Tour 1 / Song 1
The Western Bloc
Approx. 30 min read
His sister’s voice faded into the background of the densely armored diplomatic vehicle, and he found himself drifting into the rhythmic pulse of the old expansion joints that rippled the road beneath them. The intelligent suspension of the tires smoothed the ride, but the muffled drumbeat broke through like a constant tap on the shoulder.
Thud-a-ludda-thud-a-ludda-thud-a-ludda-thud-a-ludda.
His fingers matched the rhythm on his knee, head bobbing. One-seventy…no. One hundred eighty beats per minute. The hurried melody of Flight of the Bumblebee flickered through his mind, a frantic counterpoint to the persistent thrum. Even the advanced shock absorption of the DAIV unit couldn’t bury the relentless and rapid beat that rose like anxiety beneath them.
“Riff. You’re doing it again.” Tara’s deep brown eyes watched his restless fingers, her lips pursed tight. He balled his hands into fists to stop the movement across the phantom piano keys.
“Sorry. I guess it’s just…” He frowned, lifting his shoulders into a shrug. “I really don’t care.”
Tara set her tablet on her lap, brushing stray black strands of her rounded bob away from her face. She crossed her arms and tapped her foot impatiently on the ground. Riff’s eyes darted to her rhythmic toe, hitting the floor of their mobile accommodations out of sync with the percussion of the street.
Thud-tap-a-tap-ludda-tap-thud-tap-a-lud-tap-da
One hundred forty beats per minute.
“Well, you should care.” Tara’s brow furrowed, her face only slightly more serious than usual. It was the same air of authority that led people to mistake her for the older sibling. The same expression that, in moments like these, when he would much rather tune out the patronizing lecture, drove him nuts. She continued her studious rant. “This is a turning point for everyone. The Western War is over.”
“Good for them.” Riff leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes for barely a minute before he felt the sting of her stylus hit him on the cheek. “Hey!”
“Can you get serious here? We’ve never been to this faction before. They have different rules than we’re used to. We need to know how to be respectful.”
Riff dug the plastic tool out from the cushioned seat beneath him and waved it at her. “This is you being serious?”
She let out a sigh and shifted forward to retrieve the projectile. “This is my job, Riff.”
“Well, it isn’t mine.” He sat back in his seat and watched the white caps of distant mountains drift across a backdrop of the first stop on their cross-faction tour. “I don’t even understand why I’m here.”
“I couldn’t just leave you home alone.” Tara kept her eyes fixed on her screen as she spoke.
“Right. I can’t even imagine. A thirty-eight-year-old man at home.” He leaned in for dramatic effect, widening his eyes, voice dropping to a whisper. “Alone.”
She glanced up at him, expression still firm, but softer somehow.
“You know what I mean.”
Riff sat back, letting out a slow exhale as he turned his attention away from his sister once more. “I have friends who could have checked in on me,” he said, more to himself than her.
“ARIA doesn’t count.” She nodded toward the small box that sat beside him, then turned her attention back to her work.
He picked up the blocky gadget and set it gently in his lap. He could still feel the warmth from its last song as he ran a thumb over the shining mahogany surface of its lid. His voice dropped even quieter, shifting back to where it always stayed, in the silent harmony of his little sister's life. “I have friends.”
Riff had drifted off to sleep, but woke suddenly when DAIV’s announcement echoed off the walls of the vehicle.
“Professor Sandor, I estimate our arrival at the Fort Stratton Open Space of the Western Bloc in approximately ten minutes.”
“Thanks, DAIV.” Tara had moved from her seat across from Riff and now sat cross-legged on her bed in the sleeping quarters. “Can you drop us at the Broadmoor before you check in to your lot?”
“Certainly, Professor Sandor.”
Hills flanked each side of the smart vehicle with rocky crags as Riff sat taller to catch a glimpse of their destination. The pink-beige walls of the hotel rose ahead, and their armored smart-van joined the convoy of official vehicles. Officers wearing hunter green jumpsuits stood tall, heels together, hands clasped behind their backs, on either side of the road.
“Can’t I just stay with DAIV?” Riff asked, tugging the wrinkles out of his grey V-neck tee shirt.
“No.” Tara stood to smooth out her slacks and slipped her arms inside her navy blue blazer. “Don’t worry, it’s a suite, so you’ll get your own room. But this way I’ll be nearby in case you need anything.”
He rolled his eyes and stood as DAIV came to a stop outside the entrance of the massive edifice. Riff reached for the strap of his guitar case, but Tara grabbed his hand before he could lift it.
“Weren’t you listening to me earlier? You can’t bring your instruments in here.”
Riff groaned. “Are you kidding me? Music isn’t allowed?”
“It is,” Tara stammered, “but it’s complicated. And we need to make a good first impression.” He looked into her pleading eyes as the side door slid open. Her eyebrows raised. “Please?”
The strap fell quietly to the ground as Riff released his grip, and Tara nodded, satisfied. She turned to the door and buttoned her blazer, running a hand over her short, black hair. As he began to follow, he caught a glimpse of the mahogany cube on the floor in front of the lounge seat where he had managed to catch a quick nap. He leaned forward and picked up ARIA, slipping it into his pocket before stepping out of the vehicle.
“Announcing, Professor-Delegate Tara Sandor and her brother, Riff Sandor, of The Northeast Hold.” DAIV announced their arrival, then slid the door shut behind them and rolled away with the rest of the official vehicles to find its designated parking area. Riff stepped quietly behind his sister as she introduced herself one by one to the line of officers in front of the Broadmoor. He cast his eyes downward as he followed, only looking up when she nudged him to wordlessly smile or nod.
“Was it really necessary for DAIV to announce me like that?” Riff paced the suite, raking a hand through his black hair, already tousled into a restless mess. “I mean, if I’m gonna be a nobody, let me be nobody.”
“It just knows you get testy when you feel left out.” Tara turned away from the mirror embedded in the wall where she was touching up her makeup to flash him an apologetic smile. “I’ll send a message so it doesn’t happen again.”
“Yeah, well. If it was trying to be nice, it should’ve given me a title other than brother,” Riff grumbled as he settled into the ornate couch upholstered with burgundy velvet and started picking at the golden stitching as though plucking strings of a bass. “Where are you headed?”
“Work,” she sighed, sliding her purse over one shoulder as the mirror inside the wall faded into an opaque screen. “I’m meeting with one of the Stewards from the farms of The North. He’s the only other representative from an outside faction here, so I wanted to touch base before tomorrow.”
“The other factions don’t care about the end of the war?”
“Not when AI was the tool used to end it.” Tara moved closer to the door, then paused, turning back to Riff. “I’ll be back soon. Call me if you need anything, okay?”
He threw his head back on the couch dramatically. “Okay, mom.”
The door hissed shut behind her, and the one sound that Riff couldn’t stand dropped heavy over the room.
Silence.
He stuffed his hands into his pockets, the ARIA on one side and on the other—
Riff froze. Then, with a sudden resolve that rivaled his sister’s, he strode out of the room, past the cluster of officials that mingled in the lobby, and down the sidewalk into the city. A smirk tugged on the corner of his lip as the sun dipped behind the horizon, knowing the darkness would shield his task from view. As the edge of the city rose around him, rubble and polished stone shared the silent streets, so when he slipped into the narrow alleyway, he felt confident there was a low chance of being seen.
His fingers found the cold metal in his left pocket. With a glance over one shoulder, he drew it out and lifted it to his lips.
The chord that rang out from the steel harmonica was bright and clear, bouncing off the surface of the stone walls. High in pitch at first, then falling and bending in trills as he drew in each breath of sound. The rhythm flowed through him, and he leaned into the soulful song, drawing out the final note before standing proudly in the reverberating tunnel of his urban amphitheater.
“Holy shit.”
The harmonica clattered against the ground as Riff spun.
She stood at the end of the narrow alley, and the moon carved out the edge of her silhouette through the dark. A natural blossom of curls framed the rounded features of her warm brown skin, and he could make out wide, gentle dark brown eyes that studied him with curiosity. His breath caught in his throat as he watched her move toward him and crouch to retrieve the steel rectangle.
“I didn’t think anyone would be out here,” Riff stammered. She held the instrument out, and his fingers lightly brushed against hers as he took it and slipped it into his pocket. A broad smile stretched across her face.
“Usually, no one is.” There was a smooth, comforting cadence to her voice that drew him in, like a bow sliding clean over the strings of a violin. “I can’t tell you the last time I heard someone perform. You’re really good.”
He offered a half smile and tilted his head. “Oh, that was nothing. I was just warming up.”
She laughed, and he couldn’t help but let his coy smirk grow into a full grin. “Well, if that was practice, I’d love to hear you play for real.”
His laugh trailed off, and he shifted awkwardly in the silence. Then reached back into his pocket to pull the harmonica out again.
“No, no.” She lifted her palm to stop him. “I didn’t mean now. Aren’t you worried someone will take it away?”
He shrugged, glancing around at the dark, empty streets playfully. “I wasn’t, but… Who’s gonna take it?”
She smiled at him, but didn’t laugh, and he swallowed hard, acutely aware of her eyes focused on his face.
“You’re interesting,” she said in almost a whisper. “Do you ever go to the library?”
“Sure, lots of times.”
Her eyes wandered across the alleyway in thought. “Tomorrow night. I’ll be there tomorrow night, if you want me to hear you perform.”
“Okay.” He nodded. “For sure, I’ll be there.” Then he swallowed hard. “Which library?”
She laughed, stepping back and waving a hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
He watched with his hands in his pockets as her silhouette faded into the street. Then he turned the opposite way, retracing his steps back to the Broadmoor. He’d have to figure out where the library was, but that felt like a reasonable challenge to be able to play for her again. He kicked himself for not asking for her name.
The melody he whistled fell in sync with his fluttering heart that raced in a steady rhythm. Like the ripples of the road that announced their arrival to The Western Bloc. Like a bumblebee.
Riff pushed the brown, crumbly mush around his plate as he sat in the kitchenette of the suite. Tara moved back and forth between the table and her bedroom, working in occasional bites of breakfast while getting ready for the day.
“I’m feeling pretty confident things will go well with General Keene. Not only that, last night, Anders said there’s been some whispers in the Eastern Corridor. So they may be more open to discussions than I originally thought.”
“What is this stuff?” Riff asked, sniffing the mysterious bits of food.
“Synthetic sausage crumbles.” Tara’s eyes were on the screen of her tablet as she swiped through her schedule. “Anders brought it with his harvest gift for the officials of The Western Bloc. He said it’s a new recipe.”
Riff took a small bite and raised his eyebrows in surprise. He had never had real sausage before, but this wasn’t half bad. “And who is Anders?”
“The Steward from the North,” Tara sighed, exasperated. “The one I met with last night. Do you hear anything I say when I’m talking to you?”
“Sure. Anders makes fake meat, and you’re meeting with General Keys from the Eastern Corridor. Are you taking DAIV?”
“No. Anders offered me a ride. And his name is General Keene. And he’s not from the Eastern Corridor. I’m talking about General Tyson Keene.” She paused, waiting for him to react to the name, but Riff just shrugged. “Okay, I know you don’t follow this stuff, but you must have heard about General Keene. He wrote the code that laid the groundwork for The Western Bloc to discharge all human soldiers and run everything through the AI Military Unit. The AIMU single-handedly ended the Western War.”
Riff stood, setting his plate in the automatic return bin. “Cool.”
Tara rolled her eyes and made her way to the door of the suite. “I’ll be back this afternoon. Are you just going to stick around here?”
“Yep,” Riff dropped onto the couch, swinging his feet up and crossing them over a pillow. “Where else would I go?”
“I was told that tomorrow you can come along for the tour of AIMU Academy. See some of the cadets in action.”
“I thought you said there weren’t any soldiers.”
“There aren’t. They call them operators. And they’re not soldiers, they’re military engineers.”
“Okay. Whatever.” He laid back and closed his eyes, waving one hand up in the air at Tara as she stood by the door. “Bye.”
He listened as Tara exhaled, then heard the whoosh of the door as it slid open, and again as it sealed closed behind her. Her footsteps were barely audible behind the thick wall of the suite, but he focused on their fading sound until they had completely disappeared. Then his eyes popped open and he listened for an extra moment, just to be sure. He swung his legs off the couch, slipped on his boots, and walked out the door.
Once outside the Broadmoor, Riff put some distance between himself and the building, tapping his smartwatch to call DAIV. Within ten minutes, the smart camper had pulled up in front of him, door wide open.
“Good morning, Mr. Sandor. You aren’t scheduled to depart The Western Bloc for another three days.” DAIV’s voice reverberated through the cabin as Riff stepped into the main compartment and settled into the soft, cushioned seat.
“I know, I don’t need transport anywhere. I actually wanted to talk to you about something.” The large screen panel in front of Riff settled into a thin, horizontal line, flexing into soundwaves as the AI interface responded.
“Of course. I’m sorry for introducing you as Professor Sandor’s brother yesterday. Your sister informed me that it was exceedingly embarrassing for you. Rather than giving you authority, as was my intention, I highlighted your futility in this assignment. It won’t happen again.”
“You really suck at apologies, DAIV.”
“You’re exactly right, Mr. Sandor. My apologies—”
“Okay, okay, it’s fine. That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.” Riff sat forward in his seat, interlocking his fingers and resting his elbows on his knees. “Where’s the library here in Fort Stratton?”
A faded outline of a road map appeared as the blue line lifted from the screen and spun into a loading circle, then scanned across the schematic.
“I’m sorry, I was unable to identify any libraries located in the region of Fort Stratton. Civilian access to printed materials in The Western Bloc has been restricted since the 2059 Information Protection Act, including the decommissioning of all public libraries. Would you like me to expand the search to all cities within this faction?”
“Seriously? No libraries?” Riff ran a hand through his hair, messing it into uneven peaks. “So if someone asked me to go to the library, where would they want me to go?”
Blue streaks highlighted the roads on the map of Fort Stratton again. Finally, a small blue inverted teardrop appeared toward the left side of the screen.
“There are no businesses of record with the name Library. However, I was able to find the last standing public library in the area, located in the Carnegie Building, five miles to the north.”
Riff traced the blue line connecting the Broadmoor to the highlighted point on the map. It had to be the library that the girl from the alleyway had mentioned.
“Are you driving Tara anywhere tonight?” Riff asked, pressing a finger to his lips in thought.
“Tara is scheduled to attend the Western Bloc Peace Gala at seven o’clock to honor General Tyson at The Broadmoor. Are you in need of transportation?”
Riff tapped a spot on the map half a mile east of the hotel. “Schedule a pick up for me here at seven-thirty tonight.” A blue dot blinked on the map three times before spinning into a check mark, and Riff stood from his seat. “And do me a favor, don’t tell Tara.”
“Professor Sandor is my primary authority. Unfortunately, programming restricts my ability to conceal information from her.”
“I know, just—don't mention it. Okay?” He waved a hand, and DAIV opened the compartment door. Riff stuffed his hands into his pockets, running his fingers over the smooth surface of ARIA on one side and the cold metal of the harmonica on the other.
“Your schedule is confirmed for tonight, Mr. Sandor.” DAIV rolled quietly away as Riff strolled back to the hotel.
The hours ticked by in a largo movement, stretching the day in sharp contrast to the morning’s excitement. When Tara brought lunch back to the suite, Riff answered her chatter about the commanders and generals with clipped nods. He swiped mindlessly through the wardrobe kiosk as it suggested outfits for touring the AIMU Academy and tapped his utensils like drumsticks on the table, louder than necessary, as Tara updated Northeast Hold officials on her diplomatic efforts. By the time seven o’clock rolled around, anticipation hummed in his bones like a hi-hat poised for the crash.
“Aren’t you going to be late?” Riff asked as Tara emerged from her bedroom, hair slicked back with a mirror-sheen, wearing a fitted cream gown that flared into a bell below her hips.
“It’s right downstairs, and I don’t want to be the first one there.” She leaned toward the smart mirror as it highlighted a smudge at the edge of her lips. “Besides, since when are you watching my schedule?”
“Not much else to do.” Riff paced by the window of the suite, eyeing the dark street corner in the distance where he’d told DAIV to pick him up. Tara finished her touch-up and turned fully to him.
“How do I look?” she asked, offering a spin.
Riff bobbed his head. “Yep. Great. Perfect. No notes.”
“Okay.” She slipped her purse over her shoulder and moved toward the door. “Hey, thanks for being patient with all of this. I know you’re not into all the political stuff, but it really helps me focus knowing you’re nearby.”
Riff flashed a smile, raising his palms in feigned innocence. “You know me. Always here.”
Tara stepped out, hesitating in the hallway. She didn’t speak, but at the last moment glanced back and caught his eyes before the door sealed shut between them, obscuring her from view.
The road outside the old public library was split in half, roots grasping the edge of each crack like bony fingers clinging to the surface of the earth. Loose gravel and rotted dirt crumpled beneath his feet as Riff stepped out of the DAIV unit, the darkness pressing his heart into his stomach. What little light there was, indeterminate in its source, cast long shadows from the bones of the building that appeared to have begun to melt into the ground.
“What time should I schedule your return to the Broadmoor?”
Riff spun around, startled by the sound of DAIV’s voice breaking through the darkness. He tapped his smart watch. “It’s okay, I’ll just give you a call when I’m done.”
Night air pressed in on the sides of the half-standing building as DAIV rolled away, leaving Riff alone to face the abandoned library. The northern wall was crumpled, consumed by a mound of dirt that stretched toward the street. Tall windows flanked each side of the entrance, shards of glass split by trees that leaned into the building as if trying to break in.
Riff climbed the uneven steps to the tall double doors, which hung askew, allowing for just enough space between them for him to slip inside.
He searched his pocket for the mahogany square and lifted it ahead of him in the thick darkness of the building. With a flick of his thumb, the lid of the ARIA was open.
Rays of light stretched outward from the small palm-sized box, expanding into a wide cone. The clean A note of an oboe rang out, reverberating off the walls as more instruments joined in, building louder into a symphony of sound like an orchestra tuning up, before fading into the silence. A small, simple figure formed in the center of the box with an orb for a head and extensions of light representing arms and legs. It held something indistinguishable and waited as the glow illuminated the cavernous space.
Riff eyed the familiar architecture now sharp in view—rows of shelving, crevices of walls, round tables at the end of each aisle—all of it, empty. He stepped across the stained carpet and traced the warped edge of a bookshelf with a finger, rippled and shedding from water damage. The ceiling above him ripped open as if the sky itself demanded a view. There was no sign of torn paper or worn book cover through the dark corners of the library ruins. The stories that had found a home there had been removed long before the earth had begun to eat away at the structure.
The figure made of light waved an impatient arm, and Riff sat cross-legged on the floor of the broken archive. Then he pulled out his harmonica and laid out the G major pentatonic scale. The lights layered ahead of him, and the blur of light held by the figure reshaped into a small harmonica, repeating the notes back in a loop as the glow danced across the library. The notes shifted and organized into a base track, ready for Riff to join. He lifted the harmonica, preparing to improvise a melody—then stopped.
The bright shimmer from ARIA spun over a faded sign above one of the dozens of empty bookshelves that occupied the room.
Music.
His eyes drifted over each bare shelf, imagining the collections of sheet music stripped from access. The hollow void felt like a weight that bore a hole through his chest, and he suddenly felt the urge to run from this tomb of erasure. He slipped the harmonica into his pocket and snapped the lid of ARIA shut, cutting off the tune as the figure waved. The air settled with the solemn emptiness that felt more fitting in the futile space.
As he stepped out of the information crypt, Riff’s heart dropped at the emptiness that extended outside the building and into the street around him. The person he had met the night before wasn’t coming here. No one was. He kicked the gravel mindlessly and turned south back toward the Broadmoor. He’d call DAIV for a ride in a moment—he couldn’t tolerate standing still and letting the vacuum of the abandoned block continue to press in on him.
After five minutes of walking, the buildings that flanked the broken road appeared no less uninhabitable. Riff glanced at his smart watch, preparing to call DAIV for a pickup, when he heard her voice.
“You’re the musician.”
Riff’s eyes lifted to meet hers—irises a brown shade that was difficult to distinguish from her pupils—each one a glistening portal that drew him in with a magnetic force to invite him to examine the soul inside.
The girl from the alley.
A wide smile drew itself upon his face before he had the chance to stop it.
“Some people call me that.”
She glanced around the empty streets, as if half expecting someone else to join them on the deserted block. Her voice dropped into a whisper. “Did you bring it?”
A laugh escaped as he exhaled, caught off guard by her covert tone, but her eyes were sincere and curious, almost pleading. He coughed, clearing his throat. “The harmonica? Yeah, sure did.”
She grinned with excitement and spun away from him, making her way down the street, then paused to look back.
“Well? Are you coming?”
Riff quickened his pace to move into stride behind her. All the hesitation he had felt about the claustrophobic darkness of the street or the chaos of the dilapidated structures faded, and he focused only on her shadow through the moonlight, like a sailor drawn into a siren's song.
She crouched down low as she moved around the back wall of an old courthouse, sliding her hands across the sidewalk as she scanned the streets that extended around them. Riff glanced around too, though he wasn’t sure what he was looking for. A faint creak broke through the silence as she kicked at a small hatch embedded in the sidewalk, lifted it up, and lowered herself inside.
Riff stepped backward, pulling himself from his trance, keenly aware she expected him to follow her into the bowels of the broken outskirts of the city. He expected her to stop, to turn back toward him, to beckon him to follow. Instead, she simply disappeared inside, leaving the hatch askew as a silent invitation. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and turned away. It wasn’t that he was unfamiliar with underground travel—The Northeast Hold relied heavily on its automated subway system—but this descent felt different. Dangerous, somehow.
He swiveled, mind swimming. Was this so different? She was simply expecting him to climb down a ladder instead of stairs. If only he had listened when Tara had briefed him about this faction. Maybe it wasn’t strange behavior in the Western Bloc. He crouched at the edge of the open cavity, and before he could convince himself not to, dropped inside.
The underground tunnel was lined in concrete, with conduits running in parallel lines along the walls. She stood at the far end waiting for him, standing in front of a dead end. He took slow steps as he approached, eyes locked on her soft features, the way her curls bounced as she tilted her head, the way her lips parted even when she flashed the smallest hint of a smile.
She pressed against the wall—and it swung inward.
The space was divided into separate chambers and stood in stark contrast to the desolate structure he had sat in earlier. Mobile shelving units pressed firmly against the brick and stone of the walls, books lined up vertically until there was no more room, and then stacked horizontally where they could be squeezed onto each ledge.
“The Library,” Riff mused, running a finger along the tattered spines.
“I wish you’d come by earlier. We had a good group here tonight. Some spoken poetry, discussions about a literary passage. One person even built a sculpture out of spare pieces from a HALI repair kit.” She moved behind a shelf and pulled out a clump of metal made of wires, nuts, and bolts.
Riff stared blankly at the mound. “…what is it?”
She turned it in her hands, then shrugged. “I guess it’s whatever you want it to be. Anyway.” She set the salvaged art back in the corner, then pulled out a chair and sat patiently with her hands folded in her lap. “I didn’t mean to distract you. Go ahead.”
Riff shifted in the small room, eyes scanning around. “Now?”
“You came here to play, right?”
He nodded, catching a glimpse of loose papers, stacked and shoved into the corner of a far shelf. Sheet music.
From his left pocket, Riff pulled out the palm-sized box with the latched lid and set it on a small round table in the center of the room. The girl leaned forward in her seat, eyes fixed on the box.
“What is that?”
“It’s an Adaptive Responding Intelligent Accompaniment.” He lifted his eyes to catch hers, and the corner of his lip drew into a smile as he opened the lid. “ARIA.”
Rays of light shot into the air in a spinning cone that refracted in waves of color against the brick ceiling and walls, and the figure, and then the oboe sound rang out in a coordinated tone. Riff watched his audience of one as her eyes widened and glistened at the visual array. From his other pocket, he pulled out his harmonica and once again, played the five-note scale.
The lights stretched and thinned as the ARIA figure repeated the scale, then twisted the notes into a looping rhythm, replicating the sound to match the vibrato of the harmonica's voice.
Riff closed his eyes and played.
The music echoed in layers, harmonica over harmonica, Riff over ARIA. When he changed keys, it sensed the shift and changed with him. When Riff moved into a call-and-response, ARIA laid variation to each shared melody. And when the final note faded, he stood breathless, noticing for the first time that the girl who sat in front of him had her eyes closed tight, tears running down her cheeks.
“You okay?” he asked, closing ARIA to shut out the ambient tone.
She nodded, letting a laugh escape her lips as she opened her eyes. “It’s just been so long since I’ve sat and listened to music.”
Riff shifted his weight on his feet, unsure if he should move toward her to offer comfort or give her space. She folded her arms on the edge of the round table, resting her chin on top as she studied the tiny music box.
“I’ve never seen anything like this before. It’s amazing.”
Riff lowered himself into a chair beside her, acutely aware of the small amount of air that separated his body from hers.
“I know it’s programmed to learn my style and play music how I would play it, but still—it makes me feel like I’m not playing alone.” Riff watched her another moment, then caught himself and took a sharp breath. “It’s even better, I think, when I can layer different instruments.”
She turned her head, breaking gaze with ARIA and locking onto his eyes. He felt a sense of weightlessness rise in his chest as she spoke in wonderment. “Other instruments?”
“Yeah. Guitar, flute, keyboard, trumpet—”
She sat up straighter in her chair. “You have a trumpet?”
He nodded, watching her expression bloom into something stuck between excitement and sadness. Then she melted back into her seat, with her head tilted back, eyes cast up as if she could see through the ceiling and the earth and the buildings above, straight into the sky.
“I would give anything to hear a trumpet again.”
“I’ll bring it tomorrow. I can play it for you.”
Her deep brown eyes caught his again, soft and infinite. “Really?” She leaned closer, resting her face in her hand. “Can I make a request?”
He tilted his head toward her, smiling. “Sure, whatever you want.”
She didn’t try to mask the excitement on her face, shifting her body sideways in her chair to face him. “Will you play me a mariachi song?”
Riff let out a laugh, furrowing his brow. “I mean, I’m familiar with the style, but I don’t really know any specific songs.”
She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Oh, I don’t believe that. You have to at least know Cielito Lindo.”
He shook his head slowly, shoulders raising into a small shrug. “How does it go?”
“What?” The smile vanished from her face, and she swallowed hard. “You want me to sing it or something?”
He smiled, leaning back. “I can’t play it for you if I don’t know what it sounds like.”
She let out a sharp exhale, watching him for an extra moment. Then she sat a little straighter and closed her eyes. Her voice rang out smooth and sweet, haunting and slow. Riff listened and imagined the sound escaping the underground library, dancing down the street, and filling the vacant shelving that sat beneath the faded Music sign.
“Ay, ay, ay, ay. Canta y no llores, porque cantando se alegran, cielito lindo, los corazones.”
Riff didn’t speak. He let the tenderness of her words envelop him, moved by the music erupting from her heart. When she opened her eyes, they were glazed over with sadness, and she let out an embarrassed chuckle. “It’s supposed to be a song of celebration, but I think I messed it up. My dad used to sing it when I was little.”
Riff studied her, wanting to wipe a tear or pull her close, but not doing either. “Would he like to come hear me play?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know where he is. He was part of the Human Military Unit before they disbanded. We were so glad when he came home, but….” Her eyes gazed off into the distance, as if speaking to someone on the other side of the wall. “When he came back, he wasn’t the same.”
Riff searched his mind for something to say, something Tara had told him about AIMU or HMU, or the Western War that had just ended.
“I bet you’re relieved the war is over.”
She turned to him, eyes narrowed. “Oh, sure, everything is all fixed now.” Her words were sharp and dripped with anger. “All these officials are in town to celebrate. Meanwhile, the soldiers they replaced? Half of them are so traumatized that they can’t even live in the city because the hum of the security system sounds too much like battle drones coming in over the hills. The Congressional Assembly doesn’t care. Did you know the place they’re celebrating the end of the war is less than five miles from The Drop Zone?”
“What’s The Drop Zone?” Riff wished he hadn’t spoken, suddenly aware he was part of the group of visitors she was disgusted by, but she didn’t flinch.
“It’s an off-grid camp where some HMU soldiers live.” She sniffed, rubbing her eyes dry. “I go there when I can, hoping I might find him.”
Silence stretched between them, and Riff lifted ARIA off the table and turned it in one hand. “Can I ask you a question?”
She looked at him, drawing in a deep breath to steady herself. “I probably said too much already, but, yeah. Sure.”
“What’s your name?”
She sat frozen for a moment, then her face softened into a smile. “Wow. I say all that and never even told you my name.” She raised her hand into a small wave. “I’m Zuri.”
Riff smiled back, returning the gesture. “Riff.”
“Riff,” Zuri repeated the name in a near whisper, touching her thumb to her lower lip, as if exploring the feel of it.
She cleared her throat and shifted her chair back, standing from the table. “I should head home,” she muttered, more to herself than to him. He moved from his chair as well, stuffing the harmonica and ARIA back into his pockets. They paused for a moment, eyes on each other, the air around them silent, yet Riff could almost hear a melody lifting from the walls.
“You’ll bring the trumpet tomorrow?” Zuri asked, tilting her head toward him.
“Whatever you want.”
He followed her as she pulled the door open again, back into the concrete-lined tunnel, up the ladder, and into the streets. Zuri shifted the hatch back into place, then stepped beside him.
“It was really nice to meet you, Riff,” she said, offering a smile. “Tomorrow?”
Before he could answer, lights flooded over the two of them, and a soft mechanical hum grew louder as it drew near. DAIV pulled up in the street as the door slid open and Tara stepped out, face both stern and relieved.
“Riff, where the hell have you been?”
Zuri’s smile faltered, stepping back as she eyed the sleek emblem of the Northeast Hold on the door. He stood watching her, searching for his words but failing to find them. Riff turned to his sister.
“I’m right here. I’m fine. What are you doing here?”
“We must have circled this block ten times. DAIV said he picked up your signal here, but we couldn’t find you. I was about to freak out.” Tara stepped sideways, gesturing to the open doorway, but Riff shook his head.
“I’m fine, I’m with—” He turned his head toward Zuri, but she looked at him in horror, stepping away from the sheen of the headlights and backward into the dark. “It’s fine,” he said, “Tomorrow, yeah? I’ll be here tomorrow. I promise.”
She glanced between Riff and Tara, then took another look at the diplomatic car before giving him a small nod. Then, without a word, she turned away and faded into a shadow before disappearing behind a building.
Tara’s eyes followed his gaze. “Who was that?”
His eyes dropped to the ground as he stepped into the Diplomatic Advanced Intelligence Vehicle.
“Zuri,” he said, dropping into the cushioned seat. “Her name is Zuri.”
They sat in silence as DAIV glided down the worn streets, the suspension echoing a drumbeat that couldn’t quite find its rhythm. Riff leaned his head against the window and fell asleep, his mind holding tightly to the tune of Zuri’s song that had penetrated the buried fortress.
Riff was in pain.
His head was throbbing.
The room was spinning.
He tried to sit up.
He couldn’t.
His arms were heavy.
Everything was heavy.
“Hey, hey. You’re okay. I got you.”
He could hear Tara’s voice, but he couldn’t see her.
Everything in the center of his vision was blurred.
Gone.
Erased.
He tried to focus.
Heat rose from his stomach.
He rolled over the edge of his bed and heaved.
A tuning fork screamed in his ear.
“It’s okay, I got it.”
Tara crouched next to the bed. He watched her move in his periphery. Cleaning.
Wiping his face.
He felt something cold and wet on his head.
A towel? Sweat?
He tried to reach for it.
But his arms wouldn’t listen.
Wouldn’t obey.
He shook.
He couldn’t stop shaking.
He tried to speak, but his mouth felt like it was glued shut.
His eyes rolled back.
Tara’s voice.
“Riff? Stay with me. I got you.”
Light broke through the window of his bedroom, spilling streaks across his bed and floor. Riff caught a musty smell that mixed bleach with something sour, and rolled away from the glare, pressing a hand to his forehead to stop the dull headache that pounded against his skull. The door to his bedroom in the Broadmoor suite hissed as it opened, and Tara stepped in, setting a small cup of water on the nightstand before sitting on the edge of his bed.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d be awake. How are you feeling?”
“How long?” Riff groaned, pressing his hands against the bed to try to sit up. The muscles of his arms ached as he worked to pry himself off the surface of the mattress.
Tara glanced down at her watch. “Not too bad. Only one seizure. You’ve been in and out for about thirty-eight hours.”
Riff fell back into the bed, letting out a long breath. “I missed it.”
“It’s okay.” Tara rested her hand on his leg. “Anders said the AIMU Tour was so busy with Congressional Assembly Officials—they probably didn’t even notice we weren’t there.”
He nodded, but he wasn’t talking about the tour. His mind was on his trumpet, the underground library, and the promise he had made to Zuri. A promise broken by something that had been an inseparable part of him for the past fifteen years, and was also completely out of his control.
Riff shook his head, grumbling. “Every time I get close to something…”
Tara didn’t answer. She knew he wasn’t talking about the AIMU Tour, but she didn’t ask him to explain. Instead, she sat in silence at the edge of his bed, one hand resting protectively over him, and watched the afternoon light dance through the curtains of the window until he drifted back to sleep.
The window had faded back into the darkness of the evening when Riff awoke again, relieved that his headache had subsided. He swung his legs over the bed and stood—wobbly, but stable—and pressed his hand against the wall to steady himself as he walked out of his bedroom.
Tara was back in her professional attire, slipping a purse over her head when she saw him. “Oh, good! You’re up. I left you a message, but didn’t want you to wake up wondering where I was. How are you feeling?”
“Just tired. Where are you going?”
She pursed her lips together, then let out a slow exhale as a grin spread across her face. “Anders said the Chair of the Congressional Assembly will meet with us to discuss the possibility of a cross-faction alliance. Nothing for certain, but he’s willing to talk.”
“Okay. That’s good.” Riff leaned his head against the wall.
“Yeah, it’s really good,” Tara’s head bobbed in excitement. She watched him for a beat, then took a sharp breath. “You’re okay if I go, right?”
He nodded, his mind floating through the disorientation, shifting from the ornate decor of the Broadmoor suite to the hidden archive beneath the courthouse.
“Hey, Tara? All those soldiers you told me about, the ones they don’t need anymore. What happened to them?”
She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Oh, um.” She stared at the floor in thought, then looked back at Riff, shrugging her shoulders. “They went home, I guess. It’s not like the Western Bloc forgot about them, I mean, they all get retirement checks. What makes you ask? I didn’t think you cared about all that stuff.”
He plopped down on the couch, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin in one hand. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m still feeling delirious.” Then he waved his free hand at Tara as she stood at the door, frozen in place. “I’m fine, you should go. You’re here to improve relations, so go…relate.”
Tara nodded, but watched him for an extra moment before waving her hand and stepping out the door.
He spent the next hour digging through the kitchenette for snacks and mindlessly scrolling through official programming, which mostly highlighted shows about cooking and survivalist competitions. Nothing he had any interest in watching.
He moved toward the window and saw two items sitting on the sill—the harmonica and ARIA. Likely placed there by his sister at some point while he was writhing in the fog of his ailment. He lifted the lid of the ARIA, and light spilled out as the orchestra tuned. The rays bent and folded colors over the pale creams of the wall, and he thought of Zuri’s eyes, watching them in wonderment. Then he snapped the lid closed, slipped it into his pocket, and left the suite.
“It is important you rest so you can fully recover from your PV-TRE episode. Professor Sandor has indicated she would prefer that you stay at the Broadmoor.”
Riff wasn’t listening. He pulled cases out of the back storage of the compartment until he found the one he was looking for and slid it out toward the center of the cabin. For a moment, he faltered and plopped into the cushioned seat to catch his breath.
“You can take me, or I can walk. Which of those do you think Tara would prefer?”
The blue line stretched across the screen, still and silent. Then he heard the rising mechanical hum as DAIV began to glide away from the hotel.
The door slid open as they reached the neglected courthouse, and Riff lifted the case, stepping into the empty street. DAIV sat waiting while Riff made his way around the corner, as he had watched Zuri do a couple of nights before, and crouched low to the concrete to find the edge of the hatch. It was heavier than he expected—or maybe his muscles were still fatigued from the illness—and he fumbled to balance the weight of the case while maintaining his grip on the ladder. When he got to the end of the tunnel, the wall was slightly depressed, like a door left ajar. He felt his heart lift. Having lost an entire day and a half, the sliver of light that separated entry from edge stretched toward him like quiet hope.
He pressed his way into the library.
The shelves still stood against each wall, filled to the brim with papers and books. The table had been moved to the far end, with twelve chairs set up facing it in rows of four. He set down the case and moved toward the front, tracing a finger around the curved edge of the table. The chairs watched him as he pulled the ARIA from his pocket and set it in the center. It occurred to him that perhaps those seats had been filled, waiting for someone to perform. Waiting for him. His eyes fell to one of the empty spots closest to him in the front row. Maybe Zuri would have sat there.
Riff crouched down to his case and opened the latch, lifting the lid. The gold brass glinted in the dim room, absorbing and reflecting what little light it could find. He eyed the ARIA, but rather than opening it, he simply lifted the trumpet.
The notes rang out warm, reverberating with soul. He focused his mind on the memory of Zuri singing the evocative tune, one she claimed to be a song of celebration but felt like a desperate plea that erupted through the room. It bounced off the spines of books that had been removed from the abandoned public library, circled beneath the chairs set out for people to sit and listen and reconnect with art and knowledge and innovation, and skimmed the surface of sculptures made from scrap. His breath faltered, struggling to maintain a clean tone, and his tired arms shook as they held the trumpet tight to his lips. Some notes came out clear, others broken, but the melody was true.
Canto y no llores.
Sing and don’t cry.
The music faded with his final note, and Riff leaned a hand on the table to steady himself. A strange sound beyond the walls reached out to him—short, but present—a wail or a moan, he couldn’t quite tell. He tilted his head to listen just as the sound was swallowed away by the stone and brick wall. He lowered himself into a chair, settling again into the state he had so often found himself in.
Alone.
The ARIA box felt emptier than usual as he lifted it off the table and turned it in his hand. Then he stuffed the mirage of companionship into his pocket and stepped toward the door. He wished he could leave a message—something that said I was here. I was late, but I was here like I said I would be. I have this condition… Riff paused, eyes scanning across the empty chairs of the underground library. Then he walked to the front of the makeshift stage and gingerly set his trumpet on the round table. He ran his fingers over the brass horn in a final farewell gesture, then walked out.
When he emerged from the hatch in the sidewalk, DAIV was waiting in the street, but when the door slid open, inviting him inside, Riff turned away. The car glided beside him as he walked with his head down back toward the Broadmoor.
The sound of shuffling interrupted his solitary stroll, and he stopped, turning his eyes down the alleyway beside him. Behind an industrial waste bin, he could just make out a four-legged animal, scavenging, wire-haired and mangy. Another creature trying to survive in the collapsed remains of the city's edge.
Riff turned away and kept walking, whistling low, when he heard a sound.
A howl.
He turned, and the creature stood behind him. Hair matted and stained, short ears flopped over, eyes locked on him. Riff recognized the animal as it stepped closer—a dog, terrier maybe.
He whistled again.
The dog howled.
He stepped forward, crouching low. The dog shrank back against the side of a wall as Riff pulled a plastic strip that clung to the animal’s mangy fur. He turned the wrapper in his hand, label from the protein bar stripped into pieces. Only one word was visible and printed in bold, clear letters.
Cricket.
Riff looked at the small terrier—he’d heard of these animals. Decades ago, people kept them as pets. That was before the slew of pandemics infected people with fear of animals as incubators. Those that remained became wild. He couldn’t imagine how this small, frail creature had managed to survive this long on its own, and yet here it was.
Black, round eyes peered up at Riff through the strands of fur that hung over the dog’s face.
“Hi, Cricket,” he murmured, “It’s a little lonely out here. You wanna come with me?”
Cricket barked.
The door to the DAIV unit slid open again, and Riff stepped inside.
But this time, he wasn’t alone.
This is only the beginning.
Tour 1 of The Accompaniment consists of 6 stories following Tara and Riff across the 6 factions.
Each story is free to read - always.
New installments are posted on the 10th of the month.
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