SL Huang - Up and Coming - Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

Lucio plays the first sequence and pulls up the associated metadata on another monitor. He grunts. “The contextual parameters look okay but I’ll have to check them all to be sure.”

“Of course.” Context’s the hardest thing to get right. You can spot an amateur vid hack straight off based on how well they manage contextual transitions between sequences.

That’s not to say montage vids don’t have their place. Lucio made good money creating increasingly incomprehensible shot combos to get his clients high. But it’s risky since it’s essentially voluntary brainwashing. I heard about a guy mind-hacked on montage. Not pretty.

I sigh and rub my face as Lucio brings up the next sequence: A general giving a speech to his troops before battle. The sound’s muted but my mouth moves along with the actor’s words. Lucio pulls up another sequence, then another. I close my eyes, but I can feel the images pressing in. Demanding to be looked at.

“Jack…Hey, you there?”

“Huh?” My eyes snap open. “Yeah. I must have drifted…”

He tut-tuts to himself. “My friend, you need to take care of yourself. Vid-chains aren’t everything.”

“No, but they make things…manageable.”

He doesn’t disagree. “You racing in the charity exhibition this weekend?”

I shake my head. I’m not officially retired, not yet. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to trot myself out, no matter how many kids with incurable diseases it benefits. Ari’s been gone for just over a month. Don’t they know that?

Lucio arches a brow but says nothing as he pulls up a different sequence.

I lean forward. “A new one?”

He nods. “This one’s special.” His hands skate over the keyboard, and the music starts.

The accompanying soundtrack can make or break a vid-chain. It provides subconscious signals for how your brain interprets the visual stimuli and walks you back to reality when the boost is over. Lucio is a great editor, but his musical ear is what sets him apart.

“Hear that?” he asks.

I concentrate on the music. The swells sound tinny, and it’s not Lucio’s speakers. “It’s lacking…I don’t know…richness.”

Lucio beams. “I stripped out the stereo layers. When you boost, it will add a bit of artificiality to the experience so you don’t lose yourself completely.”

Usually fidelity is the goal for vid-boosters. It’s why people like me go straight to the source for the sequences. Authenticity, provenance…These things matter so that somewhere in the back of your mind as you ride out the boost, you know the light particles that comprise the moving images are minimal degrees of separation from the original—that you are almost there too, experiencing everything firsthand.

Even the music has to be pitch perfect. Lucio often performs the different instruments himself, layering them on top of each other with his mixer. But to deliberately add a layer of artificiality? A self-consciousness to the act of vid-boosting?

“I don’t know.”

“Try it.” I shake my head, but Lucio grabs my wrist. “I insist, Jack. If it doesn’t work, no big deal. But if you’re better able to control the boosts…”

I pull away from him. “All right. All right. But I’m not paying for it.”

“Of course not. This one’s on the house.”

When I step out of Lucio’s shop, Marek’s car is waiting for me, along with a pair of drone cams. I wonder if Lucio told him I was here, then dismiss the thought. Lucio’s always dealt straight with me. He was just as torn up over Ari as I was, in his way.

The chauffeur stands at attention like this is merely a social call, not a summons. I could decline, but I’d be dodging the cams all the way back to my place. “Good to see you again, Mr. Deseronto,” the chauffer says as I slide into the backseat. But we both know there’s nothing good about it, so I stay quiet.

The car pulls into traffic, smoothly negotiating the crush of vehicles. The buildings thin out, and then smog rolls back a bit as we take the twisty roads into the hills.

I wipe my palms on my pantsleg. The car ride means only one thing—Marek wants me to race again.

The archive job’s not so bad. Thanks to Ari, I know enough jargon to get by, and there are enough hot girls like Jenny hiding behind glasses and shapeless black clothes to keep things interesting. The ones too afraid to be in the vids they’re cataloguing.

It’s not a forever thing—I know I’m expected to go back to racing once I get over this “episode.” I won’t. But Marek doesn’t know that yet.

The car pulls up to his mansion in one of those walled rich people neighborhoods in the hills. Sentries with dogs patrol the yard, and security guards are stationed at each entrance.

Big tough Vaughn at the front door gives me a curt nod as I’m admitted inside.

Marek’s waiting for me in the study. “Ah, Deseronto, good to see you.”

“And you, sir.”

“Lucio says you’ve been bringing in some great sequences.”

I shrug. “It’s just beginner’s luck.”

“Nonsense. You’ve always excelled…when you’ve put your mind to it.” His fingers drum against the desk. “I wanted to see how you’re doing. Trials for nationals are in a few months, and the charity circuit’s already started up.”

“I don’t know if I’m—”

“As your sponsor, I’m concerned you aren’t applying yourself.”

“I’m not. And I’m not interested. Ari—”

“Ah, yes. Ari.” His voice hangs in the air. I wonder if he’s practiced that. “An unfortunate accident, of course. But life moves on. You must too. Surely, you see that.”

He waits with that impenetrable gaze, and I find myself nodding just so his eyes will slide away.

“Good. The Oceanside Exhibition is on Saturday. Prepare yourself.” He looks down at his desk. A dismissal.

“It’s too soon.”

He crosses his arms and rests them on his desk, pretending to look thoughtful. “I think we’re rarely the best judge of our own limitations. Everyone needs a push now and then, a boost if you will, to reach their potential. Isn’t that why you and Ari came to me in the first place?”

At work the next day, Jenny knocks on the door to my booth. “Jack, you gotta see this.”

She pulls me over to her terminal and hits playback. “ Un chien andalou ,” she whispers as it starts up. “A collaboration between Buñuel and Salvador Dalí.” I think Ari may have mentioned it once but I never—

“Shit!”

“I know, right?” She hits rewind, and we’re transfixed as an eyeball gets cut by a razor, compelling even the second time through. “It’s not real, but damn,” she says, admiration saturating her voice.

As the rest of the vid plays, more incomprehensible images flash by—pianos, ants, freaky-ass people. It reminds me of montage hacks I’ve seen, but I’m not seizing. Not yet.

“Hey, you okay?” Jenny gives me a nudge with her shoulder.

“Huh?” I blink as the credits roll. “Yeah, I’m…”

“You sure? You’re breathing kinda funny.”

She’s right. My heart’s knocking into my lungs, sputtering for air like I’ve just burst to the surface after being underwater too long. I take a deep pull and slowly breathe out. “I’m okay. But that was crazy.”

In the hands of one of Marek’s professional editors, sequences culled from this film would be dangerous.

The corners of her eyes crinkle when she smiles. “Thought you’d like it. You seem to be drawn to the golden age of cinema.”

That’s true enough. The older stuff tends to have longer shots and pans. Better for chaining compared to the quick blink-and-you-miss-it transitions the digital era is known for. Doesn’t mean digital sequences can’t be used. It’s just more labor intensive to collect them and then chain them effectively.