*******
On the eighteenth floor of the Multi-National Information Conglomerate building of Brandon and Stern, in San Francisco, in the feature publishing office of Titus Briggs, a petite college age girl began to awaken from a deep sleep.
“Where am I?” she asked.
Her dazed appearance sharpened - but not completely.
“The receptionist will tell you how to get home,” Titus said, while he pointed to the open door.
Titus knew she would eventually find her way back to San Jose, or Berkeley, or wherever she was going to school. Girls who rented out their bodies as Synapse hosts often woke up in much worse places than his office.
While peeling the Synap Suit from his torso, arms, and face, Franklin reached out for a clean towel, but, the side table was bare. Normally, Blanco would have a clean towel waiting for him whenever he synapped off, but Blanco was dead. Franklin would have to face the day without a Warmbot servant. He stepped into the bathroom and washed his face and hands. He stopped himself from reflexively dropping the wet towel onto the floor. Instead, he carefully hung the towel to the rack. Franklin was thinking he could post-pone the need to wash it himself by allowing it to dry.
The house was quiet and Dolly was still asleep upstairs. She usually stayed up late Synapped into pulp features, and then slept late into the morning.
Franklin clicked on the vid-screen and watched it buzz to life. The screen filled with a balding analyst who was reviewing stocks and futures. The screen quickly bisected and now the screen showed the analyst and also a game show. These two views split, and now the screen was divided into quadrants: analyst, game show, weather girl, and classic western movie. Franklin’s attention was drawn to the section that was showing the old-fashioned Western movie. As he watched, a clenched jaw gunslinger stepped out into a dusty street. Each screen sub-divided again. Now, the quadrant with the western was shared by three other dramas. The news corner was showing four different news programs. The weather corner now showed a view into local traffic, live web cams from downtown, and also outside on Franklin’s street.
Franklin noticed a neighbor walking, by followed by a Warmbot servant who was walking with a dog on a leash. Everything displayed on the vid-screen, even the neighbor walking outside, seemed to be something he had seen before. All the pulp programs, the game show, the dramas, all the content, and the news and weather seemed undifferentiated and derivatives of other programs he had already seen. All the programming across the complex array of small screens were showing repeats, sequels, or spin-offs. Franklin was bored of it.
One of the news channels flashed a photograph of Al McKnight. Here is something new. Franklin touched this part of the screen and it expanded forcing the other content programming about news and weather screens to line up around the selected program. On the enlarged screen, two commentators were discussing the upcoming execution of Al McKnight.
Franklin impulsively touched the small section that was still showing the old style Western drama and watched as this program also enlarged at the expense of the other pulp programs. Now the vid-screen was dominated by two programs. The two commentators discussing the execution of Al McKnight filled half the screen, and the old-style Western drama occupied the other half. All of the other programs were relegated to smaller screens that formed an organized border around these two.
The content program continued to flash snippets and highlights from McKnight’s career. They showed his rise to fame including an acceptance speech for the Nobel Prize for Physiology, and a speech before the United Nations Security Council. Then the montage of Al McKnight began showing scenes of organic robots dressed as soldiers. An army of Warmbots is shown marching and training for war. On the other side of the screen, on the old-style western pulp program. Franklin could see the Sheriff and his deputies loading their guns, and climbing into the saddles of their horses. The townspeople were cheering as the posse rode off. Franklin was sure that he has seen the McKnight clips before, and even the Western program seemed familiar. Everything looked vaguely familiar and repetitive.
The news story of McKnight continued to grow more negative. The commentators were talking while a scene of protestors appeared on the screen behind them. The protest was taking place in front of Savant Organic Robotics Inc., and then the clip showed Al McKnight being arrested. On the other side of the vid-screen, the Sheriff and his posse had run into an ambush. A deputy was shot and fell off of his horse. The Sheriff, wounded, crawled behind a rock.
Titus’s comments replayed in his head, saying, “You’re wasting your time. Pulp writers do not break into content.”
Franklin decided he would feel better if he ate some food. He looked around for Blanco, and then remembered she was gone.
Franklin walked into the kitchen and in doing so activated the light. The kitchen was clean and bright. He opened the refrigerator. The shelves were neatly organized with food that was specifically blended and branded for Franklin or Dolly. Franklin selected a “Franklin Tempo Tea – Max 2 per day” and a “Franklin Tempo Chicken Sandwich – Max 1 for lunch.”
Franklin knew without reading the labels that the content of this food was specially formulated to optimize his health and energy, and meet his exacting dietary requirements. Franklin opened the sandwich and organized it onto a plate imitating, way Blanco would have organized it, and then he opened the tea.
Before he could start eating he heard Dolly on the stairs.
“Franklin, where’s Blanco?” Dollar asked.
“Good morning, dear,” Franklin said, “I had to send it out for a bit of maintenance. Did you sleep well?”
As he was speaking, Franklin decided he would delay telling her the truth about Blanco until he had a chance to go to the Savant Organic Robotics dealership and sort things out.
Dolly, looking tired and irritated said, “You couldn’t wait until it made a pot of coffee first?”
“Actually, he said, “I sent it yesterday and it is not back yet. You were Synapped into a feature last night, so I did not think you would miss it.”
“No coffee,” Dolly said sadly.
Franklin and Dolly both looked at the automated coffee machine. Both were wondering if Franklin could figure out how to make it work. Blanco could operate it with ease, but to Franklin it looked daunting. The coffee beans had to be roasted and then ground. He had never done it before.
“No coffee,” Dolly said again, this time with acceptance.
“I can take you out for a cup,” Franklin offered.
Dolly ignored him and made her way to the Refrigerator. She emerged with a “Diet Dolly Drink”. Once Franklin had opened one of Dolly’s customized drinks, just to see how it tasted, but this had greatly annoyed Dolly, so he has not tried it again, nor did he ask her about her food.
“Don’t forget, we’re having the Falsos over for dinner tonight, Blanco needs to be here to cook and serve,” Dolly explained.
She did not expect a response and Franklin did not offer one.
He watched her ascend the stairs heading back up to her bedroom and her Synapse Suit. As he watched, her head, then her shoulder, and then her torso were eclipsed from his view. As she continued to rise, her waist, thighs, shins, and then with one final step, she was gone.
He looked at the “Franklin Tempo Chicken Sandwich – 1 for Lunch” on his plate. It remained un-tasted, but he was no longer interested in eating. He stood and decided to go deal with Blanco and the organic robotics dealer.
On the vid-screen the news program was now showing an external view of the minimum security prison where Al McKnight was being held. A small group of few zealots were gathered at the gate holding signs. On the other side of the screen, cowboys and bandits were shooting at each other.
“Content and pulp,” Franklin said, and turned it off.
Stepping out of the stoop and into the bright Sacramento sun, Franklin was wearing a br
oad brimmed hat, sunglasses, and a long sleeved light jacket. He glanced up at the blue sky. Bilious clouds mixed together with contrails from jets and rockets. An awkward “V” of geese crossed overhead. Among the trees he heard an orchestra of finch, robin, and wren. It was a perfect day in Sacramento. The warm breeze stirred specks of pollen that glistened when they floated out of the shade and into the sunlight.
It all made Franklin nervous. What if the sun got to hot or too cold? The birds represented a delicate link in an eco-chain that if broken would ultimately result in the eradication of human life on earth. Franklin was raised to fear nature, and being out among the birds and bugs made him nervous. He dreaded the day when the long suffering earth would finally wreak biblical vengeance upon mankind.
He took a deep breath. The air smelled fresh and clean.
“Well, there must be some bit of the rain-forest left,” he said out loud, giving voice to his apocalyptic musings.
The skimmer taxi waited at the curb. He slouched down the steps, opened the rear door and then folded his wide frame into the worn seat. The driver was a Warmbot of course. Very few skimmers were piloted by citizens these days. Only the rich employed human servants, only the elite class could afford such extravagance.
“Savant Organic Robotics dealership on L Street,” was all that was needed, andthe Skimmer moved soundlessly into traffic. Settling into the back seat of the skimmer taxi, Franklin busied himself with the window darkening controls to occlude any blueness of sky, or brightness of sunshine, until he was comfortable once again.
Once he was inside the expansive showroom of the Savant Organic Robotic dealership, Franklin began to shed his protective layer: hat, sunglasses, and windbreaker. This was a modern building that seemed open and airy on the inside without allowing any natural sunlight in. Franklin’s eyes followed along the meandering path that led through a series of domestic settings. A kitchen a dining room and a bedroom could be seen from the entryway with more domestic settings towards the back. In each setting, a well brushed Warmbot was wearing a neat new uniform and standing motionlessly.
Franklin stepped onto the white linoleum of the replicated kitchen. The food, fruit, and house plants were all plastic. But the Warmbot was real. Franklin looked at it closely. It was a female model. The organic skin was pink and smooth. What a delightful improvement from Blanco, which had cold grey skin. He touched the bare shoulder of this new Warmbot. There appeared a brief white spot caused by the pressure of his touch, and then the pinkness quickly returned.
Franklin suspected they were running the heart at a faster rate. If that was true, then this Warmbot would have more energy and might seem perky in general. Standing deactivated, it already seemed livelier than Blanco. The hair on the new Warmbot was deep brown, straight and thick, styled into a shoulder length flip. It was wearing a short summer dress with a white apron on top, pulled tight around a slender waist. The apron had a name-tag that said “Molly” and then in smaller letters: “Savant Organic Robot Model MXO114.” There was no price tag.
Franklin looked at the faceplate and grill. It was a cheerful yellow with chrome and black features. Franklin stared into the face that was not a face. His impression of this Warmbot was something he had not thought of before, something he had not encountered before with a Warmbot. It floated on the tip of his mind. An impression, a perception, an inkling. This Warmbot was unlike Blanco or the others at all - this one seemed young.
“It also comes in Ivory, cream, midnight blue, olive, and ebony,” said a voice, which startled Franklin from his reverie.
“I’m sorry?” Franklin said, embarrassed.
“The faceplate and grill; you can get it in different colors on this model,” explained the voice.
It was the sales lady. She walked into the faux kitchen and extended her hand straight at the elbow.
“My name is Ashley Van Houghton,” she told him.
“H-H-Hello,” Franklin stammered and shook her hand.
“My name is Franklin Tempo. My Warmbot died today,” he said.
“Oh, that’s too bad, Ashley said sympathetically, “ You are going to want to see Grif in maintenance about that. Go past the sales desk and follow the hall back to the maintenance area.”
“OK, thank you,” Franklin said and then shuffled off towards the maintenance room. He passed the fake dining room where a tall blonde with a red faceplate was ready to serve an elegant plastic meal, and then past the replicated WetWeb studio where a lean male model stood ready to clean the Synapse Suit. This lean male Warmbot had thick black curls dangling in front of a clean white faceplate.
These Warmbots looked vibrant, even when deactivated. He suspected before even asking for the price that these new Warmbot models were beyond anything he could possibly afford.
“Content,” he muttered, “Content pays.”
The service counter in the back was windowless. There was a glass display case that showed a variety of face-plates, which were all in different colors as Ashley, the sales girl, had described. Beyond the case was a white door. Franklin pushed a buzzer that was mounted to the display case and waited.
Eventually, the Warmbot mechanic appeared through the white door. The white door stood open, and beyond Franklin could see a bright workshop and a variety of Warmbots standing or sitting. One of the Warmbots seemed to be collapsed onto the floor. He could not see Blanco.
Grif the Warmbot mechanic was pleasant. He wore blue coveralls that were speckled with small dark drops of Warmbot plasma. He wore a nametag that reminded him of the one that Molly the Warmbot was wearing. It said “Griffin,” and then in smaller letters: “Savant Organic Robot Service Department.”
“It must have been a genetic defect in the organics,” Grif said, after Franklin introduced himself and inquired about Blanco. “There was not much I could do beyond salvaging the Synap device. The organic systems were shutting down rapidly. I tried rebooting and I also injected it with adrenaline but nothing worked. It just died.”
Grif held a tool that Franklin had never seen before. As they spoke, Franklin watched him continually wiping the tool with a red shop rag. The idea of Grif salvaging the Synap device from Blanco’s head with that sharp tool made him queasy.
“Anyway, the Synap device will be worth more on a trade-in for a new model,” Grif concluded, “Your insurance will cover the difference. Talk to Ashley in the showroom. She will get you a great deal.”
At this point Franklin was ready to go home. But there was no way out except back through the showroom. He signed the documents that Grif presented for him and made his way back through the scenes of domestic tranquility.
“I understand it’s a big investment,” Ashley said, when she caught up with Franklin on his way back out. “Go home, think it over. But, Molly here will sell quickly. It’s a beautiful model. We don’t often get organics of this quality. Look how pink the skin is. I’ll try to hold it for you as long as I can.”
Franklin stepped back outside. He was glad to be done with that chore but, not looking forward to seeing Dolly again.
He made his way to the curb to hail a passing skimmer taxi. He stepped out of the shade and instantly felt the warmth of the sun on his back and neck. In his haste to exit he had forgotten to replace his protective hat and windbreaker. Franklin looked up at the blue sky and sneered.
“If I lost a finger, a hand, an arm; am I less human? The answer must be no! Consider the converse case. When we animate organic tissue, a finger, a hand, an arm, have we created a part of a human? The answer must also be emphatically no.”
- Al McKnight