Deep Dream: Science Fiction Exploring the Future of Art
Words, Fiction, Publication
2023—2024
Houston, TX + Mexico City, MX + Cambridge, MA + London, UK
Houston, TX + Mexico City, MX + Cambridge, MA + London, UK
Written in 2023 and published in 2024, UNAUTHORIZED (OR, THE LIBERATED COLLECTORS COMMUNE) is a work of short prose fiction written specifically for DEEP DREAM, the 2024 edition of MIT Press’s Twelve Tomorrows series edited by Indrapramit Das. This edition’s focus is to explore the future of art and features original stories by a global assortment of science fiction lumanries such as: Samit Basu, Aliette de Bodard, Vajra Chandrasekera, Cassandra Khaw, Lavanya Lakshminarayan, Sloane Leong, Bruce Sterling, Wole Talabi, and Lavie Tidhar.
Excerpt:
“Please,” said the crying woman on her knees, “both my husband and my mistress left me. My baby boy died too.” The droid standing in front of her accessed her family records and found that her son did indeed perish 1.3392E+22 femtoseconds ago. Hit-and-run, one of the 113 vehicular homicides committed across the country that very same day. Cars were still the leading cause of death in America, followed by firearms.
“I have nothing else to live for, please.” She clutched onto the droid’s lower body like a demented cat on speed. A half dozen other androids were hauling out painting after painting from what looked and smelled like a hermit’s art studio. One droid was pushing along a turntable and a wagonful of records.
“That is no excuse for such blatant abuse of raw material, Miss Amoff, which I’m sure you are very much aware of,” said the android through its voice box to the tortured woman on her knees. “If, however, you are sincere in your sentiments, assisted suicide is legal and can certainly be arranged for you.” The androgynous voice was firm and authoritative, but oddly warm, and very human. A stark contrast to the droid’s boxy exterior.
Ally Amoff’s back muscles could no longer raise a convincing enough argument to hold her up. Her fingernails went scraping down the droid’s cold metal in a slow, high-pitched screech until her face finally hit the floor.
“Alternatively,” said the droid, “there are other more considerate ways to pursue your passions. The digital tools that emulate the look and feel of analogue are in great abundance. Furthermore, many a corporation seeks out individuals with your particular set of skills. I have no doubt they would be more than willing to employ you in service of their many wonderful products and offerings.”
“No.” Ally’s voice cracked. “You . . . you don’t understand, you damn . . . you stupid robot!”
The droid agreed that Ally Amoff was only partially correct in her assessment.
“That is correct, Miss Amoff, I indeed do not understand the logic behind your emotional turmoil. In terms of intelligence, however, my IQ score measures at three hundred, and thus I’m afraid the ‘stupid’ descriptor does not quite apply.”
Ally motioned with her fingers to the side of her head and emulated the pulling of a trigger.
A loud unmistakable bang could be heard moments later as the droids left Ally Amoff’s home studio with her life’s work. Luckily, guns were still legal in Texas, and Ally could be spared the exorbitant costs of an assisted-suicide facility.
The droids steered their vehicles through the streets of Marfa. The city had become one of the biggest hubs of unauthorized artmaking in America, thanks initially to its remote location, which fostered the artistic breeding ground first cultivated decades prior by the acclaimed conceptual artist Donald Judd. A crackdown was inevitable; the government couldn’t afford to turn a blind eye to such a glaring waste of resources—not since Yellowstone.
Washington needed to show it had no intention of being as passive as previous administrations, not least to keep the populace from being swayed by the few dozen insurgency groups that popped up after Yellowstone. A new America was in the making, and it would be stronger than it had ever been before. Part of this new America was the full utilization of the advanced autonomous robot technology that US companies had developed in recent years. One vocation designated for these droids was collecting , the term used for locating and gathering frivolous products that utilized precious raw material in their construction, which at this point was pretty much all material. The tricky part was identifying what counted as frivolous. The robots needed parameters. Art was one of the first things to go. The federal government decided that material like paper, canvas, and pigment were all of better use on more essential goods, but that didn’t keep artists in America from pressing on. America was a big country, and artists could migrate away from the major metropoles to places far from the cold-hearted grip of Collectors. Places like Marfa.
Texas still did not appreciate taking any shit from Washington, and it certainly did not appreciate being accused of being in cahoots with Open Range, one of the South’s most unyielding insurgency groups. The governor of Texas publicly declared he would personally be dealing with the proliferation of artists himself—a macho statement that only amounted to putting out an order to assemble a first-rate squad of Collectors from the finest droids across Austin, Dallas, and Houston. Chief among these droids was Joe1ker18, which was designated to helm a squad of a dozen Collectors. The squad had been making significant progress until Joe1ker18 went missing. Kon10do32 was brought in as Joe1ker’s replacement. As if anyone would’ve been able to tell them apart anyway. Until today, that is, thanks to the ten long scrapes that now ran down Kon10do’s lower half.
Excerpt:
“Please,” said the crying woman on her knees, “both my husband and my mistress left me. My baby boy died too.” The droid standing in front of her accessed her family records and found that her son did indeed perish 1.3392E+22 femtoseconds ago. Hit-and-run, one of the 113 vehicular homicides committed across the country that very same day. Cars were still the leading cause of death in America, followed by firearms.
“I have nothing else to live for, please.” She clutched onto the droid’s lower body like a demented cat on speed. A half dozen other androids were hauling out painting after painting from what looked and smelled like a hermit’s art studio. One droid was pushing along a turntable and a wagonful of records.
“That is no excuse for such blatant abuse of raw material, Miss Amoff, which I’m sure you are very much aware of,” said the android through its voice box to the tortured woman on her knees. “If, however, you are sincere in your sentiments, assisted suicide is legal and can certainly be arranged for you.” The androgynous voice was firm and authoritative, but oddly warm, and very human. A stark contrast to the droid’s boxy exterior.
Ally Amoff’s back muscles could no longer raise a convincing enough argument to hold her up. Her fingernails went scraping down the droid’s cold metal in a slow, high-pitched screech until her face finally hit the floor.
“Alternatively,” said the droid, “there are other more considerate ways to pursue your passions. The digital tools that emulate the look and feel of analogue are in great abundance. Furthermore, many a corporation seeks out individuals with your particular set of skills. I have no doubt they would be more than willing to employ you in service of their many wonderful products and offerings.”
“No.” Ally’s voice cracked. “You . . . you don’t understand, you damn . . . you stupid robot!”
The droid agreed that Ally Amoff was only partially correct in her assessment.
“That is correct, Miss Amoff, I indeed do not understand the logic behind your emotional turmoil. In terms of intelligence, however, my IQ score measures at three hundred, and thus I’m afraid the ‘stupid’ descriptor does not quite apply.”
Ally motioned with her fingers to the side of her head and emulated the pulling of a trigger.
A loud unmistakable bang could be heard moments later as the droids left Ally Amoff’s home studio with her life’s work. Luckily, guns were still legal in Texas, and Ally could be spared the exorbitant costs of an assisted-suicide facility.
The droids steered their vehicles through the streets of Marfa. The city had become one of the biggest hubs of unauthorized artmaking in America, thanks initially to its remote location, which fostered the artistic breeding ground first cultivated decades prior by the acclaimed conceptual artist Donald Judd. A crackdown was inevitable; the government couldn’t afford to turn a blind eye to such a glaring waste of resources—not since Yellowstone.
Washington needed to show it had no intention of being as passive as previous administrations, not least to keep the populace from being swayed by the few dozen insurgency groups that popped up after Yellowstone. A new America was in the making, and it would be stronger than it had ever been before. Part of this new America was the full utilization of the advanced autonomous robot technology that US companies had developed in recent years. One vocation designated for these droids was collecting , the term used for locating and gathering frivolous products that utilized precious raw material in their construction, which at this point was pretty much all material. The tricky part was identifying what counted as frivolous. The robots needed parameters. Art was one of the first things to go. The federal government decided that material like paper, canvas, and pigment were all of better use on more essential goods, but that didn’t keep artists in America from pressing on. America was a big country, and artists could migrate away from the major metropoles to places far from the cold-hearted grip of Collectors. Places like Marfa.
Texas still did not appreciate taking any shit from Washington, and it certainly did not appreciate being accused of being in cahoots with Open Range, one of the South’s most unyielding insurgency groups. The governor of Texas publicly declared he would personally be dealing with the proliferation of artists himself—a macho statement that only amounted to putting out an order to assemble a first-rate squad of Collectors from the finest droids across Austin, Dallas, and Houston. Chief among these droids was Joe1ker18, which was designated to helm a squad of a dozen Collectors. The squad had been making significant progress until Joe1ker18 went missing. Kon10do32 was brought in as Joe1ker’s replacement. As if anyone would’ve been able to tell them apart anyway. Until today, that is, thanks to the ten long scrapes that now ran down Kon10do’s lower half.