Etcetera

Ten years ago.

Sam sprinted down the hallway, joining the thundering herd of middle managers on their way to the big conference room. A few had been summoned, a few more were grabbed along the way, but most had just seen the news. It was 2 a.m. in London, so it was Sam’s job to listen for anything the crisis team might want his boss to do, and then relay it to her once she woke up. Otherwise, as a junior assistant, his job was to keep his mouth shut.

“Assistants at the back please,” shouted the chief-of-staff as Sam entered. He held in an eye-roll and took his seat along the back wall with the rest. The meeting was controlled chaos, standing room only, clusters of people shouting to, at, and over each other. On the televisions at the front of the room, a grid of people in various other meeting rooms, bedrooms, and board rooms all did likewise. And to Sam’s surprise, he spotted his boss, Gemma Thomson, live from London after all. A golden, saint-like halo seemed to radiate from her. She was in what looked to be a bathroom cubicle, dressed to go out-out, with a single AirPod in. The sight of her flustered Sam in the best way. He averted his eyes and shook off the thought. This was about to be an extremely serious conversation.

“How do we… hello, are you all hearing us? Hello? We’re on in LA.” An older man at the head of the table shouted into one of the desk microphones. A cacophony of agreement boomed from the speakers. “Great, okay. Uh, how do we wanna get into this, can someone…”

“I can give us the flyover,” boomed a woman from the call. She was in a well-appointed phone room somewhere in New York, judging from the label on her video.

“Heather, yes, uh, go ahead.”

“Hi folks,” began the woman. “I’m Heather Stapleton, I’m Chief Counsel here at Magenta. And I want to start by expressing heartfelt condolences from all of us in the Magenta family. This is a terrible tragedy.”

“It’s appreciated, Ms. Stapleton,” the man responded.

Sam almost immediately began taking notes, if only to distract himself from staring at Gemma on the screen. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her. A blue chequered flannel hung rather open under her black leather jacket. The angle showed far too much cleavage for a work meeting, even at a record label. Her hair was a puffed-up Eighties throwback, her black lipstick smeared. Huge circles under her eyes, like she hadn’t slept in days. Was she okay? Was she not wearing a…

“…first notified of trouble.” Shit, Sam thought as Heather continued. He’d already missed quite a bit. “At 4 p.m., deputies from the San Luis Obispo sheriff’s department arrived at The Hammer & Nail to support the local police effort, and the Magenta technicians were able to continue setup. The protest seemed to disperse at that point, and after a discussion between the sheriff, local police and Magenta security, officers were released and the event proceeded as planned.”

“So just one member of Magenta security, plus the engineers,” said the man at the head of the table.

“And three of our staff,” added a woman in the conference room. “One from Talent Relations and two from Special Projects.”

“And all of them were killed in the blast?”

“That’s correct,” Heather replied. This set off a round of gasps at the table, and a range of visceral reactions from the muted attendees on the video call. This was information very much not being reported on the news. Sam felt his stomach fall to the floor. He exhaled slowly through pursed lips. Chaotic images pelted his mind: screams, running, explosions. Ordinary joy, smeared with blood. For what? A lump formed in his throat, and tears in his eyes. His chest heaved, his hands were clammy and numb, beads of sweat crossed his forehead. Someone squeezed his shoulder and brought him back to the room. People around the table talked over each other and themselves in a flurry.

“And this was, what, an anti-automation thing?”

“I saw coverage of the protest, it was some group, Human Art Collective?”

“That’s not it, it’s Humans First.”

“It was an anti-Magenta thing. They warned of consequences if this event went ahead.”

“That’s the media saying that. I guarantee this was California Republic nonsense. That vote is…”

“Enough!” The man at the head of the table slammed his fist down. “Heather, who was killed specifically?”

“Thank you, Graham,” Heather said. “Magenta’s engineers and security, plus all three representatives from the music label. Plus three bar staff and six attendees of the concert. I don’t have the count of wounded…”

“Excuse me, what?” Gemma had chosen now to come off of mute. She fiddled with her AirPod and had the camera far too close to her face. “Three… four… uh… fifteen bloody people died at your fucking automated concert? Fucking America.” Gemma was screaming into her phone. Her voice was garbled and distorted, her face mostly blurry or frozen. “Tobias, are you in there? You fucking tosser, you were warned. That’s a lot of blood on your fucking hands. Jesus Christ.”

The room was silent. Sam closed his eyes, put his pen down and stayed very still.

“Tobias Klostermann was at the venue, Miss Thomson.” Heather’s tone was empathetic, but she was clearly desperate to move past this. “He was one of the two Special Projects executives from your company who were killed in the bombing.”

“…shit,” Gemma finally replied.

“Excuse me.” Heather went on mute, then quickly returned. “Folks, our CEO would like to join personally. Please hold on.”

Another box appeared and quickly expanded to fill an entire screen, relegating everyone else to smaller boxes on the other screen. Sam shut his eyes and tried to breathe. It was Rebecca Prue, founder and CEO of Magenta. The woman gleefully destroying the company he worked for, the music industry, the state of California, and some would add the world itself.

“Thank you Heather,” Rebecca said, “and hello everybody.” Her smile seemed false, her whole face and voice at the bottom of the uncanny valley. Like she was doing a poor impression of a human being.

Sam sat up straight and pushed himself back against his chair. He very much did not want to be here. Sharing a space, in a way, with this reprehensible monster. If society had to crumble, if millions had to fall to desperate poverty, and now apparently if people had to die, each was a price she was willing to pay to usher in her vision for the future of humanity. And that vision happened to include her company controlling your entire life, and her being the richest woman on earth.

“I want to start by expressing heartfelt condolences from all of us in the Magenta family. This is a terrible tragedy.” Her voice was soothing, which only irritated Sam more. Melodic. She was perfectly framed in the middle of her camera, making eye contact with the lens, and her dark brown hair hung straight to her shoulders. Her makeup flawless, her skin impossibly smooth. She’d certainly put a lot of effort into appearing polished for this call to discuss a tragedy – so much so that she was late to join.

“We of course appreciate your time, Ms. Prue.”

Rebecca Prue smiled and looked straight ahead. Sam would’ve assumed it was a painting if had he not been able to see her breathing. He stared at her on the screen. A metal taste filled his mouth, his pulse relentless.

“It’s no problem,” Heather replied. “We understand this was a joint venture that you’ve taken quite a reputational risk to participate in. We’re just hoping to move quickly to both respond to the tragedy as well as ensure we’re aligned on messaging with regard to the future of this endeavour.”

“That’s it exactly,” said Rebecca with a nod. “Project Vonnegut is a cornerstone of our foundation in the creative vertical, and you are our most valued partner in that effort.”

“That’s our internal codename for this,” Heather clarified. The assembled parties looked at each other, with some light murmuring.

“Bin it,” Gemma shouted, rattling the speaker. “Just bin it. People go to gigs to see people play gigs. Not to watch a fucking hologram light show and listen to a recording.”

“Miss Thomson,” Rebecca replied with a smile, “I believe London was the birthplace of what could be seen as the progenitor of this technology.”

“Don’t say Abba Voyage to me, love. Not at two-thirty in the bloody morning when people just died.” Gemma rolled her eyes and pointed at her phone. “Nerve of this bitch. Have respect.”

“I know everyone is quite passionate about this,” Heather said quickly. “We don’t need to make any decisions tonight. We just want to ensure that, when statements are inevitably issued, we are aligned that we won’t let one very unfortunate incident decide the future of this programme.”

“Well it’s binned here. But you lot do what you like in the States. Where you can buy guns and bombs at the fucking shop. Good luck.”

“Miss Thomson, we’re happy to arrange a demonstration for you. Out in London, perhaps. I think you’ll see that the benefits outweigh…”

“I think we’re worrying about the wrong thing here,” said another man at the table. “There’s been tremendous loss of life at an event that we…”

“…it’s of course a terrible tragedy,” Heather interjected. “And of course, we’re offering complete security for all future installations and events for at least the next five years. Fully paid, not a dime out of your pocket. To ensure a tragedy like this will never happen again. This will only strengthen our case with Governor Newton, or rather the California government, whichever one prevails in the upcoming election, to permit us to use paramilitary assets in cases where police protection is deemed insufficient.”

“Excuse me, paramilitary?” One of the executives was incensed. “This is all getting a bit ridiculous. I know the security situation here isn’t great right now, but we’re just talking about concerts.”

“They’re not concerts,” screamed Gemma. “It’s a fucking light show!”

As terrible as this was, Sam thought, it would have the consequence of awakening Gemma to how forcefully she needed to intervene to stop this nonsense. He knew just how much she loathed this whole concept. He thought he might actually know her better than anyone. She’d love nothing more than to use this as an opportunity to finally rid themselves of this toxic partnership with Magenta. If he could watch Gemma square off against Rebecca Prue in the alley behind the Roundhouse, even better.

Another of the managers grumbled and squirmed. “With Tobias no longer here,” he said, “We’re looking to yourself for a decision, Gemma.”

Gemma stared down the lens, her camera at a Dutch angle. The wall of the toilet cubicle behind her was covered in rude drawings and dried sick, and the harsh light cut odd shadows across her face.

“I do want to point out,” Heather jumped in, “any change of circumstance you’d like to initiate here would carry a considerable financial consequence.” The room again fell silent as she ran down her tick list. “Termination of ongoing payments. Invalidation of the stock grant. Recall of the bridge loan.”

“Ms. Stapleton, people are dying,” a manager pleaded. He clasped his hands together. “Ms. Prue, please. We just need some time to figure all this out.”

“That is the contract language as written,” Heather answered.

Gemma let out an exasperated ‘pbbbbbtt’ and fell backwards, perched on the lid of the toilet. “Fuck, Graham. Most of our artists already hate this. Now the whole world is going to call us murderers.”

“We’d be bankrupt overnight,” said the manager. Sam’s phone vibrated endlessly in his pocket, surely Virginia trying to reach him after seeing the news. He declined the call and stared intently at Gemma on the screen.

“Christ. I just…” Gemma shot a look over the top of her phone and cocked her head. “Do I sound like I’m fucking done in here?” She shouted at an unseen presence. “Just go blow him in the mens, ye manky cunt.”

Everyone chose to adjust how they were sat. The boardroom was a symphony of metal squeaking and throat clearing.

“Gemma, I know it’s late there.”

“This bloody…”

“We’ll just need to know what to put in our statement to the press.”

“Just, fine. Fucking get on with it then.” Gemma sighed and shook her head violently. “What’s the statement? We don’t negotiate with terrorists, yeah? A few label executives are acceptable losses in the war on human creativity. That sort?” She waved her hands around as she spoke, to sickening effect on the video. “We remain committed to Magenta’s ridiculous contraption from a bloody Look Around You sketch, and their child CEO who looks like a tarted-up pageant winner. Etcetera, etcetera.”

Around the table, heads fell to hands. The most vocal of the group simply left the room. Sam had started to write out Gemma’s statement verbatim. The assistant next to him put their hand over his, stopping the pen, and shook their head.

“Fantastic,” said Heather with a pained smile. “We’ll have some language drafted roughly to that effect and get it sent over for review. Thank you, Miss Thomson, for…”

“Oi, the fuck!” Gemma shouted over a loud crashing sound. Thousands of miles away, a toilet cubicle door had just been kicked in. Her frame was a blur of arms and hands. Bursts of static and slights about women from Essex followed before the picture froze and vanished.

“I really think we should wait,” Sam whispered to the other assistant. “She’s preoccupied at the moment.” They shook their head again and averted their eyes.

“If senior staff can remain behind.” The usual refrain. It meant Sam and the rest of the assistants could step out to process, or attempt to process, perhaps a fraction of the day’s events. He knew he should call Virginia, but she wouldn’t understand. He’d struggle to explain, to convey the weight of it all. To get past her inevitable response: I don’t get it. It’s just technology. It’s just music. Why are people so upset? With Gemma, it was all shorthand, all known. Scenarios competed and played out in his head as he was led out into the hallway by the chief of staff.

“That’s us aligned on a statement, then,” Sam heard someone say as the door slowly closed. “Heather, Ms. Prue, thanks very much.”

“We’ll weather this storm,” replied Heather. The door shut, sealing the rest of the meeting in with it. Through the glass wall of the conference room, Sam could still see Rebecca Prue on the monitor. She smiled and stared straight ahead.