by Jason Tesar
chair beside her, but her sister refused to let go.
“Alright then, you can sit on my lap.”
Suzanne buried her face in Rena’s chest.
“It’s nice to have you here with us,” Clarine said, putting her arm around Rena and giving her a squeeze.
Rena smiled, but between Suzanne’s clinging and Clarine’s hug, she felt a bit claustrophobic.
A few minutes later, the noise in the auditorium quieted. The lights dimmed. A middle-aged man in a white suit walked onto the stage and stopped behind a slowly-rotating podium.
“Citizens. Welcome! It’s great to see so many familiar faces this morning. And if you haven’t noticed … quite a few new ones as well.”
The audience laughed at this, though for what reason Rena couldn’t guess.
“We are fuller than usual this morning, so if you wouldn’t mind, please scoot in and fill up the empty seats in the middle. Let’s make some room along the aisles for those still coming in.”
The people next to Rena got up and moved over a few seats.
She stood again and shuffled over, trying to maintain her grip on Suzanne. The rest of her family followed. It took a moment for everyone in the auditorium to compress toward the middle, and then the noise quieted.
“Thank you so much,” said the speaker. “I know you all value inclusion as much as I do, so I appreciate your patience.”
Rena realized she hadn’t left a seat open beside her. Now there was a stranger sitting on one side and Clarine on the other, with Suzanne on her lap. Rena must have looked panicked.
“I can take her on my lap,” Clarine said.
Suzanne clung even harder.
“That’s OK. I’ve got her.” Rena smiled and took a deep breath.
“Every citizen knows the importance of voting,” said the speaker, his amplified voice filling the auditorium. “Our laws depend upon our agreement. Our economy depends upon our participation. This morning, I’d like to talk about two aspects of voting that are often overlooked. To introduce these topics, I’ll go straight to the source of our inspiration—which I believe is something all of us should be doing on a regular basis. One of our beloved Founders, Abigail McCormack, pioneered some of the very first algorithms governing our rating system. And in one of her early manifestos on social interactions, she had this to say …”
The speaker now looked down at the hologram of text hovering above his hand. The same quote also appeared in the air above his head, large enough to be read by the whole audience.
“For consensus to be an accurate representation of current humanity, and the method by which we become a truer version of ourselves in the future, requires two things—that it be frequent and informed.”
“Hmm,” Clarine mumbled, nodding her head.
“Frequent and informed,” the speaker repeated. “Abigail goes on to explain these two requirements, but before that, notice how much is packed into this one sentence. Consensus is supposed to be an accurate representation of humanity’s current state of knowledge. This is her assumption, right from the start. And yet, in our day, we tend to overlook this. We excuse ourselves from the responsibility of giving our input. Of participating. A responsibility to our fellow citizens. It’s a foundational idea, and she mentions it in passing, as if this is already understood and acted upon.”
A few people in the audience voiced their agreement.
“Furthermore, consensus is the method by which we, as humans, will become a truer version of ourselves. Again, there’s an assumption here. This statement implies we are not currently the truest version of ourselves. But through our interactions and our agreement, we will continue evolving. Truth will emerge from within. And the process will continue into the future.”
“That’s right,” Marshall whispered.
“Isn’t this wonderful?” the speaker continued, motioning to the text floating above his head. “Even though she lived many generations before us, there was obviously something very special about Abigail … and all the Founders. You can see it in the way they communicated. They were able to look beyond themselves so effectively, that what they saw became the vision we aspire to. A goal that is still waiting for us in the future. Such insight!”
A round of applause went up from the crowd. Marshall and Clarine both clapped. Gareth was looking up at something on the ceiling, bored. Rena was grateful to have Suzanne on her lap. It prevented her from having to clap in agreement with everyone else. After all, her new approach didn’t mean she’d blindly follow the crowd. Just that she wouldn’t make an argument out of every small thing.
The text above the speaker’s head updated with the next passage. The speaker looked down at his hand again and continued reading.
“Firstly, as an individual, I am prone to change my perspective. What I believed yesterday has been proven wrong to me today, and so on. Therefore, any valid vote should, by necessity, carry an expiration. For who among us can possibly see beyond what is right in this moment?”
The speaker paused to let the words sink in. When he continued, his voice was much quieter. “Our votes expire twenty-four hours after they’re cast. This is part of the system’s design. As you can see from Abigail’s writing, the purpose behind it is to ensure our laws and our individual ratings stay current. You see, voting was never intended to be a one-time thing. Or even a once-a-week thing. Most of us will walk out of here today, and we’ll go home and vote. But the sad reality is that tomorrow … we won’t. And the day after? Well, we’re too busy, right?”
Clarine nodded.
“I’m as guilty as anyone,” the speaker continued. “Sometimes it feels like there aren’t enough hours in the day for the things I have to do, let alone the things I’m supposed to do. But then I stop and ask, ‘Who am I living for? Myself, or my fellow citizens?’”
“Hmm,” Marshall mumbled.
The speaker walked to the edge of the raised platform. The room was silent, and when he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. “The temptation to be an individual is always there. But we have to fight against it. We have to take those tendencies and channel them toward giving our individual perspectives to the whole. That’s the only place where they have value.”
The text updated again with the next passage, and the speaker kept reading.
“Secondly, and worse yet, I am prone to forget the reasons why I held a particular perspective in the first place. As an individual, I would prefer to make a determination and have that be the end of it. It is this lazy habit that others will keep us from falling into. Consensus forces us to remember, to reconsider, and to do so often.”
Suzanne suddenly decided to climb into Clarine’s lap. Rena was grateful for the relief, but the suffocating feeling persisted. Perhaps it wasn’t caused by the crowd after all.
“What’s implied in her words is that there is some level of consensus prior to voting. Agreement through education. And that is what we are here for today. To stay informed, or to become so if we are not already. So as we break up into groups, let us have open minds. Let us do as Abigail instructed. Remember how we have voted in the past. Reconsider our votes and the assumptions that brought us to them. Discuss these things with others and find agreement. Then we will be prepared to go out and vote. Not just today … but tomorrow and every day afterward. Frequent and informed. Thank you.”
011
The audience gave a short round of applause for the speaker before getting up from their seats. The citizens at the edge of the seating area moved out of their aisles toward discussion booths, which had been set up around the perimeter of the auditorium.
“I’ll take Suzanne to her class and meet you back in here,” Clarine said.
Marshall grabbed Gareth’s hand. “Alright. Which booth will you be at?”
“I’ve been thinking a lot about what Officers Dougherty and Naylor said the other night … about crime in the Outskirts.”
Marshall glanced over to the law enforcement booth. “OK. I’ll drop Garet
h off and meet you there. Rena?”
“Yeah?”
“Instead of tagging along with us, I think it would be good for you to join the other young adults this time.”
Rena bit her lip as she looked across the auditorium to where other citizens her age were heading through double doors. If she was going to start voting again, it made sense to get informed on the issues affecting her age group. But she felt like her chest was being crushed by an invisible force. She wished the doors led out to the Barrens. Then she’d have no problem walking through them. She’d even run.
“Come find us when you’re done,” Clarine added, leaving no room for discussion.
Rena watched her parents leave the aisle and make their way toward the hallway leading to the kids’ area. Then she turned and walked the other direction, quickly finding herself surrounded by people her own age. She recognized some of them from school, though she didn’t know their names. Others were complete strangers. This community hall served more than just her school district.
Once through the double doors, the crowd spread out into a large, square room, about a tenth the size of the main auditorium. The space was divided into a grid, with aisles between each booth. Rena wandered down the center aisle, casually inspecting the reading material floating above the Collective terminals at each one. Inside, chairs were arranged in circles. Some booths were already full and hosting lively discussions. The empty ones were easy to spot,