My Neighbor's Keeper

Staring out into the vacuum of space, I feel homesick for the Jordan Valley. I wish I'd been given my chosen assignment as a fighter pilot tasked with defending my homeland from the Surge. Instead, I’ve been resigned to the thankless task of hurtling through the void tending to sheep on the Bowdler Express. But I serve the House. We all do. My commander and captain, Aryeh Ross, has promised me a transfer if I complete the twelve-month term of my initial deployment.

The Oculus Directive has suffocated and smothered all harmful speech across the globe—so that’s that, as they say—yet violence has risen up in its place to fill the void like weeds in a meticulously manicured garden. And someone must mete out the punishments. You can silence the poor, but their hearts still beat for rebellion. Deterrence is a necessity.

The House government is the worldwide government that rules over the one-world nation-state of Pantopia and the Oculus Directive was a surveillance statute passed unanimously after the Gaza War precipitated a string of terror attacks set off by a call to global jihad. It brought the world to the doorstep of nuclear annihilation. The major world governments of the United States, China, Russia, the Arab nations led by Iran, and Israel faced off in a biblical clash over tensions in the West Bank. Pockets of unrest and the ontogeny of horrific attacks and incursions fomented tensions globally and exposed the polarization within the various nation-states. A one-world government sprung up and a new rule of law prevailed upon the world. Those like me who had lost loved ones re-enlisted under the enforcement divisions of the House leadership. Now an uprising known as “the Surge” has once again thrust the world into conflict and brought us to the brink. Some say the Oculus Directive failed. I think this war was always inevitable and the Directive merely bought us valuable time. And I want to be there to fight for my country. But like I said, I wasn’t given my choice of assignments. I could take matters into my own hands. But with surveillance everywhere, I must silence even my thoughts.

I still remember when the missiles hissed through the sky on a cold, misty October morning and how the doors of Sheba Medical Center were locked tight for safety reasons, leaving me unable to get to my mother who was dying. How she died alone listening to exploding bombs and air raid sirens, while I was restrained from entering.

I had fought with the hospital guards and banged against their riot shields, draped in tear gas and the dust of the rubble of concrete and debris that settled on every surface like a perennial coating of snow. But I was just a boy, and I was too small then.

An alert vibrates on my wrist monitor - disturbance in car C-313. “Passenger name?” I ask, my voice cold, and mechanical. “Boris Volkovich,” the AI responds. “Ahh, yes, a fellow military man,” I think, remembering my service in the Israeli Defense Force back home.

I remember that realization in the IDF Boxing League as a boy when I first realized what I really am. I remember seeing my opponent across the ring in my first fight as an object of punishment. A powerless thing to bend to my will. I rushed across the ring, with no fear or hesitation. Never questioning my superiority. Assured of the outcome. Inflicting damage. Never relenting. Until submission was earned.

Fast-forwarding to my military days, just like any draftee in any army, there had been a medical test, a day-long exam, and a battery of psychological interviews.

But Boris’s subversive tendencies had not been caught. Rebels are experts at disguising their true intentions, but not forever. And that is why I cannot give voice to even the thought of my true intentions.

And that is how it is with zealots and sectarians – the innocents always pay the price for their grand designs. There is no shortage of angry, young men with no prospects and no great cause to lay down their lives for—and no shortage of oppressors to rail against and blame for their condition. But a tree grows in Brooklyn.

“Passenger C-313,” I say, “Conductor Yoel Levi speaking. Prepare for examination.” I walk down the corridor looking in on passenger inmates, some sleeping, some on telephone calls back home, and some reading from tablets. They fidget nervously and shoot apprehensive glances outward, unaware that I am just a few feet away. Listening. Watching.

The steel flooring and industrial white plastic walls with their chrome detailing cut the corridors into clean and sterile lines. Boris is lying in his bunk when I arrive, and I watch him silently for a long time to see what he will do next.

“I know you’re there Yoel,” Boris says.

“Then you know why I’m here,” I say.

“What I know is that I am stuck in this car for twenty-two hours a day on lockdown. It’s inhuman, and I have a few other bones to pick with management besides—but that is the big one,” Boris says.

“I’ll be sure to let him know,” I say.

“Aren’t we entitled to some recreation time, you know, to keep the body supple for war?” Boris asks.

“After a lifetime of training, I think you can stand ninety days of inactivity,” I say.

"I need to get home," he says.

The oppressed, marginalized, and disadvantaged always see their utopia and their comeuppance on the other side of the ruins. And they always become their oppressors on a long enough timeline. It is just a game of musical chairs. And that is why speech must be regulated. The short-sightedness of the populace is a source of profound danger.

I’ve heard it said that even the devil can cite scripture for his own purposes. I’ve also heard it said that mistreating the poor is an insult to the Creator. But this is to overlook the fact that there will always be the poor and they will always be dangerous. I guess even cynicism has its zealots.

“I assume you’ve seen the news,” Boris’s voice is strained, his eyes hauntingly hollow. “The Surge. It’s not just a faceless threat anymore, Yoel. It’s devouring cities, and today, it’s reached ours. Thousands more of our people are dead.”

“And whose people do we have to thank for that?” I say.

“That’s the problem with you Yoel. You still think this is a war between natural enemies pitted against one another by divine forces. You think these factions, coalitions, and alliances are a consequence of the natural order—just an outgrowth of that age-old battle between good versus evil. And, of course, you are on the side with the white hats. You believe that. It’s convenient, even necessary for you to think so—"

“—and you don’t believe your cause is just—"

“—It isn’t that my friend. Not at all. What it is really like is a casino filled with gamblers and dealers. You see it? They’re all there. Playing hands. Flipping cards. Pulling up the edges to see their hand. Calculating odds. Choosing strategies. Trying to beat each other. Posting wins and losses. Chip counts up and down. Chips changing hands. Tokens of a pointless competition—as futile as the conquering of the world with flags. A real tug of war. But it’s the House, with its watchful eye. The House takes all, judges all, and decides all. The decks are stacked. It’s the House rules. The enemy was never on the battlefield at all.”

“Are you done? Want to take any more subversive shots at the House? You want me to double your re-education time?” I ask.

“Don’t you see that you are just as much a prisoner as I am? I still have rights. I am still a person. I am still your countryman.”

“Doesn’t give you the right to voice dissent, prisoner,” I say.

“I just needed to get your attention, that’s all,” Boris says.

“What for?” I ask.

“I need to get back home. The war has come to my doorstep. Joey is in the path of the Surge—you remember Joey, my brother, visiting us in the barracks?” he asks, and adds, “Remember when we’d be on leave at the Officer’s Club, playing pool, singing songs, throwing darts—and Joey would come down and all the ladies would gush over him because he was such a fresh cut young pup, bright-eyed, fair-cheeked, and beardless?” Boris asks.

“I remember everything. But I can’t help you. If you want to stop the Surge, serve your sentence. Re-enlist. If they’ll take you,” I say. But I do remember Joey. Boris’s family were devoted orthodox Jews. And loyalists. Security Surveillance Officers had determined that a subversive leak had come from Boris’s house. And Joey had a big mouth. So, his own brothers suspected him. And with a family of eleven brothers, it wasn’t hard to be suspected of something. They reported him to the SSO. Boris was the lone holdout. Joey was sentenced anyway—and though he was only twelve—he was sentenced to adult prison. Boris’s father had a nervous breakdown. This created a rift in the family. And sealed in Boris a contempt for the law. Joey would eventually be reunited with his family, indeed, now led the nation, under the House’s authority—but that is another story. Needless to say, I love Joey—but I will not be compromised.

“Much as I love how I look in the uniform, I don’t have time. I need to get back now. And you know damn well what lengths I’ll go to if it means keeping Joey safe,” he says.

“I can’t help you,” I say.

“Can’t or won’t? Hey, just don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Boris says.

“He has a deployment of guards,” I say. “That should be enough.” But I know that it never is.

Back home, I had been selected as a Border Patrol Officer and later elevated to a Yamam Counter-Terrorism Officer, which was among the most dangerous assignments, and Boris had been assigned to Field Intelligence, which was reserved for promising cadets. He gathered evidence where the enemy would strike, and I deployed counter-offensive measures, in the field, and hunted down the cowards that dealt death from afar or shot the unarmed—and I made them regret it—that was my God-given talent. We were very close in those days before we found ourselves on different sides. Boris would even drink to the death of our enemies and listen to me bear my soul over shot after shot after shot of ice-cold vodka.

In those early days, we were both issued green uniforms and TAVOR SAR bullpup assault rifles and assigned to the same four-month basic training class, where we shared a bunkhouse. Unlike me and Boris, Aryeh Roth—the Captain of the Bowdler Express—had been placed with the Military Police. He had been a “true believer” then, and he is still a “true believer” today.

Aryeh isn’t just a rule follower. He takes pride in the absolute order established by the Oculus Directive—in its most extreme forms—no matter what the human cost. To him, the silent, watchful eyes of surveillance aren’t oppressors but guardians. To him, no price is too great. He walks the corridors with stern authority, his beliefs unshaken, even as whispers of discontent rustle through the silent spaces of the Bowdler Express and are transmitted in coded messages to avoid detection.

“I’m going to have to take you down to re-education now,” I say.

“Twist my arm,” Boris says, adding, “If you can get me a life pod back to the Ben Gurion Spaceport while you’re at it, that would be swell.”

“If it’s any consolation, Boris, I know what it’s like to have a loved one in harm’s way and not be able to get to them,” I say.

“That and $2.99 will buy me a trip on the Metro,” he says.

As I lead Boris around the circular ring of passenger cars toward the re-education chamber, I surveil the other passengers. Each car has a screen embedded in the ceiling and the walls. The inward-facing wall of each passenger car is made of one-sided glass. We can see in. But they cannot see out. They never know when a ship conductor is watching or listening in or has been alerted by the AI computer system to disruptive behavior. They never even know when the captain, affectionately known as “Loco Driver” is walking the corridors, like a ravening lion looking for an excuse to pounce.

The passenger cars of the Bowdler Express are luxurious. Appointed with leather seating, crystal glassware, goose feather comforters, Egyptian cotton sheets, and every imaginable creature comfort at one’s fingertips—the click of a monitor away—the penance is paid in isolation and enhanced surveillance alone. Luxury and unsettling quiet. A prison of the mind.

The ceilings and walls double as displays which constantly record and monitor the passengers. Every passenger also has a handheld device to be kept on their person at all times, even during recess and eating periods. Every handheld device has a button, just like back on Earth. If anyone offends you, all it takes is to point and press and they will be sentenced to a re-education car. Total accountability.

The inmates police one another.

* * *

A guard in black fatigues and a black riot mask stands watch outside the door of the reeducation chamber and another identical guard stands directly inside. They both have utility belts with a prominent ceremonial rapier on the left side, a cattle prod, and a handgun on the right side. I nod to them as I push Boris in and remove his electrified hand restraints.

I then shackle Boris into a restraining chair positioned in front of a flat screen with electric prods interlaced into the shackles and conductive terminals in the stirrups. Images of the Republic are displayed in an eerie montage of monuments, icons, and images of crowds cheering in unison to applaud the triumphs of the Pantopian government.

The House government anthem plays through the PA system: “The flag flies high o’er every house, The all-seeing eye to protect our vows, The noble dead march where the zealots prowl, Unity, unity, to you we bow, Pantopia, Pantopia, all hail, This land our land, your will—it never fails, Pantopia, Pantopia, all hail, This house our house, sweet daughter Israel.” It plays over and over.

* * *

The Loco Driver, Aryeh Roth, is a slim, severe man with mantis-like arms adorned with elbow-length leather military gloves with flared sleeves, alternatively in a deliberate march, clasped behind his back, or crossed across his chest. A red beret cap dons his head above his bearded face and his signature red scarf. He also wears leather boots and a gray officer’s uniform.

Aryeh Roth’s face appears on the monitor. He says, “Are you trying to buy yourself a one-way trip to the internment camp at Ben Gurion?”

“Is that on offer?” Boris asks.

“Subject yourself to programming prisoner, or face the consequences,” Aryeh says dispassionately.

I watch, horrified, as Boris struggles against the restraints and tenses against the electric shock. His muscles seize and his head shakes and presses back into the headrest. He fights against the restraints. The inside guard approaches. Boris’s eyes roll back in his head as the prolonged current begins to sear his nerves and causes him to lose consciousness, his head limp and lifeless, hanging over his chest, a drip of bloody saliva trailing from his mouth.

The guard goes to remove the restraints. As the machine powers down and the restraints are unshackled, Boris suddenly leaps forward, grabs the ceremonial rapier off of the guard's waistbelt, and waves it until we both back up. Then holds it to his own neck. He turns the blade around and thrusts it with two hands into his abdomen a few inches, grimacing, as a trickle of blood begins to pool out on his white prisoner’s shirt. He lets the blood pool and turns the rapier back around and continues waiving the rapier.

Aryeh Roth flashes back on the flat screen in the front of the room.

“Prisoner. You have broken protocol. Now you must be shipped to the internment camp at Ben Gurion. Yoel, please accompany the prisoner on the life pod, you are set to dock at Spaceport Terminal A at O’Nine-Hundred.”

“But Captain,” I say.

“Yes,” he says.

“I have a tour of duty and a promised assignment at the completion of the term,” I say.

“This won’t interfere with that. See your countryman back to internment. I will send for you after he is dealt with.”

And so my goal of being returned to active duty is, as is everything in this new world, a casualty to the disease of dissent.

* * *

The life pod burns its boosters and screams out into the void. Boris is shackled next to me. The blood in his abdomen leaks through the wound dressings and bloodies another white prisoner’s frock.

“Got any vodka,” Boris asks.

“I wish,” I say.

“You know you need to free me from the internment camp when we land,” Boris says.

“I guess our plan is working so far,” I say.