Seeing Red
Bundled in windbreakers and woolen caps, Deepti and Prabu Pasupathi walked down a corridor of electric incandescence and standstill traffic, tucked between skyscrapers. Billboards lit the sprawling artery in neon light and consumer appeal, cycling through an assortment of advertisements. Twenty stories high, giant-sized holograms strode through heavy smog, extolling their initiatives in public office.
“Are you getting this?” Prabu pointed towards a blue-eyed, blond-haired hologram set against a backdrop of purples, oranges and reds smudging the horizon. “The film festivals will salivate over this angle.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Deepti waved off her husband and pointed her cam towards the looming projection.
“Putting our domestic issues before international distractions should continue to be a top national priority,” the figure said, “because we all know that sapping our economic might on faraway forever wars is a waste of everyone’s tax dollars. My name is Sergei Sokolev, and I ask for your vote in the upcoming election.”
His voice was soon lost in a stream of competing narratives and talking points. Deepti and Prabu emerged from the shower of luminous noise and entrepreneurial kitsch to a waterfront boulevard, where arrivals trickled forth from a heavily fortified security checkpoint. It was situated at the confluence of the mainland and a bridge connecting to a nearby island.
Loudspeakers boomed across the bay, blasting slogans the couples’ augs automatically translated. A deep, baritone roared, “Spread the red until all our minds are wed.”
Deepti and Prabu looked at each other skeptically before laughing off the odd novelty.
As the sun’s remaining rays dipped below the horizon, a cool autumn wind cut through the air.
“Where to next?” Deepti shivered and zipped up her breaker. Standing on her tiptoes, she craned her neck to see past the security checkpoint, to the source of the loudspeakers.
“Why not explore the waterfront tonight? Get a feel for all the bombast across the bay before knocking out the documentary tomorrow,” Prabu answered, cocking a well-manicured eyebrow.
Deepti held up a finger, distracted by a flashing mail icon on her retinal feed. She opened it.
I’m really liking what you two have captured so far. The dilapidated infrastructure shots really drive home the ‘city in decline’ arc. I realize it’s daunting, unearthing all the stories behind each street corner and under every building, so let’s focus on the bigger picture: the shifting, political winds resulting from Operation Sucker Punch. Pull off the band aid and get a close-up of the wound, and of the subsequent effects it’s caused.
I hate to be that guy, but we need to wrap this up tonight and begin post production asap. Singh is suddenly surging in national polls thanks to his foreign backers and populist appeal, but behind the facade is a cutthroat businessman who’s repeatedly clashed with the press. If he’s elected next month, this piece may never see the light of day in India.
Best,
Arun
Deepti took a deep breath and rubbed her eyes with forefinger and thumb.
“Ugh, nothing like last minute deadlines,” she protested.
Prabu gently pulled Deepti’s hand down from her eyes and pulled her in for a kiss, accentuated by their shared neural tether. He cradled the back of his wife’s head affectionately, caressing her silky strands and drinking in her brown eyes. As newlyweds, their preternatural awareness of each other was at its peak, and every touch, spoken word, and haptic exchange only served to strengthen that bond.
“You heard the man, babe. The sooner we get this assignment knocked out, the closer we are to bubbly and a hot tub.”
A seductive smile briefly split Deepti’s lips. She visually traced an icon on her feed, activating her map. It overlaid the main menu readout of 5:03 pm EST, 8° C, 78 AQI.
“So we need to head northwest along the waterfront to get the best shots of Novorossiya,” said Deepti, still attempting to see past the crowd.
The couple crossed over to a sidewalk straddling the inlet, weaving through deadlocked traffic and pedestrians exiting the nearby security checkpoint.
Gorgon Eye© security cams scanned the irises of arrivals in rapid succession while spotlights arced back and forth, patiently awaiting signs of wrongdoing.
An imposing security guard covered in military fatigues approached the pair. Metallic VisAmp© sockets bathed his eyes in an electric blue glow. Strapped around his shoulder was a recoilless M4-26A, designed to fire 50 depleted uranium rounds per second.
Deepti eyed the gun skeptically. Are we trying to catch bad guys or pulp crowds into red mist?
“Are you two here on business or pleasure?” He chewed a wad of gum mechanically.
“A bit of both, actually. We just got marr–”
He cut Deepti off without hesitation. “Unless you’re cleared to cross into Novorossiya, it’s best to avoid these checkpoints altogether. Lots of nasty malware has–”
Sirens pierced the air. Gorgon Eye© beams locked onto a man in a fedora, flashing rapidly. He whipped around, elbowing his way through the oncoming crowd of pedestrians. Uniformed and plainclothes security guards embedded in the crowd descended on the man with tactical precision, tackling him 10 paces from his route reversal. Batons rose and fell in a brutal display of judge, jury, and arbiter. Distressed pleas and groans of pain followed.
“Get the fuck out of the way,” screamed one of the apprehending security guards, swinging a path through the crowd of onlookers as his counterparts dragged the man towards an approaching security vehicle.
Despite a series of lacerations and welts on his head, the man somehow hung to consciousness.
“Open your eyes, assholes. They’re shoving–” A final baton blow to the head rendered him unconscious.
Deepti and Prabu stared in horror. The guard opposite them held up a forefinger nonchalantly and carried on as though nothing had happened. “It’s a ‘one-strike and you’re out’ policy for most carrier infractions. So, steer clear of shady characters,” he nodded towards the unconscious man, “and be mindful of suspicious activity, especially since you’re both augged. And good luck with the marriage,” he managed without a shred of enthusiasm.
“What the hell just happened?” Deepti said after the guard had left. The whites of her eyes gleamed like the ascendant moon.
Prabu gently pulled Deepti’s head to his chest. “This isn’t just an assignment, it’s our honeymoon. Let’s steer clear of the shitstorm and try to enjoy it.”
They headed north as dusk settled into night. Garbage-strewn strips of dirt and dying weeds marked their path, which ran parallel to a series of storefronts facing the bay. Scanning the myriad signage and embedded QR codes, their retinal feeds cycled through a series of audio-visual advertisements offering up the best deals on must-have products.
As the heavy crowds dispersed, Novorossiya came into clearer view. The island was a dense concentration of skyscrapers barricaded with concrete slabs, topped off by concertina wire. As Deepti and Prabu took in the sight, their augs processed a barrage of electronic signals originating from the enclave. Cyrillic characters scrawled across their feeds like army ants carting away picnic spoils. Their augs automatically translated blinking, neon signs that read “Workers of the World, Unite!” and “Eat the Rich.”
“It’s almost like they’re throwing handfuls of seed across the bay to see what takes root,” said Deepti.
“Propaganda is a helluva drug around here,” Prabu responded, recollecting the holographic figures they’d encountered earlier.
The sights and sounds of Novorossiya were either nefarious or enlightening, depending on perspective. In the last two days, Deepti and Prabu had found themselves uniquely situated at this geopolitical crossroads as citizen journalists of a non-aligned state, and had taken every precaution to preserve the sanctity of journalistic neutrality, even if every other media outlet for thousands of kilometers in every direction had not.
Smaller billboards clung to street lights, reminding pedestrians of essential knowledge or possessions missing from their lives. On one prominent screen, a confused-looking man paced back and forth, kneading his temples. The caption below read:
Are you augmented and experiencing uncharacteristic behaviors such as marked shifts in personality and disposition, trancelike or hypnotic episodes, confusion, emotional fervor, or mood swings? If so, you may be an unwitting carrier of disinformation malware. Immediately seek treatment at your local neurotech clinic if you are experiencing any combination of these symptoms. Be safe, be smart, and avoid spreading the red!
Their silent trek was soon interrupted by a symphonic melody cueing up across the inlet. Swathes of crimson light illuminated the island’s skyscrapers.
“My feed says it’s the Russic national anthem, but I’m not sure if this is the norm or some special occasion,” said Deepti.
“It’s what we call our daily dose of sturm und drang,” said a nearby elderly man in a cap and trench coat. “The bastards taunt us with it every night at 5:30,” he scowled, casually leaning against a guardrail. The red in his eyes was accompanied by a brown bagged bottle in one hand.
Prabu held out a hand in greeting, which the man grasped unenthusiastically.
“Hello, I’m Prabu and this is my wife, Deepti,” he smiled humbly and motioned towards his wife.
“Javy.” The spectacle across the waterfront still held his attention, and he cursed in unison with each crescendo.
Since the man’s own augs were either inactivated or nonexistent, the Pasupathis were forced to rely on their own modest English speaking and comprehension skills.
Get with the times, gramps, Prabu thought in annoyance.
“Would it be okay to interview you for a documentary we’re doing on this whole mess?” Deepti gestured towards the island.
“Yeah, I guess,” Javy grumbled. His whiskey-stained breath and nose of broken blood vessels rewound a tale of abandoned ambitions and unfulfilled promises.
“So how do you feel about Operation Sucker Punch?” Prabu asked, positioning himself next to the man. Deepti began shooting.
“I mean, same as everyone else. ‘Never forget Manhattan, never forgive the Rus’ has become a mantra around here.” He paused for a second, looking in the distance. “I don’t doubt we’ll retake what is rightfully ours, but first things first. The government needs to get its act together, purge itself of all the manchurian moles and foreign interest groups who’ve infiltrated the political establishment.”
“Manchurian moles?”
“Yeah, Sokolev and all the other Russic agents posing as politicians. It’s the reason for all of the political gridlock.”
“And how do you think this problem can be solved?” Prabu probed further.
“That’s the million-dollar question. How do you fight cancer without also zapping the immune system? Find a doctor and maybe you’ll get a better answer,” he took a swig of his bottle and walked off.
Deepti and Prabu locked eyes met and shared a moment of professional angst before chuckling away the awkward exchange. Their breaths briefly condensed before drifting into the quickly cooling air.
“Are you ready for the first money shot?” Deepti asked her husband, tinkering with the settings on her cam.
“Just a sec,” Prabu patted his scalp, closed his eyes, and quietly recited talking points. He took a deep breath, opened them, and positioned himself to the right of the island’s tallest skyscrapers. “Ready.”
With one hand, Deepti activated the oval-shaped cam while giving a thumbs up with the other.
“Few occurrences in human history have upset traditional spheres of influence and fractured us along geopolitical fault lines so unequivocally. One such moment occurred not two kilometers from where I stand, just over a year ago,” Prabu explained, turning towards the island.
“Cut.” Deepti made a pinching motion with her thumb and forefinger.
“You get it?” Prabu asked.
“Let me check.” Deepti’s eyes squinted in concentration as she rewound the footage and replayed it on her synced retinal feed. “Yeah, we’re good,” she smiled.
“Let’s get another shot over there,” Deepti gestured towards a park decorated with a series of spires and metal workings, in what looked like a reclaimed industrial plant. The sidewalk veered away from the waterfront, snaking inland towards patches of brown grass.
“I’m still not sure how they pulled it off without sparking a hot war,” said Deepti, as they passed more heavily armed security personnel.
“Yeah well, it wasn’t their first rodeo,” Prabu casually observed. “How many states have rebranded themselves ‘people’s republics’ and held referendums on joining the Rus in the past 20 years?”
Deepti shrugged. “You got me there.”
From the elevated walkway forking over a playground, the pair looked down at rusty metal contraptions preoccupied by dozens of red cheeks and runny noses. The park’s central plaza was lined with vendor stalls and an assortment of tourists, panhandlers, and pedestrians.
A balding, middle-aged man wearing worn overalls and steel-toed boots stood front and center, shouting to anyone who would listen.
“Over a hundred years later, Yamamoto’s words ring truer than ever before. We have awoken a sleeping giant and filled him with terrible resolve. Only this time, it is the Global South who rises, and no amount of interventionism can arrest his momentum. The old world order buckles under demands for justice and repatriation. And ultimately, the capitalist colonizers of the world will be held to account for their crimes.”
As the two passed the plain-faced man, he donned a look of fatherly admiration, reached out, and grabbed Prabu’s shoulder gently. “Peace be with you, comrade.” He peered into the younger man’s eyes with an unnerving intensity, and whispered something into his ear. Prabu squinted back at the man, biting his lip.
Deepti wrapped an arm around Prabu’s waist protectively, directing them onward.
“What did he say to you, babe?” she asked, creases marking her face.
“I think ‘The bear creeps, even as we speak…’”
They looked at each other skeptically, but were suddenly distracted by loud pops. Red fireworks exploded across the bay, highlighting the skies above Novorossiya.
“What’s the ocas– wait a second,” Deepti paused, donning a tell-tale squint used when conferring with her feed. “Check your newsfeed, babe.”
He activated a red and black icon in his feed and scanned its contents.
<AP Exclusive: Cuban referendum on unification with Velikaya Rus passes, with 93 percent in favor. The vote was conducted in accordance with international law and is a binding declaration of Russic self-determination by way of the democratic process. More to come soon.>
Prabu whistled and shrugged. “Say what you will about the Rus, they’ve got the art of subversion down to a science.”
A dilapidated fountain stood at the center of the park’s circular plaza, holding sleeping homeless people instead of water. Light posts topped off with security cams stood at intervals around the periphery of the brick laid platform.
An aroma of fried foods wafted through the air as they continued onward. Prabu visually traced a currency symbol on his feed, and a credit code began glowing in the palm of his hand.
“You want anything?” he asked, gesturing towards a nearby taco truck.
“Nah.” Deepti turned and made her way to a vacant bench.
A DailyDistributor© drone drifted near Deepti as she stretched her sore legs, its disc-shaped underside projecting a cylindrical hologram reaching the ground three meters below. A patchwork of news feeds protruded in and out of prominence as the drone rotated.
<as inflation soars to all-time high, analysts predict a housing crunch in the metropolitan area… …class action lawsuit against Russic KGB agents for their alleged role in Operation Sucker Punch is dismissed on grounds of insufficient evidence… …internal division over defense investment pledges and threat perception raises difficult decisions for remaining NATO members…>
The drone reminded Deepti how information was fuel propelling the world forward on countless divergent tracks, each with its own agenda. Perspective was a fog blurring the lines between fact and fiction, and the world was covered in a dense shroud of it.
“They consume news like their lives depend on it,” a returning Prabu stated between mouthfuls of food.
The two relaxed on a park bench as the city exposed the flavors of its lifeblood. Clouds of exotic-smelling smoke enveloped a group of teenagers sporting the latest trach vapes. Heavily panting joggers were pushed past their limits by the artificial locomotion of ElectroFlexor© leg casings. An augged man wearing a suit top and sweatpants conducted a remote meeting while walking dogs on proximity leashes, and a young couple holding hands wore hoodies embedded with microcircuitry depicting sequences of their time together. A passing monorail, billboard advertisements, screeching buses, and the loudspeakers of Novorossiya jumbled together with human voices in a susurration of confused chaos.
“That’s because their economy is consumer based,” she said in a hushed tone. Then in a louder voice, “Okay, ready for part two of the money shot?”
“As ever,” Prabu preened himself with exaggerated, self-mocking movements. Finishing the charade, he stood up, repositioned himself in front of Novorossiya, and gave her a thumbs up.
“On November 22, 2048, an EMP bomb was detonated just across this very bay,” Prabu motioned to the island behind them, “knocking out the electrical grid for two miles in every direction. In the chaos that followed, heavily armed operatives wrenched control of the island from local authorities. Within days, the occupiers announced a referendum on annexation with Velikaya Rus, which passed overwhelmingly. The Russic Government immediately threatened preemptive, tactical nuclear strikes on any military attempts to seize back its newly annexed territory. Operation Sucker Punch, as it came to be known, upended the status quo, rewrote existing rules of statecraft and, for better or worse, brought about a realignment of the global geopolitical establishment.”
Deepti’s mouth opened wide with excitement. “You nailed it, babe. Two down, one shot to go.”
The two double high-fived and came together for a long, haptically-enhanced kiss.
Breaking their embrace, Prabu scanned the city’s surroundings, searching for the night’s final shot. “How about that crossing, roughly 100 meters north of here?”
She followed his gaze and pondered. “As long as we keep a healthy distance from the security checkpoint, it should be okay. I’d prefer not to rouse the ire of power-tripping security guards.”
“Nor I, madam.” Prabu bowed his head in exaggerated deference and bid his wife lead the way. As they made their way out of the park, a slight drizzle began falling.
“You know, babe, between my sophisticated style and your technical eye, we’re essentially the journalistic equivalent of Bonnie and Clyde.” Prabu winked at his wife, who responded with a clawing motion and a growl.
Industrial haze mixed with the fine drizzle, creating a thick fog that hampered visibility. Prabu caught his wife by the wrist just as her footing gave out under a patch of loose gravel. “Careful, hon,’ we don’t want you out of comm–”
“Do you two have a permit for that device?” A security guard approached silently from the mist, a spectral figure illuminated by his VisAmp© sockets. He nodded towards Deepti’s camera.
“Yes sir,” Prabu responded. “I’ve got the E-permit stored on my aug archive.”
“I’ll need to verify it. Send it to this address,” the guard pulled off a gloved hand and bared a pulsing QR code on his palm.
Prabu paused momentarily, his eyeballs navigating his retinal feed with abrupt urgency.
“And sent.”
The guard’s eyes glazed over as he navigated his own feed. He shook his head from side to side. “This permit is outdated; you’ll need the most up-to-date version. One moment.”
Deepti looked at Prabu, perplexed. “Didn’t you take care of that before we departed?
He glared back at her, annoyed she’d even asked the question, then folded his arms and began pacing.
After another brief pause, the guard shot Prabu a cold smile. “Alright, you’re all set, sir.”
The guard faded into the mist, wraith-like. A flashing icon lit up Prabu’s feed.
“Crisis averted. We’ve got the updated permit,” Prabu said, sighing in relief.
“Good. Let’s get this wrapped up and head back to the hotel. My feet are killing me,” said Deepti, “plus, you owe me a massage.” She grinned mischievously.
Prabu snorted. “One sec. Let me save and archive the permit, and we can get going.” A pause. “And done.”
“Alright. Say when.” Deepti pointed the camera in his direction.
Blinking, Prabu held up an index finger. His feed began flickering erratically. A series of images—protests, flags, toppling statues, marching soldiers—filtered through his visuals in rapid succession. Prabu’s vision became red-tinged, and the imagery quickly burrowed into his subconscious before he knew what to make of it.
“Babe, you good?” Deepti asked, squinting at her husband.
A pause. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good,” he said, more sure of himself than ever. “Roll it.”
“Behind me stands a literal and figurative bridge between two contrasting worlds, two distinct ideologies, and one heavily contested point of view.” As Prabu spoke, euphoria crept into his head, starting as a tepid flame that quickly engulfed his faculties in a wildfire of conviction. He licked his lips with a silver tongue and continued.
“For the past 24 years, two competing blocs have clashed over boundaries, values, and ways of life, seeking not only to export their ideals globally, but also to invalidate those of their adversary. Eventually though, truth wins out; none can deny the sun sets in the West. And so, this conflict nears its inevitable end.”
As he spoke the words, Prabu understood the Western world for what it was, a civilization rotting from the inside out. Decadent. Arrogant. A cancer to be excised at all costs.
He stepped forward and grasped his wife’s hand, sharing his newfound perspective.
“Shall we?”
“What are you–” she began and paused, suddenly disoriented. Her eyelids fluttered, her lower lip quivered. The world had always spun around Deepti at a dizzying rate, but it settled just then, and she saw things clearly for the first time—tinged in red. Cracks in the pavement became crevasses, passersby were sick with apathy, and the trash, well, it was everywhere.
She shoved the camera in her backpack, failing to turn it off.
“Of course, my gentleman caller,” she answered, knowing the way forward.
Hand-in-hand, they began backtracking. A playground full of malleable minds lay directly in their path.
Andrew Leonard is a married father of three – one human and two golden doodles – residing in Illinois. A speculative fiction writer with a dystopian bent, his works have appeared in Utopia Science Fiction Magazine, Andromeda Spaceways, Sci-Fi Shorts, and Crepuscular, among others. In his spare time, he is a lembas-munching, spice-addicted, bloodydamn howler hunting the Great Other.