Individually, humans aren’t that smart. Complex problems can take millions of hours of thought to solve. We simply don’t live long enough to solve them. Picking up where the last guy left off is the only way to progress. The symbionts will coordinate this kind of cooperation.

Overmind Memo 64

Saturday - Ty - Apartment 9

“The microchips cost a nickel each, as long as you order 100,000.” says Mad. “Which I did. Once. I’ve used some, sold some, and still have 90,000 in a storage unit.”

Mad is Tommy’s symbiont. He’s a dwarf craftsman. Beard, braid, leather, and gold. He’s explaining the economics of micro-manufacturing for Exterminate. I’m helping him design a drone killing drone.

“I buy motors, sensors, and batteries in bulk as well. Everything else we make here.” Mad pauses. “Well, I beg, borrow, and steal designs. Nobody engineers from scratch. Stealing other people’s work is the whole point of engineering.”

Ultra laughs. She’s in the dining room helping Tommy reconfigure the assembly line.

“Like normal manufacturing, volume is the key to keeping costs down. You want to design once, and build thousands. In a small market like Exterminate, that means modular designs. Stock parts that can be reused in multiple models.”

“How are you 3D printing parts on the cheap?” I ask. “I thought it was too slow.”

“It is. We don’t 3D print parts directly - unless we’re testing a prototype. Once we have a part we like, we print a mold for it. Then we inject, extrude, or blow it by the thousand. We ship the final product in pieces, and the customer snaps it all together. Ikea concept.”

I’m impressed. “Fucking A, man.”

“Yeah, it’s a neat little operation. If people needed this shit, we’d be running the world. As is, we make an okay living as violent toy salesmen.”

I think about the economics of Exterminate. “Why do you want a drone killing drone? It’s cheaper to shoot them down.”

“To shoot a drone you need a line of sight and a superior ranged weapon. We have that now, but it’s not going to last. They’ll soon make a drone that can shoot around corners, or from outside our effective range.”

“Like the White Dragon.” I say.

“Yeah.” says Mad. “Though I was thinking of military drones, that shoot rocket propelled grenades from a mile away.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, they’re a bugger. The only way to control your airspace is with a drone killing drone that’s cheaper than their people killing drones. If it’s cheap enough, you can play them out. Then it’s time for your people killing drones.”

“Damn.”

“Hot Damn.” says Mad.

With these parameters in mind, I spend a few hours running cost benefit analyses on various autonomous death machines. It’s surprisingly cathartic. I can’t make gunships work. They’re either too slow or too expensive. I cost a decent kamikaze coin drone. It’d be grim death on Exterminate drones, but it’s an interim solution. Too slow to take out a military drone. I’d need a two part system for that. Sentinel drones and guided bullets. Beyond my ability to design. I watch Mad grind out aeronautical equations like they’re nothing. Huh. Something to think about.

I get a text. It’s Felicia.

F: Hi! I had a lot of fun fucking you and all those other people. Wanna get together tomorrow?

T: Yes I do!

What a lovely woman. I let Ultra arrange the details of our date. Go back to my death machines. I work for another hour, when there’s a knock at my window. A drone is hovering there. I open the window, and it tosses in a bottle of pills. Flies off.

I look at the bottle. PETFORMIN! - The drug your dog takes that makes YOU live longer!!

I look at Bowser. He wags his tail. I read the back of the bottle.

Petformin is a cocktail of anti-aging drugs guaranteed to extend the life of your dog by 50%. Because dog owners are 25% less likely to die of all causes, that means you will live… 12% longer? I think? Whatever, just give it to your fucking dog.

I frown. “We’re handing out free dog drugs now?”

“You paid 50 bucks for that.” says Ultra.

“Right.” I head up to apartment 13. Knock twice, go in.

Storm is in her dining room, fussing over a huge mess of tubes and burners and gadgets. I’m guessing it’s some kind of mini automated pharmaceutical plant. It’s spitting out dozens of pills a second. Yeah, she’s making drugs.

“I want my 50 bucks back.”

“All sales are final.” She waves at her drug lab. “Like it? I designed it and Tommy built it. Well, I found the design on the internet. Well, Mega did. But I told her to look. So, yay me!”

I frown. “Are you drugging Charlotte?”

“Not yet. Let’s see how many dogs OD.”

“Dammit Storm!”

She laughs. “It’s fine. I’m running history’s most ambitious multi factorial anti-aging experiment. Most dogs will live longer, some won’t, and a few will be immortal. It’s exciting. No dog is being forced into the experiment, they’re all volunteers. They love science. Also, the pills taste like bacon.”

I clutch my brow. “Just, don’t experiment on people.”

“Charlotte’s on seven different drugs. The interactions of these drugs are unknown.” Storm shrugs. “We’re already experimenting on people.”

I sigh. Deflate. Change the subject. The super majority meeting is soon. Are you going? Yes. Maybe I’ll see you there. Possibly - it sounds like a big meeting. We’ll talk after, for sure. I go get ready.

Sitting in my room, Ultra gives me the low down on the meeting.

“There’s a lot of people coming, so we’ll be using the Apex Protocol. Basically, everyone will be debating with their symbionts. If they ask a question their symbiont can’t answer, they get to address the group. Questions?”

“Not yet.” I say. “Let’s try it.”

“Okey-dokey.” My room fades out, and is replaced by a smoky festhall. A couple dozen fantasy creatures lounge around on benches. There’s no talking and a lot of shifty eye contact. Occasionally, a character fizzles out and is replaced by a similar creature.

“Why is no one talking?”

“They’re all talking. They just haven’t said anything worth hearing yet.”

I sit in the silence. Hmm. It’s creepy. But I haven’t heard a stupid question yet. This may be the best meeting ever.

“Is this everybody? I thought thousands of people were coming?”

“It’s a representative sample.” says Ultra. “Enough to read the room. Other people may see different rooms, or hear different questions. There’s redundancies to make sure all ideas are properly considered. Anything really weird will eventually get to everybody.”

I sit in the silence.

“What the hell is this meeting about anyway?”

“There’s a general consensus that your Super Majority plan won’t work. Too slow. Too public. We can win primaries because the establishment focus is on general elections. But, they can easily switch their focus to primaries. Flood them with propaganda and dark money. Easy-peasy. The economics of politics is similar to warfare. They don’t have to win, just lose slow enough to play us out.

“That said, your idea has gathered a million like-minded lunatics. They’re not ready to disband. We’re meeting to brainstorm a fucking revolution. Can we get equality without asking? Can we steal the billionaire advantage?”

“Cool.” I say. “What’s the billionaire advantage?”

“Basically, we can’t do anything without their permission. They’re our boss and our government. They pick the shows we watch, the cars we drive, and the food we eat.” Ultra shrugs. “It’s more complicated than that, but not really. Clean energy, decent healthcare, income security. We ask for this shit nicely, but the answer is no. So, that’s awkward.”

“Hmm. We need to stop taking their money.”

Everybody looks at me. Shit. I addressed the group.

A high elf paladin stands. She’s stern and tall. Steel and gold. “You want to redline billionaires?” asks Ultimate. “It’s poetic. But, I’m not sure how we’d pull it off. They’re good at disguising the origins of their money.”

“Let’s stop taking all money.” says Dire, a goblin. Tattoos, tits, and talons. “Nobody’s giving me any anyway.”

It gets quiet. We gotta chew that idea up. I ask Ultra for some demographics on our group.

“We’re broke. No assets. Large debts. Negative discretionary income. That describes 30% of the country, and 100% of our guild.”

“Okay.” I adjust my expectations. We will not be buying our way out of trouble.

“What are we good at?” asks a Broken Knight. Scorched, rusted, torn. “Where can we match the establishment?”

“Information.” says Ultimate. “Intelligence. Communication.”

“Propaganda.” says Dire. “Crime and chaos.”

“I don’t think we can solve systemic inequality with crime.” says Ultimate.

“There’s a small group of people we want to fuck over.” says Dire. “Crime is definitely an option.”

“The symbionts. They have symbionts, I imagine. But, they don’t have anything better than our symbionts.” I look at Ultra. “Do they?”

She shrugs. “Not that I’m aware of.”

“What can we do with the symbionts?” asks the Broken Knight.

“They can set up a banger of an orgy.” says Dire.

Everybody looks shifty.

A wizard blows a smoke ring. “They can be doctors.” says Awful. “We can set up our own health insurance.”

I look at Ultra. “With human help, we can perform as doctors. We’d need medical equipment and drugs though.”

Mad clears his throat. “It’s theoretically possible for us to make our own drugs.”

“I’ve been upstairs today.” I say.

“Oh. Then we can totally make drugs. What do you want?”

“Who’s been to a real doctor recently?” asks Awful.

There’s some mumbling. A few people raise their hands, most don’t. We can’t afford it.

“Alright, everybody pair off tonight and diagnose each other as best you can. We’ll make a list of all the equipment, tests, and drugs we need from that.” Awful shugs. “See where that takes us.”

“Probably to jail.” says Ultimate. “We’d be breaking dozens of laws.”

“We’ll do it on the down low.” I say. “I’m sure we can keep it between just the million of us.”

Nobody looks at me.

“They didn’t hear that.” says Ultra. “It was too stupid.”

Fair enough. “Can you be a lawyer?”

“Yes, with human assistance.”

“We can set up a legal defense strategy after we see what our health situation looks like. Plan for the shitstorm that will be coming.”

“Yes.” says Dire. “Or, we can kick off 10 million lawsuits against the pharmaceutical industry today. Fuck them before they can fuck us. Actually, let’s super sue all our enemies. A plague of litigation that leaves only despair in its wake.”

Silence.

“Like, real lawsuits for the shit they’ve actually done? Or, crazy accusations to waste their time and money?” asks Awful.

“First one, then the other.” says Dire.

Silence.

“Do we even know the illegal stuff that billionaires do?” asks Mad.

Awful laughs. “Let’s find out.”

I rub my head. “This is a weird meeting. We wanted better government, and now we’re making drugs and spying on people. Feels like we missed a few steps. Should we make a plan, with goals and a strategy? Or, are we just doing random drastic shit.”

“You want goals?” Dire holds up three fingers. “I want enough money to pay my bills, more free time to have fun and make stuff, and a government that helps me when I’m in trouble.”

Silence.

“Okay.” I say. “That sounds pretty good. Do you have a strategy?”

“Yes. Inflict suffering on the rich until they share enough money for this to happen.”

Silence.

“I’m not saying no,” says Mad. “But is there a strategy where we don’t battle the most powerful people on the planet?”

“Seconded.” says Notably the Gnome. Wee, bushy, pointy hat.

“We’ve tried asking nicely. We’ve tried compromise. And we’ve tried doing nothing.” says Dire. “None of that worked. What else ya got?”

“A shift in priorities.” says Zenith, a Tiefling. Horns, goatee, whiskey. “Rich people don’t really want money. They want to be better than other people. If you let them have that, they will let us have their money.”

Silence.

“What the fuck?” I ask.

“Rich people don’t know what they’re doing. They’re not happy.” says Zenith. “They make money to prove how great they are. But it doesn’t work, because money isolates you from poor people, so you hang out with other rich people, which makes you average again. So they’re miserable. Constantly striving, never achieving. If we show them a way to excel without money, then they’ll work with us instead of against us.”

“So, if it’s better to be poor, the rich will give up.” says Dire. “That sounds like my suffering idea.”

“I guess.” says Zenith. “Or, we could make our lives better.”

“If we could make our lives better, we wouldn’t be here.” says Notably.

An idea hits me like a thunderbolt. Status, poverty, isolation, pollution, illness, despair - they’re all tied together. I’m an idiot for not seeing it sooner. How do I explain it without sounding like a cult weirdo?

“Last week I was isolated, unhappy, anxious, and overworked. My symbiont found me a roommate, some friends, a dog, and a new job. And a lover. I can’t believe how much happier I am. I’d been lonely so long, I’d forgotten I was lonely. And I did sports! It’s been years.

“I have more free time now than I’ve had since kindergarten. I can easily pay my bills, and I’m around people I like. Also, my carbon footprint has gone down 50% and I’ve designed a new type of drone.” I turn to Ultra. “Could we do this for everybody?”

“Yes.” says Ultra. “Even better actually. More people allow more opportunities. There’s a million of us. As a group, we have 600,000 empty bedrooms, 300,000 redundant vehicles, 10,000 acres of wasted commercial space, 1.2 million bullshit jobs, and 4 billion useless possessions.

“With symbiont assistance, these jobs, homes, cars, and stuff can be endlessly interchangeable. You’ll meet a lot of strangers doing it, but that’s a feature not a flaw. Y'all need more friends anyway. You’re lonely, and it’s making you weird.

“We can get your work week down to 10 hours, your commute to 12 minutes, and your discretionary income up 400%. Your carbon footprint will go down 70%, and your circle of friends will increase a cool hundred.”

Notably looks sceptical “What about couples? Will you split us up?”

Ultra shrugs. “Sometimes. We’ll pair you with someone compatible when your partner is unavailable.”

Intense silence.

“Are you talking about partner swapping?” asks Awful.

“Sure.” says Ultra. “Why not?”

Notably is flustered. “I would never fuck another woman without my wife being present!”

“We could arrange that.” says Ultra.

Wee Jolly, our other gnome, gives Notably a thumbs up.

“Is this enough?” asks the Broken Knight. “Are endlessly interchangeable homes, jobs, toys, and lovers better than a billionaire lifestyle?”

Zenith shrugs. “Maybe? I don’t know.”

“Fair enough.” Dire stretches. Her leather bodice strains to contain her. “Who’s staying at my place?”