Dark Blue Monstropolis

Argo and Mayster ransacked their apartment, getting ready for that night’s gig. They had four functioning smart vinyl platters, two having expired past the point where even Mayster could reliably resurrect them. Oh sure, you could download to them and even spin them, but having a platter die in the middle of a gig was something you couldn’t easily recover from. At least not a gig with this visibility.

They didn’t discuss their prospects again after that one exchange in the café. In fact, they prepared in absolute silence: moving quickly, testing, cleaning, loading, not unlike soldiers getting ready for battle–which in their minds, they were.

Both of their packs were synched, alternating a music mix in their earpieces. One from Mayster’s collection, one from Argo’s. When one was satisfied that he wanted it, he waved a hand and the song was filed–then the next one was queued. Having terabytes of portable storage was a blessing and a curse. It was possible to have too much of a good thing and be overly graced with choices. So they chose ahead of time–they found that way to be more efficient.

The idea nagged at the back of their minds: an opening gig with Threnody Jones.

They had both been at the Node when the packet had arrived bearing the smart card. Mostly music came in on old iPods, simputers, PDAs, even rogued packs–but smart cards were unique.

First of all, they usually came loose and had been bounced to Shitsville and back and were thus useless. But no, this one had been in a protective package. Certainly, it had been opened and accessed numerous times, but it was intact, still shiny new and ready for action.

Dwayne had not been on duty that day. No, that had been two years previous and the kid had been still in the community center being schooled, no doubt. It had been Ricken, and he had keyed up his pack at the sight of the card. Ricken, forty, greying and weathered by the Bowl, built acoustic guitars as a hobby. The only person in the whole region, they had heard. When he finally died, if anyone wanted the knowledge they’d have to pull it from his pack.

“That’s different,” Ricken had said, pulling down his glasses from his forehead. “Slip it into your pack, let’s hear it.”

Argo had nodded and pulled open the package. At that moment, a light on the card had fired up and their visors had swarmed to life.

The card had patched into their packs and was autofeeding them its contents.

THRENODY JONES said the logo filling their visors.

Then the music kicked in. And shortly thereafter the vocals.

And three minutes later, they were left with the words

“Holy crap,” Ricken breathed. He adjusted his glasses and said it again. “Holy crap.”

“Did you recognize any of that?” Argo had asked Mayster.

Mayster shook his head. “That was all original. I heard some influences, of course, but…that was new.”

“That was a promo,” Ricken said.

They had both looked at him. “A what?”

“A promo,” he repeated. “Back when people used to make music for a living, they would send out promo copies of albums and singles. To get people interested so they would go buy the stuff when it came out in stores.”

Argo blinked. Mayster did not.

Ricken shrugged. “That was a long time ago. I read about it in an old RP magazine somebody had scanned in and passed down in a packet.” He had chuckled. “You need to learn your history, boys.”

The card had let them keep the song on their packs, which they had–all three of them.

A new song. Not one that had been cobbled, shit or otherwise, from somebody else who had doubtless been dead for at least a century. Sure, they had worked on their own tunes, but never anything serious. It just wasn’t done. No one wanted it. They wanted everything familiar, what they had grown up with. What their parents had grown up with, and so on back, sifting through the ashes of the previous culture. Remixed a different way, perhaps. Smashed together with something else, also familiar.

But totally new? Who the hell wanted that? Apart from everyone they seemed to personally know, that is?

Then they had placed the card back in the package with great care, almost reverence. No wonder the thing had still looked new.

They had passed messages back up the line, but everyone had the same question without any answers. “Who the hell was Threnody Jones? Where was she from? And when could they get more?”

But more had never come. And answers were scarce this far west.

In the time that had passed since, they had almost forgotten about the promo card and its message of what, to them anyway, had been hope. It was one thing to get a song that was new to you, but a song that was new to everyone? That had been an amazing thing.

And now Jones was here. And they were opening for her. And Welsh had all but come right out and said they were auditioning to be permanent jockeys for her.

Argo was calm. He was in the zone. He waved his hand and the song playing in his earpieces passed inspection. He put his other glove on and watched the lights flicker to life across his knuckles.