And now for something completely different

Below: a chapter out of one of my abandoned novel attempts. Just for the heck of it.
----

Chapter 4: Andy in Flight

Andy's got a one-way ticket and no baggage, so he gets the full treatment between the effects check-in and the dressing room: scans, body cavity search, blood screening, a full factory diagnostic on his eye. He always travels light, sending his baggage with his car on autopilot to the hotel early enough to get there about when he does. After the bleeding, he tears open the plastic bag and puts on the airline outfit. And the airline underwear, the topic of which stand-up comics have been drawn for as long as he can recall. He's got a while to wait while the docs process his blood.

The blood test has always struck him as silly, instituted, as it was, after a spectacularly unsuccessful terrorist attack back in '28. Some group, probably either the third incarnation of Al Qaeda, or maybe the Algerian Liberation Front, managed to infect one of their would-be martyrs with a supposedly airborne strain of Ebola, and pumped him full enough of drugs to mask enough symptoms and got him onto a passenger jet on an international flight. Midway through the poor fool started to bleed out and spread those germs around even faster.

The "Death Plane" story started hitting the news at 10:00 AM on the morning of the New Hampshire Primaries, causing quite a dilemma for the Democrats. Jack Desmonds was taking a second shot at the presidency, and had no serious opposition (the 'five dwarves' of that era), and was looking forward to some serious airtime and exposure for his 'New Plan for America' agenda. The Republicans had no such problem; the President, weak as he was with the general public, had no worries about losing New Hampshire to John Malcolm's insurgent 'Face the Facts Express' campaign, and the lack of exposure could only hurt Malcolm in the states he was actually competitive in.

Andy had been in New Hampshire, in the media-people's favorite local Bar, Patrick's, drinking with Brian Redwing, master of the political beat for a major national newspaper. The Television had the "Death Plane" news cycle on it, a couple of pundits arguing if the Air Force should shoot it down over the Atlantic before it can land or not. Andy's eye was brand-new back then, so new it still made the inside of his eyelid itch. Not even paid for yet, although that was going to change in a few minutes.

"So, what have you got?" asked Redwing, half-genial, half-impatient.

Andy grinned. "The big one."

"So you found a way to make that Frankenstein gear pay off already?"

"Sure did. I've gotten myself inside the Desmond campaign's local organization, shuffling papers, knocking on doors, calling people up just before dinner, that kind of stuff. Then, this afternoon, I manage to be on the other side of a glass window when Desmond and his inner circle got word of that thing" Andy pointed with his thumb at the TV, where the "Death Plane" story logo had undergone another incremental mutation from the makeshift text and clipart it had started out as toward a fully-evolved news-story icon.

"Behind glass? If this is based on lip-reading, they'll be able to spin any story they want in response."

"There's a really nifty directional mic in my 'Frankenstein gear', Brian. Picks out and restores the sound waves off the glass surface."

"Hm. So what did he have to say?"

"Well, the highlights are 'This is my day' and 'Why couldn't they have just shot those motherfuckers down over the ocean and said it was an accident.' Plus an exceptionally paranoid rant, even for this century's politics."

"Nice." said Redwing, before finishing off his beer. "What's the price on this?"

"I figure on a hundred K/" said Andy. "Redwing didn't spit up his beer, which he took as a good sign. "Plus I get to use the paper's legal staff if Desmond tries and sues."

"You don't ask for just a little, do you?"

"It's not a little story. Not everyone gets to bring down a presidential candidate."

"Maybe. But who else do the Dems have?"

"After this, they could bring Sandra Parker out of retirement and do better in the general."

"Heh. Okay, I'll go seventy plus legal. No higher."

Andy had been expecting to settle at around fifty thousand. "Deal."

"All right, let's take a look, then."

Brian transferred the funds to Andy's bank and Andy sent the video to Brian's laptop. Andy nursed his own beer while Brian watched the candidate fume.

Brian freezed the image, midway through the bit where Desmonds was accusing President Clayton of keeping the plane around just to take airtime away from his campaign, or maybe even having foreknowledge of the whole plan and letting it happen anyway for the same reason. "I think you're wrong." he said.

"About what?" asked Andy.

"Look at the other people in the room." Andy did. Desmond's inner circle, which is to say the Democrats' key leaders. Their top fundraisers, pollsters, spokespeople for TV appearances. Andy shrugged. "Now look at what they're doing." Andy saw it now: to a man, they were nodding, giving assent and encouragement. Not a single cautionary voice was being raised. "This won't bring down a candidate. It'll bring down a party."

Brian wrote up a quick accompanying story and sent it, with the videos, to his paper. The paper took a half an hour to verify the GPS-stamps in the video, then pushed the story to their website and Newsprinter machines. The TV outlets were slow on this, with their assets maximally covering the plane itself, but on the internet it spread like wildfire.

The TV stations picket it up just before the plane landed at a hastily-abandoned airfield in south Florida, mostly spinning it as an 'oddly enough' light perspective piece before live images of the Quarantine Zone began to dominate the news cycle.

As the day went on, the story kept getting worse and worse for Desmond and his party. Voter outrage over the moral dimension was joined by questions about Desmond's judgment and character as it became obvious that the 'Death Plane' wasn't so deadly after all: only three of the passengers became at all sick, and all of them were responding extremely well to antibiotic treatment. President Clayton made a statement about the Plane, but didn't deign to mention the Desmond story at all. Then Malcom's camp put out a more direct statement, condemning Desmond's remarks, defending Clayton's choices on the plane, and appealing to disgruntled Democrats to cross party lines and vote for him.

In the end, Clayton took the state, but just barely, 52% to 47%, and since the pollsters predicted Malcolm would only get 25%, it was a major momentum gain. In fact, adding the protest votes he got in the Democratic Primary, which put him second to Desmond and ahead of all five dwarfs, Malcolm wound up with more total votes than Clayton.

And that, Andy still thinks, was the end of the Democrats as a national party. Oh, they were pretty well doomed after Parker, and some say moribund going back to Kerry or even Carter, but that was the tipping point. Andy's brought out of his nostalgia by the airport doctor, who gives him a clean bill of health, so it's onward, into the secured area of the Terminal.

Andy can't help but think about how much the inside of an airport reminds him of prison. Two classes of people, two kinds of uniform, and little enough variation in each kind. He's heard that some New York businessman plans to start a new airline offering a choice of custom-fitted safesuits, designed by the leading names in the world of fashion: Pride air, to jump with the seven deadly airlines. Well, they'd really only make it three, alongside Air Gluttony (Epicura, with its airborne three-star restaurants) and Air Lust (Natura, which dispenses with safesuits entirely in favor of an all-nude flight experience, and, according to popular rumor, secretly offers nearly-free tickets to attractive and loose women). Andy hopes the Pride folks make a decent go at it, if only to see a little variety in Terminal attire. He's sticking with Air Green, the rest of the pack: no frills, low cost, and a cash bar. He checks the board with the schedule; his flight is on time, departing from a nearby gate. A short walk brings him to the waiting area, where he gets a fresh newspaper and sits down to wait.

The newspaper is mostly full of President Cramer's speech at NASA HQ yesterday; half his standard stump speech, half waxing rhapsodic about the space program. He and his whole party just love the space program; it lets them look forward-thinking and progress-friendly and helps to mask their retrograde views on biotechnology. Goes all the way back to the beginning, when Clayton lost the Republican primaries over it. Andy had been working the streets, trying to track down the truth about a particularly ugly rumor about Malcom's brother, not getting very far, but he came up for air for the last Clayton/Malcolm debate, on the eve of Super Tuesday.

Malcolm had capitalized on the Democrats' collapse to mount the most successful primary challenge to an incumbent president since, well, forever; getting close enough to victory that the President had agreed to the debate. Andy found Brian with the other press, pre-empting his question. "I got nothing." he said.

"That's okay. I figured so much. I've had us chasing a completely wrong idea about little Johnny." Brian answered. Andy stared blankly at him. "My old pal Desi Alums found out the real deal, and she's going to spring it at the beginning of this little circus. Sit down, enjoy the show."

Andy sat, and looked around. "Looks pretty calm so far. I've seen media circuses, and this doesn't look like one to me."

"It will. Trust me, it will."

The lights in the press room dimmed briefly, the signal that the debate was about to begin. The sounds of voices and movement abruptly faded to nearly nothing, leaving only the muted clutter of rapid keyboarding. Following that was several minutes of introductions, slowed by round after round of obligatory applause. Then came the opening statements, trimmed by the format to a bare thirty seconds, giving each candidate barely enough time to thank the hosts and offer a mini-sound-bite version of their campaign theme. (Clayton: Stay the Course; Malcolm: Take back America.) The first question went to Malcolm, and it was Redwing's friend.

"Desdimona Alums, Boston Globe. Mister Malcolm, do you agree with your party's 2036 platform position against the legalization of human genetic engineering?"

Malcolm hesitated, catching the predatory look on Desi's face, suspecting what was coming next. "Let me tell you what I don't believe. I don't believe that congenital birth defects are and indispensable part of the human condition. I don't believe in making criminals out of parents who only want their babies to be born healthy. And I don't believe in the rhetoric that's been coming out of other parts of this party, saying that allowing these parents to have healthy children will inevitably lead to some general loss of humanity or some evil race of superhuman monsters."

Malcolm paused, allowing Desi to break the format and drop in the followup: "Judging from your Senate record, this seems to be a fairly new position for you. Does this shift have anything to do with the fact that your brother's son, your nephew, was genetically modified and gestated in a facility in the Netherlands?"

The press room roared in a fury of typing, even as monitors indicated ratings spikes as friends and agent programs referred more and more viewers to the debate. Andy almost smacked his forehead; of course, that explained it all. He and Brian had come across photographic evidence of Malcom's sister-in-law, clearly not pregnant, a month before the baby's birth. They had suspected an adoption, of an illegitimate child of the brother or even, they dared hope, the candidate himself. Desi got the right trail and followed it to ground.

Malcolm, finally succumbing to the politician's natural instinct to fill dead air, began his answer. "My sister-in-law June" he started, "suffered through three miscarriages before taking this step, and each time I personally saw the pain, the agony that this loss put her through. I can't say that wanting to stop anyone else from experiencing this kind of senseless, needless tragedy doesn't influence my thinking, no."

The moderator took the moment to regain control of the debate. "President Clayton, your response?"

The President paused, gathering his own thoughts. He looked unprepared for this turn of events; apparently, his opposition research team followed the wrong threads too. Finally, he turned to the questioners' box, looking directly to Desi. "Excuse me, miss?" He said. She met his gaze in acknowledgment. "Did you say that John Philip Malcolm was grown in some kind of vat?"

"An artificial womb, yes, sir." she responded.

"Not of woman born?" Desi nodded. "Well, I'd like to express my deepest sympathy for my opponent's family, both on the loss of those three children and on the deeper tragedy of having a child living among them without a soul."

Andy's neck had snapped, instinctually, midway through Clayton's remarks, over to Malcolm, to watch his response. He saw the Senator's face turn bright red with rage, showing even through the makeup. He turned to Clayton, opened his mouth as if to say something, then shut it, turned his back, and walked off the podium and out of the venue.

"Well," Brian told him, "So much for a unified convention."

Malcolm held a very short press conference about an hour later, proving Brian right by refusing to answer a 'support the nominee' question. Another reported asked if walking out on the debate might show he had too short a temper to be President. Malcolm grinned and said "Well, considering that my first impulse was to walk up that S.O.B. and pop him one in the face, I'd say I showed admirable restraint."

The voters, that day mostly in Southern states, favored Clayton's view but admired Malcolm's style. Malcolm edged out victories in Florida, Virginia, and Kentucky, losing the rest, but moving up in the polls in the remaining big states.

The voice on the speaker announces that boarding is about to begin, so, starting with the handful of people with small children and then proceeding from the assigned seats in the back of the plane to the front, each passenger goes through one more round of metal detectors and retina/fingerprint biometric ID verification. Andy's seat is near the front of the plane, where the first class seats would be if this airline had first class seating, close enough to see the cockpit door.

Seated next to Andy is a round-faced pudgy man wearing business-casual clothes and a blond toupee, a long one that goes down to his natural, gray-peppered-black sideburns. Andy buckles in right away, his seatmate waits until the stewardess gives the instructions for them, then fumbles around getting the pieces out from under himself as the stewardess poses with and discusses her Taser. HE gets the belt fastened just as she concludes with the traditional "In the unlikely event of a critical crowd control issue, the cabin will be suffused with Kayonex gas, rendering the passengers unconscious but unharmed."

Andy wishes he were unconscious, but he could never manage to sleep on a plane. There's an idea for another deadly airline: Air Sloth, where they gas everyone, every flight. Once the plane reaches cruising altitude and the 'no electronic devices' light goes off, in lieu of sleep, Andy brings up the third recording in his Brian Redwing file, the eve of the Republican Convention, '28.

Andy arrived late to Brian's 'war room' meeting: the two junior political reporters for his paper, Ken Bale and Connie DeLong, were there, along with their official photographer Terry Avelon, and a couple of stringers and interns Andy never got the names of. Probably a couple dozen more low-level types following along remotely from Washington. Brian was holding court.

"Okay, we've got 931 delegates committed to the President and 988 committed to Malcolm going in, along with 198 uncommitted superdelegates. Give me the scenarios."

"Brokered convention?" piped Bale.

Brian rolled his eyes. "No chance. Neither one of these guys is going to even thing about stepping aside, and there isn't any credible compromise candidate at any rate. Next?"

DeLong threw in with "So, two questions, then. Does Clayton have enough superdelegates in hand to make up the difference, and do he and Malcolm know how they're going to break?"

"I think that's at least three questions, but points taken." Brian turned to the camera to directly address the offsite contingent. "Research how many of the supers do we think they each have?"

A voice came over the speaker. "Thirty actual endorsements on each side. Beyond that it's guesswork. Fifteen with a known long-term grudge against Clayton, Eighteen holding paper on Malcolm. The rest are anyone's guess. Voting-record affinity gives Malcolm a slight edge, but I wouldn't trust that."

Brian turned next to Andy, the first time he acknowledged his presence. "Good that you could make it." he said. "What've you got?"

"Fifteen thousand pissed-off Shriners in Delaware." Andy said. He got a bunch of blank looks. "Seems like the convention center broke their contract in order to rent the hall to something called the B.T.N.C."

Brian took it in. "When?" he asked.

"A week, starting the day after tomorrow." Andy answered.

Bale got it next. "N.C. would be National Committee? One of them's going to start a new party?"

"So whoever's going to lose knows it." said Connie. "Does the winner know he's only getting half a party?"

"Doubtful." said Brian. "If any of the splitters were going to spill the beans ahead of time they'd have gone to the media first. B.T, B.T...Research!" he swung round on the camera. "I want a list of phrases with those initials that make sense and are connected to either candidate. Let's put them on the board."

A smartboard on one of the walls began to fill with two-word phrases. Brian quickly eliminated the negative ("Axe 'battling terrorism' and variants. No one's going to invite people calling them the Terrorism party. Axe everything that shortens into something dreadful-sounding.") Then he took out the ones very outside of the mainstream. ("Benign Theocracy", "Beyond Transhumanism", and "Ban Taxation"), and of course, the just plain silly ones ("I think we can rule out 'the Beefsteak Tomato party'").

Eventually, the possibilities narrowed down to just a few; the neutralish "Bargaining Table", the Malcolm-leaning "Benevolent Technocracy", and the Clayton-leaning "Better Tomorrow"

"I like the last one." Brian said. "What's the usual context when Clayton's used the phrase?"

"Quoting Reagan" said Connie. "Second Inaugural address. 'Voices were raised saying we had to look to our past for the greatness and glory. But we, the present-day Americans, are not given to looking backward. In this blessed land, there is always a better tomorrow.'"

"Perfect. Plus it makes more sense for it to be Clayton. A third-party run might actual have a chance with a sitting President running."

"You sure?" asked Bale.

"Sure enough to roll the dice." Brian turned once again to the camera and the offsite crowd. "Put in a call with...who's that new kid running his campaign? Bob something or other. Carver. Bob Carver. Let him know that Brian Redwing is doing a historical piece on Reagan's second term for tomorrow's edition, and that I'd welcome his boss' expert commentary on the subject."

There followed several minutes of nervous waiting. Then, a few more minutes. Then, finally, an incoming call.

"Redwing here" Brian answered over his headset. "Yes, sir. I'm sure we can do business."

"No, but I could hold it until just before the voting." Pause. "An interview, for starts. Face-to-face. And some names, a couple more that I can get quotes off of." Another pause. "Thank you, Mr. President."

Brian hung up, and addressed the room. "Clayton's be sending a Limo. Research, I want a brief list of the historical fault-lines in the Republican party. Everyone else, looks like you can call it a night."

And so the celebrations began. Watching vids of himself drinking always makes Andy thirsty, so it's a lucky break that the stewardess arrives to take his drink order just as the recording wraps up. He's feeling a bit southern by now, given the destination, so he orders bourbon. His seat mate puts away the rental palmtop he'd been working crosswords on, and orders a bloody Mary. The drinks appear momentarily, what would be doubles or more if bought at a bar. Andy's seen the pathetic little bottles that used to get served on planes before people started thinking too hard about the weapon quality of broken glass. Like piercings and Heavy Metal music, it was a cultural artifact of the past that baffled Andy every time he gave it a moment's thought.

Andy nurses his drink until the descent begins, gulping down the last of it just as the stewardess makes her final pass by. The ride down is bumpy but not overlong. After the short wait while the plane taxies to the terminal, he briskly walks off the plane, collects his personal effects bag, and takes a cab straight to his hotel. En route, he goes online, and restores the software in his eye-socket to it's usual patched-and-customized state. He then checks in at the hotel and orders a sandwich from room service. When the cab arrives, he goes straight to his room to eat, sleep, and get an early start on the next day.