The Replicant, the Mole & the Impostor, Part 9
Part 2—the conclusion—of a duology where a reality event held in a refugee camp on a Greek island unfolds in an utterly unexpected manner. There will be 50 parts. Chapter 7: February.
—In the Ghost Town—
Originally, the candidates of the Who is the Replicant reality event were supposed to be in the refugee camp at daytime as much as possible. Which is basically what happened in the first six months. Now, however, some refugees have arranged—in cooperation with the local authorities—to perform restoration-annex-innovation work on the buildings of an abandoned settlement, which is obviously well outside the refugee camp. So instead of limiting their movements—the candidates were doing shopping and supply runs on the island, regularly, already—VanderPol Excel’s producers allowed the candidates to go to Chorió, as well.
So, on a cold, wet February morning, Omar finds himself in the middle of an old, deserted village named Chorió. Yet the rain doesn’t seem to delay the frantic activity at the building sites, where old walls are either refurbished, enhanced, or replaced with modern metamaterials.
Jean-Pierre from Congo and his friends are at the center of it, yet there are a number of women and Middle Eastern refugees with them as well. Almost all of them wear their AR-gear as they do their various jobs with an ease that belies the novelty of their equipment. For all Omar knows, some of them are mainly doing AR development that is either directly or indirectly in relation to the rebuilding of Chorió. Or not. Because Jean-Pierre & Co are his friends, Omar speaks his mind.
“At times like these,” Omar says, “I wonder which is your hobby project and which you consider your main line of work: this restoration project, or all the stuff you’re doing in AR-space?”
“Those are old-fashioned distinctions, my friend,” Idrissa says. “With us, pleasure and work are intrinsically entwined. The moment it actually feels like ‘work,’ we either search for something more enjoyable, or we make it nicer.”
“Well, given half a chance, I’d happily make my hobbies—writing plays, painting—into my main job,” Omar says, “if it could pay the bills. Who knows, after this crazy event is done.”
“It’s not over yet,” Jean-Pierre says, “and with these guys and gals, it might become crazier still. Not that I’m complaining, mind you, as I’m setting up a super-symbiotic spice garden right within this old village.”
“Aren’t you supposed to refurbish the old houses?” Omar says.
“We’re supposed to renovate this whole village,” Jean-Pierre says, “and a nice park with a super-symbiotic botanical garden is part and parcel of modernizing it. Right, people?”
“He’s the boss,” Yannick says, “and we gotta let him play to his strengths.”
“And no offence to all the food the EU has given us in the camp,” Idrissa says, “but the boss is just a much better cook. Stew, baby, stew.”
Omar looks at Yannick, Idrissa, and the rest of the team, and wonders who is really in charge. Judging by the results they’re getting, it doesn’t seem to matter. Omar’s best guess is a kind of meritocracy powered by their moodscape. Whatever it is, they seem both quite content and highly efficient in it. But there are other matters that pique Omar’s curiosity.
“And what about that cryptocurrency of yours?” Omar says, attempting snark. “Does it give BitCoin a run for its money, already?”
“Not quite, not yet,” Idrissa says. “On the other hand, it’s growing much faster than BitCoin, and as such is making us all—we’re not that big of a group in comparison with the established players BitCoin, Ethereum and suchlike—quite rich at the moment.”
“BitCoin is an established player?” Omar says. “So what does that make banks and credit card companies?”
“Medieval, by our reckoning,” Idrissa says, “which is fine, as many people still need them. But where we’re going, they’ll be obsolete.”
“Nevertheless,” Omar says, after thinking over what he just heard, “your cryptocurrency can’t be making you rich, it’s just the way you wish to be paid. So what is?”
“Very good, Omar,” Idrissa says. “If you tried, you could probably join us.”
“I’m sorely tempted,” Omar says, “but the producers had me sign quite the contract—including an NDA half a meter long—that prohibits me from pulling such a stunt.”
“Personally, I’m surprised—and quite happy, obviously—that your producers gave you so much leeway in your interaction with us,” Idrissa says, “even if at this point, they can’t stop us anymore. In any case, our moodscapes are our power houses.”
“Power houses?” Omar says. “There’s more than one?”
“Tons of them,” Idrissa says, smiling. “The one we use is merely the very first—and most refined—version. The one with all the best—and evolving—features we like to keep to ourselves, that is, our refugee community.”
“What we give to AR-developers worldwide,” Yannick says, “are moodscape templates with only basic functionalities. The more advanced options require subscriptions.”
“Don’t you risk competition from others who will develop these advanced options themselves?” Omar wonders.
“Obviously,” Idrissa says, “but right now we’re ahead—way ahead—of everybody else. That’s why we’re eager to cash in, but on our own conditions—hence our cryptocurrency.”
“As long as it’s less time-consuming—and cheaper—for most developers to use our moodscapes,” Yannick says, “then we’re doing fine. Eventually—like computers, like smartphones, like the internet, like social media—moodscapes will become a commodity. So now’s the time to make the majority of the profits.”
“But letting yourselves be paid in—well—normal currency,” Omar says, “would show the EU—and the world at large—that you’re exactly the kind of immigrant any country wants. Highly skilled—and with skills that are high in demand—entrepreneurial, generating a lot of business and income. They’d be crazy to turn down your asylum request.”
“Once they get to it,” Yannick says, “which is taking forever and a day.”
“Even more important, we’d be torn apart,” Idrissa says, “because we didn’t know each other before we met in the camp. So each of us has their own asylum request, that—if approved—will most likely go to different countries, at different times, on top of that.”
“It’ll destroy our community,” Jean-Pierre agrees, “so we’re making contingency plans.”
“But you can’t stay in this camp forever,” Omar says, “it was always meant as a temporary measure—and quite a bad one, at that. My apologies.”
“No apologies needed, certainly not from you,” Idrissa says. “We’re thinking ahead. We’d probably be quite happy to remain in Chorió, once we’ve modernized it.”
“But that will always be controversial with the local people,” Yannick says, “not the good ones, mind you. But the bad ones are very vociferous, and their numbers—just look at the upcoming local elections—are growing.”
“So we’re considering other options,” Idrissa finishes.
“Could I ask which ones?” Omar says.
“You can, but since everything with you is live,” Idrissa says, pointing at Omar’s drone, “we’re not answering that question. With all due respect.”
“Understandable,” Omar says. “I guess I’ll just have to see. Haven’t you told too much already?”
“Let’s say there are ways to filter and modify what your little drone is monitoring,” Idrissa says, “with only a few hundred milliseconds delay. Not the actual camera feed—that’d be too obvious—but the audio, which can be altered to say relatively innocent things. Especially if I scratch my nose so my lips are hidden.”
“Or if I wear my fashionable face mask,” Yannick says.
“Nevertheless, I remember everything,” Omar says, “so for the eyes of the world we’re talking about—”
“The finer details of rebuilding this village,” Yannick says, “which we’ve already put forward to the local council, and are available online for everybody, anyway.”
“I see,” Omar says, “or maybe I don’t. Where am I?”
“What do you mean?” Jean-Pierre says. “In your line of thoughts? Your actual location? Are you alright?”
“Here,” Omar says, mostly to himself, “in this old Greek village. Chorió.” He turns to the others. “Sorry, a bout of dizziness. Didn’t sleep too well last night.”
“Take care, my friend,” Jean-Pierre says. “We have a hammock if you need to nap.”
“No, thanks, I’m fine,” Omar says. “One final question, though.”
“Shoot.”
“If your own moodscape is so ahead of the rest,” Omar says, “shouldn’t it have a prediction of who the replicant is?”
Now everybody around Omar starts to smile, quite sheepishly. “Of course it does,” Idrissa says, after an uneasy silence, “it’s one of its hottest topics.”
“So who does it think it is?” Omar says, eyes wide and palms turned up.
“Again, we can’t say,” Idrissa says, “because it works a bit like a superposition of states; that is, the moment we announce our choice, all the meta-information collapses, influencing the observation.”
“On top of that,” Yannick says, “for our moodscape developers, this process—which is not quite fully evolved yet—is more important than the answer. It helps us make better moodscapes.”
“So basically we don’t want to know,” Idrissa says. “Really. Believe us.”
“You’re not on a need to know basis,” Omar says, “but on a need to not know basis? My head hurts.”
“Quite against human intuition,” Idrissa says, “there can be a lot of power in uncertainty.”
—In the Village—
The local elections in Greece have delivered a clear victory for right-wing and extreme right-wing parties, notably Greek Solution and New Democracy. One of the exceptions to this nationwide trend is the island county of Nisí, where the gains on the conservative side of the political spectrum were small and the progressive side gained somewhat. So much, in fact, that the local Green Party has become the kingmaker for the new coalition.
After a few weeks of negotiations, incumbent party Syriza remains the biggest one in the new coalition, but because it’s lost the majority, it’s had to do a number of concessions. One of the last—and controversial—legislations approved by the outgoing coalition, with the slightest of majorities, will remain in place. It is the amendment that allows refugees to start renovating the old ruins of Chorió, a process they’ve already started. New Democracy and Greek Solution had promised to turn back this amendment—even made it one of the major points in its election propaganda—if they won.
In the Medoussa coffeehouse, the mood is buoyant. Coffee and sweets like loukoumades and mpougatsa are on the table in the corner where a group of old friends regularly meet, and the talk is vivid.
“We turned the tide,” Alex Papazoglou says. “Our efforts were not in vain.”
“Actually, Greek Solution and New Democracy still gained about one percent of the votes each,” Kleonika Chronis says, “even if the Green Party gained five percent.”
“Okay, so we bucked the trend,” Alex says, excitedly lifting his espresso cup and setting it down again, “which gives me hope, as it means that countering and defusing bigoted and fake social media messages works. We must keep this up. If only we’d started earlier.”
“Time may help us, too,” Dr. Manos Logothetis says. “There are signs that the economy is improving. The more work there is, the less time—and reason—people have for complaining.”
“Some of that recovery may be due to the increasing amount of AR-activity from the refugees,” Alex says, “in combination with the extra tourism—for good or bad—that the reality event is attracting. Hotels are full, restaurants and cafés are thriving—look how busy it is here—and I’ve noticed that an increasing part of the clientele are refugees. They’re making money, and spending some of it here.”
“Wouldn’t you know, Mister Tour Guide?” Kleonika says. “You’ve been quite busy, right?”
“I’ve been working like crazy,” Alex says, “and I’m happy that the situation in the refugee camp has improved so much that they can afford to miss my volunteer hours.”
Their friend Filomena Panagiotis remains silent, looking a bit grim. Kleonika is the first one to notice. “You look a bit vexed, Filomena,” Kleonika says. “Something bad happened?”
“You could say that,” Filomena says. “Those refugees are taking another part of our island, and you people are happy about it. Even helped them with it.”
“Well, I suppose you could look at it like that,” Dr. Logothetis says. “But please keep in mind that they’re not exactly occupying prime properties. Their camp’s been set up in an uninhabited spot, and the Chorió ruin they’re renovating right now was also utterly deserted.”
“But they’re trying to turn Chorió into very modern property, if I may believe you all,” Filomena says, “and suppose they succeed, then why should they leave? Remember Idomeni?”
“The proposal that we—the refugees and us—agreed to states that Chorió will initially be inhabited by both refugees and local people—especially those in need,” Alex says. “Our people will get those houses for free, and by moving some refugees to Chorió, we can alleviate the overcrowding in the camp. A win-win in my book.”
“The new Chorió will need shops, restaurants, cafés and more,” Kleonika says, “which will bring more economic activity and jobs. Not to mention all the tourists that will wish to visit as well.”
“Eventually—if our overworked clerks get to it—all these refugees should either get their asylum requests approved, in which case the majority of those will move to a different EU country,” Dr. Logothetis says, “or they will get their request turned down and they will have to go back to Turkey or the country they came from. They can’t stay forever. It’s also not what they want. And the refugees from the—also overcrowded—camp in Idomeni were eventually relocated.”
“Suppose you’re right and they eventually go,” Filomena says, “there are still many others coming in their place. More than we’ll be able to keep up with if the government and the EU don’t close our borders to refugees arriving from Turkey again.”
“That, unfortunately, remains an ongoing problem,” Dr. Logothetis says, “to which I have no ready solution. Do you?” The last remark is aimed at the small group at large.
“I don’t know,” Kleonika says, “but I do know that it’s inhumane to treat new refugee arrivals like shit. We’ve made some progress, we should try to keep that.”
“For one, I think we should keep doing the right thing here, locally,” Alex says. “We certainly don’t have the power to solve all the world’s problems. Nevertheless, we should keep trying to solve our local problems as much as we can, to set a good example.”
“On top of that, I’ve heard that the efforts of refugees to improve their livelihoods in our camp has spread to other camps on our islands,” Kleonika says, “spurred on by advice from refugees here. It’s barely in the news—as all the mass media concentrate on Who is the Replicant—but it does seem to be happening.”
“A little satyr has told me that a few refugees have offered you to mend—even improve—the fences of your olive grove and goat enclosure, Filomena,” Alex says, “for free, in thanks. Don’t tell me you’re turning them down.”
“I’m, uh, thinking about it,” Filomena says, blushing slightly. “Those foreigners may not know what they’re doing.”
“Come on,” Dr. Logothetis says, “there are olive groves and goats all across the Middle East and North Africa.”
“They’re offering a newfangled type of fence,” Filomena says. “I’m not sure if this old woman is up to that.”
“Oh?” Alex says, semi-surprised. “And what is that?” He points at her smartphone.
“That’s different,” Filomena says. “Everybody has that.”
“Well, you never know,” Dr. Logothetis says, “soon everybody may have that type of fence. And you’d have been one of the first.”
“You can always take it down if it doesn’t work,” Kleonika says, “and we’ll help you in that case.”
Filomena thinks it over, sipping her coffee. “Alright, I’ll try,” she says, “and you help me if it doesn’t work, promise?”
“Promise,” Dr. Logothetis, Kleonika, and Alex say, raising their hands with their fingers crossed.
“This better be good,” Filomena says, still somewhat grumpy and doubtful.
“It will be,” Alex says, “and this calls for a celebration.” He rises up, waving his hands to the waiter.
“Please,” Alex says, “our bottle of Metaxa.”
“Aren’t you celebrating too soon?” Kleonika says. “Your possible council seat for the Green Party depends on how the seat distribution works out after the postal votes are counted—some of which are still coming in.”
“I’ll celebrate that if and when it happens,” Alex says. “Right now I’m—no, we—are celebrating that a modicum of decency has returned in our local council.”
“Cheers to that,” Dr. Logothetis says, raising his glass of Metaxa. The rest join him, in hope.
Author’s note: one day late but here it is. Many thanks for reading. I’ll have some catch-up time over the Easter weekend (after having done my taxes), and then head for Mexico for the April 8 total solar eclipse. There will be a travel blog!