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FREEDOM!

  By Russ Durbin

  Copyright © 2012 by Russell L. Durbin, RLD Publishing

  Cover Design: Charlene Lavinia

  FREEDOM!

  DO NOT FOLD, SPINDLE, OR MUTILATE

  Bill was old enough to remember when those words were printed on every IBM computer card, a rectangular piece of cardboard with holes punched by a keypunch so that the computer could “read” the card. In those days, the computer covered a whole wall.

  Long ago, Bill had helped design the first desk top computer. He also had worked on Big Blue and on Watson. Now, everything was compact and digitized.

  As he stared at the image of himself on his IdentiCard, a stereo likeness stared back. His fingers trembled momentarily as they curled protectively around the micro thin card.

  A shiver shook his frail frame as the raw March wind whipped sheets of icy rain against his back. Water flowed in a steady stream across the sidewalk, soaking through the cardboard soles he had inserted in his shoes.

  Shoes. Yes, that was the last request he had made. Let’s see, was that a year…or two years ago? He couldn’t remember.

  The answer had been the same as all the other requests. “Denied.” Just a single word flashed on the tiny screen of his IdentiCard. No explanation. No reason. Just…denied. But then, he hadn’t really expected any other answer.

  They had no use for shoes, and saw no reason why a human being needed more than one pair of shoes every ten years.

  Feeling the cold deep in his bones, he nevertheless held his position. His discomfort was a small price to pay for being first in line at the Society’s Procedure Center. He had been there since six o’clock.

  It had been a risk, slipping out of the Senior Resting Center. He was sure that surveillance cameras had captured his unauthorized exit. Had he been stopped, he would have been sent to the Corrections Center. Of course, the “corrections” would have been over in time for him to go to work in the factory by nine o’clock. But a mere human being can suffer a thousand eternities of Hell before then, he knew.

  The sound of feet splashing through puddles behind him told of others who had risked punishment by the Society in order to make a request. He didn’t look around, but he could visualize peoples’ anxious faces and could have catalogued their requests as if he had personally seen and heard them. Some would ask for medicine, some for clothes, some for permission to change jobs, some for permission to change wives, and on and on.

  There would be some who, like him, hoped for escape. Escape meant freedom! Freedom from total domination. This was the bright hope that sustained him. It was the prayer that he had silently breathed every day for a dozen years.

  He stared at the small screen to the right of the door, waiting for the word “Enter.” It would be very little warmer inside, but at least he would be out of the rain.

  Idly, he wondered when They actually had taken over the Society. It had been so gradual, no one realized until They were in control. They had ruled for…, let’s see, at least a generation, maybe longer…and still humans knew so little about Them.

  Their designs were no longer comprehensible to humans. After awhile, one simply stopped caring. They were here. They ruled. They would never relinquish their authority.

  A light flashed in his eyes. “Enter.”

  He hurried inside, but was careful not to walk too fast. He knew the consequences from a time when he was much younger.

  Finally, he found the Requests Office, Level Four, Office Four. He was first in line. As he waited, he glanced around at the people lining up behind him, eyeing him like hungry wolves.

  No one had a right to resent him, he thought. He was probably older than any of them, although with some people it was difficult to tell.

  At last, a light flashed. “Enter IdentiCode.”

  He swiped his card and a three-dimensional image of his face appeared as scanners compared it with the man. The image faded and a blue laser fixed first one eye and then the other. “Retinal scans complete. Enter.”

  The door opened.

  Inside, there was a table with a small screen containing instructions for filling out a request application. A small keyboard appeared at the bottom of the screen. There were no chairs. They didn’t use them and saw no need for humans to use them either.

  He leaned against the table and began filling out his request application. He was careful to follow all instructions exactly. One mistake on the form and his request would be automatically denied. One could apply only once a year. He glanced at the digital time in the upper right corner of the screen. It was eight-ten. He must hurry, for he could not afford to be late to work if his request was denied.

  His life consisted of sleeping, eating, connecting wires and tracing electronic patterns on control boards on the assembly line for twelve hours a day. And, of course, his thoughts always were about escape. Freedom!

  Most important, of course, as far as They were concerned, was the “great work” of the Society. What would happen when the “great work” was finished? Or was the work planned to be never ending?

  He pushed such thoughts aside and concentrated on the screen in front of him. The last instruction was to insert his IdentiCard. He clicked on “Submit.”

  The screen informed him that his application was “being reviewed.” A momentary pause and the screen instructed him to proceed to Level Three, Office Eleven. He hurried out of the room.

  In Office Eleven, he filled out an almost identical form, inserted his IdentiCard and clicked “Submit.” He was informed that his application was “being reviewed.” He shivered in the cold of the building, his damp clothing adding to his discomfort. He needed to use the facilities, but services for humans were minimal.

  While he waited, he thought of others who had tried to escape. The fellow in Ward Five, Room Two, just down the hall from him, had talked of running away and of rebellion. But where could one run? And how could one rebel?

  Such talk had been unwise; it had been recorded, analyzed and the man’s punishment had been swift and…awful. But, of course, it was over in time for the fellow to hobble to his job. He was young and They had needed him. For a time, however, he had been given a light-work assignment until he was fully recovered.

  From time to time there had been vague rumors that there were some parts of Continental Africa and the Equatorial Americas where They were not. Rumors quietly persisted of places where humans lived as they wished and where children were allowed!

  His children—he wondered what had happened to them. He hadn’t seen the boys for nearly thirty years. He was glad his wife, Grace, had died shortly after They had taken over.

  Recently, there had been rumors of a shadowy underground where humans were resisting Them. Bill wished rather than believed the rumors to be true. America’s official history had been rewritten by Them. But, Bill could remember the stories of how his country had won its independence.

  “What’s needed,” Bill thought as he awaited the reply to his request, “is a new war of independence.” But what could resisters do? Where would they hide? How would they attack Them?

  Bill’s precise engineer’s mind supplied the answer. “From inside. Form a Fifth Column right under their noses.” He almost laughed out loud as the silliness of his thought. “They don’t have noses.”

  Bill sighed. He was too old to fight such a war. He had no physical strength anymore, just his brain. Sometimes, he wondered if he still had that.

  “Review completed.” The screen informed him. The screen seemed to blink as if there was hesitation. Then the words appeared: “Proceed to Level Four, Office Four.”

  Strange! That was where he had started. Had he made a mistake? Had he done something wrong? He had never heard of anyone having to go back to the same offi
ce.

  He checked his IdentiCard. “Request pending,” the screen read.

  As he entered Office Four, he was startled to see one of Them waiting for him. It had been many years since he had seen one.

  He searched for some semblance of a face, but found none. It was expressionless, yet he knew he was being scrutinized minutely with tiny cameras. He was sure the pictures were being conveyed to the vast Global Computer Center (GCC) headquarters where again they were being compared with the image on his IdentiCard.

  Bill was startled when it spoke. The words were in his native language but without expression. “Citizen IdentiCode XF 16-561-430-2112BF, your request is granted. Your service to the Society is complete. Your IdentiCode has been invalidated. Follow me.”

  The digital voice ordered, “Accompany me to the Tissue Processing Center for termination.”

  With a soft purr of electronics, the machine glided to the door and made a sharp left turn.

  As Bill followed, he glanced at his IdentiCard screen. It read, “Void.”

  There were no tears of joy, only a faint swelling of the heart. There was only one escape from the Society. His prayer had been answered. He was, at last, to gain his FREEDOM!

  Postscript

  At the door to the Tissue Center, Bill’s robot companion produced a twelve-note musical tune, then rolled quietly aside.

  “That tune,” Bill thought. “That sounds like our na…I have not heard that tune since They took over.”

  As the door opened, Bill stood there shocked! On the wall in front of him was a World War II-era poster of a finger-pointing Uncle Sam with the words, “I WANT YOU!”

  As the door closed behind him, a smiling young woman marched up smartly and held out her hand in greeting.

  “Welcome to America Underground, Bill. You are now in the Yankee Doodle Revolutionary Army!”

  * * *