Go ahead,

Says

RACHEL

To

The Friends. “We have him.” She says. The Friends have taken over one of the control drones that, since a referendum, fulfill the comprehensive duty of care to the populace. Who carry their ID numbers around with them in their chips. To which a database entry is linked. Via chip-reading devices installed in all traffic lights, streetlamps, cameras, train stations, bus stops, and shops—it is mapped where every citizen is at every second. Together with the communications devices, bank cards, Wi-Fi, mobile phones, and the total video surveillance, one has a thorough movement profile of every citizen. Brilliant. But in the unlikely case that a citizen strays into an area not under surveillance, somewhere in the country, in the hills, if the citizen tries to leave the country, it sets off an alarm, and in seconds the drones take over, also using heat-sensitive cameras. Using the new, auspicious direct democracy, the citizens voted to allow themselves to be subject to total surveillance, because they have nothing to hide—and the drones can save their lives. If they collapse from a stroke somewhere along the Thames, if they are attacked by homeless people or drive their car into a river, if children fall onto train tracks, the drones automatically transmit an emergency signal to a strike force.

The drone’s camera sends very good results despite the cloudy weather, despite the gray dawn, despite the poor lighting.

Which is visible to

KAREN

On the screen.

Patuk gets out at the Finchley Road station. He has a case with him. The train is full; same goes for the platform. There hasn’t been this type of activity in the country for a long time. People shuttling between the city center and the outskirts in order to carry out the new pointless jobs that have recently become a requirement for receipt of the basic income. The new online administration recognized the value of work to humans and dealt with it quickly. Suddenly workplaces are being created that are anything but virtual. It’s necessary to paint parish halls shortly before they’re torn down. Karma points must be counted by hand lest the AI make a mistake. Stones are gathered from the street and derelict factories scoured. “He’s too stupid to manage a proper attack.” Says Karen. Patuk stands on the platform, waits for his connecting train, which will presumably take him to Luton. On the screen you can see him sweating.

Patuk fiddles with the metal case. Puts it on the ground. Removes a vial from a secure cylinder. He shakes out a substance that for the most part lands on his hand and trousers. “That didn’t work out,” says Karen, inwardly crossing Patuk’s name off the list.