PARANOIA A1 The Computer is Your Friend
Page 7
“HAY FEVER”
A “Yellowpants” efficiency auditor in Central Processing Unit, the administrative and managerial service group, finds a laboratory mouse—or vice versa. Life immediately becomes more eventful.
A prequel to PARANOIA novel Y1 Traitor Hangout by WJ MacGuffin, available where you obtained this book.
Hay Fever
WJ MacGuffin
A job assigned is a job done, Clarence-Y-SKL-1 thought as he walked away from the intersection of Loyal Citizens Pedestrian Avenue and the Perpetual Happiness in the Face of Adversity Expressway. For Clarence-Y—one of the YELLOW-Clearance CPU efficiency auditors often rudely called “Yellowpants”—the motto was a way of life. And sometimes it took an unassigned job to get the assignment done.
Take the intersection. He’d needed to cross the PHITFOA Expressway to reach his assigned job, but there was no pedestrian walkway. Autocars zooming by at 100kph—citizens judging whether to risk death here, or be late to their job (and risk death there)—clearly the situation required expert attention.
So, as an unassigned job, Clarence solved the problem. He organized the crowd into teams of six, rotated one team as spotters to identify six-second Relative Safety Gaps in oncoming traffic, and sequenced the rest for sprints during identified RSG intervals. This adhered to the letter of Mandates HPPM 332.19/b, TSTM 994.39/a, and CPPM 338.21/f—and even, in the last case, arguably, its spirit. Even now, six RED-Clearance pedestrians were dashing across in the close formation he’d implemented. Their form was ragged, possibly because of wind shear from passing truckbots, but he had no time for fine tuning.
He arrived at the GHJ Sector Buyatorium and smiled. The trip from the Merit-N-Trust Work Assignment center had taken 9 minutes 14 seconds, an improvement of nearly 30 seconds over his estimate. A large atrium connected several corridors to the Buyatorium entrance. Several once-comfortable benches lined the walls, and a sculpture of “Big” Bob-Y himself dominated the center. (The sculptor, genuinely talented in the recycled-plastic medium, had really caught the weightiness of the jowls and extra chins.) Many citizens of YELLOW Clearance and lower wandered in and out of the store.
Troubleshooter Team Protozoan-228 had called Clarence here to help. He never liked helping Troubleshooters. It was like lecturing to citizens who overdosed on Helpful Citizen pills: You talk and talk, but nothing sinks in. Plus, Troubleshooters tended to shoot lots of things, sometimes even themselves.
Still, he had a job to do. His record was spotless so far. Every task ever assigned to him was complete, and he wasn’t about to let that record slip. It was a point of honor: A job assigned is a job done.
He had no trouble spotting them: three citizens in red jumpsuits, carrying red laser pistols, standing around with red faces arguing. Beside them, two ashy pairs of boots, still smoking. Troubleshooters, all right.
In these situations Clarence always considered it prudent to determine the situation prior to contact. He made sure his thin, wavy hair was neat, his small teeth were clean, and his nose was … well, there was nothing he could do about that. As for his regulation yellow jumpsuit, sagging on his tall, thin frame—at least it fit better than Troubleshooter reflec.
“Okay, when the guy arrives,” said the tall, skinny Hygiene Officer, “we spring the trap.”
“Why, man?” The Happiness Officer had a ponytail and a dazed look. “Why do we need to be all hostile and stuff?”
“Were you awake in there?” The Equipment Guy, stocky and unibrowed, waved the team’s requisition forms. “The Buyatorium needs a signature from a YELLOW citizen.”
“I thought our team leader was YELLOW, man?”
“One or more of us shot him repeatedly, remember? And, thanks to the laser shots, his suit is ruined. We can’t use it. So—pay attention—we requested this guy so we can steal his uniform, impersonate YELLOW Clearance, get our gear, and finally get started on our mission before Friend Computer has us all shot! Is any of that sinking in?”
Ponytail stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. “Oh, I get it!” Pause. “No I don’t. Man, I need to pop more mimomemezine! And maybe some focusol. Might as well take a tab of oxyflucocillin to keep the ride smooth.” He started rustling through his pockets and eating everything he found.
Tall & Skinny reached for his pistol, but froze as Clarence approached.
“Troubleshooters! You requested an efficiency auditor. I take it you’d like help to improve your trap?”
The Troubleshooters stared. No one moved. No one spoke.
Clarence stifled a sigh. “Can you describe the trap?”
Tall & Skinny looked at his team. “Our trap is for—a traitor, of course, and not an innocent citizen we’re luring here for any nefarious reason, rest assured!”
“Yes, I know.” Clarence resorted to remedial education. “You find traitors—that’s your job. As an efficiency auditor for the Central Processing Unit service group, my job is to help you, and all citizens of Alpha Complex, become more efficient at your jobs.” Because he was ahead of schedule, he couldn’t resist a bit of boasting. “Why, just last week, I helped a team of Technical Services workers improve their walking efficiency by 17 percent! Naturally, pedometers that shock the user below a certain speed will be costly in the short run, but over time they’ll save hundreds of hours. Workers do their repairs more quickly, waste less time, and remain extremely alert. CPU is even considering making a new mandate based on my recommendation. Quite the honor!” He smiled modestly. “But to business. What’s your plan for entrapping the traitor?”
“It’s simple, man,” said Ponytail. “We call for a Yellowparrghmyface!”
“Oops,” said Tall & Skinny. “I must have had a muscle spasm that made me hit you. Sorry.” He pointed at the statue of “Big” Bob-Y. “Our trap was—is!—simple. Hide behind the statue, and when the traitor arrived—arrives!—we jump him.”
“Ah, but that’s not a trap. Mandate ISPM 294.55/b defines a ‘trap’ as an assemblage requiring a device. What you are planning is an ambush. Read Mandate ISPM 294.55/c. If you want to use a trap, you need a device of some kind.” Clarence looked around the atrium. “Well, we could use a bench, I suppose. Mandate HPPM 7493.12/a allows for repurposing of relaxation devices for Troubleshooter use, provided the device in question is not harmed or is replaced if harmed, and there are plenty of benches in this atrium.”
Tall and Skinny stared. “Why do you have those mandates memorized?”
“I memorize all mandates. They bring order to Alpha Complex. Can’t decide what to wear in the morning? There’s a mandate for that. Hot Fun or Cold Fun for dessert? There’s a mandate. No matter the situation, a mandate defines the legal choice, and the legal choice is always the best choice. Mandates practically make thinking obsolete!”
“But that would be— I mean—there must be thousands of mandates!”
“I never counted. Let’s use that bench.” Clarence walked over to a bench where two INFRARED citizens sat in docile bliss. “You two need to find another bench, please. We need this one.”
The INFRAREDs smiled. “We like to work!”
“That’s good to hear. Just try another bench.”
“We like to work!”
INFRARED citizens: medicated, happy, pliable, and desperately inefficient. “As a YELLOW-Clearance citizen, I am assigning you new work. Please stand and walk away from the bench.”
“We like to work!” They stood and walked in random directions.
Clarence pushed the bench over to the fountain. “How about this? Your team hides behind the statue, as before, only you get the traitor to sit down on this bench. Using the bench turns your ambush into a trap, meeting your stated requirements. Plus, it’s difficult for the target traitor to run while he or she is sitting. This means less effort on your team’s part, thereby improving trap efficiency.”
The Troubleshooter team stood in INFRARED-like bewilderment. Troubleshooters—you talk and talk, but nothing sinks in. “Attend, please. Now, we j
ust need some bait; something to make the traitor want to sit with his back to the statue and your team. What would a traitor want?”
Ponytail raised his hand. “What about some illegal drugs like Purple Haze or Funky Lukewarm Medina? I even have some Fluffernut tabs.”
“Excellent idea, citizen. Very well, put the illegal drugs—”
“Wait!” The Equipment Guy raised his laser. “How did he get the illegal drugs? Isn’t that treason? Can I shoot him now?”
Clarence explained slowly and clearly: “Obviously he had them for the trap. Why else would he have them?”
Ponytail offered, “To take them so you can smell color and hear your hair growing and journey to the Lands of the Banana King?”
“Ha!” Clarence laughed dutifully. “An enjoyable joke. There’s a reason Mandate HPTM 332.18/e tells us to make jokes to lighten the mood. Ah, mandates! Is there anything you cannot do? Now, if you’ll please place the illegal drugs on the bench. —Fine. Well, everyone, go hide and wait for your traitor to arrive. Hurry now, before he or she gets here.”
After an awkward moment the team walked around the statue and crouched down.
Clarence inspected the trap with satisfaction. “Well, that’s done.” He pulled his Personal Digital Companion from a jumpsuit pocket and presented it to Tall & Skinny. “I just need your signature on this digital form here, here, and here, and initials here and here. Also, your name, clearance, height, any registered mutations, any unregistered mutations, and a tongue print. Be sure to dry your tongue thoroughly before applying the print or it won’t scan well.”
“Tongue print?”
“Yes indeed.” Clarence held out the PDC.
“Um … shouldn’t that be signed by the Team Leader?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, I’m only acting Team Leader, you see. The real Team Leader is over there.” He pointed to a YELLOW-Clearance figure lying prone on the other side of the atrium.
“Really? Very well, if you’ll excuse me. Good luck with your trap.” Clarence nodded and left them to their duty.
People walked past the unmoving figure without a glance. In Alpha Complex, curiosity about a body often draws suspicion, much like curiosity about anything else.
“Excuse me, Team Leader? I’m afraid sleeping on the floor of a public area is against Mandate HPPM 592.72/k, ‘No citizen of YELLOW Clearance or lower shall sleep, nap (power), nap (cat), nap (other), or rest his/her eyes on the floor of a public area so as to avoid becoming a tripping hazard or, in the case of autocar traffic, an undesignated speed bump.’”
The Team Leader moaned softly. His yellow jumpsuit showed charred circles on the back and side. He clutched a small brown box.
“And I don’t mean to be picky, but—your jumpsuit is burned, which is against Mandate PLPM 897.13/a, ‘Citizens shall maintain a standard-issue jumpsuit free from rips, tears, burns, mustard stains, and radiation, unless they have submitted PLC Form 10093-EZ or PLC Form 10093 Standard prior to receiving the mark in question.’ Do you need help getting into the store for a new jumpsuit?”
“You.” The man spoke in a whispery voice. “Take this.” He pushed the small box vaguely towards Clarence.
“Thank you, but I’d rather not. I just need you to sign my form so I can complete my job.”
The man pushed the box closer. “Deliver it to Escalator 13 in the Buyatorium. Door marked Hygiene Storage.”
Clarence looked at the box. It was a little larger than his hand, made of brown cardboard with a few holes poked in the sides, and wrapped with a yellow rubber band. On the lid were stenciled a Research & Design service firm logo—BrainBudz—and Lab 14B. “Please, just sign here.” He brought his PDC right in front of the team leader’s face. “And here and here, and initial here and here, and lick here, and I’ll be on my way.”
“Take the box.”
“Sign the form.”
The man did not respond, and Clarence worried he had died. Getting a signature from a dead man, though not always impossible, was unpleasant.
But the Team Leader coughed and looked up. “If I sign your form, you deliver the box.”
Clarence sighed. I should have seen this coming. Always one more thing to be done. Still, it would finish the job. It would entail another job, but … If I do that, that’s two jobs done. My record gets longer. “Fine, as you like. Sign the form, and I’ll take the box to the Hygiene Storage room under Buyatorium Escalator 13.”
The team leader took the PDC. He entered the data while lying on his back, even pressing a dry tongue to the PDC for a scan. He handed it back to Clarence and died.
Clarence picked up the box and started walking towards the Buyatorium, but then he stopped and sat down on a nearby bench. He never considered throwing the box away; having agreed to a job, he would follow through. True, he was basically coerced, but a job is a job and that’s that.
However, nothing said he couldn’t look in the box.
Clarence slid the yellow rubber band farther down the box, lifted the lid, and squinted.
Inside was a small white mouse. It stared back at him.
He quickly shut the box and looked around. No one saw. He looked again, just to make sure it wasn’t a dream or side effect of the mandatory drugs he took each morning.
The mouse squeaked.
He shut the lid again. He looked around again. Miraculously, no one seemed interested in a CPU efficiency auditor sitting on a bench with a small cardboard box. If only they knew it contained a creature from Outdoors—the infamous no-ceiling realm outside Alpha Complex filled with radiation, feral trees, and giant mutant cockroaches—right-thinking citizens would flee in terror.
“Then why am I not fleeing in terror?” he asked himself. This was the first nonhuman living thing he’d ever seen. Yet he felt curious, even excited. After making doubly sure no one was looking, he opened the lid again. He smiled as he watched the mouse smell the air. It was so cute you couldn’t help gazing at it....
The Equipment Guy said, “You’re sitting on the wrong bench!”
“What?” Clarence quickly closed the box.
“You’ve been here five minutes! You should be on the one near the statue, the one with the illegal drugs on it. Now either sit there or give us time for a bathroom break!”
“Five minutes?”
A voice over the atrium’s PA system: “Citizen Clarence-Y-SKL-1! This is Internal Security. We’ve been monitoring you as you stared at that box. Are you okay?”
The Troubleshooter slowly backed away from Clarence, who hid the box behind his back and forced a smile. “Yes! Perfectly okay! Praise Friend Computer!”
“What is in that box?”
Clarence began to sweat. “It’s—something given to me by a Troubleshooter. To help finish my assigned job.”
“Is the gift treasonous?”
His mouth had gone dry. He didn’t want to lie. He was bad at lying. But he couldn’t tell about the little mouse. What would happen to it? “For RED Clearance and below, yes.” That was technically correct. It was also treasonous for all clearances through at least BLUE, if not INDIGO.
“Then you are loitering. You have been fined 10 credits. Go about your business. That is all.”
“Yes, friend! Thank The Computer!” He got up, so fast he almost collided with the Equipment Guy, and walked at speed into the Buyatorium. He passed the others on Team Protozoa; they were watching him rather than the trap. He sighed. Troubleshooters—you talk and talk....
The “Big” in “Big” Bob-Y’s Buyatorium refers to the founder’s nickname, but most people believe it indicates the size of the store. Buyatoria are larger than military bases and in certain respects deadlier, especially in the Sporting Goods department. Citizens don’t just shop there; they mount expeditions.
Clarence walked past the anti-shoplifting machine-gun nests, the heavily-drugged INFRARED greeter (“Welcome to the Buyatorium where everything is on sale except for the products that are on Super Sale please
enjoy your stay remember the one-item purchase minimum”), and the myriad of registers and checkout lines to reach the Buyatorium Main Aisle. Wide as an autocar racetrack, it was packed with citizens (mostly REDs and ORANGEs) pushing carts, carrying items, or lying trampled underfoot.
Clarence asked loudly, “Does anyone know where I can find a directorybot?” The shoppers ignored him. They focused on staying upright, so their names wouldn’t be engraved on the Buyatorium Unknown Shopper Memorial Wall.
Then he spotted it. The bot, a long rectangular screen mounted on eight multi-jointed legs, clung upside-down above the Ice Rink.
Breathing deep and holding the box close, Clarence plunged into the Main Aisle. The current carried him toward the Mandatorywear department where, after stopping off and circling through Bot Modding, he joined a counter-current to the Self Defense Boutique. Ignoring the RED sales teams, who all but demanded he purchase a polkadot pepper spray gun with matching carrying case, he made his way through Spywear, tacked left and joined another current up to the smaller Upper Equatorial Aisle, where he escaped into Malfeasance Control Devices. A quick lateral through Food Recycling, the Hair Salon, the Spleen Salon, and the Customer Service Waystation and First Aid Clinic brought him at last to the Ice Rink.
“Directorybot! I need assistance!”
The directorybot detached from the ceiling, flipped in midair, and landed atop a RED citizen taking off his skates. The RED panicked and ran onto the ice, where he fell and was fined for lacking skates per Mandate HPPM 772.34/m.
“Hello, citizen!” The directorybot’s screen flashed an image of a heroic plastic Troubleshooter. “Would you like to be directed to ehhhhnt! COLLECTIBLE TROUBLESHOOTER FIGURINES.”
“No.” Clarence winced. “Where is Escalator 13, please?”
“Certainly! What is your security clearance?”
“YELLOW.”
“Yes, citizen! While I’m accessing those directions, would you like to know about our incredible sale on ehhhhnt! URINARY TRACT INFECTION MEDICATION it’s great for citizens of YELLOW Clearance!”