The Passengers(14)

‘Fingerprint scan required,’ an automated female voice began, and Libby held her right hand towards a camera lens. ‘Verified,’ it continued, and the doors opened.

Inside the room, she counted six formally dressed men and women. Some spoke into ear pods linked to mobile phones; others worked on computer screens but Libby couldn’t see what they displayed. Two male security operatives clad from head to toe in black approached her. They each had one slightly discoloured iris that Libby recognised as Smart lenses. Why does everything these days have to be Smart? she wondered. Perhaps Nia had been right and Libby would have been better suited to the dark ages, albeit without the dinosaurs. They escorted her towards a table.

‘Put your belongings in this box,’ asked one in a gruff tone and Libby obliged, placing her handbag, watch and mobile phone inside it.

‘Haven’t seen one of these for a while,’ said the second operative, picking up Libby’s device to show his colleague. He tried to flex its unbendable chassis and it threatened to crack.

‘Careful,’ said Libby.

‘I bet she still uses cash too,’ his colleague added.

Once X-rayed, they returned her handbag but her phone and watch were placed in a silver metal locker under the table. White discs strapped to the palms of his hands were used to scan Libby from head to toe in search of recording or communication devices. Satisfied she possessed neither, the shorter of the two men removed a swab from a sealed packet.

‘Mouth,’ he said and on her tongue placed the cotton end, which was then inserted into a cylindrical case the size of a pen lid. With his face up close to hers, Libby noticed that reflected on the inside of his Smart lens was a tiny image of herself, likely taken from her National Identity Card along with information only he could read.

‘Speak into this,’ he continued and held a tablet towards her mouth. ‘Name.’

‘Libby Dixon,’ she said, and a green tick appeared on the voiceprint recognition screen.

‘Will I have to do this every day?’ she asked. ‘I don’t see my DNA or voice changing much over the next twenty-four hours.’

‘Rules are rules,’ he replied and escorted her towards another hefty set of doors. He typed in a code and scanned his own eye before they opened into a generous-sized, square chamber. Inside, two men and two women were gathered in a corner under arched opaque windows that could neither been seen into nor out of. With their backs towards Libby, they turned only their heads at the sound of the moving hinges.

‘Hello again,’ she began and offered a nervous smile to no one in particular. They replied with nods instead of words and continued their conversation.

It was exactly the same unfriendly, sterile environment as it was yesterday. Four broad wooden desks were set out in a semicircle formation in the centre of the room. They faced a triple aspect wall on which Libby could just about make out the faint outlines of twelve television screens, one much larger than the others. In the corner of each was the word ‘offline’. Shoulder-high mahogany wall panelling ran all the way around the room.

To Libby’s left were three more tables where two men sat quietly, each wearing Smart glasses and with only tablets laid out in front of them and virtual keyboards projected on to smoked glass surfaces. Now that phones and tablets had the same capabilities as desktop computers or laptops, Libby couldn’t recall the last time she’d come across either.

One of them was a stenographer, there to digitally record and type notes of everything discussed once proceedings were called to order. The other was responsible for projecting visuals on to the wall. Neither had spoken more than a handful of words yesterday.

Unsure of what to do with herself until the clock struck nine, Libby removed her pastry from a paper bag and pulled off a piece to nibble on.

‘There is no food to be consumed in here,’ sniffed a woman with a Scottish accent. She wore a dark-blue plaid skirt and matching jacket. Libby felt her face redden like she’d been told off by a teacher and she dropped the snack into a metal bin. ‘That’s for paper only,’ the woman added.

Libby searched for another dustbin to no avail, so she reached in to grab it, then slipped the pastry back into her handbag instead. Suddenly, a green light on the wall flashed.

‘Right, shall we begin?’ a voice began and a man turned. He eyed Libby up and down distrustfully, but tried to disguise it with a disingenuous smile. Jack Larsson was a Member of Parliament, cabinet minister and the only face she recognised from outside the room from his occasional television appearances. As he moved towards the tables, he whistled the opening bars of an old song she recognised called ‘Feeling Good’. Considering the serious nature of what they were about to discuss, it wasn’t the most appropriate of choices.

As each of his colleagues made their way towards the desks, she hesitated, waiting until they were all seated before pulling out a chair. Yesterday she’d received short shrift from the woman in plaid for choosing a seat not apparently allocated to her. Libby’s chair was the furthest from the exit she’d have to wait the entire day to use again.

Aside from Jack Larsson, she had no idea of the other people’s names. She had been warned by one of the security operatives that asking any personal details, even a Christian name, was strictly prohibited. However, she had been made to wear a silver badge with Miss Dixon etched in black capital letters.