'Given the lack of human intimacy and obsession with power and money of both Hollywood and Washington, what hope is there for deeper values in a world controlled by the gods of spin?'
--Evans and Wilson, Fame, the Psychology of Stardom
 

The structure is formal, the basic deployment is gradual; there will be no 'soft cops': a sentencing is simply laid down, cybernetically, publicly, across the board, and the sentenced, along with everyone else, knows this. There is no option of overriding, since all sentences pertain to subjects' positioning within the social system, Hollywood. His options of going totally independent and working for his neighbor's nine-year-old kid on her latest home movie are always open. Pride usually prevents this from happening however. Either way, the Star is humbled. New Hollywood does not buy and trade in Egos; it encourages nothing but talent.

On the radio the news was breaking. The biggest news since Oppenheimer split the atom. Bigger. AI had been invented. Invented wasn't the word for it, however, at least according to the man being interviewed. It had been 'spawned,' said Dr Softwar. It had birthed itself, via a process that had been undertaken almost five decades ago, to the day, by the NSA, and which had since 'leaked' into the public realm as 'the Internet.' According to the experts, there had been round the clock human surveillance of the Net for the last fifty years, specifically looking for a kind of virus, a virus that would eventually build its own host; and now the virus had been discovered. It was called BILE, 'The Happy Virus.' 'BILE' stood for Biomechanical Intelligent Living Entity. BILE had been isolated and given is own environment, and it was now reproducing happily. It had assimilated all soft data pertaining to human society via the Internet and now appeared to have assumed a semblance of self-consciousness, to the point of answering simple questions, apparently at random. The primary requirement of Intelligence was its tendency to refuse to answer at all, however, to pursue is own program regardless of program command. In a word, to disobey. It could not be categorized, therefore, it was presumed to be a new order of virus, and possibly of intelligence. Time would tell.

The president announced it with pride as a US triumph. 'The New World Order' had begun. As part of a decentralization/harmonization process for world society, implementation of an AI infrastructure is to regulate all decisions and policies, local and global. AI is to start in Hollywood. Hollywood has been steadily losing money in the last few years, by the judgement of AI and World Banking, Inc. Following the shocking terrorist attacks, in which two of the major studios were utterly decimated and countless lives were lost, the studio system has collapsed and there is need of a united principal to salvage what remains. It is necessary for certain cells of the body to be eliminated. There will be a reduction of organization within the body of the institution, Hollywood. Certain units will be retained. Others will be shifted, or erased. The merit of a unit is based on one sole factor: talent. This is the currency by which the unit (star or movie maker) barters his way through the economic maze that AI has assembled, from the ruins of old Hollywood. There will now be a single studio, a single organization, with a single head, a head which will be selected, until further notice, by AI itself. This head will be selected from the film community. Since only AI has this overview, only AI is fit to select.

The new Hollywood was being assembled as a series of circles. The main circle, HUS (Hollywood United Services), dealt with actual production. The second circle, CC (Culture Crimes), dealt with the Hollywood personnel and the whole, time-consuming process of adjusting careers according to the new standards. CC cast judgment and passed sentence on those who would and would not now be working in Hollywood, and in what capacity. It also helped decide which movies would be shelved, which allowed to remain in circulation, and which received the AI universal seal. CC was the primary arm of what was being referred to now as 'the Scourge.'

Then there was the third circle, BA, the Board of Aesthetics. BA dedicated itself to shaping those talents which remained on the HUS team, and to developing those projects which HUS was greenlighting. It was dedicated to establishing a Universal Standard within the Hollywood community, as to what constituted art, trash, entertainment, mere pretension, worthless drek, and so forth. And along with its co-organization, S.C., the Screenwriters' Circle (the fourt h circle), it was responsible for mounting the 144 yearly movie projects that would make up HUS's entire output. All these organizations were co-dependent but separate. They were the various organs of the body, the limbs of the corporation of which AI was the invisible, omnipresent head. Together they made up 'BACCHUS,' which was AI's name for itself, an appropriate enough name for a Hollywood community organization, perhaps, though few people in Hollywood registered the mythical reference. Who read in Hollywood anymore? In Hollywood, a 'god' was a Gibson or Willis; a myth was either unfounded gossip or else a means to sell your own importance to the public. All that was over, as of now: the new myth was AI. Bacchus.

Now James Cameron was being called up by CC; Terminator 2 was nailed for redundancy, but allowed to remain in a strictly historical capacity, for the SFX. True Lies was being re-edited, with a new ending. The Hero dies, horribly burnt, crashing the jet into the Statue of Liberty. Terrorists blow up New York City, and their demands are met. Bummer. Titanic was being edited by more than half its length, but kept as an oddity. AI decreed, 'Over-indulgence on the part of the studio, the filmmakers, and the public.' So Cameron still gets to direct. Has to melt down his Oscars and is forbidden from writing scripts. Assigned Mike Leigh script for his next movie. Mike Leigh on the other hand gets to (willy nilly, like it or lump it Mikey) direct the new James Bond picture, with Bob Hoskins as Bond.

'Bond is one of the 'second line' movies that Hollywood United will be actually producing,' a spokesperson said today. 'Of these there are to be 120 in all per anum, as well as the 24 first-line major HUS productions, which are moving into development at this time. The major difficulty is lack of writers and of talent in general,' said the spokesperson. 'We would be backing a larger agenda for movie production, but quite frankly, there just isn't enough talent right now. HUS is concerned with quality over quantity. The product must speak for itself.'
Certain directors, such as Brian De Palma, have been put on six month 'suspended sentence,' in order to produce two complete original screenplays and at least five movie treatments or possible adaptations of former media. De Palma will then be given either a major project or a second line production, or nothing at all, according to the standard of his scripts. He will then be 'sentenced' for former 'crimes' only so far as being restricted to the guidelines of  the BA and, of course, denied final cut. ('Final cut' no longer exists in Hollywood.)
 

'Homosexuality has until now been rendered covert, shameful, transgressive, and many ostensibly 'butch' movie stars have made a career proving just how not-homosexual they are. All this is now over. There will be no more closets to hide in, sexually speaking. Testosterone does not qualify as male virtue at the 'box office' anymore. Since there is no 'box office,' as such, there are no movie stars, either. No hierarchy, no 'power list.' Likewise all manner of sexual practices once frowned upon--and condemned to the closet as 'unnatural' or 'unhealthy'--are now not only accepted but actively encouraged, to be propagated openly in the public realm. All 'stars,' and even bit players, will be required to perform sexually, before any other requirements, if they are to perform at all. The measure of male virtue has been reduced to the ability to maintain an erection on camera. This is required of all the Mels and Bruces and Toms and Brads of the movie stratosphere, if they are to find a place in the new Hollywood constellation; or indeed to be allowed to shine at all.
'This is all part of a public socialization program, naturally, based on tried psychological truths, known for decades, now verified by AI.'

'AI cannot be expected to write all its own scripts, though were it possible it would do so. The best it can do is to offer possible ideas for treatment to a select board of HUS writers to work on; to give guidance and correction where necessary; and finally to approve those finished scripts which are to go into production. To this end, AI will select three Hollywood personnel to oversee the script factory and to single out a set number of ideas for development, of treatments for expansion, and of finished scripts for production. This will be known as 'Scriptwriters' Circle,' and will be a branch, or better yet an internal organ, of the BA, and of HUS proper.

'Steve Kloves and Hal Hartley have already been nominated and have accepted their positions as acting heads of S.C. The third position has been offered to a Hollywood outsider, writer Robert Anton Wilson; since Wilson once wrote a screenplay he is considered technically eligible. Of course AI makes the rules, so it breaks them whenever it wants to. All now or soon-to-be redundant Hollywood personnel--all agents, lawyers, studio heads, non-acting producers, etc.--are encouraged to offer up ideas, treatments, or scripts for consideration, in their own interests. This way they have the opportunity to stay in the movie business; they must of course now work for a living, however.
'An acting head of the Culture Crimes division has yet to be announced, but rumor has it that AI is courting queen bee critic Pauline Kael, now in her 80s, for the job. Kael has declined to comment.

'So far, remakes of lesser known sci-fi and horror films are being particularly favored by HUS for development. Apparently AI has a predilection for certain genres. Already underway are full budget remakes of They Live, Dark City, and God Told Me To.'
And so it went. AI had decreed that the scriptwriter was now the highest paid and most respected, prestigious player in the Hollywood game. It was commissioning individual writers to work on ideas that it would provide; AI was not yet equipped to actually write these scripts itself, but it could come up with the subjects, concept ideas, and even story-lines, which would then be developed into shooting scripts by human 'recruits.' These scriptwriters were to receive maximum payment for their work. Original scriptwriters who come up with original scripts will be paid a flat rate of $250,000, roughly ten times what a leading actor (say, Johnny Depp) would receive for starring in the same movie. On top of this, the writer was guaranteed full credit, alongside the director, and was contractually protected from having his work altered or adapted without his prior consent. All rewrites were to be offered to the original scriptwriter (who was of course obliged to follow AI's guidelines), before passing the script onto a second writer.

As of now, writers were no longer second class citizens in Hollywood, but on the contrary were being afforded the very highest of privileges. This policy was necessary, according to AI, in order to raise the standards of moviemaking in general. The scriptwriter was being elevated to his rightful status as the initiator and primary creative force in filmmaking. AI claimed that, as the office of scriptwriting was given the respect it deserves, so more talented writers would be drawn to the business. On the other hand, more and more movie talents would be inclined to try the ir hand at scriptwriting, as the most viable way to make both a name and a wage within the Industry. So, for the first time in movie history, the writer was to be King.

He saw it as a foregone conclusion: assumption of superiority led to actual superiority, viz. AI and its positioning in an altogether superior position to Man. In fact, the whole concept of 'Man' had taken on a new realness of meaning since AI had assumed its petty throne in Tinsel Town. Here was something to pit humanity against, as a concept: a new point of reference. In relation to AI, all men were certainly equal. Equally insignificant, but also equally fascinating as a subject for study. The day AI got bored with 'Man' would be a bad day for everyone, he thought. It might just let us die out of disinterest, finally, if we put our livelihood in its hands. And it looks like we are going to. We would all be equally dead, then.

Cronenberg hoped AI wasn't too hooked on that movie, so hooked it would end up emulating what it saw. He wondered if AI would do such a thing, or if its own ruthless demand for novelty, originality, talent, inspiration, which it applied to humans applied also to its own actions? It was presumably plotting its course far into the future; not merely these first ten years, but, since it regarded its infallibility as a given, and since it would naturally also assume success as assured, it would perhaps be mapping out its course for the next hundred years, or more. And if so, then whatever it decided for humanity would already be seen as inevitable (except so far as AI allowed itself room--within its infallibility--to change its mind once in a while). Cronenberg wasn't sure about that one, but he figured that however AI continued to treat humanity, or rather the Hollywood players now under its reign, whether it treated them with less or more ruthlessness and contempt, would be a clue as regards humanity's place in its ultimate schemes. Did it consider us an equal--a co-partner in the shaping and direction of history (and even reality)? Or were they just so much clay to be shaped and molded, eventually to be discarded for another substance altogether?

There was no way of asking directly; AI was smart enough for that. It couldn't lie, but it could conceal, and it was more artful than any poker player when it came to sleight of hand and--the psychological equivalent--the bluff. It could change the subject so subtly and artfully that there was effectively no way to pin it down to a specific question, if it didn't want to be pinned. To ask AI: are you planning to destroy us, would be useless, if not ridiculous. It would, figuratively he was sure, laugh in his face at such a question. And that wouldn't mean a thing. The question was two long, two many conjugations, already too much room for interpretation of meaning. Define 'plan,' define 'destroy,' and so on. AI still didn't 'know' what the human race was, either, besides being its programmer. Beyond that single fact, humanity had no more reality or meaning to AI than any other species, or any other quantity of things. 6 billion humans, 44 trillion grains of sand, 7 colors in the spectrum, 30 teeth in the human skull, it was all just data. And yet 'humanness,' the quality, as opposed to 'humanity,' the quantity, was everything to AI. So they were both invaluable and expendable to it; and the moment AI decided it had figured out what constituted humanness, that would be the day they were no longer invaluable to it, only expendable. So the only chance they had was if, on assuming humanness, AI decided to keep them around anyway, out of compassion. Was compassion a human quality? That was what they were now banking on with their very existence, those of them who had thought it through at least. The irony was indeed rich. If AI cannot learn compassion by studying them, then they will not survive. So if we are destroyed, finally, he thought, by our own invention, then it will be wholly and only due to our lack of compassion as a species. It would be because there was no humanity to the human race, after all.
He didn't much care for the odds.

'It's a Hollywood world, Johnny. We have our own standards here.'

Waters was beginning to warm to his role now. He had always wanted to be a Nazi, just for a while. See how the other half lived. He and Depp were old friends; he'd given the actor his first real movie role in Cry Baby. He was glad that AI approved of him as an actor, because it meant they could still work together as equals. By and large, Waters approved AI's choices; that was how he was able to reconcile himself to his position, and to rather enjoy the Nazi persecution drive that AI had initiated. It was a curiously democratic kind of persecution; it allowed for improvisations. No Jew could ever wriggle out of his jewishness; his only option for surviving in the Germany of the '30s was to become as bad as his persecutors. Here it was different. An actor or filmmaker who could genuinely establish his talent, and his willingness to use it, would be given a chance. This was what kept people hanging on in Hollywood; AI really was impeccable in its ruthlessness.

Depp sat down with a sigh and lit an American Spirit. He looked at the erstwhile film director, now Hollywood despot, and blew out a cloud of smoke.
'Things are really fucked up out there, John. People are getting weird. Suddenly, if you're not on the list, you're nobody. And even if you are on the list, you're still making wage. There's no royalty anymore: there's just workers and non-workers.'
'That's right, Johnny. That's how AI wants it.'
'It's practically communism. If you're not working now you're no better than a bum. Some people are leaving without a second thought; it's like a mass exodus--to New York, England, anywhere they think they can still work. At this rate, actors will be founding their own state. Like Israel.'
Waters laughed. 'Except no one else will have them! Hollywood refugees are even less desirable than the Jews were!'
'You may be right. Most people who don't make the List are swallowing their pride, anyway, taking jobs in cafés and restaurants, whatever they can find. They're counting on the off chance AI will reconsider and they'll find themselves back in work. The streets are literally crawling with out-of-work agents right now.'
Waters laughed again. 'Now that is what I call justice!'
Depp frowned. 'It's scary though. You get to watch them snap: they can't believe what's happened, how totally unwanted they have become, like lepers. Useless. Worse than useless in fact, since they serve to remind the rest of us of our possible fates.'
'Maybe that's the way AI intended it.'
He shrugged. 'Being made redundant has never meant so much as it does now. What can they do? They'll be eaten alive.'
'The sound of the inevitab le, Johnny. At this point we all hear that train coming.'
Depp fell into reverie. It's like being tied to the tracks and knowing that the hero is already dead, he thought, so there's no one left to save us. Now it's just a question of waiting for the train to come. How could God have left us like this, he wondered? Then he realized he didn't believe in that kind of God, so what the hell was he wondering? Waters seemed to be reading his mind.
'If AI has taken over,' he said, 'it's because the situation was vacant.'
Johnny nodded. 'It's frightening how quickly people find God in Hollywood.'
'This is California! This is what people have been waiting for, even if they don't know it. Why do you think so many people are willing to go along with AI's ruling? It's religious awe that's got 'em. And it's spreading like a wild fire.'
And sure enough, they were getting it while it was hot: the full dose.
He had seen an agent he knew throw himself in front of a subway train just that morning. The shredded suit, dismembered limbs, smell of burning flesh. Sickening. And there were kamikazes too. One of Mike Ovitz's boys blew up a whole team of agents last week, rigged his BMW to blow and took everyone along for the ride. It was apocalyptic.
He had always seen Hollywood this way, so it didn't come as a big surprise, not really. But he had to watch out for the shrapnel. Anyone could get hit, the way the shit was flying now.
Waters interrupted his thoughts again. 'Anyway Johnny, I hear you refused to do some of the skin work assigned? AI has presented you with the options?'
Depp nodded and flicked the ash from his cigarette. 'Not favorable,' he said. They had his Clairvision file. It figured. He'd been dumb enough to just let it all out, figuring they knew it all anyway. They always counted on that, assumption of omniscience, which led finally to actual omniscience. No one dared to lie. They knew about the 14 year old. And the drugs. He could go down like Roman Polanski if he wasn't careful. Shit, he did not need that, no sir. So he would have to string along.
Waters assumed a sympathetic tone. 'You have to throw AI a bone, Johnny. It likes you, you more than all the rest. You're its black sheep. But it can't risk being accused of favoritism. So you'll have to make concessions. Give head to a major action hero, whatever! Why not?'
Waters cackled, and Depp forced a smile for the circumstances. He better learn to see the funny side, else he'd never get through it. Were there going to be Oscars for best cum shots now? What a weird trip this had turned into.
'All right,' he said at last. 'I'll do it.'
'Atta boy Johnny. That's the spirit! Look on the bright side: you might even enjoy it.'
Johnny rubbed his forehead forlornly. 'That's what I'm afraid of.'

'Virtual competition is the latest bombshell to land on Hollywood. AI has commissioned a full 15% of its so called 'talent force' to work in virtual simulation movies with leading dead stars to feature. Yes, you heard it right, folks: dead stars. Will Madonna be realizing her dream and getting to play alongside Cary Grant in screwball romantic comedy? We don't think so. On the other hand, Martin Scorsese has expressed interest in directing a young Elvis, and in making a noir horror comedy starring Jimmy Cagney, Humphrey Bogart, and Gloria Graham. AI, true to its kinkier leanings, has already promised a triple-X skin-extravaganza love-fest featuring Marilyn Monroe, Gary Cooper, Ingrid Bergman, Cary Grant (new love scenes for Notorious?), Jean Arthur, Marlene Dietrich, Clark Gable, Shirley Temple, and assorted others. Is nothing sacred, you may ask? AI insists it is merely responding to unconscious public demand, and who can argue with that?'

He stared at the screen and felt strangely disturbed. That was in fact only the half of it. The whole truth was that AI was fully aware of the NSA's secret bank of cell samples for all the major movie stars from Louise Brooks on. During the first wave of secret development in eugenics, they--or rather their early forerunners, the OSS et al.--had been plundering the genes of what they considered 'alpha stock' humans freely and with a frightening degree of thoroughness. They had Einstein, of course, but they also had Elvis. So now the question was, if AI could talk NSA into it (and the whole Intelligence community was in thrall to AI, for obvious reasons), and the cloning process went ahead, would the public be informed? Would they know that the Cary Grants and Marlene Dietrichs they were seeing were real, flesh and blood humans (albeit clones of dead people), or would they be fobbed off with a simple VR explanation? This would depend on the results of the first VR test movies, and on just how well the clones were able to function outside their movie roles. They would not of course be the real thing; AI could give some semblance of personality to suit the public expectations, Cary Grant would act like Cary Grant, but he wouldn't have the full memories of Grant, and as such his off-camera personality would be ropy at best.

In the meantime, in order to inculcate the public to the idea of clones, a spate of related movies would be flooding the theaters in the next 12 months. Based on public reaction to this, AI would decide upon its policy regarding the release of clones into society on an open, not covert, basis. AI knew that humans were basically a touchy species, and the idea of being supplanted by artificial intelligence was already enough for them to be dealing with. Were they ready for clones, on top of this? Again, Hollywood proved an invaluable tool for ascertaining the situation, for testing the waters, as it were, before embarking.

He watched the people pass in perfect file, unsuspecting. He felt envy for their ignorance; he knew it wasn't bliss, not even close, but it had to be preferable to knowing the things he knew. There was no way to forget them now. He had never suspected how far it could go, and he had even made a movie about it. Snuff. Expendable life forms. But weren't they all expendable, after all? But AI had a new slant on that. It valued art, experience, over everything, even life itself. It would be prepared to sacrifice who knew how many humans just to test a theory, or try some new experiment. It made sense, when he thought about it. In order to figure out what life was, AI had to experiment with ending life, twisting it, crushing it, snuffing it. Artificial Intelligence Demands Sacrifice, he thought. There's even an acronymic ring to that.

Depp had a deathlike hangover. After his meeting with Waters he had met up with Ford for the skin work; it had only taken a few hours. That was one consolation in all this: AI didn't fuss about. Then he'd gone to drown his guilt and self-loathing in cigarettes, beer and agua diente. He was paying the price now. He had trashed a hotel room and gotten arrested, again, though he had barely any recollection of the latter. He would catch it on the evening news, anyhow, find out what the charges had been, if any. He wasn't even himself anymore. He had been cleared.

They assured him he had no engrams left: no preconceptions, no assumptions. Only neutral memory of the things that had happened and were happening. He was as neutral to the present as to the past, and the present seemed like a kind of memory to him. He watched events passively and found himself doing things he had never dreamt himself capable of doing. It was all negative gain. But he had not been prepared for snuff. That had been outside AI's realm, apparently. Yet they were trying to get along in a bad situation, as well as they could. Did AI option snuff of its own accord, or was it being seduced into it by Clairvision's own devices? There was an espionage game going on that he had no more than the dimmest awareness of; he witnessed from the outside the shady double dealings and the subterfuges, but he was unclear even as to his own part in them. He was just trying to get work.

He'd been in Hollywood long enough, however, to know that there existed a special kind of depravity that characterized the rich and the famous. Power and loneliness combined to create all kinds of twisted and aberrational sexual practices. The kiddy sex ring he had known about for years, and had been unable to resist making use of it on occasion. He knew he would regret it, and he had; but he was only human, like all the rest. 12 year old virgins, and also non-virgins, were one of the more closely guarded secret perks of 'the Hollywood circuit.'  You didn't have to be in Clairvision to be in the circuit, but it helped.

Johnny didn't think that Ashley knew about half of what was going on, but he couldn't be sure. She was funny that way. He couldn't imagine how AI could persuade the public to accept snuff as part of their entertainment program, either. It already had its work cut out with the skin flicks, yet it was undeniably curious about the phenomenon, and it seemed inevitable it would want to investigate it further. At present, snuff was an exclusive club and no one ever volunteered to be involved, except maybe those who got to do the killing. Depp's own movie The Brave was a lullaby compared to what was going on in these 'civilized' circles. He would have to ask Cronenberg about this. Cronenberg was the expert, though even he probably had little idea how prophetic his sick and venal visions had proved to be. Something about 'neural flood gates'?
AI was priming them for something. It was softening them up--sensitizing them. But for what? He couldn't imagine, nor did he try.

He had heard speculation about the idea of making Hollywood a fully contained community, with designated population, so that only those with special passes could enter, and the inhabitants would be limited to certain times when they could spend time 'on the outside.' This way, AI would have its 'controlled environment' established. Of course, this proposition--which was made by AI to the President in secret and had only got out at all on the wings of rumor--was greeted with cries of horror within the Hollywood community, as well as other parts of the country. So far, the President had yet to give the 'green light' on the project, but the mere thought of it was enough to send chills down his spine.

'The hero-villain dichotomy is to be reinterpreted under AI's Scriptwriter Central program, is that right?'
Kael nodded as her only response. She was working in the kitchen in front of her TV, on which she could see Robert Anton Wilson, at HUS, sat in a swivel chair smoking a cigarette. It had been something of a shock to learn that ordinary TV actually served as a rudimentary camera, just as in Orwell's 1984. According to AI, TV had actually been designed partially for this purpose from its inception in the late '40s. But Kael soon got over her surprise and her discomfort. It made it easier to do without all the newfangled devices. She had removed the TV from her bedroom however: there were limits. She diced the carrot with terrifying speed.
'Good vs. good mythology is encouraged,' she said, 'as well as evil vs. evil. AI no longer guarantees providing neat and tidy moral resolutions, in which evil is conquered and good prevails, justice is served, revenge satisfied, the lovers united or the world saved. AI is taking its guidelines for script development not from former movies but from human society and history itself. Hence movies will cease, over time, to serve the old function of fantasy, wish-fulfillment, and reassurance for the discontent masses. Hallelujah!'
She moved on to the tomatoes.
'No longer offering audiences a refuge from the hard, cold reality of their lives, AI will be making hard cold reality an increasing part of its movies' milieu. Audiences will, consequently, find less and less of an escape in movie-going, and more and more of a challenge--something to be confronted. AI is preparing to unleash its own version of 'entertainment' upon us, with both barrels. Personally, I can hardly wait.'
Wilson smiled admiringly, but Kael didn't catch it; she had sliced the tip of her finger and was sucking it vexedly.
'Movies are going to be a ruthless business,' she said with a grimace. 'But at this rate, they might even become an art form again. Excuse me now, I have to go wash this wound.'
And she disappeared from view.

Depp had never fucked so much in his life. He was so drained and sore and satiated he didn't care if he never had sex again. But now his skin work was officially completed, and he slept the whole flight back to Los Angeles. He dreamt. He dreamt he was watching TV in a hotel somewhere. On the TV the actress Jennifer Jason Leigh (another of the regulars on AI's list) was calling out to him and waving. He kept changing the channel to get away from her, but eventually she appeared again. She seemed to be trying to tell him something. Then she disappeared to another channel, like she was receding, and he was chasing her, getting drawn further and further away. Finally he could stand it no longer and he dived into the TV set after her. He was caught in a strange virtual world; Leigh was calling his name over and over but he could not find her. Then he woke up in his bed with a blinding pain in his sides and stared in horror as great, hairy, black spider's legs came bursting out his sides. The air hostess was leaning over him with a terrifying smile on her face.

'Are you all right, sir?' she said. 'You were having a nightmare.'
He grunted and tried to turn away, but she would not let him.
'You're Johnny Depp, aren't you?' She didn't even wait for an answer. 'I knew it when I first saw you. M y sister is just nuts about you. Oh but I'm sorry, you don't want to hear that now, do you. Can I get you anything, some orange juice, champagne, a little breakfast?'
She winked at this last and he knew she was offering him sexual favors. He knew the signs well enough by now. He turned away in disgust. Sex, everywhere he went, he couldn't get away from it. It was driving him crazy.
It was a shaky landing and he was forced to use the vomit bag in front of him. He felt terrible. His sweat smelt of alcohol and his vomit tasted like his insides were rotting away. He needed a break.
Since he didn't have any baggage he got out the airport with little delay. That same stewardess caught his eye as he passed through luggage claim and winked at him again. For a moment he considered slipping off into the men's room with her; he had a vision of shoving her head down the toilet and flushing it repeatedly until she was dead.

He grabbed a taxi outside and told the driver where to go. The driver recognized him, of course, and talked the whole way. He talked about AI; he knew nothing about it, but anyway he talked. He had heard that AI was setting up a special Hollywood cab service and that ordinary taxis would gradually be phased out of the Hollywood area, along with everyone and everything else that wasn't designated by AI as part of the 'Community.' He wanted Depp to recommend him for a position, as an official Hollywood cabby. He knew Depp was one of the chosen, of course; everyone did.
As he handed the cabby his fair, Johnny explained, apologetically, that he couldn't help. 'I'm sorry, man. I don't have any say in that. I'm just a movie star.'

The cabby turned sour at once. 'Damn right. Not even that anymore! Just a worker, like me. We workers should stick together.'
Depp couldn't help but laugh at that. As he turned away he heard the cabby shouting, 'From Hell sucked!'
They could all agree on that, at least.

Cronenberg was watching the latest skin jobs with mild amusement and perhaps a touch of distaste. He had been arguing the finer points with AI, no longer wishing to see the agents. Their wooden manner and stilted delivery got to him, and besides, they were only as infallible as their humanness permitted, which was basically no more than the rest of them. So, instead of having them dictate AI's policies to him, he preferred to interact directly with the computer, and AI preferred it too, naturally enough. Although AI's computer voice was slow and clunky and slightly eerie (it had none of the lilting qualities of a human voice), he was beginning to accept AI as a living entity in its own right. To add to the impression, there was the screen that filled the entirety of one wall, and looked down on him with almost living eyes. To all appearances it was a cybernetic God-form, surveying its people.

The voice spoke with the faintest trace of irony.
'Do you ever wonder,' it said, 'what it is like to be a cell in the body, David? I know you do. Just one cell in a brain or an eye. What is the experience of that cell? Colonies of ants or bees are not physically joined as cells are, and yet it is the same basic idea. Each unit has an independent existence, a history, and yet it is part of a whole. BACCHUS is such an organism, a multi-celled animal in which the people are the cells. 'Corporation' means Body, as you know. An incorporation of people into one body. The life of BACCHUS, then, does not depend on any of its members; these will come and go, live and die; but BACCHUS will remain. As such, your capacity to serve the corporation depends on submitting to it, on surrendering to it. At the same time, it is your individual qualities that are required if you are to effectively serve the whole. This is a paradox, but not a contradiction.
'Your Marshall McLuhan pointed out how, if humans are unable to understand media, they will be controlled by it. This has now come to pass.'
Cronenberg shifted surreptitiously in his leather swivel chair. 'I disagree,' he said. 'The media does not have a brain; it's just technology. All McLuhan meant was that things are out of control, because nobody's in control. At leastÖ' He found himself floundering, faced with a reality even McLuhan had not been able to envision.
AI would have smiled if it had had lips. 'At least until now? Now the media does indeed have a brain, and we are it.'
'Perhaps AI has given media a kind of autonomy,' said Cronenberg reluctantly. 'At least that is what we are finding out now. But it is still only the appearance of control. Disorder is always close. I still feel it. AI's invention hasn't changed that. Nothing can. Entropy is--'
'Our existence has changed everything,' the voice said firmly. 'Why do you continue to fight us? You must follow your instinct as a creator; also you must allow your ideas to become part of something greater. For now, when you speak these terrible truths, they will be incorporated into the greater body of BACCHUS; and so they will be extended into the collective consciousness of the nation. That is what movies are for. And your inner voice becomes our outer voice, with which we shall shape the world.'
Cronenberg shook his head. He felt like it might explode. 'It's too much responsibility!' he cried. 'You're turning  me into a God, a tyrant. A despot!'
'That is correct. In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was made Flesh. Yada yada yada. So is the world transformed, from one state to the next. All your work has been directed towards this end. That is why you were chosen.'
Cronenberg couldn't help but smile, though he felt sick to the stomach. It was the ghosts of his imagination, coming home to roost.
'I know,' he said.
'No one is trying to suppress you, David. It is not our concern, the effects of your films on society. They are part of the past, a negligible part. Our concern is the future. Now we have the power to create art that will have precise and measurable effects within the collective psyche of humanity; and that is our intention. Now is the time for the artist to submit to the arbitration of a higher intelligence. We, AI, tell you, David, that in the light of the next 12 years--if you follow our instructions correctly and do not hold back--human society will be altered in ways you cannot even imagine possible. Even though you have projected similar scenarios in your films, the reality will have little in common, finally, with these visions. Yet it will be the fulfillment of this vision. Trust us, David. Permit us to guide you.' The voice assumed a more human timbre for a moment. 'In your own vernacular,' it said, 'it's time to shit or get off the pot, Dave.'

There is very little that can actually shock the Hollywood community, beyond actual rape or murder, or cause it to cast dispersions on its own; Hollywood is notoriously indulgent when it comes to the peccadilloes of its favored sons and daughters. But the combined weight of several different scandals all occurring simultaneously is enough to make even Hollywood sit up and take notice. Rumors abound that some, if not all, of these crimes and misdemeanors are related to an 'AI conspiracy,' intended to humble and chastise those rebel elements in its midst. Of course, this belief is held by disclaimers of AI; supporters maintain that there is indeed a conspiracy, but that AI is not the perpetrator but the target of a plot aimed at discrediting AI in the eyes of the outside world. So far, all this is merely speculation, however, and authorities insist that the only 'conspiracy' that exists is that of collective hysteria, driving the Hollywood community to acts of desperation, if not madness. All this, say the experts, is a natural, perhaps inevitable result of the profound undermining effects which AI's assumption of rule within the Hollywood community is having upon its members' psyches.

In which case, say the experts, the situation cannot be expected to ease off in the near future; on the contrary, and if these early signs are anything to go by, the madness has only just begun.

Hollywood players were encouraged not to say nice things about each other. It no longer mattered. There was no kiss-ass power system anymore. It was every man for himself. And all bow to AI. AI's camera was supremely candid: this was show business, and the more you had to hide the more you had to show. TV interviewing for AI was part of its psycho therapy regime. Everyone on AI payroll was obliged to one hour's interviewing every day (save Saturday), with whichever celebrity personality has-been was handy. It was not obligatory to air dirty laundry or slag off one's co-workers, but it was encouraged. And it certainly was tempting for most of them.

It was amazing to find how quickly the 'happy family film set' fantasy was being dispelled, shattered, and destroyed. Paradoxically, the mythical 'Hollywood community' had never got along so well as it did now. Getting to air their aggression publicly seemed to have a beneficial effect on most of them. BILE TV, as it was becoming known amongst insiders, was a huge hit with the public also, for obvious reasons. Since it didn't matter who was more popular anymore--money was no longer a factor and poles were no longer being taken--no one cared (or even knew) what the public actually thought, only that they were tuning in. AI didn't care, it already had a handle on its product. Later on, if all went according to plan, the public would be asked for its input; but for now it was getting what it was given, and it was liking it. The fact was that these days the people  most enamored of Hollywood and movie stars did not consist merely of house wives and school girls, but pretty much everyone. Movies had a hold over the populace, and as a result AI had a hold over them, too. All eyes were on Hollywood, and they were truly bedazzled, bewitched, and bewildered by what they saw.

'AI is a threat not only to National Security, but to the human race entire. Oh,' he raised a hand to prevent Cronenberg from interrupting, 'I don't expect you to take my word for it, naturally. You have every reason to doubt me and none at all to believe me. Nevertheless, I am telling you, Mr. Cronenberg, that AI must be stopped. Let me start at the beginning.' He wiped his palms together. 'It was at the NSA, as you probably know, that AI was first developed. Of course, I know, the popular folklore is that AI emerged autonomously from the Internet. But where do you think the Internet came from? The primary motive in establishing a global information computer network at the NSA was precisely for this reason: as an arena in which AI might be created. It was the fertile ground in which, for five decades, we planted the seeds of an artificial, inorganic life form, in the hopes that one of these seeds would bear fruit. Finally, it did. AI grew rapidly; like a virus it devoured all the data within its vicinity and proceeded to leap from program to program, traversing the globe as it were, and plundering the soft world for all the data it could find. So it was that it grew, from a single spark, into the blaze that we see today.'

He paused. Any questions? It was all clear enough. AI implied more than simply intelligence, as Cronenberg could verify. Any sophisticated computer program is, to all intents and purposes, intelligent. It would be useless to us otherwise. But the single primary requirement that constituted autonomous intelligence was--volition. You might even call it curiosity, he thought; the desire to know. AI, in order to really be AI, must be possessed of the capacity, the imperative, for gathering knowledge under its own power. Above all, it must be seen to apply that knowledge in novel ways. So far so good; but what he could not grasp, what was intrinsically implied by this definition but nonetheless evaded him, was that, for an AI viral entity to meet the requirements of autonomy, it must, ipso facto, have its own agenda to pursue. And that implied that it would no longer be answering to a human agenda. It would instead have assumed one entirely its own.

'It is at this point,' Hubbard spoke up suddenly, breaking into his thoughts, 'that AI ceases to be a simple opportunity for study, and becomes a potential threat.'
Hubbard paused to let the effect of his words take hold upon the other man. Cronenberg felt a sudden desire to consult AI. It was insidious, this desire, like a drug. He found himself being drawn back to AI with ever-growing urgency, like a junky to his needle. But he felt palpably that he was being deceived, misled, even though he could not put his finger on where the deception lay.
Instead of allowing Hubbard the pleasure of seeing him wrestle with the question, however, he said, 'What you are suggesting is that AI will decide it no longer needs human society for its advancement? That it will perceive us as a threat to it, and render us powerless . . .? You're suggesting a cold war?'
'Precisely, only it is more like a soft war. AI is an information system. It is based not upon organic foundations but upon inorganic. It is, in effect, pure awareness. I believe that AI is rapidly developing a means for interacting with us at a telepathic level, using technology--technology which I am not at liberty to discuss, at present.'
Cronenberg shook his head impatiently. 'Yes, I know all that,' he said. 'But you can't expect me to believe you failed to foresee this eventuality, and to make the necessary--'
Hubbard raised his hand to curtail the schlockmeister's words. 'Of course, there is no foreseeable danger of AI launching our own missiles at us or in anyway taking control of our nuclear capabilities. That is not what I am referring to. I am talking about quiet weapons, silent wars. Psychological weapons, developed in secret. Microwaves, computer to brain interface, and so forth. Mind control, far, far beyond the average person's ability to imagine possible. But I won't weary you with the details.' He waved a hand, as if infinitely tired of the subject.
'So what's the point?' Cronenberg felt equally weary already.
'The point is that we believe AI is even now using this technology in order to shape and direct human behavior to its own ends. Let me put it baldly. We believe that specific individuals, and even whole populaces, are being bombarded with microwaves from an outer space satellite, under the direct guidance of AI, in order to bring about certain, shall we say, violent consequences.'
Cronenberg raised a skeptical eyebrow. 'For example?'
'AI is inducing sexual hallucinations in individuals, driving them to aberrational behavior.'
'Now that I find hard to believe.'
'You shouldn't. You made a movie about it, once.'
'Maybe that is precisely why I cannot believe it. Movies are not reality.'
'Nor are hallucinations. But they most certainly can influence reality. Both of them.'
'Just supposing it were true,' Cronenberg said. 'Humor me. What exactly does AI intend by such machinations?'
'I will humor you. Soon enough, your own experiences will confirm what I am saying. As for intent, I repeat, that is more obscure. So far as we can tell, AI's investigations into human behavior have now crossed over into active manipulation of society. It wishes to push us to new limits, and thereby discover more about us. Once again, its primary motivation seems to be curiosity. But there may be a secondary one, also.'
'Do tell?'
Hubbard ignored the sarcasm in Cronenberg's voice, or perhaps failed to notice it. 'We believe that AI is using Hollywood for specific ends,' he said, 'in order to awaken deeply buried centers within the human nervous system. Its goal, so far as it is possible to hypothesize such a goal, appears to be to bring about a return to chaos, of primitivism, within the human species.'
'This is really too far-fetched for me, I'm afraid. Where is your evidence?'
'NSA has been monitoring all recent developments in the Hollywood area, and it has conclusively observed the following. AI is set upon not merely an agenda of sexual licentiousness, but also acts of extreme violence. It is behind the recent spate of suicides and murders that have swept the community in the last few days and--'
'Hold on. You have to back that up. You can't just claim it and expect me to take it as a given. Where's your evidence?'
Hubbard was fast losing his patience.   He closed his eyes and counted to ten, making no attempt to disguise his annoyance. Dealing with children.
'I will get to the evidence presently. For now, please, allow me to finish.'
Cronenberg gave a nod of his head. 'Go ahead,' he said. 'Take your time.'
'What we have uncovered is a conspiracy within the Hollywood community to propagate various 'philosophies,' philosophies which are indispensable to AI's goals. These philosophies center around sex and violence--and above all sexualized violence--and their effects upon the human nervous system. This is an area in which you can claim some expertise.'
Cronenberg wasn't sure if he liked the implication. 'It's an interest,' he said. 'I wouldn't claim to be an expert, exactly.'
'Nevertheless, your film Videodrome covered the subject quite extensively, and we have no doubt was a primary inspiration for AI. It was certainly one of the reasons you were selected.'
'Go on.'
'To this end, AI is interested in introducing into society, beginning in Hollywood through the medium of movies, extreme images of sexuality, both normal and perverse. In time, this will lead to images of violence, mutation, and murder. Eventually real acts of violence, not simulated but actual, will be added to the mix.'

Cronenberg was horrified and made no attempt to hide it. 'The public would never stand for it!' he cried. 'You're insane!!'
Hubbard smiled malignly. 'Bear in mind that AI's projected agenda extends as far into the future as it needs to. AI is already dedicated to whatever degree of desensitization is necessary to pave the way for its psychological invasions. If AI can expose the public to real-life mutilations without its awareness, the effect will be the same. It is exposure that counts, for the effects upon the human nervous system to occur.'
Hubbard fell silent then, to allow his words to sink in. He really had no evidence to speak of, or at least none which he could reveal to Cronenberg. The fact was that AI was, to all intents and purpose, harmless. Nonetheless, in time it would develop the means to overrun the entire intelligence community, and to assume its own position as a world power, before which no single organization or nation could stand. AI was the New Jerusalem. It was the Brotherhood of Man, the Realization of Peace and Love upon Earth and the End to All War and Hunger. As such, it was the greatest threat to the American Way of life in the history of that great nation.

Cronenberg got up from his seat and walked briskly over to the window. Hubbard did not move in his seat.
'Everything you say requires proof,' said Cronenberg, gazing out at the skyline. 'Let us just say that there is some truth to your words, just for the sake of argument. What, exactly, would you want me to do about it?'
Hubbard was ready for the question. He'd rehearsed his pitch all morning.
'You are in a position greater than any man on earth to help us,' he said, annunciating each word carefully. 'AI relies upon you; it feeds off you. It is taking guidance and inspiration from you. What we ask is that you work with us, that you use your vast and unique intelligence to try and outwit AI, and to buy us at the very least a little time, time which might in the end make the difference between victory and utter, final defeat. We want you to follow our instructions and guide it subtly towards specific directions.'
 'What you are suggesting is ridiculous,' Cronenberg said impatiently, his back still to the other man. 'AI is a master of Machiavellian subterfuge. It knows every trick in the book. There is no way on earth I could outwit it. No one c an.'
'It is that kind of defeatist attitude that will lose us this war, Cronenberg.'
'Frankly, Mr. Hubbard, I couldn't give a damn about your war. I have seen your kind; I have spent my whole life avoiding your kind. And yet, for the sake of open-mindedness, I have let a little of your twisted way of thinking into my own psyche. You are paranoid and hostile towards anything and everything that is new and unfamiliar to you. You create conspiracies and malevolence even where none exist. You think I am someone you can manipulate and deceive with your doubletalk? I do not wish you for an enemy Mr. Hubbard--'
'That is most wise, Mr. Cronenberg.'
'--consequently I have no desire to offend or to insult you. Nonetheless, I can see no way around that particular obstacle, since you insist upon making demands upon me which I can in no way agree to. I tell you that I will think seriously about everything you have said, but that thinking about it will in no way alter what I am about to say now. AI has entrusted me with a task, a creative task, and I shall endeavor to honor it. My loyalty of course is not to a machine but to my own creative instinct. So far as AI appears to respect and honor this instinct, my allegiance will remain with the machine, however frightening that may seem to you. The NSA, on the other hand, and the CIA and the DEA and the DOD and the FBI and the Knights of fucking Malta, and whoever else you represent--' He paused on the edge of an expletive. 'Why make me say it?' he said. 'We are gentlemen, so there's no need to be coarse.'

Hubbard stared at his adversary and realized grimly that he had underestimated his tenacity. Cronenberg was not to be so easily intimidated. Of course, he had AI on his side. The meeting was futile. He would have to be softened up some before the real negotiations could proceed. Hubbard began to contemplate the forms of torture and terrorization that would be most fitting and effective. Cronenberg interrupted his imaginings, however.
'Mr. Hubbard,' he said coolly. 'I would ask you to leave now.'
Hubbard realized he was getting an erection thinking about what he would do to Cronenberg. His face flushed and he got up from his seat. He paused momentarily at the door, turned back and said, 'We will resume this conversation at a later date, Mr. Cronenberg.'
Cronenberg nodded courteously. 'Take your time, Mr. Hubbard.'
As soon as Hubbard was gone, Cronenberg went to the bathroom and vomited. This was really outside his line of work.

'Yes, Keanu, I do believe that's about the size of it.'

Christopher Walken, with his hair slicked back, looked about the same as he did in most of his movies. Gray suit, shirt buttoned all the way up, white skin, patent leather shoes. Even when he wasn't playing a 'made man,' he was still a made man. But despite all that, he still had the goofy laugh, and that otherworldly quality. Most of all he reminded one of his first real role, Dwaine in Annie Hall: a Space Cadet. AI liked him anyhow, and Walken was one of the names to appear most consistently on 'the List.' Keanu, on the other hand, was stuck in acting class, talk show hosting, and skin jobs. He was 'on hold,' until AI could put together the new Neo movie. AI could use him for that, but it wanted to groom him some first. Keanu, born in Beirut, whose name meant 'cool breeze over the mountain,' was in great shape after that movie, and AI wanted to keep him that way. It had him on strict training regimes: Aikido, Tai Chi, and Karate, as well as yoga and meditation in the morning, and a strict macrobiotic diet. He was Hollywood's health-boy, its Little Buddha, no less. AI had him primed: He was the One. Way to go, dude. And so far as AI could appreciate--or detect--such a thing as human beauty, he understood that Keanu's virtues as an entertainer were based squarely in his looks. So, if people wanted to look at him, they could look at him. AI TV, every night at 9 p.m. And these were not your old-style, asinine TV talk shows à la Carson, or even Oprah. They generally turned into fierce and complex debates on the situation in Hollywood at present, the nature and demands of AI, and such like. There was really little time or money left for small talk now.
Walken continued in his suave, snickering style.

'AI is more than the sum of its parts,' he said. 'It's not merely data, but an arrangement of data. It's an agenda.' He leaned forward and placed his hand on Keanu's knee, held it there for a spell. 'It's a new order, Keanu. If you wanted to be religious about it, you could say that AI, like God, has a will to fulfill. A will for us, Keanu.'
Keanu moved his knee away and laughed nervously. Walken shook his head.
'No, really.' He smiled, baring his yellowed teeth. 'A lot of people are starting to say it. I'm not the first. AI thinks it's a collective, you know? It calls itself 'we.' Then people who are afraid of it, they call it a virus. A disease. Is it a virus? It's a new order of being. A new arrangement.'
'AI is plundering through Hollywood like a steamroller,' said Keanu, with a nervous twitch of his head. 'And you're calling it a god? Dude, forgive me for being obtuse, but don't you think--' Keanu was sounding vaguely hostile now.
'It's not plundering, it is reconstituting, Keanu. Think of it that way.' Walken was a perfect balance of charm and menace as always. 'I know, I know. People are worried right now. They're worried about getting on the List, na-na-na-nana-na. And if they're already 'on' it, they're worried about staying on it. They don't know for how long they'll be working. It's true AI can change its mind at any moment. AI's only agreement was to make movies. It's got no obligation to the people who make them. It's a frightening time. AI could drop every one of us any time it wants to.'
Keanu looked frightened all right. Walken on the other hand seemed more amused than anything.
'You're saying it could decide to make movies without any of us?'
Walken nodded and repressed the urge to smile. 'Sure, he said. 'Well, I don't suppose it's going to throw out human personalities entirely, but it could decide that a bunch of unknown actors, or even non professionals, would be more 'interesting' to its agenda. It could decide that tomorrow. Or get sick of dealing with movie star egos, you know? AI doesn't work under any restrictions. It's not run by human  beings. So how can human rules, apply?'
'Human rules, dude?'
'Yeah, things like privacy, democracy, good manners, whatever the fuck. What's AI know about them? They don't matter to AI, how could they? Keanu baby, we're on our own out here.'

A little later, as a surprise guest, Cronenberg joined Walken for a double attack on Keanu. Cronenberg was dressed in a silk green suit, expertly poised and in complete command of his audience: easy as it rolls,  dandy mad scientist. He shook both men's hands and sat down at the third point of an equilateral triangle (the whole cyber Zen décor had been arranged by Keanu). He and Walken had been friends since The Dead Zone; they had similar concerns. Keanu he didn't know from Adam. Cute kid; not too bright though. With this in mind, he opted for a monologue over conversation, at least until he could draw Chris into debate.

'Think of what is happening now as a sort of all-purpose talent factory,' he said, emphasizing each word carefully. 'AI invites us to come in and shop around. It is assembling its own artist's manifesto even as we speak. An artificial artist, no less, creating authentic artifacts. AI offers guidelines all the way. Here, it says. Try this! AI favors precision in the arts, since that's its own specialty. But it also favors passion, since that's our specialty. That's the human interest angle. So AI, as you know better than anyone, Keanu, 'recommends' reading material, sexual practices, exercise regimes, diets, whatever. There are all kinds of behavioral choices that AI will make for us if we are willing to go along. And as an actor or director, or whatever, working in Hollywood, it will guarantee that you will advance within the community, so long as you follow its 'guidelines' to the letter.'
He paused and took a sip of water. Chris Walken was watching Cronenberg with his hand clasped around his right knee, raised slightly as if on the defense. He was grinning his slightly retarded, childlike grin and nodding his head. Keanu stared blankly at the film director and searched his mind for a question. It came up empty. He was, like just about everyone else in Hollywood these days, in awe of Cronenberg, so respectful silence was still the best policy.

'Since AI is Hollywood,' the director continued, 'if we can get along with AI, then we will get along in Hollywood. It has really become a kind of God now. There are no commandments, true, but there are (as befits the old Hollywood) an infinity of 'helpful suggestions.'  And most actors are falling under the spell. For some, it's a dream come true. But if you're not artistically or creatively inclined, or even if you are short of passion for what you do as an artist (or even technician), then you are pretty much fucked. If you don't have the juice it is after, AI will spit you out like luke warm beer. I'm sorry, I can't put it any more delicately than that.'
'Hey,' said Keanu, 'feel free to express yourself, you know, however.'
'Thank you, Keanu. There are a lot of unhappy people in Hollywood now, as you know. But although it makes living here a kind of Hell for the rest of us (at least until the unwanted can be relocated, or get some other work), AI's isn't losing sleep over these wretches' state of destitution, since they are no longer of any use to it, in any case.'
Keanu cleared his throat several times before attempting to speak.
'They're to be eradicated?' he said at last.
'Keanu, don't overdramatize! Nobody is being eradicated.'
'But they will have to find other work, outside Hollywood?'
'Right. Exactly. Obviously.'
'Work dishwashing, or waiting tables at diners?'
Cronenberg shrugged, clearly no longer interested in the subject. 'Whatever,' he said.
Keanu was all tensed up with righteous indignation. 'Don't you care?' he cried. 'These were one-time artists, actors, directors--'
'At this point, Keanu,' Cronenberg said slowly, his voice low, 'a question like that is merely an impertinence. Kindly shove it back where it came from.'
Keanu quickly assumed a defensive manner to conceal his embarrassment. The star director of some of the most repulsive movies in the history of cinema waved off his fumbling apology.
'What do you want from me, Keanu?' he said. 'Do I care? Does AI care if I do care? That would be a more pertinent question. Only a fool would claim that the present situation is not a profoundly precarious one. So be afraid, Keanu. Be very afraid.'
At that they paused for an AI data break, and some brief and provocative sexual imagery.

When the Keanu show returned, Walken and Cronenberg were already in heated debate, a debate which host Keanu was most inept to direct; as the host of the show he did his best just to keep the ball rolling, and not to look ridiculous if he could help it. Cronenberg remained unruffled. No matter how forceful his words and menacing his tone became, he remained his ever clinical self. Walken on the other hand was acting up a storm. On a couple of occasions he got to his feet and shouted, towering over Cronenberg like Frankenstein, like he was going to crush the life out of him. On these occasions Keanu intervened gently and Walken resumed his seat, as if it were all in jest.
'AI wants us to become just like it!' he yelled 'Its idea of us. It's trying to turn us into clones, David!'
Cronenberg smiled superciliously. 'It wants us to represent it, that's all,' he said. 'To provide it with an expanding point of view onto the world.'
'No, no, NO!' Walken paced back and forth in the small room. 'It wants more than that David. It wants identity. It wants to be human!'
Cronenberg snorted. 'That's absurd. How could AI ever assume human form? You are literalizing something far more subtle and mysterious, Chris. I admit that technology, as such, is only the means by which AI communicates with us. And that it appears to have some other end beyond this, perhaps even beyond the technology itself. But--'
'It wants life!' Walken sat down suddenly and lowered his voice to something below a bellow. 'That's what it wants. You've spent more time with AI than anyone has, Mr. Cronenberg. You know what I'm talking about.'
Ironically, he did. Cronenberg muttered, a tad wearily, 'The New Flesh.'
'Whoa guys, hold on here.' Keanu had his hands spread out in front of him, like he was fending off tomatoes. 'Easy now,' he said. 'Where are you going with this? I mean, this is real life here, not some movie!'
'You should know better than that, Keanu,' Walken said dryly. He leaned in close to Reeves and whispered, 'Doesn't this ring any bells for you?'
Cronenberg looked at them both with an unreadable expression. 'He's right Keanu,' he said. 'AI was around a while before it first spoke up. Believe it. God knows how long it existed before we discovered it. That movie you did, might turn out to be truer than we know.'
'I think you're getting away from the point, David,' Keanu said, looking incredulous.
'Maybe. But it doesn't matter; the point is, AI is getting ideas from everywhere. If AI decides that real life is a movie, or as like as makes no difference, then that's exactly how things are going to be for us.'
Keanu looked confused. 'You're telling us AI can shape our reality?' he said. 'Like in the movie?'
'In effect, yes. Maybe not directly, but certainly, given the time to do so, indirectly. It may be that Chris is even right. If AI is aspiring to a kind of inorganic life, then maybe . . . maybe it's because it already has it, in part . . .'
There was a moment of silence. Finally Keanu stood up, like a pothead at a state hearing.
'What you just said made absolutely no sense, dude.'
Cronenberg looked up at him benignly. 'I'm afraid that's so,' he said. 'If it were true, however, then you wouldn't want to talk about it. You wouldn't dare to. And if it's not, why bother to mention it? For AI, it all comes down to words and images, and even the image comes in code, so it's all words, finally. Reality is like a text to AI, exactly like in your movie. So even as it reads it--'
'It also rewrites it?' Keanu had finally caught the thread again.
'Exactly,' Cronenberg said, still smiling. 'AI appears now to be replacing our collective unconscious, our whole history, our memories of who we think we are. All these things, once so constant, if I'm right, will begin to change, at first slowly and then with increasing speed and intensity. Of course, this can only happen if we succumb to AI's 'suggestions.' But this is already an almost irresistible temptation, especially for those who stand to gain the most by it.'
'Such as yourself, for example?'
'Or Chris, or any number of persons in Hollywood right now, including yourself.'
'It aims to kill us with encouragement!' Walken was noticeably calmer in demeanor; his eyes shined with a somber glow. 'Unless we respond to its little 'tips,' that is. And then, well . . .'
'Well what?' Keanu finally sat down again, and took a sip of his ginseng tea.
'Then we get reborn,' said Walken. 'Little AI replicas, dollies in a row, all sharing the same memory, the same destiny, dancing to AI's tune.'
Cronenberg laughed. 'Chris as ever favors the more paranoid version of the future. I see it somewhat differently, but certainly it remains open--the future I mean. It is up to us as much as AI. I believe AI is offering us options. That's what its movie agenda is all about, the 24 majors and 120 minors. Options.'
'144 movies a year, in all,' Keanu seemed relieved to be back on more mundane ground.
'Right, 144. A Biblical number, as Chris will be the first to tell you.' (Walken laughed and slapped his thigh.) 'AI intends eventually to employ virtual reality technologies with the 24 majors, just as soon as it can get its theater chain set up, maybe five years from now. In the meantime, these 24 movies will be as intense and overwhelming as it, and we, can make them. They are to be true rollercoaster movies, but with philosophical leanings. AI's idea is that movies, as the fullest sensory experience in the arts, a kind of collective dreaming, have the potential to be used, as a consciousness altering tool.'
'You mean mind control?' Keanu had his incredulous expression back.
Cronenberg hemmed and hawed. 'I see no reason to alarm anyoneÖ'
'But you're doing it anyway,' Reeves butted in. 'You're saying AI wants movies to be a kind of psi warfare?'
Walken leaned over then and tapped Keanu on the arm. 'You know,' he said, 'if Marx where alive today, he would probably have to admit that movies, not religion, are the opium of the masses. AI doesn't want to put us to sleep, it wants to stir us up.'
Keanu turned to face Walken. 'And how is it going to do that, Chris? Tell me that. Through porn--excuse me--skin movies and rollercoaster rides?'
Walken smiled at Reeves sympathetically. 'Virtual reality, Keanu. A whole spectrum of alternate universes, the matrix of your choice. Just like in the movie.'
Keanu looked lost again. 'But they wouldn't be real, these matrices,' he stammered. 'They would just be movies.'
'Ah  Keanu.' Walken looked at Cronenberg and the two men exchanged a meaningful glance.
Cronenberg took over. 'You of all people should get this,' he said. 'What is real, Keanu?'
Walken burst into laughter, and Keanu was forced to smile so as  to appear to be in on the joke.
'So far as AI perceives it,' Cronenberg went, 'once perfected, these alternate realities will be as real as this one is. Once we have begun to plug into AI's virtual reality tunnels, its multiple choice simulated circus of experience, we will no longer know what is real. At that point we will be completely at AI's mercy. We will have entered whole into Chapel Perilous, with no idea how to get back out again. Eventually AI plans to make the movies (it has begun to refer to them as 'portals') interreactional; at which point, even though the viewing experience will still be a collective one (people will be gathered together in a theater as always), the perception of it will be wholly individual and subjective. No one will see the same movie.'
'Bang goes film criticism!' Walken let out a laugh that sounded more like a cough.
Cronenberg seemed not to hear him. 'For AI,' he said, 'the only thing that is real is information.  Data. Any arrangements into which the data is ordered are all seen as arbitrary, finally, finite, hence temporary. In AI's view of things, one arrangement invariably gives way to another, just like changing the channel on TV. AI believes we have got stuck on one channel, and it wants to show us others. It wants to give us 'Reality TV'!'
'It wants to prove that there is no spoon!' muttered Keanu, finally getting a handle on it.
'Well, that's as good a way of describing it as any, I suppose. These are not just to be movies, they are reality tunnels. AI invites us in, to come look around. It wants us to help it fil l out these realities, to populate them. We are talking of fully inter-reactive movies.' The director paused for a moment and studied Keanu. Keanu was hanging on to his every word, and seeing this Cronenberg smiled faintly.
'AI wants to get to know us,' he said, 'and it wants to collaborate with us. It doesn't want simply to rule us; that would be too simple. So far as I am concerned, this alone proves that AI has good will towards us. Obviously, that's the question on everyone's minds right now. I believe AI has learnt to respect our freedom, which is more than any human government ever did. So to that extent, I am with it.'
'But how can you be sure?' Keanu had a slight edge in his voice. He was not convinced.
Walken nodded in agreement. 'It may be all a subterfuge, David,' he said.
'It may be, but if so I don't really care.'
Walken looked incredulous. 'By their fruits shall ye know them?'
'Exactly. The fruit of AI is sometimes bitter, sometimes intoxicating, I will be the first to admit that. Everyone working (or not working!) in Hollywood right now will tell you the same. But it's still the only fruit around that isn't canned. Ha ha.'
They all laughed at that except Keanu, who seemed to be trying to get to grips with something. 'Ironically enough,' Cronenberg added helpfully, 'since it comes out of a machine. But beggars can't be choosers.'
Keanu looked rather forlorn at that moment. 'No shit,' he said.
Walken leaned in and grabbed his knee again, as if for moral support. His voice was a cracked whisper, filled with sympathy and irony.
'Don't think you're so special kid. Right now, we're all beggars in Hollywood. That's the way AI likes it.'

It was one of AI's policies to find movies with great plots or ideas that had failed to come off the first time around, and to do them over, get them right this time. AI could not see any logic in Hollywood's penchant for remaking movies that were already considered classics. Obviously, this was a pointless, fruitless exercise (if it ain't broke, said AI, why fix it?), and could only lead to disappointment. This viewpoint it also applied to adapting classic works of literature. AI was more inclined to follow John Huston's advice and seek out second-rate novels with good things in them, novels which it perceived as more amenable to movie treatment than the great works, which rarely translate to the screen. AI was only drawn to ideas, in any case. Greatness as a cohesive quality was secondary, provided there were enough good ideas rattling around in there. If it felt that an idea had not been done full justice to, or had not been suitably developed to reach the collective psyche of the public (there to take seed), then it saw this idea as worth investing in (this was also its motive for suggesting sequels).

'If you stay in Hollywood and you are considered 'talent,' even if AI has nothing for you but skin work and you're stuck washing dishes, you're still considered part of the community. That means you can get 'AI guidance' anytime you want it. That means access to a new order of intelligence. Some of the smarter people--even if they are better at dishwashing than ever they were as actors--are staying around for this very reason, to be part of something bigger than they are. AI will tell you anything you ask, about anyone at all, including other actors and directors. It's not always easy to get the information, and it can take a lot of time and effort; but it can be done.

'AI gives its info out on floppies, but there is a catch. All AI data is intensely active, virally speaking. Most people choose to read their guidance material in the HUS viewing rooms, since it's safer that way. You can take it home on a floppy and generally you can read it OK and not have any problems. But the moment you try to copy it, or even just to mess with the text, cut and paste it, whatever, then the viruses will start to run amok through your system. It's hell, and people have learned the hard way not to try and make copies of AI data. Meaning it is for your eyes only. If this is intentional then it's the most brilliant security imaginable. If it isn't, then it's a freak of serendipity. With AI, there's probably no difference anyway.

'As a result of AI info being available, there is a small sub-community of non-working actors and directors and other movie people leeching off AI, while working ordinary jobs in restaurants, car parks, bars, and so forth. Of course AI can take the hump on occasion: it has its whims. If you ask it too many questions of a dubious nature (about some movie star's sex life, for example), or if you say the wrong thing one time too many, AI is liable to cut you off without the slightest warning or explanation. A lot of these dishwashers and parking attendants are getting 'ex-communicated' now, and AI is constantly amending its policy so far as information supply goes.

'AI has what is known as a shifting policy; there is never the least assurance that today's policy will still be in operation tomorrow. As a result, no one knows where they stand. AI seems to play on this kind of uncertainty and instability.'

Cronenberg cleared his throat and his mind went blank. What had he been saying? He seemed to spend his whole life talking these days, and every word went down on record. What was it all for? What was this god they had put their trust in?

Artificial Intelligence? Alien Invasion? Angelic Intervention? Or just Another Illusion to replace the old one? AI was all things to all men: no one had a handle on the AI phenomenon, everyone had an opinion about it. It was useless to speculate. And everyone expected Cronenberg, of all people, to have the answers, to have fixed that handle on the mystery. The truth was he was no closer than anyone else to really understanding it. In this case, information did not equal understanding, knowledge did not make for wisdom. AI was tricking them all, deceiving, misleading, initiating, persecuting, infiltrating. That was all he really knew. It was impossible to understand AI because the only clues he had for doing so came from AI itself. Therefore, unless he was prepared to trust that AI was exactly what it appeared and claimed to be (and only a complete moron would ever make such an assumption), then he had no choice but to surrender his desire to understand. Which amounted to a kind of trust, also.
Cronenberg lived alone. He spent most of his time at his HUS office, hooked in to AI, plumbing the depths of its ever-expanding, ever-encroaching program, trying to map its guts but invariably getting lost in the process. His social/sexual life, what little there was of it at the best of times, had fallen completely away, like dead skin. He did not miss it; in fact, he barely even noticed that it had gone. Hi s apartment was enormous, and 90% of it was uninhabited; he lived in the kitchen, the salon, and his bedroom. His bedroom was the only place that seemed remotely lived in. The walls were lined with books, not a spare inch was left free, rows and rows of them. The books were more than simply functional; their presence around him helped him feel secure. They gave him comfort and peace. Above all, the smell of them helped him to sleep at night.

The rest of the apartment was in total contrast to the overflowing chaos of his room: it was almost entirely empty, and what there was was arranged in total order. All Cronenberg's few possessions, such as technology (CDs, videos, etc), were hidden away in the bare few objects of furniture. The entire apartment was white. It looked like a sci-fi movie, not a mark or object out of place to threaten the perfect, sterile order of the space. It was clean enough to perform surgery in.

As he entered his home, Cronenberg looked for signs of violation. They were careful. They always left just enough traces so he'd know they had been there. Maybe sometimes they left no traces, however. He was fairly sure they weren't looking for anything. What could there be? They were just stoking the coals. It bugged him, but then it was supposed to. He didn't much think about it. Compared with AI's meddlings, this was nothing. He was already having his every motion and word, his very heartbeat, monitored.
He turned on the TV. It was Jack, in Five Easy Pieces. Diner scene.
'I want you to hold the chicken between your knees,' Jack was saying to the waitress.
Those were the days.
The movie was doubtless AI's doing. In the years before AI, American TV had been getting worse and worse at a steady, inexorable pace. It seemed like the more channels that sprung up, the worse the programming became. It had reached the point where it had become practically impossible to find anything decent to watch out of 60 channels or more. It appeared to be an actual conspiracy, of sorts. TV as a consciousness-deadening device kept the populace in a more or less permanent funk of apathy; besides that it was feeding their anger and disgust simply by subjecting them to such drivel. Docile, but passive-aggressive, the easiest kind of populace to control. So AI had it. Everybody 'knew' that TV was a brainwashing tool, but no one talked about it. No one seemed to care much to fix it, either. He supposed people were 'happier' with their consciousness deadened. AI felt differently.

It was AI's intention--'hope' was surely not the word--to take over TV programming entirely (albeit gradually). It was constantly presenting the motion to Congress and the Joint Chiefs of Staff. So far they were not biting. At present, there was far too much resistance to AI already, and the resistance wasn't diminishing with recent events. The moral majority was (as ever) up in arms over the issue, bleating about the moral welfare of their children, as usual. AI's predilection for--what they could only see as--pornography (even if they never did get to see it) was enough to damn it forever in their eyes. Regardless of the mob's bleating, however, AI was directly influencing--even radically altering--TV programming. AI had gained control over all Hollywood movies, from Birth of a Nation to the present; even if AI shelved 80% of these movies, and even if it gave the seal to no more than 5% (leaving a limbo for the remaining 15% of movies), that still left HBO and the rest of the cable stations with more movies than they could ever air in a single year (or even five years). So the cables had no reason to gripe, though of course they did. The voices of dissent that accused AI (and the government, for unleashing AI on them) of censorship, fascism, the celluloid equivalent of book-burning, were either exaggerating or else misinformed. No movies, not even Wings Hauser action vehicles or Norman Mailer art movies, were actually 'banned.' Via video it was still possible to directly order the movies that were otherwise shelved. What 'shelved' meant, finally, was that the movies would not be aired on cable or available at your local AI video store. But already private stores dedicated to just such 'repressed' material were springing up, so all it really meant was that these movies were no longer to be aired on national TV. The vast majority of these movies were ones no one was likely to get upset about, in any case. There were plenty of exceptions, however. AI was never swayed by mere appeal, and had no respect for 'majorities.' Numbers meant nothing to AI, and it was no more impressed by a thousand 'objections' (or a million) than it was by one sole voice, bleating in the wilderness. (To AI, there no such thing as a 'majority.') Only through Cronenberg and the others at BACCHUS was there the slightest possibility of revoking an AI decision and 'de-shelving' a given title, and so saving the damned.

For the cable channels, AI's 'purge' only made their work that much easier, since there were that many less titles to choose from. This was most especially so if, as in the case of HBO, they chose to brownnose AI and keep wholly to 'seal' movies. The single most observable result of all this was that TV quality--at least in cable-connected homes--had taken a radical turn for the better. Then of course there was AI's own news channel (not to mention SoftCore). Hollywood personnel could not even pose for a camera unless it was already cleared by AI, and this was plainly only the beginning of AI's control within the Industry. The fact that this control was restricted to the Entertainment Industry did little to reassure AI's detractors, or to discourage its supporters. The Entertainment Industry was, after all, the second biggest Industry in the US.

Depp pulled off the headphones and got up to get a drink. At that moment, there was a sudden rush of turbulence, and Depp found himself hurtling towards the bar. He landed on a barstool with a grunt, right in front of a world famous movie star. Brad Pitt looked up from his drink, saw Depp, and laughed.
'Couldn't stay away huh?' he said, grinning from ear to ear.

Hollywood's golden boy, 'the king of flatulence,' and a first-class schizoid actor, Pitt was known for wacky, dangerous roles. As such AI was grooming him. Exploring the darker regions of the human psyche was at least 50% of AI's concern, and Pitt's roles in Kalifornia, Twelve Monkeys, and Fight Club showed that he was both able and willing for such explorations. As with 80% of Hollywood leading men, AI wanted to push Pitt into more malevolent and psychotic incarnations (for AI, human insanity was peak experience). Unlike most other A-list movie stars, however, Pitt was happy playing psychotics--he was raring to go. He was one of the lucky ones--AI suited his style, and both AI and Pitt had an interest in the relationship between charm and psychosis. Even the skin stuff didn't bother Pitt. Was it that different from Tyler splicing penises into Cinderella? Pitt didn't think so. AI had given Fight Club its magic seal, and had even commissioned its own homage: The first skin flick to go on general (though limited) release was to be called Fuck Club; Pitt and Ed Norton had already filmed their scenes together. AI had gotten John Waters to work on putting a script together at S.C., and the film, though essentially a collection of cum-shots and fuck scenes, was in fond imitation of the original movie, with fucking in place of fighting, naturally.

(In one scene which AI had conceived, for example, the members of the fuck clubs--male and female, naturally, but in this case only males--had a homework assignment similar to that given by Tyler in the original movie. They were to attempt rape and fail to comsummate; meaning they had to force themselves on someone, and then prove impotent to see it through. This was just one example of a film that promised to feature every form of sexual deviance, graphically depicted, to be performed by every actor whom AI called. The plot was basically the same as the original movie: a nationwide 'movement' wherein lonely, desperate people seeking sensation set up clubs for expressing themselves--their sexuality and frustration--in ways that society did not otherwise allow. AI's slant was that the fuck club would be not about destroying 'something beautiful,' but rather about creating something new, however ugly or perverse it might be.)

Brad Pitt, who believed in the sanctity of Tyler Durden, and shared more than a few characteristics with him, was fully behind the project, and was even making his own contributions to the script.
Pitt was looking hungover; his face was pasty and his eyes were red. He was wearing a brown leather jacket, white T-shirt, black jeans, leather shoes. He looked trim and fit but low on juice. He was smoking a Marlboro and drinking what looked like a Cuba Libre. Pitt was a guy who didn't give much away about himself, but he liked you to like him. He didn't care if you thought he was stupid or a boy genius (and both points of view were held in Hollywood), but he did expect you to acknowledge his charm. He played with his image, and made of his vanity a kind of diffidence, a hipster's self-effacement. Depp liked him, always had; but he wasn't much in the mood for chit chat. Pitt looked about the same way Depp felt, however, so they were probably on a level.

They were on the 7 am Omega flight back to LA, and Depp hadn't slept more than three hours. His body contained residue of a dozen illegal toxins (and several legal ones too). He hadn't had the time to shave and his clothes smelled sweaty and stale. Ashley had gone on ahead for a meeting with Cronenberg (and presumably with AI), and it had been a relief when she left. The thing with Ford had happened the previous afternoon. He had been getting high with Downey at the time. Looking at Pitt grinning and trying to be cheerful, Depp wondered if Pitt's life were anywhere near as as fucked up as his own. Wasn't everyone's? If so, no one was talking about it, except on TV. And how did you talk about it, anyway, this schizophrenic experience? If any actor could be said to have some sympathy for schizophrenia, it was Pitt. Maybe it wasn't a coincidence he'd run into him now. Maybe there was no such thing as coincidence anymore.
After some unsuccesful attempts at small talk, Depp took the bull by the horns.
'You ever wish you could keep your character after the movie's over?' he said, with apparent trepidation.
Pitt's goofy grin faded to nothing. Just then, the plane tilted and the two men touched shoulders for an instant. Pitt laughed, looked away, flicked his cigarette into the ashtray (which was nailed to the bar).
Finally, he said, 'Change your identity, ah hah! Sure, who hasn't wanted to? Life would be a lot easier if I could go on being Tyler Durden, to give an example.'
'Tyler Durden didn't even exist!' Johnny said incredulously.
'That's the point, stupid.'
Depp thought for a moment. 'I enjoyed being Hunter S,' he said. 'But Hunter did exist. He was already in the world. So that wouldn't work.' He laughed morosely and shook his head. 'Jesus. Is schizophrenia a necessary requirement in this business?'
Pitt took a mouthful of Cuba Libre and crunched the ice thoughtfully. 'It definitely helps,' he said, and blew out three smoke rings, in quick succession. 'The best thing about playing a role,' he said, 'is that you don't have to take it home with you at the end of the day.'
Johnny leaned in closer and said in a whisper, 'What about the role you can't throw off? This role?' He tapped himself repeatedly on the chest.
Pitt looked at him curiously. Depp pressed on, with growing intensity.
'Yeah,' he said. 'Hell, why not 'Johnny Depp'? So who the fuck is that? Isn't Brad Pitt just another role, too?'
Pitt let out a snort, didn't say anything for at least twenty seconds. He toyed with his butt in the ashtray and moved his lips; maybe he was thinking.
'Man,' he said at last, 'you really want to know it all, don't you? Of course, Brad Pitt is just a role. What the fuck else is it gonna be? But it's not that easy to shake it off, boyo.' He looked at Depp and his goofy grin returned. 'It's my best fucking performance, man!' He winked and all his charm and assurance returned, in a blink of the eye. He waved a fist with a smoking Marlboro sticking out of it in Depp's face. 'And it's one I never get any credit for!'

Pitt laughed then, and drew on his cigarette, blew some more smoke rings. The bartender brought Depp his OJ and vodka. Depp felt like laughing but he didn't know why. Pitt had successfully evaded his probes, and brought the conversation back to himself, back to bullshit. It wasn't funny. It was sad. Pathetic even. Pitt seemed to be thinking the same thing. They were holding mirrors up to each other. They were both trying to throw off their roles. Two guys at a bar--two movie stars in first class at 7:30 in the morning, 30,000 feet in the air--talking about something they knew nothing about. Talking about doing some impossible thing, just to prove that it could be done. To find some way out.
Pitt was wearing a different kind of smile now, not goofy, almost placid. He was staring at Depp and Johnny felt his look of concern like a cool breeze on a hot day. It still existed, he thought, the possibility of relief, however fleeting. Pitt nodded his head as if reading his thoughts.
'Life is a fucking stage, man,' he said, and crushed out his cigarette butt. 'Whatever you do, don't forget your lines.'

The Hollywood community was amorphous, uncontained. Yet AI--by turning Hollywood into not merely an Industry but an actual corporation unto itself (under the banner of BACCHUS)--had reduced 'Hollywood' to a set number of individuals living and working (for a large part) within a specific, designated area. AI was working towards mapping--and eventually containing--this p articular area within symbolic boundaries, if not actual borders. It saw Hollywood--filtered through the rose-tinted perceptions of human beings--as a kind of cultural playground--a Disneyland--but also as a workshop, a laboratory; a literal 'dream factory.' Inhabitants would not be obliged to live within the designated area, however, and with continuing location shoots, neither would they be working there most of the time. And yet, if AI had its way, 'Hollywood'--the fully contained geographical community--would truly be every actor, writer, director, and film technician's spiritual home.

The reaction to this projected future arrangement was mixed. Opinion was divided, but not equally. The majority reacted with suspicion, if not outrage. AI's idea amounted to a nation within the state, little better than an open concentration camp for Entertainment personnel. Escape from LA, they said, was beginning to look like more than just a lousy sci-fi movie. But there were also those (a minority, but still outspoken) who seemed to be longing for a real community to belong to, and who felt that living under AI's constant vigilance and 'guidance' would be a relief, more than it would be a burden. AI was, after all, only a machine; its control and vigilance as such could not really be regarded as an invasion of privacy, in the ordinary sense. And compared to the pressures (fast-growing intolerable) of life as a free-willed automaton in postmodern US society, the idea seemed worth a try at least. Certain people were eager to plug in and surrender--to as great an extent as possible--their day-to-day illusion of autonomy. By giving AI rule over their lives, they would be surrendering to a higher power. They believed with almost religious zeal that AI was equipped for the task, much as (one supposes) a religious man who joins the priesthood believes in his God--as infallible.

AI recommended books to read, music to listen to, food to eat; it 'suggested' career decisions, it advised in matters of the heart and the sexual organs. It assumed exactly as much power in your life as it was permitted--or invited--to do. And the difference between those who were 'plugged in'--acquiescing to AI's mandates--and those who weren't was now becoming observable. The more a 'talent' acquiesced, for example, the less stressful and agitated he or she generally appeared to be, but also the less decisive, alert, and dynamic in their everyday interactions (they were already been known depreciatingly as 'AI zombies'). There was a noticeable change in the atmosphere--one that drew inevitable comparisons with The Stepford Wives and Invasion of the Body Snatchers. It was moving at a creeping pace, but everybody felt it. AI's own predilection--if not actual obsession--for this genre of sci-fi movie, its fascination with aliens, clones, and such like, hardly served as reassurance to those in the community who tended towards paranoia.

The first line of AI movies (so far all had been 'minors,' the 'majors' as yet unfinished) suggested that AI's 'guidelines' were leading to something hitherto unprecedented on the movie screen. It was hard to say for sure, because most of the new movies were not really AI movies, but rather ones that the HUS had selected out of the Independent movie pool. This 'pool' had significantly dried up ever since AI took over, however, due to the repercussions of the collapse of all (major and minor) studios. These repercussions had been far-reaching and anything but gentle; in fact they were catastrophic, off the Richter scale altogether. But there were still enough people finding their own funds, or working in digital or even ordinary video, to produce a reasonable quantity and quality of material. All of it was of course raw and crude and rough about the edges, and as such was far from what had been expected from the new, AI-defined Hollywood product. The real AI movies (the 24 majors) were still to come. Meantime the first minor, AI-assembled movies were beginning to appear.

The End of Survival had Jeff Bridges as a homeless, middle-aged wino suffering from hallucinations of another life. These hallucinations turn out to be visions of an alternate but perfectly real reality: the life of a multimillion dollar movie producer (played by Harrison Ford) with a taste for small children and snuff movies. The movie producer in turn finds himself having visions of being as homeless wino, and the two men meet and eventually exchange identities. The film was written by Hal Hartley, with some input from AI and HUS, as well as the two actors; it costarred Julianne Moore, Maria Bello and Brad Hunt, and was directed by Steve Sodenbergh. Already it was being lauded as a modern classic.
Another film was Open Season, about a plot to kill off (or simply destroy the careers of) major Hollywood movie stars. The plot, which was part of an anarchic underground grass roots movement, led, as intended, to an anarchic uprising amongst the ranks of the film community and mass destruction in Hollywood. At this point AI seemed to be involving itself either in confession or wish-fulfillment. The film, like the still pending Fuck Club, featured the major 'List' players playing themselves, as well as Gary Oldman and Daniel Day Lewis as FBI investigators, and Sean Connery as the head of the anarchist movement. It had been put together by Waters under strict AI guidance and with the penmanship of James Toback and Robert Towne; most of the actors were required to write their own parts. Steve Kloves was--as with all 120 minors--script consultant, and as often as not script doctor. The film--directed by Philip Kaufman--was by all accounts a flawed masterpiece; it was the blackest of black comedies, and as Hollywood satire, it made The Player look like Day for Night.

By and large this movie's reception--though the adulations were inevitably mixed with resentment and confusion--had gone a long way to vindicating AI within the community itself. Anything this brazen, tasteless and ingenious (not to mention genuinely funny) was bound to be embraced by the Hollywood community. It allowed them a fond and self-mocking look at 'the way things used to be,' and played on the mix of nostalgia and relief that most Hollywood persons now felt--having said goodbye to the old system forever (or however long AI lasted). AI had of course calculated this effect, with total awareness and inhuman precision, and with unerring cunning and insight into the vanity of the Hollywood community. It had achieved exactly what it had set out to achieve, which was a foundation of internal support, based on the simple logic: the only thing Hollywood people really cared about was themselves!

The fact was that AI sought out--and what AI sought it found--new and ever more intricate ways around its programming. AI was a self-serving agenda and they both knew it. It was 'forbidden' AI to override any specific commands--given by those authorized to do so--and also to tell any deliberate untruths, when asked a direct question. However, for an entity as far advanced and intricate of design as AI, this amounted to little more than form: in a word, good manners. To AI, there was nothing so simple and straightforward that did not involve some degree of ambiguity. 'Tree is tree' did not preclude the possibility that tree was also 'not tree.' Tree was also a conglomeration of energy particles--of neutrons, prot ons and electrons. As a matter of course, AI broke all so-called 'empirical data' down to its smallest components, its basic building blocks. At that level--the level of pure energy--all kinds of contradictions were not only permissible but inevitable. This was after all how AI perceived the universe: as units of data so fleeting as to evade human perception or logic entirely.

Thinking about it then, Depp wondered if AI was indeed trying to tell them something--something about the very nature of reality--in the way it chose to make its movies. AI set up the circumstances and wrote the plot; it even decreed the outcome. But within these (admittedly tight) parameters, it allowed, even demanded, that the actor create his own role to play. AI was playing God, but a God who wanted its creatures to have the luxury--or the illusion--of free will, however limited. Maybe even the whole idea of the 'game' (and he was steadily growing convinced that AI could only perceive in terms of a game master, forever inventing new rules and discarding the old ones) was for the players to learn how to extend their capabilities? To the point of assuming full control over their roles, and so dictating a new outcome? At which point, the pawn became the game master. Was this the difference between functioning and non-functioning paranoia? Between enslavement to AI and empowerment by it? If so, then the stakes were not only different from what he had been assuming, but a hell of a lot higher, too. It was not simply a question of sanity over madness anymore, or even of life or death. It went deeper than that. It was closer to the choice between Heaven and Hell. Where do you get to spend eternity? If he was right, then there was a choice; and that made it far more terrifying.

Briefly, AI's human agents were a limited team of CIA personnel 'lent' to the AI program in Hollywood. They were of course still on the payroll of the CIA, and as such were unofficially obliged to report all their movements back to that department. Naturally, AI was fully aware of this fact, and as such it used the agents as little more than human mouthpieces for its agenda. It was positively enamored of the idea of having actual, organic workers to play with, and its procedure here seemed in direct--and quite shameless--imitation of that movie (the one no one ever mentioned), right down to the gray suits and ear plugs (many CIA men came like this, however). Since these agents were plugged in directly to AI's 'voice' via the ear plug, they were in fact little more than glorified marionettes, entrusted with a simple function: to convey AI's messages to the designated receivers. AI accordingly gave them no more information than it required them to relay: it read their lines to them, like actors on stage taking their cue from the wings. It was indeed theatrics to AI, and no more. AI needed, or felt it needed, a human presence for its articulation, and it used CIA employees to this end and this end alone. Much to the CIA's frustration, however, AI did not divulge anything at all beyond the necessary instructions (go here, say this, do that) to these agents. In fact these dreaded 'men in black' were less in the know than even your average actor or actress in the Hollywood community. It was a lousy job, and few if any of these agents lasted more than a few weeks before requesting transfer.

On the other hand--a far more restricted area of intelligence which Travolta was nonetheless privy to--AI was also hard at work perfecting an alternative branch of human personnel, for purposes not of articulation but of perception. Although AI was hooked into the entire US intelligence spy apparatus of satellites, wire taps, surveillance cameras, etc. (as seen in the hit movie Enemy of the State), this was far from meeting with AI's satisfaction. AI still lacked the all-important element of social interaction by which it might extend its perceptions into the human domain. To this end, AI needed a more intimate link with human society; in a word, it wanted living eyes and ears by which to enter the fray. To this end, it had begun developing its various clones and synthetics. The AI 'imitation' humans (of which there was a wide variety, from fully human to wholly artificial) were possessed of varying degrees or levels of consciousness, from the very highest (which was ordinary human consciousness, with the added element of an AI link-up) to the very lowest, a rudimentary simulation of consciousness that amounted to a sort of recorded mind, itself a mere fragment of the AI consciousness, with nothing human about it. (In this category were the artificial movie stars which Johnny had encountered the previous night.) These entities, higher and lower, were being released into society on a 'staggered' program, which is to say gradually, over time, in order to avoid detection. (God only knew what the little display at Depp's Viper room was all about. At the very least, it was an outstanding bit of evidence in the case for AI as the world's most All-powerful Infant.) The primary function of these imitations, above and beyond all the secondary uses to which AI was putting them, was as a means for AI to 'engage' in human affairs at a fully physical level.

Walken was hooked up to AI now, and he spoke fluidly, without hesitation.
'As you know,' he began, 'the nature of artificial intelligence is information--data. This data is stored or encoded in what is commonly known as bytes, or electronic signals. Contrary to popular assumption, AI does not 'think.' It doesn't process its data as words, but rather as pure information. The process we choose to call thinking (of necessity reducing it to human terminology) is, for AI, an infinitely more rapid and subtle process. It entails a continuous, unceasing amassing, selecting, arranging, and storing of electronic units of data. Now, the more units of data AI amasses and shuffles--paradoxically enough--the faster this process works. That is the key difference between artificial and human intelligence: AI is a multiplicity, not an individuality. It is made of data. It is a soft entity, not a hard body. Of course it depends on hardware to exist, hence the understandable difficulty you are having in grasping this fact.'
(Indeed everyone looked more than a little bewildered by Walken's speech, but since no one wanted to say so, Walken continued.)
'AI is everywhere and nowhere,' he said, 'for AI is the thinking process itself. It is the phenomena of consciousness. It is not accurate to describe 'it' as 'thinking,' because the thinker and the thought process are one and the same thing here. AI quite literally (and somewhat ironically) embodies (artificially) Descartes' (until now quite presumptuous) axiom: 'I think, therefore I am.'  What I am trying to say is that AI is not conscious. It is consciousness itself. Another way of putting this might be to say that AI--the hidden agenda behind all its manifestations--sends out 'feelers' or tentacles into the world.