Borderline Security

Sergeant Jeffrey Dobbs woke at 7am sharp at the Marriott Hotel just outside of town. It was November 4th which meant he was 14 weeks and 6 days into his divorce. He imagined his wife - no, his ex-wife now - and their 13 year old daughter back at their house in town, still asleep, and he felt an ache in his chest. His wife had begged him not to do it.

“We’re the lucky ones,” she told him, that last day before she reluctantly signed the papers. “I’m a doctor - we have the money to rise above it - as long as we go to mass and say the words, we can have a good life. We don’t have to believe, we can just blend in.”

But everyone has a limit, a line they won’t cross. Sergeant Jeffrey Dobbs had served his country. He had sworn an oath to the constitution. He was loyal to a fault.

“Don’t you love us?” his ex-wife had asked. But it was because he loved them that he knew he had to do it. A divorce would shield them from his actions. She agreed to write ‘political differences’ on the documents before signing. And to register Red the next day. He moved into the Marriott and maintained his unregistered status.

He slid out of the sterile bedsheets and put on his uniform. He had retired with honors when his daughter was born in 2023, back when it was easy to distinguish between right and wrong. At that time it seemed right to collect his pension and allow his wife to support them so he could become a stay at home dad. Nowadays it was wrong, set them apart. A non-traditional family dynamic was dangerously close to being non-American, and it was the wrong time to be different.

Jeffrey looked at himself in the mirror on the back of the closet door. He’d gained a little weight since retirement, and the uniform didn’t quite fit the way it once had. He turned his back to his reflection and made the bed perfectly, then checked to be sure he had his state ID, federal biometric authenticator card, passport and hotel key before leaving the room.

On the street he passed a group of people huddled together outside the entrance to the hotel wearing the white burkas that had become commonplace among young people seeking to shield themselves from the facial recognition cameras and targeted adverts on every street corner. They had been talking in low voices as he approached them, but they became silent as he passed, possibly because of his uniform, or his bare face, or both. Their appearance reminded him of his daughter’s first Halloween costume, a bedsheet ghost. He thought about shouting ‘boo’ at the gaggle as he passed them, but these days you never knew. He could be tased, or worse.

Instead of taking his car from the lot, he decided to walk into town. It was a beautiful day, what used to be called unseasonably warm for November, but nobody said that anymore. The leaves rarely changed now til New Year’s, and there hadn’t been a white Christmas in years.

The first checkpoint was at the town border. A ragged line of men in camo and black masks, only their eyes visible. Not the neat lines he’d been trained on during his years of service. These men looked sloppy by comparison, with their tired eyes and untidy uniform shirts untucked, sometimes hanging completely over their gun belts. It would be hard to draw a weapon quickly enough to save one’s skin if it really came down to it, he thought. But this was a wealthy suburban area, and these men were likely the most down on their luck ones here, recruited from the underemployed ranks from the city across the river, the unskilled positions they’d once filled now usurped by AI and robots.

He remembered when Border Patrol used to be relegated to the borders between nations, not the endless and ever-increasing borders between counties, municipalities, and even individual buildings the way it operated today.

He was ready for the request for his IDs, had them out as he approached the Gatekeeper, the man with the red armbands wound around his biceps. He was not ready for the man’s disdainful tone as he eyed Jeffrey’s uniform up and down like it was stolen goods draped across the black man wearing it. But he should have been expecting it, he thought. He had served his country for 20 years, but not this country. Not the country it had become.

The Gatekeeper spent some extra time with Jeffrey’s passport, noting the stamps from foreign nations he’d been to on vacations with his family.

“Funny that Africa’s not on the list,” the Gatekeeper said as he handed Jeffrey his passport back. Jeffrey remembered his training and kept his face a neutral mask.

Then the Gatekeeper gestured for Jeffrey to step into the scanner, a plexi kiosk with a solar panel roof, studded all over with ugly grey electrical components. Jeffrey stood with his arms over his head inside the kiosk while he was scanned for weapons and toxins, enduring the advert for his daughter’s favorite sim-game featuring her by name thanks to the facial recognition scanner correctly identifying him. He thought it odd that his separation from his family had not yet registered with the advert algorithms, until the next advert suggested an AI sex-bot for the recently divorced. He grimaced, the scan complete, waiting the requisite additional 30 seconds for the impossibly proportioned sex-bot to stop crooning his name so the kiosk door would slide open to let him out.

Then he stepped out of the scanner and officially inside the border of the town. The town he had lived in over the last 13 years. His town. Technically.

He still maintained an address within the town limits. He’d allowed his ex-wife and daughter to keep the house, and signed a lease for himself, a tiny rental unit above a yoga studio specifically for pregnant moms. But when he had intended to move in, there had been the inevitable bureaucratic red tape. Applications and application fees. And did he want to expedite his application to put him at the front of the line - for an extra fee of course. And a loyalty pledge.

Being a man of principle, he had declined. Hence his stay at the Marriott, even as he continued to pay rent for the apartment so that he didn’t lose it. Every day he received a text indicating his place in the housing approval queue. He had remained steadfastly 38th in line the entire time.

The second checkpoint was at the border of the public library. But a line of protestors were marching and singing between him and the Border Patrol agents.

“Hey hey, ho ho, socialist institutions have to go,” they sang. He glanced at the signs.

‘Scripture is my Science’

‘The Bible is the Only Book We Need’

‘It’s Not Complex, It’s Common Sense’

One of the protestors broke ranks to approach him.

“Why don’t you join us,” she said. “A military man should understand.”

“Understand what?” Jeffrey asked.

“A place like this, it undermines the principles this nation was founded on - capitalism and competition, the free market and traditional Christian values.” She looked Indian or Pakistani. Maybe it was something about his expression, because she quickly added, “I’m doing this for my children, for their safety,” and she gestured to the marchers. There were indeed children in the crowd, the most raucous of them all, from what he could tell.

“Maybe another time, I have something I am here to do,” he said.

“You’re going inside?” Her eyes were wide, horrified.

“It’s my polling site,” he said.

She scoffed, then laughed out loud.

“What? You’re voting?” She laughed again, “What’s the point?” Shaking her head, she rejoined her children in the chanting and stomping of feet.

Jeffrey shouldered his way through the crowd to the next lazy line of Border Patrol agents. Looping 3D reels repeated images of the President inside the gif-boxes set onto temporary pedestals behind the men. In some the President was smiling. In others he winked conspiratorily, shooting at the viewer with his finger-guns, his signature gesture.

Jeffrey handed the Gatekeeper his IDs.

“State your business,” the man said. Well, really he was a boy, Jeffrey thought. Eighteen, nineteen at the oldest, he had pulled his face mask below his hairless chin, probably because of the heat. It was getting up towards the low 80s already, even though it was still early in the day. Jeffrey didn’t know how the agents could stand it, wearing their heavy fatigues and face masks all day. Then again, with their sizable sign-on bonuses only paid out after a full year’s worth of loyal service to the cause, maybe he understood it after all.

“I’m voting,” Jeffrey said.

“The President thanks you for your loyalty. Every vote of confidence counts.” The man-boy smiled, and it was genuine. He wasn’t just saying the scripted words, he meant them. “Here’s your loyalty card,” and he handed Jeffrey the list of Presidential loyalists on this year’s ticket.

Jeffrey stepped inside the library. It was quiet. Peaceful even. It would be easy to forget how much had changed outside its walls in just the last few years, how seldom anyone came into a place like this anymore. All the books lining the shelves, their slow logic toiled over one word at a time by human minds before AI could spit out an equivalent work in seconds, before info-memes replaced dissertations and leaderboards replaced diplomas in the great gamification of higher ed.

There was a line of voting machines against one wall, and Jeffrey stepped behind the curtain of the nearest one, the drapes falling heavily back into place behind him like somber judicial robes. He slid his federal biometric authenticator card into the slot, put his hand on the print-scanner and pressed his eye against the retinal scanning device. The soft chime of the machine’s acceptance of his readings sounded, and then the AI greeted him.

“Hello Jeffrey Dobbs, will you be affirming your loyalty today?”

“Blue ticket,” Jeffrey said.

“I’m sorry,” the reedy gender neutral voice said, “You are being asked a yes or no question. Will you be affirming your loyalty today? Yes or no?”

“No,” Jeffrey said.

A red light flashed behind the glass on the print-scanner. The voting machine was otherwise screenless. The empty face of the machine spoke again, “Please be advised that the Red ticket is the loyalty ticket. All votes are final. Please state your selection.”

“Blue ticket,” Jeffrey said. Despite the air conditioning keeping the building a perpetual 70 degrees, he was sweating.

“You wish to vote for all Blue ticket candidates, is this correct?”

“Yes,” Jeffrey said.

“Your vote has been registered,” the machine stated. “Goodbye.”

Jeffrey wandered to the back of the library. To the children’s section. He used to take his daughter here when she was little. She’d actually taken her first steps here, two perfect steps from the fish tank teaming with life straight into his arms. Now the tank was empty, the blue gravel at the bottom dusty under the pale strip lights shining silently from the ceiling. The picture books were abandoned on the shelves. The giant dumb stuffies his daughter used to climb on were all piled up in a jumble in one corner of the room, unable to compete with the AI models that now doubled as personalized tutors for every modern child to cuddle, play, and learn from without ever having to leave the comfort of their own homes.

He took a deep breath, stood at attention, and saluted to the otherwise empty room, just like he had at the Tomb for the Unknown Soldier on their family trip to Arlington last summer. Then he made his way to the secure exit, which was built like an airlock. He stood for the thankfully brief scan that ensured he hadn’t stolen anything before its second outer door opened to allow him to exit from the rear of the building.

He decided to walk through the adjacent sports fields rather than head immediately back to the hotel. There was a baseball diamond, the dust well groomed, the grass carefully mowed, although weeds were growing under the bleachers nonetheless. He sat on the hot aluminum and raised his gaze to the immortal, unchanging sky.

It wasn’t long before he saw the first black dot, a drone zipping across the blue until it was hovering over his head, 50 feet up. He could just hear its incessant whine over the busy chatter of the sparrows in a nearby tree. Then it was joined by another. And another. There was a rumor they could track you through your biometric card, or your phone. A rumor that was thoroughly debunked on the government approved news networks.

A black van with tinted windows pulled into the empty parking lot behind the library, and three men holding automatic weapons came out of it wearing helmets with black-tinted face shields. The three of them walked briskly towards Jeffrey, passing in front of the stylized bull that was the town mascot. Despite its fierce demeanor, Jeffrey reminded himself that a bull is still a herd animal, and he smiled grimly.

“Identification cards,” one of the men said, his gloved hand out to receive them.

“I’m just sitting here, enjoying the day,” Jeffrey said, gesturing to the empty baseball diamond. A heat shimmer was beginning to warp the light over home plate.

The man’s hand remained outstretched, though Jeffrey noticed the other two men flick off the safeties on their weapons.

Jeffrey put both hands up in surrender, then slowly reached into his pocket for his three forms of identification. The man accepted but did not look at them as he produced a handheld from a holster.

“Scan your palm,” he said. Jeffrey complied. There was a beep from the machine, then the man fed each of Jeffrey’s IDs into a slotted black box clipped to his belt. The smell of burning plastic stung Jeffrey’s nostrils.

“Your palm scan has identified you as Kovu Abara, an illegal alien. You are under arrest for overstaying your visa and for impersonating a member of the armed services. Stand up and place your hands behind your back.”

“My name is Sergeant Jeffrey Dobbs, and I served this country for 20 years,” Jeffrey said, standing and squaring his shoulders.

“Your name is Kovu Abara, and if you’re lucky you’ll be serving your time on the production line of the Smith & Wesson Detainment Center for room and board, or deported if you are not.” Then he nodded to one of his compatriots who lunged forward to strike Jeffrey in the ribs with the cattle prod he’d produced from its holster behind his back.

As the men dragged his limp body back to their van, one of the drones was already livestreaming the arrest.

“Another illegal was caught today attempting to subvert our nation’s most hallowed institution, our free and fair elections,” the AI voiceover proclaimed. “But thanks to the patriotism of our brave men on the ground, our Border Patrol agents have, once again, saved our democracy - let freedom ring.”

Then the familiar bars of ‘America the Beautiful’ played as the livestream faded into darkness, just before the next one began.