The Echo Chamber

by Rhett J Evans

  “Yes,” said the speaker after a pause. “He had a few.”

  Now

  A waiter with a pinstripe apron brought Darnell a glass of water with two lemon slices. Coffee was no good for him anymore. It kept him awake too long into the evening, made him feel alert. In the weeks after the shooting, caffeine stirred up anxieties and paranoia. He was better now, mostly. The shooting only haunted him in his dreams.

  Brittany arrived a few minutes past the hour. Her hair fell in twists past her shoulders, just as her avatar did. He smiled when he saw her, but she remained tight-lipped. Rising from the table to greet her, a muscle failed in him in his weak leg, and he had to catch himself on the table.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “I’m fine,” he said, waving her off. “Please have a seat.”

  The waiter came and Brittany ordered a black coffee. Then she looked up and down Chestnut Street, at the people busying its posh storefronts, and turned her attention back to him.

  “What did you want to talk about, Mister Holmes?”

  “There’s no need for that,” he replied. “I’m just Darnell.”

  “This isn’t an official Sharebox liaison?”

  “Not at all. I was hoping to keep this private.”

  Her lip twisted a little disbelievingly. “We call that in the industry keeping things ‘off the record.’”

  “Of course,” he said, with a small laugh. “I’m still learning my new job.”

  “You used to serve as an officer for casualty notifications and military honors, right? What brings you to shill for Sharebox?”

  “Well, I needed a job, for one thing, and I think Sharebox has legitimately done some good things. We’re doing an event in a week about virtual reality headsets that are being used for field trips in schools in my old neighborhood.”

  Brittany nodded. “But you didn’t like my questions earlier today about the other side of Sharebox, did you? You didn’t like me talking about studies on how Sharebox has radicalized people with false information, often at the behest of leaders in the government. Or that your company has done literally nothing to address the problem of bots.”

  “Well, that’s kinda why I wanted to talk. I mean, I know Sharebox isn’t perfect. I’ve seen its effect on my own family. But I haven’t heard all that stuff before. Where are you getting your information? I haven’t heard anything like that.”

  Brittany rolled her eyes. “Where are you getting your information? Because your company was happy to let their platform turn into a propaganda universe that crowds out real information and throttles down negative press, no one hears what’s really going on anymore.”

  “And what is really going on?” Darnell was genuinely curious. Since he had joined the Sharesquare Silicon Valley office, he felt thrust into a world of fast-paced scandals and politics he didn’t understand. He believed he was a well-informed person. Hadn’t he tuned into twenty-four-hour cable channels enough in the old days? But increasingly he felt left behind, felt his own understanding of what was happening in America impoverished. He folded his hands in his lap.

  “You’re serious?” she asked. “You want me to tell you what I think about your company?”

  Darnell nodded.

  “Okay,” began Brittany, leaning her elbows on the table and breathing out a moment to compose herself. “What’s really going on is that your company built something with no constraints or thought to consequence. All you valued was getting the most users, clicks, and engagement. And you created this wonderfully addicting honeypot, and it made the company a lot of money.”

  “So?”

  “So, your honeypot attracted flies. All these billionaires who bought up Sharebox real estate like the Patriot Palace—the News Cities that were free to beam whatever content they wanted, with no integrity, just distorted headlines and manufactured outrage, to billions of unsuspecting people who were too busy being wowed by the shiny new experience—the attractive female bots in the lounges, the interactive news stories, the live interviews—all of it.”

  “Well, that’s what happens when you democratize news,” Darnell tried to interject using a common talking point Mariko had taught him at work. “We’re an open platform for the free market of ideas.”

  “Your market was rigged by hustlers and cynical billionaires. And they were able to do it because there were no adults in the room. You wanted to pretend you were neutral while your platform was hijacked by the worst elements of this country. All it ever takes is people to smile, say they ‘got to put food on the table,’ spin stories of their company’s evils into defensive talking points about ‘all the good they do.’ Or maybe console yourself about how you don’t choose sides—you let all ideas in so the best can come to the top. ‘You’re a neutral broker,’ I’ve heard that one a lot. ‘You don’t discriminate.’ Go ahead and pretend you’re just business people doing business, and that’s that. Like you don’t share blame for what’s happened.”

  Darnell was stung by this, and he found his voice unsteady. “I’ll have you know I’ve dedicated my life to serving causes I believed in. I’ve never tried to be neutral. You’re describing a coward.”

  Brittany opened her mouth to respond, but then the waiter came back with her coffee so she just sat there, looking indignant but saying nothing while it was poured. Darnell was breathing through his nose, and his nostrils were flaring.

  “I respect your service to the nation, Mister Holmes,” Brittany whispered through gritted teeth as the waiter departed. “But you’re part of something else now and you need to look around and think more critically about what exactly you’ve gotten yourself into.”

  “I asked for this meeting precisely because I am eager to hear the other side,” Darnell responded, staring down at the table and looking injured. “I have had a couple questions of my own,” he added defensively.

  Brittany’s face softened, and for the first time, her lip twisted into an expression that may have been a repressed smile.

  “Listen, I may have come on a bit strong. I’ve never had a PR person from Sharesquare invite me to give an opinion.” Then she rose from her seat and extended a hand to Darnell. “I’m afraid I could only stop by for just a moment. I was more curious than anything if you were putting me on.”

  They shook hands, and she took a large swig from her mug before throwing a few dollars on the table.

  “But I stand by everything I said. You seem like a decent person, Darnell. You should get out while you can.”

  Then Darnell watched her set off at a brisk pace down the street.

  Now

  Gabriel Boucher lived in a Tudor-inspired mansion in San Francisco’s illustrious Presidio Heights neighborhood, across the way from the more well-known Pacific Heights, but sacrificing nothing in grandeur and extravagance. He strolled west on California Street, then turned two corners to arrive on Sacramento. Even in poor economic times, the area’s mix of upscale restaurants and elegant clothing shops was little changed.

  A new French eatery was opening next week. It wouldn’t be sufficient though, at least not to Gabriel’s discerning native palette. There were only two French restaurants in all of San Francisco that he would recommend to his friends, and one of those was about to close.

  He reached his block, an indulgently wide and quiet street lined by well-kept, multi-story homes. Lush and meticulously maintained gardens were displayed across front yard terraces. It was perhaps a contest of sorts. Who would stop caring about appearances first? Who among the most elite and wealthy San Franciscans, executives and barons of finance, would quit the facade of normalcy? Because not everyone here was rich anymore. They couldn’t be.

  Sure, the wealthy—the really wealthy—were the last people in any recession to feel the pain. That’s what portfolios, diversified assets and second homes in other countries were supposed to buy you. Security. But there were alway
s some who overleveraged themselves, who made bad assumptions on the idea that growth was a runaway train that would never stop. Sooner or later, they would have to stop paying their gardeners. Or worse, they would be seen outside taking care of their yards themselves.

  Gabriel laughed to himself at this thought. No one here knew how to garden.

  He arrived at his home at the end of the lane, turning the key into a thickly built Spanish door that Kyle had liked, and stepped into a silent living room. There were no servants here anymore. Gabriel let them go months prior. He didn’t mind though. He had forgotten how much he enjoyed cooking, even if it were just for himself. Doing laundry and keeping the floors and bathroom clean were less satisfying chores, but they kept his hands busy and his mind occupied, and for that, he was grateful.

  It was such a big old home that he could have toiled full time on those tasks. There was the solarium in the back that Kyle had been using as an art studio. All his equipment was still there and needed to be moved to the attic. But the attic had grown cluttered and required organizing. Everything in the drawing room also could use a dusting, and the sheets in the guest house were due for a change.

  Friends who visited him now—though he had fewer of these since Kyle was gone—would come over and drink Gabriel’s best wines and eat his home-cooked French dinners, and they would laugh a little but mostly they would look at Gabriel as if he were some poor, lonely old man in a big empty home. They made frequent allusions to their sympathies for his hardships. Another victim of the times, they’d say. Everyone had lost something, but Gabriel more than most.

  But Gabriel wasn’t just a victim, or, at least, he had been hard at work to avoid feeling like one.

  There was an old boombox in the corner of the kitchen, and Gabriel played a Duke Ellington CD that always helped clear his mind and settle his nerves. He poured himself a glass of zinfandel and turned his mind to his guest and his meal.

  She had used the phrase “we,” but she had been evasive about who exactly she was bringing with her. Gabriel planned on cooking for three, just to be safe. He reached into his refrigerator and pulled out a tray of uncooked rabbit brining in salted water. Then he retrieved a cutting board and began dicing two large yellow onions. Kyle had insisted on buying the highest quality knives they could find in the city. Gabriel thought it a ludicrous expense at the time, but now that he used them frequently, he quite cherished the set.

  It was perhaps Gabriel’s most unapologetic indulgence that he still strove to source all the food in his kitchen from high quality farms. The rabbit was from a rancher up north in the hills away from the city lights, and the prices had tripled within a year. The produce was from a local, open-air market, one of the last ones in the district.

  Once the onions were cooking in a generously buttered skillet, Gabriel turned his thoughts to his prospective guest. The name she gave was fake, that was obvious. He couldn’t tell if she was a professional who didn’t care or an amateur that was wasting his time. Perhaps a year ago, when he was more cautious, he would have simply turned her down.

  A mutual acquaintance, Michael Jacobs, is in trouble, she had said. And she’d suggested that maybe there was something they could do about Kyle, too.

  Gabriel hadn’t heard from Mike in almost a year. Truthfully, he didn’t know much about the man. He had a vaulted position in Sharesquare Industries before its collapse and rebranding. That gave him some clout in the resistance community when he began speaking out. So they had dinner several times and talked about plans.

  Mike had some theories about what the government was going to do next, and uncannily he had been right about all of them. He had predicted the madness of the Citadel, the widening of the government’s probe into “seditious” activities, the economic recession that limped on without end. They discussed assassinations and vengeance, but together he and the other leaders had never agreed on a strategy.

  The knock came on the door sharply at seven. Gabriel opened the door and found a girl alone with nothing but a worn satchel. She wore large sunglasses and a scarf—more likely to draw attention in the evening than avoid it. She was indeed an amateur. Gabriel breathed out, feeling disappointed, and let her in.

  As the girl walked in, she removed her scarf and glasses, and her auburn hair fell over her shoulders revealing gentle curls, and her wide, clever eyes flashed a brilliant shade of green, like light reflected in a forest stream. He nearly tripped over his own feet.

  Charlotte Boone.

  Gabriel had removed most all the computer equipment in the house. He stripped out a cloud-connected thermostat and a video surveillance system. He replaced his convenient wifi-based speaker set and television with CD players and an old-fashioned projector. But that’s not to say he wasn’t good with computers. Quite the opposite. When a woman reached out to him with a request to meet, he had tracked the IP address to a provider in central Africa. Then he had reached out to his connections in his community to help him look at flight data, trying to see if anyone using the given name matched any public records. He could have done it himself, of course, but it was good to ask favors in the underground. It was a currency that kept everyone in somebody else’s debt, and debts were good when you’re trying to build a volunteer army. But he had no hits on the fake name, and now, as his contact stood there, the world’s most recognizable Hollywood icon, he felt humbled to have been deceived by so high profile of a figure.

  “Miss Boone, it is a great honor to host you here,” Gabriel said in heavily accented English, bowing his head slightly. “Is it just the two of us dining tonight?”

  “Please call me Charlotte,” she responded, sliding off a worn satchel and laying it carefully on a couch. “It’s just me, and I’m sorry for giving you a fake name.”

  “These are troubling times. None of us can be too careful. Please follow me.”

  Gabriel led her to an expansive kitchen that was lovingly adorned in stylish tastes. Three racks of wines were situated against a wall, and a glass door on the floor led to a small spiral staircase and wine cellar visible in a corner of the room.

  Gabriel served a prosciutto-wrapped rabbit roulade and a zesty salad topped with cheerful nasturtium flowers. He was quick to refill her glass with wine, and his demeanor was gregarious, but Charlotte caught the eagerness flickering in his eyes. She had practiced what she should say, of course. She needed to say enough about the truth to gain his support but not too much lest he thought her crazy.

  But she was an actress, after all, and she no doubt appeared quite at home in this elegant house eating foods with flavors she had sorely missed in her years of self-imposed exile in Malawi.

  “This is quite a surprise having you here, mademoiselle,” Gabriel began cautiously. “I don’t think I need to say that. No one has heard from you in years. Did you recently arrive?”

  “I flew in today, actually. Yes, I feel quite out of sorts.”

  “And you made the trip because you believe I can help you with something?”

  “Help each other, perhaps. Would you mind telling me about Kyle’s predicament first? I tried to do my homework, of course, but I wanted to hear the story from you.”

  Gabriel leaned back in his chair, a frown creasing his face. He sighed.

  “I do not like to get sentimental for nothing, you know.”

  Charlotte smiled at him reassuringly, the same smile she used to woo producers at cocktail parties when she was eighteen, just trying to land her first major role.

  “This is not nothing, I promise you.”

  “Kyle and I met seven years earlier when a small tech startup that my Paris firm had invested in was bought out,” he began, his eyes doleful. “I intended only to stay in Silicon Valley for a couple months to see the deal finalized, but then I met Kyle. He was a free spirit, an up-and-coming artist. And he had a show in San Francisco, so I decided to extend my stay. We moved in together. My fa
stidious manners clashed with Kyle’s free-wheeling ways. He was stoned almost every day, but we found a way to meet in the middle,” he said with a tight smile. “I learned to let things go. And then I effectively retired to enjoy a life of art shows, wine collecting, and playing squash at the gym.”

  “But then Kyle got political?”

  “Well, he was always political, but when he had an exhibit underperform he began spending more of his time online writing, amassing a sizeable population of followers with his commentary. When the Nutrino Mixer scandal was exposed and the government began implementing punitive measures against well-known progressives, Kyle organized protests in the streets. He invited me to go along too, but I was scared. I still thought of myself as just an immigrant, after all, even after getting my green card. I loved America, but mostly I loved slow morning walks along the Presidio watching the fog roll in, I loved my elite dinner reservations at Michelin-star restaurants. And oh, I cherished my monthly weekend drives to Napa to meet vintners for tastings.”

  He sipped his wine and sighed. Then he wiped a tear forming in his eye. His accent became thicker as he spoke.

  “Then they came for Kyle. They arrested him at a protest and accused him of inciting violence and discord. His trial was a sham, little more than a frenzied media mob still frothing at the mouth from the indignity of being sterilized by a smoothie blender. He was sentenced and sent to the Citadel. I drive past that hideous glass tower every week. They built that merde to disfigure the skyline.”

  “And that’s when you got involved?” Charlotte leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs.

  “Yes, I wasn’t a hedonist anymore. Well, I wasn’t just a hedonist. After Kyle was taken away, I tried to pick up where he left off. But the times were moving quickly, and the activists who were brave enough to stay ultimately faced two choices: to go underground, often becoming more extreme in doing so, or try to assimilate back into society. I chose the former. I spend my nights on the Dark Web, building connections, rallying people together under loosely held banners, trading information, making tactical stratagems that mostly go nowhere, and funding resistance efforts and grassroots political and legal campaigns. My online persona is a strict secret, but I hear the Feds have put a million-dollar bounty on it.”