The Media Candidate (3 page)

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?”

“My name is Professor Townsend from HPHC.”
Elliott paused and extended his hand to the middle-aged lady seated
in her office next to the receptionist.

She slowly raised her head. Her hand followed
reluctantly. “I am the Political Science Administrator.”

“Dean Tresbien wanted me to come over to see if
we could help sort out Professor Halvorsen’s things,” Elliott
said.

The administrator squinted up at Elliott form
her desk without moving her head. “I see, but we weren’t expecting
you, and I can’t imagine what Professor Halvorsen would be doing
with anyone from the HyperCollider. This is the
Political
Science Department, as I’m sure you are aware.”