I’m worried about the gig, though.
Saturday, May 4, 2052
Saturday night.
Driving through London in Mr. Fuller’s car—a spacious people carrier, with room for my bass gear, the drum kit for Kieran, Siân, me, and Dad.
Yes. Dad.
I managed to persuade him to come. Well, I think he wanted to come, but he just needed to be asked.
“You’ll need someone to help carry all the gear, won’t you, Tania?”
“Yes, that would be nice, Dad.” Never mind that I’ve been lugging them by myself to each practice, or that Mr. Fuller will be there, looking after Siân.
“Mum won’t be coming though. It’s not really her scene, and she’s a bit tired.”
“Yeah. You can tell her all about it, though.”
So, there we were, wending our way through the labyrinth of London. Dad in the front seat, trying to find some common ground with Mr. Fuller, Siân’s offensively rich dad. Somehow he was managing, though. Unusually, Mr. Fuller was not a member of Dad’s “flock.” Maybe with a real live daughter, he didn’t need to be, though Dad would have said that everybody needed to be, however blessed their lives seemed to be. Anyway, Dad knew most of the people in the village, and Mr. Fuller knew a fair few of them, so as Mr. Fuller gossiped and name-dropped, Dad kept his side of the conversation going.
London’s a right mix, especially since the Troubles. Mostly because of our Sabine Wars. South of the river was a major battleground; there are a lot of places you just wouldn’t want to go. Red Zone, mostly. A bit of Yellow, here and there. But Black, too. Even the north has its rough spots, and John lived in a Yellow Zone, rather close to one of them. So a lot of the houses were derelict, or were basic shells, the dwellings of those on the fringes of society. In the rain, it would belong on the set of Blade Runner—another banned movie, but one I’d found on the TeraNet easily enough, with the aid of John’s technology to mask my identity.
The school loomed into view, brightly lit and standing out from the dark streets around it. It had high brick walls, topped with razor wire, and looked more than faintly like a prison. John, is this really your school? I saw Mr. Fuller glance back at Siân, as if to say, is this really something you want to go through with? Beside me, Siân stared back at him—a hard stare that said “We’ve been through this all before.”
We were reassured by the guards at the front gate. Mr. Fuller asked why this security was necessary.
“It’s gangs from the neighboring zones, sir. The folks around here are decent enough, though they’re none of them well off, but the school is a bit of a target for thieves. So we have to have just enough security to make them go elsewhere.”
Theft, then. Not violence. Or Yellow Zone, not Red, if you want to put it that way. So somewhat reassured, we proceeded to unload.
John met us at the stage door, with Kieran beside him.
“There’s a little problem. I’d agreed our spot with the organizers, but apparently they forgot to tell the people running the disco. The disco people say they’ve programmed their music already and can’t change. I managed to find one of the organizers and there was a bit of an argument, but the disco people have backed down a bit. They’ve agreed we can play for twenty minutes, max, and the only place they can fit us in is in half an hour from now. There’s not going to be any time for a sound check, I’m afraid.”
So. Frantic unloading, setting up the drum kit, the amps. We’d not have done it at all without Dad and Mr. Fuller to help, but we managed it in twenty-five, which left no time to change—we’d have to play in our street clothes. Just a few minutes to tune up.
I nearly blew up when I saw the set list. No “Coils,” no “Tell Me” even. Just covers. John was waiting for my outburst and tried to forestall it. “The organizers changed their minds; they said it had to be stuff the audience would know. That’s the way it’s got to be, or we don’t get paid, and they pull the plug on us.”
That didn’t please anybody, but we’d put so much into the preparation that we weren’t going to pull out.
We had two minutes.…
Two minutes passed, and the stage curtains stayed shut. The disco continued to the end of the track. Another began. John looked glum.
“They’re not going to stop, are they?”
“Maybe after this one. Maybe their watches are slow.” But I didn’t believe my own words.
We waited. The track finished. Another began. “Hanging on the Telephone.” Our opening number, and they knew it. Don’t tell me they couldn’t reprogram their decks.
There was a sudden squawk, and the music stopped. I heard footsteps from beyond the curtain, and a familiar voice announcing.
“Ladies and Gentlemen. The moment you’ve all been waiting for, the brightest talent in a generation, burning for you tonight. Put your hands together for the fabulous foursome. I give you F.D.C.”
There was a faint smattering of applause, and a few ironic cheers. F.D.C.? Oh, yes, “Fuller, Deeley, and Czern.” And Kieran, I suppose. But I didn’t even know his surname—I don’t think anyone had asked.
The curtains stayed closed, though. Then they started to draw back, and I saw that indeed it was Mr. Fuller announcing us, and hauling back the curtains. They stuck, not being designed to be pulled back from the bottom. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dad march over to where one of the disco cronies was standing, arms folded, by the winch that operated the curtains.
My dad is a vicar, I reminded myself. He’s not going to get into a scuffle, is he? He’d be sacked, he’d have to leave in disgrace.
But the crony faded away, fast. My dad turned to look at me, for a moment, and I saw the look on his face. Yes, I’d have scarpered, too, if I’d seen that face coming toward me.
Thanks, Dad. Thanks, Mr. Fuller.
And then Siân marched up to the front of the stage, the curtains parting before her. Even in her street clothes, she looked fabulous, but that’s Siân.
“Hi, everyone. We’re F.D.C.R. and if there’s time, I’ll introduce the band, but right now, we’re here to play some rock and roll.”
A few isolated cheers.
Siân looked around, searching for one of the cheerers. She pointed.
“Well thank you, friend, for your applause. This first song’s for you. Anyone else want to be my friend?”
That got a much better response.…
“Well, then, this one’s for all you lonely guys out there in disco land. Just in case you weren’t listening to the spoiler, this one’s called ‘Hanging on the Telephone.’ Okay, guys, hit it!”
So we hit it.
More or less.
In fairy tales, and Hollywood movies, after an intro like that, the band plays a storming set, the crowd is converted from disco to rock and roll, and the evil DJs suffer humiliation.
Back in the real world, Siân started in the wrong key, because John forgot to give her the ghost note. Or maybe he did, and she didn’t hear it. Siân recovered at the second verse, but some of her confidence was gone.
But we reached the end together, and at least Kieran remembered his instructions on how to finish the song. We got a smattering of applause—just barely encouraging—when all’s said and done, we were hardly as good as the classic recording we’d just followed.
Siân took a deep breath.
“Thank you, friends. This next one’s for our drummer, who’s a great admirer of this classic band. It’s called ‘Message in a Bottle.’”
That was a lot better, and the applause showed it. Maybe it was just Kieran’s friends in the audience, but I don’t think so. Kieran and I had started to click, and it showed in the music. And because we were cooking, John was able to relax and stretch out.
Two numbers passed, and the audience stayed with us, but then I saw one of the organizers signing to Siân. “One more, one more,” he mouthed, unmistakably.
We wrapped up “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” and over the applause Siân called for a G. She
picked up the note, pretty cleanly, held it and dropped into the first verse …
“You wrapped me in your coils.…”
Hang on, what’s she doing? This is “Coils,” not “Satisfaction.” And I need to be playing … now!
Hastily, I scrambled my long glissando diving D-down-to-G, just catching it in time. Kieran looked at me, horrified, but somehow came in on cue as I reached the G on a count of four, along with John. Even just these few bars in, I could sense the audience’s puzzlement. John had rolled his eyes heavenward—I guess he could see our fee disappearing—but he stayed with it, and then we were in the groove. It’s hard to describe any piece of music, except by playing it, but “Coils” has got this really weird feel, oh, never mind. It’s no classic rock and roll song, and the audience knew it didn’t belong. But I could also see a few figures out there, swaying in time, trying to make sense of it anyway.
I could also see the organizers were also trying to work out what was going on, and what they should do about it. We weren’t sticking to the script, but, hey, the disco guys hadn’t played it straight, either. There was an argument starting up, between the DJs and the organizers, and maybe Mr. Fuller was part of it, too.
Two verses in, and I was feeling that maybe this was the best moment of my life. On stage, with a band that was really hot, playing a song that we’d created ourselves. If Amanda could have been there, I think she’d have smiled.…
Into the bridge, and suddenly everything cut out. Lights, sound, all gone, except for Kieran’s drums, lapsing into confusion as the rest of us faded with a last electronic squawk.
They’d pulled the plug.
For a moment, I thought I heard a few boos, and a scattered clapping, but then the disco kicked in, loud, with “Satisfaction.” So they’d planned to do the dirty on us there, too.…
Can you imagine the rest, Mister Zog? I’m not sure I’ve got the heart to write it all down. Angry organizers, throwing us out. How dare we perform original material? Loading the equipment back into Mr. Fuller’s car.
But then, stopping just outside the gates, to say good-bye to John and Kieran. It was drizzling then, a sort of Hollywood touch to try to kill our spirits. But I’m so proud of John. It was his reputation that had been destroyed, and for sure we’d never get another gig at that school again. He should have been raging at us, at Siân for breaking the agreement. But John was glowing.
“Brilliant, Siân. Brilliant, Tania. Brilliant, Kieran. We did it. For two glorious verses, we did it. If I die tomorrow, I can say I’ve been there, on the high mountain. With you guys, the best band in the whole damn universe.”
We were nodding. We knew. We’d all been there together. I promised myself I’d treasure the memory of those thirty-two bars until the day I died. And if you’ve never been there, Mister Zog, I pity you.
INTERVAL 5
You pity me, Tania?
How do you know what I’ve done, or what I’ve been, that you should pity me?
I know I have been an artist and a performance director in one of my memory cycles. Art, for the People, is the spatial and temporal arrangement of sensory inputs—we can choose to have more than you, or fewer—to elicit sequences of emotions, to tell a story or to convey a message.
I have created massive symphonies of radio color and bathymetry, and simple monologues (you might call them) of proximity. Epic tales composed entirely in chirality and meson flux. Delicate patterns of transition-metal halides, arranged as a lattice-poem in iambic hexameter, accompanied by graviton à basso, telling the story of two lovers doomed to wander the galaxy, sundered by their own aphasic memory cycles.
Yet your simple thirty-two bars …
Perhaps I will recast myself in basic mode once more, and experiment with sounds and harmonies. If I can only remember …
… what is basic mode?
Sunday, May 5, 2052
For a wonderful moment, everything was right with the world. Locking up the church, the equipment back in its storeroom, the old Dad was back, too. We walked home under the stars, and he told me he was proud of me. And I told him I’d seen what he’d done, too, and I was proud of him, too. And he said that any dad would have done the same, but I knew he was pleased.
Sunday, June 30, 2052
Mum was tired a lot, those days, but I guess I didn’t really think too much about it. I was disappointed that she hadn’t made the gig, but she’d have been worried frantic if she’d been there, given everything that went on. I guess I didn’t really sympathize with “tired”—it’s not something that robots naturally relate to. We copy human sleep patterns by design, but I’ve never really thought much about whether we truly need to, or why.
Anyway, Mum was doing less and less about the house, and Soames had been recalled from the attic to help keep the place in order. I tended to avoid him; knowing what I did, a domestic robot was just far too creepy.
This morning, though, I came downstairs to find Mum in the kitchen. She was sitting at the table, with her back to me, her head in her hands, weeping.
“Mum? Are you all right?” Stupid question, really.
By way of answer, she just held out her arms.
They were purple and yellow with bruises.
“What’s happened? How’ve you hurt yourself so badly?”
“I’ve not done anything. This has just happened—I’ve no idea why.”
“Nobody’s done this to you?”
“No. It’s not your father, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“No.” Well, yes, but I wasn’t going to say so.
“Shall I call a doctor? An ambulance?”
We called the doctor, and got an appointment for that afternoon.
It’s conventional for husbands to be allowed in with the patient, but daughters, even human ones, get to wait outside.
Dad was pretty curt when they emerged.
“They don’t know what it is, but they want to run some blood tests. We’re going to the hospital. Now.”
They’ve told us to wait.
They won’t rule anything out. “Is it cancer?” “We can’t say one way or the other.” “Leukaemia?” “No positive indications, but we’re unable to eliminate it either.” “Well, what can you tell us?” “Nothing. Just wait.” “How long?” “We don’t know.”
That’s it. Just wait, while some unknown disease runs free.
Thursday, July 18, 2052
It’s been a bit of a damp squib of a birthday. The three of us around the table. A nice meal, and a glass of wine to go with it—I appreciate the “adult” treatment. But there are no candles on the cake. That’s a bit of a sensitive subject.
But Mum’s feeling tired after cooking dinner, and goes off to bed early. Dad looks worried, and busies himself writing a sermon. I’m alone with my thoughts.…
It’s all going round and round in my head with no beginning and no end.
Mum. What’s wrong with her? Is it serious? Why can’t the doctors hurry up and do something to make her better?
John. It’s not a crush anymore. I feel something missing in myself. Like a jigsaw puzzle that is short of a piece to make it complete. A John-shaped piece.
Siân. She’s a dear friend, but she’s also a darn sight too sexy. And she’s not such a bad singer. Maybe she just had a cold. She’s a fantastic front-girl for the band—the boys loved her at the gig. Unfortunately, John still spends far too much time drooling over her bust and her bottom.
Kieran. He’s not really a problem. He’s just a nice lad. A bit young. Maybe it would be better if he would grow up a bit. Or take his next revision. Then maybe he’d start taking an interest in Siân. He might be part of the solution, but how’s that going to work? Do I suggest that he could do with putting on a few more inches? And a few more pounds. But then, he might think I was getting interested in him. No way, Kieran, no way.
Too many problems, and I don’t see any solutions.
If I had a friend I could talk to … but all my frien
ds are part of the problems.
There’s no one I can talk to about all the problems. Maybe I could talk to Mum about John. No. That’s not fair; she’s not well. So I could talk to Siân about Mum, maybe. But what’s she going to say? I mean, it’s a medical problem, and she’s not even vaguely scientific.
So … that leaves John. Well, I can’t talk to him about Siân. Maybe I could talk to him about Mum.
But how do you start? I’ve never had that sort of conversation with anybody.
Saturday, July 20, 2052
So how come John was able to make the gig and the practice, after supposedly getting almost caught stealing from his parents?
How come Siân sang better than a dead crow at the gig?
Shouldn’t we be practicing for the next gig, if we can get one?
Isn’t it about time I saw John face-to-face, without Siân being in the room?
Does that chain of thought look reasonable to you, Zog? No, it doesn’t to me, either.
Which is why I’m on a train into London, on my way to meet him. Without Siân.
To talk with him about things other than music.
John lives in North London, in a place called Wood Green, so I need to get the Tube out to the Yellow Zone. It was easier—and felt safer—when I had Mr. Fuller taking me in his car, but it’s not too bad in the daylight. I wouldn’t like to do the journey alone at night. Too many dark alcoves; the lights are failing and there’s no money to repair them.
The up escalator is broken—though oddly the down escalator is running fine—so I have to walk up two flights to street level. My legs are starting to ache by the time I get to the top. Out on the street I get a signal again and my AllInFone gives me directions.
I choose safe with random, which is supposed to be the best when you don’t know an area well. Sometimes the crims know the safest routes and take a chance.
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