eyes as I survey the wreck. I blink them away, searching for some sign of life. The clouds of smoke throb with police lights, ring with sirens. The silhouette of a police officer drifts through the haze and comes into focus.
“Hey,” she calls.
I turn and stumble away. Ignore her shouts as I duck around a corner. Eyes leaking, I accelerate until I’m sprinting down the alley—running blind, breath rasping, away from the noise and turmoil and death.
----
STATE OF PENNSYLVANIA, by and through
Attorney General Sam Pondi, et al.:
Plaintiffs,
JOHN SIZEMORE
v.
Defendants,
TAMMY ROGERS, representing
ORDER GRANTING SUMMARY JUDGMENT
In this case, we define capacity to contract to exclude individuals with artificially enhanced intelligence.
As has long been established, those with diminished capacity (e.g., minors and people with mental disabilities) lack the capacity to contract as a matter of law. Similarly, we find that individuals with artificially enhanced intelligence possess an
enhanced
capacity to contract, which necessarily creates an unlevel playing field.
We saw evidence that these enhanced individuals may prey on those with inferior “natural” intelligence of the sort belonging to what we have known heretofore as the “average man.” In other words, individuals with artificially enhanced intelligence implicitly confer diminished capacity to others.
In an effort to remedy the growing disparity between natural and enhanced levels of intelligence, and in an effort to create a level playing field, we hereby find that individuals with artificially enhanced intelligence lack the capacity to contract as a matter of law.
As a result, we thus find that the contract entered into between John Sizemore and Tammy Rogers is considered null and void.
----
The toaster misses my face by about a foot, then explodes into shards of white plastic on the sidewalk. I blink at it once or twice before a wooden napkin ring clips me across the bridge of my nose.
I catch sight of a scrawny forearm lurking in the second-story window of my apartment. Charles, my landlord, is throwing my belongings out the window in neat little parabolas. He’s already packed and dragged out a haphazard pile of cardboard boxes that rest on the grass next to the sidewalk. A couch and a chair sit incongruously in the yard.
“Charles!” I say. “What the hell are you doing?”
He pokes his gaunt face out of the window and glares down at me, breathing hard. He swallows and his Adam’s apple bobs. Muttering, he flings a handful of silverware at me and ducks back inside.
The front door flies open as I reach for the handle. Charles, all hundred and twenty pounds of him, charges out. He slams the door shut, locks it.
The lock is bright as cut copper, new.
“I don’t have to talk to you,” says Charles in the clipped, broken accent of a lifelong Pittsburgher.
“What?”
“Back up. To the sidewalk. You’re trespassing.”
Charles advances, eyes narrowed. Confused, I put my handsout and step back. “Charles, I don’t know what’s going on. What happened, man?”
“Thought you were so smart. Well, who’s smart now? Score one for the Yinzers, asshole.”
Charles kicks a box, and what looks like my college textbooks spill out onto the wet lawn. I stoop down to push the books back into the damp cardboard box. A young guy walking up the sidewalk carefully inspects a pile of my kitchen stuff.
“Hey,” I say. “This isn’t a garage sale.”
The young guy doesn’t respond, looks past me and makes eye contact with Charles.
“That means take off,” I say.
Charles taps his temple. “Don’t have to listen to him,” he says.
No reaction. No sympathy or anger. The guy just stands there, watching me warily, the way you’d watch a crazy person at a bus stop.
It hits me that something fundamental has changed. Whatever empathy glues society together is somehow drying up, becoming cracked and
“Hey,” she calls.
I turn and stumble away. Ignore her shouts as I duck around a corner. Eyes leaking, I accelerate until I’m sprinting down the alley—running blind, breath rasping, away from the noise and turmoil and death.
----
STATE OF PENNSYLVANIA, by and through
Attorney General Sam Pondi, et al.:
Plaintiffs,
JOHN SIZEMORE
v.
Defendants,
TAMMY ROGERS, representing
ORDER GRANTING SUMMARY JUDGMENT
In this case, we define capacity to contract to exclude individuals with artificially enhanced intelligence.
As has long been established, those with diminished capacity (e.g., minors and people with mental disabilities) lack the capacity to contract as a matter of law. Similarly, we find that individuals with artificially enhanced intelligence possess an
enhanced
capacity to contract, which necessarily creates an unlevel playing field.
We saw evidence that these enhanced individuals may prey on those with inferior “natural” intelligence of the sort belonging to what we have known heretofore as the “average man.” In other words, individuals with artificially enhanced intelligence implicitly confer diminished capacity to others.
In an effort to remedy the growing disparity between natural and enhanced levels of intelligence, and in an effort to create a level playing field, we hereby find that individuals with artificially enhanced intelligence lack the capacity to contract as a matter of law.
As a result, we thus find that the contract entered into between John Sizemore and Tammy Rogers is considered null and void.
----
The toaster misses my face by about a foot, then explodes into shards of white plastic on the sidewalk. I blink at it once or twice before a wooden napkin ring clips me across the bridge of my nose.
I catch sight of a scrawny forearm lurking in the second-story window of my apartment. Charles, my landlord, is throwing my belongings out the window in neat little parabolas. He’s already packed and dragged out a haphazard pile of cardboard boxes that rest on the grass next to the sidewalk. A couch and a chair sit incongruously in the yard.
“Charles!” I say. “What the hell are you doing?”
He pokes his gaunt face out of the window and glares down at me, breathing hard. He swallows and his Adam’s apple bobs. Muttering, he flings a handful of silverware at me and ducks back inside.
The front door flies open as I reach for the handle. Charles, all hundred and twenty pounds of him, charges out. He slams the door shut, locks it.
The lock is bright as cut copper, new.
“I don’t have to talk to you,” says Charles in the clipped, broken accent of a lifelong Pittsburgher.
“What?”
“Back up. To the sidewalk. You’re trespassing.”
Charles advances, eyes narrowed. Confused, I put my handsout and step back. “Charles, I don’t know what’s going on. What happened, man?”
“Thought you were so smart. Well, who’s smart now? Score one for the Yinzers, asshole.”
Charles kicks a box, and what looks like my college textbooks spill out onto the wet lawn. I stoop down to push the books back into the damp cardboard box. A young guy walking up the sidewalk carefully inspects a pile of my kitchen stuff.
“Hey,” I say. “This isn’t a garage sale.”
The young guy doesn’t respond, looks past me and makes eye contact with Charles.
“That means take off,” I say.
Charles taps his temple. “Don’t have to listen to him,” he says.
No reaction. No sympathy or anger. The guy just stands there, watching me warily, the way you’d watch a crazy person at a bus stop.
It hits me that something fundamental has changed. Whatever empathy glues society together is somehow drying up, becoming cracked and
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