“Cuba’s still shit poor,” Oscar said. “They’re way behind the US in industry. They’re not big enough to be another China or even another Mexico. But if they can say ‘yes’ to tech the US and all the other rich countries say no to… maybe that gives them an edge. Lets them move ahead in ways we won’t. There’s a lot of funky biotech down there. Now maybe neurotech too.”

Rangan pondered that.

“Plus maybe they like the idea of refugees from America heading down to Havana. Good propaganda.” Oscar laughed.

Then the man’s tone changed. “Shit.”

“What?” Rangan asked, his body suddenly tensing.

“Fucking Stockton,” Oscar said. “He’s going to fucking win.”

Rangan exhaled, feeling himself relax. Not the cops then.

A woman’s voice filled the car. A news broadcast.

“…ANN is confirming that President John Stockton has carried the key battleground states of Ohio and Illinois. That adds to New York, Pennsylvania, and Florida.”

“That’s right, Jane,” said a different woman’s voice. “In fact, as we can see on this map, the only states that Stanley Kim has carried thus far are Massachusetts, Rhode Island, Maryland, and Vermont. Despite Senator Kim’s commanding lead in today’s polls, President Stockton has captured twenty-two of the twenty-six states where voting has closed, and amassed almost one hundred and ninety of the two hundred and seventy electoral votes he needs to retain the White House…”

“Fucking piece of shit,” Oscar exclaimed, silencing the broadcast.

Rangan said nothing. Not my country any more, he thought to himself.

They drove in silence. Then Rangan felt the car slow abruptly, heard Oscar swear again under his breath.

“What?” he asked, his body tensing once more. Bad election results didn’t apply the brakes.

“Traffic jam,” Oscar said. “Accident up ahead.”

“Accident?” Rangan asked, incredulously.

“Fucking hell,” Oscar said. “I’m getting us off the friggin’ freeway. Someone blew up a goddamn car.”

“What?” Rangan wanted to sit up, wanted to see what the hell was going on, but Oscar’s admonition rang in his mind. If you can see the windshield, the cameras can see you.

But… someone blew up a car?

He felt the car swerve hard to the right, brake, then accelerate briskly as it or Oscar moved them across lanes and towards an exit. Then they were moving smoothly again, banking on what he was sure was an exit ramp, banking, banking.

“We’re on the outskirts of DC, now,” Oscar said. “We’ll take surface streets past the accident, then back onto the freeway.”

Rangan grunted. He felt the city streets from the car’s pattern of motion. Driving. Stopping at lights. Turning. Driving. Stopping. Turning.

And then he heard Oscar exclaim again. “What the hell?”

The car came to an abrupt stop.

“Oh, Jesus,” Oscar said. “It’s a fucking riot.”

22
No Concessions

Tuesday 2040.11.06

Pryce smiled and mingled backstage at John Stockton’s re-election party.