The Rise of Saint Fox and The Independence

by Corin Reyburn

  Then she woke, and just like that, it faded away.

  

  Sam and Sailor came home drunk at quarter past three.

  “You sang beautifully mate, beautifully. Just gorgeous, you were,” Sailor crooned. “I’ll buy whatever you’re selling, man. I’ll fight for whatever cause you’re fighting for.”

  “It might require you to get out of bed before noon,” Sam said.

  “I’m out, I’m out!” Sailor exclaimed. “You’ll have to go on without me. I’ll put scarlet-coloured roses on your grave.” He collapsed like a ragdoll onto their worn blue couch.

  Sam sat atop his knees. “How’m I supposed to save the world without my best man?” he asked.

  “Aww, you know I’m not your best man. I’m your worst man. But I’m your only man.”

  “That isn’t true, my dizzy love. Got lots of men. Gonna get more.”

  “C’mere,” Sailor said, reaching for Sam’s waist.

  “Don’t start that again. You’re drunk.”

  “But very good-looking.”

  “Only in the right light. In our low-watt house lights you’re beautiful, in others you’re grotesque.”

  “That’s what you like about me, you sick bastard.” He slid his hand underneath the back of Sam’s hideous multi-coloured top.

  “One of these days I’ll grow weary of resisting your very unique charm,” Sam said, leaning down to kiss him briskly on the lips. “But I’ve still got a bit of fight in me yet. G’night, Sailor.” He got up, smacking Sailor on the thigh as he left the room. Sailor muttered vague insults at the loss but was dead asleep moments later.

  Sam’s room was down the hall, to the left, and had nothing in it—a twin bed with navy sheets, a used wooden desk he’d brought in from the curb, a Joy Division poster—his, and a Jimi Hendrix print from the previous tenant. He lay down on the bed the wrong way around, dropping his head onto his crossed arms.

  Sam wasn’t a fool. He knew the world as it stood was based upon an all-encompassing, nearly impenetrable infrastructure, a faceless giant nearly impossible to destroy in an over-information age where every word was questionable and almost nothing could be traced back to its original source. People were made to function in society like clockwork components, and those whose gears did not fit were marginalised. Those who tried to go against the structure in any significant way were eliminated one way or another.

  He knew that Janus Jeeves and the Arcane Society were idealists, dreamers, men with hope and goodness and soul food in their hearts. Men with big ideas who rarely had the means to follow through with them.

  War was the opposite of what Sam wanted. The last time he was at Jeeves’ he’d listened to him and Benson talking about starting a war by stopping one, disarming them before they even had a chance to fire, leaving them castrated, limp. Take them by surprise and take ‘em down when they were unarmed and frantic, lost in chaos and pissing their trousers as their virtual bank accounts drained, hit zero as imaginary numbers left them with nothing in their hands.

  Whatever that meant.

  Freedom. That’s what he wanted. He thought back to his first time at the Arcana’s headquarters, how Jeeves had promised him that their brand of freedom “wouldn’t cost a cent.”

  Tomorrow Sam would go again to Janus Jeeves’ flat, bring him more bodies, write more songs. Tomorrow Sam would help Sailor nurse his hangover, tomorrow Sam would take Binky to the vet. Tomorrow Sam would help build a better tomorrow, but tonight he was alone in his bed, half-asleep and drunk on cheap vodka, lucid dreaming of choral melodies winding around crunchy distortion, while a girl with full pink lips left electric whispers along his collarbone, under his navel. Tonight he would dream, and enjoy it, because tomorrow had not yet come. Tomorrow would do something about tomorrow, and Sam would be there, too.

  He would sing and he would fight, but oh—wasn’t it better to just lie still in this blissful, quiet night—and dream?

  Chapter Nine

  TAXLOSS

  The people were just waiting to be chopped up, chewed, and spat out. Toughened and sedated by years of stale 12A-rated films and not touching one another for the past century. All craved emotions could be bought, yours with just the swipe of a finger.

  The Dot made it easier than ever—a small magnetic disc about 3mm across, that everyone, save for the technically obsolete, had embedded in the top pad of their right index finger. The technology began with the integration of magstripes once used in credit cards into a stylus for use with electromagnetic digitiser touchscreens, more accurate and sensitive than their capacitive touchscreen counterparts. Users, however, still preferred the convenience of using their hands. The next step in accessibility was obvious—install the stylus in the body.

  The Dot could easily be installed at various kiosks found throughout shopping centres, grocery stores, ATMs, and underground terminals. The miniscule device felt like nothing at all a few days after installation, and took less time to acquire than a cup of tea. The process was simple; it was much like having one’s ears pierced.

  Once it was made available on the market, its time and space-saving properties and its growing popularity amongst the young and savvy turned it into a necessity. The next step up from making purchases via cleverband—it was more secure, storing banking information inside oneself rather than in an external device. The Dot made people feel their wallets were protected, a personalised system beyond the reach of the cleverest cloud hackers and identity thieves.

  The Dot allowed one to make secure purchases from any touch-sensitive device or point-of-sale terminal by simply swiping their finger across a designated spot on the display, typically a peach or mint green-coloured box. Only a handful of shops in the countryside still accepted payment the old-fashioned way—credit card terminals had gone the way of the compact disc, and almost no one carried cash.

  With the Dot a ubiquitous part of the human body and personal assistant devices as wearable as pants, technology had come a long way in providing the ultimate convenience.

  Janus Jeeves saw it as the ultimate opportunity.

  

  The sun set outside Jeeves’ collapsed flat as two new members were brought into the fold.

  “Come in, come in!” He motioned grandly for Kit and Delia to sit down next to him and Sam on the swirl-printed, shagpile carpet.

  Jeeves liked Kit the minute he met her, due in no small part to him recognizing her as that one teen pop sensation from a few years ago who had actual talent.

  And she would like him back.

  Straightaway he buttered her up with compliments, showing off his knowledge of what real rock-pop was, regaling her with tales of his experiences either personal or metaphysical with The Sweet, Mansun, Sugarpop Hideaway—bands that anyone worth their salt knew about.

  “You ought to teach Sam a few things about being a rock star. Make sure he stays outta the traps, like you did, you smart thing,” he told her.

  “I’m not anyone’s nanny,” she said gently, a wry smile folding her lips.

  “Of course you’re not.” Jeeves dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand. “You don’t worry about none of that. You just look after you.”

  Jeeves glanced over at Delia seated on the carpet next to Sam, leaning against him and laughing probably more than he deserved. Good, Jeeves thought. He’s already attracting groupies.

  But Sam’s head all dizzy from dames was not what he wanted. This one’s got to go, he determined, switching his attention back to Kit, who was talking about the Bowie album Diamond Dogs, how the band could take a page from its revolutionary war cries.

  This one’s got to stay. She might be a key player.

  “Make sure you come to the show Friday night,” he said. “Now come on and have a look at our first vidcast, see how foxy our new saint is.”

  Jeeves motioned for them to gather round. He perched on the arm of his white faux-fur couch while Kit and Delia sat on either side of Sam. Benson walked in carrying his ta
blet.

  “Check it out,” he said. He set the device on top of the coffee table, touching Play.

  The camera’s eye zoomed in on Sam, from a blurry swirling mass of colours it focused into the sharp planes of his face, lips glistening, smears of charcoal across his eyelids. He wore a powder blue suit, his hair standing on end in angry spikes. Sam’s honey-textured tenor drilled deep, hit primal chords, awakened electric signals long dormant within the listener’s psyche. The video focused on his delicate hands against a white background, plucking the strings of his black Stratocaster. The other band members appeared in soft flashes as if they were figments of his imagination, floating waiflike things, men from a different time and place.

  It wasn’t long after christening Sam as ‘Saint Fox’ that Jeeves dubbed the band Saint Fox and The Independence, having conjured up the name in an endorphin-induced haze brought on by rapid movement throughout his flat and advanced homeopathy. Jeeves had pieced together the band by hand-selecting from amongst his followers the prettiest and most musically gifted, then sent them off to his old friend Montreal to learn the tricks of the trade. Now, he sent the lads out into the stratosphere to conquer the hearts and minds of the young men and women of England.

  “You’re gonna go viral, baby,” Jeeves said. “Your velvet acid voice, your yearning eyes, your somethin’-somethin’. It’s all coming together.”

  Sam looked downwards and away, eyes unfocused as a small smile played across his lips. “Thanks,” he said softly.

  “You sound so good there,” Delia said. “You look really good, too—god, the whole band looks just smashing. Benson did a great job directing.”

  “Sam did all the work. All’s I had to do was point the camera,” Benson said.

  “So, whaddya think, love?” Jeeves asked Kit, sidling up real close. Wisps of her dark hair fluttered against her cheek in response to his perfumed breath. He smelled of cloves and plumeria, was dressed in zebra-striped rags and gold-plated jewelry. Kit drew back from him almost imperceptibly, his presence all-encompassing. That she found his energy magnetic no one would guess from the wide berth of space she kept around her. Not quite standoffish, but as though a part of her was always somewhere else.

  “I think it’s brilliant. The video’s stunning and the band sounds fabulous, very tight. Catchy chorus,” she said. “Can’t believe you’ve practically just started, you’re oozing confidence like an old pro,” she told Sam, her eyes drifting to the mesmerizing image of him on the screen.

  Sam smiled crookedly. “It’s just the leather jacket. Or ‘cause I watched the Stones’ ‘Rock n’ Roll Circus’ the night before.”

  “Just be careful not to let it go to your head,” she said. “Things can go from naught to a thousand in the blink of an eye.”

  “That’s right, you were once a little Miss rock n’ roll star yerself, weren’t ya?” Sam grinned.

  “More or less. Times have changed though. Record companies are dead. Maybe that puts you a little more in control.”

  “Just making good music,” said Sam. “And making lots of friends. Then we’ll see.”

  “Oh, we’ll be in control,” Jeeves interjected. “Let’s watch it again, let’s see our new messiah do his thing.” He touched Play, smiling with all his teeth. Sam rested back on his forearms, languid and content.

  “So,” Kit began when the video had finished a second time. “How…how exactly is turning Sam into a rock star supposed to bring down the credit system?” she questioned, eyeing Jeeves with a look that was both eager and suspicious.

  Jeeves had to admire her curiosity, and managed to keep all but a tad of irritation from his voice. “Don’t be so short-sighted, baby,” he said, rising to stand. His gangly body began spinning circles around the group, long arms rising and falling as he spoke. “We need the fans, darling; it’s all about the fans. You, her, him,” he pointed to Kit, Delia, and Benson in turn. “You’ll spread the word, won’t ya? Every one brings ten. Every ten brings a hundred. Ten thousand. All sixty-five million. They’ll follow him anywhere, yeah? Look at this face.” He gripped Sam’s jaw in his wide hand, pinching until he puckered, then slapped a short, exaggerated smacking kiss against his lips. “Follow him anywhere.”

  Delia nodded with false wisdom in her eyes, she would. Would little Miss wild-haired former teen rock star follow him down the rabbit hole? The girl seemed uncomfortable in her own skin. What was she afraid of?

  The fun had only just begun.

  On Benson’s announcement that he’d gotten the app Jeeves had asked him to build up and running, the maestro disappeared with him into the next room in a flurry of printed fabric, the slender developer barely visible between the waves of Jeeves’ silky sleeves.

  This left Sam on his own for the moment, seated between the two girls. Benson’s tech-jargon and Jeeves’ questions, which he answered himself in two different voices, drifted into the main room without enough volume for them to hear what they were saying.

  “Do you know what he’s on about?” asked Delia.

  “Sometimes,” said Sam, scratching the back of his neck. “Other times yeah, I wonder, but still, I trust him more than the other guy, you know? He’s a pacifist, like me, and now I get to do what I’ve always wanted to do but could never make happen.”

  “Become a famous rock star?” Delia asked, her eyes staring brightly into his.

  “Become a musician,” Sam corrected. “I’ve messed around with it before, but the guys I’m working with now are really clever, really talented. And motivated.”

  “Well, Jeeves must be doing something right, all the ‘cool kids’ I know have heard of you already.” Delia uncrossed her legs and stretched her arms back, smiling hazily at Sam.

  Kit’s hands were folded in her lap. “How much did you look into Jeeves and the Society before accepting his offer?” she asked.

  Sam didn’t get a chance to answer. “Saint Fo-ox,” Jeeves sing-songed as if on cue. “C’mere and see what our Bezzy has done.”

  Benson motioned for Sam to sit down beside him on the blue-painted picnic table while Jeeves hovered over them like an eagle, wings spread. “Check out this app, Sammy,” said Benson. “Here, I’ll put it on your cleverband for ya.”

  “What’s it do?”

  “It’s a way to interact with fans; we’re calling it FoxDen. See over here? That’s where you intertalk. And this is LyrikCafe. This here’s where all the user profiles are—I’ve already started one for you. Check it out...yer photo’s that one I took of you against the bricks behind Urbani when the sun was out the other day. Whaddya think?”

  “Yeah, brilliant,” Sam waved his fingers through the air, navigating the app’s interface. It was impressive, he had to admit. Great communication features, 3D avatars displaying in hyper-realistic form within the holospace. “It says I’ve already got 73 messages,” he said, after poking around for a while. “How’s that possible?”

  “Don’t worry,” Benson said. “I’ve set up an auto-responder based on a series of algorithms that replies with a ‘customised’ message. You’ll be able to interact on a massive scale.”

  “I don’t know, doesn’t that seem a bit dishonest?”

  “Sammy, if you wanna save the world, you’ve gotta cut a few corners. Now give it here,” he motioned for user control.

  “What for?” Sam asked. He switched the controls of his cleverband’s holo display back over to Benson with a few fluid motions.

  “Finishing your profile. What’s your favourite band?”

  “The Clash. I have to say that, don’t I?” he said with a grin.

  “What’s it really?” Benson asked, glancing away from the display and peering at Sam over his thin specs.

  “I rather like John Mellencamp.”

  “Out!” Jeeves exclaimed, spinning away from the table. “I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

  “I’m just pulling his leg,” Sam defended. “Actually, I do like a bit of Mellencamp, nothin’ wrong with that, thanks v
ery much; he fought authority after all. But favourite? Tom Waits, of course. Can’t beat it.”

  “Americans,” Benson muttered. “Such a shame when practically all the decent bands that ever were are right here at home. I’m putting The Smiths.”

  “I actually ain’t that into The Smiths. I mean, I like ‘em and all, but sometimes Mozza’s a bit much. You’re the one that’s mad about The Smiths.”

  “Shut up or I’m putting Oasis,” said Benson.

  “Don’t you dare.”

  “Okay, you’re all set.” Benson returned the cleverband controls to Sam.

  James and Jack-of-all-Trades entered the flat then, a horde of eager-looking misfits straggling behind them. They found places to sit—beanbags, mismatched velvet furniture, spread across the floor in front of the two girls.

  They were young. Pale-faced. Enthusiastic. Kind eyes. The type who could hold their own in an intellectual debate. The type that sewed their own clothing, made their own jewelry. The type that gave things away just because they decided after a split second that they liked you.

  “All right, street team!” Jeeves rallied. “The wheels are turning. The game is afoot.”

  Heads turned to face the ringmaster, members of the Arcana—his colleagues, friends and followers that Jeeves had met along the way. And today there were new faces—some new fans of the band, others scenesters just along for the ride.

  Around thirty bodies present and accounted for.

  They would need many more.

  “I’ve gotta go meet up with the guys at practice,” Sam announced, grinning apologetically at everyone. “Listen to this man,” he said, clapping Jeeves on the shoulder. “He knows what’s up. See you dolls later.” He slid into his rock star persona on the way out, moving like a cat, with smiles and kisses for the whole gang as he made his way to the lift.

  He’s perfect, Jeeves thought to himself. Absolutely perfect.

  Jeeves clasped his hands together. “Let’s go out and spread the word, shall we?” he said, mismatched eyes full of firelight. “A star is born from ash and fire, times are tough and the situation is dire.