Karen closes her screen and looks up.
‘Oh!’ says the robot, holding the foaming bottle in one pincer over a drain next to the ice bucket. A plastic flute tilts in another pincer. It pours. It blinks its saucer eyes. It moves on.
Karen shakes her head. ‘This won’t work out.’
TS Stanaway have tendered to supply uniforms to several airlines.
Trix grins. ‘One of these got hacked the other day on a big domestic flight in the US. Free drinks right across the continent. And then dozens of lawsuits were filed because of the ensuing bad behaviour.’
‘Hm. How about we try putting a tea towel over its head?’
‘Ha! That’ll work!’ Trix closes her eyes and rotates stiffly from side to side. ‘Free drinks. Free drinks.’
Karen laughs, and keeps laughing. ‘My god,’ she says. ‘Ah!’
‘Sssh! Here it comes.’
The blank saucer-eyes blink at Trix. The lips curve up. ‘Would you like a drink, madam? The first one is complimentary.’ Its head inclines in readiness to receive a reply.
‘Yes. Two champagnes—in one glass, please.’
The head inclines a little further, as if listening closer. ‘Pardon me, madam?’
‘We’d like our two champagnes combined in one glass, please.’
Karen supresses a laugh.
The robot blinks. ‘Sorry, I can only pour one standard drink per glass.’
Behind the robot’s simple façade, Trix feels the concentrated power of professional minds engaged at work for tens of thousands of hours. The fortress of programmed procedure is impregnable. It’s demoralising. The best she can hope for is to create a problem beyond the robot’s capacity to solve through its programming and self-learning and make a faceless human write more code.
‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ she tells the robot. ‘It’s a symbolic thing we always do when flying. It’s very important to us.’
Karen frowns. ‘I’m deeply disappointed.’
Smiling lips drop down to neutral. Empathy. It blinks once, then twice. ‘Drinks can be shared. You can combine them if you require. Shall I pour two champagnes?’
‘Yes.’
Pop! ‘Oh!’
Plastic flute in hand, Trix feels beaten.
Karen smiles. ‘Well, we’ll never be as young again.’
Trix is filled again with gratitude at having made the flight. Her nerves start to buzz at the thought of what lies ahead. ‘I wonder if we’ll ever be the same again? After the meetings, I mean.’
‘We might never be the same again. But I’m more worried that nothing will be allowed to change.’
‘Yeah. The only change big business really wants is improvements in technology. They want the perfect battery, a smaller transistor, a carbon sinkhole.’
‘And delivered at a cheaper cost to more people for more profit.’
‘Right, but they don’t want all types of technology for everyone. They don’t want affordable NST for all.’
‘No. And big water doesn’t want free, low-energy, weatherproof desalination plants.’
‘You know what, Karen? I think their markets are safe. I don’t think the alien has come to form high-tech startups or spearhead a series of aggressive takeovers.’
‘Wait.’ Karen widens her eyes in mock horror. ‘I need to call my broker!’
They laugh and touch flutes.
‘Speaking of technology,’ Trix says, ‘did I tell you about the Weapons of War Museum? In Chicago?’
Karen smiles. ‘No.’
‘I had some time to fill in before a flight. Oh, I thought, how about some dummies in uniform.’
‘Quite. As one does.’
‘Well, the first exhibit was the stone club. You know, nasty enough, with a sharpened edge, like a mere. A good, honest skull-smasher. Next came the wooden spear, the iron-tipped spear, the sword, the bow and arrow, and so on, up through the musket, the rifle, the bloody Gatling gun, the machine gun, the bazooka. On and on. Progress. Weaponry developing inexorably like the ape through millennia, shedding fur, shortening arms and straightening up. The killing of people at ever greater distances. The V-1, the V-2, the atomic bomb. The hydrogen bomb on a rocket. A bigger hydrogen bomb on a bigger rocket. An exponential curve in the number of murders possible per weapon.
‘But one dark constant, Karen. One oddly unchanging, bent and arrested desire: to kill the other side. I’m like, Where’s the love?’ Trix raises her eyebrows and looks about. ‘Excuse me, sir, can you help me? I’m looking for the corresponding museum tracking exponential spiritual development?’
Karen laughs and then shakes her head in imitation of the leader of the opposition, ‘Naïve, naïve, naïve.’
The invocation of Maxine Strang grits Trix’s teeth. She finds Strang repugnant, and everything she stands for. ‘Advanced technology can’t be the answer—on its own, anyway. It just can’t be.’
‘No!’
‘Nature’s a closed system. There’s no waste. Everything gets used. Success is sustainability. Success is balance, reciprocity, and—in the end—survival. We’re not following the right formula. We’re seriously endangering our own survival.’
‘Yeah. Indigenous people lived sustainably. We really should learn from them.’
‘But they’re viewed as “backward”, you know, lacking the ability to commit industrial-scale murder and planetary self-destruction. We’ll never voluntarily go back to a simpler, more environmentally respectful way of life. I fear we can only be devastated into sustainability.’
‘You’re not turning into one of the collapse-is-inevitable-and-desirable brigade, are you, Trix?’
‘No! I want to find a balance, not have it imposed on us violently.’
Karen looks out the window, at something far below. ‘What will success be for us, Trix? Farming in small rural communities? Labouring. Long-drops. One nice dress.’
Trix sees only blue from where she sits.
Karen turns back to her. ‘Sorry, I don’t mean to be trivial.’
‘No, not at all. I wouldn’t like it either, it’d be hideous! Better to make the system change on our terms. Why not look to our successful model? How did Indigenous people manage things for tens of thousands of years? Because all this god-like technology is leading us to hell.’
‘You want a washing machine, right?’
‘A certain amount of technology, of course.’
‘A certain amount? But where’s the cut-off point, exactly?’
‘I heard someone say the other day that we have enough technology now and that human dignity should be the priority. She reckoned that the development of new technology should be viewed with that goal in mind—like, does it enable or assist human dignity? She said that almost all new technology looks trivial and costly through that lens. Costly in a social and environmental sense.’
Their flutes are empty.
‘We have to pay the robot for another?’
‘Whatever it costs.’
44
Prime Minister Talia Siolo, 54, steps up on to the podium and pushes the microphone away. Cameras flash. Transitional lenses conceal her eyes. Broad-nosed, full-lipped, her grey hair is cut short and combed back in waves. The dark suit jacket is broad at the shoulders. Her white shirt peeps out. It’s a no-jewellery day.
‘Prime minister?’
It’s not clear who or what the prime minister looks at so intently. She takes a long, slow breath. Nods almost imperceptibly.
‘Do you think that the selection criteria for the meetings were fair?’
For a moment the prime minister doesn’t respond. She looks at the roof and breathes deeply again.
‘How,’ she asks, carefully and quietly, ‘could anyone,’ she turns her head and fixes it on the offending reporter, ‘think that selection process was fair?’
News! Government criticism of a transnational! Cameras flash and a barrage of cries goes up.
‘Prime minister!’
‘Prime minister!’
‘SILENCE!’ The press secretary’s face is bland and impassive as if he hadn’t said a word, let alone bellowed at the top of his lungs.
Silence. A brave voice. ‘Prime minister. The executive branch of Venture Group would describe the process as fair, because they all got to attend the meetings.’
An uncertain ripple of laughter.
‘Miss Patterson, you are talking to the prime minister of New Zealand. I relate the word “fair” to all the people of this country, not just a tiny elite. Miss Patterson?’
‘…’
‘Miss Patterson?’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you think I’m conducting a corporate media release?’
‘Prime minister!’
‘Prime minister!’
‘Prime minister!’
A slight nod.
‘Will you be meeting Samuel?’
‘No, I have not been issued an invitation.’
‘Prime minister! Do you view this as a snub from the business community?’
‘Venture Group is not the business community. There are many kinds of businesses, big and small.’
‘Prime minister!’
‘Prime minister!’
‘Prime minister!’
‘Listen. Samuel is a distinguished guest in this country. He should he be honoured with a welcoming delegation of our democratically elected leaders. And they should be accompanied by representatives from Käi Tahu and indeed all Aotearoa iwi.
‘It would be appropriate that the people presented to Samuel as ambassadors from New Zealand, and by extension our world, were not drawn exclusively from a small pool of predominantly elderly professionals from one profit-driven transnational. We should send Samuel the very best and brightest we have, from the disciplines of science, anthropology, linguistics and philosophy.’
The prime minister removes her transitional glasses. Her eyes are large and bright.
‘He should be afforded,’ she says, ‘the full respect and consideration he deserves. He should be treasured, not exploited for profit.’
‘Exploited!’
‘Prime minister!’
‘Prime minister. Do you think Venture Group have handled him badly?’
‘I didn’t say that. Samuel appears to be safe and well. I’ll say this: Going forward, I would like to see a wider spectrum of society interact with him. From the disciplines I mentioned previously, and from the arts, too—the living artists he admires, for example.
‘And I would like to see a full and uncensored transcript of all his interactions made public, in order to illuminate the human condition and teach us our precarious position on this planet and in this universe. To help us all find a way forward. Not just for medical research to be sold to the highest bidder, but for inspiration and leadership. His every interaction should be recorded and made public. For the whole world.
‘I don’t think anything I’ve said here should come as a surprise to you. We’ve made our position quite clear on this a number of times.’
‘Prime minister. How do you feel about the movement to have Samuel granted human status? To be granted full human rights, including the right of freedom?’
The Prime Minister’s face transforms. Her teeth appear and her eyes disappear as if dazzled by light. It’s the contagious smile usually seen on more informal occasions, when she has a flower behind her ear and wears a traditional Samoan print.
‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘That’ll be all for now.’
45
Jeremiah stands before the bathroom mirror in his deluxe hotel suite in New Hokitika. He lifts the collar and buttons up his crisp white shirt, and puts on a new green cotton tie. The tie’s part of TS Stanaway’s new label for men—‘Humanoid’—set up to take advantage of the tremendous free publicity around the meetings with Samuel.
The reflection is the old him, with his long rough fringe. The way he wore his hair before he was promoted to the Golden Gate.
Two containers of hair cream sit on the vanity unit’s marble expanse. His usual brand, Steel, in its black-and-red tin container, and a new brand, Nature’s Way, beaded with condensation in a blue-and-white glass pottle. A gift from the hotel, apparently, especially for the meeting.
He examines his old, unpromoted hair as he unscrews the lid of Nature’s Way. He plunges two fingers into the pottle and twists out a big dollop of white cream, holds his loaded fingers halfway to his head, and looks into his brown eyes.
He picks up the pottle of Nature’s Way and reads the label:
Contains aloe vera gel, vegetable glycerine, water, orange and vanilla extracts, egg whites. Keep refrigerated.
Frowning, he rinses his fingers clean under the tap and then washes his hands with soap.
46
On top of Trix’s excitement and anxiety about meeting Samuel and, to a lesser extent, Bill, and her label’s massive worldwide exposure through the meetings, she feels nervous about seeing Goldens en masse for the first time since the masque.
She bites her lip as the taxi pulls up outside the café where all those with meeting tickets are to be transferred by bus to the alien’s secret location.
‘About that orgy,’ she says to Karen.
‘The one at my house?’
‘Yes, that orgy.’
‘Yes.’
‘I lied. I didn’t run off like you and Jeremiah.’
‘Trix! How long did you stay?’
She pays the driver and gets out. ‘Long enough to feel a little uncomfortable right now.’
Karen smiles broadly over the taxi’s roof. She says nothing.
More security. The whole area has been locked down. A super-elderly couple are submitting to voice print and retina scans. Two more armoured guards stand beyond the checkpoint at the door to the Zen Teahouse.
It’ll be fine, she tells herself. Everyone will be discreet. There’s nothing to worry about.
As they wait their turn, Karen nudges Trix, prompting more information. Trix is embarrassed. She’s not sure what to say about the orgy, if anything.
‘Hello, Trix.’
It’s Astrid, one of the super-plus elderly. Her inscrutable eyes are set deep. Her speech pipes through motionless thick lips. She often has bruises, particularly on her throat and neck, and doesn’t like to be touched during fittings. Even air kisses make her uncomfortable. Trix bows her head in greeting, and also to her slightly younger male companion, who looks unwell. He blinks in reply. His face is oddly fat—a sign of serious trouble. He is not introduced, probably because of his impending death and irrelevance. Astrid is a cold, intimidating woman, a usability analyst well into her second century.
‘I’m glad… you were chosen.’
‘Thank you, Astrid. I’m very fortunate.’
‘Yes.’ Her considered blink extinguishes all the gladness, choice and fortune.
What to say? Trix feels her excitement at meeting the alien withering.
‘Perhaps the alien…’ Astrid says, ‘will play violin for us? They say he plays like someone… with talent… who’s practised for ten years… rather than two weeks.’
It’s taken many years for Trix to recognise that this is Astrid being playful. The super-elderly have an instinct for coating the most casual comments with poison. Darkness wells up in them and must be secreted.
‘Some critics are coming out in defence of his parable now, Astrid.’
‘Well.’ Her eyes flicker. Trix is dismissed.
Trix takes a chance and prolongs contact. Straight-faced, she says, ‘I just wish he’d design a skirt. If the scientists set him a ten-minute challenge with a yard of polka-dot polyester, a pair of scissors and an overlocker, then I’d get a measure of his species.’
Astrid’s features subtly indicate a smile. ‘Nice to see you.’
‘Nice to see you.’ Trix nods and turns away. It was a brief interaction, as positive as she could hope for, yet she feels unsettled. Such dark power the super-elderly wield. It’s like interacting with mov
ing trains.
The Zen Teahouse in New Hokitika is exactly like the Zen Teahouse in Martinborough. The identical placement of everything in the chain—the counter, espresso machine, furniture and pot plants—is intended to calm patrons with familiarity. Tranquillitea is served. Temperature and humidity are franchise-regulated. Buildings are orientated on the same north–south axis, so that the sun falls through windows onto certain tables around the same time of day.
Trix leads Karen through the crowd of predominantly super-elderly patrons to her favourite table in Martinborough. They walk over bone-coloured carpet, past widely spaced polished granite tables bearing squat white pots and cups from which the elite carefully sip. Greenery is abundant. In-house screens are fern-fronded. Discreetly embedded in columns, they show inspirational Zen Teahouse empowerment modules. The module playing has been on high rotation in Martinborough. A suited executive in a hedge maze is loosening his tie. He will remove his shoes and socks, hang his jacket over his arm, and enjoy every single moment spent finding the exit.
Trix spies the socialite Amber Filoche, with her cascade of blond ringlets. Alas, she’s looking slightly trashy in another label. The clientele are the same as in the Zen Teahouse in the Wairarapa: primarily wealthy super-elderly from the Golden Gate or visiting from the Grammar Zone. They wear smart-casual summerwear with a lot of diamonds and expensive accessories. She’s thrilled and grateful to see a few TS Stanaway dresses amongst the crowd, without even looking too hard. Projected viewer statistics of the one-minute meetings and debriefings are mind-boggling: over five billion in the first three days alone. Money can’t buy that kind of exposure.
No superstars, Trix notes. No holes punched in the space-time continuum. All kinds of international stars and celebrities are descending on New Hokitika now that Samuel is awake, but they’re not here. Money and age hold sway.
The super-elderly set the agenda regarding contact and communication, so Trix doesn’t approach or acknowledge anyone she recognises, even women wearing her brand whom she’s known for years. Post-orgy, the old point of etiquette provides her with new certainty. She and Karen are seen as they make the furthest corner of the café. The stained mahogany chair softened with hessian-covered throws is as comfortable as in Martinborough. The little water feature plays its familiar melody in the foliage behind them.
Star Sailors Page 42
