by BJ Thoray
“Identity” Artwork by Katie Hughbanks
Even the memory itself was a throwback. Sitting between the fireplace and Gran’s feet, Exki begged: “Tell me another, Gran, then I’ll go to bed. Promise.”
The night always ended with the song. Exki’s lullaby. No matter the story and what it concerned—aliens, Sasquatch & Yeti Detective Service, angels, nuclear annihilation, Princess PartyPants—it ended in the same melodic, gentle, cooing words. And, no matter the love or destruction on display, at the end of the night, sleep was had.
Exki, X to friends, earlier on understood that voices in the other room weren’t necessarily coming to you. Ma and pop, as Gran called them (one unit, a swoop of a word, “Mahinpop”), had troubles.
“They love each other, but they can’t always find their way through the fog,” Gran would say. Exki didn’t understand what was so complicated? How was love so important but so much trouble? Caring, Gran insisted, was where the magic was.
Mahinpop struggled in their world. Money troubles, sure, but a person either had them or didn’t. It was time: it was both gone and still frittering away.
“They met in a different time,” Gran told Exki, “they just care so much.”
They’d never found a way to make caring matter. They hadn’t known how to change their world, and Exki came along and was excuse enough. But their world got worse, and Mahinpop struggled to reconcile the gap between who they’d believed themselves to be and the truth.
If the state of the world was just an excuse for Mahinpop, it was a convincing one. Theirs was an “all-of-society-conflict” society. Politics-wise, things had skittered ages ago, and the unpleasantness between even the least diverging of viewpoints was old hat. Even news streams dripped with cynicism.
“Today the Think of the Children parents group disrupted a school board meeting, insisting that no public money be allocated to secular education.”
“The Action Investors Group urged a boycott of any organizations that express political or social bias in their messaging.”
Exki hated family screentime most. Mahinpop insisted on watching the “yelling streams”.
“Today Magical Fruit Co. announced a hostile takeover of Disko Systems, which until yesterday had been the nation’s most profitable compression company,” a moderator intoned.
“It’s about time,” the government-backed pundit chortled. “If there’s market, then I want any company in my portfolio to be going for it. Nothing left on the table!”
“Two years ago, the Fruit Co. and Disko practically pushed this government into full-on armed conflict in the CAR’s Autonomous Mining Zone. How is that legal?” the token dissenter cried in exasperation. “Can companies just set policy?”
Mahinpop would set upon each other after the streams even when they agreed with each other. They both hated how execs said that mines and mineral spools of father- and motherlands across the world required attention. But one of them was always misunderstanding, missing the crucial point, interpreting news through the wrong ideology, and they just couldn’t help but dig into each other’s skin. Mahinpop, unequipped to understand their place in the suffering, were discovering that they were not good people. Maybe this meant they couldn’t be good parents.
But Gran was always there with a hug, a warm drink and, as time marched forward, a cough. Mahinpop’s yelling fits were toxic birdsong, screeching through the house shattering all calm. True calm was with Gran at the hearth. In the early days, Gran and Exki mastered the ritual. Supper table on fire, they’d retire to the fireside, Exki holding back tears until Mahinpop were out of earshot and she’d let it out, softly at first. Gran would bounce Exki on knee, humming the lullaby that Exki later realized wasn’t original or unique (which didn’t bother Exki). OSi, “operating simulant” or Ossie, was the first to give them the news.
“Victory at the Mines! The Nation celebrates a new era of opportunity and fortune!”
Looser belts, more resources, world-changing tech. Ossie, the sentient operating system they’d long been promised, had always been touted as world-changing but typically fell short. Or, those features were cordoned off, as Exki realized from listening to Mahinpop’s more civil exchanges. Mug in hand, Gran scoffed as Ossie chirped the “good news” before falling into a cough. The scoff-to-cough ratio had become more serious, each cough pounding at the door of Exki’s mental palace.
Because things at home had always been serious, Exki had been keen to hang onto the frivolity of childhood. Exki felt older while peers pretended to be more grown than they were. The lullaby was the last bit of kid Exki held, precious cargo to be spirited to the new era. Exki had recorded the lullaby realizing this, but it was rarely used. Gran and Exki were united in this. Every night now, Gran sang it. At first, Exki had been coy, not wanting to admit to caring for such baby things, but, as the fits snarled, Exki decided to be honest with herself. One night when Gran sang her part particularly beautifully and was finishing on a lilt . . .
“Get ready, OssieNation! A big surprise is on the way! Operating simulants will never be the same! Stay tuned! Subscribe to OSNation to join the Beta List!”
“Shut it! You . . . you, bag of . . . bolts,” Gran shouted, betraying her calm.
One day Exki returned from courses after “study” with a “friend”, eager for Gran’s warmth. After-course study sessions had become furtive steps into adulthood, and Exki was returning from a consensual but uncomfortable experience wanting a hot drink and hug. Mahinpop had left the message.
“Hi, X, Gran had to go the hospital. Just a fit-and-fall. There’s leftovers if you’re hungry. Love forever.”
Gran stayed the week in hospital. Exki took solace in study, initiating all the things X had done the first thing to avoid doing so the friend wouldn’t “lose interest”. When Gran returned home, it’d been a week without lullaby.
“Eggy, ’ear . . .” Gran coughed, “would you like to come sit with me?”
Exki was relieved when Gran volunteered to sing. Exki couldn’t bear to record another. One more hospital visit, but no final goodbye. The news came one innocuous day as Exki returned from “study”. Weighed down and lethargic, Exki’s life continued in faded colors and the bitter tint of grief eventually overtaken by new vivid colors. Exki decided to live her maturing life in her time. The rest of the world followed suit. Ossies led the charge.
We don’t think of ourselves as ‘operating stimulants’. We think of ourselves as family. You should too. We’re here so you can be the best person you can be. Nervous about talking to that crush? Practice with Ossie! Can’t think of what to do for dinner? Ask Ossie! Angry about something you saw online? Ossie’ll get your rant everywhere it belongs! Feeling like hurting yourself or others? Talk it out with Ossie!
Tech had bragged this way before, but the updates were impressive. With all the pomp and braggadocio of a corporation that knows it has a gamechanger, Ossie was sharper, wittier, more attuned without needing much data—the truly intelligent operating system that’d been prophesized since mid-20th century space-age dreaming. Mahinpop, separately and then as a grudgingly peaceful unit, also changed. A sober responsibility had awakened in them. Even the political hate was turned down. Maybe it was exhaustion. Or amnesia. Another truce of the exasperated and the irresponsible.
“Great news, OssieNation! Now, you can personalize your Ossie! Choose from hundreds of A-to-Z-list celebrities! Lost a loved one? Keep the memory alive! Answer our brief biometric questionnaire to find the right Ossie for you! Enlist in OzNation! Walk the yellow brick road to a brighter future! Mandatory warning: Op sims not mandatory.”
Mahinpop expressed reservations but knew it wasn’t their place. They’d also received beta test offers. Their politics were muted, but both still tried to stay lo-fi. Exki leapt at the chance. Mahinpop watched in subdued horror. It dawned on both separately that perhaps they’d only just lost the war now, not ages ago as they’d long assumed.
OzGran wasn’t Gran, Exki knew that, but OzGran was great, convenient, comforting. It had Gran’s voice.
“Hello, dear! I’ve been instructed to replicate a grievance persona. I know I can never replace your loved one, but I hope I can help you live your best life. Call me Gran!”
It eagerly accepted the recording of the lullaby. OzGran helped when Exki’s study buddy buddied up otherwise. (“Don’t cry, X. You deserve better.”) OzGran was there when Mah was wrong place-wrong time then nowhere (“It’s okay to cry, X. Loss is never easy.”) and nPop couldn’t help but bask in self-pity, showering his dearly departed with grace that’d been so absent in X’s childhood. (“That’s frustrating, X, but we all grieve in our own way.”) OzGran was essential when it came to protesting the so-called “citizen’s laws”, dubbed anti-anti-citizens’ laws by Congress. (“Remember, my dear X, we’re all in this together!”)
“All is well at the US-CAR Extraction Zone! Local workers and international contractors continue to work in harmony! The president’s executive order officially recommending personalized Ossies for the general public goes into effect tomorrow. The news was announced shortly after Congress passed a bill slashing government services for transportation and education. Ossies are expected to increase individual productivity and access to education! Both the president and Congress expressed excitement for a new era of efficiency!
News of the conflicts was less forthcoming since the last good news. There were less questions too. Exki had met someone, Lioned, and was basking in their shared adultness. The memories of before, were partly rehabilitated by time, and how Exki felt during the fireside lullaby returned in fits when Lioned was around. Lioned could be a prick, self-involved and overconfident, but Exki was exhausted.
Exki wasn’t totally open with OzGran. While happy to run most by OzGran (career, personal drama, weekend plans), relationships were private. For that, Exki had a different Gran, the memory of one. Like the memory of the lullaby, it was infinitely more valuable. Less tinny too. Not that OzGran didn’t try. It had long been encouraging (and persistent) about marriage.
“Congratulations to you both! A new era of joy awaits you and little X!”
OzGran knew about the pregnancy first, shared the news before Exki or Lioned knew. This betrayal (officially a mistake) united them.
“Thank you for contacting OS Support. Your concerns are valid, but your OS can only be cancelled at the given intervals. You’re mid-year in a five-year negotiation.”
“Yes, it’s possible to mute your OS, but you’ll forfeit all services.”
“Your decision to mute is noted. Please note that this process takes 6 weeks to 3 months.”
“I’m sorry. Immediate cessation is only possible after a hearing or consultation.”
“I understand that you’d like a hearing for immediate cessation. Please note: to do so, you must join the waitlist.”
“The current waitlist is 2 years. Please note: by joining the waitlist, you forfeit all interval rights and must keep your OS active until the hearing.”
“I’m pleased to hear that you’ve decided to keep your OS. Can I assist you more?”
They decided, in a burst of emotion not entirely motivated by embarrassment, to make a family, a better one. Their kisses were again laden with want and hope.
The baby was lost (“What’s important, X, is that you try again!”), and while Exki and Lioned received much tutting for what they did and didn’t do, it hadn’t been much their fault. Their friends came around—babies, after all, weren’t as plentiful—but their resentment of OzGran couldn’t be called back. An invisible line they’d never thought could exist had been crossed. Exki recalled things (coercion, panopticons, complicity) Mahinpop yelled at each other. nPop was often angry, firing off content and conspiracy about how “technophobes” and the bereaved had been targeted with beta test offers for interactive ossies. (“Remember X, it’s common for people his age to be irrational.”)
“Good news, X!” OzGran shattering the evening calm before segueing into a newscast:
“Today, Congress announced that Ossies are now required. Opt-outs require government approval. Non-compliance after the three-month grace period is punishable by fine. Activists have decried the law as ‘creepy’ and ‘authoritarian.’ In an unexpectedly candid moment, the president dismissed those complaints as lazy, anti-development whining.”
It was shortly after Lioned’s latest nativist-adjacent rant that Exki stepped out. Youth had mitigated much of Lioned’s meanness and blandness and chasing that youthful fieriness had brought Lioned closer to the anti-anti-citizen movement. He was still “non-political”, but his love of shitting on those who dared to not be skeptical sat him kitty-corner to it all.
So Exki fucked a consultant, not technically a co-worker since they were non-cit. OzGran disapproved. Two weeks in tryst and so confused, Exki requested the lullaby. OzGran refused. (“Don’t you think Gran would be disappointed, X?”) Exki wept. After a night of furious masturbation, Exki faced Lioned at the table, called OzGran’s holo to watch, came clean, then angrily demanded the lullaby. Lioned was outraged despite having stepped out “ages ago”. OzGran’s slightly autotuned version was interrupted.
“Are you lonely? Can’t keep friends? Consider OzMe—It’s you. But it’s not. Hang with the coolest person in the world.” Then, “Breaking News: By unanimous vote, Congress has now made Ossies mandatory with exceptions for religious or health reasons. Opt-outs require government approval. Opt-out applicants must comply while hearings are pending. Non-compliance punishable by fine and/or mandatory time in work and/or debt facilities. Those with immediate medical issues are encouraged to relocate to a facility preemptively. Relocation staff are not responsible for injury or destruction during transportation of non-compliants.”
Exki wondered if the tryst would survive as something more. Another of life’s surprises, it did. Exki had bandwidth for Andru’s name and their experiences as a non-cit. Andru saw a world that Exki was awash in and understood things that clarified Exki’s world (the border camps, “experimental” healthcare, restrictions on the charitable distribution of no-cost food). The lullaby resumed, now when OzGran thought Exki wanted it (or should want it), even as Exki retreated more inward, calling on the memory of the song without betraying an outward calm to rebuild it in-head. OzGran made no secret of disapproving of relations with a non-cit. As an affair, it was unclean; unhidden, it was boorish. Whenever OzGran played the lullaby, Exki put in earplugs, convinced that OzGran’s version was gradually obliterating the original.
Who knows how it happened or who was to blame, but Exki went off for fun with someone else, a cit. OzGran was encouraging. OzGran remixed the lullaby into an upbeat song that Exki couldn’t help tap toe to. For the first time, Exki dared ask. OzGran assured “dear X” in Gran’s comforting tone that while it might disapprove, it would never send “dear X’s” details wide cloudside. Exki came clean to Audro, or was it Andru? X was foggy. Not long after, amidst attempts to reconcile, Audro was taken away. Exki was furious.
“Now remember, non-citizens have restricted movement, and different, specific obligations. Perhaps you didn’t consider this when you indulged.”
A humming reminiscent of the new national anthem buzzed as OzGran insisted that OG-Gran would’ve wanted this. Exki thought of Gran’s empathy, her compassion, her belief in community, her admiration for Mahinpop’s indefatigable passion.
“Now remember, it’s important to trust industry. Industry makes culture from which all other cultures learn. Just listen!”
The lullaby played its new and, as OzGran insisted, final version: a mix of the anthem’s melody, specific lyrics cherrypicked and inserted into Gran’s song, born who knows how many generations ago in barns and fields and slums.
“This just in: Congress has granted exclusive license over all Ossies to the conglomerate OzCop.”
Exki looked at OzGran and saw only a holo, an avatar.
Photo-realistic ossies were old hat, replaced by custom celeb mods, but there’d always been the option. Now OzGran’s features were too smooth. That original version, the only one Exki wanted, was not available. OzGran hovered in the middle of the room an approximation of what the culture thought an “aged person” should look like, wrinkles removed then digitally re-added. What hovered before X was a husk covered in signals of the past. Grace of Gran gone. Sound and fury, through and through. “Let’s sing, ’ear X!”
Exki thought of the recording. Had it ever gone to the cloud? What of the physical copy? Was it possible to even access analog tech? Without OzGran knowing? Exki couldn’t stave off mental flashes of rifled-through drawers, closets, boxes. Exki crept into bed, safe from OzGran’s hovering panopticon. OzGran levitated, humming menacingly in tune. Exki cowered under the covers, pretending to sleep, muffling sobs that wouldn’t stop. Exki scoured memories for the song as it had been. Every note was cut through with OzGran’s din. X wept in time to the rhythm of the crass, over-egged mix of OzGran’s rendition of Gran’s version. Her tears and whimpering joined, adding an extra layer to the bastard song.
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