“Precisely,” Noam said. “Right to the end, the neocons deflected any skeptic or question by solemnly invoking their sacred principle: ‘The Will of Our Founding Fathers.’ Anyone who disagreed was less of a patriot than they were.”

“You mean –“ Antoinette’s face was hard – “Washington the Slaveholder, Franklin the Whoremaster, Hamilton the Elitist, and Jefferson, the Sire of Bastards?”

“Granted,” Noam said, “but they were revolutionaries. Tom Paine was an atheist –“

“For which he paid, handsomely, in alienation and disgrace,” she replied.

“True; and Jefferson went to his grave an agnostic and with deep moral reservations about slavery. My point is, what would have shocked and offended the founders was the lack of revolution, when needed.”

Antoinette winked. “Maybe I should take me some White slaves now, to get the ball rolling again.”

David was feeling better, moving among them. The elders had let him go, to wander. Just seeing him seemed to bring comfort to the elders, and the timid, furtive innocence of the young ones pleased him. They connected to him in varying ways, either tactile or at varying levels of speech. He saw that understanding them would take time.

Noam rejoined him at the end of the great room. “Fitting in, I hope?”

David nodded, tentatively.

“And ready for some additional details, I presume?

“Okay.”

“We are three classes: ‘Opt-outs;’ ‘Rehabs;’ and juveniles.”

“Ah, ‘Rehab.’ Not a proper name, then.” David surveyed the room, found his first chaperone, and gave him a thumbs-up. Rehab cocked his head, puzzled.

“No. We Opt-outs –“ he indicated himself, Simon, Antoinette, and another dozen or so eldest – “were given the discreet choice to migrate, or stay.”

“Migrate? Where?”

“Unclear, but I assume to whatever industrial or developing country most in need of particular conceptual skills – academic, professional, scientific, and the like.”

“Why did you –“

“I’m a liberal arts kind of guy, not prone to cost-benefit analyses. The others can speak for themselves. Rehabs, most of those you see here, were middle-aged and younger adults for whom assimilation didn’t work out, for whatever reason. Juveniles were just born to or gestating in Opt-outs at transition time.”

“What about the elderly?”

“Seemed to me like almost all of them were taken – Thank God for Chinese cultural priorities.”

“And the sick and disabled?”

Noam bit his cheek. “Euthanized, I assume.”

“How did all the non-Rehabs…get like that?”

Simon overheard, and joined them. “You’re gonna love this, David. Around 2006 your fellow gamers got serious about BCI.”

“BCI?”

“’Brain-Computer Interface.’ They borrowed from noninvasive neurofeedback research to perfect headsets that allowed the wearer to play games just using their thoughts.”

David grinned, in spite of himself. “Sweet!”

“Not so much,” Simon said. “Overuse led to lapses in normal brain function – sort of self-induced attention-deficit disorder. Chronic abuse could produce a state of near-catatonia.”

“Didn’t anyone get concerned?”

“The Obama folks monitored federal research and fired up the FDA for legitimate medical uses, but the technology was out and there was money to be made. Kind of a reprise of the whole ‘Stick an M on violent video games’ charade. You remember that whole ‘free speech’ charade your industry threw up to protect sales, I assume? Development continued behind closed doors. Short walk, I guess, to software that could overpower the brain’s higher-level, sensory motor areas, allowing unconscious memory to be altered by environment or task specific programs. Specifics are beyond me; the helmet and electrodes are obviously key. Phoebe – here!”

A pleasant-looking woman, about 50, scuttled over.

“Show,” Simon said.

She lifted her sleeve above scar tissue on her right shoulder and lifted her hair to reveal two old wounds at the base of her skull.

“Thank you,” Noam said.

“Welk’m,” Phoebe said, with difficulty. She touched a finger to David’ face, giggled, and melted away.

They watched her go. “Function returns fairly quickly.”

“’Phoebe?’”

“We gave them bird names. Simple, cheerful – and easier to remember.” He was sheepish. “Sometimes it’s good to be the king. “Please continue, Simon.”

“Where was I?”

“Headset and software,” said David.

“Right. Mass-marketing took over with a fury in 2010. Almost a patriotic duty to own and play, like the early iPods.”

David looked puzzled. “What’re ‘iPods?’”

“Portable digital media players.”

“Like a ‘Walkman?’”

“More like a tiny computer, really. Anyway, mass drone conversion began in earnest right after the 2016 election. First public step was implanting RFIDs - “Radio Frequency Identification Devices” – that had already been tested on prisoners.”

“What for?”