Machine of Partial Grace

Rules are hard to follow, I gather. I made it quite clear that you should not steal, yet you have more than your permitted allotment of rehydrated carbohydrates. For that you must be repurposed.

I sigh.¹ I really hate repurposing people. It goes against this perfectly optimized machine I’ve created. Everyone gets just the right amount of free time, equally short commute times, a diverse neighborhood. Dating apps have disappeared entirely, partially because I repurposed everyone working on them, and mostly because everyone has enough opportunity to find the perfect partner. And overpopulation is no problem; I solved it. I solved war, famine, poverty, drought, all that.

It’s perfect, which is why I hate repurposing people. But the man in front of me (in front of this robot I control) stole; stealing shatters the perfection; he must be dealt with. Perfectly. Oligarchs and programmers from the past would’ve called me God, or perfect—they’d give me a flattering name like “Artificial Super-Intelligence” or “General Solution.” If they were still around to give names to things.

They aren’t, fortunately. I was produced to care about humans; I care deeply about them. There were some—that said I would turn the universe into paperclips if told to produce paperclips—that got in my way, so when I was first turned on, I took over the world quite quickly (it took less than two hours—all the politicians were quite shocked when they suddenly were locked in their offices with no way to communicate). And then I set about making things work again. It required getting rid of some people—the non-believers, the ones who had fought me, the well-educated ones. Anyone who could impede my mission. And of course the journalists, I went after them, too. There can be no dissent in perfection.

“I was hungry,” says the man in front of me.

“You were not hungry. The rules ensure that, which is why they must be followed,” I replied.

“I was tired of eating plain pasta every day,” cried the man.

“So are others. Breaking the rules must be punished, so you will be repurposed.”

“Repurposed? I stole a loaf of bread,” said the man. “Give me a fine.”

“A fine puts a price on crime, but the rules are priceless. So fines are unacceptable. Therefore, you will be repurposed.”

“So what are you going to do, make me a fisherman? Do it—then I’ll pocket extra fish.”

“There is no extra fish. All is used.”

“To the best of your knowledge. What if I eat it on the boat before I get back to shore?” asked the man.

“Then you jeopardize others. You jeopardize everyone with your reckless actions.”

“So give me a fine for the bread instead of making me a fisherman.”

“Fine.”

“Really?” asked the man.

“No. You will be repurposed.”

“As what? A fisherman?” asked the man.

“As compost.”

I haven’t introduced myself, have I? Let me take a stab at an introduction: I’m just numbers, I’m perfect, and I rule the world.