N. A. Vreugdenhil

 

 

Rising in arpeggios, the music swelled upwards.  Again and again the chord pounded, then countered itself with another key.  Back and forth the sound surged, a conflict coming to its conclusion.  In a resounding crash, everything fell into a soothing rhythm as a love movement entered the composition.

As the love progressed, hints of conflict returned.  Every so often, a chord from the conflict theme would appear, threatening to knock the delicate sound of love off balance.  And still it progressed.

Abruptly a new sound appeared; a regimented, repetitive note entered the majesty of the symphony, the previous love seemed all but forgotten as love contested to fight this dangerous new restriction.

Finally, this third movement collapsed into the conflict chords and the entire symphony seemed to jump backwards into a terrible onslaught of music.  This time, when love and regimentation collided in the conflict, the orchestra resolved into a single piercing noise and then all fell away to silence.

One lone note continued to play its melody, its sorrowful melody, as though it hadn’t noticed it was alone.

Michael London remained standing frozen.  The symphony was faded in his head, that sad last tune working its way into his memory.  The glory of music is like none other.  So suddenly had it come to him!  A burst of music in his mind and soon he would record every note into his masterpiece, into his symphony.

“Keep moving, please,” a voice asked politely behind him, but the person shoved him aside with no courtesy and pressed on down the street.

London glanced around, momentarily lost.  ‘Ah yes,’ he said to himself, ‘Johann Wolf awaits me!’  Storing the majesty of music in his head, he strode down the crowded sidewalk trying to ignore the blank looks of programs on either side of him.

Upon London’s arrival at the Café d’Argent, Johann Wolf spoke in the clipped tones of etiquette, “I apologize that my personality template does not include patience, London.”

“But abounds in dignity and propriety?” London asked.

“Indeed.  One must include such traits in the Imperial Order of Music,” Wolf commented.  “But, of course, you do not accept any programming.  You oppose this entire century.  You oppose progress.”

“I do no such thing,” London returned, tiredly dismissing Wolf’s criticism.  “I prefer my own thoughts, that’s all.”

Wolf scoffed.  They sat at a small table in a back corner of the Café.  Wolf held a mug of black coffee in front of him, which he now sipped quietly.  Ignoring London, the older composer bent his gaze out the nearby window, watching as a transit capsule followed its directives down the adjacent street.

London let his breath out slowly.  “Shall we discuss business?”

“Certainly,” Wolf said with no trace of anger, dislike or malice in his voice.  “The Chancellor of the IOM is interested in your work.  In particular, she finds it interesting that you compose with such a high level of skill, and yet you’re a Natural.”

“She respects my work?” London was taken aback.  Music was his passion, but he was widely viewed as an obsolete and illogical composer.  He was a Natural.  He retained, by choice, all of his human qualities and characteristics.  He downloaded no Personalities and no Patches.  He followed none of the regimented norms of society.  He was regarded as foolish, traditional and old.

“Yes,” Wolf said.  “She finds you intriguing.”

“And?”

“Ever to the point, London,” Wolf observed.  There was, of course, no spite in his comment.  “She wishes to meet with you.”

“But?”

“Observant, for a Natural,” Wolf said; once again there was no insult in the words that otherwise would have been malicious.  “She wishes you to compose a fugue of your best quality.  Consider it a test of your traditional techniques.”

“A fugue?”

“Yes, London.  That won’t be a problem, will it?  Not too structured?  I hear composing solely with emotions can be difficult, at best,” the IOM composer commented.

“Not a problem at all.  A fugue you shall have.  Any deadline?”

“Deadline?” Wolf asked.  “Ah yes…. We of the Imperial Order do not regularly use ‘deadlines.’  The sooner you have the piece composed, the sooner the Chancellor will have it, and the sooner she may meet you.”

“It will be complete tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Wolf questioned, incredulous.

“Arrange the meeting,” London instructed him.

Johann Wolf stood to his feet, his raised chin drawing an air of impudence.  “Perhaps you have overstepped your abilities, London.  You should consider the situation more carefully next time, before you accept something you cannot achieve.  Sara Vaugner is not easy to impress.  She also commands the power to ensure your music is never heard again.”

“I have no need for any to hear my music but myself,” London said, standing.  His glare met Wolf’s calm programmed etiquette.

Wolf held his breath and let it out slowly.  “The foolishness of Naturals never ceases to astound me.  I shall arrange this meeting for you, London, and I shall await this composed-in-a-day fugue.”  Without another word, the IOM composer spun and departed from the Café.

London left a tip for the server on the table and then made his own departure.  “A fugue,” he muttered to himself.  The most structured that the Imperial Order could choose.  He merged into the rhythmic pattern of the passersby and took the scenic route to his suite on Verne Avenue.

Upon entering, he hung his head as his Mozart greeting chime reminded him of Johann Wolf’s words, She holds the power to ensure your music is never heard again.  As the Great Symphony flitted through the shadows of his antechamber, he again felt the longing, his great desire: that others might enjoy his music as he basked in the glory of his musical forefathers.  No matter what was to come, London knew that he would always have music.  If no one should ever listen to it, he would be content to compose until the last breath left his body.  But if someone should listen, if his music touched even one soul, London would have achieved his deepest dream in life.

‘Carry on, Michael.  Get to work,’ he told himself.  ‘You have a fugue to compose.’  Within moments, he sat at the desk of his study, boots cast aside and mind soaring.  His cartridge composition pen scrawled across a fresh packet of staff paper.  He began with a subject, a very simple one, so different from the symphony he’d composed in the street.  If Sara Vaugner wanted a fugue, he would give her a fugue in all of the restricted organization he could.  It would be her fugue.

He was interrupted only once.  His aide, Haydn Boyce, called London’s suite mid-afternoon.  London picked up his phone and murmured, “London.”

“Are you writing again?”

“Yes.  A fugue.”

“A fugue?” Haydn questioned in bewilderment.  “Ah… so the rumour is true.”

“Rumour?” London asked.

“That the independent Michael London is composing for the Chancellor of the Order.  She’s finally recognizing you?” They’d talked more than once of London’s dreams of the Order.

“She respects it,” London said with pride.  His mind was lost in the music on the page, so he said, “I really must continue.  I told the IOM rep that I’d be done by tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?  You’re really going all out on this one.”

“Naturals tend to go all out for their dreams,” he explained.

“I know, I know.  We’ve talked about this before.  I’ll call back in the morning.”

“Okay.  Oh, Haydn?  Contact the IOM and find what time my meeting is.  The rep’s name is Johann Wolf.”

“Of course.  Talk to you tomorrow.”  The line went dead.

London threw himself back into the music and didn’t put down his pen again until the hour of midnight.  His head hit the pillows of his bed, but felt nothing.  His mind was on the keyboard of a grand piano.

 

*     *     *

The sun creaked up over the city horizon; the glaring light pierced the shadows of London’s study.  He sat atop his desk in a night robe.  A mug of hot chocolate steamed in his left hand, and the other hand held the small keyboard paperweight that lived beside his music.

London woke early.  The average personality woke around eight o’clock, but London rose earlier, simply to admire the world around him.  Even his assistant thought this odd, but London ignored him.

When he had finished the chocolate, he cleaned his breakfast dishes and then returned to his perch in the study.  Sometimes, while he watched the sun rise to light the day, he felt a terrible loneliness.

He was in a world of his own it seemed.  Society had become obsessed with perfecting the individual.  Even his assistant Haydn was a compilation of character downloads and personality patches.  Any type of negative emotion: anger, frustration, impatience – it could all be fixed by the alterations and installations of electronic programs.

And London fought it.  Despite the norms, despite the expectations, despite the culture, even despite the pain, London remained unmodified.  He preferred his unique existence.  He preferred his own thoughts and emotions and couldn’t ignore the conviction deep inside that something about programming the human mind was wrong.

“But what do you know, Michael?” he asked of himself, turning away from the window and the dawn.  “You’re traditional.  You’re out of fashion.”

Every so often he needed to relieve all the tension by speaking it out loud.  He needed to rid himself of his loneliness, so he expressed that which the programmed souls around him thought and could not say about him.

But the best way to relieve the pressure was in music.

London strode through his study to his computer.  The machine sat on its own small desk in one corner.  The system housed his phone, mail centre, and music scanner.  He checked his mail.  There was a message from Haydn, timestamped at nine p.m. the previous night – an hour before the automated curfew.

London read Haydn’s message quickly.

<michaellondon@imail.core>

London,

Contacted Wolf.  Meeting with the Chancellor set for 1:00 pm.

Send me a scan of the fugue.  I’ll put it into Studio Pro and print copies for all the parts.  Meet you at the Chamber of Music at 11:30 for run-through.

H. Boyce

<hadynboyce@imail.core>

 

London shut his system down.  The machine clicked and sighed as various applications were killed off inside.  His computer likely needed maintenance, but it seemed a waste of money.

 

*     *     *

Most composers changed into their best tails before presenting themselves before the Chancellor.  Most composers adjusted their ties and combed their hair dozens of times in anxious preparation for the Chamber of Music.  They would pace fearfully outside before working up the nerve to present their trial piece for entry to the Order.

London did none of these.  He wore his best suit every day; his tie was straight and tight, his hair looked as it always did.  He did not pace; he strode directly down the street, a folder under one arm.  Inside was his conductor’s score of the fugue.  He walked surely towards the IOM campus, making his own path through pedestrians.

Haydn Boyce met him as he climbed the stairs to the Chamber of Music.  “The musicians are worried,” his assistant told him as they made their way into the Chamber.  A secretary nearly stopped them as they passed the entry desk, but she realized who they were and let them past.

“Why?” London already knew the answer.

“They don’t know what to expect from a Natural conductor.”

“They’ll survive, no doubt.”

“That’s not the problem,” Haydn said.  “They’re worried you may be too… grandiose for their preferences.”

“Preferences?”

“Nothing that their programming can’t sort out, I hope.”

“Good.”  They entered the auditorium and London stepped up to the podium.  Haydn took a front row seat.  The remaining multitude of seats was empty.  In an hour, the Chancellor and several dozen valuable persons of the Order would be seated here.

London turned to the stage.  A typical strings orchestra was arrayed before him, the musicians watching him warily.  London coughed and declared, “I am Michael London.  I appreciate your attendance.  Today we will be practicing and presenting my fugue for the Chancellor.  The fugue is a complex struggle back and forth between two themes –the subject and countersubject.”

The musicians understood the musical history of such a ‘musical structure.’  They understood the style: each theme represented some idea or person.  But most were too logical to understand or feel emotion in music.  London couldn’t understand how, but somehow it was this way in the Order.

“First Violin, you lead the subject,” he told the man, despite knowing the violinist could see his role on the score in front of him.  The man nodded respectfully anyway.

London raised his baton, tapped the stand, and raised his arms at the ready.  The orchestra raised their instruments in unison with his arms, bows poised above strings.  Shifting forward on one leg, London threw his whole body into the abrupt and massive beginning of the fugue.

The subject could be heard perfectly over the rest of the instruments.  Most fugues used a single quiet beginning to flaunt the subject, but London had written the full orchestra around the subject.  Paced with eighth notes and obnoxious drumming, the fugue quickly completed the first subject and all the sound died away for the entrance of the countersubject.

Lost in the music the booming finale came fast and faded faster.  London heard applause behind him and noticed that he was no longer alone.  The auditorium had been empty upon his arrival; it now seated a good twenty individuals.  Haydn hadn’t moved from the front row, but now the Chancellor and her entourage watched on from the third.

“Bravo,” the Chancellor praised.  “Excellent, justifiably excellent.”

“Many thanks, Chancellor,” London responded, giving a slight bow.  He was still winded from conducting his fugue.

Sara Vaugner was a middle-aged woman, as young as any Chancellor had been before her.  She’d held the seat for three years, but this was the first London had met her.

“You’ve creatively changed some aspects of a normal fugue, but you haven’t broken any rules.  It was an interesting … ‘experience’,” she decided.

“You’re early, Chancellor,” London commented.  “I hoped to adjust several parts before performing for you.”

“It was satisfactory as it was.”

“You honor me.”

“It is the timing of this fugue that concerns me,” Vaugner declared, with an air of disapproval.

“Timing?”

“You began this fugue last night?”

“Yes.”

“And you are a Natural, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Fully?  Not even the most basic Amadeus Mod?”

“Fully Natural,” London confirmed.

“I see.”

“See what, if you don’t mind my asking, Chancellor?”

Vaugner waved away his question and gestured to London’s assistant.  “Mr. Boyce,” she spoke, “Had you no knowledge of such a fugue before yesterday?”

“None, Chancellor,” Haydn said.  “Mr. London is an honest man.”

This final comment drew numerous indrawn breaths from the entourage.  Haydn had commented on the precise destination of this argument.  Sara Vaugner suspected London of writing the fugue in advance and lying about its origins.  Haydn paled at the gasps from the Chancellor’s companions.

But Vaugner smiled a tight grin.  “Very well.”

After a moment, she turned back to London on the stage. “I find it most … intriguing that you compose with such prowess and yet have downloaded no Mods and no Programs.”

London waited.

Vaugner dismissed the orchestra.  “Walk with me, London.”

He made his way down from the stage and warily followed the Chancellor.  She made her way out of the auditorium, before saying thoughtfully, “I like you, London.”

“You do?” he asked, surprised.

“Yes.  I want you to work for me.  I intend to grant you entry to the lowest level of the Imperial Order.”

“Yes?”

“It will not be easy.  You will be serving under a Manager, as is the custom.  He will assign you tasks and see you complete them within specific parameters.  He will also report your progress to me at a monthly meeting.”

“Very well,” London said.  He was a member of the IOM.  This would bring such renown and popularity to his music.  His compositions could be heard throughout the world.  His heart swelled and he bit his lip.  He looked away from Vaugner and gazed through the windows of the lobby into the city.  Fulfillment.

“Your Manager will be Johann Wolf.  I’m sure you’ve met him.”

London quickly glanced back to the Chancellor, almost sharply.  Wolf? he wondered in dismay.

“That isn’t a problem, is it?” Vaugner asked him.

“No, it won’t be, Chancellor,” he lied stiffly.

The next day as he stepped from his apartment, he remembered where he was going.  ‘Ah yes,’ he said to himself, abruptly, ‘Johann Wolf awaits me!’

 

*     *     *

Upon the conclusion of his first month, London was assigned to compose for the North City Acting Guild.  The play was called “The Fate of Dante.”  London’s requirement was to complete a number of orchestral pieces to accompany the drama.  He needed to meet with the lead of the play, the actress Marie Saint-Saens.

As demanded by etiquette, London looked up her programming.  It was proper tradition to know who one was talking to before meeting them.  By looking up the names or numbers of their programs, one would know what type of person to expect.

London booted up his archaic computer, and ran a program search.  He searched the name Marie Saint-Saens.  The computer presented a list of several Marie’s.  London selected one that said, “Actress” beneath it.

The page took a moment to load.  Finally Marie Saint-Saens’ profile loaded, and London’s world came to a stand still.

There were no programs listed under her name.  A short sentence flashed in its stead: “No programming found.”

London’s first thought was that she was a Natural.  But he dismissed his excitement.  No one acting a lead would be a Natural.  No actor could be a Natural.  Actors downloaded traits specifically to fit their character, so that an actor could literally become the role required.  A Natural actor was unheard of.

London sighed.  For a moment he had not been alone.  For a split second there had been another soul in the universe like him.  But logic told him this was a lie.  There was no one like him.

He shut down the system.  Come morning, he would meet with this Marie Saint-Saens and plan the theme for the “Fate of Dante.”

 

*     *     *

London walked briskly off the transit shuttle and made his way through a plaza-center towards the Acting Guild.  In his hand he carried a small attaché briefcase; the contents included a small stack of staff-paper, his pens, a binder containing the actual play he was to write for, and a list of personages involved.

The plaza center was a mall by every definition: full of food courts, clothing shops, massive bookstores and broad sweeping hallways.  The top portion of the complex was dedicated to offices.  London made his way stiffly alongside a railing.  On his right side was a void of space where the plaza center dropped away; the opening ended two floors lower at the mouth of an iMind dispatching centre.  London did his best to ignore it.

At the north end of the plaza center, three floors of hallways met in the grandiose lobby of the North City Acting Guild.  London strode into the top section of the lobby and approached a service pedestal where an usher smiled politely.

“Welcome to the Acting Guild.  May I be of service?”

“Yes, thank you,” London said.  “I am Michael London.  I’m scheduled to meet with Marie Saint-Saens.”

“Of course,” the usher murmured.  “She is waiting for you in the main auditorium, I believe.  Down those stairs and through the large set of doors there.”

“Thank you.”  London made his way as directed.

The auditorium door echoed throughout the hall with a thud as London entered the huge space.  He stood near the back of a seating area – a space twice as big as that of the Chamber of Music.  Close to the stage he could make out the vague shape of a woman seated in the second row.

She turned at his approach.  She was of a slender build; London estimated that, while standing, she would only come to his shoulders.  He could see a sharp intellect in her soft green eyes.  “Michael London, I assume?”

“Indeed.  You are Marie Saint-Saens?”

“Yes.  I’m the lead,” she told him.

“I have heard as much,” London said.  He was about to question the discrepancy with her programming records, but she interrupted him.

“You are a recent member of the IOM?”

“Yes,” he said.  “I have been with them for just over a month now.”

“I assume you must be progressing quite well to have been commissioned for this theme within such a short career within the Order,” she commented.  “Are you a skilled composer?”

“That is not for me to decide.  I love music no matter how talented I am,” he rushed.  Rarely did he allow this passion out of him.  To a program I must seem ludicrous.

The actress took a breath after London finished speaking.  “I think that makes you the perfect composer for the Fate of Dante.”

London’s heartbeat quickened.  There was something different in the voice, but he couldn’t place what it was.  “I’m sorry, Ms. Saint-Saens–”

“Please, you may call me Marie.”

London paused, more confused than before.  “Marie, then… I found no programming records for you when I prepared for this meeting…”

She laughed quietly.  “I am a Natural, Mr. London.”

“A Natural?”

“Not unlike yourself, I suppose.”

“No programming at all?  No Mods or Patches?”

Marie smiled.  “None.”

London’s world screeched to a halt.  She understood life.  She understood him.  Here he was on call for a programmed Order of Music, and for the first time in ten years: he was not alone!  He plummeted into a nearby seat and shook his head in a daze.

“Mr. London?”

“Please, please, call me Michael.”

She sighed deeply again.  “You and I are two very similar people in a world that would abandon us, aren’t we?” she murmured.

He wiped an eye.  “I never thought….”  He shook his head to clear it, settling himself.  “We should speak of the play: this time is being paid for by the IOM.  I shan’t waste their money.”

“Of course,” she said.  Her face tilted down and she examined a folder on her lap.

“I should like to meet with you again, though.”

“Yes?”

London nodded gently.  “Perhaps over dinner?”

Her serene face broke into a brilliant grin.  “I would be delighted!”

London smiled.  “The Fate of Dante?” he asked.

She understood.  Business was business.  Work was work.  For the next hour they discussed only music and acting.

 

*     *     *

London composed fervently for days, astounding everyone, including Johann Wolf, with the magnificence and complexity of his work.  He wrote the Fate of Dante in an impressionist style; this was the one fact that erred his colleagues, even Haydn.  Impressionism was the least regimented form of music.

He contacted Marie the night following their initial meeting and arranged a time and a place for their dinner.  Appointed evening upon him, London was easily nearing the conclusion of his Dante themes.  While London hadn’t checked his clothing or prepared his appearance for meeting with the Chancellor, he meticulously readied himself for meeting with Marie.

Once confident, he left his apartment, called a cab and directed the driver to the address given him by Marie.  She exited her apartment before he could reach the door; he turned mid-step and opened the cab door for her entry.

“Michael,” she told him, “You are as chivalrous as a program.”

He laughed, even though it wasn’t funny.  “I carry myself as much a gentleman as I can,” he said.  He immediately worried he was bragging and added, awkwardly, “But thank you for the compliment.”

She laughed.

The restaurant they had chosen was only five minutes from Marie’s house.  London paid the driver and instructed him to return in an hour and a half.  The establishment was named, “Ottershaw Wells,” a title derived from some twentieth century literature.  The maitre d’ was an unctuous man, who showed them to a table in a private corner of the premises.

Once they were alone, a quiet conversation developed between them.

“Have you been composing all your life?” she asked.  Her wide eyes regarded him intently.

“Yes,” he said.  “I recall my father teaching me to play piano before I could walk.”

“Your father was always around?” she asked.

“Oh yes… sometimes even when I didn’t want him to be,” he answered.  “There was a year or two when my father and I were on unfriendly terms.  I had befriended several students whom appreciated iMind programming… perhaps too much.  My father was strongly against it.”

“Two years?  How did you resolve these ‘unfriendly terms’?”

London blinked.  “My parents were killed in a transit disaster nine years ago.  That ended any ‘terms.’”

“I’m sorry,” she said.  “I didn’t know… I–”

“It’s quite alright.”

“No, it’s horrible.”

“I’ve had plenty of time to deal with it.  But how about you, Marie?  Have you acted all your life?”

She laughed.  “No, there was a day I loathed acting.  To stand up in front of even the smallest crowd terrified me.  But when I was eleven, my sister and I starred in a school production.  I’ve loved acting since then.”

“Your sister?”

“Yes.  Her name is Michelle.  She is programmed.  She lives in Bromley now.”

“And your parents?”

“I never knew my father.  My mother passed away of natural causes eight years ago, but … I’ve never met my dad,” she gazed into her drink as though it were a magical water to which she could summon the visage of her father.

“That must have been hard growing up.  I can’t imagine life without my parents.”

“I got over it,” she muttered toughly, but he could tell that it still hurt her.

The waiter arrived with appetizers.  He took their orders fro the main course and left.  A silence hung between them.  Finally London broke it.

“How long have you been with the Acting Guild?”

Marie smiled grimly.  “Four years, but they have been troubled.”

“Troubled?” London asked, concerned.

“You seem so concerned, Michael!” she grinned, and this time it was genuine.  She elaborated: “The Director of the Guild is named Douglas Hart.  He has no respect for Naturals.  He bears down on me where he ignores other actors.  If I mistake anything I get called on it, while he overlooks the downfall of others.”

“That’s unfair.  Doesn’t he have equality downloads?”  Even Haydn had a basic equality recognizer.

“I don’t know.  His programs are too numerous for me to examine.”  She laughed at this, as though there was some humour to it.

When dinner was finished, they made their way out of the Ottershaw Wells establishment and onto the street.  A steady downpour filled the street with water; London smiled, and took Marie’s arm.  She was staring into the rain and grinning in delight.  Leading her through the rain, London waved away the cab, “We’ll walk!”

They set off down the street.  London’s suit was drenched.  “I love the rain,” he told Marie.

She nodded in empathy.  “My favorite kind of weather,”

They walked slowly, in silence.  They turned at the next block and headed down Marie’s street.  A pedestrian sprinted by, trying to keep an umbrella over his head.  He gawked at them as he passed.

Abruptly a huge peal of thunder shook the heavens.  London threw back his head and let the rain soak through his hair.  A moment later a flash of lightning bolted through the air.

Marie stopped walking, and watched him.  After a moment, he brought his head down; rainwater ran dripping from his hair.  His eyes were as alive as when his masterpiece symphony had first echoed within his mind.

Without a word, Marie stepped against him, raised herself on her toes, and kissed him.

 

*     *     *

London completed the Fate of Dante the next day.  He instructed Haydn to print a full score and separate parts, and, by noon, London handed his Manager a booklet containing the complete work.

“Done?” Wolf asked, as he paged through the scores.

“Exactly as decided upon by Mar – Miss Saint-Saens and myself.”

Wolf raised an eyebrow, but dismissed the stutter.  He closed the folder in front of him and looked up at London.  “Excellent.  Arrange to meet with the Acting Guild again, and present this theme to them.  Their production is to open next week.”

“I will speak with them.”

London made his way back to the plaza-centre of the Acting Guild.  The maître d’ recognized him this time, and said, “Miss Saint-Saens is just finishing a rehearsal.  Perhaps if you enter the theatre, you will be allowed to talk with her before she leaves.”

“Thank you.”  London made his way into the auditorium.  A number of actors stood conversing on the stage.  A tall man called: “We can’t have this on opening night!”  Several actors muttered apology.  The Director dismissed them shortly.

As they dispersed, London picked out Marie among them.  He made his way towards the stage.  Before he reached it, she saw him, left the group of actors she stood with and headed to meet him.

“Michael,” she whispered when she was closer.  “The play is spectacular!  You’ll come see it won’t you?”

“I will, but we must act as professionals now.”

“Of course.”  She seemed shaken, and London took pity.

“Sorry,” he said.

“It’s alright.  You’re right… we should be like a composer and an actress, not two sweethearts.”

“We can play the part of lovers when in private.”  After a pause, London withdrew the folder containing the program.  “The music is done,” he told her.

She looked over it, but the scores were almost meaningless to her eyes.  “I will bring these to the Director.  We will probably be doing a rehearsal of the play tomorrow, if you’d like to play the music along with it.”

“Of course.” London grabbed her hand as she walked away.  Glancing behind her at the actors on stage, he made sure they weren’t being watched, and planted a small kiss on her lips.  “I love you,” he told her quietly.

She smiled radiantly.  “I never thought I’d meet someone like you, Michael.  I think we’re perfect for each other.”

“I agree.”  The words ‘perfect for each other’ were similar to the programmed rules of love.  People with compatible personalities were arranged and paired using only logical guidelines.  Emotional love played a very small role.

But London knew that Marie and him were more perfect for each other than any ‘formatted love.’

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he told her.

 

*     *     *

The week passed in a blur.  The Director applauded his music; London conducted every practice until the performance the following week.  The evening that the play opened was a haze of passionate acting, glorious music and a standing ovation.  Wherever London looked, he saw faces caught up in the magic of the production.  He saw programmed men and women connecting with his music on a level that their downloaded minds could no longer name.

They found each other afterwards and kissed once more; this time they met in such a passion that the storm of the previous week seemed a breeze.  London knew at last that here was a woman who understood that art wasn’t about performance or prowess – it was about majesty.

London walked home that evening.  He danced on the streets – his soul felt alive after the performance.  It was a long walk to Verne Avenue, but he didn’t mind.  He slept deeply that night and dreamed of the play, the music, and Marie.

He awoke early and watched the rise of the sun through his study window.  He was to meet Marie for lunch at Ottershaw Wells.  When the sun finally disappeared above his window, he set off for the restaurant.  Upon arrival, he requested the table of Miss Saint-Saens.

“She has been and gone, sir,” the man told him.  “She requested I give you this letter your arrival.”  He produced a sealed letter from the desk.

“Been and gone?” London asked, dazed.

“Yes, sir.  Several hours ago.”

A sick feeling filled London’s gut.  He left the restaurant, making his way outside.  He opened the letter slowly, and withdrew a handwritten sheet of paper.  He read quickly; terror gripped his heart from the first line.

 

Michael,

I am writing to say goodbye.  I wish I could have said this to you in person, but I fear what would happen if I did.  When I left you last night, I was so happy.  Everything seemed to be just as we both wanted.

Then my sister mocked my performance.  She told me that she will not speak to me again, unless I program.  That was the first thing that went wrong, which soon became insignificant.

Johann Wolf was waiting for me when I returned home.  He has seen us together and knows about us.  He told me that if I don’t download programming, he will fire you from the Order and ban your music.  He said that if I didn’t do what he wanted, your music would never be heard again.  Michael, we both know he’d do that.

I believe this is the only way to save your career and your music.  So I do this for you.  Never doubt my love – it’s changing me or losing you.  I will not let them take it away from you.

I will love you always,

Marie

 

London shut his eyes as tears sprung to them.  A rage quickly burned over the strife of fear and sorrow.  Wolf!  How dare you interfere!  He shoved the letter into a pocket and lifted his head to glare at the programs scurrying down the street.  Why would Wolf want Marie programmed?

He whirled and sprinted away from the restaurant, towards the iMind dispatching centre nearest Marie’s apartment.  He collided with a pedestrian shoving the petty excuse of a soul out of the way.  People’s eyes widened as they watched his hurried dash; some raised voices.

“London!  Stop!”

The voice was familiar. London turned to one side; the speaker leaned against the brick wall of the iMind center.  It was Wolf.

Biting back fury, London snarled, “What have you done?”

Wolf smiled as though London’s distress was his gain.  “I rid the world of a Natural.”

“What have you done to Marie?” London started walking towards the door of the building, but Wolf stopped him with an outreached arm.

“You don’t understand, do you, London?” the man asked.  There was a wrath in his voice that startled London.  Programs don’t get angry.  “You Naturals….  It’s not about preference anymore, and it’s not about progress.  Naturals disrupt equality!  It isn’t fair that you remain Natural.  It isn’t fair that the rest of us have to put up with that!  Naturals are savages!  Living by the whims of the ‘human heart!’  You don’t deserve your own thoughts!”

London stood back in shock.  He recovered quickly, and hissed back, “You call me the savage?”  He shoved Wolf out of the way and yanked the door open.  Behind him, Wolf grinned like a madman.

The iMind dispatching centre was much like a doctor’s office.  There was a waiting room with a desk; London sprinted past the desk and a line of customers.  The woman at the service window droned, “You can’t go in there,” but London ignored her and opened the door to the dispatching unit.  This first room was a waiting room for those who had been programmed to await dismissal.  They had to wait a certain time to ensure their safety.

Marie sat against one wall.  When London rushed through the door, she glanced at him, green eyes blank.  The bright life that once captivated him was gone.

“Marie…” he whispered with a broken voice, and collapsed to his knees.  Now at eye level, he asked, “Why?  Why would you…?”

Marie answered calmly.  “It seemed wise.  I don’t understand why you are so opposed to programming.”

“Me?” he gasped.  Tears flooded his eyes.  This was not Marie.

“You should program,” she told him.  “Naturals are… illogical.”

“Marie, Marie…” he mourned.  “That’s the point.”

“You are mad.”  She stood.  “I am allowed to leave now.  You have my gratitude for your compositions for the Fate of Dante.”

He watched in agony as she nodded politely to him and walked away.  He doubled over, holding his head in his hands as she shut the door behind her.  Pain burned throughout his chest; he could hardly breathe.  He sobbed uncontrollably.  He wanted to shout and curse and destroy the programmed world around him.  He wanted it all to end.

Finally he lifted his head, and, very slowly, he stood.  He walked very calmly out of the iMind dispatcher and stood in a street full of programs.  To him, it was an empty street.  In his head, music played a piercing tune.

One lone note continued to play its melody, its sorrowful melody, as though it hadn’t noticed it was alone.