New Planetary Blues

 

TEN

 

James Malcolm's Journal

 

The first thing I noticed when I got back to my room in the HoloCorp complex was a light blinking on my desk console. This meant I had a message, which turned out to be from Jane. The usual pleasantries were followed by some innocuous shop-talk about the problems she was experiencing in ensuring her literary holograms behaved themselves. She'd managed to shut down some of the tawdrier tourist attractions, she told me, but now the Henry James holo was complaining that he missed the excitement of live performance, and was proposing mud-wrestling Thomas Hardy instead of following her suggestion and debating with him about the importance of urbanization in early-twentieth-century fiction. Then she asked how I was enjoying the volume of Proust she'd given me when I left Planet Literature:

 

How's Marcel going? How about that madeleine? Only the French could idolize a man who writes with such seriousness about fairy cakes. We English would never dignify a simple piece of confectionery with such a grand name: for us, it's either a fairy cake (if it's fancy) or a bun (if it's not). And we would certainly never dip it – however highfalutin its nomenclature – in a cup of tea.

 

And some more, in the same vein. I looked up the reference for 'madeleine' and shot off to the spaceport, armed with the appropriate key. In the locker indicated, I found a packet containing a console disk, the missing middle volume of Proust and another letter from Jane. On my return to my room, I read the letter, humming a nonsense song to myself all the while as 'chaff' to confuse any farsenser who might be tuned in to me.

Feeling strongly that it would be safe – I could feel no trace of a farsenser in my mind – I was tempted to write up a full account of my experiences on Planet Religion – I'm still somewhat disoriented by life here, and this Journal is keeping me sane; I don't really feel something's happened to me properly unless I get it down in writing – but decided against it. I seldom let the Journal leave my person, but you never know: I could be hit by an air car tomorrow. I've no wish to compromise people unnecessarily.

The disk, Jane informed me in her covering letter, contained some poetry written by a Planet Literature native. I wasn't to put it in my console, but store it somewhere safe for use on D-Day. More original literature would follow in the same way, smuggled in by suborned pilots. Meanwhile, Jane advised me to get back to Planet Music as soon as possible so that I could record indigenous contemporary music, just as she was recording literature, for the same purpose.

I didn't have much time to reflect on the speed at which events were now moving; my console flashed again, and I was summoned to the boardroom for my debriefing with Thatch and the gargoyles.

'Here's the man of the hour!' was Counterpane Thistle's greeting to me when I put my head round the boardroom door. He bustled up, making his little clucking noises, and ushered me into a seat at the table opposite an unfamiliar woman, dark-haired, almond-eyed, petite and sleek. Otherwise, the faces were familiar: Wheatgerm Thatch sat at the head of the table, his mood clearly set to 'simmer' rather than 'boil'; Diamond Glimmer, smiling vaguely to himself, sat next to the stranger; Raiment Panoply was seated between me and Thistle. Only one flatscreen was turned on: Spindrift Thimble gazed out of it. He gave me a little wave; I mock-saluted him.

'OK, Thimble, why don't you start us off?' said Thatch.

Thimble smirked from his screen. 'Things are going swimmingly here. The Bob Dylan holo's packing them in with his new – or old – songs; Van Morrison and Tim Buckley love their jazz band; the Clouds Caf® is doing a roaring trade; Hendrix and the Prince of Darkness Miles have had their first jam. The rap fans, I'm afraid, are up in arms: they're demonstrating outside the apartment as I speak; perhaps you can hear them.'

Thimble paused and fiddled with something in his hand. A second later, a chant could be heard in the boardroom:

 

Well it just ain't fair, so we're shouting at you, Thimble.

You can't diss rap, it's a mighty powerful symbol.

These other sorts of music, they just ain't right –

We gotta have rap – we need it every night!

 

I glanced at Thatch. He seemed remarkably unruffled. It was the strange woman who spoke first: 'Couldn't we have those people arrested? They're violating the HoloEntertainment Directive, aren't they? Isn't that why we pay those dreadful Christian Brothers in Jesuit, so the streets can be free from scum like this?'

'Oh, I don't know, Heather, it's quite inventive, really. Improvised rhyme – especially involving a word like "Thimble" – is surprisingly difficult to do. I remember –' Diamond Glimmer subsided as he received an industrial-strength glare from the almond-shaped eyes. 'But, yes, of course you're right, strictly speaking ...'

'Heather never speaks any other way, and of course she's right,' said Thatch, ending the matter.

I stared at the new-look Sport Coordinator. The contrast between her appearance and her manner was quite shocking. I realized that I'd heard the saxophone playing of the woman whose body this was; it was impossible to reconcile that liquid, tender sound with the fierce expression on Heather's face.

Thatch smiled benevolently round the table. 'Well I think we're all agreed, are we not, that both Malcolm here, and his colleague Jane Riley on Planet Literature, are doing exactly what we required of them. I'm hearing good reports, Glimmer. Stratford's taking off now that we've started to use live actors as well as the holos. I wasn't keen about that, as you know – let the people involve themselves in the production of art and who knows what the result will be – but I'm prepared to admit I was wrong. They're not actually writing anything, after all, just mouthing Shakespeare's words, so I can't see any harm in that. Everyone agree?'

Murmurs of assent were heard from round the table, particularly loudly from Raiment Panoply who, like Thimble, seemed keen to bask in reflected glory.

The only note of doubt was sounded by Heather: 'I still think it's a slippery slope. Once you start letting the people get involved, they're going to start aspiring.' She spat the last word out venomously, as if she were referring to some particularly unpleasant perversion.

'Oh come, come, Heather –' Glimmer was again silenced by a ray of pure malevolence from the svelte figure to his right. He sighed, and then withdrew into his shell again.

I was slightly encouraged by Glimmer's little rebellion, its feebleness notwithstanding; if he could be relied upon to sympathize with Gleam and Falcon's overall aims – and the ruder Heather was to him, the more likely that became – he might be persuaded not to interfere on D-Day. I was roused from these thoughts by Thatch addressing me.

'I understand you're a cricket fan, Mr Malcolm.'

'Yes. Only Test matches, actually.'

'That's all they play in Bradman,' Thatch reassured me. 'Heather, I'd like you to take Mr Malcolm back with you to Planet Sport so he can help sort out the cricket. The Sleeper you've been sent seems fine on the, er, cruder forms of game – football, baseball, rugby, wrestling, that sort of thing – but I'm wondering if we couldn't apply a little of Mr Malcolm's finesse to the cricket. Might attract a better class of resident. And that's what we need, after all: good regular rents. All right, Heather?'

Dimity Heather simpered her acquiescence, a thoroughly alarming spectacle. 'You're certainly right about Andy Cope, Chairman. He was a sports reporter in his day, but he seems to have spent most of his time looking for amusing vegetables to compare international football managers with. His knowledge of the actual sports he was supposed to cover is a trifle sketchy, I've discovered. The only thing he's improved is the crude inventiveness of the crowds' chanting.'

'Perhaps we could send the rappers to your planet,' I suggested. 'At least their abuse rhymes. And it's erudite. Listen.'

Another chant was coming from Thimble's flatscreen:

 

We don't need no classics, we ain't talking 'bout Apollo –

When we want music, we just get it from a holo.

Heavy metal, jazz: it's all just crap!

We'll tell you what we really need: it's RAP, RAP, RAP!

 

A smile flickered across Glimmer's features. He made a small but appreciative noise, but transformed it into a gentle cough as he caught the Chairman's eye.

'Do you take this demonstration seriously, Panoply?' asked Thatch.

'Absolutely not, Chairman,' Panoply assured him. 'Funnily enough, it's the relatively affluent young who seem to like rap, and I don't think they're going to need special attention from the Christian Brothers: their idea of rebellion seems to be restricted to refusing to tidy their bedrooms. Besides, we've got most of the ladies on our side –' he smirked ingratiatingly at Heather, who curled her lip at him by way of a reply – 'and, er, some of the holographic musicians, Wynton Marsalis in particular, have also spoken out for us.'

'All right, so we're agreed, are we?' said Thatch. 'We're happy with the Sleepers so far?' Another murmur of assent from round the table. 'Splendid! You'll return to Planet Music via Planet Sport, Mr Malcolm. Heather I'm sure will look after you. Heather?'

The Sport Coordinator attempted to smile at me. The effect was unsettling: her mouth curved fetchingly, but her eyes remained steely. 'I'd be delighted.'

 

I remained unsettled on the following day, seated beside Heather on the spaceplane taking us to Planet Sport. Hell, I'm still unsettled as I sit in Andy Cope's spare room, writing this. Although the sentiments to which I was subjected throughout my flight here would certainly have made the most rabid twenty-first-century tabloid hack blush, they were made sound almost reasonable by the attractive low purr in which they were delivered.

My conversational gambit – admittedly a shamefully craven attempt to ingratiate myself with my prickly companion by introducing the only subject I'd yet encountered upon which we might find an inch of common ground – proved less than successful. 'So you don't like rap?'

'Perfect example of what happens when you allow art to be produced by the dregs of society rather than by a cultured elite,' she snapped.

'One of the twentieth century's greatest musicians, Louis Armstrong, started life running errands for prostitutes and selling coal,' I pointed out. 'Look at the Beatles, or Elvis Presley –'

She interrupted me with a noise that sounded like poh. 'I'm talking about art, not caterwauling and nonsensical cacophony. My time's fascination with the art of your era I find intensely irritating. I know there's nothing after it, that it was what Glimmer would no doubt call "the last great flowering of the human spirit" or some such drivel, but that only makes it less admirable, doesn't it? Listen –' she was leaning forward in her seat now, warming to her theme, her dark eyes flashing – 'if art means anything, it surely should have a beneficial effect on the society producing and consuming it. The fact that your world was practically destroyed and produced no more art worth the name after the twentieth century makes me less inclined to take late forms like jazz and rock music seriously. I see them as symptoms of a sick society, and I view the interest you're helping to create by your passion for authenticity – like grading rubbish, in my view – as extremely dangerous. It's a sign of decadence, proof that people have too much time on their hands, this interest in minutiae, and you're just encouraging it.'

'So you favour the mushroom-grower's approach to the people, do you? Keep them in the dark and feed them shit?'

A disconcertingly attractive laugh escaped her. 'Yes, why not? Gleam's always going on about what he calls "bread and circuses" – I can see that's a familiar concept to you – but, unlike him, I don't have a problem with it as a means of social control. Look at the alternative: your world was hardly an advert for the sort of artistic freedom you seem to want to establish here. The right to unfettered self-expression is all very well as an ideal, but look where it leads. Weren't you killed for expressing yourself freely about religion?'

This undeniable truth silenced me for much of the rest of the trip, and is still making me feel distinctly uncomfortable as I write this. I'd like to think that Andy Cope might be an ally, but judging from his behaviour last night – he spent the hour or so I sat up with him attempting to convince me that authenticity in his particular field involved nude athletics, in homage to the ancient Greeks – I doubt if I can expect much sympathy from that quarter.

Tomorrow, Cope and Heather are to show me Bradman, but even the thought of seeing Test cricket – or its holographic equivalent – can't entirely dispel my gloom. Perhaps the antics of Proust's little Balbec band of young budding girls will cheer me up ...

 

 

 

© Chris Parker 2006