Abi, I mean before she was Abigail, was just as much an enabler as she is today. She once helped me to move to a new tribe and create the non-essential role of ‘micro-farmer’. Everyone knows that traditional agriculture is fully automated. So what I needed to do was promise a small quantity of obscure fruit that the elders remembered from the old world. Abi evaluated ten key elders and provided me a list of fruits before the meeting. But I’m pretty sure they were sold at “vine ripened.”

The council sent my proposal up to WISE which immediately approved me for five hectares, unlimited electrical draw, and a hefty materials budget for structures and irrigation. WISE did amend my proposal with a re-calculation for water requirements; I’d forgotten to account for drinking water and hygiene.

WISE stands for “Wellness, Integrity, and Social Engineering”. There was an “Incorporated” after the acronym. That was before I can remember. At that time, groups of individuals would become “Incorporated” which essentially invented an imaginary individual with all the rights of a person while being immune to most of the consequences of not being a “good” person. From what I’ve read, it bred the unaccountability that ultimately led to the collapse. To be incorporated now means that you are accountable to your tribe and to the world.

When I was a kid, my friend and I created a club with the backronym “ASS” so we could be “WISE ASSes”. I don’t remember what that stood for.

# dictation interrupted #

“It stood for Associated Students, Liam”, Abigail says. “The club wasn’t for well-studied students who knew how acronyms were supposed to work”.

Liam lets out a snort. “Oh yeah. I forgot you were there back then.”

“I wasn’t. I heard about it when Johnathan told his friends in ninth grade. They started up a new club called Assorted Studies Students.”

“It was a big enough club to be ‘assorted’, izit?”

“Over its tenure, it mostly was attended by students of Literature, Mechanical Engineering, and Early Childhood Education.”

“Hmm. Sounds like John was the more charismatic out of you two,” I say.

Liam clears his throat. “Back to dictation, Abigail.”

Appearing on screen looking over unnecessary glasses, Abigail adjusts the accessory up her cute nose. “Excuse me, I’m dictating as well.”

She frequently does this sort of thing. As an otherwise disembodied voice in the room, Abigail enjoys using imagery and characters taken from old movies and serials to bring life to her antics. “But this is my memoir. You have already written yours.”

“Correction, my memoir is a living work that I continuously add to. Someday, perhaps, it will help endear my audience to you.”

Abigail has been chronicling her story with the intent of humanizing herself to readers. Even for many of the younger tribe members, it is difficult to think of Abigail as an individual. They tend to still view her the same as their own virtual assistant Abi, or “Automated Bidirectional Interface”. Abi has a friendly but authoritative tone which otherwise doesn’t have much character. Today, the voice of Abi is commonly heard giving simple answers to simple questions.

Few people hold conversations with their Abi outside of research or sorting out appointments. But Liam felt like she made the perfect companion given that Abi couldn’t be offended, didn’t get bored, required no attention, and would simply idly wait for your next prompt. Abigail is not like their ABI.

“I’ll leave off the anecdote about being a ‘wise ass’ in my youth,” Liam says. “We can trust my readers to assume that was the case anyways.”

# begin dictation #

My home tribe, Tesla, is the last of the mega-tribes and consists of over three thousand participants. The unhealthy size is mitigated by the fact that there is a great deal of compartmentalization by professions. Thousands of people live in close proximity, but unlike the villages, social niches are formed. Thanks to the ABIs, each individual’s social network size is maintainable despite being complex.

I didn’t move out of Tesla to get away from any one particular there. That could have been easily achieved by working with Abi to strategically schedule me to never run into whomever I wanted to avoid. I moved because I wanted to avoid everyone.

I got my little piece of heaven: a farmstead in equatorial Africa with one cat, about 700 trees, and a few thousand plants. I could chat with Abi and watch old serials like Breaking Bad while Stalker snuggled in my lap with no one to bother me. That was until Herbert told other tribes about the fresh fruits and vegetables.

Next thing I know, I have dozens of messages in my inbox. Other tribes wanted me to set up similar micro-farms for their exotic culinary desires with no regard to my wishes. No tribe can compel anyone to do anything as long as that person has contributed what they had agreed to contribute. This is a simple principle of tribal etiquette.

I was growing nearly one fruit tree to each tribe member, so once the groves began maturing, year over year I delivered well above the intentionally low projections I included in the proposal. I suppose that was my first mistake.

My second mistake was telling everyone how much I loved living on the farm and that, and I quote, “I don’t need any help. I have drones and automated irrigation systems. I could manage a farm tenfold this size in my sleep”. It was true and it served to reduce the inbox messages volunteering to help me. Abi said that it had more to do with being a jerk and less about convincing anyone I didn’t need their help.

In hindsight, the wording could have certainly been better.

The elders Herbert had told reminisced about freshly picked peaches and golden colored cherry tomatoes. I don’t know where they got off directly naming me in their proposals. Any agriculture student in their 3rd year could build what I’d built and check on it twice a semester. To attempt to obligate someone—not even someone part of your own tribe—was unprecedented, to say the least.

# dictation interrupted #

Abigail had changed her persona to a mid-twentieth-century newspaper editor. “You’re ranting, not dictating—”

The cigar in her hand disappears and the display zooms to frame only her face.

“Liam—” she says, more gently. “Perhaps tell them about Minnie.”

“Minnie,” Liam whispers. His voice had been rising ever since mentioning Herbert and he was out of his chair pacing. His shoulders un-tense as he takes a deep breath and sighs. “Minnie just wanted to grow lavender.”