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 chance 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.

It took one to know one, or so he’d heard. He nodded, motioning for the lab attendant to take care of Mehta before joining Kov. Together, the two men walked down the well-scrubbed corridor of the TSC’s regional science facility, Gard reflecting absently on the progress of technology. The first time he’d tracked a joined Trill, there had been no such thing as harnessed electricity. But then, there’d been no such thing as criminal psychology, either; Trill had believed that the Butcher of Balin had been possessed by evil spirits. Considering his crimes, perhaps they hadn’t been so far off the mark.

“You ever seen one of these?” Kov asked, as they stepped into yet another of the laboratories that made up the facility, a dimly lit room dominated by a holotank in the center. Gard shook his head, taking in their new surroundings. The walls were lined with banks of softly blinking lights and various key-panels, monitored by a rather nervous-looking male tech. He knew of them, of course; using all of the information that the forensics teams could gather, the reconstruction program would show the most likely sequence of events leading up to Mehta’s death; Gard doubted it would be much, but it was worth a look.

“Run it,” Kov said simply, and the tech started pressing buttons. Gard fixed his attention on the tank, watching as a small set of rooms flickered into view—a student’s apartment, decorated neatly but cheaply. The sight of the inexpensive wall-hangings and fresh flowers wilting in a chipped water glass by the front door made Gard clench his jaw. Her first apartment.

A featureless humanoid appeared in the living room, and seemed to be pacing aimlessly, walking in circles. Although there was a slight possibility that the killer was a tall female, Gard allowed his intuition to decide for him: a man. The unknown male carried a sh’uk and wore a dark gray tunic; after a moment of restless agitation, he moved across the room to stand behind the girl’s desk.

Want to be in the shadows, hiding, waiting. What’s on the desk? Pacing ... nerves? Excitement? When will she come home?

A part of Gard’s mind was formulating lists as he watched—males implanted in the last year, Academy students, museum patrons, collectors of weaponry ... friends of Mehta’s? A lover? The lock hadn’t been forced, although someone could have stolen the override entry code easily enough. ...

The door opened again and Mehta Bren entered, a shopping bag balanced on one hip. She dropped her key card next to the makeshift vase, calling for lights as the door closed behind her—

—and the killer sprang, across the room in a flash. Mehta dropped the bag, various purchases flying, a container of soup splashing everywhere as she fumbled for the door—

—and it was too late. Gard watched the ensuing struggle, determined not to feel what was welling up inside as Mehta fought her attacker, as she fought for her life. The forensic interpretation was graphic if not bloody, the expression of terror on the girl’s face painful to see—but as he watched, his experience pointed out a flaw that nullified the program’s effect.

That’s not right. He wouldn’t have—wrong, they have it all wrong.

Gard let it play to its inevitable conclusion before thanking the tech and with Kov, retreating to the hallway; he saw no reason to be rude, and the program might be valuable in other circumstances.

“Worthless,” he said, and was pleased that Kov didn’t seem surprised. “The time that he took to disable her, his actions before and after the crime—it was carefully planned, not some bloody rampage. Just like the pilot.”

“So what next?” Kov asked.

“We go to Mehta’s apartment, and see if we can figure out what really happened.”

* * *

They’d played for hours, their spontaneous harmonies forming a sensual tension between them that only grew as their music progressed. Temzia did not have a piano or syn lara, but Joran had some skill with the instruments she did keep—the Vulcan lute, a li’dswed, a Tellarite hollow bell line. He tried all three while Temzia played a cello, an Earth string instrument that produced deep, rich sounds. It made him think of polished stone and age, of wealth and oceans; it was almost as beautiful as she.

For long periods, he thought of nothing at all, simply reveling in the sounds they created, lost in the joy that filled her rooms. With each pause, however, he felt the fear return. It simply wasn’t possible—that this incredible, passionate, talented musician, as sure of her brilliance as he was of his own—that she was alone. Unjoined.

The music ended, finally, and they talked into the early morning hours, curled together on the thick carpet of her living room. There was no question that the attraction was mutual, but Joran found himself resisting, dodging Temzia’s attempts to touch him. At last she sighed, leaning back against her couch and studying him, a playful scowl dancing across her lips.

“What is it?” She asked. “You are interested. ...”

It wasn’t a question; already she could read him, and it added to his fear. The circle, the eternal—becoming joined to Dax had been the key, unlocking his true understanding to music, to himself as an artist and as a being. Without Dax, there had been no focus. How could this girl—this child—have achieved such clarity of purpose without a symbiont?

She was waiting. “I’m—my last serious relationship ended badly,” he said. Not really a lie, considering his last relationship had been as Torias Dax, who’d left his wife a widow. He clamped down on the thought, not letting it go any further; he didn’t like remembering the others. Not any of them.

Temzia smiled. “That’s your past. I’m your present.”

No hesitation, no question. He stared at her, the fear making him uncertain. “It’s all connected. ...”

She shrugged, throwing away his beliefs in that single, uncomplicated motion. “I know the joined believe that, but I don’t agree. How can you deny yourself what is here, now? What does this moment mean if you spend it remembering another, or planning the next?”

For a beat, Joran had no answer. “You’re saying we shouldn’t deny our true natures ... ?”

Temzia nodded slowly, and in that moment, she was the teacher, a truth greater than the circle, the connection between the infinite and the need—it wasn’t enough to understand the concept, he wanted to feel it, to touch her and know more.

They kissed, and for a little while there was silence, and it was sweeter than any music he’d ever known.

 

They stood in the wreck that had been Mehta’s apartment, the same as the final image from the holographic recreation. What the program had been unable to include were the smells of dead flowers and spilled soup, the quality of sluggish shadow, the flush of violence that still tinged the air like some half remembered dream—in effect, the reality of murder. There was nothing else like it.

While Kov tampered with the police holoprojector mounted in the northeast corner of the room, Gard checked out the student’s desk. He stood in the same place the killer had waited, breathing deeply, letting himself know what the killer had known.

It was dark, and she would be home soon ... anticipation building, the sh’uk warm, watching the door open and ...

Gard frowned. Why here? It was the murderer’s luck that she hadn’t escaped while he’d been dashing across the room. He looked down at the desk, at the blank screen of her personal computer, at the scattered mass of Academy disks—music, history, composition—at a framed holo of a younger Mehta proudly holding what appeared to be an alien flute, the front cracked, distorting her smile into a toothy scream.

Gard felt they were looking at three distinct sets of memories so far, although he suspected more. At the museum: planned for privacy, timed to avoid security, and a careful adjustment to the lighting prior to the attack, but the recklessness of allowing himself to be caught on camera. At both sites, the humidity filters had been reset, possibly in consideration to the indoor plant life—in Mehta’s bathroom, a dying fern had been lovingly trimmed and watered after her death. The killer had chosen an antiquated weapon for both murders, unused for centuries, yet in both cases had taken great care not to use the weapon as intended, paralyzing his victims first—

—a perfectionist, consumed by details, suggesting a background in mathematics or engineering, perhaps some kind of artistic connection. An interest in botany. A historian, or someone with an interest in capital punishment. So many possibilities—

A flicker of light diverted his attention; Kov had the projector working. The image of Mehta’s body as she had been found appeared on the floor, halfway between the desk and the front door. Her face was turned toward Gard, and like the shuttle pilot, her limbs had been arranged to denote rest, her eyes closed and head tilted as if she were listening to something. ...

“Was there music playing?” Gard asked.

Kov shook his head. “Nothing was loaded—unless you count a misfed data ring. The reads taken indicated that her computer was on at the time of death, but it was a glitch.”

“How can you be sure?”

Kov pulled a notepad from inside his coat and tapped a few keys. “According to the memory log, a single tone was produced by the sound card for something like an hour—didn’t change in pitch or volume, and there was no evidence that the attacker tried to access anything. Malfunction.”

Gard frowned. “And it was still playing when they found her?”

“Actually, no ...” Now Kov was frowning. He walked across the room, Gard noting that he stepped carefully around the image of the body almost without thinking about it. Kov leaned over the computer and started punching in commands.

After a moment, a low sound spilled out into the silence from the dead girl’s computer, a single unvarying note, flat and tuneless. Gard closed his eyes, listening, but it reminded him of nothing.

“Malfunction,” Kov said again.

“I doubt it.” Gard saw Kov move to turn it off, and shook his head. “Let it play. Anything like this at the museum?”

“I don’t ... They checked for tampering with files, but nothing else. It’s possible. I’ll find out as soon as we get back to the facility.”

As Kov spoke, Gard moved to the still image on the floor, letting his thoughts carry him. He crouched next to the body, then lay down in the projection of light, merging with her, assuming the same position. He closed his eyes again, letting the monotonous note fill his mind, hearing what Mehta heard as she died. What the killer heard as he took her life.

A single note, he wanted her to hear it ... or wanted it to be playing so that he could hear it, so that he could connect the sound with the memory of her death. ...

Gard opened his eyes and without moving, studied as much of the room as he could see, paying close attention to the wall behind the desk. Once he knew what he was looking for, he found it in a matter of seconds: three tiny holes set in a triangular pattern, high in the room’s southwest corner. If he were to remove the police holo projector’s mount, he would find the same pattern.

Gard sat up and ran his hands through his hair, his sudden certainty making him feel very tired. There was no question in his mind that one of the museum’s computers had also suffered an aural “glitch,” or that whoever checked the scene would find an identical trio of holes somewhere in the room.

“He’s recording them,” Gard said softly. He had to repeat himself to be heard over the unchanging note, the sound clogging his senses with echoes of a madness he was only beginning to understand.

 

Things weren’t happening the way he’d planned. The quinary circle wasn’t half finished, the perfection incomplete—and since meeting Temzia, the need to conclude had ceased to dominate his every waking thought. He knew he had to finish, knew that someone would be coming. ...

... stop. Breathe. Now is not the time.

“... without further ado, I present our friend and colleague, Joran Dax. Mr. Dax will be playing an original composition for us, a symphonic ode, Unfitted, To a Truth.”

Joran stood up, smiling and nodding to the assembled group of teachers and graduate students as he walked to the raised platform, trying to clear his mind of everything but the music. The quarterly recitals were tiresome but necessary if he meant to maintain his status as one of the Academy’s finest; he’d seriously considered skipping this one. Temzia had almost coaxed him to spend the day with her—but now was not the time to draw attention to himself.

And why not? Why not, when your grand composition lays untouched, when you allow doubt to cloud your brilliance, to keep you from action? Why not quit now, retire into obscurity with an unjoined as your playmate, leave the important work to those with the strength to follow through—

Enough!

Joran humbly thanked the woman who’d introduced him, an aging spinster of little talent, and moved to the piano, an antique Steinway imported from Earth. It was time to play, the one thing that could still soothe away his troubles.

He sat at the bench, closing his eyes to fix the piece in his mind’s eye. It was one of Belar’s, simple but dulcet, not his best work but easily better than the insipid noise his audience was accustomed to hearing. He could worry about the circle later.

Joran began to play, the gentle lines of the ode working their magic. From the first stanza, he ceased to exist, becoming the spaces between the notes, becoming each delicate, ringing sound, the eternal inside of him finding a place to rest. The melody was uncluttered by fear or indecision, there was no morality to be concerned with; it was what it was, and it was good.

There was some movement in the audience as he played, but he recognized it as if from a great distance, entranced by the miracle that was music, that he was blessed to share in. Still, a part of him wondered how anyone could be so rude, to detract from the others’ experience. At the calando bridge, he glanced across the small assembly—

—and lost his place, the timing horribly jumbled, three notes in a row buried. Dr. Hajan, here, now! There was no mistaking the stern countenance, the faded spots of his hateful, white head—the disapproving gaze of the man who’d recommended that Joran Belar be expelled from the initiate program.

After his joining, he’d been told that it wasn’t uncommon for evaluating staff to visit, unannounced, those they’d recommended be dropped—it was even encouraged by the Commission, the idea being for the doctor or field docent to witness the success of the joining they’d discouraged, to lay to rest any lingering doubts.

Dr. Hajan’s timing couldn’t have been worse. Not now, not with so many unanswered questions, so many doubts of my own!

Except ... poor timing was a matter of perspective, wasn’t it?

All of this flashed through his mind in a split second, before his shock was replaced with a renewed sense of purpose. He had been weak, he had almost lost his connection to the circle, but in that instant of awareness, he saw what had to happen next—and it filled him with pleasure, almost physical in its intensity.

Joran regained his composure and finished the piece without another flaw.

 

The call came just after dark—a third murder, this one committed within the very walls of the Symbiosis Commission, not an hour’s flight from where Gard was staying. The details were few, but gave Gard his first real hope that the hunt might soon be over; the killer had been interrupted at his work by security, fleeing the victim’s office before he’d had a chance to complete his ritual. The guards had lost him outside, but Gard’s hope was undiminished; he could feel how close they were to understanding him—and understanding inevitably led to capture.

Kov picked him up and they rode in near silence to the Institute, a steady drizzle raining down on them from the gathering night that did little to dampen their guilty optimism. Earlier, they’d received confirmation on the museum slaying connections, the holoprojector marks and the single tone—a different pitch, but doubtlessly for the same as-yet unknown purpose—and now a third murder, less than two hours old, the site secured and waiting for them. The victim was one Dr. Foris Hajan, a senior member of the Institute’s evaluation team, and a TSC tech was already compiling a list of his recent recommendations, as well as an itinerary for the past few months. Gard had little doubt that the killer’s name would surface—but Gard had no doubts either that the murderer had accelerated his spree, and that they needed to find him as quickly as possible.

Dr. Hajan’s office was in the Institute’s west wing. Kov and Gard hurried through the dimly lit hallways, past ashen-faced guards and the few staff members who’d still been working, who lingered now in aimless confusion. As they neared Hajan’s office, Gard heard the sound he’d been searching for—the flat, featureless tone that they now knew as the killer’s signature. Apparently, he hadn’t had time to silence his strange obsession.

Kov stopped at the door to talk to one of the techs while Gard stepped into the nightmarish scene that had been Hajan’s last. Chairs and bookcases had been overturned, various ceramic pieces shattered, the debris cast randomly about—and in the middle of the room, eyes open and staring, lay Dr. Hajan himself, a single stab wound through his throat. Above it all, the relentless drone from the undamaged computer played like some endless mechanical shriek, somehow all the more terrible for its utter lack of emotion.

Gard knelt next to the body, assessing the attack. Hajan had been surprised, surely, the entrance to the wound at the back of his neck, a change in pattern that suggested a different relationship. The killer hadn’t wanted for Hajan to see him, had perhaps wanted to avoid the condemnation in his eyes—

—couldn’t bear to be seen, but wanted Hajan dead so badly that he didn’t care whether or not the doctor’s death could be connected to him. Whatever he’s trying to do, he means to finish it soon. ...

“Here it is.”

Gard stood up and saw that Kov had joined him, and was pointing at a triad of marks on the far wall. Even rushed, the murderer had been determined to take his trophy, to have his prize. Gard nodded thoughtfully as he moved to the still-crying computer, his trained mind working at the details, fitting them and refitting them; the ancient weapon, the recordings, the seemingly random destruction, the obviously obsessive nature—there were contradictions everywhere, but only because he didn’t fully understand.

“It’s not the same note,” Kov said. “It’s—higher, I think, than either of the other ones. We’ll have to feed them into the computer when we get back, see if we can find the connection.”

Gard shook his head. He could feel time slipping away, and the need to know was like a fire in his mind. “Do it now, here. Do you have the specs?”

Kov barely hesitated before nodding. He produced his notepad and picked up an overturned chair, sitting in front of the computer as Gard walked back across the ravaged office, talking almost to himself.

“No one uses the sh’uk, no one. Executions, goal-oriented, not process, but he records the process, he breaks everything in sight but it’s not real, it’s like he’s deliberately ...”

Gard froze.

Lying. Creating a false biography.

It all fell into place, and Gard ran through the lies one at a time, discovering the reality at the base of each.

The murder weapon, so appealing because it’s so rare, so emotionless ... a blind alley, and a disguise for his true rage. The special care given to the plants ... a detail he wanted us to notice, because he’s not a noted botanist. The murder sites, seemingly the work of a clumsy, rampaging beast ... a dancer instead, or an athlete, someone capable of precise movement.

And why, why invent a false background of hosts to mislead ... unless you knew that someone would be investigating a joined murderer, which you could not know—

—unless you served on the Commission at some point.

As if to punctuate the enormity of his realization, the room fell silent, the note snapping off. Kov stared at the screen, seemingly awestruck.

Gard hurried over, already knowing the nature of what he would see if not the specifics.

Connection, completion. It’s about completion, somehow. ...

“They’re notes,” Kov said softly. “The first three of a pentatonic scale, five tones in all.”

There, on the screen—five dots, three of them highlighted. The computer had arranged them in a circle.

“Ouroboros,” Gard breathed. Kov looked up at him, frowning. Gard elaborated, feeling his heart pound with the truth of it.

“A human myth. The serpent that devours its own tail. It symbolizes the cycle of change and continuance, of past and future, united. Think of it—a joined killer, experiencing himself as the rebirth of his symbiont, creating death as he is born.”

Gard grinned, and not a trace of humor lived in his smile.

They had him.

 

It was almost midnight when Temzia let herself into Joran’s apartment, excited by the feeling of daring that flushed through her as she punched his entry code into the door panel. He hadn’t exactly tried to keep it to himself, had he? Besides, she had waited over a cooling meal for hours; he’d promised to meet her after his recital, and she was unaccustomed to being denied. If she interrupted him in the middle of something private, well, it was his own fault, wasn’t it?

The rooms were dark, the only sound that of the pattering rain at the windows. Enjoying the thrill of her intrusion, she let the lights stay off, moving as quietly as a thief. There was a little light coming from the wide, unshuttered window in his living room, the thin and watery moonlight adding to her sense of stealthy purpose.

She circled through his bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen, returning to the tastefully decorated living room when she realized that he wasn’t home. Disappointing, to say the least. Stay or go? She decided to stay, at least until she got bored. Joran was worth it.

The environment was elegant, if a trifle cold; Temzia wandered through the room, studying his collection of instruments, peering at his wall of antique instruments and lightly touching the paintings and prints that he’d collected, probably as Joran Belar. It was strange, being with a joined man; no one in her immediate family had been implanted, and most of her friends were musicians, far from the math-science types who usually sought candidacy. She liked it; she liked him, and as she ran a nimble finger across a row of hard-copy texts, she found herself wondering what it would be like to be in love with Mr. Joran Dax—

“Oh!” The sound was startled out of her as the line of the shelf jumped into her hand with a soft click. She grinned, at her own surprise as much as at what she’d found.

“Secrets,” she whispered, still grinning. A secret room. Maybe he kept his mistresses there, hidden away from prying eyes. Joran would laugh at that when she told him. ...

Temzia slipped into the room, her gaze adjusted enough to the dark to see the syn lara that dominated the otherwise empty chamber. A work room, obviously—no decorations, nothing to distract a composing musician. She loved that he was so dedicated to his music; she’d never met anyone as impassioned as Joran, or as talented.

He probably wouldn’t like me nosing around in here. ...

Her grin returned. He probably shouldn’t stand her up, then.

She walked to the syn lara and perched on one corner of the bench, her gaze running over the use-polished keys. She saw the control box for a holo projector sitting on the raised lip of the instrument and, still smiling, turned it on. Probably scenes of nature, or some such, one of her profs had recommended using visuals for inspiration, and—

—and her smile faded as part of a chord filtered from the projector’s speakers, and two images sprang to life, both dramatically bright in the darkness. Two rooms, other than these; two strangers, a man in an empty hall, a girl holding a bag, both turning toward her, twin expressions of shock on their faces. Both of them screaming wordlessly, the haunting notes erupting from their opened mouths as Joran stepped into their rooms, Joran holding something shining and sharp—

Temzia sucked in a breath and scrambled backward, falling off of the bench, unable to look away from the horror unfolding in front of her. Oh, oh, that’s Mehta, that’s Mehta Bren and he’s, what is he doing—

She backed into the living room, stumbling, scarcely able to breathe—

—and a hand clamped over her mouth, stifling the scream that leapt into her throat. She struggled wildly, but only for the second it took her to see the weapon held up in front of her rolling eyes.

 

Gard could feel the girl’s rising panic in the flutter of her heart, in the tension that ran through her body and made it tremble against his own.

“Where’s Dax?” He whispered against her ear. The girl shuddered violently, her breath coming in hot gusts against his fingers, her limbs twitching. She was too afraid, he had to calm her down or she’d start screaming the second he let her go.

“Listen to me,” he whispered, doing his best to sound reassuring, aware that Joran could be moving toward them now, sliding through the dark with a weapon of his own, something much deadlier than a stunner. “You’re in very real danger, and I’m here to help, but you have to tell me where he is.”

The girl seemed to understand. She nodded against his hand and he let her go, quickly scanning the room as she collected herself enough to respond.

“I don’t think he’s here,” she said, her eyes wide and bright with tears. “I didn’t—”

Across from them, an explosion, a black shape hurtling through the window with a thundering crash, the high squeak of splintering glass an assault in the whispered dark. Gard threw himself to the floor, pulling the girl down with him, doing his best to shield her from the rain of glass as the shape, Dax, fell across them both.

Gard tried to bring the stunner up and a sharp pain slashed across his wrist. Instantly, his fingers turned dumb, the weapon clattering away. Joran held a thick, daggerlike piece of glass in one bloody hand, as shining as the demented grin he wore.

“Nice work. Fast. Now you and the girl, and it’s all over,” Dax said, and slashed again with the glass. Gard reeled back, narrowly avoiding the cut, praying that Kov had heard, was coming, praying that the girl would survive.

Screaming wordlessly, Dax lunged forward, striking at Gard’s throat—

—and the scream was cut short by the solid thunk of blunt instrument against skull. Dax crumpled forward, the girl standing behind him, the sharp end of his dropped sh’uk grasped in both of her hands.

“No!” Gard snatched at the monster, desperate to save him, to finally have the answers to the questions that he’d spent centuries following, why—

—as Dax fell against his own makeshift dagger, the weight of his body forcing the glass deep into his chest.

Gasping, Joran Dax rolled onto his back, resuscitated by the pain of his impalement. Dying.

 

The pain was everything. It was the world, and just like that, Joran felt something inside of him break.

Don’t leave me, Dax ...

“The circle’s not finished,” Joran rasped, not sure who he was talking to, not expecting an answer from the agent who’d orchestrated his death.

“It is for you.”

Temzia was crying, somewhere. Joran couldn’t see.

“I ... still am ... Dax,” he whispered, and knew that it was true, that the circle was the truth. Never ending. Dax was alive, and he was part of Dax now, in harmony with the symbiont, forever.

That cool voice, from out of the dark. “No. You’re Joran Belar, and you’re dead, and no one will remember.”

Joran felt a burst of fear, of terror, and it was the last thing he felt, the foul eulogy from the stranger the last sound he heard as the dark joined around him, taking him away from the eternal and into silence.

 

Gard wasn’t in the mood to jog but he went to the park anyway; the sun was out, and although he was tired, the light felt good. Cleansing.

He wasn’t a bit surprised to see Kov waiting for him by the path, even though the agent probably hadn’t slept yet. Gard had had only a few hours himself, but he felt okay.

The younger man fell into step, and together, they walked slowly toward the woods.

“How’s the wrist?” Kov asked.

Gard smiled. “Good as new. My fingers are a little numb still, but it should pass in a couple of days. Is that why you came to visit me?”

Kov smiled in turn, staring off into the distance as he spoke. “The procedure was successful; the new host has no memory of Joran. I thought you might like to know.”

“What about the records?”

“There never was a Joran Dax. Joran Belar was killed yesterday while trying to escape the scene of a murder—”

“The murder of Dr. Hajan,” Gard finished. “Because Hajan recommended his expulsion from the program.”

Kov smiled a little, but said nothing.

“What about the pilot? What about Mehta?”

Kov shrugged. “There’ll be questions for a while, but in the long run ...”

He didn’t need to finish. The TSC was all about handling the long run; Gard knew that as well as anyone. Better than most, in fact.

They walked for a few moments without speaking, and Gard decided that it was too nice a day for the discussion that could have been sparked by the events of the past few weeks, particularly of the past few hours. About what the TSC was doing, and the apparent lack of feeling they had for the unjoined. About who they were helping by refusing to admit to the world that sometimes, even after all of their careful measuring and planning, things went wrong; the need for Gard’s existence was proof of that.

But there’s only one of me. Maybe that’s it’s own proof, that things are never as dark as they seem. Maybe.

“What’s the new host’s name?” He asked suddenly, not sure why he wanted to know.

“Curzon,” Kov said. “He’s going to be a diplomat.”

For some reason, that made Gard laugh out loud. The two men continued their walk, enjoying the quiet, the park seeming fresh and new as it always did after a storm. Gard knew that he would remember Joran Dax, even if no one else would—and perhaps that was as much a reason for his existence as the rest of it.

After a few moments, Kov left him without saying good-bye; he never did.