The Misinformation Bureau
Sebastian stands in the rain and the cold, clutching a brown leather briefcase. He doesn’t have an umbrella, and the rain drenches him, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s watching the latest breaking news on the gigantic publicvision on the east side of Freedom Square. No particular reason why he chose that one. It was nearest to the Queen’s Mask, the little pub where up until fifteen minutes before he had been sitting at a cubicle, nursing a pint of dark stout. According to the label on the 500ml bottle of The Lonely Drinker, the beer had been crafted from unmalted barley, roasted on tiny Comino. The strong coffee taste still lingers on his thirsty tastebuds. With a gloved left hand, he absentmindedly rearranges the velvet mask covering his nose and mouth.
Sebastian lives in a place on his own. Most people in what’s left of the civilised world do. He knows that in the past, people all over the planet used to live together. Several persons living under one roof. Men, women, children, old people. There were even homes just for old people! He shakes his head at the cringing thought. Why would people want to mingle and live together? In some remote areas of the globe, rumour said that there were still some tribes that allowed this type of social behaviour. Time and nature would eventually take care of them too, he was sure.
Sebastian is the Chief Campaign Executive of the Miscommunications Section within the Misinformation Bureau, a secret organisation operated by the Ministry of Sinister Affairs, responsible for the False Marketing agenda of the Governreich. He loves his job — not the place of work, not the colleagues with whom he very rarely speaks, not the standard pay he gets and not the secretive nature of his employment. What he loves is what he does on a daily basis, the actual act of creating something from nothing. Well, not from nothing. He is usually given a brief, which would contain a detailed concept of what was expected from him. And of course, he has access to all kinds of information and statistics, gathered from all walks of life. But that is all — an abstract idea coupled with unstructured data which he then needs to turn into meaningful misleading information.
On the big screen, Supreme Superintendent Rudiger is using sign language to silently inform the public about a massive leak that has contaminated the seas around the island. The Public Health authorities are closing all beaches and coastlines with immediate effect and the general public has been advised to keep a safety distance from the sea. Swimming, fishing and any sea related activities are now banned, until further notice. Monstrous fines have been set in place for those caught breaking the legal notice. Predictions say it could take from six to eighteen months for the ecological disaster to be rectified. The health of the denizens comes first, as it has always done since the public health reform came into place in 3 AC.
Sebastian notices that the subtitles on the screen are slightly out of synch with the Supreme Superintendent’s hand gestures. A fraction of a second. Nevertheless, a delay that bothers him. Supreme Superintendent Rudiger presents the emergency plan that the Executive Committee of the Corvivor Party spent all night devising. A banner appears on the screen, then a graph that shows the gravity of the situation. Sebastian feels proud for a moment. It’s his work. Well, his work but modified in a way as to make the news more dramatic, more real, the lie more believable.
Someone to his left sneezes harshly from well over two metres away. The distance is safe, but still, to sneeze in such an uncivilised way . . . Sebastian’s head turns automatically to look at the offender. There’s an ageing lady standing there, like him, watching the publicvision. Only her eyes are visible beneath a furry hood and a matching face mask that covers her nose and mouth completely. Her look is haunted. Lifeless almost. Sebastian waits for a few moments then turns and starts walking away, towards the other end of Freedom Square, then through a series of roads, past the Monument of the First Supreme Superintendent, blessed be her name (he slows down, turns towards the perpetually bobbing head of the monument and salutes), and onwards towards the underground station.
As he walks, his mind wanders while a tune starts playing over and over inside his head ‘You can’t sweep a road with a broom when the road’s made of dust’. It doesn’t mean anything, he doesn’t even recall where he heard it, but still it plays on and on and on while he thinks back to the brief he had been given a week before. Under Campaign Objective, the Minister for Sinister Affairs had specified: ‘Increase depression cases by 2.5%’ and then further down, in the section Expected Outcome: ‘The desired ripple effect of this campaign is to increase dependence on stress balancing drugs and generate more profits for the pharmaceutical industry, see issue #14769–22’.
Clear objectives. But the solution, well that had been a tough nut to crack. He cracked it, of course. Sebastian always did, and he had an impeccable track record of success. It took him two extra-long working days to come up with a suitable concept, but he managed the deadline, delivering the idea and all the assets two days in advance. Satisfaction warmed him up a bit as he walked into the freezing winds. But that lady’s haunted eyes seemed to swim back in his mind’s eye. The image came accompanied by a tiny, minuscule fleeting thought. Sebastian had helped crash that woman’s spirit. His plan, to keep people away from the sea was ridiculously simple but very effective.
Sebastian had come across a scientific article by the prominent Foundation For Mental Health, a study which had found a close connection between the human psyche and water. The sea kept people sane the report said, it kept their stress levels low. And this had inspired him.
The underground electric rail car stops in front of him. He waits for the door to the single person compartment to open, steps inside, scans his retina against the biometric scanner above his head and waits for the transport to take him home. But Sebastian is not feeling right. The brief warmth of satisfaction is gone, together with the spurt of pride he had felt when he saw his work on the big publicvision. He keeps going back to those watery brown eyes and their vacant look.
Instead of continuing towards home, Sebastian gets down at the next stop. He boards a new rail car, back to the city, then walks back to the office. Security’s tight. They know who he is but they don’t let him in. There’s no sense in staying there all night.
But what can he do? Does he dare go against the directives? Can he perhaps convince the Minister to slightly soften the imposed measures? Would it help to ask for an audience with Supreme Superintendent Rudiger himself? Would he listen? He had only met him once, briefly, during a zoom, and got the impression that the Supreme Superintendent was not an easy man to tackle. How could Sebastian describe the look in that woman’s eyes? Oh he could describe it, but how could he make the Supreme Superintendent understand? Why was that empty look suddenly so haunting? Why does he feel so hopeless, so empty, so . . . guilty?
Sebastian finds himself in front of a twenty four seven automated drugstore. There’s a weight on his shoulder and it’s crushing him. He doesn’t know how to deal with this situation.
“Please remove your gloves and place your palm against the glass,” says the machine.
Removing his right glove, Sebastian walks closer to the glass and places his palm against the cold glass.
“Stress levels are exceptionally high. You urgently need a doze of stress balancing drugs which you must keep taking for the next seven days, one a day. Take the first pill immediately. Please scan your retina to settle payment for this transaction and wait for your prescription to be dispensed.”
Homebound, back on the rail car, enclosed in the tiny space, Sebastian happily hums the tune to the song playing in his head, as the words form in his mind over and over again: ‘You can’t sweep a road with a broom when the road’s made of dust’.
words © John A. Bonello 2020 — illustration © Derek Fenech 2020
