Peter Liu - Bald New World

On TV, everyone paid lip service to the American Dream; the affordable suburban house with a decent job and the ability to raise a family in a safe environment. There were even some who complained that middle-class life caused disillusionment because it was too easy and boring. I had to wake up at five every morning, strap on armor, hope I didn’t get shot, and seal up our apartment so we didn’t get robbed while I was out working at a minimum-wage job which I’d gotten solely because I was a war veteran. Meanwhile, celebrities were worshipped and sports stars were treated like Olympians while the poor were hidden away so the media could project an image of invincibility to the world. Us, the indentured servants of the world, in plain sight, paraded when spectators came by, then told to get into place and play our notes in an insane harpsichord of broken chords. No one minded that the symphony sounded like a tune from hell as long as they were getting fat.

And now, an unexpected twist in things.

An irony of life.

Larry willed me everything.

I was rich. Richer than anyone I’d known or envied. And the odd thing was, I’d never aspired to it. Never even imagined it.

I kept on wishing Larry was there so I could talk to him, ask him what he was thinking. I tossed in bed, unable to fathom what he’d done for me. I couldn’t believe it. No one ever did kind things for me. No one. I mean, I used to dream that someone would come along when I was young, tell me I’d accidentally been abandoned by a great family who had now come to claim me. But that never happened. The only people who had ever shown me true kindness were Linda and her family. They treated me like I was one of their own and I’d betrayed them with my insecurities, pushing Linda away when I should have held her in my arms. I was an idiot and accepted a life of solitude as payment for my idiocy. I didn’t deserve a family. But for Larry to have done this. I–I just couldn’t believe it.

This inheritance would have conditions like Voltaire and the Colonel. This was not bloodless money. But Larry’s act was more than I deserved. There was so much more I needed to find out.

VII.

Voltaire and his white-haired army were raptly watching the GEAs on a holoscreen in the middle of the plane. They’d removed many of the chairs and about fifteen of them were present. The screen was state-of-the-art technology that made it seem like the celebrities were right there in front of us, even though we were on deck and they were in Los Angeles. The ceremony had just begun and audiences could swap through one of the 30 live hosts, each with a distinct style. The same applied to type of music, type of scenery, as well as camera angles that could be customized by all for their viewing pleasure. “In the category of best naked body, we have—” the broadcaster was saying.

“Get a nice nap?” Voltaire greeted me.

“No. Can I speak with you? Privately?”

“You may speak freely. This is my family and I have nothing to hide from them.”

They were watching me, curious to hear what I’d say. All of them had a venomous vitality about them that I knew could be triggered to tear me to pieces. I had to be careful how I responded. “I have a journalist friend who I was going to tell about the hair and Larry’s death. I can still do it. If you help me to reveal this to the world, we can tell everyone your story.”

Voltaire and company snickered. “You think we seek justice?” he asked.

“Don’t you?”

“You think we seek the pity of a public who never cared whether we lived or died? No one will care about our story. No one,” he emphasized. “It’ll just be news for a day to them that they wonder over, then forget.”

I approached closer. “I think it’ll be more than that. You have real hair. That’s one of the most significant discoveries in history. They can figure out what went wrong, and at the least, make sure any wrongs they’ve committed get righted.”

“Oh, the governments of the world have known for a long time what’s gone wrong.”

“They have?”

“Of course they have.”

“What was it?”

“Everything,” and they all laughed again like they were watching a comedy and their laughter cues were lit up.

I didn’t understand. Didn’t they want things to get rectified? This was their chance. They could spread the word about any wrongs done to them.

Voltaire gazed directly at me. “What do you think about the Mars expedition?”

“I don’t know. It seems really expensive, especially right now.”

“But it’s captivated the world, no?”

“I guess so.”

Voltaire laughed. “It’s all fake, a charade to amuse people.”

“What?”

“A few of my spies found the media and visual effects departments creating the show. Did you know they’re located in Vancouver, not Mars?”

Suddenly, I heard screaming. Behind me, several of the men brought forward an actor that I recognized all too well. It was Jesus Christ played by James Leyton. At least the beard and the hair matched.

“Is that—?”

“Indeed. I promised you a storm. And now I will deliver it. I’m going to kill everyone wearing a wig at the Global Entertainment Awards. Then, I’m going to take over the broadcast of the Global Entertainment Awards and kill Jesus on live TV.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Last time someone did it, they changed the world. Pontius Pilate created Christianity by crucifying Christ and revolutionized the course of mankind for over two millennia. Will it be any different this time around?”

I.

All eyes were on the Global Entertainment Awards. At first, I’d hoped Voltaire had been exaggerating or posturing. But then, the murders began on live television. There were gunshots and bombs going off. Scalps were being sliced and tattoos were torn apart by guards with huge machetes. The strangest part was that the networks weren’t cutting away from the carnage even though people were gushing blood, limbs were sliced off, and famous celebrities were being mowed down. Whoever was in charge of the media kept the feed live, audiences still able to alter the camera angle, zooming in and out of angles they wanted to see. Some of the corpses received particular attention with ratings in a side column indicating which visual spheres were garnering the most views. The editing was so precise, it felt like I was watching a movie rather than real-life footage.

“You can’t do this,” I protested.

“Why not? Is their life more precious than ours?”

“They didn’t hurt you.”

“They fueled the trade that killed countless of my brothers and sisters. And now it’s our turn.”

“What will this achieve?”

“In our world, entertainment is the only reality. Even wars are filtered by men like you. Did you ever stop to think about the ramifications of your edits?” he asked me.

I’d edited out a lot of dead bodies and explosions. “No.”

He handed me my Pinlighter. “Record us.”

“What?”

“Don’t play the hypocrite,” Voltaire warned.

“He’s not God. He’s just an actor,” I protested.

“The public can’t tell the difference,” Voltaire answered. “Turn it on.”

When I hesitated, he lifted up his chopstick. I felt foolish being held up by a chopstick, but I knew what they could do and complied.

His brethren put on masks of the faceless goons. They held James Leyton securely in front of me. He’d been struggling at first. But as soon as my camera was on him, he composed himself. My signal got picked up by one of the computers on board, syncing them together.

James Leyton became Jesus on camera and had a solemn gesture on his face as he pronounced, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.”