Analog SFF, January-February 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  “Yeah, okay. Okay.” Big Carl relaxed, letting loose his fistful of Maria's coat, dropping his other arm. “Got a point, man."

  “All right, then,” Manny said. He nodded, turned around, and had one foot on the bottom step when DUCK flashed into his vision in unusually large letters. He was lucky his reactions were up to the task. He dropped his head and twisted to the right. As he moved, a bottle glanced off his shoulder to smash on the steps. He turned around, and Big Carl was rushing him.

  Manny pivoted and launched a side kick into the oncoming man. He was rusty, but back in the day Manny had picked up some martial arts. It had almost reined in the aggressiveness that always bubbled inside him. His brief time in the joint had helped him see the consequences of temper and reinforced his desire to stay out of trouble. Still, he wasn't about to let Big Carl whomp on him when it wasn't even his idea to come downstairs and break things up.

  The fight was over quickly. Big Carl used his size and power, but with only minimal skill. Manny, on the other hand, had always been skinny and quick, and still knew some moves. They were still effective, and he finally sent Big Carl headfirst into the stairs. Manny was about to make sure Carl stayed down when the words THAT IS SUFFICIENT; POLICE WILL BE HERE SOON appeared in his field of vision, so he stopped.

  Carl lay there on the stairs. Manny spun around, locating Maria. He was worried she'd come to Big Carl's rescue, even though he had been about to beat on her a few moments before. Stranger things have happened. Thankfully, she wasn't interested in fighting; she was putting the last of her belongings in Big Carl's old classic-model, gas-burning car. She drove off without even saying thanks.

  The cops came, listened to Manny's story, and took Big Carl in for assault. Then they took Manny in to talk to a parole system caseworker, one of the few humans involved in monitoring and adjudicating the implant-based house arrest system. Finally, after spending all evening downtown, Manny was let loose without an explanation. He had to catch the news the next day to find out how singular his case had been.

  * * * *

  Ellen Cho, IT Supervisor for the Illinois Department of Corrections, Implant Division, popped two more analgesics, chased them with a gulp of coffee, tried to ignore the buzz of the cubicle farm just over the walls of her office zone. Christ, she thought, this mess is never going to be over at this rate. Her terminal flashed, another priority e-mail from some high-muckety-muck, demanding to know what was happening with the Gonzales situation. Since it was doubtful they could top the lieutenant governor, who had already called twice this morning, she let it flash. She didn't have anything to tell them, anyway. She stood up and paced, all the better to see over the top of the cubicle walls.

  Finally, the network technician, Tom Jamison, showed up at the farside of the cube farm and headed straight for her office zone. She motioned him over to the chair against the wall with the chipped paint, farthest from prying ears. He dropped into it, exhausted. He had a small bottle of water in his hand, which he cracked open with a sharp twist, and drank from deeply.

  Cho rolled her desk chair around to a closer position, then sat and leaned forward. “So,” she said in a low voice, encouraging confidentiality, “is the Gonzales implant on the fritz, or what?"

  “Damnedest thing, boss,” Jamison muttered. “These things don't mess up, you know that. The implant, the implant network—it was doing exactly what it was programmed for."

  “Explain."

  Jamison sighed. “You know how these agent programs are set up to network together when they're in proximity, and to hook into the Hairy Spy Noses..."

  “Homeland Surveillance Network, please. We are government employees, after all."

  “Whatever, boss. You know what I mean. They're set up to network, right? To keep better tabs on their holders, update the police, all that. Well, through the surveillance camera in the alley, the local implant network became aware that the altercation was going on."

  “Between Gonzales and this other guy?” That was the altercation she'd been focusing on all morning, and it didn't make sense that the implant would have to spy it out via surveillance camera.

  Jamison shook his head. “No, between the other guy and his girlfriend. Gonzales was watching HV at the time. The network noticed the altercation, notified the police, and figured trouble would start before the cops could get there. Then it decided who would be the best person to break it up and sent Gonzales down there."

  Cho sat back, took a sip of coffee to cover her surprise. “No way."

  “These agent programs are damn sophisticated, boss. I mean, your agent, my agent, regular agents on a terminal are set up to help people manage technology. They don't develop a whole lot of complexity, because most of them aren't pushed very hard. Even normal commercial implants don't tax their agents too much. These parolee implants, though, they're tasked with watching criminals; they got a paranoid streak built in so they can stop the ex-cons from breaking the law or trying to fool the implant or whatever. Forces a lot of development, a lot of judgmental capability. And they share behavioral data with each other, too, as part of the network. From what I can tell, the network viewed the fight as worth stopping, even if neither party was implanted."

  “But why Gonzales?"

  “Comm records show the various implants in the area compared data about their holders. They selected for ability and compliance. Turns out Gonzales follows orders just well enough to listen, but not so much that he can't handle himself. According to the network."

  “Then what?” Cho was trying to figure out the ramifications of this news. Getting the implant-eye view of the whole exchange was proving educational. Could this Gonzales thing actually be good?

  “Well, then the network got him to go down, disrupt the argument, then let him defend himself within the limits of the law. And no further."

  “You're sure about that?"

  “Got the download of the whole event, and a simultaneous sidebar record of the network decision-making process. All certified and ready for court.” Implants had a unique operating system to suit their unique physical construction; they could not hide their essential operations from their network. While a user's personal files and data could be kept private, the implant's own operations, including recordings of what the owner's senses encountered, were reliable and certifiable as fact. A networked implant cannot lie, went the truism.

  “Okay.” Cho leaned back. “Okay. So, it was the implants, then."

  “Absolutely. The network operated pretty much as expected, except that it interfered with people who weren't themselves implanted. The data record seems to indicate that it was mainly because the argument was happening in public and was likely to turn violent; otherwise, the network shouldn't have taken action. That's just a first-glance evaluation, though. You'll probably want to send it to Springfield for more detailed analysis.” Jamison finished the last of his water in a gulp. “I've done about all I can do with my skill set. I don't know; it's probably just a random glitch. At least it worked out all right."

  “You did well, Jamison. Good job.” Cho smiled distractedly at the technician, waving him out of her office zone toward the crowd of prairie-dogging onlookers paradoxically trying not to appear curious.

  Part of her was impressed that the implants under her nominal care had gotten an ex-con to do a good deed. The larger part of her, however, was working on how best to frame this explanation to make her department seem responsible for the good parts.

  Of course, the commissioner ended up taking the public credit at the local level, with the governor stepping in and pulling rank when it hit national news, but in the end, none of them were as memorious as good old Manny Gonzales.

  * * * *

  Later in the week the supposed random glitch became less random. In Boston, Peter McDougal cursed his short-lived career in burglary under his breath as he went out into his back yard. He stepped off the walk onto the scraggly grass. PLEASE MAKE NO NOISE UNTIL INSTRUCTED, his parole implant print
ed. Sure, and why should I be noisy? Peter asked himself crossly. I'm just investigating something you think you heard through my own ears, you damned machine. It was only then that he heard the sound of slapping flesh from the Dearys’ yard next door. What, he thought, are Jeff and Ellen having a bit of afternoon delight? Risky, with their boy due home from school round about now, but hey, sometimes you take the time when you can.

  Thinking he might get a harmless glimpse of Ellen Deary's very fine body, Peter stepped lightly to the connecting privacy fence, and stood up on his tip-toes to peek over the top.

  It wasn't Jeff and Ellen, but Jeff on the back steps, kneeling on his son's chest and slapping the child repeatedly. There were tears in the kid's eyes, but he couldn't get enough breath to cry out with a grown man on his chest. Peter was horrified. Sure, he himself had been beaten as a child by his folks, pretty badly on occasion, but this, this was just cruel. He ducked down again.

  PLEASE CONTINUE VIEWING INCIDENT, said his implant.

  “What, you getting a thrill?” Peter hissed under his breath, his ears heating up.

  IF ENOUGH EVIDENCE IS AMASSED, THE CHILD CAN BE MOVED TO A BETTER HOME, the letters spelled out. IT IS DIFFICULT, BUT DESIGNED FOR THE WELFARE OF THE CHILD.

  Peter hesitated. “But it's family."

  RELATIONSHIP DOES NOT EXCUSE CRIMINAL BRUTALITY, the implant claimed. NUMEROUS CITATIONS SUPPORT THIS CONCLUSION.

  Peter sighed, then returned to the fence. He was conflicted, but the implant was right. Family or not, there was a limit to what you should do to your kid, and Jeff was clearly over it. Peter was never a fighter, and wouldn't know how to interfere, but he could collect evidence. Just let there be enough from this, Peter thought, because I'm not sure I'm going to be able to watch much more.

  * * * *

  “I knew that guy in stir,” George “G-Dog” James muttered to his implant. “You gonna get me to break my parole if I do this."

  IN EMERGENCY SITUATIONS, ASSOCIATION IS ALLOWED, the implant printed quickly. HIS IMPLANT IS PART OF THE NETWORK. MORE BUCKETS. In the dimness of the shed, two stacked pails were outlined with flashing pixels to draw G-Dog's attention.

  G-Dog grabbed the buckets and ran back outside. The hellish glare from the second-story fire lit the Atlanta night, turning the men milling around in the front yard into black silhouettes. The implant drew a flashing target at one corner of the house where two guys were wrestling with an ancient faucet. Other ex-cons came hustling up from other yards carrying buckets and large cans. One had rustled up a wrench, which was promptly put to work opening up the faucet. Following the prompts of their implants, the small group of parolees quickly filled the buckets with rusty water and then rushed over to the back door.

  The door burst open, gouting smoke, and several smoldering parolees staggered out, cloth tied around their faces, carrying or dragging unconscious people. Promptly doused with water, the impromptu rescuers handed their charges to other willing hands and collapsed on the lawn, coughing and wheezing.

  G-Dog put his burden, a teenage girl, down on the grass. The sirens of the fire department could be heard in the distance, but they were still too far away to be useful. IS SHE BREATHING? asked the implant. G-dog put his hand gently over the girl's nose and mouth.

  “No. What do I do?"

  MAKE SURE HER MOUTH IS CLEAR. Feeling strangely squeamish, G-Dog checked the girl's mouth with his finger. TILT HER HEAD BACK SLIGHTLY, WITH YOUR HAND UNDER HER NECK...

  Following the implant's step-by-step instructions, G-Dog breathed for the girl until the paramedics were able to arrive. When they took over and carried the girl off to the ambulance, G-Dog sat heavily back on the ground. He couldn't describe the feeling, sort of part exhaustion, part adrenaline shakes, part strange exhilaration. Breathing for another person, trying to save a stranger's life—he'd never done anything comparable. Who would have predicted that a possession conviction would eventually lead to this? He took a few deep breaths, feeling the heat of the fire on one side and a soft Georgia breeze blowing from the other, looking up at the smoke rising into the darkened sky.

  “Okay,” G-Dog finally muttered. “What can we do next?"

  * * * *

  Jake Williams stepped out of the shoe store and looked around the street. The bright Arizona sun baked the Phoenix asphalt, and his skin just about crackled in the dry heat. “What now?"

  LOOK FOR AN OLDER CAUCASIAN MAN IN A GREEN LONG-SLEEVED SHIRT, the implant printed across a parked truck. An arrow flashed in his vision, indicating the guy would be coming from his left. He didn't mind the implant, really; it was far preferable to staying in jail for a bar fight gone wrong. BE DISCREET.

  “Don't let him know I see him, right.” Looking down the street out of the corner of his eye, Jake fished a cigarette out of the pack in his chest pocket, lighting it with his trusty Zippo. He drew deeply, feeling the nicotine spreading into his lungs as he casually glanced down the sidewalk. Sure enough, a distracted-looking man in a green shirt was hustling toward him, trying to walk quickly without drawing attention by running. “I think I've got him."

  CONFIRMED. The man in the green shirt grew a glowing aura as the implant singled him out. PLEASE STOP HIM.

  Jake glanced across the street so he wouldn't attract notice. Police sirens were echoing in from somewhere else not far away. “What, just stop him? Why? Wouldn't that be, like, assault or something?"

  INTERFERENCE IS ACCEPTABLE IN THIS CONTEXT. NUMEROUS CITATIONS SUPPORT THIS CONCLUSION.

  “All right; you're the boss.” Jake casually turned, as if he was gazing back into the shoe store, flicking the ash off his cigarette, just a guy with a nametag taking a cigarette break. As the green-shirted guy hustled by, Jake simply stuck out a cowboy boot and hooked the man's ankle. He went sprawling, his arms flying forward, a chrome-plated snub-nosed revolver, formerly hidden against his forearm, skittering across the pavement. At the sight of the gun, Jake's adrenaline kicked in, and he took two quick steps and planted a heel on the gun, pinning it to the pavement.

  The man cursed and scrambled to his feet just as a cop car came screaming around the corner behind him. Desperate, the man lurched forward, but Jake raised his arms and bent his knees, ready to block or tackle. The other guy looked confused, but by then the police had pulled up and piled out of the car, guns drawn.

  As the officers arrested the man in the green shirt and started questioning Jake, it came out that a bank robbery two blocks away had gone bad, and Jake's implant had arranged for him to stop one of the thieves. Turns out other parolees in the area had been directed to take similar actions, with the end result that all the bank robbers were captured without casualties. Of course, nobody knew at the time why they were interfering with the criminals, but the implants managed to coordinate everybody's actions with no problems.

  * * * *

  Senator Woodsley smiled out at the faces of the reporters. “Naturally, we consider these events to be incredible successes of the program. All over the country, we have seen that the agents in these implants are capable of balancing legal questions and safety issues with the needs of the moment. They are incapable of ulterior motives. And the recipients of these implants have shown they are willing to reform, willing to work for their redemption in the eyes of society. Our program has combined the two; we look forward to finding out where this unique partnership can lead us."

  Woodsley's speech was just one of many as the government and the whole corrections industry patted themselves on the back, convinced they'd finally done the right thing, which they had, but for the wrong reasons. The full ramifications wouldn't become apparent for a number of months.

  * * * *

  Manny Gonzales benefited greatly from his incident and the publicity surrounding the other events. Not only did he get media exposure himself, as the first case of implant-sponsored public service, but the Illinois DoC let him upgrade his implant so he could get limited multimedia (music and broadcast HV, but not during work hours). In the
fall, he got leave to go visit his ailing great-aunt in Miami as another reward for his exemplary behavior. Life was good. As a result, Manny was on hand in Florida when the Great Computer Watchdog turned on its supposed master.

  His great-aunt tended to go to bed around 8:00 P.M., so Manny was by himself every evening of his visit. Dinner at 4:30 in the afternoon just couldn't carry him through, so he luxuriated in being able to go to a restaurant. He had just received his sandwich at a Denny's a few blocks from the house when his grilled cheese suddenly manifested luminescent letters: ASSAULT IN PROGRESS. PLEASE LEAVE RESTAURANT, GO NORTH.

  “Again?” Manny asked, incredulous. “What, anytime there's an assault, you call me?” The words simply stayed there. He sighed. Well, even if it wasn't his town, he still had a civic duty. Last time he'd felt nice after it was all done. Doing the right thing was good for the ego.

  “Are you sure I'm the one you need? There's not a local you can call?"

  YOUR PRESENCE WILL BE REQUIRED. NUMEROUS CITATIONS SUPPORT THIS CONCLUSION.

  The waitress stopped him on his way to the door. “Sir, you can't leave without paying."

  “I'm not,” Manny said. “I'll be back; I haven't even eaten yet. Apparently I gotta go out for a minute."

  “It's okay, Sherry,” said an older guy, walking out from the kitchen area. He was clearly a cook, and a teenage boy in a busboy's apron and sporting jailhouse tattoos followed. “Ramon and I will go with him."

  The three stepped out into the night. “Implant?” Manny asked.

  The cook nodded. “Just recently switched over from conventional parole. Been wondering if something like this was going to happen around here."

  The teenager was staring at Manny, grinning. Finally, he spoke up. “You're Manny Gonzales, man. You're the one that started it."

  “I didn't start nothing, kid,” chuckled Manny. “I was just the one got picked."

  Their implants giving them turn-by-turn directions, the three hurried along darkened streets, joined by a scattering of other ex-cons plus hangers-on who wanted to see what all the commotion was about. Sirens wailed in the distance, coming closer. Manny began to get nervous, which was perfectly understandable given his history with the police.