“Roughly half of Americans would feel better about the concept of a robot caregiver if there was a human operator who could remotely monitor its actions at all times.” —“Automation in Everyday Life,” Pew Research Center (2017)
The thing is beeping at Brad.
> Begin EOL protocol. OK?
> Beep.
> OK to begin?
All he needs to do is accept. Click it and the action cascade will download to his tablet, setting into motion the procedure. End of Life.
> Beep.
Eight sci-fi writers imagine the bold future of work.
The patient is a woman, maybe late forties, around the age of Brad’s mom. Her insurance covers only Basic Bedside Manner, which should, in theory, make it easier for Doctor Brad, because at the Basic level he doesn’t have to perform the enhanced EOL script with its awkward dialog, a mishmash of corporate sincerity and legally binding waivers.
Not that anyone asked Brad. Why would they? He’s just an actor. A pretty good one—even if auditions haven’t been going so great. That’s just the biz. You have ups and downs, you stay motivated, you focus on the craft.
“Hi,” says the patient. Brad almost jumps.
“You’re awake.”
“Am I?”
“Sorry, I didn’t expect you to be awake.”
“You’re not a doctor, are you?”
“What gave it away?”
“The white coat. It fits too well. I can see your pecs through it. Also, your clipboard is upside down.”
Brad laughs.
“You have good pecs.”
“Thanks,” Brad says, and then realizes the patient has fallen back asleep. Or into a coma. He doesn’t really know the difference.
He wishes he could have said something better.
> Beep.
> OK to begin the protocol?
“No. It’s not OK,” Brad says. “If it were OK I would have begun the protocol.”
> Are you sure?
“I’m sure.”
> Press Continue to continue, or press More Information for more information.
“Or how about I just press the power button?”
> If you do that, I will automatically generate a report to the administration.
“You’re going to murder me someday, aren’t you?”
Brad sighs. It’s not really asking, anyway—just delaying the inevitable for a decision already made. The human in the room is not in charge. The thing is. As it should be. Brad barely made it through a year of junior college. The black cube in the corner, on the other hand, is a $10 million doctor in a box, running trillions of calculations per second, simulations within simulations within whatever. It’s already been to the future.
This woman is going to die.
So the phrasing of everything as a polite request, the illusion of deference, is all for show. And Brad is part of the show. A human placebo.
> Please tap More Information for more information.
It’s getting pushier by the minute. Brad taps it and a window opens up on his screen:
PATIENT A-0053912-F-7: FEMALE, 49 YEARS, 7 MONTHS, 6 DAYS
DIAGNOSIS: SARCOMATOID CARCINOMA, STAGE IV
COMPLICATIONS: PLEURAL EFFUSION, DECREASING LUNG FUNCTION, HEMOPTYSIS
—–
5% OF PATIENTS WITH COMPARABLE DATA SET SURVIVE > 7 DAYS
The thing beeps one last time. This time not a request at all. A warning.
> Beep. EOL initiated.
The beeping wakes her.
Patient 539 opens her eyes, which Brad notices are brown. 539 looks at Brad, then closes her eyes again. Just an involuntary response, perhaps.
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He leaves the room. Goes down the hall to the elevator. The black box starts tracking him, talking to him through his ear piece.
> Please return to the patient’s room, Brad.
“Why? So I can tell her she’s going to die?”
> Because your job function is limited to the script. Deviations are beyond your competency level.
“See, that’s why no one invites you to happy hour.”
> Where are you going, Brad?
“I’m going down to the lobby.”
> Why? Your duties do not require you to go to the pharmacy.
In the pharmacy Brad makes his purchases quickly, the tablet beeping at him the whole time. Brad ignores it, tucking the small paper bag under his arm. He hurries all the way back to the room, where he finds Patient 539, awake again.
“You’re not my wife,” Patient 539 says, a dry whisper.
“I can find her for you,” Brad says.
“Might be tough. She died last year.”
Brad makes a little noise, not on purpose. He’s in way over his head now.
What does he say to her? He’s done the training simulations, improv class, practiced holding hands, the comforting gestures. He knows what to say, what not to. Things humans don’t like to think about. Things humans tell themselves. But he can’t do any of that for her.
If Patient 539 could afford Basic Plus or Premium, Brad could squeeze her hand, give her kind eyes, tell her one of the prewritten jokes for dying people. Instead, he just gets a blinking cursor. He stares at it, as if that will make it do what he wants.
“Come on, you stupid thing,” Brad says.
“Excuse me,” Patient 539 says.
“Oh, shit. Sorry. I wasn’t talking to you.”
“I know,” she says. “What’s your name?”
“Um, Brad. I mean, Doctor Brad.”
“Hi, Doctor Brad,” she says. “I’m Jenny.”
“Hi, Jenny.”
“I’m dying.”
“It’s not up to the machine. That thing doesn’t decide.”
“No. But it knows.”
Brad lets out an involuntary sigh.
“That’s your move? Sighing heavily?” Jenny laughs.
“I can’t do anything for you,” Brad says.
“Tell me about yourself.”
“Me?” he asks, ignoring the beeps. The thing is recording him now, for insurance purposes, for the administrative postmortem. “I had an audition for a part as a heart surgeon. I had to give smoldering looks at the nurse.”
“Guessing you didn’t get the part?”
“Not even a callback. But on the way out, I did grab a flyer.”
“So this is a paycheck for you.”
“Yeah,” Brad admits. “I guess so.”
“Well, you look official.”
“It’s mostly the coat,” Brad says. “I got you something.” He takes the candy bar out of the bag.
“A gift from a handsome fake doctor.”
She smiles and takes it. Struggles to open it. Brad watches her.
“Doctor Brad, maybe a hand?”
“Oh, right, sorry.”
“Apparently I’m past the point of opening my own food.”
> Beep. Beep. End of Life in progress.
> Touch the arm. Place a hand on the shoulder. Comfort the patient.
“I’m supposed to place a hand on your shoulder now,” he says. “And comfort you.”
“OK,” she says.
> Beep.
He places a hand on her shoulder. He looks at the tablet, hoping it will tell him the right thing to say.
Charles Yu (@charles_yu) is the author of three books, including How to Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe, and has written for HBO, AMC, FX, and Adult Swim.
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