by Dave Eggers
There was a newbie close to her, a man of no more than twenty-two, with wild hair rising from his head like smoke, working with such concentration that he hadn’t noticed Mae standing behind him. His fingers were typing furiously, fluidly, almost silently, as he simultaneously answered customer queries and survey questions. “No, no, smile, frown,” he said, nodding with a quick and effortless pace. “Yes, yes, no, Cancun, deep-sea diving, upscale resort, breakaway weekend, January, January, meh, three, two, smile, smile, meh, yes, Prada, Converse, no, frown, frown, smile, Paris.”
Watching him, the solution to Annie’s problem seemed obvious. She needed support. Annie needed to know she wasn’t alone. And then it all clicked. Of course the solution was built into the Circle itself. There were millions of people out there who no doubt would stand behind Annie, and would show their support in myriad unexpected and heartfelt ways. Suffering is only suffering if it’s done in silence, in solitude. Pain experienced in public, in view of loving millions, was no longer pain. It was communion.
Mae turned from the doorway and made her way to the roofdeck. She had a duty here, not only to Annie, her friend, but to her watchers. And being witness to the honesty and openness of the newbies, of this young man with his wild hair, made her feel hypocritical. As she climbed the stairs, she assessed her options and herself. Moments ago, she’d purposely obfuscated. She’d been the opposite of open, the opposite of honest. She’d hidden audio from the world, which was tantamount to lying to the world, to the millions who assumed she was being straightforward always, transparent always.
She looked out over the campus. Her watchers wondered what she was looking at, why the silence.
“I want you all to see what I see,” she said.
Annie wanted to hide, to suffer alone, to cover up. And Mae wanted to honor this, to be loyal. But could loyalty to one trump loyalty to millions? Wasn’t it this kind of thinking, favoring the personal and temporary gain over the greater good, that made possible any number of historical horrors? Again the solution seemed in front of her, all around her. Mae needed to help Annie and re-purify her own practice of transparency, and both could be done with one brave act. She checked the time. She had two hours until her SoulSearch presentation. She stepped onto the roofdeck, organizing her thoughts into some lucid statement. Soon she made her way to the bathroom, to the scene of the crime, as it were, and by the time she’d arrived, and saw herself in the mirror, she knew what she needed to say. She took a breath.
“Hello, watchers. I have an announcement to make, and it’s a painful one. But I think it’s the right thing to do. Just an hour ago, as many of you know, I entered this bathroom, ostensibly under the auspices of doing my business in the second stall you see over here.” She turned to the row of stalls. “But when I entered, I sat down, and with the audio off, I had a private conversation with a friend of mine, Annie Allerton.”
Already a few hundred messages were shooting through her wrist, the most-favored one thus far already forgiving her: Mae, bathroom talk is allowed! Don’t worry. We believe in you.
“To those sending your good words to me, I want to thank you,” Mae said. “But more important than my own admission is what Annie and I talked about. You see, many of you know that Annie’s been part of an experiment here, a program to trace one’s ancestry as far back as technology will allow. And she’s found some unfortunate things in the deep recesses of her history. Some of her ancestors committed serious misdeeds, and it’s got her sick about it all. Worse, tomorrow, another unfortunate episode will be revealed, this one more recent, and perhaps more painful.”
Mae glanced at her bracelet, seeing that the active viewers had nearly doubled in the last minute, to 3,202,984. She knew that many people kept her feed on their screens as they worked, but were rarely actively watching. Now it was clear her impending announcement had the focused attention of millions. And, she thought, she needed the compassion of these millions to cushion tomorrow’s fall. Annie deserved it.
“So my friends, I think we need to harness the power of the Circle. We need to harness the compassion out there, of all the people out there who already know and love Annie, or who can empathize with Annie. I hope you can all send her your good wishes, your own stories of finding out about some dark spots in your family past, and make Annie feel less alone. Tell her you’re on her side. Tell her you like her just the same, and that some distant ancestor’s crimes have no bearing on her, don’t change the way you think about Annie.”
Mae finished by providing Annie’s email address, Zing feed and profile page. The reaction was immediate. Annie’s followers increased from 88,198 to 243,087—and, as Mae’s announcement was passed around, would likely pass a million by the end of the day. The messages poured in, the most popular being one that said The past is past, and Annie is Annie. It didn’t make perfect sense, but Mae appreciated the sentiment. Another message gaining traction said, Not to rain on the parade, but I think there is evil in DNA, and I would worry about Annie. Annie needs to try doubly hard to prove to someone like myself, an African-American whose ancestors were enslaved, that she’s on the path of justice.
That comment had 98,201 smiles, and almost as many frowns, 80,198. But overall, as Mae scrolled through the messages, there was—as always when people were asked for their feelings—love, and there was understanding, and there was a desire to let the past be the past.
As Mae followed the reaction, she watched the clock, knowing she was only an hour away from her presentation, her first in the Enlightenment’s Great Room. She felt ready, though, with this Annie business emboldening her, making her feel, more than ever, that she had legions at her back. She also knew that the technology itself, and the Circle community, would determine the success of the demonstration. As she prepared, she watched her bracelet for any sign of Annie. She had expected some reaction by now, certainly something like gratitude, given that Annie was no doubt inundated by, buried under, an avalanche of goodwill.
But there was nothing.
She sent Annie a series of zings, but heard no reply. She checked Annie’s whereabouts, and found her, a pulsing red dot, in her office. Mae thought, briefly, about visiting her—but decided against it. She had to focus, and perhaps it was better to let Annie take it all in, alone. Certainly by the afternoon, she would have taken in and synthesized the warmth of the millions who cared for her, and would be ready to properly thank Mae, to tell her how, now with the new perspective, she could put the crimes of her relatives in context, and could move forward, into the solvable future, and not backward, into the chaos of an unfixable past.
“You did a very brave thing today,” Bailey said. “It was brave and it was correct.”
They were backstage in the Great Room. Mae was dressed in a black skirt and a red silk blouse, both new. A stylist orbited around her, applying powder to Mae’s nose and forehead, Vaseline to her lips. She was a few minutes away from her first major presentation.
“Normally I would want to talk about why you’d chosen to obfuscate in the first place,” he said, “but your honesty was real, and I know you’ve already learned any lesson I could give you. We’re very happy to have you here, Mae.”
“Thank you, Eamon.”
“Are you ready?”
“I think so.”
“Well, make us proud out there.”
As she stepped onto the stage, into the bright single spotlight, Mae felt confident that she could. Before she could get to the lucite podium, though, the applause was sudden and thunderous and almost knocked her off her feet. She made her way to her appointed spot, but the thunder only got louder. The audience stood, first the front rows, then everyone. It took Mae great effort to quell their noise and allow her to speak.
“Hello everyone, I’m Mae Holland,” she said, and the applause started again. She had to laugh, and when she did, the room got louder. The love felt real and overwhelming. Openness is all, she thought. Truth was its own reward. That might make a good tile, she th
ought, and pictured it laser-cut in stone. This was too good, she thought, all of this. She looked out to the Circlers, letting them clap, feeling a new strength surge through her. It was strength amassed through giving. She gave all to them, gave them unmitigated truth, complete transparency, and they gave her their trust, their tidal love.
“Okay, okay,” she said, finally, raising her hands, urging the audience into their seats. “Today we’re going to demonstrate the ultimate search tool. You’ve heard about SoulSearch, maybe a rumor here and there, and now we’re putting it to the test, in front of the entire Circle audience here and globally. Do you feel ready?”
The crowd cheered its answer.
“What you’re about to see is completely spontaneous and unrehearsed. Even I don’t know who we’ll be searching for today. He or she will be chosen at random from a database of known fugitives worldwide.”
Onscreen, a giant digital globe spun.
“As you know, much of what we do here at the Circle is using social media to create a safer and saner world. This has already been achieved in myriad ways, of course. Our WeaponSensor program, for example, recently went live, and registers the entry of any gun into any building, provoking an alarm that alerts all residents and the local police. That’s been beta-tested in two neighborhoods in Cleveland for the last five weeks, and there’s been a 57 percent drop in gun crimes. Not bad, right?”
Mae paused for applause, feeling very comfortable, and knowing what she was about to present would change the world, immediately and permanently.
“Fine job so far,” said the voice in her ear. It was Stenton. He’d let her know he would be Additional Guidance today. SoulSearch was a particular interest of his, and he wanted to be present to guide its introduction.
Mae took a breath.
“But one of the strangest facets of our world is how fugitives from justice can hide in a world as interconnected as ours. It took us ten years to find Osama bin Laden. D. B. Cooper, the infamous thief who leapt from an airplane with a suitcase of money, remains on the lam, decades after his escape. But this kind of thing should end now. And I believe it will, now.”
A silhouette appeared behind her. It was the shape of a human, torso and up, with the familiar mug-shot measurements in the background.
“In seconds, the computer will select, at random, a fugitive from justice. I don’t know who it will be. No one does. Whoever it is, though, he’s been proven a menace to our global community, and our assertion is that whoever he or she is, SoulSearch will locate him or her within twenty minutes. Ready?”
Murmurs filled the room, followed by scattered applause.
“Good,” Mae said. “Let’s select that fugitive.”
Pixel by pixel, the silhouette slowly became an actual and specific person, and when the selection was finished, a face had emerged, and Mae was shocked to find it was a woman. A hard-looking face, squinting into a police camera. Something about this woman, her small eyes and straight mouth, brought to mind the photography of Dorothea Lange—those sun-scarred faces of the Dust Bowl. But as the profile data appeared beneath this photo, Mae realized the woman was British and very much alive. She scanned the information onscreen and focused the audience on the essentials.
“Okay. This is Fiona Highbridge. Forty-four years old. Born in Manchester, England. She was convicted of triple murder in 2002. She locked her three children in a closet and went to Spain for a month. They all starved. They were all under five. She was sent to prison in England but escaped, with the help of a guard who she apparently seduced. It’s been a decade since anyone’s seen her, and police have all but given up on finding her. But I believe we can, now that we have the tools and the participation of the Circle.”
“Good,” Stenton said into Mae’s ear. “Let’s focus now on the UK.”
“As you all know, yesterday we alerted all three billion Circle users that today we’d have a world-changing announcement. So we currently have this many people watching the live feed.” Mae turned back to the screen and watched a counter tick up to 1,109,001,887. “Okay, over a billion people are watching. And now let’s see how many we have in the UK.” A second counter spun, and landed on 14,028,981. “All right. The information we have says that her passport was revoked years ago, so Fiona is probably still in the UK. Do you all think fourteen million Brits and a billion global participants can find Fiona Highbridge in twenty minutes?”
The audience roared, but Mae didn’t, in fact, know if it would work. She wouldn’t have been surprised, actually, if it didn’t—or if it took thirty minutes, an hour. But then again, there was always something unexpected, something miraculous about the outcomes when the full power of the Circle’s users was brought to bear. She was sure it would be done by the end of lunch.
“Okay, everyone ready? Let’s bring up the clock.” A giant six-digit timer appeared in the corner of the screen, indicating hours, minutes, and seconds.
“Let me show you some of the groups we have working together on this. Let’s see the University of East Anglia.” A feed showing many hundreds of students, in a large auditorium, appeared. They cheered. “Let’s see the city of Leeds.” Now a shot of a public square, full of people, bundled up in what appeared to be cold and blustery weather. “We have dozens of groups all over the country, who will be banding together, in addition to the power of the network as a whole. Everyone ready?” The Manchester crowd raised their hands and cheered, and the students of East Anglia did, too.
“Good,” Mae said. “Now on your mark, get set. Go.”
Mae drew her hand down, next to the photo of Fiona Highbridge, a series of columns showed the comment feed, the highest-ranked appearing at the top. The most popular thus far was from a man named Simon Hensley, from Brighton: Are we sure we want to find this hag? She looks like the Scarecrow from Wizard of Oz.
There were laughs throughout the auditorium.
“Okay. Time to get serious,” Mae said.
Another column featured users’ own photos, posted according to relevance. Within three minutes, there were 201 photos posted, most of them close corollaries to the face of Fiona Highbridge. On screen, votes were tallying, indicating which of the photos were most likely her. In four minutes it was down to five prime candidates. One was in Bend, Oregon. Another was in Banff, Canada. Another in Glasgow. Then something magical happened, something only possible when the full Circle was working toward a single goal: two of the photos, the crowd realized, were taken in the same town: Carmarthen, in Wales. Both looked like the same woman, and both looked exactly like Fiona Highbridge.
In another ninety seconds someone identified this woman. She was known as Fatima Hilensky, which the crowd voted was a promising indicator. Would someone trying to disappear change their name completely, or would they feel safer with the same initials, with a name like this—different enough to throw off any casual pursuers, but allowing her to use a slight variation on her old signature?
Seventy-nine watchers lived in or near Carmarthen, and three of them posted messages claiming they saw her more or less daily. This was promising enough, but then, in a comment that quickly shot to the top with hundreds of thousands of votes, a woman, Gretchen Karapcek, posting from her mobile phone, said she worked with the woman in the photo, at a commercial laundry outside Swansea. The crowd urged Gretchen to find her, there and then, and capture her by photo or video. Immediately, Gretchen turned on the video function on her phone and—though there were still millions of people investigating other leads—most viewers were convinced Gretchen had the right person. Mae, and most watchers, were riveted, watching Gretchen’s camera weave through enormous, steaming machines, coworkers looking curiously at her as she passed quickly through the cavernous space and ever-closer to a woman in the distance, thin and bent, feeding a bedsheet between two massive wheels.
Mae checked the clock. Six minutes, 33 seconds. She was sure this was Fiona Highbridge. There was something in the shape of her head, something in her mannerisms, and
now, as she raised her eyes and caught sight of Gretchen’s camera gliding toward her, a clear recognition that something very serious was happening. It was not a look of pure surprise or bewilderment. It was the look of an animal caught rooting through the garbage. A feral look of guilt and recognition.
For a second, Mae held her breath, and it seemed that the woman would give up, and would speak to the camera, admitting her crimes and acknowledging she’d been found.
Instead, she ran.
For a long moment, the holder of the camera stood, and her camera showed only Fiona Highbridge—for there was no doubt now that it was her—as she fled quickly through the room and up the stairs.
“Follow her!” Mae finally yelled, and Gretchen Karapcek and her camera began pursuit. Mae worried, momentarily, that this would be some botched effort, a fugitive found but then quickly lost by a fumbling coworker. The camera jostled wildly, up the concrete stairs, through a cinderblock hallway, and finally approached a door, the white sky visible through its small square window.
And when the door broke open, Mae saw, with great relief, that Fiona Highbridge was trapped against a wall, surrounded by a dozen people, most of them holding their phones to her, aiming them at her. There was no possibility of escape. Her face was wild, at once terrified and defiant. She seemed to be looking for gaps in the throng, some hole she could slip through. “Gotcha, kid-killer,” someone in the crowd said, and Fiona Highbridge collapsed, sliding to the ground, covering her face.