Dodd joined the other pedestrians on the sidewalk, walking the six blocks down the street toward the subway terminal. Beware the antichrist AI. What in the hell was that supposed to mean?
Either Danny Marauder had finally gone over the edge, or it was something the anarchists were into. There was no way of telling – the anarchists seemed to be into everything. Like Dodd, many of them were veterans. That’s where he met Danny – they had served together in the South American War. Carrying guns powerful enough to blow up a jeep with a single round, never firing a shot, wading through cities of dead people whom wouldn’t decay. It was graveyard duty. Dodd had been able to maintain his grasp on reality; he returned home to lead a normal life. But the others, the ones that ended up anarchists, they had lost their grip.
His train hissed to a halt and Dodd boarded, packing himself in with a hundred other bodies, standing because all the seats were taken. The ride was uneventful, he endured it as usual by escaping into a trance-like state until an amplified voice announced his stop. “Cherokee. Cherokee Station.” Dodd made his way to the door and waited for the train to stop. Beyond the yellowed windows of the subway car, the brick walls of the station blurred past and slowed, graffiti everywhere, layer upon layer.
BEWARE THE ANTICHRIST AI!
The doors opened and Dodd stepped out, walking involuntarily up to the painted letters, looking closely as if he would find meaning in the texture of the painted brick. Danny must have been here, he thought. Shaking his head, he turned and trudged up the escalator. The main gate of Honda Aerospace was seven blocks away.
At Honda he presented his union card to a machine and was cleared through by a smirking, smoking, gruff-looking old lady in a guard’s uniform. Beyond the gates, all across the sprawling plant, people and machines rushed to-and-fro in the early sunlight, impossibly busy. Dodd made his way to the forklift station, checked in, bought a cup of freshly brewed coffee from the garage’s machine, and slowly, carefully climbed aboard his semi-autonomic rig. The forklift came to life as he keyed in his employee number; on a screen behind the controls his morning assignment appeared. Dodd instructed the forklift to go – it knew the way – and then settled back in the comfortable black seat to enjoy his coffee and to try and wake up.
When Dodd saw Bob Recent, Bob was just getting through the front gate; he was 35 minutes late for work. Dodd brought his rig to a stop and waved, but either Bob didn’t see or he was ignoring Dodd; Bob walked right past without acknowledging. Is he mad at me? Dodd thought. Why, because I kicked him out of my apartment at two in the morning? No. He’s probably mad because I didn’t kick him out sooner.
Dodd made his way over to the shipping warehouse and gently dropped off his sixth load of inertia-null units. He watched for a moment as two spidery robots began sorting them out, preparing them for inventory. Dodd disliked these two little robots – he’d known the workers they replaced.
On his way back to production/inspection for another load he saw Bob Recent again, this time standing with one of the big bosses near the administration office. Dodd sipped the last of his lukewarm coffee and watched them, wanting to see of Bob was being chewed out for being late. It would be a first. Bob was habitually late, but never seemed to get caught. It would serve him right if they fired his ass, Dodd thought. But then again, he really didn’t want that to happen. A fully autonomic forklift, not a human driver, would replace Bob. Dodd didn’t need any more “smart”
forklifts running around reminding him that his job was more of a union-management compromise than something vital and necessary to the company.
It didn’t look like Bob was being fired. He and the big boss were shaking hands. They passed out of sight behind the edge of a building, leaving Dodd wondering, giving him a wholly unpleasant feeling in his bowels. Bob Recent? No. No way.
A few hours later Dodd saw a little white cart racing toward him across the smooth concrete plain, the driver waving for him to stop. Dodd felt a headache coming on. It was Bob Recent.
Dodd pulled to a stop as the cart came alongside him. Bob’s smile was large, his eyes glassy. There was the flush of blood in his cheeks. “Hey, guess what happened.”
“You’re management now.”
“Right! I’m section foreman. I’m this section’s foreman.”
“You’re my boss.”
“Yeah! Isn’t it great? Me, section foreman!” He laughed like a kid.
“Well, I’m happy for you Bob,” Dodd lied.
“Oh, boy, so am I! Wow. I can’t wait to tell Denise about this, she’ll be thrilled!”
“I’m sure she will.” Dodd felt obligated to hold out his hand. “Congratulations.”
Bob shook. “Thank you.”
“How did you manage this, anyway?”
“Well, it’s funny, it all started when I put in my resignation–-”
“Resignation?”
“Oh, yeah. Well,” Bob fidgeted, becoming self-conscious.
“Well, you see, Denise quit her job–-”
“Denise quit her job?”
“Yes.”
“I thought she loved that job!”
“Well, she did, but it didn’t leave her with a whole lot of free time. Denise wanted to stay home and watch Travels during the day.”
“Travels?”
“Yeah, and well, I thought that, hell … if she did that, I didn’t see why I shouldn’t. So I discussed it with her and we decided that I should quit and go on compensation–-”
“Compensation? Bob, what kind of compensation?”
“Progeny compensation,” Bob said defensively.
“I was afraid of that. Bob, I thought you wanted kids. You told me that’s why you and Denise got married, why you stuck around here doing a robot’s job.”
“Well–-”
“You told me that. Those were your words.”
“I know. My god, you make me feel like I’m a traitor or something. I’m not, Dodd. I just … I just want …”
“What? You want them to cut off your balls?”
Bob winced. “That’s not what they do.”
“They might as well! They sterilize you, they edit your genes from the human race – your goddamn heritage, Bob. Wiped out. And why? So you can sit around and watch television all day.”
“There’s more to life than children.”
“Oh, yeah, well, it’s a big part of life. Look, I just don’t want you to do something you’ll regret. I mean, it used to mean something to you, something to work for, a goal. How much progeny tax do you have saved up, Bob? Since before you even met Denise!
Last time you talked about it, you had over five-hundred-thousand dollars. You’re almost there! You’re going to throw that all away on something else?”
“I’m not throwing it away on anything,” Bob said, angry now.
“Sometimes people’s priorities change, sometimes people acquire new goals instead of hanging onto old, outdated ones. Denise has decided she doesn’t want a baby, Dodd. And that’s her right –
it’s her body. So if she doesn’t want a baby, what difference does it make if I get a vasectomy? I can’t start a family without my wife, can I?”
“Oh, this was Denise’s decision, then?”
“No, it was both of ours!”
“You can find another wife, Bob.”
Bob seemed to be speechless for a moment. “I can find other friends,” he said, after finding his voice. “Dodd, I love my wife!
She’s more important to me than having a family. Like you said, it’s a goal to have kids. Well I have a different goal. My goal is to be happy with my wife. That’s my priority. Okay?”
“Okay. I think it’s stupid, but hey, it’s your life.”
“That’s right, goddamn you, it’s my life.”
“Right.”
“And I don’t care what you think.”
“Okay. Sure.”
“I mean it.”
“Hey, you’re right, it’s none of my business.”
They stared at each other angrily for a moment, then Bob said, “Because we’re friends I’m going to let this drop. It doesn’t matter why I was going to quit or what I was going to do, because I didn’t. What does matter is that I’m your new foreman, and you’d better keep that in mind from now on.”
“I will.”
“Get back to work. Just because we’re friends doesn’t mean I’m going to let you get away with goofing off.”
Dodd stared at him in silent outrage. Bob, unable to look him in the eyes, turned and climbed into his little white cart. It lurched into motion, speeding off across the long, flat concrete, leaving Dodd cursing under his breath.
4. COME KNOCKIN’
Toby Whitehouse lived in an old tan house that had somehow evaded the great, sweeping renovations, which occurred to whole neighborhoods after the South American War. The front yard was kept neatly mowed and the old house always seemed to have a fresh coat of paint, even the picket fence out front was painted white, keeping it cheery. The wood of the picket fence was probably older than Dodd; it sagged in places where rot had set in, but the five dozen coatings of paint held it together. On either side of the front door were gaudy stained glass windows that ran from ground level to the top of the doorframe. Dodd rang the doorbell and tried to peer through the glass, but he couldn’t see a thing –