Swarm

by Scott Westerfeld

  Let Kelsie cry just as long as she needed.

  CHAPTER 18

  FLICKER

  THE CHOIR SANG BACKUP WHILE they kissed.

  It was always new, feeling her lips against Thibault’s. Some part of her brain always forgot how good it was, though her body remembered. But Flicker was fairly certain that this whole choir-singing-while-kissing thing had never happened before.

  Harmonies filled the air, their reverberations and echoes mapping the vast open space around them. The choir pushed out all other sound except for Thibault’s breathing, which grew quick and shuddery as she ran her fingers up inside his shirt.

  She allowed herself a little peek at the couple standing at the altar. All eyes were on them, and they really were beautiful. They looked way too happy for this marriage to be the loveless attention grab that the tabloids claimed it was.

  Their lips parted, and Thibault murmured, “See anything?”

  “What makes you think I’m even watching?” Flicker asked, guiltily shutting off her power. God, K-Mo’s dress was amazing, though.

  “Because that’s why we’re here,” he said. “To keep an eye on things.”

  “Come for the stakeout, stay for the make-out.”

  Flicker could feel the cringe travel all the way through Thibault’s body. Yeah, that was one she should have run past the stupid-meter before saying it out loud.

  “You’re such a poet,” he said with a laugh.

  “Sorry. Mood killer!”

  He didn’t argue, settling back against the pew.

  The choir came to the end of its opening song. An expectant hush settled over the chapel, full of coughs and shuffles and the wingbeats of a hundred fluttering cameras.

  “We are gathered in this place to celebrate true love,” began the officiant. He wasn’t a real preacher, Flicker had read somewhere, but just some actor friend with an online certificate. She vaguely recognized his voice from a beer commercial.

  The sermon was full of platitudes, and the congregation’s eyes drifted from the happy couple to check out hats and outfits. Flicker caught a few faces that seemed familiar, but only with the tugging familiarity of minor celebrities.

  Anon’s hand was in hers. It was a little tricky, keeping hold of him with so many people around.

  She leaned closer. “Looks like the eye-bang twins aren’t showing up.”

  “Have you checked outside? Maybe they couldn’t get in.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” If anything, the crowd outside was the bigger target.

  Flicker flung her vision farther, into the jumbled viewpoints surrounding the chapel grounds. Most people were staring at the loudspeakers hidden among piles of flowers, no doubt listening to the officiant’s words.

  Then Flicker caught a glimpse of something odd.

  The security guard at one of the side entrances was slinking away from his post, looking back over his shoulder. She jumped into his head—his eyes were darting back and forth as he moved away from the crowd.

  “Okay. This is interesting.”

  Thibault held her hand tighter.

  The security guard was pulling something out of his jacket. An envelope, stuffed full.

  He opened it up . . . and stared.

  His fingers rifled through it, growing more and more agitated. Blank paper was evidently not what the guy had expected to find.

  “Shit,” Flicker whispered. “Coin bribed a guard.”

  “So they must be—”

  “Hush. Listen . . .”

  Down in the congregation, something was changing. The tenor of the crowd, the totality of all those coughs and shuffles and whispers, was shifting into something nervous. Flicker could almost smell the twitchiness coming over them, like a herd of animals sensing a predator nearby.

  The fake preacher was building to the climax of his mini sermon, unaware.

  But then he said, “Jacob, do you take Kirsten to be your lawful wedded wife?”

  The familiar words drew the crowd’s eyes to the altar.

  There was a long pause before the answer came. Way too long, and the hush began to fray with worried whispers.

  Then finally the groom’s voice rang out—

  “Who the hell are you?”

  A gasp went through the chapel, and Flicker flung her vision back into the crowd. They were all staring up at the not-so-happy couple.

  “Who are you?” K-Mo shrieked. “Who are all these people?”

  The words set off another astonished gasp, this one mixed with cries of fear. From the viewpoint of the crowd, Flicker could only see the backs of the guests’ heads.

  She sent herself into the officiant’s vision.

  He was staring out past Kirsten and Jacob, his gaze drawn to a couple striding up the aisle. Coin wore a beautiful gray suit in a vintage cut, and Glitch a crimson dress and tiny hat nodding with feathers. They climbed the stairs to the altar, then pushed aside the bride and groom.

  They locked eyes, and Flicker found herself drawn into Glitch’s vision.

  It was like nothing Flicker had ever experienced, staring at someone with such surrender. Without any glance away, without even blinking.

  She felt her own will being pulled into the vortex below. The attention, the recognition, the desperate need to be seen of all those fame-obsessed people gathered in the chapel, all of it was swept up into the glorious stare shared between Glitch and Coin.

  “Get down there and stop them!” Flicker murmured to Thibault, but he was already gone.

  CHAPTER 19

  ANONYMOUS

  BY THE TIME THIBAULT GOT Downstairs, the crowd had exploded.

  Fancy hats were knocked askew, perfect hairstyles mussed and snagged, designer outfits twisted and rucked on the struggling, fleeing bodies.

  The neat sheaves of wedding fascination had blown apart into hundreds of strands. Faces jigged about, pale with fright and confusion, everyone suddenly alone in an unrecognizable universe.

  Thibault dodged and weaved closer to the altar, where Glitch and Coin stood eye-locked to each other, sucking up all the recognition in the room, all the meaning and familiarity. And as he drew near, Glitch’s power began to tweak at the edges of his mind.

  What was he doing here again?

  He clenched his teeth, trying to stay on course. He was a Zero, here to protect people. And those two up front were Zeroes too. This was only a superpower at work, not some existential crisis surging up from his—

  Oof. A random fist caught Thibault right in the guts. He doubled over and sagged against a pew.

  This was even worse than the panic in the Dish. Why was it so violent?

  Thibault stared up at the lashing snakes of people’s attention. A moment before, those hungry gazes had been magnetized, great bundles of them, onto famous faces.

  Of course. The pecking order was gone. All fame, status, and celebrity had been erased, and that loss had sent everyone reeling into mayhem.

  Thibault could barely make out the two figures at the altar, one tall and one tiny, both hands joined. Their connection fizzed bright between their eyes, their world-shattering love for each other.

  He could feel Glitch’s power working on his mind, trying to suck out the sense to fuel her loop with Coin. Who am I? one part of him was whining. Am I anything at all?

  Whatever. Zen for Beginners had been asking him that for years.

  “Wisdom tells me I am nothing,” he muttered, stepping up onto the seat.

  He leaped from pew to pew, past abandoned hats and handbags and scatters of flower petals. Four bridesmaids stood frozen, wide-eyed, at the front of the chapel, arcs of attention waving from their heads like bright inchworms seeking another foothold.

  “I am nothing,” Thibault managed, jumping from the front pew.

  He slipped as he landed on the floor, one hand brushing cold marble before he righted himself.

  “I am Anonymous.” The word was meaningless in his mouth.

  The connection between the two at the altar
sizzled and spat. It was trying to drink his mind, his very self.

  Just. Keep. Going.

  But then the girl’s firm, fervent voice struck a steady note against the cries and struggles of the terrorized crowd:

  “I, Ren, take you, Davey, to be my unlawful wedded husband.”

  Thibault stopped dead. The somber words lifted the hairs on the back of his neck. She’d stopped playing dolls with the congregation and turned utterly serious.

  “To have and to hold,” she went on. “No matter what crazy shit happens. Rich or poor, healthy or sick as dogs, or cut to pieces by the swarm. To stay by each other’s side till death us do fucking part! Whether that’s tonight, or tomorrow, or next week.”

  Davey stood straighter with every word. He beamed his attention back at her so fiercely it crackled.

  Thibault felt his will spiraling away from him into the strand of pure recognition, of deep, bitter loyalty between the two. Why was he here again? Was it just to witness this?

  “What you said,” Davey murmured. “All of it.”

  He slipped an enormous glittering ring onto the girl’s hand.

  “Grab them, Anon!” a high voice shouted.

  Thibault looked over his shoulder. Up in the choir loft a girl in sunglasses and a red dress was waving at him. Behind her the choir stared down, bewildered.

  The girl’s attention was complex, multiple, angling at Thibault through the choir’s eyes and those of a few people standing dazed among the pews. He’d seen that done before. Who—

  “Anon! Knock them over! Shake them apart!” she yelled.

  Anon? Yes, he knew that name, he was sure—

  “Remember who you are!” the girl cried. “Your parents left you at the hospital!”

  A shock went through him—of fear, of thirst, of aloneness, of knowing he’d been forgotten. He grabbed at the scrap of memory.

  “I am nothing.” He climbed the altar stairs. Coin and Glitch—Davey and Ren—were still locked on each other’s eyes.

  Davey was saying, “For richer and poorer, but we’ll be plenty rich—”

  Thibault thrust his hand out, severing the bright bar of attention between them, erasing them from each other’s consciousness.

  They stumbled apart, stunned and speechless.

  All at once the rioting crowd froze, staring at each other in astonishment. Then, in the silence, paired shrieks of pain echoed through the chapel. The couple had both fallen to their knees.

  Thibault caught Davey by the shoulder before he tumbled over.

  “Sucks, doesn’t it, having your brain messed with?”

  The guy stared blankly up.

  “We need to talk,” Thibault said. “You two and me and some friends of—”

  The blow came from behind, a thwack against the base of Thibault’s skull. He stumbled down the carpeted steps and fell to the cold marble floor, clutching at consciousness, hands in the air to ward off any further blows.

  It was Ren. She dropped the Bible back onto the lectern.

  “Come on, Davey. Let’s go!”

  As Thibault rose shakily to his feet, the two ran toward the door.

  CHAPTER 20

  ANONYMOUS

  THIBAULT JUMPED DOWN THE CHAPEL steps and dodged through the confusion.

  “A bomb go off in there?” a security guard cried, backing off, arms wide as if to catch all the milling guests. Sirens started up in the distance as Thibault darted under the guy’s arm.

  Davey and Ren were already halfway down the lawn, running hand in hand among astonished caterers and event staff.

  As Thibault pursued them down the slope, the babble and wail of wedding guests grew behind him. Excited reporters rushed at them, and a few strands of attention even lighted on Thibault. He sliced them away.

  Photographers were all over the place, manically gathering footage. One lifted his camera at Ren and Davey, but Ren waved a hand at him. The camera dropped from his grip and thumped into his chest. He staggered back, gaping in confusion.

  Ren laughed as they ran, bonded to Davey with a bright shaft of affection. They dashed through a gate in the castle wall and on toward their black-and-red convertible parked outside. Davey skidded to a stop at the car, opened the passenger door, and put out a courtly hand for Ren. She low-fived it as she dropped in.

  Davey closed her door, then ran around and jumped into the driver’s seat.

  They paused to exchange a long, hungry kiss, pulsing with the light of their bond. That left Thibault time to launch himself over the trunk and land in the backseat. He chopped away the startled attention from the two, then lay down along the seat.

  A moment later the Ford’s engine caught and roared.

  “Later, suckers!” Ren cried as the car screeched away from the curb. Her hat fluttered in the wind and then flew back and landed on Thibault.

  He stayed down until they were around the corner of the castle, out of sight of any photographers. Then he sat up, snipped away a scrap of awareness from Ren, and slid across to where the rearview mirror wouldn’t catch him.

  Media trucks and catering vans sat parked along the high gray crenellated wall, all the pomp and expense of the ruined wedding on display.

  “How sad were all those poor K-Mo fans?” said Ren, shaking out her hair.

  “We should crash a wedding every Sunday.” Davey slung his arm along the back of the seat, and Ren tipped her head back on it.

  “Nah, just B-listers’,” she said. “I love the way they feed off each other’s faces.”

  “I know, right? I could feel that wannabe vibe even before you hit me with it.”

  “And today has nothing on the honeymoon.” Ren leaned over and kissed Davey’s cheek, lighting a little spark between them. “Love in the desert on Christmas Eve!”

  The car sped up as they took the access road onto the freeway. The air filled with shuffling strands of other drivers’ attention, watching traffic and counting down exit signs.

  A few police cars shot past on their way to the castle, setting the two laughing again.

  “Late again, losers!” Ren cried.

  Thibault scooted to the middle of the backseat and stuck his head up between the two.

  “You guys seem pretty pleased with yourselves,” he said.

  Davey flinched, his hands tightening on the wheel. But Ren just looked at Thibault levelly.

  “Great. Another stalker. Or are you the same one from last night?”

  Thibault didn’t know what to say to that, which made her sneer.

  “What? Did you think you were the only one in the world?”

  “Stalker.” He shook his head.

  “Do you prefer ‘Forgettable’?” Davey adjusted the rearview mirror. “Or maybe you think you’re some kind of homegrown ninja?”

  Ren snorted. She and Davey both kept their eyes trained on him—Davey in the mirror, Ren with an unabashed stare. They knew how to stay focused on him.

  Because they’d seen an Anonymous before.

  There were more of him in the world.

  He shook the dizzying thought away and kept his voice firm. “What the hell were you doing back there?”

  Ren hooked her elbow over the seat back and grinned. “Getting married. What did it look like?”

  “It looked like you trying to get someone killed.”

  She snorted. “We were doing those reality-celeb morons a favor. The whole world’ll be talking about this!”

  “Yeah, but you trashed someone’s wedding,” Thibault said. “I heard your vows. They meant something to you.”

  “Our vows are none of your business,” Davey growled, and shook his head. “Stalkers. Always snooping.”

  “And always so judgy.” Ren turned away, now watching Thibault in the rearview mirror. “You followed us last night, too, didn’t you? You were there when that black chick bricked our car. You must be one of those losers who runs the Petty Dish, huh?”

  “Petri Dish,” Thibault said.

  “That’s r
ight. Still can’t believe you only sold beer.” Ren’s eyes were coldly amused. “I mean, you guys blew up a police station. We figured you at least knew how to party.”

  “You knew about us?” Thibault barely got the words out. It was too much at once.

  “You weren’t exactly in stealth mode,” she said with a laugh. “You’ve got your own pet weird-hunter and everything. So we decided to pay you a visit.”

  “What, just to mess with us? To bring down our club?”

  “Look, we didn’t know you ran the place. Our kind aren’t usually old enough to own a nightclub. Or stupid enough.”

  “I knew, from the music vibe,” Davey grumbled. “I told you that DJ was bad news.”

  “Our kind.” Thibault swallowed. “How many of us are there?”

  She shrugged. “Who knows? Had four of us in Portland. Including a guy just like you, a Stalker. Maybe more than one.”

  “Yeah.” Davey laughed. “It’s not like you can line Stalkers up and count them.”

  Thibault eased himself back against the seat, his mind blown by the guy’s matter-of-fact tone. There really were more people like him. People who shared the constant fight to be seen, to be remembered.

  He wasn’t alone.

  Glitch was watching him carefully, almost pityingly. “You don’t know much, do you?”

  Thibault shook his head.

  “Well, don’t worry about us. We’re not sticking around to piss in your cornflakes. We’ve got a honeymoon party to get to.” She put her hand on Davey’s shoulder. Her wedding ring was a heavy blend of jewels and silver leaves. Bought with fake money, of course. “Don’t we, Husband?”

  Silently Davey laid his hand on hers, his eyes still on the road.

  “That Stalker guy you knew,” Thibault said. “Is there any way to find him? If I went up to Portland, say. What’s his name?”

  “Like we’d remember a Stalker’s name!” Davey narrowed his eyes at Thibault in the mirror. “Also, he got killed.”