The city was too alive for the late hour, still scattered with people and sounds too loud for the darkness.
Caleb walked along the cracked sidewalk with his hands in his coat pockets, head high, eyes everywhere. A man staggered out of a corner pub, propped up by two companions. The low pulse of a bass throbbed from a second-story window above them. Colored lights spilled out across the pavement.
Once upon a time, neighbors would have shouted for quiet. Called the police.
Not anymore.
Universal Basic Income had been a major pillar in President Reed’s campaign during the last election cycle, and one of the first policies she enacted after taking office.
Despite the campaign promise, it hadn’t actually eliminated the need to work—only the urgency behind it. The monthly credits were enough to survive, but not enough to compete for dwindling resources. Most people still held jobs, just not as desperately as they once had.
A pair of men stood outside the neighboring housing unit, their expressions daring anyone to cross them. Their uniforms all bore the same matching insignia: EPS.
Elite Protection Services.
Caleb had been seeing more of their advertisements on his feed and around the neighborhood lately. Ever since food theft had been downgraded from a jailable offence to community service and counseling, break-ins had surged. That particular building had been ransacked three times in the last month, and the residents had gotten fed up. Now, for two food rations per apartment per week, EPS would guard the building and keep out anyone who didn’t belong.
His own apartment building was considering doing the same.
He recalled the disgust he’d felt watching President Reed make the announcement on his screen, her polished smile bright and triumphant.
“You’ve been heard, Unity South,” she’d said. “No longer will our neighbors be thrown in jail simply for starving! Food is a basic human right, and one we are all entitled to.”
He glanced back at the private security. For now, they were keeping things in order. But soon, they’d start collecting taxes. And in the end, they would be in control.
He’d seen it before. He knew how this ended.
He remembered what the fall of democracy looked like. Well-intentioned laws buried in endless debates, votes driven by popularity instead of outcome, and services collapsing from lack of funding. Without police to enforce laws, the region had descended into chaos. The only ones who ate were those willing to do whatever it took to survive. The ones willing to submit to the private security gangs.
They could be safe, as long as they paid their tithes.
And they were grateful for it.
He remembered the days his family had shared a single food ration because they’d given the rest to the gang. When he’d asked why they hadn’t refused to pay, his parents’ response had changed his life.
“Hunger is a small price to pay for safety,” they’d said.
That was the moment he’d realized safety was worth more than all the freedom in the world.
Caleb reached his apartment and keyed in his code. No fingerprint scanners anymore. They’d been banned for “privacy concerns.”
The door unlocked with a mechanical clunk.
Inside, the apartment was sparse. Severe. Black tile. Gray counters. A single narrow bed pressed to the wall. The bookshelves were lined with books he had salvaged before the Great Composting, when all books had been digitized and the paper versions composted into soil.
He had studied the other regions for decades, ever since arriving in Unity South as a refugee. He kept folders full of printed files, cataloged by region and sorted into regime changes, policy shifts, and news briefings. Each printed page had cost an entire credit, but it was worth it to track the patterns of government structures across regions. Watching how they rose and how they fell. And how they always ended up the same.
After every collapse, they always returned to order.
Order was always required to rise out of chaos.
He sat at his desk and tapped on his screen. He had spent the last month researching case studies and building arguments for the Civic Policy Committee’s next question. He likely wouldn’t use any of it, but the preparation was necessary. It was how he made himself certain of his answer.
What should be preserved at any cost?
He thought about the gang members who had finally murdered his parents when they could no longer pay their tithe. Thought about his sister’s lifeless body, nothing more than skin and bone when hunger had finally taken her. Thought about the humanitarians who had found him hiding in the basement of an abandoned school, starving and terrified of the enemy called people.
Good intentions had saved his life, once.
Now they were tearing it apart.
He had seen what happened when there were no rules. No structure. When everyone was free.
He knew exactly what should be preserved at any cost.
Order.
The Archivist's Ledger 
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