99 bugs in the code, 99 bugs in the code, you take one down patch it around, 173 bugs in the code -- Anon Guest
[AN: I have lived that nightmare]
Picture if you will, a world divided in two. Strictly regimented by gender roles that only existed in a handful of halcyon days in certain areas of the united states. The people who made it wanted to return to those days of glory before realising that such glory was unsustainable.
Because the only endorsed science was the science everyone could understand at a lies-to-children level, the bigger brains were forced to make the world adhere to the 'glorious' model. Keep in mind that these alleged glory days only had room for one demographic at the top. They keep the 'poindexters' around because they're useful in maintaining a solid grip on the centre.
For some, it is paradise. For others, it is a nightmare. Welcome to Planet Stepford. Please dress according to your assigned gender binary. Also, if that binary ends in the female, you'll also need this extensive manual of expected behaviour. It is, after all, a man's world.
Thanks to the 'poindexters', there is technology to fix anything that the ruling demographic finds to be in error. There are those who adhere to the rules, and those who "need to be fixed". Needless to say, Planet Stepford doesn't call itself that, of course not. Those who enjoy it there call it Paradise. It is the cleanest, most aesthetically pleasing nightmare dystopia that ever came out of the brain of someone suffering from chronic nostalgia.
The mankind of that mythical glory only excelled in taking the credit for others' hard work. Those who funded the 'poindexters' were geniuses, but those who were 'poindexters' were merely part of the team and not even mentioned by name. In a system that rewards that specific genius, there is no motivation to become the genuine sort.
Only those who were passionate about the mechanics of the larger universe would ever decide to become a 'poindexter'. And since they were inherently dangerous to the established status quo, they were isolated from the remainder of society.
It is here, on Rejuvenation Island, that the work of Brain Fixing happens. Those with erroneous thought, the hysterical, the "crazy women", the depressed, those who were not "on model" and so forth. On one hand, those who worked there got to see a lot more women than the average man. On the other hand, those women were reprogrammed as quickly as possible and sent back to the places where they belonged.
This particular sample was buggy as heck. Dan Fallo, third-grade Patcher, looked at the inventory of work on this woman's mental chip. Congeniality 16.7.3.1 - up to date and passing all checks. Friendliness 17.82.3 - a little out of date, but the updates were being blocked by... base neurology. Dan checked the files. Lilac Pemberton-Wyttekopf had chronic depression. Mood Stability 20.34.17.8 was not combatting it effectively. Worse, some cowboy had installed JustBHappy 4.7 - known malware and riddled with virii. Dan purged it from her systems and installed a malware blocker that would notify the government if anyone installed unauthorised software again.
So far, so routine. Dan could not eliminate Lilac's depression, nor the comorbid anxiety, without also eliminating her brain. That had been banned outright after the tenth time it went horribly wrong. They had tried everything, but no technology could completely replace a human brain. Anyone who tried to propose it was ungently reminded of Meat Puppet Syndrome.
Dan looked at the checklist supplied by her husband. "Remove bitch" was at the top of the list. Charming. Not. Other highlights were, "Put out, Clean up," and, "Always have hot dinner fresh."
There was no software for most of that. Especially the last one. Honestly, Mr Pemberton-Wyttekopf would be better off starting over with a new model.
The thing about being a 'poindexter' was that one was prone to think around corners. Another was that they were wont to have new and strange ideas.
This idea was: What would happen if I wiped all of the software and looked after her?
He could do it. Nobody really monitored the work here, and if a woman was registered as "failed" nobody asked twice. He smuggled her out via the understaffed morgue and hid her in the back seat of his car. Dan had spent most of a lifetime looking after himself. Part of his training involved looking after the comatose women as they went through processing. It shouldn't be too hard, he reasoned. What could possibly go wrong?
The greater cosmos has ways of answering questions like that.
Step one: allow Lilac to come off of the chemicals in her system within a place of comfort. This was a room where no harm could come to her. Comforting and soft, lit gently and filled with soothing sounds. There was a simple message on one of the walls - You are safe. There was also a button with the legend, Press for help. There was, of course, an attached bathroom for her comfort.
Dan then took some long-service leave to be certain that Lilac had everything she needed.
Her first weeks were overwhelmed with terror. She feared her ex-husband and feared looking at any man. Dan improvised a slot through which he could pass her whatever she asked for. It took months to convince her that he was harmless.
All the locks she had access to were arranged so she could lock the rest of the world out - that was the important part. Showing her evidence that Mr Pemberton-Wyttekopf believed her dead had a vast impact on her overall mood. She did spend entire days asleep, but Dan never held that against her. He saw to her needs first, then saw to her wants.
She was free to access any entertainment she liked and, after a year, started to roam his house and yard at will. She liked standing under the eaves during storms. She liked sunshine. She liked flowers. And, when he offered her paints and art supplies, she liked painting.
Nothing was more beautiful to him than her smiling face, besmeared with colours, as she showed off another opus.
It wasn't her fault that she wasn't ready for love. It wasn't her fault that she feared men in general, even when she learned that Dan was friendly. It wasn't her fault he fell in love with her.
Dan had a rational mind. Rationally, the knight errant who rescued the princess fair was bound to only do so to see her marry a king. So to speak. It was no shock to Dan that, once he taught her confidence and independence, that she would employ it. It was no shock that, once she gained friends, she would prefer their company to his. He wasn't jealous. This was an experiment. It wouldn't be good data if he tried to tweak it.
He needed more data. Fortunately, fellow employees at Rejuvenation Island had had the same idea, with markedly similar results. It was fascinating, and in studying the 'anomalies' they gained a greater understanding of the world they lived in.
Put in street parlance, the world they lived in sucked. The women they set loose into the wild as their own people were at minimum a hundred times more interesting than the ones with approved software running their heads. More creative. More inventive. More interesting to hold conversation with. Better company, whether or not they chose to be companions.
They started falsifying reports saying that any female children had their brain chips installed. Started raising 'poindexter' girls just as educated as they were.
There were riots. There was great upset. There was enormous wailing and gnashing of teeth by the former 'genius' of halcyon illusion. Because there was one difference instilled in these new women. Perhaps by osmosis, perhaps by those freed before them.
Every single one of them refused to put up with any excrement. It was, somehow, more glorious than the 'glory' that Planet Stepford had held as true glory. This only made certain people even more angry about it.
Once more, it was necessary to invent women's liberation again.
[Image (c) Can Stock Photo / pikepicture]
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