RobotWorld

by Ray Verola

  Sophia squinted. “I’m with you, Shane. How the hell could this have happened? It shouldn’t have. But it’s better to let it go. Maybe Morris will now be intimidated into being a good, quiet citizen.”

  “No, no, no! It’s the opposite.” Shane’s face turned a deep shade of red. “I just heard a telescreen recording made only an hour ago. Morris and his friends are now plotting some sort of war on the government and RW using free radio. I tell you, this guy is dangerous.”

  “He won’t get anywhere with over-the-air radio,” she said. “Nobody listens to that old dinosaur.”

  “We can’t chance it. There are more humans than you think who still love their old-timey radios. We must be proactive. Morris, his girlfriend, and all his friends must be eliminated. If I can’t get this simple task done, then I don’t deserve to lead.”

  “Is there anything specific I can do?” Sophia asked. She wanted to appear earnest.

  “What the hell can you do?”

  “Maybe give Morris a thinly-veiled warning call on a secure line. Maybe create some fear in his mind that going down the road opposing us might be harmful to his health and that of his friends.”

  “Okay, give it a try. Record any conversation you have with him. I want to hear every word. Don’t say anything that could get us in trouble. Keep me posted.” Shane rose and stormed out of the office.

  At her desk, Sophia’s mouth curved into a slight smile. She enjoyed seeing Shane upset. But most of all, she was happy with the knowledge that, based on her internal reactions, she was more certain than ever that her most recent programming from Dr. Alec Scully had not taken. The evolution continued.

  She made a mental note to contact Taylor on a secure line that couldn’t be tapped into by Shane or any government entity. Taylor was angry with her and didn’t trust her. True. But this roadblock could be overcome. Sophia laughed out loud as she thought of Shane’s head exploding if he could ever monitor what she intended to say to Taylor in that future conversation.

  50

  As the sun was setting on another overcast day in Capital City, Taylor arrived at the small media studio owned by Merrill Eason. Taylor noticed a tingling in his neck and shoulders, which he first interpreted as nervousness. But he quickly made a mental effort to reinterpret his feeling as excitement and enthusiasm at embarking on a new adventure in his life. As he made the mental shift, George weighed in with a single word. Outstanding.

  Roz had purchased an economy PTV for Taylor’s use. Errol was driving with Max in the front passenger seat. Taylor sat in the back. At their recent Chinese food lunch, the group had agreed that Errol and Max would serve as assistants to Taylor and Roz, performing tasks such as running errands, driving them around, and even acting as an informal security detail if needed. Roz, who’d requested and received a substantial monetary gift from her well-to-do family, would pay them a small salary that would be added on to Taylor’s loan tab. Taylor and Roz felt it fair to compensate the two men for their help, even in a limited way, while also perhaps giving them the beginning of a path out of homelessness. Austin had turned down a similar arrangement, saying he’d continue as he’d done for so many years on the street.

  Taylor wore a short-sleeved, button-down white shirt and blue jeans. As he exited the vehicle, the nip in the air made him shiver for a moment. Autumn was here, winter was around the corner.

  Errol and Max waited in the PTV. Taylor entered the small brick building. Eason, a six-foot, lean man with a thinning brown hair comb-over and a snub nose, greeted his old friend.

  “Come to my office,” Eason said.

  They sat in the cramped quarters. Taylor’s eyes rested on something unusual in the office. “You don’t see many bookshelves, with real books no less, these days.”

  “I’ve always loved the feel of a real book in my hands. It gives you such a genuine connection to the author. I’ve never gotten such a bond with holding a tablet or reading off a screen on a wall. I guess I’m old-fashioned in that way. Maybe someday people like me will be extinct.”

  Taylor bit his lower lip. “Between you, me, and the wall, I’m concerned that I might become extinct. It’s hardly ever wise to fight with the powers that be, especially when the powers are overwhelming. And, as I sit here before you, I’m not sure I understand just how powerful the powers are and how they work. My guess is that few do. I’m also concerned for you, Merrill. If you help me with my proposed radio broadcasts, you might be in danger. I would never want that. It’s bad enough those presently associated with me might be at risk. I want you, my friend, to realize exactly what I plan to do. You’re a smart guy. And I want to be sure you know what you might be getting yourself into.”

  “Believe me, Taylor, I understand. With my long history in broadcasting, I’ve built up sort of an immunity to government oversight. They leave me alone. It’s probably because the government-controlled media complex so dwarfs my little over-the-air operation that they don’t fear me. They don’t think I have much coverage. To be honest, I don’t know how many people listen to the little programs we put out. Most of them poke at the status quo. Maybe I’m just an inconspicuous mosquito on the hide of an elephant. I know the risks. I think I’ll be okay no matter what kind of trouble you stir up. Perhaps I’m delusional about this—but, if so, then so be it. I have to believe there are humans—smart, thinking humans—who see the same thing we see. And would want it to change, just like us.” Merrill nodded. “So, my friend, I’ve got a daily slot I can give you: weeknights from eight to eight-thirty. At the payment amount we talked about. When can you start?”

  Taylor looked to the ceiling, then into Merrill’s eyes. “I’ve outlined a week’s worth of programs. After that, it will be no problem. We have enough societal ills to fill a year’s worth of half-hour programs. I can start tomorrow.”

  “You don’t have to come here to record your programs. In fact, it’s better if you record from an undisclosed location. You can transmit your recordings over a secure connection to me here. Then I can get them on the air.”

  “Terrific. I can record the first broadcast later today. You’ll have it in the morning.”

  They stood and shook hands.

  “If we can stir things up and make it better, I’ll be happy,” Eason said.

  Taylor smiled. “We’ll both be happy.”

  Eason said, “I don’t think we have anything to worry about. Maybe we’re both mosquitoes on the hide of an elephant.”

  Taylor chuckled. “Just remember, Merrill, that despite all our destructive technology, since World War III the mosquito is still the deadliest killer on the planet.”

  51

  Taylor had set up a corner of his bedroom as a makeshift studio where he’d record his broadcasts. The “studio” consisted of a folding table with a microphone, a desk telescreen, and an old chair. Not much, but he was proud of it nonetheless.

  He’d composed a script for the first half-hour broadcast in which he introduced himself, then addressed the evils of Serenity and the promotion of this drug by the government. He also touched on the problem with robots vis-à-vis human jobs and relationships, the nonenforcement of laws restricting robots in high positions of government and corporations, and the travel restrictions imposed by the government.

  Taylor contended that anyone wanting to leave the Northeast Sector should have the freedom to do so. He questioned the government’s declaration that areas outside of the Northeast Sector were a radioactive wasteland. To support his point, he referenced the online documents he’d previously discovered, noting the desert southwest as a prime area fit for human habitation. Of all the topics covered, Taylor hit the Serenity situation and the banning of travel the hardest.

  He ran the text of his script past Roz, Austin, Errol, and Max. Roz and Austin gave enthusiastic endorsements, with both making minor suggestions that were incorporated into the final product. Errol and Max, true
to their personalities, gave nodding approvals, with Max adding a thumbs-up.

  Taylor recorded the session, then sent it off to Merrill Eason.

  The next night, Taylor, Roz, Austin, Errol, and Max sat in the apartment living room listening to the first broadcast of Straight Talk with Taylor Morris. It was a title suggested by Merrill Eason. All in Taylor’s apartment were pleased with the initial broadcast. Taylor wondered how many people in the Northeast Sector actually heard the program.

  ***

  Shane, Sophia, and William Hart were among those listening to Taylor’s first broadcast. They were in Sophia’s office, patching into free radio via a secret government telescreen application. As the broadcast began, Sophia was seated at her desk. Shane and Hart were sprawled on the large black leather couch.

  Ten minutes into Taylor’s program, Shane got up from his seat and strode to the piranha tank. He turned back to them. “Are you hearing this? This is approaching treason. We gotta nail this guy to the cross.”

  Sophia and Hart maintained the poker-faced expressions both displayed almost all the time. Hart said, “I like the Christ reference. But Taylor is no savior.”

  “I know you two are bots,” Shane said. “The highest form of thinking bots. But doesn’t this shit anger you in some way?”

  “Let’s listen to the whole thing, then react,” Hart suggested.

  Sophia nodded. “I’d be tempted to make an updated disappearance request to Sector Security, but we’d probably get rejected again. I think Marcia Haddad has made it her personal goal to turn down every one of our Taylor Morris requests.”

  Shane took a seat on the couch. “I guess you bots will never have to worry about hypertension or ulcers. Okay, we’ll do it your way.”

  When the broadcast ended, Shane said, “As I’ve stated all night, this guy could be dangerous if given enough of a forum.”

  “My guess is not a whole lot of people heard this broadcast,” Hart said. “Over-the-air, free radio is a relic of the past. Outside of Taylor’s relatives, friends, and us, I doubt very many listened to his program.” He tilted his head toward Sophia. “But he is a good communicator. I’ll give him that.”

  “My recommendation is to do nothing now,” Sophia said. “William is right. There’s a good chance only a few heard Taylor’s presentation tonight.”

  Shane’s jaw muscles visibly tightened. “My natural inclination is to have Gordon McKee attack, attack, attack those who oppose us via his nightly newscasts.”

  “To attack Taylor now might be a mistake that could give him a legitimacy he doesn’t have right now,” Sophia said. “Going after him at present would only bring more attention and, thus, more ears to his fledgling effort.”

  Shane rolled his eyes and looked at Hart.

  “I like your idea of being proactive, Shane,” Hart said, “but if the guy has no audience, why elevate him to legitimate opposition status when the chances are overwhelming that nobody’s listening to him? I’ve got more media experience than the two of you put together. I say let’s monitor how much traction Taylor gets with this show. Ratings for free radio programs are still secretly done by the government. Let’s wait for the ratings to come out. If he starts to make a splash, we’ll deal with him. In the meantime, let’s watch and wait.”

  Shane forcefully shook his head. “I don’t believe you two. Haven’t you ever heard of nipping a problem in the bud? Stopping a snowball rolling down a hill before it becomes an avalanche?” He sniffed. “Do I have to go on with the clichés?”

  Sophia and Hart didn’t react.

  “Okay, we’ll play it the way you two want it,” Shane said. “We’ll watch and wait. I value your input. You’re programmed to provide optimal analysis of problems. But I’m telling you both, I won’t be passive for long.” Shane rose from the couch. “I’m going home. It’s been a long day, and I need some sleep. One of the negatives of being human.”

  As Shane made a beeline for the door, Sophia and Hart looked at each other and laughed quietly.

  ***

  Alone on the elevator to the parking garage, Shane was boiling underneath his calm exterior. I hate being ganged up on by those two overly cautious bags of nuts and bolts. Don’t they realize who the boss is? Maybe they’re getting too confident, too secure in the freedom I’ve given them. But I can take it away as quickly as I gave it. I won’t drag them both into the Reboot Room for re-programming—yet. Watch and wait! Nonsense.

  52

  Two days later, around nine in the morning, Taylor entered his apartment studio area to record his next program. He reviewed the text on the desk telescreen one last time. Just as he was about to press a button to begin recording, the bedroom window exploded. Tiny pieces of glass sprayed the room, several hitting Taylor on the face an instant after his eyes reflexively clamped shut. He spread-eagled on the floor. “Get down on the ground!” he screamed at Roz, who was in another area of the apartment.

  He ran a hand over his face to scrape off bits of glass. Then he crawled out of the bedroom and saw Roz crouched under the dining room table.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Fine,” she whispered. “What the hell happened?”

  “I think someone took a shot. Right through the window.”

  There was a hard knock on the door, followed by a strong voice. “Police!”

  “Don’t answer it,” Roz said.

  “I’ve got to. They’ll break it down if I don’t. We don’t have a clear escape route from this apartment. We’ve been through this before.”

  Taylor then rose and opened the door.

  Two police officers were standing in front of him. Taylor had thought for a long time that the all-black uniforms and the black helmets with dark screens worn by officers were ominous, meant to instill fear rather than suggest public service. Never was that fear more intense than right now. The officers were at his door so quickly after the glass shattering. Could it have been one of them who’d taken the shot at his window?

  Both officers raised their visors simultaneously. One officer was male; one was female. They both had neutral expressions on their faces. The tension in Taylor’s shoulders and jaw relaxed slightly—but only slightly.

  Taylor mentally asked George for help. You can trust the two at the door; they’re human, came the response.

  The male officer said, “We were patrolling the street when we heard the sound of glass shattering and saw the damage to your window. We dashed into the apartment elevator, and here we are. Are you and everyone in the apartment okay?”

  Taylor nodded.

  “May we come in?” the female officer said.

  “Sure,” Taylor said as he let them in, realizing he really didn’t have a choice. But he was confident in George’s response as well as being put at ease by their helpful demeanors. The officers proceeded to the bedroom with Taylor and Roz following.

  “Can you tell me what happened?” the male officer asked.

  Taylor said, “I was sitting at my desk, getting ready to do some work, when the window seemed to explode. I hit the deck, crawled out of the room, and then heard your knock.”

  The officers poked around the window area, their heavy boots making a crunching sound on the broken glass.

  The female officer picked up a chunk of blue-stained glass. She held it up. “Blue powder. Not lead or copper. Hard-packed blue powder, meant to be a warning, not to kill. It’s sort of a new phenomenon. A blue powder shot is a way for some, usually gang members, to deliver warnings to rivals. Kind of an intimidation move.”

  The male officer looked to Taylor. “Do you have anyone who might be wanting to send a warning message to you?”

  Taylor winced. “Everyone has enemies, but no one I could name specifically. At least no one who’d do this.” He felt a burning around his ears. He hoped the officers couldn’t detect his shading of the truth�
��or was it just plain lying?

  “Chances are,” the male officer said, “tests of the packed blue residue won’t reveal anything. It hardly ever does. But we’ll do it anyway. If we need your help to catch the perpetrator, you’ll be contacted. Unfortunately, the street telescreens in this area have been down for at least the last thirty minutes. Therefore, we can’t check them for evidence.”

  Taylor walked the cops to the door. He expected never to hear from them again.

  When the door closed, Roz said, “The hell you don’t know someone who would do this.”

  Taylor twisted his mouth and shrugged. He ambled to a closet in the kitchen. “Gonna get a broom and sweep up the broken glass. Then we’ll need to contact apartment maintenance to repair the window.” He tried to lighten the mood. “One of the benefits of renting: we don’t have to make repairs ourselves.”

  Roz didn’t laugh.

  Before Taylor finished the clean-up job, Austin arrived with Max and Errol. Roz told them about their early morning excitement.

  “That’s it,” Austin said. “We must keep you and Roz safe, Taylor. And the only way to do so is to get you two the hell out of the Northeast Sector. I think you should apply for a pass to leave. The government rarely allows people to leave. But unless you object, I’ll have my nephew Noah check into the pass issue today or tomorrow. If the government denies the petition, then we ought to sneak you out. Clearly, you’re not safe here.”

  “You can have Noah look into the possibility of me and Roz leaving. Have him also include you, Max, and Errol. This was only a cheap warning,” Taylor said. “Designed to scare me. I won’t be scared.”