It was like the sun coming up. Even Speedboat had to stand and stare. The choir's harmonics went straight up to heaven. Golden light streamed from Proverb, its warmth melting away the audience's previous hysteria. The music was climbing to a final crescendo.
"Go forth and rejoice. The day is at hand. Go forth and rejoice. There will be a cleansing of the temple. "
The lights on the stage slowly went down. The show was over. The house lights had not yet come up, but a lot of the crowd were starting to gather themselves together to face the real world. Then a strange rhythm started. At first it was just a feeling, low and indistinct, but it quickly gathered momentum. It was the hubbub of thousands of whispering voices.
"Go outside, look to the skies."
"Go outside, look: to the skies."
The audience was picking up the cadence.
"Go outside, look to the skies."
"Go outside, look to the skies."
They were marching to the exits with a dogged, shell-shocked determination. They really believed that their day was at hand.
Mansard
He let out a long, heartfelt sigh, pulled off his headset, and slumped back into the chair. He felt like a pilot who had just flown around the world single-handed. He lay for almost a minute with his eyes closed, then reached up and gingerly eased the plugs from the DNI receptors in his neck. The physical world took back his senses. Sweat was running down his face, and his shirt was soaked. The light seemed unnaturally bright, and the roar of voices around him seemed deafening. People were slapping him on the back and applauding. He smiled automatically.
"I think we hit them where they live."
There was a red light flashing on the board in front of him. He picked up the headset again and put it to his ear. The voice of Jimmy Gadd came through loud and clear.
"Ready to go with the Horsemen when you are."
"Everything checks out? "
"Perfect."
"You're sure?"
"Sure, I'm sure. It's perfect."
"How's the weather?"
"Perfect."
"Is the crowd out on the street yet?"
"The first ones are coming out now."
"What's the status on the streetlights?"
"The Con Ed guy got the envelope, and there ain't one alight for three blocks in any direction."
"Traffic?"
"Eighth Avenue diverted from Twenty-third up to Thirty-eighth. Seventh Avenue is normal. We're going to have to live with that. It doesn't really matter though. Most of the light from the traffic is blocked by the Penn Plaza Tower."
"So we got about as much as we could have hoped for?"
"We did pretty damn good."
"Okay, so give it a fifteen count and let the Horsemen ride. If they don't push things over the edge, nothing will."
Someone had put a drink in front of him.
SIX
Carlisle
He ran the tracy on his wrist through a quick function check. The screen was still distorting, but the communicator was working again. Outside the auditorium, in one of the tunnels that led to the street, there was enough protection from the storm of leakage that was coming from the stage to allow the audio to function. He touched the send stem.
"Carlisle here. Control, do you copy?"
"Opcon here. We copy you, Lieutenant, but no visual."
"I know that. It's the best I can do."
"Audio loud and clear."
"So listen, the Alien Proverb show is over. There have been no incidents. I am signing out and returning to Astor Place."
"We've logged that. What about the rest of the team?"
"They're off the air until they move away from Proverb's special effects. You'll just have to pick them up individually as they come out. Tell them to regroup downtown. I've had enough of this bullshit. The damned A-waves have given me a headache."
"Ten four, Lieutenant."
"Yeah."
He closed the channel. Harry Carlisle was in a foul temper. What had all the paranoia been about? Was it celebrity chic to imagine death threats? He felt that he and his men had yet again been used, and he fully intended to stop at a bar before he returned to Astor Place.
The street door led out onto Eighth Avenue. Carlisle's temper was not improved by his discovery that the street lamps were out. It was a hell of a time for a power failure. Or was it a power failure? It was certainly limited. From the corner of Thirty-third Street, he could see the Empire State Building, shining in its halo of cloud, just blocks away. He could also see that the traffic was not running. People were strolling along the empty expanse of the avenue. What the hell was going on? He looked around. There were plenty of cops about, but they seemed to be standing in tight watchful groups, certainly not deployed to handle the crowd that would be coming out of the Garden at any minute. They had the look of men who were waiting for an order. He walked over to the nearest group and flashed his badge.
"What happened to the lights?" he asked.
"It's all part of the show."
"What show?"
The patrolman was inscrutable behind his armored visor. His name tag read 'Rennweiler'. He imperceptibly jerked his shoulders. "You better talk to the sergeant."
"At any minute, thousands of these fools will come streaming out of the Garden, twisted out of shape on A-waves, and find themselves in total darkness. "
"Really, Lieutenant, you'd better talk to the sergeant."
"Where is he?"
"He's here someplace. I'm not sure exactly where. It's hard to keep track in the dark."
Carlisle knew that he was getting the uniformed run-around. He looked about for someone in authority but failed to see any stripes or gold braid. The first of the Proverb audience had begun to emerge from the exits. He shook his head, trying to clear it. Oh, Christ, they were chanting something. What was it they were saying? It sounded like 'Go outside, look to the skies'. They were crazier than he had thought.
They were spilling out of the exits in earnest. The chanting could be heard coming from those who were still inside, but once they reached the sidewalk, the cohesion faltered. They seemed to become confused. They walked aimlessly, turning and peering upward, spreading out over the closed-off width of Eighth Avenue. Only a handful seemed to be going for their cars or turning for the subway. By far the majority seemed to be holding on, waiting for something to happen. The squads of uniforms were not doing anything. It was insane. The way things were being handled went against all the most basic rules of crowd control. In a situation like this it was a matter of get 'em out and get 'em gone.
A crowd could never be allowed to linger after any event, and that went double when the event had been as emotionally charged as this one. He was starting to suspect that someone had failed to tell him something. What did that jiveass Rennweiler mean by 'it's all part of the show'?
Then it started.
They simply glimmered into silent life, like apparitions from another dimension. There was a conceited gasp from the crowd on the street. The things were huge. At first, Carlisle was too close to the building to be able to see them. With a host of other people, he hurried across the sidewalk and out onto the avenue. When he turned and looked, he was instantly rooted to the spot.
"God almighty!"
The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, maybe a hundred feet high, were charging across the city. War, Famine, Pestilence, and Death, armor gleaming, spear raised, scythe swinging. They seemed to be galloping full tilt for the Hudson, New Jersey, and the rest of America. Fire burned from the horses' nostrils, and sparks flew from the giant hooves. The Horsemen's eyes were hidden beneath cowl, behind visor, or in the dark hollows of black skull sockets. Their spectral images were reflected over and over in the curtain glass of the neighboring towers. Even though Harry knew it was all an electronic illusion, the first sight took his breath away. It was magnificent.