‘Hi Dad’

 

“Oh hiya Paul. Didn't expect to see you today”

 

‘Well I was going to leave it till the weekend, but tempus fugit and all that…’

 

Simon could feel the tension in his son’s body, hear the slight dry quaking in his voice. He put down the polish and the cleaning cloth, pleased but irritated to leave the shining metal unfinished. “What's on your mind boy?”Boy? Paul was 40 years old and as silver greyed as his father. But yes, still his boy.

 

'It's just…’'It's that, it's that it's your Time’. They both paused.

 

“Ah you had me going then for a minute. Don't be, don't be daft ”. His own voice quaked too, then tapered away.

 

‘I’m serious Dad, I wasn't sure if you would have seen the update message.’

 

“Bloody update messages – they can stick em up their databased backsides. More than 30 of them some days now.”

 

'Shhh - be careful Dad, monitors are on in this location.’

 

“Whatever - as if someone is listening to little old me.” He shrugged, and gave a half-baked V sign towards the sky.

 

‘This was an important one Dad. The thing is. They’ve dropped the age boundary’.

 

“Dropped it to what? I've only had 3 years of my bloody pension”.

 

‘70’.

 

Of course he had seen the update message. He always read them, learned and embedded behaviour too ground in to erase. He'd just half decided to ignore it. “So what's the justification for that then? Some bees or bats on the verge of extinction again?”

 

‘Come on. You know the reasons. The Algoministry laid out the case years ago – you probably voted for it’.

 

“Let me stop you there – there was never a vote on it – it was a ‘deemed to satisfy’ approval – ironically based on a limited time response window. And let me tell you – time – or the lack of it - does colour your views – as I'm sure you will find.”

 

‘All the checks were done and have been done many times since – the latest evidence looks pretty clear – the world just can't support the aging population’.

 

“The Bloody Grey Flesh Mountain you mean – I’ve seen the Youth Party slogans- Ha - the ‘Give me your House’ party”.

 

Silence at such moments can seem interminable. Thoughts alone cannot provide comfort or deflect reality. Paul broke first. ‘Dad, look, there's no point in avoiding this. We need to make the arrangements. And by the way, they've changed the Passing-On rules as well – the value of your house will be re-allocated to the 4th great social fund. I won't 'get your house’ as you put it’.

 

For a minute or even longer, Simon found himself internally debating whether his imminent demise was more or less important than the state absorption of what he owned – the very thing, the only thing, that he had managed to make with his given years. “I’ll burn the flippin’ thing down before that happens”.

 

‘Oh great, so then I’ll be saddled with that as a lifetime state debt’

 

“Fight it then – stand up for yourself – we didn't raise you for 18 years to see you accept this nonsense”.

 

‘Dad, please don't talk like that.’ Paul heard the whine and shriek of the Guardian drone approaching. Simon heard it seconds later. ‘Dad – whatever you do don't make any sudden movements’.

 

“No, nothing sudden, I wouldn't want to rush – I’ll just take my time”. The Guardian drone spoke – a smooth voice of authority crafted from a hundred years of audio harvesting and bio-combination engineering. ‘Simon Evans – labour designation - Retired – an ‘at home’ level attitude and speech violation has been recorded. Furthermore - Durational Termination is imminent – discussion and adaptation period has been withdrawn - Proceed immediately to collation centre 41a’.

 

‘Dad. I’m so sorry – let me drive you’.

 

“No - it's fine boy”. Simon reached under the table and closed the smooth, worn, but shining barrels of the old shotgun. Despite his age, he was quicker than the tech-beast hovering above them. Seconds later the twitching wreckage lay bleeding in his vegetable patch.

 

‘Dad!, Dad! what have you done!’. Paul tried to grab him, to restrain him, but Paul was younger and softer – not like him. He easily pushed his sobbing son to the floor.

 

“Stay there boy”. Forty years wasted on that project he reflected. He re-loaded, and ended him in a second. It had taken many years to accumulate the many gallons of old-fuel that he had placed around his house – he of course had hoped that Paul would have displayed some resilience, or even given him some hope of normality – whatever that was.He laughed to himself as he lit his very last hidden and long preserved cigarette – dried out and useless – like himself - he mused, just as the back-up drone fleet cleared the ridge above him. The match he used flickered in his cupped hand as he walked through his front door for the last time, before throwing it onto the oil-soaked rags.

 

“Here’s your house boy – enjoy it”.

 

Colin Biggs © 2025