"Hey," Jonathan said, "I heard you boys were looking for me?"
Hands were shaken, admiration was expressed, someone got Jonathan a cup of coffee. Five minutes flat, and he was sitting on the couch, klieg lights shining in his face, sincere talking head leaning in toward him with an expression built to convey gravity and concern.
It was fucking sweet. Right up until it wasn't.
"How do you respond to the accusations that you've sided with terrorists?"
"That's stupid," Jonathan said. "And anyone who says it doesn't understand anything about how international politics works."
"But you have come to the defense of a group that's been accused of sheltering the Twisted Fists."
"Well, accused, sure . . ."
"And the assassination of the Caliph."
"These people didn't assassinate the Caliph," Jonathan said. "There were kids dying out on the road. Kids! You think some eight-year-old joker kid killed the Nur?"
"Right, and you also said in your blog that these people didn't kill the Caliph. You have investigated the alleged link between the Living Gods and the Twisted Fists, then?"
Jonathan tapped his fingers on his knee. "I've been a little busy being shot at," he said. "But I am perfectly comfortable that no such connection exists."
"And how would you reply to the critics who say that westerners—especially self-styled crusaders like Lohengrin and religious leaders like Holy Roller—represent an unacceptable western interference in the internal affairs of Egypt?"
"I probably wouldn't," Jonathan said.
"So you don't think there is an issue of national sovereignty here? You are a group of aces not affiliated with any government entering into armed conflict with the military of a legitimate state. How do you see that as different from a terrorist organization?"
"They were killing people," Jonathan said. "Okay? Innocent people were dying. And we stopped it."
The reporter seemed to sense an unpleasant stinging sensation in his future. He smiled and nodded as if he were agreeing with something, then changed the subject. "Will your forces remain in Syrene when the army of the caliphate arrives?"
"We are going to stay here until we're sure that . . ." Jonathan held up a finger and licked his lips. The klieg lights seemed hotter than they'd been at the start of the interview. The couch had developed some uncomfortable lumps. " . . . army of the caliphate?" he asked.
"You didn't know the new Caliph has sworn his support for Kamal Farag Aziz and his Egyptian government? His troops have been on the move for days."
"Army. Of the caliphate. Ah. Well. That's probably a pretty big army, huh?"
The reporter shrugged. Jonathan got the feeling that the guy might be enjoying this opportunity to make the blogger look dumb.
"About three times the size of the Egyptian forces. And the Caliph's aces Bahir of the Scimitar and the Righteous Djinn," the reporter said. "The Caliph says that this kind of western adventurism is a threat to all sovereign nations of the world, and that your defense of terrorists places you in violation of international law. The Caliph also says he's taken the secretary-general of the United Nations into protective custody to prevent his being attacked by the citizens of Cairo who are outraged by his apparent support of your cause."
"Ah," Jonathan said. "Huh."
"Do you have a response to that?"
Jonathan blinked into the lights. He wished Fortune was nearby; they needed to talk. They all needed to talk. A lot. And right now.
"Jonathan," the reporter said. "This is your chance to make a response."
"Oops?" Jonathan suggested.
19. Incidental Music For Heros
Incidental Music for Heroes
S.L. Farrell
THE WORLD ROARED AROUND Joker Plague: a barrage from the stage amplifiers; the black boxes of monitors taking the roar and hurling it back; the massive cliff-wall ramparts of the sound system thundering to either side of the stage; the crowd screaming; slap-back from the rear walls of the auditorium a second assault; the insistent rhythm of the song a hammer pounding at them.
To stage left, Bottom thumb-slapped his Fender Precision, his ass's head nodding aggressively in time to the music. Michael felt rather than heard Bottom's bass, a solid minor pattern caught in lockstep with the subsonic pounding of Michael's bass drum, the lowest of the tympanic rings set on his body. Shivers, his appearance that of a demon snatched directly from the fires of hell, stalked stage right before a wall of Marshalls, his blood-red guitar screaming like a tortured soul in hands of the same color.
Next to Shivers was S'Live, floating behind the ranks of his keyboards like a garish hot air balloon painted with a face, multitudinous tongues flickering from a too-wide mouth to punch at the keys. And, in the gel-colored clouds of dry ice fog drifting at the front of the stage, there was something: the ghost of a thin body caught in the floodlight-colored wisps and gone again, a wireless Shure SM58 microphone floating in the air before it, though no hand seemed to hold up the black cylinder. There was a voice, though—The Voice: a powerful baritone that alternately growled and purred and shrieked the lyrics to "Self-Fulfilling Fool."
She says she loves you
And you—you wonder why
You can't see how could that be
When you don't love yourself
For you're the only one who could
At night when there's no one else there
At night when the walls close in
You're the only one who might care
You want to believe them
You don't want them to be cruel
But when you look in the mirror
What looks back is a self-fulfilling fool
Michael—"DB" to his band mates and most of his friends, "Drummer Boy" to much of the world—heard mostly The Voice. He wore earpiece monitors to dampen the 120+ decibel hurricane, with only The Voice's vocals coming through his monitor feed. He could hear his drumming quite well, resonating through his body, and no earplugs could entirely shut out the unearthly cacophony of the stage equipment.
Michael loomed at center stage, pinned in spotlights, his six arms flailing as he beat on his wide, tattooed, and too-long torso with his signature graphite drumsticks, the multiple throats on his thick muscular neck gaping and flexing as they funneled and shaped the furious rhythm. He wore a set of small wireless mics on a metal collar around his upper shoulders. While the gift of his wild card talent gave him more than enough natural amplification to be heard throughout the auditorium, the volume would have been uncomfortable for everyone on stage and in the first rows: it was easier to let the sound system do the work. He prowled the stage as he drummed, the actinic blue of the spots following him as he danced with The Voice in his cold fog, grinned at Bottom's driving, intricate bass line, screamed his approval of Shiver's searing licks, or swayed alongside S'Live's saliva-drenched tongue-lashing of his keyboards.
For the moment, he thought only of being here. It was what Michael loved about being on stage: for those magical few hours he could leave the rest of the world behind. For that time, there was only the music.
La Cavea, the outdoor venue at Rome's Auditorium Parco della Musica, could accommodate 7,000 spectators. There were that many and more packed into the seething mass of humanity in front of him, a dark, fitfully-lit sea of heads bobbing in time to the song, fists pumping their approval back to the stage, their energy fueling Joker Plague's performance in an endless feedback loop. The pit in front of the stage was a tight crush; out in the auditorium, everyone was out of their seats and standing. Against the night sky, the beetlelike shell of the Parco della Musica loomed, caught in blue and red spotlights beyond the tall ranks of the upper balcony.
It reminded Michael uncomfortably of an Egyptian scarab.