by Ken Saunders
Renard inhaled carefully. Fiona Brennan had told him to find out what he could about the Luddites, though why he should take her interests into consideration on the very day she’d sacked him and ruined his relationship with Taylor was beyond him. For some reason, it was Kate standing there—all fury and determination and Dickens—that decided him. He knew nothing much about the new Virtual GPs now entrenched in the Medicare system. ‘I’ll run,’ he told them both, ‘even if it means taking on the Dr Ottos.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Prime Minister Fitzwilliams always spent the time in make-up deciding what needed to be said, even if it was to be said reluctantly, to the awaiting cameras. Tonight’s video link-up to the global reality TV show GOOMS required the same focus he’d put in to the moments before a national debate. Possibly greater focus: GOOMS would have a far larger audience.
Network Ten had not been surprised when he agreed to the link-up over a month ago. But they had been when he’d asked that Labor leader Roslyn Stanfield also be invited. ‘Supporting the Australian entry in GOOMS is a bipartisan matter,’ he told the Network Ten people in his nation-united tone. The network mob had lapped it up. Roslyn Stanfield too had been delighted by the invitation.
Fitzwilliams’ generosity in including his struggling rival had self-interest behind it. Network Ten scheduled their live GOOMS broadcast for 27 March. This had fitted conveniently into Fitzwilliams’ plan to dissolve parliament and call the election on 21 March. It committed Stanfield to a wholesome bipartisan event a week into the campaign. It meant whatever attack ads were waiting in Labor’s arsenal, they’d need to hold back until this lovey-dovey event was over. Labor had a lot of ground to make up and this little interlude ate into the time they had in which to do it. Toss in Easter and two weeks of school holidays to distract the electorate’s attention and Labor had a very narrow window of opportunity.
Get Out of My Space, or GOOMS, was sponsored by the international sporting goods giant, Fortuna Corporation. It was a global phenomenon, hailed as the ultimate reality TV show. One hundred and fifty countries (including two rogue states) had competed in the contestant selection. The world had watched the hopefuls go through the physical travails of training, the rigour of scientific study, and the unrelenting and sometimes brutal talent contests. Ten contestants, the best of the best of reality TV, had blasted off to join the International Space Station. Australia’s Paula Perkins—‘Our Perky Paula’ as the media dubbed her—was among the final five still on board. On Sunday, the world would vote on which of the crew would be the next to be evicted. The ratings would be astronomical.
Everything to do with GOOMS was mega. The affable Scott and Yuri, the two actual astronauts tasked with running a space station with a crew of novices on board, were now celebrities themselves. They had received over two hundred thousand offers of marriage, the dark-haired Russian leading his American colleague slightly in both heterosexual and homosexual proposals. Australia’s Paula Perkins had produced the winning effort in Week Three’s Space Music Video challenge, adapting the old Star Wars opening caption ‘A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away’ into a catchy pop tune with choreography from her spacewalk (the Week Two challenge). The Zero-G Super Chef contest (Week Six) had been viewed live by four billion people. Fortuna Corporation paid for everything. The scarcely funded International Space Station could not believe its luck.
From their separate rooms, Fitzwilliams and Stanfield were ushered into the studio. ‘Fortuna Station in three minutes,’ the floor director announced. ‘You’ll have forty-seven seconds.’ Network Ten, though a GOOMS broadcast partner, was a lowly one. They had won those forty-seven seconds only through exhaustive negotiations.
‘Let’s speak together,’ Fitzwilliams proposed. ‘We’ll both start with, “Hello, Paula!”, then I’ll do a “The nation is behind you” bit and you can say a sentence. After that, we let Paula say whatever she wants. We’ll finish off with a few words of encouragement.’
‘How about a joint “Good luck. We love you, Paula!”?’ Stanfield suggested.
‘Perhaps, “Australia loves you, Paula.”’ Fitzwilliams felt the weight of his years. He shouldn’t tell twenty-seven-year-old astronauts he loves them on world television.
Roslyn Stanfield had often struck Fitzwilliams as ill at ease in her newish role as leader, but today she seemed composed. Fitzwilliams faced a predicament with this election. In the world of attack ads, Roslyn Stanfield was simply too soft a target. People didn’t seem to hold strong opinions about her, and if you went cut-and-thrust at someone like that, it might appear to be mean-spirited, vicious. A badly judged attack ad could easily create sympathy for her. Fitzwilliams had a carefully graduated line-up of attack ads prepared. They were mild by industry standards, with the harshest one being of Stanfield sitting on a fence at some agricultural show. They had overlaid the voice of the Labor leader making contradictory statements about the GP reforms, the crisis in Tajikistan and the use of Go-bots in day-care centres. No matter how tired you got at one of those interminable agricultural shows, Fitzwilliams knew you never took a moment’s rest by sitting on a fence. Stanfield was a leader on her L-plates.
‘Twenty seconds,’ the floor director called.
Onto the screen came Scott the astronaut. To Fortuna Corporation’s delight, he and Yuri played to perfection their roles of the relentlessly good-natured veterans, sometimes pulling their hair out at the antics of the crew contestants. And it helped that they looked very, very good outfitted in Fortuna sportswear with the famous winged running shoe logo of the corporation prominently displayed.
‘You want Paula?’ Scott asked. ‘I don’t know where that crazy Aussie’s got to.’ An elbow caught him in the ribs. ‘Oh, she’s sitting right here.’ He floated offscreen, making it look as though Paula’s elbow had propelled him. Paula moved to centre camera.
‘Hello, Paula!’ the two party leaders chimed. ‘All Australia is barracking for you this weekend,’ Fitzwilliams enthused.
‘You’re Australia’s brilliant battler. You’ll be amazing in the Science Challenge Sunday!’ Stanfield predicted.
That had been two sentences, Fitzwilliams noted. ‘Brilliant’ was an odd adjective to pair with the campaign-weary term of ‘battler’. Fitzwilliams detected something in it.
Paula smiled back. ‘It’s a great honour to meet you both. It’s a pity we don’t have time for a proper debate.’
Knowing the cameras were on him, Fitzwilliams suppressed any reaction, his eyebrows displaying only the slightest twitch of alarm. The word ‘debate’ lay out there, blaring a Do Not Touch warning. Fitzwilliams affected not to have heard it.
These instincts were not transferable to his rival beside him. ‘Debate?’ Stanfield asked.
The astronaut swept back her amazing zero-g hair. ‘Before blasting off three months ago, I gave my parents the paperwork to change my name by deed poll.’
Fitzwilliams braced himself. He couldn’t help but let his eyelids close at what was coming.
‘My new name is Ned Ludd, and I’m proud to say that I’m the Luddite candidate in the Tasmanian seat of Bass.’
The studio director gave the hand signal counting off the five seconds of broadcast remaining.
‘Goodbye, good luck,’ Stanfield said numbly, her hollow voice on its own. ‘Australia loves you …’
‘Ned,’ Fitzwilliams finished for her.
...
Aggie Posniak, Luddite candidate in the Melbourne electorate of Wills, rose stiffly from the couch to answer the door. She had been willing enough to become the bicyclist candidate. The two enthusiasts from Bicyclism Australia who had come to campaign for her were very organised and, through the still-operating Bicyclism Australia website, had mobilised a network of like-minded supporters. Day after day, even in the rain, they were pedalling all over Melbourne to muster votes. What Aggie had not fully appreciated was that she would have to pedal everywhere too. A week and a half into the campaign and her legs were ach
ing.
At times, Aggie almost forgot that she had invented Bicyclism Australia and initially peopled its website with a fictitious membership with the sole purpose of being appointed to the Royal Commission into Road Safety. Bicyclism Australia had since morphed into what had to be considered a legitimate movement. There were thousands of members and they were ready for the call to action. It might not help her cause in Wills much but her campaign could persuade cyclists from across the country to swing to the Luddites in the Senate.
The two Veronicas (they had the same name, which made it difficult for Aggie to recall which one she had told what) on her doorstep bustled into the flat and bustled out their campaign maps for the day. The pair never seemed to tire.
Aggie glanced at the map of the day’s itinerary. ‘How many hills?’ she asked. Aggie thought of herself as fit, but the Veronicas were pedalling machines compared to her.
The Veronicas were indispensable. Aggie had been chosen to be the Ned Ludd to represent the Luddites in the leaders’ debate. She hadn’t taken that assignment seriously at first, presuming the two main parties would refuse to debate the Luddites. Suddenly, however, Network Nine was trumpeting the Triangular Battle of the Century and now Aggie had to spend considerable time preparing for the showdown. Fitzwilliams was a skilled debater and Stanfield knew how to dodge out of corners. Aggie would need something to throw them off their game plans. Her performance in the debate could conceivably win the Luddites a Senate seat or two. And just this day, she’d received an additional assignment for the Luddite campaign, a complicated programming task. Leaving the Wills campaign to the two Veronicas eased her workload.
‘Ready to go?’ one of the Veronicas asked.
Aggie put on her helmet and smiled. The programming task was challenging, but through the Bicyclism Australia site Aggie still had access to the computing power of the whole Autocar server. That made the task much more feasible and, if it worked, the Prime Minister would be in for a major surprise late in the campaign.
...
When Alan Chandos had first proposed the GP reforms to cabinet, even Prime Minister Fitzwilliams’ first inclination was to say, ‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’
The government had long considered the tantalising cost savings of automating some medical positions in the Medicare system. No one but Chandos had considered starting with general practitioners. The government was used to antagonising parts of the working population. Skilled labourers could be lumped together as corrupt trade unionists holding the country to ransom. The government could attack its own bureaucracy, calling it bloated and inefficient. Even those who not only minded the nation’s children but tried to teach them at the same time could be belittled by the government. The populace might consider public education important, but the government also knew every voter had childhood memories of intense dislike for certain teachers. The government could beat up on teachers whenever it felt the need.
Doctors were a different case, though, and one that needed to be handled with care. When Fitzwilliams had idly dreamed of automating parts of the medical profession, he’d thought to target specialists. Specialists wouldn’t give you an appointment for five months and then kept you waiting for hours on the day they did finally deign to see you. They scarpered off to conferences in suspiciously pleasant overseas locations and made enormous amounts of money. The voting public could feasibly be steered towards resenting specialists. GPs, on the other hand, those frontline heroes of medicine, were loved. Going against them could set off a political firestorm.
Chandos had first laid out the intoxicating level of savings to be made by automating GP services. This brought most of cabinet—those for whom slashing and burning was an economic goal in itself—rallying to his standard. For Fitzwilliams and the sensible rump of the cabinet that needed convincing, Chandos articulated a bold vision. It took a while to get their minds around the concept. He wasn’t just saying that what he was proposing was going to improve health outcomes, it actually would improve health outcomes.
The Automated General Practitioners, or Dr Ottos as they came to be called, could be accessed by any Medicare card holder from anywhere in the country at any time of day. All that was needed was a computer or Genie phone—or anything clever with a webcam. There was a luxury coffee maker that could connect to the Dr Otto system. Linked to Dr Otto, the patient would describe their symptoms and respond to the doctor’s questions. They could hold their suddenly spotty two year old in front of the webcam at 3.45 am and Dr Otto would evaluate whether to pack the child off to the hospital or back to bed. Dr Otto was instantly available. Dr Otto did not have a waiting room full of sickly patients coughing over you. Dr Otto didn’t nervously glance at the time if the consult dragged on. Dr Otto could send a prescription straight to your phone or local pharmacy. Dr Otto could display cultural sensitivity to over four hundred cultures. Dr Otto was there for you.
On the screen, the patient saw an image of a GP asking the probing questions. You could have the avuncular elderly practitioner, creaking with experience; the sharp-as-a-tack recent graduate with a trim-fitting lab coat; the middle-aged hard-working GP dedicated to public health and her two children—for the Dr Ottos came with both personalities and backstories. These developed according to a patient’s responses, evolving around the patient’s needs both medically and socially. Dr Otto was not averse to chitchat. During a consult, you could complain about your upcoming family Christmas or your daughter’s infatuation with the boy band Wrong Side or share your somewhat guilty pleasure in following stories on the royal family. Dr Otto could not only converse throughout, but also remember it all at your next appointment.
‘And all these Dr Ottos are linked,’ Chandos had told cabinet. ‘If we tell the program that there’s only eighty million dollars in the Pharmaceutical Benefits Scheme for a particular drug, the Dr Ottos only spend eighty million dollars. There will be no rogue GP out there prepared to blow the whole lot on his or her own patients.’
Chandos even foresaw the role for celebrity Dr Ottos, the government paying Paramount an undisclosed amount for the rights to use Dr McCoy from the old Star Trek movies. The public went flocking to their screens to meet the Dr Ottos for themselves.
Renard Prendergast, Luddite candidate for Sydney, always chose the Recent-Graduate-With-Trim-Lab-Coat Dr Otto. He knew the Dr Ottos worked well. They were instantly accessible from virtually anywhere and yet Renard had impulsively agreed to run on championing human GPs. It seemed a hopeless issue on which to campaign. For a local candidate, Renard had very little idea of what regular people wanted of a government. From his role as an ASIO surveillance data analyst, Renard had gleaned a good idea of what some people wanted politically. The trouble was, those people were mostly sociopaths, fanatics or terrorists.
Given Renard’s limited knowledge on the issue of automated GPs, the logical starting point was to meet with Kate’s parents to discuss their grievances. Obviously they had lost their jobs, but—less obviously—what did they think Renard should do about it?
He met Kate for a bowl of gruel at Low Expectations first. Her parents were a same-sex couple, Kate having been born by IVF. Either because they wanted to introduce genetic diversity into their future child or because they had not been impressed with Australian men, they’d chosen the country of the sperm donor by throwing a dart at a map of the world while blindfolded. Their first attempt was too aquatic (three hundred kilometres south of Iceland), but the second had cleanly pierced Estonia. Contacting a donor clinic in Tallinn, they had selected Kate’s sperm donor from the short profiles of men whose frozen sperm was available. They had chosen the one who had mentioned his love for the music of Leonard Cohen—with the exception of ‘Hallelujah’, which he thought had been covered to death. Kate told Renard (she had heard the story ten thousand times and couldn’t believe she was now repeating it herself) that it was the most seductive thing the Estonian could have possibly written for her parents. A Leonard Cohen concert had been
a very early date for them, a date that had moved their relationship up several significant notches of intensity. Kate didn’t like Leonard Cohen’s music much, though, oddly, she thought ‘Hallelujah’ was probably her favourite. Embarrassingly, her mothers still had a poster of Leonard Cohen up in their kitchen. She would occasionally find one of them gazing at the poster of this old, old man in black and be perplexed at what she detected to be a tiny flutter of heterosexuality in that look. Parents were, she recognised, inherently creepy.
After their gruel, Kate took him directly to her place and sat him awkwardly in her living room before her parents. How was he to be the saviour of these two pleasant-seeming professionals so unfortunately rendered redundant? He wasn’t even good at representing his own interests half the time. How could he represent theirs? Looking at them now, Renard couldn’t determine which woman was the biological mother of Kate. Kate introduced him as the candidate who was ready to fight for the cause of the GPs against the machines.
Neither of the ex-GPs said anything at first. Finally, one of them spoke up. ‘That’s very sweet of you, Kate, but we aren’t opposed to the Dr Ottos.’
The other mother (Kate had introduced both of them to Renard only as her ‘mums’) explained, ‘They’re doing good work. They can speak forty-two languages. They can spend hours with each patient. Every month they load the entire contents of The New England Journal of Medicine and The Lancet into the Dr Otto program. They are more up-to-date than the date. We were good doctors, but we can’t match all that.’
‘Kate,’ the first one added sympathetically, ‘we’re happy you’ve found this politician—’ Renard blinked, having never been called that before ‘—and are politically active, but don’t do it for us and our old jobs; do it for what matters to you and the future of your generation.’
Kate remained silent, a scowl fixed on her face. The two ex-GPs pretended not to notice and described to Renard their current employment. They spent their post-GP years infiltrating the alternative medicine sector. Under invented New Age-sounding titles, they set up in clinics alongside homeopathy practitioners, crystologists and psychic healers. There they subtly went about introducing sound medical practices, nudging their co-workers into putting doses of proven medicines into their concoctions. The astrology charts they ‘professionally’ consulted tended to recommend a balanced diet, more exercise and a better sleep regimen. One homeopathy clinic, Mum Two told him proudly, was now conducting a properly randomised trial. It was their new mission in life to medicise (their word) the mystics.