by Paul Dueweke
CHAPTER THREE
Looking for More
The Townsends sat in their breakfast room sipping fresh coffee and reading fresh news. They each had their own copy of the Times in front of them dated 9:13 AM MDT, July 17, 2048. Elliott tried to enjoy his first day of not biking to the Lab after breakfast. He looked at the newspaper corner with the “next page” icon, and page three instantly appeared on his electronic paper display. He folded it in half, sat back, and looked at the top headline “LIZZIE WINS BIG.” It responded by filling the page with a replay of last night’s “Election Beat.” Elliott had the interface icon set to “reader only” so a coherent sound pattern would be projected toward him, the waves interfering in such a way that only his ears received the message so as not to bother Martha with her own “reading.”
“Well, Lizzie, last night you topped the comp. And with one hell of a finish. At this rate, you’ll sweep the finals, and you could be our next Pres.”
Applause
“You know, Jack, I’ve been musin’ at this for years; and I can’t say enough about my NBC spags.” Her blond ponytail danced in time with her breasts and gestures. “It’s a shine, and I’ll sure try to live up to the specs. We’ve got some tough tags coming down our bus, and I think I can help America over the stricts.” She stalked the camera, flashed her widest smile, waved a small American flag with one hand, and gave a thumbs up with the other, all accompanied by more thunderous applause.
“Lizzie,” the MC continued, “you started out as a tennis star at Sportford, then turned pro and grabbed the top prize money six years in a row. Then you cranked with American Warriors for a diversion, and you just warped out a new book Priming to the Top: Drugs, Sex, Tennis, and Big Bucks. And with all this, you still have time for your rap chap, and you’re the highest paid on the charts according to Power Sex last month. And if that isn’t enough, your latest movie, Cape Desire III, has topped the box for two quads.”
The MC turned to the TV viewers. “As you can see, Lizzie brings it all to her bid for the Chief Chief. But Lizzie has some pretty tough competitors. Let’s bang with the other two. First is Tab Hardman who’s sure no stranger to our studio. Tab started out on the Soaps and got interested in public service after he pegged the rates as the gay pimp, Roundmouth Robbins, on NBC’s Nights of Rapture where he also pegged the TV pay scales making him the second highest paid …”
Elliott fast-forwarded to the last contestant, Junkie Gordon. “… and since pinking the Dung Druggers, Junkie’s been comping and forming music for some of the biggest flicks like Big Kink II and Pillage IV. Junkie’s a tad different because he’s already plugged one term in the Senate where …”
Elliott’s attention shifted out the window. There was Lizzie in the reflection with her ponytail bobbing and her nipples erect, and Junkie with his silver chains and nose rings. Tab was there too. And the constant applause, and the flags and holograms and shouts and more applause and categories and cameras and MCs and smiles, a sea of smiles. He saw a half billion Americans sitting at home, enchanted by entertainers and living their lives vicariously in them. Some entertainers called themselves baseball players, some musicians, others movie stars. Entertainment was their craft. And the business of America was entertainment.
He saw another world of entertainers, but they called themselves news anchors, journalists, and editors. Their goals and tactics were similar to those of the confessed entertainers. They all, in fact, worked together in the same business—infotainment.
The common thread was money. The unwealthy loved wealth and revered wealthy people and the glamour they surround themselves with. And it didn’t matter if these heroes had talent or were offensive or bitter or boring. Their display of wealth, their disdain for the unwealthy, and the hype they heaped upon themselves were exactly the qualities that bound their patrons to them.
“How did all this happen? How could it?” he said, his lips recoiling from the images.
“What, Ted?”
Elliott fled to his paper. He looked at the corner with the “next page” icon and page four stormed into his life with pulsing and gyrating ads competing with two news stories. His routine newspaper-scowl silenced them, and they faded out in response to his focusing on the top headline: “Organized Crime Wave Accelerates.”
“Organized crime has become increasingly aggressive with its high-tech hit squads. Hardly a day goes by without murders in the wars among rival factions. It’s become common to use robots to kill operatives and burned-out agents. The advantage of a hit robot is twofold: first, the robots are more clandestine than a human can be; but more important, a robot leaves no telltale genetic or chemical print. And even if one is apprehended, there’s no way to trace it to its source if its users have taken the proper precautions.
“These robots are frequently called spiders for obvious reasons. They’re very expensive, and it’s unlikely anyone would have access to such advanced technology except organized crime. When asked if the FBI or COPE has any such devices, the FBI spokesperson said, ‘Absolutely not. We are forbidden by law from using any kind of automated device in any interface between Americans and their Government.’"
Elliott looked away from the article and the photo of a spider robot. A shiver made him aware of the goose bumps covering his arms. He rubbed one arm with his free hand and tried to blot spiders out of his mind.
“Anything wrong, Ted?”
The question surprised Elliott. “Uh, no … no. Just a little draft … here.”
Martha looked at the motionless trees, then at the closed window. “Huh,” she said indifferently. “It says here that Queer Homophobia Syndrome affects as many as ten percent of Americans, and if Lizzie Special is elected she will put it on the official disability list.”
“Queer Homophobia Syndrome?”
“Yes,” Martha said. “It doesn’t say what homophobia means. Maybe … fear of men.”
“Fear of homosexuals.”
“Oh. Hmm. I guess being afraid of yourself would be kind of …”
“… disabling.”
“Yes,” she said. “Disabling.”
Elliott noticed that his goose bumps were now gone, thanks to QHS. But there was the picture of the spider robot again. Elliott certainly knew about phobias. His was arachnophobia. It had stalked him since that childhood day when he’d been tasked to clean out the garage. His doctor theorized he must have gotten into a nest of spiders judging by the many punctures on his face and neck. Elliott lay in a coma for two weeks. It was a rare allergic reaction, they said.
He’d never been able to talk to anyone about what actually happened that day. His thoughts could proceed only to the point where he began to drag a used tire off of an overhead shelf. The next thing he remembered was waking up in the hospital. Since then, he’d been subconsciously on the guard against spiders. He would frequently break into a sweat with itching and swelling arms just at the sight of a spider.
He forced his eyes back to the newspaper. “The FBI has identified the latest victim as Terra Halvorsen, a professor of political science. Dr. Halvorsen was murdered in her home. There was no sign of forced entry, and a single puncture wound was found in her neck. An autopsy report is pending.
“The FBI has traced Dr. Halvorsen’s activities to dealing in the stolen advanced communication technology arena. She used her political science position as a cover in the lucrative technology espionage field. Most hit-robot victims don’t have such an obvious connection with organized crime as Halvorsen, however FBI investigations usually show that the victim was a discrete drug dealer or involved in some kind of international software trade.”
Elliott looked at the photo again and took a hard swallow. When he turned his eyes away from the newspaper toward Martha, the article stopped. Martha was watching something else now and didn’t notice his gaze at first. She finally looked up at him and said, “What’s wrong now, Dr. Townsend?”
�
��Nothing.” He looked out the window for a moment, then back at Martha. “I just read—”
“There’s this article about the Navy,” Martha said. “Did you know they’re going to start naming ships after baseball players? Don’t you think that’s nice? There’s going to be a TV lottery or something to pick the names. You remember how you used to follow baseball when we first met?”
“Yeah. I used to.” Elliott’s stare shifted back to the back yard. “Remember when Susie was in college?” he asked, “She had that political science professor she thought was so great?”
“Yes,” she said. “I remember that. She had some kind of Swedish name.”
“Halvorsen.”
“Yes, that’s it.”
“Remember,” Elliott continued, “when Luke got into college, he wanted to take the same course, but they wouldn’t let Halvorsen teach it?”
“Yes, that’s right. There was an article in the Campus Daily about conspiracy. You even went to see Dean Tresbien about it, didn’t you?”
Elliott nodded. “Stonewall Stewart.”
“It was one of the few times you ever poked your nose out of your lab, at least since you stuck it into Susie’s science career.”
Elliott paused for a moment and watched coffee being urged into Martha’s cup. “Halvorsen was murdered last night.”
“Oh my goodness, Ted! That’s terrible!”
“FBI says it was organized crime. Says she was involved in some kind of espionage.”
Their eyes met and spoke.
“Elliott, you just get that Don Quixote look out of your eyes. I haven’t seen that look for a long, long time, but I know it means trouble. This sounds a lot more serious that just making the dean mad. You aren’t a detective. Don’t get the idea just because you don’t know what to do with yourself now, you can start playing FBI. The University gave you your old office and full privileges for a year. I hope you spend time there instead of getting into trouble … like you used to before you married the Lab.”
Elliott kept silent for a long time, adrift in the back yard. “Why do they ask such stupid questions on those game shows? And then pretend it’s all so meaningful? It’s all bullshit, you know! Where are the debates? Where are the real candidates that deal with real issues, or at least lie about them? They don’t even do that any more. You remember that, Martha? Remember when the politicians used to lie about everything? They don’t now. You watch those shows. They just talk about bullshit, right? Who needs to lie about that?”
“That seems a lot better than it used to be,” Martha said. “Isn’t bullshit better than lies?”
“I don’t think that’s very funny.”
“I remember when we were young, and we were both active in politics,” continued Martha. “I used to volunteer for the Democrats, and you were on some third party committee. We both used to get so upset about the politicians just saying whatever lies their supporters paid them to say. And we weren’t the only ones. But now people don’t get upset anymore. It’s a much happier way to live. I know you understand that because you escaped, too. But you chose your lab to hide in. With all those equations and high voltages and fancy words. The rest of the world escaped to the TV and being entertained. You see, it’s all the same thing. You had your game, and we had ours. The difference is that you don’t have your game anymore.” She straightened out her paper with a snap. “But I still have mine.”
Elliott frowned and looked out the window at Grunt, the little lawn maintenance robot. Grunt was just finishing trimming around the flower bed before following its standard routine of going next door to take care of the Mason’s lawn.
“It’s going to be tough for you until you can adjust to the world you’re in now,” she continued. “You’ve been away a long time. Just don’t go criticizing the world I’ve grown into while you were off playing your silly games at work. Either join my world or leave me alone, but don’t throw rocks and screw it up for me.”
Elliott followed Grunt’s progress, inwardly glad that Grunt was a tracked robot rather than an eight-legged one.
“And don’t go stirring up trouble over this Halvorsen thing.” She turned back to her newspaper. “You could get hurt.”
“I could get hurt? What does that mean?”
“You know, you’ve had your head in the sand for a long time. Things have changed since you jumped into your little playground a lifetime ago and locked the door. I’ve heard stories that there’s some group or something, I don’t even know what, that takes care of people that stir up mud—people like you. Maybe it’s COPE.”
“What are you talking about? COPE just sponsors candidates.”
“See? You’re just a stupid old man. You don’t have any idea, do you?”