“Cut to Wendy.”
“Thank you, doctor,” said Wendy. “Very enlightening…”
It was a little too scripted, thought Jen, who had heard almost exactly the same thing repeated more times than she could remember. But whatever worked. She stood behind Glenn sat down in his chair, redirecting a nearby camera. “How we looking?” she asked, placing firm hands on his shoulder.
“NCX-06 was a block over and is en route.”
“Good.” She watched the view of the unnaturally dark avenue swooping by in the bottom half of the camera angle, the sides of towers at the edges. What was happening to her beautiful city? When would it stop and return to normal? She straightened herself, pulling at her jacket lapels and creaking her neck. “I’m gonna grab a coffee. Take care of the cuts.” She left without offering to get one for anyone else.
Outside, the opulence flowed through glass partition walls and reflected from orange and blue floors and ceiling, the studio’s colours; and banks of newsteams fevered over holodesks or reclined in linksuites. Many fingers on many pulses. It was a tough job to keep up with every latest development, and even tougher to rewrite the narrative.
Her office door was clear with Jennifer Grunwald engraved across the glass: Corrections Director etched beneath. When she entered, she opaqued the door behind her. The only clear window she wanted to see was the one before her, overlooking Neon’s heart. The city had myriad institutions, organisations, societies and other establishments all vying for importance, dotted throughout from the centre to the outskirts, and even – it didn’t bare thinking about – down below. Yet it was here where decisions were made that really mattered. Here where life was going on as though nothing was wrong – thanks to her. She need only look to the lights busying up and down the avenue to imagine their ambient thrum and the gentle pattering of tires over wet tarmac. She saw puffy white clouds of steam rising from exhaust vents in the grills of pavements and the stovetop chimneys of street vendors, and could smell the chargrilled chicken steaks and her favourite burger, a patty with combined insects, mushrooms and lab-grown beef. Diners seated beside their favourite vendor beneath swarming lightdrones glowing orange and red and purple. Diners who were safe because of her.
She put her hands on her hips and gazed as far as she could towards the horizon, squinting. Maybe because she knew what was there she was able to see the reinforced concrete wall and the line of heavy spotlights guarding the perimeter, and even guards and security patrol drones. Or more likely it was a coercion of light, coming together in a mental kaleidoscope. Still, it was an image she liked to remind herself of every day. The perfect analogy for the war they were fighting. The forces on the ground fought the physical battle, while she fought the mental battle. Her job was one of support and reassurance, ensuring cohesion in an increasingly confused and hostile playing field. The truth was just an idea of something. Something that needed to be reshaped. A volley of mortar rounds that she either had to redirect… or destroy. It wasn’t lies that she was shaping, but happiness. Security. Wellbeing. Continuity. People needed to feel as though everything was alright. That nothing was about to change.
That Neon was in control.
There was a knock on the door and the Chief entered. One look at his face and Jen remembered she still hadn’t grabbed that coffee.
“That was an interesting choice,” he said.
Jen smiled while she poured from her decanter. “You want?”
He shook his head, and the rest of him shook too. His blue shirt was buttoned to his collar when perhaps it shouldn’t have been. His neck burst over it, while his belly hung over his waist. “Better not, I’d like to sleep tonight.”
“Doctor’s orders,” she nodded knowingly. “You haven’t been around for a while. Everything okay?”
He positioned himself in an armchair that overlooked the dark city outside. “I’m not here to step on your toes, if that’s what you’re worried about. The powers that be just want a little more oversight. A direct line in case they need to suddenly switch gear. I’m here to make sure we’re properly prepared.”
Jen joined him at the window, sitting opposite. “Well I can assure you the team are up to speed. Everything’s smooth. Everyone knows what they’re doing.”
He waved his hand as though shooing a fly. “I can see that; you’ve got a well-oiled machine here. I wish I could say the same about…” he stopped. Shooed that fly away again.
“We’re always at the ready.”
“Yeah, that’s good. I meant it by the way, that was an interesting choice earlier. You could have just showed the footage undoctored and it would have played up to the violent aspect of the terrorists. Instead, you changed it to a civilian.”
“It’s all about balancing. Fear is a multifaceted emotion – for some people, watching a soldier die might have directed their anger towards Nash and the rest, and perhaps even served as a recruiting tool. For others, it would have instilled a certain level of fear – showing how strong they had become, so strong they could murder a soldier. That would surely instil fear, yes. But make it a civilian and then that makes it personal. It could be you next. Take it a step further and maybe people would sign up to the guard as that would be the only way they’d feel safe – with a rifle in their hand.”
She took a sip of coffee and gazed out to the lightshow of night. “Next time, maybe I’ll leave it undoctored, try and cover as much of the field as possible. You also have to be careful not to push too far. Push and push and push, and people turn away. They stop listening. They start listening to someone else.”
“The narrative has to keep evolving.”
“Indeed.”
“Even if it’s a lie.”
“Especially if it’s a lie. Truth lies dormant in the battleground of ideas.”
The Chief smiled. “I do believe I like you, Miss Grunwald.”
“Jen, please.”
“Is there something stronger to drink around here?”
She reached across to her desk and depressed an intercom. “Maisie. Could we get a bottle of Syn please and a couple glasses?”
“Okay, Jen.”
“You don’t have to join me,” said the Chief, standing to lean against the window.
“A man should never drink alone.”
“A man should never drink alone with a beautiful woman.”
She gave him a smile. “One of those declarations is true.” He was a man of power, and power was attractive – shame the same couldn’t be said about the rest of him. He ran fat fingers through what little hair remained around his ears, self-consciously. Some men never really grew up, despite their status in life. He’d not give her any trouble.
Maisie entered and placed a tray on the desk, and Jen poured them out a shot of Syn each. She waited until Maisie had left and then they toasted. “To conspiracy theories and falsehood.”
He smiled again, flashing white teeth. So it wasn’t all bad. “To Neon and to order restored.”
She breathed in the head of Syn and then downed the liquid, a hot spice against the back of her throat.
“And the other networks?”
“Well we have NCX and Neon 9 News covered and they’re currently the top viewed channels. We have sympathetic editors in place at each of the north, south, east and west subsidiaries, not to mention the subdistricts below. The share percentage numbers from last month was 43%. Add that to some of the other authority leaning channels and we have a majority. Of course, there’s thousands who aren’t interested in the news or really entertainment at all, so it’s difficult to paint an accurate picture. You’d have to assume though that they may well be radicalised, and so could be lumped in with those figures.”
Chief nodded along, listening while staring out the window, an almost forlorn look on his face. “Those upstairs, shall we say; our bosses, if you like – they have put a favourable public perception of the authority at around 55%, so your 43% plus the unknown factors might be around the same mark. It’s
those thousands you speak of that worry me.”
“Well, what’s a few thousand more anyway, we already know that public support for the protests is high.”
“Hmm,” he mumbled, shooting back the remaining Syn. Jen refilled his glass.
“Something else on your mind?”
“They don’t want to take more effective measures upstairs until that number is closer to 65%. Are we doing all we can?”
She could read between the lines of more effective measures. So that’s what they’re aiming for, she thought. To think… she could actually be a driving force behind the reform, if she just pushed a little harder. She could help end this war, and wipe out the terrorists too.
“I’m open to suggestions,” she said. “I mean, we’ve struggled with broadcast control up ‘til now – whenever we’ve shut down a channel another one has appeared in its place. With so many cameras everywhere it’s difficult to secure. And every time we did shut a channel down there were cries of oppression from the protestors that, we think, probably just drew more people to their cause. So far, the most effective method has been to just fight them with the facts. Or propaganda. However you want to call it. Fight them on their terms. Gradually, our influence has spread to other networks.”
“I was going to ask about that… are we offering enough… incentives?”
“What incentives I’ve been authorised to offer, yes.”
“And what about… other… incentives.”
“Of other incentives, I cannot say.”
The Chief nodded and hmmmed but did not pursue the thought.
She finished her drink, mostly to moisten her throat rather than the drink itself. “We’ve also recently set up another four networks, small ones, but mostly neutral. These are entirely link-based.”
He gave her a quizzical look. “Why neutral?”
“Our greatest friend is the middle-ground. No right, no wrong – people don’t want to make that choice if they don’t have to. They just want to get on with living; working, sleeping, fucking, eating, on repeat. People resist change. It’s their apathy that we want. If we over saturate the market then they’ll get tired and switch off. And then we win, too.”
“You’re a smart cookie, Jen. I had my worries when I came down but, as always, you calmed them. I keep forgetting how smart you are, I don’t know why.”
Maybe because you only have enough room in your head to remember what your last meal was. And who you are next scheduled to fuck.
“Just doing my job, Chief. I want nothing more than to see this city return to normal.”
Hmmph, he snorted. “I don’t know if it ever will. Can I be frank?”
“You do seem as though there’s something on your mind.”
“I’m not sure it will ever return to normal. Not the way it was, anyway. I think the authority underestimated the power of righteousness. Of that sense of injustice that seems to have raised everyone’s haunches.”
She turned from the window and switched on the bank of monitors against the wall, sending an instant wall of bouncing, flashing light across the surfaces. She’d been away from them too long. Not that she didn’t trust her team. Besides, the act gave the Chief more room to speak. She returned to her chair, one on the monitors and another on him.
“I don’t know. I don’t know what to think anymore.”
“That’s a nice shot of the CS gas,” she said, nodding her head towards the monitor. “Kinda beautiful, in a way – a midnight stroll through the mist. Did you ever link to the high mountains, I wonder?”
He shook his head. “I’m not much of a linker.”
“Shame. You can catch clouds at dawn.” She brought the image into full view, and they watched as ghosts with asks across their faces darted beneath the cloudy canopy. “I feel injustice watching this. We shouldn’t be playing games of war. Their disruption is unconscionable and the sooner they are dealt with, the better.” She lifted the bottle and refilled the Chief’s empty glass.
He downed it with a sigh. “No mercy, no pain. That’s what she said. Why did she say that?”
“They’re borderline animals.”
“They’re not going to stop. Nothing will stop them. They’re determined to make a change.”
“Then the authority stops them the only way they can.”
“There’s just so many of them…” he trailed off. “The numbers... It’s unfathomable, really.”
She twisted shut the cap on the Syn and put the bottle inside her drawer. “Well that’s why our job is so important.”
“But is it?”
Jen sighed and stood. “I really should get back on it.”
“Okay, yes. I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time.” Standing seemed a push for him, but he managed it eventually. “Whatever it takes, Jen. You must win this war of minds. While I try and talk some sense into others.”
Chief
He’d enjoyed all the fruits that a high-level government job had provided: born to a moderate wealth and with an ambition to succeed that didn’t paint between the grey areas, he entered politics early on in his career, discovering he had the skills and intelligence to be a lawyer, but the gab of a vendor trying to persuade someone that out of the other dozen kiosks down the avenue, he had the tastiest fries. He learned he had a special ingredient that people warmed to. He’d won every election contest he’d ever entered; in the early days it was a success carried by the weight of his own back, moving from district to district, ever closer to the centre. By the time he ran for Grand Mayor of Neon, he had other certain friends that he could rely on.
Of course, that was years ago now, he mused as he rose in the elevator to his penthouse. May his city bless him some more. He hadn’t been in the limelight for over forty years – it would only raise questions over his youthful appearance. He laughed derisively at his reflection. Youthful. The magic wears off in the end, he thought. Just look at him – no creams or salves or operations could stem his jowls or grey eye-whites or liver-spotted pate any longer. Not least his heart. He knew he should stop eating but eating was the only guaranteed pleasure in his life these days; his family long dead. What cruel and freakish accident that was, and still so young. So young they never even felt the benefits of his… high position.
There was one benefit to losing his looks; he no longer recognised himself. And with that came a feeling of personal anonymity, a simple way to block the tragedy from his life. It helped that he no longer saw his son, Robin, within his own features. Rachel had always taken after her mother anyway; both together just this faceless brunette concept in his mind that gathered dust in some unmarked, untouched folder within his link’s databank. At least, he presumed they were still there. He’d never checked. When it first happened and he considered the memories he’d shared with them; considered sitting there and rewatching them, over and over and over – he grew afraid of what might happen to him. He was going up in the world, the last thing he wanted was to become stagnant and still, or worse, retreat from it. After a while, and after a few sessions with a therapist, he came to a realisation that maybe his memories were more precious if kept in the confines of his mind. That visiting them in the databank might somehow spoil the purity of his imagination. And a while after that, he became too busy to worry about such things. Klara was a treasure, and all his, in his private lockbox of remembrances. When he opened that box, it wasn’t her face he saw, but how she had been and how she had made him feel. Perhaps that was selfish, he wondered. He knew he’d always had a habit of making things all about him. Perhaps if he was going to remember her, he should at least go to the effort of recalling her face.
He closed his eyes, tired. Too much Syn. His mind was all over the place. His eyes looked bloodshot and his cheeks red, and man oh man, when did he get so old and fat and ugly. This was not who Klara had chosen to spend her life with.
Klara, what would you do?
This was how he was bringing her back to life, more and more just recently. Asking
for her guidance. Right and wrong were two clear spectrums for her, every grey between a lie. She wouldn’t have recognised what he’d become either.
She’d been nothing like Jen, that’s for sure.
The elevator beeped and stopped and he departed, a firm hand on the wall as he made his way down the corridor. Bright lights lit up around him and fell dark behind him, when really he’d have preferred just darkness all the way. Just a long, dark tunnel. That was all he was deserving of. His door recognised him and opened and he stumbled across the threshold. Behind him, the door closed automatically, and then a voice called out “Hi!”
Who was that?
“I’m through here.”
Did I have a booking tonight? He walked through to the lounge where Faye lay naked on the low, beige sofa that lined three-quarters of the room. A floating firepit with a chute that ran into the ceiling dispersed its heat and orange flames from the centre of the room. The drinks cabinet sat open at the far end, more than a few bottles open too, while a wineglass decorated Faye’s hand. Her long, blonde hair cascaded almost to the cream-carpeted floor. Her perfume was everywhere – he should have smelled it as soon as he entered, it was a smell that lingered for days after a visit.
Tides of Hysteria Page 3