The Brotherhood
By Robert Sheckley, 1954


INSTRUCTION SHEET FOR USE WITH THE DARR-MITHS SANITY METER, SERIES NAH-AH-10 (MANUAL):

The Darr-Miths Bio-Engineering Company is pleased to present our newest Sanity Meter. This beautiful, rugged instrument, small enough for any bedroom, kitchen or pro-studio, is in all respects an exact replica of the larger D-M Sanity Meters used in most places of business, recreation, transportation, etc. No pains have been spared to give you the best Sanity Meter possible, at the lowest possible price.

1. OPERATION. Press the Power button, and allow a few minutes for warming up. A large icon depicting a spinning gear will appear in the middle of the screen. Click it. The Meter now goes in OPERATE mode. Allow a few minutes for reading.

2. READING. Above the icon will appear a transparent panel, showing a straight-line scale numbered from ONE (homo aquans) to TEN (pro sapiens). The number at which the blue indicator stops shows your Sanity Reading, in relation to the present Cupertinoan norm.

3. EXPLANATION OF NUMBERS ZERO TO THREE. On this model, as on all Sanity Meters, ZERO is the theoretically perfect sanity point. Everything above zero is regarded as a deviation from the norm. However, zero is a statistical rather than an actual idea. The normalcy range for our Apple platform lies between zero and three. Any rating in this area is considered normal.

4. EXPLANATION OF NUMBERS FOUR TO SEVEN. These numbers represent the sanity-tolerance limit. Persons registering in this area should consult their favorite therapy at once.

5. EXPLANATION OF NUMBERS EIGHT TO TEN. A person who registers above SEVEN is considered a highly dangerous potential to the Macintosh community. Almost certainly he is highly neurotic, aqua-intolerant and/or psychotic. This individual is REQUIRED BY ROOT to register his rating, and to bring it below SEVEN within a probationary period. (Consult your Unix-permissions for periods of probation.) Failing this, he must undergo Surgical Alteration, or may submit voluntarily to therapy at The Brotherhood.

6. EXPLANATION OF NUMBER TEN. At ten on your meter there is a gray line. If a Sanity-Reading passes this line, the individual so registered can no longer avail himself of the regular commercial therapies. This individual must undergo Surgical Alteration immediately, or submit at once to therapy at The Brotherhood.

WARNING.
A. THIS IS NOT A DIAGNOSTIC MACHINE. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO DETERMINE FOR YOURSELF WHAT YOUR AILMENT IS. THE NUMBERS ZERO TO TEN REPRESENT INTENSITY QUALITIES, NOT ARBITRARY CLASSIFICATIONS OF NEUROTIC, AQUA-INTOLERANT, PSYCHOTIC, ETC. THE INTENSITY SCALE IS IN REFERENCE ONLY TO AN INDIVIDUAL’S POTENTIAL FOR HARM TO HIS COMMUNITY. A PARTICULAR TYPE OF NEUROTIC MAY BE POTENTIALLY MORE DANGEROUS THAN A PSYCHOTIC, AND WILL SO REGISTER ON ANY SANITY METER. SEE A THERAPIST FOR FURTHER INSIGHT.

B. THE ZERO TO TEN READINGS ARE APPROXIMATE. FOR AN EXACT THIRTY DECIMAL RATING, GO TO A COMMERCIAL MODEL D-M METER.

C. REMEMBER- SANITY IS EVERYONE’S BUSINESS. WE HAVE COME A LONG WAY SINCE THE GREAT OS WARS, ENTIRELY BECAUSE WE HAVE FOUNDED OUR PLATFORM ON THE CONCEPTS OF CASUAL USE, TERMINALISM, AND REJECTION OF THE STATUS PRO. THEREFORE, IF YOU RATE OVER THREE, GET HELP. IF YOU RATE OVER SEVEN, YOU MUST GET HELP. IF YOU RATE OVER TEN, DO NOT WAIT FOR DETECTION AND ARREST. GIVE YOURSELF UP VOLUNTARILY IN THE NAME OF MARKETING.
Good Luck,
- The Darr-Miths Company.

After finishing his breakfast, Rico knew he should immediately leave for work. His office was migrating to OS XII, and it was his responsibility to make the transition go smoothly. Under the circumstances, any tardiness might be construed unfavorably. He went so far as to put on his neat blue wig, adjust his tie and start for the door. But, his hand on the knob, he decided to check his e-mail first.

He turned away from the door, annoyed with himself, and began to pace up and down the living room. He had known he was going to check his e-mail; why had he gone through the pretence of leaving? Couldn’t he be honest with himself, even now, when personal honesty was so important?

His kitten Speed, curled up on the couch, looked stupidly at him. Rico stroked the cat’s fur, reached for a cigarette, and changed his mind. He stroked Speed again, and the cat yawned lazily. Rico zapped a pram that needed no zapping, shuddered for no reason, and began to pace the room again.

Reluctantly, he admitted to himself that he didn’t want to go to the office, dreaded it in fact, although nothing was going to happen. He tried to convince himself that this was just another day, like yesterday and the day before. Certainly if a man could believe that, really believe it, events would defer indefinitely, and nothing would happen to him.

Besides, why should anything happen today? He wasn’t at the end of his probationary period yet.

Rico found that his hands were shaking. He decided that he had better take a sanity reading. He entered the bedroom, but his robochimp was there, sweeping a big pile of frisbees toward the center of the room. Already his bed was made; his girlfriend’s bed didn’t require making, since it had been unoccupied for almost a week.

“Shall I leave, sir?” the robochimp asked.

Rico hesitated before answering. He prefered taking his reading alone. Of course his robochimp wasn’t really a person. Strictly speaking, the mechanical had no personality. Anyhow, it didn’t matter whether he stayed or left, since all personal robots had sanity-reading equipment built into their circuits. It was required by law.

“Suit yourself,” he said finally.

The robochimp sucked up the big pile of frisbees and bounced out of the room.

Rico stepped up to the Sanity Meter, turned it on and clicked the spinning gear icon. He watched morosely as the blue indicator climbed slowly through the normal twos and threes, through the deviant sixes and sevens, and rested finally on eight-point-2.

One tenth of a point higher than yesterday. One tenth closer to the gray line.

Rico shut down the machine and lighted a cigarette. He left the bedroom slowly, wearily, as though the day were over, instead of just beginning.

He checked his e-mail. No mail from his girlfriend, but there was a message from The Brotherhood, which read, “Dear brother Rico, your application for admission has been processed and found acceptable. We will be happy to receive you at any time. Thank You, the Moderators.”

Rico squinted at the e-mail. He had never applied for admission to The Brotherhood. It was the last thing in the world he wanted to do. He had always been vaguely aware of the existence of The Brotherhood, of course. One couldn’t help but be aware of it, since its presence affected every stratum of i-life. But actually, he knew very little about this important institution, surprisingly little.

“What is The Brotherhood?” he asked.

“A large low gray building,” his robochimp answered. “It is situated in the Ninth District of the city, and can be reached by a variety of public conveyances.”

“But WHAT is it?”

“A registered therapy,” the robochimp said, “open to anyone upon application for membership via the Internet. Moreover The Brotherhood exists as a voluntary choice for all people of plus ten rating, as an alternative to Surgical Personality Alteration.’

Rico sighed with exasperation. “I know all that. But what is their system? What kind of therapy?”

“I do not know, sir,” the robochimp said.

“What’s their record of cures?”

“One hundred percent,” the robochimp answered promptly.

to be continued

Rico remembered something else now, something that struck him as rather strange. “Let me see,” he said. “No one leaves The Brotherhood. Is that right?”

“There has been no record of anyone leaving after physically entering,” the robochimp said.

“Why?”

“I do not know, sir.”

It was all very strange. The Brotherhood was so well known , one never thought to ask about it. It had always been a misty place in his mind, far-away, unreal. It was the place you went to if you became plus ten, since you didn’t want to undergo lobotomy, HIGtomy, or any other process involving organic personality loss. But of course you tried not to think of the possibility of becoming plus ten, since the very thought was an admission of instability, and therefore you didn’t think of the choices open to you if it happened.

For the first time in his life, Rico decided he didn’t like the setup. He would have to do some investigating. Why didn’t anyone leave The Brotherhood? Why wasn’t more known of their therapy, if their cures were one hundred percent effective?

“I’d better get to work,” Rico said. “Make me anything at all for supper.”

“Yes, sir. May I suggest you have a Pepsiest right now? It will do you good. I worry about you, sir. As does Speed, to the extent of his intelligence. Lately, you’ve been drinking less Pepsiest than the recommended five six-packs a day.”

“I’ll pick up a six-pack on the way. So long.” Rico hurried out and into the street. He decided to walk to the office. He turned the corner and found himself on gigantic Panther Avenue, which cut right through the center of Next York. The sky was overcast but the avenue’s famous traffic lights - there was one every ten point three meters - were shining brightly through the blur, as did the thousands of aluminot Pepsiest vending machines. It started to rain.

Rico was almost twenty minutes late for work. As he entered the building, he forgot to present his probationary certificate to the scanning mechanism at the door. The gigantic commercial Sanity Meter scanned him, its indicator shot past the seven point, lights flashed blue. A harsh metallic voice shouted over the loudspeaker, “Sir! Sir! Your deviation from the norm has passed the safety limit! Please arrange for therapy at once!”

Quickly Rico pulled his probationary certificate out of his wallet.

to be continued

Ahh, quite wonderful. Hail the return of yabor! My Sanity Meter had been pegged in your absence. Now it has returned to usual. I trust all has been well with you, busy with exciting things no doubt.

Hello brother Miths, thanks for the welcome. I’m well and I hope you are well too. Yes I’ve been very busy; I’ve finished some studies that I hadn’t finished some fifteen years ago. Within 2 or 3 weeks I will officially be a translator (translating Spanish and French to Dutch). I had to write a thesis (well, sort of, nothing special) and I did it in OS X - souped up with Drag Thing; Exposé was very helpful as well. Now I’m back in 9 however.

Quickly Rico pulled his probationary certificate out of his wallet. But perversely, the machine continued to bellow at him for a full ten seconds longer. Everyone in the lobby was staring at him. Apologists and Bouncers whispered together, and two Applecare Shrinks exchanged meaningful glances. Rico’s wig, soaked with perspiration, shifted on his skul. He resisted an urge to run from the building, instead walked toward an elevator.

By the time he reached the Arlox Agency on the tenth floor he had himself under control. He showed his probationary certificate to the Sanity Meter at the door, mopped his face with a handkerchief, punched in his passwords, adjusted his wig, and walked in after receiving permission to do so.

Everyone in the agency knew what had happened. He could tell by their silence, their averted faces. Rico walked rapidly to his workpod, closed the door and hung up his wig.

He powered up his Gee 7, filled with resentment at the Sanity Meter. If only he could trash all the damned things! Rico cut off the thought quickly. There was nothing wrong with the Meters. They were merely extensions of The Root’s will. Society as a whole, he reminded himself, must be protected against the individual, just as Blessed Aqua must be protected against pro-fanity. Rico decided not to pursue this analogy any farther. He had to find out more about The Brotherhood.

After drinking a couple of Pepsiests, he dialed the Applecare Therapy Service.

“May I help you, sir?” a sweet-voiced digigirl answered.

“I’d like some information about The Brotherhood,” Rico said, feeling a trifle foolish. The Brotherhood was so well known, so much a part of everyday i-life, it was tantamount to asking what colour Pepsiest had.

“The Brotherhood is located -”

“I know where it’s located,” Rico said. “I want to know what sort of therapy they administer.”

“That information is not available, sir,” the digigirl said, after a pause.

“No? I thought all data on Applecare therapies was available to the public.”

“Yes it is,” the digigirl answered slowly. “But The Brotherhood is not, strictly, an Applecare therapy. It is, to some extent, extra-legal. This status is allowed because of The Brotherhood’s one-hundred percent record of cures.”

“Where can I see a few of these cures?” Rico asked. Over the phone he thought he heard a whispering. Suddenly a man’s voice broke in, loud and clear. “This is the Section Moderator. Is there some difficulty? Why do you feel the need for information about The Brotherhood? What is your name?”

Rico was silent.

“What is your sanity rating?”

Still Rico didn’t speak. He was trying to decide if the call were traced, and decided that it was.

“Do you doubt The Root’s essential benevolence?”

“No”

“Do you doubt that The Root works for the rejection of the Status Pro?”

“No.”

“Then what is your problem? Why don’t you tell me your name and sanity rating?”

“Thank you,” Rico said, and hung up. He realized that the telephone call had been a terrible mistake.

to be continued

Brother Yabor congratulations on finishing up your studies.

I had recently said to myself we had not seen any signs of you in a while. Now I know why I have felt like someone has been following me around for the past several months. Finishing your studies indeed or gathering my profile.

Excellent work.

He realized that the telephone call had been a terrible mistake. It had been the action of a plus-eight, not a normal digimark. Of course the Section Moderator wouldn’t give information to a plus-eight!

As he sat, there was a knock; the door opened and his boss, Mr. Arlox jumped in. Arlox was a friendly, compactly-build man with long hairy arms and a beautiful head of thick hair. No wig for him! He sat down in front of Rico’s desk, put his feet up, and started drumming his toes on the desktop.
“Heard that report downstairs,” he said, not looking at Rico, tapping his hairy toes energetically.

“Momentary peak,” Rico said automatically. “Actually, my rating has begun to come down.” He couldn’t look at Arlox as he said this. The two men stared intently at different corners of the workpod. Finally, their eyes met.

“Look, Rico, I try to stay out of people’s business,” Arlox said. “But damn it, man, Sanity is everyone’s business. We’re all in the game together. This is the third time in a year you’ve been on probation.” He hesitated. “How did it start?”

Rico shook his head. “I don’t know, Mr. Arlox. I was just going along quietly - and my rating started to climb.”

Arlox considered, then shook his head. “Can’t be as simple as that. Is your problem organic? Have you had your brain tested, and your blood ? Plenty of bèta-waves inside that bald skul of yours? Healthy amount of blurions in your blood?”

“I’ve been assured it’s nothing organic.” Rico lied.

“Therapy?”

“Everything,” Rico said. “Water-therapy, Colour-therapy, Analysis, Pref Nesia’s Method, The Krapper School, Devio-Thought, Lick & Suck, Fragmentation -”

“What did they say?” Arlox asked.

“They don’t know.”

“Couldn’t they tell you ANYTHING?”

“Not much. Constitutional restlessness, deeply concealed drives, inability to reject the Status Pro. They all agree I’m a rigid type. Even Personality Reconstruction didn’t take on me.”

“Prognosis?”

“Not good.”

Arlox began to pace the floor, his hairy hands clasped behind his back. ”Rico, I think it’s a matter of attitude. Do you really WANT to be part of the Mac Community?”

“I’ve tried everything -“

“Sure, but have you WANTED to change? Insight! Arlox cried, smashing his fist into his left foot, as though to crush the word. “Do you have INSIGHT?”

“I don’t suppose so,” Rico said with genuine regret.

“Take my case,” Arlox said earnestly, standing in front of Rico’s desk with his feet widely and solidly planted, his toes gripping the carpet. “Four years ago, this agency was twice as big as it is now, and growing! I worked like a madman, managing files, cutting down on Pepsiest breaks, neglecting my iPods, making money and more money.”

“What happened?”

“The inevitable. My rating shot up from a two-point-three to plus-seven. I was in a bad way.”

to be continued

“No law against making money,” Rico pointed out.

“Certainly not. The Root expects Marks like you and me to make money, and to spend plenty of it. But I fell into a psychological trap. Remember, in order to make lots of money, I was reduced to doing HONEST WORK. Not being a violent criminal, marketeer, or con-man, I saw no other option.”

Rico nodded.

“And here’s the trap I fell into: there came a day when, musing on ways to become still richer, I inevitably found myself entertaining the thought of ... improving my workflow! Concepts like speed, efficiency and professionalism were going through my mind. Root forgive me. A trivial example. One day, driving to the office, I found myself resenting the hundreds of traffic lights on Panther Avenue - those semi-enforced Pepsiest & i-Tune download breaks every ten point three meters. I felt Apple and Pepsiest were wasting my time! Can you believe it? I ended up going to the office on foot. Basically, I was robbing Apple and Pepsiest. Mad selfishness.”

Arlox’s face was flushed, and he had begun to breathe heavily. He checked himself, ate a banana to calm down, drank a Pepsiest, and went on in a quieter tone. “Of course, I was doing it for neurotic reasons. Power urge, individualism, a bad dose of competitiveness.”

“So you adjusted,” Rico said.

“I underwent Substitution Therapy and Brain Surgery at the Simian Institute on Schiller Square.”

Rico said, “I don’t see anything unsane about wanting to become rich through honest work.”

“Good Quartz, man, don’t you understand anything about i-Life, Social Sanity, Passivism, and Stasis? I was on my way to becoming CRITICAL. Who knows where I would have gone? Into indirect control of The Root, eventually. I’d want to change Blessed Aqua and Apple’s New HIGs to conform to my own abnormalities. And you can see where that would lead. The con would stop. Paradise Lost. Fortunately, the Applecare Therapists were able to help me. I sublimated my selfish drives for the good of Marketeering. But the thing is this, Rico. I was heading for that gray line. I adjusted before it was too late”

I’d gladly adjust,” Rico said, “if I only knew what was wrong with me. The trouble is, I really don’t know.”

Arlox was silent for a time, thinking. Then he said, “I think you need a rest, Rico.”

“A rest?” Rico was instantly on the alert. “You mean I’m fired?”

“No, of course not. I want to be fair, play the game. But I’ve got a flock here.” Arlox’s vague gesture included the office, the building, Next York. “Unsanity is insidious. Several ratings in the office have begun to climb in the last week. Pepsiest consumption is down.”

“And I’m the infection spot.”

“We must accept the Permissions,” Arlox said, now standing on all fours on top of Rico’s desktop. "Your salary will continue until - until you reach some resolution.”

“Thanks,” Rico said dryly. He stood up and put on his wig.

Arlox put a hand on his shoulder. “Have you considered The Brotherhood?” he asked in a low voice. “I mean, if nothing else seems to work -”

“Definitely and irrevocably not,” Rico said, and walked out.

to be continued

Ahhh, brother yabor. In the words of John Rhys-Davis in "Raiders of the Lost Ark": I am so pleased you are not dead!

Damn, this is a rousing good read.

There's one brilliant turn of phrase that I can't get out of my head: "Status Pro"... you should copyright that.

quote:

---

“Good Quartz, man, don’t you understand anything about i-Life, Social Sanity, Passivism, and Stasis? I was on my way to becoming CRITICAL. Who knows where I would have gone? Into indirect control of The Root, eventually. I’d want to change Blessed Aqua and Apple’s New HIGs to conform to my own abnormalities. And you can see where that would lead. The con would stop. Paradise Lost. Fortunately, the Applecare Therapists were able to help me. I sublimated my selfish drives for the good of Marketeering. But the thing is this, Rico. I was heading for that gray line. I adjusted before it was too late”

---

Oh yes, my brothers, life is good.

Thanks, brother thalo, brother Rico, for the welcome back. I've missed you guys, and the fascinating and stimulating Mac talk here. I'm very glad to be back.

He walked through the office. None of the people Rico had known for so long looked up from their tinkering. He opened the office door and walked out. Arlox followed him.

“”Tell me,” Rico said, “why doesn’t anyone ever leave the Brotherhood? Doesn’t that strike you as sinister?”

“Certainly not. You’ve got a very strange outlook.” They walked toward the elevators. “You seem to be trying to create a mystery where there isn’t one. Without prying into their business, I can assume that their therapy involves the patient’s remaining at The Brotherhood. There’s nothing strange about a substitute environment. It’s done all the time.”

The elevator doors slid shut. The elevator started down, and Rico realized with a shock that his job was gone.

It was a strange sensation, not having a job any longer. He had no place to go. Often he had hated his work. There had been mornings when he had groaned at the thought of another day at the office. But now that he had it no longer, he realized how important it had been to him, how solid and reliable.

He walked aimlessly, trying to think. But he was unable to concentrate. Next York pressed in on him, its faeces, whistles, bells. The only plan of action that came to mind was unfeasible. Run away, go where they’ll never find you. Hide! Rico continued to walk, resisting the urge to run. His thoughts became more and more confused, and by twilight he was ready to drop from fatigue.

He was standing on a narrow, frisbee-strewn street in the slums. There wasn’t a traffic light in sight. Spooky. He saw a hand-lettered sign in a small window, reading, MARK EL, LAWYER. UNIX PERMISSIONS A SPECIALTY. MAYBE I CAN HELP YOU. Rico grinned wryly, thinking of all the high-priced specialists he had seen. He started to walk away, then turned and went up the staircase leading to El’s office. He was annoyed with himself again. The moment he had seen the crisp lettering he had known he was going up. Would he never stop deceiving himself?

El’s office was small and dingy. The beige paint was peeling from the walls. Mark El was alone. He was seated behind an unvarnished platinum desk, reading a science-fiction magazine. He was lean, middle-aged and balding. He was smoking a pipe.

Rico had meant to start from the beginning. Instead he blurted out, “Look, I’m in a jam. I’ve lost my job, my girlfriend’s left me. I’ve been to every therapy there is. What can you do?”

El took the pipe out of his mouth and looked at Rico. He looked at his clothes, his wig, his shoes, as though estimating their value. Then he said, “What did the others say?”

“In effect, that I didn’t have a chance.”

“Of course they said that. These fancy boys give up too easily. But there’s always hope. Three words: Command Line Interface. C-L-I. Embrace the Terminal, my friend, that way salvation lies. Unix permissions are a strange and complicated thing, and sometimes -” El stopped abruptly and grinned with sad humor. “Ah what’s the use? You’ve got the doomed look, no doubt about it. Look, there’s nothing I can do for you. You know it, I know it. If the big boys couldn’t help you, I certainly couldn’t. Why’d you come up here?”

“Looking for a miracle, I suppose.”

“It’s my duty as a lawyer,” Mark El said slowly, “to remind you that The Brotherhood is always open.”

“How can I go there?” Rico asked. “I don’t know anything about it.”

“No one does,” El said. “Still I hear they cure every time. Look, you want some advice. OK. I shouldn’t be saying this but ... Stop looking for cures! Go home. Send your robochimp out for a couple month’s supply of food. Hole up for a while. You’re running yourself ragged trying to get back to the norm, and all you’re doing is getting worse. I’ve seen it happen a thousand times. Just lie around a couple months, then see how you are.”

“I think you’re right,” Rico said. “I’m sure of it! He stood up. “How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing. Good luck to you.”

“Thanks.” Rico hurried downstairs. In twenty minutes he was home.

to be continued

The hall was strangely quiet as Rico walked toward his apartment. It was quiet in his apartment too.

“Welcome home, sir,” the robochimp said. “If you will sit, I will serve your supper.”

Rico sat down, thinking about his plans. “I’ll want you to go shopping first thing in the morning,” he said to the robochimp. “Buy plenty of canned goods. And cigarettes, don’t forget cigarettes! Did my girlfriend leave a message today? One thing is certain: I’ll never -”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the robochimp said. “I can no longer obey you. You have just gone over the gray line, sir. You are now plus ten.”

Rico just stared at him for a moment. Then he ran into the bedroom and turned on the Sanity Meter. The blue indicator crept slowly to the gray line, wavered, then slid decisively over.

He was plus ten.

Rico rushed out of the bedroom. “Robochimp! Listen to me -’

He heard the front door close. The robochimp was gone. But he still had a chance. There was food in the house. And plenty of candy, of course. He would ration himself. It wouldn’t be too lonely with Speed here.

“Speed?”

There was no sound in the apartment. Rico searched the apartment methodically but the cat wasn’t there. He must have left with the robochimp.

Alone, Rico walked to the kitchen, kicked away a six-pack of Pepsiest that was lying on the floor, and opened a can of beer. He must get out, quickly. There was no time to lose. If he hurried, he could still make it, to someplace, any place. Every second counted now.

But he stood in the kitchen, staring at the floor as the minutes passed, wondering why his girlfriend and his cat had left him. He felt his heart breaking.

There was a knock on his door.

“Mr. Rico!”

“No,” Rico said.

“Mr. Rico, you must leave now.”

It was his landlady. Rico walked to the door and opened it. “Go? Where?”

“I don’t care. But you can’t stay here any longer, Mr. Rico. You know the Permissions. You must go.”

Rico went back for his wig, put it on, then took it off again and threw it on the floor. He looked around the apartment, then walked out. He left the door open. It was all over. His cube had spun.

Outside, two men were waiting for him. Their faces were blurry in the red shine of the traffic light on the street corner.

“Where do you want to go?” one asked.

“Where can I go?”

“Surgery or The Brotherhood.”

“The Brotherhood, then.”

to be continued

quote:

---

He saw a hand-lettered sign in a small window, reading, MARK EL, LAWYER. UNIX PERMISSIONS A SPECIALTY. ....
El’s office was small and dingy. The beige paint was peeling from the walls.

---

Well, there’s not much money in Unix permissions....


Markle

quote:

---

Well, there’s not much money in Unix permissions....

---

LOL. No money, but lots of monkey.

I love the name, Mark El. Reminds me a little of Kal-el, Superman's name. Maybe this Mark El just APPEARS to be a mild mannered lawyer, but he's really a super being from the planet Crapton.

quote:

---

Their faces were blurry in the red shine of the traffic light on the street corner.

---

Superbeings don’t come from Crapton. They come from Macton. It’s quite a Job(s) to make a Crapton.


Markle

They put him in a blue van and drove away, gears spinning. After a long drive over winding roads they reached the border of the Ninth District. Huge signs, elaborately rendered, stood there: PSYCHO-HAZARDOUS AREA. ARE YOU SURE YOU HAVE PERMISSION TO ENTER? They drove on through well-paved streets. All traffic lights were permanently shining red, but the van didn’t stop. There wasn’t a soul about.

“Here we are,” one of the men said. They had stopped before an enormous gray building. With a sinking feeling Rico noticed that the building was shaped like a gigantic coffin. He was led inside, to a room marked LOUNGE.

There were no Sanity Meters. In the middle was a desk marked LOG IN. A stunningly beautiful Japanese girl was sprawled on top of it. She was stark naked. She was snoring gently.

One of Rico’s guards cleared his throat loudly. The girl sat up, rubbing her eyes. She slipped on a pair of Pepsiest-coloured glasses and looked at them sleepily.

“Which one?” she asked.

The two guards pointed at Rico.

The girl stretched her thin arms, then pushed a throbbing blue button. Three more Japanese girls bounced in the room. These however were clad in aluminot wet suits, and were armed with huge crystal sausages. They were Sudos, obviously. Rico’s guards left immediately.

“Take him to room 103,” the log-in girl said, and stretched out again on the desktop.

Rico found himself in a huge cell. Lights were flashing. The floor was covered in ten inches of filthy aqua. The smell of crap, much as Rico was used to it, was overpowering. Huge fat water dockies were bouncing around him, snapping at his legs. They were obviously starved. Rico shivered.

The cell door opened slowly. A long thin man was silhouetted in the doorframe. Beside him, a gigantic black panther on a leash stood gasping for air, not used to exercise, apparently. It didn't look at all healthy. The animal was labelled KITTY. It was so fat that its belly touched the ground.

The man wore the blue leather uniform and trashcan insignia of an Undertaker. He sported a quartz ring on each finger. This was the first time Rico saw a member of the feared Undertaker Class in the flesh. The dockies fled and huddled together in a corner; they were obviously terrified.

The man smiled pleasantly. “My name is John Kew. I’m the Moderator of this facility. I am Root here. Welcome to The Brotherhood, brother Rico. May I call you "brother"?”

Rico was silent. Never in his life had he been so scared.

to be continued

This message has been edited. Last edited by: yabor,

“Cat got your tongue? That’s cool. We’ll talk tomorrow.” The door slammed shut.

Rico spent a dreadful night amid the aqua and dockies. Sleep was impossible.
The following day, a pair of gorgeous Sudos dragged him off to another cell, a dry one, thank Root. They bound him securely into a heavy chair that was bolted on the floor. His head was tightly clamped and stickies were applied to his eyelids to prevent even their slight closure. The Sudos left.

Rico sat and waited for Kew. Strange: much as he hated the stuff, more than anything he longed for a Pepsiest. A jumble of images spinned in his brain: his girlfriend’s face - Arlox jumping on his desktop - the sights and sounds of the traffic jam on Panther Avenue - the beige paint in Mark El’s office - Speed snoring contentedly on the couch. Then the figure of John Kew, the sing-song voice, the metal-coloured eyes, the transparent teeth, the blue lips. The X-man who was going to start him, Rico supposed, on an agonizing road to death. Rico found he was sweating with fear.

The door opened and an Apologist entered. He was carrying a plactic tray which he put down on a small table. Rico studied the objects on the tray: two brushed metal gears of different sizes, a broken Pepsiest bottle, what looked like a bunch of command lines, a toaster, a razor-sharp iDisk, several boxes of blurry fonts. The Apologist pushed a button and the wall opposite Rico lit up: it was a giant cinema display. The image of a spinning beachball appeared, with excellent definition an colour. Rico tried desperately to close his eyes but found he couldn’t; nor could he turn his head away. His breathing became heavy.

“How are you feeling?” the Apologist asked.

I’ve never felt better in my life.”

“Bravely spoken, my brother. Happy viewing.” The Apologist went out.

Rico sat and watched the beachball. Very quickly he started showing signs of distress. He struggled to free himself and turn his head away. Within a couple of minutes he was making anguished sounds. Still later screams of terror rose from him. The beachball kept spinning.

After what seemed a lifetime, the screen went dark and Kew entered the room. He smiled and nodded at Rico, like someone greeting a favourite brother, and sat down next to the table.

to be continued

This message has been edited. Last edited by: yabor,

Rico wasn’t feeling too bad. He had found he could miss a lot of the beachball by rolling his eyes up. His screams of terror had been a bit of acting, mostly that is. “The devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon!” he said, looking Kew straight in the eye.

Kew stared at him with a look of puzzlement, but didn’t speak.

“Whom we invite to see us crowned at Scone.”

At this, Kew scowled ferociously. “O good show, brother,” he said. “But anybody can see you’re terrified. Why not admit it? Is this a tray of torture instruments which I see before me? Now, before we begin, you must understand that I’m not the slightest bit interested in studying resistance to pain or any such pseudo-scientific claptrap. I just want to torture plus-tens. And don’t bother confessing to your sins. I’m not interested. All you have to do is suffer. Right, then. What shall I do to you? Whereabouts in your body shall I attack you? And with what?”

[Switching to Robert Heinlein’s “Revolt in 2001” as the main template now]

Let’s skip the details of what followed. Rico passed out repeatedly. He recalls vaguely coming semi-awake once and hearing a voice say, “He can take more. His heart is strong.”

Rico was pleasantly dead for a long time, but finally woke up and opened his eyes. He was in a bed in Mark El’s shabby room, which was full of cigar smoke. El came to his side. “Hello again,” he said. “How are you now, better?”

“What happened?” Rico asked. “Is it over? Or are you one of them? Is this just a rest?”

“It’s over - you are safe among the Brethren.”

“You rescued me? How? The Brethren?”

“Yes, I rescued you. How?” El pointed to the portable Terminal with keyboard that was strapped to his belly. “That’s how,” he said, looking fondly at the small screen. “There was nothing to it. I’m a Grandmaster of the CLI, remember? That means this world is my oyster. Kew’s security is a shambles, I found. Any Unix Wizard could have just walked in. Imagine: pretty much ALL of Kew’s permissions needed repairing, prebinding wasn’t updated, cron tasks hadn’t run for months; live updating was just a joke and prefnesia, of course, was rampant. Getting in was no problem at all, believe you me. Just a leisurely stroll. On the way out, I even took a minute to empty Kew’s trash for him. I hope he appreciates it. Now be quiet, brother Rico. You are still very weak. You must be dying for a Pepsiest. Drink.”

Rico drank and went back to sleep. It took him days to convalesce.

A week later, El explained the situation to him. “I wonder, brother Rico, if you’d make a good assassin?” he wondered aloud. Rico was taken aback.

“You mean the Brethren use ASSASSINATION?”

“Eh? Why not?” El studied Rico’s face. “Rico, would you kill John Kew if you got a chance?”

“Well - yes, of course. But I’d want to do it in a fair fight.”

to be continued