The Holocaust Piano
by Phaedra7veils
Chapter 5: Music from the Holocaust Piano
Part 2
Raoul clicked through the remaining mass of holostream recordings left on his comm-link. Even though the most critical peril was the thinning level of oxygen over the planet, he decided to connect with his friend, Serge Renaud, first. A conversation with someone who did not view him as direct competition for Jupiter's affections or the big prize at the top of the social stepladder was just the sort of fortification he needed before listening to more onerous associates.
Serge oversaw the administration of all matters regarding transportation and traffic, so the Spaceport fell partly under his jurisdiction. At least the part which concerned Raoul most, which was the flow of spaceships in and out of their planetary atmosphere.
Serge's facial features were textbook Platina. He had piercing lapis-blue eyes and almost lambent, petal-white skin tinged with pink like apple blossoms, although no one would ever dare say so to his face. Not unless they wanted some devious, very public, very humiliating trick crashing down upon them when least expected.
There was the incident of the Jade, who shortly after comparing him to 'spent Furniture', was cited for harassing police with prank complaints about a ghost haunting his bathroom, a specter he still insisted had materialized while he took a shower. Another involved a Platina who found, during his annual party—typically the sort of overly precious affair that drove Raoul to thinking in binary code—that his tailored suit of the finest linen and merino serge had suddenly morphed into a sparkly red ballgown and the huge epaulets sprouted blue feathers, so that he looked like one of the gypsy 'showgirls' turned away at Amoi Immigration Control. Moreover, while the guests still gaped in disbelief, the shipment of Academy Pets he had ordered for his party was discovered to be a series of truly atrocious gene-spliced seconds, the sort usually terminated or consigned to brothels catering to the most depraved tastes. And his signature was on the waybill. It was the first time in years that Raoul had actually laughed--–-—albeit quietly and to himself, having no desire to pour petrol on a feud. Although Serge was the main suspect--–-—and Raoul teased him endlessly for the secret of such apt transformations over the appearance and texture of fabric--–-—he never admitted to anything and no one had ever caught him at it.
Unlike other Platinas, Serge eschewed silver, blue and charcoal hued clothing in favour of warmer yellows, browns and greens in elegant, form-fitting lines without rigid tailoring. This made him appear casual and, at one time, Raoul would've considered his style disrespectful. Certainly, some of the more orthodox Elite viewed it as such, but no one else could have carried it off. It worked because Serge was so adept at winning confidence and no one could fault his job performance. When that vibrant face appeared on his screen, looking for all the world as though the day's calamities were just another wild motorbike race, Raoul relaxed in his chair, a smile crooking the corners of his mouth.
"I need details," he said.
"The streets were jammed with grid-lock," Serge replied, "but I've removed a few dozen Onyx from behind their desks and put them to work as peace officers at key intersections, directing traffic with hand signals."
"How positively mediaval!" Raoul chuckled, knowing exactly how the black-haired mandarins would react. It was a strange fact of Tanaguran society that conceit was often conversely related to how much power one actually held.
Serge's eyes lit up. "Yes? Well, the volume of their outrage diminished when it was suggested that non-Elite citizens might enjoy those desk jobs and find those padded chairs just dandy."
"And if it becomes necessary to replace a few of those 'pawns' with a more effective 'knight' or 'bishop', you have my full support." And then he asked, "Do you have any idea why this is happening?"
"It seems Jupiter's holostream recording units were knocked offline at the time the tunnels failed."
This gave him a jolt. "Indeed?"
"I have teams of Rubies and Jades running tests, but there is no executive administrative direction getting through. As you know, Jupiter drove its tentacles pretty thoroughly through our metro system. At last report it appears there is an alien fibre running through our connections and it's a direct interference with Jupiter's signals."
"An alien—fibre? Did I hear that right?" Alarm pricked his nerves. "Describe."
"It has to be a biological, because it's growing, displacing Jupiter's mineral fibre-optics. It has taken over the entire information transmission system. But, so far, our old-fashioned copper electrical wiring appears to be untouched. So regular electrical currents still function."
Raoul's eyes flew immediately to his pianoforte. If the instrument was causing this, it was a definite black mark against the thing. Enough of one to make the small personal miracles he had witnessed insignificant. It had been the very thing he most feared when Hilarion first brought it to his awareness, the Trojan Horse.
"Send samples to Kalga 39 for analysis."
"That was the first thing I attempted." Serge replied calmly. "Unfortunately, the fibres have proven stronger than anything with which we've previously dealt. One of the technicians was consigned to the medical facility when he attempted to sever the cord with a welder's arch—our first and only injury so far."
"How did that happen?"
"The current turned against him, cut off one of his fingers," the Platina wore a sardonic smile, "and simultaneously cauterized both the wound and the severed finger so there was no blood loss; the surgeon can still re-attach it. It has inspired greater caution from my employees, however. They aren't so hasty to attack."
"It also appears to validate your premise that the fibre is biological. The power surge that repelled the arch could've been a self-defensive reflex." Raoul did not want to pursue this line of reasoning further. Sentient objects were not so strange in this world, but the thought that this one might've consciously chosen to cauterize wounds veered a little too close to the terrain of horror stories for the Blondie's comfort.
"You don't seem surprised, Lord Am."
"'Raoul', please. No, I'm not. I suspect they are the same fibres which ruptured the floor tiles throughout my main hall."
"Sorry? What was that?"
Raoul expelled his breath noisily. His connection to the pianoforte left him feeling terribly exposed, even if customs and smuggling were overseen by a different contingent of Elite. He wasn't quite ready to confess to his part in it. Evasiveness seemed the best tactic, most of the story, not all of it.
"There are similar fibres running through the floor of my suite. They've burst out from under a musical instrument in my collection, like tree roots. When I attempted to remove it manually, I cracked the alabaster tiles into splinters, but neither the instrument nor the fibres were damaged."
For a good two to three minutes, Serge was rendered speechless. Raoul suspected it wasn't merely the strangeness of the event, but the inadvertent admission of Blondie strength that confounded him. Serge's own physical prowess would be impressive compared to ordinary men, but Blondies could take other men's breaths away. It was a testament to Raoul's self-control that he did not squirm.
Finally, the Silver spluttered, "What—why—erm, when did this extraordinary thing happen?"
"Just this morning. I was attempting to move an antique pianoforte nearer to the windows and discovered, belatedly, that it was bound to my floor with these strange fibres. Right after that, all hell broke loose."
"All hell! There's more?"
"Indeed but, first, tell me what else you've accomplished."
"Fortunately, the old solar-energy battery system was never dismantled, so the traffic guidance streamlines will be up and running again fairly soon."
Raoul thought of the medical centre. "Emergency vehicles–?"
"–are being routed through without delay. That was our immediate focus."
"Excellent. Do you have a contingency plan ready should that system fail?"
"Yes, shift-rotations of Onyx peace officers."
"Hmm," Raoul nodded. Two fingers of the Silver's hand tapped against the arm of his comfortable suede chair, a sign that something did not sit easily with him. Raoul had noticed for quite some time he always did this when he was about to castle his king or launch some other defensive maneuvre.
The Blondie finally became tired of waiting for him to spit it out, and asked. "Well, what about the androids?"
"They haven't responded at all to the traffic problems. As for the Spaceport–" Serge's voice trailed.
"Yes, well, I wouldn't count on their intervention. At least not in a manner that is safe or even coherent."
The Silver looked down at his hands and, realizing he was nervously tapping one, folded them in his lap, as though it would bolster his resolve to say something potentially treasonous. "At the Spaceport, they have been—erratic in their performance. Their only consistent action had been to ground all outgoing flights and refuse clearance to all incoming vessels. Our allies in the Federation are in an uproar. I, for one, am in a quandary about how to deal with it. What is going on, Raoul? What is Jupiter trying to accomplish?"
"I can understand your predicament, Serge. Stand down at the Spaceport for now. Ready your Sapphire teams to man the controls should the androids fail completely."
"What? I don't understand."
"Jupiter has undergone what appears to be a catastrophic fatal error. Anything which depends upon it for executive functions has been failing or malfunctioning dangerously. I have just finished a similar conversation with Za-Zen Lau regarding the Underworld–"
"The Underworld! God help us."
"Precisely. After I finish with our communication, I will no doubt be dealing with a similar situation regarding our environmental controls and other systems. And somewhere in the midst of this, I shall have to arrange a meeting of all the Blondies in order to see what can be done to restore Jupiter, if anything." That is, he thought, if I can ever see my way clear from putting out these wildfires.
Serge replied, "I see. Is there anything further I can do?"
"Keep up with what you've been doing. I think the important thing right now is to monitor the disintegration process in the android functions." If he moved too quickly, there was a fifty-fifty chance that the androids would compute an insurrection—which it was—and react with force. So Raoul said to him, "If you attempt to override them now, they will attack you. So stand down until their failure is complete, and hope to heaven that they order no midair collisions. The last thing we want is to provoke an interplanetary incident should the androids activate the CyberFleet."
"Is there no way we can send out warning signals?"
Right! Pick an argument with Jupiter's Pratorian CyberGuard, Raoul could see how effective that would be. Mind, every Spaceport had quarantine signals to keep ships from landing, which would essentially provide the same results. Trouble was they needed those shipments of food and medicines. And it was like putting out a colossal sign for the more aggressive members of the Federation showing that Amoi was vulnerable.
Then he considered Katze's connections in the black market, smugglers and traders who had circumvented the worldwide straitjacket of computer control. Perhaps there was another way after all.
It made sense to use Katze. The environment of Ceres and the Guardian could only help but cultivate the skills required for these desperate circumstances. In order to survive, one would have to be a quick-study, to adapt and improvise, to tackle difficult tasks without balking over something so petty as one's personal ego. The luxuries of Midas, the glass walls of Eos, all sparkling and bright, had a double-edged quality. The humans here seemed to have all that wild, unpredictable, adaptable spirit bred or trained out of them. Almost bred or trained out of them, he tossed a spare thought to Iason. But was he, himself, one of these sorry creatures? Not anymore, he decided.
"As secretively as you can, activate the quarantine signal. Let us be marked as a Plague-planet."
Serge had never looked so shaken, "It's that serious?"
"Of course not," Raoul explained. "It is a strategy to ward off unnecessary traffic until we can secure the Port. Yet it still allows us to receive shipments of food and medicine and other forms of aid under the Interplanetary Humane Transport Convention."
"But no one will send us these items if we are unable to maintain trade at our end."
"Yes, I realize this. I have a plan for that as well."
Katze could implement new trading channels through his allies. The hypocritical members of the Federation, who paid lip service to human rights while partaking lavishly on the sly in Amoi's Pet trade, and Jupiter's Elite would simply have to deal with him. That, or find themselves shunted out. And what irony to orchestrate such a reversal of social position, the second such notion he had fielded that day, as Raoul remembered Lau's suggestions for using Pets, Mongrels and Furniture. How quickly since the moment they'd come to know each other, had power flipped into the Mongrel's court.
"The details still need to be finalized, but I am confident we can secure our trade channels under less conventional means." Plus the stalling tactic would allow him time to consider new trade strategies.
He was very disappointed in the Platina's comment, "Even if our Pets are marked as carriers? Plague-ridden?"
Raoul understood his concerns, but the man was overreacting.
"Relax, Renaud! Our trade relationships are not going to be deep-sixed over our Spaceport's shut-down for a day or two. And once we make it clear that the quarantine signal was a glitch in a faulty, old system that has not been used or, unfortunately, deactivated since the Plague-years, I think we can squelch those rumours fairly quickly. More so than if traders, who are too anxious to spend their credits on the offerings of Midas, attempt to land against the androids and instigate the release of the CyberFleet. Do you follow me?"
"Perfectly," Serge nodded, adjusting his seat, as though it had grown too warm for comfort.
"Very well. Expect a visit from me and my operative at the Spaceport sometime later today. Unless things deteriorate or change for the better, just leave a quick verbal message every hour to keep me up to speed."
"As you wish."
"Oh!—and Serge?"
"Yes?"
"Don't lose your cool."
"Come now," a trace of the old humour flashed across his face. It was wan, not quite at full strength, but much better. "When have you ever known me to lose my cool? When it really mattered, that is."
Raoul returned his smile and disconnected. He stood up, stretched and took a few deep breaths before addressing the next communication. If that was how his friends reacted, he didn't want to think of how his less-favourable acquaintances would.
The great black pianoforte seemed to call to him, the sweet sounds rippling through his memory. Absentmindedly, he walked over, sat down at the bench, placed his fingers on the keys, and started to play—not a formal piece, just random minor, but pleasant chords and arpeggios which evoked his mood.
How do I communicate with you? He asked it in his thoughts, never thinking there would be an answer. His thoughts took a visual turn as his memory strayed to all the horrifying scenarios that had played through his mind that day. Images of human embryos dying under Guardian, people suffocating as the oxygen ran out, dying in fiery infernos as the CyberFleet attacked their spaceships. I know you are not completely evil. You healed Katze and me. I think you would heal everyone on this forsaken planet; so why are you destroying my world?
Two unbidden images flashed into his thoughts. The first was of the day at the gallery when, in that fit of pique about the instrument being used as a trial of loyalty by Jupiter, he had knocked the support out from the lid of the pianoforte causing it to crash with an awful atonal dischord. The second was that morning, after Hilarion had been taken to the medical facility, when he turned his fists on the instrument, filling the room again with that sound.
The echo of these sounds in his memory were like flying kicks directly hitting his solar plexus. Raoul almost doubled over at their impact. He jumped away from the piano, the stool tumbling backwards behind him. Had the instrument just given him an answer? Was that even possible? If so, this was a new very subtle and very deceptive form of speech, for how could one tell the difference between personal thoughts and images communicated into one's mind? And if it was a form of communication, what message was it trying to convey? Perhaps the instrument was taking revenge for his misuse. Or perhaps, it only amplified the effects of sounds created during Raoul's tantrums. He flushed with shame. Again, that lack of self-control! Or was this just another sign of madness, to even consider that a piano had sentience? Even such a remarkable piano.
Unfortunately, he had no time to think further upon it. For now the comm-link buzzed with irritating persistence. He had to attend to another crisis. The cool, haughty face of the Eighth Blondie appeared upon the screen.
"Colin," Raoul walked over. "Status report?"
"We haven't been able to bring the atheric filters online, Lord Am."
"Let me guess: There is an unknown biological fibre interfering with the cables."
Colin Venables blinked. "We hadn't checked. The drives are seized up with paradoxes."
"Ah, that would've been my second guess."
"In either case," the other Blondie continued. "Smog levels are reaching a critical level."
"What sort of action do you suggest?"
"Industrial closures, for the time being, tight restrictions on anything which generates pollutants–"
"I see–knowing, of course, that this will wreak havoc all over Amoi."
Colin wisely kept his lips sealed.
Raoul sighed. He knew what was coming. "Alright, have you coordinated your Sapphires to engineer repairs and your Jades and Rubies to bring the filtration system into order manually?"
"They are working on it as we speak."
"Estimated time to completion?"
Colin shrugged.
"In the meantime, you have authority to shut down the power grids to all but the emergency and prison facilities in Neal Darts and other industrial complexes."
"To be enforced, how?"
"By Emergency Law, of course."
"It is inevitable," Colin bowed his head, with a sulphuric whiff of insolence. "Yet, why won't Jupiter spare us any cybernetic support?"
"It isn't a question of what Jupiter can spare," Raoul tried to explain. "It is Jupiter, itself, that has–that appears to have–who is–" Finally he gave up and said, "I've been fielding distress calls all morning."
"Distress? Calls? Whatever for?"
"Jupiter is collapsing, Colin, you might as well know."
"Collapsing? But–well then, we must save it."
"Indeed." Raoul bit back his sarcastic retort, and found a slightly more polite way of expressing his irritation. "Presently, I am enmeshed with coordinating the efforts to save this planet from complete annihilation, but saving Jupiter is definitely on the things-to-do list. In fact, I insist that you take part in that action, now that you have the authority to close down the worst sources of noxious emissions. How long will it take you to delegate the task of cleaning our oxygen?"
The other Blondie hesitated. This turn of events did not agree at all with him and Raoul knew why. He was reluctant to come so close to anything like a Declaration of Emergency Law. It was too unpopular, too potentially damaging from a political standpoint. He preferred to sit in the shadows while others took the flak. Well, Raoul had no patience or time to deal with that. He needed a united front from his fellow Blondies, or they would be destroyed by civil unrest.
"Who is your best Platina?—the most technically proficient."
"That would be Lazare Weinberg."
"Then he is your representative. Give him the task, and make your way back to Eos immediately. You are needed here."
Colin scowled, preparing to argue. Raoul sighed, knowing that Colin was not even being particularly difficult, nothing to what he knew Xavier Rex of Tanaguran Commerce and Mercantile would be like.
"I wouldn't insist if you weren't critical to our success, don't you know? You are our best metallurgical engineer and technician. We haven't a hope of saving Jupiter without you."
The flattery worked. Tension drained out of the Elite's face like someone had pulled out a stopper. Raoul experienced a flash of sympathy for him. In so many ways, Colin Venables was like him, or as he once was: arrogant, finicky, prudent to a fault. The only thing Colin lacked, which Raoul always had, was that concern for Iason's wellbeing, that sublimated love which had dignified his most overbearing words and gestures. It amazed him how such a small thing could make all the difference. Katze's face from that morning on the piano leapt into his mind, and he had to forcefully push his attention back to the matter at hand.
He missed Colin's reply, although he was sure the other Blondie had yielded; no one in their right mind argued with the First Blondie. He said, "Establish a secure holostream-link between you and Weinberg so your people's progress can be monitored from Eos and, eventually, from Jupiter's Tower. Be here within the hour."
Then he closed the connection.
Katze! What was to be his place? Raoul felt the same prickle of uneasiness about all the changes he was about to impose without consulting the other man. Of all the day's surprises, this one delighted Raoul most: that Jupiter was collapsing, leaving him in position as Lord of Tanagura, the one to determine the line between propriety and impropriety as a mark of privilege. The fact that this was precisely what had led to Iason's demise didn't trouble him. Now that he held Iason's old position, he also felt a similar recklessness toward his liaison with Katze. But here was the crux: prior to that morning, there was no question of authority; Katze had been compelled to submit. How was that authority to be enforced now, aside from barehanded force? Particularly since Raoul wasn't all that fussed about maintaining Tanagura's old ways.
Previously, a leader's charisma was founded in Jupiter's lineage of genetic supremacy and ossified social codes, through tradition, physical grace and beauty, and material strength and force. He was now clear that destiny governed his actions, no matter what the personal outcome. Building consensus and support, however, could be too laborious. Tanagura's leaders had to move quickly and decisively to save Amoi, and to be fully accountable for the results of those decisions.
The Blondie felt a little dizzy, as though he was skating across the surface of his own broken tiles. It was like swaying on the point of a fulcrum, and depending on the direction he swayed, a different abyss opened at his feet. Too far in one direction and his mind and Katze's would be wiped into oblivion. In another, Amoi would erupt in civil war. In yet another, the Underworld, Guardian, Her Bay and Mistral Park would turn into charnel houses, followed soon by the rest of Amoi.
So how was he to win the Mongrel's cooperation? How simpler everything had been when one could just zap others into submission with collars and rings. He had to stop thinking like that. Besides, there seemed to be other, more pleasant means of persuasion in his arsenal and that brought a smile to his lips.
"Tibór!" Raoul called, "I need the following summons dispatched to the leaders of the Tanaguran Syndicate. They are to meet here within the hour."
The boy nodded.
"Extend one to Xavier Rex, by virtue of his position as CEO of Tanuguran Commerce and Mercantile—by the way, carbon-copy that to all members of the trade association with the note that this is not a personal invitation, but for their information purposes only so that they understand we are taking action.
Make special note of this, Tibór: He is to wait in the foyer until we summon him, no matter what he has to say about it. If he dislikes this, express my regrets and show him the door. I have some security details to discuss about this with Paviter. Send him to me promptly."
"Did you wish to include Sir Serge among the Syndicate leaders, my lord?"
"No, he already has his commission. When the Blondies arrive, direct them to my study and work centre, not the Great Hall. The doors to the Hall are to be locked and no one is to be permitted entry under any circumstance. Oh!—and Tibór? I would appreciate a fresh pot of coffee, when you have the chance. Order anything we need for our guests from the caterers."
"Right away, sir."
"You are excellent Furniture."
The boy's face lit up. "My pleasure."
"After the Syndicate have arrived and settled in, and while Paviter keeps an eye on Sir Xavier, I would like you to take a fifteen minutes just to slip into the Great Hall—locking the doors behind you, of course—and try your hand at playing my new pianoforte. Would you like that?"
"I–uh, don't know. I certainly enjoy the music you make, but I-I've never–"
"I know. It takes awhile to learn music. If you like it, I will arrange for lessons." It seemed to be Raoul's day for leaving people speechless. He suppressed his urge to smile. "Whether or not you decide to take me up on that offer, I think you will be surprised and delighted by the results a little time playing that piano can bring. Thank you, that will be all."
And while Tibór scurried off to fetch some fresh coffee, Raoul sat back and wove his plans.
The Holocaust Piano – chapter 5.1 << >> The Holocaust Piano – chapter 6