The Attention Farm — Part 2

Short Series — a freelance journalist and financial auditor uncover a leviathan the government is scrambling to control

Keep reading until the end for a VERY EXCITING survey that I’m DYING to share!!!

Earlier… (Part 1)

“What do you mean, you don’t remember? Cal demanded. He sat on the edge of a faded beige chair across the table from me in the dated hotel suite. “You were just talking about it. You were gone all day.”

Was I? Cal had no reason to lie to me, but I honestly couldn’t remember what I’d been doing. Come to think of it, I didn’t even know why we were meeting here, instead of Cal’s office. Or my office, for that matter.

Cal massaged his temple before looking at me with a mixture of frustration and anger. “Okay, let’s try this one more time: you found the Homeland Security grants funding ARC. You tracked down their address, and actually showed up for an appointment…” He trailed off, clearly hoping I would pick up where he left off. “And…” he waived his hand, expectant.

Some of the details were coming back to me. “ARC is an acronym: the Attention Redirection Commission.”

“Yes, good. I was there when we found their website.”

“Their unpublished website,” I corrected him. While the site hadn’t indexed on any search engine, it looked sleek and well-made. I remembered an image carousel of photogenic teens, smiling as they browsed the Internet in well-lit, scenic places. Atop the page, a bold-lettered masthead stood the organization’s slogan: keeping kids online, safe.

“We found the address, I remember that too. Some big, brutalist office with tons of concrete and skinny windows.” Why was it so hard to recall? “I remember walking into the building. The lobby… but that’s it. Everything after that is… static.” Even this amount of recall effort made my brain ache.

Cal groaned, stood, and crossed to the kitchenette.

“Where are you going?”

“Coffee. We’ve been at this for hours.”

Without actively thinking about it, I started scrolling social media.

“Can you make me a cup, too?”

He laughed. “No dice, you get coffee when you can remember what you saw at ARC.”

“Oh, down on the attention farm?”

Something — probably Cal’s paper coffee cup — clattered against the counter. “What did you say?”

I froze. What did I say?

“Don’t move, don’t even blink. What’s on your phone?”

“I-I don’t know, just a dumb video.”

Something had changed. Why could I remember that scrap of information now? Why was I already starting to forget again? I scrutinized the video still loping on my screen; the only thing in the room that had changed. It was a dime-a-dozen cooking clip, showing how to make chicken tenders breaded with a popular breakfast cereal. But what was that in the corner of the screen? A tiny watermark, showing a familiar symbol—no, sigil. A flood of information came streaming back to me. I opened my mouth, and it tumbled out:

The reception desk stood beneath tall, brushed metal letters bearing the organization’s initials: ARC.

“Good afternoon. I’m Winston Grant,” I said. “I have an appointment to see the director.”

The receptionist looked up from their computer monitor with bloodshot eyes. He was young — probably fresh out of college — and disheveled, hunching over in a wrinkled polo. “Really?” He raised an eyebrow. “Director usually doesn’t take appointments. He’s very busy.”

“I think he’ll make an exception this time—” I held up my government ID, “—on account I’m from the Auditor’s office. I’m here to learn a bit more about where your money is spent. Why don’t you call him.” My statement didn’t quite carry the impact I had expected. The twerp actually rolled his eyes at me.

“Sure thing, boss.” Without breaking eye contact, he picked up the phone, punched a few numbers, and waited. “Yeah, hi, send down the director. Mhhm. There’s a very important man here to see him. Okay, bye!” He slammed the receiver back into the cradle. “He’ll meet you by the elevators over there. Why don’t you head through security.” The little shit gave me an enormous fake smile.

I leaned over the desk. “When your budget gets cut, I’ll be sure you’re the first to go, jackass.”

My footsteps echoed across the tile floor as I made my way to the security station. “Any electronics go in the basket.” The guard held out a little plastic bin, where I placed my phone and smart watch. “Do you have a pace maker?”

“No.”

“Any medical devices?” He asked.

“No.”

“Good. Step right through there.” The guard motioned toward an odd-looking security scanner. It looked like a cross between an MRI machine, and a metal detector.

Walking through produced an incredibly unpleasant sensation. A mosquito-like buzzing filled my ears as all the hair on my body stood on-end. A steady vibration tickled my bones. What was that machine?

After passing through, I turned back, expecting the security guard to hand me my belongings.

“I’ll hold onto these during your visit.” The guard shook the plastic tray. “Keep ‘em safe for you.”

“There’s no way—”

He cut across me: “I’m sorry, there is a strict policy against phones and electronics. You’re in good hands. You’ll get your belongings back after you finish up with the director.”

My heart rate picked up. Was that really a policy? Or did the director just want to be sure I couldn’t document anything? I was about to learn that my question had a far more horrifying answer than my original hypothesis.

The elevator doors slid open. A tall, skinny man in a three-button suit stepped out. He had a long face, tidy hair, and a kind smile. The feature that most caught my attention was his eyes. The pupils didn’t look quite correct. I’m not sure how else to describe it.

“Director Lurk?” I held out my hand.

He shook it. “Just Neil, is fine. I suppose that would make you mister Grant? Or could I call you Winston?”

“Ah, I guess Winston is alright.” What was I saying? Something about his demeanor was so disarming. “I suppose I’ll get right down to it Neil; my job is to look for government waste. Your agency costs a lot of money, and I’m here to see how it’s being spent.”

“Of course.” Neil held out a hand and led me into the elevator. “I can assure you, our work is as critical to national security as NORAD.”

“Keeping our kids safe online. Yeah, I’ve seen your website” The doors slid shut, and we began moving down.

Neil clicked his tongue. “I’m afraid you’ve misread our mission statement.”

“Huh?”

“Keeping our kids safe: online,” he corrected me. “There’s a colon. ARC doesn’t fret about kids hooked on digital dopamine, dysmorphia, sextortion, or brats buying drugs on the next app-of-the-week.”

I blinked, surprised by his candor. “I don’t understand.”

“They never do. I get an auditor, or plucky new congressman in here at least twice a month. Everyone is convinced they’ve found their government waste whale to harpoon. You know what happens to them, Winston?”

A droplet of sweat trickled down my spine. “I have a feeling you’re going to ell me.” I tried to sound tough, but felt my voice crack a little.

Neil chuckled. “Everyone who sees what I’m about to show you winds up seeing it as unpleasant, but ultimately necessary work.”

“What is that work?”

“Our job is to keep teenagers, and adults, to a lesser extent, glued to their phones. Scrolling.”

What? That couldn’t be right.

“Let me help you understand.” Neil took a photo from his pocket, and held it up. I recognized it as the same picture Cal had delivered to my office, and flinched.

“Take it easy, it’s just a photograph.”

Why hadn’t the frenzied feeling consumed me this time? While I cannot safely describe the emblem, I guarantee you’ve seen it before; posted outside businesses, on billboards, and in the background of movies and TV shows. As I studied the picture, I realized key details had been altered.

“You recognize it,” Neil said. This was not a question.

“Of course I do. It’s everywhere.”

“You ever stop to think where it might have come from? What it’s for?”

I hadn’t. Yet I spoke with confidence: “It’s some kind of message, just to let people know.”

“Let people know, what?”

My brain hurt. This was the longest I’d ever contemplated the nature of the symbol. Something buried deep within my mind didn’t like the line of questioning.

“Freeze. Don’t move a muscle,” Neil commanded. “Look at yourself.”

My hands were held at chest level, arms outstretched. My left hand was cupped. My right index finger was outstretched, reaching out to tap on a screen that didn’t exists. I’d been going through the phantom motions of scrolling through my cell phone.

“What the hell?”

Neil pushed my hands back down to my sides. “Perfectly normal reaction to seeing a Sigil. That’s why we confiscate phones up front.” He plucked the photo from my hand, and pocketed it.

My sense of mounting anxiety began to subside.

“What the hell did you show me?”

“A Sigil,” he repeated. “Very dangerous to look at for too long. You were responding to a very powerful impulse to take a picture of what you saw, and share it with others. Give it attention,” He explained.

“The Sigil wants attention. Craves it. The more it gets, the more captivating its power becomes. We call this particular Sigil, Serpent. Photos water down the effect a bit, thank goodness.”

Something tugged at the back of my brain. A little voice, asking to see the photo again. Maybe if I asked nicely, he would give me a copy? I’d love to tack I up on my cubicle at work. I shoved the thoughts aside.

“Alright, I’ll humor you. ARC is on a crusade against evil graffiti that wants to be seen.”

“And the more people who focus on it, the more powerful it becomes,” Neil added.

“Right, say I believe all of that. How would you fight against it?”

“Easy,” Neil said. “You poison it.”

“How do you poison something that feeds on attention?”

“For a Sigil, engaging with an imaginative, unfettered mind is like eating a calorie-packed, organic super-food,” Neil explained. “On the other hand: a mind that’s been filed with banal, empty thoughts—creatively lobotomized, in other words, is like—” he snapped his fingers, trying to conjure up the comparison: “—processed food. The kind of sugary crap that fattens you up and rots you out.”

The elevator car rattled, coming to a stop. I’d completely forgotten we were descending. How deep were we?

“Where do you get that kind of attention to feed to the Sigil?” I asked.

“We farm it.”

When the doors slid open, I was assaulted by a smell so overpowering, I could taste it in the back of my throat: stale air, saturated with body odor and dry shampoo.

“Come on.”

I fought the urge to gag, and followed Neil onto a sprawling network of catwalks spanning an enormous room. It stretched as far as I could see to my left and right. Guards patrolled the walkways with us, holding suppressed rifles.

My brain had a hard time comprehending what was unfolding below us. The place looked like an endless beehive of interconnected fake rooms. While no two were exactly identical, most fit into a handful of categories: bedroom, kitchen, gym, dance studio, and van life; complete with fake outdoor backgrounds.

In each room was a person. Most of these people were young, conventionally attractive women, smiling at a ring light and babbling away to some unseen audience. They broke focus only to cast shifty glances to the guards above.

“What are they doing?” I gripped the railing and peered down for a closer look.

“Creating content,” Neil said. “When starving Serpent became impossible, we set out to render it malnourished. Each clip in the tsunami of distracting garbage is watermarked with a faint Serpent Sigil. Thus, the attention is harvested, transferred, and fed.”

Neil took me by the arm and led me the rest of the way across the catwalk, through a set of air locking double doors. “The attention farm churns out 43 percent of all media consumed across the most popular apps. Our goal is to hit 51 by the end of the decade.”

In the next room, we passed a window to an equally endless server farm. Neil raised his voice to speak over the din of cooling fans. “Generative AI has been enormously helpful in reaching this goal, if we can ever figure out how to get enough electricity from the grid down here.”

“So you’re keeping it fed, but never satisfied?”

“Precisely.” Neil pulled open a door and ushered me into an upscale office, like someplace you’d expect a well-off lawyer to work. He offered me a leather chair opposite his desk, and I sat.

“Do you have any questions for me? Anything else you need to know in order to finish your audit?”

I blinked. “You’re actually going to let me leave?”

“Of course. If I didn’t want you to see, I wouldn’t have let you in.” Neil flipped open a file folder sitting on his desk, and skimmed it with his finger. “Besides, you’re not a trouble maker, Winston. I live for people like you; group A’s, I mean.”

“I beg your pardon?” I stammered.

“Oh, don’t be coy; I’m sure you know all about the Balsanchi Prison experiment. You turn up on my doorstep less than a week after a very sensitive research file goes missing?” He scoffed. “Rest assured that employee has been dealt with.”

I didn’t like the sound of that.

“What did you do to him?”

“He’s been demoted to content creator. We always need more faces in front of the camera. Serpent needs to eat, after all.”

“I thought you said you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“Oh—but of course not. ARC is a suspicious looking government expense by anyone’s accounting. From one bureaucrat to another, I understand you were just doing your job, Winston. This is mine. So the question is: do you think this place, this facility, is money well-spent?”

I chewed my lip and mulled it over. I’d seen what the Sigils could do. Was all of this really worth it to keep this “Serpent” subdued? And if Neil wouldn’t let me take a copy of that picture home to tack up, could I redraw it, and create my own?

“What about the capital requests?” I asked.

“Hmm?”

“After the prison experiment. Your researchers pursued other projects. Where did they go?”

“Doctor Morris proved that experiment’s findings did apply to all Sigils.” He sat back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, as if searching for a memory. “And Doctor… Lansing, I think it was… figured out we could predict your Sigil response group with a home DNA test kit.”

“What about Doctor Bell?”

“Pardon?”

“The one trying to use Sigil to make Americans more compliant.”

“Yes—sorry, that’s a bit of a sore subject.” Neil shifted in his chair. “Albert—Doctor Bell, was my mentor. His theory didn’t work the way he thought. Died during his research. Candidly, Winston, we’ve been too scared to repeat his experiment. That’s how dangerous these things are. So you see, I have to ask again: do you consider all this to be money well spent?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“There was more, but it’s just bits and pieces now,” I said. “After my meeting, I called. Told you to pack your shit and get me from a carpool lot on the highway. Said that by the time you got me, I’d have forgotten almost everything.”

“And I found you scribbling what you could, in your car.” Cal held up a wad of coffee-stained napkins, covered with writing. “This must’ve been all you had in your glove box.”

I had known I would forget. But why? Perhaps the notes would provide a clue that still eluded my memory.

“What did I get down?”

“You managed to get down directions to where we had to go, and who we needed to see. But not why.”

I set down my phone and walked to the window, somehow knowing what I would see before I even parted the curtains. “Gorham.”

“Yes.”

“We have to see Josiah… if he’s even survived this long.” More importantly, I had something to show him.

Part 3 coming soon

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