by John Marrs
“Beg me,” he said slowly.
“Jack, come on now,” said Fiona. “Show some self-respect.”
“Be mindful that people are watching us, Jack. This is not going to reflect well upon you with the public,” warned Muriel.
Jack ignored her. “Beg me,” he repeated.
“You’re a sick man,” said Matthew. “Just pick a name.”
“If Miss Dixon wants her little friend to survive this process, then I need to know how serious she is about him. I want her to beg me.”
His half-smile, half-sneer made Libby want to recoil. Instead, she looked to Jude’s screen and for the first time, he appeared angry. “No,” he mouthed, waving his hands in front of his chest. “No.”
Libby shook her head before her glare returned to Jack. She cleared her throat. “I am begging you to choose Jude,” she asked, her voice controlled and her tone measured.
Jack released a long, exaggerated breath. “There, it wasn’t that difficult now, was it? And because you asked so nicely, if you really think it’ll make a difference, then I’ll change my vote. I apologise, Mr. Cole, but at the eleventh hour, I have been coerced into taking my support elsewhere.”
Sam closed his eyes and hung his head forwards.
“And?” asked Matthew. “Where is it going?”
“Never let it be said that I don’t listen to the people and take their opinions into account. I shall be supporting the person with the majority of hashtag mentions.”
“Thank you,” said Libby, and a wave of respite washed over her. Jude had been spared.
“Oh no, I think you misunderstand me, Miss Dixon,” Jack continued. “It was Mrs. Cole who received the number of hashtagged saves, not Mr. Harrison. Your charge only gained the public vote through modifications of his name and yours, which in my eyes, is unfair. So I am voting for the true winner, Mrs. Cole, and not the mentally unstable Passenger you favour.”
As Jack’s eyes pierced hers, his smile emitting only conceit, Libby felt Jude slowly slipping through her fingers. She opened her mouth, desperate to defend him, but she knew it was pointless. Her humiliation quickly transformed into rage, and it was all she could do to stop herself from slapping Jack hard across the face.
“You don’t care about Heidi,” said Libby. “Only moments ago you were telling us she drove her husband into another woman’s arms. You’re doing this because it’s the only bit of control you have left.”
“You’re a sore loser, Miss Dixon,” said Jack. “These votes are so precious, I’d really rather not waste mine on a stillborn relationship.”
“Why are you so opposed to letting Jude live and giving him and me a chance?”
“Don’t bite, Libby,” warned Matthew. “He has nothing to lose. The world has seen his true colours. He has no chance of ever being re-elected.”
“No, it’s okay,” Libby continued. “Come on, Jack, get it off your chest.”
Jack turned his head towards Jude. “Have you really given much thought to what ‘#HappyEverAfter4J&L’ actually means?” he asked. “You’re a mental health worker, Miss Dixon, not Walt Disney. Surely you must realise there will be no happy-ever-afters in your storybook. There will be no bluebirds or bunny rabbits leading you and Prince Charming into the sunset for a fairy-tale ending. If I allow Mr. Harrison to survive this process, what do you honestly think will happen when you leave this room? Yes, you might formulate a clumsy, co-dependent debacle of a relationship that survives weeks, perhaps even months, if you’re lucky. But when the world’s interest in you wanes and all that’s left is the two of you, Mr. Harrison will continue to battle the same demons he fought long before you stumbled into one another’s arms. In fact, his obstacles and anxiety will likely be exacerbated because he’ll now have everyone’s expectations resting upon his fragile shoulders, including yours, and it’s unlikely he’ll cope with the challenge. Perhaps at first, he’ll convince himself that you are his reason to live and he’ll want to believe that, he really will. But quietly and without putting it into words, he’ll be walking a tightrope between living to appease you and desperately craving the peace that made today the day he was going to die. Then when you’ve taken your eye off the ball, he’ll fall from that tightrope and he won’t climb back on it again. And it won’t come as a complete surprise to you because in the back of your mind, you’ll have been expecting it. Each time he fails to answer a call within a few rings or when you return home from work and the house is a little too quiet, the first thing that’ll cross your mind is whether he is swinging from a light fitting. And, as it was with your brother, you know it’ll be your fault because you forced him into a life he couldn’t cope with. So instead of sitting there like an entitled little madam who can’t get her own way, you should be thanking me. Because I am sparing you from this heartache. By sending Mr. Harrison to his death, I am giving you the opportunity to continue your humdrum, pedestrian existence without adding funeral costs to your list of expenses.”
This time, Libby could no longer contain her fury. “Go to hell!” she yelled as she launched herself at Jack, her fists flailing. She was a hair’s-breadth from making contact with his face when Matthew stepped between them, grabbed her by the waist, and pulled her back to the other side of the room, her legs still kicking.
“Plenty of people who are much better, much bigger, and much stronger than you have taken me on and lost,” Jack hissed. “You’re not the first and you won’t be the last. Just remember, people like you never win over people like me.”
“The only good thing to have come out of this is that your constituents have seen you as the sanctimonious, worthless piece of shit you really are,” Libby seethed.
Jack dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “Sticks and stones, Miss Dixon, sticks and stones. Nothing will change because like it or not, I am needed. I am valued. I am listened to. I am an influencer. You. Are. Nothing.”
Before Libby could retaliate, a piercing scream came from the speakers, filling the room. Heads turned towards the wall of screens for the source before settling on Claire. Her volume had returned.
CHAPTER 52
Oh gosh,” said Muriel. “Look at her.”
“Has she—”
“Yes,” Matthew interrupted. “It looks like she’s in labour.”
“She’s faking it,” Jack dismissed.
“Look at her, you idiot,” said Fiona. “That’s not a woman who is faking contractions.”
Claire’s face was contorted by pain as she bit hard on her bottom lip, trying to hold back another scream. She slammed the palms of both hands upon the dashboard and shut her eyes tightly until the contractions temporarily passed.
“Last-minute sympathy bid,” said Jack. “I’d put money on the fact she’s playing up to the cameras.”
“You don’t have any money left, remember?” said Libby. “The world emptied your accounts.”
“Why are we only seeing this now?” asked Muriel. “A minute ago she wasn’t in this kind of pain, was she?”
“I expect he’s had her on a loop,” Matthew replied. “He’s likely been showing us footage of her from earlier, before the contractions started. We’ve been too busy debating her life to have noticed.”
“We need to take her out of there,” Muriel demanded, looking skywards. “Do you hear me? You need to help this girl and her baby!”
“Are you talking to God or the Hacker?” Jack smirked.
“Just shut up!” Muriel yelled before the speaker crackled and the Hacker spoke.
“If we are to judge the delivery time based upon the average time between contractions, it is likely Claire will be giving birth within the next thirty minutes.”
“Do you have any idea how much stress she and the baby are in?” Muriel continued. “You have to let her go now.”
“As much as I would like that to happen, my hands are tied.”
“But with the exception of you, no one wanted to save Claire. I made you a promise that I would free the person you chose to survive this process. So if I let her go, I would be going against my word. And you know how much importance I place in honesty.”
Libby knew what she must do, but it felt like a hammer blow. She looked up to Jude’s screen and he nodded, as if reading her mind and giving her his consent.
“If you can’t alter your decision, can we?” she said. “If we changed our minds, can we save Claire and her baby?”
“Yes, you can.”
Muriel looked to her colleagues, her brow raised, her eyes begging for their support. Matthew was the first to react, nodding his head.
“So will I,” added Fiona.
Libby fought to hold back the emotion inside her. Again, she looked to Jude, who gave her the warmest but saddest smile she had ever seen. “I support Claire,” she said.
“I think I’ll remain with Mrs. Cole,” said Jack.
“Is this your final decision?” asked the Hacker. Each juror nodded. “Then the majority rules. You have chosen to save Claire.”
“You’ll stop the car and get her help?” Libby asked.
“I can confirm her car will come to a halt in due course and before she is set to collide with the others.”
Libby wiped the emotion from her eyes and glanced at the countdown clock. “But that’s not for another ten minutes. Why can’t you do it now? The drone cameras show ambulances are behind all the Passengers. They can help her.”
“Women have been giving birth for thousands upon thousands of years, Libby. Claire’s smart seat is recording her statistics for me. I am sure that she and her baby will survive this process intact.”
Libby couldn’t hold back an incredulous laugh. “How can you assure us of anything? You’ve murdered people, you’ve forced us into making impossible decisions that go against everything we believe in. And for what purpose? Because you don’t like driverless cars or artificial intelligence? Well, neither do I, but you don’t see me blowing innocent people up!”
“Is that why you think I’m doing this, Libby?”
“Is it not?”
“You have misunderstood my motives.”
“Then release Claire and tell us.”
The Hacker hesitated before he replied. “Perhaps the reasoning behind today’s actions might sound better coming from Jack. Because everything that has happened today is because of him.”
CHAPTER 53
BirminghamExaminerOnline.co.uk
POSTED BY: RICH JENKINS 11:45 a.m.
Police have confirmed that metal fencing surrounding the former Kelly & Davis site has been dismantled by army troops in preparation for the Hacker’s collision. Members of the public are ignoring police warnings to stay away for their own safety. Thousands are already lining the streets ahead of the impact.
All eyes turned towards the MP. Jack’s face and demeanour remained unruffled by the accusation.
“Jack,” continued the Hacker. “Would you like to explain to the world how, in the event of an accident, a driverless car really makes a decision on who lives and who dies? Because everything you’ve told us has been a lie, hasn’t it?”
“What’s he talking about?” asked Fiona.
Screens containing the Passengers and news channels were replaced with just one image: Jack’s face, broadcast from the multiple hidden cameras scattered around the walls. He failed to react to them or to the attention paid to him by the room’s occupants. Instead, he held firm, his face stoic, his back straight, hands clenched, and legs spread shoulder-width apart.
“Come on now, Jack,” coaxed the Hacker. “Either I can tell them or you can. It makes no difference to me how this is exposed.”
Thirty seconds on the clock passed before Jack moved. Without acknowledging anyone, he straightened his tie and made his way towards the tall wooden exit doors. He lingered where he was standing with his back to his colleagues.
“I’m afraid it’s your turn to be a Passenger now,” said the Hacker. “Is there something you would like to get off your chest? And remember, honesty is the best policy.”
Jack didn’t respond so the Hacker pressed on. “What have you been keeping from the public and your fellow jurors since your inquests began? In a potentially fatal accident, how does a driverless car really make its decision?”
Matthew spoke. “I thought we’d adopted the German approach, where software must be programmed to avoid injury or death at all cost? The car judges each individual scenario before taking the best course of action resulting in the fewest injuries or fatalities.”
“And that was the intention when the technology was in its infancy,” the Hacker replied. “The public’s biggest concern then was how ethical and moral decisions could be made by robots. The powers that be assured us that driverless cars would try to save the most lives possible. And it was enough to appease most of us, even those who feared that car manufacturers would put their Passengers’ safety first. But it was all a lie, wasn’t it, Jack? Because the cars you campaigned for are actually assessing us, and protecting the people that you have decided are the most valuable to society.”
“What’s he talking about?” whispered Cadman to one of his team. “Why haven’t I read about this online?”
“What does he mean by ‘valuable to society’?” Libby asked.
Jack was unwavering in his silence, so the Hacker replied for him.
“If an accident with a driverless car is unavoidable, the car isn’t only scanning its surroundings to make a decision; it’s scanning you. Everything on your National Identity Card and the information collected on your wearable technology decides, in less than a nanosecond, if you are worth saving or sacrificing.”
Libby shook her head. “But the ID cards only contain our basic details like National Insurance numbers, blood type, iris scans, et cetera. How can the value of my life depend on something like my eye colour?”
“The cards actually collect and hold so much more than that—masses of data harvested from elsewhere you’ve given your information. It stores your medical records, internet search history, online purchases, level of education, average and projected earnings, relationship history, size of your mortgage, criminal record, who you associate with on social media—this list goes on.”
“So it’s like a constantly evolving biography about our lives?” asked Matthew.
“Precisely. It’s a CV that can change daily, hourly even. Then add that to the data on the phones we carry and our wearable tech such as those tracking our activity and health, and together, it provides a complete picture of who we are, where we belong in society, and our role in shaping our country’s future. All that information helps a car rate us before it decides if we are to live or die.”
“Who does it view are more important than others?” Fiona asked.
“Allow me to offer you a few examples. If it’s a choice between an unemployed teenager and a high-ranking council official, the teenager will not come out well. If it’s a pregnant woman and an elderly person living on a state pension, the latter will be sacrificed. An obese person will not fare well against an athlete; likewise a person with a criminal record will fall foul of one without. A police officer outranks a nurse, but a doctor outweighs a police officer. A smoker comes before a drug user, and a cancer patient takes precedence over someone with a family history of dementia. An MP triumphs over a civil servant, but a cabinet minister tops an MP. And so it goes, on and on and on. The person most useful to our society always prevails. None of us are equals when it comes to driverless cars.”
Suddenly the screens became filled with images, data, names, inquest files stamped “Classified,” blueprints, and photographs, and all with a lin
k to download them. Amongst them, Libby recognised the three victims she had witnessed the deaths of in Monroe Street.
“If this is true, then I’m speechless,” said Fiona. “I’m actually speechless.”
“How was this ever sanctioned?” asked Matthew. “Someone must have given it the go-ahead?”
“It was a select few officials buried deep within Westminster’s walls who decided to use our own data against us and ensure any deaths on roads would not be people who ‘mattered.’ Those offenders, including Jack, tasked with its development and implementation, saw an opportunity to socially cleanse certain members of society they believed didn’t offer enough. They wanted to use our own data against us.”
A hush filled the room as each person digested and processed the Hacker’s accusations. “Is this right, Jack?” asked Muriel. “Are we nothing more than data to you?”
Jack shook his head and tugged at the cuffs of his shirt so they could be seen under the sleeves of his jacket. Finally, he turned to face the jurors. “The British people have been nothing but data since William I carried out the first census for the Domesday Book in 1086,” he began. “All we are, and all we have ever been, are statistics, so let’s not pretend this is a catastrophic crisis that risks tearing apart the very moral fibre of our society. How do you think you are approved for credit cards and loans? How are decisions made on what you pay for insurance? How do we decide the number of immigrants allowed into our country? Acquired data. All that’s happened here is that we’ve reached a new level in our history where decisions have been made as to your importance to your country.”
“And you believe this is justifiable?” said Libby. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but AI isn’t the enemy—you are.”
“Tell me, Miss Dixon, what did you expect us to do?” Jack responded. “Did you really think that we’d allow the cars to make all the decisions? We aren’t stupid, of course we were going to keep a tight rein over them. We have been afforded an unimaginable, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to protect the people who shape our society, who save lives, who contribute, who make it a better place for all of us. It is our duty to put them first. Do you think we should squander it in the name of an equality our country has never actually had? This is merely a modernisation of the class system. If you needed a life-saving operation, would you want a doctor or a supermarket-shelf stacker to hold the scalpel? Who would you prefer to rescue you from a burning building? A trained firefighter or someone with a learning disability?”