The Lightcap (9 page)

Groups of people stood in the packed bar so they could see as many screens as possible.  Adam found a table in the corner affording him a view of the vast room, and he attempted to send a drink order from his dome.  He immediately heard a minor tritone, along with a soft voice stating, “No command unit found for this establishment.”  It had been a long time since Adam had been to a bar that wasn’t Mind Drive compatible.  It had also been a long time since he’d been to a bar.

As he was trying to remember the etiquette for ordering a drink, a tiny woman materialized, seemingly from nowhere.  She was so small Adam had thought at first she was a child, but as she moved closer he realized she was a small woman.  The waitress stopped chewing her gum long enough to ask for his order.  “Scotch.  Old aged.  Rocks,” he replied.  Adam may have felt out of his element in a place such as Hanley’s, but he could still order a drink with confidence.  He’d practiced this when he was younger, thinking he could impress a waitress who was the focus of his youthful infatuation.  She had not been very impressed; truth be told, she had not seemed to care at all.  He still liked scotch though.

The diminutive current waitress disappeared into the crowd and returned several minutes later, carrying a large glass of brown liquid that washed around two dueling spherical ice cubes.  “Twenty credits,” she said as she chomped, her mouth decimating her gum.  He gave her thirty, feeling both generous and thankful she had appeared when he needed her and retrieved his drink so quickly.  Adam picked up his glass, slowly swirled the scotch in it and looked around the bar.  Most faces were turned with rapt attention to the bar’s screens, which showed animated maps of the Region, each precinct lighted with blue or red depending on which candidate—the one who was pro-business or the one who was very pro-business—was leading or had won. 

In some cases only a few ballots had been counted, which led to them reporting absolutely nothing, saying things like, “Too close to call,” and, “This is just a projection, only two percent of the polls have closed.”  Someone had evidently decided these statements sounded better than, “We have nothing to report.”  The news could never stop, even if there were no stories to cover, because it would cause a drop in ratings.  Actually, the news stopping would itself be news.  Anything was more interesting than dead air.

Adam watched each screen briefly, more interested in how people responded to the news than the news itself.  Groups of patrons cheered or wailed, then he noticed a group that had occasionally done the opposite.  Words were traded, and in some cases the thick-necked bouncers stepped forward with menacing faces, unspoken warnings of their potential intervention.  Already an excuse to party, politics had become an excuse to brawl.  “If you can’t beat your opponents in the tally, beat them in the streets,” was the motto of many.  The bouncers were there to keep beatings from occurring, for the sake of the bar’s insurance policy, not any sense of obligation to customers.

Adam couldn’t help but chuckle.  He took a pessimistic approach to politics.  He’d always voted for the candidate who seemed most likely to lose a few minutes of sleep if he or she were to accidentally run over a small, defenseless animal.  There wasn’t always a candidate who met that criteria, however, so sometimes Adam would have to pick the one who seemed the least interested in using an elected term to pad a bank account.  One election, Adam couldn’t even figure that out.  He ended up going to a voting center that year, forgoing his usual method of mesh vote.  He stepped into the booth, closed his eyes, and picked one at random.  He had considered not even voting for the briefest of moments, until he remembered his mother and father would have been very disappointed, had they been alive to see it. 

After Adam’s first vote, his father took him out for dinner and a drink, hugged Adam, and said, “Voting is a way to have a small amount on impact of larger things in the world.”

Ray and Monica, Adam’s father and mother, died a little more than two months later in an autocar accident.  Adam, with the benefits of age and wisdom—including more than a bit of cynicism—now thought his father naïve about the nature of reality. 

Adam sat in the bar and took another swig of his drink.  He reflected that despite his wisdom, cynicism, and knowledge of the nature of reality, the election campaign that year had been particularly troubling.  He had voted weeks before via mesh.  The choice that year was an easy one, between the incumbent CEO and his challenger, a man who had cut a swath of destruction through the corporate world as an executive at TeleVice, the largest media company in the Metra Region. 

Money bought and paid for both candidates, corporate stooges to their cores.  People were, after all, voting for the executive head of the second largest corporate Region in the World, after the Cascadia Corporation, which owned the former west coast of the United States and a few other contiguous properties.  The elections that night took place in the Regions of Metra and Cascadia, the Confederated Republic of Texas—Confederacy for short—and what was left of the United States, a conical shaped chunk of land starting north of the District of Columbia and spreading west beyond Colorado.

The media companies operating in each region had some degree of crossover between board members, as if forming a Venn diagram of influence and power, overlapping areas containing the richest of the rich who made money off everyone else.  Having four major elections all within the same night created an ideal situation for ratings.  Election night became the most watched video event of every fifth year.  Even those who had sold their votes liked to watch, to be caught up in the excitement of the crowd, to be parts of something. 

Adam worked through four glasses of scotch and quietly watched as race after district race was called, trying to guess which group of patrons would grumble or celebrate.  He looked back to the large screen in the center of the room and saw the talking heads on the screens preparing to announce the results from the executive races.  These results always came last, to provide a climactic end to the foreplay of smaller challenges.  Up for re-election were the CEOs of Cascadia Corp and Metra Corp, and the Presidents of the United States and the Confederacy.  Money was the deciding factor in all regional races, not just the corporate leadership positions.  Politics had been awash in dirty money for years.  In the Corporate owned Regions they were just more open about it, considering it a necessary evil. 

The screens had shown each incremental update, “With seventy-eight percent of stations repor—no wait: seventy-nine!”  Numbers traded back and forth, one candidate robbed of the lead by another.  The crowd was frantic, brought from ecstasy to agony and back every few minutes.  The first race announced was that of the CEO position for Cascadia Corporation, whose incumbent won reelection.  The second race decided was the President of the Confederacy; a staunch pro-business challenger unseated the sitting President, a theocratic isolationist with dreams of kickstarting Armageddon.  The third was that of President of the United States, who drew attention due to nostalgia and a small amount of pity.  The incumbent’s challenger lost, failing to make an effective case for his economic recovery plan.  The status quo remained for the most part unchanged.  Adam was satisfied, if not affected in any way by these results.

A silence fell over the crowd.  The newscaster, with his expensive suit and well-coifed hair, dramatically turned to face the camera.  With agonizingly slow delivery, the man recited his opening lead into the election results for Metra Corp, as elbows jostled and necks craned to get the best view. 
Does the act of observation affect the outcome?
Adam wondered. 
No
, he thought to himself as he downed the last of his scotch,
there are no such things as quantum elections. 
The patrons groaned and cheered loudly in response to the results.  The exceptionally business friendly candidate, Tim Montery, had unseated the current CEO, Paul Dewey, who had failed to generate profit at a quick enough pace.  The current CEO had focused instead on using a portion of the excess to reinvest in infrastructure and pay outstanding debts, acts for which he had now been punished.

The screen cut to the smug face of the victor, Tim Montery, who began delivering his acceptance speech.  The energy of the crowd in the bar started to remind Adam of the cold pressure before a sudden rainstorm.  He got up about the same time the first punch was thrown, by an angry, red-faced man who bounded to a cheering man and punched him in the face.  The surprised victim fell back.  At the same moment his friends pushed away from the table and converged on the attacker.  The attacker’s mates were just a step behind. 
This is a quick storm,
Adam mused. 
Glad I was paying attention
. 

Adam was halfway to the door by the time the fight had begun to ripple through the crowd, a shockwave of destruction sent from the center of the room.  He was hit by a bottle, but it bounced harmlessly off his bony shoulder and back into the crowd. 
Thank goodness for unbreakable glass
, he thought.  Adam’s lean frame was able to pass unhindered between people, and he made it to the door just as the bouncer from outside became aware of what was happening.  Adam reached the door right as the bouncer opened it, a look of surprise on his face as he served as unplanned doorman.

The bouncer’s wide shoulders took up almost the entire width of the door frame, leaving just enough room.  “Thanks!” Adam said as he slipped through, but the bouncer was gone, his attention already turned to the riotous crowd threatening to overrun his burly fellows.  If the team of ten bouncers weren’t able to quell the crowd’s chaotic energy, the Blues would be called.  Adam wasn’t a fighter, so he had no desire to stay.  Due to his distaste for the Blues, he was doubly glad he made it out with minimal incident.

Adam felt his heart racing again, but once he was outside in the cold air the pounding subsided.  His every exhalation visible, he pulled his jacket collar up around his neck, then stowed his hands in the warm wool of his pockets.  Adam heard gunshots in the distance, signifying a protest, a celebration, or just a murder.  He enjoyed the crisp air during his walk home, icicles forming in his nose with each breath.  His feet had trouble with some steps toward his home due to the alcohol. 

Adam eventually stumbled into his apartment, and the soft sheets called to him.  He brushed his teeth and drank a glass of water in an attempt to rid his throat of the taste of scotch, then fell into bed and sleep almost at the same moment.

“Adam,” came a soft voice.  The voice seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place it until it continued and he recognized it as his dome AI, saying, “Please make sure you are ready for the presentation this morning.”  Then, “Signed by Nate Taylor.”

Did I fall asleep with my dome on?  I didn’t think I was wearing it
, he thought.  Something about sleeping while wearing the Mind Drive made him more tired than without, and his eyes struggled to adjust to the beam of light that shone through his apartment window.  He expected some degree of a hangover from the night before, but he felt clear-headed as he sat up in bed and stretched his legs against the floor.  He yawned and scratched his shoulder.

Presentation?
Adam thought with a shock.  It had taken him several minutes to parse the message, and he was alarmed when he couldn’t recall anything scheduled for that day.  He focused his attention to his dome, thought,
Please refresh my memory regarding today’s presentation
, and sent the message to Nate, hoping for a quick reply.

Despite having plenty of time before he was due to work, Adam thought it best to go in early.  If he had to present something, he would need time to prepare.  The street outside his building was quiet, the city slowed by the stillness of early morning.  Instead of his usual
tencho
playlist, that morning he opted to listen to the sounds of his shoes against the sidewalk and the silence of near-empty streets, something he didn’t often have the chance to experience at the normal hours of his treks to and from the office.

The tempo of his falling feet matched the beat of his pounding heart as his thoughts drifted between his new role and that day’s forgotten presentation.  He was perturbed, not only because he had no recollection of any pitch, but since he couldn’t figure out why the message came from Nate Taylor, who had been his boss for years before Adam’s recent promotion.

As Adam reached the subway on his way to Adaptech, a soft tone rang in his ear, followed by a smooth voice reading Nate’s reply: “Yes, for the Ensyn project.  Didn’t you get the memos?  Several were sent.”

No
, he thought, sending the response.

Nate replied quickly.  “Don’t put me in a bad spot, Adam.  I’m really counting on you for this.  Can you come in early so I can brief you?”

One step ahead of you.  I’ll be there in just a few minutes
, he thought in response.