Meal-time! You are a brand-new Red troubleshooter team, identification number MAO-17859 Dot R-2. Just this morning-cycle you were called away from your positions - scrubbing the food vats, stamping paperwork in triplicate, repairing live wires, and similar fulfilling tasks - and told of your promotions from lowly Infared status. What a wonderful thing!

Now, after a busy morning-cycle of brain-conditioning and long lines, you find yourselves in a Red clearance cafeteria for lunch. What a place this is; thousands of smiling red level citizens, all happy and proud to serve the computer, just as you were reminded earlier today.

There are rows of monitors lining the celing, all showing the single all-seeing eye or some of your favorite sayings (such as "Mutants are nasty, kill one today!"). The six of you now sit together at a table under one of the monitors, with a chance to talk to each other for the first time over a plate of Faithful Joy and Loyal Reward, with Bouncy Bubble Beverage to drink and a saucer of Hot Fun for dessert.

You are also joined by another citizen, Dweebs-R-GRT, who can't find his mission group and has latched onto yours.

The table is only large enough for six clones, but Dweebs is trying to fit, anyway. This scrawny, pasty-skinned clone has made a pest of himself, asking question after question. Apparently, his assigned team ditched him for some reason, causing him to act like a lost puppy.

Suddenly, amidst the noise of the cafeteria, you hear a whisper. "Hey, troubleshooters! Yes, you, Team MAO-17859 Dot R-2! Down here! Yes, down here, under the table! Now!"

  Finally someone realized it was time for promotion.  What took them so long to recognize your potrntial you could not fathom.  Probably faulty logic like that used by robots.  Well at least now it was tiem to enjoy some perks.  Dinner in the cafeteria started well enough, that is until some lost clone who said his name was DWEEB (the clone production section had named him correctly) tried to edge into the group.    Just because you have the tracking ability of a satelite-less GPS and have to stop and ask directions to your own butt doesn't mean you can barge in here.   Maybe you can talk to Ampee, he might be on your level but leave me alone."  I wasn't quite done describing his level of incompetence but was intereupted by a voice under the table.  Bending down, I triedto find the source of the voice.

Artie is of good cheer with all his happy colleagues, and you see that he keeps hard at work with his wrenches, spanners, and other loyal tools. Of course he consistently fumbles and drops them, but gosh, consistensy is loyalty.

"Dropped a number five torque threader in your work area, citizen! Grateful if you'll hand it back to me! The Computer demands cooperation!"

“If we work hard and are loyal and happy, the computer might select us randomly for a special routine non-hazardous mission with a danger pay per diem!  Look busy!”

Artie whistles while he works, a popular song of obedience; “I believe that robots are the future… maintain them well and let them lead the way…. “

Artie can fix anything. Even treason!

Time for a lunch pill! Yay!

I'm sitting at the table with my team listening to them ramble on about this and that. I slosh my bouncy bubble around and take a few sips of it. While doing so I blankly stare at the wall and watch it melt before my eyes and ponder how many of team are really mutants and traitors in disguise. My trip er uh train of thought is rudely interrupted by... is that whispering? Hrmm.. was that me whispering or is it just the supplements? Or hell, is it both? I start looking around up at the ceiling and tapping my finger on my chin and I ponder this new dilemma. No no no... definitely not me. And I can almost with 100% certainty say it's not the supplements at least not the ones I took. They would have far more interesting effects. Hey, I think that whisper came from my feet, I think to myself. Maybe my feet are talking! That's more like it!

Hey, feet. I say out loud to my feet. I look closer under the table to have a deeper conversation with my feet.

___________________

"A-B-S" - Slipp-R-YEE

Ammpe-R-AGE lumbered into the cafeteria along with the rest of his team and an annoying little twerp of a clone, appropriately named Dweebs. Ammpe was pleased to have been selected for promotion by the Computer, of course, but Dweebs attaching himself, uninvited, to his team had stifled a small bit of his enthusiasm. He could scarcely enjoy his plate of Faithful Joy and Loyal Reward thanks to continually having to nudge the pasty little citizen out of the way and listen to his incessant chatter and it was starting to make him angry. He’d had a moments respite when Dweebs turned his attentions and inquiries to Brighte but, apparently, it wasn’t to last long…

“Just because you have the tracking ability of a satellite-less GPS and have to stop and ask directions to your own butt doesn’t mean you can barge in here,” the scrawny HPD&MC clone snarked, “Maybe you can talk to Ammpe, he might be on your level, but leave me alone.”

Ammpe sighed, his anger rising as he shot a stern glare across the table, first at Brighte, then at Dweebs. “Don’t bother me, either,” the power services clone droned, “unless you’d like me to rewire your sleeping area to toast you on your next rest cycle.” He poked a pill from his plate past his clenched teeth and fumed a moment. Losing or being lost by your own team surely was considered treasonous, wasn’t it? If it wasn’t, Ammpe thought, it should be. He thought to comment on that very fact but the words were slow coming to his mouth and, before they could make it there, a whisper interrupted the thoughts…

“Hey, troubleshooters! Yes, you, Team MAO-17859 Dot R-2! Down here! Yes, down here, under the table! Now!”

…Ammpe sighed, scowled, and maybe even growled a bit. Can’t a clone eat in peace around here? When did the Computer start installing speakers under cafeteria tables, anyway? Abandoning his plate and shoving a hand through his static-charged hair, Ammpe slid back and, like the others, ventured a look under the table, interested as to just where and why a speaker might be located there.

Blowz-R-Up adjusted his hat as he entered the cafeteria, ensuring that no potential jostling from the others would knock his beloved cap astray. The very thought! Blowz took pride in carefully attending to the garment to ensure it's beautiful red fur stayed bright and well-groomed. He obtained his serving and walked with his team to their table, doing his best to ignore the tag-along Dweebs. As Blowz and his team took their seats at the table, Blowz threw out an elbow in Dweebs direction. If the other clone was unfortunate enough to be standing in range, well, it was his own fault.

As Blowz settled into his seat and reached up to reassure himself that his hat was still in place, a whisper snaked up from beneath the table. "Hey, troubleshooters! Yes, you, Team MAO-17859 Dot R-2! Down here! Yes, down here, under the table! Now!"

The red-hatted clone looked first to his left and then to his right, then directly above, then in a slow circle around the rest of the cafeteria. Seemingly satisfied with no alternate sources for the whisper, Blowz bent at the middle and rested his forehead upon the table to peek beneath.

This certainly wouldn't be the strangest thing Blowz had ever witnessed. Best to see what the table-dwelling-demander had to say.

Steam looked around at his team: R&D, IT, Logistics . . . Undisciplined, untrained in battle. Would they have what it takes to take down the mutant scum plaguing and soiling the human race? Any of these new comrades one of those degenerate dregs?

His eyes narrowed, searching their faces and listening to them berate that Dweebs, who Steam himself was having difficulty not strangling then and there. Despite that grating voice droning on, Steam kept his temper. Years in the armed forces had made him impervious to ruckus like his, though it was pretty loud.

No, Steam was ready to go. Ready to get back into combat and weed out some dirty commies and the mutant stain on humani--s*** was this guy still talking?

Lucky for Dweebs, Steam was a trained professional. His intense training kept him focused, cool, collected. No way was this annoying prick going to--Friend Computer damn it, Dweebs was dead!

Steam clentched his tray, ready to jump up and beat the life of that Friend-Computer-damn clone when he heard a voice. A small, whispered voice, but one different from the ones he was used to hearing. It was coming from down below, "Hey, troubleshooters! Yes, you, Team MAO-17859 Dot R-2! Down here! Yes, down here, under the table! Now!"

The soldier loosened his hands from around the tray's edges, and looked down beneath the table.

Dweebs hems and haws, then mumbles something about helping. When the group sticks their heads under the table, he wisely does not follow suit... but he does irritatingly remain at your table, and appears to be eavesdropping without trying to look like he is doing so.

Once your heads are under the table, the whisper continues.

"Congratulations on your promotions, troubleshooters. It is I, your friend, The Computer. I hope that you are all happy.

You will soon be even happier! I have a fun mission for you. It is perfectly safe, and really easy, especially for a team of seasoned professionals such as yourselves. The only thing is, its a secret. I mean, REALLY a secret. No one is even to know that we are talking right now, got it?

I will now assign each of you your role on the team. These roles were determined using an advanced statistical model taking into account your skills, temperments, and qualifications. These roles are as follows:

Team Leader: Ammpe-R-AGE.

Loyalty Officer: Artie-R-FCL.

Hygiene Officer: Slipp-R-YEE.

Morale Officer: Brighte-R-NNU.

Communications Officer: Blowz-R-UPP.

Equipment Control Officer: Steam-R-LLR.

You will of course perform these duties to the best of your abilities.

You all must immediately report to a briefing where you will be told all about this highly enjoyable task. The Computer is your friend. Trust the Computer. Don't tell anyone. Don't let anyone know."

If any of you bothered to glance out at the cafeteria, you will notice that quite a few clones have noticed your group with your heads under the table. Suddenly, every available speaker roars with the Computer's voice.

"STOP THAT!!!"

A hush falls over the cafeteria, and all eyes now pointedly look away from your team - though it is certainly impossible that they are unaware of your presence.

The Computer resumes its instructions.

"Get to Section 168 of Sector SWR, out the door and take a left. NOW. Thank you for your cooperation."

The speaker falls slient. Dweebs continues to hang around your table, though his eyes are also focused elsewhere.

 Team leader? Ammpe blinked. Me?

That Friend Computer had selected him for the position was an honor, of course, however unexpected, but, at the same time, it made him wonder why one of the others hadn’t been chosen. Steam was a military sort, after all, and certainly more qualified for a leadership position. Blowz, too, might have made more sense for the role but…

He shook the thoughts from his mind. Questioning the Computer was treasonous. Better to let those thoughts go before they made it to his mouth and just accept the fact that, in it’s infinite wisdom, Friend Computer had made the right choice. Besides, Ammpe considered as his gaze skimmed over each of the other faces under the table, it could be that one or all of them are traitorous commie pukes and the Computer knows it.

“STOP THAT!!!”

Ammpe was startled by the volume of the Computer’s admonition as it blared from every speaker in the cafeteria. It had caused him to flinch, in fact, and bang the back of his head on the underside of the table hard enough that he thought, for a split second, that he’d shorted out his hearing. The cafeteria had gone completely silent, it seemed. Rubbing at the bump growing on the back of his head, he risked a glance around the place and found that no one – not even the irritating little gnat, Dweebs – was bothering to look in the direction of his team’s table (or even bothering to talk among themselves for that matter). It was only the hum of electricity through the wiring that convinced him his hearing was still intact. Satisfied with that, the red-haired power services clone dipped his head back under the table and heard out the rest of Friend Computer’s instructions…

"Get to Section 168 of Sector SWR, out the door and take a left. NOW. Thank you for your cooperation."

…“Friend Computer is good,” Ammpe drawled slowly, coming out from under the table again, “Friend Computer is wise. You heard it, team; Section 168, Sector SWR. Let’s move.” Abandoning his lunch and getting to his feet, he waited for his comrades to head for the door before following behind them, taking a second longer than the last to point a finger at the still-lingering Dweebs; “Not you!”

Friend Computer knows what it is doing, and orders are orders. Steam-R-LLR took a good look at his new team leader. Perhaps he hadn't given him enough credit before. The guy looked tough, maybe even tough enough to make some good decisions. Not as tough as Steam, he thought, as he palmed Dweebs' face and shoved him out of Team Leader's way, but Friend Computer saw something in him, and so Steam would fall in line.

Equipment Control Officer was also the perfect role for Steam. Building morale and communicatin' kindly weren't generally in his repertoire. Though ensuring loyalty and--he sniffed his pit--enforcing hygiene were also some of his strengths. Friend Computer got it right again.

Steam felt the excitement rise in him with every step closer to the briefing. Some dead commies or mutants were in his future, he could feel it. And he couldn't wait.

Brighte was chosen as morale officer.  An interesting choice.  How did a soulless computer know what that even was?  He figured in this case it meant keeping everyone content enough to see the mission finished.  One thing he knew would boost moral,getting rid of Dweeb, so he set a plan in motion.

" Hey Artie, got a moment?  You are the last officer right?  Well friend Computer told us this is a secret mission just for our team and Dweeb, who is not a member of our team, heard it.  Might be a test.  I think you should blast him so he can't plan about what he heard.  If anyone asks I'll back you saying he was obviously a commie spy as no real close would lose his team."

Brighte looked under the table once more trying to find a way to remove or destroy the speaker.  It being there was of concern and might raise questions.

Brighte locates a spork - the only utensil type available on the table, then as casually as possible, reaches beneath and begins to pry at the speaker with it.  After several moments of futility, there is a satusfying *crunch* as a corner pops loose - followed almost immediately by a high pitched, wailing klaxon and an audible alarm.

ALERT.  ALERT.  SYSTEM TAMPERING DETECTED AT TABLE TWO TWO FOUR - DELTA.  SECURITY PERSONNEL RESPOND.

All pretense of not staring is lost as Red level clones around the packed cafeteria gape at the developing schene.  A pair of Yellow level clones rush towards the table, laser pistols drawn!

Brighte feels the pop off the speaker loosening just a moment before the wailing of a klaxon begins.  He drops the spork and kicks it towards Dweeb.  "finally you showed up, that one is spy, right team" he says to the yellows and points at Dweeb  "he was snooping around us, claims he lost his team and then that alarm started sounding and a spork dropped on teh floor next to him. Probably trying to hurt friend Computer and blame it on new reds."

Ammpe was pretty sure he’d told the team to move out to the location specified by the computer but, for whatever reason, Brighte had decided that tampering with Computer owned property was a good idea and, instead of following orders, he’d taken a spork to the table mounted speaker. Between the failure to follow orders and the willing destruction of Computer materiel, the Power Services clone couldn’t help but wonder if Brighte was a mutant, a commie, or both… nor was he surprised when Brighte’s actions raised an alarm and summoned a response team of higher level Servants of the Universal Code…

“Finally, you showed up,” Brighte proclaimed, kicking the spork toward Dweebs as the security team charged up, “He was snooping around us, claims he lost his team and then that alarm started sounding and a spork dropped on teh floor next to him. Probably trying to hurt friend Computer and blame it on new reds.”

…Ammpe shrugged when (if) the Yellows looked his way and, after a moment, drawled in that slow way of his; “I told everyone to head for Sector SWR, Section 168… Figured everyone would follow orders… Didn’t see what happened behind me… Rest of the team’s going… Can I?”

The two Yellow clearance clones rush up.  "Everybody freeze!" the first clone orders.  "What's going on here?" he demands.

Brighte has casually kicked the spork towards Dweebs.  "He was snooping around us," the shifty clone claims, gesturing at Dweebs.  "Claims he lost his team, and then that alarm started sounding and a spork dropped on the floor next to him. Probably trying to hurt friend Computer and blame it on new reds!"

Dweebs looks as flabbergasted as if Brighte had suggested he grew wings in a plot to fly and drop a bomb on Friend Computer.  "I... I did no such thing!" he sputters. He points at Brighte.  "He was the one tinkering under the table, check the security feeds!"

The two Yellow clones nod.  "That is a reasonable suggestion, Citizen," the second clone states.  "Let's check the recording and get to the bottom of thi..."

"What is he doing now?" Brighte interrups.  "Don't you see?  The way his eyes are shifting...aaaarrggllaarbblllrrrgraaaaghhhhh!!!!!"

Whatever Brighte's last word was is cut off by a blinding pain that tears through the minds of everyone in the group.  All six of you find yourselves on the floor, twitching and flopping like landed fish, where you are joined by Dweebs, the two Yellow clones, and at least three dozen other Red clones in a near perfect circle aroound your table.  As you lie on the ground, flopping in burning agony, anyone who has not voided their bladder in the past hour discovers that this can be checked off the to-do list. 

Dweebs is one of the first to regain the ability to move as the pain subsides some three minutes later, and he stumbles away from the table, sobbing.  As soon as they are able, the two Yellows give pursuit, and in short order, the annoying clone is well ventilated by their laser fire.  Regretfuly, three other Red clones are injured and one is killed, but such is the price of eliminating treasonous mutants from Alpha Complex.