The Categorised

The neural implant in Mercer’s skull vibrated with the force of a drunken bee, signaling another cluster of potential detainees ahead. He winced as the PreCog’s prediction data downloaded directly into his frontal lobe, flooding his vision with probability matrices and red-tinted overlays marking his targets.

“We got four possibles in the cafe,” he muttered to Tessa, his partner at the Global Migration Prevention Authority. “Three oranges, one red.”

Tessa checked her wrist monitor. “That matches Central’s projection. The red’s your call, Inspector.”

Mercer hated the reds. Oranges were easy—90% probability of future illegal border crossing attempts. Slam-dunk cases, simple paperwork. Reds were the 99-percenters. The ones the AI was absolutely certain would try to flee their shithole countries someday, seeking asylum in the pristine safety of New America.

The cafe was typical Damascus—crowded, smoky, filled with people pretending the world hadn’t gone to shit. Mercer’s translator chip automatically converted the Arabic chatter to flat, mechanical English in his ear.

“—another sweep in Beirut yesterday—” “—my cousin disappeared three days ago—” “—they’re saying the camps are humane, but nobody ever comes back—”

Mercer’s augmented vision highlighted his targets in color-coded auras. The orange-glowing trio was a family—father, mother, teenage daughter. The blazing red target was a solitary man in his thirties, scratching equations onto a napkin, his coffee long cold.

“Professor Ahmed Nazari,” whispered the AI directly into Mercer’s auditory cortex. “Physicist. No previous migration attempts. Probability of future illegal border crossing: 99.87%. Temporal window: within 5 years. Risk factors: academic credentials valuable to competing nations, extensive international contacts, three publications critical of current regime.”

“But he hasn’t done anything,” Mercer thought back at the AI.

“Future crime is still crime,” replied the emotionless voice. “Prevention ensures security.”

Mercer approached the table, badge already hovering above his palm via micro-drone display. “Professor Nazari? Global Migration Prevention Authority. You’ve been categorized as a Class One flight risk. Please come with us.”

The physicist looked up, not surprised, just weary. “I have no plans to leave my country. I have students. Research. My mother is ill.”

“The PreCog doesn’t make mistakes, sir.” Mercer recited the words he’d said thousands of times. “The algorithm has determined with 99.87% certainty that you will attempt illegal migration within five years.”

“So I’m being arrested for something I haven’t even considered doing?”

Tessa stepped forward. “You’re not being arrested, sir. You’re being preventively detained for stabilization and repurposing. It’s for your own protection and the stability of international borders.”

The professor’s eyes darted toward the door.

“Don’t,” said Mercer softly. “Running increases your sentence by fifteen years. And the neural tracker we just planted when I scanned you means we’ll find you within the hour.”

As they led the stunned professor away, Mercer felt the familiar knot in his stomach. Four years with the Authority, and it never got easier.

Back at the skimmer, Tessa processed the family while Mercer handled the professor’s intake. Standard procedure: biological scan, property confiscation, cortical implant to prevent suicide.

“Where will I go?” asked Nazari, his voice hollow as the stabilization drugs began coursing through his veins.

“Processing facility in Qatar first. Then permanent assignment based on your skills. Physicists usually end up in the Antarctic Research Colony.”

“For how long?”

Mercer avoided his eyes. “Until your probability drops below threshold.”

“And how often does that happen?”

The answer caught in Mercer’s throat. In four years, he’d never seen a red get declassified.

Later, in their temporary apartment in Damascus, Mercer couldn’t sleep. The dreams always came after processing a red—vivid nightmares full of people screaming that they were innocent of crimes not yet committed.

“You’re overthinking again,” said Tessa from the darkness. “It’s just math. The algorithm is never wrong.”

“What if it is, though? What if we’re taking people who would never actually leave?”

Tessa sat up. “That’s impossible. The system uses quantum calculations based on millions of behavioral variables. It sees the future like we see the past.”

“I know, but…” Mercer trailed off. Doubt was dangerous in their line of work.

The next morning, as they prepared for another sweep, Mercer’s neural implant pulsed with an off-pattern vibration. His vision flickered as unauthorized data streamed in. A message—origin unknown:

INSPECTOR MERCER: YOUR OWN PREDICTION PROFILE HAS BEEN CALCULATED. PROBABILITY OF DEFECTION FROM AUTHORITY: 96.4%. YOU HAVE BEEN CATEGORIZED.

His blood went cold. The system turned on its own when it detected disloyalty. Already, he could see Tessa receiving notification on her wrist monitor, her expression shifting from confusion to professional detachment.

“Mercer Dawes,” she said formally, her hand moving to her weapon. “Global Migration Prevention Authority. You’ve been categorized as a Class One flight risk.”

He considered running, but where would he go? The predictive net covered every country that mattered. The chips in his brain meant they’d follow him anywhere. And anyway, the algorithm was never wrong.

They’d known he would run before he did.

As his partner placed the stabilization cuffs around his wrists, Mercer wondered how many others like him were out there—enforcers who’d begun to question, whose doubts had been predicted long before they themselves had felt them form.

“The PreCog doesn’t make mistakes,” Tessa said, using his own words against him.

And as they led him away, Mercer realized the true horror of their system: not that it imprisoned people for crimes they hadn’t committed, but that perhaps the algorithm, by categorizing them, created the very future it claimed to predict.