by MacGuffin, WJ; Hanrahan, Gareth; Varney, Allen; Ingber, Greg
“Just the directions to Escalator 13, thank you.”
“How do you know you don’t need ehhhhnt! URINARY TRACT INFECTION MEDICATION have you ever tried ehhhhnt! URINARY TRACT INFECTION MEDICATION maybe you’ll like it!”
Citizens on the ice rink were stopping to look at Clarence with pity and compassion. “Escalator 13, please.”
“If you buy some ehhhhnt! URINARY TRACT INFECTION MEDICATION you will receive a coupon good for 15% off the purchase of ehhhhnt! ANTIFUNGAL CROTCH CREAM on your next visit! Now that’s a great deal!”
Clarence tried to smile at the sympathetic passersby. “The directions? Now?”
The bot’s screen lit up with a map of the store. It looked like a map of the human digestive system, though perhaps that was just on Clarence’s mind. He saw a yellow YOU ARE HERE icon and a red YOUR DESTINATION star, with clearances on the route marked in red, orange, and yellow. “Simply walk ehhhhnt! WEST-NORTH-UP towards ehhhhnt! AISLE G98 pass ehhhhnt! RECREATIONAL PHARMACEUTICALS turn ehhhhnt! LEFT at ehhhhnt! TOENAIL CLIPPING STORAGE and you’ll find ehhhhnt! ESCALATOR 13 ehhhhnt! STRAIGHT ehhhhnt! AHEAD!”
Clarence left as quickly as legally possible. (Mandate PLPM 539.44/c regulated shopper speeds.)
The door under Escalator 13 was labeled Hygiene Supplies—Do Not Enter—Authorized Personnel Only—Danger of Shock—Radiation Hazard—Typhoon Warning—No Egress—Beyond Lies the Wub. Clarence knocked.
The door opened a crack. A high-pitched voice: “What?”
“Hello, I’m here to deliver a box, so if you could just take it, I’ll be on my way.”
“What’s the password?”
“Password?”
“Correct.” The door pushed open. A hand shot out, grabbed him by the jumpsuit, and dragged him inside. The door slammed shut.
The room was cramped and shadowy, lit by a single lantern hanging from a nail. The floor was covered with a strange green carpet, and shelves along one wall held boxes like the one Clarence carried. Three ORANGE citizens stared at him.
“Welcome, initiate,” said the shortest one. “I am Sister Sunrise Seen Through Tall Green Things That Look Like Trees But Are Not, leader of this cell. You may call me Sister Sunrise. The short man behind me is Brother Biting Creature That Builds Paper Nests But Tastes Terrible. The tall man next to Brother Bite is Brother Dark Brown Dirt That Makes A Surprisingly Good Antifungal Crotch Cream. You have the box?”
Clarence nodded slowly, still taking it all in. He suspected this was a bad idea, but perhaps he was only confused. “This isn’t a secret society, is it?”
“Do not worry, brother. You are among fellow lovers of Nature, I assure you. Unfortunately, we must keep our operations confidential, lest Internal Security arrest us all.”
That clarified matters—only melodramatic traitors would use the word lest. “‘Nature’? You mean outside Alpha Complex? The Outdoors stuff?”
The three ORANGE citizens looked at one another. “Yes, Outdoors stuff,” said Brother Dark sarcastically. “Ignorant, but that is permitted. All ignorant at first. Then learn to love Nature.”
“Well, there’s no mandate saying you can’t love the Outdoors, but why would you? It’s not—it’s not indoors!”
Sister Sunrise frowned. “The box, initiate?”
Clarence slowly—reluctantly—surrendered the box. He watched her check the mouse inside, nod approvingly, and place it on the shelf. He felt—what was that emotion? Regret? No mandate covered the transfer of a non-sapient living creature, so Clarence felt—lost. He was sad not to have the creature any more, whatever it was.
“We were told to await a new initiate,” Sister Sunrise said, “a YELLOW citizen who would bring a test subject rescued from the cruel, anti-Nature service firm of BrainBudz. However, this was only a test, not a rite.”
“You mean I did something wrong?”
“No, you did it right.”
“But you said I didn’t do it right.”
“No, I said you didn’t do a rite.”
“So I did a wrong? Mandate CPTM 491.29/j defines the opposite of ‘right’ as ‘wrong.’ Unless you’re referring to Mandate PSPM 229.27/p, which defines the opposite as ‘left.’”
Sister Sunrise sighed. “This has nothing to do with a left.”
“So I did a right?”
“Test, not rite! And you passed.”
“If the test wasn’t right, how did I pass?”
“The test was right, it just wasn’t a rite! Now you undertake the rite to join our secret society.”
“But joining a secret society isn’t a right. It’s not even—right!”
The three Sierra Clubbers huddled. After a few strange hand signs and the occasional stare at Clarence, Sister Sunrise spoke carefully and slowly. “You,” pointing at Clarence, “passed a test. Which means you are—are eligible to—participate? Yes, participate—in a—a ritual activity! yes!—that, upon successful completion, leads to acceptance into our secret society.”
Clarence kept looking at the box. He missed the creature already. “There’s been a mistake. You see, I’m only delivering the box.”
“Exactly.”
“But it was given to me by another YELLOW citizen.”
“As planned.”
“No! I think he was supposed to give it to you.”
“Then how would you have proven your loyalty to Mother Nature?”
“But I don’t want to prove my loyalty to—whatever you said.”
“Then why did you deliver the box?”
“To complete my job!”
“And you have, brother. You have.” The others nodded sagely. “Now to your mission.” She shoved a small case into Clarence’s hands. “Prepare for your rite—er—initiation-related activity—into—” (she paused) “—the Sierra Club!”
“Absolutely not!” said Clarence. “Listen, you received your box with the—well, you got your box. I’m done. The job is finished, I now return to CPU and, if I’m lucky, there’s still time to get an arm-movement measurement job or something. Thank you, it’s been unusual, I appreciate your time, enjoy your little club with your strange boxes and treasonous green carpeting, thank Friend Computer, goodbye.” He turned to leave.
Instantly there appeared, close before his face, a large knife. In the blade Clarence saw his own prominent nose. In the Junior Citizen creche, cruel schoolmates had sometimes taunted his nose as “knife-like,” but now he understood it was nothing like the real thing.
“You think we’re stupid?” asked Brother Bite. “Nature is red in tooth and claw. The Sierra Club isn’t all love and holding hands, dancing in circles to the rhythm of the seasons and weaving flowers in our hair. Although we do that. A lot, in fact. Probably more than we should. But we also know if Friend Computer gets wind of our existence, the minions of Civilization will end the flower weaving and circle dancing. So now this knife will demonstrate another of our skills, fortune-telling. Would you like it to tell your future, brother?”
Clarence tried to nod without bringing his face closer to the knife. He only made his head wobble.
“The knife says you will join the Sierra Club. But first, says the knife, you will take the case Sister Sunrise gave you to this sector’s We Breathe Together TS Atmospheric Recycling Facility. You will enter the plant and open the case inside the Post-Filtration Recirculation room. You will take a picture of yourself doing this. Then you will return here with the empty case and the picture. Only then will you join our ranks.”
“Does the knife know a way I can do this job and, as payment, I get to not join your ranks?”
Brother Bite thought for a moment. The knife slowly drew away. “I can live with that. Besides, Sister Sunrise tells me I shouldn’t listen to knives so much. Remember, open the case very near the post-filtration fans.”
“Just out of idle curiosity, is this substance toxic, corrosive, infectious, narcotic, addictive, or otherwise dangerous as Mandate HPPM 048.48/a through /f defines those terms?”
/> “It is pollen!” Sister Sunrise spoke with rapturous joy. “Mother Nature’s additive, painstakingly collected from the Outdoors. By spreading it throughout the sector in the air vents, we return adulterated and purified air to its natural state. Citizens will realize the fresh smell of the Outdoors is superior to The Computer’s air. They will rise up as one and assert their natural right to gaze at stars, sleep on rocks, and play in mud. The doors will be flung wide, and Alpha Complex will enjoy visits from friendly animals like bears and spruces. Grass will grow in the corridors! Birds will nest in the security cameras! The natural utopia will be realized!”
Clarence had already counted over two dozen prospective mandate violations, but he was outnumbered in a cramped room without Internal Security surveillance. “Yes. Of course. Natural utopia in a box. Shall I go now?”
Brother Bite opened the door. “Be at peace with Nature, brother. If you fail, I will cut you.”
Clarence smiled weakly and left.
This is getting out of hand. Still, a job assigned is a job to be done. I’ll need a secret code of some sort to put this in my personal job log. Wait, that was against mandate ISPM 092.30/m. What about hinting instead of a secret code? No, against ISPM 092.30/h. Omitting it? Against ISPM 092.30/e. Confessing it? Not productive.
Clarence smiled. Of course! Mandate TSTM 773.54/b! “Any task subordinate to a more important task, completed after said important task but responsible in part for the success of said important task, that did not require a credit expenditure of 50 credits or more, or a loss of life of four citizens or more of YELLOW Clearance or lower, or of one citizen of GREEN Clearance or higher, does not need to be recorded on a duty log or treason defense form as long as said subordinate task did not exceed two hours or cross sector boundaries.” Simple.
Satisfied, Clarence hurried out into the Northern Chapstick Aisle currents and, after buying an Almost Salmon-Flavored Yum-Yum bar so the store’s turrets wouldn’t open up on him, he left the store. He noted with approval Team Protozoa was still waiting efficiently behind the statue.
Using his PDC, he found directions to the service firm We Breathe Together TS and made his way there. The huge Technical Services recycling center (“Making lungs happy since a long time ago!”) had so many air ducts piercing the metal walls, it looked like a giant aluminum Mandatory Holiday Gift Exchange Festival tree, minus the real-like leaves.
Before the entrance doors stood one GREEN IntSec officer. He had the GREEN goon’s glassy stare, the usual result of too much time and too little gray matter. He held a laser rifle ready and had a neurowhip secure on his belt. The combination of powerful weaponry and weak mind always intimidated Clarence. Still, a job must be done.
“Greetings, citizen,” said Clarence, intending to project cheer and innocence but just sounding squeaky.
The GREEN goon stared into the undefined distance.
“Yes, well. Um—I need to get inside, please. I’m an efficiency auditor from CPU. I’m here to—check things? Efficiency-wise? See, that’s a question, so it’s not technically a lie under Mandate CPPM 1749.22/b.”
No response. Was this a sculpture? A mannequin? No, the guard was breathing.
“Is there anyone here I can talk to who will, you know, talk back?”
No response.
“Very well, I’m just going to walk closer to the doors. If you approve, friend citizen, don’t respond in any way.” Clarence sidled closer, keeping a wide gap between him and the goon. As he neared the double doors, this required more and stranger contortions. “I’m almost at the door! I’m planning on opening it! If you have a problem, citizen, I’d really appreciate a nonviolent response.”
No response, violent or otherwise.
Clarence took a door handle, gently pushed, and discovered the doors opened outward.
“Okay, I can’t open these doors without touching you, which I really don’t want to do, but Mandate TSPM 083.94/a states that citizens wishing to stand in front, near, or behind doors must remain outside the Specified Door Clearance Radius or one meter, whichever is—”
Suddenly the doors flew open, knocking down Clarence and the GREEN guard. Out walked two YELLOW citizens, each tall, thin, groomed, polished, and jaunty.
“Yes, but won’t the Buyatorium complain?”
“An insightful speculation, Irene-Y, but they’ll have no standing. Remember last month how we mistakenly routed those mutagens into the Small Mammal Research Lab? And how the BrainBudz folks complained about emergent mutations? Those complaints, still current, are BLUE Clearance and therefore supercede any hypothetical Buyatorium complaint, which would be, at best, YELLOW. Perfect, is it not?”
“Oh, Irving-Y! Most perfect!”
“Mind setting Greeny back up?”
“Of course. Um—did we get a Yellowpantsy too?”
The two looked at Clarence. He was sitting with the goon, still rigid, lying across his lap.
“Oh dear. Sorry about that,” said the man. “Didn’t expect anyone to be there! No one comes to visit us, isn’t that right, Irene-Y?”
“We are perennially unvisited.”
The man dragged the GREEN guard off Clarence, propped him up before the doors, and posed his legs and arms. “I’m Irving-Y-LPD-3, by the by. This is my co-worker, Irene-Y-DNF-4.”
“A pleasure, to be sure!” Irene-Y said.
Clarence rose and brushed himself off. “Hello! I’m here for a—job. An inside job. Well, not an inside job, if you take my meaning, but rather a job on the inside. In other words, I need to go inside your air recycling plant.”
“Oh, it’s not ours, is it, Irene-Y?”
“Indeed it is not. This is a Technical Services firm. Irving-Y and I optimize the routing of airborne particulates on behalf of the Housing Preservation and Development & Mind Control firm Mist-Agog HPD.”
“Routing?”
“We measure each area’s likely exposure to unwelcome particulates, then ensure dangerous materials won’t accidentally pollute the air supply of high-clearance trusted citizens.”
“And you do this by—?”
“Designating the particulates for lower-clearance areas.”
Clarence decided to move on. “What’s wrong with your guard?”
“Oh, Greeny?” Irving-Y sighed. “Regrettably, this firm cannot afford a real GREEN guard. Tell him, Irene-Y, how much that would cost.”
“An unheard-of amount!”
“Indeed! And the meager budget here cannot encompass that. Yet the building is mandated to have security so terrorists don’t poison the air supply. Hence, Greeny—an INFRARED drugged to the eyeballs with Vigilant Worker pills. He’ll stand there for the next six hours before he even realizes he exists.”
“I see. But the mandate specifies a GREEN-Clearance citizen.”
“Since he looks like a GREEN, people believe he’s a GREEN. Therefore, people believe we are following the mandate. And if people believe we are following the mandate, then we are.”
“Belief is power,” said Irene-Y.
Clarence found the words beyond comprehension. “I’m going inside now,” he said, “to do my inside job. Have a nice day, praise Friend Computer, you understand I don’t really mean ‘inside job,’ goodbye.” With that, he opened the door (knocking down Greeny again) and went inside.
The We Breathe Together offices looked like any other service firm. INFRARED laborers shuffled along doing their unimportant but menial tasks; RED clerks toiled away on work that, while unimportant, could land them in big trouble; ORANGE supervisors did the same but felt more secure because they could always blame mistakes on a RED; and harried YELLOW middle managers ran from meeting to meeting to fix the mistakes ORANGEs blamed on REDs. Motivational posters covered the walls (Wasting copy toner makes terrorists happy! Do YOU make terrorists happy?). Everyone watched each other to see who actually took the Completely Voluntary Mid-Shift Relaxation Break (Really Take It If You Need It).
After trying to get directions from a p
assing INFRARED citizen—“I like to work!”—Clarence got directions from a passing ORANGE citizen. He walked down six flights of stairs to the deepest recess of the air recycling center. He passed the air filters and found a door labeled Post-Filtration Recirculation.
The door was unlocked. Clarence opened the door and—
NOISEWINDNOISENOISEMORENOISEWINDNOISE
—slammed the door shut. After he caught his breath, he steadied himself and opened the door again.
Some would call the Post-Filtration Recirculation chamber the heart of the air recycling center, but a better word would be “lungs.” A giant fan occupied most of the large circular room. It blasted hurricane winds straight up, making a deafening racket. A low plastic barrier circled the fan; it looked more likely to trip someone into the fan than to keep people out. Above the fan, two dozen child fans propelled air outward to the rest of the sector.
Clarence set the case on the ground next to the plastic barrier and carefully opened it. Inside lay twenty-odd clear plastic sandwich bags. Each held greenish-yellow powder.
He sighed. “A job assigned is a job done.” He pulled a baggie from the case and gingerly opened it. He brought it as close to the plastic barrier as he was comfortable with, then as close as he was uncomfortable with. To put his hand into the air flow would leave him unhanded, so he tossed the baggie over the edge. The bag tore in the 180kph winds, and greenish-yellow pollen quickly reached the upper fans and disappeared into the vents.
Clarence tossed baggies until he ran out. He closed the case, grabbed it, turned to leave, and almost collided with three GREEN Internal Security agents.
One agent trained a laser rifle on him while a second pointed a camera. He wasn’t sure which made him more nervous. The third simply gestured for Clarence to follow. He turned and left the room. Clarence followed quickly. The other two fell in behind him.
They reached the hallway and shut the door. “Yellowpants,” said one, “we are going to perform an impromptu interrogation right here in this hallway. Before we begin, are you familiar with the Good Cop-Bad Cop script? —Excellent! That will save some time. In the role of Bad Cop will be my colleague, Michael-G.”
