Vienna Station Read Free

at me. “You and I are not very important around here, but at least we have all of our marbles.”
    I’m puzzled. “All of our marbles?”
    Kelly’s eyebrows shoot up. “Don’t you know?”
    “Let’s say I don’t.”
    “That waiter is an indentured worker for sure. A lot of the help on Vienna Station have signed indentured service contracts. Signing an I-S contract allows them to turn you into a zombie for five years.”
    “Zombie?”
    She looks at me incredulously. “Girl, you can’t be that green!”
    “Let’s say I am.”
    “You know what it’s like back on the ground?”
    I nod. “Yeah, I know.”
    She continues anyway. “Twenty billion people and jobs for maybe a tenth of them. Ordinary folks will do anything to get up here where the money is.”
    I laugh. “I went to school for sixteen years and practiced for thousands of hours.”
    “Well, that guy probably cut somebody’s throat to get a slot. Then he had psych patterns imposed and went to work. He takes whatever psychoactive drugs they give him. He’s so zoned out that he doesn’t mind working sixteen hours a day. He hopes he’ll wake up in five years with enough money to buy his own convenience store franchise.”
    The waiter returns, places my water and Kelly’s wine on the table, bows, and departs. I pick up the chilled glass. It is expensive—leaded glass, hand-worked, though probably made here on the Station. I sip. The water is cold and slightly effervescent.
    Kelly sips her wine. “They don’t have labor problems on Vienna Station. It’s best to remember that.”
    Music begins to sing unobtrusively from hidden speakers. It is the Oboe Quartet in F, K-370, Mozart, of course. I can’t repress a smile.
    Kelly takes another sip of wine. She says, “The boss is big around here.”
    I sip my water and reflect on what I know about the boss. The original Mozart died at the age of thirty-five in 1791. His body was loaded onto a cart and disappeared into a cold downpour of rain. No one, aside from gravediggers, actually saw him interred along with five other penniless unfortunates. Constanze, his wife, purchased the cheapest possible burial. She was broke so Mozart’s grave was lost.
    Lost, but not forever. The oligarchs of Vienna Station initiated their Mozart Project. Thousands of bones were harvested from the appropriate graveyard. The DNA in each bone was crosschecked with that of his father and his sister, Hannerl. First his skull and then various other bones were identified.
    Genuflect, a leading genetic design corporation, was enlisted to establish a no-holds-barred laboratory on Vienna. It replicated Mozart’s DNA. A neutral embryo was implanted and Mozart was reborn!
    After years of maturation, training and hype, the new Mozart is about to make his debut upon the world media stage. The Festival Orchestra, of which I am the newest member, will perform the first new Mozart composition in more than three hundred years.
    “Ah, Drusilla?” A high and rather thin voice inquires from behind me.
    I turn and stare. It’s him, Mozart.
    He smiles, “Your name is Drusilla? No?”
    I nod. “Yes, it is.” He is dressed in white knee britches and a scarlet military tunic with gold frogging. An over-sized, red tri-corner hat decorated with gold braid rests atop his powdered wig.
    He leans over the table. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Drusilla.”
    “Dru, please call me Dru.”
    “Of course, Dru. I am Amadeus.” Mozart removes his hat with his right hand and makes a sweeping bow. He straightens. “May I join you?”
    I nod. “Yes, certainly.”
    Mozart sits down, leans forward and stares intently at me. Finally, he murmurs, “Are you a shitter?”
    My mind is paralyzed. I sit and stare at him.
    He speaks a little louder, ““Are you a shitter? You know, among the vast human company of all shitters?”
    I stammer, “I suppose I am.”
    Mozart giggles like a crazed bird and shouts, “WONDERFUL! It’s