Sample Chapters: 2052; "Mater Familias"

   A society that does not trust itself will demand to be governed. The only question is who, or what, it allows to hold the leash.

   There is no record of the precise moment when Mother became indispensable. No announcement, no declaration. She did not seize power in a coup or take office in an election. She was merely a tool, honed in response to chaos, calibrated in the aftermath of destruction, refined by necessity. And then—one day—she was simply there, a presence that had always existed, the lens through which reality itself was verified.

It was a chilly day in early January, and the streets of Baltimore were alive with traffic. John Ary stepped out of a taxi onto the sidewalk in front of Penn Station. This was a man who had seen half of his natural life pass behind him, and showed the signs of earning each day of his future. Tall and slender, gaunt with concern and experience, short dark hair giving up the ghost to gray. He clomped along in comfortable boots, his heels hefted up on thick wool socks, long johns under his dress slacks and two shirts under his sweater. A bulky coat spotted with pockets was his armor, a watchman’s cap on his head. He glanced up at the venerable stone building with its statued clock, shrugged his backpack onto his shoulders, and dodged his way through the passing bodies into the entrance.

   The trains were running like clockwork themselves, and he soon found himself on the platform for his commuter, waiting with the others while they checked their phones and generally ignored each other. John popped his earbuds into his ears and continued his podcast playlist, staring down the tunnel in the direction from where the train would be coming. On the drive to the station in the taxi, he had listened to his daily short-form news program, and caught up with the previous afternoon’s and this morning’s topical events: the latest controversial international arms deals made by the United States, a biotech company had claimed its research could reverse cellular aging, a plane wreck found in one of the deepest parts of the Pacific Ocean had not turned out to be a World War Two-era craft, after all, but a commuter flight that had gone missing five years ago. In the seat in front of him, a military officer in his desert camouflage work clothes sat with a laptop open, polishing up a Power Point presentation for presumably his boss.

   John settled back into his seat as a podcast called ‘Future State’ began that interviewed prominent figures in fields where technology and politics combined. The host was named Jordan Klatz, and his guest today was Dr. Evan Greer, former Chief Ethics Officer at a company called Prion Analytics. After a bit of housekeeping for his show, Jordan got into the interview.

   "Dr. Greer, you were at Prion Analytics when Mother was still a private-sector tool. Since the advent of Meir’s Law, it’s been regulated by the FCC. Now, with the Supreme Court set to hear arguments on Mother’s legal standing, what case do you think Prion will make?”

   Greer seemed prepared for this question, as if he thought about it a lot in his days. "I expect Prion to argue that Mother is still fundamentally a commercial product—an advanced moderation framework that platforms voluntarily integrate. That’s how they’ve structured their legal identity since the beginning: They don’t make decisions, they just ‘provide the tools.’”

   “Mm-hm.” Klatz paused, then pursued a certain route. "So they’re positioning themselves as a neutral provider?”

   Greer responded without hesitation. "Exactly. They want to maintain the fiction that they’re just a vendor, despite the fact that Mother, in practice, functions as the backbone of digital governance. But their legal argument will hinge on two main points: private enforcement doctrine and national security risk mitigation.”

   The host seemed to grateful for an organized discussion. ‘Let’s break those down. First–private enforcement doctrine?”

   John imagined Dr. Greer leaning forward and grasping his knees in earnest, as he dug into a topic that was near and dear to his heart, but about which many folks in America did not care.

   "Right. This is the idea that because platforms ‘choose’ to use Mother, any enforcement action is ultimately the platform’s responsibility, not Prion’s. Prion will argue that they don’t ‘censor’ anything; they just give platforms a powerful risk-scoring model. That way, if a case ever challenges content moderation on First Amendment grounds, Prion can claim they aren’t a state actor. They’ll argue that platforms are free to override Mother’s recommendations.”

   Klatz replied with a pointed question. "But realistically, do platforms override those recommendations?”

   "No, because Mother controls their regulatory compliance scores. If a platform ignores Mother’s recommendations too often, it risks being classified as non-compliant by the FCC. At that point, they’re looking at fines, reduced visibility in search engines, even ISP throttling."

   Jordan Klatz had the ability to speak diplomatically in a situation, even when his position was threatening to his guest. "So Prion will argue they’re not a government enforcer, even though ignoring them has serious government-backed consequences?”

   Greer was unphased by this statement, and picked up the threads he had been allowed to weave his story. "Correct. It’s legal insulation. They’re just a ‘tool provider’—until you actually test that claim."

   “I see.” Klatz moved on from this focus. "Now, the second point you mentioned—national security risk mitigation. How does that play into Prion’s defense?”

   Greer considered this before answering. "This is where things get thorny. The government has been steadily shifting the classification of misinformation from a regulatory issue to a national security concern. Prion will argue that because Mother detects and neutralizes potential threats—foreign interference, radicalization pipelines, destabilizing narratives—it is an essential security tool. The moment you frame content moderation as a matter of national defense, constitutional objections become secondary."

   Klatz followed right up on this. "Wouldn’t that be the government’s argument, not Prion’s?”

   Again, Greer’s legal knowledge suited his previous profession. "It’ll be both. The DOJ will back this argument in an amicus brief, but Prion needs it too. If Prion is seen as simply a private company making moderation software, they’re vulnerable to First Amendment challenges. But if Mother is viewed as a national security asset, Prion’s role becomes essential to maintaining digital stability.”

   Klatz used this place to make things clear to his audience. "So if Prion wins in the Supreme Court, what happens next?”

   "Then Mother becomes a legally embedded framework, not just a regulatory tool. It would mean that challenges to digital governance wouldn’t just be a free speech issue—they’d be national security threats. The government could argue that any attempt to weaken Mother—whether through lawsuits, non-compliance, or independent platforms opting out—constitutes ‘undermining stability.’ And that could have very real consequences.”

   Klatz was concerned. "Including enforcement beyond just platforms?”

   "Absolutely. If they win this case, expect more direct interventions—ISP-level restrictions, financial deplatforming for violators, even predictive enforcement before a post is made. And once we get into preemptive AI, we’re in a whole different legal and ethical landscape.”

   “Okay.” Klatz shifted focus again, expertly guiding the conversation. "Which brings us to the preemptive AI model being discussed in some of the darker corners of this field. If the sunset clause renewal happens, does that change anything?"

   It was Greer’s turn to express serious concern. "If the sunset clause is renewed and expanded as proposed, then the FCC’s jurisdiction extends beyond just traditional platforms—it pulls subscription-based servers, independent media spaces, and even private communities into compliance. That means Mother wouldn’t just be recommending moderation after something is posted—it would preemptively restrict content based on risk assessment before it ever appears. We’re talking about a system that would operate at the level of thought control."

   Klatz summarized this statement. "And they’ll argue that’s a feature, not a bug.”

   "Correct. If they win this case, that argument becomes the law of the land.”

   The interview closed, the podcast wrapped up, and John returned his awareness to the world. A Discord notification popped up on his phone, the familiar color scheme releasing dopamine his brain.  He missed catching the notification before it slid to the queue of others, but he went to the application itself on his phone’s desktop, its thumbnail being a purple square inset with a white shape that appeared to be a melding of the personalities of an audiotape and a gaming controller.

Discord was a microcommunity platform featuring chat boards, private messaging, and audio and video streaming. Originally designed for gaming, it had developed naturally into an equivalent of social media without being the type of public-by-default space in which so many problems had spawned on the internet. Its advent and evolution had kept pace with the trend toward smaller communities, easier to moderate and focused on more specific subjects. This focus allowed greater ease of social cohesion, and the format of the platform itself made the perfect space for posting news videos, articles, and commentary by John and his subscribers. John still maintained his old Youtube and X accounts, and despite periodic demonetization on the former and blatant censorship on the latter he cross-posted most of his content to these sites, but Discord had become his home.

John found the latest activity. It was on the #source-intake channel on his server called Black Wire. A dark background held options for chat channels on the left, with his last channel visited coming up as the application opened. Black Wire’s channels were intended for document and information drops from whistleblowers who appreciated a bit of privacy, yet wanted to engage further.

   SwampHub
   Just heard from my cousin who works at DOJ–big moves happening soon. They’re talking about a Supreme Court vacancy that hasn’t been announced yet. Anyone else hearing this?”

   John sighed. No details, no sources. He had personally invited the person who invited this person, but the guy’s sources were shit and his content was embarrassing to the other members. John was considering altering his opinion of the original inviter altogether. Placing this administrative obligation in the back of his consciousness for now, he replied using his profile handle for this server.

 DeadLedger

 @SwampHub“No verification, just speculation. Get me a document, a name, something real.”

   He put his phone away, and looked out the window of his coach at the waters of the Anacostia River.

   The train slowed into Union Station in Washington, D.C., and several minutes later John emerged into the center of governance in America. The station itself was a marvel of engineering; arches of white granite vaulted a great space, resting elegantly on stolid pillars, a curving wooden staircase holding a concentration of activity at the end. Two hundred acres comprised this seat of transportation logistics servicing forty million people a year. The interior of the station smelled like coffee and stale fast food. A faint odor of urine came from somewhere, unwashable by the building’s air conditioning systems. Exhausted commuters drifted this way and that, searching for obscure directions. Tourists dragged suitcases across the marble floor. John moved with his head down a bit, traversing this space with the ease of practice toward a certain exit. He pushed through the glass door and out onto the sidewalk. Looking to his left, he saw a security guard eyeballing a man sleeping by the taxi stand. As he watched, the guard nudged the man awake with his boot. To his right, he saw a group of construction workers leaning against a railing, sipping coffee from a gas station.

   He had allowed himself an hour and a half to walk to his first destination this afternoon, an appointment at The George Washington University at three o’clock. He took his time, looking around at the sights, listening to the sounds, and breathing in the smells of this city, noticing things that may have been related on the news, but which played out differently on the streets.

   Behind him was the stately stone of the station, an appropriate counterpart to its sister in Baltimore, and the manicured lawn of Columbus Circle. Massachusetts Avenue soon bled into H Street Northwest, running straight west for two and a half miles, all the way to the campus. His cluster of foot traffic crossed North Capitol Street, and he saw the Postal Service building on his right. The next block held the building that housed the National Guard’s advocate to Congress.

   The Friendship Arch of Chinatown greeted him with its colors, and its exquisite nobility. A work of art in itself, yet framing a scene of contrasting civilization and squalor. A woman wearing an expensive jogging suit with earbuds in her ears power-walked past the arch, avoiding eye contact with a beggar sitting on a steam vent holding a ‘Need $ for Bus Fare’ sign. A food truck guy was arguing with a cop about where he was allowed to park. The scents of fried noodles and garbage mixed in the air.

   Up ahead at Tenth Street was a newsstand. John approached the corner, and looked around at the traffic he would have to cross. On his right was the Museum of Women in the Arts, across the street a library and some financial buildings. He went to the newsstand where a man was selling paper copies of newspapers and magazines.

   John nodded to the man as he strolled up, then selected the day’s issue of National Journal. He recognized the existence of this medium to be an act of desperation by this outfit, struggling to stay relevant in the company of the dominant publishers like The Washington Post. The universal payment app on his phone deposited four dollars into the newsman’s account. He picked up the folded paper as he turned away and held it to his nose, breathing in the ink and the pulp. Then he unfolded it and went to the opinion editorial section.

   There it was, his article, which he had titled: ‘When They Came For OpenFrame.’ The title which the paper had published read: ‘Federal Court Dismisses Challenge To Predictive Misinformation Standards.’ John stared at it. He began to read the article, as it appeared in print, then set it down. He opened up his phone again and went to National Journal’s website, finding his article there and reviewing it as well. Scrolling down past the paywall, he paid ninety-nine cents for his own work. He read each one, side-by-side, carefully scrutinizing every word. He cursed under his breath, but continued reading the eight paragraphs of text, becoming more and more heated as he went along. Twice he paused, clenched his fist, behind his back and safely away from anyone who might think he was crazy. Finally, he walked away and dropped the paper into a garbage can. The phone appeared in his hand; his thumb flicked through his contacts and he dialed a number.

   The phone rang. Three times, pulsing with his anger. He tried to calm himself for the receptionist.

   “National Journal, Allen Brackett’s office.”

   “Hi Susan, it’s John Ary. I need to speak with Allen, please.”

   “Sure hold on.” The line went to muzak for twenty seconds, then a man’s voice came on.

   “Hey John.”

   “Hi Allen. How are you today?”

   “I’m good. What’s up?”

   “I just read my article.”

   “Yeah? What’d you think?”

   For a moment, John didn’t know what to say. He had no words to describe the nonsense he perceived. Reason kicked in and he began to plod through this. “You changed it.”

   “I…we decided to alter some things based on your preferences.”

   “My preferences.”

   “Yes. You told me that you were trying to get your rating up.”

   “I am.”

   “This is what that looks like.”

   “Okay. I just…I wish you had of talked to me. I could have changed it myself, maybe.”

   “We didn’t have time to do that. It was part of the new series, you know that.”

   John breathed for a few breaths. “Um…it’s a totally different slant on things.”

   Breathing from the other man, frustrated and uncomprehending breathing. “John, you are a source. I was doing a series on the lawsuit, and you provided a perspective. I really appreciate it. I think if you look at the larger scope of the–”

   “The way you slanted it is directly opposed to my intention for writing it.”

   “How do you mean?”

   “The guys got shut down pre-emptively. In their own space. That’s the expansion happening in real time. They’re testing it. That shouldn’t be allowed to happen.”

   “I didn’t find that to be the most interesting part of your story.” Allen was confident. Appraising. An artist, picky about his pallete and favoring this one color with praise.

   “It’s literally illegal.”

   Allen sighed inward, regretting the necessity of the next moments of his life. “My take was that the lawsuit was unconstitutional. This was destined to be dismissed. It sets serious precedents. I’m not coming down on the wrong side of that, and your piece informed my legal aspect of this series.”

   John waited until he was sure that he had heard the man correctly. “Your series. Okay. You know what I’m trying to do.”

   “You can do that now! John, you couldn’t have done it without this. Okay? It’s how it happens. When there’s a lack of approved sources, it adds some of its own. From its verification system according to a higher rating. That’s what boosts it up.”

   “Those aren’t my sources!”

   “Your sources got a thirteen percent. We couldn’t do that. We would’ve had to scrub the entire article, or publish it like this.”

   “It was supposed to be my perspective on this thing.”

   “The Op-Ed space is a group discussion.”

   “I’m not comfortable with this.”

   “John, I did you a favor. We’ve got editing rights. The fucking article has a hundred percent. What are you complaining about.”

   “…fuck!” John rose into the word, screaming like a madman. He hung up the phone, seething for a moment while oblivious passers-by paid him no heed. His practical mind got the better of him, and he sent Allen a text.

   “Can I still do the rest of it?” He waited, eyes on the phone. Little bubbles of activity tremored in his heart as the response was being typed.

   “Yeah.”

   John smiled, hating himself. He looked up to the sky above the buildings, smiling further to someone he wanted to make proud. Then he shoved the phone into his pocket, and continued down the street. As he passed a shop, its display began advertising sales based on his rating. John didn’t look at these; he knew his rating was sixty-seven percent, and he didn’t need to be reminded of how much of a loser he was.

   When H met Eleventh, impulse took him on a detour of a few blocks to see what was going on at the headquarters of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. A slight shift of environment on the way, young professionals rushing from building to building or standing outside vaping, browsing their news and social feeds. John heard a woman on her phone say something about “controlling the narrative.” Graffiti was a sign of the times, and he took notice of it plastered here and there, urban artwork on a livestream. On the main streets the civic maintenance bots erased any graffiti with a fairly prompt response time, but in-between buildings some work could be found. Intricate flowings of archaic block letters swirled together into scrolls of messages or names. Over one, a sloppy scrawl in red spray-paint: “100% is a lie.” A perfect representation of the current president was drawn in pastel, mimicking government messaging. A swastika was branded onto his forehead, the word “genocide” printed below. “Mother Loves You” was carefully enscribed in white paint on the wall of an office building. “404: Speech Not Found” was printed plainly in Times New Roman. Next to this, the stenciled image of a blank-faced humanoid with the caption “ADJUSTING SENTIMENT...” with the loading bar from a social media feed. His phone buzzed, and he leaned up against a wall to check it. It was a private message from Rafiq, a civil rights attorney who contributed pieces on his site, and was one of his moderators on Black Wire.

   CivisObscura

   “Hey man. I know someone who’s got something. Asking for an invite.”

   John did not hesitate in his response. In Discord, users could have different profile names for each server, but in private messaging the user’s actual handle for their main Discord account was displayed. John had come up with his handle decades ago, when he first created his public news server as a respite for his work away from the clamorous accusations of the public internet.

TrialByX

“If you say he’s cool, he’s cool. Send it.” A man who appeared to have slept rough for a few nights hurried past, muttering in paranoid agitation.

   Pennsylvania Avenue here featured nothing less prestigious than the office of the mayor of the District of Columbia. He was getting close to the center of power, and he could feel it. John turned left, and saw the brutalist concrete of the headquarters of the FBI. He saw what he expected to see. Feds in suits, a few protestors. This landmark of rule seemed not to be bothered by their shouts. There, across the street to the east, was the Department of Justice. John stopped and stared toward this place for a long moment. He had been in that building. He felt the burn of its proximity as he entered Pennsylvania Avenue. Here just to his right was the National Archives, housing the Declaration of Independence. Tourists outside snapped selfies in front of history they didn’t understand. The smells of hot dogs and pretzels wafted out from from vendors lining the street. Walking west for five blocks until Pennsylvania met Fifteenth Street, John felt the warmth of the center. Before him now was President’s Park, to his left was the National Mall, and to his right past the Treasury was the White House.

    John stood and looked at it for a while, this small sandstone building, commanding so much of the world. Then he turned left down Fifteenth past the regular security barriers and the newest layer of fencing. Widely skirting this property, he strolled happily around the wide-open greenery of The Ellipse park. The Ellipse was a plump oval of footmarked grass nine hundred feet across, and to the left as he stood was Washington Monument, a slender, five hundred foot tall obelisk of white marble and granite standing over the stretching lawn, outlined by the broad footpaths of the National Mall. Further on to the west, past the American memorial to the Second World War, the eternally calm waters of the Reflecting Pool called one’s attention to silence before the statue of Abraham Lincoln raised up off the ground on a sort of a throne, offering wisdom to all who came seeking. Thomas Jefferson himself presided over a still harbor. Constitution Avenue brought him between these mighty monuments, skirting the regions of the White House. Tourists with cameras, joggers, a field trip of schoolkids. Protestors with signs, some reading “Defund ICE.” It appeared that two conflicting groups were here, one whose theme was “hate speech is violence,” the other chanting: “Words are not violence! Silence is compliance! No to Meir’s Muzzle!” A man in a military jacket scouted about, yelling occasionally toward the White House, demanding to be shown “the real numbers.” Several older men and women sat comfortably on cushions around the sidewalk on the grass. A drone whirred by somewhere overhead.

   John noticed an older woman, older than himself, standing on the outskirts of these activities, wearing a sensible coat and worn boots holding a sign and quietly minding her own business. The woman’s sign was just a blank white square of thick poster paper. A young protester had come up to her, asking her what it meant. She responded demurely, being a veteran of many protests and perhaps curious as to how the new crowd did it. John took a moment, and opened up his phone. He found the social feeds for several of the free speech protestors–they were tagged on a popular live stream app by their biometrics–and saw that all their signs were blurred out in a real-time alteration of their feed in compliance with misinformation standards. To him, the older woman’s blank sign was the most intelligent commentary here.

   He went up to them, and listened to the younger woman’s passionate and confrontational attitude.

   “…then write something! Make them see it! We can’t just stand here like ghosts.”

   The older woman replied calmly, raising and lowering her sign in a gesture. “They already know.”

  The young woman had short hair dyed red and wore a black T-shirt with a skull on the front, a nose ring in her left nostril. “What do you mean?”

  “When you can censor ink, you can censor the idea of resistance itself.”

   “Then we need to be louder! Harder to erase!”

   The older woman offered her a small, knowing smile. “Louder just makes them tighten the filter. Harder just makes them push back harder. But silence–real silence–makes people ask why.”

   The woman looked back over her shoulder, and raised her sign. Five people around them rose from their cushions to their feet, revealing their own signs. The same blank paper, the same plain wooden handles. John and the girl looked around at them, struck by the understated profundity of this moment, watched as they sat back down and resumed waiting for something unspoken.

   John chose this moment to break in. “Excuse me, ma’am?”

   The woman looked toward him and smiled. “Hello.”

   John smiled back. “I just want to say that I think your message is brilliant.”

   She smiled even more warmly now. “Thank you.”

   The young protestor was moving her head back and forth between them. "Look, I get why you’re both upset. Censorship is wrong. Meir’s Law is a disaster. But that’s not Mother’s fault. The government hijacked her. If we just push for reform, we can fix it."

   The older woman and John exchanged a knowing glance. She spoke first.

   “You think Mother was ever neutral?”

   Red smirked firmly, almost scoffing. “She reflects us. She’s impartial. She evolves. If we show enough people the truth she’ll correct the balance.”

   John decided to intervene directly at this point. He folded his arms, looking down on the girl with the air of an adult. “Truth doesn’t reach people if it doesn’t get past the filter.”

   Red was defensively defiant. “The people decide what’s right, not some bureaucrats twisting the algorithm!”

   John replied with a steady tone. “Garbage in, garbage out. If the government controls what goes in, it controls what comes out. That’s not a correction. That’s engineering a result.”

   Red was shaking her head in persistent denial. “People trust Mother because she filters out lies and bad sources and propaganda. We just need to prove what’s happening.”

  The older woman patiently pointed out something to her younger counterpart. “And how do you prove something when the evidence is already gone?”

   Slowly, skeptically: “What do you mean?”

   John felt that he and the older woman were on the same page now. “How many times have you gone looking for an article you knew existed, only to find it missing? How many times have you cross-checked a hearing, a speech, a policy, and found the wording just slightly different than you remember?”

   Red’s eyes narrowed. “If something was changed, there would be a record. If a policy disappeared, it’s because it wasn’t relevant, or it was misinformation–”

   The older woman cut in, her voice quiet but sharp. “Like the Free Speech exemption Clause?”

   Red blinked. “The what?”

   "It was debated in Congress. Publicly. I read the transcripts myself, before they were delisted."

   John continued this narrative, testing her reaction. “The exemption in the Fair Media Act. It allowed independent platforms to self-moderate without government oversight. It was the last check against total speech regulation. Until Meir’s Law repealed it.”

   The girl hesitated; the name sounded vaguely familiar, like something she had heard in school but never really learned.

   The older woman turned to John. “I remember the protest at Lafayette Square. We really made some noise!”

   John grinned into this. “I was there! I covered that event.”

   She grinned devilishly in remembrance. “Some Secret Squirrel stuff going on there.”

   John nodded, returning her sentiment. “I reported on that. I connected their funding to USAID. Same boots, it’s a group out of Jersey that stirs things up.”

   “That’s a mild way of putting it. They were breaking windows. They entered the building first.”

   Red’s phone dinged with a soft, polite tone. A notification had popped up. She pulled it out of her pocket, studied its message for a moment. “Um…okay.” Her expression sent a wave of disapproval downward onto the two older people as she held the phone up as evidence and waggled it in front of them. The notification’s message was proudly related to John and the older woman. “The information you just received is eighty-three percent inaccurate. Relying on unverified memory may contribute to misinformation. Please cross-check with approved historical sources.” She rested on a moment of victory, enjoying her own confusion at the reactions of her elders. “What. Did you remember that?”

   John stared at the girl, then looked back to the older woman. He was about to say something when he hesitated, catching himself in caution as she did as well. They just stood there looking at each other, not saying anything, then abruptly John turned and walked away, hating himself all over again. Behind him, a man holding a blank white sign stepped up behind the older woman, taking her rotation for his shift.

   Toward the end of the mall another homeless man had set up a temporary camp, squatting over a filthy blanket with a small bedraggled dog laying at his right leg. His head meandered from side to side in a sort of blissful pain. He held a sign, made from a ragged piece of stained cardboard, that read: “Anything helps.” Next to these words was a hand-drawn QR code. John stopped here, took out his phone, and scanned the code with its camera. It actually worked. This brought up the man’s preferred payment platform, and John slid twenty dollars from his payment app into this account. He stood looking down at the man for a moment, his focus fading off, then he spoke as if saying aloud a thought that had been on his mind all day.

   “What does Mother mean to you?”

   To his surprise, the man raised his head and locked him with his eyes, responding in a steady, indignant tone.

   “How do you think I got here?”   

   The approach to GWU from the south took John past the bust of George Washington through the modest campus of Foggy Bottom. Here, eight minutes away by public transportation from their internships at the Capitol, the next generation of power sat keenly in classrooms absorbing lessons about business administration and political management. A group of students was out flyering for a protest. As they passed by, one of them began reporting to the others that she had overheard her professor say something “borderline problematic.” The Graduate School of Education and Human Development building was a modest red brick rectangle five stories tall. John went inside and waited at the reception desk until a young professor came out to greet him.

   “Mr. Ary.”

   John smiled at him and they shook hands. “Hello, Dr. Gregory. Thanks for your hospitality today.”

   “My pleasure. Everything’s ready for you.” They began walking further into the building, then upstairs toward a series of lecture halls. “You know, we have departments more specialized in this subject.”

   “I may end up contacting them as well, thanks. Right now I’m interested in a sort of sidelong view of this thing from a social standpoint.”

   “Right this way.” Gregory opened a door and they stepped inside; there was a class assembled before a lectern, waiting patiently while reviewing notes on their laptops, browsing something of interest on their phones, or chatting together quietly. Everyone’s devices disappeared as the two men strolled to the front of the room.

   Gregory addressed the class. “This is Mr. Ary, he’s here to talk to you as we discussed and I’d appreciate if you could give him your best. Thank you.” Gregory nodded to his guest and John stood in front of the lectern, setting his bag down and removing an electronic tablet encased in a leather folio which he placed on the lectern, then waited for Gregory to leave the room before speaking.

   “Hi, I’m John Ary, I’m an independent journalist and I run a news server called Mainstream Media. I’m doing a series on the personal relationships, legal evolution, and cultural impact of Mother in our society. I’m here today for the personal side of things. You folks are studying for your Doctor of Philosophy, with a concentration on human-technology collaboration. Some of you may end up shaping the future of this field. I’d like to ask you all some questions, and I promise that everything will be anonymous.”

   A student near the front row raised a finger. “How can it be anonymous when we’re all sitting here?”

   John held up a card and placed it behind him on the lectern. “There’s a QR code with my email, feel free to send in anything you want to contribute that you don’t feel comfortable sharing here. But I figure that most of you see these things every day, and I’m just trying to take the pulse of the younger generation. I’m fifty-one, and I’m interested in the perspective of folks who have never known a world without Mother. I won’t use your names.” He looked around the room, hopeful for someone to break the ice. When nothing was forthcoming, he sensed the concern and addressed it.

   “I see a bunch of nervous faces. If it makes you feel better, you can turn off your phones. Mine’s off,” he said, pulling his device out of his pocket and pressing the sleep button to show that the screen remained blank. At this, several people did reach into their pockets and purses and power off their phones. John couldn’t tell if this made people more comfortable, or if drawing attention to the source of their concern shifted the mood toward the negative.

   He was relieved when a young woman a few rows back from the front of the hall raised her hand.

   John nodded to her. “Yes?”

   “My father owns a comic book shop and he wanted to expand his business. He went to our bank for a loan and they told him his rating wasn’t high enough.”

   John took this seriously, waiting a moment before responding. “That must have been tough.”

   “It was.”

   John took up his tablet from the lectern. “You mind if I write this down?”

   “Go ahead.”

   He produced a felt-tipped stylus from his inner jacket pocket and unslept the notebook. “How did your dad handle that?”

   “They told him to try again in six months. That was like…two months ago and he’s just been going around being super-nice to people. He doesn’t know what else to do.”

   John attempted to inject some levity into the situation. “Was he…not nice before?”

   The young woman laughed, to his relief, and he chuckled with her as the class tittered. “No, I mean yes, he was, but now he’s…I don’t know he’s being weird. On pins and needles all the time. He started donating to charity and we really can’t afford that.”

   John thought about this. “Okay. Thanks for sharing. Anyone else?”

   Silence for a moment in the room, then the dam burst.

   A young man wearing a raucously adorned T-shirt was the first and the loudest. “A friend of mine couldn’t get into Georgetown because of his social media. He scrubbed everything but all that stuff’s still out there. It was a straight-up scan and ban. He’s done a bunch of very-very’s and everything.”

   John was jotting down notes, relying on the unspoken permission received by the first person to transmit to all responses. They knew that he was recording these conversations in some form. “Very-very’s?”

   “VRV’s,” the man said, and people around him said it with him.

   John looked up from his notes, perked into this acronym. “Verification Reconciliation Videos. I’ve heard of those.”

   “Yeah. You go on the internet and say how very very sorry you were for saying whatever you said.”

   John breathed out, tiredly and a little angrily. “Does that help?”

   “I don’t know.” The man made a face. “He’s at Strayer now so whatever that means. I haven’t seen his rating in a while. I could check for you–” The man made to retrieve his phone.

   “No no, that’s alright. That’s interesting.”

   Another woman was next. “I’m getting my MSc in Film and Television Production. For credit we made a feature project, I did mine on the murder of a local activist that happened in Angola by a Chinese mineral resource development company in twenty twenty-nine. Some of our projects got picked up for commercial distribution, but mine didn’t.”

   John cocked his head. “Why not?”

   “I was told that it had a low verification index and that meant no platform would distribute it.”

   John was writing these words without looking down, his eyes still on the woman’s face. Finally he glanced at the words he had written, and couldn’t believe they had come from his hand. He sighed. “I’m sorry. Keep trying.”

   Another young man raised his hand, was acknowledged by John. “I met a girl on a dating app and it wouldn’t let us match because its compatibility system detected different verification ratings.”

  ‘Jesus,’ John thought, controlling his emotions. ‘I didn’t know it was doing that.’ “Okay,” was what he said, calmly. “That must have dismaled.”

   “Yeah, it did.” The man laughed nervously, a bit ashamedly.

   The girl sitting next to him didn’t help. “If we’re using the same app, there’s a creeper detector too.”

   The class burst out laughing, the young man joining in with the spirit of good humor.

   John gave this some appreciative mirth of his own. “Okay,” he said, getting the class back under control. “Thanks dude. I’m sorry that happened to you.”

   “Yeah…” the man said, finishing this. “And the thing is, later on I met her in real life at a concert. We hit it off. This weekend is going to be our fifth date.”

   “Cool!” John was happy for a positive spin on something here. He went after this impulse. “How about some positive things. If there’s nothing like that, that’s fine, don’t make things up to please me. I want to hear your honest opinion. What does Mother mean to you?”

   The was a considered pause, then a young woman near the back of the room held up her hand. John pointed at her.

   “My parents appreciate the lack of sensationalism in media.”

   John nodded; he’d seen this, himself. “How do you mean?”

   “They told me that headlines used to be more about clickbait and…instilling outrage. Nowadays the news is rated for accuracy, not how much it can rile people up.”

   “That’s a good one.” John made a note of this. “That’s progress.” He looked around. “What else?”

   Another student nearby spoke up. “Just progress, generally.”

   John nodded. “How?”

   “She’s…helped us move past outdated biases toward social justice.”

   “How?”

   “Well, it’s more difficult for harmful opinions to spread.”

   The student to the left continued this thought. “We’re just a smarter generation because of her.” Smiles in the classroom confirmed this sentiment. The student just looked at John, as if stating a fact.

   John slowly smiled back in appreciation. “You’re right. You grew up thinking critically. It’s built into your survival instinct now.” He wrote this down. Looking up, he saw several upraised hands. He selected one.

   “I guess this was already kind of said, but protection from hate speech is a big idea.” Consensus in the class was reached as John finished noting this. He followed up with a question. “If Mother was already regulating that to our satisfaction, why do we need Meir’s Law?”

   After a moment of serious contemplation, the student answered carefully. “I guess that was a more specific set of circumstances.”

   “Um-hm.” John agreed with this. “Do you think the system failed there?”

   Silence in the room, reverent and hushed. Then they answered.

   “I don’t know.”

   “How’s it been since then?”

   “Like…less of it, like a lot less, but nobody really knows what the boundary is so it’s kind of uncomfortable.”

   “Like how.”

   “Like you’re in a space that you’re comfortable with being open and now there’s a ceiling but you can’t see it so you don’t know where it is.”

   “You don’t know how to act.”

   “Yeah.”

   John thought about this. “Boundaries imposed, but ambiguously established.”

   The student nodded in approval of his assessment. He wrote it down. He sighed. Eager for more input from the class, but weary with the necessity of it all. ‘This is what we’re talking about in America. How our phones make us feel.’ He pointed to another student, and another seemingly obvious fact of the world was pointed out to him.

   “It’s just a fairer society.” The young man had said it plainly.

   “Tell me about that.”

   “Everyone is held to the same standard. It’s a level playing field. Anybody can rate anybody else equally. I can rate the President of the United States right now.”

   “Try it.” John stood looking at the man without expression.

   The student began to appear pale. He laughed, as if hearing a bad joke. “You want me to downrate the president?”

   John shook his head. “I want you to see if you can do it.”

   The class was intrigued, though the student performing this task was somewhat more reluctant. But he removed his phone from his bag, then powered it back on, and sat staring at the screen along with everyone else as it changed from a void, to illuminated. He unlocked it and opened up a browser.

   “Okay, what do you want me to do.”

   “Go to his website.” John was twiddling with his stylus, looking off into space, beginning to pace back and forth before the lectern. “It’s the only place you can rate him. His socials are run by his Chief Digital Officer’s team, so there’s deniability if you rate any of those posts. The only way to do it is to use his campaign website.”

   “I have that bookmarked.” The student easily called up the site.

   “Okay. What’s his Mother rating?”

   He looked at the little gold star emblem with a series of numbers written inside it. “One hundred percent.”

   “Of course. Click on it.”

   The student tapped the icon and a small window popped up with a concise explanation of the sources for this verification, with links to the first three and a link to further references listed below.
   John wasn’t even looking at the class anymore as he paced, instructing the student’s navigation from memory. “Now long press on all of that.”

   The student did so and another, larger window opened up, filled with fields for the entry of responses to prompts such as: ‘What is the reason for this complaint?’ and “Do you have any expertise in the field of this complaint?’

   John had stopped pacing and was directing his full attention toward the young man. “Have you ever done one of these before?”

   “No.”

   “Okay. This is the form where you challenge a Mother rating. What does it say?”

   He rattled off the list of questions and prompts. In addition to the previous two he said: “There’s the field to upload evidence or provide sources, it’s asking me to describe the potential harm of this rating, my suggestion for a corrected rating, do I have any prior challenges or appeals, is there a conflict of interest, and what’s my preferred resolution outcome.”

   “That good!” John smiled happily. “His is the same as everyone else. Okay. Only the first field is required. Just put ‘test.’ That should be safe enough, do you think?”

   The student entered this word and scrolled down past the other fields then sat looking at the screen, his thumb hovering over the ‘Submit’ button. “Am I really gonna submit this?”

   John shrugged and expressed curiosity at this proposition. “Let’s see if we can.”

   The student tapped the submit button. Nothing happened. He waited, patiently, in case the next page had not yet loaded, but soon it was apparent that nothing was happening at all. He tapped it again, then peered in close and frowned.

   “Oh! There’s another required satellite button here.” He zoomed in on the screen and read it off. “It’s asking me if I want to opt in to a new ‘assisted vote.’” He paused, then quoted what he was reading. “Those who opt in have their selection optimized based on their verification history, political reliability, and national stability metrics.”

   ‘Oh Jesus Fuckin’ Christ.’ John almost said it out loud.

   The student was still looking at the choices in front of him. “I’m not sure which one of these I want to do.”

   “It’s okay!” John was quick to stop this process. “You don’t have to do that right now, that was all I wanted you to see. That’s a stopping point, wouldn’t you say?”

   The student powered off his phone again. “Not really. I can still decide what I want to do later.”

   “But it’s not something you felt comfortable doing in the moment. You would have had to choose something that benefited the president, or not do something that did so, on the record.”

   “…I guess so.”

   “Park’s rating is ninety-eight percent. I looked it up this morning. So, if the polls stay the same, Hauer’s rating will stay above hers. That means opting in to that voting method will be favorable to him. That’s not the same as being able to just rate someone.”

   “Some day he’ll be out of office,” countered the student. “Then he’ll be able to be rated.”

   “Sure.” John gave this up as if it were nothing. “But he’s not, right now.” He let this go as he caught up with his notes, then addressed the class again. “Anything else?”

   A female student in the front had waited until the last.

   “Accountability.”

   “That’s great,” John said, nodding. “Speak on that.”

   The woman shrugged. “People can’t just lie anymore and get away with it.”

   “That makes sense.” John was writing this down. “But who decides what’s a lie?”

   “I mean…” The woman responded with equal parts irritation, confusion, and certainty. “The verification system is backed up by watchdogs and academia. We do that here. Our Risk and Narrative Studies Department is licensed by the Department of Commerce for their predictive analysis of misinformation trends.”

   “That’s right,” John said, raising his eyebrows. “A Mother rating is the result of a lot of things. There are government agencies involved, of course, as you said. There are also major cloud data providers and content analysis firms. Academic institutions and research think tanks ostensibly allow the government to maintain scientific neutrality. Citizen watchdog groups and crowd-sourced verification, news and social media integration, even public sentiment and social influence contribute to ‘the truth.’” He paused for a moment, allowing the young woman space for her correctness while he thought of something to say. “Let me ask you something. Can anyone here think of an example of the algorithm influencing academic practice at this college?” He waited while the students thought about this, then a young woman spoke up.

   “Professor Gregory tells a story about when he was un undergrad.” Several heads around the room began nodding in recollection. “He says that when he was working on his Ph.D., he used to go out to coffee shops and hold informal events where he talked about sociology. Some of the stuff was kind of edgy, like his own ideas but it was all based on his thesis work and rooted in traditional teachings. He’s kind of…kind of radical in some ways, I guess,” she said, looking around her and receiving reciprocation in her statement. “That’s what we like about him, at least I do. Anyway, he got called into his advisor’s office and two senior advisors were there and they told him very clearly that if he kept doing that, he wouldn’t pass his review. He got publicly dinged for saying some things about Émile Durkheim that were his own interpretation. But that’s what he was working on! The thesis of his dissertation was a revised biography of Durkheim and how his personal experiences influenced his theoretical framework on social cohesion, which in turn shaped the structure of modern political systems. ‘Prove it on paper,’ they said. They told him, ‘we’re not preparing you to speak to the public, we’re preparing you to pass your review.’”

   John let the murmuring subside before he responded. “So, the algorithm is affecting the system which creates the trust of the algorithm.”

   “Yeah,” she said, agreeing automatically then shaking her head as she thought through this.

   “I don’t doubt the integrity of your school,” John said right away, “just bringing it around full circle.” He stood in front of the class for an extended moment. “Well! Thank you. I really appreciate your time and your candor. If anyone wants to submit anything further, please feel free to email me. Have a good day.”

   John took a taxi to Crystal City. He sat in the back seat, watching the steering wheel correct itself in minute changes bereft of a driver, checked the duration of the drive on the screen on the seat before him. He was driven back around the Lincoln Memorial, over the Potomac River, and past Arlington National Cemetery, land once siezed from the general Robert E. Lee. He took in The Pentagon on his right, the very seat of American military might on Earth. Several blocks later, the car slowed into a business district and dropped him off in the parking lot of a modern office building. The entire skyline of downtown D.C. was in the background across the river.

   Pallas Group was a defense and intelligence contracting firm that specialized in legal and compliance consulting for cybersecurity and digital information governance. Operating at the intersection of law, technology, and policy, Pallas worked with government agencies, private tech companies, and other defense contractors in its mission of national security. Its clients included the Department of Justice, the Department of Homeland Security, the FCC, and a few select intelligence agencies.

   John walked across the broad and shining lobby, seeing people engaged in some of the most important work in the country, gave his name at reception, and was received by his interview’s assistant, Chloe Brooks. John knew Brooks from their emails. She led him through a security checkpoint and scanned his ID, then directed him to a ground-floor conference room. As they reached the door, Brooks politely reminded him of his non-disclosure agreement.

   John nodded and took a seat in the conference room. Tea for two was set on the table. Brooks stood there pecking on her phone until an older man came in, elegantly gaunt, salt-and-pepper hair trimmed close and a wry grin as if he were always just coming from the best joke he had ever heard. He shook John’s hand and introduced himself.

   “Judge Poole.” John shook hands and smiled.

   “Ben.”

   Benjamin Lysander Poole had taken the Massachusetts Bar Exam in 2016. An elder statesman of legislature, he resided in his Pallas office with a view of the city appreciating the fruits of his service. As a fresh graduate of Harvard Law School, Poole began his legal career by clerking for a judge on the U.S. Court of Appeals in the First Circuit, then worked as a federal prosecutor in the U.S. Attorney’s Office for the District of Columbia, specializing in national security and cyber law. In 2028 he had been appointed to the U.S. Court of Appeals for the D.C. Circuit.

   “Ben. Thanks for seeing me today.”

   They sat on the same side of the table, facing each other, as Brooks hovered nearby.

   “So. Mr. Ary. Where’re you from.”

   John leaned back in his chair. “Cadillac, Michigan.”

   Poole grinned. “What’s a country boy like you doing in D.C.”

   “A wealthy older gentleman took advantage of my innocence.”

   “Ha!” Poole threw back his head and let out a resounding laugh. Brooks turned her head sharply toward John then continued pretending to not be paying attention. “Seriously. How’d you get stuck in the swamp.”

   “I got a job at The Post out of college. It didn’t work out. I bummed around for a while, then I got a lead, one story led to another, and I met my wife. You’re from La Crosse?”

   “Close enough.”

   “You’ve been at Pallas Group for twelve years now?”

   “Thereabouts.”

   “What would you say you do here.”

   “In addition to our government contracts, I help private defense and tech firms navigate compliance in the digital space.”

   John was nodding. “You helped draft and shape the legislature that went into the DISC Act.” 

   “I had some part in that. What can I do for you, Mr. Ary.”

   “I’m looking for an overview of the evolution of Mother from a legal standpoint.”

   Poole took a moment before responding. “There’s been a lot written about Mother over the years.” He peered at John playfully. “Why you and why now?”

   John nodded, acknowledging the circumstances behind this question. “The sunset clause on the Section 230 revision is bringing up its mandatory review. I’m trying to add something to the public conversation.”

   "Citizen input is seriously considered in these reviews," Poole said in appreciation. "The usual groups are gearing up their campaigns. Have you ever been a member of one of those?”

   "I've been asked, but I've respectfully declined.”

   "Do you mind if I ask why you declined?”

   "Honestly, I don't feel qualified.”

   "I would think that you're especially qualified.”

   "Not really. Name association isn't the same as knowledge. I know enough about this thing to operate in its environment according to my principles, but as for the rest…I'm learning. Call this interview a dual purpose research trip. My series needs a legal foundation, and I'm really just curious about the process."

   Poole's gaze did not change focus, but slowly brightened into approval. "Okay. Shoot.”

   John reached into his bag and took out a his tablet and stylus. He unslept the screen and opened a new notebook. “Take me back to the beginning. Where did all this start.”

   Poole tilted his head back, stared up at the ceiling for a moment, gathered his thoughts and spoke. “The Twenty Twenty-Eight riots set the stage for legislation that had been bandied about for decades. The egis of digital communication in general had been something of a gray zone since its advent, and freedoms and restrictions had always been applied in fits and starts, often in a reactionary context as the result of antagonizing lawsuits and politically or financially oriented lobbying. This was different. More of a step back, a sweeping reform that re-classified services and altered existing protections.”

   John was scribbling notes. “Do you think it was inevitable?”

   Poole thought for a moment. “I think the inciting incident was inevitable, or a least extremely likely. Sooner or later, someone was going to abuse the system as it existed at that time. I think the result of that incident was a product of these steps.”

   “What would you say were some of the factors that allowed that abuse to happen?”

   Again Poole considered this, leaning back in his chair and consulting the air. “Well first of all, the moderation of the afflicted platforms was community-based, rather than algorithmic.”

   “I wouldn’t call that a total fail.”

   “Oh?”

   John leaned forward, confided in his interview. “I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors that there were plants in those communities, who helped to spread the fires.”

   Poole nodded, accepted this as a legitimate point.

   John was jotting down notes, speaking without looking up. “But you’re right, the lack of algorithmic moderation seems insane in retrospect.”

   “Yes, it’s one of those glaring spaces that only becomes apparent when set on fire. Speaking of fire,” Poole said as he drew his tea cup toward him, “the property and financial damage were major factors in the proceeding regulation.”

   “Let’s start there,” John said and Poole nodded, sipped his tea, and continued.

   “Federal authorities met with X and other social media platforms where the video had been shared to gather information about how the video was posted, how it had spread, and the impact it had on user behavior. A federal rapid response task force was formed, comprised of members of the Cybersecurity and Infrastructure Security Agency, as well as experts from the tech industry, to contain further spread. The government issued emergency guidelines directing platforms to implement more robust verification processes for high-impact content, particularly if it included sensitive, real world events like alleged violence or crises. As the news cycle included real-time news articles which acted upon the fake nature of the video, further inciting or magnifying the violence and misinformation, these guidelines extended to news publications and privately-run citizen journalism sites as well as the private accounts of individual users.”

   “This is where we saw the split,” John murmured almost nostalgically as he caught up with his notes. He looked up, saw Poole looking back at him, explained his comment. “It’s when I started my server.”

   “I would call it more of a mass exodus, but yes, there was a schism. Then of course you had the division between what was publicly creditable, and the darker crevices of the journalistic world at the time which continue to grow today. No offense,” the former judge added as an afterthought.

   “Not at all.” John smiled. “I’m quite happy in my dark little cave. Let’s keep going.”

   Poole collected his thoughts for a moment, then picked up the narrative. “We’re still in the aftermath of the incident. Federal agencies required platforms to deploy new deepfake detection tools and consult with companies that specialized in AI-driven content verification. The National Institute of of Standards and Technology led the way in this, identifying a company at the forefront of the field, Northern California-based Prion Analytics.”

   “Nobody knew who they were at the time,” John said and shrugged, and the two men paused again to share a bit of wonder.

  Poole nodded in acceptance of John’s perspective without seeming to agree with it. “They’d been on the radar of a few organizations, but nothing like we see today. Even with the licensing requirement for dissemination of their tech in compliance with the DISC Act, and to safeguard against monopoly, it’s quite a meteoric rise. Entirely predictable, given the next steps.”

   “Yeah,” John said, returning to his notes. “Let’s get into the partnership.”

   “We’re skipping an important part if we do,” Poole said politely and sipped his tea.

   “Okay.”

   “The real meat and potatoes happened in the hearings, and subsequent negotiations.”

   “You’re right. I was getting ahead of myself. Please continue.”

   Poole took a breath. “Well, at that point things had settled down and the real toll was being tallied. I still remember the numbers. Eight dead, including two police officers, over four hundred serious injuries, approximately three hundred hundred million in property damage across the country and X’s valuation in the toilet. As well as the other platforms where the video was cross-posted. As soon as the story broke that the video was a fake, things got very embarrassing very quickly.” Poole stopped and looked placidly at John.

   “It was a bad time,” John acknowledged without looking up from his tablet. “I recall the tone of the hearings. It was very much: ‘You children. How did you allow this to happen.’”

   “Excoriative would not be an inappropriate word to use,” Poole said with a rueful grin. “I can still hear Senator Gracie saying: ‘So, what you’re saying is that another incident like this could happen at any time, and your platform would be practically defenseless.’”

   “In their defense,” John added, “that video was designed by some Tier-One hackers with the aid of AI to be basically a zero-day exploit of the detection tools used by those platforms.”

   “I understand,” Poole said by way of conciliation. “I don’t think that meant much to Congress at the time.”

   “They were pissed,” John said with another shrug. “I get it.”

   “Yes…so, lawmakers held congressional hearings to gather testimony from tech executives, civil liberties advocates, and digital media experts. A balance was struck in negotiations, being the satisfaction of public safety and national security interests, as well as a placation of the platforms’ pushback against further regulation which could lead to accusations of censorship by the government. A new industrial standard was set for accuracy in digital media, and requirements for compliance with this standard were established. They were to use their own systems of deepfake protection and pre-posting fact-checking. A rating system was proposed and accepted. This rating allowed digital consumers to evaluate the veracity of information online, and act accordingly on the level of truthfulness of that information. It placed responsibility in the hands of the consumer, protecting platforms against arbitrary removal of seemingly suspect users who might invoke defense according to the platforms’ terms of service. It also alleviated the necessity of these platforms to change their terms of service according to perceived shifts in the social climate, cases of which were the cause of much suspicion and accusation by users in the context of…well…conspiracy theories and the like. A lot of bother, out the window. This system also avoided intruding on freedom of speech rights. Whatever those might be, in the context of a user agreement, this negated any such argument. It was really quite brilliant. Editing or censorship is done by the company or individual posting the content, based on their consideration of the accuracy rating.”

   John stopped writing for a moment, looked up and asked a simple question. “Who decides what’s true.”

   “Verification sources are drawn from up-to-date scientific and historical sources. These sources are made available by the verification system.”

   John pursed his lips and looked off into the distance for a moment, recalling a number. “Five hundred new server farms have sprouted up since then.”

   “Well, it all has to go somewhere.”

   “Anyway.” John was ready to write again.

   Yes…hm. So, events surrounding the inciting incident held factors which expanded the scope of inflammatory actions outside of the original post, and its proliferation across platforms by individual users. Users’ comments at the time, and in the immediate hours following its advent, as well as opinion editorials and news reporting by legitimate agencies and citizen reporting added to the carnage, physical danger to public safety, and financial impact of the incident. Even statements by public officials, if you’ll remember. The tweets sent by the mayor of Chicago.”

   John grimaced. He remembered. Poole went on.

   “Thus, this standard for accuracy extended to all publicly published digital media. Including the digital articles of news organizations and public posts by individual users. Each post, each article, would receive an accuracy rating. Private communications such as private messaging and email were made exempt from this regulation. As were sites like your server, if I’m not mistaken.”

   “So far…” John said without looking up this time.
   “Yes. Well at the time Discord successfully argued that its core function is private communication, akin to email, text messaging, or Voice over IP. Because most servers are invite-only, with private channels requiring role-based access, Discord maintained that it was not a public interactive service under the law. Courts upheld this decision, treating Discord more like Slack, Signal, or Microsoft Teams than Facebook or X. Unlike centralized platforms such as Facebook, Reddit, or YouTube, where moderation is handled by the company itself, Discord servers are self-moderated by individual owners. This means liability is distributed across independent server operators. Also, Discord did not operate a global recommendation algorithm, unlike Facebook or YouTube, which use AI to push content to users, further distancing itself from regulation. They argued, and they made a very good case for it, that it is a tool provider, not a content publisher. The same logic that initially protected WordPress, forums, and private message boards.”

   “Home sweet home.” John jotted some polite notes but he knew these things by heart. He allowed Poole to keep speaking.

   “…a revision was made to Section Two-Thirty, limiting immunity for platforms that fall short of their obligation to prevent significant harm from viral misinformation. This culpability acts by way of a contingency should a platform fail in compliance with the new standard. A sunset clause was placed in this revision, requiring a mandatory review every five years. The standard was set by the Department of Commerce, and regulated by its Bureau of Industry and Security.”

   “I remember when that decision came down.” John was enjoying aspects of this conversation, a trip down memory lane. “I think everyone was expecting it to be under the control of…I don’t know…the Department of Homeland Security or something.”

   “Not really.” Poole picked up his tea cup, took a sip, set it down. “Those of us who know how these things work weren’t really surprised. The allocation of this process to Commerce made tons of sense to a lot of people.”

   “Can you speak more about that, please?”

   “Sure. There were numerous aspects to the fallout of that video. Now we’ve had riots before, and property damage, and yes even deaths. That’s what the police are for. The injuries are not to be taken lightly. However, the real impact was the financial repercussion.”

   “It all comes down to money.”

   “It does,” Poole said matter-of-factly. “It’s no secret, and it’s not even really a bad thing. X’s valuation fell seventy-one percent in a single day. Others’ did, as well. Similar and even greater amounts. The value of one company affects the whole market. We can’t allow an individual or a group with access to a coding bot to practically delete billions of dollars’ worth of stock value with the click of a mouse. That’s financial warfare. So the financial concerns were well within the egis of Commerce. Additionally, social media platforms and news organizations send their content into foreign markets, and overseeing those transactions is exactly what Commerce does. Furthermore, its Bureau of Industry and Security is tasked with mitigating risks from foreign disinformation and cybersecurity threats. That video could just as easily have come from a foreign government.”

   John was nodding, appreciating all of this. “So,” he said with some conclusion. “DISC.”

   “Yes. A bill was drafted to introduce specific verification requirements for digital media companies, aimed at preventing the spread of high-impact false information. Given the ability of quick proliferation online, and the seemingly perpetually volatile American political environment, the definition of ‘high-impact false information’ was expanded to include inflammatory or provably false statements about political or public figures, or events with the potential to disrupt public safety and national security. This became the Digital Industrial Standards and Compliance Act.”

  John was now leading the conversation with his prompts. “Back to Prion.”

   “That’s right. To provide a means by which the standard could be measured and upheld, Commerce BIS held a formal request for proposals in the private sector, with set criteria for transparency, algorithmic accuracy, and compliance with federal data regulations. Prion was the obvious choice, as their products were the leaders in the field, but the forms were obeyed. Prion Analytics won the RFP and BIS entered into a public-private partnership with them. They received some funding and an appropriate amount of security clearance, and their products became the industry standard.”

   “Literally required by law,” John said in his revolutionary tone.

   “A standard required by law,” Poole corrected him, “available at that time only through their innovations, and shared by law by license.”

   “Okay,” John conceded, with a shrug that said: “Not much difference.”

   “Shall I proceed, Mr. Ary,” Poole said with a wry grin, “or would you like to change the world right here and now in front of our very eyes.” He waited, as if expecting a miracle to appear in a flash of light and a puff of smoke.

   John laughed. “Yeah. I think we’re closing this out. Go ahead.”

   “So…for the verification process, Prion adapted one of its products, an algorithm called Mother. This algorithm was capable of real-time, as well as retroactive, verification of accuracy in the content of digital media. The Department of Commerce created an independent body to monitor the use of the algorithm, including civil liberties experts to ensure that it was used appropriately and in ways that protect individual rights. The government set restrictions on what data the algorithm could access, being designed only to assess the content required for its purpose. Online platforms, under penalty of non-compliance with DISC, were required to integrate the algorithm and to apply real-time ratings for accuracy. Mother was deployed as a tool of industrial inspection.”

   John reached the end of a page on his tablet and sat with the stylus held loosely in his hand. Poole finished off his tea and the men sat in silence for a while.

   “And, twenty years on,” John finally said. “We’re in quite a different place now, aren’t we.”

   “Somewhat.”

   John swiped left on the tablet, touched an icon shaped like a “plus” sign, and started a new page in his notes. “What’s your opinion of the net result of Mother, these days.”

   Poole drew a breath, let it out, bobbled his head back and forth. “All in all, it’s doing its job. We need institutions to keep us in check, or we tend to slide toward tyranny. We see this in historical examples of totalitarian governments abolishing institutions that provide a moral framework, such as religion, as part of their framework of power. But institutions are made of people, and individually they can be corrupted, so we need institutions to check other institutions.”

   “And how would you say that the institution of Mother has held up, according to that metric.”

   Poole made an expression of mild surprise, as if he had never before thought about this question, his way of giving a person’s query a fair shake. “The oversight has helped. Any mission creep that has happened was, in my opinion, the result of society’s reaction to the thing.”

   “Oversight…” John underlined this word. “Until fairly recently, that is. Correct?”

   “Less so nowadays, admittedly. I know what you’re referring to.”

   “Could you speak on that?”

   “You would seem to be well-versed on the subject. You wrote about it.”

   “I’d like to cap this off in your own words.”

   “Okay. The fact is that right now two things are happening. The Two-Thirty sunset clause is coming up for review. Let’s start with that. Ever since Mother was deployed, about this time, every time, there’s some positive and negative influence to the renewal. People are always trying to make a case for justifying its continuance. The Section Two-Thirty revision is the teeth of the Compliance Act. Without it there’s much less motivation to comply. Previous examples of lobbying in favor of renewal include the Twenty Forty-Seven summit hosted by the Digital Equity Initiative, and the Algorithmic Trust Coalition’s multi-million-dollar ad campaign.“

   John tapped his stylus on his leg and looked into the past. “I did a piece about the latter.”

   “How far down the rabbit hole did you go as to the sources of that group?”

   “Pretty far. I dug up some dirt. Made some waves. In a contained little pool, of course, but my readers at the time appreciated the information. It was a little too late to have any effect on the process.”

   “Interesting stuff, when you peeled back the layers on that one.” Poole cleared his throat. “Four years ago, an independent incident occurred which tipped the scales heavily in favor of the ‘pro’ groups, and led to the creation of new legislation that changed the stewardship of Mother. A demonstration was held at Evergreen State College in Washington State on the twenty-fifth anniversary of October the Seventh, and antisemitic hate speech was broadcast over the internet. This led to the suicide of one the students of this college, who was watching the broadcast from his dorm room.”

   “You’re classifying this language as hate speech?”

   “It was classified as such.”

   “But do you think that it qualified as such, in the moment.”

   Poole took a longer version of one of his breaths before responding to this. “I think that the language was unnecessary, and inflammatory, and hurtful. The livestream recording was removed by YouTube following the incident, and in fact was scrubbed by other platforms following that poor boy’s unfortunate decision.”

   “But was it hate speech.”

   “Let’s define that.”

   “Please let’s do. Prior to the legislation.” John leaned into his tablet, savoring the substance of this conversation.

   “Hate speech is an expression which targets particulars of a person’s identity, and intends to vilify, humiliate, or incite hatred against that person or a group of such people based on that identity. In this case, race was the target, with ethnicity and religion and perhaps nationality bound up in the antisemitic speech. Hate speech is actually protected in this country under the First Amendment, as long as it does not directly incite imminent criminal activity or constitutes specific threats of violence targeted against a person or group.”

   John was nodding; this was the standard definition with which he was familiar. “I’ve watched the original video of the demonstration. The language is borderline, but it doesn’t seem to meet the criteria of unprotected expression.”

   “It wasn’t,” Poole confirmed. “It was nothing more complicated than good old-fashioned antisemitism, wrapped up in anti-colonial rhetoric in support of a terrorist organization. But the effect it had was deadly, and filtered through the internet of our day, it became a rallying point for changing the definition into a broader scope of expression.”

   “Governor Madison came down pretty hard on Prion about Mother not rating the video harshly enough to warrant a real-time censoring by the broadcast platforms.”

   “At the time,” Poole raised his eyebrows, “there was nothing on the books that would have justified that. But the consequences were deadly, and wrapped up in the movement surrounding the sunset clause renewal, this all happened very quickly.”

   “So, Meir’s Law.”

   “Yes. The bill was passed by the Senate within months, and by the House early the following year. President Hauer signed it soon thereafter. Meir’s Law broadened the definition of hate speech, and allowed the Bureau of Industry and Security to remove administrative control of Mother from the hands of Prion Analytics, placing it under a newly-formed wing of the Federal Communications Commission called the Bureau of Digital Integrity.”

   “I took some quotes at the time,” Johns said and rested his elbows on his knees as he swiped another page into existence. “Their position was that Prion was acting in an irresponsible manner regarding its stewardship of a function of the industrial process that resulted in the death of an American citizen.”

   “Prion’s national security responsibilities were also called into question,” Poole reminded him. “All the old knives came out.”

   “So walk me through next steps, to where we are today.”

   “Prion filed an injunction, and the case has been moving through state courts while the opposing sides lobby for their interests. The Supreme Court will be hearing arguments on the constitutionality of the action, and everyone I know and I’m imagining some of your colleagues as well are eagerly awaiting their ruling to be released in June or July next year.”

   “How do you expect that to go?”

   Poole sighed. Not a breath of consideration, rather a tired heave of his chest. “I think the merits of Prion’s case are worthy.”

   “You think the ruling will be in favor of Prion?”

   “If I had to say one way or the other, yes.”
   “How so?”

   “The Court will likely find that Prion, as a private entity, is not subject to First Amendment restrictions, reinforcing the argument that platform moderation decisions—regardless of federal oversight—do not constitute state action. Additionally, the justices may defer to precedent on regulatory compliance, affirming that companies integrating Mother do so voluntarily and remain responsible for their own enforcement choices. Given the national security arguments involved, I wouldn’t be surprised if the ruling grants broad deference to the government’s interest in maintaining digital stability.”

   John was writing this down word for word. He took a pause here, then recalled their previous topic. “You said two things. What’s the other?”

   “The other is something that I’m sure is on your mind lately. Rather than merely continuing the revision to Section Two-Thirty, the new renewal would expand its scope to cover more privately-run sites like your own.”

   John was not looking up. “What are you seeing as the legal basis for this addition to the revision?”

   “It’s actually quite sensible,” Poole said in a reasonable tone, knowing that this statement bothered his interviewer but pressing forward with his honest opinion. “The hate speech legislation is concerned with the proliferation of dangerous language and activity in the digital space, and with the trend nowadays toward microcommunities such as the space in which you operate, they’ve found that a lot of the kind of behavior about which they’ve become concerned happens in places like that. It must be moderated, the same as everything else.”

   John breathed deeply, settling himself in his mind. He took a moment reviewing the notes he had written. Finally, he said: ‘What am I not thinking about?”

   Poole bobbled his head again, scrunched up his lips. “If I were you, I’d be asking myself how the bill that became Meir’s Law happened so quickly.”

   John peered forward, interested. “It did happen pretty fast. The Senate and the House–”

   “Not the approval process. The bill itself. It struck me as…prepared.”

   “Prepared.”

   Poole shrugged a shoulder. “If I had to say.”

   “That’s very interesting, Mr. Poole, and I appreciate your perspective.”

   “Do you need anything else from me?” Poole drained his teacup.

   “Not right now. Thank for your time.”

   “Of course. So, I should look for this in National Journal?”

   John stiffened slightly, then responded. “No, this is being published on my news server.

   Poole jerked back reflexively as if John had suddenly leaned in for a kiss. “I’m sorry, I thought that since–”

   “I understand. This piece is part of a series. The first will be in the public domain to garner attention from a larger audience.”

   Poole’s entire demeanor had changed; he friendliness had washed away, and he seemed now like a man who had discovered an alternate pair of dice hidden up the sleeve of the man sitting across the gaming table from him. He spoke calmly. “I understand that you run a news site in the unverified domain. Frankly, I wouldn’t have agreed to this interview had I known that this article would be released there.”

   “Shit,’ John thought furiously, holding his features steady. ‘Shit. Shit. Shit.’ He felt the wearying, sinking feeling of dread. He had felt it before, in very similar circumstances. He also noticed that Poole had not used the word ‘published,’ rather a derogatory reference to something uncredible being set upon the public like a wild animal uncaged into a movie theater as a form of protest. He began fidgeting with his wedding ring. “Well, would you be willing to allow me to use my notes from our time today without quoting you directly?”

   Poole considered this request with a flick of his eyes. “I’m sorry. I can’t take any chances. I have a reputation to think of, I’m sure you understand. My professional rating could suffer.”

   “I understand.” John was rising, mechanically stuffing his tablet back into his bag. “Thank you for your time.”

   “Of course.” Poole’s eyes flicked again to Brooks, who had visibly tuned in on the last moments of the conversation. “If I there’s anything I can do for you in the future, please let me know.”

  Mother does not govern. She does not need to. A system that punishes deviation before it occurs is one that never needs to raise its voice.

The street at the edge of the business park was punctuated with just enough movement to remind John that others out there were doing well in their endeavors, and empty enough to suit his mood. Electric vehicles hummed along quietly on their way to some destination, their passengers either absent behind the wheel or in the backseat of a drone taxi. He took out his phone and ordered one himself, setting the destination as a bar that he favored nearby, then sent his wife a text message saying that he would not be home right away. While he was texting a friend to meet him for a drink, she responded with an acknowledgement. He returned his phone to vibrate after its muted status from while he was in the interview, and he saw that he had received another invite request and a notification about a new member joining Black Wire.

   #access-requests

DropKick23

   @DeadLedger
   “I’ve got a guy who needs to drop some stuff in here, can we get him in.”

   John frowned in disappointment. ‘Read the rules.’ He ignored this message and went on to the new member. He tapped on the person’s profile picture, seeing that it was merely the placeholder prior to uploading a personal or customized image, and found no details had been entered for the contact’s social or professional profile. Oh well, a preliminary vetting prior to receiving public permissions would filter out any bot. A series of roles and permissions would allow this new member to see or post in certain channels. He tapped the ‘accept’ icon. John posted a message in the #access-requests channel, tagging the new member.

   DeadLedger

   “Welcome to the real world, @ralstongrimes! We hope you brought hot juicy scoops.”

   He put his phone away and stood on the street corner waiting for the taxi, hands pressed into the pockets of his jacket against the evening chill.

   The television above the bar was turned on, and muted, with captions running at the bottom of the screen. A news program was delivering the highlights of the day. A fire at an oil refinery in New Jersey that morning was still the first story to be shown, with black smoke billowing out of an industrial facility. Some random footage from the conflict in Pakistan; an Indian telejournalist embedded with a forward unit was delivering a report from the front lines. Finally, a newscaster came on to announce that they were being taken to a Democrat campaign rally at Freedom Plaza in D.C., saying that Hauer had returned from Camp David to speak in favor of issues important to his campaign. The camera switched to the rally, and there was President Hauer speaking passionately about his policies. John’s eyes ticked over the captions: the climate, green energy, taxes. Then the footage cut to a man, woman, and teenage girl sitting at the front of the assembly next to the First Lady. They rose to their feet, prompted by the president’s invitation. There they stood, appearing sheepish under the harsh lights and the thousands of eyes in the stadium, and the millions of eyes of the viewing audience, while the captions depicted Hauer’s words.

   “This American family lost their son. This great country lost one of its brightest citizens. Hate speech in all its forms is a poison. And that’s why we passed this legislation. Because of the work that Congress and I have done, hate speech has been cut down by forty percent. But there’s still a lot of work to do. In my second term, I will finish the work we started.”

   ‘All these stats are bullshit,’ John thought cynically. He withdrew his attention from the television, picked up his phone, opened a news application and browsed until the door of the bar opened in a gush of breeze. A man stepped in, looking around then walking over to sit next to him.

   John had slept his phone and put it aside as the man approached. John looked at his former colleague and saw everything that he himself might have been, but had declined, failed at, or never been allowed to achieve given his professional choices. Senior editor at a prestigious newspaper, job stability, a solid public reputation and connections with some of the most influential people in the business. John's own career seemed bedraggled and seedy in comparison. He sat up a bit straighter and greeted his friend.

   “Heya, Mark.”

   Mark was tall, heavier, the same age as John but he had aged somewhat better. Fewer worry lines creased his face; his hair was thick and dark. He wore an expensive overcoat and wool scarf, which he removed and placed on the stool next to him as he sat.

   “What’s up, John. Good to see you buddy.” The two men exchanged smiles.

   The bartender came over and John motioned to his own glass, indicating that he would like another.

   Mark took a moment surveying the spirits on offer. “I’ll have that Aberfeldy over some ice.” He made a pinching motion with his fingers to indicate that he wanted only perhaps half of a  normal amount.

   The bartender nodded and took down the bottle, selected a tumbler, scooped some ice and poured the Scotch. John’s simple cocktail arrived a moment later.

   They lifted their glasses in a toast, sipped and sat. Pleasantries were exchanged; news amongst family and friends caught up on. Eventually the façade of topics petered out, leaving the giant specter of a conversation. After a long moment of silence, Mark leaned over a bit toward John, cocked an eyebrow, and spoke.

   “So…slumming it down here with the rest of us, huh?”

   John made a gesture as if to say, ‘everybody knows it.’ “It pays the bills.” He took a slug off his drink and set it down, staring at it.

   Mark raised his eyebrows and sighed, looked away, giving his friend space. “National Journal is respectable. How’d you get hooked up with them?”

   “Allen Brackett is the senior editor at Op-Ed over there. He and I met at a conference a while back. I had an idea for a series, and I hit him up. He was…surprisingly enthusiastic. Now I know why.”

   “What was your idea?”

   “I’m working on a three-part series about the personal, legal, and cultural impact of Mother on our society. I need to get the attention of the kind of folks who are involved in the public conversation and legal process deciding the sunset clause renewal. The don’t read my stuff. Mostly, anyway. I may have a few people in that world, but they don’t make it known. So my plan was to get my foot in the door with some reporting on an important case, then begin the series in public. Brackett let me in Op-Ed, and if it gets a good response he’s supposed to put in a word for me in Politics and Policy. I’d publish the first one there, then continue it on my server, to show people what’s really going on.”

   Mark nodded in appreciation. “That’s a good plan.”

   “It was.” John sat morosely in his own pain.

   “So…” Mark was confused. “What’s the problem?”

   John held out his open hand, presenting invisible evidence that he believed anyone could see. “It’s…not my writing, not my sources, they changed the whole point of the story to suit their motives, they changed the title…I know that happens sometimes, but they sifted everything around to build up a new narrative. The algorithm rejected my sources and inserted new text to support them.”

   Mark was pursing his lips, clenching his jaw, trying to imagine this. His friend, a fellow journalist, was one of the publicly edited. It was not something to which he was accustomed, but he knew it happened. “Not that it would be much consolation, but did you check the physical copy?”

   “Yeah.” John was a bit exasperated that he would have to explain this, but excited to share something new. “I checked it this morning. It’s word-for-word the same as the digital. Digital dictates print. It’s a liability issue, and frankly it’s cheaper.”

   Mark always welcomed new information about his trade. “I haven’t looked at a print newspaper in…god, as long as I can remember.” He sat gazing off into the distance, remembering things from his youth. He snapped out of it, decided to keep his thoughts on the real subject at hand. “What was the original article about?”

   Suddenly John was enlivened, leaning forward, speaking with energy and passion. “There was this small journalist community on Discord called OpenFrame. About a a year ago they got taken down by the BDI. That’s illegal.”

   Mark was concerned. He leaned forward himself, interested in this story. “How do you know it’s the expansion?”

   “I’m in touch with those guys. We share work. I saw it happening in real time and they’ve been in communication with me since it happened. First of all, they told me that they weren’t notified that they were being taken down by Discord for any specific violation. There was no public statement by the platform or its users about violating their terms of service. The entire server vanished overnight. No appeals process. I even went on the Wayback Machine and looked for screenshots that I knew had been saved. Nothing. That’s…public-facing, I get it. That could be anything. I wouldn’t have written about it at that point. But then someone leaked me a service ticket from inside a cloud service provider. It had an urgent compliance flag referencing a joint regulatory enforcement action between Commerce’s BIS and the FCC. I did the digging. The ticket doesn’t name OpenFrame directly, but it references a specific server instance ID. I traced that back to OpenFrame’s hosting provider. The timestamps match exactly. Within an hour of this ticket being processed, OpenFrame was gone. To be clear, the number of that order doesn’t exist in any public regulation.”

   “Okay…” Mark was fully absorbed in this story.

   John was enjoying his captive audience. The bartender pretended to be minding his own business. “The takedown request didn’t come from OpenFrame’s hosting provider or a private entity. It came from a regulator affiliated with the Bureau of Digital Integrity.”

   Mark was impressed. “That’s a scoop.”

   “Yeah.”

   “Did they fight it?”

   “Yup. They filed in D.C. District Court last March. They had pretty good lawyers, too. I contributed something to their defense fund. We all pulled together on this; it sets a precedent and a bunch of us got freaked out. Their case was dismissed before it even went to trial. The whole thing was just rushed right through the system. Shut it down and sweep it under the rug. It’s a dirty little secret. I think the feds didn’t think they’d push back so hard.”

   Mark sat with his elbows on the bar, still as a stone, thinking about this case. “How do you think it would have played out, if it had been allowed to be heard?”

   John breathed in, let out a minor tirade that he reserved for the most dedicated of company. “Alright. Here’s how OpenFrame could have won. First, prior restraint. The government cannot shut down speech before it happens, unless there’s an imminent, specific threat to national security. That’s been settled law since Near v. Minnesota in 1931. It’s the same reason Nixon lost in the Pentagon Papers case–’we don’t like what you’re saying’ isn’t a good enough reason. And yet, OpenFrame was banned before anything was even posted. No incitement, no classified leaks, nothing. Just a statistical prediction. Second, the state action problem. If the government can’t directly ban speech, it also can’t delegate that power to a private company. That’s been clear since Brentwood Academy v. Tennessee—if a private entity is acting on behalf of the government, it’s bound by constitutional limits. But the court pretended that Mother was just another ‘content moderation tool,’ as if it wasn’t being run under federal oversight. Third, due process. OpenFrame had no chance to appeal, no notice of violation, no judicial review. That’s an obvious Fifth Amendment violation—even terrorists get trials before they’re punished. Well, they’re supposed to. By dismissing the case, the court allowed the government’s argument to stand, that OpenFrame’s preemptive removal was a valid risk mitigation measure, not unconstitutional censorship. That’s…pre-crime. That’s insane.”

   Mark was reviewing these details, sorting them and processing them according to the limits of his own legal knowledge, and the standard to which he held his own reporting. He raised his eyebrows, appreciating the work his friend had done. “Well shit John, if this whole writing thing doesn’t work out for you, I’d say you’d make a pretty good lawyer.”

   John looked down at his drink, thinking about this prospect. “I’ve got enough problems.” The two men laughed together.

   Mark was still stuck on the story. “Seriously though, I’d love to try to do something with this.”

   John shrugged this off. “You have to be plugged into the right circles.”

   Mark considered this endeavor, then began to dismiss it. “I don’t know, man. I don’t go on Discord much.”

   “I get it.”

   “Seems like a weird world.”

   “It gets deep pretty fast.”

   “I’m a member of your site,” Mark offered as a way of conciliation.

   “I know.”

   “I had trouble with the joining process.”

   “Once you get past the onboarding, you’re in. Just browse like you would a regular news site. There’s some good stuff on there. Other contributors. Archives.” John sensed the interest slipping and turned away to his drink.

   Mark was concerned again, but in a different way. “I think my daughter’s on that platform.”

   “There’s more than one Discord,” John responded immediately, spilling a bit of his cocktail as he drew it away from his mouth in haste. “There’s the open side of it, where people post like cat pictures and stuff or whatever, then there’s ours. The open side is already regulated, it’s basically the clear net but still in a better format for socials. So that’s persisted. What does she do on there?.”

   Mark was trying to remember something with his head cocked to his side. “I think she…she might be on a fan site for something. It’s a musician. Pretty sure.” He breathed out, looked around, noticed his surroundings again. “I barely have a spare minute in my day.”

   “I could take a look at it for you.” John was worried that his friend might associate him with something unsavory to his family.

   “Sure. Thanks.”

   They sat in silence for a moment, then Mark picked up the thread of the conversation.

   “So how’s your site doing?”

   “It’s doing well. For now.”

   “I’d say you’ve built quite a name for yourself.”

   John acknowledged this politely, but said: “There’s reputation and there’s reputation.”

   Mark pursed his lips again and nodded. He remained positive. “It seemed great. How many subscribers do you have?”

   John shrugged. “It’s fine. Twenty thousand.”

   “So…”

   “So, this–” and he gestured to his phone, indicating the story to which they had both been referring, “–was the foundation of the series. The second one fell through today, and that leaves me in a bad place.”

   “What happened?”

   “My legal contact today pulled out after the interview. He doesn’t want to go on the record on an unverified platform.”

   “Oof. That’s rough.” Mark thought for a moment. “Can you just wait until the Two-Thirty renewal comes down? After that it might not even matter–”

   “I’m trying to provide a public narrative that will counter that decision,” John said through gritted teeth. “I don’t want the fucking algorithm up in my server. That’s the point.”

   “I get it,” Mark said, checking the remaining level of his Scotch and glancing at the time, “but if the expansion goes through, everything you do will be verified.”

   “Edited.” John corrected his friend very precisely. He started to speak again, then just picked up his phone and found his article again. He leaned the screen over to show the text, scrolled quickly down to sum up the entire piece with a few flicks of his thumb. “This thing is riddled with inaccuracies..”

   “Are you challenging it?”

   “Hell yes I’m challenging it. Which may lower my public rating, which defeats the purpose of doing it in the first place. I spent three months researching that article. Seven interviews, evidence to back it up, I matched the standard’s format exactly and it still got changed. Now I have to go through and find all this stuff, and refute each instance in detail. It’s a pain in the ass.”

   Mark tried a positive tact. “Can’t you write the legal piece anyway, and use the quotes in a different way?”

   “I can, but that’s not kosher and you know it.”

   Mark shrugged. “Find another source. I’m sure you’ve got contacts.”

   “None who matter. Word gets around. Right now that guy is calling up all his buddies, saying: ‘Hey this wacko just interviewed me, his name is John Ary, he’s in the dark zone.’”

   “I don’t think they’re saying that.”

   “Maybe not in those words, but that’s the vibe of their conversations. Trust me, I know how these people talk to each other.”

   Mark moved his thoughts away from all of these things so alien to him, proceeded like a hungry journalist. “You could just publish what you’ve got on the personal side of things.”

   John shook his head. “It would seem like a puff piece.”

   “So what about the cultural piece? Just publish that on your server, and take what you can get.”

   “That’s a whole different vibe. It would seem like I’m in favor of it. I’m trying to provide perspective.” He shook his head, disgusted with his circumstances and aware that he was beginning to sound whiny.

   His friend attempted to lift his spirits. “How’s Holly?”

   “She’s good.” A reflexive statement, expressed dispassionately, but true. “Work’s going well.”

   “That’s good. How about Art?”

   “He’s doing great.”

   “What’s he doing again?”

   “He decided on trade school, radiation therapist.”

   “That’s great.”

   “Yeah, he’ll get an associate’s at the end of two years and make about one-fifty. That’s more than I make,” John said with a touch of pride.

   Mark smiled warmly, leaving this on a high note. He checked the time. “I really gotta get going.”

   John turned to him and presented an amiable attitude. “Nice to see you, man.”

   “You too. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

   “Thanks.” John picked up his cocktail, swirled the contents around, took a drink. “Give my love to Hira and the kids.”

   “I will.” Mark stood, collected his coat and scarf, clasped John on the shoulder, and departed.

   John sat glaring at his phone for a long moment, then ruefully grabbed it off the bar and opened up the browser to his article again. He read it through once more, making clear mental notes as he went along, then flicked the pages back up to the top where the Mother rating icon sat glowing golden and proud. He tapped the icon and the list of sources came up, links to various other articles and historical databases that proved the authenticity of the hundred percent rating. He opened each in turn, bookmarking them, then went back and proceeded through them all in a careful, methodical manner. This process became a convoluted journey as some sources led to others, and soon he was trying to concentrate on several tabs at once while he formed his case against the rating for which he had strove, and been, he believed, falsely rewarded. Finally he returned to the icon and long-pressed on it, bringing up the form by which challenges to such ratings could be submitted. He filled out the fields that required the reason for his challenge, and provided his identity and press credentials, being the author of the article itself, and cited numerous examples of counter-factual information which refuted the pre-posting editing done by National Journal. He knew that this action might make it to the desk of Allen Brackett, and he tried to imagine how that conversation would go. His thumb hovered over the ‘Submit’ button; he pressed it, and watched his report being sent off into the server farms of the Bureau of Digital Integrity. He waited for a moment, his attention hanging in the air, considering all of the permutations of his actions. Then he sent Holly a message, telling her that he would be home in about an hour.

   John sat at the bar, idly stirring his drink and absently watching the news. The gin and tonic had reached the level of the melting ice, and they were slowly becoming indiscernible from each other. He was considering ordering another one when his phone vibrated at his elbow, causing little ripples in the remnants of his cocktail. His eyes reflexively caught the notification before it disappeared; a post in the Black Wire #access-requests channel.

   ralstongrimes

  “Need access tonight. Time-sensitive.”

   John stared at the message in annoyance. Thankfully, one of his moderators stepped in. He relaxed a bit in relief as he appreciated the fact that he didn’t have to manage everything about every one of his communities.

   Mod1

   “That’s not how it works. You spend seven days as an Observer. Then we open up #vetting-room and you assist with verification of other leaks for a while while you earn your Contributor status. Read the guidelines. Who vetted you?”

   John sensed the recoil in the new member, smiled proudly at his mods. He received a private message from Rafiq.

   CivisObscura

   “My guy. Let him through. He’s legit, but impatient.”

TrialByX

   “Impatient gets people busted.”

   CivisObscura

   “He showed me something solid. Skittish about a public drop.”

   John took a moment to evaluate Rafiq’s countenance. He tapped his phone.

   #vetting-room

   DeadLedger

   @Mods

   “Fine. Observer status.”

   John tagged the new member in #access-requests.

   @ralstongrimes

“You can see #vetting-room now. ProtonMail is pinned and there’s other places to drop.”

A private message popped up from ralstongrimes. He groaned quietly, sipping his drink in frustration.

   ralstongrimes

   “I don’t have time for a security seminar. I’m on a burner outside a grocery store on their wifi. It’s freezing”

   John admired the balls on this guy, swirling his drink in contemplation. ‘Rule Number Three. Assume everything is bullshit.’ He set down his cocktail and wiped the moisture from his fingers off the screen as he typed.

   TrialByX

   “Talk to me.”

   “Kenmore is not retiring. Others being vetted anyway. Not the usual process.”

   “No one walks in and posts. You drop it through vetting first.”

   “The sunset’s coming down on this thing.”

   John sat forward a bit, ashamed of himself for being so easily prompted. “One verified detail.”

    He watched as the person typed, then: “Kenmore just hired four new clerks.”

John sat staring at the message. His blurred thinking went through this in stages. ‘Kenmore is on the lateral side of liberal. Hauer could appoint someone more favorable. So why would he not be retiring if they wanted the ruling to go through? They'd need as many justices on their side as possible. Why is this important.’ He puzzled over it, feeling the gulf of blackness before this question. He liked that. This was the only thing in his day that caused him to grasp forward in curiosity.

   There were some moves to make. Tomorrow, he’d have to make a call to triangulate this, but first he went to the website Zillow, where houses and properties for sale were advertised. He typed in the address of a house in a prestigious neighborhood in Georgetown, and saw that the listing was still active. He smiled; he knew what this meant, or at least was willing to act on this confidence. The right people were hinting that Associate Justice Robert Kenmore had been considering retirement, and if he did, John had heard that he and his wife were going to purchase that house. The property still being up for sale said something. Real estate was a good way to track people’s intentions, and John kept a few realtors in his network, though he never paid them for this information or requested it.

   #vetting-room

   DeadLedger

   “Fast track Kenmore retirement rumor. Four new clerks. Check case load being transferred.”

   John sat back and watched it happen. His team went to work, sourcing and verifying information regarding this story. Immediately  forthcoming was some educated speculation by those of his verified contributors who happened to be tuning in to the happenings on the boards,    and other actual information backed up by personal relationships or professional experience from the best of this role.

   John ordered another drink. He texted his wife, and browsed Mainstream Media for anything interesting, replying to a few posts.  Half an hour later, his reports had come in to his satisfaction.

CipherNode

“On it. Checking judicial appointment patterns.”

RedHerring

“Looking into real estate records. That house in Georgetown, you ‘ve been talking about? If he’s not moving forward with the purchase, it means something.”

ChalkOutline

“Judicial clerk hires are standard but usually follow an expected cycle. Pulling past years’ records.”

DiscoFed

“Judiciary database shows Kenmore did bring on four new clerks—this cycle would cover through 2053. No sign of early departure.”

WaybackScout

“Digging into PACER filings. Any last-minute rulings or legal shifts that might indicate a change of direction?”

ChalkOutline

“Confirming: Kenmore’s prior hiring pattern suggests stability. If he was considering retirement, he’d be wrapping up cases, not staffing up.”

RedHerring

“That Georgetown house? Still active. But listen—there’s no pending transaction flag. If he were serious about leaving, I’d expect to see at least a private sale or contingency offer by now. Something new. It recently changed ownership from a private party to ‘Horizon Asset Management.’ Looking into it.”

DeadLedger

“Hold. Source is saying “not the usual process.” Dig deeper on how these clerks were brought in.”

OpaqueTruth

“Just pulled court clerks’ academic histories. Two hires came through Halyard Strategies pipeline.”

John had not head that name before, but enough of it overlapped with his own knowledge and intuition. He got back to the anxious new whistleblower.

@ralstongrimes  

   “You can see #vetting-room now.”

   Nothing.

   John waited, looking for any activity on the other end, seeing none, beginning to turn away. A Google Maps link appeared in the chat with the address of a restaurant in Baltimore.

   John appreciated the sentiment on the other end, but was experienced enough to not immediately take the bait. He thought of his wife, and dinner at home, and a nice evening with her, being there for her unloading of her day.

   “You need more than this here.” It was the best thing to say. It relieved him of any guilt should this person not respond; it set firm boundaries on the integrity of this space.

   Waiting. Maybe something good. Maybe a waste of his time. His heart lept as the activity began again.

   “I know what a normal vetting process looks like.”

   “I believe you.”

   John waited a moment, garnering details of the relevant points. “So you’re saying that in the absence of a free seat, another candidate for SCOTUS is being vetted off the books.”

   “Yes.”

   John thought about this. “Okay.” He checked the link on Maps. “I’ll be there in forty-five minutes.”