Broadcast

by Liam Brown

  I drink gratefully, while at the same time looking over at the strange looking man standing next to her. He’s nothing like the painfully sophisticated young people I’ve seen on my other visits here. His hair is dark and greasy, fashioned in a classic schoolboy bowl cut, with a pair of thick black glasses perched halfway down the bridge of his sharp nose. Meanwhile his gangly frame juts out at awkward angles beneath an ugly grey jumper. Though he’s clearly in his early twenties, there’s a pale, sickly sheen to his skin that makes me think he’d be more at home in a dim basement than in this glistening spaceship of a building.

  ‘David, this is Paul,’ Katya says, following my gaze. ‘He’s the one who coded the chip. It’s him we have to thank for making MindCast possible.’

  Paul gives a small nod, then stares intensely at his feet.

  ‘Well in that case, thanks Paul,’ I say. ‘Talking of MindCast, when do I get to see the show? Didn’t I hear the doc say it was already streaming?’

  Katya nods. ‘He’s right. Actually, we went live within thirty minutes of the operation finishing. Xan’s decided to use these initial days as a sort of soft launch, so while we’re open for business, we’re just not shouting about it yet. It gives us a bit of time to work out any bugs.’

  ‘Xan’s still not back?’

  ‘Ah, no. Things are just taking longer in New York than he’d anticipated. The good news is that everything seems to be working exactly as it should be. Isn’t that right, Paul.’

  Paul mutters something indecipherable, still not looking up. By now he’s stooping so far forward he seems to be in danger of dislocating his neck, as if attempting to fold inside himself and disappear, an act of human origami.

  ‘We’ve already picked up around five thousand followers in the last twenty-four hours,’ Katya continues. ‘And that’s with no publicity at all.’

  I smile, her enthusiasm infectious. ‘So, do I get to see it or what?’

  Without another word, she turns the tablet around to face me, pressing her thumb to the scanner. The screen flickers into life. I lean forward, trying to make out what I’m supposed to be looking at. In the top left corner of the screen is a watermark, the familiar ‘MC’ logo that is plastered around the building, two silver consonants in a loose, spidery handwriting, a font that is no doubt designed to be both kooky and approachable. Apart from that though, there is nothing but a pale, orange dot in the centre of the screen and a view counter in the bottom right, red digits that currently read:

  Live: 5071

  I stare at the orange dot for a few seconds then look back to Katya.

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘I know you don’t,’ she says grinning. ‘That’s why you’re reading blue.’

  ‘Blue?’

  I glance back down at the screen and see that the dot has changed. It is now glowing a bright cornflower blue. ‘I thought this thing was supposed to show what I’m thinking?’

  ‘Just keep watching,’ Katya says.

  I stare at the dot. After a few seconds I realise that rather than a static shape, it is actually moving slightly, its edges constantly expanding and contracting by a few pixels, like a ribcage rising and falling. It’s almost as if it’s breathing. Leaning closer, I see too that the colour is not fixed, but rather it shimmers mysteriously, from blue to purple to orange and back again. It’s pretty, I guess, though I still have no idea what it has to do with me or why I’m being asked to look at it. I’m about to say as much to Katya, when out of nowhere she reaches forwards and grabs hold of my nose, pinching it violently.

  ‘YAGGHHH!’ I yell, as much in shock as in pain.

  On the tablet, the small dot instantly explodes, expanding to fill the screen with a flash of white, before quickly receding to a tiny red pin prick, no larger than a sniper’s sight.

  ‘What the hell? Are you crazy?’

  ‘Did you see it though?’ Katya asks, ignoring my protests. ‘Pain. We can’t track it. Totally overpowers the system – everything’s firing at once. It’s incredible, no?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I snap, cupping my nose protectively. ‘You can’t just go around assaulting people for no reason.’

  ‘But that’s the whole point. It wouldn’t have worked if I told you what I was about to do. We would have got … what would we have got, Paul?’

  ‘Orange,’ Paul mumbles.

  ‘Of course! Orange for anticipation.’

  I look back at the tablet, where the little red dot is still simmering in the centre of the screen. ‘I’m lost,’ I say, fighting the urge to throw a tantrum.

  ‘I know, it’s confusing. It took me a while to get my head around it too. Paul, why don’t you explain? You’re better at the science than me.’

  With what seems like an immense effort, Paul lifts his head from the ground, fixing me with a slightly cross-eyed stare. ‘So I believe Xan briefed you on the basics?’ he begins, his voice a pinched monotone.

  ‘Um?’

  A sigh. ‘So the electrode implant detects the areas being fed with oxygenated blood and then feeds the results into a pattern classifier to interpret the signal, creating a simulation which we then stream in real-time on the screen.’

  I take a long breath. ‘Okay, okay. I get all that. But when Katya demonstrated it there were pictures? It was like a movie or something. You could see what was going on. There was more than just this stuff.’

  ‘I believe what you saw was the beta demonstration reel,’ he sniffs. ‘However, before we reach that stage, the simulation needs to be tailored to the individual. That stuff, as you call it, is a precise visual representation of your emotional responses, with different colours ascribed to each mood. It’s based on Plutchik’s wheel.’

  ‘My emotional responses?’

  ‘So basically it shows a different colour depending on how you’re feeling,’ Katya chimes in. ‘Do you remember mood rings from when you were a kid? It’s a bit like that. Only in this case, serenity is lemon chiffon. Loathing is amethyst.’

  ‘So what does red mean?’

  Katya laughs. ‘Carnelian red?’ she says, pointing at the screen. ‘I believe that translates as rage. I guess you’re still angry about your nose? But I’d say from the dash of terra-cotta you’re also a little intrigued and … Thistle? What’s that again?’ she turns to Paul. ‘Confused?’

  ‘Boredom,’ Paul says.

  ‘Okay, wow. So you’re witnessing the greatest entertainment innovation since television and you’re bored? I’m sure Xan will be thrilled to hear that.’

  I shrug, watching as the red dot fizzes with streaks of orange and purple, like scratches on an old film reel. I choose my words carefully. ‘I guess I’m just a little concerned that nobody’s going to want to watch this? I mean all I’m seeing is a glorified lava lamp. Sure, maybe a couple of stoned computer science students might be interested, but it’s hardly primetime, is it?’

  ‘Do you have any idea how many lava lamps have been sold worldwide?’ Paul says.

  I roll my eyes.

  ‘You’re missing the point,’ Katya continues. This is just the start. The system has to study you first. It has to learn to speak “David”. But once it cracks your code? That’s when things get interesting. Believe me.’

  ‘Fine,’ I say. ‘I believe you.’

  ‘He doesn’t believe you,’ says Paul.

  I glance down at the dot, which is now pulsing a defiant shade of indigo.

  ‘Okay, fine. I don’t believe you.’

  Katya smiles. ‘I promise you we know what we’re doing. She leans forwards, so close that her dark hair falls against my cheek. It smells good, like fresh linen, or faraway oceans. ‘Now, what I want is for you to go home and rest. You’ve earned it. Take a few days to recharge your batteries before the tornado hits.’

  As she speaks, I find myself staring at her neck, as smooth and pale as porcelain. Her hand reaches out, closing the distance between us, before settling gently on my thigh. For a second I stop breat
hing. The room disappears.

  And then she straightens up.

  ‘I’ve already spoken to Sarah,’ she continues. ‘She’s on her way to collect you.’

  ‘But what am I supposed to do?’

  ‘Do? You don’t need to do anything. Just be yourself. Hang out. Make videos. We’ll contact you in the next few days to see how you’re getting on.’

  As she and Paul turn to leave, I catch a final glimpse of the tablet. The dot on the screen has changed again, this time hovering somewhere between yellow and green, a vaguely sickly hue, the colour of crème de menthe cocktails, or artificial lime.

  ‘Hey,’ I call as they reach the door. ‘What does that colour mean?’

  Katya frowns, tilting it towards Paul.

  Without so much as a flare of his nostrils, he turns and fixes me with a cold stare. ‘Desire.’

  ‘Ha,’ Katya says, a single, percussive note, less like a laugh than an accusation.

  As the door gasps shut behind them, I feel my cheeks begin to burn.

  Over the next week or so, I do my best to take Katya’s advice and pick up where I’d left off before the operation. While initially I’m tired and groggy from the anaesthetic – a bleary fog that turns my limbs to concrete – with the help of a few kale-based smoothies and a strict regime of morning ab-crunches, bicep curls and leg-lifts, I’m back to my old self within a couple of days. I make videos. I take pictures. I hang out online. In fact, if it wasn’t for the bandage and slight headache, I could almost forget about MindCast altogether.

  After all, that seems to be what everyone else has done, the view counter having stubbornly stalled around five-and-a-half thousand for the last few days. As for my own video followers, they’ve generally shown more enthusiasm for the oversized baseball cap I’ve been sporting ever since the operation than in MindCast itself. Or, as one of my beloved below-the-line commentators recently christened it, that ‘stupid colour-wheel thing’. Despite her promise that she would be in touch, I’ve not heard a word from Katya. Nor has Xan called. Whether or not he is still in the US or back in the UK I have no idea. Even Sarah has fallen uncharacteristically quiet lately. Since dropping me off at my apartment, I have spoken to her precisely twice. On both occasions she’s sounded decidedly distant, sticking exclusively to discussing financial matters – potential events and endorsements – rather than the show itself. While I suspect my startlingly generous fee has helped prevent her from criticising Xan and the team outright, there is nevertheless a whiff of anti-climax about the whole project, a general sense of bewilderment about what the show is or who it’s supposed to be aimed at.

  Not that I’ve been able to ignore MindCast completely. In the mornings especially, I’ve found myself staring for hours at my phone, something strangely hypnotic about the mysterious glowing ball that throbs silently in the centre of my screen. While the app itself is remarkably uninformative – stubbornly mirroring the stark, minimalist design of the company’s headquarters rather than providing, say, any information that might usefully inform the viewer as to what it is they’re supposed to be watching – I have used my initiative and located a copy of Plutchik’s wheel online to help decode the ball’s various hues. Well, I say decode. The truth is that the gaudy kaleidoscope of colours the app spews out largely seems to bear little to no correlation to how I’m actually feeling.

  This morning, for example. I was lying in bed not thinking anything in particular, when I happened to glance at my phone and see a particularly putrid shade of mint staring back at me. A quick check of the wheel informed me that I was feeling apprehensive. Now, as far as I was concerned, this couldn’t have been further from the truth. I felt fine. Better than fine. Physically I was in great shape. Financially I’ve never been better. Even without MindCast, my online presence was, if not booming, then certainly steady. Everything was wonderful. Yet according to this stupid app, I was worried about something. Immediately, I began wracking my brain, trying to figure out what it could be. Was it possible there was something weighing on my mind subconsciously?

  It was at this point something strange began to happen.

  The more I thought about what it was that could be wrong, the brighter the ball glowed, more insistent than ever that I was not just feeling apprehensive, but downright scared. I shook my head, scoffing at the defective technology. Yet as the colour continued to intensify, I began to feel an undeniable sense of anxiety building up inside me, my chest aching with an unfamiliar tightness, my guts churning. Unbelievably, I realised I really was feeling apprehensive – not about some deep-seated, half-remembered issue, but because the fucking app was telling me I was feeling apprehensive. I was worried about feeling worried.

  I took a deep breath, trying to catch hold of myself. It was hopeless though. With each passing second I found myself becoming more and more frantic, my emotions spiralling downwards in synchronisation with the ever-darkening orb of light, which by now showed a chilling shade of avocado – designating outright terror. I was caught in a feedback loop, the app responding to my feelings, which in turn were responding to the app. In the end, all I could do was tear my eyes from the screen, bury my phone under my pillow and run out of the bedroom to make a cup of tea and calm down.

  It was a good few hours before I felt confident enough to return to the bedroom and retrieve my phone, by which point the orb was a calming shade of vanilla. I was relieved to see I was feeling relieved.

  This freak incident aside however, I have more or less faced up to the reality that Xan’s project is at best a mildly diverting curiosity, while at worst it’s a multi-million-dollar flop. Even Nadeem, who for the first few days at least managed to feign excitement by repeatedly calling me and grilling me about how the show was going, has fallen quiet recently. Now the only person still showing any enthusiasm for MindCast is, predictably, Alice. In fact, ever since the operation she has bombarded me with texts and emails, eager to arrange the next instalment of our seemingly endless interviews. With the disaster of our sushi date still looming large, and not exactly relishing the prospect of being dragged to another inner-city wasteland, I have invited her to meet me here later this evening – although, judging by the shrill jangle of my doorbell, even that was not soon enough for her.

  I’ve never understood why some people think it’s acceptable to be early. As far as I’m concerned, punctuality works both ways. Arriving ahead of time is as rude as being late. More so, in fact, as it normally ensures that the person you’re meeting is completely unready, and so already on the back foot. Having spent most of the afternoon working out, I’m still clad in my sweat-stained sportswear when Alice arrives a full forty-five minutes before we are due to meet. With a large sigh, I head down my hall, adopting a fake grin as I peel back the door.

  ‘Sorry, sorry. I know I’m early. I had a meeting that finished ahead of schedule and it didn’t seem worth going home first. Don’t be mad at me.’

  I stretch my smile wider, my cheeks cramping. ‘Mad at you? Don’t be silly.’

  She raises an eyebrow, brandishing her phone in my direction. I catch a flash of coral pink. Annoyance. ‘You can’t lie to me now, remember?’

  ‘Oh, come on. That thing?’ I wave a hand dismissively. ‘It’s meaningless. Totally inaccurate. Really, I didn’t even notice you were early until you pointed it out.’

  Alice glances down. The orb remains pink.

  ‘Sure. Whatever you say.’

  As I step back to invite her in, I see that she is totally overdressed for the occasion, drawing even more attention to my own grimy appearance. Whereas up until now I have only ever seen her in jeans and t-shirt, this evening she is wearing a tight, black dress, paired with matching high heels and handbag. Her hair is loose, rather than scraped back into her customary pony tail, with a pair of diamond studs sparkling through the curly strands of brown. There is even a suggestion of makeup, her green eyes underscored with a light flick of eyeliner. She looks ready for a red carpet event, rather than a c
asual Thursday night sit down.

  In her hand she is clutching a bottle of red wine. ‘Peace offering?’ she says, handing it to me.

  ‘I told you, it’s fine,’ I snap, though neither of us need to check the app to recognise the note of irritation in my voice. I decide to change the subject. ‘So where did you say you’ve been tonight? You look … different.’

  ‘Ugh, don’t,’ she says, folding her arms and hugging her shoulders protectively. ‘I was meeting a new client tonight and I thought I should at least make an attempt to appear professional.’

  ‘Oh? I don’t remember that being a factor when you met me for the first time?’

  ‘Funny.’

  ‘Joking, obviously. So how did it go? Did you get the gig?’

  She pulls a face. ‘Who knows? Having met him, I’m not even sure I want the job anymore. The money’s good, but the thought of spending months of time in his company isn’t exactly appealing. Total creep.’

  ‘Anyone I know?’

  ‘Probably. But either way, I can’t say anything. Client confidentiality and all that. Needless to say he’s the usual case of all ego and no substance. Anyway, that’s my problem for another day. Let’s talk about you. So how are things going? The whole MindCast thing is so exciting. You must be swamped at the moment?’

  I give a small, non-committal shrug. ‘It’s early days.’

  ‘Yeah, but still, it’s pretty amazing. When you described it before it sounded like some bizarre reality TV show. But so far it’s not been like that at all. I don’t know, it’s more like an art installation or something. Like an expressionist painting. Yet at the same time it’s oddly compelling. I mean, I can’t stop watching it.’

  ‘Really? You don’t find it kind of … boring?’

  ‘Are you kidding? Unrestricted access to your feelings twenty-four hours a day? I already feel like I know you about a thousand times better than I did before. I wish all my clients came with one of these things fitted. It’d certainly make my job easier. But even if I didn’t have a vested interest in it, I think I’d still find it fascinating. For instance, have you ever noticed that first thing most mornings you tend to feel apprehensive? Why do you think that might be?’