PARANOIA A1 The Computer is Your Friend
Page 17
Hayden-B made a note on his PDC data tablet. Jerome felt a bead of sweat well up on his right shoulder blade and run down his back.
The VIOLET executive grew visibly impatient. “Get on with it, Hayden-B. I’ve got a meeting in five.”
Hayden-B leapt to his feet and barked a series of questions: “Have you ever deliberately neglected to obfuscate known threats? Have you ever passed information to any person or persons not cleared to receive said information? Are you now or have you ever been a member of any illegal society, group, assembly, or conspiracy against The Computer’s regime? Have you ever received bribes, gifts, favors, or other considerations in exchange for deliberate manipulation or misuse of secure threat-related data, obfuscated or non-obfuscated? Are you loyal to The Computer? Have you ever embedded overt or subliminal signals in your obfuscated threats that could be interpreted as seditious propaganda and/or encoded messages? Have you ever deliberately substituted material from other sources for approved obfuscatory disinformation? Failure to answer any or all of these questions will result in termination.” Fragments of red-flecked spittle sprayed from Hayden’s mouth.
“No to all of them, apart from the one about being loyal to The Computer.” Jerome turned to Peter. “What’s going on?”
“We’re under suspicion of failure to obfuscate.”
“Friends, I’ve always carried out my duties diligently. If you check my record—”
“We know your record,” said the VIOLET. Jerome felt more sweat drops forming.
Peter mopped his unspacious brow. “Jerome-G, you haven’t done anything treasonous, have you? During work hours, that is—I don’t care if you’re treasonous on your own time.” He made a sickly smile at the teleconferencing monitor.
“No, Peter-B, I have not.”
“Come on, Jerome-G, if you’ve done anything wrong, you should confess. I’m sure it’ll only be a slap on the wrist or a fine or—”
“Termination,” said Hayden-B.
“—Or a little termination, but it’ll be over quickly. They’re really efficient about it these days.”
Jerome understood. It’s not just me. The whole department is up against the wall.
“I’m sorry, friends, I can’t think of anything relevant.”
The VIOLET executive scowled and made a signal.
“I think we’ve heard enough,” Hayden-B said in the same tone of voice one might use to say “Have you any last words?”
“Wait!” said Peter. “Jerome-G, I—I order you to report to the confession booth! Officer, I’m sure, given time to reflect, Jerome-G will think of something to confess to you.”
Hayden shrugged and tapped a button on his PDC.
Jerome made a final plea. “Peter-B, naturally I love spending time with our friend The Computer, but I insist I have no knowledge of treasonous activity. In fact, if you’d just let me borrow that threat data folder, I’m sure I can prove my diligent obfuscation.”
They ignored him. The door opened, and that same rough hand gripped Jerome’s shoulder.
“Escort Citizen Jerome-G to the nearest confession booth,” said Hayden-B, “and ensure he confesses.”
The GREEN goon yanked Jerome out of the office.
4: Confession booth
HELLO, CITIZEN. WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONFESS YOUR TREASON?
The confession booth was a lot smaller on the inside. It had room for just a single narrow wipe-clean seat and a huge monitor with The Computer’s staring eye. But Jerome-G knew the confessional concealed all sorts of probes and sensors. If The Computer detected your confession was not sufficiently heartfelt, it could encourage you with medication, or a gentle poking, or by vaporizing you so your future clones might feel more cooperative. The booths weren’t soundproof—they wanted people to hear the screams.
“Hello, Friend Computer. I was ordered to report to the confession booth.”
CITIZEN, PLEASE CONFESS YOUR TREASON NOW.
“I don’t actually have anything to confess right now.”
ARE YOU SURE?
“Yes, Friend Computer.”
THANK YOU, CITIZEN. YOU MAY NOW EXIT THE BOOTH.
The door hissed open. Jerome stepped out, and the GREEN goon shoved him back in. “Hayden-B ordered me to bring you to this booth and ensure you confess, so we’re here until you confess. Understand?” The guard thumbed the door button, and Jerome was once again sealed in darkness.
HELLO CITIZEN. WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONFESS YOUR TREASON?
“I don’t have anything to confess!”
ARE YOU SURE?
“Yes!”
THANK YOU, CITIZEN. YOU MAY NOW EXIT THE BOOTH.
The door opened. The goon brandished his laser pistol. Jerome-G reached over and pressed the button. The door closed.
HELLO CITIZEN. WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONFESS YOUR TREASON?
“Can I just sit here for a few minutes?”
CITIZEN, PLEASE CONFESS YOUR TREASON NOW.
“Er, I’m just marshalling my thoughts to present them in the most efficient manner.”
HERE IS A SUGGESTION: WASTING TIME IN A CONFESSION BOOTH.
“Computer, are there treasonous deeds on my record I am unaware of?”
THAT INFORMATION IS NOT AVAILABLE AT YOUR SECURITY CLEARANCE.
“So, the only thing I’m currently accused of is wasting time confessing?”
THAT INFORMATION IS NOT AVAILABLE AT YOUR SECURITY CLEARANCE. CITIZEN, THIS CONFESSION SESSION IS CURRENTLY RATED “POOR”. PLEASE IMPROVE THE QUANTITY AND QUALITY OF YOUR CONFESSION IMMEDIATELY OR YOU WILL BE FINED.
“If I say I’ve got nothing more to confess, you’ll just open the door again, right?”
CORRECT. CITIZEN, PLEASE CONFESS YOUR TREASON NOW.
“What’s the penalty for wasting time in a confession booth?”
THAT INFORMATION IS NOT AVAILABLE AT YOUR SECURITY CLEARANCE.
Jerome rubbed the bridge of his nose. The chair smelled like fried food, reminding him of his impending lunchtime kneecapping. Admittedly, the loss of his kneecaps paled beside whatever was going on back at Threat Obfuscation, which looked likely to lead to his termination. This day was not going well. He felt like screaming.
Outside, someone started screaming.
Jerome listened intently. He heard the distinctive fzzzap of laser fire, the distinctive hiss-bubble-pop of someone being shot by a laser, not-particularly-distinctive screams, and an alarming amount of carnage—in Jerome’s life, any carnage at all was automatically distinctive. And it was getting closer. He heard shouts of “Traitors!” and “Deviants!” and “For the committee!”
CITIZEN, PLEASE CONFESS YOUR TREASON NOW.
Fzzzap-pop-clunk-ssssshhhhhhlicck-thunk! Jerome correctly interpreted this as the security guard outside being shot by a laser, dying, falling back against the booth, sliding down the stainless-steel surface, then slumping to the ground. “Uh, Friend Computer, I’m hearing entirely too much laser fire for comfort. If you don’t mind, I’ll just wait it out.”
YOUR CONTINUED RETICENCE WILL BE TAKEN AS A NON-SPECIFIC ADMISSION OF GUILT.
“No! Just don’t open the door for a while!”
CITIZEN, PLEASE CONFESS YOUR TREASON NOW.
“I waste time in confession booths! I spilled some CoffeeLyke in my quarters!” The booth rocked back and forth as something exploded outside.
THANK YOU, CITIZEN. IS THAT EVERYTHING?
“Yes! No! I’m not sure.”
YOU APPEAR CONFUSED. MEDICATION WILL HELP.
A robot arm extended out of the darkness, tipped with a syringe.
“I don’t need medication right now, Friend Computer.”
YOUR BELIEF IS NOTED.
Jerome dodged as best he could in the cramped confines, and the syringe buried itself in the arm of the chair.
THIS SESSION IS AT AN END.
“Computer! What are my options for atoning for my crimes?”
A FINE WILL AUTOMATICALLY BE LEVIED AGAINST YOUR PERSONAL ACCOUNT.
&nbs
p; The booth rocked again. Outside, someone screamed, “They’ve got a flamethrower! They’ve got a flamethrower! I’m on fire!”
“What if I don’t want to pay the fine?”
OTHER REMEDIES INCLUDE PSYCHOLOGICAL THERAPY, VOLUNTEERING FOR TROUBLESHOOTING DUTY, MEDICATION, OR REASSIGNMENT TO REACTOR SHIELDING DUTY.
Someone dealt with the flamethrower by throwing rather a lot of grenades. Debris spattered on the booth’s roof. More explosions echoed down the corridor.
“Therapy! Let’s have a therapy session right here, right now, in this nice safe booth.”
CERTAINLY, CITIZEN. INITIATING PSYCHOLOGICAL THERAPY MODULE. THIS MODULE IS TAILORED TO YOUR SPECIFIC PERSONALITY TYPE AND BEHAVIORAL PROFILE, AND WILL PROBE DEEP INTO YOUR PSYCHE TO UNCOVER BURIED TRAUMA AND/OR CONCEALED TREASONOUS IMPULSES. MODULE BEGINS: HOW DO YOU FEEL?
“Happy!” Happiness was mandatory for all citizens of Alpha Complex.
WHY DO YOU THINK YOU FEEL HAPPY?
“Right now, I feel happy because I’m so safe inside your wonderful confession booth.”
WHY DO YOU THINK I’M SO SAFE INSIDE YOUR WONDERFUL CONFESSION BOOTH?
“Er—mainly because it’s blastproof.”
WHY DO YOU THINK IT’S BLASTPROOF?
Another explosion, bigger and closer. The screen died, and the speaker cracked with static. The door half-opened, then froze. Jerome-G poked the close button, but the booth had lost power. On the bright side, the explosion seemed to have ended the firefight.
He squeezed out of the battered booth, or what was left of it. The goon was now a charred corpse with a smoking hole in his chest. Jerome-G gingerly picked up the guard’s laser pistol. Four rings glowed on the barrel, showing it was still good for at least four lethal blasts.
Jerome thought he might need those shots, because firefights in Alpha Complex were cyclic. Right now, he knew, the Technical Services clone tanks were busy decanting new clones of the recently killed. Copies of their personalities, constantly updated via the MemoMax implant in every citizen’s brain, would soon be imprinted onto the fresh clones. The replacements would then be shipped back to their last known location, the place where they’d died. Even known traitors would get the benefit of resurrection, for The Computer was convinced treason resulted from subversion and this time the fresh clones would be loyal. Decanting, imprinting, and shipping took only minutes. This was half-time in the carnage, a short breather for both teams.
Being sensible, Jerome wanted to head right out, which meant heading right. Right was the most direct route from the carnage. Right was only a short walk back to his quarters. The problem was, right was blocked by a big pile of rubble.
Left was his only option, but left would shortly be filled with troopers and traitors, all even more enthusiastic after their quick breather.
Left, he discovered, involved stepping over rather a lot of dismembered body parts. The mayhem was simultaneously gory, disturbing and ridiculous. He picked his way over the scattered, toasted remains of at least a dozen combatants. Some he could recognize as Internal Security guards; some wore the distinctive laser-reflective armor of Troubleshooters. Others, in civilian jumpsuits or home-made armor, must have been the traitors who attacked.
This short stretch of corridor appeared to be the epicenter of the firefight. There was no cover here, no strategic objectives, yet wave after wave had rushed in to die. Why?
Then Jerome saw the case. He stopped dead. Under his breath he muttered, “530.20/a.”
In Alpha Complex they don’t say ‘”curiosity killed the cat.” For one thing, they don’t have cats. For another, they don’t do metaphor well. The closest equivalent is Mandate ISPM 530.20/a, “Accessing information above your security clearance is treason and will result in summary termination.”
Lying in the middle of the corridor was a small grey plastic case, about the size of Jerome’s hand and shaped like a flattened cylinder. It was remarkably free of splatters, though the bloodied bodies of eight traitors and goons lay in a circle around it, all with hands outstretched as if they’d died trying to grab it. The scene reminded Jerome of a FunBall match where both teams suffered massive casualties before they even reached the FunBall, until one team managed to successfully defend from behind the mound of bodies.
Had all these people died for that case? Why? What was the conspiracy trying to hide? He had to know.
Greatly daring, Jerome bent down and, without breaking stride, scooped up the case. As he trotted out of the warzone, the case weighed down his pocket like a lump of plutonium.
Jerome made it back to the Conformity Is Fun Multifunctional Public Space before the shooting started again behind him. The cries echoed down the corridor—“He’s got a flamethrower again! I’m on fire again!”—but this room was well clear of any fighting. He ducked into a side corridor and opened the case.
A pair of glasses.
They were thick-rimmed clear glasses, lying in a foam-rubber cut-out to protect them. At the end of each arm dangled a tiny in-ear headphone, and there was a little data port in the right arm. On the left arm, he found an on-off switch. Holding the lenses up to the light, he could see on their circumference an indescribably fine tracery of microcircuits.
He put on the glasses. He pressed the switch.
He saw wonderful things.
—————
SIX YEARCYCLES AGO....
Every corridor in Alpha Complex is color-coded. Entering a corridor above your security clearance is treason. For lower-clearance workers, the sector becomes a minefield maze; if a jackobot redecoration crew unexpectedly repaints a hallway, you might walk into treachery.
For the last five years, Jerome-R’s route to work in the morning had required a 40-minute detour. Today, he strode out of his quarters and stepped proudly across the orange threshold. The corridor matched his crisp new jumpsuit. Jerome-O strolled down the main thoroughfare, then ducked down a side corridor to an abandoned storeroom.
Celeste-Y was already waiting. In her freshly pressed yellow uniform, she looked new-minted like him, though she had made YELLOW some months back. In style as in most things, Celeste always set the example; Jerome was always proud to follow it.
As he entered the storeroom, she applauded politely. “I see the technique worked.”
“It was easy! I went into the interview, and I spotted burns and small cuts on the lead interviewer’s hands.” Jerome excitedly held out his own hands by way of (unneeded) demonstration. “I put that together with those anti-bot riots last night, and guessed he was one of those Frankenstein Destroyer bot-haters. Then I just dropped a few comments about how I hated those damn bots, and he rubber-stamped my promotion in two minutes flat.”
“Secret society corruption is endemic at the lower clearances. My models suggest more than 80% of all citizens are members of one society or another; their exposure to society propaganda and thought patterns makes them vulnerable to manipulation by signals that mimic their existing beliefs. The remaining 20% are loyal to The Computer; in fact, given they are in the minority, we can consider loyalists to be another society and manipulate them using the same techniques.”
Jerome-O opened a celebratory can of genuine orange juice—at ORANGE Clearance he was permitted a very limited amount of real food, instead of chemically-flavored yeast and soy FunFoods.
Celeste’s techniques worked. Citizens betrayed their conspiratorial leanings from the smallest tells, and Jerome could identify them. He buzzed with ambition. Together, they could go further. Celeste had the intelligence and the theory. He had—well, he had Celeste.
“Who’s in charge of Alpha Complex?” he asked her.
“The Computer.”
“But the High Programmers run The Computer.”
“The best way to get promoted is to be a member of a secret society—so the High Programmers owe their positions to the societies.”
“So, are the societies in charge?”
Celeste-Y considered. “No. All of them ha
ve, at core, a narrative of how they are oppressed and hunted. They either fight the system, like the Humanists, or one of its aspects, like the Frankenstein Destroyers; or they offer a temporary escape from control, like the Romantics or Mystics. None of the known conspiracies fit.”
“But it’s not chaos, is it? We both know there’s something out there. The question is, can your techniques find them?”
“I think so. We’ll need more information, more data. Allies.”
His heart pounded. They were finally pushing back against—against Them. “We’ll need our own conspiracy.”
“A null conspiracy, then. No ideology, no delusions. Just the goal of amassing data and finding the truth.”
Jerome thought, A conspiracy against the conspiracy. Bring it on! “If they find us, they’ll still terminate us for that.”
Celeste sniffed. “Statistically, they terminate everyone.”
—————
According to the little pop-up windows the glasses projected across Jerome-G’s field of view—his “Heads-Up Display,” he knew that term—behind this wall panel were a power junction relay box, a chemical feed pipe, and a sewer access line. Another window displayed the feed from the camera over his head. Anything he looked at through the glasses was surrounded with a halo of data. Holding up the gun he’d borrowed from the dead IntSec guard, he got another flood of pop-up boxes and overlaid captions—an animated video of the gun’s user manual, a repair guide, a note describing aftermarket adjustments to the gun’s grip, and a big glowing ammo counter. Intoxicated with sheer knowledge, Jerome stumbled down the corridor like a drugged Mystic, picking out random objects and just staring.
That light fitting? The glasses showed him the manufacturer, install date and last servicing, and a list of its hidden microphones. Another box popped up with a question—did he want to listen to highlights of recent recordings?
The stick of gum in Jerome’s pocket showed him a manufacturer, sales report, nutritional advisories, and—uhh—a list of known side effects. Oog.
A scrubot trundled down the corridor, followed (in Jerome’s sight) by a trail of glowing pop-up windows: operating manual, cleaning route, default instructions, a guide to the Five Laws of Robotics (Revised), and a dozen overlapping files. When Jerome moved his head, data windows in the rear rushed forward, as if the bot were surrounded by a lenticular hologram. When the bot turned a corner and moved out of sight, the windows vanished.