The Sky Above, the Rivers Below, Ch 10: The Audit

After fifteen years of striving in this so-called advanced timeline, Jamila learned that "progress," at least according to Chronic, was a gavel's fall, and their family was about to be tried.

The official term was the "Tri-Annual Community Progress Audit." This phrase appeared on glowing public notices and slid into private inboxes with the plain, impersonal style that marked all of Chronic's announcements. It was presented, of course, as a helpful measure - a way to "check integration paths, find resource shortages, and improve acculturation results for all valued temporal groups." But Jamila, who had learned to read the subtle signs of fear and ambition that flowed under the calm surface of their Transition District, knew better. Everyone knew better. The Audit was a weighing, a measuring, a public display of Chronic's judgment on how well their "investment" in these uprooted souls was paying off.

A noticeable anxiety settled over their section of Neo-Kyoto's sprawling migrant sector. Jamila saw it in the strained smiles of her neighbors. She saw it in the sudden rush of people signing up for Chronic-approved "Civic Harmony Workshops" and "Future-Fit Skills Enhancement" classes. Families carefully edited their public profiles, highlighting any example of "successful assimilation" - a child winning a school prize for "Temporal Synergy," a parent getting a mid-level job in a Chronic-owned company, a household achieving "Optimal Resource Efficiency" according to their smart-home data.

Jamila felt a familiar pressure, as if a cold hand were squeezing her ribs. That old-world dread. Public judgment. Failing to keep the family's izzat. The word tasted of sandalwood from her mother's wedding chest, a scent lost in this sterile air. She had paid a fortune, given up a life of comfort and established status in 1680s Bombay, all for the promise of a better, brighter future for Imran. And now, that future, or at least Chronic's assessment of it, depended on this intrusive, public evaluation.

Her greatest worry, the one that chewed at her during the long, artificially lit nights, was Imran.

Her brilliant, sensitive boy was now a young man who wove worlds from light and air, a creator of dreams she could barely understand. His WorldWeaver, as he called it, was apparently a success in some circles of this new world. He spoke of "user engagement" and "narrative immersion" with a passion that both made her proud and bewildered her. But how would Chronic, with its cold calculation of "productive societal contribution," view a business built on… on make-believe? Would they see the cleverness, the artistry? Or would they dismiss it as silly, a distraction from the "real work" of fitting seamlessly into their pre-set slots?

"This 'Audit'… it is a weighing of souls, I fear," Jamila would murmur to herself, mechanically stirring the nutrient paste that often served as her lonely breakfast. "Will they find us lacking? After all we have given up, all we have paid? My Imran, with his head full of dream-worlds… will these Chronic officials, with their emotionless eyes and their data-slates full of numbers, understand his worth? Or will they see only a son who has not followed a 'proper,' predictable path?"

She tried to talk to Imran about it, to gently suggest ways he might present his work in a more "Chronic-friendly" light. "Perhaps, beta," she'd tried one evening, after he'd spent hours enthusiastically showing her the latest dazzling, if confusing, updates to his virtual worlds, "you could emphasize the… the educational parts? How these stories teach… problem-solving? Or… or temporal empathy?"

Imran had looked at her with that familiar mixture of affection and mild annoyance. "Ammi, it's not a school textbook. It's an experience. People find joy in it, connection. That is its value."

But "joy" and "connection," Jamila knew, were not high on Chronic's list of measurable results. They preferred "skill acquisition," "civic participation," "economic output." She saw other parents from their initial arrival group frantically coaching their children, making sure their "progress stories" were polished and matched Chronic's expectations.

There was Mrs. Kim, Sook-ja, whose daughter Min-ji was now a university lecturer - a remarkable achievement, certainly. But Jamila had also heard whispers of Min-ji's… "outspokenness," her tendency to question Chronic's policies. A dangerous path, Jamila thought with a shiver of worry for the quiet, dignified Sook-ja.

And then there was Mrs. Shepard, Margaret, whose son Thomas, a gentle soul with a gift for music, seemed to carry the weight of his family's unfortunate history like an inherited cloak. How would Chronic judge his progress, his "attitude readjustment"?

The days leading up to the Audit were filled with a low hum of collective anxiety. Jamila found herself meticulously cleaning their already spotless apartment. She arranged and rearranged the few precious items from Bombay she still possessed, as if the very orderliness of her surroundings could somehow influence Chronic's impersonal judgment.

It was an old habit, a way of asserting control in a world where she felt she had so little. But no amount of polishing could get rid of the cold fear that Chronic's verdict was already written, their family's worth already calculated on some unseen, unfeeling algorithm.

***

The "Community Progress Audit" seeped into their lives, a week-long process of subtle observation, data collection, and carefully managed "feedback sessions." Chronic officials, recognizable by their crisp, neutral-grey uniforms and their air of distant authority, became more visible in the Transition Districts. Their data-slates were constantly active. There were no public trials, no open accusations. Chronic's methods were far more sophisticated, more sneaky.

The judgment came in the form of "Individualized Acculturation Summaries" sent out through private channels, and in the carefully arranged "Community Dialogue Forums." There, "areas for collective improvement" were discussed with a chillingly polite euphemism.

Jamila received their family's summary on her slate. It was pages long, filled with charts, percentages, and dense, jargon-filled writing. It spoke of "sub-optimal engagement with core societal integration metrics" and "divergence from prescribed pathways of productive temporal actualization." A hollowness opened in her stomach as she deciphered the coded language.

Then came the Community Dialogue Forum for their sector. It was held in a large, sterile auditorium that always made Jamila feel small and unimportant. A senior Chronic official, a woman named Director Valerius with a smile fixed to her mouth, her eyes remaining flat and distant (the same Valerius who, Jamila later learned with a sinking heart, was also Min-ji Kim's Dean), presented the "key findings." She spoke of Chronic's "deep commitment to the holistic well-being of all temporal migrants" and the "shared journey towards a more harmonious and productive future." It was all very smooth, very reassuring, until she began to highlight "examples of concern."

She didn't name names directly, not at first. But the descriptions were unmistakable.

"We observe, for instance," Director Valerius said, her gaze sweeping the room, "certain entrepreneurial ventures within the immersive media sphere that, while showing technical cleverness, may accidentally encourage social isolation and unproductive escapism, rather than tangible community integration and real-world skill development."

Jamila felt her cheeks flush, a hot wave of shame and anger rising within her. Every eye in the room, she imagined, was on her. Imran. Her brilliant son, reduced to an "example of concern." Vultures, picking at his life, she thought, her hands clenching. My son, who builds wonders. They call him 'escapist.' What do they know of needing air when this world is suffocating?

Valerius continued, her voice smooth and uninflected. "Similarly, while Chronic encourages robust academic discussion, activism that tends towards an argumentative or 'divisive' critique of established integration frameworks, rather than offering 'constructive collaborative solutions,' can be counterproductive to the delicate process of societal harmonization."

A few rows ahead, Jamila saw Sook-ja Kim stiffen. Her usually stoic face paled almost unnoticeably. Min-ji. That brave, fierce girl, who dared to speak truth to power, now branded as "divisive." Jamila felt a surge of anger on Sook-ja's behalf. "That brave Kim girl, who speaks for the voiceless, is 'divisive' for wanting fairness? What kind of twisted logic is that? Is it 'harmonious' to simply accept injustice in silence?"

The Director then touched upon "challenges in overcoming deeply ingrained historical-attitudinal legacies" among certain groups, and the need for artistic expressions to demonstrate "clear, quantifiable societal benefit and alignment with progressive temporal values." Jamila didn't need to look at Margaret Shepard to know who that jab was aimed at. Thomas, with his gentle music and his heavy heart, now implicitly criticized for not… what? For not being able to magically erase centuries of his ancestors' wrongdoing with a song?

"And the Shepard boy, with his sad eyes and gentle music… what more do they want from these children who have already lost so much? Do they expect them to shed their pasts like old skins, to emerge shiny and new and perfectly compliant, with no memory, no pain, no inconvenient truths?"

The rest of the forum was a blur. Jamila sat through it, her mind reeling, her carefully constructed composure threatening to shatter. This was a public shaming. A clear warning flare sent up for anyone who strayed from Chronic's narrow path. The advanced timeline, which had once seemed a beacon of infinite possibility, now felt like a gilded cage with ever-tightening bars. Its keepers demanded not just obedience, but the very essence of their children's unique souls.

The "Community Dialogue Forum" was just the public show of the Audit. The real sting came in the "Individualized Follow-Up Consultations." Jamila had dreaded this meeting. Her liaison was a new official, a Mr. Aris Thorne. He was the same man who had put their chips in all those years ago. He looked older now, and his earlier kindness was replaced by a tired, bureaucratic efficiency. He had that particular Chronic air of polite all-knowingness. His data-slate glowed with what Jamila imagined were all the neatly categorized failings of the Ahmed family.

They sat in a small, clean consultation room. It always smelled faintly of recycled air and mild antiseptic. Mr. Thorne, after the usual polite words about "Chronic's commitment to personalized integration support," got straight to the point.

"Mrs. Ahmed," he began, his gaze neutral but firm, "Chronic recognizes the, ah, technical skill shown by your son Imran's business, WorldWeaver. However, as our recent Audit has highlighted, there are significant concerns about how well it aligns with core community integration goals."

Jamila bristled. "My son is a creator, Mr. Thorne. He builds worlds that bring joy and… and escape to many. Is that not a worthy contribution?" She tried to keep her voice even, to copy the calm, measured tones of this advanced world. But the protective fire for Imran was hard to control.

"Joy and escape are, of course, valuable parts of a balanced life, Mrs. Ahmed," Thorne agreed with a slight, almost unnoticeable condescension. "However, Chronic's investment in temporal migrants, especially those from, let's say, more resource-rich backgrounds such as your own family, comes with an expectation of real contributions to the social and economic fabric of the host time. WorldWeaver, by its very nature, encourages users to pull away from that fabric, to retreat into lonely, fake experiences." He looked at his slate. "Engagement data shows a significant link between high WorldWeaver usage and reduced participation in Chronic-sponsored community initiatives and skills-enhancement programs."

A stain on our record. My son's brilliance. In Bombay, a creator like him-celebrated. Praised. Here? Just a problem that doesn't fit their neat, sterile boxes.

"My son is a businessman, Mr. Thorne," Jamila said. Her voice rose slightly despite her efforts. "He employs people. He pays his temporal taxes. He has taken the education this time provided and built something that people value. Is that not the mark of successful integration? Must every project be approved and controlled by Chronic to be considered worthy?" Her old-world ideas of business, of a son making his own way through skill and cleverness, clashed violently with Chronic's clean, top-down definition of "contribution."

Thorne's expression stayed blank. "Chronic encourages innovation that aligns with broader societal goals, Mrs. Ahmed. Ventures that encourage collaboration, real-world problem-solving, and direct community engagement are given priority. WorldWeaver, frankly, scores poorly on these measures. There is a concern that Imran's… focus… is perhaps a reflection of an incomplete assimilation on his part, a preference for idealized, controllable realities over the more complex, challenging demands of active citizenship in this time." He paused, his gaze pointed. "And parental influence, of course, plays a significant role in shaping a young adult's integration path."

The implication was clear. She, Jamila, was somehow responsible for Imran's "failure" to become the kind of assimilated, Chronic-approved success story they expected from a family who had paid their way into this future. The shame of it was a physical weight, pressing down on her. She had sacrificed everything - her home, her status, her entire way of life - for Imran.

To be told now, by this bland official, that her son was a disappointment, that she was a disappointment, was almost more than she could bear. Her pride, so deeply ingrained, so fiercely protected, felt as though it were being publicly skinned. She wanted to rage, to shout against the injustice of it. But she knew, with a certainty that chilled her, that such an outburst would only confirm their assessment of her as an unassimilated, "emotionally unstable" relic from a past era.

Jamila left the consultation room feeling shaken, put down, but also with something hard and hot solidifying behind her breastbone. They could pick apart her son's dreams with their clinical jargon. They could imply her failings as a mother. But they could not, would not, break her spirit or her love for Imran. She might not understand all the complex workings of his virtual worlds, the details of this confusing future, but she understood injustice when she saw it. And she understood, with a clarity that cut through all the Chronic-speak, that her son was being unfairly judged for his brilliance, for his very individuality.

Instead of retreating into the shame Chronic clearly wanted her to feel, Jamila found herself walking with a new, if grim, purpose. Her steps led her, almost without thinking, towards the residential block where she knew Sook-ja Kim lived. She remembered the look on Sook-ja's face during Director Valerius's announcements, the way her quiet dignity had seemed to crack under the implied criticism of her outspoken daughter. And she thought of Margaret Shepard, a woman from a vastly different past, yet whose son, Thomas, was also being measured and found lacking by Chronic's impossible standards.

She found Sook-ja tending a small, surprisingly vibrant window box. It was filled with herbs that smelled faintly of a Korean kitchen. Sook-ja looked up. Her expression was wary, then softened slightly when she saw Jamila.

"Mrs. Ahmed," Sook-ja said, her voice quiet.

"Sook-ja-ji," Jamila replied, using the respectful honorific without thinking. "May I… may I sit with you for a moment?"

Sook-ja nodded, gesturing to a small, plain bench. They sat in silence for a while. The distant hum of the city was a backdrop to their unspoken thoughts.

"This Audit," Jamila began finally, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. "They… they do not understand our children."

Sook-ja's gaze met hers. Jamila saw a reflection of her own pain, her own frustration. "They see only what does not fit their patterns, what does not serve their purpose," Sook-ja said, her voice barely a whisper. "My Min-ji… they call her 'divisive' because she speaks for those who have no voice. Is it divisive to want fairness?"

"And my Imran," Jamila added, her voice thick with emotion. "They say his worlds are 'escapist,' 'unproductive.' But I have seen the light in his eyes when he speaks of them, the joy he brings to others. Is that not a kind of productivity? A productivity of the spirit?"

A little later, Jamila found herself knocking on Margaret Shepard's door. Margaret, her face pale but her eyes showing a spark of the strength Jamila was beginning to recognize in her, invited her in. The conversation was awkward at first. Their shared experiences were filtered through vastly different cultural views. But as Jamila hesitantly described her meeting with Mr. Thorne, the implied criticisms, the subtle threats, she saw a flicker of recognition in Margaret's eyes.

"They do the same with Thomas," Margaret said, her voice tight. "Always the questions about his 'attitude adjustment,' always the implication that his music, his stories, are not… 'constructive' enough. As if he can simply shed his history, our history, like an old coat, and emerge as the perfectly assimilated citizen they demand."

In Margaret's carefully arranged but somehow sterile apartment, surrounded by the alien comforts of this advanced time, three mothers from three vastly different pasts found common ground. It was forged in shared dismay and protective love.

Jamila, the proud merchant's wife from 17th-century Bombay; Sook-ja, the dignified peasant-turned-laborer from Joseon Korea; Margaret, the haunted lady of a fallen Southern plantation. Their histories were different, their initial situations worlds apart. But in this sterile apartment, Chronic's pressure had forged something unexpected. Three mothers from three pasts found a shared, bitter language.

Jamila left Margaret's apartment later that evening feeling shaken, yes, but also strangely empowered. The Audit had been a blow, a public humiliation. But it had also clarified where the battle lines were drawn. Her concern for Imran was most important. A certainty settled deep in her bones. They would not sacrifice their children's spirits on the altar of "successful integration."

She would support Imran more fiercely than ever, even if his world of coded dreams remained a mystery to her. And she was no longer alone in her defiance. The Audit, meant to enforce conformity, had instead planted the seeds of a quiet, unexpected rebellion.

It was a tentative alliance of "failed" mothers, their strength forged in a quiet, shared defiance.

***