Somewhere between New York and Nashville, March 2072

Jamie awoke to see the most beautiful sunrise he had ever seen. Low reddish and yellow clouds provided a fading afterglow on the eastern horizon.

Where am I? Are we in Tennessee yet? Jamie wondered.

The inrush of a chilly breeze, billowing through an open window, reminded him winter was still here.

Jamie watched as the driver of the carriage shifted as he held the reins of a three-horse carriage, which was more machine than beast. He wanted to take a unique form of transportation to Nashville, something that was off the radar. Elias, Jamie’s boss, insisted he use Parnis Brothers Transport Services because they were discreet and safe. Their methods were not as convenient since they did not believe in any modern form of transportation. Jamie rummaged through his stained knapsack and pulled out the battery that would give him twenty charges for his phone and AR visor. A couple of days ago, when Jamie used his visor somewhere around Pittsburgh, the driver warned him that behavior would be ill-advised. When he asked what the driver was talking about, he got a harrumph in reply.

“You just better naught use d’ices like that, Yankee,” the driver of the stagecoach-like carriage had replied.

“Why?”

“Too many stray signals about; not very good if raiders picked up on them. I suggest you keep that old guard company now.”

Jamie had climbed down into the passenger section of the carriage. An old man with a wicked-looking rifle had seated himself across from Jamie.

“How long until Nashville?” Jamie had asked the armed man.

The man had given him a disdainful look. It was as if a rattlesnake or possum had started speaking to him. He kept referring to him as a “Yank arse and a half,” whatever that meant.

Ignoring the man’s arrogance, Jamie had lingered over each photo in his carousel, giving it the reverence each demanded. Lucy’s long blond hair and succulent lips made his heart ache.

Despite our age difference, I think I’m falling for her.

If you would have asked him a few weeks ago, he would have said it wasn’t possible. He only started seeing Lucy because of his employer’s—no, Reverend Elias’s—dammed assignment. He started working for the Reverend just after breaking up with Alice. The man was up to no good, and Jamie let Lucy blind him to that. He hadn’t expected in the slightest to grow feelings for her. A pang of guilt overcame him as he remembered his last encounter with Alice. He had allowed himself to be taken by Lucy’s charms right in front of Alice. He never thought how that would make her feel until now.

That bitch caused me a world of trouble. She tried to take the blame for the hack of the bots at the City Wide concert. But the dean of Columbia didn’t agree and kicked me out anyway.

“We should be there in a day or two, I reckon,” the man finally said.

“Thank you, sir,” Jamie said.

That’s the first thing I’ve heard him say in days. Stupid redneck cretin.

The wind messed up Jamie’s hair, but he didn’t mind. In a few days, he could check into a proper hotel with real technology, not to mention indoor plumbing. He smiled at the thought.

The horse-drawn carriage climbed onto a broken road that was more dirt than pavement. Several bushes were growing in the middle of the road.

When was the last time someone bothered to pave this road? Seventy, eighty years ago?

Music enveloped the carriage thanks to four small and ancient-looking speakers. It was some kind of classical number he didn’t recognize. An intense sound of violins and other string instruments assaulted his senses.

That is familiar. Alice often played it.

The tonal variations in the song were intriguing. It had the familiar pattern of a captivating story. It caught his interest with a simple violin, then pulled him inward as the violas, cellos, and harpsichords hooked him. The armed guard put down his weapon and mimicked conducting an orchestra. It was a sight to behold. The man looked like a cowboy trying to conduct a symphony. He was doing a pretty good job, too. Jamie noticed a pair of dangling speakers above his head. Someone had tied them to the four corners of the carriage.

“What song is this?” Jamie asked.

The gunman looked at him like he was an impertinent child.

“Don’t you know nothing, boy? I would think Yankee foreigners like you would know better.”

“My ex-girlfriend knows—immerses herself in music.”

“She sounds like a keeper. Why did you break up?”

“It’s a long story. You don’t want to hear it.”

“It’s a long ride, buckaroo. Tell you what, you tell me, and I will tell you anything you want to know about this here tune.”

Jamie relayed how he’d met Alice, his eyes losing focus as he spoke.

* * *

Columbia University, New York, 2065

It was a bright sunny day when Jamie first met Alice. He was late for programming class.

Professor Mothburg is going to have my ass this time.

The sound of a guitar riff echoed through the courtyard. It got louder as he made his way through toward the computer sciences building. Whoever is playing that is good, very good.

He pulled up his schedule on his visor. After Mr. Mothburg’s class, he would get lunch, then see what side jobs he could pick up. He needed to bid on some gray hat jobs to make extra money. He was against doing nefarious work, such as stealing personal information from people like their credit card information, or stealing money. Times were hard enough without being responsible for causing grief in people’s lives. Plus, karma was a bitch, and it always came back to haunt him. Every time he did something nasty, he paid for it in spades.

“Hey, watch it, mister,” a woman said.

Jamie realized he was trampling on the woman’s space.

“Oh, I’m sorry, miss.”

“You stepped on my lunch.”

Jamie must have looked as confused as he felt.

“Wait, your lunch is on the ground?”

She looked at Jamie as if he were the dumbest person alive.

“That’s why they call it a picnic.”

Jamie looked down. He was on a large checkered blanket with a cooler, several pages of loose paper with music notes, a tablet, and a guitar.

You should watch where you’re going, you idiot. She’s holding that instrument like it’s a baby.

“What were you playing? It was lovely.”

“It was an old rock song from a group in the 1970s. The group was unique, since two sisters led them. Ann and Nancy, I think. Anyway, they were popular. The song I was playing was called “Straight to My Heart.” It was released almost a hundred years ago if you can believe it.” The woman’s tone was almost reverent.

It astounded Jamie that anyone, especially a woman his age, played old shit like that.

“Oh, I like the oldies as well,” Jamie lied.

“Really. Which ones?”

Way to go, asshole.

Jamie had to strain to think of a band.

“I like more extreme music like the Time Zoners. They have a song about destroying the world.”

The woman looked excited.

“Really, no one has said they liked music from ten years ago, let alone ninety.”

The woman put her guitar away.

“Hey, I’m sorry that I ruined your picnic. Is there any way I can make it up to you?”

“No, I think you’ve done enough. Wait, you should buy me dinner since you already screwed up my lunch.”

Jamie nearly fell over. A girl had never been that forward with him—ever.

“Ahh, sure, but I really need to run. I’m late for class.”

“Oh, don’t let me get in the way. Here’s my information.” The woman used hand gestures to wirelessly transfer the information from her bulky visor to his.

He pulled up the information.

“Good to meet you, Alice,” Jamie said as he hurried to class.

* * *

“Ahh, how I enjoy hearing tales of young love, my boy,” the guard said.

Jamie smiled. He had a strange feeling of longing as he told his story. He had never really talked to anyone about Alice before.

“Okay, son. A deal is a deal. Are you ready to hear about the story of my friend Antonio and his masterwork?”

“Who’s Antonio?”

“Not too many people know about his given name, but you probably are familiar with his surname of Vivaldi.”

Jamie’s eyes went wide. He knew him alright. Often Alice wouldn’t shut up about him.

“The work you are listening to is his most famous. It’s called ‘Le Quattro Stagioni,’ or ‘The Four Seasons’ in English.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Jamie said.

“No, you don’t know, son. Otherwise you would’ve said so. You dirty little peckerhead,” the man spat.

Jamie jumped back at the sudden outburst.

“I’m sorry, son; it’s not your fault. I know you’re not very intelligent, so let me enlighten you.”

Jamie shrugged.

“Vivaldi crafted around four hundred and fifty concertos during his forty-year career. The significance of creating a piece of music that spans all four seasons is no easy feat. It all starts with a nice spring day. The birds are out, the sun is shining, and the day is sublime. Then, as we get to the summer portion, the listener is treated to a diverse contrast of a violent summer storm. As he winds to autumn, we return to the familiar sound of the spring portion, but the most significant difference is the tempo. It drops considerably. By winter, the music turns somber. We are reminded of how cold some people can be. You can say that the past fifty or so years have been winter,” the man continued.

Jamie didn’t know what the old man was talking about. He was familiar with Vivaldi because of Alice’s incessant lecturing, which usually perked up after sex. Something he wasn’t interested in doing after such a taxing activity. He wanted to close his eyes and cuddle, not think of some long-dead composer.

Why does this old fart know so much about a classical master who has been dead for hundreds of years?

The carriage rocked violently as the old man rambled on about Vivaldi. Jamie remembered something about “Spring Largo” starting just before the carriage started rocking.

“What are your thoughts about the contrast between winter and spring?” the old man said.

An intense violin solo could be heard from the speakers. The old man started to pretend to conduct the music, his arms flailing about the carriage.

“I think there are some tonal differences between the movements in the season,” Jamie said.

The old man’s expression went blank.

Did I say something wrong? I shouldn’t have tried bullshitting. This old man is too sharp.

“My thoughts exactly, young master; perhaps you’re not dull-witted after all,” the old man said.

More violin solos ensued from the carriage. The old man grew silent, and his visage became stoic.

He’s probably trying to think of some other object lesson to torment me with.

Jamie looked out the window at the rising sun as the violins played on.