Warren Adler 2008 Short Story Contest Finalists

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Bob bounded from bed. He'd be sending an aromatized video mem to Misty today, in time for her birthday! That was his plan, anyway. But he hadn't yet mastered his Tri-Mode Receptor, and an undercurrent of doubt dampened his enthusiasm. Should he have splurged and purchased the more intuitive iNose?

He swept his homework aside, gobbled a tofu salami sandwich, and wriggled into his Water Vapor Evaporative Recovery Suit. The Wavers were a bit confining, but they would prevent any fluid loss in the harsh dryness Outside. He didn't want his agua account unnecessarily debited! He slung his Receptor over his shoulder and transported down. With a snappy flash of his Subcutaneous Identification Implant (Scidi), he scanned himself Outside and rushed across campus, trailing a cloud of dust.

He Scidi'd into the Natural History Terrarium, deposited his vapor recovery crystals, and peeled off his Wavers, flushed with eagerness to see, and recept, actual vegetation. To think that it grew wild Before the Great Desiccation! He took the Central Valley Trail, transferred to Sierra-Cascade and then to Oregon High Desert, where he was arrested by a fragrance so sweet he stepped into a turnout to savor it. Cinnamon Brush! Perfect for Misty! He selected Tri-mode, aimed, and recepted the delicate blossoms amidst shiny leaves and, serendipitously, the musical chirps of a Blue-crested Swallow swooping above. On playback he sensed the blossoms' fragrance; however, since he was still next to the Brush, he couldn't be certain the perfume was coming from it or the Receptor. He held the device at arm's-length and pointed it at himself, grinning broadly, unaware a fleck of peperoncini was clinging to a bicuspid, and pressed the "Recept" button. The Receptor pierced the terrarium's solitude with a terrible squeal, flashed "error code 627," and shut down.

Aw, Spit!

While Bob was formulating a corrective action plan, the CCTV overhead ordered him to "Move Along. Maintain Spacing." He rolled his eyes, hurried to the next exit, Scidi'd through and raced Outside across the parched campus without delaying to don his Wavers. He Scidi'd into the dormitory transporter, regretting he had no vapor recovery crystals to deposit. He knew his agua account would be debited for fluids lost Outside. He punched in the coordinates for his single-berth nanominium unit. The transporter beamed him up and across, directly to his unit.

Although California State University, Virtual, was actually hybrid, with a physical campus in Hafnium Valley, and Bob was surrounded by thousands of fellow students in identical hexagonal units in the honeycomb-like dorm, there were no common areas and little contact. Students did gather for labs and exams, but admittance was tightly controlled by Scidi-scanning, and such events were hardly conducive to socializing.

Things had been different back in the 2020's, BGD, when Bob's parental units were in college. They spoke of students mingling in actual classes, having roommates, and casual sex. They were fun times, maybe, but fraught with emotional entanglements causing excessive showering. Modern campus life encouraged detached, agua-frugal interaction, such as Bob's nascent on-line relationship with Misty.

He retrieved the 579 page Receptor manual from his clossette and sank into his chair, feeling drained. He rested his stubbled chin on one hand while holding the manual with the other. He scoffed at the manufacturer's misleading hype. So what if the Receptor recorded scintillating three-dimensional video with brilliant stereophonic audio! A camcorder could do that! What about the olfactory feature that supposedly set the Receptor apart? Was it up to snuff?

He opened the manual and began poring through it for the error code reference text. When he found it, he cursed its authors. What had they meant by "Sensory Overload may cause full or partial intermittent non-functioning of Receptor modes?"

It was Geek to Bob. A wave of anger surged over him, leaving in its wake a deep urge to smash his Receptor with a blunt instrument, such as the remainder of his frozen tofu salami. But he restrained himself, clinging to hope the Receptor could be refunctionalized and used to enhance his relationship with Misty, perhaps opening a portal to real-time communication.

He re-submerged himself in the manual, cruising for a glossary. The closest thing he could find was a table, "Compilation of Alpha-Numeric Combinamations." An asterisk directed him to a definition of the cumbersome term: "Groupings of various letters and/or numbers having literal or symbolic meaning. These groupings may be words or phrases, or acronyms."

Was "Sensory Overload" such a grouping? Yes! He found it on page 427 and felt an endorphin burst, lasting until he read the definition and realized it offered no remedy: "Sensory Overload - Input of sensory data in one or more modes which is beyond Receptor capacity."

In desperation he asked his phone to call Receptor Customer Services.

A machine answered and admonished him to listen carefully because the menu options had changed. He was pleased to hear another voice and tried to engage in light-hearted conversation, pointing out he didn't know what the old options were, ha ha. But the machine detected no humor and warned the call might be Monitored. When Bob said he didn't give a damn, the machine acted as if he'd said nothing and began reciting a menu of options.

He didn't know who he was calling, much less the extension. He wasn't a vendor and didn't want information about buying additional products. He didn't want to be connected to another department, didn't have an account to check the balance of, and didn't want to open one. After seventeen inappropriate options, the machine launched into a series of ridiculous questions. When it asked for his last five consumer electronics and fiber-optics purchases, Bob couldn't remember. He said "None." The machine replied, "Invalid answer," and re-started the options menu.

Bob began feeling argumentative. His answers took on a harsh tone. He wished he'd placed the call on his videophone so he could look the machine in its Light Emitting Diodes. When he accused it of lacking even Artificial Intelligence, it said, "You will be connected to the next available Customer Service Technician."

"Yes," Bob shouted, thrusting a fist into the air and nearly smacking the ceiling-mounted CCTV camera. But his fist and countenance fell when the machine continued: "All technicians are currently busy assisting other customers. The estimated wait is," and then, in a different voice, "three hours and forty-seven minutes."

Bob turned up the speakerphone, kicked a sock towards a pile of underwear, and moved to the far side of his nanominium, seven feet away. He spun his e-book reader scroll-wheel to the current best seller, Megahertz or Megahex (what will it be?), and had just gotten engrossed in the electrophoretic page displays when the phone's "transporter" music was interrupted by a burst of static. He lunged for the handset, shouting "Hello, hello," but just as he reached it, the music resumed.

Five hours and seven minutes later "Natalie," a Customer Service Technician awoke Bob and asked for his Social Security number.

"I already gave it to the machine," he said.

"I need to verify it," Natalie replied.

Bob repeated it, and Natalie asked for his name, date of birth, phone number, email address, surrogate mother's maiden name, and egg donor's serial number, all of which he'd given the machine.

"Why does the machine ask for that if it has to be repeated?" Bob said.

"I don't know. I just work here," Natalie said, her tone implying Bob was an idiot.

"Well, do you know what Sensory Overload is?" Bob said.

"Don't get personal with me," Natalie said.

"It has nothing to do with you. It's about my Receptor. Sensory Overload can apparently cause full or partial intermittent non-functioning of receptor modes," Bob said.

"So?" Natalie replied with obvious disinterest.

"So, my Receptor seems to have a case of Sensory Overload, and it has stopped functioning," Bob said.

"Functioning?" Natalie said.

"Yes. Functioning. F U…"

"Don't get obscene. Just tell me what your Receptor is doing."

"It isn't doing a damn thing! That's the problem!"

"Did you get an error code?" Natalie said in a pseudo-soothing tone.

"Yeah. 627. I've got a breach of warranty claim, maybe?" Bob said.

"Hold on. I'll see if anyone knows what a 627 is," Natalie said.

"Hey! Wait! I already told you: 'Sensory Overload may cause…'"

But Natalie had put Bob on hold. He wondered where she'd gone, where she'd been. Probably not on this continent, possibly not on this planet, maybe not on any planet, he thought. She's probably on Pluto!

Natalie came back ten minutes later and said, "Sensory Overload - Input of sensory data in one or more modes which is beyond Receptor capacity."

"I already knew that," Bob said.

"Why didn't you say so?" Natalie said.

"I did say so."

"No you didn't."

"Yes, I did," Bob said. "Oh, forget it. The question is, what does that mean?"

"'That' is a pronoun used as a function word to introduce a restrictive relative clause and to serve as a substitute within that clause for the substantive modified by that clause," Natalie said.

The steam boiling from Bob's ears triggered his nanominium's Carbon monoxide/ pheromone/ smoke/steam detector (Copss), which began commanding "Evacuate Now. Evacuate Now."

"Thank you," Bob said through tight lips. "You have been very helpful. May I speak with your supervisor so I can nominate you for employee of the month?"

"You can't speak to my supervisor. He's vacationing on Pluto. Would you like to complete a satisfaction survey at the conclusion of this help session?" Natalie said.

"Yes, indeed," Bob said. "How much time do I get?"

"Three minutes."

"Then forget it. I'd need more time to report how satisfied I am with this so-called 'help session,'" Bob said.

"Take it easy," Natalie said. "Any more questions?"

"Just tell me what to do when there's been an 'Input of sensory data in one or more modes which is beyond Receptor capacity.'"

"I'll see if anyone knows," Natalie said.

When she came back from wherever, Natalie said "On page 523 of your manual it says: 'Do not input sensory data, in one or more modes, which is beyond the Receptor's capacity.'"

"How about translating that into something useful?" Bob said.

Natalie sighed. "Your Receptor only has so much capacity. If you try to recept an object with, say, seven gigabytes of luminosity, but your Receptor's only got five gigs of memory capacity, you're gonna exceed it. You're gonna get nada."

"How many gigs of lumin whatever does a Cinnamon Brush have?"

"Look," Natalie said, "I don't have time for riddles."

"It's not a riddle," Bob said. "I was standing next to a Cinnamon Brush, and I tried to recept a mem of me and the Brush, and it squealed at me and…."

"The Brush squealed at you?" Natalie sneered.

"No, and it didn't burst into flames, either. The Receptor squealed at me," Bob shouted.

"What mode were you in?" Natalie said.

"I was in a good mood until the dang thing squealed at me and …"

"Mode. Like Bi-mode or Tri-mode."

"Oh. Tri-mode," Bob said.

"Well, the Brush wouldn't have more than five gigs of luminosity. What else was going on?"

"There was a bird chirping."

"Big Bird?" Natalie said, humming a bar of the Sesame Street theme song.

"No. A little bird. Quiet chirping," Bob said. "Say, how do you know that song?"

"I can't tell you that. Corporate protocol prohibits personal revelations," Natalie said.

"Did your parental units watch Golden Oldies, too?" Bob said.

"That question is inoperative. Let's get back to your little bird. Chirping would only be a few audio megs," Natalie said. "How about other inputs. Any aromas?"

"Cinnamon Brush. Sweet aroma," Bob said.

"Aromas take moderate megs. Wouldn't cause overload. What about stenches? Any skunks around?"

"Nope. Just me," Bob said.

"What were you doing before recepting?" Natalie said accusingly.

"I was on a hike, looking for the perfect mem to send to my Second Life girlfriend."

"She's an avatar? And you worked up a sweat for her?"

"Well, sure," Bob admitted. "It was hot in there. The thermostat must have been set on June."

"Did you shower before recepting?"

"Where would I do that? I was in the terrarium!" Bob said.

"Well, I think I know why the overload occurred, and, for your information, the warranty excludes malfunctions caused by poor operator hygiene."

"What the heck! I've got to shower every time I recept a self-mem? With my agua allotment, I could only do that once a month!" Bob said.

"Not necessarily," Natalie said. "Try minimizing your Receptor's rhinoport aperture."

"Kind of like pinching your nose, huh?" Bob said, tweaking the setting.

"How quaint," Natalie said. "When you're done, recept a self-mem and email it to me," she said, rattling off an address.

"Now? Without a shower?"

"Sure. To see if your Receptor is - functioning," Natalie said.

"OK, here goes," Bob said.

"Got it," Natalie said. "Oh!"

"Something wrong?" Bob said.

"Oh! No. Not at all," Natalie said. "What's your name again?"

"Bob."

"Bob! You smell so - masculine!" she said, dragging out the last word.

"Do you think a mem like that would entice Misty to synchronymously communicate with me?"

"What kind of communications have you been having, Bob?"

"Asynchronymous."

"So, you're not on-line with her at the same time? And you don't know her real name?" Natalie said.

"Right," Bob said.

"Do you want to know it?"

"Zong! Too personal!" Bob said.

"How personal do you want to get?" Natalie said.

"Synchronymous communication," Bob said. "Real time, maybe in a chat room."

"We're having a synchronymous communication now, Bob."

Bob realized he was in uncharted seas without a site map. It was scary, yet he felt an odd, perhaps primal, compulsion to see how far he could get.

"But you told me your name, Natalie," Bob said. "That makes this discussion…."

"Syncronous? And personal? No, Bob. My name isn't really Natalie."

Bob was sweating. He knew he should be relieved he didn't know her name, but, weirdly, he wanted to know it. He wanted to be able to communicate with her, whoever she was, even if she were a real person. He felt panicky, realizing the odds were negligible he could ever reach her again through customer service. Suddenly he blurted a wildly anachronistic question, not knowing its source: "How can I get in touch with you?"

He gripped his Receptor tightly to his chest while the nano seconds streamed, barely noticing the hum and whirr of the CCTV activating and focusing.

"In touch with me?" she said flirtatiously. "You can't, you caveman! But I've got your contact info."

"If you call, or send a mem? Who will you be?" Bob said.

"Misty," she said in a breathy tone. "I'll be Mist…."

They'd been Monitored.

Bob stared at the phone as the Copss detector began commanding, "Take Cold Shower
Now. Take Cold Shower Now."