Hovering over the scene, its engines purring with malevolent anticipation, the copter traced the feuding bands, labeling individuals, correlating data, locking onto targets. What was to the average individual a chaotic mess of screams and smoke bombs and blood, was, to the bloodless machine, no different than any other public display, processions and parades or even open rebellion and gang war, it was all just so many bodies moving about, so many faces to scan, so many paths to trace.
An agent, covered in his own filth, screamed through a thick beard his rehearsed lines. He was summarily marked, protocols and subprotocols sifting his data. The psuedo-schitzo raved in the midst of the pandemonium, riling up the crowd, filling the air with the meaningless noises called words that man made and that made man.
The machine counted, following the law closely, waiting to establish perfectly when the legal definition of “mob” would be reached. It tabulated and crunched. It tallied. It finally added one to one and got the number it needed.
The agent’s payment was in his bank account before the firebomb consumed him; he was a millionaire, albeit, one only for the amount of time a computer would find meaningful; as meaningful as any other number.
Psst! Hey kid, wanna buy a book?
Tale Told 