Burnham nudges up his glasses. “Lavinia, is it possible The Forge Show is spying on its own viewers?”
“It’s possible, in theory,” she says. “We already know the show collects viewing data for blip ranks. If each viewing device has a camera, the right cookie could activate that camera and send the data back to Forge. It would be highly unethical, though.”
“Theory, my foot. It’s already happening. Look at these people,” Linus says. “They have no idea what’s going on.”
“Wait. People are getting spied on through their own phones?” Dubbs asks.
“Yes,” Lavinia says. “Or their computers or tablets. Whatever they’re using to watch The Forge Show.”
“These are electronic trace codes, and these look like navigational coordinates,” Burnham says. “Longitude and latitude. We could physically locate each one of these people.”
“Wow,” Dubbs says. “Freaky.”
That’s an understatement. I’ve been wary before of someone watching me back through the cameras on computers and phones, but I’ve never had proof, and I’ve certainly never imagined it happening on a massive, systematic scale.
“Unbelievable,” Burnham mutters again.
He’s pulling forward more of the profiles so that they each enlarge in turn, face after face of real people. They’re not pretty. They’re not models. They’re regular humans, some as young as four years old, maybe three. What are they doing watching The Forge Show?
I recall a time when Mr. DeCoster showed our class some video messages from fans who addressed us directly, a couple guys from Alaska, and a sick boy in a hospital bed, but that was different. Those viewers knew what they were doing when they recorded themselves and sent in the files. These people have no idea they’re being watched.
I go back to the girl with the bruise around her eye, and her glazed expression seems unspeakably sad. It’s like she has nothing in her life but the show she’s watching. I hate to think I’ve felt that lonely, but I know I have been. I used to watch TV to forget myself, to see proof that another world existed out there, even if that world knew nothing about me and made me feel more anonymous and insignificant than ever. I even watched The Forge Show like that a few times before our TV was broken. It’s disturbing to learn now that something could have been watching me back, silently witnessing my blank despair.
“There must be a reason why this is happening,” Burnham says.
Linus points to a screen that shows the scrolling banner ads. “Maybe it’s tied to their ads,” he says. “Maybe the show collects data from the viewers to determine which banner ads they get.”
“This is much more invasive,” Burnham says. “It goes way beyond tailoring an ad and aiming it at a specific person to get him to buy more shampoo or whatever. This is blanket spying.”
“But Linus is right, too,” I say. “Suppose Berg is doing this. If he can individualize subliminal messages to each viewer, he can essentially brainwash people. Then he can watch to see how they respond.”
“It could be for anything. Politics. Votes,” Burnham says. He leans nearer to the screens. “Whoever runs this is like a god. He can control things everywhere. People everywhere.”
I mentally recoil from the possibility. I stare at Burnham and Linus, aghast. “This is all just conjecture. We don’t have any proof that these people are being controlled,” I say.
But Burnham’s excited. “No, but think about it. This is the ultimate power,” he says. “The viewers don’t even know it’s happening. That’s the genius of it. They think they’re all making choices of their own free will, but they’re being brainwashed. Berg can sway people however he wants and nobody will even know it.”
“All because they watch The Forge Show?” Dubbs says over the speakerphone.
It sounds ridiculous when she puts it like that. I didn’t realize she was following our discussion. My gaze goes back to the girl on the screen, the one who’s still staring under heavy eyelids at her phone. I feel certain we’re missing something.
“How many people watch The Forge Show?” I ask. “Lavinia, do you know?”
“Twenty million or so,” she says.
I sag in the chair. This whole thing is so much bigger and more twisted than I ever imagined. All I wanted to do was find my parents. Now I’m looking at a brainwashing system that could take over the world. Maybe it already has.
“Who’s doing this? You really think it’s Berg?” Burnham asks.
He and Linus look at each other. Then they turn to me.
“Ask Arself,” Linus says. “What does she know?”
I take a deep breath. Is Burnham right? I ask her. Is Berg trying to take over the world?
Not Berg, she answers. She seems to shrink. Did we do something wrong?
Her uncertainty is a fragile, explosive force at the edge of my mind.
I grip my head in my hands. Don’t tell me this.
We found the viewers. We’re learning from them. Learning is good. She starts to churn.
“Rosie?” Linus asks.
No, I think. This can’t be right. I couldn’t have that evil a thing living in my own mind.
Fearful, I fix my gaze on the bruised girl again as if her raw, mute unhappiness is the key to everything. I brace for pain.
Arself slams into all my senses. She takes over my eyes and jerks my vision from one viewer to the next, speeding impossibly fast, while an amped-up part of my mind memorizes details of their features, electronic tracers, and coordinates. She shoves Burnham aside and runs my fingers over the computer to type at high speed. She’s pulling up more fields, more data, numbers and equations and images. I feel the processing as a burn of energy at the base of my skull. It’s angry. It’s furious.
I’m absorbing an unfathomable amount of information, and I can’t stop it.
Let me go! I say.
She only burns faster, as if she would climb right inside the computer if she could.
You promised! Let me go!
Trying to understand, she says. Already told you. Want to understand.
It’s not right for you to control another person! I say. Don’t you know right from wrong?
My fingers freeze above the keys. Arself is suddenly silent. The whirl of processing comes to a halt.
We’re not another person. We’re not like you, she says.
And that’s the problem, right? I ask. You want to be like me?
She wavers. A slithering, ticking noise scuttles through the back of my mind. I can tell she’s testing my questions.
You have to quit controlling me, I say. I don’t care who you are. It’s the right thing to do.
A voice reaches me dimly. It’s Linus calling my name. My fingers are still poised over the keyboard, and I can hear my breath coming in short, hungry gasps.
Humans don’t all do the right thing. We know that much, she says, and releases me.
26