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  BNP BUILDS VOTER PROFILE DATABASE

  The British National Party has compiled personal details of tens of thousands of voters, it was revealed on Friday.

  The database, named Electrac, is used to personalize pamphlet, door-to-door, and telephone campaigns.

  Mark Mitchell, 38, claimed he worked for the BNP for eight months on the project, gathering information from sources including surveys, letters to the editor, online posts, and attendance at events.

  He said it allowed voters to be segmented into different groups, with each group receiving targeted material during the lead-up to the general election.

  A spokesperson for the BNP acknowledged the use of Electrac but said the practice was widespread amongst political organizations and no privacy laws were breached.

  IRC TRANSCRIPT

  From: IRCnet#worldchat 201112260118 irc client

  meh

  i just don’t see the problem

  ok

  its like this

  i’m campaigning in a street

  door to door

  and before i knock, i look at a paper that says, “Maslop, 21, male, top concern is whether he’ll have a job next year”

  so i knock and say, “Hello Mr. Maslop, I’m running for office and my number 1 priority is job creation”

  right

  so you’re thinking, “wow, this guy gets it, he’s got my vote.”

  then i go next door and this time i say, “Hello Ms. KittyPendragon, I’m running for office and my number 1 priority is fighting climate change”

  yay =^_^=

  because my paper says that’s what KittyPendragon cares about

  but thats good

  they should know what people think

  and want

  well, say i get elected

  what’s my top priority?

  you see?

  yeah but at least there listening to people

  it undermines a key plank of democracy

  the part where candidates have to declare where they stand

  you don’t see a problem?

  not really

  PRIVACY POLICY

  13. TruCorp takes customer privacy seriously. Your personal data is stored securely and will not be released without your permission.* We use state-of-the-art encryption and physical anti-intrusion systems to prevent access to our secure data facilities.

  [FIVE]

  Wil adjusted the shade for the millionth time, trying to block the sun that sat low over the road, bellowing anger. “It’s so hot.” He looked at Eliot. Eliot didn’t care. Eliot had been near-silent since Minneapolis, when Wil accused him of being the same as Woolf. He presumed Eliot was stewing, although of course Wil would never know, because Eliot was as readable as a brick.

  The car jolted over a pothole. They were taking the back way to Broken Hill, riding in a ridiculous purple Valiant, wide and loud, easily thirty years old. No air, of course. Many years ago, the dash had split under the merciless pounding of the sun and begun to ooze yellow foam. The speedometer read in miles. It was a miracle it had seat belts. They were probably getting three miles to the gallon. He watched leafless trees drift by. After eight hours in an oven made of metal and glass, heat had penetrated every pore of his body. He just wanted to get out of the car. He just wanted Eliot to say something. “Have you been out here before?”

  No reply. Wil looked out at the baked earth that rolled all the way to the horizon, flat as a plate. He, Wil, had been out here before. He had lived in Broken Hill. Apparently. He didn’t remember. It was hard to believe he could have forgotten this heat.

  “Yes,” said Eliot. It took Wil a moment to remember the question.

  “Before or after?” Eliot didn’t respond. “You know. Before or after?” Still nothing. “Or both?” He sighed and began to fiddle with the vents.

  “Stop that. You’re not making it better.”

  Wil looked at him. “I’m just—”

  “Leave the vents alone.”

  He sat back. Eliot was definitely pissed. A sign blew by the window, announcing a turnoff for Menindee. “We should get some fuel.” The intersection crawled toward them. “Eliot? Only thirty kilometers. Menindee. Eliot? Do you know how far apart the gas stations are? Seriously, you run out of petrol on a road like this, you die. It happens.”

  The intersection slid past. Wil slouched. He understood that Eliot didn’t want to stop. The airport had been hairy. They had made it through Immigration, then a short, dark-skinned official had emerged from nowhere, asking them to please step out of the line. Wil had been deposited in a small, windowless room and left for twenty minutes, staring at a security camera. It seemed increasingly obvious to him they’d been recognized, but he wasn’t sure what he should do about that. So he waited. Eventually, the door opened. It was Eliot. People were arguing in the corridor, loud Australian voices. “Are we okay?” Wil had asked, and Eliot didn’t say anything, but the answer was clearly no. They found a cab. He could hear rising police sirens. But then there had been nothing but a lot of uneventful driving.

  His eyes were closing when there was a flat bang and the car lurched. “What,” he said, thinking pursuit, death. Eliot steered the car onto the shoulder. Dust billowed.

  “A flat,” said Eliot. He popped open the door. Wil sat for a moment before remembering the promise of fresh air and heaving himself from the seat. His knees popped violently. The air was like fire, but at least it was moving. He strode around the car, swinging his arms. “Oh, yeah,” he said. It felt good to do something.

  Eliot dragged a spare tire from the trunk. Wil shielded his eyes to study the landscape. There was nothing. Just a vast canyon of air. His eyes grew restless for something to latch on to.

  He heard Eliot grunting. “Need a hand?”

  Eliot glanced at him, his face flushed. “They’re rusted on.”

  “The lug nuts?”

  “Doesn’t matter. We can drive on it.” Eliot stood.

  “Did you pull hard enough?”

  “Yes,” said Eliot. “I pulled hard enough.”

  “Give me a try.”

  Eliot rolled the tire back to the trunk. “Forget it.”

  “For fuck’s sake. I’m not useless.”

  “This isn’t one of those games where everybody gets a turn. Get in the car.”

  “I will be two fucking minutes.”

  “Get in the car.”

  “No.”

  Eliot looked at him expressionlessly. “Fine.” He tossed Wil the wrench.

  Wil pulled off his T-shirt and knelt before the jacked-up wheel. There was a lot of rust here. He wiggled the wrench onto the top nut and tested it.

  “Well?” said Eliot.

  He swiped his arm across his forehead. “Just warming up.”

  “We have a time issue.”

  “Jesus, you don’t even think I can change a tire.” He strained against the wrench. “I can do this.”

  Some time passed. “Okay,” Eliot said. “Enough.”

  “I’ve almost got it.”

  “You haven’t. You’re just wasting time.”

  He strained. Something went crack.

  “You’re going to strip it.”

  The lug nut squealed. He forced it through a revolution, and then it got easy. He unscrewed the nut and dropped it to the ground. He had a tremendous urge to glance at Eliot’s face and couldn’t resist it.

  “Congratulations,” said Eliot. “Unfortunately, there are three more.”

  He braced his foot against the tire well. “You want me to be useless. You love being in control of everything while I stumble around with no idea what I’m doing.”

  “No, that’s the opposite of what I want. What I want is to get to Broken Hill as soon as possible, and for you to make a net p
ositive contribution to that goal.”

  He released the wrench and bent to inspect the next lug nut. It looked very corroded. He hefted the wrench and began to bang at it.

  “This has moved into farce,” Eliot said. “Get into the car.”

  The lug nut spat rust. He got the wrench around it and forced it around. “That’s two.”

  “Great,” said Eliot.

  “You need to loosen up,” Wil said. “You seriously need to take a fucking breath and consider that you’re not the only guy who can do everything.”

  “Did you tell me to loosen up?”

  He wiggled the wrench onto the third nut. “Is that funny for some reason?”

  “When I experience base physiological needs for food, water, air, sleep, and sex, I follow protocols in order to satisfy them without experiencing desire. Yes, it’s funny.”

  “You fucking what?”

  “It’s required to maintain a defense against compromise. Desire is weakness. I’m sure I explained this.”

  “Well, that sounds awesome. That sounds like a terrific life you have there, Eliot.” The nut loosened. “Got you!” he said.

  “You want to see what happens when desire overpowers discipline? Get in the car. We’ll be there in about two hours.”

  “And you didn’t stop it.” The final lug nut was so rusted he had trouble getting the wrench around it. “You and your protocols weren’t good enough to save my town.” He found traction and pulled. “Watch me budge this lug nut, despite my complete lack of discipline.” His muscles burned. Sweat coursed down his back.

  “Stop that. You’re going to pull the whole car off the jack.”

  “And what about Brontë? Twenty years and you never made a move, did you? I bet you never even held her hand.”

  “Get in the car.”

  He grunted but the nut was immovable. He released the wrench, panting. “You know I’m right.”

  “You’re not right,” Eliot said. “You’ve been wrong about everything you’ve opened your mouth to opine upon, up to and including your belief in your ability to change this tire. Get in the car.”

  He repositioned his feet and gripped the wrench. “I am budging . . . this . . . lug nut!” He pulled with everything he had. His body shook. He yelled. The nut twisted with a squeal and he landed in the dust. He scrambled back to the tire. “Fuck! Yes!” He brandished the nut. “I was right! I was right!”

  Eliot walked around the car and climbed into the driver’s seat.

  “Ha,” said Wil. He pulled at the tire and it slid off easily. He changed it, collected his shirt, and returned to the passenger seat. Eliot started the engine. He didn’t say anything. Neither did Wil, because this time the silence was fine.

  • • •

  “I don’t like that chopper,” Eliot said. It was an hour later. Maybe two. It was hard to tell because nothing changed. They were driving on a strip of road that folded around on itself, trapped in an endless loop of blistered blacktop.

  Wil leaned forward and peered through the windshield. A black speck hung in the sky ahead and to the right. “That’s a crop duster. They use helicopters for that out here.”

  “Where are the crops?”

  A good point. The black speck grew. “I don’t know.”

  “Bag on the backseat. Get that.”

  He twisted in his seat, found an old green and black gym bag, and dragged it into his lap. It clanked. “Is this what I think it is?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did you get a gun?” But he knew: It was when Eliot had acquired the car. Wil had emerged from a restroom to find a bearded guy showing Eliot something in the trunk. They had shaken hands. Then they had taken his Valiant.

  “Take it out of the bag.”

  “I’m not going to shoot some crop-dusting farmer.”

  “I’m not asking you to shoot anyone. I’m asking you to be prepared.”

  “See those poles sticking out the sides? Those are for spraying. Spraying crops.” The helicopter drifted over the road and hovered there. The door popped open. Sun glinted on metal. “Or maybe he’s roo hunting,” said Wil. Eliot hit the gas. The roof barked out a flat impact. Hot air tickled Wil’s hair and he looked up to see a small, neat blue hole. The hole was blue because of the sky. He turned and found a second hole in the backseat. “Christ!”

  The engine roared. Wil saw the needle tip past ninety miles per hour. The road was cracked and potholed, strewn with sand. One bump and they could roll. They could easily become airborne. The chopper flashed overhead and Wil glimpsed a grizzled man in an Akubra with a rifle. When he turned the chopper was rising in the rear window, peeling after them.

  “Okay,” said Eliot. “Now I want you to shoot someone.”

  Wil pulled the shotgun from the bag, brown plastic molded around double barrels, the kind you had to break open between rounds. He hefted it awkwardly.

  “Ammunition.”

  “Right.” He found loose boxes of shells in the bag and tore one open. The car hit a pothole and began to slide. Shells spilled into the footwell. The car found traction and Wil steadied and broke open the shotgun and forced a shell into each barrel. He cranked the window. Furious wind blasted at his face. He stuck out his head to see the chopper skimming low over the road behind them. The pilot was behind the plastic bubble, hands on the controls, and it seemed to Wil that he wouldn’t be able to steer and shoot simultaneously. He withdrew his head. “Is this guy a poet?”

  “Good question.”

  “I think he’s just some guy!” The car bounced. “They’re controlling him!”

  “Seems likely.”

  “So what do I do?”

  “Shoot him.”

  “What? No!”

  “Yes.” Eliot nodded, his eyes on the road. “Right now.”

  “He’s not shooting! He’s just chasing us!”

  “Still. Shoot him.”

  “He can’t use the fucking gun while he’s flying, Eliot!”

  “I realize! Shoot him!”

  “If he can’t use the gun, and he’s not a poet, why do I have to shoot him?”

  “Because he’s going to fly into us!”

  “Oh,” said Wil. “Oh!” He stuck his head out the window. The helicopter was rushing toward them, blades thundering. He raised the gun but it was already too late, and he fell back into the car. Eliot braked. The Valiant skidded, coming off the road. Dirt fountained. The world darkened. A rotor blade passed by, a great and terrible force Wil felt in his bones. Everything became noise and dust. Then quiet.

  “Stay down,” said Eliot, after a while.

  Wil looked at him. Eliot was unbuckling. “What?”

  “Don’t move.” He took the shotgun from Wil’s hands, opened the door, and disappeared.

  Wil hunkered down. Time passed. There was a sharp bang and the louder, deeper boom of the shotgun. Wil started to rise, stopped.

  The door opened. The shotgun came in, butt first. Wil realized he was meant to take it. Eliot climbed inside and turned the key.

  He sat up. “Are you okay?”

  Eliot took the Valiant back to the road and steered around the helicopter, which no longer looked like an aircraft so much as a randomly distributed collection of scrap metal. There was no sign of the pilot. The car reached sixty-five and then ninety and then 110, a speed that made the windows howl like wolves and every pothole a bomb. The tires slipped and muttered, treacherous. Wil didn’t want to say anything, but the fourth time he thought he was going to die, he couldn’t keep silent.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Hurrying.” Eliot’s voice was odd.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “A lot depends on you now.” Eliot shook his head. “Fuck.”

  “What?”

  “In the future, when you need to shoot someone, do it.”

  “Okay. Okay.”

  Eliot shook his head. “This was a stupid idea. A stupid fucking idea.”

  Through Eliot’s side w
indow, Wil noticed a thin plume of dust. “Hey. Another car out there.”

  “You think I like shooting people? I don’t. I do it because it needs to be done. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you realize what happens if we fail? If there’s no one left to stop them?”

  “No. You haven’t told me.”

  “Christ,” said Eliot. “This is ridiculous.”

  Wil looked out the window. “That car is going fast. Really fast.”

  “It’s trying to intercept us.”

  “Is it?”

  “That’s a surprise, is it? You didn’t think there might be more?”

  “Why are you so pissed at me?” He stared at Eliot’s shirt. There was a patch. A darker area. “Did you get shot?” He didn’t reply. “Eliot! Did you get shot?”

  “Yes.”

  “We have to . . . get you to . . .”

  “If you say something stupid, I’m going to pop you in your fucking mouth.”

  “Eliot,” he said. “Eliot.”

  “I told you to shoot that guy.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Outside Eliot’s window, the dust plume resolved into a police squad car. “What can I do?”

  “Next time you have to choose between Farmer Joe and the fate of the world, you can put a bullet into Farmer Joe. That’s what you can do.”

  “Okay.”

  “You can kill Woolf. Can you do that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yeah,” Eliot said. “Sure you can.”

  The cop car rose in the side window. A sign ahead said BARRIER HIGHWAY and STOP and clearly they were going to hit that cop car, Wil saw. “Slow down,” he said, but Eliot didn’t. Instead he dropped the hand brake and spun the wheel and the Valiant began to slide sideways. It crossed the highway, passing in front of the cop car, chewed dirt for a while, and lurched onto the blacktop. Behind them, a siren began to wail.

  “Find out if that cop is a prole,” Eliot said.

  “A what?”

  “A proselyte. Compromised. Find out if he wants to arrest us or kill us.”