Babbage sat still in his chair and waited for her. Sometimes the best form of questioning is to simply allow them to say what they want.

“Sound, detective, the vibration of air particles in the ear, a direct connection to the emotional centres in the brain, altering the way you experience the world. Your inner ear detects the sound and you respond psychologically, hmm? That is music’s goal, to play off this power, to rouse the emotions, to release or relieve them, to stimulate the listener. Music is not just sound mathematics, it is the most powerful of all art forms because it speaks to a part of your being you can never directly access yourself – your emotions.”

Babbage could feel the questions inside him, but let them pass. Wait and the answers will come.

“Too often these emotions are wrapped up in thought, feeding back into each other, muddying up the waters of your mind. Music skips along the surface like a stone, creating ripples, and then sinking down into the intellect. It is the reverse of poetry, it begins by activating feelings, then moves onto thought. That is its point, its power and its weakness, hmm? It relies on the listener’s own imagination.”

The familiar tune, the childhood nightmare. They were all part of him. Just like Adlai.

“Because of this it can be immensely powerful. It can hypnotise, soothe the savage beast, control and contort the listener. Let me ask you, detective, when you hear a tune in the minor key, a mournful tune, do you feel sad? Is this emotion wrapped up in the music itself, or does it only reside in you? Is it possible for you to recognise a song as sad without feeling sad yourself? What about angry, hmm? What if a song can access other emotions? Larger, more dangerous ones, ones that consume you, like fear. What if it can then hitch a ride in and break your mind down completely?”

She knows all about the card already. The song, the victims, the creeping fear that still tried to poke its head up from the surface. That he had to still concentrate to keep submerged lest the tune swirl about him again, become a whirlpool that sucked him down and away.

“It’s a virus. A weapon.” He could feel himself sweating, but clenched his fist and forced himself to calm.

Gretchen smiled.

“You catch on quickly detective.”

“But why would someone create something like this, something so dangerous?”

“Powerful is the word we used.”

He could feel the truth in the words as soon as they were uttered.

“You did this.”

“Let’s just say it was my idea. Others had a hand in its design, and I imagine it has altered itself considerably since then. One must adapt to survive.”

Gretchen swivelled in her chair and touched the control panel in front of her. The memory card still sat alone on the desk. Neither of them wanted to touch it.

“You must understand detective, we were idealists. We had an honourable goal in mind. One makes a lot of mistakes when young, hmm? Not all of them come back to haunt you.”

Light music began to fill the room again, and Babbage knew he was helpless. He had been since he walked in the door.

“We were angry. Angry and clever and young, and that is a dangerous cocktail.”

She glanced back at him and saw the tension in his face.

“Relax, detective, not all weapons are evil. Sometimes it is easier to show than tell.”

He relaxed, he was powerless not to.

Babbage felt himself sink down into his chair as the room around him seemed to fill with light. Soon it was too bright for his eyes. He closed them and another world appeared.

Daylight. The word ran into his head from the past, from somewhere he’d forgotten. The sun. Clear blue skies. Altogether alien to him, yet suddenly familiar. He looked down at the sun warming the bare skin of his arm. How could he have forgotten this? What was this place?

“This, detective, is the world as it was.”