by James Corbett
corbettreport.com
April 19, 2026
“Happy Freedom Day, Esther!” said Mr. Locke, stopping just long enough to knuckle the brim of his cap before scurrying down the street with his bag of supplies.
“Comply no more, Mav!” said Grandma, returning the greeting with a raised pointer finger.
Calls of “Happy Freedom Day” and “Comply no more!” rang in the distance as we made our way past the other families, frazzled fathers and beaming mothers and laughing children, rushing home to begin the preparations. Hover cars buzzed to and fro overhead.
Grandma nearly tripped over a firework that had fallen out of the Roses’ shopping bag. “I think you dropped this!” she called after Mrs. Rose.
“Oh, thank you so much. I absolutely—”
“Mo-o-o-m!” cried Lysander.
“Excuse me, Esther, I have to—”
“Don’t worry,” grandma laughed, waving Mrs. Rose away. “We’ll see you at the celebration.”
“Yes, you will! Happy Freedom Day!” cried Mrs. Rose, already halfway down the street and bending over to pick up a glowstick that Lysander had dropped behind him.
When we got home, I helped Grandma unpack the supplies as she began preparing our picnic for the Freedom Day celebration.
“Grandma?”
“Yes, sweetie?”
“Can I hear the story?”
“Already? But we’ve just begun the—”
“Grandma, I need to hear it now.”
Hearing the tone of my voice, grandma stopped short. She nodded, looked me in the eye and smiled. Drawing me to the sofa, she pulled the book from the shelf.
Without another word, she cracked the hefty tome and began to read.
The Story of Freedom Day
Freedom Day began when Chicago was obliterated. Occurring as it did on the morning of April 1st, however, no one believed the news.
“Mushroom cloud over Chicago” was the headline read around the world, in every country, in every language. In the white-hot flash of a single unthinkable moment, the Windy City was gone. The famed skyline. The “L” train. Wrigley Field. Two million human souls. Gone.
Nearly everyone in the old political unit of USA took the news in the same way: with disbelief. “April Fool’s,” they insisted. “A deepfake,” they claimed. “Iranian disinfo,” they rationalized.
But then, moments after the initial report flashed across their screens, something happened that actually worried them: their screens went dark.
For the rest of the day, the people of the political unit of USA lived their worst nightmare. For an entire day—from the first news of the destruction of Chicago at 8:14 A.M. until sundown that evening—their screens were blank. No matter how often they tapped their machines, no matter how long they charged them, no matter which buttons they pushed, no matter what tricks they pulled to reset their devices, the screens remained stubbornly dead.
At first, no one knew what to do. They stared at their screens for hours, hoping for something to happen. Anything. They longed to commune with their oracles—the ones they called “Grok” and “Gemini” and “ChatGPT”—so they could figure out what to do. But, try as they might, they could not summon the electronic muse. Instead, they stared numbly at their screens. Soon they began to realize they were simply looking at their own reflections on their devices’ blank screens.
One by one, they began to look up and realize—as if for the first time—that they were not alone. Standing next to them were family, friends, coworkers, neighbours, strangers, all looking up from their own black mirrors, similarly confused. They looked at each other. They scratched their heads.
“What do we do now?” one of them ventured to ask.
At first, they merely listened for an answer from their devices, as they had been trained to do. They listened to a silence they had not heard in years. Some had never heard it. The silence of phones and TVs and tablets and radios that would not turn on. The silence of a world without digital noise and electronic chatter. Gradually, they noticed other sounds amidst the silence: birdsong and buzzing insects and the rustle of leaves in the wind.
Eventually, these gaggles of non-screen-starers fell to talking. Some spoke of what they had seen in that brief moment before the screens went dark. Others spoke of what they had not seen in that moment. Some chose to change the subject entirely, speaking of weather and weekend plans and other trifles from their daily lives. Some wept. Some sat in stony silence. Yet others broke into song.
Hours passed. The sun slipped below the horizon. And then, just when they had finally stopped thinking about their digital distractions, the screens shrieked back to life.
At precisely 8:37 P.M., every device in the political unit of USA began to emit a terrible, strange sound: an electronic klaxon of the sort that had been precisely calibrated to demand the attention of everyone in earshot.
There, on each and every screen, was a strange new symbol. The familiar bald eagle of the Great Seal of the political unit of USA had been transformed into a fearsome creature, its beak open, its talons extended toward the viewer. Behind it, a triangular shield sported a red-white-and-blue, stars-and-stripes pattern. Underneath this startling image, the words “OFFICE OF THE NEW ORDER” were emblazoned on a blood red ribbon.
The people covered their ears instinctively against the shrill sound. When it stopped, the eagle crest faded to reveal the face of the man whom the USA-ians recognized as their “leader.”
Translated from the original Americanese (which would be incomprehensible to our modern ears), this was the message that he delivered:
“My fellow USA-ians. Today, the unthinkable occurred. We have been struck by evil. Two million of our dear brothers and sisters are gone. There are no words for the scale of the tragedy to which we have just borne witness.
“The blame for this unspeakable deed belongs with our vile enemies: East Asia.*”
(*Some accounts record that he said “Eurasia.”)
“Long have they dreamed of this moment. But we will not give them the satisfaction of victory.
“Our sorrow has no words. But our vengeance speaks the language of destruction. The world will never be the same. You are all in this together.
“God bless the political unit of USA. Await further instructions.”
The screens went blank once again. This time, the people were quick to resume their talking.
“Did he just say…’you are all in this together’?”
“What does that mean?”
“What ‘instructions’? What are we waiting for?”
The people’s angst grew. Late into the night they discussed what they had seen and heard. It wasn’t until the next morning that they learned what they were to do.
“My fellow USA-ians,” blared the voice of the one they called “leader” when the screens came back to life. “We will never forgive this heinous act. Instead, from the ashes of this tragedy we will build a New World. A world in which such a vile act will never be possible again.
“For the safety of all USA-ians, for the safety of the world, every citizen* is hereby enlisted in the Emergency Response Corps.”
(*It is still debated what is meant by the word “citizen,” but the scribes have faithfully recorded the transliteration of this term.)
“A local representative has been appointed by the National Council. You will report to him on Monday, at which time you will receive your new ID. May God bless the political unit of USA.”
By this point, freed from their screens, the USA-ians had become animated. Reinvigorated. Filled with a strange spirit of rebellion—a spirit they didn’t yet know came from being liberated from their electronic devices—they became bolder in their pronouncements.
“What the hell is this?”
“What kind of ‘Response Corps’ do they expect us to join?”
“ID? Why do we need an ID?”
That weekend proved to be the turning point of history. The weekend in which the world passed from the Dark Ages of oppression into the brilliant world of Freedom. The weekend in which the murmurs of discontent turned into cries of disobedience. The weekend in which it was resolved that no “leader” would be permitted to change the world by decree.
At the Monday meeting, people across the land of the political unit of USA arrived at their appointed neighbourhood stations to receive their briefings from the appointed representatives of the National Council. All across the land of the political unit of USA, the people heard their “appointed representatives”—flanked by menacing security forces wielding weapons—deliver the same message.
“Now, I know you’re all in shock over these events. I know you’re scared,” began the representatives.
“Scared of what?” cried one in the crowd.
“Scared of the enemy, of course.”
“But who are they? What happened? Why are we afraid?”
“Who are they? Who are they? You heard the leader, didn’t you? The Eurasians*, of course!”
(*Alternately: the East Asians.)
“And what happened? Why, you saw! Chicago! We will never forget! And we will not live in fear! That’s why we are instituting a New Order. Each of you is now a member of the Emergency Response Corps. As such, you now have certain obligations…”
“What kind of obligations?”
“The first thing is the ID. You will each give your biometric data to the orb,” the representative said, gesturing to a metallic orb next to him. It was smooth, shiny and featureless save for a camera lens in the middle of a black opening that had been cut into the strangely horrifying object.
“After you give your biometric data, you will receive your injections. Then and ONLY then, you will receive your first allowance of New Dollars.”
“What the hell are New Dollars?”
“They are the new currency. Your old currency means nothing. From now on, you transact in New Dollars. And you will receive New Dollars only if you have met your obligations to the Emergency Response Corps.”
“And if we don’t meet these ‘obligations’?”
“Comply…or die! There is no alternative!”
“Boo! Hiss!” I shouted, unable to contain myself anymore.
“Boo! Hiss!” Grandma joined in.
“This is my favourite part, Grandma!”
“I know, dear. It’s mine, too.”
A stunned silence fell over the crowd. Was this really happening?
As if reading their minds, the enforcers of the New Order, clad from top to bottom in black and sporting a patch featuring the same vicious eagle symbol that had filled their screens on Friday evening, drew their weapons.
“Now, please form a line and stare into the orb!”
The crowd turned to each other. Who would be first in line?
No one knows the name of the man or woman who started the first chant. No one knows at which meeting it took place, or in which community it happened. History simply knows him (or her) as Freeman The First.
Whoever she (or he) was, Freeman The First stepped up to the orb, turned around to face the crowd, and said: “No!”
The representative recoiled in shock. “No? What do you mean, ‘no’? You will stare into the orb! You will have your iris scanned! You will receive your injections! And you will get your New Dollars!”
“I said no! Hell no! We will not comply!”
Utter silence fell across the room.
Finally, someone* (*According to most accounts, it was a small child) said, “We will not comply?”
“Comply no more!” cried Freeman The First, pointing his or her pointer finger in the air.
And then again: “Comply no more!”
And a third time: “Comply no more!”
The fourth time it wasn’t Freeman The First. It was someone else from the crowd. That first follower had likewise raised his forefinger in the air and had begun to take up the chant. Before long, the entire crowd was chanting together.
“Comply no more! Comply no more! Comply no more!”
Like the true identity of Freeman The First, history has failed to record how the chant spread or how the raised pointer finger became the symbol of this rebellion. All we know is that the sentiment swept not just the political unit of USA but the entire world. In nation after nation all around the world, where mysterious Offices of New Order had similarly sprung up in the wake of the disaster in Chicago, people defied their government’s orders. They raised their pointer fingers in the air and shouted “Comply no more!” in their own language.
Governments responded as they always do. With violence and bloodshed. Many epic tales can be told about the heroes of the Freedom Day revolution, but they are not told today. Today we remember Freeman The First and, raising our fingers in the air, we vow we shall “Comply no more!”
Today we remember that every day is Freedom Day.
The Rest of the Story
By the time Grandma finished, I was beaming from ear to ear. The story had never failed to warm my heart, and this year’s reading was no different.
But something in Grandma’s demeanour as she closed the book and put it back on the shelf made me stop short.
“Grandma? What’s the matter?”
Seeing that I had caught her in a pensive moment, Grandma turned to me with a deep sigh. “Dear, I think it’s time you learn the rest of the story.”
“The rest of the story?”
“Yes, dear. It’s been passed down in our family through the generations. Your great-great-grandfather was there. He was a witness. He passed the story on to my mother, who passed it to me. And now, I’ll share it with you.”
My heart skipped a beat. “My great-great-grandfather was Freeman The First?”
Grandma chuckled. “Oh, no, dear. No one knows who Freeman was. But that’s on purpose.”
“On purpose?”
“Yes. You see, the first Freedomaries didn’t want us to know who Freeman The First was.”
“Why not?”
Grandma smiled and took my hand between hers. “Because they knew that Freedom isn’t about a person. It’s about an idea. That’s how the revolution really started. It’s not like what we read in the story.”
“It’s not?”
“No. The real story of Freedom Day started long, long before Freedom Day itself. It was an idea that was handed down from generation to generation. It was preserved, carefully, like, like…” Grandma looked around the room, and took the candle down off the mantle. “Think of how you can use a single spark to light you candle. And then you can use your candle to light another’s candle. And they can use their candle to light another, and so on.”
I nodded slowly, still struggling to comprehend. “You mean we can fill the whole world with the light from that one spark?”
“That’s right. That’s the idea.”
My head was racing with all the questions I’d never known to ask. “But…but, what idea? What is it, Grandma?”
She laughed this time. “I can tell you’re my granddaughter, alright! If you’re sure you’re ready, I’ll share it with you now.”
I nodded so hard I practically strained my neck. “Yes, Grandma! Oh please, please share it with me!”
She told me to wait a moment and went to the other room. “Now, where is it?” I could hear her asking herself as she rummaged through the drawers. “Oh, right. Here it is.”
She came back with a device in her hand.
“But Grandma!” I exclaimed. “You never use a device!”
“Well, this was how your great-great-grandfather learned about the idea. It will help you to understand the idea as he understood it when the revolution happened.”
After some fumbling—“Let me see. How does this thing work again?”—Grandma managed to turn the device on and hand it to me. “Here. Watch this.”
When it was done, I sat in silence for a moment. “But…but…everyone knows this, Grandma! This is kindergarten stuff!”
“It is now! But in the Dark Ages, they didn’t know this. Or they knew it but didn’t accept it.”
“But why not?”
“Oh, that’s the mystery of history, my dear. Why does anyone deny the truth? Fear. Anxiety. Doubt. It’s always the same excuses. All we know for sure is that when Freedom Day came, that spark of freedom had lit enough candles to light the whole world.”
I sat for a moment, thinking about what I was hearing. Grandma chuckled. “This is a lot to take in. I know you must have a million questions. That’s a good thing. And those questions will be answered. But now, come. We haven’t even finished fixing the food for the celebration!”
She led me back to the kitchen to continue preparing the picnic. No sooner had we started than we heard the pops and bangs from outside.
“The fireworks, Grandma! They’ve already started!”
Grandma smiled at me as we went to look out the window. “They certainly have, dear.”
And together we watched out the window as the sky lit up with the flashes and bangs and sparkles of a million brilliantly coloured lights.
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