《The Water War》 Chapter 1 July 2077 It looked like any other room. Four walls dressed in faux marble paneling. Gauged slate tiles resting atop a concrete floor. Recessed light fixtures beaming with soft white bulbs. It was empty except for an amber-stained wooden table and three metal chairs behind it facing Max. The three individuals occupying these chairs, two middle-aged men and an elderly woman wearing matching professional attire, seemed pedestrian enough. Even the line of questioning could have been confused as nothing more than a college admission board weighing the application of a prospective student. But this was no ordinary room. ¡°Please state your name and date of birth,¡± the man in the middle said. ¡°Maxwell Hawthorne, July 9th 2059.¡± ¡°Mr. Hawthorne, welcome to your Triennial Competency Review. Please acknowledge your understanding of the proceedings for the record.¡± ¡°Confirmed,¡± Max managed to tremble out. The man cut through any pleasantries and got right to business. ¡°Your Academic Profile shows proficiency in English and the Sciences but a significant deficit in Math.¡± ¡°I¡¯m putting in extra work and expect my scores to reflect such on my next evaluation,¡± Max said. I should have been a little more specific. Three of the walls looked normal enough but the fourth behind Max and facing the panel was a one-way mirror connecting the observation area behind it. This was probably an interrogation room or a laboratory once upon a time. It was there where my father and I anxiously looked on. ¡°Mr. Hawthorne, if you were stranded on a deserted island for an unspecified period of time, would you rather possess double the resources in isolation or half the resources with a co-inhabitant?¡± Auditors will often toss questions like this out to keep Reviewees on their toes. I¡¯m not sure there¡¯s even a right or wrong answer. It¡¯s designed mostly to gauge critical thinking skills. ¡°It would depend on the co-inhabitant¡¯s Competency Rating,¡± Max replied. My father pumped his fist behind the glass. I guess he figured there was a right answer in this case. ¡°Your medical records showed heart palpitations at your most recent physical,¡± the female Auditor said. According to my father, physicals were historically only required once or twice a year to ensure you were healthy enough to participate in team sports or in good enough shape for life insurance. They¡¯re now required bi-monthly for reasons that will be obvious later. ¡°The physician is wrong. I¡¯m in peak physical shape.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not what your Athletic Assessment suggests. You tested significantly behind the other peers in your age cohort.¡± Age cohort is a fancy term for people born the same year as you. The Chancellor tends to lack creativity. ¡°I was ill on the day of my assessment. I recently placed second at the Supplemental Endurance Competition.¡± ¡°Our records indicate you placed sixth,¡± the Auditor said. Max shifted in his seat and swallowed hard. My dad and I cringed behind the glass mirror. The primary rule during a Competency Review is if you¡¯re going to lie, make sure a Specter hasn¡¯t already reported conflicting data. Tie always goes to the Specter. Max must have been positive there weren¡¯t any at the competition that day. Perhaps the results emerged during somebody else¡¯s Competency Review. Perhaps a bystander wrote in to the Sector Municipal Board. Perhaps a Specter was dressed in plain clothes. It doesn¡¯t matter. The Review Board doesn¡¯t discriminate the sources of its data. Outside of the mandatory psychological, academic, and physical assessments, they rely mostly on word-of-mouth information to build profiles on Reviewees and assess their competency. All data is supposed to be corroborated but with the amount of pressure coming down from the Oasis to get Censuses in line, I¡¯m not so sure it is. ¡°Did you think we don¡¯t have access to that information, Mr. Hawthorne?¡± the Auditor in the middle asked with an air of satisfaction. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I¡¯ll work harder and climb into the top quartile. Just this morning I was¡ª¡± ¡°Do you feel lying is an acceptable practice, Mr. Hawthorne?¡± he pressed on. ¡°I don¡¯t. I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯m just nervous and didn¡¯t mean to¡ª¡± ¡°It¡¯s time to score,¡± the Auditor interrupted. Reviewees don¡¯t get much time anymore. When Restoration first started, it was a far more thorough process, diving deeper into the detail. A chance to rationalize the quantitative results. Nowadays it¡¯s mostly just an exercise to sprinkle a pinch of subjectivity to objective data. That data comes in three metrics: Academic, Physical, and Social. You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. The Academic bucket evaluates benchmarks like intelligence quotient and quality of employment for adults. For students it¡¯s mostly standardized testing and grade point average. Physical scores are a combination of medical examinations and fitness profiles. Social scores determine how well a Reviewee interacts with others. Are they respectful, obedient, and well-liked? Or are they a defiant social outcast? Data from each metric is aggregated into a score which Auditors use as a guide to determine their own assessment of the Reviewee on a 10-point scale. Each of the Auditors picked up the stylus in front of them and scribbled onto the tablets embedded into the table. When the last of them finished, the lights dimmed and tense, pulsating music played through the room¡¯s speakers like something you¡¯d hear in an old game show. It¡¯s as if this whole system was designed for the Chancellor¡¯s entertainment. It was the moment of truth. One-by-one the scores would populate to determine Max¡¯s fate. I locked arms with my father and held his hand tight. On the screen mounted to the wall behind the Auditor on the right, the first score appeared: a Rating of 4.8 plastered in blood red. There were still two scores to go but that didn¡¯t stop my father from shouting, ¡°A 4.8! You¡¯ve gotta be kidding me!¡± After a brief moment, the second score populated onto the screen behind the middle Auditor: a 5.8 in glimmering green. We shared a collective breath of optimism from the safety of our seats behind the glass. The minimum passing score for a Competency Review is 5.0. The Rating is an average of the three scores. For simple math, add them all up and they need to equal 15.0 or greater. Max had 10.6 through his first two reviews so he would need just a 4.4 from the final Auditor to survive his second Competency Review and relax¡ªat least by 2077 standards¡ªuntil his twenty-first birthday. The final Auditor was the elderly woman. I thought I recognized her from my Competency Review but I couldn¡¯t be certain. The population in our small township within Sector Eighteen is over 187,000. With Competency Reviews beginning on your fifteenth birthday and continuing every three years thereafter, there are roughly 175 per day. They used to have the same three Auditors review everybody but a few years back each Sector began adding more. At first it was something about checks and balances. Then something about efficiency. Then something about data integrity. Who knows the real reason; the Oasis serves its own agenda and is offended at the notion it might have to explain otherwise. The first two Auditors were concise in their decisions. They definitively etched their scores down in resolute ink and slammed the stylus down in front of them. She was more conflicted. Yeah, Max lied and is a little behind the other eighteen-year olds in Math. But a physical revealing nothing more than minor heart palpitations? It could be far worse. After all, if you¡¯re trying to limit population growth there are assuredly others much further along in the natural process towards death as we used to know it. Then again, nowadays nothing is as we used to know. My father and I waited on pins and needles as butterflies bounced off the walls of my stomach like pinballs. I clenched my dad¡¯s arm so tight I feared it might shatter. I held my breath and then finally¡ªafter what seemed like an entire lifetime¡ªthe third Auditor¡¯s score emerged on the screen behind her: 4.3. My father charged out of his seat and pounded on the glass. ¡°This is bullshit! What the hell is going on here!¡± Max had received an aggregate score of 14.9. That¡¯s an average of 4.96. There is no rounding in Restoration. An eardrum-crushing buzzer rang out and the ¡®X¡¯ on the wall behind Max lit up in flashing red, leaving the green bulbs on the checkmark to its right dormant. The sound could have shattered the glass separating an adolescent on trial simply for being alive and his father and younger sister on the other side. A door opened and two brawny men wearing dark cloaks and executioner-style masks entered. Max sobbed and pled on hands and knees. He apologized and swore he¡¯d do better. He even began praying to God Almighty. But it was all for naught. There are no appeals, no mistrials. There are the Restoration results and they are final. My dad pounded the glass some more. He shrieked in anguish but his objections couldn¡¯t be heard from the soundproof box in which we watched. ¡°Maxy!¡± I cried as he was dragged out by the muscular henchmen. I was suddenly hit with a startling realization. That would be the last time I¡¯d ever see Max. Restoration had reared its ugly face but accomplished its unruly goal. One fewer person closer to a sustainable future for mankind on Earth. Chapter 2 July 2044 Dr. Robert Clifford sat calmly in the studio waiting room. His composed demeanor was on full display while he gingerly sipped the lukewarm tea from his ceramic cup. Dr. Martin Chambeaux, his understudy and right hand, was quite the contrary. He frantically paced back and forth and furiously slurped boiling hot coffee from his twenty-ounce stainless steel thermos. ¡°You know your opening?¡± Chambeaux asked. ¡°Cold,¡± Clifford said. ¡°And you have all of your rebuttals lined up?¡± ¡°Yep.¡± Chambeaux was appeased for a moment but then fired back, ¡°What about stats? Do you want to review the numbers?¡± ¡°Martin, I¡¯m ready.¡± ¡°Sorry, I just can¡¯t believe this is happening.¡± ¡°People are finally listening to us which for them means ratings. Don¡¯t be flattered. It¡¯s absolutely a business decision.¡± An endearing, adolescent program assistant knocked on the waiting room door and poked her head in. ¡°Marianne is ready for you, Dr. Clifford.¡± Clifford stood up, offered a confident wink to Chambeaux and proceeded into the studio¡¯s main interview room. It was cozy and boutique, arranged to resemble a suburban family room. There were two loveseats angled towards one another with a roundtable overflowing with peace lilies in between. A fire crackled in the background. There were even paintings of breathtaking landscapes and floral masterpieces fastened to the walls outside the scope of the camera¡¯s view. A more relaxed interviewee made for a better interview, Clifford hypothesized. As he took in the rest of the room, a bombshell in her fifties who might¡¯ve passed for thirty in the right light approached. ¡°Dr. Clifford, I¡¯m Marianne Walsh. It¡¯s a pleasure to meet you.¡± ¡°Ms. Walsh, the pleasure is all mine.¡± A seasoned veteran jaded by decades of small talk, she cut right to business. ¡°You ready to get started?¡± ¡°Only for the past ten years,¡± Clifford said. ¡°Just a reminder that we¡¯ll be live. There¡¯s a short tape delay but please make it easy on production, no profanities.¡± Clifford nodded in understanding as they took their seats. A makeup artist performed a final touch-up on Marianne¡¯s face and the cameraman jumped behind the lens. ¡°Five, four, three,¡± he said before using his fingers for the last two counts as the red light flipped on. ¡°Good evening and welcome to Primetime Live. We¡¯re joined by a unique guest tonight, world-renowned hydrologist, Dr. Robert Clifford. Thank you so much for being here.¡± ¡°Thank you for having me,¡± Clifford replied without a hint of nerves. ¡°Dr. Clifford, let me start out by asking what exactly a hydrologist does? It¡¯s not a science we¡¯re accustomed to hearing about on a daily basis.¡± ¡°Sure, Marianne. Put simply, hydrology is the study of water. All of its properties, its impact on the environment, its abilities, everything.¡± This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. ¡°You¡¯ve published some very intriguing articles that really have our nation talking. For those not privy to your theories, bring them up to speed.¡± ¡°These aren¡¯t theories. I¡¯m a scientist and we deal in facts. And the fact of the matter is, the biggest threat our world faces today is population control and its subsequent impact on our freshwater supply.¡± ¡°Can you elaborate?¡± Marianne probed. ¡°Did you know that seventy percent of the world is water but only two and a half percent of that water is drinkable freshwater? And of that freshwater, only about one percent is easily accessible with the rest buried deep inside polar ice caps and glaciers, effectively unreachable.¡± ¡°But hasn¡¯t that always been the case?¡± ¡°It has but the delta is the number of people competing for these finite resources. There are over nine billion people living on Earth as of this very moment. A hundred years ago there were under two billion. Advances in modern medicine are going to push that figure to almost twelve billion in the next thirty years.¡± ¡°Why is that?¡± ¡°Put simply, people just aren¡¯t dying as fast as they used to. We¡¯re experiencing prolonged life expectancies on a global level. Heck, stem-cell therapies could see newborns living into their mid-hundreds. So unless NASA is building a secret colony in the sky we don¡¯t know about, we simply don¡¯t have the resources to accommodate our own population growth. By extending life, we¡¯re actually threatening it.¡± ¡°Surely our government is regulating this?¡± ¡°Our government is too preoccupied with unemployment rates and trade wars that will be obsolete when all is said and done.¡± ¡°With the abundance of non-freshwater on the planet, we must have alternatives, right?¡± ¡°There are substitutes for almost every resource on this planet. Just look at all the alternative energy sources we¡¯ve created. But there is no alternative for freshwater. Saline water, which is our oceans, large lakes, even groundwater in some areas, is effectively unusable outside of recreational purposes. Desalination efforts have been made to purify that water but they¡¯re costly and can¡¯t be scaled anywhere near the scope needed to make a dent in our issue. When you add in rising global temperatures from fossil fuel-reliance that are melting the world¡¯s glacial ice at a record pace and resulting in saltwater intrusion of our freshwater coastal aquifers, we have a catastrophic issue at-hand.¡± ¡°So what¡¯s the bottom line here?¡± ¡°The bottom line is the primary source of our survival is at stake.¡± ¡°Survival?¡± ¡°Oh yes. Our planet has seen five mass extinction events in its history, each the result of an unfathomable natural disaster. I believe the sixth could be manmade.¡± Chapter 3 October 2079 (Present Day) It¡¯s been a little over two years since Max died. I think the ¡®time heals all¡¯ concept originated before our government started executing innocent teenagers. The pain is as real now as the day it happened. The haunting memory of Max screaming for his life as slaughterers dragged away his helpless body. The fear engulfing his eyes. His violent thrusts slowly giving way to inevitability. These images burn through me every night I lie down to sleep. The harder I try to forget, the more vivid the memories become. My father too. He hasn¡¯t been the same since Max died¡ªer, sorry¡ªwas murdered as he often likes to remind me behind closed doors. On the day of Max¡¯s Review, Dad had traded an entire week¡¯s worth of water credits to install a basketball hoop in the backyard of our suburban rancher. The delivery guy was setting it up during the Review. It was going to be a grand birthday surprise for the ages. It wasn¡¯t until we got home that we realized all of Max¡¯s buddies had even showed up and wrapped ribbon around the backboard and fastened an oversized bow to the net. They were waiting in our backyard and yelled, ¡°Surprise!¡± when I opened the back sliding door. It didn¡¯t take long for them to recognize the tragic outcome by the tears still soaking my face. The hoop still stands today but not as the renowned birthday gift it was intended. Instead, it¡¯s a ten-foot memorial of a dead teen every time my dad looks out the kitchen window. I try to shoot around every now and then to change the connotation. I even try to talk hoops and ask questions about past greats to further sell my interest. But deep down I think he knows I¡¯m doing it mostly for his benefit. Hopefully he appreciates the gesture nonetheless. And hey, at least my jumpshot is semi-worth bragging about. Dad swears to this day foul play was involved in Max¡¯s Review. He wasn¡¯t a child prodigy by any means but had plenty of potential. Certainly enough to warrant a three-year extension on life. I¡¯ve seen total idiots in my school breeze through Restoration and pass their Competency Reviews after all. But the truth is, foul play is more the norm than the exception. When a Sector falls behind Census expectations, they face water credit restrictions from the Oasis¡ªthat¡¯s the very unimaginative name Chancellor Harlow came up with for government headquarters¡ªuntil it¡¯s rectified. That typically means quicker executions for even the most modest of offenders. It¡¯s corrupt and it¡¯s unethical but there is nothing we can do about it. Our leaders run this nation more like a cartel or a mob than an actual government. Maybe the judges were sincere in their scoring? Or Maybe Max was simply a victim of poor timing? It doesn¡¯t matter. And we¡¯ll never know because they¡¯ll never tell us. Instead we just carry on in a state of perpetual fear and despondency. There is one exception from this melancholic existence which happens to be today, New Dawn! Almost ten years ago the Oasis levied sweeping agricultural restrictions against citizens rated below a 10... one of which was beef. Supposedly it takes almost two thousand gallons of water to produce a single pound of beef. The cattle need water, the grass they eat needs to be irrigated, the actual cleaning and production process requires water... it¡¯s a lot. Chancellor Harlow decided it was a luxury us lesser-contributors to society shouldn¡¯t afford and placed massive restrictions on production. Beef is still available at 10-rated restaurants but as the label suggests, only 10-rated citizens are allowed entry. Same with grocers. Each has a minimum-Rating that nobody below may access, even if you¡¯ve saved enough credits to purchase the contents inside. The higher your Rating, the better you eat. I suppose it¡¯s meant to be motivating but it feels more discriminatory than anything. You¡¯re identified more by your Rating than your personality. Like the caste system of Ancient India or the segregation era of mid-1900¡¯s America. The same goes for all sorts of food and drink that require water-intensive production. Pork, chicken, dairy, nuts, rice, corn... beer as my dad likes to remind me. You can purchase items above your Rating through the black market but they cost a fortune in water credits, something we¡¯ve never had the luxury of owning. Anyways, New Dawn. On October 8, 2062, after Chancellor Harlow officially voided the Constitution and disbanded the United States of America creating a new nation known as Okeanos, he commemorated the day and coined it New Dawn. Realizing there wasn¡¯t much celebrating taking place, a few years back Chancellor Harlow decided to allow all citizens of Okeanos, regardless of Competency Rating, to enjoy their pound of meat on this one celebratory day of the year. He said you need to taste success to want it! I guess this serves as our annual reminder. My dad swears the beef offering was originated to curb mounting chatter of a rebellion¡ªan olive branch of sorts to build loyalty amongst constituents¡ªbut I¡¯m not sure where he got that. From my experience, when Chancellor Harlow sees something he doesn¡¯t like, he squashes it with violence and force, not compromise. I believe every move he makes is one hundred percent self-serving. I¡¯m not complaining, though. A pound of meat probably doesn¡¯t sound like much but there¡¯s little else to get excited about these days. That¡¯s why I woke up bright and early and jogged over to our township¡¯s meat depot which is stationed at Oakmont Park, only about a half mile from my house. Guess I wasn¡¯t the only one because the line was wrapped around the park three times by the time I arrived. I¡¯ve been standing here for almost two hours but a break from our normal diet of grains, vegetables, and beans is well worth the wait. ¡°Rainey!¡± I hear someone yell in the near distance. That¡¯s me. Well, Lorraine actually but everybody has called me Rainey since I was born. Given the water-starved Earth we inhabit, my mom used to tell me my name is a blessing. People more religious than me often pray for rain after all. I survey the surrounding area and find my best friend, Lincoln, waving from about twenty folks ahead. Hard to believe I hadn¡¯t noticed him all this time I¡¯ve been standing in line. I guess the savory aroma of beef circulating through the balmy, fall air kept me distracted enough. ¡°Hey!¡± I yell back, instantly feeling awkward as all of the people directly in front and behind me turn and stare. I switch to make-shift sign language and point to a picnic table off to the side. Lincoln nods in understanding. By the time I collect my sixteen ounces of steak that I swear looks closer to eight, Lincoln is waiting by the table for me. ¡°Big plans for your steak dinner?¡± he asks as we begin our walk home. ¡°I may have you grill mine after last year,¡± I tell him. ¡°You don¡¯t want a shot at redemption?¡± In an act of independence last year, I decided I wasn¡¯t going to wait for Dad to get home on New Dawn. One shot, no mulligans, but I was determined. I fired up the grill, threw on the steak, and set the timer just like he taught me. In hindsight, the excessive smoke seeping out of the sides should have served as the canary in the coal mine but what did I know? Grills always produce smoke, don¡¯t they? By the time my stopwatch went off, I opened the cover to flip the steak and found it fully ablaze. I had gone through the complete checklist: twist the knob on the propane tank counter-clockwise, turn the dial to high, press the igniter until a flame is caught, and then ease back to somewhere between medium and low. Only I had forgotten to use the scraper thing on the cooking grate causing the highly flammable grease residue to turn the inside of the grill into an inferno. The result was a super-charred, well, well done treat for my German shepherd, Maverick. He didn¡¯t seem to mind. Happy New Dawn, buddy. When my Dad got home I told him I nailed it which is too bad because he unquestionably would have given me his had he known. I guess my pride wasn¡¯t worth a few bites of mouthwatering steak. Six months later I caved and told Lincoln. The wounds had healed and it was too funny not to. ¡°Nope, too risky. Dad keeps saying I need to put some meat on these bones so this is my only shot.¡± We pace through the bustling park towards home. I might¡¯ve been hesitant to walk in public with a steak a couple years ago. After all, a luxury like this might entice some desperate kook to mug me and take it. But if Restoration has done one thing, it¡¯s created an environment of discipline and order. With Specters roaming the streets, people really have to be on their best behavior at all times. Is a steak really worth risking your life over? With the way we live... probably. But it¡¯s a risk I¡¯m willing to take at the moment, especially with Lincoln by my side. Linc is tall and slender but has a build that comes off as athletic; it¡¯s lean yet muscular. He¡¯s undoubtedly handsome but the kind of guy who doesn¡¯t know it¡ªor is at least humble enough not to let on that he does. Most girls in school have had a crush on him at some point or another. Not me, though. He¡¯s my oldest friend and I just never really looked at him that way. Of course that doesn¡¯t stop my friends from teasing me that we¡¯ll be married one day. We cut through the woods and enter the street leading into our community. From across the sidewalk, an older couple with interlocking arms offers a friendly wave and a smile. They saunter along looking impossibly happy. I envy them for a moment but then over their shoulders see a Specter lurking. Specters are creepy-looking figures who prowl around in black robes like something an ancient friar would wear. They are hand-selected by the Chancellor¡¯s office and immune to any of the governance in which the rest of us are forced to abide. Their job is to roam about taking notes on the civilians of their jurisdiction and report back to the Competency Review Boards. Maybe the couple was truly happy, maybe they were putting on a show... it¡¯s impossible to tell. The lines of truth have been blurred so badly they don¡¯t even exist anymore. We carry on for three more blocks and arrive at my house. My dad and I live in a quaint community consisting mostly of shingled single-family ranchers built in the early 2020¡¯s. They¡¯re admittedly antiquated but charming in their own right. The streets combing through our community are lined with the skeletons of black walnut trees that dried out maybe a decade ago. They¡¯re not very welcoming and I¡¯ve been hoping they¡¯ll fall over on their own but the bones have proven rather resilient. There¡¯s been chatter around the neighborhood about tearing them down as other communities have but nobody has championed the cause enough to invoke action on the matter. My dad has long dreamed of upgrading but he doesn¡¯t have the water credits. ¡°What we lack in square footage, we make up for in love!¡± he often reminds me. Once upon a time Dad was a successful financial advisor. That man could beat the S&P with his eyes closed. Stocks, bonds, mutual funds... I don¡¯t really understand any of that stuff but it doesn¡¯t stop him from telling me about it. When Chancellor Harlow began flooding our economy with water credits in lieu of traditional American currency, our financial system imploded. What good was a dollar if it couldn¡¯t buy anything? For a while you could still go to the supermarket or department store and use cash. But after some time, businesses began exclusively accepting water credits. It was the only way to keep their doors open. Once a couple of the large dominos fell, the others immediately followed suit and Wall Street became obsolete. The collateral damage was millions of employees in the financial services industry suddenly without employment. Bankers, stockbrokers, analysts, you name it. My father didn¡¯t have much experience doing anything else. He bounced around between contract work and unemployment for a few years until ultimately a good friend needed some help on his grain farm. Truthfully, Dad really didn¡¯t have much of a choice. He was ninety days away from a Competency Review and the last thing you ever want to do is show up to a Competency Review unemployed. Lincoln and I breeze up my driveway to the front door. We walk inside and are instantly mauled by Maverick who jumps up and balances himself against Lincoln¡¯s shoulders while slobbering all over him in affection. ¡°Ew, Mav. Stop it!¡± Lincoln shouts, while shielding his face from Maverick¡¯s advances. ¡°When are you gonna train him to stop doing this?¡± he asks me through his struggles. ¡°What? No way! You have to remember, this is acceptable behavior in Maverick¡¯s culture.¡± Once we¡¯re finally able to appease Mav¡¯s affection needs, we enter the kitchen where I can see my dad through the glass sliding door to the backyard patio. We proceed outside to find him buried underneath a stack of paperwork, probably crop inventory or something. ¡°Stop working, Dad. It¡¯s New Dawn.¡± ¡°You know what they say, sweetheart. It¡¯s nine AM somewhere,¡± he says with a chuckle as he starts putting the papers away. I have a feeling he¡¯s been done for a while but came up with that line and decided it was good enough to wait out. ¡°How are you, Mr. Hawthorne?¡± Lincoln asks. ¡°I¡¯m good, Lincoln. Hey, I ran into your mother at the market the other day. She said you¡¯re thinking about skipping Upper Ed?¡± Lincoln immediately looks at me in defense. ¡°Well, it¡¯s not totally for sure yet. I just thought it might be an option. You know, so I can help pay the bills sooner.¡± Upper Ed is our secondary education system. After graduating high school, students have the opportunity to attend a trade school within their Sector or go straight into entry-level work. Lincoln and I have long talked about attending the same Upper Ed program which undoubtedly is why he was so quick to respond, seeing as this is the first I¡¯ve heard about it. ¡°Just remember,¡± my dad says, ¡°the Chancellor is placing a premium on education and it¡¯s supposed to have a significant impact on Ratings.¡± You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. ¡°Yeah, I heard that too,¡± Lincoln says. ¡°But we need 6-rated income today instead of 8-rated income two years from now.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not here to judge. And trust me, I get it. Desperate times, desperate measures. Do what you gotta do.¡± ¡°Does that mean I can skip Upper Ed too then?¡± I ask him. ¡°Absolutely not,¡± Dad replies without hesitation. We share a few laughs and Lincoln and I take off. We¡¯re meeting up with some friends to celebrate the holiday. We had been trying to decide for weeks how to celebrate today. Public entertainment certainly isn¡¯t what it used to be. Once upon a time there was the Roman Empire with gladiators fighting in the Colosseum, chariots racing through the Circus Maximus, street performers juggling for the masses. The last century had professional sports, a must-see blockbuster movie, and chart-topping rock bands selling out stadiums. These all disappeared when Chancellor Harlow abolished the entertainment industry as a whole. When the global water crisis hit, he saw no place for performers offering the people relief from the stresses of their daily lives. He saw them as a hindrance on our productivity. How could we save the planet from its stark realities if we were constantly looking for a distraction from them, after all? He ended up just sort of smoking out the industry. Celebrities and athletes couldn¡¯t even pass a Competency Review if they didn¡¯t find additional, more productive work outside of their day jobs. And it wasn¡¯t a bluff. The Chancellor executed a few high-profile celebrities who objected to his ultimatum. That sent a shockwave across the industry until it eventually just collapsed as so many others did. The message stuck: a profession does not have to be glamorous, it just has to be useful. Music, sports, and theater still exist but solely as hobbies. There¡¯s no income to be earned so you don¡¯t see them much. Nowadays we citizens are more reliant on our own creativity to generate entertainment. Hence, this afternoon we conceded to celebrating the day off at an abandoned water park that shut down about a decade earlier. The owner was never able to sell the land¡ªprobably because of all the useless equipment sitting on the property¡ªso the government seized it but never redeveloped the property. It¡¯s become a popular hangout for teens so I suspect we¡¯ll run into some other classmates today. When Lincoln and I arrive, I survey the grounds for authority. We¡¯ve been here a hundred times without ever seeing a Specter but I still can¡¯t help myself. We are trespassing after all and I¡¯m pathologically fearful of getting caught doing anything wrong. I¡¯m still pretty reluctant today but the repetitions have provided some level of comfort and security. Once I¡¯m satisfied the coast is clear, we approach the main gate. There¡¯s a chain-link fence surrounding the property but it¡¯s been clipped in so many places it¡¯s harder to miss an entry point than find one. We slip through and enter the park. As we pass the dilapidated concession stands and rusted cotton candy machines, I see our friends, Juby and Milo, in the distance posted up next to the largest slide in the park. It empties into an expansive crater in the cement where a pool used to reside. We hear our names being shouted but it¡¯s not Juby or Milo. We look up to see Smud¡ªwell Gilbert Smuditker but just Smud for as long as we¡¯ve known him¡ªclimbing off the ladder and onto the platform atop the giant slide. He¡¯s shirtless but totally unabashed by his husky frame. ¡°Happy New Dawn citizens of Okeanos!¡± he shouts with enough excitement to expose his sarcastic intent. He dives headfirst down the tubular slide and glides like an Olympic bobsledder. I sprint to the empty pool in fear for his safety when he hits the concrete bottom. I¡¯m only halfway there as he flies out of the chute and soars into the air. I close my eyes waiting for the loud thud of his oversized body hitting the pool bottom. Instead, I¡¯m relieved to hear an emphatic, ¡°Woooo!¡± from the man-turned-cannonball. I run to the edge and see he¡¯s stacked the landing area with piles of old cushions and pool paraphernalia. ¡°Smud, ughhh!¡± I yell at him from across the pool. Lincoln and I walk around the perimeter to Milo and Juby who have wrangled up some reclining lounge chairs in half-decent condition with towels draped over top. Smud climbs out of the pool from the ladder on the side. ¡°I thought you were about to kill yourself,¡± I say as he approaches. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t that have just made the Chancellor¡¯s holiday?¡± ¡°Dude, you were flying. Is the water hooked up?¡± Lincoln asks. Smud smiles and holds up a bucket of petroleum jelly from behind his lounge chair. ¡°Wanna take a spin?¡± ¡°I¡¯m good,¡± I tell him. Juby takes off her cover-up and rubs the lubricant on her bikini-clad body. ¡°Oh, come on, Rainey. Try not being such a square for once in your life.¡± ¡°Bucket list,¡± I reply with a wink and a nod. ¡°Hell yeah I wanna take a spin,¡± Lincoln says as he tears off his shirt and follows suit with Milo. I ignore their taunts and lie down on a lounge chair. It¡¯s early October but might as well be the middle of July. Changing weather conditions and irresponsible carbon emissions control over the past few decades have resulted in warmer climates globally; something on full display as the sun has reached its peak and scorches down on us from above. There are other groups of teens scattered throughout the park and I glance around to see if I recognize any of them. Not to say hello but to decide whether or not to take off my shorts and T-shirt and sunbathe in my swimsuit. I¡¯m helplessly self-conscious and reluctant to wear a suit even in front of my closest friends, let alone other students from school. I¡¯m not necessarily ashamed of my physical appearance. I have what most would consider a pretty face with light brown hair that works both down or pulled back. My brown eyes are a little boring but I¡¯m not complaining about them either. I¡¯m just a little on the taller side at five-ten with a rail-thin body that often makes me feel insecure. Again, I¡¯m not complaining. I¡¯m just more of the ¡®cute and pretty¡¯ variety than ¡®hot and sexy¡¯ and can¡¯t help but to feel uncomfortable most of the time. Despite the heat, I conclude this place is far too crowded with other schoolmates so I succumb to my insecurity and leave my shorts and T-shirt on. I roll the sleeves up to my shoulders as a consolation. Better than nothing I decide. ¡°Rainey Hawthorne, if you don¡¯t take that shirt off right now, I¡¯m ripping it off,¡± a voice behind me says. I turn around to see my other best friend, Zari, approaching from the rear. Zari is our group¡¯s firecracker. She¡¯s always totally gorgeous with her radiant, mixed complexion but even more so on days like today when her frizzy, shoulder-length hair falls down over her fierce eyes. She looks like a tiger peeking through the tall grass of the jungle. ¡°Yeah right. I wasn¡¯t going to even before you arrived,¡± I say while rolling my eyes. Zari leans down and gives me a hug from my seat. She drops her jean shorts and tank top to reveal her perfectly-toned body and lies down next to me. ¡°I¡¯m gonna hurt you, you beautiful princess,¡± she says. ¡°How¡¯d your Competency Review go?¡± Zari has the unfortunate luck of sharing a birthday with New Dawn. No exceptions from the Oasis; rules are rules. But it¡¯s not like she had much to worry about. She was an 8 going in and has done absolutely nothing to jeopardize that Rating. ¡°I¡¯m here, aren¡¯t I?¡± she replies. We sit back and watch our friends take turn-after-turn flying down the massive slide. Each catapult into the air ends with the same elated scream as acceleration fights gravity resulting in weightlessness. Just watching them and their child-like enjoyment provides more than enough joy for me. Apparently others have taken note as well. The line has gotten longer as school acquaintances and total strangers alike jump on the bandwagon. Lincoln, exhausted from another climb up the ladder, comes over and takes a seat in the open chair next to us to catch his breath. ¡°Missing a hell of a time, ladies,¡± he says as more of a question than a statement. ¡°I can tell. You okay there, sport?¡± I say back. ¡°Makes you wonder doesn¡¯t it?¡± he asks. ¡°Wonder what?¡± ¡°Just what things could have been like had Chancellor Harlow not won. How different the world might be.¡± ¡°Well he did so there¡¯s no point in fantasizing about it,¡± I say. ¡°A guy can always dream, right? Oh, and happy birthday, Zari,¡± he says and sprints back to the ladder for another trip down the slide. ******** I got home a little before seven-thirty which was just enough time to enjoy dinner with my dad in the backyard. He was right in the middle of a pretty hilarious story about a fellow grain farmer who pretended to be a scarecrow and was terrorizing other farmers when we noticed it was two minutes until our firm nine PM cutoff. Tonight, after all, is the annual Okeanic Address, delivered every year on the evening of New Dawn by Chancellor Harlow. It¡¯s an opportunity for him to remind us just how very lucky we are to be alive. Dad and I hustle inside and take a seat on the suede family room sofa. He flips on the television. No need to change the channel because there¡¯s only one, Oasis Broadcast News, O-B-N baby! They broadcast twenty-four/seven with scintillating content like the status of the Census, updates on our freshwater supply, new restrictions on usage, and pretty much anything else they feel like jamming down our throats. It¡¯s all propaganda so our TV is rarely on but tonight is not optional. We are required by punishment of death to watch the Okeanic Address every year. Who knows how they regulate that but it¡¯s a risk we¡¯d rather not take. Right as the clock hits nine PM sharp we hear the melodic DUN-dun-DUN of the broadcast beginning. Chancellor Harlow is looking dapper as ever in his most imperial of suits. His wavy, side-parting hair is locked perfectly in place. He sits behind his exotic, Bocote-wood desk in a chair more resembling of a throne. A series of miniature crystal fountains trickle water back and forth, glistening on the shelves behind him. ¡°Glad to see our labors going to good use,¡± my dad says. I sneer at him and Harlow begins. ¡°Happy New Dawn, citizens of Okeanos. What a great year it has been. I hope you¡¯ve taken today to spend time with family, friends, and loved ones to reflect on all the great things we¡¯ve accomplished together. This regime will continue to make possible a standard of living nobody dreamed imaginable when our global water crisis first struck. We¡¯ve made tremendous progress towards our goal of sustainable and higher-quality life but we still have work to do. Censuses are down but not where we need them to be. As a result, I¡¯m exercising my Executive Privilege to reduce water credit allotments across all Competency Ratings.¡± ¡°And the poor get poorer,¡± Dad says. ¡°There are shortages across the country that we must band together to improve,¡± Harlow continues. ¡°How about you start by turning off those damn fountains!¡± Dad shouts. ¡°In addition, I will be increasing the frequency of Competency Reviews, effective immediately, from triennial to annual.¡± ¡°What!¡± I shriek at the television. ¡°You¡¯ve gotta be kidding me! He can¡¯t do that! Can he do that?¡± My dad hushes me so he can listen on. ¡°We must continue to hold ourselves accountable to the highest standards. This will ensure we stay resilient in our endeavor to remain the premier nation this world has to offer. I realize this may come as a shock but I need you to remember, Restoration is a privilege. You have the right to earn your survival each and every day. Thank you all for your commitment to our cause and have a great evening.¡± The broadcast abruptly turns to black and my dad shuts off the television. ¡°Can he do this?¡± I ask again. ¡°He¡¯s the Chancellor. He can do whatever he wants.¡± ¡°Yeah but this is different.¡± ¡°Look, sweetheart. The reality is we¡¯re auditioning for our lives every day, not every third year. I know it¡¯s hard to understand right now but there¡¯s a higher purpose. Your mother taught me that. Fate is more powerful than even the direst of circumstances. Unfortunately it¡¯s something we only recognize in hindsight but I promise one day you will.¡± ¡°This isn¡¯t fair. How can he have so much control over us? How did we let this happen?¡± I scream. I realize I sound like a petulant five-year old but I can¡¯t help myself. I don¡¯t buy into fate or karma or any of that crap. The whole thing is a farce parents use to instill a code of ethics in their children. I¡¯ve seen righteous people live miserable lives and wretched people live fairytales. There¡¯s no reckoning down the line. It simply is what it is and that¡¯s it. And the truth is I don¡¯t even care about the increased frequency of Competency Reviews. My dad¡¯s right, we¡¯re always on trial. What I care about is the impact these new restrictions have on hope because hope is all we have left in this dumpster fire of a world created by Chancellor Harlow. Hope that a better life exists an achievable distance away somewhere on the horizon. When I was younger, I¡¯d get presents for Christmas and not even open them. It drove my parents crazy but it was the only way I could hold onto the hope it was something I might love and avoid the disappointment if it wasn¡¯t. If love is supreme, hope is the ultimate hedge to disappointment. And that¡¯s what¡¯s being threatened by each new sanction the Chancellor imposes upon us. Our hope that things will get better before they get worse. And I no longer have the luxury of being a little girl, closing my eyes, and pretending something doesn¡¯t exist. These sanctions aren¡¯t some gift I can leave wrapped under a Christmas tree. No, disappointment has presented itself in its most raw form and there¡¯s exactly nothing that can be done about it. So instead I stomp upstairs, lie down in bed, and immediately begin preparing for my upcoming Competency Review in March. Chapter 4 January 2045 Dr. Clifford didn¡¯t fit the mold of a typical conspiracy theorist swearing mankind was on a collision course with extinction. He was pragmatic, reserved, amenable to debate. Even as he witnessed his life¡¯s work featured more prominently in Internet memes than scientific journals, he maintained an even-keeled approach to educating the American public on his findings, never coming off as pretentious or resentful. That was his partner¡¯s job. Chambeaux studied under Clifford right out of medical school. Lower-class growing up, Chambeaux always carried a chip on his shoulder and was out to prove the world wrong; to show them a child from poor upbringing could amount to great things despite the overwhelming odds stacked against him. Clifford detected that hunger and took a chance despite Chambeaux¡¯s underwhelming academic accolades. During the initial job interview, Chambeaux had recited Clifford¡¯s entire dissertation on hydraulic conductivity, insisting his brainpower was put to better use on matters of importance¡ªlike Clifford¡¯s research¡ªthan the boilerplate lesson plans stacked up by an outdated course curriculum guide. Clifford agreed. Chambeaux¡¯s brilliance immediately became apparent as he excelled under Clifford¡¯s philosophy on tutelage, one that encouraged perpetual challenging of the status quo and the bulldozing of traditional boundaries of scientific exploration. He quickly surpassed some of Clifford¡¯s foremost and longest-tenured research assistants, ultimately climbing to a position as right-hand and partner. Despite Chambeaux¡¯s unquestionable talent, Clifford regularly had to keep a close eye and rein him back in. Whether it was a tirade against a sponsor who withdrew research funding or outbursts on a medical journal questioning their theories, Chambeaux was short-fused and constantly seeking vindication against those who spoke out against them. Lately he had become particularly acrimonious with every pundit or environmental expert who refuted their research. That¡¯s what made today so significant. An opportunity to prove all the naysayers wrong and earn the satisfaction he believed they so rightfully deserved. After all, they were only seeking the continuation of life on Earth. Clifford had been invited to testify before the U.S. Senate¡¯s Committee on Environment and Public Works hearing on freshwater availability. If the interviews and blogs didn¡¯t capture the Committee¡¯s attention, it was assuredly the hundreds of letters they¡¯d written. The Committee might have figured it was easier just to hear them out than sift through all of the literature and research they had sent over the prior half-decade. Clifford stared awkwardly at the Committee¡¯s twenty members after concluding his presentation on the current and future state of Earth¡¯s freshwater supply inside the Philip A. Hart Senate Office Building. He scanned left-to-right across the dais seeking some sort of reaction from any Committee member. ¡°That¡¯s quite a story you¡¯ve conjured up, Dr. Clifford,¡± the Committee Chairman finally said. ¡°It¡¯s not a story, Mr. Chairman. I have scientific data to support everything I¡¯ve just told you. All of the exhibits are logged and available for your review. I sent them¡ª¡± ¡°We received your exhibits, Dr. Clifford,¡± the Chairman interrupted. ¡°Assuming anything you just said is true, what is the proposed solution to your impending water crisis?¡± ¡°It¡¯s not my water crisis, Mr. Chairman. It¡¯s all of ours. But to answer your question, I¡¯ve created a process that simulates the hydrologic cycle. Earlier I mentioned that almost all of the world¡¯s freshwater is buried deep under the Earth or inside ice caps and glaciers. There¡¯s nothing we can do about that. The other source of freshwater, however, comes from snowfields. That¡¯s our answer.¡± ¡°Snowfields?¡± the Committee Chairman asked. ¡°Snowfields. They¡¯re wide expanses of permanent snow, typically found on mountaintops or in Polar Regions. I¡¯ve designed a process using artificial, climate-controlled snowfields to manufacture and harvest water.¡± ¡°Snowfields,¡± the Committee Chairman repeated, this time not bothering to disguise the doubt in his tone. ¡°Yes, miles and miles of them.¡± ¡°How would these snowfields work?¡± he asked The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. ¡°Water at its core is a very simple chemical formula. You can ask any kindergartner and they¡¯ll tell you what H?O stands for. Great. This must be really easy then. Let¡¯s just jump in the lab, combine two hydrogen atoms with an oxygen atom and problem solved, right?¡± ¡°Right,¡± the Chairman responded. ¡°Dead wrong. Oxygen is naturally diatomic which means it exists as a molecule of two atoms. You need a chemical reaction to separate that bond and attach the oxygen atom to its hydrogen counterparts. That reaction is created by energy. There¡¯s a little problem there. Hydrogen is flammable and oxygen combustible. As you can probably guess, one spark of energy to initiate the reaction... boom. Think Hindenburg explosion to get the idea.¡± ¡°Okay so how do you combine the atoms?¡± one of the other Committee members asked. ¡°My solution uses sorbents to extract moisture directly out of the air. We then run the sorbents through thermal energy exchangers and use condensers to convert to liquid.¡± ¡°In English, Dr. Clifford.¡± ¡°Instead of trying to manufacture the molecule in the lab, we take it right out of the sky.¡± ¡°My report here says you¡¯re a hydrologist. You can do that?¡± a Committee member asked. ¡°I¡¯m technically a chemist with a specialty in hydrology. But yes, I can do that. The core technology has been around for decades. It was actually created by our very own military to provide drinkable freshwater to troops in combat zones. But my process has created a way to scale the development using artificial snowfields. We can use these facilities to replicate the cycle and harvest freshwater for immediate use and longer-term storage. Almost like a Federal Reserve for water.¡± ¡°And where would you propose we build these snowfields?¡± the Committee member asked. ¡°Wyoming and Montana. They have the smallest per capita population in the country outside of Alaska which wouldn¡¯t make logistical sense. Their climates aren¡¯t optimal¡ªI¡¯d prefer warmer, southeastern locations with more moisture in the air¡ªbut they¡¯ll suffice and it¡¯ll be quicker to displace all the residents so we can break ground.¡± ¡°Let me get this straight. You want to wipe out the entire populations of Wyoming and Montana?¡± the Chairman asked. ¡°I want to displace them, Mr. Chairman. I¡¯m not a monster.¡± ¡°You know what I mean. Where would you recommend we displace them to, Dr. Clifford?¡± ¡°Anywhere but North or South Dakota.¡± ¡°Why¡¯s that?¡± the Chairman asked. ¡°Because they¡¯re next.¡± The Committee Chairman couldn¡¯t help himself but to laugh. ¡°Surely you can¡¯t be serious.¡± ¡°I¡¯m deadly serious, Mr. Chairman. Time is of the essence. If we start there, my calculations indicate we can generate enough sustainable freshwater for the next seven years. With our aging population, that¡¯s only the tip of the iceberg.¡± ¡°Do you actually suppose these snowfields will fix everything?¡± another Committee member asked. ¡°The solution to a problem only you and a handful of other scientists believe is imminent despite the hysteria you¡¯re attempting to create.¡± ¡°Far from it. We need to completely overhaul our water conservation strategy. I¡¯m talking about regulating production processes, monitoring irrigation practices, scrutinizing industrial control systems. Just like greenhouse gas emissions, we need to cap water consumption.¡± This drew even more laughter from the Committee Chairman. ¡°I think we¡¯ll need to get you in front of every Congressional Committee we have! Foreign Affairs, Aging, Ethics, hell... Appropriations. Dare I even ask the budget on these?¡± ¡°They¡¯re expensive but can you really put a price tag on the future of humanity?¡± ¡°Okay, I think that¡¯s enough for today, Dr. Clifford. We appreciate your time and insights and will surely take everything you¡¯ve mentioned into consideration.¡± ¡°But I haven¡¯t even¡ª¡± ¡°Dr. Clifford, that¡¯s enough. If we determine any of this to be credible we know where to find you,¡± the Chairman said. With that, Clifford was escorted out of the hearing room, guided through the sky-lit atrium and out the exit. ¡°How¡¯d it go?¡± an excited Chambeaux asked. Clifford just shook his head in defeat. Another opportunity lost. Another day closer to epic and unavoidable catastrophe.