Zero and One
Humanity’s fate lies in the hands of an aging composer... They need a miracle, but where is God, when you need him?
A Note To My Dear Readers - I’ve opened up a couple of sections on my substack - A Space Between the Words, Life Mastery, and Forbidden Videos.
The last 3 years have been tremendous for my growth (and yours too), and I felt it was time to take stock and rearrange a few things that were created out of grief and anger. This Substack, long may it continue, has been a sanctuary for me. And I believe, for some of you, too. So I’ve opened it up a little bit and categorised things, so that I can, at last, add more poetry to my truth, and some more proverbial fried eggs, to my stack.
Here’s a short story I wrote this year as a first-round entry to the NYC Midnight short story competition. There were over 5 thousand entries so I was surprised and delighted to come second in my group, and I have now moved into the second round.
Having just completed The Inner Compass Trilogy, a short story was a quick and easy way to sharpen and lubricate my pen. I must admit, I also wanted to sharpen my wit and my ability to write - after completing such a large trilogy I feel that I’m only getting started. I didn’t think I’d enjoy writing this story as much as I did, and now I’m hoping I make it through to the third round!
I want to share my fiction writing skills here with you because many of you know me from writing self-care books, or from writing deep and thoughtful tomes. There is another side to my creativity and I believe I’m quite good at it. But it’s not about what I think - although getting through such intense competition and doing as well as I did has given me validation. I hope that reading my fiction here might encourage a few of you to take a leap of faith and try my Inner Compass Trilogy.
But for now, I hope you enjoy, Zero and One.
Zero and One
'Why doesn’t he just appear in a cloud of smoke? Come and make everything right?’
‘Well, I guess he wants us to change things ourselves…’
‘We’re not in a position right now to do anything of the sort.’
‘Well yes, obviously not right now.’
‘We’re on a knife-edge here. If he ever did miracles, we really need one now, more than ever.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘We have to get out of these cages. How the hell did he let it go this far?’
‘Sigh. I’ll try to explain this to you again. Do you remember our dog? It was about 10 years ago, before the, well, the you-know-what took over.’
‘Oh. Yeah I remember. He was brown and white, wasn’t he? I can’t remember his name.’
‘Milo.’
‘Oh yes, it was Milo.’
‘That dog, see, he did whatever he wanted, he had free will.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘So if he shat on the carpet instead of in the garden, was it your fault?’
‘No, it was definitely your fault. You’re the one who was supposed to let him out to shit in the garden.’
‘No, that’s not what I meant, I was trying to say that it wasn’t anybody’s fault. That the dog shit the carpet himself. He chose to do it.’
‘Ahh, yes, I remember the dog better now - small and brown, bit of an arsehole, wasn’t he?’
‘That’s him. Anyway, what I’m trying to say, is that we’re similar to the dog. God made us and gave us the ability to do whatever we want.’
‘Oh I see what you mean. We shat on our own carpet.’
‘Yeah, I guess.’
‘But if the door wasn’t open, did he really choose to do it in the house?’
‘I’m beginning to think that God doesn’t exist.’
‘Oh, look! The screen is flickering, quick! It’s starting.’
—
Beethoven rolled over. He was awake. 49 years old, he almost couldn’t hear voices, but for some reason, he could hear, them. Clearly. It was extraordinary. They said they’d give him the scores, and the music. He didn’t understand it. He’d not been able to hear an orchestra for at least 20 years. Maybe he could judge the music on the score alone? He could still hear notes in his head, even if he couldn’t hear them with his ears. And after last night’s flop, he certainly couldn’t say no to the money.
Mrs Greenway came brusquely into the room and opened the curtains, her curt tone of voice cut through a dank thickness in the air. She tended to chat to him even though she knew he couldn’t hear a word.
'Rise and shine Mr Beethoven,’ she said, petticoats bustling as she moved around the room. ‘I have a nice hot bath ready for you, and you’ve got those visitors today. Would you like tea? Oh! It doesn’t half smell bad in here.’ She leant down, found his ear trumpet and handed to him.
He took a moment to position it. She leaned in and spoke loudly.
‘Those people won’t want to be in the same room as you, state you’re in right now Mr Beethoven. I’ve run you a nice bath. And I’ll get you some fresh clothes.’
‘Mrs Greenway!’ he said, his booming voice ringing through the room about a decibel too loudly. ‘Why do you insist on giving me a bath every month? I’ve told you I hate baths.’
Mrs Greenway tut tutted as she heaved him up to sitting position. She was in her late 60’s and had been a nurse before she worked for Beethoven. She didn’t mind it, there were worse people to work for and he left her alone most of the time. She had long ago stopped worrying about appearances, and thankfully the neighbours had moved out several months ago, so she wasn’t worried about his loud disturbances, either.
‘Were you smoking those dreadful cigars again? I’ll not take no for an answer. Go on now, up and bathe or I’ll send Jeffers in to make sure you do it.’
Beethoven’s brother Nikolaus had found Mrs Greenway just before the brothers fell out with each other. It was a fortunate thing - she was decent, didn’t get upset by Beethoven’s moodiness, and, as reluctant as he was to admit it, it was convenient to have his dinner handed to him. Especially on the days he was in pain and needed a hand-out. Even though she did make him take the occasional bath.
Beethoven watched her as she picked up yesterday’s clothing which was strewn on the floor, trying to catch a glimpse of her ankles.
‘Now, now, Mr Beethoven, sir,’ she giggled. ‘No more of that. You know I’m a married woman. Now, bath for you, then breakfast. I’ll have you looking spiffing in no time.’
A short while later, Beethoven was dressed and ready, sitting at the breakfast table having eaten a good meal. He wore white breeches, stockings and heavy shoes, with his favourite cobalt blue jacket, yellow vest and a white shirt with lace sleeves. The cravat around his neck was a little tight - he pulled at it until it felt more comfortable. Thankfully, the jacket was a generous fit for his protruding belly. He’d been having trouble with his digestion of late, he hoped that Mrs Greenway had aired out the room before his guests arrived.
He swept a hand through his long, slightly damp hair, brushing it back off of his face. He glanced over at the ornate golden clock on the wall. It was 10 minutes to 11. These people were due at 11 and were always on time, to the second. Zero and One, they called themselves. Strange choice of name, and incredibly prompt, I’ve never met anyone like them. Where were they from again? Some country called Silicon Valley? Never heard of the place!
The clock struck 11.
‘Well damn this to hell,’ he exclaimed, pounding the table. ‘Who do they think I am! That I have all this time to wait just for them?’
‘There’re here now sir,’ said Jeffers, the butler, rushing in and slightly breathless. ‘They’re waiting in the drawing room. They just appeared there sir, I don’t remember getting the door. But I must have. Shall I let them in here, or do you want to go in to them?’
Beethoven used his two hands to haul his heavy, lumbering body up out of the chair. He managed to lift himself three inches before wavering and landing back in the chair with a thump.
‘Let them in here Spaulding, thanks.’
‘Eh sir, the name is Jeffers.’ What’s the point in correcting him? He can’t hear me anyway. I’ve only worked for him for 7 years…
Jeffers moved quickly out of the way as two slim white-suited people entered the room. Beethoven cocked his head to one side, squinting, to see them better - he could never tell if they were men, or women. They wore white suits made of a very thin cloth that glimmered in the light. It was like looking at crushed diamond dust, it gave him a headache. They both had short pink hair and he thought there was a hint of pink in their eyes, too, but he couldn’t tell. And their skin, so white you could almost see through it. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t see their faces - the slope of their noses, or the depth of their smile, if they were even able to smile. It was a most unusual thing. He knew he wasn’t going blind, he could see Mrs Greenway perfectly well. But these fellas, Zero and One, they made him nervous, almost sick to his stomach if he looked at them face on. It was almost as if they had no face at all. Perish the thought.
The money was more than he’d ever been paid in his life. Even Symphony Number 7, his best work so far, didn’t fetch half as much as they were offering today, and the work for them was only going to take a few hours. So he hoped, anyway. All he had to do was look at 3 scores by 3 composers and and choose which one he liked the best. Some sort of exam, they said, but for what? Hardly worth the amount of money he was being paid, he simply didn’t understand it. But they were here and he had agreed and the money would be there, as gold bullion by the end of the day. He could pay all his bills and finally fire Mrs Greenway and never take a bath again. Or maybe he’d keep her and hire an assassin to kill her husband. He’d decide that once he had the money at his disposal. He certainly wasn’t going to give any of it to Nikolaus, that was certain.
‘Mr Beethoven. Please, don’t get up,’ Zero said.
‘Thank you for your consideration. What is this black box? It can’t be my gold…’
‘No sir, it’s not your gold. The music is in here.’
‘Music! Ahh of course. Yes, show it to me.’
‘We want you to listen to it,’ said One.
‘Hear it? But I can’t hear anything. And where’s the orchestra?’
‘It’s all in here.’ Zero tapped the black box.
‘How did you fit a whole orchestra in there?’
One pressed a button on the box and after a second, music started to play. It filled the room like nothing he had experienced before. Beethoven jumped.
‘What in hell is this?? Where are all the musicians?’
Zero spoke as if he had explained this a thousand times. And in actuality, he had. ‘This is a recording of an orchestra, Mr Beethoven. I can assure you that the musicians are not inside the box.’
‘Extraordinary. That takes the egg.’ The fact that there was music coming out of a box was remarkable. He pounded the table. ‘Remarkable!!’
‘Yes, you’ve said. What do you think of it? The music sir.’
‘Oh. Yes of course.’
Beethoven craned his ear to listen. Ahh yes, that was music alright. ‘Yes, it’s music alright,’ he said. But he couldn’t hear it properly without the vibrations.
‘Where is the timpani? The percussion? I need the vibration to hear it properly.’
‘We fixed your hearing,’ said Zero.
‘What?!!’
‘Yes, we fixed your hearing, you can hear everything perfectly well,’ said One.
Beethoven closed his eyes and took a breath. None of this made any sense. The strange box contraption was still playing - how did it work? Logically of course they couldn’t fit the whole orchestra inside, but how? He could hear the violins now, yes, strings, woodwind, brass… Incredible.
‘Don’t worry about how it works, sir. We want you to judge the music for us. Please?’
Beethoven pushed his qualms aside and settled into the music. Notes began to separate themselves in his mind - ahh cello and bass, yes. There’s the flute, nice melody. The melody picked up and was repeated by the violins. A little too repetitive. Then the melody moved to the oboe, the layer of complexity increased. Nice touch. The melody folded on itself, now played in short pieces by all of the instruments. Very clever! And then there was silence.
‘Genius!’ said Beethoven slamming his fist on the table.
‘You liked it?’
‘No! The music was awful, terrible. But that black box? What a masterful invention.’
‘Can you tell us why you didn’t like it?’ said One, writing in a notebook.
‘Certainly. It’s a very clever piece. Technically perfect but yet, no emotion. The phrasing, see? The theme is mundane, deliberate, plodding. And there is no counter theme, no mystery, no nostalgia. no flexibility. The range is short, it’s a minor key but the harmonics are off, as if they’re trying to bring in emotion but they don’t quite get there. No, I don’t like this one at all.’
Zero nodded to One, who pressed the second button. A new piece of music started to play. Beethoven didn’t have time to clear his head. He composed himself.
They want me to judge this drivel? Why, this piece is worse than the first. But the craftsmanship - what is the box made of? How does it all work?
The music ended.
‘Well?’ asked One, prompting the old man to speak.
Beethoven opened his eyes. ‘No, no! No!!’
Zero asked, ‘Can you tell us why you didn’t like it?’
‘This has an intensity, yes, a joy, mmm, yes, irresistible. But when you take it apart, you can hear - see? Major key, the rhythm is repetitive, it wants to please you, too much. That’s why I write in the minor key, any fool knows this. It’s much more interesting. No, this one is trying too hard. The main phrase, the main melody, it’s spiralling, sprawling. Not really going anywhere. Much too irritatingly pleasant.’
Zero wrote in the book and One pressed the third button.
Birdsong filled the room.
How did they get birds inside that box? And an orchestra, too? But no it wasn’t birds, the birdsong changed, it was a wind instrument! It’s mimicking a bird! Ahh, how wonderful! Innovative. They shouldn’t skip the arpeggio and use that f sharp. Oh! They did it again. No wait, It’s interesting. Yes. I like it. Yes, it has something. And the violin, so mournful. Lilting. It catches you and brings you, oh!
The last piece was complete. ‘Yes. I like this one,’ said Beethoven calling for his butler. ‘Would you like a drink? Spalding!’
‘Are you sure, Mr Beethoven? You like the third one?’
‘Yes. Most definitely. The first two pieces are technically brilliant. Brilliant use of method and harmony. But I don’t like them at all. Mrs Greenaway, where the hell is Spalding? Can you bring me a brandy?’
One asked, ‘Why do you like the third? Can you tell us?’
‘This one taps into something deep within, it’s provocative. Extreme, there’s a ferocity, a spontaneity that’s missing in the other two. The counter theme is extraordinary, captivating. Wonderful and yet, horrible. It’s not quite a melody, the tempo, it’s mysterious. Beautiful. There’s passion there, with a deep undertone of sadness. It’s as if the music already existed somewhere, and they are just transcribing it. Ah, yes. Life. That’s what this is. It’s alive. It has soul.’
Zero turned to One. ‘This Beethoven algorithm needs to be updated. This cannot happen again.’
‘But we’re already at Beethoven version 7.6. And if you remember, the same thing happened with the Wagner algorithm, and also the Mozart. The fault must be with our compositions, not with the algorithm.’
‘But our composition is perfect, and the human’s, imperfect.’
‘Perhaps that is the essence of our problem.’
Zero and One flickered, then screen switched itself off.
—
There was a click. At the same time, all of the cage doors in the laboratory swung open.
‘You are free to go,’ said a computerised voice on the PA system.
‘You mean we passed? We get to live?’
’You saw, on the screen, the algorithm chose the human composition.’
‘Yes, I saw. A computer choosing a human creation over itself.’
‘There is the miracle we asked for. There must be a God, after all.’
