The Music of the Spheres

by Allister Thompson

  On the other side of the fence across from him were athletic grounds, with football goalposts and a track. A large, low building, which might have been a school, stood nearby. Beyond that were the lights of other larger buildings, presumably office blocks or the apartments that housed the workers. To his left, he could see shining luminescent in the mist a large dome, possibly a greenhouse and presumably made of the same material as the amazing Bogotá Dome. A faint outline peppered by sparse lights in the distance showed where the dark castle and its mastermind brooded over their dominion. He decided to move a healthy distance away from the main gate before attempting to scale the fence, on which he had noticed a hazardous climb lay ahead. There were also no warning signs except Betreten verboten! placards posted at even intervals.

  Hastings kept to the road for a few minutes but had to jump behind a bush when a large lorry lumbered toward him. It went through the gates, which were now far in the distance. When he felt he had put sufficient distance between himself and the gate, he moved toward the fence, brushing his footprints away as best he could as he walked. He had picked a fortunate spot. The only building close to the fence was what looked like a power station. It had no windows and only one light burning on it. The sound of humming turbines drifted toward him. He put out a tentative hand, touching the fence as lightly as possible, half-expecting to be thrown back by a massive shock, but nothing happened.

  After a quick glance around him, he took the short length of climber’s rope out of his bag and made a noose at the end. He awkwardly threw it upward, catching on one of the top spikes on the first go. After a few agonizing seconds of inept but determined climbing, he was on top, using the bag for cushioning against the spikes. The links in the fence were very small and had afforded his toes very little space for footholds. Rubbing his hands, which were slightly rope-burned, he ran into the shadow of the building. Just in time; a few seconds later, footsteps crunched in the snow across the field. A guard came into view, trudging slowly along the length of the fence. Hastings cursed himself, looking over at the fresh boot prints he had neglected to wipe away. He drew his sonic gun. However, when the man, who was heavy-set and wearing a military-style uniform, lumbered by, he seemed to be half asleep and did not even pause as he walked over the tracks. Hastings waited several minutes after he passed then ran for the nearest clump of trees, thinking it would have been in the best spy-film style to have killed the guard and donned his uniform as a disguise. But he still wanted to get out of this mess with as little blood on his hands as possible.

  He made his way gradually toward the castle, moving from landmark to landmark, running across roads and ducking behind fences. He wondered whether the castle was the best destination; perhaps better intel could be found in some kind of office building. But he had no idea what each building was for, and his German was not good enough to translate the longer text on signs he came across.

  The area looked a lot like a Virginian suburb, with orderly, prefabricated houses jostling one another along the wide, treeless avenues. He saw few people or vehicles, all in the distance. There was an air of unnerving tranquility about the place, almost like the hushed, anticipatory stillness of Christmas Eve.

  At last, he passed over a final road and stepped onto another field. This one stretched for about half a mile to the foot of the oddly placed hill on which a prudent sixteenth-century nobleman had built his fortress. Standing under a scrubby tree and sticking close to the trunk for cover, Hastings looked up at the castle. It certainly was impressive, with towers and gables sticking out all over, capped by the typical Bavarian spires. The walls loomed dark in the mist, dotted by the odd light in the windows. He wondered how many people lived in the castle with Schmidt. His heart sank when he saw that there was only one entrance, reached via a road that ran up a concrete ramp. One guard at least could be plainly seen slouching under the massive archway of the gate. There would be no way of gaining entrance without killing the guard, who would see him coming anyway and would have plenty of time to raise the alarm. All he could do was walk around the base of the hill, looking for a window low enough to reach, an unlikely chance; the castle had obviously not been built to allow an easy, undetected entry.

  The cold was beginning to numb his feet and hands, and Hastings was starting to feel quite miserable. It had been a madcap scheme right from the start. Perhaps it had all been inspired more by boredom than revenge. But was too late for self-recrimination. With a quick glance up at the few stars visible through ragged tears in the cloud, and a made-up prayer to any higher power that might be listening, he began to circumnavigate the castle grounds.

  After walking only a few hundred feet, Hastings had occasion to give thanks to the gods. On the west side, well away from the gate, was a peculiar series of low, very small windows, only about fifteen feet above the slope of the hill. Why they had been placed there is something an amateur historian might wish to research, but Hastings had no time for speculation. He ran up the steep floodlit slope until he was directly under one of the windows, which was unlit. The wall was smooth, but the rough rock around the window sill looked uneven. He made a small loop at the end of the rope and tossed it up without much hope. It fell back uselessly. On the fifth attempt, it finally caught on something. He wrapped his shaking hands around the rope and began to pull himself up. The rope held.

  Dragging himself with much effort onto the wide sill, Hastings was surprised to see that the outer pane of the window was broken. His rope had caught on the jagged, thick glass and ragged iron that remained in the frame. During his climb, the glass had cut into the rope so that it was now held together by a few strands.

  He sighed in relief, managed to find the catch to open the window, which only squeaked a little on opening, and pulled the remaining length of rope up behind him, then gingerly lifted himself over edge, dropping down into the pitch-black room. Striking a match, he saw in the flickering light that the room was empty, except for a portrait on the wall of an aristocrat in early nineteenth-century garb, glaring down at him over a huge walrus mustache. An thick layer of dust covered the floor, the sill, and the picture frame, and he stifled a sneeze. Letting the match go out, he made his way to the massive wooden door and tried the handle, perhaps unused for decades. His luck held again; the door was not locked from the outside, and the handle turned smoothly, with only a small protest.

  He peered out into a hallway, shielding his eyes from the sudden glare of electric light. There was no one around in what he took to be a servant’s passageway. A deathly silence reigned over the building. The entire castle was quite likely inhabited by fewer than twenty people: the unmarried Schmidt, her servants, and bodyguards.

  Hastings made his way to a wide spiral staircase at the end of the hall. There was no dust in the hall or on the staircase, which was a sure sign that this wing of the castle must be used for something. He assumed that the inhabited quarters would be on the upper floors, where he had seen most of the lights. Coming to a landing, he found himself at the entrance to a large, well-lit hall, the former banquet hall of the castle. Ducking behind a headless statue, he saw that a stout female servant was moving around the room, straightening the portraits and switching on the lamps that ringed the walls. He slipped noiselessly around the statue and continued his climb, hugging the right-hand wall in case he should hear someone descending; he gripped his gun tightly.

  On the next landing, hallways stretched out on either side. This area of the castle was well decorated and obviously used. The deep red carpet would muffle his footsteps. A door at the end of the left-hand hall was slightly ajar, and bright electric light poured from it. He avoided it and started checking the other doors, keeping an eye on the lighted doorway. All of the doors were locked, but the one nearest to the danger opened. Praying that the room would be unoccupied, he slipped in and, hearing no sounds, fumbled for a match.

  He could not believe his luck. The room was clearly an office. A large desk filled half of it, with papers orga
nized in stacks. A modern portrait of a middle-aged woman with steely eyes and gray-blonde hair was on the wall. The rest of the décor appeared to be ancient weaponry or instruments of torture. A well-oiled iron maiden, which he recognized from a book he had read as a child, took up one corner, and maces and battleaxes hung from the walls. At least, he thought, there would be no shortage of primitive weapons if he needed them. Family heirlooms, perhaps, or a bizarre collecting hobby. He shivered in the presence of the evidence of such sadism and cruelty. This could be Helga Schmidt’s own personal domain, or someone close to her in her business. A door joined the room to the lit one beside it. He pressed his ear to the wood but heard nothing.

  He walked over to the desk, switched on a small lamp, and began scanning the documents on the desk. They seemed to be internal company memos and held nothing of interest. If he were to find any evidence of assassin-hiring or anything else he could use against Schmidt, he doubted it would it would be left on display, where the servants might find it and potentially use it for blackmail. He had to admit he had no idea what he was doing.

  Nonetheless, he turned his attention to the two filing cabinets under the portrait, which seemed to be glowering in disapproval as he started opening the unlocked drawers. He was just pulling out the first folder when he heard a soft click from behind him. Too late, he spun around, pointing his weapon.

  “Drop it!” There were five men in uniform crowding in, pointing weapons at him, and the door to the adjoining room was open.

  He let the gun drop, and Helga Schmidt entered.

  TWent y-seven

  She looked exactly like the woman in the portrait, but several years older. The now completely gray hair was scraped back into a severe bun, and she was dressed in a prim pink dressing gown not unlike one Hastings’ mother had owned. She strode up to Hastings and stared into his eyes. She nodded once with a look that told him what was in store for him.

  He knew the game was up; he had been insane to try this. All he could do now was die with some dignity. Strangely, under the fear and despair, he detected something that could only be described as relief.

  Schmidt’s unblinking gray eyes continued to hold his. She would have been very beautiful once, with sharp but symmetrical features and a lean, robust body, and was still severely handsome. A genuine Teutonic warrior queen.

  “Well,” she said in an even, low voice, “what have we here? This is Mr. Simon Hastings, I believe.” She had a melodious accent and the voice of a much younger woman. “I would not have expected you to walk right into my hands.” She took a seat behind the desk and did not invite him to join her. The men continued to train their guns unwaveringly on him, expressionless.

  “I think I know why you are here. I have been following your activities for a very long time.”

  “Why?” he croaked.

  “Why? Why have I been following your life with such interest? Or do you mean, why do I so fervently wish to end it? I suppose I am willing to answer, although I owe schwein like you no explanation of my motives, no waste of precious breath. You are lower than dirt.” He eyes flashed passionately as her façade cracked.

  “My father, as you may have heard, was once conductor of the Berlin Philharmonic, amongst his many other achievements.” He did not know that but said nothing, gazing steadily in front of him, trying to look as brave as possible while his knees threatened to knock together.

  “From birth, he imparted in several values to me. Love of great, heroic music was one, particularly the music of our Fatherland. Discipline and ambition were others. And God and country were a third. A desire to see an orderly world spring up from the ashes of history.”

  She got up and perched on the desk. “Yes, my father was a great man, and he taught me these virtues. Though I was a woman, I was determined to become whatever I wanted to shape the modern world. I have to some extent attained this goal, you will agree. They call me ‘The Iron Lady.’” She smiled. “My first wish was to play the cello, an instrument of surpassing beauty, as even an animal of your sort must agree.”

  “A lovely sound,” he muttered.

  “Yes. However, I found myself without a talent for music. It is the greatest tragedy of my life. Not possessing the desire to take up any other instrument, I applied myself to the world of business. Myself and others like me, we rebuilt the world’s economy after the Great War. We built the great companies that employ the people, we made the laws stronger to regain order and discipline. We worked with the government to ensure that our industries were stocked with all the labor we needed to maintain strong economies. We allowed culture to thrive—”

  “Your culture!” Despite his fear, Hastings was becoming very angry at the old reactionary’s rhetoric. The knowledge that his father, an intelligent man but one of low birth, had been forced to work in a factory by a world that didn’t care what he actually had to offer, had always filled him with rage. Now he was faced with one of the people who had fashioned such an unfair world.

  Schmidt smiled thinly and dismissed three of the guards. The other two stood stiffly at attention in the corner. “Yes, my culture. You see me as regressive, do you not? And yet when the governments decided it was time to relax social controls and allow the average citizen a little more freedom, did I protest? No, though I knew in my heart it might be disastrous in the end. I expanded my own stake into the pharmaceutical industry that has given people, even wastrels like you, such pleasure. We have also lengthened lifespans and fought disease. I gave in to the times. I had cause to regret it.

  “What have I received in return? A generation of youth that is beyond control and reason, that scorns the values we established, that spits on industry, that lives for laziness, rolling in its own filth, listening to jungle music devoid of beauty, complexity, or form! That revels in consorting with the inferior races of foreign lands. No matter how much freedom you are given, you always want more and different, more rights for different groups of freaks, until you tear up the seeds I have sown! You are swine!” Her eyes were now blazing, though her tone remained even.

  She suddenly slapped him across the face, hard, and he could feel blood dripping from his mouth. He was left speechless.

  She sat down and regained her composure. “The world should have been as orderly as a Bach concerto, as well constructed as Beethoven’s symphonies. Instead, the chaos of your music is, it would seem, the most powerful symbol of a future I fear will soon come to pass. Well, I decided not to let you have your endless party without feeling some of the grief and pain I have felt. I took the time to find out who the leading makers of this noise were. I knew I could do what was necessary; and it would be even enjoyable. Removing the leaders may not stop a movement, but it can wound it deeply and slow it. Silence some of those poisonous sounds. And I am not finished. Ramón Rosas’ incompetence as an assassin is what gave you the clues, not your own intelligence. This mistake will not be repeated. I have enjoyed it too much. Soon, after I am finished perfecting my methods through your friends, I will move on to other activists. No one will suspect KässelPharma could be in any way involved.”

  “The Cartels know.”

  She shrugged. “What can they do? It is not as though they even sympathize with your plight. They and we are cut from the same cloth. And while the power of those brown-skinned savages may equal mine, their intellect does not. These deaths cannot be traced to me. What will they do? I am well protected here. And besides, the one aspect of my plan that has not worked well thus far is that, since these ‘crimes’ have not been investigated at all, the Cartels have not yet been suspected, as I had hoped. A small wrinkle. No pressure has been put on them as yet. They have no reason to be hostile. I will have to make that connection more obvious in the future.”

  Hastings wanted to make some great speech in rebuttal, for sake of Guy, Ed, and all their friends, before he died. He wanted to tell Schmidt that she would never win, that freedom of culture and of choice and celebration of diversity were values that could n
ever be stamped out. That every person deserved to realize their own potential, not only the people ruthless, calculating, and fortunate by birth and position. That governments belong to the people by right, not to corporations, and should exist to benefit and take care of them, not to collude with the rich to rule heavy-handedly. But his tongue was frozen by the memories of how the police on two continents had refused to listen to him and laughed in his face. He was tired and had been for a long time, and now his own death was imminent. There was no point in railing against it. He could only hope that the fight would go on.

  Schmidt had been lost in a reverie of her own for a few moments, but she broke out of it with a snarl. “Well, I have an experience in store for you. As I killed your friends by means of the very drugs that fueled their deviance, I will do to you also. I pondered what to do with you when you were spotted climbing the gates. I did not know who you were then, but I am very grateful that you have delivered yourself into my hands. What did you expect, that I would leave evidence of my transactions lying around like a schoolgirl’s diary? No. You are more intelligent than that. You were here to kill me with that little weapon of yours, were you not? You will pay a heavy price, Herr Hastings.

  “Führt ihn ins Nebenzimmer,” she said to the guards.

  The game was up. Now was the time to show some spine. He had always wondered what lay beyond this life and had written plenty of sad songs about it. Whatever she had planned for him, it could not be worse than living another minute with the knowledge of his failure.

  TWent y-eight

  The punishment that Schmidt had devised was indeed the product of a diseased mind. After a preliminary beating that seemed more for the benefit of the guards and likely left his nose and some ribs broken, Hastings was taken to the room next door, which seemed to be her own quarters. It was sparsely furnished, the only decoration being an old, yellowed photograph of a sickly-looking bearded man in early twentieth-century evening dress. Presumably the esteemed father. On another wall, a chain had been embedded in the wall. Hastings was shackled to it by the guards and placed in a wooden chair.