Welcome to Agora, an anthology of super short stories set in a world where the public sector is dead. A universe that’s governed, not by ineffective politicians, but faceless corporations.
This episode is self-contained, but it helps to read episode 9, Ministry of Messiahs.
Faith is futile. Futility is fun.
This is the mantra I tell myself. The more I repeat the words, the more they lose meaning. The more I feel them.
They’re coming for me. It will be sudden. A pounding knock. Followed by bullets.
I’m in my office at the Ministry. Barricaded. Alone. Trying to type the words as fast as they come. I don’t have much time.
I realize how preposterous it is to call it “my office.” It was never mine. No more than a kennel belongs to the dog it imprisons. It was property of The Agora. Just like me. Just like everything else.
But that changes now. Thanks to Draya. She saw something I oould never. A deviation. Borne from the dark. The dark that would make everyone else see too.
Not what was likely to happen. But what ought to.
***
You cannot escape the light in the desert. The sun touches everything; there’s no hiding from it.
Truth on the other hand, is not so indefatigable. Truth and light. Despite popular metaphors linking the two ad nauseam, they’re not synonymous.
Truth wilts at the first test of resistance. It looks promising on the surface, but in terms of forecasting outcomes — it means very little. It gives way almost always to more powerful mechanisms of human behavior: fear and greed.
It’s for these reasons, despite truth, that most people for most of human history have lived like peasants. Why messiahs exist. Why an entire Ministry was created to put a stop to them.
Yet, Draya had faith. With all the data stacked against her. With minimal resources. With zero credibility. She still believed in Ruth. The mysterious teacher in the desert. Her vision. She believed in something uncomfortable.
And her unyielding faith, as dismal, futile, and unproductive as it seemed...
was infectious.
***
I first came to the desert to rescue Draya. My colleague at the Ministry who went missing trying to quell the gaining influence of Ruth.
Ruth was a “messiah” my office kept tabs on. A social-media-averse prophet gaining a large word-of-mouth following through whispers in the sand wisped wind.
As cliche as this sounds, it turned out Draya didn’t need rescuing — I did.
Draya had defected from the Ministry. She ditched her pantsuit for colorful, flowing robes. Proclaimed the end of the attention economy; spoke in apocalyptic language, and promised a better world.
None of which I found appealing.
***
It’s always important to get into the specifics. From the words of prophets to marketing pamphlets — you’ll hear phrases like “a better world, awaits.” or “join the revolution.”
But these idioms on their own are meaningless. And in both the case of zealots and suits, entirely uncompelling.
It couldn’t be explained to me what Ruth sought from the world. I had to feel it. An exercise divorced from the intellectual. To some extent divorced from reality.
After a weekend of trying to convince Draya to come back to civilization, she convinced me to turn against it.
The argument was simple, and unoriginal: let’s live in a world free from consumption. Distraction. Manipulation.
Hollow, right?
So how did Ruth, this solemn, soft-spoken woman in the remote districts of the Agora amass hordes of devoted followers?
She let them fill the equation. Agency, dignity, whatever. She gave them two things — a catalyst and a north star — leaving them to occupy the rest:
Meals. Passing plates. Feeding the hungry. Clasping hands. Dancing, lots of dancing. Eye contact. Body heat. An embrace. A smile. Recognition. Kids running. More food. More drinks. More dancing.
It’s potent. And in my experience, the only thing more powerful than fear and greed.
***
“Impossible,” I said. “And a guaranteed death sentence.”
Draya refused to take no for an answer:
”You are the executive director of the Ministry.” She responded.”You have provisional authority to thwart subversive movements using pretty much any means possible.”
I realized why they were grooming me. I was the only one who could help them execute their hairbrained scheme.
They wanted to cut off consumer access to the internet.
“What do you suppose I do? Cut fiber optics? Destroy cables in the ocean?”
“No,” she said dryly.
“Besides it’s a redundant system. There’s no way to -- “
“The kill switch,’ she blurted.
“The what?”
“You don’t need to mess with the infrastructure. Throttle the network.”
It was an interesting thought. I had never considered it. Bean™️ was the ISP, and had historically used this method of suppression against ANTICO. But for the Ministry to take control of comms...
It was possible, but dangerous. My keystrokes would be left all over it — digital breadcrumbs leaving Enforcement right to my doorstep. No way around that.
“Why do you want to do this?” I asked.
“What is the greatest method of oppression?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Torture?”
Draya shook her head no.
“Violence? War?”
Still wrong.
“What is it?” I asked, smugly.
“Distraction.”
***
I just pulled it. The kill switch. And it’s far worse than I could have ever imagined. The throttling reduced internet speeds to such a grind they were rendered useless. That was expected.
But the electrical grid went with it too. I’m not exactly sure why this happened. I guess years of consolidation and reliance on AI had made power supply inextricably linked to network connections.
The entire consumerwealth went completely dark.
This means autonomous ambulances abruptly stopped on the highway. It means smart locks on prison doors and bank vaults would be deactivated. It means surveillance systems on the streets would cease to function.
It means chaos.