The Circle

child. The Circle had just purchased it from a
     three-person startup out of Copenhagen.
    “I guess you’ll see more new stuff tomorrow,” Francis said, and Mae remembered the
     meeting with the plankton pitchers. “It’ll be fun. Sometimes the ideas are even good.
     And speaking of good ideas …” And then Francis pulled her down to him, and kissed
     her, and pulled her hips into him, and for a moment she thought they were about to
     have something like a real sexual experience, but just when she was taking off her
     shirt, she saw Francis clench his eyes and jerk forward, and she knew he was already
     done. After changing and brushing his teeth, he asked Mae to rate him, and she gave
     him a 100.
    Mae opened her eyes. It was 4:17 a.m. Francis was turned away from her, sleeping soundlessly.
     She closed her eyes, but could think only of the 368 people who—it seemed self-evident
     now—would rather she’d never been born. She had to get back into the CE chute. She
     sat up.
    “What’s the matter?” Francis said.
    She turned to find him staring at her.
    “Nothing. Just this Demoxie vote thing.”
    “You can’t worry about that. It’s a few hundred people.”
    He reached for Mae’s back, and, attempting to comfort her from the other side of the
     bed, achieved more of a wiping motion across her waist.
    “But who?” Mae said. “Now I have to walk around campus not knowing who wants me dead.”
    Francis sat up. “So why don’t you check?”
    “Check what?”
    “Who frowned at you. Where do you think you are? The eighteenth century? This is the
     Circle. You can find out who frowned at you.”
    “It’s transparent?”
    Instantly Mae felt silly even asking.
    “You want me to look?” Francis said, and in seconds he was on his tablet, scrolling.
     “Here’s the list. It’s public—that’s the whole thing with Demoxie.” His eyes narrowed
     as he read the list. “Oh, that one’s no surprise.”
    “What?” Mae said, her heart jumping. “Who?”
    “Mr. Portugal.”
    “Alistair?”
    Mae’s head was on fire.
    “Fucker,” Francis said. “Whatever. Fuck him. You want the whole list?” Francis turned
     the tablet to her, but before she knew what she was doing, she was backing away, her
     eyes clenched. She stood in the corner of the room, covering her face with her arms.
    “Whoa,” Francis said. “It’s not some rabid animal. They’re just names on a list.”
    “Stop,” Mae said.
    “Most of these people probably didn’t even mean it. And some of these people I
know
actually like you.”
    “Stop. Stop.”
    “Okay, okay. You want me to clear the screen?”
    “Please.”
    Francis complied.
    Mae went into the bathroom and closed the door.
    “Mae?” Francis was on the other side.
    She turned on the shower and took off her clothes.
    “Can I come in?”
    Under the pounding water, Mae felt calmer. She reached the wall and turned on the
     light. She smiled, thinking her reaction to the list was foolish. Of
course
the votes were public. With actual democracy, a purer kind of democracy, people would
     be unafraid to cast their votes, and, more importantly, unafraid to be held accountable
     for those votes. It was up to her, now, to know who those who frowned at her were,
     and to win them over. Maybe not immediately. She needed time before she’d be ready,
     but she would know—she needed to know, it was her responsibility to know—and once
     she knew, the work to correct the 368 would be simple and honest. She was nodding,
     and smiled realizing she was alone in the shower, nodding. But she couldn’t help it.
     The elegance of it all, the ideological purity of the Circle, of real transparency,
     gave her peace, a warming feeling of logic and order.
    The group was a gorgeous rainbow coalition of youth, dreadlocks and freckles, eyes
     of blue and green and brown. They were all sitting forward, their faces alight. Each
     had four minutes to present his or her idea to the Circle braintrust, including Bailey
     and Stenton, who were in the room, talking intently to other members of the Gang of
     40, and Ty, who was appearing via video feed. He sat somewhere else,in a blank white room, wearing his oversized hoodie and staring, not bored and not
     visibly interested, into the camera and into the room. And it was he, as much or more
     than any other Wise Men or senior Circlers, that the presenters wanted to impress.
     They were his children, in some sense: all of them motivated by his