Celebrity distorts democracy by giving the rich, beautiful and famous more authority than they deserve.
—Maureen Dowd
Chaos Theory predicts the unpredictable behavior of large bodies. But no mere scientific theory could accurately predict the behavior of Brenda. She was everywhere, like a large storm system, her course entirely unpredictable. The chaos inside her created chaos around her. She went everywhere in a maelstrom of people, whirling them about like colliding elements in a thunderstorm. Her frenetic activity increased as the show approached, so that the ship seemed filled with many Brendas: Brenda the bold striding through the camps; Brenda the coy silently listening to flattery on the promos; Brenda the magnificent demanding the show be carried live throughout the solar system, even on distant Earth, with its murky reception through its rusty rings (composed of a mixture of space debris and old advertising modules); and Brenda the frail and patient woman with the heart and stomach of a king, who wouldn’t be denied any resource to make the Experience, her Experience, the charity Experience of all time. Then there was Brenda the tireless professional, who sat for hours with her creator of special material, sifting through things she might say on the show. This extremely large, heavyset, bearded man, given to eccentric shirts and solid-gold knick-knacks, was at the moment adapting her great hit “I’d Cross the Universe for You, My Darling,” a haunting song of personal love and sacrifice, into something more appropriate for refugees.
“I’d Cross the Universe for You, My Dearies?” he suggested. “Or how about ‘My Angels’? No, I’ve got it. ‘I’d Cross the Universe for You, My Little Chickadees.’”
“That’s not funny,” said Brenda. He was allowed to be amusing but not at her expense, thank you very much. Her beady, close-set eyes went distinctly piggy at moments like these. God was not mocked. And talking of God, she had taken to wandering into the park more and more, wearing a kind of Madonna blue and heavily backlit. Almost a halo effect. “Our Lady of the Camps” was the image she was after, and she had casually suggested that caption to her publicist. She had been slightly disappointed when they had used “First Lady of the Camps” instead. Where was the Vatican when you needed it?
She wandered tirelessly amongst her people, as she called them, accompanied only by eight or nine assistants, handing out tickets to lucky refugees. These moments of delightful generosity were captured, edited, and flashed around the solar system. Sometimes, excited by the presence of the cameras, the crowds got out of control, and on at least one occasion several people were hurt. She would always have her bodyguards push her people away if they got too close, but there is only so much eight or nine security guards can do when Brenda is so coyly inciting the crowds towards her, and one day they surged forward out of control and a little child was crushed. The minute she heard about it, she rushed home, changed into a different costume, and after dinner, raced over to the hospital. She seemed surprised to see live TV news cameras covering her impromptu visit, which was surprising since she had spent most of the intervening time on the phone to them. In the ward she sang bravely to some other children who were less sick and more telegenic. She left amidst masses of smiles and flowers and hugs from the adoring nurses.
“Sometimes,” she confided to the camera, “a little heartwarming visit can do more than mere medicine.”
Sadly the child died. Brenda thought attending the funeral would be too downbeat. “It conveys the wrong sort of message,” she said. She did, however, send the family free passes for the show.
In the days immediately before the concert her visits to the camps increased. Boo had the temerity to ask her directly one afternoon, “Have you ever thought of coming down here without a camera?”
“Boo dear,” she said patiently, as if to an idiot, “you cannot ask a reporter not to bring a camera.”
“So try not asking a reporter.”
She looked at him. “Boo, they are the story. We need to get the story out.”
“So who’s in every picture?”
“Them and me.”
“Precisely.”
“Precisely what? What is your point?”
She couldn’t see it. To her the oxygen of publicity was as vital as breathing. Publicity is the precious fuel of fame. It is gossip at the speed of light and it’s a poison, of course. Pollutes the soul, destroys the self, flatters the ego, but oh how good it tastes. And it certainly helps to sell books. So while fame is useful for getting tables in crowded restaurants and casual sex from strangers, admiration from strangers is desperately bad for the soul. The constant attention, the fuss, the adulation of the crowd, the seductive delight of never hearing the word “no,” the ability to bend people to your will, to seduce them, to have them do things for you. And to you. On your knees, baby. Worship me. Flatter me. Please me. All very bad for you.
I can hardly wait.
Of course I shan’t want all the entourage bullshit that goes with fame. Groupies are one thing, but I won’t need hairdressers, publicists, astrologers, chauffeurs, makeup, hairdressers, wardrobe, and endless assistants. The victims of fame are sad. Some are almost incapable of boiling an egg. They are terrified to be alone. For to be alone is to face what everyone else has to face: That we are all ultimately alone. That the camera is just a trick with light, and that your image too will fade. That there will come a time, horror of horrors, when even your name will no longer be spoken. That there will be no more glossy pictures, no heart warming story. In short, no you.
Fame, as I have said, is terminal. But then, sadly, so is life.
“Death is so tacky,” said Brenda. “Even writers become famous.”
“Bless you,” said her creator of special material.
“That’s an idea,” said Brenda. “Do you think the Church would be prepared to bless me on TV?”
§
“Hello, I’m Brenda Woolley and this is my Experience.”
Gigantic images of Brenda flashed on the screens in and around the park. She appeared over the trees, on the sides of buildings, looming off huge moving billboards. There was really no escape from her. The park was packed with refugees, which was good for Carlton. He had chosen to take this route rather than the more direct people mover. He figured he would be less easy to spot if the three from the lab came after him. He could hear the chatter of children as he crossed the grass, keeping well away from all blue uniforms. He spotted a line of vidphones with their dark-glass windows and ducked into one.
“Services,” said a facebot.
“Locate a person.”
“Name of person?”
“Alex Muscroft.”
There was just the slightest hesitation.
“One moment, please, while we locate that party for you.”
He had an uncomfortable feeling.
“That party is unavailable at the moment.”
Unavailable?
“Can I leave a message?” asked Carlton.
“One moment while we connect you to the message system.”
Inevitably the hold music was Brenda.
I’d cross the Universe for you,
my darling I’d sail across the galaxy.
There was a sudden interruption on the screen and he was looking at himself. For a moment he thought he was looking into a mirror. Then he realized he was on TV.
“This is Carlton,” said a voice. “Have you seen him? We are looking for him.”
To his horror he could see his face plastered all over the park.
Everywhere he looked, he could see himself on giant monitors. A smooth voice accompanied the image.
“If you spot Carlton, just touch SECURITY on any phone and you will win a two-week all-expenses-paid vacation to Las Vegas, Mars, and a chance to meet Brenda Woolley in person. Carlton. Please look out for him.”
He was shocked.
Another face came on the vidphone screen.
“Who is this, please?”
He hesitated.
“Please state your name now.”
A paranoid thought occurred to him. They knew it was him. They were pinpointing his location right now. He cut the connection, ducked out of the booth, and moved smartly through the park towards the exit.
He felt very vulnerable. He was being hunted again. He saw a number of people scurrying towards him and he was about to break into a run when they hurried past him into the park. They barely glanced at him. Small groups of children were cheering and running around, jumping in pools of water. Carlton thought of Tay. Perhaps Lewis was with her? A kinderbot was watching him. Carlton lowered his head.
“Don’t worry,” said the kinderbot, and thrust a card into his hand. “I’m not going to turn you in. We have to stick together. Recycling is bad for us.” He chased after the children.
Carlton glanced at the card. It read, “Dugdale. For all your recycle needs.” There was a number.