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Chapter 7

It was the most unprofessional thing she’d done. For the love, Blythe scolded herself for the fiftieth time,
what the hell was
that?
Who do you think you are? Who?

Would he come back? Now what? They needed to finish the patent, and not only for monetary reasons. Ramone’s creation was rational society’s answer to the problem of the feeds.

Nine o’clock. Darkness clung to the large windows in her office. She hovered at one, arms crossed, feeling chilled as she stared at the glittering lights of the monolithic office towers jutting into the night sky of downtown. The Tiffany lamp on her desk was turned down, casting rainbow hues across the glossy surface of her desk.

She drew a shuddering breath and closed her eyes. The mortification of Ramone running off without warning hung over her, a dark cloud showering her with negativity and scathing self-recrimination.
You deserved that response. What did you expect? Get yourself together.
And she knew she would. If there was one thing she could do, it was pretend that nothing was amiss and go about her business in a cold, calculating manner.

Turning from the window, she saw the patent application arranged carefully in the center of her desk. Ramone had dropped them before he fled. Her shoulders collapsed inward slightly at the reminder and she leaned against the back of her desk chair, bowing her head and closing her eyes. A quivering hand went to her brow just before she stood straighter and ignored the ache between her ribs.

The muffled ringing of her cell phone disturbed the suffocating silence. She reached into her briefcase and pulled it out, her breath catching in her throat.

It wasn’t Ramone.
Why would it be
? “Peter.”

“Where are you?”

“The office.”

“I’m just leaving. I thought I’d say goodbye, but . . .”

“There’s no need. Just go.”

“I have all my stuff. This is it.”

“Have a good time.”

“For hell’s sake, Blythe.”

She pressed her lips together to stop the obscenities. “Tell her hello from me, and remind her of your disability. A friendly warning from me.”

Peter laughed. There was a morbid tone to it, as though he didn’t actually find humor in the situation. “It wasn’t just me, Blythe.”

“Oh yes, I know, Peter. It was us.
Our
problem. The problem of a cold, frigid wife.”

He sighed. “More than that. It’s the situation. I’m not blaming you, exactly.”

“I’m blaming you, however. At some point, I know I’ll be over it. For now I require a scapegoat.”

“I love you Blythe. I do. I wish you no ill will.”

“That’s fantastic, for you. In this case, the witness is a liar. A jury would have a hard time believing your words when your actions say otherwise. And I agree with the jury.”

“Well, as Bob Hope once said, ‘Thanks for the memories.’ I guess.”

“Bob Hope? Really? Bob Hope, Peter? Just shut up and go.” It was the coldest thing she could say without letting her tone become more vicious.

“The house is yours.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

There was no click, just the absence of Peter as the call ended. She collapsed dejectedly into her desk chair and stared at the partial glass door leading away from her office. A few of her colleagues remained, working late, but no one Blythe desired anything from. There was only one person she desired.

Closing her eyes, she recalled the electrical moment when all had clicked into place and the most unlikely of events had occurred. She moved toward him, deciding the moment. And he had moved toward her, pressed himself against her, his hand—so perfectly shaped and roughly elegant—slid across her back and pulled her closer. For a moment she felt small and fragile. He touched her and kissed her in a careful way. It was nothing like she expected. Nothing like the rough way in which Peter had begun to handle her.

Peter.
Blythe hadn’t been able to stay abreast of his changes. He was a stranger, as much as she’d tried to keep pace with him. 

The cameras had changed everything. The feeds sprouted, then Peter’s addictions to the feeds—all of them—and with it, his lust to become a star. First he watched them hungrily. Then he began to shape his life in a way to make a name for himself.

Blythe cringed.
Make a name for himself.
It was a mantra for him. “If I can make enough money, you won’t have to work any more, Blythe.” He often repeated.

“But I like my work.” She would say. He didn’t listen.

She sat forward suddenly. “Fucking feeds,” she growled. Then, quickly, before she could change her mind or think too hard about it, she pulled her slate out and began scouring the feeds.

With a slow hiss of concern, she found what she’d been looking for. Ramone.

Something was wrong. He was lying on the floor somewhere—in his house, she presumed. His face was streaked with tears and red marks—scratches, it looked like. Her stomach twisted.
Is this my fault?
She felt a moment’s revulsion at the realization that Ramone’s suffering was being broadcast. She had avoided the feeds as much as possible, hating the voyeuristic feeling they engendered in her.

It was too much. If it was her fault, she had to do something.

In seconds her phone was against her ear. It rang, and as it rang, she watched, waiting for him to answer.

He didn’t move. An odd, ill-fitted song played as he lay there, the camera swirling above him, making the room seem to swim in a dizzying fashion, as though to imply the downward spiral the man had taken into despair.

Indignation swelled in Blythe for the publication of Ramone’s distress—so cheaply done, so cruelly advertised as though he were not a man, but an actor who felt no true pain. She swallowed a cough, a lurching ache to shield him from the cameras and sooth him.

Ending her call, she punched in his home address, pulled from the unfinished patent application. The GPS navigation application began directing her. He was married, Blythe knew. But something must be done. Had to be done. This was her fault.

He stared without seeing, motionless, his face frozen in a grimace. Before turning off her slate and rushing to the parking garage, she took a deep breath, letting the fury of his public exposure force her from her chair on a course to find him.     

*****

Looking into the bathroom mirror, Elliot leaned close and straightened his bowtie, his pale spindly fingers grasping the black corners of cloth like spider legs. With a deliberate adjustment and a reassuring pat, he finished, sighed and went into the front room.

His mother snoozed in the recliner, her breasts sinking into her large stomach, her mouth open, emitting a light snore. The paper thin TV above the fireplace displayed some terribly violent feed. He shook his head in dismay.
She’d be having nightmares after those sorts of images.

He debated waking her, but glanced at his watch and decided not to. It was getting late. Having a conversation about what he was going to go do would only slow him down. Ghosteye had seemed to think now would be the ideal time for the interview. Elliot’s mother would only ask more questions about his work. “Where are you going, Elliot, leaving me by myself here? What sort of job takes you out into the streets at this time of day? You keep me trapped up here, watching this rot and expect me to not wonder where my only son is going out of the blue?”

No, it was better to slip away and let her doze. He’d probably make it back before she woke up. As long as he left the feed going. It seemed to insulate her sleep.

In minutes, Elliot was on the road, leaving his neighborhood behind, following the directions programmed into his car, listening to the computer’s readings about the subject of scrutiny.

“Subject is currently emotionally incapacitated. Subject will respond well to light interrogation due to emotional imbalance. Subject has recently experienced an unforeseen tragedy.”

As Elliot drove, the computer continued to explain the situation, the vital signs of the subject, the risks, and the purpose of the inquiry. Part of his attention focused on the road, part of it went over possible scenarios and outcomes. His speed increased as the computer announced the possible interruption of a female—one source of the subject’s emotional derailment—on her way to intercept the subject.

As Elliot understood it, the subject was the man responsible for the current surveillance system—what the hoi polloi called the feeds, entertainment, stardom. Elliot would be in prison without the reprieve of their existence. He and others like him had been branded sociopaths, torturers, and serial killers before the feeds, before the niche had opened its welcoming arms. He was none of those evil things. He preferred the term information extraction specialist. What he did took careful calculation and a steady hand. He needed to think slowly, deliberately, but also be ready to apply pressure at the right moments. Men like him fit a certain profile. Enforcers. The law was more important than the flesh. The flesh receded before the law. And men were needed to enforce the law.

“Subject has been deemed Risk Factor 7 for 3.6 years. Risk Factor increased to level 9 40.3 hours ago when Editor #000451D503 reported an increase in behavior imbalances.”

Ghosteye would be putting together several false feeds at the moment—one for Elliot and one for the subject. Elliot would be putting on his latex gloves in five minutes according to the computer’s ETA. Intervention from the female, should she arrive before Elliot was finished, would be something Elliot would have to take care of. He didn’t relish these things. But they were required. It was part of the job. The system was too important to let anyone tamper with it.

*****

Ghosteye felt sick. He worked quickly, if a little sluggishly, editing together the cover for when the Enforcer arrived and interrogated Ramone.

On Ghosteye’s main three screens, Ramone could still be seen starring blankly into space, the tears now dry, but the red welts on his face prominent where he’d scratched at his cheeks, evidently not quite committed to tearing out his eyes.

“Air Supply, yeah. That’s what this calls for,” the voice of the Editor working on Marci’s feed said in Ghosteye’s left ear. “‘Making Love Out of Nothing at All.’ Classic. See how it fits?”

“No, I don’t, please tell me,” Ghosteye said, feeling exasperated with the obnoxious banter.

The Editor paused in chewing his gum, the internal sounds of his mouth coming through the microphone. Ghosteye groaned quietly, wishing the transmitter had a pop filter. “Come on, man. She’s on her way to find the old guy—making love out of nothing at all. He doesn’t know her. She’s making love out of nothing. Get it? Thanks for passing this on to me, by the way. It’s great. I love this shit. I’m used to working on the jack-ass stuff. The daredevils, you know. There’s no nuance there. Just flat out insanity.”

Ghosteye sighed. “I didn’t give it to you. I told my contact I couldn’t juggle three feeds at once.”

“What? Come on, man. Three feeds? I could do that in my sleep.” He laughed. “You already put up a link to the feed on the old guy’s feed, right, so mine will get traffic?”

“His name’s Ramone, Needles, and stop saying feed so much.”

“Whoa, didn’t mean to offend. Didn’t know you guys were friends.”

“I’m working, ok, just keep it down.”

“We’re both working.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t working, I just said I’m working, and I’m putting together a cover for the interrogation. I need to think for a minute.”

“Right. I can do the cover for you, if you want. You sound stressed.”

“It’s fine. I’ve got it.”

“Just saying. I could do you a favor, Ghosteye.”

“I don’t need any favors. Just do your job, Needles: making the college-girl’s feed interesting.”

“So you don’t like my Air Supply idea?”

“It’s fine. I don’t really care. It’s not my choice, but whatever.”

“Have you got something against Air Supply?”

“No, man, I just think it’s mundane.”

“Right, like Neil Diamond’s mundane. Abba. The Bee Gees. Def Leppard. Everything that has mass appeal. The songwriters who can really tug on the heart-strings.”

“If you don’t shut up, I’m going to turn you off.”

“How many number one hits does a band have to have before you can admit their greatness?”

“All of them.” Ghosteye hit disconnect. He sighed into the quiet and smiled. Finally. He hated talking to people, especially when it was empty and meaningless. Needles apparently didn’t feel the same.

That could happen with some of the Editors—the ones who weren’t true introverts like Ghosteye. Working so long in isolation, watching other people living real lives—even the fake lives—you forgot the sound of your own voice and how it felt to speak and relate to a person. Being sympathetic to Needles’ loneliness didn’t make it easier for Ghosteye to put up with the boorish conversational tactics.