In the Gleaming Light

by H. R. Moore

  ‘Putting human personal trainers out of business, at least for anyone who doesn’t come from a wealthy family like yours; families who are bending the rules left, right, and centre.’

  ‘Bending the rules?’ snorted Guy. ‘How do we do that?’

  ‘You tell me,’ she replied, defensively.

  ‘Go on then,’ he said, pulling them to a standstill and making her look at him. ‘Ask me anything you like and I’ll tell you the truth.’

  ‘How do you get around the inheritance rules? You’re only supposed to inherit a hundred thousand pounds, like the rest of us. You’re not supposed to be able to be handed companies; it’s all supposed to be done on merit, and yet, the rich stay rich regardless.’

  ‘We don’t break the rules,’ he replied, earnestly.

  Lulu laughed.

  ‘We comply with the rules. But everyone inherits their full hundred thousand, without question, and children are given positions in the companies of their parents’ rich friends. The children are often fast tracked, usually with good reason, but sometimes not. They reach the two hundred and fifty thousand pound pay cap quickly and through that income start to amass wealth of their own. The authorities have nothing to penalise because no one has really done anything wrong.’

  ‘Apart from give jobs unfairly to people who might not deserve it.’

  ‘Well, that’s the thing about employment and suitability; it’s all subjective. And generally, those children are deserving, which is the most unfair bit of the lot. They grow up learning from their successful parents, not only being shown a route to success, but having it paved for them. The children are usually clever, have studied the right things, and are full of ideas. They know how the system works and what they have to do to obtain the kind of lifestyle they’ve grown up with. Children who grow up in other environments aren’t so lucky. They don’t have the same role models, the same expectations, or the same knowledge about what they have to do to achieve success. That means they either end up in the wrong place, underestimate their abilities, or don’t move as quickly up the ladder.’

  ‘But you didn’t end up in someone else’s company,’ said Lulu, looking out at the sea.

  ‘No,’ he replied, heavily. ‘I wanted to be a politician actually, much to my parents’ dismay.’

  ‘But then your brother died...’

  ‘...and they guilted me into it. I was young and malleable, and I can’t really complain; I have a pleasant enough life,’ he said, glibly.

  ‘With no hours cap to worry about, and money to spare,’ she said, teasingly.

  ‘As do you, I would point out,’ he shot back, matching her tone.

  ‘But I come from nothing,’ she said haughtily.

  ‘Which makes your success more worthy? I’ve turned an idling company into one of the world’s most successful enterprises, and you’ve built your reputation yourself – is there really that much difference?’

  ‘Nobody handed me a company.’

  ‘I do what I can to help people like you. That’s what the launch was about the other night.’

  ‘Investing in companies?’ she asked, her tone sceptical.

  ‘And other things.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like, why has this conversation got so heavy? There are people who are lazy and people who strive from every background. I want to help those who want to help themselves. Those who want to sit around and take their state income and do nothing else, I steer clear of. I invest in people from all walks of life, people with fire to make things happen. Like you,’ he said, as they started walking again. They walked in silence for a few moments. ‘What fired you up enough to make you become a superstar anyway?’

  Lulu shoved him playfully. ‘I was the third child of idle parents. If you have a third child, the state won’t pay anything towards them until they’re sixteen, when they get their own Universal Basic Income. So, my parents experienced financial hardship, and although my mother worked at my grandfather’s shop (because my grandfather forced her to), it was low-skilled work, so she had to comply with the twenty-hour cap, and the pay was terrible. My father did nothing but drink and smoke, which took its financial toll. He wasn’t abusive, other than verbally, but he didn’t do anything to help and seemed to blame me for the inconvenience of their situation.

  I couldn’t work formally until I was sixteen, as per the rules, but I realised quite early on I could make some money by quietly selling my paintings. I set up stalls on the street alongside legitimate market traders, convinced other stallholders to sell my work for an exorbitant cut, and managed to convince a few people to commission works. Basically, every opportunity to make a bit of money, I took, which meant I could afford the materials I needed to keep painting, and could save some money along the way. I saw a way to work myself out of my situation.

  But, just before my sixteenth birthday, I’d set up a stall at the edge of a street market, and a robot policeman came around and asked for my licence. Of course I didn’t have one, and was arrested. It was one of your dad’s robots, by the way.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, apologetically, and waited for her to continue.

  ‘They made me do community service for a year, but at least that kept me away from my parents during nearly all of my free time. And they fed me and gave me a uniform to wear, so, in fact, it reduced the burden on my parents. I was sixteen by the time that was over and I went to work in one of your factories. I started painting again, selling my work legitimately this time, and it just took off. Some of the kids I went to school with had started a political group, protesting about the working hours cap. They saw my work as representative of their struggle, and incorporated it into their movement. They spread it around on social media; it was seen as edgy to start with and it even prompted a visit from the authorities, but I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I wasn’t inciting riot or anything, and, luckily, we still have freedom of speech.’ Guy nodded.

  ‘After the authorities came to call, a few local news outlets picked up the story; there’s nothing quite like an artist rebelling against the system to get people’s imaginations going. And then I started getting calls from wealthy people wanting to buy my work. I think they thought it made them cool and nonconformist or something, and I had an influx of commissions. I don’t know if they had a genuine interest in the political ideals behind the paintings, or if they just liked to play at being controversial, revelling in the reaction to the defiant works when their conservative parents came round for dinner. Either way, that was where it started, and it hasn’t let up since. Over the years I’ve been able to charge more and more for my work, galleries became interested and are now competing with each other to host me, and now I, like you, am in a fortunate, privileged position.’

  ‘Do you still speak to your family?’ asked Guy, as her story came to an end.

  She shook her head. ‘Not really. Every now and again I see them, usually at parties for my nieces and nephews. We exchange pleasantries, but not much more. We have nothing in common, and the only thing they want from me is money. Although now we’ve all left home, their allowance from the state is enough to live on. My mum’s given up work. God knows what they do with their time.’

  ‘And what about the political movement? What happened to them?’ asked Guy, as they reached the far end of North Street, where Lulu was staying.

  ‘They grew up and got jobs, mostly ones not subject to the working hours cap, and forgot there was ever a problem,’ she said, scathingly.

  ‘The American Dream,’ replied Guy.

  ‘Indeed,’ she laughed. ‘They’ve been reeled into capitalism. Anyway,’ she said, looking a little guilty, ‘you asked me a simple question, and I’ve given you my life story.’ She smiled. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Guy. ‘I found it fascinating. In fact, I’d love to continue the conversation at dinner this evening, if you don’t have a better offer?’

  Lulu considered saying no, but reasoned she didn’t
have anything better to do. ‘I’d love to,’ she said, kissing him on the cheek to say goodbye.

  ‘Great. I’ll pick you up at eight?’ he asked, squeezing her hand, holding onto it for a few seconds longer than necessary.

  ‘See you then,’ she said, smiling as she walked to her door.

  * * * * *

  Richard sat with Marvin Edwards, Pixbot’s chief financial officer, and Thomas, at a breakfast table in the staff canteen. When Richard had been young, the word canteen had invoked horrible images of grotty, dark, dingy rooms with sloppy food served by women behind counters wearing hair nets. But this canteen was as far from that description as it was possible to get. It was in the light-filled atrium of Pixbot’s colossal office building. Waiting staff, dressed in crisp white shirts and black trousers, took orders from the workers who used the canteen mostly for informal meetings. Orders were placed using the latest smart glasses and palm chip readers, chefs, both human and robotic, filling plates from the array of colourful offerings laid out across a number of counters and cooking stations.

  Richard’s eyes scanned the room, taking in the machines churning out an endless variety of teas and coffees. He lingered for a second over the counter laden with muesli, fruit, different types of yoghurt, healthy muffins, smoothies and juices, before deciding the breads, hams and cheeses of another were more appealing.

  As the morning progressed, the robots would seamlessly change the contents of the counters to salads and soups, sandwiches and hot food, with cultured meat, fish, and grubs, which were loved especially by the high-protein dieters. Most of the food came from the building’s roof or basement, where state-of-the-art hydroponic setups were located, alongside bug farms, solar panels and wind turbines. It was all looked after by robots, most of them created by the engineers based in this building, and overseen by the company’s head of food production.

  They placed their order, instructing the waiter to use the drink preferences transmitted by their smart glasses, and had to wait only moments for the beverages to arrive.

  ‘Look, Marvin,’ said Richard, taking a swig of his cappuccino, ‘I just don’t think that’s the right capitalisation model for us. We need to be able to amortise over ten years.’

  ‘But there’s no way we can justify this as a ten-year asset,’ said Marvin, aghast. ‘Nothing is a ten-year asset any longer. It’s laughable to suggest anything is going to last longer than five with the rate of technological change we have, which, need I remind you, we help to drive!’

  ‘Marvin. I appreciate it will be difficult, but I don’t employ you to tell me we can’t do things. I employ you to find a way to do what I need.’

  ‘And it’s my job to tell you, honestly, when it’s not possible to do what you want. Need I remind you the consequences of walking the wrong side of the line?’ he said, getting agitated. ‘We’ll end up in prison, being kept there by the robots this company makes!’ Marvin was a risk-averse accountant through and through. Even his appearance conformed to the caricature. He was short, weaselly looking, but well kempt, with round, old-fashioned glasses, short, slicked back hair, and a grandfatherly tweed jacket. He hunched a little when he talked, his jacket just a little too big for his slim shoulders.

  Richard appraised the insignificant man. He was sweating under the weight of Richard’s full attention and almost physically squirming at having to stand his ground. He looked like he was trying to wriggle away, back to whatever hole he’d slithered out of, no doubt. Richard had only appointed him because he’d needed someone wholesome to replace the CFO Iva had made him get rid of. But Marvin took wholesome to the extreme. He was terrified to push the boundaries even a little, and everyone knew you could always do that. Rules were for the guidance of wise men and the obedience of fools, or so Richard’s old mentor had always said.

  Thomas, on the other hand, had prospects. Richard had been reluctant when Guy had first asked him to give Thomas a job. He’d seemed too shy and retiring to be a leader, but Guy had convinced him, so Richard had put him in the accounts department, which, he had reasoned, was full of other shy and retiring people, so maybe he’d fit right in. He hadn’t lived to regret it. Every time he needed a way around a blocker, Thomas was the person who would find the answer, even if his methods pushed boundaries. Thomas would go far.

  ‘Work with Thomas on it,’ said Richard, finally. ‘I’m sure between the two of you, you can find a way. Now, we also need to discuss the Research and Development relief figure. It’s too low by half.’

  Marvin nearly spat out his ginger, apple and kale juice. ‘By half?’ he said, frustration starting to turn to anger. ‘I take it you know the rules?’

  Richard smiled, happy to have incited an emotional reaction. ‘Yes, I know the rules. I also know that we can categorise loads more of our work as qualifying R&D.’

  ‘Not if we want to stay within the letter of the law,’ he said, pompously.

  ‘The letter of the law, indeed. As if such a thing exists,’ laughed Richard. ‘I am more than comfortable that we can re-categorise a significant portion of our work to qualify for R&D tax relief. We will, I am sure, remain within the spirit of the law,’ he said, meaningfully. ‘Again, I’m sure Thomas will offer his assistance,’ he said, effectively closing down the topic. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I have a domestic butlerbot trial to get to. We’ve got to do something to compete with Guy’s latest model.’ He started walking away, before turning back to Thomas. ‘Thomas, my tennis partner has just pulled out of our match tomorrow night. You play tennis, don’t you?’

  Thomas smiled. A confident, self-assured smile. ‘Of course, who doesn’t?’ Marvin, thought Richard, picking up Thomas’ obvious meaning. Richard chuckled inwardly.

  ‘Great. I’ll see you at the Rix Club tomorrow at seven then,’ he said, neither bothering to check if Thomas was free, nor that he was happy to play. Thomas, like everyone else at the company, was at Richard’s disposal, and they had better not forget it.

  Marvin gave Thomas a withering look. ‘You’re playing a dangerous game,’ he said to both of them, picking up his juice and stalking away. Richard watched him go. Maybe Marvin had more backbone than he’d thought.

  * * * * *

  Lulu and Guy sat in a crab shack just around the coast from St Andrews. It was a ramshackle little building with flaking paint and old plastic tables and chairs. Everything here was done by humans and the owners maintained a healthy disdain for anyone who did things any other way. The building was perched on the sea front, looking out over the tiny harbour and pier that stuck out anciently into the water. The whole experience was like going back in time, and Guy loved the escape from his usual, tech-filled existence.

  There was a pile of crab shells in between them, and a scattering of chips, which neither one of them could face after their mammoth meal. Lulu wiped her hands on a paper napkin, cast it into the paper-lined plastic basket in front of her, then pushed the whole lot away. She sat back in her seat and took a deep breath. ‘That was amazing,’ she said, satisfied. ‘The most perfect meal.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so,’ replied Guy, mirroring her body language. The waitress saw they were finished and came to clear.

  ‘Everything alright with your crab?’ she asked, her French accent surprising them.

  ‘Delicious,’ Guy and Lulu replied, in unison, then smiled.

  ‘You don’t usually hear French accents around here,’ said Guy. ‘What brings you to the area?’

  The slightly plump waitress beamed. ‘I’m studying at St Andrews,’ she said, ‘for a PhD in International Relations. You hear plenty of French accents there, but I prefer it out here; it’s quiet and more...real, non?’

  ‘That it is,’ said Lulu, warmly.

  ‘Can I get you dessert?’ the waitress asked. ‘Or tea or coffee?’ she continued, when they both vehemently shook their heads.

  ‘I’d love a tea,’ said Lulu.

  ‘As would I,’ said Guy.

  ‘Milk?’ asked the wai
tress.

  ‘Yes please,’ they both replied, Guy inwardly remarking that there was anywhere left in the country where they didn’t already know how you liked your tea, by virtue of your smart devices talking to the restaurant’s tech. But then, seeing as this place didn’t have any tech, of course, they had to ask. There were sugar cubes in a little dish on the table too, like they were back in the twenties.

  ‘I love it,’ said Lulu, in a conspiratorial almost-whisper, as the waitress walked away. ‘It’s so old-fashioned.’

  ‘I know,’ said Guy. ‘I love coming here; it reminds me that we can live without tech after all, and it often sparks new ideas when you see people living in an unusual way.’

  ‘Surprising that there’s enough work around for a French girl to get a job though.’

  ‘I think there are quite a few pockets in the countryside where people have decided not to fully embrace technology,’ Guy replied, ‘which inevitably leads to greater employment opportunities. And the fact that they’re technology free, or at least they don’t have as much tech as the cities, makes them a mecca for tourists, which leads to even greater employment.’

  ‘People do go crazy for tech-less getaways,’ said Lulu. ‘I suppose it’s not surprising; we’re connected and on the go all the time, so it’s nice to take a break from it. My studio is more or less tech free,’ she said, ‘I find it helps give me space to think and be creative.’

  ‘I can see that,’ said Guy.

  A comfortable silence fell over them for a few moments as they waited for their tea. ‘This isn’t the kind of place I thought you’d take me,’ said Lulu.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Guy teased, ‘are you missing impeccable fine dining?’

  ‘Ha!’ laughed Lulu. ‘No. But I’m surprised that’s not your scene.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Guy, preparing to tease her again.