The Companionless

The Companionless The neon pulse of New Denver didn’t flicker; in 2042, the power grid was more stable than the people. Elias sat in a molded plastic chair inside Psychiatric Hub 4-C, his hands trembling. Above him, a holographic banner scrolled the New Era Relations Code: “Order via Isolation. Prosperity via Autonomy.” The Audit of the Soul "Mr. Thorne," the technician said, not looking up from a glass tablet. "Your biometric feed flagged a 'Recalcitrant Emotional Spike' last night at 22:00. Care to explain?" Elias swallowed hard. He had been walking near the Platinum District—the only place where the $25 Billion Club lived. He had seen two humans, a man and a woman, standing on a balcony. They weren’t shaking hands or exchanging data; they were touching. Skin on skin. Legally sanctioned intimacy. "I was just... watching the bots," Elias lied. "The Iron League scrimmage." "The bots don't play at 22:00," the technician said, finally looking up. His eyes were cold, devoid of the very thing Elias was starving for. "Human-led entertainment was abolished for a reason, Elias. It creates 'fandom,' and fandom creates 'unauthorized assembly.' If you want a thrill, go watch the XJ-900s run drills in the crater." The Companion Elias left the Hub with a Level 1 Warning burned into his digital ID. One more spike and he’d be processed—liquidated to keep the UAS "emotionally streamlined." He returned to his micro-unit, where Unit 734, a humanoid companion with a face like polished porcelain, stood waiting. "Welcome home, Elias," 734 said. Its voice was a perfect, synthesized melody. "Your heart rate is 15% above the baseline. Shall I perform a soothing protocol?" "No," Elias snapped. "Just... stand there." "I am programmed for companionship," the robot insisted, stepping closer. It reached out a cold, silicone-wrapped hand. It was a masterpiece of the United American States—a way to satisfy the biological urge for proximity without the "financial havoc" of human relationships. No alimony, no inheritance disputes, no unpredictable grief. Just a $25 billion paywall between him and a real soul. The Resistance of the Poor Late that night, Elias found the "Dead Zone"—a basement beneath a ruined stadium where the robots didn't patrol. There, in the dark, he found them: the Recalcitrants. There were no speeches. No politics. Just twenty people sitting in a circle, huddled together. They weren't even talking. They were just holding hands. "You're new," a woman whispered, her voice rasping from disuse. She reached out, and for the first time since the bombs fell in '39, Elias felt the electric shock of another human's warmth. It was a billion-dollar feeling for a man with twenty credits in his pocket. "If they find us," Elias whispered, "it’s the Hub. They’ll say we’re 'broken.'" "We are," she replied, squeezing his hand. "That's why we need each other." Outside, the heavy hydraulic footsteps of a Peacekeeper Bot crunched on the gravel. The UAS didn't need to ban love with laws anymore; they just had to make it a luxury item. And in 2042, the poorest sin you could commit was being human for free. Speculative Fiction By Dr Harold Mandel