by John Marrs
“You judge lives based on disability too?” asked Muriel.
Jack laughed. “Of course we do!”
“But we are all God’s—”
“Save it for Sunday’s sermon. Did you or your wife have a typical twenty-week screening test for your baby?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To make sure everything was okay.”
“And if it wasn’t?”
“Well, er, we’d have to make a decision based—”
“You’re a hypocrite. Because if we valued disabled people as much as we claim we do, we wouldn’t be testing for foetus abnormalities during pregnancy.”
“This is no better than what the Nazis did,” accused Libby. “You’re using accidents as an opportunity to erase anyone who doesn’t fit your profile of what society should resemble.”
“We are hardly deploying soldiers to round people up and ship them off to camps, are we? All we are doing in the rare event of a fatal car accident is to put the country first. It’s natural selection for a modern age. Of course I wouldn’t expect someone like you to understand.”
“This isn’t what the people wanted,” Libby continued. “Do you remember the results of that survey by an American university? Millions of users from around the world answered ethical questions about who should be prioritised in a crash, and their answers were supposed to be the building-blocks for policymakers like you.”
“It was called the Moral Machine, and global surveys like that should be taken with a pinch of salt,” Jack replied. “They’d only been completed by those who were tech-savvy, so they didn’t represent the opinion of every demographic. And each scenario only had two outcomes—these people should die or those people should die. If we were to take the results on board, we’d be allowing our laws to be influenced by different cultures in different countries. Do you want the views of the Chinese or the Saudis to dictate who lives or who dies on British streets? That’s ridiculous.”
“What has been the point of these inquests then?” asked Fiona. “If a decision has already been made, then what we’ve been doing is inconsequential. Has anything we have ever said made the blindest bit of difference?”
“On occasion when the deceased weren’t carrying identity cards or phones and we knew very little about them, then your judgement was useful.”
“These inquests are nothing more than smokescreens, aren’t they? The government is hiding what you do behind these inquests under the guise of a due process that doesn’t exist.”
Jack closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is becoming tiresome. Introducing driverless vehicles was the most seismic overhaul of the motor evolution since cars first joined our roads. Not a single person watching this farce play out has any idea of how much effort it took behind the scenes to make it work. And you criticise us because we’ve had some tough decisions to make? How dare you! Whether you like it or not, statistics speak for themselves and the bottom line is this—because of what I have helped to create, our roads have never been safer. The most expert driver in the world cannot respond as consistently well as these cars do.”
Libby pointed to the screens. “Try telling that to the families of Victor, Bilquis, Shabana, and the hundreds of people caught up in the explosions and who died this morning. And perhaps mention it to the Passengers still trapped in those cars and waiting to die that what you’re doing is for the greater good.”
“You are as ignorant as you are stupid, Miss Dixon.”
“Right back at you, Jack, right back at you.”
“The time,” interrupted Matthew. “Look at the clock.”
Each juror turned to look at the countdown display. Just two minutes remained until the Passengers were scheduled to collide.
CHAPTER 54
Channel24/7News.co.uk
The following images may not be appropriate for younger or sensitive viewers. Parental discretion is advised.
From a distance of 1,200 miles above the earth’s surface, the Astra satellite beamed live images of a large expanse of wasteland onto the inquest wall. Flashing blue and red dots surrounded it, which Libby assumed to be lights attached to emergency services vehicles.
Smart motorways and dual carriageways surrounded the industrial estates on the outskirts of Birmingham. They housed manufacturing plants, including the former Kelly & Davis factory, which was now just rubble and vacant land.
As the satellite focused more closely, Libby noticed the carriageways had come to a standstill as spectators left their cars and hurried to witness the forthcoming collision from a safe distance. The police held some back while others stood on bonnets and roofs for better views. Clearly they hadn’t been scared off by the detonation of Shabana’s vehicle that left dozens injured or dead.
Next to the countdown clock appeared new digits, a calculation of the distance the Passengers were from the impact zone. 2 miles, it read. Libby swallowed hard.
A computer-generated map appeared along with three-dimensional CGI graphics of vehicles moving towards a pinpointed area. On other screens, the Passengers could be viewed from inside through their dashboard cameras and from outside, via drones and helicopters pursuing them.
With their roles now complete, Cadman and his team hovered at the back of the room while jurors rose to their feet and moved towards the centre to watch the Hacker execute the final part of his plan. Jack chose to remain where he was, by the sealed exit. Libby briefly cast her eye over him. His posture was no longer quite so upright, his expression less indomitable. Now that the truth was exposed, Libby assumed he was likely trying to devise a way out of his dilemma. His position as an MP and cabinet minister was no longer tenable, his finances were erased, and he would likely face a criminal investigation for what he had helped to orchestrate. He deserved everything that was coming to him and more.
For now, she would waste no more time thinking about him. Instead, she focused on Jude. Libby desperately wanted to talk to him one last time, but she had no words to make his situation any more bearable. And as harrowing as it would be for her to watch, she owed it to him to be there when his car collided with the others. They were in this together.
1.7 miles, read the distance counter.
Jude appeared composed, she thought, as if he were resigned to his fate. She remembered why. He had already come to terms with his planned death earlier that morning. The end result of what was about to happen was what he had wished for. If only I’d heard your name back in the bar, she thought. This could’ve all been so different for the both of us.
The muffled tones of two news anchors offering a blow-by-blow account of what was on-screen could only just be heard amongst the muttering in the room. “Can you turn the volume up?” asked Matthew, and the Hacker obliged.
“. . . and with just over a minute left, it appears certain the five Passengers will collide on the grounds of the former Kelly and Davis car plant, the last of the traditional British manufacturers to close shortly before the start of the Road Revolution. Pregnant Claire Arden, who is now believed to be in premature labour, was chosen by the jury to survive this ordeal, but as yet, her vehicle is showing no sign of being withdrawn. Emergency services are already stationed at the site and have issued a statement that says while its personnel are unable to prevent or interfere with the actual collision when it happens, they will attempt to minimise the aftermath by sending in firefighters to tackle the blaze and paramedics to help the injured.”
1.3 miles.
Libby’s focus moved towards Claire, who was now bent double, her lips pursed, eyes tightly shut, and clutching her stomach as she awaited the end of another painful contraction. “Why haven’t you let her out?” Libby directed at the Hacker. “You said you would if we voted for her. We’ve done everything you told us to do; it’s time to keep your end of the deal.” She was greeted by his silence.
Next, Libby looked towards Sam. His leg was twitching and his hands were clasped together as if in prayer. Meanwhile, Heidi held her phone in her hands, whispering into the receiver. With no signal, Libby assumed she was recording a message for her children in the hope the device might survive the crash. The only Passenger she was unable to see was Sofia, who remained a blur behind her scarf.
What must be going through their heads? Libby wondered, then tried and failed to put herself in their shoes. She remembered how, while attending university, she had volunteered her weekends to assist in a hospice offering palliative care to those with terminal illnesses. Much of her time was spent comforting people close to death. They had given her an insight into how people come to terms with the inevitable in their own individual ways. But she struggled to comprehend how it might feel to be a Passenger, watching the clock and counting down the seconds to their murder.
1 mile.
Libby returned to Jude. His eyes were now closed. She imagined her hand on his chest as it rose and fell with each breath. She wondered if, before today, he had written letters to friends or his estranged brother to explain his decision. Her brother Nicky had left no note. He was in his bedroom turning a light fitting into a noose as his family were preparing his “welcome home” lunch downstairs. As her father cut him down and ran to phone for help, Libby put her ear to his lips and shook him, as if to release any last words that were caught in his throat. But he had nothing left to say.
0.8 miles.
The first of the five cars followed by its army escorts appeared within the perimeters of the area, but from that height and angle, Libby couldn’t work out to whom it belonged. It was closely followed by a second vehicle taking an alternative approach, then a third, a fourth, and a fifth. They were all equidistant from one another. This is it, thought Libby. This is where it all comes to an end. She fought to catch her breath.
Someone’s touch brought her out of herself. On instinct, she recoiled when a hand grasped hers. She turned to see that it belonged to Muriel, whose other hand was holding Fiona’s. In turn, she held Matthew’s hand. They remained in a line, staring up at the screens as if anticipating the Rapture. No matter what their opinions had been of one another earlier that day, they had since united in a camaraderie. Without speaking, Libby accepted Muriel’s hand.
0.6 miles.
“The vehicles are less than thirty seconds from one another,” the news anchor announced. “And we can see from the helicopter camera that the Passengers are all now within sight of one another.”
Cameras drew in closer to Sofia’s charred, dented vehicle leaving the dual carriageway and approaching the wasteland. Next, Libby recognised Jude’s car travelling along a different road and towards open gates and fencing that had been hastily torn down. Heidi’s car followed, then Sam’s, and finally Claire’s came into view.
“Each vehicle is estimated to be travelling at sixty miles an hour,” continued the news anchor. “Level Five cars contain more safety features than traditional vehicles, but because there are far fewer accidents, they are built from lighter-weight and lower-cost materials. So at that speed and with the deployment of the standard twelve airbags each car contains, the odds are still very much against a Passenger surviving. And as each vehicle is likely to contain explosives, fatalities are inevitable.”
0.4 miles.
Libby clenched Muriel’s hand tighter. “The Hacker lied about us allowing one to live,” said Muriel tearfully, her fingers trembling. “The vote meant nothing. He’s going to kill Claire too.”
Libby wasn’t listening. Jude was now the sole focus of her attention. I could have saved you, she thought. I know I could have if the Hacker had given me the chance. And then you could have saved me too.
0.2 miles.
The drones and the helicopters began to pull back for their own safety as each Passenger’s car entered the derelict wasteland from five different angles, all in perfectly straight lines. Their speeding tyres threw up white and grey clouds of concrete dust. Jude’s eyes were now open, but he wasn’t looking at what was to come. He was staring into the camera lens. He’s looking to me, Libby thought. He wants me to be the last face he ever sees. She forced the biggest smile while her eyes swam with tears. She held her free hand to her chest, right above her heart. Jude did the same.
0.009 miles.
“Three seconds left,” said the TV anchor solemnly. “May God be with them.”
Libby braced herself until, without warning, each car suddenly turned sharply in a perfectly choreographed manoeuvre before their brakes were applied, bringing them to a skidding, dramatic halt.
CHAPTER 55
Libby released her hand from Muriel’s grip and clutched the neckline of her own blouse.
“What’s happening?” Fiona asked. She pushed her glasses back up her nose and stepped closer to the screens to try to make sense of the images.
“I . . . I don’t think it’s happened,” said Muriel. “I don’t think they’ve collided. There’s no explosion, no fires, there’s . . . nothing.”
Footage from the inside of each vehicle vanished, leaving only images taken from outside. However, the swirling smog of rising dust meant that from drones, helicopters, and the satellite feed, the area was cloaked under a thick grey and white blanket.
Everyone’s focus shifted to street-level cameras as news crews zoomed in, desperate to capture the moment when the air that was dense with debris and dust finally dissolved. Libby watched anxiously as army and emergency services vehicles approached the Passengers’ cars, reticent to step too close too quickly, in case they belatedly detonated. Then footage switched to just five screens, each one taken by body cams attached to five army bomb disposal technicians. They wore thick, blast-proof heavy body armour and took tentative steps. Time felt as if it were standing still until they reached the cars the world had spent the last two and a half hours fixated by.
The technician leading the team raised a gloved hand in the air, and the others stopped instantly. His finger pointed to each car, and all five squared up to one vehicle apiece. The only sound coming through the speakers was their deep, husky breaths behind their oxygen masks. Then, without warning, the same noise was emitted by each car. It was a simple click.
“What was that?” whispered Muriel.
“I think their doors are unlocking,” said Matthew.
As the dust began to fade, the jurors listened intently as the first Passenger threw their door wide open.
“Who’s that?” Libby asked as a figure emerged from the vehicle and into the cloud like a ghost.
“I can just about make it out . . . I think it’s Sam Cole,” Matthew replied. A body cam focused on a face and confirmed Sam’s identity. Once out of the car, his head turned quickly as if to search for Heidi’s vehicle, but before he could locate her, he was bundled away to safety.
“Where’s Jude?” Libby asked, the words nearly clogged in her throat.
“I don’t know but I think that’s Heidi,” said Muriel, pointing to a second vehicle. Her exit was more tentative; her eyes were shut tight, as if she was still expecting her car to explode at any moment. When it didn’t, she dared to open an eyelid and became startled by the heavily armoured technician taking her by the arm and hurrying her away from the scene.
Next, a body cam caught Claire, who was struggling to pull herself out of her car. She stretched out her arms for help, and once eased to safety, more figures clad in blast suits ran to her aid and carried her by stretcher to awaiting ambulances.
Two vehicles remained. Libby’s eyes flicked from one to the other as she waited to see Jude. The tension was unbearable.
A camera focused on the largest of the cars, which Libby recognised as Sofia’s. Her gull-wing doors remained closed. A technician reached to open them and as their hinges stretched, a small, panicked dog scampered out and ran blindly past t
hem. The technician moved closer to the interior until his camera picked up Sofia. Her unconscious body was slumped across the rear seats. Quickly, she was pulled from her car and placed upon the ground until a stretcher arrived. “Do we have a pulse?” Libby heard a voice shout, but the answer was muffled. The cuffs of Sofia’s jacket and her hands were streaked with blood.
There was one vehicle left, and Libby was beside herself. “Why hasn’t Jude got out yet?” she wept.
“Perhaps he’s in shock,” offered Matthew. “People react in different ways to extreme stress. Maybe he just needs a moment to get his bearings.”
“But the Hacker could still detonate his car.” Libby lifted her head towards the speakers to address the Hacker. “Where is he? Why have you turned the dashboard cameras off? I want to see him.”
The Hacker was now completely silent.
When Muriel went to take Libby’s hand again to offer her reassurance, she snatched it back. Libby felt hot thorns prickle her skin and spread across its surface as her breath shortened. A panic attack felt imminent but this time, she didn’t think she could gather the strength to minimise its impact. “Please tell me what’s happening,” she begged.
“Libby, look,” said Matthew, and her eyes darted back to the screen and Jude’s car. Another figure inside a blast suit twisted the handle to open the door. Libby’s heart thumped hard and fast, terrified that the Hacker had one last trick up his sleeve. Then, slowly, the door opened. Please be okay, she repeated to herself. She bit her bottom lip so hard that she tasted blood.