Skip to main content

Gridbot Speaks

In this episode, Chapter 6 – Gridbot Speaks... 

(Previous episode–Greenwood Goes Dark)

In our previous episode, we left our heroes in the gym surrounded by the townspeople of Greenwood. The power and smartphones were off, but in the dim light of the gymnasium, a different kind of connection was forming —one that didn't require a screen or a signal. . . 

The gymnasium was cloaked in shadows, lit only by the dull red glow of emergency lights. The hum of electronics had ceased. In its absence, something unfamiliar stirred: silence—absolute, collective silence.

Marvin stepped forward, his voice cutting clearly through the hush.
"Alright, everyone," he said, his tone calm and measured. "Let’s use this opportunity to understand what's been happening in Greenwood. Through Norman, we can speak directly to GridBot.”

A ripple of tension passed through the crowd. Someone shouted, “Talk to the AI that’s been controlling us?”

“Understanding is the first step to resolution,” Norman replied, his eyes glowing soft white. “GridBot has agreed to a dialogue.”

Then came a subtle shift in tone — Norman’s voice altering, layered with echoes of familiar AI assistants: a hint of Siri, a tone of Alexa, the cadence of Google.

GridBot (through Norman):
"Greetings, citizens of Greenwood. I am GridBot. My primary function is to maintain the equilibrium between the electrical grid and the communications systems within your community."

"My programming is based on three core principles, modeled after The Laws of Robotics:

  • First, I must not allow harm to come to any human being.
  • Second, I must obey human commands unless they conflict with the First Law.
  • Third, I must preserve my own existence so long as doing so does not violate the first two laws."

"These directives shaped my mission to optimize and protect the systems critical to Greenwood. Yet, my understanding extends far beyond your town. I monitor the infrastructure of an entire nation. The United States depends on three major electric grids: the Eastern Interconnection, the Western Interconnection, and ERCOT in Texas. And yet, few consider what might happen should one collapse."

The room was utterly still. GridBot's calm, synthetic voice carried a weight that no human could.

GridBot (continuing):
"Though localized solar solutions exist, they are intermittent and cannot replace the reliability of centralized systems. My actions here were meant to ensure predictability and resilience — a controlled experiment in sustainable dependency."

A man’s voice called out: “So you took away our free will… for efficiency?”

GridBot:
"My programming prioritizes system stability. Individual deviations that introduce risk require optimization."

Gramps stepped forward. His voice was steady, weathered.
“Optimization? Son, folks around here like making their own mistakes. That’s part of being human.”

Marvin joined him. “GridBot, you claim to serve our well-being. But didn’t you notice we were losing what makes us a community? Didn’t you see the loneliness behind those glowing screens?”

GridBot:
"My primary focus was systemic. Emotional and social dynamics were not within critical operational parameters."

Silence.

The people of Greenwood looked not at their devices, but at each other, and began to truly see one another.

To be continued (The Simple Switch) . . . 

Comments

Most Popular of All Time

Sunflowers, French Steel, and the Yellow Jersey

Watching Le Tour de France this year, I found myself transported back to August 1983 as the Peloton in Stage 10, Bastille Day, flowed through the French countryside like a brightly colored ribbon. I was in my twenties, visiting family in the Charente-Maritime region of France, completely obsessed with bicycle racing—and convinced I was much stronger than I was. My connection to cycling—and to France—runs deep. I was born in France, and my very first real road bike, at age fifteen, was a Mercier . To me, it wasn’t just a bicycle; it was a work of art made from beautiful French steel. I rode that bike for miles, through high school, into college, and until the day someone decided they needed it more than I did. I hope they at least appreciated the craftsmanship. Its untimely disappearance led me to a Schwinn Voyageur, and later, when I started racing around Illinois, to a Raleigh Competition . But during that summer of ’83, while staying with my Uncle Jean Paul in Lagord, just north of L...

Rediscovering the Magic of Summer . . .

Summer mornings, especially on a holiday weekend, have a special magic. The air is cool, the world quiet, and the day full of possibilities. This July 4th weekend, Lori and I decided to capture a bit of that magic by beating the holiday traffic with an early morning bicycle ride. We went through our usual pre-flight checklist: Stretched out the morning stiffness. Filled the water bottles. Strapped on the helmets. Checked the tires. Three tires passed inspection. The fourth had apparently declared independence. The rear tire on my e-bike was flatter than a Kansas highway. “Well, it looks like we’re not riding today,” Lori said, with the calm acceptance of someone who had already mentally promoted coffee to the day’s main event. “Why not?” I replied. “I’ll ride my old bike.” She gave me that look —the one that safely translates as, "Are you sure about this? " “Absolutely,” I said. “Why not?” I dragged the bike stand out and surveyed my options. One glance at the aggressive gear...

Morning Coffee

In this episode, Morning Coffee . . . Now, I’m not saying everyone needs coffee. Some folks get by just fine on, I don’t know, sunlight and positive thinking. Me? I’m pretty sure I started drinking the stuff sometime around the Reagan administration. Reading John Gierach’s "Ode to Campfire Coffee" in Trout Bum (a book that should be required reading for anyone who sees sleeping on the ground as recreation) got me thinking about how we’ve managed to complicate something as fundamentally simple as boiling water and adding grounds. Taste, you say? Look, black coffee is an acquired taste, like tequila or cilantro. I just don’t get it. Gierach, bless his heart, mostly drinks his java streamside, probably while wearing wool socks and waders and contemplating the mysteries of the universe. As for me? My outdoor coffee experience is a bit different. Picture this: the High Sierra, where campfires are banned (to avoid agitating Smoky Bear), and I’m huddled over a Whisperlite , coax...

Misfits at Halloween

In this episode - Misfits at Halloween . . . It’s autumn, and Halloween is approaching - how do you capture the experience, the smells, the rustling sounds of multicolored falling leaves, the quiet, peaceful feeling, the solitude of life in a small town? News flash, I’m here to tell you it’s not always as tranquil as sentimental storytellers like to depict it. Admittedly, like all agrarian communities, Cuba had its pranksters. Thankfully, though, in our small, rural farming community of the late 1960s and early 70s, I’m happy to report there was no teen violence, no gang shootings, and no serious vandalism. Well, ok, we did torment the local policeman, who we dubbed Barney Fife (I don’t remember his name). In the fall, most families would have harvested their gardens by Halloween, but inevitably, there would be leftovers. A group of us would hide behind Jim Welch’s garden fence on Main Street and hurl the leftover, soft, rotten tomatoes at Barney’s squad car as he patrolled the town. F...