The Blind Spot

by Michael Robertson

  Marcie nodded again. “So”—she shrugged—“what do I get now I’m sixteen?”

  “You get a choice.”

  “A choice?”

  “I know you go into the city at night, and I know how you love it. Although, I don’t know exactly when you’re there and when you’re not. I know what it gives Sal too; Frankie tells me. I’ve been too protective of you since Mummy died, and I know that’s why you want to get away from here. I can’t keep you caged anymore. I will let you live in the city and I’ll fund it if that’s what you decide. I would rather have you here, but it has to be your choice. All I ask is you give me a few months to show you exactly what the Blind Spot’s about. I’ve protected you from a lot of things, but now it’s time for me to show you everything. If you’ll allow me that?”

  The woman on the other side of the door screamed again.

  “What I’m about to show you isn’t nice, but it’s honest. I will show you the good and the bad of this place.”

  When her dad held an anonymity mask out, Marcie took it and slipped it on. It looked much like the baseplate used for an android’s face: transparent until she flicked the switch on the side. Although it felt no different, she witnessed the effects when her dad activated his. The second he flicked the switch, his face disappeared behind a mess of pixels. “You ready?” The mask distorted his voice.

  She nodded.

  Wrench then slammed three heavy bangs against the metal door.

  The hinges groaned, revealing a crack and releasing the woman’s screams. Marcie drew a deep breath, her stomach turning backflips.

  Wrench pushed the door wide and strode in.

  In spite of her shaking body, Marcie followed him.

  Chapter 5

  Still warm from the shower, his heart still full from the lifts, Nick entered the kitchen with a bounce in his step. They could draw a line under the nonsense from earlier that morning and start again. Besides, it must be super annoying to lie beside him every night, and of late, Karla had been even more stressed than normal. Something must be going on at work. She’d tell him about it when she felt ready. Until then, she needed a rock. Someone stable to rely on. He did that better than anyone. Even his mum, who rarely dealt out compliments, called him dependable. Always there to help. But Karla hadn’t yet made it to the kitchen.

  The coffee machine tracked Nick’s progress across the white room. White floor, white walls, white marble counters. It bubbled and spat, delivering him a steaming mug by the time he reached it: black, no sugar. Nowhere near comparable to the lattés he so loved, but much better on his waistline.

  The stool at the breakfast bar creaked beneath Nick’s weight, and he rested his arms on the cold white marble. Maybe it would have creaked beneath anyone, but when the furniture told you to shed a few pounds … A sip of his coffee. Hot but not too hot. The bitter liquid sent a spasm up one side of his face as he swallowed. More a tonic to kick-start his day than a treat. Digestible treats were a thing of the past. He should reward himself in other ways.

  Seventeen lifts in the shower and he’d saved three of them. He’d probably use up his new allocation by the end of the month.

  The coffee machine bubbled again. A shunk as the toaster loaded up a slice of bread. It signalled Karla’s imminent arrival. The smell of toast made Nick’s mouth water, but of all the things he loved, bread did the most damage.

  From the way Karla’s feet dragged, she clearly hadn’t yet perked up. A moment to centre himself, to be there for her when she most needed it, Nick smiled as his love entered the room.

  Although Karla scowled back, her open resentment had diluted a little, her face softer for the fresh makeup. Crimson lipstick, her peroxide hair had been styled to hide the grey. An expertly applied layer of foundation banished any wrinkles. One day she’d realise she’d chosen the wrong man and leave him. When they met, she’d been broken by a shitty relationship. A control freak who’d treated her much like her dad had when she’d been little. It had broken her spirit, and Nick had been kind to her. But now she’d had time to find her feet again, kind no longer sat on its own at the top of her list of criteria for an ideal partner.

  “M-morning, beautiful.”

  Karla smiled. Her eyes didn’t.

  “I never get used to hearing your voice on the app in the morning. I never get tired of it either.”

  The same detached smile, the same distracted glaze, she focused on her coffee and toast.

  Nick picked up his phone and opened the Wellbeing app. The small red and yellow icon sat front and centre on every device he owned.

  Karla took a bite of toast and a slurp of coffee before placing them both on the side and walking to the window, standing in the bright winter sun as she slipped on her headphones. While hugging herself, her face lifted a little. The Wellbeing app helped everyone. It always made the day better.

  The phone vibrated in Nick’s hand, pulling his attention away from his love. One new lift. Unlike Karla, he didn’t wear headphones. What did he care if she heard the nice things said about him? In fact, it probably helped. As if other people’s love for him might remind her why they were together.

  Michelle from accounts came through the tinny speakers. Her voice bounced off the hard surfaces around him. “It makes it easier to go to work when I know Nick will be there. He makes the day a lot better, and I want to see how he is since the attack in the square. I …” Her voice drifted off, her conversation no longer relevant to him.

  Although he looked to Karla for a reaction, she continued to stare out of the window with her headphones on. She glowed in the winter sun. Whose lift was she listening to? What if they weren’t from him? Although, he got lifted from people who weren’t her. But she’d always been so private with her lifts, he had to be suspicious, right? Then again, her last partner had been a control freak. He’d had no right to know who her lifts came from, just like Nick had no right now.

  Still, Nick drew a breath to ask her about it, but the television cut him off.

  The large screen took up an entire wall in the kitchen. When an urgent news broadcast came through, you damn well listened.

  Karla removed her headphones, her smile dropping when she made eye contact with Nick.

  The presenter—a woman in her late twenties with jet-black, dead-straight hair—looked directly at the camera while a small box in the right corner of the screen played footage from the terrorist attack in Wellbeing Square. “Now, we’re not speaking for the government here, but we have an ex-government worker who has agreed to come on and give their thoughts on the horrific attack on Wednesday.”

  The man on the screen wore a well-tailored suit and had a brilliant white smile. “Welcome, Mr. Vikram Shell.”

  Vikram nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Now, am I right in saying you used to work in counterterrorism when you were employed by the government?”

  Vikram nodded again.

  “Please, give us your thoughts on who you think was behind the terror attack on Wednesday.”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” A sneer shoved aside his joviality. “It has to be the Blind Spot. I mean, who else would do such a thing? Wellbeing Square, sponsored by Wellbeing Incorporated; of course the Blind Spot see them as a threat.”

  “How so?”

  “As we all know, Wellbeing Incorporated make money from listening to people’s conversations, recording them, and delivering them to the people of Scala City. The Blind Spot believe in privacy above all. If you’re looking for a motive …”

  The interviewer turned to the camera. “I’d like to express again that these are the opinions of Vikram Shell and not us or the government.”

  “These are the opinions of everyone,” Vikram said, “and the sooner the government does something about it, the better. But the government is scared. The Blind Spot have the hackers to bring the entire city to a standstill. Everything is digitally stored, and they could wipe that in a second. Effectively, they have the power to render the entire
city obsolete. They could take away everything and crash our infrastructure.”

  “But we have an army,” the reporter said.

  “And the army could crush them physically, but if we go to war, no one wins. The people in the Blind Spot die; the people in the city become obsolete.”

  “Effectively.”

  “Right, we’ll keep our memories.” Vikram lost focus for a moment as he stared into the middle distance. “Which, now I think about it, sounds like it could be worse than full obsolete.”

  “So what else can we do?”

  “I know, right? One attack and just over ten dead citizens. Is it enough to go to war? And what next if we don’t? They blow up the Apollo Tower when everyone arrives for work on a Monday morning?”

  The interviewer shifted in her seat and cleared her throat. “Okay, thank you, Vikram. I wouldn’t encourage guesses on where the attacks will happen next. We don’t want to spark hysteria, but thank you for your opinions on the matter.”

  The small box playing the footage of the attack then filled the entire screen. It showed the moment of the explosion. Nick looked away, his stomach lurching as if he’d been thrown through the air for a second time.

  The screen turned black. Nick drew several calming breaths. When he turned to Karla, he balked. Her blue eyes regarded him with contempt. “Do you think it’s the Blind Spot?” he said.

  “Who else? If they had nothing to hide, they would have let surveillance in there years ago.”

  “But the government is still being tight-lipped about it.”

  “Of course,” Karla said. “Like that man on the TV just told us, if we go to war with the Blind Spot, no one wins. Not in the short term anyway. They probably need time to plan their next move before making such a bold declaration.”

  “So what do you think will happen in the long term?” Nick said.

  “The city will win. They can crash our systems and our digital backups, but we can set them up again. We’ll have to. They can’t rise from the dead after we’ve rolled through them.”

  “What if they turn us all obsolete?”

  “I agree, it’s a worry, but we’ll work it out. And they won’t turn us properly obsolete. Like they just said, we’ll retain our memories. We take the Blind Spot with force and they’ll never get it back. You can’t retrieve lost land; you can always retrieve or reconstruct data.”

  The television turned on again, the large screen dominated by the familiar red writing on the yellow background. Nick could have recited the ad word for word, yet he still watched it play out, the warm muzak lifting his heart. “In other news, we’d like to remind everyone to stay away from the Pandora hack. It will only end badly for you, so please, please stay away.”

  The screen turned black again and Nick said, “Like anyone would go near that thing.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Karla said. “Another good reason to take the Blind Spot down. Get rid of the Pandora hack once and for all.” She looked at Nick for a few seconds and added, “How about we go to the cinema tonight?”

  “Sure!” He smiled and sat up straighter. “That sounds great. You choose the movie.”

  She raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow.

  “We don’t have to go.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You don’t look like you want to.”

  “I just asked you, didn’t I?”

  Although she said the right things, her blue eyes remained lifeless. She really didn’t want to go. Before Nick could push her on it, the light in the kitchen changed as Bruce swept past their window and landed in their drive. He blared his horn.

  “It’s Bruce,” Karla said, her tone lifting, the sparkle returning to her azure stare. “You’d best get out there so he doesn’t have to wait.”

  If only Nick elicited that kind of response from her. Moving against the liquid lead running through his veins, the coffee yet to kick in, he left the room, not stopping to kiss her on the way out. She didn’t seem to notice or care.

  Chapter 6

  The single bulb gave off a weak glow. The room stood no more than two metres square. The walls and floor were made from bare concrete; the small space so damp, it bunged up Marcie’s nose, and condensation lay on the surroundings like sweat.

  Wrench’s crew stood around with their backs pressed against the walls. The woman had been strapped to a surgeon’s table in the centre. It might have been the middle of winter, but Marcie tugged at her collar, itching from where the hot and balmy atmosphere made her perspire. The number of bodies in such a small space didn’t help, but the woman in the middle gave off heat like a furnace. Dressed in a pink vest and knickers, she’d been beaten red raw. The reek of sweat and piss caught at the back of Marcie’s throat.

  After spinning full circle, taking in the familiar forms in a very unfamiliar setting, all of them wearing anonymity masks, Marcie half laughed, her words coming out as if she had no control over them. “When I entered the dark alley back there, I just wanted to get through the door at the end. I might have thought differently had I known this was waiting for me.”

  The woman on the table screamed again. No steel door to mute it this time, the shrill call sent Marcie’s pulse off the charts, and a sharp pain gripped her chest.

  “Shut up!” Shank said, her voice distorted because of the anonymity mask. Shank gave herself away not with her diminutive stature and short wiry frame, but because she backed up her threat by snapping her hands forward, arming herself with an eight-inch knife in each grip.

  The Monk, over six feet tall and as rigid and silent as a tree, locked the steel door with a clunk.

  “She said anything?” Wrench said to Frankie Fingers. Strange to hear her dad’s voice distorted. The king of the Blind Spot, he rarely had need for a mask. Not that it did much. Of all the people there, he had the most recognisable form.

  A shake of his head, Frankie—Sal’s dad, and a man who stood almost as wide as he did tall—sighed and his frame slumped. “Unfortunately, no.”

  An anxious shot of adrenaline burst through Marcie when her dad lifted a rusty scalpel from a surgical tray beside the woman. “What are you doing?”

  A different man to the one who’d held her as a child spun around. “You’re here to watch and learn. Save the questions for later, okay?”

  Wrench grabbed the woman’s pink vest and ripped it clean from her, leaving her in just her knickers. Her silicone breasts pointed at the ceiling.

  The woman squirmed, the bulb’s poor light glistening off her sweating skin. “I don’t have anything; I’ve already told you that.”

  Nausea balled in Marcie’s gut and she breathed through her mouth. Too much saliva at the back of her throat, she swallowed once. If she swallowed again, she’d vomit where she stood.

  Wrench moved so fast Marcie flinched. He plunged the scalpel into the woman’s left breast as if trying to burst it. The woman screamed again, her voice breaking.

  His hands a blur, Wrench wriggled the scalpel, using it to tear a deep gash about two inches long in the woman’s flesh. Dark red blood pulsed from the wound and ran down her side.

  Several heaves snapped through Marcie and she clamped her hand to her mouth as her dad dug two fingers in to the hole. The woman bucked and the table rattled, but the straps across her chest, waist, and knees held her down.

  When Wrench pulled his thick fingers out, he had what looked like a metal tadpole in his pinch. It had a head the size of an eyeball. He held it over the woman by its tail. “Whoever’s on the other end of this camera won’t see this. This whole building’s blocked. No transmissions go in, and none go out.” He turned to Marcie. “The anonymity masks are just a precaution.” Back to the woman. “And because this thing can’t see through skin, I wonder where you intended to put it?”

  Tears streamed down the side of the woman’s face. She shook her head.

  “Well, whatever motivated you to bring this into the Blind Spot, know that you’ve just signed your own death w
arrant. We don’t want to do this, but you’ve forced our hand. You send this shit in here and there will be consequences. No surveillance equipment makes it into the Blind Spot without us noticing. If I find out who sent this in, I’ll cut their throat.”

  The woman shivered as she lay on the table, her skin pale against the blood running from her wound.

  “One last chance. Do you want to tell us who sent you?” Wrench said.

  The woman cried and shook her head again.

  Among the knives, scalpels, and pliers on the surgical tray sat another device. Chrome and about the size and shape of a plum, Wrench sighed as he picked it up. “You leave us no choice. Know this is because of your actions.”

  The woman grew louder again, the table’s legs bouncing on the concrete as she tried to wriggle free.

  Wrench grabbed the lower half of the woman’s face in a hard pinch before forcing first the camera and then the metal plum into her mouth. He clamped his large hand across it to prevent her from spitting them out. She fought for breath through her nose.

  A curved metal panel about the size of a playing card, Wrench slapped it across the woman’s mouth and picked up what looked like a drill. He pressed it to one corner of the panel and pulled the trigger.

  A pneumatic pfft clack sent the woman’s eyes wide. The metal muffled her scream. She shook and twisted, blood oozing from where the bolt had gone in as he moved to the next corner.

  The woman had passed out by the time Wrench had bolted all four corners of the panel to her face.

  There seemed little point in talking to the woman, but Wrench did it anyway. “You know the rules in the Blind Spot. We’re not Scala City. Rule number one when you come here …”

  Everyone in the room, save Marcie and the unconscious woman, said, “No surveillance!”

  Marcie’s mouth fell wide as she watched her dad pull a fob from his pocket. It had a large red button on it. “At least we can sell your organs,” he said. After another shake of his head, he pressed the button.