The Sky Above, the Rivers Below, Ch 6: The Assimilation Plan

It was, Margaret supposed, inevitable; in a world as meticulously ordered as Chronic's, any deviation, any lingering scent of a less "enlightened" past, would eventually be rooted out and corrected.

The anticipated blow landed with the quiet click of their apartment door. Thomas came back from school. His usual after-lesson chatter was absent. He walked straight to his small sleeping area, his shoulders slumped. Margaret's internal alarm bells, sharpened by weeks of worried watching, began to ring.

She let him settle for a moment, then went to him. She sat on the edge of his sleep-couch. "A difficult day, my dear?" she asked, keeping her voice soft.

He didn't look at her. He just picked at a loose thread on the synthetic weave bedcover. "It was… Cultural Exchange Day," he mumbled.

"Ah, yes. You were going to share the story of Jack and the Bean Stalk, weren't you?" She'd thought it was a safe, harmless story.

"I didn't get to," he said, his voice small. "It… it all went wrong before my turn."

A cold weight settled behind her ribs. "Wrong? What happened, Thomas?"

He told her about what happened in broken, unhappy sentences. Imran's description of the Bombay market, and then what came after. Thomas's voice grew smaller as he recounted the specifics: "When Imran talked about the spice sellers calling out prices, this boy - the one with the spiky hair - he said, 'That sounds like chaos. Why didn't they just use standardized pricing algorithms?' And when Imran tried to explain that it was tradition, Spiky-hair laughed and said, 'Tradition is just inefficiency that people are too stubborn to fix.'"

Margaret's hands tightened in her lap.

"Min-ji got angry then," Thomas continued. "She said traditions weren't stupid, and Spiky-hair said, 'Well, maybe that's why your time needed to be rescued by ours.' That's when Min-ji really exploded."

Thomas's voice dropped even lower. His face turned a dull, miserable red. "And then… when I tried to say that we shouldn't judge other times like that, Spiky-hair… he turned to me and said…" Thomas swallowed hard. "'At least their markets were loud but honest. Your time built its whole economy on owning people. How's that for efficiency?'" He finally looked at her. His eyes were filled with a miserable mix of shame and anger. "And then he laughed. And some of the other children… they laughed too."

Margaret's hand instinctively went to his arm. Heat flared in her cheeks. "And what did you say, my love?"

"I told them it wasn't fair!" he burst out, the words tumbling over each other. "That it was a long time ago, and it wasn't my fault! But… but the teacher, she just said, 'Now, Thomas, we must approach these discussions with gratitude for our enlightened perspective, not defensiveness about the past.' Then she told everyone to 'redirect our energies toward harmonious dialogue.'" He buried his face in his hands. "I just made it worse, didn't I?"

Oh, my poor boy. Her carefully built calmness threatened to break. He had tried to be fair, to be reasonable. In return, he got mockery and a chillingly polite dismissal of his pain. And her history, their history, had been thrown in his face like dirt.

Before she could think of a comforting answer, the chime from her personal slate sounded, sharp and insistent. It was a message from the school. A formally worded notice of a "Social Harmony Disruption" involving Thomas, Imran Ahmed, and Min-ji Kim. It politely requested her presence, along with the other parents, for a meeting with their Community Liaisons and someone from Chronic's Department of Socio-Cultural Integration the following morning. The subject was: "Ensuring Adherence to Core Community Values."

A chill traced the back of her neck, sharp as a needle. This was it. The incident, when reported through the school's sterile, bureaucratic way, would recast Thomas from a boy defending himself into a "disruptive element." His defensiveness would be proof of his "bad adjustment" and his "backward tendencies." Min-ji's passion would be called "confrontational." Imran's innocent sharing would be a "cause of disharmony."

She looked at Thomas. His face was still blotchy, his eyes swimming with unshed tears. She had brought him here to escape the shadows of their past. Instead, those shadows had followed them. They had twisted even his childish attempts at fairness into evidence against them. The careful order of Chronic's world had noticed their "difference," and the correction, she knew with a sinking certainty, was about to be formally and officially applied. Her carefully managed act of fitting in had crumbled.

***

The Chronic Integration Center's meeting room hummed with the soft frequency of sound-dampening panels. Softly glowing walls cast an even, pearl-white light that never flickered, while filtered air carried the faint, clinical scent of ozone and lavender - a combination designed, Margaret realized, to be subliminally calming. She felt a clear chill that had nothing to do with the temperature-controlled environment. She sat stiffly next to Jamila Ahmed and Sook-ja Kim. They were a strange, unwilling group of three mothers, called in to answer for their children's supposed failings.

Across the polished white table sat their Community Liaisons. For Jamila and Sook-ja, there were two serious-looking officials Margaret vaguely recognized. Her attention fixed on Elara.

The calm smile was gone. Elara had an expression of cool, professional seriousness. Her eyes, usually crinkling with that unsettling attempt at warmth, were flat stones. Margaret's breath hitched. So this is it. The suggestions were over. Ice-chip eyes. Demands now. Only demands. The net she had sensed tightening around them for weeks felt like it was finally being pulled closed.

A fourth official, a stern-faced man introduced as Director Mark Young from the Department of Socio-Cultural Integration, began the meeting. His voice was a monotone. He read the official report from the school: "...disruption of peaceful conversation… showing of backward emotional responses… failure to fully internalize core community values of progressive interaction…"

Margaret listened, her hands clenched. Each bureaucratic phrase landed like a stone.

When Director Young finished, Elara spoke. Her voice was calm but carried a clear weight of authority. She addressed all three of them, but her gaze stayed longest, and most pointedly, on Margaret.

"Chronic has invested a lot of resources in your families' successful move here," Elara began. "We provide unmatched access to advanced education, healthcare, and a safe, progressive environment. In return, we expect a strong commitment to adapt and to embrace enlightened social and cultural ways."

She paused, letting the silence make her words stronger. "The incident at the Primary Learning Pod yesterday is, unfortunately, a sign of a bigger pattern of… resistance, or at least, a worryingly slow progress in social and cultural adaptation across all three family units."

Jamila Ahmed shifted uncomfortably, her fingers pressing white marks into her palms. "My son Imran, he meant no harm. He was just describing his home…"

"Describing, Mrs. Ahmed," Elara interrupted, her tone steady, "in a way that, however innocently meant, failed to consider the feelings of a group from many times and accidentally highlighted… less efficient ways of society. And Young Min-ji Kim," she said, her gaze flicking briefly to Sook-ja, who flinched and drew her shoulders inward like a small animal seeking shelter, "while her loyalty to her friend is noted, her… confrontational way of solving disagreements with peers is unhelpful for the cooperative problem-solving we encourage."

Then, Elara's eyes settled fully on Margaret, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop another degree. "And Thomas Shepard. His defensive reaction, his… use of past injustices as a shield against current criticism, is particularly troubling. It suggests he is still attached to, or at least insufficiently distant from, the problematic beliefs of his home time."

Anger flared, hot and quick, but Margaret bit it back. Arguing would be useless. It would only provide more evidence for their accusations.

"We understand," Elara continued, her voice softening into a kind of reason that was somehow scarier than open anger, "that unlearning generations of ingrained behaviors and beliefs is a process. However, Chronic's timeline for successful integration is finite. The persistence of outdated views, the inability to handle social interactions according to advanced moral rules - these represent a potential instability within the carefully arranged harmony of this advanced community."

Director Young nodded gravely. "Indeed. Chronic has a responsibility to all its residents, both those born here and those moved through time. And that responsibility includes making sure that all members contribute positively to our progressive path as a society."

Elara leaned forward slightly. "Therefore, it has become clear that the current methods for fitting in are insufficient for your families. More intensive intervention is required."

Margaret met Elara's gaze. She saw no empathy, no understanding, only the cool, unwavering expectation of absolute obedience. Her earlier fears were being officially approved. They were problems to be solved, differences to be corrected. And Elara, it was now chillingly clear, was to be the main tool for that correction, at least for the Shepards.

Director Mark Young pointed to the large display screen on the wall. It flickered to life, filling with text under a stark heading: "Better Assimilation & Societal Harmony Plan - Addendum B."

"Given the… clear challenges," Director Young stated, his voice flat, "Chronic has developed an enhanced protocol to help your families fit in more quickly and completely."

Elara took over. Her voice was smooth and exact, as if she were describing the features of a new household machine rather than a life-changing order. "This 'Better Assimilation Plan' is mandatory, ladies. It is a condition for you to continue living here and to have access to Chronic's resources and opportunities."

The words hit like a physical blow. "A condition."

"The plan has several key parts," Elara continued. There was a faint, almost unnoticeable note of satisfaction in her voice. "First, you must take part in advanced Cultural Re-education classes. These are designed to give you a deeper, more detailed understanding of advanced moral rules and the social and historical path that has led to this time's progressive values."

Margaret could almost taste the bitter irony. Detailed understanding. Chronic's carefully chosen, self-praising version of it.

"Secondly," Elara went on, her gaze sweeping over them, "there will be enhanced monitoring of household communications and activities. This is purely to help us diagnose problems and offer support, of course, to help us find areas where more guidance might be helpful."

To spy on us. Margaret's jaw tightened. To make sure we are saying the right things even in the supposed privacy of our own homes.

Jamila Ahmed shifted again, her forehead creased with deep lines. A single bead of sweat traced down her temple despite the room's perfect climate control. "And our contact with… with our home times?"

Elara's smile was thin. "Access to calls with your home time may be… reviewed from time to time, Mrs. Ahmed. We find that too much focus on the past can sometimes get in the way of successfully adapting to the present and future. Similarly, certain cultural practices that we think are… unhelpful for progressive integration may be discouraged. We will suggest alternative, more harmonious activities instead."

Sook-ja Kim, who had been sitting small and silent, made a small, strangled sound. The thought of her rare, precious calls to Joseon being cut short, or her quiet, familiar habits being labeled "unhelpful," was clearly devastating.

Then, Elara's gaze settled once more on Margaret. This time, there was a specific, almost hungry gleam in her eyes. "For the Shepard family, given the unique… sensitivities of your home time, there will be additional, specially designed classes. These will focus on 'Historical Accountability,' 'Stories of Trauma Passed Through Generations,' and 'Paths to Restorative Justice.' We believe a deep engagement with these topics is essential for your family's full and complete integration."

A cold fury coiled in Margaret's stomach. This wasn't education. It was public shaming. A forced confession. She would be expected to perform her guilt, her sorrow, for sins that were centuries old, for a system she had hated but had been powerless to change as a woman in her time.

"And if," Jamila tried, her voice surprisingly firm, "if a family finds these… 'enhanced protocols'… unsuitable?"

Director Young answered. His voice was flat and final. "Refusing to obey, or continuing to fail to show satisfactory progress under the new plan, will unfortunately require a review of your living status. This could mean fewer privileges, moving to a transition district with fewer resources, or, in cases of constant non-compliance or inability to fit in, transfer to a time considered more suitable for the person's demonstrated social and cultural level." He paused, then looked directly at Sook-ja. "For those who arrived through the Laborer Lottery Initiative, such as the Kim family, failure to show continued value and adaptability could, as per the original agreement, result in your migration status being revoked and you being sent back to your home time."

Sook-ja made a sharp, choked sound, her knuckles pressed against her lips. The threat of being sent back to the crushing poverty and hardship of Joseon was the ultimate terror.

Margaret looked at the screen, at the dense, unyielding text of the "Assimilation Plan." It was an ultimatum, pure and simple. Conform, perform, and give up every last bit of their former selves, or face consequences too terrible to think about, especially for their children. The walls of their fancy cage had just become visibly, terrifyingly smaller.

A heavy silence filled the clean room. It was broken only by the faint hum of Chronic's ever-present technology. The meaning of Director Young's final words settled on the three women like a weight.

Elara slid three identical data-slates across the polished table. "If you'll show your agreement to the Better Assimilation and Societal Harmony Plan," she said. Her voice was smooth again, as if the threats had never been spoken. "A simple thumbprint will do."

Margaret stared at the slate in front of her. Its dark surface reflected her own grim face. Agreement. The word was a mockery. This was force, plain and simple. Surrender under threat, with their children's well-being held hostage.

She glanced at Sook-ja. The Korean woman was pale as bone. Her eyes were wide with palpable terror. The thought of being sent back to Joseon, to the starvation and hopelessness her family had risked everything to escape, was clearly more than she could bear. Her hand trembled as it hovered over the slate.

The muscles around Jamila's mouth tightened, pulling her face into a still mask. She met Margaret's gaze briefly. There was a flicker of shared anger, of shared helplessness, in her dark eyes before she looked away.

For Thomas. The words were a silent, desperate prayer and a bitter self-blame. For his chance at a life free from the open cruelty of their past, even if this new world offered its own, sneakier cruelties. For his safety, his education, his future. What wouldn't a mother give up for that? Her pride? Her honesty? Her very soul, it seemed.

Margaret's hand felt heavy, her arm difficult to lift as she reached for the slate. The cool, smooth surface felt offensive. She was agreeing to become a puppet, to speak Chronic's prescribed words. Elara would watch, triumphant. And Thomas would learn. Survive. Obey. The thought was a shard of ice in her chest.

Sook-ja, with a small sob, pressed her thumb to her slate. The muscles around Jamila's mouth loosened slightly as she did the same. Her movement was quick and decisive, as if wanting to get the unpleasant act over with.

Margaret took a deep, shaky breath. Then, she too, pressed her thumb to the marked spot. A faint green light glowed, then vanished. She pulled her thumb away, the skin tingling as if burned.

"Excellent," Elara said. The calm smile was back in place, though it now seemed to Margaret like the satisfied look of a hunter. "The new plans will start immediately. Your liaisons will give you the updated schedules for the re-education classes and monitoring protocols. Chronic appreciates your cooperation in building a more harmonious future for all."

With a final, polite nod, the Community Liaisons stood up, their slates tucked under their arms. The meeting was clearly over.

Director Young left first, followed by the others. When Elara got to the door, she paused. She looked back, her gaze sliding over each of them in turn. It finally settled on Margaret. There was a triumphant gleam in her eyes, the cool satisfaction of a biologist who has successfully conditioned a test subject.

"Goodbye, Margaret," she said, her tone sweet and empty. "We'll see each other soon."

Then she turned and left, closing the door behind her.

The meeting room fell silent again. The three women sat frozen, their eyes fixed on the blank slates. The weight of what they had just agreed to hung in the air, pressing on them.

Suddenly, Jamila gave a loud sigh. Her head dropped into her hands. "What have we done?" she moaned, her voice muffled.

"What we had to," Sook-ja whispered. Her face was pale, her eyes still huge and fearful. "I… I have to go. My daughter needs me. I… I don't want her to hear about this from school. She has enough fears already."

Margaret, feeling like she was walking through thick fog, nodded. "Yes, it's best we all get back. Thomas is probably wondering what's happening."

They gathered their slates and stood up. No one spoke. There was nothing else to say.

The walk back to their apartment was a blur. The bright, shifting advertisements on the corridor walls, the cheerful chatter of other residents (all perfectly translated, all annoyingly intrusive), the efficient hum of this advanced world - it all felt like a joke now.

She found Thomas in their living area, hunched over his learning-slate. His forehead was wrinkled in concentration as he struggled with some complex, futuristic math problem. He looked up as she entered. There was a flicker of anxious hope in his eyes. "Is everything alright, Mama?"

Margaret forced a smile that felt like a painful grimace. "Everything will be… managed, Thomas. We just need to be a little more… careful in how we handle things here."

He nodded, but the worry didn't quite leave his eyes. He knew, in that knowing way of children, that something was wrong, that the ground under their feet had shifted yet again.

Later that evening, Margaret stood by the viewing panel. The physical paper detailing the "Better Assimilation Plan" - an unnecessary hard copy Chronic had insisted they take - lay on the table like a tombstone. The freedom she had so desperately wanted for Thomas in this new world. She looked out at the glittering cityscape. The view from this cage was beautiful.

She was trapped, compromised. A cold, deep sadness settled in her heart, deeper than any she had felt before.

***