Reservations

A short story by Bryony Marsh. All rights reserved.

It was a strange time to be a peacekeeper of any kind, because it was a shameful kind of peace to preserve. Multiculturalism had failed; polite society had ceased and democracy had mutated into the exercise of force through strength in numbers.

When Josie was growing up, people had spoken about the danger of “echo chambers”: online communities where like-minded people gathered. What began as mutual support could easily give way to radicalisation and extremist acts that extended beyond the information sphere.

The long proxy war that began in Ukraine and spread to include almost every nation had seen volunteers building drones to support one side or another. With time, plans to build a weaponised drone were widely available and it wasn’t long before their use became more widespread. Anybody who took a dislike to some other group could construct a fleet of drones in secrecy and send them on a mission of murder. In the United Kingdom, the first such act of domestic terrorism occurred in the summer of 2026, while Josie was going through her Police Constable Degree Apprenticeship: a traveller site in Wiltshire was bombarded by twenty drones, resulting in eighteen people killed and twice as many injured.

No prosecutions were ever brought.

By the end of the year, attacks were taking place with regularity. Few people dared to live on a traveller encampment, but there were new targets as well. A political gathering on the ‘far right’ end of the political spectrum, in Clacton, had been attacked; an evangelical church in Enfield; a hotel housing migrants in Dover.

A global civil war was beginning. The weaponised drone was ‘the ultimate equaliser’ a political columnist wrote. They were illegal, of course, but they were an anonymous means of attack and anybody could make one on a 3D printer. In Britain, those were restricted, too… but a 3D printer can make another 3D printer, so they were virtually impossible to stamp out.

Life changed. In 2027, a major football match had to be abandoned after a flight of drones attacked the players while they were on the pitch: the drones’ on-board sensors had been configured to hunt down players wearing the Manchester United strip. There were no explosives used, but sharp blades arriving at speed were almost as deadly.

If a drone could distinguish targets by the colour of their shirt, why not the colour of their skin? By the end of the decade, ethnic cleansing had become the norm across most of Europe. Minorities tried to hit back, launching attacks of their own, but the groups with the greatest spending power could deploy the most drones.

The United Kingdom in which Josie served was watchful and resentful. A place where it was dangerous to be different, because you never knew when somebody might decide to make you a target. Members of parliament operated under anonymity, only meeting virtually. The remnant of the Royal Family were in hiding; celebrity had ceased to be in any way desirable. If you were wise, you kept your opinions to yourself, except when it was necessary to prove your allegiance to your own group; the people who could protect you and avenge you if it became necessary. To display conspicuous wealth, or to be seen as a leader, was foolish in the extreme. Safety lay in conformity.

Josie’s patrol car was conspicuous, but it had to be. It featured panels of reactive armour, a suite of electronic countermeasures to jam guidance systems and a turreted laser that could burn down an incoming drone within seconds. Already, the vehicle had protected her several times. The message was gradually getting through: attacking the police was usually a waste of a drone.

She had to be careful about being seen when going to and from work, though.

The current assignment was one of those things that might be nothing, or might be the start of a full-blown turf war. A ‘disturbance’ had been reported on the edge of a housing estate – which could mean anything.

Josie disliked edges. Edges were where uncertainty reigned: in this particular part of Leicester, it might indicate an encroachment into the territory of the gang who called themselves ‘Slate.’ They had a monopoly on the drug trade, but they were tied in to protection via a complex pattern of allegiances that she really didn’t want to test – even though she was a local girl. With a sinking heart, she responded to the call and found herself the first on the scene.

For once, it seemed that there wasn’t much trouble brewing: just some pre-teens milling about and nothing more dangerous than a can of pop had been thrown. The kids were content to melt away when the patrol car crunched its way over old fragments of broken glass, to squat in the road, blocking the way.

Josie glanced at the threat screen, saw nothing to worry about and left the laser on ‘automatic’. She climbed out of the vehicle and the ‘oink oink’ noises that some of the children were making became wolf whistles.

She smiled at the closest of the kids, trying to project calm; keeping the peace. “Alright, mate?”

It seemed that none of the kids wanted to be seen talking to a copper – and didn’t want to get too close, in case it was an ambush and a bomber was about to come over. She couldn’t blame them for that. But if nobody was going to talk to her, what could she discover about the source of the disturbance?

Nobody appeared to be injured, so it hadn’t been a fight – or not much of one. Nobody was carrying anything more complicated than a skateboard, so it seemed to be a false alarm.

Still, something wasn’t quite right. The kids were melting away in all directions except one: nobody, it seemed, wanted to use the underpass. Why might that be?

She walked over to the entrance and peered inside. Long since vandalised: there were hardly any lights working. Could it be a trap of some kind?

Another patrol car was on approach, so she didn’t have to worry quite so much about being attacked. She pulled out a camera drone and sent it on ahead of her, through the underpass. The infrared showed that there was one person, huddled amid the accumulated litter. Small: a young teen, most likely.

Josie advanced, doing her best to ignore the stink of stale piss.

“I’m a police officer,” she said. “I’m Josie. Are you okay?”

The thermal image showed that the person had tensed: bunched up and ready to run.

“Don’t run,” Josie said. “D’you need help? Are you hurt?”

The voice shook with fear. “No, I… please: I don’t want anything.”

“You’re not in trouble – at least, not as far as I know,” Josie said. “I just need to see if you’re okay.”

“I’m… fine. They didn’t hurt me.”

Josie was closer now. The light from her bodycam revealed an elfin face, peeping out from behind an old pallet and some cardboard boxes.

She slowed, hoping she wouldn’t scare away the girl she’d seen. “So what’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Good,” Josie said. “I like it when nothing happens. Don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“So, are you gonna stay down here all day, or…?”

“I can’t see you,” the teen complained.

“Sorry,” Josie said. She tapped a couple of controls and her camera drone emitted visible light, illuminating her. “Is that better?”

“You’re… pretty,” the other said – voiced as if it were a complaint.

“I, uh, thank you – but I’m sure you’d be pretty, too, if you weren’t hiding in a hole and wearing that warpaint.”

Lots of people wore makeup in a blocky, synthetic pattern that made them look like a modern-day Picasso. It played hell with automatic facial recognition software, but it had also become fashionable in its own right. ‘The Dazzle’, they called it: and the kid in the tunnel clearly felt the need to hide from somebody, or their murder machines.

In a world where consequences were next to zero, everybody had an enemy.

They stared at each other for a long moment.

“Who are you hiding from, honey?” Josie asked, as gently as she could.

The kid just started to cry.

“I’m sure we can make it right,” Josie said. “Let me help you.”

“You can’t help me!” the kid wailed, tears starting to wash away her disguise.

“Whatever – whoever – it is, let me help you. Come with me: we’ll get you cleaned up and we’ll keep you safe. We have specialists who can offer conciliation between you and whoever –”

The poor kid just shook her head, her face a picture of misery.

“Try me,” Josie said. “You and me: we’ll walk out of here. I’ve got my car just over there. We’re safe.”

“I’m not,” the kid sobbed.

Josie put her hands on her hips. “Why not?”

At last the kid left the space where she had been hiding, to stand before her interrogator: a gawky child of perhaps fourteen years, in a threadbare cotton dress.

“I’m trans,” she said, simply.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Josie whispered, fearing for them both.

-oOo-