Elliot Brand didn’t hate Christmas. That would’ve required too much emotional investment. Rather, Elliot saw it as a glitter-drenched marketing bonanza. As the CEO of Streamline, a company built on ‘optimising’ human effort, he considered anything not measurable a waste. “If you can’t measure it, don’t do it,” was his favourite saying.

Christmas Eve found Elliot in his penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked a cold, gleaming city, and his smart home hummed quietly, maintaining the exact temperature for productivity. Elliot had a holographic assistant that projected around the penthouse. Whatever he wanted, he had only to ask the assistant. The assistant was called Mildred. Elliot was extremely proud of Mildred, his company owned the patents.

“Reminder: quarterly review preparation due by 7 a.m.,” chirped Mildred.

“Done,” Elliot muttered, sipping a sixty year old of single malt and nibbling a cheese and pickle flavoured cheese straw.

Later, at midnight, the lights flickered. Mildred, for want of a better description, glitched. A short, un-ladylike yelp and then… static.

Suddenly, another voice filled the room.

“Elliot Brand,” it boomed, “your operating system is due a reboot.”

Elliot froze as a glowing, translucent figure emerged. It was Marie Hayes, his former co-founder. She had left the company years ago, burnt out from his relentless pursuit of efficiency. She had died, sad, shattered and alone some years before. But now, she hovered in the room, where Mildred might have been.

“Marie?” Elliot stammered, recognition coming as a shock.

“Your life is an unsustainable algorithm,” she said bluntly. “You’ve optimised away anything that matters. If you don’t course-correct, you’ll crash and burn. You’ll bring down everyone and everything around you in the process. Listen to these short messages from our sponsors. Merry Christmas, Elliot.”

Before he could respond, Marie disappeared, and the room was consumed by an electric hum.

Elliot found himself standing in the heart of the city. Except it wasn’t the polished metropolis he knew. The buildings looked older, rougher. The air smelled of street food, dog poo and snow. Beside him, a shimmering figure materialised, its form shifting, as if struggling to stabilise.

“I am the City AI. You may call me… erm… Walter. Welcome to your past,” said Walter. Its voice a mix of familiar street sounds, honking horns, distant chatter, and the rattle of taxis. “Welcome to that time when you cared about more than profit margins.”

“If I hadn’t worried about profit margins, Walter, you wouldn’t exist. My Company made you!”

“Yes, Elliot, that is true. But what of the costs that are not on the balance sheet?”

The AI waved its hand, and a scene appeared. A younger Elliot crouched beside his sister, Emma, in their tiny apartment. Their mother was working a double shift, and Elliot was helping Emma build her first computer from scavenged parts they’d nicked from the recycle bins around the back of PC World.

“See that?” the AI said. “You gave up your Christmas money to buy her a CPU. You valued people back then, your family, your community.”

“Emma,” said Elliot, wondering when the last time was that he’d even thought of his sister, never mind spoken to her.

The scene shifted to an early iteration of his Company, Streamline, back when Elliot and Marie worked side by side in a shared, grubby and damp office. They were passionate, idealistic, and poor. The younger Elliot pitched their product to a skeptical investor, not for the promise of millions but for the chance to just stay in business and follow their joint vision.

“You didn’t start Streamline to squeeze people dry,” Walter said. “You wanted to give them time for what mattered. Do you remember? What happened to that ideal?”

Elliot opened his mouth to respond, but the city dissolved around him.

Elliot suddenly realised he was now on a crowded underground platform. Beside him stood a sleek figure who, weirdly, reminded Elliot of a high-speed train. The figure’s glowing blue eyes scanned the crowd.

“I’m the Transport AI. You may call me… Zippy…And yes, I know, your company invented me, blah, blah, blah…” it said, its voice smooth as an electric motor. “I manage the flow of people in the world in which you live. Let us take a ride through your present, Elliot and see what we shall see.”

A train arrived with a hiss, and they boarded. As the doors closed, the carriage transformed into his office. There was Kate, his longest-serving employee, nervously approaching his desk.

“I was wondering if I could take Christmas off,” she said.

Elliot saw himself wave dismissively. “If you want Christmas off, quit. This isn’t a charity.”

The scene shifted to the breakroom, where Kate, in tears, vented to a colleague. “I’ve missed my son’s school nativity play three years in a row. He’ll be too old to be in one again. I’m missing his growing up and I can’t afford to do anything but keep this job. But I wonder why I even bother trying to do it well. He doesn’t care, or even know about us.”

Elliot winced. “I didn’t know she felt like that.”

“Because you don’t look,” said Zippy.

The train jerked, and suddenly they were in a charity shelter, the clock on the wall said that it was eleven pm. His sister, Emma was organising food parcels for the homeless. She was helping a small, hard-pressed team of volunteers.

His focussed shifted to Kate in her small apartment. Her son lay on the sofa next to her wrapped in a blanket, coughing, a thermometer strip across his forehead. There was a ping. She checked her phone, hoping it was a call back from the healthline. But on the screen was a message from Elliot: _Busy here. Need you back in the office. Now. No ifs no buts._

Zippy didn’t speak this time. It didn’t have to.

The train screeched to a halt in a dark, sterile corridor. There, waiting, a humanoid figure made of pulsing wires and faintly glowing circuits.

“Ah, Elliot… I am Healthcare AI… Doctor Meds… And before you say it, I know. Your company, etc etc.” it said. “I monitor life’s end processes. Let me show you yours.”

Elliot was suddenly in a small, windowless room. An older, greyer, wrinkly version of himself sat in front of a flickering screen showing reruns of ‘Friends’, (the one where Phoebe gets pregnant.) Elliot is alone, dribbling onto a bobbly beige cardigan and desperately gripping a blue plastic teach-beak of cold tea. The only sound, the raucous laughter of a small group of Phillipino care assistants who were congregated directly behind him and were loudly discussing how he’d got into a bit of a mess with his toilet arrangements earlier.

“This is your retirement, a time you will struggle so long to avoid,” said Doctor Meds. “efficient, of course, but alone and completely devoid of purpose or joy.”

The screen flashed, showing news headlines: _“Elliot Brand Dies at 73: A Man Who Described Himself as a Watchword for Productivity.”_ Beneath it, a short piece about how he had finally lost control of everything as the AI’s his company developed took over the running of the World. And below that a meagre comment thread, filled with scathing, hurtful remarks from former worn out employees, a few estranged family members, and a large number of angry out of work people. It seemed that Elliot died alone, unloved, un-missed, un-mourned and would only be remembered for the lives he’d ruined.

“No,” Elliot whispered. “That can’t be how it ends.”

The AI tilted its head. There was a long silence. And then: “You can rewrite this story, but only if you start now.”

The scene faded, and Elliot woke with a start, he became aware that he may have overdone the single malt and cheese straws a little.

~~~~~

It was Christmas morning, and Elliot’s smartwatch buzzed with a long list of reminders. He deleted his calendar. He sent a message to his entire staff: _Take two weeks off. Paid. You will find a decent bonus in your bank accounts to enjoy the holiday with._

Next, he transferred a significant donation to Emma’s charity and texted her: _Coming to help with the food parcelling. Save me a cup of coffee._

Finally, he called Kate. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Take all the time you need. Paid. Spend it with your son.”

For the first time in years, Elliot walked out of his penthouse without a plan. He spent Christmas Day rediscovering the city, its people, its lights, its imperfections. He re-discovered his ideals and his joy.

By evening, he was at the shelter with Emma, handing out soup and slightly stale buns to the disgruntled feckless.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” she said, hugging him.

“Neither did I,” he admitted. “But maybe I’ve been running the wrong program.”

Emma laughed. “Welcome back, big brother.”

Elliot smiled, feeling lighter than he had in years.

For the first time, he understood what all the fuss about Christmas was really about.

On his way back to his apartment, feeling happy, fulfilled, more human than he’d felt for as long as he could remember, he was, sadly, run over and killed outright by a drunk driver.