The Dark Symphony

with his identisong medal Forcing his shame and confusion from his conscious to his subconscious so that he might be able to operate intelligently through the crucial hours ahead, he hurried to the elevator and dropped to the ground floor. Moving warily, as if everyone could see he was a revolutionary and was out to get him, he made his way to the concrete core of the tower, the part that was not a sound configuration, activated the door and stepped inside.
    "Hello, Guillaume. What brings you here of all places?"
    The Musician tending the generators this shift was Franz! He had known but forgotten that the old man had mastered many occupations and amused himself by going from one to the other when he grew bored with any particular endeavor. Agony pricked every convolution of Guil's brain. His hands tingled with the memory of the thin twanging of guitar strings. Someone, it seemed, had nailed his feet to the floor; he could not act.
    He thought of Rosie and what he had done to the Composer, and he told himself that he had made the choice whether he liked it or not There was Tisha to think of. And the Populars who ate rats. And the children of the Musicians who needlessly died in the arena. And, too, there was himself to think of. He knew he was not so selfless as to be able to exclude personal motivation. The revolt had to progress. And because of all these things that were wrong with this society, Franz would have to suffer.
    Abruptly, he brought up a hand, chopped down, again, and a reluctant third time. He had tried to make the blows as soft as he could without making them totally ineffectual. Franz toppled to the floor, unconscious, the last waking look on his face one of disbelief and hurt that froze there and denied unconsciousness' eraser.
    Guil bent to the generators and looked them over. This was the main broadcasting station here in the Congressional Tower. Each building was maintained by these thrumming machines. There were ten of them, and ten lines ran across the floor, all but one disappearing into other machinery, then through the concrete core. Those nine went to the other towers, he knew, came to rest in the huge, black amplifiers that pulsed out the intricate, multi-billion patterns that made each of the structures. Each amp would be regulated by computers and back-up computers that threaded the emanations that came from the cable, separated and directed them into proper conductors located about the building frame. Each generator was labeled, though, he did not need to read the inscriptions to know that they were prayers to various gods and to Vladislovitch himself. Moving to the other nine generators, he opened access plates in their sides and placed nine small bombs, each no larger than a pair of thumbs held side-by-side. They didn't even tick.
    FIRST:
    Strong had circled approximately one half of the city, keeping to clumps of brush and some black slag piles of melted debris so that he would not be seen by any Musicians, and he had not yet found any clue to Babe's whereabouts. At last, he stopped, crouched behind an ancient truck cab, looking through the windows, across to the neon stones. The glass had been smashed out years earlier, of course, so there was nothing but the skeleton of the driver to obscure his view. On the other side of the truck, there was a short stretch of waste, then the neon stones and a clear avenue along them to the smaller buildings and the towers that comprised the city. If he expected to find Babe—assuming Babe was in there—he could not do it by hanging back. When he was certain there was no one near, he rounded the truck and loped across the grass and stones, onto the neon stones, down them toward the relative obscurity of the alleyway ahead.
    As he ran, he wondered how many years it had been since a Popular had dared to cross into this territory. Decades upon decades. Probably more than three centuries. The Musicians had quickly displayed their lack of love and friendship with the mutants. He came into the alley where the sun was blocked by a walkway roof between the two small buildings. He waited there, wondering what his next move should be, while he regained his breath.
    He could hear the sounds of revelry echoing from some distance, perhaps three or four blocks. Some part of the festival was playing there, something that produced a good deal of laughter. Whether or not it involved Babe, it was the only trail worth following.
    He darted out of the alleyway,