The Free Citizen

by T. J. Sedgwick

  No wonder we don’t see many foreigners.

  He thought back to the time before the Citizenship Pill and the Renaissance. Before President White. In those days, the only hermetically sealed states were pariahs, like North Korea.

  Is that what we’ve become? A rogue state? An outcast?

  Before the Erasmus mission, this was yet another thing he’d thought of as normal and hadn’t even questioned.

  Flights had long-since ceased from the lost cities of Miami and Memphis, New Orleans and Nashville, Austin and Albuquerque and almost everywhere else that had once been the United States. Then there was El Paso-Juarez—since the Badlands were created, one city, and all of it south of the border. It was de facto, but not officially, Mexican territory. From dozens of operations in Central America, he wondered why they still bothered with nation names down there. State control had all-but collapsed. Same for parts of South America too. These were heinous hellholes where merciless armed groups led by psychopaths ruled through terror.

  Rae walked towards the exit under the yellow sign reading, Exit & Connections and underneath that, Air Drones, Rapid Transit, Taxis.

  He stopped at the baggage return area, immediately in front of the exit, going straight to the steel locker with the green light, which had started blinking once the facial recognition had tagged him. The small display bore his name. The latch clicked open. He opened the locker and retrieved his backpack.

  With trepidation, he walked towards the sliding exit doors. Cora would no doubt be there, in the eager crowd awaiting friends and relatives. He’d only been away for ten days but felt like a different man. He suspected the mindchip used augmented reality—was it a shroud of deceit furthering the aims of the Regime? Warwick and Hood had looked the same as he remembered, but would Cora? Cora was a remarkably beautiful woman. Maybe too beautiful to be real.

  Tall, olive-skinned and elegant, Cora La Roche, his thirty-one-year-old wife, turned heads wherever she went. Some of it was recognition—particularly among women in the strata who could afford her brand’s wares. The rest was down to her striking looks and the stylish, colorful clothing she wore. She’d founded the Cora luxury fashion brand eleven years earlier, while still at design school. Rae knew how hard she worked despite being well-off enough not to need to. The success itself was down to Cora and her business acumen, her talent as a designer and her earlier innovations born of a desire for more ethical clothing manufacturing. By the mid-2060s, most mass-produced clothing had come from Africa. Cheap labor toiled sixteen-hour days in huge, closed compounds, an intravenous cocktail of drugs keeping them fed and awake until they dropped dead in their twenties or thirties. In the late 2060s, as an undergrad, Cora had led the successful campaign to turn the US public against this slavery and the environmental devastation the cotton plantations brought. Her late father had been influential in politics—a Representative for three decades—formerly a Republican. He’d helped Cora’s ethical campaign no doubt, but it was Cora’s passion and drive that had been instrumental. Clothing manufacture had been forced back to the US where economic logic drove it towards 3D printing and tax incentives drove it to use recycled materials. The last years of the United States, when representative democracy still had the capacity to do some good. He thought back to how the rise of White had changed politics forever. After the Renaissance—when the old duopoly was quashed in favor of the one-party state—there were two choices: join President White’s Nation First Party or suffer the consequences. The ethical campaign Cora had led in an earlier phase of her life would be unthinkable now.

  A deal with the Devil. Once upon a time her father had been a principled man, afterwards either a puppet of President White or a puppet master of the masses, maybe both.

  Cora’s mother—also deceased—had been heir to a large real estate portfolio spanning several Southern cities. Thankfully—for her—she’d managed to sell up, forewarned of the seismic shifts in politics and society. Forewarned by her politician husband, they snapped up prime real estate in what would become Sanctuary Cities, magnifying their wealth. The only secure city real estate in the entire country now sat in the twelve cities. Almost everywhere else was worthless. Now Cora owned half her parents’ wealth, the rest inherited by her brother. Rae wondered how meaningful ownership really was in the country that now felt alien to him, like his moral compass had been transported in time from nine years ago, since the Citizenship Pills nanites had entered his body.

  And what did it do to me, exactly? Change me, yes. Made me stop questioning...

  The exit doors slid open. He spotted her immediately amongst the two-dozen or so congregated around the exclusion rail. Maybe it was his honed sense of recognition, or maybe the way she stood out from a crowd. He breathed a sigh of relief, his fears about her evaporating. An uncontained smile grew on his face. That really was the face of the person he’d met all those years ago. No augmented reality could recreate that. Her figure-hugging red dress probably cost half a soldier’s annual wages, her matching leather handbag not much less. A single word was engraved on the shiny metal tag. Recognized nationally—and trade sanctions notwithstanding, globally—as a designer brand. Cora. Her eyes connected with his and her face lit up instantly, a radiant welcome-home smile, familiar, unfakeable. He counted himself a lucky man. Not just because of their mutual physical attraction but of the love that had grown. Whatever had changed since Erasmus, his feelings for Cora hadn’t. He broke into a jog and wrapped his muscular arms around her slender waist, kissing her passionately, forgetting where they were. For the first time since he’d blacked out, he felt a degree of comfort, living in the moment, not in regret of the past or anxiety about the future.

  “Cal, I missed you!” she whispered excitedly in his ear, bystanders registering him, the homecoming soldier, and his elegant wife.

  “I missed you too,” he said, meaning it, but releasing a long sigh nevertheless.

  They held each other close, his head above and beside hers. He let his shaven cheek run over the silken mane of her dark air as he breathed the familiar smell of his wife as though absorbing something of her essence. She maneuvered, creating a little distance, going face-to-face. He knew she’d already picked up on the troubled countenance he was failing to hide. His eyes wandered lost in thought, emotions caught between homecoming joy and his toxifying internal dilemma. He avoided her questioning eyes, instead eyeing the wavy, strands of hair which framed her face, her delicate nose, and high cheekbones. Her dreamy, wide eyes seemed to draw in his, establishing a window to his soul.

  “How was it? How are you, Cal? Is everything okay? You seem… different. Did something happen?”

  He didn’t want to talk here, in public. He forced a smile that would fool no one.

  “Ah, you know… same old thing,” he said breezily. “Helping the good guys, taking out bad guys, keeping the nation safe.”

  He broke off the embrace, her eyes lingering on him for a second, brow momentarily furrowed, before a tight smile replaced it. She knew too that it wasn’t the time or place.

  A young man approached. Small, dark-skinned, wearing a porter’s uniform.

  “May I help with your bag, sir?” he said, his face looking up at Rae, eager to please. He had the same detached look General Hood’s aide had had.

  A Servile. Poor guy.

  Without much thought, Rae smiled kindly. He wondered about this man’s story as a proxy for the legions of Serviles doing all the shit Citizens didn’t want to.

  Was he captured from the Badlands and Servile-chipped or born into it? Maybe he’d volunteered—that’s what the Government said: that it’s a better life than starving or doing mundane jobs without the Servile chip.

  “No, thanks. I’m good.”

  The Servile nodded and approached an older man holding a suitcase.

  Rae and Cora held hands, walking together towards the exit elevator, the crowd thinning a little now. The soft skin on her delicate hands felt luxuriant.

  “
So how long do I have you for this time?” she said flatly.

  He looked at his wife. She moved with long, effortless strides yet looked anxious as she awaited his reply.

  “Two days until—”

  “That’s all?” she said, frowning.

  “Two days, ‘til my appointment at Lakeshore Hospital, then—”

  She stopped, her worried eyes seeking comfort, explanation.

  “Why? What’s wrong?—"

  He smiled reassuringly, brushed aside a stray lock of hair from her face. Keeping up appearances.

  Who knows what surveillance is watching? Paranoia. Uncharacteristic.

  “No, no—nothing to worry about—just some work on my mindchip, that’s all.”

  He kissed her softly, then they continued walking hand-in-hand.

  “Huh… Guess they’ve finally worked out you’re crazy.”

  The joke fell flat. He smiled, and broke eye contact as they stepped onto the travellator towards the elevator bank.

  “Anyway, should be an overnight stay and then two weeks’ leave.”

  “As long as you’re ok…”

  “Promise. Not a big deal.”

  There was a tension now. He was hiding something, and he knew she knew. He tried to change the subject. A weighty topic too, but one they were both in on. Starting a family. Children. Something inside him yearned for children with Cora. It was something primal, powerful and recurring that he’d only ever felt with her. He took comfort that he’d felt it before the mindchip, before the Citizenship Pill. That was becoming his new test of what was real and what might be a confection. But his feelings on starting a family had changed since the Erasmus. Until he could work out what was real, how could he contemplate it? His eyes had been opened and what he’d seen he didn’t like. How could he bring a child into a world like this? A world of state-sanctioned enslavement of Serviles, of extra-judicial killing of unarmed civilians. It wasn’t his love for Cora that had faded—he loved her even more and saw how much she’d need him if this nightmare was real.

  “So, did the Reproduction Agency rule… on our appeal?” he said, his words trailing off as he realized what he was saying, another red flag appearing, a warning about the type of world they were in.

  Her face grew dark, slight shake of the head, then she looked away, said nothing. He felt her pain.

  What right do they have…? he thought angrily.

  They continued in silence for a second before she took a deep breath and turned to face him.

  “Erm…” she said, blinking away the tears, composing herself. “The Reproduction Agency declined our appeal. Our next chance is in a year’s time. The government have their reasons—they know what’s best for society, Cal.”

  He said nothing, sadness in his eyes.

  They approached the end of the travellator and a female Servile cleaning the floor near the elevator bank, moved aside. She lowered her eyes and bowed her head as they neared. They strolled through the skywalk tunnels spanning several downtown towers high above the surface streets. The network of tubular walkways and elevators served the city center. On passing the venerable Willis Tower, Rae eyed the 750-meter-high shard-shaped One Renaissance through the walkway’s glass ceiling. Home to the rich and powerful. Home to Cora and him. To the right, Lake Michigan stretched to the north and east, its darkness only broken by the lights of the perimeter, a kilometer offshore. Specks of light from security drones swarmed above it like fireflies.

  “Welcome home, Cal,” Cora said on reaching the grand hotel-like lobby of One Renaissance.

  The staff outnumbered the residents by some margin. A Servile bellhop, aging and tired-looking, offered to take his backpack.

  “No, th—”

  “Yes, take it,” said Cora coldly.

  He reluctantly gave it to the old man. Not for the first time since his return, he noticed the disdainful way Cora and others treated Serviles. He recalled having no such distaste before the Erasmus—they were just a normal part of life. They had their place in society, Citizen had theirs. Yet now it seemed wrong. And he didn’t know his wife could act so coldly either. It felt incongruent to the person she’d been before. The person he’d met during the upheaval of the Insurgency.

  By late 2072 the Insurgency was burning with an intensity no one would’ve predicted before the terror attacks that had begun earlier that year—the same year President White’s regime took the reins of power. Mass transit systems were hit first: the New York Subway, the Chicago ‘L’ then the DC Metro. Military-grade C4. Automatic weapons. A State of Emergency was called but violence begot violence. Next came other targets: government and police facilities, power stations, airports, the list went on. Well-coordinated and deadly. The attacks inflamed the toxic mix of home-grown protest and foreign involvement—much of it via the collapsed border with the collapsed Mexico. The protests—born of the Global Depression, starting in 2066—had metastasized, morphed into civil disorder, then insurrection. Protests against the grinding poverty and the corruption that had taken root, which President White vowed to stamp out. Public servants—including some in law enforcement and the military—were as disgruntled as the rest. Into the mix went thuggish Nation First Party supporters and other extremist groups stoking tensions, creating pretexts for harsher policy. Racial and political tinder was ignited all over the country. Rae thought back to that time. Swathes of cities were like warzones. The command structure of the US military was intact though, the proportion of rogue units small. But to say the military was stretched was an understatement. Conscription was still a year away. Rae and his Army Ranger unit hotshotted from city to burning city, executing surgical strikes, putting down the uprising, but never killing unarmed civilians. Strict rules of engagement in those days. Enemy combatants only—unarmed targets were arrested not shot. He prevented killing too, rescued people from horrendous fates. Rescued Cora.

  Lincoln Park, Chicago, October 15, 2072. Time of extraction: 2330 hours. The once universally well-to-do neighborhood had remained a relatively safe harbor to the luckier end of society in Global Depression America. But when they came, police and private patrols failed to stop the place being overrun by the Langostas—a Sinaloa-based warlord’s gang—mostly ex-Mexican Special Forces and infantry. Skilled in urban warfare. No pushover. Profiting from the mayhem, they rampaged into the wealthy suburb, looting safes, taking guns, heirlooms, art and people. People for ransom, forced labor and sexual slavery. Cora got left behind at her parents’ townhouse. Her parents were out of town, but due back that evening. She wanted to surprise them but had arrived before them, so had some time to kill. So, she grabbed a little downtime, a couple of hours visiting Rome in the Virtual Reality room, her devices set to Do Not Disturb. It had happened fast. The police evacuated the neighborhood, but they moved on when no one came to the door. In swept the Langostas.

  Rae’s Ranger unit was already on the ground engaging them two kilometers to the southeast at South Fields when the call came in. Only the third vehicle of their convoy of three lightly-armored trucks survived the roadside bomb attack. And only just. After the ensuing fire-fight, he was the sole survivor, but separated from his dead comrades and their vehicles, evading capture while working his way to the trapped civilian in the townhouse. A high-priority civilian, he’d been told—the CEO of some company he’d never heard of, the daughter of some high-up politician he had heard of but couldn’t place. From the darkness of the backyard, he’d watched with nightvision, as three gun-toting gang-members infiltrated the target property. They had nightvision too but hadn’t seen him concealed in the bushes. Lieutenant Rae moved, stalking his prey, entering the back door. He found one keeping watch at the base of the stairs to the second floor and fired a burst of suppressed headshots. The guy crumpled to the floor where he stood. Rae crept up the stairway, sweeping the advance, senses alert. A commotion erupted from one of the upstairs bedrooms—some scrambling, a gruff, heavily-accent shout, then shrill scream of a woman. He accelerated up
the stairs two-at-a-time, stealthy and fast. Light leaked from the door to the left—the bedroom at the back of the townhouse overlooking the backyard. From there came a slap, cutting short the woman’s latest scream. Rae’s head emerged above the second-floor landing. The woman shrieked. He saw the bedroom door half open, the woman on the double bed with a rough, full-bearded man-beast over her, pinning her down, grasping at her jean buttons, trying to get them off. The other intruder—standing watch in the corner of the bedroom—clocked Rae on the darkened landing. Rae saw the reaction on his face, then the arm movement as the bogie tried to raise his assault rifle. Rae’s gun was already straight and level and aimed. A three-round grouping peppered the bogie’s forehead as the woman fought back against her now-distracted assailant. Rae shot him too, his giant body collapsing to the side of her before slumping to the bedroom floor after she shoved him off her. Rae confirmed the target’s name—Cora—then apologized for the blood splatter on her face, before setting off to secure the townhouse as best he could. Small-arms fire echoed from multiple directions, near and far. They were cut off, behind enemy lines by the heavily-militarized Langostas. He returned to the bedroom with a wet washcloth for Cora to wipe the wannabe-rapist’s blood off her face. She was shaken yet seemed more angry than beaten. Without being told, she took the dead guy’s assault rifle and nightvision and they turned off the bedroom light and moved to the top floor master bedroom. They’d both seen approaching fighters outside going house-to-house, sweeping the neighborhood, the main force who’d soon enter the townhouse to find their vanguard dead. It was too dangerous to leave. Hunkering down in the walk-in wardrobe with Cora, he called it in only to find re-enforcements more than an hour away. He couldn’t do everything. Not against the numbers they were facing. Cora saved his ass, killing several attackers, one of whom had crept up unnoticed by Rae as he pulled down the attic ladder. She’d turned just in time and shot past him, the round pulsing past his cheek and into the bogie. They fought off three waves of attack before help came. It ended up taking two hours, not one. During those two hours, it was them against the world.