Niki Seth-Smith is an editor, journalist and fiction writer. She’s particularly interested in the power of storytelling to help us imagine new futures. She’s currently working on two long projects: a novel in the speculative genre and a work of auto-fiction set in Athens, where she lived during the tumultuous years of 2014 to 2018.
Her poetry and fiction has appeared in Open Pen, The London Magazine and the anthology ‘Dove Release: New Flights and Voices’ (Worple Press). Her writing on politics, culture and gender has been published by Vice, Al Jazeera, openDemocracy and the New Humanist. Her life writing can also be found at blacksaltdiary.com.
The attached extract is from the beginning of her full-length novel, ‘Contact’.
nsethsmith@gmail.com, @NikiSethSmith
PART ONE:
“Biopower is the benevolent power, full of the solicitude of a Shepard for his flock, the power that wants the salute of its subjects, the power that wants you to live.”
Amy
I didn’t need to call her, I could do this by myself. Besides, I knew exactly what she’d say, the lightly teasing intonation. Why do you even care what they think? All I had to do was sit through the assessment – smile, nod, answer politely. And then I’d be granted citizen income, like almost everyone I knew, like seventy-eight per cent of young people. I’d checked the latest stats this morning.
The car was already gliding up onto the Sky Roads, the pallid light of a cloudy Spring day bouncing off their immaculate surfaces, snaking and looping above the city. It seemed like months since I’d been anywhere except for orchestra rehearsal or Adam’s place, driven from one closed space to the next. We were passing Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, the tops of the tapered garden towers lushly layered with plant-life – herbs, greens, berries, grasses. Adam and I had been down there last year, on a rare outdoor excursion. We’d held hands in the faint drizzle, syncing our guides and gazing up. Somebody official had offered us a damson. I remembered its hazy blue skin, darker prints where my fingers had been, how the sweetly tart juice had stung a stress ulcer I was starting to develop.
It must have been my finals, five months ago. I’d done absolutely nothing since then. And they’d see that clearly, they’d see it all – the hours on my sofa, browsing the feeds, binging shows, sleeping late. And the fact that my daily Boost limit had been upped twice since my graduation. Social anxiety. Depressive tendencies. Nothing out of the ordinary, except for one fact. I was Lena Sneigowski’s friend. Her bestie, her childhood confidante. That’s the thing that would flummox them most, as they shook their heads at my follower numbers. How was it even possible?
“Ten minutes to destination,” the car informed me.
All the times I’d composed a message, deleted it again, told myself it didn’t matter. If I called her now, she’d know I was panicking. But I had to do something about my nerves. I noticed that my hands were stroking my violin, its weight reassuring on my lap, the familiar texture of the case pitted like the skin of a black orange. What I needed was a Boost. The thought of it coursing down my limbs, the heavy tingling at the tips of my fingers. But I’d promised myself that I’d save my next one for right before the assessment began.
I brought up the app on my Wrist. Just the sight of the logo made me feel better: the five-pointed green star, haloed in gold, slowly pulsing, inviting me. The colour of her hair. The colour of her eyes. Immutable elements of her brand.
I thought she was bullshitting, years ago, when she told me that the icon’s pulse was synced directly to her heartbeat. It was true. I’d checked it against my own. Her metabolism was faster than mine, her heartbeat a fraction ahead, something we’d discovered in seventh grade. We’d taken turns running up and down the science block hallway, our trainers squeaking on the slime-green lino. After running, you had to sit on a chair while your partner measured your pulse as it slowed. I remember how hard it was to get Lena to keep still. She kept kicking the chair legs, squirming about, making me giggle so I lost count.
Boom boom. Boom boom. You’re in my womb.
Fuck it. I’d call her.
As the app rang, I stared out the window, resisting the urge to look at the seat where she’d soon appear.
“Hey.”
She was lounging in the back seat as if she’d been there all along, wearing shorts and an apricot oversized sweatshirt.
“Thanks for picking up.”
She smiled.
“Where are you?”
“With the parasites.”
“You’re at I+ now?”
“They want me to do this new lucid dream app. Like my followers don’t get enough of me, they have to see me in their sleep?”
“Creepy.”
“I’m supposed to be in the meeting right now. I said I needed a wazz.”
“You’re in the bathroom?”
“Yup!” She laughed, her fringe shimmying across her forehead. She’d switched to a bowl cut a few months ago, displaying her perfectly formed ears.
“I mean if you’re sure it’s okay?”
“Perfect excuse to make them wait. So, what’s up? Where we headed?”
I gave her a look. There was no way that Lena would pick up a call without checking the destination.
“Okay, fine. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I know what you’re going to say.”
“And?”
“That I shouldn’t care what they think. I know. I don’t know why I’m so stressed.”
“Because they want you to stress. It’s shame as a means of social control.”
“Nice. Is that one of your new phrases?”
She looked out the window, bobbing her leg up and down.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She turned around. “Don’t go.”
The green of her eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t go to the assessment.”
I hated when she did this – confronting me, putting me on the spot. It was an effort to hold her gaze.
“And do what exactly?”
“We can find another way.”
“I’m not like you. I can’t get a million sponsorship deals by being my gorgeous self.”
“That’s because you’re the real deal, Amy. You’re authentic. Do we have to go through this again?”
She’d been calling me ‘authentic’ ever since it became obvious that my follower numbers would never rise above a measly two thousand.
“Authentically dependent on the state,” I said.
“They’re dependent on you, okay? They’re going to give you CI.”
I forced a smile. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Remember, you’re doing them a favour.”
I nodded.
“I should probably go. But I’m with you all the time, okay?”
She was looking straight into my eyes when she blipped out.
We were nearly there.
The Lambeth Council Citizen Centre was a square one-story with an all-glass wall. A sign, floating in the air above, said ‘We help you flourish’ in pink cursive letters. As I read it, the lettering changed. ‘Hi Amy!’ and switched back again. A friendly touch. But it also meant they knew I was here. If I waited too long before going inside, it would look weird.
Behind the glass were a dozen or so young people, sitting at long communal tables. Not that anyone was speaking to each other – they were all working in their Eyes, gesturing at invisible screens, their hands moving swiftly and smoothly. I recognized one of the guys, a singer with a major following. As I looked too long in his direction, his T-shirt came to life and started playing a clip of one of his songs. Most were in casual clothes, as if the assessment was an everyday thing.
My outfit was far too formal – a midi-wrap dress and blazer. At least I could freshen up a bit before leaving the safety of the car. I picked a geometric pattern for the dress, a chunky belt and a bead bracelet. Not brilliant, but significantly better. I’d calmed and curled my mane-like hair and applied my usual face filter: natural makeup and a smoothing foundation that I hoped would hide my inevitable blushing.
The Centre was on a chic-looking street with a touch of heritage class: restaurants and residential flats, their garden balconies frothing with exotic trees, ferns and flora. Hardly anyone out on the pavement. A woman leapt out of a car, laughing with some-one beside her, a sim who I couldn’t see, and disappeared through a revolving door.
Finally, I could do my Boost. I closed my eyes and sank into the glow as the warm hum suffused my body. I was throwing open a closed door. I was bathed in light. I was borderless. My seat of power deep in my belly. I took another breath, opened my eyes, relishing that faint tingling at my fingertips.
A soft breeze, as I stepped out of the car. Everything in order. Everything fine.
Okay, Lena. Here I go. I’m doing them a favour.
_______
“How do you feel your outreach is going?”
The three of us were sitting in a circle. A round table in the centre held three tiny goblets of botanic water. The woman beamed at me, waiting for my answer, her hands resting on her skirt, the demeaner of a doting aunt. The man hadn’t said a word, but I could see he was watching something: a screen in the corner of his Eyes. Monitoring me. Gauging my responses. They’d taken thirty-two minutes to call me in, so the first wave of the Boost had worn off, but I was still fairly relaxed, smiling, making appropriate eye contact.
“I know I could do a lot better,” I was saying. “I’m hoping with the Violin View series…”
I was off again, trying to sound keen about a scheme I already knew was a failure. Violin View was something I’d developed in the months since my graduation, a desperate attempt at attracting new follows: hauling ass to the most highly-prized panoramas, begging managers to let me play on their balconies or rooftop gardens, live-streaming the performances. Zemlinsky on the Zen Tower. Mendelssohn among the marigolds. All I’d achieved was to waste my money on over-priced cocktails that I poured into the flower features.
“I’m sure you’ve considered the benefits to listeners?” she asked.
I had been expecting this question and went on to parrot the latest stats on how the harmony and formal symmetry of classical and baroque music had huge potential when it came to well-being, such as reducing brain activity and lowering blood pressure.
“And that’s informing your strategy?” she asked.
“Oh yes,” I said.
“Can you give us an example?”
I faltered, feeling the man’s eyes on me. “I have my posting schedule mapped out. I share energizing tracks in the morning and wind-down tracks after seven or eight.”
I knew that this sounded lame. They wanted to see the implementation of cutting-edge practices and techniques. They wanted to see the future of classical. But the woman seemed to buy the idea, asking plenty of follow-up questions. Maybe I’d gotten away with it. Surely the assessment would soon be over?
Finally, there was a long silence. The man shifted in his chair, an almost imperceptible movement.
“Why did you bring your violin?” he asked.
I could feel the heat, rising from my chest to my neck, flushing my face. I prayed the filter was doing its job, resisting an urge to look down at the instrument, standing innocuously by my chair. Why had I brought it? What possible reason? What the hell was wrong with me?
“I’m on my way to rehearsal.” They could check my schedule and see that wasn’t true. “With friends, an unofficial thing.”
The woman jumped on this. “An independent project?”
“The other first violins. Sometimes we meet to work on a passage.”
She looked at the man. Something passed between them.
“Your commitment is truly inspiring,” she said.
I mumbled something affirmative.
The rest of the interview went by like a blur. There wasn’t any point. I knew that I’d failed. My grades from the academy didn’t matter, nor did my perfect technique or my noted ‘expressive power’. It wouldn’t have mattered if I could play the Kreutzer sonata on my head. What mattered was that I didn’t make sense. As a personal brand, I didn’t add up. I wasn’t consistent. I didn’t shine.
“You’ve given us a lot to think about, Amy.” The woman’s lipstick gleamed. “We’ll be in touch very soon.”
She was showing me to the door, her gauzy scarf floating behind her. The man was already reading something in his Eye, no doubt preparing for the next assessment.
“I’m very happy to have met you.” She smiled again, as if I was a much-loved niece whose time to visit had come to an end.
The familiar voice beat a rhythm, propelling me along the pavement. Useless. Coward. You’ll never do anything. Useless. Coward. You’ll never do anything. Amy Sutton was a broken story, a slew of dirty, shapeless data. A messy blur, a formless scribble, where a strong, memorable woman should be.
They wouldn’t understand that I’d given up trying. Whatever I did, I was Lena’s friend. My followers would pretend to enjoy the Bartok, Brahms, Glass, Saint-Saens. Calling it ‘deep’ and ‘profound’ and ‘authentic’. But soon enough, the questions would start. The peculiar interest in my childhood. The hints that they were keeping track of my schedule, that they knew whenever I met with her. Useless. Coward. You’ll never do anything.
Turning a corner, I stopped in my tracks. I was facing the stone steps that led up to the Vauxhall Bridge cycling and jogging paths. I’d walked all the way to the river. I wasn’t supposed to get this close.
It was too late. I could already hear it. The water – its rhythm a cold static, like the shush in your ears when you stand up too fast. The sound was inside my head, sloshing this way and that. Black water, senseless, aimless. I could already see them, heading downstream, drifting in the listless current. Orange blobs, bobbing along. A mass of them, a gathering shoal, their dinghies swept out before them, deflated, wrinkled old balloons. Humped figures, faces down. Or on their backs, their eyes unseeing.
_______
I was home. It was only 17.08. It felt like a week had gone by, but I’d barely been away for a couple of hours. I couldn’t believe how stupid I’d been, wandering about on the streets, without a clue of where I was headed. I hadn’t been triggered like that for years. The stress of the assessment must have got to me.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so relieved to swipe in. My flat was nothing special – a standard issue on the Eden State, with its tiny bathroom and kitchenette, its mandated oxygenating garden balcony. But still, it was mine, and I’d tried to make it comfy and stylish with plenty of soft and reedy textures, velvet pillows, billowy curtains.
But as I threw my violin on the sofa, I made the mistake of glancing at my digi-print of Paganini. The virtuoso violinist was brandishing his bow in a lush, dense forest, his wild locks flowing, madly serene. As I looked at him, he winked at me, the digi-modification a reminder to aspire towards great heights. I could delete the wink at any time. The thought of doing so and rejecting the idea had become a kind of nervous tick.
Fucking Paganini. Narcissist. I bet he wouldn’t have any trouble securing enough sponsorship.
I’d only just brewed myself a cup of herbal tea, ready to immerse myself in the feeds, when my Wrist buzzed. A message already.
Dear Amelia Sutton,
Thank you for attending your Citizen Appraisal Appointment today. Having reviewed your progress since graduation, we feel you would benefit from involvement in one of our programmes. Luckily, we have what we hope you agree is a perfect match for your personal development.
When I tapped the link, a sim appeared in front of me, standing on my shag rug, her blonde hair tied back in a bun, her pale complexion dotted with a few artful freckles.
“Hi Amy.”
“Hi.”
“Are you ready to hear about the Music for Mindfulness programme?”
“Do I have any choice?”
“Of course, you do.”
A pause. Her smile was fixed in place.
“Please,” I said, “go on.”
She began her spiel, explaining how the programme was set up to deepen our knowledge of how to best utilise music to decrease anxiety and increase productivity. I would be given music to play, matched to my skill level, and my brain would be monitored during the activity.
“How will the data be used?”
“To decrease anxiety and increase productivity!” She beamed at me.
“That’s very precise.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
No irony.
According to her profile, she was Annie Thenbury, a Lambeth council employee. But they’d really skimped on the sim. Unless Annie herself was a total moron. I suppose that was also possible.
“And if I say no?”
She didn’t miss a beat. “Then we find you a programme better suited to your needs.”
“What would that be?”
“We have a range of possibilities.”
Definitely a sub-standard sim. Apparently, I had sunk so low that the council couldn’t be bothered to send anything more than this string of junk code. But there wasn’t much point in more conversation. I was going to agree to the shifts anyway.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’ll stick with this one.”
“I’m so glad. Please get in touch if you have any questions, any questions at all.”
She blipped out. I found myself sitting there, staring at the spot on my rug where her neat kitten heels had been.
‘A perfect match for my personal development’. Bullshit. I was being given a warning, a reminder that my privileges could be revoked at any time. I didn’t mind doing the shifts but the programme would show up on my profile, another drop in my negligible status.
Adam would be supportive of course. But I couldn’t help noticing that most of his new work buddies had girlfriends who were also employed by the state or the social industry. I could see his expression now – the dismay, the compassion, the stern resolve as he worked out how to regain my status. He would message at any moment, as soon as he got off work. His belief in me was the worst part.
I switched my setting to silent. Didn’t I deserve some time to myself, after that horrific day? An hour or so, that was all. Anyway, as I’d explained to Adam, sometimes I needed quiet time in order to focus on practicing.
It was coming on dusk, my favourite time to play. I liked to watch the sun as it slid behind the building opposite – almost identical to ours, but with each balcony personalized with their own furniture, ferns, flowers. I liked to watch the slow interchange, as the sky faded and the lamps took over, bathing the estate in their tranquil glow.
All I wanted was to play. Play whatever came to me, teasing and caressing the taut strings, thrilling at their vibrancy, the line of the music flowing onwards, filling the air with meaning and life, releasing time from the tyranny of seconds, minutes, hours, days.
_______
Nine notifications. Shit. But I’d been on silent for less than an hour! Four calls from Lena, one from Adam. I’d obviously missed something huge. And messages:
‘PICK UP’ (Lena, 19.31)
‘WHERE ARE YOU?’ (Lena, 19.39)
‘Are you with her?’ (Adam, 20.02)
‘I know she’s your priority right now, but I’d really appreciate a reply’ (Adam, 20.23)
‘Amy I’m getting really worried.’ (Adam, 20.45)
I checked the feeds. It was everywhere. Some kind of sex tape. The links were all dead, censored no doubt within seconds, but the tags said it all. LenaSexTape, RoughAnal, FaceCum, Humiliation. I scanned the comments underneath one of the links.
Is this her?
Obviously a sim [A link to the profile of Gareth Brooks, a member of Lena’s programming team.]
She could be banging her team
Check the timestamp [A link showing Lena’s Real location.]
She wouldn’t grunt like that
You know how?
Gold Membership thanks
So what? You’re as bad as him.
His dick’s a weird colour
You’d think he’d touch himself up a bit
lol
THIS IS RAPE YOU SICK FUCKS
It’s not Real tho
Sim rape is rape
Where’s the link?
[Another link to the video.]
Dead now too
???
That was FUCKED UP
It took me a good minute to decide what to write to Lena. In the end I settled on something simple.
‘What’s happening? Call me.’
From his profile, Brooks looked like a typical programmer: side-parting, big blue eyes, flowery shirt done up to the neck. No history of breaking the law. Apparently, the police had found him sitting in the show room where he’d made the vid, waiting patiently for his arrest. The footage showed him being led off for processing, grinning inanely into the camera, sticking out his pink worm of a tongue.
Was he a secret fanatic? This had happened before with her programming team – members fired for becoming obsessed, overstepping the boundaries. But not like this. Nothing so vile. Brooks would never work again.
And why hadn’t Lena posted a response? Usually, she would jump on a scandal, turning it to her advantage. Everyone was already on her side. SimRapeIsRape was trending high.
I messaged Adam. ‘I’ve just seen it.’
He responded immediately. ‘Seriously?’
‘How was I supposed to know?’
‘Didn’t she call?’
‘I was on silent.’
I waited several minutes before the passive aggressive response came in. ‘So you weren’t ignoring me. Good to know.’
He was always banging on about the risks of going silent, even for a moment. I couldn’t bear to have that discussion again, especially now he’d been proven right. But it was better than the prospect of being alone, frantically waiting for Lena to call.
‘Can I come over to yours?’
EXTRACT ENDS