She positioned herself on the Playmobil couch and looked at the programs scattered across the top of the coffee table. The Sandbenders system software looked like an old-fashioned canvas water bag, a sort of canteen (she’d had to consult What Things Are, her icon dictionary, to figure that out). It was worn and spectacularly organic, with tiny beads of water bulging through the tight weave of fabric. If you got in super close you saw things reflected in the individual droplets: circuitry that was like beadwork or the skin on a lizard’s throat, a long empty beach under a gray sky, mountains in the rain, creek water over different-colored stones. She loved Sandbenders; they were the best. THE SANDBENDERS, OREGON, was screened faintly across the sweating canvas, as though it had almost faded away under a desert sun. SYSTEM 5.9. (She had all the upgrades, to 6.3. People said 6.4 was buggy.)
Beside the water bag lay her schoolwork, represented by a three-ring binder suffering the indignities of artificial bit-rot, its wire-frame cover festered with digital mung. She’d have to reformat that before she started her new school, she reminded herself. Too juvenile.
Her Lo/Rez collection, albums, compilations and bootlegs, were displayed as the original cased disks. These were stacked up, as casually as possible, beside the archival material she’d managed to assemble since being accepted into the Seattle chapter. This looked, thanks to a fortuitous file-swap with a member in Sweden, like a lithographed tin lunch box, Rez and Lo peering stunned and fuzzy-eyed from its flat, rectangular lid. The Swedish fan had scanned the artwork from the five printed surfaces of the original, then mapped it over wireframe. The original was probably Nepalese, definitely unlicensed, and Chia appreciated the reverse cachet. Zona Rosa coveted a copy, but so far all she’d offered were a set of cheesy tv spots for the fifth Mexico Dome concert. They weren’t nearly cheesy enough, and Chia wasn’t prepared to swap. There was a shadowy Brazilian tour documentary supposed to have been made by a public-access subsidiary of Globo. Chia wanted that, and Mexico was the same direction as Brazil.
She ran a finger down the stacked disks, her hand wireframed, the finger tipped with quivering mercury, and thought about the Rumor. There had been rumors before, there were rumors now, there would always be rumors. There had been the rumor about Lo and that Danish model, that they were going to get married, and that had probably been true, even though they never did. And there were always rumors about Rez and different people. But that was people. The Danish model was people, as much as Chia thought she was a snotbag. The Rumor was something else.
What, exactly, she was on her way to Tokyo to find out.
She selected Lo Rez Skyline.
The virtual Venice her father had sent for her thirteenth birthday looked like an old dusty book with leather covers, the smooth brown leather scuffed in places into a fine suede, the digital equivalent of washing denim in a machine full of golf balls. It lay beside the featureless, textureless gray file that was her copy of the divorce decree and the custody agreement.
She pulled the Venice toward her, opened it. The fish flickered out of phase, her system launching a subroutine.
Venice decompressed.
The Piazza in midwinter monochrome, its facades texturemapped in marble, porphyry, polished granite, jasper, alabaster (the rich mineral names scrolling at will in the menu of peripheral vision). This city of winged lions and golden horses. This default hour of gray and perpetual dawn.
She could be alone here, or visit with the Music Master.
Her father, phoning from Singapore to wish her a happy birthday, had told her that Hitler, during his first and only visit, had slipped away to range the streets alone, in these same small hours, mad perhaps, and trotting like a dog.
Chia, who had only a vague idea who Hitler might have been, and that mainly from references in songs, understood the urge. The stones of the Piazza flowed beneath her like silk, as she raised a silvered finger and sped into the maze of bridges, water, arches, walls.
She had no idea what this place was meant to mean, the how or why of it, but it fit so perfectly into itself and the space it occupied, water and stone slotting faultlessly into the mysterious whole.
The gnarliest piece of software ever, and here came the opening chords of “Positron Premonition.”
5. Nodal Points
Clinton Emory Hillman, twenty-five: hairdresser, sushi chef, music journalist, porno extra, reliable purveyor of proscribed fetal tissue cultures to three of the more endomorphic members of the decidedly meshbacked Dukes of Nuke ’Em, whose “Gulf War Baby” was eighteen with a bullet on the Billboard chart, in heavy rotation on I (heart) America, and had already been the subject of diplomatic protests from several Islamic states.
Kathy Torrance looked as though she might be prepared to be pleased. “And the fetal tissue, Laney?”
“Well,” Laney said, putting the ’phones down beside the computer, “I think that might be the good part.”
“Why?”
“It has to be Iraqi. They make a point of insisting on that. They won’t shoot up any other kind.”
“You’re hired.”
“I am?”
“You must have correlated the calls to Ventura with the parking charges from the garage in the Beverly Center. Although that running gag about ‘Gulf War babies’ would’ve been hard to miss.”
“Wait a minute,” Laney said. “You knew.”
“It’s the top segment on Wednesday’s show.” She closed the computer without bothering to turn off Clint Hillman’s detweaked chin. “But now I’ve had a chance to watch you work, Laney. You’re a natural. I could almost believe there might actually be something to that nodal point bullshit. Some of your moves made no logical sense whatever, but I’ve just watched you hone in, cold, on something it took three experienced researchers a month to excavate. You did it in just under half an hour.”
“Some of that was illegal,” Laney said. “You’re tied into parts of DatAmerican that you aren’t supposed to be.”
“Do you know what a nondisclosure agreement is, Laney?”
Yamazaki looked up from his notebook. “Very good,” he said, probably to Blackwell. “This is very good.”
Blackwell shifted his weight, the chair’s polycarbon frame creaking faintly in protest. “But he didn’t last there, did he?”
“A little over six months,” Laney said.
Six months could be a very long time, at Slitscan.
He used most of his first month’s salary to lease a micro-batchelor in a retrofitted parking structure on Broadway Avenue, Santa Monica. He bought shirts he thought were more like the ones people wore at Slitscan, and kept his Malaysian button-downs to sleep in. He bought an expensive pair of sunglasses and made sure he never displayed as much as a single felt-pen in his shirt pocket.
Life at Slitscan had a certain focused quality. Laney’s colleagues limited themselves to a particular bandwidth of emotion. A certain kind of humor, as Kathy had said, was highly valued, but there was remarkably little laughter. The expected response was eye contact, a nod, the edge of a smile. Lives were destroyed here, and sometimes re-created, careers crushed or made anew in guises surreal and unexpected. Because Slitscan’s business was the ritual letting of blood, and the blood it let was an alchemical fluid: celebrity in its rawest, purest form.
Laney’s ability to locate key data in apparently random wastes of incidental information earned him the envy and grudging admiration of more experienced researchers. He became Kathy’s favorite, and was almost pleased when he discovered that a rumor had spread that they were having an affair.
They weren’t—except for that one time at her place in Sherman Oaks, and that hadn’t been a good idea. Nothing either of them wanted to repeat.
But Laney was still narrowing down, getting focused, pushing the envelope of whatever it was that manifested as this talent, his touch. And Kathy liked that. With his eyephones on and Slitscan’s dedicated landline feeding him the bleak reaches of DatAmerica, he felt increasingly at home. He w
ent where Kathy suggested he go. He found the nodal points.
Sometimes, falling asleep in Santa Monica, he wondered vaguely if there might be a larger system, a field of greater perspective. Perhaps the whole of DatAmerica possessed its own nodal points, info-faults that might be followed down to some other kind of truth, another mode of knowing, deep within gray shoals of information. But only if there were someone there to pose the right question. He had no idea at all what that question might be, if indeed there were one, but he somehow doubted it would ever be posed from an SBU at Slitscan.
Slitscan was descended from “reality” programming and the network tabloids of the late twentieth century, but it resembled them no more than some large, swift, bipedal carnivore resembled its sluggish, shallow-dwelling ancestors. Slitscan was the mature form, supporting fully global franchises. Slitscan’s revenues had paid for entire satellites and built the building he worked in in Burbank.
Slitscan was a show so popular that it had evolved into something akin to the old idea of a network. It was flanked and buffered by spinoffs and peripherals, each designed to shunt the viewer back to the crucial core, the familiar and reliably bloody altar that one of Laney’s Mexican co-workers called Smoking Mirror.
It was impossible to work at Slitscan without a sense of participating in history, or else in what Kathy Torrance would argue had replacedhistory. Slitscan itself, Laney suspected, might be one of those larger nodal points he sometimes found himself trying to imagine, an informational peculiarity opening into some unthinkably deeper structure.
In his quest for lesser nodal points, the sort that Kathy sent him into DatAmerica to locate, Laney had already affected the courses of municipal elections, the market in patent gene futures, abortion laws in the State of New Jersey, and the spin on an ecstatic pro-euthanasia movement (or suicide cult, depending) called Cease Upon The Midnight, not to mention the lives and careers of several dozen celebrities of various kinds.
Not always for the worst, either, in terms of what the show’s subjects might have wished for themselves. Kathy’s segment on the Dukes of Nuke ’Em, exposing the band’s exclusive predilection for Iraqi fetal tissue, had sent their subsequent release instant platinum (and had resulted in show-trials and public hangings in Baghdad, but he supposed life was hard there to begin with).
Laney had never been a Slitscan viewer, himself, and he suspected that this had counted in his favor when he’d applied as a researcher. He had no strong opinion of the show either way. He accepted it, to the extent that he’d thought of it at all, as a fact of life. Slitscan was how a certain kind of news was done. Slitscan was where he worked.
Slitscan allowed him to do the one thing he possessed a genuine talent for, so he’d managed to avoid thinking in terms of cause and effect. Even now, attempting to explain himself to the attentive Mr.Yamazaki, he found it difficult to feel any clear linkage of responsibility. The rich and the famous, Kathy had once said, were seldom that way by accident. It was possible to be one or the other, but very seldom, accidentally, to be both.
Celebrities who were neither were something else again, and Kathy viewed these as crosses she must bear: a mass-murderer, for instance, or his most recent victim’s parents. No star quality (though she always held out hope for the murderers, feeling that at least the potential was there).
It was the other kind that Kathy wanted, directing the attentions of Laney and as many as thirty other researchers to the more private aspects of the lives of those who were deliberately and at least moderately famous.
Alison Shires wasn’t famous at all, but the man Laney had confirmed she was having an affair with was famous enough.
And then something began to come clear to Laney.
Alison Shires knew, somehow, that he was there, watching. As though she felt him gazing down, into the pool of data that reflected her life, its surface made of all the bits that were the daily record of her life as it registered on the digital fabric of the world.
Laney watched a nodal point begin to form over the reflection of Alison Shires.
She was going to kill herself.
6. DESH
Chia had programmed her Music Master to have an affinity for bridges. He appeared in her virtual Venice whenever she crossed one at moderate speed: a slender young man with pale blue eyes and a penchant for long, flowing coats.
He’d been the subject of a look-and-feel action, in his beta release, when lawyers representing a venerable British singer had protested that the Music Master’s designers had scanned in images of their client as a much younger man. This had been settled out of court, and all later versions, including Chia’s, were much more carefully generic. (Kelsey had told her that it had mainly had to do with changing one of his eyes, but why only the one?)
She’d fed him into Venice on her second visit, to keep her company and provide musical variety, and keying his appearances to moments when she crossed bridges had seemed like a good idea. There were lots of bridges in Venice, some of them no more than a little arc of stone steps spanning the narrowest of waterways. There was the Bridge of Sighs, which Chia avoided because she found it sad and creepy, and the Bridge of Fists, which she liked mainly for its name, and so many others. And there was the Rialto, big and humped and fantastically old, where her father said men had invented banking, or a particular kind of banking. (Her father worked for a bank, which was why he had to live in Singapore.)
She’d slowed her rush through the city now, and was cruising at a walking pace up the stepped incline of the Rialto, the Music Master striding elegantly beside her, his putty-colored trenchcoat flapping in the breeze.
“DESH,” he said, triggered by her glance, “the Diatonic Elaboration of Static Harmony. Also known as the Major Chord with Descending Bassline. Bach’s ‘Air on a G String,’ 1730. Procol Harum’s ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale,’ 1967.” If she made eye contact now, she’d hear his samples, directionless and at just the right volume. Then more about DESH, and more samples. She had him here for company, though, and not for a lecture. But lectures were all there was to him, aside from his iconics, which were about being blond and fine-boned and wearing clothes more beautifully than any human ever could. He knew everything there was to know about music, and nothing else at all.
She didn’t know how long she’d been in Venice, this visit. It was still that minute-before-dawn that she liked best, because she kept it that way. “Do you know anything about Japanese music?” she asked.
“What sort, exactly?”
“What people listen to.”
“Popular music?”
“I guess so.”
He paused, turning, hands in his trouser pockets and the trench-coat swinging to reveal its lining.
“We could begin with a music called enka,” he said, “although I doubt you’d like it.” Software agents did that, learned what you liked. “The roots of contemporary Japanese pop came later, with the wholesale creation of something called ‘group sounds.’ That was a copy-cat phenomenon, flagrantly commercial. Extremely watered down Western pop influences. Very bland and monotonous.”
“But do they really have singers who don’t exist?”
“The idol-singers,” he said, starting up the hump-backed incline of the bridge. “The idoru. Some of them are enormously popular.”
“Do people kill themselves over them?”
“I don’t know. They could do, I suppose.”
“Do people marry them?”
“Not that I know of.”
“How about Rei Toei?” Wondering if that was how you pronounced it.
“I’m afraid I don’t know her,” he said, with the slight wince that came when you asked him about music that had come out since his own release. This always made Chia feel sorry for him, which she knew was ridiculous.
“Never mind,” she said, and closed her eyes.
She removed her glasses.
After Venice, the plane felt even more low-ceilinged and narrow, a claustrophobic tube packed wit
h seats and people.
The blond was awake, watching her, looking a lot less like Ashleigh Modine Carter now that she’d removed most of her makeup. Her face only inches away.
Then she smiled. It was a slow smile, modular, as though there were stages to it, each one governed by a separate shyness or hesitation.
“I like your computer,” she said. “It looks like it was made by Indians or something.”
Chia looked down at her Sandbenders. Turned off the red switch. “Coral,” she said. “These are turquoise. The ones that look like ivory are the inside of a kind of nut. Renewable.”
“The rest is silver?”
“Aluminum,” Chia said. “They melt old cans they dig up on the beach, cast it in sand molds. These panels are micarta. That’s linen with this resin in it.”
“I didn’t know Indians could make computers,” the woman said, reaching out to touch the curved edge of the Sandbenders. Her voice was hesitant, light, like a child’s. The nail on the finger that rested on her Sandbenders was bright red, the lacquer chipped through and ragged. A tremble, then the hand withdrew.
“I drank too much. And with tequila in them, too. ‘Vitamin T,’ Eddie calls it. I wasn’t bad, was I?”
Chia shook her head.
“I can’t always remember, if I’m bad.”
“Do you know how much longer it is to Tokyo?” Chia asked, all she could think of to say.
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