The Holocaust Piano
by Phaedra7veils
Chapter 11: Negotiations and Tolls
Admiral Hahna was not a happy woman. Her face bordered on sour as she leaned back in the overstuffed chair. There was nothing wrong with the chair. It was just unsettling for Offworlders to see how puny ordinary humans were next to Blondies. Fully grown men felt like awkward children. Were Midas not in chaos, Raoul would've conducted these negotiations at Parthaa, where the architectural stagecraft was designed to put everyone at ease.
"We are unused to entertaining business guests in our personal apartments," he watched her eyes sweep over the smooth rock of his great hall, take in the vaulted glass ceilings, the collection of paintings, the magnificent piano — where her scrutiny froze for a moment — and the panorama of Midas stretching far below. The glittering cityscape was punctuated with random columns of smoke, "but the city is too dangerous at present."
Hahna tried to keep her attraction to him secret. There was no psychological sign, not so much as a stammer, but other, more subtle indications were clear as an instruction manual to him, the slight rise in her pulse and body temperature, the faint blush and trace of pheromones everytime he drew near. Raoul assumed that her infatuation was of the usual sort. People found Blondies attractive; it wasn't personal and it was such old news that Raoul was heartily bored about it. The good thing was that her infatuation probably lacked obsessive force. Still, it was yet another matter which required caution and delicacy.
Raoul knew by the lack of reaction in his body that he wasn't interested, the flat, evenhanded, sameness that extended to almost everyone, yet was spectacularly missing everytime he thought of — Katze! Wasn't that strange? He had been sure that the first name and face to leap to mind would've been Iason's. If it was natural for him to feel any attraction toward a woman, Hahna wasn't the one. Well, he wasn't attracted to most other men in that way either, so the biological line of pursuit was fruitless and frustrating.
"The trouble isn't that we cannot restore your memories," Raoul explained, stirring cream into his coffee, which he usually took black. The circling motion of the tiny spoon in the well of fine china had a soothing quality. "If it's a matter of technology or know-how, that wouldn't be a problem at all."
"Why, then, do you refuse me?"
"The problem lies with the hive-mind telepathy which links the Priestesses of Tenebrios. The artificial intelligence which once governed Tanagura used a similar interface to communicate between artificial life-forms in Tanagura. So, while this is all theoretical as it pertains to the human mind, I would pose that it allows us to extrapolate a reasonable assessment of danger. The dangers are — considerable and you should know them before you judge us for denying you the use of our technology. There is a line where mind-alterations change into brain-damage after all, and in this case, I fear they would be permanent, with devastating effects not only on you, but on our planet. We cannot risk it."
She swallowed, then conceded the point. "I see. Do you mind elaborating on those dangers for me? Without more information, I'm afraid I'm not convinced."
"Fair enough. You could lose all sense of self, all sense of individuality. Your mind would merge with the hive-mind, which is to say, that your mind would be consumed by its dominant intelligence. Nothing of 'you' would likely remain. Your will would be entirely subducted. Basically, 'you' would die, except as an extension of the collective-mind. And the foreign nature of this dominant intelligence is such that any sense of 'you' which might make it through the experience intact, any trace of individual sensation, feeling or thought process, anything which managed to stay separate from the hive-mind, would undergo pain — excruciating pain, neverending pain — forced to comply with the alien and unsympathetic will. And there would be no escape. Your liberty would be gone, forever." Raoul set aside his cup of coffee. "Can I offer you a glass of wine?"
"I'm sorry?"
"I have several excellent bottles of Noir from Kaan, a small, private vineyard in their hill region with outstanding vintages."
"Erm, sure. I'll take a glass."
Raoul stood and poured her a substantial portion from the decanter. In response to his cues, the Admiral reclined against the back of her chair and tucked her feet under her. Their business was in dead earnest, but they could conduct it with the lightest touch.
She took a mouthful of the Noir and savoured it. Her eyes rolled up and she sighed with pleasure, it was that good. Then she cut to the chase.
"Hold on, hold on, hold on! You used the word "permanent" in your estimation of possible brain damage. If it was permanent, how do you explain me?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, even though I can't remember, I'm pretty sure I was once a Priestess. A lot of clues point that way. So how come my will isn't — subsumed, was it? How come I can think, feel and act freely on my own? No lack of individuality here!"
"True," Raoul raised his glass with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "It is safe to say, however, that your conjecture as to having attained the full status of Tenebrian Priestess is shaky at best; your clues simply aren't solid enough to substantiate it.
"This isn't to say, it isn't a good conjecture," he forestalled her protests by continuing without pause. "You seem to be the only person capable of manipulating the interface with our shiny, new Holocaust Piano; an ordinary person might be convinced by that evidence alone. As for the missing blocks in your memories, highly suspicious indeed! We would say, however, that there are other possible explanations."
"Such as–?"
He looked over the city, his city, the place he now ruled, filled with the urgency of how much was at stake.
"Let's consider. Possibly, you were never integrated into the hive-mind in the first place, for example. Or, you were a novice held within the introductory tiers, but cultivated specifically for the purpose of infiltration," he lifted a hand to prevent her from jumping in before he was finished. "Or, if you were a Priestess and ejected from the hive-mind, it was only because the dominant will desired it, again, for a special purpose such as infiltration."
"Is this an accusation?"
Raoul's eyes widened with surprise. This is where he lamented the loss of Iason's charisma. His friend just knew that impersonal reasoning imparted in cold, abstracted language could come across as too harsh, too accusatory. In the process of negotiations, Iason had always known exactly how to soften the blow.
"Not at all," Raoul finally replied as gently and humbly as he could. "The best assassin is one who doesn't know he is about to kill."
"I beg your pardon!"
"The proverb refers to the fable of the Manchurian Candidate, an assassin whom no one would suspect, someone with a close relationship to the intended victim, brainwashed to forget both his purpose and his target except in response to an external trigger. He is planted near the intended victim, the trigger is activated, and he reacts unwittingly. Blame falls upon his head alone. The path is left clear for the coup's masterminds. They remain free from all suspicion of involvement, free to take over."
"Wwhaa—? Is this even possible? I don't follow. How would I fit into a scenario like that?"
Raoul thought about his last dream, the impetus for his investigation into hive-mind telepathy and how it might affect those that were connected to it.
"The huge blocks of your missing memories are of particular concern to us, Admiral Hahna. Then there are your own suspicions which imply that, if you were a Priestess, you escaped their domination as a renegade, your strangely surreal memories of a battle with another Priestess. In all the long centuries that the Priestess Cult has ruled Tenebrios, there have been no recorded incidents of a priestess leaving it alive. Ever."
"None?"
"Not one."
She had nothing to say to this.
"And why wouldn't you remember, if your escape was the act of someone in full possession of their faculties? — Someone in a willful state of rebellion? After all, you escaped. That is a noteworthy achievement. So, why the hazy memories?"
"—"
"And since Amoi's Customs and Immigration controls have been amongst the tightest in the Outworld Sector, and no treaty or embassy established with Tenebrios, there has been almost no chance of the Priestesses gaining a foothold from which to govern or monitor the present situation through legitimate channels. They tried. They failed. We denied them, according to our laws and our sense of self-preservation, which they must've known — known, and factored into their calculations. So they would've had to have created a contingency plan."
Her face turned white with fear. She poured the last few mouthfuls left in her glass of Noir straight down her throat. "I see."
"More wine?"
"Yes, I think I could use another–" her voice was low and subdued.
"Or would you prefer something stronger."
"Or something stronger."
Raoul rummaged through the liquor cabinet on the sideboard and hauled out an aged bottle of single-malt whiskey. He poured a glass for her, but refilled his wine from the decanter.
"Then there is the threat of what a Priestess becomes once her will has been usurped," he poured, "Once your will has been usurped; once your ability to make decisions and take action has been nullified; once your personality is overtaken. Tenebrian Priestesses are not well-regarded in the Outworld sector, as you probably know. The protocol on Amoi as ruled by Jupiter was to "shoot to kill on sight." No exceptions. Why, you ask? — Because the Tenebrian Cult has a reputation for destroying worlds."
The silence that fell over them was palpable, choked with distress. Raoul experienced an odd sort of fluttering in his chest, like bird wings or a swirling ripple in a glass of wine. He wasn't familiar with the sensation, but the thoughts that affected him as he watched the woman were about how young she was and how heavy this news must be to bear. So he supposed that the unfamiliar feeling was compassion. The next thought that occurred to him was how seldom he had felt it during Jupiter's domain, and starved and pinched his existence had been without it. This broke out of him in the form of a heavy sigh. He swirled the wine in salute and lifted it to his nose.
"It looks as though you're breaking your own laws then. Why haven't you shot me yet?"
"Good question." He needed to think about that one. He appreciated how she left him in peace while he sorted his thoughts, how she didn't try to sway him or explain herself. It was another commendable quality.
"Are you familiar at all with Tanaguran society?"
"Just rumours, I'm afraid. We don't meet many of you in outer space. You're kind of isolated out here."
After a brief overview of their history and social structure, Raoul summed up, "The Elite are a completely artificial race of genetically manipulated supermen. The Tanaguran Blondies, of whom I am only one, are the epitome of that race. Jupiter had lost interest in humanity, in the fickle and unpredictable nature of human emotion. We are bred and trained not to display that aspect of our personalities."
She had no answer for that, either.
"In spite of all of this, Miss Hahna, we are human. And, as our predecessor, Lord Iason Mink, taught us in the most tragic manner, we are subject to human feelings. Therefore it is not in our nature — or at least, not in the nature of those who are sane and whole amongst us — to shoot a person without first assessing their threat to us. In terms of my legal standing, I've taken some liberty with the interpretation of Jupiter's Law, with regards to the words "on sight." I've taken "on sight" to mean a positive identification. You haven't been positively identified as a Priestess. Not yet."
"War, civil unrest, raids... people shoot each other blindly all the time. You can't always wait around assessing the risks. At least one of those conditions applies to our situation, I dare say."
"Our society is in upheaval," Raoul conceded with a nod of his head.
"Heck! Your man, Merc, did just that on the Von Moon."
He tilted his chin as though to tell her she could do better than that.
"Well, maybe not blindly," she corrected herself, "but certainly unprovoked."
"We aren't here to argue isolated cases. The example you brought up provides all the more reason for restraint, wouldn't you agree?"
"I, uh... but what if you're wrong?"
"Then we die," Raoul shrugged, "or you die. Inherent in such responses are a lack of obvious reasons. Sometimes a person just has to go with their feelings."
"And your feelings tell you I'm trustworthy?" Admiral Hahna looked skeptical. "When, given how the Cult of Priestesses maintain their power, I can no longer trust my own mind?"
"Both feeling and reason tell me there is no other choice. That is slightly different."
"Yet you deny my terms and risk my refusal to cooperate."
"It is possible that you were once connected to the hive-mind. If that is the case, there is some risk that activating your interface with the Holocaust Piano will trigger it. It's possible, but not certain–"
"But you're willing to take that risk?"
"We have no choice. Our world is falling apart."
"Yet you will not restore my memories?"
"If you were once integrated within the Tenebrian hive-mind, then that would reactivate the connection without a doubt."
"Even across all that empty space?"
"Even so."
"I see," she leaned back and ran her fingers through her tight brown curls. "What are you prepared to offer me in exchange, then, Lord Am?"
A critical moment, Raoul stirred, like the first moves of the red queen on a chessboard. "There seemed no point in putting together a counter-offer without first discussing your needs and desires."
She pressed her index fingers to her pursed lips. "I've damaged my ship."
"That will be fully restored in any case."
"Yes, so I see, I see. Well, then... if I was a Tenebrian Priestess, that meant I would've been a member of the ruling class in my society. As the Admiral of the Kressellian Raiders, I have no such status. I'm an outlaw and an enemy of the Federation, with a sizeable bounty on my head!"
"Do you wish for diplomatic immunity in Amoian airspace? — For you and your Raiders? That is trickier, but it can certainly be arranged."
"Oh, that is of little meaning or value to me," she shook her curls and laughed. "The Feds haven't caught me yet. It won't be easy for them to lay their hands on me in the future either, I would wager."
Raoul waited for her to get to the point. She stretched a long, shapely leg out in front of her, tracing ruptures in the rock from back when Raoul tried to move the Piano with the toe of her boot. The silvery fibers had almost replaced the blue within the rock by now. They shimmered with almost imperceptible flickers of light.
"I have always wondered what it would be like not to have to run around the Outworld sector, dodging Federation ships, but I never did settle down, because I never thought I could be content not to lead — even if it's only a ragtag bunch of Corsairs."
"I agree." Raoul answered.
"You do?" She seemed genuinely surprised.
"I was thinking not too long ago that you show many fine leadership qualities." He bit back his words regarding the areas where he felt she could improve.
"I'm so glad you think so! Then, it's settled."
"What's settled?"
"My new terms for activating the Holocaust Piano interface, of course."
Raoul just stopped himself, she looked so pleased with herself. She was hugging her knees, chortling with joy. Under her highly polished boots, he suspected she was wriggling her toes.
"What might they be?"
"You've become her regent, haven't you, Lord Am? Jupiter's, I mean — ruling in her stead? And everyone appears to accept your leadership without question. It's quite remarkable."
"Yes?" He did not like the direction this conversation had turned. He didn't even hear the door open behind them.
"So, in exchanges for my services on the Holocaust Piano, I will become your wife and assist you in governing Amoi from Tanagura."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Your wife, Lord Am. The deal is you marry me and set me up as co-regent and I save your planet. It's a small price for an entire planet, wouldn't you agree?"
No, he did not want a wife.
No, he felt no physical attraction toward this woman, and any admiration he did experience was not of the sort to inspire lasting devotion.
"Do you accept?"
He shook off his surprise.
No, he did not want anyone interfering in his role as First Blondie.
No, he didn't think her style of leadership would mesh well with the Elite. Quite the opposite! He could imagine her shooting off a command to Venables and — damn! Was that actually a headache? The only time he ever felt this stretched was after a session with Jupiter.
As for Katze...
Katze!
He downed his wine, and gave her his answer.
"I will."
Crash! The two negotiators jumped as though caught in delicto flagrante. They looked over to the door where Tibór had backed against Serge and knocked the computerized notebook out of his hands. Both Furniture and Platina looked startled, themselves. Paviter, who was entering the room just behind them, looked absolutely flummoxed.
Tibór immediately dropped to his knees. "My apologies, Lord Am. When I heard you say, 'Yes?' I assumed you had heard me knock and granted us permission to enter."
Raoul nodded, his expression completely inscrutable.
Serge swallowed, and then came forward with his hand extended. There was no point pretending that he hadn't heard. "I presume congratulations are in order on your upcoming nuptials."
They shook hands. Serge turned to the Admiral and gave her a slight bow.
"We couldn't have asked for a more charming and–" his voice faltered.
Hahna couldn't manage to meet his eyes. She looked very much like an inexperienced young woman who just realized she had behaved rashly, regretted it, but didn't know how to back off.
"—and, well, we've never had a First Blondie's wife before," he forced himself to continue. "I'm not sure what the protocol is for addressing you. What will your title be?"
"That's enough, Sir Renaud," Raoul interrupted. "Admiral Hahna and I have not completed our negotiations, but this is as good a place to introduce her to the politics of Amoi as any. You had something for us?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact, but–" Serge turned toward Tibór who was sweeping up the shatter notebook crystal.
"Salient details."
"You wish for me to — proceed?" Serge inclined his head toward the Admiral, double-checking to make sure it was alright with Raoul for him to speak freely.
"Immediately."
Raoul listened intently as the Platina gave his report.
Onyx officers had attempted to bring Xavier Rex in for questioning regarding his relationship with the Federation Envoy shortly after the warrant from the Von Colony had been transmitted, only to find he had disappeared. They had been simultaneously dispatched to his many residences and businesses throughout Midas and Tanagura, so he had to have received a warning prior to the transmission. His trail was still warm, but from all appearances, it looked like he had departed Amoi for good.
The First Blondie had only narrowly missed being caught in the blast which destroyed his ship, just as he suspected, because he had remained in the motorcade to discuss strategy with Florien for a few minutes longer. The explosion was timed to go off at precisely three minutes from his arrival at the port, more than enough time for his Car to give it a cursory sweep and allow him to board his craft without that one delay. Instead, both he and Paviter had waited in the car until the conversation was through.
The detonator had been found in a vehicle that was reported stolen that morning. Infrared scans had detected no organic residue that did not belong to the owners.
"Naturally," Raoul snorted.
Hazall, whose vehicle arrived shortly after Raoul's, was strongly suspected of having instigated the blast. The Envoy would have had no way of knowing that the First Blondie had not yet boarded his craft. He, himself, was chatting with casual acquaintances at the time of the explosion. This alibi would've worked had he not been shot while making his way out of the port, which led investigators to check the security cameras. There, he was recorded making signals to someone off-screen. It was suspicious, but inconclusive.
His portable commlink was a wealth of sources. Investigators were still following through on many of the individuals that he had contacted that day. Quite a number of them had disappeared. There was also a record of communication received from a relay station whose trajectory placed it behind the second moon. This could've been the location from which the Tenebrian Wasps had been dispatched, although it appears that the actual spaceships had taken shelter in the debris field.
At mention of the second moon, Raoul stirred. He wondered at its significance, why Iason had spoken of it in the dream.
"We still have not verified that there is a connection between the Tenebrians and the Federation," Serge continued, "but shortly afterward, Hazall placed a call to a number on the perimeter of Midas, to the Guardian."
"The Guardian?" Raoul's eyes widened.
"Yes. Do you wish to detain Manon Kuga for questioning?"
"Kuga's tenure was terminated after Kyrie's accident."
"He was reinstated six months ago."
The infinitesimal hush of stress-cracks crazing across Raoul's wineglass pricked the silence, but his voice was as mild as could be, "And who authorized this?"
Serge swallowed nervously, "Lau."
Raoul rose to his feet. The clone nurseries!
His head ached from trying to sort out the connections, but there just wasn't enough information. His heart ached from the possibility of Lau's betrayal, but again, he didn't know for certain. He could feel his pulse race from the dangers which his betrothal might present to Amoi, welcoming a possible Manchurian Candidate right into the heart of his home and the present seat of their government, but there was no other way to uncover the mystery. Every moment he waited, the planet seemed to teeter toward its doom.
In the centre of his hall, the Holocaust Piano loomed, the most unknown factor of all. Raoul walked over to it and sat at the bench. His hands stroked the keys and a beautiful glissando rippled through the room.
You understand what is happening. You know what I need to do.
It seemed that the only response he was to receive this time was the colour of blue, like the sky at deepest dusk without a star to interrupt it. It was unlike space, but had the same sense as the void, an abyss. It was unfathomable.
Raoul turned to the Admiral.
"It's time to initiate the interface," he said. "If we wait any longer, it will be too late."
She gave a nod.
The Holocaust Piano – chapter 10 << >> The Holocaust Piano – chapter 12