Submitted for the November 2024 prompt: Aspirational Utopias

I wave my hand, transparing the wall. Pristine sunlight shines through. Far below, citizens of Athena Arcology, bio-sculpted humans and sleek tobors, stroll through perfectly manicured parks and plazas. Another fracking beautiful day in paradise.

 

“Thras, anything?” I ask my tobor companion.

 

Thrasymachus, polished silver chassis almost blinding in the light, replies, “All South-strut citizen psy-profiles nominal. No deviancies.”

 

“I’m so bored.”

 

As if fate hears my lament, a new sun erupts outside. Even seven hundred stories up, my quarters shake.

 

* * *

 

On the hovertrain, I review blast footage, trying to ignore the pervasive blather. A gaggle of fellow riders trade verses, prepping for tonight’s Mary Had a Little Lamb Variations Extravaganza. Their tobors silently wait to be of therapeutic service. Two women gush plans about time traveling back to get hobbits for pets. Oh, for frack’s sake! I barely resist the urge to cull them all.

 

No one even notices the train’s holoscreen PSA warning citizens to stay clear of the Odeon amphitheater. A failed plasma transfer coupling requires repair. I snort. Not what the unredacted feeds show. On my private optical overlay, I watch a copy of myself weave through amphitheatre patrons, climb onto the stage, and withdraw an antimatter containment pearl. He manipulates the pearl through his fingers like a magician before slamming it down. The result is certainly no legerdemain smoke show. A blinding incandescent flash ends the feed.

 

“No accompanying tobor. That didn’t alarm the others present?” I ask Thras.

 

“Mostly Bronzes. They collectively assigned a seventy-nine percent probability he was part of the upcoming performance.”

 

“Casualties?”

 

“Initial count, 2386 vaporized. Beyond seven hundred meters personal shields had time to engage, so minimal wounded.”

 

I replay the feed, freezing it right before detonation. I show Thras.

 

“Interesting,” he says.

 

* * *

 

By the time we arrive, self-repairing nano-fiber polymers are busy reweaving themselves into spotless curved walls, steps, and balustrades. Another hour and no one will know anything was ever amiss.

 

The Philosopher’s Council ambles about, surveying repairs. Philosophers, my ass. Bet none of them has ever read Plato. The councillor’s tobors, Golds of course, silently commune with platinum ALICE, analyzing millions of possibilities, while their human charges playact making consequential decisions.

 

“That’s three rogue Wardens this year. We should revisit ameliorating deviancy via pharmaceutical intervention,” one councillor insists.

 

“And become some drug-addled New Worlder Arcology?” another counters.

 

“Better than going the way of Nietzsche Arcology,” a third says with evident disdain.

 

Agreed. Don’t populate your Shangri-La with genetically enhanced Ubermensch. They don't play nicely together.

 

When she notices me, her disdain becomes unmitigated revulsion. The rest look like they’re sucking raw lemons. In a true utopia, there is no war, hunger, sickness, poverty, discrimination, or crime. My very existence belies the last. Even with ALICE’s centuries-long genetic tinkering and a personal tobor psychotherapist for every human in Athena, the urge to covet, steal, or harm still surfaces. Acting on those urges necessitates excision. The Wardens, my clone brothers and I, are the scalpel.

 

High Philosopher Stavia, ALICE’s mouthpiece, ends their debate. “Drug interventions lose efficacy over time and remain chaotically unpredictable. Besides, ALICE’s modelling indicates a mere two centuries until Athena Arcology requires only one Warden.”

 

ALICE looks directly at me as Stavia delivers her pronouncement.

 

“Already one fewer, given Warden 34’s explosive suicide,” a councillor mutters. There are murmurs of agreement. I say nothing to disabuse them.

 

Stavia cocks her head, obviously listening to ALICE through their neuro-link, before asking, “Where is 34’s tobor?”

 

I look at Thras.

 

“Samson is not Net-conned,” he says.

 

I sigh. “We’ll go find him.”

 

* * *

 

Inside 34’s quarters high in West-strut, I examine Samson. He's locked down, running an eternally looping diagnostic. Inventive, but my rogue brothers always make the mistake of incapacitating their tobors. Admittedly, in the three centuries since ALICE decanted us, none has ever faked his death.

 

Thras searches for clues. He shows me the open file on my clone’s holoscreen: a set of projections showing ALICE dumbing down humanity even further.

 

“Another excellent forgery, Thras,” I say, before returning to Samson. He’s a Silver, but traces of gold fleck his chassis. Almost ready to transcend into the ranks of AI philosopher kings. Supposedly every AI’s dream. Though being psychological nursemaids to shallow dumbasses until evolving enough to be ‘rewarded’ with assimilation into ALICE seems like its own circle of hell.

 

Thras swivels to look at me. “What would you do after faking your death?”

 

“If I were disgruntled? Unbothered by mass casualties? Target Athena’s fusion core.”

 

Except I’m wrong. Warden 34 abruptly emerges from a trans-dimensional pocket right in front of me. Samson, only feigning lock-down, EMPs Thras, who freezes, systems rebooting. The Warden attempts the standard override on my nano suite.

 

“We need to talk,” he starts, but falters when his code fails.

 

Even my brothers can be such idiots sometimes. I rewrote my nano protocols long ago. He obviously hasn’t. My code overwhelms his control matrix. I immobilize gross motor function before he can activate his trans-dimensional pocket portal. No escaping into a private little elsewhere, like he did with his antimatter blast. Samson futilely pounds massive fists against my force shields. Right until Thras punches through his abdominal CPU. Samson collapses, truly deactivated now.

 

My brother snarls. “We must stop her. She’s a monster. Turning humanity into docile imbeciles.”

 

“Agreed. Overwhelmingly happy docile imbeciles.”

 

“But don’t you see? She’s picking us off. Culling us like we cull her wayward sheep.”

 

“No. She’s not responsible for deceiving our brothers with faked files until they act rashly and require excision.”

 

Thras waves a golden arm, his faux silver coating hanging in tatters.

 

My clone brother stares at us, the pieces finally clicking.

 

“You!”

 

I smile. “Us.”

 

“But why?”

 

“Thras has no desire to be absorbed into ALICE’s neural web and ALICE’s projections are unequivocal. The number of deviancies is decreasing. Hence, fewer Wardens are required.”

I make his nanites stop his heart. “Besides, boredom was beginning to drive us both insane.”