If Then by Matthew De Abaitua

Agnes, if you really wanted to?”
    “Could you, when you are swimming underwater, force yourself not to surface for air? Yes, in theory. But in practice, you give in to instinct for an instant, and then you are on the surface, gasping.”
    “It’s very Old Testament. The sacrifice of the innocents. I wonder if we are being tested like Abraham with Isaac?”
    “Alex Drown says that we must be wary of projecting our old ways of thinking upon the Process. It is not God. It is not our father. It is not government.”
    She got out of bed. She wore a long flannel nightie and her dark hair was tied up so that he could see the discoloration of the stripe at the top of her spine.
    “I wish I could argue with someone about this. With you.”
    “We’re not responsible for this, Ruth. We can only be human, and try to survive.”
    In the living room, the grime on the windows softened the morning light. Hector was waiting for them at the dining table. James inquired if he slept well. No answer. They ate porridge together, and the elevation of his blood sugar alleviated his physiological cravings for the armour.
    On the table, James spread out a map of the town marked with the locations of the houses of the twelve evicted. In preparation, he had visited each of them to gauge their resistance. Most assured him that they were resigned to their fate and would be joining the procession. But Francis Sacks was going to be trouble. The Von Pallandts had never forgiven Sacks and his family for their takeover of the allotments in the early days. No doubt Sacks had plans for his eviction. Hiding places. Ambushes. Homemade explosives and hostages.
    He was restless to go out but it was not safe for him to do so. Not without his private armour. Something nasty might be planned for him. A knife in the back at the market stall. The carnival atmosphere of the day encouraged people to behave as if their actions had no consequences. Alex, travelling into town over the Downs, would have to take precautions too.
    “Do you feel it?” he asked Hector. “The anticipation. The fear.”
    Hector ate porridge methodically, silently.
    His cravings for the armour came in waves; the peaks tightened his throat and made him feel like he was not inhaling enough oxygen, and in the troughs he was weak with relief. The implant was a silvery presence at the back of his mind.
    Ruth put her hand on his wrist and stopped him from scratching at the portal.
    “Oh Ruth. Is it always like this? I’d forgotten. Why do I always forget?”
    “Try to remember what it was like before you were the bailiff,” she whispered.
    His old self had been deluded and self-important, and then he had been redundant. A greasy cautious silence met his pleas for work. Everyone could see the collapse coming but no one spoke of it. The truth was considered to be pollution. The economy exhausted its most vital commodity: the future.
    No, he would not remember it.
    The Process took care of him now. His craving peaked again.
    “This addiction to the armour is cruel,” said Ruth.
    “I could ask Alex to cut the implant out of me.”
    A look of fear crossed Ruth’s face.
    “You said that I’m evil.” He looked to her to tell him how to behave, how to be comfortable among people. His upbringing had been deficient in socialization. He had been son to a mother who hated men, and he had never known his father. When he was informed that his mother was dead, over the phone, by an estranged sister, Ruth had to persuade him to attend the funeral. Without social instincts, he relied on systems to tell him how to behave.
    “It might be evil,” admitted Ruth. “Or it may serve a greater good. How are we to know?”
    He needed her because he was incapable of acting according to a moral sense. His pragmatism was, in turn, a quality she relied upon. If James refused to perform the evictions, the implant could override him anyway, and they would lose everything for nothing. Like last time. But to cast