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  Robert quickly realized the audience was growing impatient, their emotional shirts emoting a combination of red and grey. He slipped back into his alias and resumed the play.

  The sound of exploding cymbals snapped the superstar back to perfect synchronization with the live Orchestra. Real instruments had been summoned from the dead confinements of memory. Users reacted better to the spectacle created by the Orchestra and its Conductor: the audience was statistically more engaged, and more engagement meant more distraction.

  “Daydreamer…I’ve become a beacon of desperation!” yelled the man behind the makeup. He was off Script again, probing his audience for something, anything. The politicians grumbled. The Orchestra halted once again. The citizens, however, reacted positively to his words with a wave of yellow emotions. His heart gained vigor.

  “To think clearly is a joy you’ll someday understand…to rejoice in the memories of our ancestors…” Yulius heard the secondary actors mumbling behind him; the President’s Secretary of Defense and the General of the Armed Forces were sitting at a round table, a holographic map displaying a stratagem. Behind the seated senior officers stood a score of cadets.

  The performer leaned forward, trying to reach out to his audience. He was becoming desperate. “Dream, you forgotten dreamer, as if it were not frowned upon!” he yelled.

  The secondary actors began to fret.

  “Be a merry soul and explore the limits of your creativity. Do you hear?”

  Another wave of yellow and blue lights spread across the audience. He could tell the feeling was becoming contagious. The Actor felt a surge of joy, but then it plummeted.

  The wave of deep emotion never lasts for more than just a flicker, thought Yulius. But there is hope. People can be inspired to think if they feel deeply…can’t they?

  The delegation of thought to super-intelligent, personal AI’s had made humans stupid. It seemed humanity’s final objective was self-destruction.

  Yulius caught a glimpse of his Understudy on the stage a few meters away. The young man was wearing a cadet’s uniform, his role in this week’s play. The aspiring Actor was watching him intently with eyes that adore, brown irises eagerly drinking in the scene. But the young man’s expressions were also consumed with worry.

  His Understudy shrugged at him. His lips read, “What are you doing?”

  Yulius chuckled silently. He admired how the young man gleamed with makeup, with such optimism.

  Robert was once a young man like his Understudy, yet he could not recall what it felt like to admire somebody else or to yearn for a long-forgotten dream. He suddenly craved his youth. He was so stage-hungry back then. He didn’t even say goodbye to his tutor before he was promoted to Unification.

  Can my apprentice be inspired to think? Was I as stupid as he is when I was the Understudy? thought The Actor with a stab of regret.

  It would never be easy to lure a soul from the path of least resistance. Thought was no longer needed. Human jobs only required you to push the red, the blue, or the yellow button, and then to pull a numbered lever; the rest was done by the machine.

  The music began to roar as the Conductor flung his hands out, leering at the dramatist for having improvised again.

  Yulius prepared himself to read the Script, the words scrolling on the screen of the device on his left eye, worn like a contact lens from the Old World. This was the part that had made him cringe episode after episode for almost three months after his sudden “awakening” from the trance created by fame. The words moved from his mind to his lips, leaving a trace of deception:

  “I am the President of Texalifornia and I, conqueror of the World, plea to you: join our armed forces!” bellowed out The Actor. The music exploded with an epic rise, the Conductor flinging his arms about with enthusiasm.

  “There is no greater cause than to serve your country, to die for your kindred, while submitting totally and utterly to a higher purpose! It is not one life, but that of the collective! Come hither, men and women of Texalifornia! Will you join me in sacred battle?” Saluting the audience with an elevated hand, he stood as straight as possible, trying to mimic a military posture.

  The secondary actors yelled after Yulius, “There is no greater honor than to die for our nation! Let our elements be recycled unto divinity!”

  The crowd cheered in absolute veneration. The god of entertainment had stunned them again. The man behind the makeup stood strong and tall, saluting his audience with false honor.

  “Wi lov yu, Mister Zezar! Wi lov yu!” yelled out the citizens.

  “De gratest aktor of them all, wi luv yu!” yelled another citizen. The politicians in the front rows remained stoic.

  Yulius bowed and let the cheers from his fans bathe him. He was smiling, yet inside he was grimacing. The cheers were ill deserved.

  II

  Robert was back in his apartment. He sat on a stool in the middle of his changing room, studying his face, his wig, his presidential suit. It was amazing how he no longer cared for anything in life but the simple things. Like silence. Like asking himself the importance of knowing his own preferences. These simplicities did not require credit from another or grandiosity. He had changed.

  Mirrors and tokens of fame recognizing him as the best Actor of the New World decorated his room.

  He observed those trophies with disgust. During his first years of acting, Robert would selfishly be pleased by these tokens, but now he had grown resistant to the drug called fame. Frivolousness was poison. Aside from trying to make his fans glow yellow or blue, Old Memories were his sole obsession. Digging into the past had a strange way of making Robert reach out to himself.

  A weary man with a drooping face stared at him from the mirror, his glamorous face illuminated by twenty lightbulbs surrounding the frame.

  This mirror was a rare possession, an item used by actors dating back to the 1900s. Each bulb, affixed to a wooden, rectangular frame, delineated the reflective surface. He had obtained this particular mirror from an online, government-controlled seller who offered “Old Memories” at very high prices. Robert had spent nearly half his life savings on it, but it was worth it. It made him feel in touch with the actors of the Old World, with the people he felt shared his need to connect with the audience or anyone.

  Taking his wig off felt like peeling a corncob. His receding hairline, composed of long whiskers of damp hair, stuck to his balding head.

  As he stared at himself, he could perceive the small lens over his left eyeball, just covering the iris. In the Old World, it was called a contact lens, he knew. Now it was a personal assistance device that he happened to loathe. The thing hadn’t started talking yet, but even in silence the super-intelligent AI was scrutinizing his every movement, recording his every action, memorizing his vital signs.

  This brain of mine is rotting, thought The Actor as he considered his balding head. He imagined his brain pickling in a cocktail of corn syrup.

  Is there truly no other food option than corn? Damn radioactive fallout…and the Samites cleaning the air. This grey world cannot harbor anything else. The Samites, he knew, were made of the same biotechnological advancement that had created the “emotional cloth.” The nanobots were sent to the stratosphere to speed up the earth’s recovery from World War III. The government told the public that the process of cleansing the air would take no longer than several centuries. It had been almost two hundred and fifty years since the New World came to be after WWIII. How many more centuries would it take to clear the skies?

  If military colonies did exist in the Sol Solar System, wondered Robert, then why did humanity still inhabit the Earth? Moving humanity to a new world seemed like an easy solution. But then again, humanity would only destroy itself again and again, no matter where it resided.

  UniCorn, the corporation that owned all the corn crops, processing factories, distributors, selling points, and product lines, had reassured Texalifornians that ultra-GMO corn was the only food source required by the human
body to survive after World War III had devastated the Earth’s land and sky. Any other crop was simply unviable, they said. Ultra-GMO corn even cleansed the earth from radiation, absorbing it like a sponge. Upon being asked if the citizens of Texalifornia were eating the radiation, UniCorn had no clear answer but assured the media the super-plant contained all the protein, carbohydrates, and micro elements every human would ever need in his or her lifetime.

  Robert studied his balding head again. It resembled an egg in a nest.

  The face of Yulius Zezar began to fade, its expressions becoming out of character, exposing the tired, grumpy man behind the makeup—Robert Thorns. The commissure of his lips now sloped downward. His eyes spoke of a deep sadness that evolved into anger, a mechanism that protected his soul from total depression.

  “Markle!” yelled Robert. He felt a sense of inevitable frustration as he heard the young man step into his dressing room.

  His Understudy was five feet tall with silver-colored hair (due to a common mutation secondary to radioactive fallout), a small and perky nose, and fine hands.

  Robert had loved his Understudy once upon a time. But as he plunged deeper into the world of knowledge, Robert could see his Understudy for what he truly was: a slave like any other, blinded by perpetual white noise.

  Markle was getting fatter by the minute, as plump as expected in Texalifornia. It was the norm of the New World. A person who wasn’t plump was referred to as “ill looking” or “diseased,” called a “skinny bitch” by most citizens.

  “Yes, Mr. Zezar?” asked Markle. He approached his tutor with caution. Robert’s lashing out was common nowadays, and Markle had to be careful of being reprimanded unjustly. It seemed to the Understudy that saying anything at all would make Robert’s anger flare up. It was impossible to conclude what had happened to his tutor, but it was clear something had changed the famous man. Robert didn’t even wear emotional clothing when he went out as a regular citizen, and his face was so constricted by…a terrible sadness.

  “Bring me my evening meal,” demanded Robert.

  “The usual?” asked the Understudy. Markle wore a false smile, with his hands behind his back like a good servitor. Being an Understudy was all about pleasing your tutor. But Markle had found this task increasingly difficult.

  “Yes…I believe a corn-dog will suffice for today,” answered Robert. The superstar was still using his high-fashioned English in spite of being out of character.

  Markle stared back at his tutor with a quizzical look. He said, “You don't have to keep up the Yulius Zezar act with me, you know? You can be Robert…I like him better. I like you more when…”

  Robert wiped off the remaining makeup with a sweaty hand, revealing pale, drooping skin below.

  “This is Robert Thorns, Markle,” he pointed a finger at his own face. “This is the man you fucking want?” His voice escalated, his usual verbosity exploded. “I’m not who I used to be. When I was the Understudy of the former Yulius, I was like you, young and vivid…and alive. And fifty kilos thinner. But now I feel dead inside…hollow like this city of ours…and fat and ugly, overfed like the cows they kept in the Old World. I’m a fucking wreck.”

  Markle answered with a confused stare. “Cows? What is a cow? Oh don't say that, Robert! You’re talking nonsense now! Why do you even read? It’s not needed, you know?” The Understudy took Robert’s hands to his face. “You know you’re not a wreck, Robert! You’re my lovely…”

  “Oh, shut up, you imbecile. Just stop it. You remind me of my artificial mother, as recycled as she is!”

  “Sweet corn! I would never want to remind you of someone who is recycled!” yelped the Understudy.

  “Shut up, Markle. And it’s a something, not a someone. Androids do not deserve to be treated like people.” Robert’s eyes darted downward before he said, “Just promise me one thing.” Robert’s facial muscles were tense, his jaw clenched, his eyes locked with Markle’s sweet, malleable gaze.

  Markle studied his tutor’s deep, overpowering stare. He had always liked those dark irises that were almost indistinguishable from the pupils.

  “Yes, dear?” answered the Understudy. He braced himself emotionally.

  “That you'll do everything in your power to avoid becoming like me,” answered Robert.

  Markle blinked repeatedly, confused. “I…I will do as you ask, my dear,” responded the young man. He smiled heavily, but it lasted not two seconds before his lips were a flat line.

  Markle left the dressing room and walked toward the kitchen of The Actor’s apartment home. The same housing was employed by every Actor during his five-year career with the government of Texalifornia. It was nestled at the penthouse of the Globus Theater Hotel, a small building attached to the palace of entertainment. Markle’s steps were muffled by the carpeted floor, but once he got to the kitchen, his inch-long heels resonated on the hardwood floor.

  The building where Robert lived was high enough to see most of New Hollow extending for hundreds of miles in every direction. From the windows of his apartment, a caterpillar of lights emerged from darkness as the city busied itself with hovering cars. The buzz of traffic was the city’s heartbeat. Robert lived in the northern part of New Hollow. This area was also occupied by many skyscrapers housing media and entertainment gurus such as himself. The building where Honky Dory was filmed wasn’t far away either.

  Robert thought about the request he asked of Markle. Did my tutor ever consider asking me a similar question? To avoid becoming like him? It was as if he had forgotten what it was like when he was an aspiring Understudy. Those years were clumped together in his memory in what seemed a single, blissful event.

  I’m a freaking puppet, concluded Robert, used by the government to entertain and blind people to reality—much like that stupid show Honky Dory.

  Robert knew better than to speak those words out loud. Otherwise, his personal AI could have notified the modern version of police officers—the Leukoforce. Speaking against Texalifornia and its government was not tolerated.

  The AI read his eye movements, detecting his nervousness. She—it—began to talk.

  “Your blood sugar is 405 mg/dL. Would you like me to infuse your nighttime insulin, Robert?” resonated his personal AI's voice in his head with machinelike cadence.

  The AI was originally called an OHP-I device (Organic Human Pseudo-Intelligence) but was not popular with its users due to its wordy name. Thus, Minotaur Biotech changed its name to simply Anicor, improving the human-machine rapport index.

  Robert looked at himself in the mirror and found his face trembling, the flap of skin hanging under his chin shaking like jelly. His face was flushed.

  Robert contained yet another flare of anger.

  “Yes…yes…prepare my insulin please.” The iTop screen of his OHP-I lens came to life.

  In the upper-left corner of the iTop, his blood glucose level was shining in red. His speeding heart rate was ticking beside the blood sugar level to remind him of its high value.

  In the upper-right corner, he saw his blood pressure read in orange numbers, signifying it was high yet not dangerously elevated. On the lower-right corner shined the RetinaChat icon, with which you could contact (Retinize) any other Anicor device and talk to its user in either text or voice (or video if looking at a mirror).

  Robert hated the RetinaChat. It served as a constant reminder of how people had lost their love of talking. When texting, most users would use abbreviated or misspelled words, a fact he hated deeply. If the English language had once been a monument, it was now reduced to rubble.

  What Robert craved as much as an educated society was privacy. There was no escape from the AI. Shutting his eyes would only intensify the image of his iTop, as the device was placed directly on his eyeball. The only way Robert knew he could get away from Anicor was death. And today was not the first time he wished to die.

  Suicide was not easy. The powerful AI was constantly vigilant. Robert had already suffered a heavy “h
ealth taxation” for having tried to kill himself twice.

  Robert moved his eyeball to the right, scrolling through the items displayed on the middle of the iTop screen. He chose to watch the daily news. The App sprung to life. The screen filled his vision, but with a RetinaCommand he reduced the screen and placed it in the upper-left corner of the iTop. The audio was set at a low volume, which he would raise only when listening to Old World music or when watching an Old Memory movie. His favorite film was Casa Blanca.

  “Pegasus Pharmaceutics has successfully installed a new factory in Luna Terra. Dieter Perth, the CEO of UniCorn, has publicly declared that the new factory will supply luna-terranians with the anti-diabetes medication and antihypertensives every newborn needs throughout his or her lifetime,” said the fat female anchor with a smile. She was very pretty, as news anchors usually were. She occasionally slurped on the corn-cola strapped to her back.

  “Paco Taco has just married for the hundredth time, keeping his “girls” well fed in the empire thanks to his Hollywood career. His newest wife is called Condessa Pei. In other news, the third military colony has been established on an asteroid not far from Mars. Minotaur Biotech says the race against Eurussia to conquer the Sol Solar System has just begun.” She slurped on her soft drink. “In other news, the famous Actor, Yulius Zezar, is approaching the end of his acting career. Today, he completed episode two hundred and fifty-nine of the two hundred and sixty as detailed in his contract with our very own sponsor, UniCorn. What will become of him when he’s promoted to Unification? His career was estimated to be as successful as the last Yulius’s. Will his Understudy be as great as he? Stay tuned to find out more about our beloved Yulius—”

  “Tune me in to some Honky Dory, will you? I hate the news. Always full of crap,” said Robert. It was true. The media was all about flares of white noise.