Merodek’s long fingers danced in the air as the silver aglets on his fingertips did their work. He scanned through his music archive. He selected the fifth Aria “He Sleeps in the Stars”, from his favorite opera, The Golden Daughter of Mad Count Savari by Tellus Purusa.
His eyes closed as the first dulcet tones of the soprano’s voice rang out, somehow simultaneously both delicate and bold. Breathing deep as the orchestra swelled, he opened his eyes, his left hand absentmindedly weaving through the air in front of him in rhythm with the score.
Scattered across his HUD were eight eye-links. With the grace of a conductor, he moved his aglets through the air, issuing commands to the first screen.
“None shall sleep again, even you my prince, as you watch the stars,” the soprano sang, her voice nearly a whisper. Merodek watched as his assassin slipped silently through a bedroom window. He made his way down the hallway, pausing to peer through a doorway where a small child slept, her back to the entrance.
The killer continued down the hall to a set of ornate double doors. He withdrew a slender card from a hidden chest pocket and slid it into the thin slit between the wood slats. A lattice of delicate wires extended, flowing through the cracks and crevices and joints of the door’s locking mechanism. There was the faint sound of metal sliding against metal, and the door swung open.
Long shadows cascaded across the room as the assassin padded across the floor without making a sound. A massive, opulent bed sat in the right corner of the windowless room. The walls glowed a soft blue, the holo-displays projecting the sights, sounds, and smells of a moonlit grove of trees. It was oppressively peaceful.
Ogun Rang, chairman of the board of directors of Gorgunov Chemicals, snored softly in his bed, his wife, Sahar, asleep next to him. The assassin leaned in, his face close enough to Ogun’s that he could feel his hot, rhythmic breath on his cheek.
He held out a small blue disc in his hand. Merodek watched as the blue disc liquefied, morphing and extending as the liquid metal blade slid slowly into Ogun’s neck. The knife was so narrow and sharp, and so expertly aimed, Ogun did not even flinch; his nerves never registered the fatal wound. A small shunt detached from the blade, spreading the skin, creating a channel for the blood to drain through.
The assassin withdrew, and watched for a moment as the deep red stain spread across the white covers, before turning to leave.
Merodek pulled up the second window, cueing the action.
“And if my love be in vain, let me fall upon these rocks, for I am tormented by visions of his wicked smile,” the soprano sang on.
Merodek watched as Naksatra Kundalini, board member of Gurgunov Chemicals, sat in his vid room, his skull node jacked into the seedier portion of the neural net. Places Merodek had never dared venture.
Naksatra leaned his liquid chair back, his eyes glazed, his arms relaxed as a controlled dose of Wilutrin flooded his system. He was fond of a type of holovid that made Merodek’s skin crawl, videos of children, of death, of dismemberment.
Merodek continued to conduct the imagined orchestra as he watched the dosage meter continue to rise.
Naksatra’s eyes fluttered and rolled back in his head. He smiled, his curdled lip curled, revealing a row of yellow, rotten teeth. His breathing slowed, his heavy chest rising and lowering at greater intervals, until it finally stopped. A slow gurgle escaped with a finality that made Merodek smile.
“Have mercy! Have mercy! I only wish to be held in his embrace, until the end of dreaming!”
Lendix Mercurius, CEO of Muraviov-Abe Works, walked through the crowded neon market, pushing past the faceless rabble that squabbled over knick-knacks and garbage. His two burly body guards trailed him as he wandered through the bustling rows of store fronts.
He stopped, running his fingers over some vibrantly-colored fresh fruit stuffed in dirty boxes. He glanced at the row of tanks filled with foul smelling fish and crustaceans.
He grabbed an orange, holding it under his broad nose, inhaling the sharp citrus flavor deep into his lungs. His brain didn’t have the chance to register what happened as the steel rod tore through the back of his skull.
His body slumped to the ground, a lifeless sack of meat and bone, a four inch diameter hole where his face used to be. Blood and brain matter spattered across the fruit.
“I have come hither at the pull of my heart! To feel his hand in mine.”
Ellel Hathor, chief accountant for Muraviov-Abe Works sat with her husband of seventeen years. The perfectly set table with white linens sat at the center of the bustling dining room of her favorite restaurant, The Fusion Lounge & Chateau. The high arched ceiling overhead was covered with white panels, where living blue paint formed fractals that swelled, danced, and disappeared rhythmically.
She reached her weathered hand across the table, her husband taking it. Their waiter approached, his faceless mask ensuring absolute silence as the couple dined. He filled her wine glass with a deep red Pornes Annata, which she sniffed and swirled before taking a sip. She nodded slightly to the waiter, who bowed low before returning to the kitchen.
Ellel drank again, deeper this time.
“My sister wants to borrow the cabin for a week,” her husband said as he glanced through the menu on his HUD.
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“Which one?” she asked, clearing her throat.
“The one on Ernmas of course. Apparently little Ajaya loved the glowing Bokrug’s that Genematics engineered.”
Ellel cleared her throat again. “Well, I don’t see a problem with it, do you?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. I just feel like sometimes she takes advantage, you know?”
Ellel coughed. “You’re being silly,” she said between gasps.
“Are you alright?”
She held up a finger, taking another swig of her wine.
“I think so, I just—“ She continued to cough as her throat closed. She gasped for air, clawing at her neck as it swelled.
“Ellel?” her husband said as she stood, knocking her wine glass to the floor.
“Someone!” he shouted. “Someone help!”
He grabbed her as she collapsed to the ground, her lips darkening, a white foam forming at the corners of her lips. Her mouth opened and closed silently, like a fish stranded on the dry sand as she tried desperately to pull air into her lungs. And then she lay still.
“Why do you cry so, silly girl? His hand is cold, his breath gone silent, yet still he lingers in the air.” The Soprano’s voice reached a crescendo.
Yajna Jambhala, board member of Gorgunov Chemicals, stepped into her bright red Eyrie transport pod. The entrance of the smooth, rounded vehicle closed around her as she sat into the silky, white massage chair. The invisible arms and hands kneaded and rubbed her sore muscles as it zipped through the living city of Zygios.
Her luxury vehicle veered through the biological walls of skyscrapers, bio-engineered from plant life and fungus, large ropey veins throbbed as the buildings swayed and stretched towards the purple sky.
An alarm blared, Yajna looked up, a puzzled expression on her face moments before the explosion tore her Eyrie apart. Chunks of metal and debris rained down on the street below, which rippled and groaned under the impact.
“He is gone! He is gone! My love has gone, his corpse a beautiful sunset.”
Ba Xian, board member of Gorgunov Chemicals, slipped the green robe from her shoulders, letting it fall to the ground. Her nude form slid into the warm, thick yellow liquid of the rejuvenation pond.
She sighed as she felt the familiar sensation of the nano-bots trimming and grooming every inch of her body, removing dead skin and hair, stretching and smoothing her flesh, working to reduce the stretch marks on her stomach and breasts. Age had taken its toll, and Ba found herself looking forward to these weekly treatments more and more as time slithered past.
They made her feel young and desirable again, even if the cost was outrageous.
She wiggled her toes as she sank below the surface. Opening her eyes, she watched as the two other patients, a husband and wife she presumed, who had been submerged when she entered, climbed out of the warm liquid. She smiled; she always hated sharing a rejuvenation pond, trying to avert her gaze from the flawed, nude forms of the other patients. Reminders of her own decay.
Her heart sunk as a pair of stocky legs plunged into the liquid next to her, interrupting her solitude. The man waded over to her, the liquid coming just below his chest. Her face twisted in revulsion as he approached. There was a whole pool he could float in, why invade her space?
She glanced up, but the surface of the liquid blurred and distorted his features. He was tall, and there was something familiar about his gate that she couldn’t quite place.
A strong hand plunged into the liquid, grabbing her hair and twisting her neck sharply. She screamed, but the liquid that had filled her lungs made no sound as she exhaled. A knife slide under her throat, and with a quick cutting motion, sliced deep.
Ba watched, her eyes wide in horror, as her red blood mingled with the yellow liquid, a deep orange cloud floated hazily past her face. She gripped her severed neck in vain, attempting to put the two pieces of her throat back together.
Her eyes blinked twice, and then closed. The last thing she saw, as the bottom half of the man walking away, was the blade he had dropped as it drifted to the bottom of the pool.
“The light has gone out, my eyes wish to sleep, to join him in the moonlit lands.”
Agni Imana ran her fingers along the hem of a beautiful formal gown. The elaborate dress looked like a hundred snakes curling together, their skin made of thousands of tiny colored pearls. As she walked, the colors transfigured, shifting through different shades and hues. The effect was striking.
She glanced around, looking for an assistant, the mechanical bots that would fit the garment to her frame. She was a bit of a traditionalist, preferring actual fabrics to the weaved nanotubes that would tighten or loosen to her size.
She turned and nearly crashed into the broad chested man. She laughed in an attempt to cover her nervousness.
“Oh goodness, I’m sorry, I didn’t see—“
Her words caught in her throat as the bullets tore through her chest and stomach. She glanced down, her hand covering one of the large holes the man had left in her abdomen. Blood flowed between her fingers, red waterfalls that coursed down the front of her dress. Her eyes widened as she fell to the ground, her left hand outstretched, blood dripping from her fingertips.
She could hear the faint screams of the other shoppers as the man turned and calmly walked away.
“And when my body dashes across those stones, will my eyes be closed or open?”
Liluri Manavi sighed, squeezing his eyes shut. He heard the door slide open behind him as he sat at the dark, wooden desk that had been in his family for hundreds of years. He opened his weary eyes, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the scratches and scars the wood had suffered at the hands of his father and grandfathers.
“Is that you, Jayanta?” he said without looking up.
“Yes, sir,” she answered. He didn’t notice the tremor in her voice.
“Good, I was just about to call you,” he said, swiping the purchase invoices he had been reviewing off his HUD. “I’m going to need you to set up a meeting with…” he trailed off as he turned and looked at his assistant, a young girl he had hired for her looks more than her workplace competence and business acumen.
She was pale, her forehead dripped with sweat, her amber hair stuck to it, forming long twisted lines across her face.
“My dear, what is the matter?” He said.
Her eyes darted around the room, pleading, begging. For what? He couldn’t tell.
“I’m sorry…” she said, her breath ragged and short. “I’m sorry, they made me…” she trailed off.
“Made you what?” he asked, concern rising in his voice.
“I’m sorry…” she said, as she primed the grenade she had been holding behind her back.
“What are you doing?” he demanded in shock.
“I’m sorry,” she begged. “They said they’d kill her if I don’t.”
“Kill who?” he asked.
The only answer came in the form of an explosion that ripped the room to shreds, scattering splinters of broken wood across the floor as they mingled with flesh and bone.
The Soprano’s death keen echoed in Merodek’s ears as he closed the last of the eye-feeds. He watched in his mind as the Soprano sailed to the rocks below, tossing herself from the balcony of her father, the Mad Count Savari’s pearl tower. Merodek had seen the opera performed countless times, but the suicide scene never failed to move him.
“Piko” he said. “Please inform the board the situation has been dealt with.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Liquidate the assets of Muraviov-Abe Works. Absorb anything you can into Aeon Chemical using the preset pricing points; sell off anything you can’t.”
“Of course, sir.”
“And Piko?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Make sure payment is sent to both the Syndicate and Daytech Mechanics.”
“Very good, sir.”
Merodek sat back, his eyes closed as he listened to the final solitary notes of the strings as they played the last mellifluous tones of the mournful funerary piece.