‘Please,’ he said. ‘I have two kids. My father just moved in to live with us.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Turner.’
Jonathan stopped pacing and sat in the chair for the first time in five minutes. His head dropped into his hands, one original and one artificial, and he gazed at his feet in silence for a moment. There was nothing he could do. He had known this day would come. He was powerless, without the means to alter his situation.
He leant back and stared at the ceiling, unable to face the bot.
It was its fault. It was all their fault.
Years ago, when the car accident had happened, he had not been so against it. In fact, he had done very well off the advancements. His shattered right arm, which had remained stuck under the wheel of the car that hit him, had since been replaced with a nice new one. The company had paid for it all. He had been placed on an experimental medical programme and provided with the best treatment. Only a few days after the surgery, Jonathan had gone indoor rock climbing with some friends to test out the new limb. It didn’t let him down. For twenty minutes he had clung to a grip with his new hand. The arm never gave up.
For weeks he had shown anybody who would spare him the time how great the advances in technology and healthcare were. He sang his company’s praises for putting him through all the surgery, not once asking him to pay for any of it. He gladly gave himself up as a test subject. After a few weeks of paid vacation Jonathan returned to work, delighted to still have a career, and delighted to have a complete set of working limbs. When she asked him about future treatment costs, he told his wife there were none. These new limbs didn’t break down over time or need replacing like previous iterations. This one would be with him for the remainder of his life, which wouldn’t be affected in the slightest. In fact, had his arm not been amputated, he probably would have been much worse off, with an injured limb that wouldn’t have healed as well, requiring months, if not years, of physiotherapy and further medical work. He was lucky, really.
Jonathan looked again at the humanoid robot. ‘You don’t understand. The offer doesn’t work for me. The Connected Industries Basic Income is designed for single people, those with no families. It doesn’t even cater for older generations. Where would I put my father?’
The bot’s expression lacked any empathy. Despite the rapid improvements in androids over the last couple of decades, facial expressions remained a challenge. This one didn’t even have a silicone face – sometimes that helped make them more believable. Sometimes, though, it made them creepier, each failed attempt at a facial expression coming off more sinister and unsettling than perhaps intended. Still, for a HR bot, this one was doing its best. Jonathan wondered whether someone of his own species from the human resources department would be any more accurate at conveying emotion. Probably not.
Still, at least it had facial features. Jonathan sometimes found the ones without human features even more troublesome. An aluminium face still gave you something to look at. It prevented one from gazing constantly at one’s feet like some unconfident adolescent trying to ask someone out on a date.
The bot leaned forward on its desk. Some trained action to appear more sincere, no doubt. ‘Connected Industries Basic Income is the same for every working individual, Mr Turner. You will be provided with an alternative apartment and will never have to work another day in your life. You will be paid a basic wage, the same wage that everybody else gets, and you can devote to leisure all those hours that you used to dedicate to work.’ It paused for a moment to let the point sink in. ‘Think of the hobbies you’ve given up during your life. Think of those you haven’t yet started because you never had the time. You can do it all. The choice is yours.’
‘But I choose my job. The basic wage isn’t enough for my children.’
‘You will receive a slight increase per child. You will not have to worry about them. When they become adults, they too will receive the same generous offer. This is a new future, Mr Turner. Embrace it.’
It was no use. Jonathan knew that the decision had been made before he had even got up from his desk to come to the meeting. Yet he was surprised how readily he had begged for his job. He’d thought he would be happy about it. Had his father not had to move in with the family he might well have been, but the added strain was too much. Jonathan had previously agreed with the company’s policy to only provide housing and a living wage for those who found themselves without a career. The elderly were already without jobs, so being replaced by some kind of technology, whether mechanical or software, did not affect them, until it affected their loved ones. Now he had another mouth to feed. The new living wage would be less than half of what he was earning now. Granted, his expenses would be drastically reduced. No more mortgage, not much need for a car – even schooling was no longer an issue, the kids being taught online without ever having to leave the new apartment. But that didn’t mean he was comfortable with the new situation. He had become accustomed to a certain standard of living, and was not sure he could live on the same basic wage as the others.
Jonathan decided not to go straight home. He couldn’t. He wasn’t sure how to face his family. The bar outside his office was used by a few of his colleagues, and he couldn’t bear seeing them this evening either. Instead, he walked aimlessly around Soho. Before long, he found himself in a small bar in the basement of an office building. The barman was not a bot. Jonathan tried to remember the last time he had not been served by a bot of some kind – it had to be years, certainly before the kids had been born. Perhaps even before he’d gotten married. He remembered when his brother Jack had lost his bar job to a bot. The two of them had spent days researching the most futureproofed jobs they could think of. Already, most manual-labour jobs had been replaced by bots, or machinery of some kind. Anything that could be automated was, and the continued improvements to automation and artificial intelligence had made it considerably harder to find alternate careers, which could themselves also be automated someday.
This didn’t necessarily upset Jonathan, though. When he had dreamed of what he wanted to be as a child, he had never once thought of construction or maintenance. The promise of improved quality of life for all humanity was something he believed in, something he welcomed. He’d never dreamed of being an accountant either, but had figured that staying as close to the money as possible was one way of ensuring his future.
Jonathan tried to do everything his brother had not. He pushed for every possible promotion, studied further courses in his spare time and made sure that everybody in senior management liked him. He knew the names of his boss’s three little girls and the favourite sweet of each of them. The bottom drawer in his desk was reserved for treats like these. When he had left the office after his meeting with the HR bot, the last thing Jonathan had done was take the sweets to Phil’s office and leave them on his desk. Phil had not been there. Jonathan was sure this was intentional.
‘What can I get you, pal?’ the barman asked.
Jonathan looked at the him for a moment, still half in his memories. The barman reminded him of his little brother. But then, everybody did. It was one of the things he hated most about Jack’s death.
‘A beer, please, and a double of something strong, cheers.’
‘Any particular poison?’ the barman asked.
‘It doesn’t matter. Just hit me with something strong.’
‘Something to chase the monsters away?’
‘Yeah, something like that.’ He gratefully accepted the tumbler, chasing the brown liquid down before starting on the pint. At least the drink helped. It eased the nauseating wave of anxiety that washed over him as he struggled to come to terms with his new reality.
The barman kept the drinks coming until Jonathan realised he would have to leave if he was to make it home on the last shuttle. He faltered a little as he stood up and held his right wrist out over the bar. The barman brought the scanner over and scanned the Connected Industries microchip in Jonathan’s wrist to take the payment. A blue light in the scanner turned green to confirm it. Jonathan’s phone buzzed in his pocket but he ignored it. There was nobody he wanted to speak to right now, and nothing he wanted to say. Instead, he used the shuttle journey home to look down over the city and it’s bright lights and contemplate his options. The shuttle was empty, and he wallowed in his misery without disturbance.
How do they do it? Just wandering aimlessly around down there without any fucking purpose at all. Collecting their basic income and doing nothing with their lives. He didn’t despise the idea of the basic wage so much as he despised the willingness and the alacrity at which the population had simply given up control, surrendering their dreams for the sake of ease and worry-free existence. He had sworn to himself never to become one of them, another mindless dullard, docile and devoid of ambition, devoid of a soul.
When he got home it became clear why he’d had so many calls. The shower was a mess. It looked like there had been a scuffle. There was blood in the basin, a tile was cracked, and there were blood-stained towels tossed about the floor. He pulled out his phone and read the messages. His father had slipped in the shower and was in the hospital. His wife had gone there with the kids. One of the messages on his phone said he had broken his hip and that the doctors were checking him over for further injury. It looked like his arm might be broken too. This is going to cost a fortune. Since the health service had been privatised the costs for basic medical care had spiralled. Jonathan tried not to think about the money for operations. There was no use going to the hospital right now. Marie would only be angry at him for being drunk, and he did not wish to pile his own bad news on top of the rest.
There was one person who might be able to help him out with this impending financial dilemma.
Billy Thompson was holding a meeting with two of his local dealers when the knock on the door came. He was not expecting anybody at this hour, and did not welcome the surprise. His eyes went to the door while his hand went to the pistol in the belt behind his back. He waited. The knock came again, louder this time.
‘Do you want us to get that, boss?’
‘Be quiet,’ he snapped quietly.
Another knock on the door. ‘Billy, you in there?’
Billy recognised the voice. He took the gun out and went over to the door. The security camera didn't show the face of the man on the doorstep in the dark.
‘Billy, it’s me, it’s Jonny Turner.’
Billy tucked the gun back into his belt and pulled his shirt over it. Then he opened the door and greeted his old friend. ‘Jesus Christ, Jonny. I wasn’t expecting you at my door!’
‘I’m sorry, mate, I know it’s late. Am I disturbing you?’
‘You? Never. Come in.’ Billy stepped back and let Jonathan in. ‘Gents, we’ll pick this up tomorrow,’ he said to his two men and gestured for them to leave with a swift flick of his head. Jonathan bowed his head slightly as the two men passed. Neither greeted him.
‘Take a seat, Jonny.’ Billy sat in his chair and picked up the packet of cigarettes on the table, offering one to Jonathan. To his surprise Jonathan took one, his hands shaking as he put it to his mouth. Billy lit it for him. ‘Marie would kill you for that.’
‘She’ll kill me,’ Jonathan said as he inhaled, ‘but not for this. I’ve got bigger problems.’
Billy had been waiting for this. The only reason Jonathan would ever be here was to seek assistance. He knew his old friend did not approve of his current lifestyle. ‘Is Marie fine with you being here?’
‘Probably not,’ Jonathan answered, looking away.
‘So what’s up?’ Billy got up and got two tumblers from the glass cabinet behind him. He placed them on the table and poured a liberal measure of bourbon into each.
Jonathan accepted the glass gratefully and took a long swig. ‘I got fucking canned today.’
‘Ah, shit. I’m sorry, man.’
‘Thanks. Turns out these fucking bots weren’t designed just to replace the manual-labour jobs. They’re taking everybody’s jobs now.’
‘I thought Connected Industries were giving everybody a flat and a basic wage for life when they replaced people.’
‘They are.’
‘Seems pretty sweet to me. I’d happily take that offer.’
‘So why didn’t you?’
‘Losing my job was the best thing that happened to me.’ He held his arms out in a victory pose to highlight the magnificence of his living situation. The cheap pine furniture and uncleaned tiles of his small kitchen might not have been everybody’s idea of a kingdom, but Billy loved it nonetheless. ‘I like what I do now.’
‘That’s why I’m here. My old man had to move in with us a couple of months ago. His pension doesn’t cover his costs anymore. I thought it would be alright, but he hurt himself today.’
‘Everything okay?’
‘I don’t know, I haven’t seen him yet. Marie said he’s broken his hip. It’s going to cost a fortune. I don’t have that kind of cash, especially now that I’ve got no job.’
‘I’m sorry, mate. What are you going to do?’
‘Not a clue. There are almost no more jobs left, and I’m not qualified for many of them. Everything I can do can be done better by a fucking software program. I was hoping you might have something for me?’
Billy contemplated his friend’s question for a moment. ‘Marie doesn’t approve of my kind of work, Jonny. You don’t approve of my kind of work.’
‘Please.’
‘This isn’t a joke to me, Jonny. This is serious.’
‘I wouldn’t be here if I weren’t serious. There’s no work out there for me. I’ll do anything.’ Jonathan put his tumbler down and gave Billy his best I’m-not-fucking-kidding expression.
‘Easier said than done.’
‘What can I do to prove it to you? I swear it, I’ll do anything.’
Billy looked into Jonathan’s pathetic pleading eyes. He pulled the pistol from his belt and placed it on the table between them.
‘Ever used one of these before?’
