Archform Beauty

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Archform: Beauty

  Archform: Beauty Series

  Book I

  L.E. Modesitt Jr.

  For Tom Doherty, the most underappreciated man in publishing

  “Great art is beauty.”

  “An elegant solution is beautiful as well.”

  “The beauty of words is lost behind the power of image.”

  “The beauty of politics lies in how effectively power is shared and transferred.”

  “A good family is a beautiful one.”

  ARCHFORM: BEAUTY

  CONTENT

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 1

  Vienna, 1824

  As the last notes of the orchestra fade into oblivion, the audience surges to its feet, the applause thundering across the hall.

  The tottering, wild-haired conductor remains facing the orchestra, as if afraid to turn, until the concert master, tears streaming down his cheeks, steps forward and takes the conductor's arm, guiding him to face the audience. The conductor finally smiles as he takes in the ovation he can see, but not hear.

  But the smile that crosses the creased and pallid face is part joy, part wonder—and part horror that none recognize or sense but the conductor, who is also the composer. Both horror and wonder are lost in the applause that storms across the city, an applause that is darker than the night outside, an applause for music that casts a shadow far wider than any know and for far more years than any could guess.

  Chapter 2

  Cornea

  Synsil looked at me over the music stand that she always set too high, every Tuesday, as if to erect a barrier between us. Her singlesuit had a pattern of angled stripes of cream and blue that made her look thinner than she already was. Her eyes were dark brown, like a cow's, almost ready to fill with the tears that her pride and family background wouldn't let her shed. After only a semester of teaching her, I was more than a little tired of her need to always save face. She shook her head slightly, and her bobbed black hair shivered.

  "Synsil," I began slowly, standing up from the piano bench and moving away from the antique Stein way, "you have a good instrument, but singing is not just talent. If you want to be good, you have to practice more. You have to practice the way I've shown you." It was almost hopeless telling Synsil that, but I had to try.

  "Professor Cornett… I do try. It's just not fun." She rushed on before I could say a word. "I used to look forward to singing at the Academy. Now, it's just work.”

  "Anything you want to be good at takes work," I pointed out. "Singing's no different.”

  She looked at me, with that stubborn expression I'd come to know too well, and said, "If singing isn't fun, maybe I shouldn't keep taking lessons. It's not as though I could really make a living at it.”

  I made a living at it, and so did others. That kind of a living was a lot better than settling in as a corporate sariman, no matter how high the pay and benefits were for multilateral servitude. "I do, but if that's the way you feel, maybe you shouldn't.”

  "You do rezads. That's not the same.”

  "It is the same.” I was trying hard to be patient when I really wanted to strangle her. "I couldn't get work if I couldn't do exactly what the studio wants vocally. I only get a few minutes to study the music before each session. You can't do that unless you understand music and your voice.” When she didn't say anything, I added, "I also get gigs as a classical singer.” Those were almost all art song recitals for one filch or another in southside. Those recitals were a matter of prestige for the filch, because you can't rez art song. But it paid, and paid well, if infrequently, and those were the nights I really enjoyed, because I could make beautiful music. I wasn't going to try to explain that. You can't explain beauty to people who don't feel it.

  "My father says that old-style singing will be gone soon.”

  "People have been saying that for almost three centuries, ever since the electronic age began. Almost three thousand years ago, Aristotle wanted to get rid of the singers and poets.” I smiled. "We're still here.” Still trying to bring beauty into a world that seemed to want less and less of it.

  "You should talk to my father.”

  That was the last thing I wanted to do. "You need to decide what's best for your future, Synsil. Your parents can't live your life for you. What do you want?"

  "I always thought I wanted to be a rezpop singer. Or maybe rezrom.”

  "Do you like Elymai?" I asked. Most of the younger students soaked in and praised the romantic resonance slop that Elymai put out—I had a hard time calling it singing.

  "She's good.”

  Synsil was wary. That I could tell.

  "She has the same kind of background I do. It's hard to get where she is without a good education and training. If you want to be that good, you need to practice. You need to practice the way I've shown you.” I paused, then added, "It's up to you.” I kept my eyes fixed on her. She needed to know I was serious.

  After a moment, she looked down. "I suppose I should practice more.”

  "If you don't, you won't have a chance to find out if that's what you want to do.” She might not anyway, but now wasn't the time to get into that. She had to get serious about something.

  My words brought the hint of a thoughtful expression, but all she said was, "I'll see you next week.”

  I looked at the back of the door after she left. Then I took a deep breath. I wondered why I bothered. I knew why. If I didn't, who would? Yet, did it matter whether classical singing remained alive in a culture where music had become ever more amplified, modified, synthesized, and simplified? Where it was on the brink of being able to mold emotions, whether or not the listener wanted to be molded? It mattered, I told myself—for about the fiftieth time since Monday.

  Then, my internal links told me that I had five minutes to get to my class. I slipped on my blue jacket and picked up the datacase in one hand and my notes in the other. I closed the door to my office, such as it was, and walked down the corridor. I kept a slight distance from the students as I slipped past the choral room where Jorje's Modern Choir was still practicing. Thankfully, when I went by, they were doing a Vaughn Williams piece—traditionally. I had to grit my teeth when they did Bach with resonance, and that was minimal rez. But the audiences loved it.

  Tuesdays and Thursdays were my longest teaching days. Each had two student lessons, and
an hour and a half section of Music 101B—The Understanding and Appreciation of Music.

  I slowed behind two tall figures, listening.

  "… Nayad said she sings rezads for her cake…”

  "… Chorima was going to take lessons from her, till she found out she doesn't teach rez stuff…”

  "… still not understand why they make us take the course. Most of it's boring…”

  "… no one listens to it… except the last weeks. Actually talks about rez music…”

  "… bet she doesn't know all that much…”

  "… Chorima said she does…”

  I kept a smile to myself as I followed them into the lecture hall. I remembered Chorima—a tallish Asian girl. She'd actually done well in the 101 class the semester before.

  As he took a seat in the lower tier, the dark-skinned and more angular student—Ibrahim D'Houd—glanced back as he realized I might have heard his words. He smiled nervously.

  I returned the smile, then stepped behind the podium console. I laid my notes on the top, open to the first page, and slipped the databloc into the slot. If I'd wanted to, I could have programmed it to play from my office console, but that was wasted time, so far as I was concerned. The university didn't pay me enough for that extra time.

  I just stood there until quiet settled over the lecture hall. It didn't take long.

  "The results of your tests are in your personal files, in case you haven't checked. Most of you did well. A few of you still don't seem to understand that you need to study.” I scanned the faces in the tiered seats of the hall. With more than a hundred students there, I still didn't know all the faces. I shuddered to think what it would be like if I had the two hundred the hall could hold. "Do any of you have questions about the test?"

  There weren't any, but there usually weren't. Those who had questions either saw me after class or asked them over the link.

  "We're going to be hearing and seeing a symphony from one of the great composers who bridged the Classic and Romantic Periods with his music. Just as Bach might be considered the father of the fugue, this composer might be considered the father of the modern symphony. The symphony we're going to hear is generally considered a Classic symphony, although the third movement is scherzo form, rather than minuet, and foreshadows the changes in the symphonies to come…” I could tell I'd lost them and glanced around, picking a sleepy-looking face in the fourth row—one I knew. "Daffyd? Do you know who the composer is?"

  "Beethoven,” he replied.

  "That's right. We'll hear parts of his Ninth Symphony next week, and you'll be able to hear the difference. Now… listen.”

  The databloc held videos of the Nyork Phil performing Beethoven's Fifth. Even though the holoviews alternated between players and pan shots of the entire orchestra, which just showed instrumentalists playing, I'd found that the students didn't listen as well or hear as much if I only played a straight audio. They had to watch something to get their ears working. Music by itself meant nothing to most of them.

  After the selection ended, I waited a moment before I began to speak. "The first four notes of what you heard—da-da-da-dah—in a way they were used as an early form of resonance music. Not when they were composed, but later.” That got a few puzzled expressions. I waited before I asked, "Does anyone know when?"

  "Weren't they some form of code in the First World War? At the beginning of the InfoRev?"

  "Not exactly. They did have something to do with war and symbolism. Can anyone else tell me when and how?"

  The vacant faces showed that they weren't about to provide an answer.

  "During the Second World War, the British Broadcasting Corporation prefaced all its foreign language old-time radio broadcasts with those four notes, as a symbol of victory. Those four notes also represent the letter 'V in Morse code. So that the physical impact, as well as the meaning, make the 'V for Victory' notes one of the first documented uses of resonance. A limited form, certainly, but…”

  So far, so good. No one had fallen asleep. Not yet, anyway. I hated to think about their reactions when I got to the later composers—like Barak and the five-part archform structure he'd invented and used for his Concerto for Orchestra.

  "… next week, we'll get to another composer whose music was also used as the basis for early resonance motivation… For now, we'll look into the structure of the late Classic symphony, the way it evolved from Mozart onward…”

  I flipped my hair back from my face, and from there I went into examples of development, with short excerpts from various works, mostly Mozart, since he was the most regular.

  All the time, I kept thinking about Synsil, and her comments about making a living as a singer, because I hadn't been totally honest. She had been partly right about it. Except for the handful of high opera singers kept by the old Met, the Kirov, and the Royal Opera, most of us had to use our abilities in a scattering of fields—from rezads to the occasional art song gigs to teaching. And the teaching positions got fewer and fewer every year. I was lucky to have gotten even a solid adjunct position at UDenv. But it did allow me to keep singing… and making beautiful music.

  I smiled and said, "The next excerpt is from Mozart's Haffner Symphony. He wrote this symphony in less than two weeks in 1782, yet some scholars think that it is technically one of his best…”

  As I activated the databloc, I couldn't help thinking that Mozart hadn't had it all that bad. He didn't have to have his compositions tweaked electronically for cheap emotional effects. Also, he'd only had to please one patron.

  Chapter 3

  Chiang

  I stepped into the Department foyer off the underground garage. Like everything in DPS, the foyer was done in muted gray and forest-green. Smelled like pine, roses, with an overtone of oil. I released the hold on the gate-keeper, could feel the rush of data pouring into me, then the priority override.

  Lieutenant Chiang! Captain Cannizaro wants you soon as you're on duty.

  Even on link, I recognized Sarao's voice and back-linked. On my way.

  I took the ramps briskly, didn't run. Stopped running through the Department years ago. Didn't seem to matter. Street's the only place to run, and only there if you've frigged up bad.

  Never open your links to your work until you're there. You do, and you work all the time. Learned that one the hard way a long time back. One day, linked into main ops, and caught an allpers alert. That was the beginning of the Tularo Trouble. Before I could unlink, Cannizaro caught me on-net, called me in. When I got back home a week later, Catalya was gone with the twins. Might have been better if I'd been like Ahmed. He spent a month in rehab. Family clustered all around, worrying. Me, I came home tired to empty rooms.

  Catalya had gone back to Porlan, left a note. Said when I wanted to give up the Department she'd be there.

  VRed her, and we had talked. She wouldn't budge. I don't like ultimatums. Never did. Figured that if I gave in on that, I'd be giving in on anything. VRed the twins every night till they grew up and went off on their own. Estafen's still in Porlan, but Erek moved back to the east coast. Still VR them, more like once a week, now. Think they're beginning to understand, but you never know.

  After that, Cannizaro insisted I go trendside. She'd just made lieutenant, then, insisted she needed someone like me. Guess she was right. I made sergeant along the way, then lieutenant four years ago, when she took over the Department, and I got her old job.

  Someone had to put the trends together, study all the facets, try to figure out what was going to happen before it became too big. That lesson, we learned from Tularo. In Denv, that was me. Lieutenant Eugene Tang Chiang.

  Official title was Trends Analysis Coordinator. Had just six people under me, but the job was a lieutenant's because the trends head has to have had street time and credibility. Need that to brief the District Coordinator and his staff, work with the SocServ types, and hold the right kind of chill in dealing with the media netsies.

  Didn't take me long to get
to the captain's office. It was on the third level, overlooking the square, with the old state capitol to the east and the dozen remaining dinosaur towers to the west, all set in the middle of the Park. Lots of trees and green grass. Grass was green, even in winter.

  I stepped into the office. Captain had done it in light blue, with darker blue trim. Very restful. She'd paid for it from her own pocket Most of the other offices, mine included, were off-white.

  "Close the door.” Those were Cannizaro's first words.

  I dropped into the ergochair at the corner of her desk console. Captains and lieutenants were the only ones who rated desks. Couldn't have been more than a half dozen in the building. Then, outside of the dispatchers, there weren't much more than a dozen bodies there at most times. Patrollers and dets don't do much good if they're not out on the street. The netops people were all in the annex, on the other side of the garage. I couldn't take that, patrolling the net for scams, larceny, and general misreps. Did it in training, long years back. Understood the need, but hated the job. Even hated analyzing their weekly reports. Didn't miss a word, though. Couldn't afford to.

  I looked at the captain.

  She didn't look like a Cannizaro. Except in her eyes, a penetrating black. Thin long face, squarish body, short blond hair, worry lines running from the eyes that had seen too much. "Chiang…”

  When she used my name like that, it wasn't good. Meant trouble in Denv. I waited.

  "Your weekly report…” That was all she needed to say.

  "Something's going to happen.” I shrugged. "Can't say what. Start getting upticks in the little stuff… ODs, car delinks, TIDs… always happens before something breaks. Lot of upticks, too many for coincidence.”

  "District Coordinator Dewey is up for reelection. He's got an opponent with creds. Unlimited creds.” Cannizaro's voice was flat.

  Dewey had always supported the Department, even when no one else had, even as far back as Tularo.

  "He's being opposed by Jared Alredd. Son of Aylwin Alredd. The younger Alredd claims the Department lets matters get out of hand before acting. Old broken windows school.”