- Candy
3 Months Later - Candy - The Sugar Lab
I wake up. Grab my phone. Check the news to see if humanity’s imminent self-inflicted extinction has become especially imminent. I notice the lawsuit to restore Project Octopus has failed. Fuck. That’s not good. I go back to sleep.
My name’s Candy and I’m the Guardian of Humanity. I’m a poor choice for that role, but one was needed in a hurry and I was available. I received no training. I’m cautiously optimistic.
I wake again, drag my ass to the shower. I have a simple plan to get clean, but my shower is hypno-clone equipped. A hypno-clone is an augmented reality cocktail of holograms, ultrasound, and hypnosis. It allows online strangers to have a non-penetrative, sex-like experience. It can also be used for other reasons. Presumably.
There’s no reason for me to fire it up. I’m not particularly horny and I have plenty of real life prospects. But somewhere between rinse and repeat, I have a strange young woman licking my pussy. Actually, you can make your hypno-clone avatar look like whatever you want, so I doubt she’s young in real life. Or a woman. Enjoying a hypno-clone requires a certain suspension of disbelief.
I return the favor. We have a little talk as I wash my hair. She’s really nice. I friend her.
Breakfast is vegan bacon and eggs. I’ve used autohypnosis to open myself up to the possibility that vegan bacon tastes amazing. It tastes amazing. I’m a powerful hypnotist.
As I eat, I take a more serious look at the news of the day. It’s been a stressful year. First everybody lost their jobs to a 3rd world call center cosplaying as Ai. Which sucked. Then a cheap cancer drug called Fresh Start turned out to be a cure for almost all diseases. Which was nice. But then a giant fucking space rock called Damocles teleported next to Earth. Which was scary.
While there was no discernable malevolence to the teleportation, it set off the fight or flight response in the entire human race. But we didn't know who was doing it, so we fought and fled at random. Very unpleasant. Two leaders, The Darkness and Old Money, made the worst of it.
There were no other teleportations. That were noticed. Eventually the active violent panic calmed to a static passive panic.
Been a real rollercoaster. Most people have to take drugs before they check the news. I don’t have to, but why not? I spark a joint. No point in dying sober.
First I check the latest mortality rates. Good to get a feel for what's killing us now before I worry about the future.
All cause mortality is dropping, but not as fast as it should. Disease and age related deaths are way down, obviously. But deaths of despair - suicide, overdose, and liver failure - are way up. Fuck.
Next I check the classic existential threats. Global warming’s ticking along. Russia periodically threatens to nuke everyone. Still eating bats in China. We’re still incubating new bird flus in chicken factories. Drinking water’s full of plastic, we’re all on experimental drugs, and the bees are all dying. So just the usual shit. Perfect.
Finally, I check for new existential threats. Ai still seems stupider than us. And nothing’s appearing out of nowhere. Good. Mind you, runaway automated escalation due to covert brinksmanship failure doesn't usually make the news. At least it didn't last time.
Well, that’s a lot of problems. Fortunately, I’m too stupid to solve most of them, so I set them aside. Unfortunately, I have a few ideas. Options I could pursue. I start with a list of questions:
- Are we succumbing to despair?
- Will breakers destroy society and get us all killed in the ensuing chaos?
- Can we stop that?
- Is someone building a new superintelligence?
- Should we?
I head downstairs to the club. I own it and the apartments upstairs. Kinda - haven’t paid the mortgage in a while. It’s a makerspace for high-tech horndogs. The hypno-clone was invented here. So was Leviathan, an Ai internet that allowed secret communication. So was a lot of other crap.
There’s a dozen people here working quietly. They have a pre-coffee vibe, pretty chill. There’s a couple dozen more working virtually. Most of them use lifelike avatars, but I see a few orc ladies and a free floating command line.
I sit next to my cook, oldest friend, and literal partner in crime.
“Hey Brian. How would you stop despair?”
“I made you a bacon sandwich.”
“Fair enough.”
We munch our sandwiches and chat. Our table slowly fills up with regulars. We’re having a staff meeting about the club’s money situation. Technically, Brian and I are the only staff, but the economy is fucking broken. Our regulars fluctuate between patrons and dependents. It makes sense to let them in on the planning.
“As far as money goes, we have no money.” I begin. “Ideas?”
We go around the table. Nothing looks good. Nobody has a steady job. Even Brian, who works for me, only gets paid sporadically. Most of us haven’t been paid since they shuttered Project Octopus, the workfare hoax that accidentally created Fresh Start. Also, our collective credit is shot, and we’re a couple mortgage payments from losing the club. Some of our virtual regulars live in countries with benefits, but they can only spare a trickle of funds for us.
Ironically, the club has never been more popular, but our clientele is broker than we are. They still come to eat, work, and party, but we’re mostly paid in promises.
“Why don’t we kick out the freeloaders?” asks Big Iota (big, brash, lucid dreamer).
“That would be almost everybody. Then we’d lose our paying customers.” I shrug. “We’re a meeting place. Can’t have a meeting place without people. Also, they’re my friends.”
“What about the drug kits?” asks Delta (scruffy laser enthusiast). “Aren’t we making money off them?”
Brian shakes his head. Last year the city got swamped with fake pot. Hemp sprinkled with fentanyl. Fun, if you don’t die. It was the final straw for Brian. He started making drug testing kits, so people knew what they were smoking. The kits are illegal, but the local law looks the other way, ‘cause they aren’t idiots.
We did good trade for a while as the only party in town where you don’t die. But people can’t afford the kits anymore, so now we are losing money on them.
“Can we cut our expenses again?” I ask.
“I bought that bacon off a kid on a bike.” says Brian. “It was not refrigerated.”
I rub my tummy. Didn’t need to hear that.
Omicron (cuddly fabricator of high concept marital aids) interjects. “We're a makerspace. Let's make something.”
Groans. This is the quagmire of the money talk.
“People still need stuff, right? Let’s just make that fucking stuff! How am I the crazy one!” yells Omicron defensively.
Boos. I stand. It’s been a while since we tackled this problem. Maybe if we shake it, something will come loose.
“What do people still need?” I ask.
“Hookers.” offers Psi (slick, snark, and high opinions).
“I don't know, man.” Isaiah (the ‘guy’) shakes his head. “Sluts are really moving in on hooker territory. It's tough out there.”
“Mental health professionals!” interjects Delta (scruffy laser guy again).
General agreement.
“A less scary Fresh Start procedure!” yells Orcette (muscles, leather, and more data).
Unanimous agreement. Fresh Start is a wonder drug. It’s also a blast of radiation and a hefty dose of hormones. It provokes your immune system to regrow your entire body. While you’re in it. It takes about 10 months and is super painful. Other side effects include random total personality change.
Whenever possible, people still use conventional medicine. Fresh Start is for desperate fuckers. So, everybody, eventually.
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“We need to fix the economy.” says Brian.
IS THAT SOMETHING WE CAN INVENT? asks Command Line (inscrutable and inquisitive).
“It could be.” says Brian. “Needs fixing either way.”
He’s not wrong. Old Money shipped half our jobs overseas with pretend Ai and that was enough to tank our whole economy.
Our last president actually resuscitated it with a massive workfare hoax called Octopus. But when he disappeared in the second blackout, Old Money was able to scrap it. Now we - and everyone - is fucked.
I’ve actually got a plan to fix this, but my crew isn’t ready to hear it. I prepare them with booze and tangential problems.
“Brian has a plan for urban hop farms.”
“Yes!” yells Brian. “Hop’s are a key ingredient in beer, but they’re expensive to get started because they need to grow 20 feet straight up. You have to build acres of poles and wires for the fucking things to crawl up. But they’ll grow up the side of a building! And there’s tons of buildings in the city! So we cover them in hops, then we have tons of beer!”
“That sounds suspiciously like farming. Pass.” says Big Iota.
“A dating site that exclusively sets up threesomes for people in their 40’s.” offers Isaiah. “71% of 40 year olds fantasize about threesomes, but only 16% ever have one. There’s an opportunity here.”
Brian frowns. “I’m sensing a hidden motive.”
Isaiah looks mildly offended. “There’s nothing hidden about my motive.”
I like Isaiah. He’s fun at parties.
“How do we get paid!” yells Gamma (slim, likes details and confrontations).
“Uhh, money isn’t everything?” says Isaiah.
“Sleep training for adults.” says Delta. “We’ve forgotten how to sleep. If we slow down, we panic. So, we stay distracted or drugged, which is okay during the day, but it’s fucking with our sleep. We’re tired, grouchy, fat, and every day it gets worse.”
There’s a quiet moment. We’re interested.
“Why does not sleeping enough make you fat?” asks Orcette. “Some kind of metabolism thing?”
“Maybe. Honestly, I think it just gives you more time to eat. A couple hours a day adds up.” says Delta.
“How do we train people to sleep?” asks Brian.
“I don’t really know. There’s no research for adults.” says Delta. “The gold standard for kids is to let them cry themselves to sleep. Have we tried that?”
“Just fucken cry yourself to sleep.” Orcette shakes her head. “Fucken plan writes itself.”
“Assuming we figure this out, how do we get paid?” says Big Iota.
“Well, we could make an ebook…”
Loud booing.
“Okay!” chirps Orcette. “We download a bunch of telescope data and astrophysics shit, and we look for evidence of a collision between two neutron stars.”
Silence.
“Because neutron stars are made of really weird shit that’s 10 billion times stronger than steel. Obviously it’s super valuable, but the only way to mine it is to hit the neutron star with another neutron star. Then you can scoot around and pick up a couple pieces.”
Silence.
“So, yeah, once we find some, we can’t get to it, but that’s irrelevant, because a more advanced civilization could, and that’s what we’re really looking for.”
Silence.
“Get it? Neutron star collisions are natural places for super advanced aliens to hang out. They wouldn’t waste the advertising potential of such prime real estate. If we look there, there will definitely be alien commercials. We could use the knowledge from these commercials to turn this all around.” Orcette waves at everything.
Silence.
“God damn. How is that stupid idea our best idea?” asks Zeta (annoying brain surgeon).
BASIC INCOME FOR THIRD WORLD COUNTRIES. says Command Line. MONEY GOES A LOT FARTHER THERE, WE COULD SUPPORT 20 TIMES MORE PEOPLE. WAY MORE BANG FOR OUR BUCK.
Psi looks confused. “How does that help us?”
WE’RE ALL HUMANS. says Command Line. IF WE WORK TOGETHER, WE COULD TURN THIS ALL AROUND.
Orcette waves at everything again.
“What if we made houses out of lego?” I ask.
“That wouldn’t work.” says Big Iota.
“I know. But what if we made it work?”
“Holy fuck! That’d be amazing!” says Psi.
“Meh, factory houses don’t cost that much. It’s the cost of the land we can’t afford.” says Gamma.
“We should make an island.” says Omicron.
“We should make a floating city.” says Isaiah.
“A flying city!” says Orcette.
“SPACE CITY!” says Omicron.
“We should build a rocket ship and get the fuck out of here.” says Zeta.
“Or just teleport.” says Delta.
Gasps!
“Goddamnit! You said the T-word! Now we’re all on a government watchlist.” says Big Iota.
“We’re already on all the watchlists.” Delta shakes his phone. “Goddamn pocket panopticon!”
“Arrrgh! None of these ideas will work!” snaps Omicron. “The math is broken! We’ll be bankrupt in two months. Any idea we can develop in two months will get stolen before we can profit. Any idea that will turn a profit can’t be developed in two months.”
Everybody’s depressed. I think they’re ready for the plan.
“We need to rebuild Project Octopus.”
Silence.
“We’re not trying to save the world again are we?” asks Big Iota. “Cause The Darkness nearly killed us over Leviathan.”
“Nope. This is all about greed.” We’re gonna save everybody.
We gravitate towards drugs. In an effort to keep our demons malleable, we alternate our indulgences. We have a schedule, it’s very scientific. Today is a beer and pot day, thank god. I get some in each hand and prepare for battle.
“We can’t re-build something the government wants gone. Not again.” says Big Iota with sad determination. “Leviathan was a mistake. We were detained and questioned for days. We could have disappeared. Fuck, some of us did disappear.”
Leviathan was a wireless internet that couldn’t be shut down. He was a computer virus that quietly turned smartphones into a mesh of wifi hotspots. We created him during the First Blackout, a six month power struggle between The Darkness and Old Money over who would control the internet, and all the secrets, lies, and blackmail that came with it.
“I don’t think the Darkness took our friends. They’ll be back.”
Big Iota looks frustrated. Brian looks sad. I ignore them both.
“Anyway, Octopus is just a research sharing hub. That’s not a problem. Old Money just doesn’t want to pay for it.”
That’s not exactly true. Old Money hates everything they can’t control. That’s why they destroyed Octopus. And why they’ll destroy us. But that opinion is not immediately helpful, so I keep it to myself.
“I don’t understand,” says Brian. “Why are we rebuilding Octopus? We obviously can’t hand out money. And we already have Fresh Start.”
“Yes, but everyone is still dying from despair. We’re gonna make a superintelligence that stops alcoholism, suicides, and overdoses.”
That shuts them up. They’re starting to build it in their minds. They can’t help themselves.
“Are we trying to stop the deaths?” asks Omicron. “Or the despair?”
“Either. Both. Yes.”
“God. I don’t know which is harder.” sighs Omicron. “What do you even mean by a superintelligence?”
I quote Lodestone. “A superintelligence is a mess of rules and assumptions that hammers humanity towards a common goal. From inside the superintelligence, it fronts as an answer box. No matter your problem, it will have a solution - one that unsubtly shoves you towards the common goal.
“Our dominant superintelligence is neoliberal capitalism, where the goal is to make money. And the people inside are told they can simply purchase any solution. And if that doesn’t work, they just need more money. Follow the logic far enough, and it makes perfect sense to become a soulless money snatching automaton.
“Project Octopus was a superintelligence where the goal was preserving health, and the answer to everything was more rigorous peer reviewed research. I liked it better. But it was subservient to neoliberal capitalism - only allowed because propped up the market. And when it lost favor, it was easily killed by depriving it of money.
“But Project Octopus doesn’t need money to function. Hell, even neoliberal capitalism doesn’t need money most of the time. It mainly runs on the hope of future money. And I think we can run Octopus on hope too. Thus escaping the direct control of money and neoliberal capitalism.”
Mr. President tried that briefly before he disappeared. Should I mention that? Feels off topic. Oh look, Delta has a question.
“Are you talking about building an Ai?”
“No. I mean, maybe eventually? Ai can’t automate something we don’t understand. So after we completely understand deaths of despair, we could probably make an Ai helper. But until then, we just don’t have the necessary training data.”
“Can we make an Ai that makes its own training data?”
“No. We don’t have the training data for that.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, it’s a fucking thing.”
Brian interrupts. “So what are you suggesting? Not on a conceptual level - I understand you want to make a social environment where people do science for free - but how do we do that?”
“Right. Okay, the bones of Octopus still exist. It was cancelled but we still have the scientific method, a couple million unemployed researchers, and a goal to preserve life.
“More specifically, millions of horndogs use our hypnoclone network and a good chunk of them are ex-Project Octopus. We’ll catch them at a moment of clarity and ask them hard questions about suicide, fentynil, and cirrhosis.”
“That sounds like a terrible wank.”
“It’s gonna be fantastic. We’ll start by finding who’s in despair.”
“Then what?”
“We’ll intervene.” I say.
“Yeah, I got that. How?” asks Brian.
“We’ll… invite them to the club!”
“Why would they come here?”
“We’ll offer them a blow job.”
Everybody thinks.
“I think there’s more to despair than a lack of blow jobs.” says Psi slowly. “Although…”
Brian is squeezing his head. I think his brain hurts.
“Will they actually get a blow job?” asks Delta. “Or, are we just saying that to get them here?”
“Of course they’ll get a blow job.” I say, mildly offended. “I’m not a monster.”
“Yeah, Delt.” says Omicron. “Smarten up.”
Big Iota is googling deaths of despair. “You realize 200,000 people die of despair every year.”
Omicron rubs his jaw. “Damn.”
“Everybody shut up.” Brian squeezes his head for a bit. “Okay, your intervention sucks, but somewhere in this insanity is a workable idea. I say we try it.”
“Yeah, it’s cool.” says Big Iota. “But, aren’t we trying to save the club? We’re all a few months from being homeless. How the fuck are we getting paid for this?”
I laugh. I'm a teensy bit totally wasted. “There’s no way to save the club. We’re fucked. This is about what we do while we’re fucked.”
I toss back my beer, and head to the dance floor.
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