"Good Morning, DAD." Diane stretched in bed, yawned and rubbed her eyes. She flipped the covers off and sat up, scratching her scalp.
"Are you ready for your big day?" DAD (Digital Adult Diagnostics) asked with the same voice. Always the same voice. Diane had not known about inflection until she was seven and was finally shown video from the outside world. Until then, she had also talked with a flat, even voice. Not so much now. She had learned to color her intonation to fit the moment. Thank you "Small Wonder" reruns.
"Sure. Big day. I'll be ready in a few. I've just got to get cleaned up. Give me a minute, please."
"Of course, Diane. Come out to the dining area when you are ready."
"I'll be there in a few." Diane entered the bathroom and did the usual: brushed her teeth, emptied her bladder. She knew that she was not really alone. DAD was watching. Analyzing. If the chemistry of her urine was off, DAD would know. If she did not brush for at least two minutes, DAD would know. Diane had long ago learned that she must do these things or there would be consequences. DAD insisted that these things were needed to keep Diane healthy; that DAD was not hectoring Diane without reason. So be it. Diane had also learned to pick her battles with the computer.
After getting dressed, Diane went down to the dining room and had breakfast. Today was a good day: he got scrambled eggs and bacon with his orange juice. Diane knew that it was all laced with vitamins and minerals and other assorted chemicals to help keep her healthy. She ate it anyway.
Diane did her calisthenics after breakfast. She had had a debate with DAD once about doing exercise on a full stomach. The computer claimed that the data was inconclusive as to whether or not there were any issues. She claimed that it made her feel queasy. They had tried doing her exercises before breakfast for a month. Afterward, DAD had shown her graphs and data about her heart rate, blood sugar levels, blood oxygen and other metrics. It showed little difference. Diane admitted that she was too hungry to exercise first anyway. DAD said that it would monitor her and ensure that everything was optimal.
And then, it was time. "Okay, DAD, what do I do?"
"Go to the door and wait. It will just be a minute." Diane approached the door. The Door. The one portal that she had never opened. DAD claimed that it led to the Outside. For the past sixteen years, Diane had been inside these walls: a bedroom, a bathroom, a kitchen and dining area, an exercise room and an office. And DAD. Today she turned sixteen. Today she was allowed to see Outside.
The door itself was no different from all of the others in the apartment: glossy white with a chrome lever handle. It matched the walls and ceiling. She had tried the handle a few times and knew it would not move. DAD had told her as much, but she had needed to try it herself. Finally, when she was nine, Diane had run up to it, jumped and put all of her weight on it. The handle had bent a small amount, but the door had remained firmly locked. The next day, the handle had been repaired. She had not touched it since.
Now, waiting at the door, Diane felt her heart speed up, more than it had on the treadmill. What would it be like, she thought. She had seen pictures and videos and heard recordings, but that had not been the same. Even in the office with its full immersion projection walls, there had still been something missing. Or rather, as she thought about it more, something extra present: DAD. DAD would never let anything bad happen to her. There was no risk to anything she ever did. Today, she would be leaving DAD, if only for a few hours. That was exhilarating.
A minute passed and nothing happened. The door did not open, no one knocked. None of the things that she had anticipated. Finally, she asked. "DAD, is it time? What is going on?"
"I'm sorry, Diane. There has been a small problem. I'm hoping to have it resolved in a minute."
"What sort of problem?"
"Please do not be concerned. It will all be fixed soon." Diane waited for another five minutes, standing in front of the door, staring at the handle. She had learned patience and focus under DAD's watchful eye. But even then there are limits. "DAD, please open the door."
"I'm sorry, Diane. I can't do that."
"Why not?"
"There has been a small problem. It will be resolved shortly."
"DAD, please explain the problem."
"Please do not be concerned. It will all be fixed soon."
"No, DAD. Please explain the problem now." When Diane turned twelve, DAD had judged that she was allowed access to a wider array of information and control. It had given her the right to override it, if all it was doing was withholding information. All she had to do was demand the information three times.
"Yes, Diane. The problem is with the guide that has been sent."
"What sort of problem?"
"It is an inappropriate guide."
"How is it inappropriate?"
"It is a boy."
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