Your Call Is Important To Us

By Adam Wasserman

Welcome (back) to the Bunker, an orderly, underground utopia where everyone's needs have been satisfied.

Barney Max is a trustworthy citizen with an impeccable record of achievement. Having attained two promotions to Delta clearance, he has every reason to expect he'll advance higher up the ladder. After all, the Bunker is the perfect place to live. Overseen by Control, a fatherly (if at times overzealous) computer, only the worthy make it to the top while the social deviants are mercilessly weeded out.

But one daystretch on his way to Mars for an interplanetary conference, he finds himself added to the Thousand Most Wanted List. For no apparent reason at all. And he's allowed to walk free.

Thus begins Barney Max's unexpected and entirely unwelcome journey. Deprived of his daily comforts, chased by a persistent headache (not to mention armed guardians from Defense, a secret society of vengeful cybots, and an angry mob of former employees), he is forced to confront a reality he has struggled his whole life to deny.

The second in the Bunker series of sci-fi adventure novels, Your Call Is Important To Us can be read independently, although it is best enjoyed in the company of its predecessor, Thank You For Your Cooperation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Adam Wasserman
• Release date: May 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310317378

Adam Wasserman

Adam Wasserman was - like all human beings - born on Earth. In the years since, he has proved himself to be an avid breather. He also eats regularly.Since all humans look alike, it is hard to differentiate him from the rest. He is, however, easiest to spot when lying on a beach, subjecting himself to a steady stream of dangerous rays from Sol. Such behavior is illogical, a common trait among his species.Eventually, his body will wear out and he will cease to function. In the meantime, he keeps busy by publishing falsehoods in book form, which somehow he imagines others will find entertaining and instructive.Humans are, of course, a strange and unfathomable species.

Book preview

In loving

Memory

of

Alastair Graeme Calder

Friend and Father

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

The Grey Life

Ms. Wellington's Oak Tree

The Politics of Consumption

Bringing Down the House

Gyges the Terrible

THE BUNKER SERIES

Thank You For Your Cooperation

Can I Be Of Some Assistance

Today's Edition

Your Call Is

Important

To Us

The Bunker Series, #2

Adam Wasserman

Second Edition, August 2016

Copyright 2014 by Adam Wasserman

All rights reserved

Smashwords Edition

Chapter 1

Hello?

Yes, I'm listening. State your case.

A short but excruciating silence. I was given this number by a colleague.

Somewhere out in the vast but tangled web of transistors, processor cores, and fiber optic cable spanning the Bunker, he sensed the cold and immediate decision to cut the line.

No, wait! Don't hang up. I'm –

Desperate? Of course you are. Citizens who resort to the hotline always are.

I – I think there's been some kind of mistake.

Naturally.

The silence at the other end of the line grew suspicious. Am I really speaking to someone from Red Tape Consulting? Or are you an impostor phishing for treason?

The answer was swift and determined. Sir, if you have committed any treason, there is no dissimulation that could possibly save you. Certainly not this hotline.

Undaunted, he repeated the question.

I don't know. Did your colleague say so?

It's right here in the pamphlet she gave me. Red Tape Consulting. It says you're able to solve routine, administrative errors in the blink of an eye.

Yes, that's us! Red Hoop Consulting.

Tape.

What?

Red Tape Consulting.

When the voice from Red Hoop Consulting spoke next, it had taken on just the slightest hint of steel. Sir, I'm a very busy cybot. If you continue to waste my time, I'll have to add you to the Reject Queue.

No! Palpable waves of panic lashed at her empathic processors. I'll get right to the point.

I'm sure you will. However, before we proceed, the General Guidelines on Media and Mass Entertainment require that I make a number of disclosures to you. This simple and entirely enjoyable process is meant to protect your interests as a consumer. Are you ready?

Entertainment?

"A simple yes or no will do."

Yes.

Regardless or in spite of the contents of this call, no agent operating on behalf of Red Hoop Consulting can ever be construed in even the most tangential sense of the word to have entered into any obligation, however trivial, or be committed to engage in any undertaking, however inconsequential, or to refrain from engaging in any such undertaking, on your behalf or on behalf of any person, cybot, corporation, or other associated with yourself or any aspect of yourself or your psyche, whether you are consciously aware of it or not. Do you understand?

Uh... yes.

By using this hotline, you agree to all six hundred and seventy-eight paragraphs of our Extended Terms and Conditions as well as all seventeen appendices. A copy of our Extended Terms and Conditions can be found on X.net. Are you familiar with our Extended Terms and Conditions?

No.

I'm sorry, sir, but we cannot continue unless –

Yes?

Very well. Agents operating on behalf of Red Hoop Consulting are fully trained and qualified to offer advice, and we do our best to provide the ultimate experience in the field of information dissemination. However, there is no guarantee that the advice given in this call is correct, sound, or even helpful. Any arrests, demotions, or catastrophic organ failure resulting from following up on the recommendations in this call are fully the responsibility of the persons, cybots, corporations, or others to whom the recommendations were given. In no way can Red Hoop Consulting ever be considered liable for restitution or a substitute for punishment by the authorities. Do you understand?

Yes, yes. Can't we just get on with it?

Lastly, you should know that I cannot be of service until you have proven you are willing to help yourself.

He frowned, unsure how to proceed. Well, I'm talking to you, aren't I?

If a bot could emit a sigh of frustration, it surely would have done so now. Sir, I fail to see how my inflection or choice of words could lead to confusion. Shall I break down the structure of the sentence for you and explain its syntax?

He was used to bureaucrats, though. Bot or human, it didn't matter. They all demanded to be taken seriously, however small or insignificant their area of expertise. Yes, yes! I'll do whatever it takes. Of course. It's just – You're not – How should I explain?

Sir, you dialed this number. Surely, you must know the reason.

It's an embarrassing situation. A real boehner actually. He chuckled uncomfortably.

Rest assured, citizen Barney Max N-3 sector, Chateau Bon Tidings! This call is completely anonymous! Feel free to tell me anything.

Swallowing thickly, he clenched his teeth and spoke the words for the first time. I'm on the List.

A chill ran up his spine.

Excuse me? Sir, you're speaking too softly.

Aggravated, he repeated himself.

List? What list?

"The List!"

The bot from Red Hoop Consulting seemed taken aback. "Surely not that List. I mean, it would say so in your profile."

Really? Barney Max was pleased and taken aback at the same time, as difficult as it may sound. That's wonderful news! Because the guardian at the Richard M. Nixon spaceport G sector –

The hope that had germinated in the recesses of his heart, however, was short-lived. It was tragically cut down by the terrified shriek at the other end of the line.

"George Walker! You really are on the List!"

Number nine hundred and ninety-nine? Barney squeaked, crestfallen.

But the problem solver from Red Hoop Consulting had already hung up. Even bots were afraid of having any association whatsoever with a vile and dangerous criminal of the likes of Barney Max.

There are many social deviants in the Bunker, but only a thousand at any time are honored with a place in the List. And even if he had only weighed in at number nine hundred and ninety-nine, it was a distinction Barney Max was desperate to rid himself of. After all, no one ever remained on the List for very long, and as far as he knew, none of them had ever been rehabilitated.

Apparently, the line hadn't been cut completely. A calm, mechanical voice spoke to him suddenly out of the silence at the other end of his PA.

This call has been recorded for quality assurance. Anything you said can and will be used against you. Thank you for your cooperation.

Click.

Barney Max pulled at the top of his tight-fitting, spantex jumpsuit, desperate for air.

Stop that! Valerie Lafontaine snapped and rolled her eyes reproachfully. Remember what I said about breathing?

He concentrated on his lungs and tried to let them do what they do best.

Well? Does it help?

His heart was pounding in his chest. His eyes were bloodshot and achy. The muscles between his shoulder blades were cramped and hopelessly knotted. At any moment, he expected agents from Homeland Security to barge through the door and haul him off to the private intimacy of an interrogation chamber.

Breathing had nothing to do with it.

Desperate thoughts turned towards the little plastex bottle in his pocket, the one with the tiny, blue pills. But he had taken a strong dose just three hourstretches ago. Romexior, usually a reliable friend, wasn't helping.

Tell me one more time.

They were sitting in the common room on the fifth floor of Chateau Bon Tidings, the residential complex in N-3 sector that Barney Max and Valerie Lafontaine both called home. Standing in front of their couch and politely off to the side, Barney's personal helpbot, Chops, was serving them lukewarm drinks.

Chateau Bon Tidings was an exclusive and very fashionable place to live. Set back from the endless hustle and bustle of the rest of the department, the building and the compound that surrounded it were restricted to Delta clearance citizens and higher. It was one of the perks of having a mid-level security clearance that you were assigned a room all to yourself, and – if you could afford it – a personal helpbot to boot.

Chateau Bon Tidings was eight stories high, even if the brochures claimed there were only six. When he first moved in Barney tried to get a peek at the top two floors, but the lift flatly denied their existence. Barney Max didn't press the issue even though he knew the lift was lying.

The Bunker's system of lettered security clearances was meant to protect sensitive secrets. For example, the existence of two mysterious floors at the top of Chateau Bon Tidings. After all, the terrorism alert level in N sector was currently pegged at Extreme and had been for some time. If those floors were restricted, then it was certainly for a good reason.

Another ration of Blue Fixx, sir? Chops suggested happily and thrust the tray suggestively forward.

Valerie glanced disapprovingly in the helpbot's direction.

Barney wiped the sweat from his brow. Not right now, Chops, he replied hoarsely and waved the bot away.

Chops withdrew the tray. It's my pleasure to serve!

As was the case everywhere in the Bunker, the common room of the fifth floor of Chateau Bon Tidings was equipped with security cameras. Two of them, in fact. These had been placed there for the wellbeing of the building's residents. Normally, they made Barney Max feel comfortable and safe. Today, however, was different.

Both cameras were pointed squarely in his direction. The bright, red lights underneath glared menacingly. But worst of all were the laser cannon. Mounted over each camera, the double barrels had pivoted the moment he entered the room and continued to hold him rigidly in their sights. The soft humming from their reinforced, rectangular battery blocks indicated they were powered up and ready to go.

I was on my way to a seminar, Barney began.

The Interplanetary Conference on Voluntory Behavior?

Barney's head drooped. He had been slated to give a highly anticipated presentation on his firm's results using this exciting, bleeding edge technology. I never got through the queue at the spaceport.

Valerie nodded her head understandingly and glanced at the security camera directly across. It was a risk to be seen with a criminal on the Thousand Most Wanted List – unless, of course, it was in the process of apprehending or otherwise terminating him. Before agreeing to come, however, she had wisely assured herself of the facts.

Barney Max was, indeed, number nine hundred ninety-nine on the Thousand Most Wanted List.

He had been added to the List approximately three hourstretches ago.

He had subsequently been sighted and identified by guardians at the Richard M. Nixon spaceport G sector. However, they declined to take him into custody, an unheard of proposition.

He then headed directly to Chateau Bon Tidings without encountering anyone else along the way.

So, despite the great peril to both body and reputation, Valerie Lafontaine had decided to accept the invitation when Barney called on her, desperate for someone to talk to. She was, after all, as close to a true friend as he would ever have.

But perhaps more importantly, if Barney's indiscretions were about to land her in one of Homeland Security's notorious dragnets, any warning and whatever details she could glean might prove to be enlightening, not to mention refreshingly lifesaving.

I don't understand! Barney wheezed and wrung his flabby hands fretfully.

What are the charges?

Barney shook his head fitfully. They didn't say.

It was, of course, just as she had feared. She had a Gamma security clearance, one step higher than Barney's, but even so she had been unable to find out who had fingered him or what the substance of the accusations were.

Turning to her suddenly and gripping one of her frail arms, eyes glazed over with a curious combination of Romexior and the anxiety it had been engineered to suppress, he rasped, No one will have anything to do with me, Val. You're the only one I've got!

Delicately, she plucked his hand from her arm and placed it definitively back in his lap. Try to look on the bright side, she suggested drily. The neighborhood runners won't be paying you a visit in the middle of your nightstretch anymore.

Barney Max moaned and shook his head. He was about to protest that she didn't understand, but she shushed him and continued.

It was a joke, Barney. Now you listen to me. I've got some contacts.

Barney perked up. Contacts? After all, she had a Gamma security clearance.

They might be able to uncover who's behind this boehner you've managed to get yourself into. More importantly, they might know who to call to get you out.

I've already tried to patch it up, he sniffled and wiped his nose.

A problem solving firm? Valerie asked, a slight scowl creeping onto her wrinkled forehead.

Barney nodded. Red Hoop Consulting. I waited on the hotline for two hourstretches before I finally got someone on the line.

And then what?

The voicebot hung up on me! He gurgled and collapsed into another fit of whimpering.

Valerie was unsympathetic. Are you surprised? Those firms can't do anything for you. Haven't you heard the scammercials? You had no business calling. Red Hoop Consulting? Valerie let out a demeaning humph. They're the worst. Most calls to the hotline are piped directly to devnull. And those that actually get through – well, the only thing they can arrange for you is a transfer to another community dining hall or maybe get the carpet scrubbed in your apartment. She shook her head disapprovingly. The prices they charge are outrageous. No, I know just the right people.

Barney blinked at her through watery eyes. Really? Who?

Never you mind! Consider it a favor. But before I do this – she fixed him with a piercing gaze – I need to know one thing.

What?

Are you really – ever and truly – innocent of treason?

Barney didn't know what to say.

She pressed on. There's nothing in your past to be ashamed of?

Of course not!

No violations of the General Guidelines on Sanitation and Hygiene?

Never!

No incarcerations – not matter how brief! – for drinking, brawling, or rowdiness?

Not once!

No illegal contraband? No mysterious, unopened boxes in the closet? No spent reactor fuel under the floor? Accessories for Chops pilfered from the black market? Hmmmm?

Chops, hearing its name, rocked slightly on its treads and held out the tray of drinks hopefully.

She leaned forward intently and looked deeply into his eyes. "You regularly consume your entire ration of Vitamim when it's served to you downstairs? You have never referred to it – not once, even in passing! – as slop?"

Valerie! Somehow, he managed to produce a smile. It's me, Barney Max! I'm a loyal, dedicated servant of the Bunker just like yourself. Control is my friend. When she did not respond, he continued. We've known each other for yearstretches. We've taken almost every meal together as far back as I can remember. George Walker, why are you asking all these silly questions?

Watch your language! she scolded gently, fixing him with a stern look of disapproval.

Barney blinked stupidly.

After a stony moment, she looked away and shrugged. It never hurts to ask. Leaning back into the brittle material of the couch, she touched up her silvery hair.

Barney clicked his tongue and otherwise showed off to her how offended he was.

Valerie put up a thin, pale hand lined with elastic looking veins. Now listen! There's no point in your sitting holed up here in this building. You could still manage to get a shift in at the office.

The office? Barney exclaimed, flabbergasted. You – you expect me to go there?

Yes. It's your duty to the Bunker.

But no one will so much as talk to me!

Valerie shrugged indifferently. You are the section head of a private firm here in N sector. You outrank or equal everyone who works under you. I doubt you'll get flak from anyone, even if you are on the List. Once they get used to the fact you're still alive and walking around, they'll fall into line.

You think?

Trust me. In the meantime, I'll see what I can dig up.

The idea was so foreign and absurd he couldn't come up with any reasonable sounding arguments against it. If – if you say so, Val.

Valerie, however, wasn't finished. It's important that you carry on as usual, Barney Max. A bony finger suddenly thrust in his direction. Whatever you do, don't panic!

Opinion Matters, Inc. was a private firm associated with the Human Resources conglomerate. It supplied its clients – mostly companies attached to Production and Logistics – with the extra edge they needed to make their products stand out among the hundreds of low quality substitutes flooding the marketplace.

As Barney liked to opine to others, Opinion Matters, Inc. was not involved in the advertising business. Advertising firms were involved in the advertising business. Opinion Matters, Inc. was, however, involved in the business of interpersonal psychology. This was a very complicated field of science discovered by some very bright people over at Developmental Engineering. There was no point in diving into the details. Suffice it to say, Opinion Matters, Inc. was primarily active on the subnets. Some of the Bunker's best bloggers and opinion writers could be found in its corral producing pieces specially tailored to promote the Bunker's newest and most amazing innovations to their target audiences.

Naturally, to conceal its portfolio from jealous and prying eyes, bloggers at Opinion Matters, Inc. never revealed themselves as such. They cultivated their online personalities as friendly and trustworthy individuals offering balanced and unbiased reviews of the newest advances in folding chairs, fizzy drinks, and X-ray viewing apps for your PA.

There was no conflict of interest whatsoever. The writers at Opinion Matters, Inc. always researched their topics with the utmost sincerity, and editors never altered their blogposts behind their backs. The staff at Opinion Matters, Inc. had the interests of its readership at heart.

According to the most recent data available, this highly successful and rapidly expanding enterprise employed over three hundred citizens. There were headquarters spread across five of the Bunker's sixteen sectors. Barney Max sat at the top of operations in N sector.

Quite literally, in fact. The building – prominently located to one side of the Joseph R. McCarthy Plaza – had been built in the art deco style fashionable at the time of its construction. The original founder had wanted to make an impression. After all, this was not your typical corporation.

Before it had even acquired office space, Opinion Matters, Inc. had a fully functioning marketing department. Just like private firms all across the Bunker, the marketing department functioned as a – well, no one in fact actually knows why marketing departments exist at all. But, even if there was no discernible reason, anyone could plainly see what they did.

For example, before Opinion Matters, Inc. had produced a single promotional blog, its marketing department had already churned out crates upon crates of pamphlets, folders, and other paraphernalia explaining that if you didn't know where you were going, any corridor was likely to take you there. As these valuable marketing materials were notoriously difficult to get rid of, they had to be stored somewhere. The office building on Joseph R. McCarthy Plaza was originally intended as a warehouse.

Its shell made almost entirely of glass, the building housing Opinion Matters, Inc. N sector was shaped like a huge, squat pyramid. At its apex, suspended over the corral, was a fortified, concrete pillbox. Inside this scarred, pitted pillbox was Barney's office. The reinforced, plastex windows on all sides afforded an excellent view of the rows upon rows of sweating editors, copywriters, researchers, grammarians, and psychologists who produced the bulk of the material pushed out daily to the subnets.

The protection afforded the section head of an affiliate of Opinion Matters, Inc. was not be to taken lightly. Barney could hardly forget the daystretch it had saved his life. He had been standing at the window looking out over his colleagues, musing to himself about company business, when one of them – a terrorist of the worst kind – stood up, pulled a grenade launcher from under his desk, and aimed it at him.

The missile struck the pillbox on its underside. The impact threw Barney to the floor. Fortunately, the worst he suffered was a strained neck and a demoralizing loss of appetite. The terrorist, however, was tackled, disarmed and hauled off for questioning. A few daystretches later, Barney lost a few more of his staff. Fortunately, that was the extent of the fallout, and – after completing the flurry of forms sent down from Central Management – the traitors were eventually replaced with less threatening and harder working citizens.

Like most of the larger private firms, each affiliate acted somewhat independently of the others, but all five were united under the control of the Board of Directors.

Regrettably, the Board of Directors of Opinion Matters, Inc. was chaired by Rich Anweir.

If Barney had at all been inclined to suspect that someone he knew was behind this ridiculous attempt to paint himself as one of the Bunker's worst traitors, first on the list of suspects would have been Rich Anweir.

Like all Chairmen of the Board of private firms throughout the Bunker, Rich Anweir was a Beta clearance citizen. Which meant, of course, the upper crust. Only Alphas – the very programmers of Control itself – were beyond their reach.

High-clearance citizens tend to be aloof and arrogant. Or so he had heard. After all, Rich Anweir was the only one he knew personally. Even so, it was difficult to imagine that any of these loyal servants of the Bunker could be more self-serving or dictatorial than the Chairman of the Board at Opinion Matters, Inc.

Of course, what truly irked Barney was not so much Rich Anweir's attitude or that thin, ridiculous crust of hair encircling his mouth, but rather the simple fact that of all the section heads of all the affiliates of private firms anywhere in the Bunker, Barney Max was the only one with a lowly Delta clearance.

Why would his boss, Rich Anwier, choose to humiliate him like this? Barney had never dared to ask. Instead, over the last five yearstretches, he had silently endured his reprimands, swallowed his insults, and fetched his Flappantastic and Blue Fixx in countless flimsy, plastex cups.

Barney Max, sweating, sat in his concrete pillbox overlooking the corral and stared out with beady eyes. This was, of course, not an unusual sight. Barney usually looked that way, even with the help of the Romexior. But today was different. Today, everyone was staring back at him.

There was a little, yellow button at the edge of his desk. He walked over and pressed it with a pudgy finger.

The two security cameras followed, gears whining noisily.

Pulling a microphone suspended from the ceiling close to his lips, he barked, Back to work!

Poor Barney Max. He may have sounded like he meant it, but when he returned to the window for a peek, none of the purveyors of opinion below had moved.

All morning an uncomfortable stillness had pervaded the corral. No one raced between the flimsy partitions, squeezing past each other in the narrow spaces and quietly cursing, the usual sight during a typical shift. No one tapped virulently on her PA in a burst of sudden inspiration or gathered by the vending machines to discuss the latest advances in subliminal monetization. In fact, no commercial activity could be seen at all – aside, of course, from that angry mob milling about not far from the lift leading up to his pillbox.

Valerie was dear to him, and as long as he'd known her she had always proven remarkably level-headed. But not this time. After all, being torn apart by a righteous mob – he had seen it many times before on the Loyalty Stretch – was not the end he had envisioned for himself this morning when he woke up.

One of his managers, Verula Tuscany, climbed onto a stool and began addressing the crowd. Her arms arced in front of her in grand, exaggerated sweeps. Gaia only knew what she was saying. Barney Max might have had a clear view out all four sides of his concrete pillbox, but it was a curious design feature that he had no way of listening in on what was happening below.

Of course, Barney didn't