the new "recruits" in the Committee, whom Kate claimed could make useful tools out of anything.
And Kate. Curveball. Michael nodded to her, standing off to the side next to Lohengrin and Tinker. He moved to that side of the stage, his six arms flailing hard at his body, the drumbeats fast and loud and insistent. He opened one of his throat vents wider, letting the low thrump of the bass drum pound directly at her. He knew she'd feel the concussion, slamming against her body. She grinned at him, waving as he swayed to the beat in the improvised spotlights placed on the catwalks overhead.
The song finished to loud applause and whistles from the crowd. "Thanks for listening!" DB called into his throat mikes, waving. He tossed his signature graphite sticks into the crowd. "You've been a great audience! Thank you!" He high-fived the other musicians in the pickup group as the captain's voice came over the intercom, telling everyone to clear the flight deck and return to duty stations. "You guys were great. Great. That was lots of fun . . . ."
The spotlights went out. From the stage, the Tomlin seemed to be a brilliant platform floating in blackness pricked by the running lights of the cruisers flanking her, the wakes streaming out phosphorescent and white from their bows. There were no other lights but the stars in this universe, and the horizon in all directions was the unbroken, dark line of the Gulf.
He hopped off the stage as the crowd began to disperse and sailors swarmed over the improvised stage to disassemble it. Michael walked over to Kate, who applauded as he approached. Babs and Lohengrin were already walking away, talking earnestly to Colonel Saurrat, commander of the UN troops. Rusty loomed behind Kate and Tinker. "Cripes, you guys were loud," he said. Tinker wore the too-wide, open-mouthed smile of an awed fan getting to meet his idol.
Michael ignored Tinker, smiled at Rusty, and cocked his head toward Kate. "Well?"
"That was fun," Kate told him. "Just what everyone needed, I think." Her hand - her right hand, the deadly one - touched one of his arms momentarily, then dropped back to her side.
"You should hear the real thing sometime. If you liked this, you'd be blown away. I'll get you guys tickets to our next show." Whenever that might be . . . . The thought came unbidden, and he shook his head to banish it.
"That'd be fantastic!" Tinker said, his Australian accent broader than usual. "Sure. That'd be great. Just great. If you want, DB, I could whip you up something better than those mikes you use around your neck, though. I'd be happy to do it for you, mate. Y'know, I heard you blokes a couple times now; in New York on your first tour right after Egypt, and, let's see, I think it was . . ."
"Hey, fella," Rusty interrupted. "What's say you and me get some chow, huh?" Rusty clapped Tinker on the shoulders, staggering the man, and half dragged him away. Kate chuckled.
"You have a fan," she said.
"Fans are good. Sometimes. Hey, I'm thirsty and it's getting chilly out here. Take a walk with me?"
Kate shrugged. "Sure."
He walked with her toward what the crew called "Vulture's Row," the collection of catwalks climbing the island of the flattop. They went down a few levels, below the flight deck to the crew level. One of the crew lounge doors was open, and they went in, Michael snagging a couple bottles of water for them before they sat on a couch in the room. There was a TV set at the far end set to local broadcasts, a half dozen male sailors gathered around watching the screen, the sound tinny and distant. The channel was showing "spontaneous citizen protests" in Baghdad as Arabic lettering scrolled across below; there were bands of protesters filling the streets and firing weapons into the air. UN DEV ILS! proclaimed one of the signs, with a caricature of a scarab-browed face on it. MURDERER! said another, and on that one, a six-armed man beat his chest like a multiple-armed King Kong while smashing a minaret-adorned mosque.
"I talked to John," Kate said. Michael grimaced around the mouth of his water bottle. "He couldn't really say much over the phone, but he said that things can't stay at stalemate for very much longer."
"Fine by me. I'm tired of cooling my heels here. Let's either go in for the oil or go home.