'I still can't believe you've wasted your credits on that! It's just.... just....stupid!'

She smiled at her husband's pained expression, enjoying teasing him, loving his passion for the surreal.

For one who dealt with cold hard facts, a working life of data streams and DNA, Stephen was an artist at heart…but she couldn't help teasing him about that awful old print he'd bought!

'La durée poignardé stupide? Wow!'

Stephen stood back from the print, put his arms around her shoulder and gently kissed her cheek.

'An old-fashioned train poking out of a wall? A very boring wall at that? I just don't see the appeal, even the candlesticks, the clock, the mirror…boring! And why put a bloody train coming out of a blocked-up fireplace? Nope, just don't see the appeal!'

'One day you'll see! See it with my eyes, it's just wonderful!'

He kissed her again, gently touching the cheek of the sleeping baby she cradled.

'But even Magritte couldn't produce anything as wonderful as her!'

'You're going to be late! Get out of here you big softy, her hand reached down and squeezed his bottom, 'While you can!' She added suggestively.

'No fair, gotta run!' He kissed the baby, kissed her, and shouted through the closing door, 'Enjoy the art!'

She stood looking at the bizarre image, shook her head, and was clearing up the breakfast dishes when there was a knock at the door.

'What have you forgotten?' She laughed, but it wasn't him at the door.

Instead, a middle-aged man pushed past her into the flat, flashing a badge. Four armed people followed him in.

'Melanie Shaw, I'm Agent Singh. Mrs Shaw, please sit, this won't take long.'

'Stephen? Has something happened, he's only just left for work, he's a Senior Tech, please tell me he's OK!'

Behind her, in the back bedroom, the baby began crying, Singh nodded towards the cries, 'It's not your husband we're here about, I'm sure he's fine.'

'I'm sorry, I just don't….'

She turned towards the bedroom, eager to comfort the baby, but was blocked by one of the armed men. She turned to Singh, shock and worry on her face, as her mind raced to process what was happening.

'Melanie Shaw, by the Authority of the Dishonesty, Deviance and Violence Laws, we have determined this subject to be capable of Violence Against Citizenry, and, as such, the child is to be sent for processing. You have one minute to hand the subject into our custody, or lethal force will be employed.'

Stephen arrived home to find two DDV staff at his apartment building's entrance.

He was taken to one side and politely, almost casually, told his family was dead.

The 180 results, his wife's attempts to protect the infant, Displaced Familial….

He zoned out as the officers droned on. His stomach turned to ice as it sank in. His family was dead.

His mind whirled with all the data he'd analysed that very day, all those numbers, percentiles on a screen in a sterile office, all those samples, anonymous swabs, inconsequential, just doing his job.

Someone like him has sat and done the same tests, inputted the same results. Oh Mother, (the thought hit him like a train), maybe he'd processed his own child's tests!

Stephen's mind shattered at that moment. He politely thanked the officers for their diligence, went up to the flat and packed a bag.

Sitting at the small workstation, Stephen noticed the blood splashes on the Magritte, as he logged into Society mainframe.

'The irony of everyday life!' He thought, typing in the codes that would erase all traces of Stephen Shaw from the system.

He'd need a new identity, just to survive in this data driven, electronically controlled world.

He looked at the print, chose the feminine version of the name in memory of his wife and daughter.

He hit enter and Stephen Shaw also died in that apartment that day.

Renée was born.

He vowed to do everything in his power to help others facing that dreadful 180 result. Damn the consequences, damn Society!

Freewayriding

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