Amazon The Amadeus Net ENC Press Alibris Category:  Science Fiction Publisher: ENC Press ISBN-10:  0975254014 Type: Fiction Pages: 250 Copyright: Jun 2005 ISBN-13: 9780975254011 Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart walks into the sex change clinic, determined to have his “sprouter” snipped off. So begins The Amadeus Net, a satirical novel that explores art, love, and identity at the end of the world. The year is 2028. For more than two centuries, the one-time wunderkind has kept his existence secret while he tried to understand his immortality. Living in style through funds raised by selling “lost” Mozart works, he has also helped to create Ipolis, a utopian city-state, after the cataclysmic Shudder, a global disaster caused by an asteroid strike in 2015. But a few complications mar Mozart’s perfect world. The woman he loves is a lesbian, which, paradoxically, makes him forget about his sex-change plans. The world’s greatest reporter knows he’s still alive and will stop at nothing to expose him. The stakes are higher than he knows, because if the reporter finds him, so will the spy planning to sell Mozart’s DNA to the highest bidder. Oh, and, by the way, the world might end in seven days. Mozart's only allies are a psychotic American artist, a bland Canadian diplomat, and the city itself: a sapient, thinking machine that is screwing up as only a sapient, thinking machine can. Excerpt THURSDAY July 16, 2028 “We have got the little German Boy here who plays upon the Harpsichord like Handel, & composes with the same facility. He really is a most extraordinary effort of Nature, but our Professors in Physick don’t think he will be long lived.” — Joseph Yorke about the young Mozart (1765) I Mozart walked into the sex-change clinic on a cold, snowy July morning, intending to have his sprouter snipped off. It rarely snowed in Ipolis; the Crystal Mountains were covered with the deep, somewhat dappled stuff year-round, but the city itself? The metropolis almost never permitted it. This morning, though, the snow had dispensation. Mozart brushed a few flakes off his Mylar trench coat, and stepped up to the receptionist. It had been easier for Mozart than for many people only a quarter of his age to adjust to the idea of talking intelligently to robots. In many ways, robots were more pleasant to converse with than humans: they actually took an interest in what one had to say without mentally drawing up their grocery lists or thinking about what they were going to say next, or whatever distracted their tiny minds. Robots were just another impossible technology to get used to, in a long life of acclimating to it. That was the thing about Mozart—one of the things—he accepted change as it came, though it didn’t mean he had to like it. “I’ve got a ten o’clock appointment with Dr. So,” he informed the robot politely, which was not a standard bolt-’em-to-the-desk model but a fully functional com-robot, complete with legs and even its own wardrobe. (Though doubtless it had no credits of its own to buy the latest fashions, nor did it have the self-awareness to know when it needed to.) This specific model wore a pair of slacks and a pleasant-looking sweater, both designed for an asexual demeanor. Its face was a mélange of features designed to look either male or female, depending on your preference. Mozart naturally thought of it as a “she,” all the way down to the device’s slender fingers and delicate wrists. It scanned his face, and chirped happily: “Of course, Mr. Armstrong, please go to our guest lounge, and a nurse will be with you as soon as possible. We have a selection of beverages and snacks available for your pleasure, if you desire so.” “Thanks,” Mozart replied, “I might have a Glacia, if you have it.” “Of course we do,” said the robot, “only the best for our clients. State your preference of Antarctic or Greenland to the drink-drone.” “Antarctic would be fine.” Mozart grinned at the robot that was unfortunately not equipped to grin back. And was that a note of disapproval he’d heard in its voice when it mentioned the drone? Mozart walked across the spacious lobby towards the guest lounge. The space was clearly designed by an exhausted architect; dominated by marble pillars and floor, and a few lonely sticks of furniture covered with crushed velvet, it was reminiscent of late-twentieth-century banks or four-star hotels. The guest lounge, however, was inspired. It reminded him of India, just before the Raj. Through the entrance, which was a hologram of a waterfall, he was transported to some kind of fabulous Hindu court, complete with gold, gems, silk, plus the convenience of a modern bar. Another robot served behind it. This robot was made up to look like the cliché of an Arabian eunuch, but it somehow meshed, instead of clashing, with the decor. Mozart asked for his Glacia. Glacia would probably have been the most expensive thing to order, had Dr. So’s clinic been charging for its drinks. After turn-of-the-century water shortages, a market had developed for water taken from icebergs sheared off the polar ice caps. Generically, it had become known as Glacia, much like the word “Kleenex” was once used instead of “tissues” (before the invention of the nasal anti-contamination implant, of course). There were several firms involved in extracting water from both poles, but it was very expensive after the Shudder. Mozart tried not to think of the Shudder too often, but the drink set images and memories flooding back like a glacial runoff. He put his finger in that troublesome dyke by looking around at the other guests in the lounge. It seemed to be comprised of two types of people: those waiting for a diagnosis, and those in the process of changing their sex. The latter tended to look the happiest, the former the most anxious. Mozart admitted to himself that he wasn’t terribly confident about his appointment with Dr. So. But he could think of no other sure way of maintaining his anonymity, apart from disappearing in the developing South. Ever since his “death” in 1791, Mozart had enjoyed the freedom of not being himself. His enslavement to life was harder to get used to, but once he’d accepted his continued existence—both physical and artistic—he’d learned to enjoy life all over again. Yet that death way back in 1791 was a real death in some ways: the old Mozart had died, and a new one had been born: a free Mozart, a Mozart who could move outside of the strictures of society, and even outside of his own identity, if he could muster up the courage to do so. He sipped his Glacia and pondered the metaphysics of it all—could people live outside themselves, without paying rent? He giggled, a noise that alarmed the other patients unduly. No one else in the room, except maybe the eunuch-bartender robot, felt remotely like laughing. Sex-conversion is, after all, a serious business indeed. But Mozart turned his attention from them, and considered his own existential dilemma. After all these years of life “non-Wolfganus,” people were aware of his continued existence and the way he had been supporting it. Mozart had been careless with one of his “lost” compositions. An expert had discovered that not everything about the manuscript—an opera called The Castle—was authentic. Mozart remembered the time when he had been writing it: he had been living in Vancouver—a conceited if ordinary town in an extraordinary setting—and he’d run out of the old ink he usually recreated for his projects. At the time, he’d been fully engrossed in the artistic process and he had just diluted some store-bought stuff with what remained of his authentic mix, and then forgotten all about it. Of course, the whole thing probably never would have come to light if it wasn’t for the orange stains on the composition, caused by a deadly combination of sloppiness and Cheesy-Os. And now, nearly sixty years later, the manuscript was finally sold by Sotheby’s, and his secret at least partially revealed. It was just a matter of time before people started studying the other lost manuscripts carefully, and discovering that they were “new” as well. In fact, he’d written most of them since the Second World War. The worst part was these so-called experts (artistic wannabes, if ever Mozart had seen one) had discovered that it really was Mozart who had written them, and not just a clever (and musically brilliant) forger. The first story on The Castle manuscript was quite specific about that; experts had confirmed it was the hand of Mozart that had used the ink. Yet the ink itself was less than sixty years old. (And the Cheesy-O fingerprints were a bit of a tip-off, too, though they didn’t have his originals to compare with.) So, Mozart had decided to become a woman. It didn’t really appeal to him, but it was only a matter of time until the other manuscripts were uncovered, the art dealer in London found, the bank account in Switzerland unearthed and, finally, the regular electronic withdrawals traced to here, in Ipolis. He knew there were enough data jockeys capable of figuring that kind of thing out if they were looking. And if he couldn’t hide in Ipolis, he couldn’t hide anywhere remotely civilized. His other possibility was escaping to the South, and Mozart wasn’t ready for that sort of life again. He’d spent too many years in danger to put himself back into it, especially now. Though you’d think he would have had his fill of it, Mozart had come to love life again. He thought of that Virginia Wolfe story, Orlando. He had lived for 272 years, and it was time to change his sex. Maybe in another 272 years they could change it back. He shuddered, and feeling a little dejected, put his head in his hands. To snip off his sprouter! Before he could sink into the despair that was coming, a goddess walked into the guest lounge. No, Mozart corrected himself, it was a woman, but what a woman! Not since Teresa had he seen such raw sexual power. She was about five foot nine, and built like a brick shithouse, as Mozart was once fond of saying. But more than that—her eyes, her hair, the open-toed sandals! She wore strangely erotic nail polish on her toenails, which shimmered along with the Mogul gold of the room. It was a perfect moment. She was perfect. Mozart had been around long enough to know that this woman was his destiny. Sure, there had been dalliances, and Stanzi, and then, of course, Teresa, but now . . . now there was this goddess. Besides, Teresa had died before this woman’s great-grandmother was even born. It had been a long time. She spoke: “Mr. Armstrong?” Mozart stood up, shakily. He walked towards her, as if in a dream, and said, “I’m he.” She looked at him, at the slack demeanor of worship on his face, and she knew there was going to be trouble.

Corey Redekop, Author of Shelf Monkey
"The Amadeus Net, the debut novel from [Canadian author Mark A.] Rayner, is a bizarre, often hilarious piece of futuristic satire. With an imagination reminiscent of Philip K. Dick, a satirical bent a la Tom Robbins, and a sense of humour derived equally from episodes of The Goon Show and the literature of Neal Stephenson, The Amadeus Net is an offbeat and wonderfully droll exercise in sustained amusement...

“At a time when the bestseller lists are dominated by the continuous, unenthusiastic, and barely literate conspiracy ramblings of a Hardy Boys wannabe, a story that makes you think and laugh is almost a hidden treasure. The Amadeus Net is a wonderful first novel, thoughtful and engaging. To close on the hopeful words of Mozart himself, ‘Everyone laugh! Fart, and laugh! Then compose something beautiful.’”

Meg Hamel, The Book Blog
The premise of Mark Rayner's The Amadeus Net is an odd one. In 2028 Mozart--Wolfgang Amadeus, that is, the composer--is alive and well and 272 years old, blessed or cursed with immortality for reasons beyond his ken. Having faked his own death in 1791 he lives pseudonymously, currently as William Armstrong (note the initials), and has been supporting himself by selling new compositions as his own "lost" works. Eighteen years before the narrative begins a massive asteroid had hit the Earth's Antarctic pole, causing cataclysmic geographic changes, but in this ugly post-apocalyptic world Mozart and a few other visionaries founded a utopia, Ipolis, on an island that had only recently pushed its way above the surface of the Pacific Ocean. By design, Ipolis attracts artists and scientists from around the world, who work for the improvement of humanity in a highly computerized, networked society. The experiment might not have worked at all, except that Ipolis itself became--unbeknownst to its creators and inhabitants--a sentient being. As a benevolent near-god Ipolis looks after its residents, and the rest of the world to the extent that it can, keeping an eye in particular on its favorite son, Mozart.

As a benevolent near-god Ipolis looks after its residents, and the rest of the world to the extent that it can, keeping an eye in particular on its favorite son, Mozart.During the week covered by Rayner's narrative the world outside Ipolis stands poised on the brink of nuclear war. And even in utopia things aren't perfect. An unscrupulous reporter suspects the truth about Will Armstrong and is bent on exposing him. With her posse of helpmates--a love-sick diplomat and an aging soldier of fortune--she pursues Mozart while he chases a pseudo-lesbian nurse, who herself has eyes for the reporter, who rebuffs the advances of the diplomat, who hooks up with the sadistic painter, who creates a high-tech piece of art based on Mozart's memories.... In short, the book's six principals repel and attract one another in a sort of comic dance during what may be civilization's last seven days.

The Amadeus Net has a few problems. Rayner signals that one character's speech is uncultivated by having her drop the g's from her present participles, an effect which is very annoying to read. And it is odd that the hot-shot reporter stalking Will Armstrong has such difficulty discovering his home address: Ipolis evidently could use a good white pages. More importantly, the book's action is slow to get going. Readers may not have the patience to persevere while the various characters introduce themselves and the setting of the story is explained.

That said, the book is well-written, and once one gets into the meat of the story its principals are interesting enough to keep readers' attention. Perhaps most likeable is the character of Ipolis itself, whose benevolent governance of its residents includes shielding them from incoming missiles, controlling the weather, and spiking the water supply of intimate couples with birth-control drugs unless they're actively trying to reproduce. The Amadeus Net is not the sort of book that you won't be able to put down, but you'll definitely want to pick it up again once you do.

Janet Paszkowski, Flash Me Magazine
“Strange? Yes. Implausible? No, because Rayner successfully crafts an inherent logic into his surreal story with a collage of plausible first-person narratives, which includes the first-person ‘thinking machine’ narrative of the actual setting of the story—the post-apocalyptic, utopian city-state of Ipolis, located in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

“Furthermore, Rayner’s flair for sustained humor, and compelling story telling enhances the preposterous premises, characterizations, and worthy themes of art, love, and the search for self-identity and sex in the day-to-day existence of an eclectic cast of characters making their way through the end of the world.”