The Digital Dream

by Mike Cartlidge

  “Well, thanks for that deep and searching analysis of the play’s true meaning.”

  Across the bar, someone raises the sound on a television set mounted on the wall. A late news bulletin is just starting and I watch Jackie turn to face the screen. Professional interest, I guess. News hounds are never off duty. I look at her face in profile. We’ve been lovers, I guess, on and off, or maybe friends as the demands of our respective lives came between us. She’s easy about it all with it and I appreciate her coolness after Michelle’s red-hot neuroses.

  The coverage of the coming presidential campaign is steadily taking more news time. The scene switches from studio to street location. A wind-swept reporter holds grimly to his mike and describes a rally held in Chicago and addressed by George Francis, the would-be-Vee-Pee. Back before the final meltdown of my marriage, I always voted for our beloved Pres and his party but now my political options, like all others in my life, seem due for review. Francis always strikes me as OK, a lively character with a good sense of humor: preferable to his boss, Robert Sherringham, a serious, worthy and totally boring man. Cut to Francis speaking, words impossible to hear over the noise of the pub crowd.

  In the seats next to me, our leading man now debates mysticism with Octavius Caesar, the earnest man who writes the astrology column for a local newspaper. A barman throws fresh logs onto the fire. I half-listen to the debate as I try to lip-read the excerpt of Francis’s speech. He’s saying something about health care. We’ll never know what. The scene changes back to the studio. No campaign meeting today, it seemed, for the President, who had been in Europe at a G7 meeting.

  The background noise level goes up as the argument on astrology generates heat. I chip in for a moment, generously offering to generate computer horoscopes for Caesar, which he claims not to appreciate: is there, though, a spark of interest in his eye?

  Back on TV, a spokesman’s saying that the latest round of middle-east peace talks have gone well and... Raised voices in support of Mark Antony drown out the commentary. Somebody nudges my glass and spills Guinness on the table. I dab at it with a beer mat and switch my concentration back to the conversation at the table.

  “Of course the Ides of March warning was meant seriously. The Elizabethans were much closer to the occult than we are.”

  “That’s because they didn’t know any better. We’ve…”

  “Oh yes, science. How much can that explain? Do you know that over ninety percent of known diseases still can’t be cured? We just think...”

  I notice that Jackie has shifted in her seat and is now staring intently at the television. I glance up to see what’s attracted her attention. Late breaking news, it seems. A file film of a space-bound satellite fills the screen, to be replaced by a frontal shot of a man. I vaguely recognize him. Some minor politician. I nudge Jackie’s arm and ask her what’s going down.

  “Apart from an expensive satellite?” she says.

  I play it straight. The work at INTERSPACE was classified and, much as I like Jackie, she’s a reporter and has heard nothing of my involvement.

  “That’s Stephen Garner,” she ways.

  “Oh, right. The ‘America First’ guy,” I say.

  She glances at me sardonically. “Very good. This should be of interest to you.”

  “What’s he on about?”

  “He’s talking about this accident with the NASA satellite. He says he’s had some sort of message from a group that claims to have sabotaged it.”

  I look at the screen image with a little more interest. Perfectly groomed, even teeth, Mona Lisa smile. Garner looks more like a film star than a politician.

  “Garner claims the message was genuine and that it shows that the government’s security systems are weak,” Jackie says.

  “Oh?” Professional interest spikes and I try to listen more closely, straining to hear the words above the noise of voices and clinking beer glasses. The politician seems to be accusing the US government of a cover-up and incompetence.

  “...still have not responded to my questions about...” Background shouting as the argument about Elizabethan superstitions continues. “...indication that the government...control the increasing lawlessness with half-hearted measures...scientific age...”

  I switch seats to be closer to the television. Although it’s still hard to hear, it’s clear that Garner is claiming that he’s received some sort of inside information. He’s describing the way hackers might attack a system like that which controls satellites. Far as I can tell, he has the general details right, although there’s no way of knowing if it has any bearing on reality.

  The scene switches back to the studio. An earnest anchorman seems to be saying that the State Department is preparing a statement. The barman turns the TV sound down and the music up. Smashing Pumpkins, Tonight, Tonight, nice song and a novel addition to the Olde Englishe ambiance. Jackie’s looking at me closely and I shrug.

  “I wonder what the truth of that little episode is.”

  “Beats the hell out of me,” says Jackie morosely. “At least Mr Garner’s got his face on TV again. Nice little piece of free publicity at the expense of the President.”

  “It’s not the President’s fault, exactly.”

  “Any bad news about the government, right now, is bad for the President. Events like this shake public confidence in the status quo.”

  “Garner sounded plausible, though, what I could hear. I wonder how he got his information.”

  “Who knows? Some leak from some troubled conscience. Or someone playing political games. Anyway, it sure suits Garner, especially now.”

  “Why’s that?” Most of the recent election coverage seems to have passed me by. Too busy. And I’d taken only a passing interest in the primaries, which had unremarkably favored the expected candidates from the two established parties. Like, I guess, who cares? What can one failed hippie do in a country of a hundred million voters?

  “He’s campaigning on law and order, among other things. You know, worsening crime statistics, every kid over three is a crack addict, old ladies can’t sleep safe in their beds any more. And he makes a big deal of being up with the play in terms of technology. Tomorrow’s man, and so on. Uses closed circuit television for his election rallies so that none of the faithful will be disappointed by being unable to hear his words of wisdom.”

  “I didn’t think there’d be many faithful.”

  “Well, it’s surprising, but his campaign people seem to be drumming up interest at the grass roots level. He’s well organized and has some good people working for him. Must have some real money behind him. Nobody in the media’s been giving him much time though. A couple of percentage points in the opinion polls doesn’t buy you much air-play.”

  “He looks the part, though. Another Robert Redford type.”

  “Yeah. Dynamic but thoughtful. Notice the way he pauses before he answers a question, as though he’s considering deeply? Then he speaks very decisively, as though he’s made up his mind and is ready to take firm action? He’s good with it.”

  “You don’t like him, though, do you?”

  “I’m media, remember? When you’re used to the act, you can spot it a mile away. The spin doctors might fool the unsuspecting but personally I think he’s as sincere as a used car salesman with a fifth-hand Taurus.”

  I smile. “Have you met him yourself?”

  “Not personally. I don’t think anyone from the station has actually interviewed him. He’s been trying for TV coverage but only getting in the papers. And not much there, really. Most of my colleagues don’t think he’s worth taking seriously. I’m not so sure though. Something about him bothers me.”

  “‘The first thing we do, let’s kill all the politicians’, huh?”

  “That’s easy. Hamlet. And it’s lawyers. How about ‘Such men as he be never at heart’s ease whiles they behold a greater than themselves, and therefore are they very dangerous.’”

  It’s part of a game we play. I never win.
“Richard II.”

  “No, fool. Julius...”

  “Caesar. The ‘let me have about me men that are fat’ speech. Damn. I knew that.”

  “Too bad, little rabbit.”

  “Still, though, this Garner. Does he have any chance?”

  “Of being elected? Not the slightest. Our electoral rules make it just about impossible for a third candidate to win against the Republican and Democrat choices.”

  “Perot got close, didn’t he, back in the nineties?”

  “Not that close, although he was up to about nineteen percent in the polls at one point. The thing is, general support at that level was no use to him. He had to be able to win enough support in individual states to have the electors support him. That said, some of my colleagues at the time rated his chances until he withdrew. You see, although only nineteen percent said they’d vote for him, he scored much higher in polls that asked people whether they’d vote for him if they thought he could win.”

  “I don’t get it. Why would that stop them voting for him?”

  “The established parties have always used a strategy of convincing people that they’ll be wasting their votes if they vote for third candidates. It always seems to work. It’s probably what stopped Perot and it worked against Anderson in 1980 and George Wallace in ‘68.” She takes a sip of her brandy. “Forget it. Garner won’t get close.”

  Across the table, the astrologer’s still holding forth on sixteenth century mysticism.

  “I read when I was living in Britain that Elizabethans hardly ever drank water as it was so polluted,” I tell him. “They got by on ale and gin, so they were out of their little Tudor brains most of the time.”

  The astrologer frowns, obviously thrown off-stride. “What’s that got to do with...”

  “Well, they wouldn’t have known whether it was March or December, let alone what the ides were.”

  Jackie drains her martini. “Sensible people,” she mutters.

  ***

  Arriving home, I slip off my tie and loosen my shirt collar, wandering into the bathroom to splash water onto my face. Drying myself on a hand-towel, I examine myself in the mirror. I reach up a hand and press gingerly at the side of my nose: it got itself bust in a soccer game years ago and it’s been crooked—and occasionally sore—ever since. I view myself with mock theatricality: The bent nose gives my face a hint of the pirate, I think. Sardonic smile. Clark Gable without the ears. A thought swims unbid into my excuse for a brain and, for some reason, I’m thinking of my new co-worker, wondering if she can see the buccaneer in me or, more likely, simply sees me as another sorry thirtysomething male specimen.

  Still, I can smile at this reflection. The cynicism of the morning’s faded. I realize I feel good about myself. Better than at any time since the separation and divorce. Priorities changed, work and social life put in their place. I’ve got money, a job that doesn’t exactly meet my childhood Lone Ranger-expectations but which pays well and keeps me off the streets. I’ve got friends, health, new interests. What can do wrong?

  Just before going to bed, I check the answering machine. There’s only one message. From my ex-wife. For the first time in a year. She wants to see me.

  6

  CHATPLANET CHAT SESSION # ACV29088. MESSAGES RECORDED AT ***.**.**.

  UNDERDOGG I don’t know about this, man. It’s kinda heavy.

  STRYKA Hey Dude, you get scared we can just count you out. Plenty of the other guys’ll want in.

  UNDERDOGG I don’t say I’m scared, man. Chill. It’s just that, you know, people could get hurt. It’s different from just trashing some pervert who deserved it anyway.

  STRYKA Chill out. It’s the government. My man says it will just make them shit themselves. There’s no way anyone’s gonna actually die. Hey, he’s been cool up to now, am I right?

  7

  The next morning, the rain’s disappeared and the springtime sun’s shining. I climb out of bed and pull on shorts and a tee shirt to go for an early-morning run. The events of the previous few days clamor at me but I try to put my mind into neutral as I jog along the quiet suburban streets. I can smell the breakfasts cooking and the first traffic fumes of the day. I pass delivery-persons and shift workers and warm-coated men walking dogs. An occasional fellow runner waves a weary hand in salute.

  After thirty minutes, I head home, trotting into a nearby park near my apartment. I find a deserted lawn and begin to work through basic movements from my tae kwon do routine. Side, back and forward kicks—right knee rises to chest, left foot swivels round, right foot springs forward—before the structured back-and-forward movements of Chon-ji, the Heaven, the Earth. I warm down with a series of tai chi routines, arms slowly wind-milling as my mind plays slowly over the “Age cannot wither her” speech from Antony and Cleopatra. The movements are as graceful as I get, elegant as an elephant doing ballet, I figure, compared to the true masters. But still. Balance wavers. I remember a line of Jackie’s. “Tai chi’s really useful if you get held up by a mugger on Valium.”

  Walking home, cooling down. A stray thought of Kathleen sneaks back into the fevered brain. Her calm presence in contrast to the frequent hysteria of my ever-loving ex-wife during the last year of our marriage. My defenses are down and the thought’s somehow cozy. It flows on. I should have married someone like her. This, though, is a thought best suppressed.

  Back inside. Leisurely shower. I dress in faded jeans and a sweater: I may be going to work but it’s a Saturday and fucked if I’m gonna dress in the absurd suit-and-tie business uniform. Yeah, back to being an almost-hippie. I laugh at myself again.

  Still early and the streets are quiet enough. I drive the Morgan to the Allied offices without becoming ensnared in the multi-lane traffic jam that’s standard anywhere within twenty miles of the city during the working week. Arriving at the client’s offices just after nine o’clock, I’m in time to meet Kathleen on the street outside. She’s also casually dressed, in slacks and a denim jacket rather than the more formal business clothes she wore yesterday. The sight of her seems to brighten the day. She smiles at me and runs a hand along the wing of the car as I step onto the sidewalk.

  At the front door of the office block, I busy myself with access cards. When the door opens I stride into the lobby and look at the line of elevators with distaste.

  “Do you mind if we walk up? It’s only four floors.”

  She smiles. “Fine. It’ll help keep me fit.”

  I return the smile. “Yeah, that’s the idea for me. Hold the middle-aged spread at bay.” Apart from which, I don’t like elevators. Don’t trust ‘em.

  The conversation lapses as we continue to climb the stairs, each of us suddenly feeling awkward in the empty building, thinking about the prospect of spending the day alone with each other. It’s a minor relief when I unlock the small office and Kathleen starts up the computer system to begin work.

  First thing, she tells me, she’s relieved to find that the recovered system is still intact, with no signs of any recurring trouble from the virus. I’ve brought a small sheaf of papers from other assignments that I’m working on, so I settle down to read and make notes while she continues to work through the computer’s records and we wait for Mac to show up.

  It’s nearly ten o’clock before we heard the sound of the elevator and look up to see the big man staggering to the office, carrying a large cardboard box. I wait for the usual opening joke, but for once Mac’s face is serious. He places the box on the floor and leans on the windowsill, puffing from the exertion.

  “What?”

  “I went to the address you got for your punk hacker.”

  “And?”

  “Kinda weird. This middle-aged woman opens the door. She’s looking kinda out of it, you know? Bleary-eyed. I figure I got her out of bed. So I ask her whether anyone in the house has a computer and then the floodgates open.

  “To cut it short, I tell her what’s been going down here and this woman takes me inside and introduces me to
her old man. He’s in no better state than she is. Red eyes. I guess he’s been crying, too. Pretty cut up. Tells me about it, between sobs. Seems they had a fifteen-year-old son, called George. Had being the operative word. Seems he took a long jump with a short rope round his neck a couple of days ago.”

  Kathleen looks round, obviously not sure if she’s heard him correctly.

  “Say what?”

  “Yeah. Sorry, hon. Committed suicide. Hanged himself from the balcony.”

  “My god,” I say. “Do they know why?”

  “They say not. Seems it was kinda unexpected. That’s what the folks say, although there’s something they’re covering up and it’s my guess is that the boy’s been in some kinda trouble before. I don’t like to press in the circumstances. Anyway, they tell me the boy was a computer freak and I ask if they know anything about him screwin’ around with other people’s systems. Zilch. I ask if I can take a look at the computer and they said I can have it. Say they don’t care if they never see the goddamn thing again. My guess is they had arguments with the kid about the amount of time he spent using it. Somethin’ like that. Anyway, there it is.”

  Kathleen looks at me for a moment and then leans forward and opens the cardboard box. “Give me a hand with this thing.”

  Between us, Mac and I pull components—processor, screen, keyboard and cables—from the box and set it on the table next to the other computer. Kathleen connects wires and asks me to plug the machine in. As it warms up and goes through its initialization routines, she settles herself back down in front of it. “I’m going to do a steady search of this thing,” she explains, “and see if I can find some trace of what happened the other night.”

  Mac watches as she presses keys and drums her fingers on the edge of the desk, waiting for the system to respond. “Ah,” he says at last, “anything else you need me for? Only I’m bowling with the team this afternoon and...”