‘There’s a store in Feilding.’
The assistant appeals to Jeremiah with her eyes.
‘Darling,’ he croons, ‘the tunnel was bombed. Be reasonable.’
‘Well, the Magnus crew can come back tomorrow. They can stay in Fielding. That’s a reasonable offer.’
‘I have to work tomorrow.’
‘That doesn’t matter. They can shoot you now and add me later.’
‘Come on, Karen.’
‘If they can animate the dead, they can splice us together.’
‘The dead?’
‘The garden.’
‘It’s not dead.’ The second this protest escapes his lips, Jeremiah regrets it. He will not squabble.
‘Something’s dying.’
Jeremiah’s warrior-like demeanour slips. For a second he is a speechless man in tight, snow-white summer casual wear. Then he’s angry. He flexes his jaw.
The photographer steps in. ‘Okay, people. If Karen is happy to use a personal item, we can do the boudoir shot as planned. Otherwise we can go non-branded family pyjamas. You guys decide what you want to do and we’ll get out of your way.’
Karen actually glares at Jeremiah while the crew make their way out. They both know she has no personal sleepwear. She sleeps naked or, more recently, in a T-shirt. The door closes. He waits.
‘Let’s get this over with,’ he tells her.
‘The shoot or the marriage?’
‘What?’
‘I’m not your Magnus accessory.’
‘Karen, this is good for us both.’ He indicates the door, outside which ears may be flapping.
‘This is cheese. The Magnus alpha male at home with his trophy wife.’
‘No.’
‘Yes. I’m off the tranquillisers and I’m not frightened into submission at the thought of losing your “financial protection” anymore.’
The financial protection jibe hurts. He regrets having threatened her to toe the line with that on the Mount. But her behaviour had been very erratic at the time. He’d been desperate. He lowers his voice. ‘This “cheesy” deal protects us. You saw what happened to the previous owner. They can’t turf us out like that if we’re both public figures.’
Her eyes flash. ‘Maybe I want to be turfed out.’ She wheels and strides away on her white heels into the ensuite and slams the door.
He crosses to the mirror and flexes his pecs. Silence from the bathroom. Experience has taught him that her tears do not necessarily constitute a full victory. She may emerge seeking a compromise. In which case he’ll grant her wish for a housewarming party first and move his work party back a week or two. But for that concession he will demand she pose on his shoulder, in the bed, in real time, in one of the skimpy numbers from the rack. She’s right: that’s what Magnus wants.
He knocks on the ensuite door.
The toilet flushes.
‘It’s me,’ he says softly.
No reply.
He tries the door and finds it’s not locked. Softly, he says, ‘I’m coming in.’
She turns from the mirror. Her clear eyes blaze at him.
His mouth opens in surprise.
‘I’m back,’ she tells him. ‘No longer tranquilised.’ She begins to apply lipstick.
He watches her. She had given him no quarter in their courtship. It was love and war, and everything was fair. The goal of winning her had been all-consuming. And while she embraced the main part of him—his strength, determination, ambition and lust for her—major hostilities had continued to flare up after their marriage. She had continued to surprise him, kept him guessing, kept him on his toes. And then, at some point after they’d moved in to the little flat on the Mount, she’d somehow capitulated. He was too busy to properly notice when it happened. In a way it was a relief to be able to work uninterrupted, being so busy. He didn’t have time to figure out the latest puzzle she presented.
Well? her eyes demand.
‘Yes, you are back.’
‘And?’
He holds out his hands. ‘Welcome back.’
‘You don’t mean that. You prefer the quiet version.’
‘No, it just feels a little bit like… going back in time.’
‘What? To a time when I had choices?’
‘No. To when we argued a lot.’
She pushes past him, sits on the bed and begins to unbuckle her heels. ‘This shoot’s over.’
‘You can have the housewarming party. Invite anyone you like—who can get a pass.’ Meaning none of her new crowd, he thinks, because security won’t allow it.
She suspends unbuckling and raises her eyebrows.
‘I’ll have a quiet work thing later,’ he adds.
‘Fine,’ she says, throwing off her heels. ‘We’ll do the shoot in family pyjamas.’
23
The little boardroom at Celebrity Visits that Trix, her lawyer, Louise Mathers, and Karen are ushered into is tidy and professional. After what seemed to Trix to be an appropriately unsigned, decaying and gated frontage, the room’s wooden veneer and immaculate hard-wearing carpet feel fake, as if a trapdoor will open beneath their feet.
‘Tea or coffee, ladies?’
Peter Dingle. A rabbit’s name in an old children’s book, Trix thinks. A pipe-smoking rabbit dressed in tweed who gives out drugged drinks to bunnies visiting his cosy burrow. His machine-cut double-breasted suit is like the boardroom, ostentatiously trying not to be what it really is: dirty trackpants and a stained singlet. Dingle is puffy, a little too animated. Perhaps a little startled, Trix thinks, by our type of feminine energy.
‘Tea, thanks.’
‘I’m okay,’ Louise says, seemingly surprised to find herself that way.
‘I’m fine.’
Dingle smiles at Karen. He has dimples and will display them. ‘Black or black?’
‘Surprise me.’
He pops out.
Louise asks, ‘On the sleaze-o-meter?’
Dingle pops back before he can be calibrated. ‘Now, Trix,’ he says, settling behind his laptop. ‘You’re Karen’s employer at TS Stanaway, but you’re not seeking royalties. I understand you’re here in a supportive role?’
‘Yes. Louise is my lawyer.’ Trix smiles. ‘We’d rather not be here at all, of course. We’d prefer that Celebrity Visits didn’t exist.’
‘Celebrity Visits pays its male and female avatars 20 per cent of gross takings for use of their approximate likeness. No other holovisit company pays a cent.’
Louise frowns. ‘Approximate likeness? Come on. The image is doctored just enough to avoid legal likeness. It still looks like Karen and that’s why people want to interact with it.’
‘A facial recognition programme will not recognise any of our holograms,’ Dingle states. ‘They do not attain legal likeness.’
‘Not all of the time, Mr Dingle, but a facial recognition programme will recognise one of your profiles some of the time.’
‘I’m not sure of the recognition percentages,’ Dingle huffs. ‘But I do know that no holovisit company is required to seek permissions or pay royalties due to the law of likeness.’ He turns to Karen and smiles. ‘Celebrity Visits is the only company that compensates their avatars. And we do it voluntarily.’
‘So, Mr Dingle,’ Louise says, ‘Karen is exploited by Celebrity Visits, her image used without permission, and we’re expected to be grateful?’
Dingle’s smile snaps shut. ‘The hologram is not her in any legal sense. I can refer you to our lawyer if you want to continue this discussion. If you want to change the law, go to parliament. If you want to change the internet, well…’ Dingle opens his hands. ‘Look, I’m just a businessman trying to make a deal that works for both of us.’
Trix turns to Louise. ‘I’d rather not protract this discussion.’
Louise turns to Dingle. ‘Your pitch, Mr Dingle?’
‘Yes.’ He clears his throat. His face is red as he turns to Trix and smiles. ‘As I communicated to you earlier, Celebrit
y Visits expects revenue to grow considerably with our new Companionship and Coffee and Conversation programmes. At the end of the day, that’s where most of our customers spend the majority of their time online.’ He smiles warmly at Karen. ‘Companionship is the thing they yearn for. Talking. Sharing. Feeling that they’re not alone. That’s where real intimacy lies. This is an opportunity for Celebrity Visits to provide a social service, if you will. To provide a sense of community, advice, friendship and wisdom to our clients. We see—’
‘Sorry to interrupt, Mr Dingle,’ says Louise, ‘but you’re saying there’s more of a market for speaking to holograms?’
Dingle nods once, emphatically. ‘Yes, and for companionship. To hear a friendly voice in the morning and at night after work. To get a nice message during the day. You’ll no doubt be aware, ladies, that up until now we’ve concentrated on developing the visual aspects of our service. To the extent that our local male celebrities still speak with a composite Texan accent. Recently Celebrity Visits developed the female Kiwi accent composite that is now used by large corporations in New Zealand for information services. It’s been a considerable technological investment, and that’s what’s makes us the best and most successful player in the market. Indeed, the speech component of our service is proving increasingly significant. What we’d like to do for Karen is move her speech programme out of a Kiwi generic composite into a real, individualised voice imprint. She would be the flagship celebrity for Companionship, as well as Coffee and Conversation. Using her real voice. There would be considerable financial reward, Karen, at 20 per cent gross. All that we’d require is a few visits to our studio to record you speaking.’
‘Talking dirty, Mr Dingle?’
Dingle laughs briefly. ‘No, no, no, Louise. Talking of a non-sexual nature. Enunciating. Creating a new phonetic bank for the programme.’ He turns to Karen. ‘For companionship conversations. For lonely people to pass the time of day.’
Karen regards him with cold incredulity.
He blinks. ‘Excuse me, I’ll just grab that tea. Back in a jiffy.’
‘Louise,’ Trix says as a cup bangs on a bench nearby, ‘could you please stop saying “Mr Dingle” all the time?’
‘But it’s his name.’
‘I’m going to lose it, I swear.’
He returns. ‘A cup of perfectly black tea.’
‘All this talk of talking and companionship has been something of a surprise,’ Louise says. ‘Can we see one of these conversations actually run? One with the Karen “likeness” using the Kiwi generic composite voice you currently use? Do you mind, Karen?’
Karen shrugs.
‘Huh.’ Not likely, Trix thinks. It’d spell the end of the ‘social services’ spiel. His mission to provide comfort to the lonely.
Dingle surprises her. ‘Sure! Let’s see.’ He taps with two fingers. ‘We have 23 feeds at the moment. Fourteen have allowed camera access.’
‘You can see them?’
‘Yes. We can watch a real-time interaction through a client’s camera.’
‘They let you watch them?’
‘Sure, they waived privacy.’
‘You mean they didn’t read the contract?’
Dingle frowns as if the possibility had never occurred to him.
‘So you can watch them when they’re, um, feeding the chickens?’
‘This is foul.’
‘I’m sensing an elephant in the room here, ladies.’
‘God,’ Karen says, ‘it can’t be someone I might run in to.’
‘It’ll probably just be a conversation, according to Mr Dingle.’
‘Yes, but even so.’
‘I can understand that. Conversation is actually more revealing. In most cases.’ Dingle pokes at his keyboard. ‘We have feeds in New Plymouth, Kaikoura—’
‘Anywhere,’ Louise says, ‘except for Wellington, Mr Dingle.’
Dingle’s jaw tightens. ‘Karen? Anywhere in the North Island?’
‘Yeah, I don’t think I know anyone who’d…’
‘As I’ve alluded to, a substantial portion of our clientele really just want to talk. That includes women. An unexpectedly profitable demographic already.’
‘Ah,’ Karen says. ‘Right, I actually do know people in New Plymouth, now I think of it. All the big towns, really. Even Dannevirke. Better make it somewhere rural, to be safe.’
‘Rural to be safe. Right you are. We have a rural man.’ Dingle squints and taps. ‘We’re lucky. This interaction is just about to begin.’ He stands and turns the laptop around.
The Karen hologram, rendered in 2D on the laptop screen, is boxed in the lower left corner, bright and clear. To Trix, she looks photoshopped and heavily made-up, like in a fashion image. Her larger-than-life eyes and fuller mouth are familiar from a professional perspective, but different enough from her naked features, apparently, to beat a facial recognition test. She wears a high-necked leotard and a cap as she demonstrates an ab stretch on a mat, an exercise Trix recognises as ‘the hundred’. The client is a mountainous black shape dominating the screen, darker than the darkness behind him.
‘That’s a pilates video,’ Karen says. ‘I did it, like, eight years ago? But it’s a bit different. The outfit. And my mouth is different. My nose is a bit—’
Dingle nods. ‘We don’t use your exact image, Karen, but a likeness. He nods to Louise. ‘Legally speaking, it’s a construction. As for the client, I’ve turned down the brightness to protect his privacy, just in case.’
The hologram turns and looks up at the vastly larger client. It’s a movement Karen would never have made in the original video, but the movement is seamless. ‘Hi, Willy.’
Louise frowns. ‘Willy?’
Dingle raises his hands. ‘The client’s choice.’
‘So nice to see you,’ pipes the hologram. The voice is wrong, the kind of responsive composite heard on phones and information sites, as Dingle said. ‘It’s been ten days, what’ve you been up to?’
The client types his response. ‘the usual’ appears at the bottom of the screen.
The hologram changes position to a one-leg circle. ‘How’s your day been?’
fine. yours?
The black giant doesn’t look ‘fine’ to Trix. Brooding, more like. As if he might bring down a mighty fist and crush the impertinently stretching, chattering girl. Part of her doesn’t want to watch; the other is fascinated. It’s like peeping at a horror movie though your fingers, or finding a portal into hell, and wanting to look just once.
‘I’ve been working,’ pipes the hologram, ‘on a new range of smart swimwear that measures performance in the pool.’
Karen turns to Trix. ‘A press release came out yesterday.’
The three women look at Dingle. He nods.
The hologram looks up at the black giant and asks, ‘Would you like me to model it, Willy?’
He shakes his head.
‘Oh, please? I’d love to get out of this sweaty leotard.’
‘Classy,’ Karen says. ‘A real social service for lonely women.’
Dingle appears not to have heard her.
The client speaks, croakily. ‘How’s tricks?’
‘That voice,’ Trix says. ‘I know him.’
‘Do you mean T-R-I-C-K-S,’ giggles the hologram, ‘or T-R-I-X?’
The giant is unamused and begins to type.
It hits her. Trix realises who the client is as her name appears at the bottom of the screen. ‘Stop this. Now.’
Dingle stands and turns the laptop around. He appeals to Karen. ‘I don’t need to set up a new interaction for you,do I?’
‘No. Wait.’ Karen stands, turns the laptop back and links her arm through Dingle’s. ‘We’ll give you a minute, Trix? Come on, Louise. We’ll take black tea in the kitchen. Now.’
Trix nods wordlessly, trusting herself only to stare straight ahead at the screen. The boardroom clears immediately.
‘Trix is great,’ enthuses the hologram, as the boardro
om door clicks shut. ‘She just got the Very Fast Plane contract, for the flight attendants’ uniforms.’
‘She must be happy about that,’ Bill says. ‘Can you model one?’
Months ago, before he left, she’d been working on the pitch and they’d discussed the exposure and free publicity the uniforms would bring the label in the US.
The hologram adopts ‘rolling like a ball’. ‘In a few minutes, sure, Willy. I’d love to model the new uniform.’
‘She went for tüï greens?’
‘Dark iridescent green,’ pipes the hologram, ‘inspired by the subtle wine-bottle plumage of the tüï, New Zealand’s most beloved native bird. The design is understated and elegant, but also practical and hard-wearing, Willy. The combination of hemp and recycled polyester is sustainable, comfortable and durable. Smart devices are seamlessly integrated into the design: LEDs, microphones and atmosphere sensors. Removable inner armpits reduce full washing requirements for a garment which is nevertheless extremely robust and designed for regular cold water washes—’
‘Okay, great. How’s Trix? Oh, I asked you that.’
He doesn’t even call me anymore! Trix thinks. He talks to a hologram instead? Tears begin to well at the extent of his loneliness.
‘She’s an inspiration, Willy. I’m so grateful to Trix for believing in me and personally mentoring me in my design role at TS Stanaway. I regard her as—’
‘Recycled polyester was a good idea.’
Trix hits the brightness key. The dark mountain lightens. Bill is brown and clear-eyed, but sad and absent. ‘Oh,’ she says.
The hologram rolls up its exercise mat and stands. ‘Yes, recycled polyester was a marvellous idea, Willy. Trix is bursting with them. I’ll model that uniform for you now.’
Bill sighs.
‘Should I get her to drop by on Celebrity Visits for a chat?’
Bill leans forward and the screen goes black.
As Bill closes the Karengram, a thought occurs. Rather than shutting down as he usually does, he returns to the home screen and selects Men.
His thumbnail comes up on the first page. Number four most popular. Beneath his image is the name Bob Patterson.
‘What the fuck?!’
It’s a violation! A gross attack on privacy and the very notion of personhood and personal identity! My lawyer, he thinks, and reaches for his screen. It’s not in his pocket and he’s not sure where it is. He looks around his media room. He clicks on the thumbnail of himself, a photo taken recently in New Hokitika. As the hologram loads he stands up and looks around the media room for his screen.
Star Sailors Page 26
