A. Warren Merkey

by Far Freedom

  A book in the library of my mind slid out of its spot on the shelf. It was titled: “Youth Plays Piano.” Power and programming filled up some long-unused part of my being. I was too engrossed in imagining a lost pattern of sound to realize what was happening in my brain, besides remembering.

  It was a long time ago, but I remembered how to play. I remembered my mother and how much she pushed me to practice the piano. I showed signs of being musically gifted at a very young age, but at some point it became impossible for me to ignore all the other things that interested me, and the piano gradually faded from my list of intellectual passions. Mama made the mistake of sending me to a music camp in the country, where the night sky was dark and clear, and the mystery of the universe was written in points of fire floating in black infinity.

  I played. It was a classical piece I taught myself before I could read music. It was short and simple but it was a precious memory and a link to other memories I thought lost to age. It was a surprise to me but I couldn’t think about why it was happening. I needed to play the next piece.

  The next piece was the last piece I ever learned - or tried to learn - and it came to my fingers in a flood. How I hated Rachmaninoff, how I loved the avalanche of tones, the drama and power and passion. I could never play it flawlessly when I was young. I was losing the single-mindedness required to master the piece at that point in my life. Now I seemed to relax and not worry about mistakes. I made plenty of mistakes but nothing too terrible or discordant.

  It was too long to finish and I let it fade away. My forearms felt tired. I shook my hands and arms to try to release the tension. Jessie grabbed one hand,

  startling me. She sat down beside me at the piano. The sound of sparse applause finally reached my ears.

  “I remember it now,” Jessie said, squeezing my hand in both of hers.

  “Remember what?”

  “You made a piano and played it. It took you thirty years to build the piano.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “When did you learn classical piano?” Zakiya asked.

  ” Starting at four years old. That was the piece that terminated my status as a musical prodigy. I last tried to play it when I was thirteen years old.”

  “Not bad,” Rick the bartender said, approaching the stage, “but a little too complex for us simple people. What else do you play?”

  It took me about a minute to race through my database augmentation and find the piano score for the song I wanted to play. I spent the minute trying to revive my fingers and arms. I played the intro, knowing Jessie would recognize it. She’d seen Casablanca. I did my best to sing the lyrics as I played. Jessie put her head on my shoulder and her arm around my waist, and we completely forgot where we were in time and space.

  There was no applause when I finished the song - not that I expected any.

  “I don’t need another piano player, but I like your playing,” the old barbarian said.

  “I apologize for using your piano without permission,” I quickly offered.

  He was not that old, but for a barbarian he was ancient. He needed a crutch to walk. He had the typical facial scars of combat in the games. Other old injuries now tightened their grip on his failing body, twisting it into a painful pose. He still seemed large and powerful. The scattering of my audience back to their work was a clue that he was the boss of this establishment.

  “You used it well, but Chopin and Rachmaninoff would chase away my customers. Do your lady-friends also perform?”

  “We didn’t come here to find employment, sir.” I was surprised the guy knew the composers of the two pieces.

  “Why did you?”

  “Pure chance.”

  “Do they perform?”

  “They do.”

  “Let me hear them.”

  I looked at Zakiya and saw the slight negative turn of her head. “We respectfully decline your invitation, sir.”

  “No one declines!” Several of the boss’s facial scars pinked with blood. His voice echoed deeply and ominously in the large, silent room. He narrowed his black eyes until his normal eye nearly matched the deformed aperture of his disfigured eye. I thought I was in a staring match with him, then I sensed he was actually looking at Jessie. He must have felt there was something not quite right about her but he didn’t make an issue of it. Maybe it was the goggle-like sunglasses she wore. “Why?” His demand was like a warning bark from a large dog.

  “If they sang for you, you’d want to hire them.”

  “So?”

  “They don’t want to work here.”

  “Why not?”

  Zakiya gave me a slight nod and a few words across our telepathic hardware circuit. “We wouldn’t feel safe among so many Black Fleet officers.”

  “No one should! Sing!”

  “Do you love music so much?” Zakiya asked, inserting herself into the line of fire.

  “It’s all I live for nowadays.”

  “I’ll sing for you.”

  Zakiya gave me the name of the song. The melody and the lyrics seemed at once familiar yet unknown to me, but it was one of those songs that was perfect in itself and oddly appropriate for our audience of one. I improvised my own intro as a quick rehearsal on the keyboard, then let Zakiya carry me away on the magic carpet of her voice.

  The old barbarian was strongly affected by the performance, as he certainly should have been. The song was sung for him, as Zakiya intended. It was proof that music did have the power to soothe beasts.

  “Come!” the retired barbarian ordered, turning to the nearest table and putting his cane on it as he sat down in a chair. “Sit! Talk to me!” He waited while we complied. Then he smiled. “Damn! That was excellent! Why haven’t I heard of you? What’s your name?” He was speaking, of course, to Zakiya.

  “My name is Ruby,” Zakiya answered as though pleased to be conversing with him. I think she was pleased at the chance to learn more about the Black Fleet. “I commend you on the quality of your establishment. Clean restrooms! What is your name? And what does the name of this place mean?”

  “Hah! It doesn’t mean anything! My name is Stekh.”

  “You know classical music.”

  “I know all kinds of music. I got a fancy augment. Can’t say I like all kinds of music, but I loved what you sang. We do a lot of old stuff here. It’s so old it’s new. So, what brings you to my place?”

  “We’re just sups, Stekh. We wanted to see how the Fleet lives.”

  “It isn’t any better in the north of Oz than in the south. You not earning enough credit to get you a good place in the south?”

  “We don’t want much.”

  “Hell! Life is short. Grab all you can, while you can. You want a better paying job, I’ll hire you. You sing like that every night and stay off dope and booze, you’ll make a bunch of credit here. What do you say?”

  “Despite what you say, I think it’s a different world in North Oz. I’d feel out of place. All my family is in the south.”

  “Safer for you up here. All the Tough Guy jerks go south to do their sick mischief. Four of ‘em got sliced open down by the old Green Globe. What a mess!”

  “I was there,” Zakiya said with quiet intensity.

  “I’m sorry you had to witness that!”

  “I wish the Fleet didn’t retaliate so massively, Stekh.”

  “It isn’t in our rules to do what was done at the sup festival, Ruby. Nor do we have to borrow procedure from She Who Must Not Be Named. But we do have some maniacs and psychopaths in the Fleet, most of whom manage sups. Fleet has to take them down quite regularly. We would hope the games would cull out the monsters, but they seem to breed too fast.”

  “Do you have a family, Stekh?” Zakiya dared inquire.

  “I was never one to force myself on a woman, but I probably have several progeny more than I know about. I never made any promises to a woman I couldn’t keep, which pretty much rules out family. I used to visit some of the kids but those days are go
ne. I always dreamed of owning a place like this, so I kept my loot to myself and concentrated on surviving my hitch. Almost didn’t survive.”

  “I don’t think I should ask you, but I always wondered how a Fleet officer felt about not living very long. Are you close to dying, Stekh?”

  “If I said yes, would you feel sorry enough for me to let me hire you?”

  “I might.”

  ” Sorry to say, but I don’t have the death gene. I just had a little accident. Most guys my age don’t want to lose their spot on a jumper team, so they keep fighting in the games until they lose their lives.”

  “Do you know many Fleet officers who have wives and children, a real family?”

  “I know a few. It’s hard. I can understand their motivation, especially if they don’t have the death gene. We get most of the popular culture media from the Union, and some of us can’t help wishing we could have some of what we see in that stuff.”

  “Do you ever wish things were different, Stekh?”

  “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. Why wish? Do!”

  “That’s a very old saying,” Zakiya remarked. “I hope there are many more in the Fleet as educated as you.”

  “Another augment. I could wish for more augments and for people who can install them.”

  “How about a longer life, Stekh?”

  “I can’t see any reason for it. Don’t make me get philosophical. It’s a waste of our time and I don’t have the augment to help me think about it. Death ain’t so bad, not when I got all these pains in my body. Are you going to sidestep my employment offer with more personal questions? Am I the first Fleet officer you ever talked with?”

  “You’re the nicest, so far.” Zakiya smiled at him.

  “You mean the least terrible.” Stekh returned the smile, looked at Jessie, then me, then back at Zakiya. “I get the feeling I’m missing something here. I’m going to get nasty if you guys are working for one of my competitors. There’s a couple of old Tough Guys who want this place real bad. What’s with the dark goggles?” He looked back at Jessie.

  “You don’t want to know,” Zakiya said. “I might sing for you, for one night, if you feel like taking a big chance.”

  Stekh leaned back in his chair and dropped his bushy eyebrows to a medium frown. “You want something, Miss Ruby, and damned if I know what it is. Talk to me.”

  “Do you know anyone who helps produce the games?”

  “I know ‘em all. I don’t like the direction this is going. I won’t participate in any scheme to cheat someone into the Fleet.”

  “All I want is a message delivered to a man who will be fighting in the games.”

  “Why would that be any problem for you?”

  “His name is Etrhnk.”

  “I think I just caught sight of the end of my life! You put a high price on your singing, Ruby.”

  “I withdraw my offer,” Zakiya said. “I have no desire to put you at risk.”

  “Not so fast! I’m interested! My biggest risk was getting born, and I had no choice in the matter. Every subsequent risk was a matter of choice. Who knows, maybe I can cheat death one more time. It’s just that the name Etrhnk still causes anyone to think twice. Why do you need to communicate with him?”

  “I owe him something, Stekh.”

  “What do you owe him? Do you even know what he is?”

  “How much do you want to know, Stekh? Every word I speak will probably add to your risk. My singing can’t be worth it.”

  “Maybe not just your singing. I like the intrigue. I like the secrets, like what’s behind those dark glasses. Like the words of your message to Etrhnk.”

  Zakiya said nothing while staring hard at Stekh. She actually seemed to make the barbarian uncomfortable.

  “You don’t trust me?” Stekh asked angrily.

  “I don’t have to trust you,” Zakiya said, “once you know who we are. Are you sure, Stekh? I like you. I don’t want you harmed.”

  Stekh laughed. “It’s an easy choice! Are you going to tell me she’s a Golden One?”

  “I wasn’t. But I will.”

  That almost took the wind out of Stekh’s sails. He rallied. “If you have the help of a Golden One, why do you need my help?”

  “That isn’t your concern,” Zakiya countered.

  “It is my concern that she isn’t a Golden One. Let me see her eyes.”

  Jessie took off her dark glasses, winked at Stekh, put them back on.

  “I am honored by your presence!” Stekh declared, as soon as he could put his tongue into motion. “I’m speechless!”

  “I doubt it,” Zakiya said wryly. “Are you still with us? Do you still want me to sing?”

  “You don’t have to sing! I’ll do whatever you want me to do!”

  “There is some further risk to you if I sing in your nightclub, Stekh. Someone might recognize me. I’ll leave that decision to you, but I am willing to sing for you. It’s the least I can do. I appreciate your help.”

  Stekh had to stop and think some more. It didn’t take him long to pick up the right chain of logic. “I know of most of the talent in Oz and I can’t remember you. Yet you are somehow familiar to me. You aren’t someone new. You know how to sing. It only took one song to prove it to me. Where do I know you from?”

  “Earth.”

  Stekh’s scarred face twisted through an amazing series of expressions, ending in what looked like ecstasy. “What a way to go!” He choked it down to a hoarse whisper. “When can you be here to do a couple of sets?”

  “Last chance to back away, Stekh. I’ve already cost too many people their lives here in Oz. This Golden One doesn’t wish you harm any more than I do. And the message I wish to send Etrhnk probably isn’t that important.”

  “Ruby, I would get down on what’s left of my knees and follow you to hell, begging you all the way to sing on that stage! What is the message you want me to deliver?”

  “…Ruby Reed!”

  The stage lights dimmed. The candles on the pink tables illuminated hands politely applauding. Work lights along the bar silhouetted drinkers. With a last glance at the table where Alex sat with Jessie, I put my fingers on the keys and made music. Zakiya stepped into the spotlight by the piano.

  Section 013 The Games

  Dear Sunny,

  This is one of the parts I warned you about. Please wait until you are an adult to read what follows. Sure, there’s nothing like a little murder and mayhem to enliven a story for the average person. Perhaps the average person will be little affected by allowing himself to enjoy violence in the privacy of his imagination. I hope you are never an average person, and so I worry that even my feeble attempts at describing the barbarian games will have too much effect on you. I watched people die, Sunny, and even though they were barbarians, it still felt terrible.

  Stekh sent the message to Etrhnk. Zakiya said, “Your mother orders you to wait for the Questioner.”

  We spent the next day finding a place where we could watch the bloody games. We found a large stadium-like area with projectors that could present the telecast in life-size three-dimensions. Its size suited our plans perfectly. Perhaps twenty thousand people occupied the slopes around the image area. The bright ambient light of Oz made the images pale but we didn’t need to see the finest details of this event, nor do I wish to describe them in fine detail.

  Hundreds of fighters paired off on the stadium floor. They fought without weapons and without rules. At the end of five minutes the survivors departed to rest while the games managers cleared away the corpses and the injured. This was repeated for several more groups, until all the survivors could be paired for a second round of mayhem. Fewer and more expert fighters fought, with only the time limit saving many from death. These were the civilian applicants to Black Fleet membership. We didn’t see Alex at this stage of the event.

  Black Fleet officers were not required to continue to fight in the games, but if they didn’t fight and win, they would never be prom
oted and they could lose their berth on a jumpship. They would be relegated to keeping the sups working. A newcomer like Alex would never fight a Fleet officer in the games. A Fleet officer would gain nothing by killing him. But the managers of the games knew about Alex’s abilities. They gave him a bye for the first three rounds. As a kind of special interlude Alex fought three of the best amateurs - all three at once.

  Zakiya didn’t appear concerned. I’m sure she was. We both knew Alex could eat barbarians for breakfast, but we also knew they could cheat. My heart was racing. Jessie wouldn’t watch, nor did I want her to watch. White Bridge sat apart from us where he could warn us of any trouble that we were too preoccupied to notice.

  Alex took longer than he would have needed to simply kill his three opponents. He carefully and completely immobilized them. The games managers ordered him to kill the three young men - he was well within the time limit - and he refused. The local viewers raised an angry roar and I supposed the crowd at the games stadium did the same. They paid good money to see blood and death. It was also an insult to the Black Fleet, since by not killing his opponents Alex was refusing - at least temporarily - to qualify for Fleet membership.

  The audio was excellent, to best enjoy the sounds of pounding fists, kicking feet, bones breaking, heavy breathing, taunting, cursing. In case some didn’t hear what Alex said to the games managers, the broadcasters reported on it and replayed it.

  “I am the Questioner,” Alex shouted, “not the Executioner.”

  The barbarians had an old-fashioned oral tradition. They were fond of telling stories, exaggerating exploits, creating heroes and villains to populate their stories. The Questioner, the Torturer, and the Executioner haunted the far shores and ports of call in the tales of the Black Fleet. It was considered bad luck to omit any of the three in any story or conversation about them. You could almost hear people holding their breaths, waiting for Alex to say the third name.