Uncanny Silicone Valley

July 28, 2042

The disruptive blare of the alarm snapped my attention from my oodle device to the screen on the wall ahead of me. All around the compact room, my delivery team adopted the same course of action. Each person looked to the large monitor with faces that emoted something bordering between excitement, nervousness, and anxiety.

Instinctively, I bolted up from my chair and sprinted to the wall, shouldering an assault rifle. Years ago, such an immediate and unprecedented mission would have scared me, or at least edged me out of the bounds of what I considered to be comfortable. But I had repeated this alarm protocol more times than I could keep track of, and my movements and reactions were now automatic if not fully robotic.

Glancing to my left, I saw my squad mate and friend Stan quickly zip up his armored jacket, glancing around nervously to ensure that no one of authority had realized his blemish in being unguarded. His quick search revealed that the only curious eyes who had seen his thoughtless misdeed were my own, and I met him with a playful yet inquisitive smirk. I appreciate his quirks, but I do constantly worry that Stan’s careless attitude will one day be noticed by one of our bosses and be summarily reported to lobbyists for suggested confinement. Our squad typically has a man who was immature enough to trigger such a process once a year or so.

The younger mates of the team took a few moments longer than the rest of us to prepare for the trip, but once they were ready we quickly rushed out the door, strode confidently through the corridors, and boarded the benches in the back of the armored box truck. For the first time since the alarm had been engaged, I had a moment where I was solely responsible for entertaining my own attention, and in this time I noticed the subtle, quick breaths of the inexperienced crew mates around me and got a whiff of their perspiration mixed with the pungent scent nervous bodies.

Stan and I shared a moment of eye contact to confirm that he had picked up on the same laughable, uncomfortable sensations. He smirked at me with the same confident, knowing energy as I had displayed to him only minutes ago, then rested his head against the wall of the box truck and gingerly closed his eyes. I personally had never understood this ritual, and while it had spurred some curiosity, it was not worth paying the price for a legal inquiry slip, and no strange ritual would ever nag my curiosity enough to force me to navigate the proper channels to inquire of one’s beliefs.

I stared at the wall separating us from the driver’s cab and noticed that the lights in the corner of its white surface and the roof had switched from red to yellow, notifying us that we would soon approach our location.

“Heads up!” I shouted, tilting the barrel of my rifle to the lights. The rest of the squad saw my motion and began placing their helmets into place. I did the same, then looked to Stan to make sure he was less foolish with his helmet than he had been with his jacket. To my dismay, his eyes were still closed when I glanced over, confirming that he once again wasn’t paying attention.

“Stan,” I called, jolting his shoulder with my hand. “Get ready!”

His eyes snapped open, meeting mine with a grim look. For a few awkward seconds, he maintained my gaze, not making a single motion other than a few hesitant blinks. Then, just as soon as he had become entranced in his own mind, he snapped out of the entrancement and fitted his black helmet over his head. No sooner had he done so than the yellow light further progressed into green, alerting the squad that we were arriving at our destination.

Somewhat forcefully, the truck came to a stop and the back door flew open. In formation, each of us got up in pairs of two with our squad mate and made our way through the back of the vehicle, each partnership walking in step with the others.

As Delivery people, we had each spent hours ensuring that our approach was perfectly uniform and organized to a point that those with a lesser perspective would likely see as excessive. Our job demands the attention and undeniable respect of the public. Without their confidence, we would never be trusted to make the decisions we make on a regular basis. Even as organized and professional as we are, it still took Daintree years of sending lobbyists to congress to allow us the authority we now hold. It was by far the most difficult legislation to pass. After we became enforcers of the law, however, things such as paid representation and diminished federal power came much easier.

Once Stan and I were directly across from each other marching down the road, the automated voice speaking through our helmets notified the entire squad of our target’s address. The occupants of the house had apparently refused to open their doors to Official Inspectors after turning off their devices and unplugging their conversation boxes. Their blemish had left their actions completely unknown by Daintree, necessitating our involvement.

The first two squad mates arrived at the door and briskly stopped. Each pair behind them followed their example, being sure to leave three feet between them and their cohort and five feet between them and the individual standing in front of them. After waiting an appropriate amount of time for each couple to stop, one of them took a step forward and knocked on the door before waiting 20 seconds for a response. She repeated the act twice more before bringing her hand to the side of her helmet and murmuring a few quiet words. When her message had been heard and confirmed, she turned towards us and nodded her head.

Without a morsel of hesitation, we all stepped back ten steps, carefully stepping backwards while keeping our eyes trained on the house. Had there been an obstacle, the rear facing squad mate in the front would have made it known.

Moments after we had assumed our new positions, I slightly averted my eyes from the door of the house, instead focusing on a nearby window. As soon as I had done so, the air was filled with a bright flash and a brief clap of thunder. I returned my eyes to the door to see that the drone pilot back in the truck had executed their job perfectly, leaving a smoking hole in the front of the house where the door had been just moments before. We waited a full 30 seconds before continuing into the dark house, our rifles lowered in strategic positions to prevent anyone from sneaking up and surprising the squad.

The improvised entryway led straight into the main room of the small building. Once we were inside, Stan and I waited in the room for the others to find the fugitive occupants and any sign that they were no longer prime. The small size of the house and effectiveness of the squad insured that we would not have to wait long. After only a few minutes, two squad mates approached us with two handcuffed individuals. It appeared to be a male and a female, and while his soft features seemed to be drowned with tears and his considerably larger frame quivered with emotion, his female counterpart simply stared at us. Something burnt in her eyes, though I couldn’t tell if it was anger or horror. A third man emerged from a side room carrying a small pistol, two devices with black, powerless screens, and two walkie-talkies, ready to present for the trial.

“Sirs,” the soldier addressed me through our helmets, making sure that the fugitives would remain ignorant to the conversation.“Our inspection has resulted in the discovery of unsanctioned items of clothing, unapproved music, improper grooming standards, and illegal technology. We’ve detected at least 10 violations of Prime.”

I nodded my head slightly. While I was disappointed to hear of such deviancy, I was nowhere near surprised.

“Any other occupants?” Stan asked.

“There was a four-year-old female next to the door when the drone infiltrated the property. She was terminated.” the man responded. Stan’s shoulders seemed to slope at the news, falling out of posture. At this point, I sure that he and I would need to have a lengthy conversation about proper protocols and their importance before the next mission.

“What’s the judgment on these two?” The man followed up.

When I’d started this job, Daintree lobbyists had yet to improve the failed and slow justice system. We would have to take those who were clearly guilty of crimes that removed them from Prime and supply them with food, water, and shelter for what could have been years before their trials. Fortunately, this flawed and sluggish system had been reformed to simply allow Delivery People to act as legal judges after a certain amount of experience.

"I think it's obvious," I answered, making sure my rifle was ready. "Any disagreements, Stan?"

"No." He muttered quietly. His voice was so faint that it took me a moment to be sure that the moan had come from him and not elsewhere in scene around us.

With his agreement, I began raising my rifle towards the convicted. Heartbroken as I was that they were no longer Prime, it felt good to dispatch defectors. The pull of the trigger would mean two less anchors inhibiting the progress of Daintree. As soon as they were released next to a wall of the residence for their final moments, however, the disgruntled woman produced another pistol and fired.

Before I knew what was happening, I had shot both of them several times and was kneeling next to the quivering body of Stan. He removed his helmet to show that his lip was shaking as the rest of the squad ran from the building to seek medical aid.

Once he was certain it was just him and I, he reached beneath his failed armored jacket and produced a heart-shaped locket.

"Read the paper inside," he sputtered as his eyes grew more and more distant. He tried to shift to look at me more directly. "I love you, friend," he wheezed.

Trying to get past my state of shock, I took the pendant from him and placed it around my own neck before opening the piece of jewelery. It revealed a piece of hastily folded paper that I quickly snatched and shoved deep under my clothes, making sure that it would not be discovered.

That brings me to tonight. Here I sit in my comfort booth, reading this troubling, horrifying message again and again. "Death to Daintree," it reads, "To resist is to live."