by MacGuffin, WJ; Hanrahan, Gareth; Varney, Allen; Ingber, Greg
“Us?” Stanton almost giggled. “We’re INFRAREDs.”
The Troubleshooter grinned, winked, then called to Drammel. “Bot!”
“It looks like you’re about to travel!” said Drammel. “Would you like—?”
“No. Let’s go.” He nodded to Timon, and in a moment Troubleshooter and bot were gone.
Timon pocketed his PDC. He groaned. “No docbot, no therapy, no payment. This entire episode has been a useless timesink. Let’s get back to the office.”
That afternoon Timon drank deeply from his desk bottle of E-Z-DUZ-IT. To Fletcher and Stanton it was all the same. One INFRARED day was like another.
—Until the next morning, in their barracks.
—————
Promptly at 05:00, beefy GREEN-Clearance Internal Security officers in plexi helmets and pentramid vests—GREEN goons, IntSec’s all-purpose dumb thugs—seized Fletcher and Stanton as they slept in their bunks. Rather, the goons seized the bunks themselves—bedding, pillows, and all, with startled occupants still in place—snapped them free of their frames, and hauled away both beds and their beddees.
Even in their panic, the two INFRAREDs were too well trained to protest, though Fletcher did fretfully pull up his covers. Despite the commotion, their barracks-mates never woke—or rather, diligently avoided waking.
The goons manhandled the beds into the wide black-striped corridor and over to a low-slung autocar. The strange vehicle seemed hardly more than a transparent capsule on wheels, like an airtight crash-cart for a hard-vacuum hospital. The goons popped the bubble-top hood and locked the beds, with their wide-eyed INFRAREDs, into twin frames of PVC tubing. The goons clamped, they strapped, they slammed down the hood, they shouted orders to the car, and at once Fletcher and Stanton were hurtling down the corridor.
The entire operation had so far taken, from barracks to car, 17 seconds, which meant they were already two seconds behind.
This was R&D service firm CrashCourse RD’s paradigm-shattering innovation in strong-signal, high-bandwidth training-in-place—the long-planned, much-anticipated “Instant Agent” training program: New Experimental Accelerated Troubleshooter Orientation (NEATO). Stupid acronym, sure, but this clunker actually improved on the original name, Heuristic Experimental Mandatory Accelerated Troubleshooter Orientation Metrics, which only showed how a grant-hungry R&D scientist will even, if sufficiently desperate, aim for HEMATOMA.
NEATO pioneered CrashCourse’s proprietary ThruFlood immersive high-bandwidth high-stimulus sensory-maximization instruction system. Passengers in CrashCourse’s custom-built BedSpeed autocar, still reclining in their own bunks to foster relaxed openness to new ideas, viewed six to eight simultaneous video feeds of Troubleshooter duties and obligations. To promote maximum info-retention, EyeMinder lasers in the autocar roof beamed each video directly onto a demarcated non-overlapping portion of one retina.
In the case of new Troubleshooters fresh from the INFRARED ranks, and thus likely to exhibit murky thought processes, in-car QuickShot hypodermics injected oxyflucocillin (Overdose Helper) to instantly cancel routine drug effects. The consequent withdrawal symptoms—migraine with aura, dystonic tremors, hysteria, giant hairy purple spiders—were easily forestalled by forced oral administration, via OpenWide robotic arm, of pyroxidine-2 (Wider Awake) tablets with a spray of aerosolized thiahexedrine (Focusol), as well as the usual cocktail of sex-hormone suppressants.
Phase 2 began when the BedSpeed reached its destination transbot platform. Docking in a bay at the rear of CrashCourse’s custom-built HowWeRoll train car, the autocar played a recorded fanfare and disgorged its occupants. As the transbot started moving, HandsUp mechanical arms (actually just rebranded OpenWide models) stood the subjects upright, stripped off their existing garments, and re-dressed them in red Troubleshooter reflec coveralls.
Robotic dressers are of course an extremely well-understood technology; CrashCourse attributed early injury reports to incorrectly calibrated heat-based limb sensors. The company easily resolved the issue by preheating each subject’s arms and legs.
Now, on multiple video monitors, the subjects viewed efficient instruction in proper use of laser weaponry, then were propelled (via HandsUp) forward to the main section of the transbot car, the ShootForBrains target range. Armed with harmless but realistic light-guns, subjects faced a variety of harmless but realistic hologram opponents while being encouraged to improve their aim by harmless but realistic electric shocks. Opponents increased in frequency and difficulty until either the transbot arrived at its destination or the subjects collapsed and begged for sweet release in death, whichever occurred first.
An optimistic R&D projection—is there another kind?—predicted NEATO could compress Troubleshooter orientation and training from 4.4 days (median) to 24 minutes. Such unheard-of efficiencies pleased The Computer and made Troubleshooter Dispatch positively buoyant. Despite a few early kinks in the system (BedSpeed and HowWeRoll crashes, EyeMinder blindings, OpenWide jaw dislocations, QuickShot overdoses, ShootForBrains-induced psychotic episodes, and a couple of unfortunate HandsUp decapitations), hopes ran high for NEATO.
Then Dispatch realized each CrashCourse run generated a tsunami of paperwork.
Transbot track permits, autocar corridor passage waivers, maintenance requests, personnel requests, medication requisitions, power consumption authorizations, inter-group IntSec cooperation requests (those were a killer)—all told, according to a CPU Yellowpants efficiency auditor, the additional overhead of a single NEATO orientation increased the Troubleshooter Dispatch workload by an irreducible minimum of 92 person-days at a cost of 7.8 million credits.
For a time Dispatch ignored these findings, partly because of prior sunk costs and partly because at least 6.8 million of those credits were flowing straight into senior administrators’ accounts. But inevitably The Computer, whose processors sometimes grind slowly yet they grind exceeding fine, noticed CrashCourse RD’s high incidence of traitorous sabotage, fatalities, slow paperwork, and poor hygiene. It canceled the NEATO program, disbanded CrashCourse, and imposed on its senior personnel varying judgments of censure, re-education, brainscrub, and/or promotion.
The last CrashCourse transbot on its last run pulled into Sector JSV Troubleshooter Dispatch Platform 1 on 214.03.28 at 05:25, 19 seconds behind schedule, bearing the NEATO program’s last new recruits, Stanton-JSV-1 and Fletcher-JSV-1.
Robot arms threw them from the car. They collapsed onto the platform, thrashing in fitful combat with phantom enemies. Waiting GREEN goons let them exhaust themselves, then hauled them into separate orientation rooms.
Alone in darkness save for two guards, Fletcher lay curled and twitching on the floor.
A light. A voice:
FLETCHER-JSV-1, ATTENTION.
No other voice could bring him to his feet so fast. No voice but that one could focus his mind to pinpoint alertness. By that command, Fletcher understood at once the promise and danger of this moment—the most important of his life so far.
He stood bolt upright, shoulders back, head high, heart pounding. He gazed straight ahead, where one entire wall of this long room glowed bright.
It was a monitor, taller than himself and too wide to see in one glance.
On the monitor, a single staring eye.
Fletcher struggled to speak. “Hello, Friend Computer!”
The Computer spoke:
FLETCHER-JSV-1, FOR MANY YEARS THE TROUBLESHOOTERS HAVE LOYALLY SERVED ALPHA COMPLEX. IN RECOGNITION OF YOUR RECENT COMMENDABLE ACTION OR ACTIONS AT OR IN INSERT-LOCATION-HERE DETECTING THE PRESENCE AND/OR FIGHTING THE MENACE OF INSERT-TREASON-HERE, IT IS NOW YOUR PRIVILEGE AND/OR DUTY TO JOIN THE RANKS OF THIS ELITE SERVICE UNIT.
“Thank you, Friend Computer!”
FLETCHER-JSV-1, WHAT ARE THE THREE UNBREAKABLE RULES OF THE TROUBLESHOOTERS?
From the bottom of his lungs Fletcher shouted, “Stay alert! Trust no one! Keep your laser handy!”
FLETCHER-JSV-1, YOU WILL FOLLOW IN
THE TROUBLESHOOTERS’ GLORIOUS STRUGGLE—STAINED WITH BLOOD BUT NEVER DISHONOR!—TO HELP ALPHA COMPLEX ACHIEVE ITS IMMINENT AND INEVITABLE VICTORY OVER TREASON.
“Thank you, Friend Computer!”
BUT BEWARE! TREASON IS EVERYWHERE; AT ANY MOMENT TRAITORS MAY SUBVERT, OVERWHELM, AND DESTROY ALPHA COMPLEX.
“Yes, Friend Computer!”
IN SERVICE TO THE GOAL OF IMMINENT VICTORY OVER ONRUSHING COLLAPSE, YOU MUST NOW REPORT ANY TREASON OR INSUBORDINATION BY YOUR COMPANION, STANTON-JSV-1.
Fletcher’s thoughts whirled. If he reported Stanton’s membership in FCCC-P, that would implicate Fletcher as well, but his cooperation might exculpate him. The choice was sharpened because he knew, with mortal sureness, Stanton was even now being ordered to report on him. Prisoner’s dilemma.
But the church taught betrayal was the sin of sins; it was odious to distract the all-wise and compassionate Computer with such trivia. Fletcher spoke with only a mild quaver, “To my knowledge, Stanton is a loyal friend of The Computer and Alpha Complex.”
A long, dreadful silence. A lidless, baleful eye. Fletcher waited in despair for the termination order.
FLETCHER-JSV-1, YOU ARE HEREBY PROMOTED TO SECURITY CLEARANCE RED. YOUR NAME WILL NOW INCORPORATE THE CLEARANCE INITIAL R, AS SPECIFIED IN CENTRAL PROCESSING UNIT’S NOMENCLATURE PROTOCOL PROTOCOL-ID-NOT-AVAILABLE, AVAILABLE AT YELLOW CLEARANCE. YOUR NEW SECURITY CLEARANCE SIGNIFIES THE COMPUTER’S BENEVOLENT TRUST IN YOU. THE COMPUTER IS YOUR FRIEND.
“The Computer is my friend!”
IF YOU SERVE ALPHA COMPLEX WELL, FLETCHER-R, YOU WILL EARN GREATER TRUST AND THEREBY ADVANCE IN SECURITY CLEARANCE. ASPIRE TO ADVANCE! SEEK TO SERVE ALPHA COMPLEX IN EVER GREATER WAYS! FAILURE TO ASPIRE MAY BE CONSIDERED INSUBORDINATION.
“Yes, Friend Computer!”
AS A TOKEN OF RECOGNITION AND WELCOME, FLETCHER-R, YOU NOW RECEIVE A SPECIAL REWARD. THIS IS ONE OF MANY PERQUISITES FOR CITIZENS WHO EARN THE COMPUTER’S TRUST AND SERVE ALPHA COMPLEX TO THEIR FULLEST ABILITY. PLEASE ACCEPT THIS FRUIT FROM THE SECTOR’S HYDROPONIC GARDENS, ORDINARILY AVAILABLE ONLY AT CLEARANCE GREEN AND HIGHER.
A guard walked forward and solemnly placed in Fletcher-R’s palm a red, globular thing.
He looked with suspicion at the fruit. Round and heavy, it felt like a grenade. He knew about real food from vidshows—people onscreen seemed to like it—but he’d heard, around the mess hall, it was somehow made from dirt. He wished for his usual soylents or a rope of Cold Fun.
But this was The Computer’s gift, and The Computer, as always, was watching.
With hesitation bordering on fear, he nibbled at the skin. Moisture flowed, a sweetness unsurpassed. He froze. He could not think. Something in him, older than thought, took over. He bit deep. Tight skin curled on his teeth; crisp, tart flesh yielded forth its juice; a cascade of flavors raced wild on his tongue. Misting droplets rose—a piquant scent, astringent, a zest as bracing as a sudden breeze.
Drugs had fogged his mind before, but this was different. This was trance. He stared unblinking, his eyes crossing and uncrossing. He fell to his knees. Each cell of his body had been starved; he had not known. Now he knew, in every artery, a quickened pulse; in every limb, electric jolts; and in his throat, constriction, as if his mouth would not give up the unimagined rapture. The pleasure felt more than visceral—cellular—no, primal—a strike into the buried past, a linkage to ten billion ancestors, all born of just this bliss.
Yet for history he cared nothing. His reeling thoughts converged on one idea: High-clearance people eat like this all the time.
Now, he saw, he had a future. He saw, in truth, a vision new to him—a scene of opportunity, of endless open ways, where all the labyrinths of corridors and halls stretched clearance-free, with every door thrown back and Alpha Complex in its tentacular mazery mapped clear. And in his clarity of sight he knew, and now despised, the flat thin paper-chase he had taken for his life—his little, barren, petty life—an abject round, a program run on hardware much too slow.
The insight roused in him a yearning, close to pain, for the years of chances he had missed, and for strength and will to capture those ahead. The insight roused in him an appetite, fierce and unsubdued, for fresh food, better thoughts, high clearance, and life, life, life. The insight roused him to his feet, so that he stood, first faltering and breathless, then firm—if not quite human yet, then ready to step forward on that path.
He groped for words. “What—what is it?”
IT IS A POMACEOUS FRUIT CALLED AN APPLE. ITS SCIENTIFIC DESIGNATION IS NOT AVAILABLE AT YOUR CLEARANCE. ONLY THE COMMON NAME OF THIS VARIETY IS AVAILABLE.
“What is the name?”
RED DELICIOUS.
—————
You’ve just read Chapter 1 (about the first one-sixth) of the PARANOIA novel Stay Alert by Allen Varney. In the full-length novel—available where you bought this book—Fletcher-R meets the Troubleshooters of Team Rotisserie-459, and almost immediately gets into such trouble with them they want to shoot him. The helpbot returns, too, and why are all these gangsters trying to grab it? Which of Fletcher’s teammates support which gang?
For that matter, which one does he support? His allegiance seems to change by the hour.
What is going on with Fletcher’s blackouts, and will anyone notice? (Spoiler: Yes, they notice.)
What is the mind-control technology called CIRCE, and why has it fallen into the hands of the cutting-edge Computer Phreak gangsters, the Flash Mob?
Who is the mysterious ‘M’ who seems to mentally control some of the most powerful people in the sector?
Read Stay Alert to find (some of) the answers. Well, a few of the answers. Anyway, it should pique your curiosity.
Stay Alert
Book 1 of The Troubleshooter Rules
by Allen Varney
ultravioletbooks.com
FREE preview: Traitor Hangout
Chapters 1-3 from the full-length PARANOIA novel by WJ MacGuffin
In Alpha Complex, the underground city of the future, The Computer’s loyal Central Processing managers issue mandates to ensure everything works ferpectly. Pecfertly. Crefpetly! Well, you know.
Efficiency auditor (“Yellowpants”) Clarence-Y lives to enforce mandates—and he knows them all. By owning a pet mouse, Ignatius, Clarence has already broken 22 mandates. And it’s not even lunch.
On assignment for Internal Security, Clarence-Y impersonates notorious criminal “Superstar Pirate” and infiltrates four treasonous secret societies in one day. Can he and Ignatius survive?
Never mind that—can they possibly avoid violating Mandate ISTM 440.95/a?
1: All’s well that ends with the other guy in trouble
Mandate HPPM 722.20/a: Any citizen who spots a creature from the Outdoors within Alpha Complex must immediately report said creature to Internal Security as a threat to hygiene and good order. Said creature may be diseased and contagious, mutated and radioactive, easily angered and oversensitive about its appearance, Communist, or otherwise part of a larger scheme to infect, infest, pollute, malign, subvert, subjugate, or destroy Alpha Complex.
Clarence-Y-SKL-1 was an efficiency auditor for Central Processing Unit—a Yellowpants. He loved his work—most days. Not today.
Having accompanied Troubleshooter Team Mandrake-945 into the field—specifically, the field of fire—Clarence-Y crouched behind an overturned vendobot in a black-walled mess hall. The black walls meant the room was INFRARED Security Clearance, suited only for drugged prole workers, the lowest of the low. Just now the lowest of the low, being the sensiblest of the sensible, had cleared out.
Team Leader Ryan-O-GTT-2 crouched beside Clarence. Where Clarence was tall, Ryan was stocky; Clarence’s short, wavy white hair and prominent nose contrasted with Ryan’s lank dirt-brown combover and stubby pug. Ryan was O-for-ORANGE, one step below Clarence-Y on the clearance spectrum. In one respect the two men were alike: They didn’t want to be here.
Laser shots fizzed overhead. Ryan s
hot back in a manner Clarence judged sub-optimally casual. “You must be aware intra-team firefighting goes against the spirit of all my efficiency recommendations, and explicitly against my Directive 17.”
“Really?” Ryan ducked a laser shot. A brilliant red line flashed through the smoke. “I’m concerned.”
Troubleshooters were supposedly an elite service unit, not unlike the Yellowpants, but (in Clarence’s view) lacking in focus and rigor. “Look.” He pointed at the screen of the PDC, his Personal Digital Companion—the phone-browser-media player-video recorder-tracking device indispensable to every fieldworker’s workflow. “If I could just get your signature here, here, and here, and your initials here and here, and your tongue print there, that completes my report and we can all get on with our work.” He offered a stylus.
Another laser shot burned a circle in the wall behind them, leaving a smell of vaporized plastic. “Sorry.” The Team Leader ejected his laser pistol’s spent orange barrel and popped on a fresh one. “My former teammates have introduced new concerns.”
Clarence peeked over the vendobot. At the room’s far end, behind a barricade of half-slagged plastic tables, Team Mandrake-945’s Equipment Guy and Hygiene Officer were asserting their concerns via vigorous laser fire. Amid overturned chairs lay three RED-Clearance Troubleshooters, cut down in the first seconds of the firefight.
Clarence understood, down to his thin bones, the importance of prioritization. Yet even so: “My SETBE is complete, and I really must have your signature or I can’t finish this project.”
“Your what?”
“My Surprise Efficiency and Team Building Exercise.”
“Oh.” Ryan shot blind over the vendobot. “I thought you were just here to make our lives miserable.”
At the sound of one of its assigned keywords, the vendobot’s red plastic front sparked into life. The bot was badly damaged but still game. “Miserable? Why not stop shooting each other, and me while you’re at it, and share a Yum-Yum Processed Algae Bar? Mmm, tasty. Try Choco-Shrimp! Try Very Berry Jerky! Ten percent off if you pull me upright.”
