by MacGuffin, WJ; Hanrahan, Gareth; Varney, Allen; Ingber, Greg
Clarence didn’t turn around. “Wasting toilet paper is against Mandate PLPM 208.99/a.”
A large, heavyset Yellowpants named Joe-Y-GGT-3 pushed forward. “And being a boring vat-head is against Mandate YOU SUCK!” He sought high-fives from the others, who complied mostly because they feared what Joe’s meaty hands could do to them should they be left un-high fived.
Clarence turned in confusion. “But there is no mandate named ‘YOU SUCK.’ Mandate names follow established nomenclature: The first two initials of the service group issuing the mandate, followed by ‘PM’ for permanent mandate or ‘TM’ for temporary mandate, then a three-number designation based on—”
A wad of toilet paper hit him in the face. Above the laughter someone shouted, “What’s the mandate for getting wet toilet paper off your face?”
“PLPM 208.99/k and ISTM 1092.44/a, although HPPM 776.72/a technically applies given that the paper is stuck to my forehead.”
The laughter petered out, and someone even checked the mandates on his PDC. “Not true! That’s not a hat.”
“HPPM776.72/b defines a hat as anything worn above the nose but below the top of the head. This is especially true given that PLPM 502.67/c requires hats and toilet paper be made from the same material, and that CPPM 287.70/h allows use of hats as toilet paper if the stall currently being used has no paper and no INFRARED citizen is within earshot.”
While everyone checked his or her PDC, a meek silence fell.
Joe moved a step closer to Clarence. “Must be easy to memorize all them mandates, what with having no friends.”
“Although it would be nice to have friends—I suppose—I have used my free time productively, as Friend Computer expects. Besides, memorizing mandates isn’t hard. You can memorize every mandate applying to Junior Citizens before you leave Mandatory Training, Education, and Obedience School. And of course it’s a pleasure to read every issue of MandateToday to keep up. Did you see the last issue? CPU is talking about merging CPPM 410.23/b and AFPM 981.11/c! Can you believe it? What would we do with all those grenades and lubricants?”
Joe took another step closer. “I can think of something.”
Clarence belatedly realized Joe was presenting the prospect of violence. He backed up against his locker. “Remember, Joe-Y. Intra-team violence is only allowed in Troubleshooter teams, and then only in cases of real, somewhat real, or reasonably imaginary treason.”
“Oh yeah? What about Mandate CPPM 443.11/p?”
Clarence’s high brow wrinkled. “‘Petbot owners may not name their pet “Sit” and play the “Come-Here-Sit” joke until its loyalty processor burns out’?”
“I meant five-forty-three!”
“‘Though the existence of Things Humanity Was Not Meant To Know shall not be disputed, this does not apply to Research & Design personnel’?”
“Argh!” Joe clawed the air. “It was—wait—four-fifty-three! CPPM 453.11/p!”
“‘A citizen acting like a smug know-it-all may be given an emergency unscheduled beating by local citizens of equal or higher clearance if at least ten citizens present and of equal or higher clearance agree it is necessary or at least a fun way to pass the time’?”
“That. All in favor—”
A new voice: “The camera is on.”
In Alpha Complex, few other statements can so arrest the attention. As one, every face turned to the far corner of the ceiling, where a security camera’s red light, dark for months, now glowed bright.
The newbie, a tall, athletic, brown-haired, red-cheeked woman, smiled a helpful smile. “I noticed it was broken, so I fixed it under Mandate TSTM 073.33/b.”
Clarence shook his head. “That would have required a completed form TS5040-EZ signed by our supervisor, a Power Services supervisor, and a random Technical Services worker present at the location of said broken surveillance machinery. And Tech Serv workers are not allowed in here, which is why that camera has been broken for years.” He smiled at the newcomer with indulgent sympathy, as to a wayward Junior Citizen. “A common mistake.”
The new woman stood firm. “But this location counts as ‘important to the safety and security of all life as we know it’ under Mandate AFPM 293.96/v.”
Clarence’s eyes widened. “Which allows bypassing Technical Services forms for repairs of items defined under PSPM 221.60/s. Yes! You can fix the camera yourself. Brilliant.” He gazed with admiration on the new Yellowpants. She was short, barely 1.5 meters, and her Perfect-Fit brand regulation jumpsuit was rolled at the wrists and ankles. (“Disclaimer: Perfect-Fit fits all citizens perfectly but may fit some citizens more perfectly than others.”) Rich brown hair framed her face in ungraceful curves—haircuts by jackobots reprogrammed from active military duty to hair salons were rarely attractive but always efficient—and her green eyes looked large and clear. Clarence-Y would have found her attractive, were he not on a steady diet of drugs designed to suppress such feelings.
Joe-Y walked up to the camera, straining his neck to look directly at it. “In the spirit of loyalty and friendship, I shall forgive you, Clarence-Y, of your—um—stupidity and stuff.” He turned away from the camera and mouthed the words “You’re dead,” though his poor elocution made it possible he was saying “You’re wet,” “Our fed,” “Ker-ped!” or conceivably even “You’re RED,” which would have been rude even for Joe. He made a complicated and possibly rude hand gesture. Then everyone turned back to his or her locker.
Clarence began taking down the toilet paper blobs. “Thank you, Citizen—?”
“Jenny-Y-TOV-1. I just transferred from a BVC Sector surveillance systems firm.”
“BVC Sector? Didn’t their reactor go critical last week, flooding the entire sector with radiation?”
“Why do you think I was transferred? They told me I received a nice, healthy dose of radiation for my security clearance. There’s an empty locker next to yours. Would you mind if I took it as my own?
“No.”
“I can’t?”
“No, I mean, yes, you can.”
“No means yes in this sector?”
“No, no means no.”
“So you have to use no twice to mean no? Then a single no means yes?”
“No!”
“Ah, I get it. You just agreed that a single no means yes. What does yes mean, then?”
“Wait.”
“Yes means wait? This is a strange sector.”
Clarence collected the last toilet paper blob from his locker. “This is a misunderstanding. No means no, yes means yes, and yes, you can have this locker.”
Jenny appeared to think about it for a moment before opening up her locker. “Probably best to let that drop. I’ve never worked as an efficiency auditor before. Um, I hope you don’t mind this question but—why are we called Yellowpants?”
Returning from the trash bin in the corner, Clarence shrugged. “Not sure, really. Some say it’s because only YELLOW-Clearance CPU citizens can become efficiency auditors. Others believe it’s due to our bright yellow work jumpsuits. Troubleshooters think it comes from—ah, an unscheduled urination event in the face of danger. But that’s Troubleshooters for you.”
Jenny nodded. “Aren’t you going to change?”
Clarence-Y looked around. Most of the others had already changed and left. “In a minute. No need to rush.”
Jenny-Y shrugged her shoulders and put some personal effects in the locker—her PDC, an Official Teela O’Malley Fan Club Calendar—Year of The Computer 214, and a small motivational poster (cute scrubot looking at giant wall covered with graffiti; caption: “GET STARTED ALREADY! The job isn’t going to finish itself”).
Clarence watched the other Yellowpants until they left. “Aren’t you going too?” he asked Jenny.
“Yes, but—to be honest, I’m a little nervous about working here. Those other efficiency auditors seemed a bit intense, if you follow me. I was hoping we could get a cup of HappyKaff or TeaSir. My treat! You can tell me all about being a Yellow
pa—er, an efficiency auditor.”
Clarence looked confused. “You want to spend time—with me?”
“Yes. You don’t seem like the others, that bunch of—perfectly normal and loyal citizens, by which I mean you are normal and loyal too, only more so.”
Ignatius began to squirm in his pocket.
Clarence quickly opened his locker so the door would hide his chest. “Well, that’s good. Great. Fine. Why don’t you meet me at the Rejuvenated Citizen Drink Shop on the corner of Armed Forces Parade Trail and Loyalty In the Face of Temptation Boulevard? It’s just around the corner.”
“Sounds good.” She closed her locker and started to leave. “What’s that?”
He looked down and froze. Ignatius had crawled halfway out of his pocket and rested its front paws on the top of the locker door. It sniffed the air and looked around.
“Nothing!” Lurching around like a scrubot with a bad gyro, Clarence grabbed Ignatius and pushed him back down. “There’s nothing. Absolutely, one hundred percent nothing. In fact, there’s such a lack of thing there, Mandate RDPM 767.90/g would permit R&D scientists to study how one segment of spacetime could have so little there.”
Jenny smiled. “Don’t worry, I didn’t really fix the security camera. I just turned on the little red light. I didn’t have the tools to connect it to the Internal Security network. Can I see it?”
“You—you aren’t horrified? Scared out of your mind? Ready to turn and run for the nearest confession booth to report a violation of nearly two dozen separate mandates?”
“Why would I?”
Ignatius was squirming harder. Clarence was having trouble keeping his pocket stuffed. “Well, it’s—will you stay down! It’s just that when other people—stop it—when others see—bad mouse—see Ignatius, they’re terrified.”
The mouse squeezed through Clarence’s hands and jumped atop the locker door. It stared at Jenny and sniffed the air.
Jenny bent closer to look. She gingerly reached out with a finger and carefully rubbed the mouse’s back. The mouse sniffed the finger and, deciding it wasn’t edible or dangerous, ignored it.
“His name is Ignatius?”
“Yes, but I can’t tell if it’s male or female.”
Putting two tiny paws on Jenny’s finger, the mouse pulled itself up on its hind legs. Then it hopped into Jenny’s hand. “I think it likes me.”
“Yes? Yes!” Clarence hardly knew what to be amazed at. Himself (still not arrested and/or terminated) topped the list, but not much higher than finding a citizen who liked Ignatius instead of cowering in fear from the Dangerous Creature from the Outdoors.
The mouse ran up Jenny’s arm and sniffed her chest. “What are you doing, little guy? That’s right, I’ve got a snack in there, don’t I?” From her jumpsuit pocket she pulled a Soylent Yellow Protein Crunch Bar. “Would you like a bite?” She opened the wrapping. Without even sniffing, the mouse bit deep.
Clarence managed a smile. “Soylent is his favorite snack, although he likes Yummy Yeasty Yammies too.” Feeling uncomfortable, he took the protein bar and used it to lure the mouse back to his pocket. “I need to get him home. We only go for walkies every now and then.”
“He’s so cute! Can I see him again sometime?”
“Umm. I’m not sure when that would be, but—you’re not a member of the Sierra Club, are you?”
She frowned—was she being evasive? “I don’t think—”
The locker room doors exploded.
Dust and smoke billowed into the room. GREEN Internal Security goons swept into the room single-file, winding between benches like a giant laser-armed snake. They all wore standard IntSec uniforms: shiny, domed helmet with one large optical lens and a rigid chinstrap, greasy-looking reflective armor, black aramid vests, GREEN-Clearance laser rifles, black elbow and knee pads, and dark green combat boots. However, they lacked shin guards. The first goon slammed his shin into a bench. “Oww!” he said, holding his shin and jumping on one foot in pain. Behind him, the rest of the goons yelled, “Oww!” and hoped on one foot too.
The lead goon noticed. “Stop! You’re supposed to follow the person in front of you, not copy him!”
The goons chorused, “Stop! You’re supposed to follow the person in front of you, not copy him!”
“No! Follow is not the same as copy, you idiots!”
“No! Follow is not the same as copy, you idiots!”
“Argh! Just secure the room.”
“Argh! Just secure the room.” The goons stood there, watching.
“Oh, you want to play that game?”
“Oh, you want to play that game?”
“I’m a vat-headed, smelly traitor who hates The Computer!”
The other goons shot him dead.
The second goon stepped over the body. “Citizen Clarence-Y-SKL-1?”
Clarence moved his head as little as possible while still technically nodding. He felt glad—fervently glad—the mouse was deep in his secret pocket.
“I am Internal Security officer Donovan-G-MCN-5. Under new policies aimed at improving community relations, I am to ask how your day is going before striking you repeatedly about the head with my titanium truncheon.” He pulled a dull metal pipe from his belt.
“Wait!” Jenny stepped between them. “Is the beating necessary?”
“Well— It’s more of a tradition. IntSec is very tradition-minded.”
Clarence raised his hands. “If you don’t ask me how my day is going, that means you don’t have to start the traditional beating, right? The tradition follows the greeting. Skip the greeting and the beating is also skipped.”
Donovan-G paused thoughtfully. “I never thought about that. But I like the beating!”
“But you hate asking how the target’s day is going, right?”
“That’s true.” Donovan-G rubbed his chin, or rather the chinstrap holding his monocular helmet on his head. “Aha! What if I replaced the nice greeting with shouting and accusations of treason? That’s an even older IntSec tradition!”
“It sounds better than the beating.”
“Says you. Okay, ready? Ahem. On the ground, traitors! Now! Now! Now!”
Clarence and Jenny dropped to the floor. Clarence tried not to crush Ignatius.
“Citizen Clarence-Y-SKL-1, you are hereby designated a Citizen of Interest. Consider our storming of your location an invitation to accompany us to Internal Security Central Station for questioning, TeaSir, cookies, and truth drugs. This invitation is mandatory. Please allow us to escort you immediately, or we will reclassify you as a Former Citizen of Interest.”
“Can I get up?”
“No! Stay down! Stay down!”
“Well, I would move much more efficiently if allowed to walk. Under Mandate ISPM 222.08/e crawling, unless you are a Junior Citizen, is limited to escaping fires, fitting through crawlspaces, or groveling. I’m not sure taking a trip to Central Station qualifies as any of the three.”
Donovan-G looked at the IntSec goon holding the flamethrower. He almost said something, but decided against it. “Okay, stand up. We don’t have all day. Get moving, you.”
Clarence-Y stood, straightened his work suit—he’d never gotten to change—and smiled at Jenny. “A request for professional services—how exciting! I always wanted to work on IntSec efficiency. No offense to the citizens with high-powered weaponry here, but everyone knows IntSec could be more efficient.”
Every weapon safety clicked off, but Donovan-G held up a hand. “Why do you say that?”
“Why else would you want a CPU efficiency auditor?”
Donovan-G looked confused. “A what?”
“A, uh—” Clarence-Y sighed. “You may perhaps know the term ‘Yellowpants.’”
“Oh, them. Stuck-up rules lawyers, right?” The other IntSec goons nodded enthusiastically, except the dead one, who seemed generally unenthused.
Clarence let the slight pass, per HPPM 144.01/d. “Jenny-Y, maybe we can get that drink when I come
back?”
Jenny tried to smile.
Clarence walked past the goons. “Let’s start with travel efficiency. How did you get here? Because if you took Intersector Highway 98, then you wasted at least ten minutes in traffic around Exit 101-Delta. Maintenance Route 44 is much more efficient, as long as you filed a form TS9000 at least a day in advance per Mandate TSTM 1055.62/r—” The IntSec goons hurried to keep up.
Jenny went to her open locker and grabbed her PDC. She started an unpublicized gray-market application and entered a password. The screen flashed bright blue.
She punched a number. A mark shimmered onscreen—a question mark.
She whispered, “We have a problem.”
————
You’ve just read Chapters 1-3 (about the first one-sixth) of the PARANOIA novel Traitor Hangout by WJ MacGuffin. In the full-length novel—available where you bought this book—after an efficient stop at IntSec Central Station, Clarence-Y (in the guise of Superstar Pirate) is dispatched to an official Elective Activity or Pursuit clubhouse. His mission: infiltrate the notorious gang of vandals, Death Leopard.
Who knew the EAP clubhouse is a notorious meeting place for nearly every secret society in Alpha Complex?
Who knew an oblivious Yellowpants could somehow manage to infiltrate—more or less by accident—not only Death Leopard, but also Corpore Metal, the Frankenstein Destroyers, and the ultimate terrorist army, PURGE?
Who could imagine one white mouse could survive all that, let alone possibly (not to spoil anything) be its cause?
Now you know. Read Traitor Hangout to know more!
Traitor Hangout
by WJ MacGuffin
ultravioletbooks.com
