Coppermouthed

Senator Braun reclined in his wingback desk throne and opened up a little black book to confirm the next prospective family on the list.

“Penter… Peters… Peterson. It’s a shame.”

Braun felt a growing distaste for his current position, even though he was technically doing a good deed, reputedly their own reward, this one was starting to make him feel sick. One could argue that to corrupt a corrupt system is an altruistic ‘righting of wrongs’, then again, one could argue any point of any side all day long, and arguing is what Braun did best. His skills were what he accredited his power to, but, as of recently, they kept him up at night.

Year 2061 isn’t as Asimov or Michel de Nostredame predicted. It is muddier and morbidly overpopulated. Acid rain now comes daily and the middle class, if you can call them that, live in slums. The term “middle class” is devised to inject this socioeconomic mass with a sense of dignity and hope. It’s the government’s most important duty until population is under control.

We are over eleven years into birth-rate management, more or less achieved by requiring certain qualifications for procreation. Contraceptives infect the heavily regulated waterways barring fertility to anyone with plumbing that's deemed 'unqualified' until, of course, they pass the test. The test acts as an incentive program for prospective parents to better themselves for the sake of their unborn children and the future of the world at large, ideally. There are only five requirements:

1. Mother’s under the age of 35.

2. Health and Wellness check & approval (no carriers of potentially terminal genetic diseases or physical malformations).

3. Minimum annual household income of $90,000.

4. No smoking, drinking, or illegal drug use in the previous year.

5. IQ or EQ minimum of 145.

That income isn’t unattainable, plenty of couples living in tin shacks earn over 100K per year. It’s the other requirements that typically lead to the application rejections for Family Rights.

The Family Rights system was designed to transcend gender and race; it creates a morally impartial elite by essentially introducing Survival of the Fittest 2.0. It halts unjust traditions; legacy families no longer cruise wistfully on nepotism. There is no prejudice towards the undereducated, only laziness and cursed genes. The only path to reproduction is being the best of the best, and it is necessary.

Thirty years prior, the global workforce was more or less a heaping pile of shit, a junkyard car no decider had the stomach to throw into the compactor (i.e. start another world war). Most citizens couldn’t even piece together robots to do their jobs for them, and they came with instructions like a desk from IKEA. Living standards in leading countries had plummeted; society had regressed. We shit the bed violently hard.

Enter Senator Braun.

He came into power galloping, hair gleaming, ready to tackle every challenge head-on, but even one term in the Senate takes a devastating toll. Braun’s vigor had been chipped, mocked, and junked just like the rest of us. When the Family Rights Act passed in 2041 Braun, like all of us, saw an opportunity to feel inspired again and jumped into his new role. Once this position opened, any senator wanting to play vigilante could have filled it; he was just the fastest draw.

A quiet league quickly established itself. They considered themselves today’s “Underground Railroad”, but instead of leading slaves to freedom, they gave passing grades to parents previously denied their Family Rights. Braun was the head of this army; for hopeful parents, he was the first line of defense and last chance of hope. His ability to bypass the Family Rights certifications made him the future’s arbiter; he knew this and he loved it. Granting Family Rights to people that just missed the mark is, in itself, a noble task, I’ll give him that. He could wholeheartedly argue that his dream of “changing the system from within” had manifested unequivocally. The group had successfully planted a hand in every extension of the legal operations built to inhibit their actions, no red tape was too thick. But these regulations were in place for a reason.

He deflated some more and said it again, “It really is a shame.”

“Why is it a shame?” I asked him, respecting his state of concern.

He shifted his weight in the chair uncomfortably like you do when you’re trying to sleep in a bed that’s too hot. “The Petersons,” he showed me their adoring profile pictures. “They didn’t do anything wrong. His vision has nothing to do with his character, wits, or ability. He’s a perfectly capable man with a lens prescription one degree over the limit through no doing of his own.”

I tuned to my most patient inflection, “We all know the Act is tough love magnified. Simple fairness has to take a backseat so reason can drive. Contributing to life’s withdrawal, that’s what would be the shame.” Braun rubbed his temples and buried his head in his hands, but I didn’t let up. There is a gaping hole in the system and I’m the one that’s gonna seal it shut. “And that’s what the story will be."

Braun audibly gulped before, “You’re running this?”

“I will.”

“But, my campaign. You’d be ripping away everything from me.”

“I could send you to prison for life.”

“But I know you won’t. You’d rather blackmail me.”

“Not yet,” I seduced. “Even though I disagree with everything that you stand for, I’m not out to get you. I’m here to help you from getting got.” I slipped him the contract and envelope attached.

“What’s this?” He looked genuinely confused as if this was the first time he’d ever been totally cornered. I flared my nostrils and sucked in this moment with a mighty inhale.

“An agreement. You let us bug,” he started to cry, forcing me to shout over him like a teacher losing control of the class, “your car, this office, your home. Surveillance will be agreed to. You don’t have to name any names, which I think is more than fair. We’ll just be noting as they come to you. There is also a severance package in the envelope since we’re responsible for the loss of one of your jobs. Not your seat, of course, just a kind gesture.”

He mustered what pitiful effort was left and lobbed a Hail Mary, “You could join me.”

“And wreck the world? No thank you. Take the money. Sign the contract. We’ll be in touch.”

My walkout was brisk as if I had more important places to be. This was the future. Not that there wouldn’t be other groups to emerge in their stead, of course there would. But I had found one, and that proved I could find the rest to come.

My team and I watched through the camera I had discretely placed on a shelf during this meet. As predicted, he scanned the contract and pulled out the insultingly thin stack of twenty thousand dollars I calculated to hurt his ego more than the punch in the face I wanted to give.