De Nostredame shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but somehow it would appear that she sees you as a mortal threat.’
‘I’d never be a threat to Ella.’
‘But you might be to the Beast.’
Vanka lapsed into a shocked silence. Norma understood how he felt: this was all getting rather surreal.
‘We have modelled the impact you, Mademoiselle Norma, could make in your role of Messiah using the HyperOpia program and the effect is dramatic. If you were to work in cooperation with Monsieur Maykov in opposing the ambitions of the Lady IMmanual, then it is possible …’
‘The probability of success is, however, less than 50 per cent,’ observed Kondratieff.
‘… that you could thwart her ambitions and usher in an era of peace and tranquillity to the Demi-Monde. And, of course, by doing so you would save almost seven million people from a terrible and unnecessary death.’
‘Define what you mean by “oppose”,’ enquired Norma cautiously.
‘That is for you to decide. You, after all, are the Messiah.’
‘Are they settled, Nikolai?’ asked de Nostredame.
‘Well, they are both in their rooms but Maykov isn’t asleep. He’s simply pacing his room.’
‘Does he suspect?’
‘No … or rather he is so befuddled by worries about the Lady IMmanual that he can spare none of his thoughts for himself. His love of the girl is quite touching.’
De Nostredame took a contemplative puff on his pipe. ‘Love, eh? I have had little experience of it myself but my studies show it to be quite an arbitrary thing.’
‘So arbitrary that even HyperOpia failed to anticipate that Maykov and Ella Thomas would form such a close liaison.’
‘But then HyperOpia is unable to predict any of Maykov’s actions. As far HyperOpia is concerned, Maykov doesn’t exist.’
‘Indeed. But as always, love complicates matters. His feelings will make it more difficult for Maykov to act when he comes to realise that to save Ella Thomas he must destroy the Lady IMmanual.’
‘If he ever realises it.’
‘And if he doesn’t?’
De Nostredame shrugged. ‘Then we will be obliged to make another Temporal Intervention, Nikolai. Then we must destroy the Lady IMmanual.’
Part Four
The Awful Tower and the Miracle of the Canal
THE EDDIC OF LOCI 4: RAGNAROK
PALTE 4
30
The Goldman DigiStudio: New York
The Real World: 1 October 2018
EyeSpies are independently viable, hover-capable and dynamically flexible SurveillanceBots (robotic surveillance cameras) linked to the PanOptika program. EyeSpies are never smaller than two centimetres in length, the minimum length of SurveillanceBot declared legal by the League of Nations’ Universal Charter of Human Rights and Privacy of 2015. The use of eyeSpies below this length (so-called ‘moteBots’) is illegal.
iSuccess in GCSE-Dip: A Revision Guide to British
History, ParaDigm Publications
Aaliz Heydrich stood in the DigiPrep Booth and waited patiently as the PhotoBots hovered around her. She had expected the Real World to be different from the Demi-Monde and she had sworn that, no matter what happened, she would endure these differences with imperturbability and poise. But this particular experience challenged even her redoubtable sangfroid.
To be standing nigh on naked – the swimming costume they had given her to wear was tiny – in a room full of extremely impolite people whilst the images of her captured by the PhotoBots were projected on a super-large Flexi-Plexi was not a pleasurable experience. But Joyce Taylor, the PR expert allocated to ‘look after’ her by the Kentons, had been insistent that this was a vital first step if she was going to become a PollyCelebrity, and the launch of the Fun/Funs was to get the Polly coverage it needed. According to Joyce Taylor, anyone wishing to be anyone on the Polly had to have a physical appearance that was attractive to his or her target audience and that meant PollyMorphing their image.
‘Okay, everybody, could we have a little hush?’ shouted Duncan Goldman, the DigiSculptor. ‘This is the creative moment, and I don’t want any extraneous inputs impacting on my Zone of Scalar Envisionment.’
Aaliz referenced PINC, but PINC couldn’t tell her with any great probability of being correct what this odious nuJu was talking about. It wasn’t just the man’s odd vocabulary and disregard for English grammar that made him difficult to understand, his languid accent was peculiar too. He reminded Aaliz of the rather effete slaves from NoirVille that one or two of her friends’ fathers had employed back in the ForthRight.
‘So, Joyce darling, this is our raw material – what I call our tabula rasa.’
Blank slate, translated PINC helpfully.
‘And I have to say that it’s not bad, not bad at all. I particularly like the height, which is ideal for PollyCasts. Anything taller and things become a trifle distended.’ Goldman wandered over to the Flexi-Plexi, and used a laser pen to indicate parts of the image of Aaliz screened there. ‘And as far as I can tell, she’s an almost perfect Fifteen/Forty/Forty-Five.’
PINC chimed in to tell Aaliz that Goldman was talking about body proportions: fifteen related to the percentage of total body height represented by the distance from her shoulders to the top of her head, forty to the length of her trunk, and forty-five to the length of her legs.
‘Tell me again, Joyce darling, what’s the target demographic?’
‘Primary Demo is early adoptors, both sexes, within an age span of thirteen to twenty-three.’
‘Hmmmm. That’s always a tricky one. I would suggest that the IdeoPhantom that hits most of this Demo’s decision points is “Classical Dancer”. The anthropometric proportions of this Phantom suggest grace, agility and superior intellectual development, all this encapsulated in a rather dishy body outline. And svelteness is so very tomorrow.’
‘That sounds ideal.’
‘So, let’s see how Norma performs when we do the comparison.’ Goldman blinked towards his Polly, and immediately an outline of another body was superimposed on the image of Aaliz. ‘Oh, bravo, Norma, crural and brachial indices are spot on, and the percentage deviation from the IdeoPhantom’s eyeLine is only a meagre 4.7 per cent. It seems hardly worth tinkering with. Maybe the breasts could do with a little augmentation.’
Goldman blinked again, and immediately the chest of Aaliz’s digital doppelgänger expanded. ‘Not too much,’ mused Goldman, ‘just enough to get the Polly’s tit tourists interested.’ He turned to Joyce Taylor. ‘Happy, Joyce darling?’
‘Absolutely. If we could just clean up the tattoo and the perforations.’
It was the work of moments for Goldman to make the tattoo of the Celtic cross on the image’s left shoulder disappear, and the small holes left where Aaliz had removed the disgusting jewellery from her ears, nose and eyebrows to miraculously heal.
‘And now for the visage,’ Goldman mused as he zoomed in on Aaliz’s face. ‘Hmmm … not bad. Blue eyes are associated with purity, vitality, honesty – I’d be inclined to leave them.’
Another nod from Joyce Taylor.
‘Maybe straighten out her nose just a tad.’ The nose shown on the Flexi-Plexi altered before Aaliz’s eyes. ‘Plump her lips a little – that hint of depravity is always a killer in the teen market. Good but not that good is the sort of tip I’m looking for. Let’s just check facial symmetry …’ Immediately two versions of Aaliz’s head were shown, one composed of two left-hand sides and one composed of two right-hand sides. It was apparent that the left-hand side of her face was a little narrower than the right. ‘A couple of minor tweaks,’ observed Goldman, as he morphed Aaliz’s features, ‘but we don’t want to make her too perfect. Imperfection promotes aspirationalism: make someone flawless and the kids give up trying to become them. No one wants to chase the impossible dream.’ He stepped back to examine his work. ‘Good, that just leaves the biggies: age and hair colour.’
So
rting out the ‘biggies’ took almost two hours, with Aaliz’s image variously sporting black hair, brown hair, blonde hair, long hair, short hair and intermediate hair. In terms of age, it lost two years in search of the ‘pre-teen’ market, and then had five years added on in pursuit of ‘gravitas’. The annoying thing was that, at the end of all their efforts at digital morphing, they chose blonde hair of the shade she was already sporting – okay, so they bobbed it a little – and plumped for the age she already was, namely eighteen. So after three hours’ work, the image of Norma Williams that looked at her from the Flexi-Plexi was only subtly different from the real thing. But as Joyce Taylor explained to her at length, on the Polly, nuances mattered.
The first time Aaliz’s PollyMorph ImPlant was used was when she was interviewed on ‘The Clare Collins PollyCast’. As advised by Joyce Taylor, this was not the gentle introduction to the world of the Polly that she had wished for her client, what with Clare Collins hosting the most viewed chat show in the US and having a reputation as a ferocious interviewer. But as Norma Williams was the President’s daughter and, pre-Demi-Monde, had been the darling of the racier PollyGossip mags, an easier debut had proved impossible to manage. There was simply too much Polly interest in her.
As she sat in the studio, waiting for the signal to take her seat opposite the infamous Collins, Aaliz had to admit to a certain trepidation. Though she had Septimus Bole and the might of ParaDigm in her corner, and although she had endured several practice interviews, there was still the possibility that she would screw up and fall at the first hurdle. Collins enjoyed humiliating her guests, and as a staunch Republican she had precious little time for the President. Aaliz’s team of handlers had spent a great deal of time wondering what stunts Collins might have hidden up her sleeve, but in the end they had declared themselves ‘fireproof’.
But then what they thought didn’t really matter. Aaliz had a strategy for dealing with Collins all of her own devising.
She signalled to Joyce Taylor. ‘I want my PollyMorph ImPlant pulled. I want to go on the show warts and all.’
Joyce Taylor blinked several times. ‘But that’s impossible. Everybody goes on the Polly morphed … everybody. Nobody on the Polly looks like they really are.’
‘I know, and that’s the whole point.’
‘Well, Norma, I don’t know if I’m prepared to authorise that,’ said the woman stiffly. ‘I have my reputation to think about.’
Aaliz leant closer to Joyce Taylor, so that no one else could hear what she whispered in her ear. ‘Joyce, don’t ever, ever tell me “no”. I am in charge of this little operation and I warn you, if you don’t do precisely what I’m telling you to do, then I will have ParaDigm blackball every one of the artists and companies you represent. They will never get on the Polly again as long as they are associated with you. Now go over there and pull the fucking PollyMorph.’
In the flesh, Clare Collins was at least ten years older than she looked on the Polly and this amazing piece of digital legerdemain was, of course, conjured courtesy of PollyMorphing. By implanting the idealised PollyMorphed vision of herself into the studio MasterPolly, the images of her captured by the CameraBots were automatically enhanced in real time. The result was that the ‘Clare Collins’ seen by the Polly audience was decidedly younger, slimmer and facially tauter than the real Clare Collins who plonked herself into the chair next to Aaliz.
‘You’re Sam Williams’s kid, huh?’
‘Yes,’ said Aaliz, holding out her hand, ‘I’m Norma Williams. It’s a pleasure to meet with you, Ms Collins.’
Clare Collins ignored the hand. ‘Stow the baloney, kid. I ain’t in the market for making friends with nuDemocrats or their progeny. So what’s this Fun/Funs crock? A last desperate attempt by the President to connect with disenfranchised Middle America?’
‘Ms Collins. I—’
Aaliz didn’t get any further. The floor manager shouted ‘Quiet’ and then began the countdown. Clare Collins smiled. ‘Well, kid, you better fasten your seat belt and prepare for a rocky ride.’
At the beginning, the interview was strangely muted; it took Collins almost five minutes to hit her stride. ‘So, Norma, you’ve been ill. Rumours on the Polly suggest that you were in rehab trying to beat a Zip habit. Any truth in that?’
‘None whatsoever. I suffered from a neurological collapse brought on by extreme stress. It left me comatose for almost three months.’
‘Oh c’mon, you don’t expect the PollyPublic to swallow that, now do you? You were the archetypal wild child: all sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll. And from what I hear, before you were hospitalised you were cooling on the rock ’n’ roll and majoring on the sex and drugs.’
‘All I can tell you is the truth, Clare.’
‘And what you’re telling us is that whilst you were in rehab – sorry, in your coma – you found God.’
‘That’s correct. God came to me and made me understand that how I had been conducting my life was a sham, that I wasn’t realising all the talents He had given me, that I wasn’t making the most of my life. God told me I had more to give the world than several column inches a week of prurient Polly gossip.’
‘And what is it that God wants you to give the world?’ The sarcasm was heavy in Clare Collins’s voice.
‘Freedom from addiction. He has given me powers to cure people of addiction.’
‘Addiction? What sort of addiction?’
‘Every sort. I can free people from drug addiction, alcohol addiction and addiction to violence. I can cure people of every and all sorts of addiction.’
‘How?’
‘By the laying on of hands.’
‘Oh, you’ve got to be joking.’
‘Not at all. I will be demonstrating this gift under controlled conditions at the New York Hospital’s Drug Dependency Center in two days’ time. Maybe you should come along, Ms Collins?’
‘I think I’ll pass. I’m addictions-lite. But isn’t it a fact that this new-found interest of yours in God comes at a mighty convenient time for your father, the President, what with the Midwest primaries due in just a few weeks?’
‘This has nothing to do with my father. He’s a self-professed atheist and I think he’s more than a little perplexed by my finding God.’
‘You can’t expect us to believe that.’
‘Ms Collins, you keep doubting my truthfulness.’
‘Oh, c’mon. How can you expect to be taken seriously when just a few weeks ago you were a strung-out goth chick covered in piercings and tattoos?’ Collins looked up and smiled. ‘I see your father’s PR people have had you remove the studs.’
‘The scars remain to remind me of how easy it is to fall from grace.’
‘Yeah, and I suppose the tattoos have been laser-removed.’
With a sigh, Aaliz undid the top three buttons of her blouse and pulled it from her shoulder to reveal her tattoo and, en passant, that she wasn’t wearing a bra. As she was to learn later, ABBA’s Saccade Optical Analysis System, which evaluated the level of interest of Polly viewers in each element of each piece of programming they sampled, showed a 50 per cent increase in attention whilst Aaliz was performing her little striptease.
‘You see, Ms Collins, with me what you see is what you get, and what you hear is the truth.’
‘Honey, you’re too good to be true.’
Aaliz stayed silent for a moment, letting the tension build, letting the CameraBots move in closer as they searched for emotion. Emotion was the lifeblood of the Polly and soon, Aaliz decided, the Polly viewers would have it in bucketfuls.
‘You continue to question my probity, Ms Collins. You continue to imply that I am lying, even when I have admitted that, yes, I took drugs; that, yes, I’ve slept with a great many men and women; and, yes, mine has been, up until now, a useless and a squandered life. I have been perfectly frank with you, Ms Collins, but you refuse to accept what I say as the truth. And by doing this you imply that you are more trustworthy and more truthfu
l than me.’
It must have been Aaliz’s tone that alerted Clare Collins that something was going down that wasn’t in the script. But with thirty-seven million PollyViewers watching live, Aaliz knew her interrogator didn’t have much thinking time. Collins shot a quick glance at her producer, but all he did was shrug.
‘Well, I’ve got a reputation for getting to the bottom of things, for letting the PollyPublic see people for what they really are.’ She looked distinctly uncomfortable. The golden rule of interviewing was that whoever asked the questions controlled the interview, and much to Clare Collins’s discomfort, she was the one who was having to do the answering.
‘But why should people trust you to ask the questions, when you are so adept at hiding yourself and your motives from them?’
The CameraBots hovered closer, but this time it was Clare Collins they were focusing on. The producer knew good Polly when he saw it.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Look, I’m here to interview you, to find out about the real you.’
‘But you’re not prepared to reveal the real Clare Collins and have her scrutinised, are you?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘When I came on this show, I refused to be PollyMorphed. I wanted the PollyPublic to see me, warts and all. But you won’t do that, will you? Are you scared to let the viewers see who you really are, Ms Collins?’
The colour drained from Clare Collins’s face – not that the Polly viewers would notice, as PollyMorph automatically compensated for sudden changes in skin tone. Aaliz knew why she was shocked: PollyMorphing was a closely guarded secret, and discussing it in public verboten. And the reason was simple: the process could add ten or more years to a PollyPerformer’s career, and it was a damned sight cheaper and more effective than surgery or Botox.
‘I don’t use PollyMorphing.’
‘Oh, c’mon Ms Collins, you don’t expect the PollyPublic to believe that, now, do you? And if you can’t be honest about your appearance, why should the PollyPublic believe you’re being honest with your questioning?’ With a shake of her head Aaliz turned away from Clare Collins, and stared directly at the nearest CameraBot. ‘Decide for yourself whether I’m telling the truth by Pollying into ParaDigm’s coverage of me at New York Hospital’s Drug Dependency Center on Wednesday next. And I promise that, unlike Clare Collins, nothing will be PollyMorphed. With Aaliz … with Norma Williams, what you see is what you get.’
Rod Rees - [The Demi-Monde 02] Page 33