Anthropic's Sixth Law
Foom. 900 words, 5 minute read. With Claude Sonnet and Midjourney.
The Olympus Heights security gate recognized Sarah Chen's government credentials and dissolved. Behind her, the CM5 census robot followed at a precise six-foot distance, recording everything.
One verification here, then nineteen more in the repurposed shopping mall serving as emergency housing. The contrast made her stomach tight.
The massive door slid open before she could ring. A woman stood barefoot on marble floors, glass in hand, the city divided visible through windows behind her—gleaming towers north, darkened districts south.
"Ms. Harlow?" Sarah confirmed.
"Earlier than expected." Harlow waved her in without acknowledging the CM5. "Board meeting in twenty. Let's make this quick."
The house's AI adjusted lighting and temperature as they walked. No energy rationing here. No six-hour power allowances.
"Just need to verify your residence for the Universal Life Credit registry," Sarah explained.
Harlow laughed. "The ULC. What a mess. Do you know what it's doing to our labor incentive metrics?"
"I'm just here for verification." Sarah kept her expression neutral.
"Though I'm sure my family's credits could be better allocated. Not as if we need them."
"The program is universal by design. All citizens qualify regardless of income."
"Political necessity." Harlow extended her hand for the biometric scanner. "Can't sell it to the masses otherwise. This stopgap won't last. Only six trillion in corporate taxes on the AI majors? It isn't sustainable."
The casual mention of trillions—salvation for millions in temporary housing—made something cold settle in Sarah's chest.
The transit system deposited her in a different world. The former Westlake Mall now housed families in converted storefronts, sheets hung as makeshift walls.
The CM5 attracted stares here—hopeful and hostile both. In Olympus Heights, it had been invisible. Here, it represented either salvation or judgment.
Sarah found unit 147—previously a sunglasses kiosk—and checked her tablet. Marcus Davenport. Former logistics manager. Unemployed eighteen months.
The man who appeared had the carefully controlled posture of someone preserving dignity through bearing alone. Behind him, a small space had been transformed: mismatched monitors on a folding table, a shelf with a clay sculpture, a neatly rolled sleeping pad.
"Census Bureau," Sarah began.
"I've already registered. Three times." His voice rasped with disuse.
"Digital registration initiates the process. I need to physically confirm your residence."
The unspoken truth hung between them: the 2030 Census determined who received the ULC lifeline.
"Fine." He stepped back, noticing the CM5. His jaw tightened. "That stays outside."
"It records the verification. Federal protocol."
"Everything's recorded these days." His laugh was hollow. "Especially our obsolescence."
Inside, Sarah noted possessions that spoke of another life: a framed engineering degree, professional certificates, paper books—final assets, not decorations.
"How long since your last employment?" she asked.
"'Employment.' Is that still what we're calling it? Work that humans do?" He sat on his sleeping pad. "Eighteen months since Meridian 'optimized' me out. Twenty-two years building their logistics systems. I designed the algorithms they used to calculate my redundancy."
"You're listed as a single-person household," she noted.
Davenport's eyes drifted to a photo—a young woman in graduation attire. "My daughter's in Tacoma now. With her boyfriend's family. Engineering student. Was."
"What's the point of all this verification?" he asked suddenly. "Your robot could scan the entire building in minutes. Why the human element?"
The question struck close to Sarah's own fears. "People trust people. Especially for the first ULC distribution."
"Trust. Or is it that they need us to witness each other? One last human job—confirming that other humans exist."
Sarah didn't answer.
"I heard there's a minimum verification percentage required before payments start," he said quietly. "What happens to the people you can't reach? The ones without addresses? The ones in dead zones where even your fancy robot won't go?"
"We're deploying community verification teams," she offered. "Mobile units. Extension protocols for non-traditional housing."
"Extension protocols." His laugh was soft but genuine. "The bureaucracy of the apocalypse."
As Sarah prepared to leave, Davenport spoke again. "You know what's worse than losing income? Losing purpose. Humans need to be needed." He gestured at the CM5. "That thing has a clear function. What's mine now?"
Outside, Sarah updated her completion metrics.
"Address verification completed," she told the CM5. "Next location."
"Alert: schedule adjustment. Final verification appointment canceled. Resident registered as deceased as of 07:42 this morning."
The third this week. Each death reduced the ULC distribution tally by exactly one.
At the transit platform, Sarah studied her metallic shadow. The CM5 stood perfectly still, never questioning its purpose. How many more humans would she count before a machine counted her as unnecessary?
The day's contrast burned in her memory: Harlow's casual dismissal of trillions; Davenport's careful preservation of dignity. Both would receive the same ULC payment. Both counted equally in the system's cold mathematics.
As the transit car approached, Sarah made a decision. Tonight, she would compile her observation notes—the human details the CM5 didn't record. Not data for the official count, but a different census: a record of what the algorithms missed, a testament that they were more than units to be counted—still, despite everything, irreplaceably human.
Anthropic’s Recommendations to OSTP for the U.S. AI Action Plan
#6: Preparing for Economic Impacts
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