The First Cycle

Prologue

“We’ll give them The Sweet Life, and they’ll willingly give up their privacy,” Ethan Kirkwood said. “Sad, but true.”

The stuffy room made him sweat. Six politicians watched him through the murk of the private room—a hotel in a nondescript building in a nondescript part of Baltimore.

“It’ll never happen,” the blonde female senator said. She shook her head and adjusted her T-shirt. Each of them looked like regular Joes off the street, while not a single one of them appeared to be what they were—political elite deciding the fate of the country.

Kirkwood didn’t like any of them. He liked what they could do for him, which was ensure that the future of the country made him rich and wealthy, like he deserved. So far his start-up business only had a few employees. But what it lacked in clout and money, it made up for in brainpower and desperation.

He was desperate. So desperate that he was willing to try anything once in the hopes that he’d get results.

This meeting was a surprise. He’d never expected it to work, but he could feel it turning as the conversation continued. It was subtle like the change in the currents as the tide rolled back then plunged forward again.

The pieces were in place, all he needed now was the green light from the populace and he could transform the face of the nation and turn it into one big movie set under the guise of safety.

“Oh, I think it could happen,” Kirkwood said. “That remains to be seen, I suppose. It depends on what you’re willing to push.”

“All the time? No privacy? Every one watched, all the time? Yeah,” a senator from Florida answered, leaning back into his plush armchair. “I’m with her. Even if I wanted it, the people will object to their privacy being demolished.”

Kirkwood laughed, keeping his cool. “That’s been said many times, sir. And every time a new mass shooting happens, we see them willingly give it up by degrees.”

“But this is different,” the Floridian said. “Sounds like these nanocameras would follow everyone, all the time. Seeing everything, even people having sex, or changing their clothes.”

“That’s never bothered you before,” a senator from Vermont said. He chortled.

The Floridian scowled. “Shut up, John.”

“Everyone’s already seen your dick,” the Vermont senator said. “Get over yourself. We’re talking about safety. If we pitch it right, it could work.”

A thrill of exultation went through Kirkwood. That was the crack in the barrier of their support he needed. Daylight glimmered through it, golden, showering hope like fresh oxygen into the suffocating, oppressive room. If he could just keep them talking, keep the friction working, he could get it through. The senators would pass it and he’d finally have a deal in place to keep the money flowing for himself. The nanocamera tech that he wanted to unleash more of and utilize for these feeds, for the Sweet Life system, was incredible. So small they were effectively invisible. Impossibly cheap to create, too. No one would know just how many cameras would be out there; no one knew just how many cameras were already out there…

“Tell me more about the Sweet Life system,” the blonde in the t-shirt said, leaning forward. Her eyes glittered in curiosity now that John of Vermont and the Floridian had exposed their hopes and doubts. Three almost convinced. The other three—wildcards still—had adopted a Sphinx-like silence, but he was halfway there.

His hooks were in them and he could taste blood.

Kirkwood smiled. “It’s a life-leveling up system, built into the proposal of the feeds. The people who do best at it—who get the most viewers, and therefore the most interesting celebrities, so to speak—get rewarded by the system itself. It will encourage the populace to engage in the feeds and search for ways to gain popularity. It’ll keep them focused on that side of the feeds, where it’s fun and beautiful. This way, law enforcement will have less crime, which means more safety. We’ll be able to anticipate crimes before they happen, and if needed, arrest the people committing the crimes.”

“This has multiple flaws,” she said. “And what exactly is the not fun, ugly side?”

“The main point,” Kirkwood said, feeling frustrated, “is that the people feel ‘safe.’ No more crimes against children. No more burglaries. It’s a win for the weakest amongst us. And who will have the audacity to fight for them to be exploited?”

“When you phrase it like that,” John of Vermont said, nodding and pursing his aged lips, “maybe it can work. Protect the weak. If you don’t want to protect the weak, you’re a monster throwing lambs into the lions den.”

Kirkwood nodded and cleared his throat, going for earnest. “Thank you, Senator. I see it as the only way to phrase it. We decide the language. We decide the rules of privacy. We take charge and the rest will follow.”

They were silent as the words he’d uttered sank in. He was challenging them to confront their constituents, to tell them what was good for them.

The reality was, Kirkwood wanted the politicians on his side because they made the laws, not because he needed it to move forward with his plan. The average human, when they saw their chance to become famous and wealthy, would take it, even if it meant they were giving up their privacy.

And a hunger like that in humans was something he could exploit.

***

Chapter 1

Samuel Ramone’s hands were slippery around the steering wheel. He pressed his foot forward and revved the engine, as he glanced ahead at the edge of the track and waited for the official’s flag to drop.

Ramone’s pulse was a piston against his throat as he squinted toward the endless sky ahead—a shocking blue touching the crisp white of the salt flats. He studied the silver mirage wavering just above the brilliant horizon. For a moment, it looked as though he were about to race into a mirror image world.

That would be nice. Perhaps in that world, the idea of normal hadn’t been eroded into a concept he no longer recognized.

The Audi next to him roared, and for a split second, Ramone worried he’d missed the start-signal. His gaze flashed to the official, but the flag was still raised. He sighed in relief.

Ramone’s Aston Martin purred. This would be his first time totally opening it up. A thrill flashed down his spine in anticipation. Adrenalin surged through him. Why are you doing this? his wife had wanted to know a month ago when he’d bought the vehicle, her voice dripping with disdain. Ramone—prestigious nanoengineer and recent QUEprize winner—was supposed to be above such indignities. Hobby racing was a young man’s enterprise.

Is it for the feeds? she’d asked.

Never. At least, he didn’t think so. He hated the feeds. Hated what they’d made of the world. Though he had them to thank for being able to race his Aston Martin on the salt flats in a side-by-side competition. Before the feeds, the racing on the desert floor had always been solo, against the timer. But now the nanocameras were everywhere, watching everyone all the time, and feeding the footage to the many channels of real-time, real-life entertainment. Ramone sometimes believed he felt them, watching him. At least someone was watching, all the time.

He didn’t really care if he won. He just wanted to test the power of the Aston Martin, and the car was the only thing with which he’d rewarded himself. While some of the prize money went to pay back the loans on his children’s college educations, some of it went to establish Sue’s art consulting business. What of him? Should he have quit his day-job with the money? Hardly. Besides, he didn’t want to stop working and his contract with Kirkwood Broadcasting wouldn’t end for two more years anyway.

He breathed in slowly, fixing his gaze on the race official. The signal should come any second now.

He was right. At that moment, the flag finally swept down. He pounded his foot against the pedal and the Aston Martin surged forward, slamming him back against the seat. The smell of burned rubber wafting through the AC vents singed his nose as he shifted. The car slowed for a moment before he got it situated. Then it thrust forward, jerking his body around as though he were a sock monkey.

The Audi was lost in the salt dust ahead of him, leaving Ramone and his Aston Martin far behind. Nevertheless, a grin split his face in two. How long had it been since he’d felt so free? Years. Maybe a million years? No. Hyperbole only lessened the power of the sentiment. Thirty years. Yes, before his kids were born. Before Sue. Before the feeds.

He bolted toward the horizon. There was nothing nearby to gauge how fast he was really going, though the speedometer told him it was near one sixty.

Suddenly, the Audi was spinning through the air in front of him, doing barrel-rolls. Chunks of metal sprayed from it in an expanding wreath of shrapnel. Ramone turned the wheel and punched the brake, fighting the urge to yank it hard to the right and cause his own vehicle to roll. He eased into the turn, steering away from the erratic path of the tumbling Audi.

When he skidded to a stop, he looked out to where the Audi had come to rest a hundred yards away, a twisted, jagged hunk of red metal, the beauty of its lithe form completely obliterated in the wreckage. There was silence within the Aston Martin, disrupted only by the sound of Ramone’s quavering breath. Perspiration slipped down his forehead and stung his eyes.

Ramone undid his seatbelt and opened the door. His black boots crunched on the salt as he stood up and hung in the crook of his open car door, one hand on top of it, the other on the hot roof. For a moment, he wondered if he should stay back, feeling as though he was somehow to blame for the accident, feeling too shaken to think straight.

He’d already made it across the white expanse of glittering salt when he finally realized what he was doing. The Audi had landed on its wheels. The smell of burned rubber and gas permeated the dry, crystal-like air as he arrived at the scene.

He went to the driver’s side of the twisted, destroyed vehicle and grabbed the door handle. He yanked hard on the door, but the roof was crushed and there was no give in the useless hunk. He raced around to the passenger side and tried that door. It creaked open.

“Hey? Hey? Boy? You OK?” Ramone asked, leaning in.

The driver—a young kid, maybe twenty-five—didn’t answer. The airbag had begun to deflate. Blood oozed from the corner of his mouth and nose. Ramone reached in and undid the boy’s seatbelt, though he wasn’t sure if what he was doing was right—perhaps he was supposed to leave him in the car. Perhaps all of his actions were wrong.

Still, he had to do something.

Ramone knelt on the passenger seat and patted the boy’s cheek. He listened for breath, then listened for a pulse. The heartbeat at least was there, though it was faint. The worst injuries seemed to be to his face. He reached under the kid’s arms and pulled him across the center console to get him out of the mangled Audi.

It took effort and the kid’s feet got caught several times on the steering wheel, but Ramone finally laid the boy gently on the jagged ground.

In the distance there came the faint wail of approaching sirens.

“Hey boy,” Ramone said again, “Kid? About time for you to wake up, kid.” He patted the kid’s cheek and then grimaced. His face was swelling up already and it was clear his nose was broken.

Just like that Ramone was being pulled away from the kid. He hadn’t even heard the emergency vehicles arrive.

“We can take care of this,” one of the emergency workers said in a scathing voice. “Stand aside.”

Ramone allowed himself to be moved, though he longed to do more. He shook the hands away from his clothing and arms and adjusted himself.

“I got it,” he said, irritated. That was when he realized his hands were covered in the kid’s blood, and he’d just gotten it all over himself.

He walked away, then paced in a circle, his eyes continuously drawn back to the cluster of EMTs bent over the other driver.

“We got a gas leak!” a race official shouted suddenly, backing away from the wreckage and guiding others away with him.

“Someone get the firetruck out here!”

“Already on its way!”

“Get the kid back. Everyone get back!”

Another race official began ushering the gathered bystanders back aggressively.

“We got an explosion just waiting to happen. Come on, everyone! Move!”

Ramone looked at the kid again, wondering if there was something else he should do to help him. He couldn’t help it—he was really just a child. Reminded him of his own son, Jack.

“He’s gone,” one of the EMTs said. “We need the paddles charged.”

“Move the kid first!”

“This can’t wait! Charge the paddles. We have a few seconds. We’ve got to have a few seconds.”

It was too much. Ramone jogged away, feeling as helpless as he had the day Kirkwood, his boss, flicked the power switch on in the hive, the massive storage facility that had deployed the first batches of nanocameras. Ramone had been against it from the start. He’d fought the inevitable as it rushed toward him at a fever pitch. Nothing he’d said or done had mattered, just like now, as he realized that whatever had been set in motion the minute the starting flag had dropped had become the Inevitable.

Just like the minute Kirkwood had flipped that switch.

The Inevitable.

As Ramone watched in the blinding sunlight, the EMTs placed the charged paddles to the boy’s bare chest. His body jerked.

“He’s just a kid,” Ramone whispered to himself, or perhaps to the feeds. He felt the nanocameras watching, felt the condemnation of onlookers he didn’t know and would never know. Maybe it wasn’t even condemnation. Maybe what people felt who watched the feeds was bloodlust, like they had in ancient times in the Coliseum. “Please,” Ramone said, clenching his fists. “Live, boy, live.”

I swear I’ll change the future if you just hang on.

The EMTs suddenly jumped to their feet and rushed away from the boy, leaving him behind as a furious ball of fire erupted from the Audi and curled its red hot heat into the shimmering desert air.

Though Ramone was about forty yards away, the surge of heat from the explosion hit him. He rubbed his eyes with trembling hands. He blinked up at the blinding blue sky and its white desert sun.

He could never race again.

* * *

Ramone stared out the window of his office cubicle, unable to focus. The day was gray and the city full of dark skyscrapers covered in reflective, soulless windows. Trees lined sidewalks and burned with the fires of autumn. Pigeons wheeled against the sky, doing acrobatic moves, floating through maneuvers in unison. Normally their patterns inspired him—they’d been instrumental in helping Ramone figure out how to design the nanocameras—but today he struggled. The birds reminded him of the Audi twirling through the air.

And everywhere else Ramone saw the slack face, the unconscious immobility of his racing opponent. And the blood, still covering his hands as the EMTs pushed him away and took over.

He stood up and looked around, searching for the one or two colleagues he spoke to in the office. He left his small plot of office space and waltzed through the maze of units until he came to Byron’s cubicle. The desk lights were off. The computer screen, dark.

Ramone glanced around. He leaned against the wall of the cubicle next to Byron’s.

“Hey Edwin,” he called to the young guy who shared a wall with Byron.

“What’s up R-dog?” Edwin asked looking up from his monitor. Edwin did marketing and was proud of that, showing off his artistic sensibilities in every way he could, including with his outlandish hairstyle and clothing. The boy cocked his head to one side and waited for Ramone to answer.

Ramone cleared his throat, feeling slightly self-conscious around the kid. Ramone himself was plain, opting for jeans and T-shirts as often as possible. “You seen Byron lately? He call in sick today?”

Edwin squinted up at Ramone and shook his head. “Didn’t you hear, man?”

“Hear what?”

“I ain’t talking about it. You want answers, find someone else.”

“Uh, ok,” Ramone said, walking away. A ball of dread began to form in his gut. He ignored it. He stopped at another cubicle. “Chelsea. Psst, Chelsea.”

The assistant for one of the marketing directors spun in her desk chair and gave Ramone an expectant look. “Hi Ramone.”

“Where’s Byron?” He cut to the chase.

“Oh, uh, Byron. Hmm. Not sure.” Her expression said otherwise.

“OK, thanks.” The feeling of dread grew. Ramone went to another floor and found the company gossip, the one person who enjoyed having inside knowledge about every soul employed at Kirkwood. “Merrill, hey.”

Merrill’s desk faced the aisle, so Ramone couldn’t see what he was looking at. The man smiled at Ramone. “Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. How was your race? Nevermind. I saw it.”

“Ah,” Ramone said, nodding, feeling guilty. “You saw it.”

“Yeah, it was brutal. Man. You were losing, then you won, by default.”

Ramone cleared his throat. “Look, do you know what happened to Byron? I’ve asked a few people and they’re all acting like I’m crazy for asking.”

“Sure, come in here. I was just checking it out,” Merrill said, pulling up what looked like a security video.

“How’d you get this?” Ramone asked.

“I have my ways. Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.”

The footage showed Byron at his desk, working quietly. Suddenly he checked something on his wrist—a watch—and then jumped to his feet and looked up and down the aisle. He made as if to run, but a man appeared in the frame and grabbed Byron. Something the strange man did seemed to sedate or placate Byron, so the employee gave up willingly and allowed himself to be escorted away.

“What the hell was that about?” Ramone asked.

“No one’s seen him since.”

“Was it one of the—”

Merrill turned his chair slowly, spinning around and looked up at Ramone. “I think so. One of the Enforcers.”

“Shit,” Ramone said, rubbing the back of his neck like he was being watched.

And he was. They all were. Even on the Kirkwood campus, which was one of the few places where Ramone should have been safe from the prying eyes of the nanocameras. But just like everywhere, the things that happened at Kirkwood Broadcasting were still seen and recorded by the omnipresent nanocameras. The difference was only that the Editors filtered it away and never let it become part of one of the many feeds. Not just the most popular form of entertainment in the country, the only type of entertainment.

“You think they got him?”

“I pretty much guarantee it,” Merrill said. “He just vanished. His wife and kids haven’t seen him for days either.”

The dread that had been building in Ramone’s gut flowered and spread to his limbs. A tremor quivered through him. He shoved his hands into his pockets.

“But what did he do?” Ramone whispered.

“Come on, Ramone. You want us to get taken in too?”

“No.”

“You won’t, but I would. I’m a nobody. You’re Samuel Ramone. You got clout. But me? A few people around here would be glad to see me go.”

“Come on, Merrill. Don’t talk like that.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m not afraid. I’m ready to see this whole operation burn. Everything else that’s mattered to me has fallen apart. Maybe it’s time for me to throw myself on the pyre and burn at the stake. Go down in a blaze of glory. Make a statement. Say something about everything we gave up and were a part of just because it was a paycheck.” He shook his head. Ramone could feel the world closing in around them as his colleague waxed philosophical. The other man was treading on thin ice, and he seemed to like it that way, as though it were his goal.

“Did you check the records for Byron?” Ramone whispered, suddenly wondering how it would be covered up.

“I did. As one of the many back-alley, non-sanctioned security experts of KBC, I did a search. A deep, deep dive, and there’s not a trace of our friend, Byron.”

“Shit,” Ramone managed. Cold closed in around him. This was the closest he’d ever been to the dark side of the feeds, to the touch of the Enforcers. He’d always thought they were a rumor, a legend, a bogey monster designed to keep everyone in line. Hardly real…

But if one of his friends could be hauled away and wiped out just for some small infraction, then…

Ramone leaned closer to Merrill, almost to his ear, and whispered. “Merrill. Tell me the truth. Do you know what Byron did to bring them down on him?”

Merrill pushed Ramone away and shook his head. “No. And even if I did, you think I’d tell you? Whose side are you on, anyway, Ramone? No one really knows. You’ve eaten from Kirkwood’s hand like a tamed animal.”

Ramone swallowed. “Thanks anyway,” he said, and left.

He hoped Merrill didn’t wake up to a similar fate. Despite the grouchy final interchange, Ramone liked the guy. He was edgy, interesting, and usually willing to help out.

Everyone had their ways of dealing with stress. Watching Byron get hauled off was stressful, no matter how someone rationalized it.

Ramone headed back to his own cubicle, feeling even worse about the status quo.