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Oort started up the overture. He thumped the drums with his foot pedal and folded himself into the Oortophone. Music began to hit the speakers and flow out into the ears of too many people to think about. Perfect music. Every note a crystal. Decibel Jones took a breath. He took a breath to sing what they’d written in the reefship, their clever clever plan, hiding behind all that poetry, all that human genius, so they never had to risk their own voices being the ones to damn a planet to silence. He’d blow out that stupid mute button with the sheer need to live, the need to matter. It would all be fine. He stepped up to the mic.
All he sang was silence.
He didn’t come in on the downbeat. Or the upbeat. Or any beat.
Decibel froze. Just like he had at the Hope & Ruin that long-ago first day of all days. Just like that day in Nani’s scarves. He was right back there, standing on that worn red rug trying to sing along with Marvin the Martian till his face felt like it was going to explode with the effort of making no sound at all. It was like he wasn’t even there, like he’d never existed in the first place. Like always. Like forever.
“What the fuck, Dess?” hissed Oort. “Sing, you bastard, what are you playing at?”
Decibel turned to his friend and pointed at his throat again. Tears streamed down his face. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead. Christ, I’m trying. I’m trying so hard.
Finally, Oort St. Ultraviolet got it. The lovely boom and trill of the Oortophone went silent as the realization went through him. We’re all going to die. Dess is broken, and we’re all going to die. My girls are going to burn. What the fuck do I do?
He tried to think of a song. Not their song. Any song. A Zeros song. A Bowie song. A nursery song. Anything. But his terror-addled brain formally informed him that it had never heard a single song ever, and had no idea what music even was, so kindly leave it alone. My girls are going to burn. Sing something, Omarcik. Sing anything.
A solitary, clear, pure voice filled up the stadium on Litost. It trembled a little, but it was true. In front of God and aliens and everybody, Omar Calis?kan sang the only song he could think of.
It came upon the midnight clear,
That glorious song of old,
From angels bending near the earth,
To touch their harps of gold:
“Peace on the earth, goodwill to men
From heaven’s all gracious King!”
The world in solemn stillness lay
To hear the angels sing.
Still through the cloven skies they come,
With peaceful wings unfurled;
And still their heavenly music floats
O’er all the weary world:
Above its sad and lowly plains
They bend on hovering wing,
And ever o’er its Babel sounds
The blessed angels sing.
34.
Time Is Lonely
Öö and the roadrunner watched from the Octave’s posh jury box. Drinks and small plates of delightful foods littered the floor. Half the judges had gone to the toilets. The rest were discussing how marvelous “I Wanna Be Elated” had been or whether to rank the Elakhon above or below poor Olabil, who really did try his best without a backup band.
“It’s not going wellgoodwellwellanywherefast,” Öö said, twisting his paws.
“Not even as well as I thought it would,” agreed the roadrunner, “and I thought it would be a disaster.”
