The Outcast Hours
Page 37
I got some bad ideas in my head, Val.
Ha! Very nice, Val. You’re getting funnier every day.
2/4
The camera tracks behind. The music rises in static confidence, its sonar pulses searching out into the midnight dark. The bass-line breaks. Confidence is a must—here we go—cockiness is a plus—sing it—edginess is a rush. The camera stays tight on Val’s muscular masculine back, hair shining over shoulders silhouetted against the neon corridor, the road, the light, the inevitability of the arena. Two hundred men enter, one man leaves. Patriot Games Fourteen. Who have we got, Val?
Playing now is @Joliath. Three public ReFix wins. 782,422 followers. Average of seventeen responses per post, posting on average eighteen times daily.
Arena?
Equatorial jungle. Rebel attack on unearthed state resources. Civil defense contract. Neutralizations: 4.
Weapon of choice?
Synth mercenary.
How’s the audience?
Scores aren’t in yet.
Obviously. But how’s he looking?
Awedience Pro’s live language analysis gives me a positive rate of 72.
Very beatable.
It is a considerably higher than average score, Val.
Maybe today’s the day I teach you about art, Val. About human genius and inspiration.
The expression or application of human creative skill and imagination, Val?
That’s the one, buddy. Synth Mercenary… You think these people haven’t seen that before? What a waste of time. Refresh.
Pantheon: streaming from tonight: Don Simpson: The Man, the Legend.
Save that. When are we up, Val?
Up next, Val.
Here we go. A few minutes and it’ll be all you. All me and you Britney. Your white blouse brilliant against the angry Martian landscape, me stepping, one, two steps closer: “but I thought the old lady dropped it into the ocean at the end?”
Scores are in for Joliath.
Hit me baby.
Neutralizations: 6. Performance likes: 1,342. Audience retention: 34%.
Fine. We can beat that. Refresh.
[Curated content: HalliburtonHomeBoxOffice:
Holding a crowd?
Submit your MyOps for cash today.]
What do they think we’re doing here for chrissakes? Refr—
You’re up, Val.
Here we go.
He clicks his knuckles with relish at the challenge ahead, his shoulders seem to broaden as he steps into the arena, the gaze of hundreds upon him as he settles into the command chair. As the assistant hands him the controls she can’t suppress her smile. Here we go. Shut all media down, Val, it’s time to concentrate.
Good luck, Val.
See you on the other side.
3/4
[Ten seconds to theatre]
The audience responds well to dogs, having a dog is worth five points alone right, Val? Refresh. Oh right, just in here with myself now, anyway, that was Joliath’s first mistake, crashing in with a huge anthro-snyth to scare the children—sure you can use a synthetic in a private game, a late night game, a game in parts of town you don’t rotate into—but the Patriot Games, the Patriot Games is a family affair, kids are watching, parents, it’s educational, so give them dogs, birds, safety animals, make them feel safe, a dog protects you from the bad guys not a big synth burning down a village it just doesn’t scan great just doesn’t look fair and looking fair, hell being fair, it’s just the most important thing in here, we’re going to war here and you better believe we don’t do it lightly, fairness is a goddamned cornerstone and if you forget that it’s like forgetting, well it’s like forgetting we’re Ameri—
[Nine seconds]
nothing quite like it, though, is there? iContact is one thing but that look in the eye, that moment you connect really connect with the target and he’s looking at you and he knows it’s over and you’re watching the hope drain from his face and he knows there’ll be no mercy—what are we supposed to do?—are we gonna wait and find out if he’s got a bomb strapped to his chest or shoved up his ass—no—who would do that?—you wanna risk a million bucks of top grade canine biomechanical defense engineering?—no—you’re gonna pull the trigger—he knows it and you know it—lose a Boeing Big Dog in the field and you’re right back down to the mini-leagues, the riot squads, the aerial surveillance—no, you’re gonna pull the trigger—who would—
[Eight seconds]
this is it, Val oh, right, OK, solo time, when are they gonna loosen up the rules on that, anyway, watch this Joliath, watch my Awedience score spike nice and early when they see the Big Dog and watch me hold it up there as I cruise through to the final bada-bing to the head, you know you should think of a line you need your fucking catchphrase now, pal, and what have you got? what’s Britney gonna hear, huh Val? oh right, so huh how ‘bout “cause to lose all your senses, that’s just so typically YOU”—a bit long...—what else we—
[Seven seconds]
gotta focus: it’s a midday game, Huaewi Hyperdome, you’re on your own here, out in the wilds, out reaping justice, just a man and his dog not too slow, not too quick. Pull the trigger. Not too slow, not too—
[Six seconds]
look at the arena, let’s look at the arena: Balkan Bloodplain, State Department licensed target, four bodyguards, one target: female—you’re on my radar—classic city arena, good, gives the audience things to look at cos you’re not going to win this with a big kill rate, you’re going to have to give them a show, a little stealth, a little style—looks like it’s raining down there, never tried the Big Dog in the rain before... how strange to even see so much water—
[Five seconds to theatre]
focus: just think of the MyOp you’re gonna get out of this, the national syndication and maybe even Britney herself will watch it, maybe we’ll watch it together—yeah, watch it with Britney, very likely—don’t start up on that shit—when was the last time you listened to Mona Lisa, bubs, she says it all herself—shut up, shut—
[Four seconds]
how many ways do they have to lay it out for you, friend? She’s dead, she’s always been dead and they’re not even hiding it it’s all in the police report, car crash, blood on the sidewalk, no body, just a perfect golden lock of JT’s hair. Gone too soon. Shut up. Pour one out—
[Three]
Concentrate. The mission. The Mutually Assured Democracy programme is a cornerstone of our freedoms, The Mutually Assured Democracy programme is a cornerstone of our freedoms, that’s fucking right, you’re a fucking patriot and you are fucking in and out, it’s a licensed target, wanted by Interpol, State Department, everyone, no questions asked: she’s bad news and you’re two seconds away from making the world a safer—
[Two]
Play your cards right and tomorrow night you’ll be on Mars with Britney, play your cards right and you’re a God cos she’s there, already there and waiting and you can see her, perfect in her white blouse, her eyes lighting up as she opens the black velvet box you’ve just handed her and you’re holding your breath as her eyes flicker back up to yours: but I thought the old lady dropped it into the ocean in the end?—
[Impact]
Well baby, I went down and got it for you.
4/4
It’s you. You’re up. Your first line. You listen to the crackle of the interplanetary intercom. It’s so real. You look at the numbers rapidly processing on the dashboard. 3684 / 1508. 0x02278FEO—00895.39228. No doubt some hidden codes from the genius mind of Nigel Dick.
You look around and the barren red sands of Mars stretch into the distance as far as you can see—but you are not nervous. Val, are you recording this?
There’s too much data for a complete world download, Val. But I have your PoV.
It’s so real. Look at this. It’s a whole world. You stretch your hand and you’re really there. This is, without a doubt, the finest ReFix ever created. A whole world alive and living for miles and miles
of Martian nothingness all around us. Your prize. Go forth and claim what’s yours. You showed them something they’ll never forget last night. Balkan bloodplain. You were born for it. A comprehensive destruction of all opponents. A seamless neutralization. Even an undetected exit. You showed them something. Now go forth. Go forth and claim what’s yours. Go find your Britney.
There is only one structure visible. The factory up ahead. And inside, you know she’s waiting for you.
They want the line. They’re ready for it. Years of heartache end tonight. You clear your throat. The whole world is watching. How are we doing, Val?
You have two hundred and fourteen new followers, Val. Two hundred and nineteen. Two hundred and thirty seven.
You deserve this. You’re a winner. You can do this. You eliminated the target without quarter or mercy. You are a star. You are a patriot. Your fans are watching. Everyone’s watching. Say the line. Take your crown.
Two hundred and forty nine new followers.
The world hangs on your every word; your every move. You stop, turn your body forty-five degrees towards the invisible camera. You didn’t need the rehearsals they insisted on. They could tell right away: this is your part, your moment.
You feel the image cut in to close-up, the first real look at you. You hold your jaw firm.
[Curated content:
a little touch-up work
has never been cheaper—]
What? Not now, Val.
No curated content, Val?
No, Christ, Val shut it off. Hold the jaw firm.
You would like me to turn all curated content off, Val?
Val, what the fuck, we’re in the middle of the fucking ReFix. I’ve missed my fucking line. Turn everything off.
But Val I have to remind you that you’re currently enjoying a free trial subscription to Buckshot Magazine—
Don’t tell me what I’m enjoying, Val. I’m enjoying being the first and only human in the history of the fucking universe to star in a Britney ReFix.
But in the terms & conditions—
I don’t care, Val. Turn everything off.
Everything, Val?
Off. All off. Unsubscribe from everything. I’ve got to do my lines, Val. Off off off.
And there, half-buried in the sand beneath your feet, an ancient relic waits. A last message from another world. You’ve seen it a thousand times—and though it’s new every time it’s never been as new as this, as real as this. You bend down to pick it up, her image, perfectly faded, looks out at you.
You say your line, with perfect pitch and timbre, examining the CD cover, holding it up for the audience to see Britney, young Britney, the original Britney, Britney before the accident, staring out at them, summoning them into her world. Britney before the crash, before the innocent blood.
The earth is shaking. The rocks are crashing off the red mountains. She is coming.
Her eye, her mouth, her siren call.
The flamethrowers pour their burning gasses into the air, the heavy steel of chains grind, you look up and you see her, descending from the dark vault of heaven, brilliant in the red of a thousand hells, the music filling your head and steeling your spine, the heat pulsing through the plastics of the spacesuit, every nerve-end pulling you towards her, she’s there, she’s real, she’s here, she’s now, she sings.
Behind her the chorus line begins its ritual, dancing sightlines of mathematical precision pulling towards her celestial light: she’s coming towards you, singing to you. You are the messenger, you are the one, you are falling.
She’s there and if you just reached out you could touch her. If you reached out you would become one with Britney as your pixels merge and re-emerge in unique combination. But this is a ReFix and you will respect it. Every world has its natural laws. You don’t need to touch her, you don’t need any more than this.
There’s a twitch. A moment of uncertainty. Britney’s looking at you. She’s thinking something new. Britney? Something’s wrong. No. No, just a glitch. She’s smiling. Britney Spears is smiling at you.
Incredible. The detail. You can hear every breath, see every muscle flinch, feel the vast emptiness of Mars rolling behind you.
Her hair streams black then blonde again. Raindrops land on her forehead. Raindrops? On Mars?
What’s going on, Val?
I don’t know, Val. You said to turn everything off.
And suddenly you’re in the air, you’re pulled up, up, your feet off the ground you’re hurtling up into the sky and you strain to see above you and you’re attached to a chain and the men with their steel levers are pulling you up and you’re trapped and you can’t move and you knew this would happen but you had no idea and you try and move to pull at the chain but you can’t reach it but it’s OK, Britney is there, far below, transformed now into her angelic white, her arms flowing in perfect choreography above her head and you just need to watch and you just need to breathe. The rain is falling, the target’s breathing is so heavy, she’s on her knees, the rain is falling all around her, your finger is on the trigger. Watch the dance, breathe and keep your eyes on Britney. She’s Britney. Think of the followers. Think of the outside world, the losers and the frauds all schlepping off to work today, the young tuning in for a moment of ReFix glory, the old waiting to die, all watching you, all waiting for your next move. Val, how are we doing?
What do you mean, Val?
What’s our count? What are we up to?
You said to turn everything off, Val.
She looks up at you, only at you. You focus. It’s all going so fast. Concentrate, it will be over soon, she’s on the second chorus already and she’s flying towards you, spinning in the air, transforming from the red latex into the black-and-white shirt-and-skirt and she’s in front of you and the rain clouds are gathering, it’s your line again you’re up and you’ve said it ten thousand times in your head and in the mirror and in the shower and now it’s time to make the words into something, it’s time to say them, to say them finally to Britney herself.
“Britney,” you say, your voice quivering with manly meaning.
You look down at the black velvet box that has appeared in your hand. You look at her. She is calm, expectant.
Her hand almost touches yours as she takes the box from your fingers.
She looks up at you and she’s drenched in rain, eyes all imploration, her words begging in your head. No. Please. No. She’s just a girl. It’s just a glitch. You’ll tell them when you’re out. They’ll fix it. They’ll give you a refund. They’ll tell you to run it again. The rain is falling now and she’s crying but you know you’ll do it, you’ll do it like every time, you’ll win the day, you’ll defend the country, you’ll be a man and you’ll do what’s right but it’s just a glitch. It’s Britney, glitch. She’s back. She’s staring at the ring.
Everything’s fine. She glances up at you and in the glance, the glitch, the bullet, the rain. It drips down your shirt, the heat of the sand burns up through your suit.
Just keep your eyes on Britney.
[But I thought the old lady
dropped it into the ocean
at the end?]
It’s so hot. The rain is dripping in from the neck. The old lady dropped it into the ocean at the end. Britney’s looking at you. Puzzled…
[But I thought the old lady
dropped it into the ocean
at the end?]
She wants the line, the whole world wants the line, take your crown, take your prize, say the line. What’s the line? Val, what’s the line?
You said to turn everything off, Val.
Christ, Val, you know the line. Tell me the line.
You said to turn everything off, Val.