It was the first time she’d ever been anywhere without both her devices, and now she had neither, at least for an hour or so. She ordered a latte and watched the others trickle into the café. She felt alert, present, disconnected, tired; an odd jumble. Not bored, though. Her mind was unknotting the problem she’d been thinking about since Baltimore, adding to it the muggers, the quick “Hey,” the distraction before she’d been hit, the GPS tracking.
Her packages arrived in one delivery from Superwally an hour later. Our goals are speed and efficiency. She busied herself recovering info from hoodspace and setting up both devices with her preferred settings, then sent a quick thank-you to her mother and a quick “back in business” to Management.
Most people working at French Broads kept their Hoodies in some percentage of clearview, to still be aware of their surroundings. She felt safe enough to go full for a few minutes. She paged through the StageHoloLive archives looking for the Patent Medicine concert she’d attended all those months ago.
The recorded version started her off front and center, a perfect viewing location, but not the one she remembered. This time, she spawned after the band; she was the illusion here, not them. The same start to “The Crash”: three voices and two huge guitars, holding a note for ten seconds before the drums rolled in. It still hit her like a wave, but when she looked to the side to see if the others in the room had felt it, she found herself in a sea of bots. They bobbed their heads in time to the music, but none of them turned to exchange glances with her.
The song ended, and Aran Randall’s ghost said, “Good to see you all. Good to be here.”
They had edited out “at the Bloom Bar.” She knew now that he must have recorded the names of a whole list of SHL venues. His hair fell in his eyes again, and he brushed it aside again. “We’re going to go ahead and play some songs for you, yeah?”
The gorgeous bassist opened her eyes again, but this time Rosemary wasn’t in the wink’s path. It had never been meant for her. The second song’s bass groove began, and Rosemary exited the concert.
She pulled up her own recording of Luce’s band, that special night at the 2020. Flat video, not the immersion of the Patent Medicine show, but even seeing it brought her the physical memory of being there. The electricity, the immediacy, the thrill, the heat of the room. It was all there for her recollection.
She searched another band, another song. The Iris Branches Band, “Come See Me for Real.” Audio only, the way she’d heard it in the diner bathroom. She didn’t care what Iris Branches looked like. She flipped back to clearview and closed her eyes. The song used to remind her of high school, but now it sounded like the bathroom at Heatwave, like her heart beating faster, like Joni’s lips pressed to her own.
She almost had a plan. When she closed her eyes, she could see the result she wanted, the way she used to envision perfect code before looking at the flawed version. She’d repaid Luce’s kindness by killing her venue, and Joni had said she couldn’t undo what she’d done in Baltimore, but maybe she knew a way to make a difference. This time, she’d tell Sadie, because it wasn’t a plan she could implement on her own, and it wasn’t a thing she wanted to do without permission. Plus, she needed bait.
Rosemary met with Management a week later. A busy week, giving her a new respect for logistics. Event planning turned out to be hard work.
This Management rep had chosen a different background. No breezy meadow here, and no replica of an office to intimidate her and make her small. They were both seated at a small table in a bare but cozy room, in identical chairs, a pleasant blue sky visible out a large window. She guessed she’d passed the point where they thought they needed to scare her into submission; this was meant to convey a meeting of colleagues.
Generic Management—Female (2 of 5) was built on the same lines as Generic Management—Male (1 of 5). Slim, generic white person features, chestnut hair with a deliberate touch of gray, expensive-looking haircut and clothes. Rosemary wondered if the other three avatars were white as well. Most of her coworkers she’d met on campus were nonwhite, but every avatar she’d met in Management was white and thin and able-bodied. Superwally had played with age but otherwise left people as they were, as far as she knew. She tucked that information away for further pondering.
“Hi, Rosemary. How’s it been going in”—she paused—“Asheville? Good weather?”
She’d graduated to collegial chitchat as well. “Yeah, the weather’s been lovely. It’s a nice little city. Full of music.”
“Good, good.”
“Have you ever been to this area?”
“Um, no.”
Rosemary wanted to follow up, to ask if this Management person had ever been a recruiter, what scenes she’d destroyed to get promoted, but that would mar the illusion of model employee she was trying to project. “You should check it out sometime. It’s beautiful. There are real waterfalls and stuff in the area, too, but I’ve been too busy with work to see them.”
“Sounds nice. Whatcha got for us?”
She imagined the faceless manager sitting somewhere in a childhood bedroom turned workplace, points flashing across her vision for a perfect pivot from pleasure to business.
“Two acts.” She used their word back at them. “I’ve seen a ton of musicians here, but I think these two groups are SHL material. The first is called Way Way Down. R & B grooves on folk instruments. Catchy stuff.” She wasn’t sure they’d be pretty enough, but she was willing to stand behind their sound.
“Sounds interesting. Got video?”
“Sure. This is from a practice, since I got nervous taking my new Hoodie to a show after…” She let her voice trail off.
Generic Management gave a good simulation of a sympathetic smile. “Yeah, we heard what happened. Glad you’re okay.”
“Thanks. The other is called the Simrats. You’re going to love them. I’ll send along a vid someone else recorded at their last show. Twelve-piece band, sound as big as any room you want to fill. The singer’s voice is amazing, and they do this glo-paint thing that will translate well. People will line up to see them.” She was proud of having figured out how to alter the metadata on the video the band had given her, but that was another in a long list of tech victories nobody but her would ever celebrate. Maybe she should design a hoodbot to follow her around complimenting her code-tweaking.
“Wow—a twelve-piece. I don’t think anyone’s brought in a rock band that big in ages.”
“But it’s okay?”
“Sure, in the right circumstances. Expensive, but worth it if they’re as good as you say they are.”
“They are.”
“Nice job, Rosemary. You have contact info? No noncomm bullshit?”
Rosemary didn’t let her avatar wince. She passed their contact info along. “They’re all reachable. They’re doing a big show together a week from Saturday, too, if you want to send someone to watch.”
“No need. I’m sure your report and the videos will be enough,” Management repeated. “Hey, you haven’t heard from Luce Cannon, have you?”
“Sorry, no.”
“Too bad. The one that got away. Anyway, you can contact Logistics to get out of there anytime you want, now.”
“Is it okay if I stay a few days? To see those waterfalls I mentioned? My room is paid through the end of the month.”
Management shrugged her too-perfect shoulders. “I don’t see why not.”
Management thanked her again, said she looked forward to checking out the videos, signed off. The space resolved to blank. Rosemary switched to clearview and looked over at the coffee counter.