He hurried to the library antechamber and waited. Hands clenched in anticipation, the Maestro fought the urge to pace. A few moments later, Thiros brought in a small, wriggling form clasped in spidery chain and deposited it on the floor. The Maestro glanced at the door; his servant bowed and left.
Amidst clanking and rattling of delicate links, the instrument thrashed into a sitting position, and then upright. Like most of the instrument species, it did not quite reach to his knees. The Maestro regarded it with clinical interest. Glittering eyes stared back at him with baleful hate; its lips pulled back in a feral snarl. Unkempt shaggy hair tumbled down its back. Unlike his own graceful arms and legs, the creature’s pink limbs were meaty and clumsy. He glanced down its body. Only the lumps of flesh on its chest—and the lack thereof between its legs—told him the creature was female, which was good. “The higher octaves do tend to come from the females,” he murmured to no one.
“Demon!” it screamed at him in a corrupted form of his own tongue. The Maestro winced; its voice was like the squeal of a small animal. Amazing that a beautiful sound could be brought from its throat with just a little work…
He stood suddenly, towering over the instrument. It took a step backwards, fear evident in its eyes. He glanced it over and said, “Sing for me.”
“I’ll not sing for you!” it shrieked. “I’ll die first.”
The Maestro sighed. He sat back down. “No, you won’t. Do you have a name?”
The instrument glared at him.
“No? Well, it matters not. I shall give you one. I honor all of my instruments with beautiful names that are known only to them and me. You will be my second alto. I believe I shall name you Psyrealle. Is that not beautiful?” The instrument would not look at him. The Maestro turned and stared into the distance. “You should be flattered. A name is no small thing. It is all that sets one aside from the universe. I once had my own name. But I surrendered it to become the Maestro. Sometimes we must sacrifice ourselves for the greater good.”
The instrument spat on him. The Maestro glanced at his soiled robe in distaste. It snarled, “Release me! I care not for your greater good!”
“No? An interesting concept, but irrelevant when compared to the plan of the Great Song.”
The instrument sagged as if defeated. “Release me, I beg you,” it implored, its voice suddenly trembling.
The Maestro frowned. The instrument began to moan and the Maestro felt a twinge of irritation. “Come, come—we’ll have none of that. It is time; let me hear your voice.”
It staggered away from him to the extent allowed by its bindings. Its eyes were wide as he approached and he heard a whimper of fear. “There is no need to be afraid,” he whispered as he knelt, “for I shall remove your doubt—make you strong, beautiful. You will never need for anything again.”
With a quick motion, he scooped it into his grip. It struggled against him, hammering his hand and arm with its own limbs—even with the lengths of chain. It felt like a patter of leaves falling against his arm and the Maestro smiled.
The instrument looked up at him and screamed, “No! Please!”
“I must,” he said. His other hand moved to the instrument’s tiny foot. He grasped it between his strong tapered fingers and twisted until he heard a faint snap.
The instrument threw back its head and keened in agony. The Maestro closed his eyes and listed to the pitch. The instrument’s note ended too quickly, degenerating into a series of groans. He shook his head; it had not been long enough. He took hold of the other foot and broke it. The instrument screamed again—and again the Maestro listened. This time he nodded. “Machinist!”
The Head Machinist entered the chamber and bowed. The Maestro dropped the instrument to the floor, eliciting another cry of pain. He looked at the Machinist. “It will be adequate—just barely. Prepare the instrument. Second alto.”
“No!” it wailed in desperate fear. Just as the Head Machinist exited the chamber, the instrument’s eyes locked onto the Maestro’s; all the Maestro saw there was dread and terror and he felt a tremor of remorse. Then both machinist and instrument were gone; the only remaining trace was the lingering sound of its screams hanging in the air. Even that faded, replaced by the sounds of the Maestro’s chorus echoing through his court.
The Maestro sat back in his chair. The instrument’s last look of horror troubled him; he would not have expected such a depth of emotion from such a limited creature. A dozen questions pushed to the forefront of his mind and for a long moment, the Maestro stared at the wall, lost in deep thought.
***
The Maestro waved the silverwood baton, reveling in the rising pitch and fall of his music. His hands dipped and danced, and his golden aura pulsed with each note. A light sheen of sweat covered his forehead but the Maestro ignored it; his eyes darted furiously, alternating between the notes on his script and the instruments lining the tiers of his orchestra. The tip of his polished baton flashed in the soft light of the hall. As the slender rod aligned with each instrument, a single note rang out. The dozens of notes blended together, filling the concert hall with a sophisticated melody.
The Maestro flipped a page, sparing a glance at the Choral Master and the High Chanters of each octave. The High Soprano gave him the slightest of nods; the others sat stone-faced. The pale teal eyes of the Choral Master returned his glance with emotionless calm. The Maestro felt a flicker of concern but his motions never faltered.
The Maestro’s movements became more frantic and the music swelled to a crescendo. And then, with a rapier-like thrust, the Maestro ended the piece.
He turned towards the Choral Master, who rose from his seat. The Maestro bowed. Behind the Choral Master, the other members of the Grand Chorus lined the galleries of the hall. Their gazes gravitated to the Choral Master. The Maestro took a deep breath and awaited his fate.
The Choral Master looked down on the Maestro and folded his arms. In his soft, perfectly pitched voice, he intoned, “Congratulations, Maestro, on a perfect symphony. It was well worth waiting for.”
The galleries broke into courteous, measured applause and the Maestro bowed in the four cardinal directions. He kept his face neutral but his heart sang with satisfaction.
Members of the Grand Chorus strode past the orchestra pit, murmuring polite congratulations. As his admirers wandered away, the Maestro let his gaze wander up to the instruments lining the tiers. The positions normally occupied by musicians held only the instruments in their elaborate leather holsters. He stared at them, watching their now-peaceful chests rise and fall in rhythmic, measured relaxation. His eyes sought out the new second alto and he gazed at it for some time.
“It would seem congratulations are in order,” said a wry voice at his shoulder. He turned to see the High Soprano there. “This concert will hold a special place in our history. The Fifty-Eighth Movement will always be remembered, even after we are long departed to join the Great Song.”
He glanced back at the instruments. “I was worried my Psyrealle would draw attention.”
Her gaze followed his upwards. “The construction is recent. Its smithing is not resolved.”
“No,” he agreed. He considered the second alto. Like the others, its unnecessary limbs had been removed, leaving just the torso and the head. Its eyes were sewn shut with golden threads, its ears sealed with plugs of ivory and silver. Silver and bronze knobs lined the length of its body. A wedge of carved silverwood and gold flared from the instrument’s throat. Unlike the older instruments, the recent surgeries were still bloody and scabbed, not smooth and healed. On impulse, he flicked his wrist and pointed his baton at the wedge. The instrument’s mouth opened, emitting a perfect note. He held the note for a moment. As his golden aura began to shine, he lowered the baton. “But the pitch is perfect.”
“Yes,” said the High Soprano. Her eyes narrowed as she gazed up at the second alto. “What is that moisture on its face?”
The Maestro glanced. “It is of no matte
r. They do that sometimes; the leakage comes from their eyes. As I have said before, they are such unseemly creatures.”
“Unseemly or not, I understand those of the Philosopher Path have taken up the discussion of these sentient creatures, these—what are they called?”
“Does it matter?”
She shrugged. “The Philosophers have taken up the question. They ask if these creatures are sentient and rational, is it ethical to use them for instruments?”
The haunted eyes of the instrument flashed through the Maestro’s mind and a sudden spear of guilt prodded his mind. He shook his head. “An interesting debate, Mistress. Have they reached any conclusions?”
“No. The discussion will no doubt last for many Movements.”
He nodded slowly and stepped out of the orchestra pit. “Perhaps that it is for the best.”
“Agreed, it is best left to the debaters,” the High Soprano responded as she followed him out. “Concentrate on your music, Maestro. That is what is important.”
“Yes,” he muttered. As he left the concert hall, the Maestro glanced back at the second alto. The instrument continued to leak. He sighed. “That is what is important.”
THE TRUTH ABOUT MOTHER
Van Aaron Hughes
Diving behind my desk to avoid a shower of bullets, I have one thought in my mind: trash collector. There have to be job openings for trash collectors. Of course, they don’t make enough to keep Trina happy, but neither do I, and they must get fewer chances to have their heads blown off.
I consider shoving the desk into my assailant, but quickly discard the notion. Thick, solid teak, it’s not about to budge. It’s the only reason I’m still alive, so I’m holding no grudges. My Glock is in the matching credenza ten feet away. Might as well be at the bottom of the Marianas Trench.
I try to listen for the guy’s footsteps to gauge which side of the desk he will pop out from behind, but the roar of automatic fire makes it impossible. Guessing left, the shortest distance for him, I slide over on the balls of my feet, ready to leap at him when he emerges.
But the moron empties his entire magazine blasting my desktop into a dot-to-dot—a pony? When he pauses to reload, Penny bursts through the door and drops him with three shots to the gut.
Trina says I should can Penny and run everything solo. I do wonder some days if she’s earning her salary, but I think Trina undervalues those occasions every few months when Penny saves my life.
“All right, Buster?” she shouts.
I climb out from behind the desk and nod dumbly.
After the smoke clears and the ringing in my ears subsides to merely deafening, I kneel down to examine the body. Penny helps me flip him onto his back, then looks away.
I study the guy’s pale face, mirrored sunglasses, navy suit, orange paisley tie, and three jagged wounds in his torso. I suck a gasp through my teeth.
“That bad?” Penny asks.
“Yes. That tie is hideous.”
Penny doesn’t laugh.
“You said he was FBI?” I ask. She told me that over the ’com just before he walked into my office and opened fire.
“Had a badge.”
“Say what he wanted?”
“To talk about the Banning case.”
“Well, if this really did have something to do with the Banning case, how dumb would he have to be to say so?”
“I don’t know,” she answers. “Maybe dumb enough to have surprise and a submachine gun on his side and still not be able to put down an unarmed man?”
I slip the FBI photo ID from the dead man’s coat pocket to compare faces. They look the same, until I pull off the guy’s sunglasses to reveal eyes unnaturally white, no pupils, no irises, no color at all. Past her momentary squeamishness, Penny pokes at an eye with the eraser end of a pencil.
She holds it out for me to see. The eraser is covered in tiny squirming maggots.
I have just one thought: bellman. Don’t hotels always need another bellman?
***
Benita Banning hired me to find out if her husband, Representative Glenn Banning, was fooling around. Seems the Congressman was acting strangely, in minor ways only a wife would notice. God love infidelity; without it, I’d be unemployed and trapping wild ermine for Trina’s coats. Still, I tried to convince Mrs. Banning that she didn’t need my services, because (a) her husband was a Congressman, and (b) if that left any doubt, she could get a reporter to catch him in the act for free. She said she wanted to know but did not want it made public. Even if Banning was cheating, she cared about him too much to ruin him. Imagine being married to someone who puts your welfare above her own like that. What an awful bore.
A lot of research on the Congressman’s schedule and three days of trailing him around Washington turned up nothing. But then, a representative would be less cavalier in public with a mistress than an ordinary joe, keeping any rendezvous strictly private. Or he might do it on the deck of a yacht in plain view of the press, but apparently Banning wasn’t that type.
The fourth day on the job, I tracked Banning to a meeting at the Capitol and gave up for the day. The Secret Service frowns on people hanging around the Capitol Building doing surveillance, which meant my job would get much tougher if I didn’t learn something before Congress reconvened next week. I swung by the office, learned that Penny’s surreptitious electronic searches also hadn’t turned up anything, then headed home to the Georgetown graystone I can’t afford.
I arrived to find Trina chatting up who else but Representative Banning, drinking in his strong features and baby blue eyes. She barely had time to introduce us before Banning got to the point.
“Mr. Clover, are you the man my wife hired?”
“I’m not a gigolo, although I often regret it.”
“Cut the wisecracks, asshole. I mean hired as a detective.”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that.”
“Well, let’s assume you are the one she hired. I have a suggestion to make.”
“So why not come to my office? Afraid the press will get wind of you consorting with a private dick?”
“Only Senators get watched that closely. Representatives can talk to any dicks we like.”
I couldn’t help smirking. “So you don’t think any reporters would be interested in your reasons for visiting me?”
“I didn’t quite say that. But I checked, and you have a reputation for discretion.”
“And what is it you need me to be discreet about?”
“I’m prepared to pay you fifty thousand dollars. All you have to do is stop working this case, and tell my wife I’m having an affair.”
“Sometimes I’m slow on the uptake,” I answered. “Don’t you mean tell her you’re not having an affair?”
“No, it’s better she thinks I am.” Leave it to a politician to figure out things to do so immoral that he hopes people just think he’s screwing around.
“So now you produce a fat envelope of cash, right?” I asked.
“Cash? What are you, an amateur? Name a bank, and the money will be wired to your account tomorrow.”
Now, I know the names of the banks where I have accounts. But damned if I could spit one out. I was too curious now to find out what kind of debauchery Banning was really up to. I blame that voyeur inside me, the reason I became a detective. I would have been much happier as an accountant.
“No deal, huh?” Banning finally said. “Have it your way, hotshot.” He turned and bowed to Trina. “Thank you for your gracious hospitality, Mrs. Clover. I can show myself out.” She ate it up. It was easy to see how he became a politician. And how someone might suspect him of adultery.
Trina turned to me glaring, and I could see a long shouting match ahead of us. She wouldn’t have much to quarrel with if I could claim to be too honest and dedicated ever to take a pay-off, but Trina knows better. I could have taken that money if it suited me, but I’d rather dig until I turn up something painful enough to be worth shoving up that Congressman’
s rear.
I knew full well if I had taken the fifty grand, instead of a red-faced argument, Trina and I would be having our best sex since our honeymoon. Banning was right. I am an asshole.
***
The next morning, a man with FBI identification walks in, says he wants to discuss the Banning case, then perforates my entire office.
With a little meatwork, I find the guy’s body is completely normal save for the three holes, but his head is entirely sans brain, filled instead with shiny, wriggling maggots. We put the head in a sealed bag, but it beats me what to do with this evidence. Sure as hell can’t present it to the FBI.
The mouth is intact, but I can’t fathom how it could have spoken. And asked about the Banning case. My surveillance of Congressman Banning is about to reach a new level of intensity.
I tell Penny to check on the dead FBI agent’s recent past. I’ll be tailing Banning, which I would have done today anyway, but not so fully equipped. I carry my pistol and stash the agent’s MP-5 in the car. I also have an expensive and illegal gadget designed to intercept scrambled cell phone calls.
This gadget does me no good at all. If Banning has a cell phone, he never pulls it out. I trail him as he wanders around the district, mostly on foot even through the overcast, drizzly afternoon. This doesn’t bother me; I grew up in Seattle. (Yes, where I developed my sunny disposition, ha ha, screw you.)
Seemingly by accident, Banning bumps into and chats with a host of different people as he walks. I spot three other Congressmen, one Senator, two prominent lobbyists, and a whole lot of people wearing mirrored sunglasses on a rainy day.
Mid-afternoon he shakes hands with one of these mirrorshades and slips him an envelope. Detective work is usually 95% watching and 5% doing, but the ratio needs to change for this case, since somebody’s trying to kill me.
I abandon Banning and start following the guy with the envelope. He goes straight to an underground parking garage. As he starts down the stairs, I speed up and close the gap on him. The bottom of the stairwell is dark and shielded from view, so I jump him with a sharp pistol-whip to the back of the head. He goes down immediately, but then pops back up to his feet just as quickly. Apparently a clout to the head doesn’t take as much out of you when you have no brain.
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