He had more wires than most men, but few were actually within. Ivor Tremblay had enough wires to reach to the heavens if cabled end-to-end, but for his purposes, floor-to-ceiling was far enough.
Wires upon wires; red, green, blue, yellow. All patched into a million holes across the maple-paneled masses. In the old days, he'd look the part of a switchboard operator, a one-man rig fit to connect an entire country. Now…well now, the only wire he need connect was his own. Two thin wisps of cable that came out both temples, plugged directly into the part that made it all sing.
Ivor Tremblay, tall, thin, and pale, ran the wires from his head into the 88-key rig before him. 88 keys, now capable of any sound he could possibly want. All thanks to that beautiful white wire at the top, and the immaculate rainbow web woven across the three leviathan panels. He set the dozens of knobs to their proper place, every envelope and filter exactly where it should be, and set the great electric organ a humming, the megasynth ready to record.
The melody was delicate, oh so delicate. A high whistling as pads hummed beneath, a tranquility undisturbed as Tremblay relished every note he played. The sonority of his soft and tender reverie would’ve brought a concert hall to weep, to get lost with him as he danced across the keys and made the twin speakers glow in their plush blues with such grand, incomparable work.
So enraptured was he, that he never heard the door open, nor the marching boots at his back. The many marching boots out of time with his largo.
"Look, up there!" shouted one of the officers. He pointed up to the white wire atop the rig. ‘Twas the bloody stains on the pearl strand that gave it away.
"Ivor Tremblay, you're under arrest for the murder of Senator Carlisle Edrich." came the sharp call of the Captain.
Nothing. No monologue, no crazed ramblings. For Tremblay was getting all he wanted out this bargain. The wire was his, it sat high on his machine where only he could reach it, and as he savored the twinkling neon glow of his 88 keys, the stimulating shiver of his ice-cold composition showered him clean of any ill conscience left.
The task force stood ready to light into him, guns all drawn, only for a strangeness to take hold of Mr. Tremblay. Slowly, as if felled by a bullet unseen, the pallid man, white suit clean as a cloudless sky, slumped onto his side. His limp body took care to switch from recording to playback, and while the synthesist had seemingly perished of his own accord, the melody lingered.
Though befuddled at first, the Captain ordered the silencing of the towering organ. First they tried switching back to record. The song couldn’t be unwritten.
Then they tried ripping at the chords and cables. Nothing could stop its opulent timbres and radiant sounds, the barcarole now swaying strong. Even ripping the damn power cables did nothing to end the incessant composition.
At last, they reached for the white wire. They shot at both ends, the thin cybernetic augmentation landing on the keyboard with the thud. At first, it seemed to do the trick, the melody near silence. Except it was just that; NEAR silence.
In a last ditch effort, the Captain raised his rifle and barked at his men. "FIRE!"
The blitzing blaze of bullets rocked the towering oscillators and every wire jacked therein. The firing squad drowned the melody out, only for Tremblay's song to crescendo into a deafening roar, the gain blown out into a crackling, cruel contortion of the once sensitive melody. When the guns stopped, the music swelled and fell, back into a soft, eternal tune once more. It was the officer holding the white, bloodstained strand of twisting metallic fiber who realized at last; that was the source. The song haunted the stolen chord.
It went up for auction yesterday. I heard they paid an awful lot to hear that white wire sing. And they'll get their money's worth, I have no doubt about that.
As long as the earth spins, Ivor Tremblay will play.