by H. R. Moore
They were visiting a community project that Guy sponsored. It was for people who had either retired, or who had never wanted, or been able, to get a job. The idea was that it was a physical, real-world centre, where people could gather, practice hobbies, and form meaningful relationships, and it had been a great success. They grew vegetables the old-fashioned way, with the younger members seeking growing tips from the old-timers, rather than instantly reaching for their smart glasses. They made things in the woodwork shed, they sewed, made hats, knitted, cooked, sang, painted, photographed, held book groups, hosted speakers; you name it, they did it, and it had managed to appeal to people across all ages and backgrounds.
They were hosting an open day today, to attract new members, show the world what they did, and raise money for some additional kitchen supplies, a few woodworking tools, and a new greenhouse. Guy had paid for and overseen the site’s development, making sure it was fully kitted out and making it feel homely and as far from technology as it was possible to be. The community still benefitted from the odd butler here and there, but generally, the place was run by humans for humans, and to carry out very human activities.
The most powerful part of the project was the relationships people formed. It got those, who would otherwise be isolated, sitting at home watching television, or plugged into a virtual world, out into a community, giving them something meaningful with which to fill their time. Even if all they did was make a couple of cups of tea, chat with a member or two, and sit and read a book, being a part of something bigger than themselves was important. Having other people with whom to share the courgettes they’d personally grown, or hat they’d made, resulted in a sense of achievement and pride that they could never achieve at home, alone. This connection to other people was so powerful, that the health benefits were considerable. Why the UK ever thought the nuclear family was a good idea, Guy would never know.
Guy and Lulu entered the centre’s garden, to be greeted by the happy sight of a large horseshoe of tables, covered with white tablecloths, and an array of craft projects and tasty treats atop them. There was all manner of things for sale: artwork, cakes, vegetables, books, bird boxes, mechanised clocks, and they were doing a roaring trade, the place packed with people. It reminded Lulu of a country village fete, in both setup and atmosphere, and she couldn’t help but feel her spirits lift as she took in the bunting, hanging lights, bales of straw, and smell of barbeque. That was something they still hadn’t cracked, thought Lulu, along with at-home dry cleaning: making the online world smell real.
Guy left Lulu admiring some artwork at one of the tables closest to the entrance, and took to the makeshift stage. It had been constructed by the woodworkers, and, although it looked rickety, he was pleased to find it sturdy underfoot. People crowded round, a hush falling over them as they waited expectantly.
Guy beamed. ‘Hello,’ he said, looking around at the crowd, taking in their faces. ‘For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Guy Strathclyde, and this project is extremely close to my heart. I am delighted to see so many people here today, and so many wonderful stalls filled with so many unique things. I’m particularly excited to sample Mrs Galby’s millionaire’s shortbread; I have it every year and can tell you it’s the best I’ve ever tasted. Mrs Galby, you’ll have a rush on now, so make sure you save me a slice!’ The crowd laughed, and Guy waited for the noise to die down before continuing.
‘When we first started this project, many thought it was a strange thing for someone like me to become involved with. Surely I want to see everyone sitting at home, communicating through technology – preferably my technology!’ Another chuckle from the crowd. ‘But, although I’m more than happy for people to buy the things we create at Cybax, it’s my wish that the technology we sell also be used to enhance real relationships. I want it to free us up from the parts of life we don’t want to be burdened with, so we can spend more time with other people, enjoying the parts of life we love. For me, and I know for many of you here today, community and real in-person relationships are those parts of life I love,’ he said, flicking his eyes towards Lulu. She smiled, feeling her cheeks heat.
‘So, it gives me great pleasure to announce that we’re going to open another centre, just like this one, in York. That will bring the total number of centres to date, to five. And, I might add, there is strong and growing demand for places like this all over the country, so I don’t anticipate York to be the last, not by a long chalk. And, should you wish to, you can also become a member of the centres’ online community. It doesn’t collect any data from users, there are absolutely no adverts, and nothing on there is available to anyone who’s not a member. So, next time someone in York needs to make millionaire’s shortbread to blow one’s socks off, you’ll be able to tell them Mrs Galby’s the lady for the job.’ Guy finished to raucous applause, grinning at the audience, the homebrew beer clearly going down a treat.
Guy came off the stage as the centre’s choir shuffled on. The pianist began with gusto, and the choir started belting out ‘All that Jazz’ from the musical Chicago. Guy was full of energy as he approached Lulu, taking her hand again as the journalists pounced.
‘Mr Strathclyde,’ said a young woman with ginger curls, eying their hands with interest, ‘could we take a photo for the article? Perhaps with Miss Banks?’ She pushed them together and stepped back to take a photo on her smart glasses without waiting for an answer. Guy put an arm around Lulu and she looked up at him in surprise. He looked down and smiled, and she smiled back, neither of them noticing, or caring about, the pack of journalists capturing the moment. They’d be all over the internet in minutes.
* * * * *
Guy looked intently at the lady telling him about her travel agency business. She’d been a teacher, before the standardised AI programme had been brought in, and her job had been one of those made redundant.
She had subsequently travelled the world, using nothing but her UBI to pay for it, visiting all manner of places, and vlogging as she went. She’d garnered a decent following and people had started to approach her, asking her where they should go on their next trip, and she’d been happy to oblige.
As her following grew, she was given free virtual stays in top hotels and resorts across the world, but she found the whole thing sickening. They wanted her to promote their hotels, or attractions, based on nothing more than a virtual tour. She’d found it so impersonal and plastic, that she refused to talk about any of them, instead, only talking about places either she, or someone she knew, had personally visited.
‘Of course,’ she said, Guy nodding along, giving her his full attention, ‘you still need to get someone to play the algorithms for you, you know, so you show up in searches and on social media sites, and in virtual reality rooms. Maybe the kids all know what to do, but we weren’t taught that stuff when we were at school. You have to make sure you appear in the right place at the right time, or something like that, so I just produce the content, and I give it to my daughter to promote online. Not that I really care, I’ve never been one to care about money, or the number of people following me, I just do it because I love it, and it keeps me busy.’
* * * * *
Lulu had graduated to a stall selling artwork, munching on a decadent piece of chocolate rocky road as she meandered her way around the stands. ‘I love your work,’ she said, genuinely, to the man behind the table.
‘Thanks,’ he said cagily, causing Lulu to look up and see why.
‘Where did you find the inspiration for this one?’ she asked, pointing to an abstract seascape at the front of the table.
‘Portsmouth,’ he said monosyllabically, giving her a hostile look.
She was going to let it go and move onto another stall, but knew she’d forever be curious about his hostility if she didn’t ask. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, looking him directly in the eye. ‘Have I done something to offend you?’
‘Ha!’ the man laughed, as though it were obvious what she’d done. ‘Yo
u famous modern artists are all the same.’
‘You don’t like my work?’ she asked, taken aback. ‘That’s why you don’t like me?’ It wouldn’t be the first time, she thought, although she’d assumed it would be more inclusive here than that.
‘That’s a fabrication though, isn’t it? To call it your work?’
Lulu’s temper flared. ‘What did you just say to me?’
‘You know what I mean,’ he shot back.
‘I am entirely responsible for my own work and always have been. I would never take credit for something someone else created.’
‘But it’s fine to take credit for something a robot created on your behalf?’ said the man, crossing his arms firmly in front of him. ‘We, here, take time to hand-paint all of our work. We don’t use AI to help us. We don’t apply effects or instruct robots to paint this or that in our name.’
‘And you think I do?’ asked Lulu, shaking with pent-up fury.
‘You all do,’ he said, as though it were an indisputable fact. ‘And you walk around taking all the credit for something some computer code created.’
‘I have no idea why you think that,’ said Lulu, ‘but you should check your facts; it might prevent you from making false accusations. I have never, and have no intention of ever using robots in my work, at all. My studio is virtually a technology free zone. I paint everything by hand. I use projectors and rulers. Occasionally I use things I’ve printed from the internet; things like news articles that have been written by robots, or artwork that has been created by robots, and I incorporate them into my work. But, if you’d bothered to do any research on me before flinging accusations, you would know that I use these materials to help me comment on how meaningless I think stuff created entirely by computers is.’ She turned her back and went to look for Guy, silently chastising herself for feeling the need to justify her methods to someone as ignorant as him.
* * * * *
Mila and Iva arrived at the community project. They were leaving no stone unturned in their quest to find a new mole; maybe there was a disgruntled member who could tell them something. And Iva wanted to rattle Guy, to show him she was still very much on his case. They walked around the crowded space, looking at the stands, Mila sampling some fudge, which incurred a frown from Iva. Not that she’d ever admit it, but Iva had a lot of respect for Guy, starting a project like this. She thought people needed to spend more time together, doing real things they enjoyed, and Guy had made it happen.
Iva watched as Guy spotted Mila, walking up to her and giving her a kiss on each cheek, her frosty reaction telling him this wasn’t a social visit. ‘Lovely to see you, Mila,’ said Guy, happily, although keeping it business-like. ‘How are you and Iva enjoying the day?’
‘We only just arrived,’ said Mila, officially, ‘but it looks like it’s been a great success. You’ve attracted quite a crowd.’
‘It’s a testament to the dedicated people who run the centre,’ said Guy, matching her tone. ‘They’re the ones who make everything happen and they’ve done a brilliant job.’
‘Guy,’ said Iva, sauntering over to join them, holding out her hand to shake his. ‘How lovely to see you again.’ She held his hand for just a beat too long.
‘Likewise,’ said Guy, taking back his hand. ‘If you’ll excuse me though, I must go and retrieve my millionaire’s shortbread.’ He smiled with cold eyes.
* * * * *
Guy fumed. It was one thing for them to come after him in the corporate world, but they’d crossed a line coming here, trying to imply this project and all the work the members did was somehow tainted.
He was walking towards Mrs Galby’s stand, when a commotion by the entrance caught his attention. A cluster of people was forming around something, and Guy went over to see what was going on, as did Iva and Mila. He worked his way through the crowd, reaching the front to see a butler, one of Cybax’s butlers, sitting on the ground, legs bent up to its chest, rocking back and forth. Guy acted immediately, rushing forward to turn the robot off at its hard switch, then picking it up and carrying it towards the exit, Lulu joining him.
‘You need to say something,’ she whispered, ‘otherwise it looks like you’re trying to hide something, or cover something up.’
Guy nodded. He could practically feel the smart glasses of half the crowd already recording his actions. Some would be live-streaming to news channels already.
He took a deep breath and turned around. ‘Sorry,’ he joked, ‘where are my manners? Leaving without saying goodbye! I’m going to take this butler straight back to Cybax HQ, where I’ll request the investigating team from the Department of Technology join me. Unlike in the other cases of butlers acting strangely, I’m hopeful that I managed to turn this one off in time, meaning we’ll be able to see what, in the code, caused this strange behaviour. I would urge anyone who experiences similar strange behaviour from a butler to immediately do the same.’
Guy was about to leave when an afterthought struck him. ‘Nobody asked the butler to act in this way, did they?’ He said it as though it would be a highly entertaining ruse if they had, but, of course, no one came forward.
* * * * *
Thomas’ brothers, Sam and Ben, had left their parents’ house a week before. They’d been convinced their parents would relent after a few days of cooling off, so had stayed with friends, sleeping on sofas. But, after a week of radio silence, they were starting to realise that maybe they’d misjudged the situation; maybe they were going to have to find somewhere else to live.
‘We could just call them,’ said Ben, as they flicked through apartments for rent on their smart glasses. ‘These places are tiny, and will take up most of our spare UBI. I don’t think we’ll even be able to afford a butler.’
‘We can’t call them,’ said Sam. ‘We’d only be proving them right, showing that we can’t look after ourselves, and we’d end up having to get jobs and give all the money we earn to them. If we’re going to have to get jobs, better to keep the money ourselves.’
‘What’s the point, when we’ll have to spend it on stuff that Mum and Dad normally pay for? It’s not like we’ll have any more disposable income. If anything, we’ll have less,’ said Ben.
‘Look, you can crawl back to Mum and Dad if you want, but I’m not coming with you. Maybe it is time we moved out; it’ll be good to have our own space.’
‘If you say so,’ said Ben, unconvinced, but, as ever, happy to go along with his brother. ‘How about this one?’ He showed Sam a two-bed apartment with a balcony overlooking the river.
‘Done,’ said Sam. ‘I can’t be bothered with any more searching. Phone the agent and tell them we’ll take it.’
‘At least it’s furnished,’ said Ben, ‘but we’ll need to buy bed linen and cutlery and that sort of stuff. How much money do you have in your account?’
‘Nothing,’ said Sam, shrugging. ‘I spent it all on the horses.’
‘Are you kidding? You’re expecting me to cover the whole deposit and pay for everything else as well?’
‘I can take out a loan,’ said Sam, waving his hand in irritation.
‘Are you serious? Haven’t you learnt anything from Mum and Dad’s situation?’
‘They did it over a prolonged period of time,’ said Sam. ‘I only need some money to cover me until my next UBI payment comes in, and that’s in a few days.’
‘Fine,’ said Ben, sulkily. ‘Get the loan. I’ll contact the agent.’
* * * * *
Ben and Sam walked into their new apartment, each with a couple of bags of clothes slung over their shoulders. They put the celebratory beer they’d bought in the kitchen, opened the small, under-counter fridge, and then reality set in.
‘The fridge isn’t working,’ said Ben, frowning.
‘Um,’ said Sam. ‘Where’s a butler when you need one?’
‘We haven’t ordered it yet,’ Ben replied.
‘That’s what we should do then. I’ll order one now, and it’ll be here
by the time we’ve finished our first beer.’
‘Okay,’ said Ben, handing Sam a beer and sitting down on the sofa. ‘There’s no television,’ he said, realising this had been an oversight.
‘Just project something from your glasses,’ said Sam.
‘The quality won’t be anywhere near as good, and it’s hard to message people and project at the same time.’
‘You’ll have to do one or the other then,’ laughed Sam.
Ben huffed. ‘Turn the light on, would you. It’s a bit dingy in here.’
Sam flicked the switch. ‘Not working,’ he said, flicking it back and forth a couple of times to prove the point.
‘Have you ordered the butler?’ asked Ben.
‘Yes. But I’ll see if I can find the circuit board. Maybe the electricity’s off.’
‘Okay,’ said Ben, taking a gulp of his beer.
Sam rummaged around the flat, looking in every cupboard, which didn’t take long, but found nothing. Eventually, he gave up and slumped on the sofa, taking a swig of his brother’s beer. He put his head back, resting it on the sofa, and noticed some boxing above the front door. ‘Ah ha,’ he said, triumphantly, grabbing a chair and climbing up to take a look. ‘Yep,’ he gloated, ‘found it. The electricity’s off.’ He flipped the switch to turn it on, and a voice spoke from the smart metre in the kitchen.
‘UBI reference number, please,’ it said. Sam jumped down, walked the few paces to the kitchen, picked up the smart metre, and told it his reference number. ‘Please hold the scanner up to your face,’ said the voice. Sam did as he was asked, holding the smart metre up so it could take a picture of his face. ‘Thank you,’ said the voice. ‘You have been linked to this address for gas and electricity. Is there anyone you would like to add, to share the bill?’
