g1ass h0uses

Three days after being unceremoniously fired for time theft, David Gomez found the broader world ambivalent at best. When his boss pulled him aside and unveiled the creeping optimization conspiracy phasing out human influence on the world, he imagined it to be the dawn of some romantic revolution; humanity pitted against its own unfeeling, diabolical creation. What he got was an algorithm, programmed to anesthetize and replace the masses, which had largely succeeded and now treated its opponents with the same apathy it had forged in them.

The machines rose to power without any blood spilled or heads turned. They never bothered to make a play for the world’s nuclear arsenal. They passed right over forging weapons in the image of Arnold Schwarzenegger. The only powers they needed were greed, gluttony, and time.

Humanity, it turned out, was already quite capable of terminating itself.

Therein lay the problem. Franklin Sowell, the pioneer whose algorithm forged the invisible fist under which humanity now lay bleeding, chose David to lead the resistance because he was the only available person with an attachment to the way things used to be. But he recruited David from within his own company after years of computer-assisted marketing whittled David’s creativity down to the proverbial bone. Nowadays, David had a tough time identifying good ideas without flashing red and green lights from his workstation to guide the way.

What he knew at this point could be boiled down to five basic facts:

1. After downsizing, he and Carol had enough money saved to live in the lower district for another 4 months.

2. By signing up as medical test subjects, they might be able to stretch that to 7 months.

3. Both of their names lay buried in a spreadsheet alongside several thousand others who would become victims of starvation or violent crime within that timespan.

4. Because the computers had already calculated this, they no longer cared enough to track him, which was as insulting as it was advantageous.

5. That advantage amounted to nothing if he couldn’t figure out how to safely unravel a nearly invisible, totally voluntary system of subjugation upon which millions of lives currently depended.

Together with the first dose of an experimental energy pill, those data points pounded against David’s temples until his eyes watered. Even now, with Sowell sitting across from him, David’s migraine turned the entire apartment into a shimmering projection. He could barely see beyond the crooked wooden table that separated their wobbly stools. Sowell wore faded earth tones that matched David’s new wardrobe rather than the austere white jumpsuits of the upper class, which was confusing enough without the pain. And, of course, this visit came with a bonus round of passionate beratement about their collective lack of progress. Once a Fortune 500 Leader of Men, always a Fortune 500 Leader of Men.

“Listen, it’s not that I don’t care,” David said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s just that no amount of pressure can summon an idea from the aether.”

“Come on, David, you must have something,” Sowell scoffed. “You’ve had three days!”

“No, he hasn’t,” Carol grunted from her perch on the futon in the corner, peeling back a heavy blanket to scowl. “After you fired David, we spent two days reorganizing our finances and moving everything we owned into this craphole. Then we woke up at 5:00 this morning to walk twenty blocks through an unfamiliar neighborhood where half a dozen people have been mugged in the last month; just to stand in line for a clinical trial that is making my stomach do backflips. But by all means, yell at David some more. I’m sure that’ll jump-start him.”

“It can’t be that bad,” Sowell said. “I had to walk here and I didn’t see any unsavory characters.”

“You came through five minutes after the cops did,” David groaned, sliding his hands over his eyes in search of comfort. “And I don’t think that’s a coincidence.”

“Maybe I called them with a false report. So what? Everyone here is safer because of it.”

“Maybe,” Carol said as she faded back into the lumpy mattress. “Or maybe that report was the tipping point in another one of your precious algorithms and this neighborhood is now a High Crime area. We’ll know if there’s a raid tomorrow.”

“I didn’t write the Broken Windows algorithm!”

“Of course not,” David said. “Just the machine learning model behind it.”

“If you remember, I fought to prevent Congress from waiving my patent so that this kind of thing wouldn’t happen. One of few battles I’ve lost, and certainly the most expensive.”

“Oh, boohoo. You lost thousands of dollars trying to protect your right to billions more and now you’re only barely rich enough to be completely safe from your own apocalypse.”

“You make it sound like I’m the villain here.”

“Do I?”

The air between them all but caught fire as David finally unleashed years of pent-up frustration at the precise moment that Sowell rediscovered shame. They stewed in the tension for a few minutes, the distant wail of sirens and a crying baby their only accompaniment. David leaned forward, letting his bloodshot eyes drill into his old boss now that time and regret had softened him up.

“Well, blaming me won’t fix the problem,” Sowell conceded. “Even if you’ve correctly identified the source.”

“Is that supposed to be an apology?” Carol snorted from underneath the sheets.

Sowell jumped to his feet, angry but comically unsure what to do with it. David got the distinct impression that the CEO hoped someone from his staff would handle the problem, but of course none of the usual entourage could have set foot in the lower districts without drawing the wrong sort of attention. He was alone and powerless, and taking to both conditions with the enthusiasm of a vegetarian at a pig roast. He had just about resigned himself to a petulant storm-off when someone knocked at the door.

All three of them froze, albeit for different reasons. Carol half-expected a violent entry to follow. David clenched his eyes against an aggressive burst of tension in his forehead. Franklin Sowell simply forgot that doors still required manual interaction in this part of town.

"Hello?” a woman called through the door. “My name is Sadia; I live next door. We noticed you moving in yesterday and I wanted to drop off some food. I made chickpea curry. It’s not much, but it’s hard to scrounge ingredients these days.”

“People still cook?” Sowell asked. “Vitamin shakes are so much more efficient.”

“Probably a trap,” David warned.

“My stomach hurts too much to think about this,” Carol added.

“Did anyone tell you how thin our walls are?” Sadia laughed through the door.

David sighed and dragged himself to the door, squinting even in the dim light of the apartment compound. He turned the handle and pulled, revealing a squat woman with warm brown eyes and shocks of grey in her black hair. Her face was wrinkled from years of laughter followed by years of pain, and she wore a faded orange sari wrapped casually over one shoulder. The sweet smells of a full spice rack wafted from a pile of styrofoam containers clenched between her hands.

“Hello,” she said politely.

“Hi,” David managed.

“Would you prefer to simply take these, or may I serve you?”

“People definitely don’t do that anymore,” Sowell said.

“Some of us still remember the days of hospitality, Mr. Sowell,” she replied.

“You know who he is?” David asked.

“Of course. He put our restaurant out of business,” she smiled; a pleasant one, not at all tinged with the rage David would have expected. “Your picture was on the front page the day they announced that our block would be demolished. Hard to forget that face. These are very warm, you know.”

She hefted the boxes again, and for the first time, David noticed the way the bottoms drooped under the hot weight of the curry. He glanced at his wife, still too distracted by her discomfort to offer more than an ambiguous shrug, then at Sowell. The panic in his eyes sealed the deal.

“Come on in,” David said, stepping aside. “We were just discussing the Great Innovator’s various sins.”

“Not a very encouraging topic,” she said, drifting into the apartment. “Has it helped at all?”

“What?” both men said in unison.

“Again, the walls are very thin,” she grinned, handing Carol a container before setting the other two on the table and stepping back. “Do you mind if I stay?”

“Why would you?” Sowell said.

“For the same reason I still cook. It’s what I love.”

“Watching strangers eat?”

“Serving the people around me.”

“I don’t think I should…” Sowell started.

“Oh, goodness,” Sadia interrupted him and, grabbing one of several spoons she brought along, spooned a mound of rice and curry out of his box and into her mouth. “It’s not poisoned.”

That was enough for David. As much as his head hurt, the scent of fresh food had awakened something in him. Neither he nor Carol had eaten anything solid in years, and their supply of dietary pastes and pills dwindled faster than expected now that it cost them hundreds of calories just to get to work and back. He dropped onto a stool and dug in.

Colors popped in his mind as he chewed, a symphony of forgotten flavors rising up to vanquish a hunger he tried to train away. There was a sweet, smoky pain in his mouth that pushed him back through time.

He remembered food. Real food, not simple nutrients. Creative, fascinating, scintillating food; the joy of a meal that wasn't formulated in a lab or crafted to set off dopamine and drag you back for more.

“Ohmuhguhd,” he sighed, turning to Sadia. “You’re amazing. You’d just give this stuff away?”

“I used to sell it,” she said. “Back when people owned restaurants. Before the franchising and the optimization and the need to Move Up. But the towers grew taller and farther away, the price of land shot up, and we had to fight for scraps when the food supply shrank. We took the first buyout we could get.”

“Who’s we?” David asked through another mouthful.

“My husband, our three kids, and me. It was a family business,” she said, staring past them all. “Now it’s a family of one.”

“What happened?”

“The same thing that happened to you, I think. We moved down; tried to stretch the budget until the end. They got sick. I didn’t,” she stumbled over the last few words, tears welling in her eyes. “Enough of this. More pain that doesn’t help.”

“You’re allowed to be mad,” Carol whispered.

“Of course,” Sadia said, nodding. “But anger is just a fire set in your own house. Hate the machines. Hate Mr. Sowell. Hate the muggers you fear so much. Burn this world down with your rage. Maybe you can make something of the ashes, but I think not. Better to take those flames and put them someplace useful. Throw them in a pit and use the heat to cook for someone else.”

Something clicked inside of David; something deeper than a flash of green light from his old computer approving another machine-crafted, high-yield strategy.

“Franklin,” he said. “The algorithm dictates everything, right? Everything from what my time is worth to when my time is over?”

“Yes,” the CEO seethed. “And it’s set an expiration date on us all. That’s the problem we’re supposed to be solving, but you seem to be more concerned with...”

“Franklin,” David said, impossibly calm. “Who dictates the algorithm?”

“What? No one. It’s independent. It gathers data from everyone. Every click, every investment, every second we spend anywhere. Our choices fed its conclusion that we exist only to consume and be consumed. We’re all…”

“We’re all at fault,” David conceded. “But if our choices shape its strategy, then we’re all in charge, too.”