by Neil Clarke
9.
“Charles, I’m going to say it just one more time: You cannot do this!” Lisa was screaming at him through the phone.
“Lisa, I’ve already told you at least ten times: my time with Homi will never be livecast. This is my decision.”
“That means you’re livecasting for no more than eight hours a day. This is going to break the bond between you and your fans. Your ratings have taken a nosedive this month, and last week the number of viewers tuned into your livecast fell below two million. You were once alone at the top of the ratings, and now you’re not even in the top ten. Wake up, Charles! Even that Chinese clown, Baby Phoenix, has more subscribers than you.”
“Fine, let them go follow Baby Phoenix. What does it matter to me?”
“Charles.” With visible effort, Lisa managed to contain her impatience. “Listen, we need to have a real discussion, as soon as possible.”
“Let’s do it another day,” Charles said. “Homi and I are celebrating our 100-day anniversary tonight. I don’t want to be disturbed.”
“But—”
Charles disconnected.
Homi, who was standing across from him, asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just work stuff.”
“Then let’s continue. I don’t think you’ve had enough.”
Homi grabbed hold of him. Charles went for her waist, and she leaned into him compliantly. Watching her shy, smiling face, Charles’s concentration wavered. Suddenly, Homi wriggled out of his grasp, and he felt her weight pushing him off balance over her leg as he collapsed to the mat.
“Ha! You lost again!”
Charles was glad that there was no livecast to show his humiliating wrestling defeat at the hands of someone weighing at least 80 pounds less than he did. Of course, these were hardly fair contests, as Homi was a professionally trained fighter.
“I think you need to admit defeat, and it’s ‘pony time!’” said Homi, her eyes flashing mischievously.
Charles sighed and got on all fours, and with a delighted whoop Homi jumped on his back and guided her new mount around the room.
What had happened to the suave, slick Charles who once boasted of never sleeping with the same woman two nights in a row?
On that day more than three months ago, after Charles shut off the livecast, confused fans had surrounded Charles and Homi in Akihabara. In the end, the pair had to escape by taking off in Pegasus. But Charles had forgotten the fact that his ship was almost out of fuel, and once they reached orbit they were stuck. Charles then turned on the livecast to call for aid, only to realize that there wasn’t even enough juice to power the neutrino converter, cutting them off from the rest of the world. A simple postprandial stroll had thus turned into a little castaway adventure in space.
Fortunately, the experience brought the pair together. Homi had never been to space, and as they drifted in near-weightlessness, she didn’t even know how to take a sip of water, leading to many embarrassing situations. They did not, in fact, “do it” on that first night together. But after they returned to Earth, Charles arrived in Japan several days later with a Pegasus full of roses, and finally managed to convince Homi to go on a second date with him . . .
Homi imposed one condition: no livecasting while they were on dates. Charles agreed right away. And soon, he discovered a novel pleasure in this secret relationship. He ended up doing many things he had never thought of doing before: meowing at Homi like a cat, whispering ridiculous lovers’ prattle that made even him blush, horsing around like a couple of kids, doing whatever felt fun and relaxing at the moment instead of trying to perform as the perfect lover while the whole world watched.
Years earlier, Charles had lived in such a carefree manner, but he had forgotten that past self during the years of continuous livecasting.
Tonight, in the new cabin that Charles had bought on the shore of the lake in Hakone, they were just a relaxed couple enjoying their time together. It wasn’t particularly romantic or exciting, but they were free to be as silly as they wanted.
“Listen, baby, your ride needs a break,” Charles said. He twisted, dislodging the protesting Homi from his back, and then rolled until she was under him. He kissed her neck with fervor. “Anata,” he whispered—the ‘pony’s’ Japanese had been improving under expert guidance—“Let me . . . ”
Homi moaned and her eyes lost focus as she licked her lips in anticipation. The whole night lay ahead, and this cabin belonged just to the two of them with no stranger’s gaze . . .
He reached out to unfasten her gi. But his hand stopped and pulled back—
—and slapped hard against Homi’s cheek.
Homi’s smile was frozen. She was stunned and unable to speak, staring at him in utter disbelief.
“What in the world is wrong with you?” she finally managed after a few seconds.
Charles’s features twisted into a hideous, savage expression, the muscles of his face twitching. He lifted an arm and pointed at the door. “Get out of here. Now!”
“How can you speak to me—”
He shoved at her roughly. “Get out!”
After staring at him for an interminable moment, Homi got up and put on her coat. “Charles, you really are an asshole.” She kicked him hard in the crotch and then hurried out the door.
The pain from his lower body doubled Charles over, and then he fell to his hands and knees. His throat spasmed and he coughed violently, as if he needed to expectorate his innards. His eyes filled with tears, and his limbs jerked uncontrollably in cramped agony. He didn’t know how long he was seized by such physical suffering. It was only after he had recovered that he saw a pair of slender legs in a pair of bright red high heels in front of him.
He looked up and saw a familiar face.
“Lisa?” He struggled to get up. “What are you doing here?”
“Since you wouldn’t see me, I had no choice but to come to you.”
“But how did you know I was here? I shut off all location services and—”
Lisa didn’t answer his query but posed a question of her own. “How does it feel to get rid of your girlfriend with a good, hard slap to the face?”
Charles’s vision blurred. “How did you know—wait, did you . . . did you—”
Gently caressing his face, Lisa said in a pitying tone, “Charles, my dear Charles, don’t blame me. You made me do it. Don’t you see?”
His worst fear had been confirmed. Eyes wide in shock, Charles muttered, “Oh my God, I didn’t know you could control my body through the implant . . . But, how could the chip . . . I thought it was just a transmitter.”
“There’s no such thing as ‘just a transmitter.’ Others are able to receive your brain activities through neutrino beams, and you’re also able to receive brain activity signals.”
“But I thought it was limited to sensory input—”
Lisa’s look was a mixture of pity and contempt. “There are so many things you don’t know. Let’s start from the beginning. Do you remember the autumn ten years ago? That was the year after your first race, when you did unexpectedly well. You had spent hundreds of thousands to outfit your ship, thinking that you could win a championship. The result? You didn’t even place, losing all your investment. You were on the verge of giving up your dream of being an aviator and returning home to Tennessee to be a farmer just like your father.”
“Yes, I remember.” Charles said. Lisa had found him, almost passed out, in a little dive bar. She told him that she worked for an experimental neural research institute, where they were testing a new cranial implant device that could allow different people to share sensory perceptions. If Charles volunteered to be a subject, they’d pay him two hundred thousand dollars. And if the experiments caused irreversible damage to his health, they’d compensate him with even more money. In order to raise the funds for the next race, Charles accepted. And soon, they began the first trial livecast with him.
“In reality, what I told you was not the real
experiment at all,” said Lisa. “Fifteen years ago, Bell Labs invented a new direct neural interface chip capable of being implanted into the pons. The original intent was to implement a mind-machine interface, but the results were less than ideal. Unexpectedly, the researchers found that the implant did allow the sharing of brain activity patterns between different subjects. Before you, we had already conducted multiple trials on animals and humans with excellent results. But this transformative technology lacked a suitable application. No one wanted to cut open their brain to insert a metal box that would transmit their brainwaves to other people, though they weren’t against tapping into other people’s brainwaves.
“In order to popularize this technology, we found a few subjects and compensated them handsomely to become livecasters. But once that was done, no more than a few extremely curious individuals were interested in the constant goings on in the lives of ordinary people—especially since the cost involved surgery.
“We needed a celebrity livecaster to present a compelling use case for the technology. The celebrity’s fans could bring along more early adapters until a market emerged.
“We got in touch with multiple movie stars, athletes, and prominent authors, but unfortunately, no one wanted to do it. This wasn’t entirely unexpected. If you were already famous and successful with a good life, why would you take the risk of drilling a hole in your skull to add some gizmo just so that strangers could peek into your head? We needed to create someone specifically for the purpose of catalyzing this new technology revolution. The management decided that we had to find a young person with potential and then package him, craft him, and advertise him until he became the spokesperson for livecasting.”
10.
“And so you found me.”
“That’s right.” Lisa said. “You were already semi-famous, but your career was stalled in a tough spot. You needed money, and you were willing to undergo surgery to get it. You craved the feeling of being worshipped by the crowd, and so you wouldn’t be opposed to the idea of livecasting. You are blessed with good looks as well as easy and open manners. As long as your career took off, it was easy to see that more and more people would be attracted to your life. To be able to become the coolest and most relevant person in the world with little effort is a temptation few can resist.”
“I see. But how did you know that I would be so successful in the future?”
“Ha!” Lisa was shaking her head. “My dear Charles, you’re such a narcissist. Don’t you get it?”
A cold sweat broke out on Charles’s back as the truth pressed against an old, insecure wound in his psyche, but Lisa ripped off the last bandage concealing the truth without mercy. “We didn’t know, of course. You were just one of many candidates who made it through our selection process. The fact that you were chosen was purely by accident. Had we picked any of the others, we would have been able to engineer their incredible success as well. Charles, you were never successful because of your own efforts—without us, you would be nothing.”
“That’s not fair. Of course the livecasting has helped my career, but I worked hard for my success!”
“You worked hard?” Lisa chortled. “Charles, you’ve been enjoying a marvelous fantasy for ten years, but it’s time to wake up to reality. Do you really think you’re some once-in-a-century aviation genius? Your experience and skill as a pilot are only secondary contributors to your numerous racing trophies—the real reason you won is because you possessed the most expensive and advanced racing craft. You can afford to hire the world’s foremost aviation experts and engineers. Your victories are bought. I bet if you left Pegasus on autopilot it would still win most races.”
Charles’s face was now crimson and throbbing, but he couldn’t find an effective retort. “Even if . . . even if that were true, I used my own money! I’m the spokesperson for several spacecraft and aircraft manufacturers, and I earn plenty of sponsorships for my races.”
“You’re just arguing the question of whether the chicken or the egg came first. Who arranged those sponsorships for you? Who got you in front of the advertising executives? Who convinced them to back you instead of a rival? Think about it: you get the newest prototypes for experimental craft as soon as they emerge from the wind tunnel; you have access to the latest engine technology and avionics; you enjoy the most ergonomic hull interior design and air filtration systems, customized and assembled by the most experienced engineers on the planet—do you really think you’re entitled to all these advantages with no hustle from anyone? Charles, you’re not stupid, but years of being surrounded by applause and constant praise have blinded you to the way things really are.”
“So I’m just a puppet . . . with you and Bell Labs pulling the strings?” Charles felt his world crumble around him. “I’ve always thought you more than a bit odd. At first you told me you were a representative from Bell Labs, and then you worked at the implant start-up before becoming my professional manager—who’s the one giving you orders?”
“That’s a pointless question, and the answer won’t mean a thing to you anyway. Bell Labs, Cartel Nanotech, Connally Entertainment, Griffin Media, Douglas Astronautics, Springer Publishing, Time Media, Pacific TV & VR, Foundation for Democracy in America . . . the companies and organizations who have invested in you are members of a common interest community, but no single entity calls the shots. If you insist on identifying a puppeteer, it’s neither the US government nor Wall Street—it’s capital itself. You’re the most important link in the system, but you’re not independent. Your pathetic attempt to make your own decisions is harming the interests of the entire community.”
“Just because I stopped my livecast?” Charles laughed helplessly. “But you’ve already gotten your technology revolution and new market. There are more than a hundred thousand livecasting right now. Why don’t you let me go?”
“But no one can compare to you, Charles. Even though we now have many livecasters, few are willing to do so 24 hours a day, and among them you’re the most significant. You’re the first idol we created for the livecasting age. People might go view a third-rate fad like Baby Phoenix out of curiosity for the exotic, but you embody the dream of billions with your life. There is no substitute for you in the livecasting industry. Your book My So-Called Livecast Life has sold more than three hundred million copies! You symbolize a new way of life.
“If you go back to casting only from time to time, then livecasting will never be more than mere entertainment, and not nearly as many would be infatuated with it. It might take us ten, twenty years to recover from such a setback.”
“I thought you were very good at building up idols,” said Charles. “Why don’t you just make another Charles?”
“Why should we repeat the work we’ve already done? You’re now the world’s most prominent brand. Take your novels, for example: every one of them sells at least thirty million copies. But if the name of Jackson Smith were on the covers, I don’t imagine we’d move more than a few thousand.”
“Wait a minute.” Charles was unnerved by where this was going. He stared at Lisa. “Who’s Jackson Smith?”
“Of course you don’t know him.” Lisa waved his question away like a buzzing fly. “Jackson Daniel Smith, graduate of UT Austin, a failed novelist and former Hollywood scriptwriter, was the author of two novels published under his own name whose total sales never broke ten thousand. You can also find his name attached to a few B movies that no one has heard of. Twice divorced and bald by the time he was forty—oh, let me just add that he’s also the author of most of your novels.”
“What?!?” Charles was sure Lisa had gone too far. “What kind of bullshit is this?”
“Calm down. Think about it: before you got the cranial implant, you thought of yourself as a connoisseur of literature and published some online essays and short stories, but you never managed to even finish a novel. How could you have published your breakout debut, The Parthenon, the very next year?”
“What does when I
began writing have to do with you? What are you trying to prove?”
“Let’s go back to your composition process, shall we? For every one of your acclaimed novels, don’t you remember how the key plot points and wonderful twists seemed to just appear in your brain out of nowhere? Did you think you were communing with your muse? In reality, inspiration is also a sensory phenomenon. There’s a part of your brain, right here in the frontal lobe, which is the site of your sense of self and integrated cognition. That part is generally thought of as inviolable—not that we can’t get into it, but if we did, you’d become a patient in the psych ward. The rest of your brain, whether we’re talking about the sensory or motor cortices, or even the language center, can be stimulated with neural patterns from corresponding regions of other brains. We took Smith’s ideas and beamed the same patterns into your language center, where they triggered similar concepts. When the neural impulses were combined in the frontal lobe, your consciousness chooses to interpret the inspirations as your own.”
“That’s impossible!” Charles was now screaming at her. “Those inspired strokes . . . they were mine! I stayed up late and got up early for them . . . that feeling of creativity . . . how . . . how can they belong to this Smith?”
“In the future, there will no longer be any so-called ‘self,’” said Lisa. “That’s nothing more than an illusion created by a small cluster of decision neurons in the frontal lobe, but we, naively, thought of it as the soul that encompassed the senses, emotions, and all cognition. The livecasting age is going to tear away these illusions. You’re the pioneer of this brave new age, Charles, the apostle of a fresh epoch.”
Charles was now curled up in a corner. A bout of hysterical laughter burst from him. “Oh, you’re a real comedian, aren’t you? You spend half the night ripping me apart and telling me that I’m a useless puppet, all my proud accomplishments nothing more than illusions. Yet now you call me an apostle?”
“Reality is frequently painful,” said Lisa. “But you must press on down this path. Very soon you will come to understand that whether you’re a genius or a fool isn’t so important. What matters is who do you feel you are? Even if those ideas came from Jackson Smith, as long as you really felt that you came up with them, that was enough to satisfy your need to be creative, wasn’t it?
