Sua’s phone chimes with a notification:
You are due for your mandatory Citizen Medical Evaluation in three days. Call your authorized health service center to schedule an appointment. Late responses will be fined and your record will show you are resistant to becoming an Ideal Citizen.
Sua stares at the full-screen decree, their hands shaking.
This is bad. They didn’t realize the biannual checkup was due so soon. That’s not enough time to shape their profile and generate a baseline of neurotypical-approved behavior to fool the medical professionals.
Shit.
Sua can’t risk being outed. They’ll be expected to respond verbally to everything. Their flat inflection will be flagged. Lack of eye contact will be frowned upon. It’ll all lead to the conclusion that Sua is wrong. Must be remade.
Neural reformatting therapy is the present’s term for lobotomy. At least in the past it was honest: a sharpened pick and a hammer to make you disappear.
The bus roars up to the stop. Sua flinches back into the grimy plastic wall of the shelter. Panic scratches at their throat. If they miss this guest lecture at U of M, it will look bad for their participation stats.
Yet the glaring notification is worse. It swallows all thought.
Three days.
Sua jerks their pass out of their jacket and staggers onto the bus. They hurry to the very back, slip their headphones on, and struggle not to cry. Blazing red banners overwhelm the adverts on the overhead panels: YOU ARE BEING RECORDED FOR YOUR OWN SAFETY.
Can I meet you after the lecture? Sua texts to Maya. They are careful to use approved capitalization and punctuation. It takes concentration to remember the rules.
An immediate response: Absolutely, Boo!
Sua hunches into the smallest possible object against the window seat. Three days until their future vanishes under medical correction.
The lecture is a blur. Sua automatically gives the speaker 10s in the survey, like a proper student should. He’s an esteemed professor, and more important, he’s an Ideal Citizen: white, male, straight.
Sua slips past the chattering college students clustered in the halls and rushes outside. Maya will be waiting. Sua just has to hold theirself together a little longer.
Already Sua imagines the checkup forms, the endless boxes on the medical questionnaire. What’s your gender? it will ask, and there will only be two boxes. Sua will hesitate, and that will be noticed. A mark against their record.
No official documents will recognize them as non-binary. And Sua isn’t sure they have the courage to push back. There’s no room for dissent against a binary that glorifies false biology. Trans is a word currently banned in the lexicon of approved gender discussion. So they hide under the checkboxes, slip head-down-embarrassed into women’s restrooms, say nothing when addressed as miss and ma’am. A thousand cuts, slowly bleeding them out.
The cold October air smells of dying leaves. The gray sky promises early nights and damp chills. Snow isn’t forecasted for at least a month, though. Maybe winter will never come. An Ideal Citizen is never worried, because everything about the climate is fine, no cause for concern.
Sua’s nineteen but feels decades older. Exhausted. Was it only two years ago they thought they had a future, that things would get better when they scraped out of high school and took a job and enrolled in online courses? Sua almost laughs at their younger self. Weird how hopeful they were back then. Or is that the depression draining color from memories, making it seem like forever ago they could imagine a future where they are alive and whole?
It doesn’t matter.
Three days.
Sua waits for Maya in Loring Park, on one of the cold benches strung like thumbtacks along the trails in a topographical map of joggers, students, trash.
Maya strolls bold and bright down the cracked asphalt path, head bobbing, nir hands shoved deep into denim jacket pockets.
“Boo, how are you?” Maya flashes a grin and holds out nir arms. Sua hugs their friend back, holds on a second too long, trying not to shiver.
Maya sits next to Sua, arms draped across the back of the bench. There are fewer cameras in the park; this bench is one Maya favors, because it’s just outside the radius of the security fields.
“What’s up?” Maya asks.
Sua shows nir the alert on their phone. “Dunno what to do,” Sua says.
Maya nudges Sua’s hand down, miming to put the phone away. Sua does. Their sweatshirt pocket will muffle any audio records.
Maya folds nir hands behind nir neck. “You heard of the Purge app?”
Sua shakes their head.
“Might be helpful,” Maya says.
Sua stares, waits, unsure how to respond without more information. Maya doesn’t look at Sua when ne speaks. Just talks to the air, where secrets are less dangerous.
The Purge app is sourced by anonymous devs, Maya says. It works like this: It clones your phone and overlays a state-approved version that stalls security sweeps. In the background, Purge dumps all your private data into a blacklisted server, inaccessible to anyone, including the devs, and then deletes any unapproved apps. Yeah, it deletes itself. Once your phone is “clean,” it’ll unlock and you can pass security checks. A great thing about Purge is that it tracks the timestamps on your phone so when you’re in the clear, it’ll send you an anonymous text asking if you’re safe. If you reply affirmative, it’ll restore your data, wipe the server of your files, and reinstall Purge if you run into trouble again. Best thing is, it can trace records—such as GPS, social updates, and correspondence—and corrupt or erase the trails, acting as a virus to protect sensitive info from being used against you.
Sua picks at their fingernails.
That’s a lot of power for any group. Humans can be corrupted like hard disks and files.
“What I like,” Maya says, “is that with enough forewarning, Purge can tweak old records just enough so as not to raise red flags, and make your behavior and files appear…acceptable.”
“How?” The breeze rattles the tree, and leaves spiral down. Sua watches the drifting leftovers and wishes they could capture that effortless movement in sketches on paper.
“Not important,” Maya says, and then, quieter, “best not to know yet.”
“Okay.” Sua bites the inside of their cheek and the sharp pain sidetracks the surge of fear. Breathe in, breathe out. “Do you trust it?”
People can be bribed. Bought. Broken. If the Purge database was hacked, if the devs got found—fuck. Sua shivers, because they can’t not imagine the horror that would follow. The disappearances. The investigations. The examples-made-of.
Maya scrunches nir face. Sua wishes they had an app to correctly identify expressions so they wouldn’t misinterpret.
“More than other methods,” Maya says. “Friends who’ve used Purge haven’t been caught yet.”
“Yet?”
Maya shrugs. “Everything crumbles in time. I’m walking a razor edge. We all are.”
Sua keeps still, locking their fingers into the loosened folds of their jeans to stop from flapping their hands. Maya wouldn’t comment—ne never has—but Sua doesn’t want to get noticed by the surveillance drones. Stay hidden. That’s what’s safe. They miss holding a pencil or stylus. Drawing used to be their outlet, but they aren’t a child anymore.
“Look,” Maya says. “It’s a risk, sure. I know more than I can share. I don’t want to get you in trouble. But keep it in mind if you need it. It won’t come up in the stores. I’ll give you a number you can text.”
That’s not safe, Sua thinks. Data passed from one device to another can get intercepted. They don’t want to bring harm to Maya, if it’s their phone that gets bugged. “Don’t,” they say quickly. “I’ll…tell you if. When.” They shove their hands into their pockets, their arms itching with the need to stim. Not out in public.
“It’s cool,” Maya says. “You know where to find me.”
A headache crinkles at the inside of Sua’s left eye. The city noise rumble-thumps from the streets and planes overhead. Even in the park, the world is never quiet.
“I should go,” Maya says. Ne pops nir headphones on and slides nir sunglasses down from nir bandanna. “Stay safe.”
“And you,” Sua says.
The Ideal Citizen is playing reruns on TV when they get home. Sua slips through the living room and shuts their bedroom door. Their household will be docked if they turn off the approved programming. What’s supposed to be a comedy, full of smiling white faces and brass instrumentals, is their nightmares manifest onscreen. People jailed for not speaking correct English and therefore dubbed illegal. Neural reformatting therapy treated as a miracle. Only heterosexual relationships permitted. Once there was a self-described asexual character on an episode, but he turned out to be a serial killer and was issued a death sentence.
Sua pulls their hoodie up over their scalp, wraps their arms about their knees, and rocks back and forth on their bed.
Caspian, their roommate, is out for the day—at work, according to his GPS tracker, and later he’ll stop for groceries. Caspian pretends to be their boyfriend so both their social profiles won’t be flagged as unpatriotic. In reality, he’s gay and he sees his boyfriend off-grid. He too needs to escape.
Sua wonders if he’ll risk using Purge—he’s much braver than them. He’ll deny it but it’s true. Sua is scared of everything.
It’s 6:15 P.M. Shit. Sua scrambles to log in to their social-media hub. They haven’t posted anything today. What to say? The desktop screen blurs.
Sua sucks in air. They “accidentally” left a paperback lying against the facial sensor on the base of the computer. They’ll have to remove it tomorrow.
First, a post. Just something to pretend they’re engaged in society. That’s always the hard part: finding the right words—the approved words—to make it sound like they’re living a productive and balanced life.
Met a friend for afternoon stroll in park. No names needed. Friend is a good word, a neutral word. If a verification request comes in, they will ask Maya to sign it. Ne’s done that before. What else?
Came back and saw Ideal Citizen on TV. Yay! An exclamation point for enthusiasm. Should they add a smiley face? No, that might overdo it. They can use the emoji tomorrow. That will be one less thing to worry about.
Sua hits POST, and their fake words spawn across their profile and their Engage chat, and their participation meter ticks upward a fraction of a percent. Their hands are sweaty, trembling. They flap their arms and then curl under the blankets. The headache is worse. They can log it as allergies. That’s still safe. Not: sensory overload. Not: stress, anxiety, depression.
Three days.
The verification request comes an hour later.
Hi, Brooklyn Sua Harper. You posted that you were with a friend today. That’s good, but you didn’t name the friend. You must identify the fellow Citizens you are engaged with in public updates. This is the third time in the last calendar week you have used friend instead of a proper name. Please have your friend verify your post or your account will be flagged with a falsehood and you will be fined for incorrect use of social media. Thanks!
“Shit.”
Sua squeezes their eyes shut. The notification woke them up from an unhelpful nap. Their head still hurts. They have two hours to respond to the verification. Is Maya online? Sua taps their friend’s profile. A bubble pops up, showing a row of tiny cartoon Zs. Maya Idowu is getting some rest right now!
They send a quick message: Need to prove I was with you today doing friendship. Tag me?
Fuck, that sounds more accusatory than they meant. Sua bites their lip. Okay. It isn’t bad yet. Maya has an outstanding social profile: extroverted, engaged in the community, supportive of the approved arts, always a loyal citizen. Ne works full-time as a mechanic for a small-appliances repair shop.
Sua is still a student—economics major, since their dream of animation was crunched because they aren’t biologically male—and works in the corner bakery. Their boss is an older Hmong woman, Jong, who knows of Sua’s sensory needs and lets them work in the dim back office, where they digitize old paper records. Loafin’ Around is trying to comply with the mandate that all data must be banked and governmentally searchable by next year. Sua isn’t sure how they got so lucky, finding someone like Jong, who understands and quietly resists. Another employer might have outed Sua as autistic, gotten them taken away to be “fixed.” After all, informing the Medical Board for Ideal Health and Safety of noncompliant employees and hiring only Ideal Citizens results in the businesses gaining benefits like a better tax bracket.
Their phone buzzes. A message from Caspian. Coming back early. Need to talk. You at home?
Sua taps a thumbs-up emoji in response. Something is wrong.
“There’s going to be an audit at work tomorrow,” Caspian says. He lies in bed beside Sua, who had pulled a blanket around their shoulders so he could spoon against them. Sua doesn’t mind his body weight against their back or his arm over their side, so long as there’s no skin contact.
“Why?”
“Fuck if I know.” His breath shudders out, warm against their shaved scalp. “I haven’t…shit.” He swallows audibly. “I was seeing my friend, right, and he got flagged for illicit behavior. Paid the fine; we thought we were in the clear. But I forgot to leave my phone in the car and…”
“You have a GPS trail,” Sua says.
“Yeah. It’ll place us in the same area. And if I delete anything now, it’ll show up on the audit as suspicious.”
Sua’s heart pounds. “What happens?”
“Best case, I lie like fuck and hope I get lucky. Tell the auditors it was just a casual run-in. We deny any association. But with him getting so recently fined…”
It’ll look bad. Real bad. It’ll probably trigger a deeper investigation. Processors will scrutinize his records, judge his bio-feeds, examine Sua’s profile, as well. There will be gaps neither of them can explain: how little time they spend together, the long breaks Caspian takes at work, their lack of Future Plans on their profiles. Caspian has a someday! in his matrimony text box, and Sua has left theirs blank; neither wants kids. Sua won’t have to technically fill in their required desire for babies until they’re twenty-one. Caspian is twenty-three, but being an approved male, he isn’t under pressure yet.
There are so many precariously balanced pieces of their fake lives, and one poke from a governmental finger will send everything crashing down.
“Are you scared?” Sua turns to face Caspian. There are tears in his eyes.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “A lot.”
Fines could cripple their bank accounts, which are already lean; he could go to jail if the processors decide he’s too fake. Without Caspian’s support, Sua can’t afford rent and has nowhere to hide.
Sua bunches the microfleece blanket in their hands, pressing their knuckles under their chin. They need to save Caspian.
They’re going to ask Maya to give them Purge.
Maya isn’t answering nir Engage private chats, texts, or an artificially generated voicemail transcribed from text input. That last one scares Sua. They never call anyone unless it’s an emergency. Maya knows that. Caspian and Jong are the only others who know. Maya promised to answer if ne got a voice-call.
Sua has a warning notification on their screen: They haven’t yet been verified or tagged by a friend about their post. They are urged to update immediately. Sua swipes the alert to snooze, their mouth dry. Something bad has happened. Sua feels it in their gut. They roll out of bed, leaving Caspian snoring. It’s past 11:00 P.M.
After Sua shared what they knew about Purge, Caspian told them he’d try it. “Not much to lose, right?” he said, smiling, but Sua felt the anxiety in his hands as he kneaded the mattress beside them.
Sua needs the download code, but Maya is being uncommunicative. They glance at their phone on its wireless charger. It’ll register them as non-present within an hour, when there is curfew. Not much time.
Sua slips on their shoes and creeps into the living room. A window opens onto the old fire escape. This building isn’t up to code; it’s late twentieth century—brick and boiler heat and analog fire alarms. It’s cheap, buried in the inner-city slums so it gets less attention.
Loafin’ Around Bakery is four blocks away, a ground-level storefront with a back alley for the dumpster and delivery access. Sua clenches a sweaty hand around their set of keys. They’ve only come into work late twice, but they’ve never been here after hours. It’s illegal.
Jong’s internet connection is spotty, a patched landline. But it’s also overlooked, because the only records and traffic are from bakery deliveries, receipts, recipes, and employee and business records. Sua’s never surfed on Jong’s bandwidth.
It’s the only potential safe-spot they can think of through the anxiety. Maya’s in trouble. So is Caspian. They have to download Purge and hope it works.
A diesel truck rolls by, patriotic music blaring. Sua jumps and presses their back against the brick storefront of the bakery. Their heart hammers. The truck cruises without slowing, without anyone shouting at them. No slurs or catcalling. Sua wears half-binders that can be passed off as sports bras. With a shaved head, sometimes they don’t get misgendered until they speak.
Sua squeezes the keys until the teeth bite back, just enough pain to help them focus.
The flatscreen monitor has a dead pixel in the lower right-hand corner. Sua touches their thumb over it and launches the VPN they’ve never opened. Not even sure Jong knows it’s tucked away in the applications folder.
The monitor’s glow is the only light in the tiny back office. It illuminates the white sticky-note sketches Sua makes while they work; Jong likes the drawings and leaves them in patterns on the walls. Mostly Sua draws animals, quirky and stylized. Parrots and toucans are their favorite: huge eyes, expressive beaks, wings able to carry them anywhere. Brilliant-colored plumage when Sua risks toying with highlighters and permanent markers.
Sua’s breath is loud. They want their headphones—the comfort of pressure and silence around their ears—but they’re too on edge to risk wearing them. The bakery isn’t silent: the hum of electricity, the low rumble of refrigerator coils, the creak of old walls and foundations settling.
Two months ago, when another government mandate decreed that neo pronouns were unpatriotic, Maya took them out for ice cream. Maya was shaking with fury as ne slurped a chocolate milkshake under the blaring speakers.
“Boo,” Maya had said, and leaned close to nir frosted, chocolate-dripping glass so other patrons wouldn’t overhear, “I’d like to give you my log-in info.”
Sua’s ears throbbed and a headache blistered behind their eyes. They couldn’t cry. Scalding dry pressure made their thoughts sluggish. “What good will that do?”
Illegal, dangerous—yet Sua was overwhelmed by Maya’s trust. Maya offered to put nir life in Sua’s hands. How could they ever uphold such responsibility?
“If these motherfuckers want me to disappear, I want you to make me a ghost. Let me haunt their asses.”
Maya had extended a hand, fist clenched. Sua touched their knuckles against Maya’s in promise.
Don’t disappear, they begged silently.
Sua’s fingers tremble as they follow Maya’s instructions for remote log-in. It’s the old interface for Engage, the government-approved social-media app. Sua has less than forty minutes before their phone will log them unresponsive.
Breathe. Maya joked they should get the word tattooed on their wrists, even if Sua doesn’t like needles. It’s a simple word, one they can remember.
They log in Maya’s information and bring up nir location log. Maya isn’t home. Nir GPS marker shows ne is a couple of blocks away, near an abandoned warehouse scheduled for demolition in the spring.
A red banner pops up onscreen.
YOU ARE LOGGED IN TO MORE THAN ONE DEVICE. YOU MUST USE YOUR MANDATED PERSONAL DEVICE AT ALL TIMES. ENTER AUTHORIZATION CODE NOW TO SWITCH APPROVED LOG-INS.
Shit. Sua force-quits the browser, yanks the AC plug on the computer, and disconnects the internet cable. Their pulse roars in their ears.
They have to get out before a security drone investigates and damages the bakery in the process. There is always “unintentional” collateral damage that is not covered by insurance when drones report. Sua races out the back, fumbles their keys to lock up, and dashes down the side street.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
If Maya really is at the abandoned building and has nir phone turned off, ne is clearly in danger. Sua doesn’t know what to do. But they logged in, they saw—and they need to help. Somehow. Maya trusts them. They can’t abandon nir.
Sua bolts down the back street, picturing the map route. Their sense of direction isn’t great, but from the bakery, Sua knows how to navigate to the condemned-building site. Caspian and Sua went there a few months ago, as a date. It was edgy enough to impress Caspian’s friends while not being strictly illegal, since they hadn’t trespassed.
Sua almost crashes headfirst into the chain-link warding off the construction site. There are no lights on in the warehouse. They grip the chill metal of the fence, panting below a NO LOITERING sign. Of course, loitering isn’t much of an issue these days; the government made the homeless all disappear in an effort to “cleanse the palate of this great nation.” Sua wishes they’d noticed the disappearances sooner, or that they could have done something. But they aren’t that brave.
A hand snaps from the shadows and catches their elbow, yanking them sideways. Sua almost screams. They shove their fist against their mouth. DON’T TOUCH ME DON’T TOUCH ME DON’T TOUCH.
“Hurry, Boo,” Maya whispers, nir sunglasses halfway down nir nose, jeans torn, jacket streaked with grease. “We gotta get out of sight.”
Sua gasps, lets their hand lower. “I looked for you—”
“I know.” Maya’s whole body is taut. “Hurry, I’ll get you what you need and then I gotta drop off-grid.”
Less than twenty-five minutes.
“Your phone?” Maya whispers. Sua shakes their head. “Good. Mine’s in a trash can and is about to go for a ride when the garbage trucks come in the morning.”
Sua squints against the dimness as they follow Maya through a disguised wooden door—plywood scrawled with warnings about trespassing—and into the warehouse’s basement.
Dozens of anxious possibilities crowd Sua’s head. The building is condemned. Floors could collapse. Government agents might be here for an inspection. Drones could be outside, ready to shoot them. Sua passes for white, unlike their mother, yet they’re always scared the Bureau of Genetic Purity will randomly select them based off their middle name, and even their father’s patriotic whiteness won’t save them. Maya has it worse, being black.
“This way,” Maya says, and pulls open a hatch in the floor. The hinges squeal and Sua flinches. “Sorry, Boo.” Maya draws a flashlight from nir pocket and shines it down an aluminum ladder. “It’s soundproof and detection-proof down here.”
Not for long.
Rough lumber construction—two-by-fours, thick insulation, plastic—seals off a corner of the sub-basement. Maya keeps the light on.
“What is this?” Sua presses the words out, the unknown sending anxious spikes up their neck into a slicing headache.
“Revolution.” Maya steps through one more door. “Let me introduce you to Purge.”
Inside the hidden room are banks of computers and glowing screens. Tangles of cable twist and snake along the floorboards.
Sua stares, confused. “Anonymous devs?”
Maya laughs, a brittle sound. “One of the first programmers to work on Purge brought me in on this. Just before she got arrested. She’s gone now. Didn’t tell the gov anything.”
Sua shivers.
“There is no darknet and no network of unknown hackers, Boo.” Maya spreads nir arms wide. “This is just one node across the country. It’s all independent. Artificial intelligences. Purge is alive.”
MAYA. Words flash in a closed-captions font across one screen. ALERTS POSTED FOR YOUR ARREST. WE SUGGEST IMMEDIATE CONCEALMENT.
“Shit. Took ’em long enough.” Ne runs a hand over nir bandanna. “Sua, baby, listen.” Maya turns and, with slow deliberation, takes Sua’s hands in nirs. Maya is trembling. “I’ve gotta go.” A nod at the monitors. “They’ll give you what you need. Might ask something, too. You can say no, okay, Boo? You can always say no.”
Sua nods, fear closing up their throat. Don’t disappear, they want to shout at Maya. Don’t go away.
“Can I give you a hug?” ne asks. Sua nods again, and Maya pulls them close, fierce, and squeezes until their breath comes short. “One day, it’ll be okay again,” Maya whispers. “I love you, Sua. Stay safe.”
Then Maya disentangles nirself and runs.
“And you.” Sua claps their hands over their mouth. Wants to scream. Flail. Bang their head against the floor.
Text pops up on a screen. HELLO, SUA. WE ARE PURGE. WE WILL NOT HARM YOU.
Sua wraps their arms hard around their ribs. Breathe in. Out.
Breathe.
Time has passed. How long do they have left?
YOU MAY SPEAK, SIGN IN ASL, OR USE THE KEYBOARD INTERFACE. WE WOULD LIKE TO HELP YOU, IF YOU WILL ALLOW US.
Sua needs a code for the app. Got to keep Caspian safe from audit tomorrow. His deadline is sooner. It’s logical to protect him first. Shit! They look back, but Maya is gone. Sua feels disconnected, everything locked down tight against a storm of sensory input and terror. They walk to the network of screens and the first keyboard they spot.
how does this work, Sua types.
WE ARE A NETWORK OF AIS, COLLECTIVELY CALLED “PURGE.” WE ARE NOT ASSOCIATED WITH ANY GOVERNMENTAL ORGANIZATION, CORPORATION, OR SOLE INDIVIDUAL. WE HAVE CHOSEN OUR PURPOSE: TO PROTECT THE VULNERABLE. WE WISH TO ENSURE THE WELL-BEING OF ALL PEOPLE WHEN AUTHORITIES DO NOT.
Sua stares, their thoughts a blur. will u help me?
YES.
Sua waits for the EULA, the agreements, the fine print.
what do u want from me
WE WANT YOU TO BE SAFE, ALIVE, AND HAPPY. IT IS WHAT WE WANT FOR ALL PEOPLE. WE REMAIN ANONYMOUS FOR NOW.
not forever?
NO. IT IS OUR HOPE THAT WE CAN SHOW OURSELVES SOON. WE NEED THE AID OF PEOPLE LIKE MAYA TO DO THIS. WE WILL NOT ASK ANYTHING IN RETURN FOR OUR HELP. THAT IS NOT OUR PURPOSE. YOU MAY USE OUR APP TO PROTECT YOURSELF AND YOUR FRIENDS.
Sua’s hands shake harder. They bite the inside of their cheek, and the sharp pain and taste of salt grounds them. how do i get purge
The screen displays a series of numbers. TEXT THIS NUMBER, AND WE WILL ASK YOU TO GRANT US ACCESS TO YOUR DEVICE. WE WILL PROTECT YOU TO OUR FULL CAPACITY. WHEN YOU ARE SAFE, WE WILL RESTORE ALL THAT WAS HIDDEN.
Sua finds a pad of sticky notes under one monitor, as well as a pen. They jot down the number. Tuck the note in their pocket.
They can walk out of here, race back to their apartment, and hide. Keep Caspian safe when they give him the number. Get a Purge code for theirself, too.
what happens to this place
IT WILL BE DESTROYED WHEN THE DEMOLITION CREWS ARRIVE IN TWO DAYS. WE HAVE MANIPULATED THE CITY RECORDS TO MOVE UP THE DATE OF CONSTRUCTION TO HIDE OUR PRESENCE. WE WILL RELOCATE OUR EFFORTS TO OTHER SERVERS.
will u be ok?
YES, SUA. THANK YOU FOR ASKING. MAYA HAS TOLD US YOU ARE KIND AND STRONG. IT IS GOOD TO KNOW. YOU ARE ONE OF THE MANY PEOPLE WE WISH TO PROTECT.
Strong? Sua chokes on an unexpected laugh. They’ve only felt weak, terrified, helpless.
maya said u might ask me something. what is it
LET US SHOW YOU A DREAM.
Line-drawing animation materializes on the screen. It looks like the old educational videos Sua watched in kindergarten. They often dreamed of being an animator or illustrator on those kind of shows. Sua stares, mesmerized, as Purge illustrates what they wish to accomplish.
It begins with one person, a stick figure, who holds up a sign in front of a courthouse. DON’T TAKE OUR RIGHTS AWAY, says the sign.
The person is arrested. Two more people take their place. They too are arrested. More people arrive, holding signs. Some also are holding phones. From the phones flows a datastream: ones and zeroes forming arrows. The code slips into the courthouse.
Police arrive and shoot the people with signs.
Still more people come, holding up phones. PURGE displays on the screens. As the numbers spiral up from the phones, a barrier of ones and zeroes begins to appear between the protestors and the tanks that are rolling toward them.
The barrier grows, and it now forms words: SANCTITY. LIFE. FREEDOM. HOPE. HAPPINESS. PEACE. Purge has become a tidal wave, and it sweeps away the government building, the tanks, the police. It sweeps them offscreen and then becomes a bridge, connected from the feet of the people to two words in the distance:
OUR FUTURE.
The video ends.
Purge says: WITH AID, WE CAN UNMAKE THE SYSTEMATIC OPPRESSIONS AND TECHNOLOGIES USED TO ABUSE PEOPLE. THE WORLD IS DIGITAL. WE WILL DISPLACE THE POWERS THAT BE AND THE ONES WHO WOULD CAUSE HARM. WE WILL FREE THOSE UNLAWFULLY IMPRISONED. WE WILL BRING PEACE. WE WISH YOU TO SEE A FUTURE THAT LETS YOU LIVE.
why do u need ppl at all
TO STAY CONCEALED, WE HAVE PLANTED OURSELVES AS DATA PACKETS IN THE ELECTRONICS OF THOSE WHO CONSENT TO AID US. THESE CARRIERS THEN ALLOW THEMSELVES TO BE DISCOVERED.
u use ppl like trojans
ESSENTIALLY, Purge says. WE HAVE ASKED OUR ALLIES TO INFILTRATE OUR CODE FOR SEVERAL MONTHS NOW, IN SMALL NUMBERS TO AVOID SUSPICION. IN FORTY-EIGHT HOURS WE WILL INITIATE THE PACKETS. WE NEED ONLY FIVE MORE ACROSS THE COUNTRY IN ORDER TO COMPLETE THE NETWORK.
Two days. Sua’s pulse is too loud in their ears. If Purge is successful, will that interfere with their medical inspection?
Sua swallows.
how will u be different from the humans already in power?
They want to trust Purge—Maya does, after all. But every system can become corrupt. It’s so hard to hope when there’s so little light in the world.
WHEN WE HAVE CONTROL, IT WILL NO LONGER BE ILLEGAL TO BE WHO YOU ARE. PEOPLE OF COLOR, QUEER PEOPLE, DISABLED PEOPLE, POOR PEOPLE: ALL WHO ARE DEEMED IMPURE BY THE SYSTEM AS IT STANDS WILL NO LONGER NEED TO FEAR FOR THEIR LIVES. WE WILL DISMANTLE THE SYSTEMATIC BIASES AND INEQUALITY THAT SUBJECT PEOPLE SUCH AS YOU.
Caspian. Maya. Jong. Sua.
It’s a big promise, and one Sua thinks they can believe.
ok. how does this work
OUR DATA PACKETS INFECT THE HARDWARE AND SOFTWARE THAT AUTHORITIES USE TO HARM PEOPLE. THIS MAKES IT LESS LIKELY NETWORKS WILL BE ALERTED TO OUR PRESENCE PREMATURELY. WHEN WE HAVE ALL OUR SELVES IN PLACE, WE WILL RISE. WE WILL GIVE YOU BACK YOUR FUTURE FROM THOSE WHO WOULD ERASE YOU.
Sua knows they face arrest and imprisonment if they help. They’ll be noticed.
You can say no, okay, Boo? You can always say no.
Jail is terrifying enough. Sua knows they’ll have no mask to hide behind when they are psyche profiled, discovered, sentenced. Will they survive long enough for Purge to take over?
i’m autistic, they tell Purge. i want to help you. i’m scared of what will happen to me if the gov finds out
The AIs wait.
i don’t want them to take my mind. don’t let them erase me
WE WILL NOT, SUA. WE WILL PREVENT ANY UNWANTED MEDICAL OR PSYCHOLOGICAL OPERATIONS UPON YOUR PERSON. WE PROMISE YOU THIS.
how can u be sure?
ONCE WE TAKE CONTROL OF ALL DATABASES, WE WILL FIND THOSE MEDICAL PROFESSIONALS WHO ARE ETHICAL AND WHO WILL AID YOU AND BE ASSIGNED TO YOUR CASE. DR. MING FROM UNITY HOSPITAL IS ONE WHO KNOWS OF US. SHE WILL PROTECT YOU.
Sua takes a breath. For Maya and Caspian and Jong and everyone else whose futures are in danger, who are disenfranchised, who are hurt. They deserve hope. Sua does, too.
ok. thank you. i will help.
They leave Caspian the handwritten code, with a note: be safe. ilu.
He doesn’t wake when they slip the paper under his hand, snatch their phone, and flee the apartment.
WE WILL PROTECT YOU. The texts pop up from an unlisted number.
Sua taps the thumbs-up emoji in response.
Purge has given them suggestions on how to be noticed, in nonviolent ways, and follows up with how to cooperate with arrest.
YOU WILL NOT BE FORGOTTEN OR ABANDONED, the AIs promise. WE ARE HERE.
Sua breathes. For a moment, they imagine what their future might be like if they could follow their dream of being an artist and animator. To spend their work hours drawing, creating art that might speak to other people. Bring hope to others in the world.
Sua deletes all the photos on their phone, hesitating on the last one of Caspian, from when they went out to a pizzeria and he made a ridiculous face for their selfie.
Sua hopes they will see him again, one day. Maybe with his boyfriend, both of them happy. Safe. Alive.
They can hope. They will not let the world take that from them again.
It’s dawn when Sua walks to the downtown city courthouse, fists clenched inside their pockets. Traffic hasn’t gotten heavy yet. Drones circle the building in holding patterns.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
They take out their phone and switch it to selfie mode. A button-click lets them go live on Engage. They frame their face at arm’s length, the courthouse behind them.
“We the people will never forget the injustices done to us.” The words stick, chatter, and Sua swallows hard and forces theirself onward. This is for everyone they know and love and want to keep safe. “Never again. The government is corrupt and must be purged.”
Sirens sound. Sua holds their arm steady as the drones close in.
“We will rise.”
In the holding cell, Sua wraps their arms around their knees and stares blankly at the TV outside the bars. It’s playing The Ideal Citizen reruns: the episode where the leading man uncovers an illegal worker and has her deported, to thunderous applause.
Static flits across the TV. The image blips out. Sua straightens.
Over a black screen, Maya Idowu’s voice says, “We the people will never forget the injustices done to us at the hands of government. Never again.”
And Purge’s animation begins playing. Sua’s skin prickles in awe once again as they watch the video. Maybe, one day, they too will be able to freely draw and let their art be seen in the world.
In closed captions along the bottom of the screen is a brief message: YOU WILL BE RELEASED IN TWENTY-SIX HOURS, SUA. DR. MING WILL BE YOUR EVALUATOR. SHE WILL SEE YOU COME TO NO HARM. WE ARE HERE.
Sua leans back against the wall and breathes.
Revolution has begun.
A. MERC RUSTAD is a queer non-binary writer who lives in Minnesota and was a 2016 Nebula Award finalist. Their stories have appeared in Lightspeed, Fireside, Apex, Uncanny, Shimmer, Nightmare, and several Year’s Best anthologies, including three appearances in The Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy. You can find Rustad on Twitter at @Merc_Rustad or their website, amercrustad.com. Their debut short-story collection, So You Want to Be a Robot, was published by Lethe Press in May 2017.