Scott Westerfeld - The Last Days

Then a relentless and deadly plague appeared in Asia. In some parts of China, nineteen out of every twenty people perished. The disease was carried to Europe and the Middle East, where it killed a third of the population. The most intense part of the outbreak lasted only five years, but worldwide it left 100 million dead.

Historians once assumed that the Black Death was bubonic plague, a bacterium spread by rats. But that never quite added up: too many people died too quickly. According to some, it might have been a new form of anthrax transmitted from animals to humans. Others believe that an Ebola-like virus suddenly evolved to become airborne, spreading across the world via handshakes and coughs, then disappeared.

But what was the Black Death really, and how did it come and go so quickly?

Keep your ears open, and you’ll find out.

NIGHT MAYOR TAPES:

313–314

The offices of Red Rat Records were fawesome.

Maybe they weren’t the biggest label in the world—Red Rat was only an independent—but they had an old town house in the East Twenties all to themselves. Astor Michaels took us inside, saying that the richest family in New York City had once lived there. The ground floor was still fitted out like a money-counting room: antique brass bars guarding the receptionist’s desk, the doors solid oak, thick as dictionaries.

There were a bunch of kids waiting in line to deliver CDs and press packets by hand, most of them in full stage dress: black eye-liner and fingernails, ripped clothes and Mohawks. All of them were trying to look fool, but they stared wide-eyed as the five of us were ushered past the brass bars and inside. I got a weird jolt, thinking, We’re rock stars, and they’re not.

I’d always known Pearl would take us places, but I hadn’t thought it would be this fast. I didn’t feel ready for it, especially since I’d only been playing my new instrument a week.

But Pearl was unstoppable. She’d even managed some kind of deal with Minerva’s parents, getting her into Manhattan on a workday. The two of them were supposedly out buying Minerva new clothes, something about her birthday coming up.

We tromped downstairs to the basement, where Astor Michaels’s personal office occupied the steel cube of an old walk-in safe, lit only by the flickering glow of a computer screen. It was as big as a one-car garage, the walls lined with rows of safe-deposit boxes. The foot-thick metal door looked too heavy to move—I hoped it was anyway. If anyone shut it, I would’ve started screaming.

Huge photographs hung from the walls, artsy pictures of garbage-strewn alleys, gushing black water, and rats.

Yes: rats. And that wasn’t the weirdest thing about Astor Michaels.

Our new rep licked his lips a lot, and when he smiled, his teeth never showed. He kept his sunglasses on until we got down into the darkness, and once he took them off, I wished he’d put them back on again. His eyes were way too wide and spent a lot of time lingering on the three girls, especially Minerva.

It was creepy, but I guess when you’re a record company rep, you get to ogle all the girls you want. And anyway, it didn’t matter whether I liked the guy or not. We were signed .

Well, almost. Pearl said her lawyer was still going over the contract. That’s right—she said “my lawyer,” the way she’d say “my gardener” or “my driver” or “my house in Connecticut.” Like a lawyer was something you kept in a drawer along with the double-A batteries and spare apartment keys.

“In a few minutes, we’ll all go upstairs,” Astor Michaels said. “Marketing is dying to meet you. They love the music, of course, but they want to make sure you really have it.”

What’s “it”? I almost asked. But I figured that if you did have it, you probably didn’t need to ask what it was, which meant I didn’t, so I should just shut up.

“Should we have dressed up for this?” Pearl asked, which didn’t make any sense because she looked fexcellent in her tight black dress, a thin choker of diamonds around her neck. The only bad thing was that her glasses were missing, which made her look less smart and in charge.

Still, she looked amazing.

Astor Michaels waved a hand. “Just be yourselves.”

What if myself happens to be a big sweaty ball of nerves today? I wanted to ask, but that also didn’t sound like a very “it” thing to say.

We went upstairs, where a bunch of people with six-hundred-dollar haircuts sat around a conference table shaped like a long, curvy swimming pool. Pearl took charge, of course. She talked about our “influences,” naming a bunch of bands I’d never heard of except for seeing their CDs on Pearl’s bed.

Minerva sat at the head of the table, shimmering, sucking up all the compliments that came her way. She obviously had it—even I could see that now, reflected in the marketing people’s gazes. Ever since Minerva and Moz had secretly hooked up, her junkie vibe was slowly changing into something else—whether less creepy or more, I couldn’t tell.

But the haircuts ate it up.

Moz also seemed to make an impression on them, like he had it too. As if Minerva had given it to him. He was much more intense these days, his eyes radiating confidence and a new kind of hungriness that I couldn’t understand.

That was the weird thing: as Minerva got less junkie-like, she seemed to push Moz in the opposite direction, so we were really only breaking even.

Me and Alana Ray stayed quiet, like a rhythm section should. I was a bass player now, after all, and we don’t say too much.

After a while we headed back down to the safe, leaving the haircuts upstairs to talk about us. Astor Michaels said we’d done a good job, then gave us some fexcellent news.

“We want you to play a showcase. Four Red Rat bands in a little club we’re renting.” He licked his lips. “In two weeks… I hope that’s not too soon.”

“Soon is good,” Pearl said, which was probably the smart thing to say, but a wave of panic was rolling through me. Two more Sunday rehearsals with my new instrument didn’t seem like enough. I practiced hours every day, of course, but that was nothing like playing with the whole band. Those big bass strings still felt clumsy under my fingers, like playing with gloves on.

“There’s one issue, though,” Astor Michaels was saying. “We’re printing the posters tomorrow. Taking out ads as well.”

“Oh, crap.” Pearl cleared her throat. “And we don’t have a name yet.”

“We’ve been meaning to come up with one,” I blurted. “But there hasn’t been time.”

“Can’t agree on anything,” Moz growled.

Pearl shifted uncomfortably next to me on Astor Michaels’s big leather couch. “Can’t we just be ‘Special Guests’ or something?”

He shook his head, lips parting, a little glimpse of teeth slipping into view. “Posters and ads cost money, Pearl. That money’s wasted if your name is missing.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” She looked around at us.

“Here’s what we’ll do,” Astor Michaels said. “I’ll leave you five to discuss this while I go and have lunch. When I come back in an hour, you give me a name you all agree on. Not a list, not suggestions or ideas: one name. Either it’ll be perfect or it won’t be.”

Pearl swallowed. “So what if it’s not?”

He shrugged. “Then the deal’s off.”

“What?” Pearl said, eyes widening. “No showcase?”

“No nothing.” Astor Michaels stood and headed out. “If you five can’t agree on a name, then how are you supposed to tour together? How are you supposed to make records? How can Red Rat commit to you for five years if you can’t commit to one simple name?” He stood in the doorway, slipping sunglasses over his laughing, too-wide eyes. “So unless you agree on something perfect, the whole deal’s off.”