In a world of total abundance, the only luxury left is other people…
The pilot strode back into the cabin to inform Hargreaves and his gathered entourage that they would be landing in Thessaloniki shortly.
“Some chop on the way in,” he remarked, “but she can handle it.”
The pilot’s job was purely ceremonial. Planes had flown themselves with total autonomy for fifty years. He returned to the flight deck to watch the aircraft make the final approach.
Besides Hargreaves, there were eleven others in the cabin: George Pritchard, his valet; Crispin Vale, his private secretary; Edward Cartwright, his first footman; Mallory, second footman; a chaplain; Dr. Finch, his personal physician; an equerry; Demetrios, his local interpreter; two porters, and Beatrice, the reader, whose sole function was to read aloud in the evenings. Two grooms had gone ahead with the horses.
The plane was an extravagance. Not in the cost to build it – since the Automation, machine-built things cost next to nothing – but because of its contents. Flying Hargreaves’ retinue across the Atlantic alone had cost him 110 human-hours. Four and a half human days; more than many people would spend in a year.
For Hargreaves, it was a pittance. He was the eighth most time-rich man on Earth. Right behind Alexander Voss.
Edward, the footman, sat in one of the jump seats holding Hargreaves’ gloves and coat. Across from him, Pritchard sat next to Hargreaves. Valets were Personal Service; footmen were Household. The distinction amounted to three times the hourly rate. Edward had heard that Pritchard had recently retained a housekeeper of his own. Two days a week, even. He had disliked him ever since.
As the plane touched down into the early hours of the Greek morning, something flickered invisibly on Pritchard’s retina. Forty-three degrees outside.
“The coat, Cartwright.”
Edward handed it over.
Pritchard expertly draped it over Hargreaves’ shoulders as he stood up.
Three vintage Mercedes sedans waited expectantly on the tarmac. The porters leapt into action as Pritchard conferred via the interpreter with Greek customs officials.
Baxter opened the rear door of the lead car.
“Good morning, sir.”
“How long to Ouranoupoli, Baxter?”
Something shifted imperceptibly in Baxter’s eyes.
“Two hours and twelve minutes, sir.”
Hargreaves’ valet and secretary joined him in the lead car.
The Mercedes, of course, was perfectly capable of driving itself. Edward watched Baxter settle behind the wheel anyway.
The two footmen Edward and Mallory joined Demetrios and Dr. Finch in the second car.
The staff relaxed, having spent long hours on the plane in the company of their boss. Edward watched through the window as the sleek black outline of the lead Mercedes tore into the chilly Greek morning.
Baxter, the chauffeur, cost considerably more than the car he drove. Edward had learned the explanation in school. When the Automation had hit fifty years earlier, machines had gained the ability to do anything, so everything they could do had become almost free. Food, housing, medicine, transport, education, computation, entertainment – all delivered at a marginal cost approaching zero. The only remaining scarce good was human time and attention. And this was becoming scarcer by the year. The population kept shrinking, and those who remained preferred to tap into their neural feeds rather than work.
Economists called the result the Baumol terminus. Edward understood it more viscerally. In this age of complete abundance, Pritchard could afford a housekeeper and he could not. Among the ultra-rich, the Baumol terminus had produced a curious revival of the Victorian household, down to the footmen, readers, and valets.
A message from Vale appeared to the staff in the trailing vehicles.
ALL DIAMONITIRIA CONFIRMED
MISS MARLOWE WILL REMAIN
“That’s fantastic news,” said Edward, relieved that he would join the final stage of the pilgrimage. “It’s unusual of the monks to admit such a large traveling party, especially with none of us being eastern orthodox.”
“All except Beatrice, poor thing,” said Mallory.
Demetrios shrugged. “The Panagia1 is the only woman on Athos.”
Women were not permitted on Mount Athos. This had been an unbroken rule since the tenth century. The Athonites regarded their peninsula as the Garden of Theotokos,2 and the Virgin Mary as its patroness was the sole woman who could lay a claim upon it.
“Still. Across the Atlantic to read for one evening and then be abandoned in Ouranoupoli,” said Mallory.
“She is being paid for her time, like all of us,” said the physician.
Edward supposed he had a point. They were lucky, after all. Working for Hargreaves had given them advantages few could dream of. A chance at becoming net time importers one day.
The pink tendrils of dawn broke over the hills as the convoy continued along the dusty roads. Olive trees nearby struggled up from the rocky soil.
Mallory glanced at the lead car. “Does he really have to collect it himself?” he asked.
Edward shrugged.
Apparently he did. The rules on Athos had outlived the Byzantine Empire, the Ottomans, the Kingdom of Greece and the Republic. They could survive an itinerant billionaire. Hargreaves’ staff had planned for this day for decades, but once it arrived, he still had to present himself to the office and collect his paper permit.
Their retinal displays lit up again.
VALE:
MR HARGREAVES WILL NOT REQUIRE A STOP
BREAKFAST AFTER EMBARKATION
They rode in silence for a while.
“You know Voss took another companion this month,” remarked the physician.
Edward looked over. “Another?”
“A second one. Full time. Exclusive.”
Edward winced. Voss was already ahead of Hargreaves in the Human 100. This would widen the gap.
“The boss know?”
“Oh, he knows,” said Dr. Finch darkly.
“Music?” asked Mallory, eager to change the subject.
“Markou is giving a concert in Vienna right now,” replied Dr. Finch.
The piano filled the cabin, the acoustics of the live performance replicated perfectly by the vintage car.
Edward recognized it immediately. Chopin’s Prelude in D-flat major. Desperately sad. Written during a miserable winter the composer spent in a remote monastery in Mallorca.
Uncanny, he thought.
Elena Markou was seventy-three and played without augmentation. She was one of the most in-demand pianists in the world, having attained a lifetime synthetic contribution of only 3.1 percent. She had used machine assistance as a child. Everyone had, in those days.
A machine could play a prelude perfectly. Long before the Automation, a piano could already perform without a pianist. But there was something thrilling about watching a human do it – and knowing how much accumulated work was embodied in the sound.
“She has over sixty-thousand verified unaugmented hours,” said Dr. Finch.
“What is it that Picasso said,” mused Edward. “It took me four years to paint like Raphael, but a lifetime to paint like a child.”
Mallory stirred. “Thomas is learning that piece.”
This gave Edward a jolt. He had forgotten about Mallory’s eccentricity. A child. Unimaginably time expensive.
“Your boy?” asked Edward.
“Yes. He’s six now.”
“Lessons? Human?”
“We have an instructor that comes every two weeks. He’s highly embodied. Seventy-five percent.”
Demetrios let out a low whistle.
Mallory folded his arms. “Thomas has talent. It’s worth it. And he enjoys it.”
Edward did the math in his head. An hour every fortnight. Twenty-six human hours a year. Before one counted all the other thousands of hours Mallory was pouring into the child simply by being his father. An astonishing luxury for a second footman. He wondered what Mallory was forgoing in order to afford the lessons.
The first notes of Chopin’s Prelude in E minor filled the silence.
They drove on through the hours of early morning as the landscape unfolded ahead of them. The convoy wound through lush forests of pine and cypress, catching occasional glimpses of the Aegean silvering below.
Edward was lost in thought, unsettled by Mallory’s sacrifice. He wondered when he would hear back about his potential promotion to Junior Private Secretary. Personal Service paid considerably better than Household. If he got it, he could improve his Human Balance. Within a year, perhaps, he could afford to retain a gardener. Part time, of course.
Sofia was already in the Personal Service, as governess to the Duhamel children. She had a human tennis instructor and was occasionally able to dine at restaurants with embodiment scores above 50. Edward struggled with his girlfriend’s professional success. He compulsively checked for notifications.
He thought of their last conversation before his trip to Greece. You have a good life, she had told him. You enjoy your work. You have me. Your mother is well. You can have almost anything you want.
Almost, he had said.
As the convoy approached Ouranoupoli, they passed two young men waiting by the side of the road. They had the slack expressions and unfocused eyes of people deep in their neural feeds. Mallory stared through the window.
“Good God.”
Edward followed his gaze.
The men might have been arguing philosophy, watching films composed uniquely for them, consuming pornography that was tailored precisely to their fantasies, or chatting with friends. Either way, they were doing it in the open.
“In public too,” Edward said. “No shame.”
“You foreigners are snobs,” said Demetrios. “You have interfaces.”
“That’s different.”
Edward felt it plainly was. Their attachments were professional: shallow, discreet, and necessary for service. Certainly not neural. Pritchard, for all his polish, was probably more augmented than any of the junior staff. But no guest would ever know it.
Professionals used machines. Gentlemen relied on professionals.
Edward thought unhappily of his mother in Adelaide. She lived alone in a fully automated house and had gone neural years ago. Everything was taken care of: cooking and cleaning, her health, travel. The system remembered everything she forgot and kept her company. She told Edward that she had never been happier.
Most people lived that way now. His mother, those Greek boys on the street, everyone. Fewer than four billion left and falling every year, and hardly any of them worked at all.
Ouranoupoli came into view in mid-morning, a small town of red-roofed buildings perched on the coast. A large seaside fort from the Byzantine era loomed over the town. If not for the monks and the pilgrims, it too might have stood empty, like so many other towns in the Greek countryside.
The message came in from Vale. Edward and his colleagues stiffened and prepared to carry out their duties.
ARRIVAL IN THREE MINUTES
As footman, Edward’s job was mainly to be physically present and look sharp, so he relished the opportunity to actually do something.
As the lead car pulled to a stop outside the Pilgrims’ Bureau, Edward was already outside and opening the door.
Hargreaves emerged, blinking. Pritchard handed him an identification card.
“The system is a bit antiquated. You’ll need to present it yourself, sir.”
Hargreaves looked disdainfully at the small queue assembled outside the administrative building.
“Personally?”
“I’m afraid so, sir.”
Hargreaves strode over and joined the line. The rest of his staff fell in behind him, pilgrims themselves too. The neural-linked bureaucrat handed each of them their Diamonitiria.3
As they stepped onto the ferry, Hargreaves turned to Beatrice.
“Sorry to leave you, Miss Marlowe. Enjoy your time in Ouranoupoli.”
She smiled. “I hope the journey proves worthwhile, sir.”
The next morning, the group left the monastery before sunrise. They had received the same hospitality as every other pilgrim: raki, coffee, and loukoumi4 from the guest master; Vespers; a silent supper of lentils, olives and bread while a monk read from the Fathers; beds in the pilgrims’ quarters with no special accommodations even for Hargreaves.
They had risen before dawn for Orthros5 and the Divine Liturgy. Edward wasn’t sure the boss was a God-fearing man at all. He certainly wasn’t Greek Orthodox. Nevertheless, he thought Hargreaves had borne the whole thing remarkably well.
There was only one way to reach Father Makarios’ kellion6 from the main monastery: a long, narrow old mule track that wound up the mountain.
The monastery had supplied two mules. Hargreaves rode one. The other carried provisions for the day trip. Everyone else walked. They climbed into the chilly early-morning mists of autumn. The mules picked their way through the damp path carefully.
Hargreaves rode at the head of the party, a groom leading his mule. Pritchard and Vale followed closely. The equerry came behind, idle. His expertise was thoroughbreds. The horses had been left in Ouranoupoli with Beatrice, the monastery having supplied its own. Edward, Mallory, Demetrios, and Dr. Finch walked further behind, with the porters and the other mule in the rear. The chaplain had stayed behind at the monastery, bemused by the whole experience. Edward thought this was tactful.
A medical drone idled silently overhead. Vale had spent months negotiating with the Athonite Holy Community to get it approved.
The group slowly trudged uphill through the dense forest of chestnut and oak. As they walked, the sun slowly burned away the mists and the landscape opened up beneath them, the Aegean a glittering azure far below. From way off they heard the faint wooden thump of the semantron,7 calling the monks to their daily obediences.
As they continued, the group thinned out and Edward and his companions found themselves out of Hargreaves’ earshot.
“There was a monk here once,” said Demetrios as they climbed. “Name of Mihailo Tolotos. They brought him to Athos as an orphan. Eighty-two when he died. Never saw a woman.”
“Extraordinary,” said Dr. Finch. “Kept him out of trouble I suppose.”
One of the porters glanced up at the drone. It could have carried everyone’s packs without dropping an inch.
“No one’s stopping you from giving it the bag,” remarked Edward.
“I’m a porter,” said the porter, looking offended.
Mallory waited until Hargreaves had disappeared around a bend ahead.
“So what is it with this monk, anyway?”
Demetrios shot him a look. “You really don’t know?”
“I know that he’s famous.”
“Famous?” said Demetrios. “My friend, he the most expensive man on earth.”
Mallory laughed. “For what?”
Father Makarios was ninety-seven and had not left Athos since he was seventeen. He had never been augmented. He had never consulted machine intelligence nor had any of his teachers. He rarely encountered the outside world. The Registry estimated his human embodiment at 99.9999 percent. He had the purest provenance on the planet.
The Automation had changed life outside. Makarios’ days – prayer, fasting, study, liturgy – were the same.
“What’s an hour cost?” asked Mallory.
“Who knows? Three hundred million someone offered the monastery, some years ago,” said Demetrios. “They said no.”
Edward thought of Elena Markou, the world-famous pianist. Sixty thousand verified hours at the piano. Makarios had accumulated over one hundred thousand hours of contemplation, study, and prayer. Without once interacting with a machine.
“What do people want it for?”
“Why does anyone go to a geronda? To talk. Spiritual counsel.”
Father Makarios had spent his life in solitude. His abbot required him to receive the occasional pilgrim as an obedience. One every ecclesiastical month, health and fasts permitting. That was the entire annual supply. Ten hours of conversation, give or take.
Ahead, Hargreaves appeared briefly through a gap in the trees. The conversation stopped until he was out of sight again.
Mallory resumed his questioning. “So how did the boss get one?”
Demetrios looked at Edward. “Father Makarios cannot be bought. He owns nothing.”
Edward knew.
“He waited in line. Twenty-two years.”
Mallory looked puzzled. “What do you mean? The boss never waits in line.”
The rule had been the same for centuries. The monastery did not make appointments. If you wanted an audience, a petitioner had to wait. Or have someone wait in their place.
Hargreaves’ office had maintained an elaborate relay for two decades. One man would come to Athos, hold the place for the duration of his permit, and be replaced. They had maintained this expensive chain, unbroken, for the entire period.
“What if someone misses the ferry?”
“Back of the line.”
Over the years, Hargreaves had moved up a few places due to death, bankruptcy, and in one remarkable case, simple loss of interest. It was finally his turn.
Mallory was quiet for a moment.
“How many human-hours?”
Edward had worked it out. “A hundred and ninety thousand.”
“To get one,” added Demetrios.
The group marched along in silence, contemplating this figure.
Dr. Finch had been listening quietly.
“What does Mr. Hargreaves want to know so badly, anyway?”
No one answered.
Mallory turned to Edward. “You don’t know?”
“It’s not household business. I’d be shocked if even Pritchard knew. And he knows everything.”
Dr. Finch glanced towards the trail ahead.
“Twenty-two years. Must be one hell of a question.”
The party at the front came to a stop.
Demetrios pointed at the kellion.
“There.”
A small whitewashed square building perched on a clifftop overlooking the Aegean. Edward had expected something more. There was nothing to suggest that the world’s most expensive hour was waiting inside.
Hargreaves dismounted. Demetrios and Edward hurried forward to join him.
After twenty-two years, Augustus Hargreaves had reached the front of the line.
Gingerly, Hargreaves swung the weathered oak door open and crept inside, Demetrios following. Edward waited outside at rapt attention. The rest of the group rested under a cypress grove nearby.
Edward’s duties required him to remain just outside the door, which he regarded as professional permission to eavesdrop. He was quietly thrilled.
Through the gaps in the ancient door, Edward heard the monk’s faint voice, and Demetrios translating.
“Η ευλογία της Παναγίας,” said the monk.
“He’s offering you the blessing of the Virgin Mary,” Demetrios translated.
“Father,” said Hargreaves, bowing. “Thank you for receiving me.”
“Welcome, pilgrim. You’ve come a long way.”
Hargreaves had prepared. His cognition team had simulated billions of possible conversations with Makarios and identified the question most likely to produce a transformative inner experience. He had drilled it with the Chaplain dozens of times.
He did not ask the question.
Finally, he said, “Father, I have everything. And I am not happy.”
Makarios considered this.
Eventually, he answered.
“What do you lack?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Nothing I can name.”
Another silence.
“Then what do you want?”
Reluctantly, Hargreaves gave him the truth.
“More.”
“More what?”
“More people.”
Hargreaves began to explain. In the wider world, there was abundance. Anything one might want was available. Water, food, shelter, medicine. Poverty was extinct.
“Everyone has these things?”
“Essentially.”
“This is wonderful,” said the monk, with real joy in his voice.
“Δόξα τω Θεώ.”
“Glory to God,” translated Demetrios.
“Indeed.”
Hargreaves went on. The old distinctions had not vanished. Class, affluence, whatever you wanted to call it. They had taken a new form, this time based not on property or money or things but on people. People were scarce. He explained the Human Balance, the Human 100, even Voss.
“My rival is ahead of me. He has three hundred and twenty.”
“Three hundred and twenty what?”
“People. In his household.”
“And you have?”
“Three hundred and twelve. Some of them are here with me.”
“These eight people,” Makarios said. “Do you know them?”
“No.”
“And do they know you?”
“They may have heard of me.”
“How long have they troubled you?”
“Years.”
Makarios thought for a second.
“Tell me again. You count the hours people give you?”
“Of course.”
“And the hours you have given to these eight people?”
“No, of course not. That’s not how Human Balance is calculated.”
The monk was quiet.
“Have the years cost you nothing?”
Hargreaves didn’t answer.
Outside, Edward was struggling to retain his composure. He thought of his own Human Balance, which he checked obsessively every morning. Pritchard’s housekeeper. Sofia and her tennis lessons. Beatrice waiting in town. Mallory’s son learning the piano.
He thought of all the nights he had pined for the promotion so he could afford an assistant of his own. The small resentments he carried towards those who had more. He thought of his mother in Adelaide.
He understood everything. Hargreaves, with his small army, undone by eight strangers he had never met. A forbidden thought surfaced. Pathetic, he thought. To have everything. And have your happiness ruined by a rival’s staffing decisions.
Inside, there was momentary quiet.
Edward’s wearable buzzed twice, snapping him out of his reverie. Household business.
VALE:
APPOINTMENT CONFIRMED – JUNIOR PRIVATE SECRETARY
PERSONAL SERVICE, GRADE III
He had done the math before. He knew to the decimal the impact the promotion would have on his Human Balance. Sofia would be thrilled. Edward could hardly contain himself.
He stood rigidly at the door with his hands behind his back in the correct manner and thought to himself Thursdays. Perhaps even Thursdays and Sundays. He was no longer listening in on the conversation inside the cool dark room.
Three months later, on a Thursday morning, Edward stayed home. He had cleared it with Vale a month prior and worked four extra hours the previous Saturday to make up for it. Today was special.
The woman arrived at nine on the dot. Edward had contracted for her through a reputable house. Two hours weekly.
“Good morning, sir.”
Edward had prepared himself for this but was undone anyway.
Sir. From a person. A person he was paying.
The house was of course in pristine condition. It was fully automated. The laundry was folded. Breakfast was made and the coffee was hot.
“Is there anything in particular you’d like me to see to,” she asked.
There was not. There had never been anything.
Edward remembered the old man on the cliffside.
What do you lack?
Nothing.
Edward noticed at that moment a curtain that was perhaps a half inch out of place. He turned off the home automation.
“That curtain. Do you mind?”
“By all means, sir.”
Edward Cartwright’s Human Balance was still deeply negative. But every Thursday, from nine until eleven, someone worked for him.
Read another short story from me:
Human in the Loop
At 4:38 pm, Martin Bell’s phone chimed gently. It was Gladys, his home intelligence system.
“All-Holy” in Greek, used to refer to the Virgin Mary in the Eastern Orthodox tradition
God-bearer or Mother of God. Refers to the Virgin Mary
The special entry permit required for pilgrims visiting Mount Athos
A soft, gelatinous dessert treat, similar to Turkish Delight
Morning prayer service in the Eastern Orthodox church
A small monastic dwelling on Mount Athos, often consisting of a house and chapel occupied by one or several monks
A wooden board struck rhythmically to summon Orthodox monks to worship or other duties
Didn't know what to expect but I liked this a lot and forwarded it to a friend. Thanks
Beautiful and very apt, that Athos would be the place the most irreconcilable from a universe where passions are limitless and abundant.