THE MEDIA CANDIDATE
a hard sci-fi, political, speculative novel of 2048
Paul Dueweke
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Copyright ©2016 by Paul Dueweke
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
PART ONE
Elliott
—the present—
“Television is democracy at its ugliest.”
— Paddy Chayevsky
CHAPTER ONE
State of the Union
“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.