The Cello
Chapter 8

That was it.

E7 sat on the edge of the bed with the instrument between his knees. He had one flesh finger pressed against a string, holding it against the neck. He was frozen with it there, listening to the remnants of the note still ringing in the air around him. It sounded different. Just as each string sang differently, he had finally discovered why the man in the picture had his fingers to the strings. Each string; it was like it’s own bird. It could be made to sing high or low, and yet do so with the same voice.

He placed his finger lower on the neck, still pressing the same string, and slid the bow across it once more. Higher. He moved to the next string, but kept the height of his touch the same. Lower.

He took to thinking of the lines and beads in the book as he let his finger and bow wander the tiny metal cables. Each position produced a different note, always higher as he moved his finger further down the neck. The little beads in his mind eye were no longer simply mysterious drops of black, but seem to be, rather, little birds. The lower they sat on the strung wires, the deeper their calls.

The book lay open at the boy’s feet, and he stared down at it blankly, listening intently as his fingers worked the instrument. It was not always a comfortable noise. Sometimes it screeched under his touch as if he had hurt it. Sometimes his bow rubbed two stings and the voices clashed. He was becoming careful though, and the wooden creature spoke more and more often in crisp, vibrant chirps.

How was one to know what sound the little black birds referred to? Was it specific, or could it just be that they were meant to be interpreted; the ups and downs to be followed loosely? He didn’t like that idea. He liked to think you could read them like letters and numbers; a symbol for a sound. He liked to think that hidden in the lines and flagged dots was a code; that somehow if he stared long enough he would be able to make the instrument tell him things; to explain; to tell it’s story.

It was two hours - two hours that he hardly counted - of listening to the many voices of the instrument, before E7 finally slumped back onto the bed. He had shaken the blankets free of most of the dust, and cleared a seat for himself last time he had visited.

Staring at the ceiling, he thought numbly of A9’s reaction to the news of that visit. She had seemed so disconcerted about the idea. Normally he would not think twice about her discomfort, as it usually corresponded almost exactly with his own. This time however, it had taken her words of caution for him to realize he hadn’t really even thought about his unsanctioned second cultivation day. He had been so entirely focused on getting back to the strange underground hovel, that his allegiance to the rules that had governed him his whole life had been repressed. How entirely odd. How completely -- out of rhythm.

Today was Tuesday; his actual cultivation day. A9 would approve of this visit. Well -- wouldn’t she? Perhaps she would think him foolish for risking starvation and even deactivation for this silly game. He should have thought himself foolish! It should have been so illogical to him to spend his three precious hours doing something with no practical use. But no matter how much he thought about how illogical it was, it never ceased to seem like the most important thing in his life. He felt he was just beginning to understand; as if he stood just outside the door of something ... immense.

But, in truth, there was nothing. He was in an underground room of useless ancient relics, lying on filthy blankets with a noise-producing piece of wood resting against his knee. He was going to starve for his insolence, he was sure of it, and all his unit with him.

With a sigh, he heaved himself up and to his feet, and picked up the instrument. As he lifted it into it’s lit case, his thoughts began to flow again. He hung the bow carefully beside it and ran his fingers down it’s curved wooden body. He realized that however illogical, he still longed to understand the words it spoke; longed to know what the immensity was that he felt just beyond his reach.

It felt almost like pain - like a prick to the finger from a cactus spine, but deep and vague inside his chest - as he turned his back to the beautiful thing. Temporary though it was, he wanted to be able to forget the need for food; the need to abide by rules; and just stay in this place. But he knew he couldn’t.

He stooped and picked up his pack from the floor where he’d left it, making quickly for the door before, against all reason, he could decide to stay.

Just as his hand hit the handle on the primitive wooden door, his ear caught voices on the wind coming from above. He paused, feeling the hot emotion that flared in him immediately numbed. Placidly, he listened, feeling grateful he had thought to cover the opening with branches.

“It’s a system error, Cimbalom, I’m telling you.” One voice said, sounding muffled and slightly electronic.

Enforcers.

There wasn’t an answer, but two sets of footfalls crunched closer in the dry ground.

“This is where it keeps happening.” Another voice grunted.

“There’s nothing here.” The first voice groaned, “Just record the coordinates and we’ll report it to Martenot.”

“Stand over there,” The gruff voice demanded.

There was a pause, and then more crunching footsteps as the first seemed to be complying.

“It picks up your location just fine,” He said, “ Why yours and not the humans’?”

“Well I’m not a human, has that occurred to you?”

“It’s either spotty, or a human’s locator is glitching.”

“It’s got to be spotty. We both saw it happen twice last week, so it couldn’t be just one of the wretches wandering out here.” The closer voice replied.

There was another pause, and the second enforcer seemed to be considering. Behind the door, E7 was trying to breathe quietly. How did they not pick up his signal? They were standing right above him! Should he climb out and explain? He thought about that for a moment, but as soon as he remembered A9’s look when he’d told her he’d gone out a second time last week, he decided he could not explain. He lacked the words to tell them why he had disobeyed code, and spent his cultivation time in a hole in the ground with a singing wooden box. Perhaps he couldn’t explain because he himself didn’t know why.

“Remind me to check the ID codes when we get back.” The enforcer finally said, “Maybe programming’s gone bad. It just happened two hours ago, but whatever human it was is obviously not still here. We’ll have to watch where radar picks up it’s signal again.”

There were more footsteps as the one began to walk away and the closer one hurried after him.

“Thank the mothership,” The following one breathed, “Let’s get out of this air.”

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