Divas Bones

John Meaney

Reactors, formed of polished obsidian, moaned in the cavernous vaults. Supporting pillars of fluted bone stood in the shadows; around them, black flames licked upward, reaching toward the city above.

Necroflux hummed everywhere. Gelid air slid across my skin like a dead mans touch. (Do they think of this, up above? Not while they have lighting and warmth.) Down here, you cant ignore the facts.

I closed my mind to the whispers. They were strongest in the long aisles between the fusion piles, teasing the awareness. When I reached the wrought-iron stairs I climbed quickly, then caught my breath before entering the antechamber.

A uniformed flunky buzzed the directors office, and beckoned me toward a seat.

Can I take your overcoat, Lieutenant?

Im fine.

I dont like it here.

I forced the feeling aside. Pushing my hands in my suit pockets, I stared up at the black iron dragon on the wall: the glowering seal of the Energy Authority.

The heavy door clicked open, swung inward. I was halfway into the brightly lit office (checking out the deep-red carpet, the polished carvings from far Zuram) by the time he rose: lean, with a gray goatee, wearing a suit of heavy tweed. A silver watch-chain winking across his vest.

Lieutenant OConnor, is it?

I nodded. And youre Malfax Cortindo.

Good evening. He shook my handI caught a whiff of bottled lavender, but his grip was stronger than I expectedand motioned me to an elegant chair. Your commissioner was a trifle vague about how I might help.

He said I could ask for technical advice. I hesitated. Perhaps I should tell you about my case, and you can tell me what occurs to you. In confidence, of course.

Of course.

There had been four killings this year, in three different countries, involving famous stage performers. In each instance, the authorities spun a story of natural death on stage, which worked because none of the deaths was bloody: micro-caliber bullets in the first two cases, a neurotoxic dart in the more recent.

But journalists were not stupid, and their reports hinted at the truth without ever quite stating it in plain declarative sentences: a kind of muttering between the lines.

Youre investigating a homicide, I presume, lieutenant. Perhapsa body being stolen?

I looked at him for a long moment, not trusting him. But if I provided no information, what use was his advice?

In those four cases, two of the bodies disappeared immediatelyone in the confusion as fire swept through the theater, the other because an ambulance crew of impostors calmly bore the deceased awayand someone stole the third body from the family mausoleum. (Masked men without ID tried to remove the fourth body from its vault, but that time there were armed guards who fired first and no one asked questions.) Lets say, a potential homicide. My job was to make sure it didnt happen.

A conspiracy, then. Perhaps a death threat?

ISort of. I cleared my throat. No ones threatened anything overtly. But weve a likely target making an appearance in the near future, based on previous patterns. Im trying to understand the killers motives.

Director Cortindo fingered his goatee, frowning. Then his face cleared.

The Diva! He beamed a delighted smile, startling in these necro-industrial surroundings. Of courseMaria daLivnova is performing on stage, at theBrazhinski Theatre, is it? Its the Mort dArcturi, and the Diva sings the part of Lady Elena.

Unsettled, I stared at him.

Youve heard the stories, then. About the murders of famous performing artists.

But how did you guess?

I didnt like the way his intuition leaped so far ahead of my explanation.

It is my business, in a way, said Cortindo. And, sober now: Youd better come with me, Lieutenant. You need to see something.

In the vault, he removed a polished walnut case. Then he flipped up the brass catches, pulled the lid back, and turned the case toward me.

Gray-white bones, dry-looking on a red silk lining.

Go ahead, he said. Pick one up.

I bit my lip.

Im not sure I

Cortindos mouth twisted in an almost-smile.

Youll never understand what youre facing, until you do this.

Peaceful paradise enveloped me.

I was warm and happy in my abstract dreams: emerald swirling light; golden shapes which drifted and called to me; divine human figures who laughed and played, and sang on a silver shore by waves of liquid cobalt. Music, sublime, brought tears to my Something was wrong.

A plot in Paradise?

No.

Something, someone, wanted to tear me away from all that was peaceful, all that was forgiveness, all that was simply love.

NO!

Images rippled and tore.

No

And I hurled myself at the director with hands outstretched, going for the throat

Die now!

but he was too quick for me, snatching back the bones in his gauntlet-covered hands, backstepping and spinning awayso fastthen I came to my senses and stood there, chest heaving and panting, drenched with sweat.

Paradise. Fading now.

What the hell?

Well done, Lieutenant. Most people take longer to come to their senses.

I looked down at my empty hands.

At my palms, which had held those gray-white bones.

Ive trained since childhood in pa-kua, Director Cortindo added. Its a soft martial art, heavy on circular avoidance techniques.

Squinting at him, I swallowed, and said: I dont understand.

Otherwisewith a gentle smileId have had security guards in here with me. Its a wrench, when you leave the dream.

My eyes were watering, my head splitting with a stone-hard migraine.

A dream?

The bones induced a dream. A powerful alternative to reality.

A wrench, you call it. Thats a mild way of putting it.

If I wasnt here at the commissioners suggestionread: on his orderId be considering other words. Assault on a law officer. Obstruction while in the pursuit of official duties.

The timeCortindo took out his antique silver pocket watchis half past three.

I dont

But then I realized what he was saying.

I arrived at noon.

The bones dreams had held me in their clutch for over three hours.

And I felt like weeping, that Cortindo tore me away so soon.

He was an artist. Pedro dAlquazar by name. Director Cortindo stared down at the bones. Died in poverty before collectors discovered his talent, his true worth. Now his best pieces are priceless treasures, displayed in several national galleries.

He closed the walnut case, snapped the catches shut.

Because he died penniless, dAlquazars body came in with a normal shipment. But one of our thanatocogs sensed his difference, and alerted a team to rescue his corpse.

I watched him replace the case on a shelf inside the vaultplease dontthen step back out and swing the heavy door shut. It shifted the air pressure and my ears felt as if they might pop. I swallowed.

Then we left the vaults anteroom, climbed the steps into the cavernous main installation, while guards sealed up the iron door behind us.

Im still not sure I understand, I said.

Cortindo waved at the necrofusion piles that reared on all sides, nearly to the groined ceilings a hundred feet overhead.

What a waste of artistic boneswith a tiny shrugto be merely fuel for this.

We visited one of the two control rooms, situated halfway up one wall of the cathedral-like space. Technicians in black coats nodded at Cortindo, paid no attention to me as Cortindo gave brief explanations of the various instruments.

These dials here, he said, record the flux. Youll see theyre calibrated in meganecrons per square yard, for convenience.

Naturally.

He gave me a look. Over here, we monitor for resonance overload. In life, shadow-particles act as standing waves, changing the microstructure of the bones. We want clean waves averaged out to useful harmonics. Deviations can be dangerous.

I thought of the flux sweeping through the bones, the moaning, fragmented thoughts as necrofusion piles replayed shards of forgotten lives.

Cortindos voice droned on but I, hands in pockets, wandered over to the window and stared down at the long rows of reactors. My skin prickled, but not from stray radiation.

So many dead.

Ten thousand or more incarcerated in each pile.

If you could build a fusion reactor from a single persons bones, said Cortindo, coming to stand beside me, you might obtain clarity. But in these jumbled piles stacked to critical mass, what you get is demonic chaos. The vector sum of a mobs primeval fears.

And if you poked your head inside a reactors cladding?

Oh, Lieutenant. Cortindo gave a tiny shudder. You wouldnt want to do that.

Ordinary peoplepeople like you and meend up as part of the fusion piles, keeping those who live after us warm and happy. If any of our memories survive, replayed, they form nightmarish fragments of a vast demonic power harnessed for the common good. Nothing more than that.

But for the few, the gifted artistic few, the dreams laid down in their bones are beyond price.

And if you were a certain sort of collector, wouldnt you want to capture those sublime thoughts right now, when you yourself were alive to enjoy them, to be enwrapped in priceless visions?

Cortindo was right.

I needed to see that. Experience the dream.

Before, the motive was a vague, shadowy, theoretical thing: insufficient for the vast expense and risk involved. But now Hell, I understand it now.

But when it came to the modus operandi and the perpetrators identitymust there be more than one?I left the Energy Authority feeling more ignorant than when I arrived. Vision-remnants whirled in my mind, and that was bad.

Get control.

I stepped out onto a dank courtyard upon the surface, where a department car was waiting for me.

The airport, sir, is that right?

Quick as you can.

I slid into the back of the big old cruiser and slammed the door shut. The uniformed officers in front took the hint: the driver gunned the engine, screeched out of the courtyard, and hacked his way through fog-bound streets, running three stop lights in succession.

Someones horn blared. Cheeky bastard.

Lucky were in a hurry.

We got to the airport on time.

Good job.

Sir.

Someone opened the car door.

Theres coffee upstairs waiting for you, Lieutenant. Im afraid the flights delayed. Another 20 minutes.

Thank you, Sergeant.

A chilly breeze was pushing back the fog. I nodded to the men on duty, and went inside.

From the control tower, I watched as paparazzi set up position on the cold tarmac, then stood around with hands in overcoat pockets, breath steaming from beneath their hats, waiting for the photo opportunity.

Finally, it landed, and uniformed groundstaffalready vetted by the officers in placewheeled the stairs to the forward hatch.

They wont try here. I was almost certain of it.

She was first off the flight: descending the steps to a chorus of flashbulbs popping white, while the planes propellers still revolved.

Officers ringed her, and pushed through to the VIP lounge. I nodded my thanks to the control room staff who had put up with me, and headed off to meet Maria daLivnova, diva extraordinaire, high-profile target and a perfect trophy for certain persons unknown.

Couldnt you have visited some other city?

She would be awkward, I was sure, with an artistic temperament having little to do with practical considerations. And when I met her, that turned out to be true, more or less.

But I couldnt have known

I had no idea how stunningly beautiful she would be.

Officers surrounded her, but I did not see them. All that I could focus on was a pair of glistening dark enchanting eyes in an elegant ivory-skinned face. And that gaze, when turned on me, seemed to vibrate like a pure and wonderful perfect note.

But she was not beguiled by me.

Youll allow me privacy, Lieutenant. With ice in her voice: I require that. Meditation before the performance.

So beautiful.

This was a professional interview, and it would make life much easier if she agreed to the arrangements I described.

Ill do my best, maam.

Dismissively: Very well.

She scarcely registered my existence. No more than the furniture in the lounge, or the vehicle that was waiting for her outside. The Diva was wrapped up, I can only assume, in the coming performance and her part in it.

So very

Yet I might be the one to step between her and a killers bullet.

beautiful.

There was an escort of half a dozen cars, with armed officers in uniform, to take the Diva to the Hotel Pacifica which we had already secured. Plainclothes detectives were in residence in the rooms above, below and to either side of her suite.

If she truly was in danger, and the pattern followed that established in other countries, then the risk lay in the theater itself, during the performance.

So beautiful.

And in the middle of the night, that was where I went: the Brazhinski Theatre.

I prowled the galleries. I scoured private boxes and public balconies: tracking vectors, evaluating hiding-places, listing places of concealment and angles of attack, while the night-watchman and two patrolmen tracked my progress.

Too many places to hide.

There would be uniformed officers at the exits during the performance, and that helped. If the killerif there was a killerwas willing to commit suicide, then the situation was fraught. But if he wanted to make an escape, all right: I could ensure that his egress was blocked, publicly and visibly. He could take the Divas life only by giving up his own.

I still dont like it.

Because if someone was insane enough to want her dead in the first place

They would sing beautifully

I shook away the thought.

so beautifully, her bones.

What I had to do boiled down to three things. First, put prominent, visible security in place: better to discourage the perpetrators from trying than to be a hero and aim for an arrest. Second, keep watch during the performance itself. Track the audience members constantly; watch for anything suspicious. Be prepared to use deadly force among an audience composed of the citys most wealthy and influential citizens, where any action at all could cost me my career, and a mistakelike a bullet which missed the killer and struck an innocent personmight be rewarded with the hangmans rope.

I dont want to become a fusion pile component.

Oh, yes. The third thing.

I should not get hung up on the performance itself. If someone wanted to stageha!a very public killing, that would be an ideal place. But Id better not take it for granted. They could go for her anywhere: in the dressing-room, in the car journey to or from the theater. In her hotel suite. Anywhere at all.

My headache was coming back.

In my dingy apartment, I hauled myself through chin-ups from the exposed ceiling pipes, press-ups on the worn gray floorboards, and sit-ups with my feet hooked under the iron-framed bed. Deep knee bends, trying to avoid splinters in my bare feet.

Then I showered in the tiny tin stall, under a miserable trickle which gave out before Id finished rinsing off. Feeling scratchy, I sat down at the small kitchen table with half a pint of bourbon, twisted off the cap, and proceeded to drink.

That night I dreamed.

Of the Diva.

Day-shift started at eight. So it was at five oclocka.m.that I ran through near-deserted streets in my threadbare tracksuit beneath pre-dawn skies, along slick wet sidewalks where cracked lamps flickered. Steam rose from manhole covers. Occasionally, a low moan sounded from a wall-mounted pipe.

At the orphanage school, old Sister Mary Thanatos taught us that the sounds are caused by the passage of steam, the expansion and contraction of metal piping, and bear no relation to the dark source of that power. Thermodynamics, she used to say, and the properties of metals. Nothing to do with necroflux or the reactors beneath our streets.

But I could not help comparing those eerie tones to the groans of the dying, the sobs of the bereaved.

I ran faster.

And finally, performance night. The cars drawing up: stretch limousines, with their glittering bodywork. The uniformed chauffeurs who stood respectfully out of the limelight as their clients walked in finery along the wide red carpet leading into the theater.

The crowds: watching and milling.

No sign of weapons, of scowling faces, of a professionally blank expression which might hide a calculating killers mind.

If I were an assassin, where would I be?

I prowled, learning nothing.

But I was outside her door when the stage assistant, flushed and breathless with anxiety, tapped on her door and said: Miss daLivnova? Five minutes.

I checked my shoulder holster, drew my gun. Slid out the magazine, checked its shining load of copper-colored death-bringers, snapped it shut once more.

Reholstered.

Why, the glamorous detective! Its

The dressing-room door was swinging open, and her flawless features glimmered with a magic I cannot describe. And then she smiled.

My breathing stopped.

show time.

Nothing happened. Nothing untoward.

It was a miraculous performance, and the rousing finale paralyzed my heart. I was entranced, despite myself, by the spotlit apparition of the Diva on stage. For that moment she was unguardedcaptivating the souls of the people who were supposed to be guarding her: the other officers were awestruck toobut no shot rang out from the crowd, from the shadows beyond the bright-lit stage.

And then the swirling party afterward, the headache of observing glittering guestsdiamond tiaras, massive gold rings, bright smiles which widened with unaccustomed sincerityfollowed by relief, watching the kaleidoscope wind down in the early hours of morning.

Dangerous relief: I kept prodding myself into alertness, in case the killer struck now, in the emotional aftermath as everyone lowered their exhausted guard.

Finally, Commissioner Treevorrotund, dressed in his finest tuxedo with a crimson cummerbund: he had enjoyed the performance from his private boxcame up and delivered congratulations on a job well done.

Go home, rest. He waved a fat, unlit cigar. Youll be busy again tomorrow.

Yes, sir. Another night of being a glamorous detective.

But I waited one more hour, until all the guests were gone, then I followed the Diva and her twelve-strong uniformed escort to the hotel. She arrived safely.

Afterward, I stuffed my hands in my raincoat pockets, and shambled through the streets back to my tiny apartment where shadows waited for my return.

Some kind of glamour.

In this city, daytime never amounts to more than glimmering gray sky, forever weak. Dawn is a pimps contract with the world.

What I hate about switching to night-shift is that its hard to find a quiet place to run. Even when the citys office blocks are crammed with employees at their wooden desks fitted with pneumatic message-tubes, their important Bakelite phones, still the sidewalks are busy. I hate waiting at intersections for battered gray cars and purple taxis to pass, before running onward through the smog.

Thats why I run the catacombs.

Only the rich can afford to bury their dead away from the fusion pilesthe burial fee is 100,000 florins, which would pay my rent for decadesand thats one reason why the casings are of heavy polished brass, securely locked. They gleam as you run past, down ancient stone tunnels where few people tread.

Of course there are whispers.

One comes

Usually, I can ignore them as I run. Today my skin crawled.

Danger.

Upping the pace.

Danger and

I poured on the speed.

the beauty of the drawing dark.

Foot splashing in a dank puddle.

Do you feel it, calling?

Sprinting now.

Do you feel the song?

And then I was into the larger caverns, away from the tunnelsrelief!as the strange whispers slid away. I slowed to a walk, sweat-soaked, heart pounding with more than exertion.

Its never been this bad.

And I wondered, as I dragged myself up the worn stone stairs, whether these rich folks bones held knowledge as well as memory, echoed with more than fragments of a forgotten and extinct past.

Do you feel the song?

I reached the top, and banged on the door until the custodians let me out.

Second performance.

Lights, swirls: the songs, the magic. The spellbound audience. The darkness beyond, where the killer might wait.

The congratulations afterward.

Journalists. The fans.

And the wandering home alone when the glittering spell is done.

Next day, I ran along the sidewalks.

Neither pedestrians nor the traffic bothered me. Obstacles and smog, and waiting to cross the streetsthey slowed my run, but they did not whisper, and that was good enough.

Afterward, the water in my shower remained hot, coming out of the nozzle in a strong jet, for as long as I wanted. Later, my freshly laundered shirt and suit felt good against my skin.

Perhaps its going be OK.

But the third night was when it happened.

The final aria was sublime.

For all the magic of the previous performances, they might have been warm-ups, preliminary stages to a blinding spell which was surely the apex of the Divas career: a conjuration of sound and emotion beyond anything else the world could offer.

Killers be damnedI stood frozen in the wings, paralyzed, unable to take my eyes off center-stage, and the glorious figure who drew magic with her voice. Pure, silver voice, delineating the Lady Elenas grief over the body of her dead king. Rose to dizzy heights, a lowering, then the true finale. Sweetness. And the drawing off, a post-coital lovers embrace. The honeyed, drawn-out ending of the song to end all songs.

Afterward, nothing.

Stunned silence. Not even breathing.

My God

And then, a womans sob.

Like one being, the audience rose to their feet, and began to clap.

And then the cheers and applause rose to thunderous crescendo, echoed back from the great theaters cathedral-like space, the opulent boxes and gold-leaf painted galleries, filled with consensual joy.

From the wings, blinking tears from my eyes, I watched her bow.

The applause faded, petered out. There was a final clap, embarrassed.

Then a gasp from the balcony.

This was no standing ovation.

The entire half-dozen rows at the front, some 300 people in gowns and tuxedos, were on their feet. In silence. They filed out from their seats, stood before the front row, and stopped.

Then, one slow pace at a time, they advanced in unspeaking unison upon the stage, a bright and fearful hunger glowing in their eyes.

No. It was never a killer.

Black glimmering in the air above them: a communal magic, strong enough to draw illusions to rewrite witnesses memories. To make some into active servants, and to etch the minds of everyone here. Afterward, to alter their perceptions of what occurred.

Had the others died in this fashion?

Not a single killer.

That shining blackness held me frozen, like everybody elsethen something snapped inside meit felt like that, an audible crack in my brain as the trance-shift training finally kicked in: a professional reflexand I was free to move.

Yes, move.

She was paralyzed too, the Diva.

Held in place not by the black spell, but by terror.

Move now!

I sprinted onto the stage.

My arm caught her by the waist, sheer momentum carrying us onward, and then she was keeping pace with me.

Wait

A pause in the wings, while a threatening moan rose up from the audiencefrom the 300-strong ensorcelled segment at the frontbut the Diva clung to me as she kicked off her shoes.

All right. Which?

I tugged her toward the fire exit.

Run.

Sounds of pursuit, and a cold viscous shivering in the air. Run hard.

Furious questions boiled in my brain as we tore along the dank alleyway, ducked among shadowed cratesno, dont stopthen left the hiding-place to run onward, into a darkened street where the lamps were cracked and rats scurried out of sight as we hurtled past.

Questions. Could the audience be responsible for the killings: all members of the same conspiracy? Unlikely. More probably, they were held in thrall by some dark power. But either way, could they follow us?

And were there others, partners or servants, who might hunt us down?

I cant The Diva was gasping.

Cant stop.

I hauled her onward, along another deserted alley and then the narrow street, noting that her dress was ripped, catching a glimpse of ivory breast but discarding the vision, no time for messing around. Looking for the nondescript stone bunker I knew must stand nearby.

Not much farther. I squeezed her upper arm tight enough to hurt. Quickly, and we might survive this.

It crouched like a dark stone igloo, wrapped in shadows on the street corner.

Adrenaline must have powered her body because the Diva ran as fast as me, nearing the shelter. My police badge, shoved into the scanner slot, passed muster. The massive stone door swung open: silently, on well-oiled heavy-duty hinges.

Inside, I pressed the square red metal plate which caused the door to close behind us.

Safe? Perhaps.

It was quiet in here.

Which way, Lieutenant?

I pointed at the spiral stairs.

Down.

She was drenched with sweat, leaning against me as we walked the catacombs, heading for the only safe place I could think of.

Save me, she said, and the emotion in her miraculous eyes was genuine, even if it wasnt love.

I will.

But even as we hurried on, whispers slid across my skin.

So beautiful, her songs.

I pushed her roughly, increased the pace.

So beautiful, her bones.

Faster now.

Do you feel the song?

Moving through stone tunnels, past brass-doored tombs. Whispers of the dead tugging at my mind. Not enough to hide the clatter which sounded behind us.

Theyre following!

I drew my gun part-way out of the shoulder holster, replaced it. I know.

There was blood on her feet, crimson and strangely beautiful against her elegant skin, but the Diva made no complaint. We hurried until the great black iron doors came into sight, and I knew we had a chance of getting out of this alive.

Dragon, iron, looking down on us.

I dont like this place, the Diva whispered. Theres something here.

Drawing out my pistol, reversing it, I hammered the butt against the door.

I know. But this is where we have to go.

Slowlytoo slowlythe big doors swung inward, and a lean face peered out.

I flashed my badge as we half-fell inside.

Close the doors and bar them. Dont let anyone else in.

Yes, sir.

God help me, I froze solid.

A dozen fingers squeezed simultaneously, a dozen triggers travelled short arcs. A composite bang hammered the air. Bullets tore into her elegant torso, ripped her organs apart in a spattering gout of thick crimson blood.

That was the moment.

Im sorry

The moment I allowed to happen.

my love.

And then the rage.

Do you feel the song?

It was too late for the director. I stabbed fingertips into his eyes, clawed with murderous rage, then grabbed his jaw and hair and twisted, hard, as I bent him across my knee. A loud crack as vertebrae snapped.

I dropped his corpse to the floor.

Do you feel?

Around me, parazombies toppled, comatose. In need of thaumatomedical care.

Dying, the Diva shivered once on a widening, glistening pool of wine-dark blood, and her mouth formed an accusation her shredded lungs could no longer voice.

You promised

And then she died.

I dont know.

I will never knowwhether I hesitated from fear, or held back for that split second because of sneaking whispers from the spirits who wanted her dead.

Because I wanted her to die?

She didnt love me, the bitch.

Such a hard thought isnt mine. Cant be mine.

I risked everything for her.

Im a professional. I was doing my job.

Only my job.

But she was more than just another assignment.

If only shed loved me.

Hot tears track down my cheeks as I pick up her fine, blood-soaked body. I step over the fallen men, carry her away from this place of the dead.

So beautiful

Their whispers cling, try to draw me back, but I ignore them.

Do you feel the song?

On the surface now, I stand with my bloody burden in a small courtyard, beneath a blank night sky touched with emerald. The place is silent and deserted: whoever manned it, theyre down below, among the fallen.

Three cars are parked here, and I choose one: big and black, with hard fins and a wide, malevolent grille across the front. The trunk opens at my touch. I roll the Divas beautiful corpse inside, and slam the lid down.

Inside a booth, on hooks, I find the keys to all three cars. The unwanted ones go down a drain.

Do you feel the song?

The engine growls into life. I leave it running as I step over to the outer gatesheavy black iron, but finely balancedand swing them open.

Then I get back inside the car, and drive out onto the dark, cobbled street beyond.

Driving.

Into the mist.

Where am I going?

I have a vacation home, beside a silent black lake where no fish survive. Inherited from my parents, single-story and built from slate, with a deep cold cellar. None of my colleaguesI thinkare aware of its existence.

Do you

There, I will clean my treasures, scrape them into a pristine state, and store them on cushions covered with the finest silk. To hold that skull against my temple. To pick up those elegant metacarpals and kiss them, while in my spirit the song to end all songs rises to sweet and glorious crescendo, forever mine.

feel the song?

At least, until they track me downmy colleagues, or the dead directors secret alliesand we fight for the most miraculous prize.

Divas bones.

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