The Dark Symphony

dining at the low Oriental table in the Chinese Room, sitting on plush pillows of synthe-foam. Tapestries imitating ancient Chinese threadwork hung about the walls, giving the room an exotic and at once close and comfortable feeling. The robot orchestra stood before them, its intangible, swirling color body pulsating with every possible hue and every reasonable shade as the music throbbed full-bodied from it. To himself, Guil sang the words that went with the tune:
    Who rides so late through night and wind?
    It is the father with his child.
    He holds the boy within his arm,
    He clasps him tight, he keeps him warm.
    "
My son, why hide your face in fear
?"
    "See, Father, the Erlking's near.
    The Erlking with crown and wand
…"
    His father spat out an orange seed that went spinning off the plate, across, the table and onto the floor where the pin-point waves of the sonic-sweeper disposed of it instantly. He swallowed the juicy segment. He had been dispensing his advice, some useful, some ridiculous, ever since they had sat down to eat. "Rely on your sound-sedative whistle more than your gun, Guil. That always impresses the judges."
    "The judges are romantic fools," his mother said, arguing as she always argued, pouting her pretty mouth and launching into the start of a disagreement. She knew that his father was the boss, in the end, but she enjoyed seeing how far she could push before having to make up to him.
    "Exactly," his father said, trying to escape bickering this special night. "The judges are romantic fools, and only an equally large fool would not use that knowledge to his benefit."
    Guil was paying only half attention to his father, the other half of his mind trying to think of the words to the song the robo-orc played and wondering what it was that Rosie had planned for the following day, the thing that was upsetting the hunchback so much that he could not even sleep properly.
    "Dear son, 'tis but a misty cloud."
    "Ah, sweet child, come with me!
    Such pleasant games I'll play with thee!
    Such pleasant flowers bloom in the field,
    My mother has many a robe of gold …"
    Could Rosie be giving up without a fight? It was possible to forego the tests completely, to admit defeat even before you had been tested. You were given a sedative and carted away to the disposal furnaces just the same— but you didn't have to sweat through the chores in the arena. Was that what Rosie had in mind? No. That was not Rosie's way. His entire life had been a continuation of proofs of himself, an effort to show all that he was more than they were, worthier, able to accomplish more. He would not just give up, throw everything away without a fight—not after all these years of fights.
    "—you would use it against?" his father finished asking.
    He swallowed a lump of cheese and washed it down with wine as he sorted through the half of his mind that had been paying attention and tried to find what his father had asked. "First my whistle. Then the sonic-knife. If neither worked, I would use my sound-rifle as a last alternative. The judges frown on using the heaviest armament first."
    "Very good," his father said. "Didn't you think he was good with that one?" he asked Guil's mother.
    "Umm," she said, nodding, not particularly interested.
    "Now," his father began, "the next thing—"
    "Oh, father, father do you not hear
    What the Erlking whispers in my ear?"
    "Be still, my child, be calm;
    Tis but the withered leaves in the wind
…"
    "Now, Judge Scarlatti is an egomaniac. If you are chosen a sextuple—"
    His mother shifted, sighed. "The boy told us he was only a Class IV."
    "Damn it, don't undersell your son! He—"
    "He is a Class IV," she said, sucking on a plum. "He is a Class IV. Building hopes will only lead to—"
    "Oh Father, Father see you not
    The Erlkings daughters in yon dark spot?"
    "My son, my son, the thing you see
    Is only the old gray willow tree
. . ."
    "The robo-orc swirled colorfully with the sinister music of
Der Erlkonig
, and Guil suddenly realized that there was something in this song applicable to the Coming of Age Day ritual. Usually, their dinner music was light, airy, nothing at all like this. So there must be some reason for the change. He concentrated on remembering the last lines as it drew to a close.
    "I love thee, thy form enframes my sense;
    And art thou not willing, I'll take thee hence!"
    "Oh Father, Father, he grasps my arm.
    The Erlking has done me harm!"
    Strange
, Guil thought.
It is a very