Then Fortew’s voice joined Missit’s, providing a low cantor’s foundation – support and affection to mitigate the sorrow. At the same time, all of Tillam twirled and leapt in unison, and a crash of dark blue shot out, the teardrop bursting open.

  This was a lament, praise of a thing so important, its absence could cause misery. It was like experiencing grief in retrospect, knowing what was gone while still loving it. Phex wondered if Tillam was disbanding, if this was their goodbye or just the end of the tour. Or was it an ode to a loved one whom one of the gods had lost?

  Phex could not look away from the dome. He did not think to check the cafe or see if the Dyesi were as absorbed as he. He could only let the godsong, its colors and beauty, roll over him. He’d never held anyone or anything close enough to feel this kind of loss. Phex had fled his whole world, but that place was unremitting and cold. He felt no grief over it. He had no fond memories to balance the clear turquoise rays with navy. The song was making him feel something he had not even known existed before.

  Then, in the last verse, Fortew’s low cantor drifted away. The graces stopped moving. The dome became a swirling turquoise carried once again only by Missit’s clear, warm voice. Then the sound and color ended.

  The dome died to grey.

  Phex returned to his own body with a shiver, found himself standing dumbfounded and wet-faced. The victim of godfix. He jerked a little, coming back and looking around to see if anyone would mock him for his fixation.

  Fortunately, everyone in the cafe was equally impacted. They had just experienced ecstasy, the revelation of true divinity. Phex found it wonderful and terrifying at the same time.

  On the cupola above, the image changed. In some massive performance dome light-years away, someone switched off the dome sensors and returned them all to an old-fashioned projector-style view. Suddenly, they could see the massive congregation, and Tillam on their dais at the center of it, looking tiny and not at all godlike. Just a collection of six ordinary people who did extraordinary things.

  They graced their last. Tillam’s standard goodbye was a simple elegant curl of the right hand, a fluttery benediction. The performance was officially over.

  Missit curled an arm about Fortew’s back, in comfort or support or solidarity. Zil, Tillam’s dark grace, held hands with one of the Dyesi – difficult to tell which when their skin was made chaotic by the roar of the congregation. As if sensing the ambient noise for the first time, the gods on the dais reacted. Cantors and graces huddled protectively around their sifters. The congregation grew louder, transported by that last godsong into hysterical sobbing approval.

  Phex wondered if Tillam faced danger, trapped in a dome with that loud crowd. If their Dyesi gods might be injured by sound as easily as they were made magic by music.

  Then, all around the galaxy, the beam was killed.

  The revival had ended.

  The cafe was stunned silent, only a few sniffles here and there. People with wet faces and mouths bowed in wonder. The manifest awe of godfix.

  Phex looked down at the three seated Dyesi. They seemed unmoved.

  He asked, “Tillam’s sifters. Is the dome dangerous for them? At the end like that, with all that noise from the congregation?”

  The aliens blinked up at him, dark blue and green and purple eyes.

  “What an interesting reaction,” said the one with the navy eyes.

  “That is what you took from it? Concern for two of our gods?” asked Green Eyes.

  “Did you feel nothing?” asked Purple, his friend from yesterday.

  “Of course I felt it.”

  “What do you think the godsong was about?” it pressed, crested ears curious.

  “Loss.”

  “What for?”

  Phex knew that was a trick question. “Ah, no. That is not for me to say. I would only reveal what I fear losing if I answered. I need to know more about who wrote it to understand what they grieved.”

  The Dyesi looked at each other.

  “It is one of Missit’s pieces,” said Purple.

  Phex nodded. “Did someone he loved die? Or is it a different kind of loss?”

  One of them said, “A remarkable talent, to be able to transmit such feeling. Sorrow for absence is not a sensation we ourselves experience.”

  “Dyesi do not grieve?” Phex was intrigued.

  “Not like that. Not in that way.”

  Phex nodded. “Then that’s probably why he wrote it, isn’t it?” He gestured around the somber cafe. “Not so that we would feel his sorrow” —he turned back to stare down the at the Dyesi— “but so that you would.”

  People were talking again. A few were getting drinks, warm comforting beverages. But they were moving and speaking quietly, contemplative, as was the custom for those who have been recently transformed by art.

  “Explain,” demanded his purple-eyed friend.

  “Missit has lived among Dyesi his whole life. Perhaps the song was to share some of his humanity with you, not share his grief with us.”

  “A fascinating perspective,” said the navy-eyed Dyesi, looking at Phex with renewed interest.

  Phex dismissed his own whimsy. “I only speculate. I’ve never met a god.”

  “Perhaps if you meet Missit, you will ask him?” The suggestion was somehow sly.

  Phex shook his head. “To ask an artist to explain is to return a gift unopened. If you wish to know Missit’s intent, then you should ask him. May I resume my work now?”

  All three Dyesi made a funny clicking noise and inclined their heads in unison – grace.

  Phex paused a moment, genuinely curious. “What is it named, that song?”

  “‘Tillam’s Lament.’” The one with the purple eyes gestured with its ident ring. “Can you get to our audition dome tomorrow morning, first shift?”

  “Is it this side of the moon?”

  “It is.”

  Phex calculated. He would not get much sleep, but why not? He was curious. They had lured him with that last song, if nothing else. Plus, he should consider godsong itself. Could he maybe someday create such a thing? Make others feel that way, on distant moons with foreign minds? The idea was both preposterous and tempting.

  The Dyesi beamed him the coordinates of the audition space.

  Phex’s wrist ident vibrated softly.

  “We will see you there.”

  “Will you?”

  “We will remove this cafe’s divinity license if you do not attend.”

  “I see,” said Phex, because he did.

  Del was his boss, not his friend, but he would not risk her livelihood by being stubborn. He wasn’t perverse – he wouldn’t refuse simply because he didn’t like the tone of Dyesi regard. Besides he had to admit to an interest in what their auditions would be like. What exactly would the divinity demand of those who wanted to be gods?

  That night in his sleeping pod, Phex wondered what the others were feeling. Others like him who had been told to audition. Probably, they were talking excitedly with their friends via ident chips, or practicing long into the night. He wondered if it was possible to regret something he’d not yet done and wasn’t sure he could.

  Fortunately, at the official auditions, Phex was somewhere in the middle of the lineup. There were maybe sixty hopefuls on Attacon 7, all his age or younger, all nervous and scared. Phex was glad not to be going first.

  The same three Dyesi from his cafe the night before sat in judgment this morning. They had spectator seats front and center, affording them the best view of the dais, a table set before them. Two additional Dyesi stood on the dais to skinsift, and a third facilitated the proceedings. It was not a very big dome, but Phex suspected it was the biggest on Attacon 7.

  “Name? Nomenclature? Gender?” said the facilitator.

  The first person to take the dais gave their respective identifiers in a clear if shaken voice. Like most of those auditioning, this one had very long hair, indicating a desire for godhood from an early age. They sang a third-generation godsong in a sweet, breathy voice. That audible airiness was rare in gods. Phex assumed it was not desirable and wondered if something like that could be trained out.

  The two sifting Dyesi stood on either side of the Sapien, and then walked about the dais, changing the direction of the sound waves and the reaction of their skin. They had pretty sifts that translated to the dome overhead in appealing ways, but their fuzzy, ill-defined patterns paled when compared to the vibrancy of true gods.

  Phex wondered if this was because this dome was not made for live performances, or if there was a natural range in skinsift, or if it all came down to the quality of the cantor.

  The Dyesi judges politely asked each cantor to dance, since all cantors must demonstrate at least a little grace. A few aliens and one Sapien auditioned for grace roles. They were tested for rhythm and acrobatic ability but were also made to sing. In the best pantheons, graces sometimes gave voice and cantors sometimes took wing.

  Most of those auditioning were dismissed after less than nine minutes on the dais. It was impossible for Phex to understand why, but the Dyesi clearly found it easy to eliminate based on seemingly arbitrary nuance.

  Phex spent most of the morning trying to understand and predict flaws. He also spent it avoiding eye contact with other contenders and trying to be smaller than he was.

  Only one high cantor made it through by the time Phex’s turn came around. Unable to determine why, Phex had no choice but to climb onto the dais and sing, no better prepared than he had been at the beginning.

  Phex chose one of Errata’s songs because he loved their style. Errata boasted a particularly strong low cantor, and they’d built many of their performances around her. If Phex were forced to pick a favorite godsong, it would be Orlol singing Errata’s “Riverrun.” So, that was what he sang.

  “Name? Nomenclature? Gender?”

  “Phex. Singular name, no extension. Male.”

  “One name? Like a god already,” said his Dyesi, the one with purple eyes.

  “It is a grace’s name,” objected Green, crests twitching.

  “And we will test him for grace,” replied Purple, firmly.

  The crowd of wannabe gods murmured. No one had yet tested for more than one position.

  “I’m here for cantor,” Phex objected. He didn’t like surprises.

  Purple Dyesi’s face speckled with opacity, which Phex suspected was smugness. “You will also test for grace.”

  Phex tried not to roll his eyes. “Dark or light?” Dark graces focused on interrupting godsong. Their movements were larger and broader, and their stances were held for longer. Light graces were all about rhythm – sharp pauses, complex footwork, short tumbles and tricks. Phex didn’t think crudrat runs and flips really suited either role. But this Dyesi had seen him move. Maybe it would tell him.

  No such luck. “Neither. I just want to watch you grace a dome.”

  Phex nodded. He suspected it had more to do with admiring his physical form than actually testing him. There was a certain covetousness about the purple-eyed Dyesi. It wanted to show off the little Sapien it had found.

  “Can I touch it?” Phex asked.

  “What?”

  “The dome.”

  The three judges looked at each other, crests wiggling.

  “Without causing damage.” Phex clarified. “Can I climb and push against the dome itself? Physically.” At the cafe, he wasn’t allowed to even clean the thing. There were divine specialists assigned for maintenance, even if it was only a cupola receiver. He got the impression that domes were delicate things.

  “You want to use the dome itself for gracing,” Purple clarified.

  “Yes.”

  “That will be interesting. You may. But sing first.”

  So, Phex open his mouth and sang. It was odd. He’d only ever sung with a prerecorded pantheon on the dome above him. His solo voice sounded strange, projected alone at the two Dyesi on the dais.

  He sang Orlol’s part of “Riverrun,” but it wasn’t the same.

  It wasn’t right.

  Of course, there was no high cantor harmonizing with him, no graces providing beat or break. But ignoring that, his actual voice didn’t sound like Orlol’s. Even when he really tried. She was emitting cantor – he was just… singing. By the end of the first verse, he decided to play rather than be annoyed by his own failure at mimicry. Phex let himself stretch some notes. When the high cantor role took point, he switched to singing that instead. He could go high – he just didn’t enjoy it. His vocal cords had been triggered to give him a wide range. He let himself be flexible, taking unexpected pauses and pushing lyrics into the breaks. He enjoyed himself. Why not?

  Phex thought he would find it embarrassing – everyone watching him sing in a language he did not know, using a skill he’d never been taught. But it didn’t bother him at all. Even the fact that he was being judged by aliens against standards he could not comprehend. What did it matter? It was all just noise coming out of his mouth. He may have been forced to audition, but he wasn’t the type to intentionally fail. He would do it, but on his terms.

  It was fascinating to see how his voice affected the Dyesi sifters. Whenever they were in his line of sight, Phex could not resist staring at them.

  He was causing that. Skinsift.

  He was doing it. The vibrant swirls and blooms of brightness. The complex patterns and spikes of color. There were lots of pinks in Errata’s pieces. His version was no different, yet the way it coiled over flesh and dome was distinct.

  He was creating something unique.

  Unlike with previous cantors, the judges didn’t stop his audition.

  So, Phex stopped himself after the second chorus. He was there under duress, after all. No point in giving them too much of what they wanted.

  3

  SOFTSKIN GRACE

  “Did we tell you to end the song?”

  “Have you not heard enough?” Phex stayed on the dais and stared down at the three Dyesi judges.

  Navy looked at Purple. “His personality. Will it work?”

  “You know we can only test that as a potential. Sifters, how did he feel?” asked Purple.

  “Overly strong color,” said one of the Dyesi on the dais.

  “Dangerous pattern,” said the other.

  Phex was pretty darn certain neither was a compliment.

  “I want to see him grace,” said Green Eyes.

  Navy gestured at Phex with an elegant six-fingered hand. “You will grace us now. What do we play for you?”

  “This was your idea. Why don’t you choose?” Phex registered his displeasure the only way he could.

  “That is not how this works.” Navy was clearly annoyed by Phex’s attitude.

  Phex took the easy option. “The same Errata song, then.”

  There was a brief pause, presumably while they loaded the dome.

  Phex considered the two Dyesi sharing the dais with him. They were now no longer something to watch and sing for – they were something to avoid. They were physical elements to become part of his movements, obstacles and props.

  Orlol’s low, throbbing cantor speared out, and the familiar smooth magentas of “Riverrun” swirled over the dome. They were playing the official recording.

  Phex began to move.

  Phex knew the basics of traditional Sapien dance forms from his schooling on Attacon 7, but he instinctively fell back on the blade-dodging of his youth. Once a crudrat, always a crudrat.

  This time, he ignored the cantor’s part, although he allowed himself to hum along, since that was what he did when it played in the cafe. Instead, he moved with the grace’s beat, pretended that it was the rhythm of blades.

  Back on the Wheel, the blades he ran were solid and steady, the unchanging heartbeat of a space station. Dyesi music wasn’t like that. It shifted its cadence – slowed, paused, sped up in prescribed patterns of threes and sixes and nines. Nuanced in a way that appealed to the psyche. Addictive to humans and aliens alike.

  That beat was not reliable like the blades. Phex could get himself into motion, running and flipping. He could sprint up the side of the dome and twist as if he were dodging the sharp edge of death. He could turn the two Dyesi on the dais into phantom blades, moving around them as if they cut. But it wasn’t right. The dance of his youth was made for survival, not entertainment.

  It wasn’t, in fact, a dance at all. It was speed and tricks. Phex didn’t know what to do with his arms, since during a crudrat run, he used them to scoop crud and nothing else. There was no way to move them that looked pretty.

  He was able to change his foot pattern to match the music sometimes. He pretended in his head that the blades changed their rhythm and modified his steps accordingly. But mostly, he needed momentum for his flips more than he needed timing.

  It felt weird to put his feet and hands on the dome, but he did it. It was part of running the blades, to leap up and push off curved walls. Of course, the tunnels of his childhood were much smaller than this dome, but Phex had been much smaller then, too. He knew sometimes when he pushed off and landed that it broke the godsong, because he could not land on a beat. But he did land all his jumps and flips without falling, and mostly his feet hit the dais in cadence with the song, which he thought was pretty good for a first attempt.

  As he had with cantor, Phex stopped partway through the song. He’d shown them all of his moves. He wasn’t inclined to push, repeat, or damage himself for their entertainment.

  The Dyesi judges showed no reaction. Phex had ended with one knee down, panting. He was definitely not as good as he had been as a child. He thought he’d been keeping himself fit with his daily runs, but apparently not.

  The Dyesi signaled for the music to cut. The dome went grey and Phex stood up, sweating.

  “That was no grace,” said Navy.

  “It was remarkable, though, in a weird way,” objected Green.

  Phex hid his amusement. That was a compliment. No other audition had gotten a compliment.

 

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