by Jeff Noon
all media hackers, culture jammers
all Renegades of Noise:
Forever and ever, all the way down the wavelengths, cable to cable, from the farthest orbit of the satellites, all the way down to Planet Earth,
Splice the signal flow.
Beyond the one million channels, let us travel.
Remix the networks.
Fill our skulls with sound, with vision
Broadcast the feelings
And give reflection, image, completion.
Tune our souls in.
Give me transmission!
-10-
......../.....1> 01............. ............................
skin/......>/........................................ .......
....................../0>1..(**)..............................
............/.....(..,.............,.........
...../...> drift:...lost.^................ :..................
....... ....................0.01.....01.101...............
.............. ,.> 01
‘special report: this just in...’ ..> .
/ fevercam:
// > 101 0 ^ 0 1.)0
/”!/^ .1 0
>10 (,. < eyes >+=
/ ./ <% > blur^>, 0 10 .
. /’% ,/ 0 10
. sig.nal / (@ image.. .
/., [click] cklickk /war clikxk>
^/ contact... lost
/ , name: nola/0.2 0/blue ?>
,^ 010 1.,. / . 1/ <, 0
/.0, ‘On the news tonight...’
( / /&^C%.. ?: ..
burn of ; .0 .1 .
010/1. shiver-glow
/. ‘paramorphic//?(intrf*rence pat/erns
01 >/ / skull
NOISE ! 110 , ..
1/ ‘’
< /&^0 101 01”?voices> /” ,.>
. .>>/ 01 10^ :cloud*01 1
> n.o/&>>.la^^
heatSKIN. / . . *
/ ‘problems with new fractal-wave admitted’>
* isolation tv:/ [1 2 3 4 5]>[1]
< > / /? .
/ .* zoomflesh >// [click]
/‘...’> *(^ 10
. ? ,.
/ < .,:
* 01 1 .> 010
...search for>/,,
*ESC. >
-11-
Introducing George Gold.
Georgie Boy.
The Man himself, incorporated.
He was drawn and dissected in the press as the number one Expressionistic Purloiner of Young Musical Talent and corrupter thereof, and yet he himself claimed that his heart beat louder for his protégés than for himself.
A few believed him; most did not.
He was called a master encoder of secret messages both above and below the dotted line, but his deals made money for all concerned even if the perks and fractions were sliced in his direction.
George was a self-made man, the type who was more than happy to give out his drop-of-a-hat biog: ex guitar player, ex boxer, ex bookie, ex menswear catalogue model, one-time magician on the chicken and chips circuit. Rumours of being a bondage addict. Speech sample: ‘I spent two years in the fucking nick for assuming a false identity in order to obtain monies, and I’ve never looked back. Fuck no. I’m still doing it. Still wearing a mask.’
Self-styled survivor of the one thousand knocks, the false and true accusations, the weekend press smear-jobs.
Proud recipient of the Order of the British Empire, for services to Music and the Arts.
Brought up the youngest of five, absent father, mother barely there in any kind of mental or spiritual capacity. George dragged himself along by his own two claws, sharpened on the grindstone. Formed his first band at the age of fifteen and has never since walked down any normal pathway. His soul is honed and toned, even now when his body is heading for flab. In his own words: ‘I’m goaded and punished by the twin sisters of music and money, lovely evil sluts the both of them.’
Secretly, he’s urged on only by his fear of falling, of tumbling back down to where he came from.
George was now fifty-seven years old, twice divorced, with only one child, a grown-up daughter. He loved the music his company put out, loved it dearly, but more than anything he wanted to make one great record, a swaggering heaven-scented blood-sugaring three minute teenage symphony he could be truly proud of, something of value. This desire however would remain secret, unfulfilled.
Profession stated on passport: Impresario.
In his heart: Culture Pirate.
Votes: Conservative.
Thinks: old-school Socialist.
George Gold owned at least five residences dotted around the planet. His main London place was a mews cottage on the edge of Hampstead Heath. Here he sits. His personal secretary has been dismissed, the study lights are turned low, the whisky is poured.
He’s alone.
~~~
It was seven o’clock, time for his nightly witness.
George turned on the visionplex. The pictures fluttered into view.
There it was.
The Pleasure Dome.
He gazed at the screen for a while, at the circular ring fence, the silent crowds. The semi-spherical structure itself with its constantly changing display of thoughts and feelings.
His eyes lost focus.
Hands tapping at the armrest. Mouth dry.
He could resist no longer.
His fingers pressed on the remote control, changing the camera view.
Now he was gazing into the Dome, inside, at the figure who crouched there, the woman.
Closer.
Tap, tap...
On the zoom.
The woman’s face covered in mud, twigs in her hair.
Her filthy hands scrabbling for a bone to chew on.
George felt his eyes dampen at the sight.
Melissa...
Melissa, my child. My only one.
Melissa.
The woman in the Dome started to howl.
The crowd at the fence watched in silence, so many haunted creatures standing in a forest clearing.
Moonflicker. Cloudpass.
Images cascading over the surface of the Dome.
In the crowd, a murmuring of breath, whispers. A word or two barely spoken. Nothing more.
The fans stood in their ranks, all in line, curve upon curve, all staring ahead. Hoping for a sign, a sliver of understanding, the secret of the universe to be given to them. Here, at the centre of mediated life, their one desire...to glimpse the mathematics behind the code.
A message.
Melissa. Melissa Gold speak to us now. Show us your thoughts. Give us pictures. Give us sustenance, that we may live on, beyond the programme, beyond captivation.
This is all they wanted.
Life itself. As they could never live it themselves.
George watched the screen.
He saw the faint lamp-red glow at Melissa’s temples, as the implanted transmission devices sent their message to the domeskin. He watched her face set in concentration. He looked on as she twisted bits of stick and string and stones into some kind of elaborate machinery of her own devising. He viewed his beloved lost daughter as she tugged at her own hair, pulling, using the torn strands to bind the various parts of the device together.
Now she looked up, into a roving camera’s eye.
Her mouth was moving.
Hidden microphones opened themselves wide to capture and magnify the voice.
I was never like the rest of them.
Melissa spoke.
Never like the famous ones. Can't you see that, Daddy? I could never be what you wanted. I could never be good enough, not really. I needed to find a way out, a means of escape.
Melissa’s face filled the screen.
George stared at her.
Those lips, those eyes. The cheekbones. The tiny crinkles below each tear duct. The words written in dirt on her arms. Such terrible words.
He leaned in even closer, his fingers pressing at the screen.
Touch me...touch me.
Lines of interference cut through the image.
George felt his heart tighten. If he could only stretch forward a hand, to caress that skin, that lovely skin, real or unreal. All then would be well.
Yes, surely, all would then be well...
A noise disturbed him.
A buzzing sound, alien, faraway.
His eyes closed, opened again. The spell was broken and only now could he turn away from the screen. He felt immediately at a loss. The world seemed to have less weight, less substance.
The buzzer continued.
It was one of the guards, calling up from the gate saying that Nola Blue was here, demanding to be let in. George gave his assent. The visit was expected.
He poured himself another shot of 12 year old malt.
Nola entered the room quietly.
George barely glanced at her, saying: ‘Here she is, my favourite. My Nola. My little goldmine.’ He spoke without inflection, stating facts. ‘Look at this.’ He gestured towards the screen, which was still tuned into the Dome.
Static half-clouded the screen.
‘The signal’s getting fucked up good and nasty.’
Nola watched the programme. One of the attendants was passing food into the Dome.
‘I don’t know how Melissa does this,’ she said.
This brought a sideways glance from George.
‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘Poor sweet thing, she’s been in there for months now. No wonder she’s all confused.’
‘Months?’
He nodded.
‘George, it’s been three weeks. That’s all. Three weeks. You just think it’s more than that.’
He screwed his lips up tight. ‘You don't get this, do you, Nola? You just don’t get it.’
‘I guess not.’
‘She’s trying to make something of herself, that’s all. She’s tired of Daddy always being there for her, always looking after her, always being this giant iconic monster standing in her path, blocking the way.’
‘I can understand that,’ Nola said.
George looked at her properly for the first time. ‘That’s what she called me once, can you believe it? A huge fucking iconic Monster. Me! Finicky little Georgie Boy. I mean, come on!’
Nola ignored him. She ran a finger along a record shelf.
He watched her, asking, ‘Why are you wearing gloves?’
‘It’s the new thing. Everybody’s doing it.’
‘What? The latest fashion, is it? Did one of our image advisors give them to you?’
‘If you like.’
‘What are they, driving gloves? That’s ridiculous. Take them off.’
Nola smiled. Row after row of old record sleeves were stacked in strict chronological order, music from all the centuries since the printed score began, up to and including the latest young hip thing. Spines cracked, many covers dirty and torn and scrawled upon. Not exhibits: music to be played, to be used. Day after day.
George shook his head. ‘Children are put upon this earth to torment us, most surely,’ He turned back to the screen. His daughter was reaching up to grab at the scraps of food the attendant was handing her through the portal. George continued: ‘They mess you up and they break you down and leave you stranded. And you know what? They enjoy doing so.’
Nola picked up a glossy magazine from a coffee table. She flipped through the pages.
George look quizzical. ‘Weeks, you say? Not months?’
‘Three weeks and two days.’
‘You’ve been watching?’
‘Oh, more than that.’
‘What?’
Nola shrugged.
George glanced at her. ‘Melissa is acting weird, don't you think?’
‘It’s always weird. That’s the nature of the Dome.’
‘Yes, but not like this. Not this bad. I mean...she’s practically an animal.’ George shook his head. ‘It’s disgusting. Really.’
‘She’s getting close.’
‘Close?’
‘To the truth.’
George looked at Nola. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’
Nola smiled. ‘The occupant needs to be isolated, stripped of basic human values. Only then is the mind truly alive to the moment by moment flow of images.’
‘Oh. You think?’
‘Truth is not born from beauty. It’s born from dirt.’
George waved his hand at this. ‘What is that? Poetry or something? I don’t know what you mean, Nola. You’re not making sense.’
She nodded and grinned and watched him for a while. Her manager sat there, bathed in blue screen light, his face glowing sad at the sights on view.
Nola spoke with kindness. ‘It’s not her. It’s not really her, you do know that. It’s not Melissa. It’s just her image.’
George shook his head at this. His eyes were lost and clouded. His yellow-stained fingers wavered over the buttons on the remote. ‘There’s a difference?’ he asked.
Nola looked at him. ‘George...you really think you created me, don’t you?’
He stared at her: ‘I did.’
The words lay between them.
‘I was always in denial of that,’ Nola said. ‘I had so many...dreams...that I thought they had to be mine and mine alone. They didn’t belong to you.’
‘I allowed you to dream.’
Nola smiled.
‘No more.’
She felt cold at saying this, almost as though she had betrayed him, abandoned her mentor to loneliness.
George shook his head. ‘I don't know what you’re saying.’
‘Your days are passing.’
‘Why are you being like this?’
She found a magazine article about herself. The photographs had been digitally mutated, excised of every human flaw.
‘Maybe I should try that one time.’
‘What?’
‘Covering myself in mud, in shit. Tearing my hair out, eating barely cooked meat on live scattercast.’
George frowned at her. He took her in, head to foot, saying: ‘You’re not looking too well, pumpkin.’
‘Look at this, George.’ She brandished the magazine, the layout. ‘I look like a doll, a great big grown-up plastic dolly.’
‘Nola?’
‘If I took up a knife, right this moment...if I should cut myself, slice myself open, what would happen? I’d collapse. No blood. Just the air escaping from me. I’d vanish.’
‘You’re not still worried about the single, are you?’
Nola shook her head. She made a noise, a drawn breath. The magazine fell from her hands.
George asked: ‘What have you been doing with yourself?’
‘Driving. Just driving around.’
‘On your own?’
A shrug. Nola pulled her overcoat tighter around her body.
‘And the same last night?’ George continued. ‘Am I right? You know success is fine from a distance, Nola, but up close it breeds jealousy. You have to be careful out there.’
‘So you say.’
‘They can turn nasty.’
‘They?’
‘The punters. They might see you in the wrong light, and come over all Roman Empire on you. It happens, believe me. They might well tear that lovely body of yours to shreds.’
‘That might be welcomed.’
George sighed. ‘It’s not over yet, my dear.’
‘What isn't?’
‘Your career. Not yet. Not quite yet.’
Nola kept silent on this.
‘Oh fuck. There it goes again.’ This from George as he stood up and walked over to the screen. ‘Should I celebrate this, or curse it?’ He jabbed at the remote, but it was no good; the image was flickering, black to white, black to white to black. The sole inhabitant of the Dome was seen only in the moments between darkness. George cursed. ‘Too much god-awful stupid interference. Electric storms in the ionos
phere. Too many satellites up there, the signals cross over each other. And not only that, the bloody moon’s slipping out of orbit, now. I read that, online.’
‘You believe these things?’
‘Some such.’
He pressed at the remote, bringing up scenes from other cameras, finding one that remained stable. It patrolled the area around the Dome.
‘Look at them all, Nola. All drawn by some kind of force-beam or something, some twisted-up desire. It’s the central node, you see, where the Nation’s desires gather. And what are they doing? They’re not chanting anymore, they’re not screaming and clapping and all the usual stuff, no, they’re just standing there in some kind of media trance.’
Nola moved closer to the visionplex.
She felt her own body warming up, the nearer she got,
bursts of electrical energy
travelling her brain and nervous system.
Her fingertips glowed.
She studied the faces of the audience.
The camera chose one young couple for its special attention, two of the more photogenic specimens. Their faces were fixed at one shared angle, their eyes spellbound as they gazed at the Dome. Now the viewpoint shifted to the Pleasure Dome itself. The screen fizzed with lines of snow and pixel dust. And even the moon was faulty; the silver globe that hung above was flickering with cloud cover, atmospherics.
The light was failing.
The crowds at the fence stood with their heads bowed, in reverence before the Church of the Sacred Image.
They might well be praying.
Nola’s skull buzzed with noise. She could imagine the global audience in their millions, in their true goggle-eyed multitude, watching this poor young woman, Melissa.
Three weeks and more. Twenty-three days of the body under constant surveillance, loved and prodded by lenses and microphones, followed and scanned, examined. Days and nights of the mind being sucked, hollowed out, scoured and framed, images pulled loose and projected wide onto the Dome that lay above her, around her on all sides, enclosing.
Viewers worldwide lay bets on the extent and future chronology of Melissa’s breakdown. They wanted the breakdown. It would be sustenance to them, fuel for the desperate party of their own lives, and compensation for all the cold nights they had stared at their own faces in like manner, the mirror’s need drawing them forth. The viewers yearned to see themselves up there on the screen, not as superstars, but as broken people, survivors damaged by love and by hate and work and departing children and illness and grief and frustration and betrayal and laziness and distrust and all the games they had played and lost in the past: well now let somebody else fail, they were saying, let them suffer instead of me.
