Girl Reading (39 page)

Fernand laughs and turns to the delegates. Sincerity is being coy because she and I have had several fraught conversations about this, haven’t we?

Some of it is factual and can be verified.

Some of it is blatant fabrication.

We can’t be entirely sure what we are seeing, can we, Fernand?

No, we can’t. But whether it’s true or false, people might still argue that this is impossible: original mesh content does not just appear out of thin air.

I have never said it was original content; it is
organized
content.
These audiovisual narrative portraits experienced by Sibil-users are elicited from information cues present within the artwork, combined with data in mesh, which is, in effect, infinite.

How is it done? Sorcery?

No magic, I’m afraid, Fernand, just plain old mathematics and programming.

In a potent cocktail. I should explain to the audience that I have personal experience of the Sibil, and it was sublime and startling.

And I should explain that the director is literally paid to say that! (This admission is rewarded with polite laughter.)

There is an additional component, isn’t there?

Yes. The final element is the users themselves, because what we have found is that each person experiences something specific and unique to them. Sometimes the differences between cases are subtle, and key aspects stay generally the same; whereas sometimes the whole environment or story changes, warping into another form altogether. There is a shift in tone or emphasis. How much is revealed alters from user to user: they might witness just a single moment out of many hundreds; or a whole event might spin out before them into a completely new direction, contradicting what has come before. It is as if the individual brings something of their own to Sibil, a personal interpretation, as though Sibil is responding to their sensibilities and collaborating with them. It’s like when a reader of a book imagines the characters in their own way, or the viewer of a painting has a personal aesthetic response to it. We don’t understand this phenomenon yet, but we will.

Part of the work of your research team is to record these “immersions” . . . ?

Yes. We tend to call them sensory immersions, rather than sim, or VR, to differentiate what is spontaneous from what has intentionally been made by design. We do not build these mesh events;
they manifest independently. I wish to make it clear that there has been no creative input by anyone on my team. In fact, we have no control over what Sibil shows us. We just observe it and try to piece it together.

I think, Sincerity, some reports have misrepresented that.

I agree. This is a new technology, so perhaps there has been confusion.

And the full acronym is . . . ?

Sensory Immersion Bioscript Interface Locus, affectionately known as Sibil.

So you select a photograph or a painting, and through Sibil someone can experience in mesh the story buried within it?

Sincerity smiles, her i-ris bright; no one would notice how her hands have twisted together in her lap.

He adds, Why don’t you tell everyone the bad news?

The bad news is that currently the program only works on six preselected images.

Only six out of thousands upon thousands?

I’m afraid so. The earliest is fourteenth century. The most recent is twenty-first century.

Do these six pictures have anything in common with one another?

No, not really. (Avatars in historical costumes have begun to materialize.)

Well, they have
something
in common, wouldn’t you say so, Sincerity?

Yes, all right then . . . they are all representations in one way or another of the literate female.

Fernand rephrases for clarity: Of a woman or a girl reading a book?

Yes. But they are not connected to one another in any meaningful way, as far as we can tell.

Did you have any particular reasons for choosing those portraits?

They were selected quite at random. We are experimenting with others, and in due course more will be added so users will be offered a larger choice. That is the goal.

How is it going, this process of adding images to the Sibil portfolio?

Um. We are working on it at the moment.

Director Fernand links his fingers as though this is all fascinating, even though his involvement with the project has been over several years. I have not asked the obvious question yet:
why?

Why did I do it?

Why dedicate your life to this bizarre creation?

Definitely not for the attention. (Sincerity Yabuki pauses to sip pink liquid from a glass.) Let’s say, I did it for beauty. I did it because we humans intuit that beautiful objects can tell stories. We believe they have power. It is why we cherish things, because of the way they move us. They have voices and would speak to us. They are imprinted with the past.

And your invention
makes art talk
?

She helps us to be better listeners. And I think it was only a matter of time: if I hadn’t invented Sibil, someone else would have. We have not yet discovered her full potential—she has so much more left to give.

Spoken like a proud parent.

It is not the way it used to be, Director Fernand. We cannot now walk into an art gallery and encounter for ourselves an original masterpiece like previous generations did. It is true that in mesh we have instant access to detailed reproductions of practically all art objects held in trust by governments, and many more besides from private collections. But the result of protecting these works for posterity is that they have been lost to most of us. I wonder whether we are not the poorer for it. Have we become the prisoners in the cave?
In that sense Sibil is, in perpetuity, inferior to her objective, because we are still removed from the work itself, and moving ever farther away from it, deeper into shadows.

Director Fernand’s next question is drowned out by a smatter of clapping, which builds in momentum into full-scale applause. More people appear in mesh, and there is a spike in on-screen viewers. Fernand allows the excitement to run on, his eye on the audience figures displayed in the corner of his vision. As the rumble dies into anticipating silence, he announces it is time to unveil the Sibil. He leads Sincerity Yabuki, hesitant until Fernand places his hand at her back, away from the platform. The houselights are dimmed.

A dot hovers in midair, which widens into a gash cut through space, and out of it flows a black curtain that forms an enclosed cube, tastefully done. The material looks authentic, quivering from its own momentum and a faint draft. The curtain opens itself.

Sibil is white. Not Caucasian but
white
: as sheet ice as new paper as porcelain, from her braids to her bare feet. Not a blemish, not a variation, every feature of her—hair, skin, pupilless eyes—smooth like the inside of a shell, dazzling like a torch, as though carved from a single radiant white stone. Likewise her ornaments—her beads and star pendant, diadem, hoop earrings, the pedestal she rests on—are made of the same ghostly matter. She clasps in her casual hand blank pages, a skinny book with its cover torn off. She appears at first glance to be wearing a gown, the folds of her skirt enveloping the forms of her legs, one crossed over the other, but this is only the effect of the seamless block of whiteness; she is naked from the waist up. She sits, chin cupped in hand, elbow on knee, awaiting instruction.

The audience show their appreciation with more applause and cheers; rainbows thread themselves like ribbons around the room, rose petals fall like snow, writing appears across the ceiling offering congratulations in several languages, birds butterflies bunches
of flowers burst into colorful movement, their lives decorative and brief. It is the mesh community’s way of conveying support and encouragement.

Sincerity Yabuki does not enjoy the moment. There must be only several dozen people actually present in the hall with her; the rest are avatars. Why exactly should she share Sibil with them? It is tempting to drop out mesh—just
pop
and gone, right now—she worries the pearl processor shimmering on her ring finger. Spirit herself away, and let them think whatever they want.

She does the mental exercises Dinesh taught her.

Better now.

The swell of noise rises reverently, then it dips, then dies. The scattering and flying and unfurling salutations have settled and are at rest; cease and disintegrate.

Sibil moves barely, for she does breathe, does blink. Like a statue and not a statue, less realistic and more convincing than regular simcarnations. Sincerity Yabuki knows what is happening, has witnessed it many times. The audience are unsure precisely what they are seeing, for Sibil seems neither of mesh nor of real world. As though she comes from a third, inexplicable place.

There are disturbances of people in the crowd touching their processor lapel pins, bracelets, torques, ear cuffs—a few avatars start dropping out, but many remain. Intrigued. Bewitched. Exchanged glances lose their impact in mesh, but a few attempt it. This rarely happens anymore, the arrival of a technology that is unfathomable.

Director Fernand rocks on his heels. I am afraid Sibil does not speak. For reasons not yet fully understood, a language application has never operated successfully. Each previous attempt has set the research team back around two weeks to make repairs. Why don’t we take a few questions before we continue?

Sincerity digs her nails into her palms. Her work is too good for them.

Later someone writes on their journal,
It looked like it was thinking.

It was a triumph. Don’t you think so, Sincerity?

I thought you were going to jump in at one point.

When?

You know when.

Ah, you refer to the “original masterpieces” patter. I have heard it before.

Concerns are genuine, Fernand, and justified. No one really knows what has happened to our treasures. Whether they have been sold in secret auctions, whether they have been irreparably damaged through ignorance or malicious intent, whether they are being used as bribes for corrupt officials, criminals, and despots.

Fernand laughs. I am sorry your suffering is so great. How terrible for you that you must carry these worries everywhere. But of course there
are
people who know these answers. And I can personally assure you, as one of the “despised” heritage custodians, such travesties could never occur. Protection means protection. It is not ideal, but it is by far the best system we have at present. Who knows? One day it may again revert back to the way it was. Then anyone who wants to will be able to molest the Venus de Milo.

Where is the accountability? That’s what people want.

You think that secrecy means there is no accountability? You think I don’t have to obtain three signatures from the board in order to shave each morning? You should see the rigmarole they put me through whenever I choose a tie.

Sincerity has liked Fernand since the day they met, likes his relaxed nature. Aren’t you angry with me?

Why should I be? You have earned your right to say what you
think. You are an artist. You should be encouraged to express yourself. I have no wish to censor you.

I am not really an artist, Fernand, I’m only an engineer.

I say that you are an artist, and the museum is lucky to have you. I have told you before, I will stand by you. I shall always be your advocate to the board, should you need one.

You are kind.

No, I am selfishly motivated. This is what I am in it for—these discoveries, to be at the center of the cyclone. Do you understand?

I haven’t got you into trouble, then?

Don’t dwell on it anymore. Enjoy your success.

Sincerity makes a smile. In mesh it looks genuine.

How is that little girl of yours?

She is fine, thank you. She wanted to come, but she had school. I told her she could watch on-screen afterward.

This is a big day for her too, seeing you out there—

Yes, in a way I suppose it is.

I did not see Dinesh, though; I meant to say hello to him.

He had patients, and it wouldn’t have been fair to them on such short notice—

Fernand nods sympathetically. Both of you are so busy. Sometimes I don’t know how you manage.

She does not answer that.

You’re tired, Sincerity. I can hear it in your voice. Will you take the day off tomorrow?

Sincerity starts to object.

Fernand persists. If there is anything urgent, he will call her: It has been hectic recently, you will work better if you are refreshed, if you have given to your family the attention they are deprived of. Please, I beg you, take the day off?

She detects implied criticism, folds her arms against it, then
marvels at her own negativity. Perhaps Fernand is right; she is just too tired.

Cloud nudges her sashimi with her chopsticks. A miniature white and red koi trembles into life, turns its head and flicks its tail, floats off her plate and into the air, swims about above their table as though in a real pond. Cloud watches it, then prods her nigiri next—a bright yellow fish soars from her plate and at once makes a beautiful arc around the first, as she hoped it would. The fish intermingle, gracefully dancing together. Now if only she can get her dad to do the same to his, then they will have maybe five or six fish up there, and that will be lovely. But he is eating his maki rolls already—

Dad, you haven’t made any of your fish swim.

Dinesh Varma pauses midmouthful and looks up to where Cloud is pointing. Oh, sorry. He taps one of the sim-fish in front of him, a creature patterned in white and black, but it stays obstinately still.

You’re doing it wrong.

You do it for me then. He pushes his bowl nearer to his daughter.

Cloud grins through her i-specs and touches the fish with the tips of her own chopsticks. As before, the fish twitches to life and scoots up to swim in circles with its friends. Throughout the restaurant, aquatic creatures are floating diving soaring—the waiters, made to look like mermaids and mermen, levitate above the floor, their feet only just visible if you look closely, tails streaming behind.