Marley wasn’t used to doing math on their own, but they were in no mood to use an AI, so they sat at their kitchen table drinking barley tea and doggedly feeding numbers into an old-style “spreadsheet.” Sunlight fell green into the aspens outside, through the window, making shifting, leafy patterns on the wall. Marley’s lenses used the app to lay columns of numbers across the scarred oak kitchen table as Marley entered them with a projected numeric keypad. Their dirt-colored dog, Anthem, lay flat on the tiled kitchen floor, face between her paws, her big brown eyes watching Marley with watery hope.
Based on the spreadsheet, it looked like Marley could keep the house for a while, if that was the priority—but it would siphon away their savings as long as they relied on just their Citizen Dividend. If they found another good-paying job they liked, it wouldn’t be a problem. Otherwise, they’d just be delaying the inevitable. The Citizen Dividend—the “CitDiv”—was a basic income payment, enough to live on simply, but not enough for one person to live alone in a beautiful, free-standing house.
If they left now, they could squirrel away their equity and live frugally until something changed.
The house was small, with one bedroom, one bath, and a twenty-year-old autochef that could barely make omelets, but it made a beautiful refuge. Marley had always assumed they’d move eventually, but they’d always pictured falling in love and spending years with their person, reading in the flower garden out back or lying together on the crumpled duvet of the queen bed, laughing at jokes only the two of them would get.
Following Isabelle’s advice, Marley had an appointment coming up with a post-automation coach—a human coach, not an AI. Human-to-human counseling turned out to be pretty common for this kind of thing. Apparently Marley wasn’t the only recently displaced worker who didn’t feel like taking AI advice right then.
Maybe the coach could give Marley an idea what their chances were of finding paying work. Even if Marley found a job, though, no one could say how long it would be before that work got automated. You’d hear rumors about automation coming for just about any profession you could name—though mostly, people just crossed their fingers and kept going.
Even setting aside the financial question, Stone probably wasn’t the place for Marley anymore. It was good for experiencing the kind of doubt about environmental and social justice that had been so common in the 20th century, but it was hardly a haven for nonbinary people of color. Now that their career had evaporated, Marley needed more community than Stone could provide.
For now, they’d find that on the road. They could put the house on the market and travel to see friends ... visit with Isabelle when she wasn’t touring, explore Marin County with Alice, go see the writer’s colony south of Seattle where their college friend Gia had just moved ...
Thinking of Gia brought Marley’s train of thought to a sudden halt. Gia had worked for five years on a novel in verse, and, having completed it, she’d been offered a rare slot at Lewis Lake Writers’ Village, a live-in publishing cooperative with an avid readership ... or rather, there had been a readership. God only knew what was happening to it now. Gia’s book had been due out in three weeks, but with things as they were, would it even see the light of day? If it did, would anyone read it? There was a glut of astonishing new writing now, appearing on a daily basis from publishing companies who used the Goldman AI.
Marley swept the spreadsheet away, took a sip of tea—now cold—and straightened up. “Call Gia,” they said. As the waiting symbol blinked, they pointed their finger and circled an area on the other side of the table to show where Gia should be displayed if she answered. A moment later, Gia appeared there. Marley’s kitchen merged with the projection of another room, a round place with sofas and piles of cushions, and the software that handled the call wove them together so that it was hard to say where the boundary was.
Gia had amber skin and tight, ocean-blue curls past her shoulders. Projected sitting next to her was a dark-haired woman Marley didn’t recognize, about their and Gia’s age, pale-skinned and wrapped in a cloak-like article of clothing decorated with swirls of gold and green. She had broad cheeks with high cheekbones and long, graceful fingers that made Marley think of arranging flowers or playing the violin. Her eyes were different colors: the right one was brown, the left deep green.
“Marley!” Gia cried. “I’m so glad to see you! Are you OK? Did they ...” she frowned and made a gesture like throwing something out the window. Gia preferred to speak less whenever she could substitute motion.
“I’m all right,” Marley said. “But yeah, they—” and they imitated the out-the-window movement. “I’ve been ... just trying to figure out what’s next.”
“See?” Gia said to her friend. “Nothing shakes them. It’s like being friends with a big, beautiful rock.”
“I was shaken,” Marley said. “I still am. Are you going to introduce your friend?”
Gia grimaced and waved her hands in front of her face, as though scrubbing something out of the air. Marley knew that gesture: You’re being ridiculous. I was about to get to that.
Gia’s friend kept looking at Marley. “I’m Lyric,” she said. “Gia’s been telling me about you.”
“She has?”
“Lyric’s a poet, and a playwright,” Gia offered. “You read some of her poems! The ones I sent you a few weeks ago? And she does participatory plays. Some of them would make you cry.”
“I was a playwright,” Lyric said. “Now we all have plenty to cry about without me needing to write anything.”
“Gia, what about your book?” Marley said. “Is it still—”
Gia grimaced and gestured as though she were pushing something aside. “Does it matter? No one will read it now.”
“I’ll read it,” said Marley.
“You already read it,” Gia said. “So did Lyric. If it gets five new readers, I’ll be amazed.”
“What about the writers’ community?” said Marley.
“Well, we’re trying to save it,” said Gia. “But it won’t be a writers’ community anymore, and most of us have just our CitDiv to fall back on, so we don’t even know if we can survive here financially. Some people already left. I was going to go, too, but Lyric’s trying to convince me to wait and see what happens. She’s been here six years. She’s a refugee from Vermont, back when it was part of the Mountain Republic.”
“I don’t want to give up on this place, because I know how it feels to leave a place you love,” Lyric said. “And no one’s annexing Lewis Lake like they did the Mountain Republic, so there’s hope.”
“‘Hope’ is a thing with feathers,” Gia said.
“You know, like a dinosaur,” Marley added. This had been one of their games in college, mangling poetry with “you know” statements.
“... that perches in the soul ... “ Lyric added. “You know, like a Saw-whet Owl.”
“A what?” said Marley.
“A Saw-whet Owl. They’re steely-eyed predators that look like flying kittens.”
“Marley’s a dog person,” Gia told Lyric. “And Marley, Lyric is an owl person.”
“I’m both an owl person and a dog person,” Lyric corrected. “I would also accept actual flying kittens.”
A reminder blinked in the corner of Marley’s vision: it was nearly time for the telemeeting with the post-automation coach. “Oh, it’s late,” Marley said. “I have to go in a minute. I’m going to talk with someone who will make the unemployment all better.”
“Can I go with you?” Gia said. “I want to ask them for a heart.”
“And I want courage,” said Lyric.
“It’s actually a coach who helps people displaced by automation.”
“So, basically everybody?” Gia said.
“What have you thought about doing?” Lyric said.
“So far, nothing,” Marley said. “At first, I thought I needed to ... you know, push back? Find the parts of writing where humans are better than AIs.”
“There must be some ...” Gia said.
“But Marley, you don’t think so,” Lyric said.
“No, I don’t,” said Marley. “Isabelle talked me down.”
“Isabelle’s sort of Marley’s spiritual aunt,” Gia explained.
“She was a composer,” Marley added.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” said Lyric.
“I’m not used to feeling lost,” Marley said. “I always knew I was a writer, I always wanted to write about what happened to the climate, and there was always a way forward with that. Even when the opportunities weren’t good, I could at least keep working on whatever project I had. I’ve never not had a purpose.”
“You don’t not have a purpose now,” Gia said.
“Huh, not sure about that,” said Marley. “If I can’t contribute somehow, what am I even doing here?”
“Do you really believe work is the whole purpose of life?” Lyric said.
“Not ... for other people? But for me, kind of yes?”
An incoming call icon appeared. “Oh, that’s them—the coach.”
“Can we stay?” said Gia. “I promise we’ll be quiet.”
“She won’t actually be quiet,” Lyric said.
“I know,” Marley said. “But I’ll ask.”
They gave the icon a long gaze to accept the call. The person at the other end, along with a section of their office, appeared in place of the outside wall of Marley’s house, connecting with both Marley’s space in the kitchen and Gia’s room. Behind them were photographs of people, mostly smiling, in dozens of kinds of activities—talking, designing, carving, dancing, pointing purposefully, conducting construction equipment, and on and on.
In front of the wall, in a peacock-blue office chair, sat a bright-eyed, lanky white man with puffy brown hair and impressively long sideburns. He wore an adaptive bow tie that showed tiny deer languidly grazing on a green background.
To one side of him sat a middle-aged woman, also white, with a sturdy build and a sensible haircut. She smiled and waved, as though to say “Hello, don’t mind me.”
“Marley Jun? I’m Dylan Poppe, he/him,” the man said. He pronounced “Poppe” as “poppy,” while the display flashed the spelling below him as a subtitle. “This is Audrey Adams, who’s working with the national Reemployment Initiatives Bureau. Since you indicated on your form that an observer would be all right, we were thinking she could sit in to learn more about what we do here—but we can still talk one on one if that works better today.”
“No, it’s fine,” Marley said. “I actually have a couple of friends who want to conference in? They’re writers, too.”
“This is for you, so as long as you’re comfortable, go ahead ... but you’re the focus. I’d be happy to set them up with their own sessions if they’re interested, or this could even become a group session in future, but I’d need to come up to speed on both of their histories first.”
“I think they just wanted to observe.”
“Great,” Dylan said. “Good thing I wore my nice tie.”
Marley brought up their telemeeting controls and merged the two calls. “Gia, Lyric, this is Dylan Poppe and an observer ...” their lenses brought up a label on Audrey, whose name Marley hadn’t quite caught. “... Audrey. Dylan, Audrey, these are my friends Gia and Lyric.”
Gia looked at Lyric. “Promoted from friend-of-a-friend to friend in one call,” she said. “Nice.” She gave Lyric a little fist bump.
“Great to meet you!” Dylan said. He leaned forward, focusing on Marley. “And Marley, it’s great to meet you in person. I’m sorry to hear your job ended. That must’ve been hard.”
“It was. I don’t even know how to take it in. I don’t even a hundred percent believe it happened yet.”
Dylan nodded. “I can imagine! It can’t make much sense, suddenly being expected to accept that there’s no place for your work.”
Marley hoped this wasn’t going to turn out to be just a reassurance session. What they needed were options.
Dylan continued. “So, you shared some mental wellness assessment results from a couple of years ago ... Thanks for that. Oh, Audrey,” he said, turning to the woman sitting off to the side, “Do you know that service? The assessments are free from national health care. Almost everybody gets one from time to time. Most people opt into mental wellness counseling now and then, too ... I think that’s different in the U.S.?”
“The whole country gets therapy?” Audrey said.
“Most people,” said Dylan. “I get the impression Americans still think of therapy as just for people who are having problems,” Dylan said. “Sorry, Marley, I’m getting off topic—but Audrey, I have some resources on that, if you’d be interested?”
“Thanks,” Audrey said. “I would.”
“But back to you, Marley. I was going to say that from your assessment, it sounds like you’re unusually well-suited to writing. I imagine it’s not easy to imagine doing something else.”
“No, it’s not,” Marley said. “I was thinking ... I mean, I was wondering if there might be some kinds of writing AIs can’t do.”
“OK,” Dylan said. “And there might be! Though from what I’ve can glean about the Goldman AI, it covers a lot of ground—and even if it can do everything human writers can, there will be at least a few audiences who’ll want to read work by actual people. Not every single writing job is going away—”
“So I—”
“Wait, though! If any writing jobs will be left, we’re talking about very few. The competition just got literally thousands of times harder. If you want to go in that direction, I’m not here to tell you you can’t—but there are probably better possibilities.”
Marley glanced at the pictures on the wall behind Poppe, probably of people he’d helped find new work. Some were self-explanatory. In others, it was hard to figure out what was being done. Marley didn’t see anything that looked like something they would do.
“I haven’t actually come up with any ‘other possibilities’ yet,” Marley said. “If you know some—”
“Fortunately, since it’s my job, I do know of one or two—actually, seven. That’s if we start with the broad categories.”
“That’s seven more than I thought of. What are they?”
Dylan smiled and wagged his head. “I bet one or two crossed your mind.” He counted them off on his fingers: “Traditional jobs, of course,” he said. “That’s the first one. Then contributory work, personal improvement, social connection, generative non-employment, participatory entertainment, and non-constructive entertainment.
“Non-constructive entertainment is an option?” Gia said. “You’re suggesting they spend the rest of their life watching entertainment streams and drinking cheap beer?”
“I’m not offering any advice yet,” Dylan said, “but it’s important to know the option is there—whether to avoid or to embrace. Some people immerse themselves in long-running virtual games, watch marathon sessions of streamed entertainment, go to dude ranches or furry gatherings, follow bands, collect things, embrace drugs or sex as a lifestyle, or immerse themselves in fandom. It’s the one path out of the seven that doesn’t contribute or improve anything, except by making more opportunities for other people to do things. But that leaves six that do contribute! The thing to realize is that you aren’t obliged to improve the world or generate things. It’s OK in this age we’re living in to just be. Our society is geared to think of not contributing as wrong, but that comes from a time when everyone needed to work to make a living—and could work.”
Was that really Poppe’s opening idea? Giving up?
“I don’t think non-constructive entertainment is the right direction for me,” Marley said.
“I didn’t think so,” said Dylan. “For most people, it’s difficult to feel satisfied if they don’t feel they’re adding something to the world.”
“Does that mean—” Gia began.
Dylan cut in. “Gia, I’m guessing you have some great questions,” he said, “Just for now, though, I want to focus on Marley’s thoughts.”
Gia grimaced but nodded, and Lyric looked like she was suppressing a laugh. Marley glanced at Audrey, but the woman seemed to have no reaction; she just watched with a polite smile.
“I feel better when I’m doing something that shares knowledge or helps improve the world,” Marley said. “Otherwise, I get restless. Even anxious.”
“I know what you mean,” Dylan said. “And there’s still a lot you can do. At the same time, I want to suggest that the need to do something is a kind of emotional attachment, and it can get you to involve yourself in the first thing that comes along instead of the best thing that comes along. But let’s talk about ways you can contribute or generate. There are three main questions we need to answer to get oriented. First, is it important that you make money, beyond basic income?”
Was it? Money had never really engaged Marley’s interest; it was an inconvenient necessity. Maybe they’d feel differently if they hadn’t grown up in a house where there was always enough.
Even so, it would be limiting to make do on CitDiv alone.
“I’d like to earn some money,” Marley said. “But that isn’t the most important thing. I have some savings ... and I’ve been thinking I should try to sell my house, so I can relocate for whatever comes next.”
“Really?” said Dylan. “That’s interesting. A lot of people, when they lose a job, the first thing they worry about is how to keep the rest of their lives going the same as before.”
“Marley focuses on the essentials,” Gia said. “They have a gift for accepting and adapting.”
“That’ll help,” Dylan said. “Second question: how important is it to you to do things that specifically contribute to other people, or society, or the world at large?”
Anthem, who’d been hidden by the projection of Dylan Poppe’s office, lumbered into view as though she’d broken through a wall. She came to Marley, put her front feet on their lap, and laid her head between her paws, draping to the floor as though she were partly melted. Anthem was weird that way.
“Isn’t this the same question as contributing versus being entertained?” Marley said.
“Not exactly,” said Dylan. “You can create or generate without necessarily having much of an effect on the world.”
“Like ... what? Painting for your own enjoyment, knitting things and then unraveling them ... ?”
“Or learning new skills just because you’re interested. Or cooperative challenge gaming to connect with more people and have new experiences. Or renovating a house you’re going to live in ... There are a lot of other options. The thing is, many people—and I think you might be one of them, but that’s for you to say—many people don’t feel fulfilled unless they’ve done something that impacts others.”
“No, you’re right. That’s me. I don’t want to keep busy; I want to contribute.”
“OK,” said Dylan. “Question number three: do you need accomplishments? Is it important for your contributions to have obvious external value, or can they be the impact of who you are?”
“I’m not sure I get the question,” Marley said. “I was saying I want to contribute—”
“Sure, but for instance: what if your contribution is traveling around, seeing friends, and supporting them in their lives? Or living with an elderly relative who just needs some company?”
“Oh,” said Marley. On Dylan’s tie, a deer leapt over a stream.
Their gut reaction was that if you couldn’t point to something you’d accomplished, you hadn’t really done anything. Dylan’s examples, however, made it clear that wasn’t always true. Some people must move through the world making a positive impact without ever leaving any evidence they’d done it—but Marley wasn’t that kind of person.
Why? Was it a need for recognition? But no, Marley would have no problem contributing without getting any credit. Actually, they’d like that, being able to remain private while making a positive impact on the world. That had been one of the attractions of writing. Even the most famous writers could sometimes walk down the street without being recognized.
“I feel better when I’m contributing something specific,” Marley said. “If I’m doing something that helps people in a non-specific way, I guess that would still be good, but if there’s nothing particular to show for it ... ? I don’t mean there has to be for everyone, but for me ...”
“Marley, this is good,” Dylan said. “I think we’re figuring out where you’ll find your primary focus. A life can be built up out of a lot of pieces, so there’s nothing to say you can’t work in the Sustainability Corps wrangling robots for one of those big reforestation projects some weeks, then split the rest of your time going to model train group meetings, volunteering at a church, visiting with friends, and playing video games. You don’t even have to settle on one thing primarily, though people often find it easier to organize their life around one main type of work.”
“I really hope that’s not an actual suggestion,” Marley said.
“It was a purposely mismatched example,” said Dylan. “OK, so: of those original seven things, for now I think we can put aside personal improvement, generative non-employment, participatory entertainment, and non-constructive entertainment. Personal improvement is rewarding, but it doesn’t contribute directly to anything bigger than yourself. It can be an important step along the way, though—you might want to go back to college if you find a promising new career.”
“Except in the time it takes you to get your degree, is the career even going to ...” Gia said, gesturing, waving forward.
“Too early to ask that question,” Dylan said. He seemed to be enjoying himself, which Marley realized was making the conversation less stressful.
“You’re on target so far,” Marley said, “but I’m more interested in what there is to do—”
Dylan nodded energetically. “We’ll get to that in just a miunute. First, we’re identifying where we’ll find our top options.”
“And we definitely have options?”
“We definitely have options.”
“OK. And participatory entertainment and non-constructive entertainment are out as my ... primary focus, too, that makes sense. Which leaves ... employment, volunteering ... ?”
“Traditional employment, including entrepreneurialism; contributory work, which includes volunteering; and social connection. Let’s take a look at entrepreneurialism first. Are you familiar with the sponsored business program?”
“Sort of?” Marley said. “The national government puts up the money, I think ... ? I never really looked into it.”
“Understandable: you’ve always had your writing,” Dylan said. “But it’s something to think about. If you have an idea for a business you think will benefit the community while making enough money to support itself—it doesn’t have to make a profit; that’s not the point of the program—you can put a proposal together and apply for sponsorship. If the analysis projects that the business will be both useful and viable, you’ll have paid work, and you’ll get founder’s payments for as long as the business continues to be successful. The program pays all the costs, takes all the financial risks, and reaps any profits, unless a cooperative or another qualified organization buys the government out.”
“That sounds like kind of a rip-off,” Gia said.
“It’s just another option,” Dylan said. “If you can raise the capital or pay start-up costs yourself, or if you organize a cooperative, then the profits go to you or your cooperative or your investors. But it used to be that the only people who could successfully start businesses were mostly only those with deep pockets or rich friends—usually both. Those people tended to come from privileged backgrounds, and their businesses tended to share the priorities of privileged people and to focus on making money first, service to the community second—if at all.
“There’s a lot of opportunity in Cascadia for entrepreneurs,” he continued. “Especially since so many move to the U.S. in hopes of getting rich. There, the regulations favor business owners over workers and customers, and the taxes are lower.”
“Are we communists?” Gia said. “You’re making us sound like communists.”
“We’re a social democracy,” Dylan said. “It’s different. This isn’t ringing a bell from civics class?”
“That was back in high school,” Gia said. “The details are blurry.”
Lyric moved closer to Gia and poked her arm. “You’re over-disrupting,” Lyric said. “Remember, you want to disrupt just enough to keep things interesting.”
“When you get as good at disrupting things as I am, then you can give me disruption advice,” Gia said.
“I don’t have any business ideas,” Marley said. “I wouldn’t rule a business out, but—”
“Well, keep in mind,” Dylan said, “there are listings of specific businesses, often in specific locations, that have been identified as needs. They’re a great bet for getting approval if you can demonstrate you have the right skills,” Dylan said. “And if you’re interested enough, you can usually learn the right skills.”
“I’m not sure starting a business plays to my strengths.”
“It might depend on the business,” Dylan said. “But at least going forward, if a business idea comes to you, you’ll know one way you could proceed.”
“I think I’m more the kind of person who tries to fill a role that already exists,” Marley said.
Dylan smiled again. “I thought so—but I feel like it helps people to rule things out. If you start with the option that looks like it will fit best, you may never really explore the alternatives.
“So, it sounds like the most appealing thing for you at this moment would be either an existing job or a well-defined volunteer role. Nurturing social connections is amorphous, and I’m hearing that you’d like to be part of something more structured. Is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“So we’re right back where we started,” Gia said. “Trying to find Marley a job, or maybe a volunteer position.”
“Not exactly,” Dylan said. “What we now know is that Marley is likely to be happiest with a job or volunteer position, which even though it’s usually the first thing that comes to mind, isn’t the case for a lot of people. We also know that the nature of the work is more important to Marley than the location or whether or not there’s money involved. Marley, am I still on track?”
“Still on track,” said Marley. “So how do I know what kind of job or volunteer position to look for?”
“Could I make a suggestion?” said Audrey. Dylan started, and one of the little deer on his tie ran off in a panic. Marley had not forgotten Audrey was there, but she’d been so quiet as to be almost invisible. She struck Marley as someone who didn’t necessarily mind being overlooked.
“Uh—sure,” Dylan said.
“Marley,” Audrey said, looking at them intently. “What’s something you hate?”
“Hate?” said Dylan. “Is that the question we want to ... ?”
Marley didn’t generally think in terms of hating things, but they barely had to think to know their answer. “People disagree,” Marley said. “All the time. About everything.”
“You hate people disagreeing?” Dylan said.
Marley shook their head. Audrey gave Dylan a hushing look.
“Disagreeing is natural,” Marley continued. “People are different, so sometimes they have different opinions. But when people disagree, they can either talk out their disagreement and decide together what they’re going to do, or they can stop seeing each other as people and spend all their energy fighting each other. They tell themselves that since the other person wants something different, the only way to get what they want is to overpower the other person. Back in the time where our show is set—I mean, the show I was writing for—people argued about climate change, and most people on both sides thought everyone on the other side was dishonest, or stupid, or both. Because we couldn’t come together, we let the problem fester for decades. Everybody got hurt.”
“Except one of those sides was right, and the other one was wrong,” Gia said.
Marley shook their head. “Just believing you’re right, no matter how good your thinking is—that doesn’t mean you can make decisions for everyone,” Marley said. “The only way decisions are made for everyone is if everyone works together to decide.”
“So what you hate,” Audrey said, “is when people let disagreements drive them apart.”
Marley nodded.
“I think I know what kind of work you can look for,” Audrey said. “It would probably be volunteer work to start, but there might be a job in it, at least part-time. There might even be some writing involved.”
“That sounds really interesting,” said Marley. “What kind of work?”
Audrey looked at Dylan. “Mr. Poppe, I have some ideas on this, but I’m guessing you have information about organizations working on healing the political divide between Cascadia and the U.S.?”
“I know of a few,” Dylan said. “That’s interesting. Marley, is this something you’d want to pursue?”
“How would I do that?”
“Let me do some homework after our call,” Dylan said. “I’ll find you some people to talk to. Ready to turn your life upside down?”
Marley glanced at Lyric, who smiled.
“Sure,” they said. “I mean, isn’t it upside down already?”