IGMS - Issue 21

by IGMS

  She looked away, she looked back, she seethed. "You've turned my life into pornography."

  "No, that comes later." Now he played shamelessly to the trivid audience, hundreds of millions of people, 89% of current viewers. "This is just the cheesecake stage. And your insipid 'life'? You had no life. But ICU! has given you one."

  "I was about to have one of my own."

  "Have a life here -- Lance would help, I'm sure."

  To the side, Lance twitched and shrugged with restrained excitement. Everybody knew he would help all over the place, given the chance.

  "When your ranking drops to twenty, maybe Lance will give you the three-point bounce." He gazed at her like a sated predator.

  Common knowledge: most contestants eventually had intercourse while the world watched; it was both the highlight and the drop-off point for most players. But, for a 3% bump and a million a day, or $42,000 an hour, contestants did things they earlier would have thought were both morally corrupt and physically revolting. As it turned out, contestant after contestant, the ethical issues needed hardly any kicking around before coming into alignment with the money.

  "I'll make you a deal," she said.

  "I am amused," Glone's arrogance was rich with scorn. He looked ready for a good joke.

  "When you want me to quit --" (He laughed at her.) "-- I'll refuse you as often as you refuse me."

  "How Shakespearean! I've refused you once already -- how about a few more? No, no, no, no."

  "That's five," Sylvia said.

  "Let it be five," said Garith Glone.

  "No second thoughts?" she asked.

  "None. Your silliness doesn't disturb my equilibrium." He was so obviously pleased with the way the conversation had gone.

  "Glone, I'm going to punctuate your equilibrium."

  "Whatever." With a flash of his teeth, he shook his head, as though she were a naughty girl.

  It was a moment often replayed on the trivid, a few months later.

  Walter Roscoe

  tracked the surveys to see if her ranking rose or fell. The Glone-Romilar exchange caused a 2.2% uptick in the viewing audience, and +7.8% specifically in the subfactor of "curiosity regarding motivation." Walter was curious about that, too -- but get Glone to release her? Maybe in some other twilight zone.

  He watched Noreen-Sylvia during the long pauses between his customers -- he tried to think of her as Noreen, but news programs called her Sylvia Romilar. It was a name she'd chosen from labels out of a waste can. She didn't look a lot like Noreen anymore or act like her, for sure. Noreen Brown was a shy person, and he remembered her with an aching fondness. Sylvia Romilar, however, was going into the movies. She was already in Morocco for Instruments of Torture and Delight, in which she would play both leading parts. Shooting had already begun.

  After two months at a million a day in her ICU! account, she still held in the top three, bumped around a little by channel 667's Your Life/Our Life when they featured a normal-looking guy named Diaz who had about six secret lives and ran his OCD at Mach 3. The two days on each side of his suicide she dropped to fourth.

  Garith Glone

  watched on his trivid as Sylvia washed her hands. He had hours of her hands as they washed, handled dinnerware, or read, or lay across her lap, and he now realized these were indeed like the hands he had once known, and her face was very much like the face he remembered. And he had insulted Ms. Romilar in front of the world, just for the fun of it. It had been fun. But now . . . now her hands and face haunted his imagination. He watched her hours every day.

  Walter Roscoe

  was watering his cats when he first heard her go after music. She would have music played for her. "Beethoven . . . stupid thumping. Mozart . . . trivial curlicues. Bach . . . last year's software could do better." To popular music, she listened long, without indication of attitude. Then, after two weeks, she said, "I like the violent ones."

  Her play chart was revised. After two days of icepick-in-the-skank's-eye lyricism, she said, "Is that it?" and seemed to sulk.

  Walter knew what would happen next, and most people were excited about it: Emulating her implied tastes, the demand exploded for lyrical cruelty -- mumbled, crooned or shrieked -- from party-stomping to rhythmic eviscerations. Product appeared in geysers out of indie labels, non-labels, and heavily sponsored corporate labels that added violins and woodwinds and tried to sell it to the middle-aged. Hundreds of groups wrote thousands of songs and glued bullets on their bodies. Dencil Pick and the Slicks swept the Western world with "Bulimic Fatso," a tango with rhythmic eating-disorder noises. Mutant Genes' "Mystery Bump (Grab It!)" initiated the graphically visceral "grab-it" style of popular music with weapons fire in place of percussion and assorted sampled animal noises among other organic sounds.

  Instruments of Torture and Delight was released on her ninety-fifth day. Those who were paid for their opinions said that she was heartbreaking as the self-loathing Betty Fornax and inhuman yet sympathetic as Patty Pavo. She made the rest of the cast look like high school.

  When asked where she got her inspiration, she said, "First, I was born. Then this happened. It motivates me." In two weeks, the movie had made her more money than her victimization by ICU! She channeled this wealth into her fan clubs, with utterly predictable results, in hindsight.

  Walter watched Instruments with trepidation yet felt relief at its end. It troubled him to see Noreen as Sylvia as the icy Patty and then as the self-loathing Betty. He wondered if those people had been inside her all along and if there were other people she could be. As easily as she could be Betty Fornax or Patty Pavo, she could certainly be Noreen Brown again, with be presuming that appearance is 75% of reality, ±25%.

  Walter noted that always in the background hovered Lance Graff, quick with a smile and a nod, who, between his excited personal broadcasts, ran errands for her, ordered her wine, and alerted others to her movements.

  She made blockbuster after blockbuster. In Triumph of the Flesh, she again brilliantly displayed the souls of two characters, one odd-minded, the other cruel. But it was Adaptogenia, written as though by Kafka with a tumor, that made her an icon. Playing all three parts, her death scene on the beach broke the hearts of millions. She was saintly, she was luminous. Prizes were awarded. Heads of state welcomed her. Men openly wept. Walter wept. Sylvia Romilar announced she had made her last film.

  She had become mythic.

  Sylvia Romilar

  remained on St. Helena, in the South Atlantic, where Adaptogenia had wrapped. Remote and isolated, the crew hated the place, which gave Sylvia a third reason to stay.

  She rarely heard Dr. Leonardi as he ghosted into the room, always a bit nervous, saying bits and pieces of what nervous people say, apologizing that it was already time for a re-check.

  He fiddled with his scanner, having a little trouble turning it on. "That Mr. Graff," Dr. Leonardi said almost under his breath, "isn't a very stable person." He moved the soap-bar-sized thing across her chest, across her back, and then held it against her neck for several blood-related readings. "He's very rude to everyone but you, Ms. Romilar," he said through his heavy breath. "He's placed some bets, a lot of money -- I'm sorry. I'm rambling."

  "What kind of bets?"

  "On what he . . . . On what sexual activity he could do with you by the first of nextmonth, then by the fifth, the tenth -- all kinds of different odds -- it's too complicated for normal people to understand." He looked at the numbers on the device and nodded. "You have wonderful health. Ms. Romilar, I'm a dull person, but if you need a dull person to talk to, I volunteer myself."

  "Thank you," Sylvia said neutrally. She patted the top of one of his hands. "Thank you."

  Dr. Leonardi nodded, looking utterly blank. Sylvia left the room with most of the swarmers circling her. The few that remained showed Dr. Leonardi looking steadily at the hand she had touched, at the hand that lay unmoved for one minute and forty seconds. The world watched and connected the dots.

  Wa
lter Roscoe

  found it hard to believe reports from around the world that people washed their faces in imitation of Sylvia, spoke in Sylvia's lilting and shy or crisply hostile tones, ate what she ate, bought the products she used, and gathered to discuss the unspoken meanings of her words or actions.

  Walter was watching her on his trivid from behind the counter of his pet shop, on the day of what became known as the First Speaking. For an hour she had sat quietly, on her St. Helena veranda. And then, without prelude, she looked into the swarmers, focused, and began to recite:

  "Seven women in brown dresses will die in the next five minutes. Three men in their forties named Charles will soon come into more than ten thousand dollars. A lady in her forties in California who survived cancer should be cautious this week of food poisoning. Alice, keep your pets close this week; it'll be easier for you. A family named Wilber, get your children inoculated now." And it went on. And on.

  Walter was awed. She seemed to have no script, yet her words coursed smoothly along, one after the other, as though precisely rehearsed. Nine men and six women would discover whatever, four people in Wyoming will injure something with some implement -- all kinds of people, pets, even farm animals, falling, flying, eating, and traveling; there was losing money, finding it, finding a lost one, losing a found one . . . . It seemed endless. Most of it was cautionary or positive, with few dark spots.

  It occurred to Walter that she had gone mad. That wouldn't be surprising.

  Or she was receiving paranormal notice of future events. That would be very surprising.

  Or she was pretending that she knew these things, for reasons unknown. This would be mysterious.

  Sylvia ended the First Speaking at 9:30 p.m. by saying, "Walter, come to me." That got his attention and surprised everyone. Walter watched her get up and drive down to the shore of the South Atlantic, spread out a towel on a tiny beach of hauled-in sand, and go to sleep, watched by the swarmers.

  Before she had returned to the house, not two hours later, reports boiled into ICU!'s SylviaCentral: From Wyoming -- someone had already mangled his leg on a Hydrafork. From another place, then from dozens of places, women in brown dresses dropped dead, cows ran off cliffs or into canals, riches and loved ones were lost and found -- the trivid gushed with the excited announcements of her fulfilled Speaking. On channel 720, broadcast from some remote part of the St. Helena house, Walter saw Lance Graff jabbering about the crazier reports coming in. He kept saying, "It's real!" and "I need air!" and then making obvious veiled references to some immediately upcoming major event, which only he knew about -- many winks and nods. Once again, Lance was running on full adrenaline.

  When Sylvia did pass through her opened front door, back from the beach, there was Lance to meet her -- a breach of protocol. He casually mentioned, "You're in the news . . . Sylvia."

  First name? She looked at him three withering seconds, said, "Don't," and passed by.

  But Lance Graff had brought her flowers this evening and he carried them with a special dignity. A lot of cash rode on this. He wore sponsored clothing, something in the purple family, though it changed with the light into greens. It was quite tight and various slits allowed peeks at his tanned midriff.

  "Ms. Romilar, I so adore you." He actually knelt in front of her. "You fill my thoughts and I feel deep emotion toward you. This is the sincerest truth I have. It is my heart!"

  "Lance, if I knew you better I'd be cruel to your family. I know what you want here. Believe this: the only way you'll ever get in my bed is if I'm dead before you get there. So I guess you could say you have yet a glimmer of hope." Reptilian smile.

  Lance Graff's face had the expressions of one who had been freshly whipped -- a miscellany of grimaces separated by moments of choked breathing. He left with his flowers.

  Well, that was exciting, Walter thought. He glanced at the percentage of viewers at the bottom of his screen. 94.7% and rising. Wow to that.

  He watched the analysis of her Speaking develop over the twenty-six hours of his flight to St. Helena:

  The number of deaths she had spoken of amounted to fifty-three. Fifty-three more-or-less matching deaths were verified within the first twelve hours. At the end of twenty-two hours, two hundred and eighteen dead people fit her alleged predictions. Specifically regarding the seven women in brown dresses: ad hoc committees instantly formed to distinguish between the various shades of brown in order to certify exactly seven out of the twenty-eight claimants who were "predicted by Sylvia." In regard to who really had been touched in some way by Sylvia and those who falsely claimed her influence, shifting, vindictive factions developed overnight. They revered her. Sects developed. She sent them more money.

  Walter and Sylvia

  were both shown split-view on the trivid as they drew nearer each other.

  After an hour of switchbacks and the growing buzz of swarmers around his face, Walter was deposited at her cliffside villa, named London House, and ushered in. At the sound of Walter's feet on her floor, she turned and she radiated a sudden joy the swarmers had not captured before. In her, he saw no traces of Noreen.

  The world held its breath.

  She wrapped her arms around his shoulders. She whispered against his ear, her words instantly translated around the world in seventy-two languages, "Walter, I'm so glad to see you." She said it like a thirsty person finding water. She sounded like Noreen. Against him, she felt as he knew Noreen would feel against him. "I needed to see someone who had a life. Is our street like it used to be?"

  "People keep your tea shop just like you left it. It's like a museum."

  She looked like she might cry. He saw Noreen in her eyes.

  The world

  saw the 5:20 p.m. murder several hours later in the evening, around 8:00. Details:

  Attracted by the sounds of angry voices, swarmers beelined to the back of the villa, over to the stairwell access, where Lance Graff and Dr. Leonardi were about to descend. The swarmers got every angle, activating the dimensional elements.

  "I'm sure she loves your purple pants," Leonardi said. "Anyone would."

  "Shut up. You told her about the bets and wrecked it all. You told! You bet on it too!"

  "I admire how it separates at the waist to give us shadowy glimpses of your stunning physique."

  "Shut up, you Jew. Everybody knows you want her. I'd laugh but I'm out of chuckles."

  "I'm Italian Catholic."

  "Wop Jew."

  Leonardi kind of hunched his shoulders, squinted his face up and said, "All kidding aside, Lance, I have a medical question. It's something no one knows for sure, but I think you might have some new information for my profession. In fact, I feel a professional obligation to ask for your help. Seriously now."

  Lance Graff came alert, some hostility leaving his demeanor: Someone was going to ask him a serious question he might be able to answer? That didn't happen often -- and it could be a joke. He didn't adjust his sneer. "Ask it."

  "Well," Dr. Leonardi said, "I know how much you adore Sylvia, so if no one would ever, ever know, would you have relations with her if she were dead and it was convenient, and, you know, the mood was right, lighting and everything?"

  Lance didn't change expression -- as though he were waiting to hear more of the question.

  "Say she was dead just ten minutes or so, still warm and pliable. No one would ever know. Would you do it?"

  Lance acted like he'd been plugged in. He snapped fully upright, drew his right arm back to give Leonardi a killing blow, but, fool to the end, he slipped on the polished concrete, and as he balanced, as he reached for the handrail, in that one moment of utter vulnerability, Dr. Leonardi gave Lance Graff a little shove, a tiny shove, not more than a touch, and Lance began his tumbling, clanging, backward fall down the metal stairs to the first landing.

  The swarmers showed close-ups of Lance's face at rest. Breath could be seen moving across the blood that pooled under his nose.

  Dr. Leonardi did a h
eavy duck-footed descent to the landing, grabbed Lance by the feet, dragged him around ninety degrees, gave him a twisting heave, and Lance Graff went down his second flight of metal stairs. The bom, bom, bom of his head on the stairs, alternating with the flat clang clang clang of his two feet, made a snappy but brief repeating rhythm.

  The bom, bom, bom of his head on the stairs, alternating with the flat clang clang clang of his two feet…

  This time, swarmer close-ups and longer shots of Lance Graff's disarticulated neck argued against future consciousness.

  Dr. Leonardi looked at the corpse a moment, then reversed direction and went back to the main floor, to Sylvia.

  5:22 p.m.

  The world had not yet been shown a moment of this.

  ICU!

  had never seen Sylvia this way. She and Walter sat side by side at dinner, on her vast veranda, and twice Sylvia laughed openly. They held hands, leaned together, touched feet under the table, a smile never leaving her face, till 5:18 p.m.

  That evening she was an unheard of 97.8% of the viewing audience. They saw excitement and passion in this hostile, bitter woman. She had transformed yet again, and with that came the thrilling expectation that the cheesecake part of her life had ended and now would begin a new, more shameless phase. 98.1%.

  Sylvia Romilar

  placed her eating utensil across the middle of the plate at 5:18 p.m. One of the help discreetly said beside her face, "Ms. Romilar, Mr. Garith Glone wishes a few moments of conversation with you. He apologizes."

  She looked momentarily defeated. To Walter: "He flew in yesterday to do whatever he does. If I deal with him now, he might leave sooner."

  She ignored the servant, who didn't have to return with the message because Glone had been watching on a trivid in a near room. He appeared in moments, tailored, manicured and styled, his teeth gleaming, his charisma surrounding him like a vacuum fluctuation. Walter had heard his name but that was all.

  Sylvia looked at him.

  Walter might as well have been vapor. "Ms. Romilar," Glone said, his tone almost confidential, "You are lovelier than ever this evening. I apologize for interrupting. We're getting a lot of noise from law enforcement about these deaths you mentioned in your litany. Many more people have died than you said would die. There are implications there."