The Media Candidate
The Media Candidate
Title Page
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
PART THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
PART FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
THE MEDIA CANDIDATE
a hard sci-fi, political, speculative novel of 2048
Paul Dueweke
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting my hard work.
Copyright ©2016 by Paul Dueweke
Electronically published by Smashwords
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
PART ONE
Elliott
—the present—
“Television is democracy at its ugliest.”
— Paddy Chayevsky
CHAPTER ONE
State of the Union
“Isn’t that Lizzie Special something, Elliott?” Martha said. “I just knew she was going to win the primary. Didn’t I tell you that a month ago?”
Elliott Townsend looked toward his wife seated beside him to respond, but she was already turned away from him toward one wall of the Clifford Hotel ballroom, which exploded with TV coverage of the NBC Party primary. From his elevated position near the center of the speaker’s table, he scanned the ballroom audience, his co-workers. They were gathered here to honor him, to usher him into retirement. But Hollywood had seized them, had plucked their psyches with measured strokes, and they resonated with tuned ardor.
Then his gaze tumbled to the program lying on the table in front of him. “Dr. Elliott T. Townsend, Director, HyperPhysics HyperCollider.” While the cadence of the candidate birthing wrenched everyone else’s attention to the TV, Elliott moved his coffee cup and continued reading through a crescent stain. “We present you with our sincere gratitude on this sixteenth day of July, 2048. The world joins us in thanking you for your guidance and inspiration and forty years of dedication to science and human development that …” The program blurred as his mind focused on those two words—human development. The words stung as he rambled among the images of his distinguished career, strewn about like fallen trees awaiting the sawmill. And not caring.
He assessed his career, and human development, while the ballroom thumped to the media show. He stared through the distortion of his wineglass stem at those two words. How had anything he’d ever done had any positive influence on human development?
His eyelids twitched reflexively in time to the drumming music as the words dissolved. He’d spent forty years in the world’s most advanced scientific laboratory, surrounded by some of the most brilliant scientific minds of the century. Tremendous technical challenges filled his life. There were the accolades including a Nobel Prize, The President’s Science Prize, and two High Energy Physics Medals. He’d played an essential role in the most sophisticated symphony of technology ever composed. But what about human development? He worked it like a Rubik Cube that didn’t quite square.
The applause brought him back. He looked up in surprise, glad he’d lapped the media blitz. The audience began to refocus its attention on him as Dr. John Gingman rose to the podium. “We’re all indebted that you’ve offered to share your special evening with the NBC primary, Dr. Townsend.” The room filled with a few seconds of applause as Elliott smiled to the assembly. “During this commercial break, we can continue with our tribute to Dr. Townsend.” Dr. Gingman recited a litany of Elliott’s achievements at the world’s premier high-energy-physics laboratory.
Elliott graciously accepted a piece of simulated black walnut with a brass plaque. They had named the new wing of the computation center after him, the lobby containing a similar plaque. He delivered a minute of forgotten oratory about his role in the evolution of the laboratory, about the endless quest for quarks, about the great advances that they’d bestowed on science—and human development. He retreated to his seat beside Martha. The applause faded.
Dr. Gingman took the podium once more. “Dr. Townsend’s great accomplishments could easily consume us for several evenings like this. As you all know, the NBC primary didn’t end Wednesday as expected because Junkie and Tab have made spectacular comebacks to catch Lizzie Special. I know you’re all as excited as Dr. Townsend to see who will be the NBC Party candidate for president. I think the final game of the evening is about to start, and then we’ll get back to the real reason we’re here this evening.”
“This must be a very proud day for you, dear.” Martha presented him a camera smile just before she turned toward the giant TV screen.
“Yes … Yes …” The answer tumbled into his half cup of coffee and cooled it further. It must be, he thought. He sipped his merlot.
As the room darkened again and the thunder and lightening of NBC’s most spectacular offering broke over the audience, Elliott’s gaze tangled with the hair flowing from Martha’s head. Did she see the same thing in him that he saw? Did she see in him a skeleton of empty years, a lost family? But where did I lose them, he thought. Of course, and she knows, too.
His eyes pierced the evening and clung to those times gone by, and the pain that had only subsided as he learned to anesthetize himself with years of long nights at the Lab. But the price of that anesthetic had been dear. It cost him Susie and Luke—and Martha.
The science fair, he whispered to himself. That’s where I lost them. The science fair … and Dobbs.
He was revered at the Lab, more like an old warhorse than a hero; but they didn’t know about Ms. Dobbs. They didn’t know that the Lab was just a hiding place for him.
Suddenly a blinding flash, then a crash, sliced through the room so even Elliott couldn’t ignore it. Another world snarled at him, swamping his trance.
The game show MC prodded his simulated audience, arousing its synthetic emotions. His digital audience erupted, programmed with spontaneity, saturating the airwaves with ordered zeal. “This has turned out to be one of the tightest races in Election Beat history! Right now, Lizzie Special and Tab Hardman are both within fifty points of being the NBC candidate for President of the United States, and Junkie Gordon is right behind them with forty-six hundred points! The last time I saw a race this tight was for the Sixteenth Congressional District in North Carolina six years ago! This next set could put
either Lizzie or Tab over the top. Or if Junkie wins it, we could be in an unprecedented three way tie!”
Lizzie, Tab, and Junkie all pulsated before the cameras, whooping for the support of hundreds of millions of viewers. A little American flag danced in Lizzie’s hand, throbbing into a blur as she skipped out from the contestant booth. She tucked the flag handle into her cleavage, and performed an erotic dance, calling on all the physical assets she could reveal in this relatively low-key environment. If she’d been at a rally or a chat-up, she could have campaigned her fans with much more than a mere suggestion of her assets. But Election Beat maintained a conservative image, and she honored that tradition.
Within a heartbeat, she was joined by Tab and Junkie who feared she might upstage them. Tab’s youthful, tanned, athletic body and his prodigious biceps and surging groin twisted in sensual rhythms. Junkie pranced about with jewels glistening, shadowed eyes flashing, and a finely choreographed smirk seducing his adoring admirers.
A laser show extravaganza heightened the mayhem; a bare-chested band, sporting peacock plumes, added cacophony. Screams and wails and applause flooded the broadcast and permeated the spirit of the American voter. This was primary night for the NBC Party. The soul of America lay exposed.
* * *
The NBC computer ran with all the speed and power humans could build into it. It commanded the studio, keeping every player on cue, switching the active camera, balancing light and sound according to complex optimization codes, adjusting prompts to fit the evolving scenario, which is never quite as rehearsed, synthesizing ecstatic audience responses, and interfacing with computers at a dozen NBC regional centers all over America that were taking the real time pulse of the electorate via millions of interactive TV dialogs.
The NBC computer executed countless instructions every second, calling subroutines and macros at a hundred software levels. Everyone expected a flawless production, and no one was disappointed. Network executives savored their system’s performance. Party leaders inhaled the rating uptick. Americans devoured the carnival.
But the computer was just a machine, just doing its job.
* * *
After a sustained frenzy, the MC joined the three contestants amid hugs, thumbs up, and smiles. Everyone was exuberant, confident, and young. They played their roles, but not just to the sterile eye of the studio camera. Each could sense the invisible sea of neutered minds wedded to that camera. The MC gathered them together, and with a communal embrace, shouted into the collective ear of America, “One of these three contestants will be your next president!”
The scene erupted once more as the primeval ritual soared to another orgasm and then slowly retreated back toward the game show whence it had evolved. The breathless candidates were coaxed back to their booths where light and sound began to slow the pace, a signal that the serious business of picking a presidential candidate was about to begin.
Elliott’s eyes wandered from this media event to the people collected in his honor. His gaze stopped first on Martha, who clutched her purse, her fingers fondling it as they would have the multimedia controller in her living room. Every pair of eyes in the room, save one, was transfixed by the historic moment. Every face but one was upturned and bathed in the glow of feral allegiance.
The game-show camera zoomed in on Lizzie’s bronzed face, and the MC squeezed his face in beside her to nurture civic pride across America. “Ready, Lizzie?”
She rapped back, “Well don’t you know … I’m ready to go …” The band thumped it’s accompaniment. “Need a blow? … just flash the dough.”
The MC roared with delight and wagged his finger in front of the naughty guest. Lizzie grabbed his finger, swallowed it up to his knuckles, and sucked with her whole body in a convulsive rush, her eyes rolling heavenward. The band blasted ascending scales as the network computer broadcasted a sea of applause and whoops. In spite of the careful rehearsals, Tab nervously tried to interrupt this routine to steal the spotlight. The cameras ignored his gestures.
“Oh, Lizzie,” the MC groaned, “you just got my vote! If you’re elected president, can I be your first man?”
“That job was filled a lot of men ago, Rod, but you can sure be my next one.”
With a high five and an intro from the band, the MC stepped over to Tab, who leaped into the charged aura surrounding the MC. Tab wore a multi-colored sleeveless shirt with a black tie to accentuate his conservative appearance.
“Well, Tab, you look like you’re ready. Do you—”
“Hey, I do! I sure do! I’m like up with you, like scratching the score! I mean we’re together—but not thick, you get my mean.” He rocked side-to-side so far that the camera had to zoom out to keep him in the picture.
The MC thrust himself into the camera and gestured with his eyebrows. “Okay, cits, sounds like Tab has got himself … in the mooood!” Relinquishing the camera to Tab again, he said, “Tab! Is there anything else—”
“My people says … I’ll be the Pres … It’ll be toooo rad… in my White House … ah … in my White House … place.”
Despite the MC’s prodding, Tab didn’t respond to the teleprompter, which futilely flashed PAD. But the computer directed a world-class audience response to his patter. And viewers across America, and around the world, devoured it just the same.
“You’re my man, Tab!” the MC shouted into the din in mid high-five. “And you are up for the presidency!”
A hand grabbed Tab and held him back as the MC stepped to the last booth where Junkie stood, seemingly oblivious to the scene. His head was shaved save for one dread lock that curved around behind his head toward his chin and was interwoven with his beard. He claimed it gave him continuity with the universe and allowed him to recycle wisdom that most people let escape through their hair.
“No incertitude, Flash,” Junkie assured. He looked directly into the camera, raised and cocked his head, and blew a diminutive kiss. The slightest of grins diffused from his eyes to his cheeks as thunderous applause, whoops, and foot stomping radiated across the globe from the NBC transmitter and was echoed by countless millions of feasting fans.
“I’ve knocked balls,” Junkie said, “with tougher scabs; and I always—always—come up with my pectoral per - pen - dic - u - lar.” The airwaves erupted once more as Junkie gazed coolly into the camera and stroked his rope of hair as if asking for direction from its recycled wisdom.
“You have said it all, Junkie!” the MC testified with mock bows. “You have said it all! There’s no doubt! You’re king of the queers!” Once more, the airwaves resounded as Tab scowled and Lizzie applauded politely.
The camera slowly zoomed out during the applause to show all the contestants, each doing what their adoring fans had come to know and cherish them for. Each appealed to an element of the electorate in ways startlingly like their twentieth-century presidential ancestors.
Elliott’s eyes wandered out into the audience that had gathered in his honor. Nearly all of them were much younger than him. His gaze rambled from face to face, each upturned to the iridescent banquet, each feasting.
“Now it’s time for each candidate to pick your topic,” the MC said in a hushed tone. “And all you cits at home get ready to vote. Okay, now each candi, project your hologram for the cits to see.” The studio lights went out as three colorful holograms danced out of the contestant boxes and swirled together in a ring of brilliance before coming to rest. Each candidate gripped a signal wand and waited for the first round of play.
* * *
There was another computer, larger, more complex than the NBC main frame—and more mature. It lived about twenty miles from the studio in a big white building in the Hollywood Hills. It was tied to its disciple by a fiber optic network that carried data at thousands of gigabits-per-second tonight. This computer didn’t execute instructions. It performed. And it was ecstatic.
This was payday. It was going public tonight with an incredible new technology, one that the masses would neve
r even suspect. This computer lived a life of secrets—secrets it shared with a select few humans in the media. And somber secrets it shared with no human.
* * *
Elliott’s gaze rebounded from the display, almost not seeing it. The antics, the staging, the battle of light vs. sound, all seemed so foreign to him. He reached for a bottle of cabernet, his eyes fixed on infinity.
It was 2010, he thought. That’s when it happened—2010.
He knew how long ago that was. If he could just cut that year out of his life, just cut it out. He looked at the field of daisies on the cabernet label. A beautiful, slender woman with barely-reddish hair sat on a blanket holding her glass toward a man as he filled it. She wore a white dress, too, just like Susie did on her wedding day, at least according to the photo she sent him.
Last time he said more than a handful of words with Susie was at Luke’s wedding. She and John wanted to get married “away from the world.” He accepted the maroon liquid tempting his lips. Away from me, he thought.
That was more than a dozen years after the science fair, and she still couldn’t forgive her father. And now, so many more years had elapsed. I won’t have my lab to hide in anymore. No more Higgs particles and quarks to count. Just me and Martha—and our ugly history—and all this bullshit around us.
CHAPTER TWO
Threat to the Republic
Terra Halvorsen, a political science professor, sat in her living room about a mile from her office at the University. Curled in her lap lay Samantha, purring quietly and unresponsive to the commotion on the TV before them. But Professor Halvorsen made up for Samantha’s lethargy. She watched the Primary with singular intensity.