The Media Candidate

a hard sci-fi, political, speculative novel
of 2048

Paul Dueweke

This eBook is licensed for your
personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to
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Thank you for respecting my hard work.

Copyright ©2016 by Paul
Dueweke

Electronically published by
Smashwords

ALL RIGHTS
RESERVED

“Television is democracy at its ugliest.”

— Paddy Chayevsky

“Isn’t that Lizzie Special something, Elliott?”
Martha said. “I just knew she was going to win the primary. Didn’t
I tell you that a month ago?”

Elliott Townsend looked toward his wife seated
beside him to respond, but she was already turned away from him
toward one wall of the Clifford Hotel ballroom, which exploded with
TV coverage of the NBC Party primary. From his elevated position
near the center of the speaker’s table, he scanned the ballroom
audience, his co-workers. They were gathered here to honor him, to
usher him into retirement. But Hollywood had seized them, had
plucked their psyches with measured strokes, and they resonated
with tuned ardor.

Then his gaze tumbled to the program lying on
the table in front of him. “Dr. Elliott T. Townsend, Director,
HyperPhysics HyperCollider.” While the cadence of the candidate
birthing wrenched everyone else’s attention to the TV, Elliott
moved his coffee cup and continued reading through a crescent
stain. “We present you with our sincere gratitude on this sixteenth
day of July, 2048. The world joins us in thanking you for your
guidance and inspiration and forty years of dedication to science
and human development that …” The program blurred as his mind
focused on those two words—
human development
. The words
stung as he rambled among the images of his distinguished career,
strewn about like fallen trees awaiting the sawmill. And not
caring.

He assessed his career, and human development,
while the ballroom thumped to the media show. He stared through the
distortion of his wineglass stem at those two words. How had
anything he’d ever done had any positive influence on human
development?

His eyelids twitched reflexively in time to the
drumming music as the words dissolved. He’d spent forty years in
the world’s most advanced scientific laboratory, surrounded by some
of the most brilliant scientific minds of the century. Tremendous
technical challenges filled his life. There were the accolades
including a Nobel Prize, The President’s Science Prize, and two
High Energy Physics Medals. He’d played an essential role in the
most sophisticated symphony of technology ever composed. But what
about human development? He worked it like a Rubik Cube that didn’t
quite square.

The applause brought him back. He looked up in
surprise, glad he’d lapped the media blitz. The audience began to
refocus its attention on him as Dr. John Gingman rose to the
podium. “We’re all indebted that you’ve offered to share your
special evening with the NBC primary, Dr. Townsend.” The room
filled with a few seconds of applause as Elliott smiled to the
assembly. “During this commercial break, we can continue with our
tribute to Dr. Townsend.” Dr. Gingman recited a litany of Elliott’s
achievements at the world’s premier high-energy-physics
laboratory.

Elliott graciously accepted a piece of simulated
black walnut with a brass plaque. They had named the new wing of
the computation center after him, the lobby containing a similar
plaque. He delivered a minute of forgotten oratory about his role
in the evolution of the laboratory, about the endless quest for
quarks, about the great advances that they’d bestowed on
science—and human development. He retreated to his seat beside
Martha. The applause faded.

Dr. Gingman took the podium once more. “Dr.
Townsend’s great accomplishments could easily consume us for
several evenings like this. As you all know, the NBC primary didn’t
end Wednesday as expected because Junkie and Tab have made
spectacular comebacks to catch Lizzie Special. I know you’re all as
excited as Dr. Townsend to see who will be the NBC Party candidate
for president. I think the final game of the evening is about to
start, and then we’ll get back to the real reason we’re here this
evening.”

“This must be a very proud day for you, dear.”
Martha presented him a camera smile just before she turned toward
the giant TV screen.

“Yes … Yes …” The answer tumbled into his half
cup of coffee and cooled it further.
It must be
, he thought.
He sipped his merlot.

As the room darkened again and the thunder and
lightening of NBC’s most spectacular offering broke over the
audience, Elliott’s gaze tangled with the hair flowing from
Martha’s head. Did she see the same thing in him that he saw? Did
she see in him a skeleton of empty years, a lost family?
But
where did I lose them
, he thought.
Of course, and she knows,
too.

His eyes pierced the evening and clung to those
times gone by, and the pain that had only subsided as he learned to
anesthetize himself with years of long nights at the Lab. But the
price of that anesthetic had been dear. It cost him Susie and
Luke—and Martha.

The science fair
, he whispered to
himself.
That’s where I lost them. The science fair … and
Dobbs.

He was revered at the Lab, more like an old
warhorse than a hero; but they didn’t know about Ms. Dobbs. They
didn’t know that the Lab was just a hiding place for him.

Suddenly a blinding flash, then a crash, sliced
through the room so even Elliott couldn’t ignore it. Another world
snarled at him, swamping his trance.

The game show MC prodded his simulated audience,
arousing its synthetic emotions. His digital audience erupted,
programmed with spontaneity, saturating the airwaves with ordered
zeal. “This has turned out to be one of the tightest races in
Election Beat
history! Right now, Lizzie Special and Tab
Hardman are both within fifty points of being the NBC candidate for
President of the United States, and Junkie Gordon is right behind
them with forty-six hundred points! The last time I saw a race this
tight was for the Sixteenth Congressional District in North
Carolina six years ago! This next set could put either Lizzie or
Tab over the top. Or if Junkie wins it, we could be in an
unprecedented three way tie!”

Lizzie, Tab, and Junkie all pulsated before the
cameras, whooping for the support of hundreds of millions of
viewers. A little American flag danced in Lizzie’s hand, throbbing
into a blur as she skipped out from the contestant booth. She
tucked the flag handle into her cleavage, and performed an erotic
dance, calling on all the physical assets she could reveal in this
relatively low-key environment. If she’d been at a rally or a
chat-up, she could have campaigned her fans with much more than a
mere suggestion of her assets. But
Election Beat
maintained
a conservative image, and she honored that tradition.

Within a heartbeat, she was joined by Tab and
Junkie who feared she might upstage them. Tab’s youthful, tanned,
athletic body and his prodigious biceps and surging groin twisted
in sensual rhythms. Junkie pranced about with jewels glistening,
shadowed eyes flashing, and a finely choreographed smirk seducing
his adoring admirers.

A laser show extravaganza heightened the mayhem;
a bare-chested band, sporting peacock plumes, added cacophony.
Screams and wails and applause flooded the broadcast and permeated
the spirit of the American voter. This was primary night for the
NBC Party. The soul of America lay exposed.

* * *

The NBC computer ran with all the speed and
power humans could build into it. It commanded the studio, keeping
every player on cue, switching the active camera, balancing light
and sound according to complex optimization codes, adjusting
prompts to fit the evolving scenario, which is never quite as
rehearsed, synthesizing ecstatic audience responses, and
interfacing with computers at a dozen NBC regional centers all over
America that were taking the real time pulse of the electorate via
millions of interactive TV dialogs.

The NBC computer executed countless instructions
every second, calling subroutines and macros at a hundred software
levels. Everyone expected a flawless production, and no one was
disappointed. Network executives savored their system’s
performance. Party leaders inhaled the rating uptick. Americans
devoured the carnival.

But the computer was just a machine, just doing
its job.

* * *

After a sustained frenzy, the MC joined the
three contestants amid hugs, thumbs up, and smiles. Everyone was
exuberant, confident, and young. They played their roles, but not
just to the sterile eye of the studio camera. Each could sense the
invisible sea of neutered minds wedded to that camera. The MC
gathered them together, and with a communal embrace, shouted into
the collective ear of America, “One of these three contestants will
be your next president!”

The scene erupted once more as the primeval
ritual soared to another orgasm and then slowly retreated back
toward the game show whence it had evolved. The breathless
candidates were coaxed back to their booths where light and sound
began to slow the pace, a signal that the serious business of
picking a presidential candidate was about to begin.

Elliott’s eyes wandered from this media event to
the people collected in his honor. His gaze stopped first on
Martha, who clutched her purse, her fingers fondling it as they
would have the multimedia controller in her living room. Every pair
of eyes in the room, save one, was transfixed by the historic
moment. Every face but one was upturned and bathed in the glow of
feral allegiance.

The game-show camera zoomed in on Lizzie’s
bronzed face, and the MC squeezed his face in beside her to nurture
civic pride across America. “Ready, Lizzie?”

She rapped back, “Well don’t you know … I’m
ready to go …” The band thumped it’s accompaniment. “Need a blow? …
just flash the dough.”

The MC roared with delight and wagged his finger
in front of the naughty guest. Lizzie grabbed his finger, swallowed
it up to his knuckles, and sucked with her whole body in a
convulsive rush, her eyes rolling heavenward. The band blasted
ascending scales as the network computer broadcasted a sea of
applause and whoops. In spite of the careful rehearsals, Tab
nervously tried to interrupt this routine to steal the spotlight.
The cameras ignored his gestures.

“Oh, Lizzie,” the MC groaned, “you just got my
vote! If you’re elected president, can I be your first man?”

“That job was filled a lot of men ago, Rod, but
you can sure be my next one.”

With a high five and an intro from the band, the
MC stepped over to Tab, who leaped into the charged aura
surrounding the MC. Tab wore a multi-colored sleeveless shirt with
a black tie to accentuate his conservative appearance.

“Well, Tab, you look like you’re ready. Do
you—”

“Hey, I do! I sure do! I’m like up with you,
like scratching the score! I mean we’re together—but not thick, you
get my mean.” He rocked side-to-side so far that the camera had to
zoom out to keep him in the picture.

The MC thrust himself into the camera and
gestured with his eyebrows. “Okay, cits, sounds like Tab has got
himself … in the mooood!” Relinquishing the camera to Tab again, he
said, “Tab! Is there anything else—”

“My people says … I’ll be the Pres … It’ll be
toooo rad… in my White House … ah … in my White House … place.”

Despite the MC’s prodding, Tab didn’t respond to
the teleprompter, which futilely flashed
PAD
. But the
computer directed a world-class audience response to his patter.
And viewers across America, and around the world, devoured it just
the same.

“You’re my man, Tab!” the MC shouted into the
din in mid high-five. “And you are up for the presidency!”

A hand grabbed Tab and held him back as the MC
stepped to the last booth where Junkie stood, seemingly oblivious
to the scene. His head was shaved save for one dread lock that
curved around behind his head toward his chin and was interwoven
with his beard. He claimed it gave him continuity with the universe
and allowed him to recycle wisdom that most people let escape
through their hair.