The Muse When I walked alongisde him into a crowded room, conversations ceased. Heads turned.

Voices trailed off. Trains of thought were derailed mercilessly by the entrance of the Muse, casting speaker and listener alike onto tracks of sudden quiet. It was a hell of a thing, I suppose, watching the Muse enter a room. I wouldn't know, I'd never seen it. I was just the Voice, which was a funny title, considering he did all the singing. I couldn't hit a concert A to save my life, and he crooned melodies out to crowds of countless thousands, threading harmonies through every drone-display and billboard in the Northern Hemisphere. He didn't talk, though, except to me. It would have been ironic, the way he wore silence into a room, cut to him like a finely tailored suit, if it didn't inevitably morph so swiftly into excited whispers. The quiet never lasted for more than an instant, as if anytime the Muse walked into a room, every heart stopped for a beat, blood slowing to a sluggish crawl for one single solitary moment, suspended in time, until the body recalibrated itself, forging itself anew at the anvil of the Muse. He was an empath, a telepathist, a rock star, a product of mutated genetics, a pop star in an otherwise-empty sky: IS THAT HIM? OF COURSE ITS HIM. LOOK AT THAT HAIR! GOTTA BE HIM. They got to me sometimes, those whispers, though they never seemed to bother the Muse. He couldn't hear them at all, as far as I could tell. We'd walk into a grocery store, and passers-by would point us out to their friends, and I'd tense up just a hair, and the Muse would just stand there blankly, briefly lost in thought in front of the dairy section, until he pointed at the acai berry probiotic yoghurt smoothie, -this kind- he'd whisper in my ear, up on his tiptoes, and I'd grab it, and bring it to the register, and they'd ring it up, and the Muse wouldn't say a word to anyone else the whole time. Not a peep. He never did, except on stage. The Muse was born to be on stage, or raised for it, at least. They'd found him in a little

slum village on the Outskirts of New Chicago when he was just a kid, singing to enraptured transients and drifters, calming down rejected Augment trial patients and displaced state workers, a patchwork quilt of the Collapse's poor and suffering knit together by his melodies, coursing through their brains and knotting them together here and there. They'd sing and hum and stamp along. It was said that sometimes, in the early days, some newly dead had come crawling up out of their graves to dance to his refrains. Lesioned sewer denizens came up to pay him homage, shielding their filmy eyes from light they hadn't felt in generations. He could whip up a riot with a frenetic staccato, or cure insomnia with a lulling hymn. He was a real singer, a modern singer. He didn't have any parents, or rather, he must have, but no one had any proper documentation for him, so it was a simple thing to scoop him up, take him back to the studio, and pop him into a soundproof room chock full of microphones of varying shapes and sizes, crowding all around him like bulbous insectile eyes. The Muse didn't mind it at all. He took to it like a fish to water, the kind of water that aquaculturists keep at a perfectly level pH. I don't ever recall liking it particularly much, but it was a far sight better than starving in some old pock-marked street. They brought me with the Muse, when they took him in. He didn't talk see, except to me, so they needed a translator. A Voice. I'd announce him, and then he'd appear as if by magic- a puff of smoke, or billowing fog, deftly woven holograms- whatever the special effects guys had decided to cook up where he was performing. He sang; I spoke. I'd make sure he was eating enough, showing up on time, signing autographs, all that sort of thing. A bit mind-numbing, maybe, but a good gig. Later, the Muse would sit cross-legged on his bed, slurping yoghurt, and I'd toy with the idea of maybe reading a book or something, anything to chip away at the interminable silence I worked through every day. As soon as I opened a book, though, he'd clear his throat, and I'd look at him, and he'd look back at me, expectantly, and then he'd go back to slurping his yoghurt or gluten-free Daiya dairy substitute, and I'd think about sighing but then think better of it, because he needed me, and I owed him, and that was that. So anyway, I kept things cruising smoothly, and when things got choppy I'd cut the sails and weather the storm, waiting patiently for calmer waters. That was life, the rhythm, the music-

the Muse and the Voice, a seamless team- until the night of the Rockwell Benefit, anyway. It was a dark night, clear though, certainly not stormy at all, and we were booked for a benefit in the Outskirts of New Chicago, of all places, the first time we'd gone back in years. They were putting in new developments in the Outskirts, tearing down dilapidated shanty-towns and replacing them with high efficiency LEED-certified skyscrapers. It was good news, apparently. There'd been a whole mess of oil spills and waste dumping going on in the area for decades, and the city'd finally decided to do something about it, however belated. I drove the Muse through our old stomping grounds before the show, through the winding bumps of the Outskirt slums. We wouldn't get a chance to see it again, the cracked and glossy soil. They'd pack off the homeless to some other city, and the Outskirts would persist, somewhere farther from the development of New Chicago. I started to open the windows, to get one last taste of the scents and sounds of our shared childhood, and the atmospheric pollutant indicators started beeping, and the Muse shook his head, little black curls falling in front of his eyes. -no, close itA shrug, and I rolled the window back up. I couldn't blame him, I guess. This wasn't his home anymore. It was alien, a land of sensory dissonance and impossibility. They didn't have acai berries in the Outskirts. We'd both changed, I guess, but change never really works the same way twice. That night, after the show, after we'd escaped the legion of frenzied fans, we stopped at a little corner market. The Muse wanted something to drink, something to wash down the emotional fatigue that came after a long performance. Being an empath got tougher as the crowds grew, trying to keep them all singing the same melody, keeping them all strapped into the same emotional rollercoaster. He always managed, though. I guess that was why he was a star. We stood in front of the foggy glass display, seperated only just barely from the chilled beverages, only inches from the Muse's desire. -edenfruit tonightOf course. It was always edenfruit juice, or acai berry, or neoberry. Something exotic or expensive. It always had to be special for the Muse. I frowned, and stared a moment longer at the rows of neatly stacked bottles, then grabbed it and brought it up alone, in silence, to the register

to ring it up. Later, in the cool silence of the limosine, I handed him his bottle of apple juice. He held it awhile, arm extended. Looking at him through the rearview mirror, I could tell he was confused. -edenfruit?Nope. Not tonight! Inside, I crowed with a silent delight. Apple juice ought to be good enough for him. He couldn't always have the world aligned precisely to his whims. No edenfruit tonight, just plain old apple juice. My treat. When we got home, he got up out of the cart without speaking, and went straight to bed, closing the door behind him. I sat at the wheel awhile, still in the garage. He'd left the apple juice sitting in the backseat, forlorn and sweating, dripping condensation. I took it in, and put it in the fridge, then took the opportunity to sit for a moment, opening a book I'd been meaning to read for ages, a classic: Robert Louis Stevenson's Jekyll and Hyde. The Muse stayed in his room all night, and I kept right on reading, stopping only for a light snack around midnight. I washed it down with apple juice. The next day, I woke up late, bleary-eyed, and the Muse was waiting impatiently for me at the foot of my bed. -we're late. We were supposed to go talk to the Rockwell company today.Right. Of course. I dressed quickly, and we sped off to the meeting, which was downtown. Traffic was heavy, however, and we ended up over an hour late. I don't recall that we'd ever been late for anything. When we finally reached the Rockwell building, the secretary buzzed us in, looking bored as usual. We waited quietly as we rode the elevator up, and walked to the boardroom without speaking. There was nothing new about the silence, but it was different somehow, this time. I couldn't quite put my finger on it. It's like when you're living with someone, and they get a hair-cut, but not quite, a trim really, and you can't tell what's different but there's something there. Anyway, it was like that. Just... different. As usual, the conversation stopped when we walked in, and the suits all turned in their chairs. Gaius Rockwell, the impromptu head of New Chicago after the Collapse, grimaced at us. Well, well. Look who finally made it. I hope we haven't interfered too terribly with your schedule? He rolled his eyes as he spoke, and his voice was so thick with sarcasm that I thought

for a moment he might choke on it. -we're sorry tell him we're sorry it won't happen again we should've been here soonerI started to relay the message, then paused. Sorry? What were we sorry about? As far as I knew, we weren't even being paid for the benefit show, the proceeds went to the Rockwell development, and besides, nobody we'd known, nobody from the Outskirts was going to be living in those new developments, that was for damn sure. I gave Gaius Rockwell an appraising glance, up and down his suit, coming to rest on his HUD glasses. He frowned, and gave me a strange look. That's a piss-poor attitude you've got there, mister. I said, smirking. Rockwell's face paled, and I heard scattered gasps from around the table. The Muse had never been anything but passive, polite to the point of invisibility off-stage. My silent companion leaned over to me, and started to whisper furiously, but I brushed him aside. These men had no right to use me- us, as some mindless slaves. The meeting was short, and ended abruptly. I told the men that if they wanted free milk, they could damn well go find another protein factory, because we were done with pro bono work. I told them a couple other things besides, but I won't go into them here. That night, the Muse went to bed early, and I grabbed another book I'd been meaning to read, this one by F. Scott Fitzgerald: the Great Gatsby. It was a good one, and I kept reading right through the rising sun. When I awoke, I realized that I'd fallen asleep in my chair. Damn. It was already early afternoon, but I hurried to the kitchen and fried up some eggs, sunnyside, just like the Muse liked. I hoped there'd be no outburst. I brought the plate of eggs to the Muse's room and knocked. Nothing. No response. I opend the door and peered inside. No one. The sheets on his bed were all neatly made, as if they hadn't even been slept in the night before. Strange. In all our years, I'd never known the Muse to go out alone. I returned to the kitchen, and set the breakfast on the table, standing aimlessly for a moment. I felt like a man lost at sea, with all the endless ocean under and around him, and no stars to guide his ship. Then, it passed, and I returned to my chair, and the curious world of Gatsby and the Buchanans.

Lunch came and went. No Muse. I ate the omelette. Dinner. I made a light salad, and grilled some steak. Still no sign of the Muse. I ate alone, though there was nothing unusual in that regard. The Muse usually took meals in his room anyway. That night, I finished my book. I didn't have any other books, and even if I had, I was tired of reading. Since I still hadn't seen the Muse, I jumped in the limo, and drove myself down to the corner store. One of the Muse's songs was playing on the radio, and I couldn't help but hum along as I raced around the corners. It was an eerie blend of English and New Mandarin, ZIYOU/FR33D0M. I drove faster without him in the car, and I opened up the windows, breathing in all the strange scents of the city. I took a drive through the Outskirts, relishing the natural chaos of the place, the disorder of the displaced. I breathed in oily fried chicken, and the salty tang of unwashed synthetic sheets and blankets. I laughed and drover faster and faster, and my heart raced along with the hydrogen engine of my Lincoln. It was a curious feeling, to be on my own. An intoxicating feeling. I felt good. I felt strong. I walked into the store, and two young girls stopped their conversation, turning and pointing at me with gaudy lacquer nails. OH MY GOD ITS HIM I smiled this time, humming happily and hardly bothered by the whispers. They were clearly confused. I waved at them and they squealed and ran out the store, braids flapping behind them like little tails. I grinned wider, and sauntered over to the beverage aisle. So many choices. Acai berry? Edenfruit? Yoghurt? I chuckled to myself, and grabbed a stim-beer, a cocktail that the Muse had always strictly forbidden. With no one to question my choice, I walked up to the register, still humming. Without a word, the clerk scanned my wristcode, and his jaw dropped. His eyes grew wide, and he looked up at me. I walked back to car, the two girls outside now, humming in perfect time to ZIYOU/FR33D0M. When I got back into the car, I turned the radio on again,

taking the curves of New Chicago more gently this time. As I checked the rearview, I thought I saw, for a moment (a brief hiccup of time), the Muse, pouting in the backseat like a spoiled child. I never saw him again.