Reformed

Reformed

A short story collection by Anthony Morgan-Clark

Copyright information

This work is copyright 2015 Anthony Morgan-Clark.

All rights reserved.

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Table of Contents

At the beach

Reformed

BPA

Behind closed doors

The predator’s son

Olsen’s soldiers

Terraformers (out of the anthill)

A life after death

Rendezvous

Escape

Seeds on Earth

Rendezvous II

The Eaters

Seeds among the stars

Epilogue

Thanks and credits

Bonus short story – ‘Elected’

One final thing

At the beach

My job? I’m in sales, unfortunately. I sell all sorts of financial management solutions, via online vidicall marketing as almost all sales are nowadays. It’s a career I came to later in life, one I started door-to-door after I’d discovered my gift for talking to people. It’s not particularly interesting, but I’m good at it. Good enough that I have an employer who offers me full time hours – myself. Working for others is, in my opinion, for suckers. I’m in the minority in that sense. Most people have two or even three zero-hours... I mean, ‘flexihours’ jobs. The government says it’s good for business, which by implication means it’s good for us. Big business gets the convenience of a flexible workforce to whom they can offer extra hours to meet demand without worrying about the expense of overtime or a fixed cost of wages when business is slow; and as employees we don’t have to worry about what happens when one employer makes us redundant because we’ll still have an income. Not an income grand enough to actually live off, but enough that the government doesn’t feel obliged to help you out by paying you any benefits – and that’s what counts, right?

But today I’ve decided to take the day off; which is easy to do as we’re all technically self-employed nowadays. Since the death of the unions everyone is considered a self-employed contractor, no matter how long you’ve been at a particular place of work or contributed towards a particular company. They owe you nothing, and increasingly that feeling is reciprocated. The harder you work the richer someone else gets, right? Fuck that. It’s a warm summer’s day near the end of the tourist season, and the beach is less than half an hour’s walk from my home. The beach is a small one, not even a mile across from cliff-face to rock pools, and is one of my favourite places to visit when it’s quiet.

The beach is nowhere near as full as it was just a week ago, when I wouldn’t have considered coming near the place. There are only a few days left of the summer holidays, and almost all the voices I can hear have local accents. I put down my towel, unroll my Flex-e-reader and sit down. The breeze coming off the ocean is warm and pleasant, and I wonder how much reading I can get done before I doze off.

Out in the bay, a coal-black border security boat drops anchor. Every twenty minutes or so it drifts off to another spot, and waits there. Watching. It is one of the many measures now in place to protect ‘us’ from ‘them’. ‘They’ are always trying to get here, to terrorise and intimidate; nobody questions why the boat spends more time facing the land than it does the sea.

Only five feet away from me a woman who appears to be in her late fifties plants her deckchair into the sand. Her grey hair is tucked up into her straw hat, and she carries her considerable bulk with the easy confidence of someone who’s long since learned that it’s not worth giving a fuck what anybody else thinks about it. Her pudgy grandson carries the portafridge with all their food and drinks inside it. Once she has finally sat down, out of breath and sweating, she unfolds her Flex-e-reader. It’s a newer model than mine. I own a text-only reader, whereas hers telestreams the news live as it happens; reads all her books to her; and even tells her what she can watch on the ‘net when she gets home. Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer to read than watch. I wish she’d turn it down a little though.

The first item on the news is the annual celebration of VT (Victory against Terrorism) day, with coverage live from London and New York, and statements from both governments praising the roles that BioPassports have had in maintaining public order. It is fifteen years since the war on terror was officially won, though the country remains in a state of ‘alert awareness’ against ‘possible residual insurgents’. There is only the occasional terrorism-related arrest nowadays, which we are assured is as a result of the ‘Pre-emptive Public Safety Measures’ that remain in place. PPSMs mean that public order remains the top priority for politicians and the police alike. I don’t know how much longer we’ll have a police force, as such – every constabulary is contracted out to private companies and staffed largely by ex-forces and private security personnel. There’s even talk of rebranding them to the ‘civil army’. Anyway, ANPR (Automated Number Plate Recognition) and facial recognition cameras are used as the main means of enforcing the civic filtering system, determining who can access which city zones and when. Retinal scans, iris graphs and DNA profiling -the main components of the BioPassport- determine access to public transport and to 'TRAs' (Temporarily Restricted Areas). TRAs are usually used to decide where and when APPs (Approved Public Protests) can be held, a lengthy process taking sometimes up to six months. BioPassports have to be presented to officials beforehand when making an application to join any APP - which of course will be declined if you are convicted criminal, ‘known troublemaker’, or a ‘suspected associate’ of either. Joining an APP without official approval is considered a sign of an ‘intention to commit a criminal or terrorist act’, and subject to summary punishment by the courts. None of the major cities have seen a disruptive public demonstration in over a decade. In fact protests themselves are pretty rare, now that the media has made us all aware of the financial cost of doing so. How can all those profits trickle down to us if our protests disrupt the economy?

Our BioPassports help us keep our airports safe too. Before you even think of travelling abroad you must apply for your tickets via the National Global Travel Agency. This involves submitting an application to visit an approved partner destination; applying for private visitation rights if you intend to stay with family/friends or a Public Association Certificate if you are visiting them but staying in an International Citizen's Centre; and providing the agency with a detailed itinerary of your intended stay - beware, straying from your travel plan will only arouse suspicion. Then you will, if your plans are approved, be permitted to visit your doctor and have a DNA sample taken, which will be forwarded to the medical centre at the airport in order to verify you and provide extra security to your BioPassport. What's that? You want to visit a non-partner destination? No chance I'm afraid. The risks are too great. You could meet anyone, learn anything... and you risk a questioning, losing your BioPassport, and being registered as a known troublemaker or suspected associate. And then your Free Association privileges will be lost, some of your travel and housing rights will be revoked - and you'll find that though you are still expected to work and make your Statutory Economic Contributions (currently two thousand, three hundred and forty hours per year, or forty-five hours per week; though those over the Class B Income Threshold can buy their hours from the state at Standard Wage rates, and work as few hours as they choose) your career status will be Restricted, which means menial – sorry, ‘safe’ – work only. If the companies you contract your hours from only offer limited hours to those on a ‘Restricted’ career then don't worry: your local Economic Contributions Facility will enable you to make up your hours. Of course they'll be unpaid, but at least you'll have met your Contributions Threshold.

Next to me the old lady’s Flex-E-Reader is abruptly silenced. She has wandered off to the ice-cream shack and her grandson has picked it up; it doesn’t recognise his eyes, and as a security precaution he cannot operate it. No point in monitoring the wrong Flex-E-Reader, is there? Not only do they check how you interact socially, they keep a track on what you watch, the sites you visit and even which books you borrow from the Central Library. All useful background information, should you ever find yourself arrested and subject to a questioning.

Within a few minutes she’s back with a cone for each of them. She picks up her Flex-e-reader and it immediately flickers into life.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, the BioPassport.

Your BioPassport even makes the internet more secure. As soon as you log on to the 'net your device scans your retina and iris, and cross references that info with the central BioPassport database so the government can keep us safe by monitoring who's doing what and with whom. The best way to keep us safe during and after the War on Terror was to ensure that BioPassports were needed to access the 'net as well as all public services. Yes, there were a lot of protests when this was first introduced. But if you've done nothing wrong you've got nothing to hide, that's what they always say. Besides, those early protesters were up to no good, it turns out: a lot of them ended up being arrested and having their BioPassports revoked, as well as having geo-restrictions placed on their movements.

A lot has changed since we won VT day, but at least we've preserved our way of life; at least we're still free.

That’s what we’re told to think. And don’t you dare think otherwise - not out loud, not on a ‘phone, on the ‘net or even to the wrong person in conversation. Security and privacy, it seems, are mutually exclusive no matter where you are in the world. Go high enough above the bewildered herd and you’ll see there is no difference between ‘British values’, ‘American values’, ‘Middle Eastern values’, or the values of capitalism, communism, theism, secularism... compliance and conformity are what anyone at the top needs to enforce in order to remain there. Unquestioning compliance at any cost.

How did we get to such a position? Blindly, willingly and by degrees, that’s how. Piece by piece we sold our independence, our freedoms and our democracy for the next bit of security, the next shiny bauble to make our lives slightly easier, to appease the next fabricated fear. And as the lies of politicians and industry - lies of prosperity, of protection, of freedom to come, and the dangers of non-conformity - became like ash in the wind, we accepted their excuses and begged for more. The road to hell may indeed be paved with good intentions, but it is not the only way there. There is another route paved with gold, and greed, and hubris. Some people, the few who still clung to outmoded notions of religion, thought that the road we had chosen (and it was a choice; we chose to be lazy and unquestioning as a populace; and so by not choosing an alternate path we chose the one we were given) brought us closer to God, or at least godliness. But read the Bible. The Devil, if he ever existed, was the bogeyman; but it was God who enslaved humanity through fear.

But though the change was gradual there were certain steps that, though we did not know so at the time, were much more significant than others.

Reformed

Scan here please.

The prison official held the grey wand out in front of him, not quite at arm’s length. Joe had to take half a step forward to reach; as he did so he saw both of the burly, shaven-headed security guards lean forward in readiness, just in case Joe was stupid enough to attack a prison official during the process of being released. Before his foot touched the floor one of the guards had raised an arm to prevent Joe from getting too close to the hatch behind which the official stood. Joe looked at the offending guard. I can’t reach he said simply, and leaned just a little further; as expected the guard’s arm tensed. Joe held his stare for a second more, then turned slowly to face the official again. Would you mind stretching your arm out a little further? The official moved the wand only slightly closer to Joe, ensuring that he still had to stretch. He presented his right wrist, which was scanned with the wand. Immediately the machine beeped, the guard exerted enough pressure to not exactly push Joe, but to make it clear to him that he was expected to step back to the white line painted on the floor. As he did so the shatterproof clear screen came back down to fill the hatchway, and locked itself in place. The screen, clearly visible through the hatch, displayed the following next to a picture of Joe:

‘Deerarm, Joe. Inmate no JD-17254.

7yrs 4mth

Breaking and entering; burglary; handling stolen goods’

Nobody spoke any further. They all knew the routine.

He turned to walk down the hall, to the second hatch in which his belongings would appear; again the guard prevented him from moving until the hatch had opened. First there was the barely audible whine of motors from above, then the thump as his belongings dropped to the bottom of the chute, then the ffft of the hatch opening. The bag looked its age. It may have been in storage for the past seven years, but it had been far from new when he brought it with him; a worn brown duffel bag containing... not much, really. A change of shoes, two t-shirts, a torn pair of jeans and a thin denim jacket. As he reached in to the hatch to take his bag, a recorded message played through a small speaker overhead: Do not open your belongings until you have exited the building. I repeat: do not open your belongings until you have exited the building. I repeat: do not open your belongings until you have left the building. I repeat... The message played until he had indeed left the building.

He exited the heavy doors, escorted by the two security guards and found himself in a small hallway. This way, said one of the guards and led him to the left. They exited the building through what appeared to be a side entrance, the doors opening and closing automatically. Joe found himself in a small car park in which a car was waiting. He took the jacket out of his bag and put it on. There was already a driver seated at the control panel. The car was one of the older models, self-driven yet requiring someone to be seated in the front in case of emergencies. Newer models allowed one person to be elected as the emergency controller, and for him or her to sit in the rear with the rest of the passengers. A guard held a rear door open, and Joe was sandwiched between the two security guards on the rear seat.

As they set off, his bag in the boot, his mind drifted back to the conversation he’d had with his new probation officer.