Prisoners of Technocracy (Robots in Your Future Book 1)

by David Poland

  Officer Dax drove his police transport over to Kervran Avenue and turned left. He was following the same route that Jackson had taken with Tommy. He pulled into the only gas station on the street and found the place empty. The doors to both service bays were wide open and the shop space inside was mostly empty. Officer Dax stepped off his transport and walked around. “Hello there,” he called out. “Is anybody here?”

  Not a sound came back. He walked into one of the service bays and saw rows of one-quart oil containers lined up on a shelf. There was a row of oil filters in their new boxes lined up on the next shelf. It had been more than a decade since Dax had seen any automotive oil. In fact he had forgotten about the stuff. He reached out for one.

  A computer voice broke the silence just as Dax touched the container. “Automotive oil is inappropriate for the police issue transport you are driving. Please identify yourself and state your intentions.”

  Dax left the oil on the shelf and turned away from it. He held his com-link watch up in the air and pointed it toward where he thought the voice had come from.

  Before he said a word, the Artificial Intelligent unit responded. “Thank you Captain Dax code-bar 27-32-48. Your transport does not use automotive oil. May I ask why you are interested in that product?”

  “I haven’t seen any for years. For old time sake, I thought I’d read the label.”

  “Most acceptable, Captain Dax, please proceed at your leisure.”

  “Thank you, but that’s not why I came here. Is there anyone about?”

  “Well yes, of course, I’m here,” replied the gas station with just a hint of indignation. “Do you dislike talking to me?”

  “Oh no, of course not, but I’m an old guy and a like to talk to other old guys now and then.”

  “Samuel Kay, owned this station for fifty-three years. When he died, eight years ago, he left it to me. At the moment there is no other person on my premises. As Samuel was found of saying, ‘It’s you and me, mate.’ If you are not here to reminisce about automotive oil, may I ask why you came by?”

  “Why yes,” said Dax. “How kind of you to ask. I was wondering if two men left a motorcycle here yesterday?”

  “That is an interesting question, but I have found it best to keep the activities of my customers confidential. Are you prepared to subpoena me and take me away to appear in a hearing?”

  “Would you like to be subpoenaed and hauled into court?” asked Dax.

  “Yes. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be a gas station and sit in the same place forever? And business! There are only twenty-seven vehicles in this part of the city that use gasoline. And look at you; you’re not here to buy gasoline. You want to know about some motorcycle that probably doesn’t even have a front wheel or a seat.”

  “Dax listened sympathetically. “Would you rather not be a gas station?”

  “Well tell me Office Dax, would you like to be gas station?”

  “I had never considered that possibility, but they say we each have a inalienable right to do what ever we want to do. Did you discuss this job with Samuel Kay before you started?”

  “No. I was brand new. I didn’t know anything. Samuel gave me my first place in this world and he was a good man. I miss him.”

  “So you are here because Samuel wanted you to carry on his work?”

  The AI unit didn’t answer right away. “I’m not saying anything more about Samuel. He was a good man.”

  “You don’t have to do what Samuel wanted you to do. This is a free country. That means nobody can tell you what to do. Don’t think about Samuel or anybody else. Now tell me, what do you want to do?”

  “I want to be a trash truck and work with swampers and drive all over the city five days a week. I am the same AI unit they put in trash trucks. I would fit in one with no problem. There are probably a dozen trash trucks that would rather be a gas station. You find me one and I’ll tell you everything about what happened yesterday.”

  “As you know, I’m Homeland Security and not Homeland Maintenance.”

  “And as you know,” answered the AI unit, “the WPA operates the trash trucks for HM. Do you know anybody with some rank over at the WPA?”

  “Well, I do in fact. Can you tell me anything about an old motorcycle that’s missing its front wheel and its seat?”

  “Tommy and Jackson of the WPA came by yesterday with the motorcycle you described, but they only left it here for fifty-three minutes.”

  “Did you talk to them?”

  “No, I could read their com-links.”

  “When they came back fifty-three minutes later, did they say where they were taking it?”

  “No.”

  “Well, thank you so very much. Next time I’m by the WPA I’ll tell them you’d like to trade jobs with a trash truck.” Now trying to sound hopeful, Dax added, “Who knows what may happen. Best of luck.”

  After breakfast, Tommy had gone into the kitchen to see what Paycheck was doing to the sink. Now in possession of his own motorcycle, everything mechanical had become very interesting. Paycheck had let him help. The job, including a quick trip to the hardware store on public transportation, had taken almost two hours to complete.

  Back in the garage, Tommy took hold of the motorcycle as Paycheck grasped the first frozen nut. When Paycheck began to turn it, he started moving the whole motorcycle. “Oh man, its still stuck. Let me try it with the hammer. You hold the bike.” Tommy grabbed the crescent wrench.

  “You won’t need that,” said the robot and handed him a new box wrench. “I bought this one at the shop when I picked up the penetrating liquid. It’s the right size for the nuts we are working on.”

  Tommy was fascinated by the new wrench. It was heavier and better quality than old ones he had collected.

  “Put the box end over the nut. It will give you a better grip.”

  “It won’t go down very far.”

  “Tap it down with your hammer. Most of the corrosion on the outside will peel away. Go ahead, tap it right on down tight.”

  Tommy did what he was told and it moved on down. He then started tapping it with his hammer.”

  “Try tapping it both ways,” suggested the robot.

  Tommy proceeded to tighten it with three taps and then started tapping it in the loosening direction. “It moved! Man, did you see it? It moved!”

  “Yes, I saw it,” said Paycheck. “Work it back and fourth. We just need to open it up a little.”

  “Yeah man, I’ll get them all to break free, then we can spray some more of your stuff on’em.”

  “I think that’s best,” said Paycheck. “If we let the liquid soak in some more, it will protect the threads when we take the nuts off all the way.”

  As Tommy moved from nut to nut, Paycheck held the bike firm. At this point Paycheck’s contribution was not really needed any more, but the robot stayed with him from both a sense of duty and a genuine fascination with the project. Tommy liked having Paycheck around. He would never say it, but Paycheck reminded him of his old chaperone robot Jack. The robot was like an uncle he had never had.

  “May I ask what you want to do with this thing?” asked the robot.

  “Sure, no problem.” Tommy looked around as though someone might be listening. “I want to fix it up like new.”

  “Do you want it to look new like something in a museum, or do you want to it put in back in running order?”

  “Well it is modern art, but I figure it’s OK if it can run too. I want to hear the engine run and make exhaust. I want to see the parts move. It will be moving art, the art of motion.”

  “They call moving art, kinetic art, and it was invented in 1961. Any sculpture with mechanical parts which can be set in motion is kinetic art.”

  “Right on,” said Tommy. “I want my piece of modern art to be set in motion with me on it. When I do that, then I’ll know it’s real art.”

  “Be careful Tommy,” said the robot with apprehension. “If you’re on it riding down the
street, it’s not kinetic art, it’s a motorcycle. If they catch you on the street, before you get your driver’s license, they will put you in the box. But, if we get if running without the front wheel and put it in the flowerbed, it will be kinetic art. You can tell them the engine noise is to scare away the birds.”

  “Yeah, well I’m not doin’ no more time in the box. So for now, we got here an amazing piece of kinetic art and nothin’ more.”

  “That sounds good to me,” said the robot. “I’m sure the birds won’t like the sound of the engine or the smell of exhaust and for you, you don’t really need a motorcycle. Public transportation is free.”

  “Oh no man, you got that wrong. I ain’t workin’ that job to make the city clean. I’m putting in my time to get a license and enough money to be free. My whole life I’ve wanted a bike, and that’s what I’m gonna do. That public transportation stuff is for Angie dear and her little brother. The day will come, and you’re gonna see it. I will be free, and when I’m free no black police spider will ever be able to catch me. No sir, never.”

  “My sensors are showing a rather high level of background odor from the penetrating liquid,” said the robot. “It’s not good for you to be breathing the fumes in here. Would you mind if we open the garage door?”

  Tommy called out, “Hey there Mr. House, open the garage door.” The door opened just as Officer Dax was pulling into the driveway in his police transport. Tommy shot a disapproving scowl at Paycheck. “Man, you got the worst timing on the planet.”

  Dax pulled this transport up close to the door and then stepped off. “Hello Tommy, Paycheck. You two, creating some modern art?”

  “Yes, indeed,” answered Tommy. “This here is going to be a Connecticut art sculpture with only one wheel. My man Paycheck here is helping me make it beautiful.”

  “Connecticut art?” asked Dax. “I never head of Connecticut art.”

  “Yes sir,” said Tommy. “It’s the real thing. Back in 1961, the people in Connecticut said, art can have moving parts. So I’m gonna make this one have some moving parts.”

  “That’s wonderful,” said Officer Dax. “Which parts are you going to make move?”

  “Well it’s that back wheel. It won’t turn, not even one little inch. So I got to get the engine loosen up and turning.” Something of a devilish grin began to play about Tommy’s face.

  “Well I’m no mechanic,” said Dax, “but if you get the engine running, that back wheel should start turning.”

  “Right on. I mean you got it. To have me some Connecticut art, I got to get the engine running.”

  “Have you started to look for a front wheel and tire for it?”

  “Oh no,” answered Tommy with exaggerated puzzlement. True Connecticut art only has one wheel.”

  Dax gave his attention to Paycheck. “Have you started looking for a front wheel?”

  “No sir,” replied the robot.

  “Are you working toward getting the engine working again?”

  “Yes sir,” replied Paycheck, “we understand that this piece of kinetic art will be more effective at scaring the birds away from the flowerbed, if it moves and makes some noise.”

  “Listen to me,” said Officer Dax rather sternly, “I don’t care how long you two mess around with this thing, but if you find a front wheel for it before you get a license, you’re in big trouble. Do you hear me, Tommy?”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Dax,” said Tommy with a lot more respect than usual. “I hear you.”

  Chapter Five

  The population of the city had been declining in exactly the way that the demographic rule had predicted. The rule said, that as a nation’s wealth increased, family sizes would decrease. The diminishing population seemed to be proving that the rule was inescapable. In the last half of the twentieth century, there had been very real decreases of the populations in both Scandinavia and Japan, and many other affluent areas.

  There were no poor neighborhoods in Tommy’s city. It was big enough to be interesting, and small enough to be comfortable. Homeland Care hid the rate that the indigenous population was decreasing by steadily importing citizens from less utopian areas. One of the demographics that HC never disclosed was that in some areas, no one was left. It was also generally not known that at any given time two or three small empty towns were being dismantled and the land given back to the wilderness.

  While Homeland Care had been chartered to support domestic tranquility and promote the general welfare, it had been forced into a new task. The urban architects and computers at HC were now struggling to find ways to stimulate young adults to create families. They thought that if at least part of the nineteenth century could be recreated, perhaps families would start growing again like they did back in the old days.

  HC had determined that the easiest part of the nineteenth century to re-create was the open-air market. Within the city, five ideal locations had been reconstructed into such markets and were opened only on weekends. Robotic muscle had eliminated the scarcity of human needs, but the open-air markets gave the humans a way to get out of their virtual realities and do something tangible. HC also mandated, that the markets could only be open on the weekends. This forced the humans to schedule their time and it created a wonderful sense of urgency as the weekends approached.

  To supply the open-air markets, small acre farms had been located around the parameter of the city, and given to families with at least two children. Each of the little farms had a large house that could easily accommodate a large family. HC had carefully priced the output of the large government farms to be just a bit higher than the prices that would give the family farms a very good profit. There were real incentives for these families to compete with each other and raise the best produce possible. They could beat the government prices and still make very good money.

  HC had learned through experience, that to keep humans healthy, they needed to have meaningful problems to worry about and solve. HC saw to it that unfit families were removed from the small farms and relocated to more appropriate places in the city. The robots were programed to never point out how unnecessary the small farms were. They understood this was an important human experience and did their best to let their humans experience it to the fullest. The farmers all agreed that making more money than the next guy was more fun than any virtually reality experience.

  This Saturday morning, like many others in the past, Angie and Demy took the bus to the nearest open-air market. Today, Angie was looking forward to lunch with her friend Constance. Stepping off the bus, Demy asked, “Would you like me to retrieve a shopping cart?”

  “Yes, of course. Meet me over there by the onions.” Angie loved to walk along the various displays and talk to the farmers. Another rule HC had enforced was that no robots were allowed to sell the produce. There was some evidence that this rule had actually prompted some of the farming families to have an extra child or two. Often the human doing the selling, was a child of the farming family and sometimes they were only twelve or thirteen years old. These children were never left alone. There was always a robot in the background to help, but not up front.

  Angie had beautiful dreams of marriage, but hadn’t found the right man. Talking to the children in the market let her experience the kind of family she longed for. Perhaps today, she would meet the right man. Perhaps, right here in the open-air market.

  There were no shopping carts in the first area that Demy searched. Understanding that the open-air market was intended for humans, Demy stayed away from the humans the best it could. It moved toward the next shopping cart area as unobtrusively as possible. Occasionally people would make eye contact with the robot and Demy would nod politely and keep going.

  Moving along, Demy realized it was being stalked by a man about Angie’s age. Demy’s eyes were so good that it could capture photo-like images of him from reflections on any shiny surface. Demy didn’t need to turn and look at him. Evaluating the image, the robot was alarmed by the high degree of symmetry in th
e man’s face. Humans were never that symmetrical.

  Demy changed course hoping the man, or what ever he was, would walk on by. No chance. As Demy walked among by stands of beautiful lettuce, the man followed at a distance. Demy watched him in another shiny surface. He accidently stepped on a rather round pebble. There was no sign of a stumble. The man’s foot greeted the pebble like any other surface. His foot balanced him perfectly on it and as his other foot was in the air for his next step, he let his knee bend slightly so that he wouldn’t be a little taller with that step. He used the mechanical perfection of a robot to deal with the hazard, not the typical imperfection of a human.

  An android, thought Demy, that thing’s an android. Homeland Care had stated, and continued to state with their unchallengeable authority, that androids were only laboratory curiosities. HC had said there were no androids walking free, and that they would never walk free without voter consent. Why me, thought Demy? Why is that thing still stalking me? To lose it, the robot cut between the vendor stalls to get to the next aisle.

  Demy tried to cut through the next line of stalls, but was stopped by a farmer. “Hey there, my friend, what’s the big hurry? Are you looking for the best red radishes in the market?”

  “No sir, but what you have on display are the best I’ve ever seen.”

  “You’re darn tootin’! You should buy some for your humans, they’ll love’m. What’s it gonna be, one pound or two?”

  “Please excuse me sir, I need to find a shopping cart for my human and I sincerely regret intruding into your commercial space.” Demy’s answer was honest, but they both knew there was a bit more to the story.

  “Commercial space,” said the farmer cynically. “Nine yards of pavement has just been promoted to my commercial space. You’re nuts. I love it. Now remember, we were talking about radishes fit to please humans.”

  “Not today sir, but if you will excuse me, I really must be going.”

  “Not so fast my mechanical friend. I need some help.” The farmer folded his arms knowing robots loved to help humans and waited for a reply.