The pyramid loomed ahead, separated by a broad river from the main part of an alien metropolis that had once been named Cal’mari. Behind me, city towers and apartment blocks glittered farewell, their protective frosting of spikes and nets and broken glass shimmering under a small, pale moon as the humming cable propelled me beyond a quayside wall and across open water. I doubted that any of the living denizens – the “Standard” humanoids shuddering inside their homes behind bolted doors – would miss my bellowing chorus of Fangs for the Mammaries. No one would demand an encore.

Now, beyond the clutter of buildings, I could tell that mine was not the only sky-thread converging in this direction. From many angles, dozens of ropey strands began to intersect toward the titanic structure up ahead, bigger than the mighty monuments of Giza. Moreover, for the first time, I could make out signs of life ahead.

Well. “Life” is a loaded word, here on Oxytoxin 41, I thought.

Activity might be better.

Indeed, so far on this planet, dead people had been the most active ones I’d seen.

Adjusting to the darkness – and making liberal use of the adaptive optics in my left eye – I soon realized that I was not the only traveler using spiderlike sonic cables to zoom along, a few dozen meters above the rolling river. Dark figures could be seen cruising in one direction or the other, ebony capes flapping in their wake. And soon, I caught snatches of song – melodies that each night-voyager crooned in order to control a particular, vibrating string. Using music to coax pent-up sound waves, hurtling them onward, like ants riding an obliging snake.

Across the shadowy separation, as various night-travelers flitted past, I picked up a few, brief snatches of lyric.

“…if I only had a pulse…”

“…red, red veins, I’ll suck from you…”

“…I feel batty… oh so batty…”

Of course I had learned the hard way, ever since arriving on this world, that my translator nanos weren’t to be trusted. Some demmie programmer badly needed to be hunted down and… well, at minimum have his library of show tunes confiscated.

“…storm crows that hide the sun with their wings, these are a few of my favorite things!”

“…I am the very model of a modern major corpuscle…”

And for one that really bites—

“Pardon me boys, is this the Transylvanian Chew-Chew?”

Ooog.

Still, at one level, I really had to hand it to these monsters, who were crisscrossing the star-flecked evening, propelled along wire by palpable verse. It’s rare to find a community of individuals so enthusiastic to sink their teeth into their work. On the other hand, it was distracting – and frightening – to realize how many undead predators were cruising nearby, each of them on a private, predatory mission. Part of a veritable economy – or ecology – of eager parasitism.