Author: Gordon Pinckheard

Stray from the shoal, and you risk your life.

Dave would like to have moved in towards the center of his row of marchers, but his arm was locked with his neighbor’s. At least, they were well back from the protest’s front lines.

The day before, Anna had called a meeting, demanded that they all join the march. Action was essential, although coming late. She had reminded them of recent history, the threat they faced. “First,” she said, “we gave away our data to Facebook, Google, and their ilk. Then – by law! – all written material had to be sent over the Internet. All privacy gone! And They said it was a cost-saving; no more postal service. And what did we do? Nothing!”

They were not communicating over the Internet now. Marching to City Hall, arm-in-arm, they filled one traffic lane, carrying their signs; “Privacy is a Right”, “Silence the Listeners”, “Connection Requires Consent”, …

Near City Hall, counter-protesters had gathered. They had signs of their own; “Nothing to Hide”, “Let the State Serve”, “Treason Grows in Secret”, …

As the marchers approached, the insults started.

Anna’s summary had continued. “Then,” she said. “Economy failing. Traders avoiding written documents – using word of mouth – the State lost oversight. So those involved in trading were augmented with Nodes and Marked. In working hours, everything they said or heard went over the Internet. And eventually, these Heroes of the Recovery wore their Marks with pride. I always said they were actually Connected 24/7! And what did we do? Nothing!”

Walking alongside the march, the counter-protestors waved their placards and jeered. Dave, marching on, still at the outside of his row, avoided eye contact with the large men encroaching on him.

Police were stationed near City Hall. They made no move to get involved, no move to protect a lawful protest.

A man shouted into Dave’s face, spittle flying. Dave elbowed him away. With a dramatic stagger, the man stumbled back. He clasped his stomach and gave a belated roar of pain. Men rushed forward, bringing their placards down on the heads of the marchers. The cardboard signs soon disintegrated, leaving long wooden clubs.

The marchers responded in kind. The two groups flailed at each other.

Anna had concluded: “Then – for efficiency! – any adult undergoing State subsidized surgery was augmented.” She had looked around at the attendees’ Mark-free hands. “I see that none of us has needed surgery recently. But have we spoken out? We have not! But we must make ourselves heard. Tomorrow, we march!”

Dave was lying in the road with warm blood sliding across his face when the flashing blue lights finally appeared. He heard a distant, amplified voice; “Enough now, you’ve done enough.” His assailants moved off. Dave was lifted into an ambulance and fell away into unconsciousness.

When he awoke, a doctor stood at the foot of his bed.

“No serious injuries,” said the doctor. “A few stitches to close the split skin, and there’s bruising too. You’ll be fine.” As he moved away, he said over his shoulder, “And the augmentation, of course.”

Dave’s hand went to his neck. There was a lump. A Node! He lifted his right hand. There was the Mark of the Connected. “No! Shit!” he cried. Then, calming himself, he said, “Node, stop listening to me.”

His Node was silent. It listened, would always be listening. He was swimming in the State’s goldfish bowl.

His old comrades would not speak to him. There was no one left to speak for him.