The Third Wave

They'd gathered together early tonight. Two dozen people, men and women, huddled together in common cause, secreted away in the basement beneath remains of the Whalebone pub. They were each of them at least twenty-five, a few considerably older. The basement was lit by a handful of unshielded bulbs, dangling down from the ceiling on ancient cables. No smartbulbs down here.

"There was a time," one of them said, stepping up onto a box positioned as a makeshift podium, "that folk like us would come to the pub after a hard day's work." Disgruntled laughter rippled around the group. "These days, we're all here because there's nowt else to do."

His name was Robert Thomas. He'd been born in 2014 in the British city of Newcastle to what politicians used to call an Ordinary Family. School was a mixed bag, as he was never much of an academic but did love to run a pitch with a ball tucked under his arm. Touted for big things, at one point, until a car accident ripped out a few tendons when he was seventeen and ended that particular career before it had even begun.

"We're the generation in-between." he continued, voice increasing in volume, "all of us, we're right here on the front lines, where it happened. They left us behind. We got to the job market and there was no market. They'd taken it all. Nothing left for us lot."

Robert stepped off the box and walked to the back of the basement, far enough that the light didn't reach. There was a crunching and clattering of heavy items being moved, then he walked back into the glare of the bare bulb, holding aloft a baseball bat encrusted with nails and glass. "We live here. We were born here. These are our lives, and we only get one each. What do you say we take 'em back from those who'd throw 'em away?"

*

Outside, the air was hot and close. The air felt thicker these days. They split into smaller groups, dispersing out into the city, weapons concealed beneath unlikely coats and in sports bags. Robert led four others towards the high street, where they'd find the small cluster of corporations that decided who got to buy what, when, and how. This city hadn't enjoyed the independent ownership renaissance like those further south, instead finding itself squeezed ever more tightly by the hegemonic grip of the supernationals.

"Everybody remember now, keep it calm until we're all in position," Robert said under his breath. "No going off half-cocked. We're looking for maximum damage. We're making a statement. This'll get the whole country to pay attention."

The pavements were spotless, as always. Cars rolled efficiently and silently past them while shoppers oohed and aahed at displays and chattered mindlessly to each other. Shopping was a cultural thing, there being no actual reason to physically attend a store when almost everything could be droned to you within half an hour. If somebody was out shopping, it was because they wanted to be seen. Which meant that they weren't exactly blending in, what with their trenchcoats and general lack of makeup and designer clothing and ridiculous accessory dogs.

Robert entered a clothing store calling itself Boutique which was, of course, massive, stretching up five floors with a curving, exquisitely printed staircase winding its way up. There was more stairwell than actual floor space for stock. The etched glass front doors were flanked by tall, silver pillars, silently scanning each customer as they left in order to automatically charge their account. No employees in sight. Of course.

"My father was a taxi driver," Robert said, raising his voice just a little. He'd always had a voice that carried far, with a deep, reverberating bass that cut through everybody else in a room and caught people's attention.

Unslung from its hiding place, the baseball bat was held aloft for a dramatic moment, then Robert brought it down on one of the scanners, splintering plastic and crunching down through circuitry. He withdrew the bat then swung it sideways, sending the scanner spinning across the shop floor, accompanied by surprised cries from shoppers. Two steps to his left was the enormous window looking out to the street. He raised the bat to his shoulder and whipped it forwards, cracking the glass. Another swing and the crack spread wider but still the glass did not shatter. He swung again. More cracks, but the window held.

A voice emanated from somewhere above. "Cease your activity immediately. Your identity has been logged and you will be arrested soon. Behaving will help to minimise your sentencing."

Robert stared at the window. Later that night, when he thought back, he couldn't recall for how long he'd stood there. It could have been momentary or twenty minutes, baseball bat limp at his side, for all he could remember.

"Jobs for humans!" shouted Liz, a dark haired woman in her early thirties, snapping him from his reverie. She'd trained to be a airline pilot, back when they still used pilots. She gripped his shoulder and he turned to find her eyes, red with anger and vivid purpose. She darted out into the street to find her next target.

He strode out of the clothes store just as a car pulled up at the curb to collect one of the terrified customers. It sat there, patiently waiting for its passenger to get close. There was a noise from the store and running, faltering footsteps as a woman in an expensive, long, pink dress and impractical heels stumbled out, clutching at a bag and doing her best to ignore them.

"Robot whore!" shouted David - he'd trained to be a journalist - as the woman tottered past. He shifted his cricket bat from one hand to another and the woman flinched.

David looked over at Robert.

Robert shook his head once. "No humans."

The cab slid open its side door to accept the woman. Robert moved forwards and leaned in, holding the door with one arm.

"Thank you, thank you," she repeated senselessly.

"I didn't say anything about your ride," Robert said, releasing the door then stepping around the front of the vehicle. He laid into the front, smashing the lights, battering the bonnet until it was a concave V, stabbing the nail-encrusted bat into the tyres over and over again, then moving around the side and destroying the doors, smashing the shatter-proof windows, knocking the taxi sign from the roof and systematically deconstructing it where it lay on the floor. Robert attacked the car, revenge seeping out of his aching muscles, the blood of his father and his father's father leaking from his knuckles.

There was a low electronic hum and the crunch of tyres on asphalt.

An identical car pulled up alongside the first. It's door slid open.

"Apologies for the inconvenience," the car said, "your replacement vehicle has now arrived."

The woman kicked out the remains of the far door and staggered into the gleaming replacement. As the door slid shut Robert glimpsed the woman's face for a moment, full of accusation and pity and despicable loathing.

With a barely audible whirring the car moved off. Robert wandered out into the street and watched it go, accelerating down the street before turning at a junction and disappearing from his sight.