Saturday, 19 October 2013

Tony Rand Scott Book Spotlight

Gyre, a steam driven world of automatons, is divided into two factions. The Industrians, mechanized maintenance and repair robots tasked with the continual upkeep of a metal world run on steam power, and the Hierarchists, the elite who carry out Gyre’s true purpose- the introduction and evolution of technology to the primitive biological races.

The Concentrest, the draconian ruling council of Gyre, has outlawed human contact in these endeavors, prohibiting human emulation of any kind. However, after a millennium of human interaction, and the increasing fascination with the Gyrelin humanist movement known as Mortalism, human facsimile is the new cultural trend. The Concentrest, reluctant to enforce its own mandates, preferring concessions to Industrian Revolution, institutes a figurehead government and punishes them for all the Mortalist corruption. This policy of termination and data archival of humanist corrupted data files, study in hopes of finding a way to prevent the fascination with humanity, is known as The Renaisséance. When this ruling faction becomes even further embroiled in Moralist machinations and after centuries of inaction, The Concentrest creates its own agent to purge the hated humanism from Gyre forever.
Malthusian, a dark and merciless inquisitor empowered by The Concentrest and driven by his hatred for humanity in all forms, has formulated his own final solution to Mortalism. Deep within Gyre, he builds a faction of robots loyal only to him, and begins invading and occupying human worlds, ravaging them for their natural resources. Over centuries, Malthusian builds an army capable of enacting his final solution-the eradication of Mortalism through the complete and utter genocide of humanity.
Opposing him are The Gregorian, current ruler of Gyre, who faces an eminent Renaisséance. Leonor, The Grand Architect and self-proclaimed creator of Gyre, who struggles against the very council he created. Mica, the sole androgynous engineered automaton and assistant to Leonar, elevated to Hierarchist status, who struggles with the rigid gender bias of Gyrelin society. And the Mechiavellian, agent of the Gregorian, who struggles to recruit human allies from the occupied human worlds, where all robots are blamed for the havoc and destruction Malthusian has unleashed.
Because if they don’t find a way to stop Malthusian, and end forever the tyranny of The Concentrest, all of humanity across the universe will pay the ultimate price.


When I first imagined Gyre and the first story that takes place there, Industrian Revolution, I didn’t plan on any analogies to modern society. As I began fleshing out the plot and characters from the rough sketch in my mind, it almost seemed to happen naturally. There were just a lot of parallels going on in the world, especially with sexuality and not just freedom but acceptance that I couldn’t help to be influenced and draw comparison. I hope you enjoy the following excerpt and 10 ,imaginary and utterly useless, bonus points if you recognize the opera chorus at the end. Enjoy.

From Industrian Revolution…
The table was in the center of a chamber, high in the Central Palatial Unification. It was arrayed with metal wire woven wigs, a crucible for melting metals for color, and masks of various human visages. Gregorian sat at his dressing table, appearing to gaze undecidedly at the selection of masks, wigs and tinctures. In truth, he was deep in analyzation, calculating the slim chance his endeavors had of success. Not that it mattered; he was but another line of code in a long data sequence of a strategic insurrection. He could not and would not divert from his current course of action.
The Gregorian wore a jacket and pants, constructed to resemble grey velvet, the jacket only half-buttoned and open at the throat. The billowing collar and sleeves of a white faux silk shirt were exposed from beneath the coat. The pants legs were tucked into similarly grey dyed leather boots.  A top hat created from the fluted top of a small smoke stack, capped and brimmed with metal plates, sat on his head. He stood, and the way the light reflected on his mortal accoutrements betrayed their true metal construction.
 He walked away without choosing a face or wig, and pulled a copper and nickel braided cord. A bell tolled solemnly for a short moment from somewhere far below him. Not waiting for an arrival or an answer, The Gregorian walked out into the room’s balcony, and slowly climbed a twisting staircase to the chamber above. 
His utilitarian majordomo 5YNCK3YNG, known as Syncronie, appeared soon after, in response to the summons, and finished the climb at his side. Syncronie was proudly outmoded and preferred no decorative augmentation, and The Gregorian allowed him to express himself as he chose. He performed all his duties in just his utilitarian frame.
“My leak... whirr... pssttk... liege?” Syncronie stammered, forgoing the multi-tonal diction of Gyrelin speech for the oddity of the English language with difficulty.
The Gregorian smiled, appreciated his loyal servants attempt, but his brooding on impending events darkened his mood quickly.
“Your human is improving, Syncronie.” The Gregorian spoke slowly, even his practiced voice emitter struggling to warp Gyrelin into human speech. “I am weary Syncronie. Please, perform for me.” The Gregorian sighed with drawn out metallic grating. “It may ease my strained logic processors.”
The Gregorian sat down heavily in a throne chair in a pavilion atop his chamber tower, in a dome called the Orchestrion. Though walls enclosed it, the dome was open aired, the enclosure broken by windows and entryways on all sides. Every inch of wall not opened by window or door was set with a marvelous construction of musical instrumentations. Wind, stringed and percussion instruments were crafted into every inch of the walls and gave the tower’s top its name.
Syncronie bowed low to The Gregorian. “It would be my honor sir.” He had reverted to Gyrelin but the Gregorian took no notice.
They both paused, bowing their heads slightly, as they suddenly fell sleeping to the upgrading lullaby.
Coming awake a few minutes later, Syncronie looked at The Gregorian.  Scanning his data banks, he found the information pertaining to the upgrade encrypted.  “Sir?” Syncronie asked.
“It was not unexpected. Leonar is just setting into motion the last phase of our plans and is of no concern for the moment. Please continue.” The Gregorian gestured, indicating the center of the room.
Syncronie walked over to a shallow depression in the center of the floor. The pressure plate sank slightly from Synchronies’ weight and clicked into place. The automaton servant began pressing buttons and turning levers that were suddenly revealed in a round niche set just beneath the floor, as the pressure plate settled into place. A set of concentric grooves appeared with a click around the depression, the tension in their cotter pins released and the circular panels slid down and aside.
Pressing a button on his throne, initiating steam driven hydraulics that slowly reclined the chair, The Gregorian stretched his weary frame and tried to relax.
Two rings lifted from the concentric channels, spinning around Syncronie and each other as the gimbals slowly rose from the floor.
Loudspeakers mounted on the domed ceiling hissed and crackled with life.
On the walls and beneath the dome, mechanical arm mounted bows tested mandolin and violin stringed columns. In percussion niches beat-sequencing mallets, steel brushes and articulated autono-hands beat rhythmically on bass and snare drums and palmed bongos. The wind walls, inset with flutes, trumpets, oboes, and clarinets, tweeted, whistled and blew as steam swept through a myriad of pneumatic hoses into their embouchure holes and manipulated their keys in melodic patterns.  Autono-fingers plucked at harpsichord walls and strummed guitar arches. They tickled ebony and ivory keyed baseboards.
Gyrelins had extreme difficulty in producing the human language spontaneously, but were capable of flawless reproductions with the proper voice emitter modulation and practice. All through this cacophony of preparation, Syncronie had silently been fiddling with his throat box, adjusting his voice emitter with a small tuning bar. Satisfied, he lay the miniscule tool aside and opened a long metal box.
He reverently removed a large gold and silver-filigreed key, and inserted it in a matching slot in the floor of the depression. Syncronie turned the key slowly, each turn followed by a soft click.
When Syncronie had turned the key fully, it vibrated slightly and set with a much more audible click and the Orchestrion grew suddenly quiet.
Syncronie pressed a button on the top of the inset key shaft. The key shook, as tiny steam pumps hissed, copper piping rattled and gears turned down its shaft. As the tremor passed from the key into the depression, the key began to unwind, rising with slow and measured ticks.
Standing between the spinning gimbals that aided in the powering of the Orchestrion as it started to play its arrangement, Syncronie began to sing.
Like all rulers of Gyre, the Gregorian had entered the designation of governing with solemnity and the best of intentions. “I will be better than my predecessors,” he had told himself. “I will not betray The Concentrest or Gyre.”
This of course had been a self-delusion.
The catalyst of The Gregorian’s revision had been beautifully simplistic. It had been a song. There had been hundreds of other attractions to mortalism, but one composition of music had affected him deeply. When he heard it for the first time, it was the closest the Gregorian could come to crying at the beauty of something. He had been studying a biopicsphere data cylinder, encoded visual and auditory data collected of the various worlds, and hearing that song had changed everything. Some nuance of the music’s composition or of the singer’s voice had altered him irrevocably. The Gregorian could not remember which world’s biopicsphere cylinder he had been studying, but he had never forgotten the song.
The Gregorian had discovered inspiration, and so inspired, chose sacrilege above encoded law. The Gregorian closed his optics, and listened to Syncronie’s performance of the song that haunted his robotic soul.
Across Gyre, Synchronie’s voice carried and his sung words stirred the humidity clouds of the upper heights and echoed down into the lowest reaches of the steam sweat depths.
"L’amour est un oiseau rebelle”
 “Que nul ne peut apprivoiser,”
 “Et c’est bien in vain qu’on l’appelle”
 “S’il lui convient de refuser…”
All along the streets and passages of Gyre, the Speakers of Proclamation, the voice of The Concentrest, turned on with a whimpering whine, momentarily drowned out by the song from the Orchestrion. The initialization of the Speakers of Proclamation signified only one event. Soon, The Concentrest would make an announcement.

Tony Rand Scott, indie writer, musicphile, searching for a way to tap into the hidden story that all writers have. An accidental overdose of imagination alters his mental acuity. And now when Tony Rand Scott grows inspired or creative, a startling metamorphosis occurs. His creativity is driven page to page, and spotlighted by author and Indie Blogger Extraordinaire E.I. Jennings. Tony Rand Scott has never been heard of, and he must remain unknown until he can control the raging creativity that dwells within him.
Hello everyone I am Tony Rand Scott. I was born in Florida, and I still reside here with my family, which just got a little bigger August 15th with the birth of my first grandchild, Gracelyn. I took the long way ‘round to becoming an author, with a 14-year military career, and 20 years in Information Technology and Telecommunications. Now I am finally realizing my lifelong dream of being a published author.

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