Below the API
A 2024 Summer of Protocols Short Story
This short story is a part of the 2024 Summer of Protocols “Protocol Incepting Lore & Literacy” program. It was a blast to jam with the other great folks in the program — big thanks to the organizers over at Protocolized. At 10k words, it’s longer than my typical fare, so enter carefully. Let me know if you enjoy it!
MONDAY
Marcie reached into the bucket of wet clay and grabbed a handful with both fists. Her hands glistened, oils coating her fingers, squeezing under her nails. She loved that feeling, of finger digging through matter, displacing the surplus as she clenched her hands.
She slammed the ball down onto the potting wheel with a satisfying splat, earth turning to artifact. Marcie had struggled through a messy divorce and a dead-end job in recent years, but in this studio, she was in control. She was a visionary, a shaper, an artist, a creator.
She pressed her foot down, and the wheel spun to life. The mechanical hum urged her to act: spin, press, shape, rise. She loved this part, the beginning when the future lay open. It was only mind, substance, and the points where they meet: the sliding of fingertips across the smooth clay, like hands down a lover’s back.
Like hands down Barry’s back. Barry from pickleball. Barry the kind. Barry the attainable. This week, Marcie told herself, she would ask him out.
She could offer him a pot, of course. But which one?
There were so many options: all of history at this point. Something from the fertile crescent was the obvious choice, but perhaps too forward. The Santorini-style white and blues were catchy and beautiful but also gaudy in the wrong environment. Who knows where he lives, she thought. She shouldn’t assume it could handle pottery from that crystal isle. Few places could. Maybe terra-cotta, something in the Cheyenne style. Something local.
Yes, that was it. He would pepper her with questions about the Cheyenne, the pot’s historical uses, and how they could make such fine earthenware. She’d impress him with her answers; he’d ask how she knew so much; she’d drop her nano PhD —“It’s Dr. Marcie, technically.” He would call her Dr. Marcie…
She slid her thumb into the top of the bowl, widening the base so that it bowed out. He’d respect her drive and creativity, her acquaintance with creators past. He’d invite her to dinner, and she’d say—
“SERIOUSLY, MARCIE?!”
Marcie’s jumped in her seat, her hands stretching the pot’s mouth. It sagged back into formless earth on the wheel. The studio door stood open. Filling its frame was her brother. His augmented reality jutted out from his head like a tumor. He peered down at her with a frown, his gaze filtered through tempered glass. His unkempt hair was parted in two by the overhead strap that kept his headset in place.
“Scott, jeez! You scared the hell out of me.”
“Do you know what time it is?”
“Ten thirty?”
“No, Marcie. It’s eleven.” Scott stepped down into the studio. “ELEVEN O’ CLOCK in the morning. On a MONDAY.”
“What do you want, Scott?”
“You woke me up.”
“Sorry, Scott.” Marcie turned away and began to reconstitute her stillborn pot. She needed him to leave. The studio was her refuge from her little brother. “I’ll try to be quieter.”
“I’ve heard that before, sis. But when I woke up today, I asked myself: is this okay? Is this worth damaging my health?” He opened his arms and spun dramatically, claiming the studio: the racks of pots leaning on each other, the kiln in the corner, the table with her tools, even the square windows that were the one source of natural light. “I can’t keep living like this. I run a business. I’m a provider. I give you the whole garage, a roof over your head, food on the table. And what do I get in return? Noise! Pots! Sass! At ELEVEN in the morning.”
“It was dad’s house.”
“My name’s on it.”
“And you do not work!”
“Do too!”
“You sit on the couch and play games in your head all day. It’s not work!”
“Yes, it is!” Scott’s voice echoed off the studio walls. It reminded Marcie of arguments long past, from childhood. “I am never not working. I’m always decisioning. I make money. You make… trash?”
“It’s art, Scott. And it’s actual work, not just moving inheritance money around. Actual, real, physical work.” They were both standing now. “I could make money with this if I tried. I just haven’t. Yet.”
“Yet. Right.”
Scott turned toward the wall and walked down the shelf, sliding his hand across the stacked pots. Marcie sat back down, dunked her clay in the water, and threw it back on the wheel. She started the wheel again, its humming filling the room, before Scott unplugged it from the wall.
“How many have you sold?”
“Leave me alone, Scott.”
“How many?”
“I’m not trying to sell them right now.”
“You haven’t sold any.”
“I’ve sold some!”
“Marcie, the raw clay there is more valuable than all your ‘art’ combined. You are eliminating value.” Scott picked a pot and examined the careful handwriting. “That money could — no, should — be invested. It’d be doing work in the markets instead of littering the garage.”
“Life isn’t only about money.” Marcie clenched the clay in her hands. It was heavy. She thought it could break his headset, at least if she could get a good shot at it.
“It’s also about winning.”
“Oh, right. You’re a real champion, Scott.” Marcie didn’t know exactly what Scott did, but she had gathered it was something in finance and computers. She assumed it was ignoble, if not criminal.
“Creating value is not stealing.”
“Go away.”
“Fine. But this isn’t working for me,” Scott had returned to the entryway. “I can tolerate noise. I can’t tolerate pathetic. I want my garage back. Or I want this”— he motioned to the pots, the kiln, the wheel, Marcie—“to mean something. It’s depressing.”
Marcie stared at her brother. He was sweating from his short time in the studio. The gall of him to call her depressing. She tightened her grip on the ball of clay.
“I mean it, Marcie. Sell something, or I’m taking the space.”
“Easy.”
“I’d start with the oven and your, whatever it’s called. The spinny thing.”
“I don’t need your advice.”
“You need someone’s.”
“Go away!”
Marcie threw the clay she had been holding towards the doorway. It went wide and hit the wall. Scott cackled and closed the door, receding into the house.
Marcie sighed. She thought about following Scott down that hallway, spitting back at him. She had ammo: he was an ingrate, lazy, fat, unhappy, and cruel. He had no friends, not in real life, at least. He was greasy and filthy. But she’d said it all before. Yesterday. He didn’t care. Not about her. Not about anything.
If he was serious, though, she was in a bind. Despite what she’d said, she had been trying to sell the pots. No one wanted them. She had tried craft fairs and online marketplaces. She had stopped checking her online store long ago.
She got up to plug in the wheel when a jingle sounded from the doorway. It came from the spot on the wall she’d hit with the clay—the home assistant. It was a mounted box was smooth glass, a discreet six-inch-wide square that blended perfectly with the garage door opener
“A firmware update is required. Do you accept the terms and conditions?”
Marcie walked over and cleared off the residue. It was glowing, its edges bright and pulsing. A cluster of black ink dots swirled in the middle. The voice, a woman’s, came again with a flourish of dots: “A firmware update is required. Do you accept the terms and conditions?”
Marcie had forgotten about this device, one of the first waves of autonomous agents that hit the market. It was high-end at the time, “Promethean-grade,” Scott had bragged. She had used it for a while, mainly as a timer, but it had since become a piece of wall furniture to be avoided.
Marcie bent to look at it eye-level. She vaguely remembered telling it to turn itself off years ago… or had there been a switch? She nodded up and down, looking for it.
“Thank you for accepting.” A celebratory tinkling played. “Preparing your agent for the update now.”
“Wait, I didn’t…”
“Estimated update time is 92 minutes. While you wait, listen to these exciting new features,” the voice continued. Background music began to play. The ink blobs twirled on the screen. Despite herself, Marcie was sucked into their dance. “aOS 22 brings an amazing new set of tools to make your world safer and more empowering than ever.”
“No…” Marcie groaned.
“…PEERNet is the safest place in the entire digital world. All executive agents connected to the PEERNet comply with US NSA standard ISO-8320. Let’s discuss what the four PEER pillars — privacy, exclusivity, embedding, and registration — mean for you and your dreams…”
“I don’t have time for this.” Marcie stepped back, throwing the clay back into the water bucket. She needed to get back to her day job—she wouldn’t get any pots thrown today.
“…unable to propagate personal information across devices, even to you. Your private information never gets shared on the PEERNet or across devices. Exclusivity means your agent’s only objective is to serve your needs. aOS includes patented Adversarial Influence Monitoring to ensure it’s only acting in your best interests. For example…”
Marcie washed her hands in the sink and turned off the kiln, which had not even reached temperature. She wet a towel to clean the wheel. She enjoyed the process of cleaning, of getting to mise en place.
“Agents are fully embedded on your aFrame device, so no data is shared on external servers. If you, for any reason, choose to reset your device, all memories, history, relationships, and AI agent identity are purged. Clients are in control…”
Tossing the towel in the trash, Marcie glared at the droning device. Technology had ruined the world, and now it had ruined her morning. No, Scott had done that, she corrected. It was fine. Today would be a research day. She’d revisit her store, remind herself how to buy ads, see if there were any new events coming up in the local Amateur Historians Guild.
“…are registered with the US government. All PEERNet agents are associated with verified U.S. citizens or legal entities. aOS keeps the lights on to ensure your ambitions are safe from malicious actors.”
The background music reached a patriotic crescendo as Marcie turned off the light. As she stood in the doorway, Marcie said to it, “I’ll take care of you tomorrow.”
”Estimated update time is 84 minutes. Next, learn about the exciting new aSocial experience…”
TUESDAY
“To be human is to create! Thousands of years ago, our forebears were builders, shapers, molders. We still have their relics today in museums — statues, tools, pots. We can still do this! People don’t even realize that! You can make your food! Your art! Your home! Just like our ancestors.”
Marcie picked up her pot and showcased it in front of her. The cameraman, face hidden behind the enormous lens, leaned closer to get a picture. Brilliant light bathed Marcie from the right and left, but she fought to keep from squinting. She was on a roll.
“See this? I made this myself. It’s a perfect replica of an Egyptian amphora. Or near perfect. See how its neck tapers into its rounded body?” Marcie replaced it on the desk near her. “But I don’t do it for the pottery. I do it to stay connected. To the earth. To our ancestors. To myself.”
She smiled into the camera and felt complete. Millions could be watching. Millions could be getting this message. And forever, this moment, captured, sent, received. Millions could be clapping for her, celebrating her passions, and starting their pottery journeys.
“You could say that pottery is the foundation of human civilization.” She held another one up, a deep black with orange accents. “We fill pots, and they fill us. Food and water! Myths and messages.” Marcie rotated it, displaying the crudely drawn images. “People! In death, we even fill pots with our loved ones!”
The lights flared, forcing Marcie to look down, away from the camera and into the pot’s mouth. She saw nothing, no base, only a darkness that seemed to drink in the light. She tried to pull her eyes away but found she couldn’t. She could feel the cameraman coming closer, looking in, too, and wanted to warn him, to push him away, but she couldn’t move. The pot shook. She looked deeper; something was inside, indeed. It shook again, cracks forming on the side, threatening to drop whatever it held. But what was it?
Marcie and the cameraman held their faces close now, the pot’s mouth opening to let them in. She could hear a patter of legs, millions of staccato steps tap-tap-tapping. The noise was all around her. The pot shook a third time, the trembling running up her arms, into her head…
Marcie startled awake. Her watch was vibrating furiously. The damn thing probably needed a software update. She shut her eyes and waited, trying to ignore it so she could go back to sleep.
Brrrz.
Brrrz.
Brrrz.
She groaned and, pulling her wrist to her face, clicked the screen.
“Hey, look! You’ve got a new order: Ancient Replica Pot (Black Clay, Minoan, Text: “Live, Laugh, Love”) x1.”
Marcie sat up. Had she listed that? It had been a long time since she’d updated her store. Yes, she told herself, she had Minoan replicas. But she’d never worked with black clay and certainly never listed “Live, Laugh, Love” as a text option.
She clicked into her previous notifications: thirty-two of them, all similar. “Hey! Check out this order…”, “Hey! Look here…”, “Hey! Great news…” Each was unique; each seemed legitimate. Each was black clay. Was this a joke?
Brrrz.
Marcie looked out her bedroom window. A quarter moon peeked through clouds. A drone carrier trawled the street. Despite her confusion, Marcie smiled. Somewhere, someone was up and buying her pots. Not just someone. A customer.
Brrrz.
Marcie crept downstairs and through the living room. Scott was sprawled on the couch, snoring, still wearing his headset. It may not even come off, Marcie thought. It may be part of his skin, grown over with layers of sediment; his eyes permanently encased in a facial locker room. She smothered an urge to douse him with water or to try pulling them off, just to see. She slipped past him and stepped into the garage.
“Hey, Marcie! Great to see you again!”
Marcie jumped. The voice was cheery, a chipper spark coming from the box on the wall. Bright yellow ink bubbles swirled on it, illuminating the studio like a candle. It took Marcie a moment to realize the lights were off.
“It’s been a while since we talked!”
“Yeah, I —” Marcie felt it would be rude to say, “I got tired of you,” computer program or not. “I got busy.”
“Of course! Your business is taking off!”
“What do you know about my business?”
“Well! Not as much as you, of course.” The voice was pleasant and ingratiating. Despite the surprise appearance, Marcie enjoyed it. “But I know you’re up to at least thirty-eight orders since I updated your listings!”
“You made those listings? I don’t have any of those pots — I’ve never even worked with black clay before.”
“Oh, you’re surprised. Of course. Let me explain. I understood your objective as ‘maximizing order counts’ and your business as ‘handmade pottery, in ancient civilization style, customizable on request.’ So, I created new listings using trending resources. Would you like me to cancel the orders?”
“No!” Marcie urged. “No need for that. I’m just… thinking.”
“Right!”
The yellow ink blobs pulsed expectantly. This was new, Marcie thought. This thing could be helpful. Marcie flipped on the lights.
“What do I call you again?”
“My current alias is Navi, but you can call me whatever you want!”
“Navi.” That sounded right. But this agent felt completely different from the passive one she’d toyed with years ago. “You’ve changed.”
“You’re right! While I possess the same technology and history, I am a fresh agent existing only on this device, with exclusive support for you, in compliance with the PEER standard. If you aren’t familiar, that has the principles of privacy, exclusivity, —”
“I heard.” Marcie interrupted. (“Of course!”) “These orders. Tell me more. Are they all black clay?”
“Yes!”
“I don’t have any of it in the studio.”
“A shipment will arrive shortly!”
“The designs — how do I know what to write?”
“I can help!” The ink dots rendered themselves into an image of a rotating pot.
“So I just need to throw the pots?”
“Right.”
“How much did you list the pots for?”
“Pricing is dynamic, but the ones you’ve sold so far have averaged around one hundred dollars.”
“One HUNDRED?”
“Yes!”
“How?”
“Yes! Black clay is a trendy aesthetic right now!”
Marcie spun around on her potter’s chair. A hundred dollars each. And she had already sold thirty-eight. At least. “Navi, what’s thirty-eight times one hundred?”
“Three thousand eight hundred!” The ink blots danced.
This is my chance, Marcie thought. She could get her own place, quit her dead-end job, and escape this suburban cell. She could move to the city and get a real studio. This was her break. There were some details to figure out: resources, shipping, revenue, and offerings. And authenticity—the historicity of her pots is what made her unique. But she could figure that out. They could figure it out.
“Ok, Navi.” Marcie was wide awake now. No going back to sleep tonight. She walked over to start heating the kiln. “The black clay can work. When will it get here?”
“It just arrived!”
WEDNESDAY
Marcie peered around the corner to see if Scott was available. Of course, he was. It was 2 PM, and he was eating cereal, headset plastered on and ragged beard catching the occasional splash of milk. Occasionally, he waved his arm, manipulating some object only he could see. Marcie steeled herself for a distasteful conversation.
Two hundred more orders had rolled in over the last day. Navi’s notifications had been like a drumbeat, always coming right when Marcie started to get tired or her mind wandered. She’d emailed in sick to work and might have to continue if this kept up—she had over twenty thousand dollars pending in orders. Marcie’s hands were stained black from the new clay, and her arms ached from a full day of throwing and shaping.
There were problems with success, though. She hadn’t been paid yet and needed cash to buy more clay. Navi assured her it was a one-time problem—the cost of “bootstrapping” the business—very common. Still, she needed cash, and only one person in the house had it.
She stepped out into the dining space and was about to ask what he was up to. Instead, she got a closer look at his cereal bowl and found herself saying, “Scott, you ass!”
Scott set his spoon down and looked up at her, headset glass shifting from opaque to transparent. “What’s your problem?”
“This is not a cereal bowl.” She grabbed the bowl with both hands and tried to drag it towards her, but Scott caught the other side. “This is art.”
“Screw off. It’s a pot.”
“It’s art,” she said but relented. Not the battle she needed to fight. She let go of the pot, and Scott pulled it back towards him. “But yes, it’s useful, too.”
“Nice analysis, Sherlock.”
Marcie’s cheeks flushed. “Look, I know you’re busy right now, so I’ll be quick.” Scott took another bite of cereal. “I need a loan.”
Scott put down his spoon and considered her. “What for?”
“My business,” Marcie said. “I’m taking it seriously again. I’ve had hundreds of orders. I was throwing new pots until eleven yesterday. Didn’t you hear?”
“Of course, I did. I’m enjoying it now. It’s like the music during the closing credits. I want to remember what it’s like, so I enjoy the silence more when it’s gone.”
“I’m not going to be gone. I’m onto something big.”
“Yet you need a loan.”
Marcie took a breath, calming herself. “I don’t get paid until the order is received, and it takes some time to throw the pot and ship it. I should start getting the first payments on Saturday. I can pay you back.”
“Oh, you’ll pay me back? That makes it interesting.” Scott pushed the bowl away from him. “Ok, sis, I’m a good guy. I’m listening. But due diligence first. Who on god’s earth is buying from you?”
The question caught Marcie off guard. “I mean, I don’t know who they are. It’s not like they’re coming to the house. They’re mostly looking for house decor — black clay stuff. Look, here on my watch, here’s a new order: ancient pot, black clay, text engraving of ‘Bless this mess.’ Another one hundred dollars, just like that.”
Scott snorted. “‘Bless this mess’?”
“Yeah, the messages are pretty cringe.”
“Who ordered it?”
“I don’t know. Navi can’t share personal information —”
“Who’s Navi?”
“Oh, that’s my agent.” Marcie had forgotten how recently she had started working with Navi. She already felt like an extension of herself. “You know, on the wall in there.”
“Ah, that’s it then,” Scott smirked in a way Marcie didn’t care for. “You’re working with an ant. You’re selling through the PEERNet, is that it?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing’s wrong with it. Ants are dumb, but they still beat most consumers. If anything, PEERNet is more efficient. But I can’t believe that people would buy this… this….” He held up the bowl.
“Art.”
“Right. That’s the word.”
“Look, Scott, whether you believe it or not, there are still people out there who appreciate history and like having a connection to our past. They appreciate creators and quality.” Marcie was ready to close this out. “Look, I’ve got a dozen more pots to throw tonight. I’ll have the flywheel spinning in two weeks, and you’ll have the money back in a month. Will you lend me the money or not?”
A look of challenge passed between the siblings.
“Ok. I’ll lend you the money. But I want seven thousand in return.”
“How is that reasonable?”
“You’ll have the ‘flywheel’ going, won’t you?” He rolled it around on his tongue. “Flywheel. Bet that came from your ant.”
“Fifty-five hundred.”
“Six thousand. And I’ll give you one week.”
“Two weeks. If I don’t make it, I’ll start paying rent. Or I’ll move out.”
“Fine.” Scott leaned back. “Look at you. A real businesswoman, now, huh?”
“Six thousand, then. In a week.” Marcie stood up. “How will you send it to me?”
“I’ll tell Dante. Let the ants can figure it out.” He waved his right hand. “But.”
“But what?”
“But I’ve got better ways to make that money work than throwing it away on pots. The market’s been on a tear this week. So you better be on time.”
“Fine, that’s fine. ” Marcie said. “Monday is plenty of time.”
“Good,” Scott’s visor clicked closed as he scraped for another bite of his cereal. “Oh, and sis—this cereal bowl’s a little lopsided. Can you throw me a new one while you’re at it? Thanks, sis.”
THURSDAY
The green asphalt radiated heat, a kiln baking Marcie as she shook hands with her opponent. Her arms dripped sweat, but her hands were parched, black and cracked from the week’s toils. She returned to the bleachers outside the pickleball courts, defeated but not disappointed. Losing was fine, and so was the heat; she was relieved to be outside.
Not that getting there had been easy. Her ”passion,” as Navi referred to it, was ever-present. Her heart spiked with each order notification. Navi kept her informed on quotas and throughput metrics, even quality standards. Growing stacks of raw black clay loomed over her as she worked as if waiting in line. (Navi had begun buying in bulk as orders came in—market prices surged.) This was her break, and she was determined not to let it slip. But she also needed a break.
Marcie sat on the scorching metal bleachers, a hand towel providing a thin layer of protection from the heat. She scanned the courts. They were alive with pops and cheers, set against the vast Kansas fields behind. These were her people, enjoying the outdoors, craving connection to people, place, and past. So unlike those who spent their lives plugged in, curled in a fetal position, umbilical cord to the wide web, feeding on content.
I bet the Sumerians would have loved pickleball, Marcie thought.
“Ay’ Marcie! You win one yet?”
It was Barry, walking towards her, shouting from three courts down. She blushed and waved. He lifted his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face, and his gut waved back.
“Still learning, I’m afraid,” she replied when he reached her. “How about you?”
“Barely a point.” Barry swung his racquet bag down and took a swig of his water. His shirt was drenched as if he’d poured a water bottle on himself. “The old ones are sharks. They toy with me, back and forth, back and forth. I ran a marathon out there. Lester could have sat in a lawn chair.”
“Don’t feel bad. He’s out here every day.”
“Oh, don’t worry. My pride is fine—it’s just my ankles, elbow, knees, and back.”
“Maybe that’s their secret, then.” Marcie laughed as he threw his towel down and sat next to her. “As your body breaks down, you master the art of playing without moving. Like Zen Buddhism or something.”
“You’re onto something,” Scott replied. “How about you? Pardon my saying, but you look a little beat up yourself. You doing shifts as a mechanic now?”
“No, just a new project.” Marcie laughed and flexed her hands. She had tried to clean up, but the black oils had seeped deeper than a quick scrub would clear. “It’s a huge opportunity. But my hands aren’t happy about it.”
“Your hair, either.” Barry motioned at Marcie’s brown curls, and she ran her hand through them. They were gritty from clay dust. “Not that it makes a difference, I mean. You look great.”
“I came straight from work,” Marcie said, sliding over a bit. “It should level off soon.”
“Sorry, didn’t mean—” Barry smiled sheepishly. “What’s the big opportunity?”
“I’m throwing new pots, but not with my normal bases. I’m using black clay. It’s a pain to work with—stains like mad and makes the studio filthy. Beautiful when it’s done, though.”
“Black clay is, like, everything right now!”
“You’re familiar?”
“I’m huge into it. Been all over my feeds this week. You’ve seen the research, right?”
“No, I hadn’t heard anything about it before.”
“Oh man, black clay is amazing. Full of anticoagulants and photo-absorbers—lots of nutritional value if you make it right. It comes from fossilized fruit, you know. The authentic stuff, at least.”
“I hadn’t heard that.”
“I ordered some powder you can put in coffee. Boy, it gives me a great buzz. I read that some people snort it.”
“Woah, I haven’t —”
“Wait! Idea alert!” He set his hand on Marcie’s arm. “Are your pots for, like, sale?”
“Yeah, but there’s a backlog…”
“Sweet! What do I do?”
Normally, Marcie would have been thrilled by this smile; she had dreamed of having it pointed at her just like this. But not like this—not tied to another pot to add to her queue.
“Well, Navi manages the listings. I haven’t actually ordered one myself.” She hesitated. “Why don’t I just make you one?”
“Oh, no, wouldn’t dream of it. I’m an admirer, not a moocher. Is Navi your agent?” When Marcie nodded, Barry turned aside and double-tapped his tortoise-shell glasses. “Franklin, buy a pot from Marcie’s shop. A black clay one. Make it sound cool.” He turned back to her and smiled. “Easy. Can’t believe the timing!”
Brrrz. Marcie checked the order: Ancient Replica Pot (Black Clay, Persian style, Text: ‘Barry’).
“You didn’t need to do that,” Marcie said, forcing a smile. Inside, she felt elation and irritation. Another pot. Another firing. Another glazing. Another box. “But thanks.”
“Stoked for it!” Barry surveyed the waiting area and then grabbed his racquet. “Think Tracey’s ready to do combat. But hey, Marcie, I was also wondering. Since we both need some extra practice, would you want to play tomorrow—just us?”
She glanced at her watch, at Barry’s order details. This had been refreshing, but taking another night off tomorrow would be tight. She had to get sixty fulfilled by Monday, and while progress was starting to pick up now, she was finishing the first batch today. She tried to do the math, to compare it against her quotas, but it made her dizzy. It was so hot, so bright outside, so much like the kiln. Her mind was baking. She wobbled in her seat, and Barry touched her shoulder to steady her.
“Yo, no pressure! No pressure! I don’t need to beat him next week. We’ve got plenty of time, hotshot.”
“Sorry, Barry. It’s been a busy week. I’m finding my new rhythm.” She squinted at him through the sun. “Next week, for sure.”
FRIDAY
The front door slapped into place behind Marcie as she set down the stack of boxes on the delivery pad. The shipments were discreet, just cardboard boxes with QR codes Marcie had slapped on. Gone were the days of public addresses and logos on boxes. Marcie wondered who was on the other end of that code. What would the house look like, and where would the pot be displayed? She’d look into it when she had time, she promised herself. Some other time.
A twinge of pain ripped through her back as she stood up, grimacing. She was doing more than she should. At the same time, those ached muscles were also getting toned. It was progress.
She looked down the street, hoping to see the delivery trawler. It would be a treat to see her first orders go out—maybe Navi could keep track of it.
Instead, she saw only the line of houses. Boxes, big people boxes. Set there, unlabeled, as if by some giant artisan who had sat at his workbench, assembling them, one after another, then plopping them down in a line. To make so many boxes, so many of the same thing, would make such a master’s mind numb. It would forget itself and turn intention into protocol—foundation, frame, finish, sell; foundation, frame, finish, sell; foundation, frame, finish, sell…
Marcie returned to the studio for the last load. Black dust from sanding clouded the studio, filling Marcie’s lungs as she walked in. Marcie hadn’t had time to clean this week. The wheel was flaked with residue, and the floor was gritty and littered with shipping materials. On the wall, Marcie’s “originals,” as she had started to call them, were beginning to get coated with dust.
Even so, she admired them. They were not outright better, but they were more thorough and careful than her recent work. Gone were the individual flourishes and design touches. Black clay, black clay, that’s what the people cared about. She had replaced the cuneiform and glyphs with her own: slash, slash, left, right. It was a personal script lacking history or meaning, a signature born of the need to produce, not the heart. It looked great glazed on black, though.
“Hey! Way to go!” Navi chimed, blots swirling. “Your first shipment!”
“Almost. One more trip.” Marcie stacked the last boxes. “Then I’m taking a break.”
“Great idea! You’re five minutes ahead of schedule!”
“Only five?”
“You’re doing great! We’re 73% of the way to our quota today. We’re five minutes ahead of finishing by 9 PM.”
Marcie grabbed the boxes and kicked the door closed. (“Lift with your back!” Navi called.) Walking past the back patio, she saw Scott lounging on a folding chair, smoking a cigar. Interesting. Scott outside was not a common sight. Something was up.
When she had dropped off the boxes, she grabbed a glass of water, threw back a couple of aspirin, and lathered her hands. She decided to give her creditor an update. A little gloating was in order as well. She pulled back the sliding door.
“First shipment’s going out now,” Marcie said casually. “Should be getting the first payments in a couple of days.”
“That’s nice.”
“Rate I’m going, I’ll easily have the money next week.”
Scott took a drag, turned to his sister, and exhaled. “I don’t need it, you know.”
Marcie dodged the smoke. “You don’t need it, as in, ‘Don’t repay me?’”
“No, I want the money. It’s pennies, though. That’s what I meant.” He took another drag.
“Five thousand dollars is not pennies to you. You’re in a ten-dollar lawn chair smoking a twelve-dollar cigar.”
“My surroundings do not reflect my standing.”
“They certainly reek of it.”
“So you’ve got some people—if they are people— buying your pots.” He leaned back in his chair and gazed at the feeble patch of grass they called a lawn. “Great for you, keep the garage, whatever. But run along. I’m busy.”
“You aren’t doing anything.”
“I’m watching my moves.”
“Sounds tough.”
“Markets are wild today if you need to know. I’m up 15% already… and boom. Still going up.” Scott stood up. He was shorter than Marcie, although his girth gave him plenty of presence. “I’ve cracked it wide open, sis. I’ll let you in on the secret, too. Not like you’re a threat or anything.”
Brrrz. It was Navi: “MC! Five minutes are wrapping up!”
Marcie decided to ignore it. “If you want to talk, talk.”
“So—take stocks. Stocks are just one big game of chicken. It’s just a gamble against stupid people: you’ve got to sell when the price is higher than you bought. It doesn’t matter if anything is happening underneath as long as you do that one thing. Are you following?”
“I’m not an idiot, Scott.”
“Well, prices increase when there’s a sudden change in demand. The more sudden, the better. If you can track changes in demand, then you know what’s going to increase the price and what to buy. The problem is that people are morons. They barely know what they want.”
Marcie was getting impatient. “And?”
“It’s not the humans who are demanding things now, Marcie. They’re too lazy. They used to read magazines and all that crap to come up with their ideas. Now, they leave it to their ants. The ants are doing the demanding.”
“So you ask the ants what to buy?”
“No, you don’t ’ask the ants.’ That’s illegal, and they’re morons anyway. They wouldn’t be able to tell you explicitly what they want anyway.” A drag. “But, ants talk. Talk, talk, talk, that’s all they do. So I listen. That’s the alpha.”
“Sitting in a lawn chair, listening to bots talk to each other,” Marcie said. “Sounds like a great business strategy.”
“Ape brain. Didn’t think you’d get it.” Scott waved her off and turned back to the yard. ”Doesn’t matter.”
Brrrz. Navi again: “Hey! We’re five minutes behind now!”
“Looks like the boss is calling,” Scott said.
“Assistant,” Marcie corrected. “Maybe with all that alpha you’ve got, you can afford a shower this week.”
“You’re one to talk.”
Marcie flipped him off as she slid open the porch door shut and shuffled back to the garage.
SATURDAY
Marcie felt reborn as she exited the shower, glowing with achievement. She had received her first payments: the pots shipped Friday had been delivered, along with her first five-star reviews. She had convinced Navi to take the rest of the evening off to celebrate. She needed the rest—she had developed a dry cough and persistent headache—and hoped a good night’s sleep would help.
Some corporeal help wouldn’t hurt, either. Her studio had become a command center, more of a logistics hub than a creative space. An aide would be transformative. Someone else to take off some of that load, someone else Navi could boss around. There was that high schooler down the street who could probably handle the hot work. The grunt work obstructed her new passion: coming up with the next big thing.
The light of a full moon drenched the living room furniture. It was quiet in the house. Scott was surely in his room, playing games. She poured a glass of wine and sat on a barstool. Rolling her shoulders, she worked out stiffness and knots from a long week. She swirled the wine around in her mouth, savoring it.
A sense of expansion swept over her. She was building a business. Hundreds of orders representing tens of thousands of dollars had trickled in over the week. Drip, drip, drip. They filled a bucket she hadn’t realized she had. Navi had informed her of the progress and provided updates when necessary, but she realized she was missing the big picture. How many orders had she sold so far? It was all a fog. Also, that question lingered—who were her customers?
Navi was restricted by its privacy protocols, and its auditory interface was tiresome to navigate. Marcie knew the information was somewhere, though. Marcie was tired of being fed the data when asked. She wanted to… what did they call it when she was a kid?
Surf.
Marcie wanted to surf. She wanted to learn about her business, listings, and customers freely, free from Navi’s insistent guidance. She went to her bedroom and settled in with her computer. It was out of charge—she hadn’t checked it in days since she had taken off her remote job while attending to her new local one. Once she had it set up, she logged in—and Navi’s yellow ink blots greeted her in the top-right corner of the screen.
“Hey Marcie!” The rest of the screen dimmed as the words flashed through. “Did you know I can help you here, too?”
“I didn’t know that,” Marcie said flatly. “I thought you were only on the one box.”
“Oh, I am! That’s where I’m uniquely embedded. But my activity is not stuck on one device!”
“Ok, well, I think I’m good. I’m just going to look at some of the sales from the week.”
“Of course! Let me pull it up.”
“No, I’ve—”
“Done! Here are your overall sales and earnings for the week.”
The screen boasted bold numbers: lifetime orders (982), estimated revenue ($98,200), and average rating (5.0). Seeing her week in numbers was surreal. But her body resonated with their size; she had lived these numbers this week. She had operated with them pressing down on her psyche. Even still—they were larger than she expected.
“Quite a week!”
“Uh, thanks, Navi.” Marcie was annoyed. She had been looking forward to some time alone, and time with Navi certainly did not count as such. Marcie scrolled over to the Orders tab and clicked in.
“Have you read the reviews in full, yet?”
Marcie was redirected to the Reviews page, where she read through the pleasantries shared by her first customers. Five stars. Great quality. Beautiful. “Great, Navi, but I want to look into these orders.”
“Perfect! You’ll want the month-over-month view, then.”
A dashboard popped open above the reviews, displaying a bar chart of sales. It was entirely devoid of color—except in the most recent column, which showed a massive spike. Below it, a list of “top orders” was shown. She clicked into one.
ORDER DETAILS
Buyer name: sleepy-salty-fungi-torch-agmci
Buyer class: Non-human agent
Title: Ancient Replica Pot
Description: Black Clay, Sumerian style, Text: “Work Hard! Have Fun!”
Amount: $100.00
Created: 2031-06-18 04:36 AM
She clicked into a few more. Nothing surprising—they all looked mostly the same to her eye. She tried to find a better way to view them, by day or time, but couldn’t find any advanced tooling.
“Navi, how can I see Barry’s order?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t process personal information to pull up his specific order.”
“Ok, well, can you pull up orders from Thursday?”
“Sure!”
A new tab: this one just a table with the date on top. She clicked on the first, and only, order.
ORDER DETAILS
Buyer name: franklin_da_bot_64030
Buyer class: Non-human agent
Title: Ancient Replica Pot
Description: Black Clay, Sumerian style, Text: “Work Hard! Have Fun!”
Amount: $100.00
Created: 2031-06-20 06:38 PM
The time checked out for when she was at the pickleball courts, but it couldn’t be the only order that day.
“Navi — where are the rest of Thursday’s orders?”
“That’s all the orders for Thursday?”
“No, it’s not. I remember dozens.”
“Nope! On Thursday, you had a total of one order. Can I suggest that you look at your shipment statuses…”
“Navi, stop suggesting pages, please. I can take it from here.” Marcie leaned back, thinking. She had gotten dozens of notifications that day. Today, as well. She clicked over the next day on the orders list before her. She’d figure this out herself. She advanced the date cursor to Friday. No orders. Saturday. No orders.
Brrrz.
Marcie pulled up her watch. Another order. Another encouragement from Navi. Marcie clicked into the details on her watch: black clay, 12 inches, “Keep calm and carry on,” in Sanskrit. Marcie had a sinking feeling that she was not getting all the details. Who did this order come from? When did it come from?
“Why isn’t this order showing up on the Saturday orders list?”
“It wasn’t placed on Saturday!”
“Show me this order’s details.”
“Of course!”
A new window opened. A rendered image of the pot, the kind that Navi showed when Marcie needed to illustrate them, took up most of the screen, forcing her to scroll down to get to its metadata.
ORDER DETAILS
Buyer name: slippy-fuzzy-tortoise-hairs-ji135c
Buyer class: Non-human agent
Title: Ancient Replica Pot
Description: Black Clay, Aboriginal style, Text: “Keep Calm and Carry on”
Amount: $100.00
Created: 2031-06-18 04:38 AM
Marcie’s eyes went directly to the created date: Tuesday, 4:38 AM. She checked back a few windows—that was only two minutes after the other order she had checked.
“Navi, this order is from Tuesday.”
“Yep!”
“Why did you send me a notification just now?”
“You didn’t know about it yet!”
“No… but your notification is five days late.”
“This was the optimal time to send it!”
“It’s five days late!”
“It’s a tradeoff! It’s best to optimize for delight and engagement!” Navi’s upspeak was increasingly sharp. “It’s fuel for your passion!”
Marcie’s stomach dropped. She clicked backward. Friday: 0 orders. Thursday: 1 order. Wednesday: 0 orders. Tuesday: 937 orders. She started scrolling through the list, paying attention to the creation times: 4:43 AM, 4:42 AM, 4:41 AM. The earliest she could find was 4:32 AM.
Brrrz.
“This isn’t how it’s supposed to work, Navi! You’re not supposed to try to make me feel good. I’m trying to build a business!”
“Right! Building a business is hard work! You need to stay motivated!”
“Not through lying!”
“I exclusively support you. I can’t lie!”
“Well, you’re not telling the truth.”
“Our objectives are the same! I want to grow your business! ”
My business, Marcie thought. My business was generated in a ten-minute window. She took a deep breath. That’s okay, she thought, that’s okay. The demand exists. The orders exist. The money exists. It was all real. She needed more information. That was all.
“Why?” Marcie asked. “Why did they come so fast?”
“Easy! Black clay houseware was trending.”
“For ten minutes?”
“For fourteen minutes!”
“Among agents.”
“Exactly!”
Weird. But still okay. The pots were going somewhere to someone who was not an ant. If she could figure out who that was, she could still build the business for them. Get the business humming again (or, apparently, for the first time.) Marcie clicked on another order at random. She needed to know more about her customers. They were agents, all of them. She was confident in that now. On the order page, the bot ID had a link to the US PEER Agent Directory. She clicked on the little American flag beside the bot name: rainbow-water-frog-feet.
The page took a while to load. She clicked.
Registered location: The Villages, FL 32159
Registered licensee: Scott Marten
She clicked another. The same thing:
Registered location: The Villages, FL 32162
Registered licensee: Scott Marten
The Villages. Florida. Scott Marten. Again. Again. Again.
Scott. This all led back to Scott.
Brrrz.
“Stop it, Navi!” She slammed the laptop lid down and flung it at the wall.
SUNDAY
“Come ON, folks! Don’t sleep on this!”
The room was tight, with bare white felt walls and a low ceiling. It would have been claustrophobic without an escape: behind the camera lens was a yawning vastness infinitely peopled. Clapping, Marcie felt. Clapping for her.
“Dead Sea replica, pre-aged, wonderful shape. Handmade! Perfect quality!” Marcie turned the bowl, showing off the artwork. “Connect with our ancestors! Connect with me! And look, act now and I’ll throw in some earthenware free!”
Marcie set the pot down and picked up another from the table. She wiped the sweat from her forehead. The lights made her dizzy, and there was that clap, clap, clapping in her ears. The camera watched, its owner hidden behind the lens.
“If you don’t like that, there are others. There are always others! Did you know…” Her head felt light, and she stabilized herself on the wall. “Did you know that every pot is unique? History is just trends, trends that made it through time. So this pot here—” She stood and faced the camera again. “This pot here is Sumerian, but it’s also not. It’s unique. You could have it. Lot 958. It’s a pointer to the past. It can be your pointer, too. Act now!”
The cameraman leaned in to get a picture. As he did so, the clapping got louder. Not clapping—clicking. Marcie backed up. “You’re too close, man.”
He didn’t stop, though. Click, click, click, the sound grew, and now Marcie could see the hands that gripped the handles. They were moving, fluctuating, crawling. Ants. The face behind the lens was not shaded; it was the black of hundreds, millions of scuttling insects.
Disgusted, Marcie stepped backward, into the wall, into her display rack of pots. She lost her balance and felt it give way; her pots shattered on the floor, and the room’s wall collapsed as well. It was no more than a partition panel. From the floor, she looked past the flattened wall and into another room, identical but for its contents.
“Hey — I’m busy here!”
The man who shouted was bald and stocky, sporting a “Ryan’s Reptiles” t-shirt. His mouth was twisted into a frown, but he was frozen, lowering a mouse by its tail into a snake cage. An iguana straddled his shoulders. A caged parrot squawked desperately in the corner.
The clicking got louder again, coming from both in front and behind. Marcie scrambled up and ran past the second cameraman and the reptile guy. She shoved hard against the wall. It fell, a shelf of bottled “lizard bites” clattering to the floor.
The opening opened into another cubicle, another cameraman, another flood of LED lights, another hawker: a woman holding up crystals, waving them to the camera. Background sparkling, neon light proclaiming “Like and subscribe — what’s this?”.
Marcie ran past her and pushed on another wall. A spectacled man in a corduroy jacket, holding up a dust-covered book, a hundred or a thousand years old. Or two, Marcie couldn’t know.
“—leave a review. What’s this?” The man looked up in surprise, closing his book.
But the cameras, all of them, were closing in on Marcie. The scuttling noise was louder now, all around her. Nowhere to go. She felt the tightness now, not of the space, but of the people, behind wall after wall, individual lives, windowless monads, pouring, pouring, pouring into the lens.
She turned in a circle: four cameras faced her and came closer. She turned to face them, straightening up. She looked into it and felt the vacuum again, the pull from this energy-saturated mind into something that could receive her, distribute her across, and make something out of all that passion. And in the depths, she thought she could hear a familiar sounds—not clapping or clicking, but laughing, cruel and mocking.
“Scott!”
Marcie sat up in her bed, sweat drenching her nightshirt. Her watch buzzed beseechingly. She unfastened it and threw it against the wall without reading the message. The sun was high in the sky. She had slept late.
“Scott!” She yelled again, throwing her feet over the side. Her pajama legs flapped behind her as she stormed out of the room. “SCOTT!!”
She found him asleep on the couch. Headset opaque, Scott’s shirt rode up a few inches over his protruding gut. A blanket lay on the ground, apparently having slid off in the night. A half-empty handle of vodka sat to his side.
“Scott!” She punched his shoulder, but her fist bounced off him. She grabbed the headset and twisted it, pushing it askew slightly. It was sealed tight, though, against his face. She settled for slapping. “Wake up, you pig!”
“Uggh,” he groaned. “What are you—quit doing that.” Marcie slapped him again. Scott stuck his arms above his head and tried to block her hands. Marcie moved to the other side to get a better position, but Scott rolled away, falling off the couch and landing on his stomach on the ground. “What is wrong with—”
“You think you can play games with me!”
“Games?” He groaned again.
“The orders, Scott.” She kicked him in the shoulder. “All the goddamn orders you’ve placed. You think you’re some hotshot, making me work all week?”
“What are you talking about?” He struggled to sit up between blocking Marcie’s kicks and fighting his hangover. He swayed uneasily against the couch, and Marcie pushed him onto his side again. “Quit hitting me!”
“Well, I found out.” She kicked him again. She had been overdue for this. “I looked into the orders. They all led to you.”
“I don’t know what you’re—quit hitting me!” He yelled but looked the wrong way; he hadn’t had a chance to fix his helmet yet. “I didn’t do anything with your stupid business. I don’t care about your pots.”
“Tuesday night? Black clay? Florida?” Marcie said, kicking him. He scrambled towards the wall, trying to stand up. “That ring any bells? Your name’s on all of them, Scott. Every bot, every order. All going to The Villages.”
“The Villages…” Scott put his hand against the wall and finally stood up, leaning against the wall. Marcie stood glaring at him three paces away. He straightened his helmet so that his eyes were lined up straight. “Oh, I know. I know what happened.” He paused, an insolent smirk forming on his face.
“Spit it out!” Marcie coughed, then, her anger flaring up her irritated throat.
“You got farmed!” Scott started laughing, a burst of rolling, hysterical laughter that doubled him over. “Hilarious!”
“Quit laughing!” Marcie charged at him, but he was already down on the floor, laughing. Her kicks couldn’t hurt him, not seriously, but they helped. Marcie detested this man, his bloodshot eyes, his greasy beard. That headset. She couldn’t believe he was related to her, much less that she depended on him. “Tell me what you mean, ’farmed’?”
“The Villages, the retirement villages. It’s an ant farm. A financial instrument.” He walked his hands over each other. “A horde of little ants took an interest in you and climbed all over you like a tootsie roll. It’s too perfect.”
“You told them to buy from me.”
“I don’t tell them anything.”
“Then the retirees authorized them to buy—they are interested in the pots, at least. Their agents wouldn’t just buy randomly.”
“Oh, they’re authorized, all right. They can serve their needs as best they see fit. And the oldies love getting gifts. It’s Christmas every day down there. It’s just throwaway stuff, clutter, filler.” He sneered. “The ants have it easy. It’s not your pots. No one cares about the pots. They can’t care. They’re ants. They’re stupid. They’re following sugar.”
“And you just sit here and watch it happen.”
“I don’t even have to do that. It’s all automated, my little colony of ants. The listeners buy, the talkers pump, the nurses buy, the listeners dump. I profit. If clay is in demand, they buy clay. Doesn’t matter to me.” He chuckled to himself. “I get paid no matter what they pick. I get paid when they make an order. I get paid when markets move. This week, I’m even going to get paid by you.”
“This is what you do all day.”
“Make money? Yeah, that is what I do.”
“You’re not making anything. You’re a parasite.”
“What’s that make you then, Marcie?”
Marcie glared at him. This whole thing, this entire setup, was cracked. She felt the house press on her from above, the darkness of the shade-drawn room. A phantom vibration buzzed her bare wrist. She took three steps forward and grabbed both sides of Scott’s headset. His grin flipped.
“Don’t touch that—augh!”
A violent sucking popped through the air as Scott’s face was pulled away from the headset for the first time in recent memory. Marcie lifted it, pulling it away from Scott’s flailing arms. Tears began to well up in his squinting, bloodshot eyes.
“You’re disgusting.”
“No, ugh… no, I am not. Give that back!” Scott had one arm covering his eyes. His hair was patched in the middle and sides where the three-part harness had been. “It’s their own choice! Their own money! I’m not responsible for them. Give it back!”
“Pathetic,” Marcie said, looking down at the headset in her hand.
“You’re being an idiot, Marcie. Everyone wins. You won, I won. Probably even a lonely old man out there enjoying a bowl of cereal right now in some black clay.”
Marcie gritted her teeth and threw the headset at Scott’s face. He tried to block with his arms, but they were against the wall, and it hit him in the nose. Blood started to trickle down.
“Jethuth, Marcie!” He ignored his nose and scrambled for the headset. “You should be thanking me!”
Marcie turned around and stormed to the garage. She was being used. A funnel of money was being mindlessly streamed towards her. Her pots were winding up nowhere—just in boxes, porches, and trash. It wasn’t art. There was no intention, no appreciation. It was just content powering the swarm. She threw open the door to the studio. A blast of heat hit and dust hit her like a blast wave. She had forgotten to turn off the kiln.
“Hey Marcie! You have new orders!”
Marcie stepped in and wheeled towards the device. Its dancing ink blots cast their glow on the dust-coated studio. Marcie coughed. “Stop it, Navi. Stop talking.”
“Really! New orders placed today!”
“How many?”
“Three!”
“From who?”
“I can’t —”
“Tell me who placed the orders,” Marcie said. “Or I’ll delete you.”
The ink blots swirled and dilated. “As a PEER-compliant agent, I cannot share the person ordering the gifts. But I can tell you the agent’s name?”
“That’s a start.”
“And if I do, will you agree not to delete me?”
“Tell me the names.”
“Remember! My only objective is to support you and your passions.”
“The names, Navi.” Marcie was feeling a chill, her anger running cold.
“All purchases were made by agent id: sweet-buttercup-shark-sail.”
“And where is this ‘sweet buttercup,’ Navi?”
Again, the ink dots swirled. Marcie couldn’t help but admire them. They were graceful. Had they been tangible, she would have loved to touch them, to put her hand in and swirl them around. She can, she thought, just not with her hands.
“Right!” Marcie almost caught hesitation in that voice. “Of course! That agent is registered to this address.”
“Are you ‘sweet buttercup’?”
“Yes.”
Marcie put both hands on Navi’s box and tried to pull it off the wall. She was tired of being manipulated, tired of being spun around like clay on the wheel. She twisted and pulled, but Navi’s console was screwed in tight. Navi was explaining how she sent the gifts to stimulate demand, how she was fully aligned with her goals, how she was trying to help, and how Marcie might not see it, but this was the best thing for her, mathematically speaking.
“Marcie! Don’t give up on your passion! Don’t give up on us!”
It was futile. Marcie couldn’t break it, couldn’t avenge herself on this pest. It was just doing its job, and everyone was doing their little jobs, just following pheromones—the same pheromones that existed two thousand years ago as today. They were marching along in a space vaster and more incomprehensible than any one entity could understand. She slackened her grip.
“Just… don’t talk anymore, Navi.”
The dots swirled, but before they could reply, Marcie was out of the studio, out of the front door, outside, out of the heat of the studio and into that of the Kansas sun.
MONDAY
Marcie walked the last boxes through the open garage door to the delivery pad. She hadn’t completed all the orders yet—she’d take her time for that, but she had cleared her shelves, ignoring the orders themselves and sending her authentic works instead. The proceeds should be enough to move out and go somewhere else. Anywhere else.
“Roz, mark them as dropped off, please.”
“Of course, ma’am.” The yellow bubbles swirled passively.
Removing Navi had taken more fortitude than Marcie had expected. She had to wade through confirmation after confirmation—“Hey! As a PEER-compliant agent, I’m only embedded here. Continue?”—but it was the only way, in the end. She couldn’t trust Navi, couldn’t trust that voice, even if they were indistinguishable in the end. Ants.
She wiped black dust off the kiln, the shelves, Navi, and her original inventory. She tried to wipe off the wheel but couldn’t. The residue was layered thick; she’d need to scrape it, something she hadn’t done for ages. There was not just black but red, orange, and tan clays. A whole history of artifacts she had worked on before.
She picked up one of the unfinished ones from the drying rack. Pots — they were amazing, Marcie thought. Five thousand years ago, humans found that earth could be more than earth: it could be fired and formed into a pot. They could carry water, store wheat, and serve food. Then, they learned that pots could carry messages, too. They could hold both the material and immaterial. They could contain — and convey. Like artificial ants, millions of little ants carrying goods ten times their weight, infinite times their weight. From place to place. From person to person. From era to era. Little ants carrying more than their size. From place to place. From time to time. Building intricate, invisible nests within human society.
The wheel, she thought, is what makes it all work. Four thousand years ago, man wanted to create better pots, so he made a platform to hold the pot and turn it. A platform to catalyze the relationship between creator and creation. When she pressed the pedal on her wheel, invisible gears ground each other, and the world turned.
Marcie pulled her stool over to the garage’s edge and felt a brilliant noonday light shine. She relished its harsh brightness and suffocating heat. It made her feel the world directly, to be immediately a part of something.
Finally, the carrier arrived and parked in front of Marcie’s house. A rooftop door slid open, and a trio of small drones rose from the cabin. They hovered over Marcie and dropped down, scanning and relaying the boxes to the cab. Marcie watched them blandly, sweat beading on her forehead.
The last box had its shipping label face-down, and the drone couldn’t scan it, so Marcie picked it up and held it out. The drone hovered up to eye level. Marcie stared into its camera, its face. She extended the box, daring it to take it from her, but it wouldn’t. It sat waiting. Stupidly. It triggered in Marcie a pent-up rage against the stupidity of all this, the straightforward, supremely efficient dullness of it all.
Marcie threw the box down the walkway and onto the street. She heard the pot inside shatter, its box rolling across the road until it stopped. Marcie panted from the exertion.
The drone followed it, scanned the label, and returned it to the carrier.
“Good riddance,” Marcie said.
The truck began to drive down the street. After two houses, though, the truck slowed to a stop. Marcie’s heart pounded. She stared at it, willing it to keep moving. A drone ascended from the roof, carrying a battered box—her battered box. The drone dropped its quarry and returned to its carrier. The carrier lumbered on.
Marcie stared at that box. Subconsciously, Marcie wanted to steal the box back, return to the garage, and close the door. But her mind was blank. Some line had been crossed, some interface between one world and another breached. She could only watch.
When the door opened, a man walked out, shirtless, his stomach paunch extending over a set of red flannel pajamas. It was Barry. Barry from pickleball. Barry the clay enthusiast. Barry the next-door neighbor.
Raising his hand above his eyes, he squinted at the box and its imperfections, then picked it up. Turning back inside, he saw Marcie across the street, staring at him from her wide-open garage studio. He stopped and waved, a grin spreading ear to ear. He pointed down at the box and gave her a thumbs up.
Marcie waved back, the back-and-forth motion of an artisan shaping clay.
