The Holocaust Piano
by Phaedra7veils
Chapter 2: Harbingers
After Hilarion's Car drove away, Katze collapsed against the door to his basement suite. For the past hour, he had thought he was a dead man. No way would Raoul Am keep Jupiter from excoriating his brain if Guy had been discovered, if he had blabbed the real story behind Iason's death at Dana Bahn. Two cigarettes and the ritual of preparing a fresh carafe of coffee later, Katze's anxiety finally started to abate.
Blondies had a way of creeping up on a man. One moment the poor fellow breathed easily in safety, comfortably alone and isolated, hidden in the shadows, next he broke to pieces ploughing into some shining Colossus who rose up out of nowhere. Foolish to think he was ever free.
And why the hell did he offer to help the Blondie? Volunteer, no less! Like some pet preening for a show. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Katze started trembling again. He knew why. His life depended upon it from the moment his eyes fell on that strange—thing, whatever it was, he didn't know—displayed in the Sapphire's art gallery. Especially now that they suspected it was some sort of mechanical Avatar. Katze lit up another smoke. Given how many missteps he could've taken today, it was a miracle he was still alive.
And, yet, if he was unflinchingly honest with himself, there was a deeper tidal pattern flowing under that offer to help, one that began at Dana Bahn when Iason's sacrifice revealed how Blondies were capable of more than domination. He could no longer see them merely as oppressors, near-omnipotent enemies. Now there was a wholly new—something or other, what was it?—an impetus?—a hitch in the blueprint?
Was Iason just the solitary deviation? Jupiter would probably think so. Raoul, too, most likely. But what if the changes that Iason underwent were true and powerful elements in the Blondie psyche? The possibility was almost unbearably seductive.
He still had serious contradictions with just about everything going on in Tanagura in general, and, specifically, with the current First Blondie himself. He recalled snatches of a conversation unintentionally overheard when Raoul chewed Iason's arse off for keeping Riki.
"If this was only about taming a slum Mongrel as your special pet, then Kirie would suffice. Why would you destroy yourself chasing after Riki? You are not yourself."
"Not myself? I haven't been that self in years, and the incident with Mimea should've made it clear how even I am not free from human feeling," The sound of shattering glass cut through the walls. "If I told you that I love Riki, would you laugh, Raoul?"
No.
How he had feared and hated Iason's friend that night! Particularly the cool, detached contempt Raoul had shown as he left that evening, refusing to acknowledge Katze presence with so much as a glance. Even if it was typical. Even if it was expected.
After Dana Bahn, his whole paradigm towards the Elite had shifted but—damn!—Katze was going to have to tread carefully with this one.
Raoul Am was one rigid, intolerant, Jupiter-indoctrinated Blondie.
So, what was he going to do?
One of his smugglers, an independent freelancer, might be worth a visit. Whenever Katze was trying to find his way in the dark, this one was always good for a lead.
At forty-something, "Merc" Mercure was older than most Mongrels, but he wasn't from Ceres. He originally arrived from Sharffai, one of the Federation cities across the desert. It was rumoured he once worked as a privateer off the mining convoys in the Piercks Asteroid Belt, harrying Kressellian Raiders, and that he had flown to all the planets in the Glan system, even the dark world of Tenebrios, from which so few were known to have returned. Best of all, he was nearly as strong, tall and thick as an Elite and bore more scars on his face than Katze.
"Come on in. Have a seat," his voice was deep, rough and low, as though he skipped shaving every morning just to scrape the razor directly over his vocal chords.
"Nice place." The man's taste was better than most of the stuff Katze had seen in Eos: simple, clean, and comfortable with strong lines and colours. Usually décor took three styles around Midas: cold and austere like a senior-level Elite; garish and trying too hard to impress like a junior-ranked one; or starving and anything will do no matter how shabby, not that most of those who fell in the last category had a choice about it. Katze did. Only Katze didn't care. After one quick look around Merc's apartment, he kind of wished he had. It seemed that Merc was independent in other ways besides how he ran his smuggling ops.
"Yeah, it's a great apartment if you like all-night blinking neon lights and party noises. Then, there's the joy of what you have to step over on the sidewalks every morning. And the whores screeching and trying to claw each others eyes out at any godforsaken hour in the corridors."
"That's Midas for you: all extreme pleasure, all the time."
Merc shot him a 'don't patronize me' look.
"Sorry," Katze mumbled. "Midas is a sewer. Everyone who lives here knows that. The only saving grace is that, at least it's not Ceres, and what a thing to hold onto."
"Want a drink, kid?"
"I'm not much of a Stout fan."
Merc held up a bottle of Vultain. "I keep that Stout shit for people I don't like, but you can gimme some of your smokes. I'm out."
Katze reached into his jacket pocket and tossed him an extra package. "Keep 'em."
"I planned to. Look, we both know you aren't here for a pleasure call. So why don'tcha just sit back and tell me what you want, and we can cut this pleasant chitchat bullshit short."
Katze leaned back on the chair— a surprisingly comfortable and well-designed chair, bright red and shaped like interlocking crescent moons—and stroked his chin for a moment or two, wondering how to best come to the point.
"Well, Merc, since you asked," he jumped right in, "heard of any local planets, say, exploding lately?"—and he signed the universal symbol for "Kaboom!" with his fingers.
Merc turned gray.
"As a matter of fact," he stammered, his head bobbing, "as a matter of fact–"
Katze exhaled noisily. "You don't know how sorry I am to hear that."
Raoul was dreaming.
Raoul never dreamt.
He never dreamt for the simple reason that he rarely slept. Certainly never in the middle of the afternoon. Usually he would go for three days without feeling the slightest bit stretched. Then he would lay down at around midnight on the third night, slipping quickly past Alpha straight into a Theta state, deep, black and dreamless. At about four in the morning, he would awaken refreshed and energized, just as the sun started to rise over Tanagura.
On the drive home from Hilarion's gallery, however, the late afternoon sun seemed to blaze more heavily, the air contracted and stifled, the oxygen was more scarce than usual, or maybe his blood sugars were low, but he could barely keep his eyes open. He loosened his collar and unfastened his cuffs while riding his private elevator up to the suite in Eos. He murmured a cursory greeting to the Furniture, and silently thanked his good sense for having banished the last remaining Pets to Apatia months ago. A trail of clothing was discarded on his way to the bedroom and he collapsed on the bed without bothering to lay his head on a pillow or crawl under the covers. There he lay, immobile, fully nude, his supple, cream-coloured body sprawled across it, hair shimmering around him like a golden corona nearly down to the hollows at the back of his knees.
Instead of black oblivion, the dreaming began.
He heard the fugue he had played on the pianoforte earlier, its tinkling notes soothing him like a lullaby. Raoul was aware that he lay asleep on his bed, dreaming, and that he could respond and move through the dreamworld as though fully awake. The piano had not been delivered yet from Fyss' gallery, but it seemed as though the music came from the next room. Without waking or rising, he sat up in bed and rose toward the sound. Overtones of the woman's voice now took over, so it became an eerie, haunting song instead, one that called to him, leading him out of his bedroom and through the glassed walls of his magnificent suite overlooking all of Tanagura.
He found himself on a strange and sandy shoreline, next to a vast sea or ocean which extended far beyond the horizon, looking east or north. The sun stood at midheaven, directly above him. Now it seemed that the woman's voice became the distant voices of many women, deep within the waves.
He turned and found himself face to face with the white-gold splendour of Iason.
Riki was also there, but showed no interest in the two Blondies. Instead he was laughing and running, plunging headlong into the breakers that rolled into the shore, sometimes riding them, letting them coast his body back to the sand. He was so carefree, splashing and playing like a little kid, that Raoul felt an incredible sense of peace and happiness for his sake. Without realizing it, his eyes softened and his lips opened in a smile and, for the first time in his life, a real laugh, unrestrained, musical and merry, pealed from his chest.
The strangeness of it shocked and embarrassed him so much, he immediately fell silent again. Marveling, he lifted his eyes back to meet Iason's, expecting censure.
Never. What for? When I am so happy you have come.
Iason did not form the words with his lips; they appeared in his voice like a thought in Raoul's mind. Puzzled, Raoul was about to protest that he was imagining things, but his friend stopped him short. Iason stretched out his arms and pulled him into a tender embrace, a loving embrace, the embrace of a lover.
Raoul was dumbstruck. He could only stare, mouth agape. Releasing one arm, and leaving the other over his shoulder, Iason moved away to look into his eyes with that same expression of intense happiness that Raoul couldn't quite place. Then, in a move that shocked him even more, Iason started to trace kisses along his cheek and under his jaw.
Beloved Raoul. Iason's voice purred and then he moved away to watch Raoul's face again, his eyes gentle, shining.
This time Iason's free hand trailed down Raoul's chest, teasing a nipple under the cloth of his shirt, and down to the front of his—his trousers; it seemed that somewhere along his travels, Raoul had acquired his clothes again. He was bewildered.
Who was this creature? Where was Iason's indomitable pride? This was madness. Raoul was losing his mind.
Always hiding under those clothes, behind that Elite uniform. What a dreary, boring costume it is! Ever stop to think why you find everything so—so dull, so stultifying? Ever think about, maybe leaving these heavy clothes behind? Letting the sun light up that amazing body? Mmm, so beautiful. Watch what happens when I touch you here.
More kisses, and that hand caressing, tickling, coaxing Raoul into a raging erection, playing with the fastenings, loosening the belt. When Raoul gasped, Iason laughed, a slightly mocking laugh—not cruel, however, not with enough derisive force to incite resistance, or encourage him to pull away. The slight mockery reassured Raoul that, yes, this might still be his friend.
But this was all wrong. Iason would never stoop to sexual play with Raoul. He was the austere and implacable will of Jupiter in human manifestation. He wouldn't smile and make love to his old friend, anymore than Raoul would laugh freely with joy at a Mongrel. This dream was going way too far.
I can't pleasure you, if you won't let me take off your clothes.
This time, Iason's sardonic laugh felt barbed.
You can no longer hide your desire from me, at any rate. Poor Raoul. What you don't know—
Another wave rolled in, and they were gone. Raoul was alone, listening once more to the haunting female voices underneath the waves, receding.
Then he heard other voices, but they had a different quality. They were real. He awoke with a start.
Even though it seemed to him like he had only fallen asleep for a few minutes, from the angle of the sun and the long shadows stretched across his wall, it was clear that the evening was well under way. The apparel he had strewn across the floor of his apartment en route to bed had been hanged neatly on the clothes-butler next to his standing mirror. The door was closed for privacy.
He had never had such a strange dream before.
He had never dreamt before.
With an uncharacteristic oath, he coiled his locks together, twisted the coil into a double helix away from his face, and skewered it with a paper knife from the escritoire in the corner of his bedroom. Then he stepped into the shower and washed the perspiration from his skin.
Katze watched as the antiquarian customized the shield over the pianoforte which now stood in a spacious open area beside Raoul's living room, adjusting a sensor here, fine-tuning a current there. He had been tempted to offer assistance, but bit back the words. When it came to Mongrels, the Elite invariably seemed to be bigots. Why leave himself open?
Hilarion spared him the quandary, "Katze, hold that panel open while I initialize the magnetic fields."
So Katze held. And since most of the tasks which Hilarion requested of him were of a fairly passive nature, he took the opportunity to let his eyes wander around the First Blondie's apartment, one which he once knew so intimately as Iason's Furniture.
He had half-expected that the place would look almost exactly the same since so few of the Elite claimed to be proponents of individualism. He expected most of them would've happily claimed the trappings and chattels of their predecessors as their own.
It seemed that Raoul was the exception. For one thing there were pictures. Huge pictures which filled whole walls, all of which seemed to feature views of strange, foreign worlds as seen from far above where the horizons never ended.
"Albrecht Altdorfer's Battle of Issus, oil on panel, 1529, Earth." The art dealer's soft voice penetrated his reverie. "Not a copy."
Katze turned to one on another wall.
"Joseph Mallard William Turner, Battle of Trafalgar as seen from the Mizen Starboard Shrouds of the Victory, 1806."
"Also from Earth?"
"No, that one is a copy. A very good one, apparently, although the only standard is a poor resolution scan the original Amoi computers. One thing I can tell you is it's about three times the size of the original. That sort of information is readily available."
Katze turned to the third wall and an image which was not made with the archaic application of paint, but with moving light.
"Stanislav Bors, Kressellian Raiders Caught in a Solar Flare, magnetized particulants charged by solar radiation, from contemporary Parmyn."
"I detect a common theme."
"Hmm."
They fell silent again.
After about ten minutes of this mechanical work, twisting a spanner, coiling wires, pushing buttons, Katze suddenly blurted, "What does it do?"
Hilarion looked at him curiously. "What does what do?"
"This keyboard. It hooks up to a computer and—what?"
"No computer required. Touch the keys and find out."
"I don't know the language."
Hilarion gave a low chuckle. "Not many people on Amoi do, but it's not Sanskrit no matter what the maker's mark says. Go ahead, Katze. You may be pleasantly surprised."
So Katze touched one of the gleaming white keys and froze as its sound delicately vibrated through the air.
"Music!" His voice carried an uncharacteristic respect.
"That's its purpose, yes."
Katze ran his fingers over more keys, experiencing the distribution of sounds at a sensual level, rather than comprehending it as an intellectual process. He noticed Hilarion suppress a smile when he touched one of the black keys for the first time, and pulled his hand back as though bitten. He had noticed that subtle shift in modulation immediately, but didn't realize how not many neophytes would.
Five seconds later, Katze had figured out octaves, "Every thirteenth note–"
"A repetition of the same note at a higher or lower frequency, yes."
"How does it do that? Why only every thirteenth note?"
By the time Raoul joined them in the living room, Hilarion was in the midst of a complicated musical theory lecture. Katze picked up the mathematical process with ease. As Hilarion prepared to activate the containment field, Katze was secretly thrilled by managing to pick out the notes with his right hand for the primary theme of a song currently popular in Midas nightclubs. "I've never heard anything so—unusual and so—lovely."
That was when Raoul chose to step in. "I wasn't expecting to see you this soon, Katze. What have you found for me?"
"Nothing. Probably nothing. Most likely no connection at all. Otherwise, a possible connection to Tenebrios."
The only sign that this made any sort of impression on Raoul was the slightest nock in the Blondie's eyebrow.
"Rumours of disasters striking some of its satellite colonies, priestesses of Tenebrios working with massive black keyboards that fit this description. I decided to swing by and take a closer look, to see if I could understand it better. Would've called first, but I knew you didn't want any of this getting into the—into the—er–"
"Into the planetary datastream. And, do you?" Katze's sense of danger prickled at the trace of superciliousness in the Blondie's voice, "Understand it better?"
"Sorry?" The Blondie was not in the habit of repeating himself; Katze stopped stalling and answered the man, "Superficially. My understanding is superficial."
"Right." Raoul strode over to the bench. With a flourish, he flicked his hair and the tails of his formal coat over the back of the seat, removed his gloves and, with no further ceremony, began to play.
The piece featured reverberating chords in the right hand and the swiftest, most immense scales and arpeggios in the left. Although a mere two and a half minutes passed before the song swept to its conclusion, Katze was awestruck by the musician's power and endurance, knowing instinctively the strength it took to keep the tone so brilliant and clear. He had never heard such passionate music, never even knew it was possible for music to convey such emotion, and was completely disoriented by the realization that such feeling could pour from the hands of a Blondie. Especially this Blondie.
When the finale rolled to an end, the silence almost as exhilarating and reverent as the piece itself, Katze noticed his pulse was racing. His breaths puffed and a sheen of perspiration had appeared on his forehead.
Raoul pulled on his gloves, stood and turned to the Mongrel, "Now?–Do you understand better, Katze?"
Katze swallowed once or twice, crestfallen, then nodded once, shrinking back into his usual sense of scarred, castrated insignificance.
A startled, almost affronted, expression slipped across the Blondie's face before the mask of serene detachment returned.
"Tibór!" He summoned his Furniture, "Decant a bottle of Noir for me in the Library. Join me when you are finished, Hilarion."
When he left the room, the space he had filled imploded.
Hilarion silently tinkered with another magnetic field. As he finished up and wiped his hands on a linen towel, he suddenly remarked, "Frédéric Chopin, Étude "Révolutionaire" in C Minor, Opus 10, number 12. Another piece from Earth. Another military campaign theme of sorts."
"What did I do?" Katze asked no one in particular.
Hilarion's gaze was cool and objective. "You reminded him you were a Mongrel."
After Hilarion followed Raoul to the library, the lights dimmed. As Katze started to make his home on his own, he asked the quiet, darkened room, "Yes, but how can you tell when he forgets?"
Again, Raoul slept. Again, he was dreaming. This was getting absurd.
After his afternoon nap, he should've had enough sleep to charge through the rest of the week without so much as a yawn. He hadn't drunk nearly enough wine to explain the sleepiness that befell him as midnight approached. Yet he could barely refrain from rubbing his eyes like a child until Hilarion thanked him for the pleasant company and left. At least this time, he managed to disrobe in the bedroom.
This time it was not the fugue, but the Chopin piece he had played for Katze that he heard in his dream. Again it led him to the seashore where he felt the pressure of Iason's stare before he saw him. When he turned to face the man, he found himself pushed onto his back in the sand with the other Blondie lying on top of him. Raoul was braced under his arms. Iason's knees had pushed his legs apart. His beautiful smiling face was much too close. He was too close and it felt too good.
Had you taken your clothes off for me only once, you would've been made most welcome in our bed. There was always room for you. What magnificent lovers we should have made!
Show me the excitement you try so hard to conceal.
Raoul could barely believe he was submitting to these sexual touches, or would even dream of revealing his desire for Iason.
Then he passed the barrier of self-restraint. He reached for Iason, burying his hands into the other man's white-gold hair, running his hands down the sides of his face, wrapping his strong arms around that lovely torso, pulling him close, placing his own kisses on that exquisite face.
Iason kissed Raoul full on the mouth, bit his lips and forced his tongue through the opening. Feeling its slow, languorous sweeps around his mouth, Raoul moaned deep in his throat.
Haven't you noticed that the tidal patterns are changing? One moon is receding. It's pulling the old waters with it back into space. The other is coming into its ephemeris and, under its gravity, the shape of the world is changing forever. We ride on its first wave.
Even though the strokes of Iason's hand on his penis did not vary, but remained the same slow and gentle caresses, he could feel the pressure as his orgasm drew near, then without fanfare, released in a rush of pleasure.
You cannot ride the waves in these old clothes, Raoul. The time draws near when you must change into something more comfortable, something more suited to you.Raoul's eyes widened in surprise. He now realized that this wasn't just the symbolic language of his everlasting regrets, replaying for him once more his sadness over Iason's death, at having missed the opportunity to speak his true heart while his friend was still alive. This was something entirely new. A message.
Surf's rising.
Then he watched as Iason ran into the waves with Riki. They turned and smiled at him. Riki even waved.
'Bye Blondie. He heard Riki call, his voice open and friendly, as though he acknowledged Raoul's right to be there, even welcomed it. Raoul was startled at being addressed so casually, but considered that, in this place, his status meant nothing. The only thing which bore any weight was his attraction for Iason. He and Riki were equals here. See you on the far shore.
He leapt from his bed and noticed the mess his emissions had left on the covers. This shocked him most. Of all the times he had slept yet never dreamt, today was the first for dreams, and tonight was the first for wet dreams.
He was confounded.
Then he was irritated.
The computer was emitting the soft chime of an attempted commlink. It was the closest thing to ringing a doorbell. Someone was trying to contact him at—what was it? Three in the morning!
Raoul threw his formal jacket over his naked body like a robe, realizing that it covered his shoulders well, but not much of his chest. Then he punched in the connection code.
Katze. Why was he not surprised?
"This had better be good, Mongrel."
"It's unexpected and I thought you had better see it right away," the former Furniture said. Then he took a few deep breaths as though steeling himself.
"Spit it out!"
So Katze slipped his fingers under the long red fringe that concealed his left cheek, and swept it away.
The scar was gone.
The Holocaust Piano – chapter 1 << >> The Holocaust Piano – chapter 3