Solitude 2030 - Short Fiction

The terminal doors open and I sense the scanner sweep over me as I pause for final entry identification. My eyes are a bit bloodshot from a late night, we’ll see if they’ve worked out the kinks in the security system’s retina scans. I shake the rain off my overcoat and close up the umbrella. It’s been wet lately, well, actually it’s been wet for the last decade. After a few seconds another set of doors open and I push on slowly, hung over from the night before.

I hate spaceports. I always have and probably always will. People moving in every direction, driverless shuttles zigging and zagging in and out of traffic, the constant broadcasts piped directly into my inner ear. I’ve less than thirty-minutes ago and I already miss the home office and Sarah.

An additional pirouette for the scanners and I’m finally on my way. Outstanding! The iBand on my wrist buzzes twice. I can pre-board without passing through checkpoint Charlie and the gauntlet of poking, prodding molesters. They’ll have to get their jollies feeling up someone else today.

My palms are wet. I sweat buckets when I travel and today’s no different. I need a drink and it’s not even 9 AM. A quick buzz in the ear erases my visions of fine Russian Bourbon.

“Sir, your pulse is 85, and your body temperature is 99.2 degrees.”

I feel like a human lie detector, but that little ear-worm bumped my health subsidy by 15 percent. I tap my ear twice and the ear-worm plays chill music at low volume. It’s designed to ease my anxiety. It doesn’t. But it’s cheaper than a pharma script and, trust me, it’s non addictive. Who thought of this shit?

But we need the healthcare credits. The average G-10 citizen spends more money on healthcare than on housing. Trust me, Sarah and I are doing well, but the global economy isn’t. Just look around, the evidence is everywhere.

Sarah is my life partner and she hasn’t worked in months. Replaced after thirty-two years of teaching pimple-faced adolescents, she sits at home most days. Replaced with tech I say, retired early Sarah says. But she did retire with her pension. So we’re saving leveraging all the credits we can.

“I flaggin’ hate elevator music.”, I mumble as I shuffle towards the departure area, weaving between the pedestrian traffic and the bots. Whoever invented self driving luggage should be sent off-planet.

“You’re less than 100 yards from gate B22”, the ear worm cuts in, momentarily interrupting my music.

“Thanks Friday, can you 86 the music? It’s killing me?”

“Sir, it’s just 3 minutes more not 86”, responds Friday the ear worm, referring to the goddamn Calming Protocol. “You do have 4872 steps in today and have burned almost 1835 calories. Both on target to receive credit. Your blood pressure is a bit high and you are only 82.3% hydrated. Shall I order you a beverage prior to your departure?”

Damn the Chekov Bourbon. But Sarah and I needed to blow off a bit of steam and we always schedule sexy time for the night before I travel. So, yeh, I’m a bit dehydrated - in more ways than one - but it was worth every minute.

“Sure, water will be just fine Friday, thank you. Make it a ½ liter of Dobra Voda. Oh, and another thing, Missus has been feeling a bit down lately, can you send something to cheer her up?”

“Why yes sir. We have sent flowers several times over the last month. Standby. According to Alexa cologne is a preferred item on her wish list. Will that do?”

We? I think Friday has developed feelings for Sarah. Can’t blame it.

“Yes, and let’s spend a little more SAND this time.”

“How much more sir? You have 11,000 SAND in the Kraken brokerage account. 3,000 of which is allocated to discretionary spending.”

“Let’s double the average gift spend, and send a vCard will you?”

“Yes sir. I’ve ordered Burberry Black Truffle, delivered by expedited scheduled for 2PM this afternoon. Alexa has conveyed to me the most marvelous joke; would you care to hear it.”

“I’m not in the mood…”

“Would you like to dictate the vCard sir?”

“No, you take care of that for me - make it poetic.”

“Yes sir, perhaps something from Keats.”

The women standing next to me locks eyes and shoots me a smile. I smile back and shake my head; one of the side affects of a public conversation with the ear worm.

I stop at the flight kiosk, get scanned one final time. What are they looking for now? Don’t they know who I am?

“Hello Mr. Maxwell”, greets the steward, “you’ve been assigned to seat 14C. Welcome to ANA Flight 008. I see that your AI has readied transport to CB39DD Sidgwick Avenue for you based on your arrival time of 11:00 AM EST. Your flight is nonstop and is on time. Is there anything else I can help you with? If not we’ve begun boarding, your travel deets are in order sir, please proceed to the boarding zone when you are ready. And once again thank you again for flying ANA”

“No thanks, I’m good.”, I say shaking my head. It’s amazing how real these things are. They’ve blended into the background. Too deeply perhaps, I hardly notice them anymore.

How many jobs lost? “It doesn’t matter, many more left to lose...”, I mumble out loud as I head towards the gate. I hope the flaggin’ steward hears me; the AIs are always listening and watching. And recording.

“Careful, the steward heard you sir. She is always listening. We are on a classified…”

“Can it Friday, chill for crissakes.”

“At this time I’m unable to either can or chill sir. However, I am pleased that your health parameters have improved. Heart rate: 72, hydration is still well below optimal. Blood pressure is dropping. I hope we have a good flight sir.”

I head towards the boarding ramp. We? What’s with the ‘we’ thing? That’s new, maybe they’ve pushed on upgrade overnight.

Entering the aircraft with my head down I desparately feel the urge to sit.

Seat fourteen-charlie. First class on the aisle, thank god for Friday. Our old AI would have had me riding in steerage. Sarah and I spend an extra chunk of SAND each month for Friday, but he’s worth it. She named him after a character in an ancient novel she covers – covered that is – in one of her world literature classes.

I was gently persuaded to configure Friday as male. Sarah joked that since I spend so much time with the AIs she wanted to make sure ‘our special relationship’ wouldn’t evolve into a cross species affair. I suggested that it might instead stir latent homosexual feelings buried deep within my psyche. Which made her laugh – I love Sarah’s laugh. I haven’t heard it enough lately; got to fix that.

I toss my carry-on into storage and slump into my seat. I travel light when flying solo. I’m wearing a newish, reversible three-piece today. This baby is made from an anti-wrinkle nanotech weave. It lasts several days on the road and can change color with some electronic trickery. Best of all, it wicks all of the perspiration I’ll generate during this god forsaken flight. It’s the best 12 SAND anyone will ever spend.

Time to link up with the aircraft.

“Friday, connect to onboard systems. Adjust outerwear, set temperature to travel comfort.”

“Done sir. Will there be anything else?”

“That’s better – much, much better. It’s all good Friday… no wait, can you check on my drink?”

“On it’s way sir.”

I flip on my Forbin-9 headset, I need to review my notes and the economic simulations we’ll present at this afternoon’s meeting. I adjust the headset; the eyes aren’t focusing today. Neither is the Forbin. I have a feeling that its retinal projection tech can’t adequately compensate for my bloodshot, hyper-dilated eyes.

Back to work. Full disclosure: I’m a psychoeconomist, an oracle. I make predictions about future economic conditions by devouring consumer, government, industrial and environmental data. My firm taps into almost everything digital, gulping more data per second than the world created during year 2025. Today we are the Ü·ber·mensch, thirty years ago we were nothing more than accountants.

This last month has been a blur. It seems like every waking moment has been spent hacking together economic models with myriad variables; everything from unemployment and guaranteed basic income to weather. You see, the world economy is broken and it’s my job –well, Maxwell Incorporated’s job - to come up with the fix.

Trying to grock the Gethsemane AI, built by my team, is also soaking up what remaining free time I have left. Gethsemane rests atop our Qalantir-64K quantum that plows through large, complex math problems one-quadrillion times faster than the tech we used when I founded MI. The flaggin’ team at Qalantir changed the world and made me a superstar.

The Qalantir-64K quantum shattered Thiel’s law, disrupting computational boundaries which gave each of my economic theories new life. Trying to predict a future reality had been next to impossible due to the complexity, that is, until we uncovered the meta math behind rule 30 and rule 110. All thanks to Gethsemane and Qalantir.

Off track, I’ve go to get back to the models.

At 9.5% unemployment and 23% underemployment the economy continues to contract unless economic policy is adjusted to meet some future reality. This is a vicious cycle the client doesn’t seem to understand.

“Friday, regenerate simulation GI-32, adjusting the work week feature to 24 hours, wage scaled binomially based on age beginning at.15 SAND per hour?”, I say in a voice lower than usual so as not to attract attention. The project still classified as well as much of the theory behind MI’s models.

“Yes sir. The simulation will complete in approximately 6.3 minutes. Shall I alert you when the results are ready?”

“No, alert only on an error condition, but make sure to distribute the output to the PH team. Request a written analysis of the new model completed by 12PM. Analysis must reach me prior to my 2 o’clock.”

“Your 2 PM meeting sir?

“Yes.”

“Very good sir. It is done.”

I dialed Friday’s culture settings into ‘English Butler’ mode. He’s old school polite and I quite like it. After all, we’re heading across the pond. I haven’t visited Cambridge in more than a decade – I miss the solitude of the library.

The dull throb in my head synchs with the rhythmic hum of the aircraft’s engines. I guess it’s not really the engines; but the generators on the tarmac charging the ‘faux capacitors’ - or whatever the hell they are. I do know that the electrics help push us off, get us into the air and then light up the two Sikorsky scramjet engines that launch us on a long parabolic trajectory over the Atlantic.

After hitting hyper sonic velocity at a peak altitude we’ll arrive at Bowie International Spaceport in under thirty minutes. Unfortunately, I’ll miss the Mars XV launch because of my damn meeting. Sure, I’ll catch a replay on the Forbin this evening – but it’s not the same. Regardless of what those mendacious advertising bastards say, holographic VR is no substitute for living it. I’m old school taking the ‘V’ out of ‘VR’ every chance I get.

Where is my flaggin’ Voda?

A passenger tripping down the aisle bumps me back to reality and to the goings on inside the cabin - it’s one of the hazards of aisle seating and dancing automatons. I’ve always been fascinated by the steward bots as they navigate the crowded aisle. It’s like a delicate acapella mannequin ballet.

My water! Time to hydrate.

This flight set me back between 4.50 and 5.02 SAND. Did I mention that I micro manage the firm’s finances? The final price won’t settle until takeoff due to the lag in Tote, the reverse auction system established between the airlines, passenger consumer and the global supply chain. The model is similar to the pari-mutuel wagering system used at the drone tracks. I named it the Tote after inventing the theory behind it while lecturing at the University. My research results were titled: “Asymmetric Reverse Auctions in Multi Sided Markets with Pari-mutuel Rewards”. Ten words that got me tenure.

That seems like a lifetime ago

So, I’m not quite accustomed to running Maxwell Inc. But the prediction economy has been very, very good to me. It’s also turned Friday and me back into part-time accountants. We track every last Satoshi MI makes and spends. Everything Sarah and I save is moved to an array of deferred, nontaxable, off planet investments which hopefully get us through retirement. I’m 58 years old, she’s 50 and we’re not eligible to draw a stipend until we turn 82. I’ve predicted that we’ll both live to 118. This should be some ride – to retirement that is.

I’ve got busy day ahead – got to get back in prep mod. The G-10 Ecole Polytechnique established this project several months ago and subsequently hired MI to investigate policy alternatives hopefully preventing a global economic meltdown. Located in Switzerland, the G-10 is vested with great power and responsibility coordinating the earth’s ten economic powers.

The last few years have been racked with uncertainty as the geopolitical environment has become dangerously unstable. The finger pointing and blame shaming amongst the leaders of the G-10 hasn’t helped matters. Neither have the protests, riots and digital vandalism that economic uncertainty has wrought.

Unfortunately, I can barely concentrate this morning. Maybe I should have ordered the Chekhov Bourbon instead. Since I’m a psychoeconomist by trade you’d think that I could predict my own future. I need to find my go-pills, maybe they’re in my bag…

“Sir, may I interrupt?”, Friday is such a pain in the ass today.

“Yes, what is it?”

“What?”, the young lady sitting next to me asks, “I didn’t catch that.”

“Sorry… “, I whisper, tapping my ear, “I’m on a call.”

“Sir, we are ready for departure. ANA would like me to remind you of flight safety. They are asking that I brief you on our aircraft’s safety instructions per the GAA 924.4 and 924.5 mandate.”

I look around at other passengers being interrupted by their pain-in-the-ass AIs. It’s not always easy to pick out those wealthy enough to afford the tech.

“Ok, let’s get to it… and hurry will you. Double time.”

And so it goes. Seat belts, cabin depressurization at apogee, meteorite breach of cabin. I’ve heard it a million times before.

The price range for this flight wasn’t bad – Friday indicated that we could have gotten a better deal had we entered the auction earlier and if I was willing to part with more carbon credits. You’d think that I could game the auction system – but unfortunately it runs on SAND, the global, Turing complete, quantum blockchain. No actor, not even the inventor, can tilt the outcomes.

“In the event of a water landing...”

So I protect our carbon credit balance. Ever since Sarah and I converted the ranch to a mix of wind and solar power we’ve been able to produce a stream of carbon credits that will subsidize our mythical retirement. The carbon market will boom over the next decade. I’m banking on it. I did the math.

“Finally sir, while in flight we must switch to non verbal mode. In order for us to continue our interaction please power on your paired headset.”

“I have the Forbin on”, I reply, “switch to NV mode”. I hate non verbal mode. Friday is now camped inside by consciousness. I only have to create a mental picture of Friday and…

“Yes sir?”

“Disregard, enter sleep mode for the next thirty minutes. Disturb me in the event of an emergency and If I’m in sleep mode alert me five minutes before we land”

“Yes sir.”

Yield to your master’s voice you wretched AI. I hope Friday wasn’t listening. I have to remember to scan the logs.

Non verbal mode is a tech marvel. A product of early AI and virtual reality research, non verbal –or- NV mode was originally referred to as the mind-machine interface. And that’s what it did. In early 2019, Boggle’s AI lab achieved the initial breakthroughs enabling humans to predictably control an array of external devices like artificial limbs with their thoughts. Paraplegics regained the ability to walk in cybersuits while higher order primates leveled up on video games.

The tipping point arrived four years later when Qalantir introduced the first room temperature, high density, quantum computing device. The new quantums delivered the necessary power for richer thought-to-machine interaction and NV mode was born. Like every innovation before it, the tech became smaller and smaller finally finding its way into headsets like the Forbin and within the computational grid where Friday lives.

Much changed in the eighteen months that followed Qalantir’s breakthrough. The gap between those who could afford the technology and those that couldn’t widened. Suddenly, a disproportionally small number of humans were capable of processing information, communicating and reacting to the environment at the speed of thought. Fortunes were made amidst the disruption which drove a larger economic and social wedge between the haves and never-will-haves. These were the events that put Maxwell Inc., on the map by creating a demand for the voodoo that we do. The rest, as they say, is psychohistory.

And we’ll fix this. I feel it in my bones. For now, it’s time for me to relax.

On a planet with 9.5 billion souls and 2.25 billion bots thirty minutes of solitude is worth more than a million carbon credits… almost. Time to put on the chill background noise and move the Forbin into sleep mode. I’ll hit the go-pills before we land. So much to do…

James C. Maxwell
July 4th, 2031