Negative Energy

Carnival

The pod door opened, and all at once Matt was engulfed by the sights, sounds and smells of Carnival.

Appalachia had been replaced by Rio de Janeiro. A curve of white beach separated the city's high-rises from the turquoise waters of the bay. Across the inlet, a whale-shaped peninsula rubbed its mottled spine against a jut of stone. Inland, a cubist tessellation of coral and chalk-colored tenements spilled between green ridges, their windows and balconies draped with lavish garlands. Perched atop his mount, Christ the Redeemer looked down with arms outstretched.

A tangy seabreeze teased their clothes, carrying the scents of garlic, cumin, and dende oil. The street was full of revelers in parakeet colors. Some wore long, flowing skirts they could twirl into disks. Others wore barely anything at all. There was a profusion of feathers, frills, jewelry, and tassels, though few costumes approached the boldness and artistry of their own. "Veja tal florzinhas delicadas!" someone remarked. Look at such delicate flowers!

Music filled the air, as frenetic as it was sensual. The gild and glamour of brass horns alternated with the sigh and trill of wind instruments. Strings were feverishly plucked and strummed to the flowing lilt of voices in their native Portuguese. Running through it all was a rhythmic rockslide of percussion. So many beats! Congas, bongos, and box drums, tambourines, wooden clackers, scrapers, and claves. He could feel the vibrations in his palms and the wall of his chest. He felt a primordial compulsion to move.

The pod ride had left them a bit crumpled. Holding out her petal-wings, Ina swayed and shook her hips, causing her train of foliage to rustle like maracas. Where had she learned to move like that? When she caught him gawking, she leaned forward and plumped her breasts. There is no shame in Carnival!

Then she took him by the hand and led him into the flowing river of people.

Matt's fear of crowds was instantly swallowed up by the fellowship of the flock. It wasn't so much a loss of self as it was an expansion—or perhaps a dispersion—of it. Even with thousands of people thronging the beachfront, movement was fluid and unimpeded. A self-synchronizing confluence of currents created a kind of superfluidity, each person acting independently yet influenced by and affecting the paths of those in their immediate proximity, together becoming a multitude. This, too, was a system of flow.

People openly prexed their excitement, casting off their mental restraints as they had their workaday clothes. Sensuality filled the air like exotic perfume. Swept along by the rhythms of samba, rumba, and bossa nova, the hours passed in a blur. Ina acquired a tambourine, and Matt picked up a drum that he strapped around his waist and played with his fingers. They danced and drummed as they went along. Matt couldn't believe it. He was dancing half-naked in the street with a beautiful woman at his side!

They took in the street performers: stilt-walkers, flame jugglers, unicyclers, contortionists, magicians, puppeteers, and all manner of dancers and musicians. They gorged on fried puff pastries and barbecue skewers, washing them down with citrusy Caipirinhas. Every sip and nibble was a delight. Best of all, Matt never got over-buzzed or tired. Following a tip from Ina, once he reached a heightened state of enjoyment, he would place a mental set point. It worked like an emotional thermostat. When his mood started to sag, he would auto-boost back to the set point, sometimes shooting a bit beyond.

"The parade will start soon," Ina announced. "Let's go check out the floats."

"Where's the little boys' room?" Matt asked. Even with his lab-grown body, there was only so much fluid his bladder could hold. At least having to pee didn't feel uncomfortable in the way it used to.

Ina pointed to the ocean.

A pee in the sea. Real classy, Matt pathed. The music had picked up again, making it difficult to hear each other.