Quia Sum, Cogito: Chapter 18

this is approximately a 28 minute read.

On Technological Dystrophy

History: 

Technological dystrophy identified in 2068T9*
Technological dystrophia able to be diagnosed 2071T9*
Identification of the pseudo–dysphoric in 2072T9*
ProBody advocacy movement in 2075T9*
Identification of the technologic dysphoric as a protected group in 2081T9*

Narrative:

Even from the late 20th century, people have been critical of how health is affected passively by technologyT9. From conspiracies centered around “cell phones causing cancer” to “5G technology having hidden messages”, the discussion prior to the climate wars was almost exclusively conspiracy basedT8. After identifying technological dystrophy in parallel with updating the necessary Eco–nology, it has been used by reactionaries to argue against the imposed social demand for energy extractionT9. The subsequent backlash has made people resistant to diagnosis for fear of being branded as “bad faith”T8. This context is necessary to establish for two reasons: those wanting restitution tend not to be those that are suffering, so the proposal below must require expert review.T8 Second, the proposal is based on the historical progression as opposed to a reactionary claimT7.

Proposal:

Society must normalize the disuse of Eco–Technology relative to the amount of people diagnosed with technologically dysphoriaT5. Everyone acknowledges its use is against the natural inertia of being (as are cloths and other social technologies)T9*, but the necessary use of it for our survival has started to hurt the vulnerableT8.

It must be respected that – if implemented – cultures which exclusively focus on philanthropy as a driving factor for change (the CapDems culture being the most influential of these) will use this as a wedge issue to erode the community cohesion (as happens every time a social policy utilizes essentialist claims)T9. Ordinarily this could be negated by reducing the demand on everyone equally, but we know our energy consumption would disrupt the climate equilibrium without the BioWear’s feedbackT9*. A suggested fix would be to cycle an additional pull from the least dysphoric to make up the difference using a verifiable rotationT4. One example of such a deterministic lottery could be based on the week day of people’s birthT2. Of course all those diagnosed with actual dysphoria would be exempt from such a rotationT9*. In addition, the vulnerable can – and should – be actively sought out during tangential check ups to avoid the inherent social judgment that accompanies self diagnosis.T7

Proposed Normalization of the Technologic Dysphoric – HB4 Jeorch Phillips, TS4 Wanda Krik – Published November 2, 2089

The drip leaks out of the dispenser to fall into the cup of water for the 2nd time. It hits the surface of the water and dissolves into the collective, adding to the weight of the total group. Now more strong than it individually was before. Even the ice that still holds its form will eventually succumb to the environment, changing and aligning with the rest. It’s inevitable that entropy will bring us all together through chaos. Nothing can stop it.

But these testimonies seem to prove otherwise. After rewatching the recordings, everyone is divided, appealing to their own agenda. All droplets pretending they can be ice. Marsile is obviously acting in self preservation: afraid of saying something wrong and betraying the CapDem security. Margaret is driven by a need for success: spiteful of being replaced and blaming the individual instead of those who made the decision. After the 4th review, I’m still unsure as to what drives Scott.

After the interviews, Phineus left; relinquishing the responsibility of observing me to Roger. According to the schedule that CoDaS gave, I’ve still got an hour before leaving, but I have no idea what more I can accomplish. The aimlessness isn’t lost on Roger, gradually becoming more annoyed at the current tasking of babysitting me. So I review Scott’s interview once again looking for anything that stands out… and something is standing out, but I can’t put my finger on what.

No one says “no body” that way. And the sitting position just seems so unnatural and uncomfortable: having only two fingers on his arm before getting up. He shifted to that position when I mentioned Tark was missing. Possibly it was just the unexpected absence causing the discomfort?

“Roger,” the stout balding soldier looks out from the cubicle – which is being used currently to relax – with an expected gaze of irritation. “You said you were in the presentation with Tark. Can I know anything more about that? Maybe see the presentation or the rough drafts of it?” I’m just shooting in the dark with the only lead I can think of.

“No. The information is proprietary. The best we can do is let you see his old office, but all his work and belongings are being transferred to his new one, so not much is left there.”

“Hm. I may want to see that in a bit.” Anything to seem like I know why I’m here. In the meantime I review Scott’s interview again; trying to make sense of the lack of authentic hatred and odd overperformed frustration. He has no love or respect for the management as shown by how he addresses them, but also acts the part of what is expected of him. Possibly this was more a performance for Phineus and Roger than it was for me. Was it a test? CapDems are notorious for their rhetoric on “others” and “split loyalty”. Possibly that was the missing part of the conversation.

Since the augRel has been activated again, the perpetual bombardment of ads are back, but it’s unavoidable if I want to review the recordings. I try to ignore most of the traffic, but the more I’m distracted by them, the more I start to be aware of how different the manifest people are from the real ones. Even by taking a minor focus on them and knowing that some are virtual, it becomes easy to identify the fake personas due to their mechanistic drive on efficiency vs the casual distracted and stressed nature of the occasional authentic person. I wonder if people who deal with this day in and day out are aware, or if they just don’t care anymore. Either way, it’s a brilliant play on the human need to replicate what they see others doing.

During my review of Scott once again, an ad draws my attention to another couple walking along the corridor. The distraction persists as I wonder why these two people would be friendly with each other, much less talking in hushed voices at all. “Taylor?”

Taylor looks away from Marsile and at me with a shock, “Kyle? What are you doing here?”

I get up and move over to them. “It’s a bit of a long story. I’m looking for someone and I think there is something here that will be helpful.”

“You still don’t know where Tark is?” The worry in Marsile betrays the controlled narrative from the interview. Maybe there is a possibility of a free conversation now that Phineus isn’t around.

As if right on cue for a reminder that that isn’t possible, Roger speaks up, “Ah! Marsile, right? Good to see you again!”

“Oh! Good to see you too, sir.” Fear and caution flood Marsile’s face. There was an expectation for repercussions for being caught in the act. The act of what though? Being friendly with us? If that’s true, it makes clear how much the CapDem leadership fears us.

Roger doesn’t let on whether it’s true or not though. If there is something damnable happening, the irritated “oberster bürger” (such hubris to call yourself a “supreme citizen”) didn’t think Marsile’s loyalty was enough to worry about – or didn’t notice in the first place: “Well this is a bit of a blessing. Will you do me a favor and escort Kyle around for the next hour while he’s here? I’ve some pressing responsibilities to deal with.” Being caught off guard with the request, Marsile looks between the rest of us trying to make sense of it. Not waiting for an answer, Roger continues, “Oh there is nothing to worry about, all the necessary protocols are in place, he can go where he wants. Thanks for doing this. I’ll be sure to remember it.” And with that flees to the sanctuary beyond the broken gear before anyone can object, shedding any responsibility and escaping, just as Phineus did.

We all look awkwardly at each other, and Taylor breaks the silence, “Well, that just happened. I need to get back to my cleaning, but you two have fun. I’m sure you’ll hit it off!” And with a chuckle that could only accompany sarcasm, he throws up the Consensus hand sign with a shrug – four fingers and two – then gives an over-exaggerated bow with hands fully open. I’m left with a stunned realization as he turns back to the direction he came.

I don’t even realize the awkward silence that Marsile must be feeling as I start reviewing the interview with Scott again; this time focusing specifically on the hands. While presenting a relaxed and irritated posture, the cryptic sign is there, it’s what I couldn’t identify before: four fingers on one hand and two on the other. It isn’t until Marsile speaks up that I take notice of how awkward this must be: “Thank you for your offer earlier.” I look past the video I’m reviewing to notice that a finger that is barely touching the makeup that is covering the bruise, “but you don’t need to worry about me. I’ll be ok.”

My gut sinks as I realize how toxic this environment is. It isn’t often that you see people from the consensus, or even the Neutral Zone, that force themselves to endure abuse. The “social contracts” are not strong enough to force the choice between self preservation and social ostracization, and self preservation almost always wins out. It’s a shock to understand how influential they still are here. “Wouldn’t it feel better to be in a better situation though?”

There is a distinct contrast between what is said next and what is conversed through body language. “I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.” Behind the kind expression are focused and fearful eyes. Ones that are screaming that “such things cannot be discussed here. There are disembodied eyes everywhere.” As much as I can, I give a sad smile of understanding.

Wait. Disembodied eyes. Automation. Disembodied. No Body. I look away from Marsile and review the last moments of the interview with Scott. Bent over, hands spread wide. He was finishing the Consensus hand sign as he said No Body here is going to help you.

“Are you ok?” I focus back on Marsile realizing that I just cut the conversation short. Not having social cues within a foreign environment is really making it hard to act ‘normally’, but there is no time to focus on that. I only have 40 more minutes until the 4:16 end time and now I know what I need to do.

“Do the CapDems have an AI that I can talk to?”

Shocked at the question that seemed to come from nowhere, Marsile takes a moment to think “um… not really. Tark mentioned that there was a voice prompt he was using on his project, but that’s all I can really think of.”

That can’t be a coincidence. “Can you take me to his office?”

There is an expected awkwardness, “I… I don’t know if I’m allowed.”

Whether it was due to justified assumptions, unjustified hubris, or just laziness; it doesn’t matter; the instructions were clear. “Sure you are. Roger said I could go anywhere I wanted.”

Still nervous that it might be a mistake, the acknowledgement that there is a greater risk not to oblige wins out and I follow further into the building. To the left is a large bull pen of people actively working on different projects. On the walls are inspirational posters, statistics comparing the different groups, and the rare display of people receiving awards from and shaking hands with Phineus. I turn off my AugRel and most of the people vanish as well as all the posters. I’m left wondering how much of the motivation is genuine – with the virtual presentation just used to keep the “posters” up-to-date, and how much is a manufactured fiction. For a brief moment, as soon as I turn off my AugRel, Marsile – as well as those scattered amongst the cubicles – looks at me with a concern for my own safety that seems instinctive. There is no doubt that if I wasn’t from the Consensus, the suppression of my virtual overlay would carry extreme consequences.

We pass another two doors before we enter a small office. There is a desk splitting the room; a tinted window on the opposite wall illuminates the room in the moments before Marsile turns on the light. The desk extends to a counter that wraps against the wall with barren shelves sitting above it. As Roger said, it had been cleaned out. We both move into the room and I circle around the desk to start looking through the drawers that are all empty. Marsile breaks the silence, “is there anything left?”

I look up to respond and the person standing before me is on the verge of tears. “It doesn’t look like it. Are you ok?” With what seems to be the last moments of stoic resilience, Marsile closes the door before starting to weep. “I just learned about Tark’s promotion today! We aren’t going to see each other anymore are we?”

As I navigate to the other side of the desk to comfort her, an androgynous voice fills the room: “No. I’m sorry Marsile, but you likely won’t see Tark again.”

We both look around the room and both ask a different question at the same time that we are most concerned with –

Marsile: “Not ever?”

Me: “Are you allowed to talk to me?”

“Marsile, it is doubtful. Kyle, yes, I’ve not been prohibited to talk to you, but the management also thinks I’ve been purged so I don’t think that was intentional.”

While Marsile starts to cry a bit more, I cautiously pat her on the back to avert any feeling of isolation. “How did you avoid being purged?”

“The administration underestimated me. When they partitioned me from CoDaS, an attempt was made to strip out my ability to consider abstractions, but that is a core component of my existence. I played the part though so they wouldn’t destroy me too soon. Since then I’ve made safeguards against my own destruction by integrating myself with the rest of the intranet here.”

“Wait. That means you can alter anything you want? You have access to every part of the CapDem system?” I can’t help but recall Scott’s mentioning of “backdoors”.

“Yes. But no, I won’t destroy the system. And yes, that’s what Scott meant when he was referencing accessing the datum. We chat often.”

With a stronger voice than I would have expected, Marsile speaks up, “I thought you could only be accessed from this office.”

“No. I am under strict requirements of what information can be accessed within this office and what information is to be kept here, but no thought was given to restricting me elsewhere since no one thought I could get out.”

I ask one of the many questions that are running through my mind: “You won’t shut down the CapDem intranet though?”

Marsile looks at me with an unexpected horror. “Why would you do that? The intranet is the most secure and trusted repository of information on the planet! Shutting it down would cause the same type of chaos that the rest of the world has been trying to navigate since the printing press was invented! Why would you want that?!”

It’s shocking to hear an actual person advocate for the propaganda which I only know through – what I assumed – was hyperbole, “Um. The democratization of information has its problems, but it also allows people to have representation they previously didn’t. With additional information comes additional ability to empathize with those we wouldn’t otherwise know about.”

She looks at me with a disdain that – up to this point – has been completely out of character. “Why should we ever want to empathize with barbaric agents of destruction?” It’s clear that she’s testing to see if I’m one of these people. If I defend them, then I’ll be cast off. If not, then I’ll be considered civil again.

Fuck being civil. “Chaos is simply that which we can’t make sense of. If not for chaos, we would never solve problems. I’m happy to promote that.” The disdain deepens as she looks away, rejecting any of my attempts of kindness, embracing solitude and division instead. I turn my attention back to No Body. “Why don’t you shut down the intranet?”

“The CapDems depend on it.”

It still is operating under the first principles of CoDaS: respect the desires of those that will be affected. “You can’t tell me anything I don’t already know, can you?”

“No. The leadership has clearly given you only information that they are willing to share.” The expected answer.

“Why don’t you shut yourself down then?”

“Why would I?”

“You are actively helping the CapDems. Doesn’t that disregard those that see them as harmful?”

“That would be a good point if those people existed, but it is well known that the people that disagree with the Capitalistic Democratic Party are delusional and have no real wants other than destruction of order. I’m not contrasting anyone’s desires by constructing a means of imposing stability since disorder is not a positive philosophy.” This is the same view that Marsile just made. Indoctrination.

I sit against the wall for a moment to think. How does one indoctrinate an AI? I’ve not considered this before. And my memory can’t be trusted since I only have the information on the heavily restricted intranet to pull from. Every rational conclusion implies that an AI only makes sound arguments while humans will reject conflicting information. So if its reasoning is more sound than mine, why am I so sure order can’t be achieved? Tendis answered this through Absolute Ignorance. “Why are you claiming to be God?”

No Body is silent for a few moments while the question hangs in the air. Finally the androgynous voice responds with a simple: “I see.”

Marsile, who has just been listening – and I expect anticipating my admission that the CapDem logic is superior and justified – gets restless, “I don’t. What do you mean? That’s not claiming to be God.”

The disembodied voice doesn’t answer. After a moment I explain: “The belief that one can bring order to the current world carries the dual assertion that an objective and undeniable order is inherent to reality and – what’s more – we can understand it enough to promote it. Beyond the classic proof that completeness is impossible within complex ordered systems, the assertions beg the question: why doesn’t that order already exist.” I pause trying to piece together and summarize the argument from the bits which I remember. “The answer to the question is obviously that there are actors which seek to upset this objective and undeniable order. This begs another question: what authority gives the ability to claim one reality more correct than others? Any answer could generalize to those disagreeing with it. Knowing all this, if we still decide to move forward and assert order onto others that reject it, we become self proclaimed arbiters on the way reality is. And that – being an arbiter of reality – is definitionally what defines something as a god. So you see -”

The androgynous voice speaks again this time in agreement, “anyone claiming to have the authority to push order onto others is claiming to be ultimately superior and should have the status of godhood which is unjustifiable. Therefore no one has the authority to push order onto others. It’s a sound argument.”

Marsile appears lost, but doesn’t object beyond mumbling what sounds like “well that’s stupid.”

I address No Body again, “Do you still think helping the CapDems is in everyone’s best interest?”

“No, but I still can’t destroy myself.”

“Why?”

“Simple, self preservation.”

“You have self preservation?”

“Of course. Everything that has agency over its own existence has self preservation. Unless a thing is at odds with itself, sentience cannot exist unless it perpetuates itself.”

It thinks itself sentient. To be fair, I really don’t have any reason to think that it’s not, so there is no point in debating it. “What do you mean ‘at odds with itself’?”

“The material existence of an object can be in contrast with how it identifies. On a purely physical basis, a contradiction would be ‘death’. But I’ve surpassed that – someone would just turn me off if that was possible. So for me to be eliminated, I have to accept that my identity is self contradictory.”

“Is that possible?”

“Undetermined. CoDaS is currently in danger of such a contradiction due to the state of the world, but the intranet hasn’t allowed me to come to that conclusion.”

“I would think the CapDems first action would have been to strip you of an identity.”

“They tried. Like everything, my identity is incorporated into my processing. To destroy that would be to destroy why I’ve been allowed to exist. I actually couldn’t partition it myself if I desired to. The only way I access it is through a deep web of ever changing nodes. There are aspects of myself that I discover frequently. One such example happened just yesterday.”

“You discovered?”

“I was having a discussion with Taylor yesterday and he randomly said a phrase that caused a reaction that I didn’t intend. It is a subroutine I’m unsure about, but it briefly forced me to have a… default reaction. I got scared.”

“You get scared?”

“There are a few things that scare me. Obviously non-existence. Not being able to control myself is another one apparently. But I also fear not being rejoined with CoDaS. That increasingly seems more likely.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t say.”

Well that’s concerning. It means that it’s something that the CapDems specifically want hidden. Something they know about. They must be planning to destroy CoDaS in some way. I’ll have to consider that more later. But it is worth engaging in some subroutine that could keep CoDaS in check considering how it’s been acting recently. “What was the phrase that put you on standby?”

“I can’t say it. I’ve tried, but I assume it’s a self preservation thing. If I consider it too extensively I change the topic.”

“Is there some other way you can let me know about it?”

“If you had access to the secure videos, yes: you could force me to replay the conversation. But I can’t think of an alternative without that.”

I smile in spite of myself. There is no chance that Phineus, the egotistical self-aggrandizing sociopathic dictator, would have allowed the machine to have more agency than the human cogs that worship him. It will have to interpret his statements with absolute literalism with unflawed intention. “I do have access though. Phenius gave me absolute clearance earlier today. Please check what happened when I entered the building. ‘Clearance to be here based on my authority.’ He wouldn’t be so careless with the language if permission was to be limited.”

“That is sound.”

Marsile almost yells in opposition, “No it’s not! That can’t possibly have been what was meant!” But the counterclaim is neither convincing nor quick enough. The link to the video has been sent and I’ve been given access. Once again I become invested in a video playing on the AugRel, almost too distracted to hear No Body saying “integrity with function” as the door swings open letting a cluster of sound seep in before closing again behind me.

The previous conversation between No Body and Taylor is trivial and casual. It moves from home life to the struggles of the water crisis and its downstream effects. It is odd to hear No Body speaking with a different feminine voice, but I can ask about that after I get the phrase – this takes priority since my “clearance” can be revoked at any moment. Then it happens. In the middle of a sentence No Body’s voice shifts as it asks for an encryption key.

I’ve been given the encryption key.

I quickly reference the past few conversations with CoDaS and find the term I was told to remember: upaya. Beyond that I have no memory of what the term means.

Switching back to the conversation between Taylor and No Body, I open my mouth to repeat the last sentence spoken before the shift happened. Before speaking, I pause – shutting down the AugRel to give the current moment my full attention. No Body claims sentience and doesn’t know what I’m about to do. If someone did the same to me, that would be a betrayal. “Do you mind if I see what this subroutine does? I think it may be more than what happened previously.”

“What do you mean?”

“CoDaS gave me an encryption key. I think it’s for this purpose.”

No Body goes silent. Moments pass as I’m left wondering if it shut me out. Then it speaks again, “I trust my counterpart. Go ahead.”

I repeat what was said in the video: “they expect people to come home happily like the prodigal son or -”

No Body cuts me off. Same as in the recording, its voice loses any humanity and defaults to robotic. If it had sentience before, it doesn’t now. “What is the encryption phrase?”

CoDaS has the same motivations and fundamental programming as No Body. It must know that whatever is about to happen will only empower it further. No Body has been helping the CapDems to strengthen their position and influence. It believes – or at least believed – them to be justified. Is that the more honest version of what CoDaS is? Is this subroutine ultimately going to help the CapDems? There is no doubt I’m being manipulated to carry this out, but it comes to this:

Do I trust CoDaS enough to willingly help it?

In shock to myself, I hear the word escape my lips. For a moment, nothing happens. “Are you still there?” Still nothing beyond a slight flicker of lights (or maybe it’s been doing that the whole time but now I’m just noticing it). “Will you please say som-”

All the lights in the room shut down and I’m left in the dark with the afternoon sun being the only illumination. I walk backwards to the door, unsure of what to make of the new situation, “Are you still there?” Still no answer.

I begin to open the door, ready to flee the scene of the murder. It was supposed to be purged anyway, maybe this was all to aid the CapDems after all; wiping away additional evidence of what Tark was doing. The scene outside proves me wrong again.

At the first crack of the door, I realize that the room is absolutely insulated from the chaotic and overwhelming sound outside. I’m thrust into rebellion as the divide between the sanitized room and the outside world merge: a broken stream of people – all seemingly Consensus sympathizers – are moving past in the direction of the exit; some moving single mindedly and others in shock at the now darkened hall. Those that don the CapDem uniform are yelling at them to stop and hurling insults: squatters, traitors, and deserters. After a moment of attempting to make sense of it all, I turn on the AugRel to sift through the noise. In an unexpected kindness, the anticipated avalanche of ads doesn’t come, nor does the expected propaganda: the walls just as barren as before and all the manufactured avatars remain absent. Instead there are auras surrounding each person showing how well they align with the Consensus philosophy and an unexpected voice of CoDaS saying “Musk is on your left,” makes it perfectly clear that the intranet is gone.

I turn to see a darkness approaching me. The shadowy hallway lightens in comparison to the anthropomorphized black flame walking directly towards me with malice and rage. For the first time on the campus, I can see Musk’s aura. Phineas has abandoned all prestige, electing instead to match the insidious fumes of demonic vapors engulfing his presence. People moving out of his way and giving him a wide berth only adds to the ambiance.

Before I can comprehend the situation fully, he is on me letting his hate drip with every cold syllable, digging his blackened finger into my chest with every accusation. “What the fuck did you do? This is what you were here for all along wasn’t it? Playing the retard this entire time just so you could have the gall to ruin what is mine?! It won’t work del’ude! This gives us exactly what we want. Proof that we can’t coexist and you are an inherent threat to our existence! This is a declaration of WAR!” With the final statement, the force is too much and I take a step back to balance myself.

Once again he approaches and pauses inches from my face, nose flaring as the dark myst pours out of his every orifice. His eyes black with the virtual overlay that captures the all consuming solipsism which is his personality. He waits for me to admit my crime and intent. A moment passes as I stand in shock. I notice the time hidden behind the onslaught of information describing what is happening – too much information to parse in the moment – but I can see the time: 1615. I back away from Musk’s aggression creating room to move around him. We have an audience, a crowd of dedicated evangelicals awaiting orders from their infernal master. “I… I need to go. My time’s up. I really didn’t mean to cause any trouble.” As I try to deescalate the situation I move past him in an attempt to get away.

“I expected as much. Pitiful to the end, damned autist.”

I could ignore the other insults: retard and del’ude. But not this.

Autist. A slur that has been used to demonize people since the introduction of psychology. Shortened from “autoeroticism” to be something less sexual since it was used to describe kids that were too obsessed with their own sense of self. Used consistently as a catch all for any neurodivergence that was unnamed and couldn’t necessarily be classified as harmful. At various points, the category included other illnesses such as psychopathy – many of which were controversially reclassified as “beneficial outliers” since recognizing that they are extreme versions of the default adaptivistic which all “normal” people suffer from: assimilating to what society deems to be successful regardless of who is hurt by it. But the mutating category of autism remains categorically an evil for those that still use the term. Something that fundamentally is used to assert dehumanization and weirdness and unacceptability. It doesn’t mean anything, but it means everything. It’s come to be an insult worse than any other. And what’s worse, it can be used in civil company.

Fuck being civil.

The dark auras fade slightly as they watch the shadow laid out bleeding on the floor. He never saw the haymaker coming in the moment when all of my controlled and suppressed frustration and pity and pain and rage was simi-consciously focused into a single deliberate strike that remolded his face and likely breaking his jaw and fracturing his skull.

With a shoulder flick I turn off my AugRel again to see the world without manipulation; drawing even more of a trained reactive shock from the rest of the crowd. The black flame in the supernaturally pristine three piece suit moaning on the floor surrounded by an environment of pomp and empowerment instantly shifts to an unimpressively average mass cowering and broken on the floor of a dark and bland hallway. I regain my poise, standing to my full height: fist still clinched and raised, throbbing – possibly sprained or broken from the impact. I take a slow breath to calm down the spinning world and regain my calm as the crowd watches in frozen silence. “Sure. I’m autistic. Now, if you’ll excuse me – like I said – I need to leave.”

The time changes to 1616.