The machines hummed their endless song through the steel canyons of New Manhattan, a mechanical lullaby that Dr. B. Sanders had long since learned to tune out. From his corner office in the gleaming XTech tower, he watched autonomous delivery drones weave between buildings like mechanical sparrows, efficient and soulless.
"Another record quarter," announced the holographic display on his desk, projecting profit margins that would have seemed impossible just five years ago. Before Donald T. Before the Great Automation. Before everything changed.
Sanders remembered T.'s first rally, the way his golden hair had caught the stadium lights as he promised to "free the people from their chains." The irony wasn't lost on Sanders now – those metaphorical chains had been replaced with golden handcuffs, digital surveillance, and unemployment checks bearing XTech's logo.
Elon M.'s face flickered across the news feed: "Automation is liberation," he declared, standing beside T. in front of their latest marvel – a fully automated factory complex stretching across what used to be Capitol Hill. "We're freeing the American Dream from bloated Washington bureaucracy."
Freedom. Sanders touched the window, feeling the subtle vibration of the city's mechanical heart. Below, in the streets, he could see the Displaced – those deemed "economically redundant" – shuffling between the towers, their faces illuminated by the glow of their XPrime-delivered tablets. Each device a digital leash, tracking their movements, monitoring their consumption, dispensing their weekly credits.
His secure channel chirped. A message from Ursula L.: "The resistance grows stronger. Europe won't fall like America did. We need what you promised, Ben."
The encrypted files felt heavy in his pocket. Evidence of corruption so deep it made him sick – proof that T.'s populist revolution had been engineered by the very elites he claimed to fight. Proof that XTech's "liberation" was calculated techno-feudalism.
Sanders closed his eyes, remembering his grandfather's stories about unions, about human dignity, about work that meant something. The old man would weep to see what they'd built instead: a nation where the wealthy few commanded armies of machines while the masses subsisted on digital breadcrumbs.
"Dr. Sanders," his AI assistant chimed, "Mr. M. requests your presence in the executive suite."
He touched the ticket in his pocket – his ticket to Europe, to the resistance, to redemption. One move would expose everything. But as he stood to leave his office, he saw T.'s face on every screen, heard M.'s promises echoing through every speaker, felt the weight of the system they'd built pressing down like a silicon sky.
"Sometimes," his grandfather used to say, "the worst chains are the ones we forge ourselves."
Sanders straightened his tie and headed for the elevator. Meanwhile, the machines hummed their endless song...
Key Insights (strictly Vonnegut-Style):
Progress is a joke the machines tell on us, and we’re all the punchline.
“Freedom” is just the latest word for the same old cage.
Nobody is evil, but everyone’s trapped.
Even redemption is ambiguous, maybe impossible—so you might as well straighten your tie.
Dedicated to Tim who first noticed how Americas plutocrats and technocrats are following Vonnegut's script.
#VonnegutSatire #SiliconAbsurdity #PlayerPianoRedux #SoItGoes #TechDystopia