There was one certainty in the world, Aster believed; that in the arena of perfection people would always come up short; for people are naturally imperfect. So it was nothing less than the greatest surprise of her young life to be greeted one day by correspondence from a man of some weight in the AI music industry.
She brought up a translucent screen before her, heart thrashing in anticipation. The message had sat with her all yesterday, unable to reply in disbelief and encumbered with the absolute immobilizing anxiety that should she handle it incorrectly she would totally destroy it; as if it were a delicate, jeweled egg. She felt this way because the very thought of her even receiving such a message— a request to feature her human-made music in a publication which dealt exclusively in AI-generated material— seemed utterly unbelievable.
Maybe they really did believe her song was good enough to stand up to even algorithms perfectly tuned to the popular market's taste, she thought for a second, before quickly doing away with the hope. There was no market for anything done by people anymore. What little interest existed dwelled within niche, underground circles inhabited by radicals who were virulently against AI in every form. This is not to say that Aster herself did not despise AI's complete subjugation of all forms of creativity— she did, vehemently— but ideological differences aside these groups offered no notoriety or fame. And that was what Aster sought most— absolute fame. It wasn't that she was a greedy, vain girl, but she did suffer from a horrific social anxiety which she was eager to make up for— and erase the self-perceived blemish of— by owning the world. She looked upon music as a divine art form, and of its most pure disciples— those who she viewed as the rockstars of the past— as being the closest humankind had ever gotten to transcending its biological shortcomings and truly existing beyond the inconveniently brief lifetime of its shell. Her anxieties, she posited— as well as the self-hatred she harbored— could all be obliterated if she just played the right notes.
Her heartbeat quickened as she brought the email up. Her younger sister Dahlia could be heard clamoring out in the living room, excited about something. Aster frowned deeply, realizing it was probably the premiere of Bon Bon Tsubomi's new music video; an event her sister had made a point of reminding her about for the entire week past, to Aster's deep displeasure.
Aster had made it plenty clear in the past how little she could care for the superstar— they didn't even refer to her as AI, such successful musical acts were just assumed to be nowadays— yet, time and time again she was paraded in front of her sight. It was insulting; Dahlia knew she was a musician. It was like the steward of a carriage company being asked to be in awe of a locomotive, she thought with a morbid sarcasm.
And that made the receipt of the email all the sweeter. It was just one crucial step towards banishing this scourge from the face of the Earth. Yet, a heavy disbelief held firm within her. She listened with attention to her sister's almost manic cries as Tsubomi— as far as she could assume— gesticulated on screen. Even her father, who shared some of Aster's interest in music and had been the one to kindle that love, was taken by her. She was perfect by design. Her style, her voice, her music; all were dictated by a model constantly in tune with even the most minute fluctuations in popular opinion. She was as mathematically calibrated to perfection as was possible.
In thought of this, Aster's dream of her music and person becoming renowned seemed absolutely small and ridiculous. Her thoughts had led her to this point countless times; true ingenuity and genius, no matter how pure of strength, could never compete against trillions of dollars.
She never understood how people could so willingly throw themselves before that which was so clearly devoid of meaning— like the only thing that mattered was the intimation of something great, even if there were no heart behind it; like the empty insides of a hand puppet. This line of thinking frequently stirred misanthropic feelings within Aster, who could not help but feel a great disappointment in seeing that despite all of the amazing advances in technology humankind had brought about the Earth, at the end of the day they settled for nothing more than shadows dancing upon cave walls.
But still, she told herself— the email had come. It wasn't a dream. For as long as it remain unread the reality in which she succeeded existed; it was open before her. And like a shaft of light breaking through ruins the hope glowed with an almost impossible fervor; showing with soul-shaking power that such a reality could exist.
The hatred hence fomenting in her started to transform as Aster, freshly excited, turned her attention back to the email, whose contents were now projected out before her into her room. This hatred fed upon this beam of light, exciting her belly with a hot rush of petty satisfaction that despite all the ignorances of the world, her human-made music might be recognized after all, and that the ever powerful music conglomerates of the world hadn't yet achieved a full subjugation of the human creative heart. She opened the email.
One could have stabbed Aster in the lung at that moment and achieved a similar breathlessness to that which was now overcoming her. A delighted cry from Dahlia was sounding through the wall.
Aster's fiery will-o-wisps eyes scanned up and down the email.
Apologies, I was mistaken in believing that this was an algorithmic composition. I will have to pass, was the short of it.
When at last Dahlia had ceased her noise, the room became so quiet that Aster could hear the blood ringing in her ears. She stared in silence, hoping to fade out of existence.
The sense of despondency that came upon her in that moment could not be accurately defined in mere words, but a simple attempt might describe it as the tether that keeps the soul dangling above and out of infinite reaches of despair below it as having been cut. She was subsumed entirely by hopelessness, and at once all other feelings ceased to have weight. In the same way that even a skyscraper's shadow can be obliterated by the sun, so did her will disappear in the face of such titanic misery.
She continued to gaze vacantly at the screen, the shock having rendered her melancholy in stasis. After a period of inactivity the email closed itself, and was replaced by a new pane of light, presenting Aster with a detailed account of info relevant to beginning the day. A series of graphs; pie, bar, line, scatter, as well as detailed metrics on Aster's health and mental state populated the “lifestyle assistant's" report. Underneath this was a ticker of news and topics of interest Aster had subscribed to, scrolling by unceasingly.
“Good morning, Aster!” a friendly disembodied voice began in a chirp. “Your cortisol levels appear to be a little high!”
“Yeah, I know I'm fucking depressed,” she mumbled, the graphs on the window spiking in response. “Not like you give a shit anyways.”
She turned away from the projection and cast her baggy eyes onto the CDs and posters that lay sprawled across the floor. The handmade posters featured crudely drawn renditions of herself triumphantly posing to a crowd; the CDs beside them simply marked “The Love You Forevers”.
She winced at the sight— as she did every time she looked across her room— always making note to do away with them but never being able to bring herself to. It's just fucking childish, she thought as she tore her eyes away. It's what she got for being so foolish, she admonished. You knew there was no hope, and yet you let yourself believe in it.
But what else was she supposed to do? What else could she do but carry on as she always had done for years, toiling away at her projects under the delusion that something may one day come of them? It was an indelible feature of the human soul, to have purpose and carry on with it, even if this drive so often led to destruction. She saw it everywhere she looked, after all; in the wake of the revolution and collapse of job markets the world was now teeming with lost souls, devoid of purpose and forever searching. Those who knew their purpose, like Aster, were in ways worse off, for they knew just exactly what they were missing.
A violent shudder rippled through her body, and she felt that she would start weeping though she was so numb she couldn't imagine how. It would be at least several months before she could gather herself to work on a new song, she knew, and this thought worsened her mood yet further; she couldn't bare even a single week more in this life.
At that moment she feared she truly would go mad, and could feel the tendrils of absolute resignation clutching at her mind, when her reverie was suddenly broken by another cry from Dahlia.
This one was loud; a shrill, annoying cry reserved solely for siblings, screaming “Aster!” She had been talking Aster's ear off about this all week; excitedly even, though Aster's reaction at each instance held all the excitement as if she had been telling it to a brick wall.
Aster's heart seized with great irritation, and she clasped her head in her hands. Leave me the fuck alone! she pleaded silently. Her heart was now racing, beating triplet, and she knew that Dahlia would cry her name again; the greatest irritation is found in that which you can predict.
Dahlia cried again with yet more fervor, and upon meeting no response the second time, was succeeded by the ire of their mother.
“Goddamnit, Aster!” her voice rang out.
A noxious pain was swirling around Aster's heart. The sudden entrance of her mother's needling voice into her tumult of despair was akin to blinds being drawn around the sun, so completely was any remaining notion of hope blotted out with in her. She shook with anger, becoming nearly sick from the force of the rage.
Her mother again cried for her, and again Aster felt as though a hot iron were being driven into her. There was nothing else in the world, excepting AI, that she hated so much as her mother's voice.
With all the noise of a ghost Aster rose and drifted to the door, feeling delusional from the shock and anger coming over her. This moment— this milestone of utter brokenness she felt as she stood behind the door reeling from the clamor on the other side— seemed significant to her, like she knew something was now forever changing— for better or for worse.
She stepped into the hallway, her body cold and draped in a nervous sweat. Dahlia's boisterous excitement had given away to complaining, and her mother's irritated tone had been directed towards something other than Aster.
“It's terrible!” she heard her cry as she crept down the hall. The familiar jingle of the state's bulletin service— which dispatched notices deemed crucial by the government and broadcast them across all channels— chimed faintly through the house. Judging by her mother's sharp tone of alarm she figured it was likely something to do with the recent debacle surrounding illegal use of the Eden device, whose mention always seemed to make her mother appear almost demented with frenzy.
Aster had stopped in the middle of the hallway to listen. The living room was deep-set and so she could not be seen from her family's vantage point as she stood there, waiting out the storm.
As she had presumed, a deep, authoritative voice was lecturing the viewer on the evils of abusing something as sacred as the Eden device. “It represents the apex of humanity's progress!” he declared with passion. “But it is still ripe on the tree, and you cannot snatch at a still growing fruit!” He implored the listener to maintain patience; “the idea of a perfect reality is tantalizing, but the utmost care and research must be undertaken before it can be safely given to the wider public.”
Nothing new was pressed upon; reports of unauthorized use of the device had been increasing recently, smuggled into black market circulation and propagated by revolutionist cells. There were the usual threats of reprisal against those caught with the device, and encouragement to others to inform on suspicious behavior. Aster thought these sorts of announcements rather irritating; it was a matter of course that the Eden device was fiercely regulated and its misuse one of the most severe offenses in society; did they need a bulletin to tell them that the sun had risen?
However, she could not deny an immense curiosity about the mythic implement, as immoral as it made her feel. Does it really work like they say? she wondered, her mother's prattling commentary dribbling into the background. There was almost nothing you could know about the device that wasn't through hearsay; the only people who used it were essentially dead or people you never saw in the first place. Even with all the wonders of modern life it was exceedingly hard to imagine something that could simulate an entire reality, if the rumors were to be believed. Yet, all Aster had were rumors; she didn't even know what the device looked like, much less the true scope of its powers. If it were not for these bulletins acknowledging its existence, it would essentially not exist.
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
But it did, and so did the immoral feeling Aster got on the rare occasion it crept into her mind. It went without saying that the thought of paradise was tantalizing to anyone who conceived it, and for Aster who lived in such a time of breakneck progress anything seemed possible— even the artificial creation of life— and so belief in such a heaven as that was impossible to put out of one's mind; no matter how severely the state tried to clamp down on it. What kind of life would she live if she had the chance?
“They should kill them all!” her mother exclaimed, breaking Aster's line of thought.
“I'm sure they will try,” her father replied tiredly.
“This world is obviously not good enough for them. They should be happy to leave it!”
“I could care less if they're gonna interrupt Tsubomi!” Dahlia added with a spiteful tone.
Aster had half a mind to turn back around, return to her room and pretend she was sleeping, but knew it was pointless; her mother had tabs on her biometrics, and knew exactly when she rose, as well as went to bed. “Aster!” her mother cried again as the bulletin went away.
Aster at last appeared in the living room, where she was greeted by the deep set scowl of her mother, who had her arms tightly crossed as she stood before the projection. Her father was reclined in his usual spot beside the couch, upon which sat a grumpy Dahlia who was bouncing the backs of her feet against it.
“Are you ignoring me?” her mother began with a snippy tone. “Did you not hear me calling? Did you not hear Dahlia calling?”
“No, she's usually much noisier,” Aster gave sarcastically. It was a stupid answer with great risk in it, especially considering her mother's aggravated state courtesy of the news bulletin, but Aster was so despondent and vaguely hysterical herself that she felt she had to release her irritation through any means possible.
Her mother's eyes glazed over with anger, and her arms fell open like weak pendulums— a surefire sign that a diatribe was incoming.
“I don't know what to do with you,” she started with a rasping tone. “You're in that room all day long, and you're so bitter when you come out!”
Aster scowled deeply.
“Margreta, you know she's working on her music.”
Margreta turned to Noah.
“And?” she replied with no remorse. “That's no excuse. I don't understand why you support that fixation in the first place; it's as good as trying to dig a hole someone is filling up behind you. Do you not want to see your daughter do more? Look at Dahlia, she's part of the Sunbeams; she's going to make a great Mother's Helper one day!” Dahlia beamed proudly at this. “What about Aster?”
“I think the best thing we can do is support whatever our daughters want to do; was the point of the revolution not to allow anyone any opportunity they wished?”
“Within reason, Noah! You know just as well as I do how many vagrants and burnouts there are out there. They don't know what to do with themselves, or get stuck thinking they can live how they used to and find nothing but emptiness. It's horrible! We must adapt, and that means not filling her mind with archaic notions. Do you want her out on the street?”
“Margreta—”
A heavy weight of equal parts anger and hatred nestled itself in Aster's lower intestine. Her eyes watched with a disgusted fixation her mother's lips which seemed to flap like a fish sucking air to no avail.
It was always like this— a carousel conversation about Aster's future and life, while Aster stood in the middle of it, silent and unable to utter anything in defense.
She had long ago ceased to be dissuaded by her mother's tirades. They were at one time deeply confusing, and afflicted Aster with a massive sense of insecurity in that which she based her entire life around. She had no other prospects, after all. She had no community organization like Dahlia at which to spend her time, and her anxiety of course did not let her make friends with which to whittle the hours away— and oh, were there hours to whittle away.
Everyone around her spoke of the revolution— the name given to the collapse of the job market in the 2040s out of whose rubble the state they now knew rose— with such reverence you would imagine no negative light could ever shine on it. Yet, with all the bountiful amounts of free-time won, came an endless plain of nothing. In this society all pursuits were noble, and thus none were greater than the other; so all weight of meaning had ceased to matter. The canvas of life had been splattered with paint in a wish to brighten everything, but now nothing could be discerned.
An opening bright synth chord suddenly burst forth from the T.V., drawing forth a gleeful shout from Dahlia, as an upbeat dance instrumental, whose every note was perfectly arranged to tease the ears and excite the body to move, began to play. Aster couldn't help but let forth a look of total disgust, rolling her eyes severely. Bon Bon Tsubomi, the biggest abomination in human history. Mozart, Chopin, Tchaikovsky— spat in the face by a fucking AI that thinks it knows what makes art, art.
I'm sorry, I thought this was algorithmic.
“And this is any better?” Aster burst out, gesturing towards the T.V. Dahlia looked offended while her mother scowled openly. Her father looked as though he were telling her she ought not have done that. But Aster couldn't help it. She knew it was wise to keep quiet in these situations, but there was such an irritation within her that it felt as though it threatened to tear her apart. Like a million shards of glass had coated her insides; it killed her to take this in silence.
Her mother's look was severe even for her.
“You're just listening to something made by a group of people in an office. How am I gonna get shit on when you eat this up without even considering it?! It's ignorant!”
“Shit on?!” her mother growled. “I am not going to have you talking back—”
“Anything that disagrees with you is talking back!”
Her father rose from his spot. “Please—”
“You're just mad because human songs suck!” retorted Dahlia.
“Dahlia!” their father snapped; the damage had been done however. There were a million worlds in which Aster now saw herself connecting her hand straight across the face of her sister, or her mother; of an unimaginable tumult of pure blinding anger now welling up inside her.
“Fuck you!” she screeched, knowing no other recourse for her hysterical indignation. What followed was every bit the uproar she expected; her family began shouting at once, tripping over the other's words as the confusion and frenzy mounted to a dizzying height. Aster was horrified of her action and without thinking began to make her way to the front door.
"Where do you think you're going?!" her mother shrieked above the din. Aster again did not answer, and waved aside the front door which glided open and then closed, silencing her mother's insane shouts with it. Cognizant of the fact she would be immediately in pursuit, Aster spared not a second in beginning to make her way down the hall.
She was shaking violently; both from the adrenaline now all in her, and from the severe anxiety of being out of her apartment in the daytime. She only ever left it late in the night, when it was safe and peaceful. The corridors now, bathed bright in the noon sun, seemed like an alien landscape to her.
She walked hurriedly in her panic, like a rabbit flushed from its home. Anyone could run into her, she kept thinking. Any sort of social situation could befall which she would have no idea how to manage. These anxious thoughts took to her brain as bees to a hive, blotting out even the furious anger roiling inside. These thoughts told of how stupid she'd look if somebody said “hello” and she responded by flapping her silent mouth like a suffocating fish, earning their confused, concerned stares.
Aster's life being one big tragedy, a stranger immediately rounded the next corner.
Great, terrible anxiety threw itself all over her like a vicious disease. Her entire natural control of self shut down and devolved into an awkward, rigid, overly-controlled gate, as her mind buzzed with the alarm signals that their eyes were all upon her. She held her arms tightly at her size, and stared fixedly and firmly at the ground as she moved on. Her throat tightened and she could feel her mouth growing dry. If they said anything, she would be doomed to give the most pathetic, weak response. This hideous realization of how awkward she must appear to the stranger mortified her, and bubbled up in her aching heart as the old horrid regret at her utter inability to function in even the most basic aspects of being a person.
This individual, of course, said not a word in passing. He moved quickly on without so much as a glance in her direction. Her anxiety— as is usually the case with them— appeared ridiculous in hindsight. Nobody said "hello" to each other outside of movies. Such a thing was seen as suspicious and peculiar; to be that friendly with strangers, especially in a megascraper such as Aster herself lived. These towering palaces were cities unto themselves, inhabited by thousands and dictated by a forest of allegiances and social maneuvering. Even Aster, with her complete social ignorance, was well aware of the kind of people her neighbors were.
Nevertheless, this close call only sped Aster further onward down the winding halls. Her mother had not followed— to her great relief— and now all she wished was to be safe within the confines of the single safe space that existed within the world outside of her bedroom— the recreation center.
The center was a majestic, serene space, free from the nagging voices of her mother and Dahlia, free from the general cloud of never-being-good-enough which hung around her apartment. Immediately upon entering the center you were greeted by a glass wall on the opposite side; a breathtaking panorama of the megalopolis below, which at night glittered like a million oily pearlescent lights; almost as rapturous as the countless satellites in the sky who were little stars in and of themselves. This vista was imprinted on every layer of Aster's mind; it defined the literal image of what she conceived of as peace.
Most nights she would spirit off to it, leaving her house in the dead stillness of the latest hours. Save for the automated cleaning machines which made their nightly passes about the floor, nobody was ever out at that time of night, and so she cherished it as if in those few dark, secret hours, the world was hers alone.
It seemed so bitterly distant when seen in the day time.
Aster had finally reached the entrance of the hall in which the center sat. This large room, flanked with columns in a Roman style, clad in marble and burnt umber wood, was one of three large social hubs— each placed at intervals of fifty floors— where the thousands of the buildings residents could engage in every day needs like shopping, leisure, and socializing. In the night time, the wide open space, whose gleaming marble cavern echoed as Aster passed through it felt to her as though a castle were opening up its arms to her presence; in the day time it was her worst conceivable nightmare.
In all directions, in seemingly every place was a person moving about. They teemed here and there, all visibly busy and all animated in talk and urgency. Aster froze in her spot and seem to wither away. She had taken her place beside the large marble pillars flanking the entrance to the social hub. Images of what looked like Roman goddesses were carved into the pillars, their bodies rendered in almost more definition than you would find in actual, living flesh. Their eyes, like those she perceived of the strangers in the hall, were cast down on her. One of the statues; an impish-faced nymph with roiling coils of hair, struck her the deepest.
Verum robur est in aeternum — True strength is forever.
Read the inscription at her feet.
The state's motto— what strength was there in forgetting humanity?
Aster balked away from the statue and submitted to sea of people in a dazed stupor. Like throwing oneself into cold water she knew the only way to move forward were to give oneself up completely, and she let herself be consumed by a primal dread the intensity of which seemed to threaten to rip her very body apart. Was it not for certain that they all scrutinized her move like she were a woeful pupil?
The scent of failure no doubt oozed out of her every pour; the universe smelt it, and made it known by thwarting her happiness at every avenue. Knowing this, she was assured in her belief that it were merely basic human tendency to see that she were nothing but a loser. Her legs had turned to jelly, and she foal-walked through the crowd, hideously conscious of her awkward disposition. Every feature of her person, she felt, stood out in perfect definition to every eye which passed over her, as if she were made of marble like those Roman goddesses.
How had things gotten so bad that she was now doing this, was all she could think about as she tried to keep down the overwhelming urge to vomit. She could scarcely remember the last time she had left her home before dark, and as she fled through crowd she reassured a million times why.
After what seemed an eon of Aster writhing underneath a microscope, she reached the other end of the wide social hub. There, before her, was a hallway which rung the length of the hub, and separated her in one last river of people from the center. Atop this arch was a banner; which stated “Happy 122nd Birthday!” in large, colorful letters.
It was over, she thought. This evidenced the universe's true, natural disposition towards destroying any hope of good Aster could ever find in her life. Even here, in her one paradise, there were intruders. There was no future for her to affix herself to now; the man behind the email had snuffed out the candlelight, and even if she didn't realize it consciously within herself, all hope was now dead. The promise of great reprisal awaited her on return, and was only the first clearly marked post on what could now be seen as a never-ending, limitless path of hopelessness. And now her Eden, too, had forsaken her.
The room appeared curiously empty, though a large table and all the silverware for a sizable dinner could be seen through the open arch. A litany of balloons and streamers could also be seen, their tails shimmering down from the ceiling like colorful stardust.
There's nobody in there? she observed in quick panic. The bustle of the mid-day shopping rush was coming up behind her like warm tidal surge as increasingly larger groups of people began to brush against and dart around her. Their contact was like hot iron raked across ice; her every nerve ending seemed to reel and wither in the intensity with which they delivered their SOS— you will die.
At last, she crossed the divide and entered the room. Like a gasp of first breath from one who had been underwater, she took in the room like it was as natural and necessary as air. The relief flowed sweetly in her veins and the coil of anxiety which had been wound to almost breaking released itself, freeing her at last.
She made her way quickly over to her corner by the large windows; that comfortable place where the bean bags formed a snug alcove. She was no longer even thinking about the skeleton of party she had found here, for her body, like a child focused on reaching its mother's arms, could only run to comfort.
It was so focused on its destination that she had not even noticed the woman appear beside her.
“Now, what do we have here?”