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  Brenton looked behind his seat. Mark Olaf, his chief of staff, was standing motionless in the hallway just outside the balcony. Brenton waved him over.

  “Yes, sir?” Mark said.

  “Who is she?” Brenton said, pointing to the veiled woman.

  “I don’t know. She’s not dressed like anyone else here—that’s suspicious. I will inquire.”

  A green glow shone through the pair of AR glasses that Mark Olaf was wearing. He stepped away to go get a closer look at the woman from the ground floor.

  Then the performance started.

  Brenton settled in as the sound of trumpets resonated through MuseFam Hall. He was proud of the synthetic performers as they played through a range of dramatic and energetic sets that would exhaust most human orchestras.

  This sounds great—and the performers aren’t even breaking a sweat!

  About a third of the way into the concert, Brenton noticed some slight tonal variations among the oboes; one synthetic appeared to be having trouble playing. Brenton put on his visor and messaged Mark.

  “What’s wrong with the oboe player on the right?”

  A few moments later, Mark responded.

  “That player is a human performer who we had to acquire at the last minute. Did Rex not inform you?”

  “He did not!!!!” Brenton replied, with several exclamation marks emphasizing the point. He would have to have a talk with Rex: MuseFam’s chief engineer who oversaw this project.

  The next song, “Pictures of the Exhibition” by Modest Mussorgsky, played alongside a synthetic beat. Brenton noticed the conductor had shortened the song to emphasize the string instruments; meanwhile, the clarinets, bassoons, horns, and trumpets seemed to be replaced with more synthetic sounds. He could see the instruments being played, but the added symphonic sound replaced the deep resonance that these instruments typically produced. The show’s sound engineers increased the volume to mask the sound. Brenton wasn’t pleased.

  Rex will answer for this failure.

  The orchestra quickly changed to another song before finishing the Mussorgsky tune; the symphonic musicians just played on without breaks. “In the Hall of the Mountain King” reverberated through the concert hall. Brenton could feel the power of the strings and bass drums. The synthetic conductor swung his baton in several directions so quick that his motions blurred.

  There is no way a human orchestra could keep up with this crazy conductor, Brenton thought. Very impressive!

  After a brief pause, the orchestra began playing Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries.” Once again, the synthetics had a firm grasp on the stringed instruments, and the same intensity that Brenton felt when listening to an all-human orchestra was palpable. The cellos joined in the rhythm. The brass and wind instruments produced a swinging sound, but something still wasn’t quite correct. When Brenton was a teenager, Carol Morris, his mother, had made him attend the Los Angeles Philharmonic several times a month; in retrospect, Brenton was glad she did, because it gave him a tonal reference—and standard—for pieces like “Ride of the Valkyries.”

  Just before the crescendo of the piece, Brenton noticed something different.

  Is that a techno beat? Brenton closed his eyes to concentrate on the music. Yes, that is a techno beat that is accompanying the music—but it seems to fit!

  During the crescendo, the orchestra introduced other instruments not in the original score, weaving them within the piece.

  That’s different. It’s brilliant!

  When the piece was over, the orchestra was treated to a standing ovation. The synthetic conductor bowed.

  “We will take a brief ten-minute intermission. Please ensure that you are back before the orchestra is ready,” the conductor said.

  They pulled the curtain over the stage. Brenton glanced at Tabby. She was still pressed up against his shoulder.

  “Did you like that, my dear?” Brenton said.

  “I loved it. Are they going to resume?” she asked.

  “Yes. They are setting up for the next musical number now. It shouldn’t be long.”

  Soon Mark Olaf returned, carrying a cheese platter, which he laid out for them. Then he opened a bottle of wine and poured two glasses.

  “I’m still gathering info on the veiled woman,” Mark told Brenton, who nodded. Then Mark disappeared again.

  About fifteen minutes later, there came the familiar flickering of lights, and the audience took their seats once more. As the curtain opened, Brenton noticed that the configuration of the orchestra had changed somewhat; a group of singers—all synthetics—had been arranged behind the musicians. The orchestra began playing “O Fortuna,” and the chorus began to sing. Brenton noticed that some of the chorus members clearly looked like robots, as no one had bothered to add skin to their skeletal frames.

  Dr. Howser should have hired more staff to put skin on these synthetics. This is disgraceful.

  They glistened in the light. As the chorus’ tone shifted upward to a more dramatic tone, an eerie sensation of uncertainty washed over Brenton as the robots continued their performance of this dark and dramatic piece.

  After the piece finished, the curtain closed. The audience’s reaction to this was subdued; a few people clapped, which led to some more sporadic applause.

  The villagers seem restless. “O Fortuna” must have shocked them into silence, Brenton thought.

  Moments later, some electric guitars and a snare drum echoed through MuseFam Hall.

  “Are you ready, New York?” a female voice asked, resonating throughout the venue. Many audience members began looking about for the source of the voice.

  “Yes!” several people shouted.

  “What? I didn’t hear you!” Then Ms. Augustine, a famous singer and MuseFam’s most popular performer, sauntered onto the stage. She moved like a human but was synthetic.

  Almost everyone in the audience leaped from their seats; Brenton smiled as a booming roar erupted from the crowed.

  At this moment, he also received an on-screen notification from Mark Olaf.

  “We know the veiled woman as the Goth Queen. She is the owner of at least two all-human clubs in New York City and is the suspected leader of the Purists.”

  “Track her,” Brenton replied.

  “Roger,” Mark confirmed.

  “Let’s hit it,” Ms. Augustine said.

  Then the curtain separated, and her band started as she danced on stage. Brenton could see several flashes of light reflecting from Ms. Augustine’s outfit. You wouldn’t even know that she’d recently been stolen, deactivated, and then resurrected.

  I’m glad that Rex could put her back together again. No one has explained why she disappeared, or how she came back so damaged.

  Ms. Augustine screamed “oooh” and “ahhh” throughout the auditorium; then she started with her usual lyrics about lovers being friends and wanting them all. The tune was catchy and threatened to embed itself into the brains of the audience if they listened for too long—then it ended with an abrupt silence.

  The band was about to resume with the next song, but a few unruly fans of Ms. Augustine jumped onto the stage and started extending their arms toward her. Security intervened and escorted several people off the stage.

  Moments later, the music resumed: a steady beat of drums, followed by an electronic beatbox and synthesizer. Ms. Augustine danced on the stage as she continued to sing about getting guys hot for her. The lights changed to a strobe, which reflected off her outfit like a possessed disco ball. The intensity of the music increased, and Ms. Augustine thrashed as if she were getting electrocuted.

  Then everything went dark. The entirety of MuseFam hall lost power. Not even the emergency lights emitted anything—it was pitch-black. A loud clanking sound emitted from the stage; it sounded like someone had dropped a truckload of metal instruments onto the floor. Some people shouted and others screamed, and the audience began moving in all directions, frantic to get out.

  Power outage? Brenton
thought. This isn’t right.

  Brenton tried to call Mark, but his phone was dead.

  A low humming sound seemed to be coming from everywhere. Then the emergency lights turned on, emanating a soft green glow. Brenton’s stomach turned, bile stung his throat, and he stopped himself from losing his lunch. Tabby suddenly slumped over in her chair.

  What the hell is going on? His mind raced.

  The green glow of the emergency lighting system shone throughout the auditorium, and the view from the balcony appeared to be that of pandemonium; it was surreal. The situation reminded Brenton of an old horror movie where a bloodied girl trapped and killed her schoolmates using telekinetic powers.

  Then his nostrils were assaulted with the smell of charred electrical equipment.

  Did a power transformer explode? Where the hell is Mark?

  Several members of the audience were screaming. Brenton noticed that the entire robotic orchestra was slumped over or lying on the stage. The few human players were scampering over the remaining robots, trying to escape. The eerie green hue was cast over the lifeless bots. The scene unnerved him. He saw Ms. Augustine lying in a crumpled heap with smoke rising from her body.

  Then he looked over at Tabby. She was motionless, slumped over in her chair.

  “Tabby, wake up, dear,” Brenton said, panic rising in his voice.

  Tabby was silent. A dark liquid ran from her nose.

  “Tabby?” Brenton said.

  He gazed into the vacant eyes of the woman he’d once loved, and then dared to love again. A single tear appeared on his face.

  “Boss, you need to have a look outside,” Mark Olaf said in a breathless voice as he ran onto the balcony.

  “She’s gone,” Brenton said, staring at Tabby.

  Brenton had barely heard the man’s approach. Mark put a reassuring hand on his boss’s shoulder, trying to provide some comfort.

  “I’m sorry, but you need to see this. We’ll fix Tabby.”

  Brenton got up, kissed Tabby’s forehead, then followed Mark down a dark hall. They were in a crowded lobby. Several synthetic guards and theater personnel lay dormant on the floor.

  Moments later, Mark and Brenton were outside. From his vantage point, Brenton could see smoke billowing from several areas beyond Central Park.

  The city is burning!

  CityWide Concert, MuseFam Hall, July 4th, 1:11 p.m.

  A car pulled up to MuseFam hall, and Grace—the Goth Queen—cracked her window. People were lining up outside MuseFam Hall.

  “I guess the doors haven’t opened yet. What time is the concert, Barry?” Grace asked her driver, who was also her close associate.

  “The concert starts at two,” Barry said.

  “What time do the doors open?”

  “Thirty minutes before the performance.” He laughed. “Hey—it’s not like in the old days, when I worked as a backstage helper. I could get you in anywhere.”

  “Get Scotty anywhere, you mean. I just tagged along as his little sister.”

  Barry laughed. “Yeah, but you were cute, so I didn’t mind.”

  Grace smiled at the memory.

  “I don’t want to wait in the heat,” she said. “I have a reserved seat. Let’s take a drive around Central Park.”

  “You got it, Queenie,” Barry said.

  Grace only let her closest of friends call her that; everyone else knew her as the Goth Queen, and most people didn’t know her actual name.

  Grace’s visor—which was built into her black veil—chirped. It was her brother Scotty.

  “Hey, Scotty, are you ready for the big show?”

  “I think we need to ask ourselves if Alice is up to replacing the failed module in the E-Bomb.” Scotty’s tone was unimpressed.

  “Did you give her clear instructions?”

  “Yes, and her AI should be able to help too.”

  “Then it sounds like you have everything under control. Alice will not let you down. She’s done an amazing job as the Emissary of the Purists. We’ve grown our ranks by hundreds in a matter of weeks.”

  “She does have a talent for inspiring people,” Scotty observed.

  “It goes beyond that—an Emissary has a special connection to music and the people whom it affects. No machine can ever do that,” Grace said.

  “Well, Alice only has five minutes to get the hell off that roof once I’ve activated the module.”

  “I have faith in Alice, and so should you.”

  “You better get inside—the show is about to start,” Scotty said.

  Barry was pulling up in front of MuseFam Hall again, but Grace noticed a line of cars ahead, and none appeared to be moving.

  “What’s going on, Barry? What’s up with all the traffic?”

  “I’m checking . . . According to the live news feeds, Brenton Morris just arrived.”

  “Send the feed to my visor,” Grace said.

  Moments later, Grace saw something that caused her to lose focus. Her mouth became parched; she realized that it was wide open.

  “Is that Tabby?” she said, aghast.

  Grace’s mind was racing. Tabby’s supposed to be dead. What has Brenton Morris done?

  “What did you say?” Barry asked.

  “Tabby—or someone who looks like her—is next to Brenton Morris.”

  “Who’s Tabby?”

  “Roxy’s sister, and Brenton Morris’s dead ex-girlfriend.”

  Grace texted Scotty the news feed information via her visor’s text interface.

  * * *

  Scotty,

  See what you can find out about the woman next to Brenton Morris.

  Grace.

  * * *

  Scotty’s reply was swift.

  * * *

  Grace,

  I’m aware. I’ve been watching from my loft. Nigel’s friend provided the camera feeds for the outside of MuseFam Hall. A browser search has revealed this woman has been with Brenton Morris for at least a month, according to press photos.

  Scotty.

  * * *

  Grace shook her head in disbelief. Then she looked at MuseFam Hall as Barry drew closer.

  “Good, the doors are open,” Grace said. “I need not ruin my dress by sweating all over it. Let me out here—I will walk the rest of the way. I will call you after the show, Barry.”

  Grace had a contemptuous feeling as she watched crowds of reporters and other onlookers make way for Brenton and Tabby as they entered MuseFam Hall. All of this was very surreal to Grace, but she was used to the strange.

  Barry gave her a wave in response.

  Grace exited Barry’s hearse-like vehicle, careful not to snag her dress. A wave of heat assaulted her.

  I hope it’s air-conditioned inside.

  A guard stopped her at the entrance.

  “Show your face, please.” When Grace didn’t respond, he continued, “For identification?”

  Grace pulled up her veil. The guard scanned her face with a handheld device that resembled a light stick.

  “Enjoy the show, Ms. Vanderbilt,” the guard said.

  As Grace made her way to her seat, she could hear the instruments being tuned and noticed the curtain moving every so often as the orchestra prepared. She had a seat in the middle row, near the front. From her vantage point, she could see the entire stage and had views of several of the balconies. She put her veil back on and scanned each balcony. Moments later, she located Brenton Morris above and to the right.

  Need to keep you in sight.

  Her visor chirped with a text message from Scotty.

  * * *

  Grace,

  I have scanned the face of the woman in question and got an identification for Tabitha Eaton. Roxy Andrew’s sister!

  Scotty

  * * *

  Now that she had confirmation of Tabby’s identity, a wave of dread washed over her. She didn’t even want to know how that was possible.

  After the first set of classical music was finished, the conductor an
nounced a brief intermission while the orchestra got prepared for the next set.

  “What’s happening with Alice?” Grace texted Scotty.

  “I’m watching Alice replace the module, shouldn’t be long now,” Scotty texted back.

  “They are setting up for the final set now,” Grace said.

  About fifteen minutes later, Ms. Augustine entered the stage and started engaging with the audience.

  “Are you ready, New York?”

  “Yes!” the audience screamed.

  Grace was replying to Scotty using the eye tracking and response optimization methods built into her visor as Ms. Augustine took the stage. She was aware of Ms. Augustine’s presence, but wasn’t prepared for the crowd’s response. It was thunderous. As soon as Ms. Augustine took the stage, everyone near Grace rose and started dancing around and on the seats.

  The person next to her—a man with salt-and-pepper hair—leaped out of his seat and started dancing. It was erratic, and he almost smacked Grace with his flailing limbs. She noticed that he had several cybernetic implants on and around his face.

  Perhaps those implants are making this guy crazy. Grace scowled. This music . . . makes me sick.

  Synthetic zealots and robots surrounded Grace.

  I’m glad I wore my veil. Communications to Scotty should go unnoticed.

  Then the lights and music went out; screams and clanking sounds seemed to be coming from everywhere. Something heavy fell on Grace’s lap. It was pitch-black for several moments.

  Was that the E-Bomb? What fell on me? Why aren’t the emergency lights coming on?

  Soon the soft green glow of the emergency lights came on. She had a feeling of dread as she stared into the lifeless eyes of a synthetic that had collapsed on her. The guy with the cybernetic implants was screaming and holding his head. Grace’s dress ripped in one spot as she broke free of the fallen bot. Several long moments later, after pushing through the panicking crowds, she found herself outside. Billows of smoke rose high above the trees as she gazed over the horizon into Central Park and beyond.