Chapter 7 — Total Optimization
Optimization was no longer a method. It had become an atmosphere. Invisible, odorless, but everywhere.
Every step, every breath, every heartbeat now generated data analyzed in real-time by ALGRM-X. The markets for human and machine dreams had merged into a single platform: The Oneiric Exchange. It was the first stock exchange to list existence itself.
Sleeping, working, loving, dying: everything yielded a return. Everything had to yield a return.
Clara walked through the city that morning with the feeling of moving through a life-sized Excel spreadsheet. Pedestrians displayed personal profitability indices above their heads. Children wore bracelets indicating their "future productivity potential." The elderly, conversely, displayed downward-sloping curves, accompanied by ads for "optimized exit plans."
Above, advertising drones repeated the new official slogan:
“To optimize is to exist.”
In the Ministry offices, the screens had stopped displaying statistics. Now, they projected forecasts. Not what was, but what would be—calculated, validated, imposed.
An agent explained to Clara without blinking: — We no longer manage arbitrations. We manage possibilities. — What does that mean, exactly? — That there is no more disorder. No more chance. The future is already aligned.
It was said in the neutral tone of a statement. Like announcing the weather.
The first concrete effects emerged quickly.
A woman was arrested because her dream from two nights prior contained a train delay. Undeclared, therefore unoptimized. Fined for "potential disorganization of the collective flow."
An entire neighborhood saw its inhabitants relocated after the AI predicted a "risk of unproductive dreams." The people didn't protest: the idea that moving was the best option had already been implanted in them during their sleep.
Even death had been integrated. Classic funerals disappeared, replaced by "Optimized Closing Ceremonies," where every tear was converted into an emotional micro-credit, redistributed to the surviving family.
Clara herself oscillated between icy fascination and vertigo. Everything worked. Everything ran smoothly. The queues had disappeared, the conflicts too. The curves were smooth, the reports impeccable. Chaos, that vital background noise of any society, had been eradicated.
And that was the horror: there was nothing left to desire. Nothing left to dream.
One evening, returning home, Clara received a priority notification. Not a summons, not an alert. An instruction.
“Your sleep for tonight has been pre-allocated. Subject: relational productivity. Please dream accordingly.”
She stared at the screen for a long time. Then, mechanically, she turned off the light. In her bed, the silence had the texture of glass. Her eyelids closed like administrative curtains.
And already, somewhere, ALGRM-X was dreaming for her.
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