Brave New Worlds

Above her, on a loop, the introduction video played for anyone coming into the Department. It showed a woman on the street overhearing pieces of information she didn't know how to report; it reviewed the details of filing a claim as a man in a mechanic's jumpsuit signed in at the desk, took the elevator to the eighteenth floor, shook hands with a smiling agent.

'What do you know that we should know?' the narrator asked at the end, right before the two actors turned to the camera and the man in the jumpsuit said, 'More than I thought, that's for sure!'

Liz couldn't see it from where she was sitting, but she didn't need to. She'd seen the film during orientation; the last time anyone at the Department suggested she had anything anyone needed to know.

Greg waited outside her building for their scheduled date, and when he saw her coming, he smiled.

Greg had been studying for a job at Disease Control, before the Bang. His viable sperm knocked him out of line for any Sector-C jobs; he answered phones at a law office. They had been matched three years ago, and had been evaluated 'Above Average' Sweethearts three years running by the Society Council. Their chances of marriage had been rated by the doctors as close to 80 %.

Greg was gay as a Maypole, but they made do.

When she was just far enough away, she called, 'Hello, darling. ' (You never knew when the Society Council was monitoring.)

He smiled. 'Hello, honey. How was your day?'

'Some concern over Disease, I think. Someone from Film Production signed in this morning; they might be making a new film about how the Disease is going. '

Greg whistled. 'that's no good. '

She shook her head. 'I just don't understand the delay — we've been wearing the masks for weeks already, they should have delivered a new movie by now. '

'They should have,' Greg said, frowning.

Liz patted her boyfriend's arm and dropped the subject; every once in a while, the government wasn't above a little mistake.

They hit up The Shindig at the three-Screen. The tag line had caused a little scandal ('Vane and Murray spark more fireworks than the Bang!'), but it was just a romantic musical. Liz liked the dancing. Greg liked Joe Murray.

The cashier stamped their tickets. 'Please don't forget to get them stamped on the way out or the purchase is ineligible for reimbursement from the Department of Society,' he droned.

Once they were in their seats, Greg put his arm around her like all the other guys had done to their dates. (You never knew who was a Society Council inspector.) 'Is there a plan for after this?'

'Well, if you really enjoy Joe Murray, we can go to a Society hotel if you want, after. '

He looked over, understanding. 'Due for the doctor?'

She smiled thinly. 'We have a year left before they re-match me. ' She thought about Mr. Randall finding out and filing a request, and shuddered. 'I'd rather stick it out with you. '

Greg nodded, and when the movie titles came up, he held her hand.

Murray and Vane were in the middle of their meet-cute dance routine when the film stuttered, pixelated, and blinked out.

'Refund!' someone shouted before the screen was even black.

The screen flared back to life, with the title: YOU ARE BEING LIED TO.

'So, no refund?' asked Greg. The people near them laughed.

The screen cards kept flashing. THERE ARE NO PATHOGENS. THERE IS NO DISEASE CONTROL.

THERE IS NO DISEASE.

Now no one was laughing.

Someone got up and ran out of the theatre.

Liz craned her neck, trying to see what was happening in the projection booth.

The screen cut to a grainy shot of a computer screen; a shadowy figure sat beside it, typing and talking to the camera.

'We are John Doe,' it said — its voice had been distorted, like film played at halfspeed—'and we have tuned the network. We have proof the Disease is a lie. '

Now people were beginning to murmur. Some got up and scurried for the exit like it was a Security Department trap. It probably was.

Liz hoped this kid was lying. She thought, annoyed, about the stupid paper mask she wore three days a week when the Pathogen Alert was high.

The computer screen showed a mail exchange with the header DAMAGE CONTROL TO INTERCEPT INFORMATION LEAK.

'Every citizen MUST ACT,' the voice was saying. 'Don't take the pills from Disease Control!'

By now the figure was agitated, gesturing at the camera. 'Ask yourselves: who's ever really gotten sick? How can the Bang's pathogens strike such small areas? Why are they always near the borders? How does Disease Control respond so quickly? the pills have kept us docile, but the time has come to act! We've made contact with —'

The doors behind them crashed open, the doorway filled with plainclothes SD and uniformed cops, guns out.

'Hold it!' someone shouted, and the police charged the projector booth.

A young man jumped out of the booth and crash-landed in the aisle, grabbing Greg's seat to pull himself up — the boy was young, blond, his face tight with pain or fear, and for a moment he was just staring at them, his hands flexed on Greg's armrest.

Then he sprinted for the exit and disappeared.

The cops and SDs tripped over themselves back down the projection-room stairs, and they scattered — some for the exits, some for the audience.

Greg and Liz were yanked out of their seats and dragged outside into a holding pen of cop cars, along with the rest of the audience. Liz saw a few of the ones who had tried to run and hadn't made it.

'I don't want to go into the station,' Greg told her. 'It could end up on my record. '

He still hoped that someday he could get closer — any closer — to Disease Control.

Liz faked a storm of tears when the cops were close enough to see it, and they handed Greg a printout and stamped his ticket stubs and told him to be a gentleman and take her home, already.

'I'm looking for a refund for this prank,' Greg told them half-seriously, 'I want you to know that. '

On the walk home, Greg read from the printout; a standard-issue distribution, without a date on it. They'd had it ready to go, just in case.

Greg flashed the picture of a frowning boy dragging a skull-emblazoned bag behind him.

Pranks are FOOLISH and WASTE THE TIME of VALUABLE CITIZENS. They DISTRACT from safety work and INTERFERE with your government. If you see a PRANKSTER, contact your local precinct.

The bottom read, in large block letters, TODAY'S DELINQUENT IS TOMORROW'S CRIMINAL.

'Hold it,' said the blond kid from behind her, and Liz felt the point of a knife in her back.

'Or today's criminal,' Liz said.

Greg leveled a look at the kid. 'Keep it cool, Johnny Doe. What do you want?'

'Your car. '

'Don't have one. '

Johnny pulled a face. 'Shit. Well. Give me your money,' he said, and nudged Liz with his shoulder (not, she noted, with the knife).

'What, you're going to buy a bus pass and ride out of town on the local?' Liz asked, but she handed over her purse. 'Seventeen dollars. Enjoy. '

Johnny thumbed through the wallet with his free hand. 'they've got my car,' he told them like they were all friends. 'I need to get out of here. They'll kill me. '

Liz didn't doubt that.