On his twelfth birthday Doctor Bob downloaded an update to Jimmy's Advisor. This one had a masculine voice and sounded like one of the cool guys on the vids, which, of course, was no coincidence. Over the years Jimmy had gotten a pretty good idea of what his Advisor could and couldn't do and he wondered if this new one was any smarter than the old one. He decided to test it by detouring from his normal route home. Right away the Advisor detected the variance based on Jimmy's GPS implant, but instead of issuing a stern order, he merely said, Getting a little off base, aren't you, Jimmy?
“I want to stop by the bookstore on Walnut,” Jimmy subvocalized. There was a slight pause and Jimmy felt kind of a mental shrug after his Advisor checked the web listing of bookstores against a map database.
The next step was to see if he could get into the adult magazine section and sneak a peak at some naked women without the new Advisor noticing. Not that he really cared much yet about naked women, his feelings being more ones of curiosity rather than any hormonal desire. He had tried this gambit with the old Advisor and everything had been fine until he got close enough for it to read the magazines’ RFID chips, another confirmation that it couldn't actually understand what he saw but had to depend on electronic signals to get any information beyond spoken words.
Jimmy had just reached the bookstore's front door when a young guy threw it open and knocked Jimmy to the pavement. Wild-eyed, the man stared at Jimmy for an instant, then regained his feet and raced off down the street with two men in black suits running after him.
Jimmy watched them all the way to the end of the block where another man in black sprang from an alley and tackled the fugitive. A fourth man in black emerged from the store.
“What—” Jimmy began.
Don't stick your nose into things that aren't any of your business, dude, his Advisor warned. The man in black turned toward him. Jimmy closed his mouth and, hunching his shoulders, scuttled away. As he rounded the corner, he slipped his hand into his pocket and felt a smooth metal cylinder. It hadn't been there a minute ago. Obviously, the fugitive had put it there. Praying that he was right and that his Advisor couldn't really see what he saw, Jimmy pulled the thing out. It was about half an inch in diameter, three inches long, and dull, metallic gray with a black plastic button near the top. Jimmy looked at it end-on to see if it was a death laser or something, but the concave end seemed to be solid metal. Jimmy pointed it at a parked car and pressed the button but nothing happened.
Zap! Jimmy clenched the cylinder and pointed it at various targets. Zap! Across the street he spotted Larry Krieger swaggering down the block. Larry gave Jimmy a big smile followed by an upraised middle finger. Asshole, Jimmy thought and pointed the thing at Larry's head. Zap! Instantly, a voice filled his mind.
I know when you make that gesture, Larry.... The only person you're hurting when you insult people is yourself. It's stupid to make an enemy when you don't have to.... Wave to him and tell him it was only a joke!
Jimmy paused in mid-step and, open-mouthed, stared across the street.
Go on, tell him you were only kidding.
“Hey, Jimbo,” Larry shouted. “Just clowning, man.” Larry gave Jimmy a tense smile and hurried away.
That's it. Now he thinks you're his friend. You never know when that will come in handy. Everybody needs friends now and—
The voice cut off when Jimmy released the button.
—listening to me?
“What?”
I said tuning me out is not cool, Jimmy. I'm your Advisor, dude. I'm here to help you.
“Yeah, sure, sorry, I was just thinking.”
About what?
“Oh, nothing.”
* * * *
“Why are so quiet, Jimmy?” his mother asked halfway through dinner. “Is there something wrong?”
“No, I'm fine. I was just thinking about ... my history report.”
“Do you need some help with that, Jimmy?” his father cut in, a worried look on his face. “We could download a history pack to your Advisor if you want. Then all you would need to do is ask him questions and he could—”
“I know how—”
Dude, don't interrupt your dad. He's only trying to help you.
“Sorry, dad.”
“Well, okay, but if you need help, just ask me or your Advisor. That's what we're here for.”
Jimmy nodded and then went to his room and pretended to do his homework, all the while thinking, I wonder if this thing works through walls?
Cautiously, he aimed the cylinder in the direction of the living room. Suddenly a female voice filled his head: You're talking too much. Be quiet and listen to what Hal is saying.... Yes, that's better. Men like to feel as if their wives respect and appreciate them.... Tell him he's right about Jimmy.
Jimmy flinched and suddenly a new voice echoed inside his head: You're talking down to her. Women hate to be treated as if they're idiots. Ask her what she thinks and don't interrupt her.
“Shit!” Jimmy whispered before letting go of the button. Had his Advisor caught any of that?
“What were the causes of the War of 1812?” Jimmy sub-vocalized.
They're laid out in Chapter Six, Jimmy.
“Why don't you just tell me?”
Because I'm not writing the report. You are. Look them up for yourself. Remember, when you grow up nobody's going to do your work for you. Right?
“Yeah, right.”
Okay, not a clue, Jimmy decided. Cool.
* * * *
Over the next month Jimmy learned more about how the world really worked than most adults outside the government learned in a lifetime. First off, it wasn't just kids who took orders from their Advisors. It was everybody. And it wasn't just about being polite or not telling stupid jokes or eating healthy food. It was about everything.
The Advisors coordinated cops and firemen to work together during emergencies. They told doctors which medicines to give and which tumors to cut. They told businessmen which employees to discipline and which to praise. They listened to teachers giving lectures and corrected them when they made a mistake and supplied dates and equations when they had a mental lapse. They warned politicians of pitfalls when they foolishly sought to depart from their prepared remarks. They gave ham-fisted boys advice on how to ask a girl out and warned reckless girls when to say no. Jimmy found a Pedia article that explained how the Advisors had gotten started.
Apparently they had been invented by a company called KnowMax Technology in Santa Clara, California. The first ones had essentially been language recognition computers connected to an earphone. The user would set the unit for the desired type of help—dieting, quitting smoking, becoming a better conversationalist, whatever, and the computer would secretly utter helpful advice and encouragement into the user's ear. From there it just kept growing.
Jimmy's finger became calloused from pressing the black button. I wonder what it would be like, he thought one day, to be able to do more than just listen. What if I could press a button and talk into people's heads and they would think that I was their Advisor? Wow! I could tell them to do anything. If Jimmy's Advisor had been able to eavesdrop on that thought, a bunch of men in black suits would have dragged him off to the hospital for a prefrontal lobotomy within the hour. Luckily, Jimmy kept that speculation to himself.
For the next month Jimmy was the one-eyed man in the kingdom of the blind. It was as if, literally, he could read anyone's mind with the press of a button. And that was the sort of ability that no twelve-year-old boy would have been able to keep to himself. For Jimmy, the day of reckoning came during an argument over whether or not he was old enough to go with the older boys on a ninth-grade ski trip.
“What if he hits a tree and breaks his neck?” Marge demanded.
Hal gave her a pained expression and started to say, “That's the dumbest thing...” until his Advisor cut in: Respect her emotions, respect her, Hal.
“Yes, I understand that there is some risk, and you're a good moth
er for bringing that up. Let's talk about that.”
“Come on, dad! You know that's not what you think!”
“You don't know what I think, Jimmy.”
“Respect her emotions, respect her? What a crock!”
The room went deathly silent. Then a high-pitched whistle filled Jimmy's brain.
Emergency! Emergency! His Advisor's voice echoed and the room began to hum. The last thing Jimmy did before he lost consciousness was shove the little gray cylinder down between the cushions on the couch. When he woke up, he was lying on Dr. Bob's examining table.
“How do you feel?”
Jimmy swayed into a sitting position and looked around, his eyes widening when he caught a glimpse of the black-suited man guarding the door.
“Oh, don't worry about Fred. He's just here to make sure we're not disturbed. Fred, why don't you wait outside while I complete my exam?”
The black-suited man stared blankly as if communing with a higher authority, then, wordlessly, left the room.
“What happened?”
“That's what we're going to find out,” Doctor Bob said as he slipped a chip into a music player.
“Okay, let's check you out,” the machine said while Dr. Bob held his index finger in front of his lips. In the background his recorded voice continued its monologue of “Cough” and “Follow my finger.”
Checking the closed door with a nervous glance, Dr. Bob held up a picture of something that looked like a gray hockey puck with a deep indentation on the top. Doctor Bob lightly tapped the photo and Jimmy shook his head in confusion. Another picture appeared. This one showed a device with a flared end like a mini-flashlight. Again, Jimmy shook his head. The next picture was dead-on and Jimmy nodded.
Dr. Bob turned off the player and announced: “Okay, I'm going to check your Advisor now.” He swung a dinner-plate sized disk on a metal arm against the side of Jimmy's head. He felt an internal snap and his skull seemed suddenly empty. Dr. Bob relaxed and gave Jimmy a relieved smile. In the background the player resumed its fake monologue.
“We don't have much time,” Dr. Bob whispered. “How do you feel about the Advisors?”
“I hate them!” Jimmy whispered.
“If you fight them and get caught, well, it wouldn't be good.”
“I don't care. I want it turned off. I want them all turned off.”
“Being a revolutionary is not an easy life. You know what a revolutionary is, don't you?”
“I know,” Jimmy said, thinking about Alan Wayne in Spy Child Number Three, The Terror From Tomorrow.
“I'm going to fix your Advisor so that you can turn it off with a code phrase. Meet me at the Candy Shack at the mall after school tomorrow. Before you speak to me, say the code phrase and then I'll tell you what happens next. Okay?”
“Okay!” Jimmy agreed in a hoarse whisper.
“I'm going to turn your Advisor back on in a moment. When I do, here's what you have to say.” Doctor Bob took thirty seconds to coach Jimmy in how to explain what had happened, then he reached for the kill unit and paused.
“One last thing. What do you want as your code phrase?”
“Thomas Paine Jefferson,” Jimmy said.
Doctor Bob nodded, reprogrammed Jimmy's Advisor, then pointed at Jimmy's ear and flipped the switch.
“Well, Jimmy, as far as I can tell you're fine. I understand you told your father you knew what he was thinking. How does that work?”
“I figured it out. He's had this book in his closet ... What Women Want or something like that. Whenever he and mom have a ‘discussion’ he starts spouting stuff from that stupid book. It's supposed to keep him from upsetting her.”
“Of course, that explains it.” Doctor Bob opened the door and ushered the black-suited man back inside. “Everything is fine, Fred. I'll send in my report before I leave. Jimmy, this is Mr. Smith. He'll take you home.”
Jimmy followed the black-suited toward the door.
Say thank you to Dr. Bob, Jimmy, his Advisor's suddenly mechanical voice ordered.
“Thanks, Dr. Bob,” Jimmy said, then followed the black-suited man out into perpetually quiet, orderly, polite, well-behaved city. But not for long.
Copyright (c) 2008 David Grace
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
Short Story: INVASION OF THE PATTERN SNATCHERS
by David W. Goldman
Much of history, either biological or cultural, is an arms race. And as knowledge and abilities grow subtler and more sophisticated, so do weapons and defenses....
When he regained consciousness, Surgeon-at-Arms Roald Vik of the 3rd Armored Biomedical Brigade, Affiliated Planets Unified Defense Force, was only moderately worried by his initial view of the room. Unadorned pale-blue ceiling and walls. Institutional, glossy-surfaced armchair. On the wall opposite his bed, a curtain that he assumed covered an observation window. So: a typical jail cell.
But then he noticed the faint stinging scent, like rubbing alcohol—and his bed's railing bore an impressive control panel. Frowning, he sat up and looked over his shoulder. Though he didn't recognize the particular connectors on the wall behind him, in his brief career he'd seen enough monitor and life-support fittings to recognize the overall configuration.
But what sort of hospital bed lacked restraining straps?
Vik's apprehension increased further when he discovered an excruciatingly tender, fist-sized swelling above his right ear. Had he crash-landed?
“Ah, you're awake,” said a woman's voice from somewhere near the curtained window. Vik couldn't see a loudspeaker. But though he still had no idea why he was in a hospital, now the knowledge of his location and mission flooded back to him—for the woman had spoken in Flemish.
A bit over two centuries ago, an Affiliated Planets automated probe had discovered the world of Nieuw Vlaanderen orbiting a star about fifteen light-years from Vik's homeworld, Eiriksson. Like all human colonies, Nieuw Vlaanderen was still recovering from the Collapse; like most in this region, its recovery had lagged Eiriksson's by several generations. By the time of its discovery the planet's leading civilization had regained a technology level averaging late-eighteenth-century Europe—well behind that period in physics and engineering, though significantly ahead in chemistry and biology.
As usual in such cases, after the probe's initial reports had been received and reviewed, a message was sent instructing the probe to release a stealth depopulating agent into the planet's biosphere. The A.P. in its patient conquests sought resources and territory, not opponents; no truly civilized society, surely, would prefer the untidiness and sufferings of war.
But in the century following the agent's release, the probe failed to detect any drop in the local birth-rate. This unprecedented development, so potentially threatening to the A.P.'s longstanding strategy for expansion and regional domination, demanded urgent on-site investigation. And so sub-lieutenant Roald Vik, recently commissioned UDF Surgeon-at-Arms, was crammed into a cold-sleep pod and fired off on a seventy-year voyage to Nieuw Vlaanderen.
He could remember waking in orbit, seven decades of hypno-lessons in the probe's observations—plus copious Earth history of possible relevance, including four dialects of Flemish—still echoing in his head. He remembered reviewing update summaries from the old but still-functioning probe, which in the two hundred years since its original report had identified a number of anomalies that didn't match any previously recorded patterns of post-industrial cultural or technological development.
He'd chosen his first site to investigate. There'd been no crash-landing—he recalled his on-target arrival during an overcast night when neither moon was up. After ensuring that his ship was well camouflaged, he'd walked out of the forest to the nearby village. He could even remember the sickly-looking fern-like plant sitting on the bar beside him as he sipped a beer and struck up a conversation with the bartender.
But then—? Vik touched the swelling above his ear. Had he fallen? Been attacked?
“Would you mind,” asked the woman's voice, “if I opened this curtain?”
"Alstublieft," he replied. Please. He tried to mimic her accent.
Motorized, the curtain slid open to reveal a large pane of glass. In the dimly lit room beyond stood a pale, dark-haired, middle-aged woman in a pastel blouse and white coat.
She leaned toward the glass. “How are you feeling, Mr. Boeykens?”
So she'd seen the identification papers he'd been carrying. He wondered what she made of their vagueness.
“My head, how—?”
“You don't recall? Ah, well that's not surprising—I'm afraid you struck it against a table when you fell. According to our investigator, you tripped over the leg of a chair as you followed him out of the tavern.”
Vik frowned. “Investigator?”
Her eyebrows lifted. “From the provincial Department of Health. Exactly what do you remember?”
“I was drinking witbier ... a man sat beside me....” He struggled unsuccessfully for a clearer image, then shook his head in frustration.
“Please, don't worry. A bit of amnesia is quite common with head injuries.”
Yes, of course, he thought—but how frustrating! What if he had discovered the newcomer's association with the health department, and managed to steer the discussion to an aborted infertility epidemic of nearly two centuries ago? Maybe this “investigator” had already given him the answers that the A.P. required!
“In any case,” the woman continued, “what we really need to learn are some facts about you. Your papers are quite incomplete—we don't know where you're from, how long you've been visiting our province, who may have come into contact with you...”
Vik refocused his attention. He'd taken her for a local physician, but now he wondered. Slowly, he said, “I'm sorry, but I don't understand ... why all of these questions? And why are you standing in another room? I don't even know your name.”
She pursed her lips. “My apologies. I am Dr. Steibs, head of Infectious Diseases for the Department of Health. And you, Mr. Boeykens, are quite the mystery.”
Analog SFF, September 2008 Page 14
