After school, Aiden had his escort Burt drive him downtown to Markus’s workshop. Technically, Aiden wasn’t allowed on recreational trips outside of school, but after Aiden informed the bodyguard it was for an exclusive testing of an Overclocked Clavichord — a testing, he added, that practically amounted to a pre-order made before his travel restrictions had been set into place — Burt had relented. It didn’t hurt that the man was a fellow music lover. He didn’t look it behind his sunglasses and perennial deadpan expression, but Aiden decided that Burt was actually a very cool guy.
They entered the shop underneath its battered neon sign. It was dimly lit, smelling of machine oil and the vinegary odor of olfactory ziv. On either side of the inner entryway were two open-air passageways to workrooms. In one floated a car frame over the standard purple bulb of an anti-grav generator, and in the other was a patient’s chair surrounded by walls of racked cybernetic parts: arms, legs, hands, and the occasional eyeball with the lens clicking and whirring in its socket.
At the end of the center hallway, a door slid open and Markus walked through in his trademark work jumpsuit and ziv-boots.
“Well, if it isn’t my youngest customer!” He tilted his head. “And he’s brought a friend. I didn’t know we’d be having company.”
“My parents,” said Aiden apologetically. “I’m on a sort of…probation.”
“Keeping you on a shorter leash, now? Kinda surprised they let you come to my neck of the woods. I’m not exactly a board-certified practitioner.” He said this last part to Burt with a roguish wink.
Burt stared at him.
“Don’t mind him, he’s on the clock,” said Aiden. “Burt, could you stay here while Markus and I—”
“Sorry, sir, can’t do that,” said Burt. “I need to remain with you here at all times.”
“Sure, we can listen to it out here, if that’s okay,” said Aiden in an aside to Markus. He knew the man had more “sensitive” equipment in the backrooms that he might want to keep away from prying eyes. “Mr. Burt here is actually very excited about the Clavichord, too.”
Markus waved his hand unconcernedly. “Both of you can come to the back. Most of my stuff’s cleared out, anyway. I’m closing shop permanently soon.”
“Wait, you’re selling this place?” said Aiden, shocked.
“Yup, already got a list of buyers lined up — on good credit, mind you. Pest-free property like this is a miracle around here, you’d be surprised how many buildings around here still have cockroaches.”
Aiden was momentarily stunned. “But…why? When’d you decide that?”
Markus ran a hand through his mane of ash-blown hair. His sideburns were purple today, striped with gold. Flicking his eyes at the front doorway, he said, “Let’s talk further inside.”
They followed him down the central hallway. Markus keyed in the passcode, scanned his retina, and led them through the sliding door deeper into the building.
In the back was a space the size of a small warehouse, the open floor broken up into several workstations housed within box-like rooms with open doorways. Soft yellow tube lights flickered on as they walked through.
“I didn’t realize this place was so big,” said Aiden. “Before it always seemed…fuller.”
During previous visits, Aiden couldn’t help peeking in to see what kinds of new pet projects Markus was working on, or what exotic wares he had procured and was tinkering with. But now with the hollow, cube-like structures devoid of anything but four standing walls, the atmosphere of the backrooms was that of a graveyard: silent and soulless.
“I sold off most of my inventory and, erm, collectibles a few days ago,” said Markus. “Haven’t held a clearance sale for a while, so things disappeared fast.”
“Even the solar goggles?” said Aiden indignantly. “I called dibs on those! Why are you leaving?”
Markus snorted. “Dibs? No wonder your parents hired a babysitter for you. Here in the real world, we have more official means of transaction. I’ve got contracts — can’t tell you with who, but your business, reliable as it is, is small-fry. It ain’t gonna cut profits like my other clients can, and I got a business to run.”
“But that doesn’t explain why you’re suddenly leaving. Who am I going to get my discount stims from now on?”
Markus rolled his eyes. “Didn’t you see the news?”
“You mean that police convoy attack? So what? That was, like, a whole borough away.”
Something indiscernible flashed behind Markus’s eyes.
“It’s not just the convoy, kid. Robberies are going up, more taggers are on the prowl looking for top-notch merch like mine, and besides all that, I got customers coming in for a limb re-fit every other day now. Got this mid-level techie that I sometimes use as a middleman — he’s a server manager in his day job — who lost an ear while on the john. Goon didn’t even drain the guy’s e-wallet, just said it was the wrong guy or something, like he had a target he was looking to hit. Somethin’s brewing in the inner city. Somethin’ big. And it’s bleeding over into my territory.”
“I haven’t heard of anything,” said Aiden, puzzled.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“Yeah, ‘cause you’re not on the streets. I’ll tell you this, though — whatever’s cooking in the Third and Fourth Boroughs, I ain’t sticking around to find out what pops out the oven. No sirree, I’m headed off to the sunnier climes of the Twelfth Borough, figuratively speaking, and that’s that. Ah, here we are.”
Markus led them over the polished warehouse floor to his “office”: a wall-less, cubicle-like nook dense with shining monitors and holograms, was displaying all kinds of data: running diagnostics, tracking uploads, and encoding software packages. Power cables and other various conduits ran along the ground, hooked up to a cylindrical hump several feet away covered by a thick cloth.
Aiden reached out a hand, but Markus grabbed a fistful of the cloth before Aiden could lift it up.
“Ah-ah, that’s eyes only.”
“I’ve got eyes,” said Aiden mischievously. “Is it for sale?”
“Not to you. It’s a special project of mine, for a special client. Money’s not the issue. Now…on to the main event.” Markus went over to a rectangular maintenance pod and deactivated the laser locks. “Special-order delivery, just for you. Behold.”
He stepped away, arms spread in an unveiling gesture.
Aiden briefly forgot about his confusion over Markus’s impending absence, staring at the instrument in awe.
Resembling a miniature piano, the Overclocked Clavichord was a sleek sound box with silver-grey keys. It stood on beautiful, oval curves of burgundy plasti-steel, balancing perfectly on three delicate points.
Aiden pulled up a stool, sat down, and hovered his fingers above the keys. He’d learned how to play the piano when he was three and attained professional mastery by the time he was nine, but the sheer quality of the Clavichord was unnerving, as if it dared him to sully its gleaming surface with his impure hands.
He pressed down on a single key, and a sweet note wavered through the air, sending a warm feeling cascading down Aiden’s head and shoulders.
He began to play, and the world melted away, replaced by the clear, soothing, all-consuming tones of the instrument. The original reediness of the instrument’s medieval roots were complemented by a bass rumbles of the inbuilt synthesizer, trembling like thunder from miles away.
It was as if the plates of reality had rotated on their axis and formed a new pattern, awash in sound. A light tingling sensation, like pins and needles, suffused every inch of Aiden’s being, under his skin and throughout his heart and between his toes. Aiden played a new series of chords, closing his eyes in rapture. His brain had the sensation of being swaddled in velvet.
By the time he finished the piece, tears were sparkling in his eyes. He’d played a shortened version of “The Cradle Song” by Brahms, a little less than three minutes long, but it felt like the song had lasted an eternity.
Aiden gently removed his hands from the keys. He was almost afraid to speak; his voice sounded like mallets beaten on stone compared to the tune he’d just played.
Markus affectionately patted the polished wood of the Clavichord. “She’s a pretty one, I’ll give it that. So…what do you think?”
Finally Aiden whispered, “The soul frequencies on this thing are insane.”
“You bet. Obviously the thing is tuned to 432 hertz, but my supplier told me it’s the multiples of that frequency that make it special.”
Aiden nodded. “It’s like…I can feel the sound instead of just hearing it.”
“Courtesy of the propierty harmonic algorithms. Plus every key was designed to be geometrically optimized for maximum tonal perfection. And sweetest of all —” Markus pressed a switch on the back of the soundboard, and the Clavichord began a complicated series of folding maneuvers, pieces of it retracting and sliding until it had collapsed into a rectangular block the size of a suitcase. “Instantly portable. Handy for keeping it out of the way once you’re done playing. Should be a hit at dinner parties.”
Burt had removed his sunglasses; his eyes were dreamy from the aftereffects of the sound. Then his expression hardened. “This is…conservatory quality. You could probably count the numbers of these kinds of instruments in the country on one hand.” He turned to Markus. “How did you get this? From a Syndicate auction?”
“You take me for one of those chrome-bitches?” said Markus, sounding a little insulted. “Unlike that band of cold-blooded gangsters, I wouldn’t cut my mother’s throat for a trinket like this. I’m an independent operation with confidential sources. Anyway, what are you — a fed? Unless you’re gonna turn in your little boss here as well, you might as well enjoy it.”
Burt hesitated, and Aiden said defiantly, “I’m not in any danger. I’ve been trading with him for nearly three years, and he’s never tried taking advantage of me once.”
Markus grunted. “Yeah, don’t worry, goon. Aiden’s not stupid enough to give me something like his home address or e-wallet info.”
Burt’s mouth was pressed into a line, but he didn’t protest further. Nodding to the Clavichord, he said, “How much for this, then?”
Markus raised an eyebrow. “Free of charge. I didn’t exactly pass it up for cheap, but this is a personal favor, a little parting gift to Aiden here. You don’t pay a dime.”
“I can’t do that!” said Aiden, who had already pulled up his e-wallet via his cyberware.
Markus chuckled. “Despite what you’ve said to the contrary, you’ve been getting swindled by me, kid. All those times you debugged my inventory management software? The development work you did for the new prostheses models I just rolled out? That’s top-tier contractual work you passed up payment for. This box of silver keys is a small thank-you for jobs well done.”
“Tell that to my parents,” muttered Aiden. “They took me off the list for…for any more work in Second Borough factories.”
Markus shrugged. “Seem to me you put the effort into things you actually care about. Or for the people you care about.” He laid a hand on Aiden’s shoulder.
“Then why don’t you stay?” said Aiden. “Get security for this place. I could program some surveillance software to guard this place 24/7. And what about your customers? Everyone around here knows you’re the best mechanic in town.”
That unfamiliar look crossed over his again, and Aiden realized it was something he’d never seen before in Markus’s eyes: fear.
“It’s getting dangerous out here for us regular folk, kid, and I’m lucky enough to still have a skin to save.”
Aiden grinned, but it came out as a grimace as he tried to contain the welling pit of sadness forming in his stomach. “Man, Tancy would not like you.”
“Yeah, I bet Little Miss Altruist would have some pretty words for me about higher duty and neighborhood cooperation. But hey, some people live for themselves. Others live by a calling. I know which one I am.”
“That feels targeted,” said Aide wryly, but Markus’s expression was serious.
“You got brains, kid. And a lotta heart.” He waved at Burt. “But this little bubble you’re inhabiting is doing you less favors than you think, as personified by Señor Chuckles over there. Maybe take a page out of your sister’s book. But keep your eyes open and watch your back.”
Aiden felt his eyes growing hot, but not because of memory of sounds from the Clavichord. Outside of Terminary, the man was one of Aiden’s few true friends.
Markus clasped Aiden’s hand in his own. He grinned. “We can still call. You can tell me when your parents’ company is releasing their new drugs, and I’ll gobble up those shares to short them later.”
“Like you even make money with on your regular bets, goon.” Aiden sniffed loudly and wiped his nose. “I’ll swing by your new digs on the weekends for lunch, maybe. I heard the Twelfth Borough has good synth-cream.”
“I’d like that. Just be sure to have all your limbs when you arrive.”