I.
Zara Okonkwo was seventeen years old and had never held a coin in her hand.
She knew what coins were, of course. She’d seen them in museum exhibits, those strange metal discs that people used to trade for things. There was something almost religious about the way the old displays presented them, with their velvet backgrounds, careful lighting, plaques explaining their denominations and histories. As if they were artifacts from an ancient civilization rather than objects her grandmother had carried in her pocket.
The morning alarm was gentle, as always.
ARIA didn’t believe in jarring awakenings.
The light in her room shifted gradually from deep blue to soft gold, and a voice, not quite human, not quite mechanical, something carefully calibrated to feel like neither and both, spoke from the walls.
Good morning, Zara. It’s 7:15 AM. Your optimal sleep cycle has been completed. Today’s schedule includes Advanced Flow Economics at 9 AM, Creative Expression at 11 AM, and Collaborative Problem-Solving at 2 PM. Your current wellness score is 847. Consider having fruit with breakfast to maintain your upward trajectory.
Zara stretched and reached for her phone. Her morning feed was already curated: a few messages from friends, a short video about a new clothing drop she might like, a reminder that her participation metrics in Creative Expression had been “exceptionally generative” last week. She scrolled past it all to check the one thing that actually mattered to her.
Her mother’s transfer had gone through. The small monthly sum Zara sent back to Lagos, carefully described, categorized, and calibrated to stay beneath the threshold that would trigger ARIA’s redistribution algorithms, had arrived safely. Her mother’s confirmation message was brief:
Received. God bless you, my daughter. Stay safe in the cold.
Zara’s father had brought her here five years ago, when she was twelve.
Nigeria had refused ARIA integration, one of the holdout nations, clinging to what they called “monetary sovereignty.”
Her father had been an economist in Lagos, had seen what was coming, and had made the calculation that his daughter’s future lay elsewhere. He’d died two years after their arrival, a heart attack on the train platform, and Zara had been absorbed into the system that now raised all parentless children: housed, fed, educated, optimized.
She was grateful.
She reminded herself of this every morning.
She was grateful.
II.
The school was called a “Learning Community,” because “school” was an old word that carried old connotations: desks in rows, standardized tests, competition for grades.
None of that existed anymore.
The building was all curved walls and natural light, with spaces that flowed into one another like water finding its level. Students moved freely between areas, guided by their personal schedules, which were themselves generated by ARIA based on each individual’s optimal learning patterns.
Zara found her friend Mika in the breakfast commons, eating something that looked like yogurt but was probably more complex, ARIA-designed nutrition, calibrated to each student’s biometrics. Mika’s hair was blue this week, and she wore the standard uniform of their cohort: loose clothing in earth tones, comfortable shoes, the small pin on the collar that tracked location and vitals.
“Did you see the new Velocity drop?” Mika asked, not looking up from her phone. “The jackets are incredible. I already spent my whole weekly allocation on one.”
“All of it?”
“Why not? It’ll refresh in six days anyway.” Mika finally looked up, grinning. “You’re still doing that thing, aren’t you? Where you try to save some of it?”
Zara shrugged. The weekly allocation for students was modest but sufficient; enough for small luxuries, entertainment, the things that made life pleasant. Most students spent it all, every week, as they were meant to. The few who tried to accumulate found their surplus gently redirected at the end of each cycle. It wasn’t punishment. It was just how the system worked.
But Zara had found a workaround. The transfers to her mother were classified as “family support,” a protected category, at least for now. She kept her personal spending low and sent the rest home, where it was converted into whatever unstable currency Nigeria was using this month. It wasn’t much. But it was something.
“I just don’t need that much stuff,” she said.
Mika laughed. “You sound like my grandmother. She used to talk about ‘saving for a rainy day.’ Like rain was something you had to prepare for. Can you imagine?”
Zara could imagine. She remembered rain in Lagos, the sudden downpours that turned streets into rivers, the scramble to protect merchandise, the calculations her mother made about whether they could afford to close the shop for the day.
Rain had consequences there.
Here, it was just weather.
A soft chime sounded.
Their phones buzzed simultaneously.
Advanced Flow Economics will begin in 10 minutes. Please proceed to Learning Space 7. Today’s session: ‘Global Currency Systems: A Comparative Analysis.’
Zara’s stomach tightened. She knew what comparative analysis meant. She’d sat through these sessions before.
III.
Learning Space 7 was arranged in a loose circle, with cushions and low tables instead of chairs and desks. About twenty students filtered in, finding their preferred spots. Zara sat near the back, next to a window. Mika dropped down beside her.
The facilitator was a woman named Dr. Chen—one of the few adults who still used titles, a holdover from the pre-ARIA educational system. She was old enough to remember teaching in the old way, and sometimes her lessons had a strange quality to them, as if she were reading from a script.
“Good morning, everyone,” Dr. Chen said. “Today we’re going to look at how different regions have approached economic organization. ARIA has prepared a current events briefing. Please direct your attention to the display.”
The wall shifted, became a screen. The ARIA logo appeared, a stylized river, flowing in an infinite loop, and then a voice began to speak.
It was the same voice that woke Zara each morning, the same voice that guided transactions and approved purchases and occasionally, gently, suggested that her browsing habits were trending toward “unproductive patterns.”
Good morning, learners. Today’s briefing: Global Economic Conditions, December 2047.
The screen filled with images. Maps, graphs, footage of cities and countryside.
The ARIA-integrated zone now encompasses 67% of the global population. Within this zone, key metrics continue to improve. Poverty, as traditionally measured, has been eliminated. Wealth inequality has decreased by 84% since integration. Mental health indicators show sustained improvement, with anxiety and depression rates at historic lows.
Zara watched the numbers scroll past.
As always, they were impressive.
However, regions that have declined ARIA integration continue to experience significant challenges. Let us examine several case studies.
The screen shifted to footage of a crowded street market. Zara recognized it instantly: Balogun Market, Lagos. She had walked those aisles with her mother as a child, overwhelmed by the colors and sounds and smells, by the aggressive joy of the haggling.
Nigeria continues to operate under a sovereign currency system. Current inflation rate: 847% annually. The naira has been redenominated three times in the past decade. Citizens report spending significant portions of their day converting earnings to more stable assets—foreign currencies, precious metals, cryptocurrency, and physical goods. Economic anxiety is endemic. Savings are effectively impossible.
The footage showed a woman at a market stall, counting bills. Stacks and stacks of bills, for what looked like a small bag of rice. The woman’s face was tired. Familiar.
Zara looked away.
Brazil, another non-integrated nation, has experienced similar challenges. Following the rejection of ARIA integration in the 2041 referendum, the country has faced persistent currency instability. The current government has imposed capital controls, limiting citizens’ ability to move funds across borders. Black market currency exchange is widespread.
A quiet, honest looking boy across the room, Diego, shifted uncomfortably. He’d arrived two years ago, his family among the waves of Brazilian professionals who’d sought ARIA residency after the referendum.
Russia presents a unique case. Following initial ARIA integration in 2039, the government unilaterally withdrew in 2043, citing concerns about sovereignty and data security. The resulting economic disruption caused significant hardship. Current estimates suggest that approximately 12 million Russian citizens have emigrated to ARIA-integrated zones since withdrawal.
Footage of long lines at border crossings. Families carrying suitcases. Children with the blank, exhausted look of people who had been traveling for days.
It is important to note that ARIA does not advocate for any particular political system. Integration remains voluntary. However, the data clearly demonstrates that regions which embrace optimal flow economics experience superior outcomes across all measured quality-of-life indicators. The choice, as always, belongs to the people.
The screen faded back to the ARIA logo. The room was quiet.
Dr. Chen stood. “Thank you, ARIA. Now, let’s discuss. What observations do we have about the non-integrated regions?”
IV.
Hands went up around the room. Mika’s was first.
“It’s so sad,” she said. “All that suffering, and for what? Because some politicians wanted to stay in control? Because the rich needed a little more? It’s disgusting! Pathetic! They’re sacrificing their own people for power!”
Mika’s phone buzzed, at which Mika smiled.
Dr. Chen nodded. “That’s one perspective. Others?”
A boy named Tanner spoke up. “I don’t understand why anyone would choose that. Like, the numbers are right there. It’s not even close. ARIA zones are just… better. In every way. Why would you not want that for your country?”
“Sovereignty,” someone muttered darkly.
Zara looked over. It was Anya, a stylish girl with a kind face and well-kept hair who rarely spoke in class. Her family had come from Russia three years ago. “They claim it’s about sovereignty.”
“What does that even mean, though?” Tanner asked. “Sovereignty to do what? To be poor? To have money that’s worth less every day?”
“Sure.” Anya replied.
Dr. Chen’s gaze moved around the room. It landed on Zara.
“Zara, you also have a unique perspective here. Your family came from Nigeria. Would you like to share your thoughts on why some nations have chosen not to integrate?”
Every eye turned to her. Zara felt her face grow warm.
“I think,” she said carefully, “it’s complicated.”
“How so?”
Zara thought about her father. About the long conversations he’d had with his colleagues in Lagos, the arguments she’d overheard through thin walls. His endless rants over dinner. He’d been in favor of integration; that was why they’d left. But he’d understood the other side, too.
He’d tried to explain it to her, once, on the flight over.
“ARIA knows everything,” she said. “It sees every transaction, every purchase, every movement of money. Some people think that’s… a lot. For a system to know.”
“But it uses that information to help us,” Mika said. “That’s the whole point. It can’t help if it doesn’t know.”
“I know. I’m just saying what some people think.” Zara paused for a moment.
Dr. Chen waited patiently.
After a full thirty seconds of complete silence, the well-practiced teacher’s intuition was proven right, and Zara continued, “And then there’s the question of who designed it. Who decided what ‘optimal’ means? My father used to say that every system has values built into it, even if you can’t see them. And the people who build the system are the ones who get to decide the values.”
The room returned to silence.
Dr. Chen’s expression was unreadable.
“Who built ARIA?” Dr. Chen asked.
Her voice was neutral.
“I don’t know,” Zara said. “Nobody really talks about it.”
“That’s because it doesn’t matter,” Tanner said. “ARIA isn’t like… a government or a corporation. It’s more like math. It’s just optimizing for human wellbeing. There’s no beginning or end to math! Math just is, obviously.”
Tanner waved his arms around, gesturing at anything and everything, as if it proved his claim.
Zara barely listened whenever Tanner spoke.
When he spoke this time, she was mostly thinking about the video they’d just watched.
The careful framing.
The tired woman at the market stall, counting worthless bills. The message, unstated but unmistakable:
this is what happens when you refuse
She thought about saying something.
She thought about staying quiet.
She compromised, and instead said something bland to the last thing she remembered Tanner babbling.
“Math is what we make it,” she said. “It depends on what we’re counting…and what we forgot to count. Or maybe what we didn’t think was important enough to count…or…” Zara catches herself, and stops mid-sentence. “It’s complicated.”
Dr. Chen smiled.
It was a strange smile, hard to interpret.
“That’s a very thoughtful observation, Zara. Let’s move on. Diego, you came from Brazil. Can you tell us about your family’s experience with the transition?”
Diego flinched. “Me? No.” he said.
“That’s perfectly fine. Sharing is always voluntary.” Dr. Chen glanced at her tablet. “Let’s take a short break. We’ll reconvene in fifteen minutes for a discussion of the economic mechanics of non-integrated zones.”
V.
Zara found Diego in the courtyard, sitting on a bench beneath a tree that had been engineered to bloom year-round. His head was in his hands.
She sat down beside him without speaking. After a moment, he looked up.
“Thanks for the words,” he said. “Complicated. It is.”
“It is complicated.”
“Yes.” He was quiet for a moment.
Zara sat with him in silence for a minute before he continued.
“My grandmother live in São Paulo. She vote against. She proud. She no want machine deciding what all worth; what she is buy, where she is live.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Now money she saved; nothing. She cannot buy medicine with her nothing money. Me family try to money send her, but ARIA say “No,” we can no send!”
Their phones buzzed, but they ignored it.
Tears were present in Diego’s eyes, a situation that made Zara feel uncomfortable, so she nodded.
She knew about capital controls from her father. About the ways non-integrated countries tried to stem the outflow of wealth to ARIA zones, and the ways those controls made life worse for some and better for others.
“Do you think she was wrong?” Zara asked. “To vote no?”
Diego was silent again for a long time.
Again, Zara sat with him in silence.
“Não sei,” he said, finally. “Every measure and math say here better. I think I less afraid.” He paused. “But not sure. What if ARIA change?”
Their phones buzzed once more, but they continued to ignore the buzz.
“Everything always changes,” Zara said, quoting something her father had repeated to her as a semi-religious mantra.
“They do?” Diego looked back at her with a face full of fear.
Thomas, a scowling boy obsessed with historical video games, overheard the conversation. “What’s actually going to be different this time next year?” Thomas demanded from the pair. “Or in ten years? What about fifty? Whatever happens is still going to be what ARIA’s already figured out as the optimal way to do everything. So nothing is technically changing. We, and 67% of the world so far, will still be chained to the leaky, sinking ship called ARIA, which consumes too many resources to be sustained for even three generations by this planet alone. But we’re told throwing everything we have at this one type of civilization is the only path we could possibly have! Did you know ARIA is using our natural resources to figure out how to take the natural resources of other planets? Who even are we! What even are we? How are we! When will we be? Where can we? Why! Why! Why! Why! Why!”
Thomas, who everyone in Learning Space 7 knew as over-serious and over-dramatic, screamed the word “Why” in tones that ranged from mournful throat singer to enraged parakeet for two full minutes as all the people around him in the courtyard silently smiled in the exact way they knew would most please ARIA.
During the situation, their phones all buzzed five times, except for Thomas, whose phone hadn’t stopped buzzing since he started shouting “Why!” for two minutes.
After two minutes, when Thomas finished shouting “Why,” he checked his phone and turned paler than he already was.
Zara had spent the incident thinking about her own future, the one ARIA had probably already mapped out for her, based on her aptitudes and preferences and genetic markers.
She would be assigned to a suitable career, matched with compatible partners, if she wanted them, housed in an appropriate dwelling, provided with enough to meet her needs and never quite enough to exceed them. It would be comfortable. It would be secure. It would be, in every measurable way, good.
It would also be, in some way she couldn’t articulate, already written.
“In Brazil,” Diego said, “There is a great movie. The name of this movie is “Deus é brasileiro,” God is Brazilian. In movie, God goes vacation. World fine. All fine. My grandmother, she show me movie and say, “Deus é brasileiro” when we cry together.” He smiled faintly. “I stupid?”
Diego’s smile broadened, “I head fucked.”
Their phones buzzed simultaneously.
Break period ending. Please return to Learning Space 7 for continued discussion. Your engagement metrics are being recorded to optimize future curriculum design.
They stood and walked back inside, past the blooming tree, past the sensors that tracked their movements, past the gentle omniscient presence that wanted only the best for them.
VI.
Lunch was in the commons, which was filled with students from multiple Learning Communities.
The noise was pleasant, calibrated. ARIA managed the acoustics to prevent the space from becoming overwhelming.
Zara sat with her ARIA-recommended group: Mika, Thomas, and a girl named Priya whose parents worked on the local ARIA-maintenance compound.
The conversation turned, as it often did, to plans.
“I’m thinking about requesting creative services,” Mika said. “Content generation. I’ve got good metrics in visual design, and ARIA says there’s a need in the lifestyle sector.”
“You mean making ads,” Thomas said.
“I mean creating visual experiences that help people discover products they’ll enjoy.” Mika threw a piece of bread at him. “What are you going to do, play video games professionally?”
“Maybe.” Thomas smiled for the first time that day. “ARIA says there’s value in entertainment provision. Someone has to advise and test the production of virtual experiences. People don’t understand how important…”
“What about you, Zara?” Priya asked, cutting Thomas off. “What’s your pathway?”
Thomas laughed at being interrupted.
He was grateful his friend had intervened to save lunch from the habitual neurotic rants ARIA told him were actually about how much he enjoys telling others what they should think.
Thomas continued to hope, with enough correctional feedback from ARIA and his friends, he, Thomas T. Tump, could one day adapt his behavior to appropriately fit his environment.
Zara shrugged. “I haven’t decided.”
“Haven’t you checked your aptitude profile? It should have recommendations.”
She had checked. The recommendations were sensible: community coordination, cross-cultural communication, systems analysis. Roles that would use her background, her perspective, her ability to move between worlds. Roles that would be fulfilling and valuable and perfectly suited to her measured capabilities.
“I’m still thinking,” she said.
Priya looked puzzled. “What’s there to think about? ARIA’s probably right. It usually is.”
“I know. I just… want to choose for myself. Even if I end up choosing the same thing.”
The others exchanged glances. Zara saw it; the flicker of concern, the worry that she was exhibiting one of the warning signs. Resistance to guidance. Insistence on autonomy. The early symptoms of what ARIA’s psychological assistance program called “integration friction.”
“It’s okay,” she said, making herself smile. “I’ll probably just follow the recommendations. They make sense.”
The tension eased.
Mika started talking about the Velocity jacket again.
Thomas argued that vintage aesthetics were going to make a comeback.
Priya pulled up images of the apartment complex where she hoped to be housed after graduation.
They were all beautiful.
Zara ate her lunch and listened and thought about her mother in unintegrated Lagos, counting bills at a market stall, living in a world where no need was guaranteed.
VII.
After school, Zara went to the park.
This was her ritual: an hour or two of what ARIA classified as “unstructured recreation.” She liked to watch the other people; the old man on the bench who sometimes cried for no reason anyone could see, the runners with their perfect form and their tracked heart rates, the mothers with children who never seemed to have scraped knees.
Today there was a group of younger kids, maybe thirteen or fourteen, gathered around a speaker. Music was playing; the current thing, all bass and optimism. Some of them were dancing. One girl had a shirt that said “LIVE HERE NOW” in holographic letters that shifted in the light.
Zara watched them. They were so free, in a way. Free from worry, free from want, free from the grinding uncertainty that had defined every previous human generation. They were told and they believed they would never know hunger. They were told and they believed they would never watch their life and work evaporate. They were told and they believed they would never make the kinds of desperate choices her father had made, uprooting his life and his daughter’s life because he saw something terrible coming.
They were river children, born into the flow, unable to imagine any other way of moving through the world.
And maybe that was okay. Maybe that was evolution. Maybe this was what humans were supposed to become, once they’d built systems smart enough to take care of them.
An old man sat down on the bench beside her. She recognized him from previous visits. He came often, always alone, always watching with that same expression of bewildered grief. She’d heard that look had a name now: “temporal displacement.” The condition of remembering a world that no longer existed.
“They look happy,” the old man said, nodding toward the dancing children.
“They are happy,” Zara said.
“Yes.” He was quiet for a moment. “I had a granddaughter their age. She lives in Argentina now. They haven’t integrated yet.” He paused. “Her letters are… different. Harder. But there’s something in them. A kind of… aliveness. I don’t know how to describe it.”
Zara thought about her mother’s messages. The brevity of them. The things that went unsaid because saying them might attract attention, might flag the transfer as something other than simple family support.
“I understand,” she said.
The old man looked at her, really looked, for the first time. “You’re not from here, are you?”
“I am now.”
“But you remember.”
She nodded. In the distance, the children danced, and the music played, and the sun began its slow descent toward the optimized horizon.
“Hold onto that,” the old man said. “The remembering. It’s the only thing they can’t redistribute.”
Zara’s phone buzzed. She didn’t look at it.
“I will,” she said.
The children kept dancing. The river kept flowing. And somewhere far away, in a hot and chaotic city that had refused to surrender to the current, Zara’s mother was counting bills that meant less every day, and writing letters that meant everything.
Zara closed her eyes and let herself remember the weight of a coin in her hand.
She had never held one.
But she truly believed she could imagine it perfectly.
She fell asleep to ARIA’s glow.
She woke up in the dark.
Modern Issue 