NEW WORLD TRILOGY (Trilogy Title) (5 page)

"Really?  That's lovely.  And aren't games popular, Johnny?"

"Yes … yes, they are," he asserts with a validated sense of pride at being allowed an association with such a popular industry.

"And you can certainly make a lot of money from designing games, can't you?"

"Yes, that's right.  You can," he affirms confidently.

Lips tightly pursed, Ikaros remains silent, annoyed by Johnny's reliably facile nature and the teacher's entertainment of it despite knowing full well that Johnny isn't capable of anything except playing infants' games and in all likelihood will never progress much beyond that, least of all to the point where he can actually produce one of his own.

Fourteen years later (2046)

Deep among the people and the squeeze, Ikaros takes small steps as he files out of the exit of a tram at a busy, inner-city stop.  Tired from staying up most of the night finishing an article he wants to show his editor this morning, he heads straight to a café located just next to the building that houses several companies, including
About the Times
, an online newspaper that he works for as a politics and culture journalist, a now relatively conservative paper with a weekly worldwide readership of around 4.5 million.  It had initially carved a name out for itself by being politically radical and subversive, which was, unfortunately for Ikaros, long before he came on the scene; the paper suffered from the typical process of de-radicalisation that uncomfortably reflects not only its name but also its natural will for survival and almost-inevitable desire and impetus for growth.

He's been trying to get some articles printed that are more in line with his interests rather than just what the editor tells him to write or the ones that he can easily guess will be approved.  Although he's worked there since he graduated with his political journalism degree eight months ago, his persistence is still rather naïve, not least because of the secretive nature of the company's political and economic alliances, and a corporate culture that presents itself as fostering journalists' own areas of interest; the superficial rhetoric that supports this is what Ikaros is only starting to get a sense of now that he's been pushing up against its boundaries.

His first few attempts were rejected, and he started to get the sense that the editor was humouring him through the appearance of encouragement.  Consequently, he was forced to get them published in an overseas paper, which, incidentally, didn't pay him anything for the apparent privilege.  Despite this, he soon came up with another idea that interested him, so he thought that he'd give it another shot, just barely allowing himself to hope that perhaps this time the editor would come around to his point of view with the aid of as many of the subversive writing techniques he'd picked up along the way, and using them with as much skill and precision as he could manage.

After Lunch

Ikaros walks towards the editor's office with a degree of apprehension that interrupts the flow of his steps and makes him wonder whether anyone can tell or not.  Noticing through the glass that the editor is reading intently, he opens the door and walks in.

The editor doesn't look up until he's seated.  "How's it going, Ikaros?"

"Yeah, not bad."

"You know, this is pretty good."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I mean, you've done the research and there're only a few typos … less than the last one, anyway.  Your editing skills are improving!"

"Yeah, I've been focusing on that a bit more."

"Look, Ikaros … I know you're interested in this kind of thing, but to be honest with you, we just can't print it or
anything
like it.  I'm not even going to show it to the Editor in Chief — not because it's bad; it's not.  It's done well enough, but … you know already, don't you?  We can't print an article that's on…  What's it about once you get down to it?  Not just the end of democracy, but how we've never really had it to begin with?"

Ikaros nods in confirmation.

"I mean, if you want to appeal to a popular audience, which we kind of do here, we're still not in a situation where you can face off alternative political systems — like social anarchism or whatever — against democracy as we've had it and have it now, trying to make these alternatives look credible of all things while attempting to convince us that it's just — let's read between the lines here and paraphrase more explicitly — the insidious propaganda of pseudo-democracy or something that's conned us all into accepting such a low standard for what we mean by democracy and all that entails?  I mean, you make it look like we're all completely stupid, even though you're obviously trying to make it palatable one way or another, which is no way to position your audience, not here, anyway…  Let's admit it: it's thinly veiled, so you're just preaching to the converted, which, I have to say, probably isn't much of our readership.  You know the demographic.  You also try and make democracy look like a kind of dictatorship?!  But then, it also sounds curiously like you're quite happy with the idea of dictatorships."

"I don't know about that.  They're just useful in certain contexts and at certain times, but like democracies, they can be poorly structured and managed … with serious consequences.  I don't think that's controversial, so our aversion to dictatorships and the way we use them as a target for contrast and revulsion helps to obfuscate and avoid considering the real and serious problems with the ‘democracies’ we have and that have been allowed to get out of hand.  We largely settle for what we have or think we have, but that wasn't the idea to begin with…  I wasn't interested in making a preference either way; there are already plenty of people who do that for us.  One of my points was that even apparent democracies themselves contain a whole system of micro-dictatorships that support and are in some ways more significant than the so-called democratic structures that govern the nation state; ironically, they're even encouraged by democracies, which should be seen as weird and analysed more than it has been."

"Well, anyway, I'm sympathetic … I am … but that's not the point.  The research you did is great, there's plenty of stuff in there I didn't know about, and you use it all quite cogently … in most places at least … but even that gets a bit dense, and, quite frankly, the overall criticism gets a bit too close to the paper's interests and the interests of its shareholders and advertisers, and probably its readers as well.  Come on, you're a politics major, it's never just about a good story, a great piece of writing, interesting ideas, or being right."

"Well, where the hell am I gonna get this kind of thing printed in this damned country, then?"

"What, and make a living at the same time?"

"Mm, essentially."

The editor nods and smiles understandingly, obviously a bit embittered and jaded by his own experiences in the current media and political environment.  "I'm sympathetic … I am.  But this isn't new.  It's been like this for a good while now, and, to be honest, this kind of thing never was in the mainstream.  It was always out there, and so … you know, unless you wanna go and live in South America somewhere or get tenure at a university and publish in obscure academic journals that keep you nicely hidden in your tiny little niche, it's just not gonna happen."  The editor looks out the window for a moment, then returns his gaze back to Ikaros.  "Look, this's gotta be the last time.  I'm really busy, and frankly," he directs both hands to the page out of frustration and in an attempt to make his point really clear, "this is just a waste of my time, dude, you know?  I'm so busy, I just wanna see something I can actually print, okay?!"

"You want me to be more subtle, then?"

"You're already being subtle.  Forget that.  And forget being subversive as well; we can all analyse a text here, and you'd best believe the boss can, too.  I just want you to play the goddamned game, okay?  Just work on your already-approved topics, see how they go, and be sensible for Christ's sake."

"I don't think I know how to be sensible with those things."

The editor laughs briefly.  "Well, you'd better find a way, hadn't you?!  It's a job, Ikaros, okay?"  He breathes deeply with exasperation.  "Alright, here's what we can do: I'll try and find something more suited to your interests next time, something borderline, something you can play with so you can develop those curious writing skills of yours, alright?"

Ikaros nods, keeping his mounting scepticism hidden.

"Okay, get outta here.  I'm busy…  You're gonna have one I can use ready by five o'clock, right?"

Already heading for the door, Ikaros replies causally over his shoulder, "Just after three, I reckon."

"Thanks."

"No problem," Ikaros says flatly.  He shuts the door after himself and looks around the office at his colleagues, none of whom he believes could be genuinely satisfied with their writing tasks if they ever took the time to consider their situation seriously; even so, Ikaros has noticed that most seem to display a sense of self-importance and self-satisfaction about their job and place in the world despite largely just being vehicles of state-directed and corporate-sponsored propaganda with all the associated problems and limitations, not to mention the way this undercuts their own dignity and strips them of significant aspects of their humanity that they shouldn't be required to give up.  Although Ikaros considers this reality to be thick in the air, he's now certain more than ever that even most of the meager handful that do broach the subject will recoil in horror and retreat to a much safer place in their impoverished minds.  Most of his colleagues seem to be committed to churning out their rubbishy articles, carrying out their other office duties, and clamouring for whatever small amounts of status that are or might be offered up to them inside and outside work hours.

Reflecting on this unacceptable reality, Ikaros makes a decision. 
That's it.  I've gotta get outta here!
  He sits down at his cubicle, puts on his headphones, and starts to think through his options, something he realises that he hasn't ever really done seriously before despite believing himself to be at a distance from the lowly mean found in society and wilfully resistant to the forces that attempt to pull him towards it, both of these apparent personal qualities he now recognises are nothing compared to what they could and should be … and will be someday soon if there's anything at all he can do about it…

Friday: 5:30 p.m.

Walking towards the lifts behind several colleagues who are talking loudly, about what he isn't concerned, Ikaros notices the boss of the paper, Jerry Finch — known derisively as 'Big F' — having a meeting with the team of editors in the Editor in Chief's office.  Ikaros has never been introduced to the man as he only comes in sporadically for meetings and doesn't circulate among the lower-level employees, even if they are the ones that produce much of the paper's content.

Ikaros recollects sharing the lift with him once, but perhaps due to the fact that it was clear that he was an employee, Big F ignored him with obvious effort by avoiding eye contact, barely nodding his head in response to Ikaros's test greeting, and continuing to write a message on his phone, which was evidently more important than making any kind of positive connection with a member of his staff, no matter how brief; Ikaros exited the lift with a feeling of contempt that has not swayed since.  A couple of months after this incident, Finch walked past his cubicle on the way to an editor's office without even glancing sideways at Ikaros, who was standing while putting his jacket on ready to go home two hours after he should have; this only cemented his opinion of Big F further.

"What a prat; I bet he can't even write!" mutters Ikaros inaudibly as he gets to the lifts and the doors to one are about to close; he jumps in swiftly, pulling his lingering left foot through at the last moment.

"Well done, dude," comments one of the senior journalists.

"Do you wanna come and get a beer with us?" asks another.

Ikaros glances at them, now considering them to be a distraction.  "Ah, no, it's okay…  I gotta get home."

"Okay, maybe next time, then."

Ikaros nods and starts listening in on the conversation between two secretaries, immediately guessing the topic.

"He's got two kids, actually."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure he's divorced, but the kids still live with him.  They've only been in here a couple of times … before you started, though.  Really cute, too.  I think their mother was Japanese or Korean or something … by the look of them."

The lift doors open and five more people come in, forcing Ikaros to stand closer to the right-hand corner to make enough room and, in the process, gets some woman's long hair swiped across his face as she vigorously flicks it off her shoulders, oblivious to the confined conditions.  No one notices.  He regains his composure and enters the conversation.  "You ever spoken to him?"

Both secretaries look at him, and one replies, "Oh, yeah, but never a conversation…  He doesn't exactly have much to say to us."

"Well, unless you're an editor, of course."

"They don't like him either, though, as you might expect."

"Yeah, well, what's to like?!" rejoins one of the men.