Forgiveness by Shane Joseph
The President’s Twitter feed was bursting. Another 3 a.m. rant; this time taking pot shots at Canada, at its photogenic prime minister, at its restrictive subsidies, even at its cold winters, ending with “bad” or “sad.”
Moron, have you been to Minnesota in February?
It won’t be long now, Hipster said to himself. Twice he had been close to cracking the password’s algorithm but missed only due to a “heads or tails” guess. He was confident. He’d get there quicker than North Colonia carrying out its boast to deliver a nuke to the US mainland.
The dimly lit basement room with posters of the Grateful Dead, the Stones, and Santana plastering every bit of blank wall looked like a throwback to the ’70’s. The man in its centre, with shoulder-length grey hair held back by a red bandana, and a metal chain dangling a heavy cross from his neck to nestle on a Harley Davidson tee shirt, epitomised that era; the powerful computer and peripherals, along with a half dozen mobile devices on the central work table, did not—they were state of the art.
He sat back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. A weed would put him to sleep. Instead, he needed a computer game to sharpen his reflexes. He wondered whether that smart kid he had come across the other day at the online gaming site would be playing today. He wondered who that kid might be, given that everyone but the President was who they were not in cyberspace; probably some math whiz who could work out fifteen chess moves ahead of current play. He had been like that once, but with age, had slumped back to thinking only ten moves ahead. That’s why it was important to break that code soon. He had started a year ago when the election surprised the world. Now he had to push himself before the world was destroyed.
He logged into the Warcraft site and trolled through its games. They all spoke of imaginary wars—good against evil, the underdog triumphing against superhuman odds, violence, lots of blood—all fake.
Fake. Like his life. What had he achieved so far? Math PhD and lecturer, sidelined in academia for his radical postulations on the integrative possibilities of left and right brain thinking via mathematical formulae; a string of divorces, children abandoned, debts unpaid, now reduced to a basement apartment with a motor-bike and a powerful computer. Loser, that’s what his colleagues among the faculty had called him behind his back; they said he didn’t have the right stuff to make it in the collegial comfort of academia.
Strange, that kid he had met online had not called him a loser while soundly trouncing him in under ten moves. Well, he’d be leaving his mark on the world soon. He logged out of Warcraft; its games were too trivial given his current project, but he needed mind sharpening before returning to crack the algorithm that generated random passwords.
He logged into the chess site and trolled for an available partner. The kid who went by the name Forgiveness (what a fucking name!) was climbing the rankings board, and was now three down from the top player. Forgiveness was offline at the moment, but the site provided pseudo e-mail addresses for members to connect with each other, hence his own online moniker, Hipster (how ironic!). He typed out a message: “Hi Forgiveness. You available for a game? Hipster”
He didn’t expect a reply for some time, if at all. To his surprise, a message came through in less than two minutes: “Logging in now.”
The kid’s moves were fresh, unorthodox. Hipster commented in the chat box after the fourth move: “Where did you learn to play?”
No answer.
After move number six, he had to give away a rook and a bishop and content himself with capturing four pawns. Suddenly the kid went on the attack. Hipster’s solitary rook was outflanked, and fell; the knights were taken out in a sudden cross move that he hadn’t foreseen. Shit. I’m supposed to be thinking ten moves ahead. I seem to be thinking out the wrong ten moves.
His chat box came alive: “Sorry, I was strategizing. I like, learned from a book. I don’t go out much. It’s kinda dumb.”
Hipster chuckled. “That makes two of us,” he wrote back.
He was losing. His king, queen, and the three remaining pawns were surrounded by the opponent’s forces. The kid was brilliant.
When the inevitable end came, Hipster accepted defeat gracefully. The kid’s response was: “You lose well. Doesn’t happen much, online or off.”
Hipster wondered whether Forgiveness would be open to chat. He wasn’t communicative normally, but this intelligent, modest kid was someone whose company he liked.
“We live in a culture of sore losers,” Hipster typed. “My new President set that tone, unfortunately.”
The chat line did not respond. Hipster noticed that Forgiveness had logged off.
***
Evan stood before the mirror and straightened his tie. Papa was coming home from Washington for the weekend, and that wasn’t good news—more babysitting for him. And he had to be on his best behaviour—too many cameras. It was Saturday, and the tutors were off for the weekend. Tutors tired him: morning for math, English in the afternoon, music in the evening. Evan was forbidden from using his iPhone or laptop until after dinner on weekdays, but he had been busy on the latter this morning. But now it was time for family matters—boring!
He looked out from the penthouse window. Central Park stretched out before him like a lost playground. Mother used to take him there when he was younger, and he had enjoyed feeding the ducks and watching sweaty horses pulling tourist carriages—experiences you couldn’t get from watching television. After the election last year, the park was deemed an unsafe place for him. His world had shrunk to the upper floors of this building. Papa had promised to build him a replica of Central Park on the rooftop, but his father was having a hard time keeping his promises to anyone these days.
Evan sighed and looked at the time on his mobile: 11 a.m. Mother said she’d come to get him.
Right on cue, there was his mother’s soft knock, and she slipped in discreetly. Mother was the most beautiful and fragile creature in his whole world. And every day she got more beautiful, as Papa got grumpier, fatter and aged rapidly. Evan couldn’t conceive of life without Mother.
“How’s my sweetheart?” She smiled and bent to kiss his cheek, engulfing him in her own name-branded perfume. She was dressed in a peach designer dress with gold lining around the neck, matching patent leather stilettos, and her hair was coiffured to flow in silken waves when she moved her head.
“Okay, I guess,” he said. “Am I dressed for the President?” This was their joke. Papa had elevated himself into another orbit since his surprise victory last year, and the two of them commented about being reduced to commoner status in the presidential household. Especially since people started saying wicked things about Mother and her prior modelling career. As for Papa, he seemed to be enjoying all publicity, good or bad.
“You should have worn the Armani suit I bought you last week,” Mother said.
“What’s wrong with this one?”
“You wore it to the Presidential Gala two weeks ago. You know that we have to be seen in new outfits all the time.”
“But I thought this was family time? A family week-end?”
His mother’s features darkened and her prominent cheekbones made her look angular. “With your Papa, there is always room for another photo-opportunity. It’s always good to showcase family gatherings for the media.”
“Fake news for a fake world.”
“Sometimes you speak too wisely for an eleven-year-old. Don’t let Papa hear you saying that.”
“He invented fake news.”
***
Papa was in his office when Evan and his mother entered. It was a long room, for Papa insisted on a twenty-five-yard artificial putting green be installed on one side and a bar at the putter’s end. Evan never figured out why Papa needed a bar because he never drank alcohol—perhaps it was for effect. Papa was all about positioning and effect.
Papa looked up from the papers he was signing. Papa never wrote, he always signed; others wrote for him, running alongside, scribbling in their notebooks to capture the words he spewed at will. Fortunately, he repeated himself often, making it easy for the transcribers. Papa only wrote on Twitter.
“Hah, there you are, young man.” Papa rose, and he had put on more weight since Evan had last seen him two weeks ago at the gala. That accounted for the vertically striped, navy-blue tie to mask the paunch.
“How was Washington, Papa?” Evan usually let his father do the talking after the initial greeting, so that he could keep his own activities private.
“Washington is a mad house. Politicians are evil. I fired more idiots this week. I’ve fired more of them now than I ever did on my reality television show. Did you see my rally in Missouri? Outstanding crowds. Lots of good vibes.”
Mother cut in. “You should get your blood pressure tested this weekend. You’ve been running at a furious pace.”
“I get tested daily. My minders wouldn’t have it any other way. Massage and anti-stress pills are as regular as breakfast meetings.”
“And lay off Twitter. At least for the weekend.”
Papa smiled and shook into place his thick orange hair. “If I don’t have Twitter, I’d be in real trouble.” He walked over to the bar for his pre-lunch drink: Coke on the rocks. “Drinks?”
“Milk,” Evan replied.
“Perrier for me,” Mother replied and went behind the bar to pour the drinks. Papa did the offering, while Mother did the fulfilling.
Taking the proffered drink and using it like a microphone, Papa strode about the room, ranting about his week in Washington. The Republicans were after him, The Democrats wanted to kill him, the Senate was trying to block him, and those damned judges were overturning all his bills. Only his “people,” reached directly via Twitter, were loyal. Thank God for Twitter and Middle America.
“And you know that whippersnapper in North Colonia is keeping us awake at night too. I told the Chinese to button him up and shut down his rockets, or I will. And if I’ve gotta do it, it will be mega!”
“Have you talked to him?” Mother asked.
“He doesn’t speak English.”
“Surely there are translators? We spoke through many of them during our visit to the G20.”
Papa scowled. He didn’t like to be boxed into a corner. He looked down at his watch and his face brightened. Evan wondered why Papa wore his watches so tight—was he getting fatter by the minute? “I’ve asked the guy from Fox to come at noon. We’ll do an impromptu video clip of the three of us here. Evan, I want you to get out of that old suit and put on something new.”
“But I like this suit. I’m just getting to know it.”
“Know it? Suits are dispensable, boy. Suits are like people—know that!”
“I think Evan should wear what he likes,” Mother interjected, “otherwise he will wear a frown throughout the video recording.”
Evan went over to the tall windows overlooking the park. He wanted to escape. Become the little fly on the other side of the windowpane and soar away to linger among the magnolias and horse chestnuts, hiding from media and minders, hiding from Papa. But in a perverse way, Evan forgave his father his excesses and wondered whether there was a way to simplify the older man’s life. Mother told him once that he had been born to save his father from making deadly mistakes. “When your father announced that he had ambitions of being the President of the USA twelve years ago, you leapt in my womb for the first time.” Messiah notwithstanding, Evan was not going to change out of this suite—stubbornness was something he had inherited from his father.
When he swung back from the window, Papa had forgotten all about the suit and was talking about the new property his company was buying in Dubai.
“It’s the perfect complement to what we’ve already got down there.”
“You’re not supposed to be involved in your business interests while in office,” Mother cautioned.
“Hell, that’s for when I’m in Washington. I’m at home now and I can talk about anything I want.”
A tap sounded and one of the secretaries poked her head in. “The Fox crew is here.”
“Ah, send them in,” roared Papa, bounding for the door.
***
Hipster let out a yell when the final gateway yielded and he got “password accepted.” Now he was into the latest US policy broadcasting organ: Twitter. He had to hand it to these guys, they were harder to hack than the Pentagon, and it had taken months. A chance encounter with a disgruntled former employee, met on an online forum, had helped speed up the process. Now he could be anyone he wanted in this social media channel, including assuming the IP addresses they used to regularly tweet from. But there was only one person’s moniker he wanted. He quickly searched, found, and assumed.
He typed out a single tweet: “Dim, you are a fat, overgrown bully. Back down or I’ll nuke your ass. Really nuke it. Bigly!” He pressed “send.”
The kid would be impressed with his strategy: fire a barrage of Twitter rants and get the bully in North Colonia riled enough to shoot off a missile at Guam or South Colonia or somewhere far from the US mainland; the missile was going to miss due to the total unreliability of Dim’s arms program. But the fallout would cause the US military establishment and Congress to take the step they had been reluctant to take all this while: impeachment of the President for irresponsible behaviour that put mankind at risk.
But this tweet was only the first of many that had to be fired off before the night was over, before Twitter got wise to the fact that they could shut down even the President’s account in the interest of national security.
He rapidly typed out the other five insult tweets, carefully written, edited, and memorised over the last few months. He set them up to fire off into the Twitterverse at two-minute intervals—the hallmarks of a typical Presidential rant at 3 a.m. Eastern Standard Time.
He went over to the mini bar and mixed himself a highball. He drained half the glass. He rolled a weed and took a few deep puffs. Then he returned to Twitter.
Hell was breaking loose already. There were posts from all the fake Dim addresses, pouncing on this latest tweet attack, raising a bigger ruckus than he had intended. There were threats and counter threats, cease and desist notices, messages from the Pope praying for calm (His Holyness was up early!), disclaimers from the Pentagon, and “up yours, Dim” messages from sources also purporting to be at the Pentagon. No one knew who was who anymore. This had the makings of a bar fight in a bad western movie.
He was starting to wonder whether he had got this all wrong. There was more noise than substance. Then the message that he had been waiting to hear came through, albeit not with the result he had expected: “Missile explodes on the coast of Guam. This is war!”
***
Evan woke at 3 a.m. It was unusual for him, but something was afoot in the penthouse at this witching hour: doors slamming, raised voices, phones ringing, the presence of many outsiders in his home. The air twanged with tension.
Slipping out of bed, he switched on the TV. He was not allowed to do this normally, even on a Sunday, but something was catastrophically wrong. He started flipping channels, between CNN, Fox, BBC, and others that kept their pulse on the world 24/7.
Fox was broadcasting and re-broadcasting the clip of the President’s weekend break filmed yesterday at the penthouse. Evan was already sick of seeing that clip; it must be rivalling the one of the falling towers in Manhattan that had occurred before he was born for the most watched scene on television. Then it was interrupted by an announcement. “We have unconfirmed reports of an explosion off the coast of Guam. Some damage to shoreline facilities is being reported. No one is claiming responsibility, but suspicion is that it was launched by North Colonia.”
Evan sighed.
His bedroom door burst open, and there stood Papa in his dressing gown, his shock of orange hair disheveled, a sight the cameras would never see.
“Evan—what are you doing up at this time? Shut the TV off.”
Too late, their gazes were riveted to a satellite picture of the island’s devastated coastline and harbour, with smoke and debris everywhere.
“Pearl Harbour revisited,” Evan murmured. “Where’s Mother?”
“She’s in bed. You know she doesn’t like to be disturbed from her beauty sleep even if the world is ending.”
“Is it ending?”
“Ha, ha! Cheeky fellow!” Papa snatched the remote control and killed the images. “Now, go back to bed, you hear me? We have this matter in hand. No need to panic your mother or yourself.”
“Are we going to be bombed next?”
“Not on my watch, buddy. Not here. The Joint Chiefs of Staff are gathered in the next room, in person or on screen. And I am their Commander-in-Chief.” Papa swaggered away, slamming the door behind him.
Sleep was out of the question. Papa would be back when he needed re-assurance. Evan went over to the giant bookcase and picked up a book from his “war” collection: The Vietnam War. He was fascinated by famous battles although he abhorred war itself. He loved the strategies that great soldiers like Patton and Montgomery had employed. But today, these books paled in comparison to his reality. They were in a war now, not studying historical events from the safe distance of time.
***
Hipster paced his basement room. The weed and alcohol had not calmed him. They had only made him hyper. He had let slip the dogs of war. Now he was worried.
He switched to chess on his PC—maybe that would calm him. Forgiveness was also logged in and playing against the computer. Hipster felt the urge to unburden. Here was a superior intellect to his. What would be Forgiveness’ interpretation of what he had just done? Could he trust the kid? He had to be careful. He typed an innocent hook: “Hi Forgiveness—got a minute? I have a chess-related question.”
The reply was quick. “What is it?”
“First off, not sure if I offended you with my last comment after our game yesterday?”
“No. I forgave you.”
“Ha, ha—cute! Here’s the question: if you advance too fast into opponent territory with your flank exposed, is it better to retreat or keep going?”
“It depends on how exposed your opponent is. Explain your position, and your opponent’s”
Hipster realized that he was trapped. His real scenario could not be reduced to a chess move, not even to mathematics. He started typing: “Okay, okay. That’s not my question, actually. And if you don’t want to reply, that’s all right. But I did something today that has far-reaching consequences, global impact. Should I say I’m sorry?” There, it’s out.
“Are you Dim of North Colonia?”
Hipster recoiled from the screen as if bitten. This is weird. Too close to home!
“Oh, no. Nothing like that. Shame on that guy for trying to bomb us, huh? The ‘global impact’ I mentioned was to my world, my small little world. Ha, ha.”
“I know what I would do, but no one listens,” Forgiveness said.
“What’s that?”
“If someone gets hurt through my actions, I’d say I’m sorry, no matter how important I am. I’d even forgive Dim. I’m sure he wasn’t responsible for that bomb.”
“Gee thanks for the advice. We should play again some time.”
“Sure. But today is not a good day.”
Hipster had to agree. “No, today is not a good day, for sure.”
***
Just as Evan logged off his PC, Papa came rushing in again. “You still up?”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Not playing with your computer, I hope?”
Evan remained silent but walked over from his desk and got back into bed. “Do you want to talk?”
“I got the joint-chiefs to agree. We have to teach that upstart a lesson. A good lesson. I used the codes.” Papa was grinning funnily at him, and Evan couldn’t make out whether he was jubilant or nervous.
“You fired a nuke?”
“It will blow that guy and his cronies to smithereens. Aren’t I good? I’ve called a press conference for the morning and the whole world will applaud our courage. Except for Dim. Ha, ha!”
“But you started it, with those tweets.”
“It wasn’t me. But you know, whoever did it, did a damned good job of impersonating me. Why hadn’t I thought of that strategy before?”
“When will it stop?”
“When Dim holds up the white flag and surrenders.”
“But we haven’t won any wars recently.”
“We did. In Granada.”
“That was an invasion.”
“Where do you get all this information?”
Evan pointed to his bookcase. “I read a lot, now that I don’t get to go to the park.”
Papa walked up to Evan and embraced him, and Evan caught the smell of acrid sweat beneath the layers of perfume his father wore even to bed.
“Evan, my boy, I wonder about you. Only eleven years old and such an old soul. What have I done to deserve you?”
Evan smiled and snuggled deeper in his father’s embrace. “Mother says I was born to protect you.”
“I don’t need protection, son.”
“Would your bomb have exploded by now?”
Papa sprang back. “Oh, good reminder! I slipped out of our war room to see how you were doing. Gotta get back now. Go back to sleep, champ.”
Go back to sleep? You’ve gotta be kidding!
***
Hipster was glued to his TV set. By now the television networks’ drones had become operational and were broadcasting and re-broadcasting split-screen images of the two scenes of devastation: the port of Guam ablaze, and Dimopolis, the capital city of North Colonia, under a dense nuclear fog with ghostly figures stumbling amidst rubble.
He had not banked on retaliation by the home team. This had gone horribly wrong.
Then the repeating images were extinguished and an excited newscaster came on.
“This is a special announcement. We have a military report that a second missile was launched by our enemy minutes ago. Satellite pictures indicate it is a bigger rocket with a larger payload. Military personnel are warning people living on the west coast of the mainland and in Hawaii to find shelter indoors and to keep all windows and doors locked. Landfall is expected within the hour. We will keep you posted. Now to return to our panel of experts who will discuss what this new development means for us...”
Hipster went pale and wrung his hands in frustration. “Oh no! What have I done?”
***
Papa came in again. This time he was haggard and looked to have aged ten years since his last visit. Daylight was creeping in through the curtains. Evan had his books on the Vietnam and Afghanistan wars spread out before him.
“They’ve launched another missile,” Papa said and slumped down on the bed beside Evan. “What have we done?”
“You mean, what have you done?”
Papa looked down at his hands and said nothing. Papa doesn’t apologize.
“They are fighting like the Vietnamese and the Afghans. From holes in the ground we cannot see,” Evan said.
“But these are nuclear weapons, not snipers. They take out entire cities.”
“You can say you’re sorry.”
Papa looked up. “What’s that?”
“You could say you’re sorry and call a truce.”
“Me? Knuckle down to that numbskull?”
“Otherwise, the bombs will continue.”
“Apologizing would be seen as a sign of weakness.”
“Or a good strategy. It would make him feel good and save him face. He doesn’t want the bombs either. It’ll make you a hero as well, in America.”
“Are you sure?”
“You could mention in your newscast in the morning that you stopped the war.”
Papa frowned, then brightened as Evan’s words penetrated. “That would be a win for me, wouldn’t it? You’ve got it, kiddo! I’ll be back!”
Papa bounded out of the bed and ran down the hallway.
Evan sighed, closed his two books—they had served well as props—and settled back in bed.
***
Epilogue
Phone calls on a Sunday Morning
(1) 0600 hours EST - received at an underground bunker outside Dimopolis:
“Hello, Hello—this is the President of the United States of America, calling from his home in New York. The President wishes to speak to Leader Dim...the President is calling to apologize personally...”
(2) 0615 hours EST - received at a police station in Yonkers, New York
“Hello, Hello—I wish to make a confession. I hacked into Twitter and impersonated the President of the United States. I wish to say I am sorry...”
No action was taken on either call, and they were put down to the work of cranks.
News Broadcasts on the same Sunday morning
(1) 0630 hours EST - Dimopolis Radio
“We interrupt this program to bring you a glorious victory speech from our Illustrious Leader Dim on the defeat of the United States of America by the Democratic People’s Republic of North Colonia. We fired two bombs while they were only able to fire one. Now we present, our illustrious leader...”
(2) 0700 hours EST - Breakfast Television in the United States of America
“We have confirmation that the second missile launched by the enemy and which made landfall forty minutes ago was well short of any US territory, falling a hundred miles away from the island of Oahu in Hawaii. No nuclear blast ensued as the payload was found to be defective. Disposal crews are heading to the area to clean up any and all nuclear material. We understand from military personnel that North Colonia has fired its last bullet, so to speak, and is no longer a threat to global security, and therefore, no further retaliatory response is required from us. Tune in at 10 a.m. Eastern when the President, fresh from the weekend spent at his home in New York, will go live from the Oval Office, recounting the crucial hours of this morning when the United States of America defeated North Colonia.”
(1) 0600 hours EST - received at an underground bunker outside Dimopolis:
“Hello, Hello—this is the President of the United States of America, calling from his home in New York. The President wishes to speak to Leader Dim...the President is calling to apologize personally...”
(2) 0615 hours EST - received at a police station in Yonkers, New York
“Hello, Hello—I wish to make a confession. I hacked into Twitter and impersonated the President of the United States. I wish to say I am sorry...”
No action was taken on either call, and they were put down to the work of cranks.
News Broadcasts on the same Sunday morning
(1) 0630 hours EST - Dimopolis Radio
“We interrupt this program to bring you a glorious victory speech from our Illustrious Leader Dim on the defeat of the United States of America by the Democratic People’s Republic of North Colonia. We fired two bombs while they were only able to fire one. Now we present, our illustrious leader...”
(2) 0700 hours EST - Breakfast Television in the United States of America
“We have confirmation that the second missile launched by the enemy and which made landfall forty minutes ago was well short of any US territory, falling a hundred miles away from the island of Oahu in Hawaii. No nuclear blast ensued as the payload was found to be defective. Disposal crews are heading to the area to clean up any and all nuclear material. We understand from military personnel that North Colonia has fired its last bullet, so to speak, and is no longer a threat to global security, and therefore, no further retaliatory response is required from us. Tune in at 10 a.m. Eastern when the President, fresh from the weekend spent at his home in New York, will go live from the Oval Office, recounting the crucial hours of this morning when the United States of America defeated North Colonia.”
