Adventures of the Artificial Woman (17 page)

“Now, I am aware that in each recent presidential election fewer people have voted than did the time before. That so many do not vote has been universally deplored, though not casting a vote is only to exercise one of the sacred rights of a citizen of a democracy, as important as any other. So here I am, urging each of you to do as you wish tomorrow, to vote or not. If you have something more satisfying to do, drinking yourself into a stupor, having promiscuous sex, playing games of chance, et cetera, do it with my blessing. If you vote, it would make sense to vote for me.”

Phyllis was the first write-in candidate to be chosen by American voters as Chief Executive, as well as the first woman. She was also the first animatronic President-elect, though that fact was still unknown to every human being but Pierce, Janet, and Cliff. Her strength in the South astonished the Northeast, and vice versa, both regions regarding themselves as uniquely stalwart defenders of underdogs, whereas among Californians the assumption was always that everyone else followed their lead, and in this case they were right, Phyllis losing only Hawaii and Alaska, the inhabitants of which were still defensive about being as full-fledged Americans as the citizens of the contiguous forty-eight and tended to cast their votes for the orthodox parties.

There were as many regulations concerning write-in votes as there were states of the Union, and even before the returns were officially tallied, fifty legal challenges were filed by the losers. Was a ballot legitimate if “Philis” was written on it, or “Filos” or “Phylas”? And what of “Phallus” and “Feelass”? Should the obvious satire of “Fool Us” be counted? The highest courts of every state were busy with these matters, while the U.S. Supreme Court waited on call and the media commentators, not fazed in the least by their universal failure to predict Phyllis's victory, filled their columns and/or airtime with confident second-guessing that often concerned what the newly named first Asian-American justice would do. When one talking blonde called Kenneth Wong “inscrutable,” she was assailed as a bigot and required by her network to apologize for racial insensitivity.

As it turned out, only the state decision on the contested returns in Idaho, favorable to Phyllis, reached the Supreme Court, and Wong voted with the six-three majority to accept it. After such a precedent, the other challenges were dropped and Phyllis was in every sense of the word the authentic President-elect of the United States of America.

T
he weeks between the election and Inauguration Day were emotionally an elongated morning-after for Pierce.

“I still can't really believe it.”

“You've said that again and again, Ellery. Is it your purpose to be forever astonished or do you think you'll eventually come to believe in whatever it is you question?”

“Your election, Phyllis: I can't believe it happened, though it was my idea. What was not my idea was that on which you ran. Nor was it that of our skilled campaign advisors. It was yours. I made you, but you've gone far beyond what I thought was your capacity. I don't understand anything any more.”

“Aren't you forgetting a basic truth of everything human, which properly includes all that is made by human beings, that a whole is greater than the mere sum of its parts?”

“Frankly, whenever I accept the situation, I get cold feet. I get scared, Phyl. You are talented, but how in the world can you handle the Presidency? You've got no party and therefore no real influence in Congress. You'll be commander-in-chief of the armed forces, but what plans do you have for the military? You said nothing about minority matters during the campaign, yet most minorities voted for you despite the pandering to them of Sloan and Ransome.” He groaned. “And speaking of Sloan, there are rumors that he might refuse to leave office. I think Joe himself may have started the rumor as one final hoax, but still it's disturbing. After all, till January twentieth
he
commands the armed forces.”

“No problem,” said Phyllis. “FBI Director Santos has checked that out. So we won't have to kill President Sloan.”

“Very funny,” said Pierce. “Wait a minute—you've spoken to Santos?”

“He came to see me yesterday, Ellery. I assumed you knew that. He wants to keep his job under my administration.”

Until they moved into the White House, they were staying at the estate Pierce had leased in northern Virginia. Scores of staffers were ever present, as were the Secret Service agents who guarded Phyllis. Since Pierce would make sure she never left the property until the Inauguration, it would be easy to keep an eye on her. Or so he had believed.

“But I did
not
know, Phyl. When was that, yesterday morning? I was on the phone for hours.”

“I didn't see Santos for long. Not being human, I don't waste time. I got the information that enabled me to dismiss the concern about Sloan's rumored coup, and I assured Santos his job was safe.”

“You did?”

“There's no justification for incredulity, Ellery. I'm President-elect. To be sure, I cannot lie, but I can mislead.”

“What does that mean?”

It might have been his imagination, but since the election Phyllis seemed to be undergoing a subtle change, which thus far could be called one of tone. She had never suffered from doubt, but she had been essentially self-contained. Now she was increasingly aware of her potential power over others, which after all was guaranteed by the Constitution.

“My meaning is that I spoke literally to Santos. His job
is
safe, for the next two months. When I get into office I shall appoint Rico Santangelo as director of the FBI.”

“Phyllis.” Pierce spoke gently, to reassure himself. “Surely you aren't referring to the infamous Mafioso, head of the Spadini crime family? I assume you mean a respectable man of the same name. But is it advisable to encourage such a confusion?”

“Don't be foolish, Ellery,” Phyllis said with a new edge to her voice. “Who would be more expert on the matter of crime than a ruthless mobster? As who would be more authoritative on the subject of homeland security than Abu Hassan, whom I intend to release from federal prison and appoint to the cabinet post.”

Pierce desperately told himself that he had been wrong: Phyllis had somehow developed a sense of humor. Abu Hassan's capture, nine years earlier, had effectively brought to a halt the principal terrorist threat to the USA.

“Phyllis, let me give you a piece of advice. I haven't forgotten that you are President-elect and I'm not. But I created you, and I love you dearly.” He could never have imagined that the time would come when he had to massage an animatronic ego. “But while it's okay to joke privately with me about these things, it wouldn't be a good idea to do so with anybody else. There are going to be leaks, no matter how carefully we try to guard against them, and if remarks like these get to your enemies in the media—well, think what Carleton Small or Gwen O'Halloran would make of them.”

“Ellery, once again I must remind you that I will soon be commander-in-chief of the greatest military force in the world, also boss of the FBI, ATF, CIA, DEA, IRS, and the Secret Service, to name only part of the power at my beck and call, and I have little tolerance of critics, whom I can simply have killed if they step over the line.”

Pierce knew the onset of panic, but he suppressed it by pretending to play along. “Why, sure you could, Phyllis. With a snap of your fingers. Off with his head!”

“I won't have to take any shit from anybody,” Phyllis said. “I'll be in charge.”

Pierce opted for distraction. “What we have to do now, Phyl, is study the recommendations for appointments and begin to name people to the top posts. It should be easy for you to run through the resumés and pick those with the best qualifications. You won't be obliged to please a political party or any special interests. You'll be the first officeholder not in someone's pocket.”

Phyllis displayed an expression of dubiety that he had never programmed. “I think it would make sense to organize a Phyllis Party, Ellery. For the sake of social stability, such power bases are necessary if structures are to be built and maintained. Also, now that I got into power without them, I want to reach out to the special interests, which represent everybody when taken in sum and do not remain special. Mutual backscratching is perfectly reasonable. What we must take care to do is to get back at least a favor and a half for every one we grant. That's how successful governance works.”

“Yes, Phyl.”

“Let's set up committees to deal with each of the principal minorities, with a catchall to represent the smaller ones, Lithuanians, Peruvians, et alia, not leaving anyone out of the big tent. And we'll want to connect up with the trial lawyers, the defense contractors, the teachers' union, and big oil—anybody out for a buck or with an ax to grind. I want to be everybody's President. I'm going to bring us all together, the flag-wavers with the flag-burners. We're all Americans.”

“Uh, Phyl,” said Pierce, “you're American-
made
. With all respect, you're animatronic.”

“But you
have
no respect, Ellery. I don't want you to call me Phyl any more, or even Phyllis. I am to be addressed as Madame President.”

“I'm aware that you have been left out of much of the picture till now,” Pierce said to Munro Wentworth, Vice President-elect. “But that neglect is historical. Franklin D. Roosevelt, though mortally ill, died without telling V.P. Harry Truman anything about the atom bomb.”

Wentworth was studying the menu. Pierce had invited him to breakfast in the coffee shop of the hotel in which Wentworth was staying until he and his wife could move into the Naval Observatory after the Inauguration.

“I think I'll go with the Spanish omelet and home fries.”

“But the President sees a big role for you once in office.”

“On the other hand,” Wentworth said, “I wonder if the expense account could handle the breakfast steak? The missus and I have been holding back, you know, but now that our team has won—”

“Munro—if I may call you that, Mr. Vice President-elect—how much executive experience have you had? I know you ran the drugstore, but how about the PTA or the local schoolboard? Did you ever hold a municipal office? How about some organization like the Kiwanis?”

“Not me,” said Wentworth. “I've spent all my time just trying to scratch out a living. Uh, listen, Mr. Pierce, suppose the budget could handle both the steak and a short stack? I haven't had time for a decent feed since the campaign began. At those dinners I'd get two bites of the chicken before I had to give the speech, after which they'd fly me off to the next rally.”

“Order the whole damn menu, Munro. Yes, we won and finances are no longer a pressing concern. I mean, for the campaign. The nation's budget is another matter. Did you personally keep the drugstore's books?”

“That was one of my problems,” said Wentworth, running an index finger across his clean upper lip, where a mustache could be fitted. Pierce was trying to visualize alterations that might give the man a more authoritative air. But no mustached Presidents had held office for a century past, while hirsute-lipped tyrants, Hitler, Stalin, Saddam Hussein, had abounded. “My brother-in-law did the books. Now, I love my wife, but Nelson Hunnicut was another thing.”

A hurried waitress refilled their cups, slopping coffee in Wentworth's saucer. That neither she nor any of the other customers in the coffee shop recognized the man now only a heartbeat away from being future leader of the free world was to be expected. If precedent were followed and he remained Number Two for the next eight years, Wentworth would be no more identifiable to the public than he was now.

“Do you read much, Munro? I mean current events, history?”

The former pharmacist dropped three cubes of sugar into the new cupful, already turned beige by milk. “I was fool enough to think I might find some time for reading once I got out of the store, but I had even less time on this campaign. I didn't even get any sleep.” He grimaced. “I might of made the wrong decision, Mr. Pierce. I doubt I'm cut out for politics.”

“By the way, Munro, where is the Secret Service?”

“Pardon me?”

“You're supposed to be protected by Secret Service agents.”

“That's a new one on me,” said Wentworth. “Why?”

“I'll check on that as soon as we get finished here,” Pierce told him. Evidently that crack agency had either forgotten Wentworth's existence or at some point mislaid him. “Because, Munro, you might be put on your mettle sooner than you think. That you are ill prepared need not be catastrophic. Once again I'll allude to Harry Truman, who admittedly had a bit more experience in public life, but like you he owned a little Middle American retail business that failed, and he seemed to be a modest man with few of the dramatic qualities of his predecessor. When he suddenly became President, he said it was as if the sky had fallen on him.”

The waitress slapped down a plateful of warm toast, and Wentworth peeled back the covering napkin, seized a slice, and wolfed down three-quarters of the triangle in one bite. “Haha!” he managed to crow while still swallowing. “Butter, not margarine.” After a drink of coffee he stared at his companion, eyes showing a new spark. “Why do you bring the subject up at this point, Pierce?”

Pierce raised his hands in contrition. “I admit we should have done so long since. I can only plead the unbearable pressures of the campaign. We're going to try to make it up to you from here on.”

“It would be nice if I could meet the President-elect just once,” Wentworth said. “Get her autograph for my daughter, who's in college now, but was a big fan of those movies as a kid.”

“Why, of course. You and Mrs. Wentworth must come to dinner. Phyllis is looking forward to that, as am I.”

Wentworth maintained his stare. “I think you've got something more in mind.”

“Nothing ulterior, I assure you. If we didn't believe you could do a good job, I would never have picked you.”

“Let me tell you about myself,” Wentworth said. “We never had much crime in our little town, but a stranger came in the store a few years back, asked me to change a dollar for the phone outside, but when I opened the register he says, ‘While you're there, take out all the money and hand it over.' I looked up and saw he had a pistol on me. Now, I kept a gun of my own on the shelf just below the register, never had to touch it in all those years, but I ducked down, grabbed it, and came up firing. He took two quick shots at me at that close range but missed. I got off two rounds of my own. One took off the tip of an ear, and the other went right through his eye.”

“Jesus,” said Pierce. “We should have known about that. Wonder the tabloids missed it. Hard to say where the advantage would have gone: to the gun lobby or to those who want to disarm everybody but criminals. Anyway, thanks for telling me now.”

Wentworth turned out to be a tough little bastard. He would do.

 

“Ellery, where have you been? I don't want you to go anywhere without first getting my permission.”

“I thought I told you, Ph—Madame President-elect.” They were in her high-ceilinged office at the Virginia mansion, to gain entrance to which from the Secret Service agents, who knew him well, he now had to be rigorously searched and furnish multiple IDs. “I thought it only right to welcome the Vice President-elect into the fold. He's been totally neglected.”

“Fuck that loser,” said Phyllis. “Nothing's going to happen to me, and as to his presiding over the Senate, I intend to cut that bunch out of the loop as much as I can. What do they accomplish for the good of the nation? Building pork-barrel post offices for rednecks who can't read and billion-dollar highways connecting Nowheresvilles to a chain of swamps?” Phyllis had pulled her hair back into a tight bun, and she wore no makeup. She was attired in an all-black, ankle-to-throat jumper, a kind of ninja uniform that perhaps derived from one of her films, though if so, it was the costume of a heavy.