Vienna Station (2 page)

“There are horses up here?’

She nods, “Dozens at least. For authenticity. For atmosphere.”

“Atmosphere?”

“Just watch your step.”

We reach the Café Sacher. A host in shocking pink satin livery looks down his very pointed nose at us and asks, “You have reservations?”

Kelly nods. “We’re to meet Mozart.”

His face dissolves into a wide smile. His smile shows more teeth than should be humanly possible. “Ah! Guests of the Maestro! Come this way! Please!” He bows repeatedly as he whisks us to a central table. He seats us, bows again and promises, “Service will be immediate!”

It’s not, though waiters in blue bustle around carrying trays of coffee cups, wine glasses and elaborate pastry confections. Hundreds of faux candles in complex chandeliers bathe everything in golden light.

Kelly leans close. “I hope you like schlag obers.”

“Schlag what?”

“Schlag obers, whipped cream.”

“Oh. Sure.”

“So what do you think so far?”

I pull my eyes away from an enormously fat woman seated at a nearby table. The woman is dressed in enough lace to outfit a platoon of brides. “Think of what?”

“Vienna Station.”

I shake my head, “It’s different than Torrance.”

Kelly looks puzzled, “What’s a Torrance?”

“It’s where I’m from. Never mind that. How long have you been here?”

Kelly looks past my shoulder. She’s noticed the fat woman too. “I came up from Earth a year ago. I do get homesick for New York, and I’ll head back down sometime, but I can’t quit. The money’s too good. You get union scale, free room, basic food, and costumes for performances. You can’t beat it for building a nest egg. Besides, we’re about to do something new.”

I incline my head slightly toward the fat lady. “What about all the weirdoes?”

Two extremely obese men prance between the tables, giggling and teasing. They are almost absolutely round, though they step gracefully through the crowd. They approach the fat lady and bow. Then they giggle and simper at her.

Kelly looks back at me. “You get used to them. Besides, the residents ‘of substance’ rarely pay attention to the employees. We’re like furniture. In that sense, this place really is like the 18th Century.”

I nod toward the obese trio. “The 18th Century didn’t have them!”

Kelly nods. “True. You must have noticed that the gravity here is only 40% of Earth’s. Health consequences for many kinds of over-indulgence are less here. Some residents take advantage of that.”

I can’t help looking at the fat people again. The tallest man is wearing an immense military tunic, navy blue with yards and yards of gold frogging. He leans down to kiss the woman’s fingers. “No kidding.”

Kelly continues, “They view normals as ‘unfulfilled’ and primitive.”

I decide to change the subject. “Have you been to any of the other L-5 space colonies?’

“Just Bali. I took a few days off and spent them by the circular ocean. It’s spectacular but just a little freaky to look up and see all that water hanging over your head. It’s ten kilometers away, but still… “What about the others?”

She shakes her head. “Nah. The Beckers just let other Beckers visit Glenn Beck, except for women who are good at old-fashioned housework and will accept muting. Osama bin Laden is not a great place for women, either. Besides, who looks good in a burka? Some of the percussion players did go over for the punishments.”

“Punishments?”

“Yeah, you know, the public ones, stonings and hand-choppings, stuff like that. Percussion players think that sort of stuff is cool.”

I shiver. “What about Mountain High?”

“Climbing and skiing are not for moi. I am going to get over to Rio for Mardi Gras this year, though.” She smiles at me. “You want to come?”

“Ah…” Before I can reply, the waiter finally arrives.

The waiter is tall, lean and not unattractive. He is dressed in 18th Century livery, gold braid and scarlet tails. He moves a bit stiffly and has strangely dead eyes.

He asks, “May I serve you something?”

I nod. “Just ice-water, please.”

“As you wish.” He turns to Kelly. “And you, mademoiselle?”

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 after 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.