The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction JanuaryFebruary 2016 (The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction Book 130) by unknow

Author:unknow
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Spilogale, Inc.
Published: 2016-02-29T23:00:00+00:00

* * *

ARMANDO IS the kind of friend everyone needs to have. Armando is my friend who knows about computers.

I tell Armando about the phone call this morning. I tell him about the sobbing in the lobby. I hold out my phone and show him what my desk is doing.

"You've got a problem," Armando says.

"I can see that," I say. "I can hear it, too, everywhere and all the time. How do I make it go away?"

"You don't understand," Armando says. "This isn't an IT problem. This is a real problem. You've been targeted, Caspar. You've been chosen."

"What is it, some kind of spam?"

"Worse," Armando says. "Much worse. It's mediaterrorism."

Mediaterrorism. The term is not familiar.

"You mean like leaking classified information?"

"I mean," Armando says, "that you're being terrorized. Don't you feel terrorized?"

"I feel confused. I feel perplexed. I feel a certain degree of angst."

"Exactly," Armando says.

"I feel bad for the people of the FRF. Where exactly is the FRF?"

"I think it's somewhere in Africa."

"The names of the victims don't sound African. The names of the victims sound Asian."

"There are Asians in Africa," Armando says. "There are Africans in Asia. Don't be so racist."

I look at my desk, where people are dying and children are starving and Wendy's franchises are exploding in blooms of shocking light.

"But why did they pick me? What do I have to do with the FRF? Why do they keep using my name?"

"The answer to all those questions," Armando says, "is: Who knows? It's all essentially random. It's done by computer."

"That doesn't explain anything."

"Computers don't need explanations," Armando says. "Computers just do what they do."

"Should I send them some money? What should I do?"

Armando clutches his head. "What's the matter with you, Caspar? Send them money! Don't you have principles?"

"I'd send them some money if I knew where they were. The FRF. It sounds postcolonial."

"Can't you see?" says Armando. "This is what they want. This is what terrorists do. They get into your head. It's not about what you do, Caspar. It's about how you feel." He points through the screen. "I'll tell you what you need to do. You need to get off the grid. Before this spreads."

"Spreads? Do you mean—?"

But I have to end the call. My supervisor, Sheila, is coming through the cubicles.

"Caspar," Sheila says, "can I ask you something? Can I ask you why people are being butchered in your name?"

I see that she has a sheet of printout in her hand.

"I've been trying to figure that out myself," I say.

Sheila looks at my desk, which currently displays a smoking pile of severed feet.

"I don't want this to be awkward," Sheila says. "But I just talked to Danny, out in the lobby. He says he heard screaming when you came in. He says it began the moment you entered. He says it was a pretty awful way to start the morning."

The severed feet are gone. My desk now shows a picture of a sobbing baby, sitting in a pile of bloody soda cans.

"You don't need to tell me," I say.

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