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.