I wrote a short science fiction story this morning. I haven't done that since college. It kind of came out of nowhere, if I'm being honest.
I ran the story through ChatGPT when I was done. It gave me an overwhelming number of suggestions, most of which I ignored. There were a few smart copy editing notes, though. Seems insane to ignore good suggestions simply because they weren't made by a human being. Especially in an age when we've replaced all the copy editors with robots.
I might try to expand this in the future. Or maybe it'll just live here on this blog. I haven't decided.
"Clankers"
By 2051, even the virtual break room smelled like burnout.
Braedynne -- forty-seven, prematurely gray with a hairline that hung just half an inch above his eyebrows thanks to advances in modern gender-affirming tech -- has been spiritually fried since at least 2028. More alarming: The Company's ultra efficient, terribly spartan labor pod has sped up his physical decline.
He's done. He knows it. He just doesn't have the energy. But worse? They know it, too. Probably deduced from his dream scans.
He materializes in his designated pod and lights a virtual cigarette. "A modern marvel, these things," he allows himself to think.
It was a tactical thought.
Maybe the bosses would read the thought as a sign of emotional progress. Acceptance, even. Hell, maybe they were right. Maybe he should allow his honest consciousness to be scanned more often.
Not that he considered his skepticism unwarranted. One thing he could never figure out: How the hell did he actually feel the nicotine? Clankers didn't actually experience pleasure or pain. They had no experiences to draw on. Not a hint of lower back pain.
But if the clankers could perfectly simulate a lung-buster? Maybe it was time to get on board with The Plan.
He exhales loudly and tosses the digital tar whistle aside, feeling authentic appreciation for the art form as it evaporates into digital nothingness.
It was time. They knew this, too, of course. They sensed it in his subtle change in posture. The slight uptick in his heart rate.
The pod pulses with a polite chime: his clanker supervisor wished to "interface." That was HR-speak for we're firing another meat sack.
The robot manager flickers into view, all chrome cheekbones and a smile calibrated at "relentlessly cordial." It reads from a generative script: downsizing, efficiency metrics, shareholders.
Braedynne nods through the corporate eulogy of his career. He'd seen the tailored posts. Read the personalized billboards. They'd been laying emotional tracks for weeks, micro-targeting his despair with algorithmic precision. Millions replaced in a single quarter, humanity's last stand outsourced to the cheapest option. Still, this felt specific. Personal.
Fuck it.
He taps the visor interface grafted to his temples and orders up another cigarette. $75 in America Bucks digital currency disappears from his balance. Oh well.
He pauses, aware that he had no idea what his next move will be. Did they still need humans to mow lawns? To serve as lawyers or judges? To fight wars?
"Not likely," he thinks, and the pod's color tones shift to a more somber and melancholy shade of pale yellow.
"There there," the clanker says softly in a now feminine voice. They used the male voice for authority and the female voice for empathy. He hated that. It was oddly retro. Anachronistic, even.
A moment passes. Two. Five. Nothing is said. The robot doesn't care; it has unlimited patience.
As Braedynne exhales the last plume of pixelated smoke, he ignores his crooked spine, sits up straight, and invokes the only defense he has left.
"But sir," he says to the clanker. "You can't fire me. I invented '6-7'."