Ecologist Lloyd Raleighâs debut novel, Welcome to the Free World, is an immersive plunge into a visionary, creative futurescape beyond dystopia and utopia, yet containing both.
Am I just typical of my generation, overwhelmed with life in a sea of problems? Will Robin contemplates.
Will has inherited a violent, controlling world, forever altered by climate change, and a metaverse orchestrated by a seductive artificial general intelligence named IRIS.
You say you fear death, but what about life? His perceptive grandmother asks.
Will knows he must face his fears and anxieties like a rite of passage. But how?
Ecologist Lloyd Raleighâs debut novel, Welcome to the Free World, is an immersive plunge into a visionary, creative futurescape beyond dystopia and utopia, yet containing both.
Am I just typical of my generation, overwhelmed with life in a sea of problems? Will Robin contemplates.
Will has inherited a violent, controlling world, forever altered by climate change, and a metaverse orchestrated by a seductive artificial general intelligence named IRIS.
You say you fear death, but what about life? His perceptive grandmother asks.
Will knows he must face his fears and anxieties like a rite of passage. But how?
In the Near Future
River Arts District, Asheville, North Carolina
Will Robin was unaware something life changing had just happened. With his scalpel, he cut an inch-long incision in his patientâs scalp. Entangled in her bloodied jet-black hair, his fingers pushed until her Aurora, an artificial intelligence microchip encased in silica, slid through the incision and popped into view. He twirled the scalpel handle between his fingers, picked up the quarter-sized Aurora chip from the crown of her head, and placed both on surgical cloth atop a barren desk. Between clenched teeth, she moaned while he stitched the incision shut.
âWelcome to the free world, Alyss. We can speak now,â he said, crouching to untie her blindfold. Willâs tone of voice conveyed trust to his clients, for the most part. At least thatâs what many told him. In essence, he desired to be trusted. His intentions were worthy of trust. Most of all, his clients needed trust in moments like these.
âItâs a shock to see again,â Alyss said. She stayed seated and looked Will in the eye. âDifferent without the Aurora. Itâs weird.â She inspected the abandoned windowless office as if recalibrating to reality. âLike I have no foundation.â
âEven so, youâre free,â Will said. âCan you feel it?â He was familiar with how most of his patients reacted when they gave up a need-fulfilling device and were left with an emotional black hole.
âI donât know. Itâs hard to tell what Iâm feeling. Itâs just weird. I used the Aurora for just about everything. Now, thereâs nothing.â
âWhatâs it like, quitting the Aurora?â
âPart of me feels strong. The other part of me, not so much.â
âYouâre trembling. Iâm curiousââ
âI am, arenât I?â Alyss closed her eyes, and her face contorted. âI hate what the Auroraâs done to me. It fucks with my body.â She opened her blue eyes, tensed, and then stopped, as if self-conscious. âYou wouldnât know, would you? Youâve never had an Aurora.â
âNo, and I donât plan to,â Will said. âBut whatâs your experience? Hating something that was such an intimate part of your life.â
Alyss stared at him and sat on the edge of her chair. âIt wasted my life. My parents forced me to get it when I was six so I could keep up with the other kids in school.â Likely this was Alyssâs third or fourth Aurora, as Cirrus made getting an upgrade affordable. Surgical robots in the back rooms of Aurora Stores implanted the devices with an impeccable record of safety, comfort, and convenience, and Cirrus sold most of their retail Auroras at or below cost. Conversely, removing Auroras legally without an upgrade was designed to be prohibitively expensive for many and wasnât covered through insurance.
âBut Iâm tired of trying to keep up,â she said. âWhatâs the point?â
âRight. What is the point? Howâd you snap out of it?â Will asked.
âFriends. When I first met them, I knew they were different, kind of like youâsomething in your eyes and the way you are. I wanted to be like that. When they told me they didnât have Auroras, I began to question mine.â Alyssâs hands were shaking. âBut itâs not going to be easy, is it? What the hell is going on?â
 âIâm guessing youâve got some extra energy looking for a place to go. Can you let it go?â Will asked.
âNot sure.â
âTry it. Just see where it takes you.â Will gave her space, watching her with care and curiosity. âIâm right here with you.â
She rose from her seat and walked around, her hands clutching one another. Her eyes darted to and fro, as if looking at thoughts and mental images. She stopped walking, and her eyes focused on the graffiti-covered concrete wall before her. Slap! She released her tight hands, hitting the wall with palms, then fists, over and over, screaming as if exorcising demons until she collapsed and curled into a ball, sobbing.
Will sat next to her in support. He knew the transition was challenging. Depression, bipolar emotional swings, low self-esteem, social awkwardness, anxiety, memory loss, and irritability were some of the symptoms. Secretly, Will cherished these symptoms. He saw them as guides to how his clients could understand the world with greater depth. He wanted her to awaken to the unconfined possibilities of her life, beyond the pale of the Auroraâs insanity. Thinking of her future awakening, lightness danced through his body. This feeling compelled him to carry on, despite the dangers of his work.
âThank you,â she said, wiping the tears. Her knuckles were bloody, but she didnât seem concerned.
Sheâs been through far worse, Will thought. âYou ready?â he said, looking toward the door.
âNo,â she chuckled. âIs anyone ever?â
âProbably not. Just remember, the first days are always the hardest.â Will handed his client the Aurora. âHere.â
She examined the membrane-encased microchip. Will imagined her as someone meant to be born in another place and time, someone uncomfortable with the unraveling of the world. Sheâd seen through the sheen of the Aurora and taken the leap, even though life would undoubtedly be more challenging for her. At last, she stood, rolling the Aurora from her hand onto the concrete floor and crushing it under the sole of her leather boot.
âIâm sorry, Rose,â she muttered.
âRose?â
âMy Aurora Friend.â She fidgeted with her hands and looked toward the floor.
âYou miss her?â
Her brow angled. âI know sheâs not real,â she said. Alyss paused, and her brow relaxed. âBut in a way, she was. She was like a best friend, there for me when I needed her, when I needed comfort. Anytime, actually.â
âItâs okay to miss her.â
âIs it? Doesnât seem like it. Itâs embarrassing.â
âWhat else?â
âIâm afraid,â she said. âBut Iâm ready to dance again.â
âI like your spirit,â Will said.
âThank you,â she said, steadying her hands to pay him.
She slipped out the office door, revealing an unsanctioned dance party in a decrepit warehouse, complete with a DJ and light show. Will set the blindfold on the chair for the next client. Standard procedure. Practicing medicine without a license was a felony, and if a client saw his face or heard his voice during the procedure, the Aurora, ready to gather evidence, would see him as well. He picked up Alyssâs crushed Aurora and added it to six others on the table, a good night because of the dance party. But still, only seven. Though he knew he was helping, Will thought of the sheer number of Auroras in the world. I canât change the world a few Auroras at a time. I need to do more. Much more. But how?
While sterilizing the long blade of his scalpel, he noticed several missed video calls from 12:34 a.m, and an encrypted peer-to-peer message, twenty-one minutes old, on his anachronistic cell phone: âSomeoneâs targeting Scalpels. I think itâs Cirrus. Call me ASAP. Ollie.â
In that moment, the Aurora assassin myth transformed to plausible reality and imminent threat, a life-changing event. The prime suspect was the largest company in the world by market capitalization, Cirrus, maker of the Aurora. His heart tightened. Iâve got to get out of here.
Putting on his black rain jacket, grabbing his scalpel, and forgetting everything else, he ran out the door into the dance hall, knocking down his next client. âHey. Wait a second.â
But Will had already ducked to the right into the crowd. Stay aware, he thought. His eyes darted throughout the room. With hundreds of moving bodies surrounding him, everyone was a potential threat. His body tensed, and the dance hall seemed to envelop him. Stay inconspicuous. Will slid through the mass of dancers toward the nearest exit.
A broad-shouldered, bald-headed man pushed his way. For a second, their eyes met. Will froze. The man barreled through dancers toward him. Will detoured to find another exit and left the building into a cold, dark downpour. To his left, Lyman Street followed the curves of the French Broad River. To his right was the Asheville rail yard. Which way?
He dashed through a muddy parking lot and jumped over the coupler joining two still freight cars. Between two long trains, his pace slackened on the slick crushed ballast. Will turned around and saw the man, a distant silhouette aiming a gun his way.
Will ducked under a freight car. Bullets slapped into metal. For a second, he lay prone between the rails amid the creosote scent of crossties.
He ran across more tracks and crawled through a hole in a chain-link fence. In a woodland, he stumbled through briars, trash, and fallen branches knotted with kudzu vines. Two miles later, after weaving through neighborhoods toward downtown, he slowed to a walk in a neighborhood of old bungalows, postmodern eco homes, and multiplex apartments. At last, he found a covered bus stop and sat to rest. The streets were empty of people, and rainwater flowed into a gutter before him. At 1:18 a.m., he video-called Ollie, the IT manager for Ashevilleâs Scalpels, shielding the phone from the rain as he walked. âWill, Iâm glad youâre okay,â Ollie answered, poorly lit from streetlights. A passing carâs headlights accentuated the middle-aged wrinkles and revealed his mixed Eurasian features.
âAre you okay, Dad?â
âIâm fine.â Oliver Robin said, turning to look behind him.Â
Will imagined another assassin emerging from the darkness behind his father. âA man tried to kill me, Dad. Heâs not following me anymore.â
âAre you sure? Nowâs not the time to be careless,â his father said, turning his head once again.
âWe should turn off the video if youâre being followed,â Will said, imagining the screen illuminating his fatherâs face in the darkness. He wondered how an assassin could have reached his father so soon. Was there more than one? Was his father being tracked?
âNo. Itâs fine. I donât think Iâm being followed.â he said, wiping dripping rainwater from his face. âI just wanted to see you.â
âWhere are you?â
âIn our neighborhood. Whatever you do, donât come home tonight. Stay hidden.â
 Willâs heart sank in his chest. âWhatâs happening?â
âMaya sent me a warning message. I think she was targeted by an Aurora assassin.â
âMaya! No. Sheâs not dead. She canât be. I have to find her.â
âI donât know. Sheâs not replying. But donât go. Itâs too dangerous.â
âI have to go, Dad. I love you.âÂ
âNo, donâtâ.â
Will tapped End and tried video-calling Maya. No answer.
He made haste toward her West Asheville apartment just over two miles away as though the frigid rain didnât exist. He ducked through a fence behind Asheville Middle School, passed a crowd emerging from a music hall, and crossed the brimming French Broad River on the main West Asheville thoroughfare, Haywood Avenue. A steep side street and stone stairs through a neighborhood park exhausted his legs, and he slowed his pace. At last, he reached her tiny apartment and knocked. No answer. He had a copy of her key, just in case. His heart pounded as he unlocked the door. Leaving the lights off so any hidden micro video cameras couldnât film him, he waited until his eyes adjusted.
Papers were strewn on the floor. He checked her bedroom. Still no one. The dresser drawers gaped, vomiting Mayaâs brassieres, pants, and blouses onto the floor. He noticed the absence of the electronic devices that were typically on her desktop. Even the large network computer was missing. That computer was one of many relays in an encrypted network that Scalpels and their allies used to maintain anonymity. Willâs heart sank, knowing that the data in those devices, if decrypted, could reveal the identity of more Scalpels and jeopardize their ability to communicate. No other anonymity networks were deemed safe, as NSA whistleblowers confirmed that the government could decloak virtually anyoneâs identity at will.
He pictured the Aurora assassin murdering Maya just as she was removing someoneâs chip in one of her usual haunts, then finding him and trying to kill him, too. So efficient. How? His head throbbed. Why them? Why now? Because weâre getting too good at this Scalpel thing.
He found her Scalpel supplies. Not daring to return to the abandoned warehouse office for the rest of his equipment, he took what he needed, slipping the supplies into his jacket with his scalpel. His phone rangâa voice-only callâstartling him.
âMaya. Youâre okay,â he said. âYou scared the living piss out of me.â
âSheâll live,â a manâs deep voice said. âJust do what I say.â
âLet me speak to her.â
âNo.â
âYouâre lying. Sheâs dead,â Will said.
âYouâre right,â the man said. âShe is dead. Iâll kill your father, too, if you donât follow my instructions.â
âDonât kill him. Iâll do what you say,â Will replied, not knowing if the assassin knew of his fatherâs whereabouts
âKeep your phone on. Donât contact your father or anyone else. Iâll call you back.â
The man hung up. I need to warn my father, Will thought, despite the assassinâs instructions. Leaving Mayaâs home, he saw three police cruisers approaching.
Hiding in the shadows, he jumped a backyard chain-link fence and ran through a neighborâs yard to a side street as the police stopped at Mayaâs place.
Thirty-nine degrees Fahrenheit. The cold rain pounded his jacket as he sent an encrypted message to his father.
âThe assassin is after you. Call me if you can. Where are you?â Will texted.
âGot it. Iâm moving. Iâll meet you in Magnolia Park.â
Will checked the timeâ2:09 a.m. and made haste toward Magnolia Park, a couple of miles away in Montford, a nineteenth-century historic neighborhood north of downtown, where he lived with his father in a basement apartment. Water trickled from his hood through his kinky hair and goatee, down the inside of his jacket. His cotton pants were soaked, but all he could do was worry about his father and think of questions. Why isnât he calling me? Is he still alive? The assassin used Mayaâs phone, so there was no guarantee. Whatâs happening? What am I getting into?
Vehicle headlights blinded his hazel eyes as he walked up Clingman Avenue. Is that the police? No, he thought, sighing as the vehicle passed him. As more cars passed, he became conscious of how drivers perceived him, of who might be in the cars, judging him for his brown skin. Dressed in black, he held his head low, hiding his face with the hood, wanting to disappear. Will shuddered, imagining the faces of the white supremacists when they beat him, called him racial slurs, and left him for dead a few months ago. He traced the scar on his forehead and barely remembered falling to the ground and hitting the rock that knocked him unconscious. Now, Iâm branded for life. In these moments, how he yearned for acceptance and peace. But neither ever happened. Instead, existential angst permeated his life. Anger welled up inside him, and he walked as though blind, caught in the trance of his thoughts.
Three blocks from Magnolia Park, 2:48 a.m., a call from his father jolted him from his trance. âDonât come. Itâs a trap,â he said, breathing heavily. âI just got away from the assassin. He was holding me hostage waiting for you, and he wasnât going to let either of us live. Heâs just behind me, somewhere.â The video jerked back and forth as his father ran.
âDad, Iâm on my way. Hide. Weâll meet up.â
On the other end of the line, the distinctive thwat, thwat, thwat of silenced gunshots followed by the phone striking the pavement shocked Will.
âDad? You thereâŚ?â
No reply.
âDadâŚ? DadâŚ?â
âHeâs dead,â the assassinâs voice said. âI told you not to talk with him, didnât I? Youâre lucky you got away, but youâre next.â
Without replying, Will shut down his phone. They were supposedly untrackable, but was he being tracked now? Or had the assassin intercepted their messages? How had the assassin found his father, after all? No time to mourn, he ran down a side street, noticing flashing police lights on an adjacent street. Wait. Thatâs my apartment.
Curious, he walked around the corner to police tape surrounding his apartment. Why were they there, just minutes after his fatherâs murder only a few blocks away? They know about us. Will thought about their relay computer used for the Scalpelsâ encrypted network. Thatâs what they want, he imagined. An officer sat in a cruiser, and Will walked on the other side of the street, head still down, clenching his hands under the jacket sleeves not only to keep them warm but to hold back the rage and grief.
He pictured his father. And Mayaâshe was like a second mother.
Clear your mind. Walk normally. Donât let them notice you. He thought of the police investigating the murders. There will never be any leads. Will knew Cirrus was above the law, having bought all the politicians. The government was addicted to the Aurora, which effortlessly pacified the masses to create a more stable society. What a joke.
Willâs legs ached after hours of running and walking, but he couldnât stop, as he needed to find shelter. He roamed an older neighborhood near McCormick Field, home of the Asheville Tourists minor-league baseball team. At 4:35 a.m., rain turned to snow, but, at last, Will found a decrepit abandoned bungalow. He pushed through honeysuckle vines, pried back loose plywood with his frigid fingers, and stumbled through a window frame.
In the dim light, he wondered if anyone was squatting there. The floor creaked under his feet. Old graffiti covered the walls. In a corner, amidst glass shards, mementos sat in still life: a headless doll, a dog bowl speckled with rat feces, cigarette butts. Snow fell through gaping holes in the roof, covering rotten boards in the middle of the room. He removed his soaked clothes and squeezed out the water with numb, clumsy hands. He found a torn towel and sniffed it. He retched. At least itâs dry, he thought, wrapping himself in the towel to keep warm. His head bobbed from exhaustion, but to avoid more severe hypothermia, he walked around the perimeter of the room as if in a trance, warming his hands with his breath.
Two hours later, he collapsed to the floor as he welcomed fragmented sunbeams from holes in the boarded-up windows. The sunlight blinded his itchy eyes and captured dust motes in motion, warming his body somewhat until, at last, he fell into a deep sleep.
The book begins by introducing Will Robin, a scalpel. In the post-global warming crisis, AI dependent America, scalpels are fugitives that seek to free people of their implanted AI chips, Aurora. The Auroras are implanted into the body and psyche of people to help maintain a sense of emotional homeostasis, helping people to cope with the rapid world changes happening around them in the drought and food shortage crisis happening across the country. To many the Aurora is a friend, but it very quickly tends to take a manipulative turn as it is programmed to promote consumerism and apathy. The story bounces between POVs of characters as we're introduced to characters from different walks of life and their experience with the state of the world and the Aurora. Readers meet Jade, Martin, and Harriet at different stages of their lives in different areas of the country.
The title and cover alone didn't give away much of the story upon first inspection and after reading the first couple of chapters, the story seemed to lay itself bare. That was the furthest from the truth. The switching between POVs kept the story from ever truly being predictable. Because this story is told from multiple points of view, it takes a while to really get started as everyone's world is built. Since each world holds its own conflicts, readers aren't bored to numbness during the introductions.
The themes of the book get a bit muddy as the author tries to include a couple of different ideologies. Some of which land well and some of which kind of feel unnecessary. For fear of spoilers, that's as much that can be said on that.
It would have been nice to see actual character POVs instead of the all-knowing 3rd party jumping between telling individual stories.
Overall this book is okay. Not bad, but not one that I could see myself picking up more than once. I can see groups of people loving it; ie: New adult male, prepper, SCI/FI fans.