2008
by Mary W. Matthews
It was a bright, cold day in November, and the clocks were striking eighteen. Julia Winston, her chin nuzzled into her breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions.
It was November 4, 2008, and Younger Brother’s anointment was scheduled for tomorrow. Julia was an employee of the Ministry of Truth, so it was part of her job to explain to the proles that the anointment was an “election,” and that it was important for them to get out and vote for Younger Brother. Otherwise, Al Sharpton might become “Chief Executive Officer” (Elder Brother’s preferred term) of Oceania.
Julia sighed as she entered her apartment. The television was on, and tuned in to a program that her husband knew she detested. “Why do we always have to have the TV on, and tuned in to this crap?”
“You know as well as I do. It’s loud, obnoxious, and distracting.” Julia’s husband, John Smith, pointed at the screen and indicated with a grimace what Julia knew very well: In 2007, the Party (or in Oldspeak, Congress) had extended the national surveillance system begun in 2002 by one more tiny step. All television sets were now equipped with both video and audio feeds. Trying to turn off, dismantle, or fool an Ashvid was a federal offense, punishable by being sent to one of the many Camps Q-Tip. (“Camp Q-Tip,” of course, was the informal nickname for the version of Camp X-Ray designed for citizens of Oceania.) To everyone’s disappointment, it had been impossible to mandate television that was not loud, obnoxious, and distracting.
John suddenly seemed to snap. “I am so sick of living like this!”
“And just what do you propose we do?” Julia whispered, making the “Keep your voice down!” motion with her hand as she glanced at the TV.
“Let’s try to get away to Canada.”
“Oh, yeah, like that’s realistic,” Julia hissed. In 2002, the Party began encouraging states to enact laws giving their governors virtually dictatorial control if there were a “potential” health threat. Many states had enacted such laws by the end of 2002. By 2004, almost all fifty states were on board. After his “election” in 2004 with 99.44 percent of the vote, Elder Brother in 2005 had notified Oceania that the Party had uncovered evidence of a potential health threat in all fifty states. Although no one had ever been able to discover the details of the potential health threat, martial law had never been rescinded.
And then there was the national ID card, another program begun in 2002. This was proposed as a rational and innocent project to be carried out by private organizations, and so it was for the first year or two. But gradually more and more information was encoded on the cards’ embedded computer chips, and gradually the cards became used for more and more purposes: permission to buy alcohol and tobacco. Identification as a member of the Party, which entitled even proles to special privileges. A professional and economic résumé, to relieve employers of the tedium of checking references. A complete medical history, including psychiatric, to ease the strain on emergency rooms and HMOs. Nowadays the cards were also used as internal passports. It would be impossible even to travel from Maryland into the District of Columbia without proffering one’s ID card to at least one military checkpoint.
“Besides,” Julia whispered, trying to sound reasonable. “Suppose you could manage to get us permission to go to North Dakota, or fake IDs good enough to fool the MPs? How are we supposed to get past the border guards?”
“Don’t be stupid,” John said. “A fake ID that’s good enough to fool the MPs costs so much that your bank account is instantly flagged for personal attention from the poindexters.”
In 2002, John Poindexter had been put in charge of constructing a massive national database on every citizen of Oceania. It began with the monitoring of every purchase by every citizen, from gasoline to major medical. It quickly coordinated with another program begun in 2002, the monitoring of all library withdrawals and Internet communications.
Poindexter, of course, was the same man who had been convicted of five felonies connected with Iran-Contra, that lovely little scheme, devised with a great deal of (vehemently denied) participation by Poppy, for sidestepping the U.S. Constitution. When he became President, Poppy quietly rewarded several of the co-conspirators for their crimes. Elder Brother’s appointment of Poindexter to his post in 2002 was yet another reward for his service to the Dynasty.
It did not take long for the national database to be given complete access to every private database in Oceania — banking records, medical histories, school and university records, credit and debit card transactions, the Internet, and of course everything on all home computers. There were no secrets in Oceania. Why should anyone who was not a criminal be concerned?
The Party quickly discovered what a useful tool this national database could be. If a man told his wife he was going across the country on a business trip, and his credit card showed him checked in at his home town’s Pink Pussycat Motel, the poindexters knew about it. If an accountant’s gambling losses matched the funds that were missing from her employer’s accounts, the poindexters knew about it. And the Party even more quickly doped out what to do with its knowledge. When a poindexter uncovered evidence of illegal or immoral activity, the prole who had slipped up soon received a quiet visit from the poindexters, with instructions on how he or she was to serve the Party if the information was to be kept quiet.
“Remember in 2002, how Ashcroft wanted to start a program where citizens would spy on each other in their day-to-day activities? Remember how he called it TIPS, and I said that stood for ‘Turning Into a Police State’?” John said, his voice rising. “Isn’t it odd how the minute the poindexters became so successful, the Party reintroduced the TIPS program?”
“Keep your voice down, the Ashsnoops will hear you!” Julia whispered frantically, and then loudly said, “Our government knows what’s best for us. Elder Brother is God’s Holy Scourge of Terrorism!”
“Very good, sheep,” her husband snarled. “Don’t you see what’s happened? We gave up our precious freedoms because the Party told us it would only be temporary, only for the duration of the War on Terrorism. We didn’t remember that the Party also told us that the War on Terrorism would go on for years, or decades, or quite possibly forever.”
“I supported Jesus Day when Elder Brother pushed it through in 2000, when he was governor of Texas,” Julia said loudly. “I support Jesus Day now. I celebrate every June 10, along with every other loyal member of the Party. Elder Brother is wise and benevolent.”
“Freedom: you’re a loyal member of the Party. Religion: you’re a loyal member of the Party. And the deficit?”
“I scorn Rubinomics! I scorn the very idea of a balanced budget!” Julia said loudly. “I am a loyal member of the Party! In 2001, when Elder Brother enacted his first tax cut for the rich, I supported him.”
“And when he advanced the proles $300 each on their 2002 taxes, and then took the ‘rebate’ back a few months later, you had no problem with the fact that the richest ten percent were getting $340,000 each a year for life. I know, I know. You even supported the 2003 tax cut that the Democrats called ‘Leave No Millionaire Behind.’”
“There are no Democrats any more,” Julia said. “There is the Inner Party—”
“Our ruling plutocracy,” John interrupted.
“—and the rest of the Party, and the proles. Elder Brother was wise to change the way we are governed. What do we little people understand of affairs of state?”
“So it doesn’t bother you that the deficit is more than four times the size of the deficit that the Gipper and Poppy left for Clinton, and that Clinton got rid of altogether? It doesn’t bother you that no one in the Inner Party pays any taxes at all? It doesn’t bother you that all government contracts are awarded to big corporations that base themselves outside Oceania so that they don’t have to pay a cent in taxes either?”
“Elder Brother is wise!” Julia shouted, looking at the television’s hidden Ashvid.
“Yeah, that’s why all his old college friends remember him as Bluto in Animal House. It doesn’t bother you that just to pay the interest on the deficit, the proles are taxed at an effective rate of 80 percent?”
“Elder Brother needs the money, for gifts to the Inner Party and for fighting Evil,” Julia bellowed.
She need not have bellowed. There was a knock on the door, which Julia opened to reveal two Ashsnoops, a poindexter, and six MPs.
“John Smith,” the poindexter said. “The Party feels that you would be happier, healthier, and more productive if you were living in a Free Speech Zone. Please come with us.”
Julia watched as her husband was taken under escort. The MPs would politely but firmly take him to the nearest Free Speech Zone, the stroke of genius invented by the Party in 2001 to save Elder Brother from having to confront, or even know about, any critics. John would probably be taken to live in Alaska’s Wild and Wonderful Work Zone, where oil derricks dotted what once had been wilderness. But he might be taken to the Georgia Urban Liberty Appreciation Group.
Julia knew she would never see her husband again. Why should anyone need a lawyer or habeas corpus when they were simply living in a Free Speech Zone? Both lawyers and habeas corpus were outgrown holdovers from the ancient days when the government had cared about the U.S. Constitution. The government had begun holding citizens indefinitely without access to the courts or counsel early in 2002, as well as taping attorney-client communications and using secret courts that did not have to hold to the obsolete standards of “probable cause.” And on January 8, 2003, the 4th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals declared, unanimously and repeatedly, that the Executive Branch of the government was exempt from any “interference” by the Judiciary or the Bill of Rights. Life in Oceania was really much more efficient nowadays.
The relief that only her husband had been taken, that she herself had been spared, filled Julia with a curious mixture of shame, sorrow, and elation.
She knew why she had been spared. She was a loyal member of the Party. She did whatever the poindexters told her to do. She bore her staggering tax bracket cheerfully, happy to know that the obscenely wealthy Inner Party paid no taxes at all — surely to enter that charmed circle was a goal to aspire to!
And it was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. Julia Winston Smith had won the victory over herself. She loved Elder Brother.
