Election Season (Part 2)

On Reformations

This is the conclusion to Election Season Part 1.

Anti-drone tech. Expensive, if it’s good. But usually cheaper than bad anti-drone tech in the long run. This is what the cardinal was about to find out. Because the villa has bad anti-drone tech. Probably something related to Italian regulations. The Watcher smiles through his DigiScopes. Identifies three different sensors on the rooftop, the greenhouse, the garage.

“Three towers confirmed,” the Watcher mutters into his watchbox. Nearly touching it with his lips to try and be heard. The rainy season in Lake Como has started early. The downpour gushes through old leaves and forgotten streets winding up and down the the mountainside.

“What?” Andrew’s voice crackles.

“Three towers. Anti-drone detection towers.”

From the grove of shriveled banana trees, the Watcher keeps his sight on the pink villa for signs of the cardinal or his escort. Mossy statues ring the old wall lapping the lake. Fog tumbles across the hollows and ridges of the Alps beyond.

“Tree anti-drone towers? Is that what you said? Tree, like made out of wood?”

The Watcher grits his teeth. “Three.”

Andrew laughs. “You’re still so god damn easy to rile, Jack.”

The Watcher tingles with the touch of familiarity. Andrew and he, bunkmates in the Academy. Top of the class. Friends with history. But communication is forbidden between Watchers. Creates more vectors for vulnerabilities. Collaboration permitted only if it’s a special case. He thinks about Jade vomiting yellow ka’kazaa outside the club. A special case? The System had assigned them this case together. So the System had determined Senatorial candidate Frasier is better for the country than Senatorial candidate McCarfee. Targeting the cardinal with drones was the key to breaking the McCarfee campaign.

“What?”

Andrew has been talking to him from the cast. “As attentive as ever. I said we need to move, Watcher. Focus. You need to give me the case inputs so I can get algo approval from the System. Number one: is the cardinal and slash or any GM representative there now?”

“An official Global Ministry chopper landed in the back. People came out.”

“Good enough. Number two: You made official visual confirmation that the cardinal was with them?”

”I saw a gold robe. A guy with a stupid mustache.”

“Number three: Was the target with them?”

“I saw her come off a boat, walk the whole stupid staircase, and through the front doors.”

“Number four: What’s the model of the towers?” Andrew asked.

“Old. Like everything else in this country.”

“Built before the Western Caliphate?”

”Way before.”

“Thanks. Ok. The System wants to know your estimate on landing an EMP bolt. You know, considering the conditions and stuff.”

“A hundred percent.”

“I have to put a range. There’s no ‘a hundred percent,’ Jack. You know that.”

”And you know Rosetta programmed my aimbot way back at the Academy. This striker never misses.”

“I’ll tell the System eighty percent and above.”

The Watcher clears his throat.

”Yes, Watcher?”

”I’m not taking out my striker in this rain. I’ll get electrocuted before I can put it together.”

“The System doesn’t think-”

“Any case input for the alarms? Even old drone tech has alarms. Sometimes.”

'“The System wants to know the probability that-”

”Zero percent, if the striker fries me. Get me another operating location.”

A pause. Then: “A hotel is down the road. Head west. Market W owns it. Just don’t break the tagging drone on the way this time. Be gentle. If that’s possible.”

A bell clangs from behind him. The Watcher cuts the comms. Tucks behind a banana tree with stunner armed and blinking. Casts MirrorSight over his shoulder, sees a brown cow shuffling up the meadows of the mountainside. Munching with focus on grass sprouting by a stream falling downhill. The bell on its neck clangs again.

Andrew rings his Watchbox. “Not a lot of time, by the System’s estimates. Get moving, Jack.”

Down dissolved stone steps into the backstreets of the village. Past an elderly couple gossiping at a cafe under a terrace. Through water pouring over an ancient tunnel. More steps. An orange church peeling into grays of stone. More steps. The rain whispers to itself.

Now: the lakefront. A boat cuts the silver glass of the water and slips into the mist nestling on the surface. The Watcher grunts and adjusts the heavy striker backpack. Crosses the esplanade. Passes a faded fountain where two nymphs squirt a maiden. The Grand Hotel Como rises pink and proper in front of the Alps. A porter with a tangerine uniform and a gold pendant greets him as he crunches up the drive. “We’ve been expecting you. Please.”

Into the lobby. Roses glow in tanks of water. Two blond guests sprawl on a velvet couch with stim visors on their faces. Mouths open. Unmoving. In the service elevator, the porter uses a key and presses a button.

“To the attic,” he says in his clipped Italian accent.

The attic is a barren place with crates piled to the ceiling. Cigarette butts form gray piles in a puddle by an open window. The top of the cardinal’s villa is visible from the hotel. The porter motions at the window and leaves.

Backpack hits the floor. The Watcher assembles the EMP striker, taking each segment out from the assigned pocket. Clicks each piece into place. Connects the wiring. Clicks the scope into place. Sets the sight on the drone sensor on the roof. Flicks his watchbox back on.

“Locked and loaded.”

“How about the tagging drone? Is that activated?”

The Watcher unzips the front pocket of the backpack. The drone is the size of a thumbnail. He pinches it between his fingers and puts it on the windowsill.

“Of course.”

”I can hear you fumbling. They moved the switch on the 250 model. Did you watch the briefing I sent?”

“I-”

“Please don’t manhandle the rotors. Underside of the carapace. Release the latch.”

The Watcher scrapes a switch. Andrew takes over. The drone rises from the windowsill like a bug, making the same sound as a mosquito. Disappears into the rain, headed for the villa.

“Wonder what what the odds are that these old sensors can even detect a micro-drone,” the Watcher said. “Probably didn’t have to do any of this.”

“If you miss your shots, we might find out.”

“I won’t.”

“I’m halfway there. Time to fire.”

The Watcher launches the first EMP round. The bolt snaps onto the sensor. He reloads and shoots the second round at the greenhouse. Third round on the garage. He hears Andrew holding his breath from the cast.

No alarms. They exhale in relief.

“Deactivated?” the Watcher asked.

“Affirmative. Do I see a little smile for once?”

“Offense is so much more fun than defense,” he said.

“I’m going in,” Andrew said, and cut the comms.

*

From the plane, the Watcher watches the World Network. Andrew has uploaded the footage of Cardinal Bertone shirtless and pressing a black-haired woman against a window in a passionate embrace. Bertone’s team uploads a response video claiming that the video is fake, created by AI from political opponents. This is when Andrew uploads the photos of the Global Ministry helicopter. Of Bertone running out into the rain. Of the woman watching as he takes off without her.

Meanwhile, Rosetta has completed Jade’s Reformation in order to resurrect Jade’s character to make her as unappealing to media as possible. To help the the Frasier campaign, Rosetta signs Jade up for a Private Institution where Class Level IV is as easy as Class Level I in Sponsored Institutions. Jade's grades immediately improve, because Each class is a private class between Jade and the Teach-Matic. Because of this, she is soon recognize as "the top of her class."

To keep her away from clubs and ka’kazza, the classroom is a cube. Rosetta controls the door remotely and monitors Jade as she sits in front of the SIP as the questions slowly appear in front of her. They don't fade until she has gotten the right answer. Rosetta works with the the Frasier campaign to launch a foundation, Frasier Against Ka'Kazaa for Young People When They Consume it in Excess. Excess for short. Jade leads fundraisers by reading something from the podium screen. People paid to be there cheer for her. The World Network broadcasts Jade’s “remarkable turnaround” and “tale from addict to angel” with enthusiasm and several thousand bot networks engineered to share, like, and comment with positive sentiment scores.

The Watcher flips between this cast and the case of Senator McCarfee pretending he didn’t embrace Cardinal Bertone, now a proven cheat against God and, worse, the campaign. When he lands, he heads to a Residence Park where two recycled rivers sparkle down from polished pipes and circle a colorful garden. In the center of the garden, in front of a waterfall that drains into WashDryClean Corp’s commercial supply, Jade is at a mobile podium finishing her latest fundraising speech.

“That’s why I stopped, and you should never, drink ka’kazaa… in excess!” she proclaims to a crowd of about a dozen people. This last phrase must be said at the end of every speech, to clear up any confusion as to the recreational uses of ka’kazaa. Overconsumption is frowned upon but, as W Market is the leading seller of ka’kazaa worldwide, consumption is clinically proven to lower stress. One mediabot blinking with low battery is there, but no others are to be found.

The crowd, paid to be there, and the mediabot, owned by W Market, disperse. A billboard floats overhead, showing the real-time footage of Cardinal Bertone stepping down from his position. The Watcher looks up. Sees a swarm of mediabots circling the Vatican and then Senatorial candidate Scott McCarfee’s third home in New New York.

Jade sees him and shows him something he hasn’t seen from someone in a long time: a shy look of gratitude.

“Was that you?” Jade asks, pointing up at the sky where the billboard shows a new poll.

“I wouldn’t legally be able to confirm,” the Watcher says.

“You’re smiling.” Breaks into tears. “They found someone else. For the Election Season.” Sobs into his coat. “Thank you.”

He wants to tell her that he knows how she feels. He wants to tell her that his name was once Jack T. Walker, son of Presidential candidate Vance T. Walker, and he tried to flee to six different countries to avoid the media bots and failed. To tell her he could only escape by giving up his name and enter the Academy. To Watch instead of be Watched. But the first thing that every Watcher learns is that every connection is a vulnerability.

So instead the Watcher hugs Jade’s shoulder with his gloved hand. He tries to remember how to touch someone instead of watch. He hopes the Election Season will be over but knows it never is. Not as long as you’re Watching.