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plugged it in. It came alive at once, red lights flashing, dragging the
overdue data out of my head in one long, silent scream.
Afterwards, I walked aimlessly, until I stumbled across a small café. There
were no other customers; I sat there sipping coffee, staring at the jukebox in
the corner. It was playing an ad for Pepsi, or the latest song from Radical
Doubt; I
couldn't tell which.
I put a coin in the slot, and then knelt beside the machine -- so close that
the image on the screen became nothing but a blur of coloured light.
And you sang:
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Dry your eyes
Don't be sad
You're worthless
Your tears mean nothing at all
If you live and you die
In a dream, in a lie
Who will ever be the wiser?
Close your eyes
Don't be sad
You're worthless
Your pain means nothing at all
Unseen and unknown
Alive but alone
Why end a life
That's no life at all?
You were right, of course. And I swallowed no pills; instead, I bought myself
a map, walked out to the highway, and hitch-hiked all the way home.
That was your last song -- before the Azciak people fixed the glitch,
corrected the aberration. The official story (from the PR release, to the
torrent of instant "biographies", to the sleeve notes of the tasteful,
black-lined, Memorial Collected Works boxed set): the lead singer of Worthless
had overdosed on vodka and Nembutal, victim of a broken heart. I still have
photos from the magazines of crowds of sobbing fans, carrying "your" picture
aloft.
I never joined those tearful mobs. I never even mourned you in private. I
don't know if you're still in there, somewhere; concealed, transformed,
unrecognisable. It's not impossible, is it? (After all, would you recognise
me?)
And if you're not? If you really have gone forever?
Then here I am again. Caring about the wrong things, again.
And talking to myself.
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© Greg Egan 1992, 1998
This story first appeared in the anthology In Dreams, edited by Kim Newman and
Paul J McAuley, Gollancz, 1992.
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