Excerpt:
SCALED SWAN
Chapter 4
Roma sat perched on the kitchen counter, waiting as he chilled a can. After a blast of freezing air, he cracked the drink open and walked into the living room. He glanced toward the studio; the door was shut tight. Through the triangular pane of the transom, he could see the rhythmic flickering of holographic light. His friend hadn’t emerged for a full day—and it wasn’t the first time. The house, cold and choked with dust, betrayed its status as a disconnected relic. This was exactly why Roma had insisted on giving him a mechanical key instead of a scannable one.
Then, a sound drifted from the workshop.
“Finished? I think I’m finished.” Marcus pulled the precision micro-stylus away and stepped back. “I’m finished. I don’t believe it. I’m finished, Roma! Come in here and look at this!”
Roma pushed the door open and stopped dead. He looked at the painting, then at Marcus.
“What’s wrong? Say something!”
“I can’t see it. It’s censored.” Roma tried to interact with his interface, but he couldn’t push through the digital shroud obscuring the image.
“God, they’re relentless. I’ll have to file a complaint,” Marcus growled. “Tell yours to override it.”
“I can’t. It says that according to the latest terms and conditions, any content with a ‘predictive tendency for censurable material’ is prohibited. When did I even agree to that?”
“What kind of idiocy is that?! It’s a standard dynamic painting. Perfect, beautiful, but standard. They can’t do this.”
“Did you use an AI assistant to paint it?”
“No. You know I don’t paint like that.”
“That’s strange. Maybe that’s why? I’ll ask. Assistant: Is this painting censored for all users?” Roma paused, setting his beer-flavored can down on one of the studio’s worktables.
Marcus explored the piece again, quadrant by quadrant, trying to find a signal of anything obscene. To the naked eye, nothing violated the standards of decorum. Then, a strange thought slipped into the back of his mind—that time Renata had seen the swan in its most skeletal form and, yet… she had wanted to censor it even then.
“Aham. Yeah. Okay,” Roma muttered. “It says the work isn’t illegal, but it can only be viewed under a censorship veil.”
“It took me nearly a year to finish this. A year of my life! Turn that Retishit off! Turn it off for two minutes!”
“I can’t. My data credits are just enough to get me to the end of the month. I set it to auto-sync. I can change it in a few days, but—”
“You’re shitting me.” Marcus began to pace nervously through the workshop, clutching his head as if the situation were physically inviting his migraine back. “No, no, no. This can’t be happening. Tell me what you see! At least tell me the shape of the fog.”
“Erm… just a smudge of black mist over a red background. It could be anything.” Roma clicked his tongue and shook his head. “What a disaster, man.”
Marcus looked at him, unhinged, his eyes blinking rapidly as he struggled to find words. His arms went limp; his head bowed. He whispered, “Go on without me. I’m going to try to fix this. I’m not in the mood.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to go out? Clear your head? It’ll probably sort itself out—must be a glitch.”
“Later. I’ll let you know,” Marcus said through gritted teeth, a vein bulging on his bald forehead.
Roma’s patience, which had been stretched thin for months, finally snapped. He walked to the exit and stopped before opening it.
“Marcus… that painting… I haven’t seen you this bad since Lina.”
“Don’t play mother with me, Roma! I’m fine.”
“The hell you are! You’re deteriorating. You’re coughing, your ears are bleeding… it’s like you’ve forgotten you’re nearly ninety years old. If it weren’t for the interface, you’d already be—”
“If I die, I’ll let you know.”
“It’s not fucking funny! You aren’t seeing what I’m seeing.”
“What do you want me to say, Roma?”
“That you’ll reconnect. That you’ll go to the hospital. That you’ll… come back from this delusion. Accept it, Marcus. No one is going to see that painting. No one.” Roma paused, choosing his next words with agonizing care. “Nobody cares about these things anymore.”
“I do. And clearly, they do too. Don’t bother coming back.”
Roma looked at him, stunned. He decided to swallow his final retort. Shaking his head, he stepped out of the apartment.
Marcus returned to the studio. He sat on the armchair, covered in a stained white sheet, facing the dynamic canvas. He activated Renata.
“Isolate the section of the Terms and Conditions regarding predictive censurable art.”
“Welcome, Marcus. I must again alert you to dangerously high blood glucose levels. It is recommended you visit the nearest medical facility. I can also contact emergency services.”
“Understood. I’ll deal with that later. Now, do what I asked.”
“Isolating. Section 54, Clause 30: All art produced independently of AI assistance shall be treated as corrupt and suspected of containing malicious code. Potential carrier of violent or obscene perversions, and high risk for use as communication channels for anti-CEC (Corporate State Conglomerate) terrorist cells. Censorship is final and non-appealable.”
“Renata, is there any circumstance in which this painting sees the light of day?”
“I’m sorry, Marcus. If you wish, I can suggest ideas for a new project. Would you like me to propose some themes?”
“Take all functions offline indefinitely. Including the house.”
“Warning: That action is subject to immediate suspension of your stipend and potential intervention by Remote Security Affairs. Furthermore, your vital signs are dropping alarmingly. Are you sure you wish to proceed?”
“Proceed.”
Suddenly, he felt a fear that had been anesthetized for years. To feel fragility was a new sensation, rare in this age. As an instinctive response, a phrase from an old story surfaced in his mind. Only now was it taking on real meaning.
“The true masterpiece only exists when the highest price is paid. And that, paradoxically, is only known by the one who creates it, not by those who would judge it so.”
He rummaged through drawers of old batteries and texture-storage disks until he found an acrylic invitation. He took a memory membrane and downloaded the painting. He adhered it to the temple opposite his Renata-link. He took the acrylic card and stared at it, settling his body into the chair. He searched through his personal messages, and from a long list of unopened mail, he chose one.
It was a courtesy invitation—automated, surely—to the 79th Southern Holographic Art Gala.
The Academy was about to have a last-minute exhibit.
“M.N. Pass valid. Do you wish to access?”
"Access…
…"
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