A Message for Una

It’s a lovely afternoon in July, midway through your secret road trip with Jarred, and the two of you are on the beach, lulled by the hot sun, the shimmering waves, the whispering dunes—you on your stomach, and him propped on one elbow next to you, on a thin white towel you lifted from the last motel—when the message arrives.

You can’t miss it.

It fills your vision, a priority signal to your retinal implant. It repeats on your wrist display, even though you put it in sleep mode. A sting of electricity to your arm, to make sure you’re awake and paying attention.

//You’ve been selected as Earth’s Prime Governor. Do you accept? Yes or No?//

A countdown starts. You have ninety seconds to decide.

You clumber to your knees, pulse racing, mind reeling in disbelief.

You? The AI selected you?

You think of the towel you stole; of the lie you told your parents (“I’ll be a camp counselor”). Of a hundred ways you broke the rules. Nothing reckless or impulsive. Just the opposite: you always analyze the situation carefully, weigh the benefits against the risks, consider different scenarios.

But still. The Governor is the highest authority on Earth. Shouldn’t they be morally flawless?

You’re certainly not flawless—not even close.

Jarred peers into your face. “Una, you okay?”

But you wave him away and get to your feet. No time. You point to your wrist. “I’m fine. I’ve got to take this.”

Jarred nods, even though he can’t see the text. The message is literally for your eyes only: the display works in sync with your retinal implant. A new privacy protection, designed for situations like this. Nobody can know about the message but you.

Seventy-four seconds…

You turn your back to Jarred and walk across the dune, the warm sand shifting under your bare feet. Your heartbeat is still quicker than normal—as quick as when Jarred puts his hands on you—but your mind is already calm and focused. You always thrive under pressure, while others crack and fall apart.

The Earth’s Prime Governor has only been around for a decade, the first truly global, centralized government in human history. One person with enough authority to override narrow politics and short-sighted corporate interests—and make progress on the hard problems.

The evidence is all around you.

The ocean is cleaner than ten years ago thanks to bioengineered bacteria that digests waste. The air pollution is down as well, the gasoline-powered cars unpopular after a new hefty tax; you and Jarred biked here from the tube, which runs on solar. Up on the hill, a row of sustainable houses was 3D-printed this week for the last few homeless families in the county. There are no more wars, no more oppressive governments, and the crime rates are dropping so fast, for-profit prisons are going out of business. A new cancer vaccine is available free of charge through a global universal health care.

The Governor didn’t do it alone, but it wouldn’t get done without them.

You glance at your wrist again. Sure, you fantasized about being the Governor. Who didn’t? A chance to save the world.

But it wasn’t real then.

It is real now.

//Do you accept? Yes or No?//

Fifty-five seconds…

A seagull cries out overhead, and you look up at the bright sky, your retinal implant automatically adjusting to protect your vision.

The Governor’s job allows for no distractions, no conflicting interests. In order to govern effectively and justly, they must be immune to all corruption, shielded from threats, bribes, and other undue pressure at all times.

There is only one way to achieve it: the selection is done in strict secrecy, and after the candidate accepts the job, the AI stages their death and whisks them to a secure location. Once in office, the Governor has no other name or identity, no family or personal friends. They dedicate themselves fully to the work.

Twenty-one seconds…

But there is more. The Governor must possess extensive knowledge of the world—from history, philosophy, and literature, to natural sciences and mathematics, to medicine, engineering, management, and the law—and sufficient computing power to use that knowledge to solve problems. Direct links to all information satellites, unrestricted access to all data sources, and a dedicated supercomputing center are the first step.

But the true limiting factor is the human brain—the slow processing speed, the unreliable memory, the implicit biases, the long list of pesky state effects that impair decision making, like stress and fatigue.

This is why, to serve humanity, the Governor must become more than human: starting with a brain implant that takes thirty hours to put in place, and that allows bidirectional integration with the supercomputing cluster. It goes far beyond your retinal implant and your wrist display, and the changes are irreversible. This is also why the candidate must be under 20: the developing brain is more plastic and heals faster.

Thirteen seconds…

Now the job can be yours—if you want it, if you can handle it.

If you can stand to leave behind your parents, your sister, your friends. To give up Jarred, and the life you could have with him. 

Time is almost up.

//Yes or No?//

Yes!

You accept. How could you not?

//Recorded. Stand by for instructions.//

How much time before you have to vanish, to start your neurosurgeries and your training? A week, a day, an hour? Whatever it is, you must make the most of it.

So you run back to Jarred. “Let’s go for a swim.” You strip to your swim wear before he can answer. But when you splash and dive into the blue waves, he’s right beside you, laughing.

You both swim out and float for a while, and when you get back, Jarred’s kiss tastes of salt, and you smell the sun on his skin.

And you’re paying close attention because the memory is important. You will replay it often when you’re Governor: a reminder that everyone on Earth deserves to be happy, and safe, and free, and your job isn’t finished until they are.

. . . . . . . .

[ Note on the story: I used the Name Generator, and on a third try, it gave me the name Una. It means both "one" and "unity." It was perfect for the story I wanted to tell. ]