Pasha Malla - People Park

Listening to voices exclaim and rejoice and awkwardly fade, Adine forced her mind to cloud over, to abstract the people and places onscreen into shapes, shadows, patterns of colour. Wasn’t that more honest? Those weren’t people up there but pictures, illusions of life. So she let them be that — just light — and let the sound also blur into formless noise. Every so often this reset, nonsense hiccupped into more nonsense, the rhythm soporific, lulling Adine into a dreamy stupor.

She sank into her chair. The theatre faded. She felt removed from everything. If time in Cinecity had become an abstraction now so was space. She had only a peripheral awareness of having a body. Her mind was a whitewalled room. And then into the emptiness stabbed a voice. And though it was hushed the words were clear: I don’t think I can take much more of this.

Adine blinked. Up there onscreen was Faye Rowan-Morganson.

It’s just too much , she said, twisting a lock of black hair around a finger. I know no one’s watching , she said, and paused.

Adine sat up, moved to the edge of her seat.

No one at all.

Faye Rowan-Morganson was younger than she’d had imagined, the cheekbones a little more drastic, and darker, and she wore makeup. But that was not the biggest surprise — most startlingly, she was naked. Or at least appeared to be, visible only from the shoulders up, the camera in tight, the background blurred. Even so, Adine felt she was meeting a long-lost childhood friend, now an adult — not an exact equivalent of the version in her mind, but the essence matched: mournful, fatigued, unmistakably her.

No one in the theatre spoke up, no one seemed to know Cinecity’s latest star. Or if they did, like Adine they didn’t say.

Well , Faye Rowan-Morganson told the camera, tomorrow’s Thursday. Her tone was one of resignation. As I’ve been saying, that’ll be it for me, and by the time you see this —

The channel flipped: a woman in a yellow bandana and a heavily bearded man, cross-legged, bongos in their laps, were providing heartfelt tips on how best to transmit the Essential Soul through percussion. Their eyes were intense. You have to be one with the drum, advised the woman. I snuggle mine, said her husband. Yes, she said, nodding sagely, it’s a very good idea to snuggle your drum.

Y MIDDAY ALL that was left of the flats was a puddle of grease, and Magurk — still shirtless, distended belly resembling a lightly furred, bulbous gourd — had popped the top button of his khakis. Since her fall the Mayor had retreated into an almost barometric silence that loomed at the edge of the conversation in a grey solemn wall. She sat pushed away from the table with her arms crossed while Griggs outlined the NFLM’s plans and Noodles presided behind tented fingers — nodding, always nodding.

We’ll open Island Amusements at six, Griggs explained, and channel all the traffic up the Throughline into the parking lot. He dispatched Bean to oversee the operation of rides and concessions. Silentium, Logica, Securitatem, Prudentia, advised Griggs.

Good lookin out, said Bean, puffed his inhaler, and hurtled eagerly up the ramp.

The next order of business was the ICTS. Power was out only in UOT, Blackacres, and Whitehall, but because no trains could turn around in the Barns the whole Yellowline was frozen. Walters and Reed and their moustaches were sent to figure this out.

You see? said Griggs, sealing the portal from his control panel. We’re on it. This is how we do, Mrs. Mayor — we run the city so you don’t have to.

Primly she brushed flat crumbs from her jacket.

The final issue: communications. While the NFLM’s internal radios were working fine, both the phonelines and We-TV’s closed circuit were out. Which actually isn’t such a bad thing, explained Wagstaffe, since it likely means we’ll get better crowds at Cinecity. To, you know, distract people a bit. From what’s going on, I mean. And with that Wagstaffe excused himself to oversee the film’s final cut.

Around the table only halfnaked Magurk, enigmatic Noodles, incontinent (probably) Favours, Griggs, the Mayor, and her mute and crippled aide, Diamond-Wood, remained. The adjoining room had gone silent since Magurk’s last visit.

And the final order of business, said Griggs: Raven.

The Mayor sighed. And?

A trapped animal, murmured Magurk, is a dangerous animal.

What? said the Mayor. What does that even mean?

Special Professor, please .

So? said the Mayor. What’s the plan?

Noodles held up both index fingers.

The Imperial Master has some thoughts, said Griggs.

Oh, good old Noodles, said the Mayor. Cuddle me up to a whole forest of green.

And yet Noodles’ thoughts are his own, explained Griggs.

Oh, said the Mayor. Of course.

Noodles nodded, twice. And sat back, having said nothing. The room felt like the inside of a steadily deflating balloon.

Anything else? said Griggs.

The Mayor shifted into a stern, authoritarian pose, leaning forward — but before she could speak an alarm went squawking throughout the Temple.

Code 42! said Magurk, jumping to his feet.

Favours whipped to attention, eyes full of fire. Code 42! he cried in a phlegmy warble.

Code 42? said the Mayor.

A breach, muttered Griggs. From the main floor came thumps and shouts, a crash. Footsteps pounded back and forth. The alarm howled, the stomping thickened into rumbling, a mob of dozens, crashes and whoops.

In the corner of the room, Favours had never seemed so alert, eyes darting around the room, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. They’ve come, he chortled. Code 42, Code 42! They’ve come!

The Mayor looked from Favours to Diamond-Wood to Griggs to Magurk to Noodles, who returned her bewilderment with a curt, officious nod.

Magurk rose, knuckling up. Those fuggin animals, he sneered.

They’ve come, sung Favours. Oh my yes Code 42 they’ve come!

Who’s come, old man? demanded the Mayor.

Kicking his feet in their stirrups and cackling, Favours threw back his head to reveal a rubbery yellow neck laced with purple veins.

For fug’s sake, growled the Mayor, what kind of loony clubhouse is this?

Application forms are upstairs, said Griggs coolly. He pressed a button on the console. The alarm died, the lights in the basement extinguished. After a moment of total darkness, a generator stirred to life somewhere within the Chambers, and the lights returned, though duller, tinting everyone beige.

The noises above weakened into a faint scuffling.

Griggs lifted the phone to his ear. His face sagged. He tapped the console, once, twice — then hung up, sat back, and rapped his fingers on the table.

Did they cut the line? screamed Magurk, and then he stamped off to the adjoining room yelling, Is someone here for you, you fat sack of squatter trash? Who the fug is it?

If there was a reply to this, it was drowned out by a gentle explosion from the Great Hall. The conference chamber shuddered. From upstairs came another rush of footsteps.

There must be a hundred of them, said Griggs.

Favours howled.

Who’s them ? hollered the Mayor. Who are they ?

A smoky odour began seeping into the basement, acrid and sharp.

Magurk reappeared drawing a sword, long and parabolic, with a slippery shink of metal. Slicing through the air, he shrieked a feral battle cry.

Oh come now, please, said Griggs. With the portal closed there’s no way anyone can get down here. Sheathe your weapon, you’re embarrassing everyone.