Читать книгу Blind.Faith 2.0.50 - Tomasz Tatum - Страница 13

MEETING THE MACHINE

Ch.ase paused momentarily as he stood alone and in silence before the closed doors. For what seemed like a small eternity to him, he simply stood, shuffling his feet idly back and forth and glancing nervously at his watch again and again as though he were undecided what he would like to do next. No problem at all, he reassured himself–he was right on time. He took a couple of deep, deliberate breaths and briefly began examining his surroundings again. The comfort of the waiting lounge around him contrasted very noticeably with the otherwise decidedly ascetic impression the rest of the institution projected. The corridors leading into the front lobby were well-lit and airy, incorporating lots of glass and clean, modern architecture. They exuded a welcoming, even cheerful atmosphere to him as well as to any visitors in general. Decorating each of the far corners of this lobby were huge potted palms which he knew were attended for by a hideously expensive horticultural care keeping company to whom the job had been outsourced.

“Those things must cost a bloody fortune,” he fretted to himself as he mustered the palms. He chuckled to himself: “I ought to make a mental note to check whose budget they hit for those …”

He had to admit to himself that the palms were stunningly beautiful. Their smooth, dark green leaves sported a waxy gloss reflecting the soft sheen of the many recessed halogen lights that illuminated them from within the high ceiling above. The walls, upon which two oversized and very colorful abstract oil paintings hung, were smoothly plastered and radiated an immaculate, gleaming and very functional white. Glancing outside through the glass doors of the entrance lobby, his view fell on a small car lot lined by two even rows of meticulously-trimmed trees in front of the building, one to the left and one to the right of the parking area. The car lot was completely empty at the moment with the exception of a small three-wheeled service vehicle being driven by a landscaper.

Ch.ase turned back again to face the wide, heavy double doors and then resolutely pushed the button mounted on a brushed aluminum panel to the right of it. An inquisitive sounding voice responded fairly quickly from a speaker that was discreetly installed directly above the door.

“Yes?”

“Ch.ase. Um, Lester. Actually, Warden Ch.ase Lester,” he answered blandly. He looked about in the most casual manner he could consciously muster while he wondered where exactly the concealed closed circuit camera, which he knew had to be observing him at this very moment, might actually be located.

“OK. Right,” the tinny sounding voice responded from a speaker replied matter-of-factly. “Could you please do me a favor and run your ZipperCard through the reader for me? The, um, Spot.Check is a bit further off to your right. Do you see it?”

Responding with a slight nod sure to be registered by the camera and a curt grunt of acknowledgement, Ch.ase fumbled the card out of one of the side pockets of his jacket. He swiped it swiftly through the card reader. With a distinct content-sounding peep signaling something that was probably electronic satisfaction, the Spot.Check confirmed the compatibility of ZipperCard and the accompanying VitaMeter, reporting to the system that the identity of the person seeking admission had been satisfactorily determined.

A few seconds later, the access doors unlatched with a soft click.

Ch.ase stepped quickly through the door and then stopped dead in his tracks as he entered the room. While he thought that he knew what to expect upon entering, he was nonetheless overwhelmed at first, standing in the entrance access area of the TV studio, dark right now with the exception of a fair-sized, partially lit stage located at the opposite end of the room. Standing alone in the somewhat subdued light on the entrance side of the studio, Ch.ase paused and looked across a hopeless jumble of cable drums, electrical wiring, folding chairs and several stacks of battered corrugated aluminum equipment boxes on wheels and rollers. They haphazardly lined the studio walls left and right of the door through which he had entered just a moment prior.

Directly before him, not more than perhaps three meters away, were two slightly curved rows of very posh-looking, wide nappa leather seats. The upholstery, soft to the touch as he would quickly discover, was dyed a bright, cheerful magenta color and the seats made the appearance of being extremely comfortable. This arrangement, lovingly nicknamed the Cove among those in the know, formed a kind of wide arc that opened toward the stage ahead of him.

There were twelve of them. They were the jury seats.

Located only another meter or two beyond the double row of seats, the slightly elevated stage completely dominated the other side of the studio. At the center stood a single large reclining lounge chair, fairly comfortable looking but mounted on a contraption that resembled a kind of space-age monorail carriage. Bundles of electrical cables snaked across the floor on each side of the stage while others dangled ominously from the steel rafters in the semi-darkness above. Although it was fairly gloomy where he was standing, the stage itself was sharply illuminated by two long rows of spotlights mounted on metal racks that dangled on black chains suspended from the ceiling. Two further racks of lights stood mounted on steel vertical stands on wheels and another two, with lamps of varying colors, on pedestals to the left and right of the monorail. These two batteries of spotlights were switched off. At the forward end of the stage, a small flight of low stairs, consisting of three steel mesh steps, led upward and toward the monorail-mounted lounge chair. Three television cameras on dollies, all facing downward at about a forty five-degree angle with vinyl covers over the visor screens, blind and mute at this moment, were lined up on the left hand side of the studio.

Ch.ase continued to stand pensively as he momentarily tried to absorb the feel and the emptiness of the seemingly abandoned studio. For a fleeting instant, he sensed that only few places were capable of exuding this kind of ethereal atmosphere. Although he was sure that this forlorn, longing sensation was universally recognizable–it was a feeling of void and emptiness that could only be experienced while standing center-stage and in the spotlight, probably familiar to nearly everyone at one brief instant or another in their lives–he felt certain that it was likely never committed firmly to memory by more than a few people.

It was a sensation that was authentic and recognizable only when one was actually being subjected to it. It almost defied conscious recollection.

It was an atmosphere that resisted description despite the inherent fleeting subconscious familiarity it possessed. It was not at all unlike the tentative aura which persists for a short instant of time, the hushed quiet after the final curtain has fallen in the theater and the lights begin to go up.

A vacuum, an exhaustive quiet like that which envelops a stadium after the last game of the season has ended, the balls are being packed away and everyone but the gatekeeper has gone home.

Or as people wordlessly rise to leave a cinema after the film has ended and the lighting has come on again.

It was definable by the spontaneous recollection of the acrid smell of electricity, activity or humanity that tends to linger tentatively while the evening’s sensations, its cheers of approval or groans of disappointment, stubbornly refuse to subside. As though they hover instead in the damp evening air while an outdoor stage is slowly dismantled or while the playing field is covered with tarps to protect it from a steady rain that is now streaming earthward. In his mind’s eye, the lights are still on but they no longer highlight the attraction in order to accentuate the illusion. Instead, they illuminate the stark and naked boundaries marking the transitory point at which the illusion inevitably ends.

There are rows of empty seats. Spilled paper cups.

Popcorn and ticket stubs. Rubbish ankle-deep on the floor.

Doors being locked from within. Ushers anxious to go home.

Ch.ase stared at the stage as though it were hypnotic for him. Then, for an instant, the thought actually crossed his mind whether he might be entirely alone in the studio at this instant. It was at this precise moment that he finally registered the presence of someone wordlessly observing him from behind one of the several control consoles that were arranged parallel to the far wall in a soundproof booth off to his right. As though he had waited until he was finally noticed, the figure rose and casually shuffled out of the booth and toward him. A tall, relaxed-looking and smartly dressed man with unkempt curly hair and a braided goatee stood before him and offered his wide hand in greeting. Despite the semi-darkness, he was wearing huge sunglasses with impenetrable black lenses. And he probably bore the widest grin to be found in all of Libertyville@Esperantia.

“Hi. Valbånger’s the name,” he said in introduction, “I’m the producer around here.”

Ch.ase shook his hand but was still completely absorbed in mustering the studio. He had never been in a place like this.

Then he turned back to Valbånger and nearly held his breath for a fraction of a second. He noticed that Valbånger’s sunglasses had a double row of tiny blinking LEDs arranged above the lenses. They began blinking frantically whenever he moved his head.

“I’m sorry. What did you just say your name was again?” he asked, his eyes riveted on the LEDs as he spoke.

Valbånger grinned his big grin again in response.

“No sweat. Actually, the name was originally Scandinavian. Most folks just make Wallbanger out of it. Some folks find that absolutely hilarious and tack on a Harvey. I don’t mind. Hell, I go along with the joke! So just call me Harvey. Makes everything that much simpler around here.”

“Let me see if I understand you correctly. You want me to call you Harvey Wallbanger?” asked Ch.ase in disbelief.

Valbånger scratched his chin for a moment, cocking his head while he mustered Ch.ase through the dark void of his sunglasses. “OK. I can tell that we’re going to have to be formal about this for now. Tell you what: I’ll just call you warden from now on, then. OK? I mean, we’re gonna be working together a lot in the future.time.”

Then the two men began a tour of the studio.

“So how does it actually function then?” inquired Ch.ase, his gaze still riveted on the stage and, more importantly, on the lounge chair situated at the center of the dread.commachine. “And, while you’re explaining that, maybe you can clarify what exactly the rules are?”

“To answer your questions, Warden, I guess that I can sum it up very succinctly,” said Valbånger, rubbing his palms together absent-mindedly as though he were trying to warm his hands.

“The answer is: randomly and very few.”

Valbånger walked over to the cove and sat down, making himself comfortable in one of the leather seats directly in front of the stage. He gestured to Ch.ase that he ought to do the same. Ch.ase stood stiffly at first at the end of the two rows and cast a nervous glance at the seats. He seemed to hesitate a bit.

“Don’t be shy,” said Valbånger. “That one will be yours in the future.time. It’s reserved for the warden. See that little brass plate?”

He pointed to one of the seats directly behind him in the second row. It was located somewhat left of center.

“That one says w-a-r-d-e-n on it. So it’s prime time for you from now on. Every WorkDay2 and WorkDay5 at eight-thirty sharp. Up here is where the governor sits,” he continued matter-of-factly, patting the cushion of the neighboring seat to his right.

The seat Valbånger identified as that of the governor was ahead of Ch.ase’ new place and offset to the right by approximately one half seat width. Ch.ase leaned forward to inspect the brass plate on the seat Valbånger indicated.

“Let me guess: g-o-v-e-r-n-o-r?” he ventured.

Valbånger nodded enthusiastically and flashed his wide grin.

He began to elaborate.

“The governor is a short, stocky fellow, only about a meter sixty-five or so. And the stage is elevated, as you can see. So there’s no need for you to worry about his obstructing your view of the proceedings.”

Valbånger seemed genuinely eager to reassure Ch.ase about this.

Ch.ase eased himself into the end seat in the first row and looked up to the stage. The brass plate indicated that it was reserved for the Chief Justice. The center of the stage with its reclining lounge chair was, at the most, perhaps three or four meters away from where he was sitting. Valbånger, in the meantime, got up out of his seat and began switching on all of the stage lighting and props. Within a matter of a few short seconds, the stage assumed a giddy atmosphere which was both menacing and merry at the same time. Liquid light seemed to drench everything before them in a fiery glow with the viscosity of amber honey. It reminded Ch.ase of some eerily-lit but empty fin-de-siècle merry-go-round rotating listlessly in the darkness while faceless phantoms grouped around it and looked on in silence, waiting for someone to take the ride of their lives. Ch.ase was not superstitious. He imagined for a second, however, that he could sense a crowd of ghosts in this room.

Valbånger returned from the lighting consoles and sat down again. This time he let himself drop into the governor’s chair.

“So, like, where’s the audience?” asked Ch.ase, suddenly turning around and looking behind the seat rows toward the entrance. Like just about everyone else in the nation, he had watched MeaMaxi.Culpa many times. Fairly regularly, although not quite religiously, it dawned on him, if he was home from work early enough to tune in. In fact, it was so popular that all the decent channels broadcast it simultaneously anyhow. It was literally the only show which he could receive on his portable telly.tube during the periods which Valbånger had referred to as prime time. But, unless his memory was failing him entirely on this count, Ch.ase thought that he distinctly recalled the presence and participation of a substantial studio audience during the show.

Valbånger had finally removed his ridiculous sunglasses and was now rubbing his eyes as he sat in the glare of the stage lights. He turned to face Ch.ase.

“It’s virtual,” he answered matter-of-factly. “Better handling. Believe me: it makes it so much easier to work with.”

Ch.ase leaned back and stared at the ceiling for a moment. He wasn’t sure that he understood what Valbånger meant.

“You mean that there’s no audience for the proceedings at all?”

“Well, there is actually. It’s just that they’re not physically here for the, shall we call them proceedings. They’re in another studio nearby. In fact, to be quite frank: they’re actually doing something entirely different. There’s a bit of creative synergy involved here. We just utilize the opportunity to interface the two ... hmm, let me see how to ...”

Valbånger turned his eyes away from Ch.ase for a second before he continued. “How can I phrase this gracefully? We can interface the two programs to make the proceedings both fun and effective. We take advantage of some overlap–we like to call them synergies–that way.”

“Did you just say fun and effective?”

Valbånger leaned forward and looked Ch.ase directly in the eyes.

“Listen. Maybe we need to take a short moment to clarify a few things right here and now. There should be no need for me to explain to you that this is a penal institution and not an amusement park, right? And on the day that you assumed your position, you did swear that you would serve faithfully in the job of administering justice in the best interests of the society that maintains this very institution, or I am wrong?” Valbånger’s thus far cheery voice had now taken on the sharpness of a steely knife. His eyebrows rose expectantly as he mustered Ch.ase and waited for his reply.

“Of course I did. No doubt about that. But not virtual justice,” Ch.ase countered. His voice was flustered, a note of doubt clearly discernible.

Valbånger relaxed again and smiled upon hearing Ch.ase’ reply.

“Oh. Hey, don’t worry! I understand where you’re coming from now! Hey, it’s cool, man. I know where you’re coming from now! It’s not that we’re talking about virtual justice here. It’s only the audience that’s virtual in this case,” Valbånger answered and leaned back somewhat in his chair. He began searching his pockets for a cigarette. After a considerable amount effort, he succeeded in producing a single crooked and yellowing cigarette from the front pocket of his striped shirt. He stuck the cigarette into his mouth and resumed his search, this time looking for a light.

“Let me take this opportunity to reassure you about how a couple of things are managed here. First and foremost: how did our candidate make it up to that chair?” Valbånger raised his left hand and pointed to the chair upon the stage. He rose partially out of his seat, arching his back like a frightened cat as he wrestled with his right hand, which he had plunged deep into his pants pocket.

“Through criminal behavior, of course,” answered Ch.ase. No ring of uncertainty was detectable in his voice as he answered.

“In that case, since this has already been established in advance, we no longer have to wrest our hands in doubt on any issue of fundamental importance, do we?” Valbånger’s unlit cigarette dangled in the corner of his grin as he continued to speak.

“The punishment fits the crime. A court of law has established the facts and passed a carefully considered verdict. The attorney general,” Valbånger pointed to one of the seats in row one, “has the option of assenting by signing the order or referring it back to the legal system for review. In those cases, in which she does sign, we all meet for prime time and justice takes over.”

Ch.ase looked over to the seat that Valbånger had indicated. He could see that attorney general was scrupulously etched on the shiny brass plate. He had to concede that Valbånger’s argument on this point was indeed compelling. He sensed relief as his uneasiness shifted away from doubts about whether the fate of the person at the center of the proceedings he would be witnessing has been sufficiently legitimized. Instead, he silently pondered the ethics of deceiving the public about their level of involvement in the process.

Valbånger surveyed Ch.ase as he sat in his seat, reading his thoughts with nearly clairvoyant certainty.

“I suspect that this now leaves you worried about the audience,” noted Valbånger. “If so, please bear in mind that their primary role in this production is to assist in bearing the collective social cost of administering justice. Their involvement, whether in an adjoining studio or at home in front of their telly.tube, relieves us as law-abiding individuals of having to shoulder that responsibility exclusively. Keeping a society within boundaries is not always easy and occasionally it even gets downright unpleasant. Like taking out the garbage now and then. So it makes great sense when justice is served and, at the same time, everyone is content and happy with the course of events.”

“I see. And what happens if the candidate manages to hold his own on the dread.commachine?” inquired Ch.ase, who was now genuinely interested in the working technicalities of the system.

“Interesting question but that’s not likely to be the case for long,” Valbånger answered and pointed to a small panel discretely mounted on the right armrest of the governor’s seat.

“The governor, of course, always has the option of pushing the default.off button at his fingertips. If and when he does this, that portion of the show irreversibly ends during the next commercial break. After the break, we simply continue with a new candidate from yet another studio. Lots of things to win there, too. Furniture, SpeedScooters, paid holidays and the like. And the viewers just eat it up. At least to my recollection, no one has ever complained.”

“It’s really that simple?” asked Ch.ase. “One simple push of a button and it’s TILT! for the candidate?”

Valbånger shrugged his shoulders and arched his eyebrows.

“It’s GAME OVER! then. It’s finito for him then, man.”

The steady, monotonous hum of the studio lighting transformers seemed to underscore Valbånger’s curt explanation.

It was immediately clear to Valbånger that Ch.ase was really impressed with what he had seen and learned today. The institution had made a good choice in promoting him to his position.

“And what actually happens to the candidate?” inquired Ch.ase haltingly.

“Oh, that’s the beauty of the entire system. And that’s what makes it so wonderfully guilt-free. We don’t have to decide, the machine does it all for us. In the end, it’s all determined by a sort of random generator that spits out a question or an assignment that the candidate is guaranteed to fail at. Forget about the technicalities of it all, they’re way too complex to spell out here. These machines are much smarter than we are these days. Anyhow, all we need to know is that the machine ultimately wins hands down–and it does so very quickly, mind you!–and, as the game ends, the candidate’s seat retracts to the rear of the stage. The rear portion of the stage divider then rotates to shield him from the view of the audience.”

Valbånger waved his arms up and down nonchalantly, indicating the two rows of seats.

“I think they decided to make it work that way because it’s good for the suspense level. And also because it lends the proceedings a more dignified appearance. Back behind the scenes, though, a lot happens once the dread.commachine is engaged in termination mode. I’ve got to admit that I’m not all that knowledgeable about how it exactly works in the technical-biological sense but I’m told that it does something similar to fast-forwarding the candidate’s VitaMeter. Just like the meat producers do with their cattle, except unbelievably fast. In fact,” Valbånger smiled almost sheepishly, “the fellows running the machine backstage call their data transfer module a cattle.Prod for that very reason. And you see that cable connecting the seat to the data module? That’s the bovine.Bungee to them. Lots of esprit in that group, let me assure you.”

Ch.ase leaned back in his seat and listened attentively as Valbånger finished his explanation.

“Ultimately, once the candidate’s VitaMeter clocks out, he or she simply gets vaporized toward the end of the whole procedure. But that’s really only done to kind of keep things tidy back there. Pretty clean procedure, really. All kind of helps keeps the overhead low. That’s all I really know about how it works. Any other questions?”

“Wow. And a grand prize, winning numbers. And all-expense paid trips,” volunteered Ch.ase in amazement as he shook his head.

Valbånger beamed his familiar grin again. “And it really is cool, believe me. No-fault justice at its finest. Just think about it: the audience gets its chance to participate in the administration of a suitable penalty for the candidate. If the candidate dazzles them or is too smart for the regular proceedings, the governor has the option of simply asking the machine to take over. Man, it’s a hell of a lot more elegant than the old days, like back when the Romans indulged in their awful reprehensible habits, like feeding folks they didn’t like–Christians and thieves, for example–to their collection of playful but very oversized and very famished pussycats. I tell you: humanity has really come a long way since then. And you know, there’s something else we should always keep in mind: capital.comtainment is very often intellectually enriching fare for those of us who are physically in attendance ...”

He paused and spread his arms to indicate the two rows of seats again.

“... because, believe me, candidates who we might politely describe as being mentally challenged simply never make it to the second round. That helps keep the pace up, enhances the drama and the entertainment value. That’s why the show is never, ever dull. Never.”

For short time neither of the two men spoke. They simply sat in silence, each pondering their meeting, each other, the dread.commachine and their surroundings. After a short while their eyes met again.

Ch.ase’ speech was clear and deliberate as he rose from his seat in the cove. “It’s incredible. This is truly civilized. I am impressed, Harvey.”

“You should be, Ch.ase!” replied Valbånger coolly. “The ratings are simply fantastic.”