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.
