The Errant Tree

The Pink Zone

She could not bring herself to create, so she wallowed instead. Weeks passed, and she ignored every incoming message on her tablet computer, including those from Shaazz, which, by the text previews, Dylan took to be gentle breakups. After all, there was no more art, and thus no more need for representation, just as there was no more Dylan Force, and thus no more need for her to do anything further except find a place to rot slowly over the next century, or better yet, die a violent death by bus or the hands of an incensed football hooligan. Due to her court fine payments, she had almost no disposable income, not even enough to buy a decent gaming rig (had she wanted to, which she didn't). So she laid on the couch, staring into the darkness, and wishing for nothing.

But Shaazz Michaels had not given up on her client.

When news of Dylan's downfall broke, Shaazz had been pressed between a thousand bodies, one piston in an effervescent sea of bouncing heads. Sweat pooled on the floor, lights flashed above, a polychromatic onslaught, and a relentless beat drowned out all worldly sound. Drones buzzed overhead, delivering stimulants on demand; Shaazz extended her palm upward, caught a stimulant pack, popped the pill out of its pouch, tore open the water pack, swallowed the pill, and dropped the pack upon the floor; that would keep her going another half-hour. And all the while, on her smart contact lenses—ocular displays linked to a pocket computer—she was following a live text debate between a dozen celebrity academics (and, using ocular gestures, up- or down-voting comments and responses to comments) on the resolution, The Climate and Overpopulation Crises proved the existence of a practical limitation on the power of innovative technology to solve global problems. It was a total assault on the senses, an armed occupation of every point of ingress into Shaazz's mind. The experience was exhausting, but by design, for Shaazz's greatest struggle had always been against sleep, and she could only afford the use of so many pharmaceutical remedies, which were considered nonessential and regulated in quantity besides. This ritual of bleeding out all her mental and physical power was an alternative self-treatment that she could administer without government approval, and so she employed it regularly.

It was in the early hours of the morning, after Shaazz had banished her take-home friend, showered in an enervated daze, and fallen onto a bed layered with excessive comforters, that she asked her wall display if there were any new alerts for Dylan Force (the last part of the ritual), her eyelids already sliding shut in expectation of the usual response, "No new alerts," and got an entirely different answer. Zombie-like, she sat up, rubbing her eyes and asking for the news to be repeated.

"An incident in Barking that saw a four-year-old girl badly injured has led to the expulsion of performance artist Dylan Force from the Great London Artists' Guild and the artist's forced relocation to the Pink Zone," the wall said.

"Shit," Shaazz replied. "Tell me more." And then, after the wall had finished reading her a detailed summary of associated press coverage, she commanded, "Call Dylan."

Unsurprisingly, the call didn't go through.

So Shaazz sat in bed, her black hair—usually styled into a devilock—now puffing in the wind of her uncertain breath. She sat motionless for ten minutes, restoking the engine of her brain, until the gears at last began to turn again. Throwing her legs heavily over the side of the bed, she donned a T-shirt, grabbed her tablet, fell upon the much less comfortable chaise lounge she reserved for just such occasions (when work must come before sleep), and began to work.

Shaazz understood that the most important currency in Great London—and perhaps any Earthly city that had embraced a universal basic income—was not money, but reputation. With so much information, there was nowhere to hide, so a bad reputation could sink you. It could see you exiled to the edges of society, as it had Dylan. Or it could see you ascend to the highest echelons of polite society, along with all that entailed. In terms of money, Shaazz managed to modestly supplement her monthly stipend through her PR work, but in terms of reputation? She had amassed a wealth of favors and a reputation for returning them... more than enough left to spend on her only fine arts client in difficult times.