The Clockwork Choir

‘Do you think they have souls, Japetti? Do you think they enjoy being in such artificial shells?’ asked Augustus. The two men stood in the darkened cathedral that Augustus had purchased to use as his studio. The man was an artist, of that there was no doubt, but even after two years, Japetti had never gotten used to his client’s eccentricities. The place was devoid of artificial light, lit only by candles that twinkled in the gloom like stars. The only other light source was the moon, which shone through the red-tinted windows, painting the contraption they stood before in an even more ghoulish light.

‘Don’t change the subject, Manya,’ Japetti said, trying to pick out the details of the device in the dense shadows. ‘This is excessive, even by your standards. Exactly what do you hope to accomplish with this grotesque experiment?’

It was difficult to study Maestro Augustus Manya’s face, which was covered in a strange, expressionless porcelain mask. The modern definition of the eccentric artistic genius, Augustus’ facial tissue had long collapsed after decades of experimentation with surgery and body modification. The only part of his face that was even slightly visible were his eyes, and around them, the skin was a latticework of scars and veins, hinting at the horror beneath. In the reddened moonlight and the flickering candles, as well as the occasional noise emitted from the strange device, Manya’s face looked like a frozen corpse. Japetti needed to take only a look at his eyes though, to know that his client was smiling.

‘Japetti, mi patron,’ the dulcet voice behind the mask intoned, putting a gloved hand on Japetti’s shoulder. ‘You don’t need to hide your disgust when it’s written plainly on your face. Look upon my creation, and tell me,’ he said, turning Japetti to face the device and touching his cheek with his own. ‘Tell me how it makes you feel.’
 
In the darkness, it was difficult to make out what he was looking at it. At first, he had thought it was a pipe organ, but the similarities to any commercially available musical instrument ended there. Four rows of finely carved keys were set into an intricately put together golden windchest, each one connected to a spider web of metallic wires, taut and glinting in the soft light. Each strand of metal was connected to dozens of gears that disappeared into the shadows of the machinery. All of this was vastly overshadowed by what was held above it.
 
Where a normal pipe organ had the pipes of its namesake, a grotesque tree blossomed from the top of the windchest. Silver and gold machinery disappeared into a writhing mass of flesh. Human bodies, stripped of clothes and shaved of hair, hung naked, set in place into carved depressions in the walls, with the organ’s windpipes disappearing into carefully sliced holes cut into their bodies and chests. The bodies fit together so close there was almost no space to see the wall between them, and each one hung in place with small, delicate looking glass needles inserted at every joint to disable the nerves that commanded the muscle. Each man and woman, despite the obvious differences in their anatomy and skin color, had the same vacant expression on their faces and the same shaved heads. Around each of their heads there was a golden device that wrapped around the host, with silver needles inserted at intersections along specially carved holes in their skulls. The people did not seem fully conscious, but moved slightly in their their places, air passing through the machinery they were hooked to and making a haunting, hollow noise fill the room. Long, transparent and red tubes carried blood to a central, beating human heart in a glass sphere, and circulated it among all the people in the contraption, making the wires and veins pulse gently like soft waves of motion that passed through the device.

Japetti had been in the entertainment industry for a long time and had met some artists who took their work to a level that was considered ‘unhealthy.’ He had met people who would never leave their stage personas, people who would talk to their characters like they were real people, and even an artist who insisted that each painting she made had to be christened by the fresh blood of a murdered clone body. For each of these individuals, Japetti had understood. Sometimes art needs to come from a place of fevered extremity, and the artist produced their best work when they fulfilled their strange sicknesses. That was what the clones were for, of course, to provide a human resource ethically to the people who felt that they needed that extra taste of depravity for their work. They were non-sentient, of course, mass produced in a factory on the outskirts of the city, and could be ordered to any design the client needed. So when Manya’s order for no less than twenty five clones, each designed to very careful specifications, had crossed Japetti’s desk, the agent had to come down and see what on Earth he was working on.

Now that he had seen it, this ‘Clockwork Choir,’ as Manya had called it, he felt a gnawing void in the pit of his stomach. Japetti knew what they were, and even watched some of them be made and drawn out of the nutrient vats, and he still felt that this was one of the most horrifying things he had ever seen. His face told the story that his words refused to form, and that seemed to satisfy Augustus, who gave him a hearty slap on the back. ‘The machine has already begun to fulfill its purpose. My Choir is not designed for peace or comfort. This device was designed to explore the visceral outer limits of music. To channel the trapped voices of stillborn ghosts.’

The Maestro walked over to his creation, caressing the keys like a lover’s fingertips. The bodies that hung above it gave a quiet symphony of approving sighs, like wind passing through the trees. It made Japetti’s flesh crawl. ‘All I’m saying is that this had better work, Manya,’ he said. ‘The Company has invested a lot of money and work into this...project of yours. We do expect to see some returns.’

Augustus had hunched over the keys, breathing deeply, and turned his masked face to watch Japetti with one eye. ‘Ah, the eternal relationship between an artiste and his patron. The dance, if you will. Here I am waxing lyrical about ephemeral concepts like music and souls. I do apologize, Japetti, this must bore you so, when you’re so firmly anchored in the base matter of this world. In that spirit, allow me to show you what my creation can do.’

With one hand, Augustus slowly uncurled a finger, and delicately, he applied pressure to one of the keys. In a split second, a whisper of wind and clicks passed through the device, as gears pulled, strands tightened and the silver needle’s point pressed itself into a hole in the clone’s head. His eyes widened and instantly, his mouth dropped open, filling the cathedral with a long, echoing and mournful wail. It was the sound of a father crying, or the slow, aching dirge of despair. Japetti could feel it in his bones.

‘The mechanism is simple, really,’ said Manya, as he pressed another key, which inserted a needle into the tear duct of a woman suspended fifteen feet up, and added her high, lilting gasp to the deep intonations of the man. ‘The keys are linked to a system of machinery and clockwork, made by me and finely calibrated to interface with the brain of the host. Needles are positioned at precise points above the brain, and when the key is pressed, depending on the pressure, the machinery gently inserts the needle, stimulating the parts of the brain that produces chemicals for emotional expression. Personalities unformed and unwashed, they respond the only way they know how, the only way they can. With this device, I have given voice to the human spirit, and created a symphony of feeling, unsullied by this imperfect world.’

He breezed his hands over the keys, fingers hitting them with precise and careful pressure, and an amalgamated, strangely melodic chorus of sighs, gasps, screams and whispers filled the room. The echoes made it difficult to pinpoint the source of the sound. Japetti heard his mother’s voice in his ear, breathing on his cheek as an infant. He heard the laughter of his baby son and the breathy sigh of his wife. His father’s soft death rattle rounded the sound off, as they faded into silence. Augustus had turned, watching him with excited, dark eyes.

‘You’ve gone completely mad,’ said Japetti, walking up to his client. ‘This is too much, Manya, even for you. No one wants to listen to a handful of poor bastards strung up with needles stuck in their faces!’ he motioned over to the mass of flesh and machinery. ‘This joke of yours cost the Company two point five million dollars, and all we have to show for it is a mess of bodies hooked to a pipe organ?’

The outburst didn’t change anything in Manya’s eyes, and he leaned closer. ‘You heard them, didn’t you?’ he whispered with excited glee as he leaned in and almost brushed his face to Japetti’s. ‘Don’t be afraid, my old friend,’ he whispered, ‘It’s only natural.’

‘I didn’t hear anything, you madmad. What are you talking about?’ stammered Japetti. Manya shook his head.

‘The voices will sound like people you know. It’s only natural for the brain to interpret them in that way. The voices of my subjects are neutral, completely artificial and mindless. They don’t know happiness or fear or pain. All they know is what I want them to feel,’ said Manya. He brushed his hand down Japettis’ face. ‘Don’t feel sorry for them. Clones help us explore humanity without hurting any real humans. Through these lost children, we can give voice to the most….intimate expressions.’

Manya’s fingers were flying over keyboard and again, Japetti was lost in the symphony. This time the touches were not gentle, the Maestro slammed his fingers into the keyboard with immense force, and rather than the soft intrusions they were before, the needles jammed themselves repeatedly into the brains of the hosts. Japetti could not help but call them victims as he watched the tips of the needles disappear into those holes. Their bodies tensed up, muscles coiling under the skin and their faces contorting in rapture and agony as they opened their mouths and gave voice to their tribulation.

There was no gentleness, no soft buildup, just a sharp cacophony that cut through Japetti and bled him to the soul. Shrieks and howls, gurgling snarls and high-voiced screams rent the air and echoed around him in an agonized whirlwind of raw emotion. He didn’t know why, but he was crying, like his soul was bleeding out of his eyes. The Maestro continued to play mercilessly, as their air pulsed with a fevered crescendo, pulled from the mutilated choir above.

Japetti didn’t know when he’d sank to his knees or exactly when the music stopped. There was nothing at all he could do. His limbs were jelly, his mind blasted by the force of the music. It was haunting and beautiful, a perfect rhythm of human noise, crafted effortlessly into art. From the bizarre instrument he had heard the banquet of humanity, agony married to ecstasy, despair and joy, love and fetid lust, mixing and intertwining as the bodies writhed and the Maestro played.

Augustus seemed satisfied with the reaction of his patron, and walked over, kneeling down before him, and producing a handkerchief to wipe away the tears. ‘It appears that you do have an artistic soul after all, Japetti,’ he said. ‘I trust that you’re suitably impressed with my work.’

‘I….I…..’ muttered Japetti, as a string of drool descended from his open mouth. ‘It’s…..it’s not something that should exist…..you’ve made something inhuman.’

Augustus Manya, the Maestro, put his hand gently on Japetti’s shoulder. ‘Art is inhuman, mi patron. Real art isn’t just something to please the crowd. It reaches right into you, finds the weak spot, grabs it, and twists. Real art should break you, my friend, and that’s how I knew I had succeeded.’

Japetti still couldn’t stop the stream of tears that were going down his cheeks. He met the Maestro’s gaze and was surprised to see a small rivulet of tears trickling down the side of the mask. ‘To be truthful,’ the artist continued ‘My first idea hadn’t been to use clones, as you might have guessed. Real people picked up off the street, torn from their lives and repurposed into my machine. Do you know what changed my mind?’

‘It’s…..it’s illegal,’ stammered Japetti. Augustus gave a soft, gentle laugh.

‘What changed my mind,’ said Manya, ‘Is exactly what I told you before. The most powerful art is born from monstrosity, and what could be more monstrous than trapping the essence of humanity in a broken husk that has never felt the joy of being human? Can you imagine it?’ he motioned to the contraption. Japetti imagined every last one of those poor creatures staring down at him accusingly, for financing their blasphemous births. ‘They know only what they feel, with no context for what it is. Their lives are but one long moment, shifting and changing with every press of the keys, all for our entertainment,’ the Maestro finished.

‘Can you imagine for a moment what it would be like?’ asked Augustus, staring into Japetti’s red eyes. ‘Can you imagine what they must be thinking, in their own, rudimentary way? That is art, Japetti, the ultimate violation. Not mere kidnapping, not mere murder, but the violation of a soul, unstained and clean. It’s the frontier that no one has attempted before, and now, I have brought it here for the pleasure of those aesthetes who can appreciate it. To truly drink the nectar of humanity, we cannot neglect the perversity within us all. This sickness of empathy, the deepest of all wounds.’

It was two hours before Japetti finally arrived home, and regardless of what chemicals he filled his veins with, the music of the bodies, their staring eyes and Manya’s blasphemous pride at his abominable art came back to him. In his dreams, the haunting symphony accompanied a parade of mutilated figures, people crying, blushing, screaming, all of them surrounding him and caressing him, calling him their ‘Father.’ They wanted to know if he was proud of their work, the completion of the project that they had been born and lived for.

It was the crying of his baby son that sent him over the edge, or at least that’s what the psychologist who compiled a profile of him post-mortem wrote. Japetti had left a note, as was the custom to explain one’s actions in so traumatic a time, but it had simply been an incomprehensible blur of smudged ink and gibberish. The phrase ‘unstained souls’ had been used many times. No one knew why he had done what he did, but when his wife came home, he was on the bed, gun in hand, brains on the wall.

Augustus Manya’s record, ‘A Symphonic Dissection of the Soul,’ would go on to be a hit with the public, a bestseller within the first week of release. The music on the record, forming one enormous, two hour track, was praised for its realism, and a level of haunting nostalgia that the reviewers never could quite place. Some listeners claimed to have bouts of nightmares after hearing the strange, beautiful melodies, and some had even taken their own lives. Of course this did nothing to quell the mystique of the record, which combined with the disappearance of its creator, made it an instant cult hit.

Manya himself, after the death of Japetti, had become even more of a recluse, and one day, simply dropped out of the public eye. The Company, that produced and published most of the music in the city, had put forth one final record of his works from the start of his career to his disappearance. Allegations of a bizarre instrument that used cloned bodies to produce music were denied fervently, and swept under the rug, though those rare and dedicated collectors of cult music continued to spread the urban legend. How else, they would argue, would Manya have been able to produce such perfect, haunting sounds? Singers would have been listed on ‘Dissection’, which was blank except for the title and name of the composer.

The instrument was, of course, never found, and to this day, Augustus Manya’s old studio, the immense cathedral at the edge of the city limits stands crumbling and empty, stripped of everything of value by the Company, and various hoodlums and looters.

The story goes, if you were to believe such nonsense, that if you listen very closely to the end of ‘The Greatest Works of Augustus Manya,’ you can hear his voice, added to the endless, chimeric melody, of what his greatest fans claim, is the ultimate masterpiece produced by his Clockwork Choir.