Qualityland

JUDGMENT DAY

The president wakes up on her deathbed.

“I’m still alive, Jacques,” she says.

“I’m pleased to hear that, Madam President,” says her nurse.

“Why are you pleased?” asks the president. “There’s nothing pleasing about it.”

“Today is election day,” says the nurse.

“Yes, don’t you think I know that?” snaps the president. “We set the election for today because the system calculated that I’m going to die today. We wanted a seamless transition!”

“Yes, Madam President.”

“But I don’t feel in the slightest as though I’m going to die.”

“I’m pleased to hear that, Madam President.”

“You’re pleased about everything, aren’t you? If your wife told you she was getting royally fucked by the neighbor, you’d probably say: ‘I’m pleased to hear that, darling.’”

“The system has adjusted its prognosis, Madam President,” says the nurse. “You still have another sixteen days.”

“That’s not good, Jacques. I have to die today. The people are already beginning to lose faith in the system. I can’t go and die sixteen days after the calculated date to top it all off, not with things the way they are. That won’t work, Jacques. We have to do something.”

“How do you mean, Madam President?”

“Turn off the machines, Jacques.”

“I can’t do that, Madam President.”

“You have to, Jacques! You have to! It’s for the good of the country!”

“I would prefer not to, Madam President.”

“Give me the damn remote, Jacques. I’ll do it myself.”

The nurse hands her the remote.

“I’m pleased to hear that, Madam President.”

The president’s life-support machines are, of course, connected to the net, so two seconds after her heart has stopped beating, the news is already spreading fast. “President dies on the predicted date! Who will be her successor?” says the headline of the Quality-Times.

An interesting detail of this election only seems to occur to most media outlets today. John may be almost omnipresent through interviews, placards, and advertising campaigns, but there are, of course, no pictures of him going into a voting station. He’s not allowed to vote. So Conrad Cook celebrates making his vote all the more. He even brings his constituents a tray of muffins filled with FaSaSu. Baked by his own fair hand, as he claims in front of the cameras.

Elections in QualityLand are universal, free, and equal, but of course not secret. Instead, they are transparent. If you have nothing to hide, the argument goes, you don’t need to vote in secret. Conrad Cook positions himself in front of one of the voting terminals, is authorized by the facial recognition technology, poses until his cameraman has given the okay, then votes for himself, with great satisfaction. The real-time preliminary result on the voting terminal shows that, even at this early hour, he is in the lead by 131,072 votes, an advantage that, although it could still be overtaken, is nonetheless comfortable. “This will be the best day in the history of humanity. Ever!” proclaims Cook happily to the press.

In the neighboring constituency, Martyn isn’t in the best of moods. Not just because he has a hangover. Not just because he was rudely awakened by some shitty Everybody message. Not just because he stupidly obeyed the shitty message like a dumb sheep and dragged himself down to his local voting station. Now even his voting registration is threatening to become a huge fiasco. His right eye is still swollen after Nana’s punch, and the goddamn facial recognition machine isn’t recognizing his face. And yet it hasn’t stopped everybody else there from recognizing him. Everyone is grinning stupidly. One man pulls up his tennis socks in an exaggeratedly conspicuous way. Another whispers, “All the way across the assembly room,” followed by guffaws of laughter. It’s all extremely embarrassing.

Martyn tries to calm himself down with the thought that perhaps he’s just imagining it all. But he’s not. He has to ask one of the helpers to authorize his registration by TouchKiss, after which he is finally able to vote. The preliminary result is displayed. John of Us is slightly in the lead, by a mere 32,768 votes. Then the monitor greets him.

“Dear Martyn Chairman,” it says on the display. “Thank you for taking part in this election. We would like to suggest the following candidates as corresponding to your interests: John of Us (Progress Party).”

Of course it’s the candidate of his own party. His former party. The robot that had him mercilessly thrown out of his party. Beneath the recommendation, there is just one button: “OK.” Martyn taps his finger on the small zone on the left-hand margin, which says: “Show all candidates.”

“Fuck you, power guzzler,” murmurs Martyn as he votes for Conrad Cook. His QualityPad vibrates. He pulls it out of his trouser pocket and sees a new message: “Interested?”

Peter hasn’t received an Everybody message telling him to go and vote. But he does so anyway, in order to escape Calliope’s speech about civic duty. He stands in front of the terminal and stares at the monitor. The preliminary result is giving John of Us a lead of 8,192 votes. It looks like it will be a close one.

“Dear Peter Jobless,” it now says on the display. “Thank you for taking part in this election. We would like to suggest the following candidates as corresponding to your interests: Conrad Cook (QualityAlliance).”

Peter taps his finger against the small zone on the left-hand margin, which says, “Show all candidates.”

Even though he has already made his decision, he activates his personal assistant. “Who should I vote for?” he asks. Nobody tells him who he should vote for: John of Us. That’s odd and makes Peter hesitate. But in the end he decides to vote for John of Us anyway, despite the fact that Nobody recommended he do so.

In the evening, John is sitting with Aisha in his office at the election headquarters. He didn’t want to have anyone else with him. Aisha almost can’t bear the tension. In four seconds, the voting stations will close. Four, three, two, one.

Immediately after they close, the official result is published. Aisha stares at it in disbelief. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

“Goddamn, John,” she says. “Goddamn. I can’t believe it.”

“I have to admit,” says John, “that I predicted this kind of result a long time ago.”

Aisha smiles. “Of course you did.”

John has won the election with a lead of 2,049 votes.

“When will you go and greet the people,” asks Aisha, “who have chosen you as their new… How should I put it? Servant? Ruler? King?”

“That depends on your viewpoint.”

To Aisha, it seems as though a hint of a smile is playing around the corners of John’s mouth.

“What’s so funny?” she asks.

“I’m sure you’ll be pleased to hear that I made a mistake.”

“What kind of mistake?”

“In my calculations,” says John. “I calculated one vote less.”

Aisha laughs loudly. Then she stops, unsure as to whether John was actually joking.