Cover by Jim Holloway

EVERYONE SHOULD BE HAPPY. IMMEDIATELY. In the underground city of Alpha Complex, The Computer wants every citizen to have fun. If youre not having fun, The Computer will turn you into reactor shielding. ATTENTION, TROUBLESHOOTERS. PLEASE RETURN THIS STOLEN HELPBOT TO ITS OWNER. The Computers elite service agents, the Troubleshooters, have fun delivering the helpbot to a sequence of murderous gangsters. Its not annoying or repetitious at all, no siree. (You look like youre about to shoot your teammate! Would you like help?) IF YOU MEET DIFFICULTIES, SEEK HELP FROM YOUR FELLOW TROUBLESHOOTERS. Team Leader Fletcher-R is about to have lots of fun learning about his teammates. Hell learn theyre criminals themselves. Or they belong to traitorous secret societies. Fun, fun, fun. BEWARE! TRAITORS ARE EVERYWHERE! High on an experimental alertness drug called Leery, Fletcher must complete his mission before the treacherous Troubleshooters discover his own mutationor his ever-changing criminal affiliationsor his membership in the First Church of Christ Computer-Programmerin short, before Fletchers teammates find out hes a traitor. STAY ALERT! TRUST NO ONE! KEEP YOUR LASER HANDY! This is a FREE preview, Fletcher Eats the Apple, Chapter 1 of the complete PARANOIA novel T1 Stay Alert by Allen Varney

Fletcher Eats the Apple, Chapter 1 of

Stay Alert
Book 1 of The Troubleshooter Rules Allen Varney

Ultraviolet Books ultravioletbooks.com

Fletcher Eats the Apple, Stay Alert, The Troubleshooter Rules, and PARANOIA TM & copyright 2011 by Eric Goldberg and Greg Costikyan. PARANOIA is a trademark of Eric Goldberg and Greg Costikyan. All Rights Reserved. Allen Varney, Authorized User. Based on the PARANOIA roleplaying game. Original setting & game design by Dan Gelber, Greg Costikyan, and Eric Goldberg. Copyright 1984, 1987, 2004, 2009 Eric Goldberg and Greg Costikyan. All Rights Reserved.

PARANOIA / T1 Stay Alert preview / 1

Orientation
ALPHA COMPLEX The Computers underground city of the future. Trust The Computer! The Computer is your friend! TRAITORS Mutants and members of secret societiesthreats to good order and good hygiene. TROUBLESHOOTERS The Computers elite agents, charged with hunting and apprehending traitors. Their famous rules: 1. Stay alert! 2. Trust no one! 3. Keep your laser handy! Rumors the Troubleshooters themselves harbor traitors are treason.

PARANOIA / T1 Stay Alert preview / 2

Fletcher Eats the Apple:

Chapter 1 from the full-length PARANOIA novel Stay Alert by Allen Varney

1: Briefing Room JSV-27-15

Year of the Computer 214, Month 03, Day 29 (Twosday), 08:00
The older, cannier, and more treasonous supervisors at JSV Troubleshooter Dispatch believed Briefing Room 27-15 held a curse. A Troubleshooter team would assemble in 27-15, just back from the latest mess hall riot, reactor leak repair, Food Vat guard hitch, or delivery of Research & Designs new batch of high-performance industrial fusion-powered aerodynamic pencil sharpeners. The Team Leader would start to report, the Loyalty Officer piped up with a correctionas they dothe Recording Officer proved they were both wrong, and of course the Happiness Officer wouldnt shut up. Dispatch would try to forestall a firefight by confiscating their lasers and cone rifles beforehandbut some Troubleshooters hid knives or poison darts or sonics. And they were mandated to hold onto their assigned R&D experimental equipment, the spacetime grenades, personal steamrollers, flesh-eating bacterial swabs, lesnerizers, Nefandis Devices, and chromium antimatter-powered brass knuckles, which one of these days, by golly, theyll finally get right. Somehow, in two minutes, the whole team wound up shot, burned, maimed, flattened, dismembered, crushed into a singularity, or outright vaporized, amalgamated into walls and ceiling as a penetrating pink spray. Going by the Central Processing Unit service groups latest actuarial figures, that kind of totally unexpected event was to be expected a certain percentage of the time. What percentage? Sorry, that information is not available at your security clearance. It became a self-validating superstition. If a team checking in from a mission looked glum or furtive, said nothing, cast twitchy sidelong looks at the team multicorder, and smelled of flop sweat, dispatchers nodded judicious nods and popped them in 27-15. Sometimes they stationed a cleanup crew outside, to save time.

PARANOIA / T1 Stay Alert preview / 3

This morning, for the debriefing of Troubleshooter Team Rotisserie-459, Mission JSV874029 (Team Leader Fletcher-RJSV-1), the cleanup crew was standing by. Also a hazmat team. Also six GREEN goons, beat cops from Internal Security. Inside 27-15, the six members of Team Rotisserie stood alone in lethal silence. Lit by interrogation lamps, in view of six visible surveillance cameras and unknowable others hidden, they stared straight ahead, their expressions as blank as the Secret society affiliation (if any) space on a Treasonous Action Authorization Form 33A. At the left end of the line, from the viewpoint of the (currently vacant) officers lectern, stood Fletcher-R-JSV-1. Short, stocky, bright-eyed, thin-haired, jut-jawed, broad-forehead-ed, and wearing loose-fitting red reflec-armor coveralls, Fletcher-Rthe R meant Clearance REDcould, with a decent pair of elevator boots, answer a Catch That Traitor! casting call for Second-Lead Heroic Troubleshooter Who Dies in Act 2. In the floor-to-ceiling mirror behind the lectern Fletcher saw his skin, usually the healthy pink of an NCR forms second undercopy, had become sallow, jaundiced, close to buff (copy 4) if not actually gold (copy 7). That was the Leery, a side effect his supplier hadnt thought to mention. He wondered what other effects might erupt and, given his luck, in what untimely hour. He noticed his team watching his reflection: His Loyalty Officer, Yvonne-R-JSV-2, glanced at him and narrowed her eyes. He took this as a death threat, against him (mainly) and the whole team (a bonus). With dismay Fletcher realized everyone on his team had reason to want him dead. That could well happen today. This was the missions debriefing, its culmination. A debriefing officer could censure, demote, brainscrub, terminate, and worse. Fletcher could walk out of here with commendations and a promotion, or he might not walk out at all. The next few hours would determine whether he could gull The Computer into overlooking his many treasons, whether he could pin discrepancies and problems on his teammates, and whether they would betray him as thoroughly as they doubtless wished. His life, all their lives, were like forms bundled for the recycler. He sighed. As their leader, all hed ever wanted was to eat better.

PARANOIA / T1 Stay Alert preview / 4

48 hours earlier214.03.27 (Sevenday), 08:00 FunFoods PLC Cold Fun Processing Plant JSV034 Access S014
If the INFRARED multitudes, enjoying in their tranquilized way their nightly Cold Fun dessert, understood the many processing steps in that frozen concoctions synthesisthe parade of component chemical reactionsthe immense stainlesssteel machineries that funneled and mixed and stored organic precursors, reactants, and by-products in quantities that could float an aircraft carrierwell, theyd be terminated for knowledge above their clearance. But the point is, theyd understand why this refrigerated manufacturing hangar was filled with walkways and gantries, catwalks and cranes, struts and stanchions, all threading around and among endless rows of behemoth five-zillion-liter anodized aluminum storage tanks marked EXPLOSIVE. Fletcher-JSV-1INFRAREDs didnt get clearance initials shivered. He didnt know or care anything about Cold Fun manufacturing. He only knew the ragged black coveralls of the INFRAREDs, the no-clearance scutworking proles of Alpha Complex, were no good for this freezing Funhole. Vapor rose like smoke from his frosted boots. He disliked smoking boots. But to complain was to be unhappy. That would make The Computer unhappy. The Computer might ask its loyal servants in Internal Security to send Fletcher to a Bright Vision Re-education Center. There Attitude Adjusters would re-happify him with vigor and verve, at the cost of certain troublesome brain cells. Fletcher liked his higher motor functions, so he kept quiet. He shiveredbut with a smile. Stanton-JSV-1, his co-worker, looked cold too. Stanton was tall, rangy, black-haired (crewcut), weak-chinned, wide-mouthed, and currently turning blue. Why would a docbot get stuck here? Is someone injured back there? Fletcher peered down the foggy concrete walkway between coolant tanks. If there is, he wont need an ice pack.

PARANOIA / T1 Stay Alert preview / 5

Fletcher and Stanton worked as Patient Transport & Repair Personnelhaulers, thats allfor the Technical Services firm Doc-in-a-Box TS, authorized therapist for medical bots. Tech Servicesone of the eight sprawling service group bureaucracies that administered the living daylights out of every person, place, thing, and abstract entity in Alpha Complexhandled bots. Some bots were crazy. They were after one of the worst: a bugbrain docbot. Workers in the rival Power Services group said Techs lacked brains. In a way, it was true. Tech always lacked for bot brains photonic diamond CPUs in titanium cartridgesand often repurposed them for new roles. Sometimes faulty re-coding produced bugbrains: scrubots that taught loyalty songs to passersby; transbots that tried to jump the rails and infiltrate the front lines of an imaginary enemy; guardbots that grabbed and disarmed a rioter but then, retracting their dum-dum slugthrowers and crowd-control gas canisters, asked msieu what he desired to drink, and might the bot recommend a pleasant Beaujolais? Bugbrain docbotsurgh!left a trail of patients: amputees whose arms were now rifle stocks, or burn victims coated with four layers of furniture polish. These bots were the Doc-in-a-Box stock in trade, soylent for its table. A thief had stolen some BLUE bigwigs personal docbot. Troubleshooters had supposedly cornered both thief and bot somewhere in this giant FunFoods factory. Standard Tech Services protocol for [Category: BOTS :: Sub-cat: MEDICAL :: Condition-Prior: STOLEN :: Condition-Current: RETRIEVAL] called for a therapy team on-scene in the event of damage to brain or peripherals. So Fletcher and Stanton were waiting for the mission team to locate the botthe bot Fletcher and Stanton, armed with BotAway beacon trackers, had already found. Ten minutes ago. In this really cold hangar. Stanton blew on his fingers. Should we let them know weve found it? Fletcher had skipped this mornings visomorpain pill due to a sore throat; he was thinking more clearly than usual. He looked down the narrow walkway. At the far end waited the botand presumably its thief. Lets leave that honor for them.

PARANOIA / T1 Stay Alert preview / 6

Heard about that big shareholder meeting tomorrow night? Yeah. Fletcher looked around for cameras. He made the Church gesture for silence. Later. Right. Stanton jumped in place. Hey, lets report some trouble. That brings them to shoot it, and then we heard something down the walkway. Fletcher said through chattering teeth, That works. Wheres Timon-O? No one liked to send INFRAREDs on a job unsupervised. Their boss, Timon-O-JSV-1, had dropped them here in this low-clearance packing bay and gone with the Troubleshooters. Fletcher figured he was trying to shine with their reflected glory. But nohere he was now, shuttling back quick as a rejected Form Return Form 9999-C. Squat and broad with stubby legs, Timon-O wore an orange padded parka and overpants that made him look like a giant packing peanut. Here, the pasty ORANGE said in a nasal voice. He threw two black low-temp suits at Fletcher and Stanton. Try to stay alive. More than those Troubleshooters seem to want. Fletcher zipped the parka. Why, whats up? Timon spoke fast, with maximum fidgeting. First, I think there were already a couple of fatalities before I even met them. Then they were waving their laser pistols around, until I mentioned, Oh by the way, these tanks can blow us all through our next three lives. Then they split up to search through thisthis maze. Not a minute later, one of them spots another, mistakes him for a traitor, and belts him with a blackjack. I didnt know they were even issued blackjacks. The team leader sent them off to the med center. You could use the docbot, Fletcher said. Its back there. Timon-O gasped and grabbed Fletchers BotAway. He read the screen and laughed. I found it before they did. Call it in, Stanton. Fletcher noticed Timon, after months of management experience, could now teleport instantaneously past Fletcher and Stanton found the bot and straight to I succeeded. Before he earned his clearance initial, Timon had quartered in the same barracks as Fletcher; hed been a friendly, even generous fellow. Promotion and power changed him; now it was always, What

PARANOIA / T1 Stay Alert preview / 7

can you do for me, and how can I steal the credit? Now he didnt seem to like anyone. Fletcher didnt care. He liked everyoneor anyway, he didnt think hard enough to dislike them. He led an INFRARED life. He went where They told him, did what They said, and They expected nothing from him but a smile. Thus had The Computer ordained it, and thus would it ever be. Timon took him aside. By the way, Fletcher, while I have you hereI just got back this 445. Improper completion, it says. Im not sure how- I mean, Im jammed with work right nowso could you, umm...? He quickly passed Fletcher a clipboard with a six-ply NCR stack. Fletcher glanced at ita rejected Form TS-2952-445 Emergency Bathroom Break Requisition dated two days earlier. Automatically he looked around for surveillance cameras. It wouldnt do to black out here. Fletcher had a problemif it was a problemwith blackouts. He spent most evenings at his Elective Activity & Pursuit clubhouse supporting Alpha Complex as part of an approved Volunteer Form Checkers group. They helped overburdened Central Processing Unit service firms check submitted forms for rectitude, grammar, and signs of subconscious treason. Fletcher was his clubs reigning champion. He was considered unbeatable in requisitions and transfers, but he walked on firm ground even with tricky rarities like Accidental Termination of Innocent Victim Justifications and Loyalty Re-Evaluation Speed Tests. But sometimesno one knew this, or at least Fletcher hoped notsometimes, when he was confronting a stack of challenging Security Clearance Demotions or Personality Stabilizer Requests, where you really had to know the rulessometimes he kind of, well, went away. He didnt faint or pass out; no, something just reached into his cortex and pressed a pause button. He saw black for a moment, blinked, and suddenly minutes had passed and all the forms sat stacked before him, checked and collated. Sometimes he spotted new corrections hed supposedly made, in small, precise handwriting he didnt recognize. Fletcher had never told anyone about his blackouts. It was nobodys business, especially because it had a certain odor ofhe didnt even want to think the wordmutation.

PARANOIA / T1 Stay Alert preview / 8

He shook his head; he must have drifted off a moment. He started to tell Timon, Sure, when he noticed a pen had appeared in his hand. He checked the clipboard; the Bathroom Break Requisition was already corrected. Timon-O and Stanton were staring at him. Uh he began. Timon shook his head, took back the clipboard, and glared at Stanton. I think you were calling in the find? Stanton gulped and returned to clawing at his pocket PDChis Personal Digital Companion, the indispensable Alpha Complex aid. I cant push the buttons right. My fingers are frozen. From the walkway fog a low-fi voice chirped, You look like youre making a call! Would you like help? Without looking, Fletcher knew. It wasnt a docbotit was a clippy. Unlike the doomsday devices and sector-eating plagues on the evening vidshows, the helpbots of Alpha Complex were not a mad inspiration of a single demented traitor, but The Computers own authorized initiative, undertaken by its purportedly loyal servants in several service groups. Perhaps the responsible parties had expunged their identities from public records, or possibly theyd faked their deaths and now lived in distant sectors under assumed names. Whatever the reason, no one had been punisheda fact every traitor must have taken as a hopeful sign he might get away with anything. For in a society where complaining about a candy bar could get you brainscrubbed, helpbots (clippies) were silently, universally loathed. Helpbots worked like The Computers ubiquitous contextsensitive help system. Programmed to locate citizens in need, they wandered the corridors, wedging their cheery counsel into any situation. You look like youre forcing open that vendobot door. I can tell you about anger management!Talking to Internal Security? Dont forget to mention that mutation! While the INFRAREDs stared, Timon took control. Bot! Your name and number.

PARANOIA / T1 Stay Alert preview / 9

The clippy wheeled forward with programmed enthusiasm. Its voice seemed to echo from the bottom of a CoffeeLyke can. Helpbot TSHB41566-212.11.09-788 at your service, HumanInteraction Designation Drammel! Drammel was a thin gunmetal-gray plank perched on end, about a meter high, with a rounded top like a papercliphence the nickname. Like all helpbots, it had a carbon-fiber exterior; by many informal experiments citizens had learned the stuff was nearly indestructible. In twin holes near the topits headstereo cameras rotated freely inside plastic housings, looking now forward, now behind. Intersecting the bodys midpoint, a jutting horizontal disk bore two manipulators, grippers that spun in independent tracks to front and rear. Another disk at the base mounted six polyurethane wheels. Speaker grilles on the front and back of Drammels head were shaped like grinning mouths, doubtless on the advice of some sociopathic marketing expert who thought it looked friendly. Im assigned to Reuben-B-GHP-14, Sector JSV Cerulean Suites, Corridor 12, said Drammel. You look like youre curious about the traitorous thief who brought me here. Would you like help locating him? We would! An ORANGE Troubleshooter strode into the area like he owned it. Gazing at the man with fascination, Fletcher felt a vidshow fans excitement. A real Troubleshooter! He looked just like a hero of Alpha Complex should look: tall, broad-shouldered, with curling blond hair, gleaming blue eyes, and a rack of teeth that shone like transbot chrome. His orange reflec coveralls seemed to glitter. On an HPD&MC Catch That Traitor! casting call, he would win Series Lead. His chest badge read FABIAN-OJSV-3TEAM LEADER. Several paces behind Fabian-O walked another Troubleshooter. Fletcher tried gamely to feel the same thrill at this weak-chinned, straw-haired, potbellied RED. His red coveralls, with the badge GILES-R-JSV-4, were torn and stained. He carried a multicorder and, strapped to his back, a sledgehammer. Bot! Fabian began, then paused to nod quickly to Timon and the INFRAREDs. Fabian-O, pleasedtomeetyouthis is my Equipment Guyanyway. Bot! Who stole you, and why?

PARANOIA / T1 Stay Alert preview / 10

I can answer that! said Drammel. It was a treasonous human male criminal. A bandit, cheat, crook, defalcator, heister, larcenist - What is the thiefs name? I can help with that! I can take you to him, and you can search his body. The humans exchanged looks. Fabian asked, Hes dead? I know that answer! Its possible the body parts not yet absorbed may still harbor living cells. Absorbed? Timon broke in. If he got into an intake hopper Giles-R, Fabian said. Go and pry the thief out of the machinery. Ohhh no! The other Troubleshooter shied back. You got rid of the others, but Im not about to Fabians smile showed his gritted teeth. Civilians. He gestured at the INFRAREDs. Of course I appreciate your due caution in this hazardous situation. I know The Computer will assess your hesitation fairly. He raised his PDC. Okay, okay. But I want that bot to lead the way. I can help you there! Drammel rolled down the walkway and into the fog between the giant tanks. After looking in all directions, as if for escape routes, Giles-R trudged after it. Suddenly Timon-O seemed to perceive his own glory slipping away into the same fog. He pointed at the INFRAREDs. Go after them. Then, to the puzzled Fabian: I should have my people there too. For, um, consultation. Fletcher was about to ask for an Emergency Bathroom Break, but Stanton spoke sooner and faster: Fletcher has experience with helpbots, dont you, Fletcher? Wish I did, but its all docbots with me. Timon pointed. Fletcher, go. Fletcher silently wished on Stanton the attentions of many docbots. Then, seeing no good excuse, and hoping he might impress the Troubleshooter, he ventured into the fog. Gray chemical tanks loomed all around. A black stripe on the concrete floor showed Fletcher was still in a low-clearance area. Condensation trickled into steel floor grilles, and his low-temp suit grew damp. In a grid of walkways receding in all directions

PARANOIA / T1 Stay Alert preview / 11

into white vapor, he felt a sensation rare in an INFRAREDs anthill life: isolation. Noises sounded oddly close here. Fletcher moved toward the bots echoing chatterthen stopped. He was standing beside a sheet-metal shed or cabinet that thrummed with power. On principle, Fletcher avoided thrumming. Thrumming meant mistuned equipment, loose fittings, or unseated housings. Thrum = threat. In this case, he discovered, thrum = human body stuffed in organic-chemical loading hopper. In the floor chute he could see only one protruding arm and a leg, each still clad in tattered yellow. Behind the chute, clear plastic pipes filled with chemicals reached into the fog overhead. Fletcher noted their current tinge of red. He considered. Anyone hiding in this cabinet, say for instance from pursuing Troubleshooters, could easily slip backward and fall into the chute. It almost seemed designed to encourage such accidents. He could imagine the CPU cost-benefit analysis: one less traitor, plus that nights Cold Fun would offer extra savor. Win-win. But where was the Troubleshooter? Further down the walkway Fletcher heard the helpbots echoing voice, then thudding blows. He ran to the next intersection. Around the corner stood the Equipment Guy, Giles-R, bringing up his sledgehammer for another swing. The helpbot had toppled, and its grippers were beating a tattoo on the cement. You look like youre trying to destroy me! Do you want to know about my carbon-fiber frame? Fletcher had no idea what to do. Uhhhey? Giles turned, dropped his hammer, and pulled his laser pistol. The red barrel had six concentric rings; five of them were black, and Fletcher had seen enough vidshows to know what that meant: One shot remained. He tried to run, slipped, fell, and the shot hit a coolant pipe. White vapor shot out and struck Giles. The Troubleshooter reeled back, fell, hit his head on a steel pipe, and lay still. Through a cloud of ammoniac ozone Fletcher crawled on his knees to the helpbot and pulled it upright. Come on. Not knowing or caring whether the bot followed, he scrambled to his feet and ran for the light.

PARANOIA / T1 Stay Alert preview / 12

Back in the packing bay, while Stanton and Timon looked on in envy, Troubleshooter Fabian-O was thanking FletcherQuick thinking, my good manwhen from the walkway they heard a muted whump! What was that? Timons tone suggested he was worried the damage would somehow hit his budget. I can answer that! That was an explosion! Giles-R had a neurowhip, Fabian said. Maybe the fight damaged its power supply. I hope the explosion doesnt trigger something else. Dont worry, said Timon. Hed have to be carrying, I dont know, volatile chemicals BOOMPH! An alarm rang. That would be his corrosion gas grenade, Fabian observed. Corrosion? Fletcher, you said you left him leaning against a pipe made of WHOOOOSH! A geyser of vapor shot to the ceiling. A warning klaxon blared. It looks like youre having an industrial accident! Would you like to know which FunFoods chemical reagents are flammable? Timon looked wary. Would he have carried anything incend? BA-BA-BAOOOOM! The geyser burst into a column of flame. Sirens shrieked. Fabian-O said brightly, Lets adjourn to the lobby. The FunFoods lobby was well appointed, cheery, and ORANGE-Clearance, which made Fletcher nervous. But the security personnel and fire teams running to the warehouse floor paid the INFRAREDs no notice. Timon was on the phone with Doc-in-a-Box HQ. Fabian seemed unexpectedly happy to talk with the INFRAREDs, perhaps because Stanton was gushing like his biggest fan. Fletcher wondered if hed get in trouble for Giles-Rs death, but Fabian never mentioned it. He sure didnt seem broken up. Fabian took charge of the helpbot: Ill bring it to Dispatch, and theyll decide what to do. Why was Giles-R trying to destroy it? Stanton asked.

PARANOIA / T1 Stay Alert preview / 13

No way to know. I suspect he belonged to a secret society, the Frankenstein Destroyersyou know, the bot haters. Fletcher tried not to sound suspicious. Considering youre the last one alive from your team, youre bearing up well. Fabian chuckled. Troubleshooters say the ideal debriefing report begins, I speak without fear of contradiction. Stanton laughed a subservient laugh. In terror Fletcher foresaw Stanton (who hadnt recently been targeted by Troubleshooter laser fire, and who could seldom shut up anyway) was about to say something rash, if not aggressively stupid. Sure enough: Deliver us from traitors, Stanton said. Then he started and stammered, as he recalled secret society recognition code phrases dont make polite conversation. Fabians eyes widened. He seized both INFRAREDs by their black jackets and slammed them against the lobby wall. What did you say? Nothing nothing nooothing! Stanton babbled. I was just praying, I mean wishing, WISHinnng you good luck! Fabian looked around. Timon, still on his PDC, hadnt noticed anything. The Troubleshooters broad back hid both INFRAREDs from the nearest security camera. Fletcher realized an ORANGE Troubleshooter could do whatever he wanted to them hereeven kill themand, if anything, get a commendation. Fabian sized them up like slimes on a FunFoods vat. Have you He paused. Have you both heard the Good Data? He touched four points on his chest, tracing the shape of the Holy Monitor. Fletcher and Stanton tensed, goggled, then just about dissolved in relief. Fabian, like both of them, belonged to the largest and loyal-est of the many secret societies in Alpha Complex, First Church of Christ Computer-Programmer. The FCCC-P covertly worshipped The Computer as a god. Membership in any secret society was treasonbut as treason went, the church was pretty harmless, though The Computer officially prohibited religion as a threat to good order. Praise The Computer, the INFRAREDs murmured. The Computer is my friend, I shall not want, Fabian responded catechetically, with a quick look over his shoulder. Are you Lasers of the Faithful?

PARANOIA / T1 Stay Alert preview / 14

Fletchers wariness returned. No, Church of the Impending Reboot. Fabian frowned, then shrugged. Always room for improvement. You two heard about the big meeting tomorrow night? Good. Who knows, maybe youll help out. Us? Stanton almost giggled. Were INFRAREDs. The Troubleshooter grinned, winked, then called to Drammel. Bot! It looks like youre about to travel! said Drammel. Would you like? No. Lets go. He nodded to Timon, and in a moment Troubleshooter and bot were gone. Timon pocketed his PDC. He groaned. No docbot, no therapy, no payment. This entire episode has been a useless timesink. Lets get back to the office. That afternoon Timon drank deeply from his desk bottle of E-Z-DUZ-IT. To Fletcher and Stanton it was all the same. One INFRARED day was like another. Until the next morning, in their barracks. Promptly at 05:00, beefy GREEN-Clearance Internal Security officers in plexi helmets and pentramid vestsGREEN goons, IntSecs all-purpose dumb thugsseized Fletcher and Stanton as they slept in their bunks. Rather, the goons seized the bunks themselvesbedding, pillows, and all, with startled occupants still in placesnapped them free of their frames, and hauled away both beds and their beddees. Even in their panic, the two INFRAREDs were too well trained to protest, though Fletcher did fretfully pull up his covers. Despite the commotion, their barracks-mates never wokeor rather, diligently avoided waking. The goons manhandled the beds into the wide black-striped corridor and over to a low-slung autocar. The strange vehicle seemed hardly more than a transparent capsule on wheels, like an airtight crash-cart for a hard-vacuum hospital. The goons popped the bubble-top hood and locked the beds, with their wide-eyed INFRAREDs, into twin frames of PVC tubing. The goons clamped, they strapped, they slammed down the hood,

PARANOIA / T1 Stay Alert preview / 15

they shouted orders to the car, and at once Fletcher and Stanton were hurtling down the corridor. The entire operation had so far taken, from barracks to car, 17 seconds, which meant they were already two seconds behind. This was R&D service firm CrashCourse RDs paradigmshattering innovation in strong-signal, high-bandwidth trainingin-placethe long-planned, much-anticipated Instant Agent training program: New Experimental Accelerated Troubleshooter Orientation (NEATO). Stupid acronym, sure, but this clunker actually improved on the original name, Heuristic Experimental Mandatory Accelerated Troubleshooter Orientation Metrics, which only showed how a grant-hungry R&D scientist will even, if sufficiently desperate, aim for HEMATOMA. NEATO pioneered CrashCourses proprietary ThruFlood immersive high-bandwidth high-stimulus sensory-maximization instruction system. Passengers in CrashCourses custom-built BedSpeed autocar, still reclining in their own bunks to foster relaxed openness to new ideas, viewed six to eight simultaneous video feeds of Troubleshooter duties and obligations. To promote maximum info-retention, EyeMinder lasers in the autocar roof beamed each video directly onto a demarcated non-overlapping portion of one retina. In the case of new Troubleshooters fresh from the INFRARED ranks, and thus likely to exhibit murky thought processes, in-car QuickShot hypodermics injected oxyflucocillin (Overdose Helper) to instantly cancel routine drug effects. The consequent withdrawal symptomsmigraine with aura, dystonic tremors, hysteria, giant hairy purple spiderswere easily forestalled by forced oral administration, via OpenWide robotic arm, of pyroxidine-2 (Wider Awake) tablets with a spray of aerosolized thiahexedrine (Focusol), as well as the usual cocktail of sexhormone suppressants. Phase 2 began when the BedSpeed reached its destination transbot platform. Docking in a bay at the rear of CrashCourses custom-built HowWeRoll train car, the autocar played a recorded fanfare and disgorged its occupants. As the transbot started moving, HandsUp mechanical arms (actually just rebranded OpenWide models) stood the subjects upright, stripped off their

PARANOIA / T1 Stay Alert preview / 16

existing garments, and re-dressed them in red Troubleshooter reflec coveralls. Robotic dressers are of course an extremely well-understood technology; CrashCourse attributed early injury reports to incorrectly calibrated heat-based limb sensors. The company easily resolved the issue by preheating each subjects arms and legs. Now, on multiple video monitors, the subjects viewed efficient instruction in proper use of laser weaponry, then were propelled (via HandsUp) forward to the main section of the transbot car, the ShootForBrains target range. Armed with harmless but realistic light-guns, subjects faced a variety of harmless but realistic hologram opponents while being encouraged to improve their aim by harmless but realistic electric shocks. Opponents increased in frequency and difficulty until either the transbot arrived at its destination or the subjects collapsed and begged for sweet release in death, whichever occurred first. An optimistic R&D projectionis there another kind? predicted NEATO could compress Troubleshooter orientation and training from 4.4 days (median) to 24 minutes. Such unheard-of efficiencies pleased The Computer and made Troubleshooter Dispatch positively buoyant. Despite a few early kinks in the system (BedSpeed and HowWeRoll crashes, EyeMinder blindings, OpenWide jaw dislocations, QuickShot overdoses, ShootForBrains-induced psychotic episodes, and a couple of unfortunate HandsUp decapitations), hopes ran high for NEATO. Then Dispatch realized each CrashCourse run generated a tsunami of paperwork. Transbot track permits, autocar corridor passage waivers, maintenance requests, personnel requests, medication requisitions, power consumption authorizations, inter-group IntSec cooperation requests (those were a killer)all told, according to a CPU Yellowpants efficiency auditor, the additional overhead of a single NEATO orientation increased the Troubleshooter Dispatch workload by an irreducible minimum of 92 person-days at a cost of 7.8 million credits. For a time Dispatch ignored these findings, partly because of prior sunk costs and partly because at least 6.8 million of those credits were flowing straight into senior administrators accounts.

PARANOIA / T1 Stay Alert preview / 17

But inevitably The Computer, whose processors sometimes grind slowly yet they grind exceeding fine, noticed CrashCourse RDs high incidence of traitorous sabotage, fatalities, slow paperwork, and poor hygiene. It canceled the NEATO program, disbanded CrashCourse, and imposed on its senior personnel varying judgments of censure, re-education, brainscrub, and/ or promotion. The last CrashCourse transbot on its last run pulled into Sector JSV Troubleshooter Dispatch Platform 1 on 214.03.28 at 05:25, 19 seconds behind schedule, bearing the NEATO programs last new recruits, Stanton-JSV-1 and Fletcher-JSV-1. Robot arms threw them from the car. They collapsed onto the platform, thrashing in fitful combat with phantom enemies. Waiting GREEN goons let them exhaust themselves, then hauled them into separate orientation rooms. Alone in darkness save for two guards, Fletcher lay curled and twitching on the floor. A light. A voice: FLETCHER-JSV-1, ATTENTION. No other voice could bring him to his feet so fast. No voice but that one could focus his mind to pinpoint alertness. By that command, Fletcher understood at once the promise and danger of this momentthe most important of his life so far. He stood bolt upright, shoulders back, head high, heart pounding. He gazed straight ahead, where one entire wall of this long room glowed bright. It was a monitor, taller than himself and too wide to see in one glance. On the monitor, a single staring eye. Fletcher struggled to speak. Hello, Friend Computer! The Computer spoke: FLETCHER-JSV-1, FOR MANY YEARS THE TROUBLESHOOTERS HAVE LOYALLY SERVED ALPHA COMPLEX. IN RECOGNITION OF YOUR RECENT COMMENDABLE ACTION OR ACTIONS AT OR IN INSERT-LOCATION-HERE DETECTING

PARANOIA / T1 Stay Alert preview / 18

THE PRESENCE AND/OR FIGHTING THE MENACE OF INSERT-TREASON-HERE, IT IS NOW YOUR PRIVILEGE AND/OR DUTY TO JOIN THE RANKS OF THIS ELITE SERVICE UNIT. Thank you, Friend Computer! F L E T C H E R - J S V- 1 , W H AT A R E T H E THREE UNBREAKABLE RULES OF THE TROUBLESHOOTERS? From the bottom of his lungs Fletcher shouted, Stay alert! Trust no one! Keep your laser handy! FLETCHER-JSV-1, YOU WILL FOLLOW IN THE TROUBLESHOOTERS GLORIOUS STRUGGLE STAINED WITH BLOOD BUT NEVER DISHONOR! TO HELP ALPHA COMPLEX ACHIEVE ITS IMMINENT AND INEVITABLE VICTORY OVER TREASON. Thank you, Friend Computer! BUT BEWARE! TREASON IS EVERYWHERE; AT ANY MOMENT TRAITORS MAY SUBVERT, OVERWHELM, AND DESTROY ALPHA COMPLEX. Yes, Friend Computer! IN SERVICE TO THE GOAL OF IMMINENT VICTORY OVER ONRUSHING COLLAPSE, YOU MUST NOW REPORT ANY TREASON OR INSUBORDINATION BY YOUR COMPANION, STANTON-JSV-1. Fletchers thoughts whirled. If he reported Stantons membership in FCCC-P, that would implicate Fletcher as well, but his cooperation might exculpate him. The choice was sharpened because he knew, with mortal sureness, Stanton was even now being ordered to report on him. Prisoners dilemma.

PARANOIA / T1 Stay Alert preview / 19

But the church taught betrayal was the sin of sins; it was odious to distract the all-wise and compassionate Computer with such trivia. Fletcher spoke with only a mild quaver, To my knowledge, Stanton is a loyal friend of The Computer and Alpha Complex. A long, dreadful silence. A lidless, baleful eye. Fletcher waited in despair for the termination order. F L E T C H E R - J S V- 1 , Y O U A R E H E R E B Y PROMOTED TO SECURITY CLEARANCE RED. YOUR NAME WILL NOW INCORPORATE THE CLEARANCE INITIAL R, AS SPECIFIED IN CENTRAL PROCESSING UNITS NOMENCLATURE PROTOCOL PROTOCOL-ID-NOT-AVAILABLE, AVAILABLE AT YELLOW CLEARANCE. YOUR NEW SECURITY CLEARANCE SIGNIFIES THE COMPUTERS BENEVOLENT TRUST IN YOU. THE COMPUTER IS YOUR FRIEND. The Computer is my friend! IF YOU SERVE ALPHA COMPLEX WELL, FLETCHER-R, YOU WILL EARN GREATER TRUST AND THEREBY ADVANCE IN SECURITY CLEARANCE. ASPIRE TO ADVANCE! SEEK TO SERVE ALPHA COMPLEX IN EVER GREATER WAYS! FAILURE TO ASPIRE MAY BE CONSIDERED INSUBORDINATION. Yes, Friend Computer! AS A TOKEN OF RECOGNITION AND WELCOME, FLETCHER-R, YOU NOW RECEIVE A SPECIAL REWARD. THIS IS ONE OF MANY PERQUISITES FOR CITIZENS WHO EARN THE COMPUTERS TRUST AND SERVE ALPHA COMPLEX TO THEIR FULLEST ABILITY. PLEASE ACCEPT THIS FRUIT FROM THE SECTORS HYDROPONIC GARDENS, ORDINARILY AVAILABLE ONLY AT CLEARANCE GREEN AND HIGHER.

PARANOIA / T1 Stay Alert preview / 20

A guard walked forward and solemnly placed in Fletcher-Rs palm a red, globular thing. He looked with suspicion at the fruit. Round and heavy, it felt like a grenade. He knew about real food from vidshowspeople onscreen seemed to like itbut hed heard, around the mess hall, it was somehow made from dirt. He wished for his usual soylents or a rope of Cold Fun. But this was The Computers gift, and The Computer, as always, was watching. With hesitation bordering on fear, he nibbled at the skin. Moisture flowed, a sweetness unsurpassed. He froze. He could not think. Something in him, older than thought, took over. He bit deep. Tight skin curled on his teeth; crisp, tart flesh yielded forth its juice; a cascade of flavors raced wild on his tongue. Misting droplets rosea piquant scent, astringent, a zest as bracing as a sudden breeze. Drugs had fogged his mind before, but this was different. This was trance. He stared unblinking, his eyes crossing and uncrossing. He fell to his knees. Each cell of his body had been starved; he had not known. Now he knew, in every artery, a quickened pulse; in every limb, electric jolts; and in his throat, constriction, as if his mouth would not give up the unimagined rapture. The pleasure felt more than visceralcellularno, primala strike into the buried past, a linkage to ten billion ancestors, all born of just this bliss. Yet for history he cared nothing. His reeling thoughts converged on one idea: High-clearance people eat like this all the time. Now, he saw, he had a future. He saw, in truth, a vision new to hima scene of opportunity, of endless open ways, where all the labyrinths of corridors and halls stretched clearance-free, with every door thrown back and Alpha Complex in its tentacular mazery mapped clear. And in his clarity of sight he knew, and now despised, the flat thin paper-chase he had taken for his lifehis little, barren, petty lifean abject round, a program run on hardware much too slow. The insight roused in him a yearning, close to pain, for the years of chances he had missed, and for strength and will to capture those ahead. The insight roused in him an appetite, fierce and unsubdued, for fresh food, better thoughts, high clearance, and

PARANOIA / T1 Stay Alert preview / 21

life, life, life. The insight roused him to his feet, so that he stood, first faltering and breathless, then firmif not quite human yet, then ready to step forward on that path. He groped for words. Whatwhat is it? IT IS A POMACEOUS FRUIT CALLED AN APPLE. ITS SCIENTIFIC DESIGNATION IS NOT AVAILABLE AT YOUR CLEARANCE. ONLY THE COMMON NAME OF THIS VARIETY IS AVAILABLE. What is the name? RED DELICIOUS.

Youve just read Chapter 1 (of seven) of the PARANOIA novel Stay Alert by Allen Varney. In the full-length novel available where you bought this bookFletcher-R meets the Troubleshooters of Team Rotisserie-459, and almost immediately gets into such trouble with them they want to shoot him. The helpbot returns, too, and why are all these gangsters trying to grab it? Which of Fletchers teammates support which gang? For that matter, which one does he support? His allegiance seems to change by the hour. What is going on with Fletchers blackouts, and will anyone notice? (Spoiler: Yes, they notice.) What is the mind-control technology called CIRCE, and why has it fallen into the hands of the cutting-edge Computer Phreak gangsters, the Flash Mob? Who is the mysterious M who seems to mentally control some of the most powerful people in the sector? Read Stay Alert to find (some of) the answers. Well, a few of the answers. Anyway, it should pique your curiosity.

PARANOIA / T1 Stay Alert preview / 22

Stay Alert
Book 1 of The Troubleshooter Rules by Allen Varney ultravioletbooks.com

PARANOIA / T1 Stay Alert preview / 23

Light-hearted stories of backstabbing, treachery, and Emergency Bathroom Break Vouchers. Based on the bestselling roleplaying game of fear and ignorance in a darkly satirical future, official PARANOIA novels are now available as ebooks from Ultraviolet Booksand theyre even for your security clearance. If you like reading about repressed teenagers groping sparkly vampires, this book will touch you in the bad place. But if you like Philip K. Dick and think Survivor needs a higher body count, your friend The Computer requires you to enjoy PARANOIA. PARANOIA NOVELS ARE FUN. OTHER NOVELS ARE NOT FUN. READ PARANOIA.

The Computer is Your Friend, an introductory anthology Reality Optional by Gareth Hanrahan Traitor Hangout by WJ MacGuffin The Troubleshooter Rules trilogy by Allen Varney Book 1: Stay Alert Book 2: Trust No One (available spring 2012) Book 3: Keep Your Laser Handy (available summer 2012) Download them from the same fine site where you got this book, or visit us at ultravioletbooks.com.