Chapter 2.1 ~ YEAR 2046

[EXTRACTED FROM THE WOODHOUSE FILE: ‘THE.ACCOUNTS.OF-DR.SAMUEL.WOODHOUSE’ RECOVERED FROM THE YUNIPTER ENCRYPTION NFT FILE no. ]

It’s a quarter to midnight. The warm summer air feels peaceful as I walk up the steps to the dark city building.

Our head of security had just unlocked both sets of thick glass doors. He rushed me in before locking the fortified entrance behind us. He did so with purpose. After the second huge clonk of deadbolts, TJ Cooper pointed into the cavernous space beyond into which the moon cast pale colorless shapes. Without a word I nodded and continued into the shadows. Under the deep vaulted ceiling my steps echoed until I reached the hallway at the end of the foyer. I hear the raised voices down the hall. Their arguments are getting louder.

I had entered the city building wondering which room the meeting would be in, but as I approached it was obvious. My walk hastened and I hurried toward the raucous sounding door on the right, then pulled it open.

Just before entering I had a fantastical notion, the vision of an angry room becoming silent and all attention falling to me. The energy in the air would defer to my arrival and peace would ensue.

This did not happen. Only Michael Schiento noticed, or gave any acknowledgement to my entrance. The arguing dampened to a spirited conversation among individuals and between groups. I felt the egotistical vision had been partially manifest, due to the apparent change in volume. Although, it was more like a restaurant getting quiet for no apparent reason. Far from silence. Far from total calm.

Most folks here know something about me, the man coming to make this presentation on the night of the vote. I’ve spent weeks pouring over the data and critiquing both sides of the issue. Therefore, I wasn’t friendly with any particular group, nor they with me. But everyone knows my analysis is to be non-partisan. They know I am someone designated by the city council and the mayor. They know I am also approved by the households, either directly or by reputation through Mike Schiento and Daeja Allen. Some of them know how close I was with Daeja’s husband, Grieg Allen, and still am with Steve Robertson.

The rectangular room had a couple round tables in opposite corners. More than a dozen old folding chairs are scattered along the walls. An old wood podium sits lonely on the floor with an empty microphone holder at the end of an adjustable arm. It looks worn out and tired, placed at an awkward angle to my left. It’s not quite in the middle of the room, but flirting with the long wall adjacent the hallway.

The room is not small, but feels claustrophobic due to the 28 other people crammed inside. Everyone is packed into different cohorts. Some of them arguing in agreement amongst themselves. Others shouting over their shoulders. A councilwoman named Sarra Bennit is raising a passionate fist at others. She's shaking her balled hand back and forth as she speaks, as if pounding on some invisible door with each point she’s trying to make. I hear muted disagreement and disparagement. The benevolent and cool-headed are working to keep the place from boiling over. It looks like a web of ideas resisting and interlocking at the same time.

A vague and nervous wave of déjà vu swept over my forethought. It was the look on his face, and the color of the podium, and the shape of the chairs along the wall. Mike looked nervous underneath his typical surety. He was one of those guys who always seemed comfortable in his persona. Confident, yet kind and always welcoming, he seemed to know everyone.

While he was finding a way out of his conversation I looked around to see who else I recognized. It was hard to tell if the prophetic feeling continued or was wearing off.

At the end of the room, on the opposite short wall was a full length of pickled oak cabinets. They were old and degraded, looking like furniture from a college dorm at the turn of the century. The unit was sturdy, built into the wall with a countertop between a row of cupboards above and cabinets below. At the far end was a large coffee maker expounding a deep, comforting aroma. Yuni Robertson was attending the area, setting up her minimalist gear while making sure people felt welcomed and free to a hot cup.

I saw an amber bubble of calmness surrounding her. People entered that bubble and were greeted with coffee, and calmness. It was a flash. A momentary vision. An olfactory fabrication.

Our local alliance is a management scheme involving seven secret water wells on five family properties. These were all undocumented and unregistered even before the takeover. They’re also under the cover of trees or other structures, keeping them invisible to the satellite surveys. The GUNCWC have no knowledge of this.

The families provide a selfless and noble service to the local population. What's left of it anyhow. All registered town residents receive an encrypted digital token every week. It allows them to collect a generous ration of clean water for drinking and cooking.

The families have a genius system of pipes and main valves converted for their own purposes. The distribution coordinates change 3-4 times a week. There are rumors circulating in town about the five households cheating to hoard the water distribution. Some people in this room even believe it. I think it’s jealous nonsense. It would be nearly impossible for them to thwart their own integrated systems. If it were one family controlling the whole thing, then I could see the mistrust. But it’s a mathematically balanced calculation.

The five households are all represented here tonight by matriarchs, patriarchs and household assemblies. I can’t see every face, but I know well enough who all 28 members of this committee are. The Allen sisters and their mom, the five Ashurst siblings, old man Abineau with his wife and the mayoral cohort, the Schiento family, and the Singanas.

My closest friend since childhood, Steve Robertson is also here with his daughter. They are not part of the five families, but most respect their opinions, especially Yuni’s, although she never offers it. She’s not a voting member here. Steve Robertson is, however, an honorary voter on this Household Domains Committee. In fact, he’s the Chairman of the HDC.

This means that while mayor Abineau obviously chairs public city council meetings, Steve is the chairman for these semi-secret HDC events. The mayor is technically in the co-chair seat here. But their bi-laws have ordained Doyle Abineau with the title of ‘president.’ He is delighted by this, although it only grants him the power to veto a proposed motion. And his veto can be overridden by the chairman plus thirteen.

Yuni acts as the group’s recorder, accountant and stenographer. She’s a natural talent with tech devices and holosets, and she’s just about ready to record the proceedings. She took on this role herself with a preternatural understanding of the value in capturing historic events, and crunching data.

Throughout a thick thirty seconds I eavesdrop and hear conversations. Each with their own hue. Some between council members, the Ashurst clan, the Singuana uncle with his nephew, a few others…

“I say let ‘em die! I don’t know how you can be undecided here!” Sarra Bennit is callous.

“I’m just saying nobody should commit their vote until we have all the facts,” councilman Eastburn says. "Or, at least all the facts possible to collect.” Pat Cline adds. “Besides, Sarra, you’re not gonna be the one going up there–to– to do it!” Eastburn added on.

“Well, I agree with Sarra. And I’ll sign up if they need more boots,” said another councilwoman, Taylor Riles, without irony or introspection.

“I think it’s a done deal. I don’t care what he has to say,” the youngest Ashurst sounds indignant, but not quite authentic. “I still want to know what he’s got on them,” the middle Ashurst responds.

“They just let the fires rage on and on. You have friends who died. I have friends who died,” says Andrew Ashurst. “I think it was on purpose.” Trevor Ashurst tacks on. It’s hard to say if all the Ashurst brothers agree.

“With every choice comes a consequence, Beto,” says the older Singana uncle. His nephew is a young man, clean cut, dark and serious. He stands brooding with arms crossed, boots of a caballero looking dirty and worked.

Daeja Allen is with Julia Abineau complaining about the registered residents in the city starting rumors about manipulating the water rations. “How could we even do that? The calculations are encrypted on the blockchain.”

“Daeja, most people have never even looked at it.” Julia responds. I can’t quite hear what Daeja said next, but she ended with, “…even though they all have the data!”

As the volume increases with another wave, the voices start blending with the aroma of coffee. “Yeah, but wouldn’t you love to know how they’re doing it up there in the north, inside the UTN stronghold?” I’m not sure who’s over there talking about the Native Americans. But whoever it is, they are correct to wonder about the successful defiance up north.

This smell and the vocal cacophony reminds me of the deep conversations we shared at the espresso houses years ago. Mike and Steve, me and Grieg… we used to meet at the old cafe on Birch Avenue every Thursday. These morning restaurants were thriving in our town years ago. None of us have shared a coffee together since—well, since Grieg never came back from the regional negotiations. Those were a bunch of show hearings to placate the people. He went to advocate for private water rights at the regional capitol in Denver. Before his turn to speak, it all turned into an uprising of sorts. An uprising that was put down with wrath and force. They refused to release the names of the dead and they disappeared the bodies. Anyone who died was deemed an enemy combatant. They were all designated terrorists posthumously, anonymously, like an Orwellian open secret. Other protests and revolts had been met with force, but also led to some concessions and reconfiguration of the regional plans.

The rest of Singana family are in the back getting coffee. The Singana patriarch, Lorenzo, is animated while chatting with Yuni. He’s explaining something with two gregarious hands. She gave him a warm mug. His arms became quiet, his body now calm.

Mike glanced again from across the room. We made eye contact.