by Sean Platt
But as the string of thoughts ran through his mind, Micah stopped to wonder at his own rancor. What was stirring his pot? He wasn’t usually so testy.
He thought of Kai Dreyfus.
He thought of his mother.
At least it would all be over soon. This Shift had been a real son of a bitch. The process was usually a rubber stamp, but this year there’d been nothing but strife. The rioting, contained but loud, had been nearly constant. DZPD and the sweeperbot database had shown an increase in violent crime. Natasha had felt compelled to put on her dramatic little show while Nicolai decided to grow a pair. Everyone wanted to come crying to Micah — including Nicolai, who didn’t even want to admit it. Pressure from above, pressure from below, pressure from all sides. It was almost enough to make a man lose his cool.
But, Micah thought as Reese began his Prime Statement to the Senate, the die had been cast. Enterprise, after bending the Directorate over a barrel and making it whimper, had won the PR battle — what they used to call the battle for “hearts and minds.” Economics composed only half of the Shift decision for most people. The other half was that well-cultivated impression of teams, of us versus them. Everyone wanted to be on the winning side, and thanks largely to Isaac (and not at all rescued by his last-minute police heroics, no matter what he thought), the Directorate had looked like a bunch of bumbling idiots lately. The Directorate had held the Senate throughout NAU history because people didn’t like to work or be responsible for their fates, but even that could be overwhelmed by a strong enough desire to not join a group of douche bags for the next six years.
“As the twenty-second century dawns, this great union has entered a new phase of its evolution,” said Shiloh Reese, his hands gripping the lectern by its sides. The lectern itself was wood as an homage to traditional government (because that was a good model, thought Micah) and served no purpose besides being a prop. Reese’s voice, picked up by nanos and re-broadcast, echo-dampened, seemingly from the air itself, was in every ear without need for a mounted mic.
“We are no longer a struggling nation recovering from catastrophe. We are now a fully realized, self-determined people who have clawed their way up from ruin, stood tall, and made this nation into the dominant — really, the only — power on the planet. We are not standing due to luck. We are here because of our work ethic. Because we have earned it.”
Micah’s eyes flicked to gauge Isaac’s reaction. All of the Directorate eyes were forward, though, watching the superimposed holo of Reese projected in front of the blank wall of senators. He couldn’t read concern or lack of concern on any faces — his brother’s in particular. It was disorienting not to see Isaac squirm. Had he finally surrendered? Was he feeling content in his shattered marriage (or at least in his re-claimed position as Big Dick of his own house) following Natasha’s “rescue”? Everyone knew how this was going to go. Prime Speeches had swung large percentages in the past (from a Directorate landslide to a merely comfortable Directorate victory or vice-versa), but The Beam and the public relations war had already decided this election. The Statements would just screw the lid more tightly on an already-sealed jar. Reese’s speech was meant to prepare the union for a more Enterprise style of thinking: The NAU fought its way to the top throughout its history, so Enterprise citizens must do the same. Those who survive deserve to be at the top…and those who fail deserve their fate, too.
Directorate would lose, and die-hard Directorate members — always needed to grease the world’s wheels because monkeys would always be required to obediently pull levers — could keep taking their doles, living their comfortable lives. But those on the edge would be forced to wonder why they hadn’t hopped on the winning team as the rocket was rising (beem currency would help with that), and new Enterprise, whether they flunked life’s tests or not, would realize that self-determination was the only way. Only sheep ate from the hand that would later so eagerly open their throats.
Micah checked the projection, seeing that he was still out of the shot. Again, he adjusted his tie. Noah Fucking West, was he keyed up. Hostile. Maybe watching Isaac for signs of cracking wasn’t the best use of his energy today. Maybe he should be staring into a mirror instead.
He listened to Reese, counting the buzzwords: bootstrapping, responsibility, self-determination, no excuses. Reese was as smooth as Micah. By the time new members inevitably failed, they’d be blaming themselves and thanking the party for deigning to let them try.
President Reese concluded his Statement, then turned per custom and gave a tiny bow to his cabinet. Micah nodded while the others around him did the same. Respect begat respect. They were all for one and one for all and would only go back to throwing elbows to get their share of spoils once Shift and the dog and pony show that went with it were finished.
The holo projection changed to show Carter Vale.
Micah felt his fists clench then told himself for the third time to relax. Vale would lead Directorate until he retired or was moved out, and the latter was extremely unlikely given the president’s popularity. In all likelihood, Micah would be looking at the handsome face and folksy grin of Carter Vale for years to come. He’d pose in photos beside him; he’d shake his hand at public functions. And that was okay. Micah didn’t hate the man. He didn’t even know him. But Shift, like elections of old, had a way of bringing out the worst in everyone. Shift reminded the world that it had sides, and pitted those sides against one another as a natural effect of their rally. Shift gave everyone long-forgotten reasons to dislike each other, just as Micah so vehemently disliked Vale right now. But in the end, wasn’t Vale playing the same game as the rest of them? His image couldn’t be accurate. He was painted by the sheets and proper news channels alike as an idealist — a man who’d come from nothing but never lost his sense of right and wrong. That’s why people loved his aura of mischief: He was rascally in his role as chief poobah and cynic, not in his role as a responsible human being. He mocked his title. He mocked his position. And he did what seemed right, whether it was proper or not.
“Hi there,” he said, looking at the wall of senators but not touching the lectern as Reese had gripped his. A wide grin creased his face, and Micah knew that the cameras, which were watching from the Senate perspective, would see him as if he were looking into their eyes. “It’s so nice to see all these familiar faces again.”
Behind Vale, the cabinet laughed. There was a small audience to one side — high society members who liked to pretend they cared about the union’s direction. The audience laughed, too. Micah, hearing it, was almost confused. As far as he could remember, he’d never heard laughter at a Prime Statement.
Vale smiled wider, his eyes still meeting the blacked-out boxes occupied by the senators as if meeting the eyes of the anonymous senators themselves. “I know it’s my duty, here and today, to tell you all how Directorate will change over the next few years. And to tell you how Directorate has changed over the past few. A lot of people are out there watching, and they’re trying to decide if they want to be Directorate or Enterprise for the next spell. I’m supposed to deliver a report card, to help them decide.”
Micah found himself looking directly at the side of Vale’s head, not the holo projection. His jaw felt heavy, his mouth wanting to hang open. What kind of Prime Statement was this? Amid the incompetence, Micah wasn’t the only one taken off guard. Directorate cabinet members were all casting tiny glances at each other, trying to maintain their composure for all those watching from their canvases but unable to repress their surprise at what seemed to be an off-plan speech. The mischievous president strikes again.
“The problem I always had with all of this, even when I was behind that dark glass and hearing these speeches myself — ” Here, Vale held both arms out and gestured as if to encompass the room. “ — was that at a time when the NAU was supposed to be celebrating itself, it reinforced division. That never made sense to me. The Senate decides many issues, sure, but the individual parties still mostly get wh
at they want. An Enterprise Senate doesn’t change the average Directorate citizen’s life much, if at all, and vice-versa. So why do we do this? Why all the pomp and circumstance? Why isn’t Shift a quiet decision, handled at leisure, like renewing a driver’s license?”
Micah found himself wanting to shove Reese aside and answer Vale’s rhetorical question. Had he missed the memo? Had he been asleep through orientation? Not only was all of this blatant, tacky posturing about something that wasn’t going to change, but it was drawing attention to the governmental process — something people more or less accepted without question, simply because it was the way things had more or less always been.
But Vale’s questions were finished, and Micah watched the Directorate president’s demeanor change to that of giving cynical, mischievous answers.
“As my fellow president so eloquently said — ” Vale nodded toward Reese, who tried to smile in reply but only managed a toothy grimace. “ — we really are the last of the planet. We used to have global partners. Now, we have only ourselves. We need adversaries; I get it. But rather than spending all this time focusing on how we’re different, perhaps it makes more sense to rally. To focus on how we’re the same.”
Micah looked to the wall of senators for help, but none came. Nobody with a face or a voice was in charge of the Prime Statements. Cameras moved to the next speaker, and the parties knew the routine without being told. The Senate was faceless. Unless someone stepped even further out of line to stop him, Vale would continue to ramble without interruption.
“I’m not going to try and persuade you.” Vale’s holographic gaze met Micah’s eyes. Every viewer would see the same stare: the enormous Beam wall blank behind his earnest face. “You’re big boys and girls. Shift is your decision, not mine. You are deciding your own fate — for you alone — more than you’re deciding the fate of the union. Whichever way the Senate tilts, your individual wills, for your lives, matter more. I will not presume to tell you who you are — Directorate or Enterprise, Enterprise or Directorate. I have a few minutes to speak, but I’d rather use it to tell you who we are — or who we once were, and should perhaps consider becoming again.”
Beside Micah, a slight man named Saul Temple broke the silence.
“What the hell is he doing?”
Micah considered answering, but the shot flicked to Enterprise, probably drawn by Temple’s activity. Micah shrugged.
“I’m a student of history.” Vale chuckled. “And as you all know, I’m older than I look. Not too long before I was born, the world was one, joining hands to raise the moon base and the radio array that let us see the beginning of time. The world had joined hands before the Fall, but then Old America decided to cut itself off in the name of triage. Then we joined hands again — internally, this time — to survive the chaos of the ’30s. We joined hands behind Crossbrace. We joined hands behind The Beam. Today, the NAU is more connected than ever. We’re functioning, day to day, as an enormous single mind. And yet this is how we spend our unity. By focusing on division.”
He paused, looking around the room and daring anyone to speak.
“It’s time to join hands again,” he said. “Behind Project Mindbender.”
Micah felt the bottom drop from his stomach. “Mindbender” was as taboo a word as “Beau Monde.” Once upon a time, the nation had dreamed about uploading minds to The Beam, but it had been in the afterglow of Renewal, dreams of the restoration of the Golden Days still dancing in citizens’ heads like visions of sugar plums. Mindbender as it existed today was a secret, buried so deep that Xenia had its own police force to make sure it stayed covered. It wasn’t the project that the NAU had forgotten decades earlier. Now it was an advanced initiative that wasn’t yet ready for prime time.
The silence broke. Cabinets chattered, arguing, darting angry stares around their respective groups and at each other. Vale held up his hands.
“Oh, it’s just a beginning. Nobody is talking about going full-digital anytime soon. It will take much of the next century to perfect and make safe, but ladies and gentlemen, it will happen. Anyone can see the signs and predict where we’re headed. Who, other than those with a conscientious objection to the network, isn’t plugged into The Beam at all times? You out there watching at home: Are you downloading today’s activities into a life-log from your memory as you watch? Are you maintaining open connections so that you and your friends in other districts can be together — in sound and sight — even though you’re apart? How many of you are using habit and efficiency apps that tracked your movements all day? Do you have a smart fridge? Is there a roast in the oven…and if so, did you put it there? Did you even have to decide, or have you set your canvas to dedicated preference? If you’ve done that, how long has it taken your canvas’s AI to separate your whims from your real desires? How long has it taken your canvas to know when you’re kidding, when you’re being flighty, and when you actually want or need something you can’t quite put your finger on…but that it can figure out, and easily provide for you?”
Micah’s head was spinning. Vale’s resumed speech hadn’t quieted the room. If there were a judge with a gavel, he’d be banging it hard and calling for order. Did Vale know what Xenia was doing with the modern version of Mindbender? Or was this a pipe dream — another bit of whimsy from the idealistic new president? The process of uploading a mind, once quirks were ironed out, would begin at the highest levels, uploading geniuses that the NAU couldn’t lose to death. It would be phenomenally expensive — typically out of reach to all but the Beau Monde unless supported by a grant. What possible good would it do to inform the masses? Was this all a coincidence, his pulling the old Mindbender nugget from the zeitgeist?
“We’re alone in the world,” said Vale. “One union. One people. We’re all Earth has left, in terms of mankind’s advancement. We shouldn’t focus on division. We must focus on unity. Because we are a union. We once had shared goals, but we’ve fallen out of practice. Now we’ll have a new goal. And when, eventually, we learn to live as digital beings, no longer needing to fight as viciously for resources, we’ll have achieved this great union’s promise.”
Vale turned his head to look directly at the Enterprise group, his eyes meaningful.
“All of us,” he said in a much softer voice. “Together.”
Shit, thought Micah.
The room boomed. The audience stood and began to surge forward. The White House had automated security, but it usually stayed at bay for diplomatic reasons. Now the sweepers came forward, upright like large bullets, hovering with a scent like ozone. Their jackets were bright white, smooth carapaces devoid of features. They moved toward the retreating audience then drifted toward the dual podiums, waiting.
The room quieted. Vale, apparently finished, fell a step back. The wrap-up began to uncomfortably unfold, but what Vale had said couldn’t be unsaid.
All of us. Together.
And that look he’d given the Enterprise group.
Whatever Vale had in mind, whatever knowledge he had of Mindbender today, he’d made one message abundantly clear:
Whenever Mindbender went live, he intended it to be a social service.
Free for those who received social services.
For members of Directorate.
The feed ended. Sam sat in his apartment, staring at the screen, as Beam Headlines replaced the Prime Statement.
He seemed to recall something the Directorate president had said about Project Mindbender (a term Sam remembered from old Internet legends, right up there with something called “Y2K”), but his mind had already shuttled that aside so he could forget it. He’d normally grab his canvas or at least a pen and write it down so it wouldn’t exit his leaky brain forever, but Sam was too shocked by the bigger thing he’d seen at the Primes.
Or rather, what he hadn’t seen.
Sam closed the Beam connection then stood to pace. He had no implants left in his head, but he suddenly felt like the entire world — both as people and
as those using the network — was able to peek beneath his skull. He wanted a hat. Perhaps one made of foil.
“Motherfucker. Motherfucker!”
Sam moved faster, looking down at his feet. His errant arm struck a chair and made it wobble. The other arm hit a tablet on the kitchen counter then jabbed the tablet toward a glass of water Sam had forgotten from three days ago, knocking it to the floor. The thing was actual glass, having come with the low-end apartment and probably a hundred years old. It detonated like a bomb, splattering Sam’s socks with old water. It had probably been an antique. Surely been an antique. An antique was anything twenty years old or older, right? How much of his stuff was antiques? And where exactly was the line between “antique” and “old piece of shit”?
His mind was wandering, heading down rabbit holes. Pieces of shit and antiques were nothing to be thinking about. He reeled his scattered attention in, momentarily forgetting why he was so agitated. Then he saw his canvas and felt a deep reaction to seeing it that felt like a punch in the gut. He was suddenly afraid of The Beam. Why?
Oh, yes. The threats that must be coming.
And sure enough, Sam’s canvas began to ping. He’d set Shadow’s encrypted Null forum box to alert him when new mail arrived, and there was no way to turn off the sound without opening the inbox itself to change the settings. He didn’t want to do that. The subject lines of the messages, even if he didn’t open them, were sure to be terrible. Null had been rallied and ready. They’d been eager to break shit. Shadow had puffed his chest and implied that great revolutionary change (Null’s favorite kind of change, mouth-breathing basement dwellers that they were) was at hand.
“Watch the Prime Statement,” Shadow told them, “And you will motherfucking see some motherfuckers get pwned.”
