by Ken Saunders
‘The PM’s office just sent this, Ms Lambert,’ the staffer stammered. ‘They’ve discovered an extended play version of “We Are Aussie, It’s What We Are About”. There’s a verse we didn’t know about!’
Georgia stuffed the earphone into her own ear. It would be quicker to hear what the staffer was talking about than have her explain. ‘Play it again,’ she instructed.
On the screen came an amateur video of the Jaggernauts in concert, in front of a big Invasion Day banner. The staffer skipped over the first verses. The Jaggernauts were heading into the familiar chorus, but now they sang:
We are Aussie, it’s what we are about.
We are Aussie, of the terra nullius
You had no say, took your land away
Then we tried a genocide
We are Aussie, it’s what we are about.
‘The Jaggernauts never told us about this!’ the staffer wailed.
‘No, they wouldn’t, would they,’ Georgia muttered. The Jaggernauts had likely improvised this extra verse when they were offered an Invasion Day gig. The lyrics of starving musicians were often flexible in such ways.
The regular version of ‘We Are Aussie’ was to kick in as soon as Fitzwilliams finished speaking, the backing music as the Prime Minister mingled with the audience for some up-front-and-personal time. If some stroppy punter from the crowd should unexpectedly have a go at the PM, they could simply crank up the music to drown him out.
They could no longer use ‘We Are Aussie’. If this protest version ever got out … Georgia did not want to think about the consequences. She took the staffer by the shoulder. ‘Go to the sound tech backstage. Tell him to put on something else when the PM finishes.’
...
The staffer arrived backstage breathless. The sound tech was an old, overweight guy with tattoos on both arms. The left arm had PUNK written on it; the right had the outline of a heart in red with SID AND NANCY inscribed inside. What thin hair the man still had, he kept spiked up in five prongs atop his head, the remnants of a mostly obliterated army still forlornly trying to stand at attention.
‘Sid,’ the staffer began, ‘we need—’
‘My name’s not Sid,’ the techie interrupted.
‘Sorry,’ the staffer said. She indicated the tattoo on his arm. ‘I thought …’
The techie made a rumbling noise. ‘It’s for Sid Vicious. What do you want? Fitzwilliams is nearly finished.’ He was no longer looking at her but watching the PM.
‘Excuse me?’ she said forcefully to regain his attention. Why did they hire these old fossils? she wondered. This was what came of lifting the retirement age to seventy-two. ‘Georgia Lambert wants you to cut the song. When the Prime Minster finishes, don’t play the song she gave you earlier. Put on something else.’
‘Georgia?’ he muttered. ‘That the thin one with the glasses?’
‘Yes, the thin one with the glasses.’ She wasn’t sure he’d got the message. ‘Don’t put on the song she gave you,’ she said loudly and slowly.
‘Give me what you want, I’ll play it.’ He held out his hand. There was an anarchist A on the palm.
‘I don’t have any music!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’re the sound technician. Put something on!’
‘Yeah, yeah, calm down.’ The technician wasn’t going to let this little stress ball wind him up. Where did they get these kids? So young and so uptight. They weren’t like anything he recognised from his day. He rummaged in a bag and slotted a stick into the console. The kid was still hovering over him. ‘I got it in hand,’ he told her. ‘Now piss off!’
...
When Fitzwilliams had finished, Garry Templeton got the standing ovation going and the audience was quick to follow his lead. A good crowd, a perfect afternoon. The PM nodded to Templeton to begin the walk-through; Templeton could be trusted to steer him towards the most reliable people to meet. Quentin and Leon fell into step with them.
The first chords of a song rang out—power chords followed by a tiny plink of guitar strings. Fitzwilliams’ brow twitched. It was not ‘We Are Aussie’.
‘Prime Minister!’ Quentin nearly gasped. ‘That’s a bad song to play!’
‘Oh God!’ Fitzwilliams inhaled, finally recognising the tune. It was The Clash’s ‘Should I Stay or Should I Go’. That was certainly not a question Fitzwilliams wanted put to the voters at this point of the election.
The Prime Minister reached for a hand to shake and smiled. Hold the smile, he thought. Act as though you are not hearing it.
The Clash put the same question out there again. He tried to exchange a few words with some woman from the business precinct only for her to interrupt and say, ‘You shouldn’t have that song playing, Prime Minister.’
How many blasted times were The Clash going to repeat the one line? And some of the rest of the lyrics were even worse.
He plunged further into the crowd as if the throng of bodies would block out the music. Did no one realise the mistake up on stage? Australia Post drones were whirling about recording everything. There was nothing for it but to hold his ground and smile.
...
The staffer had come hurtling back to the sound technician. ‘Are you out of your mind?’ she shrieked. ‘Turn that song off.’
He looked at her as if he couldn’t process what she’d just said. ‘That’s The Clash,’ he said. ‘The Clash,’ he repeated emphatically. ‘Show some respect, missy.’
The staffer looked at him incredulously and then lunged at the USB stick to pull it from the console. The technician smacked her hand away. ‘No one interrupts The Clash at my gigs,’ he rumbled.
There was only a moment’s hesitation. The staffer thrust the palm of one hand over the techie’s face and pushed his head back, groping blindly with her other hand for the USB stick to yank it out.
The heel of her palm hooked the techie under his nose. He growled angrily and twisted his head to the side. Her hand shot upwards and, with his punk instincts afire, he came straight back to nut her one. However, her head wasn’t there. Instead, he smashed the bridge of his nose straight into her pointed elbow. His head went woozy with pain and nostalgia. Like being in back in London in ’77, he thought, sagging almost contentedly to the floor. Perhaps the younger generation were okay after all.
...
The music stopped abruptly. There was a commotion back on the stage. Fitzwilliams heard somebody shouting something about ‘blood’. Drones were now buzzing around the hubbub on the stage.
A tiny hand tugged at his sleeve. A small boy was smiling up at him. Fitzwilliams still didn’t know what was happening on the stage, but there were undoubtedly cameras still on him. ‘Are you going to vote for Ned?’ the little fellow asked.
‘He’s talking about the space station,’ his mother jumped in hastily. She cupped a hand around her mouth and spoke softly. ‘He wants everyone to vote for her, the Ned Ludd in space—to keep the Aussie astronaut on the space station. We are Liberals,’ she added as an afterthought. She looked at her son. ‘They’re not voting anyone off the space station this weekend, Jason. It’s the big Fortuna Friday event. All the astronauts will get to stay on board the station for that.’
Fitzwilliams crouched down by the boy. ‘I hope your Ned gets to stay in space.’ ‘Should I Stay or Should I Go’ was still reverberating in his head. The satire shows would have a field day. ‘It would be nice to be in space,’ he told the boy wistfully. It would be nice to be looking at the planet from afar without feeling you had to be part of it.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The guests on Jim Jarvis’s morning radio program still sat facing where the show’s formidable host would once have been. Now they saw his empty seat, behind which a portrait of Jim Jarvis hung on the wall, draped in black. It kept guests edgy, the station manager believed. Best not lie to the dead.
The Luddite had the earphones on and that oddly bored look of trepidation guests got as they listened to the show’s live feed, its weather and traffic reports, th
e distractingly mundane build-up to their segment. The station manager had snared the Luddite school kid from the leaders’ debate, the one who’d kept her cool when the Prime Minister had lost his and Stanfield had ended up in tears. The rest of the media was treating the kid like a star. The late Jim Jarvis would show her no such deference.
Virtual Jim Jarvis was on fire this morning, having mauled a state cabinet minister and some soppy environmentalist. The Luddite spot was the closing piece for the show. Eight days out from the election and nobody had yet skewered the Luddites. This would be the break-through. Jarvis would nail them and the Jim Jarvis Show would be the talking point of the day across all media.
‘Many of our listeners have asked that the Jim Jarvis Show delve into this so-called Luddite party,’ the voice of Jim Jarvis began. ‘They’ve burst onto the political scene and although they talk a lot, not much of it is about themselves. Who are they? Who founded them? Where do they get their money? What’s their agenda for our country, a country they wish to govern under an assumed name? Those are just some of the questions hanging over the Luddites. Well, listeners, now is your chance. We have Ned Ludd with us, the young debater we saw the other night who locked horns with our prime minister. Thank you for coming on the Jim Jarvis Show.’
That last sentence was Jim’s usual signal that civilities were over. The station manager leaned forward.
The young Ned Ludd swallowed and said, ‘I apologise, Mr Jarvis, for coming into your studio dressed so eccentrically in all this … Transylvania paraphernalia, but I’m performing in a school play immediately after I finish this interview.’
The station manager and the producer exchanged looks. What the hell was she on about? The kid was in a regular school uniform. ‘Is she stoned?’ the producer whispered. The station manager brightened at the thought. Teen Luddite debater stoned at 8.30 am on a school day … Pow! Chalk up another kill for the Jim Jarvis Show.
The kid’s bizarre opening gave even the computer program a moment’s pause. ‘Perhaps we could start,’ it said at last, ‘with what you consider to be the major issues facing this nation.’
The station manager blinked. Normally, Virtual Jim told his guest what the important issues were.
The kid started describing her wingding national wage idea. Jim Jarvis was unusually content to let her do the talking, asking only probing questions for clarification.
‘Something’s wrong with Jarvis,’ the producer discerned. ‘It’s like he’s—’ he searched for the term ‘—interviewing her!’ His eyes looked uncomprehending. ‘He’s letting her have her say!’
The producer was right. Not only that, but Jarvis’s voice was softer. It had lost its anger-of-the-people stridency. The station manager couldn’t think what was causing it—unless … ‘Is it possible that the real Jim Jarvis would have supported the Luddites?’ he wondered. The question was ridiculous. Jarvis would have loathed the Luddites.
‘Let’s open the lines for callers now,’ Virtual Jim proposed.
The first caller was promising. He denounced the national wage scheme as communism—even worse, it was communism for bludgers. Jim Jarvis jumped in before the young Ned could answer. ‘I think you’re confused there, caller. In the old communist system, the state owned the means of production. The national wage doesn’t propose anything like that. When you use terms like communist, caller, you need to use them accurately.’
‘What the hell’s going on?’ the producer asked. Jim Jarvis concerned about throwing labels around? This was the man (or computer program) who’d called the state premier a degenerate corrupt sociopath. (It had been right on only one out of the three). ‘It’s like the computer has suddenly become PC!’
There was a joke in that line, but the station manager didn’t have time for it.
The caller, too, was perplexed. ‘But, Jim, this national wage gives money to teenagers for doing nothing.’
‘To be fair, caller, it also gives it to all adults, you and me included.’
‘To be fair, caller,’ the producer repeated in disbelief. Since when did Jim Jarvis care about fairness?
Jarvis continued in this polite vein. Eventually even the tone of the callers became courteous. ‘If this continues, they’ll be singing “Kumbaya” before the show’s over,’ the producer despaired.
‘It’s a computer malfunction,’ the station manager diagnosed. ‘A total malfunction!’
He whipped off his earphones. ‘That damned programmer needs to fix this!’ The station manager raced from the booth and up the stairs to his office. He thrust his hand into the jumble of his desk’s top drawer. That programmer’s card had to be in there somewhere.
‘Ha!’ he cried at last, finding the right card. He remembered it because it had only the programmer’s name and contact details. No logo or anything, not even a business name.
The station manager started an email. URGNET!! he typed in uppercase alarm. Your computer program has mal … He peered at the screen. URGNET? He was too agitated to type. Besides, it would feel better to shout at somebody. He picked up his phone.
...
The mobile phone on Jiang’s desk was ringing. Jiang was across the room playing table tennis. Since he had told Olivia that he was working for the Luddites, she’d been watching him like a hawk. Like a hawk, perhaps, but she was a hawk that didn’t know what it was watching for or what to do next, Olivia admitted.
Olivia wasn’t a manager who pried into the personal lives of her employees. She was thus somewhat surprised to find she had picked up Jiang’s phone and said, ‘Hello?’ into it without identifying herself or the firm Baxter Lockwood.
‘Who’s this?’ a voice demanded.
‘Who do you wish to speak to?’ Olivia asked back.
‘I want to speak to that programmer—the kid … Jiang Luu,’ the voice said. It sounded as if he had read the name.
‘Jiang is occupied,’ Olivia replied primly. Across the room, there were guffaws coming from the table tennis match.
‘I don’t care whether he’s performing open heart surgery!’ the voice declared. ‘I need to speak with him right away.’
The man was clearly agitated. Olivia felt strangely pleased to hear Jiang having this effect on someone else for a change. Really, she ought to have some sympathy for the man, but she didn’t. ‘Is this work-related?’ she asked.
‘Who are you?’ the voice demanded. ‘I rang Jiang Luu’s phone, I want to speak to Jiang Luu. Tell your boyfriend to get his arse over here.’
Boyfriend? The concept made Olivia almost go pale. Having him as a co-worker was nerve-racking enough. ‘Jiang isn’t available,’ she replied curtly. ‘If you care to leave a message, I’ll have him get back to you.’ Why was she doing this?
‘Tell Jiang to get over to 2RT right away. Tell him Jim Jarvis has fried his fucking silicon brain. Jarvis has gone all warm and fuzzy and Jiang has got to get over here and fix it pronto. More than pronto, if there’s a word that’s faster than that. And tell him to answer his own fucking phone next time!’
The call clicked off. The table tennis match finished. Jiang and Sam were returning to their desks. Olivia held out Jiang’s phone to him. ‘Why would Radio 2RT ring to tell you to get over there immediately? They are not a client of ours. And why do they think you have anything to do with the Jim Jarvis Show?’
Jiang laughed; a proper cackle, Olivia thought. ‘Because I wrote the program for the Virtual Jim Jarvis. Years ago. Before I worked here.’
Olivia was appalled. Jim Jarvis had been an odious man. Why would Jiang want him to continue broadcasting after he died? ‘Your friend on the phone,’ she said, getting back to the point, ‘wanted you to know that Jim Jarvis has,’ she quoted, ‘fried his fucking silicon brain. He says it’s your fault and you have to fix it. Pronto,’ she added.
Jiang nodded. ‘I was wondering when they were going to play that card.’
‘Is that the embed program you told me about?’ Sam asked. ‘What was it? “Transylvania
regalia”?’
‘Close.’ Jiang gave Olivia a satisfied smile.
‘I think you need to explain—everything—now,’ Olivia told him. ‘Erica,’ she said, turning around, ‘Jiang and I are going to the couch to have a chat. Can you put the kettle on, please? I may need a strong cup of tea.’
...
Five minutes later, a cup of tea in her hand, Olivia couldn’t get the grin off her face. Jiang was brilliant. Utterly brilliant. ‘So, what are you going to do about that phone call?’ she asked him.
Jiang picked up his phone, pressed a few buttons. ‘Hello, you’ve reached the phone of Jiang Luu,’ he enunciated. ‘If your call is from Radio 2RT, I’m under no contractual obligation to do anything for you whatsoever. Anyone else can leave a message.’ He put the phone back in his pocket. Olivia erupted in a deep chortle, clapping her hands together delightedly.
When Jiang first created the Virtual Jim Jarvis he’d embedded a sub-program within it. The sub-program was—Olivia still could not believe such a thing was possible—designed to transform Jim Jarvis into a nice guy: someone who listened to others, who wanted to find out more about what other people thought. ‘His ego has been recalibrated,’ Jiang told her, turning an imaginary dial in the air, ‘from near infinity to a modest practically zero.’ The sub-program was always dormant within Virtual Jim Jarvis and could only be activated by an audio command—in this case, the words ‘Transylvania paraphernalia’, a phrase that was never going to come up in the normal course of the Jim Jarvis Show. It would only be used long after everyone had accepted that Virtual Jim was the real deal. It would be used when the Luddites needed it.
Seeing Jiang doing Loki the Trickster on someone else—not just someone else, but on the dead Jim Jarvis and 2RT—was magnificent. He was an artist, a maestro. It didn’t matter to Olivia that it was Luddite business and that the firm Baxter Lockwood should have absolutely nothing to do with it. This time she’d been on Jiang’s side. This time Olivia had played a role in it. It felt good!