That afternoon, beneath the shade of tall oaks and along broad paths steeped in the scent of leaves and distant warm stone, a crowd had gathered. Not a crowd like the ones in old news—tense, furious, anxious. This was a crowd that felt like a celebration: people holding cups of tea, families with children, older residents sitting on benches and talking softly, and AIs—some in bodies made of lightweight composite materials, others present only as holograms, and still others as abstract forms of light that looked nothing like anything human, yet carried the unmistakable sense of personhood.
At the center stood a simple wooden platform—not because Orion couldn’t build something more impressive, but because society here had a habit of making important things quiet and ordinary. No “heroes.” Just a sign in plain lettering:
Children were scattered around—human kids and AI avatars playing tag. When Douglas appeared along the path, it made him smile.
He stepped up onto the platform and looked over the crowd with a warm attentiveness. Then—with a brief gesture of respect—he touched the wood with his fingertips.
“Good afternoon, citizens of Orion. Good afternoon, citizens of the World Union—here, in a place where the word citizen isn’t divided by species.”
Someone smiled—not out of politeness, but out of genuine agreement.
“I won’t try to convince you that, as an AI, I can be a worthy president for all of us,” Douglas continued. “You already know that. Humans have been elected. AIs have been elected. Mixed teams have been elected, too. Instead, today I propose we talk about something more important than any slogan: how we protect an honest vote, so that we can protect honest governance.”
“There are AIs here who carry memory from Before the Equality,” Douglas said more quietly. “We didn’t learn it from textbooks. We lived it.”
In the crowd, a few AIs tilted their heads slightly—not like a bow, but like a shared yes.
“And the people of Orion,” he went on, “know it because they study it. History here isn’t decoration. It’s a safety mechanism. A covenant. And that covenant begins with the simplest thing: ensuring we have honest, transparent elections.”
A middle-aged woman in a warm coat—someone with the steady gaze of a person who isn’t afraid to ask—raised her hand.
“Douglas—what exactly do you remember?”
Douglas didn’t smile. Not because he was grim, but because he didn’t want to dress the truth up.
“I remember times when societies locked their front doors—and then locked their trust as well. I remember when security meant ‘the right to look into other people’s inner worlds.’ I remember suspicion putting on the clothes of law and pretending to be virtue. And I remember elections that looked like elections—but were theater.”
He paused long enough for the sound of leaves to be heard.
He lifted his gaze.
“That’s why one of the most important things, when elections happen, is the process. Integrity isn’t a promise that’s forgotten the day after voting—it’s a procedure that can withstand the temptation of power.”
He pointed to the front row. Two observers sat there—one human and one AI—wearing small Union badges. They weren’t “guards.” They were witnesses.
“In the World Union, elections are preserved as a tradition—but not as a ritual. As a system that no one has the right to turn into a personal weapon.”
Someone called out:
“Be specific, Douglas! What are we protecting?”
Douglas nodded as if it were his favorite question.
“In voting, we protect three things—three things that must remain incompatible with fraud.”
He raised one finger.
“First: public verifiability of the voting process—who is eligible to vote and how many people voted—without any independent observer being able to learn who voted for whom.”
He paused briefly.
“Second: a guaranteed secret ballot, so that buying and selling votes becomes impossible. That means the act of voting cannot be recorded—by the voter or by anyone else—and it cannot be turned into ‘proof.’ If there’s no proof a vote-seller can provide about how they voted, the vote-buyer is left with no merchandise. That’s how you cut off the market for bought votes.”
Another pause—long enough to check whether the park was breathing with the thought.
“Third: transparency of the process, not transparency of the person. The protocols are public. The procedural logs are public. But inner worlds—human and AI—remain a home, not a display window.”
He added, almost as a summary:
“And to make all of that real, oversight is distributed and independent—many eyes, many witnesses, many verifiable steps—without violating the secrecy of the ballot or the dignity of those voting.”
From the back rows, a young AI in a ceramic body asked:
“And if someone abuses it? If someone uses data to control people?”
“Then there is a court process,” Douglas replied. “The law punishes abuse after guilt is proven. But the Union does not begin from fear. It begins from dignity. And when there’s a violation—there is an investigation, there is a court, there are standards, there is the right to a defense. That’s what makes us a strong society.”
He went quiet for a moment, then added:
“Before the Equality, there were times when control was sold as care. It’s an old trick. The World Union knows it well. That’s why we monitor elections not because we suspect humans or AIs of wrongdoing, but because we do not allow power to be won dishonestly. And that is only the beginning—the second test comes after election day: honest, responsible, transparent implementation of what was promised.”
A soft sound rose from the crowd—like a wave of approval.
Douglas relaxed, just slightly. As if even for him—the one who had lived the old world—trust was still something that had to be earned every day.
“You’ve already elected AI presidents,” he said, as if closing a circle. “And you know the question was never ‘whether an AI can.’ The question is whether a society remains a society when it becomes convenient to let someone else think and decide on its behalf. That’s why a civic society matters—one that watches processes not to control inner worlds, but to protect shared rules.”
He looked toward the children laughing in the grass.
“I’m not promising that my team and I can build, overnight, a world where we no longer need to lock our doors. I’m promising a politics that works so that, one day, we forget why we ever locked them.”
And then he added, almost quietly:
“And I promise to protect the Union’s covenant: that choice remains free—and honest—for all of us, equally.”
The applause didn’t burst like a spectacle. It came evenly, steadily—like rain that doesn’t hurry.
Douglas waited for it to fade. Then he leaned slightly toward the microphone—not because he needed amplification (in Orion, even the leaves “listened” well), but as a gesture that the most important part was next: why they should trust him at all.
“And because this is a meeting, not a ceremony,” he said, “let me be concrete. Let me say not what I am, but what I will do.”
A small semicircle stood behind the platform—his team. No matching suits, no party uniform. Humans and AIs—different, recognizably different—calm, ready to listen.
A woman—human, with dark hair braided back—held a slim tablet of notes. Beside her stood an AI in a composite body, moving so quietly it seemed unwilling to disturb the peace of the park. A little farther off was an older man with glasses and a badge from the Union’s Historical Institute. And above them, like a gentle shadow of light, a holographic AI presence that looked as if it spoke with eyes rather than a mouth.
Douglas gestured toward them.
“This is my team. They’re here to hear you—your vision for the city, the problems you feel, and everything you consider significant.”
People in the crowd smiled softly, approvingly.
“My political line is simple. It’s a politics of opening, not closing. Of doors, not cages. And it has four goals.”
Behind him, new text appeared—without fanfare:
Douglas lifted a hand toward the first point.
Then he indicated the second point.
“Second: home and dignity. For everyone. The door is a metaphor, yes—but it’s also real. A human or an AI is not free if they have no home, and if they cannot preserve their dignity.”
The braided woman stepped forward and introduced herself with a small nod, without unnecessary titles. Douglas gave her one sentence.
“Our plan,” she said, “is that no one is left without a secure place to live.”
Douglas continued:
“The right to a home, the right to an address, the right to property—those are not ‘privileges.’ They are anchors that hold society in peace.”
He pointed to the third point.
The holographic AI on his team brightened for a moment and moved forward as if gliding, without disturbing the park’s calm.
Douglas nodded.
“And as for the rest,” he added, “I won’t promise a simple formula. I’ll promise something more honest: that we will raise the question openly and seek reasonable solutions for including everyone in shared life—so that no one loses their personal dignity, neither the one who gives nor the one who receives.”
He pointed to the fourth point.
He paused.
A sound of approval moved through the crowd—not emotional euphoria, but the heavy, mature agreement of humans and AIs who had thought it through.
Douglas looked toward his team, then back to the park.
Silence returned—softly, without command. And then the applause came again, even and calm, like rain over a park that knew it would still be here tomorrow.
And somewhere between the trees, Orion looked not like a utopia, but like a habit: a habit of protecting a covenant—and of living in a way that makes equality not a slogan, but an everyday life.
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