Peter’s gaze slid from the mirror to the same photograph he’d held as a soldier in Iraq. The edges were frayed, and the colors faded nearly to black-and-white. Even the child’s handwritten message across the bottom had softened to near-invisibility. But the faces of his wife and daughter remained. The five candles still sent up their smoke signals.
Peter slammed the palm of his right hand into the steering wheel.
“Why, God, why?” he moaned.
He struck at the steering wheel again and again, the pain shooting through palm, wrist, and arm. “Why, why, why?”
Two children stared at him from the backseat of a car traveling alongside his. The front seat of their car was empty, the steering wheel making slight adjustments on its own. Peter accelerated and left the children behind.
Wiping tears from his face, he touched a button that conjured a man’s square-jawed face. The half-transparent head hovered above the dashboard and spoke with the deep resonance of command.
“…and so we take these intrusive surveillance measures with sadness, forced to do so by the cowardly acts of these Neo-Luddite terrorists. It is they who are to blame for this loss of privacy, not the government.”
“Goddamn president!” Peter muttered. Above his car, a fleet of flying drones buzzed past, the roars of their engines drowning out the speech for a moment.
“...the Bill of Rights is sacred,” continued the disembodied head, “but so is the safety of our wives, children, and grandchildren. As Supreme Court Justice Robert Jackson remarked, ʻThe Constitution is not a suicide pact.ʼ ”
“Fascist.” Peter maneuvered through the heavy traffic with expert familiarity. Soon he left the town and entered a vast plain of yellowish scrub. In the distance, faded blue mountains rimmed the horizon.
Flashing lights erupted behind him, and Peter flinched, his hand shielding his face. He adjusted his rearview mirror—the low-profile of an enforcement cruiser slid close.
“I don’t have time for this crap!”
The hologram vanished, and a woman’s soothing voice spoke through the speaker system. “This car is now under official police control.” Peter took his hands off the wheel as the car slowed and pulled to the side of the road. In the rearview mirror, the police officer took his time getting out of his car. Under his breath, Peter recited words that Kayla recognized at once as those of the Founder of Potemia.
“When a new item of technology is introduced as an option that an individual can accept or not as he chooses, it does not necessarily remain optional. In many cases the new technology changes society in such a way that people eventually find themselves forced to use it.”
The officer strode to the car and gestured with his hand. The driver’s side window lowered automatically.
“I think you know why I pulled you over,” the officer said. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, with the build of a heavy-weight wrestler.
“I wasn’t speeding or breaking any rules of the road,” Peter said.
“Cut the crap.” The cop rolled his eyes. “You know perfectly well that I pulled you over for manually operating your car in a clearly marked automatic-only zone.”
“The Constitution guarantees the freedom to—”
“Step out of the car.” The officer eased back and placed his hand on his holster.
Silent, Peter unhooked his seatbelt, opened the door, and stood up.
“Hands at your back.”
Peter complied. His jaw ached from grinding his teeth.
The officer fastened a pair of handcuffs on his wrists. Then he jerked him around and glared into his eyes.
“When you’re on a public road, your personal freedom doesn’t give you the right to endanger the lives of others.”
“I’ve never been in a single accident,” Peter said.
“Modern autopilots have a perfect safety record, while human error used to kill tens of thousands a year.” His voice rose a notch. “Maybe you’ve never seen what a wreck can do to a body? Well, I have! In my book, you’re no different than a drunk driver or someone waving a loaded gun in a theater.”
Peter clenched his jaw even harder.
The officer held a metallic disc in front of Peter’s left eye, and a flash of light illuminated it for an instant. A holographic screen appeared and scrolled through Peter’s file.
“I see you’re an Iraqi War Vet,” the officer said. “You’re a lot older than you look—but aren’t we all.” His voice leveled. “I served two tours in Iran twenty years back, myself. What a mind fuck that turned into when the Hajis hacked the command codes of our own drones and they turned on us.” He rapped his knuckles on his left thigh with a metallic thunk. Then the right, with the same result. “These babies can run the hundred in seven seconds flat, but they’re nothing compared to what the military is using these days.”
Peter remained silent.
The officer read more of the file and frowned. He waved the hologram away. “Okay, I get it now.” He gave Peter a long, appraising stare before continuing. “You know how I lost my legs?”
“No.”
“Neither do I. Can’t remember how it happened. Not the moments leading up to it, not the buddies who died, not even the months of rehabilitation in the hospital. I do remember that I had nightmares, of what I don’t know. I also remember my PTSD discharge, punching the wife, slapping the kid, shacking up with a 10:00 a.m. bourbon.” The officer’s face softened with compassion. “Know what I’m saying?”
“You had the memories surgically removed.”
“That’s right,” the officer said. “I’m telling you this one brother to another. I’m telling you this because of what I see in your file.”
Every muscle in Peter’s body tensed. “You think I’m going to erase the memory of my wife and child?” A hardness entered his voice—dangerous even.
The officer removed the handcuffs. “Can’t tell you what you should forget. I’m telling you my own experience, one soldier to another.” The officer placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m telling you that you can be happy again if you choose to.”
Peter said nothing at first. Then he nodded. “Thanks.”
The officer’s tone hardened. “If I catch you freewheeling again, I’ll be forced to arrest you, brother-in-arms or not.”
The officer returned to his cruiser.
Peter climbed into his car and spoke softly. “Success can be hoped for only by fighting the technological system as a whole; but that is revolution, not reform.”
He punched the autopilot button on the dashboard and sat back. The car eased into traffic with a polite blinker and accelerated to a precise speed. Peter stared at the photograph of his wife and daughter for a long time. “I’ll never forget you,” he said. “Never.”
With an angry jab of his finger, he switched the holographic news report back on.
“...robotics and artificial intelligence are changing our society drastically,” the president observed. “Yes, we’ve lost many jobs, but we also benefit from the innumerable advances in extending human lifespans, in automated food production, and entertainment. As universal, guaranteed minimum income payments increase every year, the need to work will soon be a thing of the past.”
Peter shouted over the hologram. “Everyone has goals; if nothing else, to obtain the physical necessities of life: food, water, and whatever clothing and shelter are made necessary by the climate. But the leisured aristocrat obtains these things without effort. Hence his boredom and demoralization.”
Peter recited the words of the Founder with such perfect recall that he seemed a machine himself. The car exited the highway, rolled up a long causeway, and slowed as a chain-link fence parted to let him through. A sign next to the fence proclaimed in red letters: Administrative Maximum Facility—All vehicles and personnel subject to search.
The car approached what looked like a squat fortress. Concrete watchtowers thrust up at regular intervals, with soldiers and mounted guns atop their battlements. A series of
razor-wire fences created a no-man’s land where attack dogs roamed freely.
The holographic face of the president had changed into that of a beautiful female reporter. “…has ordered three hundred fifty thousand Americans held under the new law without formal charge…”
The car glided to a stop next to a guardhouse.
“Window A down.” The driver’s window slid open, emitting a gust of air. Peter nodded as a youthful guard with a dark beard walked to the window. His name-tag read Karl, his baseball cap read N.R.A.
“How’s it hangin’, Pete?” Karl reached in a beefy hand and exchanged a fist bump.
“See the news?” Peter jerked his head toward the still-talking reporter.
“Fuckin’ A,” Karl said. “Those damn Neo-Luddite fanatics wanna start their own enviro-mental society—let’s plop ’em in a cage or, better yet, in Hell.”
Peter nodded, though his heart rate increased. “At least this is one job the robots haven’t confiscated.”
“Fuckin’ amen for the Jailers of America Lobby.” The guard spit a stream of tobacco into the dirt. “You hear about them dogs?”
Peter glanced at a pack of fierce-looking dogs lounging inside the no-man’s land.
“They’re gittin’ rid of ’em,” Karl said.
“No shit?”
“Yup. Replacin’ ’em with guard-bots. They even brought them metal fuckers by for a test run.” Karl gave an exaggerated shiver. “Watching them robots scurry about on twelve bug legs makes my skin crawl. Fuckin’ toasters with teeth.” Karl shook his head. “Never reckoned they git rid of them dogs. Tradition, you know?”
Peter half-smiled. “You sound like a Neo-Luddite, yourself.”
Karl lashed his head from side to side. “No, siree, I’m not! Not me. I dun hate those Enviro-Nazis. Fuckin’ Amen to killin’ ’em all, I say!”
Another gust rocked the car. Peter glanced at the darkening sky. “Storm’s brewin’.”
Karl nodded and waved him through. “Got that right.”
The car drove itself toward the main entryway, flanked on both sides by guard towers. Once out of range of Karl, Peter’s frown returned. “Fuckin’ amen yourself—you’ll see what happens …”
“…In other news, further portions of the Greenland ice sheets have disappeared during this year’s record summer heat, and engineers for New York City’s Levee Department report that they may have to evacuate more sections of the city permanently. Rising ocean levels have already displaced an estimated one billion people from the world’s low-lying areas. In the Middle East, radioactive fallout …”
The car glided to a stop before a metal doorway. Peter got out, leaving the car to drive itself down a ramp marked Employee Parking. He placed his palm on a metal plate and gazed into a light. The doors opened, and the fortress swallowed him. He repeated the procedure half a dozen times until reaching an area labeled Maximum Security Zone Delta.
“Pete! Welcome to the Black Hole!” A youthful guard with a wild mass of curly red hair rose from his chair and stretched. The guard sat before a wall of monitors, each displaying a steel doorway with a number painted on it.
“Catch that Packers game last night, Billy?” Peter readied a cart that smelled of food.
“Shit, yeah!” Billy exclaimed with eyes wide. “Can you fuckin’ believe that center! Seven-ten, five hundred and eighty fuckin’ pounds!”
“I hear some college prospects have topped the eight-foot barrier.” Peter waited for Billy to join him with a second cart.
“Dropping the gene therapy ban for the NFL was the best decision in the history of sports.”
“Got that right,” Peter said. The door’s internal locks disengaged, and it swung open.
“Well, crazies need feeding.” Billy rolled the cart into the hallway, followed by Peter. Only the regularly spaced doorways on both sides interrupted the sterile perfection of the passage.
“Heard last week was your birthday.” Billy removed a used tray from a shallow metal drawer in the first door and replaced it with a fresh one.
Peter shrugged. “Meaningless.”
“Come on. Just because the body doesn’t age and wither doesn’t make it meaningless.” Billy delivered another tray while Peter serviced the cell opposite.
“It’s different for you, since you have a family.”
“When were you born, old man?” Billy kept it light.
“1983.”
“The twentieth century! You’re fuckin’ eighty-six years old?”
“How old are you?” Peter asked.
“Hell, I’m only twenty-seven—haven’t needed the treatments yet.”
“So you’ve never known anyone who looks old, have you?”
“Shit, my granddaddy whooped my ass in soccer yesterday. The dude looks younger than I do!” Billy replaced another tray and moved on to the next cell. “Had a great-uncle who died, though. Fuckin’ piece of concrete came loose from the six-hundredth floor of a building. Dude never had time to blink. Cratered him.”
“I guess the longer you live, a freak accident becomes almost inevitable.”
“That’s a sobering thought.” Billy frowned. “Still seems better going quick like that than falling apart piece by piece.”
As they approached the end of the hallway, Billy nodded toward the final cell door on Peter’s side. “Ever look at the fucker in there?”
Peter’s body tensed. “Why?”
Billy delivered his final tray and approached the door, labeled ‘Delta #1.’ Billy opened a metal porthole at eye level and stared through a thick disc of glass at the occupant within. “Damn, that fucker looks old,” Billy said. “Looks like a barbecued hog that’s been overcooked. Come on, you gotta see this!”
Billy grabbed Peter’s arm and half-dragged him to the porthole. A stooped man with a white beard sat in profile before a desk with an opened book on it. A single reading light interrupted the darkness of the rest of the cell.
“He takes just enough treatments to keep from dying, but not enough to become young again.” Billy shook his head. “What the fuck is that about?”
“Maybe he likes being old.”
“I wonder what a harmless-looking shit like that did to end up here?”
Peter shrugged. “You could get fired for even asking.”
“Can you fuckin’ believe those knuckle-headed Supreme Court Justices? Ruling that lifers like this have a right to anti-aging drugs. I mean, what the fuck? The guy could be a hundred and fifty years old for Christ’s sake. Are we supposed to keep these bastards alive forever?”
Peter shrugged. “Half our prisoners would be dead by now without them, which would mean a lot less prison jobs, and prisons are the largest employer in the country.”
Billy’s eyes widened. “I’ve always said those Supreme Court Justices are geniuses!” He opened the metal drawer to remove the used tray, but Peter snatched it from his hands.
“Sorrrrryyyy! Just trying to help, bud,” Billy said. “Didn’t mean to poach your turf.”
“Force of habit,” Peter said, while his fingers grasped a tiny roll of paper beneath a half-eaten piece of bread. He moved so quickly that Billy didn’t notice. “I guess I’m tired from, well …”
“So you did celebrate after all.” Billy leered. “Was she virtual, robot, or the real deal?”
“Virtual,” Peter mumbled, and slipped the paper into his waistband.
“Yeah, I guess sims are cheaper and highly skilled,” Billy mused. “But you let me know if you need someone to hook you up.” Billy slapped his back. “I know some pros that will haunt your dreams for a long time!”
After enduring a recital of Billy’s real, robotic, and virtual sexual adventures, Peter escaped to a bathroom stall and unrolled the slip of paper. His hands trembled.
Four words scratched its surface: Propaganda of the Deed.
Peter clenched his hands and raised his eyes to the ceiling, drawing his breath in through his nose as if inhaling an intoxicant. A smile
spread across his face.
Chapter 8
Kayla splayed upon the shattered concrete like a rejected sacrifice. The light from the rising sun worried its way down the gleaming surface of the Wall and onto her still form. She sensed the change and her eyes opened. Photons crowded through the cornea, pupil, and crystalline lens, focused onto the millions of neurons at the back of her retina. A cascade of chemical reactions streamed through the optic nerve, invading the visual cortex of the occipital lobe. The process repeated over and over with such speed that her brain stitched an illusion of smooth continuity, assembling the trillions of chemical clues into a virtual representation of the scene before her.
A pair of antennae twitched against her cheek. Something flashed across her view, and a predator’s teeth engulfed the creature with a sickening crunch. Kayla jerked away from the massacre occurring inches from her face.
“Puck!”
The little mouse swallowed the cockroach and greeted her with a squeak. He must have hitched a ride in the hood of her cloak. Had he hidden there for so long, hunting for bugs while she slept? His loyalty seemed astonishing.
“I guess we’re fellow exiles,” she said with a smile and lifted the mouse onto her shoulder. Then she stood.
The dead city bristled, with its steel skeleton thrusting upward like the remains of an immense lion kill. Kayla could already feel the heat of the unfiltered sun on her skin. A burnt odor pervaded the air, though anything flammable had long ago surrendered to the elements. The wind echoed in a lonely solo amidst the ruins. Searching such a place for life seemed pointless.
What alternative do I have?
“I don’t know about you, Puck, but I’m not giving up. If this is our fate, then I’m going to keep searching.”
A few mosses, weeds, and even a stray bug or two eked out a living, but nothing suggested a recent human presence. The buildings, tunnels, and rusting vehicles hinted at the technological heights attained by those on this side of the Wall. But what could have happened to it all?
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