He could hear the slow rumble of the enormous security gate rolling open. A minute later the trailer accelerated to something like a walking pace. Next came the bomp-bomp of the trailer’s front wheels passing the track of the security gate; same again with the rear wheels a few seconds later. Rae held his breath, his body tense and still. They’d be passing through the scanner loop any time now. The trailer seemed to slow. Scanning equipment hummed as they passed through. Seconds felt like minutes. Then came the bomp-bomp as the front wheels left the gatehouse’s rear. He breathed a sigh of relief as they continued at the same slow pace. After another minute, he sat up and crawled over to the cut panel, sneaking a view though the left cut then the right. Outside, the light was fading—white floodlighting from the perimeter receding as they progressed, dusk in full force. He risked pushing the panel outwards to get a better look. Nothing towards the front except the leading trailers and APCs; to the rear, more trailers sliding their way through the diminishing gateway and adjoining double perimeter fence, its rigid steel verticals ten meters high. Crows’ nests—each bristling with sensors, floodlights and heavy-caliber machine guns—sat atop the perimeter at regular intervals. These tools of detection and destruction faced outwards, towards the Badlands—not into the quarantined Border Zone. He pushed the panel all the way out, then folded it past horizontal and down to near-vertical, leaving the side wide open. The mild, fresh air of a November dusk in the desert filled his lungs. Inside the trailer was dark and outside was dimming all the time, with no lights on this part of the highway. The overhead drones had now gone—probably sent away to refuel. After that, he guessed they’d be reassigned to higher priority missions or another escort job. The Border Zone wasn’t the Badlands. It wasn’t a Sanctuary City either, so he knew the armored escort would stay with the convoy.
He turned to Cora, who was rigid, her body mapped above the Servile below her as he’d instructed. But they were past the scanner, so it was no longer necessary to be so still. It was time to move. His eyes found hers.
“Come on, we need to be ready to jump,” he said.
She slowly got up and joined him, squatting by his side before helping him pull on the backpack. He reloaded his M4 and made sure Cora was ready with the 9mm. If they came across a foot patrol, fighting might be an option if they did it right. If they were lucky. But he knew they stood no chance against the APCs, so stealth was their best friend. He scanned the passing scene, looking ahead for concealment. Outside was mostly flat and arid, with some clumps of low bushes. Concealment, but not much. They couldn’t wait forever. Once the last APC had passed the gate, they’d be at high speed again. Jumping would spell death. Or serious injury, at least. Then they’d be in no shape to trek to the southern perimeter and across to freedom in El Paso-Juarez. The remnants of the red sky had turned purple on the western horizon. Only a keen eye or nightvision would find them now. Despite feeling uncomfortably hot, they had to keep on the winter gear and Mylar masks to prevent infra-red detection. He was just grateful it was November in the sandbox. Up ahead, a line of foliage traversed the route from left to right. Drawing gradually closer, he could see their route passed over a stream. A concrete beam bridge spanned the shallow gorge, allowing the road to continue unhindered. Bushes and trees—sparse at first—grew denser as the convoy edged closer to the stream. It was still on the go-slow as its rear continued passing slowly through the gateway scanner.
“Get ready,” he said. “In about three minutes, we jump.”
Cora said nothing.
He turned to where she’d been, but she was no longer beside him, instead she was laying on her back, across two Serviles.
“Cora, are you okay?” he said, urgently checking.
Her eyes were closed, her arms twitching, then her legs. Her breathing was fast. He tried to rouse her—no response.
“Damn it!”
Not only did it scare him seeing her like this, but this was their escape window. He couldn’t believe the lousy timing. He shook his head, gritted his teeth. They’d come so far, now this. Checking her pulse, it surprised him—it was normal, not the same as her last seizure and insentience. He drew open her eyelids, checking for rapid eye movement. Nothing but a glazed stare. This time he shook her more vigorously, but it changed nothing. A quick check outside showed the thicket of trees and bushes a hundred meters away. Turning back to Cora, she’d stopped twitching and lay totally still. Next, he held her eyelids open with one hand and picked up her flaccid arm with the other. Something wasn’t right—her arm was limp, but a vestige of muscle tone betrayed it. He drew her hand up high above her face then let go. And that’s when she flinched. In that moment, he knew she was faking.
“What the hell are you doing?” he said through gritted teeth. “This is our chance!”
He shook her, and her eyes flashed open.
“Come on, get up. We need to move!” he said as a suppressed shout.
She looked at him, her expression one of calm confidence.
“Why are you doing this?” he said, pleading. “We won’t get another chance! They won’t stop again until we reach the White Sands base.”
Her breathing became labored, a pained expression overcame her face. She was struggling to speak.
“Cal… Cal, you need to—”
He shook her.
“What’s wrong? What do I need to do?”
She winced then screamed, her body twisting in agony. Then she seemed to steel herself and forced out the words.
“You need to… go… Leave me.”
Her eyes closed, her body went still. He twisted around to see the tree-lined stream passing at walking pace outside. He’d grab Cora and carry her if need-be. A new resolve surged through him as he turned back to Cora to see her 9mm handgun pointing right at him, her azure eyes fixed, deadly, unwavering. His eyes focused on her thinly-gloved trigger finger and saw growing muscle tension. Confusion gave way to training and two things happened. First, quick as a cobra, he went for the gun—a sideswipe to knock it off aim. Second, she fired—the crack of one, then a second shot, piecing the early night calm before he twisted the gun from her hand. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, his mind working at light-speed to make sense of it all. Anger returned to her face, and in that moment, he no longer recognized his wife. A cold, hard aggression had possessed her. She screamed, then grabbed the 9mm, struggling to regain control of it; thrashing, kicking, determined. He yanked the 9mm from her and pocketed it while fending off her blows.
“Stop!” he cried. “Cora, it’s me. Stop now!”
She kept going, punching, kicking, trying to get up as he straddled and subdued her. Nothing was working. The rage had taken her, and she couldn’t stop. He couldn’t strike his wife. He didn’t have it in him. But there was a decision to make. And then he realized. The convoy had stopped.
Shit!
Barked commands from approaching soldiers punctuated the thrum of an approaching drone. He released Cora and went to the opening, tolerating her continued, frenzied attack, his backpack absorbing her relentless blows. She scrambled to her knees and tried to grab him around the throat, but he brushed her off long enough to see an APC speeding towards them. An infantryman running from the convoy’s rear pointed at Rae before he aimed his weapon, scope to his eye, advancing as Rae ducked back inside. A flood of brilliant light pierced the gloom of the trailer—the drone was close, focusing its powerful spotlight on the opening. All hell was breaking loose. Cora had sabotaged their escape. And still she continued her frenzied assault. His mind was spinning. No training, no experience could prepare him for this. Betrayed. Trapped. Outgunned. He couldn’t delude himself—there was no escape now but death. The world seemed to shrink, his vision narrowed to the furious stranger his wife had become. He knelt there numb, ignoring her blows.
Is death better than slavery?
His vestige of hope won out. Death was the cowards’ way. For every moment he had control of his thoughts he could plot and scheme and f
ind a way.
Cora stopped her attack. The military drone hovered meters from the opening, its light blinding.
“Place your hands on your head, lock your fingers!” came the order from somewhere outside.
Rae complied. He threw down his weapons and climbed out of the trailer. Awaiting was a squad of four soldiers pointing their assault rifles at him. They secured his hands behind his back with plasticuffs. He looked up at Cora who stared at him emotionlessly. Tears formed in her eyes, she winced in pain and held her head. A stream of tears ran down her cheek. He looked on as her face went blank, emotions erased. Then his sight went dark as the black hood came over his head. Captivity awaited. Freedom now seemed a distant dream.
14
I have watched men suffer the anguish of imprisonment, defy appalling human cruelty... break for a moment, then recover inhuman strength to defy their enemies once more.
John McCain
H e saw nothing as they frog-marched him to what he assumed was one of the armored escort vehicles. The ongoing radio chatter told him nothing he didn’t already know. A man and a woman apprehended trying to stowaway in a trailer. The soldiers reported in, confirmed they were taking him to the White Sands Forward Operating Base. It was less than an hour by road from the southern perimeter and the El Paso-Juarez crossing. That was where the Alliance’s message had told him to go. That was freedom. Now he was going to White Sands as a captive. They pushed him onto a seat in the APC and he heard the rear door whirring shut. The electric drive powered up and they sped off, leaving the convoy behind. The soldiers said nothing. Rae still felt numb. Everything had been going to plan, then Cora had turned on him. He castigated himself for believing what he wanted to be true, believing she wouldn’t be pinged on the network. She’d been fine in the sewer system and the wastelands outside Chicago while they’d waited for the convoy. Back to her old self. He wondered how much of her behavior was self-censorship due to surveillance and how much was the mindchip itself. Shortly after they’d infiltrated the convoy trailer, she’d had a seizure and gone unconscious for eighteen hours—most of the trip. She’d awoken just before the critical time only to betray him. The escape from their home in Chicago had been quick. Too quick for the Intelligence Agency to re-task her mindchip. Once down in the sewers, outside of network coverage, the hunters could no longer access her neural chipset; nor could they in the wasteland. But once inside the trailer, they must’ve picked her up on the convoy’s network and tasked her implant. Maybe she’d fought it and it’d sent her into a seizure. He knew the feedback circuits were virtually irresistible. Perform well—in line with behavioral algorithms and commands—and happiness would bloom; do great and you’ll feel euphoric; but disobey, behave outside the parameters your hierarchy has dictated and the misery could be real and unrelenting. He’d not been privy to details of the governing hierarchies, but he guessed population-wide algorithms and person-specific commands were in effect. And everyone had at least one boss. Everyone but President White, he guessed. And the punishment algorithms could direct anything from a general feeling of unhappiness to a physical, agonizing pain. Most of the time it didn’t come to this though. Most of the time imperatives were simply planted by algorithm in one’s subconscious, only to emerge milliseconds later as conscious choices. The illusion of free will. Follow those choices, feel happy. But that didn’t always work, and the punishment algorithms had been added as a safeguard. It gave him heart that she’d found the will to fight it. To try, anyway. Her agonized face, her tears showed him that somewhere beneath the diabolical mind-tech, the woman he loved continued to resist. It seemed inevitable that his free-thought hiatus was nearing its end. But he would exploit any chink in his captors’ armor, any chance to win back his freedom. Physical freedom. Mental freedom. Freedom to find Cora.
Half an hour later, the APC slowed to a halt. From radio chatter, he knew they were entering FOB White Sands. A few minutes of tight turns through the base and they slid to a halt on the dusty, unsealed surface.
“This is your stop, Big Guy,” said the soldier Rae had identified as the platoon sergeant.
He and two others marched Rae along, still hooded, into a building, down an echoey corridor and into a holding cell. The door slammed, and Rae heard the clunk of the lock. Minutes later, the shuffle of feet and the door clunked open. His hood was removed. He squinted under the cell’s bright lights. Inside was a corporal and two soldiers with their sidearms trained on Rae. He could’ve disarmed them and left all three dead in a few seconds. But then what? He decided to bide his time. A full body search followed, the clothes they couldn’t remove while handcuffed were cut from his body. He stood there naked and cuffed while they continued with more intrusive searches in silence.
These guys are like automatons, he thought. No personality, no small talk… Hell, not even any abuse.
The corporal and his men left the cell and locked the door.
“Get over here,” called the corporal. “Turn around with your back against the bars.”
Rae complied, and he heard the snip of his plasticuffs being cut.
“Thanks,” said Rae, knowing they didn’t need to give him this modicum of freedom.
“You are welcome, Captain.”
Captain? How did they clock me so quickly? They hadn’t seen my face until a minute ago. Cora…
He turned around and the men were already leaving. The vertical-bar cell was isolated from the corridor outside with its own small ante-chamber and a solid steel door with viewing port. No doubt there were hidden cameras positioned around the cell and ante-chamber, watching and listening. A chain-supported metal cot, thin mattress, and a one-piece stainless steel toilet-sink unit were the only furnishings in the white-painted cinder-block cell. On the mattress lay a single blanket and a neatly-folded orange jumpsuit. No shoes, no undergarments. He put on the jumpsuit—close-fitting on his physique.
Hours passed. He listened but heard only muffled noises—the type of sounds he’d expect at a busy FOB. It was well past midnight. Despite the on-and-off naps, tiredness had taken hold. His time in the military had taught him to sleep almost anywhere and to take rest when he could. Hunger had been a constant companion since settling in on the thin, vinyl-covered mattress. At least there was water from the faucet, even if it was warm and chlorinated. The bright lights embedded in the ceiling were unrelenting. He rolled over onto his front again and closed his eyes. While drifting back into slumber, the ante-chamber door clunked unlocked. In walked a small, gray-haired, fortysomething officer flanked by two soldiers and a slim, red-headed, thirtysomething woman with a severe, intelligent face, wearing a white doctor’s coat. From his shoulder insignia, Rae could see the officer was State Intelligence Agency; the woman some sort of doctor. The gold-rimmed glasses the officer wore—uncommon in the late twenty-first century America—framed his hard, cold eyes. He got straight to the point, his manner tense and charmless.
“We know who you are, Captain Rae—a disgrace to your country. Everything you know we will extract from you one way or the other,” he said chillingly as he turned to the redheaded doctor.
The redheaded doctor spoke, her scorning voice accented—Eastern European, perhaps.
“A man with your background will know the techniques we use and how effective—not to mention painful—they are,” she said with a sinister undertone. “You see, amazing as our neural implants are, they’re somewhat… limited when it comes to reading thoughts. Giving instructions—yes, they excel at that—but millions of years of evolution haven’t all been decoded quite yet.”
“So,” said the officer cheerily, “we need you to give up your thoughts—to tell us what you know about our enemies. We’re very keen to learn about their MO and what they have planned for you.” He chuckled mirthlessly. “Maybe if we act quickly, we can have you all fixed up and working for us as again before the enemy knows about it.”
He and the doctor looked at Rae, waiting for a response.
Rae said n
othing, his eyes smoldering with defiance.
The intel officer cleared his throat. “The good doctor here has an interrogation room to prepare.”
He nodded to the doctor.
“Yessir,” she said and left the room.
“Now you’re a smart man, Captain. I know you don’t want it to come to this. So, I’m going to make you a one-time offer.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Ah, he speaks! Excellent. Your wife, Cora—the Cora. The elegant, talented Cora La Roche, admired by many, desired by many more. A real patriot, putting the higher purpose above her own selfish wants. She’s—”
“Where is she, asshole?”
“Now, now captain. No need for unpleasantness. She’ll soon be safely back in Sanctuary City Chicago, where she belongs. But after her husband beat her when she found out about his affair—”
“Fuck you!”
Rae watched the intel prick smirk cruelly, enjoying his distress. He needed to restrain himself—this was a mind-game.
“The population believes what we want them to—you should know that by now. Long gone are the days when your connection to mind-influencing forces was a choice. You’ll be a true believer again soon enough—that is my prediction. Ah yes, back to your wife. No one will blame her when she divorces her abusive and errant husband and takes the hand of one of our finest… After a while as his mistress, anyway. After all, we need a respectful period between one marriage and the next.” He chuckled. “And of course, he wants to try out the goods first.”
Rae gritted his teeth but said nothing. Unleashing his fury would only stop him thinking straight.
“Didn’t you know? Our very own Security Secretary, Mr Oliver Young, has a crush on the lovely Cora. One of many men, apparently.”
Rae’s stomach lurched at the thought of Cora with the ruddy-faced old creep.
“What’s your play, asshole?”
The Free Citizen Page 14
