Ensemble

by D. B. Goodin

  Charlie tugged on Alice’s hand. “It’s time.”

  “Charlie, wait up,” Alice said. “A word, please?”

  “Okay.”

  Alice followed Charlie into a side room and closed the door. They were alone.

  “What the fuck is going on, Charlie? I wasn’t expecting all these people, let alone having to go and speak on stage,” Alice hissed.

  “Lawrence thought you could help,” Charlie said.

  “Help? With what?”

  “A lot of our members have received offers—like, stacks of cash—for helping MuseFam. They’re having trouble with some of their robots—something about not being able to play any instrument requiring lung capacity. They are hiring humans to fill in those gaps.”

  Alice laughed. “So, let me see if I have this right. They need humans to help them teach robots to breathe?”

  “Something like that. Roxy called this gathering to ‘rally the troops,’ which you are good at. Charisma comes easy for you. You give people hope, Alice.”

  His words stunned Alice. No one had ever said that to her before. She thought of herself as rather average.

  “Come on, they’re waiting,” Charlie urged.

  Alice followed Charlie to the primary stage. A band appeared to be finishing a song. They waited on the side of the stage. Alice looked over the crowd. She saw people she knew, such as Mr. Wash and the Goth Queen, and many others she did not. As the band finished their song, the lead singer approached.

  “It’s all yours, dude!” A tall, skinny man with overlong blond hair and a beanie hat said to Charlie.

  Once the remaining band members had left, Charlie climbed onto the stage and took the mic.

  “We’ve gathered you here today for an important announcement,” Charlie said while motioning for Alice to join him.

  Alice climbed onstage. Even with the lights bearing down on her, she saw dozens of people staring at her. The club was large enough to hold at least a hundred people. They were all staring at her. She felt like a tennis ball was growing in her throat, and her mouth was dry. She licked her lips as she stood next to Charlie.

  “I have it on good authority that the mayor has decided on a bill that affects us all,” Charlie said. “The Alternative People’s Equality Act requires all venues, including clubs, to accept all patrons, human or not—”

  “What? That’s not right!” someone yelled.

  “Not if we take them out,” another person said.

  “Emissary, enlighten us with your wisdom,” a booming voice said.

  Alice thought she recognized the voice. Is that Lawrence?

  She looked, and a tall bald man dressed in a robe with several beaded necklaces approached the stage. He was holding a guitar.

  “The Abbott has spoken!” Charlie said, pointing to Lawrence.

  The crowd cheered.

  I guess this crowd knows Lawrence!

  Lawrence raised his guitar as he took the stage and started strumming a tune. He started singing a song that Alice didn’t recognize; it sounded like a country song.

  What musical genre is this? Country? Western? Both? No—it’s bluegrass! That’s it!

  The lyrics were also foreign to Alice; from what she could discern, it was a song about a truck driver being thirsty. Lawrence was playing a country tune to a bar full of rock and rollers. The tall thin guy with the beanie from the last band entered the stage with an electric guitar. The sound changed; it became a combination of heavy metal and country. The skinny guy started singing alongside Lawrence, who was still singing about driving and drinking, and having a splendid time while the skinny beanie-hat guy was singing about a bandit. Somehow, the duo complemented each other’s talent well. When Lawrence changed the tempo, the beanie-hat guy compensated for it. They finished, and then Lawrence and the beanie-headed guy took a bow. The audience went wild.

  Another wave of exhaustion enveloped Alice; she felt as if she were watching someone else control her body. Alice turned to leave, but before she could, Lawrence pointed at her. She heard her name being called from around the stage.

  Are they chanting?

  In a daze, she recognized the distinct sound of maracas and tambourines. The chorus of chants grew louder. It sounded like: “Hey . . . hey . . . hey . . . Al . . . ice . . . hey . . . hey!”

  Alice went and stood next to Lawrence and the guy in the beanie hat. More exotic sounds emanated from other instruments off stage. Looking into the crowd, she recognized the old man and the children from the train station. She remembered their names. Bart, the old man, was playing an Egyptian oud; Crystal, the girl who took away Alice’s headache, was shaking her maracas. And there was Jake, playing his kazoo, and Roberta, tapping her tambourine. The children followed Bart onto the stage. A steady drumbeat started toward the back of the stage, Alice followed the sound and two drum kits were playing in unison. One of the drummers had long white hair and a long gray mustache. The other drummer was a teenager. The sound was hypnotizing and unique. The crowd kept chanting as the group played in a wide circle, with Alice, Lawrence, and the beanie-hat guy in the center. Suddenly invigorated by the energy in the room, her exhaustion gone, Alice began dancing in place. Lawrence joined in. The ensemble played like they had been practicing together for years. Nobody missed a beat. When the song ended, everyone cheered. The mood in the club was exhilarating.

  The spotlight shifted to Alice. Lawrence moved and adjusted the standing microphone so Alice could speak without trouble. All activity seemed to cease as Alice began speaking.

  “Hey, guys, I’m not sure what to say.”

  “Is it true that you can spot artificially generated music?” a man asked.

  “Help us hack the robots!” said another.

  Lawrence stepped closer to her again.

  “Let’s approach this like a town hall meeting. Can someone bring us some handheld mics and two chairs? Think of this as a fireside chat . . . without the fire,” Lawrence said, chuckling.

  A moment later, two lounge chairs and the microphones appeared. Alice and Lawrence faced each other. Alice could see Donato on the other side of the stage; she gave him a smile. He returned the pleasantry with a grin that reminded Alice of a proud father.

  “Alice, would it be all right with you if I took this opportunity to interview you in front of this lovely crowd?” Lawrence said.

  What’s Lawrence up to?

  “Sure, Lawrence,” Alice said.

  “Where you from?”

  “I’m from Newark, born and raised.”

  Alice heard a few cheers.

  “Why did you drop out of the music program at Columbia?”

  “When I first entered the music program, they promised I would study under music legends such as Jerry Pizzelle. As for the program’s second year, I was told I could pick the classes I wanted. And then Mr. Pizzelle dropped out, citing creative differences with the school. It took a while, but I tracked down Jerry. He was reluctant, but he answered my questions.”

  “Jerry Pizzelle of the Appreciative Deceased?”

  “Yes, that Jerry,” Alice replied.

  Alice could hear some murmurs from the crowd.

  “What questions did you have for Jerry?” Lawrence asked.

  “I asked what the ‘creative differences’ were. At first, he gave some vague answers about not being able to teach because of some new rules the school was enforcing. After more probing, he revealed that because of increased demand in the music program, not every one of his students would be able to work directly with him. The school wanted him to help MuseFam train the robots how to compose music. I think the process was called supervised learning. He refused to give me any specifics on how that training was done.”

  “What did you do after that?”

  “I researched more about the robots. It surprised me how much information was available, even just using my visor’s basic internet browsing capabilities. Anyway, I found out the Columbia Music Department had made some kind of deal with Mu
seFam. There was even a press release about it. I attended a few classes with the robotic instruction, and my experience was subpar.”

  “What do you mean by subpar?”

  “They programmed the robots to recite the musical theory. Their answers were all out of the textbook. With a human instructor, I would get the benefit of learning about their real musical experiences, but the robots had the answers to the wrong questions—as in, not the ones I was asking. I wanted to know things like what it was like playing with an orchestra, or what it was like when you mastered a tough piece of music. The robots couldn’t answer any of those questions.”

  “From what I was told by your employer, you can detect fake music,” Lawrence said. “How does that work?”

  “When I was forced to practice with the robots, we would practice all the same music I was already playing with actual humans. But the robots would perform them differently. Songs such as ‘In the Hall of the Mountain King’ should be played at 120 beats per minute. The robots seemed to be playing at a higher tempo—plus all the woodwind instruments, like the bassoon, sounded strange.”

  “Strange? Please explain further.”

  “It’s hard to describe, but when a human plays an instrument, it sounds different—almost like the person playing is part of the music. When a robot is playing, it sounds . . . artificial—at least, it does to me, anyway.”

  “Interesting. Several musical experts have been quoted saying there is no tonal difference. How do you explain that?”

  “I can’t, but in my opinion, those people are tone-deaf.” Alice faced the audience. “How many of you can hear the difference?”

  Several hands raised, and Alice could hear muffled sounds of agreement.

  Lawrence also faced the crowd and asked, “Does anyone here doubt that Alice Parsons is fit to be the Emissary of the Purists?”

  After a brief pause, one voice spoke up—a British one.

  “I challenge it,” the person said.

  Alice and everyone else followed the sound of the voice: a short man with a torn T-shirt and cargo pants standing by the stage.

  “Do you doubt her ability to differentiate between artificial and human-generated music?” Lawrence asked the man.

  “I don’t know her. What makes you so sure she knows what she is talking about?” the man asked.

  Charlie reappeared from a side entrance, walking onstage. “I have seen her pick out artificial beats from a rhythm box while a full band was playing,” he said.

  “Wow . . . I stand corrected dude. She is worthy,” The T-shirt man said.

  Everyone in the room began talking at the same time. After a few moments, Lawrence said, “Okay, let’s vote on Alice being accepted at the Emissary of the Purists.” Lawrence put on his visor, then made a swiping gesture. A picture of Alice with a green “Yes” and a red “No” appeared on a gigantic screen behind the stage.

  Lawrence whispered into Alice’s ear, “At the end of the vote, you have the option to either accept or decline the position of Emissary. Before you decide, remember that if you decline the position, you may not be welcome in all clubs—people will inevitably resent you. You can make a difference in our lives, Alice Parsons. You are special.”

  Alice took one more look at the crowd of onlookers. Crystal waved at her. She returned the gesture.

  Do I want this? I like working at Roxy’s. The job of the Emissary sounds crazy, but now that I know some of these people—the Purists—that’s not a bad thing. Time to decide, Alice!

  Several minutes later, Alice noticed that the “Yes” column had 86 percent, with 98 percent of all available votes. The remaining 2 percent abstained from voting.

  “That settles it, then,” Lawrence said. “Alice Parsons is our official emissary, if she wants it. Alice Parsons, will you accept the position of Emissary?”

  The room fell silent. Alice looked out at everyone and collected herself. “Yes, I accept.”

  The room broke into cheers.

  “Alice Parsons, will you speak for the Purists? Will you fight for the Purists?” Lawrence asked.

  “I will speak for, and fight for, our cause,” Alice said.

  The cheering grew louder, and Alice smiled.

  Meanwhile, at MuseFam Headquarters

  Brenton’s personal line rang. He looked at the caller identification; it was Rex from the MuseFam Trenton facility. Rex was MuseFam’s chief engineer, and he had oversight over the M2 project. The M2 project was dedicated to making it possible for the robots to perform music at the CityWide Concert.

  Brenton gazed over Midtown Manhattan as he took the call. He often worked with the lights off, enjoying the sight of the city lights.

  “How is everything proceeding with the M2 project?” Brenton asked when he answered.

  “We have improved strings performance by 50 percent, and brass only a little,” Rex said.

  “What is your confidence that you can deliver an all-bot orchestra in seven weeks?”

  “Zero—we cannot deliver with our current resource allocation, but I’m hoping to improve that.”

  “Care to enlighten me on the plan?”

  Rex paused, as if he was checking to see if anyone was listening.

  “By . . . using the genetic material that Ms. Augustine came from. It is experimental, but effective.”

  Ms. Augustine was a useful experiment, Brenton thought. She proved scientists could merge salvaged genetic material with a robotic host. Rex also implanted some delightful . . . extra features. Too bad we can only get the genetic material from humans—but that makes her so special.

  “Go on,” Brenton said. “I sense some hesitation from you.”

  “The material works, but . . .” Rex trailed off.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s from the same material as your personal project. Since it comes from actual human DNA, and I don’t have extra cadavers lying around, I hope you can understand my position,” Rex said.

  “What’s the status on my personal project?”

  Brenton thought he could feel the man cringe over the phone; he smiled.

  “She will be ready by the end of the week, and I thought since we have some material left over that—”

  “Thought what? You could use my material to speed up the project you are behind on delivering?” Brenton said.

  Rex paused for a moment, then said, “You are correct, I was wrong to assume.”

  “When can I expect delivery?”

  “Does tomorrow morning work for you?”

  “That will be just fine.”

  MuseFam Headquarters, New York City

  Tuesday 6:57 a.m.

  Brenton entered the rear of a brand-new sedan parked atop the MuseFam headquarters building. It was an Aero Nine-Thousand: a new flying car concept from the same South African automaker who had made the Neon Five-Thousand, which Brenton loved so much. The only difference Brenton could tell between the vehicles was that the Aero could fly. He set his portable coffee container in a nearby cupholder and rubbed at his temples.

  I don’t feel so good, he thought. Shouldn’t have stayed up that late! I just need some rest.

  “Mr. Morris, I can see from the itinerary that you have an appointment in Trenton, New Jersey, this morning. Is that correct?” asked the driver.

  Brenton looked toward the driver’s compartment; he couldn’t see anyone. After some maneuvering in his seat, he finally could see the short driver, who was wearing a chauffeur’s hat and AR goggles. Brenton noticed that the man also had a large waxed mustache.

  This guy looks like he walked off a movie set that featured a yellow brick road. He’s small—I bet he’s less than four feet tall.

  “Yes, just try to keep the chatter to a minimum.”

  As soon as the vehicle left the rooftop platform, the driver had to make some evasive maneuvers; several people who had just taken to the skies in their own flying cars were flying erratically. “Whoever certified these numbskulls for flight should lose the
ir job. I think we let these cars back in the air too soon, if you ask me,” the driver said.

  Several minutes later, the Aero Nine-Thousand was flying over the Hudson.

  This ride is too bumpy to get any work done, Brenton thought after trying to write an email on his laptop. He was irritable. And why did Rex call me so late? It’s his fault that I feel tired.

  Brenton watched the sunrise as he let his mind wander to a simpler time.

  * * *

  Los Angeles, California

  June 2045

  Brenton Morris was happy that his freshman year was over, but the summer work that his mother insisted upon was looming. In less than two weeks, just after the Independence Day holiday, he would be knee-deep in study, attending classes at the university. Brenton loathed music theory, but his mother insisted that he learn every aspect of the family business, which involved artificially generated music.

  “To be successful at something, you need to know everything there is to comprehend about it,” his mother would say.

  It’s not that Brenton hated music—quite the contrary. He enjoyed it, but he did not understand how it all came together. He thought it was unnecessary to know how music composition worked at a technical level. Brenton wanted to control a business at a higher level. He figured it would be better to just hire music experts to handle the daily tasks of composition.

  The best part of the summer music program was the venue. Brenton had picked the Manhattan School of Music in New York because he wanted a taste of what it was like to be on his own; the University of Southern California had an excellent music program, but he needed a change of scenery. Little did he know that in less than two weeks his life would change forever.

  4

  MuseFam Research Facility, Trenton, New Jersey

  Tuesday 8:23 a.m.

  Brenton Morris entered MuseFam’s Trenton facility. He had only been here once before, so he accepted another escort by one of his best employees, Dr. Morton Howser. Moments later, Brenton entered Rex’s office, who was looking at various screens that appeared to be floating in front of him. Rex rearranged several groups of information before he noticed Mr. Morris standing nearby.