Yes or No

When Mavi woke up, there was another question in the sky.

Her phone had been screaming for the past minute. She’d ignored it at first, thinking it was her sister again, calling to tell some new story about the reckless university boys. But when the phone droned again, she forced herself upwards to check the screen. Jaxon Sears.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she groaned.

Her boyfriend, Kit, shifted in the sheets. “What is it?”

“Jaxon.”

“Ugh… The producer guy?”

“Yeah. I don’t know. Give me a minute.”

Mavi hobbled out into the living room, squinting at the rays of dawn filtering through the blinds. Her flannel pajamas were creased, still warm from her spot in bed. As much as she hated mornings, there was something intimate about the first few moments after sleep. It was like she was reconnecting with the world. The vague wave of her dreams called back, but she would not answer.

Suppressing a sigh, she accepted Jaxon’s call.

“Mavi?” The punch of his gravelly voice was instant. Too loud for the hushed apartment. But there was something off to it, jittery. A rattle where there would otherwise be stiffness.

“Jaxon, it’s seven in the morning. Can you find someone else?”

“Hello, good morning to you, too.”

She pursed her lips. “What do you want?”

“Jeez, I was only being polite. Listen, I’m gonna need you on at 8:10. I’ve just wrangled a spot from The Dallas Times and they’re gonna be mad if we don’t pull up strong.”

“Find someone else. You know I don’t do early slots.”

“Are you hungover?”

She scoffed. “No.”

“Are you sick?”

“No.”

“Then you’re coming. 8:10.”

Mavi began pacing the living room. What was going on? Jaxon wasn’t normally this much of a prick. He was uptight about reporting, sure. Every time they shared a slot, he would constantly check the angles and blockings, reordering pedestrians, tilting her shoulders - as if a perfectly-angled shot could soften whatever horrors they were about to announce. The Mercury Post was always in a frenzy because of him. But he was also one of the reasons it got so many views. To be perfect, they had to be critical.

“Jaxon,” she began, “If it’s a political scandal, I’ve already taught Reyna the basics. She can handle it.”

“A political scandal? Have you looked outside?”

“What do you mean?”

“The Poll, Mavi. What else would I be calling you for?”

Mavi paused in her pacing. She looked over at the golden blinds, the hint of morning sky still peeking through. “The Poll?”

“Yes. The Poll. Listen, I’m running short on time; they need me in back for setup. Will you swear to come in?”

“Jaxon, are you aware that we always report at noon?”

“This is different.”

“Different?” she breathed. “How?”

“Look out the fucking window. We need you here.”

Mavi's mouth opened, though no sound came out. She did not know Jaxon to be fond of swearing. At least, in his professional life. Gingerly, she used her spare hand to crack open the blinds. The early light burned her eyes, and she had to squint for a moment to decipher the landscape beyond. There was indeed a new Poll in the sky, floating coolly above the city. The message was crystal-clear, legible for miles. Every country, city, and land across the world would be able to spot it. It was inevitable.

Yes or no. Seven days, one question. Revert to new or return to old…

Her mouth dried as she read. The words of the Poll blurred together, and she found herself frozen in place, as if chained by an immovable force.

“Mavi?” Jaxon prodded.

“I’m here,” she said quietly. The phone was trembling.

“You see it now?”

“I see it.” A strange lull passed between them. Then: “I’ll be there.”

"Do you swear it?"

"This isn't boyscouts, Jaxon. I'm coming."

Within a half hour, she had her makeup done, her suit crisped, and the rebellious strands of her black hair pressed into a neat bun. Kit had barely moved since she’d announced her impending shift. She’d been too worried to reveal the details of the Poll, thinking it best he take the time to rest. The past few nights working in the ER had worn him down.

“I’ll be back in a few hours, okay?” she’d promised. “We’ll talk over lunch.”

Kit looked almost childish wrapped in the covers. The blanket had risen up to cover his curls, ridding him of the disheveled charm she liked to greet in the morning. His face was the only part of his body sticking out of the florals. “At Apollina’s?”

“We just had Italian food.”

“We can have it again. There aren’t rules here like at the Post, you know.”

Mavi kissed his cheek. “Okay. I do like their shrimp gnocchi.”

“It’s disgusting.”

“No, it’s not. I’ll be there at noon.”

Kit nodded. “Noon it is. Go educate the masses, love.”

“I’ll try.”

The roads to Mavi’s work were blissfully empty. She bobbed along in her rusted Honda Civic, watching the moon fade into its den in the west. The Poll was massive, but it only hovered over the northern part of the sky. She remembered throwing rocks at it as a kid, competing with her sister to see who could hit the shimmering black text first. The rocks never reached anything, barely skimming the roof of the house, but it was fun to imagine that someday, somehow, they could make contact. She suddenly wished Kit were in the car with her, to distract her from the situation. From herself.

“Do you think astronauts can fly through the Poll?” her sister had asked once. “Can they see it from space?”

Their mom had come outside with a plate of watermelon. “They can pass through it, sweet, but they can’t break it.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

There were seven days of voting per Poll. As soon as the text appeared, people across the world began to pull out their sandboxes, scrawling their responses in the shimmering slate of sediment whenever they reached a decision. Mavi had gotten her first sandbox at age 16. It was turquoise, with white sand that tickled on her fingers and vines that twisted along the box’s side.

“What do I say?” Mavi had asked her mom.

“For this one, you write No.”

“The Poll will know I’m old enough, right? It won’t pass over me?”

Her mom had drummed her knuckles against the table. “Mav, I’ll help you with this one, but if you’re going to participate in Polls for the rest of your life, you need to be well-versed in the process.”

“I know,” Mavi assented. “I read the question, I read everything, but –”

“Do you want us to keep building nuclear bombs?”

Mavi blinked. “No.”

“Then that’s all that matters. The Poll will do the rest. Trust me. Trust it.”

Later, she’d felt the ripple effects of the Poll as the voting period closed. She’d stood on the porch with her sister to watch as the inky question dissipated from the sky, vanishing along with the final result: 1.4 million “Yes”, 2.1 million “No.” There was nothing for the 2 million who hadn’t responded.

The Poll would not reappear until the next global crisis. Or at least, until humanity stopped behaving. Only time could tell how long that stretch would last.

“Do you think the Poll is biased if it only forms under certain circumstances?” Mavi hadn’t considered the question before, and she knew she was wrong to doubt, but she couldn’t help but blurt it out after the sky returned to normal.

Her mom put a hand on her shoulder. “There is no bias, only objective truth. And that is the power keeping our world in line.”

The memories hung with Mavi as she parked and entered the newsroom. After so many reports on Polls, she wished she could sometimes just sit back and watch them unfold like she used to. What was it like to watch the voting as an everyday citizen? What would you think of, if you didn’t have to focus on statistics and interviews?

“Mavi!” rasped Jaxon as she stepped through the glass doors.

She certainly wouldn’t find out today.

The newsroom was a mess of cameras, voices, and screens. Writers were huddled in their usual corner, gnawing on pens as if the ink was a nectar to their creativity. Editors flipped through endless tabs on their computers, while the director assigned jobs to the remaining crew. Jaxon must have left his post on segments to salute her.

“Morning,” Mavi replied, hanging her fur coat on a chair. The edge to her producer’s voice lingered, almost fearful. There was no time for compassion, though; The Mercury Post was a fast-grinding mill, and it had a job to do.

“Did you get the script?” Jaxon asked.

“Yes. Are we sure we only want to interview locals?”

“There’s no time for anyone else. But the people I’ve found are solid. One woman said she’s been around for eighty polls. Eighty! She’s bound to have some good stories.”

Mavi raised her brows. The Poll occurred on average every 3.6 years. To have been through eighty meant a wealth of history, perhaps even a fortune. “She voted on the Depression?”

“I’m sure. And the Holocaust, too. Come on, let’s get you ready.”

Mavi followed Jaxon’s golden head onto the set. The producer was wearing a checkered suit, as if he’d walked through a museum illusion and forgotten to end the trick. He rushed idlers back to work, adjusted the crooked Welcome mat in the doorway. His rhythm was uneven. Atypical. Mavi had always been irritated with his attitude, but as she adjusted to the day, the worry in her gut only increased. Surely he would want to talk about the Poll? Figure out how they would explain it to the public? The facts were ready - the what, the when, the where - but the report felt hollow. She wasn’t prepared to face the public if they cried out for more.

“Jax,” one of the crewmembers, Michael, called. “There’s some weird club of apocalyptics forming in NYC. Might wanna check it out. I think it’s spreading through the media.”

Jaxon raised an eyebrow. “Apocalyptics?”

“Yeah, this huddle of fanatics claiming the newest Poll is a punishment. This stuff is weird, man, I’m telling you. I’ve never seen a reaction like it.”

“Let me see.”

Mavi trailed Jaxon over to the computer, where Michael was projecting a livestream from NYC. The street was crowded with people and signs, quite like the recent protests in L.A., though the messaging was hasty, celebratory.

A few of the signs were legible. “This is our judgement”... “Vote YES”... “End it.”

“This can’t be real, can it?” Mavi whispered.

Jaxon shook his head. “It’s real.”

“Do we have time to include them?”

“I wouldn’t count on it. It’s best we stuck to the script.” He left Michael’s desk, and Mavi followed suit. “Come on, let’s keep moving. Thanks, Michael.”

The next few minutes were hazy. Mavi could sense the mic being clipped to her suit, watched as the Post’s team whizzed into their designated positions - left, right, center, front - and heard the faint commotion of lights, cameras, and props falling into place. She thought back to Kit, undoubtedly sound asleep. Should she have told him about the Poll? He would find out soon enough. If he turned on the TV at the right time, he’d see her face beaming back. Would realize she’d lied to him.

“It’s just a normal segment,” she’d told him. “Our reporter got sick, and I’ve gotta fill in.”

The pen became slick inside her hand. She tapped it once, twice. Looked up at Jaxon behind the set, his checkered suit shining an ugly hue beneath the white light. Glanced at Kaleb, Ramiro, and Rayna off to the side. They’d chosen her for this report for a reason. She had a responsibility to follow through, no matter how tense she got.

The cameraman started counting down. Mavi dropped the pen and eased her shoulders. Her expression was firm, her eyes kind but not compassionate. The set drifted to a hush right as the clock struck 8:10, and the Mercury Post went live.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mavi began. “This is Mavi Karabulut from the Mercury Post, reporting to you live in our studio downtown.”

This is a normal segment. This is a normal segment.

“Behind me is the now-infamous Poll that has appeared in our skies. Most sources agree that the Poll popped up at around 6:51 this morning, Central Time, although a group in Shanghai, China state that they spotted it before dawn….”

Reyna nodded her head, encouraging. This is a normal segment. I’ll be at Apollina’s later, and we will vote, and this will all be forgotten.

“The question, however,” Mavi resumed, “was rather unordinary. Each Poll draws on suspense, urging the public to debate not why, but when the next session of voting will arrive. Topics are clear. Our most recent subject, human-induced climate change, had already been brought before the U.N. and the Paris Agreement by the time the Climate Poll arrived. You all will remember how that went.”

Nobody on set laughed.

“Well, today’s Poll is quite different. A warning to all audiences… I’m about to read the question out loud, and it may contain information that you find unsettling or disturbing. Again, a warning to all audiences.”

The teleprompter lit up with Mavi’s lines, but she disregarded it. The words had thickened to an ice in her mind, laced with the frost of her anxieties. She touched the ice’s surface with reluctance. “Yes or no…. Seven days, one question. Revert to new or return to old…. Do you wish to end this Earth? Yes or no. Yes or no.”

The set stood still. Mavi remembered all the moments humanity had failed her, had failed itself. She thought back to her interviews and reports, the children separated from their deported parents; the wife grieving her soulful husband, shot to death by the police; the massacres; the murders; the dejected populations betrayed by their own governments. She recalled Kit’s stories from the ER; her sister’s classmate, dead to cancer; the anti-war groups and anti-immigrant groups, pushing and shoving, frothing at the taste of anger despite the fires raging below.

But she also remembered the taste of sweet caramel on her neighbor’s apples; the peacekeepers from her early career, charging through barriers built on hate; the shelter whose town raised funds to preserve it when costs grew high; the community festivals; the family visits during Eid al-Fitr; the lovely smirk Kit gave her when he beat her in a game of chess.

Was the Poll biased against the world?

Was the world biased against itself?

The votes began to trickle in, and Mavi hoped for a dream that seemed so fragile, any movement might send it away.