Pixel Juice

by Jeff Noon

  Well weird and travelling. The three of them, J-Loop and the Princess and the Noodles inside, running away from Manchester's clutches. Paw to paw to paw they scamper, outlanding to where the smell of fresh meat plays above the city's gates. Sniffing at freedom's tang, making homeless home beneath the sparkle stars.

  You catch this ball yet?

  This little story being told by J-Loop himself, his ravenous dogself.

  DUB WEIRD

  (crawling kingdog remix)

  hungry worm come a crawling

  (I said)

  slow hungry worm come a crawling

  bad beat upside me brain

  dogga tune! dogga tune!

  those worms sure got me mauling

  gonna bite me some chain

  howl down the moon

  devil worm sure got me itchin'

  (I said)

  bad devil worm sure got me itchin'

  aphrodisiac in me feed

  dogga tune! dogga tune!

  gonna do me some serious bitchin'

  chew me off some lead

  howl down the moon

  bad arse worm sure got me belly up

  (I said)

  that bad arse worm sure got me belly up

  natty furlocks and ting

  dogga tune! dogga tune!

  gonna find me a bone to sup

  chew me through some string

  howl down the moon

  crazy worm ain't got me afeard

  (I said)

  crazy mad worm ain't got me afeard

  got me legs ten feet tall

  dogga tune! dogga tune!

  sniffing tang well fuckin' weird

  gonna catch me some ball

  howl down the moon

  (you catch it?) howl down that big old moon

  THE CHARISMA ENGINE

  Emerson and Scott's Complete Tables of Charismatic Value: 1895 to 2105 records the personality ratings of all the many thousands of people who have scored over 1,575 jaggers, for the years stated in the title. The copy I possess has a natural tendency to fall open at the pages corresponding to the year 1999, this being the period of history I had studied for my final paper at university.

  I had, for that paper, concentrated on the more well-known personalities, my work being a comparative analysis of the various examinations already done. For this, the first project of my leisure, I had a more ambitious notion: to undertake the study of a figure as yet untouched by the academic hand. Consequently, on the occasion I speak of, it was towards the lower end of the charismatic scale that I made my perusal. What governing, overarching mind guided my eye towards the name I eventually chanced upon, I cannot say; but guided I was, of that I now have no doubt. I give here the exact entry:

  LUCINDA TONGUEBRIGHT (1978-1999)

  vocalist, composer, musician, actress

  charisma rating (estimated): 1,576 jaggers

  It seemed a dreadfully thin summation of a life, even for a person who died so young; twenty-one years old, when she left this world. And such a low score; why, only two less jagger points and she would have been unlisted. It goes without saying that I had never heard mention of Lucinda Tonguebright before this moment. One fact was immediately obvious: she had achieved her entry in the same year as her death — 1999. A quick study of the preceding years confirmed my suspicions: her very death had produced the interest in her life. This is often the case, especially if the death be a mysterious or notorious, or a cruel one.

  Perhaps it was the name; the wonderful name — a singer bright of tongue. Perhaps it was the way she hovered so, barely on the edge of being remembered at all. Whatever the reason, I found myself strongly drawn to this young woman born over one-hundred-and-fifty years ago. I could only hope she was suitably, so to speak, unexplored. Moving quickly to my computing engine, I entered the candidate's name and her year of birth into my expert locator. You may imagine my dismay to find that an archaeology had already been performed. A researcher whose name was unfamiliar to me — Professor Alexander Bringhome — had already examined the archives for this very same singer. It seemed I would have to choose again from my Emerson and Scott.

  However, something still drew me towards the woman. I quickly established from the data that Professor Bringhome had last consulted the archives in 2047, fully eighty-two years ago! On a whim I activated a search for any papers or theses dealing with the young woman. To my delight, none turned up. The professor had obviously decided she was too uninteresting for a published study. Excellent! I now had a subject worthy of my burgeoning talents.

  The few days following my decision were spent in the most delightful manner, as I gathered together copies of all the known artefacts of the singer. They amounted to a surprising testimony, for one so young: four albums of recorded music; a leading role in a moving picture; a book of poetry; several appearances on television. Add to this the various newsprint items I collected - interviews, profiles, reviews and photographs - as well as the few personal items I managed to uncover - candid snapshots, fan letters, demonstration tapes and the like — and I soon had enough material to begin my examination.

  The task was made substantially more interesting by the very appearance of Miss Tonguebright, which was most displeasing to the eye; in truth, she was a woman of uncommon drabness, a fact that leads one to believe some other, more tantalizing aspect must have led to her charismatic value. Of her life little need be said, containing as it did nothing that could not be found in all such media studies of the late twentieth century. As I originally suspected, only the study of the young woman's death — at the very height of her fame — seemed to offer a promising outlet for my talents.

  Miss Tonguebright's transport was found abandoned near a notorious river, across which a high bridge offered dire temptation to the lost. She had been due to appear that weekend at a prestigious music festival; it was entirely another audience that greeted her body being dragged from the waters fully two weeks later. A public inquiry reached a verdict of 'death by misadventure'.

  Using my collection of media traces I did my own measurement of the woman's charismatic rating; finding it to be worth 1,629 jagger points, a score somewhat higher than Emerson and Scott had estimated. Having posted this new rating off to the publishers of the book, including in the package all the relevant equations, I then spent another week or so attempting to uncover further traces, specifically relating to the death, thinking perhaps to reveal the psychological trauma that had led to it.

  Coming across only some press reports referring to the singer's apparent nervousness about the upcoming festival, and a certain listlessness in her recent performances - 'thin and wasted', one reviewer called her - it seemed inevitable I would have to abandon the study. This I prepared to do with a heavy heart, for I had become quite enamoured of the young artist's work; listening to her recordings almost every night, and watching the film she had starred in over and over with increasing frequency. In truth, Lucinda's charismatic force, over myself alone, was far, far higher than the new public rating I had submitted.

  This new-found passion would have been entirely in vain were it not for a remark made at a dinner party I attended a few weeks later, at the behest of my former personal tutor at the university. I had accepted the kind invitation with some gratitude, for I had hardly ventured outside my house in a good number of weeks. After a delightful repast, the professor and I settled down to discuss matters of mutual interest. When asked with what project I was occupying my skills, I had told, quite innocently, of my interest in the woman called Lucinda Tonguebright; a remark to which the professor had replied:

  'Ah, the Bringhome Project!'

  Somewhat taken aback at this, I immediately asked: 'What? You know of Professor Bringhome's work?'

  'Know of it? A little; merely rumours.'

  'I have seen mention of his name,' I said. 'He too consulted the archives regarding Lucinda... I mean, Miss Tonguebright. The only other consultation on record. What was his interest in th
e woman?'

  'I'm not entirely sure. The older members of staff sometimes whisper his name.'

  'You mean Bringhome was ... ?'

  'Yes, he was a professor at our university.'

  Upon hearing this fact, I once again had the curious notion that my interest in Lucinda Tonguebright was no mere affair of chance. Barely able to contain myself, I at once enquired as to the nature of Bringhome's field of study.

  'Ah, now ... image retrieval systems, I believe,' replied my host. 'Apparently there was some kind of scandal. Bringhome was forced to leave his post because of it.'

  'What kind of scandal?'

  'Something to do with a sponsorship deal. But really, I know very little.'

  Suffice it to say, not a day later I was paying a visit to my former place of learning, the University of Manchester. Seating myself at one of the ports of entry for the university's computing engine, I entered into it the words: BRINGHOME, ALEXANDER. As suspected, the engine refused my advances. Pausing only to establish my privacy, I then brought from my travelling case my recently purchased unlocking device, the Houdini Model Superior. Affixing this to the engine, I had only to wait a few seconds before a successful, if somewhat illegal, revealing was performed. Unfortunately, the information so gathered seemed of little use; evidently the authorities of the time had deemed it wise to archive as little as possible regarding the professor. Nothing was said of the so-called scandal, except that the reason for his dismissal, in 2050, was listed as 'Unprofessional behaviour, regarding the Xikon sponsorship'.

  Once back in my own study - with the exquisite voice and playing of Miss Tonguebright as my muse - I consulted my trusty locating engine, seeking out any publicly available information on both Professor Bringhome and the company calling itself Xikon. The professor yielded little more than a few mentions in papers on the history of image retrieval, and these were all in praise of his expertise. It was as though the scandal had been erased from all memory. I did manage to unearth a photograph of the man; it revealed a dark, hooded countenance etched by some inner pain. The Xikon location search produced a more fruitful bounty, including a history of the company, relevant parts of which I now summarize:

  Xikon Ltd was founded in the last years of the twentieth century, with the stated intention of becoming a major provider of media-effects technology. Success with the pioneering Image Retrieval System — most famously in the year 2009 with the Marilyn Monroe vehicle, Some Life It Hotter Than Ever, where an entirely new performance by the actress was constructed out of all the films, photographs and voice-recordings she had produced during her tragically short lifetime — established the company as a world leader in its field. Miss Monroe was only the first of a long line of regenerated artistes.

  The even greater success, four years later, of the 'enhanced reality' version of the software led to an unprecedented public hunger for the 'new and improved' actors. The extent to which the more gullible believed in these fake stars was shown by the increasing demand for 'personal' appearances. The invention of the holograph engine, in 2034, gave Xikon the power to satisfy these demands. From now on, all manifestations in public could be generated in three dimensions, powered by a simple laptop computer. Movie stars, television personalities, politicians, famous sportsmen, even members of the royal family: anybody who had left enough media traces behind could now be retrieved, enhanced, given a kind of pretend life — copyright permitting. Artificial Intelligence systems gave these 'simutainers' a projected voice, and a somewhat limited personality.

  But still, something was missing from the equation; as one correspondent to the company wrote: 'Loved your Princess Di. But where's the twinkle in the eye?' Subsequently, in 2046, and in the face of increasing competition from rival companies, Xikon initiated Project Propagation. This visionary scheme, to be led by Professor Alexander Bringhome of the University of Manchester, was intended to offer the most lifelike regeneration the market had ever seen. According to their publicity material, the company would make 'a simulation so enhanced, even its own mother would greet it with a big sloppy kiss!'

  I must admit to a feeling of disappointment at reading this; it seemed the professor had only been interested in Miss Tonguebright for the purposes of resurrecting her image, with purely commercial reasons behind the scheme. I knew a little of the fashion for retrieved images in the middle of the last century; indeed, I had studied the scientific basis for it as part of my course. However, the above-quoted history passed over Xikon's grandly tided Project Propagation in a few dismissive lines, calling it a failure of the first order, and the seed of the company's eventual demise.

  One aspect of this history puzzled me dearly: surely Miss Tonguebright's charisma had been too low for a successful image resurrection? Usually, such operations were performed on the very famous, for only they could possibly supply the necessary range of source material. The explanation, when it hit me, caused me to feel a profound affinity with Professor Bringhome: for he too must have been enamoured of the mousy young woman's strangely appealing image. He too must have given her a personal rating far above any effect she may have had in her real life.

  However, all my researches had brought me no closer to uncovering the reasons for Lucinda Tonguebright's suicide. Again, an unfathomable despair shadowed my every thought; a despair kept scarcely at bay by a continuous merging of my senses with the woman's collected works. Even when the music fell silent, still it seemed to echo through the empty rooms of my house, as if through the chambers of the heart. You may imagine my surprise therefore, when, a few days later, I received the following unsolicited message over my communicating engine:

  Dear Mr Newne,

  I pray you will forgive this stark invasion of your privacy. During the last few days, by means of an expert (and quite illicit) monitoring service, I have become aware of your interest in Professor Alexander Bringhome's life and work. I must pray forgiveness also (shall I run out of prayers before this letter is through?) for conducting a covert research into your background and social standing. Professor Bringhome was my father, and if your interest in his work is truly genuine, I entreat you to reply in the first instance. I have a proposal that may be of interest.

  Yours,

  Miss Hildegard Bringhome

  The reader may safely be assured that I did reply to the communication, and in the very first instance, and that I made thereby an appointment to meet with Hildegard Bringhome at the earliest possible convenience.

  Her house, conveniently enough, was located in the village of West Didsbury, a well-kempt leafy suburb some few miles outside of Manchester, and not very far from where I myself lived. I arrived there charged with a nervousness I had hardly felt since my early youth. It was the winter of the year by now, and a weighted bank of cloud gave a darkened aspect to the large, and very old house that stood before me. No shred of light escaped from its windows, despite the lateness of the hour.

  The door was opened by a young man, a servant of some kind, who ushered me into a dismally lit drawing room; a number of candles, set here and there on the antique furniture, created a flickering dance of shadows rather than any significant illumination. One wall was entirely filled with books, and it was with these that I settled my nerves as I awaited Miss Bringhome's arrival. One volume was a handsomely bound copy of Emerson and Scott's Tables of Charisma, the rare 2077 edition. I had opened this at random, and was studying the entries for whatever year it had fallen to, when a voice at my back announced, 'We have similar tastes, I see.'

  Startled, I turned around, the book still open in my hands. Seated before me, in a corner of the room not even the candlelight dared approach, was an old woman. She was dressed in a simple off-white shift, above which her lined, wizened face seemed to float in the gloom. 'Miss Bringhome,' I stuttered, 'You surprised me. I did not think—'

  'Please, sit down,' the old woman answered. 'We have much to discuss.'

  I took the seat proffered, some distance from where she herself was perche
d. The woman had a face that seemed to shift constantly between aspects — at one moment she would appear old beyond measure; at other times, a glimpse of the strikingly beautiful young woman she must once have been would shine through the furrowed mask. We talked a little of her father, and she revealed that he had died in 2053, at the age of thirty-nine; 'old', as she said, 'well before his time, and dragged down by that wretched Xikon business'.

  Upon hearing the company spoken of thus, I immediately asked for details of the scandal. I might well have been more circumspect, had I anticipated her reaction.

  'Scandal!' she said, fairly hissing the word. 'I will have no such word mentioned. No such word, do you hear? My father followed the company's orders to the letter. Later, they claimed he had failed them. That could not be further from the truth. If anything, my father was too successful with his workings. Too damned successful!'

  The curse shocked me, coming from such an elderly personage. Hoping to conduct the conversation back to gentler ground, I enquired about the proposal mentioned in the letter.

  'That is simply stated,' the old woman replied. 'I have prepared my father's various papers for your inspection.' She referred here to several bound notebooks set on a small table beside my chair. 'It would give me great comfort, sir, if you were to look over them.'

  'Miss Bringhome ... I feel hardly qualified for such—'

  'I wish only that you would read my father's notebooks. That is all I ask. And that you write a short report, giving your honest opinion as to the work's commercial viability. I have a great desire, you see, that my father's reputation should be salvaged, and by an academic such as yourself.'

  'If I may venture ... is it not a little late, for..."

  I could hardly finish the sentence.

  'Sir! You speak of lateness, to one as old as I? I have waited many years for someone to take an interest in my father's work. I shall not be ungenerous, let me assure you.'

  If only to calm the lady down, I quickly agreed to the sum mentioned. In truth, I was already eager to take the papers away with me, the better to study them. Even this was against her wishes, however: 'I cannot allow the papers out of my sight,' she said. 'I will ask you therefore to accept the hospitality of my home while you make your report.'