Surplus Population
A Short Story by P.A. Tennant
The wind was brutal. Cold enough to force the breath from his lungs and make him gasp, as if he were running a race, rather than just limping along a deserted city street.
The wind was uncaring, unfeeling. It blew from the north across the frozen lake, picking up frigid moisture, before funneling between buildings, gaining speed as it channeled down narrow streets and alleyways.
The wind was ambivalent. It swept past the shiny high rises, with their weather-proofed and quadruple-paned windows, with the same ferocity that it wound its way through the lower streets and their boarded-up businesses and abandoned tenements.
The rich had no reason to be out today. It was Sunday, a day dedicated to play, spent with family around glowing electric fires meant to resemble the burning of long forgotten trees. The view from the upper floors was magnificent, the lake an endless horizon of snow and ice. Beautiful, as long as you could view it from afar.
Jonathan Kendrick had no use for Sundays. His family was long gone. Electric fires were a luxury not meant for the likes of him. He trudged along the street, his thin brown coat pulled tightly across bony shoulders, arms wrapped across a ribcage that seemed to rattle with every fresh gust of wind. The dirty scarf around his face did little to ease the chill and his teeth chattered, despite his best efforts to control himself.
There was nothing but the wind to keep him company. No cars, no people. The wind whistled through the boards over the closed-up shops. It rattled the steel cage in front of the Government run bodega as he stumbled past. A sign taped to the dirty window announced yet another food pellet shortage. There was an abundant supply of crickets, but ever since the bots had been allowed to unionize, pellet delivery had been intermittent.
Whenever a gust died and left his ears, they were filled with an electric hum. The infernal, never ending, electric hum that filled the air. It was inescapable. He preferred the noise of the wind. The bone rattling, teeth chattering, wind. Anything but that wretched hum.
Silently, he cursed George Westinghouse. And Thomas Edison, too, for that matter. It was here, just a few miles away, that Westinghouse had finally defeated Edison. Alternating current had powered the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair, proving its superiority, and ultimately making its way into every home in America. It was a story that he’d been taught as a child, and that he himself taught for many years. A staple of Chicago history. Technology leading the way to a brighter future. He scoffed at the unintended pun.
It was a good story, and something for Chicagoans to be proud of. Their place in the history of great technological advances secured. His students used to laugh when they discussed the naysayers of the day, how electricity would collapse the economy and destroy the world order. How could people be so ignorant? Well, it only took 140 years for them to be proved right. Who’s laughing now?
Oil lamps had given way to electric light bulbs, and civilization never looked back. Power companies and their owners grew rich. More and more goodies and gadgets and gizmos found their way into homes. But it was never enough. There was money to be made, and gadgets to be had. As the gizmos became more advanced, they needed more power. And more power. Until the power and the goodies became more important than the people who made them and used them.
As soon as the Government made it illegal for private citizens to own cars, it was a simple matter to run power lines down empty city streets. There was no place to go, and no reason to go there. Poles erupted from crumbled blacktop, where rusty Chevys and Fords used to roam, and kids had chased one another in the summer heat. Transmission lines now swayed in the wind, electrons hurrying to power the latest gadgets and gizmos, and keep what was left of the populace docile.
He passed what was once a woman’s clothing store, planks nailed up where mannequins used to model the latest fashions behind gleaming windows. Jonathan recalled the owner, a slightly pudgy, but nonetheless lovely, woman who used to clean those windows every morning. Fastidious, he used to think, as he’d walk past in the morning, coffee in hand. They’d smile and wave, exchange pleasantries. That was all gone now. No one left to shop, and no need for shops.
Purple light leaked out between the wooden slats that had replaced those windows, the glow from the VR headsets of the squatters who lived there now. Escapees, he called them. Unwilling, or unable, to face this new life, they chose to live inside themselves. ‘A better world awaits’ was the tagline from the Government.
Free VR for everyone, just another benefit from this brave new world. A better world. Never mind the bodies wasting away, and brains turning to mush. The entertained didn’t riot, or complain, or revolt. Especially when they weren’t even on the same planet. They were healthy and happy somewhere else, and when their real bodies gave out, the Government was there to cart them off to the incinerators. Hail, Caesar, and his virtual bread and circuses. Without the bread, of course.
Jonathan had tried his best to teach his students about the Caesars of the world, old and new. Those who would listen. No one knew history anymore, and certainly didn’t care. History was what the sims said it was. Any malnourished kid could go into the grid and conquer Cleopatra. Who needed history? Or reality?
But, perhaps he was too much of a cynic, or a snob. He’d been accused of being both often enough. His steadfast refusal to even try the VR hadn’t made him popular. Not in the neighborhood, and not with the local officials. Lin wouldn’t hear of it, and he couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing her. Even in absentia.
Lin was a purist when it came to escapism. Books had worked for centuries as a means to escape, with the added benefit of educating, and expanding one’s perspective. He could hear her waxing poetic on the virtues of books. And not just any book. It had to be the printed word, no devices or audiobooks for her. No, his wife was a true believer in words. Or, she had been, rather. All she ever really wanted was to teach, to help children learn how to read, and to appreciate the gift of stories.
She herself had been his gift. His greatest gift. She would read aloud to him in the evenings, and then they’d dream about the places they’d go, the people they’d meet. Like everything else, that was just a faded memory now.
His toe caught a lifted section of the broken sidewalk, and he stumbled forward, arms outstretched, waiting for the fall. After a few faltering steps he managed to right himself. He leaned against the brick wall, heart thumping. That damned left foot, always dragging. A fall like that at his age could’ve killed him. He started to laugh, and tears welled up in his eyes.
Pushing himself away from the wall, he took a step, and then realized where he was. He pressed his fingers against the cold glass, one of the few windows left in this part of town. This had been their favorite bookstore. They’d spent hours here on the weekends, browsing, or sitting in the cushy chairs to read. There’d been café chairs and tiny tables on the sidewalks. Over coffee they’d talk about what they’d found, what they’d read. Immersed in each other.
He could picture the displays behind the glass. The owners always mixed the old with the new. Putting classics out as if they were newly printed, something Jonathan had always appreciated. He was both a student and a teacher of the classics, and had a fondness for the great Russian and English writers of the 19th century. Dostoevsky and Dickens being favorites.
Lin loved American writers. Well, she loved everything, if we’re being honest, but tended towards Americans. Occasionally, the owners would let the two of them do readings. Back there, in the corner. At Christmastime, Lin would sit on a stool in a cozy sweater and read aloud O. Henry’s “The Gift of the Magi,” one of her all-time favorites. The kids would love it. Then Jonathan would settle in and read “A Christmas Carol.” Dickens and his old friend Scrooge.
The kids would snicker when he’d do voices for each character. Especially, gruff and nasty old Scrooge. “Are there no free VR headsets?” “Are the virtual prisons still operating per law?” “Are there no death pods?”
His fingers squeaked against the glass as his hand fell to his side. The books and the coffee bar were gone, replaced by sterile looking tables hosting the latest in VR tech. Free to any citizen who wanted to travel to far off lands or better times. The lessons of industrious spirits, who could accomplish so much in a single night, were long forgotten. He turned away.
Behind him he could still see purple light emanating between gaps in the wood. How many souls were in there, oblivious to reality, just waiting to die? Old Scrooge would be pleased. Surplus population, indeed. Jonathan grimaced and crossed the street, head bent forward against the wind, and he felt what little hair was left on his head prickle and stand up as he passed beneath the power lines.
A lone storefront stood open on the corner of two cross streets. This used to be prime territory back in the day. A general store that eventually morphed into an electronics store, that in turn ended up specializing in just phones. Now, a neon retro-looking sign announced the presence of the Free Clinic. His destination for the day. Perhaps, if all went according to plan, his final.
Behind clean bright glass, free of bullet holes and duct taped flyers, were pictures of smiling men and women with acres of white teeth. Everyone was dressed in a kaleidoscope of officious looking medical uniforms, some adorned with stethoscopes and clipboards. In the center was a smiling, raven haired young woman, happily holding a dripping syringe. Under her, block letters pronounced FREE VACCINATIONS.
Jonathan pushed against the door just as a gust roared up the street. The door flew inwards and he sprawled into the entryway, dirt and scraps of paper swirling around his head. He struggled to his knees, then grabbed the door handle to pull himself to his feet. The wind continued to howl. Leaning into the door, he used his slight weight to push it closed, the wind protesting louder as the gap between door and frame narrowed until it was finally snuffed out with a snap.
He stood crumpled against the door, panting from the exertion. Sharp pain made him keenly aware of where bony knees had hit the hard, tiled entryway. His hands hurt too, and he looked at his palms. Not bleeding, but bruises would soon form. If he lived that long. He suddenly felt like crying. To just get back down on the floor, curl up into the smallest ball, and never get up again.
“Good morning!” came a cheery voice from behind him. “How may I help you?”
He pushed himself away from the door and tried to compose himself. Dirty fingers rubbed his eyes, and he dragged a sleeve across his nose. He looked at the streak of snot on his coat sleeve and shrugged inwardly. How much worse could it get?
He turned slowly to find a smiling young woman standing behind him. No sterile lab coat, no stethoscope or clipboard. She wore a fine hand-crocheted sweater that must have cost $20,000.
He remembered long ago his grandmother in a chair that rocked. A front porch. His grandfather sipping lemonade from a jar and telling stories of how he and grandma had first met all those years ago. Before everything changed. Grandma shaking her head and clucking, but still smiling, the long silver hook weaving in and out of the cream-colored yarn on her lap. Never slowing, never stopping. There was a dog on the porch next to her, stretched out on its back, and the hum of insects filled the air. Cicadas, he thought. He hated the sound then, but would gladly trade it now for the electric hum that never let him sleep.
“Sir?” snapped him out of it.
There was no hum inside here. Certainly, no insects, not in this shining, sterile, testament to Government efficiency. The electric hum from outside was muffled by the thick insulation in the walls, another sign this was not your average office. Soft music was playing in the background, leaking out from unseen speakers. It was nondescript, a meandering tuneless tune. Meant to soothe, but boring, with no heart.
“Sir?” she said again, and stepped closer.
She was pretty, he thought. Like his Lin was once. Long ago, before. The smile seemed genuine, and creased her eyes. They were kind eyes. One of those do-gooders, come from on high to save humanity, those they called less fortunate. Those that had had their lives and their dignity stolen from them.
She took another step closer, still smiling. Draped gracefully from small hips was a long skirt, under which she wore high heeled boots which clomped on the tile floor. The sound seemed to register with him more than her voice and his eyes found hers.
He felt ashamed standing in front of this pretty, well dressed, young lady. She was old enough to be the daughter he never had, but had dreamed of often. He felt his ordinariness on him, hung like an ill-fitting suit. He looked like so many now. The dirty threadbare coat, which had fit nicely at one time, years ago, now hung from stooped shoulders. A hand slowly moved up and pulled the scarf away from his face. The hollowed-out cheeks, the grey skin. The look that her kind liked to call The Crickets.
“Perhaps you’d like to sit down?” she said, motioning to a nearby sofa. He reached inside his coat and pulled out a wrinkled, greasy, pamphlet.
“Is this true?” he brandished the paper in front of her.
“Yes,” she beamed, “it’s all true.”
“And it’s free?”
“Oh, yes. There’s no cost to you at all.”
He scoffed at that. “No cost,” he muttered. “You people have cost me everything.”
“If you’d like to sit, we could discuss the details,” again motioning to the sofa.
He took a step forward and she gently took his arm in her hand. Surreptitiously she raised her right hand to her face, as if in thought, or perhaps out of concern. It was an old trick, the menthol lotion on her knuckles helped make the smell more bearable.
He sat down lightly on the hard couch, and she took up position across from him. He ran his sleeve across his nose again and looked at her, blinking slowly.
“Now,” she said, “my name is Jackie. And you’re interested in our Final Rest Plan?”
He waved the brochure. “If that’s what you call it, yes.”
“It’s all very simple,” she said, “and we have the facilities right here, to take care of your every need.”
“How… long,” he stammered. “I mean, how does it work?”
“It’s all quite marvelous and wonderful. Our scientists have positively outdone themselves. First, we’ll upload your consciousness to the computers in the data center. I’m sure you’ve seen it. The beautiful new facility on the shore of the lake, by the power plant. May I read your digital ID?”
He nodded, still blinking slowly, and held out his arm to her. Jackie scanned and pressed a finger to her temple.
“Now, Jonathan. Or, should I call you Jon? No? Alright, Jonathan, have any of your loved ones preceded you into the new Eden?”
He shook his head.
“That’s fine,” she said. “Is there anyone you’d like to have there?”
“My wife, Lin. Lindsay. I brought a photo.” He reached into his coat pocket.
“Oh, no need,” Jackie said. She turned her head slightly upwards. “Sara, do we have any records on a Lindsay Kendrick?”
“Lindsay Kendrick,” said a soft female voice. A picture appeared mid-air, next to Jackie. Jonathan gasped, his mouth hanging open and he clutched at his chest.
“Lin…” he moaned.
“Lindsay Kendrick,” the voice said again. “Born 2004, Chicago, Illinois. Deceased 2065, Chicago, Illinois. No children. Parents and siblings are all deceased. Only living relative is her husband, Jonathan Kendrick. She was a teacher in the public schools until…”
“I know what happened to her career,” Jonathan growled angrily.
“That’s enough Sara,” said Jackie. The voice stopped, but the picture remained floating unnaturally, the pixels blinking, but her eyes blank. It was Lin as a young woman, maybe early 30’s, her mouth turned up in that sweet half-smile she had.
He remembered that smile. How she could look at you with just a slight upturn of those full lips, and those smiling eyes. She could melt your heart in an instant. But not this dead thing, this rendered approximation. This was nothing.
“You can take your wife with you,” Jackie continued cheerfully, “even if she’s not already there. You’ll have all your own memories, plus we’ll pull all available information on her to help create a totally authentic version of her for you. You can choose where you want to go, where you want to be, wherever you want to live. You can stay in Chicago or go to the Riviera. Live by the ocean, or in a mountain cabin, or even live in a boat on the ocean. That’s actually a very popular choice. We can look at all the options when we fill out the forms.”
Jonathan pulled his eyes away from the picture that glimmered lifelessly in the air beside Jackie. Staring off into the distance, he spoke softly, “A totally authentic version.”
Jackie sat patiently. After what seemed like a respectful silence, she cleared her throat and he looked up, returning from wherever he’d journeyed.
“What about…” he said, and laid his hand on his chest.
“There’s no pain, I assure you. You’ll go to sleep here, and wake up in Paradise, next to your beautiful wife. Like I’ve said, you can choose wherever you go, but you can also choose when. Any period in history, any age you choose. You can be with her as you remember her when she was 20, 30, 40, whatever you like.”
“But what about this,” he said, touching his chest once again.
“Once your consciousness is uploaded, your body will be taken offline. What remains will be cremated and disposed of in a non-carbon producing incinerator in an environmentally friendly way. Since you have no living relatives, any tokens you may have will be returned to the state. Your apartment will be cleaned. Any valuables – metals and such – that can be recycled, will be. The rest will be incinerated in a similar manner, and your apartment readied for a new occupant.”
“New occupant?” he said. “From where? There’s hardly anyone left.”
“That’s not really a concern, I’m just telling you what the process is. What I’ve described is what will be done. Any new resident in your old apartment would be handled by someone else, I really have no insight into that. A different department, you see.” She smiled through the entire, well-rehearsed, speech.
He nodded slowly.
Jackie reached across and put a hand on his knee. He jumped at the contact, and startled, she pulled her hand back. He rubbed his knee as if he’d been stung by a bee. It had been months since he’d talked in person to another human, but touched? How long? Years?
“I’m terribly sorry,” she said, “I just want to put your mind at ease. We’ve had so many satisfied people who’ve chosen this path. It’s really best for all concerned. You win, society wins, the planet wins. What could be better?”
He looked at her. So young. So pretty. So full of promise. Not unlike his Lin had been. So full of life when they were young. Where did that life go? That promise?
The children they never had. The careers cut short. Hers, barely before it even started. The plans they’d had for a house, a home, for travel, adventure. All gone. Swallowed up by a giant humming insect with purple glowing eyes. His shoulders drooped even more. He was just tired. So tired. His bones, his back, but mostly his heart. Just so tired. He’d be content to go to sleep and not wake up.
But this. Was this the right way? To let the people that had already taken everything to take the last scraps left?
The door chimed, the wind howled, and he felt cold against his exposed neck. Jonathan looked over his shoulder to see the back of a figure struggling to close the door, as he had barely minutes ago. The figure finally snuffed the wind out and paused, resting against the door from the exertion.
“Good morning, sir!” called out Jackie cheerily from her perch on the sofa. “Please have a seat anywhere, I’ll be with you shortly.”
Jonathan looked at the man, who stared back. Grimy clothes, parchment thin grey skin stretched tight over cheekbones. Dead eyes staring out of hollowed out eye sockets. And a glossy brochure clutched tightly in his left hand. Despair so thick it covered him like cheap cologne. Jonathan slumped slightly, and exhaustion overwhelmed him.
He turned back to the flickering, disembodied pixels of his wife. If there was even a chance to see Lin. See her the way she was in his memories. To hold her again, even if it was just a bunch of ones and zeroes, he wouldn’t care. Would he even know? It didn’t matter. To see her. To hold her. To kiss those magnificent lips. To see her eyes shine and to hear her laugh. Oh, how he longed for her laugh.
“OK,” he said, “what do I have to do?”
“Excellent!” she exclaimed. “Now, let’s get you taken care of so I can help this next gentleman. Sara, please bring up the necessary forms so we can get Mr. Kendrick on his way to his Final Rest.” She leaned forward, “I’m sorry about this but we just can’t escape Government bureaucracy. Let’s get started, shall we?”
He sat back in the pod, placing his feet just so, as instructed. Gone were the dirty clothes he came in with, all likely burnt to ash by now. He was in bright white pants and shirt, made from some sort of recycled paper. He worried he might tear it as he settled in, placing the back of his head against the headrest.
“Well, why should I care?” he thought. “I’ll be dead soon,” and his heart skipped a beat.
The pod rotated backwards and now he was looking into a bright LED light overhead. He could make out Jackie to his left, smiling down at him. She reached in and took his hand in hers. He squeezed her hand, not startled this time, thrilling at the human contact.
“It was a pleasure to meet you Mr. Kendrick,” she said, squeezing his hand in return. “I do hope you have a lovely reunion with your wife. She sounds absolutely wonderful, and the location of your Final Rest sounds just as lovely. I’m sure you both will be very happy there.”
Giving his hand a final squeeze, she withdrew hers, and then placed it gently on his arm. She leaned in, smiling, and said softly, “On behalf of the Government, and the planet, I thank you for this decision. Best wishes for a long and happy life with your Lindsay.” Her toothy smile disappeared, and seconds later he heard a door close.
This was followed by a loud metallic click and he lifted his head to see shining metal clamps close across his wrists and ankles. He tested them and found himself unable to move. Panic began to rise.
“Hello Mr. Kendrick,” said a now familiar soft female voice. “I can tell from your elevated heart rate that you are concerned. Please be assured that those restraints are only a precaution and used solely for your safety.”
He heard a whirring and then felt pressure as a rubber tube was wound around his forearm.
“Ow!” he exclaimed, raising his head again.
More whirring as a robotic arm appeared holding a large needle attached to a tube that disappeared over the edge of the pod and out of his line of sight.
“You’re going to feel a slight pinch,” said Sara. “This won’t hurt a bit.”
Searing pain shot up his arm as the needle was thrust into a bulging vein.
“Ow! Hey! Son of a…” Another restraint grabbed at his forehead, pulling his head forcibly onto the headrest.
“For your own safety, please lie still and do not struggle.”
He watched as fluid appeared in the tube at the edge of the pod, and moved silently towards the point where it entered his body.
“Wait, wait! I changed my mind! What about my memories? You’re supposed to get my memories! We were going to live on the coast. Maine, in the summer. Perpetual summer, and lobster and blueberries. Oh, Lin! Lin! I love you! I’m so sorry…”
He was crying now, hot tears rolling down the side of his face. He felt a shock of cold hit the vein in his arm, and the burning cold spread upward, into his shoulder. Burning, numbing as it passed through his body. A cold fire, cauterizing the nerves in his extremities as it passed through his groin, into his legs, his feet, and then began to work into his core. Soon, the cold reached his heart, and it began to slow.
So cold, he thought. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Still the tears ran. He fought to keep his eyes open, but he couldn’t. They were steel. Granite. Lead. Heavier, and heavier, they became and finally, he could keep them open no more. All that remained was blackness. The inside of eyelids.
As his brain became starved of oxygen and cells began to die, he saw her. Lin at 20, smiling. A flowered dress, spinning in dappled sunlight, the dress rising in a fan about her knees. Falling into the grass, him toppling onto her. Lin at 30 in a classroom of students she loved, reading and more laughter. Reaching down to touch his face, fingers tracing his cheek, caressing his lips. Lin at 40, in bed, unable to move, the depression seizing her heart, her will, her soul. Him sitting on the bed beside her, crying. Lin at 50, in a wheelchair. Lin at 60, in a coffin.
“Oh, my love,” he thought, “will I ever see you again?” His heart gave one final, weak pulse, and stopped.
He awoke in a windowless white room. Soft light surrounded him, and he could see a bare ceiling above him, empty walls around. He blinked slowly, trying to remember where he was, what he was supposed to be doing. Rolling to his side, he pushed himself up and a bolt of pain shot through his head, and a wave of nausea swept over him. He closed his eyes and sat, breathing through his nose until it passed.
His knees were the first thing he noticed. Bony. Scarred. Attached to legs that were much too thin, feet with veins that looked like a relief map of a complex river system.
No. This isn’t what was supposed to be. He held up his hands. Even worse than his feet. Felt the wisps of hair on his head, the sunken chest, the xylophone rib cage.
No. This wasn’t the thirty-year-old body that he’d ordered. This wasn’t Maine. This was, what?
He pushed himself off the slab, stood shakily for a moment, closing his eyes so he couldn’t see his naked self. Another moment passed, more nose breathing, and then he staggered to the door.
Outside was a long corridor, extending beyond sight in either direction. Endless rows of white doors, all closed.
He stepped into the corridor, self-conscious about his nakedness, but desperate to find out where he was. Turning right he shuffled down the hallway, past closed doors with no handles. The door shut behind him with a soft click, and an unseen motor seated the deadbolt into place.
He blinked and found himself in a great hall. Or he thought it was a great hall. There were no discernable walls or ceiling. In front of him was a queue, thousands of people in a line that extended beyond his sight. He took his place at the end of the line.
The people before him were all naked. Men, women, mostly old, but some young. The ravages of age, disease, and malnutrition were evident. He looked down, self-consciously, at his own emaciated frame and his hands instinctively covered himself.
Voices murmured in front of him and he caught snippets of conversation.
“Excuse me,” he said aloud, to no one in particular. “What is this place? Where are we? Is this the Final Rest simulation? Do we need to…?”
His voice trailed off as faces turned to him, and he saw looks of desperation and extreme sadness that he knew immediately must mirror his own.
“New guy wants to know what to do,” he heard a voice from farther up. More faces turned towards him, and he searched them, looking for some clue, some reassurance. A woman turned and he caught her eye, his chest tightening. “Lin,” he breathed. Even as he said it, he realized it wasn’t her. Couldn’t possibly be her. Not here.
“But, this isn’t right. This isn’t what it’s supposed to be. They promised,” his voice trailed off again. A woman in front of him turned, so thin he thought he could see the person behind her. Her body seemed to have shrunk in on itself. All that remained was hip bones, clavicles and ribs.
“They promised?” she scoffed. “When did a promise from them ever mean anything to the likes of us?”
“But, what are we waiting for? What’s this line for?”
“You’ll find out when we do, I suppose. This sure ain’t no simulation. Nothing like the VR, I’ll tell you that.” She scoffed again, “I spent long enough in it, I should know.”
His hands flew to his head and he grabbed whatever hair he could find. Moaning, he bent forward, the moan turning into a wail.
“I need to go,” he cried, “I need to warn others! I need to go back!”
“There’s nothing to go back to, sweetie. This is right where they wanted us. There’s nothing here. There’s nothing there. This is all there is for us.”
A man next to her turned, speaking to no one in particular, “No, this is no simulation. They’d never spend the money. Not on something like this. Maybe this is hell? Us all standing in line, waiting for something that will never come? I don’t know. Maybe we’ll never know.”
“I have to go back,” said Jonathan. “There are others…” His voice trailed off as a figure emerged from the corridor behind them. He recognized him instantly as the man from the clinic, looking about with dazed, despairing eyes.
“No,” whispered, Jonathan. “I just wanted to see her again. They promised…”
The woman scoffed, spitting some final words as she turned away from Jonathan, “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”
Copyright 2026 Paul A. Tennant
My wife and I were sitting at the kitchen table, discussing the latest in AI news. The main topic was the projected decimation of the job market, and the ensuing loss of purpose. What happens when millions (billions?) of people no longer have purpose? No jobs, no means to provide for their families. The standard answer from the tech community is UBI, Universal Basic Income, doled out from a generous Government to provide for basic subsistence. To me, this sounds a lot like the rich get richer and the poor get poorer. In any event, the first step in the warm embrace of collectivism is always to reduce the surplus population. This story came to me at the table, in the midst of that somewhat depressing conversation. This also coincided with my reading of Graham Moore’s novel “The Last Days of Night” (highly recommended) and several articles about Canada’s MAID program (not recommended). This story caused a bit of controversy in my family, and a lot of emotion. Which is a good thing. I think. I’m very interested to get feedback on this one, so please, drop a comment below. - PAT
If you’ve gotten this far… thanks for reading. Please share your thoughts in the comments. I’m working on my craft and welcome your feedback, what did or didn’t work for you, what you liked or hated. Don’t worry, I can take it. If you did like it, please feel free to share with someone who enjoys a good story. And if you’re not already subscribed, please consider becoming a free subscriber and see what comes next. More stories are coming!