The Media Candidate

by Paul Dueweke

  “You call that stuff you watch on TV mellow? The times aren’t mellow, Martha. But everybody’s brains are mellow. The people running the country sure aren’t mellow—just everybody’s brains. I don’t know if its mellow or jello. All I know is that I’m living in a world of bullshit. And now this. I’m being watched like a common criminal.”

  “You aren’t a criminal but you are suspicious. You’re so far out in left field or right field or somewhere, that people are suspicious of you. You’re just going to hurt yourself, and me too. This foolishness of yours has to stop. I didn’t think you could get into trouble that fast. I thought it would take you months. You’ve done it in just a few days. I’m impressed.”

  Elliott wanted to ignore Martha’s sarcasm, but it reflected an image painfully close to reality. Without responding, he turned and walked away.

  His logical mind drove him toward trying to determine the seriousness of his situation and the capability of his surveillant. A simple test might tell him about whoever was assigned to tail him, if, in fact, it wasn’t all just a ruse. He backed his car out of the driveway, trying to nonchalantly scan the neighborhood for something unusual. The only misplaced object he noticed was a small gray car parked nearby, but it could easily have been one of the many robotic delivery cars that plied the streets.

  As he started down the street, the small gray car came to life and start to follow him. When he stopped, it also stopped. When he moved, it waited a discrete time and then followed. Elliott was amused by the antics of his robotic shadow. It had clearly been programmed to follow him and probably report his comings and goings to some central computer. He drove around the block and returned to his driveway. The little gray car politely returned to its spot. He knew that he would have no trouble evading this spy at the desired time. If this was the best COPE could do, he could safely ignore them until they tired of his mundane brand of anarchy and went home.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Bad News

  After Sherwood’s visit, the remainder of Guinda’s morning seemed as muddled as the whirls and shadows of blue-gray smoke through which Sherwood had launched his monologue. The smoke captivated that memory nearly as much as the face and the words. When she closed her eyes, though, the smoke would dissipate so the whole experience could recur. As she replayed vignettes of Sherwood’s monologue in her mind, her confusion would swell, then ebb, then swell again.

  She recalled lying on the grass in her back yard on a summer evening with her best friend, Geena. They mingled their thoughts, fears, and fantasies in the darkness as adolescents had for a million dreams. The chilled northern sky would capture first their eyes, then their minds, and finally their hopes. They would imagine themselves standing on some distant heavenly body, looking down on the earth, and understanding life in a way denied to those cloaked in its folds. Such insight was granted to only the select, and Guinda and Geena vowed that this night would forever bind them. Then a billowy castle cloud would sail between them and that sphere of mystery below, and the revealed secrets of life would be replaced once more with new twists of old riddles. Their séance would carry them far into the night, ending in layers of silence.

  The revelations Sherwood made about the Media Summit and its role in the rebirth of America were new concepts, disturbing concepts. She had studied political science for years at the university and had never encountered these facts, if they were facts. The modern form of the political process had been taught as a natural evolution, driven by technology and voter maturation. Never before had she encountered a culpable media, and he used a word foreign to her lexicon—infotainment. Was this a new riddle or an answer to an old one?

  She thought back to her master’s thesis, “Dynamic Functional Initiatives and their Effect on Voter Base Preferences Resulting from Parallel Incremental Contingencies.” She had spent countless hours researching the most obscure records and scouring the literature. But here was a new wave history, an unauthorized view of political evolution. Her thoughts wandered about that period of her life. Her attention quickly focused on the central figure of her graduate-school experience.

  Guinda’s thesis advisor had been there every time she needed help interpreting some obscure bit of information or making sense of conflicting statistics. The word anarchist never even appeared in her thesis, and anarchy was not an issue in any of her courses. Yet, in the world she now found herself, there seemed to be some unmatched struggle going on between the establishment and the anarchists.

  The time seemed right to lean on her ex-professor to help understand this new phenomenon. Since they had stayed in occasional contact over the few years since Guinda left, it was perfectly natural for Guinda to ask her mentor’s advice about this.

  The professor’s phone rang twice and was answered, “Good morning, political science.”

  “Good morning, may I speak to Professor Halvorsen, please?”

  “I’m sorry, but Professor Halvorsen is no longer with the University. Is there someone else in the department who can help you?” the voice responded.

  “Terry, is that you?” Guinda asked.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Guin Burns.”

  “Guin, how are you? We miss you around here.”

  “I’m just fine. How’s everything around poli-sci?”

  Terry answered, “I guess you haven’t heard about Terra.”

  “No, and I’m really surprised she left. Where did she go?”

  “She didn’t go anywhere. She’s dead.”

  Guinda stopped cold, unable to respond. “She died a few days ago. I’m just in the process of putting together a little memorial newsletter. You’ll probably receive yours soon.”

  “What happened, Terry?”

  “We aren’t quite sure, but it looks like murder. She was killed by a lethal injection, and the FBI has taken over the investigation. They won’t let the local police get involved. They say it had something to do with some kind of international espionage.”

  “What!” Guinda said. “That’s absolutely ridiculous!”

  “I know, Guin. I think so too. We were all so stunned by it. You just can’t imagine how it has upset some of the people around here.”

  Guinda composed herself and asked, “Have they caught whoever did it?”

  “That’s one of the strange parts. The FBI just said that there were no DNA prints of any kind left behind, and then they said, ‘No more comment’. Whoever or whatever did it was extremely professional and seems to have vanished without a clue. It seems really odd to us that there could be no trail, but that’s what the investigation shows so far.”

  “How is TJ taking it?” Guinda asked.

  “I saw him at her memorial service, but I didn’t talk to him. Did you know their relationship was off? That happened several months ago. Terra seemed isolated lately.”

  “I knew there was some tension between Terra and some upper levels of the University,” Guinda said. “She seemed highly thought of, but I never knew for sure what was going on.”

  “There were some at the University who claimed she was jeopardizing a lot of research funds with her investigations of some of the candidates. The story I heard was that she found out some things that were a little strange, and the Dean of Liberal Arts Research suggested she find more-useful ways to spend her time. Terra, of course, was very stubborn about it, and wasn’t about to be intimidated by the head shed and their funding problems. This is all just scuttlebutt. I don’t think anything ever went onto paper. But there were some bad feelings.”

  “Did Terra ever document any of her findings?” Guinda asked.

  “I don’t think so. I cruised through her files after she died to make sure the Department had a copy of anything important. I didn’t find anything about any candidates.”

  “Do you know if anyone ever called her an anarchist?”

  Terry thought for a minute and then said, “No, I can’t recall anything like that?”

  A few more minutes of memoria
l exchange transpired before the conversation ended.

  Guinda walked around her office, first to the window, then to her desk, then back to the window. Her mind was filled with conjecture. She finally sat on the edge of her desk and considered all the puzzle pieces before her. Not even one edge was completed; but if she once finished all four edges, she knew she would be drawn into the center. The size and complexity of the puzzle intrigued her. She couldn’t resist holding each piece in her hand, rotating it, measuring its fit. And there were all those pieces in the box, a box tightly covered by an unprinted lid. Dare she remove the lid?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Files

  Saturday morning found Guinda at home, but this wasn’t a day for relaxing. She rummaged through her electronic notebook from graduate school for a specific piece of data. She hoped this web address would help unlock some of the mystery surrounding Terra Halvorsen’s death and give her some insight into the mysteries of COPE.

  After a few minutes, the number appeared. Guinda jotted it down along with the word following it. It was a password into a special computer account that the University maintained for a number of professors doing research at facilities remote from the University. The account was with a private computer networking company, and it allowed a faculty member at some location off campus to access a computer network for collection and storage of data without entering the University network. It was a security issue for the University to limit access to the campus network while still providing a computer network for its off-site research faculty.

  Few faculty members used this service because of the hassle of maintaining two separate systems of computer files, but Terra had looked at it differently. To her, it was an opportunity to isolate her files from the University. In fact, she did most of her work on the private network and kept a modest collection of files on the University network, more for appearance than for function.

  When Guinda worked for Terra as a graduate assistant and thesis student, she’d become familiar with Terra’s system and had used it frequently herself. She felt there was a good chance that Terra’s account would still be active since it was probably paid for annually or semiannually. It was certainly worth a try. She entered the address at her computer, and the display immediately responded with: WELCOME TO LEASNET. PLEASE ENTER YOUR USER NAME.

  Guinda responded with: HALVORSEN.

  The computer responded: PLEASE ENTER YOUR PASSWORD.

  Guinda replied: TJESSEH

  Her display responded: INVALID LOGIN.

  Okay. She changed her password. Not surprising. Let’s see, what is her other nephew’s name? … Richard … she always called him Ricky … or was it Richy? Well, here goes one. Terra always bracketed some word with her initials for a password. Guinda entered: TRICHYH.

  INVALID LOGIN.

  She tried: TRICKYH

  INVALID LOGIN.

  Then she tried: TRICHARDH

  INVALID LOGIN.

  Let’s see. What else might she use for … her cat. That’s it.

  She entered: TSAMANTHAH.

  WELCOME TO LEASNET, PROFESSOR HALVORSEN. YOUR LAST LOGIN WAS 3:45:26 PM; JULY 21, 2048. PLEASE MAKE A SELECTION FROM ANY MENU.

  What’s going on? That was just yesterday. Who else has been nosing around in here? She selected LAST TRANSACTION from the menu.

  LAST TRANSACTION WAS 3:45:26 PM; JULY 21, 2048.

  NO FILES WERE ADDED OR MODIFIED.

  14 FILES WERE DELETED.

  0 FILES REMAIN.

  DO YOU WISH A LIST OF THE FILES DELETED?

  Rats! All the files are gone. Somebody beat me to it by just one day. She entered: YES.

  11 FILES DELETED:

  ARIS

  CANDIDATE 1

  CANDIDATE 2

  CANDIDATE 3

  GAMES 42

  GAMES 44

  GAMES 46

  GAMES 48

  HOLO/ANIMATION

  HOLO/BLOCKBUSTER

  XBLOCKBUSTER

  Guinda tried to open several files, but was never surprised by the computer’s response: THAT FILE HAS BEEN DELETED.

  Guinda logged off in despair. Someone had beaten her to it by only 18 hours, but who? Was it someone like her, searching for truth? Or was it someone suppressing truth?

  The blank computer screen mesmerized her. It was a luminous atonal poem that sterilized her thoughts. But a puzzle piece emerged from the blur. One moment she was transfixed by the electronic blizzard; and the next, she pondered a puzzle piece, then another, and another. She knew COPE was related to Terra’s death and Elliott’s surveillance. She was stuck. The pieces wouldn’t stay together.

  Her gaze wandered from the computer screen to the nearby phone. There was no one she could turn to for advice now except … Could Elliott help? Could she trust him? If Sherwood feared him, maybe he was okay.

  The sound of her phone startled her. She tried to ignore it, but it begged like a child whining. She looked at its answer icon, making the connection. “Hello.”

  “Good morning,” replied a gentle voice. “Is this Guinda?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Elliott Townsend. How are you this morning?”

  “Where are you calling from?” Guinda asked nervously.

  “Don’t worry. I wasn’t followed, and they can’t tap my call. That little robotic car they put on my tail doesn’t do well on sidewalks and stairs. I just cut down a sidewalk between houses with my bike, went up a flight of stairs to the EL level on University Avenue, and biked over to my old office here at the Lab. They let me have the use of it for a year, for transition they said. So I thought today was a good time for transitioning.”

  “You wouldn’t believe what’s going on! My old professor has been murdered, and I think COPE had something to do with it. I don’t know what to do next.”

  “If we put our heads together, we might be able to figure something out.”

  “Don’t take COPE too lightly, Elliott.”

  “Their surveillance car couldn’t follow me.”

  “There’s more to COPE than surveillance,” she said. “They have spiders—killer spiders.”

  A long pause followed. “Yeah, I’ve heard of them.” Another pause followed as Guinda’s hard swallow came over the line. “But I’m just a nobody, Guin.”

  “You’re somebody to COPE—and Sherwood. I’ll tell you about him, but just be careful. I don’t think Terra was careful enough.”

  “Terra Halvorsen?”

  “You knew her?”

  “Sort of. Guess I need to look out for spiders, too.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Feelings

  Guinda checked her front door display and opened the door.

  Her eyes met his in silence. Elliott was the first to speak. “I’m so sorry about your professor. It must have been a terrible shock to you. I knew of her through my daughter, and I read about her death in the paper.”

  “She and I seemed to understand each other,” Guinda said. “We liked each other. Maybe it was more respect than anything else. But I’m afraid that what happened to Terra may be just the tip of a much bigger iceberg.”

  “I’ll help you any way I can, Guin.”

  “You know, that’s what’s so funny. I hardly know you, and we come from two worlds that could hardly be more different.”

  “And I’m old enough to be your grandfather.”

  “Yes, that too. And yet, here I am talking to you about this. Do you understand how that can be?”

  “You know, there’s so little I understand anymore. Maybe you’re coming to the wrong person for help.”

  “I hope not.” A long, uneasy silence followed.

  “Let’s sit down, and you can fill me in,” Elliott suggested.

  Over the next few minutes, Guinda told Elliott all about her discussions with Sherwood, about the death of Halvorsen, and about her experience with the computer files. She expressed her frustration about the present situation and her uncertainty about a course
of action.

  “It’s kind of coincidental that our paths came close to each other. I’ve met Sherwood, at least the guy I met sounds like him, and I too tried to retrieve Terra’s files, but on her computer in her office. There was nothing there. It sounds like you might have come closer to pay dirt though.”

  “But the files I found were all deleted. They’re no good at all to us.”

  “Maybe I can at least help you with that problem,” Elliott said. “Those files that were deleted may not be gone after all. When a file is deleted from a computer, it doesn’t necessarily erase what is there. It merely makes that part of the computer’s memory available for another file to be written over it. There are utility programs that can access those memory locations where the deleted files were stored and, if they haven’t been written over yet, you may be able to retrieve them.”

  “You mean if we can get there before somebody else puts something else in its place, we may be able to get it back?”

  “That’s the idea, so let’s get started. There’s a chance we can do it since the files were deleted only yesterday, and this is a weekend.”

  Guinda got them back into the Leasnet system, and then Elliott took over. He investigated several menus to find the proper application to do the job, but he was unsuccessful.

  “It was a good idea,” Guinda said despondently, “but I guess they just don’t have the right software.”

  “Not so fast. I know we have the software at the lab. I’ll just upload a copy to Leasnet.”

  Elliott worked the menus and the keyboard for a while, and the next thing they knew, they had the message: PLEASE SELECT THE FILES YOU WISH TO RETRIEVE.

  They selected all 11 files, and the computer responded: 7 OF THE 11 FILES ARE 100% INTACT, 4 ARE PARTIALLY INTACT. WHICH ONES DO YOU WISH TO SAVE?