Music hath Charms
By
Dawnwind
Chapter 4
The next few days passed rapidly. Nothing out of the ordinary happened, but I got a big lesson in 'Life of a Rock Star 101'. Miles never quit. He was going from early in the morning til very late at night. But for the life of a Royal Bodyguard, things were pretty boring. And that was okay, cause neither Bobby or I wanted anything bad to happen. The thing was, it was almost too quiet. There were no black roses delivered, no break-ins, nobody shooting at us. My bruises were beginning to fade and I was starting to get antsy. Hobbes says it's never wise to get too complacent, that's when the bomb goes off.
Since Hobbes was interested in all the political stuff, I left the research into Kharistani political machinations to Eberts and him and went back to college. Since I never really finished my degree, I figured attending a few pre-med classes with Farzimah couldn't hurt. Man, talk about boring, and incomprehensible. Didn't really understand chemistry in the least, molecular biology left me comatose and beginning anatomy was more Claire's province than mine. When the teacher hauled out a severed arm out of a vat of formaldehyde I had to go wait in the hall.
But my education wasn't a complete wash, because while slouching against the wall waiting for the little hand to get up to the 12, I started to idly read the brightly colored flyers push-pinned to the bulletin board on the opposite wall. There were the usual announcements for school dances, tutors and free personality readings by quasi-religious groups. 'You too can discover your inner freedom.' Just attend one of our sessions and be brain washed for the rest of your college career. You ever hear of Rev. Moon?
No thanks.
I was just about to shuffle down to the intersection of the corridor where there was a Coke machine when one last flyer caught my eye. It was on really puky green paper and half-hidden by a screaming pink paper advertising low cost ski weekends for freshman. The reason I even noticed the unobtrusive sheet was the letters K-H-A and R.
A little shiver ran down my spine. Did that spell out what I thought it did?
Sure enough, when I pushed aside the florescent pink, I read the words "Come to a rally in support of the Kharistan Freedom Fighters. Help build a brighter future for this up and coming nation."
Dollars to donuts the Kharistan Freedom Fighters opposed current government--i.e. the royal family. I bet that ol' Tayeb was a founding member.
Luckily the clock hands had completed their hourly journey and students came streaming out of the anatomy class all discussing the finer points of the tendons and ligaments in the severed arm.
"Farzimah." I latched onto her nice warm, firmly attached arm to steer her away from the crowd, her family bodyguard following a step behind. I liked to call him Mountain Man. He was maybe an inch shorter'n me but hefting probably 100 more pounds. Mountain Man never did much, just stood--solid as a mountain--and stared at anyone who came to close to his princess. Farzimah had told me on more than one occasion that he was a kitten at heart, but I sure didn't want to see the guy riled. For some reason he was her school bodyguard, and rotated shifts with the guys Hobbes had first seen the night of the shooting on other days. Maybe Mountain Man really liked pre-med? Who knew? He so rarely spoke I didn't even know if he knew sufficient English to understand the professor. But then again, I've spoken English all my life and I hadn't understood the professor, so there you are.
"D'you know anything about the Kharistan Freedom fighters?" I pointed out the flyer.
"Oh, them." She wrinkled up her pretty nose, hugging her anatomy books to her--uh--anatomy. "They're springing up all over college campuses trying to incite people against my family's rule. And the Kharistani people love having a monarchy."
"Royalty's kind of gone out of fashion, even the ol'Queen of England's kind of a joke--not to sound offensive or anything…" I tried to backpedal out of the rude comment.
"No, honestly," She winked, obviously recognizing the comment for what it was, pretty much truth. "Most Kharistanis are still about a century behind. Of course, the Internet and TV just hit a few years ago, so technology is bridging the gap but the majority of Kharistan people have voted to continue the monarchy, and welcome their new king." She sighed, leading the way to the Coke machine. I paid for two Vanilla Cokes and she handed two of her heavier books to Mountain Man so she could sip her drink. "It's a small faction, manned mostly by Westerners--and others--that want to change the government."
"To a real democracy?"
"No, that's it. With our senate and laws constructed similarly to the US, we are a modified democracy. At least that's the direction things have been going since my father died--and he was popular as a king." She shook her head in disgust, "The Freedom Fighters want a communist government."
"Not much freedom in that."
"Exactly, so they don't call it communist or even socialist, but they're just inciting violence and anger. It's getting scary."
"How well does Amin know his friend Tayeb?"
"Why? I think they met in some class and remained friends because of the mutual heritage thing."
"Cause Amin's a nice guy and Tayeb's not."
"Thank you," Farzimah said honestly. I was surprised, but I shouldn't have been. Farzimah came off as quiet, meek and shy but when you got to know her she was funny, sharp as a tack and didn't miss a thing. "He's always struck me as…um…a hanger on?"
"Pretty much my take, too. I just wondered if he's getting in with your family through Amin. Kind of doing the double agent schtick."
"I hope not. Amin's a decent soul but his mind's in outer space most of the time--astrophysics would be perfect for him," She laughed, " sometimes I wonder what would have happened if we hadn't come to the west. I'd be married already with a belly out to here." She outlined a phantom pregnancy. "And Amin would be shoved unwillingly into some generalship. I'm straddling two worlds and I don't like it anymore."
"You and Miles getting married?"
"We want to," She kept her voice pitched low, her black eyes flitting around the open green space of the campus, alert for guerilla reporters from the lower end of the spectrum, like the Intruder. I could just imagine our picture, arms linked as they had been up to the Coke machine, with a banner headline proclaiming me to be two timing Mighty Miles. "But we can't even move in that direction until after Amahl is crowned king and even after that," Farzimah continued. "It's all politics, Middle Eastern traditions and publicity. Not to mention that Miles would be tied forever to the Kharistan royal family. It makes planning impossible, our future in jeopardy and puts a stress on the two of us that neither of us needs."
"So you go on like nothing's changed," I finished, knowing exactly how what that felt like.
"I play the happy med student and he's 'The Star'. It was easier when he wasn't so famous."
"Well, it's said that fame is fleeting," I laughed.
"Well, can't let that happen too soon." She joined in the laughter, "He has a radio interview with Dr. Div this afternoon at two and we're supposed to meet him there. Want to get campus lunch or go elsewhere?"
"Anywhere else," I voted. I'd already sampled the fare in the student Union earlier in the week and wasn't ready for an encore.
"And we're back after the break. This is KTIT and I'm your fav afternoon guy Dr. Div with one of rock's newest superstars--Miles Verbage. Hi, Miles!" Div waved across the radio console at Miles who chimed in with a greeting to his fans. "Also with us in the studio is Mile's beautiful lady, Farzimah Abdullah. Miles, tell us about your newest project."
"Thanks, Dr. Div." Miles adjusted the mic so he could speak into it.
I was standing squashed into the only unused corner of the tiny studio, but fascinated with the whole process. It was the first time I'd ever been legitimately inside a radio station. I'd once burglarized the owner of a rival station across town but that was only because he'd kept his wife's jewels in the company safe. That was a night I'll never forget--easing open the safe while listening on the speaker to the DJ in the nearby studio doing the night show. He probably never knew I was in the building until the news of the theft came out the next day. That's a rush of a whole special kind.
"All proceeds of the special CD will go to buy books and other educational material for Kharistani girls. Men have been allowed higher education in the past fifty years but it's only been in the last twenty or so that women have had the opportunity and mostly those in richer families," Miles was saying when I tuned in again.
"This must be a charity close to Farzimah's heart too, then," Div observed.
"Farzimah has certainly opened my eyes to the plight of people in her homeland," Miles agreed. "But this is a problem in many countries without the advantages of the US."
"Were you always so interested in politics?" Div questioned, making it sound like it was tantamount to being a geek.
"I have a great interest in the entire world and I applaud other rock musicians who are using their fame and influence to help others less fortunate. Bob Geldorf got knighted for his humanitarian efforts. I certainly don't aspire to be in his league, but I think if I can do something to better others while I have the ability, then I'm happy to do so."
"Even at the expense of your popularity?" Div pushed, stroking his blond mustache as if he'd made a particularly cutting remark.
"I don't follow you, Div," Miles said sharply.
Unfortunately, I did. Just before the show Mike Kim had told Miles to stay off of any remarks about the unrest in Kharistani, that reporters were already commenting on his close ties to the royal family and how this could cause pre-sales of the CD to drop. The last thing any promoter wanted was bad publicity right before a major marketing blitz. The remix of 'Sandstorm' was due to hit stores in just over a week to coincide with Amahl's birthday celebration--an intimate dinner at a thousand bucks a plate for only one hundred of his closest friends at the ritziest hotel in San Diego. After that, Amahl would fly back to Kharistan and Miles would give a benefit concert the next night. Tickets were selling like proverbial hotcakes and the CD had already gone gold and it wasn't even in stores yet. Bad publicity would be just plain bad for business.
"We've had phone calls all morning from people complaining that they don't want their rock buried in sand," Div said bluntly.
Even from across the room I could see the color flush Farzimah's face and Miles looked about ready to explode, his hand gripping the mic way too tightly. Just at that moment Sherida stuck her head into the booth with a slip of paper, her eyes blazing as she handed it over without a word. Div's whole demeanor changed as he read it.
"I see it's time to earn some green and run a coupla ads." Div boomed in his radio announcer voice, poking a finger down on the button that activated the commercials. "Next up, we'll hear Miles' latest song, also on the special edition of 'Sandstorm', not yet in stores. And a chance to win tickets to see Mighty Miles in person!"
"Who called?" Miles hissed when we were off the air.
"Some guys," Div waved his hands with a placating gesture. "Man, I was only trying to get your goat."
"Any names?" I asked. Like the Kharistan Freedom fighters would identify themselves on radio.
"No, but we got one on tape." Div got the attention of his engineer and requested he play back a phone call. All of a sudden a slightly accented voice filled the studio. Except the accent wasn't what I'd been expecting. It sounded Asian.
"Nobody wants t'hear that Arab loving trash. Play some decent music. Miles is going down, with a bullet."
Farzimah gasped, her face no longer red. Now it looked sallow under her normal burnished brown color.
"Far, it's just an expression," Miles assured her, taking her hand. He looked like he was going to kiss her, there in the studio, in front of Div, but the counter on the control panel showed the commercials were nearly over and we had to act civilized again.
"We're back!" Div announced like it was some great surprise. "The new one's fantastic, Miles, care to do the intro?"
"It's a little something I wrote recently and we had some room on the CD after the remix of 'Sandstorm'. Actually, there's two extra on the CD, but this one's my favorite. Its called 'Empty Rooms'."
"First time anywhere, "Empty Rooms'," Div said softly before it began to play.
I'd heard the song before, and I liked it, too, but it gave me a deep ache inside, sad and full of longing. Lots of Miles' songs were on the sad side and this one was no exception. It was about being in prison, and the empty rooms were the memories of loved ones left behind. I'd had so few people who'd cared about me during my prison days, but I guess it'd been different for Miles. No wonder he'd gotten out before me and never looked back. Having someone to go home to helped a lot, I'm told. But obviously the girl in the song hadn't been Farzimah, so either he was one hell of a storyteller or there was a girl he'd left behind somewhere.
I didn't have time to muse long on the subject, 'cause right after the song there was a bevy of phone calls, mostly from giggling teenaged girls gushing about their newest favorite song. Div picked the seventeenth caller and awarded her a front seat for the Saturday Kharistan Charity Benefit concert.
Lilianne, from Del Mar, shrieked so loudly my ear drums hurt, screaming, "Thank you!" repeatedly until Div put her on hold to get her full name and address while he played a song by Smashmouth.
Miles laughed, rubbing the side of his head as if his ears ached, his arm around Farzimah. Looking out of the glass-fronted studio, I saw Hobbes had made an appearance and was deep in conversation with Sherida.
The remake of the Monkees' hit 'I'm a Believer' was in full swing when the engineer signaled Div to pick up line four. "Hello?" Div asked.
"Put that raghead lover on," a voice sneered, low and menacing.
"This is Miles Verbage," Miles introduced himself into the mic before Div had a chance to stop him.
"Black roses ain't the only thing that'll cover your grave, once you're buried in sand, nobody'll give a shit about you, man. The war's already started and you better keep your girlfriend's head down low or she'll be next. First one brother, then another, and another…what'll you do when they're all gone? Write a song about it?"
In the middle of the tirade I'd lunged for the door, pulling it open for Hobbes to head the voice. He was already on the cell phone to the Agency to see if they could put a trace on the call, follow the connection, something, but the caller clicked off without another word. Apparently Sherida and Hobbes had been able to tell from our expressions that something bad was going down without even having heard the threats.
Dr. Div started an immediate 'golden oldie' segment, setting up 'Hey Jude' and then 'American Pie' to play so we'd have a long uninterrupted period. Engineer Dan replayed the tape for Bobby to hear in its entirety. Sherida was fuming, her black heels clicking loudly on the linoleum as she paced back and forth in the confined space.
I hadn't noticed until then that Farzimah was attempting to hide the fact that she was crying, great big tear drops spilling from her dark eyes, but she bottled up any sounds of unhappiness. Miles still had his arms around her but so tightly I wondered if she'd bruise. He didn't look like he wanted to let go.
"Hobbes, what's your take?" I was feeling way out of my league here. Anonymous threats after what had already happened were serious crap.
"This is bad, my friends, sorry, Princess," He actually rubbed her shoulder briefly, turning the tiny tape Dan had given him over and over in his hands. "This nozzle ever called here before?"
"His voice sounds familiar," Div shrugged. "But so do lots of guys. I've had some nasty complaints on the air--and off--but that's the first definitive death threat." He did look shaken, and kept smoothing down his mustache as if it were fake and he needed to press the glue more firmly into his upper lip.
"That guy's called before," Dan agreed. "I'd say in the last few days, when we've been advertising Miles' appearance."
"You have his name and address?" Miles blurted out.
"I dunno, we only routinely take those if they've won something. Maybe I can search some of the old tapes but I can't guarantee anything."
"We'd better get the two of you out of here," Bobby took charge which was just fine with me. "There's a major problem, though."
"W-what?" Farzimah sounded like she couldn't handle much more.
"The reason Mr. Hobbes and I were about to come in before," Sherida sighed, her spine rigid with tension. "There's a small but very vocal element of the Kharistan Freedom fighters picketing out from of the building. It'll be next to impossible to get Miles and Farzimah out without causing a scene."
Them again. I was beginning to think small wasn't quite the right word to describe their group. Up and coming threat was more like it.
"We called in the local blues," Hobbes said. "But it may take a while."
"Hobbes," I raised my hand like we were in grade school. "I could…"
"No, Fawkes," he stressed so strongly that Miles looked curiously at us.
"So they're stuck here?" Div growled, "Not good for publicity for the station either."
"I think that's the least of our concerns right now, Elliot," Sherida snapped, pulling out her cell phone and punching in some numbers.
Elliot? Was that his unused first name or a last name? The mindless speculation took some of the stress out of me, and I pulled Hobbes over to one side, as far away as we could manage in the overly crowded tiny room.
"Hobbes, I could sprinkle on the fairy dust, you could bring Golda around the back and we'd get them out without a fuss," I whispered.
"What'er ya gonna do afterwards, hot shot, give 'em the old amnesia spell so they'll forget they saw you do your top-secret schick?" he hissed. "It's not as if there are killers after them. It's only rock and roll, Fawkes."
"I think there may be killers after them," I countered. "Besides, this doesn't just make KTIT look bad and send Miles' CD in a downward spiral. It messes with some pretty nasty political ramifications centering around the crown prince of Kharistan and don't forget poor little girls who don't have enough copies of 'See spot run' to read."
Hobbes gave me a look that said bringing up the little girls was a low blow but he gave a barely discernable nod of his head. "Princess, Verbage, we're going out the back. I'll drive the van around and Fawkes will stay with you until the right time to get outta Dodge."
"You can avoid the mob and the press that's accumulated?" Sherida asked speculatively. I was kinda surprised she wanted to avoid the press, but her next statement explained that. "I'll go give a brief statement."
"Good." Hobbes tapped me on the forearm. "Five minutes, Fawkesy, in the loading zone."
"Aye, aye, Captain," I saluted sloppily and led my charges out through the maze like corridors of the radio station. We were on the third floor of a multi-office complex, with a wide variety of tenants. Taking the elevator down to the second, we then found the back stair well that lead to the service entrance and hunkered down.
"We're not going any further until you explain the plan, Darien." Miles stood on the landing down to the first floor, barring my way. He held Farzimah's hand, but she looked somewhat surprised at his attitude.
"Okay, troops," I began lightly, not sure quite how to begin. "Miles, there's a reason I haven't been around lately…"
"I read on the Internet how you got sentenced to a third term," he spoke up, "But obviously you got out. How?"
Gee, Wally, I got this gland, see…? "This'll take way too long to explain, but suffice to say to get out of prison I agreed to be the lab rat in a government experiment my brother headed up. He did some unorthodox surgery on my brain and implanted a gland." Still looking at their astonished and unbelieving faces, I let the Quicksilver flow, going invisible in a few seconds.
"Allah!" Farzimah breathed, her black eyes wide with shock.
"What the fuck did you do?" Miles swore as I dropped the cover and came back into the visible spectrum.
"S'called Quicksilver," I explained. "My curse, but your salvation, this time. I'm gonna Quicksilver the both of you for the few seconds it takes to get to the van and have Bobby drive us off the property. Then nobody'll notice you've left the building, Elvis."
"N-no, I can't," Farzimah backed up. "How does that affect the structure of the cells? How can your body chemistry function with that additional strain?"
"For you it's kinda like a cold wrap," I answered. "Doesn't do anything to you."
"You're sure?" Miles asked.
"I've Quicksilvered lots of people," I assured. Lots was probably an overstatement but the number was around about ten or so, by my estimation. Of course, Bobby Hobbes counted more than once.
"What about your own electrolytes? Has it compromised your liver?" Farzimah pressed, obviously past her initial scare and into the science of the gland. "What is this Quicksilver comprised of? Who invented it?"
That I could answer. "Unfortunately for everybody, my brother Kevin invented the gland, but he's dead now and he left behind a lot of unanswered questions." I peered out the heavy service door. Hobbes had just pulled up to the dock and I could see his expression through the windshield. He looked on edge. "But we can talk about all this another time. It's time to shine, folks." I grasped both of their hands, taking a deep breath.
Farzimah was still nervous; her hand was icy even before I flooded it with Quicksilver, but Miles was the one who gave an involuntary gasp when we disappeared.
"Cold isn't the half of it," he shivered as I urged them forward. It was a little tricky trying to keep contact with two people and open the door but we made it and crossed the loading dock quickly. Hobbes had already opened the side door of Golda and we piled in linked like cut out paper doll triplets.
Hobbes drove at a cautious speed around the parking lock, then had to stop to avoid hitting anyone in the all out riot waging in front of the building. Police were wading into a wild melee of flailing arms and legs, grabbing collars and swinging Billy clubs like some flashback to a sixties anti-war demonstration. Not that I'd know much about any of those, besides the fact that my mom once told me she had attended one while pregnant with me, but I've seen enough documentaries on the History channel to know what they looked like. This was a humdinger. After a few minutes of watching the battle in Quicksilver vision, I was able to identify the separate factions. There were lots of college age guys of every ethnicity, but largely Arab and Asian, fighting a particularly vicious group of girls wearing Mighty Miles for president t-shirts. One chubby blond hit a taller guy with a placard that proclaimed Miles the next king of rock and roll. So much for the discussion Hobbes and I had had in the limo.
Apparently these weren't just the Kharistan Freedom Fighters. A loudly vocal faction of the San Diego chapter of Miles' fan club had shown up to try and breech the station's security and see their god. They took umbrage at the Freedom Fighters' stance on Miles and had started a shouting contest that had quickly disintegrated into this mess. We learned the details later that evening on the six o'clock news but for now the only thing that was settling the fray was the appearance of Sherida Jefferson, backed up by Mike Kim, Dr. Div and KTIT's PR woman Victoria Viceroy-Wong. She looked pissed. All four stood just outside the glass doors of the building looking a little nervous about venturing into the war zone. The police had taken control in under five minutes and I could see Sherida hold up her hands and begin to speak. Just as Hobbes finally got space to drive the van onto the street, I glimpsed Mike Kim making eye contact with one of the Kharistan Freedom Fighters. Just from their body language and the intensity of their faces, I could swear the two knew each other. I sure wish I had bionic hearing to go along with the invisibility. Us super heroes with only one power can't hold a candle to Superman or Spidey.
The Quicksilver sparkled off of Farzimah and Miles when I cut the flow in my own body and fairly soon we were all what amounts to normal again. But suddenly I had even more questions than Farzimah had had.
