> Raven Maddox: I think it’s fair to say that once-long-shot-candidate Jane Allgood shellacked her political opponent, embattled President Amanda Knutson. We’re going to keep our eyes on this. There’s still time. From the city of Chicago and the final presidential debate, this has been Raven Maddox, reporting live for the Free News Broadcasting Station. Back to you in Washington, George.
Alan pressed the side of his VR glasses. The large screen before his eyes faded, and the lenses cleared. He stood at the window. The cement sidewalk three stories below glistened wet beneath amber streetlights. He took off the headset and rubbed the bridge of his nose. It had been a gift to himself for getting through most of October, yet he resented the contraption—too absorbing. He had to be wary of things that were absorbing. That morning he’d lost himself for two hours on a DIY pornography channel full of shaky videos and bad lighting. Twisting the glasses in his hands, he felt the plastic crack and the lenses pop out. He went to the kitchen, dropped the mangled devise in the trash, then poured himself another glass of wine.
“TV on. Sync.”
The television that monopolized most of his living room wall, another gift, instantly sprang to life.
> George Staff: Thank you, Raven. For post-debate analysis, we are joined by two people at the very top of this electoral race. President Knutson’s campaign manager, Hillary Reed, and Joseph Porchsmith, campaign manager for Security Party candidate Jane Allgood.
>
> Joseph, to you first. How do you think the debate went?
>
> Joseph Porchsmith {laughing}: Well, George, what you witnessed here tonight was Jane Allgood’s death blow to Amanda Knutson’s jugular. As Allgood stated, under Knutson’s leadership the economy has tanked with anywhere from fifty percent to sixty percent unemployment—depending on whose figures you’re inclined to trust. The war on the eastern front is caught in a quagmire. A fact Knutson avoids at every opportunity is that we’ve actually lost ground in the country of Georgia. The nuclear strike on Tbilisi, now more than thirteen years past, goes unaccounted for by yet another liberal hive-mind administration. You’ve got to wonder whose side these people are on! The Federation of Eastern European Nations, FEEN, is clearly responsible for that tragedy, and they need to be dealt with like the fiends they truly are! It’s time to bring President Orlov and his sons to justice!
>
> Hillary Reed {clapping}: Bravo! Very nice rhetoric, Joe. I think the American people see it for what it is. The Security Party intends to use Allgood to bulldoze through a radical agenda designed to trample on the Constitution. There’s nothing in your platform that will fix the challenges America is facing.
>
> Joseph Porchsmith: Excuse me, Hill, is this how you want to play? Fine, let’s talk about domestic policy. President Knutson has failed to pass meaningful health care reform—a key campaign pledge she made four years ago. Additionally, because of this administration’s liberal policies, the nation’s youth have been devastated, absolutely devastated, by the scourge of designer Escape drugs. What’s the death toll now? I’m afraid to look. Fifty million! That’s straight from the CDC. Fifty million dead, and an estimated one hundred million more are addicted—and that number is rising daily. Not only that, since Knutson took office, the average age of first use has dropped to below eighteen. On top of everything, we at the Allgood campaign have come across studies that suggest Escape may be responsible for certain viral infections. Anyone in their right mind can see that this administration has lost control—
>
> Hillary Reed: Viral infections? George, I can’t let this go. Those studies were conducted by agenda-driven research. Haven’t the drug-addicted suffered enough? And now you’re trying to stigmatize them with rumors about viruses. Nice talking point, Joe. Joe the Scarecrow!
>
> George Staff: Ms. Reed, please—
>
> Joseph Porchsmith: George, I know this is your show. I’m sorry, but I’m just going to keep talking until I’m given a chance to actually speak—
>
> George Staff: Ms. Reed, please. You will have your chance. And I think we’re above name calling on this show.
>
> Joseph Porchsmith: Thank you, George. Finally, and most critically, under Knutson’s watch, America suffered the largest terrorist attack since 9/11. Of course, I’m referring to the Super Bowl Los Angeles attack two years ago when a radical environmental organization—linked to the Gretas and President Knutson—released a chemical weapon at a stadium filled with innocent men, women, and children—
>
> Hillary Reed: Lie! That’s a Lie. George. There was no link to the president, or the Gretas! Joe, you know that—
>
> George Staff: Ms. Reed. Don’t make me cut your mic.
>
> Joseph Porchsmith: Bomber number one was a Greta. That’s established. What is also established is the fact that these homegrown terrorists had ties to the Knutson White House—
>
> Hillary Reed: Stop! George—Joe! Stop! I can’t let that go. Half-baked truths, lies, and conspiracy theories! That’s what you’re peddling today, Joe. You pull these things out of your ass, and you’re never held accountable.
>
> George Staff: Ms. Reed, language, please! Your mic is off. You will have your say in just a moment. Mr. Porchsmith, get to the point.
>
> Joseph Porchsmith: Thank you, George. So, Hillary, you might want to listen carefully. What America is desperate for, and what Jane Allgood proposes, is a radical restructuring of society to restore the values of our founders and America’s safety. That is why on day one of Allgood’s presidency, she is going to introduce the Third Eye legislation to Congress—the votes are there for its passage—and she’s going to sign it on the same day, thus granting her the authority to install cyber and homeland security that has been lacking under your boss. How many hacks in this admin—
>
> George Staff: Okay, Mr. Porchsmith, thank you. That was a lot in one breath {laughs}. Hillary Reed, to you. Your response to Porchsmith and the debate.
>
> Hillary Reed: Thank you, George. First, I want to say it’s disgraceful that Porchsmith and his candidate continue to lie and perpetuate these conspiracy theories about that terrible attack. Everyone knows—
>
> Joseph Porchsmith: It was on her watch. It happened on President Knutson’s watch!
>
> Hillary Reed: Excuse me, Joe. Don’t interrupt me. I let you make your point. Now I’ll tell the truth. First, the Gretas are a massive, global phenomenon, and there are a lot of nut cases out there. They cannot be held responsible for one—
>
> Joseph Porchsmith: Do you deny that bomber number two was once an intern for Knutson when she was on the board of directors for Earth Peace, itself a far-left environmental group?
>
> George Staff: Mr. Porchsmith. Ms. Reed, please finish.
Alan opened the back door, stepped out onto the little balcony covered by a half-awning to keep the weather from coming directly through the entry, and lit a cigarette. The sleet still fell, and above the apartment block, the low carpet of clouds reflected the amber hue of small-town lights. Snow incoming. The pinot noir and tobacco swirled an intoxicating dance in his mouth. The television droned on.
> Hillary Reed: As I was saying, President Knutson has had to fend off this disinformation campaign by Allgood and her goons in the Security Party for almost two years now. Anyone who wants to can go read the Independent Investigator’s report, the CIA’s report, and the FBI’s report, all of which have found absolutely no link or relationship between bomber number two and the president. That terrorist—I’m not afraid to say it—that terrorist was one of three hundred volunteers working at Earth Peace on a part-time internship administered by a third party. President Knutson did not know the man, nor had she ever met him. Those are the facts.
>
> See, George, this is what Porchsmith and the Allgood campaign have done from the very beginning. They twist, mislead, and obfuscate through lies and conspiracy theories in order to muddy the waters. And then, while Americans are distracted, they plot to destroy the Constitution. The point is, if Americans elect Jane Allgood, they are going to get this Third Eye legislation, giving the president broad powers to allow artificial intelligence to track your every move. There will be intrusive psychological monitoring and profiling, and who knows what else because the bill is expected to be classified as soon as it’s introduced. A vote for Allgood is a vote against American values.
>
> Joseph Porchsmith: Nice Try, Hill. That was desperate.
>
> George Staff: Thank you both. Emotions are high. The stakes are high. We’ll be back with further analysis by our expert panel.
Alan switched off the television. His wall turned black, and silence pervaded his small apartment. Like many Americans, he was riveted to the drama of this election season, and like many Americans, he’d lost hope in the political process. He had no plans to vote.
He flicked his cigarette into the alley.
To avoid getting worked up over things far outside his realm, he poured himself another glass of wine, tipping the bottle up to get the last dribbles of the crimson nectar. The warming numbness of onsetting drunk warmed his cheeks and fogged his mind. His fingers tingled. Something smooth behind his eyes said, relax. He turned the music station to midnight jazz and dimmed the lights. A mournful trumpet wept into his apartment. The expensive sound system was a gift to himself last Christmas for making it through the year. This year, a mountain bike. The plan was to tackle the second half of middle age with a vengeance.
Somewhere near the crepuscule of sleep in his cushy leather recliner, his phone began to vibrate, which caused the coffee table to hum, sending little ripples across the surface of his wine.
“Alan, it’s Paul. Put the Merlot down and listen,” said a rough voice that sounded like it had choked back a couple hundred thousand too many filterless cigarettes. “I’ve got a client for you.”
“Jesus, Paul. It’s 11 PM, and it’s pinot.”
“What are you, eighty-five years old? I’m still fucking my mistress at 11 PM. I really need your help on this one.”
“No, Paul. No more AI analysis. No more displaced worker syndrome. No more election derangement cases. I don’t care if they are in the manual.”
“You told me you were looking for something different. I’m just doing my part to keep psychotherapists off the breadline.”
“I figure as soon as Allgood gets in, I might as well join the other over-educated, under-employed professionals. You know the Security Party is going to gut the clinic’s funding.”
“Don’t drink the kool-aid, Alan. It’s just a bunch of political bullshit. If there’s one thing AI won’t be able to replace, it’s shrinks. Nobody is gonna want to talk to a robot about the robot that stole their job.”
“You’ll be singing a different tune when AI red-flags you for your lunchtime cigar and cognac problem.”
Dr. Paul Murphy, it was well known, enjoyed things a little bit on the luxurious side for a homegrown Montana psychiatrist.
“Who says there’s a problem?” said Murphy. “Anyway, Alan, I called you because I know you did your dissertation on juvenile offenders.”
“Oh, did you finally read it?”
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“Abstracts and conclusions are all that matter. Christ, I’m an old man, grasshopper.”
Alan suppressed a bitter chuckle. Apart from his dissertation adviser and Zoey, no one had actually read his research. His adviser didn’t wholly agree with his conclusions, and Zoey had read it because she loved him, and she was a whiz at grammar.
“It’s a kid,” Murphy said.
Silence spanned between them. The trumpet was wailing in his ears.
“No,” said Alan.
“Alan—”
“Paul, I’m not… I don’t… I can’t…”
“He’s a native boy, lost as fuck, Alan. County’s going to run him through the ringer.”
“Becky, Paul. She went after me before.”
“If you don’t take this, I’ll have to put it on her desk. Do me a solid, for Christ’s sake. I don’t care about the other ones, but this one, Alan, this one is for you. And I don’t want Dr. Madison to touch it with a ten-foot pole.”
Alan opened the door and stepped back out onto the little veranda. The snow had started. He lit a cigarette. “She’ll just go to the board and tell them the dream-interpreting Escape addict is working with children again. They’ll run me through the whole gamut.”
“You detoxed. That’s an achievement in itself. I’ll lobby on your behalf. I founded this clinic. I might be emeritus, but I still got pull with the board. Christ, she’ll medicate him first thing.”
“They can’t do that. He’s a kid.”
“They can do that because they’re going to play the predator card.”
“Cunt,” Alan breathed.
“I didn’t hear that, Dr. Smith.”
“I’m not suited...”
“Look, at least do the initial eval and tell me what you think.”
Alan slammed the last of his wine. He had a bottle breathing on deck. “Fine, alright. I have time on Monday.”
“Nope. It’s got to be tomorrow. First thing in the morning.”
“Shit, I got a 9:30 with a spinner. Need to convince her that her dead husband isn’t talking to her from the toilet bowl.”
“You’ll have time. Or cancel with the spinner. She won’t know the difference. You need to get there before the sheriff gets in. This shit is going to blow up. There’s a big name involved.”
“Yeah? Like who?”
“Like John Taylor’s daughter.”
“The senator, that John Taylor?”
“The one and only.”
“Christ.” Alan rubbed his eyes and wished he hadn’t uncorked the second bottle.
“They brought him in tonight from the police station. They’re going to interrogate him tomorrow. He’s Native, so the tribe will want an eval first since he’s a minor. Cover their bases, and make sure he’s not loony tunes. It’ll be an uphill fight.”
“Anywhere but Montana,” said Alan.
“Be careful who you talk to. This case is a little sensitive. I’ll send the file to your email. He’s almost a John Doe. Both parents are MIA, probably spinners. Orphan most likely. No address. We got him in D-Pad for his safety and comfort.”
“Fuck, is it that bad?” D-Pad, or Padded Room D—deep, depressed, dungeon—was the clinic’s safe room for clients, usually Escape addicts, intent on self-harm.
“Better safe than sorry. Better than a jail cell. Security Sam is on the job, so I’m confident the boy’s okay until you get there tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll be there.”
“I know you will, Alan. Thank you. I feel better now. Oh, and one more thing. You didn’t forget, did you?”
“Forget what?” He played dumb.
“Come on, man. The Lake County Halloween Gala is the day after tomorrow. You promised. The deep pockets are gonna be there.”
“Yeah. Fuck it. I know. But I’m not dressing up.”
“Fine, fine, come as you are. It’s costume enough.”
Click.
The thought of getting off the chair annoyed him. He had to do something with that wine. The screaming in his head told him to dump it down the sink. He jerked to his feet, went into the kitchen, and picked the bottle up by the neck.
“Öküzgözü Boğazkere,” he said, trying to read the label. His research on the internet had informed him that the two little dots over the vowels meant you pronounced them in the back of your mouth. The crescent moon over the g meant you didn’t say it at all. “Ookuuzgoozuu Boazkeray.”
Satisfied with his pronunciation and gripping the bottle by the neck, he took it to the veranda along with another cigarette. He lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. The snow had matured into a proper front. Flakes hit his face and melted. From the sound system, the trumpet spoke to a piano about sorrow. He brought the bottle to his lips and let the wine unfurl its ribbon over his tongue and through his teeth. He closed his eyes and could smell and taste the sweet oats they used to keep in a bag on the tack shed floor for the horse, the plum fruit of her nape, the crisp pine needle crushed between finger and thumb and inhaled up a nostril, and a dark chocolate finish. “Öküzgözü Boğazkere.” The design on the bottle was a field, and in that field the golden silhouette of a man walked against a black sky. He filled his lungs with smoke again, then tipped the bottle to his lips, and did not pull away until the wine was gone.
He stepped in his bare feet onto the wet deck, sucked on his cigarette, and threw the bottle with all his might over the corner of the next block, where it shattered on the street in a moment of racket. A dog barked. A porch light came on. He finished his cigarette and flicked it down into the inch-deep snow. The swoon took him in its swell, and he became sick, leaned over the rail, and expelled two bottles of wine, crackers, and cheese from his gullet. He stayed leaning over, saliva dripping from his nose and mouth, and tried to breathe and to decipher the Rorschach of his handiwork on the street of new-fallen snow.
***
At 6:15 in the morning, Doctor of Psychology Alan Smith left his man cave apartment in the small Rocky Mountain town of Ronan, Montana and headed due north on Highway 93 for fourteen miles to the Clear Hope Mental Wellness Clinic in the uppity, lakeside town of Polson. Ronan and Polson, sister cities in the cradle of Mission Valley, were bitter rivals on the football field—black and orange for the Ronan Chiefs, purple and gold for the Polson Pirates.
He sipped his coffee from a stainless-steel tumbler and let the self-driver (a gift to himself for making it to forty) take over as it synced with a little jolt into the automated grid of the road. He closed his eyes, fighting back the soft thump thump in his temples and the temptation to nap.
Over the radio, the calm, authoritative voice of FNBS host Raven Maddox read the news and commentary, a soothing salve for millions of liberal early-bird commuters across the country.
On his right the foothills of the Mission Mountains were skirted in snow. They rose from the earth and vanished into the low bank of clouds that had ceased their precipitation but held the world hostage should it get any colder.
In the broad ditch off the highway, fitful camps of climate refugees hunkered—perhaps still in sleep or warming themselves by internal heaters—beneath canvas tents butted up against un-gridded vehicles; sometimes a smokestack belched a plum into the morning dusk.
It was the twilight hour. He preferred its anonymity to the revealing light of day. He felt alone, incognito, only him and the occasional self-driving truck full of cargo but empty of any conscious human mind on its predestined course.
Going to meet the occupant of D-Pad, an unsettled sensation filled his chest. Why had Paul Murphy saddled him with this task?
“Raven,” he said to the AI.
“Good morning, Dr. Smith, PhD, winner of the Distinguished Dissertation award for the best dissertation in a class of seventy-five students. How can I be of assistance?” responded the car’s computer in a rather sultry, if robotic, deep fake of Raven Maddox. The journalist had been a sex symbol in her prime. Her reportage from the Korean peninsula as the North descended upon the South and the sea washed inward was renowned. She’d been fond of white dress shirts left open to reveal ample bosom, her wild, wavy hair blowing across her face, and her old-fashioned microphone held forth like a sword to the throats of warlords, dictators, and democrats alike.
“Uhh… Please read the file I received last night from Paul Murphy.”
“Of course. Shall I use my sexy voice?”
The fact that he had to ponder the question. “Professional voice, please.”
The computer read out in an academic tone, “October 29. Case report. Written by responding officer Gwendolyn Wolf of the Lake County Sheriff’s Department.
“Francis Builds A Fire, thirteen years old, was arrested Friday morning at Ronan High School for suspected sexual assault of a classmate, fourteen-year-old Amy Taylor, and the attempted sexual assault of a teacher, fifty-seven-year-old Dorothy Dale.”
“Pause.” The narration fell silent. “Project the PDF.” The case file appeared on the heads-up display of his windshield. He flicked to the front matter of the holographic document. The profile picture had been taken from a school photograph. The boy’s face seemed thin and undernourished, his eyes large and questioning, his long hair pulled back in a ponytail. He wasn’t smiling. The fields for his birthdate, home address, and parents were all blank.
“What’s the place of birth for Francis Builds A Fire?”
“Searching… Place of birth: St. Luke’s General Community Healthcare.”
“Legal guardians?”
“Unknown.”
Odd. This information should have been readily available in the school district’s files.
“Can you read the description of the assault?”
The computer continued: “Two witnesses were interviewed by the responding officer. Here is the quote from the first witness.”
“My name is Dorothy Dale.” A woman’s excited voice spoke too close to the mic. “I’m an English teacher here at Ronan High School. I teach freshman English. I came into class about 8:25 this morning and saw Francis in the back of the room with his hands on Amy Taylor. She’s Senator Taylor’s daughter, you know?”
“I’m aware of that, thank you,” said deputy Wolf. She had a soft, almost smoky voice.
“Amy was crying. I had to act quickly because of our no-physical-touch policy. I knew something was wrong. I shouted at him to get his hands off her!” Alan rolled his eyes. The teacher sounded like a spoiled child having a fit. “That’s when he came at me. I don’t know what he would have done. It looked like, you know, he was sexually aroused.”
“You mean to say he had an erection?” asked Wolf. There was a moment of silence. “You need to verbalize. This is a recording.”
“I don’t know. He could have!” said the teacher.
“And you think he intended to assault you?” said Wolf.
“I don’t know. I’ve been through the training module on male aggression. You can’t be too careful with boys his age.” said the teacher.
“You said he came at you? Did he run at you?” said Wolf.
“Why are you interrogating me? I’m the victim.” said the teacher on the verge of tears.
“Ms. Dale. I need—” said Wolf, but the teacher cut her off sharply.
“It’s not Ms. it’s Mx. Shi/hir, with an i—Okay? Get it right. He came at me. He came toward me. I was too far away from the panic button, but luckily another student stopped him. Mac Winesworth.”
Alan shook his head. Goddamn schools, they always overreacted. Once you passed through those doors, common sense and reason were replaced by politically correct groupthink. It could have been anything, a lovers’ spat, anything.
The computer narrated Deputy Wolf’s report: “The victim, Amy Taylor, was taken to St. Luke’s General Community Healthcare for evaluation and immediately flown to Helena. She was unable to give a statement.”
“What about the Winesworth boy?” asked Alan.
“Witness. Mackenzie Winesworth, age fifteen,” said the computer, followed by a teen’s deep voice—again too close to the mic.
“I came into the room when I heard Mx. Dale yelling and saw that fucking pervert going after her, so I took him down. He’ll feel that in the teepee for at least a week.”
Deputy Wolf: “How did you subdue Francis?”
Winesworth: “Clocked him in the face with a right hook. I went to State last year in boxing, and I work out with the Junior All-stars, so he went down hard. I kicked him a few times cause my dad says you don’t let a bully get back up.”
Deputy Wolf: “What makes you think Francis was a threat that you had to use force on him?”
Winesworth: “Oh, he’s a weirdo, alright. Always in his own world. Nobody likes him, and I guess now we know why—sexual problems. Can’t fix someone with sexual problems. Pastor Tony says you gotta put a bullet in their head.”
“Jesus Christ,” Alan muttered. “Are there any more statements?”
“No further statements,” the computer replied.
“Have charges been filed?”
“Charges should be filed by noon today, pending primary mental health evaluation.”
“Ethnicity of the people in this report?”
“Victim: Amy Taylor, Caucasian. Witness: Mackenzie Winesworth, Caucasian. Witness: Dorothy Dale, Caucasian. Perpetrator: Francis Builds A Fire, Native American. Enrolled member of the Confederated Salish and Kootenai Tribes. Parents’ identities are absent.”
Due to the Escape pandemic and the refugee crisis, orphaned, even homeless, children were a common issue across the United States and the globe at large.
“Why aren’t the names of Builds A Fire’s parents listed?”
“Authorized redaction.”
“Authorized by who?”
The computer did not respond.
Racial tensions in Ronan were long-simmering but had escalated in recent years. Most of the problems originated from disputes over water rights between White farmers and the tribe, that was, by treaty, in charge of the Mission Valley’s water works. When Knutson came into office and declared such resources a strategic asset, the pressure cooker started to rattle.
In the intervening years, the price of water climbed. As it got more expensive, White nationalist groups began to come out of the woodwork. Of course, they were always there, but now they were asserting a presence in the Mission Valley. They would guard irrigation ditches with hunting rifles to block the ditch rider from turning off the water. They gained a Robin Hood mystique with some of the locals. Many businesses displayed covert symbols of White power in their windows. Each January 6th the local militia, the High Mountain Rangers, and other far-right groups would boldly march down Ronan’s Main Street, showing off their guns, tattoos, and bad haircuts.
There was even a crypto supremacist organization in the local high schools, Pastor Tony’s Junior All-Stars, the child-friendly version of Pastor Tony’s Boys. It masqueraded as a fitness club, but curiously, all the members were lily-white.
Pastor Tony, the moral compass of conservative America, was a steroid-enhanced mountain of a man whose vehement sermons were tinged with innuendos of supremacy and an Old Testament view of how the world should be. No expense was spared as he took his message to the metaverse. Among his many lunatic claims was that a certain variety of AI had a soul. It was not uncommon to see a group of Pastor Tony’s Boys standing on a street corner wearing their VR glasses and preaching up a storm to a virtual stadium of bots.
“Did the police find any signs of sexual assault?”
“No evidence of physical or sexual assault can be confirmed at this time,” said the computer.
“End session.”
The computer-generated voice went silent to be replaced by Raven Maddox.
Alan sipped his coffee as the self-drive grid sped him silently him to his set destination.