The Burden of Certainty by Taylor Hicklen
They woke him up early every October. This year, it was Mr. Anderson who gave three sharp knocks on Cole's door. Cole writhed out of the snarl of bedsheets and replied with three taps of his own. This was a duty he simply couldn't shirk.
-
Most things in Newirk were corroded from age or misuse, but the silver chair was not among them. It was impossible to pass through town without glancing at the chair, gleaming from the dais. The silver chair sat coldly and commanded attention.
Cole was the only one able to use it. The workers from the City had installed the chair when he was ten. Cole remembered staring unashamedly as the molten silver began to take shape, oozing over the wiring and circuit boards. They stood back and admired it for a few moments. One of the workers in the light blue coveralls turned and shouted, "You! Boy! Over here!" Cole trotted over reluctantly, wary of his unreadable eyes.
"We need someone to make sure it works," the man said gruffly, "so take a seat."
Cole hesitated before clambering into the silver chair. As his legs dangled over the edge, he felt a pressure on his temples.
Please do not be alarmed, Citizen.
Cole jumped. A clear, high voice whispered in his ear.
The City Council has built this to serve as a link to towns that are at the edge of the Jurisdiction Zone. You may get up now, Citizen.
Cole gulped. The townsfolk peered at him from the edge of the square as the man in light blue coveralls helped him down from his perch.
"What is today's date?" the worker demanded.
Cole tried to get his legs to stop shaking. "October tenth, sir."
"Remember it," the man ordered, "And be sure to sit in the chair every year."
"What happens if I don't?"
"We come looking," he said menacingly. "Isn't that right, Mr. Anderson?"
Mr. Anderson nodded apprehensively from the edge of the town square. He had been appointed to the Rural Outreach Committee when Cole was nine. He had skipped the first monthly meeting out of spite. When the City Council came looking for Mr. Anderson, they had conveniently taken his wife into custody instead. Nobody seemed to know where she was, or even if she was. Mr. Anderson had served on the Rural Outreach Committee every year since. The City Council made it a point to elect him.
As Cole became older, the temptation to ignore the chair grew. Mr. Anderson's gaze, the townsfolk's muted, frantic dependency-- these external factors normally ensured that citizens kept up a regular correspondence with the Council. If the silver chair had actually delivered on its' promise, such measures might have been enough.
When Cole turned eleven, Mr. Anderson had thrown him a small party. It was a reminder instead of a celebration. Three months later, Cole felt the ghost of frosting past harden in his stomach as he checked the date. October tenth. Cole stumbled towards the silver chair, expecting the sediment of clinical information to build as soon as he sat down.
Citizen, the City Council regrets to inform you that Transit Line F has been discontinued permanently. Please inform all residents.
And that was all. Cole gripped the cold, unforgiving arms of the chair, waiting for the next update, but none came.
The townsfolk were strangely satisfied. Even Mr. Anderson seemed to loosen up slightly. Cole should have been relieved to be of use, but instead a tight knot of anger wound into his daily routine. The chair had hinted at a blaze of information, but all Newirk recieved was a handful of dying embers.
The chair (and by extension, the City Council) used the same tactics year after year. Newirk's database was axed, its linking service was disconnected, and the weekly transmission of the City Manifesto petered out, but the town's inhabitants remained in a stasis of contentment. The only part of urban life Newirk was allowed to partake in was the Rural Outreach Committee.
-
Mr. Anderson waited on the front steps, whistling.
"Ready, boy?"
Cole nodded. He was on the cusp of nineteen, but he had never felt so helpless. Mr. Anderson shuffled towards the square, leaving him to his own devices. Cole had given Newirk certainty, but now he wanted to take it back. The recursive loop of promise, ritual, and letdown was tearing the town apart.
Cole concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. He drifted past Mr. Anderson and the silver chair, but nobody turned or called. As Cole began to climb that first low hill, outside of Newirk's gaping maw, he felt the burden of certainty slowly uncoil from around his shoulders. When he could finally trace the distant outline of the City, he felt nothing at all.
