This story is one of five winners of the Stop Copaganda short story contest, run in collaboration with Fight for the Future, Rightscon, and COMPOST Magazine.

Carlo checked his rearview mirror, gravel flying as he tore over the road. He didn’t know why the Cappelli Verdi were after the woman in the back of his van, clutching a hemp blanket around her shoulders. All he knew was that he needed to get out of town, quick. His hand-modified, solar-powered EV with its fluid, mosaic windows wasn’t exactly a discreet mode of transport, but if he could at least catch up with a caravan …

Carlo checked his mirrors again. He pressed on the accelerator a little harder.

And the day had begun so simply. Spring was melting away. Soon the oppressive dewy heat of summer would arrive. For the residents of Calabria, that meant stocking cellars and prepping subterranean rooms where they could wait out the suffocating humidity. For Carlo’s people, it meant packing up their homes. Time to migrate to cooler altitudes.

That morning, Carlo fixed a power converter on a neighbor’s van, replaced a few charging ports for visitors to the market, and reprogrammed a faulty battery management system for Signora Nisticò, a regular of Carlo’s whose three-wheeled microcar was in a constant state of malfunction. At least it was still a manually operated vehicle. None of that autonomous stuff.

“I don’t know what I’ll do without you,” Signora Nisticò sighed as Carlo returned her keys.

“Don’t worry, Signora,” Carlo said. “I always winter in Calabria, so you’ll see me again.”

“Well, just to be sure that you do come back …” Signora Nisticò began pulling containers from her bag and Carlo found his arms loaded with cartons of nepitelle, torrone, and mostaccioli Calabresi. “Sweets for the road,” she said and she puttered off.

Carlo watched her cruise through the maze of Roaman campervans, passing barbers and masseuses, herbalists and spice traders, therapists and soothsayers, day laborers and programmers. He chuckled as she came to a quick stop outside Giulia Vecchia’s van, its open doors chiming with amulets to protect against il malocchio.

Carlo stretched his limbs, surveying the chaotic marketplace. Vans and campers, sizeable mobile cabins and some that were barely more than tents. Each one a home, a storefront, and a statement of identity, from the colorful translucent windows and domes that harvested sunlight to the stickers and graffiti that attested to places travelled.

The Roamin’ Republic. That’s what the world called their loose confederation of nomads. Some of the members took this quite seriously; more than a few togas dotted the market. Carlo let a finger drift over the meander motif patched onto his tunic. OMNES VIAE DUCUNT VAGARI. All Roads Lead to Roam.

Carlo permitted himself one last stretch, then started folding up his workbench. That’s when a distress signal blared through his radio.

“Cappelli Verdi report fugitive in vicinity. Sweep incoming.”

Carlo cursed and threw his things into his van. Cappelli Verdi often used sweeps like these to harass Roamans, accusing them of various crimes associated with vagrancy. As he peeled out of the field where the Roaman market had assembled, he noticed traffic congesting behind him. Several of the autonomous vehicles popular among the locals seemed to be malfunctioning. Their passengers waved their arms and covered their faces as AVs jolted and stopped and jolted and stopped. Carlo felt a hint of vindication. Roamans never trusted autonomous vehicles. Even these top-of-the-line Circenses models, fully electric, long-lasting batteries. The government was offering tax credits to anyone who purchased one. But only Circenses-authorized mechanics could repair them, and the corporation incentivized replacing damaged vehicles rather than fixing what was broken. That wasn’t the Roaman way.

Carlo’s attention was next caught by the green banners draping from several buildings as he drove out of town. They recited the common party slogans: Faith! Obedience! Sustainability!; Italian Unity in the Face of the Climate Crisis; Secure Resources in Strong Hands, favorites of la Fratellanza Verde.

The third thing he noticed was that a vehicle had slid off the road and was stuck in an irrigation ditch.

Carlo sighed. He knew that little three-wheeled microcar.

Carlo jumped out of his seat, retrieved the grumbling Signora Nisticò, and promised to drive her home. It wasn’t safe here, he told her.

“I’ve never been inside a Roaman van before,” Signora Nisticò said, tapping the statuette of San Cristoforo on Carlo’s dashboard. Her attention turned to the van’s mosaic windows and domed roof. Bubbles of color swirled within the glass, changing constantly in response to the smallest shifts in light outside.

“Photovoltaic fluid?” she asked. Carlo nodded, checking his rearview mirror. No signs of Cappelli Verdi yet.

“Left here, dear,” she indicated. “I’ll have to ask somebody to retrieve my car. Old Francesco next door certainly won’t be bothered although his grandson is a helpful young man, picked some tomatoes from the vine for me last CARLO WATCH OUT!”

Carlo’s van skidded to a halt barely a meter from a woman who had stumbled into the street. Her arms were covered in scrapes and her clothes were torn. There were leaves and grass stuck in her hair.

“Are … are you all right?” Carlo stammered, stepping out of his van. The young woman looked up, her face blank. Her eyes widened. And then she collapsed.

“Grab her!” Signora Nisticò exclaimed, and Carlo did. The two agreed that the woman needed a hospital and were lifting her into a cot in the back of the van when they heard shouting down the road.

Three young men appeared, gesturing and yelling, matching green caps shaking as they sprinted up the hill.

“Vai, Carlo, vai!” shouted Signora Nisticò. Carlo leapt into the driver’s seat, ramming his foot against the accelerator. He checked his rearview mirror. The last thing Carlo saw before he turned a corner was one of the Cappelli Verdi yelling into a radio.

“Poor dear,” Signora Nisticò cooed, scrambling into the back to wrap the catatonic woman in one of Carlo’s Roaman-woven blankets. She turned back to Carlo.  “I don’t know if it will be safe for her at a hospital. They’ll look for her there. I voted Fratellanza Verde, but some of their supporters do go to extremes. I wonder what she did to upset them?”

“I can take her to one of my people’s doctors,” Carlo said.

Signora Nisticò nodded, satisfied with that solution. They drove in silence, anonymously tucked within barely moving traffic, waiting anxiously for the congestion to ease. Finally they were able to turn onto a side road skirting the edge of town.  Signora Nisticò gestured out the window.

“Here’s fine, Carlo. I’ll take a bus back to my apartment.”

Carlo bit his lip and pulled the van to the side of the road. He eyed the dazed woman in the back. He turned to face Signora Nisticò.

“I don’t think it’s safe for you either,” he said. “This neighborhood put surveillance cameras on every corner last year. I’m sure the Cappelli Verdi have both of our names now, and your address.”

“Che assurdità.” Signora Nisticò tossed a hand in the air. “I pay my taxes, sort my recycling, report my carbon credits. I approved the ballot measure to put up those cameras, to catch polluters and dissidents in our community. The Cappelli Verdi have nothing against me.”

“Please, Signora,” Carlo pleaded. “At least call your neighbors.”

Signora Nisticò eyed Carlo for a moment and sighed. She tapped the communicator on her wrist. Carlo politely turned his head as Signora Nisticò spoke to a friend.

“Santo Cielo!” Carlo heard her exclaim. When he turned around, the old woman was pale, staring at an image on her communicator of broken shutters and planter boxes, shattered windows and a busted door. She clutched her malocchio amulet.

“I voted Fratellanza Verde,” she muttered.

Carlo checked his mirrors, gravel flying as he hit the accelerator.

Doctor Romolo shuffled his toga as he sat, facing the still-pale young woman slumped in a folding chair outside Carlo’s van. The doctor checked her pulse and blood pressure, her pupil’s responsiveness to light, and even took a blood sample. The woman did not react to any of this. Eyes open but unfocused, she stared into the distance.

As the doctor diluted wine in ginger ale for her to drink, Carlo glanced around the rest stop. They’d caught up with a caravan, at least. His colorful van was in the company of many others, several even more flamboyant than his. Next to him, Signora Nisticò munched on the torrone she’d gifted Carlo. The shock of the Cappelli Verdi desecration of her apartment had simmered into rage, and she grumbled in between bites of nougat, crumbs speckling her chin.

“Physically, she’s all right,” Doctor Romolo said. “No toxins in her blood, no wounds I can discern. My best guess is that she experienced some sort of trauma. She needs time. And rest. Do you know why the Cappelli Verdi are chasing her?”

“No.” Carlo shook his head.

Doctor Romolo stroked his chin. “I can do more tests in one of the summer comuni. Can you get her there?”

Carlo gulped. To traverse the length of Italy with the Cappelli Verdi hunting this woman wouldn’t be easy, and he still didn’t even know why she was being targeted … but what choice did he have? He couldn’t leave her to be snatched by Cappelli Verdi. It wasn’t the Roaman way. There were customs, expectations. Sovereignty. Hospitality. Sanctuary.

“I can take her.” He nodded.

“We can take her,” Signora Nisticò interjected. She chomped on a bite of torrone. “You’re not leaving me here.”

“Try to stick to Roaman roads,” the doctor advised. “If you can get her into the Alps—”

He was interrupted by a mumbling.

“Alps,” the woman stammered. “Alps. Alps.”

“Alps, sì.” Carlo knelt beside her. “That’s where we’re going. Do you know someone there? Is there somewhere we should take you?”

“Don’t rush her.” Signora Nisticò pushed her way in and took the young woman’s hand. “Let’s start simple. What’s your name, dear? Your name?”

The woman blinked, and blinked again. Her mouth moved, but no sounds emerged, and then—

“Ve-Veronica.”

Veronica shuddered, as if hearing her own name released some sort of spell. Her eyes flared. She clutched the blanket tighter, and stumbled backwards, nearly tumbling into the public fountain.

“Roa-Roamans.” She pointed an accusatory finger, tears welling in reddened eyes. “Please let me go!”

“I’m not stopping you … you’re—you’re free to leave.” Carlo gaped. His blood went cold.

“I’m not Roaman.” Signora Nisticò stepped forward. “And Carlo here is a good friend. Calmati, dear. You’ll be far safer with us than waiting for the Cappelli Verdi to find you.”

Pale-faced, Veronica looked them over. The bags under her wild eyes seemed to darken. Her shoulders drooped. She pulled herself up on the fountain, then teetered back towards the van. She was soon huddled in the back, gaze once again unfocused.

Doctor Romolo promised to meet them in the Alps, but he still had a few patients to visit along his migration route through a more Roaman-friendly regione.

“Something sweet for the tummy.” Signora Nisticò took a bite of her torrone. She watched the doctor walk away. “Something sweet for the eyes.”

Carlo took a moment to refill the water containers for his van in the public fountain. He let his eyes drift over the hilly landscape beyond.

Three people in his little van. 1,400 kilometers. And time not on their side. Carlo looked out again over the vast openness. All those roads. All the places they could lead. His fingers drifted over the patch on his tunic.

“Carlo, how the hell does this cot fold back into your van?” Signora Nisticò’s voice rang through the trees. Carlo sighed and finished filling the water.

From Reggio Calabria to Catanzaro, Veronica said nothing, but slowly regained her senses, staring quietly out the colorful windows of Carlo’s van. By Potenza, she was able to ask for a sip of water, something that startled Carlo and Signora Nisticò so much that the old woman spat out her bite of nepitelle and Carlo almost careened off the road.

By Benevento, Veronica was able to ask where they were headed, about the villages where the Roamans summered.

Mostly, she remained huddled among Carlo’s things in the back rather than sitting up front, only occasionally breaking her silence to protest whenever someone tried to open a window. She insisted they be kept closed, growing agitated whenever one was opened. Signora Nisticò asked again if Veronica knew why the Cappelli Verdi were after her.

Veronica did not respond, but sank deeper into her blanket, leaving Carlo to wonder if she would have preferred capture. He sighed as they drove past another intersection, another detour that could have been.

If they could just make it a little further, they could at least get off the expressway. Roaman roads were maintained by volunteers through a system of mutual support. Veronica seemed nervous whenever the topic was addressed. Carlo knew that many people believed Roaman roads were hotspots for crime. The reality was that they were simply less policed. But Carlo felt far safer on those backroads than on expressways like this. Far too many people willingly traded their freedom of movement for promises of security and convenience. He scanned the road.

The government was giving out lots of private contracts to maintain public infrastructure lately. As the Fratellanza Verde grew in power, they awarded contracts to one corporation in particular. Carlo eyed the driverless vehicles passing them. Circenses autonomous cars traveling Circenses-maintained roads. Surveilled by Circenses cameras.

More than once, Carlo noticed an AV tailing his van. Carlo watched one frustrated passenger slamming buttons on the console as the vehicle pulled up next to them and slowed. The AV stayed at their side a moment, then sped up and zipped down the road.

He mentioned this to Signora Nisticò. She brushed it off as nerves, he was being paranoid, but clutched her malocchio amulet all the tighter.

Three kilometers until their exit. Two. One.

His heart froze. There was a checkpoint at the exit.

As several Roaman vehicles were exiting the highway, Carlo and Signora Nisticò agreed it would be better to face the checkpoint as part of a caravan. One Roaman among many was less suspicious.

After some convincing from Signora Nisticò, Veronica was coaxed into hiding under Carlo’s workbench. Carlo felt the sweat beading on his neck as he watched the Roaman campervans ahead of him stop for questioning. Stop. Go. Stop. Go. The van crept forward, centimeters at a time.

“Relax, dear,” said Signora Nisticò, although she was now grasping the malocchio amulet with both hands.

Finally, they arrived at the checkpoint. Carlo lowered his window. The officer leaned in, eyes sweeping the interior. The sunlight reflecting off the Fratellanza Verde pin on the officer’s lapel seemed to cast the entire van in emerald. The officer fiddled with his facial recognition tablet as it whirred to life.

“Buongiorno, signora, signore. There’s an escaped fugitive on the loose, reports indicate she may have hitched a ride with a Roaman—”

“AND JUST WHAT ARE YOU IMPLYING, RAGAZZO?” Signora Nisticò roared with such intensity that Carlo choked on his gasp. The officer stepped back.

“What is Italy coming to that a good son can’t take his mother for a drive without being harassed by police?” Signora Nisticò scowled. “And haven’t you been told to stand straight when an old woman is talking to you? Why I’ve half a mind to teach you some manners myself heaven knows nobody else seems interested these days but I—”

“Okay calm down, Signora.” The officer raised his hands, his tablet dangling from his fingers.

Signora Nisticò glared at the officer then turned her nose up.

“I’m ready, my son.”

“Yes, mother,” Carlo said, ears burning. The officer opened his mouth, then waved them on.

At the next rest stop, set alongside a Roaman road, Carlo refolded his workbench. As Veronica crawled out of the van she whispered, “Thank you.”

Veronica warmed slightly after that, viewing Carlo and his van with an expression of curiosity more than dread. She asked more questions, and even allowed herself a chuckle when Signora Nisticò reminded them that the good Doctor Romolo was quite a dish. Mostly, she spent her time staring at the side windows of the van and the domed translucent roof, the colorful photovoltaic fluids within the glass swirling in constant, random motion.

Despite her calmer demeanor, Carlo still chose to set up his tent a safe distance away from the van that night, letting Signora Nisticò stretch across the front and leaving the cot in the back to Veronica. Carlo could hear her tossing and groaning throughout the night.

It was over the morning espresso around the campfire that more news came across the radio. The party leader of the Fratellanza Verde was introducing a bill to parliament to close several border points, distancing Italy from its European neighbors. The party was also moving to restrict the right to roam laws that protected the Roamans’ way of life. It was necessary to fight the climate crisis, they argued. Nomads couldn’t be held accountable.

Carlo rolled his eyes. Any Roaman knew the truth. His lifestyle was minimalist, he repaired rather than replaced, and his movements were attuned to the cycles of the Earth. Roamans were accountable not only to each other, but also the villages where they summered and wintered.

“We need to get across the border as fast as possible,” Signora Nisticò said. “These Roaman roads are scenic, Carlo, but they’re slow.”

“They’re unpredictable,” Veronica responded suddenly. Carlo and Signora Nisticò turned. Veronica had never before offered any opinions on their route.

“Roaman routes comprise not just formal roads, but intersecting footpaths, game trails, bike and maritime passageways,” Veronica continued, cradling her canteen. “That freedom of mobility makes predicting Roaman movement difficult. Even for AI.”

“And how do you know this?” Signora Nisticò asked. Veronica sighed, then stood and looked them in the eyes.

“Because it was my job to write that AI,” she said, and she pulled a Circenses Corporation ID badge from her pocket.

Bumping along the Roaman road, Carlo’s head buzzed. Veronica had begged for his help. She apologized and wept, hands trembling. She just wanted to get out of Italy. She wanted to be as far away from Circenses as possible, to run and never look back. She’d never make it without his help.

Signora Nisticò was the one who demanded answers, which Veronica tearfully provided. She and her lab partner had been tasked with writing an AI program to predict Roaman movement, something the Fratellanza Verde saw as a major threat to their plans to centralize resources. She admitted, bashfully, that she believed she was doing what was necessary to fight the climate crisis. She believed the Roamans were dangerous.

Veronica and her partner spent months studying Roaman migrations, and found something interesting. They wrote an algorithm to test the limits of Circenses surveillance and discovered a weakness, a vulnerability. Veronica’s memory was shakier from that point, but she believed the corporation deemed her research too risky to publish. They decided to silence her instead.

She and her lab partner planned to flee to the Alps, but didn’t make it far. Veronica thought the road she chose was safe. She remembered a flash. A visual-flicker-light disorientation device, Veronica called it, a sort of pulsing beam that altered the state of consciousness, impairing cognitive function and motor skills. Similar effects to being drugged, but with less physical evidence. She survived the crash. Her partner didn’t. That was the last thing she could recall before finding herself in Carlo’s van.

Carlo listened through her story. He knew he couldn’t abandon her to the Cappelli Verdi, but still … it wasn’t easy to trust her.

“Keep your windows up,” Veronica muttered. She had been quiet ever since begging for Carlo’s help. Yet this issue with the windows was the one thing she continued to speak up about.

“Just getting some fresh air,” Signora Nisticò said.

“Keep them up,” Veronica insisted. “In our experiments, we discovered that facial recognition software couldn’t process the unpredictable movement of the photovoltaic fluids. Anyone behind a Roaman window was unrecognizable to the AI.”

“Really?” Carlo asked. “Good to know if we pass a checkpoint.”

“It’s not just the checkpoints or surveillance cameras,” Veronica said, fidgeting in her seat. “Every Circenses autonomous vehicle has facial recognition software built into its sensors. Every single one. And Fratellanza Verde is negotiating a deal with law enforcement to integrate Circenses surveillance technologies. It’s legal, all in the fine print whenever someone buys a Circenses product. Eyes on everyone, all the time.”

“An evil eye,” Signora Nisticò gasped and clutched her malocchio amulet. She opened her mouth to say something, then paused.

“What’s that?” she asked, eyes on the rearview mirror.

Behind them, a plume of dust was growing. It grew larger, and larger, and soon a car was pulling up beside them.

Inside, they could see the passenger of the autonomous vehicle swaying in his seat, mouth hanging open. Pulsing lights flashed from his dash, bright enough to cast a strobe effect throughout the car’s interior. Then the car sped alongside them for a moment, then accelerated and zipped ahead.

“I think his car’s gone rogue,” Carlo said. He’d heard of AIs hallucinating their directions before.

“No, it’s been commandeered,” Veronica said. “By Circenses. That light pattern looks like the same one they used to disorient me. The one that got my lab partner killed …”

Her voice trailed off and her fingers began to shake. Her forehead turned red, then she kicked at the wall of the van.

Veronica whipped out her phone and began typing furiously. “I built a backdoor program into their servers when I realized they were coming for us, so I could track them. It looks like they’ve taken control of dozens of AVs. Circenses is using them as roving surveillance to compensate for areas with low police presence.”

“They can take control of any vehicle?” Signora Nisticò gasped. “You knew about this?”

“It was supposed to be for emergencies,” Veronica said. Her eyes were red and watery, but it wasn’t shame or sadness. Her face burned with fury. “They told me we were helping people, solving the crisis. I never thought they’d … I never … I— I—”

“Can we help him?” Carlo interrupted, glancing at the frantic passenger trapped inside.

“I don’t know …” Veronica wiped her eyes. She paused, staring at the swirling colors of the van’s translucent dome.

“My AI program,” she muttered. Her fingers began punching commands into her phone. “Carlo, give me access to your van’s server. I’m going to upload my algorithm into it.”

“What?”

“Please! Trust me, Carlo.”

Carlo glanced at Signora Nisticò, then at Veronica. He flipped a switch on his dash to disable the signal encryption. The look that crossed Veronica’s face was relief, gratitude, and an apology all at once. She turned her attention to her phone, typing furiously.

“Speed up,” she instructed. “Get in front of it.”

Beads of sweat dripping from his neck, Carlo raced ahead, skidding on gravel as he pulled in front of the vehicle.

“Just a minute,” Veronica said. “Just a minute, and … there!”

The AV riding their tail slowed, and slowed, and finally came to a stop. Carlo pulled over. He opened his door.

“Wait,” Signora Nisticò said. “Didn’t she say those cars have facial recognition scanners? If we get out, they’ll see us.”

“It’s safe,” Veronica said, checking her phone. “I locked the AV out of the Circenses servers. I turned off the visual disorientation flicker too.”

Cautiously, they stepped out of the van and approached the disabled vehicle. Veronica typed on her phone. The door unlocked. The passenger tumbled out, moaning, holding his head. They could hear an AI voice inside the car. This vehicle has been commandeered by local law enforcement. Please do not resist. Thank you for your cooperation.

“How did you do that?” Carlo asked. Veronica pointed at his van.

“I told you that the Roaman windows mess with Circenses AI. It’s too random,” she explained. “I uploaded my algorithm into the photovoltaic fluid. When the AV sensors scanned your windows, the random patterns of the fluid made my program invisible, and it was able to hijack the AV.”

“You … put an anti-surveillance virus in my windows?” Carlo asked.

Veronica considered his phrasing, then shrugged. “Yeah, that’s one way to say it.”

Carlo looked at his van.

“Could you do it again?” he asked.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, the swirling colors of Carlo’s windows danced along to the movement of shadow and light outside. The van turned down a new path, no longer heading for the Alps. That’s where they’re expecting us to go, Carlo reasoned. But nomads can be unpredictable.

The AV followed behind them for a little while, then pulled off. Veronica had programmed it to drive to a hospital in a town with little Cappelli Verdi presence. They watched it drive away, the catatonic passenger inside wrapped in a Roaman blanket.

Carlo suggested they seek out Roaman caravans, in order to find Roaman craftspeople who specialized in making the fluid-photovoltaic windows. Veronica’s discovery needed to be shared. With this algorithm, Roamans would be safer to travel freely. They could help people escape tightening restrictions. They could even hijack AVs and free them from corporate control.

Veronica seemed in each minute to grow firmer in her commitment to fight the corporation she had once served. All roads lead to roam, Carlo said as they discussed their options. Essentially invisible to surveillance, they could do essentially anything they wanted. They could resist, rebel, relax, travel, fight, flee. Roam. As was their right.

Signora Nisticò made two suggestions as they bumped along the road towards whatever lay ahead. First was that they name the new anti-surveillance virus “cornicello,” after her amulet.

“It wards off il malocchio,” she explained. Her other suggestion was which Roaman caravan they should meet up with first. That sweet doctor would surely be in need of some company. She just wondered which toga style would be most flattering to wear when she saw him.