Brigits_Flame August Entry 01 - Smoke and Mirrors
“Hell with Bill Kristol.” Hank took a drag on his cigarette. “That clown hasn’t got the sense God gave a duck.”
“Did you just quote Molly Ivins? In my fucking presence? Kristol has his shit down,” said Grace. “He knows what’s up.”
“Oh, yeah, he knew what was up with the Thrilla from Wasilla. He took complete responsibility for that, too.” He put the car in Park and got out, coming around to the other side to open the door for Grace. She ignored it.
“Shut the hell up.” She closed the sedan’s door, and the two of them began to walk the length of the parking garage. “The point is that he’s right. She does a little studying on policy; she can make a return to the world stage.”
“I don’t care how knowledgeable they make her. Her name is mud to half the electorate. Nothing’s ever going to change that; her favorables were pushing ninety percent at this time last year, and now they’re less than forty.”
“Well, we don’t need that half of the electorate, do we?”
Hank sighed. “No, just the middle ten percent.”
“That’s right. That’s fucking right. Open the door.” They approached a wall at the end of the garage, a stenciled LEVEL 02 and some yellow pipes its only decoration. Hank grabbed the release valve on one of the pipes and tugged, tugged in the way you couldn’t tug a release valve.
A hydraulic hiss signaled Hank and Grace to back up slightly as the 02 bisected and scraped quietly into the ceiling and floor, revealing a circular portal and a catwalk, lit with green fluorescents.
“Are we ever going to get those replaced?” asked Hank, as the door closed behind them. “Cause that green shit is creepy.”
Grace smiled. “I like it this way.”
They walked in silence past the first set of grow tanks, where bubbling vats held raw, untrammeled power in solution. As Hank and Grace passed above them on the catwalk, researchers attended the vats with clipboards and the utmost care.
At length, Grace spoke again.
“My point, though.”
“Yes.”
“Is that Kristol was essentially correct. She had a fantastic personality.”
“Sure.”
“When we fed her good lines, she delivered them staggeringly well.”
“Yes.”
“So we just have to start feeding them earlier!”
Hank stopped walking and leaned on the railing, meeting Grace’s gaze. “How do we avoid a Couric Incident, though? What happens when the question exceeds established parameters?”
“That’s what I’m showing you today.”
“Nifty.”
They passed through a door that read Research and Development. Now the vats were smaller, man-sized, containing recognizably adult humans. Grace pointed them out as they passed by.
“This is Gay Black Candidate. We’re saving him for a Presidential run in 2020. This is Chinese-American Evangelical Candidate, for making Midwestern states seem more inclusively non-white without sacrificing anything. Over here, you can see Latina Candidate with a Firm and Unironic Command of Yiddish, and we’ll be running her in Florida once Crist leaves the Governor’s Office. She’s a slam dunk.”
“Very impressive,” Hank murmured. “But not what you’re taking me to see.”
“Not entirely. We’re going to doing a demo of the biometric subroutine today. You pick a subject, and we’ll run some tests on it.”
“Any one?”
“Any one at all.”
“Everyone in these vats is finished, right? I wouldn’t screw anything up if I chose one of them?”
“Go right ahead, Hank.”
Hank pointed. “Let’s try Latina Candidate with a Firm and Unironic Command of Yiddish.”
“Fabulous. Go wait in the Examination Chamber while we get her ready.”
In the Examination Chamber, Hank adjusted his tie; a grip behind him tightened the boom microphone.
“Hank, can we get a sound check from you, please?” said the grip.
“You got it,” Hank said, and proceeded to tell a particularly off-color joke about an Episcopal bishop and a medicine ball. The sound levels were fine. One camera over Hank’s shoulder, one camera over the subject’s chair.
Latina Candidate tossed her hair very slightly as she took her seat, her hair blow-dried and neatly arranged, her suit clean, pressed, and sensible. She extended a hand.
“Mr. Pierce.”
“It’s a pleasure to be speaking with you, ah - what shall I call you?”
“Diana will do, Mr. Pierce, but if you wish, you may call me Governor Villanova.”
“I believe it is a little early for that, Ms. Villanova.”
“It’s never too early to win, Mr. Pierce.” She displayed her gleaming teeth in a broad and honest smile; her sharp Aztec nose complemented the softness of her warm, brown eyes. Her skin was dark, but not too dark - a honeyed tan.
A warm-up.
“Is the Obama administration making a mistake, Ms. Villanova, when it puts pressure on the Israeli government to cease settlement-building?”
“Of course it is, Hank. The United States and the State of Israel have a long-lasting bond of friendship that should put us past this mischegoss. Do we want one of the most thriving democracies in the Middle East to crumble into dust?”
“And the President’s health-care plan?”
“Pure drekische chazzerai. I should pay the Government to pay my doctor? What is this, Sweden? We don’t have the financial flexibility to pull off that kind of spending in this recession. What is needed is greater freedom on the part of the insurance companies.”
Fine. Hank’s eyes narrowed, and he looked over to Grace, in the Observation Booth. She grinned a great big shit-eating grin.
“Is something bothering you, Hank?” Villanova tilted her head at just the angle to both appear friendly and jokingly condescending. She was good.
“What is your favorite Supreme Court decision?”
“Marbury v. Madison,” she said, promptly. “I have always liked the idea of the Court as a check on legislative power; the Court is the keeper of the Constitution and, while they ought not to make law, they ought to maintain it. The Constitution is the closest thing to a sacred secular text that I can think of. I keep a copy at my bedside.”
Hank arched a brow.
“Under my Bible,” she continued.
“Ah,” said Hank. She was real good.
“Which newspapers do you read?” Hank watched her eyes very carefully. He saw her quickly flick her eyes up in thought; what he couldn’t see was the subroutine at work. Tiny wireless receivers populated a list of important American publications from the internet, and an algorithm sorted through them by popularity and importance.
“I never go anywhere without a copy of The Economist. And I’ve been reading Newsweek since I was ten. But those are newsmagazines - you wanted papers?”
“Sure,” said Hank.
“Let’s see,” said Villanova, counting them off on her fingers. “The Washington Post, The New York Times, The Tampa Tribune. That’s enough, isn’t it?”
“What are some other Supreme Court cases that you think are important?” He was determined to catch her off-guard.
“Well, the Dred Scott case is a staggeringly important one in American History, in general. And Roe. v. Wade.”
“What do you think about that one?”
“Roe v. Wade?”
“Yes.”
“I support a woman’s right to choose.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, to choose not to have an abortion. The court overstepped its bounds that day, and Planned Parenthood v. Casey proves that.”
Hank’s eyes widened like dinner plates. He turned, speechless, to the Observation Booth, and gave a thumbs-up.
“A slam dunk,” he murmured.