Natural disasters, freshwater scarcity, and desertification trends will continue to lead to denationalization. While maintaining long positions in security and detention, it will be advantageous to invest in services providing transcontinental transportation, as well as future employment, for stateless migrants. Now that migrant paths are moving out of the gray market and falling under the purview of publicly traded companies, these firms are routinizing previously dangerous journeys. Not only has ANøNosiki reduced migrant fatalities but they’ve provided workers with opportunities to pay off the costs of their transportation with pollination labor in China or sugarcane harvesting in Brazil.
A frustrating bit of research on ANøNosiki revealed it was owned by several international conglomerates, including a Spanish construction firm, a Dutch-based chemical conglomerate, a US private equity firm, and the Qatar Investment Authority, the country’s sovereign wealth fund. I flipped forward, past brain-computer interface, nanotech, and biotech, all the technology that filled me with a sense of vast and strange continents lying just over humanity’s horizon. I came to a password-protected addendum called “The New Gray Edge: Political Processes in Developed Nations.” I tried Fred Jr.’s birthday backward and came up empty-handed, but I could still see the table of contents. The firm CLK had two pages devoted to it. First, there’d been quants and their black boxes of predictive algorithms, then insanely expensive research services that would send spotters to surveil wafer factories in China—anything for edge. Now there was psychometrics persuading or dissuading consumers and citizens.
I set the report aside and considered going back to bed. But it was that itchy late-night feeling.
In the greasy confines of the VR goggles, I scrolled until I found the interview I’d been meaning to watch ever since Haniya exploded at the woman at dinner.
I joined two families in a beautiful, brightly lit living room. Seth Young’s sister and three brothers sat on the right. Sybrina and Keon Hudson, the parents of Malik Brown Hudson, sat to the left. Malik had also been killed on the National Mall. The anchor asked how the families had met and decided to start this advocacy group together.
Seth’s older sister, Grace, explained, “After the Democrats made it clear they wouldn’t pursue impeachment, we were of course furious, so we had to start an organization that would work to bring those responsible to justice. We met with the families of some of the other victims, which is how we got to know Sybrina and Keon.”
Sybrina took over the story.
“And we found out, oddly enough, that Malik and their brother, Seth, had been at Georgetown together and had in fact dated very briefly. We’re not even sure they knew they were both protesting on the Mall, but now they are both dead, murdered by the country they were trying to save. So we all decided to combine our resources, but then…” She looked to Grace. “What happened next?”
“Well, we saw the picture, right?” Evan Young offered. “While we were trying to choose a name?”
“Right, right,” said Sybrina. “We found this image of this beautiful young girl with natty braids, hands all dirty, and she was holding up a sign that said ‘We Will Win!’ and just smiling like a kid on her way to a birthday party.”
“Missing about seven baby teeth,” said Keon.
“Very cute,” added Grace.
“So we went looking for who she was,” Sybrina continued. “You know, mostly out of curiosity. We talked to so many survivors, and everyone knew her, knew her name was Letitia. But then we couldn’t find out anything else about her, a last name, a home, who her parents were. And eventually when the government released the names of the dead, we find out she was an orphan and a runaway. She’d been living on the street when the siege started and had just wandered down to the Mall and kind of joined up. So okay.”
Sybrina scooted to the edge of the couch cushion, so it felt like she was craning toward me.
“Survivors are telling us these stories about her. How she was always eager to help, how she talked a blue streak to everyone, how she always insisted on making the coffee at the chow hall or would challenge everyone she could find to a foot race. And then this one young man told us that when the government stormed the Mall the first time, some of the undercover police had set tents on fire, so he and the others were trying to douse them, and there was Letitia, this eleven-year-old girl, running back and forth, carrying these jugs of water two at a time, to help put out the fires. And even after that, she stayed. She was still sleeping on the Mall when those soldiers opened fire. So there we all were”—she gestured to the six of them with a wide circular swoop of her arm—“hearing about this, just bowled over by the courage of this little girl. Our boys, Seth and Malik, they have families who will remember them, who will tell their story and carry on their memories. But who is going to remember Letitia? The world needs to know this girl’s name and her courage. Because she represents the best of who we are. We will win because she is who we are fighting for—”
I paused the interview as a message popped into the top right corner of the goggles. It was a voice recording from Jefferey. I pulled the goggles off and tried to wipe the flood of exhausted tears from my face. I sat in the dark for a very long time, weeping quietly. Finally, I played his message.
Two days later, poring over outfits in the recesses of my closet, I was caught in that trap of wanting to look youthful and attractive but not like I was trying. There was a blue Milan dress, but the cleavage was a bit much. I eyed a leather pencil skirt that I sometimes wore with a particular loose-fitting chartreuse blouse. As I fretted over this decision, annoyed at myself for fretting, Fred walked into my closet and took me by the waist.
“Should I be nervous?”
“About Jefferey? I showed you the picture. He’s become a total cow.”
“I’m having dinner with Peter and Nate in Tribeca. Any chance you’ll want to join us?”
“I wouldn’t wait on me. Jefferey and I will have to get a hotel room—it’ll be a whole production.”
“You’re so funny, Jack! That’s what I love about you.”
I pecked him on the cheek and chose a black scoop-neck top and a crimson flare skirt.
I’d suggested Creole Slim, a new Haitian American fusion place I’d heard good things about. When Jefferey saw me walk in, he blurted out, “Oh goddamnit.” I met him at a cream-white island in a sea of similar tables, surrounded by couples talking low in dim gold light. He hugged me. “You look absolutely beautiful—this sucks.” There was a lot of him to hug. Even though I’d been prepared by his profile, it was still jarring how much weight he’d put on. He’d never been fat when we’d dated, but the potential was there. After we moved in together, and I could exert control over the shopping list, I did my gentle best to nix his snacking habits.
“Stop it, you look great, Jefferey.”
“Do not. Don’t you—don’t you dare”—he wagged a finger in my face—“pretend like I’m not the fattest fucking thing you’ve seen since we went to see the prize pigs at the Iowa State Fair in 2011. They have cranes pick me up out of bed to dress me in the morning.”
“Stop,” I told him. “You look terrific. You still have your hair!”
He smiled and batted his eyes. “Okay, go on.”
The conversation rolled effortlessly from there.
We somehow ended up recalling our Mario Kart battles, how I went from not knowing how to play to consistently beating him, and we’d spend entire Friday evenings at home getting wine-drunk playing every level. Then he started humming “You’ve Got to Hide Your Love Away,” and I had a familiar pain in my gut from the man who used to make me laugh so hard I’d get a stomachache. Delivering our drinks, the waiter asked what was so funny. How could I ever explain to him? The first day after we’d moved in together, Jefferey had left a foul smear in the toilet bowl, and in utter disgust, I’d demanded to know why he hadn’t used the toilet brush.