After Dinner Conversation - Best Of 2022: After Dinner Conversation "Best Of", #1

By Brian Carey, Steven Ross, Margret A. Treiber and 19 more

"Short Stories For Long Discussions…"

 

Delight in intriguing, thought-provoking conversations about ethics, philosophy, and social issues! After Dinner Conversation is a (501(c)(3) nonprofit that publishes a monthly short fiction literary magazine.

 

Each issue features both established writers and up-and-coming authors who contribute fascinating philosophical insights on controversial topics like marriage equality, assisted suicide, the meaning of death, animal rights and defining your "purpose." It's time to go deep in search of truth!

---------------------------

After Dinner Conversation - "Best Of 2022" is a collection of the best philosophy ethics short story fiction published in After Dinner Conversation's monthly magazine in 2022. Short stories span all genres; science-fiction, near-future, dystopia, spiritual, fantasy, urban fantasy, AI, historical fiction, contemporary women, political, horror, thriller, and children's stories.  The important thing is that the story is compelling, and that it asks a specific ethical or moral question. Imagine the "trolley problem" in short story form.

 

Short stories by (in alphabetical order): Safiyyah Althaff, Veronica L. Asay, Tommy Blanchard, Brian Carey, David A. Cohen, Robert Collings, M. M. De Voe, Clare Diston, Garrett Elms, Jeffrey Feingold, Larry Kite, Michael Klein, Ville V. Kokko, Phillip Scott Mandel, Holly McGinnis, Megan Neary, Harrison V. Perry, Steven Ross, Margret A. Treiber, Jonathan Turner, Thomas J. Weiss, and Michael Zemel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: After Dinner Conversation
• Release date: Jan 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215642214

Book preview

After Dinner Conversation – Best Of 2022

After Dinner Conversation publishes fictional stories that explore ethical and philosophical questions in an informal manner. The purpose of these stories is to generate thoughtful discussion in an open and easily accessible manner.

Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The book is published in print and electronic format.

All rights reserved. After Dinner Conversation ‘Best Of’ 2022 is published by After Dinner Conversation, Inc., a 501(c)(3) nonprofit, in the United States of America.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the publisher. Abstracts and brief quotations may be used without permission for citations, critical articles, or reviews. Contact us at [e-mail].

.

Copyright © 2023 After Dinner Conversation

Editor in Chief: Kolby Granville

Story Editor: R.K.H. Ndong

Acquisitions Editor: Stephen Repsys

Design, layout, and discussion questions by After Dinner Conversation.

https://www.afterdinnerconversation.com

From the Publisher

* * *

AFTER DINNER CONVERSATION believes humanity is improved by ethics and morals grounded in philosophical truth.

Philosophical truth is discovered through intentional reflection and respectful debate. In order to facilitate that process, we have created a growing series of short stories, audio and video podcast discussions, across genres, as accessible examples of abstract ethical and philosophical ideas intended to draw out deeper discussions with friends, family, and students.

The Davidson Method

Brian Carey

I REGRET TO INFORM you that your son is incompatible. Alison Ventham let the announcement hang in the air, giving it the weight it deserved and inviting the inevitable follow-up. It was always best, in her experience, to let the clients lead. People felt better when they felt in control.

Incompatible? What does that mean, exactly? asked Susan, the mother. Alison favored her with a reassuring smile, noting the not-so-subtle differences in each parent’s reaction to the news. Susan hadn’t been able to hide her disappointment, but her soon-to-be-ex-husband Richard didn’t seem quite so crestfallen. Perhaps he was simply putting on a brave face. Or perhaps he still harbored some hope of reconciliation between the two of them, and this setback represented an opportunity to change course. Alternatively...

It means we won’t have to spend what’s left of Tommy’s college fund solving a problem we should be able to solve ourselves, said Richard, cheeks flushing with embarrassment as though he’d meant that for an internal monologue.

"We are solving it ourselves, Susan bristled. Alison had the sense that she was watching a repeat performance of an argument that had played out many times before. We chose this option, Rich, and for better or worse we’ve got to see it through."

Poor choice of words, Richard muttered, folding his arms in front of his prodigious chest as though he were trying to squeeze the frustration out of himself.

"Options," said Alison, leaning forward to pass them each a leaflet from the stack she kept on her desk. She slid them to either side of the ornate glass case set into the center of the desk, which held a single withered cigarette butt on a red velvet cushion. Alison allowed herself a moment of satisfaction as she caught them eyeing the strange display, innocuously ostentatious amid the otherwise utilitarian décor of her office.

The purpose of today’s meeting is for us to identify the best way forward, given the options that remain open to us. And I assure you, a number of options remain. The Davidson Method is nothing if not flexible.

But wait, said Susan, interrupting the pitch. The tiniest flash of irritation furrowed Alison’s brow. She willed it away, dismissing the inconvenient emotion with practiced ease. Doctor Ventham, you said Tommy was incompatible, the mother pressed, but what exactly does that mean? Alison made a subtle gesture with the fingers of her left hand, as the large display screen behind her chair hummed to life. She stayed facing her clients, reciting the text from memory.

"As you know, the Davidson Method is a radical but reliable procedure, she began, summoning up a slide that showed a world map color-coded according to the age at which it was legal to modify a minor. Unfortunately, it is also controversial, and frequently misunderstood. Such is the price of progress." That last part wasn’t on the slides; just a little flourish of her own.

As you can see here, federal authorities permit the Method for children in a limited number of circumstances, and I’m afraid that our staff have determined that this particular case does not qualify, under the current guidelines.

Why not? asked Richard, his earlier frustration now tinged with a note of hopelessness. That wasn’t ideal, but it would do for her present purposes, she conceded. Desperation was a crude but effective motivator.

Simply put, the assessors determined that your son would require real-time continuous modification of his neural pathways, Alison explained, careful to allow just the right level of technicality to project an air of authority without confusing them. Another flick of her wrist brought up the relevant section of the Neural Augmentation Modification Act, with the offending passage highlighted in red.

According to NAMA, when dealing with a child we are legally entitled to modify individual beliefs, desires, and intentions on a once-off or time-limited basis. If you wanted Tommy to form the intention to study hard for his exams, for instance, or to go on a diet for a couple of months, we could manage that quite easily. But some so-called experts believe that continuous modification can have negative effects upon the developing brain. While we are of course working to have these rules changed, I’m afraid we remain constrained in the short-term.

This isn’t a once-off thing, said Susan, putting the pieces together at last. We need him to be okay with the divorce forever, not just for a month or two.

Exactly.

You said we have other options? Richard spoke without looking up from the leaflet. Alison could see his eyebrows rise each time he got to the end of a page, where the prices were listed.

Considerably cheaper options, in fact. That got his attention.

I told the other shrink that we tried counselling and all that stuff, he said, warily. We tried as much as we could afford, but eventually the insurance company said they were going to cut us off and Tommy’s still just as bad as he ever was.

Well, said Alison, slipping back into her script with ease. Let me assure you that the Davidson Method is not a substitute for traditional medicine or parenting practices, but we do like to think that it provides certain advantages that these more...antiquated approaches simply cannot match.

And you said these options were cheaper?

Richard, honestly!

Alison deflected Susan’s indignation with a friendly chuckle and a wave of her hand.

That’s quite alright. You pay my consultancy fees, not the Davidson Institute. It’s not in my interest to sell you on the most expensive package, only the most effective. She flicked her wrist again and the slides fast-forwarded through a number of scans of Tommy’s brain—most embellished by their graphics department to liven up what would otherwise have been a dull and repetitive series of peaks and troughs. She saw the couple’s eyes light up as the slides displayed their own scans that had been taken as part of the assessment process.

That being said, the most obvious—and dare I say effective—option may not be the most palatable. Another signal displayed a graphic of their animated brains as the camera plunged deep beneath the skin to be met by a swarm of spider-like robots, their long limbs dancing along pink threads, sending stimulating charges out across a web of neural connections as though plucking the strings of some elaborate musical instrument. Alison’s head and shoulders conveniently covered the part of the display where they had printed the disclaimer in tiny font that this was merely an artist’s interpretation of the procedure. The actual modification process was much more convoluted and difficult to explain, but Alison had learned over the years that clients were remarkably amenable to vague stories involving nanotechnology or quantum computing, and the extensive waivers they had signed provided sufficient wiggle room for her to conceal the proprietary facts behind vague metaphors and creative computer animations.

Forgive me, said Alison, but I must ask. Why not simply have us apply the Davidson Method to yourselves? It would require continuous real-time reconfiguration, but it’s a surprisingly common procedure so it would be well within your budget—especially with our two-for-one Valentine’s Day special which is coming up next month. Our counselors already have a detailed account of your own specific circumstances, and they would of course work with you and our team of neurocartographers to figure out the best way for you to patch things up, so to speak. Again, Alison compared and contrasted the reactions. Richard said nothing, as she had suspected he would, while Susan was already shaking her head.

No, she said, with a touch of sadness in her voice. "I’d be lying if I said we hadn’t thought about it. We did ask one of your assessors about it too, and they explained how they would change how we feel about one another, but it wouldn’t be real, you know? It just wouldn’t be...authentic."

As opposed to rewriting Tommy’s brain? Richard’s intervention spared Alison from saying it herself, for which she was grateful. This was a fine line she was treading, and the fewer overt nudges she would need to make the better.

That’s different, Susan insisted. You know he only wants what’s best for us...he just doesn’t understand that the divorce is what’s best for us. Again she spoke with the weariness of someone who had had this conversation many times before. He would have thanked us when he was older and could get a proper perspective on all of it. Susan turned from Richard to Alison, who sensed she was looking for some reassurance. That was useful.

Let me propose an alternative, then, said Alison, switching the slides to a diagram of a pyramid, split into three layers. The bottom layer was labelled first-order desires, the middle layer second-order and the top just contained the symbol for infinity. Alison made a mental note to have another word with the graphics department, who might have considered that customers who will shortly be asked to pay tens of thousands of dollars for their services may not be reassured to see it depicted in the form of a literal pyramid scheme. She frowned at the sudden realization that she was having a stray thought. She hadn’t intended to have any of those during this meeting and so she made another mental note to have the technicians give her own implants a once-over at the end of the day. That would mean staying late, of course, but her instinctive irritation at that prospect was immediately intercepted by her own implant and subsumed by the hastily spun belief that she didn’t mind staying late anyway. Finding herself back on track, she launched into another well-worn spiel.

As you know, our method is named after the philosopher Donald Davidson, who argued that each intention consists of a belief/desire pair. She could sense she was losing them a little, but she pressed on—this was her favorite part.

By generating, manipulating, or eliminating your beliefs and desires, we can cause you to intend to do virtually anything. These intentions are as real and powerful as any motivation you’ve ever experienced. More so, in fact, since we can ensure that you never desire not to have the desires you desire. Both parents blinked in unison at that tongue-twister. As if in response, the pyramid diagram split apart, the three layers floating free. Alison carried on.

"You see, one under-advertised and underappreciated feature of our method is that we don’t just have the ability to modify beliefs and desires in general—we can also modify your beliefs and desires about your beliefs and desires in particular. Philosophers call these ‘second-order’ desires."

I’m afraid I’m completely lost, Susan admitted, though by the looks of it she was speaking for them both. Alison leaned in over steepled fingers, like a magician about to reveal how the trick was done.

Consider our problem like an equation, she began, spreading her hands to demonstrate. On the one side, we have your desire that Tommy not suffer as a result of your divorce. On the other, we have Tommy’s suffering, and of course, the inevitability of your separation links one to the other. She clasped both hands together, smiling. Now, we’ve already ruled out modifying Tommy, and you’re determined to divorce, but that doesn’t mean we couldn’t eliminate the third element. She spread her hands apart as their problem disappeared—poof!

You mean...eliminate our desire not to have Tommy suffer? It was Richard who spoke this time, but Alison could see that his wife had come to the realization at the same moment.

Exactly! The plan was quite clever, if she did say so herself. A flicker of pride intruded upon Alison and she brushed it aside. Her emotions really were misbehaving today. She would allow herself a little taste of satisfaction once the trap was sprung, but not before. She had expected Richard to object further at this point, perhaps to leap out of his chair in a show of paternal bravado, but Susan pre-empted him.

But that...I’m sorry but that’s monstrous. I can’t...how could you even think we would...? Susan’s voice trailed off into a whisper, and Alison could almost feel her sense of defeat as she slumped down in the chair. Richard, for once, was not lost for words.

"We’re only here because we care about our son, he seethed, knuckles whitening as he gripped the arms of his chair. How could you possibly think that the solution to our problem is to stop caring about him?" Alison did her best to look offended.

I understand this must seem like an extreme measure, and of course it is not ideal to— Richard cut her off with a bark of contemptuous laughter.

That’s putting it bloody mildly, eh?

If you would kindly allow me to make the case, sir. Richard’s brow furrowed, as he tried to imagine what possible case could be made for such a hideous notion. Taking his stupefied silence as permission to continue, Alison laid out the arguments she had prepared for them.

You must bear in mind, first of all, that the negative consequences of any intervention via the Method will be entirely temporary for all of you. Yes, Tommy will undoubtedly resent your decision as he grows up, but once he is old enough to be modified himself, we can simply remove such feelings of ill-will toward you, along with any other character or behavioral flaws he may have developed as a result. In hindsight, he will understand that you did what was best, because we will make sure that he understands it was for the best. The only time-sensitive aspect of such an approach will be that we must ensure to modify him once he is old enough to be legally modified but young enough that you can still exercise parental consent on his behalf. Alison gave them a moment to begin processing the proposal before continuing. The trick was to give them just enough time to let the ideas begin to sink in but not enough for them to be properly considered.

"The second point that I would make is somewhat more...philosophical, but no less persuasive, I think. Consider that the Davidson Method is simply a safer and more precise way of doing something that we human beings have been doing for millennia. We have always sculpted our capacities for empathy, albeit we usually did so unintentionally. We care more for family than for friends, more for our friends than for our neighbors, more for our neighbors than distant strangers, for instance. We cultivate relationships, or neglect them, or abandon them, as our desires dictate. Sometimes we care too much, sometimes not enough, but until recently we have lacked the ability to shape the precise contours of our attachments. The Davidson Method allows us to hone such feelings with the utmost precision and care, after countless generations of fumbling in the dark. It gives us real agency. Real responsibility. What could possibly be monstrous about that?"

She didn’t know if she really believed any of it (though she could have chosen to, if she’d felt the need), and she was less certain still that they really understood any of it. What was important was that she seemed as though she believed it. She had no time to scrutinize them now, however. This performance allowed for no intermission, and it was time for the final reveal. She nodded toward the glass case on her desk.

I wouldn’t recommend a service I didn’t genuinely believe in. I myself was an early adopter of the Davidson Method, and it was thanks to this pioneering technology that I haven’t had a cigarette in twenty-seven years.

Forgive me, Doctor Ventham, said Susan, who was clearly still processing everything that had been said. But there is a pretty big difference between giving up smoking and...and what you’re suggesting here.

Of course, Alison smiled, bringing up the final slide of her presentation—a real-time animation of her own brain. Even to her clients’ untrained eyes they could not fail to notice the filament lattice of augmentations that had been woven through her tissues—far more than most people could afford and well in excess of what modern regulations permitted.

"Addiction elimination is but the barest fraction of what the Method can accomplish—it was just the first step on my own journey toward complete self-mastery. With my current software I have the ability to audit and edit almost all of my own intentions in real-time. I can say with absolute sincerity that I have never been happier. Indeed, I couldn’t be any happier if I tried. Literally."

Again, she studied their reactions, thankful that she had pre-emptively banished the tension that would otherwise have been writhing inside her at this moment. Susan was clearly still processing it all, her gaze moving from her husband to Alison to the crumpled cigarette stub in its gilded case. Richard’s expression was a mixture of horror and curiosity.

I don’t want to get personal, he said, but...are you really happy, or...have you just programmed yourself to think so? Alison allowed herself the tiniest of triumphant smiles. This time she wouldn’t have to feign sincerity.

That’s the beauty of it, don’t you see? There is no distinction between the two.

No, said Susan, with more conviction in her voice than she’d mustered thus far. I’m sorry, but this isn’t what we want.

We can fix that, Alison explained.

But we don’t want you to fix that! Richard growled.

We can fix that too.

Richard leapt to his feet, the sudden and clumsy movement accompanied by the screech of chair legs on stone tiles that made all three of them wince in unison. He shook his head, as though waking up from a particularly nasty dream.

Susan, I...I don’t—

I know, Rich. I know.

Susan was at his side now, resting a calming hand on his shoulder as they both shrank back from whatever it was they now perceived before them. Some hollow shell of a woman, Alison supposed—some mechanical monster whose mask had finally slipped to reveal the gears and levers beneath. A jolt of anxiety intruded, only long enough for her to notice it before her software swept it away, leaving a faint sense of reassurance in its wake. A real monster wouldn’t have felt that, Alison assured herself. Then she had the implant reassure her as well, just for good measure.

This doesn’t change the facts, Susan was saying, in a tone that was both determined and resigned. The divorce is still what’s best for all of us, in the long run. We just...

We just have to do what we can, Richard finished for her. But we can’t stop loving him.

Well, said Alison with a resigned shrug of her shoulders, if you are both determined, then I suppose there’s nothing more to be said.

The couple made their apologies, and Alison made hers, before ushering them to the elevator that would take them up to the ground floor. Richard paced nervously while Alison watched the numbers tick down on the display as the elevator approached, when she felt a hand gently squeeze her arm.

I have to know, Susan whispered low enough that Richard couldn’t hear. Was there really nothing else you could have done for us or...or is this still somehow part of the treatment? Alison might have confided in her at that moment, but to take credit for her work would be to undo it. In any case, the institute’s proprietary protocols wouldn’t have let her give the game away even if she had been tempted. As she searched for a suitably enigmatic response, Alison was saved by the cheerful ‘ding’ of the elevator reaching its destination.

I’m afraid that’s all we have time for, Susan, she said, gently detaching the woman’s arm from hers and gesturing toward the elevator’s open doors, where Richard awaited her, eyes fixed firmly on his shoes.

Back in her office, Alison sat down in her chair and reflected on the session as she watched the light from the monitor filter through the glass case on her desk. She’d told the truth when she said the Method was nothing if not flexible. Every phrase and subtle gesture had been chosen for a reason, every detail of their encounter designed to nudge the parents in the right direction, based on the scans they had provided. Of course the neural modification technology was impressive, but even the most marvelous technology has its limits, be they imposed by the laws of physics or short-sighted governments. The true brilliance of the Method was in its ability to modify behavior according to external as well as internal stimuli—less precise, to be sure, but no less potent.

The mother may have realized what was happening by the end, but the models insisted that if she did she probably wouldn’t say anything to her husband, and even if she did, what could they do? They had seen the alternative in Alison Ventham and that terrified them. Their beliefs and desires and intentions were locked in as surely as if Alison had wielded the laser scalpel herself.

Her only regret was that she couldn’t take real pride in any of it—pride being an unproductive feature she had long since excised from her emotional repertoire. Noticing this regret, she took a moment to observe it more closely, even as she held back the programs that were undoubtedly detecting her distress and rushing to correct the problem. Some part of her thought it was important not to dismiss these little tastes of terror; not to let the software take over completely, lest it scour her so clean that she felt nothing at all. She peered closer, but not too close. Her regret writhed and swelled, like a creature pressed beneath glass. Even as she felt herself drawn toward this grotesque thing, she could sense the software gaining ground behind her; an inexorable pressure shunting her thoughts from where they were to where they ought to be.

We can fix this, she told herself. But she didn’t want to fix this. Or some part of her didn’t. Some small but persistent part that even now was calling out to her, muffled to her senses as though screaming underwater. I don’t want to fix this.

We can fix that, too.

Discussion Questions

Why do you think the couple is okay modifying their child’s brain about the divorce, but not okay modifying their own brains about their relationship? Is accepting a divorce, and loving a spouse, different in some important way?

Do you think the method in the story is theoretically sound; that modifying a belief/desire pair can cause a person to genuinely intend to take make different choices? What does this mean regarding what is necessary for us to change our own behaviors?

If you are able to change the belief/desire of a person, is the intention that naturally comes from that changed belief/desire authentic because it occurs naturally from the change?

Alison argues there is no difference between being happy and programming your belief/desire system to make you believe you are happy? Do you agree? In short, is happiness different from feeling happy?

The motif of the organization seems to be, we can fix that. However, are their human failings that shouldn’t be fixed? If so, how do you know/define the things that shouldn’t be fixed?

Grief

Steven Ross

Part 1 – Denial

GUIDED BY TURBULENT winds, a piece of trash tumbled under trees and lit street lamps. It rolled against brick buildings, sometimes getting caught on furnished outcroppings. It traveled toward me and stopped by my feet. The wind threatened to blow it away, so I leaned down to pick it up. Someone tore a piece of newspaper and crunched it into a misshapen ball.

I dreaded the discovery, but I unfolded it anyway. The headline of the shredded paper confirmed my suspicion. My stomach churned as I read the words: God left us. I wept at the reminder and sat down on the curb. As the tears started to dry, I realized I loosened my grasp on the paper. It blew in an unknown direction for another poor soul to read.

Except for the individuals lost from civilization, the world knew of His departure. On a normal day like any other, the holy beacon shone in the sky for all to view. The signal announced a forthcoming decree. As tradition, the news avenues of every nation publicized the holy pronouncement.

As a bishop of the faith, I arrived at the palace amphitheater to experience His will and presence firsthand. The atmosphere vibrated with enthusiasm and excitement from the gathering crowd on the sacred grounds. We didn’t have to wait long before the palace doors opened. God came out to the balcony that overlooked us and said, It’s time for me to leave. I have taught you everything I can. Goodbye.

He retreated into the palace, and the doors slid shut. Moments later, loud rumbling emanated in front of the crowd and tremors could be felt under us. The holy palace broke free from the ground and levitated into the heavens. Everyone sat in silent disbelief.

He existed as a central part of our past. Since the dawn of our people, he has guided us on the path of righteousness. From his palace, he appeared throughout history to teach us spirituality and technology. I didn’t believe this could be the end. I searched for a reason as to why he would leave. Nothing came to mind.

I stood up from the curb and wiped the wetness from my face. The stormy wind had subsided but now, night nestled in the city. My duty dictated that I comfort my congregation. They waited for my interpretation of the events. The appointed hour of meeting passed as I roamed the streets to hide from my obligations. There would be those that stayed behind at the house of God. I decided to defy my inner doubt, so I started in the direction of my temple.

My sermon would be pointless without God’s influence. I tried to find inspiration as I ventured through the sparse streets. Few roamed the avenues; those I saw glanced at me with sullen, pleading eyes. They recognized my holy garments and wished for answers. I resolved to listen to them on the way to my destination.

I journeyed in silence till an elderly woman waved me down. She shuffled closer and pulled her scarf tight to protect against the chill in the air. I asked, How might I help you, ma’am?

She said, Bishop, I see the strain in your eyes even in this light. Have faith and hold onto it. She gave a slight smile and continued her walk.

After, I ventured on the sidewalk when a young couple, holding a small child, stopped me. The mother looked at me, tension visible in her posture, and said, Bishop, we’re afraid. Who will protect us?

God. He always has and always will.

The baby started to cry, and the couple apologized. They gave their thanks then moved on. I resumed my path until I nearly collided into a balding man reading a newspaper. He eyed me up and down, and said, Bishop, I missed the news because of my night shift at the factory. Are the headlines true?

Yes. But fear not. His will still guides us.

The man shrugged, looked back at the newspaper, and flipped it through. I began my walk anew and approached the final street to my destination. From a side alley, a haggard, gray-haired man bumped into me. I almost fell, but I kept my balance. The man reeked of sweat and unwashed clothes. He gave me a slight nod. I said, Don’t worry. I’m not injured, friend. Join me at the temple. We have fresh clothes, warm food, and a washroom.

The man seemed taken aback, but managed to say, I appreciate the offer, Bishop. I’m happy on my own.

God will guide you on your own journey. If you ever change your mind, the temple is open.

The man performed a polite bow and went on his way. I surprised myself with my responses tonight. I doubted God and myself, but He remained to help me on my way.

I arrived at the temple and opened the doors. My eyes grew wide, and my heart beat a bit faster as I witnessed my full congregation in attendance. A smile formed at the wonderful sight of so many faithful. I let the doors close behind me and I tread on the crimson red carpet to the podium.

When I arrived, I pivoted to face the crowd, and said, God will return to us.

Part 2 – Anger

O RIGHTEOUS GOD,

What have we done to deserve this? There’s so much more for you to teach us. We made offerings and we prayed for you. We wanted nothing more than your protective presence. Our people