                               JUSTIFICATION

                           1996 by Jerry J. Davis

        Previously Published in Aboriginal Science Fiction Magazine

         Dale Bently shuffled out of his apartment in his robe and
    slippers, squinting in the pale fall sunlight, heading toward the
    mailbox and the letter that would tell him his life was over. In
    one week it would be his fortieth birthday, and while he had that
    vaguely in mind, he had forgotten about what it meant. He had
    forgotten a lot within the past five years, his life becoming a
    pale blur of featureless days.
          He opened the mailbox with his thumbprint and pulled out the
    small bundle of junk mail, not even seeing the envelope from the
    Bureau of the Census. He carried it back to his apartment and
    shuffled inside, the end of his daily trip into the world. He shut
    the door and locked it, and threw the mail down on the coffee
    table that separated the couch from the television. As the letters
    spread out he saw the bright red envelope and it caught his
    attention. He'd seen that envelope before.
          It was easy when Dale Bently was five years old; he was a
    child in good health and was getting good grades in school.
    Children of his age were rarely judged poorly. It was the same
    when he was ten years old. By the time he was fifteen he'd
    developed into a bit of a disciplinary problem, but that was
    normal for a teenager and there was still no real worry. When he
    was 20 he was in college and getting good grades again.
          By the time he was 25 Dale was making a good living as a
    apprentice engineer with Lagrange 5 Corp. It was the first time
    he'd seen the Census as a threat, but as he was actively working
    for the good of mankind and producing more than his share, he
    passed. The same when he was 30 and 35 years old. But then there
    was the accident, and the hospitals, and the lawsuit which gave
    him enough money to compensate him for not ever being able to work
    in high orbit again.
          The money, officially, was for him to be able to reeducate
    and enter a new career, but as it turned out it was enough for him
    to comfortably survive without working for a considerably long
    time. He grew inward, reclusive, living for his daily and nightly
    television favorites. It never occurred to him, never at all, that
    he was dooming his very existence.
          He opened the red envelope and held its contents in his
    hands. The Census! he thought. The damned Census!

              Bureau of the Census
              Dept. of Life Evaluation
              Division of Judgment
              Los Angeles, CA 90039-3278-34

              Notice to Mr. Dale Bently of 7892634 Vericruz
              Lane, Apt. 982e7, Tuleburg California
              95205-1252-08, S.S. #578-23-8493-X-4398:

              IMPORTANT! This is your 5 year census notice!
              You must fill out the accompanying form and
              essay and return to the Bureau (see enclosed
              self-addressed envelope) before your deadline
              of November 1st. Failure to complete or return
              the census will jeopardize your status of
              citizenship.

    My God! Dale thought. My God, I forgot all about this! What have I
    been thinking!?
          He looked over the form and the instructions for the essay.
    The form itself only counted for %10 of the evaluation. It was the
    essay that carried the weight. In big bold letters the
    instructions read:

      In your own handwriting, justify your existence in 500 words or
                                   less.

    Letter held numbly in his hand, Dale walked to a window and looked
    out. The white sunlight made everything glare in his eyes, causing
    him to squint. It looked so unreal, much less real than the
    television screen. There was no color out there.
          Dale looked down at the letter. He looked at the date.
    November 1st, it read. He had one week.

                                     #

          The trolley rumbled and swayed over the old freeway
    foundations, steel wheels singing against steel tracks as it
    whizzed out of Old Town and into the vast spread of cityscape that
    covered the once vital farmlands. Tuleburg was now bigger than the
    L.A. basin, with Money and Business drawn around the big space
    ports like iron filings to a magnet. The sprawl of the California
    Central College campus was visible miles before the swaying green
    trolley reached the station, giving the impression that the
    trolley was barely creeping along. This was pure illusion, as they
    were traveling in excess of 70 miles per hour. Dale was standing,
    holding onto a rail and squinting through the windows, when the
    brakes were applied. He was thrown forward and would have gone
    tumbling had he not grabbed on with his other hand.
          The walk from the station into the campus had him exhausted
    before he was anywhere near his destination. He had a headache and
    he was dizzy and his legs felt like they were going to collapse
    beneath him. The students milling about all looked impossibly
    young. He couldn't tell if they were 14 or 24.
          One tower stood out from the rest. He entered and rested on
    a bench in front of the elevators for a while, mentally preparing
    himself for the interview. Almost five years ago Lagrange 5 Corp.
    had suggested he take up teaching --- he only hoped that it wasn't
    too late. By teaching the young, he could easily justify his
    existence.
          His watch beeped and said, "You'd better hurry up, your
    appointment is in five minutes." Dale sighed, said, "Oh, shut up,"
    to the watch, and wearily got to his feet. He touched the button
    for the elevator and the doors opened. He stepped inside,
    announced his destination as the 22nd level, and nearly toppled to
    the floor as the elevator swooped upwards toward the top of the
    tower.
          On the 22nd floor, he managed to find his way to Virginia
    Mergle's office, which was a large hardwood door with a sign that
    read "PERSONNEL." Beyond was a waiting room with a large
    information screen in a corner and seats all around. A computer
    voice said, "State your name and business," as soon as he entered.
    Dale spoke up in a nervous voice, and the computer acknowledged
    him and said, "Miss Mergle will see you in one minute, seventeen
    seconds." The information screen showed several different views of
    the campus, a scrolling list of job opportunities, and a
    documentary on keeping full sized whales in captivity.
          When the countdown to his appointment reached zero the door
    swung open by itself and the computer announced, "Miss Mergle will
    see you now." Dale stepped into the inner office and saw a
    smooth-skinned black haired woman reclining in a chair behind a
    huge desk. Her eyes were closed, and eight data cables trailed
    from her head like an octopus's tentacles. "Come in, Mr. Bently,"
    she said without opening her eyes. Her voice had an unpleasant,
    too-relaxed quality about it. Despite her clear enunciation, it
    sounded like she was talking in her sleep. "Please, sit down and
    relax."
          Dale sat but he didn't relax. "I'm here about a job teaching
    zero-gravity engineering."
          "We have an opening," Virginia said in her sleep-voice.
    "What are your qualifications?"
          "I have a degree in zero-gravity and low gravity engineering
    from the Tuleburg Institute of Technology, and ten years of
    practical experience with L5 Corp."
          "Yes," she said, her eyes still closed. "I am reviewing your
    records now."
          Dale swallowed, his throat dry. Silent seconds passed while
    data streamed in and out of the woman's brain. She breathed
    slowly, her breasts heaving up and down with dream-like calm.
          "You have no teaching credentials," she said finally.
          "I have practical experience, things that----"
          "You have no teaching experience, either. I'm sorry, but I
    can't give you any teaching position at all without a degree. I am
    searching for other employment possibilities now."
          Again, Dale found himself waiting silently and watching the
    woman's breasts ease up and then down again.
          "Your physical records indicate you would not be able to do
    any heavy labor. I'm sorry Mr. Bently, but I just don't have
    anything for you at all."
          Dale sighed, and stood up.
          "Mr. Bently, I'm curious. Your records indicate you have not
    been in any schooling nor work for years. Why the sudden interest
    in teaching? You could have spent all this time enrolled and
    getting your credentials."
          "I don't know. I haven't been feeling that well."
          "Your five year life evaluation has come up with the Census
    Bureau, hasn't it?"
          "Yes."
          "You need real help, Mr. Bently. Professional help. There
    are lawyers who specialize in life justification. I strongly
    advise you to see one."
          "Thank you."
          "I can recommend one in particular, if you like. His name is
    Vlad Breenwood. Here is his address and phone number." There was a
    whirring sound, and a piece of paper slipped out of a printer and
    into a tray.
          Thanking her once again, Dale took the paper and shuffled
    out of her office.

                                     #

          Vlad Breenwood worked out of a small office in a backwater
    corner of Tuleburg's 8 story shopping mall. Vlad was a balding man
    in his fifties with a plastic smile and a jerky, bird-like
    nervousness about him. But his voice was strong, and he quickly
    convinced Dale that he knew what he was talking about. "You've
    really backed yourself into a corner," Vlad was telling him.
    "Something inane like, 'I think therefor I am' is not going to
    wash with the Department of Life Evaluation, especially
    considering you've become a 40 year old shut in. What do you do
    with your time, anyway?"
          "I watch television."
          "Do you ever take notes?"
          "Notes?"
          "What kind of shows do you watch, anyway?"
          "Well, um, entertainment type shows----"
          "Like what? Give me some titles. What are your ten
    favorites, ones that you never miss?"
          "Oh, uh, Android Sluts, uh . . . Full Tilt, Onion Man,
    Goddesses of Lust, Zoo Keeper's Daughter----"
          "No docu-dramas? No historic recreations? No educational
    programming whatsoever?"
          ". . . no, I'm afraid not."
          "Do you have any hobbies? Do you build anything, like model
    trains or anything like that?"
          "No."
          "Do you watch birds, or keep an ant farm, or have a dog?"
          "No."
          "Nothing like that?"
          "No."
          "Do you pay anyone's bills besides your own? Are you
    supporting anyone?"
          "No."
          "Do you have any family whatsoever?"
          "No."
          Vlad shook his head, and got up and paced back and forth
    behind his desk. "We don't have a lot to work with, Dale."
          "I know."
          "There's only one chance. We're going to have to cheat."
          "How?"
          "I'm going to make something up for you, and write your
    essay for you. You're going to copy it down----"
          "But I thought that----"
          "Yes, it's true. They make you write it in your own
    handwriting so that a computer program can analyze it and
    determine if you're being truthful. That's the key, there, though:
    If you believe you're being truthful --- that is, if your
    subconscious believes you're telling the truth --- then you'll
    fool the computer program."
          "How am I going to believe?"
          "Well, it's tricky, and there's no absolute guarantee, but
    I've had people hypnotised into believing their justification
    essays and they've passed without a problem. But the important
    thing you have to do even before we begin this is make a solid
    commitment to become a honest, worthy citizen after we get you
    past your five-year evaluation. Do you understand?"
          "Yes."
          "Okay. I'll make the arrangements, you work on positive
    thinking. I'll call you at your home when I set up the appointment
    with the hypnotist. Okay?" They shook hands, and Dale left his
    office feeling much better.

                                     #

          Two days later, Dale was right in the middle of the newest
    episode of Wide Open Beavers in Mexico when his phone rang and
    Vlad announced that an appointment had been made. Dale quickly
    wrote down the details and hung up, rushing to get dressed and
    ready so he could make the next trolley at the station.
          It had been raining off and on that day, but at the moment
    the sun was shining through a hole in the clouds and the streets
    and sidewalks sparkled with water droplets. The world looked clean
    and fresh, and Dale took it as a good omen. It darkened again as
    he boarded the trolley, and was pouring down in god-awful torrents
    when he reached his destination. It was a small ground-level
    station on Harding Way, deep within the Old Town. Buildings of
    brick and concrete a hundred years old stood quietly crumbling
    amid the hustle and cries of street salesmen. Dale passed
    prostitutes who had current wires braided through their hair and
    into their scalp, and skinny teenage boys offering little bags of
    pale blue powder, a drug called "Carny" which was actually the
    processed spoor of some South American beetle. "It's like going to
    a circus!" one told Dale. An Asian man in a black coat stood in a
    doorway, watching him, and Dale realized the doorway belonged to
    the address where he was supposed to meet Vlad.
          "Hi," Dale said. "You work here?"
          "What's your name?" the man asked.
          "Dale."
          "Come inside." He opened the door and ushered him though.
    Dale was surprised, the inside looked like it had once been a
    church. There were pews and an alter, and discolored paint on the
    wall that marked where a huge cross used to hang. "You here to get
    a doodad installed?"
          "A doodad?" echoed Dale.
          "A pleasure interface." His eyes bore into Dale's own. "No?"
          "No. I was supposed to meet my lawyer----"
          "Okay! Sorry, my mistake. Right this way." He led Dale
    across the room and through another door. The room beyond was
    small, cluttered with piles of computer decks and peripherals, and
    had one large stained-glass window. In the corner was a chair with
    a skull cap attached, an old cerebral induction setup. "Take a
    seat, Vlad should be here any minute. I'll be right back." He left
    and closed the door behind him, leaving Dale alone. Dale shivered.
    It was cold and clammy, and smelled of mildew.
          He sat in the induction chair and waited. Twenty minutes
    went by, and Dale was just about ready to get up and leave when he
    heard laughing voices and footsteps approaching. The door opened
    and Vlad and the oriental man walked in, stifling their laughter.
    It gave Dale the impression that they were laughing about him.
    "Hey, Dale, are you ready?"
          "Yes."
          "Okay. Let's get started right now. Professor Aki here is
    going to put you in a simple Alpha trance and we're going to feed
    the essay into your subconscious. After we're sure it's firmly in
    your memory and your attitude toward it is very positive, you're
    going to write it out. I'll take it from there, and hand deliver
    it to the local Census office. And you've got a new start! Okay?
    Ready?"
          "Yes."
          "Okay. Aki, let's do it."
          Professor Aki adjusted the skull cap and then turned to a
    computer terminal. He hit a few buttons and suddenly, against his
    will, Dale felt himself relax. Consciousness dropped away like a
    stone falling down a deep, black well.
          Consciousness came back like a car slamming into a wall.
          Professor Aki was still at the terminal, and Vlad was
    standing in front of him folding a piece of paper and slipping it
    into an envelope. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" he said.
          "What?" said Dale.
          "It's over. I've got the essay, I'm about to run it down to
    the Census for you. Now all we have to do is settle the account,
    and you're on your way."
          "What was --- what did I write?"
          "You wrote a very convincing report about your independent
    study of the value of modern broadcast television. You plan on
    writing a book about it, warning the public of the dangers of
    video sedation."
          "I am?"
          "Don't worry, you don't actually have to write it. You just
    have to get involved in something worth while during the next five
    years."
          The amount of money Vlad wanted for his services was a
    surprise. It was over half of the money Dale had left in the bank,
    the interest of which Dale had been living on since the settlement
    with L5 Corp. In the end, though, Dale agreed that his life and
    citizenship was worth it, and he sealed the transaction with his
    thumb print.

                                     #

          Several days went by in a blur, and one afternoon during an
    interesting repeat of Sexual Deviancies of the Rich and Famous
    there was a knock on Dale's door. He turned down the sound and got
    up to look through the peep hole. Several people were standing
    outside, all in uniform. "Dale Bently, please open the door right
    now," one of them called out. It was a short, pretty black woman
    with her hair tucked up under her uniform cap. Her voice was very
    commanding and yet, at the same time, bored. It gave him the
    impression she did this all the time.
          "What do you want?" he called through the door.
          "It's very important that we talk to you."
          "About what?"
          His hesitation made her angry. "Look Mr. Bently, we have a
    Writ of Total Compliance and we'll burn through this door if we
    have to. Do you understand that? You open this door right now!"
          Dale opened the door. The black woman stepped quickly inside
    holding a piece of paper, immediately followed by three men and
    another woman holding clipboards. "By order of the Department of
    Judgement of the Census Bureau of the National Government you are
    hereby informed that you failed the justification test as defined
    by the United Order of Justification to Society, Articles IV
    through XV, and your citizenship is hereby revoked for the cause
    of conservation of energy and resources. Your property and assets
    are hereby seized for redistribution. You're ordered forthwith to
    surrender your physical existence in exchange for public social
    simulation." She took a breath. "You have three phone calls before
    we proceed. You can use them anytime between now and
    dissociation." She fell silent, waiting for him to say something,
    while the others went right to work writing out an inventory of
    his possessions.
          Dale said nothing.
          "Okay," she said. "You can take your phone calls later. Are
    you going to come quietly now or am I going to have to cuff you?"
          Dale erupted. "You can't do this! What gives you the right
    to come barging into my home telling me what----"
          She sprayed him in the face with a small aerosol can and
    Dale's throat closed. The world spun and he pitched over on his
    back, reeling, making sounds like a startled cow. When his sense
    began to work properly again he saw a black corrugated rubber mat
    about 2 inches from his face. Groaning, blinking his eyes to get
    them to focus better, he sat up and saw the back of a chair
    through a heavy screen, and the back of a head. A red sign on the
    screen read:

                        ELECTRIFIED - DO NOT TOUCH!

    He was in a police van, by the looks of it. His hands were firmly
    bound behind his back.
          The van bounced slightly as it sped down a city street, the
    engines making an eerie electric whining sound. I failed! Dale was
    thinking. I failed the test! How could this have happened, Vlad
    guaranteed I would pass! Then a dark thought occurred to him: Vlad
    could have guaranteed anything he wanted, because if he was wrong
    and Dale failed the evaluation --- which he did --- Dale was in no
    position to complain. For one thing, he was not a citizen anymore,
    which meant he had no rights, but even if he did he had broken the
    law. The Census agents would laugh at him.
          The van came to a stop and the rear door popped open and
    lifted. To Dale's surprise, a bound and staggering Professor Aki
    was thrown in, and the door dropped closed and locked with a loud
    thud. The "professor" --- if he actually was a professor --- lay
    face down and drooling on the mat. No doubt he'd been sprayed in
    the face with the same chemical they'd used on Dale.
    "Maaawwwnnpffk!" Aki said into the mat. "Yurrrrafffrekkkksssphk!"
          A half hour later, Vlad Breenwood, too, was thrown into the
    van. It appeared they had used more than the aerosol on him, as
    there was a singed hole in the back of his shirt and the burn
    marks of an electric stun gun. "You!" he said, after regaining
    consciousness. "You bastard!"
          "Me?" Dale said.
          "You bastard from hell! You data dump! I ought to kill you,
    you miserable cretin!"
          "Refrigerate, man," Aki said under his breath. "Freeze it."
          "To hell with you!" Vlad shouted at him.
          "Keep it down or you'll get another jolt," the agent in the
    driver's seat yelled back at Vlad.
          Vlad glanced at the driver, then backed down.
          "What are you yelling at me about?" Dale said angrily. "I'm
    here thanks to your bogus letter----"
          "Don't give me that you runty little rat-head! You turned me
    in!"
          "No I didn't! I didn't have the chance!"
          The driver stopped the van and turned around. "One more
    word, one little sound, and I jolt all of you. Keep your mouths
    shut."
          Vlad turned away, glaring at his own feet. Not a word was
    spoken during the remainder of the ride. When the van stopped, it
    was in front of the Pacific Avenue Euthanasia Center.
          Dale was separated from the other two and escorted to a
    white-walled room where an attendant strapped him into a bed while
    an armed guard stood by the door. When Dale was fully strapped
    down, the guard left. The attendant was a kind-looking young man
    in a white medical jump suit, with long, curly brown hair and warm
    brown eyes. He prepared a injection gun and gave Dale a smile.
          "So this is it," Dale said, his throat dry. "You're going to
    put me to sleep like a dog."
          "No, that's nonsense. Think positively about it. It's not
    death, it's transition."
          "It doesn't seem right."
          "Don't worry, I have a lot of relatives in simulation. I
    talk to them everyday. They say it's much better than reality. In
    simulation, there's no pain."
          "No pain." Dale was thoughtful.
          While he was distracted, the attendant took the opportunity
    to use the injector gun against Dale's neck, right into the
    jugular vein. Dale gasped, then lied there gritting his teeth. It
    hurt like hell.
          Consciousness dropped away like a stone falling down a dark,
    deep well.

                                     #

          There was a large living room, much larger than his old one.
    There was a big, comfortable reclining chair, and a TV screen that
    took up a whole wall. There was no kitchen, though, and no bath
    room, and no bedroom. This was because Dale no longer needed any
    of them.
          "The absolute necessity of conserving energy and resources
    forced society into some harsh decisions," his orientation
    counselor, Marilyn, had told him. "It was either outright
    genocide, or relocation of a large percentage of the population
    into simulation. As you know, it takes about 1/10,000th the energy
    and resources to support a person in simulation than it does in
    the outside 'reality.' No offense meant, but it was quite obvious
    to the Census Bureau that your lifestyle could easily be simulated
    --- and so, here you are. Your personality and memories recorded
    and kept alive in a computer simulated world." Which was fine with
    Dale, since all the latest TV shows were piped in directly, just
    like in real life.
          Dale also found out he had been monitored by the Census
    Bureau ever since his accident, and that had been used by the
    Census to setup and catch Vlad and Professor Aki. Virginia Mergle,
    the woman who had sent Dale to Vlad, had done so at the request of
    the Bureau. "What ever happened to Vlad and the Professor,
    anyway?" Dale had asked. Marilyn had told him that they were doing
    time, right there in the same computer, in a simulated jail.
          There is justice in this world, Dale thought, changing the
    channel on his simulated TV.
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