Limos Lives

by R E Kearney

  Allie’s left eye twitches. She dodges his scrutiny, looking left then right. Sweat moistens her forehead. She knows - he knows.

  Robert decides to apply some additional pressure. “I will also require access to all of your records, all of your communications, your security observations and a complete background of all employees including their bon comportements. From what I learned conversing with the plants, I am certain that I have identified the perpetrator.”

  With a silent nod, Allie concedes to Robert’s orders. He determines that she is definitely not operating alone. Every AAU garden facility must have at least one embedded Limos member. He anticipates that if he approaches her properly, she will provide the opening he needs to penetrate this mysterious Limos. Only by exploiting her insider knowledge does he consider it possible to stop Limos from destroying the world’s food supply.

  “I assume, Allie, that you are aware that tampering and destruction of food crops in Ile-de-France is a capital crime against humanity carrying a minimum punishment of exile and a maximum punishment of execution.” Robert tosses out his lure. “But, providing assistance and information can significantly alter the fate of those who cooperate. I suggest you consider your alternatives tonight. Incarceration or information.”

  IMAGINE THAT

  Fermé.

  Geschlossen.

  Closed.

  Fermé - pas de nourriture.

  Geschlossen - kein Essen.

  Closed – no food available.

  Signs declaring exhausted food supplies desecrate the locked entrances of the darkened, vacant, Parisian cafes, restaurants and markets Robert passes. La joie de vivre, the joy of living, the reason for breathing in the Ile-de-France appears suddenly lost. Food, friends and fraternity are the Parisian’s basics of civilized life.

  Robert’s decision to walk from the banana plantscraper to his peniche is enlightening. For although the cafes are closed and no flying or rolling food delivery drones are competing for space, he is not alone. The normally crowded and noisy boulevard is now spotted with only a few strollers, walkers, joggers and loungers. Quietly, they mix and mingle among the bio-landscaping trees and shrubs. They may not have food, but they have each other, and for the moment they are calmly suffering together. They are griping and grumbling, but unlike earlier, they are not rioting.

  Wandering the boulevard toward the Seine, Robert is growing hungry. He thinks to himself how even a 3D printed Saucisson of ground mealworms and grasshoppers on a cricket flour bun would taste delicious, now. Too bad, there are no baked bugs left to be had. Every Robomart, bakery, pastry shop, cafe and market is empty. If you did not have food before, you certainly will not have it now.

  “Attention! Attention!” Shouts a man running and pointing toward Robert.

  Instinctively, Robert ducks his head. Swoosh! Propeller blades slash the air so close to his skull, they uncurl his hair. Smacked with whirling winds, he dives lower. A drone’s heavy, hard body rams into his shoulder, slamming him to ground.

  Crack! Screech! The drone plummets onto the walk, sliding, flipping and flopping. Like a bird with a broken wing, it crawls ahead, loudly squawking.

  On his hands and knees, Robert scrambles after the damaged drone. Half flying, half walking, the drone thrashes ahead struggling to escape. Finally, it lodges against a pole. Clambering near enough to examine the crashed craft, Robert discovers he was bashed by an Association Agricole Urbane delivery drone.

  “The barcode numbers beneath the Association Agricole Urbane identification indicate it is a banana delivery drone.” AGI informs Robert before he is able to ask the question he is thinking.

  “Well, thank you AGI. I believe the banana bunch logo beneath the name Association Agricole Urbane is also a strong indication of its origin.” Robert snipes at AGI. “Rather obvious, I’d think, wouldn’t you?”

  “Artistic symbols are not reliable identification. Reliable identification includes barcodes, quick response codes, numbers. Association Agricole Urbane drone three six six assigned to Paris Association Agricole Urbane facility number three seven is the drone you are scanning.” AGI retorts. “Accurate identification is a legal fact.”

  “But Arthur Conan Doyle once wrote that, there is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact.” Deliberately ignoring AGI, Robert inches closer to the floundering drone. “So, this certainly requires additional investigation.”

  Avoiding its razor-sharp propellers, Robert grabs the drone’s nose and wrestles it around until he is nose to its nose and able to examine its Time-of-Flight 3D camera sensor. Analyzing the ToF with his computerized contact lens, Robert detects no obstruction to its forward sight, which could create erratic flight or collisions.

  “External evaluation indicates the ToF camera sensor is operating properly.”

  “Thank you AGI.” Peering through the exterior ToF cover, Robert continues, verbalizing his considerations. “Deliberate deactivation of the drone’s collision avoidance system is another possibility. Of course, that requires someone intentionally flying it into me…a fabulous friendly fellow like me. Can you believe that? I wonder who doesn’t like me.”

  Robert taps his fist against the ToF cover. “Could that be you, Allie Hooya? Are you attempting to end our fabulous friendship? And, I thought we were getting along so…”

  “A history of reprogramming of the drone’s navigation and control system is retained in the drone’s guidance system module. Remove the ToF to access the guidance system module.” AGI interrupts.

  As he intently scrutinizes the ToF for access points, the sensor lens abruptly expands and contracts, rotates, then swings left, then right, then up, then down. The drone’s propellers accelerate until they are screaming. Shaking and jumping, the drone leaps and twists out of Robert’s grip. Scrambling for safety, Robert rolls away.

  Pakooh! The drone’s power generator explodes into flames. Kapow! A battery detonates. Robert flattens against the ground, covering his head with his hands and arms. Fire engulfs the drone. Two more batteries erupt, shattering the drone body. Fragments clatter around him. Zip! A flaming splinter plunges into Robert’s arm.

  “Tabarnak!” Robert yelps a Quebecois French curse, as he yanks out the hot splinter burning in his shoulder. Angrily, he flings it back into the fire. “Sacrament!”

  Alerted by the street surveillance system, two firefighting drones arrive and hover above the smoldering debris. After smothering the drone’s remains in foam, the firefighting drones disappear. A pile of melted, twisted, useless rubbish litters the avenue.

  Rubbing his shoulder, Robert struggles to his feet. He taunts the pile of junk. “Hah! I’m harder to kill than you thought. Amateur! T’es une vidange. That is right. You’re just garbage.”

  “The fire destroyed the drone’s guidance system module and navigation programmer identification.”

  “Yes, I believe that was intentional, AGI. Add this to your deep learning tasks, self-destruction occurs to prevent exposure…revealing facts.” Robert internally instructs AGI.

  From behind Robert, a cawing Rook crow swoops down, grabs a piece of destroyed drone in its claws and wings away. Two Rooks flutter in from his left. The smaller of these two crows grabs a shining piece of metal in its beak and hops into flight. The other bird picks at a piece of material too large for it to carry. Using its talons, the ingenious Rook breaks off a smaller piece of the drone. Clasping that piece with its claws, it spreads its wings and slowly pulls itself aloft.

  Swiftly, Robert is surrounded by the cawing clatter of a murder of crows. One particularly friendly, feathered fellow attempts to rest on his shoulder. Robert shoos away the sociable bird. “What is all of this, AGI?”

  “Years ago, French park directors started training French crows called Rooks to pick up litter and dispose of it in designated storage in exchange for food. Rooks are known for their intelligence, adaptability, learning, and ability to use simple tools. The first trained Rooks taug
ht other Rooks and the skill spread from the Paris parks to all the Rooks in Ile-de-France.”

  “French Rooks leave no litter alone.” Robert observes as the crows clear away the drone debris. “It’s a pity that most humans don’t have this much respect and regard for nature. If we did, we wouldn’t be so near to making ourselves extinct.”

  Looking over his left shoulder, then his right shoulder, above and then behind, Robert resumes his journey to his peniche. “So, AGI, what can we assume from this attack by an AAU banana delivery drone minutes after we leave Allie Hooya? Cannot we assume that Allie was behind the drone attack?”

  “Assume? Synonym of suppose, presume, presuppose, think, guess or imagine? AGI is not capable of assume, suppose, presume, presuppose, think, guess or imagine. Learning these concepts is beginning.”

  Robert laughs and shakes both of his fists victoriously. “Yes! Humans rule! Access to all the data available in the world means nothing without a little imagination. Or as Albert Einstein once said, ‘imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world.’ I got it and you ain’t!”

  IN THE ZONE

  Midnight, and the moon glows hot, white and bright. Stars carpet the sky brightening the night into shades of grey. A wraith of a high flying cloud appears for a moment, then disappears. Not a whisper of wind. Charred-hard earth crackles and crunches.

  Two Pinacate beetles stroll through the scorched stubble, scavenging for the flotsam and jetsam of desert plants. Curious, Rube bends close. Too close. He recognizes them too late. Simultaneously the beetles fold their front legs and extend their back legs, standing on their heads. Alarmed, they shower Rube with an evil-smelling spray squirting from their rear repugnatory glands.

  Rube chokes and stumbles backward. Stinking more foul than a skunk, he falls onto the ground and begins clawing dirt loose and scrubbing it into his pants. He rubs and scrubs. The stench fights back, refusing to leave.

  His eyes watering and nausea rising in his throat, Rube rips off his trousers. With a curse, he heaves them at the beetles. The Pinacates fire another cloud of spray at him, sending him running. They miss. A half-buried, stump stub does not, grabbing his shoe heel. Rube crashes with a thud onto the concrete-hard ground, knocking all breath out of him. Gasping for oxygen, he cannot move.

  The moon beamed shadow of a scorpion slowly struts past Rube’s face. He stares at its curled tail and stinger, afraid to move. He holds his breath, fearing exhaling will enrage it. Finally, his lungs on fire and his head pounding, Rube releases the air with a silent whistle. The scorpion stops, turns and advances toward Rube’s nose.

  Crunch! A woven, graphene, exoskeleton-base-boot crushes the scorpion. Rolling onto his back, Rube discovers two ICC Enforcers looming above him. Their infrared eyes blaze through the darkness. As they examine him, four ruby red spots dance across his face, down his chest and then stop on his naked legs. Rube is not certain, but he thinks he hears muffled laughter escaping their air-tight helmets riding atop their sealed exoskeleton suits.

  “What are you doing out here?” A tinny, echoing, baritone voice from the taller of the two Enforcers demands. “Why aren’t you wearing pants?”

  “It is forbidden to be in the wastedlands at night. Any person caught outside of the Squalor perimeter is considered a belligerent and may be eliminated.” The second Enforcer declares, before Rube is able to answer the first Enforcer.

  “I…I didn’t know that. I didn’t mean to break any laws.” Rube stutters while he struggles to stand. “I was bored, see, and I just wanted to…”

  “Where are your pants?” With his infrareds, the taller Enforcer scans the area surrounding them. “Were you out here committing an offensive sexual act?”

  “Oh no! Certainly not!” Rube immediately reacts and points toward his dirt covered trousers. “There are my pants…there. Two bugs… Pinacate beetles, I believe. Squirted me. My pants stink. I stink.”

  The two Enforcers do not attempt to muffle their laughter this time. Rube hangs his head and drops his hands attempting to covers his crotch. The shorter of the two extends his graphene, bullet-proof, gloved hand and points.

  “Get your pants and come with us.” The Enforcer orders with a smirk. “We will protect you from those ferocious beetles.”

  Rube’s pants reek. With his right arm extended, he holds his pants by their waist and drags them across the dirt as far behind him as possible. An Enforcer walks on each side of him, shepherding him forward. Occasionally, the shorter Enforcer prods Rube with an electrical jolt from his glove to his bare thigh.

  Rube is mortified. As he enters Squalor, he attempts to disappear. But, he cannot hide, so he locks his eyes on his grimy, worn-out shoes and drooping, dirty socks. He does not want to acknowledge anybody, who spots him wearing only his torn, dirt and sweat encrusted shirt and holey, grubby undershorts. With each debasing step, his outrage intensifies. He does not understand why he is being humiliated this way.

  Fett is waiting for him just outside her squat. She begins loudly scolding him, as soon as he staggers into the light and her sight. “Where you been? You’re a mess. Why ain’t you wearing no pants? Didn’t I tell you to stay inside Squalor? Didn’t I?”

  Stone silent, Rube shuffles forward, refusing to raise his eyes. The Enforcers halt, releasing him to enter Fett’s squat. He sluggishly climbs the steps.

  As he passes, Fett punches him in his shoulder. “You’re disgusting! Leave your stinking pants outside.”

  Shamed, Rube tosses his pants aside. They drop onto sleeping Cerberus’ head. Alarmed, he leaps to his feet barking loudly. Furiously, he shakes off the putrid pants. Identifying the two Enforcers, as his assailants, he charges at them. His teeth bared. He leaps.

  Zap! Zap! Reacting instinctively, the Enforcers fire their glove lasers into Cerberus. Uuff! He crashes to the ground. His legs kick. His body shakes. Silence.

  “You killed him! You killed my dog!” Fett screams. Swinging her fists, she hurtles down the stoop steps at the Enforcers. The taller Enforcer raises his gloved hand - palm out - warning her to stop. She slams his hand aside. The other Enforcer’s laser, stun-shot hits her in the chest. Twitching and drooling, Fett drops. She crashes on top of her beloved Cerberus.

  Cerberus and Fett are still a senseless, entangled heap on the ground when Rube reemerges from the squat. He leaps to their side. They are barely breathing. Struggling, he wrestles Fett off Cerberus and rolls her onto her back.

  Cerberus whines and twitches. Slowly, he raises his huge head. He struggles to stand, then collapses. Cerberus whimpers with pain.

  Rube pats Cerberus’ hip. “Easy, big fella. Just rest.”

  “Cerberus, you’re not dead.” Fett mumbles lying on her back with her eyes shut.

  “Fett? You’re not dead?” Rube tugs her into a sitting position. She is woozy. Groaning, she slumps forward.

  “Who did this?” Rube demands. “Those Enforcers?”

  Weakly, Fett nods her head and coughs. “Yeah…them.”

  “Why?”

  “Cause they can.” Fett mumbles, as she massages her throbbing skull. “Just cause they can. ICC controls everything and everybody in the one mile exclusion zone surrounding their throughways and hyperloops. You and me, we ain’t nothin…nothin at all. Enforcers coulda killed you for bein out there, if they’d felt like it. Killed you and left you…to rot.”

  “But, why? I didn’t do anything?” Rube pleads. “I just wanted some quiet…just wanted to see the stars…just wanted to be alone…again.”

  “You was where you ain’t supposed to be. That’s all they know…all they care about. They ain’t all human. They’re cyborgs…more metal than man.” Fett taps Rube’s medically rebuilt ankle. “And this here means you can’t never be alone. Never again…ever. Less you cut it off. Want me to?”

  Rube jerks his leg out of Fett’s reach. “Why? What do you mean?”

  “What I mean is
that your ankle is one big signal telling ICC Enforcers where you are every second. Buried in your ankle repair materials are tiny transmitters. It’s rumored that they’re in our PMDs too.” Fett retrieves a PMD from her pocket and tosses it into her mouth.

  Cerberus crawls to Fett. He plops his big head onto her lap. She strokes him. “When Rele was here, he refused their PMDs and all medicine. He always told me that we’re medicated to be located.”

  “So, I’m a prisoner and this is my prison?” Rube studies the rusting, rotting trailers, vehicles and squats wallowing in the filth surrounding him. “Or is it my grave?”

  MIND MATTERS

  Rita and Aethon wave and toss kisses. Their miniature, volumetric images float in the Parisian night air, as they await Robert. He is late. Tired and sore, he trudges into his chamber. His drone bruised shoulder aches. But, his fatigue and pain fades, as soon as he sees his welcome home.

  He circles his free-space volumetric display platform enjoying viewing their 3D-light-printed, twenty-percent-size images from every angle. Robert positions himself in his photophoretic-trap recorder. One second later, his miniature volumetric image is dancing on air in front of Rita and Aethon. Thanks to telemetry’s real time data collection and transfer of volumetric images, he is as alive in Venus, as he is sitting in his peniche compartment in Paris.

  Smack! Suddenly, rushing into Robert’s mind is a deluge of innocent, uninhibited love from Aethon. What her voice cannot yet say, she explosively emotes via their neural network connection. Brain to brain - amygdala to amygdala – from the emotional center of Aethon’s being unconditional love gushes into Robert’s emotional center.