Ch 9: Unexpected Invitation
~
(David
My home workstation has become the only place where the world feels manageable. Every Infotech receives two “Home Recreation” privileges, chosen by a Supreme Council Representative after an assessment of aptitude and risk. Mine are Chess and Music. Home recreation activities are meant to be simple wholesome pastimes or hobbies, not work-related, something to occupy the mind and provide a harmless outlet for stress. Right now they are the last thin threads of the real me that I’m clinging to. They make me feel normal as everything else, it seems, is unravelling.
Three weeks ago I stopped playing chess against the synthetic opponent. Its perfect play left no room for the little mistakes that remind me I’m still human. And if I made it play “easy”, I could easily tell the difference. So I switched to the “Human Opponent” queue, hoping a stranger’s unpredictable style might give me a feeling of, I don’t know – something. Connection? The chess server reminds us to keep dialogue functional, not social: “Good move”, “Your turn”, a brief acknowledgement of a capture, that kind of thing. Authorized Home Recreation activities are not Social Activities. There are social activities, but I haven’t applied for any of them in a long time. Not too many people do things with each other in person, and the administration doesn’t seem to mind.
Only a handful of Infotechs, and only in the Art Division, have unrestricted access to the Neuro-Sonic Composer (NSC), a suite that links directly to our implants and, with practice, lets one shape the sounds being made by the virtual instruments using non-verbal thought. Because I’m not a member of Art Div, I had to submit a formal request and undergo a brief Secur-Intel review. I don’t know what the security review could be looking for; I think they just see it as a little odd if someone like me wants to dabble in music. It’s not the kind of thing people in my profession normally get involved in. But anyway that was years ago.
It was back when we had to work with the older tech to make sounds. I got pretty good enough to have fun at it. I find the newer tech a bit harder to work with because the endless possibilities can cause a kind of creative paralysis. Yet the new tech is more fun.
As I moved up in seniority, the Residential Council assigned me this noise-proof apartment with thick concrete walls that don’t vibrate even with the lowest frequencies of sound. I’ve enjoyed it here ever since. I can use real loudspeakers and blast away right down to 20 Hz if I want, and my neighbours can’t hear a thing.
The Holy Living Recreational Council labels my music sessions as “research-only”. It’s a narrow permission with a suite of tools that’s limited compared to what the real artists get. And I’m not supposed to release anything broadly to the public, but obviously I don’t care about that. My “music” is too shitty for that.
But still, my NSC clearance grants me access to this technology most of my peers have never even heard about and frankly wouldn’t care about if I described it. Most people don’t know that practically all the music they hear is created this way, inside the machine interface, sometimes guided only by our thoughts.
It’s a bit silly – because it’s “research”, after each session I have to submit a brief “report” that I know no one will ever read. I just leave two or three words like “brutal atonal tantrum” or “terrible honking noise” or something like that. But to me, secretly, the NSC is my own private artistic endeavour, and an escape from reality. And practically speaking, no one knows about it. That’s what I love about it. This secret escapism is probably a transgression, but I don’t know if it would be considered a serious one. I don’t care. It’s worth it.
Sitting in front of the display, I close my eyes, let the implant sync up, and the world contracts to a singular focus: the sound-canvas.
I think of entropy in waveform space, and the idea that a sound can be made to decay into randomness while retaining a hidden structure that some imaginary listener might decode. I imagine a lattice of micro-tones, each one a fraction of a hertz apart, flickering in and out of existence like fireflies in a night sky.
The NSC seems to wait until I imagine something that makes some kind of sense to it, or to me I guess, then it begins to respond, generating a cascade of clicks, glitches, and metallic resonances that interlock in irregular, non-repeating patterns. When I get something interesting, I can sort of freeze it and make it loop, bring it in and out of the composition while starting a new part. It’s ridiculously fun and absorbing. And it’s active, it’s me doing it. I try to surprise myself. I could just sit here and do this until I die.
The first interesting snippet erupts: a staccato burst of high-frequency chirps, layered over a deep, throbbing sub-bass that I can feel in my chest. The timbres are alien, a collage of fragmented textures, and chords that never resolve. I make a long loop of that. I can hear in my mind what needs to go in next, and the sound appears if I get it right. As the piece unfolds, I feel the music wrap around my consciousness, pulling me into a vortex of synaesthetic colour. I briefly imagine someone trying to figure out the time signature of these rhythms, and laugh. It’s a total mess but it’s fun.
I am escaping from the overwhelming, nameless problem that is destroying my life.
But lately, each time I slip into a creative flow, an uncomfortable sensation follows. The moment I lose myself in the process, I feel prickly sensations inside my body. My implant throws a soft warning to my display: Physiological stress detected. Take a break. If I continue, the prickling intensifies until it is a burning sensation first in my chest, then in my forehead, then throughout my body. I’m thrown out of the creative flow. This disturbance happens again no matter how many times I try to get back into it. I can’t help wondering if this is somehow related to my other problems. But that would mean deliberate human-directed intervention. Or automated surveillance of my neuro patterns?
No. That’s paranoid. If I mention this to anyone it would sound crazy.
I wait for the burning sensation to subside and I try again to ease into the music. Some beautiful sounds are beginning to emerge as I exhale and drop my shoulders.
Suddenly a crisp notification pops up on the display and my eyes re-focus. It’s a forward from Finn, the chess opponent I faced earlier. The message is stark and devoid of pleasantries:
Art Division will host a showcase tomorrow evening. All creators with access to the latest NSC modules are invited to attend and may present their work. Attendance is mandatory for those in receipt of this invitation.
A sudden cold dread descends through my body. My heartbeat spikes briefly in a raw fear response. Isn’t this coincidence a little too precise? Finn doesn’t know about my attempts at making music. I’m a hobbyist, granted limited access for private research; I’m not part of Art Div and I’ve never been invited to something like this. The invitation arrives while I’m immersed in my music. The network can always see what I’m doing, but other users can’t. My mind is racing.
Okay, wait. This is just Finn, my new chess buddy. My private network would definitely not be available to him. But it feels as if my session was being monitored. Why? Is someone messing with me?
Abject paranoia tells me conclusively that this is some kind of trap. It’s a way to expose my transgressions or set me up somehow. But a more pragmatic voice reminds me that refusing a “mandatory” invitation would technically be defiant and could trigger a review of my conduct.
No. I’m just being paranoid. It’s because of not sleeping, and everything else that’s been happening.
Just reply, say yes, go to the event, it’s just a concert, it’ll be fun. Just reply like a normal person. Being a normal person is good.
I don’t know what to do. I’m feeling terrorized by a fucking text message.
Lying awake in my bed, I replay all these events in my mind. The unsettling sensations during my musical flow, the odd invitation. Why am I so paranoid?
Eventually, a half-conscious decision forms: I will attend. Ignoring the message would be seen as weird. I’ll go, just observe, and if things get weird at least I’ll be expecting it. Maybe this “Finn” character is part of this torture experiment. God I declare your help, these are crazy thoughts I’m having.
I close my eyes. Fragments of my alien-sounding composition are still echoing in my mind. I take comfort in the idea that I’m still able to create something truly strange and, I think, beautiful, that maybe only I can understand. Maybe someone will understand me.