You Forgot 'What If?' (Solarpunk Protopia Fiction)

Part 9: Suspicions

"So, all of these places are like that?" Sinclair asked as we left Chen's Weaving. He waved his pen around, gesturing towards the other galleries, filled with clothing, paintings, furniture, plants, books, and more.

"Like what? Like, everything's free?" I asked.

He nodded, studying me.

"Well, yeah. There's no money here." I studied him back, remembering the article he'd written. "But you already knew that."

"Hm." He wrote in his notebook. "That was my understanding, but I don't really see how that's feasible. Someone here has money."

I shook my head a bit. "What do you mean?"

He gestured to the clear tube of elevators moving up and down through the massive tower, the glass walls absorbing the power of the sun, all of it. "This stuff isn't free. Someone here has money."

I nodded slowly, recognizing the sharp look in his eyes and realizing. "I see," I said as we strolled towards the elevators "you're thinking of, like, a communist dictator situation, right? Like, the common people live humble lives, but the ruling class swims in gold, right?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Something like that."

"Isn't that already true under capitalism? 1% of the capitalist world owns, like, half of the wealth in the world, right? That's not great."

"Yes, I'm aware of that. But a system that claims to be better should actually be better."

"Well," I pushed the button on the elevator. "I won't say we're perfect. But I will say that everyone here has what they need, and they don't work themselves to death to do it. There's a reason Chen works with other crafters--she doesn't have to do it all by herself. We all do what we can, and everyone is important."

"Hm." He studied me a moment more, then kept writing. "And what do you do? What's your title?"

I shrugged. "I don't have a super strict title. I'm a community advocate, a counselor, a community liaison, things like that."

"Uh huh. And if I wanted to talk with someone in the tower--Miss Chen, say--without you present, would I be able to do that?" His expression had returned to stone, his eyes hard.

"Of course." The elevator opened and I stepped inside with him.

"And if I wanted to talk with someone you didn't suggest or approve?"

"Sinclair," I turned to him "you're welcome to talk with anyone you want. Just be nice, that's all."

"And what does that mean?"

I sighed. Hitting the button for my floor, I shook my head. I knew he was looking for another meaning behind my words, but it still seemed like such a sad thing to have to ask. "Be kind. Be polite. Be helpful. That's pretty much it."

Scribbling a final note, Sinclair stowed his notebook in his back pocket and watched the numbers light up over the elevator doors. "There's something important I've learned in journalism; sometimes helping isn't kind. Sometimes progress isn't kind. Sometimes it means dismantling things and overthrowing things and it's decidedly unkind. And, you know something?"

I met his look.

"I've never lost any sleep about being 'unkind' to power."

I nodded. For several seconds, no one spoke. "I think I know what you're saying, Sinclair. And I respect that. I do." I nodded, thinking. "I would just ask you to consider that, maybe, both can be true. Maybe you can dismantle and overthrow cruel systems because you're kind."

"Hm." He glanced, then looked back at the elevator doors as it counted up towards the top of the tower. "Wouldn't that be nice?"

Ding!

The doors opened and I passed him a smile. "Ready to see the garden?"