The Year's Best Science Fiction 9

CONFESSIONS OF THE FIRST NUMBER Cliff Owsley

It was inevitable. Sooner or later somebody had to be picked for the rare honor of being the first to give up his name for a digit. The first, that is, outside of regular prisons. My number (or name, as I’ve come to call it) is now 420 03 2557. My first number is 420, not much different from a three-syllable name such as Adelbert. The middle name or initial is 03, no more difficult than any two-syllable name, say Jasper. And the last or surnumber is 2557, no more unwieldy than a name such as Vanlandingham.

As I said, rather well I thought, at the announcement ceremony, “I am honored to be the first person to orbit into the outer space of numerical security.” That pleased the man there from the new agency in Washington handling the conversion, the National Agency for Numerical Security (NANS).

At first I didn’t want to give up my name, though it was not anything special except perhaps to me. Still, it was mine and I had been known by it for a number of years. I rather liked it. Yet most of those I deal with apparently had me down as a number anyway. Reluctantly I agreed, after the mayor of our town kept telling me I would be a pioneer, the first into a new age, and in that way would achieve a certain distinction. Something like the first man into space.

Out of some twenty numbers I had to deal with, including the latest, my ZIP code, it was finally decided that my social security number would be best. It was one of the longest and could eventually absorb the others. Besides, the Internal Revenue Service was already calling me by that number, which made it feel warm and familiar.

So they had this big ceremony. The mayor and other local dignitaries and friends were there along with the man from Washington. He made a speech about how practical and humanitarian it would be for everyone to have a number instead of a name. It would promote mass efficiency and true democracy and equality, he said; then no one would have a distinctive name nor a particularly poor one. He said, too, that it would raise the morale of all those in regular prisons since they would no longer feel discriminated against. I felt better after his speech.

Everyone congratulated me and kept calling me 420, or Mr. 2557, or just plain “4” (my nicknumber). After a while it began to sound natural. Reporters were there with a lot of questions.

“What do you really think of being a number instead of a name?” one reporter asked.

What do I think?! Why should I think? Let the computers do the thinking.

—420 03 2557.

(Formerly Cliff Owsley)