A People's Future of the United States

by Charlie Jane Anders

  Alyssa said nothing but took the card. Then she climbed into the car and began to drive toward the highway. She passed other large houses until the landscape smoothed to farms and eventually suburban neighborhoods of identical-looking homes. The directions took her toward the highway on-ramp, where she stopped at a red light. A van pulled up next to her and Alyssa stared straight ahead.

  A middle-aged woman exited the van, walked up to the driver’s side door, and raised her eyebrows in question. Talking was no good, because the senator and his people were most likely listening.

  Alyssa gave the woman a thumbs-up, pointing to the backseat.

  The woman flashed an okay sign. Alyssa popped the locks. The woman opened the rear door and gently grabbed the girl by the shoulders. Another woman exited the van to grab feet. The two women hoisted the girl into the van, closed the doors on both vehicles, and, when the light turned green, drove away.

  Alyssa got onto the on-ramp, her heart light. For the first time in a while, she smiled.

  * * *

  —

  “I have a proposition for you,” the woman said.

  Two weeks before Alyssa was snatched off her corner by Findley and his partner, she sat in a diner and waited patiently for her pancakes. On the television in the corner was a report about the latest terrorist attack, this one carried out by a group of women’s rights activists known as the Harpies. They’d bombed the factory where a male-enhancement drug was made. Alyssa thought it was funny. The government called it the worst crime in history.

  She tore her gaze away from the television to the woman sitting opposite her. She had dark-brown skin and a slight smile that seemed to indicate that everything was amusing and silly. The expression immediately put Alyssa on edge. “I don’t know you, lady.”

  The woman smiled. “I know. But you seem to like my products.”

  That got Alyssa’s attention, and she straightened. “Who are you?”

  The woman made a complicated wing gesture with her hands. She had to be a Matriarch, one of the women who organized the Calendar Girls.

  Alyssa had thought it was all a bunch of bullshit. She’d become a Calendar Girl because it let her move out of foster care into her own place, not because she believed in all of the women’s rights bullshit they fed her. With the money she saved, she would be able to leave the country, go somewhere women weren’t expected to be married by twenty and knocked up by twenty-one. Somewhere she could get a real education, not the “smile and submit” bullshit they taught in school.

  But this woman being here complicated her life, and she could see all of her dreams suddenly teetering on a precipice.

  “How do I know you’re legit?”

  “You moved six hundred and twenty-three monthlies last month, your best month on record. You had to re-up three times.”

  Alarm bells clanged in Alyssa’s head. “I haven’t done anything wrong; I’ve followed all of the rules,” she said, not looking up when the waitress came by to deliver her pancakes. The restaurant was where she usually picked up her stash each week, and the woman would have known that. It all felt like a trap now, the predictability of it all.

  “Of course you have, my dear. You’ve been great at your job. And not a snitch, either. Which is why we now need you to take care of this for us.”

  “Okay,” Alyssa said. There wasn’t much else to do. You didn’t talk back to the Matriarchs.

  “In two weeks the police officers in your area will pick you up, seemingly without provocation. Do not fight them; do not argue. They will take you to either the city or county jail, and from there you will be offered a deal that will be too good to be true. You will balk at first, because they will expect you to. After that you will accept it. Do you understand?”

  Alyssa nodded, and the woman’s polite smile stretched into a grin.

  “Excellent. You’re going to love Canada, by the way.”

  The woman got up and walked away, and Alyssa watched her go. Canada?

  Why the fuck would she ever go to Canada?

  * * *

  —

  Once Alyssa could, she stopped and withdrew as much money as possible on the card. It was only five thousand dollars. She got back in the car to do the same thing at another machine. By the time the card refused to keep giving her money, she’d withdrawn twenty-five thousand dollars. The daily limit.

  She drove the rest of the day, stopping to sleep in rest stops along the way. Eventually she’d be able to stop, but until then it had to look like she was following the senator’s plan.

  At seven-thirty, her phone beeped, the first sound it had made in nearly a day. The message was just a link, and when Alyssa clicked it she laughed.

  “MORAL” SENATOR’S DAUGHTER DEFECTS TO FRANCE WITH OUT-OF-WEDLOCK PREGNANCY AND DIRT ON DADDY, INCLUDING MURDER PLOT

  Alyssa didn’t bother reading the story. There was a picture, and she recognized the unconscious girl who’d been in the backseat. Her part in this tale was at an end.

  Another text message came across with directions, and Alyssa read them quickly before turning her phone off.

  She took the next exit into Minneapolis. In a crowded gas station parking lot, she dumped the car, leaving the money inside. She then made her way to a run-down mall, where she dumped her clothes and phone after a white girl in a red hoodie handed her new ones. At a kiosk in the mall she had her identi-chip wiped and reloaded with new information. Including sixty thousand dollars.

  For a minute she toyed with the idea of staying. Things would change. The Matriarchs would eventually reverse the laws and restore the rights of women. Maybe she could even help with the fight, a little.

  But the reality was, Alyssa didn’t care. She just wanted to live her life.

  So she bought a bus ticket to Toronto, one way, and for the first time in her entire life was free.

  JUSTINA IRELAND enjoys dark chocolate, dark humor, and is not too proud to admit that she’s still afraid of the dark. She lives with her husband, kid, cat, and dog in Pennsylvania. She is the author of the novels Vengeance Bound, Promise of Shadows, and Dread Nation, a New York Times bestselling novel. She is—with Troy L. Wiggins—the editor of FIYAH, a magazine of black speculative fiction.

  THE SYNAPSE WILL FREE US FROM OURSELVES

  VIOLET ALLEN

  I can create any scenario I want for Dante, any story, any setting—anything. I have total control over his universe. Today he inhabits a grand mansion. The design is mostly mid-century modern, with just a hint of gothic whimsy. Each room is crafted to maximize luxury and pleasure, pleasure that can exist beyond the laws governing the material universe. It is a miracle, a place of wonder and dreams, a place where anything may happen.

  “Yo homie, I want the D!” Dante yells.

  He and Dahlia are naked in the boudoir. I set up a very romantic scene for them. A river of fine champagne lazily flows around a bed seated upon a rose-petal island, all beneath sky lit by candles. These are all simple signifiers, but sometimes simplicity is the best. Dante entered from the Frasier zone, expecting his normal bedroom, only to find this delicious tapestry and Dahlia waiting for him, resplendent in elegant finery, lacy lingerie, and very sexual high heels. He was soon denuded, and so was she. Esquivel is playing, and Dahlia performs an erotic dance I choreographed based on Rita Hayworth’s Dance of the Seven Veils in 1953’s Salome. The rest writes itself. (Sex.)

  Yet Dante only laughs scornfully, filled with pure amusement at his own irreverence. He shall get no D this day or any other, yet still his spiteful pleasure knows no end. “That D! You know what I’m talking ’bout!”

  (D is a reference to a human man’s penis, which I presume he wants to have intercourse with or around.)

  “Stop it,” I say into the microphone, louder than I intend. I look around. I don’t think anyone noticed. My workstation is in a c
ubicle on the main floor of the facility. I am surrounded by other Adjustment Engineers, each one working with his or her own client via the Synapse.

  The Synapse is a miracle of modern engineering. The Synapse allows people to reach their full potential. The Synapse will free us from ourselves.

  I give him a little buzz. Just a little so he knows I’m not playing games with him. He reacts absurdly, shaking, screaming, wriggling on the floor like a child. I know not to be fooled by these theatrics. We are doing this to help. I’m not a bad person, I promise. I want to help Dante. I love him (agape). I only want what’s best for him. I have never hurt him. All I have ever done is help him be the best version of himself that he can be. Or at least, I have tried.

  “That sucked,” he says after he has recovered. “I mean, it was a powerful sensation, but I need some romance before the big climax, chief. What, is this your first time torturing anybody?”

  “Stop it,” I say.

  He smiles so big and so wide, like he knows he’s won whatever game he’s playing. “Maybe some spanking? Is that your thing? Some spanks, maybe some spit play? I feel like we could really have some fun together if you loosened up.”

  Just a little buzz. Just one more. It doesn’t hurt as much as it seems. I’m not a bad person.

  I can fix him. I can make him love her.

  * * *

  —

  “It’s been six months,” says Program Director Murphy.

  “I know,” I say.

  Program Director Murphy is a small, grandmotherly woman in her fifties. She is kind and good. She is my boss. I trained with her for a year before beginning this job. I know her well. This job has been my dream since I was a child. This is a good job. I am doing good work. I am a good person.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “He’s a difficult subject.”

  “You’ve made no progress at all.”

  “He’s a very difficult subject.”

  “He’s your first, isn’t that right?”

  Program Director Murphy’s office is large, blank, and circular. The corners where the walls meet the ceiling and floor are rounded, giving the impression of an infinite void, at the center of which is a desk for her and a chair for me. I am more afraid than I ought to be. She’s just my boss. My heart shouldn’t beat like this, and I shouldn’t feel like my head is swelling up like a balloon, like it’s growing to fill up all the empty space around me.

  “Yes. My very first.”

  A field of holotext floats in front of her face. The green light reflects on her skin, giving her the appearance of a small, grandmotherly woman in her fifties. She is kind and good. She is my boss. I know her well. I trained with her for a year before beginning this job.

  “It says here that you spent a week making him watch Godard movies on repeat?”

  “Yes,” I say. “They’re very romantic. Have you seen Pierrot le Fou? It literally tells you everything you need to know about heterosexual intercourse. I mean, it’s like a metaphor—the guy explodes at the end.”

  “Do you know why we assigned you to this case, Daniel?”

  “Not really, ma’am.”

  “You and your subject share a love for twentieth-century ephemera, a sentimentality.”

  “Of course.”

  “But you’re too sentimental. Spare the rod, spoil the child. You need to be firmer. We’re doing this for his own good.”

  This is a good job. I am doing good work. I am a good person.

  “Yes.”

  “Be firmer. They can take more than you think.”

  “Okay, ma’am. Whatever you say.”

  “There will be negative consequences if you can’t produce results.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I understand. You can count on me.”

  * * *

  —

  I eat lunch in the cafeteria with my friend Xavier every day. He started here around the same time as me. I would enjoy fraternizing with him in the evenings as well, but we are assigned to different dormitories. But our lunch schedule lines up perfectly every day, so we can at least hang out then.

  “I am starting to really fucking hate this fucking piece of shit,” he says.

  Like me, he is having trouble with his subject.

  “Today I made Hollie into a cheerleader and Javi into a quarterback, and then they were in the shower together. But then Javi just complained. I want go home; I want to read a book; I’m bored. He said he played fútbol in school, not football. It was so annoying.”

  Xavier is small and…elegantly constructed. I haven’t measured his features, of course, but I strongly feel the golden ratio is in play. His hair is dark and shiny, and when I see him in the corner of my eye, it flows down gracefully to his shoulders, though in reality it is cut cleanly above the ear. He speaks with an aristocratic Spanish accent, and he stumbles when swearing, as if he cannot quite find the translation to encapsulate his anger. I feel as though I have known him for a long time, and I think that he is probably my best friend.

  “They’re monsters,” I say. “If this were easy, we wouldn’t be here. It’s our job.”

  Dora sits down at our table. She also started around the same time as us. She is a very beautiful woman. We are sort of friends, and sort of enemies. Also, I think she may be my girlfriend.

  “You losers whining again?” she asks.

  “We don’t whine,” I say.

  “What do you call it, then?”

  “A strategy session,” says Xavier.

  She chuckles. “Nerds. You just have to bear down. Get into their minds. Suck them into the illusion. Daniel, did you end up doing that thing with the hundred cakes?”

  “Five hundred, and I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I told you it wouldn’t work. Today, Ike proposed to Izzy and she said yes. It’s going great. You just gotta know how these people think. You have to manipulate them. Give them what they think they want. That’s how you get what you want.”

  She continues to explicate her methods, which largely entail being great and naturally knowing how to do it. I appreciate her company, despite the name-calling. It is a little strange that she might be my girlfriend, but she is an amusing person. I enjoy it when she is around. This, I believe, is the essence of romance: enjoying it when a person of the opposite sex is around. This is why we live and fight. But she gets up quickly, and I realize that she had no intention of eating with us, rather that she is going from table to table in order to brag.

  “I’ll see you losers later.”

  “Bye,” says Xavier.

  “I love you,” I say without thinking.

  For a moment, she stares at me blankly, as if waiting for her thoughts to catch up with her, then she nods. “I love you, too.”

  After she leaves, Xavier says, “Why don’t we actually have a strategy session? Really get into it? Later. After work.”

  He speaks softly, purrs almost. Program Director Murphy is nearby, standing by herself on either side of the room, a small, grandmotherly woman in her fifties. She would not approve of socialization outside of the sanctioned areas. We could get in trouble. I should say no. All of my instincts are telling me to say no. Any other day, I would say no. But today, I don’t know. I have to get better at this, and I can trust Xavier. I feel as though I have known him for a long time, and I think that he is probably my best friend.

  “Okay,” I say. “Let’s do it.”

  “Just the two of us.”

  * * *

  —

  We are drawn to the aesthetics of heterosexualism, both in theory and praxis. There is a simple elegance to it, a mathematical harmony. The key fits into the lock, and in doing so the key is complete, the lock is complete, the door is open. Meaning is created by the dialectic of form and function, and meaning is the hammer with which we
carve our lives from χάος and ἄπειρον, the formless infinite. Desire seeks only to replicate itself, but meaning seeks completion, and in completion we find ourselves.

  Dante is lost, and he doesn’t even know it. That’s why he was sent here. Not because he was gay. There’s nothing wrong with being gay; everyone knows that. The Institute loves gay people. We’re their truest allies, their biggest fans. But the lifestyle is hard. Some people aren’t as tolerant as us. The indignities, the exclusion. It’s terrible. And then there are the health issues. The diseases, the physical strain of unnatural relations. These people were everywhere, all around us, suffering, practically screaming for help. Something had to be done. This is why the Institute was created. Dante is among the first subjects. I am going to give him a better life, a normal life.

  This is a good job. I am doing good work. I am a good person.

  I wipe out all of Dante’s memories of Dahlia and of the various trials he has undergone in the Synapse. We need a fresh start, a new coat of paint. He always figures out that he is in a simulated reality eventually, though he is unable to put together that he is, in fact, not the real Dante, just a digital copy scanned from the original’s mind. How could he, though? We all think of ourselves as “real,” even when everything around us seems false. The real Dante is asleep somewhere in the facility, probably in the basement or something. We’ll wake him up when Synapse Dante has learned his lesson. The digital will be merged with the analog, the ghost will re-enter the machine, and the whole will be healed. The real Dante will be good and free of trouble and strife.

  All I have to do is get everything right. I’ve a great scenario in mind, a real adventure. Dahlia just needs a few tweaks. She’s a fairly basic AI—a puppet, really. I modeled her after Rita Hayworth. Rita Hayworth is the best woman. She was good at dancing, and she made Gilda. What more could a red-blooded American man ask for? Ginger Rogers? Boring. Myrna Loy? Too snobby. No, I know what cool guys like: Rita Hayworth.