predictive software. she's 12. manafesto at end.

The New World Order: The Orderly. (A SF story by Kevin Williams.)
Copyright 2014 By Kevin Williams
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CHAPTER ONE: The Forgetting.
Mind-control and info-flow:
The etymology of government means to control the mind. From Latinised Greek gubernatio "management, government", from Ancient Greek κυβερνισμός, κυβέρνησις (kybernismos, kybernesis) "steering, pilotage, guiding", from κυβερνάω (kybernao) "to steer, to drive, to guide, to act as a pilot" plus Latin mente "mind".
Unfortunately, that's the nice side of the NWO when it comes to law-breakers. Big-brother, as you know the New World Order as. Naturally, with predictive software and profiling in heavy use, things got worse rapidly. Much, much worse.
This is the camera-crew these days. We have a war room to watch people in.
The NWO, now with hunch-back AIs, orderlies and sparkly new-and-improved tech-works. Big-brother, upgraded. Pathological liars, sociopath winners and random psychotics. (We didn't make the world, we just live in it. And obey our orders. Carpe Diem, eh? Have a good day, just don't get caught.)
 Get one today and bury them deep!
****
“The AI says this one's gone bad.”
The report on the screen got tapped in a significant way. “And needs an immediate take-out. Yesterday. Who've we got ready? Which orderly?”
“Can't drone, too windy there. got it. Orderly 12. Anract. Send him out before things get any worse?”
“He won't like it.”
“That's too bad. This is what he signed up for. Put him on it.”
“The mark is only twelve years old too.”
“12 on 12, good. Slap a 'salted, quick+quiet' as priority on it or he'll play around. You know him.”
****
“Anoesis. That's what the problem is. Sensation living, politics and cancer types.”
The glare of the monitor didn't hide the frustration growing on my screen, and it looked like I had tonight's winner in the dumb-fu*k contest. Charlie was currently keen to bury that any way he could, the little snarf.
“They never learn anything else.” Charlie hated losing. He'd go to almost any length to fix this personal loss and looked it right now. Evil intent was written all over him as he glared enviously at my score. Fortunately, we got lots of special cases here in the lamp-post room every night, so ther was time to out-do me yet. “You go with your gut, even in school. Cancer out better tech. That's what they teach ya these days. Even here in the lamp-post room.”
The lamp-post chamber? It's one of big-bro's war-rooms. Every street-light in town has cameras and a mike in it these days. This room monitored them, along with a bank of AIs that did most of the real dirty work. We got to snoop on all sorts of after-hours stuff here, and whoever got the day's darwin-award winner got a lunch voucher. We all fought for the prize, it was a great way to save money.

I had a good scam going today. A slightly broken ATM was all it took to prove most people shouldn't be let out in public by themselves; I watched another person of interest hammer the balky machine and walk off in a cashless fury.
The machine did work, I'd already seen that. You just had to read the instructions put up on the screen, not let your fingers do the walking in the usual habit kind of way. Most of the traffic could not handle that. “Yeah. Projects, politics and self-indulgent crapola. Like a hater always leaving things worse, right? What's a day without blood in it?” I answered him, hoping it was somewhere on topic. I was busy getting my entry in tonight's lottery logged, staked out and claimed.
Charlie last score was epic. It was something no one would ever forget or shut-up about, he made sure of that. It was only a plastic see-thru top, too.
On a very over-built femme, of course. Even the girls watched that one.
“Naw. Not dumb. It's haters. Pure political, no projects. Flakes, flunkies and floaters. Gotta be their fault they let reflexes out, not IQ points.” Charlie glared at me like this was all my fault. I was recording and he knew it, but hadn't bothered to relay the feed to his screen yet. I had it tagged, this one was mine. “Politics is all anyone ever learns these days. Haters. You know, media-fix addicts. Heroes. Empowered head-bangers with a grudge.” He went on.

“Yeah. Losers.” I snerked. “Where is your god now? Lemme see. We have one for jackals who lynch for fun and profit; one vandels who like to toss crap around and one for warlords onna patronage scheme. Who did you pray for? Passions, appearances or politics?”
Charlie turned a little redder, then went to muttering at his own screen. We the rest of the sociopath-gamers in the room loved it. Charlie the paranoid. EVERYTHING was a plot to make him look silly. Ego-centric to the point where hearing the temperature outside was insulting. Stuck in a paranoid-vengeance-more-paranoia cycle and festering happily there.
Our team-leader. Our happy, happy team of lamp-post dawn-watchers.
Yes, we all hate dog-walkers. Get over it.

Jill the witch-hunt queen giggled softly and Charlie ignored that, concentrating on his own feeds. Jill WAS persecuting everyone. Her PC lynch-mob thieved here and thrived on gossip. She was known as a bit*h with a new reason for getting her own way every few seconds and a lawyer's regard for rules. Jill's own way was whatever she felt like doing at the moment, usually.
There was always office politics to play; Jill was a past and future master at back-stabbing.
Peter the informer was on tonight too, a clueless man who never figured out what was going on.
Pete was a case, and a sad one. Swift woulda loved him. Peter was pimp, flatter and informer all rolled up into one. The boss's butt-boy and easy to avoid because he never read anything he didn't have to. You could kill him with a copier, as reading the instructions was 'way past anything he ever did.
And our last watcher here in Lamp-post central, the gamer Phil. He was a master of disguise and played office politics hard. He hoped that stopped anyone from thinking about what he really was, as keeping up appearances was bone-deep with him. He was a member in everything.
Nobody told him he was on a 24/7 watch already and everyone knew about the 'specialty' clubs he snuck out to when he thought he had a good enough disguise on.
Bullshit, retarding and violent. Competitive head-banging types, all. Malicious vapor. Winners. And this was where I worked, watching monitors for Big-bro.
Night-walkers turned dawn treaders were a usually a tired bunch. It was a quiet job most early shifts.
“Woo-hoo! Asbestos tiles, lead paint and tar-paper roofing. It's gotta be the additives talking here.”
Charlie had come up with something finally, a mean drunk talking trash in a parking lot. The drunk thought he was in a dead-zone where cameras and mikes didn't reach, but we the operators had ways of focusing things when we really wanted to find out what was going on.
Zooms meant you could watch a bedroom window from three long blocks away, and the mikes were almost as good these days. A good operators knew how to use them, too.
Charlie was good and tonight he had a politico score. Nasty, that. Those were things we usually turned over to the AIs. The AIs turned those in to the ops people, if they wanted to.
Phil was lending Charlie a hand now, earning brownie points as fast as he could. He needed them, Phil had lots of bad habits and shoddy work to cover. “Nope. A report is in on him already, Charlie. His family's third-world, pure underground these days. Haven't been able to get anything going since swords became the politics of choice. He's passionate but obsolete, even back home.”
“Sounds psychotic. Ego-centric retard?” Charlie grunted, trying to zero in on things with another lamp-post camera and not having much luck. It was a quiet area of town the drunk was in, we didn't have much there between schools. “He gonna go full psychotic-break on me here?”
“Nope.” Phil leafed thru the report on his terminal. “He's out for number-one, always, but a real low-life. Your lunch isn't safe with him. He grunts for a couple of other groups, thou.”
“Connected. Ah, More of the sensational, patronage wars and the techno-lunchmeat. Wonderful guy.”
“Ha. None of the little people are complicated. Getting it licked, climbing the food-chain and death by side effect, trying to make a system that works with real people.” Jill sighed. “It's sad. No scope at all. You just can't get good help these days, can you?”
Charlie grunted agreement, still twiddling and tweaking as fast as he could. “This one? He's dim. Illiterate loose in a candy store. Real winner, but a dumb kid. A leak. Right? Look at the paper with him.”
That was a stopper. Politico cases always leaked so everyone in the room dropped them on the AIs as fast they could; Charlie was still playing this one.
That was risky. 'You mean you actually told them something useful?' Was a death sentence around here. Ignorance was not only bliss, it was necessary to survive. Big-bro liked a clean slate and witnesses were awkward to keep around, usually.
You did not help an AI or stay on a politico case. Ever. You'd pay for that good deed forever after.
Live sound-feed popped onto Charlie's monitor and everybody grabbed for head-phones. Plausible deniability was our best and only cover when things like this went up in smoke-screens.
'Projects, politics, self-indulgence. Haters destroy. They always leave things a little worse. Passionates are loons. Beauty-contest Brazil is a handy example of that, and the way their whole economic system collapses every few years. The constant riots are another clue.'
'So what's your project? Money, power or fame?'
                              'Cancer. I grow, develop and improve. No parties, no entertainment.'
  “He's so dead.” Came from Jill as she studiously clamped her head-phones down. She was even pointing at her own feed now to distract the cameras watching us. “It's $100,000, two years at 35 cents an hour and a kidney to get out of that statement.”
“Ya. He'll get snipped too. Sterilized.”

Peter was not impressed with our mass retreat from Charlie's camera feed. “Hey, whatta expect? There's nothing but shit-throwing vandals in that area of town.” He grunted unhappily. “Politics.”
“Kids in a candy-store. And lots of handy jackals to do the dirty work for them. Lynching for fun and profit.” Charlie agreed, punching in codes to report his find. “Easy meat for us. Lots of it.”
“Yeah, all cheap-thrill addicts. I know, I used to live there.” Peter sniffed and went back to searching his own area of town. He hardly ever got anything other than teens sneaking around there. “Look what it got me. Here. Carpe Diem, big-bro style.”
“And this is your war-lord's work? The patron?” I tossed a look at Peter. How he ended up here was a bit of a mystery to me, unless he sucked up and caught wind of something he shouldn’t heard about and got dumped here. He winched in return.
“This is rabid politics. The passions of keeping up appearances got me here.” He clarified.
“Ah. You turned the neighbors in.” My monitor had another winner walking up the ATM now and this one looked sober enough to get the machine to cough up for him. Rats.
I kept watching. Cash was not a chargeable offense yet, but it was regarded as dirty in most places. More than a few shops won't take it anymore, but all working girls did.
“So where is your god now?” Jill smiled at Peter. “On vacation?”
“Mine is trying to get money out of an ATM.” I tossed out, throwing Peter a life-line. He looked almost grateful at the interruption. “Man, these people throw themselves into traffic as the best they can do. Not femmes jumping in front of a bus this time, either. Three people in a row have loused up this ATM and it's only out of receipts. They left with with nothing.”
“Yah. When you leave your head on a lamp-post like this, you find out people running at their own speed is a constant farce. Most of 'em are hilarious unprepared for life's little challenges. Get used to it.” Charlie chimed in with that, reminding us he was still live and on-line with a clunker no one else in the room would touch. The feed was ugly over there. Everyone ignored it as the mark was grinding away, digging his personal hell-hole deeper with every word.

'And I thought industrial terrorism was bad. Now the corporate and political types are adding to the confusion. Fracking, GM foods and the abortion murder/slavery thing.'
'Yup. The new SS. New-S and weather, slanted sanitized and sterilized.'
No one in the room but Charlie could officially hear that line any more, you could tell by the way everyone was turning up the sound on their own feeds.
“Heavens, he even has a pamphlet.” Whispered Charlie. “Gold! Got a screen shot of it too. Signed copy sent to our AI overlords, right now. Stat.”
The rest of us pretended we couldn't hear him, intently.
***
“The mark is made, hit is dawn. Unit in place. Does he know who to eliminate?”
“He knows.”
“Sad, really. On the way to school? We can't capture and farm the pest out to a labor-camp?”
“Nope. The AI says no hope. Boy-crazy, solved the usual way, has stuck with people ever since. Never learned to work on anything. Not reading, sports or building, just people. Cheap thrills all the way down now in there; no one else is home up there at all.”
“The AI says no hope for life after cheerleading, modeling or grad school?”
“No hope. She never learned to work, period. Predictive and profile. We're salting as fast as we can right now. Pamphlet.”
“She, eh? Hell of a way to treat a sixth-grader.”
“The AI says this one's a write-off. Deal with it. Lazy and stupid we can deal with, they end up on farms. Violent, sometimes the army takes them. Steals? Road work. Treachery, maybe turning friends in. Add 'em all up and it's a do-over.”
There was a sad shake of a head. “Treachery is a death-sentence? Ew. We're gonna haveta shoot all of lower Europe, the Middle-East and China for that.”
“Naw. This one is bad, the computer says so. The last one like this we let thru turned at work. Deliberately mixed up lab samples, killed about a dozen people before she got caught. Anyone with a name that might've insulted her once. This one has to go before she sours.”
“She. At 12. He's not gonna be happy at this job.”
“Tough. 12 does 12 today. Just be thankful we have good lie-detectors, Ok? You have any idea how much crap is out there these days?”
****
Bang!
It was a soft wuss in a quiet dawn-walk to school. For her, her last. The papers got dropped on the now mostly-headless corpse, sightless eyes glazing over in that last long stare.
Orderly 12 whistled all the way back to the office, hoping his next chore didn't require a dawn censor. That kind of thing played hell with his sleep. Nothing much else did, thanks to the tranks.
****
Charlie didn't come in today and no one is saying anything about it. No one will even talk about it yet. Blind ignorance, it's the only safe way to be.
Right?
Right?
****
Dear psychotic leader: (You know who you are.)
We the lab-rats in the rat-race say J'accuse!
J'accuse. The com has been upgraded to con and it's all your fault. One upped a 'mmm!' to a 'nnn' did ya?
We don't like it.
J'accuse! We didn't elect you to poison the wells. We didn't elect you to sell off whatever you can on the spare-parts market from whoever you can lay your hands on. We most certainly didn't elect you so you could make your friends and patrons rich hiving off monopolies out of our still screaming hides.
Stop that! The pot concession at Bayshore shopping center is one thing. The live-kidney concession from green hornet parking tickets is going a little too far.
The jackals from your permanent criminal underclass are lynching people for fun and profit. (The sunday morning stoning, as we call it.) Uniforms are planting evidence again, then getting vandals throwing crap to fertilize the mess.
The old goats are making another desert out of the place. This is bad.
J'accuse! The problem is (other than you and your GM-foods check) it's 'Well, well, well!' time out there. Poisoned wells or not, meds in the water or not.
J'accuse! Freedom of speech, property and privacy are all blood-sports now. Monopolies to be created and destroyed, sold to the highest bidder (or best connected one) and used in a black-list war in a true Marxian manner. (Usually by regs, naturally.)
You can only steal so much, you know. The well is running dry already.
J'accuse! Treachery rules. Food, meds, education, governance, commercialism, news. Slanted, sanitized and sterilized, and not for the greater good. As the most profitable goods, usually.
Who's surprised? Are corp-on-corp espionage attacks next? We have always been at war with Eurasia? GM's death throes will thrash us to death?
J'accuse. The biggest land-grab in history. Our rights, property and freedoms. (via Diebold, right?)
Listen, lynch-leech. Bad enough taxes-regs-and-enforcement favoritism rules, let alone info-leaks and IP suits. We get sold as targets for espionage and commercial spammers, too. By your hand.
By your invisible hand, nitwit. And computer. And corporations.
Governance. Union-turf. Commercialism. Psychopaths, sociopaths, and the psychotics.
Industry, governance and services are going bad all over us. Profit-orientated from prisons up.
Bad enough financing comes with the 'You are about to lose your biz to shareholder takeovers' notices built right in. (The 'Or we pull the loans and collect your hide that way.' is left unsaid.) Religion, justice and and education got hit just as bad with this too.
The sensational, patronage and tech eco's? Indulgence, corruption and side effects. Seen a real weather report in the last decade, or is that just one of the side effects?
This is violent, bullshit and retarding ploys, not progress. The light at the end of the tunnel is a radioactive fish, a leaky waste dump, and toxic toys these days.
Me, personally? I'm a noise. No calls, no pickups (except for their own nefarious purposes, and payment has to be dragged out of their still screaming flesh) no acceptances, recruiters or recommendations here. Too much thalidomide, by me.
I also suspect the annual spring orgy (The Governor’s Ball) is used to recruit troops, giving cherry-picking a new and horrible name. The cheap-thrills set does sleaze dirt-cheap, does it?
Bonnie+Clyde not enough for ya, ya had to create Argentinian child slave-labor immigrant gangs?
The New World Order orderlies can't do meds, by the way. No matter how much they try, grunts just obey, sleaze and steal. 'You have blackmail!' is about it for them.
So. I have bad news and worse news right now. Which do you want to hear?
Win, karma, evolve!
Free will, destiny, evolution.
Pick ONE.
********
END

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