Chapter 6.1
Argo was saying something but Mayster couldn’t hear him. To be more truthful, Mayster was simply not listening. He was trying to remix something but it hadn’t worked within the confines of his visor. Every now and then he needed to feel more than the inside of his gloves. So he projected the work onto a tabletop and tried swapping measures around, alternating beats, feeling at least the fake wood as something. A foundation.
Not enough.
The problem, he had decided, was he couldn’t get down to the minute details that he wanted. So he found a bare wall and projected his work onto it. If just anyone walked down the hallway outside of Alexandria and saw him moving “imaginary” objects around on the wall, as though there were invisible shelving there–they might have thought he was insane.
Truth be told, he felt a bit over the edge. He had trained his body to, when he had to, sleep four hours out of thirty. He could do this with very little in the way of chemical assistance. But that was supposed to be for times of extreme trial. The body did not like to be toyed with. But having met Alexandria, he never wanted to sleep again.
They had been drowning in the archives, every so often arguing about who was supposed to go and get food and drink for the both of them. Or they’d just hold out until hunger or thirst drove one of them to the kitchen. They didn’t want to leave because inexorably, one of them would be in the midst of a something or just on the cusp of a something else. They were kids in a candy shop and didn’t want to stop for anyone or anything.
And it had been like this for four solid days.
Argo said something again. Mayster waved in his direction without looking. “Just…gimme a second.”
“You said that an hour ago,” Argo said.
“Did I say second back then? I meant an hour.”
“So you mean an hour now?”
“Did I just say second again?” Mayster cocked his head. Brought a hand to his mouth. Stroked his chin.
“Welsh wants to see us. It’s time.”
Mayster leaned his head against the wall. “Dammit. This should work.” He reached down and made a gesture–the projection flapped up like a pulled window shade and left his vision.
“You have all the music in civilization. And you’re getting caught up on a single track.”
Mayster sighed and let his forehead bang against the wall. “I was always a fool for slow jams with horns.” He stood up and shrugged. “Screw it. I’m sure something will come to me. What does Welsh want?”
“It’s about the next few gigs.” Argo led the way to the elevator.
“I thought we only had one.”
“We’re going on tour,” Argo said, smiling. “The first North American tour since…well, you know, since.”
The promoter was waiting for them when they arrived upstairs. Skinny bald man who would have looked exactly like a government agent in an old film: the black suit, white shirt and black tie seemed to join forces with his lack of hair to make him seem terribly severe. The illusion was broken with his jacket off. Under the jacket his shirt sleeves were already rolled up, revealing his real “sleeves”: his arms were mad murals of tattoos.
But then again, his formidable facade couldn’t have held up to the first time he started laughing. Because he seemed to do it all the time and came by his mirth honestly.
The man’s name was James. With no last name, as he would tell you.
And James had his hands up to his face. Laughing. If he were to put his jacket back on, the only clue to his skin decorations was a name–”Jayna”–with a letter across each finger of his left hand.
“Welsh, old son,” he was saying as they walked in. “You and these schemes of yours just kill me. They just freaking kill me.”
Welsh nodded to the two DJs. “James, this is Argo and Mayster. They’re Threnody’s new backing crew.”
James ran over and extended both hands to shake with both of them simultaneously. “Oh, wait, ‘Open 5 A.M.’ Right. That is some fantastic shit, guys. Back when there were real phones, it would have made a killer ringtone. So,” he clapped his hands together, “you ready for this?”
Neither Mayster nor Argo responded.
“Welsh,” James asked, “have you told them?”
Welsh reached into his pocket and produced a cigarette which he promptly lit and drew from. “James is going to put the files up where you can get at them. All the details will be there. But the gist is: we’re doing three shows on this side of The Bowl, then we’re going to catch a ride across and do two shows on the west coast. We will be the first musical group since the Exodus to make such a crossing and such a tour.”
Argo and Mayster exchanged a look. Argo spoke first. “Is that because the crossing is dangerous, or…?”
It was Welsh and James’ turn to swap looks. Welsh nodded to James. “James just made the trip across. That’s how he made the arrangements.”
James laughed. “Dangerous? Shit yeah, it’s dangerous. Welsh tells me you used to live in that mess. And flying over it isn’t a walk in the park, either. But it’s doable. I do it about twice a year. At least. On the Shuttle. No, the first North American tour since the Exodus is Threnody because it’s taken this long for there to be a musician both sides of the continent cared enough about for both to listen to.”
Mayster nodded. “And when we get done with the west coast?”
Welsh said, “Oh…who knows where we might go from there?” He said this in exactly the sort of sarcastic tone that implied he knew and that’s all that mattered and no further questions, thanks. Then he added, “First show’s tomorrow night,” then made a shooing motion to them. “So get ready.”
Argo and Mayster left the room and looked at each other.
“Now’s probably a good time to eat,” Mayster said.