Like everyone else, Tim guarded his Social Score.
On the table in front of him, his phone was well within listening distance.
The Irish Bar felt comfortable, safe; CCTV throughout observed and protected its patrons; phone charging sockets at every table—and great wifi—ensured that their phones operated at peak performance.
It had been a tough week, and Tim was glad it was over and could relax. Sitting with his colleagues, he had downed his first couple of drinks quickly and already moved on to the next. The group sat around a large wooden table, briefcases by their chairs, phones laid face up in front of them, each device within earshot of its owner. Bluetooth detected the members of the group; their sensitivities were shared. It was rare for a screen to go orange, warding off a topic that might trigger another’s discomfort and—worse still—adding a demerit to the speaker’s Scorecard.
His attention drifting from the rumble of work-related gossip, Tim’s eyes were drawn to a grey-bearded man sitting alone in a far corner, hunched over his drink. All that was on the table was a beer atop its mat. Surprised, Tim realized the man’s phone must be in the metallic shopping bag beside his feet. But in there, it would be unable to hear him! The State noted incongruous lacunas of silence. The man was old and apparently unconcerned about his Score.
Tim’s attention kept returning to him. He saw him lurch to his feet to greet a woman. They ordered a pair of drinks and sat across from each other, hands intertwined, grey heads close together, untouched glasses between them—the tabletop completely bare of phones.
What could they be talking about? It could be anything! They were both old; they would have known a time before the State had Social Scorecards. Their Scores would be dropping while they kept the State deaf. Tim was surprised to feel a twinge of envy. To say anything you liked! It was hard to imagine. His ambition had kept him in the center of the road, obeying all the rules and determined to travel as far as his abilities allowed.
Tim picked up his phone and idly turned it around to see the microphone, the microphone that was always listening. He looked at the phones arrayed around the table. In a break in the conversation, he waved his phone and asked, his words slurring a little, “Hey, you know, I was just thinking. D’you think the State monitoring conversations could be thought to be a bit intrusive? You know, like, invading our privacy?”
There was a chorus of “No” from his companions. There was a brief uncomfortable silence, ended by a senior team member calling out to two new arrivals and beckoning them over to the table. “These are two new interns,” she said. “I suggested that they should join us tonight for a drink or two. Everyone, please welcome them to our group, to the firm.” The two were greeted and space made; they took their places at the table, arms tight to their sides, avoiding physical contact with their neighbors. Two more phones were added to the flock, their owners’ sensitivities automatically shared with the group.
No one else had picked up the baton of conversation; the silence was dragging on. Tim smiled across at the two young faces and continued: “I was just asking what people thought about the State’s monitoring. You know, could it be thought to be a bit intrusive? What do you think?”
Horrified, he saw his phone go orange. “I’m so sorry,” he said to them, reddening. “It had not occurred to me that the question, the thought, could be offensive to anyone! Anyone at all! I suppose you’re younger than we are. Opinions must be progressing.”
The table was shrouded in silence; all were looking at Tim. He stumbled on: “Let me explain! I just noticed a couple not being monitored—over there. A freedom I had forgotten about. That’s what caused me to bring up the topic.” Glancing down, he saw his phone was now red.
“Shit!” He exclaimed. “Oh, Jesus, I never meant to get into forbidden ideas. Of course, of course, the State mustn’t be actively deafened! I do realize that.”
There had been an intake of breath, whether for the profanity, the blasphemy, or the public naming of his transgression. No one spoke. A ring of faces stared at him. He sprang up, knocking over a glass, pocketed his phone, grabbed his briefcase, and with a muttered, “Excuse me,” left the bar.
Standing in the street, Tim looked in through the window; the couple in the corner living in the past, the table of his colleagues embracing the future.
He took his phone from his pocket and turned it over and over. He would be mute, uttering enough platitudes to assure the State that he could be heard. After a break, he would catch up with the modern ways of thinking. Of course, he could do it; he was still young.
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Gordon Pinckheard lives in County Kerry, Ireland. Retired from a working life spent writing computer programs and technical documents, he now seeks success in his sunset years submitting short stories pounded out with one arthritic finger. His stories have been published by Cabinet of Heed, Flash Fiction Magazine, Shooter, Every Day Fiction, Cranked Anvil, Daily Science Fiction, and others.
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