Year: 2114: Time Future Resembles Time Past

9781483546421

TIME FUTURE RESEMBLES TIME PAST

The drone technician, Gary Miller, in his late twenties, gingerly lifts the last quadrotor out of its fiberglass case. He sets it down on the street and removes the lens cap from the on-board camera. He puts the cap in the breast pocket of his standard issue dark blue jumpsuit. The jumpsuit has embroidered on back six-inch yellow letters reading: POLICE. He stands up and looks to see if the other three quadrotors are ready for action. Satisfied, he picks up the black fiberglass case and puts it under the metal stairs of the Command and Control trailer. He climbs the stairs, stops at the top and looks around.

A line of twenty robots stretches across the width of Wilshire Boulevard in downtown Los Angeles, California. They are dressed in riot gear: dark blue jumpsuits with POLICE ROBOT stenciled on back, black boots and white helmets. They carry thick plastic shields, clear on top so they can see and on the bottom, in large letters: POLICE ROBOT. They stand motionless; their free hands hang down by their sides, holding night sticks. Behind them are uniformed human police officers also in riot gear. Behind the humans stands the Chief of Police and two of his assistants. A short ways away is Detective Richard White, on the force for eighteen years, in his early forties, six feet tall, athletic build, piercing brown eyes. Lt. White is accompanied by his PDR, his personal digital robot, P-BOT 39, a level 16 professional series police robot with full autonomous mobility, standing six feet four inches, weighing 250 pounds.

On the left are parked two water cannon trucks, painted flat black with oversize rubber tires and bullet-proof glass, their motors idling. Three paddy wagons are lined up behind the water cannon trucks.

On the right, in their usual civilian disarray, are parked the pool of newsprint and television reporter vans; their parabolic antennas up and aimed at the satellites. The crews are preparing for broadcast: the camera men checking their white balance, the sound men checking levels and the on-camera reporters getting the last bit of makeup.

Officer Miller enters the CNC trailer. He walks down the line of the four drone operators who are performing last minute checks on their equipment. All the drone monitors are active and show a shoe-level view of the boulevard.

They’re ready, guys! says Miller.

The operators put their hands on the joysticks and the four quadrotor drones lift off. All four monitors show almost the same view. The drones reach altitude and hover, waiting for orders. Miller looks down the length of the CNC trailer. He sees the monitors attached to the far wall. In the center is a large 90 inch flat panel TV, black at the moment, and four individual drone monitors on the left side. A police officer sits in front of them in a swivel chair. The monitors on the right show the television feeds to their studios. Two of those monitors show picture-in-picture from their TV drones now hovering above the police drones.

Alongside the other wall, opposite the drone operators, are several small monitors controlled by three technicians who are seated at computer terminals, keying in selected individuals’ photographs and subdermal RFID numbers. Every living person and robot in society is required by law to have implanted in their thighs a radio frequency identification device. Minors have them too and one of the rites of passage in a young person’s life is receiving their adult RFID. The police technicians hope to identify every participant in this unlawful event forming outside from their RFID information and facial recognition software.

All the monitors are now active, including the one belonging to the stationary camera mounted on top of the CNC trailer. The big center monitor now shows a large group of about two hundred noisy, chanting protestors steadily advancing up Wilshire Boulevard toward the police.

All the protestors either wear Guy Fawkes masks, intifada scarves, balaclavas or bandannas and dark glasses. They carry hand-lettered signs on long poles that read: ROBOTS ARE EVIL; ROBOTS DON’T HAVE HUNGRY MOUTHS TO FEED; ROBOTS ARE BAD FOR SOCIETY; EMPLOY HUMANS-FIRE ROBOTS. And one sign that reads: ROBOTS DON’T BREASTFEED. At the front two disguised protestors carry a large banner that stretches the width of Wilshire Boulevard. It reads: ROBOTS ARE JOB KILLERS. On both sides of the demonstrators, two men on stilts, dressed as Uncle Sam, spray black paint on the lenses of the CCTV surveillance cameras. Four others, two in Santa Claus suits and two in Elf costumes, each carry a bag from which they take out permanent magnets, slapping the magnets on the RFID scanners at knee level, effectively disabling them.

The RFID monitors in the CNC trailer go blank as well as some of the CCTV monitors. The operators attempt to restore the scanners but the permanent magnets scramble all transmission of RFID data.

On the broadcast TV monitors, from the edge of the frame, two black high-speed killer drones appear and attack the hovering police quadrotors. Before the police operators can respond, all four quadrotors are knocked out of the sky, crashing to the street below. The drone monitors go blank. The killer drones next attack a TV drone, knocking it down. The other TV drone makes a run for it but fails to outrun the killer drones. The picture-in-picture shows a black attack drone coming at the camera at high speed. The black drone has spinning blades beneath it. These shred the blades of the TV drone and it too drops like a stone to the street below.

Miller runs to the door of the CNC van, opens it and hurries out. He sees the last TV drone falling to the street and the two black drones performing victory rolls before disappearing.

Detective White, what’s happening? Miller shouts.

Street theatre, Miller.

Where are my drones?

Look around, Miller. You’ll find them. shouts Richard.

The protestors have stopped their advance.

A Police Sergeant barks an order to the line of police robots. Prepare to advance! The robots come to attention, raise up their truncheons and put their left foot forward in a fighting stance. The two water cannon trucks begin to drip water, their turrets moving side to side and up/down, in preparation for use.

Inside the protesting multitude, someone blows a whistle and, suddenly, smoke bombs are rolled out on the street and set off. Thick white smoke billows up, obscuring the marchers. Under cover of smoke, the protestors disperse like a flash mob. The smoke lingers a few minutes. When it clears, the boulevard is empty of protestors. All that remains are three robots, painted flat white, tied together in a circle with a heavy rope. The robots’ heads move side to side as if looking for their human masters.

Richard and 39 are as surprised as everyone else. They quickly go in front of the police robots.

What the hell? It’s like they were never here, observes Richard.

Obviously well-planned this time, Richard.

Seems that way, 39. In all the other protests, they merely rioted, he says.

The news reporters and crews rush out onto the scene. Among them is Joan Carter, a TV news reporter and her cameraman, Jim. They join Richard and 39 and stop. Suddenly, a black cloud of smoke rises from the three robots. They slump down and show no movement.

Jim, get a shot of those white things, shouts Joan.

They are bots, says 39.

Yeah, yeah, whatever, responds the camera man sarcastically.

Come on, 39, commands Richard.

Richard and 39 rush up to the white robots, followed by Joan and her camera man. Other TV reporters and camera men follow too.

39, scan those three robots for their RFID’s, orders Richard.

All these bots are on the Missing Robot Report, Richard. They are all non-functioning now.

Joan overhears 39.

Oh my God! she says into the camera. These poor robots have been killed! Oh my God! They said they hated robots. Now we see what they do to our beloved machines. Why that’s just awful.

Two firemen come up and spray foam over the defunct robots to extinguish a small fire. Richard and 39 stand back. The other TV crews circle the white robots while the reporters speak into their microphones.

In the TV studio of Joan’s network, the anchorman, Walter Smith, touches his earpiece.

Great reporting, Joan, he says.

In another part of town, several people are standing in front of Huet’s Shoe Repair watching the broadcast on an 80 inch flat panel TV in the window. The audio comes from two small speakers mounted on the store-front under the awning outside. Among the crowd stands Dean Dabato, a muscular man in his mid-forties, clean shaven, short blonde hair in a buzz cut, wearing a gray jumpsuit and carrying a black leather briefcase.

On the TV, Walter, the anchorman, continues, You would be well advised to keep your family robot off the streets the next few days. And now turning to other news, the police say they have few leads on the gang of thieves stealing robots from the street. You can help by calling… .

Dean steps back, takes out his smart phone, touches a number that speed dials to another phone. When they connect, he says, Yeah, it’s me. Listen, stand down for the next few days. Tell the others. I’ll explain later. Dean puts away the smart phone and heads into the shoe shop.

On the TV, Walter reads from his teleprompter. On the international front, tension in France escalated over the election results… .

Dean opens the door and a bell tinkles. It tinkles again when he closes the door. He goes up to the counter. Standing there, motionless, is a malebot in a red fez with a black tassel and a long red apron. The draw strings to the apron are tied in front.

On the TV, Walter continues, …causing the death of a young boy, trampled to death as people scattered when the police moved in, firing tear gas into the crowd.

The bot mutes the TV in the shop. May I help you, sir? it asks.

Yeah, Branko Huet in? answers Dean.

Yes, sir.

The bot pushes a button under the counter and a buzzer sounds in the back of the shop. Soon, the curtain to the back room parts and out steps Branko Huet, a Hungarian émigré, forty-five years old, a big man, barrel-chested, around 250 pounds, brown hair, brown eyes and a port wine stain covering a large portion of his neck’s right side.

Dean looks at Branko and asks, You Branko Huet?

Igen, (yes in Hungarian.) I mean yes. Who are you?

I’m Dean Dabato. Chen Li gave me your name.

Branko gestures to Dean to follow him to the back room.

Once there, Branko steps behind a work bench. Dean stands on the other side. Branko clears a space, moving a special hammer, a glue pot and some leather pieces. Dean takes out a business card from his jumpsuit and places it in the cleared space on the work bench. Branko looks at the card. It is blank. He turns it over. Written on it: Dabato. Li.

Been expecting you, Mr. Dabato. What can I do for you?, he asks.

Says Dean, Chen Li tells me you take care of people.

Of course. What is it you wish me to do?

I want a certain man to suffer as much as I have, answers Dean.

Suffer?

I want his wife to be no more, says Dean.

Mmm. I understand, says Branko.

Can you…? asks Dean.

Of course, that is my business, replies Branko.

Dean produces a photograph. He and his wife, that’s Richard and Alice White, are going on a second honeymoon. I want it to happen then.

Dean places the black leather briefcase on top of the workbench. He pushes it over to Branko with the hasps facing him. Branko undoes the hasps which spring up with their characteristic sound. He raises the top of the briefcase. Inside, stacks of one hundred dollar bills fill the briefcase completely.

Dean adds, You will get the remainder of your fee after the deed is done.

Branko says nothing as he shuts the briefcase and closes the hasps.

In zero gravity, six honeymoon couples and a few single men and women are secured in their reclining pod seats. In one pod reclines Richard White reading a brochure. When he lets go of the brochure, it floats in front of him. He looks over at his wife, Alice, a tall woman in her late thirties; her complexion smooth, no wrinkles, no lines, accentuated by her light blue eyes. She looks at him.

I miss my bot, she says to him.

I know. I miss my bots too. It’s only for a few days, responds Richard.

Four days and three nights, says Alice.

They said we could have taken our bots along and pay full fare for each one. Forty thousand dollars each isn’t what I’d call chump change, he says.

She nods her head in agreement, The trip calculator says we have six more hours until we reach Moon orbit.

Six hours, eh? Think I’ll take a nap, responds Richard.

Give me the brochure, she says.

Richard flicks it to her. He watches it float across the aisle until Alice grabs it.

"This zero