Chapter Sixteen In Which an Illegal Concert Is Attended #3
Despite their reputation for discretion, it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that hyper-carriages might record travel data.
You hailed a hyper-carriage via your SmartGem or, if you were on the street, by flagging one down and allowing its sensors to scan your face and charge the credit account linked to your facial ID.
The thought made her uneasy. Of course, as any decent law-abiding citizen would say, there was no reason to fear such measures if you were not doing anything wrong.
But she and Daphne were doing something wrong. If anyone else found out where they were headed, they risked censure and a fine. And that was the best-case scenario. If anyone guessed their true motives in attending, if anyone guessed that they were digging into the accuracy of Heartsong—
“Everything okay?” said Daphne. “You’re being quieter than usual.”
“Should we be wearing disguises?” Zada asked. “Masks, perhaps, like at the costume ball. Everyone at the show tonight will see our faces—”
“Sure,” said Daphne, “but we’ll see their faces, too. This thing works because we’re all taking a risk to be there, every one of us.”
“I don’t know how I feel about putting my trust in strangers,” said Zada.
“It’s worth it,” said Daphne. She grinned at Zada. “And they’re not strangers. They’re fellow grotto rock enthusiasts. It’s everyone else outside the grotto you have to worry about.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever look at the hyper-carriage horses the same way again.”
“They’re creepy, right?”
Zada’s first instinct was to deny it. Sharing her data, sharing her every thought and feeling with the Core was an everyday part of life.
It was supposed to be for the good of New Ionia; you only had something to fear if you had something to hide.
But she and Daphne had something to hide now, and so she had something to fear.
When Zada said, “Yeah, it is creepy,” she felt a pressure lift from her chest just the slightest bit.
Gradually, she became aware of the sound of running water.
They’d reached the not-so-new New Pemberley Park, now gone to seed.
The thickets of weeds and vines appeared to be fighting a winning battle with long stone benches and towering fountains.
Across the distressingly soggy footbridge and through a glade, a small group of people were clustering around the mound of stone that demarcated the park’s carefully constructed artificial cave.
“The location changes nearly every time,” Daphne explained in an undertone. “They can’t afford a pattern.”
As they neared the cave, she couldn’t help studying the faces of her fellow concertgoers. Who were these people? What united them in taking on this danger? And was that Aubrey Audelay by the fire, balancing a large drum over the arm of their mechanized chair?
“Oh,” said Daphne, “looks like the music’s starting soon. Let’s get a good spot!”
Zada followed Daphne down to the cave, and then up over a jury-rigged ramp that looked at least more stable than the bridge.
When she reached the entrance, she gasped. Someone had lined the artfully rough stone walls with mirrors and lit candelabras. The fire flickered orange, reflected over and over on the glass behind it. Everything glittered, like a stolen diamond.
“—mirrors are so hopefully nobody gets too claustrophobic,” Daphne was saying. “They try to keep these open to all. That’s why we built that slope on the way in. Used to be a set of slippery little stairs.”
They found a spot close to the makeshift stage.
Zada watched the musicians set up and hastily tune their instruments.
Aubrey Audelay handled the drums and cymbals with the love and care of a parent carrying a newborn infant, and then rolled their chair behind the drum set, pulling a pair of sticks from their pocket and giving the snare a few experimental raps.
“Are they in the band?” asked Zada.
“They stepped in when their previous drummer had a baby,” said Daphne.
“It’s common for people to leave when they have children.
They get too scared to risk Extrication.
Nobody wants to be separated like that.” Even in the sputtering, leaping light, Zada could see the brief shadow that crossed her friend’s face.
“Anyway, Aubrey’s aces at the drums. I think they’ve got a lot of rage, you know? ”
There was a mix of ages here, but most of the concertgoers were around her age or slightly older. A majority were likely university students. The crowd filtered in, everyone talking in hushed tones. The echoes were strange and wonderful, bouncing around the cave much like the shards of light.
Zada tried not to stare at how many people were touching each other.
Casual arms around shoulders or waists, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
It was as if no one here was worried about sparking their Heartsong.
Perhaps it didn’t matter to the kind of people here.
If you were willing to break the rules for an evening of raucous music, one more rule hardly mattered.
“Good evening,” said the person at the microphone, who wore charcoal-colored coveralls painted with silvery marks that resembled the motion graffiti beneath Daphne’s favorite footbridge. “We are Hope Springs Nocturnal, and this one goes out to all of you who see this world for what it is.”
Aubrey struck up a beat, and the band sprang into motion.
It was more—well, musical than Zada had expected.
Even a casual listener could find a recognizable melody line, chords, bass, sometimes even a countermelody.
She’d been prepared for the singer to scream their lungs out, had heard the whole genre dismissed as mere noise enough times to steel herself when the lyrics began.
But the vocals didn’t sound like noise. They hit exactly the notes they were trying for, just with a rougher edge than anything Zada was familiar with.
They snarled, they howled—the emotions were all on display for anyone to hear, swelling to a positive crescendo, each feeling larger and more theatrical than the last. It should have been mortifying, akin to reading a stranger’s private diary.
But instead it felt like the sharp, exhilarating moment of triumph that rushed through you after executing a school prank, like this song was something both the singer and the listener had pulled off together.
The singer brought the vintage mic close to their mouth, singing every word from the pit of their belly. Hearing each new note was a minor shock, and so was how many people joined in. The singing, imperfect and rough and honest, rose all around them.
“The lies that they scream just make us braver, so open your eyes . . .”
The way everyone here acted like old school friends, the way hands touched hands and shoulders brushed shoulders, was all starting to make perfect sense. Everyone was already reaching out with their voices. What was one more point of contact?
She turned to Daphne, in her moody, dark eye makeup, nodding her head to the lyrics.
Daphne’s smile outshone the flames illuminating the grotto.
If it weren’t for the ban on unlicensed music, slander against the government, and unlawful gatherings, Daphne could have this all of the time.
It was a strange little thought, with nowhere to go in Zada’s head but around and around.
“So kiss my lips, and see nothing fall,” sang the vocalist. “No apocalypse, no ruin at all, and when the veil lifts, we answer the call . . .”
It was unquestionably treason, and it was impossibly foolish, and every word cut straight to Zada’s heart.
She was crying, she realized. As she wiped away her tears, she looked back up at the makeshift stage and her eyes connected briefly with those of Aubrey Audelay, who nodded once and then refocused on the drums, delivering a blistering solo that sounded a little like percussion and a little like six thunderstorms expertly stacked on top of each other.
The song ended. “So, what did you—” Daphne started, but she broke off when she noticed the shininess of Zada’s eyes. “Zades, are you okay?”
“I’m good,” Zada managed. The band was tuning up for the next piece. Zada bounced on her heels. “I’m good, Daphne.”
“Oh.”
Like it was nothing, Daphne threw an arm around Zada’s shoulders, and Zada squeezed her hand. They stayed like that for the next ten songs. Zada closed her eyes, full of music and goodwill for her fellow concertgoers and a sudden, almost disorienting absence of fear.
“You know,” said Daphne into Zada’s ear when the set was over and the applause finally died down, “Aubrey might know something. They have their ear to the ground.”
“What?” Oh, right, the entire purpose of them coming in the first place. “Of course,” said Zada, and they snaked through the crowd to where Aubrey was still sitting at their drums, downing a bottle of water.
“Hey,” said Aubrey when they saw Daphne and Zada. “Zada, I have to admit you’re the last person I’d expect here, but I guess it makes sense.” They nodded to Daphne. “I’ve got another single for you if you want it. Rare. The guitar solo alone will knock your stockings off.”
Zada glanced between the two of them. “Black market recordings?” she guessed.
Aubrey went very still.
“No, no,” said Zada, “if it sounds anything like all of this, I’m very in favor.”
“She’s safe,” said Daphne, and Aubrey seemed to relax.
“It’s what funds our, uh, extracurriculars,” said Aubrey.
“Do you mean the concerts, or something else?” Daphne said. “Care to elaborate, Aubrey?”
Aubrey leveled a drumstick at her. “Full of questions tonight, you two. Why, what do you need? Rowan told me about what you tried to do for Aiden and Flora, by the way. Sorry it didn’t stick.”
“You know Rowan?” said Daphne, eyes wide.
“We’re friendly,” said Aubrey with a shrug.
“So,” said Zada, “how much does that single go for?”
Daphne stared at her. “Don’t worry,” Daphne said at last. “I can spot you.”