“See you tomorrow,” said Gai. Nasdaq waved, then swung the door closed behind him. Gai began to mutter again. “A birth in San Francisco. A birth in Budapest. A death in Kinshasa. A birth in Milton Keynes. Another birth in Milton Keynes—that doesn’t happen often. A death in Georgetown. A birth in Stanley. A birth in Lahore...”
Prosecutor Jones was a timid woman, but had to complain. “Magistrate, I call for a mistrial. The Public Defender has so bored the audience at home that literally nobody is watching any more. We have no jury. And without a jury, we can have no verdict.”
The Magistrate scratched her ear. “You’re right. But as nobody is watching, I don’t mind saying that I don’t care for this case. It’s all based on circumstantial evidence. Umberto Huffer successfully appealed eir allocation. The government’s AI auditor reviewed the calculations of the Global Allocation Intelligence and concluded they were correct. So this whole case hinges on a single message sent to one old college friend who works for the government but has no effective influence.”
“It’s not enough to tackle corruption,” said Jones. “We must tackle the appearance of corruption. That’s why the allocation system was introduced—to deny any possibility of human corruption influencing who does which job.”
Schwartz looked calmly upon Jones. “Maybe so, but is this the job you wanted? You don’t seem suited to it, if you ask me.”
Prosecutor Jones was so deflated that she sat down and resolved to retire as soon as she could.
Meanwhile, Defender Sanchez nodded in his chair. “Magistrate, in light of the fact that we have no viewers, and your eloquent summary of this case, and that this is the last trial scheduled for today, and that it’s still sunny outside, I move to dismiss. And I propose to take you to a nearby establishment for an ice cream and a soda, if you’ll grant me the favor of your time.”
“I agree, and I shall. Case dismissed.” The trial was concluded with one firm strike from Schwartz’s gavel. I should have been happy. I was not.
After my appeal I waited at the government office for Leaf. Her shift finished in an hour. She had eagerly agreed to join Julia and me for a home-cooked meal. The metro ride was long, and rain hammered against the windows for the whole duration. The time passed quickly, however, because Leaf asked many questions. I felt she was going to like my hometown, and I was sure Julia would adore Leaf. It had been a while since we had welcomed a new dinner guest. Julia often scolded me for not being more sociable, saying people should reach out and connect to the strangers they meet. Leaf was a stranger in our part of the world; we would take her under our collective wing. Perhaps we would invite Leaf to the christening of our future child.
Leaf had an umbrella. This saved me, as I had not checked the forecast that morning and would have been drenched during the walk from metro station to home. The wind gusted, and we both wrestled with her umbrella. As inclement as the weather was, I enjoyed fighting it alongside Leaf. She steadfastly refused to be blown around, despite her slender frame.
I was determined to like Leaf Eiríksdóttir. She is a freak like me, though nothing like me. She is ultra-modern, whilst I am wedded to traditions that nobody agrees with any more. That made her curious, and she repeatedly asked how life used to be. Leaf was especially keen to learn about families, and why they had once mattered. As a clone, she lacked insight. But it was obvious that my antiquated notions held some appeal for her, even if she laughed at the impracticality of old-fashioned relationships.
I opened the door and was instantly rushed by Julia, who greeted me with an energetic kiss. This impressed Leaf greatly; I should have told her that such effusive welcomes were uncommon in our household, even though we had recently made our cohabitation contract permanent. Julia had returned that day from a weeklong visit to her parents, who were somehow still married to each other. Theirs was a genuine marriage, made back in the days before such contracts were novated into cohabitation agreements. This was the first time I had seen Julia since her return. She apologized to Leaf for being rude; I introduced the two women. Julia excused herself, saying she was bursting to tell me some wonderful news.
“You’re not the only one with good news,” I said, “but you go first.”
Julia’s smile dazzled me. “You’ll never believe the email I got this afternoon. I’ve been allocated a new position, in Buenos Aries. I’m required to move next week. We will still be together!”
Julia threw her arms around my neck, and pulled me close. I looked at Leaf Eiríksdóttir from over Julia’s shoulder. “I wonder if there’s a way to forget your appeal,” said Leaf.
THE CODE
By
Matthew Ward
A modest proposal to deal with the problem of rape culture…
No one predicted how quickly life would change in the United States. First dates in particular had become a nightmare ever since the Code. I met Rolanda in a bookstore, a rarity these days. Most people didn’t want to wander through shelves of outdated technology on the off-chance of finding something interesting. One touch of a screen predicted hundreds of books for your enjoyment (together with a precisely quantified level of certainty). Why take the risk? Why hold that heavy stack of paper when the same content was available on a screen that weighed a fraction of an ounce?
Needless to say, I didn’t want to screw up a date with someone who could appreciate the finer pleasures of holding a paper book. I prepared by reviewing The Code of Legally Protected Verbal Agreements before heading out the door. As the legal record showed, I risked more than a future relationship. If I messed up one of the binding agreements in the slightest, Rolanda could sue for harassment. I’d lose everything. She didn’t give me the impression she was prowling a bookstore for victims. But prowlers train in the art of deception.
I picked Chloë for our date, an upscale French restaurant. The hole in my wallet enlarged as I tapped the screen to confirm the reservation. I justified the price by telling myself the restaurant would introduce as much formality into the date as possible. We needed to stay proper and separated. I required every bit of help to stay conscious of my actions. Formality would prevent impulsive behavior.
Over the past few years, I saw the hardship a split-second lapse could cause. For damage control, Chloë provided free recording services during the meal. A hidden microphone at the table would pick up our conversation. This gave me safety. The recording provided admissible evidence in a court of law should Rolanda question whether we carried out the oral agreements.
On my drive to the restaurant, I repeated the phrases to myself over and over again. They had to be second nature. When I arrived, I saw Rolanda seated at our table. This gave me pause before crossing the room. She hadn’t waited for me. Was this a sign to be interpreted? Her elegant gown looked stunning in the flickers of the candlelight from the table. I imagined she worried about looking too casual for the restaurant, and my heart fluttered at this charmingly outdated notion.
I walked to our table, and she stood. From my childhood, my parents taught me to hug someone or shake their hand when they stood to greet you. My elders considered it rude to do otherwise. The hard-wiring stayed with me, because I felt the impulse now. But I had to resist. I had to stay separate from her until we sealed the oral agreements.
I did a quick, awkward jerk backwards to avoid the accidental contact. Rolanda’s face scrunched up as she watched my strange movements. It was risky and early, but I initiated Phase 1 of the Code. The words I had drilled into my head flowed out.
“I, Eric David Schrih, Jr., do hereby wish to enter Phase 1 of the verbal agreements as laid forth by Code 3.4.3. Do you consent?”
“I, Rolanda Sethrab, consent to Phase 1 of the verbal agreements as laid forth by Code 3.4.3. I hereby agree to all forms of Class 1 contact and forfeit my right to otherwise refuse unless under demonstrable threat of harm.”
“I understand that I am still liable for any action that causes Class 2 contact or higher.”
When the Code
first came out, a committee classified every imaginable form of contact. Victims over the years demanded more precise definitions for legal protection. The pre-Code laws attempted to define rape, sexual harassment, and related terms. They succeeded at first. But as the courts tried more cases, the definitions gained complexity. The Code attempted to simplify things; everyone had to speak specific verbal consent. It eliminated “no means no.” Now everything meant “no” except one special phrase.
The committee got the first version of the Code wrong. Their cleverness hindered achieving their goal. They created natural sounding language for the oral contracts in an attempt to be as unobtrusive as possible. Sadly, people agreed to things without realizing it and denied agreements they didn’t wish to deny. Take, for instance, the original initiation for kissing, “How do your lips feel?” To agree, you replied, “Ready to be kissed.” The law considered everything else to be refusing the contract.
In Saussure v Gettier, Eric Gettier was on a date and asked, “How do your lips feel?”
Carla Saussure seemed to forget that this initiated a contract. She replied, “They are rather dry. Good thing I brought my lip balm with me. What about you? Do you want some?”
Saussure’s response put Gettier in a bind, because prompting the correct response invalidated the contract as attempted coercion. Gettier tried again, “No. I’m not actually asking how your lips are.”
Saussure continued to seem ignorant of the Gettier problem.
“Well, then why did you ask me?”
“Because I want to kiss you, of course!”
“Oh. That’s silly. Of course you can.”
Gettier lost himself in the moment and forgot that he had not fulfilled the proper wording. He leaned over and kissed her. She sued for sexual harassment and won.
This first case inspired heated op-ed pieces that divided the country. Half maintained that clear consent was the only important factor, and that Saussure’s verbal meaning was clear. The other half believed the specific words mattered. Human beings always communicate ambiguously due to body language, inflection, and word choice. The verbal agreement system solved this problem by requiring exact, unambiguous wording. Why make the legally binding verbal agreements if you didn’t need to use them?
After numerous confusing lawsuits concerning exact wording versus intent, the committee went back to work. The new Code threw away the natural language approach. Everyone now memorized the list of Touching Classes. The newer version required that the wording be verbatim, or else the contract was invalid. It made everyone’s lives more stressful and opened the door to a career now referred to as prowling. The profession comprised men and women who mastered the art of manipulation to trick unsuspecting victims into the use of a wrong word. Or better yet, to skip the agreement altogether.
My hand hit the silverware with a clank that snapped me back to reality. I said the first thing that came to my mind.
“Do you have no middle name?”
I never made strong first impressions, but I hit a new low with this question. We hadn’t even said ‘hello’ yet, and I had made us recite legalese. What possessed me to move on to middle names? At least we completed Phase 1. Class 1 contact covered everything that could happen by accident. It included all body parts touching all other body parts “excluding hair and any clinically defined erogenous areas.” The Code provided several pages for the exact definition.
The agreement ruined the moment. My sour mood dulled my urge to shake Rolanda’s hand. I started to sit instead. Rolanda smirked at the farce unfolding before her.
“No ‘hello’ and no handshake after all that?”
I reversed my momentum to get upright again. Once stabilized, I held out my hand. Thankfully, she took it and gave it a hefty shake.
“Good evening. It is good to see you again. Sorry about that. You never can be too careful.”
“Trust me. I understand. It has become a crazy world out there.”
“Yeah. I don’t want to knock the system, because a lot of sad stuff has happened. It’s good to have a means of legal recourse. But really? Sometimes taking the time to ask ruins the moment.”
“You mean like what just happened? Let’s be honest. I wasn’t going to sue you for shaking my hand.”
“Exactly.”
Despite the setback, we relaxed into a more comfortable atmosphere. I chastised myself for my klutzy behavior despite Rolanda’s unphased, perfect handling of it. The waiter came over and caught me unprepared. I hated it when people weren’t ready, because once you sent the waiter away, he never came back.
“May I take your drink order?”
Rolanda looked up from the menu. Her gaze crossed the table and settled comfortably on me.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to share a bottle of wine. My sister’s been teaching me about it, and I haven’t seen most of these before.”
I hesitated. What if she picked an expensive one? I decided not to muck things up by worrying about money.
“Sure. Go ahead.”
“Alright. We’ll have the Bordeaux.”
The waiter leaned over as she pointed to something on the menu. My eyes scanned for it, and I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw the reasonable price. The waiter confirmed the order and left us to go get the bottle. We both used that moment to look at our menus. It didn’t take me long to decide.
I nervously glanced around the room and took it in for the first time. The couples sprinkled throughout the room ate in near silence. Other couples might have the maturity to enjoy a meal without talking, but the silence at our table would turn awkward as soon as Rolanda looked back up. Fortunately, the waiter returned with our wine before that happened.
He uncorked it and poured a tiny sip into a glass. I gestured for Rolanda to test it. In fact, the whole ritual mystified me. Were you only supposed to send it back if there was something wrong, or do you send it back if it wasn’t what you were looking for? Did the restaurant waste the bottle if the customer was dumb enough to order something they didn’t know? I dreaded the embarrassment as Rolanda took a sip. Luckily, she gave the go-ahead.
The waiter poured two glasses and began his spiel on the specials of the night. When he finished, he asked if we needed more time. I made a quick glance over the table, and Rolanda showed her readiness.
“I think we’re ready. I’ll have the rack of lamb.”
“Excellent choice. And for you?”
“I’ll have the blanquette de veau. I think it will pair nicely with this wine.”
“Indeed. I will go put those in for you.”
The waiter rushed off. With the distraction over, we had to pick the next bit of awkward small talk. I only knew one thing that might interest Rolanda.
“How do you feel about the wine?”
“The tannins are a bit strong for how light the body is, but I expect it will mellow as it oxidizes. There is a fruit front which probably comes from the Merlot in the Bordeaux blend.”
“Wow. You know your stuff. I don’t know what most of that means. Where did you learn all of this?”
“My sister owns a wine shop, so she’s been trying to teach me. The first step is not being afraid to describe what you taste. Go ahead. Try it, and tell me the flavors you find in it. Remember, there are no wrong answers.”
“Okay.”
I picked up my glass and took a sip. I made a show of swishing it around my mouth before swallowing. It cheered me to see Rolanda smile; she realized this was my attempt at a joke. Suddenly, I found it embarrassing to state my opinion on a topic about which I knew nothing. She said there were no wrong answers, but I felt as if I would be judged.
My tongue weighed a million pounds. Why were humans so afraid to be wrong even with nothing at stake? Even when there wasn’t a notion of wrong? To protect myself from the possibility of disapproval, I continued to turn the situation into a joke. I adopted a terrible French accent and spoke in a long, exaggerated manner to emphasize the ludicrousness of my res
ponse.
“I taste a bit of maple syrup and nutmeg but only after the boysenberry turns to an oak finish.”
Rolanda laughed at that.
“I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing because you have no idea how similar that sounded to some of the ‘professionals’ I’ve seen. You couldn’t come up with things as ridiculous as they say if your life depended on it. I once heard: dirty worm with a hint of the metallic hook as it dangles in the morning dew of a fishing trip. And he meant this as a good thing!”
This got us both laughing. The laughing made me shift in my seat, and my leg touched her leg. It cut my laughing short, and a tenseness entered the air. Panic began; for a second, I couldn’t remember if we had said the agreement or only talked about it. Then I remembered and relaxed. Damn this system. It had destroyed everything natural. She realized why I changed moods and tried to assuage my fears.
“Don’t worry. We went through the appropriate protocol already. Even if we hadn’t, you didn’t do anything wrong. I’m not going to sue you for our legs accidentally touching. I like you. You can trust me.”
This pinpointed the troubling sensation that lurked within me. My trust is not won in fifteen minutes. Rolanda put me at ease through all her actions and statements despite the mounting awkward moments. She knew the right words to say. She was funny. Her tone of voice and body language calmed me when I behaved like a crazy person. In fact, maybe it was too perfect. Prowlers trained in the art of making you comfortable until you trusted them enough to make a mistake. Ugh. These stupid laws drove me crazy. I had to banish these thoughts, or I would ruin the night for real.
“I know. I’m just jumpy. You never can be too careful these days.”
“Did you know someone who got scammed?”
“No, but I’ve read the articles. They seemed like normal people like me. One moment they are happy with a stable life and the next they have nothing, filing for bankruptcy.”
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