The Holocaust Piano
by Phaedra7veils
Chapter 1: Trojan Horse
It was the finest instrument ever to arrive through the gauntlet of space transport. Brushing his thigh-length blue braid behind him, Hilarion Fyss pulled out the padded bench and gestured an invitation to be seated if he so desired to Amoi's First Blondie.
"I called the moment it arrived, sir."
Raoul Am circled the pianoforte first in long graceful strides like a lion stalking prey, almost pouncing upon it to lift the lid and examine the works. Next to the magnificent instrument, ordinary men would appear puny and powerless, but its grandeur met and matched his own.
"Beyond the usual standard indeed," his cultured purr turned Hilarion's understatement into a masterpiece of irony. The instrument's surface was flawless, french-polished without a nick or scratch anywhere; its black mirror reflected Raoul's exquisite face without a wobble of distortion. The harp sat upon a solid sounding board unmarred by splits or warps, something which had never happened before in Amoi's long history of interplanetary transports. All the mechanisms were intact; the hammers were well-felted; the damper and other pedals functioned without a hitch or click; and the action was perfection itself, with a responsiveness that evoked running water on the light strokes and ocean breakers on the thunderous chords.
A cadenza rippled under Raoul's fingers, confirming that its resonance was more intense and of clearer, finer quality than had been heard on the planet, possibly since its colonization.. He couldn't help but inhale a hiss of appreciation.
"Does it also sound to you like a woman singing?" The timbre was incomparable, but there were familiar elements.
"Seven very faint octaval and fifth overtones of a female voice, yes, culminating upon a third. Silvery on the high notes. Warm on the low. Is it not astonishing?"
Astonishing, indeed, this most ethereal of voices, so unlike Jupiter's metallic drone.
"As you can see from the extended range," the Sapphire continued, "it is a post-21st century model constructed after hearing had evolved to register new frequencies. Yet the progression is still octaval and based on tones and semi-tones."
"Yes, the lack of quattrotonal keys would place it–" Raoul considered, "toward the beginning of the 22nd century, wouldn't you agree?—when Terraforming in alien systems was still in its infancy. A legacy from our ancestors?"
"Unless it was constructed later with the intent to incorporate such a throwback."
Raoul stroked his gloved finger over the maker's mark, strange cursive lettering inset in gleaming metal on the instrument's lid. "Yes, I see what you mean. This script is unfamiliar to me."
"Although it bears remarkable similarities with–" Hilarion hesitated, unsure whether his conjectures would be welcomed or sound ridiculous, "Sanskrit or, perhaps, ancient Arabic. Consider the placement of this horizontal line throughout, and the play of curving lines and dashes above and below. Perhaps it bears a similar decryption key?"
"Hmm."
"Unfortunately, I've been unable to match the lettering in the Tanagura databases or in my private reference library."
A challenge! Raoul was too well-schooled to allow the excitement which leapt inside him to display itself across his features. Except for an added intensity in his clear, green eyes, he projected the same imperturbable tranquility. Hilarion had to be well acquainted by this time with the biotechnologist's fascinations; Raoul knew he was one of the Blue's best customers. He raised his hand in a gesture of silence, taking note of the excited flush on the art dealer's ivory skin and fine features.
"Before we go any further, I want to place a call."
"Oh!" A quick shadow passed over his face.
Raoul thought it best to probe further. "Your problem with this is–?"
"You and I are the only people on Amoi who know."
"A-ha. Such discretion. While I commend you for it, Fyss, I am curious why you chose to circumvent Customs."
"It carries—unique biologicals."
"And since you are aware of the laws governing contraband biologicals, you must also understand the consequences should strange proteins be introduced to our planetary genetics without moniters and controls?"
"Precisely. Which is why I chose to defer to your expertise and authority, Lord Am. My specialization does not encompass bioengineering sufficiently to render judgment upon the instrument's fate—although, in my defence, it far surpasses that of our typical Onyx Customs Officer."
Raoul thought about the situation. The Blue Elite was right about the Black Elite. He shuddered to think of what some of those philistines might do to such an instrument. The question was whether Jupiter was using the piano to test Raoul's loyalty.
Hilarion Fyss was the best procurer of artifacts and antiquities on Amoi because his interests extended beyond the monetary value of his products. The showroom was lined with the very best paintings, objets, and rare manuscripts protected in their own archival containment fields. His appreciation of aesthetics and history was inspirational, and his knowledge base—well, Raoul would freely admit to admiring the purity and refinement of Hilarion's intellect. Such clarity of thought within his field of specialization was positively seductive; he must've found the idea of tampering with such a beautiful artifact agonizing.
"Let's hear the list."
"Sir?"
"The biologicals, what are they?"
"Right. I extracted microscopic samples of wood from beneath the finish, workings and sounding-board and, aside from a few easily sterilized surface contaminants, the samples were inert, as were the fibres within the felts. I have the results on file for your perusal."
"As expected." Raoul frowned at the cover of the piano stool, "but this is not a synthetic polymer."
"No, it is hide, the byproduct of an unknown animal." Hilarion smoothed the sleeves of his golden brocade robe. "well-tanned, however. Very well-tanned."
"Yes, but it isn't critical to the structural integrity of the pianoforte. We could easily remove and incinerate this cover. Replace it with"—deep breath—"let's say, a native black peau de soie."
"Of course, sir," but his face still conveyed turmoil.
"Tell me you haven't allowed leather-upholstered antiquities to slip past customs, Fyss."
"No, it isn't that."
"Explain," Raoul commanded.
"It appears there's another unknown biological inside the instrument, within the very strings."
"Really? That is unorthodox. I thought intestines and sinews had not been used for centuries, and never in pianofortes. One firm strike and–" he snapped his fingers in a show of clipped finality. "That, and the hosts of equally viable, if not better alternatives."
"We couldn't get a close look at the substance since it is encased in a strange alloy which is nearly impossible to scan but, no, it doesn't appear to be sinew or animal tissue."
"Cellulose?"
"A form of silk is my guess. Spider silk. Caterpillar silk."
"A-hah, and laser-incineration would damage the wire. Is that what you're telling me?"
"I may have already compromised the integrity of the G-sharp minus-6 wire while experimenting with lasers, sir. Nor do acids appear to have any effect."
"I see. And so far as the replacement of these strings with an acceptable alternative is concerned–?"
Hilarion sighed. "It could be done, of course, but not without completely altering the piece and possibly damaging it beyond repair. Either way, the quality would suffer. Notice how the wires are fastened so that, to remove them, the pins would also have to be removed, which would render them worthless–"
"Because once they are loosened in this sounding board, they cannot be made to fit again. Yes, yes, I see the dilemna." To keep the pianoforte in its present near-perfect condition, Raoul would have to go against Jupiter's directives and place the genetic purity of Amoi at risk.
The risk was almost infinitessimal: the biologicals were most likely inert and, even if they weren't, the chances of their release into the genetic base with all its incumbent safeguards were next to impossible. Even so, it stood at cross-purposes with Jupiter's masterplan for Amoi and offended Raoul's sense of duty.
Music and musical instruments were the nearest he had ever allowed himself to brush with passion. His interest in sound began indifferently by observing the effects of patterned sound on the atomic structure of the Amoian genome. When the results showed changes—highly unpredictable, volatile reactions—his interest acquired fervor.
After the death of his friend, Iason, it consumed him, tearing his attention away from the spasms which now constricted around his heart, the heart which was supposed to have been engineered to not feel, and now failed him by feeling with a harrowing vengeance. Raoul threw his shoulders back defiantly; feelings were to be sublimated.
For a long time, his mandatory attendance at Tanagura's main political functions had bored him stiff. Their only amusement lay in observing how transparent the posturing and strategems of the various flunkies were, not to mention their thoughts, habits and secret appetites. He could even trace by memory the neural pathways these sparked, in thirty-six different languages, including binary code—a trick to pass the time while awaiting the most courteous and opportune moment to leave. He lacked Iason's lazy ease with officials of the Federation, but feigned it well.
As for pet-shows, he could now barely contain his revulsion. Prior to the catastrophe at Dana Bahn, Raoul's disdain for pets was rooted in boredom. Now he held their unbridled carnality, the torpor of their minds and the overwheening egos directly responsible for Ceres' allure over Iason.
Oddly enough, this contempt no longer extended to the Mongrel, Riki, a reaction which shocked him beyond the pall. After Jupiter's initial storm, he had expected every feeling, every physical sensation provoked by memories and thoughts of the dead pet to emerge from some sort of a black, bubbling tar-pit of—well, of hatred. He had not expected sympathy. He certainly never expected to understand, to experience resonance, like a fine harmonic chord. It was ridiculous. He was ridiculous: Raoul the Ridiculous, tormented with a desire he had forcefully transmuted into friendship for the dead Iason Mink, and a subversive admiration for his rebellious Mongrel lover, Riki the Dark. It was too much to be borne!
With a sweep of his arm, Raoul knocked out the pin which supported the pianoforte's lid. The dischord which resounded as it fell closed thrummed throughout the showroom for two full minutes.
This revealed Hilarion's interesting reaction in the reflection of a display case. Behind him, the art dealer seemed to be hyperventilating with concern for the instrument's condition, not to mention panic over its possible siezure and destruction. Perhaps this wasn't a trap after all.
Raoul turned back, examining the other man's face with renewed interest. He instantly formed a new strategy.
"Lead me to your terminal. I've decided to place my call." The antiquarian's resigned look amused him. "Come now, Hilarion, you are too experienced to succumb to petty dejection. I am the senior biotechnologist for Amoi and Jupiter. What did you expect when you sought my patronage?"
"I've always placed my trust with confidence in the First Blondie." The other man replied mechanically, his eyes expressionless.
"I take it Lord Mink often requested measures which bypassed official channels."
Hilarion bowed his head.
"Iason was a veritable Pandora's Box of surprises," Raoul logged onto the communication program and keyed the connection codes for an apartment in Midas, "You will meet one of them right now."
He hit the enter key, and the image on the screen fluctuated and shifted to the face of a pale, red-haired Mongrel in his early twenties with startlingly beautiful almond eyes and a scar that ran down his cheek along the length of his jaw.
To say the Mongrel looked gobsmacked was putting it mildly. When it finally registered that his caller was none other than the new First Blondie, Lord Raoul Am, himself, he nearly leapt out of his skin with fright. The cigarette dangling from his stunned lips fell into his coffee cup with a little splash. Then he jumped back as though stung, knocking over his chair, and slopping the coffee across the front of his turtleneck. Lastly, he tangled his feet in the chair legs, tripped and fell backwards with a spectacular crash.
All this the two Elite observed with serene detachment. When the top half of the mongrel's wide-eyed face reappeared on the bottom of the screen, Raoul finally spoke. "I'm sending my Car to collect you. You have sufficient time to tidy yourself up. Don't make us wait."
Katze nodded acquiescence. Raoul disconnected with no further heed, and sent his instructions to the vehicle via a text message.
The Sapphire seemed amazed and a little disgusted.
"Relax, Fyss," a sardonic twitch played at the corner of his lips. "Katze was Lord Mink's former Furniture."
"Furniture?" The expression of disgust deepened.
"An episode of misplaced talent. Iason soon discovered that the Mongrel had a gift for a wholly different sort of enterprise. I intend to make use of it for our purposes."
"A Mongrel with talent. Can this be?"
"Would you prefer I went through customary channels?"
Hilarion wisely kept silent. Against all their conditioning, against their very carefully cultivated natures, it still came down to the recognition that to damage such a prize, such a magnificent instrument, the only one of its kind in their solar system, possibly in their sector of the galaxy, seemed—needless. Neither of them were ready to say "inhuman." They weren't quite prepared to take the last leap over the precipice and embrace anything so sentimental as latent humanity.
Raoul removed his gloves and played an ancient Fugue on the pianoforte. Most of Amoi's genetically engineered senior Elite could match the instrument for size and strength. Their arms were certainly long enough to extend across its 10-octave span, with power enough to command thunderous fortissimos.
Raoul smiled, knowing that Hilarion shared his thoughts in this regard, that for all their talent as boffins, most of the Elite were dreadful musicians, hampered by the lack of interest and skill. This was paradoxical because many of the engineers and technicians who had installed Jupiter had a talent and appreciation for music.
Under his adept fingers, the fugue's overtones acquired a choral quality, sometimes like voices, sometimes like chiming bells. The musical configuration was incredibly complex and sweet. It took passion to create, and feeling to appreciate.
Passion! Feeling! What was this? Some sort of cancerous recessive gene that took twenty years to result in Blondie melt-down? Was he really afflicted with the same weakness that had destroyed Iason?
When, at last, the notes came to an end and the final reverberations died, Raoul watched Hilarion tremble in involuntary reverence. So he was not the only one.
"Master?" the Furniture's quiet-spoken voice intruded upon these musings.
"Yes, Kosai, he is expected. Let him in."
Raoul was reminded again how tall Katze was; the way he slouched and retreated behind his long fringe to obscure the scar gave the opposite impression. It was regrettable that he should feel so self-conscious. There was something pleasingly assymetrical about that badge of dishonour and thwarted rebellion, about being so irreparably marked.
At the moment, Katze strove to look nonchalant, but his skin emitted a faint coppery scent that Raoul immediately recognized as adrenaline-induced secretion. So the former furniture had a guilty secret he was desperate to keep buried. Under different circumstances, Raoul would toy with him and tease out a confession. Perhaps he could accomplish both his objectives, but it was risky; if Katze was as smart as Iason's confidence had inferred, it could backfire.
"On average, how many off-worlders from different systems do you contact during your runs to other cities in the federation and colonies?" He got straight to the point.
"Me, personally? Almost none at all. I mostly work out of my apartment, and only come out during—special assignments."
"I see. Thank you for coming in, Katze. My Car will bring you back."
It was clear the brevity of this meeting had disoriented the Mongrel. His face was all confusion.
"If I had some idea of what off-world contact you are interested in—cultivating," he recovered immediately, "I could strive to bring it about."
"Are you familiar with alien writing?"
"No."
"Antiquities?"
"No."
"Music? Alien biologicals?"
"Erm, well—under what context?"
Raoul sighed, considering.
If Jupiter had his mind modified, the labs would still run without him. The politicians and their lackies would still schmooze. The pets would still perform. If he didn't take this ride to the end of its line, what else did he have to look forward to? The skyline of Tanagura never seemed to change.
He rose to his feet, pushing the piano stool even further away from the instrument. Then he gestured for Katze to approach. Pointing at the maker's mark, he said, "We require a translation."
"Sanskrit."
"Not according to the Tanaguran archive," Hilarion finally spoke.
"Maybe not according to the database, but it is Sanskrit. I've seen it before. I can even tell you what it says."
"—"
"Look, strictly speaking, it didn't originate in Sanskrit," Katze defended himself, and it was clear from the edge in his voice that the need to defend himself to Blondies and other Elite grew old fast. Raoul could understand this. It wasn't to the Mongrel's advantage to lie under these circumstances. "So that may be where the database confusion comes up. The text is written in Sanskrit though, and the saying's pretty common."
"Very well," Raoul suppressed a smile."What does it say?"
"That's easy. "I am become Shiva, destroyer of worlds." It's attributed to one of the physicists at the start of the atomic age. A German physicist, actually."
About three beats passed before Raoul turned to Hilarion and asked, "These archival containment fields which protect your manuscripts, can they expand to surround the pianoforte?"
"I could adapt one, yes."
"How resistant are the shields to—incursion?"
"I've experienced no thefts since making them," Hilarion replied, "but I would never allow myself to be lulled by a technical device into thinking I'm—impervious."
"Would they be effective as containment fields? If, say, you reversed the polarities?"
"It is possible," Hilarion's resignation was quickly shifting to alarm. "However, I would be reluctant to rely upon them at the magnitude of a bomb. Nor in my scans of the piece have I found any indications of chain reactive explosive or incendiary mechanisms."
"Yes, but you did not find a match for the maker's mark in our databases either."
There was no answer to this.
"In all likelihood, it is nothing more than what it appears: an exceptionally fine, well-crafted, well-maintained musical instrument with a quirky maker's mark. If an enemy were to go to the effort of transforming a piece like this into some sort of Trojan Horse, it strikes me as sheer idiocy to advertise their aggression on the cover. Of course, it would never do to overestimate the intelligence of an aggressor. You have something to add, Katze?"
Katze hesitated, as if to choose words, then abandoned the attempt.
"In my examination of the piece," Hilarion broke in, "I found many oddities, yes, but not–"
"The person from whom you acquired this extraordinary object–?" Raoul cut him off.
Hilarion's shoulders sagged. "The transporter was particularly anxious to leave this sector of the solar system."
"Comforting to know. Did he give any particular reason?"
"In this business, one learns not to ask."
"I see."
The silence which fell over the three rooms was charged. The Blue appeared to be on the verge of sedition. The Mongrel's uneasiness was turning into fidgets. Raoul unfixed his gaze from Hilarion and turned it back to the instrument. "Let's hear about the anomalies you discovered."
Hilarion complied, reaching for the databook and passing it to the Blondie. "My scans revealed sheets of unknown minerals lined between the harp and sounding board."
"Silica?"
"No, crystallized sheets with tetrahedal arrangements in pairs, similar to mica."
"Apparent purpose?"
"Unknown, but they seem to amplify the sound," Hilarion explained. "There are also microscopic filaments of an unknown, albiet inert, metal imbedded in the rock plates."
The strangeness of this circuitry, for lack of a better description, piqued Raoul's interest but, again, Hilarion could only speculate. "I have no record of any systems with which it could've interfaced; there are no detectable ports, and I cannot discern symmetry in the arrangements of these filaments. This isn't to say that they are random and chaotic, simply that the cypher is still locked."
The puzzle grew ever more intriguing to Raoul. He swept from his eyes the gleaming shank of gold that naturally tumbled over his face, and inquired in his rich tones, "You've asked your contacts to look out and listen for any possible synchronous computer systems?"
"Naturally."
This was acknowledged with a nod.
"What do you make of them, Katze?"
The Mongrel glanced at the databook. "They look a bit like chromosomes."
Raoul did a double-take. He was supposed to be the biotechnologist! "Indeed. Female chromosomes—except of course, they are metal filaments, not protein strands, and the resemblance is, shall we say, impressionistic. Have you seen and heard enough for a discreet search?"
"You are looking for some sort of computer which connects to this thing?"
"At this stage, I am more interested in a provenance, where it came from, who owned it, anything unusual about its origins. Rumours are fine, stories, even legends."
"I will start right away."
"Excellent. I will rely upon your discretion."
"Of course, er–Lord Am."
"Raoul. Hilarion will give you the scans so you have some reference to work with." As Hilarion handed them over, Raoul asked."These are the only copies?"
"I kept one set in circulation through off-world connections for the purpose of finding the proper computer interface–"
It was a vulnerability. Was it worth the risk?
"They were scanned and x-rayed on my own equipment. You are welcome to access and examine my terminal to ensure all traces of the procedures are removed."
"I shall do that now while you arrange for the containment field adaptation."
"And the biologicals?"
"Biologicals, Hilarion Fyss?"
"Does peau de soie not translate to 'skin of silk'?" The antiquarian ran his long white fingers over the skin-covered piano bench.
Raoul considered what the blue Elite was really asking. "Yes, it is rather pointless now, isn't it? So let's hold off on our plans to flay this particular cushion, hmm? Gentlemen."
With an imperious nod, the handsome Raoul Am strode out of the gallery.