Author: Alastair Millar

Maybe if we’d thought about it sooner, instead of just buying what the newscasts told us, things would have been different. But I’m not sure. I mean, Autonomous Immigration Management Systems sounded like a good thing – they’d be a non-human (read: non-emotional, non-threatening) way of quickly checking ID documents against the usual registers and permit lists. They could ensure folks were here legally, and paying their social dues. Unarmed, non-unionised, and undoxxable, and they could work 24/7/365. Even with maintenance, they’d be cheaper for the Tri-Metro Area than constantly having to recruit and train new agents, who’d then want paying at rates equivalent to the private sector. Wins all round, am I right?

And when they arrived, everything went fine! We got used to seeing their sleek blue-and-silver frames in the street, stopping at irregular intervals to ask random people for their papers. Sure, there were occasional errors, but these always turned out to be caused by sloppy MetroGov record keeping. And we didn’t worry about AIMS teams visiting workplaces, because they were faster and caused less disruption than the goons they’d replaced.

But my opinion changed a few months later. I was lunching on a vibrobench in the park downtown when the oddball wandered past. Weirdly coloured and oddly cut clothes, and a conspicuous direction finder on his wrist, gave him away as a tourist. He looked around vaguely, blinked, and smiled when he saw me. I smiled back, faintly, assuming he was about to ask me something.

Suddenly two AIMS units were beside us. “Papers, please,” said one. I flashed my ID band and it scanned the code, then looked directly at me. I knew it was doing a facial reconciliation, so I didn’t move. “Thank you, citizen,” it said.

Then it turned to the stranger. “Papers, please.” He looked confused. “He wants to see your identification,” I said, helpfully. A look of understanding crossed his face, and he dug a card-sized tablet out of a pocket. “Papers, please,” repeated the unit.

“This my passport,” said the man. “Me tourist here.”

“I need to see your MetroID please, citizen. It is mandatory.”

“Tourist,” he said, pointing at himself. “This my ID”.

“This is not a valid MetroID,” said the machine.

“Passport,” said the man.

“I need to see your MetroID please, citizen. It is mandatory.”

The man stared blankly, shrugged, clearly decided there was no point arguing with a piece of metal, and turned on his heel. As he walked away the reaction was instantaneous. The second unit sprang forward, caught the visitor by the arm, and flung him to the ground. I heard a rib break. “You are under arrest; charges: defying legitimate authority, suspected no valid identification. Stay silent.”

“What? Me do nothing!”

A metal slap across the face was his only reply. People on the path had stopped, and a couple were filming on their comms; the first AIM clicked its fingers, and suddenly none of the devices were working. “Nothing to see here, citizens. Move along. Unreasonable assembly is punishable by law.” The knots of people scattered.

They took him away, and I never saw any mention on the news. But I started to wonder – what if I’d forgotten my wristband? What if it was me on holiday, and a local unit didn’t understand what I was saying? Where would I end up – and would anyone know to look for me?

I know they’re there for our protection, but I can’t look at them the same way since. And I don’t take my meals outside any more.