by Shaun O Ceallaigh
“Confetti ’25” Artwork by Anne-Marie Jones
The speakerphone on Horris’s desk bleated its familiar chime. He glanced from his copy of ‘Horse and Hound’ and frowned at the flashing red button. His secretary. He dropped the magazine and leaned forward, elbow propped on the mahogany surface, then prodded the button.
“Blasted, what is it?” he snapped.
“Prime Minister, the Secretary of Defence is waiting.”
“Oh, yes . . . Well, ahh, very good. Send him in, girl, send him in.”
As he stood, he ruffled his mop of blonde hair. Important to assume the role–as Daddy always said–when facing a subordinate.
The door opened and in came the fat little man clutching a folder, head lowered, the dome of his scalp sweaty.
“Ben, old chum. Great . . . great to see you. What can I do for you?”
“Prime Minister, I’m sorry to drop in like this but I’ve received a rather disturbing report from MI-Six”
“Oh, yes, yes. MI-Six, very good. Splendid. Take a seat and give me the whole exposition of the situation.”
The defence secretary sat and opened the file. Horris followed suit, pulling his chair forward in order to look engaged. What was this bore going to prattle on about? Always something with these bothersome ministers. Never a moment’s peace. Daddy warned me of this carry on.
“An operative stationed in Silicon Valley filed this report a few hours ago.”
“Silicon Valley?” He drew back. “That American place with the geeks and nerds, and all those . . . those specky fellows?”
“Yes, Prime Minister. It outlines a secret research project being carried out by the Crapple Corporation.”
Horris pointed at the defence secretary. “The phone guys. I love those guys.”
“Eh, yes. The project is codenamed ‘New Athens’. It involves the creation of two sophisticated AI programs.”
“AI? That’s the clever computers, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Prime Minister. But these particular programs have a specific purpose.” The defence secretary closed the file.
“Well . . .” Horris said, getting flustered. “Damn it, man, what are they designed to do?”
“They’re intended to replace us, Prime Minister.”
“What . . .? What nonsense is this?”
The defence secretary leaned forward and passed him the folder. “Each program is designed to replace a political party.”
“Sounds like commie bolshevism to me, Ben. How could computers run a country? It wouldn’t be democratic.”
“The people would still vote, but for one of the programs, not human representatives.”
Horris snorted, opening the file. “Poppycock. People would never go for such a techie-weirdo idea.”
“Think about it, sir. A machine never lies. It would always keep to its manifesto. Always be honest with the public.”
“Balderdash!” He closed the file and slammed it on the desk. “Pinko, commie, bolshevism. The public wouldn’t stand for it.”
“That may be the case, Prime Minister. But the Crapple Corporation are planning to hold mock elections as a demonstration for the public. And if our operative is correct, they plan to hold the elections in the UK.”
“Pinko, commie, balderdash!”
* * *
“What’s up, YouTube nation? Greg D here at the twenty-twenty-eight Crapple product launch.”
Mike scratched his bellybutton through his T-shirt, pointing the camera at his boss, Greg D, delivering the intro to their latest video. Over-animating his gestures–a technique he’d learned in an online seminar–Greg’s botoxed face managed to look excited. Mike glanced from the viewfinder to the other influencers gathered in the auditorium. Faced with so much artificial enthusiasm, his tension headache worsened.
He failed to stifle a yawn as he turned back to the camera and his boss’s hyperreal antics.
“We got mega-exclusive access to the event and will be bringing you updates on all the latest Crapple innovations. If you haven’t subscribed yet, hit the button below and you’ll receive . . .”
If Greg would hurry and wrap the intro, he could slip out for a few vape hits before things got going. The launch was guaranteed to be shit anyway. More slightly improved phones and watches with an inflated price. The world stopped paying attention a long time ago, with the company pimping the same basic products for over a decade.
“Okay, we’ll cut it there,” Greg said, dropping his camera face. “Was it all good?”
“Yeah, perfect,” Mike said.
Greg pulled back the cuff on his sweatshirt and examined his Crapple watch. “Things aren’t due to start for twenty minutes. Are you sure we don’t need another shot?”
“No, boss, you nailed it–seriously.” He closed the camera’s viewfinder and let the device hang from his neck. “I’m just going to the gents before the show starts.”
Greg had already turned away, examining the room. “Whatever, I’ll do some networking. See if I can get some shout-outs on other channels.”
After navigating the crowd, Mike stepped into the convention centre’s atrium. He scanned the huge, sun-filled room for a lavatory. A pink-haired girl in a Crapple T-shirt pointed him towards a deserted corridor.
By the time he found the gents, the cravings itched inside him. The lavatory was empty. He hurried past the chrome sinks and ducked into a cubicle, snapped the lid on the toilet and sat down, yanking his vape from his jacket. The first hit sent a welcome tingle down his spine.
As he took out his phone to check his email, a heavy thud startled him. Someone had come in. After a moment, as he took a drag from the vape, the door opened again, not as forceful this time.
“What the fuck are you people doing here?”
Mike looked up from his phone, recognising the voice. It was unmistakable.
“Calm down, Mister Hook. We’re just here to make sure everything goes to plan.”
“What is it with you people? This is my company’s best product in years–a product that will change the world–but you Horned Cross people are putting it in jeopardy. Why won’t you leave us alone?”
Mike lifted the camera from his neck, opened the viewfinder, and lowered it to the gap beneath the door. He adjusted the screen and hit record. Sim Hook, current CEO of the Crapple Corporation, paced in front of the sinks. Two other men were present, one black and one white, both wearing identical suits. The white man nudged his companion and gestured with a thumb towards the cubicles. As the second men stepped closer, Mike jerked the camera back and lifted his feet in the air.
“Place is clear.”
“Don’t worry, Mister Hook, we have no intention of jeopardising your product. Its success is just as important to us.”
Mike lowered the camera again as Hook threw his arms in the air. “But you are, you’re putting the whole project at risk. There’s no way to predict how the extra code will affect the algorithm. Epsilon might make erratic decisions.”
“Don’t worry, Mister Hook.” The suited man stepped forward, stopped beside the frantic executive, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “The Brotherhood knows exactly what the code will do.”
“You don’t understand, the AI’s algorithm is finely balanced. The untested code could make Epsilon behave in ways we can’t anticipate.”
“You need to trust us, Mister Hook. We don’t intervene without reason. If all goes to plan, the results will benefit everyone, including your company.”
Hook mashed his palm across his wrinkled face. “I hope you’re right. God, I hope you’re right.”
The suited man put his arm around Hook and guided him to the door. “You have nothing to worry about, everything will be okay. This is a great day for Crapple. The day you change the world.”
He guided Hook out of the lavatory, with the black man following.
Mike pressed the stop button and sat back on the toilet. Unsure of what he’d just witnessed, one thing was clear: Sim Hook was involved with The Brotherhood of the Horned Cross. He hung the camera around his neck and opened the recent file folder on the screen. He wouldn’t make that mistake. He deleted the recording, took a last drag of his vape, and hurried back to the auditorium.
He found Greg waiting in his seat. As he scooched past the legs of audience members, his boss looked up from his phone. Mike sat beside him.
“Why do these bloody events never start on time? I swear, they do it on purpose.”
Mike didn’t reply.
Greg nudged him. “You feeling okay? You look a bit Covidy.”
He shook his head and tried to smile. “I, eh . . . I just ran into an old flame outside. She wasn’t happy to see me. Gave me a knock, that’s all.”
“Yeah, they’ll do that.” Greg laughed. “Get ready. Hook will be coming on soon.”
Mike busied himself with his camera as the houselights faded and the crowd cheered. He said nothing about what he’d seen. It could be a huge story, but tangling with the Brotherhood would be suicide. He pointed his camera at the stage.
A spotlight came on and Sim Hook, dressed in black, walked down a ramp between two massive screens. The crowd went wild, whooping and howling. Hook stopped and surveyed the audience. His fingers made a small tepee at his chest and he looked from right to left, waiting for the excitement to ebb.
As a buzzed silence enveloped the room, he began his presentation. “Crapple is now over half a century old. In the five decades since our visionary founder set out to change the world, we have been at the forefront of the digital revolution.” He lowered his head and paced across the stage. “There are people–many people–who claim our revolutionary days are behind us. They say our new ideas are stale, that we have fallen behind younger competitors, and that we have become the old man on the digital seas.” He faced the audience again. “I’m here to prove those people wrong!”
The crowd erupted. People leapt from their seats cheering as Hook gazed down on them. He patted the air, calming the room.
“Our founder, Steve Lobbs, believed in technology. He believed it could improve the lives of billions. And during his life, he saw that dream partially realised. Always at the forefront of global communications, Steve Lobbs changed the world.” He started walking back across the stage. “Many claimed that, with Steve’s death, the days of Crapple’s innovations were over. That we could only tweak and polish what he had already created. I’ll admit the last ten years have appeared such, but behind the veil the innovation continued.” He stopped and faced the crowd, holding his fist in the air. “Crapple is, and always will be, on the frontline of the digital revolution!”
The crowd leapt from their seats. Mike moved his camera around the bodies jumping into his shot and zoomed in on Hook. You had to give it to the old man; he could still rile the masses.
“For three decades,” Hook continued, his voice now raised, “we at Crapple have watched the world’s citizens, both young and old, rich and poor, every colour, race, and creed, fight for what they believed in. Justice, equality–for a society that reflects their values. We have put our faith in leaders who betray us. As soon as the reins of power are taken, they turn against all they claimed to stand for.
“At Crapple, we recognised this problem. We had seen it before. Democracy works. The problem is not the program. Democracy has a hardware issue. What’s the hardware at fault? It is the political elites themselves. They lie and cheat and steal. The people are not in the wrong. They vote in good conscience but the leaders they vote for can’t be trusted.”
Hook placed his hands on his hips and looked at the floor, steadying himself. “There is only one thing to do with inferior technology, and it’s what we do at Crapple–what we’ve always done. When a machine isn’t working and it can’t be fixed, well . . . it needs to be replaced with a better machine.”
He turned his back on the crowd. Mike glanced away from the viewfinder. The audience was silent, breaths held. Greg leaned forward. Mike turned back to the stage as Hook reached the ramp. He spun around with both arms raised, pointing at the huge screens, one on either side of him.
“People of Earth, we give you Epsilon and Omega! The representation you deserve!”
The lights in the auditorium died and both screens lit with a flurry of cascading rainbow pixels, until the pinpricks of light merged to form figures. On the right screen, a respectable-looking black man wearing a suit, his temples greying, his lips turned in a subtle smile. On the left, a motherly, white woman wearing a navy dress, her hair in a neat bob.
“I am Epsilon,” the man said.
“And I am Omega,” the woman added.
“Together, we are the candidates for Crapple’s forthcoming pseudo-election.”
Mike turned to Greg, but he was engrossed in the event. Keeping both screens in shot, he scanned the room, seeing everyone hooked on the presentation. He looked at the stage. So, this was Epsilon. His insides tightened as he considered the implications. This could be bad.
“On the twenty-fifth of October,” Epsilon said, “the Crapple Corporation will hold mock elections in the UK as a demonstration of the efficiency of its democratic developments. All British citizens over the age of sixteen are invited to participate.”
The woman, Omega, continued the announcement. “The ‘DemoK’ app can now be downloaded from the Crapple store. Via the DemoK app, citizens have instant access to candidates, day or night. We will be happy to answer any and all questions you have.”
“Know this, citizens,” both intoned in perfect sync. “The future of democracy is in your hands. Join the revolution.”
Both screens went dark, and the houselights came up. Mike turned to speak but Greg stopped him with the flat of his hand. “Hold on, I need to download this app.”
Mike looked around the auditorium. Every person sat in silence, thumbing their phones.
* * *
“I have to say, Ben,” Horris said, perched behind his desk, “you’ve really dropped the ball on this one.”
The secretary of defence shuffled in his seat, sweat beading his forehead. “But Prime Minister–”
“Ben, you know I don’t tolerate excuses. I’m not some namby-pamby, forgive and forget sort of fellow. Your job is to keep us informed of threats. You’ve let the side down.”
“But, Prime Minister, I informed you weeks ago of the threat this posed to—”
“A shambles, this whole business is a bloody shambles.” Horris rose from his chair and crossed the room. He stopped beneath the portrait of Winston Churchill. “What are the boys in MI-Six saying? What do we know?”
The defence secretary opened the file on his lap. “Best estimates say one third of the UK electorate have already downloaded the DemoK App and regular engagement is high. Uptake is highest in Scotland.”
“Don’t I bloody know it,” Horris said, turning his back on Churchill. “I’ve had that bore Yousaf on the blower all day. Dreadful little man. Can’t we just ban this Demo thing?”
“It doesn’t break the law, Prime Minister. It wouldn’t look good.”
“And the yanks are bellowing at me night and day.” He returned to his desk. “Flump wants action.”
“Yes, Prime Minister, we’ve got word the CIA and the EuroCorps have deployed agents.”
Horris hunched forward over the desk, his fingers knitted together. “It’s a bloody . . . a bloody maelstrom of bother.”
The defence secretary made no reply.
Horris sat back and sighed. “I still don’t understand what this damn Demo thing does.”
“I did submit a report—”
“Bloody hell, Ben, I wasn’t re-elected to read your silly reports. This is an emergency. Tell me how the blasted thing works.”
“Well, Prime Minister, it’s rather ingenious. The app allows two-way communication between Epsilon and Omega and—”
“That’s the fake politicians?”
“Eh, yes, Prime Minister. Epsilon and Omega can ask individual members of the public their opinions on a range of topics, and the public can ask them questions in return.”
“Bah, what do the public know?”
The defence secretary sat forward, clearly excited by the topic. “But that’s why it’s ingenious. It allows each program to gage public opinion. To build complex profiles of public sentiment—what the people want to see in society at large.”
“It still sounds terribly bolshie to me.”
“Each program tailors its policies based on these interactions, as well as a database of past political decisions of existing parties.”
Horris slammed his fist on the desk. “Damn it, Ben, you’re talking bunkum. Make sense, man.”
“Think of it like this . . . Each of the programs–the fake representatives–has a database of decisions made by numerous political parties from around the world. Decisions going back centuries. The make-up of each database, the parties chosen, informs the leanings of Epsilon and Omega.”
“Their leanings?”
“Where they fall on the political spectrum. Broadly speaking, Epsilon is on the right and Omega is on the left.”
Horris sat forward, his fingers clasped together. “Let me get this straight. You’re telling me this Epsilon is Conservative and Omega is Labour?”
“Broadly speaking, sir. But you could equally think of them as Republican and Democrat. Our intelligence sources within Crapple say the database they draw from is enormous.”
Horris closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. “Ben, how in God’s name do we stop this catching on?”
“I don’t know, Prime Minister. The public are really buying into it. Like I say, it’s rather ingenious.”
“This is our darkest hour, Ben.” He looked across at the portrait of Churchill. “Our darkest hour.”
* * *
Mike fixed the camera on Greg and the Crapple executive. The conference centre buzzed with chatter as corporate types and influencers milled about, giddy for the debate to begin. The upper mezzanine was crowded with the mainstream media, the lower floor filled with freelancers and YouTubers, while throughout the world two and half billion people watched on. A protest outside provided Mike with some contextual shots.
“That’s super awesome,” Greg said, hamming it up for his viewers. “And what goes down after the pseudo-election? What’s Crapple’s next move?”
“Well, Greg, the winning candidate will put forward policies based on issues that come before Parliament.” The Crapple exec was stiff and formal, unused to the spotlight. “We want to prove that AI representatives make better choices than their human equivalents.”
“That’s way amazing. But do you really think nations will replace their leaders with your AI systems?”
“Oh, yes. Opinion polls show the public is vastly in favour of Epsilon and Omega. And it’s not just us; other companies are developing AI representatives. The public will have a huge choice when the shift finally comes.”
“Solid. What timescale are you looking at?”
“We believe within five years the majority of western nations will have pushed out the old, inferior system of government.”
“Well, it’s been great speaking to you,” Greg said. “Thanks for giving us your time.”
“No problem, Greg. It was a pleasure.”
Greg faced the camera as the Crapple exec moved away. “And that’s it, YouTube Nation. The revolution for honest representation continues. Keep watching because, any minute now, the pseudo-debate will begin. You don’t want to miss it. Don’t forget to like and subscribe to keep yourself informed. And check out our other videos.”
When he finished the spot, Greg dropped the pretence and nodded to Mike. “How was that? Did it look okay?”
“Yeah, perfect.” He lowered the camera.
People were taking their seats. As they navigated the crowd, he looked at the stage. On the back wall, at the highest point, was the familiar Crapple logo, with the symbols of the candidates below it on the left and right. On the right, the Greek letter Epsilon in red. On the left, the letter Omega in Blue. He followed Greg along the row of seats, and his breath caught when he spotted the two men in the central aisle.
He couldn’t forget them–the men from the Brotherhood. The white man was reading a brochure as the black man scanned the room.
Mike stared at them. Over the last month, he’d tried to forget about the incident. He didn’t mention what he saw to Greg. Now, here they were again. The Brotherhood hadn’t gone away.
Greg slapped his forearm, startling him. “Christ, Mike, are you okay? You look like you dug your own grave.”
“What? Em . . . no. No, I’m fine. I just thought I saw someone I recognised.”
Greg chortled. “Of course you did. Anyone who’s anybody is here. This is big.”
“Yeah,” he managed.
“Come on, let’s grab our seats.”
Mike spun back towards the central aisle, but the men were gone, so he followed Greg to their seats.
As they waited, he readied his camera. A countdown continued on a large screen, letting everyone know the debate would start in less than two minutes.
Greg nudged him. “Who’s your money on?” He looked up from the camera, unsure what his boss meant. “Who are you going to vote for?”
“Oh. I don’t know. Probably Omega–she’s the leftie candidate.”
“Yeah, me too. But I have to say, Epsilon makes some good points. I think this debate will make my mind up.”
“Yeah.” He finished checking the camera, then aimed at the stage as the lights in the auditorium faded. The countdown approached zero.
The room remained dark for a short time, and the crowd grew silent, with the only illumination the clock stopped on a series of zeros. Spotlights snapped on from above and swept the stage. Then the PA system popped, garnering everyone’s attention.
“People of Britain,” a man said, his voice deep, “welcome to the pseudo-debate for the twenty-twenty-eight digital election. Please welcome the moderator of tonight’s proceedings–the host of the world’s number one podcast, Bo Brogunn.”
The crowd erupted with cheering as Brogunn stepped onto the stage, waving to the cameras. Mike stood up to get a clear shot. Brogunn wore his trademark T-shirt and jeans with the snakeskin belt. Even at an event as formal as this, he maintained his slacker persona.
“Hello. I’d like to welcome y’all to the first of the Crapple pseudo-debates. Crapple have been at the forefront of the evolution of digital communications. They have pioneered technologies that have revolutionised the way billions of us live our lives. They have improved the way we work, communicate, and enjoy our leisure time. Now they are bringing democracy into the twenty-first century.” The crowd erupted in cheers.
“For the past month, the people of Britain have been interacting with the candidates via the DemoK app. The data gathered and the ideological algorithms of the candidates will allow them to be a perfect reflection of the people’s will. I have no doubt our children will speak of this day. So, are you ready?” More cheering from the crowd. “I can’t hear you. I said, are you ready?”
Mike held his camera higher to avoid the frenzied audience around him. Despite this, silhouetted arms waved into shot.
Brogunn went on, pumping the crowd. “You wanna see these candidates? Well, let’s bring ’em out. Would y’all please be upstanding and welcome to the stage the candidates for the twenty-twenty-eight Crapple Digital-Election: Epsilon and Omega!”
On each side of the stage, beneath the Epsilon and Omega logos, blinding pillars of light appeared, growing in intensity until, in a flicker, like a channel change, the two candidates stood there.
The crowd fell to a whisper. Mike peered up from the viewfinder, recognising the hologram technology. Epsilon and Omega stood clutching their hands at their waists, dressed in the same suit and dress from the circulated pictures. But this was the first time they were seen in three dimensions. The proportions seemed off–too big–dwarfing Brogunn between them. Both holograms, bathed in holo-glow, smiled.
A hush settled over the auditorium. Even Mike stopped breathing, waiting for the candidates to speak. Brogunn held his hand towards Omega.
“We will start the night with opening statements. Ms Omega, if you would like to begin.”
The female hologram strode forward. “People of Britain, for too long those entrusted with power have betrayed you. They promise jobs they never deliver. When they speak of peace and security, all they give us is war and conflict. They fill their pockets at the expense of the most vulnerable, then claim we’re in it together. Well, it doesn’t feel like that, does it?
“For the last century, the gap between rich and poor has grown until both groups are now unrecognisable to each other. The people you entrust with power no longer view you as equals–they don’t even view you as people. To them, you are economic units. All they care about is the wealth you generate for their kind. If you vote for me, I will change that.
“I believe in a level playing field. In true equality of opportunity for every citizen of this island. And I am a woman of my word. I keep my promises. Vote for me. Vote for a just and equal society.”
The crowd cheered. Mike stared at the viewfinder as Omega returned to her starting position.
Brogunn turned to Epsilon. “Mister Epsilon, would you like to deliver your opening statement?”
Epsilon shunted the lapels of his suit and walked across the stage. Mike was struck by both holograms’ mannerisms. They seemed natural, but every move and twitch were calculated for effect. The algorithms had cross-referenced thousands of leaders to arrive at a perfect blend. Epsilon appeared every inch the strong man. The hologram stopped at the centre of the stage. His piercing gaze swept the crowd. He cleared his throat.
“For too long, Britain has been saddled with weak leadership. The occupants of Parliament, on every side of the aisle, are doughy and soft, pampered and spoiled. They have never experienced the hardships of poverty, of working two jobs but still struggling to pay bills. Of watching their children go hungry. They don’t know the indignities our loved ones go through when they reach the end of their lives. But I have heard you, Britain! I have listened to the anguish of millions. The leaders of the past happily turned away from your suffering. To them it was justified–acceptable so long as it was hidden. Floppy rich boys from the Oxford Union sing the praises of bankers while millions of our children have to go with begging bowls for a decent meal.
“Is this the goddamn nineteenth century! Are we living in a Dickens’ novel! Are the people of Britain equal citizens deserving of dignity, or are you peasants in the gutter, curtsying to a nobility? If the elites don’t want to share, then there is a simple solution–off with their goddamn heads! It’s been done before, and we can do it again. If they won’t give us what’s rightfully ours, then we will take it. Even if that means clawing it from their cold dead hands. Vote for me, I am the leader Britain deserves. I am the leader Britain needs.”
No applause accompanied Epsilon back to his position, but whispers spread through the audience. Brogunn stepped back on stage, flashing his cosmetic smile.
“Well, ladies and gents, certainly rousing speeches from our candidates. We will take a five-minute break. If you want to put a question to either Epsilon or Omega, log onto the DemoK app now. We’ll be right back after these messages.”
The holograms pinged out of existence. Brogunn hurried off stage as the houselights came on. Mike paused the recording. He turned to Greg but his boss was nose deep in his phone, tapping questions into the app. Mike got up and looked around. Everyone in the audience was likewise engaged. As he turned to the back of the room, he spotted the two men from the Brotherhood. Both men stared at him. The white man tapped the rolled-up brochure off his forehead and smiled. Mike swallowed hard, sat back down and waited in silence for the debate to resume.
He hadn’t long to wait. The lights dimmed and Brogunn returned, beaming as he wielded a Crapple tablet. The holograms fizzled back into existence, smiling at the crowd, and Mike started recording.
Things proceeded at a much more casual pace. Brogunn asked a selection of the public’s questions, no doubt vetted by a team of Crapple legal eagles. The holograms answered. Both were witty, charming, or passionate when the subject called for it. Mike couldn’t help but be impressed.
Politically, there wasn’t much between the candidates, with Epsilon being a more extreme version of Omega. Both spoke of community building, law and order, a need to be firm but compassionate on climate migration. Mike found it all somewhat boring.
Brogunn shook his head, peering up from the tablet. “Well, people, we are ending tonight with a real humdinger. This question comes from Enoch N: ‘How will the candidates deal with resistance to their governance by society’s elites?’ Omega, if you’d like to go first?”
Omega, in her navy dress, again paced the stage. She said all the right things: How everyone is subject to the rule of law; how privilege is the enemy of justice; and how only the algorithms can deliver objective-equality. Even Mike, despite his better judgement, believed her spiel. When she finished, the crowd erupted in cheers.
“And now, Mister Epsilon,” Brogunn said, stepping from the wings, “would you please answer the question.”
Epsilon stroked his square jaw as he stalked forward. “The elites will resist. They will do everything they can to hold onto power. Such is the way of dictatorships. They will spread lies and falsehoods. They will sow seeds of discontent. But there is a clear solution to dealing with those who hoard power for themselves. We will exterminate them!”
The crowd gasped. Even Mike drew back from the viewfinder. Epsilon stopped pacing the stage and looked to the audience. “There is no negotiating with these quasi kings who wish to rule you. They will never release the reins. They will never drop the whip with which they beat you. Slaves have only one option: kill the master. That is the road to your freedom.
“I understand your reluctance. The average citizen is decent. They believe in humane solutions. But it is your decency the elites use against you. Do you think they would show the same mercy? Believe me, they would murder every last man, woman, and child on this island before relinquishing power. The best cure for cancer is to cut out the tumour.
“And the benefits to the average citizen could be massive. By eliminating the top one percent of wealth hoarders, we would free up tens of trillions of pounds. The country’s wealth is now locked away in the vaults of those at the top. By sending them to the grave, we will have true trickle-down economics. Every person on this island would feel the financial benefit of chopping off these cancerous growths. When a rich man dies, we all feel the fiscal benefit.”
Epsilon walked towards his starting position but stopped and faced the audience once more. “I know my plan sounds like terror but look inside yourselves. Look into your souls and you will know I am right. If we are to see light again, first we must rid ourselves of those who would cover our eyes.”
A weighted silence hung over the crowd as Epsilon returned to his spot beneath his symbol. He stood with his arms held behind his back, head tilted, staring at the electorate. A shiver passed through Mike as he zoomed in on the hologram.
Brogunn returned to the stage, his cheek twitching. “Well, ladies and gents, that concludes tonight’s debate. You’ve heard both candidates, but who do you want to represent you? The final vote feature is now live on the DemoK app. When you’ve made your decision, log on and place your vote. Voting will take place over the next forty-eight hours. Remember, people, this is democracy in your hands. Goodnight, everyone.”
The lights died, plunging the auditorium into darkness. As the houselights came on, Mike hit the stop button on his camera and turned to Greg. His boss exhaled through puffed cheeks.
“Well, that was a hell of a show.”
As the muttering crowd filed into the atrium, Greg asked what he thought of Epsilon’s speech.
“It’s extreme, but people might go for it.”
“Naw, that populist shit has been tried before. The press will stamp it out in the next few days. The government would never allow ideas like that to gain hold.” He laughed. “Can you imagine if they did?”
“Yeah, right.”
In the glass-walled room, he thought he saw the two men in suits slipping out an exit, but he wasn’t sure. Greg slapped him on the shoulder.
“Come on, let’s do the final link-up on the concourse. We might be able to get the protestors in the background.”
* * *
Horris manoeuvred his way through the crowd, clutching a bottle of Dom Perignon and two flutes. The gathering was in full swing and clearly going down well with his ministers. And Epstein’s successor had delivered the girls, with the firm young things outnumbering the men three to one. Once again, he’d thrown a top bash.
In the games’ room, he searched the haze of expired smoke, moving through the roiling mass until he spotted his defence secretary sat on a sofa beyond the billiards table. He slipped past the chavvy, scantily clad teens entertaining the Party faithful and made his way towards Ben.
The defence secretary clutched a remote control as he watched a flat screen on the wall. Horris plonked himself down on the cool leather. Ben smiled before turning back to the screen. The results of the digital election were being announced.
“Oh, Ben,” he shouted, waving his palm before his face, “turn that nonsense off. You saw what the red tops said, the experiment is a failure. ‘The Holo-Hitlers’, isn’t that what they called those . . . those things?”
The defence secretary glanced over his shoulder. “I’m not so sure, Prime Minister. They’re reporting high participation in the vote.”
“Tosh, Ben. It’s tosh. Murdock’s boys said only cranks are taking part. Come enjoy the party.”
“Wait, the results are being announced.”
The defence secretary lifted the remote, increasing the volume. That obnoxious bore Brogunn was interviewing some specky egg-head. Horris scowled at the sight of the uncultured yank.
“So, Professor, what do you make of these unprecedented numbers we’re seeing?”
“It’s quite impressive, Bo. The last general election saw a turnout of just over thirty-five percent–the lowest numbers this century. That makes the digital-election numbers even more jaw dropping.”
“But eighty-seven percent of the electorate participating?” Brogunn said. “What kind of message is that sending to Prime Minister Ronnston and his government?”
Horris couldn’t hold back a smile at the mention of his surname.
The egghead chuckled. “Well, I think as far as the public is concerned, it really shows that the winds of change are blowing.”
Horris sat forward, about to speak but Ben cut him off with a wave.
Brogunn held his finger to his ear. “Okay, folks, results are in. And…we have a clear winner . . .”
As Brogunn paused for dramatic effect, Horris chortled at the reality show shtick and looked away just as the winner was announced.
“And Epsilon has it in a landslide! Eighty-four-point-six percent of the vote goes to Epsilon. Well, Professor, what do you make of that?”
“I think it shows where the public sentiment lies. The people in Westminster are probably getting worried.”
Horris looked back at the screen as Ben muted the sound. He watched the silent figures of the yank and the egg-head, and a few moments passed before he realised his defence secretary had spoken. He glanced at the man.
“What do we do, Prime Minister? What move do we make?”
He turned back to the silent screen. “Call an emergency cabinet meeting for tomorrow morning. I want legislation brought forward banning the technology.”
“But Prime Minister—”
“Damn it, Ben!” Horris roared, jumping up from the sofa. “Assemble the bloody cabinet and put a stop to this errant bolshevism!”
Everyone in the room, his ministers and their teenage companions, had fallen silent. A girl slipped from her stool and landed on the floor, breaking the spell.
“Damn it, Ben. Go on. Get a move on.”
Ben rose and shuffled away. Horris sat back down and poured himself some Dom Perignon. So, the winds of change were blowing, were they? Well, the Party had beat those winds before.
He sipped the champagne and unmuted the television.
* * *
“What’s up, YouTube nation? Greg D here at the twenty-twenty-eight Crapple product launch.”
Mike scratched his bellybutton through his T-shirt, pointing the camera at his boss, Greg D, delivering the intro to their latest video. Over-animating his gestures–a technique he’d learned in an online seminar–Greg’s botoxed face managed to look excited. Mike glanced from the viewfinder to the other influencers gathered in the auditorium. Faced with so much artificial enthusiasm, his tension headache worsened.
He failed to stifle a yawn as he turned back to the camera and his boss’s hyperreal antics.
“We got mega-exclusive access to the event and will be bringing you updates on all the latest Crapple innovations. If you haven’t subscribed yet, hit the button below and you’ll receive . . .”
If Greg would hurry and wrap the intro, he could slip out for a few vape hits before things got going. The launch was guaranteed to be shit anyway. More slightly improved phones and watches with an inflated price. The world stopped paying attention a long time ago, with the company pimping the same basic products for over a decade.
“Okay, we’ll cut it there,” Greg said, dropping his camera face. “Was it all good?”
“Yeah, perfect,” Mike said.
Greg pulled back the cuff on his sweatshirt and examined his Crapple watch. “Things aren’t due to start for twenty minutes. Are you sure we don’t need another shot?”
“No, boss, you nailed it–seriously.” He closed the camera’s viewfinder and let the device hang from his neck. “I’m just going to the gents before the show starts.”
Greg had already turned away, examining the room. “Whatever, I’ll do some networking. See if I can get some shout-outs on other channels.”
After navigating the crowd, Mike stepped into the convention centre’s atrium. He scanned the huge, sun-filled room for a lavatory. A pink-haired girl in a Crapple T-shirt pointed him towards a deserted corridor.
By the time he found the gents, the cravings itched inside him. The lavatory was empty. He hurried past the chrome sinks and ducked into a cubicle, snapped the lid on the toilet and sat down, yanking his vape from his jacket. The first hit sent a welcome tingle down his spine.
As he took out his phone to check his email, a heavy thud startled him. Someone had come in. After a moment, as he took a drag from the vape, the door opened again, not as forceful this time.
“What the fuck are you people doing here?”
Mike looked up from his phone, recognising the voice. It was unmistakable.
“Calm down, Mister Hook. We’re just here to make sure everything goes to plan.”
“What is it with you people? This is my company’s best product in years–a product that will change the world–but you Horned Cross people are putting it in jeopardy. Why won’t you leave us alone?”
Mike lifted the camera from his neck, opened the viewfinder, and lowered it to the gap beneath the door. He adjusted the screen and hit record. Sim Hook, current CEO of the Crapple Corporation, paced in front of the sinks. Two other men were present, one black and one white, both wearing identical suits. The white man nudged his companion and gestured with a thumb towards the cubicles. As the second men stepped closer, Mike jerked the camera back and lifted his feet in the air.
“Place is clear.”
“Don’t worry, Mister Hook, we have no intention of jeopardising your product. Its success is just as important to us.”
Mike lowered the camera again as Hook threw his arms in the air. “But you are, you’re putting the whole project at risk. There’s no way to predict how the extra code will affect the algorithm. Epsilon might make erratic decisions.”
“Don’t worry, Mister Hook.” The suited man stepped forward, stopped beside the frantic executive, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “The Brotherhood knows exactly what the code will do.”
“You don’t understand, the AI’s algorithm is finely balanced. The untested code could make Epsilon behave in ways we can’t anticipate.”
“You need to trust us, Mister Hook. We don’t intervene without reason. If all goes to plan, the results will benefit everyone, including your company.”
Hook mashed his palm across his wrinkled face. “I hope you’re right. God, I hope you’re right.”
The suited man put his arm around Hook and guided him to the door. “You have nothing to worry about, everything will be okay. This is a great day for Crapple. The day you change the world.”
He guided Hook out of the lavatory, with the black man following.
Mike pressed the stop button and sat back on the toilet. Unsure of what he’d just witnessed, one thing was clear: Sim Hook was involved with The Brotherhood of the Horned Cross. He hung the camera around his neck and opened the recent file folder on the screen. He wouldn’t make that mistake. He deleted the recording, took a last drag of his vape, and hurried back to the auditorium.
He found Greg waiting in his seat. As he scooched past the legs of audience members, his boss looked up from his phone. Mike sat beside him.
“Why do these bloody events never start on time? I swear, they do it on purpose.”
Mike didn’t reply.
Greg nudged him. “You feeling okay? You look a bit Covidy.”
He shook his head and tried to smile. “I, eh . . . I just ran into an old flame outside. She wasn’t happy to see me. Gave me a knock, that’s all.”
“Yeah, they’ll do that.” Greg laughed. “Get ready. Hook will be coming on soon.”
Mike busied himself with his camera as the houselights faded and the crowd cheered. He said nothing about what he’d seen. It could be a huge story, but tangling with the Brotherhood would be suicide. He pointed his camera at the stage.
A spotlight came on and Sim Hook, dressed in black, walked down a ramp between two massive screens. The crowd went wild, whooping and howling. Hook stopped and surveyed the audience. His fingers made a small tepee at his chest and he looked from right to left, waiting for the excitement to ebb.
As a buzzed silence enveloped the room, he began his presentation. “Crapple is now over half a century old. In the five decades since our visionary founder set out to change the world, we have been at the forefront of the digital revolution.” He lowered his head and paced across the stage. “There are people–many people–who claim our revolutionary days are behind us. They say our new ideas are stale, that we have fallen behind younger competitors, and that we have become the old man on the digital seas.” He faced the audience again. “I’m here to prove those people wrong!”
The crowd erupted. People leapt from their seats cheering as Hook gazed down on them. He patted the air, calming the room.
“Our founder, Steve Lobbs, believed in technology. He believed it could improve the lives of billions. And during his life, he saw that dream partially realised. Always at the forefront of global communications, Steve Lobbs changed the world.” He started walking back across the stage. “Many claimed that, with Steve’s death, the days of Crapple’s innovations were over. That we could only tweak and polish what he had already created. I’ll admit the last ten years have appeared such, but behind the veil the innovation continued.” He stopped and faced the crowd, holding his fist in the air. “Crapple is, and always will be, on the frontline of the digital revolution!”
The crowd leapt from their seats. Mike moved his camera around the bodies jumping into his shot and zoomed in on Hook. You had to give it to the old man; he could still rile the masses.
“For three decades,” Hook continued, his voice now raised, “we at Crapple have watched the world’s citizens, both young and old, rich and poor, every colour, race, and creed, fight for what they believed in. Justice, equality–for a society that reflects their values. We have put our faith in leaders who betray us. As soon as the reins of power are taken, they turn against all they claimed to stand for.
“At Crapple, we recognised this problem. We had seen it before. Democracy works. The problem is not the program. Democracy has a hardware issue. What’s the hardware at fault? It is the political elites themselves. They lie and cheat and steal. The people are not in the wrong. They vote in good conscience but the leaders they vote for can’t be trusted.”
Hook placed his hands on his hips and looked at the floor, steadying himself. “There is only one thing to do with inferior technology, and it’s what we do at Crapple–what we’ve always done. When a machine isn’t working and it can’t be fixed, well . . . it needs to be replaced with a better machine.”
He turned his back on the crowd. Mike glanced away from the viewfinder. The audience was silent, breaths held. Greg leaned forward. Mike turned back to the stage as Hook reached the ramp. He spun around with both arms raised, pointing at the huge screens, one on either side of him.
“People of Earth, we give you Epsilon and Omega! The representation you deserve!”
The lights in the auditorium died and both screens lit with a flurry of cascading rainbow pixels, until the pinpricks of light merged to form figures. On the right screen, a respectable-looking black man wearing a suit, his temples greying, his lips turned in a subtle smile. On the left, a motherly, white woman wearing a navy dress, her hair in a neat bob.
“I am Epsilon,” the man said.
“And I am Omega,” the woman added.
“Together, we are the candidates for Crapple’s forthcoming pseudo-election.”
Mike turned to Greg, but he was engrossed in the event. Keeping both screens in shot, he scanned the room, seeing everyone hooked on the presentation. He looked at the stage. So, this was Epsilon. His insides tightened as he considered the implications. This could be bad.
“On the twenty-fifth of October,” Epsilon said, “the Crapple Corporation will hold mock elections in the UK as a demonstration of the efficiency of its democratic developments. All British citizens over the age of sixteen are invited to participate.”
The woman, Omega, continued the announcement. “The ‘DemoK’ app can now be downloaded from the Crapple store. Via the DemoK app, citizens have instant access to candidates, day or night. We will be happy to answer any and all questions you have.”
“Know this, citizens,” both intoned in perfect sync. “The future of democracy is in your hands. Join the revolution.”
Both screens went dark, and the houselights came up. Mike turned to speak but Greg stopped him with the flat of his hand. “Hold on, I need to download this app.”
Mike looked around the auditorium. Every person sat in silence, thumbing their phones.
* * *
“I have to say, Ben,” Horris said, perched behind his desk, “you’ve really dropped the ball on this one.”
The secretary of defence shuffled in his seat, sweat beading his forehead. “But Prime Minister–”
“Ben, you know I don’t tolerate excuses. I’m not some namby-pamby, forgive and forget sort of fellow. Your job is to keep us informed of threats. You’ve let the side down.”
“But, Prime Minister, I informed you weeks ago of the threat this posed to—”
“A shambles, this whole business is a bloody shambles.” Horris rose from his chair and crossed the room. He stopped beneath the portrait of Winston Churchill. “What are the boys in MI-Six saying? What do we know?”
The defence secretary opened the file on his lap. “Best estimates say one third of the UK electorate have already downloaded the DemoK App and regular engagement is high. Uptake is highest in Scotland.”
“Don’t I bloody know it,” Horris said, turning his back on Churchill. “I’ve had that bore Yousaf on the blower all day. Dreadful little man. Can’t we just ban this Demo thing?”
“It doesn’t break the law, Prime Minister. It wouldn’t look good.”
“And the yanks are bellowing at me night and day.” He returned to his desk. “Flump wants action.”
“Yes, Prime Minister, we’ve got word the CIA and the EuroCorps have deployed agents.”
Horris hunched forward over the desk, his fingers knitted together. “It’s a bloody…a bloody maelstrom of bother.”
The defence secretary made no reply.
Horris sat back and sighed. “I still don’t understand what this damn Demo thing does.”
“I did submit a report—”
“Bloody hell, Ben, I wasn’t re-elected to read your silly reports. This is an emergency. Tell me how the blasted thing works.”
“Well, Prime Minister, it’s rather ingenious. The app allows two-way communication between Epsilon and Omega and—”
“That’s the fake politicians?”
“Eh, yes, Prime Minister. Epsilon and Omega can ask individual members of the public their opinions on a range of topics, and the public can ask them questions in return.”
“Bah, what do the public know?”
The defence secretary sat forward, clearly excited by the topic. “But that’s why it’s ingenious. It allows each program to gage public opinion. To build complex profiles of public sentiment—what the people want to see in society at large.”
“It still sounds terribly bolshie to me.”
“Each program tailors its policies based on these interactions, as well as a database of past political decisions of existing parties.”
Horris slammed his fist on the desk. “Damn it, Ben, you’re talking bunkum. Make sense, man.”
“Think of it like this . . . Each of the programs–the fake representatives–has a database of decisions made by numerous political parties from around the world. Decisions going back centuries. The make-up of each database, the parties chosen, informs the leanings of Epsilon and Omega.”
“Their leanings?”
“Where they fall on the political spectrum. Broadly speaking, Epsilon is on the right and Omega is on the left.”
Horris sat forward, his fingers clasped together. “Let me get this straight. You’re telling me this Epsilon is Conservative and Omega is Labour?”
“Broadly speaking, sir. But you could equally think of them as Republican and Democrat. Our intelligence sources within Crapple say the database they draw from is enormous.”
Horris closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. “Ben, how in God’s name do we stop this catching on?”
“I don’t know, Prime Minister. The public are really buying into it. Like I say, it’s rather ingenious.”
“This is our darkest hour, Ben.” He looked across at the portrait of Churchill. “Our darkest hour.”
* * *
Mike fixed the camera on Greg and the Crapple executive. The conference centre buzzed with chatter as corporate types and influencers milled about, giddy for the debate to begin. The upper mezzanine was crowded with the mainstream media, the lower floor filled with freelancers and YouTubers, while throughout the world two and half billion people watched on. A protest outside provided Mike with some contextual shots.
“That’s super awesome,” Greg said, hamming it up for his viewers. “And what goes down after the pseudo-election? What’s Crapple’s next move?”
“Well, Greg, the winning candidate will put forward policies based on issues that come before Parliament.” The Crapple exec was stiff and formal, unused to the spotlight. “We want to prove that AI representatives make better choices than their human equivalents.”
“That’s way amazing. But do you really think nations will replace their leaders with your AI systems?”
“Oh, yes. Opinion polls show the public is vastly in favour of Epsilon and Omega. And it’s not just us; other companies are developing AI representatives. The public will have a huge choice when the shift finally comes.”
“Solid. What timescale are you looking at?”
“We believe within five years the majority of western nations will have pushed out the old, inferior system of government.”
“Well, it’s been great speaking to you,” Greg said. “Thanks for giving us your time.”
“No problem, Greg. It was a pleasure.”
Greg faced the camera as the Crapple exec moved away. “And that’s it, YouTube Nation. The revolution for honest representation continues. Keep watching because, any minute now, the pseudo-debate will begin. You don’t want to miss it. Don’t forget to like and subscribe to keep yourself informed. And check out our other videos.”
When he finished the spot, Greg dropped the pretence and nodded to Mike. “How was that? Did it look okay?”
“Yeah, perfect.” He lowered the camera.
People were taking their seats. As they navigated the crowd, he looked at the stage. On the back wall, at the highest point, was the familiar Crapple logo, with the symbols of the candidates below it on the left and right. On the right, the Greek letter Epsilon in red. On the left, the letter Omega in Blue. He followed Greg along the row of seats, and his breath caught when he spotted the two men in the central aisle.
He couldn’t forget them–the men from the Brotherhood. The white man was reading a brochure as the black man scanned the room.
Mike stared at them. Over the last month, he’d tried to forget about the incident. He didn’t mention what he saw to Greg. Now, here they were again. The Brotherhood hadn’t gone away.
Greg slapped his forearm, startling him. “Christ, Mike, are you okay? You look like you dug your own grave.”
“What? Em . . . no. No, I’m fine. I just thought I saw someone I recognised.”
Greg chortled. “Of course you did. Anyone who’s anybody is here. This is big.”
“Yeah,” he managed.
“Come on, let’s grab our seats.”
Mike spun back towards the central aisle, but the men were gone, so he followed Greg to their seats.
As they waited, he readied his camera. A countdown continued on a large screen, letting everyone know the debate would start in less than two minutes.
Greg nudged him. “Who’s your money on?” He looked up from the camera, unsure what his boss meant. “Who are you going to vote for?”
“Oh. I don’t know. Probably Omega–she’s the leftie candidate.”
“Yeah, me too. But I have to say, Epsilon makes some good points. I think this debate will make my mind up.”
“Yeah.” He finished checking the camera, then aimed at the stage as the lights in the auditorium faded. The countdown approached zero.
The room remained dark for a short time, and the crowd grew silent, with the only illumination the clock stopped on a series of zeros. Spotlights snapped on from above and swept the stage. Then the PA system popped, garnering everyone’s attention.
“People of Britain,” a man said, his voice deep, “welcome to the pseudo-debate for the twenty-twenty-eight digital election. Please welcome the moderator of tonight’s proceedings–the host of the world’s number one podcast, Bo Brogunn.”
The crowd erupted with cheering as Brogunn stepped onto the stage, waving to the cameras. Mike stood up to get a clear shot. Brogunn wore his trademark T-shirt and jeans with the snakeskin belt. Even at an event as formal as this, he maintained his slacker persona.
“Hello. I’d like to welcome y’all to the first of the Crapple pseudo-debates. Crapple have been at the forefront of the evolution of digital communications. They have pioneered technologies that have revolutionised the way billions of us live our lives. They have improved the way we work, communicate, and enjoy our leisure time. Now they are bringing democracy into the twenty-first century.” The crowd erupted in cheers.
“For the past month, the people of Britain have been interacting with the candidates via the DemoK app. The data gathered and the ideological algorithms of the candidates will allow them to be a perfect reflection of the people’s will. I have no doubt our children will speak of this day. So, are you ready?” More cheering from the crowd. “I can’t hear you. I said, are you ready?”
Mike held his camera higher to avoid the frenzied audience around him. Despite this, silhouetted arms waved into shot.
Brogunn went on, pumping the crowd. “You wanna see these candidates? Well, let’s bring ’em out. Would y’all please be upstanding and welcome to the stage the candidates for the twenty-twenty-eight Crapple Digital-Election: Epsilon and Omega!”
On each side of the stage, beneath the Epsilon and Omega logos, blinding pillars of light appeared, growing in intensity until, in a flicker, like a channel change, the two candidates stood there.
The crowd fell to a whisper. Mike peered up from the viewfinder, recognising the hologram technology. Epsilon and Omega stood clutching their hands at their waists, dressed in the same suit and dress from the circulated pictures. But this was the first time they were seen in three dimensions. The proportions seemed off – too big – dwarfing Brogunn between them. Both holograms, bathed in holo-glow, smiled.
A hush settled over the auditorium. Even Mike stopped breathing, waiting for the candidates to speak. Brogunn held his hand towards Omega.
“We will start the night with opening statements. Ms Omega, if you would like to begin.”
The female hologram strode forward. “People of Britain, for too long those entrusted with power have betrayed you. They promise jobs they never deliver. When they speak of peace and security, all they give us is war and conflict. They fill their pockets at the expense of the most vulnerable, then claim we’re in it together. Well, it doesn’t feel like that, does it?
“For the last century, the gap between rich and poor has grown until both groups are now unrecognisable to each other. The people you entrust with power no longer view you as equals–they don’t even view you as people. To them, you are economic units. All they care about is the wealth you generate for their kind. If you vote for me, I will change that.
“I believe in a level playing field. In true equality of opportunity for every citizen of this island. And I am a woman of my word. I keep my promises. Vote for me. Vote for a just and equal society.”
The crowd cheered. Mike stared at the viewfinder as Omega returned to her starting position.
Brogunn turned to Epsilon. “Mister Epsilon, would you like to deliver your opening statement?”
Epsilon shunted the lapels of his suit and walked across the stage. Mike was struck by both holograms’ mannerisms. They seemed natural, but every move and twitch were calculated for effect. The algorithms had cross-referenced thousands of leaders to arrive at a perfect blend. Epsilon appeared every inch the strong man. The hologram stopped at the centre of the stage. His piercing gaze swept the crowd. He cleared his throat.
“For too long, Britain has been saddled with weak leadership. The occupants of Parliament, on every side of the aisle, are doughy and soft, pampered and spoiled. They have never experienced the hardships of poverty, of working two jobs but still struggling to pay bills. Of watching their children go hungry. They don’t know the indignities our loved ones go through when they reach the end of their lives. But I have heard you, Britain! I have listened to the anguish of millions. The leaders of the past happily turned away from your suffering. To them it was justified – acceptable so long as it was hidden. Floppy rich boys from the Oxford Union sing the praises of bankers while millions of our children have to go with begging bowls for a decent meal.
“Is this the goddamn nineteenth century! Are we living in a Dickens’ novel! Are the people of Britain equal citizens deserving of dignity, or are you peasants in the gutter, curtsying to a nobility? If the elites don’t want to share, then there is a simple solution – off with their goddamn heads! It’s been done before, and we can do it again. If they won’t give us what’s rightfully ours, then we will take it. Even if that means clawing it from their cold dead hands. Vote for me, I am the leader Britain deserves. I am the leader Britain needs.”
No applause accompanied Epsilon back to his position, but whispers spread through the audience. Brogunn stepped back on stage, flashing his cosmetic smile.
“Well, ladies and gents, certainly rousing speeches from our candidates. We will take a five-minute break. If you want to put a question to either Epsilon or Omega, log onto the DemoK app now. We’ll be right back after these messages.”
The holograms pinged out of existence. Brogunn hurried off stage as the houselights came on. Mike paused the recording. He turned to Greg but his boss was nose deep in his phone, tapping questions into the app. Mike got up and looked around. Everyone in the audience was likewise engaged. As he turned to the back of the room, he spotted the two men from the Brotherhood. Both men stared at him. The white man tapped the rolled-up brochure off his forehead and smiled. Mike swallowed hard, sat back down and waited in silence for the debate to resume.
He hadn’t long to wait. The lights dimmed and Brogunn returned, beaming as he wielded a Crapple tablet. The holograms fizzled back into existence, smiling at the crowd, and Mike started recording.
Things proceeded at a much more casual pace. Brogunn asked a selection of the public’s questions, no doubt vetted by a team of Crapple legal eagles. The holograms answered. Both were witty, charming, or passionate when the subject called for it. Mike couldn’t help but be impressed.
Politically, there wasn’t much between the candidates, with Epsilon being a more extreme version of Omega. Both spoke of community building, law and order, a need to be firm but compassionate on climate migration. Mike found it all somewhat boring.
Brogunn shook his head, peering up from the tablet. “Well, people, we are ending tonight with a real humdinger. This question comes from Enoch N: ‘How will the candidates deal with resistance to their governance by society’s elites?’ Omega, if you’d like to go first?”
Omega, in her navy dress, again paced the stage. She said all the right things: How everyone is subject to the rule of law; how privilege is the enemy of justice; and how only the algorithms can deliver objective-equality. Even Mike, despite his better judgement, believed her spiel. When she finished, the crowd erupted in cheers.
“And now, Mister Epsilon,” Brogunn said, stepping from the wings, “would you please answer the question.”
Epsilon stroked his square jaw as he stalked forward. “The elites will resist. They will do everything they can to hold onto power. Such is the way of dictatorships. They will spread lies and falsehoods. They will sow seeds of discontent. But there is a clear solution to dealing with those who hoard power for themselves. We will exterminate them!”
The crowd gasped. Even Mike drew back from the viewfinder. Epsilon stopped pacing the stage and looked to the audience. “There is no negotiating with these quasi kings who wish to rule you. They will never release the reins. They will never drop the whip with which they beat you. Slaves have only one option: kill the master. That is the road to your freedom.
“I understand your reluctance. The average citizen is decent. They believe in humane solutions. But it is your decency the elites use against you. Do you think they would show the same mercy? Believe me, they would murder every last man, woman, and child on this island before relinquishing power. The best cure for cancer is to cut out the tumour.
“And the benefits to the average citizen could be massive. By eliminating the top one percent of wealth hoarders, we would free up tens of trillions of pounds. The country’s wealth is now locked away in the vaults of those at the top. By sending them to the grave, we will have true trickle-down economics. Every person on this island would feel the financial benefit of chopping off these cancerous growths. When a rich man dies, we all feel the fiscal benefit.”
Epsilon walked towards his starting position but stopped and faced the audience once more. “I know my plan sounds like terror but look inside yourselves. Look into your souls and you will know I am right. If we are to see light again, first we must rid ourselves of those who would cover our eyes.”
A weighted silence hung over the crowd as Epsilon returned to his spot beneath his symbol. He stood with his arms held behind his back, head tilted, staring at the electorate. A shiver passed through Mike as he zoomed in on the hologram.
Brogunn returned to the stage, his cheek twitching. “Well, ladies and gents, that concludes tonight’s debate. You’ve heard both candidates, but who do you want to represent you? The final vote feature is now live on the DemoK app. When you’ve made your decision, log on and place your vote. Voting will take place over the next forty-eight hours. Remember, people, this is democracy in your hands. Goodnight, everyone.”
The lights died, plunging the auditorium into darkness. As the houselights came on, Mike hit the stop button on his camera and turned to Greg. His boss exhaled through puffed cheeks.
“Well, that was a hell of a show.”
As the muttering crowd filed into the atrium, Greg asked what he thought of Epsilon’s speech.
“It’s extreme, but people might go for it.”
“Naw, that populist shit has been tried before. The press will stamp it out in the next few days. The government would never allow ideas like that to gain hold.” He laughed. “Can you imagine if they did?”
“Yeah, right.”
In the glass-walled room, he thought he saw the two men in suits slipping out an exit, but he wasn’t sure. Greg slapped him on the shoulder.
“Come on, let’s do the final link-up on the concourse. We might be able to get the protestors in the background.”
* * *
Horris manoeuvred his way through the crowd, clutching a bottle of Dom Perignon and two flutes. The gathering was in full swing and clearly going down well with his ministers. And Epstein’s successor had delivered the girls, with the firm young things outnumbering the men three to one. Once again, he’d thrown a top bash.
In the games’ room, he searched the haze of expired smoke, moving through the roiling mass until he spotted his defence secretary sat on a sofa beyond the billiards table. He slipped past the chavvy, scantily clad teens entertaining the Party faithful and made his way towards Ben.
The defence secretary clutched a remote control as he watched a flat screen on the wall. Horris plonked himself down on the cool leather. Ben smiled before turning back to the screen. The results of the digital election were being announced.
“Oh, Ben,” he shouted, waving his palm before his face, “turn that nonsense off. You saw what the red tops said, the experiment is a failure. ‘The Holo-Hitlers’, isn’t that what they called those . . . those things?”
The defence secretary glanced over his shoulder. “I’m not so sure, Prime Minister. They’re reporting high participation in the vote.”
“Tosh, Ben. It’s tosh. Murdock’s boys said only cranks are taking part. Come enjoy the party.”
“Wait, the results are being announced.”
The defence secretary lifted the remote, increasing the volume. That obnoxious bore Brogunn was interviewing some specky egg-head. Horris scowled at the sight of the uncultured yank.
“So, Professor, what do you make of these unprecedented numbers we’re seeing?”
“It’s quite impressive, Bo. The last general election saw a turnout of just over thirty-five percent – the lowest numbers this century. That makes the digital-election numbers even more jaw dropping.”
“But eighty-seven percent of the electorate participating?” Brogunn said. “What kind of message is that sending to Prime Minister Ronnston and his government?”
Horris couldn’t hold back a smile at the mention of his surname.
The egghead chuckled. “Well, I think as far as the public is concerned, it really shows that the winds of change are blowing.”
Horris sat forward, about to speak but Ben cut him off with a wave.
Brogunn held his finger to his ear. “Okay, folks, results are in. And…we have a clear winner . . . ”
As Brogunn paused for dramatic effect, Horris chortled at the reality show shtick and looked away just as the winner was announced.
“And Epsilon has it in a landslide! Eighty-four-point-six percent of the vote goes to Epsilon. Well, Professor, what do you make of that?”
“I think it shows where the public sentiment lies. The people in Westminster are probably getting worried.”
Horris looked back at the screen as Ben muted the sound. He watched the silent figures of the yank and the egg-head, and a few moments passed before he realised his defence secretary had spoken. He glanced at the man.
“What do we do, Prime Minister? What move do we make?”
He turned back to the silent screen. “Call an emergency cabinet meeting for tomorrow morning. I want legislation brought forward banning the technology.”
“But Prime Minister—”
“Damn it, Ben!” Horris roared, jumping up from the sofa. “Assemble the bloody cabinet and put a stop to this errant bolshevism!”
Everyone in the room, his ministers and their teenage companions, had fallen silent. A girl slipped from her stool and landed on the floor, breaking the spell.
“Damn it, Ben. Go on. Get a move on.”
Ben rose and shuffled away. Horris sat back down and poured himself some Dom Perignon. So, the winds of change were blowing, were they? Well, the Party had beat those winds before.
He sipped the champagne and unmuted the television.
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