S.P.A.R.E.

It was as another episode of the renowned reality TV series "The Simple Life" starring Paris Hilton and Nicole Ritchie wound down on the screen that Shepherd Grover suddenly felt the full weight of his worthlessness.

Of course, it wasn't the first time in his life he'd felt pointless like a dull pencil. He'd realized a long time ago he wasn't about to change the world. Yet he’d always taken pride in being a man who would take on the kinds of jobs others didn't have the stomach for. Sure, cleaning toilets in hospitals, meat packing, hell, even driving trucks (which had mostly been a step up from these others) had had their downsides.  Days and weeks away from home out on the road, for example, had its way of wearing a person out - but at least he'd had a purpose.

And when this purpose was suddenly snatched away from him, Shepherd had found himself sinking ever deeper into something much darker and filled with more menacing inhabitants than the old pizza crumbs, lost remotes, and toenail clippings of that springless orange sofa on which he'd lay day after day.

It was only when, having finally run out of anything in the most remote corners of fridge that could further sustain him, he ventured out from the safety of his cramped apartment and stumbled upon the dark embrace of the Bottom End Barroom that he found temporary relief from his depression in the foamy kiss of pint after pint of lager. There, he had just begun to forget about his troubles when the owner, a slender, middle-aged man named Woody, decided to change the channel from sport highlights to the reruns of the former Fox network series that dogged him now.

But it wasn’t the cheap laughs and uninspired content of “the Simple Life” that was bringing down his mood, as one might expect. Instead, it had dawned on Shepherd the longer he watched that he actually had sympathy for the two socialites with whom he wasn’t and likely never would be acquainted.  

After all, here were two young women in the prime of their lives, who had come from families rich beyond imagination and had never been taught anything of importance beyond the superficial soirees and frivolous mingling of their own class, but who, out of nowhere, had been handed a chance to find real meaning in their lives.

Sure, that might not have been what the producers had in mind when they conceived the idea of following around two utterly unprepared patricians as they fumbled at tasks most ordinary people would accomplish with ease. But, intended or not, Shepherd saw that the opportunity was real. Yet, there they went, giggling, and failing, and taking none of it seriously.  

It was then that Shepherd started to talk. 

Now, several lagers later, Shepherd's story had started to waver so that, in addition to having lost interest a long time ago, the average listener would have had significant trouble following.

Fortunately for him though, Woody wasn’t your average listener. Known for his imperturbable patience, Woody placed great importance on the bartender’s role as a listener, not least of all because he recognized that getting to know one’s customers gave him a sense of order and control over his bar. After all, he was also the owner of the place, and he wasn’t about to let his clientele stir up the kind of trouble that would threaten all that it meant to him.

Shepherd’s form had begun to shrink as he hunched lower and lower over the bar, continuing his story between belches.

“Replaceable…" he hiccupped now. “Every one of us, just machines… it was the machines that took everything from me! Oh, what I’d give for some producer to come along and hand me some new vocation…” and as he waved dismissively at the little T.V. behind Woody where “The Simple Life” played on, tears began to well at the corners of his eyes. 

It was a look Woody had seen before, and he knew enough to make haste in refilling the man’s beer.

But when the bartender returned, there was a new customer sitting next to Shepherd, one Woody had never seen before.   

The stranger was turned around on his stool so that his figure was leaning over the slumped Shepherd like a vulture closing in on a weary rabbit and there was a glint in his eye Woody didn’t like.

As he approached, Woody could hear the man speaking to Shepherd as if they were conspirators.  “Did you say machines took your job?” he heard the stranger ask in a whisper.

As he placed the new glass down, Woody decided to cut in on whatever was happening. “Just a second, friend,” he said addressing the stranger. “Before Shepherd here tells you his story, what’s yours? I see you don’t have a drink yet.”

The stranger, becoming aware of Woody for the first time, lifted his head to meet his gaze. “Of course.” He smiled weakly. “I’m sorry. May I try a glass of that scotch behind you?”

It was an expensive bottle, not the kind Woody would have associated with the stranger. Nevertheless, he poured a short drink for the man, then studied him carefully a moment as he took his first sip.

“Ahhh. Thank you,” the stranger said, wiping his lips with a napkin.

“What attracted me to our friend’s story,” he said now, gesturing at Shepherd, “Was his mention of the machines. It seems our friend has a grievance with an evil enterprise that I have most recently committed myself to destroying.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

Woody saw the glint return to the stranger’s eyes. “The widespread use of artificial intelligence and robotics to replace the authority of humankind. Now, don’t get me wrong, gentlemen,” the stranger continued in his odd manner. “There is a time and a place for robots – as slaves,” and at that he pounded a fist against the bar, “But are we going to just sit here and let them get the upper hand in society to the detriment of good people like our friend here, Mister… er, um, Shepherd? 

At the sound of his name, Shepherd, who had acquired a thousand-yard state, was silent.

“So, what? You’re recruiting?” asked Woody. “Putting together a Justice League to fight robots?”

“Only,” replied the stranger, “if Mr. Grover here is in fact the kind of person I suspect he might be. The kind of person who holds a grudge in his chest that will inspire him to do something for his fellow humans. That could be his most significant contribution to humanity and become the pure reason for his existence.”

 Something stirred in Shepherd then. Through bleary eyes, he sized up the man beside him. Was there something he wanted from Shepherd? Could he help this man with something? It wasn’t clear. But he appeared to be trying to make a connection, and Shepherd, like any good drunk, was more than willing to talk to anyone who’d listen.

So, holding back the sickness that had started to climb his throat, he repeated the story he’d already told Woody and soon found himself encouraged by the man’s apparent empathy for his struggle.

“At first, they were just asking me to put the truck into autopilot every couple of hours. Y’know, take your mind off the road, let the machine take over while you do a crossword or eat your lunch or something. ‘Course you still had to pay a bit of attention to make sure the thing wasn’t trying to murder you… Malfunctioning or something… But in the end it didn’t murder me, it did something much worse… It took away my pride. My place in the world.”

 “Any other time I might’ve picked myself up, just a little worse for wear and moved on,” he continued. “But the future is machines.”

 The stranger had listened with growing interest, his eyebrows bouncing excitedly at intervals.

Now his tone became conspiratorial again. “The future you’re talking about doesn’t have to be our reality. When I overheard you talking before, I got a feeling you were one of us.”

“And who exactly is “us”?” Woody, who was still listening, chimed in.

The stranger smiled. “Superfluous Peoples Against Robotic Evolution, or S.P.A.R.E.”

He extended a hand. “I’m Elvin Seymour, the president.”

Several months later, as Shepherd, now a full-fledged member of S.P.A.R.E., headed out to another group meeting, his former depression was nothing more than a distant memory.

Having quickly come up to speed on the efforts and intentions of the group, Shepherd was beginning to feel the value of his existence again. Through S.P.A.R.E. he had found people he could identify with, who had put their trust in him as one of their own, and who relied on his presence at their nightly meetings to put weight behind their cause. 

Among the other members were a former taxi driver, who like Shepherd, had been replaced during the widespread introduction of autonomous vehicles; a bank teller who had been substituted by an ATM; a strawberry farmer who’d lost it all when his robotic labourers rose up against him; and a Mennonite. 

And of course, there was Elvin, the mastermind behind it all.

According to Elvin, he’d founded S.P.A.R.E. after being put out of business by a competing pharmacy that opened up across from his shop in the mall where he had been located. The other pharmacy had been almost completely automated and advertised itself and its central AI as “the only pharmacist in the City you could trust”. Human-caused mHuHedication error, after all, resulted in thousands of deaths each year in Canada and cost the country billions of dollars. Meanwhile, AI could check drug to drug interactions and drug-disease state interactions with incredible ease and efficiency to provide better recommendations, while checking medication compounding with better accuracy than any human. It was only a matter of time before fear of using a regular pharmacist set in amongst the population and poor Elvin was forced to close his doors.

Together, they represented a group who had been wronged, who recognized the warning signs around them that signaled the demise of humanity’s role in the world of tomorrow. And as comrades, they would do what needed to be done to avoid such a future.

 It was wonderful to feel companionship and most of all to feel useful again. The gratitude and warmth Shepherd felt for Elvin and the others for turning his life around was immeasurable and having only recently been formally initiated while he had gained their trust, he now felt a great pressure to do them proud and continue to prove his dedication to them.

This was his mindset that night as he arrived at S.P.A.R.E.’s “secret clubhouse” where Elvin already stood waiting for the others at the little podium in the centre of the space.  

The room was admittedly cramped. What they named a clubhouse was in reality an old storage unit where Elvin still kept much of the moldering merchandise once sold at his pharmacy and it was often difficult to find a place to sit among the endless boxes of laxatives, herbal teas, prophylactics, and other common drugstore paraphernalia that lay strewn about.

 Now, as the familiar faces found their places and huddled close in the dim and crowded confines of the storage space, Elvin began to speak.

“Friends,” he spoke, looking about the room.

“For some time now, we have been growing stronger as a unified force to be reckoned with. In this time, I have come to see you as my kin. Each of us has come from the same setting of misery, depression, and aimlessness to realize our one true duty. I have listened to your words, your truths about a machine-led future that leaves us more than just destitute or enslaved but useless. And I recognize these words as if they are my own. But tonight, I stand before you to tell you that words are not enough!”

And he banged a fist on the podium to emphasize his point.

“We’ve taken steps to spread our message. We’ve produced important pamphlets describing the dangers of a robotic takeover, harassed professors entering the computer sciences building of UBC campus, even spray painted our anti-robotic slogans across Stanley Park. But has anything changed? 

A few doubtful murmurs were tossed about the room. 

“No!” Elvin confirmed with a shout.

“Because it is one thing to read about such dangers and yet another thing, as each of us here knows, to experience it. We have produced the material necessary for the world to know our message but how do we make them understand it?”

  In the dim light, the members of S.P.A.R.E. looked at each other for ideas. Shepherd’s own mind raced as he saw before him an opportunity to step up, to contribute some idea that would prove him useful, even a leader, in the eyes of the others… But before this revelation had time to reveal itself, Elvin was already carrying on.

“If you’ll indulge me,” he spoke. “I have an idea for a campaign of sabotage that will awaken the population to the veracity of the robotic threat.”

And he began to describe a plan of incredible deviousness and complexity.

The objective was to target the rival pharmacy that had put Elvin out of business. Despite the fact that the store had relocated out of the mall since the days it had competed with Elvin’s shop, Elvin claimed to know their setup like the back of his hand.

“They’re 24 hours, so we’ll have to be clever about evading them at every step. But if you put your trust in me, I will lead you to where we can hack into their computer servers. Then it’s a simple matter of messing with the AI so it begins making errors. Once people start to realize they’ve entrusted their health and their lives to a mindless machine unable to recognize its own mistakes they’ll awaken to the danger of a society left to the mechanical hands of robots.”

By now the others were applauding, nodding enthusiastically, already chattering excitedly about the possibilities for sweet, sweet revenge.

Except Shepherd.

As the applause wound down, he found he couldn’t help himself.

“But…” he said, immediately regretting speaking up.

 At this, Elvin raised an eyebrow. “But what, Brother Grover?”

Shepherd swallowed, weighing his words.  

“Well… How are we going to hack into the computers? Do any of us even know how to do that?”

Elvin beamed at him now. “Excellent question, Brother Grover. And one that I was expecting. It just so happens that I’ve been apprenticing as a hacker with Yanik’s friend, Igor…”

Yanik was the former bank teller, who had a reputation for some shady connections.

But Shepherd was not satisfied and he shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

“Something else the matter, Brother Grover?”

“It’s just… Couldn’t people get seriously ill or even die from the errors of the AI as a result of our tampering?” 

And suddenly it came pouring out of him.

“If there is anything I’ve come to learn about S.P.A.R.E., it’s that we all believe in upholding the importance and meaningfulness of human life. In sanctifying and protecting it. But by promoting violence and death, aren’t we only hastening our extinction? Only proving the flaws of the human character that make us redundant? Only acting to further the robot’s cause?”

For a moment, a look of surprise crossed Elvin’s face. Regaining his composure, his retort was simple.

 “Sometimes sacrifices are needed for the greater good of humanity.”

Now the murmuring in the room had taken on a tone of uncertainty and it seemed more than one distrustful eye was cast upon Shepherd.

For one long, horrible moment he wondered if he had made a terrible mistake by speaking up.  Would his ineloquent speech, rather than proving his dedication to their cause as he’d intended, result in his ousting? He swallowed as he began to imagine returning to the terrible emptiness of his life before S.P.A.R.E. 

Then, just as he began to fear the worst, Jacob, the Mennonite, spoke up.

“Brother Grover and President Seymour both make excellent points. They have given the group much to think about on this night. On the one hand, our impact appears to be stagnating and the kind of action the President proposes would certainly address this. But on the other, we must stay true to our common values and mission. I suggest a decision on President Seymour’s proposal that S.P.A.R.E. assist in sabotaging his former pharmaceutical competitors be deferred to the meeting at the end of the month.”

There were mumblings of agreement and the next thing Shepherd knew, the meeting was adjourned. He let out a sigh of relief as he realized he’d emerged unscathed.

But as the members of S.P.A.R.E. began to file out, squeezing past each other in the tight space, Shepherd felt Elvin avoiding his gaze. He tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach and tell himself he was only imagining things but he couldn’t help notice Elvin making a special effort to shrug past so as not to be left alone with Elvin, who, as the newest member was required to stay behind to lock up. In fact, Elvin was in such a hurry to avoid Shepherd, or so it seemed, that he knocked over a plastic rack displaying a variety of dusty packages of cough drops and skittered away without turning back or bothering to clean it up.

 Alone now with his reservations, it was then that Shepherd noticed something strange. Stepping up to the place where the plastic rack had fallen over, he spotted a dust-covered sign leaning amongst the shadows of the wall. Moving closer, he examined the sign carefully. It had the look of a relic from some forgotten era. And there upon its ancient face, written in an archaic cursive were the words “Haemer Family Pharmaceutical.”

The words puzzled Shepherd. Elvin had told him his pharmacy had been called “Elvin’s Friendly Pharmacy” or just “Elvin’s Friendly” for short. Where did the name “Haemer” come from? And if it was another pharmacy, why did Elvin have their sign in his storage locker?

Maybe, as a former pharmacist, he was a collector of antique drugstore signs, Shepherd reasoned.

It had been a strange night, and in that moment, he resolved to forget about the sign.

Straightening out, he flicked off the lights with a sigh. Then he closed the door and listened for the click of it locking behind him.

But when he got home, he found he couldn’t stop thinking. Something wasn’t right.

For a while he tossed and turned on the couch before finally resolving to find his laptop.  As Shepherd entered “Haemer Family Pharmaceutical” into the search engine, there was nothing that could prepare him for what he’d find.

It had been months since Woody had seen Shepherd, but when he suddenly slumped into the Bottom End Barroom again, he remembered the man instantly.

 Woody greeted him as if he was a regular and it didn’t take long until they were catching up like old friends. 

“Last time I saw you, you were off to fight robots. How did it all work out?” 

Shepherd stared at the counter as he placed his empty glass before him. 

“It didn’t...”

“How do you mean?”

 But Shepherd couldn’t meet Woody’s eyes. He was ashamed. After all, he’d let himself be duped into believing that Elvin understood him, that Elvin had created S.P.A.R.E. to help people like him fight for their place in society.

“Elvin wasn’t who he said he was,” he said finally.

Woody nodded, as if he already knew the whole story. “I had the feeling he wasn’t telling the you everything. So, what was it, if you don’t mind my asking?”

With a sigh, Shepherd surrendered the details.

Elvin Seymour had been a pseudonym for Elvin Seymour Haemer, once heir to the Haemer Family Pharmaceuticals fortune. Of course, Shepherd had never heard of HFP, but soon concluded the reason for that was, although they’d owned a couple of retail outlets during their humble beginnings, they had actually made their fortune by specializing in the development of algorithms that would help automate the pharmaceutical industry.

A search linking the name “Elvin Seymour” with “Haemer Family Pharmaceuticals” had resulted in a collection of unflattering photographs taken by paparazzi of a man much younger and less composed than the man he knew, but which undoubtedly captured the image of S.P.A.R.E.’s president and founder. These were usually accompanied by brief articles describing past brushes with the law, whether it was Elvin being tossed from a club or ordered to leave the home of some A-list celebrity, and it didn’t take long for it to become clear that Elvin was the black sheep of this sophisticated family.

One article had been particularly enlightening. It described how Elvin, now somehow an employee at a local Vancouver pharmacy, had been fired after being caught hording pills for his personal use. Shepherd made the connection that Elvin had likely been forced to find employment when his family finally decided they’d had enough and cut off his allowance. As for the pharmacy in question, it had relocated from its location in a downtown shopping mall six months ago to make room for a new series of improvements - which included a new computer system featuring the Haemer Family Pharmaceuticals AI. Shepherd had quickly concluded that Elvin had never owned his own Pharmacy, and that S.P.A.R.E.’s clubhouse, with its old Haemer Family sign, must have been a long-forgotten storage unit of his family’s to which Elvin somehow still had access.

Shepherd shook his head sadly. “S.P.A.R.E. was nothing more than Elvin’s project to fulfill his own personal vendetta against his former employer and family.”

Woody frowned in silence for a moment. “Huh,” he said finally, shaking his head. “I almost feel sorry for the guy.”

 Seeing the look on Shepherd’s face then, he continued to explain. “I mean, think about it. We’re talking about some rich kid who’s never been taught to thrive in the world by himself or care about anything but himself. It’s kind of sad. He sets up some radical group with the pretence of tryingg to change the course of society, which, whether he realizes it or not, is probably the first thing he’s done with any kind of meaning, and then he goes and destroys everything he’s built because of his own selfishness again. Take the pharmacy job for that matter. Maybe he would have ended up a manager there, but he couldn’t help himself. He just had to take those pills.”

Shepherd was silent. To his surprise, he found himself thinking about The Simple Life and the sympathy he’d felt so many months ago in this very bar for its two subjects.    

Meanwhile, Woody had gone back to cleaning glasses.

 “So, what happens now?” he asked.  

“I meet Elvin tonight. Tell him I know the truth. Tell him I quit.” 

“And then what?”

“I don’t know. Nothing.”

“And the robots?”

“What do you mean?” Shepherd asked, confused and a little agitated. “Who cares about the robots?”

“I don’t know. Do you?”

Shepherd shrugged.

“You know,” Woody said, leaning in again. “I knew this guy who used to be a regular at the Bottom End. A struggling playwright-slash-actor. Always down here wearing a leotard or something crazy, with a bottle of the cheapest beer he could find in one hand and typing away on his personal laptop with the other. He would be writing – or more often rewriting. Editing and editing until his play was perfect. After all, that’s the secret to survival for more than just good literature – reinvention. Anyways, because this guy was also an actor, he always gave himself a crucial role in his own plays. Then one day he realized he didn’t want to be an actor anymore.”

“What happened?”

“He realized he had written himself out of his own play. And after that, he lost interest in writing altogether. I haven’t seen him now in several years… Anyways, sometimes I get the feeling humanity is doing something similar with all its advancements - by employing robots to fill the roles of everyday life we’re kind of writing ourselves out of our own script.”

“So, what? You’re saying I shouldn’t quit?”

 “All I’m doing is laying out your options with this whole robot fighting club. Either you keep at it or… You write yourself out of the script. But it seemed to me the first time you came in here that you had kind of lost the plot in your own story. And then this Elvin character, whatever his reasons for doing so, came along and gave you a new thread to work on.  And while the story isn’t perfect, maybe all it needs is a little editing…”

And with that, he strolled away, whistling, and leaving Shepherd with a choice.

Tristen Fournier lives in the city of Yellowknife in Canada's far North. He is a graduate of Concordia University in Montreal where he completed a Bachelor of Arts in Creative Writing in 2013. He has previously published short fiction and poetry with publications including Buttontapper Press, Lunch Ticket Magazine, Halcyon Magazine, Milk Journal, and Poetry Breakfast.