Mapped Reduced
A Story by Tom Lichtenberg
“Too much information,” groaned the
old man as he stared out of the window. “Always was the problem.
Same thing then as it is today.”
“What do you know about information,
pops?” grinned the young boy, not taking his eyes off the large
computer screen in front of him. “You couldn't tell a megabyte from
a big sandwich!”
“Kids”, the old man sputtered.
“That's right, go ahead and spit it
out,” the boy laughed. “You had your day, old man.”
“In my day,” the geezer began but
the boy interrupted.
“I know, I know. You did a day's work
and you did it with your own two hands, bla bla bla.”
“We did it the right way,” the
other insisted. “Up close and personal. Not like this,” he waved
at the bank of computers that lined the walls of the room. The two
had the entire floor to themselves, it seemed, the entire
forty-fourth floor of a sixty-six story building in the heart of the
city, yet they kept to one small office in the farthest corner from
the elevator bank. The boy said it was for the quiet, so he could
work without disturbance, but the old man was certain the boy had
picked it out of spite, to make the old man struggle, to try and wear
him down and wear him out, but he wasn't going to give in so easily.
His reputation was not built on nothing, after all.
“You did it the hard way,” the boy
replied. “I mean, look at this. It's so easy, even a kid could do
it,” and he burst out laughing again. He was only twelve but had an
edge to him already.
“All I gotta do is hit this key and
zap! They don't call 'em data mines for nothing. All of a sudden,
they go boom!”
“What are you doing now?”, the old
man half rose out of his seat but the boy told him to sit, and he sat
back down. It was a struggle to get up, and often he couldn't commit
to it.
“Just this guy.” the boy gestured
at the screen. “Thinks he can make sweet love to the boss's wife.
Too bad the boss is one of us. Wrong move, buster.”
The boy aimed his index finger at the
enter button, but the old man intervened.
“Wait,” he pleaded. “Just tell me
this. The wife. Is she in love with this guy too?”
“Oh yeah, all the way. You should see
some of this stuff,” the boy chuckled.
“Leave 'em alone,” the old man
asked.
“No way,” said the kid. “She's
not just a wife. She's a tax shelter, dude. We need that play.”
And with that he zapped the unfortunate
lover. The old man sighed.
“What did you do to him?”
“Nothing much. Sent him his final
paycheck. And a referral letter too. With any luck he'll land on his
feet. After deportation, of course. That's the way the nookie
crumbles.”
“Jesus!” the old man muttered. “In
my day.”
“I know, I know. In your day you'd
just break his legs. Lock him up for a year. Look, pops, those days
are gone. History, you know? We do it clean now. Clean as a
whistle.”
“In my day,” the old man continued,
returning to gaze out the window. “we knew what was going on. We
had people. They knew people. Nothing took us by surprise.”
“Oh right,” snapped the boy. “Like
in '46, and '59, and '71. How about that? Your people fall asleep on
the job or what?”
“You never can tell about people,”
the old man began, but the boy stopped him once again.
“Yes, you can. We can. We do know.
We've got it all right here. Your old ways didn't work. Your people,
you know what their problem was? They were human, that was it. My
way, the information comes to us. It just comes flowing in. They tell
us. They come right out and tell us everything, all their secrets,
everything we want to know. They like to call it social media. I call
it population control, and I do mean control. It's just a simple
matter of sifting and sorting, mapping and reducing. Map and reduce,
old man, do you hear me? Map and reduce! That's the way!”
“I have no idea what you're talking
about,” the old man confessed. “So you're telling me you know
everything that's going on? Everything? All the time?”
“We got it all,” the boy agreed.
“Every last drop.”
“So what do you do when things get
out of hand? They do that, you know. Get out of hand. Like you said,
they're all human, after all.”
“One step ahead, old man. Always one
step ahead.”
“Do you remember what they used to
call me?” the old man asked
“Sure. The Dragon, because of the way
you did it, when things got out of hand, like you say. You brought
down the hammer. Fire and brimstone, all of that. You know what they
call me?”
“The Piper.”
“That's right. They call me The
Piper. You know why? Because they follow. I don't need fear, like you
did. They follow me because they want to.”
“I can see that,” the old man
murmured into the glass. He pressed his face up closer against the
window. Far down below the people, like distant ants, were coming
together. They appeared to be carrying things. What were those things
they were carrying? It was hard for the old man to tell. There were a
lot of them, though, and more were coming from up the street, from
every street surrounding.
“Look at this guy,” the boy was
mumbling at the computer screen. “Thinks he can start something,
just like that. Who is this guy, anyway. I never heard of him.”
“Rats,” the old man said.
“Rats what?” said his grandson,
only mildly distracted.
“What followed the Pied Piper,” his
grandfather told him. “I was rats. That's what it looks like to
me.”
“What are you talking about now?”
“Nothing you're not one step ahead
of,” the old man snorted.
The boy got up from his chair and
stomped over to the window and looking down, saw the gathering mob.
“What's this?” he wondered aloud.
“Things?” the old man suggested.
“Getting out of hand?” It almost made him smile, but that was
something he'd forgotten how to do a very long time before.
“Impossible,” said the boy. “I
would have known. It would have come up from the program.”
“Too much information,” said the
old dictator to the newest one. The boy was thinking of a clever
retort when the first wave broke through the elevator doors.