Fight for the Future Read online

  Chapter 8 — Song Birds

  Kest looked around the stage. Everything was in place. Ayleana had recruited Daniels and some of her friends from SST, and Kest had called some of his friends from the roda to help move equipment with promises of backstage passes and a chance to see Aldeberan, back in town from another tour in France and the EU.

  Ayleana had done most of the setup of the sound system herself. Her biggest concern had been getting Alex enough bandwidth to interface with the units on stage. She’d designed the system, with help from Alex and some consultants from her sister’s foundation.

  Kest sat at the piano and started playing whatever his fingers wanted to. With so much going on in his life, he needed time to process, and—for him—the best way to do that was with a musical instrument in his hands. Other than occasional busking on street corners—which was really more like practicing in public with his guitar case open—he’d never performed before. Why was he ready to start now? It wasn’t for fame and fortune, but maybe it would carry him somewhere he wanted to go. Ayleana’s arguments about building something that could support him without selling the precious days of his life was also persuasive.

  Some days you wonder if your life is going anywhere, and some days you meet an alien.

  He grinned.

  “Come on Kest,” Ayleana said, touching him on the shoulder. “They’re getting ready to open the doors. We need to get backstage now.”

  Kest played a final chord and stood.

  “Isn’t this exciting?”

  “It should be fun,” he said.

  “You aren’t nervous at all,” she said. “Most humans are before a performance you know.”

  “You should probably say ‘people’ instead of ‘human’ where someone could hear you,” he said in a soft tone, looking around.

  “I suppose it’s possible someone is hiding under the stage in a scent-blocking suit,” she whispered back. But, Daniels just ran a security sweep under there, so... not likely.

  “My bad,” Kest said. “You don’t need me telling you your business.”

  “Well, you did help me stop the unintentional potty mouth,” she said with a giggle.

  “Thanks. I feel so useful now. The potty-mouth censor.”

  “Yes, but why aren’t you nervous?”

  “Maybe I will be when it’s closer to show time, but let me think about it.”

  He scratched behind his ear. “When I was taking piano lessons, I always refused to do the recitals. To me it felt like the crowd was there to interrupt my conversation with the music. Later on, I started letting my friends listen when I played, but it was still just the music and me. Then, one beautiful day it was too nice to stay inside, and I decided to play outside in the park. I tried to find a place by myself, but people started coming over, following the sound. I just ignored them, but when I was finished, a girl came up who’d passed a hat around and she handed me forty dollars. She told me I was wrong to share music without giving people a chance to give back. That it robbed them of a chance to grow spiritually.

  It made me think. I eventually got to the place where I could just have my music and not worry about the approval of the people listening. Maybe now, I feel like it’s time to take that mindset into including other people in the conversation, or at least, letting music say something to them too.”

  “Universal language then?”

  “Maybe, I haven’t travelled that much. Why don’t you tell me?”

  “Let me get back to you on that when I’ve had the chance to remember more.” She gave him a side-hug. “I liked the idea though. Thanks for letting me be part of your conversation.”

  Kest smiled and returned the hug. Her slender shoulders felt dense and solid, though they yielded to his hug when she snuggled under his arm looking up to smile at him. An image of the two of them riding double on a long surfboard with a huge wave of music pushing them along popped into his head.

  Surfing with the Alien. Was that what Satriani was thinking when he wrote the song? Nah!

  He grinned. Still..., “I just had an idea for an album cover when we put enough songs together.”

  “Tell me,” she said, pulling out her tablet and stylus. “Let’s go back to the dressing room.”

  An hour later, it was almost show time and seven concept thumbnails had turned into two sketches that combined to become a surf scene with monster waves on a cobalt sea and Kest hanging ten while a laughing Ayleana lounged on the back half of the board.

  Alex downloaded the sketch and in a second had rendered it in several styles from photo-realism to fantasy.

  “I’ll do a market study within the SST organization and see which ones people in different demographics react to,” said the AI. “Do you have any album title suggestions to put forward now?”

  “We’ve got to get on stage, Alex. Ask the market responders for some suggestions,” Ayleana said, closing her tablet and putting it in her bag.

  “Hey! I’ve got to get on stage too,” Alex whined.

  “Very funny, Alex.”

  “Amusement two parts; sarcasm four parts. I’m getting better.”

  “Sarcasm five parts,” Ayleana corrected. “Let’s go you two.”

  “I’m already there,” said Alex.

  And indeed, the world-beat rhythms of All Of My Life—the first number on their set—had started with Alex’s conga and drums weaving an atmosphere of mystery and jungle nights while punching out a strong backbeat that made Kest’s fingers itch for his guitar.

  Ayleana turned and trotted out of the dressing room. Kest hurried to catch up, but she was already putting on her guitar when he reached the stage. Alex had two avatars on the screen, one playing conga and the other on the drum kit. He’d come up with a character in the same genre as the Gorillaz avatars, portraying a slight man-child with big eyes and Maori face paint.

  Ayleana started by blending the high intro notes with lonely bass notes in subdued surfer/western reverb calls to the night. She was handing the first lead to Kest. Their plan was to jam the song for a while, handing the lead back and forth and doubling it at times to give themselves and the crowd a chance to get comfortable.

  Kest picked up his guitar and strapped it on. When Ayleana planted the hook with a lead in, he took his guitar through the slow soulful melody that called out in longing for a love lost in space and time. After finishing the first run through, he fell back to a supporting role while Ayleana echoed the lead theme an octave higher while Kest responded with answers to the questioning phrases of her lead.

  Back and forth, they passed the conversation, calling out for reunion as though separated by an uncrossable chasm. They let the song build in emotion and intensity, taking their traded leads into stronger and more urgent realms, delving into complex virtuosity without allowing it to pull the song from its essence. Kest, sensing they’d accomplished what they’d intended, returned to the original softer line, leading them through a resolve with promises of reunion. Together they faded out as Alex continued the drums then the drums dropped out leaving just the congas fading and slowing to silence as Kest and Ayleana put their guitars down and walked toward each other to clasp hands and raise them to the crowd in greeting as Alex’s avatar stood behind them. It was as though they’d invited the crowd into a reunion of souls and coming home to a place of the heart, and the crowd responded by standing to applaud. No one whistled or whooped; just a thunder of applause and a call back of recognition to someone they’d just met who knew the longing of their own inner cries for connection.

  They stormed through the next song—a jazz fusion piece Ayleana had written—for two guitars and four hands on the piano. They laid down the guitar parts first, looping them into four layers and letting them run while Ayleana sat at the piano and added a base under the harmonizing guitar tracks. Then Kest sat down with her and riffed into the improv solo while Ayleana maintained the accompanying theme. They switched places without missing a step, Kest sliding down to the low notes while Ayl
eana moved to the higher range. Alex’s rhythm and a solo on a virtual saxophone built a bridge for them to split back to Kest on guitar, segueing into their next piece. The music was loud, rowdy, and danceable, and the whole crowd was in the aisles or in front of the stage or at their seats if they couldn’t get into the aisles.

  Three songs later, they finished their set, but the crowd called them back for another. After a brief discussion with the headliners, they came back out to intro Aldeberan’s first number Splitter. They kept the song going with Ayleana on the piano and Kest playing melody on guitar. Aldeberan’s members, well known for their talent for improvising and collaborating, drifted on stage to pick up their parts of the song, until all were on stage with Kest and Ayleana.

  After the thunderous ovation, Alex disappeared from the screen, leaving behind a picture of the album cover they’d just designed and the notice.

  Tonight’s performance by Nighthawk and Windhover captured live and available now at ....

  A website address came up, but Kest left the stage before he could see it.

  The artists of Aldeberan led the applause, pointing to the web address on the screen and clapping as Ayleana and Kest waved their way off the stage. Razor, Joseph and Calypso were in the wings waiting to give them high fives.

  Kest pointed to the small private bathroom near the stage and waved Ayleana ahead. “I’ll be back in the dressing room in a minute,” he called and ducked into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. A stack of cotton washcloths sat next to the sink, and—hot and sweaty as he was—Kest took off his shirt and wiped as much sweat off as he could with one. Then, rinsing it out in cold water, he wiped it over his face, arms and torso. He used the urinal, wondering what to do with his soggy shirt. As he zipped his pants and washed his hands, he heard a key rattling at the lock.

  Chapter 9 — Jail Bird

  “Be right out,” Kest called.

  The door burst open and a bulky form charged through the door, knocking him into the sinks and tile wall. His breath whooshed out of him, and he sprawled on the floor, dizzy from the collision with the sink. Kest spun on the floor to sweep his attacker’s feet, but before he finished the move, his body seemed to light on fire. A vaguely familiar form and face stood over him holding down the trigger of a Taser. The wires led to prongs embedded in Kest’s chest. The pain was excruciating. Then it stopped, leaving Kest shaking and gasping.

  “Police officer, asshole. You are under arrest,” snarled the cop from Friday’s parking lot fiasco. Though he was dressed in street clothes now, it was the same one. The cop squeezed the trigger again and Kest convulsed, head drumming on the tile floor

  “Stop resisting,” the cop shouted, kicking Kest in the ribs with the point of his boot.

  Kest’s body was completely out of his control as the current arced across his chest.

  “Stop resisting, I said,” the cop shouted again as he held down the trigger on the Taser, a tight, triumphant smile on his face. He kicked Kest over onto his stomach and ground his knee into Kest’s back. A plastic zip restraint snapped Kest's wrists together in a strangling lock.

  Kest, still dazed from the last Taser charge, shuddered. Then the cop was dragging him from the bathroom by his feet. Kest’s bare torso skidded across the tile floor, and every piece of sand and grit scraped across his skin along the way. Metal screws, not flush in bathroom’s threshold, scraped down his chest and stomach. In the hall, rough hands dragged him to his feet and spun him around. Every tug on his arms pulled on the zip restraints making them bite deeper into his flesh. A uniformed cop on either side of him grasped his arms. The cop dressed in civilian clothes must have spotted Kest at the concert and called for backup this time. He had probably caught some grief for leaving his car vulnerable to hijacking, and this was payback.

  The hallway only held a few people, Razor and Calypso were backed against the wall by a cop with his gun pointing at Razor’s chest. “Tell Nighthawk,” Kest gasped then he stiffened as Taser prods dug into his back.

  “The prisoner will not speak to anyone,” said the one who had blind-sided him in the bathroom. “If you want, I can have them drop you right here for another dose of little sparky. Do you want that?”

  Kest shook his head. “No, thank you.”

  “Good, I see you learned some manners. Better keep it that way.” He jabbed Kest with the prongs for emphasis.

  The cops hustled Kest down the hall past staring theater employees and the few patrons who’d stepped out of the crowded theater hall to use the restrooms. Then he was thrust through the door to the street and manhandled into the back of a squad car.

  Ayleana’s voice cut through the street noise as the door closed. “Ventania, não diga nada, E importante.”

  Kest looked out the window for her face, but saw nothing. The squad car’s siren came on with its ‘clear the way’ warning, blocking out any other sounds. The car bumped off the curb and surged forward. Each bump triggered a spasm of pain in his wrists as the lurching car pushed him back against the hard plastic seat or the walls of the claustrophobic, Lexan enclosure. Kest tried to focus on flexing and relaxing the muscles of his hands to try keeping them from losing circulation and causing permanent damage.

  Don’t say anything, it’s important.

  He wondered if that included, ‘Please loosen my restraints before my hands get gangrene and fall off.’

  By the time the car reached the police station, Kest was shivering from the non-stop pain in his hands and the wind from the half-open window. The sadistic bastard in the driver’s seat had rolled it down. Though it had been warm outside during the day, the temperature after sunset had dropped below fifty degrees. And the wind blew across Kest’s bare torso, sucking the heat off him as it hit the sweat still left from the concert. Even when his sweat had evaporated in the chilly blast, he could tell his body temperature still plummeted. He shivered violently, his body trying to create heat by burning energy.

  The cop pulled up to the rolling doors at the stationhouse and, when they rose to admit the car, drove in to the enclosing area. He came around and pulled Kest out of the car.

  Kest had no idea what the cop’s name was. He wasn’t wearing a badge now and on Friday he’d never been near enough to see it. He hustled Kest through the doors when the buzzer sounded and the door unlatched.

  The cop—a little less brutal now, in view of cameras—dragged Kest to a room with a bench, a speaker and a window where a cold-faced woman sat. On the window above her, a sign identified her as Marie Johnston, Magistrate.

  The cop identified himself as Daniel Laslie, and gave an edited—and partly fabricated—account of Friday’s encounter and tonight’s arrest.

  The magistrate questioned Kest, but he kept silent, remembering Ayleana’s words. Instead, he slowly stood and turned around so she could see his hands—doubtless turned purple by this point. Kest tried to point a finger at the bonds, but he doubted his finger moved. He couldn’t feel them anymore. Even at this late point in time, no one had mentioned his rights under Miranda laws, but Kest knew how little that had come to mean in today’s world.

  “Perhaps he’ll have something to say after he’s thought about it for a while,” said Marie Johnston with a bit of a sneer in her voice. Laslie grabbed Kest’s arm and propelled him back out the door, down a hall and into a processing center. The room had a semi-circular counter like a barricade where two uniformed clerks sorted papers and typed commands into terminals. Laslie left him with a uniformed woman, who searched his pockets, finding only change, since Kest’s wallet, phone and keys were still in the dressing room at the Rialto.

  When she clipped the restraints, he gasped at the combined relief and pain of blood flowing back into his hands. Kest ignored all questions: name, residency, age, and stared mutely at her when she put the disclosure statements in front of him. He pretended not to understand when offered a phone call. But, he moved wherever she pushed him through the process of mugshot and finger printing, where sh
e rolled his fingers across a glass plate as a computer scanned the imprints. It was all very high tech and impersonal.

  Big business, processing slaves.

  His anger flared up from the smolder he’d been working to contain, but he pushed it back down again.

  Finished, she led him to one of the holding cells and ordered him inside, giving him a little shove when he, again, failed to acknowledge comprehension. “You’ll be issued a prison jumper and blankets after you are processed,” she said. “Not sure when that will be since you refuse to answer any questions, but you’ll be put in gen pop after you watch the prison orientation film. The other inmates call it, ‘The Don’t Take the Candy Bar Video’.

  Kest couldn’t help clenching his jaw when he heard the grim amusement in her voice.

  “I expect you’ll be quite popular,” she ended with a smirk.

  I already was popular.

  The heavy, metal door slammed behind him.

  The timeline between rock star and rock breaking is short.

  Kest stared blankly around the enclosure: gray block walls, metal sink, metal toilet in full view of the door’s observation window, a bench with a thin, plastic-covered pad and a vent covered by a steel grid blasting cold air from the ceiling. He’d started to warm a little in the processing center, but he hadn’t stopped shivering. The temperature in this room was around sixty Fahrenheit, and the blowing air was increasing the chill factor. Kest frowned. You didn’t usually associate hypothermia with temperatures in the sixties, but the possibility, was real the way he was dressed if he was in here for an extended period. He looked at the grate over the vent again. A previous occupant had tried throwing globs of wet toilet paper at the grid to clog it. No one had bothered to clean that away, maybe because it demonstrated the futility of the attempt and would save on toilet paper.

  Kest staggered to the sink and wetted some toilet paper to clean the scratches on his chest and stomach, patting them dry afterwards. He would need to exercise, just enough to raise his body temperature but not sweat. Then, maybe he could wrap the plastic mat around him to retain body heat. The powerlessness of his situation sunk in. He couldn’t turn up a thermostat, put on a sweater or wrap in a blanket, and he had no say in his living conditions. His choices were limited.