by James Smythe
The alarms rang out, even in the corridor, where we were completely locked down. When our cells opened it was at the behest of armed guards, guns pointed at us. Those who are lost have nothing to lose, the governor said of us. The alarms seemed louder than we had ever heard them. Somebody’s kicking up a fuss, Finkler said, must have made a break for it. Or they’re fighting. I didn’t try to see. I sat on my cot and prayed, again, that I might see some way through this. Shit, Finkler said – and what I wouldn’t have given for him to shut his mouth – maybe they’ll stay our sentences, because, you know, God’s here! They won’t stay our sentences, I said to him, breaking my silence. Our sentences are not just in this world. Oh, sure, he said, but, you know, I’d rather face that one in forty years, when it’s actually my time. He fell quiet. In another life, I would have ended Finkler’s life in a heartbeat. Here, now, he sounded sad, the tragically hopeful murderer, rapist. He pleaded for pity and forgiveness, because his crime was thoughtless, driven by lust and desire, not the betterment of his people. He and I were nothing alike.
Mei Hsüeh, professional gamer, Shanghai
I was Teolis, my Dark Elf Necromancer (level 83, about two years’ worth of playtime), and the first dungeon we were hitting was in the Northern Lands. So, we dressed for snow – they rolled that out in the last update, having to adapt your armour for the environment – and I travelled up there on Hector, my winged horse. I gave Te’lest a ride. He was our guild’s best tank, a huge Orc, built to withstand whatever punishment could be thrown at him. We were trying to assemble the guild together, because we’d arranged the time a few days before, but most of them weren’t online. Fifteen out of thirty were offline, so we said we would wait. There’s a goblin newsreader in the Northern Lands who reads real-world stories out like he’s a town crier, and he was saying about the riots. He was the first person I remember seeing using the words The Broadcast, and at first I didn’t even know it wasn’t an in-game thing, and then I saw other people using it – this troll was trying to find somebody with the skills to carve it into his hammer, and another guy was making armour with it printed on the back – and I realized it was outside as well. I thought about logging off, and then all fifteen arrived, which was enough to do the first dungeon, easy, so we rolled off, and I forgot about it for a while.
Phil Gossard, sales executive, London
Karen and Jess got home ridiculously late because the roads, Karen said, were at a standstill with people parking outside churches. Not at the side of the road, either, she said, but right there in the middle of the road, if that was all they could find. You should have just ploughed through them, I said, show them who’s really boss. I didn’t mean that; it was a thoughtless thing to say. We stayed up and watched TV all night, and I tried to explain to Jess what The Broadcast could be if it wasn’t God. All her friends said that it was. She went to a church-affiliated school, and that was all they were talking about. Eventually I said that she had to go to bed, and that caused a tantrum, but she had school the next day. Can’t I stay home? she asked, and I said that she couldn’t. She hated school at the best of times. She was born with a vascular birthmark on her face, across her cheek, her nose, meeting her top lip on the left side. It got paler as she got older, but it was there all the same. She had a rough time of it with the other kids.
I went up to check on her ten minutes later, when they were cutting away to yet more talking heads, an easy way to fill the time. She was kneeling by the side of her bed, and I’d never seen her do that before. I’m praying, she said, and I asked her what for, and she said, I think I’m going to ask for a dog. I told her that God didn’t work like that. Fine, she said, I’ll pray that school is cancelled tomorrow. I think that’s more his sort of thing, I replied.
Audrey Clave, linguistics postgraduate student, Marseilles
Jacques and I ended up sleeping in this room off the language labs, somebody’s office, one that they gave to a professor with a title but not a real job, one of the codgers. There wasn’t really anything in the room; it was more like a big cupboard when you stood in it, with an empty desk and a cactus (because it couldn’t die) and some books on the shelves, all covered in dust. There was a rug on the floor, Turkish, it looked like, expensive, and it had barely been used. I should take that for our office, I said, and then Jacques moved the furniture over up against the window and we locked the door and lay down. That was the first night we slept together, had sex, whatever. Afterwards we were going to sleep, and I had just shut my eyes when we got woken up by David banging on the door. Open up, he shouted. It’s Patrice, he’s gone, and I don’t know where. We got dressed and Jacques ran with him to the green in the middle of the main buildings, to see if he was there or if anybody had seen him leaving. I went out the front to get some cigarettes from the machine – I could taste them on Jacques, and I suddenly missed them, that taste – and there were people out there staring up at the roof, just like with the guy before. Patrice was on the parapet, I could see his legs dangling. The building wasn’t exactly tall, only five storeys, but it was old, high ceilings, and he was just sitting there. He didn’t seem to be moving. I ran upstairs, praying to God that he would be there when I got to him, and he was. Don’t jump, I said. I just want to sit and talk, and he nodded and said that was fine, but he had been crying, and he looked so sick that I wondered if he had taken something, but I didn’t want to ask, not then.
He offered me a cigarette, like he could tell somehow that I wanted one, even though I hadn’t smoked in nearly six months, and I coughed my way through the first few drags, shuffling along the ledge with him. I didn’t look down. We didn’t talk as we smoked; we sat and swung our legs. When I had put mine out, smoked only halfway, because that was all I could manage, I asked him what he was doing. He lit a second one, which I thought was a good sign, and he said, Maybe, if I pray really hard, He might accept me back. Back? I asked him. What do you mean, Back? You haven’t gone anywhere. Besides, eh, it might not be Him. It might be anything. You want to be praying to a bunch of aliens? But I must have sounded fake to him, because I sounded fake to myself. I was sure that it was God. Come back inside with me, I said, we’ll go and have a coffee and talk this out, and he nodded, we both stood up, and he just stepped off the roof. I heard the crowd scream, but I didn’t look down, because I didn’t want to see that. I ran downstairs, I don’t remember screaming or crying, but apparently I was, and by the time I got there this one guy, a stoner I recognized because he was always sitting on the benches outside the offices, told me that Patrice was the third person he’d seen that day do it. I sat there and waited for the police with Jacques and David, who found me when they heard the crowd scream, but the police didn’t come until the next day, they were so busy.
HOW IT FELT TO BE SPECIAL
Andrew Brubaker, White House Chief of Staff, Washington, DC
I kept asking Meany for updates on his theory about The Broadcast. If it’s a threat, we need to know. We’re doing research, he kept telling me, we’re working on it. Sometimes, that isn’t enough. We had all been awake for God-knows how many hours and we were all feeling it. POTUS had it worst: he was doing interviews, press ops, reassurances. And his reassurances had to sound real; the rest of us got to sit in the war room – we called it The Danger Room, POTUS’ special name for it, a joke, almost – and we got to say exactly how nervous we actually were. You factor in the stress, the tiredness gets that much worse. We had eye drops to help us function, and coffee. We even had a girl from the assistants’ pool do a run to the Starbucks.
There were whispers from sources – the same source that said it was a weapon, that the voice was some sort of weapon being used against us – that somebody was gearing up for another attack, as well. We didn’t have any more than that, other than that the rumour came from a source in Iran, so we moved the satellites to watch the countryside around there, covered Iraq, the Russian borders, China as best we could. If they see this, we’ll have hell to pay, one of the Joint
Chiefs said, and I told them it was fine. I’d rather that than the alternative. We watched China move some of their troops along their borders; they had people stationed along the borders with Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan, Kazakhstan and then – and these were the real worries – India and Pakistan. It was when you saw nuclear powers edging toward each other, that was when you started to worry. Somebody in the room asked why they were moving – What have they got to gain from that? he asked – and I said, They’re just nervous. They’re probably worried that it’s a weapon. Just like we are, he said. POTUS didn’t say anything.
I didn’t think it was an attack, and neither did he; and if it wasn’t, that left very few options. Something we did by accident. Aliens. God. It was insane to even be contemplating those last two options, but we were both pretty sure it wasn’t an attack.
Ed Meany, research and development scientist, Virginia
I spoke to the President for the first time that night – the first and the last time, if memory serves – because he wanted to know if I’d worked it out yet. It wasn’t enough that I was reporting to Andrew Brubaker every ten minutes with the zero updates we’d managed, but he wanted to check that I was working properly. I guess a phone call from the President is meant to scare you, make you leap to action. Truth be told, we weren’t any closer because it was the most pointless exercise we’d ever worked on. There was no signal measuring on any of our equipment when we could hear The Broadcast, and given that it had stopped, there wasn’t even anything for us to not be able to measure. He wanted me to be able to say, definitively, that it either was or wasn’t God. I couldn’t. What’s that philosophy quote? If God wasn’t real we would have had to invent him?
Dhruv Rawat, doctor, Bankipore
Adele had dinner with me again; she was so upset about The Broadcast, and I told her that it was fine. At home, she said, they’re saying that it has to be the voice of God – that or aliens. She smiled when she said that, because it was so preposterous. But God, she said – and this gave her an even bigger smile – I mean, can you imagine? We had been eating this dish local to the area, and to the hotel, I think; it was mostly spiced potato and rice, in this sauce with okra, beans, tomato, paneer, but it wasn’t spiced, not even slightly. I remember because I ate so much of it I felt ill, and sat back in my seat, patting my stomach. That made Adele laugh. There was a television on in the bar at the back, with the news showing the bombs in America. (It’s reactionaries, the barman was saying, they always act after something else has started a battle.) You have to remember, I said to Adele, all of your people think that our Gods are vastly different. She smiled, as if she – she wanted to tell me that she already knew that, I think. Oh yes, of course; but this – I mean, we don’t know what it is, but it could be the answer for all of us, couldn’t it? This could end war, it could solve all our problems, put everybody on a level playing field. This could be proof, Dhruv; aren’t you excited?
I said, I think there’s only reason to be excited for proof if you wanted proof in the first place. For me, I’ve always known God is with us, because of all of this. That’s the difference. But proof, she said, not belief or faith, actual evidence. They’re totally different things. I know, I understand, I replied, but this isn’t evidence of anything: it’s just a voice. It might help those starved of their own self-belief, but for us, we shouldn’t need it. Sure, there’s that mystery of what it was, but it wasn’t God. Besides, I said, as a joke, which of the Hindu Gods would it be without the others? We finished dinner and that seemed to have been that. When it was over, she thanked me for a nice evening, went to her hotel room, and left me sitting at the dinner table on my own. She had charged the whole bill to her hotel room before I could have a chance to pay.
Isabella Dulli, nun, Vatican City
I don’t know how long I stayed down there. It’s so quiet down there; there is only you and the smell of the stone. Some people say that it smells of death, but they don’t mean that so negatively. They mean, it smells like you’re closer to Him, to His kingdom. I don’t know how long I was there for – most of that day, because I was completely alone with Him, and I revelled in Him for that time. I was special. That was how it felt to be special. And I was waiting, more than that, in case He was not finished. My Children … It is such an invocation, and it sounded as if He was going to tell me something about the children. I was going to be party to something special.
I hadn’t decided if I was going to tell anybody else what had happened to me when I went back to the Basilica, and then the Basilica was empty. I went into the square, and that was empty too; it was only just getting dark, and all that I could hear was the sound of horns on the streets outside, where the taxis and buses were. At the gate, the police were waiting, keeping people out. What’s going on? I asked, and they told me to get back inside. The people at the gate looked so scared, frantic. Let us in, Sister! they shouted. You have to tell them to let us in! What’s happening? I asked the guard again, and he looked at me as if I was insane, pulling his whole head backwards. Are you mad? he said, and then he and his friend both laughed at me. You heard it, of course they’re going crazy outside. All the tourists have been told to leave the City, or they would tear the place apart! I knew straight away, of course, but I asked the policeman what everybody heard, and he laughed again. The voice of God, he said, you remember that happening, yeah? I walked away – the people behind the gates, in the street, were calling to me still: Sister, Sister, give us a blessing, help us to tell our Lord of our love!
I didn’t know where to go; I felt so sick, and I couldn’t bear to see anybody else who had been blessed – or who heard the voice – so I went back into the Basilica. Then I heard them, coming in through the far entrance, laughing and praising him, Hallelujah, Hallelujah. I went down to the tomb again, and for some reason the lights were off, the guide lights, so I was in the darkness completely. I knew the tomb so well that I didn’t need anything to show me where to go, and I found myself on the floor of the tomb, trying to breathe in through the closeness of the air. I asked Him why, because I needed to know, but there, when He could have answered me, His most devout, He chose silence, and I could only hear my voice echoing back at me for the longest time as the world celebrated how close they were to Him, finally.
Elijah Said, prisoner on Death Row, Chicago
We heard the guards talking at the end of the corridor, saying that there had been a problem in a block that we had never heard of. Neither Finkler nor I were old-timers. We’d been here less than six months, both of us, and the amount of talk about the rest of the prison flew by. You ignored it; no need to learn the ropes when that same rope would eventually hang you. The guards saw us listening and told us that it was time for our showers; it wasn’t close to that, but the noise of the water deafened all else. They switched them on, told us to strip, prodded us – myself, Finkler, a thug from New York who called himself Bronx, a man who smothered his wife and children while they slept, name of Thaddeus – into the shower room. The water ran hot always, and we were forced to stand inside it, directly under the faucets so that they soaked our faces. They couldn’t be sure we were washing properly, they said, and this was the only way: scalding our skin. Finkler turned thick pink, like a lobster; he complained about the heat. Thaddeus wept. Bronx kissed his teeth and turned, and called Thaddeus a whiny bitch, and laughed at him. Nobody spoke to me, or looked at me. These people were not dangerous; they fashioned themselves as threats, either by accident or intentionally, but they were nothing. We stood under the faucets and watched as the guards – two of them, Johannsen and another one I didn’t recognize – spoke in the corridor. I heard Bronx whisper something, out of his faucet, closer to me.
We can take ’em, he said, rush over, I’ll take one, you take the other. This panic, we could be out of this fucking place. Bronx was a rapper (though nobody could lay claim to having heard his music); he had shot three people from a moving car, caught by a traffic camera. Come on son, he said, we can
get out of here. No, I said. He laughed, rocked backwards – he fashioned himself like some African chief, his laugh belly-deep, a false man to his very core – and grabbed my shoulder. No shit, he said, you like it here, eh? I washed myself. You fine with staying here, dying in this place? Shit, man, you crazier than Finkler. He nudged toward Thaddeus; I knew before they even whispered to each other that the family-killer would join in with the plan; he didn’t cry over his family, he cried over himself. There’s two types of pity in prison: self, and for what you did. You have self-pity, my father used to tell me, you can’t have any self-respect. Thaddeus was nothing but self-pity, a ball of it. Next thing I knew, he was running toward one guard, Bronx toward the other. They barrelled into them, slamming them against the wall. The guard I didn’t know the name of was quick; he shouted, reached down for his stick, but Bronx was faster, clubbed him across the face with his forearm. Come on, he shouted to me, you can get the fuck out of here. Solidarity in colour. I turned away, took a towel, dried myself and returned to my cell. What the fuck? Bronx shouted. You won’t make it, I said, but he didn’t listen, and the three of them ran down the corridor.