Damon walked out onto the street and forced himself to keep his eyes on the greasy pavers, if he saw Samuelson or one of his pet creepers, he was going to give the crowd quite a show-- Samuelson wouldn't know what hit him. Creepers loved to attack people from behind, they often snapped a victim's vertebrae, before gnawing on their guts while they were still alive. Samuelson was EIS, so Damon couldn't kill him. He'd just teach him some empathy, some decency, maybe he'd take him out to a formal restaurant show him how a gentleman is supposed to hold chopsticks.
He made it to the corner and his rage started to ebb. He looked for the pit addict, but the junkie was gone. He felt like drinking barrel whiskey until he passed out, but he had some thinking to do first. Working in the jungle was sketchy as hell. You could survive a wave assault then get swarmed by hundred little mink spiders in your sleep. The entire landscape was hostile, to perform a mission, to exert your will, to have a design in mind, then to go out and to fulfill it, that took discipline, infinite resources, and a gamblers luck. Only he didn't feel so lucky right now. This was an opportunity to make history. He should care about that, but none of this felt right. The EIS didn't give you an option to back out unless the mission was basically suicide. He'd served the empress for longer than she deserved. It was dirty work and he missed having clean hands.
He ate a greasy bowl of pork fried rice from a street vendor who looked halfway honest, then roamed the streets. He'd been to Galleria twice and both times he found the city to be full of militants and fanatics, but that was life in a border city and most cities in the empire were border cities. Thermica was Galleria's neighbor, but they didn't have any religious enthusiasm, they spent too much of their time devoted to the state, and to killing anyone who wasn't.
After walking through the slums and fighting off soldiers and beggars for most of the afternoon he found a sketchy trader willing to sell him some rice weed. Once that transaction was concluded, he made a mad dash to the royal fountains where he found a group of fanatics he could stand behind. The Mercantacks believed in a Goddess who valued repentance from sin, and they figured that if the Goddess valued repentance then they should value sin. Tonight, they were parading out to the orchards to enjoy a night of mild debauchery. It was a weekly right the city government allowed, and the Mercantacks were not particular about who came with them. Still, the festival was not usually well supported, because the ritual took place after dark, and most sane people stayed locked in their homes after the sun set. The Mercs weren't concerned about being attacked at night by flying creepers; they figured it was the will of the Goddess. Damon put the piece of rice weed under his tongue; he wasn't going to worry about flying creepers, for at least twelve hours.
When the flutes and lyres and drums started up, he took off his clothes, and walked down the street with nothing on but the rucksack over his shoulder. At least four dozen other adherents marched along with him, when they started singing and chanting, Damon had to smoke some herb to stop himself from cringing. The non-believers on both sides of the street ritually mocked them as they walked past. The poor bastards that lived in this neighborhood had seen this all before and their jeering was almost jolly, they made catcalls to the women and belittled the men with quips about the size of their junk, but the witticisms were tired, and no one took any offense.
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They crossed a street to a section of town full of older people with a more puritanical belief system and the old crones threw rotten fruit and the old men cursed the Mercs for not cleaning it up. Damon was hit with a stone, it made a knock on his skull like a dull drum and the only thing that kept him from pummeling the old man that threw it, was the feeling of complete unity with humanity that was sneaking up on him, making him turn and wave at the toothless bastard like a mentally deranged clown. He felt fingers caressing the back of his head and looked down to see a face scarred by burns but lit up with excitement. She had eager brown eyes and matted black hair, her freckled back passed in front of him, her cushy ass twerked with the beat of the drums, and her long thin legs matched his, stride for stride. She reached up and knocked down a rotten piece of meat that was coming for his face. He seemed to be the main target for the non-believer's abuse, but that was just because the bastards were too lazy to try to hit something that posed more of a challenge. Still, his companion took a delight in every rotten fruit that got past her and found its mark. She would look up at him and giggle; she wasn't a young woman anymore, but her smile seemed to take the years off and together with the grimness of her scars she was almost beautiful.
She put her hand in his, her naked hips brushing against his upper thigh. They turned a corner and passed into a district where the wealthy had recently renovated old broken-down apartment buildings, turning them into expensive flats. Property inside the city walls was not cheap; the poor were crammed into one room hovels, several families sharing the space, marking their territory with cheap spun sheets as dividers. These buildings were different they had multiple rooms and only one family. The cascade of rubbish stopped; the iron shutters muffled the sound of the jingle jangle parade. The Mercs marched through the quarter like it was abandoned. Damon looked up at a balcony, a few of the help smoked their master's tobacco, they waved their hands and cheered them on in a feeble attempt at irony.
The musicians paused for a moment and then began a new song just as the rice weed started to really kick in. The stark whitewashed buildings that towered over him started to sway. It took him a few moments to realize they were moving to the rhythm of the music. He could feel the vulnerable mass all around him change, instead of a being a desperate mass seeking some comfort, now they were all one body, one wonderful being that was complete, united, alive.
The woman beside him started to sing and to dance around him, pausing spontaneously to pose seductively. He sang along with her, his deep scratchy baritone mingling with hers. They made music together, across many universes and several ages in time. Then the music stopped, and the naked mass slowed, bodies pressed in tight on all sides. They were at the orchard gate and there was a tension as the promise of what was to come rippled through everyone. The massive gate swung open, and he reached down and held the woman against him her tiny breasts pressed against him, he kissed her on the top of her crinkled forehead, and she pressed her lips to his belly, she ran her tongue down and gave him a wicked smile.
Time was hard to cling to as they danced in and out of the trees. Sometimes he would be chasing her; sometimes he would be a drop of water in a fast-moving stream only to wake up with his heart pounding and her body on top of his. Then she'd roll away and he'd be after her again. Pairs of people lay like fallen fruit beneath every tree holding each other close. She circled him, teasing him, pulling and kissing him. He guided her to a tree and collapsed down beside her, several others crowded in around them coupling in urgent frenzy. He looked over his shoulder and, in the moonlight, he saw a guard fully dressed standing above him. He recognized the young man; he'd left him here this morning with a mushroom sacrament the contorted expression on the man's face made him sorry he had.