Danse Mecanique

Steven Popkes

Description

Dot 1.0 is a performing software robot that can bring any audience to its feet. She can sing. She can dance. She can gauge her effect on people to the millimeter. She cannot create material of her own.Dot 2.0 can do everything Dot 1.0 can do plus write songs and tailor them to each audience. Songs to bring tears. Songs to bring laughter.Dot 1.0 does what she is told.Dot 2.0 has other ideas.

Sujets

• Science fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Book View Cafe
• Date de parution: 06 juillet 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 1
• EAN13: 9781611389548
• Langue: English

Extrait

Danse Mécanique
Steven Popkes

www.bookviewcafe.com
Book View Café/Walking Rocks Edition July 6, 2021 ISBN: 978-1-61138-954-8 Copyright © 2021 Steven Popkes
To Wendy, Ben, and Iris
Table of Contents
Danse Mécanique
Part 1 Standing at the Edge Jake
Chapter 1.1 February 2
Chapter 1.2 February 10
Chapter 1.3 February 11
Chapter 1.4 February12
Chapter 1.5 March 2
Chapter 1.6 March 22
Chapter 1.7 March 25
Chapter 1.8 April 10
Chapter 1.9 April 20
Chapter 1.10 April 27
Chapter 1.11 May 8
Part 2 Walkabout John and Ima
Chapter 2.1: Ima
Chapter 2.2: John
Chapter 2.3: Ima
Chapter 2.4: John
Chapter 2.5: Ima
Chapter 2.6: John
Chapter 2.7: Ima
Chapter 2.8: John
Chapter 2.9: Ima
Chapter 2.10: John
Chapter 2.11: Ima
Chapter 2.12: John
Chapter 2.13: Ima
Chapter 2.14: John
Chapter 2.15: Ima
Chapter 2.16: John
Chapter 2.17: Ima
Chapter 2.18: John
Chapter 2.19: Ima
Chapter 2.20: John
Chapter 2.21: Ima
Chapter 2.22: John
Chapter 2.23: Ima
Chapter 2.24: John
Chapter 2.25: Ima
Chapter 2.26: John
Chapter 2.27: Ima
Chapter 2.28: John
Chapter 2.29 John & Ima
Chapter 2.30: John
Part 3 Rise Olivia
Chapter 3.1 July 15
Chapter 3.2 July 15
Chapter 3.3 July 16
Chapter 3.4 July 16
Chapter 3.5 July 18
Chapter 3.6 July 24
Chapter 3.7 August 1
Chapter 3.8 August 6
Chapter 3.9 August 9
Chapter 3.10 August 10
Chapter 3.11 August 13
Chapter 3.12 August 16
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Copyright & Credits
About the Author
About Book View Café
Part 1 Standing at the Edge Jake
Chapter 1.1 February 2
A window opened up on the active wall and I staredat it. Rosie stared back.
“Hello, Jacob.” She smiled. The always unexpecteddimples on each cheek and that bright, bright smile. A nose so thin it whistledwhen she was excited. Not beautiful. Not pretty. Compelling. Like a volcano ora ruined city or the Texas plains or a magnificent catastrophe. Beauty just isn’ta consideration. You’re witness to something amazing.
“It’s good to see you.” As if she’d just returnedfrom shopping instead of reappearing in my life after twelve years of silence.
A jumble of memories and impressions struck melike a brick. Meeting her backstage in Brockton. The feel of her skin, thewarmth of her breath, the smell of her. Me singing back in Massachusetts. Myband, Persons Unknown —me, Jess, Olivia, and Obe. Stoned and laughing atthe DeCordova. Release of “Don’t Make Me Cry.” Money. Fights. The Late Show .Buying this house. The long tour scheduled from Boston to Los Angeles. Ourwonderful first night on the way to Ohio. The fight in Cleveland. Our breakupin Saint Louis. The breakup of the band in Denver.
She wiggled a finger at me. “You and I need totalk.”
“Off,” I said and she winked out.
I sat there, breathing hard, my hands shaking. Istarted to pick up the coffee cup, realized I was going to make a mess and putit down again. The call alert sounded.
“Fuck you,” I snarled. I knew I’d answer it if Istayed. I grabbed a pair of shoes and ran outside. I pulled them on and ran outthe back on the trail. My earbud buzzed and I tossed it on the dirt.
oOOo
In the low mountains of the desert, twenty acresof scrub just means when you get to the edge of your property, you can stillsee your house. I was at the edge of public land. So far, only the ever-approachinggreen cloud of Greater Los Angeles had been able to reach me. So far. It wasonly a matter of time. Greater Los Angeles had eaten all the way toBakersfield. Eventually, it would reach me, too.
I sat down on an old volcanic boulder heaved hereback when dinosaurs were still sitting around playing cards and waiting for themeteor to hit. I looked around the shady crevices for rattlesnakes. It wasspring but an early emergent wasn’t unheard of. It was already hot but notuncomfortable. Unlike Boston, out here in California sweat works.
Eventually, I calmed down. After all, I thought.It’s been twelve years—almost thirteen. She must have a good reason to call menow. To mess with you again , I said to myself. Not necessarily. And it had been a long time. We were different people. I was a recluse living in a rottinghouse that the bank and State would someday fight over. She was probably asuccessful… well, something. Rich, probably. Doing something important. Worldfamous—wouldn’t I have heard of her? Have you ever looked her up? No. Ihadn’t. Not that I didn’t want to but it felt too much like an addict returningto the drug. I was happy now.
Really?
I forcefully told myself to shut up.
Okay. We were adults, right? We could converselike adults.
I made my way back to the house. Found the budlying next to the front door. I inspected it for wildlife. It was clean. I putit in.
I went back to my coffee. Cold as it was, thistime I drank it down without spilling it. “Okay.” Grover, my house AI, figuredout what I meant.
Rosie popped up again on the wall. “As I said: weneed to talk.”
“Why?” I didn’t know if I was asking why shecalled now or why she had left.
“Got a song doctor gig for you to think about. Agood one with lots of promise.”
I didn’t know what to say. “This is a… professional call?”
“I suppose it could also turn into studio work.You’re still doing studio work, aren’t you, Jake?”
“Sometimes. Are you representing musicians thesedays?” I felt suddenly very tired.
“I’m doing a favor for a friend.” She cocked herhead to one side. “Besides, this is what you do, isn’t it? Pull musical orderout of creative chaos? The price is very attractive.”
“I can’t—” I shook my head. I remembered how sooften I felt at sea with Rosie. Always trying to catch up.
“Look,” she said, suddenly sympathetic. “I knowyou’ve had a rough time. Behind on the mortgage, right?”
“And the taxes.”
“Christ! The State of California is not someoneyou want to owe money to.” She took a deep breath. “My point is you need themoney. A single song, Jake. That’s all. It’ll pay back the state and even bringthe mortgage up to date.”
I loved this house: two stories, four bedrooms ontwenty acres far enough from Greater Los Angeles that the price had beenscreamingly ridiculous instead of obscene. It has its own power, water, andsewer—I was paranoid about the end of the world back when I bought it. Twelveyears ago, the world seemed a lot more precarious. I was a lot moreprecarious. This was before I blew any remaining money on riotous living.
But the house fit me. Kitchen. Bath. An office. Mybedroom. Nice studio in what would be the living room: high cathedral ceiling,good acoustics, and an active surface along the whole east sidewall. Enclosedand far from the crowd. My house. My house . “I guess,” I saidslowly.
“Great. I’ll shoot you over a contract. This isgoing to be fun.”
“But—”
She had already disconnected. A moment later Grover,my house AI, flagged the packet and okayed the contract. I sighed and had herput the music up on the wall.
oOOo
A set of pages ran the length of the wall at myeye height. I walked alongside reading it. “Downbeat Heart.” One song. Tenpages. Musical notes. Not techno tablature or a vague demonstration melody.Actual musical notes. And not just vocal lines and a sketchy guitaraccompaniment. These were full score sheets. Every sheet had vocal, guitar,keyboard, bass, and drum lines—at one point in the bridge tympani were calledfor. Tympani? Keyboards sections had synthesizer settings referring tofrequency and sound envelope definitions. There was an appendix with suggestedsynthesizer models and a map of the envelope settings for each device.
It was a curious tune. A little three beatarpeggio in a four-beat base. Odd. Take your right hand and tap out a 1-2-3beat. Take your left hand and tap out a 1-2-3-4 beat at the same time. Theright hand catches up to the left hand every twelve beats. It’s not a new ideabut it’s rare in pop music. The song was clearly written for a divaloid—a longglissando up into parts of the audio spectrum only dogs could appreciate. Likesomeone had taught hummingbirds to sing. From the range and the run, I guessedthe love interest of the composer was Dot. That sort of run was a signaturewith her and she had the biggest fan base.
My interest faded right off the map.
Okay, I thought. Written on SynthaChord or ProMusica . Professional systems suggested deep pockets. A very rich divaloid fan. With delusions of grandeur.
But money was money. A contract was a contract.Rosie was Rosie.
I found myself playing the song back in my mind.First in one key. Then another. Faster. Slower. Change the key halfway through.Fitting in different words. Adding a drum beat and a different guitar back up.Inverting the chorus. Play it backwards. Inside out.
Okay. I was prejudiced. It was better than theusual Dot song.
Along around midnight I packaged up the wholething and sent it off to Rosie with an invoice. Payment came in an hour later.Grover turned it around and sent it off to the banks and the State ofCalifornia. The money was no more than a little loop of electrons into myaccount and out.
It had been more fun than I expected. I was evenvaguely depressed it was over.
Tomorrow I had to nail the photovoltaic shinglesback down. Or fix the composting toilet. Who in their right mind wanted to fixa composting toilet?
I took comfort in the knowledge I wasn’t going tobe evicted for another month and went to bed.
Chapter 1.2 February10
Around dawn, I heard something downstairs.
I turned on the light and listened. I didn’t hearanything. Thinking I had been dreaming I started to turn the light back offwhen I heard it again. A scraping. A muttering.
I left the bedroom and stood looking down thestairs, listening. Again.
No cops: it would be an hour before they got outhere. I rummaged in my closet until I found an ancient softball bat. Then, asquietly as I could I eased downstairs.
I smelled coffee and cigarettes.
Rosie was sitting at the table next to the activewall, a keyboard in front of her. There were a few displ