New Planetary Blues

 

TWO

 

James Malcolm's Journal

 

I'm never going to use the word 'weird' again; at least, after what I've been through in the past few days (I'm still not even sure if I can talk about 'days'), it's going to need something ultra-, mega-weird to qualify. This is my third attempt at starting a journal. The first I gave up almost straight away – too disoriented, I was, and I was just typing what amounted to pleas for help and random splurges of acute confusion. (I used a sort of word-processor, as my minder suggested; he said it'd help calm me if I put things down, and showed me how to use what they call a BioGraph.) I wiped that, then, unable to stand the isolation, started another on the same machine. Then my minder (his name's Raiment Panoply; everyone has names allotted to them by their birthing machines, chosen solely for their pleasing euphony, apparently) let slip something I hadn't told him, but which was in my diary, so I realized that if I wanted a private journal – and I do, I need to talk – I'd have to start another, with more primitive materials, that I could keep to myself.

I've just reread the above and am shocked at how disjointed it is, how it veers crazily about. This is why I want to keep this secret journal: I made my living by writing when I lived on what these people call Old Earth, and I'm finding I can't order my thoughts about what's happening to me unless I write them down as part of a structured narrative. No audience except a purely imaginary one, of course, but if I can calm myself enough each day to put my experiences into measured, coherent prose, I'm sure I'll adjust more quickly, and stay sane at the same time. I feel better already (who am I kidding?).

 

One of the oddest things about what's happened to me is how normal I feel, in a purely physical sense. It's just as if I'd gone to bed in my house in Muswell Hill one night in the twenty-first century and woken up light years away, in this geodesic dome-thing they call HoloCorp Central, the following morning. You'd think I would have spent much of the time since screaming in terror, but all things considered, I'm remarkably calm, even if I do get a little cranky occasionally, especially when I'm away from my room for any appreciable amount of time.

At the moment I'm supposed to be 'orienting myself'. They've left me vids (which I watch on a wall flatscreen also used for communication) of Earth history subsequent to my death. Things were pretty appalling in my day, admittedly – half the world starving, the other half hoovering up non-renewable resources as if there was no tomorrow (there wasn't, they were right); disease ravaging whole populations; religion setting people against each other in hideous wars one minute, then mouthing senseless platitudes about eternal life the next; animals hideously mistreated; trivialization, ignorance and stupidity everywhere you looked – but that was nothing compared with what came afterwards. I don't even want to think about it. I'm told London still exists – HoloCorp's owner apparently lives there – but since I never liked the dirty, impersonal place much anyhow, this is of little comfort to me. I certainly don't want to go back.

 

Raiment Panoply bounced in, even more Tigger-ish than usual, at some unearthly (ha!) hour this morning.

'Big day!' he gushed. 'All will be revealed, James. We're off to see —'

'The wizard!' I couldn't resist interrupting him. 'I didn't think we were in Kansas.'

This took some time to unravel for poor old Panoply, but he was delighted when he finally understood: 'Judy Garland I've heard – what an emotional singer! "The Man That Got Away" is a particular favourite of mine – but I'm afraid this film you're telling me about must be one of the many that perished before we started HoloCorp. Which is just why we've brought you here. Follow me to the boardroom.'

We travelled through a maze of corridors that reminded me of the London hotels I'd haunted in the 1980s and 1990s, interviewing musicians. I began to tell Raiment an amusing story involving Astor Piazzolla, tango nuevo and a pair of yellow silk pyjamas, but he waved me into silence with a peremptory gesture.

'Tango's not something we encourage here, I'm afraid. Too much physical contact, too much erotic tension. Not much call for it.' He saw my crestfallen look. 'Jazz is all right, though: we have a whole town dedicated to it on Planet Music.'

He must have seen my eyes widen. 'All will be explained in here.' He led me into a large, high-ceilinged room. Five people were seated around a huge polished table at its centre. A slender, sharp-looking man was coming towards me making clucking noises. He extended his hand.

'Counterpane Thistle, Company Secretary.'

I gave his hand a squeeze with one of mine. This seemed to amuse him; he chuckled throatily to himself before leading me over to the table and seating me at its foot.

After the introductions – more delightful names, most utterly impossible to remember – the head honcho stood up.

'You're probably wondering why you're here.' He paused, waiting for laughter that was slow to come. I could see his fellow board members didn't share his enthusiasm for what he was about to propose. I filed the information away in case it might come in useful.

'I assumed for my many and varied sins, though I'd expected hell to be a little hotter. And will it be permanent, do you know? The Jesuits always told me ...' I let my facetiousness peter out at this point, suddenly aware of a distinct chill in the room.

Thistle gave me a sympathetic look – if he'd been nearer, he'd have squeezed my hand again, it said – and explained: 'We don't ever make jokes of that sort here. We've found that confining all that sort of thing to Planet Religion works well for us. I hope you'll respect this in the time you're with us.'

There was murmured agreement all round the table, and a tall, untidy-looking man, the History Coordinator, started muttering angrily to himself about 'bloody mumbo-jumbo' and wondering aloud why they had a Planet Religion at all. I warmed to him immediately.

'Where I come from, "I am not in favour of ecumenism" translates as "Fuck the Pope!"' I said cheerfully, feeling a little ice-breaking was necessary.

Pandemonium – I've noticed that the subtleties of human interaction, irony, teasing, facetiousness, are not appreciated here, at least by the only beings I've met so far: the so-called Adepts, who resemble humans, but claim to be 'more evolved', whatever that means.

'Sorry,' I mumbled, all fake humility. 'Do go on,' I said to the fish-faced dummy at the head of the table, who was now looking decidedly tetchy.

'You'll appreciate that in the three hundred years or so since you were, er, last alive' – he registered faint distaste at this idea – 'social conventions have changed somewhat. It is now considered extremely tasteless, for example, even to mention areas of human endeavour that might conceivably give rise to contention in polite conversation. Perhaps you'd like to give Mr Malcolm an analogy from his own time, drawing on your wealth of specialist knowledge of his period, Mr Gleam?'

'You've just asked the Queen if she's had a good dump lately, Malcolm. If you were one of us, I could show you properly —'

'Yes, thank you, Gleam, I'm sure that was most enlightening.' Thatch hurried on, occasionally throwing nervous glances at his unruly colleague. 'Just take it from me, Mr Malcolm: don't mention religion, politics, philosophy, things of that nature, in polite company. Better for you, better for us, better for everyone.'

'Right you are, squire.' I beamed winningly at him and wondered, not for the last time that day, whether these BioClone Betas I'd been hearing so much about were all they were cracked up to be. The crew in this boardroom looked to me more like gargoyles on a medieval cathedral than the top-of-the-range products of three centuries of genetic engineering. I was in better shape than most of them, and I'd been dead for nearly a third of a millennium.

'Any chance of a swim on your planet, dear?' I asked the dragon-faced female in charge of sport. She was radiating disapproval, and squeezing what looked like a purple squash ball in an enormous fist.

'Can't wait to get back to the primeval slime, eh?' she snapped.

'Please!' Thatch was getting quite agitated. 'Mr Malcolm will be wondering what he's come into. This is supposed to be a welcoming session.' He turned on his charm – one bar only. 'You're an important man, Mr Malcolm, unique, even, and I want you to know we value you.'

'Otherwise you wouldn't have dug me up. Yes, I know that – can you just tell me why I'm here?' I was becoming impatient, and wanted very much to get back to my room, so I adopted a reasonable air and listened to Thatch. HoloCorp #8211; peace and blessings be upon them – wanted me to help authenticate their holographic entertainment systems on Planet Music, he explained. Would I travel there, with Raiment Panoply, at my earliest convenience? I had an idiotic urge to say: 'And if I refuse?' but suppressed it. Despite my suspicions concerning these Adepts, with their prissy ways and distaste for the more unpleasant realities of life, I was intrigued by the notion of a planet devoted entirely to music, and more than a little curious about my duties once I had been transported there.

'I should warn you, I know next to nothing about classical music. I wrote about jazz and popular music – and I was pretty selective about those.'

Panoply waved my objections aside. 'I can handle the classical side, and my assistant, Spindrift Thimble, handles opera, though he's become quite interested in jazz of late, too. No, what we're really after is someone who can revive interest among the residents – who provide a lot of our regular income, if we can keep them happy – in the popular end of things. At present, they'll go once or twice to the clubs we provide for them, but they soon become bored. We need someone to ginger up the programmes. You'll see what I mean when you get there.'

This was plausible as far as it went, but I was still uneasy. 'Jazz is OK, but I only know about certain forms of popular music. Whole chunks of it – heavy metal, rap, country – are beyond my ken, and obviously anything that happened after I died ...'

Panoply snorted, a surprisingly human noise in this somewhat austere atmosphere. 'Very little popular music worth talking about was made after you died. Endless recycling, nostalgia, retro —'

'Gentlemen, please!' Thatch was clearly impatient to bring the proceedings to a close. 'You can discuss all this on the spaceplane. I'm sure you'll be very happy together. All we want from you, Mr Malcolm, is a report on what you think is wrong with our Planet Music facilities. Can you do that?'

'Definitely, Lord Copper,' I said.

Gleam, clearly understanding the reference, laughed. 'I love you Old Earthers' sense of humour.'

'There've been others?' I asked, suddenly alert again.

'Just a couple,' Thatch interposed hurriedly. 'One for Planet Sport and another for Planet Literature. You'll meet them by and by.'

'More to come, though,' said the massive, muscle-bound Sports Coordinator cheerfully. 'I could do with —'

'I think that should be enough for Mr Malcolm for today, don't you?' Thatch, interrupting her with unusual brusqueness, seemed a little disconcerted, but I was anxious to get back to my room, so I just made polite noises and left them to their meeting.

I was not to be left alone, however. I was accompanied by the organizer of Planet Religion, the splendidly named Woodcraft Falcon. I got the impression that he'd been deputed by the board, considered the most suitable person, in view of my unfortunate outburst earlier, to talk to me about the social niceties.

Once we were safely ensconced in my room, he listened politely while I related the story concerning Astor Piazzolla I'd been prevented telling his colleague earlier, though, judging by his earnest bemusement at the story's climax, yellow silk pyjamas had clearly not played a significant part in his life up until then. There was an awkward pause, which I attempted to mask by jumping up and going over to my multi-purpose gizmo, a wonderful machine not unlike a computer, but able to access, with a degree of efficiency extremely refreshing to someone accustomed to wrestling with the Internet, everything from music to film and documentary footage at the touch of a few buttons. Even I can use it, so logical is it, with everything arranged in proper hierarchies of information. I went down through AUDIO to MUSIC to JAZZ to DUKE ELLINGTON in a trice, homing in on the Blanton–Webster years, and soon 'Jack the Bear' was taking me back to long, lazy Muswell Hill evenings cocooned in cannabis.

I gestured back to the music as I resumed my seat. 'My religion, Wood— Tell me, do I call you Woodcraft or Falcon?'

'Our names are not important to us in that way. They are chosen merely for the sound they make, each one unique and pleasing. You may call me "Woodcraft".' He made this sound like an immense privilege, so I decided to stir him up a bit. I didn't like his manner; he was too bland, and slightly oleaginous in a way that reminded me of the priests I'd encountered as a schoolboy.

'Woody, as in Herman!' I laughed; he didn't. I took pity on him. 'Sorry, always get a bit skittish when I listen to this. Do you like it?'

'The textures are certainly unusual, and the playing undoubtedly skilful, but the overall sound I find too raw. I prefer mellifluousness in music. Energy does not move me.'

I was impressed in spite of myself. 'You must have had the chance to listen to a great deal of music with these machines available to you. I'm still dipping, really, revisiting old favourites, but I'm keen to hear some of the contemporary New Planetary music. Can't seem to find any, though. What do I ask for?'

He looked shocked, then slightly shifty. 'We, er, don't actually produce any music of our own. We prefer your music, in fact. So much variety, so many styles – too much, really, for anyone to hear in a single lifetime. So why create more? Your time was terribly profligate, don't you think? Accumulation, waste, redundancy. A time of intense but brief enthusiasms. And all that possessiveness! Everything here – music, books, film – is available to everyone at the push of a button. No one owns a piece of art, no one needs their own copy of anything, because it's all in there!' He pointed, happy again, at my desk console. 'I think you might like it here, with an inquiring mind like yours.'

I sensed a slightly steely quality within his apparent compliment, but was determined not to be bullied. 'What do you do for live music, then, if no one plays?'

'Oh, the people play, or some of them do, but that's not real art, is it? Not Bach or Mozart or even Duke Ellington.'

This 'even' got right up my nose, but I was more intrigued by his use of the word 'people'. 'Forgive me, but who are these "people", exactly? You just mean non-Adepts, don't you?'

'This is one of the things I've come to talk to you about,' he said, fixing me with what he clearly hoped was a reassuring smile. He became less unctuous, brighter, more engaging, a trendy vicar rather than a priest. 'There have been a great number of changes since you were alive. Last alive, I mean,' he corrected himself hastily.

'No offence taken – I've always rather fancied being one of the undead.'

He grimaced. 'I would advise you, James – and I say this solely for your benefit – to try and curb your habit of making facetious remarks. Harvest Gleam – you remember our History Coordinator – tells me that much Old Earth conversation revolved around banter and teasing, particularly between friends, but here ...' He shook his head sadly. 'How can I explain? Humour, as I understand it, was a sort of social lubricant in your world, deflecting aggression, covering up embarrassment, calming anger, that sort of thing. Am I right?'

'Those were some of its functions, I suppose, but mainly it just feels good to have a laugh. Relief of tension, like a sneeze – or even an orgasm —'

He winced, genuinely pained, presumably at my mentioning more bodily functions. 'Please listen, otherwise we're not going to be able to use you.'

Now we were getting to it; I felt I'd needled him into showing some of his true colours. I adopted a suitably contrite expression and promised not to interrupt again.

'The reason we don't have much teasing, facetiousness, joshing, whatever you wish to call it, is that there's simply very little call for it. You've seen the archive footage of Old Earth since you were there, haven't you?'

I nodded gloomily. Images of famine, floods, war-ravaged cities, faces distorted by hate and anger – I'd spent several days reviewing them on my console under the direction of Raiment Panoply.

'You shouldn't need convincing, then, that things could not be allowed to go on as they had on Earth once humanity escaped here. Of course, many of the main reasons for conflict – lack of space, scarcity of natural resources, economic exploitation of the weak by the strong – don't exist here. We have unlimited space because we can travel and communicate so easily across vast distances, we have unlimited access to natural resources for the same reason, practically unlimited energy and so on. People of like minds are able to live together; solitary souls can live alone; those who profoundly disagree can stay away from each other. Manual labour is handled mainly by machines, so people have a lot of leisure. That's where HoloCorp comes in. We provide entertainment – and information, too, should they require it – for the people, and we have so much space at our disposal that we're able to devote whole planets, rather than just TV channels, as I understand was the custom in your day, to particular predelictions. So those interested in sport can live on Dimity Heather's planet. They can even choose to rent accommodation from us in any of the towns there, each dedicated to a single sport. I understand you're keen on cricket: were you not destined for Planet Music with Raiment, you might have lived in Bradman. As it is, I'm sure you'll enjoy a visit there to see for yourself; I've developed quite a fondness for the game over the years. Perhaps we could go together.' He suddenly exuded beneficence.

'What goes on in Bradman? Endless Test matches?'

'Not a great deal of cricket is actually played by the people there as such, no ... they prefer to watch. We're great watchers and listeners here, and HoloCorp has specialized in catering for those needs, with holograms, film, recorded music – you name it, we can provide it, all based on Old Earth archives.'

'Why don't people play themselves, rather than just watching?'

Another faintly pained expression flitted across Woodcraft's face. 'I told you: the people do play, but not very well – certainly not to a professional standard. They just do it to amuse themselves, but it's not worth preserving, just as their efforts at musical expression aren't worth preserving, compared with the products of your era. But you're puzzled, I can see, by my continual references to "the people". You've not met any yet, have you?'

'No,' I replied. 'But if you're not truly human, what are you? Sorry to be so blunt.'

He smiled. 'No offence taken, as you would say. We Adepts have moved on somewhat. Certain skills – what you might term paranormal skills, in the realm of the psychic – have been honed over the years, even bred into some of us. Eugenics, I know, had a bad reputation in your day, what with the Nazis and theories of racial supremacy and all that nonsense, but here it worked.' His eyes were beginning to glimmer; I wasn't sure if I liked the sound of this, but kept my face scrupulously neutral.

'This would involve the BioClone Beta, I assume,' I said, deadpan.

'Of course. Raiment Panoply's already told you that Adepts prefer to reproduce non-corporeally, hasn't he? You see, some of us like to live the life of the Mind.' I could almost hear the capital letter. 'We find the demands of the body distracting, and the petty allegiances stemming from such things as political conviction, religious belief – even apparently harmless things like support for a particular sporting team – how shall I put it – unhelpful in evolutionary terms. We thought if we could encourage people to channel all these destructive, conflict-inducing impulses into harmless activities of a mainly passive nature, through the use of themed planets, holograms and other distractions, we might avoid all the destruction that had characterized Old Earth. And it's worked: we have no wars, because all forms of weaponry, from the simplest handgun to the most destructive explosive device, are strictly banned; crime, or anti-social activity, is dealt with on an informal, local level, usually involving the exile – to my planet, actually; we have what's called a Retreat there, run by priests – rather than punishment of persistent offenders; everyone has enough to eat and enough to do —'

'But they don't produce anything, and they aren't going anywhere. They're just consumers.'

'Is that a bad thing, necessarily? They're very sophisticated consumers – you wouldn't be here if they weren't, after all. And in any case, there's more to the New Planetary Confederation than "the people", as we seem to be calling them. Some of us, as I say, have chosen to attempt to reach a higher level of evolution by applying ourselves to the mind: telepathy, psychokinesis, farsense, farsight, that sort of thing. And we've done very well, though I do say so myself.' He beamed complacently. 'You'll be amazed what those of us who have progressed beyond the merely physical can achieve. Naturally, we guide those who are, er, less ambitious in this sphere – it's only natural that we should put our greater sensitivity and awareness to public use, for the good of all. All HoloCorp board members, and all the planetary supervisors, plus a large number of staff you've not seen yet, are recruited from the Adept class.'

'You're a self-perpetuating oligarchy, in other words.' Where had this come from? I was the least political of animals back on Earth, but all this talk of natural – or, in this case, cloned – superiority ruling brute ignorance was ringing some nasty alarm bells for me.

'I can see you're going to get on with Harvest Gleam better than with me,' he replied easily, refusing to rise to my bait and smiling now he considered his lecture over. 'But you might consider my invitation to Bradman, nevertheless.' He looked at me more closely, concern creasing his sagging features. 'I think I've given you enough to think about for today. Why don't you get some rest? You've a long journey ahead of you tomorrow – Planet Music's two wormholes away. You'll have to stop off on Planet Literature on the way. I think you'll enjoy it.' He winked disconcertingly at me and left.

After a few moments, I too got up and followed him out. I fancied a little stroll after all the talk and sitting. As I turned a corner just outside my room, I caught sight of Falcon disappearing into a sort of booth in the next corridor. Placing his palm against a hand-shaped receptacle, he entered the contraption and punched a code into a keypad. After a short pause, he seemed satisfied with something, and punched in another code. Then he disappeared, just dissolved into thin air, leaving me gawping stupidly in the corridor. Clearly the next step in evolution involves a profound dislike of walking, but what if it also has a more sinister side? These people give me the creeps, quite frankly, with their lofty dismissal of all things remotely physical and their ability to disappear at will.

Back in the warm embrace of my room, though, writing this, I feel more optimistic, almost heady, in fact. What choice do I have, in any case? Lucky to get another crack at things, and – look on the bright side – everyone I used to go to such great lengths to avoid in my Muswell Hill life is dead. I don't have to answer the phone, or even check my e-mails. Just accompany some demented clone with a damn silly name to a planet entirely dedicated to music.

 

© Chris Parker 2006