by MacGuffin, WJ; Hanrahan, Gareth; Varney, Allen; Ingber, Greg
Clarence ignored the bot. “You shouldn’t say that. Mandate HPPM 002.73/f states, ‘Citizens shall remain happy, because The Computer has provided everything needed for a joyful existence.’”
Ryan looked Clarence in his brown, bulging eyes. “Listen, the cameras and microphones are broken, so knock off the happiness crap. Alpha Complex sucks and everyone knows it. We choke down happiness pills, watch videos with subliminal messages, and listen to those awful Happiness Hymns, because if we don’t, Friend Computer will lock us up in a Joyful Liberation of Guilt re-education hostel.”
Clarence was flabbergasted. “But I’m happy!”
Ryan sneered. “You would be. Hey! You traitors ready to give up?”
“Nyet! You are beink traitor!” The Equipment Guy was a large RED citizen with short black hair and a handlebar moustache. “You have shot Loyalty Officer!”
“That’s because he shot our Happiness Officer.”
“She was a mutant.” The Hygiene Officer was also RED, but she had longer hair and a shorter moustache. “She had a suspicious wart.”
While the Troubleshooters argued, Clarence felt a familiar stirring over his chest, in the secret pocket of his jumpsuit. He turned away in alarm. The squirming passed.
He cleared his throat and tried to sound authoritative. “Team Leader Ryan-O, I am YELLOW Clearance. By the power granted to me by Mandates TCPM 006.03/a, CPPM 100.14/a, and ISTM 008.31/a through /e, I order you to sign my SETBE form to conclude this exercise.”
Ryan chuckled. “Right. Like I give a bot’s tread about your clearance. I have a gun. You don’t. That means I set this meeting’s agenda. Understood?”
Clarence gawped. Could these walls dissolve, the floor dissipate, all Alpha Complex vanish like a dream? “You must follow my orders. It’s a mandate. Mandates are, are—for following.”
The vendobot beeped. “Maybe he’s too hungry to think straight. Buy him a Pistachio-Basil flavored Yum-Yum Processed Algae Bar.”
A grenade labeled “R&D” landed near them. Ryan pulled Clarence to him as a shield. But the grenade only wheeped and puffed smoke, then lay inert.
Their noses a finger-breadth apart, Ryan-O glared. “Forget your stupid form. There are more important things to worry about.”
Twin laser shots drowned Clarence’s strenuous tut-tutting. This was so typical. In the field, non-assigned jobs always popped up, and he couldn’t finish the real job until he tackled those first. A job assigned in a job done, he thought. And there’s only one way to finish this job—start and finish another one. Besides, in his personal job log he could add “Improved Troubleshooter team efficiency by stopping Troubleshooters shooting each other.”
He looked across the room and sighed. “Fine.” Gathering himself, he jumped over the fallen vendobot—just as it launched a Yum-Yum bar at 70kph. The processed algae snack hit his stomach, knocking him to one side. A laser shot flashed through the point where he’d been standing.
He gasped for breath. “That hurt!”
The vendobot beeped. “One credit, please.”
“I didn’t order anything!”
“I heard you say ‘Fine,’ which I logically took to mean an order for one Mostly Salmon-Flavored Yum-Yum bar.”
Clarence stood up, ran, tripped over his own feet, and fell. Another laser shot struck harmlessly nearby. He scrambled to his feet and, under heavy fire, danced—or arhythmically bungled—across the bodies. Reaching the far barricade, he clambered over and landed, breathless, beside the Equipment Guy hiding there. “Excuse me,” Clarence said between breaths. “You are in violation of many mandates. Would you like me to list them?”
The big man stared. “How vere you to be dodgink all my shots?”
“Pardon me?”
“Is no pardonink! Glorious comrades instruct me to be killink everyone in room! YELLOW capitalist pigdog is, by definink, more of ‘everyone’ than RED capitalist pigdogs!”
“Leaving that aside, and taking these violations as read, you are required to stop this mayhem and turn yourself in to Internal Security, by reason of Mandate—”
The Equipment Guy roused himself. “Nyet, comrade. This to be derailink Troubleshooter mission as part of Glorious Five-Year Plan to be destroyink Computer and turnink Alpha Complex into vorker’s paradise!”
Something underneath Clarence’s shirt squirmed, poking the yellow fabric. “Shhh,” Clarence whispered. The squirm grew stronger.
The Equipment Guy pointed with his pistol. “Uhh—vhat is beink that?”
From the neck of Clarence’s yellow jumpsuit popped a small white mouse.
“AAAAAaaaaaaa!” The Equipment Guy leaped to his feet and backed away. “Monster mutant beastie what comink from Outdoors!”
Jumping up during a firefight is usually unwise, as Team Leader Ryan-O promptly proved. The Equipment Guy pondered the smoking hole in his chest, then fell over dead.
“Bad, Ignatius! Bad mouse!” Clarence grabbed for the mouse, but it slipped between his hands and scampered down his leg. It ran to the Hygiene Officer, who was busy aiming her pistol at Clarence.
“You little punk, I don’t know how you killed aaaARGH! Mutant creature attack!” She stood up to stomp the mouse. Continuing his tutorial in Why Jumpy Firefighting is Unwise, Ryan shot her in the head.
When the mouse stopped to smell the dead traitor’s boots, Clarence scooped up the mouse and put it back in the pocket under his jumpsuit’s neckline. “There, there. Who’s a good citizen, who?”
Ryan kicked the vendobot and walked over to the barricade to confirm his kills. “That could have been worse. Then again, I still don’t know what my mission is about. Probably should have waited for the briefing to begin before shooting. Hey, Yellowpants?”
Clarence hated that term. Supposedly it originated after several CPU efficiency auditors, while following Troubleshooter teams into heavy action, wet themselves. The worst part? It was technically more efficient to say “Yellowpants” than “CPU efficiency auditor”—fewer syllables. “Yes, friend?”
“Good work back there. Thanks for distracting them so I could take them out.”
Clarence-Y looked horrified. “Me? But I— I mean— I just wanted to stop the fight so you’d sign my SETBE form.” He held out his PDC. “Can you sign now?”
“I need to kill you first.” Ryan aimed his pistol square at Clarence’s narrow chest. “Not only are you a filthy mutant, just like all my late teammates—you’re a witness.”
“Me? I’m not a mutant!”
“For the love of Friend Computer, you scuttled across that kill zone without a scratch. How else would you explain such luck? It must be a strange mutant power. But if it’s any consolation, you’re my hundredth kill. That means a medal in the Anti-Mutant Society. Bye, mutie!” Ryan pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened. He pulled the trigger again, and again. Still nothing. The gun’s barrel was out of shots. Snarling, Ryan raised his fists—
Then: the chime.
The chime is a pleasant, harmonious tone, not overly loud. The chime plays throughout a demarcated area, over all speakers, PA systems, PDCs, undercover Internal Security transceivers, and hearing aids. Optimized through extensive CPU-run multi-target, cross-clearance focus groups across multiple sectors, the chime is designed to connote happiness and tranquility. The chime may cause adrenaline spikes, outbreaks of mass accusation and confession, and, in certain circumstances, heart attacks.
Clarence and Ryan stood silent, outwardly calm and not at all guilty-looking. Even the wisps of smoke seemed to pause.
In a pleasant, measured tone, somewhere between an avuncular tenor, resonant with years of experience, and a young teacher on the verge of screaming, The Computer spoke:
ATTENTION, CITIZENS CLARENCE-Y-SKL-1 AND RYAN-O-GTT-2.
“Hello, Friend Computer!” they said in unison.
MY RECORDS INDICATE SURPRISE EFFICIENCY AND TEAM BUILDING EXERCISE SEVEN-SEVEN-STROKE-ALPHA-SIGMA-EN-DASH-FIVE IS NOW 20 MINUTES AND FIVE
SECONDS LATE. PLEASE EXPLAIN THE TARDINESS.
Clarence and Ryan looked at each other like two hungry INFRAREDs with only one bowl of Hot Fun.
Ryan cleared his throat. “Friend Computer, Troubleshooter Team Mandrake-945 has nothing to do with any efficiency exercise. I’m on a mission of vital importance. Request permission to continue my mission.”
DENIED. YOUR MISSION HAS 18 HOURS, 34 MINUTES, AND 54 SECONDS REMAINING. THE SETBE IS 20 MINUTES, 35 SECONDS LATE. THE SETBE IS CURRENTLY PRIORITIZED. PLEASE EXPLAIN THE TARDINESS.
Clarence stepped away from Ryan. “Friend Computer, according to Mandate CPPM 387.66/c, all SETBEs conducted in the field with Troubleshooter teams require a signature from the team’s leader, or closest equivalent should the leader in question be unable to sign due to loss of life, loyalty, or hands. I have been awaiting the signature for approximately 25 minutes.”
IS THE SETBE COMPLETE AND READY FOR A SIGNATURE, CITIZEN CLARENCE-Y?
“Yes, Friend Computer.”
DID YOU REMEMBER TO ASK FOR A SIGNATURE?
“Yes, Friend Computer.”
HAVE YOU PROVIDED A PEN, STYLUS, OR OTHER SUITABLE WRITING IMPLEMENT?
“Yes, Friend Computer.”
PROCESSING. PLEASE WAIT.
Ryan and Clarence stared at each other. Hard.
CITIZEN RYAN-O-GTT-2, YOU ARE GUILTY OF INSUBORDINATION FOR REFUSING TO PROMPTLY SIGN A COMPLETED SETBE FORM, LEADING TO AN UNACCEPTABLE INEFFICIENCY IN EFFICIENCY IMPROVEMENT. YOU ARE HEREBY FINED 50 CREDITS. PLEASE SIGN THE FORM IMMEDIATELY.
IN ADDITION, YOU ARE GUILTY OF TREASON FOR FAILING TO COMPLY WITH THE WISHES OF A HIGHER-CLEARANCE CITIZEN IN THE COURSE OF THAT CITIZEN’S DUTIES. YOU ARE HEREBY SENTENCED TO PUBLIC CENSURE IN THE FORM OF A TATTOO READING “DISLOYAL” ON YOUR FOREHEAD, TO REMAIN FOR 90 DAYS. A DOCBOT HAS BEEN DISPATCHED TO PROVIDE THE TATTOO. PLEASE WAIT FOR THE DOCBOT AT YOUR CURRENT LOCATION. STANDARD TATTOO FEES AND OPTIONAL FRESH NEEDLE COSTS APPLY.
Clarence held out the PDC and stylus. Ryan signed, initialed, and tongue-printed the form. “If I’d had any shots left, this would have gone down differently.”
Clarence looked puzzled. “But that would violate another mandate.”
Through the open door rolled a docbot with attached ink gun and buzzsaw. “Bing! Are you the double amputation you must be or I am in the wrong room and I am sure I am in the right room stay still please this will only hurt a lot bing!” As Clarence shut the door and walked away, he heard the saw spin up.
————
The War Against Treason, like the typical CPU procedure, takes many forms. Terminating traitors, arresting suspected traitors, and surveilling everyone else as potential traitors—these are obvious. More insidious is inefficiency. As The Computer can objectively prove—and nobody argues with The Computer—the waste of time, energy, supplies, or even thoughts is one step away from the murder of innocent Junior Citizens with a dull knife. Efficiency is happiness; waste is tantamount to treason.
That’s why, after only 24 years of exploratory meetings, ad-hoc committees, fact-finding missions to vacation resorts, and a comprehensive 3,550-page INDIGO-Clearance report printed in a limited run of 255,000 copies and promptly shredded before it could be leaked, CPU created the Efficiency Improvement Task Force Agency Department Group Auditor Subgroup, the squadron of YELLOW-Clearance efficiency auditors colloquially known as Yellowpants.
Yellowpants audit, assess, anatomize, repattern, perfect, and promulgate processes of every kind across Alpha Complex. Like white blood cells—well, yellow blood cells—they flock to the infection of inefficiency and destroy it, always with an absolute minimum of time, energy, supplies, and thought. This protects Alpha Complex from the triple threat of Communism, mutants, and traitors.
How efficiency protects Alpha Complex, exactly, is hotly debated—though, if The Computer hears the debate, not for long.
————
In a side corridor halfway back to the CPU Merit-N-Work center, Clarence stopped at an Anne-G’s Fried Dough Hut and purchased three Yummy Yeasty Yammies with Almost-Real Cheese Dust. Many empty tables surrounded the hut, and Clarence sat down at one near a wall. Then he bent over and quickly tied a knot in his shoelaces.
“Oh, bother, a knot. Mandate PLPM 755.92/g says I need to take care of that immediately—and Mandate PLPM 775.92/h says I can take up to five minutes and 20 seconds to remedy the situation.”
He carefully positioned himself between the table and the security camera in the ceiling, spilled three Yammies on the floor, and let out the mouse. It sniffed, then dug in.
“Now you listen to me,” Clarence said as he undid the knot. “When I take you out walkies, you stay in the pocket. If Friend Computer sees you, it’ll probably terminate me. Worse, it might take you away.”
The mouse quickly finished Yammie One and started nibbling on Two.
“Well, yes, it must know about you already. Friend Computer tends to know everything. But if it knows, wouldn’t it have taken action already? Keeping you is in direct violation of Mandates ISPM 449.20/r, HPPM 028.11/v, CPPM 878.90/p, TSPM 402.99/g, and maybe even AFPM 1033.21/c, depending on your definition of the term ‘hallucination.’ Which really should be codified, don’t you think?”
The mouse sniffed the air.
“Good question. Inasmuch as Friend Computer knows and hasn’t taken action, does that mean it must support the idea of me keeping you? Well, Mandate CPPM 002.07/a says orders from The Computer trump all mandates, which only makes sense. What kind of leadership could The Computer provide if it had to follow its own laws?” For a moment Clarence wondered if The Computer could issue an order that trumped CPPM 002.07/a. He brushed away the thought. “Still, we have to be careful. Some citizens may not follow mandates as closely as we do. And that means staying in the pocket when we go for walkies! Agreed?”
Finished with Yammie Two, the mouse crept toward Three.
“Good. I’m sorry I yelled at you. Still friends?”
The mouse ate Yammie Three.
“Great! I’d hate to lose my only friend. Now finish your lunch and it’s back in the pocket. This was our last job today, so we head back to CPU, change into our civilian clothes, and study today’s mandate updates. And there’s a documentary tonight on Forced Algae Growth. I hear it improves food supply 200 percent.”
Clarence tied his shoelace in a mandate-approved knot, carefully pocketed the mouse, and ate the last Yammies. My, he thought, it really does taste almost like real cheese. Or so he assumed.
2: Just when you think you’re screwed, you really are
Mandate ISPM 008.57/c: A sector’s Security Efficiency Rating (SER) shall be computed by dividing the number of solved cases by the total number of reported treasons (excluding reports designated “Minor, Inexplicable,” “Minor, Silly,” or “Minor, Affected Low-Clearance Citizen” as defined by Mandate ISPM 0014/a).
Mandate ISPM 008.57/d: If a sector’s SER falls below 0.64, Internal Affairs shall conduct a thorough review of the sector’s leadership to remove contamination by Communists, mutants, terrorists, moles, voles, secret society agents, and other traitors and/or small mammals. Incompetence is not a source of contamination and may be ignored.
The sweating, nervous citizen sat in a metal chair specifically designed to be uncomfortable. The nylon rope tying her tightly to the chair didn’t help, nor the duct tape over her mouth. Neither did the sunlamp shining in her face for the past hour.
This morning, Veronica-R-MRM-1 was a RED-Clearance Internal Security Parking Meter Auditor giving tickets to autocars parked illegally in the Conspicuous Consumption Is Patriotic Shopping Promenade. She liked her job—although the autocars she ticketed always argued too much—and she was proud to be RED. Sure, she wasn’t an ORANGE surveillance camera repairperson, a YELLOW forms checker, a GREEN goon, or a higher-clearance Internal Security agent, but at least she wasn’t INFRARED. Yes, Friend Computer had surely smiled on her, virtually speaking.
Earlier this morning
, while ticketing a luxury EJ-type autocar for parking on two INFRARED-Clearance pedestrians, Veronica had been forcibly detained by GREEN-Clearance IntSec goons, beaten up for their protection, rendered offsite in a traitor wagon, beaten again because they couldn’t remember if they’d beat her before, and dragged to Floor 4 of YFG Sector Internal Security Central Station.
Officially, the fourth floor was where people were taught “communication skills.” Everyone knew what really happened on the fourth floor, and because they knew, everyone denied they knew. Though it was the busiest floor in the building, no one admitted visiting. People went to the fourth floor in groups and returned in smaller groups. Usually one or two from each group never returned.
Now Veronica sat tied to a chair bolted to the concrete floor of Communication Skills room 46. Panic was not the word; wetting oneself while screaming oneself hoarse behind the duct tape was—though technically that’s a phrase.
She heard the door open but couldn’t turn around. Footsteps drew near; the door shut; still she saw no one. Sweat rolled down her forehead and stung her eyes. She tried to say, “I’ll confess to anything you want! I’m loyal!” She actually said, “Uhhuhmumph umumumh uhhunnph! Ummurmm!”
A tall, heavily muscled man strode into view. He wore a tailored deep-blue jumpsuit with a blue badge pinned to the front pocket. His hair was somewhere between blonde and white, cut so short the difference didn’t matter.
Veronica froze—easy, given she couldn’t move anyway. Like every worker of every clearance at Central, she knew this man, and like every worker, she feared him: the BLUE-Clearance station commander, Ben-B-HTY-4.
Ben-B took his Personal Digital Companion from a padded pocket and set it on Veronica’s lap. He pressed a button. The PDC played back an interrogation he’d conducted the previous week.
“This is an interview,” said his recorded voice, “with a citizen of interest in Case Number X-Ray-Foxtrot-Spam-Wiener one-seven-six-stroke-eleven. This citizen was volunteered to compete against others for a chance at answering our questions about Most Wanted Traitor Number One, Superstar Pirate. Answers will be elicited from the lucky winner using standard enhanced-interrogation techniques, which—” Strange buzzing and gurgling noises rolled over the rest of his words, followed quickly by screams.
