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  Cyber Overture 4

  D. B. Goodin

  Copyright © 2020 by D. B. Goodin

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction; any references to persons living or dead are purely coincidental.

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  www.cyberoverture.com

  ISBN: 978-1-7334202-9-7 (Paperback)

  Contents

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Continue the Adventure

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by D. B. Goodin

  Preface

  Welcome to the fourth episode of the Cyber Overture series. As you may remember, I intended this series to be short, bite-sized installments that people could read on their lunch breaks. This volume is almost four times larger than Sonorous. At the end of the last episode, the hacker known as Mister K discovers some interesting information about Alice’s family. In short, this episode is more action-packed than all previous episodes combined.

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  I hope you enjoy it.

  * * *

  D.B. Goodin

  August 21, 2020

  1

  New Jersey, Thursday, July 14, 2044

  Hugh Parsons tuned his guitar, waiting for his bandmates to arrive. He felt most comfortable performing this task while standing. His height made him look like a giant on stage. His long curly black hair fell into his eyes.

  The bar was off Route 280: a quick drive from Newark. Of all the bars in the area, Hugh liked the atmosphere of Crazy Ray’s the best. The sun shone through the windows, illuminating the stage in a kaleidoscopic array of light.

  He was still fine-tuning. The strum of an out-of-tune instrument was distressing for Hugh; he took care of all his musical equipment, but his guitar was special.

  Don’t wanna sound like shit, Hugh thought.

  Crazy Ray’s was one of the last venues in New Jersey that embraced humans who played instruments. Many businesses had either switched to robotic DJs or used synthetic instruments, which they leased out like rental cars.

  Hugh looked toward a woman in her late twenties as she approached the stage from the dining area at the back of the bar. She was holding a tray with bottles and other dishes. She gave him a smile. Hugh thought she looked breathtaking with her long wavy brown hair.

  “When’s the baby due?” the woman asked as she held out a bottle. She had to crane her neck to look Hugh in the eyes.

  “Any day now, Linda,” Hugh said.

  He took the cold beverage from her. Hugh savored the sweet, tangy, amber liquid as he finished it in a couple enormous gulps. He handed the bottle back to Linda.

  Hugh started playing an original composition. The chord progression was diverse and complex. He played his guitar with slow, deliberate rhythms that gradually increased in tempo. He closed his eyes, trying to feel the music coursing through him.

  “That sounds . . . great, Hugh. It’s different from all the other bands who play here,” Linda said as she put her tray on a nearby table.

  “Which bands?”

  “They had a strange name—Machinedom, I think.”

  “The Machine Domain?” Hugh asked.

  “Yes, that’s it. What a strange name for a band.”

  “That’s an all-robot band. I didn’t think Ray was keen on letting those in, but the robots are looking more like us with every new model,” Hugh said.

  Linda gave Hugh a thoughtful look. “That is scary in all the worst ways,” Linda said.

  Hugh nodded; he was listening to her, but the music demanded his full attention now. Linda left him as she resumed her work.

  He stared into empty space as the music took him; it was a feeling that was hard for him to describe, but when the moment was right, it was almost as if he were transported into another world. He began strumming with a moderate tempo. The opening melody hung in the air for a moment. Then he changed some chords for variation, but otherwise he held the tune. While in the zone, Hugh often played without the benefit of visual aids such as sheet music. This tune he knew by heart, because he had written it for his baby girl who would be born into the world at any moment.

  The door to the bar opened. Still playing, Hugh felt the rays of warm sunlight as it shone through the door frame. He opened his eyes; a tall, skinny man with an unkempt beard, along with a shorter, stocky, balding man, had entered.

  His bandmates knew better than to interrupt Hugh while he was in his creative mode. The tall scraggly haired guy got onto the stage, sat at the piano, and began playing along with Hugh; the piano and guitar melodies seemed to intertwine. If the sound were a painting, this one would look like a portrait of a green field with yellow flowers.

  The bald man also got onto the stage and took his bass guitar—which had been leaning on a nearby stool—and started playing.

  Then another man entered the bar; his face had several scars, and he was covered in tattoos. He moved directly to the drums. All the band members knew this song well. Hugh had made them all play it at every practice session, but this was the first time live. A full band—with a piano, guitar, bass guitar, and light drumbeat—brought out the song’s full potential.

  When the song finished, Hugh opened his eyes. Most of the bar patrons had stopped whatever they were doing and gave Hugh and his band a round of applause.

  “Thank you—but we’re just getting warmed up,” Hugh said.

  The crowd cheered.

  An hour later, Hugh’s band was in full swing. They specialized in anything with a rhythm and had a vast song selection. Hugh especially liked playing old tunes; he preferred the sound and energy of music from the 1960s. He felt empowered when playing them.

  Suddenly, mid-show, Linda ran from the bar and whispered into Hugh’s ear. He stopped playing.

  “Got to run, boys, I’m late for an appointment to see my baby girl,” Hugh yelled as his eyes glistened with moisture. His smile was infectious. Linda hugged him, and the bald man took Hugh’s guitar and joined in the embrace.

  “Go! We’ll finish here. We’ll catch up with you at the hospital,” the bald man said.

  “Thanks, Lawrence. You’re a good friend.” Hugh ran out the door.

  Empire Diner, New York City, May 30, 2071

  Alice rolled down the window of Lawrence’s Neon Five-Thousand as it passed several closed businesses. The late-night air felt refreshing. Moments later, the top-of-the-line luxury vehicle stopped in front of a diner on Tenth Avenue near 22nd Street. Alice stepped out. She could hear music from the late 1960s pulsating out the diner’s open door. Is that Diana Ross? she wondered. After a brief moment, Lawrence followed. He was dressed in an expensive-looking business suit.

  I’ve missed diner food, Alice mused. Dad used to bring me to places just like this. Her father, Hugh, used to take her to local dives in Newark. She had fond memories of a favorite place called Kip’s. Her father would let her order milkshakes; she liked the strawberry the best.

  Alice was looking forward to gorging herself on Lawrence’s hospitality—especially since her bank account was still frozen.

  “Are you ready to go inside, my dear?” Lawrence said.

  Alice nodded, then entered. As she walked through the diner’s front entrance, the decor inside reminded her of something out of the 1950s; it featured glass
and metal trim, portal windows, and . . . old rock and roll music! She glanced up at a clock on the diner’s wall; the place sure was busy for 11:32 p.m. The waitress seated them at a booth in the back.

  Alice’s stomach grumbled, and she immediately scanned the menu. Alice looked up for a moment and found Lawrence staring at her.

  What’s up with this guy, anyway?

  “Order anything you want, Alice, it’s on me,” Lawrence said. Alice smiled. “You’re probably wondering why I wanted to speak with you.”

  “We’re not on a date?” Alice said as she winked at Lawrence. He straightened his tie like he was on his way to a business meeting. Lawrence didn’t seem to be in the mood for her jokes. “Relax, Larry, I’m just messing with you.”

  “Please, address me as Lawrence.”

  “Sure, Larr . . . Lawrence,” Alice said, correcting herself.

  The waitress came over. She looked like she was in her mid-fifties and hadn’t slept in a week.

  “What can I get you two?” she asked wearily.

  “I will have a black coffee, and whatever she wants,” Lawrence said, pointing to Alice.

  “Well . . . I will start with coffee, and then the lumberjack breakfast, eggs runny and a side of bacon well done with lots of butter for the toast,” Alice said.

  “The lumberjack comes with four strips of bacon, miss.”

  “I know—but there’s always room for more bacon.” Alice chuckled.

  At that, Lawrence smiled and Alice smiled back.

  The waitress collected the menus and walked away.

  “You are a special person, Ms. Parsons. And I don’t think you appreciate how special.”

  “What are you going on about, Lawrence?” After a moment of awkward silence, the waitress dropped off their coffees, then left without saying a word. “When you first met Elias, he thought you were disrespecting the role of the Emissary,” Lawrence explained, recalling that strange night Alice had visited Elias’s—the Reverend’s—tent. “But when he heard you play the chromatic scales, he changed his mind. He told me that he had seen no one play with such passion before.”

  Alice dropped her coffee mug with more force than she had intended. It clanked loudly onto the retro formica coated table. She noticed some looks from people at nearby tables.

  “Music is my life,” she stated, looking right into Lawrence’s eyes, “and it pisses me off when I see companies like MuseFam spewing out thousands of songs, all of which are spin-offs of what humans have composed for thousands of years. The AIs can scan all the sheet music and use whatever algorithms to create new music, but it’s not the same—it lacks soul.”

  Lawrence seemed surprised by her reaction. They said nothing for several moments. Alice realized she was hunched over the table; she leaned back into her seat when the waitress brought several plates of food.

  Wow—that was quick!

  One plate contained a short stack of pancakes, several gooey eggs, burnt bacon, hash browns, and toast. Another plate had a small pile of bacon. The waitress leaned over and whispered into Alice’s ear, “I put a few extra strips of bacon on the plate for you.”

  Alice thanked her and started shoveling food into her mouth. She ate like she was starving.

  “You say that the music lacks soul—can you elaborate?” Lawrence asked.

  Is this guy for real? Alice sighed, then began. “Any trained monkey or robot can try to play a tune, and we will hear sounds. But when someone like Louis Armstrong, for example, plays the trumpet, the sound resonates from deep within him—he plays with passion. When a robot plays, it sounds mechanical, like it’s just going through the motions. It might sound good for some, but not me.”

  Lawrence shot Alice a confused look.

  “Louis who?” he asked.

  Is he serious? How can you own a music club, and not know who Louie is? “He’s only the greatest trumpeter of all time! He died a hundred years ago, and people still enjoy his music. MuseFam did try to clone his music, but the robots cannot play it,” Alice said while pointing a piece of bacon at Lawrence.

  “Well, as I said, your passion for music makes you the perfect emissary.”

  Alice ate the last strip of bacon.

  “Satisfied?” Lawrence asked, looking at the empty plates.

  “You’re right—this diner has a great menu.” Alice leaned back in her seat, the plastic creaked as she got comfortable.

  “As you know, the Emissary has many responsibilities.”

  Alice narrowed her eyes, crossed her arms, and stared at Lawrence. He shifted in his seat and loosened his tie.

  “Pretend I know nothing,” Alice said. “Can you explain these responsibilities in more detail?”

  Lawrence gave her a patient look, considering for a moment. “One of the responsibilities is preserving the sanctity of human culture—and that includes music.”

  Now you’re speaking my language! Alice slapped her hand on the table, rattling the silverware.

  “That’s right!” she said. “For centuries, humans have produced music the old-fashioned way—handwritten, then perfected it using the proper instrument.”

  “Why do you care so passionately if a company like MuseFam produces music using computers?”

  “Nothing—as long as a human creates it. Computers are a tool, and they are great for remastering music, but not for composing it.”

  “Many people would disagree with you, but I think you are sincere. You are probably the most passionate person I’ve met.”

  “I left the music program at Columbia because I had to play with robots,” Alice explained. “I walked out of class one day when a robot I was playing with played a piece of music wrong. Its instrument, a violin, wasn’t even tuned. I reported the incident to the dean, but he wouldn’t listen to me.”

  “Did you drop out?”

  “Out of the music program, yes, but I graduated with a fine arts degree.”

  Lawrence fiddled with his empty coffee cup for several minutes before he spoke. “I have a proposal for you, Alice.”

  Two of those in one day! First, helping Mr. Watson bring down the CEO of MuseFam, and now this. How do I know I can trust this guy?

  “Be careful—there is something off about this guy,” Doris, her AI, said softly. Although Alice’s visor was resting on her forehead, Doris could monitor her conversation via an earpiece.

  Alice gave Lawrence a wary look.

  “Okay,” she asked slowly, “what do you have in mind?”

  “You have already gained the Goth Queen’s confidence, and she doesn’t give her trust easily,” Lawrence said.

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  Lawrence paused, then laid it out. “If you work with us, you can unite the all-human clubs against pending legislation that threatens to force all-human clubs to accept all patrons, including robots.”

  Alice stared at Lawrence for a long moment. Then she narrowed her eyes and said, “They can’t do that. What about the right for owners to refuse service?”

  “I don’t know all the details, but I have it on good authority that this legislation is not only real, but it is being championed by someone you know.”

  “I don’t know anyone—”

  “Before you say anything, you should know that the attorney who filed the motion is Brian Reynolds,” Lawrence interrupted.

  Alice felt like someone had just hit her with a bat.

  Lindsey’s husband? That bastard! “What?” she asked in shock.

  Lawrence let Alice process the information, her mind searching for a scenario where this made sense.

  “How do you,” Alice trailed off.

  “Elias is more than some kook—he’s well connected in the city, and people tell him things. We want to make sure the Emissary has all the weapons at her disposal for the war to come.”

  Alice rubbed her eyes. After several moments, she sighed heavily, as if she were carrying an enormous weight.

  “It’s getting late—I need to
be getting home.”

  “I will have my driver take you wherever you wish, but please consider what I’ve said.”

  Alice nodded, thanked him for the food, and left the diner. She was skeptical about accepting a ride from Lawrence—but she felt dazed. The Neon Five-Thousand was still parked by the curb.

  “Lawrence has instructed me to take you anywhere you want to go,” an enormous man dressed in a suit said as he opened the car door.

  “Penn Station, please,” Alice said.

  “Are you sure? The boss said to take you anywhere.”

  Alice couldn’t think; it was like someone had dropped a bowling ball on her head.

  The headaches . . . no!

  After several moments, Alice got in the car and said, “Yes, I’m sure.”

  The driver got behind the wheel and then looked back at her with a concerned look.

  “You okay?” he asked. “You don’t look so good.”

  “I’m fine—I just didn’t sleep much.”

  Alice watched the sparse foot traffic moving along the city streets as Lawrence’s car made its way to Penn Station.

  About ten minutes later, the driver dropped Alice off near the Eighth Avenue entrance to Penn Station. She barely remembered getting out of the vehicle. Her headache eased a little as she made her way onto the platform for the Newark-bound train. A few people were also waiting nearby.

  She heard music in the distance; it was a guitar, followed by a harmonica. Then a scratchy, older-sounding voice echoed from some place. The voice was male. The acoustics in the train’s area platform made it difficult to pinpoint the man’s location, but he was getting closer.

  Where is that voice coming from? Alice wondered. The ticketing area?