Marin Caller watched the protest group gathered outside City Hall with quiet disappointment. About thirty stood in loose formation holding signs that read, “Stop voting your feed!” and, “Celebrities aren’t experts!” A few chanted, “Vote on facts! Not on influence!”
She understood their frustration, but the protestors were missing the point. People were voting based on what they were reading on their feeds because it was so difficult to comprehend the legal language in the proposed laws. They needed to be educated, not shamed.
Another sign caught her eye that read, “I need a doctor! Help!”
Her heart clenched. So many doctors had either fled Unity South or quit entirely when wages dropped to the universal income cap. She knew it was difficult to get in to see a doctor, but it at least it meant the remaining doctors truly wanted to help people. They weren’t just doing it for the money. That was the kind of doctor she wanted treating her.
She glanced down to confirm the route on her phone’s map. She’d never been to the Government Policy and Research Institute before, but she was proud to be invited. Her mind brimmed with plans—ways to simplify complex issues, teach voters, curb black markets, and even address product shortages. Her favorite idea was to give every citizen a small plot of land for sustainable gardens.
Her map dot stopped moving. She looked up at the one-story stone building in front of her. It was simple and nondescript, one of many identical government structures adjacent to City Hall. Dark glass doors parted automatically as she approached and she headed inside, pausing to check the sign on the wall with suite numbers and directions. She found the correct number, then turned and headed down the long corridor to the right.
The waiting area was softly lit, its design modern but understated. Four people were already seated in comfortable-looking navy chairs. A refreshment table offered water and snacks. Marin poured herself a glass of water and sat down, scanning the others, wondering if they were also there for the Civic Policy Committee.
A man in his mid-forties sat in pressed black pants and a crisp white shirt. His shoes were clean and matte black, his appearance spare but intentional. He was staring at his phone, not scrolling or touching the screen—reading, maybe.
A woman in her mid-thirties tapped furiously on her screen. Her hair was cropped and black, and earrings studded their way up both ears. She’d probably be attractive if not for the permanent scowl etched on her face.
A young man in his early twenties wearing dark slacks and a white polo shirt sat a few seats away from her. He stared at his phone with quiet sorrow, fingers slowly moving across the screen as if composing something personal.
The last woman appeared to be around her age, in her late twenties. Her dark blond hair was twisted into a low bun. She scrolled, paused to type, then continued, her expression distant—borderline disdainful.
A man in his late-thirties walked into the waiting area. He had short, dark hair, his eyes just as black. He surveyed the room without hesitation, as if he were assessing and evaluating everyone he saw. When their eyes met, Marin offered a polite smile. He nodded in return but didn’t smile back. Instead, he sat and, unlike the others, didn’t pull out his phone. Instead, he resumed watching the others with that same measured, clinical look.
Footsteps clicked in the hallway, drawing their attention. A young woman in a dark blue suit appeared, her smile polished and professional.
“Hello,” she greeted. “Is everyone here for the Civic Policy Committee?”
They nodded.
“What is this?” the scowling woman asked. “I’ve never heard of the Civic Policy Committee.”
The woman’s expression didn’t change. “Your Host will brief you,” she told her. She moved to the tall double doors at the end of the room and pulled them open. “Please, go on in.”
They all rose and headed to the room. Before Marin stepped into the room, the woman handed her a name tag with the name Ember.
Marin paused. “Excuse me,” she said politely. “I think I have the wrong name tag. My name is—”
“Everyone has been assigned a code name,” the woman told her with a polite smile. “The goal of the Civic Policy Committee is for everyone to feel free to express their ideas without fear of repercussions.”
Marin hesitated. “So we’re not allowed to say our names?” she asked.
“Welcome to democracy,” the girl with short black hair muttered, taking a name tag with the name Specter on it.
Marin slowly stuck the name tag onto her shirt and headed into the room, noting that the others did the same.
The room was dimly lit, the overhead fixtures yellow like candlelight. A round table dominated the center of the room with seven empty chairs spaced evenly around it.
Marin claimed the farthest seat so no one would have to walk around her. The others followed suit, each taking a seat. And when they were all settled around the table, there was one empty seat remaining.
Six people.
Seven chairs.
The attendant frowned at the vacant chair, then glanced back into the waiting room. She turned to them again and smiled. “Your Host will be with you shortly,” she said, then closed the doors with a quiet click.
There was a pause in the room. A couple of faces looked uneasy, others curious, as they looked around. The woman with the Specter name tag opened her mouth to speak, a snide look on her face.
Before she did, a voice drifted down from hidden speakers in the ceiling. It was soft, placid, and disarmingly warm.
“Welcome, participants,” the voice greeted. “I am your Host. Unity South thanks you for your role in shaping its future.”
“What does that mean?” Specter asked, glancing toward the ceiling. “What is this committee?”
“The Civic Policy Committee is designed to inform the future policies of Unity South’s next legislative term,” the Host said. “Over the next twelve months, you will engage in monthly sessions of structured discourse. The most robust contributions will impact future policy.”
“Do you mean we’ll be able to create laws?” the man with dark eyes asked. His name tag read Strategos. He cocked his head suspiciously. “Or will our suggestions go up for vote?”
“Neither,” the Host said. “Your task is to present ideas and substantiate them. The future leader of Unity South will be provided with your inputs to help design the most successful forward path for Unity South.”
“And what if we choose not to participate?” Specter asked.
“Attendance is optional,” the Host said. “If you choose not to participate in a discussion, your name will be removed from future session invitations. Your participation stipends will be revoked.”
No one around the table spoke. Marin didn’t know anyone else’s financial situation, but she wasn’t interested in losing an additional 1,000 credits per month. Not when all she had to do was talk with other people for an hour.
After a moment of silence, the Host spoke again. “Let it be noted participant Z-7K-E-R-07-P07 has declined to participate,” the Host said, sounding crisp and matter-of-fact. “Their position will be recorded as abstention. Future invitations revoked.”
There was a moment of uneasy silence.
“Wait,” Specter said, looking up at the ceiling. “That’s it? One strike and you’re out?”
“The Civic Policy Committee is only for individuals who are dedicated to the improvement of Unity South,” the Host said. “Absence implies a lack of interest.”
“Feels a little ominous,” the younger man in the white polo shirt objected. His name tag read Solace. “Maybe they were detained. Shouldn’t we give them a chance to explain?”
“Their reasons are not of concern,” the Host said. “We are interested in outcomes.”
“It’s of concern to me,” the man in the button-down objected dryly. His name tag read Vector. “If someone deliberately chose not to participate, maybe they know something we don’t.”
The blond woman with the name tag Fulcrum looked a little annoyed. “We’re wasting time,” she said, glancing at the time on her phone. “This is their committee and their rules. Absence is disqualification. Can we please get started?”
Marin frowned at the harshness of her words, but held her tongue on further objections. “Are we being recorded?” she asked, directing her voice towards the speakers in the ceiling. “Is this being livestreamed? Will it be made public later?”
“Civic Policy Committee discussions are recorded and stored on multi-encrypted servers solely for reference by future government leaders,” the Host said. “Do not let that dissuade you. This is a highly-controlled, confidential environment. You may speak freely. There are no public optics.”
Strategos stared hard up at the ceiling. “What happens if we say the wrong thing?”
“There are no wrong things,” the Host reassured him. “Only inputs.”
There was another pause around the room, everyone looking at each other.
“If there are no more questions,” the Host continued, with placid finality, “then let us begin.”
No one spoke.
The Archivist's Ledger 
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