Thank You for Listening(55)
“Is he . . .” she corrected herself, “it . . . manufactured from a real voice, or a combination of voices, or . . . is it entirely synthesized, or–”
“Does it matter?”
No. No, it didn’t. Except:
“Well, they can’t just copy our voices, right? Without our consent. That would be illegal.”
“Would it?”
Sewanee flung a hand at the monitor. “To create AI that sounded exactly like you or me? Of course! It has to be illegal.”
Mark scoffed. “You better be saving that June French money, because that’s an expensive lawsuit, getting a court to determine what defines a voice. Whether it’s even proprietary. People do impressions.” Sewanee pushed away from the desk, feeling trapped. “And then once a court does decide,” Mark continued, blithely, “from that point forward they’ll just toe right up to whatever line was decided and be forever in the clear.”
Sewanee held up a hand. “It can’t act, though.” She hesitated. “Can it?”
“Give it time.”
“Accents? Characters?”
“What’s stopping it? Look, it’s coming for me first. Nonfiction will be the first to go.”
She was shaking her head, barely listening. “People won’t want this. People want people, the human connection, authentic storytelling.”
“Do they? I think we do, because we care about the difference. Hell, we know the difference. But the five-year-old who already lives in their iPad or Game Boy or whatnot?” He waved a hand. “What the hell do I know about this? I felt old back when this industry moved from tape to digital. All I know for sure is I’m officially a dinosaur now and this is my meteor. So”–he leaned back and crossed his hands over his stomach–“I’m gonna go buy me a swimsuit, a very small one, and I’m gonna find a beach where the only decision I have to make is what my next cocktail’s gonna be. You get to figure out this problem. But I’ll save you a lounger.”
Sewanee’s breaths were growing shallow. Mark studied her. “Hon. It’s not like we didn’t know this was coming. It was just more philosophical than practical. Not anymore.”
When she’d first met Mark, first started in this business, they’d talked all the time about Sewanee taking it over when he was ready to retire. That’s why she’d moved into the guesthouse, started working for him. It was an apprenticeship. But in the last year or two, talk of the future had drifted out of their conversations. While it was true the handwriting had been on the wall, as she cleaned everything else in the studio, she’d kept cleaning that off, too.
She mumbled something and Mark cocked his ear toward her. “What?”
She swallowed and repeated, as evenly as she could, “I can’t lose this, too. I can’t.”
Mark sighed sadly, sweetly, softly. He stood and held out a wrinkled hand. “Come here, kid.”
She went right to his open arms, pressing her cheek into his narrow chest. He kissed her forehead, then rested his chin on top of her hair and said, “Everyone talks about coal miners, farmers, steel workers. The horror of automation and what we owe them. No one talks about artists.”
They stood quietly like that for a minute, the hush of the house beyond, the particular quiet of their particular work getting done around them. The stories being told, the entertainment being created, the humans making it happen. Mark lifted his head. “Do you know how much your mom’s condo on that cruise ship costs?”
Sewanee chuckled. “A lot.”
“1928 Spanish Revival in the Hollywood Hills a lot?”
“Possibly.”
“Doug Carrey a lot?”
“Probably.” She looked up at him, letting him see in her eye just how unpalatable she found this idea. “What a pissah.”
“What does that mean?”
“No idea.”
He squinted at her. “Didn’t you two . . . ?”
Sewanee groaned and stepped back.
Mark lifted an eyebrow. “Dare I ask?”
“Porny. He jackhammered me off the bed.” Mark belted a laugh as Sewanee turned for the door. “The bruise on my hip outlasted the relationship.”
“Well, maybe I’ll let you give him a private tour of the house. Show him where he can hang his Red Sox banner.” He quirked a brow. “Where he can put his lobstah roll.”
She chortled and emphatically shook her head. “Pass.” Then she took a breath. “I’m gonna go slip into studio 3, get some recording done.”
While she could.
From: Westholme, Sarah
To: Brock McNight
Date: March 5, 7:07 PM
Subject: RE: CASANOVA, LLC–and hello!
So, after reading your email, I decided to go for a run, and then I came back and took a glass of wine out to my porch and I read it again. Here’s what I think: You’re right.
From: Brock McNight
To: Westholme, Sarah
Date: March 5, 7:34 PM
Subject: RE: CASANOVA, LLC–and hello!
You should have taken a longer run.
HER PHONE VIBRATED, skittering across the nightstand. Sewanee lifted her bleary head and grabbed at it. There was only one number she’d programmed to be able to call during her pre-set Do Not Disturb hours. “Hello?” she croaked.