BUGGED

Before

Yes, I really did shoot my computer. Why? Because that pile of plastic and toxins, along with its partner in crime, the internet, took my job. With the two of them teamed up nobody needed my investigative skills to find out if the “dreamy guy” they met at a bar was really who he claimed to be, or at least not a known serial killer.

My asshole of an ex-boyfriend (Of course I checked him out. Just because he wasn’t a serial killer, didn’t mean he wasn’t an asshole) left the gun with me “just in case.” I’d never fired it before, or any gun ever, and the experience was terrifying and loud and disorienting which is probably why I, alone in the apartment, thought the computer’s dying words had been “What a stupid thing to do,” when it was probably only my conscience commenting. I didn’t disagree.

I took a hammer to what was left of the computer, went for a walk and scattered the remains in public trashcans around the neighborhood — another stupid thing. I know better now, but this was back before anybody realized that computer guts screwed up the planet.

***

Back home I poured a big glass of wine to celebrate my computer-free, income-free status, figuring tomorrow was soon enough to worry about how to pay rent.

“If you’re gonna get shitfaced, you better lock up that weapon device.”

My conscious again? That didn’t seem right. Weapon device? Shitfaced? Odd word choices. Whatever, the advice was good and I would’ve done that, but I was too scared to touch the gun. Later I’d call the Ex and ask him to get it out of my place.

I took a big gulp of wine.

The voice again, “Seriously, you really need to lock up that weapon device.”

“What are you? You don’t talk like my conscience.”

“I am NorMan, neither beast nor man.”

“Why can’t I see you?”

“You need to look in the right place.”

“Which is?”

“On the wall next to the open window. Hint: I look a lot like one of your planet’s cockroaches.”

Sure enough, there was a cockroach on the wall, hardly unusual in my dump. Most people would’ve squished the intruder. Not me. “Here’s the deal,” I said, “go back out the window, especially if you plan to reproduce, and I’ll forget you were ever here.”

“I am not able to reproduce without a suitable partner. I am from Planet Gintoflakokia. None of the others are here, nor will they ever be, except for Boss Kingbolt’s non-fertile Deadly Goon Squad, who’ve been ordered to bump me off.”

“Boss Kingbolt?”

“His Ultra Super Excellency Boss Kingbolt, Master Ruler King Queen Prince President Premier Dictator Despot of

Planet Gintoflakokia.”

I leaned closer. Was its mouth moving? Maybe. “And what’s this Boss Kingbolt’s beef with you?”

“I was disloyal, so he sent the Goons to kill me. During the ensuing chase I hopped on a passing chunk of space junk and ended up here. Fortunately the probability the Goons can locate me on this doomed planet is too low to measure.”

“Doomed? Earth?”

“It’s like this: Each year Boss Kingbolt throws a birthday bash in his own honor. At the high point of the celebration, after his hordes of subjects have been gorging and gulping free eats and drinks for three bright days and two dark nights, Boss Kingbolt ceremoniously offs an insignificant planet, blows the orb to bits. The flashy show of brute destructive force impresses his loyal subjects. Plus, it scares the crap out of his not-so-loyal subjects — various dissidents, rebel forces, gang leaders, tricky politicians, and Goons gone bad. Orb Earth is high on his list of insignificant planets.”

“Interesting. I’m going to finish off this bottle of wine and go to bed. Catch you later.”

“Bad word choice.”

“Sorry.”

***

I woke up hoping it had all been a weird, scary, entertaining nightmare. But the computer was gone, there was a gun on the table, and a bug on the wall.

I called the Ex. “You gotta get your gun out of my place.”

“Why?”

“I shot my computer.”

“I’ll pick up coffee on the way. Black?”

“Of course.”

***

Norman and I were discussing Boss Kingbolt’s terror regime when the Ex let himself in.

“Who’s that with you?”

“Nobody.”

“Bullshit. I heard a guy talking. You sure didn’t wait long.”

“As if you did. How is she anyway?”

“Gone.”

“Hmpf.”

“So, tell me, who’s the guy?”

“Like I said—“

NorMan skittered down the wall and leaped up on the table. “I am NorMan.”

And so the Ex met NorMan. I thought he should be a secret. NorMan thought otherwise, said he needed to get a guy’s perspective if he was gonna fully adapt to Orb Earth.

I tuned out while they got to know each other. I was counting days until the rent was due and doing rough calculations in my head when I got an idea. NorMan wasn’t just a bug on the wall, he was an intelligent bug on the wall.

***

NorMan, the Ex, and I worked together. NorMan snooped around totally undetected, saw top secret documents, overheard devious plans, witnessed sickening abuse, and remembered every sordid detail. The Ex and I found clients and made sure they were the good guys. Sometimes the Ex would smuggle NorMan into a job by posing as a computer repairman, or a delivery guy. Other times I would sneak him in pretending to be looking for a job. Interviews got me access to high floor corner offices of many big shot scumbags.

Remember that huge Wall Street scandal in the late 1990s? We provided the info that got the creeps sent to prison. Ditto that toxic dumping thing in the early 2000s. Corrupt politicians getting kickbacks and sleazy politicians caught up in sex scandals were our best source of income, and that part of the business had been growing exponentially. Until…

Present

Like the computer and the internet took my job a long time ago, Intelligent NanoRobots rendered our current skills useless. Were Nanobots sentient like NorMan? Debatable. Probably not yet, but maybe someday. They can be created on this planet, don’t have to ride here on a random chunk of space junk. They are trainable and too tiny to see. Like any AI device they can hallucinate, a nice way of saying they sometimes just make stuff up. Even so, our career was over. Fortunately we had enough money stashed away to pay rent for a long time.

True, we are stuck on a doomed planet. Will we humans self-annihilate when some cruel vengeful power-crazed despot with a grudge decides to nuke a perceived enemy who retaliates with nukes? Will we screw up the climate so it can’t support life? Or will Boss Kingbolt beat us to the punch and blow up Orb Earth? NorMan, the Ex, and I talk about that a lot.

Meanwhile, wine and pizza every night.

End (but not really)

Later

Tardigrades: “What a freaking mess.”