The Beam: Season Two

by Sean Platt

  The senate occupied one large wall, stacked high in pure-white cubbyholes in a ten-by-ten honeycomb. The fifth row from the top contained an extra cubicle, but the other ten were squeezed to match, creating an odd misalignment in what was an otherwise perfect grid. Each of the senators’ cubbyholes was fronted with black Beam glass, stark against the room’s pure white. Micah knew that the glass was entirely transparent from the inside, but even as he stared directly at it, he found the idea hard to believe. The senators were anonymous, their identities obscured for supposed reasons of incorruptibility. They were supposed to respond to the will of their parties, but they were still people with minds of their own. They could vote off-party for issues that affected the entire union if they wanted; their ability to do so required a level of trust that the NAU, so far, had seemed entirely willing to give. Even the senators didn’t know who each other were or how they voted. They received Beam feeds but could not be petitioned by private interests because it was impossible to reach them. It was supposed to be the perfect, impartial representative system, but Micah wondered if that were true. There might be nothing behind the glass, and Senate decisions might be made by an invisible emperor, deciding yes and no with a turn of his thumb.

  But of course, that wasn’t true either, because once a senator’s term was finished, he or she returned to circulation and was free to share anything they desired. That was when the world finally saw them. Many senators, with no alternative career to fall back on and used to an income far higher than most Directorate doles, wrote books or began speaking careers. There was no way to do that if they stayed in the closet.

  And of course, the party presidents typically came from the Senate. Shiloh Reese, the Enterprise president, had been a senator. The up-until-recent Directorate president, Quince, had been a senator. And of course everyone knew all about Carter Vale’s term in the Senate because he was loud and proud in his telling of tales and had been since he’d taken over Quince’s position as party head.

  Micah, standing behind President Reese with the rest of the Enterprise cabinet, looked over at Vale as he moved into position behind the lectern. The man was tall, dark, and handsome, like the hero of a storybook. He was attractive and compelling without being threatening. Ironically, most of the chatter on The Beam about Vale — from the low-rent Directorate camp, anyway — revolved around how he was “just like us.” The idea was absurd. As little as Micah liked to compliment his party’s opposition, Vale actually was handsome…whereas the average person singing his praises was anything but.

  Micah’s eyes moved to the side, to the group standing behind the new and charismatic Directorate President — a president who seemed to be claiming what should have always been his. Whereas Micah felt assurance and certainty in the Enterprise cabinet, he sensed uncertainty in the Directorate’s. Nobody knew quite what to think of the new chief, including his own advisers.

  That was another thing the populace seemed to love about Vale: He was playful, disobedient, and just a bit reckless. The word Micah kept seeing was “mischievous.” It was perplexing. Was mischief really something people wanted in a leader? But then, for Directorate, it made sense. None of them ever stepped outside of their boxes. Directorate, Micah thought, was a party of sheeplike safety. If you didn’t want to live and preferred to be coddled like an incompetent child while someone told you what to do, you joined Directorate. No wonder they wanted a bit of an outlaw at the helm. They had to realize what cowards they were, didn’t they? How could they not? And so having at least one among them who was handsome where they were ugly, charming where they were boring, and daring where they were afraid — who was, in short, everything they wanted to be — had to be comforting. They only had to believe that Carter Vale was Everyman, and all would be well. Because although he was nothing like them, he was just like them. And once Vale was all they wanted to be, they could displace, become the nothings they were, and settle.

  Isaac, near the front of the cabinet group for the cameras’ benefit, seemed oddly self-assured. Micah wasn’t used to seeing his brother any way other than nervous, beaten, or at least slightly afraid of his own shadow. It had to be the thing with Natasha, where Isaac had led the police to save her ass at her little attention-grabber concert like a fucking knight galloping in on his lily white horse. Micah had been against that concert from the start. If Natasha was going to be Enterprise, she should just be Enterprise. What did it matter what the Directorate thought? She was moving on. Moving forward. And Isaac? Did he think he was big shit because he’d saved her? The directions to send in the riot police must have come from the top. Isaac was a pawn, the same as Micah.

  For now.

  Micah reached up and adjusted his band tie across his neck, knowing how fidgety it would look if the feed was displaying his face. Micah wasn’t nervous, even though he looked it. Fuck Vale and his Everyman charm, fuck Natasha and her posturing, fuck Isaac and his heroics, and fuck the entire lazy, complacent Directorate. Fuck Natasha’s poor Enterprise fans.

  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 Director
ate 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 what 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 ye
t 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?”