The Numbered
by Anton Gillis-Adelman
Callie
October 1, 2082: I walk into Denver International Airport with my ventilator rolling behind, and see a television broadcasting the birth of the 11 billionth person on earth. My Personalized Information System updates me on the news:
Personalized Information System:
Hello, Callie. You might not know that this birth marks the peak of population. The limit. Cities have been built as high as they can, resources and society can’t support another human being, but for the first time in history, population remains steady. You can thank the government scientists for that. You can thank them for the chip in your brain that connects you to The Aether -- the online system that you link to through your brain. The Aether allows you to order a self-driving taxi with your mind, undergo an in-home medical scan and take part in The Cleanse Mission.
As Chido Harring, Head Government Scientist and Chief Executor of The Cleanse Mission said, “For the bettering of our nation, The Cleanse Mission eliminates ten million people on the first of every month based on an intricately designed algorithm, which ranks people from one to 11 billion. It accounts for age, health, cost of living, benefit to society and the number of people affected by the death.”
Or so you’re told.
Callie
The airport is huge, with stations for robots to give coffees and bagels, and floor to ceiling windows lining the entire building, making the place a giant terrarium. A man in a purple, silk suit walks by. I flick my eyes, checking his rank, which appears above his head: 125,100,340; only nine digits, impressive. It makes me think about my rank currently at 10,950,058,660. It’s better that I don’t think about it. My dad (ranked 9,190,768,043) hustles up beside me, wheeling his small suitcase.
“Cal, this way,” he says, pointing to the American Airlines gate -- one of the oldest and cheapest airlines.
“Washington, here we come,” I say.
We walk over to the short line and I take off my hat, revealing my bald head, and prepare to take out the chip. A security guard made of shiny metal motions for us to come to its scanner, and we walk over to it, my dad leading the way.
“Please remove your chip and place it in the indicated slot,” the guard states.
Personalized Information System:
Callie, remember that the implant and chip were invented by Chido Harring in 2031. They were slowly implemented into society, until it became illegal not to have the surgery to wire them to your brain. Of course, there are some people that couldn’t get an implant or chip. They were too old, sick, or poor when Chido Harring created them to be prioritized for the surgeries. Then there were the few that refused to follow the system. They now govern themselves and run their own lives completely off The Aether. Chido Harring doesn’t include them in the 11 billion. As you know, anyone can easily remove the chip. It gets replaced when you’re upgraded or malfunction. The implant, in contrast, is a separate entity, fused with your brain from birth. It stays there. Forever.
Callie
It always makes me nervous to remove the chip. When it’s out, my brain will become non-functional, and I’ll essentially be an enslaved robot until it’s inserted back in. My dad moves to do it for me, but I stop his hand.
“I can do it, Dad,” I say, “I’m a teenager now.”
“Okay, Cal.”
I reach my hand to the spot just above the back of my neck and push down. Everything blurs and it feels like my mind fills with lead.
When my brain reboots, I’m standing on the other side of the guard, and I wait a second for the world to clear of static. My dad is still getting his chip scanned. He stands there, his eyes clouded. The guard tells him to take three steps forward and he obliges, without hesitation. Once my dad is back online, we start towards our gate, which is marked with a large, glowing “Z” hologram.
A woman walks towards us and gives me a pitying glance, but I avoid eye contact; she must have checked my rank. I sit down, looking around at the people waiting. A young woman sips from a tall metal cup, an older man is having a conversation with a holographic person only he can see, and everyone else is surfing The Aether, their eyes glazed over and clouded with white.
Before checking, I know they all have low ranks, their class division is obvious from their clothes and faces. I look around at other gates and see him; a man with a rare golden “0” flickering over his head, signifying that he’s an Untouchable.
Personalized Information System:
Untouchables are those who have benefitted society so greatly they are made immune to elimination from The Cleanse Mission. In theory, this should have incentivized people to make an impact on society, but all it did was protect those in power. Racism, corruption and greed are amplified to their greatest extents since 2021. You’re lucky you weren’t alive back then, Callie.
Callie
He's an old, pale man and he sits reading a magazine, lounging in one of the leather chairs in Gate A. His shoes lie a couple feet away, and he slowly massages the sole of his left foot as people flow around him.
“Cal, where are you going?” my dad calls out.
“Just give me a minute,” I say, walking slowly towards the man, who notices me.
“Why, hello there, young lady,” he says, lowering his magazine.
“You’re an Untouchable,” I say.
“Yes, that I am, but you can call me Peter,” he chuckles, “and what’s your name?”
“Callie,” I say. I stand there silent for a second. “Why don’t you read that magazine through The Aether?”
“I can’t.” He stares calmly at me. “I don’t have an implant or chip like you.”
“Oh. Isn’t that, like, illegal?”
“No, no. Untouchables don’t need to follow all the protocol. We get special passes, which I’m sure you get for your illness.” He motions to my ventilator. “You think I’m crazy, but I prefer an old-school lifestyle.”
“That’s not crazy,” I say. “Sometimes I think everything would be easier if that’s what I had.”
Personalized Information System:
Peter killed 14 generals in the war of 2038. He is considered a war hero and became an Untouchable, which gave him the option of getting an implant surgery.
Callie
When we get to Washington, we immediately head to our Temporary Living Centre (TLC). Inside, there’s a washroom, two sleeping pods, a couple chairs and a small chandelier dangling from the low ceiling. I fall asleep thinking about my cancer, which wouldn’t be a threat to my life if I was an Untouchable. I think about Peter, who said I get special passes because of my illness. He was probably referring to the government programs that don’t work.
October 2: My first day at the lab. Our taxi pulls up in front of a shiny, blue building, and I sit for a minute, staring at the “CHIDO HARRING LAB” sign above the entrance. We’re in government scientist territory.
“You ready?” my dad asks, looking at me the way he always does: like nothing else matters. I take a deep breath and nod.
Dr. Endon (ranked 1,745,008,940) is a kind, pudgy-faced man wearing small glasses and a khaki suit underneath his white coat. He’s been helping me, even though he’s a specialized government doctor, working closely with government scientists.
“Take a seat over here,” he says after greeting me. I sit in a blue hospital chair and my dad, beside me, taps his foot rapidly.
“Over the next few weeks, we’ll work together to get Callie where she needs to be,” Dr. Endon says, smiling. “I’ve worked with hundreds of patients just like you and 98% of them are leading happy lives. Their ranks are high and they’re safe from elimination.”
Personalized Information System:
Every month, 0.00091% of the population is eliminated, but that number changes based on your demographic. People who are Black, Middle Eastern or Asian have an elimination rate of 0.00096%; criminals face a rate of 0.0045%; and unfortunately, Callie, the fatally ill now suffer a rate of 0.0089%, which is the highest rate among all demographic.
Callie
In the first week, Dr. Endon hands me forms to fill out and I answer personal questions about my social life and career path; one question states: “How many friends do you have?”
“Do I only count the ones now or like all the friends I had before I dropped out of school?” I ask.
“I hate those questions,” Dr. Endon says. “Screw the system, write 100!”
I smile. Dr. Endon is rare.
October 8: I begin The Sterling Assessment.
Personalized Information System:
The Sterling Assessment is an advanced health test that determines the future of your illness or disease. Doctors gather data through special testing and you’re given a grade once they’re done. The assessment was invented as a way of more accurately ranking sick people and, if you pass it, it can significantly increase your rank. Callie, you’ll know everything you need to know about your lung cancer.
Callie
In the following two weeks, I take dozens of tests and examinations for The Sterling Assessment, but my rank doesn’t improve.
“Now, it’s going to get bad before it gets better,” Dr. Endon tells me, “but once your assessment grade is calculated, your rank will skyrocket.”
October 29: The night before we receive my grade. My dad and I lie in our pods. I stare at the jagged, glass edges of our small chandelier as they glint in the moonlight and try not to think about how my rank has crept towards the number that will kill me: 10,990,000,000.
“Don’t you think Dr. Endon was nervous today?” I ask.
“It’s only natural,” my dad says. “You’re getting important results tomorrow.”
“What will we do if I fail?”
“Cal, the likelihood is --”
“It’s possible!”
October 30: I hear the words, but they don’t compute. Dr. Endon removes his glasses to rub his eyes. My dad cries. I feel numb.
“As you both know, this will mean a drastic drop in Callie’s rank,” Dr. Endon says. “But there’s an upgrade I can give you, which I’ve given a couple of times before.”
Dr. Endon explains his plan, which involves a special surgery that could physically change my rank. At most, it would hold a couple days, but would be enough to get me through the November 1st elimination safely.
Personalized Information System:
Hundreds of people attempt to tamper with their rank every month, but as the system gets closer to airtight it becomes harder to manipulate. Callie, Dr. Endon’s plan will break several laws, some with punishments of life imprisonment or death.
Callie
October 31: Operation day. Dr. Endon is ready for us when we arrive.
“This way, and quickly,” he says, leading me to an operating room on the other side of the lab. My dad and I walk behind. As his shoes click on the hard floor, Dr. Endon explains exactly what I’m to do once the operation ends: “Fill in your sign out sheet, check your rank and don’t interact with anyone, especially those in the lab.”
We follow him through a couple of doors, until we arrive at a small room. Dr. Endon locks the door. I lie on a thin, white table and Dr. Endon moves swiftly: he grabs pieces of equipment and starts a computer. I wonder if he’s scared.
“Callie, are you ready?” Dr. Endon says, “Once you remove your chip, the rest should take 45 minutes.”
“Okay, do it.” I close my eyes and touch the familiar spot on the back of my neck.
Personalized Information System:
While in an extended state of non-functioning, your brain can pick up dream-like memories once you’ve re-inserted your implant chip. Callie, most of your memories will be sounds, but certain images can be recalled if your eyes were turned to the subject of the memory.
Callie
Something happened. I jolt awake and look around the room; no one is here, and the door is wide open. I check my rank and almost puke; 10,992,400,705, I’m in the elimination zone. Memories start coming to me: “We caught you this time you seditious prick,” and, “Callie, wake yourself up.” An image comes to me of two government scientists dragging my dad and Dr. Endon out of the room. I run, leaving my ventilator behind.
I crash through the front doors of the hospital. It’s dark outside. A government scientist is 20 yards to my left. I bolt straight ahead, but he sees and starts chasing me. He tackles me to the ground and I claw at him, thrashing around, but he bearhugs me and squeezes the breath out of my lungs.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” he says.
I reach for his neck.
“A-anywhere else,” I stammer.
I push down hard on his implant chip and his brain shuts off. I sprint down streets, up alleys and through parks, until I reach our TLC. I’m wheezing now, and coughing, but I stumble into the small place where we lived in the past month.
No Dad -- he’s completely off The Aether. I try to contact Dr. Endon, but he’s offline, too. I lie on the floor and cry. It’s 9:00 pm: only three hours until the government eliminates me. Fifty years ago, numbers were worn on the backs of criminal’s shirts. During the holocaust, they were tattooed on innocent arms. Now they’re implanted in babies’ brains. I start screaming.
“You can’t just kill me!” I sob. “You can’t just delete --”
Then I spot the chandelier. I grab one of its glass arms, crack it off and stagger into the bathroom. I stare at my reflection. She stares back. Bravery I’ve never seen before glows in her eyes. She raises the shard to the back of my head.
Personalized Information System:
Callie, I’m required to inform you of the potential risks you are about to take. You don’t have to do this. Your rank could change in the next few hours. This act could result in –
Callie
The metal drives into my skull and I screech, but push deeper until I feel the implant start to release. I’m on the ground now, prying out portions of implant and chip from my brain. Then I feel it leave.
My mind empties and tears stream down my face and pool with the blood on the bathmat. I’m free. No more Aether, no more Personalized Information System, no more rank. No more number dictating my worth.
***
November 1: No more me.