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It was at once relieving and distressing, not to have the female Charismite around Nuhope. I regained much fuller control of my ability to focus as I explored the enormous building in ghost mode. But it felt like there was a hole where she should have been. It took all my stamina not to visit the girl at Jizelle Reingold’s place. That’s where she was recovering from an overdose of Juice. Going there would be like stepping in mental quicksand. It would only slow me down.
The map that Luko had sketched out for me identified key transmission centers and corporate offices within the building’s 200 floors. There was plenty for me to investigate. Fifty-eight floors were filled with servers, which controlled the dreamisodes that Nuhope manufactured for people all over United America, and other parts of the world.
Because the dreamisode system was mostly automated, only a handful of people were roaming the server floors at any one time. I studied the staff’s routines and learned when certain areas would be vacant. It was easy to move around in ghost mode and inspect the massive black boxes that housed the controls without spooking someone when I flipped some levers or called up holographic info in the master control center.
I knew a fair bit about computer coding. However, it took me several days and a lot of trial and error to figure out the complex system. I was able to pull up a long menu list on a screen describing different groups of people receiving the dreamisodes. There was info about their age demo, where they lived, and economic standing. I selected one group, and the list immediately subdivided into a seemingly endless variety of narrower groups. They were categorized by certain behaviors and attitudes, as well as physical and mental traits.
When I selected a person’s name, information emerged, telling me about all the dreams they’d ordered in the past. It also showed all the commercial messages that Nuhope had seeded into them. Clicking on any one dream caused a hologram to emerge, and I could replay the sleeping experience.
It soon became clear that the lower down the social ladder a person was, the more messages they received in their dreams. It was typical for any Chav dreamisode to have five different instances of mental persuasion. There were story elements that heightened their sense of patriotism for United America. Others gave them a hankering for inexpensive stuff like candy or soap.
Teens might order up a dream about a sailing adventure, but the request got “tweaked” in the system. And they would become Navy Seals on dangerous missions, with surging adrenaline levels and euphoria as they conquered “enemies” in Venezuela and Bolivia.
Middles received dreamisodes with patriotic themes, like the Chav. But their storylines featured more expensive advertiser merch, things like mobiles, clothes, pharmaceuticals, cars, anything they could afford. The messages were entirely based on the system’s in-depth knowledge of their finances as well as their buying habits and desires.
I selected the name “Gladys Saget” at random—a 64-year-old Middle living in the Cincinnati Treasure Zone. Then I clicked on a dreamisode she’d ordered three days before. Up popped a holo in which she occupied the body of a sexy young version of herself. She was dancing with a shaggy-haired man with big red glasses. The conversation between them made it clear he was her long-ago lover. As the dreamisode progressed, he whisked her away from the nightclub in a hot little sports car she’d been lusting after in real life. They parked on a cliff overlooking the Pacific. There was a firework display that ended with a gigantic sparkling U.A. flag, a shower of blue and sizzling white stars.
Late one night, I keyed in my mother’s name, Bianca Ellington, to see what she’d been dreaming about. A long menu list sprang up, with uninteresting dream descriptions. But then I found one labeled “Jarat.”
As I clicked on my name, a holo sprang up, showing me as I had looked when I was 12. My mother and I were playing chess before a fire in the lodge where we’d stayed during ski vacations in Switzerland. All the resentment and impatience that I felt towards her in later years was missing. Adoration radiated between us. Tears welled in my eyes as I watched that long-ago feeling.
“Happy Birthday, Mums,” I said in her dream. That was my name for her back then; the system had even found that out. From under the table, my younger self pulled out a long slender box and gave it to her. She opened it up, and her green eyes widened with excitement when she found a stunning diamond-studded Cartier necklace inside.
I never would have given her that.
It had never been a secret that Nuhope was manufacturing dreams with commercial messages. But when the average person awoke, most of the messages became subliminal, residing in their subconscious mind. I wasn’t surprised to discover that the mind control was more profound than the average person could have known, but it was still shocking.
Another revelation was equally stunning: I could see how the dreamisodes deliberately manipulated emotions—elation, intense patriotism, serenity, anger, you name it. And the system could make the feelings linger on after we woke up. The Chav dreamisodes always had that after-effect.
The memory of Thom controlling my emotions in the dreamisode, how he refrained from making that calm state continue after I woke up, came back to me. And so did all those blithe expressions on the subway.
Outrage ran through every atom of my being. Don’t sound any alarms now. Don’t blow your cover. Keep investigating stuff, I counseled myself repeatedly.
One night, I inspected the office of Nuhope’s top research executive, Emilia Quant-Evans. She preferred to be called EQE. Flipping through some of her documents, I learned that she’d been conducting tests on Chav that used dreamisodes regularly. Whenever they were forced to stop using dreamisodes, it was tough on them. Levels of a chemical called cortisol would rise in their brain, sending them into a state of intense anxiety.
The dreamisode servers revealed that this wasn’t just affecting U.A. citizens (which was bad enough) but also people in the Republic of Europe.
Quant-Evans’ research also gave me an insider’s view of the Charismite’s power. I stood next to her one day as she and her top research team sifted through a seemingly endless quantity of information about the Riggles commercial. About 50 million people who never purchased Riggles gum went out and bought it in the first 24 hours after the promo dropped. Another 400 million, from all over the world, intended to buy some in the following week.
The stats sliced and diced the types of people who responded to the ad so minutely. It seemed ridiculous. There was probably a category for Chicago Zone single-parent 13-year-old Middles boys with acne who crushed out on certain pop stars, loved gochujang chili paste and had two Cocker Spaniels. That’s how laser-thin the groups could be.
“I don’t get it,” EQE said, scratching her arms in distraction. “Why did that commercial have that kind of draw?”
“The girl’s pretty amaz,” said one of her staffers, all bug-eyed. The holo of the commercial was playing. The Charismite’s lips were so juicy as the gum dropped in her mouth.
“Yes, but what is it about her? There are lots of hot little stars around,” EQE said. She pored over more data. “The only people who aren’t rampaging to the stores to buy some of that damned gum are outright women haters.”
The explosion in Riggles gum sales, all over the planet, had wiped out supplies in retail shops. And Riggles Corp. was having a hard time manufacturing enough of the stuff to satisfy all the demand. The Charismites’ message was by far the most-watched content on both the BaseNet and the OuterNet, shattering all previous records for views and “time spent watching” by about 1,000%.
Luscious Melada had become a star of the highest magnitude for appearing in a 30-second promo.
I couldn’t stop myself from watching the commercial at least 20 times, absolutely mesmerized by her other-worldly beauty. I knew more than just about anyone what the hell she was doing, and I couldn’t resist buying the last pack of friggin’ Riggles at my favorite food store in Queens.
# # #
ABOUT A WEEK AFTER the Charismite’s commercial dropped, I followed Dove Brown up to the 199th floor, where Rico Reingold and his top-tier team were located. The male Charismite seemed to be on a mission; he sailed so swiftly past the warren of cubicles on his air shoes.
“What’s he up to?” breathed a petite assistant with cheerleader charm standing next to her equally star-struck boss.
“He’s way, way above our pay grade, honey,” the boss said.
“Not in my dreamisodes,” the assistant said.
I caught up with the Charismite as he entered Reingold’s outer reception office. He paused before a woman with a muscular frame, polished black eyebrows, and chopsticks holding up a black bun. I knew from past visits to the floor that she was Turken, Reingold’s first assistant.
“He in?” Brown asked.
“Always for you.”
“Thanks, Turk.”
Brown zoomed down a private corridor, which was like walking down a glass-encased tunnel under the surface of a tropical sea.
As we entered his enormous inner sanctum, Reingold was barking into his mobile, “That ain’t cuttin’ it, Bubble Tea.”
Dove snorted at the nickname Bubble Tea, and it clearly rankled the Japanese woman on Rico’s air screen. All she said was, “Yes, Mr. Reingold.” I knew from past visits to Rico’s office that she headed up Nuhope’s Asian Commonwealth R&D team.
“Now, I want a new version on my desk in two weeks that’s under six ounces. Capiche?”
He winked at Brown like he was having all the fun in the world as the woman said, “But, but I-I just don’t know if we can do –”
“Thank you!” Dove swiped away the call.
“What’s that all about, the incredible shrinking luggage?” Brown asked.
“They got a 50-pound suitcase compressed down to 18 ounces and a foot square. But if peeps can’t put it in their back pocket when they board an aircraft, it just ain’t good enough.”
Rico blathered on. He wanted the shrunken suitcases to be about the size of a deck of cards (and weigh that amount too). Then they were supposed to decompress back up to full size when travelers reached their final destinations. Baggage claim would be a thing of the past if this product kicked in. It didn’t have much to do with Nuhope’s core entertainment business. But its board of directors wanted it to branch out into new product lines.
“Christ aw-mighty, what I got to do around here to get stuff up to snuff,” Rico said.
Dove fired up a smoking tube. “That Riggles spot is something else.”
“Told you Lush would be golden.” Reingold waved the air, turning off the surveillance system so they had some privacy. (Or so they thought.)
“Sure leaves me in the dust.”
“Now don’ get all jealous on me. Ain’t no reason for that. Stew is gonna cream his pants when he sees your latest results.” He was talking about Stewart Silverman, Nuhope’s president and CEO. “I had EQE in research do a special run of the numbers for your show. Ever heard of ratings?”
“Nope.”
“Used to use them back in the dinosaur era, before big-data breakouts took over. Percentage of all folks watching video that was tuned in to a particular show. In the 1980s, a top-ranked show would get something like a 20 rating across all demos—series like Cosby, Dynasty, stuff like that. You heard of those shows?”
A distant lightbulb went off in Brown’s brain. “I guess.”
“Usually, large audience demo numbers don’t mean shit-ola to advertisers today, because they’re only interested in a lot more granular info. But if they did care, they’d see that hit programs generally average about a .025 rating, given all the content options. But your show is averaging a 50.3 in the U.A. alone!”
Brown pretended to catch himself from falling off his air chair.
Rico went on: “Half of everybody logged on to the OuterNet and BaseNet is watching your show—everybody over the age of 2, that is. And people searching out any little thing you say or do on social is about 6 billion—about 50% of everybody on planet Earth. And the numbers keep going up. Want some coffee?”
“Nah. I’m good.”
“Ya know, I gotta admit, before you started appearing on air, I didn’t know for sure if this chemical quality of yours could transmit to the masses. Not only does that happen, but the commercial with Luscious proves that if I amp up the chems, the power increases.”
“Congrats. But don’t you think you should let Zinder know what’s going on? Tell him about the chems?”
Rico smirked at Brown’s anxious expression. “Why would I lay my cards on the table to somebody like that?”
“Because you can’t keep this a secret. Even if Lush and I stay mum—which we will—somebody’s going to get suspicious. Somebody will figure it out.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“So don’t hold back. Tell Zinder.”
“Not yet.”
“He’s the Vice President of the country! He’s chairman of this freaking company! Do you want him to come down on you?”
“Calm down. I will tell him, eventually. But right now, that would be a can of worms.”
“How come?”
“He’d want me to shoot him up with chems. And he’s like me—too old and too plain to make it work. The whole thing would backfire. No telling who he’d confess to. Before we know it, you, me, and Lush would be under investigation.”
Brown put his head in his hands, mashing his hair in frustration.
“On the other hand,” Reingold continued, “if we keep this on the Q.T. for a while, you could become President of the U.A.”
Brown looked up in shock, then let out a weak laugh. “You’re off your rocker.”
Reingold was dead serious. “Watch this hat trick: Silverman is set to retire in the not-too-distant future, and I become CEO of Nuhope. I just know that’s going to happen. Then Zinder amps up his campaign for the presidency and sees how useful you are from a popularity standpoint. And after a little coaxing by me, you become his running mate. After the two of you win the election, you build up your personal ‘lovefest level’ even higher. So when Zinder moves out of office, you’re ready to take over the presidency and tap me to be your Veep.”
“No. Oh, no.”
“Listen to –”
“Rico, I’m not cut out for Vice President, let alone President. You’re taking this way, way too far.”
Rico shrugged. “I’ll do all the hard stuff. You’ll be the frontman. Easy-peasy.”
“I can’t.” Fearful tears watered Brown’s eyes. He was a media personality with fairly good intelligence—enough sense to know that he’d never be sharp enough to spar with political heavyweights.
Reingold either didn’t see that or didn’t care. His expression hardened. “Do you have any idea what kind of physical shape you’ll be in if you stop taking my stuff? Because there will be no more chems if you decide not to play along.”
Brown blanched. The idea of it was terrifying him. What had Rico told him? What kind of withdrawal would Dove face? Whatever it was didn’t stop Dove from getting mighty resentful. “You don’t own me, Rico.”
Reingold smiled. “Do you really think you’re the only trick in my bag? There are other things I’ve got going. For all you know, I could have hundreds of people on this dope, not just you and Luscious.”
“I don’t believe that.”
Reingold shrugged. “Makes no difference what you believe. But I suggest that you stick with my plan. That was our deal, right from jump. You said you’d let me lead this dance, and I expect you to live up to it.”
Brown stood up in angry disgust. “What the hell. Sure. None of this is going to work, so it doesn’t matter.”
“And why do you think that?”
“Because you can’t hoist yourself into the VP seat unless you become CEO of Nuhope, and that’s not going to happen. Silverman’s two seconds away from retirement. You’ve been dropping all kinds of hints with Zinder. He’s the man you need to convince. But all you’re getting is silence. I know that. And so do you.”
A flicker of discomfort passed over Reingold’s face, but then he laughed. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that. It’s all gonna work out. You’re going to be so happy I’m doing what I’m doing, eventually. Have your booker schedule more political guests on your show. People have got to start associating you with politics, and you need to learn more about all that stuff.”
Brown headed for the door, a mass of worry.
# # #
NEEDLESS TO SAY, I was curious about who was in contention for Nuhope’s CEO slot, and if Rico was being seriously considered. Chances were, Silverman was deeply involved in the planning. It took a few days of eavesdropping in the CEO’s palatial office to get what I was after.
Silverman was like a general, with the blood of long-ago wars in his eyes. He favored char-black suits that silhouetted his gaunt, six-foot frame. And his skin was raw red as if chapped by a stand storm. In actuality, it was a symptom of a disease he’d contracted when he was an astronaut.
Mars? Pluto? I wasn’t sure which one was responsible for the microscopic time bomb. It had been dormant within the man some 20 years before it began to actively kill him, a little each day. He had lost three inches in height and a great deal of body mass to date. That was according to a conversation I overheard between his two longtime assistants. Only they seemed to be aware of the terrible, heaving spasms that shook his body at times. He kept them in check with a fierce resolve when he was with other people. Little wonder that he was about to retire.
One day I found him gazing in stunned wonder at the latest Riggles stats. One of the assistants, Paola, sent him a message: “Vice President of the U.A. is on the line.”
“Put him through,” barked Silverman.
Ralph Zinder’s holo materialized on Silverman’s air screen. The former esports star was pushing 60, but he had the slender build of a 20-year-old. And the way his arm was stretched across the back of his chair spoke to how athletically supple his body still was. Oddly enough, he didn’t seem aware of the dandruff that was sprinkled across the shoulders of his navy blazer. He smiled so widely that his gums showed.
“The board is waiting for our recommendation, Stew. Who’s Nuhope’s next CEO?” Zinder asked.
Silverman’s face darkened. “Who do you want? You’re the one who has to work with this person.”
“As you know, when we hired Reingold, it was with the understanding that he be considered for the CEO slot. And he’s proven his worth with that Riggles commercial.”
“No, he hasn’t.” Silverman was emphatic. “And frankly, I don’t trust him. But if that’s your choice—”
“Come on, Stew. That’s not the way you and I play. I’ve always wanted your perspective, and this time’s no different. Why don’t you trust him?”
“Every time I ask Reingold to explain why that new girl’s commercial is doing so well, he can’t give me a straight answer. He keeps saying it’s in the technology, his so-called secret sauce. I’m the head of this company. I know all the goddamned sauces. And if I don’t, then I should!”
“Dove Brown tells me that Reingold’s experiments are vast and cutting edge. There’s no telling how he can make this company more powerful.”
“Brown? You listen to Brown?”
A kind of defiant lust washed over Zinder’s eyes. He shrugged. “We had dinner. So what?”
“Men like Brown have nearly undone your marriage in the past. And betraying your wife won’t—”
“I haven’t done anything!”
“Mr. Vice President, I hope you’ll watch yourself.”
Zinder pulled back a little. “Nothing will happen.”
“As for Reingold, let me set aside the trust issue and offer up another point. Yes, he’s a brilliant technologist and scientist. That’s unquestionable. But his business acumen is completely unproven. Have you seen him develop the talent around him? Analyze the spreadsheets, other than his own department’s? Give you an honest, critical assessment of this company’s weaknesses and hidden promises, from top to bottom?”
Zinder darkened a little. “I don’t want to alienate him.”
“You won’t. Give Reingold all the resources he wants. Throw him more money. Hell, give him a loftier title, if you can think of one. But watch him.” Silverman’s eyes were on fire. “Now I mean it, Ralph. Recommend who you want to the board. But I’ll consider it a tragedy if I leave this place and the person who takes over can’t do a better job than I have. Think this through. Please!”
# # #
THE BOTTLES OF BOOZE were almost empty and vegetable crudités half limp by the time I arrived at Cassandra’s townhouse on Sutton Place. She handed me a scotch on the rocks. Her weathered face smiled in sympathy as the people gathered in the den grumbled about my tardiness. They’d all come in to hear my latest report on Nuhope.
Over the last few weeks, I’d told them almost everything I knew about the Juice as well as my little ghost gizmo. Although I’d argued with myself over several long nights before I finally confessed. On the one hand, it seemed too dangerous to trust anyone else with this knowledge. On the other hand, I needed their help if I was ever going to accomplish everything I had in mind. A few little things like avenging Thom’s death, thwarting the Charismites, and upending the government’s dreamisode-spewing propaganda machine at Nuhope.
Joining the group had already proven advantageous. In addition to Luko’s detailed map of Nuhope, Venice’s munitions expertise was instrumental. She had helped us figure out how my powers of invisibility could be counteracted if I found myself in some kind of fight.
At Venice’s suggestion, I lifted some equipment off Nuhope for our tests. It was pretty simple to do because I was in ghost mode and grabbed something, it went invisible too.
After some tests down in Cassie’s basement, we discovered that guns emitting heat-sensitive infrared beams could detect my presence. And DirecWeps (short for directed energy weapons, which used laser, microwave, and particle beams) might just destroy me if enough force was applied. I had a few burn marks on my right forearm that suggested that was the case.
I tried to ignore the racing cars on Ajit’s video shirt as I told my Theseus pals about the dreamisode servers, Rico’s machinations, and Silverman’s conversation with Zinder. “Oh! And I also managed to figure out how they mess with those holographic wallscapes on buildings,” I said.
“Interesting. But let’s get back to Reingold’s grand scheme,” Cassie said. “If I’m getting this, Reingold could become CEO of Nuhope. Then Dove Brown uses his overwhelming charms to become Zinder’s Vice President. Then eventually, Brown becomes President of the U.A., and Reingold becomes his VP.”
“At which point the U.A. is even more royally fucked than it already is,” Ajit said. “How does Luscious Melada fit into all this?”
“She’s so powerful, I’m sure they could use her to influence people in all sorts of ways,” I said. “That Riggles commercial was probably just a first step.”
“Massot doesn’t stand a chance,” Luko muttered, referring to the Senator from Minnesota. His ideas about equal rights for all U.A. citizens, including the Chav, had incensed the Republican-Democratic Alliance party.
I foraged through the vegetables to find a carrot stick. “If it’s any consolation, I don’t think Reingold’s going to get promoted to CEO.”
“What makes you say that?” Ajit asked.
“There was something in Zinder’s expression that makes me think that Silverman convinced him to find somebody else. But Zinder wants it to be his own idea. He’ll find a way to do that.”
“So, what’s our next move?” Cassie asked.
“We wake people up,” I said.
“Where? How?” Ajit asked.
“That’s what we have to figure out.”
“Hmmm. Some of my clients are talking about this big celebration that Nuhope’s throwing. Maybe we do something there,” Venice said.
“What are they celebrating?” Cassie asked.
“An anniversary. Twenty years ago, the old PBS network turned into Nuhope and went commercial.”
As everyone in the room knew, that’s when the U.A. government took over the media company and tasked the Vice President with overseeing it. Up until that time, the government had relied on influencing people through outside commercial media channels—which was beneficial, but only up to a point. Running Nuhope directly was a much more effective propaganda tool.
“This party idea could be sweet,” Luko mused. “Here’s how things could go down.” As he laid out a plan, and everyone else added their ideas, the energy in the room magnified into one pure intent.