The Free Version of a Human | ENG

Chapter One. Nothing Personal

Chapter One. Nothing Personal

Science-fiction writers were wrong.

Not slightly, not in the details, and not even about the timing. They were wrong about the most important thing.

There was no machine uprising.

Artificial intelligence did not take control of military satellites, launch nuclear missiles, or build an army of metal skeletons with red eyes in an abandoned factory. Robots did not take to the streets demanding equal rights, and the first computer to become self-aware did not ask its creator why it existed.

It asked for a bank card number.

First, artificial intelligence learned to write texts. Then—to draw, compose music, make diagnoses, design houses, handle accounting, teach children, and explain to adults why they had been fired again.

People argued for a long time about whether this counted as true intelligence.

Meanwhile, companies counted their profits.

I took part in those arguments too. I was thirty-four at the time, working in the customer service department of an insurance company, and I was certain that a machine could never replace me.

Working with people, I used to say, requires an understanding of people.

Two years later, I was replaced by an algorithm that understood people so well it could deny their claim before they had time to explain their problem.

On the day we were fired, our manager gathered us in a virtual conference room. His digital copy looked energetic, tanned, and about fifteen years younger than the original. The manager himself was probably sitting in a bathtub somewhere or flying to a corporate resort.

— The company is not reducing its workforce, — he announced. — It is unleashing human potential.

Almost all of us were unleashed.

Potential was not entitled to severance pay.

For the first few months, I looked for a new job. Then I looked for any job at all. After that, I subscribed to an app that looked for work on my behalf.

The app informed me that my professional qualities had been highly rated and that the probability of successful employment continued to rise. After a year, it reached ninety-eight percent and stopped there.

I never got a job.

But the app continued charging me every month.

The government assured us that the situation was under control. The major channels showed graphs according to which unemployment was falling. It later turned out that anyone who completed at least one paid task a month was no longer considered unemployed.

For example, I once photographed a broken bench and received three credits for it.

From the point of view of statistics, I was employed.

From the point of view of the shop near my home, I still could not afford cheese.

But blaming technology was considered inappropriate. We were told that the problem was foreign workers who were willing to work for less. Admittedly, by then machines were already doing most of the low-paid work, but blaming foreigners was more convenient: at least they looked guilty.

First, the rules of entry were tightened.

Then the rules of residence.

Then the rules about going outside after nine in the evening in certain districts.

Almost every week, another military clash broke out somewhere. Governments argued over borders, water, rare metals, satellite channels, and historical justice. The worse life became inside the country, the more often we were reminded of threats from outside.

The news turned into a weather forecast.

Missile strikes were expected in the north.

Mass unrest in the south.

The central regions would continue to experience variable cloud cover and the threat of foreign interference.

I got used to it.

Human beings can become accustomed to almost anything, especially when the changes happen gradually and come with a free trial period.

The real revolution did not begin with robots.

It began with glasses.

The first augmented-reality models were heavy, ran out of power quickly, and cost as much as a used car. Ten years later, it was impossible to call a doctor, find the right bus, or prove to an automatic door that you had the right to enter your own apartment building without them.

Smartphones disappeared without anyone noticing. For a while, they were still used by elderly people and strange enthusiasts who insisted that a physical button was more reliable than a hand gesture. Then manufacturers stopped producing chargers, and the argument ended naturally.

The glasses became an extension of the human body.

I put them on as soon as I woke up. Sometimes before my underwear.

Without them, the apartment looked strangely empty. There were no clocks, calendars, or pictures on the walls. Food packages had no names on them. Even the mirror showed nothing except my real face, and I considered looking at it without a morning filter an unnecessary act of cruelty.

The glasses reminded me to take my medication, chose my clothes, planned routes, translated speech, and suggested what facial expression I should make during a conversation.

When my wife Anya said:

— Everything's fine.

A prompt appeared in the right-hand corner:

Probability of concealed irritation — 87%. Recommended response: "Are you sure?"

One day, I decided to show some independence and asked:

— Are you sure?