2054 Bil Lewis, 1992 [3400 wds.] "Rad, Totally radical!" "And now watch this, Gramps!" Falisa chirped. She took her color pen and drew a squiggly line across her computer screen. The line was immediately duplicated onto the front of her shirt. Another selection from the menu and the line began to pulse -- green, yellow, blue. "Zapo! I wish we'd had that stuff back when I was a kid! I coulda had fun with that." Gramps was over 100, but he sure didn't act like it. Which, of course, was why Falisa liked him so much. "What would you have done with it, gramps?" "Oh, I would have drawn a picture of my teacher on the back and made a wart appear on her nose every time she turned her around." "Oh! Gramps! That's great!" she squealed. I'll do Mrs. Higgenbottom just the way she really looks! Thaan and Cisc sit right behind me. They'll think it's so funny!" She turned away from Gramps and spoke to her computer: "Bring up my study tape from yesterday, Mac." "STUDY TAPE FROM 16 8 54," the computer intoned in a flat staccato voice. The opening frame showed the title "Fourth grade history: Rome" and a small picture of Mrs. Higgenbottom in the lower corner. Falisa outlined her and dragged her onto the shirt palette. A full sized Mrs. Higgenbottom appeared on the shirt. "Now I want a wart here, and her skin is really bluer... and her tongue hangs out..." "Oh that's horrible!" exclaimed Gramps, when Falisa displayed her creation in front of his camera. "I love it!" "...and I can put a fade button right here on the shirt and then I can actually wear it to school!" "Now wait a second, Lisa Lane. You know better than that." "But you would have, Gramps! I won't let her see it." "But they didn't have spy cameras all over the room when I was a kid." "Oh yeah." Falisa's sudden elation fell. "Gramps, I hate it. I can't do anything. Life was so much more fun in the 20th century. Here, everyone spies on me!" "I'm sorry, Lisa, but that's the way it goes. Some things get better, some things get worse." "Falisa!" her mother's flawless, 30-ish, animated head appeared on the computer screen. "Time for dinner dearest!" "Can I eat up here with Gramps?" "Just a second, dearest." The computer paused as it interpreted Lisa's request. It concluded that the request was too difficult for the pseudo-mother program, and forwarded it to the real Mrs. Lane. A much older, flabbier, mother appeared on the screen, moving in a jerky, not-quite-enoughframes-per-second style. It reminded Falisa of the kind of old films that Gramps sometimes showed her. "Now Falisa, dear. You know your father wants to spend quality time with us during dinner. He can't do that if we're all on different screens. Turn off that program and come on down!" "Bye, Gramps." Falisa brushed her hand across his switch. "Bye LL." Gramps quickly moved the conversation into permanent storage and powered down. Gramps was really Falisa's great-grandfather, Bilbo who had lived during the late 20th century. As one of the leading computer scientists of the era, he was fundamental in the development of the rather whimsical field known as psyco-cybernetics. The concept of PC was to do an extensive analysis of a personality, then map that onto an AI program. The program could then hold a conversation as if it were the person. From a scientific point of view, it was an amusing parlor game. It simply wasn't possible to sufficiently analyze a person- ality to be able to simulate an actual person. But it was possible to capture the gist. And if a person had a particularly strong and unusual personality... As the idea had been of his own making, Bilbo had been willing to go through extensive analysis, experimentation, and refinement required to make a vaguely realistic program. And he was also willing to spend the money required for the computers that were required. So GRAMPS.EXE was created, expanded, studied, and finally relegated to the long list of entertaining, but useless programs. Useless to science, perhaps, but extremely valuable to a little girl. "Did you wash up Fay?" her mother asked her, using a nickname Falisa disliked even more than her full name. Like most of her friends, Mrs. Lane had given birth in her mid-40s, after having lived a "full" life. The primary result of this late childbirth was that parents had absolutely no connection with the children's seething emotions, which made family dinners stressful. "You're going to love this dinner," her mother said as usual. "I made it just for you. Here it comes!" The microwave flashed and her mother took out two identically arranged plates, filled with steaming foods of various shapes and colors. It was all flavored tofu which had been laid out by computer, chosen from one of a few dozen menus. It all tasted like flavored tofu. Falisa knew that at the exact same moment, an identical plate had appeared at her father's office. The big screen at the end of the table powered up and his face appeared. "So how's my family, today? Did you have a nice day at school, Falisa?" Mr. Lane's company paid for a high-speed link to the house so that he could work late, but still "be" home. "It was OK, father." She replied with little expression. "It was what?" "OK that means satisfactory. A nostalgism." Mr. Lane gave his wife an irritated glance. "Dinner's lovely, mother." "Why thank you dear. And are you enjoying it, Henry?" "Yes it's quite fine." Falisa knew he never paid any attention to what he was eating, but her mother didn't notice that. And never would. Soon, her parents would be 70, they'd retire, then 80, 90, and finally die at 120. Just like everyone. And nothing would ever change. It was so unfair that someone so neat as Gramps could die at 52, while her boring parents would live forever. "What did you do at school today?" Mr. Lane took a mouthful of fu-steak and chewed as he talked. "Can you tell me anything about," he glanced at his screen, "George Ellot?" "George Ellot", she intentionally didn't correct him, "was a 19th century author who wrote romantic novels about the British aristocracy. She used a pseudonym because women couldn't be writers back then." "Very good Falisa. And what did you do after school?" "I went to study hall, then we went to the pool and swam for a while. And after that..." "We? What we? Who were you with?" Mr. Lane stopped her cold. Falisa knew it was too late to concoct a story. She answered hesitantly, "Janie." "Now, Falisa, you know I don't like you with that girl. Her father is a common laborer. In this day and age! He does something with pipes and dirt." "I don't care!" Falisa started screaming. "I like Janie. We have fun together! She's not stupid and fat like all the other girls. Like you are!" "I won't have you talking like that!" He yelled back. "Falisa, Falisa! Come back here!" Falisa shoved herself away from the table and ran upstairs, sobbing. "I hate him! I hate him!" "Falisa!" her father appeared on the screen in her room, "I will not have you..." Falisa zeroed the volume, threw her blanket over the monitor and camera, then fell sobbing on her bed. Downstairs, Mrs. Lane spoke timidly with her husband. "Dearest, be easy on her. She's only nine." "That's no reason to be disobedient. I know what's best for her and that little ruffian, Janie, is bad news. I will not allow my daughter to grow up to be a heathen." His face was flushed with anger and he was short on breath. "But dearest, children go through phases. Janie is her only real friend. I've met her. She is a nice girl." Mr. Lane drummed his fingers as he thought. "No she's got one other friend who's probably even worse for her. I think we might want to disconnect him." "Gramps? No, dearest." Mrs. Lane was filled with a near-panic. "He's a little bit odd, but he's so good for her. You know he's programmed so it's impossible for him to do anything bad for her...." "Being odd is bad for her. You never met him. I did. He was weird. He was always playing jokes and always laughing. He never took things seriously. I don't want my daughter growing up to be like that." "Dearest, remember when you had to have him serviced and he was away for two weeks? Fay almost drove me crazy. She was always complaining and always asking me all these questions and crying. I couldn't take that again. Please!" Mr. Lane fumed, but relented. "She's not to see Janie anymore." ________________ After school, at the play drome, Falisa walked slowly backwards towards a bench. She touched it tentatively, then sat down without turning around. Next to her facing, the opposite direction, sat Janie. They couldn't see each other. "Father is such a stupid nerd-type. He wants me to grow up and be just like Mother, or, or Mrs. Higgenbottom!" "Ugh!" squeaked Janie "Ugh, ugh. Gag me with a fork. That is so horrible. Like Mrs. Higgenbottom, ugh!" "Everything my parents do is so boring, and then they want me to be boring too. They never let me think of anything myself, it all has to be the way they remember it." "That's terrible. My dad lets me do about anything I want. After lessons, I can go play with the other kids, or watch video, or sometimes I just walk down to the river and watch the water go by. Saturdays, I go watch dad play Baseball." "Baseball, jeez. My dad couldn't waddle around the bases, he's so fat. You're lucky to have a dad who's only 40. And you don't have to live in the compound." "It's not that great outside. You've got be careful about animals and stuff, and if you hurt yourself, it could be serious. I knew a boy who almost died when he fell in the river." "But at least he had the chance to do it. I don't have the chance to do anything. My parents have every minute of my day figured. I leave here by 4:00. Then it's lessons till 5:00, dinner till 5:30, Educational videos till 7:00, five minutes to brush my teeth, twenty for a shower, bed at 7:25 and I'm asleep by 7:30." "Yeah. That's pretty tough. You don't have much freedom." "I want to do something, Janie. I want to do something real and get away with it. I can't stand being spied upon all the time, and told what to do all the time, and, and I can't stand this!" Falisa pulled off her bracelet and threw it across the floor. Janie looked at the bracelet. She had a touch of panic in her face. "Lisa, you can't take it off. You know they'll find out..." "I don't care!" Falisa yelled. "I don't care! I don't care! I don't care! I hate that stupid..." The bracelet started beeping. Falisa stared at it in horror. "Father must have set an alarm on it." She had to call and explain. Falisa ran over and put the tracer bracelet back on, then looked at the telescreen. It was empty. She had to call. "Mora!" She called to another little girl who she knew from her class. "Mora, I have to call my father. He's gonna ask who I was playing with. Please tell him it was you. I'll help you with your homework. Please." Mora was surprised, but agreed. They walked over to the telescreen together. Falisa held her wrist up to the dialer. The screen came alive and her father's face appeared. He wasn't in his office, so Falisa knew that he must have gotten the alert during a meeting. He was clearly angry. "Falisa, what is going on?" "Hello father. I just took it off, cause Mora wanted to see if it was like hers. Mora this is my father." "Hello, Mr. Lane." "Hello, Mora," he said stiffly. "May I see your ID?" Mora held her bracelet up to the dialer and the ident transferred her public information to Mr. Lane's screen. He looked at it, her name, where she lived, her fathers' occupation, etc. He grunted approval. "Well don't take it off again unless you're in the swim hall. Be good." The telescreen signed off, then returned to its advertising display. "Thanks so much Mora. You really saved me." "You're welcome," said Mora. "I was happy to help. But why did your dad have so quick an alert set? I can take mine off for an hour before it alerts." "I don't know. I think he's afraid I'll take it off so he won't know if I leave the compound to visit Janie." "Oh yeah. My dad wouldn't let me go out there. There are bad people out there who'll attack you if they see you're a compound girl." "Janie lives outside and she doesn't have any trouble." Falisa made her way back to the bench. She sat down and Mora joined them. "So what can we do to Mrs. Higgenbottom?" Falisa said to the other girls. "We've got to do something." "Maybe we could put a funny picture of her on her desk. She always sleeps through her video lectures," Mora suggested. "We'd get caught." Falisa replied, depressed. "She's got the cameras everywhere." "Well, what I'd like to do," said Janie. "I'd like to see her without her makeup. Remember that day when her cosmetics computer failed and you could see her legs? They were practically blue, there were so many veins showing. If we could make it fail again..." "Well, I don't know how to program computers like that. Do you?" "Not me," said Mora. "Me neither", said Janine. "But what about your Grampa? He is a computer." "I could ask him. But he's not really allowed to do anything." Falisa thought for a bit. "It would be fun anyway. We could see if he had any other ideas." "You could see. I can't go in your house. Your dad would kill you if he saw my ident," Janie protested. "If he saw your ident. But not if he saw Mora's..." "You mean switch bracelets?" Mora instinctively grabbed at hers. "I could get into real trouble." "Nothing will happen." Falisa reassured her. "You can stay in our communal hall. Father can't monitor there. I promise we won't be gone for more than a half hour. You can come up later and visit with gramps. You'd like him, he's really neat." Mora was nervous, but she wanted to please the older girls, so she let herself be talked into it. She was also secretly excited by the thought of such a misdeed. Doing something wrong and getting away with it was unheard of! ________________ Falisa's mother spent most of the day in virtual presence romance experiences, so she didn't even bother to look when notified that Falisa had brought home an approved friend. "So how ugly is she?" Gramps asked. "She's got these hugh blue veins that run all the way up her legs like this." Falisa drew some blue veins on the image of Mrs. Higgenbottom. "And they go all the way up her legs," added Janie. "Lift up her skirt more." Mrs. Higgenbottom was soon clad in the shortest of mini skirts and possessed monstrous, varicose veins that ran up her massive thighs. Her face was pocked with gruesome brown moles and a wart the size of her nose. The fat from her cheeks hung down so low that it rested on her shoulders. The image was terrifying ugly -- probably an accurate rendition of Mrs. Higgenbottom without makeup and plastic surgery. "Now watch this! We can map this image to the entire study lesson!" Janie made the appropriate selections. Then, with the computer making the extrapolations to a 3-D model, Mrs. Higgenbottom-the-horrible taught class. The girls howled. "You've got to do the changes gradually, or it won't work," Gramps instructed them. "Huh? What do you mean?" They asked in unison. "Start off with a normal Mrs. Higgenbottom and add the changes slowly. You don't want all the kids to laugh too soon, or else she'll figure it out too fast when you show it in class." "Show it in class?" Falisa exclaimed. "Father would kill me!" If he found out. If anyone found out. Remember how you told me that Jim, the school computer operator really hates her too? ________________ Halfway through sixth period the following day, Mrs. Higgenbottom finished her lecture and, as usual, said "Now we will watch the excellent video I recorded on Robert Frost in 1998. Pay attention. There'll be a quiz right afterwards." She tapped the computer. The lights dimmed and the opening of "Higgenbottom on Frost" appeared on the main screen in the front of the room. A slim and flawlessly featured Mrs. Higgenbottom sat at her desk. Only a few subtle details gave away the fact that even this young Mrs. Higgenbottom was radically retouched. Her voice had not been altered, however, and the young Mrs. Higgenbottom began to drone on about early American poetry. The older Mrs. Higgenbottom nodded. After about five minutes Sandy nudged the boy next to her and whispered. "Look, they missed her wart there!" They giggled quietly. The wart grew and so did the giggles. Then came the veins and the nose, the skirt grew shorter and the jowls longer. Thirty nine-year olds giggled hysterically, trying not to wake their teacher. She awoke. "What's going on? You're supposed to be quiet and paying attention. Silence!" The class quieted down for a moment. Then Mrs. Higgenbottom on screen bent over and exposed a pair of red Mickey Mouse underwear. The class roared, some of them pointing to the screen. Mrs. Higgenbottom turned, saw the screen, and exploded. "What in the hell?!" She pounded the computer and the image died. "James! James Victor! Get in here!" She screamed. The class froze, suddenly terrified. James came running. "What is it? What's wrong?" "What's wrong?" Her face was screwed up in a terrible rage. "This is what's wrong!" She hit the computer and the screen lit up. A slim, attractive, 25-year old Mrs. Higgenbottom stood slightly bent over her desk, knees just showing under a midlength skirt. Mrs. Higgenbottom stared. "It's backwards. Before this." She ran the recording in fast reverse. The same, lovely lady scampered backwards wildly across the screen. "It was here! A terrible picture of me. It was! Right here. It was and they were laughing at me!" She pointed at the class. "Yes, mam. I'm sure you're correct." Jim scanned the video, the checked the computer. "This looks correct. Here's the monitor of the class." He ran back several minutes of a darkened, silent classroom. Mrs. Higgenbottom ran the recordings back and forth a few times, searching for the condemning evidence that wasn't there. She began to pale. Jim turned to the class, his lips were drawn tight and he spoke sternly. "Falisa, what happened?" Falisa stood up and spoke nervously. "We were watching the video about Robert Frost. Mrs. Higgenbottom had, ah, fallen asleep, ah, she was sort of tired. And then she jumped up and started yelling. I was so scared." Falisa looked back at the rest of the class. Thirty-eight heads nodded. "I... I, have to go home. I'm not feeling well." Mrs. Higgenbottom staggered weakly out of the classroom, forgetting her notes, her bags, everything. "I'll take care of things, mam." Jim called after her. He turned to the class. "I want everyone to forget all about today. It didn't happen. Sometimes older people have bad dreams. That's all it was. Just a bad dream." Falisa walked Janie to the compound port. They stopped and looked around for classmates. Then they clapped hands in a "high five" just like Gramps had shown them. "Rad, Totally radical!"