Сара Пинскер - A Song for a New Day

“She should volunteer it. Otherwise we met under false pretenses. She was a fan, far as I knew.”

“Look.” Rosemary tried to get the conversation back under control. “I apologize if I misled you in any way. That wasn’t my intent, but I truly do want to talk to all of you about SHL.”

Kenny didn’t relax. “All of us? Or are you going to make us drive out to your headquarters and audition and then tell us you want our singer?”

“All of you. And is that what actually happened with Patent Medicine? That isn’t the story I heard.”

Marcus shook his head. “Come on, Kenny. You know that isn’t what happened. Aran screwed us, not SHL. Do you really think he fought for us? He drove out there on his own.”

“He told me he was going,” Kenny said. “He said he was bringing video of the whole band.”

“Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. Maybe if we had gone with him, they’d have been impressed by all of us instead of only Aran, but we didn’t go. This chick is here in front of us right now. Let’s maybe talk to her instead of convincing her we’re dysfunctional.”

Josh raised his hands, a placating gesture. “I promise, I’m not looking to ditch you guys. She’s offering all of us.”

Rosemary shot him a grateful look. “All of you, as I said. Your songs are super catchy.”

“So what’s the deal?” Kenny didn’t unfold his arms.

“A second audition at SHL, expenses paid. You already passed the first one, since I like your stuff. You have to show that your sound plays well to the cameras as well as it does to a live crowd. That’s it. If they like you as much as I do, you get a contract.”

“Enough to live on?”

“As I understand it. The terms are between you and Legal, but they want their musicians happy and focused on making music.”

“Do we have to move out there? Live in some little artist village with Aran as a next-door neighbor?” Kenny’s hostility hadn’t faded.

“Not if you don’t want to, I don’t think. You can commute.”

“How long do we have to decide?” asked Marcus.

“Sunday at the latest.”

“Fuck! How do you expect us to make a decision that fast?”

She shrugged. “I know it’s short, but how much deciding do you have to do? It’s an audition, not a commitment. Contract comes later. You can walk away if you get there and change your minds.”

She turned away and studied the sky while they talked in low voices.

“An audition,” Marcus said at last. “What do we have to do?”

Rosemary smiled. “First of all, do any of you have a phone or a Hoodie?”

Josh returned her smile. “You think we’re all in that noncomm cult? This is a connected band, friend. We’re on board, ready to promote.”

She gave them the contact information for Logistics, and her employee ID as reference. It had gone well, or as well as expected, considering the Aran complication. If she had thought about it more, she’d have waited to talk to them after Kurtz. Maybe she’d gotten the most difficult out of the way first. She hadn’t mentioned the possibility of a name change, either, but she’d leave that to somebody more experienced.

She had assumed none of the bands were online, but the Handsome Mosquitoes made her realize she’d generalized. To find Kurtz, she tried the old-fashioned way: head in hoodspace. She scrolled through body-mod sites until she located one that intersected with music. He was right there, contact information and everything. How many guys could there be with a piano in their arm and a desire to turn their whole body into a trigger system? “KurtZ OMB,” he called himself online. One-Man Band.

It was easy enough to ask him into a private room to discuss his music. His avatar had even more mods than he had, though they came across a little more cartoonish. Anyone could have piano keyboards for arms if they paid enough for the customizations, or a guitar for a body. When he walked, his footsteps triggered drum hits. A map of what he yet wanted to do to his real body, perhaps. Beside him, she felt generic.

The room was his choice, paneled with colored squares that lit when he moved. The different colors corresponded to different notes. The discord gave Rosemary a headache, but it made sense to make him comfortable by letting him choose the space.

“Hi,” she said. “I met you at the 2020 last week. I liked your band, and the body-mod thing is awesome.”

“Thanks. Do you look like your avatar?” He tapped on his arm as he talked, little trills.

“Close.”

“No music mods?”

“Sorry, no. I hope I didn’t misrepresent myself when I contacted you.”

“Nah. I was hoping. I love to see what other people come up with.”

“Sorry,” she repeated. “But I’m here to offer you a chance to audition for StageHoloLive.”

His tapping trills ceased. “You’re joking.”

“Dead serious. I’m an artist recruiter.” She pushed her professional credential to him.

“Whoa. For real.”

“For real. You and your band are invited to audition. Logistics can get in touch with you about travel arrangements if you’re interested.”

His hand went to his arm. “Will they have any trouble with my trigger system?”

“It was part of the appeal, so I assume they’ll find a way to make it work.”

“Is there room to improvise? To do new mods and stuff?”

“It’s harder. I think you’d have to talk to somebody who knows the tech side, but I think as long as you keep them in the loop, it can happen.” She repeated some of what Aran had told her. “Structured creativity, if that makes sense. That’s how it was explained to me, anyway. I’m not a musician.”

“And it’s only an audition? If I don’t like the situation, I can still walk?”

“Absolutely.”

He took a deep breath. “Okay. Tell me who to talk to.”

“Will do,” said Rosemary. “But, um, what’s your name? I got the name of the band and your avatar, but I think I should give my bosses your actual name.”

“Kurt Zell.”

Kurt Zell. KurtZ. She thanked him, and let him show her what he’d been working on, a guitar fretboard mapped over his avatar’s torso, as he’d mentioned at the club. In hoodspace, it represented layers of modification she couldn’t even imagine. He played his own body to play his brain to play his avatar’s body, translating it all into an eerie and off-putting sound. All without even opening his mouth. She realized she hadn’t even mentioned his voice to Management. Let that surprise them.

She hadn’t been given the go-ahead for Mary Hastings, so the last two bands on her list were Joni’s and Luce’s. For some reason she felt apprehensive about both those conversations. Not because she didn’t think she had fair offers for them, but because of the Handsome Mosquitoes’ reaction. False pretenses, they had said, or one had, and left it to the others to argue him down. Her pretenses weren’t false, though. She genuinely appreciated their sound, and she had tangible benefits to offer. If she was in the room on business, she was also in the room as a music fan. She hadn’t faked anything, she told herself.

Joni. She wondered if she had made an awful mistake with Joni on Wednesday. It had felt right at the time. She liked her, really liked her, thought she was impossibly talented and sexy and kind. Not enough credit was ever given to simple kindness. And yet, the words “false pretenses” colored her Friday and made her dread meeting Joni the next day. False pretenses would have been if she wasn’t a recruiter but told them she was. She pictured the note-perfect Management avatar walking through the 2020, offering people auditions in exchange for cash, auditions for sex, auditions for drugs. She hadn’t misrepresented herself. She had never been anything but herself.