No doubt, he would make great contacts, too. It would almost certainly further his career. Jane would understand.

It took an enormous amount of money to mount a competitive campaign. So much was at stake and up for grabs, so many laws and regulations, so much money and power, that the competition between the parties to raise funds dominated the energies of everyone down the line. When not making speeches and shaking hands, even the candidate himself would spend entire days at a stretch holed up in hotel rooms, constantly on the phone soliciting and making ever more promises to donors. The entire campaign was maniacally obsessed with raising and spending money, relentless promotion, and expensive media buys.

“Joseph King For President” posters swathed the campaign headquarter’s walls, featuring the candidate in various poses, many of them vaguely heroic or uplifting — King staring off into the horizon, King pointing off-camera to the future, King with a confident and wise smile. These portraits were typically rendered in simple primary colors, below which appeared inspirational slogans, including “He Gets the Big Picture,” and “The Right Man, The Right Time,” and “Looking Out For You, America.” Gazing at these posters evoked a certain emotional response that Benson found difficult to describe. Not pride and not pleasure, but an upbeat, warm kind of feeling. He couldn’t put his finger on it exactly. Perhaps it was something about the artwork.

He pushed himself to shake hands and solicit donations at numerous fundraising parties, making sure to contact everyone and hit them up for money. It was an activity he came to loathe soon enough, all this hustling, but it had to be done and he was already committed to seeing it through. At any rate, the revelers expected to be hit upon; it was why they were there.

“Can you spare some change?” he would say. “Right — thanks anyway.”

At one such campaign cocktail party, typical of many to come, Benson approached a wealthy-looking woman and shook her hand. It was getting late and many of the partygoers were becoming drunk. This proved to be the best time to secure pledges.

She held on to his hand, not letting go.

“We really need King,” Benson said. “We really need a strong leader. He’s looking out for us. Can we count on your support?”

“What’s that?” The woman seemed confused, needing to collect her thoughts. She moved in uncomfortably close, touching his chest with her other hand, her face barely an inch from his, giving off a scent of cigarettes and strawberry cosmopolitans. “Yes, well, I guess he’s better than the other guy, what’s his name? I always get them mixed up.”

“Carp. The other guy’s name is John Carp.”

2

Identification, Please

CITIZENS WERE NOW COMPELLED to carry a new kind of identification — kids over 15, too. Benson’s son, Daniel, received his REAL ID in the mail one day. He opened the official envelope and peered inside before scooping out a short form letter and a thick plastic card. He had been expecting to receive his permanent driver’s license after successfully passing the exam many weeks before, but this seemed to be something entirely different.

His picture appeared on the card’s right side next to a holographic pyramid, a glowing human eye at its apex. A beam of light from the eye illuminated a globe of the world. “CITIZEN,” in large block letters, was overlaid on the pyramid’s base. “USID” appeared on the left side of the card. Just below this was printed “Department of Homeland Security” and Daniel’s identification number, name, and home address. At the base of the card, an optical memory strip with symbols embedded into its mirrored surface held his fingerprints, digital photographs, retinal images, facial geometry, voice prints, medical records, and DNA sequencing.

Daniel turned his strange new identity card over to examine the reverse. The seal of the Department of Homeland Security covered the entire right side in soft green hues.