Data Dump VII

I never go out unless I look like Joan Crawford the movie star. If you want to see the girl next door, go next door. - Joan Crawford

(* * *)

“I think we’re heading to the coast,” said Daria Morgendorffer as the two looked out the windows. “It looks like the cities have disappeared.”

“It doesn’t seem like much has changed,” said Sandi. “It looks just the same from the sky as it did when I looked out of airplane windows when I was a teenager. The cars still look like ants, and there still seem to be just as many.”

“You know robots,” said Daria. “Always interested in order. No radical changes. No flying cars. The world will look the same as long as humans give the orders.” Daria paid more attention to the Atlantic Ocean. “I thought global warming would have swallowed these coasts up years ago; that there would be no beach. But I haven’t been watching the news lately.”

“God, who does?” said Sandi, looking out the other window.

As the two watched the scenery, they noticed the mass of forest giving way to a cleared area at the top of a hill. At the peak of the hill rested a modern looking home. “Do you think that’s it?” asked Sandi, but before Daria could answer, the helicopter answered for the both of them. Sandi and Daria could feel a shift in the rotors as Daria sighted a large letter “H” in a blue circle on the asphalt below and the machine moved closer to its final landing place atop the helipad.

As the machine touched down, the robotic voice of the copter spoke for the first time since takeoff. “We are about to land. A chime will sound and then the doors will open. You may then remove your safety restraints and depart the helicopter.”

Surely enough, the machine did what it promised to do. As the two orange-suited women departed and the rotors began to slow, a door opened from an attached structure at the end of the helipad. A slim-looking man with brown hair and a mustache walked towards the women.

“Is that Daria Morgendorffer?”

“That depends,” said Daria. “Is that Tom Sloane?” It wasn’t a run-across-the-meadows moment, but both picked up their pace in anticipation. Daria was never touchy-feely, but she didn’t mind giving her old ex-boyfriend a hug.

“It’s great to see you again,” said Tom, smelling like musk. “How are you?”

“Oh, at least I’m alive,” said Daria. She turned her head to Sandi. “Tom, this is Sandi Griffin. She’s a friend of my – “

“—of Quinn’s. Rude of me." Tom almost extended a hand for a shake, but he rightly read Sandi’s body language. Tom and Sandi shared a hug.

“All right,” said Tom. “Time to get the two of you out of those clothes. We’re going to have dinner outside. Robby, where are you?”

A blue looking machine walked from behind Tom. “Robby, take Daria and her friend to the dressing room. Explain how CostumeTech works. It will be new to Daria, I don’t think they had that a few years ago.”

(* * * )

“Daria! I think you’ll like these!”

Daria walked over to the scanner where Sandi was sitting. Sandi was naked and sitting on a towel while Daria was in her underwear.

“Do you see those boots?” Sandi giggled. “They remind me of the boots you used to wear in high school!”

“Yeah,” said Daria, squinting as she adjusted her glasses. “They do. I love boots like that. They stopped making them. Hey, Nimrod,” she said to the robot.

“Yes.”

“I’ll add those to the collection. Size four.”

“Please step on the platform.” A finger swiveled to a flat panel on the ground.

Daria stepped on the panel and was surprised to see a flash, as if a snapshot had been taken. “It will take approximately 23 minutes to fashion the boots. Your other garments are ready.”

“Why so long with the boots?” asked Daria.

“Gee, Daria,” said Sandi, “sizes for shoes have been dead for years. It happened when you were in prison. All shoes are now custom-fitted. The boots are being hand-crafted. All it takes are the materials and a robot to put it together.”

“Okay, Griffin. I have an entire wardrobe. You’re sitting here on your bare ass still deciding what to wear.”

“Daria…there's a difference between being dressed and between not being naked.” Sandi smiled. “Go talk to Tom. I’ll be out shortly.”

(* * *)

Daria had to agree that her new boots fit very well. They were almost a second skin. She wondered if her orange jumpsuits were also custom-fitted, as she never noticed a loose or sagging jumpsuit on anyone from the indigent housing.

As she walked into the kitchen area, Tom was waiting for her. "Well hello there," he said.

"Hey, Tom. Listen…I'm glad that you agreed to let us visit."

"No problem. A lot of this is just empty space. I was starting to lack for human company. Tell me, what do you want to eat?"

It became a much tougher question. After the fixed menus of prison and the poverty pens, Daria realized how much free will she had. "Uh…everything?"

Tom chuckled. "Great. Robby, prepare a banquet for both our guests."

A blue machine in the background began to walk towards the kitchen. "You call him 'Robby'? And you let him cook?"

"He cooks better than I ever will. I'm anthropomorphizing. You get tired of calling them 'hey, robot'!"

"Does he tuck you in at night, too?" Daria was surprised how easily it slipped out.

It rolled off Tom's back. "He - or maybe 'it' - would if I asked it to. He's a general R-124 helper model. I could buy a more specialized R-124-V model to be the Jeeves to my Wooster. Without an upgrade to CostumeTech, it's a waste of time. An R-124-V would tut-tut any choices I made. My parents are using M-248s at the cove. You know, they still haven't bought any new kitchen equipment? I suspect that their refrigerator has been waiting for the ice man to show up for the last half-century."

Tom sipped his orange juice. "But enough about me. How the hell did you get yourself into so much trouble with the law? I tried to find about your original posting on NewYorkList but it had been deleted."

Daria explained what had happened with the posting on the messageboard, and how she had violated Patriot Act III by posting thirty-three words. "It wasn't exactly the Ninety-Five Theses."

"It doesn't sound like it. But what did you mean by that 'risk all to gain all' stuff? I didn't think you were a fan of open confrontation."

Daria sighed. "I don't know what I was thinking. I think it was Jane's political diatribes that got me to thinking. I guess Jane started to get more political and social. I guess I bought into the system a bit more."

"Like you accused me of doing?" said Tom. Tom watched Daria turned red. "Well, you never accused me directly," said Tom. "Keep going."

"Then she simply left the country. Going to France. Not coming back. Jane wanted to talk about politics more and more and I wanted to talk about it less and less. This was before robot eyes were invented. With the robots shoving out the unskilled professions, there was economic pressure overseas for manufacturers to push out their unskilled and stick robots in. This led to a clash with the unions. You know, I could never imagine Jane in front of a red banner, shaking her fist and grappling with the police."

"Sorry. I'm rambling. I suppose I just happened to notice the…blanket that was covering everything. Like drowning in a warm quilt. There were more and more homeless - there had to be - but you never saw them on the streets, never saw them sleeping under bridges. There seemed to be fewer and fewer disputes about the news. I still remember when Bill O'Reilly lost his job. There wasn't a place for an O'Reilly or a Lou Dobbs in the world. There was a blanket consensus that the robots had brought forth a new age, an age of Everything Is Just Fine. But it wasn't just fine. Every now and then you'd get some horrible e-mail from someone in a poverty pen begging for help. It would just be a lightning bolt out of nowhere. Or when there'd be some poor guy who probably lost his job fleeing down the street, knocking you out of the way and then you'd watch the robots apprehend him. People would watch for a few seconds, and then they'd go on with whatever they were doing."

"I guess we were all terrified of ending up the same way. You'd hear stories about how so-and-so's profession had gone the way of the dodo egg. And when robot eyes were invented, you could put the machines on walking platforms instead of in PCs and have real robots."

"But you didn't have to do that," said Tom. "You're a writer. Which reminds me to ask you why you became a copywriter."

"I got tired of being poor," said Daria. "When all the burger flippers lost their jobs, there wasn't much of a use for burger-flipping housing. There were massive economic dislocations. All the money that the burger-flippers used to spend at Wal-Mart went to management instead."

"Yeah, I remember when Wal-Mart closed. I thought those guys were going to be around forever," said Tom, attentively listening.

"The price of everything went up. The money I was earning as a free-lance writer wasn't catching up with the steep inflation. It was either write ads or live in a cardboard box." Daria played with a sausage link. "I think after a while…it just got to me. I didn't have any family alive any more. Quinn was gone, and I was feeling my own mortality. Jane disapproved of me. I felt that I should…do something. I didn't know what I was going to do, but I should do something, even if it was just to talk to people about their discontents. Maybe I would have written a book that no one would ever have read. Or…I don't know."

The two were interrupted by a voice. "Something smells soooooo good. Is there room for one more, Mister Sloane?"

Sandi walked up the three short steps to the dining area. She was wearing a green cashmere toga. The long toga served as a combination sweater and skirt, covering black leggings which were custom made. The two could hear the sound of Sandi's high heels click towards them. Daria wondered why Sandi would have chosen such plain colors - green, gray, black - but the splash of color and abstract pattern from Stacy's Armani scarf drew one's attention immediately to Sandi's face.

"Whoa," said Tom, standing up.

"Sandi has a need to dress up," offered Daria in way of introduction.

"Don't mind me," said Sandi. "A woman's should eat like a bird, but today I might eat like Big Bird. What you have to offer for lunch looks scandalous. I'll be as quiet as a mouse and listen to you talk."

Despite Sandi's words, the two felt a need to bring Sandi into the conversation. Talk filtered back to decades past and the days of Lawndale. Sandi at least had something to offer - she had some insight into Quinn's take on the Tom/Daria/Jane triangle. Daria and Tom were surprised that Sandi would lob the hand grenade into the conversation, but Sandi simply said, "Young love is very sweet. I would have done the same thing, if I liked someone so much. And the Fashion Club were all jealous of you, Daria."

Tom/Daria was too soon to talk about, and Sandi quickly directed the conversation towards what everyone thought of high school. Unlike Daria playing fifth wheel when Sandi and Stacy talked, the three of them had equal contributions - it was a fact of life that high school was awkward and embarrassing, no matter where you rested on the pecking order. The three of them talked for several hours, then walking to the patio, then eating dinner, then resting on the coach, then alcoholic beverages for a drawn-out nightcap.

The twelfth of twelve chimes rang in the background. Tom was amazed. "Wow. Midnight already."

"Maybe we should rest, Daria," said Sandi. "We're keeping Tom awake."

"I don't mind," said Tom.

"Actually, maybe we should sleep. God what a day. I think the paradigm shift has given me jet lag," said Daria.

"I forgot about that. I'm going to have Robby escort the two of you to your rooms."

"What about you?" said Sandi.
"I can find my own way," said Tom. "I don't need a robot to tuck me in."

(* * *)

Daria woke up. She had a horrible dream. She was watching a horror movie. It was as if one of her short stories had come to life. There were characters that went to a high school, and they were all being killed in horrible ways. Heads chopped off and left on a lunch counter. Corpses falling into a classroom.

The horrible part was that she could do nothing to stop it. She wasn't even a character in her own dream. She was a disembodied observer, dreading to have to play a part and expose herself to the danger, but she never coalesced onto the dreamscape. Daria, as a third-person observer, could only observe the horror from afar.

It was a nice bed. Daria stretched out. The bedroom had its own bathroom, so Daria washed her face and wandered out into the hallway of the cavernous upstairs. She figured that she'd bump into one of the robots sooner or later.

As Daria began walking, she heard a giggle from somewhere. She followed the sound to its source.

So how was that?

That was fine. That was very very fine.

Did you learn understatement in Fielding? I'm going to be a bitch and ask for something more specific.

Fucking. Fan-tastic.

That's better. Anyway, I think a woman has to…show her appreciation sometimes. Even if she has to get on her knees to do it. So tell me, Mr. Tom Sloane…can I be honest with you? It's one of my faults.

Go for it.

Why did you invite us here? Why did you invite the two of us to visit you?....okay, you're getting all pouty. Don't get pouty.

I'm not 'pouty'.

Good. I don't like a man with a pouty face. So here you are, Tom Sloane, and you haven't gotten married and you're like what, over forty? You know, a woman would conclude that you're a faggot. There's nothing wrong with that, some of my best friends are faggy. But after what you and I did…you're no fag. Unh-unh. You like girls. So why do you like us? And why do you like Daria?

I'd rather not say.

Well, Thomas…can I call you Thomas…I'm going to make a guess….

..that tickles.

Mmm…you like that? Well, now that I have you in a good mood…here's what I think. I don't think it's because you're in love with Daria Morgendorffer. If that were true, you would have moved her in permanently. You see…I think the reason is because you figured that when you got both of us out of that hellhole, Daria would be so appreciative that…she'd show you her appreciation. Even if she had to get on her knees to do it.

Hey, stop. It's not like that.

…now Thomas, let me finish. This isn't a condemnation. I always wondered why you hooked up with Jane Lane and Daria Morgendorffer. I guess it's because those little pearl-wearing bitches in your social set had nothing to offer you. They wouldn't do the kind of things that you and I just did. They wouldn't hang on your every word. But with old Jane and Daria - a fine pair if there ever was one - you would be exotic…I'm sure they liked you for their own reasons. But you didn't know you had other…choices…

…like what?

…the world isn't all one way or the other. You just think it is. You think your only choice is between a Rolls-Royce and a beat up Hyundai. So you choose the Hyundai. And you're disappointed. So you stop driving. Tell me Thomas…have you ever driven a Corvette? Or a Porsche? Or a Fiat?

…yes. I have.

Really?

…yes. I have them in my garage. You don't know what you're talking about.

…so when was the last time you drove one?

…

No answer. Let me tell you something…Thomas Sloane. I'm not a Rolls-Royce. And I'm not a Hyundai. I'm a Porsche. So Mister Sloane…did you like your test drive? Hmn?

…

Mmmm. I thought so. I used to be a news producer. Whenever I had to evaluate someone at the end of the year, I only had one question - 'what do you want?' Not too many people know what they want. Some people wanted to advance. I told them what they needed to do to get there. Some people wanted to be left alone. And I told them what they needed to do for me to leave them alone. And I think that was the best part of my job. I was better than my mother at it. She told everyone what she wanted….so, Thomas…tell me…what do you want? I've given you a test drive. Do you want the Porsche? Or don't you?

….

….

….

I could never abandon Daria. It would be wrong.

Why? Do you think you're going to make Daria unhappy? You're going to make her miserable? She's always been miserable. You know it. You tried. You won't make her happy. No one can. If you married her and offered her a mansion and all the money in the world, she'd find fault with it, and with you. You knew her for months. She got bored with you. She's not changed. Not at all.

I need to find her a job. Or something.

And she'd still resent it. You will not please her, Thomas. You can't go back to the past.

….

….

….

What about Daria?

I'll take care of it. I'll take care of it all, Thomas. Now…let me show you my appreciation….

(* * *)

Daria told herself that it was a fantasy. That it wasn't happening. That there was nothing, no poison, no force that had subtly changed the Tom Sloane she expected. But what hurt most of all was Sandi Griffin. That Sandi had amply sized her up and just…took action.

There was no place for Daria. This was just an interruption. Sandi Griffin was going to take care of it. Was going to take care of Daria. Probably was going to have her dragged back to a poverty pen. Where she could be bitter…and angry…and with all the time in the world to figure out what she really wanted….

Data Dump VI

When the right and opportune moment comes for speaking, say something that will edify.
- Thomas a Kempis, “Imitation of Christ”.

(* * *)

Daria and Sandi had run the table.

The only e-mails left to be sent were people on Sandi’s “Drop Dead” list. Sending those people e-mail was a waste of time, unless you wanted an answer back mocking you for your misfortune.

Sandi had fallen into a glacial period of inactivity. She would shower, eat, watch television, and sleep. That was it. Most of her conversation with Daria was now limited to polite conversation. Daria noticed that even the insipid conversations that Sandi held with the other people like her in similar situations had ceased – Sandi now longer made her appointed rounds around the quad like some fashion-obsessed mail carrier.

Daria was determined not to collect flies, no matter how bad things got. She continued to develop confusing variations of Mao with Yolanda, and the two discussed communication theory. She continued her discussions with the Escape Group, which had run out of theories several years ago.

Heh. School used to be a prison for me, Daria told herself. But this prison is turning out to be a school.

Daria observed the robots more closely, watching them and testing the theories abandoned years ago by the Escape Group. Yes, the robots could decipher her rusty high school French. They even knew Pig Latin and Esperanto if you gave them enough time. They understood colors – they could tell the difference between various shades of red and blue. They could see, and sight was what made the robotized world possible. Without sight – without eyes - a robot might as well be a PC.

Prisoners – she thought of herself as a prisoner – who turned out to be violent or abusive were quickly segregated out by the ever-watchful machines. If indigents proved to be potential rapists or thieves, they soon disappeared. A certain level of social maladjustment was not tolerated by the machines, and Daria wondered what happened to the criminal fuck-ups. (Dog food?)

This left the robots to solve petty disputes among the prisoners, usually by enforced segregation. A few days in isolation would force the serious malcontents to keep to themselves. (In a society where people weren’t allowed to have many possessions, a thief is as bad as a murderer.) They would be given green jumpsuits as opposed to the orange jumpsuits, and other prisoners avoided them like someone carrying contagious cancer. Daria watched the “Greens” sitting against the stone walls of the quad, on the ground, backs literally against the wall, clutching their knees. The scofflaws were already beginning to emotionally regress.

There was fucking. There was a lot of fucking. Because there wasn’t anything else to do. Sometimes, it reminded Daria of high school, the non-married adults holding hands like school children….

(The robots won’t let anyone get married. The sermons, the religious services are all on tape. There are informal churches, and there are “marriages” under the eyes of God and Allah, but nothing recognized by the State.)

…and spending their time humping like bunnies.

(The children are now in state schools. Mothers separated from daughters. Fathers separated from sons. Daddy and Mommy lose their jobs and get sent to poverty pens – at least they get to console each other while their family is destroyed. I’ve spoken with these children, some now adults. “A state school will never get you a corporate job,” said one of them, “unless you were brilliant. Can’t join the Army, unless you’re a robot soldier. There’s nothing. After you graduate, it’s right into a poverty pen.” She was happy. At least she got to be reunited with her parents.)

There were no babies. No unexpected pregnancies. Clearly there was some sort of birth control introduced into the ecosystem. Sandi, in one of her rare moments outside, helped Daria drag a convulsing young woman towards one of the robots to be taken to the infirmary. She had been drinking from the nearby stream, convinced that the birth control was in the water circulating through the building.

(You can tell when these women want to get pregnant. They start to dehydrate, swearing off water. Or they won’t eat a certain kind of food. There are about nine “sure-fire” pregnancy diets. If any of them work, I know nothing about it. They’ve come to believe that pregnancy and impending motherhood will give them special status – or at least get them out of here.)

Daria marveled at it. She knew that the robots couldn’t program themselves (could they?) and therefore someone had to be providing the code that allowed the robots to substitute for the old guards (Wipin’ it off, Boss!) of Cool Hand Luke and I am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang.

No wonder she couldn’t get out. There were hundreds of minds like hers that were paid to keep her in.

(* * *)

While shuffling cards, a robot walked towards her. “Daria?” it said.

“Leave the money under my desk. Unmarked bills.”

The robot ignored the sarcasm. “Daria, your parole board has met concerning your case and have granted you access to CommunityNet on a limited basis, subject to periodic review.”

“Whee.”

“You are also now able to send e-mail anywhere outside of the indigent sector of Community Net for a cost of 50 credits per e-mail.”

“See previous ‘whee’.”

“Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Daria knew that using sarcasm simply meant an interminable conversation. She watched with satisfaction as the robot ambled off.

Daria knew that at least if she had to log on, she wouldn’t have to be the backseat driver. CommunityNet depended on vocal commands to post. Without access, Daria had to have Sandi give every vocal command, and Sandi had to repeat everything that Daria told her. It slowed things down, unmistakably.

Is there anywhere I want to go? Besides ‘out’? Daria had her chance to review CommunityNet; indeed, there were a few things she used it for when she was free. CommunityNet, however, was like television – five percent treasure, ninety-five percent trash. Unless she wanted to post on message boards or type Bonanza fan fiction for an audience of slackers, the damned thing was completely useless.

Daria trusted her books. She ran her fingers over a copy of Imitation of Christ. “Ah, Thomas,” she said, referring to the author, “you never let me down.”

Thomas. Now there was a name from Daria’s past. She hadn’t seen Tom Sloane in years, hadn’t seen him since that romance that exploded into being before Summer and fizzled out during Spring. Most of those memories were locked away and accessed only in case of emergencies. She still had some fondness for Old Tom – Sloane, not Aquinas.

However, if Daria had a “Drop Dead” list then Tom had to be on it. Not because Daria was afraid to write him, but it would be an e-mail that she’d be unable to write. It would remind her of her painful adolescence. Besides, Daria wasn’t interested in firing up an old acquaintanceship. She wanted to mooch from him, plain and simple. Daria didn’t know what was worse – having him ignore the letter, or having him not answer back.

Daria put her cards away and sighed. Beats posting on a messageboard. She begin planning her newest literary creation.

(* * *)

Sandi was sitting on the ground. The weather was getting cold, but she seemed not to notice the chill or the damp patches at her hindquarters. Keeping a clean jumpsuit didn’t matter. They were recycled every day.

She had the premonition that someone was walking towards her. As she turned around, she saw Daria Morgendorffer. Sandi thought back about the ugly boots that Daria always wore – for someone who valued her privacy, you could hear Daria coming a mile away. Sandi concluded that Daria had simply learned to “walk heavy”.

Daria had the half-grin that substituted for a smile. “Griffin.”

“Daria. So…what do you want?”

“I want you to be ready tomorrow morning to get your cleanest jumpsuit on, and to substitute your Grade Z mouthwash for Grade Y. For I, Daria Morgendorffer, am leaving this Theatre of Terrors tomorrow. And you, Sandi Griffin, are to be my esteemed guest.”

“Have you lost your mind?”

“No. Cocktails for two. Sloane Estate. My treat.”

Daria explained. “Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve been working on a particularly beautiful piece of persuasive writing. I bought an e-mail and sent it to my first real boyfriend, Tom Sloane.”

“You mean…that rich kid from Fielding?”

“Yes. I wanted to see if I could condense the drama of my life to three brief pages and write a letter that would tug the heartstrings of a concrete statue of Joseph Stalin. I went through several rough drafts, but dammit, my years as a copywriter did not go in vain. I wasn’t working under a deadline this time, and I sent it out five days ago.”

“As it turns out, the letter didn’t go to his corporate address. It went to his home e-mail which he rarely answers. I get the reply about a half hour ago. ‘Daria, great to hear from you, blah blah blah.’ Still alive, no kids, nose to the company mill, etc. The ending is the payoff – ‘I would like to invite you to my estate for sixty days.’”

“Wow…I’m happy for you.”

“You don’t get it?” said Daria. “I mentioned you. The you is plural. ‘You’. As in ‘You and I’.”

Sandi’s face lit up. “You mean….”

“…Hell yes, ‘I mean’. We are getting out of this dump. Goodbye Room 030397, Building 1, Resident Quant A.”

Sandi stood up, and calmly quietly, embraced Daria. The embrace was not the exuberant excitement of the mutual hug after the two had received Stacy (Rowe) Nibblet’s e-mail, but the embraced conveyed much more warmth.

(* * *)

Sandi and Daria stood about fifty yards away from the quad. They were looking at the sky. They heard a single chime in the distance.

“11:15,” muttered Daria, referring to the quarter-chime. “Tom wrote that he’d send a helicopter at 11 am. So where the hell is he?”

“Maybe he’s late,” muttered Sandi. “It could be the weather.”

“Right. This is a crystal clear day. WeatherNet states that chances for showers are zero percent.”

Sandi said what Daria had been afraid to say. “You don’t think he stood you up…do you?”

Daria finally put words to her fears. “God damn you, Tom Sloane. If you do this to me, I swear that when you die, I’m going to drag you into my cauldron in Hell and coat your balls with jalapeno sauce.” She looked to Sandi. “You don’t think he would…do you?”

“I don’t know,” said Sandi. “Was he a nice guy?”

“We were a lot alike.”

“Then maybe,” said Sandi. “Maybe….” She didn’t want to say it.

The two looked rather fretfully at the empty sky. There appeared to be no helicopter, no escape, no nothing.

“I know he has to be here,” said Daria. “The robots stated that they expected a helicopter to land.”

“That can be changed,” said Sandi. “Maybe he got cold feet. Maybe he’s scared to meet you?”

“Scared? Scared?” asked Daria rapidly. “Am I scary?”

Sandi said nothing. Then, quietly, “A robot is walking this way.”

“Goddamnit,” said Daria. “I can’t hear it, Sandi. I can’t hear that Tom left us both in the lurch. By…by….” Daria swallowed. “I’m not going back. I’m going to run for it. I’m not going back in there. Not another day.”

The robot had closed the distance. The women had their backs to it. If it had a message, it would fall on unwelcome ears.

Suddenly, Sandi shouted. “Look!”

It was a pinprick. A yellow prick of light against the sun, which was starting to coalesce into a solid object. Daria’s eyes sometimes betrayed her, but she could make out the faintest sounds of a shOOP-shOOP-shOOP of rotors.

Daria inhaled a discontinuous volume of air. Her eyes were starting to get wet. Yes. That’s it. You came through, Tom. You came through.

The helicopter was getting closer and closer. “Please move forward,” said the robot. Daria and Sandi moved forward, first tentatively and then more rapidly as the helicopter circled ahead and looked for a landing spot.

The robot continued to urge them forward. As they approached the helicopter, doors swiveled open. Daria and Sandi stepped inside.

Sandi walked over to the forward part of the cabin. Instead of seats for a pilot and copilot, there was merely machinery and a small chair. “This is a commercial helicopter,” said Sandi referring to the pilotless machine. “We’re the only ones on board!”

“Please make sure you are secure,” said the robot on the ground.

“What is our destination?” asked Daria.

“The estate of Thomas Lyman Sloane, North Carolina” said the helicopter’s intercom.

“Sandi…buckle in. This is it. We’re finally home free.” As Sandi buckled in, Daria played an awkward meeting with Tom Sloane a few times in her head. Then, she stopped the film. Daria was more interested in seeing the helicopter lift off and the robot disappear to a speck of orange rust against a green field.

Data Dump V

"But no frown of mine
Will betray the company I keep."
- Sylvia Plath

(* * *)

Daria worked on her solitare some more. It was a version called Klondike. She liked Klondike because unlike the solitare games she learned in childhood, every Klondike game had a solution that didn't depend so much on how the cards landed. Books were hard to come by, and paper was expensive. Daria doubted that her request for a What Is To Be Done? frightened the robots that much, but she knew that they could print out anything she asked them to. They just didn’t care to do it, not unless she paid, and the best they could offer her was rental. God forbid she own a book of her own.

Yolanda stepped over. “Hey, Yolanda,” said Daria. “Want to play Mao?”

“No, I’m Mao’d out for the day.”

“How about more Mao this afternoon?”

“I have something else planned, but if it doesn’t pan out, then sure,” said Yolanda. “Just keep in mind the number one rule of Mao. Say, where’s your partner in crime?”

Partner in crime. She hadn’t heard that phrase used in years, and never applied to the person Yoland was speaking of. ”I believe she’s in the shower getting ready for her visit.”

“It must be nice,” sighed Yolanda. She walked away. “Take care of yourself, Daria. Watch out for rogue Mao players.”

(* * *)

Daria Morgendorffer stepped into the communal shower. Without complaint, a robot scrubbed each inch of the floor to keep the room spotless if reeking of industrial cleanser.

Normally, the room was packed with naked flesh, fifty people to a shower. All sorts of flesh, from the taut flesh of youth to the scarred, or cellulite packed, or sagging flesh of old age. Daria had never showered with that many people before since high school. She hated group showers then and she hated them even more now. It was a low point in her eyes to start the day with such an indiginity.

There was one person in the shower – Sandi Griffin. She was using a nail file to trim down her nails. Completely naked, she would work a few seconds, blow the pulverized fingernail away and then admire her handiwork.

“Are you done?” asked Daria, her voice echoing between the blue tiles.

“Uhh…no. Everything has to be perfect. As perfect as I know how to make it. There’s not enough credit for new makeup, so I have to be perfectly cleaned.” Satisfied with her filing, Sandi opened the Recycle Door near her shower and tossed the file in as used garbage, to continue its life cycle.

“You’re going to be late. Stacy is going to be here any minute.”

“The robots will tell us when she’s here,” said Sandi. “Besides, it’s important to keep certain people waiting. The person who has to wait is the inferior to the one who makes them wait. I kept Stacy waiting all the time. She’s used to it.”

(* * *)

A robot ambled forward quickly. It told Daria that she had a visitor, a “Stacy Nibblet, at the far bench of the quadrangle, near the outlet stream.” Daria told the machine to tell Sandi, and went down to greet Stacy herself.

As she walked towards the bench, she saw a small woman waiting. The way she held her hands to her lap, even when standing, left no doubt in Daria’s mind that it was the Stacy from high school. The pigtails were gone now, replaced by an expensive suit and nice shoes with a purse that betrayed a pedigree that only Sandi Griffin could decipher.

“Hello, Stacy,” said Daria, extending a hand for a handshake.

“Daria!” Stacy walked over to hug Daria. Daria returned the hug as well as she could, still resistant to human contact. However, her resistance to such tactile stimuli had diminished over the years. She could feel the warmth of Stacy’s body even through the suit.

It was time for Stacy and Daria to catch up. Daria had learned some conversational skills. F-O-R. Family. Occupation. Recreation. The acronym gave Daria at least three things to talk about when caught shorthanded, and with Stacy Rowe Nibblet that was definitely the case.

Daria only had the chance to use the first one: family. Stacy was married, of course. She had one child, a son, Brett who was now 11 years old. Brett was doing well in school. Her husband was a bureaucrat and the Nibblets lived in an exurb of Washington, D. C. Stacy had time to be a homemaker, and she homeschooled her child.

It was Daria that found herself the subject of conversation, vis-à-vis her sister, Quinn Morgendorffer. Quinn and Stacy had lost touch after college, and Daria filled Stacy in on the missing parts of Quinn’s life. Quinn had graduated and went to work as a marketing person for a music company in California. She got the chance to meet all the interesting people she wanted to meet – usually music acts – and to be fashionable. She had never married, always wanting to keep herself available for something bigger.

“Quinn always preferred chasing to catching” said Stacy. “I think she liked the gifts and the attention more than she liked the guys.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I remember when you wrote me that she died,” said Stacy. “I know she died of a heart attack, but you never told me exactly what happened.”

“There’s not much to tell. She was in her apartment in Los Angeles and a friend noticed that she hadn’t been answering her phone on Sunday. Quinn didn’t show up to work on Monday, so everyone at the record company panicked. They called the LAPD, which got permission to open the door. When they got there, they found Quinn on the kitchen floor.
She had died the day before, most likely.”

“A heart attack?”

“An aortic dissection. It was a tear in her aorta. The aorta is a large artery, the largest in the human body. Most of the time, the symptom is severe pain, but in Quinn’s case, the pain was so severe she passed out. Unconscious, she simply…bled out. I like to tell myself that when Quinn went, it was a brief moment of pain…and then nothing. She was only thirty-two years old when she died.”

“I remember Quinn telling me her Dad’s heart was bad.”

“Right. He had had a triple bypass eventually. It was a success but he aged almost twenty years overnight. He became a lot mellower. I think he was reconciled to dying. He was happy with his family. He died before Quinn died. I’m sort of glad that he died when he died. Quinn’s death took a toll on Mom emotionally.”

“I’m sorry.” Stacy reached her hand over and took Daria’s.

“Don’t be. People die, it happens.”

“I hope you’re not lonely.”

“Hey,” said Daria. “I’m sort of used to being lonely. And trust me, where I’m at right now, loneliness is not a question. I have a lot of company – “

“ – stacEEEE!!!”

There was a corresponding squeal. Sandi and Stacy embraced each other like long lost sisters. Daria immediately felt a shift in position to third wheel. It was time for the two to catch up and for Daria to listen.

(* * *)

Stacy’s first act was to bring a gift for Sandi. (Daria’s gift was a jar of expensive peanut butter – “I didn’t know what else to get.”) It was an Armani scarf, a real scarf to replace the non-descript piece of cloth that adorned Sandi’s neck. Sandi gushed over the scarf as Daria calculated how much the scarf would have been worth on the credit market. She guessed that someone at the poverty pen would have paid a month’s credit to get their hands on that scarf.

Daria listened to hours of conversation between the two. The two exchanged information as fast as their mouths could convey it. After a very brief update – Stacy = married, Sandi = former news producer – the two began to relive the past, telling stories out of Lawndale High School and the glories of the Fashion Club. Daria was only needed to verify some fact (did Quinn have a green sweater? or was it a chartreuse sweater?) and other than that, she had very little to contribute. Not that it was a burden for Daria. It was almost comforting to listen to Sandi and Stacy rattle on about Bret and Corey and Skylar and a host of names long forgotten. It reminded Daria of better days, memory so comforting that she felt as if her dead sister Quinn would walk in with Tiffany Blum-Deckler any second and the four of them would chat and gossip and Daria would breathe in the nostalgia till it curled the skin at the bottom of her feet.

After a while, Stacy began to check her watch. “Sandi! It’s been great meeting you again! But I have to go!”

“Stacy,” said Sandi, feeling the draft of ancient air pass away, “have you missed me?”

Daria felt the question land with a thud as Stacy answered. “Sure Sandi. I’ve missed you a lot. I really think about you.”

“Stacy, you know I’d love to see your son. You’ve told me so much about him that I feel that he’s almost here. Isn’t the Thanksgiving holiday coming up?”

“Well, Sandi…I think it would be better if I saw you on Thanksgiving. Don’t they treat you well here?” she said, referring to the robots. “Don’t you like it here?”

“What do you think, Stacy? Of course, I don’t like it here. It’s a prison, Stacy. It’s a fucking prison. When I take a crap, Stacy, I have to take a crap on a toilet with no doors. I live in a friggin closet in a bunk bed. I don’t have any clothes except a jump suit that belongs with a road cleaning crew, one that I have to throw away after use so that it gets recycled. I’m on a god-damned allowance, for Christ’s sake. The people here are either obnoxious or depressed. The robots have us hemmed in on all sides. We can’t go anywhere, we can’t see anybody, and we can’t do anything. No, Stacy, I do not like it here.”

“But Sandi…don’t…can’t your brothers help you? What about your parents?”

“Parents? My whole family is probably in hellholes like this. Except for precious Sam, the little rat bastard. And I never saw him lift a hand to help any of us! Stacy, you are our last hope. If we don’t get out of here, we die. We die in here.”

“Don’t talk like that, Sandi.”

“Then can you help us, Stacy? Can you help an old friend?”

“Stacy…you know money is tight?”

“Money is tight! I’ve heard that one before! You can buy me a friggin Armani scarf…but ‘money is tight’. I looked out for you, Stacy. I took care of you, I got you want you wanted, I protected you. And this is the thanks I get? This is how you pay me back. How sharper than a serpent’s tooth. You owe me, Stacy. You owe me.”

“Don’t get mad,” said Stacy, shrinking.

“Stacy,” said Sandi, lowly, “if you don’t come back here and get us out of here…I’ll kill myself. Is that what you want, Stacy? Is that what you want me to do? Will that make you happy to be rid of me? DO YOU WANT ME TO FUCKING KILL MYSELF?”

Stacy began to start crying. Daria stood up and said, “Don’t even joke about that, Griffin. That’s not funny.”

“Oh I’m not joking. I’m just getting started. Stacy! LOOK AT ME! I’M SERIOUS! I’LL DO IT!”

A voice interrupted. “Is there a problem?”

It was a machine. Other machines were following. “Sandi,” the machine said, speaking to her by her first name. “Do you want to lie down?”

“I don’t WANT to lie down!” said Sandi, the tears beginning to fall from her face. “Take me home! Please take me home!”

She grabbed at Stacy’s arm, and Stacy shrunk back in horror. Another robot ran about a hundred yards in four seconds as the first robot grabbed Sandi’s arm away from Stacy.

Sandi screamed. She was fighting the robot, which had one of her arms caught in one of its talons. The tranq cannon swiveled out of its body.

“STACY!” sobbed Sandi. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Don’t leave me here!!”

Daria watched in horror. There was a burst of air from the tranq cannon. And then Sandi collapsed as a rag doll, with the robot suspending Sandi briefly by one limp arm. Daria turned to see how Stacy was, but a robot was already escorting Stacy away.

A third robot surprised Daria. “Daria, do you want to help your friend?”

(* * *)

Daria waited for Sandi to open her eyes. She muttered.

“How do you feel?” Sandi shut her eyes with her closed fists as an answer. She began to sob.

“Sandi…what happened to your Mom and Dad?”

Sandi said nothing, convulsing with tears, not speaking a word to Daria.

Daria rested her head on her elbows. “Did you ever read King Lear, Sandi?”

Sandi shook her head.

“ Turn all her mother's pains and benefits /To laughter and contempt; that she may feel /How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is/To have a thankless child! Away, away!”

Still silence.

“You weren’t much of a reader. Quinn told me a lot about your mom. And that sounds like something that she would say to you.”

“There wasn’t…a day,” said Sandi, between sobs, “…not a day…of my life…when she didn’t…remind me…that I owed everything to her. I heard it…every single friggin day…and if I let her back into my home…after all those years I fought to get away…it would never end. It would never end.”

“So,” said Daria. “So she’s in a place, just like this. Somewhere. You abandoned her.”

“Sam never helped her either,” said Sandi. “It’s not…my fault. It’s not. You don’t know her Daria. You don’t know her.”

“She said…she hoped that someday I’d know the pain I had caused her…and now I do. But…I’d rather live for the rest of my life….” Sandi clamped her jaw to keep from screaming, and Daria could hear the suppressed moans, “I’d rather live here in this shithole…as long as I knew…she was living somewhere worse.”

Daria didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t imagine it. She suspected it, but confronting it did not diminish the horror, it merely increased it.

“Then I’m sorry, Griffin. I’m sorry for the both of you.” Daria climbed up to the top bunk of the bed, to fight her way to an uneasy sleep.

Data Dump IV

Seems I'm not alone in being alone
A hundred billion castaways, looking for a home
-Police, "Message in a Bottle"

(* * *)

Dear Daria,

I'm sorry I took so long to answer your letter. It was certainly not easy thinking about how much the world has changed since both of us were in high school, much less thinking about the divergent paths our lives have taken.

It is with deep regret that I have to say that I can't help you and that I have no home to offer you. Right now, I already have three people living with me: my sister Rachel, her husband Bill and my cousin Sarah. My parents have others living with them as well. I hate to say this, but there's no room at the Inn.

I hate to start the letter off with a downer, but I thought that you'd want the bad news first. At least, I can tell you about myself since you were kind enough to ask.

Currently, I'm an associate dean at Turner University. Yep, I've returned to my old alma mater. We still have students, believe it or not, but not many - we're one of the few surviving colleges that are primarily African-American. Our campus looks a lot like Grove Hills, if you remember the trip we took long ago. The maintenance workers are robots, but other than that, we still have actual professors. Maybe not for long, as there's very much financial pressure to begin using robot instructors. I'm doing all I can to put a stop to it, but I can only fight a delaying action. I suspect that many of our professors will be joining you soon.

I can already see the difference in the students I get. Mind you, these students are a lot better off than the Turner student of a few decades ago, but they are only better off financially. This is the first generation that has been raised by robots. They know facts but they don't know interpretations. They're not critical thinkers. In some ways, they're a lot smarter than you or I ever were; in others, they're astonishingly naïve and ignorant. I hope that some exposure to our human instructors will cultivate a passion for the liberal arts that is now almost extinct.

That's enough about my job. I'm not married. Too busy. Besides, Rachel and Bill are almost children. I can at least tell you in a letter what I'm afraid to tell them to their face. They're moochers. They're not interested in work and haven't been interested in it since they've moved in; they're quite happy to eat me out of house and home and complain about the lodgings and about what a lousy sister I am. Rachel used to be a teacher, Bill used to be a businessman, but now they're both ghosts. They watch TV and complain about minor inconveniences. I'd hurl her out of here, but she's my sister. I still believe that blood is thicker than water, and I know that if I threw them out, they'd both end up in a poverty pen and they'd spend the rest of their lives cursing the name of Jodie Landon.

The sad case is my cousin Sarah. Sarah wants to work. She used to be a seamstress and theatrical costumer but now robots can do in a few seconds what it took her weeks to do. The news says nothing about the rate of unemployment, but it's high, and that's not counting everyone in your situation. There are few jobs, in business management and robotics and computer programming, all jobs for which Sarah isn't even remotely qualified. But she tries. I clean her newest suit for her, we dust off her resume, and she tries to get work. Not qualified. Not needed. Not necessary. I guess she does it because it gives her an excuse to sew a new interview suit. They're lovely suits, but the world doesn't need them.

I would love to help you Daria, but yours, sadly enough, isn't the first letter I've gotten. I've discovered kin that I didn't even know I had. I've heard stories of misery, stories of people about to run out of money, stories of people begging for a job, any sort of help so that they won't end up in public housing. There's nothing on TV about public housing, but we know it's out there. We get the e-mails, the letters, the desperate last chance pleas.

For you to even ask, Daria, I know it must be very hard. You were the kind of person who believed in carving out her own path. Unfortunately, all that I have to offer is best wishes. Everything else has been spoken for.

I'm sorry that Jane has fled the country. Europe is trying to hold on to the old ways, but they're going to be ground into poverty. All we hear are rumors of a mass social collapse. Australia has disappeared from the map, so things must be horrible over there. I'll pray that she's all right.

I'll pray for you and Sandi, and I'll pray for all of us. I'm sorry I'm not able to help you. Forgive me.

Hopefully, still your friend,

Jodie.

(* * *)

"Daria."

Daria was playing solitaire. "Yes, Griffin."

"Look, Daria, I know you've been depressed lately, but I have some good news."

"What? The robots ran out of 'D' batteries?"

"No," said Sandi. "Stacy Rowe has agreed to see us!"

Daria stopped dealing the cards and looked up.

"I know you've been depressed about Jodie's letter, but I bought another monthly e-mail. I used up the monthly credit, but I did it. I kept telling you, Daria, don't beg. I floated an e-mail to Stacy and told her that I was thinking about her, and I told her you were here, and you know how much she liked Quinn. So she's going to come over here and visit us. Soften her up…and then hit her up!"

Daria rapidly stood up and walked over to Sandi. "I don't believe it," said Sandi. "You actually did it."

"Yeah. I did it."

Daria grabbed Sandi by the arms. "You friggin' did it. You -- friggin -- did it!!"

Before Sandi knew it, she was jumping up and down with Daria in a state of voluntary delirium. They were hugging each other, embracing, doing an involuntary pogo, bouncing up and down like bunnies on mescaline. Anyone walking by would have been surprised at the two women making train noises, a loud whhhOOOOOOOOooo! which lasted for a good five minutes.

It was the first time Sandi had seen Daria smile. "You know Griffin," said Daria, "you're all right sometimes."

"Well…I suppose it was worth it. But you have to let me do the talking."

"I'm quite happy to be your wingman. All right you little fashion-obsessed socialite, let's not get too confident."

"Really? As well as I know Stacy?" said Sandi. "I might be out of credit, but I think we can afford some confidence."

Data Dump III

“There must be some way out of here
Said the joker to the thief
There's too much confusion
I can't get no relief….”

-Bob Dylan, "All Along The Watchtower"

(* * *)

That put me back in here after my cousin threw me out. I hit the pavement and the robots were there in moments. So no job, again, and back in a “poverty pen”.

I guess family ties just aren’t that strong. Even though my cousin was rich, she didn’t want to support me for the rest of her life, or maybe she just thought it was a bad thing to be poor and didn’t want me dirtying up her mind. So here I am, Michael Jordan Mackenzie, a prisoner. You know, my dad warned me about ending up in jail, and here I am. He’d die if he could see me.

I’ve run through what few people I thought I could depend on. Would I like to see you again? You bet. The problem is, I’ve already asked. The robots said that they don’t let people move, or “change their indigent housing domiciles” unless blood relation can be proven by the appropriate documentation. And unless one of our ancestors jumped the fence somewhere, that’s that.

I haven’t seen Jodie in years. Haven’t written her, either. I guess I’ve sort of been here without hope. But I’ll tell you something. Your letter gave me hope. It gave me hope that I was not forgotten or abandoned and left to die.

If I had a picture, I’d send it, even if I looked lousy. To hell with it. I don’t think either of us has much to write about. We have the same kind of days. But keep writing, even if it’s just to reminisce about the old days.

Mack

3457907 PRINTADDENDUM: SENT BY Michael Mackenzie038, 941919 Building 4 Resident Quant C – Homeless Detainee ****

(* * *)

“I thought more people would answer.”

“Maybe not,” said Daria, under the single comforter in the darkened room. “Who knows how people spend their time? Posting on message boards. Do people even answer their mail? Do they spend the rest of their lives looking up at a television screen? It reminds me of all those old people in the rest home, marking time until they died.”

“Daria?”

“Yeah?”

“You know…back when we were in Lawndale High School, I thought I had you sized up. I told myself that even if you were never popular, I knew that you were going to make your mark on the world. You were going to be famous someday. I would have bet all the money I had on that.”

“You would have lost it.”

“No really. I mean your sister was popular, but you were popular in your own way. I knew you were smart, and talented, and didn’t give a crap. I thought you’d be a novelist or a brain or something.”

“So how come you never said anything?”

Sandi laughed. “Come on. You know how it was. I would have never talked to you in high school.”

Daria chuckled. “Well, Griffin, you know that I figured you’d be married to a rich husband. You’d be sipping pina coladas and making the domestic help miserable. You were a real bitch on wheels, you know.”

“Yeah, training wheels. The world was a lot tougher than I thought it was.”

“Same here.” Daria was silent for a few seconds. “I’m surprised that you could run a newsroom.”

“Mom got me that job. I was good at it…but she never let me forget it. She always let it hang over me, that everything I ever got out of life was because of her. Daria?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to bed. Good night.”

“Good night.”

(* * *)

Glad to know that you’re still alive out there. Sometimes I like to tell myself that I’m one of the only humans alive and that everyone else was exterminated like in the Terminator movies. It makes me feel special. You know, I’ve looked all over for movies like that on the public telly and can’t find them. I think evil robot movies have been cast into the memory bin, at least in public housing. Most of my time is spent on the Terminator message boards.

Of course, for all I know, you could be a robot. Maybe robots can write now. Maybe they send us e-mail messages to make us feel better, to make us think that someone out there is listening.

Right now, I don’t care if you’re the real Daria or just an evil Daria-bot. If there’s a way for us to get together, I’d like that. I don’t know if there is a way. I’ve tried running, I’ve tried sabotaging, I’ve tried assaulting the machines. Did you know I led the Great Goth Rebellion of Quad B? Yeah, that lasted all of 15 seconds before they pumped the tranq gas in.

Family? None of us made any money. We’re all here together, but I can’t get along with my family anyway. They’re all in Quad C, and I’m in Quad B. It’s a lot better that way. Once in a blue moon the robots will allow us to hook up.

Do you know what I miss? Ultra Hold Hairspray. I used to go through cans of that shit.

I don’t have any solutions. You might like to check out the Terminator Board, sending me a private message will get a faster response than e-mail, since my inbox reminds me of the dustbowl.

Vienna la tormenta!

-andy

313562 PRINTADDENDUM: SENT BY Andrea White734, 816665 Building 2 Resident Quant B – Homeless Detainee ****

(* * *)

Yolanda and Daria were playing cards. Sandi walked over to where the two were sitting in the dreary looking common room. “Dah-RIA.”

“Yeah, Griffin.”

“You have some mail. From Mr. DeMartino.”

“DeMartino is still alive?”

“When death came, he probably beat him up.”

“Does he offer a way out?”

“Well…no. I don’t think so.”

“All praise Chairman Mao,” said Yolanda as she put down a ten of spades.

“Let us all denounce Li Feng,” said Daria as she followed with a ten of hearts.

“What are you doing?” said Sandi.

“Playing Mao.”

“Oh, I love card games! How do you play?” said Sandi, sitting down uninvited.

“The only rule I can tell you is this one,” said Daria.

“No, seriously. What are the rules?”

“The only rule I can tell you is this one,” said Yolanda.

“What?”

(* * *)

Dear Daria,

it breaks my heart to see that you are in such a sad condition. I would lie and tell the goddamned machines that you were my own kith and kin if I thought it would help but their cold metal hearts are immune to any such persuasion

the only joy I get is knowing that the robot teachers are teaching the pampered princes of industry and im’ sure even their patience will be bashed by the jocks, the lunkheads, the stoners, and the other assorted flotsam that used to clog the educational system

if they had allowed corporal punishment this would have never happened. I would like to grab the son of a bitch that invented robots and give him a fist sandwich

Jodie Landon is now a princess of industry. Kevin Thompson and Tori Jericho made it big, too. out of all those I taught, they were the ones who made the money. to know that kevin is out there running the world gives me the agita.

as for me, I am an old man and I am in the nursing facility where the robots wipe your ass and wipe it with that industrial paper. I’m bedridden. I have arthritis. I don’t see too well either. That’s okay, I don’t watch that shit they call news anyway. it’s good that Im not teaching because who could teach that bullshit with a straight face.

If you get old, I hear the robots don’t’ watch you as closely. Where the hell are you going to go anyway? There are legends of wiley old men who got away when the robots are not looking and have established a free state of seniors. Me, I believe that the robots just shot them, that’s why you don’t see them again. There are days that I think a bullet to the head would be a blessing, but I don’t tell the robots that.

Forgive me for being old and profane but I think I’m allowed some profanity. That’s one of my few remaining blessings, thinking of ingenious ways to tell the robots off. I’m trying to invent a word for asshole that would mean something to a robot. you were a wonderful writer, I’m sure you can think of one.

anyway, I hope you figure a way out. Your talent were wasted on the world. And now look at the world. It serves it right.

Your former instructor

Mr. Anthony DeMartino

361510 PRINTADDENDUM: SENT BY Anthony DeMartino077, 5661127 Building 1 Resident Quant E – Homeless Detainee: Elderly****

(* * *)

“So why didn’t Mack ask Jodie for help?” said Sandi.

“Too proud,” muttered Daria. “Not that I’m not too proud to ask. When we get our one real e-mail a month in a few days, you should send Jodie Landon a persuasive letter.”

“I still think we should send it to Stacy Rowe,” said Sandi, “Stacy is a softer touch.”

“Griffin, a lot has changed since either of us were in high school. I don’t trust Stacy to be able to tie her shoes without a nervous breakdown.”

“No, Daria, Stacy would have married well. You know men love a dishrag, someone who kisses the ground they walk on.”

“Is that why you didn’t marry well, Sandi? You didn’t like the taste of ass?”

Sandi laughed. “I guess not. Not that men didn’t chase me. But they were all losers, every last one of them.”

“Poor Mr. DeMartino,” said Daria.

“Yeah,” said Sandi. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

“Oh Daria?”

“Hm.”

“All praise Chairman Mao,” said Sandi

“I’d denounce Li Feng,” said Daria, “but I don't have the good hand.”

Data Dump Part II of oh, I don't know, XII maybe

September 14 - It's been a long time since I've kept a diary, but it's time for me to gather my thoughts.

I woke up on the bottom bunk of my bed after my first little trip to the great outdoors. Sandi Griffin was genuinely worried about me. Or at least, she seemed to be. She told me that a robot carried me into the room and left me there, or course after politely inquiring that I should be allowed to rest on the bottom bunk. I have no idea what the machine would have done if I said 'no'.

I believe that much more living with Sandi Griffin is going to drive me crazy. It's not like rooming with Dorothy Parker. If you have any questions about Hollywood gossip, or fashion, or various improvement programs, Sandi's the one to talk to. If you want to complain about the bleakness and misery of this place, Sandi wants to rapidly change the subject.

Her situation is probably like that of the starving. There are three stages of starving.

a) Feeling that one is hungry, and that one would like a grilled cheese sandwich.
b) Obsessing about food, lovingly dreaming of the white curlicue on the top of a black Hostess cupcake.
c) Suppressing thoughts about food to the point of indifference.

Sandi's in that third stage. She thinks she's never going to get out of here. She doesn't want to hear about it. Not from me, not from someone who is still starving for auto--

"Pardon me. Are you all right?"

Daria looked up from her scribbling. It was another orange machine. Daria resolved to ignore it.

"Are you all right? Are you suffering from depression?"

"No, dammit," said Daria. "I want to write. In privacy."

"Perhaps you would like to go outside and write. It's a pleasant day outside."

"What if I say no robot? What if I just stay right here?"

"I'm sorry, but we will be cleaning the hallway in a few moments. Perhaps you would like to move momen--"

"Yeah, right." Daria closed her makeshift diary - merely a few scraps of blank paper - and stood up. "I've taken three walks since the time you shot me. I went north. I was told that there were downed power lines. I went east. I was told that there was an escaped dangerous mental prisoner and that I should return for my own safety. I went south. I was told that there was a friggin' rabid dog."
She looked into the robot's mechanical eyes. "The fact of the matter is I'm not going to be allowed to leave here. There's always going to be another excuse, something to keep me in a pen. Listen robot, if robots have an afterlife, go tell Isaac Asimov to fuck himself, because every nice robot in the movies always tells the truth."

"I understand you," said the robot. "Perhaps I should make you an appointment with one of our robot counselors - "

" - oh shut up." Daria knew that for some reason, the robots didn’t want her scribbling away furiously in the hallway. She decided that going outside was the best idea. She'd go as far as she'd think she could before they assigned the robots for some lameass excuse --

-- no. There was no "they". It was before the robots assigned themselves to bring her back. That was the chilling part.

(* * *)

Daria had an allotment of "credits", as if she were in sort of episode of Star Trek. Since she was categorized as terminally unemployable, there weren't many. She had to buy paper by the page. Daria resolved to write smaller.

As she walked out the door, a woman said to her, "You shouldn't have been sitting in that corridor. You freaked the robots out. They don't like anything that looks 'abnormal' to them."

"I've been freaking out people for years, including robots. I should have stayed in that corridor and had them fucking carry me out."

"That would have got you an appointment with the robot counselor. After a certain number of appointments, you would have been categorized as 'mentally ill'."

"How would you know?"

"I was mentally ill for three years," said the woman. "Worked great. All the best psych drugs you could get. Dude, those robots have some awesome crap. It really numbs you down to the tippy-toes. I could have lived in a stupor for the rest of my life."

"But you're out now."

"The robots released me. More and more terminally unemployable. They weren't going to waste their good shit on me anymore. After I while, I couldn't scam them. The number of really violent fuck-ups was increasing." She signed. "More people going crazy I guess."

"Have you tried to leave?"

"No point. It's impossible," said the woman. "Word of advice, skillet," said the woman, "stop trying. How far do you think you'd really get?"

"But you know. You must have tried. Tell me, how do I get out of here? What's your name?"

"June. Listen. You're a good kid. And it looks like you've got a lot of energy to burn. I'll hook up you up with the escapee contingent." June smiled. "It'll be a great time-waster for you."

(* * *)

June was as good as her word. At the communal dinner, there was a group of men and women - twelve altogether - that perpetually plotted their escape.

"Trust me, Daria" said Casey, a former camera operator, "the first thing to do is to forget any overland escape. You found out about the lame excuses. If you just make a run for it, they'll tranq you and drag you right back."

"Fifteen escapes", said Jeremy, a former carpenter, "and fifteen tranqs." Daria looked Jeremy over. He looked like an Olympic sprinter.

"So how do they know where we are?"

"We've come up with a lot of theories," said Paul, an ex-telephone operator. "The first theory was that they've somehow injected RFID chips into us. If they have, there are no scars. But there are probably less invasive ways. Motion detectors. And the fact that there are cameras everywhere. They simply notice that we want to go, and they hunt us down."

"Should you be talking about this out loud?" said Daria, furtively looking around as everyone else ignored the chattering group and ate their chicken noodle soup.

"The only rule I can tell you is this one, said Yolanda with a smile. "We should play Mao sometime."

"Never mind Yolanda," said Paul. "She was a languages major. Not much use for that when these robots can speak any language you can think of. Try it. Try speaking some French, German, or Japanese to one of these things. There might be a momentary delay, but they'll answer you right back in your native tongue. Yolanda was really interested in artificial language construction - "

" - shut up. Ixnay," said Yolanda.

"But until she invents one that we can speak and robots can't speak or decode, we're on our own. We're left with legal avenues of escape."

"Legal avenues? What about tunnels? Or hacking? Or just blowing up the robots? And how do we know the robots aren't eavesdropping on us? Any robot that can run that fast," said Daria, "can probably hear very well, too."

"There aren't any tunnels," said Casey. "As for hacking, we have very limited access to CommunityNet. The interface only lets you do so much anyway. You can only have an e-mail account if you have the money to pay for one. That limits us to message board posting. And the only people posting there are in public housing, a bunch of sad pathetic losers like us."

"See those guys over there?" said Jeremy. Daria noticed a group of men in the corner having an animated conversation. "Hackers. But they're not going to share what they know with us. Just the nature of a hacker, I suppose. And if they were that good at hacking, they would have hacked their way out of here."

"These robots are as gentle as a kitten," said Paul. "But strong as a tiger. Even if you could blow one robot up, how do you handle the other thousand or so? They all look alike. It's very difficult to get an idea of the robot population, but one of the statisticians we talked to estimated one robot for every fifteen people. That means that there are over 100,000 robots in the nearby area. Each that can lift tons and run like gazelles. If there's going to be a human rebellion…I'd put my money on the robots. Seriously."

Yolanda was dying to say something. "As for the robots eavesdropping on us, that's a given!"

"You don't know that!" The group began to argue among themselves. A guy called Mark said, "We've argued about this enough! Not the same goddamned argument again."

"What argument?"

"I'm going to summarize the argument -- doing justice to everyone. Yolanda believes that the robots eavesdrop on us. That they know every word we say and that they actively plot against us."

"If I was a robot that wanted to keep people penned in," said Yolanda, "wouldn't I - or my programmers - want to use every tool at my disposal?"

"There's another school," said Mark, a bit of pride in his voice for getting the chance to present his own argument. "The other school is that the robots don't eavesdrop on us - because it's a waste of the valuable gigaflops of the robot's processing power."

"You're saying the robots don't care what we do?"

"You got it," said Mark, running his fingers through his hair. "I've actually gone to a robot and told him that tomorrow there would be a mass rebellion, that the humans would rise up and that I would lead them. Do you know what it said?"

"What?"

"Interesting. It didn't have any more questions that that. Not when the rebellion was going to be or -- "

"--it thought you were a crazy loon," said Yolanda. "Of course it didn't pay attention to you. Think about it. There are supposedly 100,000 robots around here. All of them watch us. They knew you were full of shit. The only people you ever talk to are us, and we weren't planning anything."

Daria listened to them argue. "Listen," said Daria. "What are these…legal means?"

(* * *)

Sandi was watching television. It was some sort of gardening show. The woman was gabbing on about her new oceanview home.

I knew the current landscaping wasn't going to work. I mean, this home is six million dollars, what am I, poor? We decided to tear out the former garden behind the terrace and -

"Sandi!"

"Shhhh!" said Sandi back. "This is the part where they show the three dimensional layout."

"Television, off!" said Daria. The television switched off.

"Television on!" said Sandi. The television switched off.

"Look, Sandi," said Daria, "I need your help."

"Can it wait for twenty minutes? Jesus, how arrogant! Didn't you learn any manners?"

Daria fumed. But she thought it over.

"Fine. Twenty minutes. I'll be writing." And with that, she stormed out the door.

(* * *)

Forty minutes later, Daria returned. "All right. I'm starting to work on how to get out of here."

"Really?"

"Okay. We need someone we can sponge off of. Mom and Dad are dead. Quinn is dead. That leaves just me. I haven't spoken to Erin in years. So who do you know?"

"Oh, I know lots of people. I knew a lot of people in the news room."

"Think closer. Family. Someone who would help you whether you needed it or not."

Sandi was quiet for a few moments. "My parents are dead, too. That leaves Sam and Robert." Sandi explained that since Family Guy came on the air, Chris Griffin began using his middle name. "Sam and I don't get along." More silence. "I guess we've never gotten along. He'd laugh in my face if I asked him for help. As for Robert…I suppose Robert must be in the same boat we're in. He's never been good with money."

"Then find them." Daria handed Sandi the keyboard. "I can't log on. See if you can find your brothers."

"Dah-RIA!" said Sandi. "I am not going to go to my brother Sam and ask for a handout like some kind of bum!"

"Bum? We are bums, Griffin. We don't have a dime between us. We're going to stuck in this public housing prison until both of us are dead."

"Daria, it's not - !"

Daria's voice increased in measured intensity. "We are going to be trapped here until we die. Until we die. We are going to be buried in a cheap plastic coffin. Or we're just going to be shoved into a hole. Or recycled. That's your fate, Griffin. "Here lies Sandi Griffin, forgotten by all." There will be no one to come to your grave. Who wants to come to the grave of an old homeless woman? I don't intend to get any more gray hairs here. So now, against all of my better judgment I am not going to let you rot to death watching fucking television. Ask your damned brother."

"No."

"Griffin - !"

"-- fuck you. Fuck you Daria! I'm not asking him! I won't ask him! You hear that? Did you get it through your thick skull? I won't beg! I won't ask Sam!"

And with that, Sandi Griffin began to sob. "I won't beg. I-won't-beg." She pulled off the piece of cloth that she called a neckerchief and began to dab her eyes. "Not Sam. Not from him. Not any of my family is going to know a damn thing."

Daria was overwhelmed by Sandi's sudden embarrassment. She thought that Sandi would be happy with the idea of imposing on someone else's sense of decency - she did it all the time in high school. Like the air after an electrical storm, Sandi's sense of pain and sorrow hung leadenly in the room. The claustrophobic room gave Daria little chance to purse the matter further, lest her head exploded.

"Fine. How many friends did you make at work?"

Sandi was quiet. "I don't have my Rolodex. What would be the point?"

"Right. You made as many friends at work as I did. The difference was, I deliberately didn't make them. What about college?"

Sandi was silent again.

"Yep. We're in the same boat. That leaves high school. It's time to dig down to the bottom of the barrel. I'll call my friggin kindergarten teacher if I have to. I'm pulling a Scarlett O'Hara. As God is my witness, I'm going to mooch off someone again! Out of all of the people that we knew, at least one of them has to have been successful."

"What makes you think that anyone of them would want to see us? And seeing either of us does not mean that there's a sign." Sandi's voice became mocking. "Hey, Sandi and Daria! I missed you! Move in! Use my car! Eat my food!"

"We don't know until we try. If we don't try, I'm going to do nothing but watch horror movies and political docudramas. You're not going to like that." Daria pointed to the keyboard. "Consider that…a motivator."

Data Dump - The World of "Manna"

Some background on "Data Dump".

The universe comes from "Manna" from Marshall Brain. The link to his story is right here. Like most stories about a utopia, the initial part is the most interesting but the part that sketches out the utopia is pretty dull.

What's great about Brain's story is that it's so plausible. However, there are a few holes in the story that I wanted to explore. If you make it to the end of "Manna" there all all sorts of springboards that can be used to explore issues of identity, as well as politics and economics. I planned (or plan) on taking a crowbar to Brain's story and "opening it up".

I can see Daria being very hostile to the idea of robots. As for Sandi, part of her strangeness is due to her economic dislocation. It's been hard for someone who has been "somebody" all her life to all of a sudden become a "nobody". Daria, however, has always been a "nobody".

I might or not write more. Scissors, thanks for getting that far. I intend to use this dystopia to exorcise my writing muse.

Data Dump

Ever want to post a story but at the same time not want to post it? This is one of those stories that I'm not going to finish, but I feel compelled to write it anyway. When writing it, I felt that I was writing a "faux-Daria" story, where Person A and Person B could be substituted for Daria and ***** and it would make no difference in the story whatsoever. Only after some writing are the actual characters beginning to make their personalities known.

So I'll just post the first part of it here. Maybe other parts, just to get it out of my system.

P. S. TAG, Jane Lane has not forgotten about her Autobiography. When the muse strikes, she'll write again.

(* * *)

“Daria Morgendorffer003, Please step to the red line.”

The robot extended a mechanical hand and pointed to the appropriate stripe. Daria stepped forward as she was told. For once, she was glad to follow the orders of these machines. She wanted as far out of here as possible.

“Daria Morgendorffer003,” said the prison robot, “your record of behavior at the Maryland Correctional Institution for Women has been reviewed. During your three years of incarceration, you have met the minimum behavior standards of the state of Maryland and you are to be automatically paroled to the general population. CommunityNet access is to be restricted for a further three years, but access may be reviewed on a monthly basis. You will be informed of the review results.

“Do you agree to this parole? Please answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”

“Yes.” Yes, oh God, yes!

“Daria Morgendorffer003, you are now unemployed. Do you have other means of employment?”

Daria suspected her job as a copywriter had now disappeared. “No,” she said.

“Do you have guest status with any resident?”

What this meant was, “was there any one she could sponge off?” Daria’s winning personality had not won her many friends. Both of her parents were dead. Quinn had died of a heart attack while Daria was in prison. Jane had fled the country years ago, and Daria doubted that she’d be granted a visa. Besides, where was Jane?

“No,” she was forced to answer. She didn’t like where this was going.

“Do you have means of support unknown to me?”

Daria resented the machine’s use of the word “me”. The machine was not sentient. It was simply a social convention the machines used. Daria was tempted to lie, but a lie would be found out very quickly, and Daria did not want to return to prison.

“No.”

“In accordance with ordinance 605.12b of the Federal Homeless Relief Act, you have been assigned room 030397 in building 1, resident quant A. This assignment provides you with suitable housing and nourishment to sustain your life. Please board the bus.”

(* * *)

Daria rode the windowless bus with other parolees. Daria had sworn to herself that when she got out of prison, she would grab the nearest person around the neck and begin talking up a storm. Instead, she found herself lost in thought, like the others. The trip to “Building 1, Resident Quant A” was entirely silent.

She could feel the wheels noiselessly move beneath her. She was now moving, undoubtedly moving past the outside shock zone. Daria touched her neck, rubbing the back, still not used to the removal of the “behavioral collar” that turned the prisoners into nothing more than dogs. Only the crazy ones needed more than one or two shocks to toe the line.

There was the temptation to throw open the doors and begin running for cover. However, so much had changed in Daria’s short life and she knew nothing of the outside world. What was different? For all Daria knew, there were murderous Tripods or X-1 Terminators posted at every corner. Escape was tempting, but she needed the solid ground of a new routine before she could get back in gear.

After many minutes of thinking, the machine stopped. The bus doors opened automatically.

“Welcome to Building 1, Resident Quant A,” said the soft humanlike voice from inside the van, free of inflection. “Please follow the indicated signs. If you have trouble finding your way, please ask one of the maintenance robots for help.”

“I’ll pass on that.” Everyone turned. Those were the only words spoken by any of the prisoners during the entire trip.

(* * *)

The industrial strength elevator opened out into the hallway. A maintenance robot was busy cleaning the brown, bleak-looking floors to a fine polish. For public housing, it looks rather good.

Daria looked at the doors. There it was. 030397. Cubicle Sweet Cubicle.

Daria didn’t want to ask the Friendly Robot how to get in. The problem with Friendly Robots, however, was that they were Friendly. The robot would undoubtedly notice Daria standing there looking like a dumb ass and offer help, and that meant having a conversation with a dumb hunk of metal.

So Daria knocked on the door. She heard a cry “Just a second!”

A roommate. Well, this ought to be interesting.

The door clicked open. A brunette woman wearing a simple scarf saw Daria and immediately embraced her.

“Daria! Daria!” she cried. “It’s so good, so good to see you again.”

Daria just stood there, stiff as a board. Oddly repulsed by the human contact. Confused by the fact that this total stranger claimed to know her. What kind of trick is this?

“I…guess,” offered Daria. “And you are?”

The woman was taken aback. “Don’t you recognize me? It’s me! It’s Sandi Griffin!”

Of course, thought Daria. There’s no way to forget that baritone.

“Come in, come in!”

Daris stepped into the room. The room was small. And by small, the words “hall closet small” came to mind. The room measured eight feet by ten feet. The entire contents of the room consisted of a bunk bed, a television set, a CommunityNet keyboard…and nothing else.

“Holy Christ. This is just like my old prison room,” said Daria.

Sandi looked tentatively at Daria. “Prison?” she meekly inquired.

(* * *)

As soon as Sandi was convinced that Daria hadn’t murdered anyone – although Daria was tempted to leave her with the impression – she explained things.

“They’ve expanded each of the little apartments here. Just last month they put in bunk beds and told us that they were going to have us double up! And they put up a list of people who would be coming, and I recognized your name, and I saw your name! And I thought, it would be sooooo good to have Daria Morgendorffer here! Besides,” said Sandi, “they would have put someone else here. At least I had a choice. So…how’s Quinn?”

“Quinn is dead.”

Sandi looked poleaxed. She sat down on the lower bunk of the ridiculously small room. “How?”

“Fatal cardiac arrest. The robots tried to save her, but they didn’t get there in time. She inherited dad’s bad ticker.” As Daria looked at Sandi’s ashen face, she offered, “I was surprised. I’m glad Mom and Dad weren’t alive. It would have broken their hearts.”

“Any children?” asked Sandi.

“No. Quinn…with a man? What kind of man would want to scrape and bow that much? I suspect that the line of the Morgendorffers ends…right here.”

“I lost track of Quinn,” muttered Sandi. “My God. I’m so sorry.”

“So,” said Daria, desperate for a change of subject. “Are you out of prison?”

“Me? Prison? Oh God, no! I was the Assistant Producer of the news over at KSBC! We had a top running news show, #2 in the area! I had just the most wonderful little condo, that overlooked the forest. There was a small wading pool in the backyard and I had real koy fish in it. And I had a little pug dog…Flopsy. Oh, you would have loved it, Daria!”

Sandi went on…for at least a half hour…about her former home. Daria examined every word of the conversation carefully for some sort of factual information of value, some News She Could Use. After a half hour of Sandi’s prattling, she concluded that Sandi Griffin was one of the many reasons she had stopped watching the news before her imprisonment.

Daria interrupted her. “So if you have such a wonderful house, why are you here?”

Sandi sighed. “ProcTec 1.5.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a robot which is ‘designed for the production and facilitation of multimedia’. They shaved my job down to monkey parts.”

‘Monkey parts’. It was a phrase pregnant in meaning. Several jobs had fallen victim to the Monkey Parts Syndrome. Professions had been segmented into a series of steps. First the simple once, like burger flipping and shelf stacking. Then, the complex ones. Robots stepped in to perform some of the steps, and then in the case of Sandi Griffin, all of them. This left Sandi Griffin jobless. Some robot was now producing the news at KSBC, completely fluent in the many intricacies and problems of the production of a modern news show.

Daria learned that Sandi tried desperately to look for work, but ProcTec 1.5 was sweeping through newsrooms across the country. Sandi’s expensive tastes left her little money to fall back on. Within a year, she had burned through every bit of savings she had. The very first time a bill bounced, a robot came to her door, pronounced her as one of the terminally unemployable, and pleasantly escorted her to room 030397.

“Can you imagine it?” said Sandi, still in some kind of shock. “But it’s nice here! The people are nice. Everyone is nice. Well, they did have to put bunk beds in. But all of the hallways are roomy and the food is good. It’s not crowded or anything.”

“I’m sure the food is good.” Daria remembered the prison food. It was good too. “So…they gave us a TV?”

“Definitely. Do you watch Pleasure Island?”

“No. No TV,” said Daria. “We were left to dwell on our own wickedness.”

“So…what did you do before…prison?”

Daria was tempted to lie. Instead, she let the truth slip out. “I was a copy writer. I wrote advertising copy for automobiles and high end homes. If you make over $50 million a year, you’ve probably seen my work.”

“I’ve never seen a robot write!” giggled Sandi.

“Thank God,” answered Daria. She was sure that they were teaching one to write right now, ready to move copy writing to the list of obsolete professions.

“So how did you end up in prison?”

“Civil Disobediance. I was imprisoned for violating Patriot Act III.”

(* * *)

Daria smirked, leaving Sandi hanging as to what bomb-throwing act put Daria in the shock collar. Actually, it was a simple post on NewYorkList.

Looking for those willing to risk all to gain all. It’s time to reassert our rights and time to demand a more equal share of the wealth. Please contact me with your suggestions.

Within 15 minutes, there was a police bot at her high rise apartment. Daria Morgendorrfer was arrested for the violation of Patriot Act III, “inciting riot or protest against a duly lawfully elected government.” According to the (still) human judges, the mere posting of such a message on a public messageboard was a felony act. Her username was quickly matched with a living name and address in a matter of seconds.

With the simple messageboard post the evidence against her, the jury deliberated a grand total of five minutes. The message didn’t specifically incite protest against the government of the United States, but it was enough for the jury. She officially became Daria Morgendorffer, felon and prisoner and was sent to Maryland Correctional where she was introduced to the joys of the shock collar.

She hated to tell Sandi that her room in prison was very much like Sandi’s present room, except for no television. Daria would ask for a book (usually 19th century Russian literature), the bot would duly bring it and then demand its return at lights out. The food was the same as the food Sandi had, lovingly prepared by robots.

The only difference was at Maryland Correctional, none of the prisoners ate together. They sat at cubicles, with walls up, obscuring any sort of conversation. Prisoners trying to whisper would be reminded, “No talking please” by one of the prison bots. Punishments could range from the denial of dessert, to solitary confinement (what was the difference?) to the use of the shock collar or mind-numbing pharmaceuticals.

There wasn’t even a line to go to lunch, no chance for human contact there. A voice somewhere in your cell would say, “Please depart for lunch” and the voices were so timed that there was no waiting line. Daria would walk to lunch sometimes alone, sometimes with someone in front of her walking but yards away from her.

She almost wished for the cruel bull dyke prison guards out of the 1980s movies. However, there were no such guards, not anymore. Monkey Parts. They had lost their jobs, too.

(* * *)

“So you had shock collars?”

“Yeah,” said Daria. “We were like dogs. We couldn’t leave the prison compounds. Or, we could try, but if we went so much as fifty feet out of the individual exercise yards, you’d hear, Warning. You are leaving a restricted area. Shock collars are in force.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Imagine your urethra being set on fire. Hell yes, it hurt. I don’t care how much willpower you have. When you’re hit by the collar, it’s like you’ve been given a visit by Satan’s enema. It only takes a few times.”

“Well, thank God we don’t have that here,” said Sandi.

“Really?” Daria was intrigued.

“Yes. I’ve gone so far as to see our new home away from home just a speck in the distance.”

“So why didn’t you go back to your old home? Or just get a job.”

“Oh, there was some dangerous rock blasting ahead. A robot stopped me and told me that there was some blasting ahead and I’d better turn back. So I went back.”

“Riggght. Tell me, Ms. Griffin,” Daria said. “Are you up for a walk?”

“Oh yes. Yes. Definitely.” Daria detected a note of unease in Sandi’s voice, but it was a pleasant unease. Despite their different upbringings and world views, both had come to the conclusion that they wanted to be as far away from Building 1, Resident Quant A, Room 030397 as humanly possible.

(* * *)

Sandi was as good as her word. The next morning, after the communal breakfast (Daria had to admit the ham and eggs were perfect), Daria and Sandi set out for a hike...a very long hike if Daria had anything to do with it.

“So, anyway, in the third episode Dylan was voted out of Pleasure Island. If he’d only met the athletic challenge, he could have stayed! Of course, Dylan doesn’t even come close to the record. The record is sixty-seven weeks, and he would have stayed longer if that bitch Heather hadn’t put together a Challenge Coalition….”

Daria had numbed herself to Sandi’s endless chattering. The confident Sandi of decades earlier seemed to have undergone a transformation, addicted to reality TV and home makeover shows. Sandi had taken on some of Stacy Rowe’s worst characteristics. (Or had they always been there, and merely latent?)

“So Daria, who are you voting for in the upcoming election? Nichols or Predimore?”

“I’ve never heard of either of them. Felon, you know. Can’t vote anyway.”

“It’s a pity,” said Sandi, looking backwards uneasily. “Predimore has some good ideas about the economy. He’s a Republican. I always suspected you were a Democrat in high school, Daria.”

“So what does Predimore’s platform say about keeping the jobless penned up in public housing?” Sandi had nothing to say about that.

“Okay,” said Daria. “What about Nichols?” Sandi searched her mind for a distinction on the issue, but couldn’t find one.

After some silence, Daria said, “And now you know why I haven’t voted in the last twenty years.”

“Daria, look!”

Something was walking towards them from the distance. It was orange, and had a vaguely humanoid shape. It did not seem to be in a hurry, but since the three of them were the only human sized-figures in the immediate area, the robot clearly only had one destination.

Daria looked behind her. Building 1, Resident Quant A was indeed a mere speck on the horizion.

“Daria, what’s wrong?”

“I’m just skeeved out by these things. I don’t want to make any sudden moves. I want both of us to slightly change direction. Let’s both go to the robot’s left. See if it follows.”

Daria and Sandi adjusted the angle of their path. Sure enough, the robot adjusted the angle of its path as well.

“There is no way,” Daria muttered. “God damn it. Let’s find out what the thing wants.”

“Should we walk over there?”

“Let it walk.” Daria and Sandi stood there while the robot patiently traversed the distance.

“Greetings,” said the robot.

“What do you want?” asked Daria icily.

“I’m sorry to tell you,” said the robot, “but there is a building construction zone several hundred yards away. I’m afraid you’ll have to turn back.”

“What if I don’t turn back?” said Daria.

“Then if you proceed further, I will have to subdue you. It would be irresponsible of me to let you come to harm.”

“Sandi,” said Daria. “Talk to this thing and let him know what we’re doing.”

Sandi began a perfectly rational, reasonable discussion with the robot.

Twenty seconds into the discussion, Daria bolted. She ran past the robot, all by herself.

“Please turn around,” said the robot, calmly, after Daria.

“PLEASE TURN AROUND.” The volume of the robot’s voice had changed but not its pleasant demeanor. Sandi watched Daria become smaller and smaller in the distance as she ran.

Abruptly, something emerged from the robot’s right shoulder and back, swinging into a resting position on what would have been the robot’s right collarbone. Sandi heard a

…….THWWWWWWWWWWWWWWIIIIPPPPP……..

sound. She watched in the distance as the running figure simply collapsed.

“What did you do?” shouted Sandi.

“I have immobilized your friend with a tranquilizer dart. It would have been irresponsible of me to let your friend come to harm. There are no worries. I shall monitor your friend’s health and bring her back to our infirmary, and then to your room for a swift recovery. Please turn back. Do not worry, I shall take care of everything.”

Sandi watched the robot gain speed, this time running at a speed that no human being could match on his best day. Instead of turning back, Sandi sat on the ground. She held her stomach. All of her old anxieties were coming back again.