By Robert Howling

Sam’s medbrace tightened around his wrist, the gentle squeeze drawing his attention to the readout. Normally, it displayed his vital stats — blood pressure, pulse, temperature, and skin moisture relative to the surrounding environment. Today, however, it displayed something far less routine: "Contact Universal Health Clinic Immediately."

A surge of irritation bubbled up. Another intrusion. Not that Sam could think of a life with less nannying — his medbrace, his toilet, even his shows were all part of it. Complaining without a solution seemed pointless, a road that ended in nihilism. So, he swallowed the annoyance and pressed the call button.

A cool, synthetic voice answered. “Sam 62842-1321?”

“Yes,” he replied, not bothering to mask his impatience. The numerical suffix was a necessity — there were plenty of Sams, many born on June 28, 2042. Time of birth ensured precision.

“The urinalyser in your toilet detected an anomaly. Did you notice the UR icon on your medbrace?”

Sam glanced at the device as though it might suddenly provide answers. “Uh, no. What does that mean?”

“Your presence is required at the clinic. Tomorrow at 10 a.m. sharp.”

He muttered a half-hearted acknowledgement and disconnected. The government’s health AI systems! Whatever government AI program was doing the medbrace analytics was pretty thorough. If Sam blushed during a conversation with a woman, the medbrace dismissed the elevated temperature as contextual. But his toilet? No room for error there. The anomaly had been logged, adjusted for hydration levels, and was enough to warrant a visit.

Sam tried to shake off the unease, summoning entertainment to distract himself. A voice command brought his medbrace’s holographic display to life, projecting 3D visuals into the air. Shows were easy to lose himself in — until mandatory viewing time began.

Soon, with a faint beep, the medbrace took over, overriding his program and launching into a government-mandated broadcast. Sam grimaced. The "shows" weren’t entertainment — they were indoctrination, veiled as public service announcements. He glanced around the room. His neighbors, crammed into the shared viewing area, sat slouched in resigned silence.

As the hologram droned on about new rules, Sam noticed a few of his neighbors’ medbraces jerking them upright, prodding them awake when sleep patterns registered. A thought crossed his mind: Freedom of Speech should be reconfigured to Freedom of Listening. The phrase lingered, bitterly amusing.

Then Sam scoffed — softly, but not softly enough. The brainwashing was getting ridiculous. A dry chuckle escaped him before he could stop it. Instinctively, he froze and scanned the room. No one seemed to notice, but that didn’t mean he was safe. Any one of them could report him for disrespecting the broadcast. Rewards for informants were tempting, a much-needed supplement to the meagre universal basic income.

His medbrace flashed. Several icons he didn’t recognise lit up in sequence. Had it recorded his reaction?

The rest of the broadcast passed in a haze of paranoia. Sam barely slept that night. By morning, the clinic appointment felt less like a health check and more like a summons.

At 10 a.m. sharp, Sam arrived at the clinic. He entered the sterile building and disappeared inside. 

He never made it back.

The neighbours noticed government vans pulling up hours later. Men in identical uniforms carried out boxes of Sam’s belongings, each labeled and sorted with machine-like efficiency. By evening, his apartment was spotless — erased, like Sam himself.

About the Author