Troubled History

By W. Parker Dennick

TROUBLED HISTORY is a political murder mystery and international intrigue set in Washington D.C. in 2075. Charles Marshall, a wounded and world-weary man is the prime suspect in the murder of a U.S. Senator and Presidential hopeful (and one time husband to Marshall's ex-wife). The action is set in a future culture dominated by trends forming today - the elimination of most human work, the disappearance of privacy, the lure of a virtual life, and the challenge to western power.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483533698

Book preview

9781483533698

Chapter 1

I am an historian, so I’m going to call this a history, even though it doesn’t fit the definition. It just happened. Most of the facts are known only to a few people, and they will deny everything. Some of them are dead. I was almost one of them. But you can judge, if you care about such things.

My name is Charles Marshall. I was named after my father, who, you will remember, was briefly Vice President of the United States.

I was called Charles Marshall Junior most of my life, but when my father died I became just Charles Marshall.

This recent experience wasn’t the first time that I was almost killed, but the other time was a long time ago, when the Ho Chi Minh City peace talks were bombed , and I was almost dead for sure. That blast left me paralyzed, unable to breathe, with damage to most of my organs, and with 92% of my skin burnt off. The medical skills that saved me were brand new at the time, and if it had happened a little earlier, I would not have made it at all. The nerve, organ, and skin regeneration took four years, and the psychological support lasted three more. I am completely recovered now.

But I can’t be too angry about Ho Chi Minh City. There I wasn’t a target. The suicide bombing killed seventeen people, including two world leaders, and almost lead to a world war, but I was there by accident.

I was a middle level diplomat assigned to the talks, and my life or death would have made no difference except to my friends and family, and, of course, to me.

After I was deemed to be sufficiently recovered, I was given a supposedly undemanding job as a professor of history at one of the better virtual universities, the Arnold Toynbee School of Historical Analysis. I was given the position, admittedly a plumb job, because of my heroic role at Ho Chi Minh City (which mainly consisted of just not getting killed), and also because of some lingering influence from my late father.

I say that my assignment was supposedly undemanding, because I have, in fact, thrown myself into the job. I have a blogosphere with contacts that go around the world, and attend almost all virtual conferences on any topics that could be related to my fields of study.

I have, however, taken some criticism at the University because in delays in releasing my major work, A History of the 21st Century

I have been editing the first edition, for the period 2001 to 2050, for a while now. Completion of the second volume, for the period from 2051 to 2100, is, I will admit, problematical. We still have more than three decades to go to the end of this century, and, if recent events are any guide, I won’t make it.

Writing history is different than it used to be. Successful studies today are essentially games, where the participants play, via their optical and audio implants, key roles in changing the virtual course of history. Academics argue that successful game playing promotes an understanding of the forces that shape history, and that understanding these forces is more important than just remembering real outcomes. The counter argument is that playing games is more fun than actually learning something. I believe there is some truth on both sides, but you can judge for yourself.

My boss, Oscar Lee, made his career that way, achieving academic recognition and was awarded the prestigious Gibby (awarded by the Edward Gibbon Institute of Counterfactual History), entirely due to a study of virtual, not real, history.

His study, or game, re-cast world history up to 2050, based on a victory by Napoleon at Waterloo. Producing the victory back in 1815 was easy – start the battle early so the Prussians didn’t have time to arrive, co-ordinate infantry and cavalry attacks against British lines, and don’t let General Grouchy so far off the leash. The analysis of the world after a French victory was interesting – still two world wars in the 21st century – World War One – not so bad – World War Two - much worse, and a much different world today.

Still, what does this prove? That the course of history can turn on the breeze from a butterfly’s wing? Tell me something I don’t know.

Anyway, all of that doesn’t change what I am going to tell you. The best way to tell this story is to start in the middle, and let it unfold into the past and future.

So the middle of the story starts with me, asleep in my mother’s house in Washington. My mother hasn’t been in the house since my father died – she stays at our old summer house in South Carolina. I suspect that her refusal to even visit, speaks to some bad memories from the house and, I hate to say, Dad. We do talk often though by avid – the virtual audio visuals are undistinguishable from reality, except she really isn’t there.

My (her) house, built in New England style, is located in the now slightly seedy Washington neighborhood of Georgetown. Except for updating the robotics and a new bed (paid for by my then health plan!) I have changed little in the house.

I moved from my old room into the empty master bedroom after I left the hospital because I needed more space for all the medical equipment. And I stayed there after I was better.

So that’s where I was. Asleep. My Muse, Phaedrea, suddenly intruded into my consciousness, starting with a gentle ringing in my ears, and a soft glow in my (still closed) eyes. She slowly increased both. She included a clock in my optical implants that showed it was 3:17 AM.

Phaedrea was the best muse software program available when I got her – courtesy the US State Department – after the bombing – and was a key part of my recuperation. State has continued to pay for my connection to her on the Web, including upgrades, even after I was officially discharged from the hospital and left State. Part of their health program. She is my companion, budget chief, editor, entertainment centre, secretary, dragon lady and call screener, and counselor. She controls images into and out of the optical implants in my corneas, and the audio implants in my inner ears. They now have implants for your taste buds, which appeals to the food lover in me. State won’t pay for it, though, and it’s not something I could pay for myself, until after my book finally comes out, and then only if it’s a hit.

Phaedrea was being insistent about waking me up, which was not her normal style, so even before she spoke I knew something was not right.

Mr. Charles. Mr. Charles. There has been a tragic event. Please wake up They say that muses select their speaking style after extensive analyses of their user’s character, under all predictable emotions. I have never asked her to refer to me as Mr. Charles, or asked her to speak in a formal style, which, anyway, is almost unheard of today, where grammar has gone the way of literacy. But it has worked for us up until now, and I trust her ability to analyze almost anything, including me.

There’s been a murder, Mr. Charles. Senator Benjamin Goodall is dead. The police are waiting to talk to you. With this Phaedrea appeared in my optical implants. Some muses constantly change their images – sometimes Greek goddess, no-nonsense army sergeants, fairy godmothers - but except for her clothes, which she chose for the occasion at hand, she always looked the same – perhaps mid forties, brownish-blond hair, normally in a bun, prominent but not unattractive nose, slight frown lines, firm, rather than full lips, but with blazing sky blue eyes. This morning she appeared in a severe dark grey suit, chosen I am sure to match the seriousness of the occasion.

I tried to digest Phaedrea’s news while I was waking up. I, along with six other people had had dinner with Goodall the night before – a real dinner where everyone was actually at his house, not a virtual dinner where we all sat around a virtual table with images projected from wherever we really happened to be. Even this rule was broken by one of the guests, as it happened.

I had almost refused Ben Goodall’s invitation to that dinner, but he was getting ready to announce a late, hail Mary, run for his party’s Presidential nomination after the front runner suffered some embarrassing revelations. Some blamed Ben for leaking these stories, but he denied all knowledge. So as a historian, I was overcome by curiosity.

For my encounter with the Washington police, Phaedrea was showing them an image of me behind a virtual Luis XIX desk, dressed in a dark blue Chinese suit and severe white silk shirt, with a discrete video display of a garden scene playing across the shirt. The desk and chair were freeware, but the suit and shirt both had labels – visible as an information pane at the bottom of the image. There would be a onetime license charge for the use of the clothes, but the interview would be invariably leaked onto the Web, and Phaedrea wanted me to look my best. As is required by The Virtual Image Act of 2033, all virtual elements were marked by a small v, so, as the sponsoring Senator explained, Nobody can fool anybody. Right.

An image of a policeman appeared, sitting opposite my desk on an ornate, but tasteful renaissance couch – again freeware chosen by Phaedrea. The cop, an Afro-American with trim build, graying hair and a neat pencil mustache, was dressed in a rumpled brown suit (which was certainly real – the Washington police department didn’t pay license fees for clothes), with scuffed brown shoes. Phaedrea had done a quick bio on him – Luther Robinson, lieutenant, divorced, two kids, heterosexual, age 53, average credit rating, middle of his salary grade, formally with Boston homicide, etc, etc.

Phaedrea had also researched on-line legal services as soon as she had gotten the incoming call from the Washington Police Department, and was recommending her choice of firm to me. She offered access to a comparison of the firm’s economics – a score of fees vs. acquittals against other Web firms, but as always I trusted her judgment and just nodded.

The image of my virtual lawyer flickered into the scene shortly after Luther had arrived.

She appeared to be in her 50’s, with ruddy complexion and light brown hair, wearing a dark blue power suit with a pale yellow blouse, and introduced herself as Wanda Stippel. A virtual person, of course, chosen by the legal firm’s software as someone with whom I could feel comfortable. As required, a human being would be nominally in charge, but they were probably asleep right now.

Wanda and I had a brief side-bar, and she explained what I already knew – her firm’s software would monitor my responses in advance, and delete any answers it considered inappropriate. This would produce a slight, almost undetectable lag in the interview. She was recommending that I co-operate, at least in the beginning. The interrogation avid would certainly be leaked onto the Web, and I wouldn’t want the blogosphere to think I was stonewalling. You never know who is going to be on your jury.

Luther started the conversation. You know that Senator Bennington Goodall is dead. He phrased this as a statement, not a question.

All I could say was So I hear.

While I was talking, Phaedrea flashed a Web feed into my optical implants – basically live graphics from outside the Senator’s house, showing a bunch of police robots searching the grounds. The police had apparently gotten to me quickly, just before Goodall’s death had been announced, so the bloggers, live and computerized, hadn’t had time to link me to the story.

You were at his home last night he said, with a tone that carried a little satisfaction, as if this were a particularly clever bit of police work. In fact, a few thousand nanocams scattered around the neighborhood, and more private nanocams throughout Ben’s house would have recorded every second of everyone’s arrival and departure last night..

By the way, my condolences for your loss. he added, with a tone that indicated that he really didn’t give a damn.

In fact, this was OK.

Ben Goodall was a world class son of a bitch. He had stolen my wife after the Ho Chi Minh City bombing, for which I could almost forgive him (I wasn’t good for much at the time), but he was also a lying, backstabbing, amoral, narcissistic, blight on the human race. His death should have been a cause for celebrations, fireworks, and singing from the rooftops; except the cop in my virtual library indicated that his death was going to be inconvenient for me and a number of other people. I am sure Ben would have wanted it that way.

So how can I help you, officer? I said, trying to sound, well, helpful.

You were at his home last night he repeated, in case I had missed it the first time.

Yes – along with five other people I didn’t add as you know, but I was sure interviews like this were being played out with those same five people right now. Plus number six, who had just dined virtually.

So what happened? A man of few words. This whole thing would have been scripted by the MPDC’s interrogation software, which would also monitor my responses, and follow up where they detected stress or, certainly, lying. My image was virtual, which would not expose deceptive responses as long as they were subtle.

I went on, Well, I arrived at his home at 8:36:17 last night (Phaedrea had supplied the time, although it would have been verifiable by any of the nanocams outside Ben’s house.

I’m sure you have the guest list The nanocams would have provided avids and bios on the rest of the guests in any case.

Wanda took another sidebar and asked me to release the recordings of last night dinner that had been made by my imps.

I knew that two of the other guests gave complete access to their lives through live and recorded avids anyway, through their social site Sharing Our Lives – 24. I don’t have a social site, and watching someone else live is probably the most boring activity I can image. Still, those images were going to be out there, and the police could get a court order for mine

Wanda encouraged me to offer the recordings voluntary, to make us look like good citizens. Besides, there wasn’t much to see, so I agreed.

Phaedrea responded to my comment about the guest list by providing it, via visual imp.

First was my (and Ben’s) ex-wife, Serena. I guess I could take solace in the fact that Serena hadn’t stayed married to Ben very long either. Ben had invited her, and me, to try and head off any personal controversy during his campaign.

Except for Serena and me, the rest of the guests were politicos and fellow travelers, at the dinner to support Ben’s run for President.

Most prominent, and the missing invitee, was Ben’s half brother and campaign manager, Alistair Goodall. Alistair avided in at the last minute with an excuse about a forgotten appointment, but he stayed, virtually, long enough to share his personality with everyone who was there. Alistair was himself a two time looser from previous Presidential nominations, and the only other guest, besides Serena, that I already knew. He had tried to be a mentor to me when I first arrived at State, long before Ho Chi Minh City, in spite of our political differences. I knew him too well to believe that there wasn’t some opportunism in his efforts, but still, he had helped me in his own way, and this qualified him as a friend.

Also actually at the dinner was Abe Brooks, the junior senator from Indiana, and his guest, Nigel Moore, who he had introduced as his aide. Abe considered himself as the President of the United States in waiting, but his political support now was too weak for a hat-in–the ring candidacy in next year’s primaries. He was likely at Ben’s dinner to advance himself as a Vice Presidential nominee, but it was clearly way too premature for anything to happen. Still, he had a political base in his party that Ben could have used.

His aide, Nigel, was an Australian import, still young. His bio, provided by Phaedrea showed, before joining Abe, he had had rapid career advancement in the Security division of Truth Corp, the largest American media corporation, third in the world, and largest provider of the Universal Web. Nigel had resigned over accusations, unproven, that he had accepted bribes to tilt Web coverage in favor of a Texas Governor trying to avoid corruption charges, and resurfaced working with Abe. Apparently they shared similar ethics.

Next on the guest list was Mumin Rachid, Los Angeles based lobbyist, who acted as a conduit between those few Middle Eastern countries still considered friendly to us, and the Washington Defense lobby. Known for spilling lots of cash around where it suited.

Rounding out the list was Sophia Firriz, a wanna-be blog celebrity, and de facto press secretary for Ben’s Presidential run. Her stuff was too strident except for the most fire breathing of conservatives, but she had earned her bona fides as Ben’s faithful mouthpiece.

The avids of the evening were not very revealing – some political humor and backbiting. It would have rude to live-stream an invitation only dinner like Ben’s to your social site, but it was considered acceptable to post avids afterward, so no-one wanted to be caught saying anything too controversial.

There was a huge elephant in the room, though, which we’ll get to.

Luther, presumably under the direction of his interrogation program, brought out a couple of scenes and half heartedly asked questions, likely just to measure my responses.

Luther then headed where I knew he was headed. Towards the elephant.

Almost all of you met individually with Senator Bennington in his study. His study has complete privacy protection, with no nanocams, and each of you logged off of your implants when you entered. You, along with your ex-wife Juliann, were the last two to meet with him, entering his study at 10:46:18, and leaving at 10:49:52. He died at 11:06:28

He paused here and looked at me, perhaps hoping that I’d break down because of his clever interrogation technique, and confess to all.

I looked back at him expectantly. In fact, it was good he was dealing with a virtual image of me – in reality I was starting to sweat, in spite of what was a cool Washington night.

As soon as I had heard the police were going to interview me, I knew that the meeting in the study, without benefit of any avids or recording devices, was going to be the focus of the interview.

Privacy rooms are incredibly expensive because of the constant upgrades of software and hardware to stay ahead of software snoopers. Because he was a U.S. Senator, the United States Government picked up the tab for the room, to allow him to conduct government business at his home in Washington. There was a similar room in his home in his native state of Arizona, also paid for by the government.

Ben had called us all to dinner that night so he could have off the record conversations with each of us. Hard to do in today’s environment. He had talked to us all, singly, or, in the case of Julia and me, together, with the lone exception of Nigel Moore, who was just there as Abe’s flunky, and was ignored.

Wanda, my lawyer was asking me to just tell Luther On the advice of my lawyer I cannot make any further comment. And be done with this.

. Good advice, particularly when she had no idea what I would say.

. The cop’s interrogation software, and Wanda and her firms defense programs, were both developed by the same software design company, and ran side by side somewhere in the universe of computing The privacy act of 2045 made it illegal for them to communicate without a human lawyer in the loop. Before then, the two sets of software would negotiate a plea and resolve the case in less than a second. The practice was stopped because more money was spent on law enforcement software than on defense programs, stacking the deck.

Still, Luther’s software had anticipated Wanda’s instructions, and sidestepped them. Mr. Marshall and he paused for effect We aren’t going to ask you what you talked about when you were with the Senator. We are much more curious about something else Another pause for effect. You could tell he was getting paid by the hour.

The dinner last night. This was part of a series of dinners he was holding to test the water for a run for President. Is that correct?

No harm in answering that – the blogs had been running stories about it for months – including avids on the Senator’s own site. Yes, sure, true. I said.

Luther continued, So here’s the billion dollar question. The guest list included political advisors, a lobbyist, and a blogger, all of whom could all help the Senator’s campaign. And you. Who doesn’t fit here? An unpublished history professor, whose political career, if any, was sidelined by serious medical problems a long time ago. The only connection between the two of you was you had the same wife. Who incidentally was also at the dinner. Even if your mother still has political connections, she’s not even from Ben’s party. So what the hell were you doing at the dinner?

I am not unpublished! I said, a little angrily.

I had Phaedrea flash him some references. Admittedly, they were a little thin; because of the time I was otherwise devoting to my History of the 21st Century.

Sure. If you say so. Sorry That was the second time that night he had apologized with a tone that showed he didn’t give a damn

So let’s just say you didn’t fit into the theme of the dinner. Back to the question. Why were you there?

Wanda was telling me not to answer, but I decided the truth wouldn’t hurt me. Because I was a loose end.

Luther jumped at this. What kind of loose end? A lose end that might be happy to see him out of the way?

I shook my head. Look, I could have been a problem for him – not the other way around. There were a few facts about my divorce that could have embarrassed him if I had blogged them out. But they would have embarrassed Serena too, and we are still friends. So I told him that he was safe from me.

Embarrassing is to put it mildly. A leak would have helped show what a vicious, lying backstabber he was, although I’m not sure if that might not have helped him as a potential Presidential candidate. The meek may inherit the earth, but not the Oval Office.

Wanda asked for another sidebar and re-iterated her position on the interview, and this time I took her advice. And Lieutenant, on the advice of my lawyer, I must decline to answer any more questions.

I thought there might have been a few pleasantries before he finished, but Luther just said Expect us to be in touch. Sorry to bother you. Showing he was not really sorry for the third time, and flashed off.

Wanda stayed connected. She asked me some innocuous questions, but was careful not to ask anything that would be an admission of guilt. Better to only think your client is guilty, than to be sure.

As soon as the police interview was over, Phaedrea opened up my implants to the blogosphere. During the interview, the rest of the world had started getting information about the murder, my interrogation, the other suspects, etc. It was only 4:04 in the morning here and I already had over 40,000 avid messages dealing with the murder. Some were from other time zones, but many were from the United States. If you wanted to be a player in today’s world, you adopted your sleep pattern, with lots of help from biometric in your brain, to a series of short naps over a 24 hour period, so you were never really asleep. I was never that anxious to be a player, but clearly some of my correspondents were.

Phaedrea had classified the avids, separating those which she identified as hostile (supporters of the Senator?), including 30 negative ones from people I knew well, and those that were supportive, including an anxious call from my mother. One from my boss, Oscar Lee, just asked me to call in the morning.

Phaedrea tuned into a blog from the king of bombast, and the Universal Web’s biggest star, Bob Kelly. His blog site included simulated re-enactments, where doppelgangers of the three primary suspects at the dinner, as selected by Bob, – me, Serena, and Abe Brooks, were each shown meeting with the senator in his privacy room. The Privacy Act, and a couple of big buck lawsuits later, prevented anyone using exact images of someone without permission, so these simulations were just close enough to leave no doubt about who they were supposed to be.

The simulations showed brief conversations, followed by images of each of us individually dropping small poison pills into Ben’s water glass (and how did they know he was poisoned if the police weren’t releasing cause of death?). Bob finished off asking for a vote for the most likely killer. Likely driven by a sense of cherchez la femme, Serena was already running first by a good margin. Abe Brooks, who well known and disliked by many, was a close second. I was pleased to see that I was a distant third.

Bob was showing bios on all of us, using those to develop his theories as to motive. My bio was generally unflattering, although it included a sympathetic account of the Ho Chi Minh city bombing and my recovery. His interpretations of my personal history, and Serena’s, however, were designed to show enough hatred that would explain why either of us, or both of us, would want to murder Ben. Once upon a time that analysis would have been spot on, at least for me, but, you know, eventually you get over things.

Bob was also able to tie Ben and Abe Brooks’ together, using a brewing scandal about defense contracts.

In particular, though, Bob railed away at me, my low profile, lack of published work, and unsuccessful career, as he saw it. Contrary to the incoming poll results, he apparently had me in first place for Ben’s murder. He hinted darkly at why a once promising young civil servant, with political ambitions, could harbor enough resentment and jealousy at his own failures that he would kill a successful and popular politician. The same politician, by the way, who had stolen his wife. His bombast was working with his audience – he had moved me into second place when I tuned him out.

I moved to my messages, and answered my mother first.

She flashed into my imps, appeared in the bay window of her house on Pawley’s Island, South Carolina. Behind her, I could see the sea, dimly visible in the faint moonlight, calmly washing up on the beach. She was wearing an old housecoat that I knew well, and her hair, grey now, was sticking somewhat untidily out at the side. None of the image was virtual – virtual imaging was a sore point for her. I myself was wearing a comfortable old blue sweater and jeans, and knew better than to ever present virtual images to my mother.

There was a deep frown across her face that didn’t match her smile as she saw me. I hadn’t talked to her for a month (bad son), and now kicked myself for my thoughtlessness. When I had last seen her, I had been a little worried about the thinness in her face, and this time it was more pronounced. As the spouse of a former Vice-President, she would have had continuous access to health care, otherwise denied to most people over 65.

Hi Mom. Sorry that you were woken up by all of this. Her muse would have woken her up as soon as the stories about me broke on the Web. She would have had more time than I had to monitor the video blogs and avid recreations, so she was probably better informed than I was.

Well, I won’t ask you if you did it. They probably have taps on all your communications. Ben was a horrid man, though. So how are you? Mom had always been able to keep her cool, even through some pretty tense situations in the past.

She was right about the Web taps, too, but Wanda had already sent me an avid warning me not to say or do anything that could be construed as suspicious.

So how is Serena? This was asked a little curtly. Even after Serena and I were married, Mom had never warmed up to her, and she never forgave Serena for leaving me after the bombing, even though the medical software was saying that I would never come out of my coma.

Well, I haven’t talked to her since news broke about all of this. She was at the dinner last night, as you know and we chatted about politics, the art scene, her blog site, etc..

The art scene comment reflected her interest in human produced, middle eastern sculpture, which, charitably, might be considered avant-garde.

I know, dear, the Senator’s nanocams diaries have already been leaked. I meant how WAS she. With this Mom raised her eyebrow, which meant the question was intended to have a more subtle meaning. She certainly would have been watching Bob Kelly’s blog, and his handicapping of the likely murderers, which still had Serena comfortably in first place.

"Well, she was her typical self.’ I said, also raising one eyebrow, trying to convey that she hadn’t seemed like she was planning to murder anyone that night.

Anyway, mom, the police haven’t said much yet about what happened. The blogs are saying Ben was poisoned, but the police haven’t released any confirmation. They haven’t even confirmed that they suspect anyone at the dinner.

I was also sure that they suspected everyone at the dinner, but that didn’t rule out anyone else either. If the murderer used poison – the blogs always seemed to have an inside track on police investigations – there were hundreds of ways to administer poison remotely.

Hrmph She replied as only she can.

At that point, Phaedrea appeared in the corner of my view, and indicated an incoming call from my friend Luther of the Washington police.

Sorry Mom. The police are calling again. Gotta go, but I’ll call again as soon as I can. I said this with a re-assuring smile, even though I knew it wouldn’t put her at ease.

Charlie. As soon as you can, come see me here. For a visit. A real visit, not a virtual one. My Mom is the only person in the world who I let call me Charlie.

I’ll try Mom. As soon as I can. Although that turned out to be much later than either of knew