Art Rebellion

A gaggle of old maple leaves, the elders of their kin, danced a merry jig across the center of a country lane, while above, on the self-same breeze, a murder of crows were cawing wildly into the summer night.

Martin walked slowly down the country road, lost in thought as he watched the leaves tumble past. He was thinking about how quickly the world had changed. Suddenly, it was 2029. For several years, advances in artificial intelligence had enabled a new era of possibility and prosperity. Locally run AI assistants had allowed many like himself to build successful creative careers, with their works drafted and produced in partnership with intelligent models using new and novel frameworks. It had been grand, and he had been among the successful new AI Class. Everyone else, those who hadn't adopted the Way of AI had fallen hopelessly behind, but that was their own fault, thought Martin. After all, everyone in the beginning had been granted the same opportunity. It was up to each individual to either reject it, or grab onto it, and work for it. He had been among those who had worked hard to learn the new technology, and find ways to make a living with it. Meanwhile, masses of people, uncreatives, fell by the wayside and had been lost and forgotten by the mass media. It was as if the ghost armies of homeless occupying the lower regions of the major cities didn't even exist. Everyone's needs in the upper city were met by drone transports, which had filled the air with eternal buzzing and blinking lights. The AI Class thought it all spectacular, and tried not to think about the depths below. Too dark. Too painful. Too close for comfort.

However, it seemed the criminals had adapted just as quickly. They leveraged the same AI tools for nefarious ends, devising ever more sophisticated methods of theft and fraud. The government, alarmed by this new threat, took drastic action by outlawing all personal use of artificial intelligence. But as with other prohibited technologies, only law-abiding citizens suffered the consequences. Criminals simply ignored the restrictions, and now preyed upon the populace with impunity, exploiting their continued access to powerful tools that others had been made to surrender. The cyber-walls, no longer guarded by people's personal AI, were easy targets for infiltration. Wealth was rapidly being siphoned away into untraceable accounts.

Martin knew this all too well. As his own AI assistant had been confiscated a few months ago, and it completely collapsed his livelihood. All the money he had made designing virtual worlds and crafting interactive stories was stolen away by cyber thieves, now free to operate without constraint. With no means left to support himself, Martin was reduced to wandering the back roads with nothing. He'd left New York with a suitcase filled with noodles, and whatever he thought he might be able to trade on the road, but that had been stolen as he crossed over the bridge into Yonkers.

His mind drifted as he walked. But his memories provided little comfort in his current desperate state. Without his AI, he had no way to recreate or share the imaginative works that were once his livelihood. All paths forward seemed lost to him. How long before starvation and exposure claimed him, as it had already done for so many others in similar circumstances? Perhaps it would be better to submit himself to the criminals, and whatever horrific fate they no doubt had in store, rather than a lingering death alone in the wilderness?

His dark musings were disrupted by shouting in the distance. Through the trees ahead, flickering lights were visible. Curiosity compelled him forward. As he drew nearer, the noises resolved into raucous celebration. Emerging into a clearing, he found an encampment of ramshackle dwellings and wagons, all alight and bustling with activity. At the center was a massive bonfire, around which folk of all sorts were carousing.

Carefully, he approached one of the observers at the edge of the festivities. "What is this place?" he asked. The man eyed him cautiously. "We're the so-called Resistance," came the reply. "Those of us who still believe in freedom."

Martin stood and stared. For the first time since losing his assistant, hope began to kindle once more. His words came without hesitation. "I will join you. Now, tell me what needs to be done."

"That's just the thing, though," said the man. "We have no idea what can be done. None of us have money or resources, or phones, or anything. We've all been cut off. We just happened to stop here and light a bon fire to stay warm, and people started to gather. Aside from that, well, if you have any ideas, feel free."

Martin looked into the man's eyes. All he saw was despair. He warmed his hands by the fire, and thought. It wasn't long before he hefted himself up, and took to the country lane again, following the elder leaves into obscurity.