The Free Citizen

by T. J. Sedgwick

  He returned to the command module and disconnected the station’s network from the communications array, severing its link with ground control. Next, with a sturdy claw hammer from the toolkit, he levered open a metal cover below the main display panels. An interface probe telescoped from the left wrist of his suit and mated with the now-uncovered data port. Using the suit’s integrated computer, he accessed the Erasmus’s Reaction Control System. He programmed a full-power retrograde burn with no stop instruction. The station’s thrusters would eject monopropellant until exhausted, slowing it down, degrading its orbit. Aerobraking would take over and until the Earth’s atmosphere claimed it during burn-up.

  “RCS firing in ten, nine…”

  He got to work with the hammer’s claw, opening metal covers until he found the primary hard-drives. He removed them and placed them in the small pouch below his rebreather.

  “Three, two, one. RCS firing retrograde on full power.”

  Immediately, he began drifting away from the main display as the Erasmus decelerated. Its altitude would drop. The tenuous upper atmosphere would start aerobraking on its massive surface area, friction exciting air molecules at orbital velocity. It would start as a gentle glow, end as a furious burn. That would take some time. But without ground control, it’d be before the station could be reached. He took a breath—the first moment of respite since he’d encountered the Muller lookalike in the pod. She… it, was the only loose end. His work was almost done. Soon he’d be back at base, debriefed and some well-earned R&R with Cora. He turned and pulled himself through the hatchway and made his way through the large L2 module from where he’d taken ASTRA.

  When he saw it, his jaw dropped. He’d have rubbed his eyes in disbelief but for the helmet.

  “What the hell?”

  His mind staggered. His stomach lurched.

  “It cannot be… I—I saw its face with my own eyes!”

  He floated closer to the two corpses he’d shot by the hatchway. Globules of blood floated nearby, more blood on the nearby bulkhead. Only one of their faces was visible. He inhaled, hoping against hope and turned the other one to see its face.

  “No…”

  When he’d shot them, he’d only seen Screamers. The faces staring lifelessly back at him were not. They were human faces. Without thought, he removed his helmet, ignoring the risk of spores, wanting to see directly with his own eyes. A blue-eyed man, blond curly hair, thirtysomething. A dark-skinned woman around the same age. Her large brown eyes seemed to stare deep into his soul, driving home the shock and confusion. He replaced his helmet. He felt numb, his mind was spinning as he floated through the house of death. Every time he stared at a new face, turned over another body, a fresh charge of dissonant horror coursed through him. Fourteen civilians. Scientists, engineers, astronauts. Sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers… All but defenseless. All human.

  He didn’t know why it had affected him so much. Surely, if his theory was right—that the red-light device had been a trick to make him see Screamers as still human—why was he so distressed? Even if they were human, he’d have had no difficulty just accepting he’d neutralized them. Civilian or not. Unarmed or not. He needed to find out. He released the gauntlet covering his left hand and pushed off towards the small woman he’d shot dead in the first lab. There she was, clad in a white one-piece flight suit, the strands of her strawberry blonde hair not tied back doing their delicate dance around her lifeless freckled face. Suspended motionless in micro-gravity, she lay diagonally, her clear, dead eyes staring at nothingness. Sweat rolled down his brow, his hand shaking as he reached out to touch her cheek. He paused, anticipating the dissonance between the smooth, youthful skin he saw, and the scaly Screamer hide he expected to feel. He ran his ungloved fingers over her cheek. Cold to the touch. Slack, lacking the muscle tone. But human skin. He stroked her hair—soft, human hair, not the leathery scalp of a Screamer. His heart sank, his mouth hung ajar. There was no mistaking it. He’d just killed a station full of uninfected humans. And what was more, he felt terrible about it. He felt remorse. A remorse he knew only from distant memories that he’d forgotten he’d even had.

  Who am I? What have I become?

  A monster, replied the conscience in his head.

  Still reeling, less than a minute later, he strapped into Darkstar-One overcome with shock. With both the capsule and his thoughts on autopilot, Darkstar detached from the ghost ship Erasmus. The doomed station slipped away, its thrusters venting propellant into the half-light above Earth. The Alliance would detect no departure—the remaining escape pod and the docked Skylon would go down with the ship. With no comms link to the station and no station, the Alliance’s intelligence services would be left guessing at how—and even whether—the enemy agent reported by Dr Muller had escaped. He was pretty sure they would assume the worst. What counted for his masters though was deniability. With it, the American-Democratic Alliance conflict would remain a shadow war of spooks and cyberattacks. Without deniability, his deeds would not go publicly unpunished. The chance of the cold war becoming hot would get one step closer.

  Darkstar: initiate re-entry burn at a displacement of 120 kilometers.

  “Re-entry burn countdown initiated,” the computer voiced to his mind. “Monitoring displacement from Erasmus.”

  The invisible Darkstar would continue drifting away from the decelerating Erasmus. He needed to sit tight and wait until nowhere near the scene of the crime before his retro-burn and re-entry. He’d appreciated the distraction of being busy, but now his tasks had run dry for the time being. Now he was alone again with his thoughts.

  He looked down—dusk over the American Union, its Sanctuary Cities beacons of light amongst the hopeless Badlands full of so-called Illegals and terrorists and criminals. Most travel between Sanctuary Cities was via plane or by heavily-guarded convoys of platooned freight trucks. There were no tendrils of light where the former Interstates ran—just islands of light in a sea of darkness. So different was the view of Europe across the Atlantic—points of light dotted across the land, away from the main cities, along coasts, in countryside and major transit corridors.

  Visions of those he’d slain kept returning despite his efforts to quell his inner demons. He’d seen and felt enough to sow the seeds of doubt. Doubt about the mindchip. Doubt about the Regime. Doubt about his entire reality. Had the cybernetic circuitry in his mind been feeding him lies all along, masking civilians as Screamers? Was it augmented reality, manipulating him into committing unspeakable acts? What else was a lie? As he stared down at the world—still mostly corrupt and poor as it always was—other ill deeds started as a trickle but became a flood. Ill deeds he’d been a part of. Villages massacred in Africa. Countless so-called Illegals and so-called terrorists executed just for being in the Badlands. Hunted like animals. Had the neural implant somehow suppressed these memories? Suppressed normal feelings of resistance to violence, feelings of remorse? Had the red-light device re-programmed the mindchip making him see a different reality? A tear formed in his eye and rolled down his cheek. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried. Before long he couldn’t stop crying.

  Eventually the tears ceased but he felt nauseous. He tried to rationalize—no way could he return to Earth in this state. He recalled something he’d once read. Einstein, he thought.

  Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.

  An idea came to him. An idea that brought fresh hope that this was all a misunderstanding. That it was a station full of Screamers and not civilians after all.

  What if Dr Muller’s manipulation made me not just see them as humans, but feel human skin, human hair?

  He wanted to deny the new reality his senses now revealed—it was horrifying if it was true. But couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d reverted to a more natural state of mind. Beneath the shock and the guilt and the nausea, he’d began to feel more… more like himself. Freer. If the mindchip had not only enhanced him but
made him see an augmented reality to manipulate him, then the corollary was terrifying. Had his own people removed his agency and made him do their bidding or had he been tricked by a foreign power in the grip of an existential alien parasite? His superiors would know something was wrong—to what degree, he didn’t know. If he told them what had happened and it was an Alliance trick, then he could go back to doing what he did and feeling great about it. But what if his whole life was a lie and Dr Muller had just freed his mind? Then what? He knew what the easiest thing would be, the path of least resistance. He wiped away the tears and breathed several deep breaths, staving off the desire to puke. An unusually clear image of his father came to mind. Suddenly he was a little boy again, kneeling beside the wood fire at home in New Zealand as he studied the chess board on the coffee table, his dad walking back in with two steaming mugs, jazz playing quietly in the background.

  “What’s your next move, Cal?” said his dad, placing the mug of hot chocolate beside the board.

  “From here… to here, Dad,” said the seven-year-old Rae, indicating a two-space pawn advance.

  His dad sat on the comfy chair, opposite his little boy, smiled, quizzical look on his face.

  “Why did you decide on that move, Cal?”

  Young Rae shrugged. He was tired from rugby practice, enjoying the occasion but not putting much thought into his strategy.

  “Well?” asked Dad.

  “I dunno… Just easy, I guess.”

  His dad tutted, chuckled a little.

  “What’s the difference between those who succeed and those who never amount to much?”

  Young Cal had heard this so many times that he knew it by heart. He recited it impatiently.

  “Those who succeed do what they need to do, not just what they want to do.”

  His father smiled, gave an approving nod.

  The image evaporated and Rae was back in Darkstar-One hurtling around the planet, his estranged mom and dad somewhere far below, back in his old country.

  He knew what he wanted to do. He also thought he knew what he needed to do. But he didn’t know if he would do it.

  6

  Artificial intelligence is the future… for all humankind. It comes with colossal opportunities, but also threats that are difficult to predict. Whoever becomes the leader in this sphere will become the ruler of the world.

  Vladimir Putin

  E ighteen hours after Rae’s exfiltration, the Erasmus burnt up over the Indian Ocean. Only charred fragments of it reached the water. A day later, Darkstar-One re-entered the Earth’s atmosphere to be plucked from the air high above the Military Operations Zone of the American Union. Rae, and Darkstar-One containing the ASTRA AI, rode inside the specially adapted Pegasus transport aircraft of the AU Airforce, touching down at Joint Base McKinnon in what used to be Texas, now deep within the Badlands. Bio-security protocol forced him to stay cooped up in his capsule until the decontamination team had blasted every conceivable surface—including his stealth suit—with their fumigation spray. He didn’t mention that he’d removed his helmet and his gauntlet inside the Erasmus. Maybe the whole biosecurity thing guarding against the so-called alien parasite was a charade. Lies and illusion. If it wasn’t, then there was a good chance he was infected and would show signs over the coming days. A shudder ran through him at the thought of turning Screamer.

  People in biohazard suits led him to the decontamination room, removing his battlesuit for cleansing and post-op forensics. They’d go through everything—the data it’d gathered, every square inch of its surface, run through its diagnostics, check its function. They left him in the spartan, white space to strip and place his clothing into a plastic container ready for collection. He appreciated the activity, the busyness, respite from his troubled mind, which had plagued his journey back. Now he was alone again, the pressure of acting normally had been replaced by resurgent thoughts. He trudged into the chilly, white-tiled shower. It detected his presence and the initially-cold water made him gasp as it sprayed from the ceiling head and all three of the shower’s walled sides. The water now warm and pleasant, he caught his breath and pumped out a handful of cleanser and began on his buzz-cut hair, working the lather down over his lean, muscular body. Continuing on autopilot, a now-familiar sinking feeling returned. He sighed, shaking his head, mouth down-turned. The darkness before him seemed all encompassing. The sun of hope had gone, a winter of despair had set it. Why wouldn’t the remorse go away? Why was it there in the first place? Ugly memories of past operations had been cut free from the murky seabed of his mind, breached the stormy surface and now floated like an ominous, ghostly armada of sin before him. The commercial flight from Madrid to Moscow he’d bombed, killing over three hundred people. Someone they wanted dead was on board, but he had no idea why or what the guy had supposedly done. The memory of it wasn’t new. The only thing that was knew was how it made him feel. Now he recalled their faces. Faces from the departure gate, the young family walking into the air-bridge—two small girls decked out in pink and purple, holding hands, giggling, walking two-by-two in front of their mom and dad. Walking to their deaths. Rae doubled over and vomited violently, hands on his knees.

  Scant punishment for all you’ve done, part of his mind told him.

  All the time spent rationalizing while awaiting re-entry came to naught. His emotions, once a well-drilled troop of cavalry, were now running amok, a band of wild horses charging through his mind. One thing he knew for sure: he needed it to stop. He couldn’t stand it anymore. But he couldn’t face the thought of living a lie either. Clasping at hair too short to grab, he looked to the heavens and growled a suppressed roar of angst to a god he wished he believed in.

  Two hours after arriving, he was showered and shaved, his medical check completed, in fresh uniform and sitting alone in the brightly-lit debriefing room nearby the hangar. He heard footsteps approaching.

  His commanding officer arrived first. Major Donald Warwick, commanding officer of the 3rd Battalion of the Covert Action Group. Rae got to his feet, snapping to attention. No salutes indoors.

  “Hail President White! Hail the Renaissance! Freedom Through Struggle!” barked Rae.

  Rae’s imposing physical presence surpassed his bald, middle-aged superior in height and build.

  He stepped closer, bringing to bear a tight smile, offering his hand.

  “At ease.”

  They shook hands.

  “Great job up there, soldier!”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Major Warwick directed him to be seated as he leant against the desk at the front of the debriefing room.

  The major paused, sizing up his operative. Rae felt the officer’s eyes examining him, processing what he saw, seeking out clues to the turmoil in his soldier’s head.

  “Everything ok, Rae?”

  Rae cleared his throat, nodded.

  “Yessir, I believe the mission went mostly to plan.”

  He hung his head, eyes downcast, before realizing and correcting his posture.

  Warwick averted his stare and continued.

  “The battlesuit techs have debriefed me,” said Warwick. “And we have your report from orbit.”

  “Yessir.”

  “The suit’s recorded data stops abruptly when a Screamer points a device at you.”

  “Makes sense, sir,” he said. “It should be at around the same time I blacked out. An EMP weapon of some sort was my assessment, sir.”

  Warwick gave a curt nod.

  “Could be. We have our best people working on it, Captain. Their investigation will uncover all there is to know.”

  Rae fidgeted, eyes darting around until he realized it.

  The major broke into another one of his uncomfortable grins, his head shaking in admiration.

  “Hats off to you, Rae—you really handed the enemy their ass on a plate. Recovering ASTRA, taking down their primary space asset and a whole bunch of Screamers with it… Oh, and intel from the hard-drives—wealth of k
nowledge, son.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Rae didn’t know where this was going, but the knot in his stomach told him Warwick was building up to something.

  “But if you’d indulge me, Captain… there is one thing…” he said with a quizzical look on his face.

  His eyes met Rae’s. “Your suit registered only fourteen kills—Intel was positive there were fifteen bogies…”

  Rae paused, composing himself. This felt like a test.

  “That’s incorrect, sir. There were fifteen. The final kill was made after that Screamer fired the EMP.”

  A lie. He hadn’t seen the lie coming.

  Warwick’s poker face remained.

  His tone neutral, he said, “So, after the EMP—after the suit stopped recording? Is that correct?”

  Rae nodded.

  “So how did you terminate the last Screamer?”

  “I regained consciousness; I located it and broke its neck, sir.”

  Another lie. One lie leading to another, leading him down a path.

  “Right. Because your weapon is missing…”

  “Yessir. I couldn’t locate it after being knocked out.”

  “Last footage from the suit’s camera shows that EMP gun pointed right at you, Captain. How do you think that Screamer knew you were there? I mean, your stealth function was active, wasn’t it?”

  “Yessir, stealth was on.”