by MacGuffin, WJ; Hanrahan, Gareth; Varney, Allen; Ingber, Greg
To evade a fatal reassignment as reactor shielding, Jerome volunteers for The Computer’s elite service unit. Troubleshooters heroically defend Alpha Complex from traitors. Too bad Troubleshooters are often traitors themselves.
If Jerome’s teammates knew the equipment they seek is right in his pocket, they’d kill him. His experimental Augmented Reality goggles reveal the truth behind everything—and he’s more confused than ever.
1: Jerome-G’s quarters
Jerome-G suspected his bed was plotting against him.
As a GREEN-Clearance citizen, he was a junior executive, with quarters to match. His rickety YELLOW-Clearance bunk bed had been upgraded to a sleeping tube, a plastic coffin built into the wall of his cramped apartment. The mattress squelched when he lay on it, supposedly reconfiguring itself to maximize his comfort and improve his posture. In fact it frisked him for concealed items as he slept, insinuating memory-foam cilia into every crack. Overhead, an aerosol drug dispenser fired Wakey-Wakey gas in the morningcycle and Sleepy-Sleep gas at 23:00. A camera watched as he slept. Jerome had little problem with that; if someone wanted to watch a short, spindle-thin, inconspicuous nebbish lying prone for seven hours, fine. What bothered him was the raised pillow—he suspected it hid a microphone so They could listen to him talking in his sleep.
Soon after Celeste-B promoted Jerome to GREEN, he’d discovered he could remove one of the plastic panels that lined the inner surface of the sleeping tube, revealing a convenient little hollow. Better, if he turned on his side and curled up like a fetus in a clone tank, he could shield the hollow from the camera. He used the hollow to store his notes. But in the last few weeks he’d been struck by a worrying thought—what if the bed’s designers knew he’d use the hollow to hide treasonous material? Had they deliberately created that space in the bed, an all-too-convenient hiding place that could be searched for contraband and seditious propaganda when the supposedly trusted GREEN official was away at work? Had he fallen into their trap?
Even if Internal Security broke in and found the notes, Jerome told himself, everything’s in code.
Well, almost everything—the earliest notes, the ones Jerome wrote to himself when he was a Junior Citizen or an INFRARED, were plaintext. Back then, his biggest worry wasn’t detection by Internal Security, but having his memories erased. The Computer dictated heavy medication for lower-clearance citizens, so everyone below ORANGE existed in a blissed-out haze. Back then, he wrote notes to himself to preserve those moments of blazing insight that seemed to come only to him.
“THE COMPUTER IS NOT MY FRIEND” was the very first note, written in childish block capitals on the back of a Combat Gum wrapper. Another was “Secret society agendas blind you to the true conspiracy,” scribbled in a panic after one of Jerome’s co-workers in the Food Vats tried to recruit him into the Sierra Club by showing him a cockroach. He’d refused—even back then, as an INFRARED, he’d worked out that Alpha Complex was not the entire world, that there was something outside the endless corridors, offices, factories, cafeterias, reactors, and confession booths of The Computer’s underground utopia. Alpha Complex was not the world, but the great secret had to be somewhere within these walls. Why else was everyone here?
“The Deluded seek to defy the System, but their Defiance is simply Compliance with the Metasystem.” That note dated from soon after he was promoted out of the Food Vats into an office job and RED Clearance. At each clearance, the drug regimen became more subtle, and you could think more clearly. For Jerome—rather, Jerome-R—RED meant a series of pretentious, sonorous observations with Far Too Many Capitals. He’d realized pretty much everyone else was a believer in one deluded secret society or another—no one was perfectly loyal to The Computer’s regime—but everyone’s treasons, pulling this way and that, pulled the whole system into an equilibrium born of a hundred conflicting conspiracies—all designed, he was convinced, to distract people like him from the true manipulators behind the scenes. Or, as he started writing it at that time, the Great Conspiracy.
Celeste spotted his talent and pulled him up through the ranks. She would have told him keeping these notes, even coded notes, was an unacceptable risk. Sentimentality would get him killed.
He stuffed the notes back into the hollow and closed it tight. Perhaps, if they were found, he could claim someone broke into his quarters and planted the notes. Or maybe he should plant fake notes among the real ones, to throw them off the scent—but then, if he got brainscrubbed, would he be able to tell which were fake and which were real? Celeste would have told him to trust his instincts, but—
The alarm squealed on his Personal Digital Companion, jolting him out of his reverie. He opened the sleeping tube and padded four steps across the apartment to the Refresh-O-Matic. In its parabolic camera lens his nose looked even bigger, his weak chin weaker, his receding hairline recedier than reality. A tiny readout blinked 05:46. He thumbed the CoffeeLyke button.
ATTENTION, CITIZEN JEROME-G-NSO-1. THIS IS YOUR FRIEND, THE COMPUTER.
The Computer’s voice filled the whole room with electric-honey tones, precisely calibrated to reassure and to inspire.
“Friend Computer!” In the darkness Jerome-G snapped to attention. He looked up at the security camera above the door. The Computer controlled every aspect of life in Alpha Complex.
IT IS 05:47 HOURS, CITIZEN. YOUR ASSIGNED WAKE-UP TIME IS 06:00. WHY ARE YOU AWAKE?
Claiming insomnia meant a battery of psychological tests and medication. Telling the truth would get him killed. A lie bubbled up instinctively.
“Thank you for your concern, Friend Computer. I’m happy to report I had an idea related to my assigned work duties while sleeping, and wanted to write down the insight.”
YOUR SHIFT AT THREAT OBFUSCATION DOES NOT BEGIN UNTIL 07:30 HOURS, CITIZEN. IN THE FUTURE, RESTRICT SPONTANEOUS IDEAS TO YOUR ASSIGNED WORK SHIFT TIMES.
“Yes, Friend Computer.”
FAILURE TO DO SO IMPEDES WORKFLOW. UNREGISTERED CREATIVITY IS A CLEAR INDICATOR OF SEDITION. RISING BEFORE YOUR ASSIGNED WAKE-UP TIME RESULTS IN FATIGUE. YOUR WAKEY-WAKEY AND SLEEPY-SLEEP DOSAGES WILL BE ADJUSTED ACCORDINGLY.
“Thank you, Friend Computer.”
HAVE A GOOD DAYCYCLE, CITIZEN, STARTING IN 12 MINUTES.
The CoffeeLyke dispenser disgorged a brownish slurry of hot liquid and stringy half-dissolved nodules of freeze-dried chemical gunk. It tasted marginally worse than it looked, but it shook Jerome’s brain to full wakefulness. It also caused heart palpitations and liver scarring. Everyone in Alpha Complex was assigned five or more clone replacement bodies, and rumor claimed the unhealthy side effects of CoffeeLyke and other FunFoods accounted for a good 20% of all required replacements.
Citizen-on-citizen violence accounted for another 35%. That statistic wandered nervously around Jerome’s mind as the doorbell rang.
Outside, the corridor was still dark, lit only by green floor stripes and the flashing LEDs of scrubots as they swept for litter and bloodstains. Three shadowy figures crammed into the doorway of Jerome’s apartment, out of sight of the hallway cameras. When Jerome opened the door, they tumbled in.
They called themselves RED Roy, ORANGE Roy, and YELLOW Roy—obviously fake names, although Jerome suspected ORANGE Roy was stupid enough to use his real name. They worked in some low-clearance manual labor section that required hulking muscles and limited social skills. Each of them wore a tool belt with pliers, vices, power drills, and spiky metal bits that would make an Internal Security Information Volunteering Enhancer jealous. All three belonged to the secret society Free Enterprise.
Jerome appreciated Free Enterprise. That conspiracy—that mafia—ran the underground economy of Alpha Complex. They could get you anything for the right price, or—if you let your guard down—they could get the right price for your possessions and internal organs. Though he suspected the secret masters of Free Enterprise had a higher purpose, low-rank thugs—like Roy-R, Roy-O and Roy-Y—were easily manipulated with the promise of
cash. It was absurd—as if mere money meant anything in a controlled economy—but they were useful to Jerome, and GREEN Clearance conferred a good salary.
“Have you got it?” he asked.
The Roys grinned at him. Something was wrong. They were too confident. He wished he’d taken his Computer-issue laser pistol to bed with him, instead of leaving it hanging on the wall beside the door, on the wrong side of the three increasingly-intimidating thugs.
“We got it,” said Roy-R.
“We’re reliable,” said Roy-O.
“But the deal’s off,” said Roy-Y.
To emphasize the point, Roy-R reached out and with one meaty finger pushed Jerome’s CoffeeLyke cup off the countertop. The heatproof plastic cup bounced off the heatproof plastic floor and splashed hot liquid over Jerome’s distinctly non-heatproof shin. He yelped and fell back against the bed.
“No deal means no money for you,” he said, “and my superiors won’t be happy with this.” The superiors were a lie; Jerome had hired the three Roys himself. For protection, he’d played the middleman, hiring the trio on behalf of some sinister mastermind with significant firepower and anger management issues. If the three Roys were willing to break the deal, then either someone else was leaning on them or they’d found a way to make much more money than Jerome paid.
“There’s a new deal.” Roy-Y kicked the CoffeeLyke cup across the room.
“A better deal,” Roy-O added.
“Hurry up,” said Roy-R, checking the time. “I wanna beat the rush to the cafeteria.”
Roy-Y loomed over Jerome. He smiled. “You work in Threat Obfuscation.”
Jerome made a noncommittal spasm of his shoulders and neck, the nonverbal equivalent of you might very well think that but I couldn’t possibly comment.
“We want the files for any upcoming threats to public safety,” Roy-Y continued. “Radiation leaks, chemical spills, fungal blooms, mutie outbreaks—that kind of stuff.”
Roy-O added, “Also, any shortages, ration decreases, production shortfalls and stuff.”
Roy-R didn’t say anything. He’d found a packet of CruncheeTym Soy-Based Chips in Jerome’s locker and was munching them in a threatening fashion, as if to say See this chip? This chip is you if you don’t do what we say. We’re going to eat you messily and maybe choke on you, ahem, excuse me.
“And once you’ve got those files, let me guess.” Jerome tried to look calm, smug, protected. “You’ll start selling stuff on the black market that feeds into these fears. The Computer announces a chemical spill, and hey, you’ve already got ten thousand gasmasks and chem-resistant pairs of boots in a warehouse ready to sell. That sort of stuff?”
Roy-Y snapped “Never you mind!” at the same moment Roy-O said “Exactly!” They scowled at each other.
“Those files are kept in my boss’s office.” Jerome opted for a policy of cautious honesty. “Getting them won’t be easy. I might be able to get what you’re looking for, but it’ll take a couple of days. I—”
Suddenly he was on the floor. The back of his head smashed painfully into the tiles as Roy-R grabbed his ankles and pulled. Roy-O knelt heavily on his left hand, crushing the fingers. Roy-Y put his foot on Jerome’s chest and leaned down, presenting an unpleasant close-up of his flaring nostrils.
“No. You’ll get those files today. We’ll be back here at lunch, hear me? And if those files ain’t here then, well -”
“He means we’ll hurt you with our power tools,” Roy-O said. “Like, we’ll cut toes off, or drill you with our drills. Or put bits of you in the vise.”
“And then close the vise,” Roy-R added. “I don’t think we should do the toe thing. It turns my stomach.”
Roy-O nodded. “Okay, then just the drills. We’ll drill you with the power drills, and we’ll hurt you with the vise, but—” He lowered his voice to a intimidating growl. “—we’ll leave your toes intact.”
Roy-Y stared. “Did you two miss the Threats and Intimidation seminar at the last general meeting? They did a whole section on letting the victim’s imagination fill in the details. Way more effective.”
Roy-O hurled himself at Jerome, grabbed his collar, and hissed, “Forget what I just said! We’re going to hurt you in extremely non-specific ways! They may—or may not—involve power tools!”
“But no toes!” Roy-R’s face turned a shade of green several levels about his clearance.
“Probably kneecaps then, if that works for everyone!” Roy-O showed murderous rage and a talent for consensus-building.
“And what if I just report you all to Internal Security?” Jerome asked—a question from the floor.
Roy-Y had obviously rehearsed his answer. “Then we’ll tell IntSec the high-and-mighty GREEN executive was looking for the secret location of the Humanist meeting. IntSec doesn’t bother us. We just do grievous bodily harm and smuggling and extortion. But wanting to join the Humanists? That’s treason, big treason. You report us—they just kick the Hot Fun out of us. We report you—you’re terminated.”
They kicked him once each, for emphasis, then stomped out.
Jerome pulled himself onto the bed and slumped back on his intrusive mattress. He had no intention of joining the Humanists; he needed that meeting location to keep tabs on Celeste’s allies. But Internal Security wouldn’t buy that as an excuse. The Computer’s inquisitors were unlikely to be moved by a plea of I was only committing treason because I suspect Celeste’s Humanist allies are targeting me for assassination after I terminated her. Of course, The Computer’s inquisitors weren’t moved by any plea. They worked off an interrogation script derived from telemarketing, and it had no branches involving mercy or mitigating circumstances. Reporting the Roys to IntSec had been a bluff, and they’d called it.
He had to get the files.
The files were in Peter-B’s office.
And Peter-B was the one citizen Jerome could never beat.
—————
TWELVE YEARCYCLES AGO....
Jerome-NSO—INFRAREDs didn’t get clearance initials—sat in the best holding cell ever. He wasn’t quite sure why this particular cell was the most wonderful place in all Alpha Complex, but it sure was. The dim light, the decaying, crumbling walls, the hard bed, the security camera, and most of all the pungent stench—everything he saw or smelled flooded his brain with absolute happiness.
Or maybe that was the drugs. They had given him quite a lot of drugs.
He wracked his brains for memories that hadn’t turned to merry sludge. Something about a riot. He vaguely remembered a riot. He even remembered doing something to start it.
“You told your barracks-mates there was free Bouncy Bubble Beverage in the HPD&MC admin section,” said a wobbly hazy figure. Looking at wobbly hazy figures was fun! Fun made him happy. He giggled.
“And when they smashed the door down, you sneaked off and tried to break into the secure files,” Wobbly Hazy Figure continued. Concentrating really really hard, he thought Wobbly Hazy Figure might be a woman wearing orange. He reached back as far as he could in his memory, and remembered the last thing Wobbly Hazy Figure said. It was an accusation! Wobbly Hazy Internal Security!
Somewhere under the fuzzy goop of the drugs was his cleverness. He could get out of this one. Getting out of things made him happy.
“I didn’t sneak off and try to break into the secure files.” There. That would do it. Being so happy made him clever. No, other way. Being so happy made him clever. Wait. One more time. Being so—clever! Made him clev- happy! That was it! He was happy that he was happy. He was so happy he shared his cleverness with Wobbly Hazy Figure.
“That was a lie! I did sneak off. I did break into the secure files.” He giggled again. Confession was fun.
“Why did you do that?” asked Wobbly Hazy Figure softly.
He frowned. There was a Reason. A really big capital-letter Reason. He’d arranged the riot, gotten his barracksmates hooked on Bouncy Bubble Beverage, spied on the higher-clearance citizens for week
s because of the Reason. The Reason made him more than happy, it was Important.
“To find out the truth,” he admitted. “Are you going to terminate me?”
Wobbly Hazy Figure wobbled. “I’m not Internal Security, Jerome. I’m a friend.”
He smiled again. Having a friend made him happy.
2: Conformity Is Fun Multifunctional Public Space
One of Jerome-G’s articles of faith, recorded on a scrap of paper hidden in his sleeping tube, was that the Great Conspiracy manipulated everyone in Alpha Complex by playing on their delusions. Everyone danced when it pulled their invisible strings. For years, Jerome had survived by pulling those strings himself, becoming a parasite on the vast organization whose existence he alone could perceive. Everyone else in Alpha Complex had bought into a false reality that blinded them to the Conspiracy. Innocent citizens loyal to The Computer’s regime believed Alpha Complex existed to protect them from the threat of Communism. Pull the strings marked ‘appeal to patriotism’ or ‘fear of Commies’ and they jumped. If he tried to speak the truth, the Conspiracy, through its Internal Security stooges, would brand him a traitor and terminate him. Yet he had to make people understand. He had to show them something they couldn’t ignore, some absolute proof.
Other secret societies and beliefs were just distractions. The Great Conspiracy hid behind a thousand masks, concealing itself with lesser false conspiracies. People like the Free Enterprisers believed the whole system was just a money-making scam; their metaphorical strings were labeled “greed” and “profit.” The religious nuts who thought The Computer was a god would never look to see who was really running The Computer. The ambitious lickspittles who thought the High Programmers were in charge dismissed the power and reach of the various secret societies that had infiltrated all of Alpha Complex. The rebels and anarchists who fought the system were really just puppets of a different kind, one hand of the great conspiracy rebelling against the other so that neither hand felt the strings connecting it to the third hand that actually pulled...
