A Cybernetic Ecology

“I like to think
(it has to be!)
of a cybernetic ecology
where we are free of our labors
and joined back to nature,
returned to our mammal
brothers and sisters,
and all watched over
by machines of loving grace”

__________________

Applause.

The Comptroller was starting to get used to the sound of it ringing in his ears. It was warm, and genuine, and seemed to carry amongst the crowd, undisturbed by the jeers that had dogged the majority of his predecessor’s time in office.

“A smile for the cinescreen, sir?”

Alan turned on his heel and obliged – there was a roar of approval from his supporters in the crowd.

“That’s all you’re getting for the day, Max,” he yelled at the journalist, “I’ve got a fixed quota of emotion to go around.”

There was a peel of laughter, followed by a gentle pressure on his shoulder from the rather attractive Grenadier. The Comptroller spun again, waiting for the famous bronze gates to open. The coat of arms, flanked by its lion and unicorn heralds was engraved forlornly in the centre, surrounded by the Alpha/Beta of the Official Economics. It was symbolic of course (wasn’t everything?) – a vestige of old England, dominated by the new. Pushed open from within by some unseen mechanism, Alan enjoyed a moment of quiet reflection as the entrance hall was revealed. Austere granite columns, lit from below, went off into the distance.

The Comptroller walked through, the noise and light of Gower Street soon giving away to silence as the gates clicked shut behind him. A Civil Cyberneticist, dressed in charcoal suit and one of those collarless shirts that had become so very fashionable recently, was patiently waiting from him.

“The Premier is upstairs, sir,” the flunkie said with the air of man wishing to impress his new employer, “I understand he would like to share a few opinions, informally, with you before noon.”

Alan smiled and followed, taking in his surroundings as best he could. The Presidium was Holden’s masterpiece, long corridors and monumental staircases. At times, the Comptroller missed Downing Street (he had, to be fair, only visited it once before it had been designated for demolition – the vast new Ministerial Complex on Whitehall was scheduled to open in May), but modernity was the way forward, and a terraced house clearly not a fitting symbol for New Britain. As the two men came to the grand staircase, Alan paused, looking up at the statue of Douglas.

Fitting that the man who did more than any to build the alliance never actually held office he mused, perhaps that is the mark of greatness.

It was a cynical thought, but then again, it was unquestionably true. How long before his appointment was criticised as illogical, or a programming error? He pushed the cruel thoughts out of his head as the two men ascended – those were all thoughts for another day.

After the deliberate gloom of the lower level, the first floor was a symphony of cream and light. Holden would no doubt have disapproved of the oak panelling, but The Premier was always allowed a degree of control over the décor of their personal quarters, Alan slowed slightly, mentally sizing up the place.

“Just through here, sir,” the CC said, “I shall tarry here if you require anything from me.”

Alan nodded a mute word of thanks and walked into the inner sanctum.

“Hullo John.”

Warburton Beckett gave a polite, if slightly frosty, smile.

“Morning, Alan,” he replied, “always nice to see you.”

The Premier gave a weary sign.

“I am somewhat more phlegmatic than usual,” he said, “I had not quite envisaged leaving quite so soon, but the Brutus Colossus sometimes throws up some surprises – I expect that you’re already familiar with that.”

A harshness had crept into the Premier’s voice. Beckett must have noticed. His next words were far softer.

“My apologies, Alan,” he continued, “that was untoward of me. Circulation has fallen a little too far recently, and the new tariffs imposed by the OUEE have hit harder than the Treasury Cyberneticists had predicted. I should, in retrospect, have asked the DEA for a second opinion.”

“The Brutus Colossus is just an advisory mechanism, Worby,” Alan replied, “you don’t have to play attention to it…”

The Premier was already raising a hand in protest.

“No,” he interjected, “no – I appreciate your words, Alan, but the matter has been settled. The Premier Appointment Act sets out fifteen-hundred different criteria for appointment and removal; it is a far fairer barometer of adequacy than either King or Parliament.”

“And the people?” Alan said, slightly more witheringly than he had wished to.

“The people have far more freedom now,” Beckett replied, “they have a say over their approved candidate for Parliament, but we have liberated them from the tyranny of the party system. Parliamentary democracy is, and always will be, subordinate to economic prosperity, and in the Colossi we have, if nothing else, freedom from our own failures and foibles.”

The two men sat in quiet contemplation for a while. Outside, Bloomsbury life carried on. The Comptroller found his gaze drawn towards the three towers near Holborn – the new campus of the LSE. Aspiring young men and women were now far more likely to see greatness in the world of the Cyberneticist Service than in petty electoral politics, a trend that was born out by the findings of the Laffemas Colossus and the Employment Commission.

“If I may offer you some personal advice,” Beckett said, breaking the silence, “I would advise you to visit North America sooner – rather than later. Ezra, or President Pound as I suppose we must now call him, is a sound man, but he is easily swayed by Economical Heterodoxy, and the Banking Lobby has not left Wall Street for Zurich quite yet. Speak to Bennett as soon as you can, he’ll advise you the best way on dealing with him – Canada has no desire to be taken down by a return to Free Marketism.”

Alan was giving his spectacles a nervous polish when he realised that it was his turn to speak.

”That is advice that I’m greatly appreciative for, Worby,” he said, “and I do hope that you’ll be around for me to consult with you – if possible. I’m not, a-heh, too well acquainted with foreign affairs.”

This time The Premier did smile.

“Brutus did rank you below Hugh and Harold in that respect, but you more than made up for it in other areas.”

“I’m sure the two of them can be found decent roles in the General Commission,” Alan replied, “I would hate for two such great minds to go to waste.”

“That’s the principle of Social Credit, Alan,” Beckett cried, “we cannot let the great wither on the vine. The Colossi find them, we train them, the people benefit!”

The Comptroller was aware of that, but…

“I know what you’re worried about, Alan,” The Premier said after a while, “it shouldn’t have any impact whatsoever."

It was Alan’s turn to look morose.

“I…” he began, “…when did you find out.”

Beckett threw a file, embossed with “TURING” on the desk.

“Brutus is very good,” he said, “he should be – you made him!”

“Will it…”

“Affect your leadership?” The Premier asked, rhetorically, “No, it shouldn’t – but the advice from the Interpreters did tend towards greater caution within the public sphere. You are, of course, the leader of the nation now. Standards must be maintained.”

Alan reached for the file.

“Yes,” he said, “they must…”