Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, situations and dialogue are copyright to the BBC. Dialogue quoted from the episode The Long Game was written by Russell T Davies.
A/N: Spoilers for The Long Game, and possibly Bad Wolf. This was written as part of the Minor Ficathon Challenge over on LJ. The person for whom I was writing requested: The Media/Penguins/Greed. This was actually my first attempt at fiction, kindly betaed by the eloquent and serene dionysos loop. All errors, incomprehensibilities and parts of questionable quality are solely my responsibility.
Big Lie
"Trust me, humanity's been set back about 90 years. When did Satellite Five start broadcasting?"
"91 years ago."
Ninety-one years ago
"Yes sir, of course sir. It's all organised." He glanced up, pressing a hand to his ear in subconscious response to the translator's signal. "Yes sir," he said with a small chuckle, "all wired up, as it were."
The Jagrafess had offered a bounty on the future of the human race; one that the Consortium intended to collect, by any means necessary. Selected from countless of the Consortium members' up and coming bright sparks, he beat out the rest through a combination of sheer bloody-minded ruthlessness and natural talent. Even at his young age he was reckoned something of a genius when it came to spin, years of study honing natural talent. The Jagrafess had seen in him something appealing to its purely amoral soul, and chosen him for its own.
He was the Consortium's representative in charge of Satellite Five, selected to serve their interests and, not unimportantly, his own. The Jagrafess was part of the station, its massive bulk wired directly into Floor 500, and he was part of the Jagrafess: only he could speak to it, understand it. It had provided new technology to aid its goal and a nest of circuits strung through his brain gave him access to everything.
There were seven others, at the beginning. He hated to share the spotlight, but they were mere conduits, channelling information and remembering nothing. He was the repository, all the knowledge on offer his for the taking; editor, as it were, to the Jagrafess's editor-in-chief. Knowledge was power, and it was his lust for power that had led him here, to this moment. He was going to get everything he'd ever wanted. He was going to remake the world.
He turned, gesturing eagerly to his team. "Let's go live."
Ninety years, six months ago
Satellite Five was eight networks, broadcasting five, ten, fifteen channels each, twenty-four hours a day, with more coming on-line every week. In pursuit of his client's goals he was beginning to alter the shape of the human race. It was magnificent. He could make reality be anything he wanted. Every minute he filtered the raw data, absorbed every fact, and from them crafted new truths. Every minute, because he didn't sleep. It wasn't required.
He didn't eat, drink, sweat, shit, piss. The silver wires in his brain did away with all the little inconveniences of life, including aging. Ice coated walls and snow underfoot, by-products of the Jagrafess's need to counteract its intense heat, but he didn't feel the cold. No, that wasn't quite right. He was no longer affected by the cold, but he still felt it. Frost in his beard, in his hair, settling on his skin if he was still for too long. The others didn't have wires in their brains. They slept, ate, shivered while they patched into the system.
He hated them. But they only had chips in their head, could only allow information to pour through them.
He didn't hate them: he pitied them. They were nothing. Innovative was what he decreed it to be; inventions, advances, new thinking were all coming under his control. Satellite Five was the vortex of the truth. It was where everyone wanted to be, it was all his, and it was only the beginning.
Eighty-eight years ago
His team were silent in his presence now, uncomfortable with what he had become. They screamed their doubts and their discomfort with every move, every shudder, with each averted gaze. Not that it mattered – he could see their thoughts, feel their loathing and their distrust, like grit in his eyes, like glass on his tongue.
Shortly this would no longer be a problem; it wasn't as if they were needed. Humans from anywhere in the station could do the job. There were teams of broadcasters on every floor who could take their place. Properly prepared, they wouldn't wave humanity in his face. Wouldn't taunt him with chattering and sweating and breathing and thinking. Just get rid of them, and he would be freed from the irritation of their presence.
And it was so very, very easy.
Looped together, channelling information, they were unaware he was watching. They ignored him now, as much as they could, even when they weren't in an electronic trance. He commanded the system to override the safety, increasing the intensity of the beam; watching impassively as they burned from the inside. Muscles contracted, snapping bones; skin fused to control pads. It looked as if it probably hurt quite a lot.
The acrid smell of burnt skin and hair filled the floor. To him, it smelled like peace. The Jagrafess howled.
"What's that, sir? No, no problems, sir. I'll just have some others sent up. Promoted."
A sharp giggle slipped out but was quickly stifled. "Yes, promoted." He turned and walked away, letting the plastic curtain fall shut behind him. The ice crunched underfoot.
He powered down that part of the floor, relocating operations to the main control room's console.
Seventy-nine years ago
The chips in their brains kept the dead working, the cold prevented them from rotting, but nothing could prevent them from deteriorating. Skin shrivelled and tissues dried in the frigid air to the point where the frame would no longer hold together, necessitating their frequent replacement. To make this process as smooth as possible he created an idea, a myth, of a place so perfect no one ever returned to their mundane beginnings. His Judas goat of rumour pranced through the station, luring the greedy and the opportune, the eager and the hopeful, to follow in its wake.
Leading them to walls of gold. To Floor 500.
People had such longing, such desire, for an easy decadent life they never asked questions. Had anyone been inclined to ask, they would have found investigation severely hampered. He saw to it that, apart from floor 16 and the operation to implant their chips, each of the station's inhabitants spent their lives on a single floor: worked, ate, slept, fucked, laughed, cried, and died all on the same level. Only those charmed few who were chosen for promotion ever changed floors; and then they no longer did anything, apart from the last.
Everyone wanted to get there - they fought each other for the privilege - schemed, manipulated, even killed. It amused him no end to watch the fools, to read each selfish and vicious thought as they jousted with each other for the privilege to die, and so to truly serve.
Before they died he told them the truth, about everything. At odd moments the Jagrafess asked questions about humanity and it wanted to know why he enlightened them. He pondered a moment, uncertain himself of his reasons.
"There's an old saying among humans, 'The truth will set you free'."
Positioning himself directly underneath its bulging mass he gazed up at his client.
"Knowing you're a slave is freedom, of a sorts. It makes you better than the ignorant fools who think they're living their lives, when really they're living mine."
Wincing at the ripping snarl he hastily amended, "Yes, sir. Living your life, sir."
At its disgruntled grumble he nervously clasped his hands. "It's interesting to watch them realise everything they've ever known was a lie. They finally know the truth about the world, exactly when it does them no good at all."
Sixty-one years ago
In the deep blue coldness of Floor 500's control room, he didn't lack for company. There was the Jagrafess, who deigned to converse with him upon occasion, and there was his team. They were dead, but they were all the better company for it.
"You see, it's all about control. Humans don't control their lives, they don't control their beliefs, they don't really control much of anything."
He leaned down over the newest addition, one hand resting companionably on her shoulder. An ice flake drifted free from her pale cheek. "They don't have the time or the ability to find anything out for themselves. They rely on what they're told. What they see, what the media tells them, is what forms their beliefs. So that means they believe what I want them to believe." He winced at the snarling whine, straightening as he did so.
"Sorry sir, of course, that's what I meant. They believe what you want them to believe." He hesitated, considering, then added, "You know, you really are touchy about that, sir."
Returning to his audience he gestured expansively, taking in the monitors, the controls and by implication the entire Empire.
"Tell them, show them it's all a lie - they won't accept it. Anyone trying to convince them is ridiculed, ostracised and if persistent enough, put to death." He nodded, satisfied with his explanation. "That's how the long game is played; create a self-sustaining lie people will fight to keep believing and the world will remake itself."
Fifty-four years ago
The only real danger to the game was the possibility of notice by someone from outside. Someone who might have the influence or the ability to threaten the status quo. Aliens, who by virtue of stellar geography and their alien natures, might notice inconsistencies in the Fourth Great and Bountiful Human Empire. Aliens, well-meaning or avaricious, who might seek to take advantage of the situation. Steps had to be taken to ensure they were not a threat to his control.
Ensuring that humans had a somewhat jaundiced view of other species was utter simplicity. The reality he had shaped was a reality crafted for humans, humans with their blindness, their ignorance, their willingness to embrace anything that let them feel even slightly superior. The broadcasts encouraged and reinforced this tendency, reassuring the viewers that this was a good attitude to have. Aliens were inferior, were questionable, were in subtle and undefinable ways wrong. Aliens were a threat to the peaceful prosperity of the Empire, and the comfortable, complacent existence of those who dwelled within it.
As a result, one of the defining characteristics of the Fourth Great and Bountiful Human Empire was an attitude that held up every alien race to the high-handed standards of humans, generously ignoring every alien imperfection but noting every one: every doubt implicit, every judgement a condemnation. Humans were doing aliens a favour in failing to notice these things. All of which made it easy to keep aliens out and humans in, and ensured a ready-made scape-goat, as and when required.
Thirty-two years ago
"Why was this so easy?"
He was surprised at the question. The Jagrafess was in a garrulous mood, indulging in another of its attempts at understanding apparently incomprehensible human motivations.
"Humans are easy. Propaganda is easy. It's all about the big lie." His laugh held genuine amusement. "The trick is to craft a lie so huge, so overwhelming that it changes people's perception of their world. Humans know no one would have the audacity to invent such a thing; ergo, it must be true." He paused, listening.
"No sir, I don't know why. I guess because humans are just so, so small."
At the questioning rumble that emerged from the Jagrafess he shook his head.
"Of course you don't understand, you're alien. That's what being alien means." Sudden and sharp he grinned, eyes dancing with glee. "A name. You need a name. It will help you gain," he paused, grasping after just the right word, "insight."
He thought for a moment. Oh, it was too perfect. "Max. I'll call you Max."
The Jagrafess, Max, grumbled, emitting short guttural snarlings but didn't seem displeased. The two had come to an accord of sorts over the years, the Jagrafess allowing him his little amusements so long as they didn't affect the game.
Twenty-seven years ago
For the first time in twenty years, Satellite Five began broadcasting a new network. Bad Wolf TV, beaming out reality and tabloid television, twenty-four seven. The Jagrafess had ordered him to organise it, refusing to be dissuaded. Asking why resulted in the Jagrafess blocking his connection to the feeds, brief terrifying moments when he was alone in his head, and it refused to reconnect him until even the memory of questioning faded from his mind.
Now, along with 600 channels of news, they were beaming out cheap, mindless, reality entertainment. People clamoured to participate and never noticed, never questioned when some contestants failed to reappear. Like Floor 500, everyone wanted to get in, the possibility or promise of an easy life blinding them to any more practical queries.
Shortly after its inception, a rumour began to filter through the Empire, with no encouragement whatsoever from him, that the Bad Wolf shows were rigged, scripted, total fiction. The day it came to his attention he couldn't stop laughing. The irony had him in stitches, collapsed on the floor with hilarity.
He had exceeded his wildest expectations. Truth and fiction were juxtaposed; lie was truth and truth, lie. The people of the Empire had embraced as reality the fiction he had made of the world. Presented with something that was actually real, no matter its triviality, they refused to accept it. The reality he crafted for them showed the world as they desired it to be. The Bad Wolf programs were unpredictable, uncomfortable, the outcome uncertain. They didn't fit the human race's new view of what they knew was real, so they couldn't be real. At last, his was the only reality – if it was not a product of his creation it was meaningless, it was just fiction.
Two years ago
The Crumpburger was a momentary passing fancy. There'd been three attempts to sneak dissidents onto the station, all of which had failed, but their antics upon being caught had left him feeling curiously light-hearted. The Crumpburger was one young entrepreneur's attempt to find a practical solution to the penguin overpopulation on Jupiter. The burgers were, apparently, horrible, foul, fishy things. He decided to make them the next big fad in popular culture.
By the end of the month the Crumpburger was the flagship product of CrumpBurgers Inc., franchised and licensed to every corner of the Fourth Great and Bountiful Human Empire. Jupiter's penguins hovered on the brink of extinction. His amusement increased when he noticed a commensurate rise in the sale of antacids.
He knew everything; nothing was ever a surprise.
Sometimes he thought it would be nice to be surprised. Failing that he could, however briefly, be entertained.
Nine minutes ten seconds ago
He was conversing with no one. Well, no one plus one; a tall black shadow of a man and a bright blonde girl who painted a swath of colour against the monochrome iciness of Floor 500. For the first time he didn't know what would happen next, didn't know what would be said, had no idea what they were thinking.
Surprise was a banquet, a feast and he was savouring it, drawing it out. They didn't exist. It just wasn't possible, but here they were, asking questions. His team had grabbed them when they'd attempted to leave Floor 500 and now held them securely.
Practically vibrating with excitement he leaned in and confided, "It may interest you to know that this is not the Fourth Great and Bountiful Human Empire. In fact, it's not actually human at all." Impressed with his cleverness, he smirked. "It's merely a place where humans happen to live."
The Jagrafess's interruption was predictable. Nodding, he turned away, muttering placatory agreements.
He glanced at the pair, mouthing sorry as he listened to the translator. "Sorry," he continued, "A place where humans are allowed to live, by kind permission of my client." He pointed up to where the Jagrafess's slippery gleaming bulk was suspended; snapping in frustration it let out an angry howl.
The expressions were always the same, the first time they saw it. Shock, horror, gape-mouthed astonishment. It never failed to draw a smile. It was the girl who stuttered it out first.
"What… what is that?"
The man whose incredulous gaze fixed on the Jagrafess quickly grasped the truth. "You mean that thing's in charge of Satellite Five?"
He was offended on the Jagrafess's behalf. "That thing, as you put it, is in charge of the human race. For almost a hundred years mankind has been shaped and guided, his knowledge and ambition strictly controlled by the broadcast news, edited by..." He made a show of it, spreading his hands wide and proclaiming, "my Superior, your Master, and Humanity's Guiding Light, the Mighty Jagrafess of the Holy Hadrajassic Maxarodenfoe." He smiled fondly. "I call him Max."
Five minutes, thirty seconds agoAllowing them to escape before he'd drained them of everything they knew would be unacceptable, so he'd had them locked into the shock-immobilisers, to be sure of getting answers. He had to know, to understand, how they could exist here with no trace of any kind. He had to explain how this world worked.
"Create a climate of fear and it's easy to keep the borders closed."
He was never able to understand why people had such trouble grasping this. It was so obvious.
"It's just a matter of emphasis. The right word, in the right broadcast repeated often enough, can destabilise an economy, invent an enemy, change a vote." He paused, expecting a response.
"So all the people on earth are like, slaves?" This from the girl, and it was really more statement than question.
It was wonderful, how far from the mindless drones of the human race these two were. "Well now, there's an interesting point. Is a slave still a slave if he doesn't know he's a slave?"
"Yes." The deep voice sounded almost bored.
"Awww, I was hoping for a philosophical debate." He was disappointed; the conversation was not living up to its potential." Is that all I'm going to get? 'Yes'?"
"Yes." Clipped, definite.
Petulant and condescending, he laughed. "Oh, you're no fun."
"Let me outta these manacles, you'll find out how much fun I am." The man's eyes were dark with rage as he shook his shackled wrists.
"Oooh, he's tough isn't he?" He chuckled again. He couldn't help it; they just kept erupting, expressions of his intense amusement at this man, this no one, who thought he was so impressive. "But come on, isn't it a great system?" he asked, cajolingly. "You've gotta admit it, just a little bit." His winsome grin garnered no response beyond a glare.
The girl's voice was high with uncertainty. "But you can't have something on this scale, somebody must 'ave noticed."
"From time to time someone does, yes. But the computer chips allow me to see inside their brains." He was so proud, so enamoured of this skill, it was wonderful to tell someone about it. "I can see the smallest doubt and crush it." He crushed his fingers together for emphasis. "And they just carry on, living the life, strutting about downstairs and all over the surface of the earth like they're so individual, but of course they're not. They're just cattle. In that respect the Jagrafess hasn't changed a thing."
The girl was looking at him in disbelief. "What about you? You're not a jaggra, jaggra belly…" She stumbled over the name.
"Jagrafess," the man corrected.
"…Jagrafess. You're not a Jagrafess. You're human."
How dare she, the little nothing, degrade him to her level, equate him with the morass of humanity. He was beyond them, above them. Nothing to do with them. He glared at her and ground out, "Yeah, well, simply being human doesn't pay very well."
NowThe heat exchange system was gone, destroyed, and the Jagrafess was swelling like a rotting corpse, bloating as the gases in its body expanded. Floor 500 was collapsing into watery ruin. The damn Time Lord and his little human girl were gone, bolting for safety, and his ruin wasn't even them. It was some drone from the lower floors, blocking the feed and twisting the venting system back on itself. The Jagrafess was howling, in his ears and in his brain. He quit and tried to run, to escape the chaos that his perfect controlled world had devolved into. Something clutched at him, wrenching him off balance and he slammed into the floor, frantically scrabbling at his ankle. One of his team, the newest member, had her hands wrapped around his leg.
One of his dead team. Dead, and unable to act except as she was ordered.
"Let go of me." He was still all frantic arrogance, certain of his release, but the fingers holding him were like steel and as responsive to his commands as cold metal. "Let go of me!" he screamed, desperation and horror and incoherent rage echoing through the floor. He kicked, struggled, but her grip didn't loosen. "Let go of me!" His mind was gibbering, howling in incomprehension. Furious, terrified, he glared upwards in sudden understanding. The Jagrafess had him. The unintended agent of a dead woman's vengeance, it was manipulating the corpse to hold him, using the last moments of its existence to make sure it didn't die alone.
His wail echoed through Floor 500 as the Jagrafess exploded.
High above the earth, the world came to an end. Reality as it existed ceased to be.
Soon, every broadcast in the Fourth Great and Bountiful Human Empire dissolved into meaningless static, an unheeded glimpse of humanity's future.
He'd joyfully surrendered all that made him human and the entirety of his race for the promise of power, blithely following the siren song of rapacious greed. It had, in the end, granted him only an ignominious death, unremarked and unremembered.
He'd drawn the human race into the orbit of his reality, held them with the power of its appeal and obliterated, in all but the endangered few, the capacity for independence. Their centre gone, they were helpless, just as he'd made them. This was his true legacy, a human race vulnerable and dependent; a race of slaves who, with their master dead, would search desperately for another to take its place.
A human race that would find one more ruthless than even he could ever have dreamed.