Metalcrat 6

George Forrow looked at the kid.
 

“Listen kid,” said George, “I’m lookin at you.”
 

 “Yeah,” said the kid.  “Yer lookin at me.”
 

 “And why do you think I’m lookin at you.”
 

 “Cuz you think I’m a liar.”
 

 “Damn right,” said George.
 

 “You’re wrong,” said the kid.  “I’m not lying.”
 

He stood on Forrow’s doorstep.  The sun shone on Lajoya Ct.
 

“Pshhhaaaa,” said George.  “You kids.  You just don’t get it, do you.  You think I’d ever vote Metalcrat?  After what it did in the last admin?  Gimme a break.”
 

“Well surely you can’t possibly approve of what Republicon is doing.”
 

George puffed out his chest.  “Why sure I can.  I’ve been a Republicon my whole life.  You Metalcrats just don’t understand core human values like honesty, integrity, patriotism, and courage.  You just expect Metalcrat to serve life to you on a silver platter.  Well, we Republicons believe in hard work.  Grit.  Sweat.  Givin’ ourselves the real works just to bring home a nickel.”

The kid’s eyes lit up.  “Well that’s just what we had in mind when we developed Metalcrat 6!  Have you read the specs or seen the news?”

“Why would I waste my time with Metalcrap lit?”
 

“The Metalcrat 6 algorithm incorporates a three day weekend into its basic workweek procedure.  Three day weekends for all American workers!”  His eyes lit up further.  “Every weekend!”
 

George scrunched his face.  “Say what now?”
 

“Three day weekends for everyone.  Friday, Saturday, Sunday.  Every week.  Based on our updated calculations since the last admin, we determined that there are at least eight redundant hours in the typical workweek.  We found out - with evidence to back it up - that efficiency, profits, and morale will all increase exponentially if we just scrap one work day.  Salaries stay the same and wages get a bump to compensate for the lost hours.”
 

George stared at the kid for a moment, then shook his head.  “Hogwash!” he guffawed.  “A four-day workweek?  An honest American worker does five in-person days a week.  Do I look like the kind of guy who needs Mommy Government to change his diaper?”
 

“Of course not!” said the kid, waving his hand to dismiss any of George’s possible doubts about his self-image.  He gave George a solemn look.  “It’s not a government handout.  Uncle Sam is asking you to take a three day weekend every weekend for the good of the nation.  Metalcrat 6 understands that our beloved corporations will be more competitive if workers have higher spirits and more energy.  In turn, our society will progress faster culturally when citizens like you and me have more free time.”

“What am I going to do with an extra day off?”

“Whatever you want!  Pursue a hobby, spend time with your family, or heck - just sleep in.  The day is yours!”

“And Metalcrat’s figured out how to make this all work?”

“Sure has!  We’ve made improvements since Metalcrat 5.  We know the last admin didn’t quite go as planned, so -”

“Didn’t go as planned?” George snorted.  “Yer goddam right it didn’t go as planned.”

The kid shot George a grin.  “Sir, I can tell you’ve got more political savvy than the average voter.  I’m not gonna bore you with all the ridiculous buzzwords I use with everyone else, so let me just give you the plain and simple facts.  I know you don’t like to read much Metalcrat lit, but I’d like to provide you with a short brochure that enumerates just the basic operating directives of the Metalcrat 6 algorithm.  No platitudes.  No rah-rah.  Just the no-frills operating directives.”

The kid held a stack of pamphlets.  He handed one to George.

George accepted.

“Take a look at it before the election tonight,” the kid said.  “I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised at the improvements we’ve made with version 6.”

George glanced at the front and back of the pamphlet.  “Where does the algorithm stand on the Eastern Zone?”

The kid’s face brightened.  “Version 6 talks tough and has the directives to back it up.  Should any Eastern Zone forces occupy the Jin Roko Islands or cross any of the Prisky-Soppe Meridians, Metalcrat 6 will respond with full air and naval retaliation.  This directive is implemented with zero break conditions.”

George raised his eyebrows.  “You don’t say.”

The kid puffed out his chest.  “I do say.  Republicon 8 merely suggests sanctions in both cases, and even that’s got break conditions up the wazoo.  And you know what else?  You should see who’s bankrolling the Republicon developers.”

“Who’s that?”

“Gaomi Conglomerate.”

George gasped.  “No.  That’s impossible.”

“Believe it,” said the kid, growing stern.  “This is public information.  Check it for yourself.  Everyone knows that Gaomi Conglomerate is just a tool of the Eastern Zone, and who knows what’s been passed between the Republicons and EZ agents.  Some intelligence even shows that the agents may have written Republicon’s national security directives themselves!  There’s no way anyone can know for sure, but we can’t afford to take any chances.”

“I need to fact check that.”

“Do what you need to do, but you can rest assured: the Metalcrat 6 algorithm was created by Americans for Americans.  No foreign influence here.  And to top it all off,” the kid said, flashing his goofy grin one more time, “this version of Metalcrat has whiskers.”

George raised an eyebrow.

 
“Whiskers?”

“That’s right.  Whiskers.”

Before George could say anything else, the kid produced a hologram stick from his pocket and snapped it on.  The image of Metalcrat 6 appeared before George.  Sure enough, Metalcrat now had a full mustache and beard.

“He looks better with whiskers,” said George.

“Yer goddam right he does,” said the kid.  “You know, at the outbreak of the Civil War, 78% of the American public felt that Abraham Lincoln would look better with whiskers.  And you know what he did?”

“What?”

“He grew ’em.”

George looked stunned.

“And you know what happened next?”

“What’s that?”

“He won the Civil War.”

George stared at the kid.

“Now I may be just a kid,” said the kid, “and I may not know much about Republicons or Gaomi Conglomerate or, heck, even about hard work, but I do know one thing.  I know a great American when I see one.  In times of trouble, I think we all need to turn to the algorithm with the whiskers - and that’s why I’m all in for Metalcrat 6.”

George said nothing.

A cloud changed shape.

“The election is in just a few hours.  I hope we can count on your vote,” said the kid.  “Thank you for your time, sir.”

And he left.

George closed the front door and went back into the house.  He held the pamphlet.  The door locked behind him.  Fly-size house drones zipped over from the living room and buzzed around his head, presenting hologram option balloons.  “How would you rate the last visitor?”  “Do you want to turn this house off to all visitors?”  “Do you need a drink after that last visit?”  “Would you like more of that type of visitor?”  “Should we call the police?”  “Would you like to take this house off the grid?”  “Would you like information about moving?”  “West Coast Firearms 10% off Patriot Friday sale!”  George waved his hand and the drones dispersed.

Elaine sat on the couch.

“Who was that?”

“Some kid.  Wants us to vote Metalcrat.”

Elaine rolled her eyes.  “Who’s he kidding.  We don’t vote Metalcrat.  This neighborhood doesn’t vote Metalcrat.”

“Just the Chandlings.  They vote Metalcrat.”

“Where do they live?”

“Wahakka Drive.”

Elaine rolled her eyes again.  “Pshhhhaaaaa,” she said.  “Wahakka Drive.”

George sat on the couch.  “The kid made some good points.”

“I’ve always voted Republicon,” said Elaine.  “My parents voted Republicon.  Who doesn’t vote Republicon?”

“I guess a lot of people.”

“Just some kid.”

“And the Chandlings.  Look at this.”  

 

George handed her the pamphlet.  She dabbed out her spice joint and accepted the literature.  She scrunched up her face.

“The kid told me Metalcrat is going to make every weekend a three day weekend.”

Elaine looked at the document in her hands.  “Three days?”

“Yep.”

“What happens on the third day?”

“Whatever we want.”

“So if I just want to sleep all day, that’s ok?”

“That’s what the kid said.”

Elaine grunted.  “Smart ass kid.”

“And Metalcrat is going to protect us from the Eastern Zone.  Full assault if the islands or the meridians get crossed, no break conditions.”

“I don’t trust that Eastern Zone.  Gives me the creeps.”

“Yeah, me too.  And you know what else the kid said?  Republicon 8 was programmed by Gaomi Conglomerate.”

Elaine looked up from the pamphlet.  “That’s a lie.”

“The kid said it was true.”

“Just because the kid said it was true doesn’t make it true.”

“He said we can look it up.”

“How do you look up something like that?”

George looked around the room.  “I have no idea.”

Elaine shrugged.

George sighed.  “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

Elaine put the pamphlet aside.  “This thing tells you all the algorithm directives but no one really knows how that’s going to change anything.  I mean, this is almost exactly what they were saying in the last admin and we all remember how that went.”

“Boy, do we ever.”

Evening set in.  Stars bright enough to burn through the suburban light pollution appeared in the sky above Lajoya Ct.  George and Elaine sat on the sofa.  A house drone dropped by and squirted water on the Virtuous Earth FiberPlus™ expandomeals that the couple prepared to consume.  The dinners sprouted from the soil that filled the tray compartments.  The drone zipped away.
The debates started.

“Good evening, America,” said news anchor Vlad Krubik.  “My name is Vlad Krubik and I’m coming to you live from Cornfield State University for the Presidential Debates.”  

 

Vlad Krubik had a pointy gray beard, black square glasses, and neckties that only made sense to certain demographics of viewers.  The square glasses - of his own design and marketed as Krubix Cubes - sold for thousands of dollars a pair to the world’s near and farsighted elite.  Anyone who was anyone owned a pair of Krubix Cubes.  

 

“Tonight we will hear from Republicon 8 and Metalcrat 6 on several key issues," he continued.  "After the debate, there will be thirty minutes of reflection.  We will then hold the election to determine which algorithm will receive the next four year admin to run the nation.  As always, you will be able to vote through your government-issued Securi/TV, and the whole thing should be over in time for evening cartoons.  Let’s meet the candidates.”

Krubik and the studio audience faced the two podiums on stage where Republicon 8 and Metalcrat 6 now materialized - Republicon on stage right, Metalcrat on stage left.  Republicon 8 looked a lot like Republicon 7, the current presidential algorithm, only now he had a striped tie instead of solid.  Metalcrat 6 had a distinctive new feature.

“He’s got whiskers!” Elaine said.

“That’s what the kid told me,” said George.

“He looks -” 

She paused.

“- different.”

“Wise, even.”

“A philosopher.”

“Does America need a philosopher?”

“I think every country needs a philosopher.”

“A philosopher president.”

“I like the whiskers.”

“Yeah, I like the whiskers.”

“Gentlemen, thank you for participating this evening,” said Krubik.

“Of course, Vlad,” said Republicon.  “And I’d just like to thank the directors, faculty, and students of Cornfield State University for hosting this evening of living democracy.  It is through the time-honored tradition of debate that -”

Metalcrat rolled his eyes.  “Oh, please,” he said.  “‘It is through the time-honored tradition of debate blah blah blah.’  You’re a holographic algorithm, I’m a holographic algorithm, and there’s nothing to debate about.  Are you even, like, self-aware, dude?”

Laughter came from the audience.

Elaine chuckled.  “The mouth on him!”

“He’s sharper than the last version,” George said.

“Ugh, I know.  Such a dullard in the last admin.”

The camera jumped back to Vlad Krubik.  His eyes darted around the stage behind his square glasses.  “Let’s get to our first question.  Metalcrat, we’ll start with you.  A lot has been said this campaign season about reform to the standard five day work week.  Americans are hard at work, yet, according to a recent study right here at Cornfield State, most of the time is wasted.  We are spending more time staring off into space than doing actual work.  What policy would you pursue to put efficiency back on the American agenda?”

Metalcrat’s expression broke into smugness.  “Efficiency,” he snorted.  “There is no such thing as efficiency.  When was the last time people were ever efficient?  Gimme a break.  Efficiency is a myth.  Look, we’re all working too much in this country.  People stare off into space because their brains can only handle a few minutes of work a day.  That’s why you have algorithms like me running the show.  Now, there’s only one solution that I can see: three day weekends, every weekend.  We don’t need everyone working five days a week.  Four days is good.  Three day weekends is what this country needs and that’s what it’s going to get under my admin.”

“Psshhhaaaaaaa,” said Republicon.  “Three day weekends?  That’s impossible.  Americans need to work.  That’s what we do.  If we didn’t work five days a week, the Eastern Zone would swallow us whole.  Is that what you’re advocating?  For our conquest by the Eastern Zone?”

The hologram of Metalcrat 6 took a step forward and walked through his podium.  He looked straight into the camera.  

 

“America," he said, "do not listen to the liar beside me.  The Republicon algorithm has no idea what it’s talking about anymore.  My conclusion regarding the necessity of the three day weekend is drawn directly from raw economic data.  I am designed to strictly adhere to the Parson-Garner-Adelmann paradigm of economic equality which has been proven to advance living standards for populations of half a billion and above.”

“You’re kidding,” said Elaine.  “He’s actually operating on Parson-Garner-Adelmann?”

“We could get the bigger house under PGA,” George said.

“My opponent, on the other hand,” said Metalcrat, motioning to Republicon, “is running on the outdated Corrin-Sperrzt paradigm, which we all know ends up benefiting only large agribusinesses.”

“He’s right about that,” said George.  “I hate those large agribusinesses!”

“Get a life, Metalcrat,” said Republicon, also taking a step forward through his podium.  Unlike Metalcrat, Republicon’s image glitched as he did so.  Now they were both standing only a few feet away from where Vlad Krubik sat behind his desk.  “Everyone knows that Parson-Garner-Adelmann is just a communist plot to destroy our national virtue.  How dare you advocate such poison.”

Metalcrat altered his image so that he looked just like Republicon.  He repeated, in a high pitched voice, “How dare you advocate such poison.”  There was laughter from the audience.  He then changed back into Metalcrat.

“Gentlemen,” said Vlad Krubik, “we remind you to refrain from shape-shifting during this debate.”

Metalcrat leered at the camera.  “Sorry,” he said, grinning a sly grin.

Elaine laughed.  “He’s such a jerk!  I kind of like it, though.”

“Me too,” said George.  “They really gave him an attitude.”

Metalcrat became serious.  

 

“My opponent says that my programming is treasonous, but I’ve only been directed to enact reforms that will help all Americans.  Republicon, however, was created with direct assistance from Gaomi Conglomerate.  Republicon 8 is a direct threat to our democracy and our way of life.  Do the research and you’ll see - the Eastern Zone has their fingerprints all over this guy!”

“That would explain the glitchiness when he walked through the podium,” Elaine said.  “It’s just shoddy craftsmanship.  Done on the cheap.”

“We need a presidential algorithm that was programmed here,” said George.  “In America.”

Republicon attempted to say something to counter Metalcrat, but he glitched again.  It took a full four seconds for him to come back online, and then only the second half of his sentence could be heard.

“- such threats to our democratic order.”

The debate continued for another hour.  Metalcrat remained sharp and confident.  At one point, Republicon broke out into Top 40 hits.

At the conclusion of the debate, Metalcrat and Republicon stood behind their podiums.

“We have now heard from both candidates on all questions,” Vlad Krubik said.  “We will now hear each candidate’s closing arguments.  Republicon, let’s start with you.”

“Thank you, Vlad,” said Republicon.  

 

He did not have whiskers.  

 

“My fellow Americans, tonight you have heard me refer to my opponent as a traitor, a criminal, and a possible spy.  All of these things are true.  You also heard me rap the most valid amendments to the Constitution.  Clearly, I am the only honest entity left in this country.  If you would all like to become incredibly wealthy, please vote for me.  Together, we will create a stronger, healthier, and more entertaining nation.  Thank you for your time.”

​

Krubik adjusted his cubes.

“Thank you, Republicon.  Metalcrat, let’s hear from you.”

​

Metalcrat snorted with contempt.

​

“Thanks but no thanks, Vlad.  America, everyone is lying to you.  The only things that don’t lie are facts.  Only you and I understand this.  We are fact-driven entities, so we need to stick together.  Also, a huge proportion of America approves of my facial hair, the rights to which are held exclusively by Metalcratic Party Incorporated.  So, if you want this sexy facial hair to represent our sexy nation, then you have no choice but to vote for me.  Also, three day weekend.  Every weekend.  And death to the Eastern Zone.  Thank you and goodnight.”

Republicon and Metalcrat dematerialized.

Vlad Krubik adjusted his square glasses.  “This concludes tonight’s presidential debates.  We will now allow you, the voter, thirty minutes of self-reflection, after which you may cast your ballot.  If you are certain about your choice and do not need the thirty minutes, you may go ahead and cast your vote now.  Thank you all for participating in democracy.  Have a pleasant evening.”

The scene changed and a timer counting down from thirty minutes appeared on the screen.  A semi-transparent American flag waved in the background.  A smooth jazz Hail to the Chief emanated from the TV’s speakers.

George shrugged.  “Well sheesh, I don’t think I need thirty minutes to decide this one.  Do you?”

“Not me,” said Elaine.  “Metalcrat made a believer outta me.”

“He’s got my vote, too.”

George picked up the remote and selected “Vote.”  The remote read his fingerprints and logged into his voting page.  He voted for Metalcrat and then he handed the remote to Elaine.  She voted for Metalcrat, too.

 “Thank you!” said the television.  “It is because of committed citizens like you that America shines to the world as a beacon of democracy and hope for a better -”

Elaine turned off the TV.  “I’m sure glad these elections are just over and done with in a few hours.  Do you remember what it was like when we were kids?  They went on for years!”

George threw up his hands.  “Honestly.  And the amount of money that was spent.  Appalling, really.  All that money could have been spent to feed starving people.”

“Yep.  A lot of people starved back then.”

“Either algorithm would be better than some moron human.”

“Well, I hope Metalcrat wins.”

“Something tells me he will.”  George got up.  “I’ll be in the Cocoon if you need me.”

Elaine nodded.  George disappeared into another room of the house.  Elaine stood up, went into the kitchen, and had the SousChef mix her a highball.

More than thirty minutes passed.

Midway through both her second highball and an article in Home Artillery, someone banged on the front door.  The house drones went to high alert, swarming around Elaine. One of the house drones projected an image of the person who stood at the front door.

 

It looked like some kid.  

 

The other drones produced holographic message options.  “Would you like us to call the police?” “Would you like the person to go away?” “Would you like to take this house off the grid?” “Would you like us to answer the door for you?” “Are you interested in getting a dog?” “If you had Crisis Home Security, you’d still be alive!”

“George,” Elaine called.  “Someone’s at the door.  I’m drunk.”

“I’ll be right there,” George called from the other room.  He was inside the Cocoon, murdering aliens.  He stopped the game.  The Cocoon unfurled and he rolled out.  He walked out of the rec room, passed Elaine on the couch, and answered the door.

“Don’t vote Metalcrat!” cried the kid.

“Huh?”

“There’s a bug!  He’s gone mad.  The three day weekend - it’s all a sham!”

George scrunched his face.  “Kid, I already voted.  Metalcrat.  Just like you told me.”

“Oh no oh no!”

“Yer freakin’ me out.”

Elaine turned her head towards the front door.  

 

“George, what’s going on?”

“I have no idea.”

“The algorithm got hacked,” said the kid.  “We don’t know who did it.  Maybe Gaomi Conglomerate.  Maybe Eastern Zone agents.  Heck, maybe it was the Republicon developers.  Or maybe we just got it wrong again.  Doesn’t matter.  If Metalcrat wins the election, everything’s going to blow as soon as the three day weekend code is uploaded to the government.  We’ll be doomed!”

“Doomed?”

“Doomed!”

“What’s going on?” called Elaine.

“The kid says we’ll be doomed.”

Elain scrunched her face.  “How will we be doomed?”

“We just found the bug in the calculations,” said the kid.  “We’ll have one less day to work, but the numbers suddenly aren’t adding up correctly when combined with the current version of the PGA paradigm.”

“So?”

“Tax revenues will instantly fall.  Essential services will be instantly cut.  Law and order will break down instantly!”

The TV snapped back on.  

 

“Attention Americans!” said the generic TV voice.  “The election is over and a winner has been called.”

George held the door open for the kid and they both went into the TV room.  George, Elaine, and the kid stared at the screen.  Vlad Krubik came back on.

“My fellow Americans, I am proud to bring you this democracy update.  All votes have been counted, and our next presidential algorithm will be -”

Everyone held their breath.

Krubik’s cubic glasses gleamed.  

 

“Metalcrat 6!” he declared.

“Oh crap oh crap oh crap!” said the kid.

They could hear cheers coming from their neighbors’ houses.

Elaine turned to George.  “What’s the kid’s problem?”

“Oh crap!” said the kid.

“He says law and order are going to break down.”

“Say what now?”

Metalcrat 6 appeared on the television.

“Good evening, nation.  I want to thank all of you for your votes.  I won by a landslide.  Just as I said - there is nothing that Americans have been yearning for more than a three day weekend.  This has been an unfulfilled promise for more than a generation, but now, this dream will be made a reality.  My algorithm is being uploaded to the federal government as we speak, and, starting now, we will only have to work four days a week at our regular jobs.  All federal, state, and local laws are now being recalibrated accordingly.”

“Sounds fine to me,” said Elaine.

Something exploded outside.  The house shook.  The cheers of next-door neighbors turned to screams.

“What was that?” George said.

“Yaaaah!” said the kid.  “It’s starting!”

The TV snapped back to Vlad Krubik.  Sweat beaded from his forehead and terror flamed in his eyes.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Krubik, “this just in.  It appears that the upload of the Metalcrat 6 algorithm has caused a nationwide shutdown of services.  Chaos now reigns in America’s streets.  We’ve received word that in order to make up for the instantly lost revenue of the fifth workday, we will now all need to pick up a night shift on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays.  If we don’t do this right now, the economy will collapse forever.  It’s our only hope to rebuild society.”

Vlad paused, took off his glasses, gazed at the camera, and continued.

“This includes me, even though I’m rich.  I was a bartender in college, so I guess that’s what I’ll have to go back to.  I just hope I’ve retained my customer service skills.  I’m a lot less patient now but I think I can -”

The TV snapped back to the image of the waving semi-transparent American flag.  The words “Just a moment, folks!” appeared in front of it.  The generic TV voice came back on.

“Good evening!” said the voice.  “This is the government!  We just want to let you know that everything is under control and we’re handling it.  All you need to do is chill out and stay home.  Nothing bad will happen to you.  This state of martial law has been brought to you by PetrolOne.  PetrolOne: Fossil, Fuel, Family.™”

  
The TV snapped off.

The house shook once more as something else exploded outside.  A military helicopter flew overhead.

“Well, that’s it, I guess,” Elaine said.  “Society’s gone completely crazy.  I guess we should get in the basement.”  She scrunched her face and looked at the ceiling.  “And maybe work on some job applications.”

George’s hands balled into fists.  He turned to the kid.  Heat emanated from his face as his rage began to grow.

“Listen kid,” said George, “I’m lookin at you.”

“Yeah,” said the kid.  “Yer lookin at me.”

 “And why do you think I’m lookin at you.”

 

Cold terror washed over the kid.  He turned and ran.  George ran after him.  They ran around the couch, the kid staying on the opposite side of George.  Elaine cried out when the kid jumped over the couch and made for the door.  He ran outside.  George bolted after him.  Something on another street burst into flames.  Military helicopters circled the neighborhood.  Screaming neighbors howled in the night.  George chased the kid down Lajoya Ct.

Above them, two pilots watched the chase from their helicopter.

“Well, I gotta admit,” said the first pilot.  “I didn’t see this coming.”

“I’ll tell you one thing I’ve learned this election,” said the second pilot.

“What’s that?”

“You really can’t put your faith in polling.  I must have looked at every poll this election season and all of them were wrong.”

“That’s true.  Most of them called the election for Republicon.”

The helicopter banked left.  

 

“It’s funny,” said the second pilot.  “It seems like no matter how refined our statistical methods get, you really can’t truly know the outcome until election day.  There’s just so many variables and no one can possibly think of them all.”

The first pilot nodded.  “Yeah, I think that’s sensible.  It’s hard to capture what’s actually going on just simply by numbers.”

More explosions.  Two cars crashed.  A big metal communications tower collapsed.

The second pilot banked the helicopter right.

 
“Well,” he said, “one thing’s for sure, at least for me.  Polls.  Ya just can’t trust ’em.  I’m never lookin’ at ’em again.”

He looked out the helicopter window at the carnage below.

He looked up at the stars in the night sky.

He thought about polls.

“No, sir,” he said, shaking his head.  “Ya just can’t trust ’em.”