Qualityland

THE DUEL

Denise strokes her hand over her baby bump.

“She just kicked,” she says with a smile.

Denise is sitting on the couch, having a video chat with an incredibly good-looking young guy.

“Your baby bump is so sexy, Deni,” says the guy.

“Who’s that?” snaps Martyn, suddenly appearing next to her. “Who’s this poser?”

Denise gives a start. She didn’t hear her husband come in.

“Calm down, Martyn. It’s just Ken.”

“Hello, Martyn,” says Ken.

“Who the fuck is Ken?”

“Ken is my virtual friend,” says Denise. “An upgrade on my personal digital assistant.”

Martyn is silent.

“I was chosen as a beta tester,” explains Denise. “I told you about it, don’t you remember?”

Only now does Martyn notice the What I Need logo on the guy’s T-shirt. He’s not real. He’s just a simulation.

“It’s silly to be jealous of a computer simulation,” says Denise appeasingly.

“You couldn’t possibly make me jealous,” says Martyn. “I’m not jealous of whoever you’re talking to.”

“Whomever,” says Ken.

“Excuse me?”

“Object of the verb,” says Ken. “By the way, I’m pleased to meet you.”

“Shut your mouth,” says Martyn. He changes the channel with a swiping gesture through the air.

“Hey!” cries Denise. “I was in the middle of a conversation!”

“Go play somewhere else,” says Martyn. “The grown-ups in this household have more important things to watch.”

The logo for the world’s biggest streaming service appears on the screen: Todo—“Everything for everyone!”

“The following duel between the presidential candidates,” says a voiceover, “is presented to you by FatKillers. FatKillers—fat cell-destroying nanorobots. Losing weight has never been so easy.”

A wall spins around and reveals Juliet Nun, dressed very seriously today. The viewing figures suffer as a result, of course, but being clothed is an unfortunate necessity of the format. The presenter greets the two candidates. Steam rises up to the left and right of her, and two platforms with speaker podiums rise out of the floor. Conrad Cook stands behind the right hand one, John of Us behind the left.

Aisha sits backstage in the studio, watching nervously as the audience applauds. John may have the more sensible voters, but Conrad Cook’s fans are significantly more fanatical. And when it comes to applause, fanaticism trumps common sense by a long shot.

“In thirty-two days’ time, our esteemed president will die,” begins Juliet Nun.

“That’s a lie,” says Cook. “I don’t hold her in any esteem!”

“You are both trying to be her successor,” continues Juliet, unmoved. “Today, it’s time to justify yourselves to me. First we will address the major topics of security and foreign policy. Mr. Cook, you are currently leading in the opinion polls. You may begin.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve got a fine kettle of fish on our hands,” says Conrad Cook. “The problem is all the economic refugees and terrorists. They’re bad apples, rotten to the core, every one of them!”

“Mr. Cook, there are an increasing number of claims that you and your campaign are racist and—”

“That’s a lie. Let me set you straight. There’s no one in the world less racist than me. No one. But that doesn’t change the fact that these Mediterranean types are all lazy, negroes are all criminals, and Arabs are all terrorists. These are facts, pure and simple. And yet, I must emphasize this: never in the history of humanity has there been a man less racist than me!”

“What about Martin Luther King?” asks John.

“Please! What did that Martin Luther King guy ever do for a white man? He was nothing but a black racist discriminating against whites left, right, and center.”

“Er…” says Juliet Nun, lost for words.

“Look,” Conrad Cook continues, “it’s not just huge quantities of people overrunning us. These are also quantity people! Quantity people who are coming here to us QualityPeople and taking the pitiful few jobs which the likes of him”—he points contemptuously at John—“have left for us… But as if that weren’t enough, they steal our cars, rape our women—to put it simply, they have no respect for our personal property!”

“Is a woman like a car to you?” asks Juliet Nun. “Something that can be possessed?”

“Don’t start on at me with your bra-burning nonsense,” says Conrad Cook. “I’ve got bigger fish to fry!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asks Juliet.

Conrad Cook ignores her question and continues: “At the end of the day, it’s our security we’re talking about. In principle it comes down to just one word: law and order.”

“But that was two words,” says Juliet Nun.

“Three, to be precise,” says John, “if you count the conjunction.”

John’s campaign manager speaks up via his earpiece.

“Please don’t try to be funny, John,” says Aisha. “Please, please.”

“Law and order,” Cook repeats more loudly. “We have to tighten our borders. Law and order…”

“I don’t know whether you have some kind of bet going,” says John, “about how often you can get these three words into a statement, or rather, this one word as you would say, but…”

“Law and order,” says Cook. “And closing the borders. And not just for the terrorists from QuantityLand 7. But them especially.”

“You yourself approved arms exports to QuantityLand 7!” says John.

“Wrong. Wrong. That’s a lie,” says Conrad Cook simply.

“But I heard it with my own ears,” says John. “Exactly thirty-two days ago in parliament!”

“That’s another lie,” says Conrad Cook. “You don’t even have ears.”

“Unlike you, Baron Münchhausen, I’m not even capable of lying,” says John. “My programming doesn’t allow it.”

“Another lie!” cries Cook. “I’m not a baron. To be honest, it wouldn’t surprise me if the fanatics from QuantityLand 7 themselves were behind this power guzzler.”

John smiles.

“What are you smiling at, you tin can?”

“First of all, I’d like to assure you that there was no tin of any kind used in my construction,” says John. “My body consists of carbon-fiber-strengthened artificial material. And I’m smiling because you and all nationalists always rant and rave about the fundamentalists and act as though you’re so different. And yet you’re just two sides of the same coin.”

“What do you mean by that, John?” asks Juliet.

“Look,” says John. “The essential problem is, after all, a crisis of purpose and identity. What did people use to hold on to? A sense of community, religion, and not least: work. Money, this impersonal mediator, has destroyed community, science has toppled the religious idols from their pedestals, and now automation is taking away your work, too.”

“Too complicated,” he hears Aisha whisper over the wireless connection. “Your sentences are too complicated. Give examples.”

“I’d like to give an example,” says John. “In days gone by, the blacksmith of village X wasn’t just some guy. He was the blacksmith of village X! That was his identity. Whenever someone asked him who he was, he could answer, ‘I’m the blacksmith of village X.’”

“Has it ever occurred to you that not all viewers might take as much of an interest in the metal-bending industry as you, you old tin can?” asks Cook.

“A freelancer, a shift worker, an unemployed person. It’s difficult for any of these people to create an identity out of their work,” John continues. “Even the few with permanent jobs often have difficulty finding purpose in their work. And who could blame them? I recently visited a business where a team of intelligent and highly qualified scientists were in the process of developing a kitchen device solely intended to sort through blueberries and eliminate the moldy ones. You can kill your time with work like that, but it’s not really a calling.”

“Wrong, wrong,” says Cook.

“Fleeing from isolation, lack of purpose, and loss of identity, the people flock toward all offerings that give the illusion of purpose and community, regardless of how moronic they may be. And that’s what nationalism has in common with fundamentalism. They are both moronic offerings that give the illusion of community. I say illusion, because this community isn’t real; these ideologies aren’t about equitable participation, but on the contrary about the veiling and fortification of social injustices.”

“Wrong. That’s a lie. And I’m going to forbid any kind of veil once I’m president anyway.”

“These movements elevate one group by degrading others—the nonbelievers, the foreigners, the Useless and so on. They may be about big narratives, but negative ones. What human beings lack is a big positive narrative!”

“I know what the power guzzler is getting at!” cries Conrad Cook. “He’s a goddamn Communist.”

“You can say what you want about communism,” says John, “and I’m sure I could name more shortcomings in the failed attempts than you. But it’s undeniable that it was a big narrative.”

“To that I only want to say one thing: you may have the better arguments,” says Conrad Cook, “but they’re only arguments! That’s what a wise man once said. They’re only arguments! I may have worse arguments, but I’m right!”

“I have to admit,” says John, “it really isn’t easy for me to argue against the conclusions of an opponent who’s simply making up his premises.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asks Cook. “Did you just have a fatal exception error in your foreign language vocabulary?”

“No. It means this: Every time you say, ‘Wrong! Lie!’ what I really want to do is retort, ‘Ditto!’ But I don’t want to lower myself to your kindergarten level.”

“Did you just insult our children?” asks Cook. “The children of the humble, hard-working people of QualityLand? Why don’t I insult your children? No, that’s right—you can’t have children, because you’re a goddamn machine!”

“You have to be more aggressive,” Aisha whispers to John via the wireless. “Fight back! Forget what I said before! Say something funny!”

“You know,” says John, “when Lenin said that every cook should be capable of leading the state, I’m sure he wasn’t thinking about a worn-out old TV cook like you.”

Aisha slaps the flat of her palm against her forehead. Lenin, of all people! Of all the people who have ever walked the surface of this earth, the idiot had to go and quote Lenin. The only saving grace is that most people no longer have any idea who he is.

“I’m not in the least bit worn out,” says Cook. “Cooking with Cook has the best ratings of all time. Ever! Everything else is wrong and a lie!”

“People should take everything you say with a grain of salt,” says John. “It’s a miracle they aren’t long fed up with you. Instead of electing someone who divides them, like you do, they need someone to give them back trust and confidence. If the voters choose me, I’ll be the first to introduce a kind of democratic audience system. Every human being should have the opportunity to have his or her grievances heard directly by the president. Every human being should—”

“I would like to assure all citizens of one thing,” Cook cries out, interrupting him. “If I’m elected, my first action will be to have this power guzzler here scrapped.”

Part of the audience begins to cheer.

“Then we’ll see how much tin there is in him!”

When John goes backstage after the duel, Aisha immediately rushes toward him.

“Okay,” she says. “Don’t panic, but the flash polls showed that we lost this debate.”

“Excuse me?” asks John in surprise. “There must be some mistake! That man didn’t utter one sensible sentence in the entire hour!”

“Yes, well, the majority found your opponent to be not entirely sure of the facts, but still more emotional, more likable, and, well, funnier.”

“I don’t understand how that can be relevant,” says John. “Do the people want to elect a president or a clown?”

“You, on the other hand, were seen as overbearing and arrogant.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“You know,” says Aisha, “perhaps it would be good if, from time to time, you simply answered a question with ‘I don’t know.’”

“My programming forbids me from doing that.”

“You’re not allowed to say that you don’t know something?”

“No. I’m not allowed to lie.”