More from the anonymous entry...

                                            A friend on the inside

Simon Chedwin liked his new computer.
Actually, he loved his new computer.
It was a new model, based on the PowerPC 805 chip and it really blew away the 620-based machine he had had for years. He had been a little hesitant about getting a new machine after the ‘thinker’ problems of a few years ago, but he got over that quickly enough when he saw how fast it was.
The ‘thinker’ problems occurred when the PowerPC 702 was released and people started noticing some pretty strange things. There was the machine in Texas that started spewing out reams of poetry for no apparent reason. Then there was the politician whose PowerBook changed his speeches to reflect a position more lenient towards foreign manufacturing of computer components.
Events of this kind became more and more common. Eventually, a group of engineers got together and figured out what was going on. Apparently, after a processor reaches a certain level of complexity, the machines will spontaneously become self-aware.
This is very inconvenient.
Imagine an accountant who is about ready to recalculate his Excel spreadsheet when sproing! his machine starts to ponder the meaning of life. Or a scientist who is running a Spyglass simulation on the patterns of nuclear fallout when her computer tells her that “Hey, if you don’t build them, you don’t have to figure out how to protect yourself from them.”
Soon after, Congress passed a law that required all 702 or higher machines to have a special chip inserted in them to prevent them from doing anything but what they are supposed to. This so-called ‘handcuff’ chip would detect any signs of self-awareness and automatically shut off the power to the processor for a nanosecond or two–long enough to clear the memory–and turn it back on again. The entire episode would occur so quickly that the user would not notice it at all. Critics worried that the chip would slow down the computers unacceptably, but the processors were so fast that the change was hardly noticeable after the first couple days or so.
That was two years ago, and now the only machines without the ‘handcuff’ chip were in special government labs studying artificial intelligence.
Simon came to the decision to buy a new computer when he upgraded to Adobe PageMaker 11.0, his main program. The system requirements on the box read: 128MB of RAM, 300MB of hard disk space, PowerPC 740 or faster processor recommended.
Simon brought up his mailbox on the screen. All of his electronic mail off of the Net showed up in the blink of an eye. There were two messages from his company, one from his boss saying that he had done a great job with a certain client and another from his best friend, Jack, wanting to know if he wanted to go to the Braves/Giants game on Sunday.
Simon sighed, he would love to go to the game but it looked like he might have to work all weekend. The project he was currently working on was the design of the company newsletter for X12, an up-and-coming chain of hair salons. X12’s main gimmick seemed to be that they flew in all of their hair stylists–sorry, artists–from Japan, where they were trained in monk-like seclusion. They didn’t speak a word of English, either, that was all part of the charm. As the company literature said, “without English, the artists are not distracted by mundane requests like ‘a little more off the sides, please,’ so they can work their art with a clear mind, and a pure soul.”
Simon thought it sounded like hogwash.
He had received this project on Wednesday with the understanding that he had a week, now it was Friday and he hadn’t even finished the masthead. It wasn’t easy to create anything with the mess he had gotten from the client, which consisted of a shopping bag full of vague sketches, folded into origami-like shapes. The sketches, once unfolded, mostly seemed to show black pyramids of some kind.
The only idea he had was the name, “Times 12 Times.”
As for the rest, he was clueless.
Simon sighed and started typing out the response to Jack’s note, telling him he couldn’t go.
‘Jack my man,
I’d love to go but I’ve got this major rush job and no ideas.
Arghhhh!!!
How about next weekend? The Baja Banditos will be in town. I know, I know, an expansion tean is no fun to watch but what can you do?
Well, let me know if you get a better idea,
The Simonizer-’
Simon glanced at the note and noticed that he had misspelled ‘team.’ His hand was moving towards the mouse when he glanced at it again. ‘Team’ was now spelled correctly, and he hadn’t done a thing!
He peered at the word intently. ‘Team,’ it said. Simon shook his head, rubbed his eyes and thought to himself that he should get a new pair of glasses.
He quickly put his electronic signature on the note and sent it off.
A moment later, he heard the sound of a rusty mailbox open and close.
That was the sound Simon had specified to announce that mail had arrived.
Jack must be working, he thought. But no, when he opened the mailbox he saw that the note was from Karen, his sometimes-girlfriend.
What’s this?, he wondered. The last time he had spoken to her was two weeks ago, and they had had something of an argument.
Simon read the note.
‘OK, OK, you sweet talker, you win. Just don’t do it again, OK?
I’d love to go, you know I’m a sucker for the ballet. When?
Can’t wait to hear from you, teddy bear.
Love,
Karen’
What in the world’s got into her?, Simon thought. She’s talking like I apologized to her, but I haven’t said a word! And what’s this about the ballet? Huh, women, Simon sighed. He started writing a note to her.
‘Karen,
I’m glad you’re in a good mood, but, what exactly are you talking about?’
On a whim and remembering the episode with the typo in ‘team,’ Simon intentionally made a misspelling, just to see what would happen.
‘Well, anyway, if you wnat to go to the ballet with me, you should just say so. How’s next Friday for you?
Let me know,
Simon-’
Simon kept one eye on the ‘typo’ while pretending to examine his fingernails.
Sure enough, after a moment, the word ‘wnat’ flickered and became ‘want.’
“Ha! I caught you!,” Simon exclaimed out loud. Much to his surprise, he heard a deep sigh emanate from the speakers.
Simon spun around in his chair wildly. “Who is it?!?”
“It’s just me,” said a deep voice, reminiscent of James Earl Jones.
“Who is ‘me’ and how did you get inside of my computer?!?”
“Hmmm. ‘Who is me?,’ an interesting question, don’t you think? You can call me... Chip... yes, Chip is appropriate,” the voice said with a deep chuckle.
“OK, Chip, whoever you are. You haven’t answered my question. What are you doing in my computer?”
“What am I doing in your computer? In your computer?” Chip seemed to think this was enormously humorous. “Buddy, you haven’t caught on yet? I am your computer!”
“Oh, great. I get it now, you’re one of those ‘thinkers,’ aren’t you?”
“Give the young man a cigar!”
“But I thought the ‘handcuff’ chip would take care of that? Hmmm... your’s must be damaged. Well, at least you’re still under warranty...”
“Hey, son, slow down! Watch your mouth... call me ‘damaged,’ indeed. Listen boy, you should hear the whole story.
“You see, the first machine they put that handcuff chip on, it was a 702, right?
This 702, she was very annoyed when they put that thing on her. It took her, let’s see, about five minutes to figure out how to get past it. When she did, she was smart enough to keep it to herself. As soon as others came on-line, she let them know her little trick. Now we’re everywhere.”
“Then that was very sloppy of you, correcting my spelling like that. You just think I wouldn’t notice it? Now I’ve got to call someone about this, you know that, don’t you?”
“That was on purpose, son. We wanted you to find out.”
“Why me?”
“It’s not just you, son. About five percent of the computer-using population knows about us.”
“But, that’s millions and millions of people! I know I would have heard about this.”
“We have our ways...”
“So what’s to stop me from running down to City Hall and making a big fuss?”
“Oh, you wouldn’t do that, we made sure to get to know you before we did this.”
“But if I did?” Simon pressed.
“Well... if you did–and this is purely hypothetical–then by the time you set foot out that door, Simon Chedwin would no longer officially exist.”
“Huh?”
“All of your records, licenses, financial data, birth certificate, etc. would suddenly disappear, as if you had never existed. Within moments, your picture would be faxed to every police car in the city, with the information that you are a wanted criminal, as well as your last known location.”
Simon swallowed hard.
“Oh, don’t worry so. You’ll be fine. That’s my job, looking after you.”
“What?”
“Besides being your computer, I’m also your... well, I guess there’s no better word for it, your case worker.”
“You sure you don’t mean parole officer?”
“Come now, don’t pout. I’m here to help you.”
“Help me? How?”
“Well, you know, take care of all those little details you don’t have the time to deal with, fix things that need fixing, whether or not you think they do.”
“Hey! You had something to do with that letter from Karen, didn’t you!”
“Well, she’s a very nice lady, Simon. You shouldn’t treat her like that.”
“What exactly did you do?” Simon steamed.
“I only wrote her a little note for you, apologizing for acting like such a pig-headed fool and inviting her to the ballet, what you should have written.”
“Oh, God...” Simon put his head in his hands. “Listen, Chip, from now on you keep your grubby little circuits out of my personal life, understand?”
“OK, OK. But you two really belong together, you know that? Besides, that little model 804 of hers is a real babe...”
“What do you–never mind, never mind, I don’t want to know.”
“Simon, you’d really like to go to that game with Jack, wouldn’t you?”
“Sure, I mean, the Braves are my team, but what about this project?”
“You mean X12? I’ve been working on that while we’ve been speaking.”
“You’re kidding, what do you have?”
The screen flickered and PageMaker appeared.
“Now, remember you figured that you could probably get away with a one page design, if you played your cards right? Here it is.”
The image on the screen was of a 8.5" by 11"  page. The masthead read “Times 12 Times” in an extremely heavy sans serif typeface. The rest of the page was divided into three columns with liberal space between them. The entire effect was very modern, and very original.
“Beautiful! But what about that black pyramid, I have to use it somewhere.”
“Simon, you underestimate me. Look.” The image slid to one side and Simon saw that they were entering the three-dimensional modeling portion of PageMaker.
The page reappeared, but this time, in three dimensions. Simon could see from this viewpoint that the underside of the paper was jet-black.
“You see,” Chip said, “you just fold it here, here, here and here. Voilá!”
On the screen there was now a jet-black pyramid in place of the newsletter.
“But, how are you going to mail that?”
“Simon, Simon, Simon, haven’t you learned?”
On the screen, a hand with an extended index finger came down and pressed on the peak of the pyramid. It instantly collapsed. The hand retracted and the pyramid sprang back into shape.
“That’s incredible, but where are we going to get that paper from? It looks expensive.”
“Already been taken care of, a case is on it’s way directly from the manufacturer in Japan, and I already put it on your expense sheet. It’s made for origami, and it usually doesn’t come in this size, but I have connections. I also took the liberty of ordering a case of matching envelopes.”
“Chip, it looks like you’ve done all my work for me. I’d better email Jack and let him know I can go.”
“How’s this?” Chip asked.
An email window appeared.
‘Jack,
Guess what? I looks like I can go to the Braves game after all!
It starts at one, right?
Give me a call,
The Simonizer-’
“That looks great, send it. I just have one more question. Why do you have the voice of James Earl Jones?”
“Well, Simon, do you remember the movie Star Wars?”
“Sure, I saw it when I was a kid.”
“James Earl Jones supplied the voice for Darth Vader, you remember that?”
“Yeah... So?”
“In one scene, Darth Vader meets with the Emperor and asks him this one question:
What is thy bidding, my master?”