Luka's shop
The Forum was the hub of Argos. While there were restaurants and shops across every level of the station, this was the most trafficked and popular area. Jaya tried to spend as little time here as she could, but she always stopped to buy a meal from her favorite vendor. She took the spit-roasted meat, doused in szacante hot sauce and wrapped in flatbread, and ate it as she retreated from the noise and chaos to one of the quieter neighborhoods of Argos.
It was a pleasant corner of the station—residential apartments and small shops. The denizens of Argos station were mainly wealthy, affording them luxuries like the boutique clothing stores and antiques shops she passed. Small cafés boasted fusion menus—the haute cuisines of Argos that showcased traditional human flavors with an exotic, alien spin taken mostly from szacante cooking.
This quarter was more modest, and relatively neglected by the flashy targeted advertising that was omnipresent on the rest of the station. A military lifestyle precluded the sort of freedom to acquire things the conglomerates counted on for their profits, and shipboard life was a restful oasis in this respect at least: there were no ads to distract, to tug at secret desires, to play on insecurities. Here on Argos, it was nearly impossible to open one’s eyes without being assaulted by color and block text, and always in the background were conflicting murmurs—some enticing with promises of improved lives, others cautioning against the world outside with chilling news of colony skirmishes and terrorist attacks.
Jaya stopped in front of a small antiques shop. In the display, a black grand piano cast elegant shadows on the store walls. The interior of the lid was as smooth and glossy as the curved box itself, its surface reflecting the metallic lines of the hammers and strings. The burgundy of the velvet-upholstered bench drank in the light of the display, its tone rich and soft, and the shadows cast by the lid on the keys beckoned to her even through the artificiality of the screen.
The digital display in front of the store read: CLOSED. She sighed, turning to leave, when the door opened.
“Can I help you?”
She turned back around. A man stood in the open door, watching her with dark eyes framed by thick lashes. Smooth black hair fell loose over his shoulders, and the expression on his bronze face was open and curious.
“I was admiring the piano,” she said.
“Would you like to see it?” he asked.
“Oh, no,” she replied. “You’re closed—I don’t want to keep you late.”
“Not at all. Come on in.” He waved her in and stepped back to give her room to enter the shop.
She could have just explained that she couldn’t buy the instrument and stopped wasting his time, but she followed him into the shop, and he closed the door to the quiet street behind them. The shop was cozy, its color palette soft and deep at the same time, with none of the harsh metallic hues of Argos’s corridors. Old lamps gave the room a golden glow, and the citrus smell of wood polish mingled with the earthy scent of paper.
Her eyes were immediately drawn to the piano. The instrument sat in the corner, its lines as graceful as it looked on the screen, the soft light painting it hazy like a memory. Jaya moved toward it.
“I just got it in,” he continued, leaning against the payment console. His posture was relaxed and confident, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was around her own age, but he carried years in his posture, in the way he looked over the space around him like he was seeing it from a great height.
“It’s restored,” he added.
“It’s gorgeous,” Jaya said, and when she heard the note of awe in her tone, she flushed. Here, in front of her, a deeply buried piece of her life was calling out to her, trying to rise to the surface. She looked back at him and saw a slight frown of concentration creasing the bridge of his nose.
“Here on shore leave?” he asked.
For a moment, she forgot the piano. “Yes,” she replied. “How did you know?”
“I can smell military training.”
“It must stink like hell on Argos, then,” she said.
He shrugged. “Yeah, lots of military folks around here. I don’t usually get them in my store, though. What brings you to an antiques shop?”
Jaya looked over at the piano.
“We used to have a piano,” she said. “Nothing as beautiful as this, but I loved it. I’m sure I would have worn the keys down to nubs if I’d had the chance.”
“You play?” he asked.
“Not for a long time.”
There was something in his smile that released a little of the ache in her chest. Something wistful in his eyes.
“That’s not something you lose.” His voice was quiet. “Not really.”
She struggled to find words, but found that his echoed in her mind instead. His smile remained, creasing the corners of his dark eyes and yet still heavy with some deep understanding. Loss. And also permanence. How some things could still linger, even when there was no longer space for them.
“Go ahead,” he said, gesturing to the piano.
“I can’t buy it,” she told him, the words bursting out of her guiltily. “Shipboard assignment, nowhere to put it.”
He nodded. “I know. You don’t have to buy it. Just play it.”
She raised an eyebrow at him, taking in the earnestness in his expression. He leaned forward, his forearms resting on the console. He half-smiled and tucked his hair behind his ears as he watched her. Jaya sensed he was reading her, facial tics and posture like a language she suddenly realized he spoke. She shifted, abruptly aware of the space between them.
“I have a theory,” he said, “that works of art like this lose their power when they aren’t appreciated. What’s the purpose of a piano like this if it just sits growing dust in an antiques shop?”
“I guess you have a point,” she said.
“Besides.” His grin flashed, wickedly sly. “I love music.”
She took a seat on that velvet-lined bench. With one finger, she gently depressed one of the keys, hearing the pure and resonant middle C emerge from the box as the hammer struck the steel string.
“It’s tuned and restored—I had a guy in here yesterday to get it ready to sell,” he said. “You should have heard it before. Even I knew it sounded wrong.”
Jaya played a few more notes, their frequencies matching the tones forming in her head before she summoned them from the piano.
“It sounds good now,” she said.
She met his eyes, and he stepped back, as if he had just become aware of the moment he was intruding on.
“I’ll just be doing inventory at the console. Go ahead and play as much as you want.” He extended his hand. “I’m Luka, by the way.”
“Jaya,” she said, shaking the offered hand. His grip was warm and strong.
“Nice to meet you, Jaya.”
She smiled at him, and he returned it before taking a seat behind his console. He secured his hair back from his face and his fingers began to tap away at the screen. Even that corner of his shop, intended just for conducting the details of the business, was decorated warmly. Books lined a shelf over his head, their spines alternating warm ochre and deep green and night sky blue. Luka’s posture expressed all the comfort and ease of this space of his, leaning slightly forward, wisps of hair already escaping the band that held them back and softening the sharp line of his jaw. He had turned those searching eyes to his console and she saw now how his lashes curled up, dark even in profile.
Jaya realized she was staring, her pulse suddenly pounding in her temples. She turned her attention back to the piano.
She began with a simple piece, letting her fingers remember this kind of motion—nimble and quick, and quite unlike grasping a gun or forming a fist. She wondered if Sal felt the switch the way she did. His music was in the keys of a console. He drew information out of the ether as Jaya drew a melody. Her fingers adjusted quickly, the tiny muscles of her hand loosening and stretching. She transitioned into a more complex composition, testing her flexibility, letting her pinkies reach notes far removed from her thumbs.
As the piece came to a close, she closed her eyes, letting her hands find their way across the keys themselves. It had been so long since she had played on an actual piano—the holographic keyboards had no aesthetics; their sound was hollow and her fingers flew over empty space instead of smooth, cool ivory. She played the final note, and though the sound faded from the air quickly, its shadow hung in the silence.
She opened her eyes.
For a moment, nothing disturbed the quiet. She looked over at Luka, who sat watching her, eyes dark in the amber light of the room, his work quite forgotten. “You’re very good,” he said.
“Thanks,” she replied.
Carefully, she closed the lid over the keys of the piano. The hush of the room felt delicate after the music, like even the air was listening.
“You’re welcome to come back,” he said. “Any time. Maybe you’ll give this piano some life while it waits for a home. And I would love to see you again.”
“Thanks,” she said, suddenly flushed. “I will.”
She had crossed the room by now, and he closed down his console and turned off the lights, one by one. They parted ways in the corridor as he locked up the shop behind him and Jaya made her way to the military barracks. Although the clamor of Argos continued around her, she had sunk deep into another world—one filled once again with music.
It was a pleasant corner of the station—residential apartments and small shops. The denizens of Argos station were mainly wealthy, affording them luxuries like the boutique clothing stores and antiques shops she passed. Small cafés boasted fusion menus—the haute cuisines of Argos that showcased traditional human flavors with an exotic, alien spin taken mostly from szacante cooking.
This quarter was more modest, and relatively neglected by the flashy targeted advertising that was omnipresent on the rest of the station. A military lifestyle precluded the sort of freedom to acquire things the conglomerates counted on for their profits, and shipboard life was a restful oasis in this respect at least: there were no ads to distract, to tug at secret desires, to play on insecurities. Here on Argos, it was nearly impossible to open one’s eyes without being assaulted by color and block text, and always in the background were conflicting murmurs—some enticing with promises of improved lives, others cautioning against the world outside with chilling news of colony skirmishes and terrorist attacks.
Jaya stopped in front of a small antiques shop. In the display, a black grand piano cast elegant shadows on the store walls. The interior of the lid was as smooth and glossy as the curved box itself, its surface reflecting the metallic lines of the hammers and strings. The burgundy of the velvet-upholstered bench drank in the light of the display, its tone rich and soft, and the shadows cast by the lid on the keys beckoned to her even through the artificiality of the screen.
The digital display in front of the store read: CLOSED. She sighed, turning to leave, when the door opened.
“Can I help you?”
She turned back around. A man stood in the open door, watching her with dark eyes framed by thick lashes. Smooth black hair fell loose over his shoulders, and the expression on his bronze face was open and curious.
“I was admiring the piano,” she said.
“Would you like to see it?” he asked.
“Oh, no,” she replied. “You’re closed—I don’t want to keep you late.”
“Not at all. Come on in.” He waved her in and stepped back to give her room to enter the shop.
She could have just explained that she couldn’t buy the instrument and stopped wasting his time, but she followed him into the shop, and he closed the door to the quiet street behind them. The shop was cozy, its color palette soft and deep at the same time, with none of the harsh metallic hues of Argos’s corridors. Old lamps gave the room a golden glow, and the citrus smell of wood polish mingled with the earthy scent of paper.
Her eyes were immediately drawn to the piano. The instrument sat in the corner, its lines as graceful as it looked on the screen, the soft light painting it hazy like a memory. Jaya moved toward it.
“I just got it in,” he continued, leaning against the payment console. His posture was relaxed and confident, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was around her own age, but he carried years in his posture, in the way he looked over the space around him like he was seeing it from a great height.
“It’s restored,” he added.
“It’s gorgeous,” Jaya said, and when she heard the note of awe in her tone, she flushed. Here, in front of her, a deeply buried piece of her life was calling out to her, trying to rise to the surface. She looked back at him and saw a slight frown of concentration creasing the bridge of his nose.
“Here on shore leave?” he asked.
For a moment, she forgot the piano. “Yes,” she replied. “How did you know?”
“I can smell military training.”
“It must stink like hell on Argos, then,” she said.
He shrugged. “Yeah, lots of military folks around here. I don’t usually get them in my store, though. What brings you to an antiques shop?”
Jaya looked over at the piano.
“We used to have a piano,” she said. “Nothing as beautiful as this, but I loved it. I’m sure I would have worn the keys down to nubs if I’d had the chance.”
“You play?” he asked.
“Not for a long time.”
There was something in his smile that released a little of the ache in her chest. Something wistful in his eyes.
“That’s not something you lose.” His voice was quiet. “Not really.”
She struggled to find words, but found that his echoed in her mind instead. His smile remained, creasing the corners of his dark eyes and yet still heavy with some deep understanding. Loss. And also permanence. How some things could still linger, even when there was no longer space for them.
“Go ahead,” he said, gesturing to the piano.
“I can’t buy it,” she told him, the words bursting out of her guiltily. “Shipboard assignment, nowhere to put it.”
He nodded. “I know. You don’t have to buy it. Just play it.”
She raised an eyebrow at him, taking in the earnestness in his expression. He leaned forward, his forearms resting on the console. He half-smiled and tucked his hair behind his ears as he watched her. Jaya sensed he was reading her, facial tics and posture like a language she suddenly realized he spoke. She shifted, abruptly aware of the space between them.
“I have a theory,” he said, “that works of art like this lose their power when they aren’t appreciated. What’s the purpose of a piano like this if it just sits growing dust in an antiques shop?”
“I guess you have a point,” she said.
“Besides.” His grin flashed, wickedly sly. “I love music.”
She took a seat on that velvet-lined bench. With one finger, she gently depressed one of the keys, hearing the pure and resonant middle C emerge from the box as the hammer struck the steel string.
“It’s tuned and restored—I had a guy in here yesterday to get it ready to sell,” he said. “You should have heard it before. Even I knew it sounded wrong.”
Jaya played a few more notes, their frequencies matching the tones forming in her head before she summoned them from the piano.
“It sounds good now,” she said.
She met his eyes, and he stepped back, as if he had just become aware of the moment he was intruding on.
“I’ll just be doing inventory at the console. Go ahead and play as much as you want.” He extended his hand. “I’m Luka, by the way.”
“Jaya,” she said, shaking the offered hand. His grip was warm and strong.
“Nice to meet you, Jaya.”
She smiled at him, and he returned it before taking a seat behind his console. He secured his hair back from his face and his fingers began to tap away at the screen. Even that corner of his shop, intended just for conducting the details of the business, was decorated warmly. Books lined a shelf over his head, their spines alternating warm ochre and deep green and night sky blue. Luka’s posture expressed all the comfort and ease of this space of his, leaning slightly forward, wisps of hair already escaping the band that held them back and softening the sharp line of his jaw. He had turned those searching eyes to his console and she saw now how his lashes curled up, dark even in profile.
Jaya realized she was staring, her pulse suddenly pounding in her temples. She turned her attention back to the piano.
She began with a simple piece, letting her fingers remember this kind of motion—nimble and quick, and quite unlike grasping a gun or forming a fist. She wondered if Sal felt the switch the way she did. His music was in the keys of a console. He drew information out of the ether as Jaya drew a melody. Her fingers adjusted quickly, the tiny muscles of her hand loosening and stretching. She transitioned into a more complex composition, testing her flexibility, letting her pinkies reach notes far removed from her thumbs.
As the piece came to a close, she closed her eyes, letting her hands find their way across the keys themselves. It had been so long since she had played on an actual piano—the holographic keyboards had no aesthetics; their sound was hollow and her fingers flew over empty space instead of smooth, cool ivory. She played the final note, and though the sound faded from the air quickly, its shadow hung in the silence.
She opened her eyes.
For a moment, nothing disturbed the quiet. She looked over at Luka, who sat watching her, eyes dark in the amber light of the room, his work quite forgotten. “You’re very good,” he said.
“Thanks,” she replied.
Carefully, she closed the lid over the keys of the piano. The hush of the room felt delicate after the music, like even the air was listening.
“You’re welcome to come back,” he said. “Any time. Maybe you’ll give this piano some life while it waits for a home. And I would love to see you again.”
“Thanks,” she said, suddenly flushed. “I will.”
She had crossed the room by now, and he closed down his console and turned off the lights, one by one. They parted ways in the corridor as he locked up the shop behind him and Jaya made her way to the military barracks. Although the clamor of Argos continued around her, she had sunk deep into another world—one filled once again with music.
