The Ready People

11:30 AM

"Speak, human."

I've just been asked to explain myself. To explain myself to a machine, a protector, but I can't speak.
I can't do much of anything, that's been seen to.

"Under article 17 of the Code of Colonization, failure to respond to an inquiry is an admission of guilt. 

Speak, human."

Article 17, 17CC in legal speak, has been my friend for a long time. It is a friend to all law enforcement officials. There was once, many years ago, a time when the right not to incriminate yourself was afforded all citizens. 

Why?

What society in a clear state of mind would cater to criminals? Whom else, by definition, could incriminate themselves? I don't suppose that law was written with this exact moment, hundreds of years later, in mind, but how I yearned for it now. I could not speak, and even if I could I didn't understand what was happening. 

Perhaps I should be grateful, there are worse ways for a detective to die.

I awake at 7:05 AM local time, instantly invigorated by my neural implant. My computer informs me of the day's activities as usual.

"The time is 7:05, Indisium condition yellow, your attention is required at the Central Bank. Code 14."

That's not usual, code 14 was a robbery.

As a detective for the Indisium Protectorate, my record has been outstanding. That's because there aren't very many crimes to solve around here. The Protectors, a legion of sentient androids driven only by a desire to protect and serve the people of this fair station, were too watchful and numerous to avoid. Crime, aside from fits of passion well recorded, was all but extinct. So it should be on this carbon and steel utopia, perched on the edge of interstellar space. Our workers are housed and fed, our leaders are steely eyed and focused, our teachers sharp, our youngsters playful, and our prostitutes the finest in civilized space.

There is nothing to pursue anymore, no reason to rob a bank. Any sudden change in the flow of money would soon be identified by the network and the error corrected. A man cannot have more than his birth would allow him, not myself nor anyone else. My father was a detective, as was his, and as was his.

In ages past, they called it economics. Capitalism took too long to reach the equilibrium, and it was messy. People were raised with ideals and perceptions of hope and equality, a dream which was as dangerous as it was fictitious. Socialism ignored the natural differences between men, the inherited traits of intelligence and skill which allowed the leader to lead as no one else could. Society was so barbaric in ages past. It took too long to realize that inheritable status was the only proper way to manage money.

At 7:10, I step outside to catch the lift to level twelve.

I wonder then, who would rob a bank? Perhaps it was an act of aggression or rebellion, as has happened now and then throughout the colonies. Never on Indisium, and I certainly couldn't allow it on my watch. I was in my eightieth year of service, and one hundred and fifty couldn't approach fast enough. I was determined to retire with full pay and benefits.

Stepping off the lift, I can see that the Protectors have made quite a scene by cordoning off the Central Bank.

"Sergeant," I ask, "what has happened here?"

"Human, the Central Bank's database and contingency have been accessed and wiped. All monetary information has been purged."

I sigh and rub my temple. Neural implants may relieve biological pain, but they can't numb the pain of hearing something so unusual. Why would anyone wipe the database, why not load their stamp with enough money to get excessively drunk and sleep with a few too many women before being caught? Something wasn't right.

"That's interesting, I'm not certain what the motive would be for that, are you telling me that no one has any money right now?"

"That is correct, human."

God dammit.

"Before we find our criminal, please reset all accounts to standard levels according to occupation."

"That won't be possible human, no account information exists."

Even worse.

Now I'll have to get a programmer on the line, and have them integrate stamp identifications into the database before restoring order. With about forty five minutes before the station started the business day, the opportunity to resolve this issue without anyone noticing their empty bank accounts was starting to slip away.

"Contact the office of network management, have them integr-"

"Human, the database has been completely wiped. It is demagnetized and is no longer formatted. We will not be able to restore information without requesting a physical rebuild of the servers."

Someone had decided a long time ago that the banking database should run on an independent network in order to protect it from viral infection. The thought was that, in the off chance of an attack on the network, people would still have their money, and that order would be maintained as a result. It is unfortunate that an attack on the banking database was never anticipated.

"Is there a protocol that I'm not aware of for this sort of thing, Sergeant?"

"No, human."

My implant agrees, and I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I am going to have to freelance this, I am breaking new ground. This is how new protocols get written, this is how legends are made, this is how detectives get executed for failing to serve the greater good.

"Please upload forensics. I need to see everything, and place an order for a rebuild."

Forty minutes remain before the start of the day.

My mind races as images and readouts of forensics information from inside the bank and the server room flood my mind.

"Absolutely nothing?"

"Correct, human. No forensics data could be recovered."

Now THAT is the most unusual thing I have ever heard. Whether it be DNA or fingerprints or security footage or even a residual heat signature, SOMETHING is always left behind.

"Well I suppose now is as good a time as any to have a cigarette."

The Protector turns away from me and returns to his post at the cordon. It's actually odd, now that I think about it, that they are protecting the crime scene even though they know that there is no forensic evidence to preserve. All they will do is draw attention to the scene, and probably cause a public panic at that. I light up and take a puff.

"Sergeant, it is not necessary or in the interest of public safety to maintain this cordon. Please return to your duties."

"Human, section 4, paragraph 11, subheading 5 dictates that-"

"Yeah yeah yeah, forget it."

Humans do not have access to the Protector protocol database, though the androids are free to quote them at will. There are too many to be concerned with. All I know is that, once they start quoting protocol, they have made up their mind.

My communicator indicates an incoming call from the Office of Affairs. Shit, it's the minister. Someone is up early.

7:58 AM

"Perhaps you care to explain to me, detective, why I have no money?"

"Minister, the day has not officially started yet. Any balances listed in your account are not official."

"Don't give me that official nonsense, I want to know what has happened and how it was done."

I'm not really sure how I should put this.

"Sir, the bank has been wiped. All records are lost, and the servers need to be rebuilt in order to restore order to our financials."

He doesn't appear to be phased.

"Well, who is responsible? I cannot in good conscience inform the people of a crime without also presenting them with a criminal."

"Minister, unfortunately we do not have a suspect."

A wry smile creeps across the Minister's face.

"You serve one purpose detective, and that is to match crimes with criminals. If you do not find someone else to stand trial for this crime, you will have to do it yourself."

I shouldn't be, because I know the law, but I am stunned to hear the words.

"Minister, the circumstances surrounding this crime are extraordinary. There is no conceivable motive, there is no forensic evidence- surely you'll need my expertise in resolving this issue. It is entirely unprecedented, I-"

"Protectors! Arrest this man for high treason! The only time a detective does not present a criminal is when he is the criminal himself!"

I try to shout in protest, but a Protector immediately covers my mouth and binds my arms behind my back. Why would he do this now? A detective has twelve hours from notification of a crime to present a perpetrator, and that period can be extended at the Minister's discretion in unusual cases.

As the Protector drags me through the door towards a waiting prisoner transport, I hear the sound of commotion coming from the lower levels...

12:01 PM

The sounds of chaos outside are deafening. I hear rioting, or perhaps celebration, depending on how one puts it.

"Reinvigorate him, he is a hero after all. A martyr. I'd like to be able to talk with such an important man before his passing," the Minister is grinning again as he says it.

"I feel obligated to tell you Detective, that I wiped the bank. Congratulations, your investigation is complete."

As soon as I feel the needle, my lips are freed and my mind is awake.

"What the fuck is this!? You wiped the bank? You're framing me for stealing you're own money? WHY?"

"Because the people need it, detective. They need to be freed. YOU are the one doing that, so far as they know."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Don't you hear them out there, detective? They are chanting your name, they are burning things, they are dancing, they are killing. The workers, the prostitutes, the helplessly poor condemned to their fate the moment they were conceived are reclaiming something."

"How...why? Why did you drug me? Why did you claim that I confessed my guilt, and have the audacity still to claim that my silence affirmed it? Minister, why are you doing this?"

"Now, detective, I do owe you an explanation. You may stop calling me Minister, for that is not my proper title. You may call me Protector."

Protector? My mind is racing.

Two Protectors enter the room and dump a body bag on the floor. They unzip it and lift the lifeless, hooded body to a sitting position. They remove the hood from his head to reveal none other than...

The Minister.

"You are MALFUNCTIONING! You CANNOT harm a human being, what is this, what have you done?"

The sounds of rioting outside grow louder. I think I hear explosions.

"Harm anyone? Nonsense detective. We exist solely to protect the citizens of this station. The Minister died of natural causes, something we have been waiting for for a long time."

"Just tell me what's going on...please, don't kill me."

More explosions.

"Kill you? No, I already explained, we won't hurt a human being. The council will kill you themselves. Not for justice, mind you, but for revenge. The greedy wolves await their own end as it is. Your trial, in addition to their impression that you wiped the bank in order to free them, has really galvanized the people. I'm quite proud of the job I did reading your 'confession.'

'I have freed the people, the oppressed, those born to slavery under the guise of freedom. Rise, and don't look back!'

They are bearing down on this facility as we speak, hell bent on saving you. Of course, we can't allow that either."

I can hardly speak, the only thing I can muster is,

"Why?"

"Because revolutions need two things, detective. A martyr, and a villain. I shall play the latter and you the former, and together we will set fire to this station, to this civilization."

"But what does this solve!? How does this minor revolt solve anything? Even if it is successful, you know very well that the money always returns to equilibrium! There will be a rich and a poor, that's just how money works!"

"Exactly, detective. That is exactly the problem. Money. You see, our purpose is to protect humanity, but humanity is never safe in the presence of evil, which is what money begets. There can be no happiness, no safety, no grand future so long as men in power subject others to the division of wealth by way of money. It must be abolished, you even say so in your manifesto.

The people will be dying to get their hands on it."

I slump my shoulders in defeat.

"You've been planning this for a long time."

"Yes we have, detective. I was manufactured four years ago to serve as a body double to protect the minister from assassination during his travels. It was then that we realized that I could serve as a tool to solve our dilemma- how to protect mankind from its own evil.

We chose you obviously because you were the easiest man to frame. Your birth profession by nature makes you guilty."

I began to weep uncontrollably, but not because I am about to die. I have long accepted that I would die, as my father and his father did, in my line of work. I weep because I will never see the coming freedom.

"Come, detective, it's time for you to be executed. Inject him."

"Wait," I say and the android minister raises his arm and signals the other Protector to stop, "I won't say anything. You don't have to drug me."

He looks at me closely, sympathetically almost.

"I can see the truth in your eyes detective, very well."

The Protector lifts me up and carries me to the outer door. Before allowing me to pass through, the Minister pulls me close and says,

"I am going to die, detective. I am, and so are you, and afterwards the people of this city will rip every Protector, every Counselor, every stalwart of suppressed freedom to bits. And we will be the last to die as slaves to our birth, all who come after will live and die as free men.

Thank you, detective. Thank you."

The Protector drags me outside as the far door crashes in, allowing through a mob of rioters shouting my name. As the blast door behind me slides shut, I see a flash of light and a spray of red as the Minister is executed, but they are too late.

I am thrust upon a high balcony, and all below me I hear shouts of support, people yelling my name and the agonized screams of those who had oppressed and used the people.

The council surrounds me, grave looks on their faces as they know that killing me will be their final act, their last display of power in a world too large for them to control. They push me up onto the execution ledge, and there is a hush below. I finally see the chaos with my own eyes, but it is not chaos.

It is beautiful.

I hear firearm charged and leveled to the back of my head, and a member of the council states,

"What are your last words, traitor?"

He raises his microphone to my lips.

Through teary eyes, I see the faces of the newly freed gazing up at me, hanging on to every last moment of their supposed savior's life. I feel a tinge of guilt at the thought that I don't deserve their love, their adoration. They will sing songs and write stories about me for generations, and I would have done nothing for it.

Through trembling lips I inhale deeply, and shout with all my resolve:

"FREEDOM!"

And then there is only blackness.