P. Manney - (R)evolution

Ready or not, revolution comes, thought Emma Lancaster.

Bodies flowed past a coffee shop in the grand lobby of the Las Vegas Convention Center. Emma sipped a tall cappuccino, watching them with resignation. She was small boned and slender, with long, honey-hued hair pulled back in a high ponytail that lent her the perky charisma of a cheerleader. Or class president. Shed been both in her short life. But this morning, she was subdued.

Next to her, a pale, wispy teen, with watery blue eyes open so wide a puff of reality might blow him away, nursed his soy chai latte. Donovan Katz had to brush his unruly ginger hair out of his cup every time he sipped from it. On Emmas other side stood Brandon Tellmer, black buds firmly in ears. His brown buzz-cut head bobbed and his legs twitched in time with his personal soundtrack, aided by two extra shots in his caf mocha. Green Days American Idiot leaked through his headphones, the headbanging polluting a Muzak version of Elton Johns Tiny Dancer that pumped through the ceiling speakers.

All three seemed no more than overgrown children: clean-cut collegiate types, dressed in their mall-bought clothes, armed with large, techno-friendly, solar-powered backpacks. They radiated competence, seriousness, and dedication. Had they worn suits, you might have mistaken them for Mormon missionaries.

The Las Vegas Convention Center was packed with over one hundred thousand people, distributed among its three main halls. They were there to attend IAM the International Association of Media. Media shrunk the world into its common needs and goals regardless of nationality, and IAM provided everything that multicultural buyers and sellers needed, sharing the common language of money in the largest gathering of electronic companies on earth, a convergence of broadcast and cable television, motion pictures, radio, gaming, music, news, and mobile phones to feed the ever-hungry maw of the Internet.

The Smart Badges that hung from the three young peoples necks identified and linked them as collegiate casters from Brigham Young University in Provo. But their identities were forged. For instance, Emma posed as Sally Dunbuster of Mt. Pleasant, Utah. Each had come from a different college, a different background, and had only met six months earlier to train for their common goal.

Emma looked at her watch. It was five minutes to twelve. Discreetly, the boys also checked their watches. Then they stared a moment too long into each others eyes.

Emma offered her hand to shake. Donovan playfully knocked it away, smiled, and opened his arms. She stepped into his hug, then hugged Brandon. He was damp, trembling, but his expression remained stoic. Without a word, Emma stepped back from Brandons embrace, scooped up her backpack, and strode to the central hall.

Brandon headed for the north hall while Donovan took off at a jog, cutting quickly through the crowd, for the more distant south hall.

A herd of conventioneers crushed Emma in the chute of the central hall doors, offering a suited man in his forties the opportunity to brush his hand against her breast. She drew back, but before she had a chance to look at his face, his dangling Smart Badge buzzed in automated greet mode: Hi, Sally Dunbuster! Im Bob Grant Network Sales. Let me tell you about product placement and promotion opportunities for your faith-based programming! Bobs bleached, toothy grin aimed to impress, suggesting, I practically run the network: whereas, in reality, he sold Still Keeping Up with the Kardashians to Kazakhstan. He glanced at his own badge for preprogrammed information to use as a conversation starter. Like many conventioneers away from home, he was desperate to get laid. Emma disappeared into the crowd, forgiving his clumsy come-on.

Once inside the central hall, she disabled the Smart Badge and stood on tiptoe to survey the enormous room. Its six hundred thousand square feet were filled with almost a thousand trade-show booths. They hawked hardware, software, services, and an endless variety of content, all aimed at the blessed convergence of multimedia information technologies to be delivered through the one-two punch of the GO/HOME, a handheld and wall-sized all-media system. In this brave new world of information technology, the GO/HOME was all people needed. The choices made by owners of the systems reflected their passions and habits, and this valuable marketing information was sent back to the companies so they could provide what the public wanted. Of course, that presupposed the public knew what they wanted, or could favor nonexistent choices. It was hard to tell who believed this innovation was more heaven-sent: entertainment addicts, techno-geeks, or media conglomerates.

Emma cut quickly through the hall, past Content Creation Village, Satellite Site, and Internet Services, to the far corner where Technologies for Worship was housed.

Shucking her backpack, she propped it against the wall between Event-gelicals and VC Cubed: Viewer Content for Virtual Catering of Virtual Communion. Again, she checked her watch: 12:00:17. With smooth, swift moves born of countless practice runs, Emma knelt and pulled a nylon bag from inside the backpack. Quickly removing some plastic and ceramic pieces, she fitted them like a Knex set, until the object in her hands was recognizable as a drone aircraft, about a meter long. A tiny video camera peeked from beneath its nose, and a miniature directed-thrust engine with four nozzles was cradled inside the skeletal fuselage. Emma skinned the frame with tightly fitted black fabric. Finally, she clipped a preassembled pod resembling the passenger cabin beneath a dirigible to the bottom of the craft. Together, the belly and pod created a sign in bright, cheerful letters: Smile! GODS Watching!

Emma placed the tiny craft on the floor and powered up the remote, pressing Collect, which initiated a collection of spatial information from two scanning laser sensors on its belly and dorsal. When her remotes light turned green, she pressed Start. The miniature Harrier jet rose into the air. Several exhibitors and attendees clapped as it climbed above their heads to the ceiling and away.

She tossed the remote into the backpack and slipped into the crowd to find the nearest ladies room.

Inside the restroom, two leggy spokesmodels complained about frequent costume changes as they washed their hands and reapplied makeup. Emma locked herself in a stall and unzipped her backpack on the toilet seat, quickly removing three clear ziplock bags. One contained nonpermeable polymer nose- and earplugs, rimmed with a nano-superadhesive protected by pull strips. She ripped off the strips and shoved the plugs up her nostrils, high enough not to be seen, and squeezed her nose around them, forming a tight, gap-free seal. Then she stuffed the other pair in her ears. She pulled off her ponytail band and fluffed her thick hair around her ears to obscure the plugs.

The second bag held a nonpermeable polymer mouthpiece connected by a tube to a small steel container. She yanked off the strip and bit down hard, locking her inner lips around the adhesive seal. Two small tubes emerged from the left side of her mouth. She took small breaths, keeping her mouth shut to conceal the mouthpiece, and stuffed the container and extra tubing into an inner pocket of her jacket. Ripping open the last bag, she removed a pair of adhesive-rimmed plastic goggles designed to look like wraparound sunglasses and fitted them around her eyes.

Entering the hall again, Emma looked up. The drone skimmed one meter below the ceiling, almost thirty-five feet above the crowd, maintaining a precise distance from the rigging, its laser guidance enabling it to avoid displays, signs, banners, and lighting equipment that hung from the rafters and catwalks.