black and white neckerchief; a former office worker from Southover in red and black stripes with a smuggler’s hooped earring, a sign that with the Seizure the man had returned to undergraduate ways; an elderly couple in red military tunics who spoke with the confident enunciation of barristers, and so on, through each of the seven districts of Lewes. Individual names drifted in and out of James’ recollection; some days he woke up in Lewes and could not remember the name of anyone in the town. The ombudsmen were reluctantly deferential to him, muttering “bailiff” as he walked through the room. He did not acknowledge them. He noted the prickling suspicion and resentment the ombudsmen showed toward Hector, then closed the wooden doors behind him.
Edith Von Pallandt convened the moot with rote phrases.
“Nothing is decided in this council. This moot exists solely for us to bear witness to the unfolding of the Process and to share our experiences.” The introduction complete, Edith peered over the edge of her half-moon glasses at the bailiff and Hector. With remission, her hair had returned in long curls, and she had dyed it with a preparation of henna and indigo. Her nose and chin were strong, her eyes motherly and turned down at the ends. She was not a leader, she would explain, if asked to perform as one; rather she was a catalyst, or a conduit.
The meeting opened with a polite discussion of the latest allocation, the orderly manner of its passing, the usual suspects who had dared to appear dissatisfied with their lot. Joe, the doctor, spoke about the health of the town, the status of the sick, the number of the dead and the newborn. The death rate – after an initial spike during the Seizure – had bottomed out and the health of the town markedly improved.
Joe, bald and youthful, explained, “I don’t know whether it is due to the medicine that the Process manufactures, or the more active lifestyle of the town, or even a consequence of closer community bonds, but we don’t see the same incidence of physical or mental illness as before. Take our rehousing of young families in the larger houses of older residents; the drop in depression among the over-65s directly correlates to that policy. Before the Seizure, most of my pensioners were on antidepressants. Not anymore. The community life is like a placebo. It has a positive effect but we don’t know exactly how or why. I suspect that if we could extract the nature of this benefit from the Process it would change how we organize societies.”
“So this is a sane town,” said Edith.
The doctor could not tell if she was summarizing his conclusions or questioning them. “It is a healthy town,” he replied. This pronouncement caused him discomfort, and when the attention of the others moved on, James saw a twinge of shame on the doctor’s face.
“Is the sanity confined to Lewes?” This question came from the head of schools, Carla. The dark, sallow indentations beneath her eyes were a contrast to the doctor’s clean-shaven vigour.
“It’s a difficult comparison to make,” said Alex Drown. The receiving of the eviction list required her expertise. She had showered and brushed her hair into a boyish swept-aside fringe.
“The value of the data grown here far exceeds that of the rest of the country. Lewesians are so minutely observed, known so deeply and broadly by the Process, that crude categorizations such as nationality no longer hold sway.”
“Meaning?” asked Joe.
“Meaning that in the rest of the country the government organizations that used to collect this kind of data are gone, and that ways of storing and analyzing that data are compromised,” continued Alex. “The digital datasphere is polluted and, while some digital networks thrive in quarantine, any attempt to make them open and free again brings about undesirable outcomes: all noise, no signal. As my colleagues are fond of pointing out, these days the cloud is full of thunder
Edith Von Pallandt convened the moot with rote phrases.
“Nothing is decided in this council. This moot exists solely for us to bear witness to the unfolding of the Process and to share our experiences.” The introduction complete, Edith peered over the edge of her half-moon glasses at the bailiff and Hector. With remission, her hair had returned in long curls, and she had dyed it with a preparation of henna and indigo. Her nose and chin were strong, her eyes motherly and turned down at the ends. She was not a leader, she would explain, if asked to perform as one; rather she was a catalyst, or a conduit.
The meeting opened with a polite discussion of the latest allocation, the orderly manner of its passing, the usual suspects who had dared to appear dissatisfied with their lot. Joe, the doctor, spoke about the health of the town, the status of the sick, the number of the dead and the newborn. The death rate – after an initial spike during the Seizure – had bottomed out and the health of the town markedly improved.
Joe, bald and youthful, explained, “I don’t know whether it is due to the medicine that the Process manufactures, or the more active lifestyle of the town, or even a consequence of closer community bonds, but we don’t see the same incidence of physical or mental illness as before. Take our rehousing of young families in the larger houses of older residents; the drop in depression among the over-65s directly correlates to that policy. Before the Seizure, most of my pensioners were on antidepressants. Not anymore. The community life is like a placebo. It has a positive effect but we don’t know exactly how or why. I suspect that if we could extract the nature of this benefit from the Process it would change how we organize societies.”
“So this is a sane town,” said Edith.
The doctor could not tell if she was summarizing his conclusions or questioning them. “It is a healthy town,” he replied. This pronouncement caused him discomfort, and when the attention of the others moved on, James saw a twinge of shame on the doctor’s face.
“Is the sanity confined to Lewes?” This question came from the head of schools, Carla. The dark, sallow indentations beneath her eyes were a contrast to the doctor’s clean-shaven vigour.
“It’s a difficult comparison to make,” said Alex Drown. The receiving of the eviction list required her expertise. She had showered and brushed her hair into a boyish swept-aside fringe.
“The value of the data grown here far exceeds that of the rest of the country. Lewesians are so minutely observed, known so deeply and broadly by the Process, that crude categorizations such as nationality no longer hold sway.”
“Meaning?” asked Joe.
“Meaning that in the rest of the country the government organizations that used to collect this kind of data are gone, and that ways of storing and analyzing that data are compromised,” continued Alex. “The digital datasphere is polluted and, while some digital networks thrive in quarantine, any attempt to make them open and free again brings about undesirable outcomes: all noise, no signal. As my colleagues are fond of pointing out, these days the cloud is full of thunder
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