Something Wicked Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume Two Read online

  The Seventh City was smaller, the buildings less ornate, cubic by comparison to the soft curves of Third City, with hard, jutting angles and parallel lines against the sweeping wings and gentle arches of Third. Seventh City was purely functional. It moved with purpose, sleek and agile, its light mass enabling it to perform moves the larger cities could not. Its wake was a wide, foamy gash.

  Third City moved with slow confidence, watching the smaller rival flash and posture. Taking the lead, Seventh retaliated with quick manoeuvres and close passes. As it swept back around the larger sibling, crowds heard each other’s cries; strange accents and patois were thrown across the narrow gaps. Flags were waved and insults hurled.

  The Seventh was boisterous and ruthless, taking efficient steps to show its capability. In the eyries of towers and in roof gardens the aristocracy of Seventh giggled and gibed, titillated. Dressed in slim, fitted clothes, dark suits, starched and crisp, with sharp creases and formal ties, they lacked the ostentatious flourishes favoured by the citizens of Third City. Across canyons of steel and concrete, glass and silver, the well-dressed and gaudy lords and ladies of Third reciprocated, braying.

  In the parks of the lower levels, on the plazas of the ground floor, the servants and labourers spat profanities. Drunken and boisterous, men and woman in uniforms and overalls vented at their rivals. Hate and bile and resentment fountained from normally quiet, servile mouths.

  The practice hall is a large, cold space. It lacks the excess of the formal music hall in which I auditioned but it is clean and well kept. Along the walls and on the ceiling are the networks of wires and pipes, almost like capillaries, that seem to concentrate in the performance venues. In the centre of the ceiling, in front of the stage, they join, forming a single thick axon that snakes down to a circular control desk where the choirmaster sits with two technicians.

  They watch faintly glowing screens, lines that stretch from the left of the screen to the right, flexing in response to our voices. Projected over a table at the front of the desk is a guttering blue field that brightens briefly before dying. The field erupts in bursts of intense light occasionally - blossoms of brilliant azure.

  “Stop, stop, stop! Silence all of you…” The choirmaster stands and lifts his hand to quiet us while watching the monitor in front of him.

  He raises his eyes to study the assembled choir. The entire academy is up on the stage, the whole choir assembled in rows. The older boys are to the back, looming; I am at the front with the other new boys. The choirmaster scans us, eyes flicking to the monitor briefly before looking back to us. They settle on me.

  “Harin. You are disrupting the harmony, you need to restrain your natural tendencies, synchronise with the others.”

  My cheeks feel suddenly hot, the room spins. There are voices behind and to the left of me, exchanged whispers. I can feel my heart beating in my chest, as though my ribs are attempting to strangle the pulsing organ - a cage.

  “Boy! Harin!” I look up and see the choirmaster watching me. There is a smile on his lips, faint, a razor’s edge.

  “Don’t feel embarrassed. You have a powerful voice, a natural gift. Learning to meld your voice with others to create a single melody can be difficult, more so when your voice tends to dominate. You’ll get there though, and the control you learn now will help you later.”

  I feel myself smile. I look away and back to my feet again. I hear quiet giggles. I try to ignore them.

  “Now, let us try once again from the beginning. Listen to your neighbours and let your voices merge. You are to become a single song, in many parts, all in harmony. Remember the basic field mechanics you’ve been taught. Try not to let the fact that we have a performance to show off our new class in less than a week make you nervous.” Looking back to the monitor, the choirmaster lifts his hand to indicate we begin.

  As our voices begin to fill the rehearsal hall I focus on the blue glow that dims and brightens irregularly. I keep the choirmaster’s words in mind and control my breathing as I sing.

  It is my second night in the dormitory. I miss my old bed, the stale smell of the sheets, the stagnant, earthy reek of the pooled water and open drains. I miss the sound of my brother’s wheezy breathing. I wonder, as I lie waiting for sleep to finally come, what their new quarters are like. I won’t get to see them until the end of the term.

  Hushed voices carry from the far end of the dormitory. Most of the boys are clustered and laughing. Three of us are excluded; we make no attempt to join them.

  I lie on my side in the half darkness. I remember the pale blue of the field, how it began to solidify as we progressed, voices weaving together as we became accustomed to each other. After the practice, out of sight of our tutors, I had been pushed from behind, falling and scraping my knees and palms. The boy who had pushed me was from the senior class. The boys in my year had walked past, looking back at me only to laugh.

  Yim had stopped and helped me to my feet. He assured me that they would get bored eventually.

  The cities danced - an engorged island of glass and polished metal moving with lazy confidence, an island of brutally angled steel and concrete, matte, flitting with arrogant brashness - an old ritual. Third City ignored the aggressive manoeuvres of its junior, moving with stubborn slowness, forcing Seventh to dart out of its path. Seventh retaliated, cutting through the water, turning sharply, throwing high waves against the walls of its elder. The impacts resounded like thunder.

  Standing was at stake. The smaller city saw a chance to prove itself against a shambling rival, bloated and senile, while the larger refused to concede ground to an obnoxious adolescent. In the bowels of each, in the caverns carved into the rock islands on which the cities floated, massive engines hummed and throbbed.

  It was a gladiatorial spectacle for citizens in clashing finery, reflections across the separating gulf of tribal excess. The crowds of Third City roared as the voices of Seventh fell quiet, a resentful hush closing on the grey canyons of the city. Sensing victory, the roar of Third City grew louder - a taunt as Seventh City’s movements grew slower, the dance dying.

  Seventh’s sudden song drowned the cries of Third in a storm of melody. The sea boiled around the smaller city, the energy of the city’s music halls unleashed in one swift strike. The force of the blow sent cracks racing through the thick glass walls of Third City – mycelium decay spreading under the beating intensity of the echoing music - shards and splinters from towers plunged downward like deadly tears.

  Third was unprepared. The island city reeled under the impacts of Seventh’s Castrato. Around it, water frothed. Silver fish rose to the surface, dead. The screams, vomited from the open mouths of the gathered crowds in the streets of Third City, were unheard, muted by the song.

  I wake to the crack of thunder, the dormitory shaking and echoing. I can hear screams. The world is filtered through a haze of music, a soothing melody, a beautiful voice that burns and scours my mind. There is the brittle sound of fracturing glass.

  I hear the doors open, thrown back, and turn to face them. The choirmaster is standing, robes hanging from his shoulders, limp and wet. “Boys! Up already, you are needed immediately in the music hall. The choir song is needed.”

  The master is panting, barely dressed and hair wild. I can see his eyes darting. There is an explosion from somewhere behind him. It is distant but the room shakes in response. Faltering at first, growing quickly stronger, I hear a second song rise to challenge the first.

  The choirmaster looks behind him before snapping back to face us. “Quickly now, boys. Our Voice can deflect the worst of it, but he will need your song if he is to retaliate.”

  Some of the boys are already gathering at the door. I throw the sheets off and climb out of bed. Once we are all gathered, the choirmaster stands to the side and urges us down the corridor. We rush in silence to the music hall as he follows behind. The thunder has died down, less frequent now our song has been raised. Dust and debris is rattled loose from the ceiling a
bove, the corridor straining under the stress of the combating songs.

  Along the walls, the mechanisms carrying our defence and primary weapon pulse with a thrashing energy; the air fizzes with static. My heart is racing and my breathing is painful. I am half asleep. I try not to think about the importance of the choir.

  The choirmaster pushes past us as we reach the hall and opens the door, holding it wide for us to pass, rushing us to take our places on the stage. Most of the other boys are already present, bustling up onto the stage and into position. I am at the back of the line, the last through the door. I try to hurry as the choirmaster gestures frantically.

  I can smell ozone as I enter the hall; the air is dry and filled with fear. We push our way up onto the stage, eager to assemble. The choirmaster calls at us from behind to hurry. The floor is littered with lumps of reinforced glass - sharp edges like flint. There is little light. Spread across the walls like necrosis are dark networks of cracks, black fissures where chunks and large splinters have fallen free.

  “Quickly boys, into position now, there’s no time to waste. We’ll start with…”

  The voice of the choirmaster, standing just in front of the stage, is cut short. Sparks burst from one of the junction boxes above, showering the floor. I watch, frozen, as dagger-like shards erupt, blossoming from above - lethal rain.

  Fire and ice falls amongst us; I close my eyes and hold my breath. I exhale after what feels like an age, my lungs screaming. I inhale as I open my eyes; the choirmaster is lying prone on the floor, dark fluid pools around him. There are bodies to either side of me, I can hear boys behind babbling, incoherent with panic. I hear the sound of sobbing.

  I think of my mother as I listen to the songs. Behind the two battling voices that dominate, other themes evolve. I can hear and feel the tide of the conflict. We are losing, our Voice is struggling; without the choir we are lost. I think of my mother and brother, barely settled in the new quarters I have yet to see. I breathe deeply, tasting the bitter tang of smoke.

  I start to sing, my voice singular, strangled by a serpent that seethes in my lungs - it is the only song I can remember. My voice struggles to fill the hall. I am not even sure that the necessary mechanisms have survived intact. I try to force my breathing to calm, and listen only to my voice. I cling to my song.

  In the pooled shadows in the centre of the hall, the dark circle of the abandoned desk, a light flickers. A blue field arcs briefly, shuddering. It dies. I keep singing, I push harder. There is a clatter of conflicting melodies above and around me, they grow violent and storm. I hear the whisper of the city’s systems; hisses and gasps escape from junction boxes, the mechanisms struggling to convert my song.

  From behind, other voices join me, nervous and wavering at first but growing in surety. I listen to them and respond, allowing my voice to mix with theirs. They respond and we weave; the field above the console flickers again. It grows bright before dimming, but does not extinguish completely.

  Others join us and follow me. I find myself leading the song. I focus on the dim field of pale blue - a summer sky. I focus on how it responds to my song, to our song. I let it lead me and I, in turn, lead the choir. The field grows bolder and holds.

  As the field solidifies into an absolute, the hall glowing pale blue, spectral, I see light flicker along the axon from the desk. Luminescent blood, pumped upward, spreading outward as our song is carried away. I hear the music of the city change. Our Voice grows stronger as the other fades, dying as it is filtered through our field.

  I hear our Voice grow in passion, his energy resonating through the bones of the city as it attacks. Supported by us, he turns, free to manoeuvre. I hear the elegance and dexterity in his song, I learn from it, study his song, weave it into my own. The field glows brighter; the chorus follows me.

  Third City limped - crystalline forms fractured, the engines whining, injured, crowds screaming - as the Seventh shuddered under its song. Concrete fell like dry skin from cracked hands in winter winds, and the smaller city whimpered. Their song, unable to penetrate the shield of the larger state, turned on itself. Melodies crumbled, pierced.

  Defeated, Seventh retreated with clumsy manoeuvres as though concussed; bloody crowds in the streets of Third roared, victorious, from behind a screen of flickering blue haze. The song of Third, grown bold, lashed out, an emotive chorus of glory. The sea thrummed with the resonating hymn. White-crested waves spread out from Third City, a carved slash chasing Seventh.

  A trail of dark grey tainted the clear blue above as Seventh fled, smouldering. Third was left wounded, floating alone in the calming ocean. Their song faded, the surrounding shields flickering out. Silence returned, mournful. The crowds dispersed. Glass streets, littered with splinters of crystal and shards of polished metal, were hushed. Only the cries of the injured broke the solemn spell.

  I sit on the stage, exhausted and shivering, suddenly cold and nauseous. I sip at the warm, sweet tea the matron handed me. I am wrapped in a coarse blanket, sat with several other boys. We watch vacantly as nurses tend to the injured. I was fortunate, it’s just a minor graze. Others were not so lucky. The matrons remove the dead beneath sheets, white linen stained with dark patches of claret.

  I look around, searching the crowd for faces I recognise. I hear a commotion at the doors to the hall, see a small crowd push past the matrons attempting to bar entry. My mother is among them. My vision blurs as she rushes to me, I feel a knot in my stomach untangle. I stand to embrace her; she hugs me. I can feel her uneven breath and beating heart.

  “Harin … when I heard about the choir’s hall I feared … I am glad you are safe.”

  I content myself to hug her. She smells different. The earthy smell of my old home has been replaced by an aroma of engine grease. She has moved up. I pull back and look at her. She looks healthier.

  “I am fine, mother. No injuries. And Trac? How is he?”

  “Your brother is fine, I left him at home to help. He is uninjured but … there are many casualties in our section.”

  “How is the new home?”

  Mother makes as though to answer, but a noise from the back of the hall causes her to turn before she speaks. I look around her to see a well-dressed crowd entering. The matrons separate to allow entry, clearing a wide path. In the middle of the assembly, puffing with exhaustion, his cheeks flushed, I see our Castrato.

  He pushes his way through the buzzing gentry who fawn and praise him, doting and flattering over his performance. He moves immediately toward the stage. His steps are clumsy and tired.

  “Where is he? I want to see the boy.” He climbs the stairs to the stage awkwardly, stands at the front and shouts, barking.

  I look around, the other boys are staring at me. They say nothing and look at the ground to avoid eye contact. Our Voice follows their line of sight and sees me. He breaks into a smile and I feel my stomach turn cold.

  “You. Harin, wasn’t it? It was you? The voice that raised the choir song?” He walks toward me and stops in front of me.

  I am unsure what to say. My mother stands behind me and squeezes my shoulder, I can feel her nerves through her shaking hand. The crowd of lords and ladies bustles up onto the stage and assembles the seat behind our Castrato. They urge him to sit, to rest.

  He obliges, sits, and looks back to me. “You have no reason to worry, boy. Be honest and answer me. Was the voice you? Did you raise the choir?”

  I nod - I am unable to speak. Our Voice laughs, claps his hands together and his smile broadens. “Marvellous. You have a rare gift, boy.”

  Our Castrato leans forward, he lifts his hand to my cheek. He strokes my cheek with his thumb, cupping my face with his palm. He smells of perfumed hand cream, his flesh is sweaty and cold. I stifle the urge to pull away.

  “I am in need of a new apprentice. An unfortunate outcome of the attack, poor Yim … but still, even if that were not the case, your voice would highlight you for great things.” I can see the other boys staring at m
e with hard expressions.

  As I catch their eyes they look away from me - another barrier between us.

  “What do you say Harin? It would be an immense honour for your family. Quarters above ground with a view of the sea, and you’d be taught by me personally. You’d be trained to be the next Voice of the city. There is no higher honour.”

  I can feel my mother behind me, her fingers dig deep into the flesh of my shoulder. A view of the sea, her son the city’s Voice; I have no choice. I nod, force a smile.

  “Excellent.” Our Voice takes my left hand in his right and squeezes.

  “Now, the medical facilities will be busy for the next few days, but, we’ll be able to schedule your surgery within the week, I’m sure.”

  I see and hear and feel the lords and ladies congratulate me. They tell my mother how proud she must be, offer me words of praise. I am numb to it.

  Illustration by Hendrik Gericke

  ‘It Pays To Read The Safety Cards’

  IT PAYS TO READ THE SAFETY CARDS

  BY R.W.W. GREENE

  Alot of people cheered when our space plane docked with the Sam Walton but I wasn’t in the mood. The ride up was terrible. First I felt squashed, then I felt like I was falling, then I just wanted to puke. The flight attendant had handed out anti-nausea gum before we took off, but people were throwing up all around me. A couple of rows back, someone missed the barf bag and vomit bubbles floated by my head. The attendant captured it with a net. Gross.

  “Ten years ago, this would’ve cost you half a million bucks,” my Dad said when we strapped into the plane. “We get to fly for free.”

  Mom had smiled, but I could tell she wanted to cry. She’d been tearing up off and on since we said goodbye to Grandma last week.