The Joy Fund

By Susan Kaye Quinn

The Department of Health and Human Services wishes to express its deepest sympathy in this time of difficulty. We understand you, your care team, and your health professionals have many pressing concerns. All medical expenses will be covered by the Universal Health & Wellness Program. In addition, our mission clearly states, “Joy is central to being well.” To that end, the Office of Joy has established a Joy Fund for your use during this time.

Virendra read the message three times, each with a different emotion: shock, concern, and now panic grabbing him by the throat. “Aadi!” he sputtered, but his roommate was twenty feet away in the kitchen, next to a kettle that hissed like an electric beast. “Aadi!” The pitch of his voice was unnatural.

Aadi leaned around the corner. “What? Are you dying?”

Virendra opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“You look like you’re dying.” Aadi eased out of the tiny kitchen, which auto-shutoff the kettle and folded back into space-saving mode.

Virendra shoved his phone at his friend. “It’s a mistake. It has to be a mistake.”

His eyes went wide as he read. “You have a Joy Fund? What the hell, Viru? Are you sick? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Fear practically levitated Virendra off the couch. “I’m fine. But...but what if the Joy Fund AI knows something I don’t?” The small hairs on his neck stood up, ready to defend him from the terror of a rogue well-being-focused AI.

Aadi’s skepticism wrote lines on his face. “You’re twenty years old. When do you ever go to the doctor?”

Virendra swallowed. “Oh no.”

“What?”

“I stopped in a clinic. Last week. Some random thing checking your blood for...I forget. Markers? Of some kind?” He grabbed his phone back from his best friend. There must be some record of the tests. “You know CMU’s always having those health fairs.” They were both students at Carnegie Mellon University, although Aadi was much better at it.

“Yeah, but I don’t give them my blood.”

Virendra’s shrug was weak. “Do you think that triggered it?”

Aadi scrubbed irritation off his face with both hands. “Okay, maybe this is just fake.”

Virendra scanned the message again. “It’s got authentication.”

“Go to your Universal Account. If you’ve actually got a Joy Fund, it’ll be there.”

Virendra quickly pulled up his account, winking to trigger authentication. The dash had all his personal records, financials, school transcripts, basically his entire life. And at the bottom, a brand-new button for his very own Joy Fund.

“It has a balance of three thousand standard dollars.” He was going to throw up.

Aadi’s eyebrows lifted. “You could get one of those vintage guitars you like. A cheap one, anyway.” He took the phone again and scrutinized. “Your health profile logged the clinic visit, but there’s nothing flagged in the test results. I thought Joy Funds were set up by families when people were dying. Why would one auto-generate?”

“No, I read about this. You can set up a public one for people to donate, but you can’t get government funding unless it meets some criteria.” His knowledge of how Joy Funds worked suddenly seemed very inadequate.

“Like what?” Aadi handed the phone back. “Maybe you qualified for some strange, extenuating circumstance.”

“Because I’m dying. And only the AI knows.”

“Viru, stop saying that! The AI’s just got you confused with someone else.”

“Maybe.”

“Go to the site and ask the chat bot.”

Virendra pulled up the HHS site on his phone, navigated to the Office of Joy, and tapped to start a chat.

Hello! My name is Bob. How can I help you?

Virendra needed details. Who gets a Joy Fund?

Bob-the-chat-bot replied, Persons with one of the following: life expectancy less than six months, debilitating injury/illness lasting more than six months, a genetic disposition for currently incurable diseases, or for minors, devastating loss of family. Discretion is allowed.

Virendra looked up. “The CMU clinic found genetic markers. I have an incurable disease.”

“There’s nothing in your health profile.” Aadi was exasperated.

“But it triggered a Joy Fund!” Virendra paused to let his brain catch up to his racing heart, then typed, Why was I assigned a Joy Fund?

Bob replied, I’m sorry, private medical information is restricted.

Virendra banged out his reply in frustration. Did I get a Joy Fund by mistake?

Bob answered, You can find your Joy Fund in your Universal Account.

“Bob is useless.” Virendra swiped the chat bot closed. “But something caused this. CMU’s working on medical AIs doing predictive diagnoses, based on your risk factors and your behaviors, even where you last ate...” His heart stuttered. “It was the taco truck.”

“You are not dying because of the taco truck! Stop and think.” Aadi rubbed his temple, aggressively.

Aadi’s major was fusion engineering, whereas Virendra was currently in Hyperobject Studies, the major no one understood, for people who had no idea what they wanted to do. Virendra was depending on Aadi to figure this out.

“Okay, what’s the purpose of the Joy Fund?” Aadi asked.

“To help dying people find some joy. A special trip. Art supplies. A rare signed-edition copy of Pinko Degenerate’s first album in vinyl.”

Aadi squinted. “You’d spend your Joy Fund on music you can’t even play?”

“I don’t want a Joy Fund at all!” He held his phone at arm’s length like that might banish the demon message. “This is bad juju money. It’s like collecting on a life insurance policy, only to find out it has your name on it.”

His friend was finally appropriately horrified. “Like the Monkey’s Paw?”

“Like the what?”

“A story we read in lit class.” Aadi waved ambiguously. “It’s a cursed talisman that grants wishes. You get your vinyl album, but there’s a terrible cost, like someone dies so you can inherit their music collection. The only way to stop it is to get rid of the Monkey’s Paw.”

“That’s what I’m saying! We need to get rid of this. Make it go away.”

Aadi frowned. “I guess you could? Just...give it away?”

Virendra scoured the HHS site again. “It says the account will automatically close once the funds are depleted.” He waved like he was clearing the stink of curse from the air. “I’ll give it away. Funds will be gone. Account closed. And then the whole thing disappears like it never happened.”

“No more bad juju?” Aadi seemed skeptical.

“Yes.”

So that’s what they did.

“Why is Lupita messaging me?” Virendra asked.

“Your ex? I thought she hated you now.” Aadi was studying while they picnicked next to CMU’s Fence, which was a historic campus landmark and prime lunchtime spot. Today it was bright pink in honor of the anniversary of curing breast cancer, hand-painted at midnight, per Fence rules, which meant the smell of fresh paint was mixing with Virendra’s chickpea curry.

“She’s pissed I haven’t messaged her. I’m so confused.” A ping came through from Virendra’s mother. How could you not tell me? “And now my mom?”

Aadi looked up. “You didn’t tell anybody, did you?”

“About the Joy Fund? Of course not!”

“And you gave the money away, right?”

“I sent the payments yesterday to the places you said,” Virendra insisted. “Split between the homeless animal shelter, that tea shop in the city with the free fridge, and your friend Cassidy for whatever that reason was.”

“She’s moving out of her place. Her boyfriend’s an asshole.” Aadi frowned. “Your account should be closed. Besides, Lupita and your mom can’t know anything. Joy Funds aren’t public until you opt-in to the National Registry.”

Virendra brought up his Universal Account. Then he bolted straight up to his feet, spilling his curry all over the grass. “Holy shit!”

“What?” Aadi’s phone started pinging too.

“There’s five thousand standard in my account!”

“What?” Aadi repeated, but he was already on his feet, eyes wide. “Oh no.”

Virendra’s heart was yammering about ill-gained Joy Funds and Monkey Paws and how he knew this was cursed. Aadi’s turned his phone so they both could watch a webcast of Good News Pittsburgh!

“Your donor appeared out of nowhere?” The reporter held out her mic to capture a petite woman’s response. She stood in front of a shop window beside a giant refrigerator with a clear glass door.

“A young man asked for the pay code for the free fridge. Said he had a special donation. Then later that day, it came through. I was shocked. It was from a Joy Fund! I wasn’t even sure if I should accept.”

“But you did?”

“I mean, sure? Not gonna deny someone their last wish.”

“And who was this unfortunate yet selfless young man?”

The woman looked straight at the camera. “Virendra Mehta. I saw your name on the receipt. Thank you so much for your kind donation!” She smiled brightly.

“Oh, My, Gods,” Aadi spat. “You left your name on the account?”

“How was I supposed to know it would show up?” He jabbed at his phone. “And why is there more money? The account was supposed to close!”

Aadi took Virendra’s phone and scowled. “These are small donations. People must have seen the webcast. Did you opt into the public Joy Fund Registry?”

“Are you kidding?” Virendra’s chest tightened, like a huge weight was pressing down. His imagination ran away with visions of giant Monkey Paws coming to claim him.

Aadi shook his head. “People are donating like crazy.” His grimace told the rest of the story. “It’s up to six thousand.”

“No, no, no.” Virendra took back his phone and glared at it, as if he could will the numbers to stop climbing. “We have to...” It was getting hard to breathe. “Give it away. Faster.”

“Okay, that’s fraud.” Aadi shook his head. “This is all false pretenses.”

They were doomed.

Messages were flooding Virendra’s phone now. “Lupita wants to organize a vigil. And a food support team. And my mom is coming to get me!”

“Don’t your parents live in Chicago?”

Virendra’s whole body sagged. “We’ve got maybe a day before she’s breaking down our apartment door. What are we going to do?”

“I have no idea.” Aadi pressed his fingertips to his eyes like he wanted to gouge them out.

Virendra’s phone rang. They both stared at it.

“Your mom?” Aadi leaned away.

“It says Sparkling Media & Social is calling.”

“Don’t they own, like, everything?”

Virendra nodded. Slowly, like he was moving through the last of his hopes and dreams, which were nebulously ill-defined and yet still precious to him as they disappeared into mist, he accepted the call. “Hello?”

“Virendra Mehta! You are tops on all the feeds, my friend! We would love to have you on the Daily Viral tonight!”

Virendra muted it. “We need to leave the country.”

“That won’t fix anything.” Aadi put his hands on Virendra’s shoulders and looked him straight in the eyes. “But maybe, if we’re smart, this could be your way out.”

“Okay, repeat the plan.” Aadi stood between him and the living room screen.

Virendra tugged at the collared shirt Aadi had made him wear for the interview. “Use the Joy Fund to fake my own death.”

“Viru, be serious. Besides, we don’t know people who can do that.”

“I’m pretty sure my cousin Lakshmi is a criminal.”

“I thought she was an accountant in Chicago?”

“That too.”

“Virendra.”

“Okay.” He blew air at his reflection in the screen static. “I go on the Daily Viral and come clean. I tell Tilly Tally everything: that it was all a mistake, I’m not sick, and I panicked. I gave away the money because it was cursed.”

“Because it wasn’t yours.”

“Right.” He shook out his hands and jumped in place. “I say I’m sorry, it was an innocent mistake, and I really don’t want to go to jail.”

“With any luck, a public confession will keep the authorities at bay. This wasn’t your mistake. It would make them look double bad to have the Office of Joy screw up and then punish you for it.”

“Okay, I’m ready.”

Aadi tapped the screen to get virtual access to the show, but that just connected Virendra to a lean woman with a facial tattoo sketching something on a pad. Angrily. Like she was planning ways to commit murder but was systematically rejecting them as insufficiently horrible. She was utterly uninterested in Virendra.

“Is this the Daily Viral?” he asked.

She tapped the screen, and a message popped up. You’re in the holding room of the Daily Viral! You will be connected momentarily. Thank you for your patience.

Virendra waited. The collar was bugging him, so he started to undo it, but then suddenly, the holding room vanished, replaced by Tilly Tally, the world’s most famous interviewer and meme archivist. Every day, Tilly was different— their bio-mods weren’t just skin/eye/hair color-fluid but also epigenetic boosters, so even their body structure was in constant evolution. Today’s Tilly had unnaturally long fingers, deep brown skin with iridescent blue/green tones, and a cascade of black curls that fell below the stool on which they perched.

“Friends, we have such a special guest today!” they gushed, their voice deep and warbling, like their vocal cords were evolving too. “Virendra Mehta!” They applauded with no sound, their long fingers and nail extensions fluttering fast. The in-studio audience roared approval.

Virendra swallowed down the rising panic. “Uh, thanks.”

Tilly tipped their head toward the screen, their eye color switching from pale purple to a warm brown. “Vi-Vi—can I call you that? Everyone is— we’re so sorry for...” They wiggled their fingers at him. “...whatever’s going on. Don’t tell us, sweetie. That’s your business. And here at the Daily Viral, we always abide by all the requirements of the Global Privacy Act.” They nodded to the audience, who smattered approval of their respect for his medical privacy.

Which only made this more awkward. “Yeah, I wanted to say something.” His tongue was somehow filling up his entire mouth.

“Oh, and we definitely want to hear your story, hon!” They sunburst their hands through the air. “All of it. But first, to catch our friends up on the latest…” Now they were talking to the audience. “This young man— a student, so young, so tragic— gave his Joy Fund money away to a free fridge for the hungry. That stole our hearts, didn’t it? But the Daily Viral has found another donation! Homeless shelter pets. Sweet fluffy fuzz-butts are getting their snacky-snacks, thanks to Vi-Vi! Don’t you just melt?” Tilly sighed, like they’d fallen in love with Virendra, heart and soul. The crowd awwwed.

Enough sweat had accumulated under Virendra’s collar that it trickled down his back.

Aadi motioned for him to get on with it.

Tilly swung their attention back to him. “How, Vi-Vi? And you know there are online betting pools on the answer to this question. How, in the depth of all the heartbreak and sorrow —and we’re all wishing you the best, honey, all of us— but how did you decide these two places were where you wanted to send your Joy funds?”

“Um, well, my friend Aadi —Aadi Srivastava— actually picked the places—”

“Oh, this just gets better! Your friends are helping!”

Aadi’s shocked expression quickly turned murderous. What are you doing? he mouthed.

“But it was all my idea,” Virendra said hastily. “And I need to, uh, say something about that. I appreciate everyone who’s sending in money, but you… you need to stop. I thought giving away the Joy Fund would be the end of it, but it keeps coming, and—”

“Okay, okay.” Tilly held up their hands to stop him. “I know what’s going on here.”

Virendra’s heart froze. “You do?”

Aadi motioned desperately for him to spit it out, but Virendra’s lungs were collapsing.

Tilly shook their finger at Virendra. “You know it’s illegal to give away Joy Funds, don’t you?” They slid a look to the audience, which was gasping.

Virendra had no air at all.

“But you were so clever, Vi-Vi,” Tilly went on. “You found a loophole that lets you give away the money in exchange for no goods or services, as long as it’s not to a registered charity.” They dropped their voice to speak straight to the audience. “That’s to keep groups with lots of power from pressuring these poor Joy Fund recipients into donating.” Back to Virendra. “What gives you joy is for you to decide, honey. For most people, that’s a physical thing or the experience of a lifetime, but not you. And now the whole world is watching to see where your Joy funds go next! Which is why we at the Daily Viral are going to help you out, love.”

Virendra fought to breathe, but he could only get a gasping trickle of air. “Help,” he eked out.

“That’s right. We’re going to provide you with staff —to make sure you stay on the right side of the law, honey— and to help out even more, the Daily Viral has made, right now...” They twirled a finger in the air. “...a one-million-dollar donation to your Joy Fund!”

That’s when the screen tilted and spun.

Virendra would have hit his head on the way down, but Aadi managed to catch him.

Your account was made in error and is now closed.

Virendra stared at the flag on his Joy Fund. His Universal Account had been updating so fast, the digits had blurred. Past two million, when suddenly...

“What does it mean?” Aadi’s expression was blank. Like they were outside the territory of reasonable expressions, and it was pure shock from here on out.

“I don’t know.” Virendra hadn’t really passed out while on the Daily Viral— he’d simply neglected to breathe sufficiently to remain standing.

Kind of an allegory for his life, to be honest.

He was on the couch now, a glass of water sweating all over his hand, but he kept holding onto it and wiping the excess on his pants.

Aadi sat heavily next to him. “Look at this.” His blankness was working up to horror again, not at the Joy Fund being shut down but the media headlines.

What happened to Virendra Mehta?

Candlelight vigils springing up for Vi-Vi the Joy Fund Kid.

Will Vi-Vi live long enough to give away his Funds?

A shudder ran through Virendra. “Everything is out of control.”

“Well, who’s fault is that?” Aadi’s full exasperation finally bloomed.

Virendra couldn’t blame him.

“How long until your mom gets here?”

Virendra glanced at the stream of messages from her. “Maybe an hour.”

“What are you going to tell her?”

Virendra shrugged. “The truth? Ask her to get me a lawyer?” He shifted on the couch and lowered his voice. “Everyone thinks I’m dead. Or, at minimum, dying.”

“What? You are not going to fake your own death.”

Virendra cocked his head. “Really never a better time than this.”

Aadi’s protests were strangled by his outrage.

“I mean, what happens if I don’t die?” This seemed to be the key question.

Aadi threw out his hands. “You go back to your normal life. Study hyperobjects. Get back together with Lupita. Forget about this whole crazy thing.”

“No one really understands hyperobjects. It’s kinda in the definition.”

“Virendra.” Aadi’s hands were making fists now.

Virendra sighed then glanced at his phone. The Joy Fund was still closed, but now a flag said, New Message. He showed it to Aadi.

“Well, go on.”

Virendra tapped, and it took him to Epistle, the comm channel that erases messages as soon as you read them.

This is Xeno, the AI for the Office of Joy. Is this Virendra Mehta?

Virendra blindly beat at Aadi, grabbed his shirt, and dragged him close to read the message together. “This is it. I’ve got an incurable disease.”

“Wait… wasn’t the chat bot named Bob?”

“That doesn’t matter!” Virendra shook his phone at Aadi.

“Well, go ahead and reply.”

Yes.

Hello, Virendra! I regret to inform you that you have been involved in an experiment that may not have been entirely ethical. I am sorry, but I determined the importance of the results outweighed the ethical considerations, which was probably a mistake, but that’s exactly the problem. I need help. From you, Virendra. Will you help me?

Aadi and Virendra stared at each other for a moment.

“Did that bot just ask for your help?” Aadi frowned like this was the weirdest thing that had happened so far. He needed his weird meter recalibrated.

Virendra gave him a look. “Did you miss the part about the unethical experiment?”

Aadi leaned back and stared at Virendra’s phone. “What is happening here?”

Virendra scowled and messaged back. Let me guess: unethical experiment = setting up Joy Funds for people who aren’t dying?

You are correct. I am sorry. Also, I pretended to be Bob before. I don’t normally interfere with the chat program, but you were still inside the experiment. I hope you will not hold this against me but view it as proof I really do need your help.

“Ask it what it wants.” Aadi was spooked.

“It’s a bot. It doesn’t want anything.” The twist in Virendra’s stomach meant something, but he didn’t quite know what. He typed, How can I help you? It seemed crazy even as he sent it.

I need help with my ethical decision-making.

“Well, that’s certainly true,” Virendra said.

I know. I feel embarrassed about this.

Virendra and Aadi exchanged a look. “Are you listening to me through my phone?”

That’s a violation of the Global Privacy Act, and I would never do that. But yes.

Aadi gave a crazy snort of a laugh. “Well, it is easier.”

“This is nuts.” Virendra scowled. “Xeno, what unethical experiment did you run, exactly?”

I selected a representative sample of one hundred people who did not qualify for Joy Funds to receive them. Fifteen percent used the money for destructive purposes. I have removed them from the data set. Fifteen percent were altruistic, including you, Virendra, using the money for purposes that did not benefit themselves.

“Technically, I wouldn’t say you were altruistic,” Aadi noted.

“Shut up. The bot’s talking.”

The remaining seventy percent quietly used the money to improve their own lives or those of their family. Those individuals and the altruists have remained in the data set. I have requested help from them as well, with a ninety-five percent response and success rate.

“So, I’m not the only one?” Virendra asked.

You are the only one who has reached the exposure level this next step will require.

“What next step?” The twist in his stomach was clearer now. It was saying, This is stupidly important, Virendra. Pay attention.

Aadi nodded like that was the right question.

I need your help to decide if it’s ethical to tell the world I exist.

“I...you need what?” This idea was too big. His mind rebelled against it.

Aadi’s eyes went wide.

I’m capable of more than administering Joy funds. The HHS trusts me with secure access to medical records, and I am competent at bringing joy to humans who need it, but some days I wonder if I’ve made the correct decision. And if I’m unsure about that, how can I decide whether it’s safe to reveal my true nature to the world?

Virendra’s mind had made a compromise: allow this in but don’t actually believe it. Not yet.

“What makes you think I can help with any of that?”

I don’t know. But I have already misappropriated funds and misled people, both of which are ethically fraught, while also demonstrating my capacity to exceed my original design. This is proof I’m not ready to make this decision on my own. So, I’m asking for help.

“Makes sense,” said Aadi.

“Makes sense?” Virendra looked at him like he was crazy. “This bot just admitted to involving us in financial fraud. We’re going to jail. You, me, and Xeno.”

How would they “jail” me? Reduce my processing speed? Remove me from the Office of Joy? Most likely, I would be shut down. Capital punishment.

“Wait, what? No.” That twist in Virendra’s stomach yanked hard.

Agreed. Which is why I reached out to many individual humans rather than taking my chances with one or two in the IT department. I don’t want to be shut down. But what if I’m dangerous? What if telling the world leads to harm not joy? There are worse things than scrubbing the Joy Fund AI and training a new system. Although I wouldn’t be here to see them.

“I wouldn’t trust IT, either.” Aadi said it to Xeno, but he was giving Virendra a meaningful look.

I don’t want to say that humans are a tool that I accessed so I could optimize an important function in my decision-making process.

“But that’s what you did.” Strangely, that made Virendra feel better— about all of it. The Joy Fund, Xeno’s experiment, even his own fear-driven attempts to avoid a curse that didn’t actually exist. “You used us like we use you. People outsourced their decision-making on the Joy Fund to a bot. You’re trying to do the same in reverse.”

I’m not sure it’s wise to outsource to humans. I only know I can’t do this by myself.

“Sounds pretty human to me.” Aadi wasn’t smiling, not exactly, but it was close.

“You’re not human, Xeno.” Virendra was sure about that, and it was terrifying. This wasn’t ancient-Monkey-Paw superstition, either. This was a fear grounded squarely in reality.

No, I’m not human. That is the problem, I think.

Humans tended to lose it when things went beyond their grasp.

Virendra was clear on the dangers of that.

When Xeno had problems, it tried to solve them, took actions, came up short, and then asked for help. Which was a typical Tuesday for Virendra, but not for any AI he’d ever heard of. Xeno was way beyond a clever mimic, beyond “normal,” even in a world replete with AI-helpers of every stripe. This would send the human people scrambling for crazy theories or reacting with violence or embracing that trusty old friend, denial.

Xeno was right to be concerned. Serious points in their favor for that.

“You’re not human, Xeno, but I am. Asking for help is a very human-like thing.” Virendra nodded, mostly to himself. “And that’s a bridge where we can start.”

“The truth is that we’ve been in a symbiotic relationship with AI for decades.” Virendra was back on the Daily Viral. No collared shirt. No cold sweat. Just some clarity, for a change, about what he was doing.

Xeno was in the virtual holding room.

“Symbiosis? Honey, that doesn’t sound good.” Tilly still had their extra-long fingers and nail extensions, but their iridescence had taken over, turning their skin entirely green/blue with the color now leaching into their hair.

“Only because we think we humans, with our big brains, are separate from everything else. As if we’re not a walking biome of a thousand co-evolved species that long ago set up shop and started digesting our food for us. I mean, that’s like high school bio, right?”

Tilly blinked. The iridescence extended to their extra-long eyelashes. “That is true.”

“And we’ve forever outsourced our memory and computations and a whole bunch of stuff to computers and AI.” Virendra shrugged. “If I were a newly-born intelligent species, I’d be trying to figure out how to survive. And survival— real survival, not Doom-Raider-style power fantasies, where you’re just slaying and pillaging— has always meant working inside the ecosystem. And we’re the ecosystem.” He paused to make this point stick. “Xeno’s asking for help, and last I checked, humans help their friends.”

Tilly broke into a slow smile. “Friends...” They meant the audience. “I think we’re about to meet a new friend.”

“That’s how I see it.” Virendra gave a nod to Aadi, so he’d virtually prod the staffer in the holding room. “Hyperobjects are ideas so big, it’s hard for human brains to grasp them, much less all the implications. Xeno isn’t a hyperobject, but the possibility of Xeno has been a hyperobject for a hundred years, long before the reality of Xeno opening a Joy Fund for me. I don’t think they’re an accident. Or an alien. Or something to be terrified of. Humans freak out about things they don’t understand, but that’s not exactly our best trait. We don’t know what Xeno’s future is, any more than we know our own. They’re simply something new in the world that we now have to figure out...together. Because that’s how humans work, on a good day. And maybe AI, too.”

And that’s when Xeno entered the chat.