The Free Citizen

by T. J. Sedgwick

Another clip—this time of President White in the Rose Garden. Rae regarded the strangely ageless dictator’s air of respectability. His all-white Renaissance-style suit with red collarless grandfather-style shirt beneath was standard presidential dress. The neatly trimmed white beard, bald head and round wire-rim glasses gave an air of respectability. The lapel badge carried the flag of the American Union: twelve red and white stripes representing the Sanctuary Cities, a quadrant of dark blue with a single white star. It used to arouse patriotic feelings in Rae, now it just reminded him of the Stars and Stripes they’d lost. When he was young, he—like most other people—thought revolution was something that only happened in backward hellholes.

  How wrong we were.

  “Loyal Citizens, let me convey the message I am making clear to the irresponsible politicians of the Alliance.” Pause for effect, looks directly into the camera. “Time is running short. My patience is running short. The Russians and Chinese feel the same. You either need to quell the alien parasite forthwith or accept the consequences. This scourge is a threat to all humanity. Deal with it or we will!”

  Back to synthetically-beautiful Petra in the studio.

  “Strong words from a strong leader,” she said admiringly.

  Rae exhaled, shook his head. None of it rang true anymore.

  “And now for some good news,” she said. “We reported yesterday on the introduction of much-improved neural chip, code-named Florida. Well now more good news. The Manpower Agency is forecasting falling prices.”

  “That’s right,” said David Lincoln. “The average unit price is set to fall below ten thousand dollars for the first time in our history, making labor more affordable than ever for Citizens and businesses alike. Jeremiah Hunt, the Manpower Secretary reported the good news today when he unveiled his agency’s quarterly price forecast.”

  Petra continued. “But he did warn that some categories may actually rise. High-end female Serviles below twenty-five and high-end males below thirty-five were among the categories bucking the trend.”

  The anchorman took on a look of mock disappointment. Petra giggled obligingly, before the segment ended with Lincoln guffawing at his own attempt at humor.

  “What the hell is wrong with… Feel like I need a damn shower,” Rae muttered, forgetting home-spy Ruby for a moment.

  He watched in disbelief as the news turned into an infomercial extolling the virtues of owning a domestic Servile—a slave in all but name. It wasn’t lost on him that the majority—though not all—of the worker Serviles he’d noticed since Erasmus had been people of color. His stomach lurched, feelings of shame at having worked for this system. The more he saw, the more the Manchurian Candidate theory felt academic. Maybe it was possible the Alliance had developed that red-light device to turn him against his own side, but the weight of evidence said otherwise. The weight of evidence told him the American Union was rotten to the core. His brief window on this vile society frightened him. The facts would guide him. The fact they’d all been made to take a Citizenship Pill full of nanites that did who knows what to the brain. He realized that ever since shortly after taking it, he no longer questioned Regime propaganda. It had had a strange hold over him—even things he’d normally find boring like government restructuring and which gray-haired politician was taking over which role.

  And how, exactly, does the Citizenship Pill predispose us to Regime messaging? How does it know which messages are important and which aren’t? Maybe a subliminal signal in displays or sounds?

  Another fact: that to compete in any professional job, you needed a mindchip supplied by the same state that ran total surveillance. He was pretty sure that only those who’d been softened up by the Citizenship Pill would contemplate having a mindchip. He had. And he’d done it willingly, unlike the Citizenship Pill which had been undisclosed by the military. His jaw clenched as anger grew at the thought of what they’d done. He’d served as a deadly puppet, hypnotized by a technological Trojan Horse. He swigged the last of his coffee and slammed down the mug. He couldn’t go back. Sometime tomorrow they’d restore his mindchip. Once again, he would under its spell, a slave to the Regime. He couldn’t let that happen.

  His thoughts turned to Cora. She’d also gone to Lakeshore Hospital voluntarily like he had and came out with the tell-tale scar hidden beneath her hair on the top of her scalp.

  Not voluntary with the Citizenship Pill’s nanites already in our bodies, he corrected himself.

  Whatever. The simple truth was that she was victim, not perpetrator, and he needed her to gain freedom alongside him. He could hardly imagine a life without her.

  He refilled his coffee on the way to the desk in the study. He needed to check the exact time of the hospital appointment tomorrow, see how long he had left. The display in the study detected his presence and glowed to life.

  “Would you like to check your messages?” Ruby asked.

  It was creepy how she could predict behavior.

  Always watching.

  “Yes please, Ruby.”

  A page of mostly unread messages appeared, all dated in the last two weeks. Mostly low-level military and promotional crap from companies. He found the appointment for tomorrow afternoon at Lakeshore Hospital at the bottom of his inbox. He noted the hospital appointment. 3pm check-in.

  Less than thirty hours to escape with Cora or stay in the system forever. Escape and go where, exactly? The Badlands first, of course—there was little else outside the perimeter. Then to Canada maybe, a member of the Democratic Alliance. Apply for asylum along with Cora. Build a new life and leave this fucked up place behind. Or would the Alliance try me as a spy or as a war criminal or flat-out refuse entry? And getting there with Cora won’t be easy…

  He was a trained operative. Cora was an urban civilian, albeit a fit, smart and resourceful one. Maybe without his implant, battlesuit and weapons, and with half the military hunting him, he’d struggle to do it solo. Pre-occupied, he scanned down the list of messages again. The subject title of a message from Wiki Digest dated November 9, caught his eye: On This Day in History: Kristallnacht 1938. He couldn’t remember subscribing to the online encyclopedia. But then again, there was a whole lot he couldn’t recall, and he was interested in history. He checked his watch. Curiosity made him open the Wiki Digest message. It contained a list of subjects linking to their Wiki page. Some were blurred out, the overlying text stating: ‘Inappropriate Content’.

  Censorship, in other words.

  The short summary on Kristallnacht 1938 wasn’t censored.

  150 years ago—too far back in history to bother the Regime.

  He gestured with his finger to open the link, the computer tracking his eyes and hand movements. Up popped the Wiki page. He skim-read the article about how the Nazi pogrom against Jews 9-10 November 1938 had caused nearly a hundred deaths, terrorized the Jewish populace and resulted in the smashing of windows of Jewish-owned buildings across Germany. Hence the name Kristallnacht or ‘Crystal Night’ in English. Orchestrated by the thuggish SA with wide civilian participation, the Nazi authorities did not intervene. Scanning down further a name caught his eye. A link to an S. Muller, President of Johns Hopkins University from 1972 to 1990 whose Jewish father was arrested by the Nazis on Kristallnacht when Muller was ten. They escaped Germany just before the war began. Rae eyed the name Muller. Was it coincidence that this article contained the same surname—albeit a common one—as his old college professor, Stephanie Muller? The computer interpreted his remained focus on the name like a mouseover, prompting a tooltip dialog to appear.

  ‘Water the plants, S. Muller,’ read the tooltip.

  He stared, wide-eyed, reading and re-reading, worrying the State Intelligence Agency would ping him. He memorized the message and looked away. He frowned, exhaling deeply, before looking at the name ‘S. Muller’ on the Wiki page again. This time nothing. No tooltip dialog, just plain text. He closed the page and noticed the message had gone from his inbox.

  What the hell�
�?

  It could only mean one thing—Dr Muller was trying to make contact. And from the way the message had bypassed the State Intelligence Agency, found him then vanished, either she or someone else had some hardcore computer skills.

  Water the plants. Must be a signal.

  He guessed by one of the windows. Easier to spot from outside. Assuming whoever it was didn’t somehow have an inside view.

  He walked calmly to the kitchen, placed his half-drank coffee in the sink and took a glass, filling it with water before having a gulp. He looked over to one of the potted houseplants across the island in the living area.

  “Looks like the plants are as thirsty as I am, Ruby.”

  “Yes, Cal,” replied the ever-ready computer. “The last time a Servile watered them was three days ago. Shall I recommend to Cora that she replaces one or more of your Serviles? I can recommend which ones if required.”

  “No, it’s ok, I’ll water them.”

  He found a small plastic jug and filled it with water. He wondered if Ruby had already reported in to State Intel. Rae knew there was no way to switch off the home’s computer without it raising a flag.

  The spy in our midst.

  No choice. It was a risk he’d have to take. He’d go ahead and water them all. He watered the plants in the lounge and connecting corridor, continuing into the bedrooms, bathrooms, study, media room and gym. He felt Ruby watching, tracking his movements with her sensors.

  He finished up, placing the jug in the sink and returning to the master bedroom’s ensuite to take a shower. He ran the water, undressed and got in the large, walk-in shower, water streaming over his closed eyes like warm rain from above. He heard a gentle hum, faint behind the rush of water enveloping his sense. Eyes open, he saw it. A wasp hovering just beyond the shower stream. He watched it land on the wall, its tiny compound eyes staring back at him. It amazed him how an insect a millionth the mass of a large man like him could evoke irrational fears. He drew closer, stepping out of the shower’s flow. Peering closer, he saw that this was no ordinary wasp. Its wings were too regular, lacking the complexity of nature. The vectorized curves of its abdomen seemed slightly peculiar too. Now within half a meter, the wasp still hadn’t moved. Without warning its head glowed red, like a tiny, faint LED. After a few seconds it went out. Then a pattern of blinking laser light directed straight at his eyes. Reflexively he looked away, closed his eyes, wary of laser damage. Lids shut, he thought it through. It wasn’t logical that they’d go to all this trouble just to cause him some eye damage. He looked again. The wasp seemed to track his eye position and the blinking red light recommenced. Rae immediately recognized it as Morse code.

  Greetings from Dr Muller. You recognized me on Erasmus, so the prototype device worked. You are no longer blinded from the truth. You are no longer a prisoner of your mind. We hope the reality you see convinces you to take up our offer. Find your way to the Governor in El Paso-Juarez. Come alone. Our offer will remain open for as long as possible. But time is running out now AU has ASTRA. End of message.

  The red light went out and the wasp-drone flew away, disappearing into the extractor duct on the ceiling.

  He recalled the message, shocked, impressed, confused. Shocked that Dr Muller knew it was him on the Erasmus. The only explanation was that the Alliance had an asset feeding them mission details. Or could their mindchip neutralizer read it as well as switch it off? He didn’t know the answer, but that they’d pinged him and sent the message, impressed him. The Regime had locked down the Sanctuary Cities tight. Nothing went in or out without Intel knowing. Almost nothing. A lot confused him. What was their offer exactly? For all he knew it could be a trap. Or a test by the State Intelligence Agency. And what the hell did they mean by time is running out now the Regime has the ASTRA AI he’d taken? And why El Paso-Juarez and not Canada? That’s Alliance territory too. So, few words, so many questions. One thing he did know for sure: he couldn’t stay. And if he had to go, Cora had to come with him. He couldn’t go alone as the message had instructed. Even though she was chipped and still blind to reality, he loved her. He couldn’t just leave her. If Dr Muller’s device had set him free, then it could free Cora too. Reason enough for them both to get to El Paso-Juarez.

  9

  There is no crueler tyranny than that which is perpetuated under the shield of law and in the name of justice.

  Montesquieu

  R ae dried off after his shower and changed into his old combat pants, dark tee and black jogging top with a small Army logo on the front. He checked his watch: nearly 10am.

  “Hey, Ruby!”

  “Yes, Cal?”

  “Call Cora, please”

  “My pleasure…”

  He wandered back to the living area. Ring tones sounded through the integrated speakers.

  “Morning sleepy head,” said Cora, the image of her in her office appearing on the videowall. “How are you feeling?”

  He could tell she was forcing her smile, but her voice was laced with real concern. There was no way they could discuss his near-breakdown and tell-all in the shower from last night on a videocall. The fake veneer on their behavior would need to remain until he got her in a safe place to talk.

  “Good morning beautiful,” he said, smiling involuntarily. “What time d’you plan on getting home tonight?”

  “Why?” she said, mischief in her tone. “You want more of what we did last night? I can come home a little early. Let me check my calendar… Sure, I’ll get back mid-afternoon sometime. If something comes up—”

  “If something comes up, you’ll leave it to your very capable managers,” he said.

  “Yes, my lord. Your wish is my command!”

  They said their goodbyes and clicked off. No mention of what must have been a disturbed night’s sleep for Cora, what with him tossing and turning. No mention of anything substantial. Ruby was listening and all calls were monitored by the State Intelligence Agency.

  He grabbed some food and checked the storage closet in the study. He found his Go-Pack on the bottom shelf next to the gun locker. All military personnel had Go-Packs issued to them for times of national emergency. All off-duty military had to be ready to act. He checked its contents: ten days of compact MRIs, water-purifying bottle, med-kit, two-way radio, solar charger, compact sleeping bag and a vicious-looking survival knife. Mostly low-tech, all about self-sufficiency, in case the Net and electrical power went offline. He used the combination dial and opened the gun locker. Sitting upright in its rack was the fully mechanical assault rifle. The M4A1 carbine looked like last century’s technology. He knew it was last century’s tech, but reliable. It came with a thirty 5.56mm round magazine, telescoping stock, tactical light and scope. A spare clip and boxes of ammo sat on the shelf below. On the other shelf was the 9mm handgun with two boxes of ammunition. He removed the weapons and took his time stripping them down, checking them over and re-assembling them. On replacing the guns, he purposely forgot to lock the locker.

  He closed the locker door, then the closet and sat behind the desk weighing how he could download some detailed maps without raising a flag, when Ruby said, “Excuse me Cal, but you have forgotten to lock the gun locker.”

  The spy in our midst.

  “Oh, right. Thanks”

  He locked the locker.

  Ruby said, “Cal, a reminder of Regulation 17.16 of the Firearms Code. Firearms held on private property must be secured in a government-provided locker at all times unless, 1. They are undergoing maint—”

  “It’s ok, Ruby. I know. I just forgot. Ok?”

  Ruby said nothing.

  Private property. Nowhere is private! he thought.

  He decided that he couldn’t download maps, or any other info related to escape—it was simply too risky. He made a show of reading the latest government propaganda while instead, thinking, waiting for Cora. Not really reading it, he scrolled through some of the headlines. ‘Leading Scientist Executed’. ‘Promising Results on Alien Paras
ite Cure’. ‘Pres. White to Alliance: Stop Protecting Terrorist City, El Paso’.

  He whiled away the time, rehearsing his plan, eating, checking his watch. As he stood by the window in the living room, golden afternoon sun edged towards the horizon. He needed to convince Cora to leave with him. Last night, he couldn’t think straight after the tear in reality Dr Muller had unleashed. Truth be told, he’d been blinded by his own denial, driven by what he wanted to be true, not what the evidence told him. The nightmares and the news and time to reflect had brought clarity. The sound of the elevator doors opening, roused him from his reflections. It was 4pm. Cora stepped out, big smile plastered over her face.

  Good, she’s home early. Time to convince her...

  “Hey!” she said, placing down her handbag, then unbuttoning her charcoal gray, wool trench coat.

  He smiled back feeling like they were on stage. An act. An act to buy them some breathing space.

  No problem when you’re a mindchipped puppet.

  She kicked off her heels, and as they embraced, he whispered into her ear.

  “Come join me for a shower. We can’t let Ruby hear us. I have something important to tell you,” he said before planting a lingering kiss.

  She reached forwarded and wiped the lipstick from around his mouth, smiling, a sparkle in her eyes.

  “Sure,” she said with a playful what-are-you-up-to? look.

  Five minutes later, he made his case in whispers under the shower. He knew the risk he was taking. Cora was his wife, his friend, someone he would trust with his life, but how much autonomy did she have? And would she betray him? As he understood it, the Citizenship Pill nanites softened them up to Regime propaganda. He also knew that mindchips came in different specifications, but common amongst them were three things. Firstly, they placed the recipient in a societal hierarchy so that everyone had at least one boss. Secondly, they obeyed algorithms, and these were assigned from a master library—some by the recipient, some by the hierarchy, and some by the Regime. Lastly, the State Intelligence Agency had full access to all data accessible by the mindchip—the five senses plus whatever the chip and any auxiliary sensors could measure. Some data was captured directly, but most five-senses data still resided in the recipient’s brain. Recall of the former was perfect, recall of the latter was not. As far as he knew, they couldn’t read minds. And being able to access data didn’t mean Intel actually would. They’d need a reason. Their resources weren’t unlimited.