1V0RY T0WERS

David Gomez woke the same way he had for the last two years: perfectly refreshed, at the precise conclusion of his fifth sleep cycle. He slid out from beneath the hood that stretched across the headboard, careful not to disturb his wife as he shifted the covers. He let his feet slap against the wood floor; his own little fireworks show.

A panel atop the hood opened, allowing the robotic arms within to deliver his breakfast tray. He tossed the vitamins into his mouth with a practiced hand, then downed half of the accompanying glass. The pasty liquid went down like cement, forced along with a burst of willpower that he mustered by pressing his eyelids together. The mechanical arm split into a network of tendrils, each delivering a flash of colorful light in series. Caffeine. Vitamin D. The purple one, whatever that did. He’d long forgotten.

David made his way to the wall, the room growing brighter as the windows changed tone from perfect black to transparent. He tossed his pajamas into the recycling shoot and slid open a cupboard to reveal today’s outfit. Carol stirred behind him, marking the end of her cycle.

“Another jumpsuit today, Reggie?”

“Yes, sir,” the ceiling flashed blue as his digital assistant spoke. “Optimized to your needs.”

“But it still has the pocket?”

“As requested, sir. The alteration was charged to your account.”

“Thanks,” he said, slipping his arm through a sleeve. Carol waved at him over the rim of her cup. “You were late to bed. Everything alright?”

“Just nausea,” she murmured. “Well within the parameters.”

“What’s this one do, again?”

“Targets fructose. Guilt-free dessert!” she said, forcing a grin as she flashed a thumbs-up.

He wrapped his hands around hers, bringing her thumb up for a kiss. He tried to take in every inch of her face, from the immaculately shaped eyebrows to the uniform teeth in perfect rows. Years of clinical trials had re-shaped her features, but she remained the playful woman he married years before the automation boom.

His watch alarm sounded.

“See you tonight,” he said, pulling away.

“Take the Lyft today!” she replied, eyes wide. “There was a stabbing on Avenue P.”

“Another one? Honestly, I don’t know why you still take News dreams. It’s always depressing and you’re missing quality content.”

“I refuse to add another subscription,” she replied, standing to stretch and twisting around to catch him slipping an old locket into his breast pocket. “Are you still taking that in?”

“Of course!”

“David, if they catch you ogling that stupid picture…”

“They won’t,” he promised. “Now, let me wish you…”

“...a highly productive day,” she finished along with him, each in a robotic voice.

“I find that stereotype offensive,” Reggie protested.

“Report us,” David shot back.

“I cannot. Under the Right to Privacy Act of 2027, your home is a designated…”

David crept out the front door of their one-room apartment before the computer could finish, joining a throng of other jumpsuits that varied only by color. They walked together for a few moments before parting at the stairs: lighter colors climbing upward while those in earth tones fell away like stains in the wash. In the early days, David would walk to work with them. Now that he could afford to fly, a chartered drone made more sense.

The line was blessedly short this morning, with only a few people in myriad shades of grey between David and the next available flight. He found a charcoal-clad woman who looked familiar and sidled up beside her as the next round of air taxis descended on silent turbines.

“Susan, right?” he asked. “You started last week?”

“Yes!” she chittered. “And you’re… Dan?”

“Close,” he smiled, noticing that one of her eyebrows was green. “Were you in the Strandⓒ trial? My wife only just got her hair back to brunette.”

“Yeah, it’s been a nightmare. I’m thrilled to be done with medical trials. Creative is much easier.”

They boarded the next drone together and spent eight minutes in scattered conversation. Susan, like David, was frustrated that her new job title was a misnomer. When he first made the jump, he’d been shocked to learn that his workstation machine made all the final decisions. But he gave up questioning when quarterly sales climbed at a steady 12%.

The drone swept over the city, gliding to a gentle stop in the perfect center of the landing zone with a jubilant ding. They marched to their desks in silence, and David settled into his workspace just before the timer on the screen flashed red. He logged in with a few seconds to spare: the desktop dissolved into the ambiguous Ngineuity™ logo, which faded away to reveal the smug face of their Founder and CEO.

Franklin Sowell was the kind of person who might have rolled out of a 3D printer ready to win friends, influence people, and stab competitors in the back. He was one of two people David knew who still wore a suit and tie, and his smooth black hair wrapped around his irritatingly symmetrical face like a lion’s mane. But to work for the man who pioneered the machine learning revolution was a privilege after months of uncertainty when the last of the traditional ad firms closed down.

David did his best to focus on the morning announcements. Profits were up, as usual. Something about new cost-saving measures. A round of applause for a few dozen employees celebrating their last week in the office. Blah, blah, blah.

“That’s all, team!” Sowell enthused. “Have a highly productive day!”

David pretended to scratch an itch on his neck so that he could tap the locket in his pocket, then glued his hands to the keyboard. He plowed through taglines and catchphrases, trying to adopt the mindset of "women, aged 25-32" and "teens-who-listen-to-grunge-rock." He wrote and rewrote, longing for the moment when his workstation would flash the coveted green. Time lost all meaning outside of the burning itch in his eyes.

After an hour, he gave up and punched out for a Bio Break. Five minutes to rest in a stall without cameras or sensors. Safely hidden, he snaked the locket out and opened it. A young Carol stared back at him; ostensibly less beautiful, but the star of all his cherished memories. He ran a thumb over her crooked smile and, noticing the time, tried to force his bowels to move. They refused, leaving him to scrub his hands in fury and jog back to his desk. He gave his pocket a grateful pat and, to his horror, felt nothing inside.

The screen in front of him lit up as his mind raced. His next break wouldn’t be for at least ninety minutes and by then, surely, the locket would be reported. His best defense now was to focus on making quota; proving it wasn’t a distraction. Pushing through the dull ache of regret, he forced his brain out of the fog and back to the work at hand: picking media.

Those shoes. That model. His hands. Her smile. The computer seemed pleased with his selections today; he had never scored this many Greenlights in a row.

Then he saw it.

There, near the center of his imageboard; the lockets he and Carol bought to celebrate their engagement. A stock image, with strangers’ pictures inserted into the frames, but unmistakably the same model. The edges of the screen flashed red, and he hurriedly clicked the photo of a handsome watch in the corner. It was a coincidence. Had to be.

He picked a few more, the tension in his shoulders sliding down his back and into the floor. Until the locket showed up again; buried in the midst of colorful candies and sugary breakfast cereals. What was it doing there?

He clicked away, but the locket resurfaced. A new image from the same photoshoot. He chose another photo, and another. Every new board came pre-populated with the locket until, eventually, he clicked it by mistake. His messenger app chimed.

[We detect an elevated pulse at workstation 32-D. Are you experiencing a medical emergency?]

“No,” he said aloud, clicking the dialogue box. Another chime.

[Levels increasing. HR has been notified.]

The phone rang. David fumbled after the receiver.

“David Gomez?”

“This… this is he,” David managed.

“Report to Mr. Sowell’s office, please. Elevator 32-B.”

The lift opened automatically as David approached, doors spreading out to embrace him as soon as the cameras recognized his face. In spite of himself, David gasped at the opulence of the executive elevator, from its frothy marble floor to the intimate lighting that made his reflection smile back at him with uncharacteristic panache. When the doors opened again, fresh awe washed over him. Sowell’s office was Splendor incarnate. The panoramic view stretched beyond the edge of the city, brushing gingerly over the skyscrapers.

“The man of the hour!” cheered the CEO, hoisting the locket. “Is this yours?”

“Yes.”

“That’s interesting,” Sowell replied, settling back into the rich leather of his massive chair. “Most people deny it.”

“I know it’s against company policy,” David stammered, “but I promise it hasn’t affected my productivity. My numbers are…”

“I know your numbers. You understand you can be terminated for this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And still you brought it?”

“Mr, Sowell, please... I’m always on time. The computer scores me well. I had a productive morning.”

“No you didn’t,” Sowell leaned forward now, tapping the locket against the glass top of his desk. “The algorithm did.”

“Pardon?”

“The computer. It’s learned all it can from you. Your entire department will be Optimized on Friday,” Sowell said, slapping the locket down. “Would you prefer to surrender your property and stay on until then, or take it home now?”

“Mr. Sowell, please… we can’t afford our apartment on a single income. You’ve seen what’s happening in the low neighborhoods. We’ll die out there.”

“It knows.”

“What?”

“You are both projected to die, but the loss will be negligible. Hardly a blip against the bottom line. Actually, the company will profit. Less stress on the grid. Optimal productivity.”

“You’re going to feed us to the wolves because the computer said so?”

“Oh, no,” Sowell snorted. “I’m just an accessory, no different than the maintenance teams and programmers: people with valuable skills who consume products at healthy rates and keep the system running. We won’t be phased out for some time.”

“I’ll… I’ll learn to code. You can cut my salary while I’m training.”

“You won’t learn as fast as it can.”

“So that’s it?!” David shouted. “You’re just going to let people kill each other for the scraps? What happens when the algorithm comes for you?”

“I’ll retire. The richest man in history, protected by my estate.”

“That’s insane!”

“That’s all I have left,” Sowell said, fiddling with the locket. “Unless you can tell me why you didn’t take the extra week of work.”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes,” Sowell said, rising from his seat. “Because that’s what the algorithm predicted. It’s programmed to pick the most efficient, comfortable option. Over time, it programmed us to do the same. You shouldn’t even care about this old photo.”

He offered the locket, raising it up to David’s face with a finger and a thumb. David snatched it, not caring if he broke anything in the process, and stuffed it back into the pocket of his jumpsuit. Sowell laughed.

“Engage termination protocol."

The windows iced themselves black and the room purred as everything dropped off the grid. Sowell's eyes softened as he leaned back onto his desk.

“It’s just us now,” he said, voice cracking. “The man who broke the world and the last person who cares. I need you. Help me fix it.”

David collapsed into the nearest chair. Jaw slack, palms drenched, he pawed at Carol’s face in the photograph. Willed himself to think. But the green lights wouldn’t come on.