NOT THEIR KIND OF PLACE

1560 4D

The roar began as Drasstar emerged onto the little stage. It was a packed house. As the crowd lowered its approval to a steady hum, the rest of the band came out and sat in a semicircle in one corner, and then I stepped out and threw aside the cape.

Joovlies went wild. Andro screeches and chatters zipped through the shouts and yells, mostly in alto and soprano, and I walked across to where the others waited, my body’s patterns of light and dark shifting quickly. Heat rose inside me. My breath came shorter. I hoped, not looking down, that everything was in place. My muscles felt tight and hard, as if I had been in conditioning training for many days.

We had agreed to start with a newer piece. The first chords pulsed out. Grioskin tattered the beat, then strode ahead with a fiery rhythm, the others tracking in one by one. I started to sing.

As if he was standing by me, my father’s presence filled me, and I remembered his face as it had been when I was very small. I sang to him, and the frown left his face, and he smiled. The beat urged me. I bit down on the words, Thringe‘s words, and began to fire them out in salvos of longing and sadness. The beat doubled: anger. Now molten metal flowed through me and into the crowd, and I spotted a young woman, eyes wide in surprise and fear, and I sang to her. The tempo slowed, soothed. The man beside her moved closer, comforting her, and she leaned into him. Now I sang to him, and his eyes stared, mesmerized, at me.

Song after song, and the hums of approval after each one rose, even with the instrumentals, until Drasstar raised a hand.

“It’s time for a break,” he announced. “Go or stay, we’re here to play.” Through the crowd’s supporting din, we headed off to the dressing room, where fresh water was waiting.

“That was good,” he added as we drank. In the doorway, four men appeared, dark-clothed. “What can we do for you?” Drasstar asked them.

“This is the Thringe band, isn’t it?” one man asked. “We’re officers from the Cyber Investigations Bureau, and we wanted to ask you a few questions about yesterday.” He turned to me, displaying a datacard with a City emblem. “You’re Winjilles Thringe?”

“Yes,” I said. The CIB! Whatever was going on with the andros, this was serious. The Hounds chasing Jeddin worked for the CIB.

“Someone matching your description was seen in an investigation area. That is illegal. We would like to verify that it was not you. Were you in Deep Wedge Fourteen or near that area during the last few days?” He watched my face closely as he spoke.

“No,” I said. “There are a lot of people dressed like me in the streets during Tanmar Fest.”

“That’s true,” he answered. “Now please take a test for us to verify your status. We need a small sample of your blood.”

My mind raced, and I suppressed an urge to look at Drasstar. This test would show them that I was human. What would they do? In despair, I said, “Sure.”

One of the other two men, both of whom were shorter and broader than Drasstar but all muscle, beckoned. “Your left hand, please.” A voice like a grater.

I held out my hand. He held a small sphere up against my palm, and I felt a tiny nick of pain.

He said, “Thank you. If we need to contact you you will be here?”

“We’ll be here.” Drasstar spoke before I could respond.

“You too?” The first man looked me in the eyes.

“Of course,” I sniffed. I decided to play this to the end.

The three men left.

“Oh, mother,” Grioskin hissed. “As soon as they run the test, they’ll know. What are we going to do?”

“Finish the show,” Drasstar rumbled. “Let’s just finish the show. We’ll play and think.” And we filed back out onto the stage. The three men were not in the audience.

“Not their kind of place, I guess,” Rashua whispered to me.