“Democracy is the worst form of government, except for all those other forms that have been tried from time to time.”

  — Winston Churchill

  Ethan, his parents, and Danny had spent the afternoon wandering through Manchester’s past—first the Natural History Museum with its towering skeletons, then the Science and Industry Museum, where steam engines roared back to life in halls that smelled faintly of oil.

  From there, they walked into Deansgate. Among the pubs and glass towers stood the John Rylands Library, a neo-Gothic fortress of thought. To Ethan it looked medieval, its dark stone blackened by soot, more like a mausoleum than a library.

  Inside, light streamed through tall stained-glass windows, splashing colour across rows of mahogany desks. The air smelled of old paper and leather.

  “It’s Hogwarts,” Danny grinned.

  To Ethan, it felt holier. Here were centuries of survival bound in books, each one a miracle of preservation.

  As they left, a group of young adults drifted in, welcomed by a library official.

  ‘We’ve prepared the Gospel according to John and related Gnostic codices for your perusal,’ he said solemnly

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  One of them—a young woman called Beth—met Ethan’s eyes. For a moment there was recognition, a strange pull of familiarity. Then it was gone.

  They carried on north through the changing city. Cars now hummed instead of roared; drones traced silent arcs above. Glass skyscrapers climbed skyward, but the soot-stained red-brick warehouses endured, repurposed into coffee shops and bars.

  Their destination was older still—Chetham’s Library, a fifteenth-century survivor. Unlike Rylands’ grandeur, Chetham’s was plain, its dark oak desks polished smooth by centuries of hands. Lorraine pointed to one corner.

  “That’s where Marx and Engels wrote The Communist Manifesto. A noble, but flawed idea—.”

  “Communism doesn’t take human nature into account,” Trevor cut in.

  “Human nature was a variable they failed to factor in,” Ethan murmured.

  “Aye, bang on, son,” Trevor said. “They didn’t account for the ruthless bastards. Left, right, red, blue—it’s always the same. Good folk don’t claw their way to the top. The ruthless ones do.” His voice had risen, echoing off the stone walls. “Best thing you can do? Assume everyone’s a bit of a bawbag ‘til proven otherwise.”

  “Trevor!” Lorraine hissed.

  Trevor shrugged. “Sorry about the swearing. Exclamation marks of the English language.”

  He cooled quickly, then added, “AI’s the way forward. I’d vote for an AI government.”

  “Me too, Mr. Stipe,” Danny said eagerly.

  Ethan stayed silent. He knew more about AI than anyone else there, and the thought filled him with dread. What humanity needed wasn’t blind faith in machines, but a system that put safety above profit.

  He walked to the empty desk where Marx and Engels once sat, running his hand across its surface. What would they write now, he wondered—what framework could save a world on the brink? He hoped somewhere, someone was working on the answer...and he hoped they were scientists.

  And the version shown in Appendix III — a system fully possible with today’s science — offers something unusual: something that could potentially reduce wars, corruption, authoritarianism, inequality, and the uncertainties and vulnerabilities an AI-run system of governance might bring.

  Nothing in Appendix III is futuristic.

  Nothing is impossible.

  It’s simply a version of democracy that protects itself better — the kind many readers ask, “Why don’t we already do this? This is what AI said about it:

  Short answer: Yes — realistically, it might, but not perfectly and not always.