“Unclear, but I assume to whatever industrial or developing country most in need of particular conceptual skills—academic, professional, scientific, and the like.”

“Why did you—“

“I’m a liberal arts kind of guy, not prone to cost-benefit analyses.  The others can speak for themselves.  Rehabs, most of those you see here, were middle-aged and younger adults for whom assimilation didn’t work out, for whatever reason.  Juveniles were just born to or gestating in Opt-outs at transition time.”

“What about the elderly?”

“Seemed to me like almost all of them were taken—thank God for Chinese cultural priorities.”

“And the sick and disabled?”

Noam bit his cheek.  “Euthanized, I assume.”

“How did all the non-Rehabs…get like that?”

Simon overheard, and joined them.  “You’re gonna love this, David.  Around 2006 your fellow gamers got serious about BCI.”

“BCI?”

“’Brain-Computer Interface.’  They borrowed from noninvasive neurofeedback research to perfect headsets that allowed the wearer to play games just using their thoughts.”

David grinned, in spite of himself.  “Sweet!”

“Not so much,” Simon said.  “Overuse led to lapses in normal brain function—sort of self-induced attention-deficit disorder.  Chronic abuse could produce a state of near-catatonia.”

“Didn’t anyone get concerned?”

“The Obama folks monitored federal research and fired up the FDA for legitimate medical uses, but the technology was out and there was money to be made.  Kind of a reprise of the whole ‘Stick an M for Mature on violent video games’ charade.  You remember that whole ‘free speech’ thing your industry threw up to protect sales, I assume?  Development continued behind closed doors.  Short walk, I guess, to software that could overpower the brain’s higher-level, sensory motor areas, allowing unconscious memory to be altered by environment or task specific programs.  Specifics are beyond me; the helmet and electrodes are obviously key.  Phoebe—here!”

A pleasant-looking woman, about 50, scuttled over.

“Show,” Simon said.

She raised her sleeve above scar tissue on her right shoulder and lifted her hair to reveal two old wounds at the base of her skull.

“Thank you,” Noam said.

“Welk’m,” Phoebe said, with difficulty.  She touched a finger to David’ face, giggled, and melted away.

They watched her go.  “Function returns fairly quickly,” Noam said.

“’Phoebe?’”

“We gave them bird names.  Simple, cheerful—and easier to remember.”  He was sheepish.  “Sometimes it’s good to be the king.  Please continue, Simon.”

“Where was I?”

“Headset and software,” said David.

“Right.  Mass-marketing took over with a fury in 2011.  Almost a patriotic duty to own and play, like the early iPods.”

David looked puzzled.  “What’re ‘iPods?’”

“Portable digital media players.”

“Like a ‘Walkman?’”

“More like a tiny computer, really.  Anyway, mass drone conversion began in earnest right after the 2016 election.  First public step was implanting RFIDs—“Radio Frequency Identification Devices”—that had already been tested on prisoners.”

“What for?”

“Building on Obama reforms they couldn’t kill, universal health care was promised, and making health records electronic and portable was the advertised reason.  The chips used were infinitely more programmable and versatile than simple scan-and-read.  They were transceivers; basically, a global ankle bracelet.  After that, choices were made, subtle migration started, and implantations began, disguised as a national vaccination campaign.  The rest was logistics.”

Noam bid them sit at a table of a half-dozen Opt-outs.  David buried his face in his hands for a time, then turned his gaze to Noam.  “Are there others?”

Noam smiled broadly.  “Sure, just like us—near places where industry and tourism survive, mainly urban and ‘destination’ centers.”

“Are you in touch with them?”

“Some.”

“How?  Internet?”  David eyed one of the laptops.

“No,” Simon said.  “That’s out of our reach.  Single sideband amateur radio is all we’re allowed to play with.”

“Have you reached outsiders?”

“Oh, yeah, through other hams.  The ones we’ve spoken to are prospering—doing just fine without us.  We’ve become a novelty.”

A frail-looking older man brightened.  “We’re dialing up some Brits tomorrow night.”

“Do you think they’ll…recolonize?” said David.

“Can’t say.  They seem to keep up the infrastructure they need—remember, they use a longer lens than we did.”

“Will they let you—us…?”

“Live?  So far, so good.  We’re no threat, sufficiently contained, and they seem to know when we’re in need.  Our hope is that they’re keeping us around, however many we are, to leaven the new migration a little, if it comes—caraway seeds to give the fresh rye loaf a little snap, as it were.  I suppose thinking we’re the ‘New Native Americans,’ as long as we endure, helps sustain us.”