Slabscape: Dammit Read online

  ‘I would certainly hope not,’ said one of the last remaining interns. This one had assumed the appearance of a business-suited, middle-aged caucasian male with thinning hair and a combover. The fact that he’d not succumbed to the various narcissistic foibles that the other interns adopted for their physical manifestations at council meetings meant he stood out like a tax collector at a hoedown. ‘Democracy is a flawed and highly ineffectual form of government that relies on the majority of the enfranchised being capable of understanding all of the implications of highly complex and interdependent situations. An empowered electorate must not only be able to fully comprehend all of the information they are given and be capable of making accurate analysis, which few are, they must also be motivated and willing to be completely engaged in the process, which even fewer are, and they must also accept responsibility for their decisions, which virtually no one does. Democracy is open to manipulation by clandestine information controllers and by the mass media who have their own commercially dictated agendas. Voters are too easily influenced and are vulnerable to the fear-mongering and short-term whims of the self-interested and the self-destructive.’

  Louie wasn’t going to argue about political philosophy with this guy, especially as he had run his own businesses back on Earth with a level of magnanimity and sense of egalitarian fair-play that would have made Atilla the Hun look like a social worker. ‘Just as long as you’re dupe to take the rap if the smelly stuff slimes the zealot.’

  The intern paused for a second while Sis provided him with a selection of the most plausible meanings of what Louie had just said. ‘You are a most amusing fellow, Mr Drago. I trust you will not feel offended if I elect to ignore your implications?’

  ‘Elect away, Charlie Brown,’ said Louie. He directed his next comment into the air. ‘I have a shopping list. Item one is privacy. Now.’

  two

  Dielle was at his piano, playing a boogie-woogie rag he’d never heard before. He stared at his hands, fascinated. They seemed to act without his conscious volition. He tried diverting them to see what happened. What happened sounded awful. Evidently, he thought, he was going to have to master the basics before he could experiment with composition. That was frustrating. Improvising looked so easy too.

  Kiki had, as usual, left while he was still sleeping, leaving him to wander around her apartment for the morning. He’d experimented with a breakfast of fresh fruit and sticky toffee that Sis had emtied into Kiki’s immaculate, and rarely used, kitchen and he’d caught up on a couple of newssumes and slagrags. During his second glass of frothy coffee, he’d remembered his overnight training session and padded over to the Steinbeck to find out what he’d learned. He was getting used to slipping into the semi-focussed state Fingerz called just letting that allowed his fingers to flow where his stim-training led him. It was essential to get his conscious mind out of the way of this process because if he tried to concentrate on what he was doing, it all fell apart.

  [[•]] This came as a light ping through his neural interface. Sis had something to tell him.

  {[~?]}

  [[Fencer Dean Twenty has invited you to a social gathering later today. The Spin West End anchor at 8:00. Full privacy]]

  {[Sounds good. Tell him I’ll be there]}

  [[••]] Two soft blips; a reassuring confirmation.

  {[What can you tell me about Fencer?]}

  [[There is a wider than average range of information available through public channels and an even larger array for those he tags as inner circle]]

  {[Am I in that group?]}

  [[No]]

  {[Does that imply he doesn’t like me?]}

  [[That is impossible for me to say. SlabCitizens have wildly differing social interaction conventions. I can reveal that less than 0.1% of Dean Twenty’s contacts have inner-circle approval. Does that help?]]

  Dielle instinctively liked Fencer and wondered what it took to be in that 0.1%. For all of Slab’s comfort and ease of living, there was a superficiality to most of his interactions with others that made him hunger for something deeper. He craved something that served a different purpose from the relationship he enjoyed with Kiki. He couldn’t identify this need in precise terms but somehow, in this spaceship filled with nearly 32 million people, he managed, at times, to feel isolated and lonely. He got an idea.

  {[Does Fencer play any musical instruments?]}

  [[Of course. Almost everyone plays musical instruments. It’s part of being human, isn’t it?]]

  Now Sis was asking him questions. How in Dicename, he thought, should I know what being human is about? I’ve only been one for seven days. He ignored her. Getting the right type of information out of Sis often required careful phrasing.

  {[Are there any particular musical instruments that Fencer shows a higher than average proficiency at and has expressed considerable enthusiasm for?]}

  [[Percussion. Nice question]]

  He’s a drummer? That’s perfect, thought Dielle. He came to the end of the rag, stood up and carefully closed the piano. He stroked the deep gloss of the ebony lid. {[Fingerz’ location?]}

  [[The Twisted Pear patisserie-bar, Strip, UpSide]]

  Dielle picked up a jacket from the morphit on his way to Kiki’s vex. {[Ping him that I’m on my way]}

  [[••]]

  Jesus Aloisius Marley VIII, aka Fingerz Jeez, keyboardist extraordinaire, accelerated-learning stim producer and committed stoner was glad to see his new old friend. He welcomed him with an elaborate, five-stage hand, elbow and knee ritual which fell apart when Dielle, who was still a novice, wound up facing the wrong direction and getting his ass kicked. This provoked a small round of applause from the café goers followed by a shower of charcoal coloured bite-sized sponge cakes which was what this particular establishment was famous for. Dielle grinned sheepishly, brushed off his jacket and sat down. There were two other people at Fingerz’ table, a young couple who looked spookily similar to each other. They stood up immediately and left without acknowledging him. Dielle waved a hand at their backs and frowned at his friend.

  ‘Don’t take it personally, man. They’re on an intense. They wouldn’t run the risk of talking to you ‘cos it would break the juju. Didn’t say a word to me and I’ve been here for an hour or more.’

  ‘Friends of yours?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Fingerz. He took the pitcher of Rat 2 beer from the bar owner. Dielle had ordered it by eye as he’d approached the table. It came with a tray of variable cakes that were cycling through a sequence of yellows, browns and oranges. The colours related to the current flavour and the trick was to eat them quickly before they moved into the reds, purples and blacks - unless you liked chilli sponge with your beer. It was Dielle’s first visit to a Twisted Pear so Sis had filled him in with background, as per general prefs, while she was directing him from the nearest vexit. He popped a rust-coloured cake into his mouth, chewed twice and swallowed fast. Musk-orange to chocolate with a tinge of pepper on the afterburn. Delicious.

  Fingerz longazed for a fraction of a second, then reached into the glass-dispensing emti built into the side of the pitcher and pulled out two thumb-sized vials. They were filled with a faintly fluorescing blue liquid. Wisps of vapour hung around the fluted necks like reluctant clouds.

  ‘I know you wanna beer man, but have one of these first. Chiv of mine is a drinks designer and this is his latest. I’m helping out on some market research. They’re super-rat-5 but with a half-life of only a few seconds. Try one.’

  They clinked vials, toasted ‘The First!’ and downed the chilled, oily liquid in one. As far as Dielle could tell it was odourless, tasteless and almost totally innocuous. Fingerz pulled two empty frosties and filled them with beer, waiting for Dielle to react. Dielle waited too. He was about to give up waiting when his stomach lurched, his throat opened and he belched violently. It sounded like an explosive bark. Dielle’s mouth, nose and sinuses filled with an exquisite fizzy vapour infused with the essence of sunny days and happy dr
eams. Then it faded almost as abruptly as it had arrived. Fingerz barked even louder than Dielle and closed his eyes. Bar patrons queried Sis.

  ‘Wow!’ said Dielle. ‘That was lookadat serious. What’s it called?’

  ‘Dog Breath.’

  Dielle reached for his beer. ‘Might want to change the name.’

  ‘I’m synched you’re here man,’ said Fingerz. ‘Got myself a notion in motion.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Dielle, keen to air his idea first.

  ‘Hold that note! Don’t say nothing yet.’ Fingerz raised his hand and yelled; ‘HOBSON’S!’

  Everyone looked around. Nobody volunteered. Dielle queried Sis. [[Hobson’s choice is a process by which decisions can be made or rules overseen by a human arbiter known as a Hobson. They are summoned by shouting as your colleague has just done and, for everywhere except the nightzones, the local Hobson is informed and must either turn up in person or send an avatar to act as a conduit. This ensures a neutral, human-based arbitration service. It is often used to resolve disputes or defuse potential conflicts of opinion]]

  {[But not here?]}

  [[The Strip has too many shouts. It’s impractical to have enough Hobsons on TenCent call so instead any SlabCitizen within ear-shot can accept the role on a temporary basis. The Hobson’s fee is variable and a function of the time of day multiplied by the average hourly wage of the shouting party. The cost is equally shared by the shouters. It’s still early, you’ll be fine]]

  ‘HOBSON’S DAMMIT!’ hollered Fingerz, ‘It’s only a hoozfurst!’

  A large guy on the next table turned his head. ‘OK then, I’ll take it. What is it? An idea?’ Fingerz nodded and sucked on a shiff. He’d never had the chance to show off Slab’s sophistications to a newbie before and he was enjoying himself. The guy eyeballed Dielle, saying nothing.

  [[Message from anon temp Hobson confirm accept]]

  {[Accept]} thought Dielle.

  The message that came, even though it was sub-aural and directed by Sis, sounded like it was the large guy talking. Dielle made a mental note [[Noted]] to ask Sis later how it was done.

  [[‘State the nature of the idea in precise terms and the moment the idea occurred to you.’]]

  {[I want to form a band and I want Fingerz and maybe my friend Fencer Dean Twenty to be in it. I got the idea when I was playing earlier. Maybe an hour or so ago]}

  [[‘Corroboration on time?’]]

  {[I asked Sis about whether Fencer could play. Will that do?]}

  [[‘It might. It’s not definitive. Release that info to me and hold.’]]

  {[Sis can you give him what he needs?]}

  [[••]]

  Dielle waited while the large guy glanced at Fingerz. After a minute he gave his verdict.

  ‘You both had the same idea, although you have variation about potential additional members,’ he said. ‘Feels simultaneous to me. I couldn’t say exactly who had the idea first so I suggest you claim joint ownership. Congratulations, you’ve formed a band.’ [[Debit 342.40]]

  Dielle and Fingerz looked at each other with genuine love in their hearts.

  ‘You’re Dielle, huh?’ said the large guy. ‘I’ve seen you on my tempgal’s sumes. Can I join the band?’

  ‘What d’you play, man?’ asked Fingerz.

  The large guy turned around to face them. He had two extra arms protruding from his chest. He raised all four in a playing stance and mimed a twenty-finger arpeggio. ‘Keys!’ He said. Dielle gorped.

  They didn’t need to communicate over their private channel to agree their response. ‘No, sorry,’ said Dielle. Fingerz shook his head.

  The guy did a double shrug and turned back to his friends who raised their drinks to him, laughing. He had, after all, just picked up their tab.

  ‘What the Dice was that?’ hoarse-whispered Dielle.

  ‘Prosthete,’ said Fingerz with disdain. ‘I used to work with a guitarist like him once. Arrogant man, arro-dicing-gant. So who d’you think should be in our band?’

  Dielle told Fingerz about Fencer Dean Twenty. Fingerz accessed some of Fencer’s publicly available performances while Dielle pinged Kiki to tell her about the idea. She greeted the news the way she greeted almost everything, with enthusiasm and a torrent of ideas and angles that Dielle didn’t understand and instantly ignored.

  ‘Fencer’s cool,’ said Fingerz when Dielle had stopped longazing. ‘Pair keys mit perc be downam fierce-D.’

  ‘Kiki thinks she might be able to get us a guest slot at some festival a friend of hers is running in Mitchell. Something to do with nighttime in the daytime?

  ‘DreamTimeShine yeah. It’s noway small man and it’s in three days, but we can do it. I’ll eye-up a bunch a toons for your stim training tonight. You ain’t going to be ready to improv yet so I’ll just weave in a couple repeat frameworks for me and Fencer if he’s cool to go.’

  ‘I’m going to be seeing him tonight at a party at The Spin anchor. I’ll ask him.’

  The crowd at the next table started barking. Seconds later, everyone was doing it. ‘I guess the research phase is over,’ said Dielle.

  ‘Yeah’s cool man,’ said Fingerz. ‘I’m getting sales stats. Looks like your Kiki-chan fed the sumes and it’s gone viral. My man is maximum grats. I ‘spect you’ll be on points.’

  ‘I guess,’ Dielle nodded. {[What is Fingerz talking about?]}

  [[Your manager negotiated a profit share deal with the drink’s inventor before agreeing to let the sume of you drinking the test sample go out on the feeds. The drink is about to enter the rat-5 most-sumed chart. Accordingly, your personal account is being credited at a rate of 98.6 bpm due to sales of Dog Breath. Word is also spreading fast about your upcoming live performance]]

  {[!!]}

  ‘We’re going to need a name for the band.’

  Fingerz, handed Dielle a shiff. ‘Howabout The Shining Silence of Tomorrows?’

  ‘Yeah, let’s see what Fencer has to say? You want to come to this thing later?’

  ‘Enceedee man, got two gigs in ToNight High Downside then one in demiVille Upside. Maybe I ping you when I’m done, see if you still hanging.’

  Dielle sucked down a lungful of creatively tuned narcotics. ‘Sure thing,’ he said. ‘Howabout The Three Friends?’

  ‘Yeah, that prosthete man,’ said Fingerz. ‘He just didn’t get it. Too much facility ruins the creativity. I played with a violinist once who’d had the third finger on his stopping hand grafted to his pinky. Now that guy could swing!’

  They drank a few beers and talked about music and kicked around some more names for the band, none of which met with each other’s approval. Then Fingerz got pinged by an angry tempgal and had to leave in a hurry. Dielle was content to stay where he was and daydream. Now he had the band to focus on it was as if he’d established a base. He had direction and a purpose and for that he was profoundly grateful. He felt grateful to everyone.

  {[Get the bar to deliver a bottle of their finest shampagne to the guy who played Hobson for us. On me, with my thanks]}

  [[I wouldn’t advise it]]

  {[Just do it will you]}

  [[••]]

  Dielle sat back, basking in the glory of his bonhomie, and waited. The bottle arrived and the table next door went silent. The large guy who’d played Hobson stood up and came over to Dielle’s table. He towered over him and crossed all four arms.

  ‘The Dice?’ he said.

  Dielle, missing the tone completely, smiled up at him. ‘Don’t mention it. I just wanted to say thank you for helping us out back then. It’s a very special day for me.’

  ‘Well it was going alright for me too until you insulted us.’ He reached back to his table, grabbed the bottle and slammed it down in front of Dielle. ‘See if you can find a place where this might fit!’ The other members of the table stood up in unison and departed, muttering and scowling.

  {[What just happened?]}

  [[I warned you. It’s considered the height of bad manners to give
unsolicited gifts onSlab]]

  {[Bad manners? To say thank you?]}

  [[It’s historical]]

  {[More]}

  [[In the early centuries post departure it had been customary onSlab to reward special occasions or acts of kindness with the giving of gifts. As SlabSociety evolved, so did the sophistication of the gift giving and the reciprocal gift giving in gratitude for the gifts received. This often meant that when a gift was given for a specific purpose, such as a personal achievement, a sidereal birthday, a life-changing event and so on, the recipient of the gift would then give back a smaller gift as a token of gratitude. If the size of the original gift was significant, this bouncing back and forth would go on for a few iterations until one party gave the other party a head-scarf and the cycle could be assumed to have come to a satisfactory conclusion. Unfortunately, in the early 430s it became the height of good manners and high status to show gratitude for a gift with one of greater perceived value. No one can trace why this change occurred although many suspect that the handbag designers had formed a clandestine cartel and subliminally planted the idea among their wealthy clientele. Over the course of the next couple of decades things got completely out of hand. The giving of a gift would trigger a series of reciprocal gift transactions that could not end until one or both of the parties were declared bankrupt. The debts that were run up during that period are still being paid off by some of Slab’s wealthier citizens. The financial institutions were complicit in fuelling the arrangement of course, lending more and more and using the collateral of the gifts that had been received as security. There were sophisticated insurance schemes that covered the possibilities of defaults and, as the institutions were financing the acquisitions as well as the refinancing based on the value of the acquisitions they’d already financed, the inflationary pressure was inexorable. It wasn’t long before the only gifts that could be given that had greater perceived value had to be unique, hand made, original artworks or hand-crafted objects because they were sold at auction and therefore had the value that was attributed to them. It was in the buyer’s interest to inflate the prices so they could have something of greater value to use as a reciprocal gift, it was in the artisans’ interest because they were getting paid and it was in the banks’ interest because they were financing the whole merry-go-round. It was a period of massive economic growth onSlab and a lucky few made fortunes. Obviously, it couldn’t last. Gift-giving was outlawed onSlab when the economy collapsed due to the gift crash of 466. Since then, all gift giving has been regarded as an insult unless it is to a minor, who convention exempts from reciprocity]]