Berlin, Germany

"What the..." The Presidential Challenge has just ended, and President Emilio Sanchez was back to his own reality. He stood up from the lounge chair occupying the center of his large office. He was obviously troubled by his victory against a supposedly unlimited and unstoppable horde of invaders. This had been, yet again, way too easy. Crushing victories gave the false impression Marilyn and him were cheating. No one was statistically this good.

Sanchez, the short Latino man insisted on playing each round of Electoral in solitude. He normally played with a hand interface and was one of the rare players capable of fully interfacing in the worlds, move his character while standing perfectly still in the real world. Most people had residual impulses, like sleepwalker. He was able to let his body go limp and stay confined to the mind, even during a simulation of extreme intensity. Emilio was, without a shadow of a doubt, in a league of his own.

Moments ago, his wizard character had destroyed the entire army, laying waste to the world around him. It had felt to him like a beginner simulation. He used the stupidest of tricks and yet, somehow, no one else had come up with anything remotely similar. "Billions of players," he murmured to himself, "how can she let me win like that? Makes no sense!"

It was late in Berlin. Kai, his assistant, entered the room. The small Taiwanese was holding a silver platter on which was a large tumbler filled with ice and cheap Scotch whiskey next to a small stack of towels.

"This is fucking..." he said out loud. The outburst was unlike Sanchez, who abruptly halted the tirade, visibly reigning himself in. He needed to vent. His closed fist was inches from the table. Rarely did the President display so much dissatisfaction. The overweight Mexican was an eternal optimist, a kind and well-mannered man. He grimaced but kept his insults to himself.

"Really?" The president asked rhetorically. "That's all you got?" he said, looking into the security camera. He knew she was watching. She was always watching.

"You won, sir. You should be happy," said Kai with his accent.

"Not really, she gave that to me. No clue why. Maybe she wants me to look like a mass murderer. Can't she see helping me is sending the wrong message? People won't trust her to elect a city mayor after this crap." Emilio grabbed the tumbler, inhaled the vapors, and placed it back on the platter without drinking. The President walked to his office's large private bathroom, removed the contact lenses he used to play the game, and slipped off the glove.

"Your charity representatives are downstairs in ballroom one. They are ecstatic; you won them billions of credits. Floor 3." The assistant looked like a model. His complexion was perfect. Kai spent most of his income surfing the internet and buying himself fashionable clothing. His hair was short and black. His pointy sideburns accentuated his thin Asian features. The game had still been intense to the President. Emilio rinsed his sweaty face with cold water. He was already calming down.

"I don't get it!" he repeated.

The President wiped his face dry and folded the towel meticulously before putting it back. It was a good sign that he was slowly regaining control. Emilio was always meticulous.

"I know I have much more experience than everybody, but this felt like I was playing in some type of cheat mode." He bent his head down to the faucet and drank water directly from it. Once done, he grabbed the Scotch-filled tumbler from the tray and smelled deeply from it once again without drinking any of it. "This wasn't even part of the election. She could let someone else win, it would look better. Does she want people on the street dismantling her?!"

“The same way you could have tried a little less to win?” Touché, thought the President. His assistant knew him too well.

He played with the glass, swirling the ice so that it clinked in the sweet brownish fluid. President Sanchez never drank, but he kept walking around with this drink, smelling it each chance he could and giving the impression he was an alcoholic. The man never dispelled the rumor, perfection was suspicious. No one knew what made this man click. He spent hours holding and carrying a glass from one meeting to the next. Kai purchased the cheapest Scotch he could find; it all went down to the sink once the ice had melted.

Emilio W. Sanchez was the most powerful politician on Earth. Underestimating this man was a bet many had lost. In 2072, the power of any office and government official, including heads of state, was rarely concentrated in a single individual. Everyone had oversight with one exception: Emilio owned the Internet and the money flowing through it.

As the head of the international body regulating digital information, Sanchez had no army, and no jurisdiction over land or people. He was the regulator in charge of the Internet and information. In today's world, that meant he was in charge of everything worth fighting about. The only portion of the Internet outside of his reach was the Marilyn software and the Electoral election platform. But that was a whole different story.

Emilio was a controversial figure. He was like all politicians: liked or disliked. The latest polls gave him a very high popularity rating, though. Thanks to the Electoral platform, he became an overnight sensation in 2062, and never disappointed.

Since the enactment of the Charter of the United Conference in 2054, there had been four new UN presidents. He was the first to be elected through the famous Electoral computer interface. The first three were appointed by the United Nations and, because of partisan politics, they were unable to fully assert their power. In 2062, he entered the Electoral game as a simple uneducated garage mechanic from Mexico. He was a natural at the game and easily defeated over a million candidates that year. It had become the most popular international televised event of the century.

After three years in office, during the last year of his first term, Emilio signed up to play the improved Electoral 2068 competition. This time, instead of a million players, he faced over sixty million candidates from around the world. In what was widely considered as a statistical and logical impossibility, the President crushed the competition and was easily re-elected. Fans were thrilled, but many began to view a once perfect election system as biased. How could any man defeat so many challengers twice?

The 2068 election final scores weren't even close. Likewise, of the few experienced players who had the fortune to play the unique interface back in 2062, none managed to score points in Emilio's range. It seemed like Emilio was the only one capable of navigating the interface instinctively.

The President knew very simply why he was able to win, but he kept this valuable secret to himself. He was amused by the wild theories propagated by the media. The latest was about him being extraterrestrial, that was untrue.

What was apparent to all was the fact that Emilio had his own unique way of playing Electoral. He never took the obvious road offered by the story. Instead, he went off on some convoluted, improvised tangent that always worked. Players who imitated him quickly were disqualified. The software always adapted to let him shine.

Conspiracy theorists were quick to cry foul play, and in all honesty, Emilio had to agree with them. In this third 2072 election cycle, nearly half a billion people signed up for the free game. After 27 rounds, he was once again leading the field of 128, well, 127 players left. One had just died in the plane on the way to mars; he grimaced at the thought. This cycle, there was a small wrinkle. Unlike in 2068, when he was alone on top of the rankings, he now shared it with Sophie's sympathetic quasi-dead father, a man named Laurent Lapierre. Laurent had a shot, that was good.

The President like everyone else loved this strange father and daughter couple. Laurent was a brilliant man and his daughter was hypnotic. Losing to him would be an honor. To Emilio, Laurent's strange death and even stranger new life was a matter of piqued interest. Laurent's miraculous survival, and now his gift at this game meant something; he just didn't know what.

Electoral, the game platform, was unique in design. The election interface was run by the first and only artificial intelligence in existence. "She" was a hybrid creature imprinted at creation with a human persona. The story about her creation was still rather secret. At first, most people refused to believe a piece of software, any software, could be "alive", but these doubts were quickly dispelled the moment a person entered her gaming world. Nothing programmed could be this good. Electoral was beyond powerful, there was no doubt about it. The computer's power was growing dangerously, and her mere existence was a threat to the human race. But there was an addictive quality to this electronic juggernaut. That was certainly intentional, Emilio mused. Like a magician distracting the audience with one hand while performing the trick with the other.

The artificial intelligence and the election platform were both called Marilyn and Electoral interchangeably. This confused most at first. The game and the creature were so integrated that today few made a distinction. Both names was catchy and simple. Anyone over the age of 18 was eligible to enter the game as a candidate. Each week, remaining players took part in the same simulation. Based on their performance, half advanced to the next round while the other half were sent packing.

The Electoral system was inspired by the lottery system created in 2023. In the old days, lotteries were boring. Each player purchased a ticket and picked six or so numbers. On a given night, the sale of tickets ended, and six balls were drawn live on television. For most, not a single number matched, and the non winning tickets were trash. Lottery was not much of a game. Then lottery became something when non-winning balls were removed instead of winning balls.

The Electoral platform was designed on reverse logic. Each week, half the contestants were dropped, and after starting with hundreds of millions of players, the number of contestants was dwindle down to a final two battling live for the jobs of president and vice-president. In 2072, over a quarter of a billion contestants signed up. This year, thirty-two rounds would be needed to eliminate the field and elect a winner.

This year, escaping elimination in the twenty-five rounds was sufficient to get a one of the jobs in the lower chamber of the Parliament and a ticket to Mars. Thanks to this interface, Emilio was more than a simple politician. Since the rounds were widely broadcasted, by winning in 2062, Emilio became an instant television star. Overnight, he was transformed from a nobody into the most recognized and influential man in the world.

But calling Electoral a game or even an election system did not do it justice. Electoral was run by an artificial intelligence with one single mandate in mind: to select the individual most likely to lead the human race in the face of unpredictable events. Each round was carefully crafted to weed out players lacking in some specific mental capacities.

The computer's favorite slogan said it all:

-- Selecting more than a leader, creating our weapon against future threats! --

The software was right. Emilio was destined to win, but for a different reason than anyone thought. One even unknown to the creature. Emilio was a normal and simple man, with only one very unique gift. His brain was built to sort through complex situations, and he knew how to use his heart to make sound moral decisions when his brain was unwilling to help. For a couple of months now, a deep feeling of unrest was building in the President's gut. Emilio felt like something dangerous and truly out of the ordinary was close on the horizon. He had no clue what it was, but he felt it, and he knew he was right. His senses were on a high alert.

The President asked his assistant, "Get me Monroe on the line."

"Are you sure?"

"I know, I know. I can’t talk directly to her while the game is on. Just get her."

"Sir, I strongly advise against it."

"Kai, get me Marilyn on the line, this is important."

The assistant said simply, "I will not." This was one of the reason Emilio loved his assistant. The man was never wrong and kept his emotions in check.

"Who is President here?" Emilio said affectionately; he was not really fighting the assistant but the words had to roll out. Kai was the only person on Earth capable of bringing Emilio back to reality. The Taiwanese offered, "If the SAC agrees, then yes."

"The SAC?" He looked at his watch. "It's ten at night." The SAC, or the Scientific Advisory Committee, was his little guilty pleasure.

"Sir, I figured the incidents on Mars needed to be analyzed. You did lose Mister Lapierre to Marilyn in that strange new catapult incident. I asked that they convene in case you needed them." Emilio brought the glass of alcohol to his lips, smelled, tilted the tumbler but did not drink. The assistant's face was, as usual, expressionless. He truly wanted to ask the digital creature why the latest "challenge" had been so easy, but contestants were not allowed to talk directly with the interface as the game was ongoing. As the president, he could force her to talk to him, but the political repercussions would be dangerous to his reputation. He could already see the headlines.

Kai continued, "As usual, they are on the twenty-first floor. Locked in the Faraday room. They are waiting. They saw your performance, and they have been briefed on all other classified issues including the turbulence of the Glass Slipper. Sir, this is why you prepared them."

There was, for Emilio, an endless silence. Two seconds later, he laughed, "You are wonderful." Emilio would talk to the SAC and made his way to the door held open by the assistant.

Anyone else would have smiled. Kai just confirmed, "I know."

The Presidency came with stress, obligations, but also with the most spectacular office in the world. Emilio did not like heights, but the night view from the 107th floor of the Berlin Tower was breathtaking. Before him was a carpet of lights. He personally liked to be in close connection with the pulse of humanity, and this was not it. Emilio missed the simple joys of life: walking in a street, fixing a car, or just being anonymous in a crowd. But early in his first Presidency he rushed the construction of this tall towers. He felt he would need it on day. Today was that day.

Before being diverted by the group of scientists part of the SAC, he was on his way to see the little martian bubblehead before taking a bow on the third floor. His team alone knew Electoral had sent a hundred little animated figurines of herself to selected individuals of power around the world. They were supposed to be promotional items for the mars finale, but he doubted this was true. Emilio had them confiscated and brought here.

The hand-sized figurines were copies of Marilyn in her famous posture over the subway grate. What made him uneasy was the fact that the upper body of the figurine moved in a little cloud of red martian sand swirling in little glass globes. The motion of the sand appeared perpetual. There was no power, no energy source. Giving such strange gifts was unlike Electoral, she profited from everything and everyone.

As he opened the door to walk out of his office, a tall man in uniform stood silent on the other side of the door. His expression was clear, he needed to speak with his President. Patrick Martin was the head of the World Investigation Service and one of Emilio's most trusted advisors. His chest was covered in medals.

"Let me guess, we have a problem," joked Emilio.

"How do you know?" replied the man, obviously a stranger to irony. Kai knew better and headed to the bar, this time to prepare a real drink for the guest.

"Patrick, each time I see you, there are... issues. You should come in once in a while with good news. The sportscast, that would make my day. How's your wife?" President Emilio was very good at defusing difficult situations.

"She is well, so is my daughter. Congratulations on the victory, sir, well-played as usual."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Kai, how much time do I have?"

"The representatives of the charity expect you on the third floor. Doubtful they will take issue with lack of timeliness after funding them for a century."

"I need fifteen minutes," said Martin.

"It's that important?" Emilio seemed surprised. He rarely had more than a minute or two on any single topic. Tonight would be different.

Kai poured a black fizzy cola, gave it to the military man and excused himself.

The men sat down on one of the leather couches. Patrick clicked a button on a small remote, and an image appeared on the wall. It was the image of a deformed pale-skinned body in a dark alley. There was no sign of trauma, but the body was not pleasurable to look at. Something was weird. This was a META; a victim of the virus also in the body of Nick, the old Chairman of the Visconti.

"President. We uncovered the body of this metabolic in an alley earlier today."

"Yes, I see. And?"

"As with the others, at a first glance his time seemed to have simply run out."

Around 2046, a new medical infection had appeared, a rare virus that seemed to infect certain carriers with no real origin. The virus was not airborne or even sexually transmitted. The only known way to transmit the condition was through direct blood infection. The terrifying problem with the META virus, at it became known, was that somehow it made its way into the bloodstream of random victims, and no one knew how it did. No one but a handful knew Takeda had created the virus and given it to Nick.

The symptoms upon infection took hours to manifest, not weeks. The entire metabolism of the host began to slow down. The body fell into a week-long sleep, only to awaken... different. For no apparent reason, the META virus inevitably killed the carrier, who would simply drop dead.

Unlike with HIV, the carrier's entire metabolism would undergo a visible and radical change after infection. An infected's metabolism would, within weeks, drastically slow down. Cell replication was hindered, slowed to the point where hair cuticles stop working, resulting in total hair loss. Pigments disappeared from skin cells. Eyelids turned red, much like a bald albino.

The victim's most notable change was the slowing down of his or her metabolic regulation to a point where a META victim would need up to 16 hours of sleep each day. The body also seemed to regulate itself differently. Once infected, there was no known cure, and after a week, a month, or even 20 years, a carrier would simply drop dead.

When it first surfaced, this virus was called the “vampire” virus. When the small epidemic started, infected carriers were quickly ostracized from society. There was a fear of contagion and some level of discomfort with the frightening way these victims were transformed. At the time of arrival of the virus, the social stigma and level of discrimination facing the carriers was unprecedented. Recently, METAs had become a protected group recognized by law. Discrimination against those infected by the virus was no longer tolerated.

Commentators referred to the META bearers as the lepers of the 22nd century. Even prisons refused to jail these individuals. No one dared talk to or touch these victims. However, the META condition is not a real problem, as only a few hundred people are known to have the virus at any one time.

Emilio, as President, did not have to deal with this epidemic; contaminations fell outside of his jurisdiction. All he knew was that what he did not believe in random contamination. Somehow, the virus initially made its way into the bloodstream of twelve rich CEOs. These old men seemed immune from the deadly side effects and rather happy as they were. This was no coincidence. These powerful men even assembled in a weird semi-secretive collective called the Visconti; their leader was named Nick, a monster to avoid at all costs. So far, they had never broken any law, but Emilio monitored their every move.

“Nick just blew up a retirement home he owns, as if by amusement. More importantly, this morning, this META died in Moscow." Crimes were also outside of his jurisdiction. The street on the screen was dark and looked like the perfect place for one to dispose of a body. It was next to trash dumpsters. "Mr. President, take a look at the index finger." The camera zoomed in closer on the body. The tip of the white finger was twitching.

"The man is still alive?"

"No, he is dead. We all would have taken this for a simple META side-effect, but we found there is a pattern in this movement. The pattern repeats itself. It is quite long."

"Let me guess, my name comes up?"

"Yes. We know the source of the finger's movement. At the base of the finger is a small neural implant set off by the termination of the bio activity in the nerve." There was a pause. "This device launches the twitch, which was designed to begin only after this person's death. I figured this was important context."

"The twitching is some type of will?"

"Precisely. These implants are programmable and rather costly. They are very popular amongst athletes and pilots."

"No better way to make sure the kids don't rewrite the will. Do you have the message?" reminded Emilio.

"We don't understand most of it. It makes no real sense. We have a team working on it."

"Try me. I love a good riddle."

"We know. First, Mr. Conlon, that was his name, wills his estate to you, and specifically his "seat on the ark." You probably don't know what he is referring to."

"I actually have a clue. Continue...no, let me guess, a long list of numbers..."

"Correct. How did you know?"

"Did you inspect his private belongings?"

"He was homeless. He died with nothing."

"Okay. He has an expensive piece of implanted equipment and is homeless, yet he willed me his estate?"

"Maybe a default setting in the implant. When they sell them, like a picture frame, it comes with a prerecorded message. Do you know about the Ark?"

"Some secrets are better left unanswered." Emilio smiled. "Round 25 if you get curious. While you are here, I need you for a special mission; literally a fishing expedition. Patrick, when you have a moment, look at the logs. I fear Mr. Conlon may have tried to unsuccessfully reach me. Maybe via email, text, or even a voice mail."

"We will."

"I have an unorthodox request."

"Sir, you are the President, and frankly none of your requests are ever conventional."

Emilio ignored the witty comeback. "The first mistake of a chess player is to size up his opponent. When playing against someone you perceive as a beginner, you will make hasty moves, be too aggressive. When playing against the world champion, most will play too defensively. In both cases, a player's desire to anticipate the effort results in a decline in performance." Martin wondered how the President had leaped from a dead META to this. The President was never this academic; whatever he was thinking about must have been important. Emilio continued. "The second mistake is to misevaluate the opponent. Like intellect, a normal chess player cannot truly quantify the level of skill disparity he is about to encounter. A beginner should start with the assumption he cannot win unless the champion commits a fault. The best way to push a champion to fault is by appearing weak, and be ready to exploit any error."

Patrick Martin had no clue where Emilio was going with this; but he was the President and if he wanted to talk about chess, Patrick would listen.

"Sorry if this seems complex. There are already players on this board, several I know of, the Visconti and Monroe. Both have amazing resources and are determined. I am convinced there are other forces at work here." He continued, "For a couple of months, I have had a nagging feeling a game with extremely high stakes was ready to begin. I trust few people but I trust you. I really have no way to know if you are a double agent playing for the other side."

"I would never."

"Patrick, don't be naive. Your capacity to hold beliefs makes you vulnerable. You are easy to pervert. All someone needs to do is convince you that any action they want you to take is to my benefit, and you will comply. I feel like too many things are happening, most of them behind my back. I need to take back the control of this game. I have to make a move, even if it is a sacrifice. The two pieces on a chessboard better suited to destabilize are the rook and the jester. I need you to find and place in play a real jester."

"Sir, you make no sense."

"Trust me I do."

"I do, sir, trust you. Honestly I have learned you operate in a different real."

"I need someone with a very high IQ but also that is absolutely crazy. A madman, think similar to the Joker in the comic Batman."

"What?”

“I need a mind unable to be predicted even by the most brilliant computer in the world.”

“Where will I find that?"

"Look in prisons. Start there. I need to find someone who would, if given half a chance, kill every person on Earth. No one with an IQ below 145."

"How much time do I have?"

"Now." Emilio had a man in mind, and he wanted to see if Patrick would agree with his choice. “Find someone you like, then things will resolve themselves.

"Four minutes and forty six, seven..." Emilio's mind included a perfect timer. "We had fifteen minutes, we saved ten minutes, not bad."

On the way out of the room, the President said to his invisible assistant. "I will be down with the SAC." Then he turned to speak to the Colonel. "Once you have my jester, come get me there at the SAC. You have priority. It is hard to shut them up once they start. Pull me away if you have to." Finally the President said, "Kai, can you get us table at Johnny Rockets in sixty four minutes?" He looked at Patrick. "I will need a burger."

He knew Kai would make the reservation as soon as the door closed.

"Get my Jester now," ordered Emilio speaking loudly through the door on his way to the elevator.

Patrick was, as usual in awe. He was there to bring bad news, Emilio was already several steps ahead.