RobotWorld

by Ray Verola

  Capital City was the only major city in the Northeast Sector. According to government reports, there were only small enclaves of people beyond the Capital City borders. The city was an area of high population concentration. Most lived in what had come to be known as “egg crates”: high-rise, government-constructed apartment buildings, many of which had fallen into disrepair as the result of poor maintenance. A perpetual gray cloud of pollution hung above the city like the haze of marijuana/tobacco smoke now hanging over the patrons of the Cap City bar. A constant rotten-egg smell permeated the city’s air, the result of a curious combination of industrial pollution (much of it from RobotWorld) and rotting garbage on the streets, which never seemed to be picked up on time by government sanitation trucks.

  Most didn’t question the authorities now, although some felt the government’s actions, ostensibly to protect the population, were really done to further its own power. But the majority of the government’s critics had the good sense to keep their opinions to themselves.

  3

  “Well, it’s about time,” Sophia said as Taylor managed to complete his plodding march through the crowd to the booth. “You’re the last of my five top executives to come out drinking with me. It only took a year.”

  Taylor was barely able to hear Sophia over the din from the telescreens and the raucousness of the customers. Taylor, like Sophia, had changed out of his gray RW uniform and wore a casual dark-green sports shirt and khaki pants. No sense in drawing attention to the fact that he worked for one of the few highly prosperous—and not too popular—corporations in Capital City. As he settled into a seat across from his boss, he grunted and needed a few seconds to catch his breath. He inhaled deeply through his nose and exhaled slowly through his mouth to refocus. The thought of how out of shape he’d become since his high school wrestling days flashed in his mind; back then, he used to knock off three hundred push-ups in several sets every morning before school and, despite his asthma, could run a mile in less than six minutes.

  But this was no time to reminisce about or lament days gone by. Taylor fixed his attention on the matter at hand. “I’ve told you all along, Sophia. I’m not a drinker. Plus, I hate bars.” While true that he was essentially a teetotaler and hated bars, Taylor felt a burning in his stomach at not being completely truthful as to why he’d avoided this meeting.

  Sophia’s usual poker face morphed into a twisted smile. “Sometimes I think you’re trying to avoid me.”

  Taylor answered with a forced smile and another lie. “Not true. Why would I ever try to avoid a sparkling personality like yours?” The bile in his stomach migrated halfway up his throat and left a sour aftertaste. He knew he was not being honest, playing the lying game most of RW’s upper management played every day. It was bad enough he felt the pressure to play this game on the job. To play it now after work, on his own time, increased the tightness in his abdomen. He looked away from Sophia and focused on a telescreen.

  A huge collective groan from the patrons almost shook the place. The reason for the grousing was clear. On all the giant telescreens in the bar appeared the severe face of the Supreme Leader of the Northeast Sector, Arthur Toback. The Supreme Leader never smiled. He usually appeared on the telescreen as a giant head with his black hair displaying a flattop cut, framed on the screen from the neck up. A huge white forehead was his most prominent feature. Toback almost always wore a solid black shirt under a solid black jacket with a solid black background behind him. This, and the fact that he rarely showed his hands, created the impression of his head and neck floating on air in the middle of the screen. Hard black eyebrows over hard black eyes stared directly into the camera—and straight into the soul of every viewer. Or at least that seemed to be the intention of these broadcasts. A dark goatee encircled his narrow-lipped mouth, the only non-severe part of his face.

  The ubiquitous telescreens, standard presences in every home, office space, public meeting place, and on every street corner, were able to send and receive transmissions whether turned on or off. Transmission reception from telescreens was one aspect of how the government monitored and controlled the population. Now, during a pause in the game action, Supreme Leader Toback was about to deliver one of his usual one-minute telescreen pep talks designed to prop up societal morale.

  “Here comes the doublespeak propaganda,” a large male patron with a massive beer belly shouted while standing on a chair and raising a mugful of suds at a screen. A good part of the beer spilled out of the mug onto the head of a short, blond man standing next to the big guy. The place erupted in laughter.

  The Supreme Leader began as he always did, with what Taylor read as a deadpan, soulless expression and the words, “My fellow citizens . . .” Then the bar patrons ignored the telescreens and continued their loud talking and excessive drinking. The voice of the Supreme Leader—which Taylor had once described to a friend as one-part sing-song, one-part low-grade chain saw—was difficult to hear over the noise, which included sporadic boos and derisive laughter directed at the screens. Whatever Toback was saying, it seemed the clear majority here had either heard it before or were not interested.

  Taylor pointed at one telescreen and said, “That man is the biggest fraud ever perpetrated on a society. And almost everyone knows it. Just a giant detached head with no discernible sense of humor or perspective, spouting nonsense with an irritating voice about a freedom and progress that don’t exist.” He shook his head. “Toback’s lucky most people don’t care about the government. They’re zonked out on Serenity or alcohol or both, and devoted to betting on Manglecon. Why the government hasn’t cracked down on the proliferation of Serenity is a mystery to me. But the people booing Toback here ought to be careful. Those stupid enough to publicly challenge the government tend to disappear. Big Brother has arrived.” A feeling of satisfaction washed over Taylor. He was back to being his honest self, at least for now.

  Sophia kept her lips pursed tightly as she glanced at Taylor and then at the large wall telescreen nearest to them. From out of the corner of his eye, Taylor saw a redness in her face and ears that almost matched her hair color. And he could sense the negative vibe. The secretive, guarded Sophia and RobotWorld were rumored to be strong supporters of the government and the Supreme Leader. But Taylor had never heard his boss utter anything political. Sitting next to Sophia now, however, Taylor knew in his bones that the rumors were true.

  “The Leader is just trying to do his job,” Sophia said. She took a sip of her vodka on the rocks. “It’s a tough job, and I think he’s doing it well.”

  Taylor’s eyes refocused on a wall screen. The game returned to wild cheers from the Cap City patrons. Taylor hated being right yet again, in not wanting to meet Sophia at this bar. But sometimes he couldn’t resist being the smart guy who wouldn’t play the usual, go-along-to-get-along act—even when it got him into trouble. Maybe that made him not as smart as he thought he was. He shouldn’t have come here. But since he was here, he wasn’t going to censor himself because his boss sat next to him. The real Taylor, the honest Taylor was back—and it felt good.

  Taylor drummed his fingers on the table. “I’d like the Leader to address those mysterious disappearances of homeless people happening downtown. And then do something about it.”

  More wild cheering emanated from the bar crowd at another bone-crunching collision and the almost instantaneous appearance of an automated stretcher.

  Sophia turned her head toward Taylor. “The homeless are vanishing because they’re mostly a bunch of worthless Serenity addicts. They get high and who knows what happens to them. I say it’s even money that some of them fall into the Anacostia River, never to be recovered. Most of them don’t have family or friends. Check the statistics. You know the old saying: you reap what you sow.”

  “True. People must take responsibility for their actions. But there’s worth in everyone. Even a Serenity addict.”

  Sophia focused o
n a telescreen and didn’t respond.

  But once again, Taylor refused to repress his true self. “C’mon, Sophia. Let’s be honest. Just look around you. Do you see the signs of a healthy, vibrant society? I know RobotWorld is prospering, and that’s great—for us and our bottom line. But society as a whole? In the toilet and getting ready to be flushed. George Orwell would be proud of the job our alleged Supreme Leader is doing. The only place where society is doing well is in the government propaganda fantasy on the telescreen. Nineteen Eighty-Four has arrived. But almost a century late.”

  Sophia downed the remainder of her drink and stood. She touched her pants pocket. “My communication earpiece is vibrating. I’ve got to go. See you in the morning.” She swiped a debit card over the table telescreen to pay for her drink, negotiated her way through the bar crowd much faster than he’d done in getting to her, and disappeared out the door in a flash.

  Taylor was stunned. Maybe he’d gone too far. Maybe he was a little too reckless. But ticking off the boss probably wouldn’t be a big deal. His outstanding job performance would save him. It was his ace in the hole. His top-notch competence in school and now at work had saved him every time previously when he’d gotten into hot water for opening his big mouth, and in much more serious situations than right now. His job at RobotWorld was safe.

  An eager young waitress approached the table to take his order. He smiled and waved her away, then swiped his debit card over the table telescreen to leave a generous tip. He surveyed the winding down of the rowdiness around him as the Manglecon game ended. It seemed like a few people in the bar were happy, but most were noticeably angry at losing money they couldn’t afford to lose on the game. And spending money they couldn’t afford to spend on alcohol. Pitiful.

  Taylor felt a lightheadedness, most certainly due to the marijuana/tobacco smoke cloud, which was getting thicker by the second. At one time, any kind of smoking was banned in public places, but that was years ago. Taylor wistfully thought he would have liked to have lived in those times.

  On the bar’s sound system blared “Livin’,” a popular techno song of the day and Taylor’s favorite song from his favorite band, NewTech. The lyric It’s a sad, sad man who can’t stand his own company caused a twinge of melancholy in his spirit as he sat alone.

  The line stuck in Taylor’s head. He waited a minute, then left the bar.

  4

  After the uncomfortable post-work meeting with his boss, Taylor maneuvered his black PTV on the crowded expressway. He relaxed his tense shoulders. As the sun set in the west, other PTVs were around him and moving at high speeds, but the quiet inside his climate-controlled vehicle was soothing. PTVs had a reliable autopilot mechanism, but Taylor liked to drive his vehicle manually; it didn’t take much effort, and he liked the feeling of being in control. With modern road technology, traffic accidents were a rarity, a relic of a time long past. Only five more minutes until he got home—and he could hardly wait.

  Despite the cold, gray February day in grimy Capital City, he smiled and resolved to ignore the negative in the world and focus on the positive. He reassured himself once again that he could handle any fallout from what had happened in the bar. He could deal with Sophia. He was too valuable to the company. Sophia’s main interest had always been the bottom line, and he was good—no, great—for the bottom line. His position with RW was secure.

  But maybe in the future it might be wise to listen to his intuition.

  Taylor was one of the few who had developed or were gifted with what society termed “the higher power of intuition.” Around the midpoint of the twenty-first century, a small percentage of humans had discovered the unusual ability to send out mental requests for guidance and receive insight from a clear voice in their head regarding the direction to take in specific circumstances. Who or what were they talking to? A part of themselves? A collective unconscious? A higher power? It was unclear. But most scientists who studied such matters had concluded the intuition situation was one of those nature versus nurture puzzles, with the most likely explanation being that the development of high intuition was a combination of both genetics and the development of the skill. People with this gift were called “one-percenters.”

  Taylor had never been sure of whether being a one-percenter was a major blessing or a massive curse. He’d found since childhood that George—as he’d named the clear voice in his head that seemed as real as any human voice—could cause as much trouble as he prevented. And so now Taylor almost never initiated contact with his childhood friend anymore—and, perhaps in response, George had gone silent.

  Taylor couldn’t get the meeting with Sophia at the bar out of his head. Nothing to worry about, he repeatedly tried to convince himself. In fact, all things considered, I’m the luckiest man on the face of the earth. I’m one of the few doing well in this damn society.

  As he pushed his PTV to the speed limit of 220 kilometers per hour, he was at the highest point of the expressway. He looked to the east and saw the Capital City skyline, dominated by the gigantic RobotWorld complex. Despite the ominous, constant gray haze that hung over the metro area, this view at sunset was his favorite view of the city. He looked to the west, saw nothing but clear sky meeting land, and wondered what exactly was out there.

  He rapidly returned his attention to assessing his life right now. With a feeling of contentment, he reminded himself for the umpteenth time that his PTV was the most current model in existence; that his apartment was the most modern available; and that his job with the cutting-edge company RobotWorld (“the world leader in production of industrial and personal robots”) paid him more than ninety-nine percent of the workers in Capital City (this made him a “one-percenter” in more ways than one), most of whom lived in the depressingly gray-colored, government-managed high-rise apartment buildings that had replaced the expensive single-family homes that once were prevalent in this area. All reasons for Taylor to be grateful.

  But the biggest reason for his positive attitude was Jennifer, who would be waiting for him with her usual enthusiastic greeting as soon as he entered the apartment. He laughed out loud and shook his head in recalling his resistance two weeks ago, when Sophia “forced” Jennifer on him.

  “I’ve got a surprise for you,” Sophia had told him in her office. She flashed one of her insincere smiles. “I know you’re unattached and not happy about it. I’m going to change this depressing situation for you. You need someone special in your life. Unlike me. I prefer going through life solo. Relationships—with a human or a robot—are such a pain in the ass. Anyway, we’re in the process of putting the finishing touches on our latest line of personal bots. I took the liberty of reviewing your employee questionnaire and personality tests. And everyone here knows you’re a big-time old-movie buff. Favorite actress, Jennifer Lawrence. Even though it appears all the bugs have been worked out, we still need to do some final prototype testing. Who better than you? When you get home tonight, waiting for you will be a bot that looks exactly like the beautiful and talented Ms. Lawrence in her prime. I’ve taken the liberty of naming this personal bot Jennifer.”

  Taylor blinked several times in quick succession and shook his head. “Nice of you to think of me, Sophia. But I don’t know. I’m more of a real-woman kind of guy.”

  “Even though you don’t have a real woman in your life now? And haven’t had one in how long?”

  The broaching of his personal life by his boss caused an uncomfortable warmth in his neck and face. “That’s not the issue. I think having someone in my life that looks like an actress who was popular so long ago is . . . kind of creepy.”

  Sophia’s smile faded, and she focused on him with a steely-eyed squint. “Nonsense. The bot I’m setting you up with will improve the quality of your life. Not only is this bot a dead ringer for your favorite actress in her twenties, but her personality profile has been tailored—no pun intended—especially for you.”

&nbs
p; “I . . . I don’t know.”

  “Taylor, this is what we do,” Sophia said, with a sharpness to her voice he’d rarely heard. “Our company, I mean. You spend most of your time selling affordable personal bots that help both average males and females lead satisfying lives. Now you’re given a golden opportunity to sample our wares and you refuse? This reaction makes me question whether you’re in the right job.”

  “No, no,” he said. “Maybe I’m being old-fashioned in wanting a real human relationship.” Sophia’s bringing up the issue of his job fitness caused a knifing physical pain in his abdomen. He inhaled and exhaled slowly. For now, for this time only, he made the decision to set aside his new honesty policy. “I suppose a little product testing would be okay.”