Swipe identification
“We already did,” Dave says.
“Did what?”
He tugs at the badge clipped to my jacket. “Swiped ID. You know, from the general.”
A small red light flashes near a slot along the top edge of the keyboard.
“Don’t be a moron, Dave.” He’s right about one thing—I’m the expert here. I unclip the badge, but is it safe to use? The general might have tricked us and created badges that sound an alarm once we use them. A chance we’ll have to take. I slide my badge through the slot, the red light changes to green, and no sirens wail, to my relief.
On the screen, a vertical strip is drawn down one side, where a series of buttons appear. Not real buttons, rather silly little pictograms. One is a red hexagon, like a stop sign. That must mean stop. Stop what though? We have to start something before we can stop it. Another looks like a man running. Below that is a bird, wings outstretched and something in its beak, could be a sheet of paper. Then an image of a man sitting down, legs folded. Who thought up all this crap? Near the bottom, the last pictogram resembles a bucket. Maybe that bucket of virtue I never found.
“Well?” Dave asks.
“Well what?”
“What makes it go?”
That’s what I’d like to know. I touch the on-screen buttons, but nothing happens. Of course—the screen is not touch-sensitive like our computers. This primitive design presents buttons as metaphors. Okay, I remember this. There’s another way, a metaphorical way to press the buttons.
“Why isn’t it working?” Dave asks.
A lone white arrow hovers in the center of the screen.
“It’s that arrow,” I say. “We have to move it over one of the buttons, then press it.”
“How?” he asks. “You just think about it?” He squints and grunts as if straining to send a telepathic command. Or having a tough time on the can. His eyes snap open and he gazes at the screen, searching for success. The little arrow hasn’t budged.
“You try it,” he says. “You’re better at that kind of thing.”
He’s not joking—he’s actually serious.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Dave. Things don’t move just by thinking about it. They move by the rules of existence.” Thinking about it helps, sure, but thought must inspire physical action, the justification for an object’s movement.
“So enlighten me, oh wise one. What are these rules we must follow?”
“Simple,” I explain. “A device here somewhere controls that arrow, and we move it with our hand, dumb-ass.”
He reaches for a palm-sized orb on the table beside the terminal. “This hunk of plastic maybe.”
Of course—the Selection Pointer Interface Device. The
SPID.
Spend some effort making this primitive crap more intuitive, instead of wasted on clever new acronyms. It might make more sense to name it after a small rodent.
“Yeah, Dave, that’s it. The mystical orb that makes this all possible.”
He hands over the spid and I give it a try. Bingo, the arrow moves. Now let’s see what the running man does. I navigate the arrow over the pictogram and click once. The white arrow changes to a tiny image of the same running man, but animated this time, his little arms and legs going wild. Must mean he’s working on it.
Dave and I stare at the screen, waiting as the animated figure runs in place, going nowhere. What is it doing? Something, though it fails to give any clue as to what, or any evidence of progress. I fear the running man could be another metaphor—angry Bobs charging through the corridor, coming this way.
* * *
There is noise at the door—the knob turning. Someone steps in, flips the switch, and the lights flicker on one by one. Unlike the Bobs, this older gent suffers from male pattern baldness, and he wears small rimless glasses. The tweed jacket with elbow patches must be an old favorite, worn daily for some time. He does not immediately notice us, rather goes directly to the instructor’s desk, hauling a satchel that he plops down and roots through. He pulls out a stack of textbooks, then realizes our presence.
“What are you doing here?” he asks. “There’s no class today.”
Not another confrontation.
Dave stands. “Working on extra credit.”
Dave!
“Credit for what?” the instructor asks. “I don’t recognize either of you. What class are you assigned to?”
Now would be a great time for a weapon. Zap this guy and make him shut up.
Dave says, “We’re working on a special project to learn where the ice goes.”
Zap Dave, too, before everybody knows our entire plan.
“Ice?” the instructor says. “What are you talking about?”
Dave glances at me like I might say something clever. Hey, don’t look at me, buddy. You started this round of nonsense, you can finish.
He says to the instructor, “Where the rebels go.”
The instructor reaches for the phone.
Dave advances on the desk. “Oh no, sir, please don’t report us. We missed class, I’m sorry, but you see, we’re here on our own time, making up the lessons.”
Missed class? He needs to shut up before he makes this any worse.
The instructor starts dialing. “Yes, it’s clear you failed just about every lesson, calling it ice of all things.”
This isn’t good. I get up and join Dave, facing the desk.
“Hello?” the instructor says into the phone. “Yes, I have an order.”
An order for our arrest. With a discreet nod, I signal Dave, and we creep toward the desk.
“Yes, the same,” the instructor explains to those at the other end of the phone. “But get it right this time—no onions.”
Poised to attack, Dave and I freeze, then exchange befuddled glances.
The instructor hangs up the phone. Shaking his head, he comes around the desk and leans against the edge. “Now look here,” he says, a scolding finger emphasizing his words. “You won’t get anywhere in life if you waste your time with needless activities other than class. This kind of behavior is not what the Association is looking for in members of the GP. You’re lucky you’ve even been accepted, now you’re throwing it all away. You had better shape up quick, or you’ll both end up losers, wandering the streets with the rest of the riffraff.”
Dave looks ready to rip the guy’s head off, but he resists. Instead, he hangs his own head. “Yes, sir.”
The instructor shifts to me, projecting a reprimand that needs no words.
I stare at the floor. “Sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.”
“I’m sorry as well,” he says, “but I’m afraid this little mishap cannot go unreported. Let’s have your numbers.” He snatches the badge clipped to my jacket and studies it. “What is this? This isn’t student identification, not even cadet.” He looks up. “You’re veteran soldiers with security clearance. What’s going on here?”
We’re not talking our way out of this one. If not for the silly story about missing class, maybe, but not now.
Dave says, “Sir, I can explain everything.”
“You can start this instant, then we’ll have a talk with security. This had better be good.”
Yeah, Dave, it better, or an army of Bobs is next. The instructor goes around the desk, approaching the phone. Now’s the time, Dave, let’s have that good explanation. We don’t want him calling anyone else. I doubt the next conversation will be about lunch.
“We’re rebel spies infiltrating headquarters.”
Dave!
Equally stunned by the outrageous remark, the instructor stands dumbfounded. Then he lunges for the phone. In a blur, Dave slaps hands atop the desk and swivels horizontal, soaring across to plant boots in the instructor’s chest, knocking him back, his glasses off, and the phone from his grasp. The instructor crashes to the floor and struggles up to sprint for the door. I chase after him and slide across the smooth tile, crossing his path and tripping him as Dave catches up and secures him in a headlock. He fights to break free, arms swinging and legs flailing.
Stop kicking me, you bastard!
“Intruders!” he hollers. “Sound the alarm!”
Dave ratchets down and flops over, the instructor atop his chest and facing me. A swift fist to his groin convinces him to think again about hollering, as his screams fall silent and he gasps for breath. I straddle them both and smother him while Dave tightens like a vise, restricting his airway. The instructor kicks and squirms, eyes bugging out, then fluttering lazy. His limbs calm and he falls unconscious.
Dave gets up and glares down on the instructor’s limp body. “Watch who you call a loser,
asshole.
” He straightens his crumpled jacket, then says to me, “Can’t talk your way around those types. Far too intellectual.”
* * *
My precious badge ended up behind the instructor’s desk. It goes in a pocket where it’s safe from grabby hands. Next we search the drawers for rope, wire, chains, anything to restrain our victim. All we find is a wimpy ball of string. Using a ridiculous amount, hoping to increase its effect, I bind him in so much that he appears outfitted in a custom-tailored suit of cotton twine, arms now a snug combo with his torso. Dave returns from the rear of the room with a wad of paper towels, and stuffs them in the guy’s mouth. A good idea. When he comes around, we don’t want him hollering about us rebel spies infiltrating headquarters.
With the instructor secured, we return to the computer terminal and resume our study time that was so rudely interrupted. The white arrow is back. Seems the running man gave up on whatever he was chasing after, or running away from. In either case, the choice didn’t produce any meaningful result.
“Try the bird,” Dave says. “Look, it’s holding something in its beak. Probably what we want to know.”
The metaphor does suggest the retrieval of something, most likely information, since this contraption isn’t capable of much else. I click the bird and a new dialog box appears.
Enter search pattern
“Bravo, Dave, now you’re the computer genius. So where do we begin?”
“What was the general talking about? Some kind of program.”
“R and R.”
“Yeah. Start with that.”
I enter the mysterious term and select the running man. The arrow changes to the animated figure as before, and a flood of text boxes begin filling the screen, and continue popping up one after another.
Enough!
The stop sign, duh. I click the red hexagon and the barrage ceases. The topmost frame contains the answer to our query.
Relocation and Rebirth program (R & R). Association directive 756915445862, approved 65675986. Due to economic hardship resulting from an extended war effort, the Relocation and Rebirth program exists as the final solution to the overpopulation of incurable subjects engaged in resistance. Nonconforming citizens will be conditioned and prepared for transport via body reduction and subsequent stasis within silicium containment fields.
Dave asks, “What’s the containment field?”
“Let’s find out.”
I’m getting the hang of this. Clicking the bird brings up a new search dialog, then after entering the term, I hit the running man. Again text boxes fill the screen and I must jab the stop button to halt the onslaught. After navigating through a ridiculous amount of text exploring the topic, a hyperlink leads to a definition.
Silicium Containment Field (SCF). Charged silica molecules embedded in glycol and trace lysozyme, suspended in a hydrogen-oxygen enclosure brought to a solid state by extreme low temperature. Functions as containment of subjects during relocation to the Restricted Zone. Dissolves on contact with sodium chloride residing in median temperature liquids.
“The ice,” Dave says.
“With a little something extra.”
“Yeah, like some poor fool trapped inside. But where does it go?”
“It says right there.” I point to the screen. “The Restricted Zone.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Well duh, it’s restricted.”
“Then it’s a good thing.”
“What is?”
He waves his badge and grins. “Unrestricted computer access.”
His overzealous insistence for access is turning out to be warranted. I call up a new search dialog and enter the phrase. Another barrage fills the screen and again I must halt the flood of information, then sort through the mess.
Restricted Zone. Sector 177, level 16. Current destination for incurable subjects engaged in resistance. All access is strictly prohibited other than approved activities relating to the Relocation and Rebirth program. Currently limited to the transport of loaded silicium containment fields and the delivery of materials required to complete the conversion of existing civilizations that have been deemed incurable. Upon conclusion of the R & R program, this region of space is to remain restricted indefinitely. All personnel will vacate and no further access will be permitted. Violation of this directive will result in severe penalty.
I point to the screen. “
That’s
where everyone is going.”
“Sure, but where is it?”
“It says right there. Sector one-seventy-seven, level sixteen.”
“That’s about as good as around the corner and over a few systems, then take a left at the next planet and keep going. Those numbers are meaningless, they’re Association identifiers. Don’t tell me you have a handy-dandy Association star-map in your back pocket.”
“No, can’t say that I do. But I do have an Association computer sitting right in front of me.”
All we must do is access a star-map, unrestricted as all the rest. But first these text boxes have to go. The clutter of overlapping frames is like a year’s worth of junk mail. I study the vertical bar loaded with pictures and search for the right metaphor. Someone should slap the guy who came up with this nonsense. Why not have the words? Do they think computer operators are illiterate? One button might be a paintbrush, or maybe a broom sweeping. Works for me—clean up your mess. I click the broom and the text frames vanish. Right again. Okay, this pictogram idea isn’t so bad, if you’re patient and use half a brain.