A Solar Symphonic Fate

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. However, if you listen closely, you'll hear a hydrogen melody at the heart of every system.

Interstellar dust and clouds twirl together to form the first majestic chord as silent gravity demands, for its power forges this unmistakable harmony – nuclear fusion igniting the core.

Yet it is gravity, this same facilitator, that will close the curtains on its show.

Only the searing center of creativity prevents the unrelenting pressure of gravitational force from extinguishing these legendary objects: a masterpiece of cosmic equilibrium.

In wonder and in awe we hear the musicality of their lives before their eventual, and inevitable, collapse.

***

Chapter 1 - Red Giant

To believe his mind was ever in a vacant state would be the definition of foolishness. Thoughts burned and flared within the confines of his skull at an unimaginable rate of chemical reactions. However, he was never lost within this inferno.

Instead, a more precise authority was surveying the brain – controlling it.

He surrounded his mind with an array of analytical satellites and, orbiting at a safe distance, they would continually collate enormous amounts of data; each thought and feeling reviewed and calculated.

This particular aspect of his persona partly accounted for his inhospitable atmosphere. All that attempted safe passage down to the surface were engulfed in flames, destroyed upon entry – no survivors.

Nevertheless, the few people he had granted orbital proximity – individuals he regarded as more than just a product of their gifts; people who, behind his back, would likely call themselves his friends – would all concur that understanding the mind of Rupert Brammer would be, unequivocally, impossible.

His features were forever locked in what appeared as a most unconquerable sternness.

Even now, dressed in a woman’s wig, high-heels, and a luxurious ruby-red gown, his solid posture gave no hint of humorous vibration.

His chest rose and fell with such regimented rhythm that one would be forgiven for assuming he controlled every breath – as if the most automatic of functions were under constant supervision.

In accordance with previous years, it was Margarette who embraced him first, but her drink-induced confidence initiated an unintended momentum, one that could have easily toppled them both over.

Thankfully Brammer never ‘toppled’.

So it was no surprise to him, or anybody else, that with a sidestep to the left and a re-adjustment of his weight, balanced with a flat palm upon a waiter’s head, the embrace was stabilized.

The waiter, a dwarf by nature, clad in a white tuxedo, could not have been in a more excellent position. Although the canapés trembled, he neither had time to complain nor fully comprehend his newly assigned purpose.

The hand was lifted from his head and gently, ever so gently, used to push him forwards and onwards with his duties. Balance was restored as the cold delicacies began finding their way into the mouths of the famous clientele that occupied the Great Hall of Ardientes.

"Rupert! Oh, Rupert!" Margarette exclaimed in recovery. "You look fantastic!" She giggled, then erupted into laughter.

"Yes thank you, Margarette," he said, unhooking her from around him. "I thought it would suffice. I assume by your unconstrained response that my appearance has both amused and delighted you?"

"Mister Brammer,’ she said still laughing, "you certainly are correct."

She wobbled and steadied herself by once again draping her delicate arms around his shoulders and coming close enough to breathe in his scent – the smell of an old friend.

"Oh tell me you’re not sti-" she stepped back and snatched his hand, then the other, and brought them to her nose: "Rupert Brammer! You are, aren’t you? I told you what I think of this cybernetic meddling. This unnatural affair will land you hospitalized. And you reek of lameoseptine! Please – tell me you’re not sticking bits and pieces into your brain unsupervised?"

He raised an eyebrow.

"Fine!" she conceded, "but we will resume this conversation. Mark my words!"

She adjusted one of his shoulder straps and patted his chest.

"Just – just be careful maestro", she added, before disappearing back within the clinking of glasses – the asteroid field of floating guests.

Brammer watched them all, drifting through the space of the dark hall.

He sensed a feeling he could not identify, climaxing each time he observed the occasional collision of happy laughter – their reunion; the debris of what was once considered the finest orchestra in the known galaxy.

An orchestra he once composed for, conducted, and presented to deep space.

***

The diagnostic pad bleeped. The chip was operational. Satisfied, he raised it from the workbench.

It hovered in the gravitational stasis field, cascading minute rainbows of light about his sterile room. Too small to hold between the fingers, not to mention too delicate, it was the only way to handle his creation.

He cleared his throat and parted the few hairs on the side of his head. Holding his breath, he rested his chin within the cybernetic chamber.

"Begin procedure," he said.

Aligning itself with an opening on the machine directly attached to Brammer’s temple, the floating chip entered his brain.

White was all he saw, white noise all he heard. Then… C sharp major. Diminished seventh. B flat minor – Supernova.

His mind stalled in empty chords – silent, save the one timpani, beating beneath his rib cage.

His head slid out of the chamber and slammed upon the workbench. The blank manuscripts dotted not with notes, but with the blood now dripping from his nose.

***

The condition of the piano was a forewarning; the white of the keys almost lost beneath a terrain of unidentifiable technical components. She chewed her bottom lip.

She had never been technologically astute, however, she did know how to bypass a simple home security system; a skill she had dusted off only moments before. She’d had little choice.

There had been no answer and besides, he was expecting her. More to the point, she wasn’t about to make the return trip without seeing the maestro’s private quarters. She called into the gloom:

"Maestro?"

It was just then that she noticed a shaft of green light from the crack above the doors to the bedroom. With some effort, she heaved them open.

The instant his hands were around her she knew something was very different.

Fingers, long and elegant, that precisely plucked the complex rhythms from Pasar’s Second Concerto were now fused around her arms – but his eyes…

Eyes that had bore fire upon the second flutes in their occasional moments of mistuned harmonies; eyes that once gleamed with indestructible concentration and anticipation for the strings’ pizzicato were now wild – mad with excitement.

"Margarette," he gasped, "what a magnificent surprise!"

She opened her mouth to respond, to say that he himself had demanded that they rendezvous immediately, but Brammer silenced her with a finger upon her lip.

"It’s done." he announced, and to her amazement, he enveloped her in a tight embrace; then, without warning, released her, allowing himself to make a sudden leap onto the black bed.

He stood with his legs apart, his chest heaving and his synapses staccato electric.

"I! Rupert Brammer! Have finally entered the great nebula of musical achievement. Changed the history of -"

"Maestro!" She snapped nervously, "what’s going on? – Get down from there."

She couldn’t help but notice the thin waterfalls of sweat descending from his balding scalp. She had a momentary feeling of instinct to cradle that head in her arms, to wipe the brow of this old legend. She suppressed a shiver. He ignored her:

"Every bar, beat, cadenza, fugue, sonata, crotchet, quaver. Every chord and rhythm becomes my savior!" His head momentarily hung limp as his thoughts fired martellato.

"Rupert that’s enough!"

He looked up, startled. He stared at her for a second, as shocked at her commanding tone as he was with the sudden realization of his uncharacteristic behavior.

"Yes. Yes of course." He sat down and sighed, "I apologize. I’ve err, I’ve undergone some – changes."

Margarette kneeled at the foot of the bed and took his hand in hers. He looked up and met her gaze. He faltered. " – You’re very beautiful.’ She blinked and he saw cymbals crash. "I never told you."

"Well no. No, you didn’t – haven’t." She opened her mouth to speak again.

"I should have," he said. "But Margarette, something wonderful has happened."

"What maestro? For the love of the cosmos, what?!"

Brammer’s face softened, almost unrecognizably so. He smiled, closed his eyes, became – pianissimo and whispered:

"Margarette, I have unlocked the symphony within."

***

She had held onto the details and current locations of her old friends like the precious stones she wore at her neck – a vibrant gift.

The horns were of course difficult to reach. The fifteen men had long since taken to residing in the outer colonies, where their money was worth more and their famed names a lot less.

"I’ll need Desmond on first cello, no excuses."

Unsurprisingly, there were none.

Brammer had never accepted excuses or errors – only perfection.

Perfection bred loyalty.

"They’ve all accepted?" Brammer asked, surprised.

"What did you expect retired musicians to be doing? Terraforming planets? Mining moons? All we do is wait maestro – wait to perform again."

The engines of the Daughter’s Gambit roared – fortissimo, almost unbearably so. Brammer grimaced as the six stabilizers fought to compensate for the sudden change in velocity.

Margarette shot him a look.

"I’m a violinist, not a pilot, remember."

"A fact I know only too well," Brammer replied, leaning across to push back a few strands of hair from her face.

"Thank you Rupert," she said distractedly, and then, "erm, we’re err – we’re ready to dock."

Brammer craned his neck to watch the landing program initiate and yet he needn’t have.

Instead, he experienced a quaver rest, followed by a buzz not unlike a bassoon, then an arpeggio of mechanization as three clamps latched onto their ship. They disembarked.

"Maestro there’s no rush!"

The tails of his coat flared out behind him, his hands outstretched before him – both dancing in the air. The rhythmic pulse from the station’s core, deep and sonorous, had brought his hands up; one held the beat whilst the other, the fingers loose and free, sewed an unheard piccolo melody – unheard by all but Brammer.

"Pretissimo volante!" he cried. Margarette caught hold of his arm and the piccolo vanished.

"You can forget that tempo, you’re burning up – you’re not seventy anymore!"

"Ah, my strings" he sighed, "you are my natural harmonics."

"N- no." She shook her head. "I’m not seventy either. And despite this being a medical facility, we’re not here to become patients. So please, for my sake, just slow down – okay?" He nodded and raised an arm for her to link with. She rolled her eyes and took it.

***

"With all due respect," the doctor said, "he may well be your tuba player, but he’s my patient. And in his condition, I cannot imagine how he would ever be able to leave this facility, let alone play a bar of music."

"Your concern is duly noted doctor," Brammer replied, "but I shall see for myself."

Margarette rushed to the bedside.

"Sebald," she exclaimed, "Sebald it’s me, Margarette. There’s someone here to see you and you won’t believe who." Sebald’s jaw clicked and his drooping cheeks shuddered, reverberating above chattering teeth. "Maestro, come h-".

She stopped mid-flow, her mouth open as she noticed a single tear discover a path through the wrinkles beneath Brammer’s eye - a diminuendo con dolore.

He sank into the chair beside Sebald, speechless.

Margarette rummaged within her side bag and Sebald’s eyes opened; a slow rise of heavy curtains only to reveal a stage of ash.

"Does he recognize us?" Brammer asked.

"R- Re.." Sebald croaked. Brammer leaned in.

"Red dress!" Margarette exclaimed holding up the V-ture. A holographic miniature Brammer standing stiffly to attention in a red ball gown flickered in her hand.

The real Brammer gave her a look.

"Laugh all you want Margarette, but after this concert you’ll never see me in fancy dress again – that was the deal we made."

"Yes." She tried to suppress a snigger, "you’re quite right. I still can’t believe you kept your word."

"Let’s just say it was very motiva-" a growl from Sebald’s chest caught Brammer off guard.

"R- Re – Red" Sebald began.

Margarette put an arm around Brammer’s shoulders, the tailcoat was wet with sweat, but before she could comment Sebald lurched forward seizing his old maestro’s head in his hands. "Red Giant! Red Giant! Red Giant!"

The doctor rushed forward pinning Sebald to the bed. "Red Giant! Re-". The body went limp.

The tranquilizer kicked in.

Margarette found a replacement.

***

"Ladies. Gentlemen. Citizens of the twenty-six systems. You’re here with us live from Ardientes, for the concert not one of us could have believed possible. Famous in every quadrant and corner of civilized space we have the honor, the privilege, to welcome back the galaxy’s answer to interstellar musical composition. May I present to you: Rupert Brammer and his original orchestra ensemble!"

"That’s right Sal. There they are and the atmosphere is ion charged – both in and out of the orchestra pit. They’re as excited as we are. Who would have thought they’d be donning those visors yet again, connecting their synapses with the most celebrated insta-composer ever known."

"I couldn’t agree more. Ah, looks as if there could be a slight delay. Seems as if maestro wants a word with his principal violinist."

"Yes. Somehow I’m not surprised Sal. He’s notoriously tough on his players but that’s why – wait, did he just kiss her?"

"I think he really did."

"Oh! There he goes again – what a show!"

Nothing needed to be analyzed; somehow the satellites simply failed to function or even circle his mind. He embraced her as he always should have.

She wiped the sweat from his brow and touched his cheek with the tip of her finger and his chest sang in amoroso.

"Baton?" She said.

"Thank you, my love." He turned, twirling the stick in his fingers, and stepping up to the podium, he silenced the hum of the most gifted musicians he’d ever known.

He raised his head upwards toward the stars and they stared back, waiting, listening; yearning for the first note that would spring from his mind.

He lowered his gaze and then, just then, he saw them for the first time: his orchestra.

A feeling rose up within him, a feeling he identified as … crescendo-nostalgia.

He wiped tears from his eyes, picked up the insta-compose, and attached it to his temple.

In unison, the orchestra tapped their visors.

A blue beam of light projected across their eye line; empty staves slid past waiting to be filled with notation, chords, harmonies, and rhythms, all transferred directly and immediately from Rupert Brammer’s mind – from the maestro.

His hands rose into the space that surrounded him.

Music.

Symphony.

Supernova...

***

A hydrogen melody: a fuel that once depleted, reveals a star’s destiny. In this finale, a star may become cold, purposeless, drifting bleakly in the vastness of space – a White Dwarf.

However, there are some, known as Red Giants, that burn with unparalleled intensity; with a mass so great that countless objects are trapped within its orbit; a mass that causes gravity to applaud with terrifying force.

Once a Red Giant’s fuel is depleted however, once the symphony sings its final note, they explode in supernova.

It is this dust, this final ‘blast-furioso’ that creates everything one sees in everything.

***

The last wash of color from the harp gently fell from above, coalescing into Margarette’s tears.

There were roars of adoration from every star system, but the orchestra was silent.

The visors were again empty of notes – silence in the vacuum where he had brought them.

Each member drew closer; they circled the podium, in an orbit of soundless despair.

***

Beneath the beauty of a supernova, the core of this magnificent sun is crushed unimaginably.

This total collapse of mass is a fate known simply as a Black Hole.

The defining characteristic of this spatial anomaly is the event horizon – an inescapable point of no return.

Imagine for a moment that one could exist in the vacuum of space and look upon a Black Hole: it would be impossible to know, to ever know, where the boundary of the event horizon was.

However, pass this point where matter and light cease to exist and one will find that all information of the event, that beautiful symphony of a sun, may potentially be forever lost.

***

Margarette picked up the baton that lay beside the maestro's head. The galaxy could only hold its breath for so long. She wiped away the tears. The show would go on. It's what he would have wanted. The music would not be lost.

She attached the insta-compose, still bloody, to her temple, and a melody appeared in a blue line across her visor; it looked like stardust, but to her ear, and to all that heard, it sounded like birth.

Margarette gasped.

"Rupert?"

End of Chapter 1