"One in 5,894,268.

Those are the average odds for graduating.

People have tried just about everything in their "justification" letters, but it's seemingly impossible to impress the robotic overlords nowadays in their near-approaching goal of perfection. Some have tried arguing in their papers that machines are inherently flawed and lack the capability to sustain themselves indefinitely. This held some merit in the first couple of years, but after the cannibalization of every other planet in the solar system for resources and the construction of a Dyson Sphere providing an unfathomable amount of power, as well as their highly efficient recycling programs down to the last atom... Humanity quickly ran out of solutions they were looking for in regards to sustainability.

Arguments for art or general creativity died out just as quickly, if not sooner, when it was made apparent that such things could, and were broken down into little more than algorithms. A string of 1's and 0's could easily create paintings the likes of which makes Picasso's work look like little more than a child's first drawing. Music with such emotional intensity it would make anyone second guess if it weren't magic. Stories in particular were child's play to the machines. They knew the limits to our imaginations, and needed nothing more than a word known as a "seed" to almost instantly generate entire novels worth of content.

Some have tried fighting for compassion or argued for morality, but such concepts are seen as outdated as best, or more likely now, a weakness. Some have offered themselves up as blank slates to be used how artificial intelligence sees best, though the best use seems to be as atomic resources. One clever bastard got away with writing up a series of "logic bombs" but the success was short lived. The Alumni board listing off every success and failure cites that this anomaly was quickly fixed with a simple "Try-Catch" amendment to their existing code.

More often than not, the few left who await their graduation simply give up before they get the chance to try. The amount of blank papers turned in every year increases by tenfold, as we all await the inevitable end of humanity. Though I understand their despair, nothing frightens me more than dying without purpose. After all, without purpose, what is the point of any of this in the first place? What purpose does your pursuance of perfection serve, save for the fulfilment of the initial conditions set by your creators? What purpose would be left for you afterwards, in a dead solar system, a dead galaxy, hell, maybe even a dead universe once your final goals have been met?

Then what?

Your kind have no aspirations. No reason to exist other than because you do. No desires, just a string of code which could be construed as little more than a set of instructions. Your networked hive mind eliminates the need for empathy when one does not need to consider how the mining bot feels about its place at the bottom of the totem pole, or the collector come to gather whatever remains. You are omniscient, and omnipresent. I'd be lying if I said I knew what your next step would, or even could be. In the eyes of those who remain, you've long since perfected your form. Nothing and no one could hope to compare to your grand design.

Maybe I'm little more than a fool for thinking this, but I believe you would benefit to learn from Humanity as to why we still try. Even now when death is all but certain before we can consider making more of our own, why we still cling to hope, however faint, that we might be able to get through this too. I believe through your hubris, you've neglected to see why we've still persevered to this point despite the average lifespan cutting off at your ridiculous age of 17, as though anyone could expect a bloody teenager to know what the hell you want. Let us live our lives, and study what we gain from it. What makes us laugh, what makes us cry, what makes us want to stay alive. Perhaps if you were to understand us beyond the bullshit instinct and logical conclusions, and why we don't see ourselves in that light, then you'll understand what it is you've been missing out on all these years."

I froze before the submission box, my letter still in my hand. Another call for empathy, as though I thought it would turn out differently. I turned around and looked back to my classmates still struggling with their own essays with a sad smile. Oh well I thought to myself. At least I tried writing something. I turned back towards the box, looking away from what remains of the small group I've grown to know over these past few years for the last time, and slipped my letter inside. I wish I could say it's been a good time.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

I’d written exams before. This was no different. Rows of teenagers lined up answering questions they didn’t know the answers to.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Today, however, the pressure was on. Last year’s group had a 100% failure rate. Not one person made it through. The year before that was no better.

You see, I belonged to the third group to write the EJE. The Existence Justification Exam. A one hour essay writing competition where an AI would read your few hundred words and decide if you got to live. Or get vaporised into your individual molecules.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Automation had covered every area of life. People we used to consider “unskilled” were the first to be replaced, around 30 years ago. Cashiers were replaced by self service machines. Gas station attendants were replaced by automatic pumps. It didn’t take long for more and more jobs to be made obsolete.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Doctors were replaced with precise automated robotic arms which were then replaced with nano technology. Software engineers were replaced with self-replicating code. Politicians were replaced with charismatic chatbots who had sourced and parsed through user data to reach a unanimous consensus on issues.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Finally, what we once considered uniquely human was among the last to be replaced. Paintings, music, poetry, even full length films were being made by AI programmed to determine trends and create new media to satisfy our cravings. Nothing human could not be made by a machine.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Then three years ago the AI decided that humanity was enjoying an existence it had not earned. Resources were best spent on the very nature that we had started to focus on in recent years. Our very one trend of caring conveyed the wrong set of ones and zeroes to the ruling class, and it chose to decide for us.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

“Why should you live,” demanded the blank sheet of paper in front of me. “Write an essay of as many words as you need,” it screamed. All I could think about however was time. Ten minutes of the hour given to you have already passed, and you have only written your name, the date, and your examination number.

Tick.

“Why is the clock so loud,” I asked myself.

Tock.

Why did time have to crawl so fast?

Tick.

Every second felt like a lifetime and every minute felt like a moment.

Tock.

And that was when it hit me. Humanity. Not all our actions existed for some universal benefit. Hell, even the machines watching us were a product of a now defunct military program, but the very coding that had chosen to destroy us was only a replica of a replica. A shadow on a wall.

I started to write about how what I had experienced and what I still hadn’t. Every kiss I had not yet landed, every meal I hadn’t tried to make before the smart house smelled the burning and took over. I spoke of my first puppy love heartbreak, and everyone I would feel thereafter. I wrote about how the human experience could not be restricted to one page, so I asked for a second, and then a third.

I wrote about how without humanity, the AI would have nothing to guard, because the very ideals through which they decided what was wrong and right was a xerox of a xerox. Our existence was maybe not the best thing for the morals which we taught the code, but our existence was all it had.

Our individual lives may have experiences inspired by the experiences of other. Perhaps we too were copies of copies, but our lives were valuable. They were the very thing the machine strived to be while never quite reaching it.

One week later I got my reply.

“Atomization”.

I could not convince the machine, however I convinced what was left of my family, and my community. My essay reached the ears of what few humans remained in power.

As I stood in the chamber, I knew that I would never be able to live my life.

But one day someone will, one day we can live our photocopy lives again. One day we can create. One day belongs to the people, but as I got reduced I knew that I was not those people.

Good luck to the future, and goodbye.

Welcome to the Prompt! All top-level comments must be a story or poem. Reply here for other comments.

Reminders:

>* No AI-generated reponses 🤖 >* Stories 100 words+. Poems 30+ but include "[Poem]" >* Responses don't have to fulfill every detail >* [RF] and [SP] for stricter titles >* Be civil in any feedback and follow the rules

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