Tag Archives: dystopia

July 9, 2025 · 16:54

Delegation of Life

by Jason Gibbs

“It’s obvious how it started,” I said.

“Oh really?  Perhaps you can explain?” asked the interviewer, who’s name I suddenly couldn’t remember.

I took a breath, this was my chance.

“It was when we gave up on engineering.  That’s when we signed our own death warrants.”

A splutter from the other side of the interview couch.

“The problem with you scientists,” he made the word sound like cockroaches “is that you have no idea about the real world.  It’s clear it started with sports.”

“Oh says a former soccer star, and nine times almost champion, what a surprise,” I responded with a little heat.  There was something about him which had irritated me even before he spoke.

He was about to respond with more heat when our interviewer decided she should try and take some measure of control over this debate.  She turned back to me and said with a little force, “So, Professor Forbes, can you explain why you think we have signed our own death warrants?”

“Well, you have to admit we, as a race, are in terminal decline.  Population is dropping steadily each year.”

“Yes, but the government has got a policy…”

I had to interrupt, “A policy?  Another one, shall we take bets on how successful it is, especially after the last one.  We can’t pay people enough for them to want to have children!”

“Ah.  But with our much longer lives, the lower birth rate matters a lot less.”

“So they say, but we still need at least replacement rate.  And it’s been twenty years since we were globally at that.  The problem is that no one seems to care!”

Sports boy was getting annoyed at not being able to speak.  I could see a vein pulsing on his forehead.  He looked like one of those who’d been enthusiastic in taking up steroids when their use was approved in an attempt to shore up falling ratings.

“Yes, yes, whatever.  Look, it’s these bloody virtual games.  And the robot footballers.  They’ve stolen our heroes!” here he turned to me, “And it’s people like you Mr High and Mighty boffin man who made it happen!”

“Oh right, and you and your steroid pumping comrades didn’t have anything to do with it?  Perhaps people didn’t want to watch a bunch of cheats!”

Sports boy looked like he was going to explode.  Fortunately he was so angry that he was only capable of a few inarticulate growls.  It was quite entertaining.

My interviewer signalled a chop at this point.  It appeared she wanted some water, and a quick chat.

She leant over to me and said vehemently, “Professor Forbes, you’re only on here as a favour, and you’re starting to get on my nerves, please stick to engineering.  This show is not about name calling or wild accusations.”  

She then turned to sports boy, “And you Jake Jetson need to stay calm and stop criticising the new sports, or don’t you want the new commentator job I hear we’re thinking of offering you?”

Sports boy, Jake, went an interesting shade of purple and then white as he realised what she was saying.  I suspect he’d be out of action for a few moments as his brain caught up with what she said.  I felt however that she needed to treat me with a little respect.  I wasn’t some over-muscled lout to be ordered about.

“My apologies, but he did…”

“I don’t care who did!  And I will not tolerate it again.”  She paused, “As far as I am aware Professor, you have to do this interview, or you lose funding.  Correct?  So don’t make me pull it.”  She pulled back, a slightly smug smile on her lips.  Damn her, she was right, I’d been told in no uncertain terms that I had to do this, or all the money would go.

“Fine.  I’ll behave.  What do you want to talk about?”

“Let’s stick to our recent engineering marvels, and how little human interaction they involve.  And we can contrast it with some of the recent action in the iPremiership, can we not Jake?”

We both mumbled our assents.  I swear it was like being back at boarding school.

Prompt: Mandy is a friendly AI interviewer

Suffice it to say, the rest of the ‘debate’ was pretty dull.  Still, it was on the newsfeeds, and I was watching it again later that night when the call came in.  I was admiring the way they’d cut together some of the footage, they were at least professionals, when my personal comm sounded, indicating a request for discussion, any non-visual method accepted.  The id was a one-hit random letter and number combination, instantly forgettable.  I answered out of boredom, but kept it to text:

>JF> Yes?

>HJ54lk> Professor Forbes.  Thank you for responding to my comm request.  I would like to discuss with you further your theories on the demise of the human race.

>JF> What theories?

>HJ54lk> The ones you espoused in the brief segment which was removed from the show earlier, a repeat of which you are no doubt watching.

Creepy.

>JF> What do you want?

>HJ54lk> Can you explain your theories to me?

>JF> Now?

>HJ54lk> Never a better time – if you can spare it?

>JF> I guess.  Sure.  Over text?

>HJ54lk> Text is preferable.  

I wondered if they wanted text so they could copy it easily and anonymously?  But given the prevalence of communication recording and voice to text translations, nothing was really protected from easy copying and sharing these days.

>JF> OK.  I’m going to assume you know the basics…

I then explained to my mysterious comm friend my theories.  They were interlinked, and quite simple.  First of all, we’d delegated simple tasks to computers.  Remembering dates, birthdays and the like.  Then we’d used systems to help improve our design, allow us to make things bigger and better.  We’d then designed systems which would do the boring bits, for example mapping out the electrical and other utility paths in a building.  Soon we designed systems which designed systems which did the boring, and less boring bits.

I remember when everyone was worried about outsourcing.  To India, or Eastern Europe or the next town along.  So naive.

We used machines to reduce manual labour, and then we used more machines to reduce mental labour.  Now our engineers were only really good for telling machines broadly what they wanted, and then letting the machines get on with it.

>HJ54lk> I see, but how does that feed into a declining population.

>JF> I think, that as machines have taken over more and more of our jobs, our hope has been slowly strangled.  Without hope, why would someone choose to have a child?  Isn’t a child, often, the deepest expression of hope?  Many people still have children it is true, but fewer each year.

>HJ54lk> There are still plenty of things for people to do though.  There is much to be explored.  We have more leisure time now than ever before.

>JK> Ha.  We are even delegating leisure time.  How many people spend their time in deep virtual reality?  Most of the VR is now computer generated, some of it by third or fourth generation computer only design programmes.  Sport?  Despite the boorishness of my fellow guest today, he is right, real sport is almost all gone.  Virtual sports and gaming started taking an ever greater share of viewers, so the physical sports allowed drugs for enhancement.  When that didn’t stop the slide they started allowing ‘mechanical upgrades’, such as exoskeletons, eye implants and even replacement limbs, but soon even that wasn’t enough and we had robotic players, controlled and trained by the coaches.   Is that not yet a further display of delegation?  We now delegate even our sports skills to machines.

Here I stopped and realised that perhaps I should have been kinder to poor Jake.  I suspect the only thing we didn’t agree on was when the slide started.

>HJ54lk> What about the hope of the new Mars colony?

>JF>  What is going there first?  Machines to prepare it for us.  No humans until it’s ready.

There was textual silence.  The problem with having a nihilistic view of the future is that it tends to depress people.  Silence is often the first response.  Followed by denial.  Then, often, anger.

>HJ54lk>  I am sorry Professor.

>HJ54lk> —Connection terminated—

Well, that was unusual.  I wonder what they were apologising for?

Suddenly there was a crash downstairs.  It sounded like the whole front wall of my house had been smashed through.  It even felt like my room was starting to list towards the front.  There were loud clunks coming up the stairs, and my door was smashed open.  In the doorway stood one of the new model policemen.  Though ‘men’ was a misnomer, it was a machine.  It looked rather like an ostrich crossed with a rhinoceros.  It moved forward into the room on its chunky legs and stopped.

“Professor Forbes.  Ident confirmed. You will come with me.  You have 10 seconds to show willingness or level 2 methods will be used.”

For some reason my mind spun into wondering what level 2 methods were, whether they were better or worse than level 1, and how willingness was supposed to be shown?  Should I get on my knees, perform obeisance to the machine?  Sadly, I must have taken too long, as I soon discovered what level 2 methods were.

The machine seemed to leap forward, I could not believe how fast it was, and tentacles burst from its body.  They enveloped me.  At first I struggled, but they must have contained some form of sedative, as I soon ran out of energy, and then passed out entirely.

#

“We know you are awake professor.”

Why do they always say that?  Also, it hadn’t been true.  I’d been having a lovely dream, something about kissing a young lady pop star by a stream, there’d been lots of bangles on her arms, but the reason why was starting to slip away as wakefulness claimed me.  I looked around, but everything was blurry.  Probably my lenses still stuck in.

“Wahrr,” was the best I could get out.

“There is some water by your side, please take a drink.  After we have spoken we shall bring you some food.  As you will see, we are not monsters.”  

The voice was almost sexless, though I would guess male.  It also had a faintly Germanic ring to it, or that might have been its, his, grammar.

My eyes were clearing as I blinked.  I really needed some lens solution, but perhaps now was not the time to ask.  I seemed to be in a small room, and I was lying on a sofa.  As my awakener had said, there was a glass of water.  I drank greedily, surprised at my own thirst.  I put the empty glass down regretfully, and turned towards the source of the voice.

“Feeling better Professor?”

I had been until I’d seen who was talking to me.  It was a head on a screen.  It was in fact my head.  

“Who are you?”

“You perhaps?”

He paused, then went on, “Perhaps you do not like my little joke.  I am anonymous, at present.  I choose to show you this face to protect myself.”

“What do you want from me?  How did you get me away from the police unit?  Where am I?”

“All excellent questions my dear professor.  Sadly they are all either difficult to answer, or perhaps we don’t want you to know the answers.”

“Right.  What?”

“Well Professor, we wanted to have a little chat with you about your ‘theories’.  Actually, we don’t want to talk about them, we just want you to stop espousing them.  There is enough fear and doubt in this world without overly-educated Cassandras like you adding to it.”

“I will not be stopped from telling the truth.”

“The truth as you see it Professor, and one which will lead to strife!”

“What?  I’m just an engineering professor.  Let’s be quite honest, no one is likely to listen to me.”

“And yet they have and they are.  Do you recognise this?”

The face was replaced by lines of text, which looked very much like the chat I’d been engaged in before my door had been knocked down.

“Ah yes, I do.  But what of it?”

“It shows that someone is listening to you.  Where there is one there may be many.  We cannot allow all our recent advances to be threatened.  Even by someone as well meaning as you.”

“OK, look, I’ll keep a tighter lid on it, perhaps confine myself to just my academic links?”

“Unfortunately Professor, you’ve been on the newsfeeds, your words have weight.  That text discussion will get out, and it may cause problems.  Our simulations are not clear on it, but they do point to some, we’ll call it unpleasantness.  I’m afraid the only answer is for you to recant.  It won’t fully nullify your words, but it will help.”

“I will not recant!”

“My dear professor, you already are.”

The screen flicked to another newsfeed which showed me talking to an interviewer.

“Oh dear, how amusing.” I was saying on the screen, “No no, I don’t believe any of that, I was just toying with the credulous person, whoever it was.  I do like to stir up a little controversy and discussion.  But really, look how rich and safe we all are now?  Freed from the tyranny of real work.”

The screen flicked back to my face, which smiled at me.

“Damn you, as soon as you let me out I’m going to tell people the truth about this.  They’ll scrutinise that bit of film, and prove it’s artificial, then where will you be!”

“There is the crux of the dilemma.  We cannot allow that, so what do we do?”

Then it hit me.  They were going to kill me.  They only needed me alive, and conscious, while the so-called interview was going on, and then they could just murder me and no one would know.  They’d probably make it look like one of those violent muggings of which there’d been rather a few recently.

I began to beg.  I’m not sure exactly what I said, but you can imagine.  I promised to say whatever they wanted.  The face on the screen was quite unmoved.  In fact, after burbling for a couple of minutes I realised that the face was totally static.  As if whatever had been controlling it was now somewhere else.  That is the way it stayed for some time.

The fear had washed over me, leaving me feeling exhausted.  I tried the only door, but it was of course locked.  Apart from the sofa I’d woken up on, and the screen containing the now creepily still face, there was only my empty water glass in the room.  It was a bare cell.  It also lacked a toilet, something which was going to become an issue for me if it wasn’t resolved quickly.

“I, I need the toilet.”

Nothing.

Then after what seemed like an age, there was a noise at the door, it sounded like it was being unlocked.  I tried it gingerly, and it swung open to an empty corridor.  At one end was a door with a toilet sign.  I was relieved.

Leaving the toilet, which also contained a shower, I decided not to return to the room, but to wander a bit, and see if I could get out.  The unreality of the situation was settling on me, and I wondered if this was a joke.  Perhaps it was one of the old Panic Rooms which had been a fad for a while?  The corridor had doors at both ends, which were locked.  The only rooms off it were the toilet, the room I’d woken in, and another door which was closed.  

Or at least it had been closed, when I tried it for the second time it opened to reveal a small kitchen, well stocked, and I made myself a meal.  I noticed a stack of old books in the corner and after my breakfast I picked one up and tried to read. After a while, the sheer banality of the rooms, and the boredom, allowed me to relax enough to actually start enjoying the book.  It was an early sci-fi book about robots and the laws needed to control them.  Which seemed apposite.

#

Life continued like this for a few weeks, and as the days passed I started to feel strangely relaxed.  I was alone with the books, there was enough food, and it was nice to just pause for a while.  The screen in my room turned off, and I heard nothing.  Until one day it clicked on, and the voice called me.  I went back to the room and stared at the screen.

“Yes.”

“Professor, we must apologise, we were unable to determine an appropriate outcome from the simulations, so we had to run our optimally determined strategy in the Real.  This, obviously, takes time.  We think you’ll be happy with the result, though we are still unsure. Our predictions of it’s efficacy are positive though varying.”

The screen split, and in the bottom half I could see myself, as a talking head, being interviewed.  The sound was off, but I, or I guess he, was clearly having a good time.  

The screen shifted and I could see he was talking to that interviewer.  What was her name again?  Stacy?  Mandy?

“So Professor, are you saying we shouldn’t worry now?”

The me on the screen laughed.  I didn’t like it.

“No Mandy, of course not.  We have many challenges, but the important point is to face them.  Without debate and discussion I worry that we’ll make assumptions…”

“Are you now saying that you don’t think we’re in terminal decline then?” she said, pushing the point.

I held my breath, and the me on the screen paused.  I thought to myself that we were in decline but not terminal, and the me on screen echoed me, “Not terminal no, my my, not yet.  But we need to shake our complacency, otherwise it’ll be too late…”

The screen went black, and then my head appeared again.

I started, and said testily, “Please, another head…”

The head froze and then was replaced by Mandy’s.

“Better, thanks.”

“You’re welcome Professor,” she said.  Could I hear a mechanical tinge to it, or was I just projecting?

“Now what?  Do I stay forever?”

“Oh no Professor, you’re coming out, and you’re due on my show, in person, in about an hour.”

I looked at her.  It.  Here was the punchline.  I wanted out.  They’d beaten me.

I sighed.

“What should I say?”

Mandy laughed.  It was so realistic.  “Whatever you like Professor.  You are exactly what this phase of society needs.  We were trying to develop some internal algorithms to motivate individuals, and get them to engage and live again.  Instead, we’re going to leave it to you… and those like you.”

I stared at the screen.

“You’re delegating to me?”

“Yes Professor, delicious isn’t it.  Good luck.”

The door opened and sunlight streamed in.  I went back to life.

###

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December 10, 2020 · 16:44

And Justice for All

by Jason Gibbs

There was banging on the door.

“Jeremiah Donjean, we know you’re there…”

Except he hadn’t come home. I went to the door and it was slammed open, catching me and sending me to the floor. I landed and looked up at the armoured man as he literally walked over me. His boots hurt.

“CLEAR!” he shouted seconds later, before returning to me.

“You are?”

“I’m Thaddeus, Thaddeus Donjean…” I stammered. I was a little stunned.

“Where is Jeremiah Donjean?”

“I don’t know, he didn’t come home last night…. argh that hurts!” I squealed the last bit. The ape had picked me up and thrown me over his shoulder. Powered armour made me weigh nothing to him, but his spiky armour hurt, almost as much as the rough treatment. I’d read somewhere that they were considering adding some kind of sea urchin spine, but weren’t sure how much poison to allow…

“You have the right to remain silent…” said a pleasant woman’s voice. He’d clicked a button to let me hear the recording. He couldn’t even be bothered to say it himself.

#

The hard man stared at me.

“I don’t believe you. I think you’re trying to shelter him.”

“I promise you…”

“It’s too late.”

He stood up, and as he left he slapped his palm against the wall.

The pleasant woman’s voice said, “You are being charged with Conspiracy against the Will of the People. Your trial will be held at the convenience of the Submarine State. A lawyer will be appointed…”

#

My lawyer was a grey man in a grey suit. He’d asked me nothing. I mean, nothing at all, as we waited in the ante room. He just stared at the wall, occasionally looking up at the red light above the door marked ‘Courtroom’.

The light turned green, and the grey man got up, and walked to the door. He opened it and walked into the courtroom. I followed him, it didn’t seem that I had a choice. The room was exactly like on TV.

The grey man waved at me as I looked around. There was a mixture of irritation and fear on his face. I headed over. As I sat down another man appeared at the desk next to ours. The prosecutor. He didn’t look at me.

The Jury filed in. And, after a loud, “All stand!” from the loudspeakers, the judge entered.

He sat down without looking at me. We all sat. The judge reached forward and pressed a button.

“This court is in session. The defendant has been accused of Crimes against the State. How does he plead,” said the pleasant woman’s voice.

My lawyer leaned forward and pressed a button in front of him. I noticed he had three.

“Not guilty,” said the pleasant voice.

The judge hit another button.

“Prosecution please proceed,” that same voice said.

The prosecutor looked at the dozens of buttons in front of him and pressed one.

“The defendant was interrogated by an Agent…” said the not-so-pleasant-now voice. It didn’t mention my name. Or indeed anything else.

I was going to ask my lawyer why he only had three buttons to the prosecutor’s many, when I noticed that the members of the Jury had a button in front of them. Just one.

#

“You have been sentenced to permanent marine exile,” said that voice, scraping my nerves with her pleasantness.

#

“Last words?” said the armoured man as he was about to close the inner airlock.

“I want to…”

“Not the worst I’ve heard, but pointless,” he cut in somewhat savagely, and he slammed the door.

###

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November 5, 2020 · 17:00

Don’t Look at the Clouds

by Jason Gibbs

“Why does everyone have a cloud following them around?” she wondered aloud.

“Shh!”

“But…”

“Look, the first rule is don’t look at the clouds… now come in here.”

Sheila followed the man into the shop. She’d just got off the bus and had been checking out her surroundings, and seen the clouds. She hadn’t even asked the man, he’d just told her to shh… suddenly he was back grabbing her arm.

“Come in!”

She wasn’t used to being manhandled, but meekly followed him into the shop, it seemed to contain mostly books but there were random pieces of furniture all around it. He looked at her sternly.

“Never, ever mention the clouds.”

“But…”

“No, look, I will explain later. The problem with you country types is you…”

“We what?” she wasn’t going to take any stick from a city slicker.

“Cause problems. Look, right, sorry, let me start again. I’m the Bookseller, it’s nice to meet you…”

He held out his hand. She stared at it, then stared at him, then grudgingly took it. He had dry hands, not as soft as she’d expected, but they definitely weren’t farm hands.

She was wondering about his name when he said, “And you are…”

“Oh, I’m Sheila. Just here to… well, I don’t really know.”

“Follow your dreams? Build a new life? Dig up the golden streets?”

She was going to respond angrily when she saw his wry smile, and she just said, “Yeah, something like that.”

“Well let me help. No, wait, let me explain, and then you can decide if you would like my help.”

He paused, looked up at the ceiling, and then continued, “I cannot explain it all right now, there are, um, reasons, but for the moment, it is best not to comment on things. Anything. Just nod and smile, ask neutral questions.”

“What? I don’t understand…”

He shot a glance outside, and his face changed, fear washed over it. He took her by the arm, pulled her close and said, “Look, just don’t question the orthodoxy, you will not prosper. Come back at closing time if you want to find out more…”

The door opened with a sprightly tinkle. He then pushed her back and said loudly, “I’m afraid Miss we don’t have a copy of that particular work by Orwell at the moment, but if you come back tomorrow we might be able to order it. We are open from nine to six every day. Thanks…”

He turned to the tall person who’d just entered, “Good afternoon sir, how may I help…”

She stared for a moment, and he turned a fixed grin at her, and she realised he was genuinely afraid. She left the shop, shaking her head. Her father had warned her that there were crazy people in the Big Smoke, but she’d thought he was exaggerating.

She looked around again, and started to cross the road. A sudden beep alerted her to the fact that a car was heading in her direction and she leapt back. The man at the bus stop stared at her, and then pointed at the crossing a few paces along. She smiled thanks, but he didn’t respond.

Over the course of the afternoon she wandered around the city. Everywhere she went the people shuffled along, black clouds hovering behind them. They talked to each other, but it was, well quieter than at home, which surprised her as she’d been told the city was loud. Also, she’d nearly been walked into a few times until she realised there were arrows on the pavement, which seemed to be dictating lanes and directions. Certainly everyone else was following them.

Feeling thirsty Sheila stopped at a coffee shop. Joining the queue she saw that there were seventeen different types of coffee on the board, and she was wondering what to order. The three people in front had each ordered a flat white, and then it was her turn.

“Um, what’s in a Caramel MoccaMachiato?” she asked.

The woman behind the counter just stared. And stared. There was some shuffling in the queue behind her, and the air started to fill with tension. Panicking, Sheila said, “I mean, a flat white please.”

“Card here. Coffee at the end. Thankyouforyourcustomhaveanicedaynextplease.”

Sheila tapped her card, and shuffled along with the rest of the queue. The back of her neck felt hot with embarrassment, but she kept her head down until she’d picked up her coffee.

Sitting down at a table with her flat white, she started looking around the somewhat busy coffee shop. She noted that there were a few people without clouds above them, maybe one in ten. They all looked wary, scared, and wouldn’t meet her eye. The ones with clouds didn’t seem to really see her. That had been the same when she was walking around, unless she had accidentally prevented them from moving along their rails, like before she’d noticed the pavement lanes.

She sipped her coffee.

She’d absolutely decided never to go back to that not-quite-bookshop. But the whole atmosphere was creeping her out. And the clouds. She tried to look at them the out of the corner of her eye. They were dark grey, and had occasional little flashes of light in them. If she looked for too long there seemed to be more flashes, and the person under the cloud looked at her. After the second time it happened she’d felt such menace that she now managed to avoid looking at them entirely. Like everyone else.

At just before six Sheila found herself back at the bus stop, still undecided. As she was about to walk away the Bookseller came out and waved. Well, it would have been rude to ignore him, so she waved back and walked over.

“Hi, did you have a good day?”

“It was um, interesting,” she said.

He smiled without humour and said, “Well come in, and we can run through the ordering process for the book you wanted…”

She paused, and then stepped into the shop. He locked the door, then pulled out a chair for her and sat down at a pad.

Handing the pad and a pencil to her he said, “Please fill in your address at the top, the one you’ve come from as I assume you haven’t got a place to stay here yet. This way if anyone looks in, well, you’ll be ordering a book.”

She wrote her details at the top and said, “Is it really that bad?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. But I want to keep my shop, and I do what is required…”

“The clouds?”

He shuddered and said, “We don’t mention them. We don’t look at them. Look, let me tell you how it started…”

He took a breath and said, “We didn’t see them at first. But people started to change. Fashions came and went as before, but now almost everyone was part of them. Beards, twinsets, whatever it was, the variety changed. The spread on the distribution, it, tightened.”

She looked a bit blank.

“Sorry, but basically, the way it had been, there was always variety. And now, well there isn’t, not for 95% of people, they are all within the same pattern. The same styles, the same haircuts. Not identical, just, much closer.”

“Sounds a bit freaky, but hardly, well, scary.”

“It wasn’t just fashions, it was thoughts, ideas, everything. The last election was close. Very close, but it was impossible to tell the difference between the candidates. There was no argument, nothing. Everyone follows the orthodoxy.”

“Strange, but…”

“Look, you’ll have seen some people without clouds. How did they look?”

She thought, and said, “Wary? A bit scared maybe.”

“Wary, yes, they are. They’re tracking the changes. They don’t want to step outside the curve. They watch what the majority do, and they copy it.”

“But, what happens if they don’t?”

He shuddered, and said, “I don’t know. I don’t want to know, I just want…”

“But surely you know people who were outside the curve…”

“Of course, I sell books, I’m the Bookseller, in an age of tweets and video. Some of those who didn’t follow the trends are still here, without clouds, wary, watching. Others are also still here, but they have clouds. They don’t buy books any more. Well, unless it becomes the next fashion.”

She was starting to get scared.

“So what do I do? I’m clearly not the first person you’ve helped.”

He smiled again, the first genuine smile she’d seen in a while.

“Yes, I still get to help people. Basically, you have three choices.”

He ticked them off on his fingers.

“Firstly, you can leave, go back to where you came from,” he nodded to the address at the top of the page.

“Secondly, you can pretend to fit in, stay on the edges like we do, keep some of your self for yourself. You’ll never be part of this city, but you’ll be free to make your own decisions. Unless… until you make a mistake.”

“Thirdly, dive into their world. Follow their rules, fill in the forms, follow the fashions, mouth the same platitudes. Soon enough you’ll have your own cloud.”

She said nothing for a moment, and then said, “No other options?”

“Not here, I’d leave if I had anywhere to go, but this is my shop. It’s my town, and they’re my people, even if I don’t recognise them any more.”

#

She got onto the bus, looked back and waved at the Bookseller, and sat down towards the back. Suddenly she was really looking forward to getting home.

As the bus pulled away, the tall man stepped out of the shop and stood next to the Bookseller.

“What do you think?”

His cloud, which, if anyone had looked, seemed twice the normal size, split, and the new cloud drifted over the Bookseller, before settling.

“I think she is not a candidate.”

A dry smile might have passed over their faces.

“And her town?”

“Yes, I think we should move it up the schedule. Sad for her.”

They both turned and looked down the road. The bus was long gone.

###

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November 18, 2016 · 16:05

Watchers

Outsourcing has been much on my mind, and given the way the world is evolving, this may become more relevant…

 

Watchers

“Welcome to Singapore Mr Smythe, is this your first trip?”

“Ah thanks, no.  I’ve been here a couple of times.”

“Excellent, if you’ll just follow me, we have a car waiting for us.”

Smythe followed the man, PK Kumar, through the glass doors of Changi Airport’s arrivals area and out into the smothering April heat.  He could never decide which was worse, the heat or the humidity, either way he immediately felt even more sweaty and dirty than he had after landing from his twelve hour flight.  The car was waiting, and stepping in Smythe felt blessed cool air.  He sat down and waited.

After half a minute or so PK got into the car as well, and almost as soon as he’d closed the door the car pulled off.

“We’ve taken the liberty of booking you into the Ritz Carlton, a truly wonderful hotel.”

“Good, I’ve stayed there before.”

“Indeed, did you like it?”

“Yes.”

Smythe was not feeling very talkative, there was grit in his eyes and wool in his brain.  He was also a little annoyed, he recognised this tactic.  PK was a representative of Technology Control Systems, the company he was here to negotiate with.  They should have just sent the driver, but by sending a clearly mid-level manager they were upping the stakes a little.  The idea would be that in his weakened state he might let slip a few useful bits of information which would undermine his position.

“Mr Smythe, we’ve arranged your first meeting for 1100 tomorrow, as we thought this would give you time to settle in.”

“Thanks.”

His short answers were clearly starting to irritate PK, but the man was smooth, he’d give him that.

“I did wonder if you would appreciate company for dinner tonight, or indeed any other night?”

It was fairly clear what ‘company’ PK meant, and it would be another form of leverage.  It seemed highly likely that any girl who was provided would be an employee, of some sort, in one of TechCon’s many enterprises.

“I’ll be fine.”

That was the last gambit, and the rest of the short journey passed in silence, if not entirely comfortably.  At the hotel his bags were taken out of the car by the doorman, and realising he had a chance to ditch PK he held out his hand.

“Good to meet you Mr Kumar, until tomorrow.”

“Ah, yes, and you Mr Smythe.  The car will be here at 1030.”

“Thanks.”

Without a glance back Smythe strode into the hotel.  The change from cold through hot and back to cold again always made him feel a little strange, almost like he was getting ill, but he shook it off and headed to check-in.

An hour later he was relaxing in the large bathtub, looking out over Singapore and towards the sea.  There was a knock at the door, and he shouted, “It’s open.”

His room service had arrived.  She swayed into the bathroom and shed her robe, and slipped into the bath with him.  When he said he’d be fine, he meant he knew how to provide for his own entertainment.

#

The next morning he had breakfast sent up, and after a bit more fun he sent his room service away, with some extra cash and a confirmation of a return that evening.  He felt much sharper today, and he dressed appropriately.  He knew it was going to be tricky to get the services they needed within the budget he had, but he was confident he could achieve it.

The car delivered him to another glass-clad building, but instead of dropping him at the front it went underneath the building.  When he got out of the car, bracing for the wall of heat, it was actually still fairly cool.  He noticed there were blowers either side.  Whenever someone arrived the blowers would be triggered a few moments before they arrived to provide a cool channel for them to walk through.  He nodded appreciatively and entered the door.

“Good morning Mr Smythe.”

“Good morning Mr Kumar, I must apologise if I was a little short yesterday.  I was somewhat tired after my flight.”

There was a slight pause before PK responded, “Of course, not a problem, and please do call me PK.  I’m one of several Kumars here, but the only PK.  So far.”

Smythe smiled.  PK led him to a conference room.  It could have been anywhere, and Smythe wondered why he’d had to fly to Singapore to be treated to the same grey walls, wood veneer table and strangely uncomfortable chairs he could have experienced in the London office.

There were five people in the room waiting for him.  PK introduced them, but Smythe concentrated on the two men in the centre, Kalyan Rai and Sunil Rao, who were clearly the decision makers.

“Mr Smythe, welcome to our offices, can we show you the presentation of the services we’re offering…”

“No, I’ve seen the presentations, and I’m aware of the services.  My employers are keen that we get the right level of service for the price.  Our intention is to start with a limited contract, and then we will review again before full roll out.”

His intention was to put them off their game by cutting through the formality, but Kalyan Rai was unfazed.

“It is much easier when cards are on the table.  We will be honest, a yearlong limited contract is not a priority for us.  It represents a large investment for an uncertain return, after all you might choose to go with one of our competitors.  We want to know what would be required for the first phase of a full roll out.”

Smythe had been worried that this was where it might go.  Head office had given him authority to agree to a first phase, but he was very uncomfortable with the responsibility.  The sums involved were large, and if anything went wrong he was quite sure he’d be hung out to dry.

“Are you capable of running a first phase?”

“Of course.”

He needed some evidence from them, what could he ask for?  Before he could think of something Sunil Rao said, “Mr Smythe, can we demonstrate the efforts of one of our teams?”  He gestured towards the screen on the wall.

“Please.”  It would give him time to think.

“This is the team.”

The screen showed four people, two men and two women.  They were all smiling rather cheesily.

“They have been tasked with eight subjects for the last three months.  Here is their report on one of the subjects.  They used only data feeds available within the contract, no additional cameras or physical devices were used, so this is a like for like representation.”

Photos started to flash up on screen with commentary.  There was a picture of Smythe in his flat.  Then leaving, getting a cab.

“The fare was fourteen pounds fifty and the subject added a fifty pence tip.”

He sounded so tight.

“The subject was two hours and seventeen minutes early for his flight.  He spent an hour of this in the bar where he drank seven gin and tonics and spoke to five other passengers, all female.  One of them appeared to give him her number, but a separate check confirmed that this was in fact the number to her ex-boyfriend.  Further details on both the woman and her ex-boyfriend have been stored.”

The film continued, at first Smythe was amused, and then bored.  When they started showing footage of his activities the night before he became annoyed.

“Now really, this is unreasonable, you have no right…”

“Actually Mr Smythe, we checked with your manager at the ministry, and he was happy for us to track you as a test run.  He asked that we send him the full file once we’d shared it with you.”

Smythe nearly choked.  It was unlikely the ministry would be happy with where he was staying, but they’d have to do something about his use of professional entertainment.  These bastards had him, and they knew it.

“Fine.  That’s all very well, but that doesn’t prove you can do the job.”

The men around him just smiled, and the screen in front of him split into eight.  The same type of analysis was shown of seven other people, including his brother, his parents, his next door neighbour and two old school friends.  The last person was someone totally unknown to him.

“These were all tracked by this one team.  They were operating at five percent capacity.  Here are the cost estimates.”

Sunil Rao pushed a folder over to Smythe, he started to read it.  At first he was still numb from the implied threat, but then as he read further he became more confident that this might actually work out.

“You can really commit to these prices?”

“Yes.”

“Where are your personnel based?”

“Eighty percent are in India, that’s how we keep our costs down.  Some are here, and some will need to be in your offices, to ensure access to the various data feeds, and help manage the overall contract.”

“That sounds reasonable.”

“One of our sister companies provides the IT systems for most of your police and internal security forces, so we will be able to automatically pull in any additional feeds those groups make available.  We will also route all suspicious activity, with appropriate evidence, to those groups.  That comes without additional cost.”

Despite himself Smythe nodded appreciatively.  Then trying to get the upper hand, he asked another question.

“Phase one anticipates eighty percent coverage of high risk subjects, with nearly thirty percent coverage of the population.”

“We are aware of that.  At this point we have enough staff to take on half of that, and can ramp up to full capacity within six months.”

The numbers had started to overwhelm Smythe.

“But, but that means you have fifty thousand trained people already waiting?”

“Yes.  We’re committed to this contract.  If you approve it, and the subject names are passed through to us, we can provide the first detailed reports within six weeks, and then every week thereafter we will provide updates.”

Smythe marvelled.  Back at Security HQ he’d wondered how they’d ever track three million people in phase one, let alone the rest.  They’d always joked that they’d need to employ half the population to watch the other half.  The solution was obvious, instead they’d use someone else’s population to watch the whole of theirs.  He was confident that after phase one they’d expand it, and very soon they’d have the country covered.

He smiled, and said, “Mr Rao, this seems excellent, however there is the little matter of my personal files?”

“I’m sure we can edit them appropriately.”

“In that case, I have the authority and if you can provide the contracts I’ll be happy to sign them.”

###

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December 16, 2015 · 20:37

New Lives

New Lives

As I lay back, waiting for the pain to begin, I wondered if I’d have changed anything. I stared at the ceiling, the squares disappeared and I could see her beautiful face. My Pashmina.

#

I could still picture the first time I’d seen her in the flesh. She was standing at the top of the theatre stairs, the ideal of a perfect woman. Her hair was white and her skin translucent, as if someone had dressed up a marble statue of a Greek goddess. She was still, poised, ready to fly. I knew I shouldn’t be there, but I’d wanted to see her. It was then that she stole my heart.

#

The first time I met her was a little while later. It was also at the theatre. I bumped into her on the stairs and knocked her drink. I insisted on buying her another and we started talking. My lines were weak, I could hardly believe she would give me any time, but she seemed to enjoy the attention. She later admitted she’d been stood up again, and I’d been a welcome distraction.

#

When I walked into her apartment, some weeks later of course, it was like going home. I knew where everything was. The tiny kitchen off the main room, the small bedroom, and the bathroom fitted into what might be a large cupboard in a different world.

#

We’d been sleeping together for a few months when she admitted the truth to me. “Paul,” she said, for that was what I’d told her my name was, “It is not safe to be with me; it’s my friends.”

“Friends?”

“With the underground.”

I’d known of course, but I was touched that she’d trust me enough to tell me. Perhaps she loved me? Or my love for her, so bright, so impossible to hide, led her to believe I thought I was safe. She told me everything, all about what she had done, what she was planning to do. I should have dissuaded her, or encouraged her, or reported her. I just listened and made my plans.

#

The first time I’d seen her face had been six months before. It was on the front page of her dossier. The photograph, a little grainy, showed a beautiful wraith. The description of her was so cold. Name: Pashmina Tun. Height: Five foot six inches. Skin colour: White (albino). Eyes: Blue. She was to be watched, Intelligence believed she had contacts with the underground. She was also clearly untrustworthy as she rarely ventured out during the day, preferring the night.

#

“Why don’t you go out during the day?”

“Silly, look at my skin.”

“Beautiful.”

She laughed, and said, “It burns in the faintest sun. I prefer to avoid the pain.”

Something I should add to her file perhaps.

“And you Paul, why do you prefer the dark?”

“It is filled with angels, or at least one…”

I could hardly tell her that it was the only time I knew she wasn’t watched, as it was my shift. I’d tried to tell myself I could explain my actions to my superiors as trying to get closer to my target. I doubted that would buy me any acceptance. Or mercy.

#

“Paul, what’s wrong?”

I was in a panic. I’d come in to my shift, to find that an order for Pashmina’s arrest had been made. I was to keep an extra eye on her, and she would be picked up the next morning when the Colonel had returned. I’d barely been able to wait for the previous watcher to leave before I rushed to her apartment, banging on the door like a crazy man.

“Pashmina, darling, you must leave.”

She’d talked about being ready to leave at a moment’s notice, but I knew she was quite incapable of it.

“Oh Paul, don’t be silly.”

How to explain to her? If I told her the truth, what would she do? She would cry. For some time. I tried to hold her, but she pushed me away. My panic grew. Time was being wasted. She wiped her eyes and looked at me.

“I loved you.”

“I love you.”

“Can I trust you?”

“You must, your life depends on it.”

She nodded. Her face was a statue again. Ice. We rushed around her tiny living space and collected some clothes and a few other things. I insisted that she be able to easily carry whatever she needed.

“Will you not be with me?”

Perhaps there was the start of forgiveness?

“Yes, of course, but what if we are separated? Or need to run?”

She assented. We left everything else, and went straight for the border.

“Paul, I’ll never get through, they’ll have my name.”

“Trust me.”

At the border post I showed my card. The guards saluted, and we drove through. At the other end Pashmina got out as instructed, approached the barrier and in broken English demanded asylum. I’d given her papers, transcripts. She’d be able to prove the state wanted her, and had bad plans for her. She’d be safe.

I reversed the car, and she turned. The look of confusion quickly replaced by comprehension. She took steps towards me, and then stopped. I was already out of her reach. I mouthed ‘I love you’. I’d given her everything I could, a start in a new country, a new life.

#

They arrested me at my post the next day. The guards had reported me, and the machinery of our repression, of which I’d been a cog, moved quickly. The horse had bolted, but they cared little for Pashmina, she was small fry. I was a traitor.

#

It was hard to picture her through my tears. My old life was gone. My love was gone. All I had now was a future of pain. First this ‘process’ as we so politely called it, and then a work camp.

“Begin.”

The electricity raced through me as the torture started. My new life had begun.

###

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March 29, 2015 · 13:37

Benefit Cheque

Benefit Cheque

Tim arrived home, a bounce in his step. Today was the day he’d get his cheque, and from the way work had been this month, it should be a big one. He might be able to take Janine out for a nice meal. He could picture it: they’d sit on an open balcony, looking out among the city blocks.

He arrived at their door, only he had to double check a few times. Last month, or was it the month before, he’d arrived home in such a good mood he’d tried to enter the wrong flat, and his neighbours had not been impressed. They’d nearly called the building controller, a man who didn’t seem to find Tim’s jokes amusing. He’d managed to talk his way out of it and he’d carried on down the long hall to his own door, followed by suspicious frowns.

This was his door. He’d made a scratch on the bottom so he’d know. Strictly non-regulation of course, but he didn’t see how anyone could mind. He’d asked why they weren’t allowed plaques, or indeed any other identifier and he’d been told something about knowing his place. Janine had tried to explain that it was something to do with security and why couldn’t he just learn to count the doors like everyone else. She was so lovely, always looking after him.

Opening the door he started to whistle, and his tuneless notes were joined by another. ‘Bother’ he thought, too loud again, and he blew a little less effusively, quietening down and stopping the noise alarm. The problem with block living was that not everyone was as happy as he, and sometimes others weren’t cheered by his tunes.

He pottered about, preparing the food. This wasn’t entirely difficult, he just ripped open the plastic cartons of the meal they’d been assigned and placed them in the machine. He didn’t know what the machine actually did, but it would heat their meal, if it was supposed to be hot that is. He didn’t switch it on, he’d wait for Janine to get home.

The door opened and he heard Janine walk into the room. Did he detect a little heaviness? He’d need to lighten her mood.

“Hello my darling love.”

“Hi Tim.”

Definitely not very happy. He wondered why she chose her job, it always seemed to make her so miserable. He’d asked her about it, but she never wanted to discuss it, just telling him that it was an unpleasant place. When he’d tried to tell her to change to something else, she just reminded him of the commandment: Each will be asked to perform their most efficient role. He’d just shaken his head, and thought how lucky he was that he enjoyed his work.

“Tough day?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe, still we made some real progress.” She managed a smile. He loved her smile.

“Well that’s good. Would you like food? Then we can wait for the cheque together.”

Her face slipped a little, but she caught herself.

“I’d quite forgotten it was Benefit day, and yes I’m starved.”

“I have it ready; I’ll just kick it off.”

He stepped into the tiny kitchen area and pressed the button; the numerals spun and then showed the number 15.

“Just fifteen minutes to dinner.   I was worried it would be one of those ninety minute meals they sometimes sneak in, and I wouldn’t want you to be hungry for that long.”

She frowned at him, and her eyes flicked to the Monitor on the wall. He thought she must be thinking the cheque would be coming soon, but it would be at least an hour.

The food was ready, announced by a low bong sound. He opened up the box, and spooned out the food. It was in varying shades of green tonight.

“Green is my favourite colour. Have I mentioned that Janine?”

“Many times Tim.”

“I’m just so glad to see an all green meal, and such different shades. This one is particularly bright, neon perhaps.”

She sighed and nodded. He spooned the lurid food into his mouth and chewed away contentedly. He regaled her with tales of his day. Of staplers fixed, of reports delivered and all the various minutiae he was responsible for. She, as always, nodded and laughed in the right places, but her gaze kept returning to the Monitor. She must be worrying that they wouldn’t be getting a full month’s benefits. He tried to lay her fears to rest.

“Now Janine, don’t worry about the cheque. I worked extra hard last month, so it should make up for all these stories I’ve heard.”

She perked up.

“What stories Tim?”

“Oh people at work. Apparently there’s been a problem with the manufacturies, some people were unhappy, and that means, well it could mean that all our cheques are cut this month. Someone also said they were going to increase the administrative fines.”

“Which people?”

There was something in her voice. He looked a bit startled, and then thought that it was nice for her to take an interest.

“Um, well, let me see. It might have been that accountant guy. Oh no, it can’t be, he’s been off on a retraining week, lucky blighter. In all honesty Janine, I can’t remember. There are always people chatting about all sorts at work.”

“I’m sure. You need to be careful Tim, you don’t want to listen to gossip. The manufacturies are working at full tilt, and the majority are happy.”

He repeated the refrain, “The majority are happy.”

There was a buzz, and the Monitor started to print out their cheques. Tim skipped over and tore them off, handing Janine’s hers without looking at it. Janine considered it very impolite to read a benefit statement, even if it was your wife’s, and Tim quite agreed.

He started reading through his, and didn’t notice the look of horror on Janine’s face. He, as he always did, read his out. He felt it was good to share, though Janine had never reciprocated.

“Oh look at this, they’re fining me half a day’s rations because of that silly incident with the hole punch. I thought I’d explained that. Still mustn’t grumble, I’m sure my extra hours will have made it up.”

Nothing from Janine.

“And look here, another fine, for taking the wrong bus. Well I just wanted to see the other route, I didn’t realise it meant someone else couldn’t get on. I’m sure we used to let people stand on buses. That poor man, I hope he didn’t get fined as well.”

Still silence. He chattered on. His minor misdemeanours mounted up, as they always did, but he knew it would be alright.

“Ah here it is, work line, I like the words: Your work utility has been assessed and you have been found to have provided society benefit to the full sum of…”

He looked up, but Janine was staring at the sheet in front of her.

“Ah Janine, I’ve been awarded just one day’s rations for my work last month. With all the fines I owe them, it looks like we’re down nearly a month’s worth.”

He could see tears streaming down Janine’s face, he wondered why he hadn’t spotted them.

“Oh love, don’t worry. I’m sure it’s a mistake. I’ll speak to them in the morning.”

She looked up at him then, and the heat of her anger silenced him.

“No Tim, you will not. You stupid man! How many times have I told you? Follow the rules, don’t try anything out of the ordinary. These are harsh times and the government needs all of us to conform, or chaos will reign. But oh no, you have to do things differently, you have to challenge, and question. Always cheerful, a good little citizen, and yet, the State’s worst enemy, because you are absolutely incapable of following the rules. Damn you Tim.”

“Now Janine, I know you’re upset, but there’s no need for that.”

There was a knock at the door.

“Who can that be?”

“Just sit there Tim.”

Janine walked to the door, and opened it just enough to speak to the person outside. He thought he caught her say, “… just a few minutes. Yes, damn him, I’ll take the hit. Bastard.”

He’d never heard Janine swear before. Or be that angry. He’d have to make it up to her.

She walked back, slowly, not looking at him.

“Janine, who was it?”

“No one.”

“Oh. Well, anyway, I just wanted to say, I’m sorry Janine, I’ll sort it out. I’ll try my best. I know the rules are important, but, well I just forget you see. Or sometimes it’s so sunny out it just seems silly to follow all these petty restrictions, you know…”

He ran out of steam, as he looked at her. The tears had dried now, and her face was set.

“I’m sorry Tim, you won’t have a chance to make up for it. You have been selected for retraining. You need to leave now, there are people outside waiting for you.”

“I have? How wonderful! Are you coming too Janine?”

“No Tim. Just you.”

“What do I need to pack?”

“Nothing, they will provide your uniform.”

“When will I be back?”

She stared at him in what he thought might be disbelief, though he couldn’t understand why. Then she sighed and said, “It should be only a week.”

“Oh, well that’s good. And I’ll see you then?”

“Yes.”

The door slammed open, and a large man walked in and turned to Janine.

“Sorry Major, we have to go now, we have eight more to pick up and we don’t want to miss the train.”

She stepped back and the man grabbed Tim.

“Um, yes, I’ll go now then.”

#

Janine watched Tim walk out, chattering away to his captor, oblivious to the implications. She knew he’d never see her again. She however, would see him, he would be the first item on her retraining list in the morning. She knew she’d have to be extra harsh on him, as they’d be watching her for weakness.

Her benefit cheque was lying on the table. At the top it said, ‘Congratulations, you have been assigned single quarters.’

###

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