“Jamie! I'm going to be on UK Idol.”

Credit: Illustration by Jacey

Ellie did a twirl, hands at her waist, palms parallel to the floor.

“But you can't sing.”

She fought down an urge to slap him.

“That doesn't matter anymore. They have autotune. What counts is how you look.”

She demonstrated another dance move.

“Let me know if I can help.”

She almost fell over in mid-step. Her genius little brother had never before offered help without demanding something in return. Perhaps he was feeling guilty about wrecking her relationship with her boyfriend.

“Please,” she said. “This means everything to me.”

Help took the form of an image of her on the big living room TV, which was plugged into one of Jamie's bulging, modified computers. Jamie videoed her dance routine and then they ran it in slow motion and moused it into shape, speeding up moves or slowing them down, repositioning legs, arms and head.

“Is it perfect now?”

She nodded. He saved the routine.

It was the ultimate dance coach, a magic mirror. When she danced in front of the camera, the image on the TV highlighted every departure from perfect: red for too slow, blue for too fast, solid black showing where an out of position body part should be. She was sweating and aching after an hour's practice; forcing her body into the right position at the right time was hard work, but she was perfecting the routine faster and better than she would have thought possible. Within a week, the TV might well have been a mirror. Not even a trace of correction appeared when she practised.

“Do you want to come with me?” she asked. “I can get an audience pass for you.”

Of course he wouldn't come. Jamie hated crowds.

“I'd love to.”

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Backstage was the best experience of her life. The production staff were kind and solicitous, they paid attention to her and took care of her. The room crackled with energy; the contestants were no longer just hopefuls, they were performers and they were about to perform. She wasn't nervous when she walked out onto the stage.

Half an hour later, as she met Jamie, tears were still pouring down her face, ruining her professionally applied make-up.

“What's wrong? You got through to the next show.”

“But I was awful. I got the timing of the words wrong. The only reason I wasn't eliminated was because the boy who fell over was worse. I even sang ahead of the backing track. I was note perfect but the notes were in the wrong places. What am I going to do?

“Practice?”

“Can you make me something to help?”

“Sure.”

Ellie took a day off to recover from the disaster. Jamie disappeared into his machinery-crammed bedroom, where Ellie no longer dared to venture. They met the next evening in the neutral ground of the living room.

“This should do it,” said Jamie, pointing at a stack of three of his mutant computers, plugged into each other with a web of coloured cables. “It does for words what autotune does for notes. You can teach it by reading it the song in the correct timing, but it's easier just to input the sheet music or another artist singing the song. Then it adjusts the timing of your words to fit the music.”

She liked the way he said 'another artist'. If he could learn to be polite to people, she might yet succeed in finding him a girlfriend.

“You mean this doesn't teach me, it just does it for me.”

She liked the idea of that. But there was an obvious fault.

“It's much too big. I can't carry it on stage.”

“Don't worry. It takes the audio from your mike, processes it backstage and feeds it to their hardware. I'll need a stage pass so I can operate it.”

“I'm sure I can arrange it.”

She had no problems. The girl she usually talked to said she needed to talk to her boss and her boss had to do the same, but an hour later Ellie got a call from the head of production saying it would be fine. She had never talked to the head of production before.

She put thoughts of coming glory firmly out of her mind and did an hour of practice on her new dance routine. She was still getting a few corrections and for the final she wanted to be move perfect, note perfect ... and word perfect.

Production outdid themselves for the final. There was a buffet of lovely catered food and a juice bar with fresh juice, not to mention people doing hair, nails, make-up and shoulder and neck massage. Ellie loved every moment of it. She belonged.

Again she was without fear as she waited and this time her confidence was justified. She didn't win, but she was runner up, and everyone knew that the top three always get contracts and a career launch. She swept off the stage in her designer dress, head held high, bouquet in her arms, and accepted the mostly genuine congratulations of her follow contestants as she waited outside the production office while the winner signed his contract. Then the door opened to admit her to her new life.

Jamie wasn't very good at reading emotions but even he could see that something was wrong when she emerged.

“Did you get your contract?”

“No. They want to sign your system, not me.”

She could feel the tears coming. If a machine shaped your every action, your work meant nothing. Jamie was looking at her blankly.

“They want to sign a contract with you.”

“Great! I wonder if they'd like the dance-teaching system too?”

The room resounded to the sound of her slapping him.Footnote 1