RobotWorld

by Ray Verola

  Taylor stared blankly at the PTV. “I’m not having a good day. But you’re right. Things could have been worse. Of that, I’m sure.”

  11

  As Taylor pulled his loaner PTV into the underground parking lot of the Galaxy Apartments, Ernest Billick ducked into a stairwell and double-timed it to his austere, one-room basement apartment. He lived rent-free here; it was part of his modest employment compensation. His place was sparsely furnished, with a small bed against one wall, a dining room table with two chairs, a tiny kitchen area with a modern refrigerator and a heatwave oven, and not much else.

  Ernest reached for the communication earpiece on the table and placed it in his ear. He tapped a button on the table telescreen and was instantly connected.

  “Talk to me,” said the voice.

  “Ernest Billick here. Reporting in, sir. Mr. Taylor Morris arrived home a minute ago. But he wasn’t driving his PTV. He was in an older model with a blue color. Nothing further to report.”

  “Thank you, Ernest,” said the male voice. “Keep up the good work.”

  ***

  That night, Taylor and Jennifer lay naked in bed after sex. Both were staring at the ceiling.

  Jennifer raised her head above the pillow, turned toward him, and propped her head up on her hand. “Honey, you seem down? Or maybe preoccupied?”

  The questions were pertinent. He’d been thinking about his crazy and troubling day. In addition to Sophia giving him the cold shoulder and the PTV accident, he’d gotten a disturbing two-word message on his office answering machine this afternoon: “Watch yourself”—followed by a quick hang-up. He couldn’t recognize the voice.

  Taylor said, “My mind went blank, hon. There’s nothing wrong.” Instead of becoming more authentic, as he’d aimed for three months ago, he seemed to be losing more and more of his honest self each day. He inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly.

  She said, “Really? Nothing wrong? You know I’m programmed to read you accurately. What’s going on now in your head? I notice you take a slow deep breath whenever something’s on your mind.”

  “It’s a habit I’ve had since childhood. It helps me focus, I guess. Just had a hard day at work, nothing more significant.”

  But the work problems, the machine message, and the PTV accident weren’t the only things bothering him. He would never admit it to anyone, but somehow, someway, he’d been thinking that maybe perfection wasn’t all it’s cracked up to be. The improbable had happened: he’d gotten bored with his “spectacular” life with Jennifer. Setting the events of the day aside in his mind as best he could, it was the perfection of Jennifer that somehow had developed into a minor annoyance. He’d grown to wish she’d disagree with him on something, anything, just once. Although he would have hated to fight with Jen, he would have welcomed a disagreement—not a big one, of course—to inject some spice into the relationship.

  Further, his Serenity habit, even with taking the lowest, nonaddictive dose according to Jennifer, had gotten worse—to the point where he now believed he might have the early stages of an addiction problem. He was feeling a growing, chronic sluggishness he couldn’t seem to shake. So far, this was the only Serenity-based symptom he’d experienced.

  But now in bed, he didn’t want to disappoint Jen. He would hide the current feelings of unease and dissatisfaction in his life. He’d grown to treat her like a real woman—and that meant not being totally honest with her. That’s the way real people treated real people, right? In some ways how he behaved toward Jennifer surprised him; but in some ways it didn’t. After all, he was determined to make his relationship with Jennifer as real as any relationship he’d have with a human woman.

  He decided to dodge her “something wrong” question by holding up his right wrist, revealing a small abrasion, bleeding lightly. “I must have gotten this from your scratchy blue patch. Have you ever thought about removing it?”

  Jennifer’s mouth flew open. “Oh, honey, sit tight. I’ll go to the medicine cabinet. Be right back.” As she dashed out of bed, he marveled at how magnificent she looked without clothes. It ain’t all bad, he thought.

  She was back in less than a minute with a tube of salve and a box of adhesive bandages. With great care, she began applying salve on his scrape with her index finger. “About my blue patch, I guess you’re going to have to be less enthusiastic during lovemaking.” She grinned while continuing to work on the cut. Then she turned serious. “In fact, the patch can’t be removed. One, it’s against the law. Two, it’s designed to be impossible to remove as it’s woven into our skin. And three, it’s a sign of pride for us bots. Shouldn’t you know all about the patch from working at RW?”

  “I don’t know everything about bots. Don’t know much about the patch. Remember, my only job at RobotWorld has been in sales.”

  “You make us robots sound like commodities.”

  “I’d never think of you as a commodity, love.”

  “Wonderful. And as long as you take me back to RobotWorld every year for my all-important annual reboot, I’ll be with you forever.” She continued the gentle application of salve with her finger. “You like to hide your feelings, don’t you? Keep things bottled up. Not getting overly emotional. Careful with what you show me.”

  “I wouldn’t put it like that. I’m an even-keel person. Not getting too high or too low. Only trying to do the best I can.” He smiled. “You’ve got a lot to learn about human beings.”

  She mirrored his smile. “Maybe you’re right.”

  As she affixed a bandage on his scrape, Taylor thought back to the time he’d barged into Sophia Ross’s office. Perhaps he did see what he initially thought he saw.

  “There,” she said. “All better.” She grabbed a tissue from an end table and wiped the salve residue from her index finger.

  He managed to force what he hoped was a sincere smile. “Thank you, Jen.”

  She kissed him on the forehead. “Just perfect,” she said.

  12

  The next morning, Taylor awoke with what seemed to be a Serenity hangover that included a pounding headache—a new symptom—to go along with the sluggishness. Staring at the ceiling, he counted the two-feet-by-two-feet white vinyl tiles horizontally, then vertically, and multiplied them. Ten times ten: one hundred on the nose. The same result he’d gotten yesterday, the day before, and the day before that. Doing this pointless exercise every morning, even though the answer never changed, relaxed him for some reason.

  Before getting out of bed he was possessed by the strong feeling that he wanted to see how the “ninety-nine percent” of humans lived in Capital City. Since his early days working at RobotWorld, he’d had a growing belief that he was losing touch with “the common person.” As he got out of bed, his desire morphed into wanting to see how the lowest of the low, the homeless of downtown Capital City, lived.

  From the bedroom he could hear Jennifer in the kitchen preparing breakfast. In just a short time, she’d gone from not being able to boil water to almost becoming a master chef by downloading numerous cookbooks and cooking videos into her head. Her desire to become an expert cook emanated from the recognition that Taylor loved her cooking combined with the manifestation of her programmed initiative to please him.

  The aftereffects from his Serenity use were confusing, given that he was still taking the lowest, non-addictive dose. Maybe those government reports about the eighty-one-milligram dose being non-addictive were phony, as he’d suspected. Usually upon awakening he’d jump out of bed and get his day started. No more. After easing out of bed, he swallowed some instant-acting aspirin from the bathroom medicine cabinet for his headache.

  Before going to breakfast, he decided to take the first step to getting back into shape. As a high school wrestler, he’d risen before dawn and religiously knocked off three hundred push-ups before going to school. Taylor had gotten started with physical fitness and wrestling
during his junior year in high school to overcome asthma, which he was determined to beat. Being laughed at in gym class for audible wheezing was the last straw. In his teen years he recognized that the breathing condition had stunted his personal development by causing shortness of breath and a feeling of nervousness in social situations. While his devotion to physical fitness and wrestling had helped with his breathing problems and increased his confidence, the condition never fully faded. Stressful situations still brought about the uncomfortable tightness in his chest, though not to the same degree as during childhood.

  Taylor glanced at a full-length mirror and lamented that he’d gone from being “cut” to the semi-lump in the reflection. He dropped to the floor, assumed a push-up position, and managed to crank out five before his arms gave out; he closed his eyes and remained spread-eagled on the carpet for almost thirty seconds to catch his breath. Rather than being discouraged, he was energized and thought it would be a good idea to resume his morning push-up ritual. Probably he’d never get to the three hundred number, but he’d work his way up to a respectable count—and he’d also resume working on getting back his honest self.

  He strode into the kitchen and kissed Jennifer. She had prepared a breakfast of rib-eye steak, scrambled eggs, freshly blended strawberry-blueberry-banana juice, coffee, and buttered toast.

  “Looks great, Jen,” he said.

  “Nothing but the best for my man.”

  In between bites of the sensational breakfast Jen had prepared, he told her it was a casual dress day at work, so she wouldn’t ask any questions later as to why he wouldn’t be wearing his usual gray RW work clothes. He told himself he’d resume his desire to be more honest with her starting tomorrow.

  After breakfast, he popped an anti-cholesterol pill to nullify the artery-clogging effect of the steak and eggs, and washed the pill down with a large glass of water to speed the flushing of any remaining Serenity in his system from the night before. He pressed a button on his wrist computer to inform Sophia that he was ill and wouldn’t report to work, put on an old shirt and faded jeans, and kissed Jennifer on his way out the door.

  As he exited the elevator in the lobby, Ernest waved at him. “Did you get a new PTV, Mr. Morris? Saw you driving a different one yesterday.”

  “You don’t have to call me mister, Ernest. We’re on a first-name basis.” Taylor smiled. “Had a minor accident with my own vehicle. It’s in the shop. The accident was kind of scary. I wasn’t hurt. Swerved off the road and could have been shot at. Can you believe it? Maybe someone’s after me. Been driving a loaner. I’ll get my own PTV back soon.” Taylor surprised himself at saying that perhaps someone was after him, but he had the clear thought that it might be true. As he continued his walk to the automatic apartment front door, he wondered why Ernest had such a confused expression on his face.

  Taylor had decided to take the Metrorail, not his loaner PTV, to downtown Capital City. He sat in a window seat on the high-speed train and gazed at his reflection in the glass. It amazed him how, as he grew older, he looked more and more like his deceased father. For some reason, this depressed him.

  Upon exiting the Metrorail he felt an immediate bad vibe, which caused a dull pain in his abdomen and a tightness in his throat. Maybe it was the strawberry-blueberry-banana juice, he joked to himself. In his current surroundings, however, he couldn’t bring himself to laugh. The early spring day was typically gray because of the clouds and the industrial pollution, with not even a peek of sun able to bleed through. A still picture of Supreme Leader Toback (the giant head, Taylor called it in his mind) was displayed on all the huge telescreens on every corner. It could be worse, Taylor thought. Toback could be spouting his typical brand of deceptive, manipulative language designed to keep us all in line.

  Taylor found himself growing increasingly depressed while walking among the homeless, many of whom displayed blank faces and drooping postures, most likely due to being strung out on Serenity or alcohol or both. The crowded streets had a pungent, dirty smell, the kind of which he’d never experienced before. One could walk two or three blocks through an area of shops and small businesses (Taylor remembered this part of downtown), then the next two or three blocks were essentially a homeless campsite (this aspect of downtown was new to him) with vacant lots and boarded-up buildings. Small makeshift white tents dotted the now-empty lots where thriving businesses once stood. In between the tents burned fires with kettles sitting atop metal grates where soups were being prepared. He observed the occasional grilling of meat; apparently meat was in short supply for most of the population. The smell emanating from this cooking was acrid and not at all appetizing. Taylor estimated that forty to fifty percent of those milling around the downtown area were homeless. I have grown out of touch. I never knew it was this bad. A constant soundtrack of pulsating, techno-militaristic music pumped out at moderate volume through hidden mini-loudspeakers. Rumor had it that there were subliminal messages buried in the music that urged people to stay mellow, accept the dictates of the government without question, and not cause a public disturbance.

  A chill shot down Taylor’s spine as he felt a premonition that he could be living among these people sometime in the future. What he saw deepened his growing belief that the mission of RobotWorld, especially in the way it affected human unemployment, might be flawed. For the first time, he observed a slight tremor in his hands. He remembered reading that this symptom was another of the possible side effects of chronic Serenity use.

  Although he was miles away from RobotWorld, the top part of the giant building was visible on the horizon as he looked to the east. When the thought entered his mind that maybe he should resign his job because of his growing concern regarding RW’s mission, another chill shot down his spine. He quickly attempted to delete this thought but couldn’t.

  Shiny jet-black police PTVs, perhaps one out of every three of the fast-moving vehicles on the streets, patrolled the area. Arrests of homeless men and women by the ominously black-clad police were made right in front of him. Taylor found the black helmets with dark visors concealing the faces of the cops intimidating. It surprised him how aggressive the police were—and how passive the people being arrested were, almost as if they didn’t care. Maybe they felt jail was a better place than these hard streets.

  As Taylor walked past an alley, he heard a strong, gravelly voice directed at him. “Strange things happen around here, young man.”

  Taylor turned around and saw a thin old man, around seventy years old, with long salt-and-pepper hair falling to his shoulders. The man’s face was weather-beaten, with intense lines and a deep tan; he displayed what Taylor took to be an inappropriately wide smile and sparkling blue eyes. Grungy white pants, faded white sneakers, and a gray shawl contributed to his spooky appearance.

  “What kind of strange things?” Taylor asked.

  The old man pointed a crooked index finger at four faceless cops herding a group of disheveled homeless men into a police van. “People disappear from here all the time. This is a place you don’t want to be.”

  Taylor nodded. “Thanks for the advice. I understand.”

  “Do you really understand?” the old man asked.

  Another chill shot down Taylor’s spine. He waved a quick goodbye to the man and turned to walk back to the Metrorail station. He’d seen enough of how the lowest of the low lived. He wanted to get as far from this place as possible.

  From behind him, Taylor heard the old man say, “This is a place you don’t want to be.”

  Without turning back to the man, Taylor raised his voice and said, “I heard you the first time,” as he kept on walking.

  But before reaching the Metro station, Taylor stopped at a Serenity dispensary. Upon entering, he had to acknowledge to himself that somehow, he’d developed a Serenity habit. But now was no time to analyze how this could have happened. He bought several boxes of the drug, two hundred milligrams per dos
e, and resolved not to tell Jennifer about his purchase.

  13

  After leaving the Serenity dispensary, Taylor was hit by a strong wind that almost knocked him off his feet as he strode to the Metrorail station. As he regained his balance, he was struck by the thought that his life was now out of balance. He took a deep breath and renewed his intention to get back on track beginning tomorrow. But as he tightened his grip on the small bag containing his Serenity purchase, he realized that reversing the path of his recent missteps wouldn’t be easy.

  Taylor was a block away from the station, with his hand up to shield his face from debris kicked up by the gusts, when he heard a PTV horn blowing near him. He turned to see a solid black PTV slowing down at the curb. At the wheel was a smiling, waving Shane Diggins, with his perfect Roman nose, perfect teeth, perfect skin, and flowing, perfect, salon-trimmed black hair clearly visible through the windshield. Taylor felt his face involuntarily contort into a sneer. But he tried to force a smile and hoped Shane hadn’t noticed his sour facial expression. He rarely saw the head of RobotWorld’s R&D section at work anymore. But right now, he didn’t want to answer any questions regarding what he was doing in a bad part of the downtown area when he should have been at work.

  Taylor and Shane had been casual friends a few years earlier, occasionally taking in a movie with a group from work or playing tennis at a local club shortly after they’d joined RW at almost the same time. But they had since grown out of touch—and Taylor was more than happy about this development.

  At one time, Taylor thought he and Shane might have become close friends. They were the same age, grew up in the same area, came from similar middle-class backgrounds, and had even met once in high school when they were members of their respective debate teams. After squaring off in a spirited back-and-forth Saturday morning session at a local high school, they sat across from each other at lunch in the cafeteria and developed what could have been the beginning of a long friendship. Taylor didn’t remember most of the specifics of their interaction, but he recalled it as pleasant, with Shane telling him, “I enjoyed matching wits with you. We’re both good guys, and we both fight fair.”