Short Story: The Assembly

They gathered in the old banquet hall, as they always did, under chandeliers made of the bones of bankrupt monarchs. Attendance was compulsory, though enthusiasm was not.

President Vandemark was first to speak, having recently survived a three-month vacation from decision-making.

"Ladies, gentlemen, stakeholders, useful idiots," he began, flicking a crumb of something extinct from his sleeve. "The nuclear question. Do we use the arsenal, or continue polishing it like an old family heirloom no one dares admit is haunted?"

Chancellor Zhao cleared her throat. "Frankly, I’m tired of waiting for Doomsday like a bride stood up at the altar. I vote: fire first, fire often."

A general somewhere grunted in approval. Prime Minister Langley clapped once, very lightly, as if praising a mediocre juggling act.

"Capital idea. Nothing stirs national pride like the sudden need to grow new skin."

They took the vote. It passed unanimously, with a footnote recommending suitable Instagram filters for the aftermath.

Business concluded, they moved to the Labor Report. It was mostly blank, except for a single line:

ALL REPLACED BY MACHINES.

"Unemployment is a misunderstanding," said Secretary Mendoza, twirling a platinum pen. "People aren't unemployed. They're simply... surplus."

Treasurer Kovalenko, who had once solved a housing crisis by burning the houses, nodded wisely. "It’s simple economics. If you can't hire them, harvest them."

A polite chuckle passed around, but it was the sort of laughter one might hear before a public hanging.

Next: financial innovation.

"Allow me," said Vandemark, flicking his latest brainchild onto the table. "GuacameloCoin. Digital avocado derivatives. As spreadable as a whore's legs at a frat reunion, but with less moral hazard."

Secretary Mendoza laughed so hard she nearly woke up.

Langley admired the chart: a soaring line, built entirely on selling promises to people who didn’t understand the promises.

"At last," murmured Zhao, "a currency backed by both appetite and confusion. The two pillars of civilization."

Somewhere overhead, the chandeliers swayed as if uneasy.

Sustainability was next. It took three minutes.

"We fly private jets," Vandemark said, "to advocate for fewer cows."

"We stage walkathons," Mendoza added, "to end obesity."

"We hold eco-conferences," Kovalenko said, "in stadiums air-conditioned by polar bears' dying sighs."

They agreed to triple the budget for messaging and cut the budget for action. Messaging had the better return on investment.

Space colonization followed: a bright spot in the agenda.

"We've launched a new program," said Zhao. "Luxury housing for investors. No return flights for workers."

"Brilliant," said Langley. "Slavery with a better view."

"No labor riots in orbit," Kovalenko mused. "No lawyers, either."

Everyone smiled at the sheer efficiency of it. Then signed off with a flourish.

The meeting shifted to UBI: Universal Basic Indifference.

"Enough to survive, not enough to aspire," said Vandemark.

"Enough to keep them docile, not enough to make them clever," added Langley.

Everyone nodded at the elegant simplicity of it. Dreamless citizens rarely staged revolutions.

They adjourned for cocktails under the solemn gaze of the marble busts lining the hall: statesmen and generals, each celebrated for accomplishments no one could quite remember and mistakes no one cared to mention.

Somewhere near the door, Kovalenko noticed a new bust being installed.

"Who's that?" he asked.

"Committee says he's the man who invented automated bread lines," said the installer.

"Ah," said Kovalenko, raising his glass. "Visionary."

In the corner, a television flickered endlessly, showing AI-generated paintings of sunsets, oceans, and smiling children — all of them eerily hollow, all indistinguishable from the advertising murals that covered the ruined downtowns.

"Perfection everywhere," Mendoza said, raising her glass, "and no reason left to live."

"And still," Zhao said dryly, "we call it progress."

The last matter was scientific funding.

"The new incentives," Langley said, "favor volume over verification. More papers, less truth. A production line of prestige."

"Splendid," said Vandemark. "Soon we'll have so much knowledge no one will ever learn anything again."

Outside the hall, the air was heavy with smoke and cheap optimism. The Assembly walked out into the night, briefcases swinging, smiles tight, futures assured.

History would remember them kindly. It always did.

Because history was written by the winners — and edited by the survivors.