by MacGuffin, WJ; Hanrahan, Gareth; Varney, Allen; Ingber, Greg
So what happened? Good question!
According to lone survivor Lydia-R-UUF-4: “During a routine weapons check, everybody’s service pistol simultaneously malfunctioned,” and she avoided injury only because she “happened to be adjusting her boots at the time”—an explanation which, frankly, raises more questions than it answers. Specifically, “Why is everybody dead?” and “No, seriously, why is everybody dead?” and “How am I, Burl-Y, going to get blamed for the fact that everybody’s dead?”
And on top of that, there’s the paperwork. One hundred seventy-four; that’s the number of subsections of the Incident Report Form (Form ISIR488YB/a, which I recall was one of your favorites) a manager must fill out when a citizen expires in any Databasix facility. Four dead Troubleshooters means four Incident Reports means Burly Burl-Y won’t be leaving the office any time soon.
So look, Jed-Y, I appreciate all your help—I really do—but I think I’m going to find a way to take care of this issue that doesn’t involve Troubleshooters in any way. I’ll call in some favors or hire somebody or—if ALL else fails, I will personally download electronics training vids from the Power Services Instructional Service and fix this vat-forsaken lighting circuitry myself. I may not be the handiest guy around, but surely I can’t screw things up any worse.
Thanks,
Burl-Y
—————
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Haha VICTORY FOR ME!
Hi Jed-Y,
Let me tell you something: This techie stuff isn’t so hard after all! Once I got my hands on the right tools and watched a few instructional videos, turns out installing this power regulator thingy was a breeze! The lighting system at DataBasix is now fully functional thanks to an all-night install job undertaken by Yours Truly. Actually, my assistant Gwen-O did some of the routine wiring and soldering, and all the busywork of screwing and unscrewing and plugging and unplugging. But I supervised her at the important points throughout.
Anyway, I think I learned an important lesson this week: If you want something done right, don’t ask Troubleshooters to do it.
Thanks again,
Burl-Y
—————
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
SUBJECT: #4?!
Hey Jed-Y,
Sorry to bug you again. It’s 08:00, I’m at the office. There’s another Troubleshooter team in our lobby, claiming they were assigned to fix the office lighting system. But I’ve already fixed the lighting system. Did you not get that message I sent you earlier? I have no further use for a Troubleshooter team. So please don’t file any more Troubleshooter Action Requests into the system. We’re good over here.
Thanks,
Burl-Y
—————
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Persistent?!
Hey Jed-Y,
Thanks for your quick reply. I’m a little confused though—sorry, I guess I’m not up to speed on the latest CPU Filing terminology. Making sure I didn’t misunderstand your previous message: You flagged that original Action Request “Persistent”? And in the case of a Persistent Action Request, the sector dispatcher will keep on sending Troubleshooter teams to the office until “the cause of the request has been satisfactorily addressed”?
But the matter has been addressed. By me. Lighting system is fixed. All is well. So, how do I let the dispatcher know the issue has been resolved? Do I need to file something? Or you? Please let me know ASAP, because I can’t get these Troubleshooters to go away. They claim they were ordered to fix the DataBasix lighting system and cannot leave until they have done so.
Thanks,
Burl-Y
—————
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
SUBJECT: (no subject)
Jed-Y
THIS IS REALY BAD. Anothr team of Troubleshooters jus showed up at office. Heavily armed. WHY DO U NEED CONE RIFLES TO FIX A LIGHTING SYSMET??? Before I coud say a words to them they ran into that other team that arrived earlier and wouldn’tt leave.
So there’s 2 teams now, in the office. ANGRY TROPLESHOTERS!!! & they don’t like each other much.
1st team acursed the 2nd of being impostors. 2nd team accused 1st of saboteag. lot of poeple yeling TRAITOR and MUTANT and COMMIE and then guns drawn aaand I decided Id be better off supervising from a secure position under my desk. Where I am now. Situation is tense but at lest they not shooting at eafch tohres
No wait
shootnig
jelp!!! I NEE D U TO PUT ACTOIN REQUST INTO SYSTEN TO
**Message unsent**
**Do you wish to save message to Drafts?**
—————
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Re: (no subject)
This is an AUTOMATED RESPONSE MESSAGE. DO NOT REPLY.
Burl-Y-UUF-1 will be out of the office for a period beginning IMMEDIATELY until he returns to the office on UNSPECIFIED. In case of emergency Burl-Y-UUF-1 can be contacted via OUTSIDE COMMUNICATIONS PROHIBITED at the INTERNAL SECURITY HOLDING, LOCATION UNSPECIFIED.
For work-related inquiries, contact Acting Onsite Manager Gwen-Y-UUF-1.
This is an AUTOMATED RESPONSE MESSAGE. DO NOT REPLY.
—————
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Hello
**ENCRYPT: XENON-STRONGHOLD 4096**
Greetings Jed-Y,
As you know, I’m filling in for Burl-Y at DataBasix while he’s busy talking to the nice people at Internal Security. At this very moment, I imagine they’re chatting about the commiebot propaganda leaflets bearing the distinct watermark of our DataBasix copy machine. Or the unauthorized use of prototype Power Services circuitry. Or the massive gun battle that destroyed half the office. Come to think of it, they might even ask what unregistered mutation turned Burl-Y’s flesh such a festive shade of green. I’ll admit, that last part was strictly for my own amusement. A pal at In-Charge Recharge owed me a favor.
Anyway, on to business. I’ve finally got the access mentioned in past discussions. Login info via the usual channels, as agreed.
Our data will be your data. Don’t know what your clients plan to do with it. Hope to keep it that way.
Cheers,
Gwen-Y
Orientation (Final)
Attention, $NewCitizen_TREASONPROVEN! In advance of your upcoming termination, you may wish to pass the time in remorseful meditation on your previous misadventures reading traitorous orientations. Why not read instead this new, authorized, and entirely correct replacement? Perhaps your next clone will recall it and do better.
CLONING
In Old Reckoning times before The Computer, humans reproduced by rutting at random. Improved by mandatory hormone suppressants, citizens are no longer troubled by the bestial and undignified urges of the past. Because The Computer cares deeply for its citizens, it grows them in clone tanks. This is much less messy and disgusting than the old way. At decanting, each new citizen is assigned five clone backup bodies, in addition to his or her original body (the “Prime”), and may purchase more.
CITIZEN NAMES
The naming scheme is [Given name]—[Security clearance initial]—[Home sector]—[Clone number]. Clearance initials follow the ROYGBIV spectrum. INFRAREDs have no initial; ULTRAVIOLET High Programmers use U.
“DATA EXHAUST”
Threat Obfuscation executive Granville-B learns how to mine his boss’s past dealings to uncover his deepest fears. It’s a great rush—but who is mining Granville?
A prequel to PARANOIA n
ovel S1 Reality Optional by Gareth Hanrahan, available where you obtained this book.
Data Exhaust
Gareth Hanrahan
The doorbell remained obstinate.
“I don’t care who you are,” it chirped, “you’re not ringing me until you sign my End User Licence Agreement.” It helpfully emailed a fourth copy of the 57-page document to Tanner-G.
He waved his Internal Security badge at the doorbell again. “Security override! Activate!”
“I’m a BLUE-Clearance doorbell. You’re only GREEN Clearance, citizen.”
Tanner’s fingers crawled towards the handle of his laser pistol.
“And I outgun you, too.”
The doorbell probably wasn’t bluffing—high-clearance apartments had all sorts of anti-personnel weapons to discourage bothersome low-clearance types. He fought his temper back down again and put a smile back on his face. Mind on the job.
With the armored plastic knuckles of his gauntlet, Tanner rapped on the door.
“Hey! Stop that! You can’t cut me out of the loop like that! Hey! Hrmph!”
He put his meaty thumb over the doorbell’s speaker. In the sudden silence he heard movement inside. Muffled words—a woman’s voice. Footsteps. The whirr of cameras focusing. The distinctive click of a laser safety catch being switched to Extremely Unsafe.
The door opened.
The man did not so much emerge as unfold from within. Although Tanner was GREEN Clearance and knew about the Outdoors outside Alpha Complex, he’d never been there nor seen its strange mutant monsters. So he had no way to imagine a pinkish stick insect wearing an ill-fitting human mask and a blue bathrobe. His closest approach was, This guy looks really tall, with a suspicious number of knees and elbows. And a robe.
The executive blinked languidly and stared at a point several inches above Tanner’s head. “Yes?”
As an Internal Security agent, Tanner-G was used to citizens cowering when they saw his hulking, drug-enhanced form approaching, or collapsing into quivering heaps, or swallowing huge handfuls of Friendly Fun De-Stress Relaxomatic Happy Pills and then suffering the common reaction to an overdose of Friendly Fun De-Stress Relaxomatic Happy Pills (extreme happiness followed by joyful loss of bladder control and motor function). Even a BLUE would normally swallow nervously and maybe put on his biggest, happiest smile. This citizen hadn’t even blinked.
“Er—Granville-B, right?”
The man glanced over his shoulder, sniffed the air, checked something on his PDC, then nodded. “Yes.”
“I’ve got some questions about Beatrice-Y.”
“Well, I should think so.” Granville-B suddenly became animated. It looked like the convulsions of someone who really wasn’t enthusiastic about being electrocuted, but was faking convulsions to be polite. “If Internal Security didn’t have questions about a recently-terminated traitor who managed to slip past all our security measures and infiltrate a highly sensitive department, why, they wouldn’t be doing their jobs at all. The fact you have questions about Beatrice-Y reflects very well on you, officer. Go forward, brave warrior, in the cause of truth! Goodbye.”
He tried to shut the door, but Tanner navigated the sentence quickly enough to put his boot across the threshold.
“I’ve got questions about Beatrice-Y for you, Granville-B. I’ve already tried to call you six times and sent you a dozen C-mails.”
“Ah.”
“May I come in?” Tanner inclined his head towards Granville’s quarters.
Granville glanced back, scratched his nose, and appeared to consider the request. “No,” he said finally, drawing the o. Noooooooooooooo.
By reflex, Tanner reached for his truncheon. Then he remembered the doorbell. He asked sourly, “What was your relationship with the traitor, Beatrice-Y?”
“She worked for me in the Department of Threat Obfuscation. Specifically, she was a Junior Assistant Provocation Analyst, specializing in Suggestive Rumor-Mongering and Seed Meme Cultivation.”
“And, um, what does the Department of Threat Obfuscation do? What service group are you in?”
“We’re an interdepartmental department, primarily reporting to CPU, but under the aegis of HPD&MC, and part of the ISCCMWTG.” Granville-B sniffed. “That’s the Internal Security Citizen Control & Monitoring Working Task Group. You probably haven’t heard of it. You’re only GREEN.”
“But what was Beatrice-Y’s actual job? What did she do? What secret information could she have passed on to her Commie Mutant Traitor allies? Failure to answer will be deemed complicity in treason!” Tanner felt a new spark of confidence. Finally, he was moving the conversation in the right direction. Even a BLUE couldn’t escape the piercing light of an Internal Security interrogation. (“Piercing light” is an approved euphemism for “laser.”)
“The secret information she had,” said Granville-B, “may or may not have been true.”
“Huh?”
“Threat Obfuscation is predicated on the axiom that the veracity of any fact is irrelevant. Only the actions that are taken based on that fact matter. At the Department, we take facts—usually, threats to the safety of Alpha Complex—and obfuscate them by generating multiple fraudulent variations that will prompt similar actions. This permits the higher clearances to interact with the lower clearances without revealing sensitive information to traitors.”
Tanner’s new spark of confidence flickered and went out.
Granville-B went on. “Suppose it were of vital importance you speak to me. If your superiors simply ordered you to speak to me at once, urgently, eavesdropping traitors would know our meeting is of vital importance, and would therefore—” He glanced around. “—Would therefore sabotage it or spy upon us. However, if those orders are properly obfuscated, then the end goal—you meeting me—is accomplished through a fraudulent premise no eavesdropper would find noteworthy.”
Tanner stepped back. His forehead wrinkled in deep thought. “Are you saying—Beatrice-Y never existed? And I was only told she did so I’d come down here and question you? And I’m actually here for—some other—?”
“No,” said the doorbell helpfully, “he’s saying it’s possible Beatrice-Y never existed and the story is just cover for the meeting, but it’s also possible she did exist and was a traitor, but you can never know which for security reasons.”
“My doorbell is correct,” said Granville.
“I—but—” Tanner flailed. “Never mind. Come down to precinct HQ, and you can explain all that to my supervisor.”
Granville frowned. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.” He glanced over his shoulder again. “I have visitors.”
All citizens in Alpha Complex are treated with mandatory hormone suppressants, to keep their mind on their assigned duties and off thoughts of unhygienic recreation. Higher-clearance citizens are assigned smaller doses of suppressant; according to official reports (written by higher-clearance citizens), The Computer’s most trusted subordinates are so happy to serve that they don’t need suppressants and would never indulge in said unhygienic recreation.
As a new GREEN, Tanner was now slightly less suppressed. He was in the first flush of hormones, manifested as angst, acne, and a shameful fascination with unhygienic procreative practices. His instincts took Granville’s reticence, the bathrobe, and the muffled voice and got sex! (Lately, his instincts provided that answer to almost every question.)
“Ooh. I understand, sir.” He wiggled his eyebrows—a gesture lost beneath his battle helmet. “Well, I’m sure you’ll be free to visit the IntSec office in—” How long did it take? A few minutes? Hours? Weeks? “In the fullness of time. Once you’re done with, er, stuff.”
“Quite. In, as you say, the fullness of time.” Granville closed the door in Tanner’s face.
A moment later, the doorbell beeped. “Hoo-rah, safeties off. He just switched on my big guns. You’d better run, IntSec man!”
—————
It disgusted Granville to consort with the lower
clearances. Tainted by the lies they swallowed so easily, their brains were muddied cesspits that swirled with pharmaceuticals and viral thought patterns. Having a conversation with a prole was like using well-chosen words to coax your PDC out of a sewer. It exhausted him.
And those vile insinuations! Physical contact was unhygienic. His stomach recoiled at the thought of touching another body. Bad enough he had to breathe the same air. Nnngh.
He padded down the corridor and paused outside the door to his office. He could hear them talking inside—Celeste-G and that other one, the twitchy one.
He still could hardly believe he’d let them in. If it had been anyone else, he’d have set the doorbell to Lethal and ignored them, but he needed Celeste. She was annoyingly brilliant, the architect of many of Threat Obfuscation’s new initiatives and computer models.
She was also, it seemed, oblivious to hints. And to subtle rebuffs. And multiple direct C-mails that said, sometimes in their entirety, “Do not, under any circumstances, visit my suite.”
You simply couldn’t get the staff, these days.
He swallowed a handful of antibiotics to wipe out any lingering germs, then a handful of probiotics to boost his immune system. Finally, he popped two tabs of a smart drug, just to help his stomach decide which side of the biotic issue to endorse. Then he stepped into his office.
The first thing anyone saw was the desk—big, brushed-steel, with inlaid silver stylings. A few weeks ago he’d moved it right in front of the door. He was the only person who used the room, so why have the desk in the middle? Putting it in front of the door maximized the working area behind. So really—looking at it from that vantage—just by sitting there on his favorite couch, these two Threat Obfuscation functionaries, Celeste-G and her little nebbish—Jerome-Y, that was it—were therefore invading his personal space. He resented them all the more.