Allegro Ouroboros in D Minor
S. D. Perry and Robert Simpson
THE FIRST NOTES spilled out into the darkened room like rain, soft but not gentle, conjuring memories of twilight summer storms from childhoods past—of suddenness, of unexpected drama, of something new in the face of the existing. It was a strong beginning, and as Joran’s fingers found the keys, stroking the composition to life, he felt its power wash over and through him with the violence of a tempest. Thought fell away, replaced by feelings of connection and movement that harmonized perfectly with the smooth sounds rising up from the syn lara. With the pale, dancing light and deep undertone of his most recent conquest playing alongside his last, both images in their proper places above and behind the stringed instrument, he could feel the piece coming together like never before.
In his space of concentration, he was reborn into the music, becoming the body within the storm. He rediscovered the melody of dissonance that was its heart, and felt the beat in his own veins. From the shifting light that bathed the room in motion, he created thunder, becoming its wrath even as he sought shelter within the circle that was forming, shining into life and fading to ash, the end as the beginning—
A single note hesitated, stretching an instant too long ... and it was over, that simply. The music was lost, and he was only Joran Dax again, hunched over the grand syn lara in the near dark of his private parlor.
“Lights,” he snapped, his voice sharp with frustration. The sudden glow from the wall panels faded the dual projections into ghosts, illuminating the sound-proofed chamber and transforming it from a place of dreams to a banal reality—and illuminating the problem, which he’d already guessed at. A slender crust of dried blood had wedged between two of the keys, changing the delicate quaver of the middle C to a crotchet.
His impatience had cost him this night’s practice. He’d been overly eager, rushing to see what would be added to the piece before cleaning up properly; it wasn’t the first time. Joran sighed, suddenly too exhausted to be angry with himself.
He stood up and moved toward the door, really seeing himself for the first time in hours as he stepped out of the hidden studio and into his small, but elegant, living room. The subtle lighting that played off the richly adorned walls was somehow more revealing than the utilitarian brightness of his composition room. There were rips in his smudged clothes that he hadn’t noticed before, and his hands were filthy, rimes of dark matter beneath his nails. Really, he had to learn to control his enthusiasm; the syn lara was an instrument capable of great emotional power, but it was delicately structured—
It had been a long day; he’d see to the syn lara tomorrow before he started editing the new program. For now, a shower, a hot meal, and a good night’s sleep were what he needed most.
“That and an alibi or two,” he said softly, and grinned, pleased with his newfound ability to laugh at himself. Belar’s sense of humor had tended toward nonexistent.
But with Dax ... everything is different now. Everything is the way it should be. The way it was meant to be.
Three more notes; after that, Joran Dax wouldn’t need an alibi. After that, those who surely sought to destroy him would be forced to acknowledge his contribution to infinity, whether they appreciated its complexities or not. Whatever happened to him, the composition would inspire beings the universe over to a new understanding of life.
His grin widened as he walked toward the bathroom, shaking his head. Three more, and the quinary would be complete. Assuming he could work unmolested for another week, two at most, Joran Dax would redefine the meaning of inspiration; the time was at hand for him to show them all.
* * *
The park wasn’t anything special, but it was close to home, quiet, and reasonably flat. Verjyl Gard had always liked to jog, but he’d left steep hills and rugged terrain behind along with his thirties. Real running was for athletes, for people interested in physical fitness; for him, mornings in the park were about sanity and fresh air, about not having to think for a little while unless it was to decide on what to have for breakfast.
He’d been imagining something deep-fried until he saw Kov jogging toward him, the younger man’s carefully blank expression killing Gard’s appetite. No breakfast today. Gard continued his shagging pace, ignoring the sudden vague urge to turn and run the other way. It wouldn’t change anything. He could only pray that it was a standard consultation.
Kov fell into step beside him, breathing easily. Together, they jogged through the sun-dappled trees for a full minute without speaking, the silence broken only by the soft pelt of shoe against path, by distant bird song, and the rush of blood in his ears. Gard ran through what he remembered from the morning newscasts, knowing that Kov would wait until he was ready; he always did.
“Is it the girl?” Gard asked finally. “The student?”
Kov nodded. “Yeah. We think she’s the second ... the first was two weeks ago, at the Devritane Museum—”
“—the shuttle pilot, I remember,” Gard said, sighing inwardly. He couldn’t help remembering. It was what he did best.
“We also think ... we have multiple lines here, Gard.”
Gard felt something tighten inside, but only nodded warily. So much for praying.
They reached a fork in the path and Gard steered them to the right, knowing they’d be less likely to run into anyone along the more heavily wooded route. Talking about murder was bad enough; it was talking about the murderer—apparently, this murderer—that they needed privacy for.
In all the centuries of Gard’s life, there had only been a handful who’d known what the symbiont’s forte was. Even after the impressively complicated screening process he’d gone through prior to being joined, Verjyl Slest had been surprised—although very little surprised him anymore.
Murder was rare on Trill, and only the unjoined killed; that was what he’d believed before he was joined, what the world still believed. Candidates for joining were balanced, well-adjusted people; the mentally or emotionally infirm were weeded out before they even got close to the first interview, and for a joined Trill to commit murder ... impossible. Unthinkable. Law-enforcement agencies had never had to deal with such a case.
And they never will, Verjyl had quickly realized. Not as long as there’s Gard. ...
Each joining created uniqueness, the fruition of the host’s potential combined with the symbiont’s. According to the Symbiosis Commission, an unsuitable host would reject his or her symbiont in a matter of days; it happened, but rarely. But even more uncommon was the symbiosis that birthed a monster; a darkness within the host brought into the foreground, a creature that was the direct consequence of joining.
Gard understood anomalies; the Gard symbiont was one of a kind, old enough to have forgotten how it came to be what it was.
But not to forget what I’m here to do. Never.
Gard’s hosts had all trained extensively to prepare for such instances—and there had been only four. Four monsters; combined, they’d killed thirty-seven people and destroyed the lives of countless more. Two of the four had committed suicide, perhaps the symbiont exerting its last shred of control; one had been killed trying to escape the authorities, back when the authorities still enforced the law with sticks and stones—and the fourth had been executed by the soldier Kirista Gard, some 90 years past. ...
... its gaze, as bleak and cold and desolate as deepest, blackest winter, its lips curled with hatred, the slick intelligence behind its mask of flesh ...
Gard slowed to a walk, breathing raggedly, a little shaken by the sudden intensity of Kirista’s memory. Kov stopped and watched him, and Gard was surprised to note that the young op seemed worn out, his face flushed. In the eight years that Kov had been his go-between to the Symbiosis Commission, Gard had never known him to work up much of a sweat over anything.
We’re all getting old. Old and tired.
“Let’s walk for a while,” Gard said, smiling a little at the obvious relief that
flitted across Kov’s face. “In fact, why don’t you fill me in on the way back to your transport?”
They both smiled, and Gard did his best to enjoy it; odds were, the days to come would bring very little to be happy about.
The outdoor cafe St’asla sat at the edge of the campus common, fitted with all the pretensions and posturing that only a student-run cafe could manage. Today it was more crowded than usual, the Tenaran Music Academy’s best and brightest indulged in a frenzy of table-hopping, the late afternoon air filled with their mindless buzzing. The discovery of Mehta Bren’s body was undoubtedly the most exciting thing to have happened in quite some time.
An impromptu concert had broken out on the carefully manicured lawn across from where Joran sat, a memorial for the slain flautist. The musicians—two young women laboring over the strings of an Astian bitanle and a joined professor, a not-so-accomplished dulcimer player—had chosen an over-used mourning piece, the unapologetically maudlin Dal’s Requiem Trio, and had drawn a rather large group of listeners.
Joran watched the crowd, wondering at the tear-streaked faces and slumped shoulders as he sipped at his wine. Mehta’s talents had been unremarkable, to say the least, and he knew for a fact that she’d had few friends; the false sentiment was distasteful to him. What was it about death that brought out such hypocrisy? People who’d never met her were suddenly overwhelmed with emotion, remembering the girl’s genius, fondly spinning tales of her great wit and beauty, imagining that they knew her. The truth was, he was closer to her than any of them. Unlike the assembled faithless, her death actually meant something to him; musically, the first-year student would accomplish far more by her passing than she ever could have managed had she continued to practice—
Joran’s thoughts were cut short as the musicians began a new piece, the soft opening strains of T’saln’s Cicadian Suite No. 9 floating across the lawn like a haunted breeze. Joran closed his eyes, frowning, soothed and troubled at once; it had been one of his favorite compositions when he’d still been Joran Belar, written by a Vulcan woman well before Dax’s first implantation. The simple repeating melody of the piece was built upon by graceful, willowy harmonies that grew more complex with each repetition, the notes flowing into one another, becoming, reaching ...
Belar’s first year at the Academy, so arrogant, so sure of himself—young, bright, a full scholarship handed to him when his older brother had been forced to seek patronage from the Arts Board. Called to play his best work by the instructor of Advanced Interpretation, the first class of his first day, and choosing No. 9. Executing it flawlessly in front of his “peers,” knowing how good it was, turning to accept their envy and admiration as the last notes spiraled away into silence—
Dr. Silvet nodding, smiling, her tone gentle, her words brutal, impossible to forget. “An ambitious choice, Mr. Belar, and technically perfect ... but did you feel anything?”
She addressed the class, turning his shame into a lesson for all. “Notes can be mastered by anyone; that is the craft of music. But the art ... you must learn to find the immortal that exists in each piece, the continuity of the eternal that elevates a series of notes into something more—and to recognize it, you must feel it. If you can’t find your place within the living cycle that is music, if you can’t learn humility in the face of the eternal, than you can never hope for better than technical mastery.”
The living cycle. The face of the eternal. The birth and rebirth, the joining, the perfect circle, the five—
—applause, and Joran blinked, startled from his thoughts. The trio of musicians were bowing humbly, accepting praise for their amateur efforts from the gathered listeners, even those seated at the cafe. Joran closed his eyes again, irritated with the obvious sincerity of the crowd; hadn’t they heard the fumbled notes? Was he the only one who’d perceived the mawkish execution of the secondary interlude, largo that had been written as andante? Pathetic, just as Mehta had been in the end, absolutely—
“Tragic, isn’t it?”
Joran looked up to see a young woman standing by his table, her dark gaze fixed on the musicians as they put away their instruments. He wasn’t particularly interested in gossiping about the deceased, but it wouldn’t do to seem too uninterested. As it was, he was taking a risk; he had a recital in a few days, and hadn’t planned to be seen on campus before then. He applied a sorrowful expression, aware that his whim could cost him if he wasn’t careful.
“Yes. I heard she had great potential ... such a waste.”
The woman arched an eyebrow. “Actually, I meant the performance,” she said lightly, still watching the players. “I think we were the only ones not clapping. ...”
She looked down at him when he didn’t respond immediately, smiling nervously. “I’m sorry, you’re right, of course—I just thought they weren’t very good, but I didn’t mean—”
Joran smiled back at her, unable to resist. “Don’t be sorry. I agree, they weren’t up to it. ... Although not many are.”
She lifted her chin, and somehow then spoke without a trace of conceit. “I am.”
He felt a flutter of amazement at her brashness, and though he knew he should let the conversation drop, that he shouldn’t be seen talking to anyone here about anything, he suddenly realized that he would deeply regret not learning more about her.
He motioned at the chair beside his, letting the charm into his smile. “I’m Joran Dax, I used to be a student here. Please ...”
“Temzia Nirenn,” she said as she sat down, “and I’m still a student here, but I’m starting to wonder if it’s worth the effort. I mean, are they going to teach me anything new, or is it going to be the same old tune about examining my feelings and becoming the instrument of true art?”
Joran laughed out loud, enchanted—and as they slipped easily into a conversation that delighted them both as afternoon deepened toward dusk, Joran found himself feeling more than amazement at the intensity and passion of the young woman.
It wasn’t until much later that he realized it was fear.
Mehta Bren could have been sleeping, curled beneath the bright lights of the lab in the sterile cold, her delicate features unmarred by the violence that had taken her life. With the table’s stasis field deactivated, the illusion was quickly lost; the slender hole in her abdomen began to seep, and even as Gard gazed down at her, he imagined that he could see the last blush of life drain away, the lines of her face settling into permanence.
Sorrow, anger, despair. Gard watched her until he felt nothing but curiosity and the small measure of guilt that came with the shift of emotion. As with the pilot from two weeks before, the murder weapon had been a sh’uk, an antique; it had been nearly three centuries since Trill authorities had used the needle-shaped tool for executions, a quick and relatively painless death in a time when death had still been crime’s answer.
Neither quick nor painless for her, for either of them ...
There was no evidence of torture, but in both cases, selected vertebrae had been broken, effectively paralyzing the victims prior to their deaths—the forensics teams had estimated twenty minutes to an hour on both victims, long enough for the killer to ... to do something, something he wanted his victims to witness or experience.
The pilot, one Jelim Niecta, had already been immolated in keeping with his family’s wishes, but the body’s condition had been extensively documented; Gard had studied the files in the flyer on their way over the Ganses Peninsula, returning again and again to what little the Devritane Museum’s surveillance camera had gathered from the night of the murder. A dark shape in a darker hallway, nothing established except that the killer was humanoid. Still, Gard had watched obsessively, memorizing the smudge of blackness. If Kov had been bored by the repetition, he’d had the tact not to say so.
Two murders with a sh’uk, no witnesses, no apparent motive or connection between the victims except that neither had been joined. Gard knew that was important, but that he wouldn’t know why until he had a c
hance to investigate further—and that the killer would give them very little to investigate. In his experience, joined murderers were exceptionally careful about what they decided to reveal.
Multiple lines ... the suggestion of past-host influence that had flagged the crimes was unmistakable, and it was the best chance they’d have to catch the killer. No matter how clever the current host, there were some things that he or she wouldn’t recognize as intimations of self, wouldn’t know to avoid. Gard had been called in to analyze the traces, to build a history for the monster, and he could only hope to finish and apply his work before it killed again.
Mehta Bren. What a pretty name. A pretty girl. To see life ripped away from one so young. ... There was something inside of him that ran deeper than emotion, that accepted the reality of her death and used it to create a kind of need—for justice, for a return of balance to his own life and the lives of his kind. It was self-manipulation perhaps, a trick—
—but I won’t rest until I find who did this to you, he thought, staring into the face of a girl who could no longer care on her own behalf. Mehta ...
“Forensics has a reconstruction on her,” Kov said softly, and Gard finally looked up from the near-sleeping child. The op stood by the door, arms folded, his expression as impenetrable as usual. Gard liked Kov; what others perceived as unfeeling in the young agent, Gard knew to be professional detachment. He’d been around long enough to recognize the pain that Kov buried, the tightness around the eyes and mouth that spoke of learning how to avoid certain thoughts on nights when sleep wouldn’t come.
STAR TREK: DS9 - The Lives of Dax Page 19