Mémé

Juliana Rew

Angela glanced at the 16th century painting of St. Sebastian on the wall opposite. Dark blood seeped from the arrows pinning the martyr to a tree. She swallowed a sip of her latte, trying to figure out when it all went pear-shaped.

The poor sap didn’t know what he was getting himself into. Neither did I.

She turned her attention back to this persistent young networker. He’d waited a long time for a free slot at the Salon, and he was going to get his due, even if the old lady might be senile.

“Please, Mémé. Can you help me? I’ve run into a problem with my work,” he cajoled, pulling a chair up to sit knee-to-knee.

Angela tucked a wisp of thinning silver hair behind her ears. Didn’t even make a decent braid any more. Maybe it was time to cut it all off. Although she was an Elder, Angela was sure she couldn’t be of much use. She certainly didn’t feel all that wise.

“Yes, of course, my child. That’s what I’m here for.”

“Thank you so much, Mémé. It’s an honor to even be talking with you, much less actually getting some of your valuable time.”

No problem. You get what you pay for, kid, she thought.

Angela’s hours had been getting longer lately, with dozens of the youngsters clamoring for advice from an experienced Elder. The Megadepression was deepening, and it hit the youngest the hardest. Some couldn’t find meaningful work, while others were swamped with too much to do as their fellows were cut off by the AIs. And just last night, an explosion had rocked the North American Consolidated headquarters building downtown, signs of increasing unrest.

Angela sighed. God, she missed the government. Well, it couldn’t be helped. The economy ran in cycles, and with each turn of the cycle, profits remained the same, or even increased, but opportunities dried up. Still, for the past two decades, they had the corporate AIs to thank for keeping things on an even keel, meting out resources fairly, and making sure that everyone was properly fed, clothed, housed, and, most importantly, entertained. But now it all rested on her shoulders.

Finally, eight o’clock rolled around, and a young man in a tailored suit stood up and clapped for attention.

“Alright, everyone, time to go,” Raymie said. “Mémé needs her rest.” There was a bit of grumbling, but the fledgling self-executive-officers respectfully rose to leave, most touching the Elder and thanking her on their way out. Angela appreciated the way Raymie took care of her, especially with all the hooligans about lately. Raymie only admitted the cream of the crop.

Raymie Sturtevant, age 19, started it all when he posted a sentimental video about his grandparents, describing how much he missed them. Ten years earlier, a new strain of influenza had wiped out many older citizens. Angela was among the lucky few still alive on the planet in her age bracket. She heard her doorbell ring.

“God, I hope it’s not another damned religious missionary,” she muttered, getting stiffly to her feet and hobbling to the door. It wasn’t a missionary.

A sturdy-looking young man stood on her doorstep, holding a snow shovel. Raymie wore a plaid wool jacket, insulated rubber boots, and fur-flapped hunting hat, the latest fashion. He offered to do her walk, and she invited him in for cocoa.

Raymie set down the cup and wiped off the marshmallow moustache with obvious relish. “I’m a little nervous about cold-calling like this, but I’d like to propose a little enterprise to you,” he said. “Mémé – Do you mind if I call you Mémé?”

“I guess I don’t mind. What does it mean? Is it someone you know?”

“It’s the French nickname for “grandma,’” Raymie said. “With you as spokesperson we could create a new social phenomenon.”

“Are you trying to set up a money-making business?” she asked.

“Yes, Mémé, with me as SEO. But I don’t think there would be much money in it for anyone. The AIs wouldn’t allow it. But there could be a lot of recognition.”

“That’s flattering, but I was taught never to do anything for free… Alright, I’ll do it, but I want some kind of token payment, even if it’s just to shovel my walk.”

“That’s great, Mémé. I’m sure anyone would be happy to trade something for your wisdom. We all want to know the secret of your happiness.”

He had a point. She was happy. Angela could lay claim to the title “retired,” rather than “unemployed.” It seemed to make a huge difference. Angela was free to do whatever she felt like. She became more productive with each passing year, writing speculative stories, creating digital art, and composing music. Via crafty bartering, she had acquired some very fine original oils. She’d never had so much fun in her life.

Angela decided she actually liked the name “Mémé.” It sounded like m’aimée – “my beloved.” And she liked Raymie. Maybe he was the last piece of the jigsaw puzzle that is a good life. He would be like a grandchild. Yes, a grandchild.

Angela vaguely regretted not having children to share her old age, but it was too late now. With her busy career, it never was an auspicious time to have children. Youth was a precious commodity, though, and kids like Raymie were especially adept at innovation. But the surprise was that old people were also coming back into vogue.

Angela began noticing that people stared at her, apparently fascinated with her gray hair and wrinkled skin. She had thought people would be disgusted by age, as they had been in her youth, but she was speechless when people began to treat her with deference and respect. Before the flu outbreak, she herself couldn’t stomach growing old, and spent many hours in virtual reality, where she looked and stayed as young as she felt.

Raymie proved to be an industrious lad, finding clients for Mémé and bringing them to her living room.

“Raymie, I could just talk to people on the network, you know,” Angela said.

“I know, Mémé. But this is what everyone wants. A feeling of connection with real people.”

Mémé’s Salon, as it became known, opened as a free meeting place for adventurous entrepreneurs to talk over ideas and stay hydrated. Raymie had truckloads of cocoa, tea, and coffee delivered to Angela’s back door every week. “I’ve become an accomplished barrista,” Angela told him, laughing. She even uncorked a few bottles of champagne for those so inclined.

Raymie picked her up one day a few months later and announced, “I’ve got a surprise for you.” A surprise indeed; it was a whole floor in an old office building that had been converted to condo lofts.

“I like the elevator,” Angela said, unconsciously rubbing her bad hip.

“Yes, we don’t want you to have to climb stairs, Mémé,” Raymie said. “And all the utilities and maintenance are included. You won’t have to mow lawns or shovel snow.”

“So, is this Salon thing actually a going concern now?” Angela asked. “How did you manage all this without money? Can I afford it?” While relatively well off, she was poor in comparison to the few who owned all of the robotic infrastructure. Although the super-rich owners of North American Consolidated seemed content to trickle down a little wealth to their fellow corporate citizens, they maintained monopoly control of the resources and real economic power, all administered by their massive distributed artificial intelligence system.

Angela once knew those computing capabilities first-hand. She was one of the last to have a real job, as NAC’s chief IT officer, presenting economic plans, projections, and tax shelter gains to the owners and Board of Trustees. Angela lost her job when the Board disbanded itself after deciding it was no longer needed. It hadn’t even held an annual meeting in over five years. She received a fat retirement package and lifelong pension with annuity. She was not yet 50.

Nowadays, only a few even remembered what it was like to have a job. Most people didn’t even know that North American Consolidated even existed, much less that it ran everyone’s lives.

“Have you found an investor with deep pockets?” Angela asked Raymie, knowing that could only be NAC.

“Well, yes and no. All the social activity has caught the attention of NAC’s administrative AIs, and they contacted me to ask what we were up to. Apparently they know who you are. They still have your personnel file. When I explained the Salon to them, they said they wanted in.”

“So NAC’s robots are keeping close tabs?” Mémé asked, not totally surprised, but a little shocked. She’d always thought the AIs were doing a smash-up job, considering all they had to do. “You know, I feel a certain sense of dis-ease at being deemed trustworthy enough to be singled out for extra compensation.”

“Well, they still need to get the approval of the owners for large public outlays, but, in a nutshell, yes, they are running things.”

“So, we’re getting paid, then?” Angela asked, ever conscious of remuneration.

“Umm, not money, but things like the Salon supplies and the new digs.”

“Well, I suppose I could tolerate being a “kept woman,’” Angela quipped. She guessed Raymie didn’t know what she was talking about. Folks didn’t need to prostitute themselves these days. But she was going to take this opportunity to cut loose once in a while.

Mémé became everyone’s grandmother.

She and Raymie had been turning her followers into “entrepreneurs,” devising activities that might make a little extra under-the-table cash and calling them “small business.” But none of these were new ideas.

Discouraged, she called Raymie in.

“I haven’t really come up with a way to reinvent work. The best I can do is simply to help people remember the past. Do you think that sounds too lame?

“Anyone can just look things up in the databank. But databanks are not very good at remembering how ordinary people lived and what they thought. Even famous historical novels with astounding adventures and fantastical plots gloss over the everyday lives of their protagonists. By definition, everyday life is too mundane to bother mentioning.

“I know it’s not sexy, but if nothing else,” Angela added, “remembering might help people avoid repeating mistakes and free them to think in new directions. What do you think?”

“You’re preaching to the converted, Mémé,” Raymie said.

Angela looked down through the window at the crowds lined up outside her door. Even the new loft was too small.

“Hello, Mémé. I hope I’m not intruding,” the young woman said, holding out a plate of cookies. Her right hand was wrapped in bandages. “I just thought you might need some extra food in case it’s hard for you to get out. And I was hoping you could remember if this is the way cookies tasted when you were young. I was thinking of opening a co-op bakery.”

“What happened to your hand?” Meme asked.

“Flying glass,” the girl said. “Somebody left a little gift on the pedestrian mall, and I wasn’t paying attention. Usually I’m able to avoid stuff like that, but I forgot to check in with my network. I was just thinking about coming here with your cookies.”

The night after the first young people had come to her, Angela had cried, privately. They’d seen Raymie’s mushy videos and thought they were helping their Mémé, not realizing they were really asking for her help. She was alternately amazed and devastated – amazed to be an object of esteem, and devastated to be a crone.

The girl busily attended her social connections device, while Angela tasted a cookie. Poor thing doesn’t know that humans can’t multitask worth beans compared to the AIs, she thought. The shortbread was tasty, sort of like the Pecan Sandies she remembered from her childhood. As it dissolved on her tongue, she felt an inexplicable upwelling of love for this seemingly clueless but adorable young lady. She licked her lips.

“I think you’ve produced a masterpiece, sweetheart,” she pronounced.

“Thanks, Mémé! I worked really hard to modify the recipes I researched until it’s as you remembered. I’ll be sure to post this on the network.”

Raymie used his social networking expertise to press for new policies based on the reminisces of Mémé and her contemporaries. The rich people who owned the networks had little knowledge of how things ran day to day, so they delegated the problem to NAC’s AIs. The AIs indicated that they could implement policies set by any authorized entities.

“Fine,” the rich owners said, “we authorize the newly established Council of Elders to set policy.”

Angela was thrilled to be back in charge again. At first.

The AIs catered to any and all of the Elders’ retro whims, until economic problems began to set in. A long-lasting drought reduced food production, and several natural disasters required expensive infrastructure repairs. Electronic overtrading led to a market crash, and the attitude of the owners turned ugly. They threatened to take more control from the AIs.

“The Elders are going to have to regulate this situation,” they said, shutting off funding for their own computing systems. Without full maintenance, the AIs suffered more downtime. They managed as best they could by walling off broken portions of themselves.

The damaged partitions turned out to be the sectors handling the trickledown pipeline to the masses. The AIs supplied fewer and fewer resources to the regular citizenry. The situation seemed to feed on itself, and the economy slumped into a depression.

Raymie had been pressing her lately to write her memoirs. He wanted to turn it into a biopic. Angela bought a stack of parchment and began to write with the antique fountain pen Raymie had given her.

I used to be smart-alecky and opinionated, especially about politics, she began, … but political parties don’t even exist any more.

She crumpled up the page, and reached for another sheet. The dry skin on her finger caught on the edge, causing her to cry out involuntarily. The paper cut was shallow, but it hurt like hell. She stuck her finger in her mouth and waited for the bleeding to stop.

It’s no good. My role has been reduced to that of cheerleader to the suffering masses. I can’t fight my natural tendency to be hopeful and encouraging. It’s the curse of old people to grow more optimistic. I’ve got to snap out of it somehow. If I’m going to be any good at all, I’ve got to become more like my old nasty self, when I was good at getting things done. My old-person positivism is killing people, damn it. She began to hate the algorithms she’d helped design herself.

Although she’d been treated kindly by the owners nearly 20 years ago, Angela decided the time was right to betray her old bosses at NAC. She told them she agreed with them that it was all the fault of the AIs. She advised that what should be done was to return the economy to the way it had operated before the robots and AIs ran everything.

“Instead of stasis, I think we should go back to economic cycles,” she pronounced, “where people do better materially during boom periods, and they work harder during busts. Things just aren’t bad enough for people to get off their butts and do something to get things back on track!”

“Things need to get worse,” she argued. “Not just a depression, but a Megadepression.” That should really shake things up.

“And here’s the best part,” she told the owners. “I’ll happily take the blame.”

She studied the concept of empathy – voluntary behavior intended to benefit others – and declared it off-limits in herself. She had to make herself unhappy somehow and pass it forward. First to go into the junk pile was the gold clock NAC had given her for “25 Years of Loyal Service.” She began wearing a hair shirt like she had read that religious leaders in the middle ages did to torture themselves into humility. She bought an antique pica doble, the double goad used in humanity’s more barbaric days to enrage bulls in the ring. She mounted it on the wall as a reminder. And last but not least, she told a confused Raymie that henceforth the Salon would be replaced by lectures about the perils of putting all their trust in machines and algorithms.

“Are you sure, Mémé? No problem, I’ll put out a new agenda for tonight,” he said.

Angela called a conference with the AIs to deliver her latest instructions.

“Young people who find ways to be productive to society, like Raymie, will be deemed ‘relevant,’” she decreed. “The rest are to receive fewer benefits. Also, if you see me engage in excessively empathetic behavior, you are to assume authority and put things on a more rational keel.”

The AIs readily agreed to carry out her directives. Angela knew they were smarting from the owners’ latest criticism and wanted to get back in their good graces.

“Monitoring is in place, Angela,” the disembodied voice in her apartment reported.

“Noted – and call me Mémé, you damn uppity AI,” she snapped. How strange to be comforted by an enveloping sense of paranoia.

Echoing sirens screeched as emergency vehicles barreled down the street outside the Salon. Raymie peeked through the blinds and spotted a plume of smoke rising from the next block. Alarmed, he cleared out the loft early, promising to open again next week.

“Now, promise to lock the door after me, Mémé,” he said as he left.

It was working. People were beginning to remember how it felt when people were treated as less valuable than sex, profits, and machines. They would recall the meaning of suffering, sacrifice, and passion.

“Time to write my permanent resignation,” she said. “I’ve put it off long enough.” Angela sat down to write the ending to her story, her frail body dwarfed by the behemoth oak executive desk. Her memoirs would also serve as her last will and testament. She knew Raymie would miss her dreadfully, so she wouldn’t give him the chance to talk her out of it. Besides, he had a friend to keep him company now. He really was a lovely boy.

She read the final lines aloud: “That’s about it. You’re on your own now, kiddos. Invent your own future. And fight the power! All my love, your Mémé.”

But as she was about to sign her name, her sentimental nature hijacked her again.

“God, I’m going about this all wrong,” she mumbled, having second thoughts. “Somebody’s got to help these poor…” Just then, the doorbell rang.

She smiled and thought Raymie must have forgotten something. She fumbled for her walker and hurried to answer the door. She pushed down on the ergonomic door handle and pulled. It wasn’t Raymie.

After the funeral, Raymie returned to Angela’s loft. Thousands had turned out for Mémé’s service, and millions more had watched it online, caught up in shared grief. He wished he could have been able to stop the assassination. He’d known about the threats from the worker-anarchists, but he couldn’t fathom someone actually trying to kill Mémé.

He walked around the loft, taking one last look at Mémé’s Salon. Her taste in art was a bit eclectic, some might say weird, like the Hieronymous Bosch painting depicting Hell, and the whips and the goads, but she was a true historian, after all. He ordered a truck to disperse her possessions to the many libraries, museums, and galleries that would be jockeying for them. He hoped that someday he’d be able to hit upon another meme to take the world by storm. It would be a tall order to ever replace Mémé.

The red eye of the security camera watched Raymie lock up. Raymie wondered briefly why the AIs hadn’t alerted the authorities about Mémé’s attack that day. He shrugged, and the thought passed.

Juliana Rew is a software engineer and former science and technical writer for the National Center for Atmospheric Research in Boulder, Colorado. She has recent stories in Stupefying Stories, The Colored Lens, Mad Scientist Journal, Perihelion SF, and others . Her author website is julianarew.com. She has workshopped with Cat Rambo and is a member of SFWA. Tweet her @julirew