I lift my glass console out of my raincoat pocket. I should not have put it there; it is too delicate, but I always forget. I type out a message to my mother saying I am on my way. The characters flash on the screen of my Specs; white against blue grids. The design is primitive – a daisy in a field of rose bushes. These days, most people opt for Optics Displays; Slab Specs and OLED helms are a fading trend.

The streets of N.C. are always crowded. Population: four million. Four million people living in a city that’s about to be swallowed by the capital. The only island in the Republic large enough to house three cities. Some of the other island cities are close; Steelebridge and Geldfontein being two of them. Some are further and unreachable except by airtram. In total, New Republic consists of nine cities, all under the Homogenous Act, so you wouldn’t know where you were anyway.

Buildings tend to loom miserably as you get closer to the city centre. The higher floors hide in the clouds, where they can watch the burning rain form. Some buildings are a hundred stories high; concrete blocks piled upon one another like a toddler’s game of towers. These skyscrapers do not dominate nor sneer. They stand uniformly; grey soldiers with metal skeletons. It is the windows that set them all apart; the windows that breathe life and take it away. Some buildings have windows that stretch from floor to ceiling, others have thin rectangles at the top of the wall, but most are draped in shut blinds that only hint at the light illuminated behind it.

The Precinct is one of the only buildings in N.C. that isn’t a residential block. It’s a short, ten stories and one of three in the city. New City is just as the name suggests – it is new, and with small populations come small law enforcement. Yet despite the meagre size of N.C., we still manage to have house two Foremen, which is a lot more than other cities in the Republic can acclaim to. Most Foremen stick to the capital, and the ones that are scattered around the outskirts don’t hold enough sway to demand a permanent position amongst the luxury of their peers.

It is 16:43 and the streets are crowded. Most hover-jets and airtrams are already in commute as the workforce heads home. Those who aren’t willing to pile into a crowded public tram, walk. On the days when it rains, the streets are empty and even the sky too, depending on the hydrogenation of the rain. If it is too acidic, even the hover-jets stay safely in the garages and N.C. is empty. It is a small few that own anti-acid suits and can walk in the rain, though if you can afford to own that kind of technology, you wouldn’t be walking outside anyway.

I enjoy walking home. It is not very often that I walk the Precinct route. It’s not very often someone is so high profile they warrant a Rereading. Stacia Zcu. It’s a common name – many people have the last name Zcu. One of the Foreman in the capital – Groenstad – is Catriva Zcu. Maybe they’re related. Maybe that’s why I was called in. I can only speculate.

As I join the flurry of the home-goers, I stop by the small grocery stall beneath my flat. Luqi – a short, balding but ultimately endearing old man – owns it. My mother sends him cake and other creamy confectionaries every once in a non-acidic rainfall, and he drops a few marks off our bills when we shop there. I pick up some genetically enhanced fruit, though expensive, I am indulged to splurge. I don’t get called in for a Rereading often, and when I do, it pays well – well enough to satisfy a few cravings. My favourite is a lemonloupe, an inflated lemon with a thick yellow hide; impenetrable without a laser. It’s sour and burns my taste buds for a good few days, but there is something irresistible and addictive about it.

With two in hand, I spot the cartridges of eggs sitting complacently on a shelf. I am caught between a shudder of revulsion and a spark of familiarity. I look away quickly and join the short queue. There is a grainy, blue stained projected TV panel on the wall behind the ratty white counter where Luqi scans for marks with his Optics Display. The loud reporting fills the room, drowning out the conversations from the other patrons as they finish up last minute shopping. On screen is a tall, wiry man – the remaining Foreman in New City. A small banner flashes at the bottom: ‘Ita Ru – the eleventh Foreman, N.C. resident’. The shot zooms in on the Foreman’s face, and my Specs confirm it, with glowing orange gears turning green.

The man’s dark brown hair covers his ears and his eyes are sharp and focused on the camera. He stands behind the steel podium in some government building and there are field of reporters in front of him.

“I stand here once again, to address this issue,” he is saying. “We all know which one. The one that haunts our every loved one as they fall into their final slumber. The one that threatens national and personal security, that invades privacy, that places the entire justice system at risk of infiltration.”

The guards that flank him are stoic and dressed in black anti-acid metal armour. Ita Ru places both his spidery hands on either side of the podium. “Rereaders,” he spits, and his silver tongue makes everyone in the vicinity taste poison. The reporters on screen stiffen and begin whispering.

“The very act is a crime against the freedom and individuality the Republic stands for. We aim to give our citizens freedom from censorship, freedom from dictatorship, from being watched, involuntarily conscripted, controlled. We aim to be a free, forward thinking society that embraces each person as they are and most importantly, respects them. Rereading breaks that trust. There is never any telling what a Rereader learns when they leech into your mind. There is never any telling if what they report to their handlers holds an inkling of truth. There is never any telling if they are capable of seeing anything at all.” He pauses and takes a deep breath. There is a magic to the way he talks. He weaves words with an eloquence and enraptures his audience. Already some of the people in the line ahead, have their eyes glued to the screen.

“Rereaders have the ability to infiltrate and destabilise our entire justice system. If a murder victim is given a Rereading order, an investigation is not conducted. Suspects are not questioned. There are no suspects. The scene of the crime is not analysed. There is no forensic work at play, often times, an autopsy is not even completed. What indulges this lazy disregard for law enforcement? Rereading. Officers and Investigators alike think that if a Rereader peers into the mind of a dead person, their word is gold. The possibility of error is not explored. The possibility of the Rereader lying is not explored. The Rereader gives a name, a description, identifies the so-called ‘killer’ and the investigation is shut down. An arrest is made. A person is sentenced. And on what? The word of someone who claims to be some sort of technologically enhanced psychic –”

The people ahead are looking at me now. Even the old woman with a thick, ancient Slab Spec model who has already paid is openly standing at the shop’s entrance and watching me. There is a woman my age in business slacks in front of me. I know it is not possible but I swear I can see the small gears in her retina infused Optics Display turning green. I know what it says. I’ve looked in the mirror and pressed let the gears identify my reflection out of curiosity. I know what they see. And I know they aren’t happy to see it.

Aylah Zulfiq. Rereader. Precinct = Loscester. N.C. resident. Born 2747, 9LC.

The woman in front of me purses her lips, places her things on a nearby shelf and just walks out. The old woman in the doorway is still watching. She spits on the floor, her phlegm a noxious yellow and stalks off. Behind the counter with the peeling white plastic, in his greasy vest, Luqi frowns. And maybe even a dozen cream cakes will not make up for the lost business. There is one other person in the line, he pays quickly and avoids eye-contact. This is the disadvantage of living in a world where information is free and nothing is a secret. People tend not to like the truth, and as it seems, I don’t particularly like it told either.

Luqi turns off the TV and doesn’t speak to me. He keeps his head down, maybe hoping I will too so if anyone else walks in, their automatic facial recognition won’t scan and they won’t know I shop here. And they won’t endeavour to not to come back here. I leave with a sour taste in my mouth. I don’t have an opinion on Foreman Ita Ru; it never seemed necessary to involve myself in politics. Though I have a right to vote, I’ve never openly exercised it. It just didn’t seem essential. Politics went on in the background never truly affecting me. Ever since REM protocol was publicised and the protests started, it became achingly more important. I don’t know how to feel about Ita Ru’s speech. His words were personal, directed, every person who listened related and felt affected by the things he said. The perks of being charismatic. But like the pros of Rereading, no one fact checked the content of his conference. It was all cut and dry and no one questioned it. Like no one would question the usefulness of what I was trained to do or for how long my training spanned.

Feeling a deep-seated sense of injustice, it is only when I walk outside and my mark balance flashes on my Spec screen that I realise Luqi has charged me full price.