by Marc Zicree
Cal looked at Goldie, who dived back into his chicory.
Enid said: “I don’t know if it’s here. I do know that Primal Records is here and I come to get out of my contract with them.”
“Your contract?” repeated Tone, sitting back in his chair. “What d’you mean?”
Enid explained it all: the effect of the Change on his contract, how the contract bound him, the way the music could charm, could shield… could twist. “Cal’s gonna cut my music free and I’m gonna help him find his sister and cut her free. Maybe cut us all free.”
Tone laughed, raucous. “I don’t know which is more crazy, thinkin’ you can get someone back from the Storm, or thinkin’ you can get ’em back from Primal.”
Whatever Tone saw in Cal’s eyes cut his laughter off at the pass. “It sounds as if Enid isn’t the only musician with a … contractual problem.”
Tone lowered his eyes. “There’ve been others.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Cal. “Strange as it seems, the legal bindings in Enid’s contract are still in effect, they just work on a different level. In theory, if we confront the Primal executives, we can void the contract. Which is where we might need your help. Is there a safe way to get into the Chicago Media Arts Building?”
“You’re screwin’ with me, right? You ain’t goin’ in there.
Man, that thing’ll eat her alive.” He jerked his head in Magritte’s direction. “The rest of you it’ll just chew up and spit out.”
Cal shifted from one foot to the other like he’d borrowed some of Goldie’s bees. Made me wish he’d sit down. “What thing?” he asked.
Tone looked at him as if he’d dropped in from another planet. “Primal, what else?”
Cal held up his hands. “Wait a minute. Primal is a record company.”
“Primal is a monster.” Venus was perched on a stool at the end of Jelly’s bar, watching us. She shrugged. “Or a savior, or both—depending on how you look at it. I suppose if it weren’t for Primal, this city would’ve imploded on itself in the first week after. But it didn’t, because of whatever it is that Primal does.”
Cal turned slowly to look at her. “Primal generates the firewall?”
She nodded. “Somehow it keeps the Storm from reaching in here.”
“So Primal isn’t… the Storm. Isn’t related to the Storm.”
Our new acquaintances exchanged a series of glances that spoke volumes about the uncertainty of present-day life. Then Venus said, “I don’t see how that could be. Like I said, Primal keeps the Storm out.”
“Or at least it seems that way,” added Jelly. “Hell, I don’t think a one of us can pretend to know jack-diddly about anything these days. All we know is, when Primal’s Red Zone went up, the Storm went away.”
“But you think it’s a monster,” said Cal. “You hide from it—why?”
“Back in the beginning, we had some like her,” Venus said. She canted her head toward Magritte, who drifted closer to Goldie. “The Storm got some of them, then Primal put up that bloody canopy and it didn’t get any more. Right about the time we were thanking God for that, they started disappearing again. This time it was Primal doing the taking.”
Cal paled. “Why?”
“We don’t know,” said Jelly. “It just takes them whenever it gets the chance. It can’t suck them up like the Storm does, though, so it lures them or sends its goons after them.”
“The Tough Guys?” guessed Cal.
Tone curled his lip. “Surface scum.”
“But why would this Primal create the Red Zone?” asked Doc rocking forward in his chair. “What would it have to gain from putting this place under a bubble?”
“Maybe it’s hiding out, too,” said Magritte softly.
Tone was nodding. “A king in its castle.”
Or a spider in its web.
“But where’s it getting the power to do that?” I asked, rubbing my eyes. Damn, I was having trouble tracking suddenly—craving sleep. “If it’s all that powerful, why didn’t it take Magritte when it had the chance? We were right there. Standing out in the street like a bunch of gawking tourists. Hell, even I could feel…” I hesitated, not wanting to remember what I’d felt.
“I was jamming,” murmured Enid, his eyes on Cal’s face. He tugged at one of his dreadlocks, shaking the little course of bells at the end, pulsing out a rhythm. “I was jamming harder than I ever jammed in my life. Maybe it couldn’t reach past the music.”
“I think you were a surprise,” said Goldie. He was still sitting at the bar, aimlessly sloshing chicory around in his cup. “You’d been silent up till then. And we were being drawn in, right to them.”
That sent a jolt of slimy electricity up my spine. Damn that troll, Russo. If I ever saw him again, I was going to skin him, tan his hide, and wear it for a rain slicker.
Cal was shaking his head. “It, them… what are we talking about here? I’ll ask again: What is Primal?”
“One Voice in front of many,” mumbled Goldie. His own voice was flat, gray, all the normal colors leached out of it. From what I could see of his face, it matched.
I caught Doc’s eye and canted my head toward Goldie. He all right? I mouthed.
Doc’s expression did not ease my mind one bit. He got up and moved over to the bar. I watched for a moment as he put his head close to Goldie’s, their foreheads nearly touching. Viktor Lysenko, Guardian Angel. My lips smiled without me telling them to.
“What are we up against here?” Cal asked. “You say we’re facing a monster—do you mean that literally? We’d gotten the impression that Primal Records was still run by a group of people.”
Tone opened his eyes so wide, I could see the whites gleam in the dim light. “Who told you that?”
“Howard Russo, not in so many words.”
“Russo? Shit, he’s nobody you’d want to be givin’ head space too. That rodent sold out I don’t know how many devas before we got on to him.”
“I knew it,” I said. “I friggin’ knew it. He delivered us right to the front door. Like Chinese takeout.” I remembered five lousy words of Shakespeare. They twisted in my head: All the world’s a puppet theater.
Enid’s face had lost most of its color. “Why, Tone? Why would he?”
“T’save his own ass, I s’pose. He’s under contract, too, isn’t he?”
Cal sank into Doc’s chair and leaned across the table, eyes on Tone’s face. “What is Primal?”
“We don’t know.” Venus slid off her bar stool and moved to our table, her arms wrapped around herself as if keeping out a chill. “Says it was the first thing the Storm birthed.”
“Then you’ve seen it.”
“I came close one time,” she said. “Too damn close.”
“I seen it.”
The voice came from the darkest corner of the room, where a hallway fed back into the private quarters. I didn’t see anyone at first, then there was a shuffling sound and a dark figure moved unsteadily into the light of the room.
It was an old man. A tall, lean old man, a little stooped, hair grizzled white, clothes the same tones and colors as his skin—a walking, talking gingerbread man. Lamplight fell across his face. His eyes were completely white with cataracts. It’d been a long time since he’d seen anything. “Now, Papa…” said Venus.
“I seen it,” the old man insisted quietly.
“Who … ?” Cal looked to Tone and gestured at the old guy.
“They call me Papa Sky,” the old man said. “You must be our travelers. Welcome to Legends.”
TWENTY-THREE
DOC
Goldie was not all right. And it took no medical degree to know it. Like a man whose fever had just broken, he quivered in icy perspiration. He sat hunched over the bar, clinging to his mug as if it possessed powers of salvation, while Magritte hovered in suspended animation by his side.
I slid onto the bar stool next to him and leaned in, keeping my voice low. “What’s wrong, Goldie?”
&nbs
p; He raised his eyes to my face, giving me a fleeting glimpse of a place even my deepest grief had never taken me.
I caught his shoulder in a hard grip. “Goldie, I have some valproate … enough to start you on a course—”
Lips pressed tightly together, he shook his head. “That’s not what this is, Doc. Valproate won’t help.”
“What, then?”
He looked me fully in the eye, and might have told me, when the old man came into the bar. Goldie’s revelation was lost in the moment, for here was Tone’s oracle—a living, breathing man. A blind man, appropriately.
We made introductions and he seated himself in a pool of lamplight between Tone and Enid, turning his face to Cal. “Bet you’re full of questions. Young people are, as I recall.
They think old folks like me are full of answers. Or just plain full of it.”
Cal said, “What can you tell me about Primal?”
“No patience, either. Want all their answers this minute.” He shook his head. “Primal. Well, I can tell you it’s not what it seems.”
Beside me, Goldie stirred, a strange mixture of pain and fascination in his face. He slid from his stool and moved toward the old man with the languid motion of a sleepwalker.
“You said you’d seen it,” Cal persisted.
“Papa Sky is real big on metaphors,” said Jelly. “He means to say he saw it in a vision.”
“Now, don’t you ever scoff at a blind man’s visions, Mr. Jelly,” said Papa Sky. “I see things a whole lot clearer sometimes than folks with two good eyes.”
“What did you see?” asked Cal.
“Chaos. With a kernel of will. A tiny, tiny kernel of will. The first shall be last and the last first,” he added cryptically. “The least shall be greatest and the greatest least.”
Cal traded a glance with Enid, disappointment written on his face. He erased it with a sigh.
“Papa Sky’s big on riddles, too,” said Tone. He turned to the old man. “If you could answer these folks straight up, Papa, it’d be best.”
“Sometimes a straight answer ain’t the best answer,” Papa Sky observed.
“Our friend Calvin is on a quest. His sister’s been taken by the Storm and he means to get her back.” Tone grimaced. “And save the world while he’s at it. But first he’s gotta pry Enid free of Primal.”
Papa Sky’s head swiveled toward Cal. “Imagine that. That’s a pretty tall order, boy.”
Cal twitched. “So everybody keeps telling me. But that’s it. That’s the quest. Crazy or not. We have to try.”
Papa Sky nodded as if in time to the music that drifted down on us from upstairs. “Oh my, yes. We have to try. Lord, if I’d’ve gave up every time I was so inclined, I’d’ve never made it all the way out here from New York.”
“New York?” echoed Enid. “That’s where they’re from.” He made a sweeping gesture that took us all in.
“Are they, now? Ain’t that a fluke?”
“What the hell possessed you to come to Chicago?” Enid asked.
“I come with a friend. He needed me. Turned out, I needed him, too. Never would’ve made it but for him. Would’ve died right there in Manhattan. He got me here an’ I got him here. So, I know what loyalty is and I can see that you do, too.” He leaned forward toward Cal. “Your sister’s name’s Tina, ain’t it?”
Cal was visibly stunned. I suspect he wondered, as did I, whether our new friend was a sage or a madman. “How … how did you know?”
Papa Sky laughed. “Well, maybe I overheard you talking about her. Or maybe that kind of knowing is what God give me to make up for these bunged-up old eyes. Or maybe—” He broke off and smiled. “What’s your plan, Mr. Cal?”
Cal told him, then added, “Before we can do anything about Tina, or the Storm, or anything else, we have to get into the Black Tower—the Chicago Media Building—and deal with Primal.”
Papa Sky scratched his bearded jaw. “Well, I have to say, that ain’t gonna be as easy as you make it sound. But, now the thing is, I might just know somebody who can help you out. I can’t promise, but I can ask.”
“Somebody… this friend you mentioned?” Cal asked. “The one who brought you here?”
Papa Sky nodded, then pulled himself to his feet. “Don’t you folks go runnin’ off and doin’ anything crazy now. You wait for Papa Sky to check things out.”
Cal glanced from Enid to Colleen to me, seeking accord. “I … I suppose we could wait a little,” he said, “but—”
The old man pointed an arthritic finger at Cal’s nose. “Don’t you do nothing crazy, Mr. Cal. Let’s see what my friend has to say.”
Colleen cleared her throat. “About what, exactly?” she asked. Her voice was frayed, her head propped on her hand.
I considered ordering her to rest, then discarded the idea as fruitless.
“Well, my friend is a queer sort of fellow. He got a lofty point of view, you might say. Gives him insights.”
“Could you bring him here so we can meet him—talk to him?” Cal asked.
Papa Sky smiled crookedly. “Oh my, no. He don’t go out. Well, not where folks’ll see him, anyway.”
“Shy guy?” asked Colleen, rubbing her eyes.
“A tormented soul,” answered Papa Sky thoughtfully. “A massively tormented soul.” He held out his hand. “Toney-boy, can you help me get where I’m going? You can come back to your new friends after, if you like. But I need a guide dog.”
Tone looked at Enid, hesitating. Clearly, it was leaving his old friend that gave him pause.
Papa coaxed, “I’ll let you play my axe.”
Tone’s eyes lit up with obvious pleasure. “Serious?” “Serious as can be.” He held out his arm and Tone took it. Before they could move, Goldie stepped in front of them.
“You said it’s not what it seems. What does it seem like to
you?”
Papa Sky paused and cocked his head to one side. “And you are?”
“Goldie. My name is Goldie. Which is neither here nor there. What does Primal seem like that it’s not?”
“It seems to be one thing when it’s another.”
Goldie rolled his head around on his shoulders as if every muscle in his neck had spasmed at once. “No, no, no. No games, please. Not now.”
Cal came to his feet and moved to lay a hand on Goldie’s arm.
Goldie shrugged the hand away. “Tell me, old man, tell me what you hear when it speaks to you.”
Cal flushed. “I’m sorry, Papa—”
“Oh, it never speaks to me. Not directly, anyway. But I hear it. Sometimes it sounds sweet and mild and wistful-like. And sometimes it blows like a storm.” A slow smile spread across Papa Sky’s face. “A man of many voices, is our Primal.”
“It’s not a man,” murmured Goldie, and Calvin shot him a troubled glance.
Papa, still smiling, shook his head. Then he and Tone moved around Goldie to disappear the way he had come in. A long silence eddied in his wake.
“Maybe we should follow him,” said Colleen.
Cal shook his head. “His friend could be imaginary, for all we know. I’d rather concentrate on the problem at hand: how we’re going to get into that building, find Primal, and confront it … whatever it is.”
“Them,” whispered Goldie.
Cal grabbed Goldie by both arms and turned him around so that they stood face-to-face. “Jesus Christ, Goldie, what is it?”
Goldie looked like a man with a message he did not wish to deliver. “When Primal reached for me and Magritte, when it called to us …” He hesitated.
“You said it was one voice in front of many,” prompted Cal.
“The many …” He shook his head. “Shit. They’re flares, Cal. A flare… collective. Resistance is futile. Oh, God.” He raked unsteady fingers through his long hair. “I don’t mean to sound flippant. But when it speaks, I hear flare voices.”
Cal’s face went completely still. “What do you mean you hear flare voices? How can y
ou tell that’s what they are?”
“I can. I didn’t want to believe that I could, but I can, maybe because Magritte can.”
Cal glanced at the flare, reading confirmation in her eyes. “Why didn’t you say something before?” he asked Goldie.
“I didn’t know how,” Goldie said. “And I wanted to be wrong. And I was confused. One second I was sure this was the Source; the next second I was just as sure it wasn’t. Whatever it is—they are—there’s power here, and lots of it.”
Cal let go of Goldie and stood motionless. “Are you saying … are you saying flares are enslaving other flares?
Flares are binding Enid in this contract from hell? Turning his music into a—a weapon?”
“I don’t know. I just know what I hear. What we hear.” Goldie looked to Magritte for support. “I don’t know what it means.”
“But now you’re sure it’s not the Source.” Was that disappointment or relief in his voice?
“I told you before—I’m not sure of anything. I’m still not. But if it’s the Source, it’s learned some new tricks.”
Magritte was watching him, eyes like dark moons. “The music in here—it’s like twisted blues…”
Colleen sat back in her chair, making it creak mournfully. “Now that’d make sense, wouldn’t it?” she asked. “The flares need protection from the Source; tweaked music protects them from the Source; if they can draw in tweaked musicians, they’ve got the real-world equivalent of a force field.” Unexpectedly, she giggled. “Real-world. Did I really say that?”
“Wait a minute.” Venus, who had been watching in silence, broke in. “Are you saying that Primal is a bunch of devas?”
Cal was staring at Colleen, brow furrowed, but when he spoke, it was to Jelly and Venus. “Do you know any other musicians who had contracts with Primal Records before the Change?”
Jelly looked at Venus and said: “One or two.”
Venus looked away across the bar.
“Are they still around?”
Jelly shook his head. “We … we just thought they found some way out. Except for Charlie Gwinn.”
