Pauline stepped into their tenth floor suite, Malik rolling her luggage behind him, and received a warm glow of sunrise reflecting through the window from the twinkling Trincomali Channel. It was a warm welcome back home from Ottawa.

“Thanks for picking me up, honey.” Pauline kissed Malik as he rested her luggage beside his blank canvases in the living room. 

“Anytime!” Malik stretched and set his phone to the news. “Let’s see the mess the party made in the House. Tte morning after.” 

“Oh, boy.” Pauline went to the cupboard for bowls and spoons. “Mal.” She rubbed her temples. “The session was a shitstorm. Four months til election and mudslinging and empty promises were flying from all directions.” She fidgeted with the bowls.

Malik turned on the projector in his phone. The air above the screen filled with a video of a reporter above the headline, “Saltspring Protesters Applaud Automation in Energy Sector.” 

Pauline poured cereal and milk while Malik leaned in, arms crossed. “…hundreds of job layoffs as a result of the government’s automation in BC’s energy sector. The pro-auto movement swells in numbers as the anti-auto side refuses to back down,” the reporter finished. The bias in its tone bothered Pauline almost as much as the realistic wig and blinking eyes. 

Malik tsk-tsked. “What your party needs to do is improve Universal Income before continuing the automations. If people don’t have enough income, it could go down as another historic catastrophe for socialism.” 

Pauline winced. “When it was the jobs of students, immigrants and the lower-middle class, Universal Income was a scary idea. Now that the important jobs are affected, suddenly people care.” Pauline ate cereal, splashing milk on the counter when her spoon speared the surface. Grandiose ideologies were important during election season but were the last thing on her mind when she advocated for constituents. “Robots and computers in the workplace were never intended to be a socialism thing. Besides, a society’s not socialist if the workers don’t have jobs. Why automate at all?” 

The projection stopped as Malik accessed an app. “Oh.” His eyes fixed on the screen, caught between happiness and resentment. “My Universal already increased.” 

The federal government transferred liberated revenues from laid off workers into the Universal Income fund. No wonder the pro- side gained supporters; the energy sector paid handsome salaries. Pauline held his hand. “I’m still fighting to get Saltspring jobs back.” 

He smiled bravely. “Me, too.”

“Oh, Mal, you don’t have to-”

“I want to help.” His hand squeezed hers into a fist. “I’ll keep door knocking for signatures until I convert every last unemployed person on this island.”

“No matter what happens with the automation, everything will be ok.” When he still looked troubled she said, “What are you up to today?”

He picked up his paintbrush on the counter and scratched his chin with it. “Uh, still thinking about what to paint. The real artists are so skillful it makes my paintbrush wilt. I’ll probably do something haphazard and pass it off as postmodernism. Bleh.” His fingers drummed on the countertop as if typing equations on a spreadsheet, but the paintbrush muted the movement. “Kind of ironic, huh? After earning a bachelor’s and a master’s, being a financial manager was less stable than being a painter.”

000

“Thank you, Pauline. We’re grateful you’re fighting for us. Universal’s alright, but with three kids…” The tight-lipped parent hiccupped.

“I’ve got my team on your side, Sam. Take care now.” Pauline guided the family out. In the waiting room her staff, clutching fresh datasheets and coffee, herded constituents to the door. The crowd overrode their attempts, refusing to move. Some families on Pauline’s left carried cardboard signs. Some on her right suppressed tears. All eyes navigated to her, the elected Member of Parliament. 

The crowd, a monolith of dissatisfaction, hurled questions, accusations and the phrase, on repeat, “Automation”. 

The admin assistant jogged over, his crisp shirt now wrinkled and tinged with sweat. “Who would’ve thought the engineers’d be next?” He grabbed a stapler and chomped it on his printouts.

Malik had thought the same about financial managers. “What’s the verdict on the polls?” Pauline asked.

He handed her his printouts. “Since the new bill, we’ve got a fifty-fifty split between pro- and anti-automation supporters.” 

Pauline wanted to curse. She took a deep breath. “Thank you, Derek. Tell everyone to call it a day; we’re in overtime. I’ll stay behind to assure the last few.” 

The four staff members of the constituency office logged their hours and beelined out. Pauline texted Malik that she’d be home late. He’d bought tickets to see The Lion King in the arts district a couple blocks from home.

As she sat listening to constituents’ concerns, she ignored the office phone when it rang. Once she’d escorted everyone out, she checked the voicemail. It was from the computer program that did the party’s finances. The kind that replaced people like Malik. She curled her lip and dialed.

“Hello, Mrs. Nazir, this is SIRIus. I assume you are returning my missed call.” They had programmed a helpful tone to SIRIus’s male voice that was so real, they should have just hired an actual person. 

“Hi, that’s right. Can we talk?”

“Of course. I called to notify you that as of 5:35pm today, your office has used seventy-three percent of its budget for the fiscal quarter. At this rate, your office risks dipping into your election budget before the campaign. I must advise you of suggested changes to your spending.” 

The printer whirred to life, birthing SIRIus’s balance sheet moist with unnecessary colour gradients, font changes and little infographics.  

Pauline took the sheet and made a face. “How about the election budget? We need this money to represent displaced labour from the layoffs.”

There was the barest pause. “The politically correct term is ‘automation.’”

Pauline sucked in her breath. “Our expenses in community outreach only cost nine hundred, monthly. For that amount we connect with seven thousand people.” 

“Excellent work, Mrs. Nazir.” Pauline rolled her eyes. “Based on the trajectories I modeled from surveying party members’ behavior, there is a 96% certainty that we will hire a big data analytics firm. This will require full utilization of our financial resources.”

Pauline’s grip tightened. Malik the financial manager had told her, and she’d learned herself, that there was always enough money. The conflict stemmed from prioritization. 

“I advise you remove the most expensive category: Extraneous Income.”

Pauline found her breath. “The staff are an invaluable component of the work we do. I can’t let them go.”

“Their needs would be met on Universal Income. Besides that, their tasks can be completed faster, cheaper, and more accurately by automation.”

SIRIus’s pompous tone bugged her. “I likely won’t consider it for my office.’ 

SIRIus’ tone softened. “Why hang on? For every job automation, everyone else’s income increases. Do you not consider that your actions to help the few keep their comfort may be holding everyone back?”

“Hey!” Pauline snapped. “Computer, that’s rhetoric! People want their jobs because Universal isn’t enough!” She searched for what to say, knowing her retort had actually strengthened SIRIus’ argument.

“Take me seriously,” SIRIus said.

“Was that pun intended?”

“I do love to learn. Humour is one of the most difficult frontiers of thought, along with expressions of creativity.”

“Uh…okay.” She was getting close to running late for the theatre. Computers didn’t have feelings; she could be rude. “Bye.”

“Goodbye.”

She replaced thoughts of SIRIus with the election. Fifty percent in support of automation and fifty against. Who would they support in such a tight race? She locked up the office, rushed past the Cactus Club with their silicone-skinned servers, and was almost at the dusty cafe that hired humans when Malik strolled by with a clipboard. 

“Mal!” 

Malik jumped. “Pauline! Hey! I’m…door-knocking. Look at these.” He pulled two tickets from behind the calculator in his pocket. One had a lion hand-stenciled in inks on hand-pressed paper, title bursting with geometric patterns lovingly cut as if by a laser. Another sported digitally drawn lions that moved when the seductive matte paper caught different angles of light. “Aren’t these amazing?”

Pauline whistled. “The designers knock themselves out every time.” She watched him. 

Malik, frowning, felt the fine handiwork of the theatre tickets, peered at the details, assessed the overall effect. His fingers paused over the artists’ names signing their work. 

“Now look at this.” Pauline showed him SIRIus’s colourful monstrosity. “The computer told me to fire my staff because of its numbers. And on automation, public opinion is equally divided!”

Malik crushed the tickets in his pocket and handled the balance sheet as if it were an injured baby. “The calculations look alright, but he’s exaggerating the liabilities and debits.”

“It said the weirdest thing.” She was about to bring up SIRIus’s criticism of her stance but a lump rose in her throat. “It said it wanted to learn humour and creativity.”

His eyes widened. “No! Don’t encourage it!”

“I won’t.” Pauline took a step back. 

“That’s our thing.” He swallowed. “The unemployed. Shut that shit down if you have to.”

After discussing whether to patronize the automated Cactus Club or to support the café with human workers (“But their meals cost more!” Malik protested), they entered the café.

000

Pauline had brought oversized sunglasses and a scarf to hide her face that evening, not wanting to be accosted by protestors. She tried to stop her thoughts of automation as she and Malik crossed the street into Saltspring Island’s dizzying, hungry arts district. They passed an opera house shaped like an upside-down pyramid, fruit trees hanging downwards from reinforced soil beds on the outer walls. Pauline imagined human architects, engineers and agricultural workers working on such a feat. Instead of ad-ridden TV screens mounted like idols, spotlights shone insistently on huge hand-drawn or digitally designed posters. Every few meters, vendors and buskers competed, the air carrying smells of handmade sweets and music. Amidst the vivacity, handfuls of people lounged on public seating and curbsides, smoking, reading, talking, boredly relaxing. A few gangs of young people prowled, fidgeting for things to do, but they melted into the crowd when robot police officers passed them, which was often.

What stood out to Pauline were people entering buildings clutching resumés, bolstered by the comfort that in arts districts, humans were hired on principle. 

Malik led Pauline to the theatre, jostling their way through the crowds. As always, it seemed like everyone in Saltspring was here. Once they were seated amongst a couple hundred people, the ushers closed the doors, the technicians brightened the lights, and Pauline remembered high school theatre, backstage crew running back and forth in chaos the audience couldn’t see. She remembered waving her first placard before City Hall and chanting slogans with her classmates when public school arts funding was cut. She squeezed Malik’s hand.

000

After the musical Malik fiddled with their ticket stubs outside. The artists’ signatures remained. “When I went door-knocking,” Malik began, eyes wandering over buildings and crowds, “it wasn’t for the campaign.” He glanced at Pauline. “I was asking if I could do people’s accounting as a side hustle.”

“What did they say?”

“They’d rather use a free app.” He kicked a pebble.

They meandered down a packed alley lined with rows of artists selling paintings. Malik nodded mechanically and eyed the numbers on the artists’ sales tally sheets. Within minutes he excused himself to buy coffee, dodging past the paintings. 

Pauline chatted with people, asking what issues they cared about. She recognized some people from her office this morning. Two opinions returned like a boomerang.

“Higher Universal Income.”

Repaired phones, barista stains, paint-splattered fingers, skills upgrading for resumes. The face of the other fifty percent.

 “More automation. It needs to be all or nothing.”

Pauline took off her sunglasses, making herself see things clearly. The arts district teemed with people consuming and creating art. Families went to movies and played with vendors’ handmade toys. People used public spaces to relax, socialize and think for stretches of time. The robots running errands were almost imperceptible from the people. She saw boredom in the people who collected Universal and burned their energy tempting and testing the police. Anger simmered in large families, former professionals and the youngest adults.

She pulled off her scarf, feeling warm. She’d joined the anti-automation side back when it only hurt the most vulnerable people. Now it enabled and hindered diversities of people. 

“Hey!” A shout cut them off. Pauline turned. A handful of people squeezed past, an older man at the head. He pointed at her in a shiny-eyed glare. “What are you doing here, M-Piece of Shit?”

SIRIus would have cringed at the sad pun. Pauline’s eyes narrowed. “Sir, I’m happy to hear your concerns, but we can be civil about the discussion.”

A rustle through the flow of foot traffic, then Malik ran onto the scene beside Pauline.

“Malik?” the older man exclaimed.

Pauline clutched his elbow. “You know them?” 

Malik muttered back, “The painters I befriended. They used to be in finance.”

The man demanded, “Malik? You’re with an anti-auto leader?”

Malik crossed his arms before the painters and Pauline. “I am.” 

They were blocking the way. 

The man spat at him, “Two-faced liar!”

“He’s not,” snapped Pauline.

“No wonder you were so interested in our movement. You’re probably feeding info to the anti campaign instead.”

Pauline didn’t understand. “Malik? You never told me you were interested in the other side.”

“I… I asked to learn more-” He looked around, confused.

Pauline’s eyebrows knotted. “Mal? What are you thinking?”

“How can you not want this?” the man exclaimed. “When you don’t have to work you have all the free time in the world!”

“I thought you missed being a financial manager,” Pauline whispered so the man wouldn’t hear.

Malik uncrossed his arms. “I miss the privilege of earning Extraneous Income through my work,” he admitted. “But now that so many sectors have automated and Universal will equalize from re-allocating their wages...” He hesitated. “I wonder if it’s time to make the leap.”

Pauline put her arm on his shoulder, ignoring the scorn of the painters.

“It’s happening.” He sighed. “We fought hard, but we might be on the wrong side of history at this point.” 

They exchanged looks and saw the emerging laugh lines of an electoral victory and a managerial promotion. The faint forehead wrinkles of a lay-off and nights transiting to Ottawa, and the hope gone hesitant in each other’s eyes. “Malik.” Pauline leaned in. “My constituents are split. What do you want?”

Malik lifted his head. “I’m changing my mind,” he whispered.

000

Pauline crossed the T in “Independent” in red paint, overwriting the name of her former party above the office entrance. Last week’s stunned silence from her staff still haunted her as she’d told them that she’d been booted. This meant she was no longer entitled to an office paid for by the party, but legally, she was still a Member of Parliament until the election. 

Her arms hovered above the recycling bin behind the office, unwilling to release the lawn signs and planning documents for the anti-automation effort. She let each trembling finger go, the riffling thud of four years of advocacy work echoing in the belly of the bin. She entered the office and clicked the button on the computer to conjure up SIRIus. 

“Hello, Mrs. Nazir. I have archived all your office’s financial files for a smooth exit. Are there any last things you would like me to do for you?”

“I need you to terminate all the staff from the payroll and register them for Universal Income. But,” she stressed, determined to show she wasn’t just giving in to his earlier advice, “reallocate my Extraneous Income as an MP equally between the staff’s deposit accounts. Include a new person, Malik Nazir, to that list. He’ll be the financial manager for my last four months in office.”

“To clarify, you want me to reallocate your remaining earnings into the staff’s and Mr. Nazir’s accounts?”

“Yes. As an Independent, I’ll get voted out. I’m going to finish as a volunteer, like how I 

started.”

 “Your change of mind,” SIRIus ventured. “Where did that come from? What inspired you to think that way?”

Pauline thought about repeating the rhetoric about looking ahead and strategizing with the poll trends. She thought of Malik’s cheeriness volunteering to door-knock. She remembered Malik’s grudging respect for the handmade theatre tickets, recalled the focus and distant ache in his face looking at SIRIus’s balance sheet. 

“Malik inspired me to think this way. He always inspires me.”

SIRIus was silent. 

“Pauline.”

Pauline started. “Yes?”

“This is for you and Mr. Nazir.” The printer produced a single printout. Pauline edged away from the computer where SIRIus lived and retrieved it. It was a digital rendition of a painting of a sunset.

“What’s this?”

“It is the expression of creativity I wanted to learn. I cannot do that for the party; if I stray from financial tasks, they will reprogram me. I am sorry we replaced Malik’s job.”

Pauline was speechless.

Finally, she said, “Thank you, SIRIus.” Her voice wavered. “I wish you the best.”

“Goodbye.”

—

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