New Planetary Blues

 

FOUR

James Malcolm's Journal

 

Raiment Panoply really is an irritating man; he reminds me of a small terrier, a Jack Russell perhaps, with his tireless optimism and his frisky, mindless persistence. He's treated the whole of today as a 'lark', gambolling along beside me as I stumbled from one stomach-churning experience to another, ever alert for the least symptom of flagging spirits, always ready with a bright explanation or a promise of future delights. He was at his worst in the wormhole, babbling excitedly about how much I was going to enjoy Planet Literature, plus a 'little surprise' he was hoping I'd appreciate; all I could think about was the universe blurring and roaring around us while I tried to keep my morning fruit juice inside me.

But I should start at the beginning: he got me up at some unearthly hour and whisked me off, up through the building to the roof, where a vehicle resembling a large bubble car awaited us. It was humming and steaming slightly; if it had had fingers it would have been drumming them impatiently. I barely had time to look around me – we appeared to be under a very distant transparent covering, a portion of which was peeling back as we entered the pod – before we were strapped in two adjacent seats, Raiment grinning like a maniac. A mind-numbing roar, and we were hurtling upwards. The upper roof parted; we shot through into blackness. Looking (queasily) down, I got a brief glimpse of a huge geodesic dome surrounded by reddish earth, then felt extremely confused and sick.

Next thing I knew, I was being brought round by an obscenely cheerful Panoply. We appeared to be on another ship, a spaceplane, clearly, but the equivalent of an executive jet rather than a passenger aircraft, small, sleek and luxurious.

'Ah, there you are,' said Panoply, as if I'd been off enjoying myself instead of out cold. 'I took the liberty of having you decanted here – thought you might prefer it to being roused and rousted. You weren't out for long. Could happen to anyone who's not used to the speeds; no need to be embarrassed.'

'I wasn't.' I know all the HoloCorp people are smug and superior, but Panoply gets the Huntley & Palmer Award for adding breathless enthusiasm to the mix. 'Have we been through the wormhole yet?'

Panoply pounced on the reluctance clearly discernible in my question. 'Oh, you mustn't miss that! I'm used to it now, of course, but it's absolutely exhilarating if you've not done it before.'

'Don't your personal transporters work between planets?'

If he was surprised by the question, he didn't show it. 'Only between special portals, and then only when the receiving machine knows your genetic signature. They can be dangerous, biofaxes; you have to be very skilled to use them.' He smiled complacently to himself.

'Perhaps I'll learn. I'm getting sick of all the stairs.'

Panoply looked quickly at me to see if I was joking, saw I wasn't, so became very earnest all of sudden. 'This may sound a little offensive, but you need to be told some things you might find unpalatable. Woodcraft Falcon's told you about our philosophy, hasn't he?'

'By "our", you mean the BioCloned bunch, I take it, not the inferior rabble you peddle your holos to?'

'Colourfully put, as always, but yes, I do mean the philosophy of the BioCloned echelon of our society, the Adepts. Perhaps you'd like to use the term in future yourself.'

Ignoring the slightly peeved, peremptory tone that had crept into his voice, I pushed on with my questioning. It's oddly liberating, this revivification gig: I genuinely don't give a stuff what anyone thinks of me in this Brave New World. What's the worst they can do, after all? Dispose of me, return me to my 300-year sleep? – not a prospect I find even remotely alarming. Been there, done that, seem to have mislaid the tee-shirt.

'What are you adept at, apart from acting superior?' I asked.

Panoply was apparently unruffled by my rudeness. He smiled at me. 'I don't think you realize how accommodating we're being. We don't have to assume bodily form, you know,' he said, all hoity-toity suddenly. 'We've come a long way in the time you've been away.'

'I've been dead, not on holiday somewhere!' Panoply looked genuinely hurt, so I softened my attitude a little. 'I've always hated euphemisms; a spade's a bloody shovel where I come from. And don't tell me you've never seen a spade. Gwendolen Fairfax you're not.'

'You see!' He returned to full Jack Russell mode, fetching this throwaway remark and laying it back at my feet, wagging his tail excitedly. 'That's exactly what we want from you: detailed knowledge of Earth trivia. I've not the remotest idea who this Fairfax woman is, but then that's because we've been concentrating on what we consider higher things – breeding Adepts of more and more refined powers, filtering out grossness and unpleasantness from our gene pool, concentrating on the things of the Mind: tp, mental healing, psychokinesis – and we may have neglected some of the basics in the process.'

'Like simple humanity?'

He shook his head reprovingly. 'Humanity's seldom simple. We're treading a fine line here, James. On the one hand we, the Adepts, want humanity to evolve beyond the destructive, opinionated, irrational brutishness you must be familiar with from the twenty-first century; on the other, we don't want to lose touch with the passion that gave your world Bob Dylan, Charles Mingus and Beethoven – we have no Dylans here, only holograms, and theyíre not right, I think you'll find. You can help us rediscover the energy, the power that informs music like The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady or Blonde on Blonde or Beethovenís Seventh.' He beamed at me, confident that he'd pushed the correct buttons.

He had: we spent the next hour or so in a delightful discussion ranging across all forms of Old Earth music, about which he was frighteningly well informed, despite occasional gaps in the 'fossil record': jazz, for instance, he considered an almost exclusively American phenomenon, having studied it chiefly via the most readily available documentary sources. I was settling in to my lecture about the influence of the many indigenous European, Middle Eastern and African folk traditions filtering into improvised music when the wormhole hove into view.

It was only later, after I'd recovered from the nausea induced by being sucked down a gigantic plughole and expelled violently into star-spangled blackness on the other side, that I realized I'd been skilfully diverted from probing into the Adepts' secret world by being thrown a lollipop: the chance to show off my esoteric musical knowledge to an appreciative audience. There are still large areas of Adept life and customs about which I know next to nothing. For instance, I've been told that HoloCorp Central contains BioCloning units and nurseries, kindergartens and schools, but I haven't been shown any of them, and have yet to set eyes on an Adept under the age of twenty.

'Nearly there, James,' said Panoply soon after we'd emerged from the wormhole, pointing to a friendly-looking blue-green planet in the distance. 'Planet Literature.'

I'd just pulled myself together when the nightmare began again: we unstrapped ourselves from our seats, walked – groggily in my case, springily in his – to a smallish cargo bay, and entered the little pod again.

'Useful little machines, these,' Panoply reassured me, seeing my reluctance to re-enter an environment in which I'd blacked out earlier. 'Going down is always easier than going up. In a few minutes we'll be in Trollope. You're familiar with his novels, are you?'

'I get the distinct impression that you know bloody well that I am,' I growled gracelessly. 'Please tell me we're not going to be greeted by Lizzie Eustace and Lily Dale bearing garlands, Hawaii style.'

'I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about. Just relax. You'll be pleasantly surprised by our reception, I think.'

He was right, although 'pleasantly surprised' turned out to be a gross understatement. I was flabbergasted and delighted in almost equal proportions, for there, standing in the spaceport next to a crimson-robed Adept, was a familiar figure: Jane Riley, an old colleague from my GlobeInfo days. My joy and relief at seeing her overwhelmed me: before I knew it, I was hugging her, tears filling my eyes.

I held her at arms' length, feasting on her sheer physicality. She seemed to have changed remarkably little; absurdly, the phrase 'time cannot wither her' flashed across my mind as I took in her copper-coloured hair, sweet, heart-shaped face and trim, boyish figure. Her warm, wide-mouthed smile had frequently melted my stress-induced cantankerousness at GlobeInfo, and now it banished my spaceplane-induced jet-lag with equal ease. After all this time surrounded by chimeras, phantoms slumming it in physical form to make me feel at home, it was wonderful to see and touch a proper human being again, especially one who seemed as pleased to see me as I was to see her.

We laughed and cried, hugged again, looked at each other again, too moved to speak. Panoply looked on, beaming indulgently at us. His companion, although clearly doing his best to emulate his colleague, seemed less happy with the situation; indeed, his thin lips were pursed in what I took to be distaste at the warmth of our greeting. If we'd been dogs, he'd have thrown a bucket of water over us.

Panoply was the first to speak. 'I knew you'd be pleased. I'm going to leave you in Jane's capable hands while Seasalt Chive' – he mimed an introduction between us – 'and I discuss HoloCorp business. Jane's been here for some time, helping us with our Dickens and our Austen, I believe, so she'll be able to fill you in, show you some sights. You'll bring him to the Parsonage when you've finished, will you? We're only staying a night, then going on to Planet Music.'

Jane nodded, and held out her hand to me. It seemed like an immensely touching gesture compared with the fastidious austerity of the Adepts by whom I'd been surrounded up to now, and I took it gratefully and allowed her to lead me out of the spaceport into what resembled nothing so much as a film set. Instead of the hectic clutter of pods and suchlike that I'd expected, I found myself in a species of theme park.

Life in HoloCorp Central, a huge dome surrounded by what appeared to be desert, had not prepared me for the riot of colour and sensation that was Planet Literature. The sky was Maxfield Parrish blue, the grass a lush, deep green. The air, unpolluted by petrol fumes – air cars were occasionally seen, but all other transport had to conform to the Victorian-era conceit upon which the town was based – had the clarity associated with Mediterranean islands; the Gloucestershire-like countryside, with its steep wooded hills and long valleys filled with picturesque cottages, positively sparkled in the sunlight. This was, truly, the world of Barchester and Mr Pickwick, a fictional world that had probably never existed in quite the perfect detail that had been lovingly created here.

A horse and carriage awaited us, complete with a cheerful but battered-looking driver bearing a whip, muddy boots, and a rust-coloured topcoat.

'Barkis?' I whispered to Jane once we were settled down behind him. 'Heís not from Trollope.'

'You needn't whisper,' Jane assured me, relaxing her grip on my hand. 'We're in vague mishmash territory, not Pedant World, and Jack's not bothered about your accuracy fetishes.' Jack, the driver, grinned his assent to this, and whipped up his horse. 'It's what people remember, rather than what's strictly correct, that matters here. We're in nineteenth-century-novel land – thatís what Trollope is – but it's not full of things you can fact-check. You'll have to abandon a lot of your delicate scruples if you're not going to go mad here, James.'

'I'm not sure I could tell if I did go mad, actually,' I said. 'This whole thing's a dream. I've spent the past few weeks at HoloCorp Central with no one but Adepts to talk to – haven't set foot outside that huge complex they've got there. I'm still reeling from the wormhole, but it's great to be outside in the fresh air after the dome and the spaceship. I take it this is real?'

'Oh, it's real all right. This is what Captain Kirk would have called an M-class planet. Breathable air, decent gravity, lots of water. They've got so many to choose from now they can whip about through wormholes; they pick only the best, terraform them where necessary, stock them with ark-loads of animals and then move the people in.'

'I can't tell you how nice it is to have trivial cultural references like Captain Kirk in common with someone again. I'm sick of having to vet everything I say for things the Adepts won't recognize. You say HoloCorp owns this whole planet?'

'Think of the biggest global corporation on Old Earth then multiply by a thousand – that's HoloCorp. They're the ultimate monopoly. They've bought up all the rights to everything produced by Earth in the old days, they own all the modules for downloading it, they get rents from people who want to live in fantasy worlds – like Jack here, who does his Barkis act so he can live in Victorian England – and they run all the holoentertainment bars. That's where we come in. People's palates are getting more discriminating. They're way past the wide-eyed wonder stage; they want authenticity. All the New Planetary Parliament cares about is keeping the population happy, and let's face it, with no wars, no famine, no racial tension – have you noticed that no one here even notices what colour people's skins are? It's like "Star Trek" –'

'Or Wood Green in the early twenty-first century,' I said.

'Yes! God, it's good to think about things like Wood Green again. Never appreciated it at the time.' Jane mused for a few moments, clearly immersed in memories of her former life. We let an angel pass.

She came back to the present with a discernible effort. 'Where was I? Yes: if audiences are getting more sophisticated, then the best way to keep them happy is to provide them with more sophisticated entertainment. Trouble is – or was until Wheatgerm Thatch had his bright idea – the Adepts, knowledgeable as they are, in patches, don't have the detailed specialist knowledge we have. They need us, strange as it might seem. We're going to make them very popular, apparently.'

'How long have you been here?'

'Not that long. I was revived with a Sleeper called Andy. He got sent to Planet Sport; you were done a bit later, I believe. What do you think so far?' She gestured at the passing scene, a riot of crinoline, parasols and frockcoats.

'Well, I don't think Trollope would have been fooled for a moment. It's a bit like those Hollywood films where the characters can't move for boys bowling hoops along, and jolly Cockneys selling pies. Where are the chimney sweeps?'

'I'm not sure The Water Babies survived.' She suddenly took my arm again and squeezed closer to me. 'It's great to see you – it must be three hundred years. Don't leave it so long next time.'

I leaned back in the carriage, surrendering myself to a moment of pure happiness. 'Who'd have thought it, eh? Here I am, being driven by one of my favourite fictional characters, with my best girl on my arm. Hot diggety!'

'Enjoy it while you can. I'm going to show you things tonight that'll wipe the smile off your face double-quick. If Planet Music's anything like this place, we're both going to need as much hot diggety as we can get.'

'Grim as that, is it?'

'Grimmer. You'll be appalled.'

'Give us a taste. I'd like to be prepared.'

Jane grinned mischievously. 'I think I'll let you come to it cold. It'll be more amusing.'

'For you, maybe.'

'OK, I'll tell you about an attraction in Fielding –'

'Don't tell me: strip poker with Sophia Western?'

'Far too tasteful. Think epistolary.'

'No, please. Not the Divine Samuel.'

'Yep.' She assumed a hucksterish bellow. 'Roll up! Roll up! See if you can fight off Mr B. He'll try anything, including violence, to have his wicked –'

'Oh,' I said dismissively, greatly relieved. 'Pamela. Who cares what they do to that? I thought we were talking serious literature here. If they dare touch Clarissa ...'

And so we bickered pleasantly through the rest of the carriage ride, with Jane accusing me of preciousness and me indignantly rebutting all charges with increasingly grandiose claims about Richardson's genius ... It was good to strike sparks off someone again, rather than having to resort to schoolboyish rudeness and sullenness, as I seem compelled to do with the Adepts.

Barkis pulled the horse up outside a large, grim-looking building.

'The Marshalsea?'

Jane nodded. 'Pretty easy one, that. I live here. The whole of the top floor's been cut up into into apartments. I've got a corner one with views all over Trollope. It's a bit like your flat in Muswell Hill, funnily enough. I really like it; it's big, comfortable, and very handy for my job. The Marshalsea's our biggest tourist attraction, so I'm starting with it. I've removed Ebenezer Scrooge, added Arthur Clenham –'

'Difficult one. The good characters are so dull in Dickens. Especially the women, Clenham included ...'

We said goodbye to Barkis and went into a cobbled yard. At its far corner, a stone staircase led to the building's upper storeys. As we started to climb, I said, 'Pity we can't use those biofax contraptions. I hate stairs. Panoply says only Adepts can use them. Is that true?'

Jane turned to me, still smiling, and deliberately mimed pulling a zip across her mouth. 'Yes, shame, isn't it?' The lightness in her voice was at odds with her action, so I guessed this to be a 'walls-have-ears' warning, and when we got to her apartment she confirmed my guess with another deliberate zipping movement, still talking lightly all the while about Sam Weller and Mr Pickwick and her plans for the Marshalsea.

She pointed to a box on a coffee table, making unmistakable joint-rolling motions with her hands. We could have been in Muswell Hill; she made some coffee and called up some Billie Holiday, and I rolled a nice fat, neat grass joint, all the time keeping up our desultory conversation about the prison.

The reason for her subterfuge became clear once we'd smoked. As the grass hit me, I experienced, in addition to the zap from the joint, a sort of wrenching sensation in my brain.

'There he goes,' said Jane, suddenly as alert as the powerful grass allowed. 'Listen: we've got about five minutes before he's back. We're being monitored by an Adept farsenser. Think Julian May, Robin Hobb. They don't monitor us all the time, but I expect thay thought this conversation might be worth listening to. They can't maintain the link when you smoke strong grass, especially in the first few minutes, so we've got to talk while he's not listening. He'll be back when the initial rush quiets down. I think this Sleeper programme has a sinister side to it. I don't trust Wheatgerm Thatch. The man's a weasel. I don't think he's woken us up just to make the holos more authentic. I think he wants to get his hands on some nice talented brains. He can use them somehow, I know it. I saw something very suspicious the other day with our man Seasalt Chive – never mind what, we haven't got time – but I think something pretty nasty's going on with the Sleepers. I think they're being harvested for transplants. The Adepts have a horror of death, and I don't think they'd want the undead walking around among them unless there was a bloody good reason. I think we're a smokescreen – a smokescreen!' Her manner suddenly changed as another wrenching sensation was clearly discernible. 'Can't see the console for all the smoke. You know where I get this? Grow it just next to the compost heap in the garden of the Small House at Allingham! Don't you just love it here? All the home comforts!'

I joined in the charade. 'Remember Amsterdam?'

'Don't start me off. We'll get positively soggy with nostalgia.'

'Tom Lehrer!' And so on, while our brains buried our conversation behind the banal chatter, where the snooping Adept couldn't find it.

I'm back in the Parsonage Hotel now, trying to get some sleep before the flight tomorrow, having spent an evening being as appalled as I've ever been in my life – Jane was not exaggerating the tourist-tat horror one bit: can-cans danced by the BrontÎ sisters; a row of Full Monty-type male strippers, one of whom was definitely Dickens, another (I think) Henry James; a frighteningly lifelike re-creation of the guillotining from A Tale of Two Cities, complete with rabidly enthusiastic knitting females; ghastly, ghastly, ghastly. If Planet Music is anything like this, Jane's right: I'm going to need as much hot diggety – whatever that is – as I can muster.

 

© Chris Parker 2006