Parity Gain (short story)

Work, consume, sleep.

Warning: this short story is 12,000 words. So not that short. Enjoy.

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Henry caught sight of the very edge of the new shopping wing as he walked to the car, the sharp grey lines just visible in the distance. The colossal scale of the concrete shell loomed over the houses below, like a hulking predator ready to strike.

He walked closer, looking up at the dark rectilinear shape just beginning to intrude here close to home, three cranes standing in silence like delicate insects. It had to be the new extension, not expected for another year or more. They must be ahead of schedule. It would mean a modest boost to the value of the apartment, although he couldn’t remember if they had included parking to this western edge of the complex. If not, that would limit the increase. Although it couldn’t harm their CapScores.

A jarring image of Miller disrupted his calculation. Henry hadn’t thought of him in months, the memory of his death pushed aside by the daily routine of life. Only the thought of their scores and the difficult return to equilibrium, prompted now by the new shopping centre emerging here, brought back a recollection of the troubled man. It hadn’t been easy on either him or Jane, although surely the worst was now behind them.

“Come on Henry, we’ll be late.”

He turned to see Jane at the car, opening the passenger door and gracefully sliding in. She normally waited until he opened it, the unspoken ritual appearing after Miller’s death. The collusion had always felt theatrical and now, watching Jane calmly ignore it as she pulled the door shut, reinforced the notion it had been artificial after all. A distraction from their shared actions that afternoon all those months ago.

With one last look at the hard, angular form of the new mega structure he turned back towards the car to drive Jane to the eastern edge of the very same shopping complex, some miles distant, their regained parity now firmly established. It was only in the last few weeks she had been able to relax as the threat of eviction from her Legion accumulative finally receded when his penumbra cleansed itself of even the memory of the dead Miller.

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1. Acquisition

Despite having been employed by the Office of Fiscal Cohesion for almost four months, Henry still felt like the new boy. The sensation always intensified as he climbed the long stairway to enter the imposing building and looked up at the legend emblazoned on the front of the structure, the scale of the lettering reflecting the massive presence of the government department itself.

Reaching the top step, entering via the middle of the three revolving doors, he always imagined himself from above just at this point. The giant words dominated the facade, the name of the department visible for miles, like some ancient religious symbol, its inner workings a mystery to the masses they served.

The security staff waved him on, past the queue of people seeking appointments. The guards had been doing this for months now despite barely talking to any of them and learning none of their names. Although they seemed to know him.

At the far side of the atrium a group of visitors congregated around the huge oak tree planted in the centre surrounded by the ornate fountain, the rhythmic murmur of the cascading water just managing to reach him. The building had been designed by Furukawa and the entrance area alone was considered a masterpiece of modern design.

He preferred to take the stairs to reach his second-floor office. Making his way to the stairwell marked STAFF ONLY he pushed through the double-height oak doors and began his ascent.

Although now five years old this part of the building always felt strangely new, its minimal traffic helping retain a kind of unused feeling. In the months he had worked here he had only bumped into a few people while using the stairs. The Italian marble reinforced the illusion of newness, its sterile white finish clinically clean as the recessed lighting reflected off the polished surfaces.

The second floor doorway opened into a generous corridor running for over two hundred yards. He’d been given a tour when he had joined and instantly forgot what all the different divisions and departments did or even where they were located.

“Ah, Dr Smith.”

He turned to see the tall, ungainly form of the Director, Cunningham, striding towards him. Henry often thought his lean figure a result of the number of miles he probably walked in the building visiting his many areas of responsibility.

“Gordon. How are you?”

“As well as can be expected,” said Cunningham. “How are things with you, Henry? Settling in well?”

They talked as they walked the short distance to Henry’s own office.

“Getting there.”

“And how is life as comptroller of capital optimization? Everything balancing?” said Cunningham.

He thought then of the luck that had brought him here, the years of effort in the private sector where capital was at best a resource to be gambled. As much as he’d hated that life it had impressed his interviewers. With the government improving its management of capital resources it had increasingly reached out to specialists like him. He had been unaware of the fact and flattered when headhunted.

“It is going well. Although still finding my feet of course.”

“Naturally. Quality takes time, Henry. Something we are still educating the public about.”

The department had come under criticism recently, the media focusing on minor administrative slip ups, often presenting a mishmash of fact and fiction and all of it dramatized to emphasize the human impact. Although their public relations experts worked hard to maintain a good relationship with the press it was sometimes difficult to understand why they were so hostile.

“I saw the piece in The Times the other day.”

“Indeed,” said Cunningham. “It pays to have friends at court.”

“The Pecuniary Governance Board don’t seem to get much of a chance to present our case to the public.”

“Just part of the game, Henry. The press, and even the government sometimes, pay attention to those with the loudest voices. The squeaky wheel gets the most grease. But we are doing a better job managing the pecuniasts and tempering their frenzy.”

They reached the junction that led to his own division. Cunningham walked on, hurrying to his next appointment.

Opening the door to the spacious office, light streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Hughes and Benson sat at their desks, nodding as he reached his seat. Sitting down he marvelled again at the calm silence of the room as he looked out at the landscaped gardens outside. The expansive grounds stretched into the distance only a few storeys below yet he could hear nothing, the perfectly sealed space like a welcoming cocoon.

“All set for your baptism?”

He turned to Hughes.

“What?”

“Your baptism of fire,” said Benson. “Miller. Our resident headcase.”

He had forgotten his schedule for the morning and hadn’t had time to check at home before taking the kids to the nursery.

“Miller?”

“It’s your turn, Henry,” said Hughes, laughing.

“I wonder what it will be this time,” said Benson. “The voices from the screens are whispering to me.”

“The walls have ears,” said Hughes.

Henry looked at them both.

“Who’s Miller?”

“Have you seen the new street lights they are building, Dr Smith? They are everywhere.”

The unkempt Miller began talking as he entered the room, not even taking a moment to introduce himself. The man looked to be in his early thirties and casually dressed in jeans and a shirt, his hair an unruly thatch moving erratically as he gesticulated.

“You can’t miss them,” he said. “The cameras on top are housed in a yellow unit. They don’t even try to hide them.”

“Street lights?”

“Yes.” Miller looked surprised, enough to momentarily pause.

“I don’t understand, Mr Miller. We don’t deal with public works here. This is the Office of Fiscal Cohesion.”

“But your department is itself a public work, Dr Smith.”

He didn’t know what to think of that.

“I mean public services. Roads and infrastructure. That is dealt with by—”

“You control capital spending,” said Miller.

“We have some oversight of capital expenditure. But we do not decide what is built. Roads, and street lighting, are managed elsewhere.”

“But your department makes all these decisions, Dr Smith.”

“We don’t make the decision about what to build, only what to fund.”

“Well, there you go.”

“I mean, we allocate the funds for public works. But the decision about what to build is made by others. The street lights are part of a long-term project to revitalize the area.”

“That doesn’t explain the cameras. The new lights all have camera housings.”

“I am not close to the work, Mr Miller. But I believe the new camera system is being built alongside the other works to improve efficiency. They are there to record and deter crime and it makes sense to manage all the work in one go.”

“All very efficient.”

“Exactly. And that is the involvement our department actually has in all this, improving efficiency. I believe it was this office that encouraged the local council to merge a number of projects to minimize disruption and improve efficiency. If one group are digging up roads we want everyone involved at the same time.”

“And that incorporated the new surveillance cameras?”

“Well I am not sure if that specific project was included. It was before my time, but probably. It is something our office is keen to see more of.”

“More surveillance?” said Miller, leaning closer.

“No, Mr Miller, not surveillance. I meant our office is responsible for managing capital spending. The official role is to improve efficiency and ensure taxpayers are being well served.”

“But your department does bring together all financial data.”

“Yes, we manage capital expenditure.”

“You also regulate financial data.”

People frequently misjudged the many functions of the Office of Fiscal Cohesion. With over eighty thousand staff the public often imagined more efficiency than was really the case. He wasn’t surprised to hear Miller mention some obscure aspect of their operations.

“The Financial Conduct Authority is part of our office.”

“So you also control all the financial information in the country.”

He thought of the distant division that coordinated the financial data, regulating it’s use with private agencies and lenders.

“Our office is responsible for its regulation, Mr Miller. But that is dealt with in another department entirely. Not something I am close to. And the office only regulates it, we don’t organize or control financial data. We ensure it is open and transparent.”

“But you can understand why I am here. The new cameras are being added, and the department regulating financial data is involved in their funding. Are you saying those two things are not related?”

While Miller talked, he called up his file. His CapScore sat at “Very Poor,” the lowest band. His risk profile was high, caused by an almost total absence of positives. He seemed to be unemployed although had some income. He also rented his property, forever condemning him to low scores.

He had only one associate listed at his address, a woman. Presumably his partner. No children though, another negative. He also didn’t seem to belong to an accumulative, which was bizarre. Unsurprisingly nothing appeared under his penumbra.

Miller droned on as he checked the information. His concerns seemed closer to home than conspiracy theories about government surveillance. Henry silently cursed his colleagues for not warning him. They’d be chuckling back at the office knowing what he was probably going through.

Miller was talking again about the government.

“The government is not installing cameras to control people, Mr Miller.”

It was absurd. Miller was a crank. Cameras used to control the masses.

“Distracted people are easily controlled. They are easy to enslave, Dr Smith.”

“Now we are being enslaved by the government?”

“No, the government doesn’t need to enslave anyone. People will do that all by themselves. Intelligent governments use the base motives of individuals against them. They enslave themselves. We are already controlled via consumption, our obsession with retail hedonism. No one is more of a slave than the hedonist.”

“So this is about consumer behaviour?”

“In a sense. Everyone is obsessed with consumption. Buy, buy, buy.”

“We all need to eat, Mr Miller.”

“But it is shopping as distraction. Anything but leisure. Real leisure.”

“People work hard. They are entitled to buy things.”

“They buy stuff. Endless stuff. But while we are obsessing over our stuff and the new stuff we are supposed to buy to keep the whole show on the road we are not paying attention to the bigger picture.”

“The government doesn’t tell people to buy anything.”

“Only because they don’t have to. It is already a part of their identity.”

“But what has all this to do with camera systems on street lighting, Mr Miller?”

“Just another part of the machine. More data, more control. Fiscal cohesion at its finest, Dr Smith. That cohesive overview managed by your department worries me, the control it gives you over us. And these new surveillance cameras will be part of that.”

“The cameras are to reduce crime. No one is using them to control people.”

“I wouldn’t say no one. Just not the government.”

He couldn’t make sense of it. Now Miller seemed to be retreating from his position. Definitely crazy.

“Quite,” was all he could manage.

Henry admired the sprawling modernity of the ever growing housing complex as he approached. Keynes Gardens, a real catch. They were on the third floor, still a long way from the seventh with their roof gardens. But progress was progress. The stepped pyramidal design used by the architect to great effect was the perfect balance between privacy and openness, despite the starkness of the concrete brutalist exterior. Jane had been ecstatic when they’d succeeded in getting somewhere as high as the third floor. All the sacrifice was finally paying off.

He took the stairs, the two short flights drawing him into the shadowy interior as it stretched confusingly in all directions. But it did come with parking, so that was something. Their place was near the stairwell and the welcoming red of the front door soon greeted him as he emerged on to the expansive second floor landing.

Henry glanced at the new clock in the hall as he entered. Just after seven, earlier than normal. The kids would probably be in bed.

Jane stood in the living room, clearing toys from the floor as she talked on the phone. It sounded like one of her friends. Empty packaging littered the room, the box for the new clock joined by at least a dozen others.

Making his way into the kitchen he noted the dinner left for him. He popped it into the microwave as he took off his coat and went to the bedroom to hang it up.

They’d moved in only a month after starting his job and it still felt new. Jane had immediately insisted they improve their address when finally offered the position. They had to move up in the world given his new role. And in the Office of Fiscal Cohesion no less.

He had disliked the cramped master bedroom the moment he first set foot in it. Although the new apartment was slightly bigger because of the extra bedroom, each room was smaller than their old place. But it felt great to be here, even if they were still far from level seven.

Clothes lay over the back of the chair in the bedroom. It looked like new running gear Jane had bought for herself, the black and pink colours unfamiliar. He couldn’t remember when she had bought her current sportswear but it didn’t feel that long ago and she had barely had a chance to wear it. Had she upgraded it to a six-month schedule? He was sure she had mentioned she was considering it for something. Was that the sportswear or something else? Still, it couldn’t do any harm to increase their throughput although it wouldn’t have much impact on their overall spread.

Jane’s animated voice filtered through as he made his way back to the kitchen. He took his dinner from the microwave and just managed to sit down as Jane entered, resting the phone on the counter, leaning over to kiss him.

“What was that about?” he asked.

“Oh, just talking to Shiela.”

“Shiela?”

“The new girl. We needed someone now Martha is gone.”

“What happened to Martha?”

“Remember I told you,” said Jane, absentmindedly clearing clutter from the worktop. “She took up with the new boyfriend.”

He couldn’t remember. Martha had been the first to visit them in their new home months before.

“Where does he live?”

“Who?” said Jane, putting dishes into the dishwasher.

“Martha’s boyfriend.”

“Not sure. North Gyle I think.”

It was some distance away. They’d had their first apartment there years ago.

“So who is Shiela?”

“Oh she’s great. She only moved here six months ago. Rock solid. She spotted the deal for the new microwave.”

He looked at the microwave they had brought from their old place.

“When did we get a new microwave?”

“It was delivered today. It’s in the living room. Can you get it later? I’ve not had time.”

The current microwave sat gleaming on the counter.

“Why did we get a new one?”

“I told you,” said Jane, walking into the utility room, returning with her coat. “The old one doesn’t match the kitchen. Anyway Shiela is a genius at group buys. She can practically do all the parity calculations in her head. She managed to combine it with the TV and the new phones. The rest of the Crew couldn’t believe it. We don’t often get full consensus but Shiela managed it somehow.”

Most of their electrical goods were on the standard two-year upgrade schedule. They’d been there for years.

“Have you upgraded the schedule?”

“What?” said Jane, looking over at the microwave sitting on the counter. “No. Not really. But it can’t do any harm.”

She wandered into the living room after donning her coat. He got up and followed her in. She pushed the packaging aside, looking for something.

Boxes lay everywhere with some neatly stacked in a corner. It looked like the kids had been playing with them.

He picked up a medium-sized box. “What is all this?”

Jane found her handbag. “The new stuff. I told you I’d ordered it last week. Don’t you listen?”

Boxing, tissue paper and cardboard obscured almost every surface.

“It took months to organize some of this. Shiela got some amazing deals. Plus the throughput always helps,” said Jane, looking around at the mess. “Remember when we were first married? We couldn’t afford anything never mind a decent upgrade schedule.”

He remembered well their tiny apartment, empty except for furniture donated by family members. It had felt big at the time. But Jane always insisted that was because they had no kids and limited scope. Their upgrade schedule had been necessarily ad hoc given the impact of the address. It seemed long ago.

“I can clear this up when I get back,” said Jane as she buttoned up her coat.

She always met the A-Crew on Wednesdays. He loved the peace and quiet.

“I’ll do it if you like.”

Jane kissed him on the cheek and turned to go. “Thanks.”

He surveyed the living room, its furniture lost under a blanket of packaging as the front door closed behind her.

Henry took the last of the packages outside to the communal refuse area they shared with others. Despite the harshness of the fluorescent strips the light barely penetrated the gloom, the rest of the second floor lost to darkness.

It had taken over an hour to collapse the numerous boxes and clear the living room. As well as the new clock and microwave Jane had finally received their new sofa. The 220-inch TV had been assembled by the delivery men and mounted. He hadn’t noticed with all the mess in the living room. They had obviously taken away the old one, over two years old now. He briefly wondered what they did with obsolete technology. They must recycle it somehow.

The new items were now all neatly stored away. He thought about how much she had managed to improve their spread. Their CapScores were improving all the time but the throughput from this could only help compensate for their current over reliance on credit depth and accelerate a more sustainable breadth. He was lucky Jane was so on top of all this although he had done his bit getting the new job. The new address had changed everything.

Ready to go back inside, looking at the pile of cardboard and the stuffed bins, he recollected Miller’s comments about retail hedonism. A national pastime. Shopping for enjoyment. Thinking of the recent improvements to their standing it was amazing anyone could be so misguided. Although the general ignorance of how a modern economy worked to benefit the majority really gave him the edge needed to succeed. If everyone was as on the ball as him and Jane they probably wouldn’t need an Office of Fiscal Cohesion to keep everything on track.

That said he understood Miller’s hesitation. If he himself lost his job the increase in rates would substantially inflate the cost of the items Jane had just acquired. Perhaps that was enough to keep Miller from seeing the reality, his fear rationalized as criticism of the system that supported them all.

 It was easier to imagine conspiracies when you couldn’t access the best deals or avoided the effort to get there. His brief look at Miller’s file had been enough to confirm the poor choices he was making.

That was the problem with conspiracy theorists. They took a few observable facts then elaborated them with fantasy to feed their preconceived ideas but spent no time examining their own decisions in life.

He felt sorry for Miller. Both him and his partner would struggle to establish even minor credit depth never mind work towards any kind of meaningful spread, keeping them forever outside a system that had evolved to meet everyone’s needs. Fiscal cohesion took the participation of everyone to work. It was a pity the Millers misunderstood that.

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2. Penumbra

Henry silently cursed as he came to a stop again, the traffic behind him stretching for miles. It was always the same when running late. Time it wrong and you sat for an age as the snaking line of vehicles slowly crawled forward.

Everything moved even slower than normal thanks to the heavy rain. Occasionally stopping the wipers as he sat in silence, the water ran over the windscreen in a solid torrent, briefly obscuring the cars in front. A stolen moment that felt like being in a warm, dry world of his own, shielded from the aggression of the other drivers.

He only had himself to blame. The kids had been playing up and they were late getting them out of the door. The drive to the Rainbow Garden Nursery was new. Jane had put them on the waiting list almost six months before and they only got the kids in because someone else had taken theirs out. Further away than the old nursery, the journey took almost forty minutes. But Jane had been insistent. It helped increase their non-credit outgoings which they desperately needed after the apartment and the car.

That should help towards getting a second car for Jane, despite other priorities. They talked about it often and Jane was desperate to maintain parity with everyone else in the A-Crew, but it had come down to a choice between a car and the new apartment. Jane hadn’t even hesitated. Their current car was almost eighteen months old now and Jane wanted to move to a twelve-month schedule, probably even before they got one for her. He had considered working Sunday mornings to accommodate it, but offsetting the narrowed spread it would induce was more tricky; Jane was cautious, worried it may look like they were gaming the system despite the obvious benefit it would infer. Although as she kept reminding him, some of the others in their accumulative had already moved to a six-month schedule. But they’d have to be patient, and for now that left him stuck driving the kids.

The pedestrians walked past him, the rain lashing down, its relentless downpour soaking them through. None of them had cars.

Although they probably only had themselves to blame. Poor CapScores would mean they could qualify but at exorbitant rates. Anyone could get a car after all. But they made decisions just like everyone else. His own work provided multiple examples every day of people seemingly caught in a downward cycle of poverty and ruin, never stopping to think about changing. It reminded him of the long sequence of conscious choices they had made, the sacrifices. Most people didn’t think ahead.

The traffic moved on. Putting the car into gear he rolled forward, almost making it through the junction before the lights changed.

Rolling to a stop, someone on the pavement gestured, his hood up protecting him from the weather. Instead of walking across the road the figure walked over to the passenger side. As he approached recognition dawned. It was Miller, the lunatic from last week obsessed with surveillance cameras.

He rolled down the window a few inches as Miller approached.

“Dr Smith. Stuck in traffic I see,” he said, leaning down to speak through the small gap. Rain poured relentlessly, running down his hood in a constant stream he didn’t seem to notice.

Soaked through, Miller had no umbrella, just his hooded jacket. He didn’t want to offer him a lift but felt uncomfortable saying nothing.

“Where are you going?”

“Just into town.”

“Don’t you have a car?”

“No,” he said. “Never owned one.”

“I can drop you off at my building if that helps.”

“Are you sure?” asked Miller.

“Of course,” he replied, silently cursing himself for his weakness.

“So did you think about what I said, Dr Smith?”

Miller sat in the passenger seat, soaking wet, his hood down revealing his mop of unruly hair. He stared through the windscreen looking at the passing cars as if scrutinizing them for surveillance equipment.

“You mean the cameras?”

“There’s one there.”

Miller pointed to a tall lamppost by the side of the road as they drove past. Henry looked up and just caught a glimpse of the yellow casing at the top. It could have been anything.

“I doubt the government are tracking us.”

“That is not the point. The government seeks control by any means necessary.”

“I really don’t see why they would do so.”

“It is in their nature. I don’t see why they would not.”

He turned to look at Miller, staring through the window like a child.

“The government always want more information, Dr Smith. More data. They don’t care if they can’t consume it yet. The price the powerful pay is to be fearful of those they hold power over.”

Miller turned to look straight at him.

“This is not about cameras. It is about vision. A direction of travel. The direction of travel for government is always towards total power and control.”

Miller really was crazy. He looked normal, if dishevelled. Harmless probably. But the conspiracy theory types grasped at anything they could blame for their own shortcomings. That’s why he didn’t have a car. He probably thought of that as a conspiracy too, despite the fact anyone could buy one. The government even had special schemes to help people just as they did with housing.

“Are you in the Legion?” said Miller.

The question caught him off guard. It was such an odd thing to be asked. Everyone was in the Legion of Procurement in some form. Membership was automatic for anyone eighteen or older.

“What do you mean? Everyone is.”

“Not everyone. But are you involved?”

“Well, in a sense. My wife deals with it.”

“So your wife is involved with the Legion?”

He thought of Jane’s immersion in the A-Crew, their local chapter.

“Well, yes.”

“And how do they manage membership?”

Membership? The conversation was taking a strange turn. Miller was even odder than he’d realized.

“Anyone can join. Anyone over eighteen.”

“Anyone can join the Legion, but the local chapters self-organize. The accumulatives.”

“Yes, but I don’t know how it is organized. My wife deals with all that.”

“What I mean is, how do they control who joins?”

Henry was even more perplexed. Inclusion was largely based on locale, although celebrities often had their own exclusive groups. Most people joined their local chapter.

“As I said, my wife manages it all.”

“Have you known anyone to be dropped from your Legion group?”

“Dropped? What do you mean?”

“There are thousands of accumulatives around the country. Inclusion in one group or another can affect most aspects of your life. It controls your access to credit, for example.”

Everyone knew that. As before Miller combined observable facts with fantasy to conjure up his own fairytale. First government spying using street cameras and now the Legion, the mechanism by which the government helped maintain the economy to which no one was excluded.

“Local membership is not controlled by the government, Mr Miller. Indeed that was its founding principle—”

“But it is controlled by people. Are you sure you have not had anyone you know exiled from your own group? Someone unexpectedly leaving?”

He thought about Martha as he noticed Miller staring at him.

“I see you know what I mean. Have a think about that. Given you work for the Acquisitor General’s office you can probably look at their file.”

He turned away just as they drove in to the office carpark and came to a stop. Miller picked up on it and said nothing more as he unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the door.

Henry sat, thinking, only now noticing the rain had stopped.

Before he shut the door Miller leaned down to peer at him.

“Food for thought I hope. Thanks for the lift.”

The door gently shut as he walked away towards town.

The meeting felt like it had ran for hours. The conversation with Miller disturbed him, its implications still running around his head as Benson droned on.

His mind kept returning to Martha. Why had she been dropped from the A-Crew? It had to be because she had moved away, moved in with her new partner. That was all it was. That was why these conspiracy theories were so stubbornly successful. They hooked on to some observable fact and spread like a virus, picking up ever more elaborate details as they evolved. Miller was absolutely convinced the government was out to control the masses and seemed determined to find supporting evidence everywhere he looked.

And yet the fact of Martha being excised was still there. Should he check to see? He had access to everything in this job.

He dismissed it. That was how paranoia worked. It crept into your mind, slowly evolving. The whole thing was ludicrous.

Benson finally finished talking and the others stood up to leave. As he made his way back to his desk he couldn’t shake it from his mind, the doubts about Martha and the A-Crew.

Sitting down he knew how easily he could check anyone’s details. The system at work provided full access to the entire range of CapScore data for any individual in the country.

Even as he rehearsed the reasons for not doing so, his disgust at being manipulated by the views of a crank, he felt himself weaken as he reached for the computer.

Martha’s information appeared almost instantly, her name, date of birth and basic details on the summary screen. Her score was average. Could that be right?

Her address was in their own area. Hadn’t she moved in with her partner? He clicked for more information. Maybe she had retained her current address but was cohabiting with him. The system was always up to date. But she had lived at the same address for the past six years with no changes marked.

Viewing the score history, the display updated to show her score over the previous twelve months. It had indeed declined; six months ago it had been in the “Excellent” category now it was only “Average”.

Moving address certainly had an effect on your score. But if it wasn’t that what was it?

She had no associates and didn’t have kids. As far as he was aware she lived alone. He couldn’t see the A-Crew listed under groups. She had left it two months prior, despite many years of membership. She had not joined another, which was unusual.

Underneath the groups heading sat her penumbra. A scattering of names were listed, most in amber or green. One name was listed in red, indicating a negative affect on her score. A man’s name. Was it her partner? Would he even be listed if they did not cohabitate?

Selecting the man’s name, the system displayed his details. His address was different from Martha’s; North Gyle, just as Jane had mentioned. Surely he couldn’t be an associate? That was reserved for those who shared a household, typically a spouse but occasionally adult children and other relatives. None of it made sense.

He texted Jane. Maybe she could shed some light on it. As he sent the message he shut down Martha’s details and sat back. The pause made him realize how foolish he was being. Checking up on their friends, something he said he would never do.

His phone pinged. It was Jane. Her message confirmed what the system had told him. Martha was still living in the same apartment. He texted back to ask why she’d been dropped from the A-Crew after being with them for years.

Jane’s reply came through immediately. Because they were losing parity. Martha’s score had dragged down the group average. He could easily check as all the groups were on the system, although not open to the public. The group comparisons were designed for meta-analysis, never public consumption. How did Jane and the others even know how they compared to other groups? Parity mainly calibrated interest rates aimed at group members and even the lenders did not have access.

He let it go, realizing the absurdity of worrying about someone leaving the A-Crew. They profited from it, qualifying for lower credit which helped them move into the new apartment. Why let one paranoid fool rattle him like this?

For once he left almost on time. His mind had not been on the work, the entire day a struggle. The low rays of the sun reflected off the thousands of cars in the carpark, normally absent by the time he finished. At least he’d maybe see the kids.

“Well, did you check?”

He turned to see Miller approaching, his carefree amble briefly reminding him of the way his son walked. Without a care in the world.

“What are you doing here?”

“Just passing by, Dr Smith.” He stopped a few feet away. “Well, did you check?”

“Check what?”

“Whatever little mental bomb I detonated in your head this morning. When we were talking.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Miller scrutinized him for a moment.

“Shame. You have access to much more information than me. It should be even easier for someone in the Office of Fiscal Cohesion to put all the pieces together.”

“What pieces? If you mean cameras spying on us then—”

“As I said this morning, that is not the issue. Just the latest weapon.”

“Then what is your issue, Mr Miller?”

“The same one as yours. The tyranny of numbers. One number in particular.”

He didn’t take the bait. There was so much misinformation about CapScores. And yet he had spent the day thinking about just that.

“It is amazing how easily you can control the masses if you simplify it enough. Its effects are all around us. And as you know from our conversation this morning, none of us escape.”

“So what, you have a theory?”

“Not a theory, Dr Smith. Just observations, direct observations. All reinforced by the anecdotal evidence most of us have. I would be happy to elaborate if you have the time.”

Hesitating for a moment but unable to resist, he indicated the passenger seat and opened the door to the car.

“CapScores are the perfect invention. The ultimate tool of social control masquerading as neutral data.”

Henry looked around the cavernous space. Miller had brought him here to a supermarket of all places. He hadn’t set foot in one for years. They hadn’t changed much. Although he had forgotten how big some of them were.

As they entered and walked onto an aisle running the full length of the building he could barely see the far end such was its size. It seemed only to be himself and Miller in the place, their voices echoing in the emptiness.

“Social control?”

“This morning,” said Miller. “When I mentioned people being removed from your Legion accumulative, I saw you understood what I meant.”

“Yes. My wife mentioned something recently.”

“Someone being exiled?”

“Yes. But I wouldn’t say there is anything sinister about it.”

“Yet you checked today I suspect.”

“Yes. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Did the individual have a low score?”

He said nothing.

“There you go.”

“Well that doesn’t really prove anything.”

“Who are you trying to convince? Me or yourself?”

Something moved near the ceiling. Above the pristine aisles, with their perfectly arranged products, shelving reached all the way up to the ceiling some eighty or ninety feet up. He knew that was where they stored many of the goods, the building as much a warehouse as a supermarket catering to customers.

Autostackers occasionally sped past up near the ceiling on a series of interconnected gantries high above. The jet black of the robotic arms’ exterior casing made them difficult to discern in the gloom, their movement silent.

He looked back to Miller, still ambling along.

“What are you saying?”

“CapScores are useful, as I said. The government uses them for social control.”

“CapScores are private though. I can only see my own. I mean, I can see other scores because of my job, but people don’t have access to other people’s scores.”

“But we can see how our own score is affected by others.”

“The Legion.”

“That is one example. The Legion was ostensibly created to stimulate the economy, to coordinate consumption more efficiently. But as groups emerged each person could exercise choice. It is those choices that enable the social control.”

“But that is all public, in the open. It is voluntary.”

“It exploits people’s natural tendency to acquire goods and status. It provided a useful cover for the government to establish associates without us noticing. Groups potentially infer benefits. If you join the right ones you get better deals, a better life. Even status.”

They turned into one of the side aisles. The shelves contained toiletries, all neatly stacked, everything placed with inhuman perfection. As they walked down the aisle Miller reached out and plucked a bottle of shampoo from a shelf while he talked.

“But the real effect,” said Miller. “Is to make us comfortable with the idea others, including the government, have a right to know this information about us, that they have the right to store it and analyse it. At the moment associates means financial associates with whom we share an obvious link. People who live in the same household like a wife or parents. But in the hands of the masses it will soon move beyond this. It is too useful for people who want to acquire more and more.”

It reminded him of Martha’s link to her partner even though they lived at different addresses. How did they know that? Perhaps the name listed in red wasn’t her partner. It could be someone else. He hadn’t thought to confirm it with Jane.

He considered telling Miller but it could have repercussions since all CapScore data was confidential.

A quiet whoosh behind them broke the silence. Turning to look one of the giant robotic arms swooped down with an identical bottle of shampoo to the one in Miller’s hand. With a single, deft movement it lowered into the aisle and positioned the replacement bottle in the space where it had been removed. It then silently retreated back up into the dark heavens and out of sight.

Miller took no notice as he casually placed the shampoo onto a shelf as they turned back on to another long aisle running the full length of the building. He briefly wondered if an autostacker would notice and swoop down to remove it. Miller never skipped a beat, too busy explaining, warming to his subject now he had a captive audience.

“People crave status. As we buy more into the system it affects our CapScores. The introduction of financial associates fundamentally changed society. Who you associate with can affect your score and your score in turn affects the quality of your life. It was inevitable they would let this loose and let people control each other. That is what fascism really is, the very worst aspects of our psyche given free reign. Most people lack the self control to make reasonable decisions about others.”

He thought of the way Jane obsessively kept abreast of her score, the amount of effort she put into managing it. The buying, the endless comparisons, monitoring every aspect of the A-Crew. And now, as he recently learned, even rearranging her social circle to suit.

Then he remembered Miller’s original complaint.

“What has all this to do with cameras? You seem less concerned about them.”

“I don’t know. It must be to extend their reach, to bring in even more data. But I’m not sure. I don’t pay as much attention to all this as I used to. People love scores. They question nothing. Once I realized that I cared less. Although it still bothers me.”

At the top of each shelving unit store cameras subtly protruded, their bulbous mirrored exterior housing the hidden camera inside. They seemed to be on every aisle.

“This is a private company,” said Miller, noticing the cameras. “They won’t have access to these. At least not yet.”

It was disconcerting. If the government used all this data to publish CapScores there was nothing to stop anyone using it for their own ends. The superficial purpose was to assist with financial decisions but Miller had a point. People used the tools at their disposal. Who wanted to pay more for credit?

“But why?”

“Why what?” said Miller.

“Everything you are saying. If it is true, why? Why would a government or anyone else want this?”

“Control. Nothing more. The need for control.”

“Control what though?”

“People. Society. Everything they can get their hands on.”

“If that is true people would not stand for it.”

“Do you believe that? All of this,” he said, indicating the monstrous building and the endless shelves of consumer products all neatly stowed in their place. “All of this is to occupy you. To consume you, even though you think you are consuming it. It is to distract you.”

It sounded crazy. As crazy as the street cameras. And yet there was something in what Miller said that rattled him.

“All of it is about distraction. To rob you of time. To steal leisure from you.”

“If you mean me, and other people, working long hours then I agree. I do sometimes work long hours. At least more than I used to.”

“It is not just that. It is a factor, a kind of false sense of being busy all the time. But what I mean is real leisure. Time to think, Dr Smith. That’s what they really worry about. People having time to think and look and wonder. That is the original purpose of leisure. Not all this. Consuming at the level most people do nowadays is more like a job.”

Was he right? He thought of how much time and effort was absorbed by scores and comparisons and managing credit. Could it be that simple?

“People think they have leisure time because they get time off work,” said Miller. “But real leisure is more than just a break from work. It costs you. The price you pay for real leisure is your thoughts drifting off the reservation. Thinking about what is really going on. Thinking deeply about your own life and what you are really doing with it. That invites worries and doubts. It creates anxiety. And they learned long ago people will go to extraordinary lengths to avoid anxiety. All you need to do is provide some mild distraction then, over time, make the distractions complex enough to really absorb people.”

Without noticing Miller had brought them back around to the entrance. The multiple doors leading to the street now seemed incongruous given the emptiness of the huge supermarket. They didn’t meet a single other soul. As they left, emerging out on to the quiet street, Henry instantly noticed yellow units sitting on top of street lights in the area, a whole string lining the road on each side, their newness apparent as they caught the warm evening light. They stretched into the distance, dozens of them.

“They are everywhere,” said Miller, looking at the street lights. “And they are not going anywhere. Remember what I said, Dr Smith. It is in the nature of government to control. It is appealing to individuals who lust after control, and many of them end up in government. As every despotic regime eventually learns the whole thing takes on a life of its own. The instigators of these schemes always lose control in the end no matter how good their intentions. And losing control of it to us won’t make it any more democratic or fair. It will just unleash the worst of what we are capable of.”

---

3. Parity

The clock said four-thirty when he walked into the apartment. The text from Jane had urged him home immediately, although she hadn’t picked up when he’d called. He found her in the living room.

“What’s up?”

He briefly wondered where the kids were before she interrupted him.

“My score is down.”

Her eyes were bloodshot, her cheeks flushed. She looked like she had been crying.

“What?”

“My CapScore!”

“What are you talking about?”

“I checked earlier. This is the day of the month mine updates, remember? Don’t you check yours too?”

“Well, not really. I mean, occasionally.”

“Henry you work at the Office of Fiscal Cohesion! How can you not check your score?”

“Well, I do. From time to time.”

“From time to time?” said Jane, standing up. “Are you out of your mind? Do you have any idea how much effort I put in to our scores?”

She indicated the living room, the TV and the new couches. He couldn’t remember what else was new.

“All this. Most of these were group buys I organized with the A-Crew.”

This was crazy. She wasn’t making any sense.

“Look, I don’t know what the problem is. Sit down and tell me what’s wrong.”

“We are losing parity! It can’t have been me. It must have been you.”

“Me? What do you mean?”

“My score is down. Yours must be too. For mine to go down as much as it did yours must have went down a lot more. Your name is in red. You are my biggest effect. I phoned some of the others and theirs are fine, at least for now. But I could tell Helen wasn’t too impressed. I mean she has a hair trigger at the best of times. It was her idea to drop Martha—”

“Slow down!”

He couldn’t make sense of what she was saying.

“CapScores fluctuate all the time, Jane. I think you need to calm down and—”

“I’m not talking about monthly fluctuations!”

She screamed loudly enough the neighbours must have heard. It shocked her into awareness.

Jane slumped down on the couch.

“Why has this happened?”

He took out his phone and called up his score. Sure enough he had dropped considerably. He was only just still in the “Good” band, at the very lowest reaches. If he dropped only a few points he would move into the “Average” category.

“Well?” said Jane. “What does it say?”

“My score has dropped. Quite a bit in fact.”

Jane looked close to tears. “How could this have happened, Henry? We have been so diligent.”

“I don’t know.”

“How much did you drop?”

“At the bottom of good.”

Jane said nothing but he could swear the blood ran from her face as her eyes lost focus. He knew what she’d be thinking.

She came back to her senses and stood up.

“It must be someone. Can’t you think?”

He couldn’t imagine anything that could do this.

“Whoever it is their score must be rock bottom,” said Jane.

Moving through the details, he tried to find out what had changed. But everything was the same. Under his household it only listed Jane, still marked in green.

“You are still green.”

“Well you are red on mine. So it is definitely you.”

“But how? Nothing has changed.”

Under groups it listed his membership of the A-Crew and the Association of Pecuniary Professionals, both in green.

“How is this even possible? You are my only associate.”

“I am your only financial associate,” said Jane. “It must be someone in your penumbra.”

He scrolled down, his penumbra listing the usual scattering of names, most of them individuals in the groups he belonged to. All the names were in amber or green indicating neutral or positive effects. As he scrolled further a single name in his penumbra stood out in red, John Miller.

Jane immediately spotted the recognition on his face.

“What,” she said. “Who?”

“Someone new is listed.”

“Who?”

“Well, someone came to work.”

“What?”

“The person I told you about. The crazy guy. But it can’t be him.”

“What crazy guy? What do you mean?”

“The individual from work.”

“One of your workmates? At the office?”

“No, someone who came in to complain. John Miller.”

“Who is John Miller?”

He explained again. This time she listened.

“That’s it. It must be him. He is dragging us down, Henry. How could you do this?”

“Hold on a minute. This doesn’t make any sense. He came to work once to make a complaint. I then gave him a lift.”

“A lift? What do you mean?”

“I saw him a few weeks ago. It was raining. Then we had a chat.”

“What do you mean you had a chat? Who is this person?”

“What? I barely know him. He is a conspiracy theorist. A bum. No one I know.”

“But how could you, Henry?”

He was lost. Nothing affected scores beyond concrete associations like Jane or group membership. The penumbra had minimal effect.

“What does he do for a living?” said Jane.

“I think he’s unemployed.”

“What? How could you associate with someone like that!”

“Hold on a minute! How is this even possible? This doesn’t make sense. I met someone with whom I have absolutely no connection.”

“Well you had a chat and gave him a lift. That’s a connection! He is now part of your penumbra.”

“But how could they even know that?”

“Who cares! Don’t you see how damaging this is?”

He stared at Jane, shocked, her uncharacteristic anger momentarily disorientating. How could this even be possible? It couldn’t be meeting with Miller in the supermarket, or the lift in his car. Was it some mix up when Miller had come to the office to talk to him? It must be that. He could check at work tomorrow. To see how this had happened.

“I think there has been some mistake. I will check when I get in tomorrow.”

But Jane wasn’t listening. She got to her feet, her mind far away. “I’ll have to discuss this with Helen. Get her advice.”

She picked up her phone and walked in to the kitchen. He watched her go as his mind went over it again. How had Miller’s name been attached to himself? None of it made sense.

The details were unambiguous, marked clearly on his screen at work, careful to ensure Hughes and Benson didn’t see what he was up to. His score had dramatically declined. The drop had only appeared in the most recent update.

Henry clicked through to check the score history to confirm. The system at work provided much more detail than public systems. Something had happened in the last month to derail his score and it had inevitably bled through to Jane.

Miller’s name glared in red within his penumbra. But how had he been added? Why had he been added?

Clicking on Miller’s name brought up his details, his score in the lowest band, “Very Poor”. He still had only one financial associate, the woman’s name he had seen before. Both lived at the same address in an area flagged for its weak credit health. Lower down he saw his own name listed in green; he was part of Miller’s penumbra. Miller was still not part of any Legion group.

All of Miller’s details were visible, including his contact number. Should he call him? Did they monitor that too? He had to do something. Jane was frantic. Although her score had only been mildly affected these things built up over time.

Staring at the number he talked himself out of it. What would it accomplish? It would be best to avoid Miller completely; he had only met him that day over three weeks ago. In time the effect would surely diminish. Everything else was the same after all, and their trajectory was upward now they had the new house and his job. A single promotion would do more to improve his score and regain equilibrium than anything he could do to remove Miller.

Was it because Miller had come in to the office? That couldn’t be it. That was a professional setting, something his colleagues did too. Only personal connections mattered. But how had they known? Surely Miller’s paranoia about street cameras couldn’t be right? That was absurd.

With one last look at the details he shut it down. It was a minor blip, and given Jane was two steps away from Miller she would be fine as long as his score didn’t get any lower.

Jane had barely talked to him for days. He hoped things would improve now it was the weekend. He had even decided not to go into the office so he could spend time with her and the children, but it hadn’t helped in the end.

She’d been phoning her friends. One of them had faced a similar thing in the past. Veronica or was it Sarah? He couldn’t remember. He hadn’t broached it with her. He could sense she was just holding on for the next update to see what happened. Hoping it would improve.

He tried to distract himself around the apartment but it didn’t work and eventually retreated into the tiny study. Jane rarely ever came here.

His attention constantly drifted back to his score. In his mind he could see the small graph tracking it over the last year, the most recent month showing the downward slant of the line. Another dozen points or so and the effects would be immediate. The mortgage alone would be a substantial shift and it would temper the impact of their credit spread they had worked so hard to expand.

Then he remembered the new TV and the couch. What was the other stuff Jane had bought? He couldn’t remember and hadn’t even checked how much she had committed. Jane had also tinkered with some of their upgrade schedules and her desire to move to a twelve-month schedule for the car not to mention their need for the second one. A lower score would derail all their plans. He tried not to think about it.

And yet thoughts of Miller kept creeping back into his mind. How had it happened? He had managed to find out nothing more about changes to penumbra. Information was minimal and he hadn’t dared ask a colleague. The system worked so well. Jane was his own biggest effect. But how had Miller been added? Why had he been added? The groups were only used to calculate lending, typically to assess risk, information never accessible by individuals to prevent anyone gaming the system. Had they started doing something new with people’s penumbra?

Bizarrely Miller’s number was fresh in his mind. His attempts to intentionally ignore it had backfired. The full number blazed in his awareness despite not wanting anything further to do with the man.

And yet, Miller had talked about this. In his own way Miller was the safest person to talk to. Despite the update to his file he had the least connection with him. But if there was any truth in Miller’s ravings, about the government using surveillance, then how could he meet him safely?

The number rolled around his head all morning. By noon he could not stand it any longer and reached for his phone.

He stared at the number for a full minute after typing it in. Then he clicked to connect.

Miller answered almost immediately.

“John Miller?”

“Who is this?”

“It is Henry Smith. From the Office of Fiscal Cohesion.”

“I was wondering when you’d call, Dr Smith.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think we both know what I mean.”

“My score has dropped.”

“Mine has improved,” said Miller.

“I don’t understand how this has happened.”

“I can explain. Come and meet me. I don’t trust phones.”

“Meet you?”

“Yes. Somewhere no one will be able to track us.”

Miller approached as he parked. Getting out of the car he didn’t quite know why he had come. This seemed like madness. In the distance the imposing presence of the shopping centre dominated the view, its mixture of architectural styles jarring despite the attempts to present it as one cohesive space.

The carpark could accommodate over ten thousand cars. He knew it was only one of sixteen scattered around the complex, all of them feeding the relentless urge to shop. Looking around at the unending vista of parked vehicles he spotted dozens of versions of his own car, all of them the more recent model. A constant moving throng of people walked to and from the shopping centre.

Looking up and around, giant columns supporting banks of floodlights high above littered the vast space, ensuring the carpark was brightly lit at night. None of them had the distinctive yellow units on top.

“Checking for cameras, Dr Smith?”

He said nothing, staring at Miller. His appearance hadn’t changed. He looked like the unemployed bum from before.

“Is it here you wish to talk?”

“No,” said Miller, turning to look at the far end of the shopping centre, its eastern edge. “I want to show you the new extension they are building.”

Looking to the far right of the building several cranes stood silent in the afternoon light, housed within an area closed off with wooden fencing, the entire eastern part under active construction.

“They are always extending this place,” said Miller. “Let me show you.”

Henry locked the car and followed him as they walked to the building site.

“This place was first built almost forty years ago,” said Miller as he walked along. “They haven’t stopped extending it since. Like a medieval cathedral the masses come here to worship.”

Weaving in around the hundreds of cars took time, a constant flow of shoppers everywhere, many heading to the elaborate entrance some distance away. It too was huge, like the mouth of some concrete beast. The expectant look on the faces of the shoppers, the obvious excitement they felt as they walked to the retail emporium, made them look like an army of drugged sheep as they marched onward. Few seemed to be exiting the structure as if they could only enter but not leave.

They eventually made it to the wooden palisade protecting the building works. Five cranes loomed above them, frozen in inaction.

“We can get in over here.” Miller indicated the far end, a gap just visible in the crude fencing surrounding the site.

As they approached Henry began to have doubts, remembering how crazy this probably was. “Are we allowed in here?”

“No. But we won’t do any harm. And anyway, it will give us peace and quiet.”

Miller directed them inside the deserted compound. Earth moving equipment and generators lay in their path with abandoned tools propped against the temporary cabins for the workmen. They soon made it to the far side of the building, open to the elements, the huge concrete walls stretching up into the sky.

Craning his neck, he looked up to the top, impossibly high.

“Eight floors,” said Miller.

Only a short distance in to the open end of the building a concrete stairwell appeared. Miller started walking up the stairs.

“It is a long way up,” he said. “But no one is ever here at the weekend.”

Henry trudged along behind him, keen to know more. But by the second flight he was already too winded to maintain the conversation.

The climb to the top seemed to take forever. Even Miller was out of breath by the time they emerged on to the bare, unfinished surface of the top floor. Looking up, the roof had been added, the concrete slabs a dull grey in the afternoon light.

A lone generator lay some distance away, its squat, rounded form like some industrial beetle lurking in the silence. Light dust covered the floor, the faint outline of workmen’s boots the only sign of human involvement.

“The floors are massive,” said Miller, panting, looking around. “Once the structure is in place they can rearrange the interior any way they like. From large department stores to small units. Maximum flexibility.”

Henry couldn’t imagine they needed more space. The shopping centre already had nine distinct “wings” with each covering several football pitch-sized areas. The size of the floor they stood on was difficult to estimate as he looked down it’s full length, the featureless uniformity of the bare concrete providing no clues to its scale.

“What do they need all this for?”

“More shops. More shopping,” said Miller. “Maximum consumption.”

Miller walked over to an opening in the distant wall, a crude banister made from scaffolding preventing anyone from falling.

Henry joined him at the waist-level obstruction and looked down. The shaft was a large square, thirty or forty feet on each side. It stretched all the way down to the ground floor, a sharp dizziness making him step back as he took in the long drop.

“What is it?”

“Who knows,” said Miller, peering down, seemingly unaffected by the height. “Probably a freight elevator.”

He turned to look at Henry.

“No cameras here though.”

“Is that it? Is that the reason we are now associated?”

“What do you mean?”

“My score has come down.”

He didn’t want to mention he had checked using the system at work.

“Mine has went up,” said Miller. “In my last update.”

“My penumbra.”

“So it would seem,” said Miller. “I don’t follow changes as close as I used to. But I remember reading about it. Long ago. They’ve been keen to extend the reach of their little social scheme for a long time. Your household members are easy, as is group membership. But they’ve always wanted more than that. They want it all, Dr Smith. They want to own you.”

Henry stepped forward, uncomfortably aware of the shaft and its long drop to the bottom. “Is that what you were getting at? Before, when you talked about the cameras?”

“No cameras here. But sort of. I didn’t think they were using them yet. In fact I have no idea if they do use them. But you now see the point I was making.”

“But why would they want to change my score? I don’t even know you.”

“And nor will you, if the government has anything to say about it.”

“But why?”

“It keeps people like us in line, Dr Smith.”

“But I’ve never heard of this. We live in a democracy.”

“Ha!” Miller’s scoff echoed in the empty space. “What is democracy? We have mob rule. The mob wants to control others and this is how they do it.”

“How can a government control so many millions?”

“They don’t. People do the controlling. We are creeping about a building site so we won’t be filmed or noticed. Grown men afraid to meet in public.”

A noise startled him. He turned to look and Jane stood at the top of the stairwell, leaning against the rough unfinished wall, out of breath.

“Jane? What are you doing here?”

She slowly walked over, eyeing Miller suspiciously, her breathing laboured as she struggled to talk. She wore the new black and pink running gear he had seen lying over the chair in the bedroom, now covered in a thin film of grey dust.

“Me? What are you doing here?” She turned to look at Miller, unfazed, his hand resting on the makeshift bannister. “Who is this, Henry? Is this the person you have been meeting?”

“Met, Jane. We met once. This is John Miller. The person I told you about.”

Jane stared at Miller.

“The person who has lowered our score?”

“Jane, why are you here? Where are the kids? How did you even get here?”

“I took a taxi. I followed you, Henry. The kids are with the Coulsons.”

Their elderly neighbours. Jane didn’t even like them. Why had she followed him? Had she listened in to his phone conversation with Miller?

“The system has changed your score, Mrs Smith. I had nothing to do with it.”

Miller’s voice rang out in the vacant building, breaking the silence.

Jane looked like she was about to say something then bit her tongue. She looked around the empty, desolate floor, the confusion apparent on her face.

“Why are you here? What is this place?”

“More floorspace for more shops,” said Miller. “More places for people to worship the gods of retail. More opportunities to distract and enslave themselves. All dedicated to the purpose of ensuring people never stop, never slow down enough to think for themselves.”

“Are you the person Henry met? The one who affected our scores?”

“You mean your bonds?”

Jane looked angrier than ever.

Miller indicated the gigantic empty floor with a sweep of his hand. “All this is inevitable because of people like you, Mrs Smith.” He turned to Henry. “And you, Dr Smith. Look at you both, hot and bothered because of a single three-digit number.”

“What do you mean? We have spent years building up our scores. We’ve made sacrifices! Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“No, nothing,” said Miller. “Not really. And nor should it mean anything to you either. You are embracing slavery. It is not even imposed. You have trained yourself to ignore life through distraction. You ignore leisure time. You seek to fill it up not make use of it. That’s the price you are both paying. You can’t face up to life itself.”

Jane seemed like she was about to retort. He had never seen her so angry. But instead she lunged forward as if to hit Miller. He took an involuntary step back against the makeshift bannister behind him.

In the split second that followed a sharp crack rang out. The metal pole fell down at the far end behind Miller who tried to turn and slipped, his foot just catching the edge of the shaft.

His fall backward seemed to be in slow motion. Henry stood stationary, Jane had stopped. They both watched in silent horror as Miller fell, instantly beyond their help. In only a fraction of a second he slipped below the level of the floor and out of site.

Quickly coming to his senses, Henry leapt forward. Miller was still falling as he looked over, then quickly hit the concrete ground far below with an abrupt, final thud, his head and abdomen exploding, spraying the surrounding areas with dark, red blood. Bile rose in Henry’s throat as he instinctively stepped back.

He turned to Jane as she moved forward.

“Don’t look.”

Jane stopped, staring at him, a distant, lost look on her face, her eyes wild as if unaware of where she was.

She stepped back, her eyes darting around the empty floor as if seeing it for the first time.

“We have to get out of this place,” she said.

He didn’t know what to say, or do.

“Henry!”

Her sharp voice ricocheted through the entire floor, amplified by the complete emptiness of the space. The new shopping complex. The one they were still building.

He snapped to attention and looked at her.

“We have to leave. Now!” she said.

Jane spun around, heading for the stairwell. He turned back to look at the shaft, the scaffolding pole still attached to the wall at the right, the left side pointing down into nothing. Pointing down to where Miller had fallen to his death. He couldn’t bring himself to approach it and look again.

Taking a step back he turned, Jane already out of sight, her footsteps echoing in the still air like a member of the faithful leaving an ancient temple. He started walking then ran, running down as fast as he could after her.