Eyes & Ears

A dystopian story

“Hmm, this looks interesting.” Len adjusted his Eyes & Ears Set to focus closely on the incident. A young man, Len had seen him earlier operating the excavator, was seated at the cafe window, looking up at two women and a waitress who stood over him.

The waitress spoke. “Sir, there is only one of you, and there are two ladies. They want that table. You are free to move to either of these tables. You will still be sitting in the sun”.

“So why can’t they sit at one of those equally fine tables?” His voice was just a bit louder than necessary.

One of the women leaned forward and spoke condescendingly and at the same volume. “Because, for your information, the light is softer where you are. I prefer less direct sunlight. There are two of us anyway, and one of you. What happened to manners? What happened to chivalry?”

The waitress picked up the man’s drink, walked to a vacant table, and put it down. Then she returned to his table, pulled out a chair, and invited one of the women to sit opposite him. Then she reached out, grabbed a spare chair from another table, and invited the other woman to sit at a right angle to him.

Len watched intently. The man was tall and looked fit and muscular. His Set was an older model, lacking the currently fashionable aggressive lines. It was dusted, along with the rest of his clothing, with dirt. The waitress and the two women sported the latest styles (those hideous colours!) the sort of thing worn by women thirty years their junior.

The young man stood, pushed back his chair with his calves, brushed the dirt from his jacket, walked slowly around the women, past the waitress, across the room and out the door. He glanced at Len as he left, and nodded. Yep, the working man gets stiffed again. Some things never change.

The women looked around the cafe, smirking triumphantly. Len also scanned the room. If the women had expected looks of approbation from the other patrons, they’d be disappointed. He saw disapproval on each face. Chagrined, the women turned away and became engrossed in their phones.

Len turned down his Set. One of the perks of government employment was that he was always issued with the latest model. This one was fitted with the brand new Conscience Circuit that would soon become mandatory, forcing everyone to update their devices. Another government initiative, the chip indicated to the user the status of their interactions with other people, observations on their behaviour, and recommendations for action. Green – approved, Amber – a warning, Red – forbidden, illegal, immoral, dangerous, subversive, and so on. The huge satellites that monitored and recorded all human interaction now provided pre-emptive judgement on human conduct of any kind. Somewhere up in space Akashic I, II, III, or IV (well, they were the ones people knew about) would make an instant decision about what you were up to, and inform you accordingly.

Len was already having doubts about the Conscience Circuit. He’d been chatting to a woman at work the other day, when the damn amber light flashed and the words: Suspicious comment. Desist. What the hell was that about? What had he said? He’d made some excuse and walked away; whatever it was, he was in the wrong.

What next? You’re on report for using too much toilet paper? Use two sheets not three. You are destroying the planet. A demerit on his record, his pay docked as punishment and reparation.

Rumour had it that a new Set under development would incorporate a circuit to inflict a degree of pain when an amber or red light flashed. The government denied this, but yeah, who knew? Some conspiracy theorists maintained that the Akashic satellites did not exist and were a bluff designed to keep people docile and obedient. They still wore their Sets though. No one had been busted for non-compliance in years. Your set recorded when you were outside an approved private place. If you were not wearing your set you were in deep trouble. The authorities knew where you were and if you were without your Set, well, you were asking for it.

Another persistent rumour was that the government wanted to make use of the Set mandatory in the home. Imagine! The death of privacy! Of course they denied this, but yeah, who knew? There were strict laws against misinformation, disinformation, malinformation, uninformation, non-information, anti-information, quasi-information, inorganic information, occulted information and neo-information. The AI which ran the Akashic satellites was very precise and comprehensive. The Conscience Circuit should eliminate any more of that nonsense. Except in the home...

He hadn’t wanted it, and didn’t want it.

Just a week ago he’d been ordered to a meeting with Operative Desiree Baker. He entered the room, which was empty except for two chairs on opposite sides of a table with a Set sitting in the middle. Baker entered a moment later, motioned for him to sit, then placed herself in the chair opposite. She was younger than he’d expected, not much older then him, probably, smiling, efficient, and Setless. As she sat she twirled her finger close to her temple. Len assumed she wanted him to remove his Set, so he did.

“On the table is fine,” she said as she placed a folder on the table, opened it, read something, then looked up, and at him for the first time.

“You have been chosen to volunteer to trial the new Set fitted with the experimental Conscience Circuit. This is your new Set. Please put it on. We need to do a few calibrations.”

Compulsory volunteering was nothing new. He had compulsorily applied for his current job as a Chief Building Inspector. But he’d been informed in that instance and as a person with a Civil Engineering degree, it was not a surprise. But no explanation had been given this time. Just an instruction: Report to Operative Desiree Baker, Room 768, 9.30 am.

While he picked up his new Set and fitted it, Baker pulled a small container from her jacket pocket and then a packet of cigarettes from the opposite pocket.

“Mind if I smoke?” she asked, as she drew out a cigarette and lighter.

Smoke! Since forever had smoking been banned in public buildings!

Baker sensed his astonishment and laughed. “Perks of the job. Plenty more on top of this. Okay?”

He nodded. She lit up, took a deep drag, leaned back and exhaled a stream of smoke towards the ceiling.

She removed the cigarette from her mouth and used it to gesture towards his new Set.

“Calibration and data download is running. Ignore the little lights for the moment. That is one sophisticated device. Instructions for its use and conduct of the trial are in an an email. You have six hours to read and agree that you will comply. I see you have a busy day ahead.”

“How can I be chosen to volunteer when I have no idea what this is about?”

“There is no legal requirement to disclose to volunteers the nature of their assignment. You are a government employee. You are therefore assumed to be willing to volunteer for any assignment presented to you. Of course, you have the right of refusal.” She leaned forward as she spoke the last sentence.

The air-conditioning did not seem to be working very well. Len felt hot, and the bloody woman’s fumes weren’t helping.

“Yes,” he replied, “but a right you exercise at your peril, is that really a right at all?”

She drew a long drag then twisted her head sideways and blew the smoke towards the door, then gazed at Len as though he’d said something very stupid.

He pressed on. “But why me? I spend my day looking at building works to make sure they comply. Such an ordinary job.” Such a boring, crappy job. He’d wanted to go to university to do Literary Studies and become a teacher, but his results placed him in Civil Engineering instead. And that was that.

“Precisely. You are so very ordinary.”

He blushed.

“But, if you insist. Here is our summation of your suitability.” She placed the cigarette gently in the ashtray, then continued. “ Diligent, very capable, conscientious, not presenting as problematic in any way.”

She paused and smiled. “Intelligent, earnest, even-tempered. Works well with others, liked and respected by colleagues.”

She paused and smiled again. It was not a smile of approbation. The words she spoke were complimentary; the way she mouthed them sounded as though she’d caught him playing with himself.

“Somewhat dull, with a propensity to servility.” She picked up the cigarette and took another drag. “That is to say, a perfect candidate. Your cooperation will be noted in your record.”

His cheeks were burning. Baker continued to smile. Dull? Servile? So bloody typical! You work hard and do a good job and you are conscientious and capable; next day you work hard and do a good job and you’re a servile conformist! You are what they say you are and that’s all there is to it.

Baker stubbed out her cigarette, placed the butt in the ashtray, closed it and put it in her pocket. Then she closed the folder then looked at Len.

“I think we are done.” She stood. Len swallowed hard then rose and walked to the door, opened it, walked through, then checked his phone for his first appointment. They hadn’t rescheduled him, he was now running late.

As Chief Building Inspector his task for this afternoon was to report on the restoration and repurposing of the St Agnes Asylum. Abandoned years ago, it was now being converted into a cafe, restaurant and hotel. All was well, so now he only needed to inspect one more room below ground level, a few minutes’ work, then home early. He could finalise his report in comfort. He was impressed, this was going to be a fantastic venue, although he couldn’t say the same for some of the clientele.

The owner, Harold Glenlittle, was waiting for him outside the cafe. A big man with a hard face, who projected voluble affability that failed to conceal a certain kind of unpleasantness. Len always trusted his intuition. He was glad he could give this place the seal of approval, Glenlittle could doubtless make trouble if he didn’t get his own way.

“Mr Bailey! “ he boomed. “I trust we have met your exacting standards!” It was not a question.

“Certainly, Mr Glenlittle. A clean bill of health. I just need to check for damp in the walls in the Infirmary and I’ll be out of your hair. A two minute job.”

“The Infirmary you say?” He laughed. “Are you sure? Don’t you know, it’s haunted?”

Oh please, save it for the tourists.

“No, I hope the ectoplasm hasn’t dampened the walls. That would be a bit of a setback. Won’t stop approval, but would have to be attended to.” So stick that. Not so funny if it could cost you.

Glenlittle’s mouth formed an O of mock surprise. “A skeptic! Such flippancy! Shall I tell you the story?”

Len was interested, despite his skepticism. “Of course.”

“The Infirmary is haunted by a particularly unpleasant ghost. Many of the inmates ended up in the Infirmary. Many never returned. The nurse in charge was a nun, Sister Bernardine, who, as was subsequently revealed, assisted some of her patients into the next life. She was eventually discovered when applying her ministrations to a patient who was particularly unwilling.

“The upshot was that she was relieved of her duties by being walled up, alive, inside the Infirmary. Some people swear they feel her presence, others even hear her screams and obscene curses and fists beating on the walls.”

An excellent fiction. No doubt a money spinning attraction. “That’ll bring in the tourists.”

“Damn right!” Glenlittle guffawed. “It will be the highlight of our ghost tour.”

“Fortunately for you we didn’t have to excavate that wall.” Len joked.

The smile left Glenlittle’s face. “No, fortunately for you. Anyway, I must be getting back to work. Any problem with the Infirmary, be sure to let me know.”

He waddled away and Len looked around. There should be a stairwell...ah, there it is. He walked to the top of the stairs and peered down. A thin light shone up the stairwell. He pulled his torch from his backpack but left it turned off. Then he began his descent.

Hell, these steps were steeper than they appeared. He began to fell a bit unsteady. The air grew thicker. Suddenly he was struck by an intense headache, razor sharp pain across the back of his head, slicing along his temples and over his eyes. He stumbled, steadied, and reached the bottom. The room was bare but reeked of something foul. His breathing began to labour. His upper body was squeezed tightly. Fumbling for the torch, his fingers lost all feeling. The torch clattered to the floor. Bending forward to try and grasp it he fell on his face. On hands and knees he searched for the torch, then found it and grasped it with both hands, then switched it on, flashing the beam of light around the room.

Was there something wrong with his Set, or his eyes? The dirty brown walls pulsed with oleaginous ooze. Len staggered to his feet. He had to get out. As he stumbled towards the door, he heard a wet tearing sound behind him, and to the right. Don’t look! But he did. Two pale hands pushed through the slime, then the wrists emerged, the forearms, the elbows. The sludge bent outwards as the face beneath began to push through.

Len screamed and bolted through the door and up the stairs. His lungs bursting, his head pounding, he reached the top, and tumbled through the doorway. He staggered a few more paces then turned to stare at it. The weak light remained. At any moment something dreadful would cast a shadow as it ascended the stairs. But there was nothing.

What had just happened? Nothing in his life had prepared him for such an experience. He was overwhelmed by it – his head still ached, his chest heaved, he could barely stand.

Suddenly startled, he turned, to see Glenlittle standing in the passageway, smirking indulgently.

“My dear fellow, I heard a scream. Are you alright? You look as though you’d seen a ghost!” He gave a self-satisfied chuckle. “Come old fellow, you need a drink. Let’s repair to the cafe, a whisky shot for you, on the house.”

Len sat stunned as he sipped his drink. Then he told Glenlittle everything that had happened. The big man was fascinated; utterly devoid of sympathy for Len, he devoured the story as a smile played on his lips.

“Wonderful! That is without a doubt the most intense experience of Sister Bernardine that I have heard. We’ll include that one in our ghost tour. The man who was a skeptic, who fled in terror – I like it! I understand she can be hostile, but she must very much hate you.” He chuckled.

Everything Len knew and believed had been smashed by a minute of inexplicable horror. His mind scrabbled to find a foothold, to fit what had just happened into some schema that made sense. As the whisky warmed him, the objectivity that served him well returned. This would need a lot of thought, but it would eventually make sense – he would make it make sense! The headache had gone, his breathing was regular, the enervation had abated.

Glenlittle said nothing, but was obviously enjoying Len’s discomfort. Well bugger that! There was no way Len would give the fat bastard any more satisfaction. One more gulp emptied the glass. Len stood, thanked his host, and walked out. He was already ashamed of his cowardice – screaming indeed! – and ashamed of revealing himself to Glenlittle.

Of course all of that conversation had been recorded by his Set. If his employers ever saw it... And what about the recording of what happened in the Infirmary? What would anyone make of that? As for that useless Conscience Circuit. Sticks its nose into an innocent conversation with a woman but is nowhere around when I’m being mugged by an apparition. He laughed. The footage of his time in the Infirmary would certainly blow a few people’s minds. Funny. A short time ago he was unmanned by terror; now he was laughing about it. By some strange osmosis a vicious ghost had found a place in his worldview. How weird was that?

Len had to be careful driving home. He expected that at any moment the Conscience Circuit would pipe up to nag him about driving after drinking. You’ve had too much. Pull over. Blah, blah, blah...

The road now merged with the freeway, as he checked his mirror before entering there was just a truck in the distance behind him. Simple. Maintain speed, indicate, merge, and it’s ten minutes to home. Just before moving onto the freeway he checked his mirror again. The truck was almost on his shoulder – the bastard had sped up! Screw you, smartarse. He planted his foot on the accelerator and darted onto the freeway just ahead of the truck, who responded with a long blast on its horn.

Piss off wanker, go kill someone else. Len had enjoyed that. Then the Conscience Circuit flashed a message:

You are suffering from PTSD. You must attend an approved medical facility as soon as possible. Make an appointment. This is priority advice.

What the hell? PTSD? He shook his head. This Conscience Circuit was proving to be a total delusional cyber-pain in the arse. Waste of time and money. When he reported back to that idiot Baker he’d let her know what he thought. She could check out his Infirmary scene too. Bizarrely, he was coming to feel sort of proud of what happened, even the scream. Totally cinema verite.

The Conscience Circuit continued to flash its message all the way home, until he could finally shut it up by removing his Set.

He left for work early the following morning – the day’s schedule was brutal. As he donned his Set he felt relief that the irritating message had vanished. But seconds later a new one appeared: Report Room 768, 9.30 am.

Damn, of course he’d be called in to explain why he hadn’t followed instructions. Too bad. PTSD, for Heaven’s sake! Just let a man get on with his job!

The drive from his apartment to the government offices was only about ten minutes, so he arrived early, mulling over in is mind how he’d serve it up to them about their useless Conscience Circuit. He hoped it would be Baker. She was cute and horrible, he wondered if she was even a real person. Probably a robot, he mused. Len had awaited the introduction of fembots with a good deal of anticipation, but if they were modelled on that bitch he’d have to reconsider his opinion.

Room 768 was open, so even though he was early, he knocked at the door and walked in. Baker sat at the table as before, cigarette held up beside her face, and motioned him to sit. She took a drag then spoke as the smoke left her mouth.

“You may remove your Set.”

“With pleasure. Pile of crap.” He removed it and dropped it carelessly onto the table.

“Yesterday you were given an instruction. You failed to comply.”

“I don’t need my time wasted with nonsense. PTSD! What rubbish. How the hell did that stupid device come up with that? I’m not suffering from PTSD, I don’t need medical advice.”

“That is not what was indicated by your actions. The Conscience Circuit acted promptly to give you reasonable and appropriate advice based on your actions.”

“What actions?”

“You nearly caused a serious accident due to belligerent behaviour while in charge of a motor vehicle.”

“I’d call it defensive driving in order to prevent my death. That truck sped up. He’s a maniac.”

“Perhaps you were caught unawares, your mind on other things, given what happened earlier.” She looked at him and raised her eyebrows. “You had a mental breakdown while on the job and then consumed alcohol during work hours. PTSD if ever I saw it.”

“So you’ve seen the footage?”

“Oh yes. I saw a man begin to hyperventilate for no reason, stagger about, fall over, let out a girly scream and run upstairs. Hardly the conduct of a government official.”

Len was stunned. He knew what he saw! But none of it had recorded! Just his reaction. But there was the conversation with Glenlittle; surely that was proof?

“The owner explained what happened.” He swallowed. “The room is haunted, he said so himself.”

“Yes, I’ve also reviewed the before and after scenes. Glenlittle is huckster, he makes PT Barnum look like an amateur. He played you, simple.”

“No. I know what I experienced.”

“Well, belief in ghosts is neither here nor there, but if it results in trauma then it is our business to deal with it. The Conscience Circuit was correct in alerting you to aberrant behaviour and advising you of the correct course of action.”

“The Conscience Circuit was wrong. I do not suffer from PTSD. I do not believe in ghosts. But I experienced an otherworldly occurrence I don’t understand and can’t explain. Your Conscience Circuit has no fucking idea.”

“Your conscience, on the other hand, is always right? Omniscient? What is this wonderful power you possess?”

“Everyone has an individual conscience that tells them right from wrong, and guides their behaviour.”

“How quaint. You’re something of a romantic, Len; a dying breed I should add. So tell me, where is this individual conscience phenomenon located? Are we born with it?”

“No, not exactly. It…it grows, in your mind.” Her eyes bored into him. It. “You develop it as you grow up.” He was disappointed at how lame this sounded.

“But it doesn’t Len, does it? Despite all our advances, despite this being the best world we can make it,” she paused, “some people just will not do the right thing. Criminals, the whole rotten gamut of them. Where are their consciences, Len? What if their consciences say that it’s okay to rob or to kill? Do we just let it go because, well, that’s their conscience guiding their behaviour.”

“That’s not fair, you know that’s not right. Some of us have proper consciences and other people don’t.”

“So what happens to those who don’t?”

“We show them the error of their ways.” This was easy. Baker seemed formidable but it was all for show.

“How do we know they are in error though?”

“Some things are just right and wrong. Some people have to be shown this.” He was on safe ground now. Punishment these days was severe and swift.

“Good, very good.”

There was something in her tone.

“So, Len. How do you explain this disparity, between individual consciences? Is it something innate, like athletic ability? Can we train consciences?”

“Well, yes!” He had her. “We show people that they are in the wrong. We reward them for displaying conscience.” As the words left his mouth his doubts returned. Those words sounded like someone else’s words. They said what he believed, yet they did not.

“We, Len? Good. So we have decided what is right and wrong, and we enforce it?”

He felt it slipping away. “Of course. Society must have standards.”

“And these standards are a consensus, Len. Individual conscience is a silly fairy-tale notion. Conscience is consensus. We cannot rely on your individual conscience, for it is nothing more that selfish wilfulness, an egregious narcissism loathsome to contemplate and malevolent in its consequences.”

“No!” he interjected. “You have to develop your conscience. It grows, you nurture it. Lots of people do the same, and pretty much agree. We don’t have to be told what to think, it happens, over time.”

She smiled indulgently.

“Your horticultural metaphor is a bit dismal, to be frank. Let me propose a hypothetical. You arrive home tonight and your kitchen tap is leaking. Can you fix it?”

“Yes, probably.”

“Good. Now let us imagine a pipe has burst and your kitchen is flooded. Can you fix it?”

“No.”

“What do you do?”

“Call a plumber of course.”

“Why a plumber?”

“They are the expert.” Stupid questions but he sensed danger.

“How do you know?”

“They passed, oh, plumber exams, whatever. They’re licensed and all that. They know what to do. They fix it and I pay them.”

“So you bring in an expert to fix a leak, but somehow your individual conscience, this invisible phenomenon that enables society to function, is entirely your own affair. Hardly seems right. Or safe.”

“It’s not the same. A leak is just a material thing, a conscience is…” he was struggling, “an ideal, a force.” That sounded pathetic.

She laughed. “No wonder you believe in ghosts! I tell you. Conscience is far too important to leave up to individuals. It is what the government decides is right and wrong. It what the government decides is acceptable or unacceptable. Expert opinion, and direct action, just like our hypothetical plumber, with the sole purpose of fixing things, with making them work properly. It is hard facts. No leaks, no floods – metaphorically speaking. Conscience is consensus, as I said. The consensus of experts.

“It's simple, Len. You do not have a conscience. The government provides you with a conscience. So, even if your own mythical conscience tells you that you do not have to report for PTSD treatment, you do. Because we say that you do. We are your conscience and will always tell you to do what’s best. Your appointment at the Clinic on Level 5 is in half an hour .”

She stood. End of discussion.

Patient 130 sat in the Clinic Waiting Room. And waited for his number to come up. Just like in a fast-food joint. He tried to look on the bright side. If they said he had PTSD then so be it. Time off work, full pay. He had plenty of TV series and films to catch up on. And not actually being sick was an additional bonus. He was mentally arranging his viewing schedule when his number was called.

He looked around, saw the flashing light, headed for the counter and sat down. The young woman on the other side smiled and said, “Hello Len, I’m Amy, and I’m your medical facilitator today.”

“Aren’t I going to see a doctor?”

She giggled. “No, silly. Doctors are for diagnosing when we don’t know what’s wrong with you. You’ve been diagnosed.” She read from the screen. “P.T.S.D. Oh, that can’t be right. No one as young and cute as you could get PDST.” Another giggle. “Still, we can’t argue with Science. So, I’ve put in your details and your medication will be here in a moment. You probably would like someone to talk to about your PSDT, that would help. Can I have your number?”

Yep, this is what passes for medical care in the modern world. This was the second bureaucrat he’d dealt with today. At least this one had a personality, even if it was really annoying. How do you spell PTSD again?

“Um, not this time. I’m kind off dating at the moment.”

“Okay. Shame. Here we are.” She handed him a vial. “One tablet, twice a day, with meals. Any questions?”

“What about sick leave?”

She giggled again. “I wish! Then I could come over and take care of you. No such luck. The tablets will take care of everything.”

Of course. A drug for this, a computer circuit for that. Why had he bothered getting his hopes up?

“Any side effects?”

“Oh yeah, I forgot about those. It says here…oh yuck.”

“What yuck?”

“Constipation. Gross. Also, um, it says…oh I don’t even know what half these things are. I’ll print them off for you.”

“Don’t exert yourself. I’ll look it up.”

“Okay. Nice to meet you, Len. Hope you’re feeling better soon. My phone number is on the bottom of the vial in case you change your mind. Good bye.” She smiled.

He stood up and walked out. Checking his phone he saw that none of today’s appointments had been cancelled and now he was way behind schedule again. Working at this place would give anyone PTSD.

Suddenly a message appeared on his Set. Congratulations Len, you have done the right thing. You now understand the importance of heeding your Conscience Circuit. Your cooperation has been noted.

As he walked through the carpark it started to rain, so he sprinted to the car. He got in, sat behind the wheel and grasped it with both hands. Rain battered against the windscreen. You really get the feeling that, yeah, you’re being screwed.