“Oh, your stock will soar,” Patty said. “Can you imagine, the richest man on earth? This is the ultimate image synergy.”
“Just imagine for a moment that I don’t want the publicity,” Sage said. “Can you give me one reason why I should do this?”
D.B. looked at Patty; Patty looked at D.B. The idea flow seemed to have run dry. At last D.B. ventured, “For the fun of it?”
Sage kept thinking it couldn’t get any more surreal. “Listen, you may find this quaint or naive. But I’m a scientist. Scientists are trained not to lie. I can’t lie for you.”
D.B.’s expression was awestruck. “My God, Patty,” he said. “Do you know what she is? She’s the real thing. The real fucking thing.”
Mornings (Sage learned the next day) were, by tacit custom, set aside for catching up on news and communications. It was the only way people could consume the enormous amounts of information required to keep the economy humming.
The terminals in Sage’s room boasted a vast array of competing infoservice subscriptions, each combining a different mix of television, phone, fax, rental movies, games, chat, shopping, and a host of less familiar options, all accessed through the Internet. Choosing a service at random, she tried to do a search for the people and project that had sent her here. In minutes, she felt awash in junk information. A search engine that claimed to specialize in history linked her to a nostalgiafest of pop culture from the last forty years – celebrities and entertainers, scandals and scuttlebutt. She tried her favorite encyclopedia site. The brand name was still there, but the entries had all been auctioned off to advertisers. Her searches for scientific subjects kept turning up “Top Hit Topics” pushed by their sponsors. On a whim, she queried the encyclopedia for Leon Trotsky, and found him missing in action. Not profitable enough, apparently. No market potential.
At last, remembering what D.B. had said, she backed out and found a way to arrange the list of his infoservice subscriptions by cost. His monthly bill was staggering. An average person could obviously afford only a single service in the midrange – and in that range, there were only a few clonelike choices. Below them, cheap services clustered like vermin in the cracks, offering colorful, kinetic interfaces like Saturday morning cartoons, but only rudimentary access to bargain shopping, pornography, lotteries, and sports, heavily larded with advertising. So she headed for the high end. The true vastness of the information resources only became apparent here, where the search engines were sophisticated enough to find them. But they were not free. Oddly enough, the higher the price of admission, the rawer the data became, until the business and professional portals opened onto arcane libraries of unmediated information, like the neural architecture of civilization.
Her whirlwind tour of the infoverse left her thoughtful. She leaned back, sipping a liquid the interactive house menu called “starbucks,” which she had correctly intuited was coffee. Clearly, the Internet had not turned into a cyber-fairyland where heroic hackers ruled. On the contrary, it was about as radical as a suburban mall, and served much the same purpose. Most of what people could find there was not information at all, but processed information product – Velveeta of the mind – more convincing than the real thing.
Perhaps it had been naive to think everything would stay free. All the same, the way the market had debased and stratified the information well filled her with distaste. Fabrication and fact, work and play, information and manipulation had become hopelessly mingled. It could be she had a role in this era after all. Perhaps an outsider could warn people of dangers they couldn’t see.
In the end, Jamie Nickle was the only one from the time-travel project she was able to find outside obituaries. The project itself had disappeared into obscurity. She sent Jamie an e-mail thanking him for bringing her back to life.
Sage was still in pajamas when Patty came to find her shortly before noon. “Power up,” she said brightly. “You’ve got to be in New York in two hours. You can take D.B.’s plane.”
“What for?”
“An interview,” Patty said. “You’re going to be on the net.”
Cautiously, Sage said, “You’re letting me talk to the media?”
“Of course,” Patty said. “How else would we imprint you on the public?”
“Will you control what I say?”
“No! Just don’t be boring, okay?”
Sage realized she kept asking all the wrong questions. “How much is Metameme making off this?”
“Never mind that,” Patty said. “You’re making $75,000.”
A blindingly simple insight had come to Sage: Metameme sold information. As long as it was profitable, the content of that information was a matter of almost complete indifference.
Looking over her closet, Sage tried to think what an information warrior would wear to perform a cultural expose. She chose a flowing Japanese silk robe, worn over a black body stocking. She left her hair untouched, falling straight to her waist. The effect pleased her; it was dramatic but elegant.
The only one who went with her was Hans the bodyguard, who acted as chauffeur and pilot. The plane, obviously outfitted for D.B., had banks upon banks of video screens, a kitchen stocked with enough caffeinated beverages to light the eastern seaboard, a flash-clean stall, and bed. When they came in sight of Manhattan, the plane disdained the airport, and instead hover-landed on a rooftop pad. A network producer met her.
“I told them I wouldn’t lie,” Sage said as the woman led her down a hall to the elevators. “I’m perfectly free to answer any question.”
“Don’t worry, you’re wonderful,” the producer said. “That outfit is perfect, and your hair. Everyone will love you. Just relax and be yourself.”
Sage was nervous but determined as they entered the bustling studio. An audience was already sitting in bleachers around the set, but they seemed oddly quiescent. Sage did a doubletake. “Your audience,” she said. “They’re robots.”
“Don’t worry, they’ll come on when we start taping,” the producer assured her. “You won’t be able to tell the difference. None of us can.”
The show was called Yolanda’s Chat Room, and the main set was a kitchen. Uneasily, Sage said, “What kind of questions will we cover?”
“Just whatever comes up,” the producer said. “Relax, Yolanda’s a pro. Her audience profile is to die for.”
A black woman who radiated near-thermonuclear energy came striding toward them across the studio. “Have I gone to heaven?” she crowed exhuberantly. “Those corporate cheapskates actually paid top dollar to get me a real guest! And they’re even hyping it. Do you hear my heartbeat? Ratings says there’s already a spike.” Her voice dropped an octave, and she was suddenly businesslike. “Hi, honey. I’m Yolanda. You won’t regret this. I deliver numbers.”
“Uh . . . good,” Sage said.
“You look darling in that. Oh, I’ve got a feeling this is my day.”
Sage waited in a room backstage till the producer came to fetch her. When her cue came, she walked out into the eye-stunning brilliance of the lights. The animatronic audience gave her a standing ovation. They were so lifelike, she actually caught herself feeling flattered.
She sat down at the kitchen table and Yolanda poured her a cup of starbucks. With exaggerated animation, Yolanda said to the audience, “Now this is a woman with courage like most of us can’t even imagine. Isn’t she?” They clapped. “Sage. You actually had to die to make your voyage, right? Weren’t you afraid?”
Sage made a fatal error then. She actually considered the question. Had she been afraid? Thoughtfully, she said, “Actually, I think the fear was part of the appeal . . .”
Once caught in subjectivity, it was almost impossible to break out. They talked a while about her preparations and the trip (“Did you have any after-death experiences?”), then Yolanda asked her to describe what happened when she woke up. Sage tried to make it factual, but her bewilderment came through.
Yolanda glowed with empathy. “Weren’t you angr
y at the way you were treated?”
By now Sage was able to think, My feelings aren’t the story here. “I was concerned by what I saw.” A lie, but she needed to steer the conversation to substantive issues.
Her host didn’t follow the lead. “You’ve met D.B. Beddoes now, right? What do you think of this recluse billionaire who had the power to say whether you should live or not?” The audience stirred in sympathy.
Distracted again, Sage said, “Well, you’re wrong to paint him as some kind of monster. The problem’s more complex than that.”
“Should we be worried for you?”
“Oh, no. In fact, D.B. can be rather sweet. But that’s – ”
“Sweet?” Yolanda’s eyes grew big.
“Well, I mean . . .”
Yolanda leaned across the table and touched her hand. “Honey, are you lonely here? Did you leave anyone special behind?”
Oh my God. What did I just imply?
Sage was so flustered that by the time Yolanda actually gave her an opening by saying, “What’s the biggest change you’ve seen in the world?” she babbled something inane about self-driving cars and flash-clean booths.
When the interview wrapped up and the lights went off, Sage protested, “That was a disaster! Can’t I do it over?”
“Don’t worry, babe,” Yolanda said. “You were natural and beautiful, that’s all people see. They just want to identify with you.”
She had come to deliver a clarion warning, and had been limp and vacuous instead. “What came over me? It’s like I turned into one of those robots.”
Yolanda’s business voice said, “Those questions I asked you, they only have one answer, but that’s the point. Everyone knows what you’re supposed to say, then you say it, and they feel affirmed. I used to be a journalist, I know the difference.”
“Used to be? Why aren’t you now?” Sage asked.
“Journalists don’t have control over the final product,” Yolanda said. “Information production and information delivery are two completely different jobs now – and I’m telling you, honey, all the money and security is in delivery. You have to be young and committed to be a journalist, always under pressure to nose out contracts, never knowing where the next check will come from. I couldn’t live like that, hand to mouth.”
“But there’s such a demand for information – ”
“The public needs the truth but doesn’t want it. The money’s all in what they want but don’t need.” She looked away toward the now-flaccid audience and said, “Well, speak of the devil.”
D.B. was standing there, managing to make an expensive Italian coat look shapeless. In alarm, Sage blurted, “D.B.! How much did you hear?”
“Just the last part,” he said. “You were fine.”
“Since you’re here, Mr. Beddoes,” Yolanda said in a voice like lead bullets, “maybe I can ask some questions.”
“No comment,” he said. “Come on, Sage. Let’s go to dinner.”
Still in turmoil, Sage followed him out of the studio. In the elevator she said, “I wanted to tell the truth. I wanted to warn them how dangerous it is to let the market govern the information supply.”
“You wouldn’t have been sympathetic,” he said.
“This isn’t about me! If I soften a message just to be popular, I’m as evil as you.”
“No, you’re not,” he said, trying to be comforting.
They walked across a wide lobby to the front doors of the building. Outside, it was evening, but the city lights blazed down a shining, impossible canyon. They were halfway down the broad set of steps to the sidewalk when Sage saw the paparazzi waiting for them, cameras already blinking. Suddenly, D.B.’s phone rang.
“Yeah?” he said, then stopped dead. Seizing Sage’s arm, he turned around and started back up the steps.
“What is it?” she said.
“He says not to leave the building.”
His pace was unhurried, but his grip on her arm was vise-tight. Back inside, a security guard came racing across the lobby toward them. “This way, Mr. Beddoes,” he said, hurrying them toward the elevator while another guard locked the glass doors behind them. Outside, a siren wailed to a stop.
In the elevator, Sage said, “You can let go of my arm now.”
He dropped it as if it singed. “Sorry.”
Hans was scowling and talking on a headset when he met them at the top floor. He escorted them protectively to the plane. Once inside and in the air, D.B. dialed a number and said, “What the hell was that about?” He listened a while, then said, “Did they get him?” Then, “Okay. Let me talk to Patty.” Moments later, he said, “Well, that was sure a fiasco. Did you get any pictures at all?” Pause. “Easy for you to say. You didn’t have some jerk trying to get famous by waving a gun at your back. Oh yeah? Well, fuck schadenfreude. From now on be more careful who you leak my schedule to.” He hung up on her and sat brooding.
Sage had picked up an important point from that exchange. “That was a photo op, wasn’t it?” she said. “Patty planted those paparazzi to photograph us together. You’re going ahead with her plan whether I like it or not.”
He gazed at her sulkily.
“You egotistical bastard!” She felt manipulated. Her indignation nearly levitated her from her seat. Or maybe it was just the plane leveling off.
“Patty says your approval numbers are going stratospheric,” he said a little resentfully.
Outside the plane window, the sky had turned black, but the ground below them was still glowing in sunlight. “My God, so is this plane,” Sage said, gripping the arms of her seat. “Where are we going?”
“To dinner.”
“Where?”
“Hong Kong.”
A large section of downtown Victoria had been destroyed in an earthquake, and in its place had risen a set of three shining, silver towers that grazed the underside of hubris. As the plane circled, the afternoon sun turned them incendiary.
“The south one’s mine,” D.B. said absently. “But we’re not going there.”
It dawned on Sage that people weren’t kidding when they said he was rich.
They climbed from the plane onto a windy platform that jutted from the north tower like a fungus from a tree trunk. Sage found the height exhilarating; across the strait the skyscrapers of Kowloon looked like miniatures, and the mountain-framed harbor was freckled with tiny boats. But Hans was getting nervous at her standing near the edge, so she followed D.B. inside.
The maitre d’ ushered them to a window table. D.B. was still edgy and morose until they had polished off a bottle of pinot noir; then he asked about her day.
“Did you know that Leon Trotsky has been expunged from the collective memory?” she said.
“Hmm. My day wasn’t so hot, either.”
“Don’t you care?”
He shrugged. “He was part of a memeplex the culture got inoculated against last century. You know why?”
“Why?” Sage said fatalistically.
“Because it lacked entertainment value,” D.B. said. “The least people want from their government is entertainment. Once everyone realized the class war was over and it was just going to be five-year plans from here on in, they knew what a yawner they’d created, and flushed it for something with more pizzazz.”
She fitted that answer into her picture of him. “So don’t you ever have labor trouble?”
“Labor?” he stared at her. “Information isn’t made in factories.”
“It still takes work to produce.”
“Oh, well, I don’t employ the producers, I told you that. Journalists, researchers – they make bad employees. Anyone with a commitment to a set of professional standards can’t be completely loyal to the company. So I just buy their product, and leave the standards up to them.”
“Along with the financial risk,” she said. “This whole economy of yours rests on the backs of exploited information workers who have no control over the fruits of their labor.”
“What is this, a barbecue?” he said, irritated.
“You’re a regressive thinker, D.B.”
“You’re the one from the past.”
“Besides being a manipulative s.o.b.”
“Hot damn, what a romantic dinner this is.”
But by the time the food came, Sage was feeling pleasantly buzzed; the bordeaux with dinner and cognac afterward made her temporarily forgive the day for its disappointments. There would be other days, other chances to denounce him.
The sun was low and coppery behind the headland when they finished, and the city lights were beginning to twinkle. “We can’t go back yet,” Sage said. “I’ve got to touch ground, or I won’t feel like I’ve been here.” So they took a glass elevator to the plaza between the towers and strolled through a cloud of pigeons to an abstract sculpture in the center of the square. Sage leaned back against the warm enamel surface and watched the Asian sky turn electric pink and orange, her thoughts pinwheeling pleasantly in her head. The air was balmy and sensual, smelling of the sea. And, yes, there was a pleasant exhilaration at being with a man who could buy the inner solar system and still leave a tip.
Suddenly, he leaned over and pecked her on the cheek. She looked at him in surprise. Was he blushing, or was it the sunset?
“Was that for the reporters?” she asked.
“No,” he said awkwardly. “That was for me. Sorry.”
It was endearingly inept. “That was no kiss,” she informed him. “This is a kiss.” She took his head in her hands and gave him a long, lingering kiss. A thorough kiss, one that would take.
When she pulled away, his glasses were fogged up. He fumbled to wipe them. Laughing, she said, “Race you to the elevator,” and took off.
She lost a shoe halfway across the plaza, but beat him anyway. Laughing breathlessly, she started back to get it, but he caught her hand and said, “Leave it. Maybe some prince will find it and come after you.”
“What would I do with a prince?” she said.
“I don’t know. Kiss him. Confuse him.”
She realized he wasn’t joking.
They returned silently to the plane. The last shreds of brilliance were fading from the sky when they took off. D.B. watched it out the window, unaware she was looking at him, at the expression of longing on his face. It seemed implausible that a man like him could long for anything.
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