The Passengers(35)
‘Perhaps I should add that each of those ten schools also has vehicles that contain nail bombs parked within close proximity to exits and entrances. Those pupils, parents and teachers in the blast radius who are not immediately killed will certainly suffer life changing injuries.’
Libby’s heart sank. Even Jack appeared unsure of his next approach, holding his phone in his hand, but not using it. The news channels reappeared; each broadcasting live footage from the inquest room. ‘Breaking news – bombs in our schools’ ran a news ticker along the bottom of a screen. Libby could only imagine the angst of parents up and down the land.
She noted Jude was the only Passenger staring calmly into his monitor, as if he were resigned to his fate. Once again, she recognised a sadness in his eyes that ran much deeper than his current circumstances. Was it the cause of why he was now living out of his car?
‘Let us lighten the mood and see what our friends on social media have to say about this latest turn of events, shall we, Cadman?’ continued the Hacker.
‘There’s a mass panic amongst parents, as you’d expect,’ he began. ‘And many are threatening to go against your warning and pull their kids out of school immediately.’ He removed his glasses and smiled. ‘You see, this is what I love about my fellow social media users. Despite threats to their kids’ lives, they still prioritise sharing their fears with the world before they scuttle off to rescue their little ones. Share then react. I love it.’
‘Is anything being said about us?’ asked Muriel. She fiddled nervously with her wristwatch as Cadman and his team scanned their feeds.
‘I’m generalising here, of course, but it appears they don’t like the colour of Fiona’s jacket; Matthew’s name is trending with the hashtag #hotdoc; thousands are calling for Jack to be deselected; they find Muriel’s voice “irritating” and “whiney” and they think Libby is a “bleeding-heart snowflake with a terrible taste in shoes”.
‘Seriously?’ asked Libby and crossed her arms. She wasn’t sure which criticism offended her more. ‘Two people have been murdered by car bombs and the lives of thousands of children are at risk, yet they’re tweeting about my shoes?’
‘They have a point though,’ Cadman replied. ‘I assume they were a gift?’
‘No, they were not.’
Cadman appeared surprised. ‘I suggest you think of social media as a river. It begins in one place but the further it travels, the more it meanders in different directions. Some new routes dry up quickly, others take on directions all of their own. Everyone has an opinion. You could personally travel to each one of those schools, deactivate every explosive device yourself and then singlehandedly save the lives of every Passenger. Yet some troll in a council flat in Hackney with split ends and badly spelled tattoos will still complain you’ve set woman’s rights back a decade because you did it while wearing a skirt.’
Libby was exasperated. All she wanted was to escape that room, return home, curl up under the duvet and never think about a driverless car again. ‘Please,’ she directed to the Hacker, ‘just bring this to an end. You’ve shown us driverless cars aren’t infallible like we were told. So you don’t have anything left to prove.’
‘I never said I had anything to prove, Libby.’
‘Then what’s the point of all this?’
‘On a daily basis we have allowed our lives to become dictated by the decisions Artificial Intelligence make for us. That’s what you believe, isn’t it, Libby? That we have such little regard for our own existence, we’ve willingly surrendered ourselves to AI, something man-made yet incapable of empathy, sympathy or moral judgement. You think we’ve taken the human out of humanity?’
‘I don’t want gadgets thinking for me.’
‘But you are just as much a slave to AI as every other person. How do I know about the protest march you attended in London against the Road Revolution bill two years ago?
‘I … I … don’t know.’
‘Because AI and its associated technology have told me everything I need to know about who you are and what you believe in. The credit card transactional data on your watch told me where and when you purchased day-return train tickets and which train it told you to take. It also informed which eatery you asked your Virtual Assistant to recommend for lunch and the name of the bar where you went for drinks afterwards. Your fitness tracker revealed how long you were on your feet marching, how many steps and kilometres you covered, your adrenaline levels and by how much your pulse rose when you reached your Downing Street destination. Your mobile phone gave up the names and numbers of the friends in your address book with whom you attended, the music you listened to on your way home and how deeply you slept that night. Even now, I know that your cholesterol is at a steady 3.8 and that you will begin ovulating in three days. As this conversation has continued, your heart rate has risen to 133 beats per minute and your stress indicator is currently eight out of ten. You have barely eaten this morning so your salt levels have depleted and you should put some comfort drops in your dry eyes.’
Libby glared at the silver ring on her finger containing the built-in fitness tracker as if it were made by the devil. The Hacker must have accessed the data it retrieved. She twisted it until it came loose, winced and she strained to pull it over a knuckle before hurling it across the room.