giant silver phallus sticking out of downtown Wernthal. The tallest in the nation at twelve hundred feet, it's the center for Tracking and Data, the oldest branch of the Confederation. It was built to sway with the high spring winds and tornadoes that come sideways through the Midwest, and has the largest security system in the country with over two dozen checkpoints. I run to get in line at the nearest one, but President comes out a few minutes early and I'm caught in the crowd running out through my building's front doors.
They flow noisily around me in their standard-issue hard-soled shoes. Rush toward the National House gates open-armed and en masse, their stampede shaking the concrete walk. They ignore the guards who've been trotted out with long, sharp-ended weapons and press themselves, crying, against the fence's steel posts. President is just fifty feet beyond. He's a tall man. White-haired. Eighty years old, though he looks much younger, with taut, shiny skin someone's pulled too tight. It makes the bones of his cheeks appear sharp, like they're about to break through his smiling face. Children, he says, as is his way, looking through an opening in his guards' two-line formation. Let us see what God's got to tell us today. President's armor of Blue Coats travels slowly, taking small, sliding steps that often land one of them on our High Executive's ample robes. When this happens, President will rock, unjointed, a solid block of plastic, and stop. It's the pause that shows us the potential of his rage. The way he breathes in and out. Slowly and with force.
As the guards see him safely to his raised podium and lock him away inside bullet-proof glass, the crowd grows louder. They're shouting in full voice for President and his Press Secretary to divine our future in the manner set down by the Confederation Bible. One speaks in tongues and the other interprets. President first, then Press Secretary Johnson.
The mood comes on President quickly this morning. He puts up his hands and rolls back his eyes. Unleashes a streamof nonsense words, sounds that mean nothing to the rest of us and everything to the person standing just outside the glass case. Press Secretary Johnson is a heavy, rolling tub of a man who doesn't walk so much as ebb. He nods at President's words and flows toward the microphone to announce the day's good news, gleaned by some mystic knowing from President's gibberish. There hath been a rash of wrongdoing, mostly in the south and central provinces. We must pray for the unholy among us. Those of wicked hearts and minds who would lead the others to a life of sin . . . It's the same every time. After the usual lamentations for those who've fallen, usually by destroying their God-given slates, he begins an interpretation of President's predictions. Lo, but there is to be a mighty technological effort that will still the land. Soon! There will be a new eye in the sky that will end the flight for those who would put themselves first and their fellow citizens last. And, too, there is the program now being tendered by Monitors . . .
This gets my attention. I turn around to watch the morning spectacle and the woman waiting behind me frowns. She's already got her shoes off. They dangle by their straps from one hand.
. . . these Sentient Monitors, chosen by God, will be judge and jury . . .
"Ma'am?" the Security Guard calls to me impatiently. He's new. Young with small, angry eyes and tight, angular jaws. He flips two fingers downward, motioning me into the shoot with a deprecation that makes the others around us cringe. They know who I am. This new young guard does not.
I move ahead as Press Secretary Johnson continues. There is only one of them now! But she is a prophet to move mountains!
I can't help myself. Smirk at President's bullshit.
The new guard thinks I'm smirking at him. "Okay. Hold it there." He puts a hand on my jacket. "Remove this garment, ma'am," he says, then yanks it off my
They flow noisily around me in their standard-issue hard-soled shoes. Rush toward the National House gates open-armed and en masse, their stampede shaking the concrete walk. They ignore the guards who've been trotted out with long, sharp-ended weapons and press themselves, crying, against the fence's steel posts. President is just fifty feet beyond. He's a tall man. White-haired. Eighty years old, though he looks much younger, with taut, shiny skin someone's pulled too tight. It makes the bones of his cheeks appear sharp, like they're about to break through his smiling face. Children, he says, as is his way, looking through an opening in his guards' two-line formation. Let us see what God's got to tell us today. President's armor of Blue Coats travels slowly, taking small, sliding steps that often land one of them on our High Executive's ample robes. When this happens, President will rock, unjointed, a solid block of plastic, and stop. It's the pause that shows us the potential of his rage. The way he breathes in and out. Slowly and with force.
As the guards see him safely to his raised podium and lock him away inside bullet-proof glass, the crowd grows louder. They're shouting in full voice for President and his Press Secretary to divine our future in the manner set down by the Confederation Bible. One speaks in tongues and the other interprets. President first, then Press Secretary Johnson.
The mood comes on President quickly this morning. He puts up his hands and rolls back his eyes. Unleashes a streamof nonsense words, sounds that mean nothing to the rest of us and everything to the person standing just outside the glass case. Press Secretary Johnson is a heavy, rolling tub of a man who doesn't walk so much as ebb. He nods at President's words and flows toward the microphone to announce the day's good news, gleaned by some mystic knowing from President's gibberish. There hath been a rash of wrongdoing, mostly in the south and central provinces. We must pray for the unholy among us. Those of wicked hearts and minds who would lead the others to a life of sin . . . It's the same every time. After the usual lamentations for those who've fallen, usually by destroying their God-given slates, he begins an interpretation of President's predictions. Lo, but there is to be a mighty technological effort that will still the land. Soon! There will be a new eye in the sky that will end the flight for those who would put themselves first and their fellow citizens last. And, too, there is the program now being tendered by Monitors . . .
This gets my attention. I turn around to watch the morning spectacle and the woman waiting behind me frowns. She's already got her shoes off. They dangle by their straps from one hand.
. . . these Sentient Monitors, chosen by God, will be judge and jury . . .
"Ma'am?" the Security Guard calls to me impatiently. He's new. Young with small, angry eyes and tight, angular jaws. He flips two fingers downward, motioning me into the shoot with a deprecation that makes the others around us cringe. They know who I am. This new young guard does not.
I move ahead as Press Secretary Johnson continues. There is only one of them now! But she is a prophet to move mountains!
I can't help myself. Smirk at President's bullshit.
The new guard thinks I'm smirking at him. "Okay. Hold it there." He puts a hand on my jacket. "Remove this garment, ma'am," he says, then yanks it off my
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