Light From Uncommon Stars(47)
“Tremon, I went to high school with the second Vincenzo Caputo. I knew Vinnie Caputo, and now here’s Papa Caputo.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Even as we sit here, people are waiting in line outside. Times have changed, the food has changed. But people still know Caputo’s.”
The demon tore another bite of Hainan chicken. He chewed as if deep in thought.
“Very well,” he finally said.
“You agree, then?”
“No. But from what I’ve seen tonight, your brilliance, your arrogance, your frustrating honesty—are all still there. In short, I still find you interesting.
“So prepare this student well, however you best decide. Then give her the bow and deliver her to me. Do that, and the world will hear your music again. But if you fail, there is nowhere in existence where I won’t find you. And, interesting or not, I will gladly drag you to Hell myself.”
“There will be no reason for that, I assure—” Shizuka stopped, for the demon was gone.
And of course he had picked up the tab.
* * *
Lucy examined one of the ribs from the Chinese violin. The grain was almost perfectly parallel, which made it strong enough to shave just a little more.
“There, doesn’t that feel better?”
The rib seemed to dance in her hand.
“Now we need to work on your twin,” she said.
She picked up the second rib and inspected the bend and grain. The wood was not from the same source as the back, as it would be in a boutique violin, but the maker was doing the best she could with what she had to work with.
Yes. She.
Lucy had been noting the span of the chisel marks, the lay of the plane. This was a woman’s work. Of course, she could not be sure, but the thought of someone making a violin a world away, who was also not a son, made her feel a little less alone.
Carefully, deliberately, Lucy continued to contour, refine, and rebuild Katrina’s violin. The work was intricate; each individual change altered the entire violin.
The stench of hide glue made her retch, and each spill burned and blistered her skin. But there was no other option; nothing was a better match for the wood.
And finally, refinishing. Oil varnish was the most conservative choice, but that would take months and sunlight to cure. A spirit varnish could be completed in a week, but spirit varnish could be overbearing and clumsy.
Many luthiers cautioned against refinishing. They said varnishes were often secret blends that could not be duplicated. But her grandfather insisted that they said this because these pretenders were not Matías.
In her break times, Lucy researched Chinese violin workshops. She had been correct about carpenters—although China had its award-winning luthiers, a factory violin would likely be made by someone trained in making cabinetry.
She imagined a Chinese woman a world away, carving, shaping, clamping. She was not trained in Cremona, nor anywhere in Europe, yet her hands knew exactly what they were doing.
And no one said they must belong to a son.
Lucy closed her computer. Rest came easily to her eyes.
* * *
Explosions. Fire, so much fire. Screaming.
No! She had to save them, she had to …
Lan shook herself awake.
Another nightmare. She picked up her phone.
“Markus?”
“Yes, Captain?”
“Everything all right?”
“Yes, Captain. Uh … is that it?”
“You and your sister be careful, okay?”
“Yes, Captain.”
The Trans did most of their building and testing late into the night, when a sudden power spike would not burn out the city’s power grid.
Windee and Markus were reinforcing and calibrating the donut, since plaster of Paris, chicken wire, and concrete were not strong enough to bind the space-time continuum.
Of course, the outside appearance would remain that of a giant donut, but the internal structure needed to be precisely tuned to resonate with the warp filaments and project a harmonious warp field.
In the laboratory, Shirley carefully tuned the warp filaments. The glowing filaments were not merely woven matter; within their cores they held slender strands of space-time in a precise array of thicknesses, spins, and tensions. It was exacting work, but Shirley’s work was already as good as Lan’s—maybe even a little more precise.
Meanwhile, Aunty Floresta and Edwin puttered about in the kitchen. Although the replicators could copy Thamavuong donuts with virtually perfect control and precision, she and Edwin kept trying to master the kitchen and even create recipes of their own.
Lan shrugged. Neither Aunty Floresta nor Edwin had the skills to assist with the critical work, so this was a good way for them to keep busy. Overall, the crew was settling into a predictable routine. No worries. No surprises.
Yet Lan’s nightmares would not go away.
And it was more than nightmares. Somehow, even on this remote backwater planet, the Endplague seemed always around the corner, beneath the surface, lurking in the periphery.
Lan watched a customer place a quarter into a Stargate machine. It was a hopelessly primitive game where the fighter shot various aliens and mutants while rescuing helpless humans. Early on, she noticed that in this Stargate video game, once a player finished a mission, the next one would start automatically.