by Alex Schuler
Many years ago, Ted’s oldest brother Steve had been the first to move into the basement bedroom. As soon as Steve moved out, Michael had insisted on taking over his room. Moving to the basement became a source of pride in the family—almost a coming of age event. When Ted moved back in last November, his mother had practically begged him to stay in one of the upstairs bedrooms, but Ted insisted on staying in the basement.
The downstairs bedroom took up half of the lower level. The other half was equally divided between storage and a laundry room. Over the years, the laundry room had morphed into a makeshift kitchen. A small dorm-room sized fridge hummed in a corner, and a microwave sat atop a shelf over the utility sink. During Ted’s last year in college, Steve had installed a set of old pine cabinets from when the family had renovated the main kitchen. These held plates, dishes, and utensils, giving the basement everything it needed except a bathroom.
Ted flicked on the small nineteen-inch color TV that sat on top of a chest of drawers in the corner of the room. He reached into the brown paper bag and pulled out a bottle of Chivas Regal.
“I remember when you used to be special.” He cracked the top open and took a swig of whisky. “Now all I use you for is celebrating Fridays. And one other tradition.”
He grabbed his cell phone and dialed Sam. It had become his weekly ritual since early December. He waited patiently for the call to connect. After several rings, it went to voicemail—the same way it had done every Friday.
“Sam, it’s Ted. But you know that.” He took another sip of whisky. He let out a long sigh as the amber liquid slid down his throat. “You never return my calls. But you also have never told me to stop calling you. And you haven’t blocked me. My little turtle, hiding in her shell. Part of me wants to believe that maybe you like hearing my voice. So, I will keep calling you in the hope that one day, you’ll answer.”
The nightly news broadcast broke for a commercial. An ad from a local dealer was pushing the Pontiac Grand Prix. Seeing the red arrow emblem briefly brought Ted back to testing Frankie in Nevada.
“Things are pretty much the same,” he continued. “I’m working at the factory with my dad and brothers. The only good thing is I’m slowly saving money. Maybe by the end of the year I can finally think about making a change. I . . . I think of you often, Sam. I wish you would call me. At least let me know you got your pendant I sent to you.”
“Teddy!” Barbara’s voice boomed from the top of the stairs. “Dinner is almost ready!”
“Okay, Sam, I guess I should get going. I hope this message finds you and your daughter well. Take care.”
He ended the call and turned off the television. Putting the cap back on the whisky bottle, he tucked it beside his bed against the paneled wall. The sound of his mother’s footsteps seeped through the ceiling above his head. A small alcove in the corner of the bedroom, set back behind the bedroom door, contained a six-foot-wide writing desk. Ted pulled out the chair, the wheels snagging on the shag. Sitting down, he clicked on the chrome reading light nestled in the corner.
He picked up a copy of Wired magazine. There was an article he had been reading about the latest advancements in AI. The reporter had interviewed both Rusty and Vin. Stacks of cardboard filing boxes were crammed between the desk and wall, filled with old magazines and college papers. Ted knew one of them had the copy of the Vernor Vinge essay on AI replacing humans, as well as the research paper he did for college. He flung the magazine in the trash and stared at the hulking metal object resting in front of him.
“Will I ever get back to you?”
The spinning lidar unit from the Fisher Tuner workshop sat dismantled across Ted’s desk, spread out in pieces. Next to it sat a yellow legal-sized notepad covered in formulas. He picked up the black ballpoint pen beside the pad, tapping it as he read through his notes. He stopped tapping and tried Nico’s trick of spinning the pen across his thumb and fingers, but the pen just tumbled across his hand and into the wastebasket beside his chair. He frowned as he drummed his fingers across the main lidar housing.
“Why do I bother?” he said, as he flipped the reading lamp off and sighed. “This isn’t my future anymore.”
23
Rusty paused halfway down the steps that connected the Yerba Buena Public Square to Fourth Street. He arched his back and ran his hand along his spine, just above his waistline. A decade before, Rusty’s hip injury had started to manifest itself in his lower back. The limited range of motion with his leg forced the muscles along his spine to adjust accordingly, resulting in pressure on two of his discs and the nerves beneath them. Remaining still for long periods exacerbated this problem. He’d just spent four days sitting for close to twelve hours each day, and he could feel every moment of it.
“Give me a minute, Vin.” Rusty bent over and extended his arms and hands as far down as they would go. After a few seconds, he was finally able to touch his fingers to his shoes. He groaned as he felt his spine decompress. “I’m not getting any younger.”
“Should I run ahead and find a boy scout to help you cross the road?” Vin laughed briefly at his joke until he noticed Rusty rubbing his hip. “Tell me, Rusty, will that pain ever go away?”
“No.” Rusty continued to moan as he felt the tension leave his body. “I’ll be fine, Vin.”
“Always the tough guy. Not many people survive a fall from a helicopter. You should be thankful—”
“Stop, Vin.” Rusty raised his voice as passersby shot curious glances toward him and Vin. “You know I don’t like to discuss this. I never should have told you. Very few people know how I got this injury. Drop it, okay?”
“I didn’t mean to dig up bad memories, my friend.”
During his early twenties, while stationed at the military base in Yuma, Rusty and his team had gone out on a routine training mission. Their helicopter had run into heavy wind shear and a downdraft forced the pilot to lose control. Rusty had dove into the front seat and attempted to steady the chopper, but to no avail. He was thrown clear, falling from the helicopter shortly before it crashed into the mountains. He was the only survivor. Every time Rusty replayed the scene in his mind, he couldn’t help but wonder if his actions to help his friend steady the chopper contributed to the crash. Was he to blame?
“I’m sorry I snapped at you,” Rusty said as he struggled to clear his mind of those painful memories. “It’s been a long conference.”
He stood back up and rotated his upper body back and forth a few times. When done, the pair continued their way down the staircase. Vin attempted to give Rusty some support by holding his elbow, but Rusty shook it off.
The over eighty acres of the Yerba Buena Public Square was part of the Moscone Center in San Francisco, a popular site for large-scale conventions. The three main buildings contained over 700,000 square feet of exhibit space and over one hundred meeting rooms. Given San Francisco’s huge volume of hotels, combined with the massive exhibit and public spaces the Moscone Center could handle, conferences with tens of thousands of attendees were not uncommon.
The International Global Robotics Association (IGRA) had selected the Moscone Center as the site for its 2008 conference. This year’s event had pulled in more than 27,000 attendees from over forty countries. Rusty and Vin had reached the last day of the conference, Friday, September 19. Many attendees had not bothered to show up for the last presentations. The closing celebration had been held the night before at Treasure Island and was massive. IGRA had pulled out all the stops and created a circus-themed event to thank the attendees. Elton John wowed the crowd with a forty-five-minute concert as the closing event. GSI, a platinum sponsor, had footed the bill for that elaborate show.
The last day’s conference schedule was only a half day. Rusty and Vin were asked to repeat their presentation on autonomy from earlier in the week, as it had proven so popular. They ended up presenting to a crowd of over five hundred engineers and s
cientists.
“What impressed you the most at this year’s conference, Rusty?”
“Artificial intelligence. The advancements in AI were, well, unexpected. We touched on it during our presentation, but a few other players out there are truly breaking boundaries.”
“Agreed,” Vin said, nodding in approval. “AI’s capabilities are outpacing all original projections. We should get on one of those councils that are exploring its future—or perhaps form our own.”
“I was thinking the same thing, Vin.”
“The expected loss of jobs due to AI is truly shocking.”
“The economy is shedding jobs at unheard of volumes, and yet AI is poised to obliterate even more.”
“I’m afraid we won’t recognize this world a few decades from now,” Vin said. “It makes me wonder if the human race is even ready for the change.”
“During the DARPA project, my team used to joke about the day robots would replace humans.”
“I think we’re a long way off from that, Rusty. Although I certainly won’t dismiss the inevitability of that occurring.” Vin gave Rusty a quick reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Looking back over these past few days, I think this was the best event yet.”
“It was definitely the largest. I heard it was almost fifteen percent larger than last year. I’ll take their word. You and I both missed last year’s conference because of the FAST Challenge.”
“Do you think the huge turnout is because of us—because of the buzz that came out of last year’s DARPA competition?”
“Selfishly? Yes.”
The two men laughed as they finally reached the bottom of the staircase. The sidewalk was packed with people leaving the conference. Cars and trucks honked as they crawled along in the stop-and-go traffic. The faint scent of garbage packed into overflowing trash bins filled the air.
“So much has changed since then,” Vin said. “It’s been exactly one year since we were in the Mojave.”
“Progress waits for no one.”
“Have you reconsidered my offer to stay for the weekend? I’d really love to give you a tour of our new lab at Ashton.”
“I wish I could, Vin. I have too many commitments waiting for me back at DSU. This year’s batch of new students is the worst yet. No structure. No commitment. I don’t get today’s youth.”
“Did you ever?” Vin could not help but let out a hearty laugh. “Rusty, you do know you are a complete and total hardass? You run that place like a special-ops unit. I’m lucky I made it out in one piece. Your work ethics were brutal.”
“And your work ethics today?”
Vin stopped as they reached the corner of Fourth and Howard streets. The temperature was a few degrees shy of seventy degrees. He closed his eyes and took in the warming rays of the sun. Eventually, a smile spread across his face.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Rusty said.
“I’m strict for sure. Structured. But in a gentler way. I’m sorry you can’t stay. Sam was hoping to see you.”
“Really? I didn’t even know she liked me.”
“She doesn’t.” Vin grinned and winked at his former mentor. “But she respects you and everything you’ve done. She wanted to show you how far she’s taken Athena.”
“Perhaps another time.” Rusty was still wearing a lanyard with the conference pass dangling from the end. He slid it off and jammed it into the nearest trash bin. “I’m glad to hear Sam has continued to pursue what we achieved with DARPA.”
“Have you heard from Ted?”
“No. All I know is he’s working at a GM factory in Lordstown.” Rusty shook his head in disappointment and let out a long sigh. “I don’t understand that kid. He was wasting his life in Nevada, and now he’s wasting it in Ohio.”
“You can’t fix everything, Rusty. Or everyone.”
“Unfortunately.”
“What you need is a wife.” Vin squinted his eyes and crossed his arms. “It’s amazed me that in all your travels across the globe, you’ve never found someone special. My wife, Sophie, is my rock.”
“I prefer my rocks to be extracted from a volcano.” Rusty winked at Vin in an attempt to avoid the lecture he could feel brewing. “Or the moon.”
“As long as you’re happy. You don’t get lonely?”
“I have my work and my students. It’s a full life.” Rusty slapped Vin on the shoulder. “No need to worry about me.”
“All right, my friend, I should head out. It was great to see you.”
“And you.”
The two men did a quick bear hug. Rusty gave Vin one final slap on the back before watching him cross the street and disappear into the crowd. Rusty then checked his watch—12:22 p.m. He decided to grab a coffee before catching a cab to the airport. He looked around and spotted a café farther up Fourth Street. He slowly made his way along, taking the time to twist and stretch his back along the way.
The line inside the café was over a dozen deep. Half of the people waiting to order were conference attendees, easily identified by the colorful lanyards wrapped around their necks. The tables were crammed with patrons. The air permeated with the smell of coffee, cinnamon, vanilla, and various fresh baked goods.
Speakers mounted on the wall behind the counter were broadcasting a popular noontime radio show called Chris and Kris. The married couple that ran the two-hour-long program would pick a different topic to debate each day. Their biting and sometimes caustic humor and real-life commentary always made for a lively and entertaining show. Rusty tilted his head away from the crowd so he could better hear the radio.
“Stop the discussion,” Kris said. “It appears my wife forgot to pack our lunches. Again.”
Several locals in the coffee shop began to laugh loudly. Rusty looked around somewhat confused and then returned his gaze to the line ahead of him. Despite the café having four employees working behind the counter, the line was not moving.
“What is this, the fifties?” Chris replied in a high-pitched shrill voice. “If we forgot our lunches, then we forgot them. Just because I still slice the crusts from your peanut butter sandwiches doesn’t make me your mother. It makes you a child.”
The man standing in front of Rusty burst out laughing. Rusty shook his head, not understanding the humor coming through the radio. He figured it had to be a local thing. Rusty took a few steps back as the man ahead of him shifted and bumped back against him.
“Oh, sorry,” the young man said. “These two get me every time.”
“If you say so,” Rusty replied.
The man ahead of Rusty turned away and glanced back up at the speakers.
“Our listeners know what it means to not have food out here on Treasure Island,” Kris said. “Nobody delivers our way. We entertain you daily, but will any of you bring us a coffee?”
“And a nice scone to go with it,” Chris added. “Oh, or a deli sandwich? With sourdough, of course.”
“Or a pizza?” Kris continued. “Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a nice big pepperoni pizza right now.”
“Your doctor, and our bathroom scale, would disagree with that last one,” Chris added.
“They’re right,” the young man said as he turned back to face Rusty. “It’s a huge waste of time. I’d know.”
The man stood a few inches shorter than Rusty. His long wavy brown hair jutted wildly from an olive knit hat pulled down to his ears. He pointed to the black T-shirt he was wearing. Bright red words across the front proclaimed, Uncle Danny’s Deep Dish.
“I can deliver ten, maybe a dozen pizzas here in town in the time it would take me to get across the Bay Bridge and back. And that’s with no traffic. Traffic? Forget about it. It’s just not worth it.”
“I see.” Rusty sighed and looked at his watch, and then again at the line ahead of the scraggly young pizza delivery man. “Is this place always t
his slow?”
“Not when these conference idiots aren’t around.” The pizza delivery guy pointed at two women dressed in business attire, sitting at a high-top table near the front door. “Look at them with their dumb badges hanging around their necks.”
“Right.”
“You know, last year they did a contest. The radio show. They wanted people to find creative ways to deliver them lunch from the San Francisco side. The first one there won a prize. People tried boats, bicycles, even a catapult.”
“A catapult?”
“That one didn’t turn out so well. I feel bad for them, being stuck out there. Their lunch options are, well, limited.”
The young man shrugged and spun around. Rusty was relieved when the line finally shuffled a few steps ahead. He glanced up at the speakers to listen to the show.
“I’d give my right arm to get a slice of Danny’s deep dish right about now,” Kris said.
“Nobody wants that flabby arm of yours,” Chris chimed in. “You may have to give more than a two-dollar tip to get someone out here.”
“Isn’t that the restaurant you work for?” Rusty tapped the young man ahead of him on the shoulder.
“It is,” the man replied. “But my boss won’t deliver there. Even though he loves the show.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Anyone he sends to deliver a pizza out to Treasure Island quits.”
“Why?” Rusty was suddenly fascinated by this discussion. He wished Vin was still here.
“We work for tips. Traffic across the bridge can be a nightmare. I’m not going to risk getting stuck in traffic. That show would have to give me a fifty dollar tip to make it worth it. Even then, I’d probably pass.”
“You’d give up fifty bucks? Why?”