(no subject)
The Future.
The woman gets into her car. It's a new model, with solar cells built into the roof. She tries to start the engine, but it refuses until she clips her seat-belt in. She reverses smoothly out of the space she was parked in, feeds her car park ticket into the machine. The voice - with a new Scottish accent, to promote a multi-cultural society - thanks her, and asks whether she'd like to pay through her Chip or with Sterling.
She digs into her purse (which is made from natural fabrics, not anything human-made or, Deity forbid, leather) and pays. The oblong coins fall into the slot. They were the new standard currency world-wide, recognised in every Nation.
The car next to her was new too. The woman looked over at it appraisingly. It ran on hydrogen and its only emition was pure water.
She pulled away from the car park. The onboard computer sat pulsing quietly under her seat. It ran on leftover energy from the car. It monitored the traffic around her, and the speed limit on the street she was driving on was beamed from posts situated at the roadside. The computer wouldn't let her drive her over the speed limit, unless it registered that another car was too near.
But then again had other features, including recording where the vehicle was any particular the moment the engine was running, and monitoring the smoke levels in the vehicle, or whether her 'phone was on whilst driving, or any other illegal pastimes.
Sometimes the woman felt like ripping the thing out by all its cables. But her Partner had bought it for her when he heard about her new promotion in her company. But it wasn't a surprise; the Board had just promoted a male worker, so they would obviously have to promote a woman soon, and it was likely to be her.
The latest Company fax was lying discarded in her glove compartment. It began "Dear Co-workers..."
Underneath it had the standard pie-chart. It gloated from the middle of the page, split neatly into two. "50% of our employees are female!" It boasted. "33% are deemed handicapped! But 100% are valued!!"
She couldn't bear to look at it.
She stopped three streets away from her destination, like the latest pamphlet pushed through her door (made of 90% recycled paper) had advised, to help people exercise enough. Her neighbour, old Mr Simmons, had used to burn them. He had spent all of his time in his precious garden, and his allotment.
One day, a woman dressed in a dark blue suit had come round to visit him. Mr Simmons was in a lot of trouble.
He caused air-pollution by burning those leaflets.
He had refused to give up his collection of guns when the law clearly called for all Citizens to hand in any type of firearms.
He still kept pets. Many a time had the woman seen her neighbour sitting contently on his front doorstep, an auburn cat sprawled over the sun-warmed tiles, and a grey tabby kitten curled in his lap purring while a knotted and knarled hand softly petted her ears. She couldn't see anything wrong with picture, but of course pets weren't allowed anymore - viruses could spread; it wasn’t worth the risk.
He still smoked cigars. All tobacco products were illegal, of course. But Mr Simmons couldn’t be told. He simply wouldn’t listen.
He grew his own vegetables. Until a few years ago, this had been encouraged, but then the Government had realised that people could be putting anything on their vegetables if they weren’t regulated outlawed products like pesticides.
But Mr Simmons wasn’t doing any harm. He was just a stubborn old man who wanted a quiet life with his pets. He had worked in a factory making beauty products - hair dye. But too many people were having allergic reactions to the dye, so it was shut down.
He was taken away in the suited woman’s car. Less than fifteen minutes later a car drew up, a man walked out, injected the cats and drove away with two limp innocent bodies in a box in the back.
And yet the last leaflet she had seen had, written in large blue letters, the title “Tolerance.”
As she walked the woman ate her third piece of fruit for the day. She was required to eat five. Everyone was.
Finally she stepped into the community centre. She was queuing to vote. In the line in front of her, a black man dressed in a suit was clutching the hand of a blonde woman holding a coffee coloured baby. In front of them were two Asian men. Behind her a women in a wheelchair came up the ramp into the room. She nodded agreeably at the Elder Citizen who offered to help, but declined.
The woman dipped her finger into the pot of ink in the polling booth and left her fingerprint in one of the boxes. This was to prove that it was she who had voted - her fingerprint was individual.
She walked back through, still thinking about the little insignificant card that was so important. She had voted for the main party; nearly everyone did. But, still, the last time that another one of the parties had gotten in hey had changed nothing.
It hadn’t used to be like this, she thought. Then she looked around. Yes, there was equality. Yes, there was everything.
It should be perfect, she realised. But it’s not.
She got back into the car. She pulled her passport out of the glove compartment. Sofia Stevens. Completely Individual - completely anonymous.
She drove back home, the entire way pressing her foot flat down against the accelerator, reckless, confidant that the computer would keep her at the speed limit.
She drove past her house. She drove past Mr Simmons’ abandoned house.
Sofia Stevens’ car was found discarded at the top of the parking lot, both doors wide open, the solar panels smashed. The onboard computer was discovered too, ripped out of the car, and about ten storeys below, shattered on the pavement.
The woman gets into her car. It's a new model, with solar cells built into the roof. She tries to start the engine, but it refuses until she clips her seat-belt in. She reverses smoothly out of the space she was parked in, feeds her car park ticket into the machine. The voice - with a new Scottish accent, to promote a multi-cultural society - thanks her, and asks whether she'd like to pay through her Chip or with Sterling.
She digs into her purse (which is made from natural fabrics, not anything human-made or, Deity forbid, leather) and pays. The oblong coins fall into the slot. They were the new standard currency world-wide, recognised in every Nation.
The car next to her was new too. The woman looked over at it appraisingly. It ran on hydrogen and its only emition was pure water.
She pulled away from the car park. The onboard computer sat pulsing quietly under her seat. It ran on leftover energy from the car. It monitored the traffic around her, and the speed limit on the street she was driving on was beamed from posts situated at the roadside. The computer wouldn't let her drive her over the speed limit, unless it registered that another car was too near.
But then again had other features, including recording where the vehicle was any particular the moment the engine was running, and monitoring the smoke levels in the vehicle, or whether her 'phone was on whilst driving, or any other illegal pastimes.
Sometimes the woman felt like ripping the thing out by all its cables. But her Partner had bought it for her when he heard about her new promotion in her company. But it wasn't a surprise; the Board had just promoted a male worker, so they would obviously have to promote a woman soon, and it was likely to be her.
The latest Company fax was lying discarded in her glove compartment. It began "Dear Co-workers..."
Underneath it had the standard pie-chart. It gloated from the middle of the page, split neatly into two. "50% of our employees are female!" It boasted. "33% are deemed handicapped! But 100% are valued!!"
She couldn't bear to look at it.
She stopped three streets away from her destination, like the latest pamphlet pushed through her door (made of 90% recycled paper) had advised, to help people exercise enough. Her neighbour, old Mr Simmons, had used to burn them. He had spent all of his time in his precious garden, and his allotment.
One day, a woman dressed in a dark blue suit had come round to visit him. Mr Simmons was in a lot of trouble.
He caused air-pollution by burning those leaflets.
He had refused to give up his collection of guns when the law clearly called for all Citizens to hand in any type of firearms.
He still kept pets. Many a time had the woman seen her neighbour sitting contently on his front doorstep, an auburn cat sprawled over the sun-warmed tiles, and a grey tabby kitten curled in his lap purring while a knotted and knarled hand softly petted her ears. She couldn't see anything wrong with picture, but of course pets weren't allowed anymore - viruses could spread; it wasn’t worth the risk.
He still smoked cigars. All tobacco products were illegal, of course. But Mr Simmons couldn’t be told. He simply wouldn’t listen.
He grew his own vegetables. Until a few years ago, this had been encouraged, but then the Government had realised that people could be putting anything on their vegetables if they weren’t regulated outlawed products like pesticides.
But Mr Simmons wasn’t doing any harm. He was just a stubborn old man who wanted a quiet life with his pets. He had worked in a factory making beauty products - hair dye. But too many people were having allergic reactions to the dye, so it was shut down.
He was taken away in the suited woman’s car. Less than fifteen minutes later a car drew up, a man walked out, injected the cats and drove away with two limp innocent bodies in a box in the back.
And yet the last leaflet she had seen had, written in large blue letters, the title “Tolerance.”
As she walked the woman ate her third piece of fruit for the day. She was required to eat five. Everyone was.
Finally she stepped into the community centre. She was queuing to vote. In the line in front of her, a black man dressed in a suit was clutching the hand of a blonde woman holding a coffee coloured baby. In front of them were two Asian men. Behind her a women in a wheelchair came up the ramp into the room. She nodded agreeably at the Elder Citizen who offered to help, but declined.
The woman dipped her finger into the pot of ink in the polling booth and left her fingerprint in one of the boxes. This was to prove that it was she who had voted - her fingerprint was individual.
She walked back through, still thinking about the little insignificant card that was so important. She had voted for the main party; nearly everyone did. But, still, the last time that another one of the parties had gotten in hey had changed nothing.
It hadn’t used to be like this, she thought. Then she looked around. Yes, there was equality. Yes, there was everything.
It should be perfect, she realised. But it’s not.
She got back into the car. She pulled her passport out of the glove compartment. Sofia Stevens. Completely Individual - completely anonymous.
She drove back home, the entire way pressing her foot flat down against the accelerator, reckless, confidant that the computer would keep her at the speed limit.
She drove past her house. She drove past Mr Simmons’ abandoned house.
Sofia Stevens’ car was found discarded at the top of the parking lot, both doors wide open, the solar panels smashed. The onboard computer was discovered too, ripped out of the car, and about ten storeys below, shattered on the pavement.