Friday, December 13, 2117.
In 2117, a group of freedom fighters called the Open Genetics Alliance Group had taken over the New York Museum of Computer Archeology and was threatening to destroy a valuable ancient artifact, dating from 1977, a DEC PDP-11 computing device.
The OGAG's demands were: a) Free access to the genealogical data within the Legacy Net. b) The end of DNA profiling and manipulation of the general public genome. c) Freeing all pets from slavery. d) A flight to Iceland.
The broadcast networks had been tweeted and the Superhero Union had been scheduled for the event so it looked like it was going to be an exciting show. Emerging from an anonymous-looking black auto-auto, surveyed by camera drones, was Captain Kittoffery, yellow latex-clad veteran superhero, returning after years of legal wrangling over technology patent rights. Stepping out behind him was a new, unidentified nervous-looking young female super-heroine sporting medusa-like white hair and a blue-grey wispy cape.
The Captain waved to the drone-mounted cameras before the heroes activated their invisibility cloaking and starting on their 100 meter walk across the plaza towards the beleaguered, mock-palladium style building.
Tension grew in the Broadcast channel’s mobile control suite as Reginald Gillard, TrueCrime-9+ Super Hero Reality Show Director, had to make a crucial decision: broadcast live (with a five minute delay, of course) or put together a compilation show.
“The new fem is televisual. Do you have her name?” said Clive, Reg’s assistant, viewing her 3D image on his holoscreen and spinning it around.
“It’s in a text. Corral Girl or something,” said Gillard fingers waving in mid-air as he tackled the virtual controls presented by his heads-up display.
“The old west isn’t her style,” mused Clive, enlarging the emblem on her image torso..
Gillard noticed and stopped his finger dance to inquire bruskly, “You have them on infra-red?”
Clive snapped back to the broadcast feed, “Only 2D.”
“Are the camera drones inside?”
“All taken out. They must have anti-drones.”
“And the micro-drones?”
“They’ve been taken out too. And we don’t have many left. Just a couple of dozen, maybe. So what’s the decision? Go or no-go?”
“Well...” said Gillard in a long drawl. Leaning back in his chair he ran his hand through his blue and white pin-stripped hair, that matched his fabricated blue and white pin-stripped shirt, before making up his mind. “No sorry, while the girl has audience-appeal-potential there’s nothing televisual here. Infrared is a bore and they are making sluggardly time to CATLOC. There’s no cameras inside either. No, we’ll capture the show from bodycam and re-broadcast later. If it’s any good, that is. Which is doubtful with new heroes!”
“I thought new heroes are good. Good for ratings.”
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“Ratings are won with familiarity not novelty. Even if we can hype a newbie but they are a disaster for live broadcasts. They’re always such... bozos.”
“Good to see the Captain’s back though,” muttered Clive.
“Not in my book. I’m still taking the extra strong Rad-free tablets after the mess up with the panda herd,” he said curmudgeonly.
Five minutes later there was still no news. By 2117, child birth was quicker than this freeze-frame and the crowds outside were restless. Robots maintained a cordon around the museum holding back the pedestrians and cyclists frustrated at the delay, although the A2s and scooters had automatically re-routed.
A human Police Officer, that rare breed of human able to pass the psychometric tests to conform to the 2080 “Protect and Serve” Law, linked into Gillard’s G-Phone.
“Hello, Mr Gillard, I was just wondering whether you had any update on the situation.”
“No, we’re in the dark on this one,” sighed Gillard.
“It’s just that the pedestrians are already walking around the barriers and the cyclists are becoming annoyed. They want to know the time slot duration so that they can re-schedule their calendars,” said the Police Officer humbly.
“This isn’t scheduled or rehearsed. We don’t have any end time or expected breaks.”
“It’s a real crime?” stuttered the cop.
“All crime is real. This one is just un-parameterised.”
“So... your estimation?”
“We’re not going out live. We don’t have a time frame. We need to ‘think different’ on this?”
“Oh Jobs, no time slot! Ok. I’ll re-route them. F.Y.I, we have called in an air strike in 15 minutes. You might like to close off your recording streams before then,” said the officer helpfully.
“I will have double-dozed before then,” Gillard replied.
Nothing happened for ten minutes. Not even chatter on the Su-U channels. Clive was updating his social media pages and Gillard was on an audio conference. Then the air strike arrived, five minutes early. Gillard scrabbled from his chair, fell over and pointed to a big red button. “Close off the cameras! Close off the cameras!” he squealed at his assistant.
The air strike consisted of a couple of hundred diner-plate-sized drones, they arrived seemingly out of nowhere from over and around the New York buildings, in every direction, they smashed through the museum’s windows and streaked through into the building. The angry buzz of activity stopped as quickly as it had started. If you blinked, you could have missed it. And you would have blinked too, the drones were accompanied by a blinding halogen light to divert the gaze of onlookers.
Then there was a strange silence.
And a few seconds later there was the stranger silence when all the lights failed and the machines stopped humming.
Power had gone out inside Gillard’s mobile studio van. All the holographic displays disappeared. Even his G-Phone was dead.
He stepped from the now darkened van out into the quiet plaza in front of the museum. He noticed the robot cordon guards had failed, frozen to the pavement. They were being prodded by a small crowd of puzzled and disoriented pedestrians. The power outage was widespread.
Uncharacteristically and for the first time in his life, curiosity became Reginald Gillard’s sole motive as he walked unguarded towards a crime scene.
He then had second thoughts, returned to the van and sent his assistant inside.
Clive soon came running back. Sweat pouring from his face, he panted. “I don’t think we can make a show out of this!” He then went to the back of the van and threw up.
***