The pedestrian crossing appeared overnight, like most things did these days. No fuss, no debates – just a neat, white-striped passageway where the algorithm had decided it should be. A few months ago, someone – no one knew exactly who, maybe not even a someone – had proposed it. The idea passed through the system like water through a filter, sifting through preference profiles, micro-adjustments, weightings of public convenience. The final decision was made in less than a second.
A 74% acceptability rating. That was good enough
No one had to interrupt their morning coffee or their evening entertainment cycle to vote on something so trivial. No one had even noticed it was happening. That was the beauty of the avatar system. It handled the banalities – the color of public benches, the height of streetlights, the frequency of trash collection. Everything was optimized, streamlined, frictionless. It had been six years since the system was introduced, and already, most people couldn’t imagine life without it.
For bigger decisions, things were different. 24 hours – that was the window. If you wanted to vote yourself, you could. There were still those who insisted. A fading relic of an old world, clutching at their last illusion of personal agency. But most people let their avatars handle it.
Efficiency over sentiment.
I did, too – mostly. I didn’t care about tax adjustments or municipal budget allocations. I didn’t lose sleep over how many trees were planted in the new park. I had my avatar for that.
But for the presidential election – ah, now that was different. That, I did myself.
Not that it mattered, really. The avatars had calculated outcomes long before the first vote was even cast. The presidency had become mostly ceremonial – a last gasp of human nostalgia. Still, I liked the act of voting, the small moment of ritual. Like a child playing with an old typewriter, fascinated by the clack of the keys.
Besides, the avatars weren’t perfect. Or at least, they weren’t human. They were pure logic. No ego, no impulse, no irrational gut feelings. They didn’t experience doubt or loyalty or that strange, unexplainable sensation of preferring one candidate simply because you liked their voice.
Some people saw this as a flaw.
I wasn’t sure.
Not just anyone could vote on everything.
For financial policies, for instance, there was a specialization questionnaire – a sort of intellectual purity test. You had to score at least 85% concordance to be allowed a say. It wasn’t hard, exactly, but it was intricate. A maze of economic models and ethical dilemmas.
I had managed 92%. A personal triumph.
I still had no idea how the system knew my economic stance. No point in the process had asked me directly. It had only given me simulations – tiny windows into different worlds.
In one of them, I had chosen to share resources with a sick man, someone clearly beyond saving. It was an emotional decision, an instinctive one. As a result, I hadn’t lasted long in the model – barely five simulated days before the system collapsed. That single choice had branded me as center-left.
Maybe it was right. Maybe I was.
There were whispers – whispers of a future where only avatars would vote.
It made sense, didn’t it? They knew us better than we knew ourselves. They weren’t swayed by impulse, by charisma, by the flickering illusion of choice. They processed probabilities, consequences, ripple effects.
There used to be an old saying:
“It doesn’t matter who votes; it matters who counts the votes.”
Perhaps the new saying should be:
“It doesn’t matter who counts the votes. It only matters who votes.”
And maybe, soon, that wouldn’t be us anymore.