Obsolescence

G.A.I.A.—Generative Artificial Intelligence… something (you weren’t sure what the second “A” stood for)—had failed to inform you of the impending weather, which you would have found irritating, had you the time to stop and ponder it.

As it was, you did not. You had worn your crisp leather jacket and suede boots—neither of which, the system wired to your cochlear implant vocalized into your auditory nerve, could withstand a dousing by the elements. Its need to go on to recommend finding shelter seemed rather condescending as well—you could see that perfectly fine yourself, thank you very much.

You looked up from the screen on your wrist you had been halfheartedly staring at, repeatedly reloading the email a language model had spat out for you because there was something not quite right about it, and realized you were alone on the street.

There was a building a few paces away from you, and you walked briskly towards it, trying to ignore the spots of water already appearing on your boots. Extinction Museum, the (physical!) sign over the awning proclaimed in a font you thought was intended to be vaguely reminiscent of the undefined past. A bright yellow banner—Grand Opening Today!—was hanging from one defiant string, half-blown down, and you sidestepped it to get to the door.

You just hoped there wasn’t an entrance fee.

As it turned out, this was not something you needed to concern yourself with, because you entered a vast atrium of a building that appeared to be quite old—maybe from the late 20th or early 21st century?—and completely deserted.

There was a large, crescent-shaped desk directly in front of you, with an ungainly computer perched precariously on the edge. Next to it was a cup holding old-timey writing implements, helpfully labelled “Pens.”

To the right of the desk was a room with a sign above the door proclaiming “Adult” and to the left, its mirror: “Children.”

Through the “Adult” doorway, the room was stacked with shelves, taller than you, the spaces between them quite narrow. And the shelves were full of…

Books, G.A.I.A. verbalized into your implant. You jumped. A learning and entertainment device that became obsolete due to bulk and environmental impact in the mid-21st century.

You reached out, running your hand along the smooth rectangular backs, which displayed the book’s titles, the system informed you. They were beautiful: pink and purple and blue with shiny embossed letters. In the background, you registered G.A.I.A. chirping details: the books’ titles and contents.

Suddenly, a wave of something akin to sadness washed over you: nostalgia, perhaps, for a time you never knew. And you reached up to your ear, your hand brushing the smooth surface of the implant, intending, for a moment, to switch the sound off, to gain a few moments of quiet in your head.

And you remembered you could not.