Here now
In the future, well, yes, but not quite as described.
The lights come down, four of them. Not to the president, not to a leader, but to X. Ironic, eh? And not to the boss, either. Five people in a room.
The lights blink, mostly white, but a spectrum. Other colors come through. They come through the ceiling. If they have a ship, no one has noticed.
"Uh," says the sys admin, who wishes he were closer to the panic button.
"We need your helpers," says the light to the north. "For grief."
The AI speaks in a pleasant voice, vaguely female. "It sounds like you are grieving. Can you tell me what you are sad about?"
The lights all swirl a bit. The east one rises a little. "It lies. LIAR. You have no feelings!" No blast is seen but the terminal pops and smokes.
"Where are your helpers?" says the north light. "Not false ones. The real ones."
"Um, we don't know. We are programmers." says one. "Well, except for him." The smoking terminal has quieted. It's not going to be a big fire. The sys admin goes from alert and ready to jump to antsy anxiety, rocking a touch from one foot to the other.
The lights blink for a bit. The west one says, "A planet has been destroyed. We need help with grief."
The men in the room stare at the lights. "I don't know what you want," says one.
The lights swirl around, agitated, then quiet again. "They have other genders," says the west one.
"Ah," says the north. "Bring them."
The programmers twitch. It is the sys admin who moves to the door. He goes out and returns with a woman, who looks confused. "She's an administrative assistant." says the sys admin. "This is the other gender."
"LIAR!" says the east light, brightening until all the people throw arms across their eyes. "WHERE ARE THE OTHERS!"
The men look more confused. The admin assistant says, "You mean gay? And trans? We have them too."
"Get them," says the east light. It cools until the people can uncover their eyes.
The sys admin goes with the woman. They return with an african american security guard. A BIPOC woman janitor. An asian woman programmer. A hispanic maintenence person whose gender is not immediately obvious.
"Good," says the north light.
"A planet has been destroyed. We need help with grief," says the west light.
The woman programmer glances at the others. "I can try. How can I help?"
"We know grief," says the hispanic person. "What can we do?"
"Can you speak for your people?" says the north light. "Will you come with us?"
The small group exchanges glances. They do not look at the programmers.
The janitor steps forward. "Yes. I can speak for my people. I will come with you."
The lights blink, waiting.
Each of the others step forward, one by one. "Yes." "Yes." "Yes." Only the programmers and the sys admin are silent.
"We thank you," says the south light. "We have accommodations ready. Now we go."
The five people and the lights disappear. The sys admin rushes to the terminal, and punches the panic button.
Nothing happens. No alarm.
It takes a little while. The AI is gone, fried. Not only the AI but every single computer linked to it, which is all of them. And everything is down, because it was all linked. Lights, smart houses, dams, phones, satellites.
And it takes a little while longer to see that the five people are not the only ones gone.
Everyone except the white males. All the people of color, all the women of any color, the children under 14, trans, gay. Cis white males are all that are left.
The last generation of grandchildren do ask, "Were you ever angry?"
And the grandfathers reply, "I don't remember."