NaNoWriMo Excerpt: Chapter Five (Pt 1)

That afternoon, despite vigorous protests from Isaac, Emily got dressed and prepared to leave the apartment for an early dinner meeting with her voice coach.

“I promised Vicky I would meet with her after the concert to talk about my performance,” she explained. “I can’t back out now. Without her help there’s no way I could’ve ever stood on that stage last night with you. I owe her dinner at least, don’t you think?”

Isaac rolled his eyes. “Vicky?” he exclaimed in mock outrage. “You don’t owe that woman anything. She’s a complete hack, you know. Wouldn’t know a soprano from a… from a piano. I’ve got more musical talent in my big toe than she has in her entire body.”

Emily’s eyes flashed. “Your clichés are almost as old as you, mister. And besides, didn’t you tell me once upon a time that Vicky was the best vocal coach in New York City? Remember, back when we first met?”

“Well, yeah. I did say that. But I was just trying to impress this hot chick I'd just met by by offering to pay for voice lessons in the Big Apple.”

Emily placed her fists on her hips. “Really? Huh. Well, I was just chatting up the crotchety old man so I could milk his industry connections.”

Isaac snorted in amusement. Then he pouted. “Aren’t you supposed to be nice to me? I’ve suffered a terrible trauma today.”

“Yeah, yeah. Poor baby. I’d better leave you alone so you can get some rest then.” She pulled on her shawl, winked at him, said, “I’ll call you if I’m going to be late,” and let herself out.

After Emily's departure, Isaac wandered the apartment listlessly for a while, trying to distract himself. He considered pouring another drink, but now that he had recovered from his "anxiety attack," alcohol held much less appeal than it had that morning. He sat for a few minutes at the piano, plinking out melodies while his implant provided accompaniment for him. He smiled at a particularly inspired harmony provided by his Theme. The algorithm that allowed him to improvise with himself was definitely not part of the standard package, in fact, Cedric himself had written the code personally. There were perks to being a member of Thematic's board and their darling classical composer. And there were times, like today, when Isaac was genuinely surprised by how well the software could match his mood and his creative direction. Cedric’s genius was undeniable, no doubt.

Still, Isaac's heart wasn't into composing. After last night's excitement, he knew would need at least a few days for his creative juices to recharge. Anything he forced himself to write today would just end up in the wastebasket once his compositional sensibilities returned to him. So rather than seriously try to create something new, he just let his hands wander up and down the piano keyboard while his mind wandered.

Inevitably his thoughts kept returning to his conversation with Ghazali. He couldn't understand why the man's words had gotten under his skin so effectively. After all, it wasn't the first time he'd had an argument with an overzealous critic. In fact, his conversation with Ghazali wasn't even the most heated encounter he'd had. Back when he first started using Theme technology to enhance his compositions and performances he had been the target for copious amounts of hate mail and loud protestations in the streets. Fellow composers accused him of selling out and resorting to unfair tactics to influence his audience, while classical music aficionados called his newest efforts an abomination to the art form. And of course the same folks that had been protesting Theme since its inception now had a new scapegoat for their ire.

Isaac, to his credit, had always done his best to take the vitriolic criticism in stride. Maybe it was because, in many ways, he didn't disagree with his critics. He knew that by integrating implant technology into compositions he was corrupting the purest spirit of the art. When Mozart or Beethoven wanted their audience to weep with emotion, their only recourse was to write a piece of music that inspired that kind of reaction. Isaac, by manipulating the listener's nervous system with subliminal suggestion and drugs, was able to achieve a similar emotion response much more easily, and with much more precision. Some people called that cheating, and Isaac respected their point of view.

But for him, his efforts were merely an evolutionary step forward, and an inevitable one at that. What he created when he was composing was not classical music, not by any stretch. It was, instead, the successor to the now archaic art form. Isaac considered himself a visionary: he recognized that success and critical acclaim would only come for someone that embraced the new and included it into his work.

Besides, wasn't the end result all that really mattered? If a listener wept with joy after hearing a delicate aria or a dramatic concerto, did it really matter to them how they arrived at that emotional state? Wasn't the feeling – intense, and personal, and memorable – wasn't that worth it regardless of how they arrived there?

For Isaac, the answer had been yes. And, despite some very vocal critics, a huge number of people around the world seemed to agree with him. His music had captured the attention of music-lovers of all ages, ethnic backgrounds, and stylistic preferences. His music sales rivaled those of the most popular modern music groups, and his live concerts were sold out for years in advance. It was only due to his mundane appearance – bald, thin, and plain – that he was able to walk the streets of New York without being constantly accosted by reporters and fans.

But despite his inconspicuous looks, sometimes fans and detractors still caught up with him. Like today, in front of Thematic.

Why did Ghazali’s criticism bother him so much? Why did it keep playing back through his head, ruining what should have been a day of celebration for him? Annoyed, Isaac pounded a few times on the piano keys. His implant, confounded by the outburst, fell silent. During that moment of silence Isaac reached a decision and got up from the piano, carefully closing the lid over the keys. Then he walked over to his desktop and requested a search.

“Parameters?” his desk asked him, the voice a charming impression of a proper English butler. It was incredibly cliché, but, as Emily was quick to point out, Isaac liked clichés. Besides, dealing with a computer was always a taxing experience for Isaac. Having one with proper manners made the process a bit easier.

“Name: Ahmed Ghazali. Search, please.”

The desktop chimed. “Initial search finds 570,000 results for those parameters. Would you like to narrow the search?”

Isaac sighed. Overly polite sometimes meant overstating the obvious. “Yes. Add keywords: composer, New York City. Narrow results.”

Another chime. “Results narrowed to 2,300. Would you like to further narrow—?”

“Yes, yes. Let me think for a moment. Hmm. Cross-reference the results with articles that pertain to anti-Theme movements.” He recollected the details of the morning’s argument, and his implant provided more search parameters for him. “Add keywords: counterculture, derivative, predictable. Isaac Baum. Narrow results, please.”

“Results now narrowed to 514. Would you like to—”

“Good grief! Just give me your best guess, alright? Oh, and show me pictures if you’ve got them.”

Obligingly, the wallscreen lit up with the search results, with photos prominently displayed. Isaac scrolled through the results for a while, but none of them, at least at first glance, seemed to refer to the man from the street.

“Computer, are you sure these are the best results for the criteria I specified?” Isaac had no idea why he was asking the question. After all, why would the computer not follow his instructions?

To his surprise, the computer answered, “Sir, there are better fits for the search criteria.”

“There are? Well, why haven’t you showed them to me?”

“The links found fall outside your safe search zone. They represent a security risk.”

“I don’t understand,” Isaac said. “Just show me the links, will you?”

Another, much smaller list appeared on the wallscreen. At the top of the list was a picture of Isaac’s critic: Ahmed Ghazali.

“Aha! That’s him! Open the first link please.”

The computer emitted a strange buzzing sound. “Sir, I’m sorry, but that link is hosted by a site deemed insecure and actively hostile to visitors. The risk of malware infection is very high. Are you sure you wish to continue?”

“I…I don’t know. Are you telling me that visiting the link to Ghazali’s website will infect my computer with a virus, or something?”

“A computer virus is one potential risk, but today’s malware consists of several categories. For more information on the possible dangers of visiting this site, please visit the following links, or perform a search with the following parameters.” A new window popped up on the screen with a long list of security sites and searches that would no doubt provide copious warnings about the risk of browsing the web in the mid-21st century.

Isaac scrubbed at his face with his hands. Now he wished that Emily was home. She was the computer guru, and right now she could have easily told him how to proceed. He scrunched up his eyes and tried his best to remember some of the computer jargon he’d heard her use in the past. His implant wasn’t much help – a clear indication that, generally speaking, Isaac found computer topics completely uninteresting and irrelevant).

“Can’t I run a search in a secure mode? A…damn, what did she call it…a sand pile algorithm?”

The computer was silent for a split second as it considered his request. “Sir, do you wish to initialize a security sandbox?”

“A sandbox, yes! I mean…wait. Do I want to initialize a security sandbox? What is a security sandbox, exactly?” The computer started to respond, but Isaac quickly said, “Stop! Don’t answer that question. Just tell me, will a sandbox protect me from the malware on Ghazali’s website?”

“Most modern malware has been designed to recognize and circumvent sandbox environments. However, it is possible to create a recursive multi-level sandbox and combine it with masking protocols and proxy connections that would greatly reduce the risk of a security breach.”

“Greatly reduced is good,” Isaac said. “Can you be a little more specific? Ballpark figure.”

“Ten to fifteen percent chance of infection, sir. Approximately.”

That didn’t sound too bad. “And if an infection did occur? What are the consequences?”

“Once an infection occurs, even the most robust operating environments are usually considered compromised and unsalvageable. Should this system become infected, the recommended course of action would to reformat and reinstall the operating system from a clean template file.”

Ouch. That didn’t sound good at all. Isaac bit his lip, thinking. “Would any of my personal files be compromised?”

“Sir, all of your personal files are stored off-site in an encrypted cloud computing environment that operates on multiple platforms across widely disparate geographic locations. In addition, your home system subscribes to a physical media backup service that copies your archival materials and stores them at numerous physically secure sites on a regular basis.”

“So, you’re saying my files would be safe, then?”

“Yes, sir. Your personal files would be unaffected by a localized malware infection.” The system paused for a moment. “Do you wish to initialize a security sandbox to visit the site in question?”

While the page loaded, Isaac shook his head in wonder. This was why he hated using the computer. Nothing was ever easy. “Sure, go ahead,” he said. If things went wrong, Emily could fix it for him later.

(Continued here)