Kelly says, “A glass of white wine.”
He bows and turns away. Kelly watches him pace toward the back of the room. She then shivers and looks at me. “You and I are not very important around here, but at least we have all of our marbles.”
I’m puzzled. “All of our marbles?”
Kelly’s eyebrows shoot up. “Don’t you know?”
“Let’s say I don’t.”
“That waiter is an indentured worker for sure. A lot of the help on Vienna Station have signed indentured service contracts. Signing an I-S contract allows them to turn you into a zombie for five years.”
“Zombie?”
She looks at me incredulously. “Girl, you can’t be that green!”
“Let’s say I am.”
“You know what it’s like back on the ground?”
I nod. “Yeah, I know.”
She continues anyway. “Twenty billion people and jobs for maybe a tenth of them. Ordinary folks will do anything to get up here where the money is.”
I laugh. “I went to school for sixteen years and practiced for thousands of hours.”
“Well, that guy probably cut somebody’s throat to get a slot. Then he had psych patterns imposed and went to work. He takes whatever psychoactive drugs they give him. He’s so zoned out that he doesn’t mind working sixteen hours a day. He hopes he’ll wake up in five years with enough money to buy his own convenience store franchise.”
The waiter returns, places my water and Kelly’s wine on the table, bows, and departs. I pick up the chilled glass. It is expensive—leaded glass, hand-worked, though probably made here on the Station. I sip. The water is cold and slightly effervescent.
Kelly sips her wine. “They don’t have labor problems on Vienna Station. It’s best to remember that.”
Music begins to sing unobtrusively from hidden speakers. It is the Oboe Quartet in F, K-370, Mozart, of course. I can’t repress a smile.
Kelly takes another sip of wine. She says, “The boss is big around here.”
I sip my water and reflect on what I know about the boss. The original Mozart died at the age of thirty-five in 1791. His body was loaded onto a cart and disappeared into a cold downpour of rain. No one, aside from gravediggers, actually saw him interred along with five other penniless unfortunates. Constanze, his wife, purchased the cheapest possible burial. She was broke so Mozart’s grave was lost.
Lost, but not forever. The oligarchs of Vienna Station initiated their Mozart Project. Thousands of bones were harvested from the appropriate graveyard. The DNA in each bone was crosschecked with that of his father and his sister, Hannerl. First his skull and then various other bones were identified.
Genuflect, a leading genetic design corporation, was enlisted to establish a no-holds-barred laboratory on Vienna. It replicated Mozart’s DNA. A neutral embryo was implanted and Mozart was reborn!
After years of maturation, training and hype, the new Mozart is about to make his debut upon the world media stage. The Festival Orchestra, of which I am the newest member, will perform the first new Mozart composition in more than three hundred years.
“Ah, Drusilla?” A high and rather thin voice inquires from behind me.
I turn and stare. It’s him, Mozart.
He smiles, “Your name is Drusilla? No?”
I nod. “Yes, it is.” He is dressed in white knee britches and a scarlet military tunic with gold frogging. An over-sized, red tri-corner hat decorated with gold braid rests atop his powdered wig.
He leans over the table. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Drusilla.”
“Dru, please call me Dru.”
“Of course, Dru. I am Amadeus.” Mozart removes his hat with his right hand and makes a sweeping bow. He straightens. “May I join you?”
I nod. “Yes, certainly.”
Mozart sits down, leans forward and stares intently at me. Finally, he murmurs, “Are you a shitter?”
My mind is paralyzed. I sit and stare at him.
He speaks a little louder, ““Are you a shitter? You know, among the vast human company of all shitters?”
I stammer, “I suppose I am.”
Mozart giggles like a crazed bird and shouts, “WONDERFUL! It’s fundamental—YES!—fundamental to understanding my music!”
I stare at him again.
Mozart slides his chair around until he is sitting very close to me. He says, “One must start from the very bottom to understand my music!” Putting action to words, he grabs a handful of my right buttock. I shoot to my feet, turn and swing for his face. The skirts and underclothes restrict my movement. He’s too fast for me and ducks away.
I shout, “Don’t touch me!”
Laughing and slapping his thigh, he stands behind his chair. “So sweet! So plump! So like an A major chord!”
Everyone in the Sacher Café stares at us. I feel the eyes of countless predators. I seize my outrage and lower my eyes. I speak as softly and deliberately as I’m able, “I should prefer that you not touch me in the future.”
Mozart purses his lips with pretend surprise. “Really? I should have thought you would not mind my touching you. Besides…”
I look up.
Mozart grins, “I have a present for you. I took the liberty of bending station rules. Security considerations forbid employees from bringing data systems onto the station with them. But I thought you’d like to have your bauble with you.” He holds up my amethyst and silver perkey.
I stare at it as it dangles.
His grin grows wider. “It goes so well with your dress.”
I explode despite the ravenous eyes. “You’re the pervert who spied on me at the entrance portal!”
Mozart simpers, “Oh, that’s too harsh. I observed you and you’re charming…” he jiggles the perkey, “accessory. Nothing more.”
“Keep it.” I turn away from him. Kelly rises from her chair.
Mozart’s voice drips with mock concern, “Surely you aren’t going to leave? We’ve not had our pastry!”
I turn back to him. “I am going to leave. I don’t wish to have anything further to do with you. If you harass me again—I don’t care who you are—I’ll…”
Mozart shrugs and smiles, “You’ll what?”
I turn and leave. Kelly, pale and shocked, follows me. The pitiless eyes follow us as we move between the crowded tables. Mozart plays with the perkey, tossing it into the air and from one hand to the other.
Three people, two men and a woman, sit at one end of a large, lushly furnished room. They rest their elbows on a polished mahogany table and stare intently at computer displays. One man is trim and dressed in subdued clothing. The woman is slight. She is expensively, subtly dressed and appears to be in her early middle years. Something about her posture indicates that she is much, much older, however. The last man is enormously obese. He is dressed in 18th Century fashion. Yards and yards of lavender satin and purple ribbons make him difficult to look at. The trim man leans forward.
“Well, that could have gone better.”
The woman smiles sardonically. “Yes, Alex, the nasty little beast performed beyond our expectations.”
The fat man shakes his head. “Do not underestimate him, Lola. His public persona makes it easy to forget how intelligent he is. That is his intention, I’m sure.”
Lola snorts, “His vices are sincere. You give him too much credit, Frederic.”
“Not at all, Lola. I’m sure he has an agenda of his own.”
“His agenda for today is that girl.”
Frederick sighs, “You are mistaken. She is a game piece.”
Alex stretches silently. “Well, she was supposed to be our game piece. I doubt she’ll be disposed to help us after that little drama.”
Frederic shakes his head. “Don’t be so sure.”
Lola nods. “We’ll make it worth her while. She doesn’t need to know much, if anything, to help us.”
Alex looks first at Lola and then at Frederic, “Shall I speak with her a
fter the concert?”
The others nod their agreement.
Darkness surrounds me, thick as fur and close. I’m about to play in the biggest concert in the history of the world, but I’m alone.
Kelly’s whisper wavers down from somewhere above and to my left. “You okay?”
I smile in spite of myself. “Are you?”
“They told us it would be dark, but this is crazy! How much longer do you think it will be?”
“Not long.” I take three deep breaths. It’s not just Kelly and me. The whole orchestra is nervous about this concert. We’ll start with the new piano concerto, the one our Mozart composed and will perform. He conducted our rehearsal in the strangest possible way. We practiced a few passages, but without the piano. Mozart kept his part secret. When the concertmaster asked him about it, he giggled and told us, “Spontaneity is central to great performances!” Hype? Hubris? Who knows? I know that he assigned me a solo part in the second movement and I’m scared silly.
Our performance venue doesn’t help. I’m used to being surrounded by other players on a stage. Here there is isolation, no stage. Orchestra members sit on individual platforms at widely separated heights and intervals. Electro-magnetic fields support the platforms and move them during the performance, changing sonic intensity.
Like dawn blooming over mountains, light rises in the concert hall. My platform rises. The hall is a huge, globe. The audience is seated above, below, all around the globe. Powerful people become dimly visible. They stir restlessly. Their pearls, diamonds, gold, silk, lace and satin shimmer with their movements like distant stars and galaxies.
The oboist stands on his platform above and to my left. He gives the orchestra an A. We tune. The comfortable, customary dissonant notes of others tuning reassure me. Tuning sounds subside. The audience is still, expectant.
Mozart enters the hall like a comet falling. His transparent platform is engulfed in a ball of golden light as it drops from the ceiling. He wears a royal blue brocaded jacket with streaming tails. His silver wig glows like angels’ hair.
A silver piano on its own platform rises to meet him at the exact center of the hall. When the platforms meet, Mozart steps across and seats himself at the piano. He will conduct in the 18th Century style, from the keyboard. He raises his right hand. The fingers are long, delicate and give no hint of the strength they command. He gives the slightest lift of an upbeat and the concerto begins—violins, violas, and then oboes all play. The music comes to me. I apply pressure to my bow.
I love music. The hours I’ve spent alone with my cello are the best of my life. I love rehearsing, matching my skill with others, blending, creating something much more beautiful than I could achieve alone. Yet this concerto has been drudgery to rehearse. I can’t cleanse myself of the defilement Mozart’s casual mistreatment of me left. I feel shame.
I’ve seen him only twice since the scene at the Sacher Cafe. He was distant and polite. Still, his presence permeates Vienna Station. Anger and misery have been my twin companions. They are with me now in front of billions of people. Yes, the numberless moons of pearls and countless stars of diamonds gleaming from powdered breasts and slender necks around me are only the inner shell of our audience. This event is being broadcast live to the world.
The music intensifies. I’m playing competently, but woodenly. I focus on finger positions, the tension of bow against string. I cannot reach out to the others. We pause for the cadenza. Mozart builds tower upon tower of notes. His fingers flash brilliantly. I’m dimly aware that I’m hearing the best solo piano passage ever played. His tornado of sound sweeps up the orchestra and we finish the movement with three crashing chords.
I’m numb, not afraid, just numb. This should be the greatest musical moment of my life. I am to play a duet with Mozart before the largest audience ever assembled. The notes are not difficult. They are slow, lyrical, set in my cello’s loveliest range. All depends upon what Mozart plays, how he plays. Can we make music together? I have no hope that we can.
Violins and violas begin, slowly, sonorously. An oboe’s clear note enters and drifts above all. The piano begins, sweetly and simply. My years of training betray me. I look up. I look up to receive my entrance cue and fall into Mozart’s eyes. They are dark, deep, brimming with tears. Those eyes, shining and sad, give me assent, urge me to play. I look down. Training again carries me. I stroke the opening notes and flow on into an extended duo with the piano.
It is beautiful. The piano sings. I answer. I answer and then we weave our singing together. Mozart’s platform drifts close to mine and hovers almost protectively. The rest of the orchestra enters. We sing and dance together near water silver with moonlight. Other players gradually fall away. Only the piano and my cello still turn together in darkness. Our platforms turn in the darkness. A last Grecian curve of melody, a last caress of sound, lingers above us. My bow is extended. The final vibrations rise from the strings. My head is bowed. I am drained, stunned, and yet a storm of emotions churns within me.
The third movement, full of laughter and mischief, romps into being. I pull myself together and begin playing when the opening theme and development are repeated. My mind clears and music fills me. I realize that the rest of the orchestra is caught up too. Only rarely do professionals allow themselves to become wholly involved, wholly consumed by a performance. Mozart creates the final cadenza, an impossible cascade of flickering notes. We enter the coda together and storm through to three strong major chords—tah, tah, tah. Silence explodes around us.
Then the audience explodes. Jaded and wise though they are, their applause is pure and exultant. Mozart, head bowed, fingers still arched over the keys, seems frozen to the piano. Then he stands. Bathed in white light, he bows deeply. His silver wig shines like the noon sun. He motions to the orchestra. The applause redoubles. Then he motions to me.
My legs tremble as I rise, but a roar of praise enfolds me, lifts me. My smile is a reflex. I cannot comprehend billions of human beings.
CEO Frederick, holding a flute of champagne, chuckles as he surveys the board room annex. Large paintings, portraits and landscapes, caress his eyes. His gaze lingers on the Tippolo. Classical statues and holograms dot the room’s periphery. A dozen computer consoles cluster apologetically in a shadowed corner of the room. Director Lola enters.
Frederick turns to her and raises his glass. “To our success!”
Lola plucks up a flute of champagne from a tray on a marble stand and drinks. “Indeed. That was the greatest artistic event of our age.”
Frederick sips. “Yes, and it was extraordinarily profitable for Vienna Station, not to mention us personally.”
Lola smiles sardonically. “Never to mention us, if you please.”
Frederick ignores her. “What can we have Mozart do to follow up on this concert?”
Lola turns and studies a statue. “That will take some thought, perhaps a great deal of thought.”
Frederic stepped lightly to Lola’s side. “What about the cellist?”
Lola continues viewing the statue. “She’s on her way to meet Mozart now.”
“There’s hope that she will assist us?”
Lola shrugs. “We’ll see.”
I walk through a passageway in the deeps of the Station. I’m vaguely aware of destination, but emotions, exalted and bitter, swirl through my mind, muddy any sense of conscious purpose I can summon. Why has he treated me so? I can only wait to hear his explanation.
My hand automatically presses a softly glowing rectangle on the hatch frame to my right. So far, all portals have opened for me, though I know that access to these sublevels is strictly controlled. This hatch hisses open too. Light pours through and I know I have arrived.
Vienna Station has fifteen regeneration areas. Waste products are recycled in these areas by genetically engineered bio-processors—earth plants and animals made into super filters, super metabolizers. Twelve of these areas also serve as public parks. Three are private retreats. I h
ave reached the most private such area of all.
I step through the hatchway into pine-scented, sunlit air. Granite cliffs rise to either side of the entrance. Wildflowers of every hue splash colors across slopes of gravel dotted with stolid boulders. A path winds down among the boulders toward pine trees. I walk down it.
I reach the pines. Their shadows fall in velvet folds upon my shoulders. Their scent, freshness older than our race, quiets my mind. I come to falling water.
A stream rushes from between two jutting boulders and falls free for ten meters into a deep pool. Beside the pool is a flat slab of white granite. On this platform rests a golden harpsichord. Its wood is honey-colored and it is touched here and there with gilding. Mozart sits on the rock beside the harpsichord. He looks up.
He smiles. “You got my note. I hoped you’d come.”
I take a deep breath. “Why?”
“I wanted to tell you how wonderfully you played.”
I shake my head. “No! Not that! Why did you treat me the way you did?”
He looks down. “Will you come and sit with me beside the stream?”
I hesitate.
He looks up and smiles gently. “I promise that I’ll keep my hands to myself.”
I nod and sit beside him.
He looks sideways at me. “Would you like some coffee? There’s a concealed spigot behind that tree. It’s good. Viennese, of course.”
I shake my head. “No coffee. I just want to know what kind of game you are playing with me.”
He looks away. “Certainly. I have much to explain.”
“You do.”
He looks at me. “You’re wondering if I’m truly perverted, arrogant and cruel?”
I say nothing.
“The potty humor? The insults? The abuse?”
I still say nothing.
“Please believe me that I had no choice but to humiliate you.”
Tears of rage and pain brim in my eyes. I don’t want to cry in front of this man. I again blurt out, “Why?”
“It was a test. I needed to see if you are working against me.” He looks down. “You aren’t.”
I am truly puzzled. “Working against you? How? I’m just a cellist.”
Vienna Station Page 2
