Round 26

25 Days To The Sixth Attraction

Electoral did what she was created to do. From millions of miles away, crackling inside her memory from her home on mars, the digital intelligence took control of a new world in which humanity immersed itself so regularly. Instantly, she connected the 127 players to the game and allowed well over two billion viewers to watch the show. An invisible network of thoughts perforated, permeated, and enveloped earth. Excepting President Sanchez on earth and Sophie's father located in the Arena, the other 126 players entered her world using Screenlenzs and a control glove. Each in the lobby of the hotel was standing on a colorful floor mats with little rounded edges. About half the players, based on their preferences, also wore gravity boots. No one cared about the majestic view of mars in front of them, this was more important.

Humanity did not know about the sand creatures on mars, the Dot stolen from Liam, the Nexus or even the Purple. All they still knew was that Sophie was magical and the Glass Slipper encountered strange turbulence on its pre-inauguration flight. Sophie and her father were at the Center and one player died of a mysterious ailment.

The distant sun was rising over the horizon over the dusty planet. From the lobby, the system’s star appeared nearly half the size it was down on earth. Here, looking directly at the sun without protection was fine; its intensity was a fraction of what it was in the Saharan desert. The faint green-yellow haze in the atmosphere further weakened the power of the white giant. Phobos, the irregular-shaped moon was brighter than the sun and dominated at an angle in the sky.

Because of its status as a planet, most people were surprised to see humans bounce as they moved over the mars surface. With 38% of earth's gravity, players could jump five times as high as back home as they played. With excitement in the game, standing on the play pad immersed in a virtual reality, they could instinctively jump and hit the high ceilings of the hotel. Electoral was ready to unroll a scenario designed to avoid bursts of physical energy, the game would be mostly intellectual; a period piece. High above the hotel and miles above the ground alongside the slow, endless slope of the Mons shone, diamond-like, the Glass Slipper. The transparent glider was at its docking station undergoing rigorous tests. So far, the glider's integrity seemed sound.

In 2072, the new collective drug was no longer social media, opiates or even alcohol; it was Electoral. It fused the intensity of politics, the entertainment of video games and a palpable sense of human drama. Once connected to Electoral 2072, it took the remaining contestants what a seemingly endless amount of time to customize their preferred settings and begin their simulations. Amongst other things, they chose the clothing of their character, the accent, even the hair color. Next, they watched a tutorial on ordinary life in Chicago, Illinois, during the era of Prohibition. But this was a breeze when compared with the battle settings of the Presidential Challenge.

To the ordinary viewer watching the show, there was no pause; the games started in a heartbeat as Electoral sped the process deep in the minds of the last players. Earlier this year, as part of Round 12, millions of players had spent, from their perspective, a full week inside the simulation. They had been castaways lost on a Pacific island. To the rest of the world, the week-long endeavor was nothing more than an hour of sped-up play. Marilyn controlled time in her world; she could slow things down or speed them up as needed.

No human technology could replicate this lagging effect. Scientists were excited about this slowing-down of the brain instead of accelerating it. If, to a space traveler, what felt subjectively like an hour-long nap could, in reality, span multiple days, moving amongst the stars would become much more feasible. As was typical, however, asking the artificial intelligence for her secrets was a waste of time.

For the moment, the excitement was not about the story or the science; it was about Laurent Lapierre's state of mind and his reunion with the world's sweetheart. Was Sophie's father even alive? Earth collectively crossed its fingers. Before that particular drama could play out, though, President Emilio Sanchez would play. Typically Emilio played during the second hour; today he went first.

Invisible to all but Marilyn, the brain waves of the billions watching the game flowed into her system and meshed into a powerful sea of energy. Like a solar flare filling the void of space, the eruption of energy jolted the solar system awake. Rho waves began to clash and merge, building into a slow, unstoppable crescendo of power. Monroe alone saw and could use these waves to enhance the experience of her viewers. With each passing simulation, she was getting better at controlling Rho waves. Round 26 was, to Marilyn, the unseen shift on an ocean floor that releases the tsunami. To the players and viewers, this would be an unprecedented, exhilarating rush. Brains were awake, alive and vibrating with emotional arousal.

In the cosmos, the power of Rho waves continued their steady ascendance, sourced by the blue gem called earth. In space, these waves overlapped with others of many types. Unlike solar waves, which attenuated with distance, Rho waves increased in power as they traveled further from earth. As if to acknowledge its growing influence, the gem of the solar system twinkled in the cosmos.

Viewers of Electoral possessed generous viewing options. Most importantly, they needed to pick one of the 126 players to watch in real-time. Electoral, of course, offered the option for any viewer to view any other players after the fact. For a fee, of course. Laurent Lapierre was absent from the list to the impatient irritation of many. The President, while leading in the rankings, was today an ordinary contestant. With a few exceptions, everyone elected to watch Emilio.

Because of the recent doubt cast on Laurent's well-being and Sophie's role in her heroic attempt at his rescue, the clamor to see him was deafening. No one even knew if the man even had a mind left with which to participate. Marilyn insisted on total editorial control over her broadcast, and it was in no one's power to say no. True to her nature, she made an executive decision to prolong the suspense and extend the broadcast to a two-hour live event with the help of CNN's enthusiastic anchors. Emilio would play Round 26, then, an hour later, she would air Laurent's performance. Laurent would play at the same time as everyone else, but the broadcast of his game, if it even took place, would be delayed.

Only one person today would see Laurent's live performance: his young legal guardian. She hinted at her desire to see her father immediately; there was no pushback. Marilyn replied, "Of course you can see him, I'd have it no other way. I hope he's fine. You must be worried. Is it okay if you watch and don't jump in with him during the game? Another presence requires me to put more strain on his mind. Keeping the amount of energy I supply him with is the least dangerous course." Sophie agreed. After all, he had now been in this state for days while she grabbed Liam from his strange world.

Back at the Electoral Watch Cell, floors below the President’s office, the team led by the young man began to monitor brain waves flowing into the system. They felt the strange waves were the important factor. These scientists were unable to distinguish the Rho waves from better-known varieties, but they saw the energy flowing out of the system and into the stratosphere and beyond.

The broadcast began on time, as it always did. Unlike the Presidential Challenge, there was no explosion of light, color or sound. Round 26 began softly. All screens shifted to a soft, creamy white and music filled the void. It had been well over a century since any significant broadcast used the romantic feel of black and white. Electoral's Round 26 would be colorless except for some touches of color to enhance Electoral's beauty. Powerful filters gave the broadcast a feel of walking back into the 19th Century. This was no gritty recreation of the past. Instead, she set forth a romantic view of the difficult era. The white tones were gracious to Marilyn Monroe, born in that long past era.

Credits typed by an old typewriter appeared. Classical piano music played softly in the background. Sebastian Bach's early works brought a touch of romanticism. After the roll out of the opening credits, Electoral printed a touching acknowledgment to Sophie Lapierre for her help. Watching from the Center, the young girl smiled. She liked Marilyn; the blond was clumsy but had a good heart.

The game began.

This was a black and white sunny day.

A bird chipped on the edge of a large wooden sign. It welcomed visitors to a retirement home. A winding gravel road allowed carriages and two cylinder-engine cars travel under a row of arching trees. Curiously, the image was part of a peaceful European forest, not the United States. The sign read: "Mountain Ridge Residences, Chicago."

President Emilio was the only player who knew this place; he had recently seen it. This building had been blown up in Vienna about a week ago by the old ghosts from the Visconti. "This is not a coincidence," he told himself. Marilyn knew better than to use European landscape and foreign architecture for a Chicago setting. She was never off-script. Every detail counted to the creature. Emilio knew deep down there was a purpose to this choice, and his instincts told him it was probably a message directed at him.

Takeda, the dying virologist, had walked out unscathed from an explosion here. The centenarian's appearance had changed radically if indeed Emilio was looking at the same man. The cameras lost sight of Takeda instants after he left that parking lot. Privacy was impossible in this new digital world. Marilyn was always careful not to give any player an advantage over others; so she never used an existing location. That she had elected to at this point set Emilio's nerves on edge.

Using this residence sent Emilio a clear message: Takeda was here — the real Takeda.

Like all players, Emilio watched the introduction unfold before his eyes. Everyone else would see a clip lasting about thirty seconds and characters talk to each other; though Emilio's gift allowed him to glean much more information. A carriage rolled softly to the front door of the Residence. The driver was careful not to disturb a precious passenger. The horses stopped in the entry of the main building. A man walked out from the Residence wearing a suit. A welcoming committee of sorts. The driver walked around and opened the door to help an aging woman get out of the carriage. She smiled. "Welcome Madam Emmanuel," offered the manager. He kissed her hand. The woman blushed. "We are honored to have you here; your son is a kind man."

The old lady grabbed the hand and carefully placed her shoe on the ledge. "He certainly is," she answered as a nurse brought over a platter with two flutes of Champagne.

"I hope he wins the election."

"So do I. So do I."

Emilio's singular mind exploded as hundreds of alternative scenarios flooded in. He quickly ran and dismissed the images in which the manager helped the lady visit the grounds. He was able to project himself in simulations in which he played the manager of the residence who, instead of walking out to welcome the new guest at the carriage, walked past the front door and visited, in turn, each of the rooms of the building. In his mind, as the manager, Emilio opened each door. Emilio's gift allowed him to siphon, categorize and extrapolate a great deal of information from very little input.

In each simulation, he only had about thirty seconds. His mind's eye opened the doors looking each time for the virologist. He ran up the stairs, then in more simulations he walked down to the basement of the structure. Finally, he opened the last door to Room 20C. Behind it sat Takeda. He was in a frail body barely capable of holding himself in a sitting position. The man was very old but was awake; his eyes where those of a young man. The virologist looked at Emilio with his piercing eyes.

His vision ended. Emilio was back watching the old lady grab the flute of champagne. The President's heart raced. For the first time in this game, there was drama and excitement. He wondered if Marilyn would decide to broadcast his dreams to the world. He had no way to know what she would use but he knew Takeda was here.

As suddenly as the prelude began, it ended. The visions were gone.

Everyone was back watching a busy Chicago street. Here, a handful of old cars made their way along a cobblestone downtown road. The rocks on the ground were flat. These images were from the Al Capone era and every detail was perfect. In the streets, boys were selling the morning edition of the Chicago Sun Times. It was a sunny spring day; the straw in the street above the stones was damp. As usual, Marilyn's attention to detail was breathtaking.

A large white car turned a street corner and made its way down the street. The license plate read simply "SEXY." Its windows were tainted, but there was no doubting that Marilyn Monroe was sitting inside. Each round began with her arrival. She gave proof that narcissism was not confined to the Homo Sapiens. Letters flashed in the sky on each screen.

Round 26 - President Emilio Sanchez

First Position - 2434 Points

The game was addiction, this was why.

Soft music began in the background as President Sanchez's narrated with a heavy Chicago accent. "Don't know why the hell I woke up this morning. Should have gone with my gut and stayed in bed. Been months since my last client walked in, and with the recession and all, I need the work. Done being picky." The white car drove up and parked in front of a five-story brick building. "Yep, that's my dump."

The chauffeur ran out, circled the car and opened the passenger door. The detail was spectacular; viewers saw the hand of the driver reach in to help the passenger out of the vehicle. A long, covered leg unfolded. The woman gently put a high-heeled shoe on the crooked rocky curb. The camera panned out to show Marilyn Monroe come out of the vehicle. The digital creature was stunning and used every tool in her arsenal to enhance the experience. The gentle morning light and filtering techniques gave her a natural luminescence. She was wearing a hat, a sleeveless white cocktail dress with a side slit to the upper thigh. Her naked shoulders were warmed by a long ermine boa. The black tips of the tails were in perfect alignment around her neck.

Marilyn was playing a wealthy and prominent woman. She flicked her wrist, and the chauffeur gave her a long cigarette holder cocked with a white tube. He lit her up. Back on earth, Marilyn was bound by the rules of broadcasting and smoking on television was prohibited; on mars it was not. Wearing real fur also was forbidden. She'd obviously thrown the rule book out the window. Emilio could feel her contempt for man's rules from millions of miles away.

The President's narration resumed as Marilyn made her way inside the building. "I hate rich broads -- specifically the type married to poor old schmucks. I'm a private eye, not a marriage counselor. These broads always want me to spy on their husbands; nothing is simpler. By the look of this one, you would figure she was married to Capone himself. My gut was nagging me; I knew helping her was the best way to finish the night in Lake Michigan with a new pair of cement shoes. Then again, who was I to turn down a five dollar job?"

The Marilyn character walked to the door of the building. The chauffeur opened the freight elevator. Both entered the cage and slowly made their way to the top floor. Emilio's narration continued, "When the door to my office opened, it was obvious to me. This was triple, no, quadruple the normal rate. No one else in this town was desperate enough to take this job. I was going to see a twenty today." As he finished the sentence, the door of the office opened. The bodyguard let her enter first after a quick glance inside.

There wasn't much in the largely empty room. In the back was a thick desk with a sawed-off shotgun mounted underneath, two chairs and a small sign which read "E.W. Sanchez - Private Eye."

Without a word, cigarette holder in her mouth, she slowly removed both of her long white gloves one finger at a time. Once done, she handed them to her bodyguard and gestured for him to leave. As the door closed, she moved closer, took a good look at the player and sat on the corner of Emilio's heavy desk. She crossed her legs in the most provocative way she could.

"Detective."

"Yep?" answered Emilio.

"I need your help."

"It's three dollars per hour plus expenses, twenty each day," said the detective. Emilio's internal narrative continued, "This chick doesn't care about money," said the off voice to the billions of viewers. Emilio's character continued but this time with his speaking voice, "What's a hot chick like you doing in a sleazy place like this?"

"I need discretion."

Emilio almost choked. The word "discretion" was not part of Marilyn's vocabulary in any reality. He put both of his feet on his desk, dangerously close to where Marilyn was sitting. "Discretion's my middle name, little lady."

"I am the wife of Andrew Emmanuel, the banker. I think someone is blackmailing him out of his bid for Mayor of Chicago."

"Listen, lady, everyone in this town is either blackmailed or corrupt. We have a special word for it; we call it breathing." Electoral put a laugh track on the pun.

"This case is special," she reached into her bra and pulled out a small business card. As she handed it over, a gunshot echoed from across the street. It broke the glass and hit Marilyn in the heart. She fell very elegantly to the ground, lifeless. Her death was part of the scenario and well orchestrated. There was no pain or even noise. Emilio got up just in time to grab the business card from her hand as she dropped. Her death was part of the story; there was no point in fighting it.

"This is why you always get a retainer," said the Private Eye as Marilyn's bodyguard rushed to the room. "Goddammit, I needed this one," said Emilio in the off voice. He looked at the business card; it read: "Michel Leduc, General Manager -- The Mountain Ridge Residence." He knew that man; it was Leduc's point of view he had just borrowed to walk around the building and find Takeda. He was sure of it.

Emilio's character smiled, but his inner self, playing the game from his office in Berlin, was now nervous. The scenario of Round 26 was simple, deceptively so. But there was more. His detective character needed to go to the retirement home to solve the murder. He needed to visit the Residence to get the message Marilyn had set up for him. Room 20C was intriguing for a different reason. It then came to Emilio that the Chairman of the Visconti was undoubtedly watching the game along with everyone on earth. To Nick, this would ring alarm bells. Marilyn was shining a light on the ghost's secret plan.

He was puzzled.

There was a long commercial pause.