Сара Пинскер - A Song for a New Day

“Does anybody do that anymore?” asked his drummer, the octopus.

They exchanged a look. Rosemary wondered if they were thinking about Aran. It’s not like that for him, either, she wanted to say, but she thought better of it.

The bassist lifted the flask again. “To great nights with good friends, to great nights ending, to the next great night.” He passed the drink, and they all toasted.

They all started sliding out of the booth. Joni stepped behind Rosemary as she shrugged her jacket on. “So, uh, do you want to hang out sometime?”

Rosemary understood the question behind the question. “I’d love to see you again. Can I find you online, or do you want to make a date now? Not a date, but, you know what I mean.”

“Let’s decide now. I’m noncomm. Well, semi-noncomm.”

“‘Semi-noncomm’?”

“A lot of people are completely noncomm. No Hoodie, no phone. I keep a phone for emergencies, so I can’t say I’m the real deal, but I don’t have an av or anything.”

“Gotcha,” said Rosemary. She’d never heard of such a thing. She knew people who weren’t connected—her parents, for starters— but she’d never thought their stubbornness was part of a movement.

“Have you walked around Baltimore at all? I have to work tomorrow and Friday, but I could play tour guide Saturday if you wanted.”

“I’d like that.”

“Meet me here at ten a.m.?”

A vision of the two of them in her hotel room flitted through Rosemary’s head, and she shuddered. Not yet. She nodded.

Joni grinned, then leaned over and gave her a quick kiss, long enough to be more than friendly. “Sweet.”

Curfew had long since passed. Rosemary was surprised to find the bus still running, but she supposed there were people who needed to get home even at that hour. She rode back to her hotel still feeling she’d been inoculated against her own fear. Sure, there were people out to do harm to others, but a city bus at two a.m. wasn’t where they would choose to do it. She didn’t need a bubble. She had common sense. She still chose a seat where she’d be able to watch the other passengers, where she didn’t have to come into contact with anyone, but she chose not to be concerned about the lack of barriers and compartments. Everyone was trying to get home.

Back at the hotel, she looked out her window at the city laid out beneath her. The headlights, the hotel windows, the streetlamps capturing tiny figures then releasing them into the dark: even this late, there was still so much movement. Maybe she’d never go back. She was a different person here, and she liked this person. No other night in her life came close to this one. She was a note that hadn’t ever known it fit into a chord. The music, the invitation, Joni. A tiny involuntary shudder at that last thought, an echo, shadow lips on her own.

She woke to her phone chiming.

Good time for a report?

The clock read ten a.m. She reached for her Hoodie and dragged it over her head. Happy her avatar looked work appropriate without any effort on her part, glad this wasn’t Superwally Vendor Services with its daily photos and techwear and insistence on propriety.

The StageHolo virtual meeting spaces were meant to evoke their beautiful campuses. A green and grassy meadow, a single bench. She sat next to an avatar of a slim middle-aged white man. He had perfect chestnut hair streaked with gray, and a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. The hair showed he was high-end, reacting to the same code-wind that rustled the grass. Untucked dress shirt over a T-shirt and jeans. He didn’t introduce himself. She pulled up his information, but it only said “Recruiter Management—Generic Male (1 of 5).” More group management.

“So, what have you got for us? Your reports have been exciting.”

“I don’t even know where to start.”

“Tell us about the acts you’ve seen.”

“All of them, or just the ones I think are worth considering?”

“Whichever you want.”

She considered. Easiest to go in chronological order so she didn’t miss anyone. Better not to mention that these were all of them, too; she didn’t know how many they expected her to have seen in eight days. “So there’s a band with this intense preacher vibe, kinda, but not religious, and the singer has this tattoo implant controller in his arm that he plays. He’s building other ones on his body.”

“So it’s performance art? His body is his instrument?”

“No! Well, yes, but the songs were good, too. Intense.” She flashed on Joni’s line about people playing instruments the way they made love, and then an image of this singer playing his own arm with ecclesiastic fervor. She laughed to herself.

“Okay. What are they called?”

“Kurtz.”

A white block appeared in the fake sky, with “Kurtz” written on it, a question mark after it.

“Next?”

“The Coffee Cake Situation. It’s an awful name, I know”—she interrupted herself as Management opened his mouth—“but their sound is fantastic. The singer plays cello, and she’s absolutely riveting to watch.”

“The Coffee Cake Situation” appeared in the air above “Kurtz.” “Do I have the order of preference correct?” Management asked.

Rosemary considered. Both bands had interesting sounds, singers who were compelling for different reasons. She wasn’t sure if her judgment was clouded or if this was the proper order. Which band’s music had she enjoyed more before Joni had kissed her? Joni’s, she thought. The main selling point for Kurtz was the singer’s unique implants, not their songs. She couldn’t picture either band without their lead performer, and neither was about the songs so much as the sounds they created, and the ways they made people react. She had no idea which had a better chance with StageHoloLive.

“They both have potential,” she said carefully. “Do you mind if I list the rest and then sort the order?”

“Fair enough. Next?”

The next night was the one where she had fallen over the fence. She skipped that one for the time being.

“Mary Hastings. Tiny little old woman with a giant sound. She’s a one-woman band, uses lots of effects. Absolutely phenomenal.”

“But?”

“But I saw how much trouble it was when Magritte went off script, and she didn’t act like somebody willing to stick to a plan. They said Mary Hastings plays as long as she wants, when she wants. She’s worth it, if you want something different.”

“I’ll pass that along to Specialty Acts. Maybe there’s a niche for her somewhere.”

The name “Mary Hastings” wrote itself on the white square with a line through it and an arrow beside it.

“Next?”

“The Handsome Mosquitoes.”

“These bands are better than their names?”

“I promise. These guys are really talented. Poppy, um, anthemic. The singer’s a good-looking guy with an amazing voice and a ton of charisma, and the band is really tight.” She didn’t mention they had been Aran’s band, the former Patent Medicine. They were excellent. They deserved another chance.

“Nice. Did any of the acts you’ve mentioned look like they have habits that might keep them from fulfilling obligations?”

“I didn’t see anything that rang any alarm bells for me. The bands were on time. This scene is about the music, not any side benefits, I think.” She was echoing something someone had said, but it sounded good.

He flashed a smile. “Ah, those are great when you can find them. Was that the last one?”

“One more.” She paused. “Do you remember ‘Blood and Diamonds’?”

“Of course. Hell of a song.”