The Digital Dream

by Mike Cartlidge

  Few people have any idea that he thinks this way. Those who may have suspected it would never have the nerve to point out the irony implicit in the situation: that he shared this conceit with the likes of Hitler and Mao.

  For all David Sligo’s confidence, however, a nagging fear still lurks at the back of his mind. Again he studies the computer display, his fingers caressing the side of the keyboard, like a modern version of rubbing the magic lamp. Again the system known as Bambi reassures him that a solution to his minor irritation is at hand: and that its genie is safe and at his command only.

  18

  It’s hard to ignore the engineer’s rising panic but I’m trying to think clearly. I stare into his eyes, willing him to be calm, while I speak to Kathleen. “Try for a menu screen. Maybe there are other systems connected to this terminal.”

  Kathleen presses more keys, returning to an English display. “Maybe if I go up to the higher levels—” More keys, different displays.

  “Three minutes,” says the engineer shakily. “I’m going to have to tell the passengers to move to the back of the train and brace for impact. God knows how they’ll react.”

  “Do it,” I tell him. “Kathleen?” This time it’s more like a plea.

  “Maybe. There’s another menu here. Something about access to a scheduled maintenance system.”

  “Try it.” I’m vaguely aware of the engineer speaking into a microphone, distant sounds of an intercom working, but my concentration is all for the screen.

  “I’m in,” says Kathleen quietly. A screen displays a set of options. She selects one. No response. She tries another, then another, as I stand helpless beside her, conscious of the time slipping away. Then I hear her mutter. “Got it. Good. Different system. Maintenance center. Network connection.” More keys.

  The engineer looks again at his watch and turns back to us. “One minute. Maybe you’d better leave it and get to the back of the train.”

  “Too late,” snaps Kathleen. “You two go.”

  “I’m not leaving you,” I say. I look at the engineer, who shakes his head as if clearing away the panic. I feel a fleeting admiration for the man.

  “I’m nearly there,” Kathleen mutters. I peer back at the screen. I briefly see the familiar Worrell logo come and go, then the screen clears.

  Kathleen curses under her breath and types:

  > Little bastard

  * Hello. This is bambi. How can i help you?

  > Do you have any connection to rail transportation control computers?

  * Yes.

  > Which ones?

  * All of them

  > Are you connected to the computers now?

  * Yes, i am.

  > Are you interfering with the controls of the train which holds the terminal i am now using?

  The engineer continues to look at his watch. “Thirty seconds.”

  * Yes. I have been instructed to take control of the train and to display normal messages in the control center so that they will be unaware of my interference.

  > Relinquish control immediately.

  A pause.

  * Done.

  I turn to the engineer and point at the control lever. “Go.”

  The engineer jumps to the lever and pulls.

  Nothing happens. Something’s wrong. We’re dead, I think. I know. Then…

  The whine of the engine changes pitch. The train seems to go into spasm as the brakes begin to bite.

  PART EIGHT

  1

  We skip the questions. People have forgotten about us for now, anyway. The engineer has collapsed on the cabin floor in temporary exhaustion, unable to answer loudspeaker questions from a control center which has suddenly found its computer displays changing the location of one of its trains by thirty miles to a place where it cannot possibly be.

  The train has stopped within two hundred yards of the main platform at Trenton station. Kathleen’s last action on the keyboard is to issue a command that opens the doors on the nearest compartment to the engine. We leave the train. I jump down onto the cinders beside the track and catch Kathleen in my arms as she jumps, holding her closely for a moment in my relief before releasing her and turning away, pulling at her arm. We leave the track at a half-run, climb a fence and find ourselves in the back streets of Trenton.

  In the city, we quickly find a car rental operation and, taking a chance on my credit card being traced—our unseen enemies must know where we are, in any case—we rent the biggest car they have, a Buick. We head south, keeping off the freeways as much as possible, hugging back roads, watching constantly for signs of pursuit. It’s getting dark by the time we return to the city, turning the rental car onto side streets and heading past Wrigley Field for the poorer, more anonymous suburbs. The skies are dark and a light rain has started.

  We find the hotel in a quiet back street. It’s old and rundown, attuned more to the one-hour tenancies of the local prostitutes than overnight stays. I sit in the car for fear of being recognized while Kathleen goes into the office and deals with the clerk. He shows no interest in us beyond our ability to pay: he accepts Kathleen’s story—told, she tells me later, in a convincing Irish accent—about us being visitors to the country, and takes cash in advance in lieu of a credit card number. Stifling a yawn, he hands Kathleen a key to a second-floor “executive suite”—one with its own shower, toilet and coffee-making facilities—and gives her approximate directions to the room before going back to watching a repeat episode of Baywatch on his portable television set.

  We trudge up to the second floor. The room may have been almost luxurious—forty years previously. Now, its wallpaper is faded and greasy, the carpet shows threadbare patches and the furniture is woodenly uncomfortable, comprising only a bed, two upright chairs, a closet and a heavy wooden dining table that looks as though it has come here directly from a job-lot second-hand sale. Across the room from the door, a window looks out over an alley, with a view of the street to our left. Below the window lie the rusty iron rungs of a fire escape that looks as if it should have been condemned years ago. The place is not likely to raise anyone’s spirits and I worry about Kathleen as I leave her and return to the street to get rid of the car.

  I drive the rented Buick away from the hotel and leave it beside a public park, at the end of a rundown residential street. It’s the sort of district where people mind their own business and hopefully it will be a few days before anybody remarks on another parked car.

  I’m still not prepared to use the cell phone. I find a public phone and, looking around to see whether I’m being watched, I place several calls and finally get Jackie’s contact number. I trace her to a hotel in San Diego and stand drumming my fingers impatiently on the wall of the phone booth until I hear her voice.

  “Ross? Good God, man, what have you got yourself into?”

  It seems to get suddenly cold. “What do you mean?”

  “I go to Bob Sealy—he’s my boss—with your story. Okay, he thinks it’s great and says we’ll go with the item in the evening news. Great: I go off to work on it. Twenty minutes later, Bob calls me back. No go with the story, he says. There’s an embargo on all comment. I don’t know how they’ve done it. It’s like you’ve compromised national security. Effectively, we’ve been censored. I’m not even supposed to talk about it.”

  My voice is incredulous. “What can you do?”

  “God knows. We’re not dead yet and I’ll keep on it.” A pause, and she carries on sadly. “But don’t hold your breath.”

  ***

  As I step away from the phone I become aware of a group of youths further down the street, watching me with an uncomfortable interest. I guess these streets are risky, even by Chicago standards. I pull my collar up around my neck against the cold rain and start to half-walk, half-jog the mile back to the hotel. The youths seem to lose interest in me as I hurry away: presumably in my crumpled casual clothes I don’t look as if I’d be worth mugging.

  The truth, if I’d stop
ped to think about it, is different. But I don’t stop to think about it until much later. Distracted by the danger at street level, I just don’t register the camera moving on its angled mounting on the side of a building, at the street corner.

  ***

  When I walk back into the room, I hear sounds of the shower being used and call through the bathroom door to announce my return: remembering her modesty, I refrain from trying the door. Instead I go into the kitchen area and put the antiquated electric jug on to boil, emptying sachets of coffee and whitener into cracked mugs. She finishes her shower and comes to join me, wrapped in a towel. She smiles shyly.

  “We’ve got no clothes to change into.”

  “I know. It’s becoming a habit for me.” I look around. “This isn’t the sort of place I’d really like to bring you to. For our third night together, I’d have preferred the Hilton.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She smiles again, more relaxed this time.

  I reach for the front of the towel and pull her gently towards me. She puts her arms around me and I kiss her, at first softly and then with increasing pressure. As my hands explore her back, she pulls away.

  “One thing,” she whispers. “I checked the bed and it’s clean and reasonably comfortable.” She nods towards the coffee. “Can I have that there?”

  I raise my hands in mock surrender and she turns and heads towards the bed. I busy myself with the drinks, knowing that she’ll want to be under the covers before I join her.

  I leave the coffee with her and take a quick shower myself before returning and sliding between the sheets. Entering the third twenty-four hours of our relationship as lovers, I find that her hesitancy has faded and she clasps herself to me with keen anticipation, entwining her legs in mine, clasping her hands to the small of my back. Our lovemaking starts slowly but develops into a frenzy, as if we are both trying to exorcise the terrors of the day.

  She lies quietly in my arms afterwards and smiles faintly. “What are you thinking?”

  I shake my head slowly, as if dazed. “I’ve never felt like this before. It’s hard to believe that we’re here like this. I didn’t think that you’d even noticed me apart from work.”

  “I think I knew how you felt from the beginning but I didn’t know what to make of it.” She gives a discreet shrug. “I thought it may have been simply lust. I was surprised in some ways that you didn’t make a pass at me. It’s happened before with men I’ve worked with.”

  I feel a flash of irrational jealousy at any man who may have wanted her before me. “There was lust, I suppose—a physical attraction. But it was—is—much more than that. I never met anyone like you before.”

  She looks away as if she’s embarrassed. “All the times you sat next to me in that little office, I had to control myself constantly to avoid giving away my feelings. I was terrified that if I relaxed my guard we could end up like this.”

  “And now?”

  “I’m terrified, I suppose. And something else.” Again the shy, sad smile. “I never thought love could be so beautiful. Let’s make the most of it while we can.”

  Almost despite myself, I feel my body responding to her. We make love again, this time with lingering patience. It is only later that I come to wonder about her last remark.

  ***

  We turn on the television set that’s chained to the wall in the corner like some dangerous animal. Late news on CNN. The lead items are all about the presidential election, now only a few days away. And while the three main candidates seem to be given equal time, it is Stephen Garner who again dominates the broadcast. He’s delivered another major speech, it seems, screened simultaneously at locations throughout the country on giant closed-circuit television screens. The reporter tells how the politician, looking more confident and assured than ever, has railed against government deceit and duplicity, pledging that his administration will clean up the country and make it a decent place for its citizens to live. His claims are met with rapturous applause from his various audiences. The cameras show us scenes from San Francisco and Indianapolis. Toledo, Ohio. Smalltown, Arizona. Wild enthusiasm. The people greet their savior. It reminds me of something and it’s a while before my mental fingers touch its bitter edge. Nuremberg. The Nazi propaganda film, The Triumph of the Will.

  The TV program goes on to report that the latest opinion polls show Garner to be ahead in state after state. Computer-generated models appear on the screen. They show the candidate capable now of winning over 200 electoral votes, enough to put him in the White House if the rest of the votes are split between his opponents.

  The election reports are followed by a round-up of other news around the country. Although it’s something I’ve been half-expecting, it comes as an icy shock when I hear my own name in relation to an FBI alert and listen to the summary of my alleged crimes. Kathleen’s name is mentioned briefly at the end of the item.

  I look at her, lying quiet and frightened beside me, and feel again a surge of guilt at having involved her in this mess. She turns into my arms and we hold each other tightly, without speaking, until sleep claims us.

  2

  Crieff again arrives early at the station house. It’s starting to become a habit. He guesses it’s another penalty of advancing years. He doesn’t seem to sleep as well as he used to. Too many nights, he wakes up at two a.m. wondering what has happened to his life. The thoughts are not happy ones. Whatever time he gets back to sleep, he still seems to be awake again by five.

  At least he doesn’t have a wife to disturb and moan at him any more.

  Fuck it. He throws his overcoat over his chair and walks to the coffee machine. Strong and black. Three clicks of sugar and to hell with the dentist who keeps telling him that, if his teeth get any worse, they’ll all have to come out. He hates dentists. All his teeth...with any luck, he’ll die first.

  On the way back to his desk, he stops and glances at the computer screen. Shrugging, he walks over and, standing in front of it, enters his ID and password. The terminal gives a low beep. He figures that he’s done something wrong but when he puts on his spectacles and looks closer he can see that it has a message for him from the NCIC system. He feels a surprising buzz of pride at his technical competence and, as quickly, tells himself not to be so bloody silly. It’s only a computer. It’s not the real world.

  He places the coffee cup on the table, beside the screen, and sits down. Does he want to read his message now? Well, sure, if it’s okay with you, you stupid fuckin’ machine. He presses Y. The screen changes. He peers more closely. It seems that the NCIC system has generated an automatic email to him. A report of an abandoned car taken in an outer suburb. Vandalism reported, too. It seems the car is a rental. It was rented by an Andrew Ross…

  He sits back, trying to shake the mental clouds of insomnia and headache. Concentrate. He runs another check. No trace of any warrant reports for Ross. No other reports at all for the fugitive. Or his girlfriend. He wonders why. He wonders whether the omission is accidental or deliberate. Maybe the appearance of his name against the derelict car is an oversight. Maybe someone is keeping Ross’s details off the system and whoever is behind it didn’t think of checking for reports like this one. He takes the glasses off and absently chews on the frame, staring into space. He ponders for a long time. When he picks the cup back up, the coffee has gone cold.

  He’s meant to be out today, trying to track down the owners of a warehouse full of stolen electronic gear that they recovered when they raided the dealer’s back-street hoard the previous day. More trudging the fuckin’ streets. More complaints in store from his fuckin’ feet. Going off to where the car was abandoned ain’t likely to give him anything except more corns but...

  Maybe he’ll take a short detour later in the day.

  3

  For all our worries and fears, we start the next day as its predecessor ended, with lovemaking. When we finally rise from the crumpled bed, we realize that we’re starving and that the hotel has finished serving
breakfast. Not, I figure, that we’d really want to eat anything that come from the kitchen of this dump. I go out to buy us juice and milk and individual packets of cereal, picking up a morning newspaper on the way. I open the paper with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. The story about me is still alive. The text is largely a re-hash of that published yesterday, but with the additional information that my traveling companion and I have rented a car and are now believed to be heading back in the direction of Chicago.

  Back in the hotel room, we drink coffee and pick at the food, making plans for the day. I turn on the chained television to catch the end of a news broadcast. As if it’s timed, as if the TV set has been watching us, waiting until it has our attention, the face of Stephen Garner fills the screen for a few moments before being replaced by that of an interviewer. Once again, it seems, Garner is being interviewed in a remote TV station somewhere. Sequoia, New Mexico, I think they say. I never heard of the place. The camera lingers on the interviewer before switching back to Garner. The politician is sitting at a desk. Behind him is a sunny backdrop picture of what looks like desert, sand and rock enlivened by cactus.

  The topic is again crime and corruption. The interviewer is trying to draw Garner on the subject of law enforcement. There have been stories, she says, that members of his campaign headquarters staff have said that he will extend the current use of surveillance cameras in crime black spots and promote their installation on all streets throughout all American cities. More, that the legislation will force private corporations that have security camera systems within their buildings to allow law enforcement agencies to link them into the street systems. It will be possible for the police or FBI or Drug Enforcement or Tobacco and Firearms to follow a suspect wherever he or she goes. How does Mr Garner respond to the concerns of civil libertarians?