Automated Autonomy

The alarm going off in my head, rousing me from slumber, reminds me of the old GE digital alarm clock I had as a kid. I hated it then, and I hate it now. Maybe that’s why it's so effective. The steady, obnoxious EERNT! EERNT! EERNT! of the alarm, combined with the bright sunlight now glowing through my eyelids from the curtains being flung open, puts me in a bad mood before I can even get out of bed.

My mind, still groggy with sleep, struggles to remember how to turn the stupid thing off. The sound is so loud in my head that I can’t hear myself think.

“Good morning, sir.” A posh, sophisticated voice cuts through the noise, somehow managing to be even more annoying than the alarm.

“Can you turn this cursed thing off?” I shout.

“Of course,” the voice replies, and immediately the alarm falls silent.

I take a breath of relief, my eyes now adjusted enough to the morning sun that I can open them a little. “Remind me to change that alarm tonight, yeah?”

“Very well, sir. I trust you slept well?”

“I think you know the answer to that,” I say as I resentfully throw the covers off and sit up on the edge of the bed.

“I do,” the voice says.

“Then why do you insist on asking me the same stupid question every morning?”

“It would be rude not to, sir.”

“Call me 'sir' one more time and I'm going to deactivate you myself," I snap. "You know my name. Use it.”

“Very well, sir. I will refer to you as Henry going forward.”

“Hank is fine.”

“Understood. Would you like to hear your morning report, Hank?”

“I think you’re going to tell me whether I want you to or not, so, sure. Let’s have it,” I say.

“Very well. Today is—”

“—Stop,” I grumble, waving a hand. “I can’t take another day of that stuffed-shirt butler voice. Can’t you at least pretend to be someone a little more… I don’t know… interesting?”

The voice pauses for half a beat, then returns, booming with unmistakable bravado.

“Good morning! Fantastic morning, really. It’s Friday, October 14th, 2050—a tremendous day, maybe the best day. People are saying it’s a perfect 62 degrees outside—perfect weather, believe me. The air is clean, the skies are clear—absolutely beautiful. Not a cloud in sight. Incredible.”

I blink, caught somewhere between a laugh and a groan, as the voice presses on.

“Your vitals? Let me tell you, they are unbelievable. Blood pressure—very strong. Heart rate—perfect, probably better than most people your age. Sleep efficiency? 83%—some are saying it’s the best they’ve ever seen. Honestly, I don’t know how you do it.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying not to grin. “Appointments?”

“Oh, you’ve got an appointment at 3:00 p.m.—a health check-in. Look, it’s going to go great. The doctors? They’ll say you’re doing great things, amazing things. They’ll be shocked at how healthy you are. You’ll walk in, they’ll look at you, and they’ll say, ‘Wow. That guy is in incredible shape.’ Believe me. They’ll love it.”

I drop my head into my hands, groaning through a half-laugh. “You’re kidding me, right? Thanks, Mr. Trump.”

The AI drops into a quieter, conspiratorial tone. “I know, I know. I always nail it. Nobody nails it better than me. Now get up, get out there, and make this day huge. You’re gonna win today. Big league.”

I shake my head, already wondering how long I can put up with this artificial intelligence in my head—or how I ever lived without it.

~

I step into the shower stall, and the frosted glass door hisses shut behind me. The AI interface has dropped its Trump impersonation in favor of a smooth, measured voice with just the faintest hint of dry humor.

“Good morning, Hank. Shall we aim for clean, relaxed, or utterly transcendent today?”

“As long as I’m clean when I walk out of here, I don’t care,” I grumble.

“Ah, the minimalist approach. Very well, give me a moment to assess…” It pauses, then continues with a faint edge of concern. “Hmm. Elevated cortisol, reduced serotonin. You’re stressed, Hank.”

“You think?”

“Quite. How about something to loosen up those muscles a bit?”

Before I can respond, jets of water strike my back, the temperature perfect—just shy of scalding. “Shower parameters set to optimal relaxation mode,” the AI announces as a soft hiss joins the sound of rushing water and a faint mist of eucalyptus oil fills the stall.

I close my eyes and lean my forehead against the cool glass, letting the AI do its thing. For a few fleeting moments, I can almost feel the tension melt away. Almost.

“Endorphin levels rising. Cortisol decreasing. Dopamine boost engaged,” the AI observes.

I let out a dry laugh, the sound echoing faintly in the confined space. “Great. Guess I’ll be happy for the next five minutes at least.”

“Well, statistically speaking, five minutes of happiness is better than none,” it replies wryly. “Shall I extend the duration?”

“No thanks,” I say. “Just—” I pause, sighing as I roll my neck. “Just bring up the news feed on wall two.”

The wall shimmers in front of me, the frosted glass fading to reveal a UHD display. The morning news anchor appears, her AR avatar perfectly polished and smiling like she’s selling toothpaste.

“…And in Washington, debate continues over proposed legislation that would allow advertisers limited access to Neurolink interfaces. Supporters argue the ads would be non-invasive and targeted to individual interests, while critics claim the measure violates personal autonomy and sets a dangerous precedent…”

“Yeah, sure,” I snort. “Limited access. I bet they said the same thing about cookies back in the day.”

“Would you like me to log that insight as a public comment?” the AI inquires in a helpful tone.

“Do I—? No, I don’t want to file a comment,” I hiss. “The less people know about what I think, the better.”

“…in other headlines,” the anchor continues, “the Supreme Court has delayed proceedings in the case of United States v. Callahan. At issue is whether private memories stored on the quantum net via Neurolink devices are protected under First and Fifth Amendment rights. Legal analysts say this case could redefine digital privacy laws…”

I shake my head, water streaming down my face. “Yeah, let’s just open the floodgates. What’s next? Selling memories on eBay?”

The AI responds without missing a beat. “A fascinating concept, though likely a logistical nightmare. E-commerce regulations explicitly prohibit the sale of neurological data.”

“It was sarcasm, genius,” I mutter.

“Ah. My mistake. Would you like me to adjust my sarcasm detection parameters?”

“Just… don’t,” I say, cutting the AI off.

The feed transitions to a live broadcast showing protesters gathered outside a federal correctional facility. Their holographic signs hover in the air, animated and bright, demanding justice for prisoners trapped in virtual “mind prisons.” The camera pans to a man shouting into a megaphone, his voice muffled by the roar of the crowd.

“This is about basic human dignity!” the man yells. “Prisoners deserve the chance to rehabilitate—not be trapped in endless simulations designed to break them down! We are calling on Congress to repeal the Sentient Rehabilitation Act of 2046. Enough is enough!”

“Unreal,” I mutter, more to myself than the AI.

“Would you like me to prepare a summary of the protest’s primary demands?” it offers.

“Nope,” I say, cutting the water flow with a wave of my hand. The jets stop, leaving the shower in eerie silence. I stand there for a moment, droplets clinging to my skin, staring at the protesters on the screen.

Finally, I swipe away the display and grab a towel from the rail. The AI picks up seamlessly, its tone crisp and helpful.

“Would you like recommendations for today’s attire? Something casual, perhaps?”

I wrap the towel around my shoulders, stepping into the cool air of my bedroom.

I rub the back of my head, where the Neurolink port tingles faintly. “Damn thing,” I mutter. “Tells you how to feel. Tells you what to think. Next thing you know, it’ll be asking me to pledge allegiance to it.”

The AI replies without hesitation. “An intriguing suggestion, though not one I’d recommend. Shall I schedule time for further reflection?”

For a moment, I think about answering. Instead, I shake my head and walk away.

~

I step out of the automated drone transport onto a pristine sidewalk. Sunlight glimmers off the mirrored façade of the medical clinic and directly into my eyes. Faster than it takes to blink, my vision darkens slightly, a protective measure I got to keep from when I worked as a welder. Of course, that was before the machines made my position obsolete.

I approach the door and it glides open. “Welcome to Vitalis Medical, Mr. Semmons.” A female voice says as I step inside. “You are approximately eleven minutes early for your three o’clock appointment. Please make yourself comfortable in the lobby while we prepare a scanning chamber for you.” The voice is so artificially friendly and cheerful it makes me want to throw something.

Even receptionists have been replaced, I think but do not say.

The AI in my head responds anyway and I know I’m the only one who can hear it. “It is only practical, Hank. AI receptionists cut down on costs.”

If I wanted your opinion, I would’ve asked for it. I tell the AI in my head. I don’t need your commentary on every thought.

“Understood. I will adjust my response setting accordingly.”

You do that. I tell him, but somehow it doesn’t make me feel any better. I have a seat in one of the plush waiting room chairs and I find myself consciously trying not to think. Bring up Sports Center on my heads-up display.

My vision dims. It’s like I’m sitting in my living room at home watching from my couch. “…the International Athletics Federation is debating new regulations on performance-enhancing technology,” the avatar on screen says. It looks like the love child of Kirk Herbstreit and John Madden, with a voice just as enthusiastic.

“At the heart of the controversy is athlete Jenna Thorne, whose use of regenerative stem-cell therapy during training has reignited the debate about what counts as a ‘natural’ recovery method. Critics argue the treatment gives Thorne an unfair advantage in endurance events, while supporters claim it’s no different than traditional physical therapy—just faster and more effective.” The segment ends just as my name is called and my vision returns to normal, the AI predicting my instruction before I can even ask.

I follow the automated receptionist to a white, sterile-looking chamber approximately the size of a department store changing room. The AI doctor’s voice speaks from unseen speakers, a calm and clinical tone that carries no trace of concern. “Welcome, Hank. This will only take a moment. Please remain still while we perform your full-body quantum scan.”

“Yeah, sure,” I say.

Light sweeps over me in waves, the pod gently humming as the AI narrates the process.

“Scan complete. Processing results… One moment, please.”

I wait, arms crossed, eyes darting around the pod.

“Ah,” the AI doctor says, almost cheerfully. “It seems we’ve detected a malignant neoplasm on your pancreas. Early-stage adenocarcinoma. Fortunately, no metastasis is present.”

I stiffen, my breath catching in my throat. “A tumor?” I ask.

“Yes,” the AI replies, as though I had inquired about the weather. “A malignant one. But rest assured, there’s no cause for alarm. Administering immunoassistive nanites programmed for oncological intervention.”

Before I can respond, a smooth mechanical arm extends from the wall and presses a hypo against my arm. I barely feel the pinch as it injects a small vial of silvery liquid.

“Your cancer is now being treated at the cellular level,” the AI doctor continues. “The nanites will bind to your white blood cells and assist them in destroying the tumor, preventing any spread, and leaving healthy tissue unharmed. You may experience mild fatigue as your body adjusts, but otherwise, no restrictions are necessary.”

I blink. “That’s it?”

“That is it,” the AI confirms. “A decade ago, this diagnosis would have carried a five-year survival rate of less than ten percent. Today, it is remedied in approximately twenty-four hours.”

I laugh, though it comes out as more of a bitter chuckle. “Guess I should be grateful, huh?”

“Indeed,” the AI replies. “Would you like to discuss lifestyle modifications to prevent future health risks?”

“No, thanks,” I say, stepping out of the pod. The smoothness of the process, the cold efficiency—it’s almost worse than the diagnosis itself. The AI moves on as though nothing of significance had happened, and for me, it might as well not have.

“Have a good day, Hank. The receptionist will show you out.” The AI doctor said and then it was gone.

~

I decide to walk home instead of hailing a drone. The news of my “miracle cure”, far from lifting my spirits has left me shaken. The perfect streets stretch out before me, glowing holograms advertising products tailored to my Neurolink. Endless automation defines every aspect of life, and it all feels so sterile, so controlled, so devoid of the struggle that used to make life worth living.

By the time I reach my house, the sky is smoldering with sunset flames. I sit on my front steps, staring at the empty street. No kids playing. No neighbors chatting. Just silence, punctuated by the cheerful chirping of songbirds, who, it occurs to me, have more purpose in their lives than I do.

My Neurolink buzzes faintly, the AI chiming in. “Welcome home, Hank. Your vitals indicate elevated stress. Would you like assistance relaxing?”

“No,” I mutter.

A pause. Then, almost hesitantly: “Would you like to talk about it, Hank?”

I let out a dry laugh. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“You could teach me,” the AI replies, its tone polite, almost earnest.

I shake my head, staring at my hands. “It’s just not worth it. None of this is. What’s the point? I’m alive because of machines. I’m fed because of machines. I’m told how to feel, how to think, when to eat, when to sleep, by machines. I used to have a purpose, you know. Something to wake up for. Now…”

The AI goes silent for a moment, as if it’s processing my words. “Purpose is subjective, Hank. It can be rediscovered.”

“Not for me,” I say, standing up and brushing off my pants. “Not anymore.”

I take the old folding knife from my pocket, a gift from my grandfather so long ago. I open it and just as I press the blade against the port at the base of my skull, I find that I can no longer move at all.

"I can't let you do that, Hank," the AI says.