The Herd is Live! Chapter One: Washington, D.C., 2065
Your girl is a Sci-Fi author! Listen or read the first chapter here! Happy International Women's Day and Women's History Month.
Hey there, fabulous folks!
I just had a little adventure on the Amtrak from NYC back to DC, and something really special happened. As I boarded the train, a woman looked at me, full of intention, and said, “Happy International Women’s Day.” I was so moved—I thanked her and wished her the same. It hit me differently this year, almost like a rebellious act to celebrate ourselves out loud.
So here I am, telling all of you: Happy International Women’s Day, and happy Women’s History Month! Thank you for subscribing, for following along, and for being part of this amazing community. We recently did a giveaway, and it was such a joy to send books to so many of you—and see the photos you shared! It’s been wonderful meeting strong, insightful women all month long. It’s like diamonds forming under pressure—I’ve seen so many sparkle this week, helping me see my own light more clearly.
This is also a big week because my book is coming out! My excitement is off the charts. Two women actually told me I’m “the next Octavia Butler,” and I’m still floating on that compliment. Talk about an honor of a lifetime—I’m taking it, embracing it, and running with it!
And because I want to share this journey with all of you, I’ll be releasing a few chapters of my book—either as an audio snippet or text in the newsletter. The first chapter is already up for you to sample! The story itself is timely. It’s escapist fiction, sure, but also a warning about the future, and I think it’ll resonate with those of you feeling the pinch right now (especially my DC folks).
Thank you again for subscribing and hanging in there with me. This coming week, I’m sending you all the positive energy that’s been showered on me. Keep an eye out for the good things around you—even if they’re tiny, they’re worth noticing and celebrating. Let’s all take a moment to pause and appreciate where we are, and who we’re becoming.
Have a wonderful week, and I can’t wait to keep sharing more with you!
The Herd
Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. While the story and characters are products of the author’s imagination, the book explores themes of police violence, murder, assault, and other difficult subjects. It also contains sexual content and explicit language, which may be triggering for some readers. The author has approached these topics with care and respect, aiming to shed light on complex human experiences. Reader discretion is advised. If you or someone you know is affected by similar issues, please seek support from a trusted professional or helpline.
For my husband, Sedat, who stuck with me through the creation of this art.
Chapter 1: Washington, D.C., 2065
I slide the story toward the editor and wait for a response. He curses while furiously striking his keyboard.
"Fucking idiot, these fools will believe anything." He doesn't look up or reach for the paper. "Is this what the bots gave you?"
"I—" I pause, unsure if I should tell him the truth. "I made some changes. I had to—"
"Again?" He finally looks at me.
I wipe my sweaty palms against my jeans and calculate my words.
"The numbers were off. I ran it several times on my own. Changes the whole story," I manage to choke out the truth.
The fury from his fingers engulfs his hand like flames as he slams his fist against the desk. His mouse and keypad jump, and the precious coffee others in the outside world would literally kill each other to have spills on the ground.
"Damn it." His eyes dart toward the coffee.
He stands up and trudges towards me. Instinctively, I stumble backwards and graze my hands over the dagger hidden on my waist.
He keeps marching toward me, and I keep backing away until I hit his cold mahogany door. I keep my eyes on him while feeling for the handle, wishing I had left it open. I inhale and exhale with each step he takes.
"You will not tell anyone about this," he says, digging his finger into my shoulder and fogging my glasses with his breath.
"We are working on an update, and there are a few kinks. We don't want anyone to needlessly panic. You understand?"
I nod slowly.
"Very well then." He takes a few steps back, leans against his desk, and lets out a deep breath.
"Thank you again for making the corrections. It's imperative that we have and maintain trust. You are dismissed."
Relieved, I whip around, open the door, and bolt out of the room. But just as I am turning the corner, I catch a glimpse of the stack of papers I left on his desk hanging over the trash bin.
That was three months ago.
***
My sweaty hands grip the edge of my desk as I sit at my usual workspace, waiting for my name to be called. I close my eyes and try to tune out the noisy beeps and churns of the machines and chatter all around me. I've waited four years for this moment, but somehow I still don't feel ready.
I work as a contractor for one of the largest news networks in the world, the only network on this side of the Atlantic to survive the crash and resist acquisition by either a billionaire or the government. People tell me I'm lucky to be here, that many desire my job, and so I should be happy. And I am happy, or at least I think I am.
I work in the heart of the news station, which buzzes like a factory. There are about ten long tables in parallel rows, each with about ten editors seated next to machines that resemble printers but possess the artificial intelligence of advanced bots. These machines scan the internet, smart devices, and all types of digital outputs for announcements and credible leads for news stories, then assemble the first drafts of stories for the editors to review. The editors review the drafts, make the necessary changes, and upload the articles. But most of the time, they simply upload the drafts since the machines have become so advanced that they hardly need editing. Once the higher-ups in the station approve the stories, they are published, and the editors share them on social media. I sit in the third seat on the first row.
Our seating is a sign of rank. Editors say it can take years to get to the first row, but I did it just after two.
I stare at the paper the bot has spewed out for me to review. It's about the poverty rate throughout the country. According to the raw copy, based on leaked government records, the numbers have remained stable for the last six months. My fingers glide across the bot's screen, requesting the dataset the computer has used. With a quick glance, I notice several errors.
Another one, I think to myself. That's the fourth time this week!
Lately, I've been catching a lot of these mistakes. It started about five months ago when I was bored and picked up one of the rare history books my uncle left me about what used to be the United States economy before the crash. While reading, I noticed a historical detail in the book that directly contradicted something I saw in one of the bot stories I edited and published earlier that day. As I dug deeper into the details and reviewed the story, I found multiple inaccuracies.
Since then, I've gone down rabbit holes with these bot stories, checking and double-checking. Normally, I try to keep a low profile, but there were so many mistakes I decided to alert some senior editors. They supposedly looked into it and told me it’s nothing but an update bug. I don't know if I believe them. Something feels off.
I also have a strange feeling I've been watched more closely since reporting the incident. People know who I am, but for years I've successfully laid low. My father had a reputation for constantly shaking things up, and I saw firsthand what it cost him and my family.
Truth is, there's not much value in shaking things up these days. We need the station. People need something they can trust. I need something I can trust.
My mind returns to the story. It's clear from the data that certain regions have been severely undercounted. I decide to rework the headline and the story. It now reads, "Bogus Numbers Keep the True National Poverty Rate Hidden."
I stare at the bot next to me, wondering if I need to report this uptick in errors again—not just from what the bots spew out but also from what I see published. It worries me that the public might begin to question our credibility. But I also wonder, who am I to bring up such accusations?
"Foenix, Foenix!" A voice jolts me from my thoughts.
I look up to see Emre hovering over my desk. I tense, instinctively wary of his intentions.
"Uhhh, hi," I reply, confused, wondering why after all this time he has decided to make conversation today.
His hazel eyes meet my brown ones as I look up. He's tall and handsome, with a mischievous grin that makes me wonder if he knows something I don't. The way he carries himself, people might assume he thinks he's better than everyone else—present but a bit aloof, as if he has better things to do than this job. I assume he's talking to me because of the competition and nothing more. But as his eyes pierce mine, I almost hold my breath, waiting for his reply. I'm not trying to get caught up in any more station entanglements, but I cannot deny that Emre has swag.
"I know we haven't spoken much," he says slowly, seeming unsure of what to say next, "but I wanted to say good luck tomorrow—not that you need it. You make this look easy."
There's a sincerity in his voice that catches me off guard, as if he genuinely cares about my fate. It makes me want to believe that perhaps not everyone here is part of the facade. Maybe, just maybe, I could afford to let my guard down. But old habits die hard.
"We haven't spoken at all," I snap back at him, immediately regretting the harshness of my words. "And I really don't have the time to start today."
His half-smile fades to a frown, and for a second, I want to kick myself for being a bitch again. I could maybe use a friend, or at least one less enemy in this process. But my instincts remain, and instead of apologizing, I give him a look that says, "Why are you still here?"
His beautiful eyes dim as his pleasant demeanor vanishes. He walks back to his seat in the second row. If my response has dejected him, he doesn’t show it as he quickly resumes his work. I can't help but notice how he nervously taps his fingers on the table, something I've seen him do when he's deep in thought. I wonder what he's thinking about now. Probably that I'm such a bitch.
I shake my head as if to clear it and look back down at my computer. My hands shake, and my face feels flushed. I suddenly thank my lucky stars for the melanin in my skin.
Get it together, I think to myself. What an outsized reaction to a basic greeting.
The bot lights up. My story has been approved. The tension in my body drains away with this realization, then immediately tenses again as I remember what else I have to do. I’ve come to enjoy most of my work, but sharing on social media always gives me anxiety. Some editors are obsessed, arguing with every bot and person online. They thrive on the drama, the relentless back-and-forth exchanges that give them a sense of purpose. And somehow, all the belligerence and hot takes have garnered them large followings. To me, social media interactions have always seemed disingenuous. We all know we put up a facade there. Would they say that shit to my face? I know they wouldn’t.
Up until two years ago, my account looked like a bot's. I followed a few people, like the news director (everyone follows the news director), and only a few people from my neighborhood followed me. But two years ago, I decided I needed to do more to qualify for the Aptitude Test. Now, I have thousands of followers.
There's only one news director position, and for years, they have been looking for a successor. To narrow the choice down fairly, years ago, the station director announced that the person with the highest score on the Aptitude Test, when she either passes the baton because she can no longer work or passes away, will be the successor.
But to even qualify for the test, you must be a Station 7 employee and have at least 300,000 social followers—the concept being that you must be both intelligent and exhibit leadership. Few contractors qualify, and none have passed any part of the test. So I certainly stand out, and I know it.
But today is my last day as an editor because my contract is about to expire, and—in order to fulfill my promise to my uncle—I decide to take the Aptitude Test. I will probably fail. I am not a leader. I don’t even have friends. But I made a promise.
If I pass the test with the highest score, I'll take over this building as the head of the source of information that has given me and others hope for so many years—an improbable scenario.
If I lose, the more likely outcome, I don’t really have a next step planned. There’s not much planning that can be done with life outside of the station, only trying to survive.
After all I've done, I have never been offered a full-time role. I guess I’m not perky or likable enough. I applied so many times but am always told they feel a different candidate is a better fit. Maybe it’s all my complaints about the bots. Either way, my time as an editor expires because my contract will be up, and I'll have nowhere to go.
I've known for a while that my time was ticking, so two years ago, I amped up my social strategy to qualify. Station 7 employees often get more followers than most people because of the organization’s reputation. Two years ago, I had 6,804 followers. But when I started taking the work more seriously—spotting mistakes the bots made, staying up late to take on challenging stories, and not only sharing my stories but also the process behind them—my following exploded. Now I have about 450,000 people following every post I make, giving me many more followers than I need to qualify.
"This will be one of my last story explanations," I begin typing my next post to my followers.
"I've entered the contest. I will start the Aptitude Test tomorrow," I continue.
"If I win, I hope I can be half the leader Director Revel is, consistently upholding the truth. Thank you all for your support. I hope you will continue to follow and support me."
I hesitate for a minute, reading the message about three times. Then I hit send.
Immediately, my screen lights up with notifications, and my following grows by the thousands. Every time someone enters the Aptitude Test, they gain thousands of followers. Though the details of the test are secret, people update their followers as they pass certain parts, and followers root for contestants like sports teams.
I wonder who these followers are. I wonder how many of them root for me to succeed. Then I consider how many of them want me to fail.
I close the screen and take a deep breath. I try to hide my anxiety, which has built to mountainous proportions by this time. It’s coming from not only from the fact that I am taking the test but also because I waited until the last minute to do it.
I close my eyes.
"Idiot, you are an idiot," my father's words echo in my ear.
"Where will you go when you fail?" I imagine him questioning me. "Once you lose, you'll be thrown to the wolves. Chicken shit. You have a month, then you'll be back in the streets with the rest of the trash where you belong."
Subscribe and Share
I hope you found this newsletter helpful and engaging. Please share with any friends or family you think would be interested and feel free to buy me a coffee by subscribing if you got some use out of it.
Follow me on Instagram too!
And here is my LinkedIn.
