These Are The Rules

23.59.57, 58, 59, Go! I had exactly four minutes and thirty seconds. According to my contact, that is how long the civic surveillance system would take to refresh its memory and connections. But was it a trap? Would the predatory cameras really suspend their scanning? Running from the alley, I knelt and switched to the drill I had practised until it was instinct. Matt grey paint, brush, work left to right and keep moving. I knew I could cover the yellow stripes disfiguring five metres of pavement before I had to be back in hiding. Surely someone had thought to arrange extra foot patrols to cover the security downtime? Staring into the shadows beyond the streetlights, I slowed my breathing and focussed on my task. Half a minute to go. Being caught was unthinkable. The stakes were too high. The movement needed me there, out on the frontline. Captured, I would have been as good as dead were I sent for category A restricted incarceration in one of the secret quarantine camps. Those places reserved for Behaviourally Anomalous Dissidents. Yes, that's right, I am a BAD.

But I hadn't always been a grey paint toting rebel. Two years ago I was just another obedient citizen walking to work, being mindful to keep the regulation two metres from other pedestrians. A shade over three kilometres, it was a class two medium distance journey, much less than the five maximum for a tier three commute. Passing to the left of the flashing barrier separating the opposing flows, I remember chuckling at the thought of the anarchy it must have been when citizens had the freedom to roam in personal transport devices.

I looked up at the OIYU for my directions. The retinal recognition of the Omnipresent Interactive Yellow Unit acknowledged me with a brief green tick, gave instructions to 'keep left to avoid the risk of dangerous collision' then continued to scan for anyone not giving it the mandatory two seconds of attention.

Dutifully filing along, some of us made occasional eye contact with familiar faces.

“589/A, Hi,” I called out to someone I knew was returning from the night shift in the Department of Office Administration. “I hope you've left my desk tidy.”

“It will be sanitised as per the regulations regarding shared workplace facilities,” he replied, “And you know the policy on distracting people engaged in perambulatio-”

“DO NOT MOVE!” the level ten voice of authority (the really serious one) thundered out.

Blinking in the lightning flashes of strobe drones ringing the area, the shuffling herd froze. Held in the cordon of light, around a hundred of us exchanged nervous, questioning glances. It was a Blast Unilaterally Storm Tactic – but why? Reading the faces around me, I shared the pool of guilt and fear. Somebody, either deliberately or inadvertently, had broken a law.

Sixty seconds after the first alarm, a painful discord of sirens signalled the arrival of the Police Local Order Detention squad. A heavily armed and armoured arrest group, they blazed onto the scene in their fortified mobile prison. Swarming like fluorescent wasps to surround their target, they isolated and led away a confused looking man of completely average appearance. Bundling him handcuffed and hooded into a soundproof compartment, they sped away in a reserved traffic lane, the violent hue and pattern clash of their livery leaving behind a stomach turning imprint.

“Under two minutes,” a man behind me mused.

Turning to face him, the aftershock of the BUST brought my breakfast back into my mouth. Staggering in the spinning scenery, I clutched for multiple visions of the barrier, swayed and fell.

“It'll take me two days to get over it,” I said, accepting his offer of a hand up.

“Yes, they have taken being seen and heard to a whole new level.”

“Shhhhh!” 589/A, the other side of the barrier, hissed. “Listen.”

Spaced so that no one was ever out of sight of one, the OIYUs were flashing and chiming.

'This is a public service announcement,” the detached voice intoned. “We would like to take this opportunity to remind all citizens of the requirements of section 54(a) clause 97(p) of the health and safety directive of 18.7.2028. which states that it is mandatory for any person in any occupation to be responsible for maximising their own visual presence whenever they could be reasonably considered to be within, or potentially within, sight of another person. Thank you for your attention, have a safe day.”

“Or in other words,” my new friend said, “all people at all times.” 589/A, walking away, turned and glared.

“What do you think he'd done to deserve that?” I said.

“I don't know,” he said, taking two steps back, “but if we don't move apart it will be us next.”

“Apparently,” a woman in front of me said, her head turned slightly towards me, her lips hardly moving, “the cameras spotted he had a little charity badge on his tabard that reduced its reflectivity.”

“Ah, right,” I said, that would explain the announcement.” Reaching an open space, the orderly line dispersed to workplaces in the Ministry Mall. Walking in the same direction, the man who had helped me kept a distance equal to the faded white rectangles dividing the smooth grey surface.

“I can't help feeling,” I said, “but might that have been, um, you know, a little bit over the top?”

“Look down when you talk” he said, “you know those machines can read your lips.”

“Sorry,” I said, lowering my head, “but that could have been me, or you, or anyone. It's like we're all criminals now.”

“You're right,” the man replied, “and if you carry on talking like that, it will be you. And me for listening.”

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

“Look,” the man said, “if you're really concerned, there are people you can talk to, but you've got to be careful.”

“Go on.”

“Forget you've ever seen me,” he said, gave me a place and a time and scurried away.

Following his directions, I went to a remote park bench. It may be that you are drawn to our cause and want to join us, a rasping distorted voice said from behind me. Checking I was not being watched, I peeked inside a bush at a tiny hidden speaker. You are welcome, it continued, but do not try to make contact. You know what you have to do. Trust no one and be careful to work alone in the shadows. It might be that you are from the police and this is one of the few leads you have for finding us. If you do succeed and discover my identity know that I am not alone and that you will never win. If the above means nothing to you I advise you to walk away now. We will contact you again soon but your response will qualify you as a conspirator in the eyes of the law. There will be no going back. Be proud to wear the dark apparel of your comrades knowing that for us it symbolises that black is the new hi vis.

Seeing a faint plume of blue smoke, I peered into the foliage to see the device in flames. A week later, I received whispered instructions from a stranger, followed their directions to another self incinerating recording and left behind my life of unquestioning faith in the state.

But I realised, on a shopping trip, my wife would not be with me. Stepping out of a changing booth in local boutique, she asked me what I thought of the fake fur coat she was wearing.

“It's really nice, you look fabulous,” Was the only possible answer.

“Yes, but I don't know how the colour will go with this,” she replied, pulling on her favourite glow in the dark pink tabard. “Oh no, that's not right at all.”

And I had to admit she had a point. The juxtaposition had turned the rusty tan of the coat sickly and unpleasant.

“Yet another consequence of those crazy new laws,” I said. “And another reason why we should object.”

“I don't see that fashion choices are a good reason to be breaking the law, if that's what you're suggesting. You know as well as I do how important it is that we don't go out looking DUL.” Recoiling from her indignation, I tried my least confrontational tone.

“But you Know that Dangerously Understated and Lowkey was just one of those acronyms the authorities used as part of their pre legislation campaign. Do you really believe it?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Can't you hear yourself?” I said. “You've been brainwashed. You and everyone else.”

“Stop right there,” she snapped, “before you get us arrested.”

Settling for silent despair, I tried to understand how she felt. The way the regulations had been presented made them sound so right, normal and of such benefit to everyone that by the time of their enactment as law, they were quite irresistible. But it wasn't just the petty strictures of hi vis that bothered me; my association with the secret opposition had opened my eyes to the unpleasant autocracy closing around us.

Listening to the recordings left for me, I learned the long history of insidious control. By the beginning of the century, a device stashed in a rotting log informed me, our leaders were becoming increasingly fiendish and slick in the techniques of Discreet Autonomous Management And Direction. DAMAD, the title given to this new science, was a system designed to steer humanity towards our masters choice of correct decision. Media control and propaganda have long been established as essential tools of government but they are crude and blatant compared to the sophisticated and insidious methods devised by special advisors working in the innocuous sounding Wellbeing Office of Education. 'Nudging' was one such exercise brought briefly to prominence but then allowed to drift back into obscurity. Be aware that governments have taken on the darkest arts of advertising and public relations. But unlike advertisers they are as secretive as a closed religious order. There is no political equivalent of their media launches or awards ceremonies, proudly drawing attention to the efforts of the marketing team and upstaging the product itself with their glamorous personalities. It has been found that people seeing how their opinions and behaviour are subconsciously modified and led is counter productive. So DAMAD is now invisible.

Considering myself to be 'media savvy', I enjoy my part in the game of being sold to but these revelations left me feeling as scared and ready to fight as the pestilent rodents that used to plague our cities.

The visit from the police, when it came, justified the permanent fear I had been living in. Hammering on the doors and windows to demand entrance, they woke me at five in the morning and crowded in like over animated robots in lurid body armour. Pre tea and still drowsy, their shouted warrant references and laws meant nothing to me. Something about my wife's lack of surprise made me wonder if she knew more than she let on.

“What have you done now?” she said as I was led away.

I warned you about hanging round with those deviants, didn't I? remained thankfully unspoken.

Because of the protection of victims regulations, I was not told why I had been arrested and charged. My release was a similar mystery as it was covered by the conventions that maintained total court secrecy. But the memory of the experience has never left me. Brutally efficient, the penal system makes sure that anyone, whether guilty or not, leaves its custody feeling utterly repentant. And in my case, utterly resentful.

Being strictly forbidden from scratching daily marks on the stone walls, I am still unsure how long I spent in there. Food, below adequate, was irregular. Social contact was limited to none, reinforced by 'NO TALKING' stencilled in red on every face of the grey concrete walls. Exercise was daily and brief but at least gave a glimpse of the sky through a steel net. Guessing one day that I might be released soon, I smiled and whistled my way round the first lap of the yard. Halfway into the first verse of 'Only Sunshine', two of the thuggish guards yelled abuse and dragged me to the governors' office.

“But I'm not breaking any regulations,” I protested.

“I didn't have you down as a troublemaker,” the head thug said, his gravelly snarl making the statement sound like a threat of violence. “In fact, your file suggests you are quite the opposite.” So there it was. My life was on record as having passed entirely in passive acquiescence.

“You do know that the safety regulations are there for the benefit of everyone,” he continued.

“Safety regulations....?”

“Yes, of course. The noise you were making might prevent someone from hearing an important safety announcement.”

“Bu-but that just means you can interpret the laws to make me guilty of anything.”

“Just do as you're told,” he said and had me thrown back into my cell.

Shivering sleepless on a narrow wooden bench, I spent that night planning my resistance.

Working independently from my less militant brethren, I first targeted the weather signs. By reversing their wiring, I made them flash 'Rain Danger!' on dry days and 'Sunshine Alert!' when the sky was grey. Next was applying official looking 'Highly tasty and nutritious!' stickers over the usual 'May be disagreeable to some people' warnings on food packaging. Though apparently prankish, I hoped my gestures would start to recondition a population unused to asking questions.

Ramping up the campaign, I started removing the covering over swimming pools. A clear film, it was intended to keep bathers away from the dangers of immersion in water. Causing fantastic outrage at unexpected actual dunking, this left no one harmed as it has long been illegal to have a depth of water greater than thirty centimetres. I am confident, however, that there will also have been some hilarity and more importantly, discussion of the burden of regulation.

And that is how I came to be in the city at midnight painting over the obligatory fluorescent grout in the gaps between pavement slabs. The glowing grid covering the urban landscape, intended to highlight potential trip hazards, constantly reminds me of my enemies in the state and their vindictive agenda.

Lost I my thoughts, I missed the approaching footsteps.

“What are you doing?” a man said, his voice ominous with authority.

Whipping round, I faced a man and a woman wearing full coverage luminous night overalls over fancy dress outfits.

“I'm trying to save you,” I said.

“Kill us, you mean,” the woman said.

“No really, look,” I countered, striding up and down the pavement, “it's quite safe.”

“And why are you dressed all invisible?”

“Do I look invisible?”

“Well, now you mention it, no.”

“Look at this,” the man said to an approaching couple, “we thought we were being a bit daft dressing up for that party, didn't we? But this chap has really gone all in.”

“Hey, look at me,” the first woman said, skipping round in a circle, “I'm not falling over!”

“And,” I said, dancing alongside her, “we're not crashing into each other either.”

“That's amazing,” the newly arrived woman said, “I'm going to have a go.” Slipping off her protective covering to reveal a cartoon mouse costume, she bounded over and weaved around us, joyfully singing its theme song.

“Arrrr,” her partner guffawed, stripping to his pirate gear and joining in.

“If you can't beat 'em,” the first woman said, unwrapping a splendid princess ballgown.

“Oh, why not,” said the first man and released his inner ogre.

“Hey, this is fun,” someone in a passing group of three said, and led his fellow musketeers into the rebellious rave. Hearing the gleeful gathering, dozens more partygoers piled in, adding cowboys, a ringmaster, a pair of unicorns, all known superheroes, too many cooks, Elvis in all his incarnations and several nuns.

“Aren't you worried about being seen?” I said to HenryVIII jiving with Red Riding Hood.

“This is the National Surveillance annual office party,” he shouted back, “do any of us look like we care?”