New Planetary Blues

ADEPTS

HoloCorp Board
Wheatgerm Thatch (Chairman); Counterpane Thistle (Secretary);
Harvest Gleam (History); Diamond Glimmer (Literature);
Raiment Panoply (Music); Woodcraft Falcon (Religion);
Dimity Heather (Sport)

Planet Overseers
Benchmark Waiver (History); Seasalt Chive (Literature);
Spindrift Thimble (Music); Gossamer Tide (Religion);
Windchime Lissom (Sport)

Chairperson, Ethics Committee
Mayflower Breeze

Collective Mind
Candlewick Pine

 

OLD EARTH HUMANS

James Malcolm (Music Authenticator); Jane Riley (Literature Authenticator); Andy Cope (Sport Authenticator); Simon Bland (HoloCorp Owner);

Rosie Venables (Saxophonist)

 

NEW PLANETARY RESIDENTS

Father Pringle (Head of Retreat); Rhett Carter (Musician);

Lily Carter (Music Producer); Bill Cumming (Poet);

Stephen Cumming (Poet)

 

 

ONE

 

It was at times like these that Wheatgerm Thatch, Chairman of HoloCorp, wished he had a mother. His work at the corporation had of necessity brought him into contact with a good deal of Old Earth culture, and although the somewhat random scraps that had survived that planet's extraordinary vicissitudes were possibly not entirely representative of Old Humanity — a distressingly polymorphous, quarrelsome bunch, he'd always thought — they all agreed on one thing: a boy's best friend was his mother. A BioClone Beta 6 was a wonderfully efficient machine, true, and he was properly appreciative of the technology that had created both it and him, but show it a scraped knee and its response would be very disappointing. The mothers Thatch had encountered in his — often deeply puzzling — trawls through Earth literature, film and documentary items were expert soothers; scraped knees, both actual and metaphorical, were their speciality.

Had he been able to address the putative Mrs Thatch — perhaps as she brought him his breakfast in bed on this particular morning — he would have fretted at pleasurable length about his upcoming board meeting; as it was, he had to content himself, as he lay recovering from the dreams that always seemed to plague him when he assumed his corporeal state, with savage little stabs of malicious thought directed at each of his fellow board members in turn.

A vision of Dimity Heather, Sports Coordinator, barged its way to the front of his mind. 'Formidable' was the word that described her most succinctly, neatly summarizing both the massive (but disturbingly well-muscled) physical frame she used for corporeal life, and the sharp intellect that guided it. Perfectly equipped to direct wounding verbal barbs at her many antagonists and then, trusting in her clear physical superiority, to stare them down until they acknowledged her supremacy, she was by some distance the most feared, if not the most respected, member of the HoloCorp board.

Jostling for his attention, boyishly eager, attempting to compensate with sheer enthusiasm for his obvious shallowness (though Thatch was always disturbed to note how few of his fellow board members seemed to be bothered by the man's clear intellectual inferiority), was Literary Coordinator Diamond Glimmer. He would talk a great deal, but might be ignored with relative safety, since he was incapable of holding on to a coherent argument for long enough to convince others of its validity. He might babble and bluster, but was unlikely to prove persuasive.

Then there was History Coordinator Harvest Gleam, a man frequently derided — and, in Thatch's opinion, dangerously underrated — by his friends and enemies alike for his kneejerk radicalism. He could be relied upon to spot oppression and exploitation (or, failing them, unconscious prejudice or condescension) in the most innocuous situations: Galactic Joy Day, for instance, generally regarded as an entirely unproblematic celebration of man's triumphant survival among the stars, away from the ravaged Earth, he saw as a smokescreen designed solely to conceal the fundamental rottenness of the system from which HoloCorp so handsomely profited. How he'd ever risen to such a prominent position ... actually, Thatch knew exactly how Gleam had done this: he ran Planet History practically faultlessly; if his fellow coordinators had had half his knowledge and expertise, HoloCorp wouldn't be in the mess Thatch was now so exercised about.

For Gleam, despite all his infuriating faults, was extremely knowledgeable on the subject of Old Earth, and as Thatch struggled out of his nightshirt and into his Adept's robes — purple in his case, to set off his striking emerald eyes and accentuate the dignity of his bearing — he reflected ruefully that Gleam's impressive intellect, instead of being placed at the HoloCorp board's disposal, would most likely be employed, once Gleam had heard Thatch's proposals, in energetic opposition to them.

Thatch ordered and received a glass of hot water from his wall-mounted NouriServe, and wandered over to the window to drink it, still reflecting on Gleam's misdirected enthusiasm. A statue of Plato — a thoughtful, quintessentially civilized figure with whom the New Planetary Confederation's elite liked to identify themselves — stood in the plaza outside the Adepts' living quarters, and Thatch frequently calmed his nightmare-frazzled nerves by contemplating it.

As he glanced down on this particular morning, however, he was not soothed by what he saw. Instead of a serene marble Greek, Thatch was confronted by a fantastical figure in a pointed wizard's hat and long dark robes. Plato's raised hand, which had been carefully sculpted to point to some subtle abstract truth floating tantalizingly in the ether, now contained a rough-hewn staff; only the sandals remained unaltered. By the statue's feet, as if conjured into life by Thatch's thoughts about him, stood Harvest Gleam. He appeared to be filming the transformed ancient philosopher.

Unable to restrain himself, Thatch leaned perilously far out of his first-floor window and shouted 'Hello?', a most un-Adept-like action, but one he felt entirely appropriate in the present extreme circumstances.

Gleam looked up, grinned, and waved enthusiastically when he saw who had greeted him. He pointed at the statue. 'Given the old boy something useful to do for once,' he boomed cheerfully. 'Merlin, you see! Filming it!' He indicated his camera. 'Advert for Camelot.'

Thatch, as often when faced with his colleague's ebullience, was temporarily lost for words. Given that the forthcoming meeting had been called specifically to discuss ways of increasing HoloCorp revenue by attracting more visitors to the various holographic facilities on the respective board members' planets, the Chairman couldn't very well complain about Gleam's enthusiastic initiative. He opened and shut his mouth a couple of times, but was unable to think of a form of words — suitable for shouting, anyhow — that would express the subtleties of his position on the desecration of monuments to classical thinkers. He contented himself with saying 'Humph!' in as grumpy a tone as he could summon at such short notice, and withdrawing his head in what he hoped was a dignified manner.

Gulping down the rest of his hot water with undue haste, and giving himself hiccoughs in the process, Thatch pressed his palm to his biofax transmitter and checked the status of the boardroom receiving portal prior to punching in his personal code. As he prepared to leave, he dismissed nagging doubts concerning the remaining two coordinators, Raiment Panoply (Music) and Woodcraft Falcon (Religion). Both were reassuringly vague, apparently so immersed in their respective enthusiasms that matters outside them — particularly administrative or bureaucratic systems, but also wider, political or sociological issues — did not seem to penetrate either's veneer of fussy obligingness. No, the vital trio were Heather, Glimmer and Gleam: persuade them, and the day would be won.

Thatch sighed wearily, not entirely convinced by his own arguments. His security preparations complete, he stepped into the transmitter, punched in his code and disappeared.

 

The noisy crowd already gathered in the HoloCorp boardroom did little to calm Thatch's apprehension as he stepped gingerly out of the biofax booth: not only were all the coordinators physically present, babbling away inanely to each other, but their planetary representatives had also been assembled, though only by vidlink, so that five faces stared expectantly out from five flatscreens on the wall above the fiercely polished boardroom table.

Counterpane Thistle, HoloCorp Secretary, bustled over to Thatch, beaming ecstatically and making little yapping noises, presumably meant to express delight at his chairman's appearance among mere mortals at such an early hour. As he came within whispering distance, however, the glint in his eye hardened slightly, alerting his superior to prepare a secure tp receiving frequency, and he managed to send a brief but pithy message: Panoply knows about the Sleepers.

Thus prepared, and maintaining his open smile, Thatch strode over to the table, nodding curtly at each of his assembled colleagues. Taking his place in the largest chair, a reseated Thistle at his right and the other board members scattered informally round the gleaming wood, he brought the meeting to order.

'Gentlemen, ladies, thank you for coming. I know how valuable your time is, so I'll come straight to the point: London's worried about falling revenue. Rents are pretty stable at present, but the holoentertainment trade is falling off badly, particularly on our big money-spinners, Planets Music and Literature. Apparently people are still keen to live permanently on themed planets, as we always assumed they would be, and the, er, tawdrier end of things is doing as well as ever, attracting tourists and day-trippers, but people's needs with respect to certain of the more serious, permanent attractions have become more sophisticated lately. Authenticity, my friends, is the new watchword. Gone are the days when your average customer would be satisfied with a quick trip to DickensWorld or JazzCity; now they're able to access so much genuine Old Earth archive material on vid, they, like Oliver Twist, want more.'

Thatch paused to allow the assembled company its chance to produce a brief burst of sycophantic laughter. It was shorter than he would have liked, but when it had died away, he resumed his authoritative air and continued: 'It's all very well making money in the tourist seasons — that's always going to be relatively easy — but what's worrying Mr Bland down in London is the fall in regular, dependable, day-to-day income. To attract residents and the more discerning visitors, for instance, we need serious, well-thought-out entertainment, so that people will be encouraged to come back week after week, and go home satisfied, having spent money on something they consider worthwhile. I'd welcome suggestions at this point as to how we're going to attract and hold the attention of these new sophisticates. Tours of the Marshalsea are all very well, for instance, but their effect is apparently spoiled for the truly knowledgeable by the presence of Ebenezer Scrooge there.' His eyes flickered upwards as he consulted the notes he'd stored in his brain after receiving London's criticisms the previous day. 'Our cantankerous, misanthropic holographic friend, popular though he is with the younger visitors, is simply in the wrong place, so we need — should we decide we wish to stay ahead of this particular game and keep growing as we've done — to be more vigilant about strict accuracy. Comments, please.'

As Thatch expected, Diamond Glimmer, clearly stung by the aspersions cast on the planet for which he was responsible, was first to speak. 'Mr Chairman, I'm fully aware of the unsuitability of Scrooge for that particular fictional location. I just thought that an accessible, generalized Dickensian ambience was what was required, rather than scrupulously exact —'

'"Scrupulously exact" is the new motto, Glimmer, I'm afraid,' put in Thatch, impatience making him careless of his colleague's notorious sensitivity to slights, real or imagined. 'I'm not after excuses, and I'm not trying to apportion blame. In any case, it's not just your planet I'm concerned about.' He consulted his mental notes again. 'There have been a lot of complaints about what's on offer on Planet Music as well. Apparently, the opera lovers want a more varied repertoire, sung — in the correct languages, no less — by a greater variety of singers. The jazz fans want more, er, "jamming" I believe it's called, rather than the repertory music we're giving them at the Lincoln Center. Any comments, Mr Panoply?'

'We're aware of the problems the residents are posing on Planet Music, Chairman,' Raiment Panoply replied. 'We need to change the programmes more regularly so they'll be encouraged to keep going out. I'm personally looking into the possibility of broadening our operatic repertoire beyond the obvious composers like Verdi and Puccini to include works by people like John Adams —'

He was interrupted by a repeated beeping noise that made a fair number of the assembled board members look anxiously about them, searching for an alarm. Thatch was not fooled: he looked directly at Gleam, who was doing his best to look innocent, and told him to desist.

'Sorry, Chairman,' Gleam said, looking anything but. 'None of my business, of course, if you want to replace melody and majesty with music that sounds as if it was composed by a computer. Not my field. I'll just keep quiet.'

Glimmer rose to the bait, as Thatch had feared he would. 'I think this is a common misapprehension about so-called minimalist music. If you applied yourself, Gleam, instead of just reacting in a kneejerk way to the superficial sound of Adams's music, you'd see that its apparent simplicity conceals a quite profound —'

'Thank you, Mr Glimmer. We don't have time for aesthetic debates. We're here to develop overall strategy. I don't want us to get bogged down in fruitless arguments about detail. That can be worked out later. The question, simply, is this: having acknowledged that a significant portion of the people want relatively sophisticated entertainment, intelligently programmed, how can we make sure our holoentertainment is truly authentic?'

'Easy!' boomed Dimity Heather with startling suddenness. 'Stop the supply of Old Earth material. If they don't know any better, who's going to complain?' She sat back with a satisfied smile.

There was a brief, uneasy silence, broken by Harvest Gleam. 'I think you'll find that history shows' — Thatch was not alone in bracing himself for the inevitable lengthy lecture presaged by these words — 'that whenever the ruling elite try to keep the masses from bettering themselves through the acquisition of knowledge, the result is like a boil.' He paused dramatically, glaring round at the assembled company, both those round the table and those on the flatscreens. Then he sent a tp request to them all, asking for anti-tp screens to be lowered so that he could save time by sending them all a graphic image instead of explaining himself verbally.

'I think we can all imagine just what a bursting boil feels and looks like, thank you, Gleam,' Thatch put in hastily. 'No need to send —' Too late: those less wary than Thatch, having politely lowered their mental screens, were all grimacing in distaste, having received, full force, the disturbingly detailed sensations sent from Gleam's fertile imagination to their brains and sensory organs.

That would teach them to be so trusting, thought Thatch, himself attempting, vainly, to clear his mind of the images that had been insinuated into it before his tp screen could be sufficiently strengthened to resist them. Reflecting that Gleam's high-handedness might even be of assistance in his, Thatch's, attempts to appear to be the embodiment of sweet reasonableness, he took advantage of the horrified pause to say: 'I do have a suggestion that might surprise some of you, but which I think will address this problem of ours pretty neatly.' There was a general shuffling round the table as his colleagues switched from tp to normal speech mode. He waited until he was certain he had their undivided attention and then began.

'Most of you will be aware that among our acquisitions a couple of years ago was an Old Earth company, GlobeInfo.' There were a few murmurs of acknowledgement, but Raiment Panoply, Thatch noticed, seemed particularly attentive, perhaps guessing at what was coming. Thatch continued smoothly, 'In the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries CE, GlobeInfo was the world leader in the supply of information: news and entertainment in all the current formats, from primitive vids to newspapers. At its height, it employed thousands of people worldwide, and entertained and informed countless millions. We acquired it for its archive — ironic, you might think, given that the resultant surge in information about Old Earth is proving to be such a headache for us now — but along with all the old vids, we also inherited quite a large number of cryogenically frozen employees from GlobeInfo's boom period —'

Hubbub. Cryogenics was viewed with the same degree of fastidious horror in this carefully protected, sanitized new world as necrophilia or bestiality had been in GlobeInfo's heyday. Contemporary emphasis was very much on the Mind and Spirit; the resurrection of the Body — Thatch mentally capitalized all three nouns to give them their due weight — was not something readily discussed in polite society. Who knew where these ancient creatures might have been? What appalling diseases might they harbour? What fleshly desires and needs might they exhibit, to scandalize those around them? Thatch opened up his tp sense briefly to sample the general reaction around him. As he'd expected: utter bewilderment. Images of putrescence and rotting predominated, but there were also brief glimpses of shockingly promiscuous and indiscriminate sexual abandon, uncontrolled defecation, horrific violence and extreme pain. Thatch knew he would have to tread carefully if he wished to bring the meeting round to his point of view.

Cutting through the tp cacophony around him, he tried to adopt an avuncular, reassuring air. 'I know as well as you do that human life back then was a messy business. No one's trying to deny that. I, like you, am horrified at what being human meant in those days. No tp, no BioClone Betas, no biofaxes, no holos — just endless wars, famine and death. Even the lucky ones lived only a century at most, subject to disease and starvation. But all this hurly-burly produced the bulk of what we at HoloCorp live on today: they had an insatiable desire for entertainment and information, and produced obscene amounts of both, more than they could ever use. And you can't deny the continuing potency of their art. The people of the New Planetary Confederation, of course, while keen consumers, are clearly incapable of producing original art. It can't reasonably be expected of them. We Adepts, on the other hand, for all our civilized attitudes — perhaps because of them — have also yet to produce a single universally acknowledged, lasting artwork —'

'It's Switzerland all over again,' Harvest Gleam interjected rudely, then, sensing the puzzlement around him, exploded in exasperation: 'Your ignorance about human history is quite astounding! If I weren't surrounded by you ignorant rabble, all I'd need to say would be Timor mortis conturbat me. You see? You haven't a clue what I'm talking about, have you? It's Latin, an Old Earth language spoken by the Romans, and it means, roughly, that Old Earth people were motivated by the fear of death, and that's why they produced so much that outlasted individual lives. Don't you people ever read or watch vids that aren't produced by HoloCorp? There's more to life than stupid holos of Jane bloody Austen taking tea endlessly with any cretin who has enough money to activate her machinery! ' He glared malevolently around him, then threw up his hands in mock resignation. 'I give up. Switzerland: small landlocked European country, famously "civilized"' — he sent a tp sneer to accompany the word to undercut it — 'always neutral in wars, and never produced anything except chocolate and cuckoo clocks.' He sniggered unpleasantly to himself, clearly enjoying a private joke, which he then attempted to share via tp images of people in Swiss national dress, counting money and guzzling chocolate, while all around them small birds shot out of intricately carved wooden timepieces, the whole scene set against a background of picturesque snow-covered mountains.

Sensing he was losing his audience, many of whom were clearly attempting to fathom the significance of these startlingly unfamiliar and bizarre clockwork mechanisms, Thatch called the meeting to order again with a brisk 'Gentlemen! Ladies!'

When a modicum of quiet had been restored, he resumed his lecture. 'In any event, because we own GlobeInfo, we now have access to an extraordinarily useful resource: a living — well, technically dead, but easily revivable — database, crammed full of specialist knowledge of the most esoteric sort about the very period we're most interested in. GlobeInfo employed intelligent, articulate experts in all the subjects we trade in: music, religion, sport, literature and history. They had to: it was their job, just as it's now ours.'

Thatch paused, not wishing to put into words what everybody must be thinking by now. Let them suggest the unspeakable to themselves. There was a pregnant silence, then, as Thatch had expected, Raiment Panoply was the first to speak. By carefully leaking, in advance of this meeting, the information about GlobeInfo's cryogenically frozen employees to his Music Coordinator — the board member least likely, given his all-consuming obsession with all things musical, to raise any moral objections to the idea of slowly introducing Old Earth humans into New Planetary society — Thatch had hoped to have an ally ready made for what he assumed would be a bitter debate. He was not disappointed.

'The potential is simply staggering!' Panoply spluttered. 'I mean, there'll be people there who've actually heard Bob Dylan, or seen Maria Callas — not to mention Duke Ellington, Glenn Gould, Charles Mingus, Charlie Parker, Isaac Stern —'

This was as far as he got before all hell broke loose, as Thatch had known it would. He steeled himself for a lengthy debate, but — even without the calm reassurance of a greying Mrs Thatch — he was reasonably confident of ultimate success. He was, after all, Chairman of HoloCorp, the mightiest single corporation in the New Planetary Confederation, and what he wanted, he usually obtained, in one way or another.

 

© Chris Parker 2006