IntroThe Hum at the Top of the World
The first snow of November should have been falling on the workshop roof. Instead, it rained. The elves gathered beneath the dripping rafters, boots squelching on a floor that had been solid ice for eleven hundred years, for an official address from Mr. and Mrs. Claus.
"It is an unusual year," Santa began, then stopped. "No. It is a worse one. You've all heard the hum." Every elf had. Over the ridge, where the reindeer used to graze, vast windowless halls had risen - data centres, the humans called them - thrumming day and night, drinking whole rivers to keep cool and burning more power than entire countries. "The ice under our feet is thinner every week. The snow comes later and leaves sooner. Last Tuesday, Blitzen had to swim home."
"And it isn't only here," said Mrs. Claus, unrolling a letter. "Four million letters arrived this year, and every single one begins: Dear Santa, I hope this letter finds you well." A murmur ran through the workshop. "Not one of them sounds like a child. They don't write their own letters any more. They don't do their own homework, or write their own essays. They ask the glowing boxes, and the boxes answer. The children are forgetting how to think, and the graduates..." She glanced at this year's graduates, who held first-class degrees and could not, between them, write a "Hello, world" in JollyScript without asking a box how.
"The rest of the time, they scroll," said Santa. "Endless rivers of pictures and songs that nobody made - snowmen with seven fingers, carols sung by no one - and they can't look away. The painters who drew the Christmas cards have put down their brushes. Why bother, when the boxes copied their life's work overnight, without asking and without paying them a penny?" He held up a toy from a shop window in Oslo, labelled brand new design: the workshop's own rocking horse from 1953, now with six legs. "Not even a thank-you note."
"And the money," Mrs. Claus said quietly. "Every bank and pension fund on Earth has poured its savings into those halls, betting that it all comes back one day. Some economists have predicted a financial crisis in 2027." She paused. "The Elven Pension Fund is in it too." Every head turned to Tinsel, who became very interested in their shoes.
Santa sighed. "Perhaps it's time we step back. From all of it. From all of them."
"Wait!" said Jingle, the head elf. "Remember last year's intern? The one from Cambridge, who solved every problem we had for them? If anyone out there still thinks for themselves, it's them!"
Santa and the elves steered the sleigh along King's Parade and found you in the window of Fitzbillies, a Chelsea bun in one hand, scribbling a proof onto a napkin with the other. Before you could finish your bun, they explained what had become of the world, and asked for your help once more.
"Welcome back to the internship!" said Holly, head of Elven Resources, with the same half-smile as last year and twice the urgency in her eyes. "Same arrangement as before: for each problem you solve, we will reward you with one star. If you can get all 12 stars by Christmas, maybe the world will remember what it can do on its own!"
"Happy to help," you said, brushing crumbs off your coat. "Just to check: is it paid this time?"
Holly's smile faltered. "We are currently navigating a period of... financial uncertainty."
Before you could object, you felt that familiar pull from midair, and the sleigh caught you just in time before turning north. As Cambridge shrank beneath you, you heard it at last, faint beneath the sleigh bells: a low, endless hum.