Contour (Part II)
How could blockchain redefine governance and our concept of property rights in a world of increasingly centralized power?
IV: Gestalt
They returned when the sun was fading and a deep blue faded to teal along the horizon. When they were in the entrance, the girl turned to the woman.
“How long has he known? And… what does he know?”
“Some people have a lot of power here over particular protocols — it’s the nature of the system that the best rise, whatever the best is to the most. If he was running a check for your father then he knew the moment the gestalt protocol did. It’s the business of the Curator to connect people — and part of that is keeping track of them.”
“But what about before?” The Procurer shifted her head at the question. “Did he send for me?” And then the girl leaned forward. “Why did you choose me?”
“That I do not know, the procurement protocol runs off of a list of criteria that everyone has influence over. There is no way for someone to override the system to target a particular person, so… the only way would be to identify the infinitesimal characteristics of an individual and have everyone in Aurora agree; it’s practically impossible. ” The girl looked at her, feigning satisfaction with the answer. Reforming her words to everyone with influence, in her mind. “That said, I’m glad you‘re’ here- and perhaps the Curator can help you find out the truth.”
In the morning she sat on the polygonal bed considering the past. Getting up, she resolved to get out everything she knew — to scour her mind of every fragment, every inkling of a memory, of the lasting images of her parents- of her father, before they faded. And so she called for the Procurer and the Curator by intention through the Contour system — ready to continue.
But she did not wait. Following the impulse to know, she began to reminisce, replaying the fight between her mother and father, and through that flowed further into memory — sometime before. Where the panels bent, and through the fog, she sat crying and he held her shoulder reassuringly.
“I’ve been trying to make a better future for us, for you and your mom…”
The lips glitched and the memory jumped a pace. The panels expanding — the silhouettes grew, and she stood in front of a massive mural of memory. Something important, she could feel this was something she needed to know… he wanted her to know.
“When things are falling around you, stand firm — and remember the mantra…. I want you to remember…
…remember…
remember…”
The deep voice stretched out and began to fade into a single low tone. This memory, she played again and again… and each time, it trailed. It felt as if she had been caught in a vortex for hours…
“Remember what?” The voice of the curator- broke into the room and the sacred memory. My dear, we must know! The scandal of Aurora — this will make a great experience. Truly, just another hit! Another hit!”
The girl turned and closed her fists — losing her concentration. The Curator sank for a moment. “Forgive me, I did not mean to break your concentration. But that was a beautiful moment between you two — a strong moment. People have been in a haze recently, what they need is something important- a message from a great hero.” The Curator raised his hands above the patched floor, and raised it into a swirling, concentric stage — with dramatic spanning bridges interconnecting the various living spaces like a spindle. “This is supposed to be a Utopia, for goddsake!” He spread his fingers above the polygonal model he had made. “Imagine. Everyone in Aurora, gathered to see this message! I think it will embolden hearts, give people a new collective vision — a new kind of power.” He turned dramatically toward her, “What do you think?”
But he did not wait for her response, “The Architect, he has already agreed to it- and…” The noticed her despondence, “and for what it’s worth, I will lend my hand — we both will, to your work if that will help stir the memory. “ He gestured to the Procurer. “And maybe then, it will all fall into place- and you will hear his words.”
Suddenly, the girl felt a shadow above her, she felt a heaviness — as in a cell, walls around her. Something compelled her to leave, to return to the outside- to Leviathan. To run, again. What if what she found out was darkness — what if she couldn’t handle it? The Procurer grabbed her hand. She leaned down, and assured her. “It’ll be fine” She nodded to the Curator. “I didn’t tell you, but I knew your father — and what he said, it might work.” She turned back. “Your father. He’d want you to speak up.”
And after a moment of deliberation, the girl nodded.
V: Atonement
The next day, a sheet of white light lay like a great carpet into her room — where her wall was once solid — it parted and molded into a causeway — like the Curators model, this fed into a branching network leading to a tiered stage in the very center of Aurora. Concentric panels rose up, carrying canopies and greenery — a hanging garden in motion, culminating in the stage where she was to unlock the mysteries of her past to reinvigorate the future of Aurora.
She traversed the pass — in the distance, the great mining rigs, unmoving and steaming — facing inward, as if they too were in attendance of some monumental revelation. And when she had taken her place at the center, she glanced around at the shadowed crowds — seeing the teal of that substance she knew as Hope— and feeling somewhat calmed yet worried by their state. She doubted the Curator, but knowing her past would at least give her comfort — so she stepped forward, and from the ground slivers of fabric unfolded around her to form the canvas upon which she would reconstruct the past.
This time, the great fabric bent and folded — and with great emotion, the images embossed out- taking volume, and in the center of Aurora- her father arose as a polygonal titan, shaded in the greys of memory- towering above the them all. The drama of her mother, now shaking the valley with her yell, pushed the polygonal form of her father- inverting it into the next memory, as she and her mother wrapped up, now she recalled, in her state of flow- unexpectedly, the moment of her mother’s death — and the words…. “Just another hit…” morphing, her mother’s face twisted into that of the Curator — and a teal hue bled into the panels, splashing down and then from the rippling — the girl’s own figure arose. Casting a shadow upon herself, both trembled, and crying- and next to the facsimile, the massive form of her father — like a mountain, comforted her and so said….
“Remember, Aurora-
Remember that if you are running, than you are not free-
If you are running, you are not free.”
And the great titanic figure sighed and dissolved — the panels twirling, down into concentric slivers again, and into the ground. The audience transfixed- their attention on the girl, Aurora. Now kneeling down, exhausted and small.
“What great insight!” The curator bellowed, clapping and then gesturing to the crowd. In his eyes, a hungry look, and a smirk. “If you are running, you are not free!”
He stood there for a moment- as if expecting something to happen, and so he repeated it.
“If you are running….” He said louder. “You are not free!”
A mantra… obsessed with power… Aurora pushed herself up from the ground. And the Procurer looked to her, her lips mouthing the words… Speak. Up.
Taking her footing, Aurora lifted her head above the crowd. “If you are running, you are not free….”
The Procurer smiled- and suddenly, the great mass of the architectural stage shuddered — with the exhalation of the girl, the entire system of tiers softened and the stage depressed into the valley — the people scrambled and held on to each other.
As Aurora looked out at the people she saw the panic she knew too well, and found her voice — “People need law- consistency, and only then can they have a home.” And with her words, the fabric began to flatten.
“We search for some quick fix — somewhere to run and hide. Something to patch our pain or obfuscate our part in it. But this isn’t how we should live. Thrown around in the wind of whims- no one can think like this. We’re not made to live like this.”
The Curator, grabbed onto the branches of a tree whose teal fruit fell and splashed down. And Aurora turned to him, “In this place. Dismantled into precepts like animals in benevolent nature. How does one plan for the future- instead of get caught up by the whim of another animal? A wolf…”
And as the mass of the Contour formed a hill where once was the lowest tiers of the Utopia, the mazes of streets and walls, now melted away — and like a ghost, a figure arose in the distance.
And so Aurora stood on the solid ground, and across the distance she saw her father.
