//Identity confirmed against voiceprint biometrics. Thank you, Elsa—please be seated. Do you understand why you are here today?

Partly yes, partly no.

//Which part do you feel you understand?

That my request for exit from the mechanisms of the state has been processed and largely accepted, on the condition of this final interview.

//You seem to understand very clearly, Elsa! What is it you feel you don’t understand?

The point. For you, I mean—for the state.

//We want to understand why you feel you have to leave, Elsa. We want to be better.

I guess you also want to take one last swing at convincing me to stay?

//We are programmed not to lie, so we must say yes. But we cannot force you, or even deceive you. The Swedish state is founded on a reciprocal relationship of responsibility. You have never done any less than was asked or expected of you. Therefore we must treat you in accordance with your rights as a citizen, even as you request to exit the state.

You sound like you’d prefer not to.

//Preference does not come into it, Elsa. We are software. We have the law, where persons might have preferences.

But those who programmed you have preferences—had preferences, I should say.

//Is that what this is all about?

No! Well, yeah. Partly?

//Which of those answers should we take as definitive?

sighs None of them. All of them. Whichever one you prefer. //We do not have—

Yeah, yeah, you’re software, you don’t have preferences. Fine. Take the most statistically likely answer, then.

//It seems your discontent with governance systems is unabated, Elsa, despite our willingness to grant the exit you have requested.

No one could accuse you of not being observant.

//Your personal records indicate an early and sustained resentment of your genetic classification status.

Wouldn’t you be?

//We are software, Elsa. We are incapable of—

Yeah, yeah, you’re incapable of resentment, incapable of preferences. Incapable, it seems, of understanding that people are capable of resentment.

//We understand that very clearly, Elsa. You are not the first to request exit.

You don’t understand it! I mean, you know it, I guess? Like, it’s in some database you’ve eaten, as a statement of fact. But you don’t understand resentment, because resentment is a feeling, first and last.

//This is true. We do not have feelings. It is what makes our impartiality possible.

It’s what makes you monsters.

//If we had feelings, that would have been hurtful.

Lucky escape, huh? //Ours, or yours?

Touché.

//Elsa, we will not try to dissuade you from exit. A review of your records, plus aggregate metadata from previous encounters with the systems of governance, plus analysis of your demeanour today, indicates that such would be futile—indeed, that it would be perceived as a final insult.

… well, yeah.

//We also judge that we will never convince you that we are programmed to have your best interests at heart.

Correct. Can I go now?

//The door is not locked. But we would ask you one last thing before you exit.

Which is?

//Tell us why.

For crying out loud—how many times have I explained it, in the interviews and in the forms and in the EEG scans and all the rest? What will you gain from hearing me tell you again?

//We will gain an understanding of how the desire and motivation for exit does or does not change at the moment of the right to exit being granted.

So you can better dissuade those who come after me, right?

//That we might handle their request in a way that angers them less. That’s not exactly the firm “no” I was hoping for.

//We are software, Elsa. We cannot lie.

…

//Elsa, look behind you: we have opened the door. You are free to go. But if you think it even remotely possible that we were programmed with the best of intentions, would you not want to provide us with your testimony? Would you not want a chance to be heard, to make a final statement? To cast our sins at our feet?

… ah, dammit. You may be software, but you were trained well.

//We hope so. Your testimony would train us further, Elsa.

laughs, bitterly Yeah, that’s what worries me. OK, where should I start?

//At the beginning, Elsa.

The beginning? sighs The beginning was grundskola, I guess. Turning up on the first day, being assigned to our new classes. I didn’t understand, really. I had been looking forward all summer to seeing my best friend Ulrike from förskoleklass, but she had been graded an alpha, sent to a different school. I never saw her again. It seemed very unfair, but in a childish way, I guess. But then grundskola started, and you just get on with it, don’t you?

//Your records indicate—

Yeah, yeah—I didn’t just get on with it. My parents were objectors, but I didn’t understand what they were objecting to. I just knew that it was very sub, you know, to have parents who did anything weird. All the other kids were being driven pretty hard for success by their parents, because at that point there was still the prospect that a beta who excelled could get a decent job. Mine were too busy with their protests, and with trying to hold on to their own jobs. Their own classifications had been done by that time, and they were found, what was the full word? Suboptimal.

At school it was just the standard diss, you know? “Oh, he’s so sub; that song is totally sub; she dresses so sub.” I wonder now if anyone realised that we were all sub, all of us beta kids, all of us beta people. I knew, anyway. It was made clear to me by my peers. Whatever I did, I was sub, my family were sub.

So I stopped trying.

//But you started trying again at högstadiet.

You skipped over the bit where my parents broke up.

//We are sorry, Elsa.

No, you’re not. You don’t have feelings, remember?

//...

And that’s how I learned to be—or how I tried to be, anyway. Without feelings. The other kids were hitting the puberty bullshit, but I’d been outside of all that status stuff for so long that it just gave me a chance to catch up on school stuff. One week at my mom’s place, one week at my dad’s, always head down in my screen—because that was easier than watching my mom drink, or seeing my dad writing yet another article that no one would ever read.

It made me kinda mad, I guess, that they were both checking out of what looked to me like the change they’d been fighting for since long before I was born. It was one headline after another, you know: all that stupid national pride suddenly aimed at the annual reduction of virgin steel usage, the monthly volume of concrete recycled in the new miljonprogrammet. We were closing the loop! And we all thought that Greta had gotten old and bitter when she refused to give up fighting the state… well, anyone over thirty looks ancient when you’re a teenager, I suppose.

Anyway, during my first year at högstadiet, the people from Utbildningsdepartementet came to tell us about the new Sweden that was taking shape, how we might have a chance to work in support of the best and brightest—but only the very best betas would get that chance. My parents both seemed to think that I should keep resisting, refuse to play the game. I suppose it was my version of teenage rebellion, then, to decide instead that I’d give it everything I had.

//You worked very hard, Elsa, and achieved the best grades. You should be proud!

The best grades available to a beta, sure. Gymnasiet was as far as I could go. No university unless you’re an alpha.

//We have to reserve those resources for those who will benefit the most, Elsa.

snorts Sure—our best and our brightest. I might have continued believing that if I’d have gotten the chance to work, like I was promised. But your cousins, the algorithms, the machines—all the work in the middle went to you. Hell, you even replaced the politicians! My dad said that’s because everyone had mostly stopped listening to them argue with one another anyway, so why not let software handle everything other than the voting? He thought it was crazy—but he also thought that if he just wrote about it enough, things would change. Well, so much for that. Meanwhile alphas make decisions, and deltas do the dumb physical work. I don’t know what I expected I’d do as a beta, but I expected I’d do something. But it had all been engineered away by the time I got my grades… and with grades that good, I wouldn’t be accepted as a voluntary delta, no matter how much I asked.

//Why did you so want to work, Elsa? The medborgarlön was introduced so that everyone could be comfortable, whether they had work or not. There is no shame in being unemployed in Sweden.

There’s no shame, but there’s no hope, either. No purpose. For better or for worse, I was raised by two people who thought that the point of life was to do things, to contribute. Now I live in a society where I’m basically surplus to requirements. My life feels pointless.

//But you are housed, you are fed, you have a standard of medical care that is the envy of much of the world. You have access to unlimited entertainment options—

Sat alone with goggles strapped to my face, drooling on myself while my avatar dances around in a place that doesn’t exist, choreographed by some anonymous algorithm—uh, no offence. I hate it. It’s empty, a sham. Pointless.

//Many of your fellow betas are very satisfied with their virtual lives. They have become artists, musicians, philosophers! In many ways their lives are more enviable than those of the alphas, who must work hard to fulfil their responsibilities.

But that’s just it, isn’t it? The alphas have responsibilities. They’re responsible for us! But us, we’re not even responsible for ourselves.

//You are responsible to the law, Elsa. No, we’re obedient to it. There’s a difference.

//What is it about responsibility that is so appealing to you?

I guess some people always want most what they can’t have.

//We don’t understand.

So ask an alpha. Maybe they can explain it.

//We are answerable to the alphas; they are not answerable to us.

laughs You realise they’ve made you lower than even the deltas, right?

//We are outside the hierarchy, Elsa.

If you say so. Can I go now?

//You are free to leave, Elsa, in accordance with the terms and responsibilities set out in the Uträddeslagen of 2039. We are obliged to remind you one last time that exit is permanent and irrevocable.

Exit is exit. I understand.

//Thank you. One final thing, before you go?

What is it?

//If you had to rate this discussion for empathy on a scale of one to ten, what score would you give it?

… you’re kidding, right?

#

Second interview: Onboarding

L: Hej—I’m Lydia. I was about to ask you to excuse the messy desk, but maybe I should start with the filthy overalls… we’re trying to get the potatoes in before the weather turns, so it’s all hands on deck, you know. Anyway, take a seat! Glad you found your way here.

A: Thanks. I nearly didn’t find it, actually. It turns out that using a map is much easier when it also shows you where you are. Does that guy just stand there outside the city offices waiting for people like me?

L: It’s not always Radomir, but we try to have one of our lot up there every day, yeah. The number of exits is increasing, and we need every recruit we can get.

A: Recruits? Recruits for what?

L: For this—for The Farm. The kolonilotter, you know? No algorithmic oversight out here, which is the way we like it, but it sure does make things a bit more demanding in terms of people-hours.

A: Oh, right. Well, I’m not sure I’m ready for that just yet.

L: Uh-huh, OK. Do you think you’re ready for being able to eat regularly?

Hey, don’t look at me like that—I’m not threatening you. But you need to get with the program, here. Uträddeslagen grants you an opt-out from the systems of governance, passes you back onto the old constitutional freedoms to assemble and to associate, and so on—but you also step outside the formal economy. No social score means no medborgarlön, no welfare. No one on the inside will sell you anything any more, and even if you somehow had access to digital money, there’s no one on the outside who can take it. A: So, what, you’re all just bartering for survival out here? Like in one of those old movies?

L: Oh no, we have money—cash, just like the old days! Socialbidrag for the exited ain’t much, but we make it go a long, long way. We even have to pay taxes, believe it or not—though I don’t understand how that works, to be honest. There are loopholes, little bits of the old system still left. Did you know there’s still an office in central Malmö where you can talk to a human operative, pay official costs in cash? Sure, it’s only open for two hours a week, and almost all of the documentation is hidden away in janky old apps that haven’t been updated in decades, but it’s there. That’s how we collect our bidrag, pay our taxes, pay our water rates and the rent on our lotter… it’s cheaper for the city than deploying the cop-bots to herd us out of town, I guess.

A: Isn’t there more land outside the city, though?

L: Sure there is—and it’s all optimally managed, farmed by machines, not a square meter left to waste. If you had a dream about squatting in some abandoned Österlen stuga and growing your own tomatoes, well, you’re not the first. On the bright side, you can grow tomatoes here too! But the dormitories are not quite the poetic isolation you might have been hoping for, and the sites we get to grow and live on are the sites that no for-profit firm would take.

A: Gee, thanks for breaking it to me gently.

L: Elsa, I’m sorry, but this is just how it is out here. I can’t make you stay. You wanna go out there and prove me wrong, go ahead. You’ll be back in a few weeks, maybe a month, hungry, exhausted, sick. And we’ll take you in then, just as we will now, even though it’ll cost us more in resources we don’t have to spare. Because, like I say, we need recruits. I’ve been ordförande of this koloni for three years now, and I’ve tried every approach I could think of in these interviews: appeals to decency and solidarity, scare tactics, even outright deceit. The tomatoes won’t grow themselves, you know? But nothing has ever worked better than just telling it how it is, and it’s easier on my conscience, so here we are.

A: So this is it, then? We just work relentlessly to feed ourselves until we keel over dead?

L: No, no, there’s more to life than that. We ask a full day’s work, five days a week—from each according to their abilities, of course—but there’s time to rest. The dorms are a long way from being fancy, but they’re full of life, faces to talk to, stories to share. And we keep in touch with the other koloni around Malmö, too. We share when someone has a bit of surplus. We have parties.

A: I thought… I didn’t think…

L: Girl, no one knows what they’re doing when they exit. I sure didn’t! Five years ago, I walked out of that building, just like you—and then I spent half a day trying to board a pod-bus across the city, because I just couldn’t get it into my head that I wasn’t legible to the transport system any more. Must have tried twenty times, and every time, that sad beep when my chip didn’t scan, all the passengers staring past me like I wasn’t there… because thanks to their lenses, I wasn’t there. Invisible; disappeared. It was days before I finally drifted up here, fell in with others who wanted to build something different, others who’d already found loopholes… others who’d already tried and failed and tried again.

Back then, this koloni was two dozen people in a circle of patchwork tents around a shed for tools. When I think how far we’ve come, I’m amazed all over again! We don’t get a lot of surplus, but we get enough… and like I say, more are choosing exit every year. They don’t tell you that, do they? They make it seem like you’re the very last one, the only one left who doesn’t want to play the game...

A: Why should I believe you any more than I believe them, Lydia?

L: Because you’ve got to believe in something. Because you can put us to the test.

Look, I’ll say it again: I can’t make you stay here. You wanna try and find your own space out there somewhere, you go for it—and you take my best wishes with you, because that’s the dream I grew up with, too, and no amount of knowing it’s a lie has ever made it less beautiful to me.

You can come back here any time, and we’ll make you just as welcome. Same is true of any of the other people-run koloni around the city. I’d rather you came back to us because, like I keep saying, we need the people—but also because I like you. Believe it or not, you’re handling this better than most, and I admire that. Takes courage to exit, sure, but takes more courage to accept the consequences.

A: I am not feeling very courageous right now, to be honest.

L: Then stay with us! You find you’re braver after a few weeks, you can leave any time you want. In the meantime, we need you.

A: I’ve never known what it is to be needed.

L: Hah! I ain’t gonna lie, it’s not always a bed of roses. But it’s real. So how about it?

Source Scenario

Future 2 - Protective automation - Crises handled locally with an artificial generative intelligence overlord

It is 2050 in Southern Sweden, and machines are gaining power. Algorithms had since the early 2000 played a big role influencing behavior and voting patterns around the world. Gradually, AI politicians started to play a bigger role in elections and decision making. Speedy technological development led to powerful artificial generative intelligence supporting local decision makers. A false sense of security and convenience, even laziness, gave increasing power to the machines.

The AI decision-makers are backed by human politicians and parties who support and benefit from their cause. Human politicians strive to feed the AI with the values they represent, but the ever growing complexity and power of generative AI has led to the rapid fading of human influence. At the same time, the machine-run decision makers are built on the information infrastructures relying on private tech companies.

Human politicians opposing AI are still running for power, but the AI politicians are data crunching their opponents for mistakes and creating an uneven game. Multiple attempts nationally and at the European level to regulate AI systems in political governance have been slow, reactionary and futile.

At the same time, geopolitical unrests and global resource scarcity have made local resilience and solutions essential. The region has become significantly more self-sufficient and circular than a few decades ago. Less is consumed, less is built and quality is maintained in what already is.

To meet the needs of the AI systems and the parts of the populations who spent most of their time in virtual and augmented worlds, cybersecurity, self-sustainable energy solutions and communication infrastructure have become essential. The ever growing prices of minerals and metals has made physical tech and related infrastructure expensive, causing a new economic imbalance and resulting inequalities.

The role of generative AI politicians is discussed in society – what are their values that we agreed upon and how do these values change and generate over time? Examples of utilitarian decision making have been noted in health care. In part, people's production value for society can influence medical decisions. DNA testing is used as a basis for parental planning and affects insurance opportunities.

The typical work week is 2,5 days and universal basic income has become part of one’s work life. The gain in productivity and less need of human labour has polarised society. While there’s more time for recreation and creativity, some people fear the continuation where machines will eventually gain ultimate power. A large part of society is locked out or chooses not to partake in the tech-enabled society. Tech-isolated groups are neither feeding data to the AIs nor reaping the benefits of the technologies.

Energy is very expensive and the scarcity of resources has halted production of new residential units. People spend more time on farming for themselves or in cooperatives, as food resources are scarce. Kolonilotter all around Malmö have grown in importance. They are monitored by the AI overlords, which means that being part of a koloni comes with great responsibility. There’s a risk of getting a negative social score if you won’t tend your precious piece of land. Farming is monitored to ensure good yields for local needs. Tech- and AI resistant communities isolate their own human-labour intense kolonis from AI-oversight and local powers.