The Digital Dream

by Mike Cartlidge

  2 IF YOU’RE NOT GOING TO TAKE THIS SERIOUSLY, I DON’T SEE WHY I SHOULD.

  3 IT’S EASY TO ASK SMART QUESTIONS BUT WE’RE TRYING TO TACKLE SERIOUS ISSUES HERE.

  4 WE’VE GONE OVER THAT ALREADY. HOW’S YOUR UNDERSTANDING OF PLAIN ENGLISH?

  5 WHAT PART OF NO DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND?

  “Devastating wit.”

  “What now?”

  “Two things. First, we need to do some more work on this little system...”

  “And the second?”

  8

  Nobody notices the shabby middle-aged man. He keeps to the shadows, staying out of sight, as he has done since he first strolled the streets past the abandoned vehicle and became aware of the unusual activity taking place. He follows a few people, holding back, cautious. At one point, a street kid comes up to him and shows him two photographs. He shakes his head and walks on. The headache is forgotten. His street cop’s instincts are aroused. Fuck all the computers and all the promotion boards and all the bright young things with their law degrees. This stuff, he’s good at. Down among the weeds, crawling through the slime. He’s the king of the roaches. This is his world. He bides his time. He watches.

  ***

  In a rundown hotel, the photograph is shown once more. The picture, reproduced on cheap photocopy paper, is becoming grimy and dog-eared.

  The man behind the desk turns down the sound on the portable television set. His eyes linger insolently on the screen for a moment, ignoring the young would-be gangster in front of him. Humphrey Bogart romances Lauren Bacall in mime. Then the clerk looks up and reaches for the picture of the young woman. He stares at it before looking back at the street-kid on the other side of the desk.

  A question is asked. Terms are discussed. No agreement is made but the boy snatches back the photograph and runs out of the hotel and down the street.

  9

  * Hello david. What can i help you with?

  > I need to review all the records you hold relating to stephen garner.

  * I do not understand. I will be able to assist you better if you can explain the reasons for your request.

  > I wish to carry out a check on garner’s security.

  * Excuse me for asking, david, but you already have all the information i hold on stephen garner. Is there anything specific that i can help you with?

  “I give up. What do we do now?”

  > I just want to reassure myself that everything is in order before the televised debate.

  * You should have said so. Would you like to talk to stephen garner directly?

  Kathleen looks up at me in surprise. If she’s expecting incisive comment, she’s out of luck.

  “What’s to lose?”

  > Yes.

  It’s with some surprise that we see the screen clear to be replaced by what seems to be a television studio. In front of a backdrop of a city at night, Stephen Garner sits looking at us expectantly.

  He leans forward as if he can see us.

  “Yes, David,” he says calmly. “What can I help you with?”

  10

  It takes time to locate those who have organized the search. The street-kid finds them sitting on a park bench. He stands before them, eyeing their shaggy heads and swastika badges. They’re unaware of his presence. He listens to their quiet talk. Promise of reward, but not just dollars. Secret dreams of empire. The forces of purity taking their rightful place in the world, unity from the street to the capitol. Something about Aryan Brotherhood, every non-white in America driven back to where they came from. White trash kid thinks, cool man. Vietnamese bastard in the local Seven-Eleven, cunt who called the cops onto him for shoplifting, that slanty-eye’ll do for starters.

  Finally, they notice him. One of the bikers stands and grabs the front of the boy’s shirt, pulling him close until their faces are inches apart. The boy can smell his rancid breath and, on the side of his cheek, see the tattooed 666. Chill. He thinks that he’ll join a gang when he’s older.

  The man sneers at him and gestures for him to talk. When the boy has finished, the man takes a ten-dollar bill from the pocket of his torn jacket and stuffs it down the front of the boy’s trousers. He pushes the kid away and turns to beckon to his friends. They start to walk along the road. Too cool to hurry.

  The leader pulls a cell-phone from his inside pocket and presses numbers.

  Ten miles across the city, someone answers.

  11

  It’s hard to imagine that, at one time, the idea of televised candidates’ debates was an exciting novelty, heralded as the culmination of modern election campaigning. Now the debates are an accepted part of the process, a chance for presidential contenders to appear before the maximum number of potential voters and display their wares. A chance to air issues and demonstrate the qualities that have propelled them to the forefront of the nation’s consciousness. A chance for viewers to examine the lines around their mouths as they smile with grave humanity, the sincerity of their brows as they frown with concern. Verbal burgers in the land of the quick-serve sound bite. A chance to compare the results of the efforts of competing teams of image-makers. Twenty-first century democracy in action.

  Several months previously, the television networks’ long range programming predicted a two-way contest, between the established candidates. But plans are made to be changed. Tonight’s broadcast will feature a three-cornered fight. The lead-in broadcast demonstrates why: new computer predictions of electoral voting patterns show Garner’s lead increasing. With over 250 electoral votes, he is now being seen as a likely winner.

  In the dingy hotel room, Kathleen and I switch on our chained television set for the start of the debate. The bright colors of the TV screen contrast with the dim green glow coming from the display of the laptop computer set on the floor in front of us.

  The debate is to be chaired by Christopher Brazil. A veteran of this stuff. One of the most-respected. Brazil stands before an audience in a minimal studio set. The only other items of furniture are the lecterns behind which stand the President and his opponent; and the giant television screen between them. The screen shows a long shot of Stephen Garner, sitting confidently in a remote studio, legs crossed and hands resting in his lap.

  ***

  A few miles away, David Sligo disentangles himself from the long legs of a tall black woman whose energy, he has been pleased and surprised to find, has come close to matching his own. He picks up the mobile phone and walks into the living room of the sumptuous apartment, relishing the feel of the shag-pile carpet under his naked feet, feeling and enjoying the adrenaline buzz in his gut. The computer terminal is humming softly, waiting for him. Across the room, the television set is also switched on, its sound muted. He sits down in front of the computer, turning his chair slightly so that he can also see the TV set. He places the phone down beside the terminal.

  The woman follows him from the bedroom and comes to squat beside him. He arranges her against his legs so that she cannot see the computer screen. Picking up the remote control, he turns up the volume on the television as the serious features of Christopher Brazil fill the screen.

  The girl starts to stroke a hand against his thigh: the sound of the introductory music for the leaders debate makes her turn her head.

  “Do we gotta watch this garbage?”

  “Shut up,” he hisses, his voice betraying for once the tension that he feels. The girl pouts for a moment and then, smiling, stretches her hand up and caresses his stomach. He thinks again of the power that is his to command. As the girl’s face moves closer to his groin, he feels the excitement stir once more.

  ***

  Elsewhere, Senator Phillip Wright has also had to separate himself from a lover and the pale young man sits now in one of a pair of floral-upholstered arm-chairs, watching with well-concealed derision as the servant of the people settles down opposite him, in front of the television set, wearing only a frilly pink robe.

  ***

  The newspaperman Raymond S
ayer is still at work. Quite apart from the activities of the Dream Committee, he still has a business to run and he is planning to be active in share trading when the Australian market opens in a few minutes time. Nevertheless, he pauses from the task of instructing his brokers in Sydney and turns on the small television set by the side of his desk.

  ***

  The businessman Gerald Armstrong is in an executive box at Yankee Stadium. His team are the visitors and he has little hope for them, after they have lost their previous four away games. He has put off his normal crowd of hangers-on and is alone for once. While the game continues below, his attention is focused on the television set in the corner of the luxurious room.

  ***

  The industrialist Peter Dennis is at home alone with his wife, their three daughters all having left the family nest over the last year or so: the youngest is now a full-time student at UCLA in Los Angeles, California, and the older two have found men and are making lives of our own. As Christopher Brazil appears, Dennis’ wife quietly sets a mug of cocoa down on an incidental table next to his side of the couch and sits down beside her husband. Dennis’ hand reaches out, almost of its own accord, and takes hers: she squeezes it and smiles lovingly at him. Since coming to the United States so many years ago with her husband, she has devoted herself to providing a secure home base for him, never mixing into the society around her enough to pick up any more of the language than she can understand on the TV. Although Dennis customarily shares his deepest secrets with her, for once she has no idea of the significance to him of this program and she is surprised at the intensity of his concentration.

  12

  Even the clerk is taking a break from old films and quiz shows to watch the debate on his small TV screen. When the door opens, he turns slowly and stares at the sullen faces in front of him. His face is a mask. He computes the value of information. He waits for one of them to talk first.

  The leader, the one with the 666 tattoo, picks up the nameplate from the front of the desk. Ah, yes, Floyd, he says. Talk to us, Floyd. Speak, oh noble one.

  Floyd leans back, smug smile on his face. He’s seen small-time hoods and bikers enough to last him a lifetime. They’re dime a dozen in these parts. They don’t frighten him. He mentions a figure.

  The biker sneers. He leans across the desk. The clerk pushes himself away on the castors of his chair.

  One of the other intruders walks to the door and shuts it, turning the open sign around. This hotel is closed for business. The third man walks around the desk and leans against the wall, looking down at the bald spot nestling amidst the slicked back greasy hair on the top of Floyd’s head.

  Floyd modifies his demands. A smaller—but still generous—figure is mentioned.

  The youth beside him puts his foot behind the chair and propels it back forward.

  The one who spoke first leans over the desk and grabs the front of the clerk’s shirt. Well, now, Floyd. Don’t you want to cooperate with us? We’re detectives really, you know. Deep undercover. On the trail of real criminals. What about ya civic duty, Floyd?

  The one behind the desk reaches forward. The knife in his hand seems like the only clean thing about him. Its blade is shiny. It whispers across the front of Floyd’s throat.

  Punks. Floyd despises them. He pushes a hand against the restraining wrist. Don’t they know how things operate in these parts? This ain’t fuckin’ Beverly Hills. He pays his vig and the guys he pays it to would slice you punks up and eat your gonads for breakfast.

  He mentions a name.

  He waits for the flicker of recognition in the punk’s face.

  He is considerably surprised when the leader takes the knife from his companion and plunges the blade deep into his throat.

  13

  As the introductory music fades, the camera focuses on Christopher Brazil. The broadcaster’s deep, measured voice creates an impression of mature professionalism perfectly complemented by his silver hair and well-tanned face.

  “Good evening and welcome to the first televised debate of this presidential campaign. Tonight, the candidates speak. I have with me in the studio the President of the United States, Anthony Laws, and presidential candidate, Senator Robert Sherringham. We are also being joined over closed circuit television by Mr Stephen Garner, who cannot be in the studio due to long-standing campaign commitments: commitments made at a time when neither he nor we expected him to be part of all this.”

  As each candidate’s name is mentioned, the camera switches momentarily to that person. Laws and Sherringham both nod to the camera. When his name is mentioned, a close-up of Garner appears on the backdrop television screen: he also nods and says a smooth “good evening”.

  Brazil again. “This campaign has been marked by a series of dramatic revelations embarrassing to both the established leading candidates. In its final weeks, the major issue appears to have been that of trust in government. Of corruption in high places and the steps that should be taken to cure or prevent it. Mr President, your government has been rocked by a succession of scandals involving alleged misuse of power and public money. How do you propose to reassure the electorate that your administration will improve its record if it’s allowed to continue in power?”

  Laws leans forward over his lectern, composing himself to speak. “In the first place, Mr Brazil, I have to take issue with your statement that my administration has been rocked by scandal. What has happened has been that a series of allegations has been made against us, and that we have treated these allegations as the falsehoods they are.”

  Brazil cuts in before he can continue. “You must admit that the evidence appears to offer conclusive proof of wrongdoing.”

  “I accept nothing of the sort. Along with members of my administration, I have always denied these allegations most vehemently, especially where they concern memoranda that I am supposed to have written and which I know full well I did not write.”

  The President puts his case calmly but with obvious commitment: nevertheless, a defensive edge is still apparent in his tone.

  “Are you saying that the evidence is a fabrication?’

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. We don’t claim to know how it was done, but we believe that false information has been planted in government computer systems.”

  “And who do you think is responsible for this action?”

  The President blinks. “Our own experts are still working to try to track down the people responsible.”

  “In other words, you don’t know.”

  Laws hesitates but his composure holds. “As I say, our experts are working to try to track down the people responsible. I am told that this is an extremely complex task and that whoever is behind this distortion of the truth has been at pains to cover his or her tracks.”

  Brazil switches his attention to the other candidate present in the studio.

  “Senator Sherringham, your campaign has also suffered from disclosures of apparent wrongdoing made during this election campaign. Do you also claim that false information has been used against you?”

  “No, we don’t. But I must say that I think the release of confidential, official information concerning my erstwhile running mate was unprincipled and unforgivable. Senator Francis was guilty of no wrongdoing under modern law, yet the embarrassment of the disclosures has caused him to resign from public life. This in turn means that this country has lost one of its most able and gifted politicians.”

  Brazil returns to his earlier question. “Despite this, you do not share the President’s view that false information was planted in computer systems to be used against you?”

  Sherringham sniffs. “No, I don’t.”

  It’s a telling point. Sitting in our shabby hotel room, I have to appreciate the cunning of this strategy. The use of false information in one case and true information in the other diminishes the credibility of the President’s pleas of innocence.

  The politician continues, a sardonic edge to his voice. “But I mus
t say that I find it difficult to reconcile Mr Garner’s projected image of himself as a white knight coming to free us all from corruption with his own under-hand tactics in acquiring this knowledge and the unscrupulous way in which he has gone about using it.”

  14

  They walk along the first floor, knocking politely on doors. Only two of the rooms are occupied. In the first of them, a raddle-faced prostitute opens the door angrily, tells them to fuck off, no, she ain’t seen nobody apart from her guest, who sure as hell ain’t thirty-five years old, eighty-five more fuckin’ likely.

  In the second room, a frightened-looking traveling salesman opens the door on the chain and shakes his head quickly.

  The three men turn and head for the stair well.

  15

  In front of the studio audience, Brazil turns for the first time to the large television screen.

  “Mr Garner, you have heard the statements of the President and Senator Sherringham. You have been accused on the one hand of using falsified information and on the other of unscrupulous and disreputable tactics. It does seem difficult to reconcile these allegations with your campaign for openness and honesty in public life.”

  Garner smiles comfortably. He is relaxed, taking his time. His eyes flicker momentarily to one side then return to gaze steadfastly into the camera.

  “Yes, it does, doesn’t it?”

  The reply clearly takes the interviewer by surprise and it is a few seconds before he realizes that Garner is not going to add to his remark.