrouded Raphael’s broad chest. “He has no idea that we have all made trips downstairs; our secret rendezvous with the Hunger. We, my lovely Raphael, are no longer under the yoke of his siredom.” Her smile doubled in size as her wandering fingertip inched lower and lower, going past Raphael’s belt buckle before twirling around in concentric circles, causing him to grow.
