The Holocaust Piano
by Phaedra7veils
Chapter 3: Holostream
Katze had no idea why the music which Raoul played for him that evening left him exhilarated and energized. It just did. That music could be created and produced independent of connection to Jupiter was another revelation which left him ridiculously happy. This one little freedom—a freedom he hadn't even suspected of existing until that evening—actually sent him into laughter, unfamiliar joy thrilling through his body, like the waves set off by an underwater earthquake, aftershocks of Raoul's awe-inspiring performance. The music had carried Katze away.
So when he returned from the Blondie's house, he immediately logged onto his terminal with the intent to conduct a little research, to learn what it was all about. The number of files on the subject left his head spinning. The index alone took a half-hour to download.
Fortunately, the commlink rang in the midst of this tedious process. It was Merc.
"You really know how to stir up some big cave-bats. The Federales are after me."
"What happened?"
"I got you a present. I've been trying to upload it onto your fire-site for the past hour, but what the hell?"
"Sorry, I've been," Katze cleared his throat, "looking at music files."
"Music? Here?" Merc's voice boomed with laughter. "You can't find music on this godforsaken rock."
"Yeah? Apparently Jupiter disagrees. I just wanted a quick scan and, now, almost all my channels are constipated. Not even a god could get something through."
"Any chance of interrupting the datastream for a few minutes?"
"Something tells me your present should be kept discreet."
"Already made that clear. So, how are we going to do this? I don't exactly trust a courier."
"You don't mind a visitor at—what is it? Eleven o'clock?"
"Hell, no. That's when the wildlife starts coming out around here. It won't calm down until three or four in the morning. But when you come, keep your head up. I don't want to sound paranoid, but I'm positive I picked something up—some surveillance."
"That club across the street from you-Noisy, enough?"
"You'll never get in, Mongrel-boy. Not unless your connections gave you a citizen's passkey."
The passkey that Iason had arranged for him was still valid. "I'm fine. How will you manage it?"
Merc grinned and held up his ID, "For enough credits, visitors can go practically anywhere."
On Amoi, there was a lot of music. It was an incidental side to the main industry, entertainment—live sexual performances—which were always accompanied by some sort of soundtrack. The club where Merc and Katze met was a perfect example. The music was loud, thrumming with bass meant to correspond with the gyrations of the former pets. On no account was it to take attention away from the main attraction, those libidinous gyrations.
Not that citizens didn't learn music. There was a whole secondary entertainment industry around it. Pay enough credits and a person could rearrange anything they liked from the hundreds of million sound-copyright files. Pretty much all music was synthesized from ancient samplers stored within the database. Never had there been a time in recent memory when computers were not the main source of such sounds. After centuries of washes and filters and rearrangement, they had turned a bit strange—nothing at all like the song which Raoul had performed for Katze earlier that evening, all raw power and blistering emotional energy. Nothing could be more distracting.
Katze spared a thought to the Elite and how their genes had been similarly washed and filtered, until they had also acquired that strange and repetitive conformity. Only a few of them managed to avoid the generic blandness: Iason, Raoul, even to a lesser extent, Hilarion, the brightest, shiniest boys in Jupiter's firmament. How odd it was that those considered the pinnacle of the Elite were also, for marked individuality, its greatest aberrations.
Katze spared a second thought to wonder if this passion for music was the extent of Raoul's irregularities, or if, like Iason, that cool, implacable surface covered other secrets.
His thoughts were interrupted by Merc's gravelly voice. "There's got to be better places to meet than this."
The room was choked with citizens of both genders dressed in heavy make-up and garish evening wear. Strobe lights pulsed and lasers flickered over the selection of caged dancers used to titillate customers. At the table next to them, one of the scantily clad waitresses was serving a group of drunken citizens, one of whom had his head tucked in her cleavage. After a minute or two, he rolled over and she poured a shot of liquor straight into his open mouth.
Katze turned to Merc, bored, "What do you have for me?"
"Some prospectors in the Alleg district took a detour to Thallė, one of the six moons of Tenebrios, to reprovision their ship. None of their hails were answered, so they figured the colony was abandoned and decided to check it out. One of them had a camera in his powerlink and took these holostream images."
"Let's have a look."
"All in good time. First, I got to ask, how's your stomach? Because I don't want you throwing up."
Katze immediately thought about the experimental clones under Mistral Park. "I can handle it."
Merc clicked on the playback button and set the tiny monitor beside Katze's thigh where the man could watch it without anyone else seeing it, or the telltale flicker of silvery light playing across his face.
The camera had panned across an abandoned street filled with grey silvery ropes and strands that looked like shredded cobwebs, and strange fibrous lumps. Katze watched one of the miners reach down and slice open one of the lumps to reveal the smooth-shaven face, neck, shoulders and arms of a man. The face was unnaturally white, almost translucent and his hands were twisted into claws. The eyes were open and staring, but not connecting with the world around them. The mouth worked shut soundlessly, as though trying to scream, but unable to issue sound. The fingers twitched in spasms.
Katze heard someone off-camera shout, "He's alive!"
The miner with the saber, cut through the remaining fibres, and everyone jumped back as a black and crawly wave of something too small to be seen clearly, poured from the cavity which had once been the young man's stomach, and promptly dispersed. The young man's body convulsed and heaved and, finally, died.
"Get 'em off me!" Horrible screams filled the air as the black wave overran one of the miners. He slapped at the legs of his trousers, but the effort was futile. A mere three seconds later, he stumbled, then fell prone. His body writhed and lay still on the street with the other lumps. Within seconds, a coat of silver threads started to cover his skin and his voice went out, just as the colour seeped out of his face. There was a bright flash as someone turned their laser-rifle on him, more shouts, and the holostream ended.
"Want me to replay it?" Merc clicked the off button.
Katze closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. "What the hell was that?"
"If someone knows, they aren't talking. For awhile there was speculation that some sort of indigenous insect with a periodical cycle that went haywire when the colonists arrived. When two other satellite settlements near Tenebrios went silent, word was some sort of nanotech weapon was used to wipe out all organic life. One thing is for certain, the Federation is trying to keep a lid on it. Earlier today, I watched as my agent with Solares Geophysics had his throat cut right in front of our open commlink, just after I began following up on your request. Fortunately, he managed to transmit that image to a relay station we set up years ago off the Piercks Belt first. How much do you want to bet the Federales have wiped out that station since then?"
"Yes, but what does this have to do with those big black music boxes?"
"Pianofortes, Katze, get it right! Gees, you Tanagurans are a bunch of backward provincials for all your heavy power-tripping. Expand your horizons, for gods' sakes. Leave the home-world once in awhile. Even I know what a pianoforte is!"
Even though Katze was well-familiar with Merc's rough and rude style of speech, this took him aback.
Merc noticed Katze was offended, and then patted his arm to show no hard feelings were intended, that he knew things weren't so simple for the shadowy coordinator of Tanagura's Black Market. Katze dropped his cool, poker-stiff edge.
"To answer your question: not a goddam thing. You asked me earlier if I heard of any planets blowing up. Well, this ain't quite the same thing as an explosion, but I figured it was close enough. Then you asked me about rumours concerning pianofortes. The two are not necessarily related, and the only connection I can make—and a bloody, poor one at that—is that the priestesses of Tenebrios—-whom I've never met, never seen, never heard, never had anything whatsoever to do with—are rumoured to play them rather well. That, and satellite colonies of Tenebrios have been going silent. Hell, I couldn't get accepted into police college with a threadbare crap-rumour like that."
Katze took some time to consider these words, and it led him to wonder why he had approached Merc in particular, and why he felt so sure that these seemingly random leaps actually connected, and that their point of conjunction was Tenebria. There was no way he would impress the First Blondie with a hunch.
"You've been to Tenebrios. What can you tell me about the priestesses?" he asked.
"I steered the hell clear of them. Miners tend to exaggerate things; the loneliness and living under such harsh conditions kinda does that. After awhile, you sort through the tall tales and fibs. It all kind of 'distils' into an impression. You find out that the Alleg meteors carry a viral infection like the flu, for example, so everytime there's a shower, it's time to stock up on medicine. Or that the Port of Cartomi is so corrupt that any business there will cost you ten times the estimated price. Well, the impression I got about the priestesses is that they run one helluva scary cult and make Jupiter look like a sweet little pet. Word like that, you stay away."
"That's it?"
"That's enough."
At that moment, a green-haired waiter emerged from the commotion and interrupted their chat. "Are you just going to sit here, gentlemen, or are you going to choose partners? Because there are clients lining up outside."
The man took in Katze's appearance and a sneer twisted his upper lip.
Merc bristled. "We will leave when we're good and ready."
The waiter looked ready to argue until he caught their deadly cold facial expressions. He promptly snapped his lips shut and sashayed over to bully another table.
"I'm going away for awhile until I shake off whatever it is I picked up on this errand. So I'm giving you my new private contact number. The old one's no good anymore." Merc pulled up Katze's sleeve and wrote a series of digits and letters on the soft skin of his forearm just beneath the elbow. "By the way, I forgot to tell you when you came in, but you look great. Finally got that scar lasered, did you?"
"What? What are you talking about?" Katze touched his cheek. The skin felt completely smooth. He stroked his fingertips over the place where it once ran, expecting to rub the familiar jagged ridges. Nothing. " I—er–"
He decided he had better have a look in the mirror when he got home.
"Anything else you need?"
"Thanks," Katze said. "I'm sorry about your geophysicist friend. You've been a great help."
"You must be on to something." Merc patted his shoulder. "Be careful, my friend."
Katze watched him disappear through the crowded dance floor. Five minutes later, he followed suit.
Kalga 84, the Medical Facility for Pets and Furniture.
Too bright. The implement used to inspect Katze's cheek had microscopic lenses, scanners and a light so intense that his eyelids offered no protection.
"If you like, the technician can bring you a shield." Since he become First Blondie, that voice had subtly changed, all confident authority without the harshness once used when chastising Iason. It was sultry and hinted of shared intimacies, confidences, glimpses into his inner psyche. Not that he let anyone except Jupiter in, Katze realized, but it had an intoxicating allure, one both deceptive and perilous.
Wary of reminding Raoul again about his Mongrel status, he chose stoic resolve over shields, eyes closed against the vision of stainless steel surfaces all around and the twin moons which could be seen setting over distant desert mesas through the windows of the private laboratory. Unfortunately, whenever the bright light flicked across his eyelids, his body would reflexively flinch.
After the second wince, Katze heard Raoul set the device down, followed by rustling sounds. Before he could peek, he felt a dense, fine cloth bound around his head and tied in rather a tight slip-knot. No light could penetrate now and even if he wanted to, he couldn't blink.
"You were given the choice," Raoul's droll voice, as it murmured in Katze's ear, affected the younger man strangely. He detested the implication that he, as a Mongrel, was incapable of choosing correctly. On the other hand, Katze's body wanted to lean into that voice. At least he could control that reflex.
He couldn't control the shivers that ran down his back, however, when the scientist's gloved fingers slid under his chin, gently lifting, moving and tilting it, running a thumb down the place on his cheek where his scar once bloomed. Katze assumed it was because he couldn't remember the last time someone touched him in a way that was not intended to cause pain. It was odd that Raoul's thumb was so exact in its traces, now that the physical evidence was gone. The image must've etched its path into his memory.
No, that couldn't be. Raoul had never spared him a second glance. No one ever intentionally caressed Katze. Why would they?
Even so, under the firm and gentle touches, strong and unfamiliar sensations—heat, tension, and too much of a fullness—stirred through the former Furniture's body.
"Even when scars are healed with regenerabots, there is always a contrast between the old and new cells, especially at the subdermal levels. This is mysterious," the voice continued. "And a shame, really!"
"Sorry?" Katze finally spoke. "What's a shame?"
With a twist of his fingers, Raoul loosened the knot in the blindfold, and the cloth fell to Katze's shoulders. It turned out to be the Blondie's linen cravat. Raoul left it there, wanting nothing further to do with it. Couldn't stand to touch something polluted by a filthy mongrel, Katze bitterly concluded.
"Your beautiful scar is gone."
The words went straight to Katze's groin. Before he could process how bizarre that reaction was, Raoul issued another demand. "I will look at the other ones, now."
Others?
"Remove your trousers and undergarments."
Suddenly, Katze understood what all those strange sensations he had been feeling meant. "No."
Before the Blondie could muster a reaction, Katze rolled backwards over the examination table and pelted toward the door.
Not fast enough by far.
He had forgotten how strong and fleet the Elite were. In one fluid step, Raoul vaulted onto the table and pounced from it to the door like an immense falcon diving toward its prey. The exit was barred before Katze managed to reach it. He was spun and pinned by Raoul's left hand against the solid steel with a heavy ka-a-hha-angh where the back of his chest rung the metal like a bell.
What little breath he could suck into his winded lungs Katze used to spit fire. "Fuck—you!—have no right."
Rights? He shook his head, as though half-expecting it to rattle. How lame it was to cry about rights to a Blondie. Were his brains siphoned out when the rest of his equipment was miraculously restored? He was positive he would be on the receiving end of a vicious backhand now for insulting the Elite's pride, even though it was his body that had to endure this unwelcome scrutiny. He braced himself, and waited.
The only emotion reflected in Raoul's face was amusement. He seemed to think this was a joke. He said, "Do you give all your physicians this much trouble during an exam?"
Katze's physicians didn't give him a hard-on.
What Katze couldn't understand is why Raoul did; gorgeous, intellectual, powerful Blondie notwithstanding, he was not the sort of person to whom Katze should feel attracted: too detached and soulless, too closely intertwined with Jupiter—more so than Iason even and, in everything but appearance, too closely akin to the dark things lurking at the edges of Katze's sanity. Yet with or without sensible reason, there was the evidence of his desire, undeniably and unavoidably obvious, pressed against the front of his pants. Fuck!
For the second time in less than a minute, Raoul was speechless, disbelief and humour sparking his eyes.
But he recovered, "How far does this healing go?"
Livid and humiliated, Katze tried to thrash his way out. He was trussed up with the cravat in short order, like an insect in the web of a very beautiful and dangerous spider.
"Shall we try this again?" Raoul asked in a pleasant tone. He must have surmised, from the wildness on Katze's face, that the Mongrel was about to do something stupid, like spit at him, because his eyes darkened and he added, with a long sigh, "If it's that traumatic for you, we can always mitigate the problem by having the episode wiped from your memory. We are in the right facilities for it."
Terrorized, Katze surrendered.
"Wise decision. I don't want to risk damage to that fascinating mind of yours—at least not before I've thoroughly used it," Raoul immediately unclamped his legs and, with one hand, unhooked him from the door and set him on his feet, while Katze worked out the implications of his double-edged compliment.
"Onto the examination table, now. I need to see if you've been completely healed."
"Can't you at least give me something to knock me out?"
Raoul stared in apparent disbelief that Katze would choose to argue further, "Whatever for?"
"So I don't have to be conscious for this—this–"
"Your reactions are strange, to say the least. Why would you not wish to be conscious?"
"I don't want to be touched—there. This is happening against my free will."
"When I summoned you to my lab, you came freely. What did you expect?" Raoul was losing his patience. "I'm offering you a choice: submit to this examination and feel violated, or submit and enjoy it. Either way, your feelings are irrelevant to my study."
"Then anaesthetize me, for pity's sake."
"What strange notions you have. No matter how much the thought that I know what I'm doing challenges you, get used to it! The idea of inducing a temporary somatic state was already considered. I dismissed it over its interference with your body's natural responses."
"But what could possibly interfere more with its responses than my reservations?"
"Precisely."
"No! What I mean is–" Katze's protests were cut off as Raoul picked him up bodily and strapped him to the examination table.
The larger man lowered the scanning instrument over his face, which made him look like some horrific half-cyborg with long, wavy blond hair. He squeezed something over his glove, preparing to violate his prisoner.
Katze choked back his rage, but the strength of his emotions was so overwhelming that his eyes teared. Of all the indignities he had endured, this was the worst. He couldn't bear it. He turned his face away from the Blondie and clenched his jaw.
Unexpectedly, the physical exam stopped. Katze had removed so much attention from what was happening to his body that it took him awhile to realize this. Suddenly, he noticed the strange weight of a hand resting on his solar plexus, and another stroking his arm. When the clenching pressure around his throat and lungs had calmed somewhat, he opened his eyes and saw Raoul's inscrutable face staring intently at his. The strange scanning device that made him look so hideously robotic was gone, as were the gloves. The hand that had been resting on his stomach, moved up and gently caressed his chest and shoulder.
This time it was Katze who was speechless.
"Let's try this instead: you tell me when you're ready," Raoul suggested and, although Katze felt that he would never be ready, the gesture at least allowed him to relax.
After a few minutes, he could even consider the possibility that it would be tolerable. With a huge, shuddering sigh, he released his last tumult of outrage and gave Raoul a small nod.
"Are you sure?" The Blondie double-checked and even chuckled when Katze growled and rolled his eyes furiously as though to suggest he had better get on with it before he changed his mind. He undid the straps that tied Katze down. As he reached for the scanner, Katze made a small plea.
"What was that?"
"Can you please—please not wear that thing? At least, not until you absolutely have to?"
Although he was astonished by the request, Raoul granted this small concession. Slowly, Katze's discomfort dissolved. Eventually, Katze's eyes fluttered closed.
"As with the scar on your cheek, there are no signs that you were ever wounded." Raoul suddenly withdrew. Katze could hear sounds of the scanner and the gloves being removed. He opened his eyes. Was that it?
"I need a sperm sample," the Blondie said. "Given the day's progress so far, I wouldn't be a bit surprised if they are viable but we need to examine them to find out."
He tossed Katze a plastic specimen container.
A mischievous idea occurred to the slightly smaller man as a way to recapture some of his pride, "Right, if that strange pianoforte computer can heal a castrate who's only tinkered around on its keys a little–"
"I would look for more empirical evidence to support that conclusion before I leapt to it," Raoul snorted.
"No doubt. But can you imagine what it will do for someone who really knows how to play it?"
Raoul froze.
Gotcha!—thought Katze.
"Oh, I just remembered, " he reached into his pocket and pulled out the holostream player that Merc had left with him, "One of my agents sent me this today. Apparently, the Federation murdered one of his contacts because of it. You will want a look."
He tossed the tiny player to Raoul, and walked into the washroom feeling rather smug.
Fifteen minutes later, when he re-emerged, the Blondie's face looked more imperious than ever.
"It is too dangerous for you to return to your apartment," he declared. "Until I decide it is safe, you will make your home with me."
The Holocaust Piano – chapter 2 << >> The Holocaust Piano – chapter 4