Voice of the People
by John K. Gibbons
Illustration by Darryl Elliott
The VTOL Guard transport filled Stan Martell with dread. This stub-winged stark killing machine had invaded his airport, his arcology—and at his request. War and ruin, desolation and destruction: the images had driven him, but they had been distant, abstract… until now.
There Siemens was, at the aircraft’s door. He shaded his eyes against the Sun’s glare, then strode down the steps with the arrogance of a conquistador claiming a new land.
How could the bastard look so young? Jet-black hair—what was left of Martell’s own had been gray for years, and his carefully trimmed beard was completely white.
“General Siemens, good to see you again.”
“It’s Rick, Stan. We’ve known each other long enough for that.” Siemens grasped his outstretched arm. “What the hell’s with this dipshit airport?”
Martell laughed. “Maybe you can do something about that if we get you elected senator. I thought you’d retired? The Guard still seems to look out after you.”
“The Osprey?” He waved at the attack transport behind him. “There’re a few perks of being an elder statesman. You’ve done right well, too, building yourself this city in a bottle.”
“Martco’s building this place. I have my own company, Synergetics.”
“Old son, you were talking about arcologies in college. It is Martco, and you are Martell.”
“There are a few perks of being the founder’s son.” Trust Siemens to find a raw nerve. Martell had dreamed of arcologies back in the seventies because they were beautiful and efficient. Now at the turn of the century he had the chance to build one, but only because the nation’s cities were drowning in sewage and blood.
Martell led the way to the terminal. Within, the air was blessedly cooler: the dry 80 degrees that Travis Towers kept on a summer day. He was blind to the familiar scene, his mind on the tasks ahead, his eyes on the general.
Siemens had been a cocky bastard even back at UT, his self-confidence unshaken by the Vietnamese POW camp. In his late fifties, he glowed with power, a choreographed balance of energies. The media coverage of his reforged National Guard—the brutal suppression of LA gangs, pitched battles with Philadelphia drug dealers, fanatic celebrations at the Pittsburgh rally—all had mentioned the Guard’s fierce loyalty to Siemens, but hadn’t conveyed the sheer force of his personality.
Dare he vault this man to even higher power? Hundreds of millions of lives at stake: but those were projections. Yes, the threats were developing with terrible accuracy. The Islamic Federation now had as much megatonnage as Russia, and dozens of countries had the bomb. But how could any man, any group, make such decisions for the country—for the whole human race?
Not to decide, is to decide by default; muddling through is for morons. Hell He had sixteen hours, to settle his own doubts and to convince Siemens. The plan was to take the general up on the mountain tonight and show him the world; he wanted to be damn sure where they both stood before it got that far.
To Martell, the War Room was the heart of Synergetics. Recessed lights turned on as they entered; a dark mahogany conference table ran the length of the room. Martell gestured Siemens toward a seat, then opened a liquor cabinet. “Scotch?”
Receiving a nod, Martell poured for them both, then returned to the table. “That whole wall is a video screen, for data displays or virtual conference. The other side, behind us, overlooks Ops. Medea, pull back the drapes from the Ops window.”
With a faint whir, the heavy curtains drew to the sides. Siemens froze, glass halfway to his lips. “Is the computer always listening when you’re in here?”
Martell smiled. Interesting, what gave Siemens pause and what he took in stride. “You get used to it.” Below, four rows of consoles filled a large room. Operators wearing headsets and control gloves occupied half the seats. A large display on the far wall showed a map of Houston and an abstract, weaving pattern of colors. “Medea, how’s the poll going?”
“We have 213 calls in progress. Over 3,000 have been completed so far today.” Did Siemens recognize that warm contralto? He probably hadn’t heard Helen’s voice in vears, but she would be at the reception tonight. “Completions are nominal, at 86 percent of connections.”
“You keep saying Medea,” Siemens said. “I thought it was the Argos project.”
Martell shrugged. “We needed a more personal name for the AI itself.”
Siemens turned back to the balcony window and frowned. “A dozen operators and two hundred calls? Are they making the calls—or Medea?”
Martell looked up at a video camera mounted above the screen on the opposite wall; he thought of Medea as “being” there. “Can you handle that question?”
“I think so, Dr. Martell. Is this General Siemens?”
“Yes, Medea, General Richard Siemens.” She knew that—she kept his schedule, and had pictures of Siemens on file. Medea was getting feisty about manners as she learned more about them.
“General, it takes a large part of my capacity to handle a conversation such as this one. A telephone poll is simpler. I dial the call and start a standard script. If the party answers with a clear voice, and stays within the range of replies I’m expecting, I can handle a whole call with a limited agent, a small subset of my capacity.”
“And if they don’t?”
“That triggers a delaying routine and plays the response back for an operator. The operator classifies the response, and suggests how to continue the call, or abort it.”
“But you could figure that out yourself?” Siemens was leaning forward, staring at the camera as Martell had earlier.
“Yes, but not for that many calls at once,” said Medea. “Neither could so few operators actually talk to so many callers at once. It’s all a matter of making the best use of resources.”
Siemens relaxed and looked back at Martell. “Isn’t everything? Impressive. You set up all this for polling?”
“Polls, market research, telephone sales, election day get-out-the-vote.” Trends and patterns spotted from this room, and mathematical modeling of them, had germinated into sociodynamics. Here they had analyzed the deadly instability of the post-Cold War world, and formulated the plans leading to this meeting. “It can be a testbed, a simulator for any man-machine network. Synergetics is contracting a disaster plan for California, everything from engineering and logistics to panic control.”
“That must be a circus. You could run a war from up here.”
Martell grasped his arm, stared into his steely eyes. “This is a war.” Nor am I out oft, he thought to himself. “Just because there are no guns and bullets yet, don’t think it’s any less important.” Martell released Siemens’s arm and turned to look out over the consoles below. “The fate of the country, of the world, depends more on the politics of the next few years, than on any war we ever fought.”
The reception glittered with champagne fountains and petit fours, politicians and businessmen. A jazz quartet played at one end of the hall. This kind of set-piece of politics gave old pols and newcomers a chance to sniff each other over.
“General Siemens, have you met Secretary of State Samuel Pauli?”
“I don’t believe I have.” Siemens looked bemused. “Please excuse me, Secretary Pauli. I didn’t know Texas had a secretary of state—how many embassies have you got?”
Pauli laughed deeply, his silver mane of hair shaking. “None at the moment, General. My job is licenses and registrations, corporate charters and boring stuff like that.”