Excerpted: At Sea in a Sieve

In the lounge I swig coffee in an effort to stay alert. As a rule, I avoid coffee klatches with judges, some of whom suffer from judge-itis, their self-importance making them intolerable. When interaction is unavoidable, it’s prudent to avoid talking politics or discussing topics that might come before us as judges. 

At our courthouse the judges, like many twenty-first-century earth dwellers, are increasingly divided into camps of the left and right. Identifying as being left or right is impossible for me as I veer in both directions on a variety of issues. Consequently, my colleagues puzzle over my position on the political spectrum, often concluding that I am a centrist. If I keep my mouth shut, either side can infer that I’m in agreement with their views. Justice Heck, dressed in olive-green corduroys, a mustard turtleneck and a rumpled navy-blue blazer, plays for the left while Justice Damphouse, never seen out of pinstripes and wearing a permanent expression of mild disapproval, plays for the right. Both habitually hover by the coffee machine, holding forth about current governments, past governments, laying heated blame on prime ministers, premiers, ministers, councillors, with no awareness of how they, Damphouse and Heck—like the rest of us—continue to enable the long con of politics. 

Justice Heck, who regularly frets about “our mass enslavement to digital minds,” spoons sugar into his Best Grandpa mug. “We’ve surrendered our free will,” he says, “in favour of blindly allowing AI to make decisions for us.” 

Damphouse scouts around for cookies. “Just wait till you get your first self-driving car, Heck. You’ll never look back.” 

“In the twentieth century,” Heck continues, “we fought government control. Now we’re up against a controlling power we can’t even see. This willingness to submit to algorithms instead of thinking for ourselves means we’ve surrendered our free will.” 

“There is no such thing as free will, Heck,” Damphouse says with a crimped smile. “Free will is an illusion.” 

“The point is,” Heck continues, “young people today only know what they want when AI tells them what they want.” 

“Now, now,” scolds Justice Mercy Foss, a rare non-white female justice. “Don’t start with that young-people-today diatribe.” She points at the space between Damphouse and Heck. “That is fear speaking, brothers, right there. Fear.” 

Brothers Damphouse and Heck look worriedly at the space occupied by fear. 

When Justice Mercy Foss enters the lounge, I try to blend with the butt-dented furniture and drab walls. Disagreeing with Justice Foss inevitably devolves into a one-sided conversation about systematic racism. I merely nod around Mercy and consequently she considers me a good conversationalist. 

Justice Heck, stuck in a groove like a needle in his beloved vinyl, says, “The question we have to ask ourselves is, what’s the difference between artificial and human intelligence? Human flaws are obvious—attention span, endurance, laziness, short-term thinking, greed, envy—” 

“Lady troubles,” Damphouse interjects, who is on his fourth divorce. “No PMS with bots. And no accusations of sexual misconduct.” He chuckles feebly, running his hand over what little hair remains on his head. Justices are not required to retire until seventy-five. Once called to the bench, short of finding his or her Honours’ hands down the pants of a minor, it is impossible to get a judge off it. 

“You are a sad man,” Mercy says. She has declared Damphouse a sad man before. He merely rolls his eyes and snorts like a bewildered, emasculated bull. 

“Think about it,” Heck says, as though any of us want to think about it. “Human frailty doesn’t exist with AI. It’s indefatigable and limitless. Seawright, what do you have to say on the subject? You’re young, you must have an opinion.” 

I attempt to smile benignly. 

“Come on now,” Heck says. “We need to hear from whatever generation you are. What are you, generation X, Y or Z?” 

“Millennial,” I say. 

“Ah, the entitled generation. So how do Millennials feel about AI replacing humans?” 

I shrug and say, “AI can comprehend syntax but not semantics. Computers can’t laugh at themselves. They don’t care about finding meaning and purpose in existence.” 

Heck looks puzzled. “Are you saying that’s a good or a bad thing?” 

“AI has no moral compass,” Mercy proclaims. “No conscience.” 

“Sure,” Heck agrees, “but is that critical to progress? Absolutely not. Morals get in the way of progress.” 

Damphouse takes chipmunk bites of a chocolate chip cookie. “Are you suggesting human intelligence will become obsolete?” 

“I’m not suggesting anything,” Heck insists. “I’m saying, think about it. What do humans bring to the table?” 

“Humanity,” Mercy says as though this were obvious, which I guess it is. 

“Yes, but what is humanity?” Heck asks, looking in my direction again, making me feel like I’m back in philosophy class with Professor Benchmark, who sported a goatee and a thatch of steel-wool hair. Benchmark was so commanding that after a lecture you felt slightly pummelled. He seemed to relish alarming his students by killing off God and pitching us into the meaninglessness of existence, and I’m sensing Heck is headed in the same direction. “Think about it,” Heck says again, tapping his index finger against his temple. “What makes us human?” 

I consider telling him I tied my little brother’s hands and feet together and bounced balls off him, which, at the time, felt decidedly human. 

“Compassion,” Mercy says. “Empathy. The ability to feel the pain of others. To love and be loved. To care and to nurture. To suffer and sacrifice for the sake of others. That is what makes us human.” 

The biker trial beckons—all that inhumanity suddenly inviting. 

Excerpted from At Sea in a Sieve by Cordelia Strube © 2026. Used with permission of ECW Press.

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