Sleep State Interrupt

by Ted Weber

  And they were in. Lacking coats, they bypassed the checkers on either side of the entryway. More Secret Service agents, clean cut men in tuxes and women wearing long dresses and flat shoes, eyed them. Waylee and Pel passed two roped off staircases and entered the lower main hall, the castle’s biggest interior space.

  A string quartet stationed near the entrance played something Bachlike. Two rows of multifaceted marble columns subdivided the big room. Velvet drapes occluded tall windows along the walls.

  A handful of guests filled plates at scattered food and drink stations, the men uniformed in nearly identical tuxedos and bow ties, the women draped in floor-length gowns. Some sat together at round tables. At the far end of the room, a stage with a piano and drum kit overlooked rows of red padded chairs.

  They were unfashionably early. Less than a third of the two hundred guests had arrived. To the left of the stage, the DJ fiddled with his computer and sound gear. Waylee thought about requesting Motörhead’s “Eat the Rich,” but Miss Cosimo would certainly not approve.

  Pel seemed entranced by the rows of silver buffet dishes, their colorful morsels displayed like works of art. “Should we get some food?”

  The aromas included seared meats, which, thanks to Shakti’s vegan crusade, Waylee found repulsive. And Miss Cosimo didn’t attend parties to eat. “There’s plenty of wait staff wandering,” she said, adding a huff for emphasis. “They can fetch our food for us. Let’s mingle.” They had studied the guest list and memorized faces as best they could.

  Pel headed toward the curly haired Chair of the House Natural Resources Committee, busy conversing with the CEO of a multinational mining company. Waylee followed. Their ‘ghost snares’ could intercept any trace of comlink activity, but had a limited range, especially with overlapping signals to contend with. After the party, they’d sync the signal timestamps with those from their video cameras so they’d know whose comlinks were whose.

  The Congressman had a guard of his own, who trained data glasses on them. Guards are just servants with guns, Estelle would think. Their disguises held, although of course they’d submitted their own “recent photos” to the event organizers.

  “So you understand our concerns,” the CEO told the Congressman as Waylee reached earshot. “I thought those EPA bureaucrats had been emasculated.”

  The Congressman shifted his feet. “We can block the regs. But we should coordinate with the president. He’ll be here soon, and he can fix things more quickly. It’s actually on the agenda to get rid of the EPA altogether. They’re hard to control sometimes.”

  If Shakti was here, she’d lose it. Waylee waited for a chance to butt into the conversation.

  From behind her, a cultivated female voice said, “So, you’re Dick’s nephew.”

  Waylee turned.

  An auburn-haired woman in her sixties, a MediaCorp director named Beatrice Baddelats, glared at Pel/Greg. She wore a sapphire blue gown and large golden earrings. A nearly empty martini glass swayed from one hand. “I can’t believe the bastard—if you’ll pardon my French—is off shooting animals in Africa and missing the biggest event of the year.”

  “My uncle likes to get away,” Pel said. The CEO and Congressman moved off.

  “Yes, he does. It’s a wonder he’s done so well for himself.”

  Pel shrugged, and introduced Waylee/Estelle.

  Ms. Baddelats had a strong grip. “You don’t look like your Comnet pictures.”

  Waylee froze. She bore a vague resemblance to Estelle, and did her best with contacts and dyes. But she’d assumed no one at the gala would actually know her.

  The woman squinted. “You’ve got nose and lip piercings too that you’re trying to hide.”

  Waylee had put liquid latex and foundation over the holes but it wasn’t perfect. “Teen angst. Over it.”

  Ms. Baddelats looked skeptical.

  “Pictures don’t do my fiancée justice,” Pel said. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Well it was nice to meet you,” Waylee said, impaling Ms. Baddelats with all the negative energy she could muster. Miss Cosimo wouldn’t put up with “I suppose so,” so she turned and headed for the nearest food table. Pel followed.

  The remaining guests arrived. As advertised, no press. Her main target, MediaCorp Chairman and CEO Robert Luxmore, entered around 9:30 with his surgically enhanced trophy wife. He was shorter than Waylee expected, grey haired, and beady eyed.

  We meet at last.

  The string quartet stopped their tedious screeching. “Ruffles and Flourishes” played over the speakers mounted throughout the big room. The seated guests stood, and everyone looked toward the entrance. “Ladies and gentlemen,” a man on the stage announced, “the President of the United States.”

  President Albert Rand and the First Lady strode into the room, flanked by aides, military officers, and Secret Service agents. The president was tall and dark haired, young for someone so powerful.

  The DJ played “Hail to the Chief.” Waylee composed lyrics on the fly.

  Hail to the Thief,

  He’s a puppet and a bastard.

  If you’re not rich then

  Your voice shall not be heard…

  She caught Pel’s eyes. “Let’s move closer.”

  Too many others had the same idea, and she couldn’t get within twenty feet.

  A twenty-something blonde aide glanced at her watch and said something to the president. He nodded and strode toward the stage.

  Waylee acted before the other guests and claimed a center seat in the front row. Pel roamed the periphery, presumably to collect more comlink data.

  President Rand approached the microphone, confident like a rock star. “Well, thanks for coming. I’ll be brief. I’ll be done well before midnight.”

  A lot of people laughed. Waylee forced herself to chuckle.

  President Rand’s eyes settled on her for a full two seconds before moving on. “First off, I’d like to thank my good friend Bob Luxmore and V.I.P. Productions for putting this little shindig together.”

  Standing to the right of the stage, Luxmore put up a hand and smiled to applause.

  “Second, I’d like to introduce my lovely wife, for those of you who haven’t met her. Come on up, honey.”

  Mrs. Rand, an athletic-looking woman with overdone makeup, walked onto the stage and waved, then stood well to the side.

  Problems on the marital front?

  “Afraid this is too late for the kids,” he said. “We’ll have to do a day event sometime and everyone can bring their kids and grandkids. Great-great-grandkids, in the case of Senator Reichenbach there.”

  Even the senator laughed.

  The president scanned the crowd. “It looks like we’ve got more wealth gathered here than the rest of the country put together. So I hope the food doesn’t give you gas—it might crash the stock market.”

  More laughter. Waylee struggled to smirk. Until she realized he wasn’t guarding his words.

  “No, I’ve been assured this is top-notch fare. Just stay away from the Mexican stuff.”

  A few chuckles. Miss Cosimo would fantasize about bedding the president, so when he glanced at her again, Waylee sighed and smiled.

  “This is an intimate gathering we have here,” President Rand said, “so I’d like to hear from all of you, listen to advice you might have.”

  Her skin tingled with anticipation.

  “Maybe you have campaign ideas,” he continued, “or maybe just general advice, but I’m looking to get your perspectives. I’ll be circulating; you don’t have to stand in line. I’ll get to everyone. And don’t hold back, tell me what you really think.”

  “Who’s your opponent going to be?” a man called out.

  “Well,” the president said, “there’s no front runner yet, and it’s premature to speculate. But with your help, we’ll mop the floor with whoever they come up with, so it doesn’t really matter. You know I won in a landslide last time, an
d I hope to win even bigger this time. And just as important, expand our party’s margin in Congress, consolidate all the way down to city dogcatcher.”

  Applause all around.

  “We won’t concede a single state or a single race.” He held up a finger. “Except maybe Vermont.”

  “Can’t fight the kook factor,” one of the guests said.

  “So we can talk about the election and we can talk about policy. You know I made my fortune in the investment world, so I have a pretty good idea what makes our economy tick. I balanced the budget—”

  Applause.

  “And everyone here has prospered during my first term. Am I right?”

  Nodding heads and affirming murmurs.

  “And when you prosper, the country prospers. A rising tide lifts all boats. So my administration, with the help of our friends in Congress, has been expanding opportunities. Removing obstacles like high taxes and unnecessary regulations. Transferring assets like BLM land and national forests to those who’ll put them to good use. Negotiating free trade agreements with the rest of the world. Encouraging new markets, like the explosion we’ve seen on the Comnet.”

  Vigorous applause.

  Waylee wished she had a bomb underneath her dress, one that would take out the whole room. Except of course it would only turn these assholes into martyrs and accelerate the march toward a police state. No, she had to discredit them instead.

  “Because as we know,” the president continued, “growth only happens in the private sector. Government has one job—to maintain the peace and defend the country. Everything else is best left to the market.”

  Yet another round of applause.

  “Of course, that’s an ideal world I’m describing, where the individual is king and there’s no need for government. We’re in a state of transition now.”

  I don’t see anyone in my neighborhood transitioning to prosperity.

  “In a global economy, Americans have to work harder and smarter to compete. That’s why I’ve focused so much on job training and encouraging placement services. We’re working with schools to teach useful skills like computer programming and business, and give kids role models to follow. Even prisoners are learning work skills, given the chance to be productive, instead of just sitting in their cells and returning to a life of crime when they get out.”

  Privatizing schools, indoctrinating kids, and using prisons for cheap labor.

  The president finished his speech, took a few questions, then stepped down from the stage. The blonde aide, a heavyset Asian woman wearing oversized goggles, and two Secret Servicemen ringed him. Next to the stage, he shook hands with Luxmore, first citizen on the social pyramid.

  A picket of bigwigs and aides blocked Waylee’s approach to the president. She couldn’t get through without throwing an elbow. But her video needed face time, that was the whole point of being here.

  She waved Pel over, then a caterer carrying a tray of martinis. Crowds always parted for pregnant women and alcohol. Plus, lips needed loosening.

  Waylee led the caterer, a young brunette with flawless features, through the crowd. “Excuse me, pardon me.” Pel followed.

  They reached the inner circle. One of the Secret Servicemen peered at the martinis through his data glasses and stuck a small wand in each one. He nodded.

  The president and Luxmore grabbed drinks and took long sips. They didn’t bother thanking or acknowledging the caterer, and she wandered off to serve others. Waylee remained drinkless, but filled the vacated spot.

  “Good speech, by the way,” Luxmore told the president.

  “Thanks, Bob. I assume I can count on your continued support?”

  “Of course. You’ve been a good friend, Al. We’ve come a long way, but there’s still so much more to do.”

  The president took another deep gulp of vodka or whatever it was. “I admire what you’re doing with the free immersion units. All America should admire it. I’m going to mention it in the next State of the Union.”

  Waylee moved within kicking distance. “Free immersion units?”

  Luxmore and the president turned toward her. The president smiled invitingly.

  “This is the greatest honor of my life, Mr. President,” she said.

  “The honor is mine, Miss…”

  “Cosimo. Estelle Cosimo. You can call me Estelle.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Estelle. You can call me Al.” He thrust out a hand.

  The chubby Asian woman pointed her big eye lenses at them as Waylee accepted the president’s handshake.

  “We’ll send you a link to download your stills,” the other aide, the blonde, said.

  Waylee didn’t want to be photographed, but Estelle would relish it. She smiled as the president’s hand lingered in hers, then brushed the presidential thumb and batted her fake eyelashes at him.

  Waylee pulled Pel forward with her eyes. “This is my fiancé, Greg Wilson.”

  Pel shook the president’s hand, also smiling for the official camera. “It’s an honor, sir. My uncle’s Richard Shafer.”

  Luxmore’s eyebrows raised.

  “A big supporter of mine,” President Al said. “It’s too bad he couldn’t come.”

  “He sends his regrets.”

  “Don’t worry about the free immersion systems,” Luxmore told Pel/Greg. “Tell your uncle not to fret. They’ll be pared down, ultra-cheap, made with robots and prison labor.”

  “Bob’s reaching out to the underserved,” the president said. “MediaCorp is performing another great service, just as they did creating the Comnet and increasing transmission speeds over a thousandfold.”

  “Didn’t the government pay for all the optic lines?” Waylee asked.

  The president raised an eyebrow. “A partnership. MediaCorp developed the software and built the server facilities.”

  Luxmore scowled at Waylee and addressed Pel. “We’re still working out the details, but there’ll be a presentation before the board in a couple of months. We’ll more than make our money back analyzing user activity and directing tailored ads. If you buy the equipment and software, you can opt out of the ads, of course.”

  “Good incentive to buy,” Pel said. “And I assume you have advertisers lined up?”

  “We have some preliminary handshakes. Details are a little too in the trenches for me.”

  The president peered at Waylee’s hand. “It looks like your fiancé neglected to give you a ring.”

  Waylee mentally slapped herself. “It’s being resized.”

  Pel leaned forward. “To tell you the truth, Mr. President, her first ring wasn’t quite what she deserves. I’m having a show-stopper custom made. It was supposed to be a surprise.”

  Waylee gave him an appreciative look.

  “Well this would have been the place to show it off,” the president said. “It’s a pity you didn’t time it better.” He finished his martini and handed the empty glass to his assistant.

  Waylee wished for a martini or twelve. “Enough about my ring. You’re the star of the show here, Al, if I really can call you that.”

  “Of course you can.” He smiled.

  “So it sounds like you’re pretty confident about the election.”

  He looked at her and raised an eyebrow. “But you have reservations?”

  This would be dangerous, but her video needed material. “Like you said in your speech, your policies benefit those of us here.”

  The president nodded and his lips parted.

  Waylee plowed forward before he could interrupt. “But we’re such a tiny fraction of the electorate. What about the people who work long hours but can’t buy a house, can’t send their kids to college, or can’t even see a doctor when they get sick? There are a lot more of them than there are of us, and you’re doing nothing for them. How are you going to get their votes?”

  The president frowned. “You sound like an agitator, one of those People’s Party socialists.”

  Luxmore’s scowl deepened. Pel retre
ated a step.

  I’m more of an anarcho-syncretist, but good guess. “You said not to hold back. I just wonder why you’re so confident.”

  The president stared at her, then turned and waved over a short man with boyish features. “Estelle here is worried about my chances. Thinks the masses will blame their problems on me.”

  The man pulled a card out of a coat pocket and handed it to her. “Rick Mustel. Special Advisor to the President for the Media.”

  “Estelle Cosimo.” She shook his hand. It felt clammy.

  Pel didn’t introduce himself. He wasn’t staying in character very well.

  Special Advisor Mustel waved his hands as he spoke. “We’ve got a strategy for that. People are surprisingly easy to influence once you know how their minds work. For starters, people make most decisions using their guts, not logic. That’s just the way we operate.”

  Rationalism keeps fascism at bay. Emotion and logic have to work together in a positive framework…

  Waylee couldn’t articulate her argument without breaking character, and Mustel continued. “Back in the 1980s, psychologists studied how news anchors changed their facial expressions when mentioning presidential candidates, and how these subtle cues influenced voters. Peter Jennings, an anchor for ABC News, was downright enthusiastic about Ronald Reagan. You could see it in his face. And his viewers voted overwhelmingly for Reagan, much more so than viewers of other news programs. That was forty years ago. We’ve learned and refined since then, and know exactly how to push emotional buttons so people will do whatever we want without having the slightest clue about it.”

  “So you see,” the president said, “we’ve got a handle on that.”

  Luxmore stepped forward. “People are generally stupid,” he said. “That’s why they need ones like us to tell them what to do. It’s been that way since the day humans first gathered together in villages.”

  “Men of gold,” Mustel said.

  “What?” Pel said.

  Waylee started to explain, but Luxmore was quicker. “Plato’s philosopher-kings. Bred and educated to make the right decisions.”

  “Exactly,” the president said. “Most people don’t know what’s in their best interest. Anyone can get ahead if they work hard, but America has been lulled into dependency by ninety years of socialism, the growth of a nanny state. I’m trying to change that, encourage people to better themselves. People’s lives get better, the economy grows, revenues grow and we keep the deficit under control.”