Limos Lives

by R E Kearney

  “We are strangers in a strange land and I am not comfortable, CRAGI.” Pausing outside the crush of humanity, Robert studies their surroundings. “Call me cynical, but I believe I must agree with Laurell K. Hamilton who wrote that you should never trust anyone who smiles constantly. They’re either selling something or not very bright.”

  “W.C. Fields recommended to start every day off with a smile and get it over with.” Possessing no algorithms for human trepidation, CRAGI ambulates past Robert into the surging throng with her facial, bionic skin contorting into her simulated perversion of a smile.

  SEWER RATS

  Smack! Rele slaps his right palm against the middle of the house door. Silently, the door pops open. Concealed inside the crumbling, dilapidated appearing shack is an air-conditioned, cyber secure, safe house with four single beds, showers, toilets, food storage and preparation appliances and closets of clothes. They step inside and the interior security system springs to life. Red targeting lasers shine on Rele and Rube’s foreheads.

  “Guardians of the original dominion are dedicated to preserving pure, natural humans.” Turning in a circle, Rele shouts his statement to the four walls.

  With relief, Rube watches the laser light dancing on Rele’s face fade away. “Who is in here?”

  Rele laughs and twirls his right index finger in the air by his ear. “Relax. Nobody is in here, but you, me and a voice and facial recognition security system. Outlier Taon Hera operates and maintains it, but never stays here. This is only a waystation. Just a place to rest, wash and change into the proper clothes.”

  Rele flops onto the closest bed and closes his eyes. “And rest is exactly what I plan to do. I suggest you do it too.”

  Still uncomfortably crammed inside Rele’s too small coveralls, Rube decides he would rather investigate the clothes closets. To his relief, he discovers a variety of 3D printed techno-clothes. Every garment that he wants and needs is available, clean and free of sweat stink.

  Seconds later, Rube is stripped and standing in the body disinfector staring at a confusing array of knobs and buttons. Unable to decipher the cleansing code, Rube decides to activate the system labeled whole body wash. Warm water smacks Rube on every inch of his body. From above, across his front, across his backside and from below, water drenches him. The water shooting up from below catches him by surprise. In the beginning, it is unpleasant, but he quickly begins enjoying the warm tingle.

  After an especially long, prolonged period of enjoying having his body thoroughly sanitized, Rube reluctantly departs his shower to dress. Selecting an outfit is simple compared to operating the body disinfector. From his body stocking to his outerwear, all of the clothing is arranged as complete attires. His only difficulty is choosing his favorite color.

  Rube slides on a power felt body stocking. Comprised of tiny carbon nanotubes locked up in flexible plastic fibers, power felt feels like fabric against Rube’s skin. He stretches, twists and turns, enjoying the power felt’s silk like slickness. He does not realize or care that power felt uses temperature differences – room temperature versus body temperature – to create an electrical charge.

  The power felt’s electrical charge supports the cooling outer layer Rube dons next. Like the power felt, nanotubes of chilling compounds and technology are woven into the clothing to keep Rube’s body at a constant seventy degrees in Denver’s summer heat or Denver’s winter cold. The lightness of the material surprises him. He cannot remember wearing any clothes this comfortable. He hopes he can keep them.

  Clean and clothed, Rube’s attention turns to his empty, churning stomach. Searching through the pantry, he discovers several containers of ingredients for a 3D food printer, but no prepared food. Holding a container labeled 3D pizza, he stares in confusion at the first 3D food printer he has ever seen. He has no clue as to what to do.

  “Here I am surrounded by food, yet I may starve to death.” Rube laments to himself, as he searches for food printer operating directions.

  “What’s the matter cowboy, can’t cook without a campfire?” Rele snidely comments, rising from his bed. “These here modern conveniences shore can be confusen to you hicks from the sticks.”

  Indignantly, Rube drops the container onto the counter next to the food printer. “Here! You do it then, since you’re so smart.”

  With a smirk, Rele pushes past Rube. “Good idea. I’ll feed the printer, so it feeds us while you remove that beard stubble from your face. Whiskers aren’t the style with cosmopolite males, even old grumps like you.”

  Quelling his strong longing to physically restructure Rele’s face, Rube returns to the disinfecting room to ensure he appears a proper cosmopolite with a hairless and smooth face. Scrutinizing himself in the mirror, Rube smiles and nods his self-approval. He considers that, yes, he may be sixty three, but he cleans up nice. He also realizes that he is liking his transformation from country clod to the cosmopolite life.

  “Go eat and then get some sleep. You’ll need it. We won’t slip into Greenly until just before dawn.” Rele jerks his right thumb over his shoulder. “Now get out of here, so I can rid myself of the stench of Fort Morghan and transform into a cosmopolite, too.”

  With a full belly, a clean body, cooling clothes and a comfy bed, Rube is snoring seconds after becoming supine. He dives deep into dreams. When Rele shakes him awake, he is muddled and confused.

  “Time for you to experience the life of a cosmopolite inside the Denver Metrostate.” Rele motions for Rube to follow him.

  Rele returns Rube to his clothes closet. He steps inside and presses his left thumb against a small, almost invisible, depression on the wall. With a swish, a panel beside the depression slides open in front of a manhole opening into a large storm sewer. Rele steps into the manhole and onto an individual rung ladder leading down into the dimly lit sewer.

  “Let’s go. Half a mile walk from here, we’ll climb up inside of the Greenly sector of the Denver Metrostate.” Rele begins descending the ladder.

  Impatient to finally view at least the fringe of the Denver Metrostate, Rube hurries after Rele. He is in too much of a rush. Scrambling down the ladder, he crushes Rele’s right hand beneath his boot. He hears Rele’s bones pop just before he hears Rele scream.

  Rele plunges the final six feet to the storm sewer floor. The fall twists his left ankle and jams his right knee. Loudly cursing at Rube, Rele drags himself away from the ladder to lean against the curved concrete tube’s wall.

  After clambering down the ladder, Rube rushes to kneel at his side. “Rele, I am so sorry. What can I do? Let me help you up. Here take my hand.”

  “Take your hand! Idiot! You broke my hand! Maybe my ankle and knee, too.” Rele swings wildly at Rube with his left hand. “Get away from me! You’ve ruined my whole mission.”

  Rube retreats to the other side of the sewer. Leaning silently against the wall, he watches Rele test his ankle and knee. Groaning loudly to ensure Rube knows that he is in pain, Rele limps a few steps.

  “Do we go on or do we go back?” Rube asks, looking at the ladder out.

  Rele stops and props himself against the left side of the pipe with his left hand. Grimacing and moaning, he struggles to flex his right hand. “Well, I think I can hobble to Greenly, but my right hand is throbbing…swelling. Clumsy clod! You definitely crushed it.”

  Muttering curses at Rube, Rele lurches ahead. Their progress is stagger-and-stop, stagger-some-more-and-stop slow. Wandering along behind, Rube eases his boredom by inspecting the sewer pipe’s construction.

  Rube jiggles the poorly hung string of lights just above his head. “What is this…this tunnel thing, we’re in?”

  Rele stops to massage his injuries. “We’re inside the abandoned, main storm sewer pipe for a housing development that never developed. The original plans had streets and houses covering the ground above us. Rain running off those streets was supposed to enter this pipe and dump into the river at Greenly. But, when the rain
s stopped and everything died…plans for building out here died too. So, Taon converted his construction headquarters building and this storm sewer into a smuggler’s route.”

  Groaning, Rele straightens and limps forward. “Luckily, there is no ladder for me to climb at that end of the sewer. Just dumps us out into the dead Platte beneath Denver’s security barriers.”

  Their progress is slow and noisy. Loudly complaining with each step, Rele ensures that Rube remembers that he is suffering from pain he caused. Rube listens, but does not care. He silently smiles to himself, enjoying Rele’s discomfort.

  Midmorning, many hours later than predicted, Rele leads Rube from the dim sewer into the blazing, burning sunlight. “Smile Rube. Smile like you mean it. Smile like your life depends on it. Every step you take, every move you make is being watched. You are now entering the Denver Metrostate…land of enforced happiness.”

  WEWATTA WALK

  Whish! Swish! Whish! Whish! Swish! Five racing bicyclers scream past. Confused, human-slow, Robert freezes statue still. He halts immobilized too many steps inside Wewatta Street.

  “Danger! Danger!” CRAGI grabs his shoulder and yanks him out of the path of six more racing riders.

  “Wow! Never saw them coming.” Rubbing his shoulder, Robert turns to watch a string of cyclists blur by in a swirling river of colors.

  To Robert’s right, a young woman cheers the riders. Her shrieking whistles pierce Robert’s eardrum. Clapping her hands, she leaps into the air.

  “Do you know one of the racers?” Robert asks in the brief moment when she is subdued.

  The woman is encapsulated within her digital self-preoccupation, oblivious to Robert and her surroundings. Robert notices that she is no different from the other individuals proceeding around him. Lost in their social interactions with others who are not near, they walk Wewatta within their own bubbles.

  Robert attempts to break through the woman’s digital dome by waving his hand in front of her face and asking his question louder. “Do you know one of the racers?”

  His extra effort interrupts her self-absorption. Smiling broadly, she shakes her head slightly and points toward a security sky eye. “No. No. Just earning some social interaction credits. Plan to use my SICs to get a couple of items for my habitat. If you cheer creditably, you can get some, too, you know. Just make sure the sky eyes merit you.”

  Before Robert responds, the woman is wildly jumping and screaming for another passing pod of racers. Here and there some other pedestrians shout support. But, the majority of citizens just keep doing what they are doing – walking, talking and interrelating to others not near them. Together separately.

  The avenue is a moving mixture of mankind and machines mingling and merging. Flocks of drones buzz past overhead. Single-rider, electric scooters silently zig zag through the walkers and watchers. Ground, delivery drones dutifully weave and wind to their destinations. Every machine moves with purpose and direction, only the humans appear to wander pointlessly.

  Between rider pace lines, the woman relaxes and activates her body-implant communicator, musically stimulating her sensory nervous system. Closing her eyes, she begins nodding her head rhythmically. Her lips move, emitting no sound.

  “Excuse me, but is this an important race?” Robert inquires quietly, seeking her attention without startling her.

  Without opening her eyes, the woman responds. “No, nothing special. Happens every afternoon. It’s called community challenge cycling. Every neighborhood or community in the DMS fields a team. Just people who like to ride and race. Something to do. You know? Afternoon marathons are next hour, if you like runners running, instead.”

  “No, I’m not a runner.” Robert admits without hesitation. “I’m not too physically predisposed, to tell you the truth.”

  While continuing to follow the progress of the race, the woman glances quickly at Robert. “Not important if you’re athletic. It’s just another part of the DMS happiness program. Physical health promotes mental health.”

  Holding out his hand toward the woman, Robert introduces himself with a smile. “Hello, my name is Robert Goodfellow and this…uh…is…uh…my associate, CRAGI.”

  From his head to his heels, the woman examines Robert. “Your clothing is not familiar. You’re not from the DMS, are you?”

  Robert straightens to his full six feet and five inches then lightly and proudly brushes his fingers across his chest. “My clothing may not be familiar to you because it is from the Ile-de-France…Paris. You know, Parisian fashion.”

  The woman lightly swipes her finger tips across Robert’s finger tips. “Welcome to my home, the Denver Metrostate or the DMS, for short. My name is Senhora Simpatica. Just call me Senhora. I design and produce comfort-temp, techno-clothing for wear here in the DMS. I could certainly improve your look. The appearance of your...uh…associate…cranky, too.”

  I am called CRAGI. I am a collaborative robot with Artificial General Intelligence that will learn through observing and replicating your actions. If, and only if, any of your actions are worthy of observing and replicating.

  “Ok, CRAGI. Thanks Senhora, but I’m quite comfortable in my Parisian clothing.” Robert shrugs his shoulders adjusting his shirt. “And yes, CRAGI can be a bit cranky. I fear that CRAGI’s voice and attitude are much too much like the rather peculiar woman who wrote her affective algorithms.”

  Senhora scowls at CRAGI then turns toward Robert. “Well, when you’re dripping wet in sweat in your fine, Parisian clothes, I’ll be ready to design and print you a set of the latest DMS fashions. Also, I suggest that you keep…uh…cranky CRAGI, close. Not everybody approves of humanoids. Lots of fear…resentment. Been some violence. Most people keep their domestic assistant robots in their homes. Where they belong. That’s why you don’t see any clogging the streets.”

  CRAGI is affronted. “I am not a domestic assistant. I am CRAGI. I am a collaborative robot with Artificial General Intelligence…”

  Robert nods his understanding and motions for CRAGI to be silent and move closer. “I appreciate your warning. To be truthful, I’m more than a little uncertain about CRAGI, too.”

  CRAGI swivels her head toward Robert. CRAGI’s visual sensors analyze Robert’s eye movements and facial muscles. The truth of his statement to Senhora is evident there.

  Reaching past CRAGI, Senhora rubs her fingers across Robert’s sleeve. She shakes her head. “Ok, your choice. But, why don’t you allow me to introduce you to the DMS. It will give me something to do and earn me some SICs too. Hosting visitors rewards six SICs an hour.”

  “SICs? That’s all everybody talks about here…SICs. In the Ile-de-France, people strive for bon comportement to earn privileges. Why are SICs so important in the uh…DMS?” Robert immediately motions for CRAGI to remain silent.

  Quietly pondering her explanation, Senhora smiles vacantly at nothing in particular. Looking first toward the sky eye and then back toward Robert, she ensures her smile never leaves her face, even when she speaks. “SICs are special PR…uh…positive reinforcement bonuses that you can add to your basic life allowance. Or, if you earn an income higher than your BLA, you can add your SICs to that. Then you use your SICs to acquire personal items like…uh….joy toys.”

  Robert decides not to inquire about her joy toys and once again signals CRAGI to be mute. Instead, he opts to agree to her offer of a tour. “The last time I was here was more than twenty years ago. It was a much different time and a very different place. So, this is all new to me. Please, educate me Senhora. I have time for some show and tell, as long as we walk this direction to SPEA headquarters.”

  With a wide smile, Senhora swings her arms wide, as if she is uncovering a revealing vista for Robert. “As I will show you, the DMS and especially, Lodo, is an outburst of human enrichment. Robots directed by our Artificial Intelligence government do most of the labor to provide us with all of our necessities. So, life in the Denver Metrostate is about all of us D
MS citizens employing and living the neuroscience teachings that self-expression is the most important way for people to connect, navigate and grow with each other.”

  “The Denver Metrostate government is applying zoological animal care and management concepts. Behavioral enrichment is an animal husbandry principle that seeks to enhance the quality of captive animal care by identifying and providing the environmental stimuli necessary for optimal psychological and physiological well-being. Doctor of veterinary medicine, William Singleton, defined enrichment as the provision of novelty and complexity to a given situation or environment to make it more stimulating. Historically the concept of enrichment in the laboratory animal research community has focused primarily on nonhuman primates and the provision of novelty and complexity to their living environments, ultimately leading to more species-typical behaviors.” AGI unexpectedly interjects into Robert’s thoughts.

  Unaware of AGI’s depiction of her as a zoo inhabitant, Senhora proudly points ahead. “Allow me to begin our tour with some information about where you are. We’re walking along Wewatta Street. Wewatta is one of the original streets established by our city’s founder William McGaw. He named it to honor one of his several wives. Anyway, I say Wewatta reveals the past, present and future of the DMS.”

  The trio travels only a few steps when they enter a circle of artists. Six painters encircle a sculptor molding a clay figure of a male artiste playing a violin. Circling above this colony of artists are two sky eye drones. Robert slides behind a woman splashing paint on a particularly colorful canvas.