Yared Zerezghi — 2125

If the New Year were to be a thing for Yared to celebrate, that was lost on him. He had long since lost track of how old he was, and the passage of time had begun to blur together into a haze of referenda, of voting and posting and debating. He knew the years by the seasons and the fact that all of his posts on the DDR had a date attached to them, but beyond that, the significance of December 31 held little sway over him.

If the passage of referendum 10b30188 was to be something to celebrate, that was also lost on him. The process of promoting and supporting the bill had long since taken over his life, and he had little enough energy left to acknowledge that it had passed by a supermajority of votes.

He should be celebrating both of these, he knew.

He should be celebrating them because the rattle, pop, and boom of fireworks outside told him to celebrate the new year. He should be celebrating them because he was inundated not only with congratulatory messages telling him to do so for his pet issue passing, for his first major amendment passing, but for file threats of harm, of finding him, of killing him, but for the media requests piling up in his inbox, and in the end, was that not a success of some kind for a politician.

He knew that he should be celebrating, most of all, because True Name and Jonas had each sent him dozens of messages telling him how the news had been received sys-side, describing the cheers of the Council of Eight, gushing about the unanimously positive moods of those who had been tracking the progression of the bill.

And yet here he was, once more walking from his apartment to the patch of scrub grass and trees at the end of his block, wishing he’d left his phone at home.

The trees, at least, had nothing to say. They cared not about the new year except for the risk provided by the fireworks. They most certainly cared not for the secession of the System. All they cared about was their patch of dirt and the sun above and whether or not they got enough water. Yared wound his way around each of them in turn, sometimes sitting at the base of one or running a hand along the rough, papery bark of another, doing his best to absorb some of that apathy himself.

No one, in the end, had been able to convince him that having his name inextricably linked to the secession amendment would be anything but trouble, moving forward. He had tried to pick up a new pet referendum to follow after the interest had swung hard in favor of secession, something about limiting the environmental impact of dune stabilization in the Sahara, but the first response to his post in the DDR forums was met with a derisive “Of course the bleeding heart who either loves the System so much he bet his life guaranteeing their independence or hated it so much as to make it irrelevant to the rest of the world would be concerned about an issue he has absolutely no stake in. Either way, upload and find out, Yared, and the rest of us can move on.”

That had stung so much that, he’d not looked at the DDR forums or touched the debate sims since except to ensure that the referendum had passed. He was tempted to delete his account, after that, though he knew that that would be a mistake, inviting either further scorn from his detractors or disappointment from his supporters.

He jumped from where he’d hunched down at the base of a tree, poking around the roots with a stick. His implants buzzed again and he pulled out his phone to check on who it was, groaning at the sight of Demma’s name.

“Mr Zerezghi,” the voice on the other end said, sounding cheerful. “Happy New Year. I was wondering if you would be so kind as to join us for the tail end of our celebrations?”

“Join..?”

“Of course, Yared. Are you at your park? We can meet you there and pick you up. The dress is semiformal. We can provide you with that, if you need.”

“Celebration?” he said, numb.

Demma laughed. “Of course, Yared. We’ll meet you momentarily, and you’ll see.”

The car was once more ready and waiting for him at the edge of his mini-forest, still humming slightly from the radiator fan and air conditioner. The driver was once more standing outside, though this time he had a long thawb draped over one arm, gold brocade peeking out through folds in the cream-colored fabric.

“This should fit over your current clothes, Mr Zerezghi. Might as well put it on out here where you can move a bit more easily.”

It had been a long time since Yared had worn a thawb, and it took a moment to navigate so much fabric, but soon, he had it up over his head and spilling down over his body, the soft linen tumbling down nearly to his ankles. It really was quite nice, too. The linen was pre-worn and soft, and the gold brocade ran in two thick stripes from shoulder to hem down his front. It felt somewhat bunched up with his shirt beneath it, but wasn’t too uncomfortable.

The driver nodded appreciatively, saying, “It looks good on you. Your shirt underneath may ride up, but feel free to slip off to a restroom when we arrive and you’ll be able to take it off and check it at the coatroom.”

Yared nodded, smiled as best he could, and bowed to the driver. It was the first time he’d seen the man’s eyes, and he was pleased to note that they felt as though they were always a second away from crinkling in a smile.

In the back of the car, Demma greeted him with a warm smile, and a rather severe looking woman leaned forward to shake his hand.

“Yared, I’d like to introduce you to Councilor Aida Tamrat,” Demma said, gesturing. “Aida, this is Yered Zerezghi, the author of the secession amendment.”

“A pleasure, of course,” she said. “Thank you for all of your hard work.”

Overwhelmed, he simply bowed as best he could from his cushy seat in the back of the car.

From there, he said little, having little enough chance to say so. Demma and Tamrat continued their conversation from before, which seemed, on the surface, to be about the party they’d just come from — who was with whom, who wore what, what drinks had been most common — yet seemed to carry serious undertones of deep study, as though all of this information taken as a whole showed some gestalt of the political momenta this way and that. The driver, of course, remained silent, so all Yared could do was sit, smile, and nod when addressed.

The short ride down familiar streets took them back to Government House, but this time, rather than simply sitting outside of the building, the car was waved through a gate and slid smoothly down a ramp to a parking garage underneath. From there, they were subjected to a security scan — pat down and implant scan — and whisked up a flight of stairs, through long halls, and eventually deposited in a chamber crowded with more nicely dressed persons drinking champagne from thin flutes.

Very nicely dressed, he quickly realized, and he wondered if not dressing him up more had been an attempt to make him wear his status as a lesser-than plainly.

Later that night, nearing two in the morning, he realized that he could remember little of the party. He was handed a champagne flute and passed around the room as though an interesting object. Councilors and dignitaries of various levels shook his hand, smiled to him with unsmiling eyes, and once again congratulated him on a job well done.

“These are the interested parties I’ve mentioned,” Demma said at one point. “They’re all pleased to meet you in person.”

If that was the case, then that pleasure had been slight indeed.

Perhaps the party slipped so easily from his mind due to the sheer mundanity of it, but more likely, it was the following conversation that overshadowed it in importance.

In the car, as he was being returned to his house, Demma broke the tired silence with, “Yared, thank you again for your assistance in this project. I have a few requests to make of you before we part ways.”

Yared nodded hesitantly. “Of course, councilor.”

“First of all, I hope you understand that your continued discretion is of the utmost importance. It is important to our trust and to your security.” There was a meaningful pause before Demma smiled. “From potential bad actors, I mean.”

“Yes, of course,” he said, starting to rub his palms against his knees before he remembered that he was still wearing the long garment he had been provided.

“Thank you. Secondly, please do not contact me or any of the interested parties you met at tonight’s soiree. This, I think, shall be easy, as many of them are quite difficult to reach, and the contact information we provided you to stay in touch is now no longer active.”

He nodded again, silent.

“Third, keep in mind that, as you are a person of interest to the government now, all of your actions will be monitored as a matter of course. Please note that your interactions on the direct democracy representative forums will be monitored closest of all, and should they deviate from NEAC party stance too far, you may be subject to reprisal.”

Yared blinked. This was unheard of, as far as he could remember, a government requiring a single individual to toe the party line. But then, perhaps it was unheard of due to the implicit threat of violence that Demma had dropped early on. He nodded slowly.

“Excellent. Those are the three requests. In order to formalize this agreement, I’d like you to place your thumb here–” the councilor had pulled out his phone where a rectangle outlined where his thumbprint should wind up. “–and state aloud that you agree.”

He hesitated long enough that Demma began to frown, but before any further encouragement was given, he did as he was told, pressing his thumb to the reader and saying, “I agree.”

“Thank you, Mr Zerezghi.” He sighed and slumped back into his seat. “My apologies for the rather formal interaction, but it was required to get this out of the way.”

Yared did not relax into his seat. He was as keyed up as he’d been before the night had begun, but now for entirely different reasons.

After a long silence, he spoke up. “Congratulations, councilor.”

“Mm?” Demma sat up, then, comprehending, waved a hand dismissively. “Thank you. The bill passed as expected, and now we won’t have to worry about it.”

Yared frowned. “Do you think there will be any further legislation around the System?”

“The System?” The councilor gave a short, sharp bark of a laugh. “It’s out of our way, as I say. Rubbish idea from the start, of course, but meddlesome minds will always meddle, so it’s all we can do to keep them as far away from us as possible.”

“I…don’t understand. What do you mean?”

Demma grinned. “There’s no need for you to, but I’ll do my best to explain. The System is a nuisance and a political thorn in everyone’s side. It needed removal as any thorn does before the infection spread. Anyone who held onto their citizenship while making a one-way journey to a nowhere we aren’t even sure is real could still have had influence back in their so-called home countries. Now they can’t. That’s that. It’s a dumping ground for dreamers, and the less of those we have, the easier our jobs get.”

“But,” Yared said, voice quiet. “I thought you wanted to help them secede.”

Demma only shrugged. “I did. Just maybe not for the same reasons as you.”

“I’m sorry, councilor. I had been under the impression–“

“You, too, are a dreamer, Yared. One who is easy enough to control, but a dreamer nonetheless.” Demma said, smile kind and completely, totally discomfiting for it. “If you wish to continue dreaming, then, well, I suppose I have made my point about the System.”

The rest of the car ride proceeded in silence. The only other words that were spoken to him were by the driver as he helped Yared out of the loaned thawb.

“Mr Zerezghi, it was a pleasure sharing coffee with you,” he said, and then the car was gone, black car disappearing into gold-lit night.

Yared walked numbly up to his apartment once more and sat down on his mattress, unable to even permit the thought of delving in into his mind.

Well, he thought. If there’s one place for dreamers to go, I guess I’m at least welcome on the System.