The Music of the Machine (The Book of Terwilliger 2)

by Michael Stiles

  The walls were painted in a jarring shade of yellow, with a work of art hanging over the desk that looked like it had been painted by a trained elephant. On another wall there hung an ornamental sword in a jewel-encrusted scabbard. Beneath the sword there were two gold records by Nightfinger artists, each record mounted in a frame next to its album cover. Sarah examined the one on the left, an album called Pegasus that featured its namesake animal flying over a fanciful landscape of clouds. She wasn’t sure if Pegasus was the name of the album or the band. Maybe both.

  “Wonderful record,” a man’s voice said from behind her. She spun around, startled, and found herself facing a tall man in dark glasses who was smiling at her enigmatically. He was young, no more than thirty, but he had the air of someone much older. His voice was deep and confident. “Sorry to scare you. You must be the new A&R Assistant. I’m Ron.” He held out his hand.

  Sarah shook it. “Sarah,” she said. “I’m a little jumpy today.”

  “Holy cow, your hands are cold. Don’t worry, you’ll do great. Welcome to Nightfinger Records.”

  “Thanks. I was just looking at these―”

  Ron smiled proudly. “That’s all the gold records we’ve got so far. We’re a pretty new label, still finding our way. Pegasus was the first Nightfinger band to hit it big. Susie, the singer, she’s such a sweet girl. Real pretty and innocent, you know? The band’s only so-so, but a great singer can make all the difference.”

  “I don’t think I’ve heard of them,” Sarah said.

  “You will. That group is going places, you just watch. And Nightfinger will be a household name. Everyone will be touched by the Nightfinger. Why are you laughing?”

  She bit her lip to stop herself from giggling. “It’s just… well, it’s sort of a goofy name, don’t you think? Nightfinger. It sounds dirty.”

  Ron threw his head back and laughed deeply. “Oh, girl, you are a riot! You’re gonna get along just great here!”

  Judy returned with Eileen Powers. “I see you’ve met Mr. Nightfinger,” said Eileen.

  Sarah felt herself turning red. “Oh,” she said. “Oh my goodness.”

  This made Ron laugh even harder. “Goofy name!” he cried. “I can’t argue with that, babe, it’s about the goofiest name I ever heard! What do you think, Judy?”

  The receptionist smiled. “No comment, Ron.”

  “Yeah, I thought so. Maybe I’ll change it. What’s your last name, Sarah?”

  Sarah was eyeing the exit, but she decided it would not do to flee in humiliation just five minutes into her first day on the job. “Blake,” she said.

  “Miss Blake,” Nightfinger replied, suddenly not laughing anymore, “you’ll have to lie better than that if you want to work for Lester Myles. What’s your real name?”

  Her new name was her new life. She didn’t want anything to do with the life she’d left behind. But they were all looking at her, and she didn’t know what else she could do. “Greenbaum,” she said quietly.

  Nightfinger nodded. “You can use whatever name you like. I’m going to be putting a lot of trust in you, and I need the truth at all times.”

  “Miss Blake,” said Eileen Powers, “come on back with me. I’ll introduce you around. Thanks, Judy. Ron.” Nightfinger gave Sarah a smile and a nod. Judy beamed, showing blindingly white teeth.

  Sarah followed Eileen through a tightly-wound maze of cubicles and offices. “He seems… funny,” she said, intentionally leaving some room for interpretation.

  “Ron? He’s a hoot. We only see him for a few days every couple of months. He’s on the road most of the time. Leaves most of the day-to-day stuff to me. We always joke that he’s holding down some other job, sales clerk at Macy’s or something.”

  “Will I be meeting Mr. Myles today?”

  “Not today. Lester’s out in L.A. for meetings until the end of the week. He travels quite a bit, too. Lester is the head of A&R—do you know what that is?”

  Sarah shook her head. They hadn’t gotten into many of the details of the business during their last conversation.

  “Artists and Repertoire. He’s responsible for scouting talent, signing new acts, keeping the artists fat and happy. Unless they start losing us a lot of money.” She nodded in greeting to two people who passed them in the hallway.

  “What does he do then?” Sarah asked.

  Eileen drew a finger slowly across her throat. “Figuratively speaking,” she clarified.

  They passed a closed door with the name LESTER MYLES printed on it in gold letters. “That’s his spot,” said Eileen. “And this is yours.” There was a desk just outside Lester’s office, already decorated with a vase of pink flowers. “Just to brighten up the place,” added Eileen. “He brought those in for you, along with this.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a thick folder full of papers. “Some bathroom reading material.”

  Sarah took the folder in both hands. “What is this?”

  “Contracts he’s working currently. Notes on unsigned acts he’s interested in. Publisher agreements. Lester wants you to understand everything in that stack by Wednesday morning.” She opened a deep drawer on the other side of the desk. “Do you have a quality stereo system at home?”

  “Ed’s got one.”

  “Good. Homework. You’ll need to listen to these.” Sarah looked in the drawer. Inside was a box full of records—both 45s and long-playing records. “Lester wants you to be familiar with every one of our artists. There are some demos from new acts in there, too.”

  Sarah took out one of the records and examined it uncertainly. The band was called Sister Chlamydia. On the cover was a steaming bowl of opaque green soup with some black hairs floating in it. The title was printed beneath the picture: Hitler Soup. That did not sound appetizing. “I don’t know much about music,” she admitted.

  “Well, it’s time to start learning. Lester’s a music guy. A lot of the new A&R men are business guys, not music guys. The business guys are searching for another act that sounds just like the current number one. They want to sign the next Beatles, the next Guess Who. Music guys are different. They aren’t looking for the next anything. They’re looking for firsts. Get my drift?”

  “I think so.”

  “Lester isn’t satisfied scouting out a bunch of sound-alike groups. That’s the path to mediocrity as a label. What he’s after is a new direction, something original that no one else is doing. That’s why most of our talent will be unfamiliar to you. Most of our acts will never take off because they’re too different from the norm. But the ones that do… they’ll change music forever. That’s how Nightfinger will make its mark on the industry.”

  “Everyone will be touched by the Nightfinger,” Sarah said. She turned over the record in her hands and looked at the list of songs printed on the back cover. There was a picture of the band too, a group of long-haired men standing, with their instruments, chest-deep in a swimming pool.

  “Also,” Eileen added, “anything you take out of here is property of Nightfinger Records. Top secret. Do not let anyone else get their hands on any of those records, or you will be in serious trouble.”

  “What about my—what about Ed? It’s his stereo.”

  “That’s not a problem. But no one else. And please tell your husband the rules, too.”

  “He’s not my husband,” Sarah said.

  “Boyfriend?”

  She thought about that. “I guess that’s what he is.”

  Eileen pulled out Sarah’s chair for her. “Better get to reading. Oh, and Judy will be booking you a ticket to Tampa for next Monday. Mr. Myles has some tapes he needs hand-delivered. We never mail things. Personal relationships are everything in our business.”

  Sarah was scanning the top paper in her folder. “Okay. Tampa.” Another moment passed before her mind processed this bit of information. “Did you say Tampa?”

  Eileen nodded. “Tampa. Monday morning, meeting starts at ten.”

  “How long will I be staying there?”
/>   “I believe we’ve got you staying overnight and flying out the next morning.”

  “Oh.” One day didn’t seem too bad. “That’s fine.”

  “After that we’ll have you flying direct from Tampa to Memphis. There’s an entertainment law firm out there that Lester wants to be on good terms with. You’ll be meeting with them and delivering a draft agreement Lester’s been working on.”

  “Memphis?”

  “Memphis. Don’t worry, Judy’s a whiz with the travel arrangements. First class all the way. She’ll keep you comfortable. Just give me a call when you arrive in Tampa, so I know you got there.”

  “But…” Sarah couldn’t think of a thing to say. She’d signed her life away without knowing the terms of the agreement.

  Eileen was giving her a stern look. “I did tell you what Mr. Myles’ expectations would be. Go where he needs you to be, do what he needs you to do. And I told you it wouldn’t be easy. Didn’t I say that?”

  Had she said that? She probably had. Sarah smiled, took out the first document from her stack, and started reading.

  * * *

  Rachael Greenbaum was shopping. She didn’t particularly love shopping, but it was better than being stuck at home with her mother. Her mother was crazy. So every Sunday afternoon, when Rachael couldn’t take her mother’s complaining anymore, she would grab her purse and get out of the house for as long as possible.

  Today she was caught in a dilemma, trying to decide between a pretty plaid skirt and an equally pretty red one. Normally she would have chosen the third path, which would be to buy both. Her mother didn’t care; they had enough of Daddy’s money in the bank to buy all the plaid skirts and all the red skirts and all the shoes Rachael could possibly want. But her wardrobe had expanded beyond her bedroom closet into Sarah’s closet, which her mother had emptied out a few weeks ago when she’d finally resigned herself to the reality that Sarah would not be coming back to live there anymore. When her mother had noticed that Rachael was using her sister’s closet, she had gone bonkers and insisted that Rachael control her spending. That didn’t mean that she had stopped shopping; it just meant that she had to be a little more choosy.

  She looked closely at the plaid skirt again. The fabric was soft, and the colors were just right—blue and black with a tiny bit of yellow. It wasn’t as short as she would have liked, but it was short enough. That was the one. Returning the red one to the rack, she picked up the blue plaid one and carried it to the register. The sales clerk was leaning against the counter and buffing her nails. A hideous chick she was, with an ugly little upturned nose and a long pink scar running down her cheek. Rachael felt sorry for ugly people. You couldn’t tell them you felt sorry for them, because ugly people got resentful when pretty people pointed out that they were unattractive. But still, she felt sorry.

  Rachael plopped the garment down on the counter and opened her purse, but froze when she noticed something awful. The ugly cashier was wearing the same plaid skirt.

  The cashier looked down at the skirt on the counter. “That’s a nice one,” she said.

  What to do? There was someone else in line behind her now. Rachael had to either buy it or make up an excuse to change her mind. “I was thinking I might get a different one,” she said, “now that I see it in this light.”

  The clerk looked up at Rachael’s face. Her eyes went wide and her breath caught in her throat. “You,” she growled.

  Once again, Rachael had put her foot in her mouth. She needed to stop doing that. What had she said wrong? Some people just took offense at everything. “Oh, I didn’t mean… That is, it looks just fine on you. I just think it might not look good on me.” That didn’t go over very well either. The salesgirl seemed more upset than before.

  “You!” she bellowed. Rachael backed away from the sudden fury in the woman’s eyes. The cashier grabbed a wooden hanger and brandished it like a club. “You think you can just waltz in here and look down your nose at me? After doing this?” She pointed at the scar on her cheek.

  Rachael closed her purse and edged toward the door, casting a longing glance at the plaid skirt that still lay on the counter. The woman behind her in line dropped her merchandise and hurried out of the store. The cashier, wielding her hanger, came around the counter and approached Rachael with murder in her eyes.

  “What on God’s green earth is going on here?” A slim man in an expensive pin-striped suit and a wide pink necktie was hurrying up to the front of the store from somewhere in the back. The salesgirl shied away from him and hid the hanger behind her back. Rachael thought he must be the manager. “Margaret, were you just shouting at this customer? Do we shout here?”

  “Shoplifter!” Margaret exclaimed. “She was trying to leave with that skirt!”

  The manager went over to look at the garment on the counter. “She doesn’t look like she’s trying to leave with it,” he observed.

  “Well, she’s not trying to leave now,” said Margaret. “But you should’ve seen her a minute ago.”

  The man gave Rachael an appraising look. He put his hand on his hip and looked her up and down, tsk-ing softly to himself. “Is that a real Gucci?” he said.

  Rachael looked down at her purse. “Yeah,” she said self-consciously.

  “And those shoes,” he said, half to himself. “You’re no shoplifter, are you, Miss—?”

  “Greenbaum,” said Rachael. “No, sir.”

  The cashier, Margaret, was turning red with fury. Her whole face was crimson except her scar, which stayed the same light shade of pink. Looking at that scar made Rachael’s stomach feel queasy. “I promise you, Mr. Billings, she was up to no good.”

  The manager gave the cashier an icy stare that only a profoundly homosexual man could pull off. “No more of that, Margaret,” he said. “You let Miss Greenbaum pay for her skirt and be on her way.” To Rachael he said, “Sweetheart, we’ve got that same one in a plain red. Red would suit you much better.”

  “Thank you, but I’ll just be going,” said Rachael.

  “Don’t be a silly goose,” said the manager. “Hand me your credit card, honey. I’ll ring it up.”

  She was eventually able to make her escape from the store with both skirts for the price of one, looking back over her shoulder to see if the crazy chick was following her. As a result, she was looking the wrong way when she bumped into the big man on the sidewalk.

  “Excuse me,” the man said in a rumbling baritone, picking up the shopping bag she had dropped. He handed the bag to her with a big, friendly smile. Rachael looked up to see him towering over her. He had to be close to seven feet tall, and his afro added another foot.

  “Sorry,” said Rachael as she edged around him. As she walked away, she glanced back and saw the nasty sales girl glaring at her through the store window.

  8

  The Breaking of the Society

  On Sunday night, Big John stayed awake long after most of the men had gone to sleep. To anyone who looked in on him, it would appear that he was relaxing in his bed and staring at the ceiling. What was going on in his head, though, was far from relaxation. He was going through thought-drills, executing his plan over and over in his head to see what might go wrong. He was imagining the various disasters that might happen, and how to survive them. Most importantly, he was masking his thoughts from anyone nearby who might want to eavesdrop.

  He had seven men. Only seven, against twelve who would probably side with Arthur. Of the remaining nine, two were not in the house that night and the other seven could go either way.

  It was something Arthur himself had said that had helped to solidify John’s plan. We don’t cut off the arms, we seize the head. That was Arthur’s plan for dealing with Urizen. But John would use it against Lord Orc himself.

  At exactly two o’clock, he got out of bed—still fully dressed—and went downstairs. He turned on the light in the upstairs hall as he passed through. That was a signal for the others. Then he opened a high cupboard, took out a hat he
had made ahead of time out of aluminum foil, and put it on his head to hide his thoughts from Arthur more effectively. His other men would be doing the same.

  Besides Arthur and John himself, three men wielded the majority of power in the Society. Lloyd Bowers, the ex-biker who resented John so much for the way Arthur trusted him. Kevin Larson, who had been with Arthur almost from the beginning. And Jason Lingelback, who had risen far in the Society’s ranks in the short time he’d been a member. All three of these men had to be dead before sunrise for John’s plan to work. That job belonged to Litton and the others.

  Arthur was John’s own responsibility, and the most important one. If he could defeat Arthur, he could convince most of the men to follow him. He would have to lie to them, convince them that Arthur was not truly the Orc of the prophecies. Some would believe that. Others would be afraid to suggest otherwise.

  The truth was more complicated than that. John had read the contents of the Society’s library a dozen times over. Prophecies by Blake, writings by William Butler Yeats that examined Blake’s writings in great detail, essays by Aldous Huxley. All of these writings made reference to something critical that Arthur had overlooked: Rintrah.

  Rintrah was mentioned more than forty times in Blake’s writings. His role in the pantheon varied between Blake’s early and later work, but John’s studies had led him to two unavoidable conclusions. First, that Orc, if not stopped, would succeed in overthrowing the oppressor Urizen and would form an empire that was worse than what he’d replaced. Second, that it was up to the Sons of Los to prevent that from happening—to break the Cycle for good. Los, the Eternal Prophet, was a creative force in Blake’s writings—the smith who was said to have created all life on earth. Rintrah, the first of the sons of Los, was a prophet whose anger burned against the oppression of Urizen. After months of painstaking research, John had come to the unavoidable conclusion that he was Rintrah reborn. And only the Sons of Los could overthrow Urizen without creating a new iteration of the Cycle. He had wanted Ed’s help in this, had thought Ed would take his side, but Ed had vanished after the incident in Canada.