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trans_92011-07-29 01:59 am
zouichi.livejournal.com) wrote in trans_92011-07-29 01:59 am
Entry tags:
Back in black
The young woman who had looked after Zouichi and his siblings had taken it upon herself to instruct them in quite a few areas that were not strictly part of their curriculum -- areas regarded by many of the personnel at Toha Heavy Industries as impractical, even pointless.
Better that they should be taught one more way to kill an opponent without a sound, or log additional hours in test simulations.
But because it would have been disruptive and costly to switch instructors halfway, and because she was the daughter of a scientist of some importance to the project, she was allowed to continue with her eccentricities.
Some of the most peculiar of the lessons she insisted upon centered around an old Earth instrument, one that by the 31st century had become more of an amusing anachronism than anything else. Something you saw in old movies or read about in books, not something you kept in your house or paid to go listen to. It wasn't something he had time to practice, once he was released, but there seemed to be nothing but time here.
So Zouichi had found himself visiting the Sensoriums more often, not to destroy imaginary enemies in ever more creative ways, but to play -- mostly when he could reasonably be sure everyone else would be asleep, and therefore unlikely to come look for him. Today, however, he wasn't in the mood to bother waiting for people to turn in. There was one other oddity -- a bandage wrapped neatly about his forehead, half-covered by his bangs.
He shed his customary gloves, placing them on the surface of the polished black wood. Then he closed his eyes, placed his hands over the cool ivory keys, and began to play. Satie's Gymnopédie No. 1, a slow-paced, melancholy piece. He didn't know why, but playing it always made him remember the ocean. Or at least the simulated version of it; he'd never seen the real thing. The quiet ebb and flow of the tide, the breaking of each wave into sea foam upon the shore. The sea at early evening, perhaps, when all its visitors had gone home and the sun cast everything in long shadow.
Then, on a whim, he focused on summoning up an orchestral accompaniment: a crowd of black-clad musicians in which he might more easily blend in. Or maybe hide, if such a thing were possible on an open stage with a stern-faced conductor watching over all of them. For a moment, the musicians were still. Then, together, they began the first movement of Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 2 In C Minor, Op. 18. It was easy, once they began playing, to simply lose himself in the swells of sound. The dreamlike ebb and flow of the violins, the rich, deep murmur of the cellos, the brassy reports of the trumpets, the clear, concise flurry of the flutes. Fascinating, the way the sounds of so many different individuals could come together to create a coherent narrative.
It was too bad he'd never get a chance to play with the real thing.
Better that they should be taught one more way to kill an opponent without a sound, or log additional hours in test simulations.
But because it would have been disruptive and costly to switch instructors halfway, and because she was the daughter of a scientist of some importance to the project, she was allowed to continue with her eccentricities.
Some of the most peculiar of the lessons she insisted upon centered around an old Earth instrument, one that by the 31st century had become more of an amusing anachronism than anything else. Something you saw in old movies or read about in books, not something you kept in your house or paid to go listen to. It wasn't something he had time to practice, once he was released, but there seemed to be nothing but time here.
So Zouichi had found himself visiting the Sensoriums more often, not to destroy imaginary enemies in ever more creative ways, but to play -- mostly when he could reasonably be sure everyone else would be asleep, and therefore unlikely to come look for him. Today, however, he wasn't in the mood to bother waiting for people to turn in. There was one other oddity -- a bandage wrapped neatly about his forehead, half-covered by his bangs.
He shed his customary gloves, placing them on the surface of the polished black wood. Then he closed his eyes, placed his hands over the cool ivory keys, and began to play. Satie's Gymnopédie No. 1, a slow-paced, melancholy piece. He didn't know why, but playing it always made him remember the ocean. Or at least the simulated version of it; he'd never seen the real thing. The quiet ebb and flow of the tide, the breaking of each wave into sea foam upon the shore. The sea at early evening, perhaps, when all its visitors had gone home and the sun cast everything in long shadow.
Then, on a whim, he focused on summoning up an orchestral accompaniment: a crowd of black-clad musicians in which he might more easily blend in. Or maybe hide, if such a thing were possible on an open stage with a stern-faced conductor watching over all of them. For a moment, the musicians were still. Then, together, they began the first movement of Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 2 In C Minor, Op. 18. It was easy, once they began playing, to simply lose himself in the swells of sound. The dreamlike ebb and flow of the violins, the rich, deep murmur of the cellos, the brassy reports of the trumpets, the clear, concise flurry of the flutes. Fascinating, the way the sounds of so many different individuals could come together to create a coherent narrative.
It was too bad he'd never get a chance to play with the real thing.
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He sighed. "I don't know. I guess at first I was angry; I couldn't understand why anyone would treat their own people like that, force an entire group of people into servitude." He believed it could happen, of course; it had happened. But that didn't mean he understood it.
"But honestly, I didn't really care for how the resistance treated us either. And it turned out at least one of them had... plans for us. Like I said, kind of a long story."
Zouichi shrugged. "That's why I came here. Thought it might help to take my mind off of things."
"What, you're kidding, right? I thought you'd have some kind of secret technique or something. Don't all mothers have that?"
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How can she blame him? What better way to take your mind off of being controlled than something you control, the Sensoriums? The notes you hit on a piano? She almost feels bad for intruding now and drawing the topic to the forefront of his mind again, although she knows that even with all the distraction in the world at your fingertips, you never truly stop thinking about it until it's well and ready to unlatch from your mind on its own.
She shakes her head, furrowing her brow a bit. "I was gone a long time. I think that sort of vacation costs you some communication skills."
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He was silent for a long moment. "Never really thought of that." But it made sense. Any skill declined with lack of practice. "For what it's worth, though, you're one of the most articulate people I know."
"That I get along with," he added, almost as afterthought.
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She gestures again to the piano. "I didn't think that your world had much in the way of concert halls, or that you'd have much time for them in your line of work. Do you have to practice?"
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Zouichi considered her question. "I might get a little out of practice if I don't play occasionally. But I have been playing for the equivalent of several decades. It's not really something I'm likely to forget."
"You're right about the concert halls, though. Most of my lessons took place in virtual space. And not too many people where I come from still play old Earth instruments. Easier to use a synthesizer of some sort. Do you play?"
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"No," she says with a modest chuckle. "I'd never have the patience for it. You've seen how I treat my garden; how gentle do you think I could be with an instrument?"
A slow, genuine smile creeps over her face. "But I love to listen. Peter and I forsook a nice wedding dress or ring just so we could afford to have some of the music majors at the nearby college come play in a quartet and piano arrangement for us when we got married. Besides, it kept our families from pestering us to dance."
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He smiled in response. "Who says you have to be gentle? Especially in here, where the instruments aren't real. Maybe you can bang out some Bach."
"That was kind of you. I bet they were pretty thrilled to actually get paid for their playing, too. Worked out for everyone." He paused. "You don't like to dance?"
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She snorts. "After your impressive display? A minuet would look like child's play, and I'd still manage to mess it up. I could probably manage some amazing avant-garde music, though. All drones and smashing noises."
She laughs and takes a drink of wine. "It's not so much that I don't like to dance. It's more like I don't like to fall over myself and twist my ankles in some vague attempt at fluid motion."
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He shrugged. "You never know, with modern art. You could make millions as long as you can justify it with neo-Freudianism or something."
"Really? Well, what are you going to do if you're assigned an espionage mission? You can't just sit by the refreshments and eat canapés. According to spy movies, anyway."
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"If I record it on wax and give it a flashy title mentioning post-colonialism and Foucault, I'm sure I could get it in the Museum of Modern Art. I've seen some of the things they stock in there. It's baffling. Seriously, a tape recorder reciting days of the week?"
She shakes her head and drinks more wine. "Obviously I'm the mastermind behind the table steepling my fingers in the shadows."
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He started playing again (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JS7KfOyMEIY), more quietly this time. "Oh, so you're a villain? Where's your cat? Aren't you supposed to stroke a big fluffy cat ominously while you plot?"
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"That's, um..." She taps her temple, thinking. "Chopin, is it? I'm so rusty these days."
"...I really ought to get a cat. I'm not sure how I'd like being owned again, though, even by a pet."
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He nodded. "One of his etudes. I thought you were the one who owned your pet, not the other way around. Is that different for cats?"
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He smiled, recalling the time he'd played by one by the riverbank. "They're cute. You should get one. Anyway, how have things been on-ship? Pretty quiet?"
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"Mostly. Another podpop come and gone. Nobody who popped asked about you, so I'll assume you're staying a lone ranger in that regard. Some of Marco's friends arrived, and a relative of Kang."
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"Ah. Well, I don't think most of my allies would have made it. And most of my enemies aren't especially discreet." He paused. "More of those teammates he fought with? He must be happy."
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"Given how she plucks people from different parts of the timeline, for all we know your allies could have made it," she says, but regrets it. Why even bring it up if it may be false hope?
"It's...complicated. Yes, he's happy, and it's good to have them back, but you know that my son's just ribbons and sunshine on any given day."
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Zouichi frowned. "I... would honestly rather that not happen. The dead should be able to rest in peace."
He looked over at her. "And how have you been holding up, then?" Marco's disposition was really nothing new to him. "If you feel the urge to take it out on your garden, maybe I can dig up a punching bag or something for you to kick instead."
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She nods. "Stacy's not very good at that. I've seen more than a few ghosts from my world show up."
Including Iniss and Edriss. Her teeth grit a bit. Including her son. Her heart races a fraction.
She shrugs. "Well enough. Keeping my head low. Tending my garden, a la Voltaire. Don't worry, I already have a punching bag. It just relieves more tension to kill things."
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Zouichi paused a moment in his playing. "Anyone you'd miss?"
"Yeah, I know what you mean. Something about snuffing the lives out of an unfortunate victim really takes the edge off." His tone is so dry, it's hard to tell whether he's joking or not.
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"Tom and Rachel Berenson," she finally says, voice low. "But we'd rather they not learn how dead they were."
Tom knows, or at least highly suspects. Rachel may not. Eva hasn't had the heart to bring it up.
Marco? Marco doesn't know he's as good as dead.
"Well, plants can't really use their last breaths to beg for mercy," she says, equally dry.
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Well, if she had others, she could judge for herself when and where to disclose them.
"This ship seems to enjoy forcing these choices on its crew, doesn't it? Wish for your world to be restored, and the people close to you have to die all over again. Wish that it remains destroyed, and your happiness comes at the price of those who weren't rescued."
"Or if they can," he said of the plants, "You can't understand them. The perfect target for any discerning crewman's animosity. Speaking of which, how is that wisteria doing?"
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She laughs. "Dead. Like half the things I try and care for. I may need to come get another cutting from you, if you're up for giving me another sacrificial lamb."
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"Hey, don't be so hard on yourself. That orchid you gave me came out of the ordeal alive." He nodded. "And sure. There's plenty of plant to go around."
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