The Mammoth Book of Best New SF 25 (Mammoth Books) (127 page)

Military effectiveness.
She had tallied all the deaths, she had marked each massacre on the walls of her heart, and this faceless envoy collapsed them into two words empty of number.

“—quite thoroughly. We are in need of a strong sword. What is your price for hire, Commander Lisse?”

“What is my—” She stared at the trefoil emblem, and then her face went ashen.

It is not true that the dead cannot be folded. Square becomes kite becomes swan; history becomes rumor becomes song. Even the act of remembrance creases the truth.

But the same can be said of the living.

DIGITAL RITES

Jim Hawkins is a “new writer” of an unusual sort, one who made his first sale to
New Worlds
forty-one years ago, and didn’t sell another story until placing two in
Interzone
in 2010. His forty-plus-year hiatus doesn’t seem to have diminished his talents or skills, though, as he demonstrates in the vividly written and strongly characterized story that follows, one about how human creativity is being supplanted, or at least intensively and intrusively “supplemented”, by artificial means. Or is it?

Amber Holiday lies on her immaculate stomach and looks out from the swimming pool high on the Corfu cliffs at Bella Vista. She knows the cameraman she can see in her peripheral vision wasn’t taking snapshots of the spectacular views over the rugged coastline of Paleokastritsa. He isn’t interested in the roof of the Monestario, couldn’t care less about the silver-encrusted iconostasis inside, is unimpressed by the perfect blue and turquoise Ionian Sea lapping gently into the sea caves in the sandstone strata far below. All he is interested in is the moment when she unhooks her bikini top, slips into the water for a quick plunge to perk up her nipples, climbs out, and stands glistening by the side of the pool like a newborn Athena bathed in the golden light of the sun that is dropping ever faster towards the open sea to the west.

Paparazzi! She has lived her life surrounded by paparazzi the way a dead dog lives its death surrounded by blowflies. Maybe now she’d given him a good angle on her tits he’d crawl off to whatever pathetic stone he lived under and leave her alone. No chance.

Knowing it is futile, she pulls her mobile phone out of her bag and speed-dials Dave Marchant, the studio’s Media Relations boss.

“All I wanted was ten days of peace!” she shouts into the phone. “I’ve been here forty-eight hours and I’m up to my boobs in telephoto lenses!”

“Not me, Julie. Defo not me.”

“Lying shit. Get these pap scum off me! And don’t call me Julie.”

Marchant sighs and says, “Julie – I’ve told you before. Paparazzi come with the job. In fact, paparazzi are the job.”

Amber Holiday, aka Julia Simpson, throws the phone into her bag and looks around. There is no sign of the photographer.

The narrow road from Bella Vista down to the harbour is steep, narrow, and winding with sheer drops of several hundred feet and blind bends. The gap between the ochre road-edge markings and the low fences is very narrow. Dune buggies are fragile – just an open tubular frame and an engine on big wheels. Amber’s hired buggy is bright yellow. She looks like an exotic caged parrot, her cool sea-green silk top rippling in the breeze.

She has no chance to see the black Mercedes coming up fast behind her until it’s too late. The impact throws her back against her seat. She yanks far too hard on the steering wheel, goes right towards the cliff edge, and over-compensates. The buggy slams over to the left, ricochets off the rock wall, veers across the road, and breaks through the cliff fence.

Caged birds can’t fly far – not unless they’re angry and forget to fasten their seatbelts. Like a diver from an eight-hundred-feet high-board, Amber Holiday flies a perfect arc out of her cage, her arms spread as though pleading for wings, her unblemished skin with its careful factor-twenty sun block reflecting the deep red of the setting sun, her beautifully chiselled Oscar-winning face turning in the evening air, and the goddess of a million tabloid pages, a zillion web-hits, blogs beyond count and infinite adolescent wet dreams hits the terrace of an apartment block, explodes, and turns into something resembling a spatchcocked chicken in a red wine sauce.

Police Lieutenant Spiros Koukoulades is strolling with his wife, Maria, down the dark and moody Venetian lanes of Corfu Town towards his favourite taverna, trying to divert her attention from the fur and silver shops, when Constable Alexandros Fotos runs towards them and stops, panting. Maria looks away. Spiros stands like a block of stone and says, “Alexi – what?”

Alexandros takes a deep breath and says, “A woman went off the cliff above Paleokastritsa this evening. She’s dead.”

“So?”

Maria turns back, fixes the constable with an uncompromising black-eyed stare, and says, “My husband is not on duty tonight.”

Alexandros would rather have faced a rioting mob in his underpants than face Maria Koukoulades, but he stands up straight and says to his boss, “Major Panagakos sent me to find you. Your mobile is switched off. The woman who died is a tourist. Major Panagakos told me to respectfully tell you to turn your mobile on and phone him immediately.”

Spiros walks away into the shadows, flicking his mobile phone open. Maria sniffs and looks Alexandros up and down and says, “You’re Demetria’s son, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I told her not to let any of her sons join the police. Are you ambitious? Do you want a promotion?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Then you can look forward to an angry wife and hungry Sunday nights. What’s so important about a dead tourist? Tourists fall off cliffs every day of the week.”

Maria’s stare and half-smile are strangely disturbing. She is a predator surveying prey and an erotic challenge. In the shadows of the five-hundred-year-old street Spiros is facing the wall and talking quietly into his mobile.

“The thing is,” Alexandros says, “it turns out she might be famous.”

Earlier.

It’s nine o’clock in the evening in Greece but only seven o’clock in England on a fine July day. Puffy white clouds and softly vanishing feathery vapour trails catch the gentle light and smile down at crowded pub-garden benches and children laughing as they ride on their last higher and higher push on the park swings. Blackbirds forage for worms between the trees. Midges and fruit flies emerge in the branches and assemble like fighter squadrons planning their attack on the lakes of wine and beer on the tables below. Of all the possible delights of summer, there is none more perfect than a warm July evening in England.

None of this is visible inside the vast, ugly, dark, heavily guarded and hermetically sealed hangar that is the centre of operations of FlashWorks Productions. Gone are the old soundstages. Gone are the lighting rigs, brutes, booms, and make up trolleys. No champagne pops, no stars hang on dressing-room doors. As Eliot wrote in “The Waste Land”: “The nymphs are departed.”

Inside this building there is never sunshine unless a script calls for it, and then it’s the fake light of artifice.

We are the CAMERA as it tracks through lonely pools of cool halogen light past the steel-clad reinforced block containing four thousand and ninety-six clusters of massively parallel computers, each of which contains one thousand and twenty-four superconducting quantum cores. Coils of foil-wrapped liquid helium pipes enter the roof of the block like the snake-hair of Medusa, calming the qubits into submission. Power lines from the sub station outside hum. And no birds sing.

CAMERA continues to track through the gloom – past the Administration Block, now silent and unlit on a Sunday evening – towards the studios. Thirty-two spheres stretch in rows to the distant darkness. Each sphere has a diameter of twenty-four metres and hangs from an umbilical cord of cables and coolants. Each sphere is wrapped in golden foil, for no particular reason apart from impressing the investors. Around the equator of each sphere there is a ring of luminous colour. Black equals empty. Blue equals maintenance. Green equals powering up. Orange equals rehearsal. Red equals TAKE and may not be interrupted by anybody.

Seven of the studios are active. In Studio Two Sharon Lightly is directing Amber Holiday in scene forty-six. In Studio Five Don Fairchild is directing Amber Holiday and Tarquin Beloff in scene six. In Studio Six Rachel Palmer is directing Amber Holiday and Tarquin Beloff in scene ninety-seven. In Studio Eleven Greg Waleski is directing Angel Argent and Tarquin Beloff in scene fifteen. All these studios are at status orange.

Only one equator glows red.

CAMERA slows its track down the long dark aisle, turns towards Studio Nineteen, and . . .

Jack Rogers seems to float on his director’s chair half way up one wall of the enclosing sphere. He is at a high angle above what seems to be a city street in London. The curving walls of the studio are invisible. He sees tower-blocks and traffic. He sees light snow drifting from the upper right. Traffic lights flash and the buses make bright cones of the falling flakes in their headlight beams.

He stretches his arm out and slowly brings his flattened hand downwards. The viewpoint drifts down. He is the camera. He sees for us. He is dream-flying above this street, but what he sees, we will see.

We drift lower until we are close to Oxford Circus tube station. Snowflakes drift past the viewpoint. Crowds from every nation on Earth struggle to walk in the press of people. There’s traffic noise, shouting, and Samuel Barber’s “Adagio for Strings” playing as a holding music track.

And there she is. Amber Holiday walks out of the tube station and pulls the fur-lined hood up on her coat. She shivers, turns, and begins to fight her way through the crowds eastwards, towards Soho.

Jack says, “Follow. Keep her in the right-hand segment,” and the camera moves to the left with her.

Jack says, “Push in slowly,” and the camera closes in on her deep blue eyes. She smiles. It’s a big smile. And then her smile bends and curls into a snarl. Snot runs from her nose. Her eyes squeeze shut in pain. She falls to the floor, inert.

Jack shouts, “Cut!” and everything freezes. The traffic, the crowds, the noise, the buses, the taxis, and the music simply stop.

Rachel Palmer has long dark curly hair, intense blue eyes, a “don’t mess with me” attitude, and she’s having a hard time with the actors. Tarquin Beloff is impossibly handsome. The computers have enhanced his pectoral muscles, which through the gap in his open-neck shirt look as though he could destroy tower-blocks with a swipe of his hand.

“I agree with Amber,” he says in his carefully melded accent of Russia, Boston, and BBC. “It’s a really bad line.”

“Tarquin,” says Rachel, “your opinion is valuable but I am actually talking to Amber here, so take a break.” Somewhere in the computer hub Tarquin’s user-interface state machine begins an infinite loop on its current node and he shuts up. That doesn’t stop several thousand other tasks in his entity cluster from reading and analysing books, paintings, music, and internet porn in search of a deeper simulacrum of humanity.

Very patiently Rachel says, “Okay, Amber. So what exactly is your problem with the line?”

“I can’t say ‘Don’t kiss me. You can fuck me, but you can’t kiss me. I’m not ready for kissing – yet.’ ” Amber deploys her brand-new secret smile. “It’s inconsistent with my character profile. Kissing is an early stage and fucking comes later.”

Rachel sits back in her director’s chair and thinks for a moment. “The thing is, Amber,” she says, “what you’re saying is true for your inherited characteristics. Obviously Julie likes a bit of tongue-play before she feels like opening up, and so do I. But we’re doing acting, remember, and you have to adjust your parameters and weightings to accept that this is the way your character, Alice, feels about things. It makes her a little bit distinct from Julie and me. Maybe she values the tenderness of a kiss above body-touching and physical sexuality. Maybe she wants tenderness to be the goal and not the trigger. Just think about it.”