by Ginger Booth
I glanced back at the audience to gauge reading speed. A sea of intent frowns, not least from our own Hudson army members. Most of them hadn’t read this yet. I found a soldier who raised her hand in unconscious protest each time I scrolled too soon, and took my pace from her.
“Why’s Colonel MacLaren last on that list?” was the first upset outburst. One of ours. That had been my first reaction, too, but I was biased. On the other hand, Emmett was by far the most famous name on the succession. That was probably a common reaction.
“Hold questions to the end,” Emmett sang out. He was hunched over his phone catching up on email.
I filched a notebook from Gianetti and made a note of the question. I noticed that Brandy took my lead, and was taking far more notes. I wondered how long it had been since most of the Pittsburgh folk had watched anything on TV besides stormcams. It took more than five minutes to read through the constitution and view the intro sequence. Wiehl had to quiet a general angry murmur a couple times. But eventually we got through it.
“Dim the lights please?” I requested. “And now tonight’s feature presentation.” I froze as the third version of the siren started. Apparently tornado touch-down was signaled by a kind of strobing tone through the prior undulation and warble. I swallowed and glanced nervously at the webcams. I imagine everyone behind me did the same. No tornado visible to front or back of the hotel. But it wouldn’t be visible, in the dark.
“You’d hear it, darlin’,” Emmett murmured behind me, a hand reassuringly on my back. “Not just the siren.”
“You’ve heard a tornado before?” I asked.
“Uh-huh.” Of course. Emmett was born in Tornado Alley, as well as the Bible Belt.
I re-started the PR constitution special from the top.
Chapter 10
Interesting fact: Meteorologists theorize that it was the New Dust Bowl that pushed Tornado Alley eastward. A pattern that used to span the entire Midwest compacted into half its previous width, from Mississippi to Georgia in the south, Chicago to Pittsburgh in the north. Warm Gulf moisture no longer visited the high plains, instead concentrating heavier rains and instability eastward. The supply of cool dry air off the Rockies and Canadian Shield remained reliable. The two air masses – wet and warm below, cool and dry aloft – move in perpendicular directions, providing the wind shear that set the updrafts and downdrafts within a thunderstorm to turning, to generate supercells and tornados.
“– We unleashed the constitution in a few communities on Long Island,” Cam replied to Amiri, when we reached the point in the broadcast where we were interrupted upstairs. “We only have meshnet there. So we could keep the project under wraps, and really test it. In fact, we play-tested the new currency that way, too, back in May. That went well, so Hudson went ahead with the hudson dollar in June, in advance of the rest of the constitution. I have some video clips.”
“Yes! We’re looking forward to those,” Amiri said. “But since the currency came up first. I’ve been using the hudson dollar – we all have – for a few months now. And we’d never suspected its depths!”
Cam laughed. “Like, ‘we’re naming the country Hudson.’ Surprising how few people caught on to that one.”
“Why Hudson?” Amiri took the bait.
“We wanted a name that included our totality,” Cam replied. “Jersey, upstate, Long Island, the city. And considering the climate crisis that birthed our nation, we wanted to celebrate our natural landscape. We are blessed. I know, it’s easy to feel hard done by. Especially in the Apple Zone. We’ve been through a lot. But in all the ex-U.S., Hudson is one of the jackpot winners for real estate. We tried a lot of names. Woods, Adirondacks, shores. But the Hudson River and its watershed touches all four of our regions. And no other resource is as crucial as fresh pure water.”
“Pretty,” Amiri agreed, nodding admiringly. “And a beautiful river.”
“It is,” Cam agreed. “We held our wedding on the Palisades,” he offered lightly. “The cliffs overlooking Manhattan, across the river,” he clarified for the non–New Yorkers in the audience.
“You went to college on the Hudson, too, didn’t you?”
“I did!” Cam agreed. “Didn’t choose West Point for the scenery. But it was a nice bonus. And didn’t expire after two years, like our new currency does.”
Cam’s boyish charm was working wonders. I shook my head in admiration yet again at the man’s grace under fire, and ability to make light going of hard topics.
Amiri laughed. “Nice segue. So Colonel. About that.”
Cam grinned. “Our currency is for food book-keeping. We Rescos have been doing this ever since the borders closed. The full meal ticket. How do you trade milk for apples fairly. Taxing food production to support the military. Taxes for local projects. Paying for power, and Internet, trains and road repair. Project Reunion made the book-keeping even more complicated. Soup kitchens versus take-home handouts. And most of it depended on Cocos and Rescos. The systems didn’t match, and the book-keeping was a nightmare.
“Now you get paid in hudson dollars. Eat where you want. No one is required to accept hudson dollars for anything but food. But, they do.”
“But your money expires,” Amiri prompted.
Cam nodded. “Food is perishable. The money reverts to the government, for liquidation. In the Apple Zone, most people are paid laborers, in hudson dollars about to expire. And the real food that the hudson dollars represent, is stored food nearing expiration. And that’s distributed. Fed to the troops. And made available for paid laborers to buy.”
“And they’re taxed on this money?” Amiri asked.
Cam shook his head. “No, you can only pay taxes with food. When food is sold into the government food distribution system, or someone pays taxes, a hudson dollar is born.”
“So someone who receives wages, pays no taxes?” Amiri confirmed.
“That’s right,” Cam said. “No income taxes. No sales taxes or property taxes. Just food production. The hudson dollar is book-keeping on our food supply. One of the most interesting things about this, to me, is that there is no amassing of wealth, with hudson dollars. I mean, what good does it do you, to have ten times, or a thousand times as much food as you can eat? And it’s all going to expire and revert to the government. The only thing extra hudson dollars are good for, is to exchange with someone else.
“You know what? The highest paid people in all of Hudson? Are the Rescos. As a major – most Rescos hold the rank of major – I got paid fifty full meal tickets a year. Now, I could use that to pay servants, of course, or buy things. But the real purpose is seed money. That’s a base Resco budget for starting companies, or paying for skills, or odd-ball projects. For example, Project Reunion. That really started with Emmett MacLaren using his own salary to set up the quarantine on Long Island, and fund Amenac. He pays your salary, too, Amiri, or used to. Our power grid started from Tony Nasser hiring a bunch of engineers upstate. I bootstrapped the University of Connecticut back to life.”
Amiri asked, “So people apply to Rescos for money?”
Cam laughed. “No. Usually, the way it works is that I have a private wish list. Problems I want to solve, but haven’t figured out how yet. Might not even be my problem. Maybe Pete Hoffman or Ash Margolis has a problem. Then someone wanders along with an idea that might work. And I ask her what she needs. Give her a little. If she does well with that, give her some more. Angel investing, basically.”
“But with no profit motive,” Amiri pointed out. “There’s no profit anywhere with hudson dollars, is there?”
Cam shrugged. “Social profit. Social entrepreneurship. I mean, I’m trying to accomplish something, right? I need to keep me and mine fed, sure. But beyond that, there are changes I want to see in the world. Problems I want to solve. Things I enjoy doing. I honestly don’t need to spend any of my salary on me. My needs are met. But I have a job to do, which is to raise the standard of living of the communities entrusted to me. The only way th
at can happen is a balance of public investment on infrastructure, and private industry. My salary is for kick-starting those.”
“But this isn’t money in any sense we’ve seen it before,” said Amiri.
“Nope,” Cam agreed. “And later, there may be a place for that. Probably is already. I’m sure plenty of people hoard gold. If you want to join the gold-bartering club, go right ahead. But everyone needs to eat. And for now, that’s what the Hudson government needs from money. A tool in our food distribution system.”
Amiri shook his head. “And that’s only the first radical thing in this constitution.”
“In practice, testing this out?” Cam offered. “Hudson dollars were an instant win. The most controversial part of the constitution is the voting and citizenship. In any democracy, you’ve got to answer the question of who gets to vote. At the dawn of the United States, it was basically only white property owners. Then it slowly expanded. In this constitution, we have a very different kind of democracy than the ex-U.S. Usually direct democracy, at the local level. No representatives. May or may not have locally elected officials – that’s up to the communities. Most local leaders in Hudson, at this time, are not elected.”
“They’re not?” Amiri honestly looked surprised.
“No,” Cam confirmed. “Most are Cocos – community coordinators. Chosen by a Resco to safeguard an area.” He waved his hand. “This isn’t new, Amiri. What’s new is a national standard for what qualifies people to vote in local affairs. We’ve basically said, hey, you’re here, and you can’t go anywhere else. So you’re a Hudson citizen. Right? Doesn’t matter where you were born. But, it does matter, in a direct democracy, that you can communicate. In English. We have a huge immigrant population in Hudson, especially in the Apple Zone. New York City was around forty percent immigrant.”
“That high!” said Amiri. “Of course, I’m an immigrant.”
Cam laughed. “So am I. I was born in New England. Though I did graduate college in Hudson.”
“And got married,” Amiri said with a smile.
“Yes. My husband is a native Hudson, from Hoboken,” Cam played back. “Anyway, to have a direct democracy, you need to understand each other. In English. And have rational discussions. If you’re voting on taxes to fund public projects, you’ve got to be numerate enough to understand the math. Can we watch a clip now? Of the voter testing.”
“Alright,” Amiri agreed. “These are actual Hudson citizens, on Long Island, performing a voter qualification test.”
-o-
A black youth sat down at a shaded picnic table, across from a middle-aged black man, the test-giver judging by the accoutrements before him – paperwork, pencils, calculator, tablet and phone. They were on a summer beach, a volleyball game in progress beyond the picnic pavilion. The tester wore T-shirt and loose shorts. The prospective voter was huddled in a hoodie. Both were still lean from the starving year, but seemed healthy now.
“Aren’t you hot in there?” the tester said. “You need to show your face. I’m Terry Grimes. You’re Dewar Booker?”
Reluctantly, the younger man emerged from his hood. “Yeah. Book.” He swallowed. “I never finished high school or nothing. Got jail time.”
“That’s fine,” Terry assured him. “You can read and write, though, can’t you?”
“Yeah, I guess,” Book replied. “Kinda stupid. Everybody says so.”
“Enjoying the beach today?”
“Yeah, me and my guys have the day off. I work on the railroad.”
“Perfect,” Terry said, and made a notation on his sheet. “Congratulations, Book, that’s a perfect ten out of ten on the first segment of the test.” He smiled encouragingly. “You speak English fine, and you’re polite. You need 80 points out of 100 on this test to pass. So far you’re doing great.”
“Oh, yeah?” Book said, surprised. Clearly he was unaccustomed to perfect scores.
“Next, I need you to read this,” Terry said, and handed him a laminated sheet. “Sections 6 a and b. Out loud, please.”
Terry haltingly read the part of the constitution that defined a citizen and how a citizen became a voter. “Huh!” he said at the end. “What’s em-migration and im-migration mean? Or am I supposed to know that?”
Terry shook his head. “Ask anything you want. Emigration means leaving the country, immigration means coming in. Any other questions?” Book shook his head. Terry referred to his tablet to read the test. “OK, imagine someone has a history of armed robbery, served time for drug dealing. He was born in Somalia and entered the U.S. illegally five years ago. Now serving time in Ronkonkoma. Is he a citizen of Hudson?”
“Uh, yeah,” said Book, eyebrows raised. After a moment’s reflection, he added, “If he’s over sixteen.”
“Another perfect score,” Terry encouraged him, with a smile. “Now read section 6h. You don’t have to read it aloud.” After Book finished, looking bemused, Terry handed him paper and a pencil. “You have to write a petition to the Hudson government. I can give you a suggestion if you want, but the prompts are kinda weird. Like that last question. It’s better if you use your own idea.”
“Uh… With the schools closed, how are kids gonna learn to pass the test?” Book asked. Terry nodded and pointed to the paper. Laboriously, Book wrote out his idea. He pushed his paper across to Terry and turtled down into his neck again.
Hudson shud make all kids get skool so they can pass the test and vote.
Terry read it, and circled the misspellings. “That’s one point off for spelling. When you write a petition, I recommend you get a few people to read it over and make suggestions. But this is less than 150 words, deals with one topic, makes sense, and it’s clearly of national interest. Congratulations, Book, you’ve aced the English and literacy sections of the test. Now we move on to numeracy.”
“That means math, right?” Book asked with grave misgivings.
“That’s right. First question. You grow 100 cabbages. The tax rate is 25% to Hudson, and 11% to local taxes. How many cabbages do you owe in taxes?” Terry pushed the paper and pencil back to him.
Fearful of math, Book asked Terry to repeat the question a couple times, and took notes with great trepidation. He accepted the calculator. Then he sat up and said, “Oh! Thirty-six.”
“Thirty-six what,” Terry prompted mechanically.
“I pay thirty-six cabbages in taxes?” Book asked.
“Perfect 20 out of 20 points,” Terry told him. “Now, the last question is much harder. Take your time. Say we have an opportunity to build chicken coops to produce eggs. We have two proposals. Proposal A costs 6% additional taxes for one year, pays 4 months wages for building chicken coops, and then gives jobs for 8 people. The chicken coops produce 1500 eggs a day for the community.”
“That’s a good deal!” Book exclaimed.
Terry nodded. “Proposal B provides the same number of chickens and jobs, but costs 2% additional taxes over two years. We’d get half the chickens each year, and half the jobs each year.”
“So the second proposal costs less,” Book said slowly. “Don’t matter. We need the jobs, and get more eggs for a year. I vote for proposal A.”
“Me, too,” Terry agreed. “You understood the question, the costs and benefits to both proposals, and gave a good argument for your choice. Perfect score.” He stood and held out his hand to shake. “Congratulations, Book, you’re now a voter.” Book rose and bashfully shook hands, with a slow grin.
“And Book,” Terry added, “you got 99 out of 100 points on this test. And that last question was confusing as hell. Don’t let anybody tell you you’re stupid. Hope to see you Tuesday!”
“Tuesday?”
“Town green, six o’clock, the democratic town meeting.”
Dewar Booker left the picnic table pavilion and caught up with his friends, three other young men huddled in hoodies against the fine summer day and ocean breeze, looking furtive. “Passed the test,” he told them, showing off the ‘I’m
a Voter!’ sticker on his sweatshirt.
“You? Yeah, right, you’re a fucking idiot,” one replied.
“I’m not stupid,” Book denied. “Aced the test. Gonna go vote Tuesday. Town meeting.”
“What do you want to do that for?” another demanded.
“Make the town better, fool,” Book said. “We live here too. What, you got something better to do Tuesday?” He scuffed away in the sand.
-o-
“That’s a tough test!” Amiri exclaimed. “I’m impressed with that kid. Dewar Booker?”
“Yeah,” Cam said, eyes alight, nodding. “I attended his first town meeting that Tuesday, back in July. Lot of voters were impressed with him. It was a great meeting. Everyone was polite. You could understand what they said. Had great discussions, made good decisions. I asked them at the end, whether they thought the testing was worth it. Over ninety percent agreed, using the voter test to pick good voters made the meeting much better. Again, like with the currency, I offered to reverse it. No way. They wouldn’t go back.
“And Book? You could see, this is not a guy who was used to being treated with respect. But at the meeting, he just wouldn’t give up on that chicken coop idea. My husband Dwayne worked with him and a few others. It’s been a few months. They’ve got their coop now.” Cam laughed. “Only 200 chickens so far. But it matters.”
“It matters a lot,” Amiri agreed. “Especially on Long Island. Now, these are all public service spots, right? Viewers can see them all on HudsonVoter.gov.” The web address scrolled across the bottom of the display. “Seemed like one for every color!”
Cam shrugged. “Yeah. We felt it was important, for everyone to see themselves as a voter, you know? Or someone who just speaks to you. My favorite was this young Pakistani woman in hajib. Her family’s gone through hell, you know? Her husband worked as a translator for the army. Our lives depended on guys like him, during my tours in the sandbox. They had to immigrate to save their lives. Modest, shy, devout Muslim woman, three little kids. Fits the stereotype to a T. Shunned by her neighbors – you know how Islamophobic Americans can be.
