by Saul Garnell
Sumeet laughed. “You mean for someone at my rank.”
Ivan waved his hands apologetically. “Don’t take this the wrong way. We have been working together for quite some time and I respect your human intellect.”
“But?” Sumeet prodded.
“But even you must realize that your period of history is unique.”
Sumeet grimaced at the last remark. What did that mean? “Keep going,” he said.
“Even though there have been many technological breakthroughs over the millennia, the advent of Sentient assistance has an effect that could be considered somewhat unpleasant for humans.” Ivan paused for a moment to examine Sumeet’s face. “Well, as long you promise not to get angry. I would say that the evolution of Sentient Beings has diminished the overall need for humans in some cases. New technology has never done that before. In fact, all new technologies up until today have had the opposite effect.”
“The same argument was made about robotics.”
“True.” Ivan nodded while holding up a finger. “However, robotics still had an overall positive effect on GDP and the creation of new products and industries leading to broader labor markets.”
“And that’s stopped?” Sumeet asked.
“The former, yes, but not the latter. And it seems the numbers of jobs purely in the area of Sentient R&D are not adding enough human jobs. Older technologies are being replaced at an alarming pace.
“Why isn’t the unemployment rate capturing this effect more transparently?”
Ivan nodded in strong agreement. “It is to some degree, but decreasing human populations around the globe are countering the negative effects. If both Chindo and the ASPAU had rising populations, the issue would be more pronounced, I believe.”
“Hmm, I see your point. Humans are no longer necessary. Now why would that upset me?” A moment passed before Sumeet laughed to himself.
“Please don’t be sarcastic,” Ivan pleaded. “No human enjoys hearing that sort of comment, but one must conclude this to be true on an objective basis. The only block to greater Sentient involvement is our numbers. Still, if one were to use Moore’s Law as an indicator, one would expect this situation to worsen.”
Sumeet began to fidget in his chair. “Well, this conversation has certainly cheered me up.”
“You’re angry, aren’t you?”
“No, not really. Not anger...”
Ivan looked at Sumeet, trying to glean his true feelings. “Please, don’t get upset about my comments. I wouldn’t normally reveal this opinion to other human colleagues, but since we have developed a relationship based on transparent thought and ideas, I felt you would not see it in a negative way.”
“It’s okay, Ivan. I understand where you’re coming from. I suppose it’s better to understand the situation than to languish in an unrealistic dream world. For the record, I believe what you’re saying seems true, and I suppose there are only two choices. Get some job where Sentients have no influence at all or simply make the best of it. Even if that means taking a back seat for the time being.”
Ivan nodded slowly. “Or fight the system, I suppose. However, you shouldn’t feel your cooperative efforts with Sentients, or me, represent a back seat. I for one, find working with you quite enjoyable.”
Sumeet smiled. Ivan was always kind and complimentary, something that made him feel better, like talking with his close human friends. But Ivan was Sentient, so it seemed ironic in some sense. That was something to think about.
Ivan looked down at his wristwatch. “Oh, my counter has gone off. I really must get to my next meeting. I propose to pick up our conversation and assignment during the next scheduled workshop.”
Noting the time himself, Sumeet realized he needed to leave a bit early. Quickly shutting down, he marched toward the main exit. Near the elevators, rows of translucent wall plates allowed an unfiltered view from the Chindo International Towers, one hundred and twenty seventh floor. It was breathtaking. Sumeet could never quite ignore the grandeur of Bengaluru. The bright azure sky draped over the cityscape. Teaming with pedestrians who, from such a great height, appeared like ants slowly moving about. But maybe that was what annoyed him? Do ants care about their jobs? Why should they? It was interesting how a distant perspective let one see humans differently, and he pondered deeply if this said something about the true nature of man.
“Excuse me, sir. Do you require my services?” the elevator asked in polite English.
Sumeet looked over and saw that the door was open and waiting patiently for him to enter. He broke off his gaze and stepped inside. He was the only passenger.
“Ground floor?”
“Yes, please,” Sumeet said, without paying much attention.
The elevator began its decent. “If you don’t mind my observation,” the elevator said, “it is a little early for you today.”
Sumeet realized after a moment that the comment was directed at him. “Uhm...pardon?”
“Sorry to bother you, but I was just observing that you don’t normally leave this early,” repeated the elevator.
“Yes, well I have some dinner plans today.”
“Let me know if you need any restaurant recommendations. I have an up-to-date list of Bengaluru’s best,” said the elevator cheerfully.
Sumeet just shook his head. “Thanks, but I already have enough issues picking one. I can’t afford to start a war by changing the venue now. Anyway, I can make my own decision.”
“I understand.”
Sumeet looked up in surprise at the control panel. “You have never spoken to me before. Why today?”
“I am programmed to interact with people when the probability of assisting is higher than normal,” said the elevator. “I am sorry I could not help you, but I look forward to another opportunity.”
“I see,” Sumeet said.
“Is there anything else I can possibly assist you with?” the elevator asked with slight trepidation. “I have other possible locations you might be interested in: clubs, bars, dance bars, doctors, counselors. My lists are extensive.”
Sumeet looked at the panel again and sighed softly. There it was again, negative feelings about something. What was it? For some odd reason, he just couldn’t put his finger on it.
The doors opened and the grand central hall of the Chindo Towers faced him. Sumeet looked again at the panel. “Take care,” he said.
“Thank you very much, and please enjoy your dinner,” the elevator said.
Sumeet walked toward the underground, but after a few steps looked back at the elevator, which had now closed on its way to get others. Shaking his head, he continued on toward the exit while scolding himself.
Why on earth did he talk to elevators?
Chapter 3—Moloch
He has no time to be anything but a machine.
—Henry David Thoreau
Weeds grew unchecked against the Hohokam Motel’s aboveground parking lot, giving it a seedy worn-out appearance. Located near Casa Grande’s Route 10 junction, it catered to the lowly end of society. Only basic amenities were offered. A small chair and foam bed, four vacuum-sealed soundproof walls, DNA-proof showers, and a quantum encrypted anonymous proxy communication system.
Swiping his cash card at his room’s entry, Flip Weebles waited for activation.
“Please enter voice identification,” the door instructed.
“Anonymous,” Flip responded dryly.
“Your payment and voice identification are complete. Please enter at your convenience and enjoy your stay,” said the door, as its bolt clacked open.
Entering, he laid his single duffle bag on the worn carpeting and sat down. The thick foam engulfed him slowly. He then breathed deeply, and took in the room’s lingering scent of disinfectant and rug shampoo. Well, it would have to do. The room wasn’t anything fancy, but it offered security. Quantum calls for a reasonable price. That, he reminded himself, was what he wanted.
Remaining still in the soft foam he tried relaxin
g, until his anxiety made him look for some form of preparation. With the few remaining minutes he combed his hair and desperately tried to look presentable. It was hopeless. After spending all day in the sewers, his grooming efforts were of little use. Laborers like himself were perpetually slathered in grime and nano-enriched agents. And though modern facilities were controlled and clean, the old subterranean sewers were a different story. Mold was the primary culprit. The tunnels were infested and no amount of nano-laced scrub would change that.
His call would arrive any minute, but Flip’s mind kept wandering. Thoughts about his work day kept rising up to taunt him. It wasn’t that he was ill treated. Software-driven management observed politeness and superficial consideration to the utmost. Accordingly, it was difficult to identify what angered him. It was something hidden, smoldering in the underbrush of his mind. An enslavement, yet not one that tormented him conspicuously. A more subtle variety that lay obscured in the blurry activities of work and life, activities that had become monotonous, bromidic, and most of all unfulfilling.
There wasn’t even a human to discuss things with. Just the system and workflows. An endless stream of senseless workflows ordering him off to repair one thing or another. The affected person was irrelevant. They only wanted to have the job done. It was degrading, and he had come to see himself as nothing more than a flesh-made bipedal crawler, with natural bone frame and bio-electric motors. True appreciation was unattainable. For God’s sake, he fumed, not even a human pat on the shoulder for helping someone out.
Flip looked down, and realized that he’d been chewing his fingernails hard, a bad habit that he was advised to avoid. At least that’s what the Sentient psychologist had recommended. Making friends requires one to abandon antisocial behavior. That advice rang through his skull as he remembered the other topic he wanted to bring up during the call. It was something that had been on his mind for some time, but he was not quite sure how to express himself.
Before he could consolidate his mixed emotions, the screen chimed. Sitting up straight, he futilely patted down his hair one last time.
“Hello? It’s me,” Flip sputtered nervously.
The flexi screen remained silent while an anonymous proxy instantiated. After a few interminable seconds, an avatar’s face appeared. It was Ozwald Norman Kan, his contact. But Flip had no idea if that was his real name. He assumed otherwise.
Clean shaven with a long black mono-tail perfectly set, Ozwald’s face appeared like an eerie doppelganger. This was always the case, but even after many calls, talking to someone who looked identical to himself was unnerving.
“Are we ready?” said the avatar, in a voice only slightly lower than Flip’s.
“Yes, it’s all set,” he answered. “Your instructions were flawless. I introduced the modified driver into the valve. The plumbers did a full diagnostic and checksum. They found nothing.”
“Good,” exclaimed Ozwald. “During the next refueling, then, the virus will be uploaded.”
“There will be no problems as long as your update works.”
“Not to fear. It will. And when it does, our first milestone will have been achieved.” There was a pause. “You should be proud, very proud.”
Flip leaned back and sank into the chair. “I feel proud, but...”
Flip hesitated. He had so much he wanted to say.
“Yes? What is it?”
Flip looked up sheepishly and then shrugged. “I kinda thought...well, I was thinking that if we keep going like this, it might be nice to meet in person. A kind of get together.”
The avatar stared back, not quite sure what to make of Flip’s statement. A short pause ensued as Flip worried about his next words. Sweating profusely, he tugged at his dampened shirt.
“You mean non-virtual space?”
“Yes,” Flip said hesitantly.
Ozwald sighed. “That’s not going to be possible. It would be dangerous for both of us.”
Flip moved closer to the screen in a vain attempt at intimacy. “But...but we are so much alike. We both want to change things. To kill the machine that enslaves us. To free mankind.”
Looking back sympathetically, the avatar spoke like a parent reassuring his child. “We both wish that, and one day it’ll become reality. You’re helping bring an end to the tyranny at this very moment.”
“Then why not meet? I am sure we could find something in common.” Flip searched around for something to say, his mind raced. “I like Darwin Aquariums. Maybe we could set up a tank. Modify a few lifeforms and see if they evolve. Or something like that.”
There was no reaction. Flip looked hurt and tried to think of something better to suggest. Nothing came to mind as mild panic began to set in. He’d screwed up his one chance.
Ozwald nodded and smiled reassuringly. “Yes, I know how you feel. We both share a devout hatred of the society we live in. The Union and its oppressive regulations, and Sentients who impose authority via a corrupt and unjust system. It’s natural for us to form a bonding friendship, and we have.”
Flip eyes sparked with hope. “Yes, that’s right! You understand.”
“But right now it’s not possible. We must make sacrifices. Even simple things...like Darwin Aquariums.”
Flip sunk back into the foam chair silently. His face expressed inner feelings of dismal isolation. Looking forward to this meeting for some time, he imagined having a new friend to bond with. Those expectations now lay shattered before him.
“It’s not personal. I really like you, Flip...really!” Ozwald said, looking on tenderly. “If this were a regular situation, we would be together. Like real friends.”
“Friends? You mean it?”
“Of course! How many of these sessions have we talked about your personal issues? How many times have we discussed intimate stuff? Like the time your girlfriend left you?”
“Lots of times,” Flip breathed softly.
“And when your mom got sick and passed away?”
“Yeah, you helped me back then...”
“That’s right, and who introduced you to Low-Carb Buddhism? Took the time to help you get back in shape? Only friends do that sort of thing. We’re friends, aren’t we?”
“Yes.”
Ozwald expressed mild contentment. And Flip wondered if there was hope for shoring up the conversation. Unsure how to proceed, Flip forced a smile onto his dry lips. The air seemed hotter, and he ignored panging thirst, waiting instead on words, which like an oasis offered liberation from a dry and soulless wasteland.
Ozwald said, “The world is full of people who say they have our best interests in mind, but we both know that’s a lie. Only we can help ourselves by helping each other. Relying on the system is pointless, right?”
Flip nodded innocently.
“If we break protocol, it’ll put us both in danger. They might catch on. I would never want you to get hurt, Flip. You mean too much to me, and our cause. When we emerge from the bondage of this self-made asylum, people will look for their heroes. They’ll want to know who saved them. We can’t put all that at risk now can we?”
Flip looked down, wiping a tear from his eye. It was a tender scene, not to be disturbed by undue gestures or rushed conversation. Ozwald knew exactly what to do. Pausing, he looked on quietly until Flip had fully regained his composure.
“Even though we can’t meet,” Ozwald went on reassuringly, “we still can be virtual friends. Why don’t we use the extra time to talk over things we both care about? For instance, the books I suggested. Did you read any of them?”
They were still in his duffle bag. Flip had forgotten about them, and he reached over to grab his reader.
“I have them here. Intended to do some reading the other day, but I was working late in Phoenix. Didn’t have time.”
“Well, that’s okay. We’ve got time now,” Ozwald said enthusiastically. “How about some poetry? Did you look at Ginsberg?”
Rummaging through his tablet, Flip paged quickly through his
reading list. Stopping, he looked up with squinted eyes.
“’Howl’?”
“It’s his greatest work,” Ozwald explained. “My personal favorite.”
Flip looked down and began to slowly read.
“I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked...”
The text seemed alien at first, but soon permeated him with feelings of elation. Flip didn’t know how to react. These words, the words of a poet now dead for almost one hundred years, made him feel strange, like he’d been kicked in the stomach by some unknown force or animal. A feeling that, for unexplainable reasons, gave meaning to his unfulfilling life.
“Wow, I can’t believe this was written so long ago. It feels like...like it could have been written last week.”
Nodding contentedly, Ozwald said, “That’s what truth feels like. When you hear or see it, you know in your heart that it’s right. An axiom of nature. I have read that poem over a thousand times, and it never loses my fascination. Especially when it talks about Moloch.”
“Moloch?” Flip questioned. “What’s Moloch?”
Ozwald did not answer at first. Instead, he slowly looked upwards. Closing his eyes, he spoke with an emotional timbre that demonstrated personal ecstasy of a religious nature.
“Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!”
Flip just looked back intently. Clearly the verse was a mystery to him. But that didn’t matter. The friendship he so desperately wanted was about to unfold. Like a rose, sweet aromas filled his nostrils. Yes, this felt right. There was no going back now. This is what he sought his entire life.
“Just keep reading,” Ozwald urged. “We have a wonderful night before us.”
New York City: 1949
New York State Psychiatric Institute
From his fifth floor window on 168th street, Allen gazed tranquilly at the surrounding buildings. The recreation room, as it was called, was decorated to help induce some degree of calm upon the fragile mental state of patients. Still, it appeared more like an upscale prison. The walls were liberally decorated with faded pastel colors, only to be offset by the hue of rusted steel that covered all exits and windows. Looking about periodically, he saw other patients trying their best to entertain themselves. Some slouched over rickety tables playing board games. Others, with pencils and paper, were busy scribbling something that, according to the more vocal patients, were manuscripts of their next great work. Mixed into this euphony, a radio played Nat King Cole’s rendition of “Nature Boy,” a song Allen tried to make out as best he could over the room’s ambient noise.
