A Song for a New Day

by Sarah Pinsker

  “My parents always told me people were safer with the congregation laws in effect. You think people have changed?” She’d learned in school that the time Before was terrifying and anxious, full of shootings and bombings and crowd-borne disease.

  “I do. Look around. Kids have access to good schools, regardless of where they live. People have better access to jobs and housing. We’re working on federal basic income. There’s way less desperation.”

  “My Hoodie still tells me to avoid certain streets.”

  “I’m not saying everything is perfect. You’d have to have seen the Before to know how much better this After is, here at least. The prison cycle’s got a flat tire. The rents went back to manageable when all the rich people left. City resources were reallocated more fairly.”

  Joni walked her through a community garden on the next block, talking about cleaning the city soil. Rosemary could hold her own on gardening, but she kept wondering when she’d have a chance to raise the StageHoloLive proposition. She tried to steer the conversation back to music.

  “Your band is the only one I’ve seen here that’s all women. Is that on purpose?”

  “Yeah. There’s something about playing with all women that’s . . . a different dynamic. An all-queer band like Luce’s changes the dynamic, too. And Luce curates her space in a way that puts us in the majority, which is nice. She says it’s one of the perks of being in charge. Some people think it’s a political statement, too, but that didn’t really come into it.”

  “Huh. I don’t even know what you mean by a ‘political statement,’ let alone the rest of that.”

  Joni laughed, then stopped when she realized Rosemary wasn’t joking. “I can’t ever decide if you’re adorably naive or if I should feel sadder about it. Or maybe happy that you don’t know why this matters.”

  “Educate me?”

  “Maybe later. You do get why the 2020 is so special, though? Luce created a place where it doesn’t matter at all who’s performing on a given night. It’s not driven by who can sell the most tickets, or what you play, only that you care enough to throw yourself into it. That doesn’t exist everywhere.”

  Rosemary still didn’t understand. She thought it might be a dig at StageHolo, or at something from the distant past, but she didn’t want to clarify and risk getting an earful about her employers. She changed the subject back to urban farming.

  They had lunch in a little Ethiopian restaurant. Rosemary had never had Ethiopian food, but she let Joni order, and followed her lead in eating it. The flavors were unusual but comforting, sour and savory. She even managed not to stress over the fact that they were both tearing and dipping their bread into the same mounds of split peas and beef. Neither mentioned Wednesday night.

  Joni chatted on about the city instead. Her day job involved preventing homelessness, and she tied the tour together in a context of racial history, queer history, social history, politics, and even music history that left Rosemary exhausted and amazed.

  “I had no idea,” Rosemary admitted. “I thought a city was just a place with more people crowded in together.”

  “Stick around, kid,” said Joni. “There’s hope for you yet.”

  An Ethiopian teenager stood in the corner rapping to prerecorded tracks while they ate. Rosemary must have been staring, because after a while, Joni leaned over. “It’s not music that’s illegal, you know. Just gathering to listen to it. He’s totally legit.”

  It was easy to forget that. When Joni went to find the bathroom, Rosemary took the opportunity to Hoodie up and see if he was online. She blinked past an ad for Superwally’s Foods of the World drone subscription, but got an error when she tried to get the artist’s name based on the song he was playing: not in the StageHolo or Superwally databases.

  She mentioned it as Joni slid back into her seat. Having established that she knew nothing was liberating; she could ask so many questions, freed of the burden of pretending worldliness.

  “You do know there’s still music changing hands on other platforms?”

  “I thought everything existed between those two databases unless it hadn’t been uploaded yet. I mean, I understand Live is selective, but I don’t get why recordings wouldn’t be available through Superwally or basic StageHolo.”

  Joni still didn’t laugh at her, but she gave a curious look. “Not everyone buys into that system.”

  “Huh. I mean, my parents don’t, but I thought that was only on the consumer end. Like you noncomm people.”

  “Noncomm is a philosophy. It’s not anticonsumerism. We still buy stuff, but we don’t want our purchases tracked, and we don’t think we always need to be in contact and trackable ourselves. You said you tried to find his song while I was away from the table?”

  Rosemary nodded.

  “So now Superwally and StageHolo both know you’re on the lookout for Ethiopian hip-hop, and they know you’re at this restaurant. Even if you’re paying for ad-free, they’re adding to their profile of you, waiting for a moment to sell it back to you in some way, or sell you to somebody else.”

  “What’s so bad about that? I’d rather get ads for stuff I’m interested in than for stuff I’m not.”

  “Sure, but what if you want to research something without your information being commodified? What if you don’t want to put money in the pockets of a company that donates to sketchy political candidates?”

  Rosemary lost the thread. “They do what?”

  “They give money to candidates on both sides of the aisle who want to keep the status quo. Candidates who want to keep the congregation laws in place, the curfews, anything that keeps people inside and using their products.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s still on the free web, public knowledge, if you know where to look. Look, you obviously enjoy their products. I’m not trying to tear down your idols, but you should know they have a vested interest in keeping you scared. The fact that you’re here with me, eating new food in a new place, gives me hope. You don’t have to give up your Hoodie: just open your eyes to the fact that you’re being bought and sold along with whatever you buy when you’re in there. Me, I’d rather work on making the world out here a better place for when people come back to it.”

  “So where do you buy music?”

  “You mean other than from the artists directly at shows? That’s it for me, but there are sites. If you hack a Hoodie or phone to disable the proprietary stuff, you can shop at a bunch of cool places.” Joni tore the last sodden piece of injera in two and handed one piece to Rosemary, balling the other and stuffing it in her mouth.

  They spent the rest of the afternoon walking off the heavy meal. Rosemary tried to absorb what Joni had said. Were congregation laws so bad? There hadn’t been any bombs or major outbreaks since they’d been enacted. She’d grown up feeling safe. Still, here she was, so maybe safety wasn’t everything. Anyway, why care that ads tracked your interests if you had nothing to hide? There were issues she still didn’t understand, clearly. Meanwhile, Joni showed her an art gallery where you looked at art in person, instead of through bot cameras, and a bookstore with shelving units on wheels.

  “They have speakers and discussion panels here a couple of times a month.” Joni pantomimed rolling the shelves away.

  “On what?”

  “The economy, the future, books, politics, art . . . you name it.”

  “And I’m guessing the reason you’d go hear somebody talk instead of watching them online is that these talks aren’t available in hoodspace? Either the speakers are noncomm or there’s a reason they’re not online?”

  Joni grinned. “You’re starting to get it! Come on, I have one more thing to show you.”

  They walked north and east. Rosemary still turned her head constantly to try to catch the sights: tiny ethnic grocery stores, coffee shops, restaurants, hair salons, all small enough to skirt
the congregation laws.

  They turned onto a residential street. A few houses down, Joni slid the latch of a wire gate and let Rosemary into a yard, more crocuses than grass. Someone stood in a corner—no, that was a gold-painted mannequin waving to her from beneath a small dead tree mosaicked roots to crown in blue glass. Another mannequin sat in a claw-footed bathtub, up to her neck in dirt, which Rosemary guessed would be full of flowers in another month or two. Where would she be by then?

  “One of my roommates is an artist,” Joni said.

  They entered through a small vestibule ringed with mannequin-hand coat hooks. Rosemary pulled up her Hoodie to see the place as the residents wanted it seen.

  “No Veneer here, Rosemary. All the art is here for real.”

  She’d spent her whole adult life wishing she had a proper Hoodie to keep up with the world, and now that she had one, she hung out with people who had another idea entirely.

  They walked through a dining room with walls covered in text, tiny faded notes in multiple colors of marker—more art, Rosemary supposed—and entered a tiny kitchen.

  “Hey, Javi, is there enough for an extra person?” Joni asked.

  The man in the kitchen, Javi, presumably, was stirring a large pot. “No problem! There’s plenty, as long as she likes lentil stew.”

  “Excellent. Rosemary, this is Javi. It’s his night to cook, lucky for you. He’s the best in the house.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Rosemary contemplated whether she’d ever eaten a stranger’s cooking before. Not counting restaurants, of course, but that was different. Everything looked clean enough.

  She stood out of the way while Javi stirred in spices and Joni took bowls from the cabinet. A bulletin board on the refrigerator held chore and meal charts.

  Two other people materialized the moment Javi declared his stew done, and Rosemary was introduced to Lexa and Clothilde. Clothilde was the artist, and Lexa owned the house. Rosemary followed their lead and filled a bowl straight from the stewpot. She still felt full from lunch, but it smelled delicious. She wouldn’t even dwell on being the fourth person to touch the ladle.

  They all sat at the dining room table together to eat, talking about how they’d spent the day. Clothilde teased Javi for making stew off-season, and Javi retorted that there was no wrong season for stew. Lexa, an older trans woman who worked as an administrator at a health clinic, was celebrating a new grant for her workplace. Joni listed all the places she’d taken Rosemary, and they critiqued her choices and added more sights for her to see.

  “I love when my dishes night coincides with Javi’s cooking night,” Joni said, stacking the bowls at meal’s end. “He’s a one-pot cook, and he cleans as he goes. Not like some people around here.”

  Clothilde laughed. “You’re talking about yourself? The kitchen always looks like a hurricane hit it when you’re done cooking.”

  “Can I help?” Rosemary held on to her own bowl.

  Joni snatched it from her. “Nah. There’s a machine.”

  Rosemary trailed her into the kitchen anyway, still awkward despite the warm welcome. “Is that why you brought me here? To show me you live with a bunch of people who treat each other like family?”

  “No, but that’s sweet, and I hate that it’s a surprise to you. If you want to help, you can dole out one more serving in a fresh bowl.”

  Rosemary did as she was told, as Joni loaded the dishwasher, then emptied the leftovers into a large glass jar.

  “Come on,” Joni said. “I can wash the pot later.”

  She followed through the dining room, which now smelled like stew, up a stew-scented staircase. The upstairs hallway was narrow and low ceilinged. Joni knocked on the second door on the right.

  They stepped in and closed the door behind them. This time, Rosemary resisted the urge to look for a Veneer and accepted it at face value. The room was small but cozy, lit by a desk lamp. It was hotter than outside, probably from the electronics: the flat surfaces were all covered with what looked like science experiments. Boxes with dials and wires connected to other boxes, amplifiers, a small keyboard. Fans whirred amid the other machine noise.

  A woman sat in a desk chair in a tank top and shorts, legs crossed, head bent over a circuit board. She swiveled her chair to greet them.

  “Rosemary, Katja. Katja, Rosemary.” Joni put the bowl of stew on the desk beside the electronics.

  Katja waved a greeting, then raised an eyebrow at Joni.

  “Rosemary, I wanted to introduce you to Katja to show you there’s amazing music being made here that doesn’t translate well to your formats of choice. K, do you mind being used as an example?”

  Katja shrugged. “I never mind a chance to play. Bass is in the closet.”

  Joni rummaged in a large wardrobe and pulled out an electric bass, which she plugged into one of the amps before sitting on the bed. “Key?”

  “I’m feeling D minor.” Katja pulled up her Hoodie—Joni had said not all her friends were noncomm—and fiddled with wires and boxes for a minute. A computerized beat emerged from another amp. Rosemary sat on the far edge of the bed from Joni, the only other clear space.

  Joni started to play a simple bass riff, nothing like the sound she had ripped from her cello, though she still carried the same intensity of purpose that Rosemary had found so entrancing. Then the other instrument started, one she didn’t recognize, something bowed mated with something brassy. Rosemary turned, remembering she was supposed to be listening to Katja this time, not Joni. She expected to see Katja playing an instrument, but her hands were empty. The sound itself came from a small amplifier on the desk.

  The pitch changed, and Rosemary looked closer, determined to figure out what she’d missed. Katja massaged her own wrist and . . . was that it? Yes. She ran her hand up and down her other arm, drawing notes, changing the pitch and velocity. Somehow it all worked with Joni’s bass. She slapped her own shoulders, her forearms, her thighs. Her entire body made music. Everywhere she touched produced sound. Rosemary looked for something like Kurt Zell’s keyboard tattoo.

  Katja held out her right arm, and Rosemary realized it was an invitation. She was repulsed for a moment at the idea of touching a stranger so intimately, but Joni whispered, “Go on, it’s okay,” without missing a note, and Rosemary pushed her fear aside and reached out.

  She used one finger to stroke Katja’s forearm. Katja shuddered, and the amp emitted a ripple of notes, barely audible, all in key. “Harder, please. That tickled.”

  Three fingers, pressed down. A chord, insistent, dying the second she lifted her hand away. Katja smiled and pushed her chair backward again, to indicate she no longer needed Rosemary’s touch. She played for a couple more minutes, then nodded to Joni, who ran through her riff two more times, then stopped. The beat kept going, but both women looked at Rosemary expectantly.

  “Wow,” she said. “How do you do that?”

  “Trigger implants under my skin. Processor translates them all into key and then out to the amp.” Katja leaned over and hit a button to cut off the beat.

  “Like that Kurtz guy?”

  “Not ‘like that Kurtz guy.’ That ass stole my idea.”

  Joni slapped the bass strings, making a rude noise. “But if he hadn’t stolen your idea, you’d never have gotten a better one.”

  “This is way cooler than his little keyboard,” Rosemary said, hoping to repair whatever insult she’d made mentioning him.

  “True.” Katja ran her hand across her forearm again, though it no longer made a sound. “And he wouldn’t have gotten kicked out of the house, and you wouldn’t have moved in, so I guess it’s a win for everyone.”

  “Now show her the vid,” Joni said.

  Katja pulled up her Hoodie, and Rosemary took the hint to do the same. Katja pushed a video her way.

  “Are you watching it?” Joni asked.


  “Give her a sec.”

  The clip lasted a minute. It had been filmed at the 2020, on a third party’s Hoodie, since she was seeing Katja from a few feet away. Rosemary watched hood-Katja throw herself into the crowd, allowing them to play her the way Rosemary had. They were respectful, but not as shy as she had been. It felt intimate, as it had in real life, but also voyeuristic to watch other people do the touching on a recording. She shut it off.

  “That’s amazing, and I get why you’re showing it to me. The video doesn’t capture it. But SHL . . .”

  “SHL would program it so avatars could touch an avatar of me, and it would lose all meaning.”

  Rosemary closed her eyes and pictured the code, then tried to picture Katja in the Bloom Bar. She imagined reaching out, avatar to avatar, and how the illusion would crumble. They were right: not everything was meant to be an SHL experience. She already knew that, had already been through the motions of choosing bands specifically for hoodspace, but none of those decisions had been based on a performance like this. You had to be in the room to experience this tactile connection. She understood: sometimes the performance was the music, and vice versa, and the two couldn’t be separated.

  23

  ROSEMARY

  Hold On, Hold On

  They walked back to the 2020 in silence. Rosemary had too much to say, so she didn’t speak.