Ch 12: Music Showcase

~
(David

Today I parsed a dozen cryptic Prophetic utterances and instructed my small team to produce scenario simulations the Administration will rely on to keep policy in line with the Supreme Council’s shifting doctrines.

But a weird rumour is now swirling through the Central Data Hub. I heard it from one of my juniors who found it hard to believe and came straight to me about it. Someone has whispered that I somehow accessed classified pre-war archives that are only available to officers from Security-Intelligence. There is no allegation that I leaked or misused information, just that I looked at it. It’s not true; there’s no record of such access, it’s obviously not even possible, and I obviously would never do such a thing.

I do get leniency, special clearance actually, with accessing materials that could be considered to breach the heresy and blasphemy laws, because it’s part of my work. But somehow breaking in to classified Secur-Intel files? Totally impossible.

I can’t imagine why someone would say something like that about me. It would be funny, if it weren’t about Secur-Intel matters. Secur-Intel, and the people who work there, are never, ever funny. Going to them, except maybe through direct report channels, is right out of the question. No one wants to deal with those guys.

I weigh my options. Reporting the gossip to our Data Hub Manager, Stefan, might help. I’m one hundred per cent certain that if he’s heard the rumour, he doesn’t believe it. But bringing it up with him would just put a spotlight on it, as if there’s something to it.

I stare at my display as it fades to grey. I decide to give it a day to decide what to do. I close my workstation.

The new mag-lev transit pod network takes me home from the Central Data Hub every day. The pod platform is at ground level. When it’s busy, the pods arrive and depart in a constant stream, so no matter how many people are waiting, they can all grab one within a minute or so.

As I arrive on the platform, I see a number of people waiting. Their wearable holoscreen pendants are projecting social feeds, news, music videos, or movies in front of their faces. Everyone wears the pendant now. You can barely see anyone’s faces anymore, as they’re all staring at the screen in front of them. People have developed a skill of looking through their holoscreen so they don’t trip over things, but there are still occasional stories of someone stepping front of a truck or falling down a flight of stairs. I don’t like having the screen in front of my face all the time. I think it rots people’s brains. I wear the pendant but I make a point of keeping it turned off unless I need it.

My pod glides out of the Hub. Outside, I look at huge buildings displaying scrolling war propaganda interspersed with quoted verses from the ancient Manifested Gods texts. My personal feed pings; it’s another terse message from Finn.

Reminder: Music showcase tonight. Attendance mandatory.

The pod glides to a stop and the doors open. I step onto the promenade, right next to my block.

My apartment is not exactly luxurious. One room, low ceiling, small galley kitchen, separate bathroom. A window looks into a narrow atrium which provides a bit of light. My home workstation and my bed dominate the room. My workstation is the only thing in here that looks up-to-date.

I wouldn’t change this setup for anything.

I set my bag down, reach for a nutrient cube from the kitchen, crack it open and bite into it. It has a not-unpleasant bland taste. A bit of salt would be better maybe. While chewing, I pull up the news feed. Headlines and talking heads scroll: Supreme Council declares new harvest quotas. Front-line supply logistics 3% more efficient. Terror attack on civilian worker village. Citizens urged to support the war effort at this critical time.

Between the updates, a bass-heavy track from my workstation tickles my ears at a low volume. It’s an experimental fragment I generated earlier. It’s got these micro-tonal blips that to me feel like a machine dreaming. The sound is a brief escape from the day’s tension. I start to drift into the sound and in my mind I’m hearing what I need to add next.

A prickling sensation runs along my scalp and into my forehead. I close my eyes and let the dissonant sounds wash over me. I feel the tension ease for a moment. I have to get ready. I rise, head over to the shower, pull off my gear and then let the warm water flow over me. Steam fogs the glass. What do I even wear to an Art Div shindig?

I go with my usual charcoal-gray “casual” suit jacket. It’s my guess, undoubtedly wrong, at the prescribed attire for the evening’s event. I don’t mind dressing like some kind of professional management type. You don’t have to think about what to wear. I honestly don’t care if I stand out from the artistic types who will be there.

I exit the pod in the Cultural District. The venue is a refurbished warehouse building that used to be a high-end bar and restaurant, that now hosts some of the Art Division’s showcases. As I step through the doorway, a woman greets me. She’s dressed in what I would call a super stylish outfit, I guess, classic Art Division. Kind of fun to see all this. She looks beautiful, to be perfectly honest. Almost like one of the BuilderHelper girls. I declare you will forgive me Lord.

“David? Oh, welcome, David!”, she says, addressing me like an old friend she hasn’t seen in a while. Ok, she’s clocked me on her private feed. Noted. An air kiss on each cheek, then, “Please follow me, we’ll get you a good seat.”

She gestures to a BuilderHelper server, an elegant young woman dressed in the black skirt and white top of a server. The server smiles politely, only briefly making eye contact then looking down.

“Sir, this way,” she says, moving away. She moves as if she might flow into a pirouette instead of walking – the embodiment of her class’s engineered elegance. She leads me to a corner table that offers a clear view of the stage. Another server appears with a tray of tall and short glasses of water.

“Hello, beer, wine or spirits to start, Sir?”

I have never tasted an alcoholic beverage.

“Uh, pardon? Oh, uh, yeah beer is good thanks.”

“Mild ale? Crisp lager? Heavy stout?”

“Uh, pffff, um ale please.” I have no idea.

A pint glass full of water is placed in front of me along with a neuropak.

“Enjoy, Sir. We’re just over here if you need anything.”

I look around to see other people drinking so I apply the neuropak, let it sync up and take a sip. So this is the taste of a traditional beer. I think this is the old English style of beer I’ve read about in culinary texts. A faint fizz tingles on my tongue. As it goes down it’s bitter and slightly sweet and delicious and it leaves a surprisingly pleasant aftertaste. I feel the urge to laugh but instead play it cool. I probably look like an idiot but I don’t care. I’m pretty sure the drinks are complimentary.

And then this warm, relaxed, safe feeling spreads through my shoulders and into my chest and then and up into my mind. Who was it who said beer is a gift from God? I get it now.

An even, steady sound of low conversation and clinking glasses fills the room. The atmosphere feels intimate, almost reverent. I’m looking around for somewhere to let my eyes land. Hey, I see another guy who looks like me – not quite middle aged, ok middle aged, business casual professional type. We both laugh, I point at him, he raises his glass, like we’re fellow party crashers. I note the sleek design of the stage: a raised platform surrounded by a lattice of fibre-optic cables that are pulsing gently, complementing the low music and ambient lighting. A sleek console stands at the centre. It already seems alive, with a faint holographic panel above it. But there’s no music yet.

A slender figure steps onto the stage. This would have to be a senior member of the Art Division. I can see her implant glowing faintly in the dim light. With a smile she raises a hand, and the room falls silent.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome”, she begins, her voice amplified. Tonight we’re very proud to introduce the Synaptic Resonance Interface, or SRI.”

Some light applause and hoots from the audience.

“Unlike the Neuro-Sonic Composer many of you have all used, the SRI couples directly to the listener’s auditory cortex, I mean auditory and visual cortex, via a bidirectional synaptic link.” She’s reading from her comms tablet smiling like she’s speaking a new language. “It translates complex algorithmic textures into neural impulses, allowing the user and the audience to experience sound as pure perception, bypassing the ears entirely.” The crowd murmurs. “There is physical sound that any listener can hear, if desired, but being linked to the SRI gives you the full internal experience. There is also optional, controllable interaction with the visual cortex, for the performer and the audience, or for groups of users. You can watch the performance and the sound at the same time, alone or with other people.”

The crowd responds again, more enthusiastically. One table cheers loudly and draws attention to one embarrassed looking older man. I’m guessing they’re the devs.

“Yes, there’s Mr. Beck right there, and his team of mad scientists, and special thanks to our sound designer for tonight’s performance, Lana Borisova.”

Applause for the inventor and the artist.

She’s gesturing at the console now, and a holographic diagram unfurls above it.

“Each of these little nodes represents a neural transmitter, each linked to not only our local network and your implants, but also to a wearable cranial band our servers are bringing to you now. There will soon be a version of the headwear that is much smaller and more discreet. This goes straight to your brain, folks.”

Everyone is putting on their bands. One guy pretends he’s having a seizure and everyone laughs.

“I haven’t turned it on yet, silly. The SRI can render micro-tonal structures, stochastic rhythms, or dense harmonic layers, or structured melodic music and beats, pop melodies, whatever you can think of, in real time, if you’re using it in Producer Mode, or actually I’ll be in Performer Mode tonight. All of you, the audience, are going to be in Live Listener Mode, like a live audience experience. The SRI adapts to each listener’s neural signature, to ensure a personalized experience, or a completely consistent experience if the artist intends that. So the experience can be shared amongst a group. What you will hear is more than just music, but the music is central. It’s a direct dialogue between algorithm and mind. I’ll be interfacing physically with the SRI using my hands. Hand control is optional in Performance Mode and adds a performance element. Different artists – or you researchers out there – will use this differently. You can watch me perform, or you can allow the SRI to take over your visual cortex, or both. So, here we go.

“And by the way this system is not appearing on the open feeds yet, so you won’t be able to share your creations in real time for a little while yet. When that is ready you won’t need the headgear anymore, and listeners will not need any hardware. So in that sense the SRI is really for the artists, not so much for the listeners, yet. But we’re hoping that the music will speak for itself.

And, um, the visual aspects of this tech are actually not completely understood yet? Is that right, developers?” She looks over at the older guy, Beck, and he nods and shrugs, laughing.

“Ok, our mad scientists need to do a little more work on that. So you’re our guinea pigs tonight!”

The audience hoots and claps.

The lights turn down low and the room gets quiet. A murmur ripples through the crowd. I feel a familiar anticipation mixed with a cautious dread. This technology is way beyond anything I’ve accessed at home, and I’m concerned about the horrible physical sensations that appear when I get lost in the sound. The coincidence of the timing of the invitation, the bizarre rumours about me at work, are gnawing at me. It all adds up to this feeling of vague paranoia. I take a larger gulp of my beer.

The stage lights dim, the SRI goes dark and then slowly lights up. Softly, the first wave of sound begins. What unfolds is an intricate tapestry of shimmering arpeggios and resonant drones and evolving melodic motifs that are infiltrating my consciousness rather than my ears. Her music is more lyrical and complex than my private experiments, but it has that otherworldly texture I try for. The audience’s faces are serene, some with eyes closed, as the sound weaves directly into their minds. Some of them are reaching out with their hands. Some are laughing.

I’m feeling gentle pressure against my temples. The experience is immersive. I’m hearing the composition, but I’m also feeling its contours, as if the music is alive in my mind. Something like dreaming? I’m watching the performer on stage. Shapes and strangely nostalgic images are emerging from her hands, or is it from my mind? Wait, are these childhood memories? That’s what it feels like. But no, the images are actually the sounds. There is no way to describe this. My paranoia is fading, replaced by awe.

The piece comes to an end and the performer stands back and looks at the audience with a huge smile. The lights rise slightly, and applause and shouts fill the room. I sit back, the lingering resonance fading slowly. I realize we were listening for about 30 minutes.

The greeter walks by and offers a polite nod. I glance at the server and the greeter does the same with quick head movement. The server strides over, smiling, and I’ve got another beer in front of me. I realize how unusually well I’m being treated. I wonder whether my invitation was some kind of mistake. My daily world is one marked by professionalism and decorum. My work sometimes feels creative, but usually is rather administrative. It could never be described as fun. It’s nothing like this.

Most of the guests are filing out the door. I take a sip of my beer, which I again decide is the most delicious thing I have ever tasted. I’m determined to finish it before I leave. As I set the glass down, a young man, mid-twenties, slightly built, lanky, a stack of data pads tucked under one arm, slides into the empty seat across from me.

“You should have kept your King and Knight close together,” he says, staring straight at me with his head tilted.

“Pardon me?” I reply, a hint of amusement in my voice.

“Your endgame against my Rook I mean. You could have played for a draw or maybe won. That’s why I beat you…I think,” he grins. “I studied the replay.”

We share a brief laugh. He extends a hand. “I’m Finn, I work in the administrative side of the Art Division. Mostly I handle scheduling and resource allocation for the showcases. What do you do? I never asked.”

I shake his hand, which feels slightly soft and clammy. “David. I handle, uh, I translate, uh, Prophecies and do, like, scenario simulations? To design policy for the ministries in accordance with the Supreme Edicts, you know?”

Why do I feel embarrassed about this?

Finn’s eyes narrow in fascination. “Whoa…so you know all that Kabbalah Gnostic shit or whatever. Sorry, I mean you interpret the Prophecies.”

“It is certainly not Cabala – what the – how do you know about that?”

“Er, I don’t know, or I just like doing research I guess.”

“Research is one thing, but that is like, where did you…I don’t want to know. Just be careful how you talk about it. You don’t even know me. Do you understand the blasphemy laws? Oh God, sorry, yeah, of course there’s some mystical elements, Prophecy and all that. But it’s more like policy work. I’m a technician. It’s complicated.”

“Is all that stuff real though? I mean do they believe it themselves? Like, no disrespect but…”

“I said you need – to – watch – how – you – talk - about it. I’m not kidding.” I catch myself pointing my finger at him and immediately feel embarrassed. I’m an academic, not a fundamentalist. “Sorry, what I mean is…”

Finn waves it off. “Yeah yeah, ok sorry, no problem, it’s ok man.” He leans in, lowering his voice just enough to be heard over the dwindling chatter. “Hey man. Things are gonna get more interesting tonight. Want to stick around a bit longer?

I glance at the half-finished drink, then back at his eager expression. This kid sees through my facade and he feels safe, which I find ironically reassuring, because it feels real. As he looks at me I’m imagining that he understands me, understands that imposter syndrome is like a professional qualification in my line of work. But at the same time my paranoia is spiking. I force myself to think: We’re just chess buddies. Let’s go with that.

“Alright”, I say. “I’ll stay.”