Sunset in Silvana (Da'ark Nocturne Book 1) (12 page)

As well as the soldiers guarding them, there was a strong and noticeable security presence, and, as they made their way toward the Opera House, Tanya saw that there was a pair of uniformed officers on its broad steps, one at each side.  They were scanning the crowd suspiciously and she could detect an undercurrent of mental activity.  Tanya guessed that they were there to detect anything psionically significant, and was instantly concerned they might have noticed Bartes’ telepathic message.  She leaned over to him, inclined her head slightly in their direction, and whispered, “Sniffers – we’d better keep our thoughts to ourselves.”

Bartes nodded his understanding as they mounted the steps.

Just before Tanya followed the Major and Bartes into the foyer, she turned to give a final wave to the crowd.  As she did so, she caught sight of one of the sniffers as he suddenly turned his head and stared firmly towards the far right edge of the crowd.  He had been gazing in that direction for some seconds when he suddenly clutched his chest and grimaced.  She could feel his agony psionically as he sank to his knees before collapsing forwards onto his face.  As his consciousness faded, his still-beating heart appeared where he’d been standing, sprayed its contents liberally around, and fell onto the marble between his twitching feet.

There was a second or so of stunned silence, followed by screams and pandemonium everywhere.  With a wordless cry, the dead officer’s partner ran to his side from the other end of the steps.  Several bodyguards surrounded the corpse, while the others clustered protectively around Tanya, though what they could hope to do against such a form of assassination baffled her.

Having ascertained that her partner was definitely and irrevocably dead, the other sniffer scanned the crowd with a snarl of fury and tears in her eyes. 
Those two may have been partners in more ways than one,
Tanya thought.  The surviving sniffer, too, soon focussed her gaze on the far right edge of the crowd.  Somehow, Tanya knew what was about to happen, and watched in horrified fascination as the girl gave an uncannily accurate repeat performance of her partner’s act of Grand Guignol. 
Whether or not they were lovers in life,
thought Tanya ironically,
their hearts are now together in death.

Tanya looked over in the direction that both victims had been staring when they’d been killed.  Just at the edge of the crowd, she could see a slender young woman who was moving quietly away from the commotion.

:
Nicely done,
: she sent without thinking.  :
A bit showy, but effective.
:

The girl turned her head momentarily towards Tanya, but without changing her pace.  :
You’re very kind.  It’s nice to get a compliment from such an accomplished Aelumi psionic,
: she sent.  She seemed to know Tanya, but although something about her was familiar, Tanya couldn’t remember when – or if they’d met before.

The confusion continued for a few seconds, until Major Valentine came back out onto the steps.  He called for silence, and the crowd complied with his command preternaturally quickly.  “Nothing untoward has happened,” he announced in a stentorian voice.  “There has merely been an accidental spillage of red paint.  Would those of you whose clothes have been splashed please join me here.  The rest of you should go about your business.  I hope you all enjoy the opera.”

To Tanya’s astonishment, as soon as he’d made that announcement, the whole crowd began to behave as if nothing odd
had
occurred.  They ignored the bodies, and those cleaning up the mess, and one or two who had collapsed regained their feet, brushed themselves down, and acted completely unconcerned.  Even those spattered with blood seemed unbothered; they assembled as requested and were escorted away, presumably to be cleaned up.

Tanya, however,
was
concerned, and she turned and entered the Opera House in a quandary: she had only just found out who she thought she really was, but she wasn’t an Aelumin, was she?  She’d heard of those psi-witches, and the idea of being one of
them
made her uncomfortable.  Her regained memory told her that she’d been born and raised in a middle-class suburb on Ataraxia, but how did that tally with the stranger’s odd salutation?  And what about that odd vision on the helicopter?

Then it struck her: where had the thoughts she’d directed to this young woman come from?  They’d been totally instinctive, and she hadn’t really considered what she’d sent at the time, but now they came back to her, and the recollection made her feel cold all over.  She was a doctor, wasn’t she, dedicated to the preservation of life?  And yet somehow she was now aware that she’d taken more than one life, and in stealthy, underhand ways.  What she’d said to Anoushka was all too true: she wasn’t really a very nice person.

She had a glass of champagne thrust in her hand, and had to cover her inner turmoil when she was personally greeted by the Comrade President.  “Comrade Talia, how very nice to meet you again.  You are well, I hope?” he said loudly.

“Very well, thank you, Comrade President.”  She bent her knee slightly as he kissed the back of her unbandaged hand.  “Congratulations on your birthday.”

“Thank you.  And you, Comrade Boris, you are also as fit and healthy as a Hero of the Republic should be?”

“Very much so, Comrade President, thank you for asking.  And may I add my good wishes on your birthday to Talia’s.”

“You are too kind.”  They exchanged a few more pleasantries.  All the media were in attendance, and the President made a particular point of being photographed several times with Bartes and Tanya, both singly and together.

Eventually, though, he moved on, and Tanya looked round for the others.  She noticed with some concern that Iain, who’d already had several glasses of vodka before he came, seemed to be imbibing rather heavily, as did the two youngsters.  She was about to have words with Joseph when a bell rang and one of the ushers announced, “Distinguished Comrades, would you please take your seats?”

They had been assigned their own personal escort, who led them up to the box on the right of the President’s own.  Most of them followed her, but Iain decided to be awkward.

“I wish to sit with my comrades, the workers,” he announced imperiously, as he made his inebriated way through the tunnel that led to the stalls.

Bartes and Tanya looked at each other in chagrin.  After what they’d seen outside, they were both chary about communicating their fears telepathically, but they didn’t really need to.  It would be ironic if one of them who
hadn’t
broken his programming drew enough attention that they were rumbled.

Iain perched on a step and turned to a young woman who was sitting on the aisle seat next to him.  “D’you know this opera?” he asked her.

“N-no, Comrade Hero,” she replied, leaning away from him.

“I hope it’s funny,” he continued.  “I don’t mind a good tragedy, something with lots of blood.” He belched loudly. “Oops, par’ me.  What I really like is a good laugh.”

Major Valentine bustled over.  “Let me conduct you to your proper seat, Comrade Ivan,” he said.

“If you don’t mind, Major,” Iain said imperiously, “this lady and I were having an interesting conversation.”

It was obvious that the girl’s opinion differed, and she gave the Major a pleading look.  Several of the Major’s men hovered around them uncertainly, and one of them whispered in his ear.  He shook his head and said, “No – hopefully, it won’t come to that.  Just keep him out of trouble,” then, to the girl’s obvious horror, walked away.

The lights dimmed and there was an expectant hush as the overture began.  The music itself was strangely familiar, though the rest of the opera was not.  And the former was as good as the latter was dire: the story was dull, the staging heavy-handed, and the lead tenor, though politically correct, should have been more so musically.  The lead soprano had a pleasing, if unremarkable, voice.

“Work for your commune,

Give it all you've got.

Work night and day,

Work night and day...”

The chorus had just begun this interesting, if vaguely familiar, refrain when Tanya became aware of an extra voice from the stalls.  Iain had recognised the song as having been plagiarised from a different opera, and when he joined in, using what he considered were the
correct
words, she recognised it too, as a corruption of the Toreadors’ Chorus from the ancient opera
Carmen
.  There was a mutter in the audience, which rose in volume as Iain stood up, clambered up onto the stage and joined the cast, still singing loudly.

When some of the actors and the stagehands moved to restrain him, he staggered towards them with his arms extended in greeting.  Though he seemed to be enjoying himself, they were clearly irate.  One of them took a swing at him and a scuffle began.  Iain’s escort of security officers had initially been surprised by his sudden move, but now they jumped on to the stage, appearing uncertain as whether they should remove him or protect him.  Some of the crowd began to cheer: perhaps they thought this was part of the opera, but perhaps they just found the slapstick violence a refreshing break from the tedious dogma.

Iain continued struggling with a couple of actors until a piece of wood wielded by a stagehand caught him under the right ear and he sagged to the ground, senseless.  The security officers surrounded him, and Tanya realised with alarm that the Major might have him dragged off for treatment.  It could be disastrous if he did so: her subterfuge with the dispensers might be discovered, and all would be up.  She turned around to ask Bartes what he thought they should do, but he wasn’t in his seat.

As she looked around for him, she became aware of another voice singing the Toreadors’ Chorus.  In a box on the other side of the auditorium, a security general had picked up the baton that Iain had dropped.  After a couple of minutes of confusion, several security men appeared in the back of his box, at which point he stopped singing and looked around himself with a puzzled expression.  Meanwhile, a well-dressed middle-aged woman on the opposite side of the stalls took up the refrain, until she in turn was surrounded.  The chorus was continued by unsuspecting patron after unsuspecting patron as the security team tried vainly to regain control.

Major Valentine got up onto the stage and started scanning the audience.  After a few seconds, he focussed on the back right of the circle.  Tanya looked in that direction and saw a slender, familiar, female silhouette with a blue glow at its throat.  The woman, whoever she was, was standing by an Exit sign.  The Major drew his gun and fired at her, but she nonchalantly dodged the bullet and disappeared through the door.  He pointed out where she’d gone to his men and left the stage to join in pursuit, but Tanya felt certain she wouldn’t be apprehended.

As the disturbance subsided, the stage curtains closed, the safety curtain lowered, and a projector started somewhere at the back of the auditorium.  On the safety curtain appeared a rather grainy but recognisable representation of some large military-looking vehicles being unloaded by soldiers from a space shuttle with the insignia of the Dainworlds Federation.  A narrative began, and a clear contralto voice said:

“This is the ‘agricultural equipment’ imported at your Skyport over the last week.  These are actually grav tanks, over a hundred of them sent from the Dainworlds, with a cost much greater than your country can afford.  I have a message for the Comrade President: if you start a war, you yourself will not survive it.”

Above the pictures bold, blood red letters, appeared:

WAR = DEATH

YOUR
DEATH!

Tanya had been vaguely aware of the frantic search for the source of this intrusion, which clearly met with success when the projection suddenly cut out.

After a short but restless pause, Major Valentine again mounted the stage.  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “nothing untoward has happened.  You have just taken your seats after the interval.  Please be quiet, as the opera is about to continue.”  By now Tanya was used to the way the audience complied with every instruction they were given, but she continued to wonder how the Major was able to dominate people so easily.

In all the confusion, Bartes had been able to retrieve Iain, and helped him up to their box.  “Are you all right, Ivan?” Tanya asked the impromptu baritone
sotto voce
as he sat collecting his addled wits.

“My head aches – and call me Iain,” he muttered.  “I’m sorry for how I’ve been behaving.”

She blew out her cheeks.  “That’s a relief.  It was getting hard to keep things from you,” she whispered.

“How did they manage to keep us so deeply programmed?” he asked in mystification.  “We’re trained to resist this sort of thing.”

“They used drugs in our dispensers, but I exchanged them for something harmless as soon as Bartes told me of his suspicions.”

“Who else knows who they really are?”

“Bartes, Anna – who has adopted her new name, Anoushka – and RD.”

“What about the others?”

Bartes interrupted.  “Young Joseph hasn’t yet regained his memory,” he whispered, “and I’m worried about John.  There’s not a lot we can do till we see him.  If the worst comes to the worst, we’ll have to escape without him.”