Before The Salieri Effect went into Chapter 11, Dr. Kerr and Cameron interrupted their holiday in Venice to help Tom Purdue deal with those never-ending rumors about his involvement in the 1983 disappearance of a young composer calling himself "Trazmo," a cold case that resulted in their finding themselves stuck in Orient, IA. But in the last installment, Dr. Kerr's composition student Toni returned home from Venice just in time to attend her first rehearsals for a local theater's production of Peter Shaffer's play Amadeus, directed by Lawrence Bridges. In another part of the world, students at the Allegro Conservatory's opera workshop await the first rehearsal for Mozart's Cosi fan tutte directed by Lauren Mostovsky where they've just discovered how truly unique this production is going to be.
Now, however, it's time to turn our attention to something new and alarmingly evil going on just down the road from the Express Motel and Dr. Kerr: the re-emergence of Osiris, presumed dead after the fire at Tom Purdue's neighbor's farmhouse, and the next phase of the Aficionati's plot to control the world of Classical Music.
= = = = = = = = = = = = =
CHAPTER 12
The room where the presentation was to be made – that all-important demonstration to the Man in Charge – gleamed with promise, everything white, pristine and antiseptic, not to mention the finest (and tightest) of security. Three panelists waited uncomfortably, their sole audience an old man in a wheelchair and his nurse standing at attention beside him.
One of the panelists, an Asian man in an over-sized white smock, imagined the nurse as a cross between a Valkyrie and an Egyptian temple statue, appropriate since they called the old man “Osiris.”
Increasingly impatient, Osiris was, however, feeling a little bit better since his first impression after his arrival a few days earlier. Yes, an “abandoned factory,” but even renovated must it still look so dismal? After wheeling him into the building's “core,” the lab itself, invisible to the outside, he realized all that was a decoy.
To the small Midwestern podunk outside, the old eyesore on the edge of town had become the National Data Center for Basilikon, some internet tech giant nobody in town had ever heard of before. But this “core” was a State-of-the-Art science lab for the Aficionati's latest project, and they all needed the Old Man's satisfaction.
Osiris was restive, mostly because someone was late (“not a good first impression”) – recalling Graham Ripa's first impression (“also, not good”). Two men, an Arab and an Israeli, stood before a large curtained window.
The Arab was Abdul Ifrit ibn Dumah al-Zebani though the typical European attention span, unable to process more than three names on bureaucratic forms, whittled this down to Ifrit al-Zebani or simply Dr. Ifrit. A recent immigrant, born in Saudi Arabia or Iraq (depending on your source), he was the Basilikon Center's newly appointed Director. In truth (not found in any source), al-Zebani was the Head Engineer of the Aficionati's renewed Mobot Task Force or MTF-XVI. The previous plan had proven too cumbersome with its life-sized humanoid “suicide mannequins.”
Despite his own experience with animatronics, al-Zebani's revision of the impractical androids honed the better bits into small clouds of mini-drones like swarms of tiny insects, miniscule robots which could communicate through wifi-broadcast music. They'll surround unsuspecting targets like nothing more ominous than a bunch of mosquitoes until, with an inaudible signal, it's too late.
Without raising a desiccated hand, the man called Osiris interrupted al-Zebani, reminding him there was much to admire in Thomas Purdue's A.I. Composing Software, but it'd proved too intelligent, quickly fleeing into the ether. As they well knew, Osiris had been present at that demonstration, too, which ended in a fire that nearly killed him.
“Or is it the 'Etho-sphere'?” Osiris looked up at his nurse, Selket, whose bravery was the only reason he had survived. “Words,” he complained, “so confusing: why can't they just stick to simple terms?”
That horrible fire – Osiris shuddered to remember it – had all been Graham Ripa's fault, how he'd botched one thing after another, first capturing Purdue (no, first, that farmhouse he was renovating: new headquarters, indeed!) then stealing Purdue's software, bumbling the experiment – though Perdita Vremsky's immolation was quite the success – before the software escaped and disappeared.
Al-Zebani tried not to sweat, well aware of the risks of any failure: he, too, had heard stories about Perdita Vremsky, disgraced agent turned sacrificial victim during an experiment with the previous Mobot Project, how a bomb was planted inside her head, a human “suicide android,” killing dozens of people around her at a concert.
“We're still working out the details so the mini-drones can communicate with a central command system and eventually with each other...”
“Ensure they do not, like Purdue's program,” Osiris cautioned, “start thinking for themselves...” Nothing, Osiris knew, was worse than when people started thinking for themselves.
The short man in a lab smock too long for him, the Israeli man, tried to get his attention. “And you are...?”
He was, he began, Dr. Yitzhak Háradov, one of Basilikon's newer chief engineers but Osiris cut him off: “And you do...?”
“I direct the Mobot/Victim Interface Termination System research...”
“Which means, exactly...?”
“I work on the way our Mobots kill their victims.”
“Well, that sounds promising – continue.”
Háradov stepped forward and nodded deferentially toward Osiris.
Dr. Háradov spoke slowly, stumbling to find the simplest terminology he could use, and assumed, because he was so old, Osiris was “a bit slow on the uptake” and most likely a bit deaf. Despite years of research and teaching in the neurological department in Tel Aviv, he still found thinking in English a challenge.
“Over years, we discover intellectually engaged brains will give off certain... energy fields visible as 'brain activity' on brain scans... MRIs... especially when we can compare scans taken of the patient's brain at rest with similar scans taken later when they're reading, listening to... Beethoven symphonies, even playing an instrument – we've tried this with clarinetists.
“What I have since discovered is that... an intellectually stimulated brain can give off not only a kind of aural energy..., it combines this with a barely perceptible... pheromone momentarily identifying them as... 'intelligent'.”
“Man has discovered,” Haradov rambled on, “it's possible to train rescue dogs to recognize basic brain activity and thus find victims of earthquakes, landslides, or bombed-out buildings who'd be still alive in the rubble. By training these dogs to respond to these 'intelligence pheromones,' then we could proceed with... rescuing the more intelligent individuals first.”
Osiris cocked his head imperceptibly to the left, his brows condensed into a thoughtful frown as he tried processing this information. “And what exactly, Doctor, does this mean – I mean, for our current project?”
“In much the same way physical activity – exercise, to play at sports, for instance – creates sweat which produces a... pronounced odor, the end result of... energy expended by various muscles in repeated, excessive motions, people who think a lot, people who read or are engaged in different... intellectual activities, produce a kind of... 'smart sweat'.”
“It is,” al-Zebani interrupted, moving the presentation along, “the very absence of this 'smart sweat' we'll use to attract the Mobots. People who do not produce intellectual pheromones can thus be singled out and identified as attractive to the mini-drones, much the way mosquitoes are attracted by a person's sweat or even their dark clothing.”
“But don't sometimes intelligent people like to, as young people say, 'kick back and unwind' with specifically non-intellectual activity, even short-term? Wouldn't that be putting them at risk for a momentary lapse in intelligence?”
Haradov began speaking immediately. “It would appear, as our research maintains thus far, consistent intellectuals produce more such pheromones more consistently than do more passive members of society who may engage in intellectual stimulation less frequently in the course of their day – therefore, smart people are smarter longer and less smart people, not so long.”
“In fact, it can be proven,” al-Zebani took up the thread, “someone without a stimulated brain in general – hard-core 'couch potatoes' living off endless TV programs or tuning into non-stop rock videos and computer games – would become an easy target for the MTF-XVI, programmed to be repelled by an intense bombardment of intellectual brain-wave activity.”
Osiris pondered a moment while the engineers waited. “Many such 'couch potatoes' usually wear those ball caps – with the bill turned backwards? Wouldn't that impede the perception of these pheromones of which you speak?”
“If Agent Ossian, our forlornly belated engineer, were here to continue his part of the presentation, he could tell you how we could also program our mini-drones to seek out people wearing specific colors. It could compensate for any reduction in brain-waves, assuming something as anti-intellectual as a ball cap,” he added with a sneer.
“In other words,” Osiris said, while he pondered further possibilities, “the way mosquitoes are attracted to dark clothing, the Mobots could seek out people wearing those ridiculous orange SHMRG caps their fans constantly wear?”
The door behind the old man opened quietly and a blonde head with horn-rim glasses poked its way in, meekly apologetic. The Asian scientist glowered at the late-comer, quickly stopping him in his tracks.
“And what will happen to those whose brain activity cannot repel the MTF-XVI?”
Al-Zebani, looking up, said, “they would die instantly.”
The blonde man, eyebrows appropriately displayed in penitential mode, sheepishly moved his considerable bulk into place next to the Project Director. “Sorry for being delayed, but...” Al-Zebani cut him off with an abrupt gesture.
Dr. Háradov continued without interruption, explaining how there would be ways members of the Aficionati can protect themselves from the Mobots.
“For one, without telling them why, we simply warn the Aficionati not to wear ball caps – after all, why would they? The fashion distinction already exists between generic non-intelligent masses and the intellectual elite.
“I also work on such a cap enhanced with my 'smart sweat' pheromone which must be reapplied each time it's washed. This will protect book readers, lovers of complex classical music, foreign film fans...”
Osiris wondered if stereotypical Couch Potatoes – which had now become the official pejorative aggregate for Non-Intelligent Masses – routinely washed their caps...?
“I'm close to producing a pill version of this pheromone which will stimulate brain-wave activity the Mobot reads clearly as intelligence, which warns it to... 'stay away,' like some kind of herbal supplement, 'Cerebrelium'? Basically, this pheromone would act much like... the lamb's blood smeared on the doorposts of Jewish homes during the First Passover.”
Agent Ossian turned to his colleague and asked, “you mean like being 'Saved by the Blood of Christ' in the sacrament?”
“Uhm, well... not exactly,” Haradov admitted, “but if that analogy works for you...?”
Desperately trying to keep the presentation afloat, al-Zebani stepped forward, nodding toward Osiris, uncomfortable not to be including the nurse, Selket. She was there only as Osiris' nurse, not as a member of the Ruling Council whose approval he needed (he was unaware there were any additional members on the Ruling Council other than Osiris).
“It is with pleasures to introduce now,” he said, “a recent addition to Basilikon's engineering staff, a distinguished musician and ethnomusicologist...”
Osiris impatiently waved his hand, not the one nearly destroyed in the fire.
“And you do...?” Osiris showed signs of tiring. His nurse looked at him as surreptitiously as possible before returning her steady gaze to the Asian man about to speak. Asians always aroused her suspicions.
“I am Agent Krahang,” he said, nodding, “Director of the Mobot Dexterity and Precision Motility Interface – basically, I make them dance.”
“Krahong.” Osiris searched his considerable memory. “I am not familiar with that particular name. 'Krahong' – is that an official Aficionati identifier...?”
“Kraháng, sir. He's an ancient Thai spirit, comparable to many of the officially sanctioned European names. I am Thai, so I suggested adding it for the sake of diversification. These days...”
“Enough, Kra-haang – continue...”
“To demonstrate how Mobots can respond to musical direction, I've choreographed a small troupe to a series of short dance-like phrases. They can, of course, do much more complex patterns than these would indicate.”
First, Krahang explained, he would play the music by itself, “basically to show its simplicity with nothing else to distract you. Imagine you are about to witness a ballet taking place in the sky. I've chosen some traditional Thai temple dances, but I've also choreographed them to Late Beethoven Quartets and Boulez's Marteau sans maitre.”
The drones would “hear” this music through wifi signals which, to anyone else, would sound just like a standard music file. “What most people listen to – the melody – is essentially ignored by the Mobot.
“Each individual drone focuses not on the melody but on the underlying rhythm. Specific motions will be timed according to the meter and pulse, the way dancers count beats to time steps and gestures. This technology already exists in the outside world, quite commonplace to the casual viewer of, say, recent Olympic ceremonies or rock-concerts.”
Krahang picked up a remote device no bigger than a small gaming console, though Osiris had never seen one close up. Krahang looked up toward the ceiling, frowned, then hit another button and smiled.
Suddenly this soft and subtle dance music began to undulate, pervading the room, as if played by a distant gamelan orchestra.
Krahang pointed out with various nods where the phrasing shifted its short asymmetrical patterns unfamiliar to standard 18th Century dance music. “These aren't foursquare phrases designed for dancers struggling to coordinate feet and music.”
Easily hiding what passed for enjoyment, Osiris mumbled, “hoping with glory to trip up the laureate's feet, moving in classical meter.” It had always been his life-long belief ever since he first began listening to Haydn symphonies as a child, that the greatest pleasure came from realizing when the music does something you don't expect.
“What the drones will focus on,” Krahang explained, while talking over the music, “will be an underlying, nearly inaudible rhythmic layer. Here's the same music with this added layer, which I've increased in volume.”
As it re-started, Osiris could barely make out a busily pulsating undercurrent, all fitting within the beats. “The Laureate's feat, indeed!”
“It's the equivalent of a subtle Morse code where various patterns, beyond their sense of pulse, would be overlooked by any human who'd happen to be listening in but without realizing what it is.”
Krahang nodded at Ossian, who almost smiled, then stepped back as the others took up positions standing behind Osiris and Selket. Given the old man's general seriousness, Krahang opted to skip the joke about “time for a dance break:” it hadn't occurred to him before someone in a wheelchair might find that in bad taste.
Ossian fumbled with the cords before figuring out which one opened the drapes, revealing a long rectangular window looking out onto a large, fully enclosed area like, perhaps, a squash court.
Osiris craned forward.
Krahang held up the remote device and ceremoniously pushed a button. A doorway at one end of the court opened to reveal a small cloud of dark objects, flies suspended in a waiting formation.
Then, nodding, he pushed a second button with the flare of a showman. Music began to play, the cloud began undulating.
Krahang explained, “in reality, no one else would be able to hear the music unless they had hacked the wifi system. For this demonstration, I wanted you to hear what the Mobots will hear.” A few beats into the music, the shapeless swarm took its position facing the window and stretching into an oblong arrangement.
With a sudden burst from vibraphones and glockenspiels, the swarm appeared to nod, then began flying around while creating one shape after another, not unlike a marching band at a football game's halftime show.
As each phrase changed tempo, dynamic level, or rhythmic complexity, the swarm appeared to change color as if reflecting the sunlight, frequently turning to its audience and nodded almost as if bowing to them. They broke into smaller groups, performed symmetrical patterns, then regrouped in the center, whirling around like a whip, before apparently break-dancing.
“If we were,” Krahang said, “putting on a show with live music, this technical display would appear aesthetically pleasing. The audience would be mesmerized, unaware of what's about to happen... next. And what's that...?”
“So now,” Ossian announces, “I introduce... the Unsuspecting Victim.” The music switched to the final minutes from Stravinsky's Rite of Spring.
A door at the court's opposite end opened, revealing a fluffy Angora hamster.
The swarm hovered over the hamster, pulsed with increasing energy, then swooped down. On the final chord, the hamster was dead.
Osiris sat back, duly impressed and when Krahang looked into those intense dark eyes that seemed to bore right through you, Osiris nodded at him approvingly before raising his chin in an imperious gesture. “You have done well, Master Choreographer – and all you engineers, too. Impressive – not only is it technically beautiful, it's beautifully done.”
Inwardly, Krahang could feel a great heave of relief which he tried not to show on his face as he knew emotional expression, at least in Osiris' presence, was frowned upon. “Thank you, sir.”
“Most kind, sir,” al-Zebani added, wondering maybe he should have said “your majesty.” This whole bit, obsequiously treating Osiris as a fearsome, all-powerful king rather than just another demanding boss, he found somewhat off-putting. Perhaps because the old man, half-mummified, was stuck in a wheelchair, he felt entitled to think he sat on a throne?
Before the ensuing silence became any more awkward – especially since he could see Agent Ossian's broad forehead was beginning to sweat – al-Zebani resumed his “presentation mode” to explain Agent Krahang was only weeks away from completing the necessary code to type commands directly into the software for “live control” of the Mobots' real-time actions.
“And we'll soon be able to mass-produce the Mobots thanks to the recent arrival yesterday from the UK of Agent Nephil.” She regretted being unable to present anything in time for this morning's presentation.
“I have, incidentally, managed to create little, tiny Mozart faces we can affix to the head of each mini-drone,” al-Zebani continued, the smile crossing his lips taking on a more sinister look than usual. “Barely visible individually to the naked eye, a mass of them will be unmistakable the moment the victim is being attacked.”
Since the original “suicide mannequins” had been dubbed “Mobots,” short for Mozart Robots, it seemed entirely appropriate, given the view these attacks on the Ignorant Masses were unofficially considered (so al-Zebani assumed) “Mozart's Revenge.”
As
a long-time designer of animatronic dinosaurs at popular amusement
parks throughout the Mid-West, al-Zebani now revealed his newest
creation, mechanized security bots, slightly larger than real life,
designed to look like Antonio Salieri. The Test Models used various
old on-line photos of F. Murray Abraham from the film, Amadeus.
He has dubbed them Salierotrons.
(F. Murray Abraham as Salieri)
“Very amusing, I'm sure,” Osiris remarked, clearly not amused, “but do not allow yourself to be distracted with insignificant issues at the expense of a punctual implementation of the MTF-XVI you still call 'Mobots.' Pursue them only to keep yourself occupied otherwise during the Down Time while others prepare their parts of our main project. You have sufficient engineering staff and the necessary equipment here to implement the project in a timely fashion, do you not? Then,” as al-Zebani hesitated, “tell me and we will arrange it for you.”
“The problem, sir” – al-Zebani paused, afraid he would automatically call him your majesty – “is in Nephil's Mass Production Department which, without knowing its particulars before her designs arrived and were approved, had been underestimated. Doubling the amount of engineers and the duplicating technology they'd be operating would greatly improve our ability to meet the deadline.”
Raising his good hand, his index finger pointed toward the ceiling, Osiris nodded. “Then it must be so. Submit these particulars, as you call them, to Agents Rhadamanthus in Personnel and Freia in Budget. Time, as you well know, is of the inflorescence, as I call it: it must be ready to bloom on schedule.”
Osiris was well aware of the Florescence of Time, given his near-death experience after the flaming hell-hole of Graham Ripa's farmhouse. Given his age, he also knew this could be his last major project.
Before the ensuing silence became even more awkward than before, Dr. Haradov revealed, “as long as we're talking about... further developments, I test a liquid form of these pheromones in small, controlled lab experiments. These can be deployed by specifically adapted Mobots and incorporated into the... choreography, sprayed directly over the crowd, depending on... size.”
They would also make available to Aficionati agents and members an aerosol spray using the “Smart Sweat” pheromone that can be used like a mosquito repellent, applied directly to the head or some head-covering.
Haradov searched through his pockets and found two vials, one of which contained an odd greenish liquid. “This 'Smart Sweat' would temporarily protect the wearer (it'll wear off in two days) from... the Mobots. While this,” holding up another which had a reddish liquid, “would attract the Mobots to our intended... targets and kill them.
“In other words, depending on the event and the nature of the attack, any Aficionati who are monitoring the concert or have infiltrated the crowd would be safe from the Mobots as long as they remember not to wear anything orange and have sprayed themselves with the green 'smart' pheromone before the attack gets underway.”
Krahang surreptitiously opened Haradov's reddish vial and gave it a quick sniff but accidentally spilled some on the Old Man's jacket. Hoping nobody noticed his faux pas, he mumbled something about people who're color-blind.
Osiris instead pushed forward with another set of questions which intrigued him more. “I understand pheromones attracting or repelling the Mobot, but how exactly does it kill its intended victims, once it's identified them?”
He specifically asked the Israeli, pronouncing his name Harádov, who immediately indicated Director al-Zebani should be the one answering his questions.
“If insect analogies are acceptable, is it a sting or a bite,” Osiris asked, “some kind of poison? Since it apparently kills the victim instantly, is it an explosive shot or some mind-altering ray?”
Al-Zebani smiled, knowing this question would come, and had his answer already prepared. “This is something for security reasons only a select few should know about. It is unfortunate we cannot ask the hamster.”
“Ah,” Osiris said, clearly disappointed. “I understand. But perhaps, for scientific integrity, it is time to test this... on a human?”
An agent peeked in at the door and gave Selket a thumbs-up which she relayed to Osiris in a brief whisper. He nodded and swung his wheelchair halfway around in profile toward the door.
“Ah, my new Director of Security has arrived,” Osiris announced. “Well, he's newly arrived, just back from a mission to Mexico.”
The door opened up to reveal a giant of a man, his shaved head gleaming, his skin, darker than ebony, covered in tattoos, barrel-chested, wasp-waisted, shirt open to his navel, bare legs like trees.
The man's arms bulged with rippling biceps covered in even more bulging biceps. Krahang estimated he himself was probably not much bigger than this man's right leg – on a good day, and fully dressed. With a security director like this, who would need Salierotrons? They should just clone him. Even al-Zebani was having trouble swallowing.
Osiris repositioned his wheelchair as this Black Hulk took up his place on his left, towering over the already statuesque Selket.
“May I introduce Agent Shango,” Osiris said, with the calm dignity of someone knowing he's already won any future power struggle. In turn, Osiris pointed out each of the others by name and title.
The man called Shango glared from one to the other without a word. Krahang expected massive fangs, should the man smile. Ossian, the pale blonde man, quaking, appeared on the verge of wetting himself.
“Agent Shango,” Osiris resumed, “has a rather endearing way of talking about his mother, which he does with great frequency, but he assures me he will temper his imaginative vocabulary in my presence. Report.”
“Yes, sir.” His voice, deep and reverberant in overtones, rumbled forth, setting the walls to vibrating. There was news from SHMRG.
“It seems they've released the date for their so-called Concert of the Century, a summer festival in the Colorado Rockies billed as the Woodstock of Classical Music (as if young people would remember 'Woodstock').”
Now announced for the Solstice, SHMRG hoped Skripasha Scricci, their poster child of kitsch (“as if young people would remember Scricci”) will have recuperated in time to make his “triumphant return” to concert life. The program would be part of a series of performances nationwide, consisting of light classics, old war-horses, and lots of cross-over.
“Good, Agent Shango, thank you,” Osiris said, nodding contentedly. The mere mention of SHMRG, Scricci, and “lots of cross-over” was enough to make his lips curl, if he'd had any lips left to curl. “These concerts are to be the focus of coordinated attacks – hence, our swarms of little Mobots must blossom by the Solstice.”
Looking up at Shango, he added, “And now, I understand you have brought with you a special guest, am I right?”
“Yes, sir,” Shango said, smiling.
(Krahang was glad to see no evident fangs).
Osiris explained how he and one Graham Ripa – “the Agent formerly known as Falx” – had reached a “rapprochement” last week, finally, after the latter was discovered hiding somewhere in Mexico following his ignominious disappearance. “But Agent Shango persuaded him to return, didn't you?”
Shango's smile grew broader.
(No, Krahang was pretty sure those were fangs.)
Shango nodded, directing their attention back to the window. Again, Osiris peered forward to watch as the one door that earlier had revealed the luckless hamster now revealed a man wheeling in a gurney. On it lay someone strapped down and blindfolded, hooked up to an I.V.
“Allow me to introduce to you – Graham Ripa.”
The attendant removed the blindfold from Ripa's face, then removed the I.V. drip from his arm. Slowly, Ripa began to revive.
Osiris' face nearly cracked from a barely successful attempt to suppress a smile.
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©2022 by Dick Strawser for Thoughts on a Train
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