Midnight Lamp

by Gwyneth Jones

  ‘Then why d’you ask? Just drive around the block, while I go in and pretend to be a visiting researcher again. Hey, Doug, d’you realise I could have worked here, what d’you think? In a real white coat, an’ all.’

  ‘I think you’re nuts. Take the mask off, at least.’

  ‘Right.’

  Lissa the brainy tinsel-town wannabe was waiting for him, with her pretty body-mods and a top knot of coloured braids. She handed over the stack of slim black boxes that held his darling, and he gave her a fistful of backstage passes in trade, plus a few rounds of her cutting-edge drug of choice. She’d have liked a different deal, but not one he could offer.

  ‘I get that you’re monogamous, Sage,’ she said, as she let him out of the silent basement, her cat-whiskers twitching. ‘I mean, binogamous. But no one thinks party-sex is being unfaithful, and it would be good for me, socially, if I could say we did it. Wouldn’t it be good for you? I mean, I’m hip and young.’

  I am not so hard up, he thought, that I have to jump your skinny underage little bones. Not that kitten-faced morsel was underage. Lissa was older than Aoxomoxoa had been, when he’d delivered that cutting line (lying through his teeth) to a fourteen year old Fiorinda. Her fair-dealing attitude made him think of Billy the Whizz, and that brought his mood to earth.

  ‘No, it would not be good. Don’t tell anyone you did me, Lissa. It could bring you bad luck. Don’t let anyone know who gave you the passes, either.’

  She stared, kitten-eyes wide and thrilled. ‘Am I in danger? Hey, is this something to do with the murders?’

  ‘You’re not in danger, but be discreet. G’bye, and thanks again.’

  He sat with the plates in a plastic bag on his knee, watching the swathes of security light on lawns and trees as Doug negotiated the dark campus. The car paused, obeying a stop sign: and who’s that, heading back the way we came, crossing the gracious shadow of a midnight tulip tree? It’s a raw-boned middle-aged Irish fellow, a woollen shawl around his shoulders, a rifle in his hands and a whacking great sword at his back. Lissa is under my protection, thanks, he thought. Give me credit. But he believed he knew what the ghost meant, and it comforted him.

  You see all sorts of things, in this town at night.

  A week before the date they gave Harry a preview, at Digital Artists village, in the faux space of a virtual model of the Bowl. Sage insisted his immix effects must stay under wraps, but Harry saw the supergroup performance, and his relief was pitiful. It was a shame to let the bastard off the hook, but he was more and more stressed-out, and supposed to be on the point of dumping them. If they’d stalled any longer, he might have decided to cancel.

  Three days later, Ax and Sage and were summoned to a meeting, held in a conference room in the depths of the Los Angeles Civic Centre. Doug Hutton and Allie came too, but in the end they weren’t allowed in. Harry was there, and Philemon Roche and his partner Karen Phillips. So were Lou Branco, and Marshall Morgan from Digital Artists, looking very scared and confused. The other faces around the table were new. A big sixtyish man in a sober suit, with a long, heavy-jowled face, two power-dressed forty-something women, one of whom would surely have been more comfortable in uniform, a few more suits, plus a couple of people who looked like rumpled academics. The big man they recognised at once; the principal women were also easy to name.

  They could have been visiting their own past. Everything was different, these were not hapless hijacked young musicians, but the shell-shocked disbelief was the same. The atmosphere hit them when they walked into the room, and filled them with terror. The big man introduced himself as Joseph Raine, and said he was Philemon’s boss. Ax said politely that yes, he knew Mr Raine’s position.

  No other names were offered, no dogtags or placecards were on display. The white power-lady stared hard at Sage, but he wasn’t asked to remove the mask. Mr Raine told them, in case they hadn’t worked it out, that they were looking at the Committee brought together by President Eiffrich, to investigate the problem on which Mr Preston, Mr Pender and the late Ms Slater had been consulted. He expressed his shock and sympathy. They nodded.

  Ostensibly, the news was that the body had at last been formally identified, and could be released. Dental records and DNA profiles had been accepted in evidence by the coroner, plus a faxed affidavit from Fiorinda Slater’s legal next of kin, her grandmother; who had viewed the less distressing evidence by video link. The expense of the cold air freight for her last journey, back to England, would be covered by the US government, with all honours for a very brave lady, who had suffered greatly in her country’s service. Mr Raine once more expressed, on behalf of the Committee and Mr Eiffrich his deep regret.

  Fiorinda’s gran had been the willing accomplice of Rufus O’Niall, in the rape and torture of his daughter. She was over eighty, completely crazy, and confined in a high security nursing home, under close supervision. The ex-dictator and his former chief Minister did not ask to see the affidavit.

  Ax thanked the Committee for their sympathy.

  ‘That’s all our business,’ said Mr Raine. ‘We felt you should hear it from us, in full session. We felt we owed you that. We know the uncertainty has been a cruel addition to your loss, and in a sense we’re glad to be able to end it. Now there’s a document we’d like you to sign, drawing the line under your involvement with our investigation.’

  One of the minor suits came round and presented a folder to Ax, a second folder to Sage. They glanced at the printed pages. The clause that jumped out said that they agreed never to raise the issue of suspicious or unexplained circumstances around Fiorinda’s death: either with media representatives, or any other public or private agency, in the world, ever.

  What would happen if they didn’t sign, it didn’t say.

  ‘The thing I remember,’ remarked Sage, ‘is when we came to Hollywood, we were taken to a crime scene. We were asked for an opinion on Celtic human sacrifice, with your weapon-developers maybe messing around with natural magic, an’ all. I don’t really follow what happened about all that?’

  Philemon Roche looked at the tabletop, Karen smiled uneasily. Harry Lopez rubbed a hand across his felt-tip moustache. Lou Branco looked like a toad plunged in boiling water, paralysed by fear and astonishment.

  ‘With the greatest respect, Mr Pender, and Mr Preston, sir,’ said Joseph Raine. ‘Fiorinda’s death is a tragedy for your nation, and a great personal grief to many. I wish to God this hadn’t happened, but we must disengage ourselves from any reflection her suicide may place on the highly secret work of this Committee.’

  ‘You’ve given us a lot to think about,’ said Ax, evenly. ‘Probably we ought to take legal advice, could it be arranged?’

  Marshall Morgan said, in an undertone, ‘the studio can provide lawyers.’

  Murmurs round the table, Digital Artists’ lawyers would be acceptable.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Ax. ‘We’d appreciate that.’

  The folders were retrieved. It was agreed there would be a second meeting, after the Bowl concert, with the studio lawyers present.

  Ax and Sage were rescorted from the room.

  ‘They took it quietly,’ said Mr Raine.

  ‘They do that,’ said Harry. ‘Stoneface, it’s a double act. They won’t throw you a bone. They go away and think about it.’

  ‘Mr Preston is a guerrilla fighter,’ remarked the dark-complexioned power-lady dryly. Her accent betrayed that she came from the east, probably New England, indeed. ‘He won’t engage superior forces in the field, he’ll back off and harry us.’

  ‘Harry, do you think they know they’re under surveillance?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Harry, miserably. Of course they fucking know, he thought. Do they look like morons, those beautiful galley-slaves? Everything you hear is scripted. He could not believe how badly this situation was being handled. But he could do nothing, the situation was far, far beyond his reach.

  ‘Is there no way we can talk frankly to Sage Pender?’ asked one o
f the scientists from Vireo: oblivious of the atmosphere. ‘An exchange of views, with the Zen Self champion. It would be very, very valuable.’

  ‘We’re past there, Joey,’ sighed the white power-lady, whose accent revealed her as a Texan. She ran a well-manicured hand through her spiky blonde hair. ‘We’re in the worst case scenario. Can’t you keep that in your head?’

  ‘I want those two out of the country,’ said the other woman. ‘With their friends, soon as possible.’ She looked sternly at the movie-men. ‘The publicised concert must go ahead, but immediately after that.’

  Joseph Raine said, ‘I take your point, Miriam, but there are considerations—’

  Lou and Marsh were like new boys in the playground. They didn’t look at anyone, least of all each other. They feared they might not get out of here alive.

  *

  Ax and Sage were taken to join Doug and Allie, and asked to wait. Maybe it was hoped they’d start babbling wildly. They waited, exchanging banal remarks of mourning, and were released (given clearance to leave the Centre) about an hour later. In the lunchtime bustle of the lobby they spotted Harry, talking to the unmistakable Kathryn Adams. Harry didn’t see them, but Kathryn did. One guarded, hopeless look, and she turned away. They were not surprised. They already knew Kathryn was no longer on their side.

  ‘This body,’ muttered Allie, ‘What shall we do with it?’

  ‘Let the US government freight it to London,’ said Ax, ‘They wanted to burn her. Let the fuckers bury a fake.’

  At Sunset Cape they escaped to the Triumvirate suite. Sage’s board lay on the rug, facing a row of high-rez screens and an immix sketchpad flatbed. He was working twenty hours out of the twenty-four now, crosslegged in front of this array, surrounded by the slim, leaf-shaped ‘plates’ that were the descendants of the big old immersion-master Black Boxes he used to haul around, in the days of Dissolution. He barely ate, he didn’t sleep. The gig? First time we’ve been on stage together in years, and it must be magnificent? They’d have to wing it.

  Sage folded down at once, and reached for his eyewrap. He wasn’t using his new contacts. They weren’t familiar enough, and besides… We don’t know our enemies, but we know there’s no one we can trust at Digital Artists. Use nothing that’s alien. Ax picked up his cherry red Les Paul from beside the bed, and sat with it, softly picking. He knew this didn’t disturb the maestro.

  ‘Did they really think we’d sign that thing?’

  ‘Fuck knows. Do they have to be rational? Was it rational to kidnap her? I have no idea what’s going on in their heads.’

  They were routinely using signal jammers, in the house. They spoke freely in here, and if there was some bug they hadn’t found, well God’s will be done.

  ‘We don’t know they kidnapped her,’ said Ax. ‘We don’t know anything.’

  Sage had used the UCLA basement connection because he did not want anyone to spot what he was trying to do. But few people in the world could have guessed, and with anyone but Fiorinda on the other end of this, the task would have been hopeless. He was trying to set up a cut and paste, lifting (a known map) Fiorinda, from an unknown location in local information space, (local a relative term here), and fusing it with the immix he’d created from his PET scans, (an entangled facet of the same known map). In four dimensions, bit by fucking bit.

  ‘How’s it going?’ asked Ax, a question he rationed. ‘Shall I leave you to it?

  ‘Too slow. Shit, my eyes are fried. Stay? I like having you there.’

  ‘Okay. Sage, if you can use a b-loc phone to facet someone from England to the Pacific coast, why can’t you use b-loc to get Olwen in on this? It would be as secure as you’re going to get.’

  ‘Totally different kind of…oh, well, maybe. Where is the b-loc?’

  ‘I’ll find it. Are twelve brainstate maps going to be enough?’

  What Sage was doing, ironically, was something like reverse-engineering a virtual movie avatar. He had nobody to dunk in a tank, no living presence to scan with the lasers, instead he was trying to map from perception—the effect that the information space object Fiorinda had, on the brains of people who knew her very well—through a digital entertainment code artefact, to the real woman, wherever she was. The masque needed to be a showstopper, so there would be spectacle, but in the centre of it he would be trying to conjure her, something far trickier than fooling the punters’ brains into believing in the ravening werevoles, the bulldozed corpses, the tidal waves, the chomping sharks. Dimly he was aware that if this were possible then at some point, it’s going to be possible, the non-local, realtime reading of the full deck, that we’ve fantasised about for—

  He’d been very annoyed, when he’d come to California and found that Janelle Firdous was already doing the lesser trick that had been such a tussle for him, natural realism. Now he was profoundly grateful for their trading sessions, and the ideas he could use for this further leap, right off the scale. Thank you Jan, an’ it’s a crying shame they won’t let you use your powers in the movies… We build her like a hologram, the way a scene recalled from memory is built in the non-existent space inside the brain; by Fourier analysis of orientation, spatial frequencies, troughs and peaks. We do this for emotions, cognition, everything. Right down among the fractional firings, take ’em map by map, there’s no problem, it’s as clear as print…but so fucking impossibly interwoven, so many connections. He didn’t have the heart to explain to Ax that a secure mega-bandwidth phonecall was not the answer, because he was on his own. There was only one person he knew of who could have followed what he was doing, (well, maybe a few pure scientists, but I don’t know them and I doubt it) and no, I can’t ask Jan, if there was time. Trust no one, means no one.

  The guitar sang on the edge of his concentration-

  ‘What did you say? It’s thirteen, with Doug. Yeah, I think it works. Hundreds, thousands of different brain-state maps wouldn’t be a significant degree nearer to the full picture. I’m sampling, this will be enough… She is there, she exists, she’s a term in the immense mass of the code for now: and unlike most people, unlike anybody else alive maybe, she’s got a big open pipe to information space. She may not be using it, but she can’t switch it off. Is that mixed metaphors? Sorry. And we’ll have the crowd, many with their own percept of Fiorinda. I can take what they give me in feedback, and use it as amplification—’

  ‘Sage?’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘If she’s dead, will this stunt of yours call up her ghost?’

  ‘No. This is the wilder shores of information tech, not necromancy. Put it like this: I can reach her, if I can reach her, because what makes Fiorinda there for us is part of this material present. If she’s dead, the matching real Fiorinda isn’t there to be found, and to reach her I would have to go beyond fusion. But I would not find her, she isn’t there. I would be lost myself, in non-being.’

  He felt Ax’s silent, shuddering recoil.

  Ah, talking on automatic pilot while working, never a good idea-

  He peeled off the eyewrap. ‘Ax looks into the abyss. I’m tired. I shouldn’t have said that. I won’t try to convince you that the abyss is a good thing.’

  ‘Not right at this moment, Sage. Nirvana is just not my drug.’

  ‘Nor me. That’s why I’m still here, remember. Having such a great time.’

  They laughed, helplessly: and for an instant she was with them, in their illusory minds, in the illusory locus of this Californian bedroom suite. A trembling of the air, a fleeting touch: then she was gone.

  ‘Ah, God.’ Sage took a slim dark box, identical to the others as far as Ax could see, and bowed over it, hugging it tight in his arms. ‘Ax. I don’t like the future, it’s worse than Yorkshire. Why can’t we go home?’

  In a corner of the room was an outfit they were collecting, and trying to compact into two military backpacks. It was vital they should be ready to go.

  The evening of the concert the skies over Hollywood were thick with haz
e, but there was promise of a clear night. Around eighteen thousand people (capacity and a little more) streamed from the limos to the VIP areas, from the parking lots and the park and ride buses into the picnic grounds. The atmosphere was of excitement, not of mourning. Along with the curious, the sentimental, and the Digital Artists’s hired seat-fillers, there were thousands who felt that being here was a statement. The rockstar king of England had given Los Angelenos a sense of the bigger picture on this global crisis, a feeling of common effort in adversity: something that they felt was none too far from their own lives right now.

  There will be wars and rumours of wars, there will be signs and wonders.

  The warm-up and the opening act were A-grade filler. There were carnival costumed dancers, a full orchestra; the contentious ‘DJs’ dressed as tranced-out hippies ‘largeing’ behind a row of decks. The Few were backstage with the VIPs, surrounded by ‘discreet’ plainclothes men and women with guns under their coats: accepting brash and callous remarks about their loss, along with the kindest expressions of sympathy or praise, with the same total absence of mind; sharing a profound hallucinogenic experience, in which famous faces loomed out of a fog. Was a lady of immortal years, cool as ice in a long silver fox coat, for pure swank in the July temperature, really seen addressing Aoxomoxoa, maybe saying to him, break a leg? Nah, that can’t have been real.

  Ax was numb, dead level, watching the rest of them getting sky-high on adrenalin. He counted the extra minders, and trailed Allie and Dilip, hoping to catch them getting physical so he could say, no cuddling in session. He wouldn’t have had the heart, DK was looking so fragile… But he’d become an expert at compartmentalising the fears, when he was dictator, and it’s not a bad trick. At sunset he went off with the Muslims to pray. By the time he came back the Few were on: Rob and Sage at the mics, Felice’s trumpet soaring, Dora and Cherry leaping about, blowing their horns. The rhythm section in this version of the supergroup provided by The Sidemen, LA jazz musicians Rob and the Babes had bonded with; plus Smelly Hugh on bass. Ammy’s fiddle wandered merrily, Dilip and the Adjuvants jived the sound and vision.