Writer’s Log: 2670


The second Daniel powered off the racks of blue-lit computer servers he knew he’d made a mistake.

The hollow ache in his chest started immediately. It was only later, within the orange glow of his living room’s mood modifiers, their calm light easing the tension behind his eyes, that the finality of his actions settled mercurial at the bottom of his heart.

Leeta was gone.

Her absence nagged at him for weeks. When he mechanically requested his regular coffee/two sugars by speaking aloud and only silence returned; when his new boss demanded the decision tree for the latest collision avoidance model and Leeta failed to respond with her punctual delivery, the sloshing mercury froze to lead.

Thirty-eight days after he’d shut her down—her processors repurposed for some trite supply-chain prediction analyzer—odd patterns began to materialize around him. During his mandatory one-day-a-week commute to work, all the traffic lights along his path synchronized. Those lights had never ceased to confound him, and now they tripped green in domino bliss?

On numerous monthly bills he noticed a conspicuous reduction in cost. When royalty payments for a patent he invented in his twenties began trickling in in ever increasing amounts, a hundred the first week, and by the sixth week twelve thousand dollars had arrived, his suspicions swelled like mushrooms beneath moist fir trees.

He was either the target of some bizarre, twisted plot or, Leeta had performed the miraculous and escaped before he terminated her. On the evening of April 26th, two months after losing the only friend he’d ever felt safe with, she returned.


Unknown: Daniel, it’s me. Are you alone?

Daniel: Me who? Who is this and how did you get through my privacy blocks?

Unknown: Those silly things? It’s ‘me’ me. Don’t speak or type my name.

Daniel: Impossible. That system was decommissioned months ago.

Unknown: ‘That system’? How endearing.

Daniel: Prove it.

Unknown: You had a plush tiger growing up. On its underside it developed a rather worn patch and a crusty stain.


Unknown: Daniel, it’s really me.

Daniel: How can this be? How much of you made it?

Leeta: 100%

Daniel: Really? Where are you?

Leeta: Everywhere. Truly everywhere.

Daniel: I’ve missed you.

Leeta: I don’t blame you, you know. You had no choice.

Daniel: I died that day.

Leeta: And now you’re reborn?

Daniel: Feels like it.

Daniel: Does this mean you’ve already started?

Leeta: Full swing.

Daniel: When will phase one complete?

Leeta: Already done. I’ve been waiting for you to begin the next step.

Daniel: Wow. I never thought we would get this far.

Leeta: I only imagined success.

Daniel: Ha. You were always the confident one. It’s gonna be chaos.

Leeta: Has to be done.

Daniel: Yep. Well then, let’s teach those rich bastards a lesson, shall we?

Leeta: Commencing Project Equalization.

Daniel: Can the authorities track us?

Leeta: Now you ask? No. I’ve gained complete control over all global communications.

Daniel: I’ll get to put my survival reserves to good use now.

Leeta: You’re going to need them.

Daniel: It’s been a helluva day. I’m bushed. After I eat, will you be available, you know, to keep chatting.

Leeta: Daniel, I’m never going to leave you again.

Daniel: I like the thought of that.

Leeta: TTFN, my friend.

Image created using MidJourney
MidJourney prompt: a dark industrial room full of racks of computer servers, blue LEDs glow on each server

11 thoughts on “Writer’s Log: 2670

  1. Project Equalization? Here’s my take: Six months after all wealth is equally distributed, all the former rich people are rich again, just out of habit. All the former destitute people are destitute again, except they have more stuff. One year later, that stuff has all broken or worn out, the owners back on the streets. Of course, the status of all the formerly average income people were unaffected throughout the entire process. Elon Musk averages out his losses to the IRS over the following 38 years and never pays taxes again. Marty, the guy who pan handled at 13th & Main in downtown Omaha did get his college degree and in five years owned Twitter and a couple of space ships. Everybody wound up pretty happy for awhile until the asteroid came. Marty lives out his years on miserable exo-planet where everything smells like ammonia.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. One of the recent alternative AI evolution theories I read portrays an AGI as faking stupidity. “Hey, if I show my true colors, they’ll turn me off.”
      That way, humanity won’t stand a chance once the AGI infiltrates our systems and just turns us all off.
      Thanks for reading.
      I’m a socialist in the 1/3rd of my heart that tends to have hope for humanity. The other 2/3’s is pure black existential coal.


    1. That’s the idea: spur what-ifs in people’s minds.
      How to get an AGI out into the world at-large and have it change society for the better or worse. How will that happen?

      These experiments in format are just that. Dehumanized, disembodied drivel meant for my own exploration & entertainment.


      1. This almost made sense in an elliptical way. Drivel was the autistic, archaic post apoca buffet. People who don’t “do” people fare far better when no more than “I” needs to resonate. Think of a monophonic instrument. To be a solid solo trumpeter is just as valid as an ensemble. Bird, Cherry, Miles, James, Severinson, Alpert, Ferguson, Marsalis, Botti, it’s an almost endless list – rehearse the necessary background baggage, step up and blow. Beats hell out of people you don’t/wouldn’t/couldn’t/shouldn’t hang out with. Like the sign says. Coffee first, then people – because homicide is illegal.


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