What happened to Sheffield?

Ms. Steel did.

Chesterfield Road cuts east from west. A line runs. It sprints! Smoke would cross from the factories in the west, caressing the lungs of the east. To understand this city, you must stand on that street.

You'll step forth and you'll wonder -- why does everyone walk so frantically, dizzyingly? In New York, I saw people taking their time, being gentle with one another. But in this York, this Old York, they run. They sprint. Why?

Step forth, and I'll tell you. It's because the people are not okay. Go to where the heat made the Sheaf steam and stare at that emptiness. Stare at that sky. This city has lost something. It is blindingly obvious. You'll see it in museums; you'll hear it said: where did Ms Steel go?

I load 1293 on my headset. Only a thousand here; the city liveth small then. At the workshop of Robertus le Cotelar the craftsmen spoke with one another: What ȝif þes armes ne may na mare make þes forkes?

Every Tuesday at market, you can hear people wonder: Whanne sal it come? Whanne þes cruked þinges ne ben no lengre bent so streȝt bi hond?

But þanne cometh Ms Steel. She sal free our hands.

I could not believe my ears. I might have misheard a thing or two. I was hiding in a hedgerow or two. If they saw what I wore, what I spoke, they'd take those forks and come at me with force. So I kept my distance -- crouched there in a state of disbelief. Ms Steel?

Through all my travels, I have never been able to see her. Everyone tells me Ms Steel brought Sheffield itself into being. The stories point here. The beginning of time. Water mills. Grinding wheels. The first metal work. She'd be here, at the origin. We'd speak English but not understand each other, yet of course we'd know each other. And I'll see her face, and finally rest. For I am so sleep deprived. Deprived of steel.

I peek out, searching in the crowd for her. One of them at the market looks straight at me, and with a zombie-like delivery: Ȝif þu wilt finde hire, þu most finde him.

I jump forward. 1393: the cutlers emerge. 1493: they burn Lord's Park to charcoal. 1593: buffer girls polish silverware. She should have been there. Century after century, her signs without her. Only her absence.

1693: the mills are dying. The Sheaf has slowed. The wheels are lazy. The people are moving through this hazy afternoon. Their heads facing towards the heat of the Earth's core.

Near Bridge Street, I see the River Dun bend and loop back, betraying a piece of land. An island in the city, cut off. A sign speaks: Isle of Wight. The footbridge to it sags in the middle, its oblong planks gone soft. Each board will groan. The handrail has given up, hanging loose in the brown water.

I step forth. The wood bends. Through the gaps I can see the river's surface filmed with rainbows, with rust, with the reflection of skies. My boot finds a solid surface and it gives way. My foot goes through and the water takes it -- filthy, icy, crawling up my shin. I pull it back; it steams. My pulse hammers in my neck.

I might drown. I might have Cholera. The other foot finds the next plank, then the next. The bridge sways. Behind me, Sheffield. Ahead, a small shop. Maybe they can help me, tell me where she is, maybe let my sock dry.

I make it across and catch my breath. I swing open the door. It creaks. My boots squeak. It's warm. Brass discs on large tables, holes bored through them. Buttons. Buttons?

Can I help thee? I hear the voice before I see anyone. My pulse hammers further, with greater force. The vein wants to burst. I whip around.

A man walks through a wall. Topless. Sweat on his broad chest, yet the light does not reflect. Crooked cap on his head. A piece of loose cloth tied to his waist, with dark stains on the ends. In his right hand is a hammer. A small hammer. A hammer for delicate work. He looks cleaner than those folks 400 years ago. There is no black soot on his creased forehead. But he does have pinpricks.

He is a few feet away from me, and all he can do is look frightened. As if an alien has graced his presence. My strange face, strange clothes. And eventually my strange voice: Hi, um, good morrow to thee? What...goeth on here?

Art thou daft, lad? We make buttons. Dost thou want some?

What is your name, lad?

David Hey. Yours?

Robert Goodwin, but they call me Mr. Buttonmaker. David, good lad--now let me tell thee, this button making is never going anywhere. We shall be fine. They took the cutlers, but they won't take me.

As it turns out, the cutlery industry was having a tough time. Layoffs, but also as he tells me -- the slitting mills, they do cut the iron now. Twas skilled work, once. Now tis naught but feeding metal to a machine.

So, dost thou want some buttons? Come, I shall show thee some.

David, meet my lad, Doff.

Doff, a scruffy little kid. I couldn't make out much of his face. He didn't bother to look me in the eye. Shy. Squatting. Perfect spine.

Your son?

Nay, be not daft, lad. Apprentice.

An apprentice is bound to the master. Doff was bound for seven years -- he must keep the lawful commands of Robert. Doff could not marry, drink ale, or gamble. The exchange for such coercion was instruction in the skill of button making. The skill that Robert believed would never disappear. Doff would also be provided with food, lodging, sixteen pence, linen, and the buttons he made himself. His clothes would stay together by his own work. He wears only his work. Where the buttons touch, his skin is a jaundiced, mustard yellow.

Here lad, take these. The buttonmaker hands me golden buttons, with a golden lion.

Sorry, I am, uh, nay here for this. I am looking for a woman.

Haha! Sorry lad, cannen help thee there. Hardly any women liveth around here. If thou want'st to marry, go to Birmingham.

No, you see I am looking for a Ms Steel.

The buttonmaker goes still. Everything stops. Is this crashing?

Doff looks up at me. A vacant, sad, concerned face.

Ms Steel? The boy can speak.

Yes, I need to find--

The buttons of the buttonmaker, they fall. One by one by one. They clatter to the floor. Topless, buttonless. Smaller. Shoulders sagged: Ms Steel? Lad..she is the most painful thing in all the world.

He drops his hammer -- another clatter.

She was to save us all! When Mistress Steel came, we should rest! The engines would toil and we should prosper! But she was a lie. They took my trade. And now I make buttons for them. Buttons! What am I now but --

I run out. The flickers of the moment are gone. The buttonmaker, Doff. I've burnt through my day, and I can't come back to my life nor go back to theirs. How can I miss things that are not real? There is so much more to know. But the headset is dying. The screen goes black -- black like tar, hot melted plastic. I rip it off.

I need a break, before I break. Maybe I ought to finally listen to my father and go outside.

In the present day you learn quickly that the hope continues in this city.

It has its 'hidden' gems -- the Winter Gardens, Rivelin Valley. But these are merely gimmicks. Distractions. They exist so when you visit, you don't see the greatest minds of our time. Where did they all go? Where might you find them? In England's finest institution, of course. The kebab shops; where you get your chippy chips and exist on grease that will coat your mouth, get under your fingernails. Slabs of meat dancing in front of heat, juices dripping down, orange wedges wilting on top.

Kebab shop talk -- conducted a few feet from rotating carcasses -- is usually all about AI these days. But it's Thursday, and things are quiet. Six of them are working behind the counter, bored, yet their faces are bright. Bright from the lights of their phones. Green tiles are on the walls. The air is crackling oil, sweat, and Arabic: أفتقد السيدة ستيل

Not only them but the menu speaks:

Not only the menu but the handwritten sign at the till speaks as well: CASH ONLY.

I don't have cash. I never have cash. So I go home. There is nothing in the fridge. All the shops are closed.

I sit on the edge of my futon. Dark room. I should go back out. Find a cash-point. Try again. But my body won't move. Try again. The limbs are heavy. Try again.

I lie down. Close my eyes. Just for a moment, and then I'll try again. I hope I'll dream of paradise.

But a figure descends through smokes from the foundry. Teeth are silver catching light. She bears a crown of iron, drawn to her skull by its own magnetism. She strolls in robes of wire that scrape the ground. Where she walks, the earth cracks open and factories rise; where she stops, the people fall prostrate. They begin to burn. Flesh pecking away in black strips. They beg for salvation even as their bodies fail.

I wake up, exactly when I slept. My forehead throbs. This stomach growls. Food. I need food.

Tonight the queue stretches out the door, into the rain.

At least the two in front of me are keeping my spirits up. Husband and wife, sharing an umbrella. The guy is the same height as me. Eight feet tall. She is four foot something. She is the one holding the umbrella.

She says, oh do you know about the environmental impacts of AI? The electricity, the water consumed by those data centres. She shuffles to accommodate him better. It's making people dumber, I swear there was a paper from M.I.T, leaving people out of jobs, causing worse social relationships -- have you seen those ads from Friend? And it steals art from artists.

Ducked down, and yet he must still shout down: God, love, you're being so dramatic. This thing is the future! The environmental issue is so overblown. Each prompt takes what, 0.3 watt-hours? Costs basically nothing. Come on now. Also, didn't M.I.T publish a fake paper on material sciences that was just generated by AI?

That's a strawman, and no he was just an M.I.T studen-- He puts a finger on her lip.

I am not done, love. And every time a new technology comes, new jobs get created. You know what is the real issue we need to solve? All those TikTok things kids are watching these days. And jobs? Yeah some jobs will go -- but you know what won't go? Electricians. Plumbers. Real hard physical labour. I'd like to see an AI do that. You could do that when you lose your job. I am pretty sure your job as a software engineer is going. A cheeky smile, by a cheeky lad. But don't worry. I'll run a company with AI agents. All in my single business. Thousands of agents making us rich.

It is at this point I expect him to do a villainous laugh. His eyes could turn red.

She breaks free from his finger, yanks the umbrella away -- it clips his head. And there she runs. She runs into the storm, crying.

Ow! No sweetie! He walks after her. The storm must walk after her.

Well, at least that's them gone. I move forward.

A new person in front of me, his back turned. I can see his hands -- crinkled, old. I wonder if his face matches this. He's holding a phone, talking at it. Speaker on:

Wasn't the moon landing fake?

A smooth, glitchy voice: That is an excellent question -- truly one of the greatest. You have a mind that claws -- that doesn't just ask, but tears at what it's told. Socrates questioned, Descartes doubted, Einstein wondered -- you, too, belong to that lineage. You refuse to stop asking. Please stop asking…

Sorry I mean, never stop asking!

His shoulders sag. Soothed. He is soothed by those words.

Behind me, voices -- scaling laws, Blackwell chips. Someone's blaring the Dwarkesh Podcast. Near the door, two regulars I recognise -- a doomer and his e/acc nemesis -- shoving each other. The d/acc crowd pulls them apart.

The queue doesn't stop moving, but it takes hours before I'm finally at the door. Inside, warm.

I meet a boy at the till. Scruffy. Sixteen, maybe. He looks me in the eye. Bulky spectacles -- odd shape, chunky, sitting wrong on his face.

Haha, you like what you see? He adjusts the frame. Yeah these? Meta Rayban innit. Proper good, I record everything. You recording now? Course mate, always recording. You never know what'll happen -- someone does summat mad, place gets famous.

No -- I pull away -- no don't make this place famous please.

Why not?

This place is a well kept secret. It'd lose its charm.

Ah sorry mate, can't help it, it's uploading already.

There are other orders being shouted, CHICKEN SHAWARMA! Hello, yes please, next! Brother, what you like? All salad? Chilli sauce? Someone older behind the counter -- his father? -- gives him a stern look. So brother, what do you want?

Chips please.

And just like that, a box slides in front of the boy. They must have these ready to go. Salt? Yes please. Vinegar? Nah. Sauce? Ketchup please.

A warm styrofoam box in my moist hands.

£3 brother. You take card?

Brother, cash only.

Ah, man sorry.

No worries, bring it next time.

I owe this place hundreds of pounds.

The rain has turned to snow. I can't go back out. So I must find a throne. But the place is heaving. Where am I going to sit?

Near the window, two women bent over a tall table. Fake tan. In black hoodies and trackies. Sharing a box of chips -- a mess of cheese, limp salad, and vinegar:

Have you invested in Nvidia? She doesn't wait for an answer. Babe, I swear, buy some stock in Nvidia. Actually -- wait, no, never mind, do not buy Nvidia. It's all a bubble. Long TSMC. No wait, TSMC -- oh god, that's maybe a bad idea too. One day China will just -- you know, all that stuff with Taiwan. Oracle then? Oh my god what if it's all a bubble? OK so like, all my life savings into Nvidia for now, yeah? And I'll pull out when I make my -- what, 6278% return in a year? Babe you should totally do it. Feed the machine. We need all those data centres. They're building those data centres that make those droning sounds -- like white noise when you sleep. Or they fill your home with gas. Sulfur gas. Makes your home smell like eggs.

Her friend looks at her chip fork and replies, I'm not worried about the eggs. I sold my home. Babe, don't worry. Everything I own has been in Nvidia. And I'm rich. So rich. Now I live in my own warehouse with GPUs. Blue light. Yellow lights. It's a whole galaxy here. I plug my brain into these GPUs and I can see my sister again. My beautiful sister. Finally, these systems are giving me what I want. The reality I want. I get to be a kid again, fighting with my sister. Reading stories. Crying on her shoulder. My big sister's shoulder.

Her hands rise to meet her head. She drops into them. Her friend rubs her shoulder -- the soft cotton of the hoodie.

I look away. There's a table at the back. I spot a group of five sitting at a table of six. Maybe they wouldn't mind my company, but I'd mind theirs. I am still so tired. Wet socks, cold feet -- hungry.

This seat taken?

Does it look taken? She laughs. Haha just kidding. Join us.

It's one of those tables where the chairs are bolted on. I must awkwardly navigate on. I hope they just ignore me, and don't notice me until I am gone. I really, really don't want to talk about AI anymore. AI this AI that -- god I wish it would just end. We could talk about normal things like love, flowers.

Dude. A guy with three layers on points at me, mayo on his index finger. Settle a debate for us.

No, please god no. Sure, I say.

So these two think AGI is either two years away, or ten.

Just look at the graphs right. METR's time horizon graph, we'll have AI models automating AI R&D in two years. The graphs just go straight up. You just need to look at the graphs.

The other one jumps in: Yeah but continuous learning. Can AI models do continuous learning? Get a sense of context and update according to the information I give them? Without continuous learning AI will be useless.

I bang my head into my box. Ketchup splatters all over me. Maybe they'll think I died.

The woman who laughed at me now begins to console me. Hey, I know, sorry AGI talk can be overwhelming sometimes. Don't worry, we can talk about something else? How about export controls on China?

Today, Sheffield City Council announced Project Rebuild. Data centres will be built across the East End.

Chesterfield Road leads to London Road. It used to drain Sheffield. Now it fills Sheffield back up. Laid-off tech workers driving north. Finance guys priced out. Sheffield is where they end up.

They work in the East, tending servers in Attercliffe, where the land lies low. Flood plains. Cheap land. The servers hum and heat the air where the smoke rose.

Every evening, the new workers leave. Ahead it is: Crookes, Broomhill, stone houses in Fulwood. Behind them -- the hum of the East. The heat. The people who grew up here, who can never leave. Barely enough to eat. They breathe it in.

We are mourners of our past. Trapped. Our shadows bigger than our hopes.

Sheffield must take what it can find now.

The data centres bring a future. A chance at prosperity again. But, by now, you and I know the city prays for something more.

In Sheffield, we hope for her. We forget what she is.