The Media Candidate (35 page)

“There are some things that just have to be,”
Elliott said. “I’ve come a long way in the last few days, and I
have a clearer vision of where I have to go now than I’ve ever had
before.”

“How do you think the COPE computer will feel
about your revolution?”

Elliott searched Sherwood’s eyes looking for
some clue to tell him how to respond, but the search was in
vain.

“Come, come, Townsend. Surely the beautiful Dr.
Alvarez shared some COPE family secrets with you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Let me put it very simply. At this time, the
computer knows nothing about Dr. Alvarez’s role in Jenner’s plot.
But that is a variable. You see, I have developed a very special
relationship with this infamous computer. Jenner was stupid—and has
died for that sin. But maybe the computer would be more lenient
with Dr. Alvarez.”

Elliott squinted at his adversary. Sherwood
fondled the bowl of his pipe as it drooped from his lips.

“Maybe you can learn from Jenner’s errors,”
Sherwood said to his pipe, “for your daughter’s sake. You probably
did not even know about Jenner’s demise. It pays to keep well
informed.”

Sherwood didn’t see Elliott’s hand rising toward
him. It grabbed his arm below the shoulder, surprising Sherwood so
much that a glowing ember jumped from his pipe onto his pants. “If
anything ever happens to Susie, then you’re next. And all your
spiders and your cleverness and all that bullshit smoke won’t keep
me from you.”

Sherwood recovered quickly and matched Elliott’s
glare with a grin. “You know, Townsend, such a threat from anyone
else would be just idle chatter. But I am forced to take you
seriously. Some day we must discuss how you defeated two of COPE’s
finest assassins. You are quite exceptional as both an intellectual
and a military strategist. I would anticipate the challenge of an
engagement between us.”

Sherwood’s face turned instantaneously serious
as he wrenched Elliott’s hand away. “And you are wrong, Townsend.
This is not a game to me. This is real. This is why I was born.”
Then a grin began to return. “But I respect you, even admire you.
That is the reason for my forbearance. Let me explain something so
you can fully appreciate the value of the option I am offering
you.

“Knowledge and knowing what to do with it are
the most important factors in winning. I know about Jenner and
Alvarez and the Asp and the computer and Jenner’s plot. Getting
that data was as simple as lighting my pipe.” With that, he snapped
open a gold lighter and snapped it closed in front of his smirking
lips. “With that data, plus a little creative blackmail, I have
extracted certain privileges from the Asp regarding access to
special assistants. All other Field Liaison Officers are merely
conduits between the district and COPE. Only I maintain my own
enforcement staff. Of course, COPE also maintains its own
independent enforcers. It sometimes is quite interesting how we
keep tabs on each other. Those two spiders who attacked you today
were COPE, although even I cannot tell which are which just by
looking at them. The one that you nearly stumbled over behind us is
not one of mine either. I am not sure what its mission is.

“As for the computer, I have made my piece with
it. Of course, I had to get its attention first. Installing the
Stone-Age switch did that quite effectively. That is the device
that isolates the computer from the network managers so it cannot
retrieve its spare parts as they come rolling in from all corners
of the globe. It is completely outside the domain of the computer,
and I alone control it. And it is not the crude affair that Jenner
designed. She just never had a flair for hardware. All I need to do
is activate the switch and inject the virus, a sequence I have
automated in case something unpleasant should happen to me.

“I am not so foolish, though, to think that I am
immune to the malice of that computer. I am sure it immediately
began its own self-defense program. Since I do not thoroughly
understand its capabilities, I cannot predict how long it will take
to nullify my offense. It could be two years—or two hours. But
however that hand is played, I also am a moving target. And my
knowledge of spiders exceeds even the computer’s knowledge of
spiders. I believe I have the edge.”

Elliott’s legs were becoming more stable now as
he rose above Sherwood. “So, it’s the King Sherwood move. You
control the computer, the computer controls COPE, and COPE controls
America.”

“You do me an injustice, Townsend. I have no
desire to be king, although the computer may feel differently about
that.”

“How can you stand by and let COPE, or a
computer, take over the leadership of America?”

“Have you noticed who has had the reins for
almost three hundred years? And you can still ask that question?
The reign of slugs is over. At least now there will be some
rational explanation for why things happen. It will be a better
time just as the last few years have been better than your century.
You are witnessing true evolution. This is precisely what Darwin
had in mind.

“Think about my generous offer, Townsend.”

Sherwood turned toward Guinda’s deck. There was
no sign of her, and the doors were closed. The spider remained
standing benignly near her front porch. As Sherwood moved, it
seemed asleep. Its vitality had appeared to fade as it gave the
impression of being dormant during the Sherwood monologue. But such
inattention was merely an artifact of the human observer since this
machine continued to maintain complete attention while updating its
running analysis of the entire environment within the fields of its
many sensors. It made no movement and gave no hint of the vast data
it processed, but it was always on duty. It never became
comfortable, tired, or bored. It logically conserved energy until
it needed to move, but it was always ready to act in an
instant.

Sherwood took several steps toward Guinda’s
front door, leaving Elliott alone on the bench. Sherwood stopped at
the sight of the spider standing motionless. He relit his pipe,
puffed a couple of clouds of authority toward the spider, and
resumed his stride confidently toward the door. This took him
within a few feet of the spider as he walked toward the steps. He
maintained his air of confidence as he passed it, glancing
frequently out of the corners of his eyes. As he passed the spider,
its sensors followed his movements, analyzed his trajectory, and
processed gigabytes of data, all without the slightest hint of
activity. But Sherwood knew it was busy; he knew the algorithms it
called upon to analyze every step he took; he visualized the data
streams, the logic states, the network activity. He reached the
door, pulled it open, entered, and shut and locked it behind him.
The spider suddenly came to life without any warning. It moved its
left front leg first as it walked toward the front porch.

Elliott sat in the pickup in his driveway. The
shadows suspended over him reminded him of the lateness of the
afternoon. His mind churned out options, many of which featured him
as the leader of a voter rebellion against the contempt of the
major parties. He was sure there must be millions of people who
care, people who would gladly embrace the freedom to vote for real
candidates rather than the media packages. He couldn’t be as alone
as Sherwood said. He could start with a local newspaper and get
grass-roots support with his revelations of the insidious nature of
the present system. Once the story got into the media, COPE
wouldn’t dare try to kill him or Susie. They could only hope that
he would fail to attract enough voters and finally just burn
himself out.

But he wouldn’t fail. He would attract young
people to the truth, young people who could spread the truth much
better than he could. He’d make Guinda understand that she could be
a key element in this reawakening. He knew she couldn’t accept the
lies, threats, and intimidation of the Party as she now understood
it. Knowing the truth about Professor Halvorsen would ultimately
dissuade her from serving the sinister forces responsible for her
death.

“I know I can count on Guinda in the long run,”
he whispered. “I know I can.”

He picked up the box on the front seat
containing the paper and the optical disk copies of the Halvorsen
files. He painfully walked to the front door and let himself in.
His ears were greeted with a conversation as he approached the TV
room. Martha was seated there talking with Jan and Joel.

“You know, Marty,” said Joel, “that new
Democratic candidate for senator, José Maria Yamaguchi, really
looks like the right person for the job. He’s so multi-cultural;
he’ll be able to represent a lot of different interests. And now
being multi-sexual, she’s a really strong supporter of women’s
rights, too.”

Martha, sitting on the edge of her chair,
interrupted. “I saw her on “Sex and Society” last night. She knew
the answers to questions that you just wouldn’t believe. They asked
her, ‘How frequently does Senator Leslie Dykes fake it with her SO,
Georgina Fore?’ Without skipping a beat, she answered that Dykes
hasn’t had an orgasm with Fore in over two years.”

“That’s right,” Jan said. “Then they asked,
‘What aphrodisiac drug holds the record for … ‘"

Elliott studied the floor at his feet. He bit
his lower lip, but the pain could not divert his attention. A
collage of today’s events rushed upon him. He reached out and found
a wall to steady him. His eyes closed. His body swayed.

When his eyes reopened, Jan and Joel still
endured, their lips alive, their faces blazing smiles. Earnest
smiles. Textbook smiles. Their voices couldn’t reach him because
his own mind was churning out such chaos—the tortured echoes of the
last two days. The death rattles of his republic. This ground his
mind to a standstill, much like sand slays a precision bearing, but
not before extorting a brutal tax.

Elliott dragged himself upstairs to his bedroom,
undressed, and was soon engulfed in a steamy shower. Guinda gushed
from the streaming water to stimulate and please. And to torture.
She massaged with stinging fingers, smothered with scorching lips,
stole into every pore, and chafed every muscle. She exploited every
sense but sound. Her voice lay dormant. Though he tried to
resurrect it, he was denied the warmth of yesterday. And was thus
spared today’s icy rebuff. That tradeoff was good.

He sat on the edge of his bed searching the
Oriental carpet for answers, the same carpet that had inspired him
toward politics just a few days ago. But this time, strawberry
blond hair flowed from the filigreed fields. An honorable mention
ribbon rose between raging beasts. He rubbed his eyes as they began
to glaze over and then winced as a spider swelled from a distant
corner of the carpet.

“Sherwood,” he muttered. “Sherwood is real. And
he’s right. It’s not a game.”

Then a meerschaum pipe emerged from the carpet
confusion. The menace was irrefutable. He closed his eyes to
forget. But how could he?

I barely escaped two hit robots today
, he
thought.
But men sent them after me. Mindless bureaucrats made
the decision to kill me. A week ago that would have been science
fiction, but now … now a computer can do that to Susie … a computer
can order her to be murdered. Last week I would have laughed at
that … but now it’s reality.

As he dressed, his mind ran back to “Sex and
Society” and to the Joel and Jan hard sell. He sat beside his copy
of the Halvorsen files running his hand over the smooth sheets of
paper. He picked up the optical disk and stared at it for a long
time. Just then, the TV sound came to the front. “The Debating
Game” had just started, and the cheers bit into him. The MC stirred
his audience with a titanic benediction, but it was soon lost to
the sea of apostles eager for the rite to commence.

He picked up the box of the Halvorsen files and
walked downstairs to the kitchen. He opened the disposal door,
dropped both copies inside, closed the door, and pushed INCINERATE.
He opened a bottle of Pete’s and walked into the TV room. Sitting
beside Martha, he picked up a remote, multi-media controller. She
looked at him with a question—then with a smirk.

“Would you show me how to pick a candidate with
this thing—please?”

The end.

“When a people are corrupted,

the press may be made an engine to complete their
ruin.”

— President John Adams

About the Author

Paul Dueweke

I wrote
The Media Candidate
in 1992, and it
evolved into its present form over the next six years as I learned
the craft of writing fiction. It is my first Smashwords
publication. I would be very grateful to any reader who would write
a Smashwords review of
The Media
Candidate
.

I was a research physicist long
before I turned to writing. But I’ve written five novels and am
presently working on numbers six through twenty-seven. My first was
an autobiography,
MY LIFE AS IT SHOULD
HAVE BEEN — a memoir for readers who find memoirs disagreeable and
reality tedious
, inspired by my lifelong
obsession with Don Quixote and his ingenious view of reality. It
took first place in the 2002 Independent E-book Awards - Humor
Division.
THE MEDIA CANDIDATE
is a near-future, speculative science-fiction
thriller inspired by watching too much TV.
PRIONA
is a multi-cultural,
multi-generational story of love, poetry, music, and the dividing
waters of race, set in the Jemez Pueblo of northern New
Mexico.
LAMB OF GOD
is a psychological drama of how a young boy, surrounded by
the racial and commercial tensions of the Arsenal of Democracy,
Detroit during World War II, deals with the guilt of being too weak
to save his twin from tragedy. It won second place in the 2003
Writer’s Digest Self-Published Book Awards in a field of 370
entries. Finally,
HORSE CAMP WEST
is a modern western drama set on a dying ranch in
the highlands of southern New Mexico. It was a 2002 EPPIE Award
finalist. These books should be available at Smashwords later in
2016, but for the time being, you can get a taste of them at my
website fictionQ.com
.
If you would like me to notify you when my next books hit the
ground at Smashwords, drop me a line at editor at
fictionQ.