Lupe Sebiestor - Part IV

The Hotel Lux-Tarantor anchored one of Crystal Boulevard’s terminus points, fusing every cultural meme in the galaxy into a towering wedding cake of beams, arches and domes. Because her decorative arts conveyed inclusion so extravagantly, Quafe booked the edifice to host persons of interest during each capitol performance. Sebastain Ecce, the corporation’s chief marketing officer, stepped crisply through vaulted salons at the summit. Glitterati buzzed congratulations as he passed. The “Winds of Change” Tour was his brainchild. Earlier stops in Caldari and Matari space continued to resonate. What would Amarr bring? Ecce smiled over his unvoiced concerns: what, indeed?

Watching from streets, balconies, and catwalks embracing the Boulevard was on one level even better than being aboard the liner: not as exclusive, but the audiovisual stimulation could not be matched. Cyclopean structures and atmospheric projectors waited upon Producer General’s command to unleash the most advanced immersive experience imaginable. Moments from curtain, Ecce migrated with his luminous guests toward the soaring windows. Staring into the Boulevard’s gullet, even the jaded anthropologist felt pangs of anticipation. “My privilege and honor to present,” Saroux’s distant voice intoned, “Lady Ghiselle Arghelos.”

Painted in flashes of light and swaths of darkness, amplified by lossless speaker rigs that eschewed all distortion, Sophia’s Requiem soared over a sultry night’s metropolis. If perhaps indifferent to Amarr’s superstitions, fashionable youth certainly appreciated the tectonic force of that choral thundering – gloriously accentuated by Producer General’s abstractions of charging, luminescent stallions. The power of the soprano’s voice did not require an understanding of the ancient words sung; and miles tall, her Amarratti veil transformed into titanic leviathans. At such scale, Sevat’s mandalas traced labyrinths of streaked henna. Ecce dictated a cybernetic memo: he wanted mandalas on models by morning. As Ghiselle’s exhortation of the divine built to its climax, Etienne Saroux drew a solar eclipse on the horizon with the bewildering brushes at his disposal. Confronted by a vocal cascade from a hole in the sky, the assembled millions questioned their previous indifference: if there was a God and that God had a voice, it certainly sounded like this. Light faded; the mob contemplated.

“It’s said,” Ecce observed wryly, “all Amarr wants from music is to listen for God in darkness.”

After several minutes, Luminaire’s stirring quiet shattered abruptly beneath the heavy feet of Qaim Bok. The gargantuan Brutor beamed his expansive smile, laughed his booming roar, and set the stage on fire. Dressed in brassy plates from head to foot, the giant and his dancers interpreted lost hymns as Imperial fleet formations. His audience, transfixed through the first act, remembered how to dance. Faster and faster, stronger and stronger, Bok pushed them to the edge of stamina and chased his cast from the stage. As flames died, he ended with his own telling of the Twin Wolves. Echoing the requiem’s crescendo, Bok maintained a howl on his voluminous lungs, leaving the city Moon to replace eclipsed Sun.

Moonlight suited Zan Mareiyaa.

The wizened Achura pulled an antique bow across his stringed contraption – members of his precise quintet following in turn – and a chill tickled the humid night. Mareiyaa sang in sonic greys, the sound of an ink painting. Lights softened to blue and rust. The audience visualized frozen seas and wind through ancient trees. This was the land of the Twin Wolves on another world, where the snow leopard stalked perpetual twilight as mountain queen. Most consistent of the “Four Winds” in his approach, Mareiyaa inspired awe through a voice like advancing glaciers and inhuman mastery over his instrument. His technique confused minds into seeing what they heard. He did not end with voices falling from the sky or Fenrir’s cry, but the sound of an owl gliding over snow.

Three stunning performances, and accolades directed at Ecce by his guests reached fevered pitch. Who but the Wizard of Brand could have anticipated everything progressing so well? Politely excusing himself from the peak, Ecce took advantage of a long intermission before the finale to descend toward the street. He wanted to feel how much trouble they were in. Already, neural links hummed with conjecture from pundits: that editor had a point way back when, didn’t he? Charming and talented as the pop star might be, Babelle did not belong on the same stage as these three. The best “Quafe’s Boy” could do now was to avoid mistakes and prepare for a triumphant home opening.

But there were rumors the idol planned a “surprise,” weren’t there? Ecce understood that completely containing Babelle’s intentions would have been impossible. At least discipline held to “rumor.” How would it turn out? The Wizard of Brand lived in odds, and odds told him Babelle would stumble in front of the universe. Ecce and his team would then work feverishly for redemption above Luminaire: classic formula, triumph of the underdog, etc. – like they planned it.

Still, failure hurt.

In the thick of the crowd, Ecce felt dawning apprehension. Gallente’s prideful revelers understood the charismatic celebrity representing them was seventeen. Yes, the boy was an accomplished dancer of extreme physical attractiveness. But he could not match what they had just seen. The crowd further understood this meant the Federation was about to be embarrassed by a concert only it made possible. The others would never have tried. The Tour was meant to unite, and unite the others would… in mocking Federal culture.

“And finally,” rumbled Saroux’s magnificent Gallente voice, “Javierre Babelle.”

Projections focused initially on red mist, then fell to a muscular arm stretching to a hand twirling scissor-like knives: “hell cicadas.” Attached to a central ring, the blades faced one another and could spin about quickly, producing a harsh sound as they rubbed. Useless in combat, the weapon served as a totem for ritualistic torture popular with Raider Covenants. Gasps preceded a quickening thrill – and dread. To open Red and Gold, D’har Mec snapped two cicadas like grim castanets. But popular as the story’s adaptations were in the Federation, few considered it “high art.” This could end badly. The projections retreated to fully reveal Babelle – drenched in crimson and wrapped in his little vine. The screaming started then. The star’s ardent fans surged to press hands against any surface touched by his image. Ecce considered such displays unhealthy and demeaning, but relaxed somewhat. The mob had been shown a vision of paradise, and that it seemed would be enough for them.

“That’s one question answered,” clucked a Gallente pundit smugly. “The young gentleman does not stuff his pants after all.”

Ecce brushed Federation commentators from his mind. The crowd’s reaction was enough. What did the others think? Matari sounded bemused. Caldari held their opinions. A.C.N. cut to a distinguished Ni-Kunni choreographer. Did he have something to do with this? “Only a small part,” the man insisted. Perran Soif emerged and the crowds went insane. If anyone could pull this off, it was her! Layered in diamonds and gold, the actress struck a pose. Spectacular costumes accounted for half the role’s great difficulty. Because Babelle’s strongest talent fell in dance, the production stuck to a strict interpretation of Amarr’s royal ballet – no singing required. The severe posture and precise motions of that style, however, created a death trap for outsiders. They frequently fell into parody; or, to avoid that, remained timid. No one doubted Babelle’s skill in “street trickery” could meet the technical challenge, but few believed the teenager could restrain an urge to camp it up.

The Blood Dance progressed as challenge and answer in Flamenco Torsad. Manipulating the cicadas came easily to Babelle’s dexterity. As he slashed, mist exploded to symbolize a torturous strike against some hanging victim. However, blades were not Mec’s primary weapon against the princess. He communicated lethality through muscle tone, shifting the tension beneath his skin: strong, quick and focused. It was an advanced technique Ghiselle recognized as second nature in Bunnibal. Babelle learned quickly, and almost possessed a body to match. Slash stomp kick, other dancers fell to spinning blades as he circled Naboahe, grazing her with lethal tips.

The princess had none of his threats, however, and pounded her own seductive rhythm. Behind him like a cloak, she held Mec’s arms with her hands to still the blades, pulled down onto his chest, and lower. Along Crystal Boulevard, the jet turbine of adoration screamed into higher revolutions. Saroux played the crowd, shifting cameras around the idol to taunt with quick visions of all they could desire – and then away. How the faithful howled! Ecce retreated to the Lux-Tarantor. There would be no need for an underdog’s redemption. Babelle would simply triumph.

The boy did make mistakes. With each, Soif grabbed a tender spot, and in that same gesture revitalized her costar and focused the crowd elsewhere: look what I have! Finally, A.C.N. wondered aloud if the Ni-Kunni monopoly on Mec was in danger. Not yet, their choreographer demurred. Yes, Babelle performed well; but Perran Soif was a woman possessed. Perhaps Ghiselle Arghelos had actually trained her replacement. Watching from sidelines, the diva smiled. She had not obsoleted herself, but furthered the art – and tied a second interstellar superstar to her House.

The ballet blurred through conquests to a final dance. Cardinal Tezzan’s fleet had pinned the lovers in a forsaken pocket of Querious. On a haunting set, they waltzed together with apparitions of their legion victims, brushing each with liquid sensuality. Having been dominated by Naboahe to this point, the time had come for Mec to turn the tables. For that, Babelle leveraged his physical experience with the Lupe, pressing Soif with such insistent subtlety that light years away, adoring multitudes melted imagining the touch. One hand behind firmly, fingers gentle against her forehead, Mec dropped into a tender kiss. On Luminaire, the screaming faded into whimpering, frozen silence. Cardinal Tezzan’s brilliant fusillade commended the sinners to Hell – and Javierre Babelle to history. At last the ancient choreographer conceded: his people’s monopoly on Mec had ended in a Gallente teenager. “But,” the man smiled, “only through the relentless will of two uniquely gifted women.”

But the Federation saw only triumph – and in relief, was happy to share.

Lupe Sebiestor - Part III

The “Four Winds” set course for Amarr and Javierre Babelle became a fixture in Ghiselle’s breakfast nook. The young star wanted to emulate her Pator surprise, to shake expectations – break the box! But the risk unnerved him. For Amarr, his staff planned a magnificent ball with waltzes, tangos and fox trots. It would sizzle with chic fun. Everyone would clap and the critics would write pleasing reviews of a good time had by all. Babelle did not want to fail those who put so much into making him a star by falling on his service mark.

Did that mean he should stay in the box?

Ghiselle insisted they spend the rest of the morning watching “Red and Gold.” The story of the Sani Sabik D’har Mec and Princess Naboahe had ruled Amarr’s musical stage for centuries. At the play’s outset, Mec ambushed Naboahe’s transport, murdered her crew one by one, and showered in their blood. Naboahe used that time to seduce her captor and turn him against political rivals. Through awkward, savage moments, love conquered both. Fleeing past obligations, they set off for distant stars. Pursued by raider and imperialist alike, the young couple ultimately crashed headlong into Fate aboard a battleship “drenched in the souls of its countless victims.” They would reunite in Hell, plotting conquest of that infernal domain.

Though initially conceived as a morality tale exhorting duty over heart, the intervening ages had swung audience sympathies to the lovers. Scandalous costumes, graphic sexual acrobatics, spectacular sets and three sword dances fused with Amarr’s ferocious demand for vocal excellence to make “Red and Gold” one of the most daunting productions in space. Soon after discovering it, the Gallente giddily reinvented its story year after year. From impeccable staged presentations to late night screenings where teenagers licked raspberry sorbet from one another’s nipples to assert their wickedness, demand for “enigmatic vampires” on Luminaire outpaced that of even Dam-Torsad’s insatiable glitterati. However, while Gallentean debauchery and masterful choreography rarely disappointed, Amarrians remained dismissive of superficial emotionality. Sin and heresy were not fashion statements to that people. Sure as God’s wrath, if characters were heretical sinners, they damn well better mean it. Bright as he was attractive, Babelle caught Ghiselle’s drift: take ownership of “Red and Gold.”

Immediately, his staff felt under siege. They begged Rengal to intervene: why would Lady Arghelos put such a notion into a teenager’s head!? Of course Babelle should tackle Mec – in five years! His voice still sounded too cute, those giant baby blues detracted from his menace, he oozed softness, no one could fab viable sets or costumes in a few weeks – and they certainly would not use hand-me-downs for such an important event! Genuinely hurt, some to the point of tears, they demanded to know what the pop star had done to deserve such scheming.

Rengal felt sympathy for their position and raised it with Ghiselle. The boy was very young for such a “mature” part. The role demanded unique male leads. While Ghiselle ruled as one of the most accomplished Naboahes in Amarr, the family’s men always went for supporting roles. Mec typically served as springboard for rising Ni-Kunni prodigies. The chemistry of rage, duty and artistry unique to that culture built the emotional maelstrom required for the role. Babelle was a spoiled Gallentean teenage pop dancer, not an oppressed, conflicted….

“Roll a pampered Gallente with one of our Lupes long enough and his duck quacks.”

“Curious” expressions invariably meant Ghiselle had a plan.

“Ghi Ghi,” Rengal sighed, “we can’t all see through the fog as you can.”

“Let’s bring everyone together, then.”

Bunnibal occupied Babelle while old people huddled. Though Ghiselle’s gravity soothed the Gallente, they remained fearful. Quafe invested heavily in the tour. No one would appreciate a blunder. Ghiselle placed her own reputation at stake as well, however, and insisted Arghelos would deliver costumes and sets of sufficient merit: no “hand me downs.” How could they be ready in time? Slave labor. There was no budget. Ghiselle would cover the cost, on condition she get the costumes back. Babelle’s staff harbored reservations about labor conditions and subject matter. But they understood “their boy” had outgrown easy obedience. If they refused him, anger would jeopardize the rest of the tour. Moreover, if Babelle delivered a Mec acceptable to Amarr, his celebrity would transcend. No better partner for than Ghiselle Arghelos existed for making that happen – even given the soprano’s manipulations.

What was her game?

Several Arghelos Family directors received the game icily. Annual “Red and Gold” productions served as primary vehicles for new fashion lines. They did not want to compete with an event of this visibility, let alone with their own designs. Javierre Babelle would become a vehicle to surpass all others, Ghiselle responded. Sevat smiled at that, and Ghiselle knew her brother saw through to the plan’s culmination. But he was a genius. Others pressed: cozying up to that teen would alienate traditional clients. They stood to gain more clients than they lost, and furthermore, Ghiselle’s final intentions for the tour would outstrip any animosity generated by a pop star. “Traditionalist” anger would focus on her, and cement the family’s status as a bridge between cultural monoliths.

“A dangerous political calculation,” Marquessa Algheros sighed.

“Mother….”

“You will say we have failed to walk the Boulevard because of our infant stride. When the dust settles from all this, we will face a difficult recalibration. I agree, however, that new growth demands new tactics. Sevat….”

“I’ve already started.”

While thirty floors of craftsmen began round the clock execution on Sevat’s vision, Babelle’s team looked for a suitable Gallente Naboahe. Intaki film legend Perran Soif, a raven-haired beauty twice Babelle’s age, had built her enormous following in large part on portrayals of the iconic princess. But would such an established actress take the risk? She leapt at it voraciously. After Quafe engineered her release from existing contractual obligations, Soif warped to the “Four Winds.” Choreography began upon her arrival.

Beyond a newly vested interest in Babelle’s success, however, Ghiselle faced pressures of her own. She was to open in Amarr and there would be no painting outside the lines this time. Her choice of material was characteristically “unusual” – but grounded in ancient tradition. Predating the unification of Athra, Sophia Kaliarestrani murdered not a single relation more than required to become matron of her House – an ancestral tributary to the present monarch’s tribe. Even early in her rule, “legend” maintained no natural birth had produced Sophia. Rather, she clawed into the family from subterranean hells settlers retreated to after the Collapse. A body of ghoulish cybernetics supported this, as did the inhuman genius Sophia leveraged to carve a path of carnage through history. In contrast to tyrants skilled at only destruction, Kaliarestrani’s rampages unerringly preserved individuals of subsequent advantage to her.

In modern times, the Tomb of Hagia Sophia slumbered far from Dam-Torsad’s burning horizon. A conch shell two kilometers wide and nearly as tall – black, bloody and golden – the magnificent cathedral spun fantasies of unrivaled horror and beauty. Contemporary engineering could not explain its construction. “Legend” again provided its own answer: after seven hundred slaves placed her sarcophagus on a great slab, the tomb pulled itself from the earth to encase mummified tendrils of Sophia’s mechanical body. These tales further insisted her ravenous intellect still twirled in the webs of that cyclopean crypt, intent on a terrible vengeance. The sect dedicated to this relic toiled unceasingly to appease her. Forgotten by the outside world, only a few scholars knew of their rituals. Recognized by the duchess as “useful” millennia ago, Arghelos nobility numbered among those few. In honor of that past, and the present sovereign, Ghiselle would sing the Requiem of Hagia Sophia.

Traditionally, a legion choir of three thousand performed the piece on anniversaries of Sophia’s “death,” shrouded in the shadows of her mausoleum and unheard by the world at large. Few would recognize its notes, the tour did not coincide with Sophia’s “passing,” and the masterpiece contained no clear vocal solo. All this qualified Ghiselle’s selection as curious. However, in contrast to Pator, the soprano’s staff saw these drawbacks as opportunities for a unique performance, even without the unprecedented approval of her request for an Amarratti from each royal house.

While the lanky Lupe Sebiestor sauntered as public luxuries for Amarr’s tres riche, the elfin Amarratti sparkled in private as treasures permitted only to royalty. In a process of secrecy and expense doused liberally with dubious morality, Ni-Kunni zygotes were gelded and minutely engineered to produce the finest voices imaginable. Considered likely to create normative frictions with champions of liberty across the galaxy, their existence was unofficially “need to know.” While Tash-Murkon stood out, rarely did a house keep more than a handful. Perpetually child-like, Amarratti retained pristine voices for decades, performed only before royal blood – in the somber redoubts of noble chapels – and were never recorded. To present five in one of the most public concert tours ever mounted, and further to preserve that performance for yet more commoners to see, raised eyebrows – and in some quarters, hostility. The Empress had given her consent, however, and artistic directors for the other royals felt “creatively titillated” by Ghiselle’s proposition.

Days from the concert, the Amarratti arrived under cover of artificial darkness, tucked inside a hovering metallic palanquin guided by a towering Valkyrie in biomechanical plate – the royal crest brilliant on her chest. The procession made its way to Ghiselle by deserted freight corridors. Although the soprano had retrieved her staff from exile, only Bunnibal waited with her to receive these guests. When the contraption settled, its lone escort removed her helmet to reveal the cybernetic face of a heavy metal kameira.

“Lady Ghiselle Arghelos,” the formidable woman’s mechanical voice hummed.

Ghiselle inclined her head in acknowledgement.

“Kameira Baroness Hrelta Kes, Her Majesty’s Secret Service. Lupe Sebiestor?”

“This is Bunnibal.”

“The first I have encountered,” she nodded. “I will let them out.”

If the Lupe was a domesticated wolf, lanky and awkward in its lethality, the Amarratti were a cheetah’s litter – clearly unnatural, but with a different flavor of menace. They appeared adolescent, though well into their twenties; and moving, retained a wide-eyed childish wonder – mixed with adult calculation. Everyone in the room possessed inhuman gifts, and they measured one another.

“Ghi Ghi,” cried the Amarratti!

As one of a handful of singers who could perform with the alien “boys,” Ghiselle knew them all and they cherished her company. That greeting done, Bunnibal and the Amarratti circled, warily. Amarratti were sexually inert. How would the Lupe’s arsenal play out? Their senses were preternatural. His angles and smells “interested” them, and his raw strength elicited glee. Trying to catch one, however, Bunnibal discovered those slight, athletic bodies moved quickly. The chase spun into frenzy interspersed with feigned boredom. There would be no victor. That satisfied Ghiselle enormously.

The Amarratti remained secluded in Ghiselle’s quarters for the duration. Only Piehtor, of noble blood, was permitted to work with them. Each “boy” required but a cursory pass through his lines, bouncing beneath Ghiselle’s raised arms squeaking as they filled in the gaps. More giant boxes arrived from Amarr: costumes and sets for Babelle. The star’s “garment” was a golden rope braided with crimson velvet – so as not to rub. Wrapping from left foot up to right hand over few parts in between, “the bloody vine” drew attention far more than it obscured. Soif screamed with delight at the site of it.

“My dear,” whispered Ghiselle to the actress during a moment of isolation, “for success, you must screw the boy’s courage to his sticking post.”

Shortly before curtain, Ghiselle’s brother furiously painted Mandala Vestments on each Amarratti. The ancient technique’s fleeting nature served as its primary appeal, and few illustrators could apply ink to skin quickly enough to prevent even ordinary perspiration from washing away the designs. Amarratti wore such mandalas rarely, usually no more than two of them in a performance, and only Sevat’s skill allowed him to cover five head to toe with enough time to last into – if not through – Sophia’s Requiem. As colors exploded across flawless complexions, those assembled to assist the genius instead fell under his spell: magical, inhuman – guided by the hand of God. The sound of brushes and involuntary giggles in perfect pitch became a concert unto itself.

Ghiselle walked onto stage alone, opalescent gown gleaming against a backdrop of black velvet. From one end of her empire to another, vast public spaces dimmed as she melted onto screens, walls, and even the air itself. Her people fell quiet. For Caldari, she sang of love; for Minmatar, joy. Foreign critics often complained the Amarr wanted nothing more from concerts than to sit in darkness with closed eyes waiting for the voice of God. Her people expected faith. Sophia’s requiem began as a deathly whisper, Ghiselle’s voice flowing through impossibly soft registers without wavering. The orchestra grew. Many imperials looked at neighbors, puzzled, having expected one of the famous ecclesiastical masterpieces. Translucent images of Hagia Sophia’s grand choral legion sketched across the blackness as subtle ghosts. Only a handful of cathedrals could afford such choirs, but very few recognized this one.

The first Amarratti walked from blackness to stand beside Ghiselle. Aboard the “Four Winds,” the crowd murmured. Abroad, questioning voices stammered more loudly. Of all outlets covering the tour, only a curmudgeon at ACN recognized the creature: “unprecedented!” Ghiselle, the orchestra, and distant choir fell silent. The boy began to sing. Could such a body really produce that sound? The physical effort demanded by perfection showed beneath painted skin. Remaining Amarratti emerged one by one. As the orchestra, Ghiselle, and the choir returned, the blackness lifted slowly. Amarr’s blinding sun flooded the chamber. Music rose and fell. Only after the light dimmed noticeably did the crowd begin to understand what was to transpire. As Mandalas streamed down torsos and thighs to accumulate in vibrant abstraction on legs, Athra’s shadow traveled behind the singers, their voices loud and soft, rising to God and falling toward Man. Still unsure of the composition’s identity, Amarr’s billions nevertheless clutched one another, weeping at satisfaction beyond all expectation. Some had heard Sophia’s choir before, others one or two Amarratti, many Ghiselle – but no one had heard them all at once.

Pressed by the perfection of her companions, Ghiselle felt her way to new heights. She demanded this excellence not to impress the audience before or the endless billions without, but the goddess in her tomb. Ghiselle believed the legends, and wanted the Hagia Sophia’s approval. That ancient tyrant’s grace meant the soprano would be avenged. The final commendation to God roared to its crescendo. Ghiselle, Amarratti, and three thousand remote voices sustained their final glorious note and the “Four Winds” pilot guided his ship into full eclipse. Amarr’s corona flared as a cosmic halo. Yes, it was there: the voice of God.

Silence before the thunderbolt; as a unit, Ghiselle and the Amarratti turned to their left and bent at the waist into formal bows. The audience followed the line of submission. An elegant woman stood slowly and lifted her veil. Ignoring gasps around her, she clasped her hands beyond her chest and, smiling with eyes closed, nodded. Her majesty, the empress, impossible scattered voices exclaimed. After an appropriate time, Ghiselle turned her attention to the rest of her audience and the galaxy.

Having pleased the present, she prayed silently that she had also pleased the past.