It was the worst day at the San Francisco Police Headquarters in years. All the officers gathered together in small groups, sharing information and gossip. Only Lieutenant Sanchez sat alone at his desk, the cubby behind him empty. He was one of the few officers not required to share his workspace. It suited him—he had never been much of a talker.
Sanchez ran a shaky hand through the hair on the side of his head, where it was thickest. He still worked out religiously as he had always done, and was always in the top fitness percentile for his age group, but he could no longer ignore the hard truth: he was on the losing end of an unwinnable battle against time. The hair he had left was thin and gray, his joints ached, and wrinkles gathered together in alarming numbers at the corners of his eyes.
To Lieutenant Sanchez, the entire floor sounded like one gigantic beehive, filled with busy buzzing bees. Four officers had lost their lives in the blast this morning. A sadness and anger hovered in the room, but the mourning was only the top layer. He could tell there was more going on than that.
“Sanchez! Did you hear?” The question came from Eric Smith, a young man who had been with the force less than a year. The sides of his head were trimmed close, with the blond hair on top left long enough to comb to the side. The last remnants of a difficult case of adolescent acne dotted his pale cheeks and forehead.
“Yeah. Crazy, right?”
Officer Smith nodded and scampered off, stopping to listen in on a conversation between three sergeants two cubicles down. Sanchez watched the young man and the three other police officers as they spoke together. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but their faces were animated and they gestured wildly with their hands as they spoke. These were not the actions of officers in mourning.
It was excitement. That was the other emotion. It was the first time many of the younger officers had ever encountered anything like this.
Sanchez had been around long enough to live through the transformation that the SFPD had undergone in recent years. When he had joined the force and paid his dues on the street, he wore a bulletproof vest and carried a firearm. Police work had been different then. Cops had to investigate and solve crimes and arrest the perpetrators. He had been punched, bitten, and shot at in the line of duty. It was a dangerous job.
All of that had changed after congress passed the Universal Crime Prevention Act. Now, solving crimes was as easy as running a search on the ARCNet database. Half the time, the perpetrator’s own ARC called 911 and sent the offender online in the middle of committing the act. The police found them staring off into space in the middle of a would-be crime scene, standing there quietly waiting to be arrested. No one committed serious crimes anymore.
Reminder: Your meeting is in five minutes.
The notification startled Sanchez, and he tore his eyes from the officers he had been watching. If ARC was good for anything, it was for keeping him punctual. He hadn’t been late for a meeting since he had received his implant.
Reschedule any non-critical appointments this afternoon, he thought at the SFPD central computer. He didn’t remember the last time he had a critical appointment. The most pressing issue on his calendar today had been mediating a dispute between two elderly men in a co-housing unit in Chinatown. Apparently, one of them owned a cat that had killed and eaten two of the three parakeets that the other kept as pets. Maybe the delay would give the cat an opportunity to finish his trifecta? It was the closest thing to a serial killing that Sanchez ever expected to see again.
Appointments rescheduled, his chip confirmed.
Sanchez shuffled and stacked some loose papers on his desk and leaned back in his chair. He crossed his feet on his desk, long past the point of trying to look professional at the office, and his eyes unfocused as he joined the meeting.
He found himself in a large circular room. There were four rows of long, curved tables that wrapped around a central podium. Sanchez was seated at his usual spot behind the higher-ups in his department and looked around as he waited for the meeting to begin. It was the largest online briefing room he had been in, and he watched as bodies materialized into the seats around him. The echoed sounds of murmurings and hushed conversations increased in volume as the room filled in. Departments from the entire Bay Area had representatives present.
“All right, people. Let’s get this started.” The voice was loud and rough. SFPD Chief Munroe was an old timer. Sanchez had known him from high school, and the two had remained close friends over the years. Chief Munroe was a bulldog of a man: short, fat, and uncommonly strong. He was known equally for his uncompromising attitude on the job and his love of home brewing. Officers who found their way into his good graces frequently found themselves gifted with bottles of Munroe’s Original Oatmeal Stout. Sanchez had received a case every Christmas Day since Munroe had converted his garage to a brewery.
“As you know, there has been a tragedy today. Twenty-two civilians were killed, and over thirty others were injured in the explosion at the Golden Gate Park. In addition, four officers lost their lives in the line of duty.” Munroe’s voice was gruff and tinged with emotion. He paused and looked around the room. Silence filled the air. No one whispered when the Chief was speaking.
“This was an act of domestic terrorism. Our investigators have linked this act to a terrorist group that has been meeting at the park and planning the attack for the last year and a half.”
A picture of the Golden Gate Universal Unitarian church appeared in the air above Munroe, floating there like an apparition. “They met under the pretense of being a twelve-step group for ARC-challenged individuals. This church was where they gathered and where we believe they constructed their explosive devices.”
“None of these individuals had ARC implants, which we believe was by design to avoid detection by the authorities. We have been able to reconstruct the group’s membership, with help from the ARC of an informant who had unwittingly tried to attend meetings to cope with his disability earlier this year.”
A large picture of Cecil took the place of the church. His full name and address appeared underneath his likeness.
“Cecil Coleman the football player?” a voice interrupted from the front row.
Munroe twitched and scowled down at the person who had interrupted him. “Yes. The same.”
Sanchez heard a few whispers from behind him from some younger officers.
“I didn’t know Cecil Coleman was ARC-challenged.”
“Football can really mess with your brain. I won’t let my kids play it offline.”
Cecil’s picture disappeared and was replaced by the pictures of others who had attended the meetings with him. It was a comprehensive list that contained everyone from Cecil’s memories who didn’t have an ARC. Their names, addresses, and other information floated in the air next to their photos.
“These are terrorists who have committed the highest acts of violence and aggression against an innocent populace,” Munroe continued. “Under the Universal Crime Prevention Act, these people do not have the rights of citizens. They are armed and dangerous enemy combatants who have declared war on our country. They killed four of our own, and they intend to engage in more attacks in the immediate future. We’re not bringing them in. We’re going to kill these vermin.”
An angry murmur rippled through the hall. Sanchez felt and recognized it. He knew he wouldn’t be tasked with being on the ground in an operation like this but secretly wished that he could be a part of it. Like the others, a thirst for vengeance and justice had quickly flowered in his heart.
“We believe this organization has been recruiting members from the minority non-ARC population in our city and the surrounding areas. We will be rounding up anyone without an ARC for interrogation and mandatory implant surgery, starting immediately. Use caution when approaching anyone without a chip, as some of these individuals may already be compromised.
“Your orders will be delivered to you momentarily. Are there any questions?” Munroe waited, but no one had anything to ask. A restlessness had taken hold of the officers. There was no time to waste on questions. Now was the time for action.
“We’ve had it easy the last few years, but today the city needs us. It’s time for you all to earn those badges. Get out there and kick some ass.”
There was a cheer that went up. Chief Munroe surveyed the crowd, his expression fierce.
Lieutenant Sanchez found himself back at his desk. He brought his feet down and stood up to look around. What had been a floor of idle, gossiping individuals only minutes before had transformed itself into a unified team with a driving purpose. Officers rushed down the halls, moving quickly and with determination. Any talking was brief and to the point. Sanchez smiled. After years of feeling obsolete, he finally felt like he had an important job to do. He sat down to review his orders and got to work.