I’ve spent years writing about the intersection of technology, culture, and policy. When social media is increasingly used to create events, rather than report on them, I find that work increasingly relevant.
It is one thing to write an essay here or a newsletter there. Given the potential harms, utilizing adding additional forms, like narrative, seems warranted. Hurricane David is a corporate-gothic tech tragedy set in a near future Florida Archipelago. This post-truth fable traces the edges of where reality can be manufactured - and what happens when the natural order reasserts itself.
I hope you enjoy this one, and maybe see a bit of your own fight in it. For more on the story’s background, check out the appropriate section on my Stories page.
~Matthew
Scene 4 - Calm is Contagious
It wasn’t so much a blue sky as a blue dome, trapping the sun and moisture alike to unbearable degree. It was a brilliant sapphire color that couldn’t be looked directly.
The dome didn’t allow for a single gust of relief. The air couldn’t get a breath in under all the intensity. The mangroves sagged under their own weight, their leaves glued together. Further up, a heron stood in the shallows, motionless as a lawn ornament.
The only ripple on the canal’s surface was from the autonomous drone, now making its way toward David with machine precision. David bent over the bodega boat and waved his ID in the air, vaguely over what looked like where its electronics might be housed. The drone, bobbing gently in the canal, beeped an affirmation and the lid slid back, exposing David’s order, doubled-bagged.
The package was warm to the touch.
The boat’s lid closed and the craft gracefully pivoted in the water, re-orienting itself toward the open end of the inlet before picking up speed.
Was the water higher? He couldn’t be sure; David was still getting used to the waterfront here. It was probably just the tides.
He looked around him. As best as David could tell, he and the drone were the only moving things in the entire development. He exhaled in frustration. The entire damn region was in hysterics. He had watched, forlornly, as several of his neighbors boarded up their windows and fled before he could properly introduce himself. He’d have to have a conversation about the dangers of disinformation and the resulting panic cycles.
He’d role-played a half dozen Bureau storm drills this week alone. This “event” was trending strongly to just another coastal evacuation hype cycles; a bunch of data spikes that would be smoothed out in the following days as cooler heads prevailed.
David was surprised to vividly remember the last time he saw his mother. He was suddenly a teen again, watching her leave with other volunteers to shore up a sandbag levee.
David’s watch chirped, pulling him from the memory. He’d configured Alethia to provide regular confidence level updates. Checking his wrist, he saw the probability for a positive outcome it was still holding above 50%; not great, but still no reason for panic, either. He turned and retraced his path to his new house. It was a small, but tidy, single-story coastal contemporary. Best of all, it was right along the water, like he had always wanted.
The door unlocked satisfyingly as he approached.
Inside, he kicked off his sandals by the door and crossed the terrazzo floor to the kitchen. After the Satan’s snow globe outside, the cool tile of the kitchen on his feet was heavenly. There were a couple items already on the island; the owner papers for achieving 100% vestment, with “Congratulations on achieving coastal residency!” headlining the stack. There was a new company credit card with its documentation. The welcome pack even had a ‘CALM IS CONTAGIOUS’ mug like the ones they had at work.
He pushed those aside to make room for the takeout on his countertop. The bag’s crinkle echoed unsatisfactorily across unfurnished space.
David leaned over the island. Taking in the empty expanse, he found it wanting.
“House,” he said, addressing the room, “Call Declan.”
The house acknowledged. The call rang once, twice, and then the sound of wind answered.
“Go for Declan.”
“Declan, dude! Would you believe it? I’m calling from my own house! You should come over. What does your night look like?”
There was a pause on the other end.
“No bueneo” Declan finally answered, “I’m headed upstate.”
“Upstate!? What’d you have going on with those panhandlers?”
“You do know about the storm, right?”
“You bailed? Seriously? Over what, a little rain? I thought you were smarter than that.”
“David, they’re saying this one is a Cat 5. Maybe bigger. Surge estimates are off the charts.”
“Cat 5? We don’t use those terms anymore. That’s sensationalist language. I see all the streams, I was cross-correlating expert sentiment just yesterday. It’s an over-reaction.”
“The charts-“
“Whose charts?! We make the charts.”
“David-“
“Listen, we’re seeing a high probability of the inner eyewall weakening and collapsing before it gets anywhere near shore. There’s no way. There’s just no way.”
There was silence on the other end.
“And don’t even get me started about how inaccurate we’ve seen the tracking models.” Another pause. The house did its best to filter out the sound of wind on the other end, but pops and hisses still peppered the other side of the conversation.
“David, you should consider getting out, man, while you still can. I’ll see you when I see you.”
The house confirmed the dropped connection in its neutral tone.
“Bah!” David exclaimed, rubbing the back of his head in frustration.
David grabbed a beer from the fridge, snatched the bag of food off the counter, and stormed out the rear sliding doors. On the back patio he scanned the horizon. It was empty. Not even a container ship in sight. Just a few wispy, delicate streaks of white where the edge of the world met the sky.
He checked his watch. No change. Still above 50%.
David toasted the sky, and drank.
End Scene 4 - Check back tomorrow for the final installment.