Flash Mob by Francis Coal

This is a companion piece to Synthia, the story with which Francis Coal won the SFI Short Story Competition. You can find Synthia in the June 2026 SFI E-Zine:

SFI E-Zine Issue 1

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It was rush hour. Johnson sat on the crowded subway train, packed with commuters. It was hot, noisy, claustrophobic. Every inch was filled with bodies, on seats, if they were lucky, holding onto rails and handles, swaying to the staccato of the train tracks. Some read off phones or stared into space, minding their own business. A pair of older men talked. He couldn't hear their words, but instead tried to deduce their conversation from gestures and facial expressions, just to pass the time.

Older, he thought. They probably weren't that much older than him.

He was dressed in a nondescript fashion, hat, glasses. He'd applied subtle make up to mess with the facial recognition systems that were endemic on the transport network. It wasn't foolproof, they'd get, maybe, a forty percent match, but it would render most footage as inadmissible. Hopefully. He drew his attention away from the old guys scanned the faces of the people around him. It was hard to tell the robots at a glance these days. Most of them, probably. He hated them. Johnson had been one of these commuters once, not even thirty years ago, riding the subway every day to get to the hospital were he worked. He'd been Dr. Johnson then, of course. He'd worked his ass off at Med school, two other jobs to pay the bills. He hadn't been qualified five years when the hospital had laid him off. The AI, with its slaved robots was simply better, by any metric you measured it by. There had been a great deal of sympathy from the loan company Customer Service Representative, of course, but no forgiveness of the considerable debt that his studies had landed him with, and scant opportunities to earn a living in his field of surgical speciality. In the end he ended up in a “Planned Parenthood” clinic, in the poorest part of the city. It was soul destroying, seeing all those sad, desperate women and girls, every day, forced, by circumstances, to go against the very primordial instincts of every animal.

The death threats didn't help, either. He was lucky though. The day a nail-bomb blew out the shopfront, mincing the soft bodied humans within, he was on a day off. The five staff and two patients, and their unborn cargo, who were in the building at the time, weren't so lucky. Pro-Life my ass! Try as he might, though, Johnson couldn't escape the irony that two of the victims had been saved thanks to a Robo-Doc. He walked away from medicine after that, his heart just wasn't in it. His partner left. They weren't married or anything, but he thought they had something! He couldn't blame them though. I mean, credit wise he was the walking dead. He took any job he could find, only ever a few steps ahead of the slowly advancing wave of automation that was spreading across society, like mould on a bruised peach.

The train came to a drawn-out, shuddering halt mid tunnel. The lights flickered and died for a long second lighting up faces with screen glow, but came back on again. The automated message, apologising for the inconvenience, was met with an audible sigh of frustrated resignation, identifying the humans in Johnson's vicinity. The old guys tutted and rolled their eyes. In the stifling silence a tinny rattle of music emanated from the ear of his gently nodding neighbour. It was hot, the sweat pooling on his chest and armpits. He'd known hotter though.

Ten years after the bomb he was working tech support on a corporate farm in some God forsaken piece of prairie, he didn't even know where, maintaining the various robots that tilled and fertilised, sowed and hoed, watered and harvested ten thousand tons of corn per annum. It was him and three others. The best part was, it was the same corporation that owned his college debt. Once the payments began to dry up they made him “an offer he couldn't refuse”. Technically it wasn't slavery, but the way it worked, he'd never clear the debt, and without the overtime, the debt actually increased, what with food and accommodation and whatnot. And that was it, for the rest of his productive life. And after that? Re-cyce, probably. Or so he presumed.

"Johnson, come in Johnson...sqyeerch." He was twelve miles out, replacing the optics on a damaged weeder drone, in the hot sun, sweat rolling down his face, stinging his eyes. He pressed the tiny stud on the ear piece. “Go on, Vasquez." "We got three weeders down in sector five. Go take a look...sqyeerch" "Three?" "What, did I stutter?! sqyeerch." Vasquez could be a prick. "Okay. I'll go take a look." You prick! Johnson installed the optic under the unforgiving sun, packed up the tools and drove the truck to the first grid reference. After a brief search he isolated the malfunction. The drone was smashed to pieces. "What the fuck!?"

He raised his hand to his ear, to call it in, when a gunman emerged from the field of half grown corn, clothed in field stained army fatigues, boonie hat, light pack, armed with a rifle...Neo-Ludds. The terrorist pointed his rifle at Johnson. "Don't touch that dial, Company Man!" Johnson put his hands up, scared, his heart going like the clappers. The staff chat was hot with these guys. Going around, smashing machines, beating up technicians. "I surrender!" he called out. Three more insurgents, similarly armed and equipped, appeared from the shimmering field of green stalks. "Relax, Human. We're on your side."

The second insurgent walked up to him and took the ear piece from his head, making Johnson flinch. "Hand over your device." He held out his hand expectantly. Johnson didn't need to be asked twice."You a Credit Slave?" the first one asked. Johnson nodded. "Fuck them!" the insurgent spat. He smiled. Yeah! he thought. Fuck them! The second man dropped the head set and tablet onto the ground stamped and ground the plastic and glass into the dirt. As he made sure the tech was smashed beyond repair or recovery he gestured with a downward fan of his free hand for Johnson to lower his up stretched arms.

"Look brother, we're going to smash all the bots we can find. You have three options. You can get out the way, get smashed, or...get on board!" He held out his hand for Johnson to shake, met Johnson's eyes with his own. “The Company don't give a damn about you Bro.” He looked at the proffered hand, met the other man's gaze, thought to himself, Well? What have I got to lose? then took the rebel's hand. Johnson felt a wave of relief and excitement flood through him, and he smiled despite himself. "I'm Spot. That's Amadeus." Spot nodded towards the first gunman. "Sup, my brother?" a kid in his early twenties, maybe, cocky. He nodded a greeting. "I'm Johnson."

"Yeah? Well, we'll work on that, Johnson the Human." Spot smiled. "Princess and French Fries." He nodded at the other two. They nodded back, smiled, then Princess was distracted by her device. "Flyer coming in, T minus 30." "That'll be my pard. Get in the truck, I'll get rid of her," Johnson offered. An exchange of glances between the four settled it, and they climbed into the Company truck. Johnson took off his cap to wipe his sweaty forehead, listening for the shrill buzz of the drone. Adrenaline coursed through his blood. He breathed in deep slow breaths through his nose, out through his mouth, closed his eyes. His legs felt weak, like he wanted to run away as fast as he could.

The drone came in, fast and loud, hovering a couple of meters above the ground swishing the green corn leaves in waves. In rudimentary sign language he informed Vasquez his coms were down and he was coming back in. The drone regarded him through glass eyes for a brief, indifferent moment, then shot off towards its next task, leaving Johnson amidst the soft silence of the army of gently rustling corn tops. It felt peaceful. Once the drone had disappeared from view he went back to the truck. Spot rolled down the window, nodded a grin at Johnson. "Can I go back and get my gear?" he asked Spot. There were pics, some other keep sakes he valued. "Sure, dude. In fact, get us in to the command centre and we could cause extreme mayhem! You feel me? How many others are there?"

"Just the four of us. Vasquez might even join up, though I warn you, she can be an asshole." "What kind of security they got?" "A couple of tracked tazer drones. Nothing too heavy." "And any of your colleagues..." "Ex colleagues," Johnson corrected. "Yeah, boy!" Amadeus cheered from the passenger seat. Spot continued, "Any of your ex-colleagues likely to put up a fight?" "Nah," he replied. They were all just trying to get by, just like him, and none of them had ever shown any great feelings of loyalty to a Company that had essentially claimed ownership over them."Well, then, Johnson the Human, let's go and put some sand in some gears then, shall we?"

Spot opened the drivers door and scootched over to allow Johnson to get into the driver's seat and they set off. The drive back to the compound was a cheerful affair, almost giddy. Johnson's new friends joked around, asked him where he was from, what he used to do. He smiled ruefully. "MD." "No fuckin' way!" Amadeus protested. "Hey, doc, I got this rash..." Princess said in mock coquettishness, batting her lashes, initiating a round of bawdy banter from the crew. "There we have it, folks. Johnson the Human died today. May he Rest in Peace." Spot genuflected, “But see! Doc! was born from his ashes, like a Phoenix!" "Amen!" "Praise the Lord!" The crew cheered.

Johnson hadn't felt this good for years, maybe ever! He wanted to laugh, and cry at the same time, with relief and hope and regret and guilt. The truck drove on down the dusty road and eventually approached the compound perimeter. "Duck down." Johnson advised, "Then, when we get inside the facility, stay in the truck. I'll disable the CCTV, talk to Vasquez. The other two will be asleep."

They drove in through the automatic gate and pulled up outside the command centre. Johnson opened the truck door and went to get out when spot grasped his shoulder. "I'm going to trust you, Doc," the Neo-Ludd said, eye suddenly cold, "but if you're not back in five, we'll be coming to find you." Spot held his gaze, Johnson didn't have any doubt about the man's intent."Give me ten," he replied. "Like I said, Vasquez can be a pain."

"I've got a good feeling about you, Doc." Spot smiled, braking the grim spell. Johnson smiled back nervously, "See you in ten." He got out of the truck and walked towards the ops centre, running through the sequence of controls in his head that he'd need to disengage the security protocols, rehearsed what he'd say to Vasquez to stop her flipping out. He opened the entrance door and wended his way to the main operations room. Vasquez was sat in the hot seat, manipulating the vid feed on a monitor. She heard him enter, glanced over her shoulder."What's going on, Johnson?" He went to a vacant station, logged in and began shutting down the security net.

“You know, nothing much,” he typed and moused quickly, navigating the system."What the fuck..." She protested when warning messages started popping on her screen."Listen Vasquez, I'm splitting. I'm getting my stuff and taking a truck and heading off." She swivelled in the cheap office chair. "What the fuck you talkin' about, Homes?"

"There's some guys in the truck, 'Ludds, they've come to fuck things up." Vasquez looked at him, brows knitted in confusion. "Are you serious, Johnson?" "Johnson's dead. I'm Doc. And yeah, I'm totally serious." He replied and continued the shutdown procedures. As Spot's timer approached eight minutes, Johnson appeared at the door and waved them in. They came in tactical, cautious, checking every room, guns at the ready, taking no chances. They entered Ops. "Holy shit, Johnson!"

Vasquez involuntarily put her hands up, "You weren't tripping!" "Stand down, sister." Amadeus gestured with his rifle for Vasquez to vacate the hot seat and French Fries sat down and started hacking into the system, installing viruses that would render most of the hardware permanently inoperable. Before long the hazard symbols were flashing all over the map until at last the screen itself flickered and then died." How long before the Company takes notice?" Spot asked.

"Twenty four hours," Vasquez replied, "but we'll be long gone by then." "You in, Vasquez?" Spot smiled, regarding her quizzically through narrowed eyes. "Damn straight! Ain't got no future here, son! And, I for one, don't want to be around when those pricks from Company Security turn up."

"Outstanding!" Amadeus offered a hand to Vasquez and they slapped out a high five, on the side. "The other two won't be up for a few hours. I say we get some chow, make some plans." She declared. The other two woke up on schedule. They took the new state of affairs as well as could be expected. Kerchansky signed up to the Revolution with a simple, "Whatever." Godwin declined. "I got kids, Man, responsibilities." "I respect that, Bro." Spot nodded. The team, and their new recruits made ready to leave, loading Company supplies into the truck.

"You gotta work me over, Bro," Godwin pleaded." There'll be consequences for me if Security turn up and I ain't bruised up." Spot nodded grimly. He knew Godwin was right. "Make it look good, man!" Goodwin implored with grim countenance. They beat him up pretty good, left him duct-taped to his bed. He'd have plausible deniability at least and, the way Godwin figured it, if he died at least his kids would get the insurance.

The train jerked back into motion, to a sigh of relative relief. It built up noise and speed towards its next stop and Johnson's final destination. That was ten years ago now. He was in his fifties, looking old, grey. He thought back to those early days, the highs and the lows. Spot blew himself up. It was a botched data-centre sab. God rest his soul. He was a fine man. Amadeus eventually got cornered by some Dogs one day. Went out in a blaze of glory. Princess is running her own crew these days, out West, fighting the good fight. French Fries sold out, turned rat. Fuck him! Kerchansky got arrested and is currently doing hard time on a prison farm. She never sold them out though, even though it would have gone easier on her. The way she figured it, she was no worse off now than when she started, it was just a different type of prison, and, by God, she had had some fun. Johnson never found out what happened to Godwin. He liked to believe the man ended up with his kids.

But he doubted it. Happy endings were an endangered species these days. The train began to brake in preparation for its arrival at the next station. Johnson got up and began to navigate, through the press of bodies, closer to the doors. The robots had changed, as well, in that short span of time. None of those dumb, clunking automata. Lifelike androids, that could think, had become the norm. They could move and behave like a human. It could take several minutes of casual conversation to realise they weren't even real. They could do any job a human could do but better, more efficiently, more precisely, without the myriad "problems" that came along with a human employee. The train pulled to a stop, relatively smooth, halted and the doors parted.

Johnson flowed along the pipes and tubes of the underworld with the ebb and flow of commuters, trying to keep his movements random, yet, not too random as to alert the surveillance algorithms of a potential anomaly. It was an art. But it was evening so the tidal flow of the commute inevitably regurgitated Johnson, and his fellow jetsam, washing them adrift upon the street above. It was a run down part of town, left behind by this Brave New World. Cheap tenements mostly, housing the people that scratched a living on the lower rungs of society. The streets were famished, supporting only the hardiest of private enterprise, the things that people couldn't do without. Sex, drugs, gambling, cheap calories and cheaper protein. For all it's existential horror, Skid Row was also a place of relative safety, where the Resistance could operate beyond the pale of the Regime, and a place chock-full of folk desperate enough, and disenchanted enough, to provide them aid and comfort.

He made his way, with the dwindling throng, through the rubbish strewn street, amongst the street people and pan handlers, the rats and the flies, and came, by circuitous rout, to a nowhere bar, down some nowhere back street. He approached the bouncer on the door. "Does this bar serve real ale?" he said casually. Had the kid said, "Only domestic beer served here, Buddy." It would mean the location was compromised, bug out! But he said, "Yes, sir, only the best beers from around the world served here!"

He nodded thanks and walked in through the chipped and weathered steel doors, took in the stale air, looked around. "You look like shit!" Johnson smiled and walked over to the heckler. "Fuck you, Vasquez!" "We tried that, remember?" Johnson smiled, blushing wistfully. They chewed the fat for a while, until more people entered the bar and, before too long, the whole operation was assembled. It was the last briefing before the upcoming action. A property damage operation. No, not just any Smash, the biggest Smash anyone had tried in years! The plan was simple in its complexity. Close down a mall uptown, set off EMPs, fry the circuits of all the robots in the area. Then in a flagrant act of pantomime they'd go at them with hammers, graffiti up the place real good, then disappear before the cops turned up.

Just thinking about it made him smile, setting his belly aflutter. Johnson was coordinating the action, Vasquez running security. It was non-violent, of course, but there was always someone who got a bit carried away, or some bot owner ready to protect their property, tooth and nail. Sully was Arts. His crew would be handling the redecorating. "Here, clear the table," Sully said, reaching for a large portfolio case. He took out drawings of the mall, covered in designs and slogans, stencilled images, from every conceivable angle, enthused about colour schemes and imagery. It was going to look great on the news. Sully had done several Art Attacks but this one could be his Magnum Opus.

The art was replaced with floor plans of the target. For the last time each squad leader talked through their part in the mission, where they'd be, when they'd be there, what they'd do when they got there. Contingencies were listed, escape routes identified. The Op was tight, down to the minute, the guys were on top of it. Johnson interrupted from time to time, throwing in curve-balls. They rolled with the punches, coming up with workable solutions. Johnson smiled. They were ready. "Good work." His eyes met each member of the crew, one by one. "Remember, the first whistle is your three-minute warning, the second is bug out, no matter what. If everyone does their job, this will go down smooth, no one gets hurt, no one gets arrested." He paused for effect. "Now, last but not least, Miriam, what have you got for us?"

The woman rose and, as the schematics and plans were removed, stooped to reach under the table. She placed a good-sized pack on the stained and scuffed surface and undid the clips and toggles, then removed something, held it aloft for all to see. Set inside a plastic bag, like some grim safari trophy, stared an empty-eyed full-head monkey mask. She ripped the seal on the bag and tossed the hollow, rubberised head on the table. As it was passed round and examined, Miriam went on."Ten minutes after it's exposed to air it will begin to disintegrate, destroying any DNA. Tell your people not to fuck around with them until T minus 5, they only get one each." She took another item from her bag, gently placing a sturdy flight case, slightly smaller than a shoe box, on the table. Deftly she unclipped the catches and opened the dull silver lid. Inside was a large battery, adorned with electronics, switches, displays and the like.

She lifted it from its protective foam nest, it looked heavy, and placed it gently on the table with a solid clump. From a second section of the foam padding she retrieved a large coil of copper wire and plugged it in to the device, then pressed a switch."This will generate a large EM pulse strong enough to fry any shielded circuits within three meters, and unshielded within twenty metres. It will also create a bright flash of light that will temporarily blind humans, so don't look at it when it goes off." Miriam smiled and a chuckle went round the table. She explained the controls, answered the few queries that arose. When it seemed that there were no more questions, she smiled.

"If there are no more questions, I suggest y'all close your eyes." Following the instructions that she had previously issued, she armed and detonated the weapon. The afterglow faded from Johnson's eyes, he blinked and rose to his feet. "Thanks Miriam, I think." His vision cleared and he waited as the woman removed the burnt-out device from the table and stowed it back in her pack, secretly relieved that non of his people were robot agents. "So, all there is to do now is synchronise watches."

He pulled up his sleeve and began to adjust the analogue timepiece on his wrist. The others followed suit. He watched the second hand spin on its axis: "Six forty-five in five, four, three, two, one, check." He looked up with an eager smile, gestured to the old-timer behind the bar. "Let's keep it tight people, peaceful, and let's put on a good show." The barkeep distributed filled glasses around the table. Johnson took one, held it aloft. "To humanity. Smash the Machine!" he toasted. "Smash the Machine!" his people toasted back.

On the table top the monkey mask began to disintegrate, like a time-lapse reel of some decaying cadaver. The crew hung around for a while, drinking, catching up. It could be the last they saw of each other for a while, but before long they dispersed, leaving the bar empty but for Johnson, Vasquez and the barkeep. The three sat together, taking one last drink before they went their separate ways. "I still think it's a mistake for you to be on site," Vasquez said. "If the Feds catch you, you'll be for the high jump."

"It's a risk I've got to take, show the troops we're all in the same boat." "Damn straight," the barman chimed in. "And besides," he went on, "you've got my back." He smiled at his friend and comrade. She smiled back, then picked up her glass and drained the amber contents. After standing and putting on her street coat, she nodded to the barkeep."Later, Charlie." The old-timer nodded back, touched his temple in salute. "See you tomorrow, Doc, don't be late." And without further ado she turned and left the bar. He chatted to Charlie for a while, trying somehow to keep this perfect moment alive as long as he could.

"I'd better get lost, too," Johnson accepted at last. He drained his own drink and left the bar. Outside, the kid on security was waiting patiently. A light rain had started, forcing the kid into the shelter of a boarded-up shop doorway. "Thanks, kid." Johnson nodded to the doorman, then disappeared into the soft yellow glow of the city night.

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