Lord Banshee Lunatic (Nightmare Wars Book 3)

by Russell Redman

  They turned and looked puzzled. “Yes, Officer?”

  As he caught up his voice dropped, but still boomed over the nervous murmur of the crowd, “They are power-washing Tranquility Square today. There are steam hoses and streams of muddy water everywhere. You must not ruin such magnificent do’s before you even get to the party. Where are you off to?”

  They chattered together, working out a better route home. As the party-goers left, he returned to the Goody Box, paid for his drink, and came around the small fence to our table. He pulled over an adjacent chair and sat down. “Officers, may I join you? I could not let those kids mess up all that work. So beautiful! They are going to the Fire and Ice Festival in Cernan Square tonight. It makes me nostalgic for my own youth, to be able to wear such costumes. May I ask what brings you to Prosperity Square today?”

  The two poloffs were stiff with offence, but I explained that my companions were Political Officers I had met on the Imperial Cruiser Lansdorf. We had agreed to meet in this public place because it was safer and would excite less comment than a more private location. His eyes opened wider and wider as he rose back to his feet and bowed low. “My apologies, Honoured Sirs. I had no idea I was in such august company.”

  I waved him to sit down. “Please, Officer, you are probably one of the best people they could meet right now. May I ask your name?”

  He did not sit down but bowed low again. “If it pleases you, I am Public Officer Ba Rostov. My responsibility is for the safety and service of everyone in Prosperity Square and the adjacent district. Please forgive my presumption.”

  He was doing his best to approximate Martian terms of respect but would need some practice. The Public Office was always the first group to learn such things.

  The Imperial Poloff smiled anyways. “I greet you, Officer. I am Political Officer Amanda Badami of the Imperial Cruiser Lansdorf and this is Political Officer Vo Adedokenbo serving on the Warship Ruebens of the Qinghai Mining Subcommand. As fellow officers, you may call us Poloff Badami and Poloff Vo. Please, be seated. Sir traitor, why do you believe this man might be of interest?”

  Officer Rostov snapped his head around and stared at me, but had the good sense to ask nothing.

  “Benevolent Ones, Public Officers have the responsibility to know everything of public importance in their districts. Their role is in many ways like that of a Civic Political Officer, but with advisory rather than administrative authority. When our business is done and you have time, it would be worth your while to ask him to guide you through the intricacies of life on the Moon. That would have to be arranged properly through the Viceregal Government, but this could be a very opportune meeting. If the role of the poloff is what I remember, you have more freedom to make such arrangements than most other officers.

  “Everyone who was not born here finds some of the customs on the Moon to be surprising, and every Lunar city is different. It is like Mars in that way. It might be helpful to take one of the executive training courses on Lunar etiquette. It would explain odd things like clothing, food, money, and the endlessly intricate rituals of greeting. Officer Rostov should be able to guide you to suitable schools. I believe that Commodore Management Services provides such courses over in Aldrin Square, but there are probably others that are closer and may be more appropriate.

  “Officer Rostov, may I ask what events are planned for later today?”

  That darkened his expression. “Not much, I am afraid. The recent killings have everyone afraid, especially after the lockdown yesterday. Most venues have cancelled their events. The Fire and Ice Festival decided to go ahead regardless, almost as an act of defiance, but have requested triple the usual number of security officers.

  “Other than that, the Drunken Peddler across the square is hosting a dinner and debate party on the new Banshee ballad that they will be singing at the Fire and Ice Festival. It is a closed-door event but is sure to be well attended. Half the people I meet have already learned the song by heart.”

  At that, I went silent, but both Poloffs perked up. Badami asked, “Really? Banshees are just a superstition. Why would a song about ghosts and fairies provoke a debate? Is it political?”

  Officer Rostov laughed, “That is the debate, Benevolent Ones. It is called Angel of Hope and is woven loosely around current events, although no one seems quite sure where to place it. Like the other Banshee ballads, it is ostensibly in the ancient forest of Faerie, but there are too many references to events involving LUVN and the pirates to take that seriously. To me, it sounds like a love song in a time of trouble. To others, it seems like propaganda. Regardless, it is a beautiful piece of music. It should be an entertaining debate.

  “In a way, the mythic setting makes it an appropriate choice. By traditions that date back to the first Lunar settlements, a Fire and Ice performance must involve a block of solid ice and an open flame, which themselves are almost mythical on the Moon. Benevolent Ones, you may understand better than people from the Earth that water and heat, with enough oxygen and carbon to make a visible flame, are the essential requirements of life. They are fearfully scarce on this world. Every artist has their own approach to the Festival, but it has an almost religious significance to most Lunatics, in addition to being a great excuse for a party. No one knows whether the songwriters intended Angel of Hope to be political, religious, or just a passionate love story. Like the fire and ice, it has elements of all of them. I wish I had a ticket.”

  Poloff Vo looked at Poloff Badami with his eyebrows raised, then smiled when she nodded. “Officer, you speak as though you know the song yourself. Could you sing some of it? I would guess you have a good singing voice.”

  The Ghost was no connoisseur of music, so I re-engaged the Cripple and the Agent. Both cared about music, the Cripple knew the events, and the Agent knew how the song would play on Mars.

  Officer Rostov demurred that his voice was rusty and he would be back on duty in a few minutes, but he agreed to get started. He stood and moved around the table so he could watch the square as he sang.

  He explained that the song was in three voices and five parts: The Warrior’s Love, The Angel’s Lament, Cannibal Terror, Temple of Peace, and Challenge of Hope. When she saw him stand to start the song, a young woman from the next table rose and moved closer, which drew our waiter back to see what was happening.

  Officer Rostov lied. His voice was not rusty; he sang a beautiful bass, rolling, rich and profound. He sang the deep and hopeless love of the Ancient Warrior for the wise and beautiful Flower, best of all women. Too broken to fight, he longed to guard her again, but could not rise from his bed. He sang of her strength and courage, of her wisdom that could see through any lie, of her boundless compassion when forgiving the repentant. His adoration knew no limits and his heart ached to see her alone and afraid.

  The young woman from the next table took up The Angel’s Lament, her own voice sweet and soft, almost crying. The Flower was dying, her hope and love forlorn, as the Warrior lay crippled on his deathbed. The Sun and Moon were lost. The Tree of Life had shed its leaves. Death was all around and the forest was haunted by ancient wrongs that could never be righted, only avenged. Armies fought without cause in the darkness. The screams of their victims filled the freezing night. Cannibals ate the dead and killed when they grew hungry. Who could live through such terror? Who could forgive such evil?

  A man who had walked in from the square at the sound of the song picked up the role of the King, singing the Cannibal Terror. The King’s great strength had failed him and his courage had fled. In pain and fear, he cowered alone in the darkness. There was nowhere to take a stand, nowhere to hide, no place to heal, nowhere that was free from hatred and contempt. Who could survive the onslaught of despair and the rage of vengeance?

  The melody disintegrated as he recited, almost word for word, my fantasy of the clan, modified only to move them into the deep forest. The Clan was starving and freezing in the outer darkness as their rulers turned to cannibalism to sur
vive. It was jarring, tuneless, grating; a war correspondent reporting from a hospital under bombardment, or a financial report to the board of a charity inexplicably in bankruptcy. The Clan launched their last, desperate gamble to survive, an attempt to steal a seed from the Tree of Life. They failed. The warriors were captured and imprisoned by their enemies. In terror, they awaited certain execution.

  But the Warrior blazed back with the Temple of Peace, calling the Angel to remember a temple built on a mountainside high above the clouds, filled with peaceful meditation and the laughter of children feeding playful monkeys. He told her to borrow the King’s remaining strength to build that Temple within her heart, to become that Temple, with stout walls made of truth and justice, filled to bursting with the light of compassion that would throw back the darkness. He asked her to gather his love and carry it to the Flower in the safety of the Temple, to become his Messenger of Hope in the darkness.

  He told the King to summons his courage again, to gather his strength, to heal himself in the light of the Angel’s compassion, and to take his stand defending the gates of that Temple.

  The King and the Angel gave a great cry of fear and momentarily fell silent.

  Then the Angel took up the song again with the Challenge of Hope. This part of the song was simpler, with an easy melody and short verses. With each verse, first the King, then the people around us joined her.

  I will build with the strength of he who is strong

   a mountainside Temple of Peace.

  I will borrow compassion from you who have much.

   I will plant it and grow it within.

  If I can, I will be your Messenger of Hope.

  The Temple will grow to a Garden of Peace.

   Our King will defend it with Care.

  I will carry your Love to the Flower so true,

   who will blossom as our Tree of Life.

  If I can, I will be your Messenger of Hope.

  The fruits of the Tree will be wisdom and justice,

   mercy, compassion, and grace.

  Truth will shine bright in the darkest of groves,

   shadows bring cool, gentle rest.

  If I can, I will be your Messenger of Hope.

  I will search for the helpless to bring them new life,

   will seek out the lost in their fear.

  With hope, we forget old insults, old hurts.

   With hope, new friendship will rise.

  If I can, I will be your Messenger of Hope.

  Strong Hope sends me forth with warning and healing.

   Sweet Hope carries love, bringing joy.

  Wise Hope gives me confidence, courage and strength,

   growing Hope for a world reborn.

  If I can, I will be your Messenger of Hope.

  I must go, I will be your Messenger of Hope.

  The song ended as the Angel and the whole crowd promised in chorus, “I must go, I will be your Messenger of Hope.” The tune of the Challenge sounded like a lullaby, but in massed chorus, it was anything but sleepy.

  To myself, I thought, “Wow, and he told me to be careful.”

  Our waiter stood silently by the table, tears rolling slowly down her grief-stricken face. Sa’id glanced up and asked, “My Lady, is there some way I can help?”

  One of her friends from an adjacent table rose, calling softly, “Enya, what’s wrong?”

  Her eyes clamped shut as her shoulders shook. Slowly, she regained her composure, but the tears continued. Finally, she replied, “Forgive me. It is an old issue and insoluble. There is nothing you can do to help.

  “Ba, old friend, don’t waste your time at the Drunken Peddler, even if someone gives you a ticket. It will be a pointless debate. That is a pure love song.

  “It has been two endless years since the accident took my poor Henricus. I barely got to the hospital in time. The song says what he tried to tell me in the few minutes we had before he died. Ba, when the three of you started to sing, it all came crashing back. He would have sung that song to me if he could. I would have sung it for him, but I couldn’t even say, ‘I love you!’ All I could do was hold his hand and cry helplessly beside his bed. When he needed me most, I was useless.

  “He tried to tell me that things would get better, but what can I hope for now? He is gone forever and I am still here, alone.”

  I was awestruck by the wonderful Lunatic openness, the faith that other people would be sympathetic to her distress. Tears in my own eyes, I let the Cripple answer, “My Lady, when he needed you most, you came. Holding hands as you weep is the oldest and best love song the human heart has ever composed; it needs no words. He loved you and died knowing that you loved him, that he was the most fortunate of men. His last thoughts were filled with that love. You were his Flower and his Angel. He wanted you to build a Temple of Peace in your heart where the memory of his love could safely dwell. He wanted your love to blossom again in all its beauty, knowing you would bring joy to everyone around you.”

  She gave a heart-broken moan, turned and fled towards the back of the café where the washrooms would give a bit of privacy. Her friend from the other table hurried after her.

  After they left, everyone sat in stunned silence until a young man in a Commerce uniform a couple of tables over tried to lighten the mood. He gave me an exaggerated wink and declared, “Pah, that song is blatant propaganda, written by someone trying to suck up to the new Viceroy. The King defending the Garden of Peace, indeed.”

  His female companion cuffed his shoulder gently and told him, “Don’t be rude. He told Enya the truth she has needed to hear for the last two years. The song is an allegory filled with poetic imagery. The intensity suggests it might be based on a real love story, but like most Banshee songs, it is intended to bring warning and healing. Even the harsh version of the Rape of the Banshees does that.”

  And so, the debate started, drawing people in from the square until the proprietors of the two cafés removed the fence between their patios to hold the growing crowd. They cleared a circle where the fence had stood and placed within it a small podium where speakers could address the crowd. In a welcome release of tension, people cheered and booed, and demanded explanations from each speaker. Several sang alternative interpretations of different parts of the song, each of which became the focus of further discussion.

  The proprietor of the Merry Merchant joined the other waiters, selling food and drink as fast as the kitchen could provide it. From time to time he vanished to check on Enya. All he would say when he returned was, “Two years of pent-up grief released by one song.”

  A tough-looking woman in the long pants and shoulder belt of a maintenance worker declared that everyone had the Cannibal Terror wrong. They talked through the cannibal’s story as though they were news readers, but the piece was clearly two separate voices and should be understood as “The King in Defeat” and “The Cannibal’s Terror”. She acknowledged that the first rendition of The King in Defeat had been superb, but she took the podium and sang her own interpretation of The Cannibal’s Terror. I do not know whether her singing voice was always that rough, but it fit the piece perfectly, the cracked and broken confession of a warrior betrayed by her commanders, who now faced the horror of a public execution. The intensity of the crowd’s reaction told me that, even here on the Moon, the assassinations had made everyone fearful for their safety. Comparisons with current events on the ships were easy, but also dangerous, and were rapidly diverted in less threatening directions.

  As the crowd became larger, noisier and more engaged, Officer Rostov called for help and left to patrol the outskirts, all three Public Officers in the square watching for anything that might prove to be a threat. He did not relax until several more Public Officers arrived and Commerce sent their own security people to assist.

  2357-03-26 01:00

  Private Hopes and Fears

  The proprietor came over and offered us the use of a quiet room at the back of the restaurant since our me
eting had been overwhelmed by the debate. We settled in the room and Sa’id did a careful scan for bugs, removing three that were old and probably intended for a previous meeting. There must have been dozens of cameras and microphones trained on our table in the outside patio, but here we were relatively secure and had a good excuse to have left the more public venue.

  The Poloffs watched with suspicious approval. Finally, Poloff Vo stated, “No one would dare sing such an ambiguous song on Mars.”

  “Benevolent One, are you sure?” I asked. “When I lived there, people would have sung that song in every restaurant, bar, sports club, and debating society. Love, death, hope and fear were constant themes. Parents would have adapted the Challenge of Hope and sung it as a lullaby to their children. Love-struck boys would have sung the Warrior’s Love to their would-be girlfriends, who would smack their faces in reply or kiss them. Only the Cannibal Terror is overtly political, based loosely on real events at LUVN, but it is the most fictitious part of the whole song to my ears. Who would object?”

  Poloff Badami agreed, “Even the traitor might have a point there. I lived on Mars for two years and can easily imagine love-struck fools singing bits of that song, to themselves if no one else. And the debate we just saw struck me as wholly Martian. It could have happened anywhere, although the topic would probably have been art, dance, religion or philosophy. Every one of those has political aspects if anyone chooses to raise them.”

  She paused a few moments. “Besides, I can imagine that Shi Hongdi would want to rewrite the Challenge of Hope for use as an Imperial anthem. Did you see how everyone came together? That part of the song would appeal to his tastes. So, yes, it is a politically charged song, but very artfully done. Someday, if I live so long, I would like to meet the author and learn the real story behind it.”