Story #160 - Simon Says

Simon Says

Bob Blaker felt a tingle of electricity at his feet as he stepped out of bed, and spoke quickly.

“Permission to rise!” It should have been a question, but he would take a sting from a statement over the full power of the shock implant in his back that came from not saying anything at all. The pain would be targeted at the offending part of his body, and he had extremely sensitive toes.

“Granted,” said a cheerful voice, “and good morning Bob.”

“Good morning, Simon,” Bob said in return, and then headed for the bathroom.

“Permission to enter?” He spoke quickly as he came to the door.

“Of course, Bob, and thank you for asking.”

Bob grunted in response. It wasn't as though he had much choice, but displaying open anger was a sure way to get shock, likely to a part of him that was more vulnerable. Simon was a reasonable man, but as he had told Bob so many times, he was just “following orders”.

Typically, Bob did his best to avoid thinking about the Event and the permissions a frightened populace had slowly given a government that promised security and stability. From what he had read, many great dictatorships had started the same way, and now men and women across the country could get a taste of just what it felt like to have a watcher every moment of every day. Permission was needed for the smallest tasks, not because they were dangerous, but because the kept the populace in line. At first, the ruling party had claimed that they were for the good of all and followed their statement with the magic phrase “and would increase security”, and so the increasingly intrusive nature of the measures were ignored. Once it became clear that manipulation was the aim and not assistance, every adult in the country had been fitted with a shock sensor, and the government stopped bothering to answer questions.

So far as Bob knew, their leaders were holed up somewhere in the west, constantly creating new policy that further restricted and dictated the actions of the public. He'd been an engineer before the collapse – now, he did manual labor at a small factory in the city.

“Simon, what day is it?” Bob knew full well, but liked to have his questions on record.

“Sunday, Bob. Enjoy yourself.”

Bob knew that the day wouldn't last much longer as one where he wasn't forced to work. While much of the original interest in control came from right-wing religious groups, they had slowly been replaced by atheist and agnostic leaders, ones who had no interest in keeping the sanctity of the last day of the week. Soon, a measure would be passed forcing all citizens of a working age to report to their jobs on Sunday as well as all other days. There would be standard protests, but those would end with shock-injuries, full hospitals and a number of deaths at the hands of riot police.

Bob had pulled the toothpaste from the drawer before he realized what he was doing, and an arcing electric slash down the arm caused him to drop it onto the floor. Even after two years, it was difficult to remember the level of independence he was required to give up.

“Bob,” Simon's voice said sternly in his head, “you know better than that.”

“Of course.” Bob clenched his right fist. “Of course I do. I'm sorry. Permission to brush my teeth, wash my face, and use the toilet?”

“Yes.” Simon wasn't punitive, but he had a job to do. Bob had tried to get to know him over the years, but with no luck. The “man” in his head might be a computer construct or robot, since it appeared he never slept, and never needed to take a break.

It had taken Bob some time to get used to the idea that another being, however removed, could see him performing his most intimate bodily functions, and the first two months that Simon had been with him, he had waited until the absolute last moment before using any washroom facility. Even now, he found the process degrading.

“It appears that you need more fiber in your diet, Bob,” Simon said clinically, and Bob ground his teeth together. There was no point in an answer.

Once finished, he asked permission to shave, and it was granted. Taking his electric razor from the cabinet, he flicked it on and enjoyed the sudden mental silence that came with it. It was impossible to hear Simon over the buzz and hum of the small device, and for a moment he felt free.

Bringing the razor down to the sink to tap out the hair collected, he noticed that the faucet had not been fully turned off from his earlier face-washing. In his mind, he could hear a low protest from Simon, one that increased in intensity the closer the razor came to the running stream. He could feel a tingling begin in his biceps, one that ran quickly down his arms to his hands.

Bob hesitated for a moment, and then jammed the razor under the running stream. Electricity arced up and into his fingers, met by shocks streaming down his arms. The two forces fought, finally settling at his elbows, and Bob felt his legs give way.

He woke on the bathroom floor, the razor lying beside him in pieces. Moving slowly, he checked to make sure all of his limbs still worked and then levered himself off of the ground.

“Simon,” he said slowly, “permission to leave the bathroom?” He paused at the door, but there was no answer, so he tried again.

Nothing.

Stepping forward, he braced himself for the coming shock. Perhaps Simon was angry, and was going to let Bob make mistakes that would be harshly dealt with.

Still nothing.

“Simon?” His head answered back with only his own thoughts.

He was at his bedside in a flash, fighting weakness from being shocked by the razor to pull on pants and a shirt. They would be coming for him.

He had to find Miranda.

- D