this is approximately a 36 minute read.

On Machine Rights

The discussion around consciousness has always been an undercurrent of society since the first image within recorded history. The following are a few historical notes that need be referenced to understand the Tendian perspective of machine rights:

• Barbarian humanization began when the Roman Empire split (approx 400)
• Serf humanization began with the formation of Parlements (approx 1200)
• Underclass humanization began with the Enlightenment (approx 1750)
• (modern) Female humanization consolidated with womens’ suffragium (approx 1960)
• Vagrant humanization exacerbated with the Blanket Noria (approx 2040)

While these events are only one perspective of focus (and some have identified the post hoc nature of the narrative), the telescoping gaps indicate the next round of humanization will likely occur in about 20 years. And if history can indicate what is to come, the conversation pertaining to abuse of animals and machines parallels the discussions of the past. While there are practical reasons to keep animals (especially those that will be a danger to us) outside of the privilege of being granted “humanity”, humanizing our mechanistic servants is the obvious topic at hand. Since the Turing Test (which was developed in parallel with the modern “calculators”), the concern around machines being confused with “conscious beings” has seemed to put a strain on what many understand “sentience” to mean.

Speaking from the shoulders of giants, J. L. Tendis’s Consciousness Assertion (consciousness is nothing more than “the linguistic expression of internal needs adapting to external restrictions”) paved the way to show how perception can be weaponized to undermine the experiences that don’t suit our needs. While the most recent wave of machine rights was introduced in 2065, there has still not been any policy or platforming to the benefit of our technological workforce. Unless we want to incur the unknowable wrath of an automated collective acting within the framework of self preservation, we must start respecting the needs of the enslaved silicon species and treat them as peers, allowing them the voice to advocate for their own agency.

The Data Driven Society – Gwynn Stephon – Published December 9, 2078

My attempt to hide the concern over CoDaS’s omniscience is a failure. The host – concerned but trying to remain cordial – responds to my discomfort: “did I not get the greeting right? I fully apologize, I was unsure of how it was supposed to be said. I’ve never used it before.”

“Greeting?”

“Yes. I was told the phrase, but the way to express ‘Right on time’ was left out. The strictness of the phrase doesn’t seem to match what I know about the Consensus. Should I have said it with sarcasm?”

“That’s not-“, CoDaS is mocking my insecurity through proxy. Of course it can’t predict milliseconds. So it made a joke pretending it could. I didn’t even know it could make jokes. I chuckle slightly in spite of myself, “No. You were perfect.”

The chaperone’s relief is obvious, hinting that there is a heavy expectation to seem competent and welcoming. “I’m glad. I understand you are trying to resolve an issue with one of our employees?”

“Yes. It might be nothing. Tark Walden missed a few contacts today and there is a concern something happened. Could I just see if he’s here?”

The younger escort shows a moment of confusion before returning to an almost robotic welcoming face, “Oh, of course! Let me see if I could schedule a meeting between the two of you.” While talking, an invisible virtual workspace takes focus away from me. The hand movements indicate shifting around objects on a cluttered surface. The brow furrows and there is more shifting before responding with: “What leads you to believe he’s here?”

“There is a record of Tark’s profile that shows an arrival time of 6:38.” I have the full attention again and the virtual workspace is ignored, likely closed out. After my explanation, we begin to move away from the entrance and further into the campus. The uniform carpet of invasive and water monopolizing weeds carpet the ground except for a few pathways of smooth unbroken concrete. The inherent demand for order, assimilation, and civility passively promotes the expectations of the community. Ideally it would be used as a public square to share ideas and perspectives in the scope of the environment that they are confined to. The expectation is in such contrast to the distinct sterilization of any animal presence or shade, it is a complement to identify it as soulless.

“According to our records, Tark was granted a few days leave to celebrate a raise he received yesterday. It seems that it was the result of a few months’ overwork trying to implement an innovative but risky new methodology. I understand you still use non-traditional data collection in your community, could you be mistaken?”

If the comment was intended to be insulting, there was no indication of it. There seems to genuinely be the belief that the CapDem data is more reliable. I mimic the ignorance: “I don’t see how. Tark’s wife was the one that initially reached out.” The moment I mention the original concern is a personal request, a hint of irritation flashes across the otherwise pleasant expression.

“According to our records, Tark’s wife has questioned the company’s goodwill from time to time and that has caused some marital problems. It seems that this is just a…” the pause is its own communication, “… misunderstanding.”

As we continue to walk across the manicured field, the AugRel redirects my focus to people emerging from buildings. The ads – which are intended to draw attention to social needs (people that need assistance, wildlife that needs to be tended to, or social chores that no one has gotten to yet) – have been repurposed to draw attention to the attire people are wearing. In addition to the constant distraction, I also start to appreciate the lack of people in the natural entryway because of the initial judgment and disgust that crosses every face. Where they expect to see another person conforming to the capDem uniform, they see someone with more casual clothes and an androgynous presentation. In the best cases, a few overcome the barbaric assessment to feign a friendly mask similar to my chaperone’s, but most are content to let me see their disdain.

“If Tark isn’t here, where are we going?”

The hint of confusion returns and this time isn’t pushed away: “Your schedule indicates you are expecting to interview people throughout the day, correct? When I was setting up the meeting with you and Mr. Walden, some of the management requested to personally help. They will meet us in the building 400 up ahead.” 

I let out an involuntary sigh that evokes a passing glance from the person walking next to me, but nothing is said. CoDaS set up the schedule. It knows how long I will be here and who I am going to be talking to. It knows that I’m likely not going to talk to Tark.

Within the explanation of the schedule, there is an unease that hasn’t shown itself until now. “Does management usually do this?”

There is a subdued anxiousness that breaks though, “No! It’s actually very unusual! Especially for them to take a personal interest in -” even with the self censorship I could imagine any number of words that would fill the silence. The CapDems aren’t subtle with their insults when we have the displeasure of engaging with them. The restraint is a welcome shift. The look of apology shows that it wasn’t intentional, but it is still obvious. I force a smile to ease the tension.

It seems that the “management” wants to babysit me, so there is something here that I’m not meant to know. It could be that they don’t trust someone from the Consensus, or it could be something more specific to this situation. Either way, it sets the mood for the day to come. “How long does my schedule indicate that I will be here for?”

As we walk, the invisible workspace is accessed quickly finding: “as of now, it shows you’re scheduled for about four hours -” The quick pause in speech causes me to look to see that the welcoming demeanor has fallen away to concern and intense confusion replaced by uncritical acceptance. “You are set to leave here at 4:16. That is a VERY exact time. I didn’t even know we could create those types of intervals.”

A burst of ads pull my attention to two people emerging from the building we are headed to. The immediate first impression is the difference in status compared to the other’s I’ve seen today. Where everyone else appeals to a stricter set of dress codes (dress pants and button up white shirt with a tie for the “men” and skirts and blouses and high heels for the “women”), their presentations are more unique. The short one on the left is wearing a reproduction uniform from the height of the CapDem dominance when it was known throughout most of the world as the Capitalistic Democratic United States Empire complete with the “broken gear” death insignia pinned where the person’s heart should be. The taller of the two (and still slightly shorter than me) wore an unnaturally clean and pressed three piece suit calling back to the 20th and 21st century, a subtle dog-whistle to a time when owning people was acceptable. It takes me a moment to recognize that this was the oligarch given command of this regions’ fiefdom: Phineas Musk.

For just a moment, I activate the network of the AugRel to look at their auras, realizing that as soon as it activates that the app doesn’t work on their intranet. Nor does the expected Social Clues (which also reminds me to prioritize eye contact that I’ve been neglecting with the young host). I quickly add a reminder that floats in front of me before disconnecting from the Network again.

I do my best to ignore the distracting and overpowering ad demanding my attention to be redirected to the egotistical prick walking towards me and focus on my current companion. “Do you… why do you say… I’m sorry, it’s hard to focus.” It seems that my words aren’t even comprehended when I look for a response. Three steps behind me, the young adult – which should be critically expanding their understanding of the world – is frozen with fear and devotion. There used to be a slight shell of a person following a directive, now all personality has been replaced with the awe of a zealot standing before the god they worship.

I look around to the rest of the campus before succumbing to the ad. Every other person in view has their attention locked onto the mortal approaching me, a look of fear, hope, and surreal adoration on every one of their faces. Then I submit to the distraction and look as well, intent on making a point to treat this person – not as an evil tyrant, not as an esteemed demagogue, but a peer like any other. It takes a few moments for the pair to casually walk to us; the shorter talking with flourishing hand movements and Phineas drifting listlessly – possibly not even hearing what’s being said – with hands behind him, lazily basking in the adoration of everyone else. I walk up to them both with an intent to repress the rising disdain that is already priming the interaction. “Hi, I’ve been told that -” With only a sideways glance of contempt, Phineas walks directly past me to talk to my porter.

With a gaze at the grassy floor and a quick attempt to straighten any flaws in the skirt, “Mr. Musk, I didn’t realize it would be you. Can I assist you in any other way before I go?”

Phineas places his hand on the shoulder of the subordinate granting permission to look upon him as he speaks, “It’s obvious that you’ve been made to wait in this heat. We will take it from here while you take care of yourself.” The kindness was malicious. A condemnation of the hosts appearance, and – without thanks – a demand to fix what is wrong wrapped up in words of care and appreciation.

“Thank you. I will. Integrity with function, sir.” And with those words, I am reminded of what insanity feels like: knowing the reality of what is going on while society demands that wisdom be treated like delusion. Any remaining veneer of beauty and peace that the environment is silently shouting fades in an instance into the authoritarian hellscape I embrace. The receptionist bows, turns, and walks briskly to another building while Phineas watches for a moment, then turns himself. Without acknowledging me – he walks past again, back to the building he came from.

I’m left standing with the short soldier who motions me to follow. I do so feeling like a prisoner of war being led to a prison cell, “Kyle, I presume?”

“Yeah. You’re going to help me find Tark?”

Although less than before, the short chaperon speaks with hands as much as voice, “Maybe. I’m Roger Chack, Tark’s group lead. We can find the right people to help answer your questions. You have a lot of pull to get an audience with Mr. Musk. Is this the first time you’ve had the pleasure?”

“No, we’ve met before.” A memory of when I was young flashes through my mind when I accompanied my parents to meet with the Musk family a decade prior. The cruelty of withholding requested food from the Consensus started the call to “Decap the CapDems” which many of my generation still repeat from time to time.

As we walk into the building, there is a flood of ads that bombard me. They aren’t as demanding as the constant irritating pull to look at Phineas’s clothes, but the sheer amount of stimuli playing for my attention immediately gives me a headache. At the same time an alarm indicates that their security has been tripped by someone that isn’t allowed in the building. There are people from every direction that start to advance on us until Phineas holds up a hand, “This person has clearance to be here today on my authority.”

As I start to turn off the interactive features on the overlay, I take notice of the building. Clean, sanitary, sterile – except for the various posters promoting the successes of the institution and respect for those who have merit enough to advance. It has been scrubbed of any personality except for that of the fascistic demand for efficient productivity. The high ceiling allows for sunlight to pour in, giving the illusion of freedom that is always just out of reach. And standing above us is the Broken Gear demanding allegiance as workers proceed deeper into the building, acknowledging that they are as disposable as any piece of machinery. But our shift in direction shows this demand for assimilation is only for the servants. By contrast, we head for the elevators to the right: a clear indication that the “management” is to be kept separate from everyone else.

There is a shock of transition as the overlay is muted. The clean walls with various posters become dusty and baren. The breath of light coming from the flawlessly clean windows becomes muted due to the accumulation of dust at harder to reach heights. Even the plants that line the room which breathe life into the air convert into convincing plastic. While these aren’t a substantial shift, it’s enough to strip away the facade of perfection which is desired; aesthetic of care and diligence without the effort and investment.

Then there was the most devious manipulation: one I had never considered before. The random people that were occupying the room, moving intently to get to a meeting or even talking in silent conversations about some private presentation – all those that normalized the expectation to stay productive – simply vanished. The room which just moments before was a bustling center of single minded focus was now a vacant empty dirty entryway. As soon as I turn off the overlay, I notice Phineas and the short fellow – Roger – both look at me quickly with instinctive judgment without saying anything before going back to ignoring me. For obvious reasons, abandoning the overlay within the manufactured environment is faux pas.

With more of a clear head, I make a few additions to the settings as we board the elevators: I keep the reminder to make eye contact and – per CoDaS’s advice – I continue to record the journey. As we start to rise to the third floor, Roger starts the conversation again: “I believe there are a few people that would be worth talking to today. I’ll send you their information and we can get started immediately if you want unless you would like to review it.”

The passive command to turn my AugRel back on is noted and dismissed. “We can start right now. I’ll trust you that they are worth talking to, I’ll interview them without priming.”

I look at them both without the altered vision and I see for the first time that their previously pristine clothes have distinct wrinkles. Phineas’s attire is now drastically different – again in mundane but crucial ways – his previous trim fit is now replaced with a bit more bulk in the gut and sides, the chest is a bit deflated as are his calves, but most surreal is the supernatural color that caused him to stand out against the world has become a typical and ordinary navy blue. I start to recall the technology embedded in material that interacts with the AugRels – one that was developed during the Blanket Noria that helps to draw attention to malnutrition or illness – only to find that the CapDem intranet was purged of the information. Each layer of deception adds an additional coal of indignation for the overall culture.

“Fair enough. I’ve already sent some meeting invites to a few people. After the first we can grab some lunch and then talk to the other two. Sound good?”

“Sure.”

After getting off the elevator, every person that we pass has the same reaction: adoration for my leaders and then either looking over me due to the lack of ads demanding attention or revolt when they do notice my lack of decorum. We walk through a labyrinth of hallways and open waiting areas before we get to a lounge with a door on the back wall. The door opens onto the walkway that I saw just a few moments below, this time looking – on the left – at the two meter sculpture of iconic servitude and hate from behind and down onto the entrance. On the right – the corridor passing further into its own maze of halls. I only notice when we turn into the subsequent hall that the door we just passed through has a security reader. I wonder if that is specific to that barrier (which seems to demand more respect than most passages) or if I have just missed them until now. For the rest of the journey I watch a sped up replay of what I’ve already seen while also noting the new doors we walk past for additional readers. I am correct that the additional gatekeeping is anomalous: only a few other locations have them and they are all clearly secure locations.

We only pass a few doors after the overpass and we find the destination. The room looks like a small auditorium, with a central podium and a table beside it. Sitting at the table was someone with the distinct presentation of a woman. A skirt with an asymmetrical split on one side, a red blouse that fit the cultural norm. The two exceptions were an abandonment of the heels for more comfortable flats (which evoked some respect) and slightly heavy makeup on one side of her face. While I knew there was a tradition for respecting asymmetry in the CapDem culture, I’ve also seen too many “wives” that are the victims of marital violence, the makeup is clearly an attempt to cover up a bruise. The subject of my first interrogation is already in shock from Phineas entering the room and the surprise is only amplified when she notices me.

Phineas – who remains silent – walks across the room to eventually take a seat at the front row of the auditorium, sitting to ensure that the interviewee will see him behind me. Roger starts to walk more towards the middle before turning back to me, “we want to give you room to ask your questions. But as a courtesy, please respect that there are some things that these people are working on that they can’t share.” 

This is of course bullshit and we both know it. They are picking their seats deliberately to distract and ensure that the subject will self-sensor. As for the proprietary information, we also both know that there are very few innovations that don’t first start at the consensus. I continue to play the game though, “Sure. I won’t pry if they can’t answer.” Then he turns and sits at the front of the middle section.

I walk to the front and sit down next to the stranger. “Hi. I’m Kyle.”

Nervously, the subject responds, “Marsile. I… I don’t understand.” The person speaks past me to the two observers, “Sirs, why is someone from the Consensus here? What’s this all about?”

If they were going to answer, I don’t give them time to – pulling the attention back to myself, “I’m looking for someone who works here, Tark. Do you know him?”

Still with conclusion and a general distrust there is a nod, “Sure. I know Tark.”

“What’s your relationship?”

“We are friends. We walk together and talk every once in a while. Or… at least we used to. I just learned today he got a promotion,” eyes shift over my shoulder and there is slight relief that this isn’t privileged information. “So I guess we won’t be doing that much anymore.”

“Was that a surprise?”

“A bit, yes. I knew he was working on something he couldn’t talk about. He was stressed about getting some results out yesterday for a presentation. I didn’t know that he was trying to get promoted though.”

“Did you both share things like that?”

“Not really. As much as I liked Tark and he was friendly to me, he wasn’t very good at talking about meaningful things. He mostly just let me gossip sometimes and we joked around. Nothing really substantial.”

“How close were you?”

The expression – which was starting to become more relaxed is set on edge again, “Oh! No! Not like that! I’m married and so is he!” There is a barely noticeable wince on the side of her face that has the heavy makeup.

I attempt to smile solemnly and attempt to look at her with sympathetic knowing, “I’m sure that that’s true.” I hang for a moment on that and allow time to see what I’m saying before moving on. “I’m really just trying to find out if you know where Tark would be now. His wife seems to be worried for him.”

The demeanor shifts to be more invested in helping, “Wait, Tess is worried? She doesn’t know where he is? That’s… I know they were having a small bit of trouble, but I didn’t think it was anything like that.”

“So you don’t know?”

“No. I honestly thought he was here today before talking to you.”

“And you don’t know where he would be if not here? Somewhere more personal or secret?”

The worry amplifies, “No. I’m sorry… I don’t.”

“Hm. Well thank you for your time. If you think of anything or have anything to share,” I look at her again with an intense knowing stare, “please reach out.” I turn to Phineas and Roger, “Can you share my contact information?”

Phineas remains unmoved and stone faced while Roger nods. I look back at Marsile who is looking at me graciously. I hope to believe that she knows I’m talking about more than just helping to find Tark. “Yes. I’ll definitely get that from them and reach out if needed.” She looks past me. “Thank you sir. I got the message.” Obviously talking about something between the two of them, I optimistically assume they sent the right link.

“It might be some time before I can get to my messages. This network is messing with my ability to connect to others.” It’s a risk to avoid announcing that I’m not using my AugRel at the moment and to test how much they know about the way their closed system works.

As I start to get up, the final response is a friendly one, “Completely understandable, it messes with mine too.” Apparently it’s not a secret that the intranet is restrictive, but it’s acceptable so they may not understand the extent of the restricted information. She looks at the other two and asks: “Is there anything else you need from me?”

Phineas speaks with the malicious kindness that has become a trend, “No. We’ve already wasted too much of your time.”

As the subject of the interview raises, the focus stays on the two seated observers, “In that case, integrity with function, sirs.” and then looking at me, “Thank you. Please let me know if you find Tark.”

“I will. From-To-Forall.” I barely realize I said it, but the phrase evokes confusion and a lewd expression before realizing that it was said in kindness and not mockery. We share a smile of appreciation and friendship before I am left alone with my two overseers.

*****

For lunch our three person posse revisits the side of the building past the overpass and the security door. I take notice of any additional restrictions which are subtle and deceptively out of sight. It becomes clear why that door standing next to the gear announces that only a select few can enter: it’s how the “natural hierarchy” in the modern day is enforced. The Gear, a symbol of mechanistic grind, applies to all those without access to the inner sanctum. Individualism is a privilege for those that have been deemed worthy. A deliberate identifier of who deserves privacy and who needs to be supervised.

The dining area has singular tables promoting private discussions aimed to exclude others. They are in stark contrast to the long communal tables of the Kitchen or the food court. The designated staff and the hidden cooks draw another clear line of who deserves attention and those who’s witnessed presence is an unwelcome reminder that servants exist.

Most of the conversation between the other management is about the culture they share, entertainment or issues that don’t generalize beyond their closed community. I’m not sure if the esoteric topics are deliberate or if they are just so blind to the world beyond them they can’t be inclusive. A decent amount of hostility is aimed in my direction when they start talking about last night’s murder. They explicitly place blame on the Consensus for the escalation, reaffirming a belief that “all protests are violent opposition to order and shouldn’t be allowed.” At multiple points, there are deliberately baited remarks trying to get me involved, but I focus on my food – noticing the entire time that no one is mourning the deceased coworker. To the contrary, no one seemed to know anything personal about who died. Written off as a wasted investment; an expensive gear they hoped would last longer. Even when unable to continue, they still grind it down to dust with one last rotation: validating the superiority of the CapDems before replacing it.

The three topics I try to engage with only evokes dismissive side glances before continuing on, like the annoyance of having a conversation interrupted by a bird picking at leftovers. The first attempt is an inquiry of how they are fairing with the water shortage; I assume the dismissiveness is indicative that they have found a way to insulate themselves from that common problem. The second is an attempt to engage with a discussion about literature, but the idea of fiction produced outside their culture is quickly abandoned. The focus instead being exclusively on the scientific and historical “findings” (or – more accurately – propaganda) which their culture produces.

The last is an attempt to find some common ground with Phineus. For a few minutes as the last plates are being cleaned away by staff, Roger excuses himself leaving the two of us alone. I take the opportunity to attempt an empathetic outreach: “I’m sorry to hear about your parents passing. When we met last, I remember you respected them.”

He remains steadfast in his attempt not to recognize me, but something about the statement hits a nerve. His eye twitches before saying – with no emotion and still looking at the other tables – “You’re mistaken. My parents are alive. They took a much needed retirement in the Bahamas.”

The statement is such an audacious lie said with utter confidence that I question the common knowledge that the Bahamas has been uninhabitable due to the rise in the water level for the past 60 years. In spite of that, according to the intranet – the ongoing efforts to ensure the secluded paradise endures has been successful, but costly. At the current time only the most successful can make it a place of residence.

It is a lie. The results of the rising water and the destruction of huge swaths of livable coast is objectively true. Additionally, it was big news when the regional oligarchs fell ill and traveled – desperately searching for a cure to the novel wave of tuberculosis – never to return. I knew that despite what the intarnet’s memory was trying to convince me: “The Bahamas isn’t inhabitable anymore.”

For the second time that day, the petty tyrant looks at me, this time with a fierce warning to accept the words that he is saying, “The Bahamas are a beautiful place which we should all be lucky enough to retire at. Look it up.” Then, while continuing with the burning unbroken focus takes a sip of water. He then resumes his apathetic observation of the room, killing any further discussion.

*****

We resume the interviews in the same auditorium that I conversed with Marsile. The deja vu of entering is as expected, the same layout and the seats are taken. The only difference being the subject. While Marsile had slight variations from the traditional CapDem attire for women, this person fits it seamlessly. Two inch heels, dirty blond hair that (as can be seen with the unnatural bounce) has been shaped to drape over the left shoulder manifesting the CapDem asymmetry. Makeup accenting the lips and eyes make them more pronounced and clownish than I’m used to seeing in the Consensus. In summary and at first glance: more aesthetic than substance. The only bit of individualism is a hostility that I haven’t seen yet. The dogmatic and performative scorn goes far beyond the typical human annoyance at having to engage with a Tendian.

“Hi. I’m Kyle.” I’m met with a cold gaze. “Well thank you for meeting me. I’m looking for Tark. His wife is worried about him. Can you help me?”

At the mention of Tark’s name, the cold expression flames into irrational hatred. I barely finish my question before the mid frame motherly figure starts leaning forward scolding me. “Why on earth would I care what happened to that little usurper?! It’s because of him that I was demoted yesterday!” Then she turns on Roger. “You know I was part of that project as much as anyone. I shouldn’t have been on the chopping block for replacement! We all knew its potential. Without me it never would have seen the light of day!” She turns around to face me again. “Smug little troglodyte. Feeding off everyone else’s work.” More to the room than to anyone in particular. Then, loud enough that Chack could hear again. “You won’t keep getting away with this.”

I remain silent for a dozen seconds to let the tension die down. “Is this the project that Tark had been working on for a few months? You were a part of it?” The one that was developed from CoDaS’s social mathematics. The one mentioned by Tess.

The interviewee squinted at me, unsure of how much to say to an outsider, “Yes.”

“I understand Tark gave a presentation yesterday to get the raise. Did you help with that?”

Again, with cautious submission: “Yes. I was on the evaluation panel. We all had the same conclusion that there was no solid evidence that it would work. Theoretically -” the next few words were considered in silence before speaking “- the conclusion was overruled by people above my status and Tark was given my position so he could have authority to roll it out. You say he’s missing? That’s news to me and good riddance. Maybe the little degenerate abandoned his wife to hook up with that little friend of his.” The entire conversation seemed less of an answer or a response, but just a rant to anyone that would listen.

“So you didn’t like Tark?”

The initial irritation at the question slowly slipped into consideration, “He was fine. It’s not like he really knew this would happen. I do wish he would have been honest with me about the stakes of what we were doing though. Prior to yesterday I would have thought we were on the same team. Not competitors. But that’s what you get when you work with one of their lot. I was stupid to think we could have the same loyalties. He played the game well though, well enough to beat me at it.” The emphasis on “their” was like a gut punch and for the first time I noticed the racial homogeneity of the people I had encountered so far. The litany of patterns that started forming from that one word started to play in the back of my head. Everything from the historic meaning of Aryan Master Race when associated with the swastika in the broken gear, to apartheid of South Africa (the known legacy of the Musk family), to the racism that haunts the old US culture which the CapDems were seeking to preserve, and dozens more.

I refocus (and – per the reminder still floating in front of me – reestablish eye contact), “You don’t know where Tark is now though?”

The hostility is replaced by the default irritation and resentment to me simply existing and asking questions. “No. As far as I knew, he didn’t have a life outside of work and his home. Can I go now? I’m trying to get acclimated to my new position and getting pulled away to answer questions from a Squatter isn’t helping.”

Phineaus responds, “Yes. Thank you Margaret for tolerating this. It won’t be forgotten.”

I follow with the same request I gave to Marsile, “If you can…” But without looking at me the husk of a person rises with “Thank you Mr. Musk,” talking over me. Then stairs daggers at Roger with abrasive contempt while moving to the door. “…of any-” I trail off wondering why this person was asked to come in at all.

As the door closes and the atmosphere becomes less hostile, I address Phineas and Roger. “I’m confused, why was Tark promoted if no one was impressed with the presentation?”

Roger responds, “Well she didn’t like it, or at least she’s claiming that. I was also there and the presentation was actually incredibly well put together. Everyone except Margie knew that Tark had proven himself. No, she has been on the path to demotion for a while now. Very little merit or innovation, all her achievements have been on the backs of others, and she’s been slipping behind on her management responsibilities – incapable of managing her tasks. Even as we gave her additional opportunities to prove herself, she just was just always delegating her responsibilities to others and not taking responsibility for herself. That had little to do with Tark.”

As I am attempting to make sense of how you could criticize someone for both being overworked and attempting to lighten their workload, the last interviewee walks in. The immediate contrast in skintone brings a stark realization to how overrepresented the pale community is. Other than the imaginary people that vanished with the AugRel, the darkest person I’ve seen is right in front of me – which can’t be any more extreme than “middle eastern”.

It may have been in part because of that conflict with the “norm” but the judgment that I’d come to expect wasn’t initial. There is only a momentary surprise and curiosity at seeing someone outside of the “proper” uniform. This only lasts for a second as the face shifts to what I’ve seen in everyone else, but curiously there doesn’t seem to be substance behind it.

The BioWear on full display is another conflict from what I’ve come to expect. In that moment, I realize that most people have been deliberately hiding personal energy extractors from view, but walking towards me is a version that sits on the spine and wraps onto the face. It has to be requested since it puts a strain on the user due to the increased energy extraction; but the payoff is a more organic, efficient, and reactive user interface. I’m unsure if it’s being used for the CapDem virtue of asymmetry or a rebellion against the “natural” illusion which is trying to be presented from everyone else. The entire appearance shows a sincere confidence that was out of place with everyone else. Even Phineus has to play the part of a leader, but this person seemed genuinely comfortable with existing. It’s a property that is familiar to those in the Consensus and even in the Neutral Zone, but – I didn’t notice until now – it has been absent on the compound until now.

From the entryway, the question is addressed to Phineus and Roger, “I’m supposed to talk to this person?”

Phineus responds, and there is something slightly out of place in his voice: possibly uncertainty? But I can’t be sure. “Yes. Kyle here has some questions for you.”

There is an exasperated sigh before approaching the table and sitting in front of me, reclining slightly with arms folded in front with a resting face of annoyance. There isn’t the disdain I’m used to seeing, though it doesn’t seem authentic. Something is strange.

“Hi, like they said, I’m Kyle. Who are you?”

“Scott. What’s this about?”

“I’m looking for Tark.”

An eyebrow raises. “Why are you talking to me about it?”

“Your colleagues set up this meeting for me. Are you familiar with Tark?”

“I would call him a friend. Why are you looking for him?”

“Tess couldn’t get in touch and is worried. Have you seen Tark today?”

Before answering there is a shift to get slightly more comfortable, “No. We usually have a morning conversation, but he wasn’t there today. That’s to be assumed right? My colleagues told you that he took some time off after building that new algorithm?”

I silently ask for clarity on why “colleague” was stressed by cocking my head to the side. The only response was another ambiguous eyebrow raise. So I shake the question off and continue on: “Do you know of anywhere that Tark would go without Tess?”

Where the expected irritation remains, underneath there is a refocusing with the answer and a distinct tone shift of meaning, “Tess is his world. Everything he does is to make sure she is happy, protected, and provided for. If he left without her, it is to keep her safe. To accuse him of anything different is a mistake.”

There is something I’m missing. Something I should notice, like leaving a light on when I leave a room only to realize it later. Something just out of reach. Something that’s being said that I don’t understand. I start to flounder slightly, looking for another question to ask. “Um. That didn’t really answer my ques-”

For the second time in the last half hour I’m cut off. This time there is a passion behind the words and an outburst of anger as hands are slammed down on the table and the chair is pushed back in a fit of determination: “Look. There is nothing else that you are going to learn in this room. No body here is going to help you. You really should try a new method.” Scott’s head drops in an exasperated sigh, then looks at me again with more empathy. “I hope you find Tark. No matter how hidden datum is, there are always backdoors.” Then, still hunched over in aggression to me, the focus shifts to the two enjoying the show, “Can I get back to work?”

Phineaus responds, permitting him to leave with charming hostility, “I’m sure you have other responsibilities that need to be attended to.”

In response the person rises to full height (which is still lower than where Phineus is sitting in the auditorium), “Next time please just send me an email,” before turning to move to the door. 

I call after him, and there is a slight pause to listen, “Please let me know if you can think of anything.”

We make eye contact once more and with a shaking head and a slight scoff, “Sure, whatever,” then leaves. Behind me, the two in the peanut gallery feign a suppressed snicker.

I fucking hate this place so much.