The Media Candidate Read online

  He rubbed his eyes when the Oriental carpet began to defocus. And the time, the eons, I gave to the Lab. Could have spared some for my family. Now I’ve got the time. Now I can repay—but to whom?

  Elliott walked into the breakfast room where Martha sat with her coffee and paper. “I think I’ve figured out some things.”

  Martha seemed not to hear him, but Elliott knew better. “I went over to Halvorsen’s office yesterday to look around.”

  The paper dropped and two stern eyes met his.

  “Her files had already been scrubbed clean. There was only meaningless stuff. At least it looked meaningless to me, so I just left.”

  Martha returned to her paper.

  “I did a little library research on COPE, and you know, it still all sounds like bullshit to me.”

  “It’s too early in the morning to argue about this anymore, Elliott. And besides, I know you’re just looking for something to do. Now that you’ve got the time, you should get interested in baseball or something like you used to.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that, too. But not about baseball. I need to do something that’ll help me give back. Society has paid my way my whole career, and now that I’ve got the time …. I think there’s more wrong with our politics than ever before. I know you don’t see it that way, probably because you’ve grown into it slowly. But it’s like I just dropped into it. And I think our world really needs leadership. My collecting time told me I need to get involved with politics.”

  “You know I watch all those political shows on TV,” Martha said. “I like to see some really smart, good-looking candidate win. And you can advise them and everything right from your TV just by looking at the answer on your screen you want to send. It’s sure a lot easier than listening to endless debates and going to a VFW hall to vote like we used to.” She paused to study Elliott. “But, you know, I just can’t see you in politics. You might know a lot about quarks and electrons and stuff, but you hardly ever watch TV. And the only time you read the paper is when you run out of something scientific. I don’t think you’d fit in on The Senate Ladder or National Countdown. Besides, all the candidates nowadays are young and athletic and sexy.”

  “But that’s the whole problem. Everybody in politics today is the same. And none of them even know what it used to be like. I think there’s room for someone with a different view of things. I’m not sure what I could do, but we need people to remember the past, not just accept the present.”

  Martha shook her head as she returned to the paper. “I don’t see what’s wrong with baseball,” she muttered.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Shark Bait

  Joe was a data clerk. His job was simple. He received lists of codes and requests for data logs. Each code corresponded to a COPE identity number and a name, but Joe had no way of knowing the correlation. He also didn’t know what they were used for. All he knew was that he was supposed to perform a search of the Observables Data Base and put together a profile on the anonymous subject represented by the code. The profile was likewise coded, so it was difficult to know the identity of the subject. He could’ve been searching his mother, or himself, and he wouldn’t have known, unless he took the time to read the encoded descriptions.

  The profile comprised key information about the subject such as detailed physical, biological, and chemical descriptions along with every imaginable fact about the subject’s personal life, family, and associates. Joe’s job was to find all the scattered pieces and then format the data.

  He knew his job would someday be taken over by a computer since, in principle, there was nothing he did that couldn’t be done by a computer. The software simply hadn’t been developed yet, but it was just a matter of time. Joe figured someone at COPE was probably working on the software right now. But Joe wasn’t worried about job security. He knew it was so expensive and time consuming to clear someone to his level of security clearance that COPE would surely find him a job in one of the other classified compartmented projects. It had taken four years to get the security “tickets” needed for this job, and he felt these tickets were his greatest assets.

  Joe sometimes wondered about the data he collected. It was just zeros and ones somewhere in the vast COPE computer network. The codes weren’t people, just identifiers; the profiles weren’t lives, just data. But he read the paper. He knew about the organized crime murders. He knew that COPE did much more than audit campaigns. But it was just a job.

  Joe had performed the routine a million times. Any files he’d need later were collected on his removable memory and placed in a metal-matrix container marked “GX / SHARK BAIT / COPE TS.” The container was sealed with a Hall-Effect magnetic latch that only Joe and the Associate Director for Special Programs, the Asp, could open. The container was then placed in Joe’s personal safe, locked, and double-checked by another Shark Bait staff. Any files he no longer needed were erased and written over with random numbers several times, backwards and forwards. This ritual completed, Joe was on his way through security and then home.

  On his way out, he met the Asp in the elevator.

  “How’s everything in Profiles, Joe.”

  “Just fine, Sir.”

  The elevator stopped and let off the only other person in the elevator. As the door closed, Joe said, “Got an unusual request for a profile today—originated from a guy named Sherwood.”

  “Yes? What makes it so unusual?”

  “It’s just that Sherwood is a field liaison officer. Never got a request with a FLO origin before, but it had the proper ECR surveillance authority so I put it in the queue.”

  “And you’re sure it was for surveillance only, not enforcement.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “I see.”

  “Just wondered if this Sherwood guy is okay. Seems like he’s at a pretty low level for any kind of ECR profile.”

  “I think he’s okay, Joe.” A silence followed until the elevator stopped, and the Asp quickly walked off.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Star Manager

  COPE was rapidly computerizing everything. Over the years, nearly all of the human interaction with the data had been turned over to one of COPE’s computers. The philosophy at COPE was that humans introduced security risk, and they could minimize exposure to security errors and espionage by relying on computers to perform every phase of the operations. COPE management felt that some of COPE’s clandestine operations could be seriously jeopardized by humans with access to broad ranges of data. Thus, a data clerk like Joe with a straightforward and well-constrained job presented little security risk simply because he couldn’t deduce any meaningful picture of COPE clandestine operations.

  For this reason, many of the higher-level analytical jobs had been computerized first. These were jobs that required considerable mathematical, scientific, and logical analysis. These high-level analysts had to access not only data of all kinds, but also details of the goals of the organization. Thus, in years gone by, a large number of high-level analysts and decision makers would know a broad range of details about COPE operations that made COPE executives feel vulnerable. Top management decided to reduce that vulnerability by replacing these analysts with super-intelligent computer programs.

  COPE developed complex computer programs using fuzzy intelligence and chaos theory to perform these high-level functions. This procedure eliminated most of the human intervention by replacing thousands of highly skilled mathematicians and engineers with computer software. But the price was to accept computer systems, programs, and networks whose complexity grew to exceed any individual’s ability to understand.

  COPE even had its own geosynchronous satellites to handle most of the bus traffic among its mainframe computers while using commercial systems to accommodate the overflow. The system was of mind-numbing complexity. No one person or department could track its evolution, so COPE created a computer system to document the system of work stations, desktops, and mainframes as it proliferated. Another comput
er program managed the networks. COPE operations had become totally dependent on its computer.

  Traditionally, a single person, the system manager, was responsible for the operation and maintenance of a large computer system. COPE adhered to that tradition with one exception. The COPE computer system manager was such a critical position that the Director decided that the system manager’s identity should be a closely guarded secret to shield them from influences that might have system-wide effects. Thus, only the Director and the Associate Director for Data Services knew who the system manager was.

  COPE management believed that plans and objectives were safe now that they’d been tucked into the folds of a computer network. They believed that, to the extent they could limit human access to information, a secure and faultless operational computer system could be maintained. This assumption might have some merit by traditional computer standards, but the COPE computer did not comprise traditional technology. It was not static. It was on a fast track toward computer preeminence. COPE management still had a lot to learn about computers.

  CHAPTER NINE

  A Second Career

  Elliott rode his bicycle to the appointment, a habit he’d developed over decades. He adhered to the old fashioned practice of exercise and a healthy diet to stay in shape even though there were numerous drug-based routines that accomplished the same thing.

  He parked his lone bike near the entrance to the four-story building and left it unattended. He never even used a lock since only little kids rode bikes anymore, and his prehistoric bike should be safe. For years he’d been correct, and it seemed a safe bet for the future.

  After walking up to the third-floor CBS Party local office, he spoke the name G. Burns to the automatic receptionist. Within a couple of minutes, a tall woman in her mid twenties emerged from an unmarked door and offered her hand confidently. “Townsend? Burns.”

  A radiant face framed the formal smile but could not be subdued by it. It was a face of youthful beauty that perfectly accentuated her youthful body in a way that classic beauty accents a mature woman. She motioned for him to follow. A forest-green dress embellished her the way a frame magnifies a work of fine art. Her dress exactly matched the color of the bright CBS logo covering one full wall of the hallway they shared. Following Burns was an unforeseen pleasure.

  Burns’ athletic, yet femininely proportioned body demanded attention. Hair flowed down over its green backdrop in a single wave of gold. Elliott’s gaze attended the wave as it disappeared, leading toward splendid hips dancing in time to the cadence of heals. Music and art coalesced perfectly in this impromptu ballet. A single button was undone on the back of her dress in her otherwise impeccable attire. Considering her obvious concern for appearance, that button seemed remarkable to Elliott—and yet it was just a button.

  She led him into a small conference room and motioned him to a seat. The walls were covered with pictures of political candidates, none of whom Elliott recognized. One candidate was signing a soccer ball emblazoned with “Hyperbowl XXIX Champs” before the adoring eyes and cheers of a mob of children. Another pictured naked women and men entwined in a polygon of love on bright satin sheets. Elliott couldn’t decide which was the candidate, even after reading the caption “Joesy Hots, Star of Every Night – Eighth Congressional District.” A few pictures included Burns, barely recognizable in her revealing sportswear, jogging outfits, and ponytails. Every picture he quickly scanned showed her in a ponytail, laughing and hugging both the equally vivacious candidates and the young admirers. Everyone was young, exuberant, and very, very chic. The most interesting was a poster of a collage of giant baseball cards. Apparently, everybody on some team was running for something on the CBS ticket.

  The furnishings seemed borrowed from a studio set, like they belonged in a generic office of a generic corporation. The walnut table looked uncomfortably pregnant with its bulging middle to afford every subordinate an unfettered view of each other subordinate, thus frustrating even the most-subtle early-afternoon nod. The chairs wore standard black cushions and sprouted plastic legs and arms to clutch their unlucky patrons according to some unwritten discomfort specification. The walls withdrew to neutrality in deference to the impotent parry of the drapes. A wall-TV screen filled one end of the room. It was a magnificently common conference room, one in which any conservative manager could seek refuge from decisions behind a wall of committee approvals and a sea of expert-system computer models and decision trees. With the exception of the pictures adorning its walls and the woman enhancing its decor, the conference room personified mid-management America, celebrating its monotony, apologizing for its paralysis.

  “This is an unusual pleasure, Townsend,” she said as she seated herself across the table from him. “We don’t get very many volunteers anymore and, frankly, our volunteer requirements are quite low since most of our campaign work is automated or multimedia. And virtually all of the volunteers we retain are University students or other young people. That’s why I found your phone call this morning very intriguing. So, how may we assist you?”

  Elliott found it difficult to start, difficult to put his nebulous vision and ethereal concerns into words. But even beyond his communication dilemma, he found his hostess to be disarmingly human, certainly not the champion of hype and the adversary of sensibility and taste that he’d anticipated. He was prepared for Burns to be a bimbo, a bouncing, pony-tailed, tanned, and stunningly nippled beauty who conversed in one and two syllable words and expounded on the wonders of entertainers and jocks. He envisioned cartwheels and pom-poms accompanied by base-thumping sentences escaping in strings of inseparable sounds. Sexual allure would be explicit and uneasy. In short, he’d anticipated the person embodied in many of the pictures surrounding him, not the exciting businesswoman who sat before him.

  “Well, I’ve just retired from a long career in science, and I felt this was a good time for me to help … or, I guess, give back something for human … for the community.”

  “That’s very noble of you. What brings you to CBS?”

  “I guess that’s pretty serendipitous. You see, I’m not a registered CBS voter. I’m not registered at all. I’ve kept my nose to the grindstone for a long time. In fact, I haven’t voted for probably longer than you’ve been around. That’s why I want to do something to help.” Elliott broke eye contact with Burns and momentarily stared away. “I’ve been a taker … not a giver. You understand what I mean?”

  Burns sat motionless and emotionless.

  “I guess it’s hard for someone your age to appreciate what I’m trying to say.”

  “I understand perfectly,” she said. “I often feel the same way. I’m curious about why you chose CBS.”

  “That’s the serendipity. CBS is the only party with an office here in the city.”

  “But with holographic multimedia, that’s hardly a consideration anymore,” Burns replied.

  “I know. Maybe I’m old fashioned. I just wanted to deal with someone face to face.”

  “I certainly understand. I think this is a wonderful thing you’re doing.” Burns rose to her feet. “I wish I had more time to talk this morning, but I just came from a rally at the University and I have a virtual conference meeting with the state director in a short time, so I need to finish changing and prepare for that. We’re all quite busy right about now.” She walked with him toward the door. “There may be some very valuable things you can help us with in the near term. Let me think about our plans and get back to you.”

  The interview was over as quickly as it had started. Elliott found himself standing beside his bicycle before he even realized what had happened. He stood there immobile—wondering. In a moment, he was pointed toward home, but his spirit was captured in that third floor suite.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Sherwood Hits the Trail

  “I’d say a couple of hundred students will show up for that event,” Burns said. She sat near the end of the same table at which she’d interviewed Elliott earl
ier that day. A life-size hologram of the state CBS director sat at the head of the table. Hundreds of miles away, the same conference was taking place between the state director and a hologram of Burns in his conference room.

  “Good!” said the state director. “That’s all I have on my agenda. Now I’d like you to speak with our new field liaison officer, Sherwood, about the old guy you talked to today.” The state director’s hologram faded out and Sherwood faded in, standing directly across the table from Burns. He peered down at her over his pipe. The smoke billowed upward and out of the hologram leaving no trace.

  “Tell me what happened, Burns,” he said.

  “Got a cold call from an old guy who wants to volunteer for the party. Says it’s some kind of public service thing. Sounds sincere, or he’s a hell of an actor. Not sure what to make of it. His name’s Elliott T. Townsend. Says he just retired and wants to help people, or something. Ever hear of anything so bizarre?”

  “His party affiliation?” Sherwood questioned.

  “Claims not to be affiliated. He used to volunteer for the Libertarian Party when he was in college. You ever hear of that one?”

  “Did he say anything about some files he may have acquired from the University?”

  “What kind of files?” A period of silence followed. “No.”

  “Did he seem suspicious of the candidates?”

  “Not just the candidates, but the whole political process.”

  “Do you trust him?” Sherwood asked.

  “You can’t trust anybody as far out as him.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No,” said Burns.

  “Let me know if he makes any further contact.”