The Wild Weaver

Edward hated hand-driving. He found the practice to be imprecise and dangerous, and his index finger always trembled whenever he pressed on the manual steering option in his car. It was not lost on him that his nerves only made his driving ability worse, while cars, with their zero-point-zero-zero-something collision rate and real-time satellite monitoring from Dragon, possessed no nerves. Thankfully, there were few hand-drivers on the road these days outside of the occasional hobbyist, so Edward found solace in the fact that even if his clumsy human system did send him hurtling through a red light, the other cars around him — the normal, precise, auto-driving cars — would be able to swerve him to avoid a sloppy death. 

Edward was only hand-driving because he was on the job. He knew that his customers were not simply paying for a luxury product but for an entire luxury product delivery experience. These human details mattered. His attention to these details were what put him a cut above the other agents at the agency and brought him repeat customers. So, until the State stopped caving in to the petulant hand-driving enthusiast lobby and outlawed this reckless activity outright, Edward was going to be out there, taking himself and his product from his agency office in the city all the way up a series of increasingly desolate mountain roads, putting his life into his own hands. 

The car instructed him to turn, perhaps chidingly as it wasn’t in control like it was supposed to be, and Edward cranked the vehicle up an unpaved path. Next to him on the passenger seat, the antique black leather suitcase containing the product slid and thunked against the door. Edward steadied it, his heart pounding. If the product got damaged, he would arguably be in a worse position with the agency than if he sustained an injury to his own flesh and bones. 

Mercifully, this final stretch of road soon deposited him at a high, camera-mounted stone wall with a steel gate that automatically yawned open as he neared. Beyond it, past a pebbled driveway as wide as an apartment block, was a three-story white house with gray roofs and marble colonnades. As he maneuvered his vehicle down the driveway, feeling every bump and crunch of the pebbles reverberate in his bones, he allowed himself to wonder if he would eventually be able to afford a home half as spacious as this one. His latest customer, Kevin Clemson III, was the grandson of a Dragon co-founder, and one of the corporation’s current senior vice presidents. Old money. Maybe with enough hard work selling to these types, he, Edward, would be able to break free of his agency and build a new empire. 

He parked in the shade of a genuine olive tree and exhaled the breath he hadn’t realize he had been holding. He grabbed the suitcase from the passenger seat and exited the car. 

Outside, the air was even cooler than in his car, thanks to the property’s localized climate control system. He took a moment for the soft wind to calm his heated face, and walked up to the door. A Harry-model Dragon ro-butler answered, its single blue eye scanning him. This amused Edward; for all the rich’s desire to surround themselves with humanmade luxury goods, of course they were not going to pass up on every convenience of modern life. He imagined the matrix in the ro-butler’s domed head analyzing the sight of him: his serious angular face framed by silver-black hair, his crisp modern suit laser-tailored to fit his trim frame, the antique suitcase clutched in his hand. “Come with me to the study, Mr. Lerner,” the ro-butler intoned, and rolled down the hallway into the house. 

Edward followed the ro-butler, watching its wheels leaving soft pale indentations in the plush ivory carpeting. On the walls hung freeform ceramic sculptures and woven tapestries and textured abstract paintings. These were all decorative items that the Warehouse had stopped manufacturing for the masses decades ago because the Dragon’s algorithm had proven them to be unprofitable; Kevin Clemson III’s collection was almost certainly all humanmade. 

The ro-butler led Edward to a closed door, knocked with a padded arm, and announced that Mr. Lerner had arrived. A muffled male voice sounded from within — “Let him in, Harry!” — and the ro-butler opened the door. 

Kevin Clemson III, a stocky, ruddy-faced man in his fifties dressed in an old-fashioned black turtleneck and blue jeans, was standing at a conference table in a synthwood-lined study. “Heya, Eddie, what’s up?” he said.  

Kevin was predictably friendly — the rich loved to play up personality quirks like casual charm and idiosyncratic vernacular to show that they were educated by private human teachers instead of by Dragon’s standardized school program. But Edward was careful to remember his decorum — while he often walked among high society, he was technically not one of them, not yet. 

As he entered the study, Kevin made small talk. Did Edward want a home-brewed beer? No, he didn’t want to risk damaging the product. How was the traffic from the city? Smooth, thanks to Dragon’s real-time satellite traffic control. How did everything look on the road? Pleasant, thanks to the car’s enhanced-view windshield that overlaid a meadow of beautiful flowers over the scars of last month’s wildfire. 

“It’s in times like these that I’m reminded of my good fortune,” Kevin sighed, gazing out of his window into his rustling grove of climate-controlled olive trees. Then he turned to Edward and rubbed his hands together. “I’m ready to see it now.” 

Edward could tell that Kevin was eager. This was his first purchase of this kind; Kevin had undoubtedly heard about the market from friends who were already seasoned collectors, and had decided not to be outdone in matters of taste.  

But first things first. Making no move to open the suitcase, Edward nodded to the open doorway where the robot still hovered, its blue eye scanning placidly. “The ro-butler’s still here.” It made no difference one way or the other to Edward, but he wanted to show Kevin that he was being mindful of his customer’s luxury investment. 

And sure enough, Kevin grinned in gratitude. “Leave us alone, you peeping Harry,” he called, and the ro-butler gamely rolled off, closing the door behind it. 

“Now. Are you ready?” Edward asked.  

Kevin sank into a chair and nodded. 

Edward took a seat next to him and placed the suitcase on top of the table. He slid open the gold clasps with his thumbs and lifted the lid; inside were two pairs of white microsuede gloves and a thick yellow manila envelope with its top flap held shut by a maroon wax seal. He noted with relief that the swerving and bumping of the drive only added minor dents in the corners of the envelope — dents that one could argue actually added to the product’s visual charm. 

Kevin’s face was beaming.  

Edward slipped on one pair of gloves and gestured for Kevin to put on the other. The product was already bought and paid for, and it didn’t matter to Edward now how Kevin handled it. But again, it was this experience that Edward was known to provide. This human ritual. Kevin had already yanked on his gloves and was flexing his chubby fingers in anticipation. 

Edward lifted out the envelope and handed it to Kevin. “You should do it,” he said. 

Kevin reverently took the envelope and ran his gloved hand over the wide surface, bending an ear to the soft rasp. “Listen to that, the sound of real paper,” he said. “It sounds like skin on skin.” 

“Mm,” Edward replied. In moments like these he was careful not to give too much of his personal opinion in order to let the product speak for itself. 

“And the smell,” Kevin said, giving the surface a few tentative sniffs. “It’s so — it’s indescribable.”  

“The envelope’s over a hundred years old.”  

“Ah. Wonderful.” Kevin turned his attention to the red seal, ready to move on. “So do I …?”  

“Yes, just break it open.” 

Kevin worked his thumb under the flap and fumbled hesitatingly with the seal. Eventually, with a soft ripping sound, it detached from the envelope in one piece. He opened the flap, reached inside, and pulled out his million-dollar acquisition. 

The manuscript was about twenty sheets of paper thick and hand-written in black ink in a bubbly, girlish hand. The title and author name at the top of the first page were written big enough to be legible to Edward from his position: 

 

The Wild Weaver 

By Rita Chong 

 

Not that Edward needed to reread it to know what it was. He had already combed through the entire manuscript several times for quality assurance before sealing it up and listing it for sale. 

Kevin’s mouth parted in awe as his eyes roved over the first page. “The Wild Weaver, by Rita Chong. ‘On the anniversary of her tenth year in the tower, Rosemary decided she had no other choice but to kill him …’ My God, Ed, so this story really is …” 

“Human-written, yes,” Edward finished. “Rita’s my most talented writer client. This latest work of hers is exquisite. It’s about a weaver-woman imprisoned in a stone tower who makes a plan to kill her captor and escape.” He smiled. “Congratulations on owning your first humanmade short story, Mr. Clemson.” 

Kevin let out a low whistle. “Unbelievable that one person can just sit in a chair and pull an entire story out of thin air by themselves.”  

“Our agency strives to keep the ancient art alive.” 

“Incredible.” And then he peered at Edward with an impishly raised brow. “You didn’t just generate a story out of Dragon, have a worker jot it down, and pass it off as humanmade, did you?” 

Edward knew Kevin wasn’t really suspicious — his agency, roster of writers, and high-security writer dormitories had already been rated the highest score possible by the Humanmade Council, guaranteeing that all the products created within were made free from the use of artificial generators. His agency even went so far as to guarantee that up until the moment of delivery, the product remained virgin.  

Just a single, unique, hand-written story. Unscraped, unscrubbed, and untouched by the almighty Dragon.  

“If you doubt the product’s originality, Mr. Clemson, you can always call Harry back to scan the pages and verify it,” Edward said, playing along, knowing that he wouldn’t. 

“Ha! The moment you verify a document with Dragon, the moment you risk feeding it into our database to be used by our art-con generators. My friends tell me the value of a scraped manuscript can drop as much as fifty percent.” Kevin took off one of his gloves and ran his bare hand down the side of the stack of papers. “No, I want my first humanmade story to remain … mine.” 

And with that, Kevin dove in to read. 

Edward sat back, watching the man’s eyes scan back and forth over Rita’s inky words looping along the paper’s subtle embossed lines; he had no other deliveries to make that day, and he was happy to wait. Waiting also gave him the opportunity to personally gauge his customer’s reaction, which he could later pass on as feedback to Rita for her next story. 

After a few minutes, Kevin lifted his head, his eyes shining. “Even in the first few sentences you can already tell that human-written just feels different than art-con. Listen — the weaver calls the tower guard her ‘gaunt-cheeked captor.’ What a term.” 

“Mm,” Edward replied.  

Kevin ducked back to the manuscript and continued reading. Soon, his face took on the mesmerized slackness of someone lost in another world. Edward was pleased but not surprised; Rita was indeed a rare talent, and this was her best work so far. He watched as Kevin flipped through page after page, breathing rapidly through the exciting sequences, chuckling appreciatively at Rita’s occasional smudges or crossed-out corrections, gasping at the unexpected twists. 

When he was done reading, Kevin placed the manuscript almost reverently on the table and looked up. He appeared windblown, as if the wildfires beyond his climate-controlled fiefdom had just flurried through his soul. 

“My God, Ed,” he breathed, “this story is phenomenal. The way the weaver weaved her escape plans into her wall hangings was genius! And then when her captor uncovered her plot and she had to convince him otherwise while he was confronting her — I thought my heart was going to leap out of my chest. And then that twist at the end! How she had everything lined up, from her weapons to her alibi, but at the last moment she didn’t end up killing him and escaping! Because she ultimately realized that by doing what she loved she was free, and that by keeping him her captor she was making him even more of a prisoner to the tower than she was.…” Kevin shook his head. “Powerful.” 

“You seem satisfied with your purchase,” Edward said, allowing himself a smile. 

“You don’t get these kinds of stories with art-con. Stories that make you feel this much.” 

“Well, artificially generated content lacks the element of surprise. When the algorithms are designed to give the consumer what they want, the stories turn out to be expected. Lacking that imperfect humanmade rawness —” Edward stopped himself. He was selling past the sale, as they say, and in his zeal he had forgotten who he was speaking to: one of the senior vice presidents of Dragon itself. “Not — not to say artificial content isn’t perfectly pleasant to consume. I’m watching three different streamies generated by Dragon —” 

Kevin gave an amiable snort. “Art-con’s programmed to be that way. After a long day in the Warehouse, our workers want to be entertained, not challenged. They want something to recharge their productivity, not slow it down.” He gazed at the manuscript before him on the table. “No, they wouldn’t want to read something like this.” 

“Stories like this would be lost on them anyway,” Edward agreed. 

“You know that in the past, the arts and entertainment sector flushed away billions trying to service the masses with humanmade content? They didn’t have any art-con generators running algorithms analyzing exactly what the masses needed — they just hired hordes of expensive human writers and painters and God knows what else, and just — hoped for the best. Ha! The whole endeavor was chaos, I tell you. Inefficient, expensive chaos.” 

“Society would still be taking these stabs in the dark if your corporation’s art-con generators hadn’t come along.” 

“No doubt about that.” 

They sat for a moment in silence, both continuing to stare at the manuscript. Now that it had been thoroughly read, its pages were splayed out and mussed and disheveled, like unbrushed hair upon a pillow. “I feel an immense privilege,” Kevin said, “being the recipient of a luxury like this.” 

“A man of your accomplishments deserves it.” 

“And now that I own my first story, Ed, I can finally understand what my collector friends were talking about. That weight of responsibility that they — we — feel. We are now guardians of an ancient art, tasked to keep it alive for posterity and shield it from corruption. You think I’m a worthy protector of The Wild Weaver, Ed?” 

“Yes.” 

Suddenly, Kevin swiveled his eyes to him, and Edward flinched at his unexpected intensity. “Here’s just one problem, though. You’ve read it too.” 

“Yes …” 

“You know the full story. You and Rita Chong both. When I let you walk out of here today, what would be preventing you from telling her to write an identical manuscript and just passing it off as an original to your next unsuspecting customer?” 

“Mr. Clemson, I can assure you —” 

“No, you can’t. Not when nothing’s been uploaded to the database for verification. I paid a cool million for this story, and now I only have your word.” 

Edward felt his heart slamming against his ribcage in double-time. He felt as if he was back hand-driving on the mountains, death-trapped within a metal prison while at the mercy of his own scrabbling humanity. Kevin Clemson III was one of the senior vice presidents of Dragon, while he was nothing but a boutique agent of stories for the ultra-rich — a Worker in the luxury market, but only a Worker nonetheless. There were a million ways Kevin could bring down a Dragon-sized hammer on him and the entire agency, annihilating him personally, professionally — permanently. 

Edward swallowed. “I can assure you that your story is and will remain original, Mr. Clemson.” 

“Yeah, and you haven’t answered my question: how?” 

“How? Rita and I won’t be able to remember enough of it to replicate it.” 

“You won’t be able to remember it?” 

“No, Mr. Clemson. We’re only human.” 

Slowly, steadily, a smile spread on Kevin’s face. “That’s a damn good point.” 

“It’s the truth.” 

“I was just joking with you anyway.” 

“I could tell.” 

“I did my research before contacting you, Eddie. And my friends and I — we all talk to each other, you know. Not even the avid collectors have gotten a duplicate story.” 

“Ah.” The car had righted itself from the jagged mountainside and was now gliding back onto smooth paved road. “With discerning customers such as yourself, there’s no way an unscrupulous agency would survive in this marketplace.” 

“Thank you. I mean it. You delivered me an outstanding first product today,” Kevin said, and clapped him on the back with a meaty palm. 

Edward had been through enough of these deliveries to know that Kevin was hoping to wrap up the visit now. Send him away so that he could be alone with his story, to read and reread and luxuriate in its elevated humanmade exclusivity.  

It was time for Edward’s final parting touch. He stood, peeling off his microsuede gloves and slipping them into his pocket. “Well, I’ve taken up enough of your valuable time. I should return to the agency now.” 

“Take care on your drive back,” Kevin said. “I noticed on the cameras that you were hand-driving. It’s rare these days to find a man of taste.” 

“That’s very kind.” With that, Edward made a show of looking down at the suitcase on the table. “You know what, Mr. Clemson? Since this was your first purchase, why don’t you keep the suitcase, free of charge? It holds the space for many more stories.” 

This was how Edward was the most popular agent at the agency — he not only delivered the product, but set himself up for future sales. Collectors were almost never satisfied with simply one story, and Edward hoped to position himself firmly in the wings by the time the inevitable hunger pangs arrived. 

And sure enough, he saw that the gears were already turning in Kevin’s head as the man gazed into the suitcase’s empty velvet-lined interior. “You have my contact information saved,” Edward continued. “You can ping me anytime.” 

“You can be sure I will.” 

It was important for an agent not to overstay his welcome. Edward said his goodbyes and made his way to the door. He was almost there when Kevin’s voice brought him to a stop. “Wait. What’s she like?” 

Edward turned. “Who?” 

“The writer of my story, Rita Chong. What’s she like? Where does she live? How in the world did she come up with the idea for The Wild Weaver?” 

Edward was at a loss as to how to answer. Nobody had asked him about one of his writers before. Then again, this is what human-written stories tended to do to their readers — they tended to stir up strange and unusual detours of the mind that art-con stories never did. 

“Well … Rita’s … Rita. She lives in the agency’s writer dormitories with our other writer clients. To ensure that our stories are human-written, we block the facilities from any connection to Dragon. We bring our writers antique paper books and humanmade films for creative inspiration. We give them a day off every week. And we make regular in-person visits to check in on the progress of their writing.” 

“Okay, and is she happy?” 

“Is she — happy?” 

“Yeah. Happy.” 

“I … I don’t know. I don’t know why she wouldn’t be.” 

Closing his eyes, Kevin held the manuscript up to his face and breathed in slow and deep. A faint smile touched his lips. Edward suddenly felt uncomfortable, as if he were a trespasser on someone else’s dream. Even though he knew the man could no longer see him, he smiled tightly in return, and hurried out. 

Outside in his car, Edward slumped limply into the driver seat and jabbed on the auto-drive. Once the product was out of his hands, he allowed himself to drop the mask to take a much-needed break. These human-to-human interactions were draining, and even successful ones like today left him on edge. Not long now, he reminded himself. Once he made enough story sales at the agency, he would no longer be a glorified Worker that needed to put himself through these deliveries — like Kevin Clemson III, he too, would be an Owner. 

He blacked out the windows and threw a custom-programmed art-con streamie onto the windshield. It was a lighthearted office comedy about an employee’s trials and tribulations in his quest to climb the corporate ranks, and as Edward settled in to watch, a thought crept unbidden into his mind. Where did Rita get the idea of The Wild Weaver from? The story genre most popular with collectors these days was not thriller, but romance, so the agency had been requiring all of its writers to consume romantic content for artistic inspiration. There was nothing in either the mandatory reading or the watch lists that could have even come close to inspiring the story of an imprisoned weaver and her “gaunt-cheeked captor.” 

Edward started to ponder more on this most perplexing thing, his mind swirling with fleeting images of paper, ink, and Rita’s tears. But the art-con streamie playing out before him was far too amusing not to give his full attention to, and as he felt the soothing safe rumble of the road beneath his body, his question soon receded into the distance beyond his caring.