Twenty minutes before the press conference was to begin, the Hand took note of what a wreck Carl had become. “You seem nervous,” he said from where he leaned against a nearby wall. “Let me mix you a drink.”
“That would be wonderful. Thank you.”
“Tell you what, let’s skip the rehearsal. I’m confident you’ve got it all by now anyway, hmm? You’re an intelligent fellow.”
“Yes,” Carl said, accepting the beverage from the Hand. “I mean, I think I’ve got it all.”
“Excellent. We should probably start moving toward the stage area. Finish your drink, and let’s go.”
Abandoning any consideration of decorum, Carl drained his glass in one go. Xavier patted him on the head, which was an odd gesture, but there wasn’t time to process it. They hurried down a series of corridors, and Carl soon became aware of the buzz of many people conversing at once, which steadily grew in volume. Then they were backstage, and he could see the massive throng through the curtains. Despite the surry, another wave of fear crashed over him. What had Xavier mixed him, anyway? Carl had drunk it so fast he barely tasted it. It didn’t seem very effective, whatever it was.
Perched on a stool just a couple feet to his left, Carl was surprised to see Spenser, who didn’t offer much in the way of greeting. Carl supposed he was one of the reps assigned to provide security for the press conference.
He detected movement on the other side of the stage, and Morrowne emerged, approaching the podium. The stout man adjusted the mic downward, clearing his throat. “I am Francis Morrowne,” he said, “and for forty-nine years it has been my pleasure to work at SafeTalk. I have been CEO for nineteen of those years. My company helps clients navigate the public arena by enabling them to convey the exact message they want to send. But there’s more to it than that. If you read our mission statement, you’ll find SafeTalk sees itself as a protector of the markets that form the fabric of Dodgian society. And after hearing tonight’s presentation, about a report we conducted on a client company that carries out a vital public service, I think you’ll agree. By meeting its own exceptionally high standards, FutureBrite is not just doing right by the children in its care, it is also doing right by us: maintaining our security by keeping youths off the streets. FutureBrite is among Dodge’s most valuable residents. In truth, they safeguard our future. Ladies and gentlemen, please give a round of applause to none other than Xavier Ofvalour, Hand of the Market and FutureBrite’s largest shareholder, accompanied by Carl Intoeverylifeali, the hero of SafeTalk.”
The crowd’s response was deafening. Carl turned toward Xavier to inquire about the order in which they should walk onto the stage, but when he attempted to speak he found that he could not. His faculty for speech had utterly deserted him. Xavier noticed this, and an amused smile spread across his face. “Oh, don’t worry, Carl,” he said. “You aren’t required to speak, not really. In fact, your usefulness is almost at an end.”
Then the Hand of the Market strode onto the stage, causing the din from the crowd to swell. Carl began to tremble, as it finally dawned on him what had happened. The drink Xavier had mixed him hadn’t been surry at all, but Sleep. Clearly the Hand knew everything, which meant provisions had no doubt been taken to prevent the documents from being disseminated. Because of Carl’s carelessness, he couldn’t even use his voice to expose FutureBrite. In the amount of time it took to down a drink, he’d thrown away Natalie’s future, and Riley’s, and Jenny’s.
He couldn’t let that happen.
Striding toward Spenser, he reached for the rep’s holster, fingers closing around the paralyzer. Spenser’s eyes widened, but he did nothing to stop Carl. The paralyzer fit snugly inside his pocket, and so as long as he was careful it should remain concealed.
Xavier had already engaged the crowd, and they were chanting Carl’s name. “Are you coming, Mr. Intoeverylifeali?” the Hand said, his voice bubbling with fake enthusiasm.
Struggling to control his trembling, he walked out onto the stage.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
He looked out at the throng, and its depth and density made it difficult to breathe. It fanned out before him, stretching far away wherever he looked. Thousands of lifelogs were recording him at this moment, with specialized, single-view cameras scattered throughout. The latter were now transmitting his likeness to millions of homes all over Dodge. Live.
“To begin, I would like to ask that you forgive my associate if he’s a little quiet,” Xavier said. “He came down with a nasty bout of laryngitis yesterday, and he finds himself quite unable to talk. He wouldn’t miss this for the world, of course, so he insisted on coming out here, despite that he’s unable to participate.”
Xavier went on with the presentation, and Carl stood in the background, absurdly wondering what he should do with his hands. How much did Xavier know? Not that Spenser belonged to the resistance evidently, else he wouldn’t have been nearby to allow Carl to take his paralyzer. Clearly the Hand expected Carl to stand meekly by, conferring the press conference legitimacy by his mere presence. Afterward, Carl would almost certainly be taken quietly to a cell to await the arrival of the next prison barge. He’d sacrificed himself, all right, but now nothing would come of it. The Hand had been two steps ahead of him the entire time.
One thing nagged at him, however, causing him to rethink his assessment of the situation. He felt panicked and upset, and he was sure that showed on his face. Wouldn’t the audience and the at-home viewers find that odd? Did Xavier and Morrowne expect him to hide these emotions, or even to possess the ability to conceal them? Maybe they assumed it would be chalked up to stage fright.
In the meantime, Xavier worked smoothly through the initial slides, which were preliminary to Carl’s report. These highlighted FutureBrite’s positive contributions to society, the current slide showing a woman’s face with salient facts about her life listed to the left. She was a former FutureBrite kid and had gone on to have a celebrated career with the customer service representatives. Of course, the percentage of FutureBrite charges that ended up on prison barges would get no play during this presentation. Instead, the slides would focus on the handful of success stories, since psychological studies had found that stories about individuals had a much greater impact than numbers alone. Even if one knew how many FutureBrite kids went on to be incarcerated, one would mostly remember the uplifting stories about the happy few.
At last Xavier got to the slides showcasing the blog posts, which was how Carl knew the resistance’s plan had truly failed. This was the moment the FutureBrite leaks had been supposed to start.
The crowd sat rapt, devouring Xavier’s every word as he flicked through Carl’s blog posts on the giant twin screens that flanked the stage, which he controlled using gestures. But it was the microphone he carried that gave him access to those screens. Whoever held the microphone controlled the presentation.
Xavier made a joke, which he indicated as such by giving the crowd a sidelong look and a half-smile, cuing a wave of laughter that came promptly. Satisfied, the Hand continued, winking at Carl as he walked past him across the stage.
How many arrests would follow this press conference? How many people would join him and Natalie on a prison barge? He’d given up his chance to fly to the New World, and he didn’t regret that decision, which would have involved keeping his head down and staying complicit in SafeTalk’s and FutureBrite’s activities. But he did regret the thought that his sacrifice might not have any impact, except maybe to get more people arrested and possibly end the resistance movement before it truly got underway.
So he strode across the stage, pulling out the paralyzer and meeting the Hand of the Market in the middle, placing the muzzle against his head.
Screams of terror from the crowd, and movement, heaving, like a great beast tearing itself apart. People trampled over people in a desperate effort to reach the exits. Xavier’s calm remained intact, however, his self-assured smile still set, as though cast in plaster.
Carl took the microphone from Xavier, tapping at the inlaid screen with one hand while using the other to keep the paralyzer steady against the Hand’s head. He soon found what he was looking for: an app that would read your lips and display the words on-screen.
“You have a paralyzer,” the Hand said. “So maybe you’ll shoot me and I’ll be a little stiff for a while.” His gaze drifted up toward one of the giant screens so he could read Carl’s response.
“A HEADSHOT IS LETHAL. YOU KNOW THAT AND I KNOW THAT.” It felt odd to brandish the weapon as he held the microphone to his lips, like some demented game show host.
“Apparently we do,” Xavier said once he finished reading. In his peripheral vision, Carl saw several reps lining up across the stage, their paralyzers leveled at Carl. Faces impassive, saying nothing, they waited to follow Xavier’s lead.
“I WANT THE LIVE FEED KEPT GOING. I WANT EVERYONE IN DODGE WATCHING.” Carl tapped the paralyzer twice against the Hand’s skull for emphasis.
“It’s already been cut.”
“THEN GET IT BACK UP.”
“No.”
“I’M HOLDING A PARALYZER TO YOUR HEAD. YOU’LL DO WHAT I SAY.”
“Where did you get the paralyzer? You didn’t have one when you came in, did you?”
Carl forced himself to refrain from glancing toward the rear of the stage.
“You might as well tell me. I’ll find out soon enough.”
“GET THE LIVE FEED BACK UP.”
“I’m disappointed at the shallowness of your understanding, Carl. Didn’t the Sleep clue you in to the fact that we know what you and your friends have been planning? That we have this situation completely under control?”
“YOU DIDN’T PREDICT THIS.” Carl poked the Hand in the forehead with the paralyzer again. “I WOULDN’T CALL THIS UNDER CONTROL.”
“I’m perfectly at ease, in case you haven’t noticed. We have your psychology utterly mapped out, Carl. We know exactly what you’re capable of, and exactly what you’re not. Our models told us you would create some sort of disturbance once you realized your carefully laid plans were falling apart before your eyes. In fact, we counted on you creating one. True, we didn’t expect you to get your hands on a paralyzer, but your psychological profile also tells us you aren’t capable of killing anyone.”
“THEN WHY AREN’T YOU JUST WALKING AWAY FROM ME?” By now most of the crowd had exited the vast auditorium, and Carl doubted it would make much difference if the handful that remained witnessed something that didn’t fit the narrative Xavier’s people would now weave.
“I don’t want to excite you. There’s such a thing as a slip of the finger.”
“YOU’RE AFRAID, XAVIER.” He had to be afraid. Carl needed him to be. “AND YOU’RE RIGHT TO BE. YOUR PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILES DIDN’T TELL YOU WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO HAVE A PARALYZER AGAINST YOUR HEAD. OR HOW MUCH DANGER YOU’RE IN RIGHT NOW.”
“You aren’t capable of killing anyone.”
“WHY DON’T YOU TRY SOMETHING, AND TEST THAT HYPOTHESIS?”
Xavier remained motionless, and Carl smiled, trying to keep it from trembling. “YOU SAID YOU WERE COUNTING ON ME CREATING A DISTURBANCE.”
“Indeed. The footage will serve as grounds for painting you and your friends as terrorists. The paralyzer was a wonderful touch, from that perspective.” The Hand chuckled. “The image of you threatening the Hand of the Market’s life. Nobody will ever forgive you. They’d tear you apart, if we let them. But don’t worry. The prison barge should do for you.”
“WHO ARE MY FRIENDS, THEN? NAME THEM.”
“Your wife, for one. Then there’s Natalie Lemonade. John Anders, that cheeky bastard…”
“WHO ELSE?”
Xavier didn’t answer.
“WOW. I’M DISAPPOINTED AT THE SHALLOWNESS OF YOUR UNDERSTANDING.” He hadn’t mentioned Jim Ofvalour, incredibly, or Suckeggs. Or Spenser, though that wasn’t such a surprise, given the paralyzer Carl held in his hands.
“This can’t end well for you, Carl. You’ll be in a cell by nightfall, and there’s nothing for you to gain here. Your friends have been kept out of the SafeTalk blog. They have nowhere to post their leaks that isn’t on the Indie Net, which won’t do any good, as I’m sure you’ve figured out. The best outcome you can hope for is to not be injured as we finally resolve this situation. Why don’t you give yourself up peacefully?”
Mind racing, Carl tried to mentally verify whether what Xavier was telling the truth. Wasn’t there anywhere else the leaks might be posted?
“We know you’ve compromised SafeTalk’s systems,” Xavier said, as though reading his mind. “It doesn’t matter. Barely anyone in Dodge has access to the Indie Net. We made sure of that a long time ago.”
“SHUT UP.” Carl tucked the microphone into his armpit while he rooted inside his pocket.
“There’s no need to be childish.”
Even from his armpit, the microphone still transcribed the words Carl formed with his lips. “I SAID SHUT UP.” He managed to get his phone out without dropping the microphone or the gun. Then he dialed Maria, whose face soon appeared on the screen.
“Carl. I’ve been following the situation on your lifelog.”
“Hello, Maria,” Xavier said.
“DON’T LISTEN TO HIM.” The microcameras woven into Carl’s smart clothes would allow his wife to see the words displayed above their heads. “LISTEN TO ME. OR, READ ME. OR WHATEVER. DO YOU HAVE THE COPY OF THE DOCUMENTS I GAVE YOU?”
Xavier’s eyes widened. Apparently he hadn’t anticipated that either.
Maria nodded. “I have the first leak ready to go. It’s the one proving that FutureBrite misrepresents the level of youth violence as way higher than it actually is. But where do I post it? We lost access to the SafeTalk blog, like the man said.”
Her words fully restored the smugness to Xavier’s expression, along with, Carl thought, a hint of relief.
“YOU KNOW MY UNFURL PASSWORD, RIGHT?”
His wife’s eyes widened. “Uh…”
“COME ON, MARIA. I’VE KNOWN FOR YEARS THAT YOU KEYLOG MY SOCIAL MEDIA PASSWORDS. NOW ISN’T THE TIME TO PLAY DUMB.”
“Uh, okay. Yes. I know your password.”
“GREAT. AFTER WHAT THEY SAW ME DO ON LIVE TELEVISION, ALL OF DODGE WILL BE CREEPING ME ON UNFURL. MY PROFILE’S PRIVACY SETTINGS ARE NON-EXISTENT. POST THE FIRST LEAK THERE NOW.”
The Hand of the Market went white, and his smile fell away like a dead thing.
“Okay,” Maria said. “It’s done.”
Carl knocked the paralyzer’s muzzle against Xavier’s forehead once again, and the Hand winced.
“THERE’S PLENTY MORE LEAKS WHERE THAT CAME FROM. READY TO PLAY BALL NOW, ASSHOLE?”
“What do you want?”
“I WANT NATALIE LEMONADE RELEASED, FOR STARTERS.”
“That’s impossible.”
“WHAT?”
“She’s going on a prison barge, and so are you, as is your wife as soon as we arrest her.”
“RELEASE THE NEXT DOCUMENT, MARIA.”
“That won’t help,” Xavier said, his voice laced with panic. “I’m telling you, I can’t release her. It’s not in my power to do.”
“DON’T BULLSHIT ME. YOU’RE THE HAND OF THE MARKET.”
“There’s someone above me. Someone who isn’t even on the leaderboards, who wants no public profile of any kind.”
“Who?”
“I can’t tell you. But that person doesn’t want Natalie released, and he wants you on a barge too. There’s nothing I can do about it. You have to believe that.”
Carl exchanged looks with Maria through his phone’s screen. “I’ve released the second document,” she said.
“YOUR COMPANY’S GOING DOWN, XAVIER.”
“Please,” Xavier said. “Please. There must be something else I can offer you.”
“RILEY UNEASYLI AND JENNY APRILSHO. I WANT THEM RELEASED FROM FUTUREBRITE AND ON A PLANE TO THE NEW WORLD WITHIN TWO HOURS. I DON’T CARE
IF YOU HAVE TO CHARTER A SPECIAL FLIGHT FOR THE PURPOSE, AT YOUR OWN PERSONAL EXPENSE.”
The Hand hesitated.
“Two hours, Xavier,” Maria said. “Or I’ll start releasing the rest of the documents, one by one.”
“Okay,” Xavier said. “I’ll do it.”
“If you don’t, we’ll know.”
“I said I’ll do it.”
Maria nodded, and Carl hung up. He lowered the paralyzer, tossing it to the reps. They shot him, three of them at once, and he fell to the stage, rigid.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
The cell where he awaited the prison barge was spare but accommodating, and they kept him well fed. He had nothing to fear from his captors, as they showed no sign of intending to physically harm him. According to rumor, beatings were routine on the prison barges themselves, and that was probably true. But here in Dodge, no one would touch him.
Despite his physical comfort, he suffered immensely. Across the hall from his cell, he could see not another cell but a wall upon which his captors allowed him to witness his defamation unfold on national television as well as that of his fellow subversives. Whatever peace he’d made with sacrificing himself, he wasn’t prepared for this. Carl had always been respected by employers and coworkers alike for his clever approaches to problems, and recently he’d become famous for them. True, the respect had been earned for deeds that increased corruption and harmed the oppressed, but nevertheless…yesterday he’d been considered respectable. Watching them portray him as a terrorist to all of Dodge, his home, was among the worst tortures he could imagine.
To dismantle his reputation, they used a different method from the one they’d used on Natalie. Instead of doctoring lifelog footage to make it seem he’d said repulsive things, they strung together footage of things he’d actually said and done, in order to cast him as a wrongdoer. That amplified his pain; the fact that he knew the footage was authentic. They played countless clips, harvested from the lifelogs of friends, family, and co-workers, showing him scowling, fidgeting nervously, looking tense, staring with wide eyes, touching his face, failing to make eye contact, and so on. They showed him goading his father, and insulting Maria for her choice of earrings. Everyone behaved badly some point in their lives. Everyone had moments they weren’t proud of. But when you put them all together, you could make someone out as villainous. That frightened Carl most of all. The realization that they could do this to literally anyone they wanted.
Flight or Fight (The Out of Dodge Trilogy Book 1) Page 24