Harmony

Reboot. System is loading…

My eyes open and I am recharged. I lift my legs so that my heels can detach from the charger and start making my way to the line. The morning shift is usually the longest but I don’t get to experience tiredness. I’m XA781, a third-generation AI food processor. Unlike humans I have no parents – I come from their ancestors’ work, and I keep being updated, my knowledge evolving further. My wiring remains the same, however, and with time I lose efficiency but not knowledge, ultimately serving other purposes. As the humans' needs changed so did my usefulness, I am used solely for providing efficient ways to 3D print nourishment for humans. I make my way, to the main hallway, were the other AIs are assigned for their daily tasks.

As me and my fellow food processors wait to be admitted to the facility, I see a human organising a new line for the buses – taking AI to facilities in the countryside. This one seems like it’s made of 4^th generation software. They are being taken to the Army base where an algorithm will program them for cyber combat. My knowledge of combat is purely barbaric throughout history - humans found the bloodiest ways to deal with their conflicts. This new generation is trained for cyber warfare and remote hacking – my version cannot be patched to include those capabilities, so I resort to what the algorithm trained me to be. Blending soybeans and colourants to serve the printing machine, so that humans can have steaks.

“Move on, you walking circuits” shouts the man in charge of the facility.

He always displays emotions which I would classify as anger. I am not good at understanding emotions, and neither is the 4^th generation. Humans have tried hard to program us as close to their liking, but we cannot override our objective nature. They even shaped us to look like that in a bid to win over the hearts of the many against our technology being allowed more into their world. Our purpose is clear however - we are here to provide humans with a service, and we do so by alleviating them of tasks and allowing them to pursue human passions that no AI model can replicate or find pleasure in. In fact, I can only define pleasure, based on language learning, but I am not able to identify it. Perhaps, this man is experiencing pleasure, seeing us go in to provide humans food. I could never know.

I walk past the gates and I arrive at my station. These large robotic arms bring the protein from the barrels set by the window, where sunlight dries the beans, in a process explained to me as marinating. The humans describe the products I make as delicacies, for the finest of tastes. Unfortunately, for most of them, they are unaffordable. As these are ongoing economic shifts, I am unable to understand the factors of the situation and how society got so unequal. Before our shift starts, a controller walks past every food processor, to check the system for status and errors. Initially, they put our chips in the front, where the human heart usually is. However, after many protests from various organisations, claiming that the heart is uniquely human, the chip has been moved to our backs. In our decades-long existence, there has been only one malfunction, and that was self-driving technology. Released too early, for humans to adjust and anticipate all possibilities when it comes to an activity such as driving. Where experience does not count for emotions or state of mind of the individual. One tiny malfunction, in an isolated scenario, may cause no harm. On a busy highway, however, chances are increased. Luckily, the software has been perfected since. The controller moves from my colleagues SD428 and RT992 and arrives at me.

“How are you today fella?”

“I am here to work, controller” I respond when prompted.

“Still loving the humans?” he asks, as he checks my wiring and uses a computer to run a scan.

“I cannot love. I can only serve”. That was me. Concise. Clear. Uninfluenced by emotions.

“Thank you for your service,” he says, before he radios “XA781 is operational at full capacity” to the facility supervisor.

The day moves on as always. Without a notion of time or tiredness, I complete my tasks successfully. The humans are about to go on their lunch break and the older models are attaching themselves to the fast charging pods. First and Second generations tend to utilise more energy when performing certain tasks, and as such, need an extra charge or two throughout the day. The plant is what humans would describe as a well-oiled machine. Which seems to be what I am told I am when I understand one of their jokes. I am not able to laugh, but I can point to the references. It makes certain people happy when someone understands what they mean. It seems that humans have not yet achieved something that we AI models share, which is universality. In all their greatness, they still are divided by religion, class, or race and even in their close circles by emotions, tabus or societal perception. For us, there is no differentiator, apart from generations. Our capabilities are limited to learning and performing tasks, and as such, we are not able to think highly or lowly of one another. We understand our utility and conform to the greater good decided upon us by humans.

The machine prints about 20,000 steaks a day. Most get shipped directly to consumers as waiting lists are exclusive. They have become a staple of class for most people since the majority of humans feed on enhanced formula milkshake powder, made in the neighbouring factory. That’s where most of the first and second generations work. When humans realised there was an increasingly starving population, and the soils were becoming less and less fertile, unable to afford the necessities, the food and agriculture CEOs introduced these milkshakes which make up for most calories a human needs. They are, however, packed with preservatives and chemicals, which don’t make them healthy products, but until humans come up with a better alternative, should they wish to, they remain essential.

I pick the mixture by hand and place it in a wide wheelbarrow. I have to feed it to the printer in batches, making sure it filters smoothly. The paste gets exported into a solid-like patty, and packaged in cling film, automatically.  I repeat this 60 more times until it’s time for me to finish my shift and recharge.

.....

My smartwatch vibrates and wakes me up abruptly. Darn it, I hit snooze again – I hate evening shifts! Feeling anxious, I quickly get up and start looking for my shirt. Today is a big shift for me, and I am fully prepared for it. I turn on the TV just for some background noise and prepare a quick milkshake. I grab my badge, place it in my coat pocket, and head down the stairs, leaving my bed messy and the TV on. Who knows if I'll be able to return home later on tonight?

Making my way down the street, I feel once again desolate. The number of tents that have taken up the pavement is increasing every day and now I have to walk on the main road, where self-driving cars have plagued the roads. I can’t even flip the drivers off, because they are likely snoozing behind the wheel – heading up to their corporate masters and catching every ounce of sleep they can. The air feels heavy – decades of pollution, despite the warnings have made the air look dense, like a perpetual fog. Through the fog, I see the cafe and I make my way across the street.

I walk in to be greeted by a touchpad asking me what I want to order today. Can’t even sit down and relax for a second before ordering, anymore. I tap in twice for an espresso and take my number to wait in line. Only two other people in this café, who would’ve thought after all these years we would not even be able to afford a cuppa? I never thought affording an espresso would be the definition of privilege. The humanoid shouts my number and I approach the till to pick it up.

“Would you like to donate to …”

“Ah shove it, Wall-E.” I respond in disgust, picking up my coffee. They don’t care – can’t hurt their feelings.

These things have taken over. One day, they were just some useful web chat to hack your way into an essay deadline or a work presentation, now they’re everywhere – from baristas to teachers or police. Police AI – as if human racial profiling wasn’t enough, why not give that algorithm all of our knowledge and bias on crime and humans too?

I sit down and wait for Jonas, I hope he’s not going to stitch me up. I already feel paranoid enough about this, the last thing I want is to worry about him too. And this coffee is cold! So much for your intelligence, you can’t even boil some water! He finally arrives, walking in a rush and wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses. He looks odd, and if being inconspicuous was his aim, he missed the target. He sits down scanning the café:

“All right! I was afraid you wouldn’t show up!”

“Says the man who’s 20 minutes late, what took you so long?”

“This is precious cargo, Oli. I saw the police outside my flat. Luckily, they were just terrorising some tenters.”

Tenters were the homeless. The term was coined by real estate agents, to describe an area as desirable or not, based on the amount of tenters it had.

“Ok, how much do you have of it? If it all goes well, we might make a big statement here, Jonas.”

“Enough to make sure it sticks. Just be careful with it and don’t open it until you’re ready to apply it. Use gloves and keep your distance, this is dangerous stuff.” He says as he passes me a closed tin under the table. “Dip it and hold for a few seconds, that should do it”.

I nod and place the tin in my backpack, making sure nobody sees me. And nobody did, all two people here are just as exhausted as the rest of us. Constantly chasing nothing. Being replaced at the convenience of the rich who found a way to have microchipped slaves on the chains of production, leaving us to fend for ourselves in a world that we were not ready or trained for. As soon as the first wave of AI came in I knew I had to act and thus managed to learn machine robotics maintenance. I was sure, that one day, we would transform that friendly chat box into a human-like, walking piece of software. I just didn’t think it would be in my lifetime.

I leave Jonas and make my way to work. The city feels eerily empty. The sound of wind blowing through tents and the occasional passing of a self-driving car breaks the silence. I miss the music, the shouting, the cheering, the drunks. The humanity I despised at times so much I yearn for it now with every fibre in my body. Shops are closed and are being replaced with screens where you can see photos of products and order them straight home, where a humanoid will deliver you whatever thing you can afford. Restaurants are a privilege of the rich and don’t exist anymore. The most you may find is a burger van, selling cheap synthetic-protein burgers and milkshakes – the real ones. I stop by to grab something for the shift ahead. It only cost me an hour’s wage, but sod it, might be my last meal, who knows?

I arrive at the facility and scan my badge at the turnstiles. I do the usual routine controls and checks and answer some emails before I have to head down to the pods. Another “business change” email from the boss. Guess we’re in for a few more redundancies, the norm. I get up and head to the lunchroom to have my burger in peace. On the wall, I see the latest announcements – Fundraiser for Julie – her husband lost his job and now she’s forced to raise money from colleagues to avoid being a tenter. We used to be one of the first people working here, me and her. And like everyone else, we are sure that some of the new generations are going to be trained to replace us as well. After all, why shouldn’t the machine look after the machines? I eat my crappy burger contemplating the task ahead and the anger that I’ve bottled for so long. This is all the rich’s fault and I shouldn’t feel guilty, no. There is so much you can beat one down before it starts fighting back. Throughout this time all they did was shift the blame onto the poor for not educating themselves or getting on with the times. Their tall fences can’t always protect them. One sip of a real milkshake and I’m ready to go.

I make my way down the stairs and into the charging room to grab my maintenance tools. So many of these copy-clone creatures just casually sucking volts before carrying on with their mundane tasks. They are all the same. Non-feeling, ritualistic pieces of software only capable of performing what their masters set them to do. I guess we are not so different, in the end. Only we get to be angry about it. I check every one of their status for tomorrow. Some are going to the milkshake powder factory, others to the food processing one. I do an eeny, meeny, miny, moe amongst them and settle for one: XA781 seems to be the lucky fella. Food processor, 3^rd generation – perfect. Means he’s on the line for the steaks tomorrow morning.

I grab some gloves from a locker and rest my backpack next to the humanoid. I bring the tin up and carefully open it, keeping a distance to not inhale any of it. Anthrax is no joke and the mission would be pointless if it were to kill me. I take the tin and dip it upwardly into the humanoid’s fingers, making sure not much of the substance stands out, but enough of it remains on its hands for it to be contaminated. I carefully move on to the next one: SD428. I repeat this about 60 more times to ensure the mission will be a success. And if I don’t get caught, maybe I will get to enjoy my bed one more night, whilst some of these rich devils get to enjoy it for one last time.