Music of the Spheres
by LA Franks


Evidently, Doctor James Rawling needs me with him so badly on the Clarke Wheel he has to yank me from the studio in order to catch the next rider out to space, which scares the living shit out of me, so I spend most of the trip bombed out of my ass except for some lucid moments I spend screaming until they put me back under. When we finally reach the frickin' wheel, the rotation hurts the equilibrium in my ear and I end up with the dry heaves until the local doc puts drugs me again. 


On the plus side, the hallucinations gave me an idea for a song tentatively called "Vomit." 


So this is why I spend three days by myself in our suite with the shakes and heaves while James does the science gig with our good hosts from SpaceTech. Fortunately, I brought my synth and computer, which do wonders at translating my mediocre keyboard skills into something resembling music, as my fans are expecting a new I/O Port disc in time for Christmas. Of course, I can actually play chords and stuff now, which I couldn't when we formed The Retrograde Emotions. I mean, back then I couldn't play any instrument at all, and my singing sort of resembled one of those Irish Banshees they talk about in the mythology books. But the critics and fans considered that a good thing, which proves that you can fool most of the people most of the time. Now I can afford a music teacher program that plugs into the socket in my head and I can wear those cool shades that are outlawed in some cities. 


But anyway, three days pass and James returns to the hotel after a hard day at work. I'm finally feeling alive, getting used to the spin, though last night I had a dream where I heard the high pitched whine of the rotating wheel. James kisses my forehead, and asks how I'm doing. He's wearing his usual outlaw scientist garb, with the black leather and shades, looking unshaven, his dark hair tousled and wild. 


"Better," I tell him. "I can keep liquids down now, so I've been drinking some protein crap." 


"That's good." he tells me. "Are you ready to meet some people?" 


It feels like a badge boy touches a shocker to my stomach and I almost double over. I can't even say "no" I'm trembling so much. 


"Come on, Anj," he says in that big brother way of his, hand stroking the back of my neck, "It's only some scientists. They're harmless." 


"I'm sorry," I manage to croak. "It's just that you" -- I have to take a breath here -- "Surprised me." I practice some relaxation techniques for a few minutes while he waits patiently, and when I finally bring my heart rate down a few BPM's I tell him I'll be able to meet them. 


"Good girl," he says, and then proceeds to inform me about what's going on. The story goes like this. Once upon a time (about a year ago) some asteroid miners found an object of alien manufacture and brought it back to the Spacetech labs here on the Clarke Wheel where teams of scientists tried to figure out What It Was. After fruitless poking about, they called Interface Systems to develop an interface. Enter James Rawling, Boy Genius, Doctor of Cybernetics (UCLA), Doctor of Computer/Human Interface (Michigan), Doctor of Artificial Intelligences (UCal Berkeley), with a Masters in Computer Systems (Washington), majors in Mathematics and Computer Systems and a Music Minor at UCLA (again). James holds numerous patents, but it's his Personality Mods, a trademarked kind of behavior enhancer, that made him filthy rich. He'll tell you he invented behavior enhancers all by himself, but it's a lie. Joey came up with the idea during one of our recording sessions. Joey played bass and wrote software. He was the one originally interested in downloadable personalities, not James. He was the one who originally wrote the code. He was also the one who had a socket installed so he could experiment on himself, much to the dismay of James, Veej, and me. 


After Retrograde Emotions broke up, James and Joey began working on downloadable personalities. When James joined Interface Technologies and patented Personality Modules, Joey dropped from sight. I hear he's now in an institution somewhere in Oregon. 


So the moral of this story is, don't believe everything James Rawling tells you. Especially if it's about himself. Which was what he was doing, telling me what happened the last three days, how he missed me so much, and all that crap he piles on. Eventually, even James Rawling tired of himself and went into the bathroom to take a shower. I went to change for company. 


When people watched me on stage with Retrograde Emotions, they saw this wanked out girl with long dirty blonde hair screaming nearly incomprehensible gibberish at the top of her lungs that was vaguely reminiscent of songs from the disc. They naturally assumed I was a party freak, but as the tour went on I began to loathe parties and people in general, so I stayed in my room until I finally cracked and we had to cancel the rest of the tour. But enough about me, I don't want to get on a self indulgent trip. James is self indulgent enough for the both of us. Just let me say that I'm pretty much of a loner these days. 


I put on an ugly sky blue chiffon jumpsuit with big legs I saw in a retro catalog once and do absolutely nothing for my face and hair. I lock the door to the room and sit on the bed for an hour, staring at the module lying in front of me. James pounds on the door a couple of times, but I don't answer. Eventually some people come that I ignore, even though they're talking and laughing in the other room. I reach for the module and actually touch it, but don't pick it up. James knocks again and asks if there's anything wrong. I tell him to go away. I fix a tall drink that I slam and wait for it to take affect. When I'm sufficiently numb I pick up the module and download the contents. 


I float into the other room, a sky blue dream in the breeze. I wear no shoes and my face is blank, emotionless. At least, that's how my face usually looks in photos I see of me in public. James looks concerned when he first sees me pop out, but when he witnesses my behavior, he's relieved. 


Of course, with my mod I can carry on inane conversations without actually participating. For all appearances it looks as though I enjoy being out with people, because the mod imitates warmth and feeling. I can even listen in to other people's conversations while I talk. Right now I've got my ears trained on a chat between James and some blonde woman. I don't know what they're saying but it seems important for me to find out. 


However, as I'm locked in deadly conversation with some boring astrophysicist I experience an Event. I'm lying in what appears to be a hospital bed while the other members of the band surround me. Joey and Veej are crying. James stands with his fists clenched. Veej says something but I can't hear him through the roaring in my ears or the tears in my eyes. I know I must be in a lot of pain, but thankfully Events use only sight and sound. 


Suddenly I'm on the floor and the others surround me, asking if I'm all right. The woman who was talking to James helps me to my feet. She is Dr. Hentschel, a real doctor of some sort and not a big brained science speculator. She's in her forties and possesses a more curvaceous figure than moi. Also I think she dyes her hair. It looks much blonder than mine. She asks me questions and checks my pulse, then introduces me to Kevin. 


Kevin is a SpaceTech IFtech. I like the way that sounds. I might use it in a song some day. Anyway, this Kevin is a Retrograde Emotions fan and tries to lull me into a conversation about the band, but my stock responses are downloaded and the mod carries on without me. I think James just invited Kevin to keep me out of his hair. Even though James is a sockethead, he's an engineer and doesn't like associating with IFtechs. 


As Kevin carries on I think about my Event. I do not know what triggers them, but there are times when I experience memory flashes so intense they eclipse reality. Usually they present a piece of my life forgotten or repressed. Sometimes dream images intrude, like purple horses or flying while naked, but mostly it's facts and stuff. Anyway, this one is pretty weird by Event standards. I don't know what to make of it. As far as I remember, I've never been in that room. 


So anyway, am I using anyway too much? My softGED teacher told me I should vary my word usage and limit the number of interjections and connecting words I use. But then, what does it know? Anyway, these scientists dudes are doing the cocktail hour thing before they zip off to the totally ultra cool floating restaurant that would probably make me throw up if I went, but now I'm feeling that throwing up might be a worthwhile experience. 


James doesn't invite me, he just gives me a sedative thingy I pretend to take. I collapse on the bed in a fit of pretend exhaustion, count to 238 once I hear him lock the door, get up and find some slippers. That Event makes me want to go out and be with people. 


James is dining someplace near the hub, but the hotel's near the rim where there's more fake gravity. I look at a map, which is easy enough to read, even for me, and pick out some destinations. I stick my ID and credit card into a convenient pouch on the sky blue belt, then float out the door. 


As I wander around the Promenade, I notice nearly everybody wears jumpsuits even uglier than mine. Most look more functional, with bunches of pockets on the legs and arms and chest, with little fanny packs and tool belts. Their shoes are sturdier too. After a while I figure out that these are some sort of uniform, at least the ones with insignias on them. The others are either uniform wannabes or else they just like to stroll the promenade with pockets stuffed full. I think about jacking some stuff, but where can you hide anything in a blue party jumpsuit? 


There's lots of trees and flowers lining the street before the view disappears with the wheel's curve. I notice a different jumpsuit that looks less functional than the uniforms. These jumpsuits are sleeker, more skin clinging, curve hugging, light reflective. People wear jackets with them, because there looks to be no pockets on the suits at all. Some are sequined, some satin, some with see-thru material in appropriate and inappropriate places, but they're all jumpsuits, except for one woman wearing red hot pants and a skimpy top. I'm relieved that there are still nonconformists. 


I decide I must to go shopping. I begin to feel paranoid that people start to recognize me. I notice some look my way and mutter to themselves. I duck into a clothing boutique and start scanning the racks. The saleswoman eyes me like I'm a potential shoplifter. She looks like a transvestite. That gives me an idea. I try on some jumpsuits. Most are loose in the bust and hips, but I intend to fix the bust part with a little padding. I'm going in disguise. I may even venture up to that restaurant, the -- oh, what is it -- The Buoyant House and see if James recognizes me. 


I end up in a pale pink skintight with a little bolero jacket, my hair volumized and tinted platinum, with so much makeup I can't even recognize me. I'm wearing fake pink nails I have to be careful with so I don't hurt myself. I buy some more outfits and have them sent back to the hotel. 


People are still staring, but at least they don't recognize me. But the men have glints in their eyes, and some of the women, too. I look for a bar where I can have a drink, but I realize I can't go anywhere where I'm not stared at. My disguise is good, but it's not so good I can be left alone in a crowd. Already I feel the mod disintegrating. I really do need a drink to augment it. I find a bar, but before I order, somebody is already buying me a drink. I flee to the hotel and sneak inside the suite. I hear voices coming from the kitchen. One is James. The other belongs to a woman. I tiptoe to my room, which is hard to do in heels. They don't see me as I make it safely and close the door. 


James talks as they bring drinks to the living room. I don't need to hear the clink of ice, though I do. I'm quite familiar with the procedure. Usually I put on headphones or take a sleeping pill when James brings in a woman. This time, like the stupid I am, I listen. 


"Our relationship is simple. Angie has no family. I'm her legal guardian, that's all." 


"I don't understand," says the woman. Her voice is familiar. "Surely she's long past legal age." 


"She's twenty-five. But Angie can't cope with the world. I handle her finances and give her a place where she doesn't have to deal with outsiders on a regular basis." 


"Wasn't that how that band of yours broke up? She collapsed on stage and you had to cancel your engagements?" 


"Eventually. When we couldn't tour there was no point in going on." 


"Does that mean you two don't have anything going?" 


"That's one of her phobias," says James. 


"I'm surprised you haven't developed a personality module for her," says the voice of Dr. Hentschel, and suddenly I know who it is. 


"That's another one of her phobias." 


"But you said she downloads a mod whenever she's forced to meet people." 


"It's not one of my Personality Modules, if that's what you mean," says James. "I don't know what it is or where she got it because she won't let me touch it -- another one of her phobias -- but she says it gives her the courage to interact with people." 


"You don't think so," says Dr. Hentschel. 


"I've seen her behavior deteriorate. It's similar to what happens to those who get hooked on mods. The core personality fragments into multiple modified personalities. She's gotten so bad that I can't leave her by herself. I can't take her anyplace. The best I can hope for is to invite people over in a safe environment. Would you care for another drink?" 


"Please." 


That lying sack of shit. He's playing her like that old Stratocaster of his. He's such a good looking guy that once he stokes the pity to a high enough flame, they'll be off to his bedroom in no time at all. He's played this game before and I've always tried to ignore it, but this little episode proves once again that one shouldn't listen in to other people's conversations. 


So what do I do? I go to the computer and access a real personality mod (T.M.) from Interface Systems, and download it into my hopped up mod unit. Then I wait until the two of them shuffle off to bed, sneak out and download the mod in the hallway. It's called Vivacious. 


I play the clubs, moving closer to the center of the wheel as I reach a crescendo of partying. I should be terrified out of my head, but that part of me is numb numb numb. Instead I visit the hottest clubs and party like I haven't partied since I was fifteen. 

I start to drink so I don't feel drunk. There are drugs to keep me from feeling high. When the mod wears down, I reinstall it. I don't sleep. I keep partying. Sometimes I have dreams while I dance, as though my mind branches into two, twining about like vines to a pole or twin curls of smoke circling an empty center. For three days I am full of booze, drugs, and Vivacious. 


I know James is looking for me. I see my picture flash across the city's info screens, but I am not me anymore. I am wearing a new hot pink outfit, when I find myself at a club at the hub, the Hubb Clubb, where the music goes thub thub thub be-thub and dancers jump to the ceiling to waft back to the floor, spinning and somersaulting in time to the beat, the beat, the sweet beat, and I'm thinking in rhyme I'm so high as I jump to the ceiling, float to the floor, jump to the ceiling once more. I hear gears spinning in my head and feel the glorious beat in all my body's nerves and the sleek silk satin sheath that strokes my skin as I seek the ceiling. S, s, I am suddenly in love with the letter s. I'm a snake, shaped like an S, writhing to the beat of an out of control drum and quivering to the pulse of the bass. All the energy I have stored since my last concert I have saved for this club, this hub, this dance floor, where dancers jump from walls to gyrate in space and couples throb in throes of embrace and diaphanous beings soar in black skies with kleig lighted stars, and the music, the music, the music shakes the walls and floor and rattles our bones. 


There is a video team here from Earth, I think it's the "MTV's Party On The Wheel" special. There are VJ's and celebrities and others crowded to dance. I got in without ID because I am The Hot One. Nobody knows my name, but they flash my picture on all the screens in the club as they spin tune after tune. A part of me laughs that James can't find me, though I'm under his nose, my face beamed to Earth for all to see. They play a dance remix of a song that sounds familiar. I begin to hum with the tune while I dance, but as the song gains momentum my limbs grow tired and I settle to the floor. I sing the words when the song reaches the chorus, it's all coming back to me as though I wrote the song, which I did, because they're playing "Suffer." 


My eyes are closed and I can't help but sing, my voice growing in volume with each verse. There's seven verses. I chose seven to make a statement in a way that naive fifteen year olds can make statements; the seven days of the week, the seven deadly sins (despite not knowing at the time what they actually were), seven cities of gold, and even Seven and Sevens. By the time the last verse is over and the chorus fades away I'm belting it out at the top of my lungs, screeching, screaming, wailing, howling. 

The song finishes. I am suddenly weak and tired. I open my eyes to discover that everyone has given me a wide berth and they're all staring at me, stunned beyond speech. Nobody thinks to play another song. Everything is silence. Dead silence, except there's someone standing behind me. I wait. The person behind me waits. The person clears his throat and then a familiar voice speaks. "Angela?" 


I turn around. Oh my God, it's Veej. 


I'm trying to drink some kind of chicken broth through a bottle. It tastes as though no chicken came within miles of this soup, but it has nutritional value and the salt makes me thirsty, so I take another sip of this sports drink in another bottle, which also has nutrients and I'm thinking, oh boy, with all these vitamins and amino acids I won't have to eat for a week. 


I'm at the SpaceTech labs, which lies on the opposite side of the hub from Clubb Hubb. I feel very light and they tell me I've been asleep for nearly a day. When I say "they," I'm talking about the shifts of guards that James has put on me. According to the woman who came on duty soon after I woke up, James doesn't even trust me alone in the hotel anymore. She's far more talkative than the previous one. I think it's because she saw my performance at the Clubb. Her name's Wendy. 


"They had the monitors on in the breakroom and everybody got excited about this woman in pink that nobody had ever seen before, so somebody asked if we could use the big screen in the auditorium so we watched the show from there. We had no idea you belonged to Dr. Rawling." 


I finish my beverage and ask where the bathroom is. I'm still wearing the skintight jumpsuit with the low cut bodice, but I lost the jacket that goes with it. I have somebody else's jacket around my shoulders. I suspect it belongs to James. 


When I look at myself in the mirror I notice the hair coloring has run onto the jumpsuit and the makeup is mostly gone, except for raccoon eyes and my dyed pink lips. There's a shower in here and I decide I need to use it. I poke my head out the door and ask Wendy if she could snag some suitable clothes while I'm washing up. She nods and goes to the phone. 


When I'm dry and plain again, except for my pink lips, I discover an official Blue SpaceTech jumpsuit with the official SpaceTech logo on the left breast pocket, and the official matching traction boots. I put them on. 


I feel better, more alive. I think they've been giving me shots while I've been passed out in order to counteract the effect of the poisons I've been ingesting. My muscles don't hurt like they should. Of course, in low gravity muscles don't work as hard as on they do on Earth, though my arches are kind of sore. 


I ask Wendy what I'm supposed to do here. She shrugs, says that her instructions are to watch over me and keep me from leaving. I ask if I'll be able to talk to James. Wendy tells me that James will see me when he gets free. She's already informed him that I'm awake. 


I wait for hours. There's nothing to do in this boring room except watch TV, which is boring, even though there's about a bazillion channels. So I start dreaming up melodies in my head. I also come to the conclusion that "Vertigo" is a better song title than "Vomit," even though I've already written a verse about vomit. 


As I sit I get an idea. It's not a great idea, but I'm tired of waiting like a child. I'm going to confront James, no matter where he may be. I want to talk to him and I want to talk to him now. If they deny me access, I will call a lawyer. Frankly, this guardianship thing has got to end. 


Wendy wants to ask permission first. As she punches in numbers I glance toward the video monitor. It's a newscast, and the announcer is talking about SpaceTech. 
"SpaceTech Industries finally released to the public the first official pictures of what people believe to be an alien space drive." A picture of a grey cannister with tapered ends flashes on the screen. "Scientists speculate that the artifact is some kind of propulsion unit." 


Another geek puts his face on the screen. He's Dr. Norman Liskey, the little caption reads. "It's definitely a propulsion unit of some kind, though it works on no principle we're aware of. It's going to change everything we know about physics." 


"Is it one of those warp drives like we see on video?" 


"Frankly, we don't know what it can do. We're all set to begin another round of tests later to day. We hope that this round will be more fruitful than the last one." 
Wendy puts down the receiver and looks at me. "Evidently Dr. Rawling left for dinner half an hour ago." 


So James went to lunch and left me here. It's obvious what he's doing. "James is punishing me for my adolescent behavior," I tell Wendy. "He's saying that I've wasted so much of his valuable time he's ignoring me for punishment, hoping I'll go all apologetic by the time he finally comes to get me. But I've got news for him, my sweet bastard. I'm calling a lawyer." 


Wendy says, "Huh?" 


"Or better yet," I say. "Let's go visit that artifact you have hidden here. Let's write graffiti on it. I used to be a middling graffiti artist before I became a musician." 

Desires and feelings I haven't had since before James and Veej found me well up and begin to overflow. Here I am in the middle of this whopping big high tech company on this whopping big sterile space station, and I feel like finding some spray paint. 

As Wendy watches in horror, I step toward the door. My eyes must be wild or something. But with my second step Vertigo attacks with a major chord. I stumble. I think I'm experiencing an Event, though this is unlike anything I've ever gone through. The flash is not of a personal nature, instead my brain is processing all the data I received on the artifact, from conversations at the party I didn't know I overheard to James droning on about it to the people on the newscasts. The data processing happens in such a mechanical way it frightens me. 


Artifact. Grey. Cylindrical. Looks like a big jet engine, twenty meters long and six in diameter. There are three holes arranged in a triangle, one at the forward end, the other two aft, at almost opposite sides of the cylinder. These holes are approximately a third of a meter in diameter and may have originally been used to couple the engine to the vehicle. There's a computer in the casing by the first hole. James has been trying to fashion an interface for it. A purple horse walks by. 


When I wake, Wendy is gone. A goon has taken her place, a big, blond muscle boy. When he sees me awake, without so much as a how-do-ya-do, he goes to the phone. "Hello? Dr. Rawling please. This is Hans. Would you tell the doctor that she's now conscious? Yes. Thank you." He puts down the phone. 


Finally, we're going to see some action. In a few minutes James arrives. He looks at me. "You've been a bad girl," he says. "We needed you two days ago to help us with some experiments. Instead, we wasted valuable time and resources searching for you." 


"I'm touched," I say. "No, I mean it. I am deeply touched that you would consider me so much to expend all that time and money trying to find me. It touches so much I think I'm going to cry." Of course, I don't cry. I just glare at him. Surely this is not the same James Rawling who played wicked lead guitar for the Retrograde Emotions. This James Rawling acts like one of those dull people who talk about quantum physics at parties. "You never even asked me if I wanted to come here in the first place!" 


"Well," he says, stammering and trying to find the words. I've never seen James lack confidence before. He's always had it to the point of arrogance, and suddenly he's stammering. I discover I'm scared 


"What is it?" 


"Technically," he says very slowly, "you're dead." 


"WHAT?!" 


"They wouldn't let us save you until after you died." 


I can't think. I'm going into shock. My thoughts are doing loop the loops. What he's telling me can't be true. 


"Your brain was being eaten away. Joey and Veej and I had a plan to modify existing interface technology to keep you alive. We had to pull you off life support before it was too late to operate." 


"What did you do to me?" I finally manage to say. 


Since this is technical stuff, James gets excited. "There's an Artificial Intelligence that controls your autonomic functions. It took us years to develop, and believe me, it wasn't easy. There's microprocessors, digital memory, and Mod interfaces we installed to replace other brain functions that were lost. I was never certain we were successful until I saw the tape of you dancing in that club." He sits down and begins to cry. The muscle boy decides it would be prudent to leave. 


"When did I die?" I ask. It sounds odd, even to me. 


He looked up, tears on his face. "You collapsed during the tour and never recovered. We kept it quiet from the press, hiding you in Switzerland and claiming exhaustion. You died two days before your sixteenth birthday." 


Suddenly I get this brilliant idea. "How did we record Retrograde Emotions 2 if I was dead?" 


He laughs, which surprises me. "Your logic is much better than before. I'll tell you. Joey, Veej, and I programmed a digital Angela to sing vocals for the second album. The record company never found out." He looks wistful. 


"Since I'm dead, what am I now? Property?" 


"I'm afraid that's the way Interface Systems sees things. We need someone to interface with the artifact and you're expendable." 


Now I'm steamed. Either he's a liar or a royal shit or both and I can't figure out which. I fear he's telling the truth, because frankly, there's a lot I can't remember. I mean, I should be able to, shouldn't I? But the days since my collapse are filled with pages of blank measures, punctuated only by infrequent quarter notes. For instance, I can't remember recording our second album, but I assumed it was because I was on some kind of antidepressants. At least, that's what James told me. And everything up to the last year or two feels as though I'm remembering events secondhand. There is a terror that starts way back somewhere and grows. What If He Is Right? 


"I even tested my Personality Mods on you in hopes they would jog your memory. But none of them had any long term affect and you forgot everything you'd done while on the mods." 


"Okay," I say. "Then let's get started. If I'm a thing to be used, then you're wasting your company's money by standing around. A lot of people are on the clock." 


"Now wait a minute," he begins, but I don't let him finish. 


"I'm not a person, I'm just some computer equipment that walks and talks. Pull my string and watch me speak. I'm sure that if one of my circuits burn out, it would be no great loss, they'd just pop the hood and replace it." 


It's easy to be cynical when one is dead. 


"I have a mod I think may help," he says. There's a download box in his hand, I notice. 


"Give it to me," I tell him. "I believe I know the procedure." He hands me the mod and I load the contents. The effect is immediate. I feel like I'm being replaced by some science guy, full of nothing but facts and equations. I understand it's similar to what IFtechs feel when they load specs for devices that need repairing. Only here, Science Guy pushes out the rest of me. I'm terrified, but Science Guy evidently knows what to do. He follows James into the lift to the lab. 


As we walk I become less, an emotionless, deaf, mute, thing surrounded by a maze of chips, wires, and processors. Evidently my optic nerves still operate, but I cannot make out shapes or recognize objects. I decide I am glad I cannot feel, for if I could I'd be screaming right now. 


Time passes. I am aware that they are hooking me up to something. I do not know what it is. They speak, but the words I do not understand. Then suddenly the world opens before me. A connection is made between some circuitry and my brain. The human part of my brain. A zillion thoughts pass through my head in an instant, and I am aware of three distinct personalities within me. There's me, there's the Artificial Intelligence, and there's Science guy. The AI and I decide that Science Guy is a loser, so AI knocks Science Guy out and ties him up out back. 


That James really is an asshole. 


So we're sitting there in my skull, getting acquainted. The AI is a lot like me, mainly because James and Joey downloaded their music simulation into it, and because it's been hanging in my head the last five years. We are interfaced to a network of workstations full of diligent scientists who are just dying to run tests with the help of our bound and gagged Science Guy. There are a number of monitors, including one with a really big screen like at Clubb Hubb. The monitors are connected to various testing devices and probes that can be used to access the net. We decide it would be fun to explore. So we do. 


We unleash about twenty of James's personality mods that have been busy not disintegrating in the AI's matrix. These mods are really pissed, and they're vindictive bitches, all of them. They start running around the net like little ghosts, causing trouble. All this takes about a minute. 


We notice another intelligence, only this one is cold, shiny, aloof. We decide it needs a shot of Vivacious. It doesn't like Vivacious, and we get jolted back. We laugh. 


I hear a voice. "The artifact has rejected initial contact." Duh. 


We call all the Angela mods back to where one of them has located my music programs and synthesizing equipment in the hotel room. Cool. We commandeer the lab's video equipment and I whip up a little animation so that we have a chorus of 3-D Angelas on the big screen, all distorted to fit the personality mod that caused them. Be A Success Angela is hard and shiny, Party Angela is angular and brittle, Coquette Angela is kinda diaphanous and translucent. I'm conducting. With all of us together, we decide the "Hallelujah Chorus" would be a good opening number. 


'What the hell is going on?" I hear someone say. With the net I access his identity. 

He's the project leader. Name's Ron. 


"We've got to unplug her," screams James. 


"No way, butthead," the Angellujah Chorus sings in four part harmony. 


"Hallelujah, Hallelujah! You'll have to face the music. 


Hallelujah, Hallelujah! You'll have to face the music. 


If you do not comply, my lawyers Will Eat You 
(Will eat you, will eat you!). 
And we shall own both SpaceTech and IF Sys. 
And we shall own both SpaceTech and IF Sys 
(We'll own it, we'll own it!)." 


I surf the net for a good lawyer. 


The artifact has taken an interest in the music. Circuits activate. We decide to send Science Guy in to investigate. We also put Science Guy on the screen in order to interpret our findings. Science Guy turns out to be Angela with hair tied back wearing a labcoat and Clark Kent glasses. This surprises me. I surely thought Science Guy was male. The Angela Greek chorus stands behind Science Angela, humming. 


"Preliminary findings indicate the artifact responds to music. Circuits are being activated as we attempt further communication." I notice I've broken all the security codes that SpaceTech and Interface Systems have on their computer systems, and people are accessing this little drama, not only on the Wheel, but all over Earth. Oops. Then something really strange happens. They say that memory is holographic, that even if you cut away bits of brain, the memory will still be there, only fuzzier. Well, evidently I couldn't access my fuzzy memories before because of the hardware and shock. But now, they all return in such sharpness and detail it overwhelms me. I have access to everything that ever happened to me, including prebirth experiences as well as the time on the operating table when I was supposed to be dead. They come all at once. The strongest are always the most painful. Even the times on stage, when I was doing what I loved best, singing, the painkillers could barely hide the pain. I cry. I do more than cry. I sob uncontrollably. AI Angie tries to console me, but I can't stop. My life plays before me on hundreds of screens at once and Most Of It Is Bad. 


I have no last name. I had no first name until twelve, when some pimp named me. The only good thing that happened to me was Veej freeing me from the street and that didn't help because I was already dying. 


Oh yes. I am a musical genius. Of course, I had no clue when I was an illiterate street child. 


All my on-screen Angelas snap into tune to begin a lament, a dirge, a song of hopelessness, wailing like Jewish women at the Wall. AI & I learn how to dampen memories as the artifact activates more circuits. Within minutes we establish a trialogue, learning about interstellar propulsion, because the artifact is in fact a star drive. Science Angela narrates to the others. 


The principles are simple, almost childish, provided you're a Bio/AI with a strong background in music. I send Science Angela to the library to learn what she can about propulsion theories and she returns in a couple of seconds. 


This beastie is nothing like our modes of propulsion. The race that created this drive turned their attention toward resonances and frequencies and things like that, postulating (I didn't know I knew that word) that each atomic element resonates at a different frequency, and each large body has its own signature. The universe is music, the stars notes on an infinite chromatic scale, the solar system full of Cherubim and Seraphim and all those guys singing heavenly harmonies. Navigation is done on their equivalent of the Roland synthesizer, plotting course and speed by tone, pitch, and duration. The drive creates a field that causes the ship to slip through self created holes in space in order to reach a destination in seconds instead of centuries. 


Here's the part that's really wacky. The people who built the drive left this one on one of Jupiter's moons on purpose. They had been observing our preliterate race for centuries and they wanted us to enjoy the universe when we grew up. Otherwise, our race would be well past middle age when we arrive at the principles behind this drive, if at all. 


I do not know if the other race still exists. They were very old when the last of them left Earth. Perhaps someday we can use this drive to properly thank them. I only know that it won't be me. I'm going to finish my work and get outta here. It shouldn't take more than a few days to accomplish that task. After all, I have unlimited computer potential spread across the Internet to help me. 


I want to go home, back to Earth. Realtor Angela is looking for a nice quiet, secluded place out in the country, with trees and grass and animals and a security system. I want to find out who I am, who we both are, because AI Angie and I are turning out to be inseparable. I have to reacquaint myself with my memories, no matter how painful. Because they hurt and I'm sad and I don't want to hurt and be sad anymore. 


Maybe I can help make Joey better. Maybe I can get the band together again, though I'm not sure I want James. I'm still mad at him. Maybe I'll learn to play guitar. I mean, it can't be any more difficult than breaking all those security codes and passwords. 

Besides, I have a great idea for an album. 


Coda.


